Confession

All of my despair is self-inflicted.

Growing up I was happy and carefree with simple moments of manic depressive episodes. Normal for a kid. But when I would go to church, church camps, or youth group everyone chosen to preach and speak would tell about how horrible their lives were and their most gruesome testimonies. I couldn't relate in the slightest. How could I? I was raised in a two-parent, upper-middle class, educated family. I was born with everything I needed and was surrounded with love. There was nothing wrong with my life.

I would think to myself as a child "If I turn from God and go down a path of sin, then I can have redemption and finally have a story."  I don't remember exactly when things started, but in the seventh grade I sliced my leg up with a pair of scissors. I blamed myself for making my mother mad, and partially wanted to do it, but I also wanted to try it. Maybe I could have a tragic story too.

I got my story alright. I became a broken and horrible person. I self-harmed and wanted to die more and more often whenever I hurt someone. Now here I am, a broken and forever lost child of God. Of course it is my fault that I am. I'm too stubborn to take the outreached hand of God beyond the fog of my own creation. It's sad to me, but I am too stubborn to take it again.