“All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.”
J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

I am a survivor of abuse: psychological, emotional, and sexual, with instances of physical thrown in to keep things interesting. As a result of the pain and isolation I constantly lived with, I became angry and bitter at a very young age. Looking back, it's heartbreaking as I now see myself as I was through the lens of many decades and I wonder, where were those people who could help? But back then, there was little recourse for any but the most seriously abused children. The rest of us endured and did the best that we could.

Mostly to get rid of me for a few hours when I wasn't in school, I was often sent to church for whatever youth activities that were going on at the time. In the military (my dad was a career sailor), there were officially three denominations: Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish. As a result, I was exposed (for lack of a better word) to many, often confusing, paths to God. I learned to see the divine in most aspects of the physical and spiritual worlds. I wasn't an atheist by any means. Problem was, while I believed God existed, what I didn't believe was that S/he cared anything about me, and that only made me angrier.

Then puberty hit, along with all its inherent drama and angst. It was like throwing gas on a fire. Add to that the opening salvos of what would eventually be diagnosed as Bipolar Disorder, and, well, let's just say I could best be likened to a crate of unstable nitro glycerin being hauled at top speed in a vehicle with no springs on an unpaved, pock marked road. How I remained in most aspects a “good” girl is beyond me. I didn't party, drink, do drugs, smoke, or run with an unscrupulous crowd. I stood apart, ironically, because I was too angry and distrustful to get close enough to become involved in any nefarious activity. Thank God.

Yes, I thank God, and I thank Him or Her for knowing the perfect way to get my attention when I needed it most. Kind of like a divine kick in the, er, pants.

No matter how bad I was feeling, I said a prayer every night before going to sleep. Often times, I simply ranted to hear myself rant without really considering whether S/he was listening. Then, one night when we were living on one of Alaska's Aleutian islands, I made the mistake of daring God to prove His or Her existence. Angrily, I bellowed out the challenge, “Okay, God, if you're really there, prove it!”

Never, ever challenge God to prove Him or Herself, for as Forrest Gump once pointed out, S/he has a way of showing up.

No sooner had the words left my lips when the room suddenly shifted, rattled and shook with a strong earthquake! It lasted just long enough, it seemed, to make a point. Now, some would argue that it was mere coincidence. But, first, I don't believe in coincidence and, second, the timing was just too, too perfect. Effectively cowed, I stuttered out an apology and never repeated that mistake!

In the years after, things got steadily worse. My rage increased and I became filled with a deep self
hatred strong enough to make sure suicide was never far from my consciousness. I doubted and challenged everything and everyone, and I walked in a place of perpetual darkness. Through it all, however, a flame flickered inside me. Sometimes it was faint while other times a conflagration, but I never forgot the lesson I had learned all those years ago. No matter how bad things got, S/he was always listening.