Nowhere but Up (9 page)

The moment I uttered those words, vivid images flashed across my mind. I’m sure you’ve heard stories of how when people are on the brink of death, they see their lives flash before their eyes. Well, that’s exactly like what happened to me, except the images I saw were specific and extremely hard to watch. Every sin, every wrong, every destructive behavior, every indulgence—everything I had done that was against what God desired for my life came to my mind. The sleeping around. The drugs. The drinking. The stealing. In that moment, I was made acutely aware of how sinful I was and how holy God is. It humbled me to the point where I couldn’t see how God could even begin to forgive me. Maybe I had gone too far. Maybe I had crossed the line where His grace couldn’t reach.

I felt so ashamed. And hopeless. I took my eyes off the ceiling, looked down at my hospital-issued slippers, and whispered, “If it’s too late, God, I totally understand.”

I spoke the truth. I considered the possibility that I was too far gone in my sin for God’s forgiveness to reach. I didn’t believe in or understand grace at that point. How could I? I didn’t know a thing about it. How could I expect God to accept my apologies for living such a messed-up life and welcome me with open arms? It may have been too much to ask.

But then He showed up. God met me in such a powerful manner, there was no way I could doubt His existence or His presence anymore. Pardon the cheesy sounding details, but what I experienced next was very intense and very real.

With my eyes closed, I saw in my mind an image of my heart opening up. As it unfolded, gold dust was poured into the opening and filled every inch of my heart until there was no room left for even one more speck to squeeze through. Somehow deep in my spirit I knew the gold dust represented God’s love; He was pouring His love into my heart. Then as quickly as it filled up, my heart closed and turned a blindingly bright white. I felt like I had been purified and cleansed from the inside out. I was in awe, and I was fully aware of God’s presence.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t feel loved in an overly emotional or warm and fuzzy way. It was like a deep knowing. A love on a level I would have never before recognized. A love that could only come from God.

I started weeping. Tears of relief. Tears of hope. Tears of gratitude. Tears of myriad pent-up emotions, some of which I didn’t understand. I felt like a woman who had been wandering in a desert for days without water and accidentally stumbled into a babbling brook. Still trying to wrap my brain around what had just happened, I sat in a daze, uttering in wide-eyed amazement,

“Oh my God . . . YOU are real.”

“Oh my GOD . . . You ARE real.”

“OH MY GOD . . . You are REAL!”

“Oh my God . . . You’re really real!”

For the next few minutes, I sat unable to move. I was so overwhelmed by this knowing, all I could do was repeat that God was real.

I knew that if I was going to give God the reins to my life, there were certain things I would have to give up. If there was anything I understood about God from the little I had learned from John and my Catholic background, it was that God didn’t approve of certain things. Mainly, the things I liked to do. I knew I had to give up some stuff. Stuff that I liked.

So believe it or not, I took a deep breath and gave God an ultimatum. “God, if I have to give up my drugs and my alcohol, You’d better be better than them, because I like drinking and I like my drugs. But here’s the thing: I’m not gonna play church. I’m not gonna be a pew warmer and be a pretend Christian or a hypocrite. So I’ll give that stuff up, but You’d better be worth it.” Maybe it wasn’t the most reverent prayer, but it was honest. It was where my heart was. I’ve come to realize that God loves for us to be raw and real with Him.

I sat up and opened the drawer of the nightstand by my hospital bed. I reached in and found a Bible, a good ol’ trusty Gideon Bible. Whether you’re in a hospital or a motel, you’ll always find one of these books keeping the drawer warm. Somehow I just knew I had to start reading the Bible. It was my first time, and I didn’t exactly have a plan for where to start or how long to read; I just opened it up to a random page and started reading.

I didn’t know a thing about the Bible. I certainly didn’t know there were different versions of the book. The one I had in my hand was a King James Version, probably not the most reader-friendly for a newbie teenage believer. It was a black-and-white blur. All I could make out was “thee this” and “thou that,” “art this” and “ye that.” Every other word sounded like something from a foreign language or a Shakespearean play. I concluded God had a different way of speaking than normal people like me. “Okay, God,” I piped up. “If I’m going to do this thing, You’re going to have to teach me Your language.”

I was so excited about what I had just experienced, I ran to the pay phone down the hall to call John. He was the only person I knew who would appreciate what I had just gone through. And maybe he could help me understand God’s language. I thought about the many times he had talked to me about God and how what he shared had meant nothing to me. But after my encounter with God, everything John had said and tried to teach me came alive.

By the time I got to the phone and dialed John’s number, I was out of breath from excitement. “You are not going to believe this,” I blurted out.

“What’s the matter?” He sounded concerned.

“Are you sitting down?”

“Yeah, sure, Pattie. What’s wrong?” God only knows what John was thinking at this point.

“GOD IS REAL!” I practically shouted in his ear. I waited for John to react in a dramatic, almost disbelieving way. I expected him to say, “No way! C’mon! Get out of town!” After all, I thought I was telling him something he didn’t already know, something that would turn his world upside down like it had mine. I knew John was a Christian, but I didn’t think he knew the truth like I did. After all,
I
had just had an experience with God.

John laughed and was clearly enjoying the moment. I wasn’t. I was getting irked.
I can’t believe this! He’s not getting it.
I tried again, repeating what I had just said, this time drawing out the words more. “GOD”—long pause—“IS REAL!”

“Yes, I know,” John said patiently and by this point, I’m guessing, with a grin from ear to ear.

“No, no, no. You don’t understand. I just had an experience. I’m not talking about the religion stuff you learn in church. I’m talking about the real deal.” I continued passionately stating my case. “The God of the universe, the God who created you and me and the skies and the trees—John, that God is real!”

“Yes, I know. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Oh. Well, I just tried to read the Bible, but I can’t understand it. It’s full of thees and thous and says things like ‘heretofore, inasmuch, wherewithal, notwithstanding.’ And I don’t understand a word of it. You’re gonna have to teach me God’s language.”

“That’s not God’s language,” John explained as he chuckled. “That’s King James’s language. The original Bible was written in Greek and Hebrew and later translated into English. So the King James Version is an Old English version.”

John told me he’d be right over with a Bible I’d have an easier time reading. That evening in the hospital room, he prayed with me and read the Bible with me, a version in today’s language I could understand.

John was so happy for me. And I am indebted to him because not only did he lead me to God, but he also discipled and fathered me spiritually. He taught me what it means to be a real Christian through the example he lived day in and day out. This wonderful man helped me to learn what God’s love and grace is all about.

Before I was discharged from the hospital a week later, my doctors couldn’t help but notice the change in my disposition. I carried on about my encounter with God and told them He was real.

They were skeptical. “So you’re hearing voices now?” one of them asked me.

No, I wasn’t hearing voices. I had met God. I had found a purpose. My life was redefined. The depression didn’t weigh me down anymore. For the first time in my life, I felt free. I could think clearly. I felt a deep, indescribable love, a love that was the perfect fit for the ever-widening gap in my heart that nothing in the past had ever had the power to fill.

After I got out of the hospital, I was on a natural high for about a week, taking advantage of every opportunity to tell others that God was real. I talked to everyone—my friends, my family, the convenience store clerk, the mailman. Most of these conversations were one-sided, with me jabbering away nonstop to someone who was almost always politely smiling and nodding. I didn’t realize at the time how irksome I sounded, but looking back now, I can certainly see it. I’m sure I annoyed some people like John used to annoy me with his God talk.

I can only imagine how I may have come across to some of my closest friends, telling them about God just after getting out of the psych ward of the hospital. Years later, however, those same people realized my change wasn’t just a passing phase. They would even at times ask me for prayer.

In my defense, I was excited. I had just found out God was real, and I wanted other people—who, like me, had their doubts—to know what I knew. It was like what happens when you first fall in love. Flowers look more colorful. The sun seems brighter. Sunsets are more picturesque. I had that giddy, dizzying feeling, and I not only wanted the world to know about it, I wanted them to feel the same way. But no matter what I said, no one seemed to get it.

The fact is, I couldn’t just give others my experience. It’s like sitting down at a fancy restaurant and looking at a beautiful menu with vivid descriptions and pictures of mouthwatering dishes. You can’t experience the deliciousness simply by reading about it, discussing it, and walking away. You have to taste it for yourself.

There may have been times I miscommunicated my faith or turned people off with my excitement. I’ve since learned how to be more sensitive to people and what they believe. I may not always see eye to eye with everyone, but I don’t feel the need to have to convince them of my beliefs.

For a week after I got out of the hospital, I was euphoric. I had a sense of fulfillment and didn’t feel the need to use drugs, alcohol, or even Jeremy to self-medicate, forget, or feel wanted. I had finally found what I didn’t even know had been missing in my life. My mom didn’t say much about my experience. She kind of brushed it off. One thing was certain, though—she was glad my partying ways were behind me.

Jeremy wasn’t the biggest fan of my new faith; I think he felt threatened. He was jealous that all of a sudden, my focus was on God instead of him. Jeremy didn’t have the same power over me as he’d had before. And finally, for the first time, I could see how toxic and volatile our relationship was.

A few weeks after I left the hospital, Jeremy came over. He knocked on my door and begged me to come back to him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his hollow cheeks aged him.

“Please, Pattie,” he begged. “Just come back to me. Let’s try this again. It’ll work this time, I know it.” His voice was so sad it broke my heart, but not enough for me to make another run at it.

I shook my head. “I can’t, Jeremy. I’m sorry.”

He asked if we could take a walk to get some air. He held my hand as he spoke. “Listen, Pattie, we belong together. We’re meant to be. I can’t live without you.” I was quiet, unsure of what I wanted to say other than that I didn’t want to get back together with him.

Jeremy still couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to take him back. It was out of character for me, and the whole thing puzzled him.

I was honest. “I’m finally happy, Jeremy. I have God. I feel free. And I finally realized I don’t want to be in a poisonous relationship. It’s bad for both of us.”

Silence.

Jeremy nodded slowly, his eyes growing darker. I noticed the immediate shift in his mood. The calm broke. “This is what I think of your God, Pattie.” He took a step back, loudly filling his throat with phlegm, and hawked a loogie next to my flip-flops.

My spiritual high naturally dissipated. At some point you’ve got to come out of the clouds and live real life. Again, it’s just like falling in love. The feeling of euphoria is only temporary. It’s cute not to be able to eat, sleep, or think about anything other than the person you have fallen madly and deeply in love with. But if that feeling continued at such an intense level, you’d never get anything done. You wouldn’t be able to function. You wouldn’t be able to work. You wouldn’t be able to manage your day-to-day responsibilities. I couldn’t live forever on feelings of ecstasy. I had to learn to balance the high with the realities of life.

Despite the fact that my life was forging a new path of hope, I still had a lot of internal issues that needed sorting and mending. The trauma I endured from my past sexual abuse and the consequential harmful thought patterns I developed weren’t going to go away on their own or in an instant. Healing would come, but over time and in bits and pieces. That’s not something I understood at first, and that lack of understanding is what allowed me to revisit the very things that had led me to my breaking point.

When I got out of the hospital, I started going to a nondenominational church that was different from what I had imagined church was like. Though no church is perfect and every congregation has its share of hypocrites, for the most part, I found the Christians at the church I attended to be very real and authentic, people who actually walked the walk and talked the talk. They led me by their example. They came from all sorts of different backgrounds and walks of life. And they taught me that Jesus is the foundation of the church—and the one who unites us all. We could respect each other’s differences and learn from each other because we had Christ at the center of it all.

My hunger to know everything about my newfound faith was insatiable. For the next six months, I faithfully attended church every Sunday, sitting in the front row week after week. I went to Bible study. I was mentored by different leaders. I read books. I even called the pastors at all hours of the day and night (sorry about that, guys!) to ask questions and ask for prayer. I was a spiritual sponge.

The more knowledge I soaked up, the more I distanced myself from my partying friends. I didn’t think I was better than them because my life was changing in a different way; we just didn’t share much in common. I didn’t want to spend nights and weekends getting blitzed out of my mind or carousing for guys. I wanted to clean up my act. I was heading in a different direction from my friends, and little by little the relationships I had formed, mainly through the common tie of partying and getting wasted, started fading away.

A few months after my encounter, though, I found myself frustrated because certain issues I struggled with weren’t going away. I thought that after experiencing a second chance at life, I’d turn into a totally different person. I thought I would automatically be rid of bad habits, be less insecure, and have fewer hang-ups. I thought my not-so-healthy tendencies, my anger, and my bitterness would magically disappear. I thought I would turn into a Pollyanna who smiled all the time, was always positive, and never said a bad word (either out loud or in her mind).

I think many well-meaning Christians try to use Scripture as a Band-Aid to cover a gaping wound. Sometimes this leads to confusion, as it did with me. One of the Scriptures I wrestled with was 2 Corinthians 5:17: “Whoever is a believer in Christ is a new creation. The old way of living has disappeared. A new way of living has come into existence.” I struggled with that because while I was spiritually new, the old way of living hadn’t completely disappeared for me—I wasn’t fully rid of all my bad habits, insecurities, and hang-ups.

I found myself fighting the urge to smoke and encumbered by heavy feelings of rejection and bouts of crippling anxiety. I had a tough time reconciling the old me and the new me. I didn’t understand that I still needed a lot of healing. Healing that would take more time, therapy, and effort. Particularly more time. Without that understanding, I became more and more frustrated. I constantly beat myself up for not being perfect. I had to learn how to little by little “work out my salvation” (see Phil. 2:12).

The battle that raged in my heart showed up in my behavior, like the way I overreacted to things. I was on an emotional roller coaster, guarded one minute, incredibly sensitive the next. One day I’d want to talk to someone about my problems, and the next I’d want to be alone, purposely shutting out the people who loved me the most.

I also felt alone. While I was fortunate to have so many people in the church to love and teach me, they were much older. They had spouses and families of their own to take care of. I wanted—really I needed—to hang out with young people I could relate to and talk to about school, music, and your average teenage stuff. I needed friends my own age. In the absence of any spiritual peer support, I made a slow but deliberate detour. A few steps backward here and a few more there, and before I knew it, I was back at parties, drinking beers and smoking joints.

I was just looking for someone to relate to. That’s all. I didn’t intend to return to my old partying ways, though John had warned me it could happen. Though I promised him I wouldn’t indulge while hanging out with my old friends—in fact, I swore that I would be a good influence on them—he knew better.

“Let me put it this way,” he told me as he slid a chair out from his desk during one of our many mentoring meetings. “Stand on this chair.”

I obliged.

John reached out his hand. “Now take my hand.”

Almost immediately after I grabbed his hand, his strong grip pulled me down.

“Think about it. Is it easier for you to pull me up or for me to pull you down?”

Point taken.

But the telling analogy didn’t stop me from visiting my old turf. It was awkward at first, being at parties completely sober. I felt out of place. Hanging out at parties when you’re sober gets old quick. I started compromising a little here, a little there. One beer became a few, with long swigs from bottles of peppermint schnapps to boot. One drag became a joint, and all of a sudden dropping acid seemed like a good idea. Before I knew it, I was caught up in doing the very things I used to do to numb my pain.

I stopped going to church as often and had fewer conversations with John and other mentors at the church. While I didn’t give up on God, the pull toward the past was too strong. The old bad habits, tendencies, and desires came back full force. Except this time I felt guilty. I couldn’t escape that feeling. A year after I tried to kill myself, the peace and joy I’d once had was gone and replaced with waves of guilt. I was no dummy. I knew I wasn’t living right. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be doing the things I was doing.

I dangled between the past and my spiritual transformation and couldn’t find equilibrium. I felt guilty around my old party buddies and guilty around church folk. Being in that middle ground for a while eventually dragged me down to the bottom.

I wanted to pray, but I had a hard time. Words didn’t come easily. I didn’t know what to say. Feeling too far removed from my faith, I made matters worse. I dug deeper into my old ways. Why not? I had already pushed the envelope. I drank more, I smoked more, and as the final straw, I reunited with Jeremy. I hung out with him and his friends on his birthday. He had one wish—me. I said yes.

Two weeks later, I was at the gynecologist’s office. It was the last place I wanted to be. I could think of a thousand different things I would have rather been doing. Getting a root canal sounded better. I wouldn’t have even minded being grounded. But lying spread-eagled on the crinkly paper–covered table as a male doctor performed an internal exam? Let’s get this over with, and fast.

It was supposed to be a routine visit. Answer some questions, get poked and prodded, get asked if I had any questions, and schedule next year’s visit. The internal exam took longer than I had expected. I watched the hands of the clock on the wall creep agonizingly forward as my mom sat in the corner, her face buried in a tabloid magazine.

The doctor snapped off his latex gloves, whipped them into a nearby trash can, and without missing a beat said, “Any chance you could be pregnant?”

My mom’s magazine fell to the floor, the pages fluttering noisily about.

Are you kidding me?

The doctor asked me again, with the same casual beat he’d use to ask me if it was raining, “Is it possible you could be pregnant?”

I immediately glanced over to my mom, who sat in stunned silence, and loudly retorted, “No! Absolutely not! No way!” My face was beet red. I was embarrassed but also offended. How dare this doctor ask me if I’m pregnant in front of my mother! Couldn’t he have pulled me aside? Asked my mother to leave the room? Called me the next day?

I sat up on the table and pulled my paper gown protectively around me. Pregnant? The doc must have been smoking something before he came to the office that morning. “There’s no way I’m pregnant, doctor,” I repeated resolutely.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Pattie.” The doctor shrugged. “From what I could tell, I’m pretty sure you are, so . . .” He started writing on a prescription pad. “I’m sending you to the clinic next door to get a pregnancy test.” He ripped off the piece of paper and put it in my hand, annoyed.

My mother let out a muffled groan. “Dear God, Pattie, please don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”

I rolled my eyes at both of them. “I’m not pregnant!”

I had been on birth control since I was fifteen, at my mother’s recommendation. We were sitting at the kitchen table one day when she brought up the uncomfortable topic. “I think it’s time for you to start taking the pill.” I looked at her in disbelief.
What?
I was still a virgin. As a matter of fact, I had no plans to sleep with anyone just yet. That day, I felt my mom basically gave me permission to have sex. When I started taking the pill, I did so religiously, or so I thought. There was no way I was part of that 2 percent group of women who experience a “margin of error.”

I wasn’t pregnant. I couldn’t be. It was impossible.

Nevertheless, my mother and I walked to the clinic next door. Neither of us said a word. My mom probably didn’t see any point in questioning me again. We’d find out the truth in a matter of minutes. I stared at the cheesy posters on the wall in the waiting room. One told me to get checked for such-and-such disease. Another reminded me to eat more fruits and vegetables. The walls looked muddied. Dim and dirty.
Why am I here?
You can’t imagine the temptation I felt to bolt.

“Pattie Mallette?” A nurse’s head peeked through a half-open door into the room. “You can come in now.”

My confidence was unsinkable. Doctor, nurse, whatever—no one was going to tell me I was pregnant.

After a urine test and a few more minutes of waiting, I stood in another room, having offered the only chair available to my mom. She probably needed it more than me. She was the one who looked like she was going to faint at any moment.

The door opened and the same nurse who had performed my test came in. She nodded sympathetically and said, “Pattie, the doctor was right. You are pregnant.”

In the background I heard my mother say faintly, almost in a whisper, “Oh, Pattie.” Her voice was soft, but the sentiment rang loud and clear—disappointment. Absolute and utter disappointment.

I almost lost it.
Lies
,
these are all lies.
I looked at the nurse like she needed to get her head examined. “No way. There is no way I’m pregnant. You’re gonna have to do it again. The test is wrong.”

The nurse repeated more firmly, “Pattie, you’re pregnant. The test is 99.9 percent accurate.”

I didn’t budge. “Well, then there’s still a chance I’m not pregnant. Do it again.”

At my prompting, she did another test.

While waiting the second time, I started doubting myself. Though the denial was powerful, I entertained the maybes. Maybe not taking a pill on time. Maybe even missing one or two. When the nurse came back, she repeated her earlier diagnosis. I had no more wiggle room to deny the obvious. I was going to have a baby.

I was leaning against a wall when the nurse told me the results from the second test. I crumpled down to the ground like a rag doll. I was in shock, overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation. A baby? Now? The timing couldn’t have been any worse.

I wasn’t married. I wasn’t old enough. I wasn’t responsible. I was back sowing my old wild oats. A baby didn’t fit anywhere in that picture. A baby didn’t even belong near that picture.

I had nothing against children. I loved kids. I’d always wanted to have babies. But I had romantic hopes around that dream. I would have a husband. A handsome, supportive, loving husband. And a beautiful home. We’d be able to provide a stable environment for our kids so there’d be a minimum chance they’d have a messed-up life like mine.

But a baby in my life situation? It was a nightmare come true. Half praying, half crying, I sobbed, “Oh, God, no, no, no! What am I going to do?”