I woke up Sunday morning, November 14, 1993, feeling much as I felt all those long ago mornings before making a choice to follow Christ. I felt useless, dirty and unloved. In my opinion, there was no reason to live. Everything in my life pointed to my being a beggar of mercy.

Sunday after Sunday I felt my pastor was imploring me to forget my past, put it behind me, but no matter how hard I tried, I was unable to move forward. Daily a sense of uselessness forged me into depression. The words of a poem I wrote years ago crossed my mind as I thought about my need for God. At the time I wrote the poem, my need was for a drink of love. Yet, the poem speaks of a drink, as in alcohol.

TRAGEDY

How do I go today?
Shall I say. . .
"Hey buddy, got a dime for coffee?"

How do I ask some happy soul. . .
"Hey buddy, got a dime for coffee?"

Oh, the emptiness I see in their eyes
I guess my sight they shun
If I were to come upon me in the streets. . .
Would I run?

Oh, the drink I need right now
Is worth the shame I must pay
To feel its bitter, burning sting
Assures me its okay.

My shirt smells of last week's food
My pants are patched and torn
So perfectly bumish I appear to be. . .
Hungry. . .forlorn.

The pain drags me down low
In the gutter where I belong
Away from the beautiful people. . .
My life has been so wrong.

Oh, my composures gone. . .I'm lost for words
"Hey buddy, got a dime for coffee?"

Like the nagging sound of an unattended alarm clock, the thought continuously raced through my mind, burning into my heart, and into the deepest recesses of my soul, bringing me to a point beyond control. Internally, a voice constantly told me, "Do it Sharon, there is no hope. Everything you have tried failed. You may as well end it all. No one believes in you. You are not what you think you are. No one trusts you. Do it!"

I sincerely felt that the voice spoke the truth. Nothing I ever tried turned out right. I never accomplished anything. I lived in a form of hell all my life and I was tired, exhausted. I was beyond pretending. My strength was gone. Killing myself was the only answer.

My search for acceptance from God and his people evaded me. My share of mistakes stretched the limits of God's grace. From my viewpoint, most of the wrong choices were made in hope of a better life. Instead, I hurt the very people I loved most. I knew God's promises regarding a purpose and a hope, but no matter how hard I tried I seemed bent on ending back up on the road of destruction.

The issues for me to work through grew daily. They ranged from my parents divorce, sexual abuse, the abortions I allowed to happen, divorce, my stepchildren's incest, and the subsequent abuse of my own daughter by these children. Reading everything from Arterburn to Ziglar, and everything in between only brought on more frustration. I ached for someone to understand.

There were times when the books I read ignited a desire in me to help others, to look beyond my problems. I tried to reach out in love to the hurting people around me and let them know they were not alone, but no longer had the strength to continue. I suffered alone in my pain.

Peace evaded me after joining the church. I tried everything from being a Sunday School teacher to sweeping floors, nothing helped. I went back to school twice, but both times the lack of money forced me to quit. More Pastors that I can count told me I was not a fit vessel for service. No, they never said it with their mouth, or in so many words; it was their non-verbal communication that reached me. I felt as if at some point I committed the unpardonable sin without knowing it and was doomed to hell. Yet, the sense of a "higher purpose," a "calling" so to speak, never left me.

I was filled with anger, frustration and despair. I felt abandoned by God and everyone else I cared about. As a member in a local church who searched the scripture with intensity, I asked myself, "Where is the body of Christ? Where is true forgiveness and genuine acceptance? Why doesn't someone help me with the answers? Where is the love for the broken, the oppressed, and the fatherless the Bible so often speaks of?"

Daily the mistakes of my past lingered in my mind, relief never came. I watched as my precious girls suffered the consequences of my wrong choices. I heard pain in the stories told to me by coworkers. Everyone came to me. Now I was tired of listening or caring. I needed someone to listen and hear what I said. The sense of isolation surrounded me.

I met Roger at church. My husband and I were in the process of divorce; we were waiting until the new year so he could claim us on his income tax. In those days the awareness of my running from problems was hidden. Yet, I was running hard. Running from the painful memories and the feelings associated with them.

When I first entered Roger's home, I knew there were problems. Please don't ask me how I knew; it was something like a sixth sense. There were signs in his children, something wrong about the way they played together, something wrong in the way they related to each other, it was everywhere. However, the intensity of those problems were beyond my realm of understanding. Knowing what I know now, I would run away as fast as possible.

I was in therapy at the time, finally ready to face my issues. When I shared with my therapist about Roger and his children, she told me to forget them and walk away. She tried to warn me. I was reading a book, "The Messiah Complex," and knew that helping them was hurting me, but I stayed. Little did I know I was using them to distract me from my own pain.

However, four years later Roger's daughter was worse than before. Scott, his son, had the appearance of overcoming everything, but there was still a deep, dark anger inside of him. The struggle to help these children had almost destroyed me.

Calling out to God brought no relief. I could almost hear him saying, "Child, you got yourself into this mess, now get yourself out." My trust was not in God, it was in the, so-called, wisdom I gleaned reading book after book.

While I was spending all my time and energy trying to help these two children, my own two daughters suffered neglect. My oldest daughter, Michelle, moved in with us during the summer, after leaving her husband. Along with her came the delight of my life, my grandson, Matthew, and for a short season I laughed again.

Yet, I was afraid. I watched history repeating itself through Michelle. She was running from something too. She said with her mouth that she needed to get away from her husband because of his perverted ways, but her actions showed differently. She was seeing another man. The only difference between Michelle and me was the fact that I wanted her marriage to work, my mother wanted mine to fail -- and it did.

My precious daughter Jessica suffered the most. At one time she was a happy little girl, full of joy and love. Now she was filled with bitterness and fear. She feared close relationships and the pain of being abandoned. Her dad left me when I was five months pregnant and then there was a string of failed relationships. Trust was difficult for her. Watching her suffer the consequences of my behavior was more than I could handle.

In despair, I truly reached the end of my hope and entered the gate of quiet desperation. I needed to end the madness in the only way I knew how, suicide. Maybe Roger would get his head out of the television and look into the eyes of his children. Children ruined because of his inability to stand up to his ex-wife's desire for pornography. Maybe she would face up to her responsibility to these children God gave her. My shoulders were heavy from carrying everyone's load. I was drained.

If I died maybe my baby sister would take Jessica in to live with her. She had the perfect house and the perfect husband. Even her children were born in perfect order, a boy first and then a girl. In the safety of her home, Jessica would be taught the right way to do things. She would be safe from the horrors of abuse and neglect. My desire for her was that she would know God in a way that was distant to me. I prayed she would grow up with a pure heart and body, able to keep herself for the man God had for her. If she stayed in church without straying, she would be loved and accepted.

Scott's progress was wonderful. Looking at him it was hard to imagine how his life was once filled with sex, both physically and visually. His friends were good boys and he was doing great in school. Still, there were frightening moments, when driven by a hunger neither of us understood, he would sneak into Jessica's room or stand outside her bathroom and peak into her private world. How long would he be able to control himself?

In my heart of hearts, I knew he hungered for what he was once given so freely by his sister. I no longer had the strength to help him or protect him from himself. My feelings were mixed. Part of me hurt for him and the bondage he was in, but another part of me wanted to lash out and punish him for what he had done to Jessica and our family. I was confused and lonely.

Let us not forget the church's part in my pain. I begged for someone to help us spiritually and emotionally, but doors were closed in my face. Sunday after Sunday I heard messages from the pulpit about God's love and forgiveness. I hungered to feel forgiven by God and accepted by people claiming to be "God's hand extended," but not once were we visited by anyone. The pastor assured me that we were in his prayers, but we needed a Jesus with skin on.

For years I was given the privilege of being a soloist in church, but that was no longer true. The Minister of Music would not even talk to me; much less allow me to sing. What was different about me? God gave me a lovely voice, and the ability to deliver a message in song, but I was shut out. What was wrong with me? Were there scars on my face from the years of neglect and abuse? Was I repulsive? What was the problem? I was obsessed with wanting to know the answer.

My mind was made up. I would end the madness and everyone around me would be better off. Everything I ever longed for was stripped from me. I lost trust because my parents neglected me and several men and boys in my life abused me. I lost hope as marriage after marriage failed. I lost faith in God because of the absence of pastoral care. I lost the dream of being a beacon of hope to hurting people because of failed relationships. I lost the desire to attend worship services in my church. I lost truth, hope, faith, dreams, and desire. Without these elements in my life I could not go on.

I slowly walked to my dresser and reached in, wrapping my hand tightly around the bottle of pills, my answer was in hand. I walked calmly back to the kitchen, poured my favorite drink and swallowed the twenty-three antidepressants. Yes, this was it, this was the answer. I sat down at the kitchen table with the vision of doing one of the things I liked best, reading. I would die with a book in my hand. Soon, sleep would envelope me and I would be out of this prison of despair.