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The Other Side of the Fence


By Mimi Marie

Hope vanishes like a mirage. Desperate to end the pain, I want to sleep and never wake again. Nothing can be worse than the ache of sorrow on my heart. I can’t wait for God to take me home…now, not later, now.

The helplessness of childhood abuse and a wounding life trap me in a whirlwind of shame, unworthiness, and gloom. You’re wicked, ugly, and fat. Nobody cares if you die. Death can’t be as dark as the prison that binds me. Killing yourself will kill the pain.

My immense dread leads me to a full bottle of aspirin that entices me on the shelf in the bathroom; I know it’s part of the path to peace. The only cure is death. Betrayal, rejection, failure, dirty, beaten, spat on and good for nothing. All these memories will vanish with you. Kill them all!

I cup my hands and shovel aspirin into my mouth like a starving dog. One shot of water flushes each mouthful down my throat until the bottle empties. No more pain. I sigh with relief and admire my smile that reflects from the mirror. The tough part is complete. I eagerly go back to my bedroom to shut my eyes and sleep. I look forward to my home in heaven.

Thirty minutes go by. My head is throbbing and fiercely spinning out of control. A merciless whirlwind of nausea twists through my body. I didn’t come this far to throw up and live. A massive burning sensation creeps through my throat. Fight it, and go back to sleep! Haze clouds me. Losing my battle to sleep, my bulging eyes find a way to the door. Stumbling to my parent’s room I blurt out, “I’m sick!” I dash to the bathroom and throw up the blazing acidic substance. Disappointment follows.

Failure! Now look what you’ve done. You couldn’t even fall asleep; instead you wake up the family. Now they have to take you to the hospital in the middle of the night. Everybody thinks you’re worthless. I want to die.

In the emergency room, I refuse to drink the charcoal. I’m not here to save myself. The nurses restrain me onto the gurney. Tears stream down my face as the doctor pushes a tube down my throat. My gut thrusts inward as I gag and witness vomit expelling through the tube into a round container that hangs beside me. He pours charcoal down. I throw it up. Now, I really wish I were dead. The second dose is successful. The charcoal absorbs the toxic amount of aspirin in my stomach. I can’t even kill myself right.

The doctor arranges my stay at a psychiatric hospital. It’s really not so bad. At least I’m not the only messed up person around. After a week, I go home with medication, a therapy schedule and an unsuccessful plan. I’m still alive. I have to find another way.

When suicide becomes an only option, deadness is real. Satan draws into ones weaknesses and has a subtle way of twisting lies to seem true. Unresolved baggage set me up to fail. Medication and therapy are not what carry me through. It is God and only God who does. I look up to the hills, but where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. Psalm 121:1-2 When I willingly abandon my life to Him, He heals the damages. He directs my paths and leads me to where I need to go and when. My agenda isn’t always God’s agenda for me; I will never be able to change anything without Him.

My desire to jump over the fence prematurely was not God’s desire for me. The pain that I desperately yearn to escape is a part of His plan for my life. Jesus sweat drops of blood for me so that I can live free from my burdens.

Lord, you saved me from death. You stopped my eyes from crying; you kept me from being defeated. Psalm 116:8 (NCV)

My suffering helps me to depend fully on God to see me through. Then I can look back and observe the miraculous hands that save me. When we turn to Jesus, we find hope.

When I suffer, this comforts me; Your promise gives me life. (Psalm 119:50 NCV)

©2009 Mimi Marie. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

My name is Mimi Marie. I’m a 32-year-old mother of two boys and live in Novi, Michigan. I attend a writer’s group bi-weekly. I’m working on an 87,000 word nonfiction manuscript with an editor about my journey through the effects of incest. My desire is to comfort hurting people through my personal experiences. Glory is to God for sparing my life and for the privilege to help others. Thanks to my grandmother for her gift of editing, writing and patience.