The first seeds of faith were planted when I dated a guy from a blended family.  I do not remember them saying anything in particular, but they loved all people and got along really well. One night I saw his mom reading the Bible while his dad cooked supper. I thought “How can anybody read that stuff? I fall asleep every time I try!” Still, I loved my boyfriend so after a year, I went to church with him at a Berean church. The service was such a shock to my old Irish Catholic upbringing, I cried after the service.  I was raised to believe if I wasn’t Catholic, I wasn’t saved. So, I left him, and a piece of my heart.

Three weeks later I met who would become my first husband. He mentioned he was Catholic, so I thought it was a sign.  WARNING: if you do not really know the Lord, you cannot recognize his voice, which means Satan can just as easily give you a sign you’ll accept.

Because of the “sign” I felt I received, I didn’t question our relationship when my new boyfriend became verbally abusive.  I didn’t think anything was wrong when I got put on anti-depressants.  I didn’t question the situation when I hadn’t eaten for two days, and got sick to my stomach at our rehearsal dinner.  I finally questioned our relationship when we got home from our honeymoon, and my new husband became worse.

At that point I knew I could not ask for help because every time I did, our friends and family would ask if I missed my medication or needed to see a counselor.  There is no more hopeless feeling in the world than legitimately crying out for help and no one believes you.  Two years after I left my husband, two years after weaning myself off anti-depressants, my family had discovered my cries for help were real.

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