It is the greatest ache in my soul to be separated from my children. Three are grown and living their own lives. Three are not, and they’re not with me. The older three and I talk and are in each other’s lives; that is good. Good, good, good. But the younger three … often I catch myself staring off into space – thinking of them – thinking about how I failed them – thinking how I miss them – wondering how they are – wondering how they are doing – what they are doing. Often I lay awake at night thinking of them – thinking how I failed them – thinking how I miss them – wondering how they are – wondering how they are doing – what they are doing. Tears fall – though I’m better able now to hold them back now.

It’s coming up on the sixth anniversary of the day I left St. Louis – in a panicked flurry, I packed my things into my car and drove six hours, through floods of pain and grief, to the safety of my parent’s home in Tulsa. Part of the drive, my brother – who was in Kansas – kept me on the phone in an effort to keep me “sane” and “calm.” My hysterical crying scared him, I know. He understood that I was driving away from a volatile situation and that if I had stayed that I was not going to survive. Not physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. I would have died had I stayed. So, I fled – and began the ‘fight’ of my life.

Fear was my constant companion. So much so did it consume me that I was incapable of rational thought and incapable of the real, legal fight to get shared custody of my children. Paranoia gripped me, and around every corner and behind every door, I saw the potential, impending danger. My mind created terrifying scenarios one after another, and I was terror-stricken, flailing insanely in a dark pool of water – and no matter how many people told me to put my feet on the floor of the pool and feel the bottom, I could not. I would not. I was tormented and only capable of small breaths above water – frantically trying to survive and swim away from what tormented me. Then, the decree was signed, and I lost my children. Fear and shame shrouded me, and I drank away the pain as time passed.

The first three years of healing are blurry to my memory now, though I know they were full of fear, confusion, and self-hate. Snippets of memory come to me in unexpected moments, and I find it hard to digest that those are things and events that I endured, caused, and survived. In my fight to live, I had two stints in psych wards and was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and Bipolar disorder – and I was put on medication. I was ostracized by good Christians, some even family, for my sins of adultery and divorce – most choosing judgment instead of discovery of root causes and healing. It was said of me that I was a bad influence, and young family members were encouraged not to talk to me. I’m not bitter; those are their conversations to have with Christ. They did not stop to consider years of volatility that I was not equipped to navigate, nor did they ask before passing judgment. Not making excuses for my past behaviors; I am stating facts. I was naive, sheltered, and brought up in a traditional Christian church environment where I did not learn tools to face abuse, drug use, or narcissism. I came to a place of depression and hopelessness where I believed that I was unloveable and unworthy of answered prayers, and I gave up. I died inside, and my life became a quasi-suicide mission with a smile plastered on my face. I remember the feelings, but it all blurs together now … the couple of years where I “lost my mind” and the first three years of “healing.”

It wasn’t healing that happened in those three years, not really. It began, but I also found myself dependent on alcohol. More and more, I drank myself into oblivion at night. Killing the pain. Killing the self-hate. Killing the guilt. Killing it – and not understanding myself. I wanted to live for my kids and show them I could be better, so war raged inside me. I wanted to be better. I wanted to deserve God’s love. I wanted to deserve my kid’s love. I wanted a man to love me. But I also did not believe, despite what I had endured over years of private hell, that I deserved any of those things. I had been told for so long that I was unwanted – I believed that lie, and I snapped and stepped into despicable sin – then, I believed I was a walking sin, undeserving of forgiveness or grace. I wanted to be numb, to let sweet Vodka drift it all away. I went to therapy, sure. I dated, absolutely. For so long, I’d been told I was unattractive and that no one would want me, and I needed to prove that wasn’t true to myself. Vodka was my private therapist.

In all that ‘healing’ time – and to this day – because of my love for my children, I have kept my private hell story locked away from them. I do not speak hate-filled words, have not, and won’t about the past. There are things they do not need to know … not until they ask, and I believe they’re mature enough for the conversation, and perhaps, not even then. It is not for me to seek vengeance or comeuppance. That is God’s department – and mine is to seek restoration of my heart, soul, mind, and body and to pray for my children. That is what I am to do.

Four years into healing, I began to talk to God more, and I listened to Him as well. Long story short, God took the reigns from me – and He taught me how to accept His Grace – and not walk in fear. I found myself to be the woman in John 8, and I tattooed “By Grace” on my right arm as a daily reminder that God loves me! I am saved by Grace! I am to live by Grace! I am to love with Grace! No longer do I take medications for depression or disorders. No longer do I ascribe to the diagnoses given to me by doctors who did not know my whole story. No more do I accept or claim Borderline Personality Disorder or Bi-polar. I suffered from PTSD (which I do not want to merely gloss over here with a slight mention – PTSD is real; it is debilitating. I was disabled by it. Crippled. Lost.) and a lack of honest, authentic faith. God led me to AA, where I have learned to take a deep look inside of myself and get honest regarding my instincts and responsibilities and the greatness of God my Father as I understand Him, and then, He, this great Father God, led me straight into the arms of Patrick Cunningham. It is an act of God that he and I met. We know it, and we are grateful to God for His mercy and kindness. Patrick has his own story, and suffice it to say that as a result of his own struggles, his faith is rooted in knowledge and experience. God is real to him, and he’s the most authentic person I’ve ever known.

People don’t understand how any mother could not fight for at least joint custody of her children, and I no longer feel I need to defend myself to any of those people because I know my story. I see it through clear eyes now, and I know that I was mentally ill – emotionally drained, spiritually sick, and consumed by fear. I know that, but then … I waiver at times because I miss my babies. It is a battle inside of me waged between knowledge and feelings. I’m no longer living in fear or self-hate, but guilt creeps in … the guilt of leaving my children – or, in the words of another person, the guilt of abandoning my children. When that creeps in, I take a deep breath and pray; I look at the tattoo on my arm. I thank God for bringing me to a place of healing and grace, and I ask Him to remind me that I am His. Yes, I miss my children desperately, and I think about them constantly, but I know at this point in my life, it is for me to be about the tasks God, my Father, sets in front of me each day. I continually pray for my children, and I thank God for each one of them. I pray that they will know beyond anything else in this life that God is real and that Heaven and Hell are real, and it is for them to choose for themselves where they will spend eternity. This I do, and I remember that God’s grace is sufficient for this disaster of a woman that I have been and am. The devil wants to push guilt on me, and I, at times, let that guilt in, but I know this … it is not now and never will be guilt at leaving a volatile situation. For that wild escape in the midst of a mental, emotional, and spiritual breakdown, I am grateful.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind, but now I see.