God Adopted Me

I grew up Christian. My earliest memories were the love of dancing for the Lord. From the age of five, I would dance at the side to every worship song doing ballet. That was my joy within the hell I was living at home. At home, if we disobeyed or were naughty, we would be smacked with a wooden spoon or have soap in our mouth, and at dinner be made to sit at the dining room table while everyone had their warm meals and drink, and you had your butter and crackers. Siblings mocked you. It was humiliating.

One time, however, waiting outside a shop holding onto the pram – I’m around five – a palm reader in her caravan was shouting for me. I told her, “No, my God says I can’t do that.” She wouldn’t stop shouting. I called in the shop for my mum to hurry up since this woman wanted me to go to her so desperately. My mum came out and said, “No, we don’t practice.” I said, “I’m only to worship Jesus,” before we walked off. The woman was so angry, shouting still as we walked away, my mum holding tight to me.

One memory, I was around six. I misbehaved. My dad walked in my room asking for my hand. I said no, he’s going to hit me. He didn’t have a wooden spoon on him. He promised he wouldn’t hit me with the wooden spoon. I trusted him and took his hand. He pulled out a wooden spoon from his trousers and smacked me on the back of the hand with it before laughing in my face and walking off.

Life carried on. Of course I would beg for ballet lessons. My mum would say dance for the family. I would; they would laugh, and I would feel embarrassed. I ended up lacking self-confidence to go to class. I was frightened others would laugh at me, so I would pray, ask God, and watch the Barbie to learn.

My mum started to drink not long after my nana’s death. I wasn’t even allowed to cry the moment I was told she was dead. I was told to stop crying within an instant. My mother became so angry. When I was ten, she was sitting on the sofa drunk. I wasn’t even allowed on the floor. That’s when my mum said, “You know your dad?” I said “yeah.” She said bitterly, “He’s not your real dad. Your real dad is dead. He took his life in jail.” My world stopped. My dad walked in from work. I ran to my room, my mum and dad arguing about how my mum was drunk again. I cried that night in my pillow.

At school I was being bullied for my faith and my looks. I even removed a beauty mark off my chin when I was thirteen. I was being made to feed my siblings, get them ready, make sure the kitchen was clean before making my mum’s coffee and breakfast since she’d be in bed hungover before getting myself ready. I was raising my six younger siblings.

From the age of twelve is when life got harder. More chores around the house. Bullying increased at school. One night I found peace in my bedroom playing Hello Kitty when my older brother walked in drunk. That night he stole my dignity and purity for the first time. It wasn’t the only time.

Life carried on. I tried to hang myself in school because everything was too much. The cleaner walked in, calling for other staff who rushed in. My mother came to school that day, pointing her finger, saying I was looking for attention. Later that evening she called me. I was grounded. The deputy head was on the phone and my mother was drunk. I’m already embarrassed; I don’t want to know what she said. I take the phone; he wants to speak to me. “Hi, before I leave school to go home, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay and safe.” I felt seen for the first time. I saw my mother lip-syncing, “What does he want?” I told him I was safe even though an abuser was in my room. Later, my mother said he was a strange man for phoning.

A while passed. I woke up to my mum calling me – she’s at the bottom of the stairs drunk, sun rising. I carried her to bed. As I was about to drift off, she shouted my name: get up, feed your siblings, I need a lie-in. I shouted no; for once I wanted a lie-in. I was tired. My mother stormed in, dragging me out of bed by my ankles, slapping me.

A while passed. I’m sitting in my mum’s bed. She is telling me how God’s hand is upon my life. How she knows – not long after my birth, me, my older siblings and my mother were held hostage by a dangerous man. As my mum was changing my nappy, the man kicked an ashtray towards my head. It was a large glass ashtray from the 80s. It was heading for my head before it flew up in the air, shattering – not one bit of glass within reach.

When I was fifteen, my mother let out a loud cry. I ran downstairs. She was on the floor, broken. She told me how my aunt had just died. Three weeks I grieved over her. Life went on. I had to help more around the house since my mum was more depressed. The sexual abuse increased more. My mum’s drinking was at its worst. Bullying at school was bad. I was called all names, told to kill myself, even compared to dogs from Dogs Trust. I was bullied relentlessly over a beauty mark I had on my chin. I removed it off my face just to survive. Even called “Bible basher” since I was never afraid to say I love Jesus, not even to my bullies.

When I was sixteen, that’s when I had enough. I told a teacher what was going on at home. I went home to a very angry mother. “Who’s sexually abusing you? If it’s someone in the family, you’re looking for attention. If it’s not a family member, then I believe you.” That hurt. We started to argue since I was so frightened. My abuser told me this would happen, and it did. I was tormented by my siblings that night, told to go kill myself – just how my abuser would. When he got told, I finally spoke up to police.

My mum was constantly phoning the police station to make sure my older brother was okay. I was under my bed avoiding objects my siblings were throwing in my room. I ran out, sleeping in the streets that night. The school helped me get rehomed.

Time passes. I’m now 17. I’ve just moved in with my ex-husband from a care home. He was abusive in all forms. He would beat me for putting a book in the wrong place, then go about preaching of Jesus. He almost killed me. When I was nineteen, I ran down a road at 3am in just a towel, begging God, please let someone be up. I never had a phone. I saw a house with lights. My legs moved faster. As I got to the door, I knocked. An old man answered. I’m in tears. “Please phone the police, my husband is trying to kill me.” His wife came to the door, saw the state I was in, and allowed me in. They phoned the police. Within minutes dozens of vehicles showed up. My ex-husband went to jail for what he did.

I entered a bad mental breakdown. I shaved my hair off due to the flashbacks of being dragged like a rag doll. I tried to take my life. I ended in a coma for a week. When I woke up I couldn’t talk or move. The nurses were kind, saying how my mum was worried. That surprised me. I spent some time in hospital before being discharged.

When I was settled, I phoned my mum. My dad answered, “Hello?” “Hi Dad, it’s me.” I heard, “Shh, everyone, it’s Anastasia.” My dad spoke. I was on speaker; the whole family could hear me. “I’m phoning to let you and mam know I’ve been in a coma from an attempt.” With that they laughed and hung up, not saying a word.

A few years passed. I’m mentally not doing too good. I ended up taking street tablets as an attempt. I ended up having a near-death experience. I was in a black void. My hearing was in and out of the paramedics. I couldn’t feel, couldn’t see — all I could see was darkness. I wasn’t a part of my body. I knew I was slipping. I cried out to God, “God, if I die now I will go to hell. Please don’t let me die. I know Jesus, but I don’t have a relationship with Him. Father, He doesn’t know me. Please don’t let me die.” And with that, the breath of God went through me. I jolted up.

Life carried on. I fell back into sin. I also turned from God thinking He hated me. I went into witchcraft, and what got me out was I had sleep paralysis. I’m starfished, face down, hands on my back, back, ankle and hands. I knew what was happening wasn’t good, so I started to think of Jesus since I couldn’t open my mouth. Something whispered in my ear, “He can’t save you now.” I knew that was a lie. I had so much faith. I screamed the name of Jesus. Every hand got off me. I woke up.

That’s a fraction of my life. But now, at the age of 26, allow me to say: bad things don’t happen because God allows it. They happen because we have free will. One thing I’ve learned is God doesn’t send anyone to hell. Why? Hell was never made for us. You see, you have the opportunity to walk with God or to be of the world – that’s your choice. But know if you’re of the world, you won’t spend eternity with the Father.

The only reason I’m here is because Abba has allowed it. Satan comes to steal, kill, and destroy. He’s done that to me and my life. A child who loved the Lord was so much of a threat that the devil made my life hell, but God used it to strengthen me. You see, yes my father is dead, but the moment he took his life, God looked at me and adopted me, for He is the Father to the fatherless.

You see, I don’t remember many memories of my childhood, but I do remember Jesus. I look back and realise God was always there. In an instant He answered my prayer and brought me back from the near-death experience. He’s never left my side, nor yours. You see, Father has a habit of playing hide and seek. You can’t expect Father to do all the work – you’ve got to chase Him sometimes. He’s not after your money. He’s not there to deceive you. God created you with purpose. He sent Jesus to die for you. He loves you.