Difficulties With Sexuality

Hello, everyone. Time for my second post. Woohoo, I might actually keep this going! For those of you who are wondering about the frequency of my entries, I’m planning on posting one every week.
Now then, on to the blogging!

(I would like to warn you that there is going to be some personal and uncomfortable content in this blog. Some of you may not want to read it, but I feel that it is necessary to share this. It is a very important part of my testimony and cannot be left out. If there are any children reading this please stop and let your parent(s) or guardian(s) read it first.)

So, I’ve told you about my rocky beginning, and some of the events that unfolded that rocky beginning as my life moved forward. Perhaps I shall tell you about even more unfolding of other events in my life. Well, the unfolding of some other rocky events began about six years ago when my parents set up some counseling appointments for me when they found out of a romantic/sexual relationship I had with another girl. Before everyone starts firing off their opinions about homosexuality and parental suffocation of freedoms/rights, I want you to know that I believe they were right to do it. Why? Because A) I do personally believe that homosexuality is wrong, and not solely because of my parents influence (though I would be lying if I said it wasn’t partially because of their influence). It is mainly because I made my own decision to trust my Lord and to trust that He is sovereign enough to make sure that what was written in His word was written exactly as He meant it to be. Romans 1:18-32 B) Because my relationship with my girlfriend was standing on the rickety foundation of old wounds, emotionally crippling anxieties, and false understandings of myself. And C.) I was fourteen years old. They would have been concerned about me being in a sexual relationship with anyone at that age; male or female.

So, in those counseling sessions I learned one very important thing about myself. I didn’t trust men. My counselor asked me questions about my past and my family life, and we had explored some of the ways that some of the males in my life had hurt me or had simply not treated me as well as they could have. That merely scratched the surface, but it was enough to get me to rethink why I was in that relationship… eventually. I was still pretty stubborn. The most important step I took in those counseling sessions was to allow myself to work through something that is hard for me to talk about even today. Sexual abuse.

When I was ten years old I was sexually abused by a close and trusted male. I am not going to elaborate any more on who that person was. Those of you who know, keep it to yourselves. I have forgiven this person and do not want to drag his name through the mud any more than I already have.

One of the things that I struggled with most was actually admitting that what happened was sexual abuse, because what happened wasn’t nearly as bad or traumatizing as what other women and children have gone through. It wasn’t rape, it was just some unwanted touching. Nothing that bad. Well, that was what I would tell myself. I felt as if I would be over reacting or undermining the seriousness of more severe acts of sexual abuse if I were to actually call it sexual abuse. As you can see, I use that term a lot now. I have really drilled into my head that what happened to me was not any less significant than what has happened to anyone else. It really helped me to overcome it. After all, how are you supposed to vault yourself over a ten-foot wall if you keep telling yourself that it’s only four feet; five feet tops.

Even in this metaphor calling it a ten foot wall seems like a bit much to me. I keep wanting to go back and type “seven-foot wall” or “eight-foot wall”. I keep wanting to go back and change the sentences before it, too. It still seems wrong to believe that what I’ve been through is equally as significant as what others have been through. I always feel like someone is going to get mad at me for believing that. This is one of the two extremes that Satan goes to. He either makes you believe that what has been done to you is WAY worse than it actually is, or he makes you think that you’re over reacting WAY too much to something that you were actually reacting quite reasonably to.

I think that this is all I should write this week. Hopefully I’ll have more to write next week. 🙂

~The best of teachers and the best of friends have two things in common. They make life’s lessons into life’s adventures, and they will tell you the God honest truth knowing that you might hate them for it.~


The Girl In The Flowery Dress Was Once The Baby In The NICU


This will be my first entry, obviously. I’ve tried blogging before, but I suppose I’ve never had enough interesting things to talk about, and I suppose I didn’t have enough confidence in the importance of what I have to say. I’ve been like that for a while now, but I’m slowly growing out of it. Perhaps this will be a good way to get past it. Hopefully someone actually reads this one, too. If someone leaves a comment asking me to write another entry after this I’ll be more motivated to write more.

Of course, I’ll have to write something more first, won’t I?

Well, let me begin by telling you the reason for my blog name. This blog is going to be about me and my life thus far, and how things will turn out in the future as I continue writing. Let’s focus on the past though, because the past is where it all began. Obviously.

When I was born I had a birth complication called Gastroschisis, and for those who have queasy stomachs, you might want to skip over the next couple sentences. Basically what happened was that my abdomen did not form properly in the womb, and there was a big hole in my stomach, about the size of a grape fruit according to my mother. My intestines were outside of my stomach and wrapped around my Umbilical cord. My father, who was in the room and had already witnessed the births of my two older brothers before me, fainted.

Needless to say I don’t remember any of the events from my infancy, but I am told that I was in the NICU for almost two months. While I was in the NICU I was fed less than a table spoon of formula food every four hours, and that was all I could handle. (I have vague memories from when I was a toddler of panicking when I was hungry.)

My parents couldn’t stay with me the entire time I was there, though I’m sure my mother would have wanted nothing else than to sing to me through every moment. So my parents recorded their voices on cassettes (remember those?) and ask the nurses to play them for me when they couldn’t be there. They even got my brothers to talk on it, though apparently my oldest brother mostly talked about dinosaurs or race cars or something. Boys will be boys.

Eventually my parents received a call back to the hospital, because the doctors didn’t think I would make it through the night. So they came to say good-bye to me. Little did the doctor know that shortly after I was born my mother called up nearly every friend and family member she knew and trusted and told them to pray for me. (Or the doctor did know but wasn’t sure that it would do anything.) Lo and behold, I was still alive the next day. After that my parents received a few more call backs, but every time I pulled through. Then one day after weeks and weeks of suffering for everyone, not just me, I made a full recovery, and was permitted to leave the hospital.

My mother tells me that when she brought me home the first thing my oldest brother wanted to do was hold me.

I bet your wondering when the flowery dress comes in. Well, a few years later my family and I were at my great aunt and uncle’s house for a big get together. Everyone was chatting and having a good time, when suddenly my Great Grandmother gasped and dropped whatever she was holding. (I might be exaggerating about her dropping something, but that’s what I remember my mother telling me.) My mother approached her and asked her what was wrong. My Great Grandmother pointed towards the backyard and said, “That’s what I saw!” My mother looked and saw me running and playing on the hillside in a flowery dress. “That’s what I saw before Anaisa was born!” Or she saw it when I was born, but I’m pretty sure my mom said that she saw it before I was born.

There are two reasons why this is so near and dear to my heart. The first one is probably pretty obvious. My Great Grandmother got a vision of me playing in a flowery dress during a time when my survival would be uncertain. God gave her that comfort, or perhaps more that confirmation, that He was with me. He was with me the entire time, and planned for me to keep on living even when all the odds were against me. He got me through that. I know He did. I’ve been asking Him to give me my memories back about that, or rather to dig them up from my memory banks and make them more clear. Sure, there was lots of pain in those memories, so maybe it’s a blessing that I was too young to recall them. But still… God is in those memories. I am so certain that a crucial event in my relationship with God happened in those first two months. A moment that helped define my relationship with Him in a big way. My mom says that even then, in that hospital, the Holy Spirit’s presence was very strong with me. I hope that’s true. I want to find out for myself if it is.

Anyways, I digress. The second reason that I hold it so near and dear to my heart is because of something that happened about half a year ago. I was at young adults group with my fiancé, and my Uncle C was hosting/speaking that night. He talked about prayer and prophecy, but mostly he talked about our identity in Christ, and even more specifically, our spiritual personality. I could elaborate on that, but I’m too tired to, it’s getting late, and I need to get the flower part.

My Uncle C was praying over each person and asking the Holy Spirit to reveal to him a piece of their spiritual identity. When he came to me he said three things. Mountain Sheep, Springbok, and beautiful child of God. He said that he saw an image of me as a child running on a hill of flowers, and I immediately thought of my Great Grandmother’s vision. I love it. I love that God is so in love with us. I love that he reaches out to us through any way he can, without dishonouring Himself or us. He is amazing that way. He is amazing in all His ways. I love Him.

Thank you for reading my blog. I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope I’ll have more to come. XD Hopefully I don’t lose my inspiration or commitment to writing a blog again. I’ll try to keep to it this time if people actually want to read it. 🙂

Again, thank you.

~I do not need to be celebrated by man, because I am already celebrated by God.~