This is Part 1 of my testimony. There will be many more parts. I hope you’ll be back to read the rest because this story, though messy at times, ends beautifully in the arms of Jesus Christ.
The year 2000, is when it happened. I was living in South Florida, going to college, and working at Hooters. Yes, I was a Hooter’s girl for about 7 years. It was an awesome job at the time. I made tons of money; none of which I put to good use. Now stay with me here because it goes with the story: most people think that having large breasts are a requirement for working at hooters, but you’d be wrong. I didn’t have large breasts, though most of my friends did because they’d gotten breast augmentation surgery (that’s the nice way to say “boob job”).
I promise this is going someplace; please keep reading.
I decided to get a “boob job” too. Some of the girls I most admired at Hooters, the pretty ones, the cool ones, the ones I wanted to be like, were getting boob jobs. So why not me? I said it was for my self-esteem and happiness. However, in the background of my life there was my boyfriend (now EX-boyfriend, a man who I’d rather not talk about because he’s not worth it). He whispered in my ear his nicknames for my breasts: “droopy” and “floppy”. My self-esteem plummeted. So, did I get the surgery for myself, to inflate my self-esteem, or to inflate “droopy” and “floppy” for his sake? It doesn’t matter, that’s not the “thing” that happened – you know, that thing I mentioned in the first sentence of this post.
After the surgery, I was prescribed painkillers. Most people take painkillers and get tired or nauseous, but not me. Painkillers deceived me; they lied. They made me feel happy, cool, fun, strong, invincible, and confident. But truly, I was none of those things, and after some time, they made me addicted. My doctor kept prescribing them much longer than he should have, and after that I found a way to get them on the street. It was a dangerous and expensive endeavor.
So, sixteen years ago, I was 22 years old, 500 miles from home, and addicted to painkillers. My addiction got much worse, along with the rest of my life. I dropped out of school and left my boyfriend. I was very manipulative and promiscuous to get what I wanted, and “couch hopped” (which means I was homeless), until I ran out of money. Then I sat and tried to figure out how to end it all.
I remember that night vividly. Sitting on my friend’s living room floor around New Year’s Eve. She was away visiting family. It was a beautiful apartment, nothing I could afford on my own. I was alone, except for my beloved dog (pictured below). I was trying to figure out how to get help without actually having to ask for help. I came up with an idea. The idea involved a bottle of pills, a bottle of vodka, and driving until something happened.
Please come back for the rest of my testimony. I promise it’s an amazing story.