Finding My Voice- A Testament to God’s Redemption amidst Life

God was there. God was always there.

Originally posted under MeginLeaWrites at Medium.com 

Why do I write, and why do I sing? Why do I share? I keep asking myself that question. I struggle with trusting my motives. I dissect them, like I’m searching to find the impure part that would give me permission to silence myself.

There is a home-video shot by my mother on one of those old camcorders, the kind which a person had to haul up on one’s shoulder, point at the subject, and position with the scope behind his or her eye, (an act ensuring the ability actually to exist in the moment with said subject would be sacrificed). Mama pointed it at my brother and me; the year was probably 1988. Bryant stood and danced at a toy microphone, singing “a-bee-bop-Megin-a-bee-bop-Megin,” his acid-washed M.C. Hammer pants bubbling at his ankles, sporting a sun-kissed blonde bowl cut. I darted into view, in my tie-dye crop-top, with a baby blanket pinned around my waist for a make-shift skirt, grabbing the mic stand so I could sing my own rendition of “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” while telling a story to update everyone on the newest names and ages of my Cabbage Patch dolls and Rainbow Brite.

“Megin, Megin, stop. Let your brother have the mic. Let your brother sing for a minute baby girl,” Mama said.

“Hmph.” I crossed my arms, lowered my chin to my chest, scrunched my eyes, and took four massive stomps until I was out of the scope of her viewfinder, baby blonde hair in a side pony and doused with my sister’s L.A. Looks Gel 2 Mousse which I’d sneaked from her side of the bathroom after she’d left for the evening to hang out with her friends at the local Putt-putt.

That is the scene I have of myself from childhood- a kid constantly wanting to hog the spotlight- to be the glamorous grown woman her sister seemed to be, always wanting to be the center of attention, and having to have her mama or someone tell her to let somebody else have a turn. I remember my sister heralding, and rightly so, that I was a brat and always got what I wanted. She was partially correct. I did, get most of what I wanted, except for her approval, and a safe home-environment.

I remember BEING that brat to my baby-brother, allowing him to play house with me but making him brush my hair, TELLING him what lines he could and could not say in our make-believe dialogue. He always had to be the dad, and I was the daughter, and he was to take care of me and treat me well. I would make my world happy and stable though reality was far from it.

And I suppose, try as she did, my mother could not quite nurture or protect my spirit in our home. There was abuse. There were bruises. There were fights, and screaming, degrading, humiliation. The five of us were completely alone at any part of any given day, even when together, or in our separate rooms, hating each other, longing to love and be loved, but killing each other all the while. Rage filled or in despair, depending on the minute of the day in question.

Inevitably, that little girl’s spirit was crushed. Such is life, and my childhood, though traumatic, was a lot better than many.

I couldn’t really stand up for myself in situations from as early as I can remember. I didn’t know how to use my voice. It was there. It made sounds, but they were full of breath and air, and not accepted unless proven and agreed upon by those who held sway and authority over me. Seeing me was hard too; you’d have to look through the layers of pretty clothes, perfect hair, straight A’s, and my parents’ expensive cars. You’d have to notice the bruises on my legs and unexplained UTI’s. “Why did she get so many?” the doctors would ask. I even had an exploratory surgery. Something was wrong, but no one knew what exactly, and I couldn’t say; I lacked the language, only had the broken memories that did not make sense.

I was told who I was by people who often did not stop yelling at me long enough to listen to me or believe me when I would express what I felt or whether or not I had committed some act in question. Truth was relative, only true if someone felt like believing you, in my world. Those whose approval I sought pushed me ever forward toward perfection, and I ran and worked as fast as I could, their desires and hopes for me suffocating me the entire time as I lived out their dreams to help them be happy.

“Cheer Megin. Sing Megin. Draw Megin. Dream Megin. Be Megin. We love you Megin. Go be Megin; go on, and why are you sad? What’s wrong?! You should be happy! Go on little girl. Get up and go on! Sing louder! And put on some lipstick, don’t you want lipstick to make your lips stand out, so they’ll see you? Come on Megin, what’s WRONG?” -any and everyone I knew.

It hurt like hell to be loved by them.

And being alone, while they were all on my team, was exhausting, so much so that whenever someone did stand up for me, and see me, or love me, (we’re talking real love now, not my misconstrued interpretation of it), I could not even begin to express how seen I’d feel and how much strength I’d store up to carry me on in the future because inevitably, those people would have to leave, everyone of them. They’d move away, return to their own families, teach their own kids or other students, date other girls, befriend other girls, and leave Megin, to her family, alone. (That’s why I slapped you, high school boyfriend, when you broke my heart. That’s why I lost my mind, much to your dismay. You didn’t understand. I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t fix me).

I tried to commit suicide when I was 16-years-old because I felt so hopeless, and it seemed my parents were more concerned with winning their arguments with one other than caring about the fact that I wanted to die. And I knew my sister hated me because I was that golden child, the one dad loved, when he didn’t hit me or tease me or berate me for making a mistake or feeling something he didn’t think I should feel. And my sister insulted me and accused me, typical sister stuff, but with spite. I disgusted her, it felt like. Just the way I was, so dramatic. And then Mom, was she okay? I never knew; was today a good day? Would Mom get out of bed? Was she going to die from her mystery illness? Would she wake up today but then be angry at me or need to leave me to stand up for my sister because my father would not? Would I be left to be taken care of by him again, told to ask him for money, since he loved me, but he was supposed to be the enemy; that’s what they’d said. I was confused… Do I trust him? Do I believe him. He says don’t trust mom? Do I trust Mom? Maybe my sister- is she my real sister? I’m not sure. Dad says she’s not. I don’t know who to believe.

That was my mind, every day.

I wanted to be on Mom’s team- in her world, with my sister, and maybe my brother, even though he was annoying, but not with my dad; he got mad. He’d get so angry for no reason, or any reason. And he held me too long when I didn’t want to be held, and made me hold his hand or let him stroke my arm, and he rubbed his face against mine in the morning before he left for work, lingering his cheek so long over top mine, when I just wanted to be left alone to sleep… wasn’t my body my own? I didn’t know. Maybe not. That’s why I let the boys use it, who said they loved me, until they left me, and then I’d die from the shame. Jesus didn’t approve of me. I had failed, and that’s probably why my family hated me in the first place.

I had my father’s shotgun in my hand rocking back in forth in his closet, crying that there were no bullets. My sister unlocked the office doors, pulled open the closet, took the gun out of my hand. I don’t remember what happened next. I know I missed my high school ring ceremony that night and felt, once again, so ashamed.

The kids asked, “Did you skip the ceremony because Jessica was singing the star-spangled banner? Were you jealous? That you weren’t picked to sing? Is that why you didn’t come? You said you would come? Why didn’t you come, Megin? We waited on you! Can’t you let someone else be the center-of-attention just this once?”

“I wish that was my biggest problem… not getting picked to sing the star-spangled-banner, not being the center-of-attention. I wish that was the worst thing that happened to me in high school,” I thought. “I wish.”

My friends showed off their class rings and thanked God they were seniors. I thanked God mom was alive and that my parents hadn’t killed each other during this divorce, our divorce. It wasn’t my parent’s divorce. It was our family’s divorce. We were all in the middle of it.

My mom, my sister, my brother, and I moved into a hotel that night because we had no water in our house. Dad had already moved out by then, the judge’s order. And both he and mom claimed the other had the power to pay the water bill and it wasn’t either of their responsibility to do so. They loved me, but they couldn’t turn the water back on. Call the lawyers. I just didn’t understand. I still don’t. To this day, there is no agreement about who could have turned the water on that night. They obviously both had money, and they both had brains, and they both had agendas, that’s for sure, but they can’t settle it. It’s been 21 years. I’m not holding out hope.

I was ashamed. Did I say that? Broken. Didn’t know who to believe. I lived that day because there were no bullets in my dad’s closet. I got help because God took care of me, and because I was stubborn enough to write a letter to the judge presiding over my parent’s divorce case. To hell with the lawyers, give me the judge. That’s who I would talk to…. “Dear Judge Wheale….”

I sent it to him via his son, Ryan, who was in my homeroom class.

“Hey Ryan, this is kinda weird, but umm, could you give this note to your dad for me? Just, please?” Ryan was a good friend. He gave the letter to do his dad I assume because things changed after that. The truth was out. I’d said something. I’d found my voice. We were called into court, and this time, someone in authority was listening to me, but first, I had to take the stand, in a real court-room, and face both my parents, and tell the truth, whatever that was, which meant one of them if not both would be in trouble and probably never love me again. But this was it. No turning back now. I’d opened my mouth. This is what happens when you speak. You lose the love you’ve worked your whole life to gain.

In time, I learned I mattered because I mattered to God, and God helped me grow my voice. We grew it together, like a team, because God was there, had been there, always, the whole time, not having to leave for another family, or another job, or another girl. God brought me many Ryan’s along the way, people who handed me the microphone, or treated me as their most talented, standing with me, listening to me, mentoring me, teaching me, telling me I deserved to live and always had. To me, they were like superheros, and I wanted to be like them. Their power was helping grow out of me that spirit Mama had tried to nurture, the spirit whose power had remained alive to uncover the beauty about which little Megin wanted to sing and name her dolls- the spirit whose super power of remaining alive somehow, she thought, should help others who felt as powerless as she had that day, rocking back and forth, in her father’s closet, with the shot gun in hand, wanting to live but not knowing how, and wanting to die if that gun she was holding hand was what real love was.

Suffice it to say, I struggle, to this day, even at 37-years-old. I wonder, should I speak? Should I write? Should I sing? Am I trying to be the center of attention? Do I have anything worthy to say? Am I silencing another? Am I taking the spotlight, stealing the mic? Will this cost me my life, or worse, people’s love-

“Wait! Reverse that! That’s right; my life matters more than people’s love. Super power activated. Truth spoken. Carry on.”

And no matter how confident I come across to you with my pink and blue and blonde hair and multi-colored outfits with shoes of numerous brands and fifteen pocketbooks at a time, I am not that…confident as you may think. Criticism has a tendency to crush me in a way that reveals my lack of identity in Christ and amount of identity in others and countless idols. I am a work in progress, a diva-in-training, superhero loading, but ready for action.

And surges up, spills out, the words of life, the breath….God’s work. God’s creation. My voice. My strength. I will say this, my son has been a magnificent healer. Watching him grow, witnessing his innocence and the purity with which he creates and shares and demands the spotlight has been balm to my weary soul. I have seen my 4-year-old self, 5-year-old self, 13-year-old self, 16-year-old, 20-year-old, and 37-year-old self in his big brown eyes and little hands that he shows me are getting bigger every day, and in his never-inside-voice as he sings, and his daily new dance moves. “Look Mommy. This is the construction dance. And I do it like this,” jumps, turns, spins around- robot arms out, jazz hands up, “ta-da” takes a bow, “Thank you very much; thank you very much.” I clap. “Bravo little man, bravo.” My heart swells; he’s my stage and he doesn’t know it, simply being, and it’s beautiful. No pressure, pure creation. Just God’s…and I watch.

And as I’ve watched him create, he’s taught me, and I’ve realized I was not wrong in my being. Albeit overwhelming, I was not wrong. I was God’s; He is God’s. We are God’s. We just need tempering, and God will do that in God’s time, but we are not wrong, so we create. Every day. He plays, and I write, and I sing, and I dance, and I share, come what may…regardless if anyone or even my own doubt tries to silence me. Superhero loaded. “Ready for action, Rider Sir.” We’re on our way in this world, whirling our way through it.

“Megin, Megin. Take up the mic, baby girl. For yourself, baby girl. For your brother. For your son, sweet girl. For the world. It’s okay, just to be you, my girl, to share, and to write, my girl, and to sing.” -God.