"I'm Glad You're Back"
by Rachel Dodds
![Picture](/uploads/6/2/5/2/6252344/8001399.jpg?335)
I saw them kiss once.
Just once. It was a Saturday morning, and I woke up to the smell of breakfast.
Leaving my little girl room, I hiked the stairs and at the top, there they
were, my parents, dancing in the sunlight and kissing; my heart swelled.
Shortly after that, the end came, my mother crying and my father begging. Suffering was a thick taste in our breaking home. She was suddenly brave enough to end 18 years of an abusive marriage. He cut the wires in her car and tried to poison her; he poisoned me instead. I threw up tainted spaghetti sauce all night long. They divorced, my peace died, and I jumped off the deep end.
Expulsion slips piled up. I was kicked out of Valley Jr. High, Jefferson Jr. High, Hunter Jr. High, and Central Jr. High. My last formal schooling was one week of 8th grade. Permanently expelled for: smoking on school property, repeated truancy, threatening teachers, and lighting Amanda Bowel’s hair on fire. That last one earned me the spectacle of cops coming to my gym class, handcuffing me on the baseball field, and shoving me into the squad car parked out front.
Age 13-19 I spent 4 nights a week, drunk, frying, high or stoned in smoky gothic clubs, Confetti or Area 51. We’d park in an alley or a church parking lot next door, spin out our minds, check our kohl eyeliner, tighten our black knee high boots, flirt with the doorman to get passed needing an ID, and dance to the dark thudding beats until 3:00 a.m., all the pain blacked out…mostly.
“Run Christy Ann!” We’d only meant to set the dry grass of the vacant house on fire but it spread to the old wooden deck. “Run Candy!” Fire engines were already wailing before we were more than halfway down the street, probably because it was a medical clinic burning. Poor girls, their juvenile records are stamped ARSON, but I always ran faster than the cops.
Walk into the store, do a camera check, how many are working and where are they? What do you want the most? Reach down, get two, fumble one into your sleeve and put the other one back with exaggerated gestures, walk calmly to the door and leave. For the stuff behind the glass, say you’re buying it, let them see you take it to the counter, pick up gum and in the same movement slip it out of sight, buy the gum and run.
I’d slept on all the couches I knew of, and some parents were getting suspicious. The wind blowing cold and past 11:00 pm, I curled up on the bathroom floor of a 24 hour supermarket, stolen lighters, CDs, cigarettes, and chapstic under my black jacket. There was a knock at the door. The store clerk noticed I’d been in there for 3 hours. A sheriff was on the other side with questions and handcuffs. He took me into a small office and handcuffed one of my wrists to a chair. After many questions and phone calls he made the mistake of leaving me alone. I slipped out, took back my stolen prizes, and ran from the store. He came back to the handcuffs on the chair. No Juvie for that night. I knew Juvie. I hated hand and ankle cuffs, the squad rides, the strip searches, the detox cells, the day school, and especially, the court dates.
So I ran without a conscience for years, doing things like that and others I’m too ashamed to put onto paper. I all but destroyed myself and everyone around me. I’d discovered a terrible talent for coaxing others into wickedness. She had tried, my mother, to teach me of heaven and hell. But, near the end she forced it. One Sunday after I refused to go to church, she pinned me down and sang hymns out of that awful green book. I hated Mormons. I told everyone I knew that they were a brain-washing cult. I tore up a Book of Mormon in a public commons, throwing its pieces around and shouting, with others, “Come! Here! We are spreading the Word of God!” I preached against God. I championed the devil’s cause with passion. Others watched me and copied. We preached rage, lust, and anarchy—a storm of pain always raging inside me, and peace being an ever-fading memory.
Shortly after that, the end came, my mother crying and my father begging. Suffering was a thick taste in our breaking home. She was suddenly brave enough to end 18 years of an abusive marriage. He cut the wires in her car and tried to poison her; he poisoned me instead. I threw up tainted spaghetti sauce all night long. They divorced, my peace died, and I jumped off the deep end.
Expulsion slips piled up. I was kicked out of Valley Jr. High, Jefferson Jr. High, Hunter Jr. High, and Central Jr. High. My last formal schooling was one week of 8th grade. Permanently expelled for: smoking on school property, repeated truancy, threatening teachers, and lighting Amanda Bowel’s hair on fire. That last one earned me the spectacle of cops coming to my gym class, handcuffing me on the baseball field, and shoving me into the squad car parked out front.
Age 13-19 I spent 4 nights a week, drunk, frying, high or stoned in smoky gothic clubs, Confetti or Area 51. We’d park in an alley or a church parking lot next door, spin out our minds, check our kohl eyeliner, tighten our black knee high boots, flirt with the doorman to get passed needing an ID, and dance to the dark thudding beats until 3:00 a.m., all the pain blacked out…mostly.
“Run Christy Ann!” We’d only meant to set the dry grass of the vacant house on fire but it spread to the old wooden deck. “Run Candy!” Fire engines were already wailing before we were more than halfway down the street, probably because it was a medical clinic burning. Poor girls, their juvenile records are stamped ARSON, but I always ran faster than the cops.
Walk into the store, do a camera check, how many are working and where are they? What do you want the most? Reach down, get two, fumble one into your sleeve and put the other one back with exaggerated gestures, walk calmly to the door and leave. For the stuff behind the glass, say you’re buying it, let them see you take it to the counter, pick up gum and in the same movement slip it out of sight, buy the gum and run.
I’d slept on all the couches I knew of, and some parents were getting suspicious. The wind blowing cold and past 11:00 pm, I curled up on the bathroom floor of a 24 hour supermarket, stolen lighters, CDs, cigarettes, and chapstic under my black jacket. There was a knock at the door. The store clerk noticed I’d been in there for 3 hours. A sheriff was on the other side with questions and handcuffs. He took me into a small office and handcuffed one of my wrists to a chair. After many questions and phone calls he made the mistake of leaving me alone. I slipped out, took back my stolen prizes, and ran from the store. He came back to the handcuffs on the chair. No Juvie for that night. I knew Juvie. I hated hand and ankle cuffs, the squad rides, the strip searches, the detox cells, the day school, and especially, the court dates.
So I ran without a conscience for years, doing things like that and others I’m too ashamed to put onto paper. I all but destroyed myself and everyone around me. I’d discovered a terrible talent for coaxing others into wickedness. She had tried, my mother, to teach me of heaven and hell. But, near the end she forced it. One Sunday after I refused to go to church, she pinned me down and sang hymns out of that awful green book. I hated Mormons. I told everyone I knew that they were a brain-washing cult. I tore up a Book of Mormon in a public commons, throwing its pieces around and shouting, with others, “Come! Here! We are spreading the Word of God!” I preached against God. I championed the devil’s cause with passion. Others watched me and copied. We preached rage, lust, and anarchy—a storm of pain always raging inside me, and peace being an ever-fading memory.
So I ran without a conscience for years, doing things like that and others I’m too ashamed to put onto paper. I all but destroyed myself and everyone around me.
![Picture](/uploads/6/2/5/2/6252344/4175659.jpg?425)
Then I made the best
mistake I’d ever make. I wanted to be able to bash the Mormons better; I was
going to read Joseph Smith’s fake Bible: The
Book of Mormon. Alone, I read the book. I sobbed and sobbed, turning the
soaked pages and wondering, “How can just a book make me feel this way?” For
the first time in a long time, the fires of Hell stopped burning in my heart
and cool ripples of peace moved through me.
I tried to continue wickedness for a few months after that, but it had all lost its savor. I was awake, and miserable with the monster I’d become. The first thing I did was stop going to the clubs. I threw away all my black clothes, knee high boots and Nine Inch Nails CDs. Instead, I’d sit on the couch in my pajamas and pretend to watch the 9:00 o’ clock news with my dad. The phone would ring in those evenings, but I didn’t answer it. I knew my old self was on the other end, trying to get me back. My dad would say, “Just let it go honey.” And I did. With each day I got further away from it all, I felt giddy and excited… like a prisoner making a run for it.
It took four years, my turnaround. I started reading that book more, The Book of Mormon, and every time I did, the pain-soaked darkness eased up. I started going to family gatherings sober, and looking people in the eyes when I talked to them. Police sirens no longer made me jumpy. I started sleeping at night and staying awake during the day. I started studying for the GED. I stopped dying my hair black. I stopped soaking in lust. I stopped smoking. And I stopped giving my famous Anti-Mormon hate speeches.
I’d have dreams where the darkness was calling me back, in a low and lovely voice, a deep red light pulsing. As any recovering addict, I had setbacks. I was leaving 9 serious addictions. I’d mess up, but try again. After one backslide, I laid the ground and screamed in concentrated anguish. I thought I’d never make it out and something kept whispering: It’s a long hard road out of Hell, it’s too much, just stop now. But then I laughed through my tears; I had the most beautiful thought I’d ever had: "You can destroy me, but you’ll never destroy Him. Take me down, but He’ll still win, God will always win." I didn’t care what happened to me anymore. I just wanted God’s Kingdom to prevail. And in that moment, I loved God purely, and more than I loved myself…and He knew it. Because of that things became easier to leave behind. I put Him first and forgot myself. Then Peace won.
I eventually became a missionary for the LDS church. I walked the hot and grimy streets of LA for 18 months, everyday sharing my conviction of the Book of Mormon, in English and Spanish, to anyone who’d let me. After that I stood in front of 45 LDS women, as the president of the organization, and taught them how to avoid the traps I knew well. I testified of the tranquility I felt when I was alone with my God and how every sacrifice to know Him was worth it. I now live everyday seeking to repair the harm I once caused. I love how I feel now, my restraints are gone, and now I am truly free.
One afternoon, when the storm was over, my mother and I sat on the couch talking about everything that had happened, the sunlight warming our faces… and as long as I live I’ll never forget what she said, looking at me as one looks at one who was once dead: “I’m glad you’re back.”
I tried to continue wickedness for a few months after that, but it had all lost its savor. I was awake, and miserable with the monster I’d become. The first thing I did was stop going to the clubs. I threw away all my black clothes, knee high boots and Nine Inch Nails CDs. Instead, I’d sit on the couch in my pajamas and pretend to watch the 9:00 o’ clock news with my dad. The phone would ring in those evenings, but I didn’t answer it. I knew my old self was on the other end, trying to get me back. My dad would say, “Just let it go honey.” And I did. With each day I got further away from it all, I felt giddy and excited… like a prisoner making a run for it.
It took four years, my turnaround. I started reading that book more, The Book of Mormon, and every time I did, the pain-soaked darkness eased up. I started going to family gatherings sober, and looking people in the eyes when I talked to them. Police sirens no longer made me jumpy. I started sleeping at night and staying awake during the day. I started studying for the GED. I stopped dying my hair black. I stopped soaking in lust. I stopped smoking. And I stopped giving my famous Anti-Mormon hate speeches.
I’d have dreams where the darkness was calling me back, in a low and lovely voice, a deep red light pulsing. As any recovering addict, I had setbacks. I was leaving 9 serious addictions. I’d mess up, but try again. After one backslide, I laid the ground and screamed in concentrated anguish. I thought I’d never make it out and something kept whispering: It’s a long hard road out of Hell, it’s too much, just stop now. But then I laughed through my tears; I had the most beautiful thought I’d ever had: "You can destroy me, but you’ll never destroy Him. Take me down, but He’ll still win, God will always win." I didn’t care what happened to me anymore. I just wanted God’s Kingdom to prevail. And in that moment, I loved God purely, and more than I loved myself…and He knew it. Because of that things became easier to leave behind. I put Him first and forgot myself. Then Peace won.
I eventually became a missionary for the LDS church. I walked the hot and grimy streets of LA for 18 months, everyday sharing my conviction of the Book of Mormon, in English and Spanish, to anyone who’d let me. After that I stood in front of 45 LDS women, as the president of the organization, and taught them how to avoid the traps I knew well. I testified of the tranquility I felt when I was alone with my God and how every sacrifice to know Him was worth it. I now live everyday seeking to repair the harm I once caused. I love how I feel now, my restraints are gone, and now I am truly free.
One afternoon, when the storm was over, my mother and I sat on the couch talking about everything that had happened, the sunlight warming our faces… and as long as I live I’ll never forget what she said, looking at me as one looks at one who was once dead: “I’m glad you’re back.”
The author of this article is an anonymous contributor, who requested that we use the pen name Rachel Dodds. We thank her for her bravery in sharing her story with us.