I despised God. For the first time in my life, I felt something stronger than hatred and it wasn’t even directed to the people who had hurt me.

I was mad at the God Who created all these people, I mean, they said He knew the end from the beginning so why was he playing Ludo or Chess with my life? Why did he put me in a horrible family? Why did he let people I looked up to sexually abuse me? Why was I hustling to care for my siblings when I was just a child? Why did I fall into several wrong hands? These were a few of the questions in my heart. I mean, I didn’t deserve any of the things that happened to me. 

I was so angry that I tried to punish God. Or at least I thought I was. Everything that I felt was a sin, I did it with reckless abandon. I smoked, I drank, I scammed, I danced nude on poles for a living, I slept with several different men, what didn’t I do sef? I was living my life on the fast lane, all because I wanted to get back at God. I felt like I had nothing to lose anymore, I mean, it’s not like I was a virgin, right? I wanted to give as good as I got. 

I gave up on life, on love, on God. God didn’t give up on me. So many times, when I should have died, somehow he came through, reemphasizing the fact that my life has a purpose, that my mess can be His message to several other hurting people. 

A lot of people have sent me messages saying how something I shared changed their lives or stopped them from throwing in the towel, maybe this is my purpose. 

Because I went through it, I felt the pain, I lived the stories; I can bring others through their own processes and struggles as well. 

Your life is not a waste my dear, your challenges are not pointless. There’s a message somewhere in that mess. 

Everyday I expose my scars, it’s therapeutic for me as well, little by little, story by story, a part of me heals that I didn’t know was wounded. As I tear open my scars, new flesh is revealed. 



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