God is close to the broken hearted
🤎
🤎
Looking back, I can see that God was holding me long before I knew how much I needed Him.
🤎
So, the last time I wrote, I left off when I was 15 years old and said I would return with the story. It’s been years since, and I’ve often thought of starting it, but every time I do, I kind of get overwhelmed thinking back. Because I would have to say—and there are tears now, actually—it was the hardest time of my life. To revisit it isn’t the easiest thing.
As a teenager, to see your whole world dissolve around you... I even felt like a failure because I tried so hard to protect my siblings, and everything was completely beyond my control.
My stepfather left, and then the environment with my mother obviously got worse. The drugs got worse. The crazy people around the house got worse.
I can remember one of my mother’s friend’s brothers coming to one of the parties. He was high on PCP, and my uncle was there. The guy tried to stab my uncle! My brother and my boyfriend went out and fired a warning shot, but my uncle—I can’t even remember how he got a gun, but he did—he shot the guy. Luckily he didn’t kill him; he got him in the shoulder. I can’t remember honestly if he hit him in the head or if the guy hit his head falling, I just remember that it hurt him really bad. Although he didn’t die, it messed him up mentally like he couldn’t function right.
My uncle had to go to court over and over again. We thought my boyfriend, my brother, and my uncle were going to go to prison. It ended up there were enough witnesses there to see everything that happened, to prove that it was self-defense because that guy was the one attacking everybody. But anyway, extreme things like that happening around my house were common.
At the time—and actually until the day my mother died—she was a respiratory therapist at a hospital. I’m sure she took all kinds of drugs from there, but one of her favorite things was she would bring home tanks of laughing gas. Everybody would sit around on the living room floor taking hits and then just passing out from it.
I’m not innocent; at that particular time, I did it too. I never did the harder drugs, though. And I never did them like everybody else. I did them recreationally, but I actually quit all of it. I completely didn’t want anything to do with any of it and turned my life over to God—which is a really hard thing to do in that environment.
So, back to the painful part. My aunt comes and tells me that my mom has left and nobody knows where she’s at, and that my stepfather is taking my siblings to live with him, and that my brother and I have to find a place to stay.
I called my father who lived in Florida. And this is a part of the story that makes me cry too, because my father said I could come, but my older brother couldn’t. Even though my older brother had always been mean to me—always thinking of himself and leaving me with the responsibility of everybody (it seems like everybody left me with the responsibility of everything)—anyhow, I loved him. I didn't like to see him get hurt. But my father was adamant that my brother couldn’t come. Knowing the part of the story that I told you—that I didn’t do the drugs like everybody else and my brother did—my father had his reasons. But my brother really needed him.
So he asked my grandparents. My Grandma Betty Ball, my most favorite person in the world, wanted him. But my grandfather there wouldn’t let my brother come either, which broke my grandmother's heart. All our hearts were broken. So much was going on. But my father‘s father—that grandfather—did let my brother move in, so at least he found a place to stay. He was 16.
So I go to live with my father in Florida. As you can imagine, I’ve got all kinds of emotions in me, and my father kind of just expected me to... I don’t know, just step into a perfect world and function. I wasn’t in a place mentally to step into a perfect world and function. In fact, one of the friends I met at school had some pot and offered it to me. Where I came from, I took some for comfort.
I guess my father knowing what all was going on—actually, let me take that back, he had no idea all that was going on—but he did know that drugs were around. Anyhow, he found my stash in my bedroom closet and went off on me. Him and my stepmother.
But my father, he was right up in my face. Physically, like, the energy of him hollering at me and telling me how disappointed he was in me. The energy hurt and it scared me. I was at a place where all I needed was someone to love me. I needed someone to understand how much I was hurting, and no one was there.
I can remember after that happened, after that scene happened, I decided to run. I guess I picked that up to deal with my emotions. I would run usually 7 miles a day. So after that confrontation, I just put on my shoes and ran out of the house.
This was in Tallahassee Florida, and there was a large hill that I would run up. I never made it before all the way up, but I started running and I ran as hard as I could until my legs just couldn’t even take one more step. I was at the top of that hill. And then I just bent over and started crying, breathing in, gasping for air, not knowing what to do. Not knowing how to help the pain. Hating how much I was missing my sisters and brothers. I wanted to be home.
There were other things that went on in my house there with my dad and my stepmom where we had arguments. Everything, honestly, all just seemed to be based on expectations. I was a high-functioning teenager, and I don’t even think my dad had any idea of what I went through at my house and how much I actually managed the home.
I was in a crisis. I lost my environment. I lost my community. I lost my home. I lost my brothers and sisters. I felt like I lost everything, and then I’m expected to be this perfect little girl, and no one could see the pain inside.
With all that said, I don’t know how long it was that I lived there with my dad before things came to a head. But I remember going back and calling my mother. I don’t remember how long it was, but she eventually let people know where she was. She had moved in with one of my aunts in a college town—Greenville, North Carolina—in my aunt's trailer while she went to college there. Anyhow, when I called my mom and told her what was going on, she asked my aunt if I could stay there.
And I packed my bags. I was coming home. Although that wasn’t really my home, it was a college town, but at least I would be back in North Carolina.
I think I’ll start the story again here, because once I got back there, it got bad again. It got really bad.
I’ll continue the story soon in part 61.
🤎
Explore the beginning story if you did not read it, on my about page here:
About Pam Herrick
Or the actual Part One Blog post here:
Part One – Bryan's Story
And to find comfort through art, visit my gallery here:
Gallery
For anyone going through a hard time.
You are not alone.
You are seen.
You are loved.
You matter!
🤎
Watch the visual story of this prophetic painting unfold in the video below. Cutting back-and-forth between a woman walking through deep shadows and the powerful embrace of the Lion of Judah, this Spirit Flow artwork illustrates the true source of our protection. Let the unfolding text messages – there is always hope, never give up, you are not alone, and you are loved – serve as a visual prayer of comfort and healing for anyone navigating family, trauma, grief, or abandonment.
So, the last time I wrote, I left off when I was 15 years old and said I would return with the story. It’s been years since, and I’ve often thought of starting it, but every time I do, I kind of get overwhelmed thinking back. Because I would have to say—and there are tears now, actually—it was the hardest time of my life. To revisit it isn’t the easiest thing.
As a teenager, to see your whole world dissolve around you... I even felt like a failure because I tried so hard to protect my siblings, and everything was completely beyond my control.
My stepfather left, and then the environment with my mother obviously got worse. The drugs got worse. The crazy people around the house got worse.
I can remember one of my mother’s friend’s brothers coming to one of the parties. He was high on PCP, and my uncle was there. The guy tried to stab my uncle! My brother and my boyfriend went out and fired a warning shot, but my uncle—I can’t even remember how he got a gun, but he did—he shot the guy. Luckily he didn’t kill him; he got him in the shoulder. I can’t remember honestly if he hit him in the head or if the guy hit his head falling, I just remember that it hurt him really bad. Although he didn’t die, it messed him up mentally like he couldn’t function right.
My uncle had to go to court over and over again. We thought my boyfriend, my brother, and my uncle were going to go to prison. It ended up there were enough witnesses there to see everything that happened, to prove that it was self-defense because that guy was the one attacking everybody. But anyway, extreme things like that happening around my house were common.
At the time—and actually until the day my mother died—she was a respiratory therapist at a hospital. I’m sure she took all kinds of drugs from there, but one of her favorite things was she would bring home tanks of laughing gas. Everybody would sit around on the living room floor taking hits and then just passing out from it.
I’m not innocent; at that particular time, I did it too. I never did the harder drugs, though. And I never did them like everybody else. I did them recreationally, but I actually quit all of it. I completely didn’t want anything to do with any of it and turned my life over to God—which is a really hard thing to do in that environment.
So, back to the painful part. My aunt comes and tells me that my mom has left and nobody knows where she’s at, and that my stepfather is taking my siblings to live with him, and that my brother and I have to find a place to stay.
I called my father who lived in Florida. And this is a part of the story that makes me cry too, because my father said I could come, but my older brother couldn’t. Even though my older brother had always been mean to me—always thinking of himself and leaving me with the responsibility of everybody (it seems like everybody left me with the responsibility of everything)—anyhow, I loved him. I didn't like to see him get hurt. But my father was adamant that my brother couldn’t come. Knowing the part of the story that I told you—that I didn’t do the drugs like everybody else and my brother did—my father had his reasons. But my brother really needed him.
So he asked my grandparents. My Grandma Betty Ball, my most favorite person in the world, wanted him. But my grandfather there wouldn’t let my brother come either, which broke my grandmother's heart. All our hearts were broken. So much was going on. But my father‘s father—that grandfather—did let my brother move in, so at least he found a place to stay. He was 16.
So I go to live with my father in Florida. As you can imagine, I’ve got all kinds of emotions in me, and my father kind of just expected me to... I don’t know, just step into a perfect world and function. I wasn’t in a place mentally to step into a perfect world and function. In fact, one of the friends I met at school had some pot and offered it to me. Where I came from, I took some for comfort.
I guess my father knowing what all was going on—actually, let me take that back, he had no idea all that was going on—but he did know that drugs were around. Anyhow, he found my stash in my bedroom closet and went off on me. Him and my stepmother.
But my father, he was right up in my face. Physically, like, the energy of him hollering at me and telling me how disappointed he was in me. The energy hurt and it scared me. I was at a place where all I needed was someone to love me. I needed someone to understand how much I was hurting, and no one was there.
I can remember after that happened, after that scene happened, I decided to run. I guess I picked that up to deal with my emotions. I would run usually 7 miles a day. So after that confrontation, I just put on my shoes and ran out of the house.
This was in Tallahassee Florida, and there was a large hill that I would run up. I never made it before all the way up, but I started running and I ran as hard as I could until my legs just couldn’t even take one more step. I was at the top of that hill. And then I just bent over and started crying, breathing in, gasping for air, not knowing what to do. Not knowing how to help the pain. Hating how much I was missing my sisters and brothers. I wanted to be home.
There were other things that went on in my house there with my dad and my stepmom where we had arguments. Everything, honestly, all just seemed to be based on expectations. I was a high-functioning teenager, and I don’t even think my dad had any idea of what I went through at my house and how much I actually managed the home.
I was in a crisis. I lost my environment. I lost my community. I lost my home. I lost my brothers and sisters. I felt like I lost everything, and then I’m expected to be this perfect little girl, and no one could see the pain inside.
With all that said, I don’t know how long it was that I lived there with my dad before things came to a head. But I remember going back and calling my mother. I don’t remember how long it was, but she eventually let people know where she was. She had moved in with one of my aunts in a college town—Greenville, North Carolina—in my aunt's trailer while she went to college there. Anyhow, when I called my mom and told her what was going on, she asked my aunt if I could stay there.
And I packed my bags. I was coming home. Although that wasn’t really my home, it was a college town, but at least I would be back in North Carolina.
I think I’ll start the story again here, because once I got back there, it got bad again. It got really bad.
I’ll continue the story soon in part 61.
🤎
Explore the beginning story if you did not read it, on my about page here:
About Pam Herrick
Or the actual Part One Blog post here:
Part One – Bryan's Story
And to find comfort through art, visit my gallery here:
Gallery
For anyone going through a hard time.
You are not alone.
You are seen.
You are loved.
You matter!
🤎
Watch the visual story of this prophetic painting unfold in the video below. Cutting back-and-forth between a woman walking through deep shadows and the powerful embrace of the Lion of Judah, this Spirit Flow artwork illustrates the true source of our protection. Let the unfolding text messages – there is always hope, never give up, you are not alone, and you are loved – serve as a visual prayer of comfort and healing for anyone navigating family, trauma, grief, or abandonment.
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