Monday, December 8, 2008


By Amy Lambert as told to Laura Christianson

I sat on my bed, carving slash marks into my leg with a razor blade as I listened to a song called “Suicidal Dreams.” I was 10 years old. “I’m going to make Dad and Mom pay for what they’ve done to me,” I murmured.

My parents had just gotten divorced, and my dad moved to another city. Our family was broken—and so was I.

On the outside, we appeared to be the perfect pastor’s family. But within the privacy of our home, it was like the Twilight Zone. I was constantly walking on eggshells around my short-fused dad, who was eventually diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Sometimes I’d smart-mouth him and he wouldn’t react. Other times, he’d fly into a rage for no apparent reason.

And now it had come to this: My parents’ divorce, and my angry, broken heart. I pleaded with God, “You said that if I had faith the size of a mustard seed, you’d move mountains. Please, put my family back together.”

It didn’t happen. Convinced God had forsaken me, I changed my prayer to, “Just kill me.”

To punish my parents for the hurt they’d caused me, I chose the thing I was sure would upset them the most: drugs.

READ FULL STORY from TODAY’S CHRISTIAN magazine, September/October 2008