I grew up in Kansas City, Kansas, in a house crammed with chaos. Home was an ever-changing address, with my parents’ fights the one constant. My dad enjoyed his plethora of medicine, and my mom enjoyed pushing his buttons and being the victim. They finally decided to call it quits after I was 11 years old, but not before I got some startling news: The man I had called my father wasn’t really my father.
My grandma revealed the reality to me in an offended, drunken stupor right before breaking the news of the divorce. It was absolutely crushing. I had grown up with two younger half-brothers from my mom and the person who I assumed was my dad. But now I learned that I also had two younger half-sisters on my biological dad’s side. I couldn’t help taking this revelation as a message that I used to be unwanted and didn’t belong. This paved the best way for a series of poor selections that led me to the foot of the cross.
My biological dad made minimal effort to see me before he died of cancer in 2008. After my parents’ divorce, I lived with my mom and two younger brothers. She continued to decide on men who were liable to addiction and violence. When they turned those violent tendencies on me, I made a decision it was higher to change into a monster than to let myself be devoured by one.
I began beating girls up in school and being rewarded at home for my victories. I used to be eventually expelled, leaving me to finish my education that yr within the mental health ward of a hospital. Once I returned home, I ran away repeatedly and would stick with friends until their parents turned me away. My mom, having had enough, sent me to live with my grandma in Fort Scott, where I began my freshman yr of highschool.
But I used to be kicked out soon enough after a confrontation with my teacher, and I finished the college yr elsewhere. During my sophomore yr, I moved back home, and my mother and I got along like rabid dogs. When my sixteenth birthday got here along, I went to high school, dropped out, went home, packed my bags, and moved in with a friend in Fort Scott. This lasted about two years before I began bouncing forwards and backwards between there and Kansas City.
My mother’s mirror image
Over the subsequent 20 years, I gave birth to 2 sons of my very own and married a person that was the sum of each man I had ever known. He was wild, abusive, hooked on anything that made him feel good, and promiscuous. I became the mirror image of my mother, mastering the art of pushing my husband’s buttons after which playing the victim, all the time convincing myself I could change him. It took over a decade before I spotted I could never win this war. Finally, I filed for a divorce and decided to depart him for good.
At first, I handled all the pieces well. I went to work, raised my boys, and sometimes had a girls’ night out on weekends when the youngsters were with their dad. I kept myself busy to maintain my focus off the unbearable emotional pain I had pushed far below.
Eventually, though, it made its approach to the surface, and I started to unravel. Girls’ night become every weekend. Every weekend become a meth addiction, which caused me to lose my job. Now bills were piling up, and I had to seek out a approach to make cash without disrupting my addiction.
I made a phone call to a friend I grew up with in Kansas City, who helped arrange a source of meth I could sell. Everything hurried from there. Within a couple of months, I used to be making a couple of thousand dollars a day and spending it just as quickly. My house was a revolving door of addicts, boyfriends, guns, and medicines. I began using the needle and decided it was best to send my children to live with my grandmother.
After a boyfriend broke each of my wrists, I had a lawyer draw up papers leaving my children to my grandmother in case something worse happened. I knew I used to be either going to find yourself dead or in prison. My addiction took precedence over all the pieces in my life. At this point, all I desired to do was die, but that was all about to vary.
Making amends
Three years into my addiction, I discovered myself at a whole stranger’s house, suicidally depressed, injecting a needle crammed with a considerable amount of meth into my vein. As the needle fell to the ground and landed within the old carpet like a dart, I collapsed to my knees on the verge of losing consciousness and cried out to God to save lots of me. I wasn’t prepared for a way he would select to reply.
As a toddler, I had attended various Catholic and Christian schools alongside public schools, and my grandmother was a robust Christian believer. Perhaps, having spent a lot time along with her, I knew in that desperate moment that salvation could only come from God.
A number of weeks later, I ended at a house to drop off some drugs. When I arrived, I saw a lady I had bad history with, so I confronted her and put her within the hospital. I used to be arrested every week later and located myself facing 21 years in prison, so after I was offered a plea agreement of 8 years, I gratefully accepted it.
After spending three months in county jail, I began attending the ministry group organized by a neighborhood church for inmates. Toward the tip of 1 service, I approached considered one of the church members. We prayed together, and I accepted Jesus Christ as my savior.
I received a Bible and a few reading materials, which I delved into eagerly. I read the Bible so steadily that the pages began to wear down, and I needed to rigorously tape them back together. I discovered solace in verses like Jeremiah 29:11, which speaks of God’s plans for his people, and 1 John 3:18, which speaks of expressing love with actions slightly than mere words.
As I sat in county jail, my mind began to get better from the effect of all of the drugs. I discovered myself overwhelmed with remorse for what I had done, and I wanted the chance to make amends with the girl I had hurt. I slid my back down the cold, white cinder-block wall and adjusted my orange jumpsuit. I pulled my knees into my chest, clung to my Bible, looked up with tears running down my face, and asked God to make the best way.
The next morning, an officer pulled me into the hallway to tell me that my victim had just been arrested. Because of my good behavior, he said, the authorities didn’t feel it was fair to ship me to a different county to be held until I used to be sent to prison. Instead, they might let me determine whether I desired to be housed with this woman or relocated to a different jail. My head spun in disbelief, because this is just not something that happens normally! I knew right then that God had heard my prayer, and this was my opportunity to place up or shut up.
As my victim entered the jail pod, you would see the fear throughout her face. She went straight into her cell and crawled up into her bunk. I gave her a couple of minutes after which made my way over to her door. I told her she was secure and invited her to eat with me. In the next weeks, I managed to reconcile along with her. We each expressed our apologies and commenced setting aside time each day to explore the teachings of the Bible.
We exchanged Scripture passages that resonated with us and even marked, signed, and dated our favourite verses in one another’s Bibles. Occasionally, I still glance at those pages, and it never fails to bring tears to my eyes, witnessing to how God worked inside the confines of that jail. I’ll all the time cherish the memories of how God began to mend my brokenness. It’s incredible how he turned the devil’s plan to destroy me into something positive, spreading waves of healing to everyone around me.
I spent the subsequent seven years in prison, earning all my good time. The experience was overwhelming, but I used the time to grow closer to God, and I established a godly repute among the many prison staff and my fellow inmates. I became a frontrunner of a women’s Christian ministry contained in the prison, and I began prayer groups within the dorms. Women sought me out for guidance, friendship, and prayer. I also tutored women for his or her GEDs, filed their taxes, and cut their hair. God used me in countless ways and continued to grow me in the method.
God never wastes a hurt
I used to be released in 2020, and, soon afterward, I married my highschool sweetheart, who works as a paramedic. Adjusting to his schedule took some getting used to, as did the experience of being a stepmother. During my husband’s absence for 48-hour periods, I readily assumed various responsibilities.
Each morning, I diligently woke up to organize breakfast and lunch for the youngsters before driving them to high school. I assisted them with their homework, accompanied them to their sports activities, and provided care after they fell ailing. It was necessary to me to create a healthy routine as a family.
During this era, I also began rebuilding other relationships in my life, including the one with my brother Canaan. We didn’t have many opportunities to speak while I used to be in prison, so it felt good to reconnect with him.
He was employed as a millwright and journeyed across the globe for work, which meant I didn’t have the prospect to see him steadily. However, we made sure to remain connected through phone calls and occasional text messages to let one another know we cared.
Fortunately, he managed to hitch me for Christmas during my first yr out of prison, and it was truly special to share that point with him. I recall making a conscious decision to not take any pictures that Christmas because I desired to immerse myself in the current moment, slightly than being preoccupied with my camera. Little did I do know this decision would later bring about regret.
In May of 2021, my brother was found dead in a Colorado hotel room from a fentanyl overdose. He was away on a job when he died. We had been planning his thirty eighth celebration, but now we were planning his funeral.
After coping with the initial impact of my grief, I made a decision I desired to do whatever I could to assist families that is likely to be suffering in the identical way. I started mentoring incarcerated men and ladies in addition to recovering addicts in my community. I sponsored a fundraiser to bring awareness to problems with mental health, addiction, and the connection between them.
I also desired to help diminish the stigma attached to in search of mental health services. We seek medical help when our bodies fail, so why wouldn’t we seek other forms of help when life seems overwhelming? As a part of this calling, I recently accepted the position of president on the board of directors for the Salvation Army and Compassionate Ministries in Fort Scott.
God never wastes a hurt. He is using my past to brighten others’ futures. I pray that God will proceed to make use of my words to present voice to those that need it. When he pulled me out of the darkness, he gave me one hand to cling to him, and one hand to tug another person out.
Tanya Glessner is the creator of The Light You Bring, a memoir, and Stand Up Eight, a group of private testimonies. She has also published several day by day prayer journals and is currently at work on a day by day devotional.
