“No, you do not have the Herpes Simplex Virus,” the doctor unequivocally stated. Then she explained that the military offered advanced testing and that Madigan Army Medical Center, where I was tested, was one of the top medical centers in the Army and that the United States Army wasn’t wrong.
I SAT THERE STUNNED.
Then she examined me while I laid there with glazed donut holed eyes. When she finished and left, I attempted to put my clothes on backwards. Then I heard an alien Voice from outer space say, “Shelley, I just threw that in extra for following Me.”
“WHAT?”
I couldn’t believe it. God healed me from Herpes simply for following Him. I hadn’t even gotten good at the Champion principles yet. I barely passed a few tests and now suddenly I’m healed from a non-curable disease? I thought I was going to pass out half-naked. Overwhelmed with joy and complete shock, I stumbled my way to the car and swerved home. Only this time I wasn’t hungry. I couldn’t eat. Are you kidding?
GOD HEALED ME FROM HERPES!!!
Garrett came home and I wrapped my arms around him and smacked a big one on him.
“Guess what, baby?!” A huge smile flashed across my face.
“What is it, Shelley?”
I did my famous black preacher dance around the room and then I jumped up in his face and yelled, “I’M HEALED FROM HERPES! THE DOCTOR SAID MY TEST CAME BACK
NEGATIVE AND I CAN’T BE IN THE STUDY!”
Garrett of course wanted to know all the details. I told him. We rejoiced. Then I dragged him into the bedroom and enjoyed my new Herpes-free marital status!
Those first few crazy months I’ll never forget. God tested me with everything from the offense test to the Herpes test, the test of small things to a Washington State driver’s license test, the HIV test to the credibility test.
Did I also mention the food handler’s test? Oh yeah, I was thoroughly tested and you know what?
I PASSED!
IXX
Admit One
Special Military Delivery
Chapter Nineteen
“Because he has loved Me, therefore I will deliver him; I will set him securely on high, because he has known My name.”
- Psalms 91:14 (NASB)
You can have my Bible when you pry it from my “paranoid, mentally disturbed, physically-abusive, cold, dead hand.” I was just as determined as the next soldier to conquer my enemy. Nothing would stop me from proving myself to God and delivering a beautiful healthy Caucasian baby.
Then I got the news at seven months pregnant.
“Ma’am, your baby is small. We need to run some tests and do an ultrasound.”
Where are the bedside manners around here? I shook my head as I stared into their blank cold faces.
No wonder they’re called grunts, I thought.
Garrett and I followed the nurse into the ultrasound room where yet another doctor came in to examine me. In an advanced medical center where secret bio weapons were rumored to be tested, I never had the same doctor. I started to feel like a human experiment.
“Your baby is playing hide and seek,” the doctor said with a smile. Finally, a sign of life!
“Can you tell if it’s a boy or girl?” I hoped it was a boy but of course I would love it if it was a girl.
“Your baby’s foot is in the way.” The doctor tried to move my baby around with her probe but because it was breech and stubborn, she couldn’t do it. After twenty minutes she gave up and told me to go back in the exam room where we could talk.
Now what? I thought.
“Your baby is breech and is abnormally small due to uterine retardation. We’ll probably have to do a C-section but not for another six weeks.”
“My baby’s retarded?!” I sprang up instantly.
“No, your baby is not retarded,” the doctor tried to reassure me. “Your baby is not growing properly due to placental insufficiency and that’s why he or she is small. It’s called Intrauterine Retardation Growth and we will need to monitor your baby closely.”
I started to cry. I blamed myself.
How could this happen? I thought. I was doing so well. I prayed and practiced God’s Word and did everything the Pastor taught me. Now my baby was retarded.
I started to hyperventilate.
Garrett tried to calm me down. He felt really bad for me. He saw I was going through hell and then for me to receive a bad report about my baby, he knew it was too much.
“Honey,” he said softly, “the baby is not retarded. The baby is just small for its gestational size and the doctor says they will monitor everything closely. Don’t worry. God didn’t bring you this far not to deliver a healthy baby.”
I melted into his arms.
“And Shelley,” he lifted my chin up and looked at me with his blue eyes, “I want you to know that I trust God that this baby is ours.”
My heart died and I cried my eyes out. I desperately needed to hear those words. His big arms wrapped tightly around me, his right hand held my head while I wept on his chest. I missed my best friend so much. With him being gone all the time it was hard for us to become close again.
Maybe this painful moment happened for a reason, I thought.
Emotionally and physically worn out from recovery from my old life, work, pregnancy and bad news, the tapping of rain drops lulled me into a deep sleep while Garrett drove us home. One hundred fifty depressing rainy days a year, Seattle was known as the suicide capital of America; perfect for a recovering porn star.
A dark and dreary early morning, the moment of truth finally arrived on January 3, 1997, and I was ready to achieve the impossible. Bible in my bag, Garrett by my side and Jesus tucked in my heart, I boldly walked into the hospital prepared for whatever lay ahead.
Stripped down to nothing and ready for delivery, the nurses rolled me into a bright white operating room. Garrett, a man of great integrity and supernatural kindness, sat down next to me and gently held my nervous hand in his. He smiled at me and told me he would be there for me no matter what. I squeezed his hand back as I tried to sniff up the tears.
Please let this baby be Garrett’s, I silently prayed to God.
Suddenly everything moved quickly. Quick and hushed talking, the doctors moved swiftly as they forcefully tugged and pulled on my numb abdomen. I began to worry if the anesthesia was still working as I repeatedly whispered names of Jesus under my breath.
When I saw Garrett, a trained combat medic, stand up to get a closer look, I knew the time was near. Eyes closed shut and heart set on the powerful truth of God’s Word, “You can do all things through Him who strengthens you,” I laid there wrapped up in the greatest faith moment of my life when out of the blue three awe-inspiring words gushed out of Garrett’s mouth:
“SHE’S SO WHITE!!!” Then he whipped his head around to look at me with a beaming smile.
“Oh my gosh, it’s a girl?”
Huge tears of relief exploded out of my eyes. My God came through for me. The greatest Promise Keeper of my life, I utterly thanked Him over and over for the greatest miracle in my life.
“Thank you, Jesus. Thank you thank you thank you Lord,” were the only words that burst forth from my mouth for about ten minutes. The nurses had never seen a more grateful mother.
After the military doctors took painstaking measures to check every crevice of my new baby, a sweet nurse handed me my soft beautiful daughter. I fell in love with my white powdery baby immediately.
“Why is she full of white powder?” I asked the nurse. I thought maybe they doused her in Baby Powder to give me an extra special “military” delivery.
“Oh that’s just Vernix, honey, the white cheesy stuff that protects your baby’s skin. Your baby was born early so she has extra.”
Then I looked up into a heavenly corner in my room and sensed God chuckling. Apparently He was loving and hilarious.
Thus began a long intimate relationship with God, a true Father, and not some mean guy up in the sky with a hammer. Bu
t a caring Father who loved me and had a powerful plan for my life.
As I lovingly held my newborn daughter Teresa I realized God loved me like I loved my new baby.
Amazing.
XX
Admit One
Mama’s Heart Trauma
Chapter Twenty
Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrow.
- Isaiah 53:4 (NASB)
God became my Father. He knew how much I would need Him for the can of black worms only a shocking birth could pry open.
I was on such a high the first few days after Teresa’s amazing birth. Recovering from a brutal C-section, I barely noticed the pain. I was too enamored with the five pound, nine ounce bundle of joy in my arms. Teresa was born small but like her Daddy, had very long legs. With little fat on her tiny body, the heroic mother in me rose to the occasion and proudly nursed my first baby!
At first nursing was difficult because my milk ducts were damaged from the implants. My right breast more damaged than my left, Teresa screamed her lungs out when she didn’t get enough milk. Frustrated and overwhelmed, I bawled my eyes out while trying to read through books about breastfeeding. Finally, after a couple of weeks, I started to get a system down.
Breastfeeding my baby suddenly became the most beautiful experience of my life. Drizzling quiet mornings to nurse to, I snuggled up with Teresa under a big soft blanket while she sucked to the gentle sound of rain. The safety and comfort I felt was indescribable. Not only was I giving my child the gift of nutrition and warmth, I was using my breasts for something beautiful. No longer were they objects of abuse; my breasts gave life to another human being. I felt so amazingly feminine.
I also felt extremely depressed at times. At first I was mad at myself for not constantly being in joy. But then I read about postpartum depression and figured that was why I was so depressed. When the harsh symptoms didn’t go away and nightmares began to appear, I knew something was wrong.
Trauma enters.
Every time I held Teresa I had to fight back tears. The overwhelming realization that my mother never loved me the way I loved my baby began to torment me day and night. Images of my mother’s face screaming at me entered my mind.
“You forgetful lazy girl, you never clean your room!”
“Why can’t you be more like your sister?”
“Shame on you for talking back to me!”
“Shame on you for not honoring your parents. The Bible says you won’t live a long life you know!”
“Don’t you know you could go to hell for that?!”
The little girl in me cringed at the tormenting words of shame, guilt and threats my mother barraged me with much of my childhood. The resounding gongs of her nagging voice during my teenage years were even louder.
“I’ll make sure your father hears about this one!”
“Don’t you dare or I’ll…!”
“I love your sister more than I ever loved you!”
“I see Satan behind those eyes. I’m going to cast the devil out of you!”
And she did. She grabbed healing cloths that we bought from a preacher on TV and threw them on me while she attempted to cast the devil out of me.
“In the name of Jesus come out of her!” she yelled into my face while she brooded over me. Sick of her fat loud mouth and years of emotional abuse, I became the devil she professed lived inside of me. The teenager from hell, I gazed my fierce green eyes into hers and with my best contorted demon face I hissed and growled back, “Get off of me, Bitch!”
My mother flipped out and yelled to my father, “Come quickly, Satan’s inside of Shelley!”
My Dad came to my bedroom door, told my mother to get off of me and then he clapped. I smiled and gave my mother a dirty look. My Dad wasn’t dumb. At least he knew I had talent.
I hated my mother so much. I hated her with a passion. The hair on my arms stood up like her evil disapproving eyebrows when I thought about her cruel words. Filled with uncontainable rage, I wanted to throw something but Teresa was sleeping in the other room. The love of my child stopped me from having a violent outburst.
Then I thought about my Dad. My father and my hero, he betrayed me. I sobbed again. How I longed for the love of my father. I wished more than ever he could hold me and protect me from haunting images of my mother’s abusive words. Suddenly I felt huge amounts of anger toward him.
How could he let her treat me so horribly? I argued in my head. He must have seen and heard her belittle and yell at me, I angrily thought. Even relatives knew my mother had a big mouth. But my Dad was stubborn and defended the wife of his youth until the end.
Then I realized my Dad was selfish and in love. He preferred his tools and inventing while my mother stood by him and applauded his genius designs. Physically and emotionally abused by his own father, he enjoyed the ongoing approval my mother gave him.
I could have given him that approval, I thought. I was his greatest admirer. A strong willed creative genius, I was exactly like him.
The little girl in me wept for her Daddy. “That mean mouthed lady stole him from me!” I yelled in my head.
I hated her so much that I couldn’t hold back anymore and I threw a vase and woke Teresa.
Great, I thought. Now I hated my mother even more.
I picked Teresa up out of the crib and brought my crying baby over to the couch. As soon as I put her to my breast, she stopped crying. Staring into a dark forest of incessant raining, tears of rejection streamed down my face.
“How could she not love me like I love this baby?” The question burned in my heart.
Then I thought about the Pastor and how he taught about forgiveness. It was the one thing I absolutely refused to do. I could pass almost any test but I couldn’t forgive my mother or the men who hurt me. Those two would suffer a lifetime for what they did to me.
A Voice interrupted my thoughts. “But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.”
That put a damper on things to say the least. But I refused to listen to God. I couldn’t and wouldn’t forgive. So I internally suffered as I nursed, cursed and rehearsed every offense ever done to me.
As I became obsessed with thoughts of my past, I began to have violent outbursts and verbally abuse Garrett. In fact, I blamed Garrett for everything wrong in my life. It was his fault if I was having a bad day. If it rained, it was his fault. If there was no money, it was his fault. When I had nightmares and flashbacks, it was his fault if he didn’t comfort me enough. Depressed for weeks at a time, I blamed it on him for being gone so much. The bitterness inside of me became unmanageable and Garrett was at his wits end.
At the same time I was blaming and hating everyone, my mother began to reach out to me. Of course she did, I had just given birth to her first legitimate grandchild and she was a proud grandmother. So, she threw me a baby shower and I flew down to California with my six-week old baby. I held my tongue, showed my baby off, opened up beautiful gifts from relatives and most of all, I got to see my Italian Grandmother, Teresa. Yeah, I called her Nonnie but her real name was Teresa. I loved her so much I named my baby after her.
I was decent to my mother and even grateful she reached out to me. Maybe she had changed, I thought. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to make up for the onslaught of verbal abuse of the past. She still owed me something.
When I got back home things became worse. Seeing my mother again and my family brought back even more memories to haunt me and I fell apart. It didn’t help that Garrett’s mother still couldn’t stand me either. I felt like everyone hated me, including myself. I was ugly, unworthy, and unlovable. I couldn’t shake the deep-rooted belief that nobody loved me. I didn’t even believe Garrett anymore.
I started working at the Mexican restaurant a couple months after being home with Teresa. The change of environment gave me a chance to breathe but unfortunately I breathed in a little too much of the Tequila air and soon I fell. I started drinking again in between nu
rsing my six-month-old. Wrestling with my two favorite addictions; I juggled breastfeeding and alcohol.
Then I became more depressed.
Alcohol only made things worse and I began to spiral out of control until I hit the bottom of 1997. With Teresa’s first birthday around the corner and a strong determination to make a New Year’s resolution, I ended up in the Army mental health clinic, the Department of Behavioral Health.
It was time to get some professional help, I thought.
“Shelley Lubben.” The nurse called my name. The world around me was excruciating. Screaming children and families burned out from military life, I walked through the cold corridor into an empty room and waited for a psychiatrist. A stack of tall brochures on the table, I thumbed through pamphlets about depression, which only made me feel more depressed. I noticed out of the corner of my eye a book about Schizophrenia sticking out of a bookshelf. Gulp.
I definitely didn’t want the doctor to know I heard voices.
Out of the blue entered a tall powerful man dressed in an Army uniform and I immediately felt anxious. He introduced himself and pulled out a notebook and pen.
“Tell me what symptoms you are having, Mrs. Lubben.”
I was so afraid to tell him, especially about the nightmares and flashbacks. I wanted to run out of there so badly. But I was desperate for help.
“I have nightmares, flashbacks, chills and feel like something is strangling me at night. During the day I am really sleepy and very depressed.”
“Do you want to kill yourself?” he asked.
What, is that a trick question? I thought.
“Are you going to put me away for anything I say?” I asked him with lifted eyebrows. I wasn’t dumb enough to end up in the crazy ward.
“Well, if you are currently hurting yourself or others, yes, we will have to check you into our inpatient program where you will receive medical attention.”
“Well, I am currently not trying to kill myself but yes, I have had thoughts of death in the past.”
Truth Behind the Fantasy of Porn Page 11