Biscuits and Gravy

I ran away from home when I was 15 years old, two days before Christmas if I remember correctly. One of the many reasons Christmas is a hard time of year for me. It was my sophomore year of high school but I hadn't really been going.

My mom had allowed me to move in with my boyfriend and his mom (who also had teenage twin sons and a daughter a few years younger). My boyfriend was a couple years older than me and had already dropped out of high school. They had moved to a city about 30-45 minutes away, in a different school district; she was fleeing domestic violence, not from the kids’ dad, but from her current boyfriend/husband. 

I remember enrolling in the new school and going to a couple of classes but mostly I skipped school to hang out with the boyfriend. I think it must’ve been the school that contacted my mom for truancy, and somehow she made me come back home. 

I was so angry and hurt at everything that had happened up to that point (mom leaving our family in North Idaho to move to Missouri, moving across the country to live with her only to be neglected, emotionally abused, sexually abused, first by a teenage son of a friend of hers and later by my 18-year-old boyfriend who managed to get me pregnant at 14 years old during the couple months he was out of jail, the humiliation and bullying that took place at school after my best friend told everyone that I was pregnant, the abortion, a friend committing suicide, an acquaintance dying in a horrible drunk driving car accident after leaving a party I was at…) 

Needless to say, I was a mess, and without family support I felt alone and hopeless. One night I swallowed almost an entire bottle of sleeping pills, chasing them down with a couple of beers. I fully expected not to wake up, and when I finally did sometime the next afternoon I was so disappointed. 

I don’t know where my mom was for that, but eventually she found some sleeping pills spilled in the couch cushions and confronted me. I remember her bringing me to a counseling session to talk to someone. I remember feeling scared. I remember not wanting to have to go back home with my mom. 

Almost 30 years later I can clearly see that the Lord was working on my behalf to protect me. I should have died that night, and there are numerous other situations that I can now see the Lords hand of protection on my life.) 

At the time, all I knew was that I couldn’t live with my mom, and my dad was all the way back in Idaho with my little sister. I often wonder how much of all this he is even privy to. I don’t remember talking to him much during that time (no cell phones) and my mom was so angry and bitter toward him I doubt she was communicating much to him unless it was an emergency. After all, back then there was no email or texting and long distance calls cost money… money that my “poor” parents didnt have.

I asked to be checked into a psychiatric hospital, a 30 day program that a few of my friends had jokingly referred to as the “loony bin.” One of my friends at the time had actually spent time there and that’s where I wanted to go, not back home with my mom. 

I remember that being a battle, she didn’t want me to go, maybe it was too expensive, maybe she thought it was going to make her look like a bad mom, maybe it was going to inconvenience her in some other way, but eventually I went. I seem to remember her signing over custody of me so I would become a ward of the state and not be her responsibility anymore. I wonder if my dad had to sign off on that too or if she was able to make that decision on her own?

(*My dad told me after reading this that he did not sign anything making me a ward of the state so I’m curious if that actually happened and if so, how she was able to do that without his consent.)

Anyway, I spent 30 days in the “loony bin” and I don’t remember a lot about those days but I do remember using that time to plot how I was going to run away from home when I got out. And that’s exactly what I did. While I was in there, my mom‘s boyfriend at the time was building a bedroom onto his house for me. When I got out, I was supposed to pack up my stuff to move in with this man that I hardly knew. 

So as I packed, I secretly marked each box whether I wanted to take it with me or leave it behind. My boyfriend‘s uncle who I had never met, and who by todays standards would totally be a “creepy old man”, drove 2+ hours to get me and my belongings. I gave him gas money. I had been saving up. He took me to my boyfriends cousins house, where there was a room we could stay in. It turned out to be a complete drug house. Parties every night, people passing out on the floor, lots of marijuana and alcohol, and I’m pretty sure the drugs they were selling were meth but I didn’t even know what that was at age 15 thankfully. (I wouldn’t get addicted to that until a few years later.) 

Anyway, the drug house wasn’t working out so I guess his grandma said we could come stay with her. 

And that’s where this story was supposed to begin. I have memories from that house that I felt led to journal about recently. Good memories mixed into that season of grief, fear, and trauma. 

Four generations of my boyfriends family lived in that house: grandma, who was actually a great grandma. Her daughter (my boyfriends aunt), and her 16-year-old daughter and 1 year old grandson. There were other people too, I think. The 16 year olds boyfriend maybe? Obviously not the best situation, but here’s what I remember:

I remember sitting around the dining room table playing card games and laughing. 

I remember having a bed to sleep in, somewhere to shower, and food on the table, even though I was some stranger to them with no job and hardly any money. 

I remember eating biscuits and gravy for the first time. Homemade, from scratch, fresh baked biscuits and sausage gravy. I had never even heard of biscuits and gravy before, and it’s still a favorite to this day. 

I think “grandma” also introduced me to chicken and dumplings. 

At my moms house, I had pretty much lived off of Top Ramen and Mac & Cheese, or Taco Bell when I could get a friend to drive me. She didn’t cook family meals. We didn’t even have a dining room table; she converted the dining room to her art studio instead.

This family that I lived with briefly as a teenage runaway, they smoked and drank, and all swore like sailors, even the 16-year-old girl. Some of them had been in and out of jail, dropped out of high school, used drugs, but what I remember is that they loved each other and were there to support each other no matter what. They were willing to take in this runaway girl and welcome me like family and for that I will be forever grateful. 

How easy would have been for my life to take a different path? What if the “creepy uncle” had actually been a sexual predator or a pimp in the sex trafficking world?

I am so thankful that even when I was making bad choices, God was protecting me and that now this horrible time in my life can actually be used for good. 

God never leaves us or forsakes us. Even before I knew him as my Lord and Savior, he was looking out for me, protecting me from an abusive and neglectful home, protecting me from being kidnapped or sold, keeping me out of jail and leading me (eventually) into his loving arms.

No matter where you’ve been, or what you’re walking through right now, God is in the midst. And even if you can’t see it now, he is always working on your behalf. He can take your story and turn it into a beautiful testimony of love and redemption.

Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better, and walking through this season of healing has definitely had its highs and lows. Right now, I’m in a low place, feeling discouraged and lonely and questioning why He didn’t place me in a safe and loving home to grow up in. But writing about my experiences helps. Shining a light into the dark places helps remove the shame that the devil tries to bombard me with. 

If you have had a similar past, or any of this resonates with you, I would love to connect. Please feel free to reach out to me here, find me on social media, or email me directly at shaybachelder@gmail.com