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Your Choices Matter
Finding Freedom from Condemning Voices and Crummy Choices That Poison Your Potential - One Right Choice at a Time
By Sierra Kinsley Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2014 Sierra Kinsley
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4907-4838-2
CHAPTER 1
The Search for Significance
You were made for a mission. —Rick Warren
There is a time for everything ... a time to search and a time to give up. —Ecclesiastes 3:1, 6
My bedroom was cold and dark, the stillness revealing my shallow breathing and anxious heart. The faint moonlight pressing through the tightly closed blinds provided little comfort as taunting thoughts combining with the sound of my rapidly beating heart pulsed and pounded inside my head against the quiet of the night. I don't know if I was shivering from the cool, vented air brushing across my bare skin or because I hadn't eaten much for several months and was just weak and exhausted, my nerves frayed and nearly spent. I no longer had the energy to cry, but that didn't lessen the intensity of the pain and anguish that consumed me. I felt as if I was suffocating in its grip, but like any skilled torturer, it doled out just enough air to keep me alive to continue suffering.
I knew it was late, but the time was unimportant. Sitting on the floor in my shorts and tank top with my back against the wall, knees close to my chest, and with my right hand on the .22 caliber revolver on the floor at my side, I wondered how in the world it had come to this. Not me. I was different. I was strong. I'd always had the will and determination of a pit bull. I'd spent my life refusing to back down or let go until I'd won. It often didn't even matter what it was, the win was the important thing. Suicide was for the weak, the selfish, the undisciplined. It was the coward's way out, reserved for those not strong enough to fight through life on the shoulders of their own intestinal fortitude, holding out no matter how long it took to prevail. Only ill-equipped, feeble souls without the mental grit to pull themselves up by their bootstraps chose suicide.
Yet there I was. Battling all the thoughts and feelings I'd felt certain that I, of all people, never would. I had become everything I loathed, everything I had always looked down upon and despised. I had become weak, and in my opinion weakness was synonymous with worthless. I'd lost control of my life somewhere along the way, my hope was gone, and the pain had become unbearable. The dizzying pace and constant struggle spent searching for significance and a way to somehow prove that my life mattered had finally taken its toll on mind and body. I could no longer see any viable options for a way out that didn't require at least some strength and courage, and I had none left. I was empty, done, pipeline dry.
Weak and exhausted, physically and mentally, I was tired of working long hours day after day, never getting enough sleep, to keep it all together. I was ready for life to end. Discouraged and disappointed, with no fight left in me, I was ready to wave the white flag of defeat. I was ready to lay down a lifetime of trying, to let the nightmare of life finally come to an end. And like a wolf standing over a fresh kill, salivating at the anticipation of the first warm, bloody bite, the darkness stood ready and eager to claim me its next victim prize, cheering me on and tempting me with promises of finally finding the rest and relief I so desperately desired.
But as much as I wanted to end the pain, two thoughts screaming inside my head flat out forbade me to give in and give up. The first was uncertainty about where I would spend eternity. As bad as things were, I had little doubt that hell would prove far worse than anything the world could dish up, and I knew there was no one this side of death who could say for certain whether taking my own life would catapult me into the hands of the harbinger of heaven or of hell.
The second thing that refused to release its grip on me was the remote possibility that my deliverance might be right around the corner, the thought that if I held on a little ... while ... longer, God might actually show up to rescue my sad, sorry self and finally turn my life around. I couldn't stop wondering: what if I were to shut my eyes for the final time, only to realize I'd been standing just days, hours, or even moments away from my breakthrough? I couldn't bear the thought. What if the only thing I'd not yet tried, God, was the answer I'd been searching for all along? That little what-if was the last bit of lingering hope left in my weary body and mind, but it was enough to keep me from pulling the trigger as each agonizing moment passed.
As the night dragged on, I began pondering what it was God had created me to do, what that thing was that I would never do if I took my life. I wondered, Had my life mattered at all? Would all the pain, all the suffering, and all the striving have been for nothing? The thought that I would have wasted my life made me tremble with the deepest disgust, remorse, and regret.
The thought that I might give in only moments before life was about to suddenly and miraculously change grew even more troubling than my pain and exhaustion. I could never stand losing, and even from the depths of my life's deepest and darkest pit, I still couldn't accept it. If there was even the slightest possibility I could still overcome, I couldn't let go. Not yet. Just in case. As much as I hated myself and my life, I hated the thought of missing my victory by a hairsbreadth even more.
Years later, I would read Brendon Burchard recount his own near-death experience in The Millionaire Messenger. I was surprised to find that as Brendon "skidded into death's doorway," he had asked himself questions very similar to those I had asked myself as I stood at my own version of death's door. In the midst of a terrifying car crash, before being knocked unconscious, Brendon asked himself, Did I live? Did I love? Then upon waking up injured, shaken, and bleeding, thinking he was dying, he wondered, Did I even matter? I felt a chill pulse through my body as I read his words, remembering the hopelessness, desperation, and deep despair of my own dark, difficult night as if it were only yesterday.
The trying, tedious, tortuous years I spent in that deep, dark pit of hopelessness and despair are what I now refer to as part two of my three-part life story. What led me to that point of burnout and brokenness in the first place was how I lived part one of my life—in a relentless, oftentimes reckless, and ultimately failed search for significance.
The Search for Significance
We all do it. Regardless of how, when, or where we grow up, regardless of the hand we're dealt—we spend at least some part of our lives searching for significance. In every case, the most important part of the search is the choice we make regarding the direction we take. As my own life story proves, your search for significance can deliver you or destroy you, depending on where and in whom you choose to search.
Few of us will go through life without asking at least one question as a telltale sign that we too have engaged in the search: Why am I here? What is my purpose? Am I making a difference? Do I matter? Questions like these have perplexed mankind for centuries. They have left some people destitute and distraught and driven others completely mad in a search for answers. Those fortunate few who finally find the secret to significance will tell you that the secret lies not with what you do or whom you know, not with what you achieve or accumulate, but with what and whom you choose to believe.
No more than a glimpse into our lives is necessary to tell the story of our own personal search. The search is revealed in the woman who shares her body freely and indiscriminately, longing for love and acceptance; in the man who lies with another man, searching for the male approval his absent father denied him; in the derelict teen who joins a violent gang, striving to fit in; in those who work nonstop to accumulate money and things, searching to earn their mother's approval, their father's respect, or anyone's notice to validate both them and their lives. It's revealed in the people who pour themselves into good works with civic, religious, or other benevolent organizations, desperately wanting to prove to others and themselves that their hearts are good and their lives matter, and it's evident in the woman who spends a small fortune on clothes, cosmetics, and plastic surgery, looking for someone to affirm that she is beautiful and desirable. The search can be seen in the exhausting pursuit—oftentimes an obsession—to be the prettiest, the wealthiest, the most educated, the strongest, the smartest, the most popular, the most needed, the most respected, the most connected. Regardless of the reason, your misdirected hunger for significance can steal your sanity and keep you separated from God and all that He has planned for you.
My Search
I spent the entire first part of my life in a desperate, unrelenting search for significance—a search that more than once nearly cost me my life.
After being told by my mother for years that I was ugly, stupid, hated, and unwanted and after watching my father stand by, refusing to step in and protect me, I set out to prove my mother wrong and earn my father's love and approval. My quest to find acceptance became an obsession that developed into a way of life.
My search for acceptance began with my experimentation with illegal drugs when I was twelve or thirteen. Despite my small frame, I quickly developed a reputation for being able to smoke more than anyone else before passing out, as I pressed desperately with every hit to escape as far from the pain of my mother's piercing words and my father's emotional abandonment as possible. The higher and more wasted I got, the farther I got from the pain. But I could never escape far enough, or long enough.
It wasn't until I nearly died one night after smoking angel dust, the 1970s equivalent of crack cocaine, that I began to seriously question the path I was on. My memories of that night are of my body flying through the air like a kite, with the cool night air rushing against my face and through my hair. My arms were the kite string, a different friend holding each of my hands as they ran through the park, pulling me along as I basked in my glorious flight. I awoke instead to the reality of painful, deep cuts and gashes all over my face and body from the hole in a chain-link fence my friends pulled me through as they fled pursuing police. They had dragged me with them, not to help me but to prevent me from being busted and then turning them in. Once they escaped the police, they left me alone and unconscious on the front lawn of a friend's house, not knowing if I'd ever wake up. I realized that night that the "friends" I was hanging out with weren't really friends at all; I didn't matter to them. And I realized that the drugs I was using to try so desperately to fit in and numb the pain could kill me, or worse yet, cripple me.
Staying loyal to my nature of jumping from one extreme to the next, I began searching for value and significance in accomplishments and achievements. Those were the things my parents valued most anyway, and if I could succeed, I'd be noticed and respected by them for sure. At least that's what I hoped would happen.
So achieve I did! I engaged in this new life project with as much passion and fervor as the last. I was determined to make this one work. After failing my freshman year and dropping out of high school, I moved into my own apartment on my sixteenth birthday. I enrolled in night classes and earned my high school diploma. In college, despite having been refused financial help from my parents and having to work full-time to support myself and pay for my education, I graduated with honors. With a degree in business administration and accounting, I began a professional career with a prestigious public accounting firm, and I quickly began to advance. Future positions had me traveling around the world, taking in the sights and dining on exquisite local cuisine, courtesy of a generous corporate expense account, not at all uncommon for the mid 1980s. I moved into a beautiful lakefront home, paid cash for a couple of amazing luxury cars, a boat, and a jet ski. I had a hardworking husband and a good-sized bank account. By most anyone's definition, I was a success.
I chose not to have children, rationalizing that they would only get in the way of becoming something special and doing something important with my life. I bought into the lies that promised me I could do it all and have it all. I was a walking billboard for Helen Reddy's then-famous song "I Am Woman" with my independent, self-reliant, and rebellious spirit, believing I could do anything and be anything without relying on anyone but myself.
I had it all. But it was never enough. The more I got, the more I wanted. I was never satisfied, my mind constantly planning my next pursuit. But no matter how much I did and how much I got, nothing made me feel that my life had any significance; nothing ever satisfied my insatiable appetite to feel accepted. Nothing made me feel that I mattered. And even after all I had accomplished and all I had accumulated, my parents both remained indifferent toward me, still just as unimpressed and uninterested in me as they'd always been. Nothing was ever good enough. I was never good enough. Not for anyone, it seemed, not even me.
More desperate than ever to feel worthy and wanted, I crossed my own line one day, a line I swore I'd never cross—a line I'd often criticized and condemned others for crossing. One senseless day I broke my vows and had an affair, and in doing so I lost everything I'd worked for, including my good reputation and most of my friends. But the other man made me feel wanted, smart, and beautiful—things I'd not felt in a long, long time. He made me feel special, at least for a while. At least until the guilt, self-condemnation, and self-loathing began their brutal assault.
Now at my lowest point—guilt ridden, disgusted with myself, and badly broken—for the first time I began to believe my mother had been right all along. I began recalling and believing every bad thing my mother had said about me and to me. I began to believe that I had finally proven myself truly ugly, stupid, and exactly the failure my mother had always said I was, that I had become an exact replica of the dismal portrait my mother's words had painted for me years before.
A suffocating darkness began to embrace me as deep despair and hopelessness set in. My own image staring back at me in the mirror repulsed me. I despised myself and began to loathe my life. My futile attempt to prove myself worthy with titles and treasures had more than failed—it had deceived me and was now destroying me, as I slowly gave up all hope of ever finding any real peace, purpose, or significance.
That is when I found myself alone on my bedroom floor with my gun, in the depths of the darkness I myself had created, searching for the strength to take my life and finally end the pain.
Significance through Surrender
In that moment of deep disgust and despair, choosing the path requiring the least amount of energy, I called out to God for help and then sat there ... waiting and wondering what, if anything, He would do.
I wish I could tell you the room lit up and angels suddenly appeared to whisk me away, or that I saw God's face surrounded by a beautiful light as He comforted me in my distress. That's not what happened, but what did happen was no less miraculous. At the very moment I called His name, I felt a peace and a calmness that truly surpassed all understanding come over me, blanketing me in its warm embrace, and with it an instant realization—a knowing, a certainty—deep within the depths of my heart that somehow everything, finally, really was going to be OK.
After years of confusion, agony, and deep disappointment, my life finally began to change when I decided to call on God that night. It didn't happen right away, and it certainly wasn't easy, but I became filled with hope that gave me the strength and the courage to finally begin living with purpose and significance—to break free from the condemning voices and crummy choices of my paralyzing past and begin choosing my way, one right choice at a time, toward a life that I now know truly does matter.
I am now living part three of my life, knowing with certainty each day that I and my life are significant, knowing that I am one of God's very special, beautiful creations— acceptable, capable, lovable, valuable, and forgivable, because He says that I am, knowing that I am the daughter of a king, the King, who loves me more than words can describe.
I am now living my life sharing my story wherever and whenever I can, with anyone who will listen, in order to give hope to others in hopeless situations like mine once was, encouraging them (and you) to search for their significance, like I finally did, in the only place they will ever find it—in the arms of a faithful, capable, loving God.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Your Choices Matter by Sierra Kinsley. Copyright © 2014 Sierra Kinsley. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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