I must've asked myself this question a hundred times through childhood as the adopted (brown) daughter to the (white) "man of God," AKA - pastor/cult leader.
While I dared God to kill me, begged him to strike me dead on more than one occasion, he mocked me by refusing to put me out of my misery. I knew then that "God" was a fictional character. Why would someone who was supposedly so loving, so sacred, so holy, subject someone so young, broken and hurt, to a childhood of the kinds of abuse that brings the most seasoned true-crime docuseries lovers to tears? "Why is God so cruel? If He loved me, He'd let me die!!!"
I took my beatings with pride; I knew it kept my younger siblings safe. I kept my head held high as paddle after paddle was broken in half against my skin. Punishment after punishment I took, hoping that eventually, someone would come help me. "Please help me!" is all I repeated in my mind night after night. While I dropped my panties to go potty as a little 10-year-old girl and saw them soaked with blood from the whips I'd just taken, I hoped that someone from the church, someone from the cult, ANYONE, would come and make things okay. "All I need is ONE person to see what's going on and help!"
"Why won't God just kill me already? Why isn't he answering my prayers?" I questioned my faith, questioned my worth, questioned my existence, hoped for better. Better never came, but neither did God's deliverance. I don't know which one stung worse - my dad's angry paddle swings, God's refusal to kill 10-year-old me, or the fact that NO ONE, not ONE PERSON ever came and rescued me from the abuse and turmoil my life was from day one...
~Yours Truly
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