What's Wrong with Me?: From Abuse and Lies to God's Forgiveness and Truth

By Kathy Gist With Kevin McConaghy

"What's wrong with me?" Have you ever asked yourself this question? Even as an adult and a mother of two, Kathy continued to relive the shame of her alcoholic father spewing this frequent accusation, through gritted teeth, "What is wrong with you, Kathy?" However, as glimpses of hidden memories started to resurface and she gained the strength to look more deeply into her past, she uncovered exactly what was wrong with her-and chose to confront the person responsible. Walk with Kathy as she shares how her pain, fear, and anger were turned into healing, courage, and forgiveness, in a way that would have been impossible on her own. If you've ever wondered whether you can overcome past hurts or abuse, Kathy's story provides hope and describes the path to freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644683866

Book preview

Chapter 1

Scrambled Eggs

The alcohol-induced fog slowly lifted from my brain into the still darkness surrounding me. I wondered whether I was awake or asleep, hoping it was the latter. Gradually, the realization that I was in our bedroom started to creep into my consciousness. I pushed the pillows out of the way, revealing the blurry red numbers on the alarm clock. It was already time to get up for the day and make breakfast.

At the same time, I realized that my husband, Mark, wasn’t in bed beside me. Had he already left for work? As far as I could remember, he hadn’t woken me up to say goodbye. It was Monday morning, and if he was already gone, I wouldn’t see him again until Thursday or Friday, as usual.

I sat up in bed and cringed as I recalled the night before and remembered our fight. Quickly, I became fully alert. Mark had told me last night, Kathy, from my perspective, you’ve been overdoing the alcohol lately, and I think it would be best if you don’t drink when I’m out of town. I remembered my anger, which escalated our argument when I replied sarcastically, I’m a grown woman, and I can decide when I want to have a drink.

Without resolution, he went to bed early. But I stayed up late, listening to my favorite rock-and-roll albums on headphones, thinking things over while drinking more beer. Mark just doesn’t understand me, I thought, and honestly, no one else does either.

Trying to calm my anxiety over the night before, I fell back down on the pillow. With a hangover brewing, all I wanted was to go back to sleep. As my temples throbbed, an inventory of speculations ran through my brain: I’m sure Mark has plenty of leisure time after work and drinks if he wants. If he’s unhappy with me, then maybe he’s found someone else. Does he actually stay out of town for work, or does he just not want to come home? I’m sure that’s the case because the truth is…no one could ever really love me.

As the weight of my brooding began to take hold and press into my chest, I sat up again quickly, almost gasping for breath, desiring to be free. I wasn’t sure what it was I needed to be free from, but I just felt weighed down and so tired. It had been many weeks since I’d had more than two or three hours of solid sleep, unless I drank. But now, even that wasn’t working as well as it had been.

As tears started dropping on the bedcovers, I began to chastise myself for entertaining these chaotic internal debates. Why was I doubting Mark or questioning his loyalty? Maybe I had been drinking too much? I knew it was my fault we were fighting. It was always my fault…

My memory drifted back to when Mark and I first met, a decade earlier, in the summer of 1974. I had just turned sixteen, and he was nineteen. He was home from college, and I was almost a junior in high school. We met at a party. Swaying from the effects of alcohol, his speech slurred, he told me, You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. My heart skipped a beat, and that was all the encouragement I needed to want to know him better. We were reintroduced a few months later, and over time we began dating exclusively.

At 6 feet, 2 inches tall and 185 pounds, Mark was slender and handsome with long curly hair to his shoulders. He loved dressing casual. He always wore either a T-shirt or Hawaiian shirt, jeans with patches over the holes, and cowboy boots or high-top Converse shoes. Mark was confident in his choices and so fun-loving that I didn’t care how much my father would hate his long hair. When he met my parents, my father shook Mark’s hand. Then my father wiped his own hand on his slacks, as if to disinfect his palm. Fortunately, Mark had already turned toward my mother, so he didn’t notice. But I saw what happened.

Mark and I had each accepted Jesus Christ as our Savior in our early teens. Yet neither one of us had a church we were involved with or any training or understanding of how God wanted us to live. We failed to follow God in our individual lives, and our relationship with one another.

We always had fun together even though I was extremely insecure and had many fears: a fear of heights, closed-in spaces, large crowds, and even new experiences. Yet Mark continued to show me his joy of life, and I clung to him, hoping I could feel the same kind of freedom. He was so vivacious, taking the lead on everything; I went along for the ride, pushing my fears down, as much as possible, deep inside.

Ten years later, after six years of marriage and two kids, that time seemed like a different age. Snapping back to my surroundings, I looked around our bedroom, hoping to see some sign that Mark hadn’t left town yet. He was still the same person I loved then, minus the long hair. But lately we had been relating to each other mostly with anger and defensiveness. I found myself lashing out often, not only toward Mark, but also with our children.

I didn’t talk much about my fears while we were dating. Growing up, I learned from my parents that you don’t show outside what’s going on inside. But now I was fearful of everything and had begun to share that fact with Mark.

Before our argument the night before, I had told him how overwhelming these fears were becoming. For example, I had this fear that someone was going to get me and the kids, especially while he was gone. So in response, I’d started bringing our children into my room to sleep at night. Then I’d place furniture against the door. At every sound, I would wake up and check the kids and the furniture’s placement to make sure we were secure. And usually, I found it hard to go back to sleep.

When I told him about this, I felt ashamed and rejected by his confused look and questions. What’s wrong, Kathy? Why are you so sad and fearful? Why can’t you sleep since you’re so tired? Can’t you just tell yourself everything is okay, since it is? Without any logical answer, I only cried in response—followed, of course, with anger.

Just a few short months before this, we had been enjoying one another as a family. Katy was almost three, and our son, Sam, was almost two years old. Just thirteen months apart in age, they were both bright wonderful children. I wanted so much more for them than I had been given in my childhood.

One of my greatest desires was to have a happy and healthy home. Yet there I was, feeling miserable. And even though I had so much to be thankful for, there was always a drive to seek for more. It didn’t make sense.

We lived in a modest custom-built house that I even helped to design. Yet the newness of the home was wearing off as it had with our previous two houses. I was beginning to look for something else to make me happy and keep me busy. It seemed to be a pattern in my life.

As I looked back, I could remember thinking that once I got out of my parents’ home and moved away to college, I’d be happy. But college only lasted one semester. I quit and found a job. I had several jobs before getting married, but I really believed that being married would be the solution I desired. After we married, I was sure that buying our first home would bring the contentment I sought. When that wasn’t continually fulfilling, I knew that children would be the answer. And while God blessed us with the most incredible children, I would scream and yell at them sometimes in frustration, which brought regret and shame.

I often wondered about what purpose I had and even struggled with whether I wanted to live. These dark thoughts had always been difficult for me to understand. Suicide seemed like such an extreme desire. Yet on mornings like this one, I always gravitated to that idea.

As I sat in our bed and continued to review last night’s argument, I could find no justification for my feelings or behavior. This begged the question, one that often rolled around in my head, and that I now spoke aloud: What’s wrong with me?

I decided to focus myself and return to the needs of the day. Knowing I shouldn’t fall back to sleep, I dragged my legs to the side of the bed. My head was spinning and pounding as I steadied myself to stand. I knew I had to just keep moving forward, one step in front of the other. I could hear my mother’s voice saying, God helps those who help themselves. So I told myself the only helpful advice I could muster: Don’t worry about all that other stuff. Maybe it will go away.

I staggered into the bathroom and felt for the switch. As the vanity lights brightened the dressing area, I cringed, closing my eyes at the glowing beams. My only thought was to search for aspirin. Once my eyes adjusted, the reflection in the mirror revealed a five-foot, seven-inch, large-framed woman with short brown curly hair sticking out in several directions. I sighed deeply with contempt, hating the body and the face I saw. I’d never liked looking at the person staring back at me, so I just didn’t.

As the tears began to fall, I turned away from myself, pulling my robe from its hook and making my way silently through our bedroom toward the hall. Katy and Sam would be awake soon and ready to eat. Suddenly, my heart began to pound at the thought that maybe they weren’t safe, yet a peek into their rooms confirmed that they were both resting like little angels. I turned around and headed toward the den, quietly closing the hallway door behind me, as my heart returned to a normal rhythm.

I walked in the direction of Mark’s office, just off the kitchen, to search for any sign that he might still be home. Maybe there was a chance to repair last night before he leaves. Yet all I could hear was the shuffle of my own footsteps against the carpet as I turned on the light to see a room with no life.

The tears started again as I felt an unrelenting hollowness swell inside. After staring blankly at the empty room, I turned on my heel, wiping my face with a paper towel I grabbed off the kitchen counter. I was determined to confront the tasks in front of me: cook, clean, care for my two toddlers, wash clothes, and shop for groceries. Yet all the while I was wondering if I’d be able to sleep that night, especially if I didn’t drink.

I opened the refrigerator and retrieved the eggs, bread, butter, and milk. Then I hit the kitchen light to life. I cracked eggs into a bowl and unconsciously beat them with a whisk until they were frothy. I turned on the stove, and while waiting for the skillet to warm up, I loaded bread in the toaster and slammed down the lever. Once I knew the pan was preheated, I added butter and started pouring the frothy yellow liquid into the warm skillet. Holding myself up by bracing my arms on either side of the stove, I stared down blankly, feeling as broken and scrambled as the eggs in front of me. My thoughts were grinding on…wondering…fearing…hurting.

Suddenly, I was jolted out of these preoccupations by Katy, who asked in her sweet, lilting voice, Momma, what’s for breakfast? Already feeling rejected and angry, and now startled, I grabbed the skillet and the spoon to stir the eggs. While grinding my teeth together, I turned briefly and looked at my daughter. She was in her footie pajamas, toting her Winnie-the-Pooh blanket. Aggravated, I watched as she climbed up onto the stool of our tall kitchen island to sit and wait for breakfast.

I should have been softened by her beauty and her simple request. She looked so sleepy and was asking such a simple question. I’m sure she would have loved a hug, but I couldn’t seem to break out of my trancelike state long enough to respond. Her innocence and vulnerability seemed to stir something inside me, and I sensed an acute rumbling deep in my being. Averting my eyes from her, I stared straight down and stirred the eggs. I didn’t know why, but I found myself squeezing the handle of the skillet, the morning’s negative thoughts still ping-ponging around in my head. I was sure my family would all be better off if I wasn’t around. I was sure Mark didn’t care about me anymore, now that he knew the real me. Katy and Sam deserved a good mother. I’ll never amount to anything, I thought. I’m worthless!

Brimming with self-hatred, like a volcano, bitterness churned and spewed internally and felt as if it were rising from my belly up through my chest. Then, as it squeezed my heart, I felt this violence wanting to erupt out of me. Abruptly and unexpectedly, I found myself screaming at the top of my lungs, Leave me alone!

While screaming, I felt the weight of the steel skillet in my hand, and suddenly it became a weapon. I smashed it into the stovetop. Over. And over. And over. And with the blows, I howled loudly, Leave me alone! Leave me alone!

My body and mind seemed numb as I plodded through the repeated impact. There was nothing in my vision but a tunnel of black spinning fury. Gone was the kitchen, the eggs, and Katy. The screams sounded like they were coming from outside of me. And there seemed to be only one point of reference for the rage that erupted. The focus was the skillet being raised and slammed into the hot grate, in rhythm, with the screams. I was oblivious to anything other than the wrath that had overtaken me…until… I felt a pain in my forearm.

As suddenly as it had started, a sharp spasm reconnected my hand with my arm, which jolted me enough to bring me back to the kitchen. The ache traveled up through my shoulder. Spent physically and emotionally, I crumbled to the floor with the skillet glued to my hand. Both my eyes and mouth were shut, but my body wouldn’t stop shaking.

Slowly, I tried to reorient myself to my surroundings as I considered what had just happened. Sitting in a heap, I didn’t want to see what I’d done. Then I heard a small moan. Even in my confusion, I was certain it was Katy. I knew I had to open my eyes. But I begged God, Please let this be a nightmare.

At first, all I saw was the skillet on the floor, with my own hand tightly gripping the handle. I fought to loosen my hold. My fingers were stiff, swollen, and white-knuckled, as one by one they unhinged. I noticed that the base of the steel pan was slightly dented. As my gaze traveled up from the skillet, I saw scrambled eggs everywhere on the floor.

Feeling disgraced yet compelled, I continued looking at the damage. I saw more eggs on the stove, countertops, cabinets, and—as I looked straight up—even the ceiling. Once again, I closed my eyes and prayed it was a bad dream while at the same time wondering what had just happened. And then, with my heart pounding heavily in my ears… I heard a movement…and I forced myself to stand, slowly, in search of the sound.

My head gradually rose above the barrier of the cabinets, and my daughter, Katy, came into sight. As I rose to my full height, I noticed her expression. In what seemed an eternity of time, her facial features turned from shock to wide-eyed dread. The more my attention concentrated on her, the more she slowly pressed herself into her chair back. Looking at her fear, as I continued to resurface from my stupor, I was suddenly struck by the realization: my daughter is completely terrified of me!

For this horribly long moment, as I struggled to orient myself, I no longer saw my precious daughter. I saw another little girl. They looked very similar, but this little girl… I think I’d forgotten about her, or maybe I just didn’t want to remember her. But there she was, nonetheless, transposed onto my daughter. Just like Katy, she also had blonde hair, but with curls, and brown eyes full of terror, hurt, and betrayal.

I shook my head, wondering once again if this was all real. As I looked again and saw my Katy and her alarmed expression, in my own being, I experienced the intensity of what she was speaking with her eyes and body. Suddenly, I knew I was seeing and sensing myself as a child Katy’s age. I closed my eyes and shook my head again, hoping to release the agony I was experiencing and seeing in my daughter. At this point, only one question reverberated in my head: What is wrong with me?

For evils beyond number have surrounded me; My iniquities have overtaken me, so that I am not able to see; They are more numerous than the hairs of my head, and my heart has failed me.

—Psalm 40:12

Chapter 2

The Beginning

I was born in Texas in 1958. My father, Don, always provided a lifestyle of living in middle-class neighborhoods, no matter where we lived. Anne, my mother, was a homemaker, like a lot of women during the 1950s–1960s; but as I approached my teen years, she went to work for her parents as a real estate broker. From the outside, we looked like the typical happy family. However, there was one face in public and a different one behind closed doors.

For the first eight years of my life, my brother and I were the only children in our family. Chris was eighteen months older than me, and I always looked up to him. During my early