I Just Want to Go Home!

I Just Want To Go Home - Anchor Of Promise

The most common phrase that doctors, therapists, counselors, treatment and hospital centers, officers/guards, and parents hear from a teen is, “I just want to go home.”

We begin to visualize the popular Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz clicking her heels with her eyes closed repeating, “There’s no place like home,” over and over again. We may not be living in Oz but the words spoken do tell a story. Continue reading

Do All Lives Really Matter? No.

Do All Lives Really Matter? No! - Anchor Of Promise
In the past year we all have seen and read debates and movements regarding whose lives really matter. I have come to my own conclusion. Not all lives matter.

I personally have compassion to many groups of ethnicity and color as well as respect. HOWEVER, I have absolutely no respect or tolerance for other groups. Who are they? Continue reading

From Suicide to a Life of Pain

From Suicide to a Life of Pain - Anchor Of Promise

When my daughter was nine, she would play on a game called Fantage.  It was a cute cartoon game that encouraged fun, imagination, and pretend.  They of course had parental controls in which you could oversee your child’s time on the game as well as how much contact they could have with others.

They were good at making sure curse words or any sexual innuendo did not take place.  But kids as they are today, find ways to get around that despite how child-like this game is.  With little chat bubbles, friends would follow each other around Fantage, playing games, meeting up with new pals, and buying the latest craze at the store with their ecoins.

One day however, a so-called new friend started to meet my daughter in the Fantage cartoon world and requested she go on another chat game without my knowledge.  This new chat place had a video chat in which you could see a live person.  That day changed my daughter’s life forever.  Continue reading

I Can’t Take It Anymore God!

I Can't Take It Anymore God - Anchor Of Promise

Feeling safe in her locked bathroom, she stood there in front of the mirror with swollen eyes. With a warm washrag, she slowly and meticulously wiped the tear-streaked mascara left on her face.

Barely audible, she forced the words out of her mouth, “I can’t take it anymore God.” With uncontrollable sobs, she dropped to the cold tile floor.

In a curled fetal position for what seemed like hours, she swirled her finger in the wet puddle of tears left on the floor.

Like ringing in the ears, she could hear so clearly her teen son repeating to her, “I hate you. I don’t want you in my life.” Continue reading