At that critical age of adolescence when self-esteem and self-image are so important， I let my worries and fears overtake me. Everything that was wrong with me overpowered all that was right.
I drew the short straw. How will I ever lead a normal life with a job， a wife， and kids？ I will always be a burden to those around me.
I was never crippled until I lost hope. Believe me， the loss of hope is far worse than the loss of limbs. If you have ever experienced grief or depression， you know just how bad despair can be. More than ever I felt angry， hurt， and confused.
I prayed， asking God why He couldn’t give me what He‘d given everyone else. Did I do something wrong？ Is that why you don’t answer my prayers for arms and legs？ Why won‘t you help me？ Why do you make me suffer？
Neither God nor my doctors could explain to me why I’d been born without arms or legs. The lack of an explanation， even a scientific one， only made me feel worse. I kept thinking that if there was some reason， spiritual， medical， or otherwise， it might be easier to handle. The pain might not be so great.
Many times I felt so low that I refused to go to school. Self-pity hadn‘t been a problem before. I had been constantly striving to overcome my disability， to do normal activities， to play as other kids played. Most of the time I impressed my parents， my teachers， and my classmates with my determination and self-suffi ciency. Yet I harbored hurt inside.
I’d been raised as a spiritual kid. I‘d always gone to church and believed in prayer and God’s healing power. I was so into Jesus that when we had dinner， I‘d smile， thinking of Him with us there at the table， sitting in our empty chair while we ate. I prayed for arms and legs. For a while I expected to wake up some morning with arms and legs. I’d settle for just getting one arm or leg at a time. When they did not appear， I grew angry with God.
I thought I‘d figured out God’s purpose in creating me， which was to be His partner in a miracle so the world would recognize that He was real. I would pray： “God， if you gave me arms and legs， I would go around the world and share the miracle. I would go on national television and tell everyone what had happened， and the world would see the power of God.” I was telling Him that I got it and was willing to follow through on my end. I remember praying， God， I know You made me this way so You could give me arms and legs and the miracle would prove to people Your power and love.
As a child， I learned that God speaks to us in many ways. I felt he might answer me by placing a feeling in my heart. But there was only silence. I felt nothing.
My parents would tell me， “Only God knows why you were born this way.” Then I‘d ask God， and He wouldn’t tell me. These unfulfilled appeals and unanswered questions hurt me deeply because I had felt so close to God before.
I had other challenges to face. We were moving a thousand miles north， up the coast to Queensland， away from my huge family.
My protective cocoon of aunts and uncles and twenty-six cousins was being stripped away. The stress of moving was wearing on my parents too. Despite their assurances and their love and support， I couldn‘t shake the feeling that I was a tremendous burden to them.
It was as though I’d put on dark blinders that prevented me from seeing any light in my life. I couldn‘t see how I could ever be of use to anyone. I felt I was just a mistake， a freak of nature， God’s forgotten child. My dad and mum did their best to tell me otherwise. They read to me from the Bible. They took me to church. My Sunday school teachers taught that God loves us all. But I couldn‘t move beyond my pain and anger.
There were brighter moments. In Sunday school I felt joy when I joined my classmates singing， “ ‘Jesus loves the little children， all the children of the world， red and yellow black and white， they are precious in His sight， and Jesus loves the little children of the world.’ “ Surrounded by people who supported and loved me， I took that hymn to heart. It comforted me.
I wanted to believe that He cared for me deeply， but then when I was tired or not feeling well， the dark thoughts would creep in. I‘d sit in my wheelchair on the playground wondering： If God really loves me like all the other children， then why didn’t He give me arms and legs？ Why did He make me so different from His other children？
Those thoughts began to intrude even during the day and in normally happy circumstances. I‘d been struggling with feelings of despair and the sense that my life was always going to be difficult. God didn’t seem to answer my prayers.
One day I sat on the high kitchen countertop， watching my loving mum cook dinner， which I usually found reassuring and relaxing. But suddenly these negative thoughts overcame me. It struck me that I didn‘t want to stick around and be a burden to her. I had the urge to throw myself off the counter. I looked down.
I tried to work out what angle I should use to make sure I snapped my neck and killed myself.
But I talked myself out of doing it， mostly because if I failed to kill myself， I’d have to explain why I was in such despair. The fact that I came so close to hurting myself that way frightened me. I should have told my mother what I‘d been thinking， but I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to scare her.
I was young， and even though I was surrounded by people who loved me， I didn‘t reach out and tell them the depth of my feelings. I had resources but didn’t use them， and that was a mistake.
If you feel overcome by dark moods， you don‘t have to handle it yourself. Those who love you won’t feel burdened. They want to help you. If you feel you can‘t confide in them， reach out to professional counselors at school， at work， in your community. You are not alone. I was not alone. I see that now， and I don’t want you to ever come as close as I did to making a fatal mistake.
