Editor's Note: We continue to shine light on this remarkable story of survival and faith as an encouragement to the thousands of Marthadeans in the world who live in obscurity, whose battered lives will never come to light. But God knows them, and loves them. The following excerpts come from chapter three of Marthadean's book, Jesus Loves Even Me. Click here to read the first installment in this series.

Jesus Is the Only One Who Cares About Me
We moved to a new house a few months after the rapes. Some bigwig in the area had built it. It was big enough for our family to live on one side, and my father to have a TV repair shop on the other side. This is the house I remember. We lived there on and off until I was 15.

I withdrew into my inner prison, more and more alone, unacceptable and, especially, unlovable. I don't think that other people were aware of this. I was a good actress. My mother had taken us to Sunday school at different times. I had heard about Jesus and His love for me. I wanted to learn about Him and to be near Him, so I would convince my mother to drive me to Sunday school. The other children who attended were not very thrilled about my being there, but the adults would make sure I was allowed to participate. I attended Sunday school and church by myself. There were people all around, but I was alone from the inside out.

*****

One time when I attended junior high church camp I got a small wound on my finger. The finger became so infected that I had to be taken to the doctor every day to have the wound cleaned and treated. I would miss the swimming time in order to be driven to the doctor and back. Most people would view this as an unfortunate and sad experience. But in my mind, I was rejoicing in it. Someone was caring about my needs and doing something for me, individually. It didn't matter to me what the doctor had to do to my finger each day. It was a small price to pay for knowing that I had some value.

I have some good memories from my youth. I remember family barbecues with all my aunts, uncles and cousins, and Grandpa and Daddy making homemade ice cream together. I remember Mother canning fruit. I remember coloring Easter eggs and the wonderful Easter baskets that always contained items from Sees candy. Then there were the Christmas cookies Mother baked. We would sit around the kitchen table and decorate the cutout cookies with different colors of frosting. We always had clam chowder on Christmas Eve. Yes, I do have some good memories. However, the internal prison in which I now dwelled affected the way I thought, acted and reacted.
My family was what is now called "dysfunctional." My father was not physically demonstrative. He did not kiss me or hug me. I was not allowed to demonstrate feelings, so I either denied or stuffed them. I tried to earn my acceptability and worth by performance. I was taught to work, work, work. Rest and relaxation were considered useless, wasted time. I remember telling a friend that the only way I would ever be acceptable to my father would be to get a college degree. I never did achieve it.

I was a very alone, lost, hurting child. Jesus was my only trusted friend. I can still remember going outside and walking around in a certain area of the yard. I would talk to Jesus about everything. I was only 9 or 10 years old, but I knew that He was the only one who really cared about me. He was the only one who listened to me. He didn't make me feel unacceptable, worthless or unwanted. Jesus loved me, and I resolved to love Him back.

*****

I have two special memories from the years we lived in Meiners Oaks. The first one happened in fourth grade. My teacher was Miss Devana, an older Christian lady who had never married. She still lived with her mother. On the Thursday before Easter vacation, Miss Devana told us to go home and write a story about why we celebrate Easter. We were to bring it back the next day. During our Easter party she would read the stories, and the whole class would decide which one was the best. I had a very hard time convincing myself to even try. I knew that I didn't have a chance once the other kids knew I had written it. I finally did write the story and turned it in. I was hurting all day, because I knew that I didn't have a chance. When it was time for the contest, Miss Devana announced that she was going to read all of the stories, and then we would vote on the best one. However, she would tell us who wrote the story only after we had voted. And I won! The prize was a plastic wall hanging of a little girl saying her bedtime prayers. It is hanging above my bed to this day. It was the one time in my life that I was judged according to merit, rather than by my name. It is a precious memory indeed.

The second special event happened while I was in junior high school. My step-grandmother was the only other Christian in our family. She was married to my father's father. She had a special understanding of me and of my cousin Leanna, who was my best friend. She was living in pretty bad circumstances.

One Saturday, our step-grandmother and grandfather picked us up and took us to Santa Barbara. We ate at a fancy restaurant on the wharf. We each got to choose what we wanted for lunch. I chose Abalone steak. We felt like two very special girls.
It didn't end there. We were then taken to a nice clothing store where we could each pick out one item we wanted. I don't remember what I chose. What still brings tears to my eyes is what my cousin was able to have. In those days, half-slips with yards of lace were the rage, and Leanna wanted one. We both thought there was no way she would be able to have one, but my grandmother bought my dear cousin the slip she had wanted so badly. I am still happy and grateful to our grandmother for making Leanna's wish come true.

After our shopping we went on to Oxnard, where my grandparents lived. We spent the night there, and we had a room with twin beds and a table in between. When we were ready for bed, my grandmother brought in a big bowl of luscious fresh fruit. She set it on the table and told us to enjoy; then she went out, leaving us to enjoy each other and the fruit. What a wonderful time we had! It was our one and only time, but it was a day to remember.

*****

The second semester of my junior year in high school we moved to Azusa, CA. The following summer we moved to Hayward, CA, where I finished my senior year. With these two moves to new areas and situations, I began to go under. I could not find my identity. I changed my name a couple of times. I was called Marty during my senior year. I started to gain weight. I was lost, alone, confused and scared. I was trying to cope with things that were beyond my ability. I decided that my only hope was to serve the Lord as a medical missionary to the American Indians. They were being as unjustly treated as I was. Maybe I could help them have what I could never have: love, acceptance, hope and justice.

I attended the College of San Mateo my first year. We moved to Fremont the following summer, and I attended Laney College in Oakland that fall. I was losing it bad. I can remember coming to the dinner table each night and screaming at my Dad. I had built up such great anger and bitterness toward him that I could no longer contain it.

I don't remember anything except barely being able to keep going. In January, I transferred to San Jose State College. A couple of weeks into the semester, I went to the student health services because of horrendous stomach pain. The doctor decided that I was depressed and called my mother. The next thing I knew, the police were hauling me off to Agnews State Hospital.

All I had wanted to do was serve Jesus. Now I was being transported to a state mental institution.

(To be continued. ...)