The Lost & Found by Randi Bayne

** This content references self-harm and suicide. Reader discretion is advised.

This transparency is for my dear friend Payton and to whomever she wishes to share it with, otherwise I couldn’t imagine exposing myself so willingly…

The Lost & Found by Randi Bayne

It would be insufficient to say I just woke up one morning and decided, “I want to die today.” It could never be that simple. Four years have gone by and I still don’t know how to talk about it. I am afraid you won’t be able to understand, but I have decided that’s okay because honestly, I’m not sure I understand either. And whatever I think I have figured out, still the lingering question inside my head remains, why does God save some and not others? Much more to my confusion, why me? Though strange to say, and I am sure even stranger to hear, my attempt at suicide turned out to be the best thing I ever did. If it weren’t for my desperation, I would know nothing about the vitality of hope.

 My pain ran deep, springing up from when I was a child. Seven, to be exact. I would like to think I was happy once. As happy as a little girl could be with her father as her best friend. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. He never got mad at me for being a kid. I used to follow him around like a dog chasing a scent. I got grand amusement out of doing things like clinging to his legs wherever he went, knowing he would continue to walk as if to say, “You can come too, little one”.

One day when he was napping before work, I was painting his eyelids with hot pink nail polish and his alarm rang. Busted. He tickled the life out of me to the point where I was gasping for air. A simple “Gotta go, love bug,” and he was out the door. Didn’t even check his appearance. My dad is so silly, I thought, and I never loved him more than I did that day. I wish I had the chance to tell him.

That chance never came. Much like most days that he went to work, I anticipated my dad’s arrival back at the house. He did make it home, and no sooner that he came through the door with me shouting “Daddy’s home!” did my mom grab this thick glass vase, which I assumed was just for decoration, and start beating him with it over the head. It was in that moment that I recognized my perfect family for what it truly was- an illusion.

My screams horrified me, screams I never knew existed, as I was begging my mom, “Stop! He didn‘t do anything!”

“This has nothing to do with you,” she said, as if it would somehow lighten my panic.

“You’re gonna kill him!” I thought out loud.

 He looked at me with peace in his gaze, though covered in blood, and I barely heard him say, “Close your eyes, love bug.” But I couldn’t. I was frozen in fear. It took every bit of strength in me, possibly more than I could have afforded to lose, to break through my paralysis and grab the phone. Little did I know, the following words would haunt me well into my adulthood.

 “911. What’s your..,” a stranger began to say.

 I rudely interrupted to say, “Help me! My mom is trying to kill my dad!”

My eyes felt empty and broken as I watched the ambulance take my father away. I do not know what happened to him after that, for I would not see him again until a decade has passed. Ten years was an awfully long time to hate my mom and blame her for my dad’s absence in my life.

My mom never wanted to talk about my dad, to me or to anyone else. My heart was worn out from aching, longing to know all that I did not know. Plagued by daddy issues, I ran away from home at seventeen–hell bent on finding the one I loved.

I never would find him. Instead, the man I found imposing as my dad was a drug-obsessed alcoholic who did not know me any more than I knew him. All that time dreaming of a ‘could be’ that never would be, I felt much like my life was a waste.

I could not get over my underlying broken heart. It became a parasite to my soul and had me convinced that everything was my fault and I was better off dead. There was no one to tell me otherwise and I truly believed this. I have these big ole eyes that looks at everything so deeply, yet when it came to life, I could not see the point. We hide how we feel, fake a smile, and ‘keep on keeping on’. And for what? I wondered… where was God when I needed Him?

Well if you go a thousand miles into the woods, it is a thousand miles back out and I had more than lost my way. So of course, I did what most cowards do, I ran. Again. This time I took off to St. Simon’s Island where I imagined I could be free. This ended up being a terrible mistake because I was not there long before I realized that my idea of peace was abnormally morbid. I had underestimated my depression. I say this because instead of perceiving the sunrise over the ocean in wonder, I declared that this was the perfect place to die and nobody would know. All it took was a blow of the wind for conviction to settle in my heart and without a doubt, I knew I was ready. I was so ready.

            Motivated to achieve the only goal I ever had, I found myself at home in the medicine isle of the local grocery store. Here I was with a problem, and before me was a solution. A large bottle of ibuprofen with a matching bottle of allergy pills never looked so attractive. I figured a Starbucks cold brew would be nice to wash them down. Cheap tactic, I know, but the bold writing on the allergy medicine that said ‘DO NOT MIX WITH IBUPROFEN’ assured me that it would be effective.

“Allergic to headaches?” joked the cashier.

 “I’m hoping so,” I said while trying to avoid eye contact.

The drive home was quite the blur. My intentions had led me straight to my bathroom floor with supplies in hand. Somewhere along the way I added a box cutter to my inventory. I blinked and next thing I know I am staring at a pool of blood, my body stinging from abuse. I let go of the empty bottles as if they meant nothing to me. And nobody even knows.

 Whatever strength I had left was converted into what I thought would be the last cry I ever cried. Tears beyond numbers fell hard as I was struggling with my goodbyes. Goodbye mom, goodbye dad. I hope you can hear me. Goodbye, grandma. I have always loved you. Goodbye Charlene, Alison, and Robbie. Remember your sister. My eyes are now too heavy to hold up and my slumber tastes sweet as I note, I am fading away.

    My eyes open elsewhere as if they were an entity of their own. I can see myself from afar. Everything is dark, except me. I am light. I am covered in tally marks of frustration and I remembered: I did this to myself. Around me are swarming shadowy figures, muttering obvious curses. I cannot hear them, but I know she does, because she is frightened. She is stumbling backwards, and whatever they are wanting, she insists “no”. I felt compelled to tell her– to tell myself– “Do not listen to them”, but it appears I had lost my voice. I had only my eyes.

            The dark morphed into fascinating, vibrant colors beyond anything you could ever imagine. My attention was stolen by a man cradling me in His arms as we travel through an endless field of green. I was following Him with my eyes from behind. He was naked, though I vaguely recall sensing it. Instead, I recognized that He was perfect. I cannot see my face, but I know it is me because I recognized my wounds. Yet, they were vanishing right before my eyes. They were healing. We came to the break, where land meets sea, and He lifted me up as to surrender me to the heavens.

“Will you take her?” my comforter asked His counsel.

“Not yet,” said the sky.

Like a mother laying her newborn to sleep, He placed me down gently by the water. He was walking away, though not to abandon me. Rather, I am certain that I will see Him again.

My perception rocketed into the scene of a parking lot. This time I was not around, but I see my dad. I gather he was at work. He is on his knees, praying to a God he does not believe in, pleading for my life. I had never seen him cry before, but I felt comforted to know that God does hear him. Time’s up.

Now I see my mother. She was driving alone and trying what I suppose was her best to stay on the road, as it was pouring rain–both outside and from her eyes. She turned the radio up so I can hear it, too. She knows how much I love music. Rob Thomas’ “Hold on Forever” is playing, which undid her completely. She pulls over to breathe, and I wish I could tell her “I forgive you”.                 

Reality hit me hard when I awoke in the ICU, surrounded by everyone I had ever loved. What felt like a brief moment of clarity was actually me being comatose for twenty-eight days.  The doctors were dumbfounded to not find a single trace of the brain damage they swore I would have. I already knew I had been more than healed.

That month of outward stillness served as an inward revival that ‘changed my mind’ about life. It brings me to my knees to know the undying love of God that chased me down in my darkest valley. The love that saved me, in spite of me. We were never meant to be in love with this world, and our lives are not our own. Sometimes you just need another chance to make it count.

Having known Randi for 15 years and counting, I can testify to the real and radical rescue God extended her. Randi has successfully overcome struggles with addiction and despair, and I’ve had the privilege of witnessing these metamorphoses– someone who barely knew or cared a thing about God fall passionately in love with Him. She is now 3 years sober! In response to God’s unending love and pursuit of her, Randi graciously seeks to share her story with full authenticity to inspire others’ hope in God, knowing firsthand that no one is truly “too far gone.”

Randi’s writing that I have shared was chosen by her professor to be published in the Spring 2022 issue of the Adriot Creative Arts Journal of ABAC at Bainbridge. My prayer is that someone out there will find hope through her story. Romans 15:13 ~ May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.

–Payton

More About Randi’s Story…

~To those unfamiliar with me, 

I am a girl named Randi. This transparency is for my dear friend Payton and to whomever she wishes to share it with, otherwise I couldn’t imagine exposing myself so willingly. So here’s what I have to lay bare. 

I am working on my 30th birthday, and this story was written as an assignment given me in college- a memoir. The culmination of this memory took place in the summer of 2016. I cannot translate the level of fear that gripped me when proposed with this assignment because I knew this was what I had to write about. It’s the most potent memory I have despite having been in a coma. It’s when God interrupted my death! A large part of the details are in sum for sake of not overreaching the word count quota. There is in fact more to the story. 

For instance, my dad’s addiction was not lost on me. I do believe I had a genetic predisposition to become an addict myself. As it is, I’m named after him and I am the only one of my siblings who acquired this characteristic (thank God).

When I couldn’t speak for myself the dialogue became that this event was a drug overdose. It was fitting, and I guess more comfortable to believe than that I would intentionally try to take my own life. I can assure you it was purposeful and full of resolve. I also want to straighten your understanding by saying, my life did not miraculously become better just because I survived. I was not grateful nor happy to be alive although everyone suggested I should be. As a matter of fact, my depression became heavier as I struggled to hold up my end of the bargain- that I would never do this again.

In a vain way, I did keep my word. I say that because in the degree that I fed my addiction, it was clear my intent was still to rid this world of myself. Exactly a year after this attempt, I was in another coma as result of a drug overdose. I didn’t mean to, I’d want to say, but this time I was on a ventilator that prevented me from speaking these empty promises into existence. What saddened me the most is that God didn’t meet me in this sleep, or else I don’t recall. And why would He? I had squandered the hope He gave me and I felt sure it was lost. 

Something that wrecks me still to this day was my dad visiting me in the ICU, along with my grandmother. She’s crying, and he’s staring blankly. She asked him how could he look at me like this and he says, “I’ve seen it before. I’ll probably see it again”. 

I believe they mourned me while I was still alive. 

Ultimately, the ringer became rougher for me and my whole family for a few more years until I would get sober. But that’s the way it had to be. And how crazy is it to say I’m thankful for all of it? Every bit of it. I can’t say that I’d be any iota as close to my family today if it weren’t for all the pain we suffered. We absolutely suffered together. When I went to rehab in 2019 for maybe the 6th time (I never cared, so I never really counted), there were a few things that I knew. 

I didn’t have another chance. Not one more. My family were ready to wash their hands of me- it just hurt too much. And my absolute best friend, who always tried to help me, had died from this disease. There was no one coming to save me. 

I thought I was dead inside, and I wasn’t sure what I was fighting for. Turns out I was just completely broken and in the best place I could be for God to reach me. The place He needed me to be before I would ever accept His help to pull me out- the bottom. And He knows this about all of us. Whatever our bottom is, when all our resources run out; He’s there just waiting on us to choose Him. 

As I’m currently 3 years sober, I’ve finally found the certainty to say that I am so grateful for my life. To be alive today, and to have made it out of my past. And with a purpose! Because today I have a passion for advocating for those who want to give up on many different platforms. Those who

– come from broken homes 

– struggle with suicide

– are battling with addiction

– are lost and lonely

– have never known anyone to care

You are not alone. I am not alone. Our Father in heaven wants us all to come together. It’s how we experience love! I have this story for the sole purpose of sharing it with others. And I’m not sure that I have been for fear of not being enough. 

I’m done with that. I’m here for anyone in all ways. Please reach out & don’t give up on your loved ones. Hope is never lost! 

Love,

Randi Bayne