I walked down the middle school hallway feeling glares from every angle. The snickers and stares of my classmates confused me. Why do they hate me? Why do they laugh at me? I guess I’ll hate me,  too.

This time, the rumor was that I was gay. Someone had written a phony love letter to the most popular girl in the eighth grade and signed my name to it. Anger, bitterness and depression consumed me. I felt alone and hurt.

I was lied about, made fun of, and ridiculed for three years, and I wanted to die. I felt like no one understood me or even cared. I felt worthless and alone, and there seemed to be few reasons to live. I often thought about how killing myself would teach them a lesson.

One night, I came to a breaking point. I wept into my pillow to a God I had been angry with. I desperately needed the God who my parents and teachers had told me about – a God who cared about and understood me. I told Him that I believed in Him and that I would serve Him.

Freedom is the best word I can use to describe my life since that moment. I gave Him my tortured mind, and He freed me.

I later learned who had forged the letter to the eighth-grader. I hugged the girl instead of hating her. The bitterness and anger that had once consumed me no longer had control. Passion consumed me instead. Ten years later, my passion for Him is even more intense. And the God who freed me continues to prove Himself faithful.