An Extraordinary, True Story of Surviving Suicide, Defeating Depression and Demonic Oppression, and Discovering Real Joy
by Blue Tapp
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FIRST TWO CHAPTERS BELOW
The first two chapters…
I am determined not to fail this time.
I buy several boxes of sleeping pills and tediously cut each pill out of the blister packs with scissors until twenty little white pills lie in a grim heap on my kitchen table.
I don’t even sit and stare at them for a while first. There is no hesitation. No doubts. I want to end all of this. I grab them up in one big handful and gulp them all down with a glass of lukewarm water.
I have finally done the thing that will kill me. I feel no fear. There is only peace and relief. I have finally done it. All the years of tortuous planning, the failed attempts, the agonizing ever-present despair… this painful existence will all be over soon. My demon will no longer have a host. I lay down on my couch and drift off to haunted sleep and wait to die…
I wake hours later in the middle of the night. The walls and ceiling twist down and curve around me in curious angles. I watch them, fascinated by their strange oscillations.
I slowly become aware of voices urging me to “Wake up! Wake up!” I look around the room. Who is calling me?
Four immense beings stand in the middle of my living room staring down at me. Their heads almost touch the old cracked twelve foot ceiling. They are transparent, shimmering white, luminous, and beautiful with strong smooth masculine bodies and faces. Their long white robes gently sway back and forth at their feet. They have no wings but I know they are angels. The walls are faintly visible behind their translucent bodies. They remain completely still except for their soft flowing robes. Their stoic faces and eyes watch me in the dark room. I am mesmerized. I somehow know they are here to help me.
They insist, “Wake up! Wake up!” Their mouths do not move. They speak to me through some telepathic way directly into my mind. Their voices are whispered but strong, urgent.
For a long time I watch them, trying to understand. I am drugged and heavy from the pills. My thoughts are sluggish. Finally I grasp their words. I am too confused to act. I say outloud to them, “I don’t know what to do…”
Their commands become more specific… “Call for help. Call 911…”
At last I understand. Maybe I don’t really want to die after all.
I drag my body off of the couch and crawl across the floor to my phone. The angels keep urging, “Call for help! Call 911!” Their voices push me forward. They cut through the drugged fog and give me strength. “Call for help! Call 911!” and so I push the buttons on my old landline phone.
The operator picks up. “Hello what is your emergency?” I say something like “I tried to kill myself and I don’t want to die anymore.” Then my mind collapses into emptiness…
My next memory is of floating near the ceiling in a brightly lit corridor. People walk back and forth below me as I drift through the hallways. I am not in control. I only observe what is happening. Slowly I move through a crazy maze of bright hallways. Masses of people rush to and fro beneath me. No one notices me hovering above them.
I approach a doorway, descend to the ground and stand on the tile floor. Inside the doorway is a large fluorescent lit room and people seated in chairs. I recognize later that I am in a hospital, looking into a waiting room. Right now I have no idea where I am or what is happening to me. I feel no fear, only calm curiosity.
I walk into the room toward a woman sitting in a chair holding a baby. She is young with long dark hair. Her baby is tiny, a few weeks old. I walk toward her and she looks up at me. I am shocked that she sees me. I stop directly in front of her and feel myself smiling at her. She looks back up at me, surprised. I reach down and she lets me take her baby and hold it in my arms. I gaze into the baby’s sweet face and bend forward to kiss his cheek. The tiny child sleeps in my arms. I smile at the woman and gently hand the baby back to her. She stares at me, her forehead creased in confusion.
The room shakes. The woman, her baby, the floor and chairs, instantly disappear. I am hurled backwards as if a giant invisible fist has struck my chest.
In a single moment I rush back through the same maze of hallways I had slowly traversed earlier. People flash below me faster and faster until they become blurry smears of color.
I stop abruptly in a large bright room, hovering for a few seconds by the ceiling. Below me lies my own physical body on a table. Medics lean over my body.
There is a third explosion and I blast back into my body. A sharp pain slices through my face and head and my back arches up from the table. A long gutteral moan reverberates through the antiseptic air. It is my own voice.
Then everything is black.
DECEMBER 2019. JESUS.
The sky is a tempest. Black, purple and blood red clouds eddy in whirlpools of air and water above me. Lightning splits the sky, an enraged heavenly strobe. It stabs at me with light. Thunder shakes the ground, bellowing in my chest. The icy wind is insistent. A cacophony of shouting, cheering, booing from massive crowds of tattered people swells to painful volume behind me. I am assaulted with noise and violence. I am surrounded, disoriented.
Jesus hangs on a rough wooden cross above me. His body is mangled, gashed horribly, exposed muscles quiver in pain. Streams of blood drip down His body onto the ground in front of me. It is the most terrible sight I have ever seen.
Jesus looks at me. He recognizes me. He says nothing but His eyes pierce my soul. I am transfixed. For a moment the thundering skies and shouts fade into void. I am in a vast space where nothing exists except Christ and my soul. His gaze conveys so much. He knows me. In the midst of being tortured, hung and murdered, He knows me completely, everything about me, every tiny detail, every moment of every hour of my 52 years of life.
I cower in shame.
Underneath the wounded flesh I feel His embrace of impending death. He chooses this. He chooses to remain on that cross every second. He is completely God, completely aware, completely in control of His fate. He can come down from that cross at any moment, instantly end His pain. He chooses to stay there. For me.
I collapse to the ground in shock. I push my face down into the ground. It is foul, clods of hard dirt covered with blood, guts, feces, gruesome. And I am lying in it. The foul earth is nothing compared to the horror of Christ’s dying body hanging above me. I can’t breathe. My mouth opens in a silent scream of horror.
Mary and Teresa pull me to my feet; their hard fingers bruise my arms. I am a sobbing rag doll. They hold my right hand tightly and push it up to touch Jesus’ feet. I pull back but their grips are firm. They are stronger than me. They press my recoiling hand onto the top of His foot.
The instant my fingers touch His toes, electricity blasts into my soul. His love instantly overwhelms me and I willingly push my hand more firmly onto His foot. A hundred men couldn’t pull me away from him now. Mary and Teresa release me and step aside. As I gaze up at my beautiful dying Savior, my spirit screams out His name over and over, “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”
His torn body is too appalling to behold. I can no longer bear it. I beg Teresa, “I don’t want to see Him like this anymore! Please take me away from here!”
She smiles at me. The scene in front of me immediately transforms into the fiery glory of God that I have seen so often before. Its exquisite brilliance engulfs me. As I weep, a voice says, “I will wipe all the tears from your eyes,” and a hand softly caresses my face.
Then everything disappears and I am back in my physical room. As I pray, God instructs me to write everything down. This is my assignment, to write all of these visions down.