Whispers from the Abyss: A Near-Death Warning

Chenise Renee Thompson was 29 years old when her world shattered on November 3, 2023, in Atlanta, Georgia. For six long years, she had endured a marriage that slowly drained the life from her soul. Her husband, a respected deacon at their church, was the epitome of outward piety—quoting scripture flawlessly, leading prayers with closed eyes, and earning admiration from the congregation. But behind closed doors, he wielded those same verses like weapons, twisting Ephesians 5:22 to enforce silence and control. Submission, he insisted, meant surrender. He monitored her messages, dictated her friendships, and questioned every breath she took without his approval. Chenise felt herself shrinking, her spirit dying in the shadows of what she believed was God’s will.

She had tried to seek help. Desperate, she confided in Sister Patricia, the kind-eyed leader of the women’s ministry. In that lavender-scented office, Chenise poured out her heart: the manipulation, the isolation, the way her voice faded into nothingness. Sister Patricia listened, nodded, and offered words that crushed her further. “Suffering is part of being a godly wife,” she said. “Pray more, submit more. God is testing you. Marriage is a covenant—don’t break it.” Chenise obeyed, convincing herself that endurance was faith. She smiled through Sunday services, sang hymns while her spirit screamed, and ignored the hollow eyes staring back from the mirror. Deep down, she knew something was wrong, but fear—fear of judgment, of sin, of being alone—kept her chained.

That Wednesday night, after another argument where her husband’s words cut like knives, Chenise sat alone on the bathroom floor. The house was silent except for the echo of his car pulling away. She stared at the orange bottle of sleeping pills, prescribed for insomnia she couldn’t shake. “I just want the pain to stop,” she whispered, swallowing handfuls without counting. The room spun, her vision blurred, and she slumped against the tub, slipping into darkness. Her last thought was a plea for someone to finally see her.

But death wasn’t the end. Chenise’s spirit floated above her body, watching paramedics revive her collapsed form. Then came the pull—a relentless tug into suffocating heat and impenetrable darkness. She landed in a realm of eternal separation, where prayers bounced off invisible walls and hope evaporated. Voices groaned endlessly: “I should have left. I stayed too long. I thought I was doing the right thing.” Shadows moved in patterns of regret, souls trapped in isolation, replaying their choices. Chenise realized this wasn’t the fiery hell of sermons; it was worse—a solitary torment of disconnection from God.

A holy presence pierced the void, exposing her lies. “You thought staying was obedience,” it spoke into her soul. “It was fear, and fear kept you from me.” Chenise trembled, recognizing the truth. She hadn’t stayed for God; she’d stayed for approval, reputation, and terror of failure. The presence unveiled a vision: thousands of women, wedding rings glowing faintly on their fingers, trapped in the same darkness. They were godly women, misled by beliefs that suffering equaled holiness. One whispered, “He said he would change.” Another rocked silently, “I thought submission meant silence.” Another mourned, “I stayed for the children, but now they’re lost too.” Chenise’s heart broke—these were her sisters, destroyed by twisted teachings.

The vision deepened, revealing church leaders: pastors, elders, counselors like Sister Patricia, weeping in their own isolation. “I thought I was helping,” they repeated, bound by doctrines that prioritized tradition over truth, reputation over rescue. The presence thundered, “They led my daughters to slaughter and called it ministry.” Chenise saw marriages that appeared perfect—church-attending couples who prayed together—but were spiritually dead, partners eternally separated. Her own union replayed: the red flags ignored, the compromises that eroded her faith, the prayers silenced until she felt nothing from God.

Tears streamed as Chenise confronted her idolatry. She had worshipped her vows more than her Creator, sacrificing her spirit for fear. “I never told you to die for a man,” the presence grieved. “I died for you. Submission to me doesn’t mean destruction by him.” In that grief, Chenise felt God’s sorrow for her lost years, her silenced voice. She wasn’t damned for being evil; she was there for abandoning the one relationship that mattered. Without God, love became chains.

Suddenly, light shattered the darkness. A powerful hand gripped her spirit, pulling her back. “Your time isn’t finished,” the voice commanded. “Go back. Tell them I see. I have always seen.” Chenise surged upward, through realms unknown, until pain exploded in her chest. She gasped in a hospital bed at Grady Memorial, machines beeping, nurses shouting. Her husband hovered nearby, but she felt nothing for him—just a void.

Two months later, Chenise left. It wasn’t easy; whispers from her old church called her a failure, but she knew the truth: God hates abuse, not divorce. She found a new church where voices were heard, started therapy to heal religious trauma, and reconnected with family and friends. Slowly, she revived—praying again, dreaming again, living again.

Three months in, Chenise shared her story at a women’s group. Tears flowed as women recognized their own pain. Messages poured in: “This is me. I thought I was crazy.” She began counseling survivors, training pastors, and speaking publicly. Her testimony spread online, a raw video from her mother’s living room, warning women trapped in toxic marriages. “God doesn’t honor marriages that destroy His daughters,” she declared. “He doesn’t require you to die for a man. Silence isn’t strength; abuse isn’t discipline; control isn’t love.”

Chenise’s mission became clear: to awaken those smiling through suffering. If you’re hearing this, she urges, examine your heart. Are you living or surviving? Choose life. Choose God. For in the abyss, she learned that fear leads to hell, but truth sets you free.