The Beginning of My Addiction

I was probably 8 years old the first time I saw pornography. This wasn’t just pictures of nude women in Playboy, but the real deal. It belonged to a relative and one of my cousins found the stash and showed it to me. It was frightening and made me feel sick to my stomach.

Fast-forward to 6th grade. I was only 10 years old in the 6th grade. My classmates snuck Playboy mags into the locker room. Guys would huddle around and look as one boy flipped pages. It would last for all of 5 minutes, no harm done right?

A couple years later I worked at a horse ranch at the age of 12. My boss always treated me like an adult. He let me drive his car. He gave me big responsibilities. He left stacks of porn on his doorstep.

Over the years porn would not be something that I would search for, but something that would pretty much be dropped into my lap, however, my addiction to it didn’t really begin until I was about 24. By this time I was no longer living at home or too busy with college and friends. I had settled into a job. I had an apartment by myself and I had access to the internet as well as years of insecurity and repressed desire. As a christian I knew online pornography was wrong, but hey, at least I wasn’t having sex right?

That’s what you do with porn as a christian – you rationalize and justify the sin down until it almost becomes a good thing. It is the lesser of two evils. For married men they probably tell themselves “Well, at least I’m not cheating”. There is always a reason, a justification and now it has become mainstream. When I was a kid people were ashamed to admit to masturbating. Not so anymore. Movies like “Hall Pass” talk about taking mental pictures and storing them in a “Spank Bank”. Magazines for men and women often discuss the best sites for free porn and even tips on masturbation. In an article I read in Details magazine it stated that 1 in 4 had herpes and while the article made it sound like it was a pretty horrific sexually transmitted disease, that in reality the question was not if you’d get it, but when. Porn, Sex, Masturbation STD’s – they are all no big deal… at least that is the lie we’ve been sold.

There is this constant message in our media that seems to suggest that everyone is having sex and that if you aren’t, something is wrong with you. We use sex to sell everything from cheeseburgers to shampoo and there seems to be very little understanding of romance or real intimacy. Instead the guy that shows any sort of sensitivity or romantic feelings for his wife or girlfriend is considered “whipped” – not chivalrous or masculine.

For me I justified my online pornography use even further because I wasn’t looking at “airbrushed perfection” but instead real people. I liked to go into chat rooms. I thought that there was little harm in this despite the intense shame I felt for hiding this dirty secret and even going online to seek out that type of gratification.

This issue plagued me for years. No one really tells you the consequences of porn or that it is addictive like a drug and that it wreaks havoc on your relationships and your mental health. While as kids we are often told not to do something, we aren’t always educated on the real reason as to why not. The simple answer? Because it is freaking dangerous. Online porn will MESS. YOU. UP. Don’t believe me? Read this article. Kids are becoming registered sex offenders at the age of 13 and even younger. There is an epidemic of children under the age of 17 becoming addicted to viewing online porn.

So what do we do? For starters you need to educate your children – boys and girls – at an early age. Make them aware of the dangers and let them know that it is not right and that it is like a drug. The aforementioned article says this:

‘Our research at the clinic has found that although the internet doesn’t create these problems, it can release interests which would never have surfaced otherwise.’

Meaning that when people of any age are exposed to something like meth, cocaine, heroine, pornography – we don’t know what issues and interests will surface. Will everyone that views online porn have an overwhelming addiction or want to rape and maim? No. But there are some that will.

What do you do if you are already addicted to online porn? GET HELP.

I remember going to a friend and telling him “I’m addicted. I’m almost manic with desire and temptation. I’m going to really mess up.” I had even planned an anonymous rendezvous in a hotel that I never followed through with it – less out of heart conviction and more out of a fear of STD’s. Fortunately my friend told me to go and see a counselor and so I did.

How did I overcome my addiction? 

I think that for me I have to remain extremely humble in this area. As someone who was literally shattered by this sin and failed so many times I truly started to believe that it was something that was impossible to give up. I sort of loved my addiction. It was something that I craved when things got tough. Upset because I didn’t get a job? Look at porn. Just got dumped by a girl? Look at porn. Parental problems? Porn. For me porn was always my answer. It was my drug of choice followed closely by food and spending money.

Jesus is the Answer?

For me Jesus was never the answer to my problems, instead I liked to think that he was the cause. I blamed God for so many things in my life (Being Fat, Losing my Hair, Not being born rich, My skin color, Not being cool enough or smart enough…) and while I preached to others about loving Christ and trusting in him, in my own heart this wasn’t the case. I had all these ill feelings and resentments in my life and I was unwilling to truly trust God to provide for me in the areas that I was coming up short – and in case you haven’t noticed from this article I was coming up short in just about every possible area.

Finally after literally years of trying to fix this problem on my own I got help from a counselor and then later a group of guys that kept me accountable. Yeah, I’d had accountability partners in the past but I mostly just lied to them, but this time it was different. This group of guys were quality with a a capital Q. Solid men who were grounded in truth and were willing to actually listen and care. Through them I found the intimacy in my Christian faith that I had been missing for most of my Christian life. God used these guys to show me that Jesus truly was the answer to my problems, I just wasn’t willing to to let go long enough for him to step in and clean up the mess.

It Wasn’t Easy

So how did I overcome this issue? First of all I had to confess my gross past to these dudes and ask for prayer. Then I had to admit to them when I messed up. I lied a few times at the beginning, but they loved me and were so sincere that eventually I came clean 100%. I let them know when I stumbled and over time the allure of online pornography became less and less – but, the desire to masturbate, the biological need was and is still there. I’ll admit it. I’m a dude. We like sex. Duh. But is there a way to just stop masturbating and to forever go this primal urge? To that I have to say I have no idea. What I do know is that I don’t spend 10 hours a month viewing online porn and masturbating every other day. Over time I realized that my desire to self-gratify came more from the desire to escape from how I was feeling and less about sex. I find that when I have a healthy relationship with the Lord as well as my finances, diet and relationships that there isn’t a great need to compulsively masturbate.

Pressing On

Being a single man of integrity is not easy, but being a single man who is addicted to internet porn isn’t so great either. Eventually my desire to escape from reality to internet porn diminished entirely. This I believe is a sweet, sweet gift that I received from the Holy Spirit and is something I never want to take credit for or take for granted. Like a serial dieter I had become a serial quitter when it came to pornography and each time I gave back in to my temptation it was pure bliss… and then suddenly it wasn’t. It was strange really. I went from being constantly plagued with these desires to suddenly having this feeling of “What are you doing? You aren’t even enjoying this…” Something in me literally clicked. Like a key turning in the lock to release my chains. For the first time I truly felt free. Now in the past I have had these little breakthroughs where I feel like I’ve overcome a big addiction. I’ve lost 20-30 pounds on a diet and vowed never to return to Dr. Pepper only to give in 30, 60, or even 90 days down the road. Normally during these periods of “Break Through” I would still have a craving but I would have willpower or this great feeling of pride in my self and what I had accomplished. My Facebook status would tout my abstinence or achievement and I’d feel good about myself for my amazing willpower. That wasn’t the case this time. For me I had a Romans 12:2 moment where I literally understood first-hand what it meant to no longer be conformed to this world but to be transformed by the renewing of your mind. I understood the verse in John 8:32 about the truth and how it will set you free and finally I had a new confidence, not in myself, but in Christ and the work of the Holy Spirit and how Paul said in Philippians 1:6 that he who began a good work in me would carry it out until completion. I’m still being worked on. I’m a big fat work in progress, but now I’ve truly decided to take the easy way out and the easy way is trusting in Jesus. Before everyone told me “Oh, that’s the easy way out” when it came to porn, but in reality porn carries a heavy price with it. It traps your mind and warps your thinking. It holds you in bondage so tightly that eventually the sick strain becomes comfortable and you no longer hunger and thirst for the things that will satisfy you, but instead you have an insatiable appetite for something that is destroying you.

Continued Growth

For me the next steps are to continue in deep prayer and connection to the Holy Spirit. I have to constantly guard my eyes and resist even minuscule temptations. In the past I allowed my mind to wander and even invited mental images that would arouse and even justify them as being “not that big of a deal”. Now I know different.  2 Corinthians says “⁵ We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.” I love that word “Demolish”. I love the idea of obliterating evil thoughts that come into my mind. The same thoughts that would have me believe that this world and all it’s shiny trappings can somehow take the place of Jesus Christ in my life. Those thoughts that I once welcome with open arms I know want to punch in the face. “LIES!” I want to shout in the face of temptation.

Now each day I live with gratitude that my eyes have been opened to see the path of destruction that I was headed down. I am so thankful every day to the 5 men in my accountability group that have walked this final leg of my looong journey through recovery and continue to walk by my side each day in prayer and support.

Finally, I pray that you are not where I was – standing on a precipice waiting for the inevitable fall – and if you are slipping, I hope that you have someone in your life that is reaching out a hand of hope and salvation and if you don’t have that, then please shout for help.

Other Resources and Articles that I Found Helpful

How Jesus Overcame my Porn Addiction

There’s no Such Thing as Free Porn

I used Eddie Traughber as a counselor for a year, he was the first step in my recovery process.

Download or Read online Porn-Again Christian

Feel free to contact me directly if you need to talk or want some help.

I don’t mind the children being there early or late for that matter. I only have to get to see them for a couple of hours a week and it’s those last or first few minutes that can be quite enlightening. For instance, one of my only black students once said to me, “My parents are at the black church this morning, Morse St. Baptist, so they may be running late, you know how black churches are.” He said, holding up his hand and then saying, “No offense.” I wasn’t sure why I would be offended except that maybe my brown skin color is often deemed “questionable”. When I had hair that was mostly straight and black, I was rarely confused as an African American, but over the years my hair has deserted me, like so many of my friends, and the ones I have left I hold onto dearly, never realizing how much I cared until they were gone. Now that I’m larger and bald, I’m often mistaken as African American, but I can assure, offense for the misinterpretation of my race, is never taken.

This morning one of my particularly challenging students was standing next to me. This is a rarity as normally he is kicking balls as hard as he can at the ceiling or walls. I think his sole purpose there is to see if he can maim himself or another student but make it look like an accident. He loves to find a rolling chair and then push it as fast as he can toward the stairs and then jump in it. I think God has sent an angel to stop the chair right before it hurtles down the stairs with the student in it – but sometimes I secretly wish it would happen just so I could say, “I told you so.” But he never falls and I don’t get my wish.

And speaking of “I told you so’s”… I love them. It makes us feel superior and there is nothing like being right that makes me feel more superior than someone else. Then there’s that feeling that they received the punishment that they deserved because they hadn’t listened to you. So maybe you lost a hand, big deal, how you feel at that moment doesn’t matter, your pain is inconsequential what matters is, “I told you so.”

We smile at ourselves because we had foreseen the danger like a prophet or a psychic with a crystal ball. We pat ourselves on the back with pride and we gloat as we share the story with our friends, “Did you see Sally? Yeah, I kept telling her to stay away from the poison ivy, but she just wouldn’t listen. Now she’s practically disfigured by it, but I told her so.” We say, tisking our tongue and shaking our head with false sympathy.

So back to the student, we’ll call him Billy, was just standing next to me when another student said, “Hey, you guys are twins!” It was an obvious joke since Billy has the physical make up of slightly cooked spaghetti. He’s all arms and legs and when he moves he appears to be about to fall over at any moment – like Gumby, but thinner.

Billy looked up at me, his face contorting with terror as he stared at my head. “I am not that… FAT!” The word jutted out of his mouth less like an insult and more a statement of fact – however, it still stung like an insult as I was expecting the word: tall, bald, brown, big – I was not expecting FAT in all caps with an exclamation attached.

I’ve become accustomed to being called names. I don’t even mind the occasional insult to keep me humble, but the three students nearby made audible gasps of shock and dismay. “WHAT! Oh my word.” It was clear that even at 11 years old they knew it was impolite if not down-right rude to call someone fat. I would say that in America, despite that fact that the majority of us are over-weight, fat is quite possibly one of the most cruel insults, more hurtful than say being called retarded or ugly, neither of which is not a consequence of gluttony and ugly is really a matter personal opinion.

Billy’s parents pulled up and waved, I stuck my hand up and waved back as if I were on a parade float. Their was no real emotion in my hand because for a moment I was still on “pause”. That’s what happens sometimes when you are insulted. Your brain doesn’t know how to react, especially when you are at church, surrounded by others and in reality, the statement was true – I am indeed fat. Not rotund or obese. There will not be a need for a crane to lift me into my casket when I die, but yes, I am indeed FAT. I guess the only insulting part of his statement was the exclamation mark on the end of FAT! and since he is only 11 and being home-schooled, I’ll assume that his parents haven’t yet taught him manners or grammar yet and let it slide.

But I’m not complaining. The best part about being somewhat self-employed is setting your own hours and being your own boss. The problem is, I’ve never been good at telling people what to do, much less myself and so how I’ve managed to pay bills on time and continue a comfortable standard of living has been beyond me.

I guess I am quite blessed. God, despite my incessant sinfulness, has for some reason continued to shower me with favor. I will be on the verge of being homeless and then suddenly I have so much money that I’m giving it away.

But this year has to have been by far the loneliest. When I was in Plano, not living near my friends and family, then feeling alone was to be expected. But now I am surrounded by people that love me, just doors away, but they can’t be with me continually and if they could I probably wouldn’t want that. Instead, I selfishly wish that they could be around to entertain at my beckon call and then vamoose when I’ve had my fill.

Being alone is like being hungry, no matter how much you stuff yourself, you will one day be hungry again.

So yesterday was Christmas Eve and I think it is the first time I’ve ever spent it in solitude. I picked up some barbecue and feasted in front of the television watching reruns of 30 Rock and channel surfing. To lift my spirits I download “Hard Candy Christmas” from Dolly Parton and listened to it on repeat while texting friends and living vicariously through Facebook.

The worst part is that although I don’t want to be alone, I don’t exactly want to be with people either. Being with people means I have to be happy and talking and making polite conversation. If I went to a Christmas Eve Candlelight service I’d be forced to put on some ill-fitting jeans that cut off my circulation from the waist down and stretch a plaid shirt over my large frame like saran wrap over the remains of a turkey.

Once inside the church I’d sing Christmas carols and hope that we could stand all night knowing that sitting down would might snap me in two or pinch me in half – either way, I do not like the idea of being separated from my legs or private parts for that matter and it always frightens me when I see someone in a wheelchair without the aforementioned anatomy.

Standing alongside my family I feel the eyes of my friends staring at me. I imagine them thinking, “Why is Eddie still single?” their lips moving and singing, but no real thought given to the words being sung.  “If he’d lose some weight he could find a nice girl.” Then they look with pride at their own brood as if by somehow having found love and having a handful of kids somehow made them… whole.

When the singing is all done and the food is all eaten and the gifts are unwrapped, I come back home to my apartment, sit in front of my television, pick up my MacBook and start working to drown out the fact that my life is at times, frighteningly pathetic.

I’d like to stop a moment and say that I’m not wallowing in self-pity or despair, just rather making a quick summation of my life. While I get to work with students and do ministry, I have no one to really share my success or joy. My life is not truly challenging because I don’t have someone that sees me for who I really am and then pushes me beyond what I am capable. For the first time in my life I know why God created Eve. While God himself was enough for Adam, he understood that as humans we have a need for someone who is on our own level that further clarifies who God truly is, then he took that one step further with children.

Hey, maybe I’ll dye my hair
Maybe I’ll move somewhere
Maybe I’ll get a car
Maybe I’ll drive so far
They’ll all lose track
Me, I’ll bounce right back

Maybe I’ll sleep real late
Maybe I’ll lose some weight
Maybe I’ll clear my junk
Maybe I’ll just get drunk on apple wine
Me, I’ll be just

Fine and Dandy
Lord it’s like a hard candy Christmas
I’m barely getting through tomorrow
But still I won’t let
Sorrow bring me way down…

I want things to happen on my schedule.

I don’t want to be patiently waiting on the Lord when I know that he has everything under control.

I’d like to be a big whiney baby… but I’ve learned that gets you no where and in the end you only feel foolish for not trusting in the Lord. But knowing what’s right doesn’t make it any easier to do. Knowing what’s right doesn’t make me any less impatient.

The crazy thing is my house is nice and I know when I leave I’ll be a little bit sad to lose such a great home, but I’ll be so glad to be free of that burden. I think possessions become so cumbersome that I rarely find myself wanting anything new these days – which might be one of the many positives that come out of this whole experience.

So yeah, 55 days and 29 showings…

I remember my own college graduation as being anti-climactic. After 7 years of hard work and graduating without any student loans I felt as though there should have been a greater feeling of completion. We went to Good Eats after graduation and that was it.

My sister’s graduation was a little better. There were two parties planned leading up to her graduation and relatives came into town from Oklahoma to help celebrate.

When we walked into the auditorium my real dad was there standing by the aisle in a nice suit and tie. I was expecting to see him there, but I never really know exactly what to say when I am around him. He’s like a second cousin twice removed that looks like an older, shorter, rounder version of me.

I give him a hug and then move to the far end of the row to get me a seat. My step-dad sat in the row in front of me and we laughed and joked and talked and it seemed odd that after so many years that we are desperately close. We laugh at each others jokes and we have fun together, real fun like I have when I am with my buddies.

I looked down the long row and saw my real dad sitting down there next to some of my sister’s friends. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what to say.

The day before I had seen my real dad at a graduation luncheon. Once again I was at one end of a 35 person table and he was at the other. I was infinitely aware of the distance that separated us both literally and figuratively.

I distracted myself with conversation with my step-dad and a friend of the family Eliana. Eliana has a 1 year old boy who is beautiful and sweet. I held him tightly and pressed his cheeks against mine as he stood on my leg. His warm chubbiness felt like a small piece of forever was sitting their in my grasp and I never wanted to let him go.

I saw my real dad looking at me while I was holding Elijah. I wondered what he thought. I wondered if he had ever held me like this. If my cheeks had pressed to his and if so,  had he felt that feeling that I was feeling at that moment? If he had, how could he have ever let me go?

“Billy, what do you think the answer is?” She smiled sweetly and I could almost feel the sick pleasure she got in torturing me. “Does anyone else want to answer?” Each word from her lips was like a bamboo shoot under my fingernails, another volt of electricity through my brain.

“Cindy, that’s right!” She exclaimed and heaped on the praise. I continued to imagine that she was hoping for me to explode. I didn’t understand why she just wouldn’t call on ME!

I finally broke down right there in class. It was too much. I started crying. At first it was merely a trickle but then as the full reality of what was happening to me I started to guffaw and gasp with spasmodic shudders.

My feelings were like a large balloon constantly filled to the breaking point. Each time Mrs. Tatangelo called on another student it was like she was jabbing a needle into that balloon. Every poke was taken personally. Every word was scrutinized, weighed, measured, judged and the final verdict was that everyone in the class was against me and this particular day it just happened to be my birthday.

That was second grade. I was only 6. I’d started school early, skipped kindergarden and was right there smack dab in the middle of kids a year and sometimes two years older than me. If I had a superpower back then it would have been the ability to “Feel” things on an extreme level. I was constantly aware of everyone and how they treated me. I was super sensitive. I took detailed mental lists of every betrayal, every slight and I remembered it whether I wanted to or not.

This has been my blessing and my curse my whole life. My inability to shut off my feelings or being overly sensitive to things. On some levels it helps me be the kind-hearted person I am, but on another level it leaves me blubbering over the slightest inconsideration or cruelty. When people don’t show up for my events, I take it personal. When people don’t like my ideas, I can get volatile.

I’m better now that I’m older and I understand myself more, but I’m still not 100% happy with how I respond to things and people who are out of my control. With every strength there seems to be a great weakness.

It’s been 27 years since my teacher didn’t call on me in second grade but I can still remember those feelings I had as if they were this morning. If I took my heart out of my chest and examined it I am sure it would mostly be a large pile of scar tissue, but I don’t mind so much, scars are what remain after a wound heals and those scars are what make me me stronger.

However, I have to remind myself constantly that my life isn’t always about me getting exactly what I want and doing everything that I want to do. Ugh, if only…  So I’m bowling along with my sisters and actually having a good time with only a mild amount of effort. My dad isn’t playing but watching and I go over to talk to him and he starts telling me how to bowl better. 

Firstly, I didn’t really care how well I did, I was just there for my family, but I listened to him because he was taking the time to share something with me. I was actually delighted that he was there watching me and even more delighted that he was telling me how to correct my throw. 

I’ve been reading these Wilbur Smith books and there are always these amazing Father/Son relationships where the dad takes time to teach his sons how to build or hunt or fight. I envy those people in the books because my dad and I didn’t have that kind of relationship when I was a kid. When he taught me how to do something it was usually how to mow or weed eat and I didn’t want to learn how to do either. 

But now I’m older and my dad and I have a much better relationship and so instead of telling him that I didn’t care about how well I did, I sat and listened with rapt attention. Afterwards I implemented some of his suggestions and it wasn’t long before I was bowling strikes and dad was giving me the thumbs up. 

I was proud of myself not for getting the strikes but for being mature and listening and realizing, finally, after 32 years that my dad’s way of showing his love is teaching and I allowed him to love me by listening. 

My dad is 73 years old and will be 74 in November. He won’t be around forever and so I’m not going to act like he is. I’ve spent a good portion of my life lamenting my past, but I won’t let it destroy my future…

Valerie’s white Chevy truck was parked in the middle of the gravel road and you could see the creek on both sides. My sisters and I watched in amazement, first the fight and then the adult/juvenile confrontation. We rarely heard cussing and this was the first time I had ever heard insults directed with such venom, creativity and alliteration. I was mesmerized mostly because Greg was only 1 year older than me and at 9 years of age I had never seen a child defy an adult both physcially and verbally.

Greg slapped at Valerie but she was a very large woman and his attempts to inflict pain were as futile as bee stinging a rock.  Eventually Greg calmed down once he realized that this wasn’t a battle he was going to win. He got on his bike and rode up the hill towards his own house and Bobby road off in the opposite direction to his house. Valerie got in her car following slowly behind Greg. The rest of us kids stood around talking wildly about the incident, gasping as we recalled the language and Greg’s passionate antics.

Corrida Lane was long gravel road that started at a bend in the road at the bottom of a hill. The decline continued toward the creek which is where we lived and eventually turned into a dead end near the Delgado’s, a Mexican family of 7 or 8.  Across the street from our house there was a small trailer and our friends Ricky and Kelly lived there. The land was cheap in this area, you could get two acres for a payment of only 90 dollars a month and there weren’t any restrictions as to how you lived on your piece of America – which was evident by the appearance of the homes and the junk that surrounded them.

The Delgado’s lived in a mobile home that eventually got reposessed and so they built a one bedroom shack that housed all 8 of them, but right across the street was Bobby’s house and it was a nice two story custom home that made all of the other homes on the street look like crack houses.

Life on Corrida was simple and ucomplicated. We made friends with everyone, event the foul-mouthed Greg. Eventually Greg and I became “best” friends which meant that during the summer we hung out with each other, but during the school year he tried to avoid me most of the time because I was a Christian.

This little fact has made my life miserable, but not as much as it has made it happy…

We became Christian’s at the age of 5, 6, and 7. My parents followed suit soon thereafter. We were one of those families that did everything the Bible said to do and my parents, whose lives before had been a series of mini-hell’s, suddenly found purpose and meaning in their chaotic lives. It was like a new drug, a delicious, sweet cure-all that they couldn’t get enough of.

Being a Christian wasn’t easy. It meant giving up almost all music, going to church every Sunday and at one point it meant giving up our Christmas tree and even our television. My parents listened to Talk Back with Bob Larson and our church, Word of Faith, had a pastor that believed in miracles and demons and the rapture.

This was my world. Jesus was the center of my universe and every single action that I did was checked with the thought, “Is this wrong?”

I had been led to believe at an early age that if you committed a sin and hadn’t repented before you died or Jesus returned then you would go to hell. God was looking for a church that was white as snow and spot and blemish free.

At night I would pray for forgiveness when I laid my head on my pillow. Every single lie or bad thought that I could remember I would confess and repent hoping that God would see my heart and my fear.

That is what early Christianity was for me, a series of rules and a boat load of fear. I’ve never heard Jonathan Edwards’ sermon, “Sinner’s in the hands of an angry God”, I didn’t need to, I understood full well his wrath and I knew that ever day I was teetering on the brink of hell and damnation.

Talk Back with Bob Larson was a radio program where Bob Larson would talk on the radio to people who were involved in Satanic cults. There were some people that would call in and claim to be demon possessed and sometimes crazy things would happen where their would be crazy voices or dead silence and we’d all be in the car listening and terrified.

One caller called in and said that there was a green eye on her bedroom wall and she felt like it was a demon watching her at night. Another woman called in and retold a story of hour her parents were devil worhsippers and how they killed people and ate their flesh raw. They would sacrifice people and then throw their bodies into a pit. If she didn’t do what she was supposed to she would be thrown into the pit with the dead and decaying bodies, sometimes for days at a time.

Others called in with various stories and soon I started to believe that there were demons in our house and eventually there were.

There is a song by Gavin DeGraw called “Belief” and in it there is a line that says, “Belief makes things real.” When I was younger I didn’t understand the power of belief, but I do now. I truly believe that there are powers of good and evil in this world and that if you toy with darkness, if you feed on supernatural things, then you open a door to them and allow them a modicum of control around you.

While living in The Colony, TX we were new Christians and we listened to Bob Larson and other preachers talk of demons and we allowed ourselves to be consumed with the possibility that there was a demon in our house and it wasn’t long before we started seeing manifestations of something. The occasional and unexplained slammed door, lights going off and on, dogs barking at imaginery things – it was very real at the time and very frightening.

Over the years that fear stayed with me. All of my life I have woke in the middle of the night sometimes sensing a presence and wondering if my room was filled with something demonic. I’ve rarely shared any of my fears because most people would think them absurd. They make fun of me when I tell them I don’t like scary movies and they say things like, “It isn’t real, it’s just a movie” but to me it is often very real. It is a horror that will live with me and visit at the most unsuspecting times, waking me at night and reminding me of the terror of my youth.

There is something about being alone in the dark in the middle of the night when you awake from a particularly vivid dream. The images will stay with you, your heart will race and you are afraid. The next morning when you awake the fear is gone as if the light of day has chased away the demons, but during the night it was so real, so thick you could feel it, you could touch it.

Greg was one of my first “friends” that truly helped me to see how different I was from everyone else. As a Christian you really do stand apart. I faced many things in my childhood and no matter how difficult I was always reminded that there were some people who gave their lives for the sake of Christ. My persecution was nothing compared to what Christ suffered on the cross, what I didn’t know then was that most of the time I suffered needlessly and that my Faith was only one more item on a long list of reasons to torment me.

Looking back I can’t help but wish that my parents had used a little bit more discretion when it came to talk of demons and demon posession. I realize that they were just trying to make me aware of the harsh realities that exist in our world, but perhaps they should have waited until I was a little older than 5 years old.

When I look back on my childhood I can see a recurring theme that I have only now realized, that theme is Fear.

Author’s Note: I realize that this post is a bit incongruous, but I’ll fix that later and possibly break this up into two chapters. For now I am going to leave it as is.

There were very few businesses in the town, but when my sisters and I got older we seemed to work at all of them.  My oldest sister worked at Burrus when she turned 16. Our middle sister worked at a local daycare and cleaned the only newspaper office in town – the Sanger Courier.

Eventually my middle sister no longer wanted to clean the newspaper office and I took over for her with very little fanfare. It was like she just handed me the rag and the bottle of Old English furniture polish and I immediately went to work dusting  the layout tables and desks.

The Lemmons’ family was well-known around the town and in my eyes they were rich. They lived in a house that overlooked a huge field and all the windows in the house were huge picture windows that faced South. I did such a good job cleaning the newspaper offices that they wanted me to clean their house too.

“All of the cleaning supplies are under the bathroom cabinets, I like to take this Lysol and spray around the toilet for whenever Blake misses.”

Blake was their youngest and only son. He drive a white Camaro I-ROC Z that happened to be the best looking sports car in town. Blake could have easily been a Baldwin with his Ivy League good looks and his rakish smile.  I had to clean his bathroom, but I didn’t have to clean his bedroom.

I worked hard for the Lemmons’ and eventually I started labeling newspapers for them and doing other odd jobs around the house. I was a hard worker and Mr. Lemmons’ continued to give me work to do off and on for 6 years.

Everything I did for the Lemmon’s was pretty basic manual labor. Blake picked up on the fact that I was strong and that if he used phrases like, “Let’s see if you can carry that dresser onto the U-Haul by yourself” that I would actually try to do it just to impress him.

That is what I learned most working for the Lemmons’ – how to impress people with my strength and speed, but I also learned the true meaning of the word Envy.

Blake had everything, a nice house, a beautiful car, good looks, cool friends. When he moved in with 2 other guys they got a house close to the lake and drank beer and had a pool table. Neon Bud Light signs hung on the walls of their house and there was a large boat parked outside.

Blake was known to be an excellent skier and he dated pretty girls and I had to clean his bathroom. As hard as I tried not to let it bother me, it did. The Lemmons’ family was in a different class. They drove Mercedes and wore Polo. Their refrigerator was full of food and they had an entire walk-in cupboard full of food. Their house was fascinating, he living room filled with plants and expensive furniture and a cool mint green carpet that was thick and plush and clean. Compared to the two-bedroom trailer that I was living in it was a palace and it was then that seeds of materialism became planted deep within me.

I learned fast how to make money. By the time I was 24 I was making close to 55,000 dollars and I had nice Jeep Grand Cherokee and an expensive apartment. I made more money than all of my friends. I had a nicer car than my parents. Unfortunately, it took me many years to realize that no matter how much you gussy up the outside, it is the inside that matters.

When I look back on those crucial teen years I realize that what I envied most about Blake was his confidence and the fact that he seemed to be perfectly secure in himself. This is what I envied most… and there are times I still envy him that.

Our day finally ended and I remember my read dad pulling his belt off and whipping me for complaining so much. It was the first and only time that he ever spanked me. I couldn’t believe it. I was so upset, not because of the spanking, but because he never picked me up and carried me. My feet did hurt, but more than that I wanted his attention, the attention that he gave my middle sister doing very little to hide the fact that she was his favorite.

Over the years my real father continued to wound me with his lack of attention. He came in and out of our lives doing more harm than good, making promises that he rarely kept, inflicting wounds on me that he couldn’t possibly begin to fathom.

At 17 my real father wanted to take me to dinner for my birthday. He hadn’t called all year, hadn’t visited, but suddenly he must have wanted to play the father role and so he had given me a call. By this point I had built up some resentment towards him and I actually took a bit of pleasure in telling him that my step-dad was taking me to dinner that night and “could we do it another time?”  He responded somewhat tersely, “Well, call me when you have time.”

I didn’t call for 10 years.

When I turned 27 I thought that I had forgiven my real father for his transgressions. I told myself that people make mistakes, they often don’t understand what they are doing to someone. I made excuses for him. When my sister called me and said that he wanted to get together for dinner I said “Sure.” “Really?!” She was surprised and delighted. Unlike me she had kept up with him all these years. They had dinner monthly and she bought him birthday presents.

We went to dinner and made small talk. There were no big speeches, we just acted like everything was fine. We didn’t mentiont the fact that he had missed out on my entire life. We ate and at the end of the meal I hugged him and said, “I love you” – but I wasn’t really sure if I did.

I’ve always been an extremely forgiving person. I can normally let things go, especially if someone apologizes. However, the wounds my real father has inflicted on me are wounds that I deal with every single day of my life. It’s like waking up with a gaping hole in your side and trying to forget that it isn’t there or who caused it. My wounds are a constant reminder of how desperate I was to be loved by him, desperate to understand why he wasn’t around and why he didn’t want to be a part of my life.

Now I’m desperate to forgive him so I can be rid of the pain, but the fact that he doesn’t call me still burns a little. The idea that my own father isn’t desperate to be with me stings because if I had a son there isn’t anything in this world that could stop me from being with him.