who here is Christian?

Question

what are your thoughts about it

Answer 1

I am and here is my story to all those who are in pain and need some hope in your lives.

"Dead Alive; my story"

Introduction:

The next few paragraphs is a bit graphic at first but I want the truth to be told; because I believe there is someone out there... maybe you or

someone you know that needs to know that you are not alone. I originally wrote this in a mental hospital after a suicide attempt. The first

draft was over twenty two hundred hand written pages long. I had to condense it here. So you might need to take this story slow and try to

read between the lines and for some of you; reflect on events in your life and see if you can see yourself in my life somehow. Our conclusions

may never be the same; but my intent of this document is to save your life or someone you know. I can tell you from personal

experience; other people's lives have changed as the result of reading this essay. If you are on life's ragged edge; and are standing on the

edge between life and death... then listen to one who has been there... for many years. I am no longer a victim. I am a survivor.



I was raised in a large English tutor in the rolling hills of Kentucky. We lived a short distance south of Cincinnati with woods, fields, trees,

ponds, streams; a playground any kid could ever dream of living in and yet...


My parent's world seemed not as happy as mine was. I am not sure exactly how things started to change. But I vaguely remember when I

was about six; dad scaring us kids when he'd fall asleep while driving the car. Sometimes he was sick and would vomit all over the floor. Over

the years; mom developed a nasty temperament. I vividly remember her pulling us kids around by the hair. We received daily lickings with

dad's leather belt. We probably deserved it but if we truly were innocent; then she'd tell us that it was for something that we got away with.

We never knew when it was coming. When dad came home from a long day at work; mom would scream at him to do something about us kids

and he would hit us too. Dad gave us "love-taps" as he called them. Our bodies were covered with welts and cuts. If that weren't enough then

I received black eyes and the rest of us had our hands pushed into scalding hot water if we got caught stealing food. Every time I got beat; I

learned to disassociate from it; to numb the pain. I didn't feel the pain as much if I pretended mentally to be an "outsider" peering in.


People around us noticed; some called the cops, but when I was younger we didn't have the child abuse laws that we have today. Most

people would look the other way. And we were constantly warned not to tell people what went on at home or something worse would happen

to us. As each year went by, I got harder and meaner inside. With all the beatings I received; I never once was hugged or told that I meant

anything to my parents. Nothing hurt worse than all the screaming insults hurled at you. I think the things they told us hurt worse than the

sting of the lashes. Mother would scream; "I wish you were never born. She would tell us how rotten and worthless we were. It seemed that

nothing ever made them satisfied. We gave up trying to please them; I avoided them as the result of fear of future reprisals. Mom would get

out this black handkerchief and tell me that my soul was as black as that rag before God. She would tell us how angry God was at us for

disobeying them. I lived my whole childhood believing that no one could be trusted. Not even God. I was seven when mom penetrated me

with her finger; hooked it and pulled out bloody flesh one day in the bathroom. Bright pools of blood splattered on the floor. It was my first

encounter with molestations; with more to come later when I was a run-away.


(I learned years later from my grandmother; that she thought mom was molested by her father. She wanted to break my spirit; so that

I would behave... it was terror that kept me in line back then. If someone touched me off guard at school. I flinched or jumped... my nerves

were raw. But no one ever knew what happened behind those closed windows at home. It was a secret held in shame... we and the seed

instilled in me was to hate myself... I hated myself at seven and I carry that shame with me to this day.


I have seen movies of my father pushing Brian and I into metal garbage cans while mom took pictures. He took us to the street and told us

that the garbage man was going to stop by and take us away. And get this; they actually had the gall to show our relatives pictures of the

event after Christmas dinner. Might have been funny for them; but as a seven year old; I was scared! I rolled the can over; the lid popped off;

I slid into the street; nearly got hit by a car and slid into a sewer. There was no love at home... I never once was hugged... or praised or

anything.


But understand this! While I was not wanted as a child does not mean that God did not have a plan for my life... God planned for me

to be born... and even if I was not wanted... God wanted me. He has a plan for me... for He says in Psalm 139:13-16 that my body, my

skin, my hair and everything was planned way before I was even born! Although my parents did not love me; God loved me. I did not see that

secret for many many years... but I am learning about this now... as I write this article.


It was also at this time when I started injuring myself. I would bang my head on the wall or push bobby pins into my skin; it was also at seven

that I first ran from home. Never could get very far... there just was no place to go. No escape; no where to run.


Some teachers tried to help. But we never talked much. If our grades slipped, we were beaten. If we did well, then we were treated to a Big

Mac hamburger. I hated report cards. I was scared to show them to my parents. I just couldn't study well at school. I had a hard time

concentrating. And I rarely did my homework. It was the fear... the constant lack of safety, the daily room searches. I learned to hide saved

lunch money in electrical wall sockets for the day when I needed to live on the streets awhile. I slept in a roach infested basement with the

dog for eleven years. Nothing like waking up in the morning to the sound of your bare feet crunching the water bugs on the floor.


I was very shy in school. I could not talk about any of it publicly. I had welts, cuts, bruises, scalded arms and hands, cuts from razors on my

body, and I had to wear long sleeves because I was embarrassed. I believed that God hated me and I could not be loved for anything in the

world. So shy that I became easy prey for the bullies there. I had a difficult time expressing my needs. I just can not tell you in more

descriptive terms what it was like to live like this day after day; year after year. One time I was even pinned to the ground and given "golden

showers" as a kid. You can't imagine how disgraceful it felt to be urinated on.


When I was twelve; I was a loner. I went to school and during my lunch hour I went to the library to study Foxfire books. For those who don't

know about these excellent books. They were written by mountain folks in Appalachia the rules of living on your own in the wilderness. I

spent many hours studying how to build a log cabin, how to hunt for food, how to use scents, how to live off the land. I was determined to run

away and live down in the mountains of Kentucky; far from society; kind of like Grizzly Adams in the old TV shows.


There was a teacher who took an interest in me. His name was Mr. Thaxton. This guy took me one step further by learning survival

techniques though hands-on experience. Mr. Thaxton was an experienced climber of some of the world's highest mountains. He taught me

how to read topographical maps, use a compass, trail blaze, set traps, create shelters, rock climb up ninety degree cliffs, rappel, canoe

entire rivers, make rafts and canoes from trees; and so on. By the time I was fourteen; I was confident that I could survive on my own if I

needed to get out. My younger siblings looked for me to set the example for them. We set up a network of outposts throughout the woods,

the neighborhood kids got in on it. Years later those outposts became quite useful in dodging the police.


By the time I was fourteen; I was a skilled shoplifter. Nothing to be proud of; I was hungry and had to forage for something to eat. I never

got caught till years later. I was very angry inside... and took mom and dad's silver coin collection and blew it all on pop and candy. They

raced all over town trying to get all those Kennedy half dollars back. =) They recovered about half. The rest was taken from birthday gifts

from other relatives and so forth. I didn't care... I hated them.


I experimented with cigarettes and pot. I never liked the cigarettes that much and I had to be careful smoking the pot cause your clothes

really reek with that stuff. I knew people nearby that would grow pot in the center of a cornfield. By the time the plants were mature; you

couldn't tell the difference between the weed and the corn from the air. It was a clever idea.


I became deeply interested in science and burning things. My parents bought me a Skill-Craft chemistry set at sixteen. I wanted to learn how

to make incineraries and bombs. I was fascinated watching things burn. I once fire bombed a car... and I got away with it. As the fire burned,

so did the torment deep inside me... I felt one with the flames... like I was a child in a war torn city... alone in the night as the roar of

flames licked all around me.


My parents send me to counseling. Seemed every time I started opening up and trusting one of them; I got yanked out and sent to someone

else. I learned later that these counselors were accusing them of causing the problems at home and mom and dad could not accept that...

it was always our fault. Weekly, the entire family would sit in chairs around the room and listen to mom read off a shopping list of everything

that was wrong with her children. I kept my chin up; emotionless... vowing not to give my parents the satisfaction of watching me squirm. I

was the oldest and I protected my younger siblings. By the time I was sixteen their reprisals had no effect on me. But the hurt inside

was deep, I could not express it into words. Like I had an apple in my throat... I could not speak because I was hurting so bad.


When school was out; I had to get away for a while so I could think. Some days I would just walk aimlessly down a road till blisters formed on

my feet and couldn't go any further. I'd sleep under freeway bridges and behind bushes. The older I became; the further and longer I'd stay

away from home. By the time I was 16, my parents were used to my excursions. I developed quite a track record of absentees in school. I

spent most of my time writing journals, reading books, and planning my travels for the weekend. Homework was performed with minimum

effort. I barely passed most of my classes, just to get by.


Eventually, the beatings at home stopped. We just screamed at each other instead. I was a teenager now; I vented my rage by smashing

things, putting holes into walls, while vowing to make my house a living hell for my parents. They feared me... and this only isolated me even

further; because now we did not argue... we would not speak to each other. The more isolated I became, the more desperate I felt.

One day during finals week; I arrived to class late as usual. Mike Schutzman decided to go up to the front of the class to sharpen his pencil.

When he came back, he deliberately ran into my desk. This caused all my stuff to fall around me on the floor. The class laughed at me and I

was really embarrassed. The brief second of shame quickly turned into rage. I got up and turned around and beat the crap out of him. The

kids around me egged us on. The teacher stepped out of the room to get some assistance. I felt a firm hand grab me by the wrist as I ******

my fist back. I got up; turned around and knocked Mrs. Cox's (algebra teacher) hand off my arm and screamed out "F**k you Bit*h! The

classroom was in awe. I knew I was in trouble. Mrs. Cox stepped out of the room and brought the principal up to see me. He ordered me to

step out from the class and go to his office.


I had suspensions for truancy before; I thought here it goes again. "What will my parents do?" I wondered. I was suspended for the remainder

of that year. I was summoned to appear before the Board of Education in a few months for expulsion hearings. When I got home my mom took

me upstairs into her bedroom and we sat together on the edge of her bed. She placed her hand on my lap and said in firm but low words;

"Jonathan, you have disgraced this family and from this day forwards; you are no longer our son. We disown you." I swallowed hard; I wanted

to die... and there was the birth of a new idea... I decided to kill myself.


I appeared before the school board and was expelled to set an example for everyone to never hit a teacher. I was allowed me back the

following year because this was my first offense of this kind and gave the school board gave me probation instead. I had to attend a year's

worth of counseling on a weekly basis as part of the terms of my probation. I was firmly warned that if I broke one more rule at school that I

would be gone for good. I read in the neighborhood papers the next few days; "Kid narrowly escapes expulsion... and has Highlands teachers

up in arms!" My parents avoided me with cool silence. And the bullies reveled with joy and were encouraged to test my resolve to stay out of

trouble. In industrial arts, for example; during the loud whining of electric table saws and other equipment; I was often beat up in the corner

of a room by a number of students. I just lied on the floor and endured the kicks in the ribs etc. I feared fighting back; fearful that a teacher

would see me fighting and then kick me out for good. I raced home afterwards; the same group of people waited for me outside every day.

Looking for a way to terrorize me. Then at home, my parents would tell me of how the teachers at school mocked my younger siblings on

account of my expulsion. This made me even more distrustful of the authorities.


The next couple of months; I spent mostly outside. I rode a ten speed bike around the countryside. Ten miles turned into twenty; twenty into

fifty; fifty into a hundred miles a day especially on the weekends. I received most my spending money by donating plasma in downtown

Cincinnati.


I discovered a group called; "Junior Achievement". Junior Achievement is a high school group that is sponsored by area businesses to help

students learn how to set up and operate a business. At the end of the school year, students with the most successful businesses are

rewarded with scholarships, and other prizes and recognition. I participated in "JA" for the entire four years that I was in high school.

However, by the time I was a junior; I participated in a mighty big way. JA was my escape from the crazy life I lived. While I was failing in

school; I excelled in JA. I devoted all my after school time learning about sales techniques, public speaking, and operating a company. I won

many awards for outstanding achievement in many areas. JA helped me live a dual life away from my peers but amongst high school

students from all over the greater Cincinnati area.


I spent many afternoons selling tickets for our annual JA trade fair. (At the end of the school year; the businesses we set up, had a huge fair

to promote all the unique products we produced. The profits of each company, would then be split up with approximately five percent going

to the stockholders; and the rest into the JA purse to be used for training students in the years to come. The process would begin again the

next school year.


I sold thousands of tickets to the trade fair. By the end of my junior year; I had received a two year scholarship to Northern Kentucky

University; eight days, seven nights on a Caribbean cruise touring the Bahamas. A couple other trips; local news articles of my achievements.

Our company was one of the top five finalists of all the eligible companies in all of Ohio, Kentucky, and Indiana. I was so proud. I was sure

that now having earned a scholarship that my parents would accept me. This was quite an honor; yet it seemed hollow because my parents

never once praised or encouraged me. I realized then that nothing I ever did would ever be enough for them. It's like they had an engraved

image of me before their eyes and all they could see was this image.


After my expulsion hearings; my parents tried to have me institutionalized at a state home in Danville. Mom would cut out newspaper articles

and stick them under my pillow for me to read. The newsprint detailed how kids were being so abused at these homes that a number of them

tried and some succeeded in hanging themselves.


I went on all the trips awarded by JA during my sophomore and senior years. Each summer. I did not enjoy myself much because I spent that

time thinking about home. I decided to repeat the cycle again in my senior year. I had to get those awards next year to stay out of the house

as much as I could. So during my senior year, I repeated the feat; only this time I was the second highest achiever in the country; topped only

by one person. I received another two year scholarship and another series of trips. But by my senior year; I was coming apart inside. I had

planned my suicide; I had set the day for my attempt.


My parents sent me to a Catholic retreat. I wanted to go but I really acted like I didn't want to go so that they would "force" me to go. This

pleased them and me; the master manipulator! =) The retreat was at Camp Marydale near Cincinnati. This place was deep in the heart of a

large forest and had a large lake behind our cabins. It was a cool November weekend with overcast skies. The whitened birch trees had shed

their leaves. The ground was colored in the shades of autumn. A frosted wooden bridge spanned over the crisp partially frozen waters of a

small pond nearby. I felt like I was dying inside; as reflected by mother nature herself.


"What would this meeting teach me?" I wondered. I headed indoors to receive my cherished meal. The person who issued the food happened

to be Mike Schutzman's mother. This startled me. Mike was the person that lead to my expulsion nearly 18 months ago. Yet here I was

standing before his mother!


Mrs. Schutzman was very warm and affectionate. She recognized who I was and beckoned me to eat with her. I sheepishly accepted... and

that's when I broke inside. I started revealing my secrets; yet I forced myself not to weep. I quickly ate then went back to my cabin. The

suppressed feelings of hopelessness could not be contained. And for the first time in many a year; I sobbed till I could no longer walk. Little

did I know that someone overheard me. And who else but a priest from another church. I tried to lie and cover my tracks. But he witnessed

too much and would not give in. He was the first person to really listen; and when we finished; he placed his hands on my head and wept with

me in prayer. He told me one day... one day all this pain will be used to heal others... and this story is for you.


Little did I know that the theme of that retreat was all about "masks". We all have them. I smile and tell people I'm fine; while thinking about

killing myself. But the message melted within me... I wished I could have stayed there forever and dreaded returning home to face the

realities of my life.


When I returned, my parents expected a change of behavior. I gritted my teeth and stared at them with venomous hate. It was all a show. I

did not want them to know I broke down the days before coming home. I hid in the basement (my bedroom); where I wept in the still night. I

decided I could not hold on; I made my decision to die. I decided to overdose on sleeping pills and use dad's medication to boost the effect. I

would do this when my parents were out shopping for groceries... no one around... no one to catch me in the act. I set the date in May... just

before graduation. But then God had other plans...


Sunday, May 1st, 1980; the day of the Nazi Demonstration at Fountain Square in the heart of ethnic Cincinnati. I had just finished changing

my clothes after attending another boring church service to appease my parents. I sat on my bed listening to the radio when I heard an

announcement to stay away from downtown Cincinnati. I had nothing better to do that day except help cut the grass or escape on to my
trusty steed. Off I went; pedaling down the long winding hill to the urbanites below.


I arrived at the scene; true to my ears; there was a massive riot. Thousands of people standing with fists in the air, screaming hostile

gestures at uniformed people on a stage at the other end of the park. Fountain Square is usually a peaceful place. It consisted of a three

tiered copper fountain; a gift donated from France; located in the center of a sea of dark cobblestone. Overhead towered the high

skyscrapers that echoed the traffic from the streets below. I used to come here to watch the pigeons. I moved past the people surrounding

the stage. There stood before me were about fifty cops dressed in riot gear with face shields. On the stage were black uniformed SS Soldiers.

Each with a red armband bearing the Swastika. The Nazi's were voicing racial obscenities over a loudspeaker. They denounced Baptists,

Catholics, African-Americans, Jews; it seemed like every problem in our society was the result of these groups of people.


I backed away and sat on a black marble wall in the back of the park to observe what would happen next. The crowd started pushing

through the lines to attack the Nazi's on stage. The police tried to disperse the crowd through firing volleys of tear gas. This only infuriated

them. They overwhelmed the police and chased the skinheads through the streets. Lucky for the skin heads; they had waiting

transportation. The cops were not so lucky. I watched the angry masses overturn police cars and firebomb them. They smashed store

windows and ripped down street signs. I decided to hurry to McDonalds on 6th street to grab a sandwich before they got too crowded. I

returned to Fourth street and sat at the park again. By now everyone seemed to have left and the park became quiet.


Three women showed up and passed out little newspapers called the "Pravda". They carried a red flag with the infamous hammer and sickle

on it. A trio of veterans offered me five bucks to ride up and knock a lady down and steal the flag from her. I did it! I got paid and they got

their flag. What I didn't know was that they burned it on national television later that evening.


Along came some college students from Columbus, Ohio. Each took a turn preaching the gospel straight from the book of Romans. They

received howls and jeers from the crowd. I was impressed with their courage in spite of the resistance they received. I listened to their

message.


I mumbled softly; "God, if your out there, I just want one of them to come up and talk to me". And sure enough; about twenty minutes later

one did. I was so excited... yet played it cool. A tall black man introduced himself to me and lent me his hand. He told me his name was

"Chuck". I told him that I wanted to meet him and his three friends away from all these people down by the river bank a few blocks away.

They shrugged and agreed to spend some time with me. Chuck was the only black person that remained after such a violent racial obscene

day. I was curious what made a man of peace decided to come down to the park. Apparently they were down here to visit a mother and

thought that it would be a nice day to take a stroll of Fountain Square. They had no knowledge of what had occurred earlier that day.

We spent hours at the river bank. They knew their bibles pretty darned well. That really impressed me! They said I was truly loved by God and

He didn't want to see me die. In the end; I bowed my head in prayer and surrendered my life to the Lord. I felt a flicker of hope for the first

time. They went back to Columbus and I rode home on my bike. I was disappointed that they lived so far away. They promised not to forget

me and would faithfully write me each week while at home.


First thing I did when I got home was tell my parents how they got it all wrong and that they were going straight to hell. Next thing I knew I

was being rushed to a Catholic priest to be straightened out. I asked Father Fortner one question... tell me; "Isn't there only one mediator

between God and man? Why is it that we pray to Mary?" He could not give me a straight answer. I knew I was correct and firmly grounded

myself into the Word. This really alarmed my parents. They forbade me from ever seeing these people from Columbus again. They said I had

been brainwashed. They told me that only priests could read the Bible and that I clearly misunderstood it's meaning. They said that since I

never been to seminary I had no business challenging them or any other authority in the Catholic church.


I continued to go to Mass every week but I could not consciously participate in communion there because I no longer agreed with many of

their teachings... and this made my parents furious. They thought I was just trying to embarrass them in public; that I was trying to attack

them personally. Now they really wanted me out. I was causing my younger siblings to read their Bibles and this was gave some really

serious headaches for mom and dad.


Chuck and the other three continued to faithfully send me letters of encouragement. They would send me simple bible studies from

Intervarsity Press. I read and filled them out without delay. I was hungry for more knowledge. And they were feeding me the best medicine

my young soul could receive. When my parents learned of this; they would intercept my mail and destroy them.

I started riding my bike one hundred miles to go and visit them. But they kept sending me back because I was still a minor. This happened

about eight times. Finally I was permitted to stay there once I turned eighteen.


I lived in a sort of commune. We all went to the same church yet we all rented apartments near each other within a two block radius. It was

neat being able to see everyone everyday. The "brothers" lived in a house across the street and held bible studies and would let me stop by

and listen to them play the guitar, share books and go do stuff around Ohio State University just for fun. The sisters lived one house north of

me on my side of the street and would bake goodies for us all and chat with us. I felt refreshed; appreciated and welcomed there. So unlike

home; I felt like I belonged. I never wanted to leave; it seemed like a small taste of heaven.


But what I didn't learn until many years later that my faith was toxic. I performed lots of good deeds and all in order to "feel" good about

myself. It was toxic because unlike selfless faith; I was hiding my painful past from them; and never dealt with any of it. I wanted their love,

praise, acceptance; so I performed in whatever way I could to get that nurturing. Sooner or later; something had to give and when it did; I

collapsed into a hole that I could never climb out of.


I was asked by Mike, one of my room-mates if I would be interested in going with him to Dayton to give assistance to someone in trouble. He

said he was tired and needed someone to help keep him alert while driving.

We arrived in Dayton around five thirty in the morning. Standing beside our gray Camaro was a brunette deputy sheriff named "Rhonda".

Rhonda looked tired and worried. I never in my life thought a cop needed assistance; but I soon learned that they are not much different from

the rest of us; they've got problems too. Rhonda invited us into her upstairs apartment to chat with Mike.


Bored, I let my attention drift off to the curious things that she had around the room. For example, on her coffee table she had a gray marble

chalice with eight cup-lets. My eyes gazed at a bookshelf nearby. Books on tarot cards, witchcraft, yoga, I Ching, the Kabala, and "Fate"

magazines caught my eye. I felt a strange curiosity swell within me. On the top shelf was a game called "Runes". I reached for it and found

these wood chips with bone images engraved on them. Rhonda told me to keep my hands off. I focused my attention back on the

conversation at hand. Apparently whomever Rhonda was dating would beat her with a dog chain. She was involved in a large coven; and

wanted out of it. Certain people threatened to kill her if she left. I didn't quite understand all this at the time but apparently members of this

group were also blood kin and her family were involved in it as well.


Rhonda's mother died at a young age of a heart attack. Her father was a cop and wasn't home much to take care of the children. That

responsibility fell to her aunt and uncle. They owned a witchcraft shop somewhere in Dayton. Her aunt Pat was the Grand-mistress of this

four hundred member coven as her now deceased uncle was the Grandmaster/Magus. These two positions are the highest offices within the

coven. Rhonda's family faith was rather weird. Her dad was an Jewish-atheist; her mother was Lutheran. The occult history (Jewish

mysticism) passed traditionally from generation to generation all the way back to Wales, England in the 17th century! Rhonda was full

blooded Celtic. Celts are uncommonly known for their involvement in the arts; in particular, the Dark Arts.


Rhonda was the high priestess. Third in command. She was to take over the coven when her aunt died. {For those of you in Wicca; this was

not Wicca. She followed the "Left Hand Path" and was related to the Order of Nine Angles. {Recognized by the late Anton Lavey.}

We transported her to our church where she lived with the "sisters". For the sake of time; I will skip the great detail in what led her to her

conversion to Christianity and the bizarre details involved.


Rhonda was quite a gifted musician. She earned the name "Iron Lips" from her outstanding ability to play trumpet for hours on end. While

Rhonda worked in law enforcement; her mother instilled in her the pursuit of her musical talents since she was six years old. Rhonda played

with Doc Severson, Chuck Mangione. He taught her trumpet while attending the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music. On a given weekend;

Rhonda played non-stop for hours at a Jewish wedding and left with 2000 bucks for her efforts! She was not your average run of the mill

person to meet. I had a great interest in her. Nine months later; we were engaged to be married.


It was Friday, the 23rd of April, 1983; The first Indiana Jones movie was being seen in the theaters. I took Rhonda to a theater overlooking

the Olentangy River. The moon was full and made the shadowy waters glisten under it's awesome majestic luminance. We sat outside the

theater on a bench talking... through one showing.... the next showing... and then, I gently took her hand and knelt on one knee, gazing into

her eyes, and said "Rhonda... will you marry me?"


SHE SAID "YES"! I immediately jumped up and ran to the nearest payphone and called my parents collect and exclaimed, "Guess What? I am

getting married?" "YOU'RE WHAT?! YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN TO GET MARRIED!" mom screamed. It was a sudden blow to the gut.

My joy turned into shame. I hung up the phone and walked back to Rhonda and told her what happened.


It was rash on my part to tell them that. I never even let Rhonda meet them yet. We figured that after a few meetings that they would agree to

this. After all! We were in love! And we met... and my mom told Rhonda to her face that she was never going to like her. And she never has.


My first brush with death...


August 23 of 1983, Rhonda and I were to be married at the Park of Roses. This is the world's largest rose park. Acres of roses. We were to be

wed in a gazebo surrounded by beautiful trees and flowers. But all those plans were destroyed.


It was a hot sunny afternoon on August 5th, I had just left summer classes and was on my way home. I tucked my feet into the same familiar

steel toe clips and unlike most days forgot to wear my bike helmet. I had a twelve mile ride ahead of me. Long distance cycling was my talent

and I was particularly careful to wear a helmet most days. But for some reason I forgot it. I was almost two blocks from my destination; riding

down a hill on a four lane road. There were no sidewalks but I was on the emergency lane on the side of the road. I wasn't alarmed, I didn't

notice any danger till it was too late. I saw the metal bumper about six inches from my back tire. I don't remember anything till I hit the

ground. Apparently I was hit by a drunk driver at 3 in the afternoon. He wasn't just drunk! He was point 52 (.52%)! That's over five times the

legal limit folks. Three patrol cars were following him. They said they saw me and waited to turn on their lights till he passed me out of

concern that he would have swerved to the right to get off the road in response to their signals. But this guy swerved to the right and hit me

anyway; then tried to run for it.


Witnesses said that I almost went under the front right tire of the truck, but that I some how pulled myself off the speeding truck. When I hit

the ground some 300 feet away; I hit with such force that the clothes ripped from my body. I don't recall this, but I did get to see those

clothes later; they were pretty bloody and torn up.


I was lying face down on the ground unable to move. A police officer on the scene tried to talk to me to keep me awake. "Where do you live?

Who is your next of kin?" he asked. I told him that my closest relative was Rhonda my fiancée. He recognized her last name and asked if she

was related to Fred. (I won't reveal her family's name in this document) It seemed we were there a while. The warm pavement started pooling

with my salty blood.


The ambulance arrived. They had difficulty putting me on a stretcher. They said that they didn't know how to lay me due to so many fractures

of my body. I heard them rattle off those injuries on the radio. Five multiple fractures of my left femur, three of my right hip, massive internal

bleeding... it was at that point that I became aware of the fractures and the pain. I screamed in agony and passed out from the pain.

I woke up in Good Samaritan Hospital. I had tubes going down my throat and nose. I had all these machines connected to me. My arms had

so many lines going in them it looked like spaghetti. I kept screaming inside my head that I was thirsty. But no one could hear me because

they had me on a drug called "Pavulon". (For those who don't know; Pavulon is used to paralyze you body so you can't move.) I was only able

to move my eyelids and fingertips. Rhonda was in the room. I slipped in and out of consciousness. Rhonda came up with an idea how to

communicate with me. She would go through the alphabet and when she hit the right letter, I would blink. She would write that letter down

on a pad. She then told the nurse that I was thirsty. The nurse told her that I could not have any water because the reason I was thirsty had

to do with the internal bleeding and I would drown in my own liquid. Rhonda spooned chips of ice to my lips. It felt so nice and quenched the

pain somewhat, but I had difficulty swallowing it due to the tubes.


Three days later, Dr. Wright called Rhonda and told her that I was not expected to make it through the night and that she better call my

family and let them know of my accident. She had already done this but they told her to keep them posted of my condition since they lived

many miles away. She notified my parents of my condition and they said they would try to make it that night. She also called my pastor and

Mike King (My most trusted friend) to come there and give last rites.


My mother ran in the room screaming, "My baby! My baby!" Apparently she was specifically instructed to be self controlled because the staff

did not want me to be tipped off about my condition. But, it was then that I knew something was wrong. My parents would never have made

the trip here if they didn't think something was seriously wrong.


In the wee hours of the morning I woke from my slumber. I couldn't breathe! No one was in the room! I tried to push a button on my bed to

alert them but my arms would not move! I saw a pool of blood flow from my chest to the bed to the floor! What was happening?

I was looking down over my corpse, as if I were in another room watching someone else. I saw the nurses rush in...


They told me months later that my body rejected the respirator tubes. They said that my lungs were 92% filled with pulmonary emboli. (Bone

marrow was being captured in the small capillaries of my lungs from all the fractures) I was told that I was receiving the maximum amount of

oxygen at the time and the tubes came up. They said that the reason they came into the room was that my heart had stopped and it set off

an alarm at the nurses station. They could not understand how it was that I was able to "see" them after my heart had stopped. This was a

mystery to me as well.


Outside in the waiting room, Rhonda prayed... she saw all the commotion and wanted to know what was happening... but no one would tell

her anything. A few minutes later a doctor came out and told her that I had died. She told me later that she bowed her head and gave me to

God to do as He wished.


When I went under... I dreamt a dream... only, it was real! I'll describe what death feels like. It feels like holding your breath underwater too

long. You intensely struggle to surface to gasp for air. But the difference is that in death, your body doesn't move like your mind tells it to.

You scream for help mentally but your lips do not move. I think the fear was the worse part. The few moments without oxygen feels like

forever. But then you fade out... and then it's like going to sleep. I slipped into darkness but was still conscious somehow. I felt so at peace

and felt myself moving as if floating on a gentle stream of water. I was in a tunnel. About one mile wide and about ten miles long. Misty white

fog waited for me at the end. Someone was with me!

We spoke to each other. Not with lips and speech, it was like telepathy. We could understand what each was thinking and answer

spontaneously. I was asked a question. "Are you ready to die now?" I hesitated. I peered down and was able to see Rhonda crying in the

waiting room. I immediately responded, "No! She needs me!" And then I woke up; or at least I thought I did.



I did not wake up for 22 days. My family was told that while I was resuscitated; I would be in a vegetative state indefinately. I was told that

my eyes would stare at the ceiling all the time. My limbs became ridged and hard. There was one who did not give up on me. Rhonda waited

day after day at my bedside, praying... and waiting...Rhonda prayed for me... and just after receiving last rites from four pastors from my

church one day ... the next morning I woke up.



I was clinically dead three times while comatose per the docs. Clinical death is not the same as actual death. It's when the monitors are no

longer able to detect brainwaves or heart activity. Yet brain waves came and went. The day before I woke up, I could hear muffled voices. I

felt Rhonda's hand on mine. I felt a cool liquid on my head.


I woke up the next day. A coma is like going to sleep at night real tired and then waking up the next morning wondering how time passed so

quickly. I didn't believe at first I was out for so long. I wanted to get out of bed and go home. There is a twist in this story. That cool liquid I

felt was my pastor anointing my head with oil for last rites. Rhonda swears that I woke up shortly after they left. It startled some of the staff

and spooked my Jewish roommate; whom I had the privilege of getting to know later on.


A nurse was cleaning up the mess in my room. She saw my brainwaves start back up. She called for assistance. This time the staff revived

me. The reason they failed the last time was that they had to clear all the blood from my lungs first and were not able to help me till this

time... but this time they got me to breathe again. Gashes were sewn into my arms and more tubes were inserted. In my left wrist an arterial

line was added. In my right a tube which created a circuit by which blood through a machine to enrich it with oxygen outside of my lungs. Dr.

Snyder told Rhonda to never expect me to ever wake up because I have been deprived of oxygen for a long time.


After I awoke, I was wheeled me down a floor to get some tests and an ultrasound. Ultrasound is where they would use a probe and through

vibrations, can make a picture inside your body. I learned that my fractures still had not been set yet. The staff was too afraid that I would die

in surgery if they attempted it while comatose. I went into surgery; I was then told by Rhonda that my surgery failed. My femur was so badly

fractured that the pins would not hold. They were going to try a new technique and have a team of surgeons fly in and see if they can fix it. If

not, they said they would take the leg.


My second surgery was a success. The docs inserted a "Snyder" rod from hip to knee through the center of my femur. They put a coil over

the femur to hold the pieces together. The rod was barbed on both ends to firmly ground it into my joints. But it severely limited my range of

motion. I was not out of the woods yet. They gave me a "local" and drilled a bit through both legs while a laid in bed watching the blood

splatter. I could not feel the pain but I was sickened by the vibrations of the bit going through. Next they stuck a metal pin through each leg

that protruded out from each side about a half an inch. They coated the ends with iodine and some sort of jelly. They connected cables to

the rods and suspended my legs in traction for the next eight weeks. I can not describe the pain I felt during that period of time.

For the first few weeks I was on Demerol, morphine, and valium. I was in la, la land. I was receiving a shot every other hour for pain. The

physical anguish came around noon. I had to have the sheets changed daily. About eight people lifted me up while others changed the

sheets. I screamed ten counts that could be heard way down the hall. "Thousand one, Thousand two..."


Then comes the emotional shame. I could not urinate in private anymore. I couldn't take a crap without some staff member taking a sample

to test in a lab somewhere! I had to have someone help clean me up. I was so humiliated and ashamed. But what could I do?

A Pentecostal person came into the room one day and started preaching from Psalms that God was chastising me by breaking both my legs.

He showed me a verse somewhere about how some fool drew near the gates of death and had his legs broken for some reason. I lied on my

back for weeks wondering if God was angry with me for sleeping with Rhonda before we actually married. I thought if God was behind all this

then surely He could have gotten my attention some other way? I pondered on this quite a while... what else could I do while laying in bed

staring up at the ceiling with a respirator down your throat for the next two months?


In all, I spent four and a half months in ICU. (intensive care unit) By the time I was out of traction, I was so stiff, I could not move. It took six

weeks just to bend my arms and legs. Six weeks of coughing all that bone marrow out of my lungs. During the stay at Good Samaritan

Hospital, I had received over two hundred shots of Heparin in my stomach, not to mention all the transfusions (I had 66 units of blood) I had

pumped in through the iv (intra-venous) line.


In the winter of 1984; I was finally released from the hospital. Rhonda wheeled me to a McDonalds and I had a Big Mac Attack! Apparently, it

never occurred to the staff to check for internal bleeding before releasing me! The burger caused a reaction that put me in cardiac arrest!

Next thing you know, I'm in a different hospital! ICU for the next thirty days. And then they had more reconstructive surgeries... and more

pain.


I spent three years in and out of hospitals. The amount of time gave me a deep understanding for those in wheelchairs. During those three

years I often wept while sitting in a wheelchair staring up at the familiar steps to my apartment, unable to step up them without someone

assisting me. I wondered if I could ever walk again; would I need a cane? Would I ever be able to run, ride my ten-speed again? And as I write

this document... I tell you... the answer was no to most of those questions. I live daily with arthritis and bursitis of both hips and heel spurs in

both feet now. I have been told that eventually my condition will degrade as I get older. Someday that wheelchair will guide me into the life

here after.


The drunk driver was a five time offender. He was cited for four felonies and misdemeanor . He received ten days and was in and out of jail

long before I woke up from the meds I was on in ICU. After killing an eight year old girl, two years earlier; one would have thought he learned

something? I was not as upset with his sentence as I was at the judge! My fiancée attended the hearing. She asked for just one request and

that was that he see what he did. His attorney stated it was against his constitutional rights to see me. The judge agreed. All four felonies

were dropped on the grounds that he was too intoxicated to be consciously aware of his actions; so I was told.


For years I was bitter. I raised my fist at God and cursed Him for allowing me to go through this trial. I wanted to kill the drunk driver. But I

couldn't see going to jail the rest of my life for getting revenge against what he got away with. I even had offers from others to do him in. But

as a Christian, I knew that if I killed him, I would still have to one day answer for my actions. One day he will have to give an accounting. It

just was not my place to do it.


We finally married and then... nearly lost our lives again!


We managed to stay clear of trouble for the next four and a half months. We married October 26th of 1985 and moved into a third floor

apartment over looking the Olentangy River here in Columbus. Across the river was a park. The Columbus Symphony would play there

sometimes.


When I felt strong enough to go back to work, we had to start paying off the bills from the wedding we paid for, no help from my

trusty parents of course. No honeymoon. We had little left over. I was saddened that my parents could not let go of their controlling

influences over me even on the happiest day of our lives. They came to the wedding and sat in the back pew; dressed in black. When

we walked up the aisle after the wedding ceremony; I stared at the floor in shame over what they did. I dared not look into their eyes. I

grieved.


The day before Easter in March of 1986, we had a fire. Rhonda and I were asleep in bed at the time. It was about ten in the morning when a

lady out walking her dog noticed smoke rising from the eaves of our roof. She ran inside and banged on everyone's doors. But no one

believed her because we didn't see any smoke. I thought she was a kook and went back to bed.


I woke up about twenty minutes later to the sound of our front door crashing in! I ran out of my bedroom in my underwear screaming; "What

the hell is going on man?" The fireman yelled, "Get you pants on and go!" I got dressed and fled barefoot leaving Rhonda asleep in bed.

(Rhonda has always been a deep sleeper) The dude woke her up and helped Rhonda get dressed. Rhonda noticed flaming pieces of the roof

falling lazily past her bedroom window and was worried that her plants might get burned. She took the liberty to remove them from the

window sill and place them on the floor. She calmly gets dressed, takes my wallet, shoes and our wedding rings and walks to down the

stairs. Meanwhile the roof collapsed over 12 apartments; catching all of them on fire! Rhonda was still not out of the building yet! I was

worried. Did she make it... is she dead?


I saw her and she ran to me and hugged me. She looked back and watched every memory of her late mother go up in flames. She cried and

said that she guessed this was real and not just a dream! What a sleep walker! She made me laugh.


Together, with 126 homeless people, we watched 32 apartments go up in flames. It was a four alarm fire. Hoses were spread from blocks

away. There simply was not enough water pressure. A fire truck got stuck in the river bed and pumped river water on it. In ten minutes there

was nothing left! Nothing but the clothes on our backs. Very little money in the bank. Not even to stay in a motel for the night.

The building smoldered for three days. The landlord was gracious to pay for everyone's lodging for one night only. We got three because we

knew how the fire started and he was afraid of us. He did a bad thing and we had evidence to prove it.


The next day, the fire marshal "Tom Maxwell" allowed us to return to search our units before he was going to raze the building to the city

dump. We arrived to the blackened shell that remained. As mentioned earlier, we lived on the third floor. The floors were cement. The stairs

were still intact. The second floor burned from the melting steel reinforcements from the floor above. The first floor had water flowing

through the windows from all the water pumped inside. Everyone suffered loss. Yet no one died. Today is Easter Sunday, and most would

return from their families by tomorrow morning with nothing left.


Outside were fire trucks, heavy duty ambulances, the Red Cross, TV camera's from places as far away as Houston, Texas. Vultures, ready to

gobble up every drop of news that they could film. They interviewed victims. I watched an old lady weep as the firemen brought out a safe full

of money. When opened, the paper was still smoldering. Neighborhood kids tried to steal what remained. But were quickly pushed away.

We sought help... and learned we were quite on our own.


Rhonda and I nervously stepped up the scarred stairwells. Fearful of whether they would support our weight. We made it to what remained of

our two bedroom apartment. At the time, we had a guest stay there. Kim; Rhonda's sister also lost everything as well. She was staying with

us while looking for work. Now we were homeless. We knew we were in big trouble; we hoped that our church would help us out. But they did

not. They told us that this was the will of God for marrying despite my parents wishes. Honor your parents; they claimed. We married despite

them and now God was punishing us. We looked to other churches such as World Harvest; with Pastor Parsley. A five thousand member

church with a fat wallet. We were turned away there as well. We did not fit into their benevolence budget because we were not regular

attendee's there. We were shocked when we were rejected. I cursed God that day and vowed to never step foot in another church again. And

for the next eighteen or so years, I never had.


But despite these hardships there was a silver lining. When we entered under the twisted frame of our door; there stood a tilted crucifix from

Rhonda's mother's casket, sticking up in the ashes. The ash was about three feet deep. We had to remove the fallen embers of the roof

before examining what remained. We tossed the wood and ash over the side of where our windows used to be.

Once we reached bottom; we were surprised at what we found. Rhonda and Kim had many books; they all burned; except the bibles. We

thought that was odd. Granted they were damaged; but since this fire was hot enough to melt our porcelain bathtub and my craftsman tools

together, these should have burned! All my tapes melted; except those by Keith Green. The Freon in the fridge exploded the door off the

hinges. Our TV looked like a bowling ball, bed springs were all that was left of our king-sized bed. Yet the lyrics of Rhonda's songs survived.

They were sitting next to a deformed plastic bottle of kerosene! This gave Rhonda inspiration to search for her treasured musical

instruments. She was thrilled to find the lead case to her prized trumpets intact. She could not open the case for it had melted shut. We

managed to pry it open and found her 18 karat gold-plated Shilke trumpets intact! Rhonda was so thrilled!


She climbed up to the highest pinnacle of the building; and cheerfully played "Taps" for the miserable people below! This was the highlight of

our lives back then. Everyone was shocked! The TV vultures wanted to interview her. CNN was there. They got to her first! While that was

going on; the trumpets were to be put in our car.


I walked up to her side and listened to the questions. "What do you plan to do now?" Rhonda said, "Go to church!" They asked, "Don't you

plan to seek a place to live instead?" She replied; "I am going to praise God for allowing us to live! God will take care of us!" That's "Iron

Lips"! Such wit and courage! I was pleased with her response.


Meanwhile a few kids stole the trumpets and fled into the woods nearby. No one did anything to stop them. "It was none of their business",

they said.


Our clothes stank with the acidic smoke from the fire. Little survived. We had put off renter's insurance... a stupid mistake. We were still

reeling from the last calamity. We were struggling with the bills from our recent marriage. We were newlyweds, at a very vulnerable time in

our marriage. We owe our lives to the Red Cross. They donated the first month's rent and deposit into a new apartment! This kept us off the

streets! The Red Cross also loaned us five hundred dollars to help us buy clothes to wear to work and food to eat.


Some unchurched people had more mercy than the time honored Christians had. Many gave food, small monetary donations, even an old

couch and black & white TV was appreciated. Domino's Pizza provided free pizza for us. Somehow through the gifts from others, Rhonda was

encouraged. She would tell me that God had provided.


I became bitterly angry. Both times I was told that God was behind these calamities by pious Christians who thought they were right. Seems

the ones that are closest to you are the ones who stab you in the back and twist the knife! I wondered why it is that evil people can go

unpunished while we get slammed twice! I wondered if there really was a God out there at all! I failed to see that though others abandoned

us, many did not. We survived... but I couldn't see past my anger to recognize this.


In our new apartment, we slept on the floor together for months. We still believed in doing the right thing and try to pay our bills on time. All

tenants from the past units including ourselves were sued by Warner-Amex and AT&T. Warner-Amex claimed that we were responsible for not

removing the cable boxes when we fled! AT&T sued for the lost wiring that occurred in each unit that had a phone hooked up. The IRS came

along and cited us with the failure to send in our April 15th filing on time! We couldn't because everything burned in the fire. They thought we

were lying to them. We had to support our story through testimonies from the fire marshal and chief engineer. Of the 126 people homeless in

this fire only 2 had insurance!


We sought legal counseling. We went to two attorneys and were turned away. "We only lost $26,000! (That's 1986 dollars). There are bigger

fish in this pond!" one attorney quipped. We were told our case was not worthy of their time. The third attorney was young. He told us how

these cases can take years to challenge in court. He said that the power is in the hands of the wealthy owners of this building and that we

would place them in the position of "defendants" and may be required to pay for their defense if we lost. He explained that he would take our

case if we filed class action. This was impossible because the landlord was the only one in possession of that info and he was not going to

give that info to us without a court order. So there you see... legal advice in this matter was out of the question!

Our young apprentice did help us in some ways though. He did do some background checking on his own. Through him, we learned that the

fire resulted from a leaking roof that apparently had been leaking for years! The landlord did not want to pay the money to fix it so he poured

tar over the cracks on his own. The roof apparently caught fire as the result of melting snow seeping through the tarred crack. It corroded

the electrical wiring in the kitchen.


Warner-Amex; we learned later; already had insurance on their cable boxes and were trying to collect twice! We found a loophole in our

contract with them. It stated that we were to return the cable boxes to them upon leaving the units; it didn't say in what condition! So we

returned their boxes and demanded a handwritten receipt. I set my molten heap on their front desk and left a satisfied man.

Our young attorney helped us write a strongly worded letter to AT&T. We told them that we are intending to go to the press about the

harassment of innocent fire victims and would splatter their name all over the airwaves if they did not drop their suit immediately. In 48

hours, they dropped it. Wonder why?



For the next three years we struggled to get by. Both of us were pulling two jobs to make ends meet. With no emotional support... we grew

weary. I started drinking. The abused child becomes the abuser. The cycle continues... from generation to generation... till all thinking is

changed or until everyone is scarred forever.



Rhonda would spend long hours in the bathroom praying for me. I would heckle her and say God doesn't answer prayers. During those three

years, we stopped going to church. No one missed us anyway I thought. Rhonda and I were frustrated and at the end of our wits. Before we

knew it, we would scream at each other. I started putting my fist through doors and walls when things got out of hand. One day I tore the

cabinet doors off the hinges. Another day, I picked up the TV and threw it across the room. One day we argued again... that time she

screamed, "What are you going to break now? There is nothing left to break!" I turned around and clocked her. She had to go to the hospital

for a concussion. She lied to protect me. I never forgave myself... I have become the batterer instead of the victim of my childhood.



That night, she called me on the phone. It was late... She told me that she flew to Boston to stay with some friends. She said she was afraid

of me and wasn't coming back. She worried if one day I might kill her. Funny how those you love the most get hurt the worse.

I hung up the phone; I felt strangely numb. I went to the supermarket and bought two bottles of Nytol. I went out to my car and drove

around... eventually I parked in a lonely parking lot and swallowed 52 pills. (Noted per the police on the scene who deducted what was

missing from the total amount each bottle contained.) An hour passed... I was getting sleepy. I turned on the radio and listened to a Christian

station. They were playing heavy metal that night and I liked to listen to them. I prayed in the car and ended up crying a lot. I sobered up and

called the radio station.


"WCVO" the dude answered. "I got a Christian friend of mine who is suicidal. Would he go to hell if he killed himself?" I asked. There was a

long pause. "Where are you?" he asked. I responded, "I need to know so please tell me soon!" "WHERE ARE YOU?" he said sternly. I tried to

control the slurred speech... but I realized he already knew. I pleaded; please tell me?" He screamed, "Where are you now?"


I heard someone praying in the background. I dropped the phone. I reached down to pick it up and started seeing triple. "I am sooo sleepy." I

said. "Talk to me! Let me help you!" He screamed. I felt a shiver go down my spine. I thought this is real, your going to die if you don't tell him.

I feared I'd go to hell if I were to die...(Today, I know better) I labored to breathe... I could barely hold the receiver to my face. I told him where

I was. I dropped the phone again. I slumped in my seat and was passing in and out of consciousness. I saw the flashing lights and slipped

into a coma.


I woke up in the emergency room of St. Ann's Hospital. The familiar plastic tubes ran through my mouth and nose. I carefully pulled the tubes

out. A doctor yelled at me to leave them alone, but it was too late. The staff strapped my arms down. An ambulance crew picked me up

around nine o'clock in the morning. They carried me out of the hospital on a stretcher. I asked them where I was going but no one would

speak to me. They looked away and stared out the windows. I tried to humor the place a little by calling the ambulance a "Twinkie Twuck".

The silence was deafening.


The Psycho Ward


We pulled up to a series of plan brick buildings surrounded by woods and trees. One of the paramedics; a black lady spoke to me and said,

"Son, you need a religious experience." I almost burst in laughter! "If she only knew" I thought.


I was wheeled into triage. I was screened with a battery of tests. For the next three days, I slept. I did not wake to even get a bite to eat. On

the fourth day, I weakly stumbled into a kitchen. I still did not know where I was. I noticed bars on all windows and doors. I feared that I was

in a insane asylum! I now wish I never survived! I dreaded the thought that I would spend the rest of my life here with crazy people! The

movie "Midnight Run" clearly etched in my mind about what happens in these places. While there I met a Baptist minister in there for

depression. I met teenager kids there for eating disorders. It was there that I learned how to lose weight by bulimia. Most were normal

people with problems. A girl tried to slash her wrists for being abandoned by her boyfriend. My heart went out to them. I tried to help each of

them individually. Problem was... my needs were not being met. At twelve step groups, it seemed everyone sought me out for advice. I

thought my issues were too deep for people to understand. Just before being released thirty days later; I was told by one of the docs that

they thought that I was just "faking" my attempt and was not suicidal at all. They said to go somewhere else if I just needed attention. I

responded; "If you only knew..."


Rhonda flied back to visit me. She said she could not believe what I had just done. My parents said I must not live in the past. They would not

accept their lack of support as a major underlying issue in our problems back then. They did not support us when we married and they turned

us away after the fire. Rhonda left me for someone who could take better care of herself than I could. I was a broken man... and then I

abandoned God.


My rebellion against God


I relocated to a more affordable apartment and spent the next six months alone. During that time I closed up and stopped seeing anyone

period. I picked up the Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey. The first chapter was hard to read because it was full of cursing, so I skipped over it. I

read it and then picked up his next book called Satanic Rituals. I went to a occult bookstore and picked up some Tarot cards. The cards

were meaningless until I understood how to use them, they were like a deck of cards to me. I knew I was not to practice

divination... but I wanted so badly to gain power over my bitter enemies; I was willing to try anything once. I had a checklist of books to

study. I consulted with LaVey's First Satanic Church based near LA, in California for direction. I read the all of Crowley's books and wrote

down anything of particular interest. I studied TM to control my breathing and my self-control over wandering thoughts. Mr. Crowley was into

Jewish mysticism big time. But his teachings were twisted by different ideologies over the course of his life. After I completed my research of

his writings, I moved on to the Kabala. It was here that I learned to read tarot cards as they were meant to be understood.


Before I continue let me state something to those in the Dark Arts and those even considering entering this field and to skeptics as well.

Understand this; there is power in divination. There are ten cards used in a tarot card spread of more than eighty cards. What I experienced

was real and the events really happened. But it scared me to the bone. Think about this. The odds that the first card making an accurate

prediction is: 1 in 168. As each card meanings can be reversed. The second card in a row to be true and accurate has the odds of 1 in 27888.

(1 times 166 times the odds of the first card. Ever take probability and statistics in college?) The odds that the third card coming true in

succession is 1 in 4,573,632! The odds of the fourth card coming true in succession is 1 in 740,928,384! The fifth card is 1 in 18,548,541,440!

The sixth is 1 in 2,930,669,547,520! The seventh is 1 in 70,406,405,209,620,480! Get the point? The eighth card 1 in

10,701,773,591,862,312,960. That's over ten thousand times our national debt right now! (2004) The ninth 1 in

1,605,266,038,779,346,944,000. And lastly for you diehards... the tenth card is 23,757,937,373,934,334,771,200 TO ONE!!! Thank God for

computers to figure this out! This is just for one spread of cards. If you really want to comprehend this multiply the tenth card by every

prediction correctly given at random to every human being in the world!


(My point is that there is a spiritual element here. There has to be because the odds of a string of ten cards in succession accurately

predicting events in my life coming true randomly is truly phenomenal! If there is a spiritual element here then one must agree that more

research is needed to determine the extent of that interesting idea! I have covered this in greater detail in one of my other writings: "Biblical

Creationism: Fact or Myth? Scientific Evidences for Skeptics to Ponder".)


Once I had the kabala under my belt, I then began my journey into spiritism and became a student of Satanic Draconianism. This eventually

led me to The Temple of Set and Vampirism and then finally the ONA. The end result of all this research was that I found all the

Left Hand Path and Dark Arts to be shallow and lacking. Those of you who are only involved in the occult for social reasons are merely

pawns to the masters to use at will. Your like goats to be slaughtered... the power you seek will be the very power that will destroy

you. Satanism and all the other ideologies are lacking because they are all rooted in astrology. I have met many who teach that this is not

so but they have not done their homework for it they had, they would know better.



I was a practicing Satanist... mocking God after we broke up. I vowed to hurt God back for every thing He allowed to happen in my life. I did

not commit myself to Satanism really; but I learned so much I could have been very high up the chain of command by now. I have earned the

respect of many of them on line. Unlike many Christians who are too busy condemning anyone they don’t try to get to know; I never

condemned them. Instead; I listened to them. And many of them came from violent backgrounds such as I did. They saw a lot of double

standards and the only way for them to get a grip in their lives was to believe in atheism. For how could a loving God ignore a innocent child's

cries in the dark closet in the basement? Listen to what I wrote describing that pain...

"Remember me God? Remember those times so long ago...


Remember me when I was eight? Remember when I cried my heart out as I sat in the crisp autumn leaves in the woods behind that school? I stared up at the intertwining branches and gazed at the warm rays of the September sun sparkling through the orange and red maple trees under the clear blue umbrella of sky? Remember God the tears I shed there... all alone... that was me God... alone... all alone back then.

Remember God how many times I stood waiting on the playground staring down at the cold cement waiting... dreading... longing for the deed to end. Kids picking people to take sides for teams... I was always the last one picked... always the lowest outcast in school... the tears dripped in silence... no one saw them freeze on the snowy ground under me... no one but you...

Remember me Lord God... when I drifted with dread from class to class in the third grade... waiting for my peers to scorn me... spit on me... steal from me... and hit me... the fear I felt when they waited for me to leave the building... the same six... waiting to beat the crap out of me every day after school. No one taught me how to fight... where was my dad when I needed him. I remember... I went home God... running home... out of fear of reprisals from the kids at school... to the safety of home... my fortress of protection from everyone around me.

Lord God... remember how many times I hid in the basement behind all those clothes in the closet. I sat on that cold damp cement floor... eating ice cream or anything I could steal from the kitchen upstairs. Remember God how hungry I was... how my young hands would shake... so afraid I would get caught... wondering how I could get rid of the evidence.

Remember God... do you remember me? Do you remember how no where I went was safe? Do you remember how I gulped down any food I got at the supper table? How fast I ate... and then ran back into the basement... to my dark shelter way down below. Do you remember God the screams that echo in my head night after night... the fighting the endless fighting? Do you remember the black eyes? The dad I needed to protect me was the same dad that punched me... remember Lord.... I was ten back then...

Remember God when I had to go to school and hold that secret in... to protect the innocent... cause I was the bad person I deserved to get hit... remember how they told me how much You hated me?


Remember how I hid alone across the street in the sewers.... fearful of the rats.... but more fearful of coming home... knowing that dad was waiting for me... pacing the floors like a lion... waiting for me... to walk in the door... remember that?

Do you remember me Lord God when mom pulled me around the room by my hair? Do you remember how they screamed how they wish I was never born and didnt deserve to live.... I remember Lord...

Do you remember God.... when mom ever nurtured me? Do you remember one time... just one time when she ever told me that she loved me? Do you remember one time when I was ever hugged? I don't Lord... I don't remember any times where I had fallen and anyone was there to help me get back up... where were you mom to put the bandaids on and kiss the pain and make it go away?

You abandoned me... your first born son... both of you did... cause I was nothing to you but the sperm that ran down mom's leg right?

Remember me God when I walked aimlessly down the lonely highways... with no where to go? Soo lost... with everywhere to go but no where to hide? I was in the sixth grade then.

Remember Lord how I would sneak in the church while kids played outside... I hid there in the back pew in the shadows.... Lord I looked for you.... remember how I would gaze at the stained glass windows and listen to the sanctuary creak? So quiet... so safe... so lonely... so broken... you remember? Do your really remember? Or have you forgotten me?

Remember God.... how many times I slept on the gravel beds under those freeway bridges down in Kentucky? Listening to the roar of tractor trailers over my head... staring out at all the stars... watching my breath drift and disappear... wondering where are you.... and yet the stars were so beautiful.... I was soo cold inside....

Remember God the long journeys I made on my trusty steel steed... that ten speed bicycle? How many miles did I travel... where did I go? Lord I kept a diary remember? I rode over eight thousand miles.... remember all those bald tires I had? I rode and rode and rode... any where.... no where ... no place to go...

Remember the cornfields... how I would close my eyes and sniff the air out in the farmlands... it was hot Lord... my skin salty... but I was free... no one could hurt me there could they God? I was 16 then.

Remember God? Do you remember me? Well Lord... I am tired of asking.... but I will ask you again... you remember me now? I am going to be 44 in six days... I am still that kid Lord... my body ages... but I am still that kid Lord God... in six days I am going to see you.... I hope you will remember me.... because I remember you.... you were with me throughout all those chapters in my life... giving me hope giving me a reason to hold on.

Will you forget me.... and abandon me.... like the others? Will you condemn me when I kill myself? Guess I wont know the answer to that. I just wanted to say... I remember you... the question is... will you remember me?"





There is power in evil and there is always a price. And this "power" to rule over all is ruled by a higher authority. Once I knew within the

core of my being that there really is a supernatural element in the Dark Arts; did I realize that God ruled over them. Why? Because true

Christians know the power of blood sacrifice and that they are protected by God only to be tested as He sees fit. Read Job and you will

understand. I can not tell you how many times we have been "hexed" by others only to have it reflect off us and back on the curser! When I

concluded that there was a spiritual world out there... then I began my search for why there is a God and why the Bible is more than just any

other book on the market. My course of study changed. I studied astrophysics and learned that the universe is finite. It had a beginning. I

studied archaeology and learned that the historical evidences agree with the historical data recorded in Scriptures. I learned from reading

the writings of Josephus Flavius that Jesus really did exist and did perform miracles. Josephus was not a Christian. He approved of Jesus'

death and called Him a devil. I studied Roman history and the persecuted spread of Christianity throughout the world. There is truly

something to learn my friends. Most Christians blindly accept their faith at face value. Satanists call that herd-thinking. The herd of sheep

blindly following a crazy shepherd to their deaths. Many cults do the same thing... so from a skeptic's point of view this is the case. The fault

lies within the churches. We teach Christians but do not raise them up to be Spiritually mature; capable of defending their faith for anyone

who asks of it. Because we are comfortable being complacent, we become the stumbling block that causes others to question our logic.

They read through us and turn away from the Bible on account of our lack of wisdom and knowledge. The blood of those who have rejected

Christ as the result of our careless remarks and our herd mentality will be on our heads one day because it was our Lord who commanded us

to be ready and accountable to answer questions that people ask us.


The reason I have spent much time on this issue is because there is a grave misunderstanding between born-again Christians and skeptics

today. It need not be so. I decided to note my journey through the occult because others may decide to take that journey too and I believe

that if God has His Hand on you... He will allow you to walk in heavy darkness in order to find the flickering candle of light from His Word! A

candle can be seen from great distances in the darkest of nights! The gnawing of the pangs of hunger for one's meaningful purpose in life

may drive them as they did me; to find out the difference between reality and myth. Darkness and power of the occult is nothing to fear if you

truly are a Christian. One needs only to take authority over it to master it and that may take some practice and faith grounded through

experience. For those wandering blindly in the darkness; there is hope. You have three choices. Continue as you are and meet your fate as

Anton LaVey has; search the depths of the occult and learn as I did, how sadly shallow it is; or three, pursue a deeper knowledge of the

Kingdom of Light. My journey took me twenty three years before I could write this article. I hope for your sakes, you will not squander your

lives as I have mine. But then, perhaps my message will fall on your minds and hearts and somehow influence you to reconsider your

positions.



The knowledge is out there... it is up to you to grasp for it. Only through knowledge can one develop wisdom. Proverbs 2:2-5.

Rhonda has had four relationships since we broke up. I reeled from watching one affair to the next as I watched her life draw to a close. In

all, I have tried more than four attempts to end my life. But God has a sense of humor I think. I will describe one such incident below.

I volunteered to go into New Life Treatment Centers under Dr. Fred Gross Treatment Center in Anaheim California. I was a suicidal mess. I will

try to write some of what I learned there briefly. But this document was gleaned down from over two thousand pages to just under thirty.


In the course of then next two weeks, I learned to slowly trust again. And I learned so much at that hospital that I began to have hope again.

Before leaving, the staff passed the hat and gave me some money to help me get back on my feet again. I was deeply moved. But I needed

more time... but the insurance money ran out. I left with raw wounds and after a few months I got depressed again.


The cycle of suicidal anguish would continue for many years to come. I wrote many journals, cried many tears, and even carved bloody

messages on my arms to send people a message that I was serious about my suicidal intentions. Each time I get suicidal, I'd carve a letter. I

decided that I would die when I reached the last letter in my message. I carved the words "DEAD ALIVE". People thought I was crazy; but I

knew what I was doing.


Some of you don't understand why people carve. I carved when the internal anguish is so great that turning to physical pain dulls the internal

pain. I learned that the reason I do this is because of the ritualistic abuse I seen as a child. If no one is there to punish us; we punish

ourselves. It's a form of self-hatred. Carving feels better because the mind can really hold a lot of internal grief. The mind has synapses that

regulate the stress that our minds can handle. When over-bearing stresses are testing those synapses, they become dull and eventually stop

producing the Serotonin that suppresses the internal anguish, Serotonin is like morphine. It's the biochemical antidote for releasing the

stress in our lives. When we experience ongoing trauma; our biological minds can not keep up. This is what brings the chemical imbalances

in our brains. Like war vets; I have seen a different kind of war. Yet in many ways were have much in common. Major depression is anger

turned inwards. It's like burying your feelings cause you don't want people to know you are hurting. An analogy might be that of someone

who sweeps dirt under a carpet. Eventually that dirt bleeds through. So it is with our lives. We can hold it in for only so long; everyone has a

thresh-hold. Eventually we all get to a point of fail-safe. And when we do; look out! We just come apart at the seams.


For years I lived in this black hole. I was blinded and unable to see the love and care that others have tried to give me. I reasoned over and

over that there was nothing to live for and refused to accept the good that people offered because of a couple of reasons. The first was that I

was confronted in counseling of two fears that was keeping me from healing. The first was that I feared success. I feared letting go of the

pain. For the pain was my identity. It was who I believed I was inside. Molded by the experiences that life had dealt me. If I slowly; very, very,

slowly,... released the pain, I feared that I would lose control of who I was and I would be completely and utterly defeated. My anger and

rebellion was really a surface issue. There were issues under those issues that had to be resolved in time. The rage was how I tried to keep

people away from me because I feared they'd find out what a miserable wretch I really was inside. But the anger was actually saving my life!!!

It was healthy for me to release this pain and kept me from internalizing it.


What I needed to learn was how to manage this anger in constructive ways and stop hurting myself which only fed the cycle again! Each

revolution of the cycle of self destruction goes deeper. The reason is because we become no longer satisfied with the previous cycles and

seek even more destructive ones. Eventually I was left with two choices. The first was either/or commit homicide and then suicide or just

commit suicide and end the pain right there and then. Or... fight to live and get the help and knowledge I needed to break out of the chaotic

cycle I was experiencing!


Emotions create powerful chemicals in the brain to control the pain. Eventually the brain can not keep up with it all and the pain becomes

unmanageable. That is where medications become useful. The meds takes the edge off. But it does not take away the internal anguish. It

only controls the symptoms of the underlying problem.


The pain must be released... but how did I do it without losing my sanity or everyone else's around me? I journaled over 2000 pages; many of

those pages were full of deep carvings where I drove the pen through the pages in sheer anger! I expressed some of those pages written in

the warm blood that oozed from the cuts in my arms. It was the end result of this work that had created this article. After many trips to

hospitals; each trip released more of this pain and each time I was getting healthier because I shared my entries with my counselor and got

feedback. But I had to find the counselor that cared enough to take the notebooks home and read them and write notes in them to help me

remember how to change my thinking each time. The journals became a map of my trip out of the black depression I was wrestled with.

Before I started journaling, I drew pictures. I sat on the floor of my living room or bedroom and focused on feeling as young as I could

remember. By sitting on the floor, I felt smaller while everything seemed larger to me; just as I would as a child. I had a large notebook and

lots of crayons. I turned on classical music because there were no lyrics, and I relaxed and listened a few minutes. I then drew whatever

came to mind. Perhaps nothing did... but I drew meaningless colors... before long the pain surfaced and those colors became flashes which

then inspired scenes in my mind surfacing the unconscious and buried anger and grief that under lied below the depression or whatever I

was experiencing. It was tiresome work... but I would take those drawings to my counseling visits to allow the counselors to give me insight

as to what messages the drawings revealed to them. My counselor would hang my pictures around her office on the walls each week and

whenever she had patients; she would observe them and see if they could relate to the pictures and if they could describe in their own

words, what it was they saw. At the same time... I was inspired to create more. By doing so, I vented the pain each time on a deeper level.

Over time the drawings became more peaceful as my mind was healing. When I was ready, I then started journaling.


The second fear I had was the fear of failure. I feared success and I feared failing! I was fighting to live while praying to die!!! I can't tell you

the many times that I held a 45 cal pistol in my mouth, contemplating pulling the trigger and instead, chose to writhe in the pain and live!

After many brushes with death, I came to realize that as much as I wanted to die; deep down I kept hoping things would get better tomorrow.

But even at this deep cycle... I tested my fate more and more seriously each time. There is a book called "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plaith.; she

died in this manner. God is with me... even on the darkest nights playing with a gun.



A long time ago someone told me that it is the people who have been through hell that make tomorrow's leaders. The experiences that you

and I share can affect many; many untouchables that could not otherwise be counseled because the best counselors are the ones who have

learned about life the hard way and not by some textbook!


With this thought in mind, I had to realize that maybe, just maybe, if I resisted this darkness long enough to fight for the hope; then the sorrow

and grief in my life will have purpose. For by them I hoped to gain the humble acceptance that other's like myself could use someone like me

to reach them in ways that no one else ever could. It is this hope that gave my life new meaning and purpose.

"Diamonds are only created in coal under intense heat and pressure. We can stay the way we are and die young and be buried at 70 or

eventually kill ourselves; or we can writhe in the fires and be purified from it."


My road out of this nightmare began with finding a good hospital where I felt safe enough to express myself. I had to have the courage to

trust people. But insurance companies will not let most stay there long enough to get the help desperately needed. So repeated trips need

followed; for most on an annual plan. The good hospitals were the Minerith Meyer Clinics which can be contacted through www.newlife.com

or 1-800-new-life. Most of these counselors were unlike any I had ever experienced. They cared because they walked the same path that I

was on and not by some textbook you read in college. My visits were rigorous from sun up to sun down. Unlike many public hospitals that

keep you in waiting for your 15 min session each day; New Life meant business!


I tested them again and again to see if they were for real. I carved; I electrocuted and hanged myself. I broke overhead lights to swallow the

poison in them, and I tried them as if I were the devil's advocate. I was living as a practicing Satanist and they all believed in God. But they

would not give up on me. They cried when they saw me lying on the floor after a failed suicide attempt. They each held my hands and prayed

over me; how many counselors would care enough to pray with you rather than give lip service?


I cursed the insurance companies the most because by the time I started to trust people; they'd say your 30 days were up and you had to go.

If they only knew that by limiting the services would only repeat again and again at a far higher price than to just keep you there one time till

you were ready to leave and fly again with new wings! (The cost was fifty thousand dollars a trip; I was there at least six trips)

When I returned home I had to face my failures head on with the misunderstanding and accusations of others who claimed to know me but

did not.


Instead of getting the loving attention that I needed; I received the opposite. It was very difficult to find the kind of care I needed outside of

that loving hospital environment that I experienced. And it is this very nurturing care that is needed in every Bible believing church

throughout our nation!


Incredibly, many Satanists are more fervent in their summonings than Christians are in their prayers! Satanists curse

Christians every hour of the day. They in particular focus on the REM of Christians sleep cycle to influence their sub-consciousness around

4 AM in the morning. Which ironically Jesus would get up and pray early in the mornings. Christians don't even pray protection over their

churches or houses of meeting. They ought to be doing spiritual combat with a 24 hour prayer vigil against the forces of darkness. But they

sit and are entertained in their audiences. Sleeping and virtually ineffective as soldiers of the light as their shepherds glibly tell tales to

tickle their ears! They sing praises while sitting on the sidelines waiting for sweet Jesus to take them away while stifling out the cries of

those dying outside their glass doors!



There are many who no longer believe in God. I think that is because of the repeated disappointments they have experienced in their frail

lives. But let me tell you that I would not be alive today if all those little coincidences that I tried to excuse away were just by chance. God

sees us and grieves with us in our hopelessness. My journey back to Christianity came slowly. It took people who loved me by action and not

by lip service to begin the process. I spent over ten years during that troubled time reading every thing I could find on the subject of whether

or not God existed. I am now absolutely certain that He does! I wrote a paper on it... and I believe it is very convincing.


The Bottom line...


My Hope... and the treasure that awaits me in the end... is you! You may be that diamond refined in the fires of your personal hell. One day...

one day we may be in heaven some day... there life is eternal... not like it is here. This is the battleground today. We are tomorrow's warriors.

If we can survive; we can lead... and if we lead then we can die knowing that for all it has been worth... at least we gave back something to

this world that no one else can give. And understand that life is short. Very short. Tomorrow could be my last day as I could get killed just

walking out my front door! If there is no God then why live? But if there is... then why not take the path I took and see for yourself? For I am

an orphan; rejected by my family; and now I am a redeemed and adopted as a child of God. I discovered a new family has loved me and some

have dedicated their lives to give me that hope. They mentor me and teach me what a healthy family is supposed to be like. I am welcomed

there as a son in a way. And I am learning to trust again. To be like a child... and even as an adult... to be free of the shackles that have

bound me for so long.


In heaven... the tears of sorrow will no longer fall. The treasures I store up are not of gold or jewels; or even good deeds for that matter! For

nothing we do could ever earn our way there of our own merit. All our righteous deeds are like filthy rags before a holy and pure God! Isaiah

64:6.


We get there by first accepting Jesus' death for our screw-ups; past, present, and future. And then we change our way of thinking to the love

and positive perspectives from those before us that had problems as well. The Bible is a collection of historical writings of a persecuted and

suffering people. All the deeds of nobility and shame are recorded there. Read it and decide yourself. Let not someone taint your view; just

read it and make up your own mind as I did.


I had this dream one night;


"I saw Jesus hanging from the cross in total despair as He watched His Father abandon Him. His closest friends betrayed and denied their

ties with Him, and the rejection of the people of his kind sought His death with a bloodthirsty hatred. I saw a Jesus bleeding from head to toe

from the cuts and welts all over his body and it reminded me of the cuts and bruises that were inflicted on me. I saw a Jesus who suffered

and could have called down the angels and destroyed everyone but instead took the blows out of His love for people like me 2000 years into

the future! Here was a man that experienced life as I experienced it. He was not raped or molested or was he? Hanging from the cross

bleeding NAKED as his loincloths were gambled in mockery from the soldiers below in front of countless thousands of people in a quarry and

trash heap just outside the city gates!


Note: A Satanist would tell you that Jesus failed in His mission, that He died, the end. Well I beg to differ. I have resources "outside" the Bible

that bear testimony. I have historical and archaeological evidences proving that His death actually occurred and that the way He died is

medically accurate; he did not swoon and roll a two and a half ton stone and just walk away a few days later.


(Josh McDowell "The Resurrection Factor"; this book is out of print. He has others, read them and learn from them. Josh is an ex-atheist professor who

sought to convert people to his paganistic point of view; but instead learned that it takes a heck of a lot more faith to remain an atheist than

it does to accept the facts and convert to Christianity.)


In my second dream; I saw myself as a young child being held in Jesus' loving arms in patience as I screamed and beat His chest again and

again with my fists. Perhaps it is nothing... but it made me think. What is so evil that we can not scream and curse God when we are angry?

Does not God see the big picture? Can He not see the cause of my hostile venom? Is God the kind of God that watches and enjoys others

cruelly mistreat children? I once believed that. After making the effort to find the truth... I now know the truth.


Many people see God as through the eyes of a child before an angry parent. The image of God becomes distorted because as abused

children of physical authorities in our lives they come to see God as some abusive or careless perfectionistic tyrant as their parents were to

them! I learned of this in one of my counseling sessions. And it's true. But this is only one type of distortion, in all there are about twelve. The

only way to learn who God is is by searching for answers.


Begin your journey as I have mine. Find out why you are here and how to heal from the fires of hell! The scars on my body bear a story of

where I have come from; but more so; of the victim who became a survivor with a powerful testimony that can influences countless people

that others could not reach. Those that were inspired will inspire others and this message may affect people to the fourth generation. Who

knows! You may rise and influence someone who becomes the next world leader!


There is more. Any Christian out there suffering from suicidal thoughts or depression should consider as I have noted from retrospective

comments that I have made in a letter to a friend:


"In some ways doing so (ministering to other people's needs) is forcing me to realize that this sick world is full of hurting people as myself. I

do have a lot to offer people despite the fact I absolutely hate and despise my experiences in it. While bitterly acknowledging this ungodly

gift to ministering to others... no one really can minister to me.


This of course frustrates everyone who I trust as a close friend. I had to pull myself out of this pit I was into and move on. It is easy for me to

wallow in the pig slime of self pity. But till I actually chose to get out of the mire then I remained stuck in it. I must ask myself just how did I

allow myself to get back here in the first place? The answer lies in the fact that ever since I lost my job I have again isolated myself from

society and stopped going to the source of my strength; the Word. I actually feel the need to read it again. I have resisted... I tell myself

maybe tomorrow. But despite my lethargic reactions; everyone out there that is reeling in their own slime pits don't know how to get out of it;

whereas I have no more excuse; for I know better.


So I must then ask myself... why do I continue to lick my old wounds and whine about it all? Perhaps because I am fearful of change...

suicidal thoughts are an escape... much as running away from home as a kid was an escape. The question is how long will I continue like this

and then will one day I get to the point where I actually do pull the trigger? That very thought scares the hell out of me! As it should. So today

I have decided that the reason to go to church for example is because again... I need to go. I need to go because the thinking and positive

insights there keep me from the pit that I am currently in. And when I come home I need to place scripture verses of the truth to counter the

brainwashed statements others have told me as a child; and plaster them all over the walls and force myself to memorize and quote them

whenever I want to debase myself. And to accomplish this will require accountability. I need to allow someone to watch over me to make

sure I do this. Not a ******... but someone that will encourage and knock some sense into me."


We all really need to ask ourselves if we really want to change out thinking. Events and circumstances mold them... but it is really up to all of

us to decide whether to allow them to control us or to master them. If we can figure a way to do this... and believe me, I am in this struggle to

this day; then we will overcome the people and events that seek to destroy us. The question then is; do we really want it? And the next

question is; what will we do to change the way we think? And finally... we need to act on what we know to be true. That is sanity. For if we

remain as we are then we will die as failures. If we allow ourselves to be refined... then we will be as priceless jewels because unlike the

millions out there... we will have overcome.



Do not give up seeking the help you need till you finally find it. Your life has a purpose. I have to force myself to remember that every day.

Contact me or go to where I went. 1(800) New-Life. There I slowly mended... I understood what happened to me and why I was so suicidal as

the result.


Those who suffer more will learn more wisdom... and from that you will bear your testimony to those who are suffering as well. The secret to

healing is to find someone who will listen and be your friend. And what better friend is there than to know someone who has something in

common with you.


Understand: Forgiveness is like an onion. I have to peel off a layer at a time. Each layer gets smellier and stronger. Eventually I will get to the

core and maybe some day put my past at peace. I am not healed yet. I wonder if I ever will be. I have to surround myself around healthy and

positive people. That is why I had to cut my family off in my life. Our family is not healthy and does nothing to support me.


When Rhonda and I broke up; I was a mess. All the dreams we shared together were gone. Many of the problems in our marriage

could have been avoided. The biggest problem was that we failed to talk to each other. People if your marriage is in trouble... please...

remember your both best friends... you got to trust each other and really try to talk!!! And if you really want to move forward... one of you has

to be strong enough to forgive the other... and both of you need to remember to be accountable for your actions because you are hurting

each other. Do you love your spouse or not? Love is not an emotion... it is a choice! You choose to love someone... or it is fantasy.


She needed a husband and not a child. I was a child... not the person she hoped I would become. It is I who failed her. Had I been a mature

person and known the role of a husband... maybe life would have been different. But I had no one to teach me... and I had no way to grasp her

love for me because I was so hopelessly writhing from my own problems. I could not see a way out. Like a wounded animal; I bit anyone that

tried to help me. And the ones closest to me bore the brunt. I destroyed my marriage. I allowed my bitterness to eat me up alive and everyone

close to me got burned from the heat!


When the one person she married abused and did not love her... then she turned to others for that love that I was ordained by God to give her.

I was the one that planted those seeds and I reaped the fruit that I sowed. I am hoping she will learn from relationship to relationship that

she will not meet her needs there. We were meant to be together. We are soul mates.


Regrettably; It's been nine years I have waited... she has called... many times... but she won't forget... she won't forgive me... so I am thinking

about letting her go... and I am grieved... grieved sometimes to the point of death. And yet... I am healing... a little every day. I am learning to

trust in God again.


You might think that I am an overzealous Christian. No... its not like that. See the church I go to is my family now. They pray for me and listen

to me and hug me and encourage me. It is good medicine to share one another's pain. It relieves stress and heartache and at the same

time... for me... it makes me realize that perhaps God did have a plan for me in all those experiences. For had I never had gone

though them... how would I have the wisdom to assist in the healing of others.


When I read in Scriptures that God is the light to my path... what does that mean? One has to think. Back in the days when David wrote

that in Psalms; they had no light. It got so dark you could not see the hand in front of your face a week every month. If it were not for the

moon and torches they had nothing to see by. So think... how far could a candle or torch light travel? Not very far I am afraid. A few feet... you

could not see where your path went... you just trusted back then you would get to where you needed to go. So it is with life. We can not see

where our path leads. All we can see is that when the sun comes up the next day... how far we have traveled. As I look back at my life... God

allowed me to go through all those experiences and is still teaching me today. I do not know where my life will lead one day but I do know

some things from experience. Despite all the terrible events in my life... even to the point of swallowing a bullet... God was there. He listened

to me... and though I could not see it at the time; it is daylight now and I can see behind me that He had His Hand on me steering me along

the way.


I am still that hurt child hiding in the closet down in the basement in Ft. Thomas. I was the altar boy at St. Catherine's that stared back

into the stained glass windows and wondered in awe at the dancing colors on the pews. I was the same kid... that many never knew... would

spend long hours there after school reading every book in the library; in search for a hungry solution in my life. And I was the same kid that

rode a ten speed over a hundred miles to Columbus to be with a group of people who loved me for who I was and not for what I could do for

them.


A final note to some of you Christians out there:

When you see someone carving... you do not know the dark secrets they carry. Just know that the Lord pays particular attention to

unwanted children... and the adult children whose bodies age but their minds are still reeling from the pain of the skeletons that still rattle in

the closets of their minds. It is not of the devil... when they carve... they do it to feel physical pain so that they do not go insane dealing with

the mental stuff. I remember writhing in bed many nights in warm soaked sheets from all the tears of despair I shed. I attempted suicide four

times, been in nine mental hospitals... and you know... despite what many think... if I would have died... my blood would cry out like Abel's did

in the garden of Eden... I was innocent and those who would drive me to death would have committed the act because death was

preferable than the insanity of the abuse that I endured.


I survived because the Lord was merciful to me... I overdosed, electrocuted, hung myself and in the end... slept with a gun for nine years

undecided whether to pull the trigger... and I still sleep with it... I by no means have arrived. But I cling to this hope in Psalms 27:10-14. That I

will not have to go to the land of the dead to find resolution... but wait on God to find it in the land of the living.

Remember:

"Tomorrow's greatest leaders will always be today's strongest survivors. The harder and meaner life gets... the more beautiful is the diamond
in the making. Diamonds are rare... but a lump a coal is not. Effective leaders must be purified through the fires of great testing to stand fast
against the wiles of the Devil. And trust me... if you survive, then Satan's kingdom will quake to the foundation once you are liberated from
your hellish life... because you will know a heck of a lot more than those who skimped by in the comforts of this world. And it will be you one
day that God will use to influence thousands if not millions around the world that others could not touch."



That is my hope... and Psalms 27:10-14 has been giving me strength to hold on... a day at a time.


Sincerely,

Jonathan

Answer 2

i'm not :-D
My thoughts about it is that Jesus himself had good ideas, but many of his followers from the bible writers forward have twisted everything into some pretty twisted stuff. certian people, like Paul (you know, the writer of more than half of the new testiment.) are so disgusting to me that i cant even stand to read it.

Christianity, like most religions, has the capacity to be a great religion. however, many of its followers lack that ability and instead turn it into a "my gods better than your god, oh wait you dont have a god it's just satan you're evil and you need to dieeeee"

Answer 3

I'm a Christian because Jesus died on the cross for ME, and no one can do any better than that. It's great to know that I will get to spend eternity in Heaven with God.

Answer 4

I'm a Christian and trying to follow the path that HE has set out for me!

Answer 5

I am =]
I've just been trying to be as Christ-like as possible right now, and its hard. You see all these people you know that used to be Christian, and suddenly they think "Oh, Jesus' life was just one good story." or "God specifically hates me, why would he do all this to me" and... it sucks.
And then others treat Christianity as more of a religion than anything.

Answer 6

I am.

God is real, but he does not answer those who have corrupt motives for seeking him. If you seek God will all of your heart he will reveal himself to you.

(By the way God hates the sin of PRIDE. The very first and the worst sin is PRIDE. Satan was the first on to be proud. Don't want to be like him)

Answer 7

Yes, I'm a gay Christian...who is also a bishop....and I love being both, because created me to be such...because "God does not create junk"!!

+David

Answer 8

I am, and I like it because if you truly follow it the right way you'll come out a decent person.

Answer 9

1 John 4: 3

And every spirit that confesseth not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is not of God: and this is that spirit of anti christ, whereof ye have heard that it should come; and even now already is in the world.

Answer 10

I'm not christian.

Answer 11

i'm proud to be 1
& its other people's fault they're not 1 because they're missing out on a lot of stuff.