This part of my journey begins in middle school during my preteen years and concludes with my initial awakening in my mid-20s. I want to emphasize that while this may be disturbing for some readers, I am committed to sharing factual accounts of my life during this period.
Picking up from where we left off, I experienced significant religious abuse at the age of 11. While attending middle school, I encountered numerous issues with both of my parents. Generally, whenever I did something wrong—regardless of what it was—I was subjected to writing Bible verses repeatedly as punishment. Since I spent most of my time in my room, grounding wasn’t a viable option for my mom, so I inevitably found ways to rebel. Ironically, this punishment only resulted in me becoming more knowledgeable about the Bible than my mother, enabling me to counter her relentless finger-pointing and hypocrisy. Admittedly, this was not the best approach for me, but at the time, I felt justified as I didn’t know any better.
In middle school, I began hitting puberty and started noticing girls more acutely. I remember getting my first erection while watching the movie "Cocoon," though I couldn’t explain why. This realization sparked my curiosity about sexual exploration, which is typical for many boys transitioning into puberty. During that time, schools still taught comprehensive sex education, covering topics like masturbation, which I was keen to explore further. Unfortunately, due to past experiences, I learned that I had to hide everything for my own survival. I certainly couldn’t ask my mom about these topics; I knew how she would react.
During this phase, personal home computers were beginning to emerge as status symbols, and the internet was only in its infancy. I received a hand-me-down computer from my uncle, who worked for IBM at the time, complete with a 3.1 dial-up modem. Remember the nostalgic sound of dial-up connecting? It was thrilling to finally get online. Those early days also introduced chat rooms, AIM, and internet porn. I vividly recall one day when I was exploring online, eagerly waiting for an image to load when my mom barged in, triggering an explosive confrontation.
I was labeled "unclean," "disgusting," and "the devil"—the same tirades I had heard repeatedly. Despite her ire, I continued to explore my sexuality. I learned to tune into the distorted, pay-per-view channels on our old TV, where I could catch glimpses of what intrigued me. I would see girls in class or on the bus who stirred feelings in me as I delved deeper into my exploration. Lacking guidance, I sought knowledge from various sources, including encyclopedias and my mom's old anatomy textbooks from college. Reading about anatomy and sexuality revealed that such explorations were entirely normal for kids my age. This only deepened my confusion because it directly contradicted the shame and punishment I endured when caught.
During middle school, my mother's alcoholism became impossible to ignore; she didn't bother to hide it from me anymore. She would often finish at least two bottles of wine each night, leading to more tirades and physical abuse. By this point, I had grown numb to her outbursts. When she passed out drunk on the floor at 8 PM, I would attempt to wake her, and most nights, I succeeded in getting her to her bed. However, other times, I sat up with her until midnight or later, making sure she didn’t choke on her own vomit. As a result, my bedtime often stretched late, leading to insomnia and attention issues in class, ultimately affecting my grades.
A significant turning point occurred when she got into a serious car accident while drunk, prompting her to quit drinking cold turkey. Though this was initially a positive development, it transformed her into a “dry drunk,” characterized by unpredictable emotional outbursts and behavioral instability.
When I struggled with school subjects, I was compelled to let my mom know, especially if I received a teacher's note regarding my performance. Although this happened infrequently, whenever it did, I faced severe consequences. My mom would resort to taking away privileges and often used bribery, promising money for good grades, which was enticing as I could buy more action figures—provided they weren’t "the devil." This arrangement worked until I received a C in Geometry during high school.
One night at dinner, I anxiously presented my report card to my mom, and my nerves got the best of me—I threw up all over the table. My mom showed rare sympathy for my anxiety, and I found her unexpectedly encouraging. This brief show of kindness contrasted sharply with what I usually experienced, leaving me feeling hopeful that the softer side of my mom still existed.
By the time I entered high school, we switched to a new church, intensifying my mother’s religious fervor. I often spent late nights on the computer in chat rooms, seeking connections and finding solace in conversations with girls and other lonely souls. As cybersex emerged, I learned how to communicate intimately with others through trial and error, largely relying on fantasy since I had no real-world guidance. One night, while chatting with my online girlfriend, my mom walked in as I got caught up in indulgent exploration. This moment became a breaking point for her; concerned for my "mortal soul," she once again forced me to write Bible verses repeatedly. She also contacted a church deacon, requiring me to meet with him for mentorship—all because I was exploring my sexuality.
Relating to my dad's situation, he and my mom briefly attempted to reconcile, which made me hopeful. Unfortunately, their histories were too painful, and communication had broken down. My parents often asked my dad if he had been "saved" or baptized, following their church's belief to save as many souls before the apocalypse—a belief heightened in anticipation of Y2K. Not long after, my dad prayed with us and accepted the Lord into his heart, which was emotional, marking one of the only three times I had seen him cry.
During family prayer sessions, I felt a distinctive warmth envelop me, akin to a ring of light settling atop my head. When I shared this experience with my mom, she claimed I had been blessed by God. Around this time, church members frequently emphasized that I was “special” and had God’s favor, which played into my mother’s pride and her desire to shape my identity. While this flattery inflated my ego, it also fueled a simmering resentment toward my mom, as I struggled with the expectations placed upon me. Church members would often proclaim that the spirit of the Lord was upon me, suggesting that I was destined to lead a congregation, which I later came to understand was largely shaped by the collective knowledge and past experiences I had—as well as the. punishments of my mother forcing me to rewrite Bible verses continuously.
As high school progressed, I began to sever ties with my mom, pouring myself into my studies and my newfound independence through driving. I socialized with girlfriends and built a life separate from her, but I was also grappling with raging teenage hormones. The relationship with my mom was nearing a breaking point. During heated exchanges fueled by my surging emotions, I would often retaliate. In response, she would slap me in the face, choke me, or push me around, all in an attempt to "beat some sense" into me. One night, she burst into my room after I had gone to bed, ready for confrontation. However, this time, I refused to be a victim. I played dead weight, and she was unable to move me. I laughed at her and told her never to try that again. Eventually, this led her to realize she needed another tactic, so she turned to even more yelling and shaming.
Throughout this time, I often questioned why I never had visible bruises from my mother’s abuse, especially recognizing the severity of my hemophilia. I later learned from my uncle and others that my apparent lack of physical evidence stemmed from my spirit guide protecting me during those dark moments.
In my final year of high school, two significant events rocked our community and the nation: the Columbine shooting and Hurricane Floyd, which devastated the East Coast, including my hometown in North Carolina. During my junior and senior years, I fell into what I would describe as a goth phase, channeling my anger and rage through dark attire and music. I embraced death metal, violent video games, and horror films, feeling numb and emotionally detached for most of the time. I began to write dark poetry, illustrating graphic images and often fantasizing about the Angel of Death wreaking havoc on my mother and the popular kids at school.
As the Columbine tragedy unfolded, it sent shockwaves across the nation, and the repercussions affected my circle of friends. Schools instituted stricter regulations against trench coats and enacted bag checks for weapons. The media condemned video games, violent films, and music by artists like Marilyn Manson, who spoke to my generation’s overlooked struggles—similar to the ones endured by the shooters. While the lost lives were indeed tragic, I couldn’t help but highlight the lost lives of those shooters—subjected to similar feelings of abandonment and isolation, lacking any supportive voices to validate their pain. All it might have taken to prevent such tragedies could have been a moment of connection—letting those boys be seen and heard.
As if things couldn’t intensify, Hurricane Floyd inundated our coastal region, causing catastrophic flooding, loss of life, and displacing countless impoverished families. Our home went without power for two weeks and lacked fresh water for two months. Bottled water became our only source, and everything needed to be boiled before use. The day the hurricane hit, my dad called my mom, asking if he could stay with us since his trailer was partially submerged in water. I went with him to retrieve some belongings the next day.
Coming back to my home, I witnessed the water levels creeping closer to the edge of the road. I watched my dad wade through the floodwaters, some areas reaching his waist, moving from the street to his trailer. I couldn’t help but witness the chaos—people breaking into houses and looting the remnants of their possessions. This experience marked a turning point, as it was the first time I saw my dad frightened. By the end of the day, his home, along with many others, was completely submerged. My mom allowed him to stay at our house for a while, and they attempted to rekindle their relationship, which led to explosive confrontations.
Eventually, my mom decided that we would stay with my grandmother, who had electricity and fresh water, while my dad remained in our home for a bit. After the flooding receded, FEMA provided assistance for those displaced by the disaster. While living with my grandmother, my mom constantly berated my dad, shaming him for his circumstances. Frustrated, I finally spoke up, asking her, “He lost everything! How can you have no compassion?” I couldn’t take it anymore, so I got into my car and drove to my dad’s house, choosing to stay with him instead. My mom lashed out and forced my dad out, banishing him to a temporary stay in one of FEMA’s disaster camps.
My dad struggled with his own depression and anxiety while living in those camps. He grew increasingly frustrated by the inconsistent support from FEMA, often feeling abandoned. Fed up with the situation, he searched for stable housing, eventually finding an apartment—one of the few available at that time. It was a dump, but it became his refuge. I used what little savings I had to buy him essentials like a broom, a trashcan, and a salt and pepper shaker to show my support. His family didn’t step in to help.
Shortly after this period, I graduated high school and entered college—a transition both uplifting and overwhelming. I was finally free from my mother’s oppressive household, but I also faced the reality of determining my future. At 17, soon to be 18, I relished my newfound independence and threw myself into the college experience. I partied, drank excessively, and embraced a carefree lifestyle. Initially, I had hoped to pursue a career as a Physician’s Assistant, but after examining the course load, I realized I wasn’t ready for that commitment, so I pivoted to nursing. Unfortunately, after two semesters of chemistry, it became clear that wasn't my path either. I eventually landed in computer science but quickly grew frustrated and dropped out.
My college experience was heavily influenced by excessive drinking and partying. In my depressive state, I often turned to food and alcohol as coping mechanisms, resulting in significant weight gain. Before long, I found myself at 380 pounds, struggling with my mental health. Throughout this time, my mother occasionally visited me, publicly shaming me and belittling my challenges.
Amid the chaos, I had intriguing spiritual experiences at school. While dating a girl from Alaska, we chatted on AIM one day, and for reasons I still don’t understand, I slumped down in my chair and entered a trance-like state. In this state, I saw a blonde man with long hair, a beard, and blue face paint, riding a horse up a hill with a castle in the background—an axe in one hand and a sword in the other. Eerily, I recognized him, though I didn’t know his name. This experience marked my first memory of a past life.
As our friendship grew, I learned to trust her, and she opened up about being an alien with special powers trapped in a human body. Her boyfriend shared similar sentiments, speaking of battles and history from past lives. One day, they both told me that I shared this unique connection with them but was even stronger. Intrigued yet confused, I began to explore what this meant.
While my college life appeared exciting, I still wrestled with demons from my past. I began to connect with my students and was recognized for my special gifts. One day, while in a classroom conversation with students, I noticed a misty figure. The meaning of this encounter would unravel over time, leading to spiritual developments that emerged alongside my struggles.
My experience during college ultimately led to a crisis point. The vivid memories, spiritual encounters, and aggressive behaviors intertwined, leading to a tumultuous awakening. While it was painful, it paved the way for growth that I would eventually embrace.
In summary, this chapter of my life illustrates the beginning of my spiritual awakening—a process that rocks you to your core, prompting reevaluations of everything you once believed. It’s a beautifully destructive experience, like a forest fire that devastates but also nurtures new growth and life. These events paved the way for relationships with my daughter, my wife, and ultimately finding purpose within my career. No matter how dark things may appear, remember you have survived all of your worst days thus far, and everything will be okay.
I look forward to sharing the final chapter of my journey, detailing events after my awakening and how it led me to this moment, where I share my story with you. Thank you once more for your attention and support.
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