Chapter 1: The Foundation Cracks

It is hard to appreciate the beauty of a renovated house unless you see first what it looked like in its dire straits. The paint cannot be appreciated until you have seen the peeling wall paper. It does not do the hardwood floors justice to adore them without seeing the stained carpets that were once in their place. The skill of the carpenter’s hand cannot be praised if all you see is the final product. You don’t know as to what extent he had to toil to produce such marvelous beauty. You need to have an understanding as to how great of a transformation had taken place for his work to be glorified.

So is the same with the life of the redeemed in Jesus. We all have a past. Some have been great houses that have needed repairs over its life, some have been dilapidated and infested with weeds and rot, while others simply collapsed and crumbled to its foundations. Either way they have all been salvaged by the Master’s hand. This is the story of such a one that many would have thought could not be saved. One that was so far gone that it should have been condemned and destroyed. One that had no hope for tomorrow. Some stories are hard to share, but they need to be shared. Some stories are hard to hear, but they need to be heard. This is such a story. This is my story.

The Foundation Cracks…
Things were more simple in those days. Television sets were large boxes that sat on the floor and offered limited fuzzy choices, music played from massive pieces of furniture, and if you needed to call someone while you were out and about you had to take a quarter to the local gas station. Cars and hair were big, and appliances and lima beans had something in common. Halfway down a dirt road in Amherst County sat a brick house. To the side was a large garden, and also berries that provided delicious homemade jam. Beyond that was what we called “Briar City”. In the backyard stood a shed that housed tools and a good place to skin a buck. Beyond that was the woods. My brother and I would run for what seemed like miles and miles in every which direction. We would come out on one side to find a junkyard, and another in the back yard of an unknown house some streets over. We gathered more than just memories in those days (briar scratches and ticks come to mind). Yet we always made it home for dinner. Life seemed to be in the palm of my hand as I danced with childhood innocence.

As we sat before the wooden box with the fuzzy pictures, I will never recall what was on. As a matter of fact, I can’t recall if it was even brought to life that evening. I remember wondering why my brother was crying. My memory does play again my parents sitting there, looking at us. In my mind I may have been too young to know what had just happened. But if the events that followed were of any indication, then I think I know what was said. My parents we’re getting a divorce.

Many children blame their parent’s divorce for everything that went wrong in their lives, if in fact there was any error that followed. Many hold grudges and angst within their hearts, which they say is the rot that lays at the root of all of their problems. But that wasn’t the case for me. Maybe I was too young to feel the trauma that most feel. I do not know. But I was fairly comfortable with it over the years. As a teenager I even enjoyed it because it meant an extra dose of gifts at Christmas time. Sometimes I wondered if they were in competition. But no, the break of the foundation of our home wasn’t what in and of itself created the storm. It was the relocating afterwards that beckoned the rain…

Chapter 2: The Foundation Collapses

I would not have expected any different from my older brother. I truly believe that when our siblings berate us, that the full velocity of their wrath is being held back by their love for us. What would the explanation be for them drawing tears from you one minute, then laughter the next? But this… this was different. Maybe it was because they did not love me? Maybe it was because they did not know me? Nonetheless the children surrounding our new apartment home saw one word written all over me- “victim”.

His nickname in high school was “midnight”. But on this day he was a freight train. At least that is what he felt like. I had no clue as to what I said or did the evening before that had upset Midnight Train, but he remembered it well when he set his eyes upon me in the early morning light. One minute I saw him, the next minute I saw the pavement. After I dried my tears and set back outside, I had seen that the bus had gone, along with the other kids. My brother’s bus had already come and gone, and my mom was already at work. So I had plenty of time to collect myself on my walk to school. Luckily it was just down the road. 

I am not certain if the girl always wanted a trampoline. But I believe her parents refused to get her one. That explains why one day she felt it necessary to push me down, use her friends to bind my arms and legs, and use her overweight frame to jump up and down on my spine. She must’ve grown tired of me and decided to stomp me into the earth. Did I do something to summons such actions from the neighborhood children? Was it a black and white issue? Or did I cross the line by breathing the same air as they? Even my brother was once caught up in the storm when we were cornered by some girls hurling rocks at us. Mama bear had to get involved with that one. I, however, always took the highest dose. It had become as reliable and frequent as the sun rising in the east, and resting in the west. Such events were foreign to me before this. My popularity in school prevented this from happening until the move. All it could now do was offset the damage, while clutching to what little hope was left. But the storm was coming.

 Eventually we moved closer to the city and I changed schools. I did not possess the attributes that a new popular student would have. No one’s curiosity was sparked and no one fell at my feet to know more about me. No one really knew what to do with the new fat kid with oversized glasses. The only option was to pound him with words that were less than flattering. It didn’t take long for me to get the message that I wasn’t wanted here. That I did not belong. This perfect recipe spilled over into our new neighborhood. After I endured the wrath of cruel words and actions at school, like homework, I was privileged to take it home with me. Although, I must give credit to the neighborhood kids. Their abuse wasn’t a daily way of life like at school. They would play with me and entertain my company one minute, but like a strange dog, would turn on me and attack the next. Sometimes without warning. At least with them there was uncertainty as to how the day would unfold.

Eventually no one liked my name anymore. It was around this time that my peers had decided that I needed a new one to go with my new life. Some called me “Fat”, some called me “Ugly”, and some called me “Stupid” (I am uncertain as to which one was my first, middle, and last name). I entered into this new life as a fourth grader and at the receiving end. As a fifth grader I started to give back. I had some victories, and some defeats, in both school and the neighborhood. But fighting back did not earn the respect and instill fear into my tormentors. It instead stirred the hornet’s nest. My grades plummeted into the failure zone to match how I felt about myself. This would be my last year at Amelon Elementary as Monelison Middle School was creeping around the corner, awaiting to sink it’s fangs into my soul. And this would be my last summer in the neighborhood. The storm had arrived…

Chapter 3: Into The Valley of the Shadow of Death (Part 1)

There are those places that do not put us at ease. Places where we have witnessed trauma. Places that shake us to our core when we revisit them. I did not realize that Monelison Middle School was one such place. Ten years had gone since the last time I had seen it. My wife had a dental appointment next door and, as we pulled onto the property, the memories were there waiting on me. They reminded me as to what happened on the other side of that wall, in the hallway. They reminded me as to what took place over there on the softball field. They showed me the track that was behind the new dental office and asked me if I remembered what they did to me down there. Minutes seemed like hours as I waited on my wife. I couldn’t have gotten out of there fast enough. Never looking back. 

The summer before I started my sixth year of school, my brother and I moved into our Dad’s house. The kids and strange dogs that would attack without warning were replaced with… trees. Unless I had gone totally mad, I wouldn’t have to worry about them judging and condemning me. However, many of them fell over the years so, unless I was standing near one at that time, I didn’t have to worry about them assaulting me either. But this more serene scene did not matter compared to what I was about to face for the next three years.

At Monelison, my former elementary school, as well as four others, converged under one roof. In a perfect world the students from the other schools would have had pity on me and would stand with me against my previous classmates. But no, it isn’t a perfect world. The army grew bigger. It wasn’t enough, though, that the other sixth graders side of the scales were crushed into dust. They also recruited some seventh and eighth graders as well. Returning their favors was no longer an option, seeing that I was ridiculously outnumbered. I couldn’t sit through a class without something physical or verbal cutting through me. I couldn’t even make it down the hallway without someone finding humor in my ability to breath, or my inability to walk after they put their foot out in front of me. 

The style at that time was to have designs shaved into your hair. My brother got the Playboy Bunny on the back of his head. Everyone thought that he was so cool. I wanted to be cool like him, so I ended up with lines on the sides of my head. No! Fat Ugly Stupid isn’t allowed to break status quo and do cool stuff. Immediately upon entering the hallway at the day’s start, they laughed at me. Embarrassed, I covered the sides of my head with my hands and ran down the hallway to the chants of “retard”. My hair couldn’t grow back fast enough. But the definitive part of my day for the next three years was the bus ride home. There was “T.J”, and there was Football Pro. I am not certain as to who “T.J” was though. Anytime someone called for him, Football Pro would respond. But, there was a T.J. He was a redhead who sat in the back. It would seem as though they were suffering from an identity crisis. They made it a point to grill me, but not like Flash. He was something else altogether. He made it a point to sit behind me and kick the back of my seat, or position himself so as to hit my head. Once he was running a sharp object across the back of my scalp. Was it a knife? Had he not yet discovered fingernail clippers? Was he secretly Wolverine from X-Men? I was too scared to turn around and see it for myself. And his laugh! Oh my word! It was the most obnoxious sound I have ever heard. It sounded like a wild boar being tortured. It was like Flash was running his claws up and down a chalkboard. I can still hear it. Then there was Sky. And he made me a legend. I had no intentions on fighting him, seeing as he was twice my size. But on that day he was either really bored, or was hallucinating and saw mosquitoes all over my head. He continued to smack me around as the other kids took notice. I wanted nothing to do with it, so I moved to a different seat. He followed. The crowd wanted a show as they shouted “hit him” over and over again. He gave them what they wanted.

I don’t know if that bus is still in circulation. Seeing as it has been twenty-seven years now, I doubt that it is still living. But, if per chance you find yourself on it someday, you may notice a dent in the interior metal wall, about as high up as a sixth grader. Legend has it that it was put there by the back of my head. They talked about it for years, and made certain that I remembered as well. As far as the front of my head, I’m not sure what the official medical condition was. A “something-hema-something another”. Basically, a section of my forehead had swollen to the size of a baseball. My forehead looked like it was forty weeks pregnant. It was one of those injuries that, if you walked into a room full of people, everyone stopped breathing. Even though I tried to escape (and didn’t lift a finger), we both were expelled from the bus for fighting. In no time the “legendary fight” spread through the halls like flood waters from a broken levee. However, it got twisted. Instead of my forehead swelling, the word was that my eyeball had swollen and extended to two feet in length, which is actually… humanly… impossible. But my last name was Stupid, so what did I know? However, because of my cartoonish and surreal injury, I was being treated like a circus sideshow freak by the rest of the student body.

“Ladies and Gentleman! Boys and Girls of all ages! Step right up and marvel at the unhuman ‘Long Eyed Boy from the Bus’. Is he Fat? Is he Ugly? Is he Stupid? Yes, and he can also spot you from ten miles away with his high powered two foot eyeball. Step right up…”

The sun had finally set on that year. Three months of summertime reprieve was set before me. T.J and Flash would graduate to High School. Sky would find the edge of the earth and fall off, and Football Pro would become as a fever blister- lingering around forever and only showing up when it was inconvenient. But in just a few months they would be replaced by something far more sinister…

Chapter 3: Into The Valley of the Shadow of Death (Part 2)

Grandma and Grandpa‘s house to me was as comforting as a bowl of hot macaroni and cheese. The irony is that Grandma was notorious for feeding me hot macaroni and cheese. Throughout my childhood she was my comforter. She was my rock. She was also the only Christian that I knew. I don’t know what it was about their home, but when I was there all my troubles and pain went away. I would sometimes spend days, weeks, and even months at their home during my summer vacations. At the end of summer, before I entered the seventh grade, it was in their bedroom that I discovered it. Sitting before MTV, I fell for heavy metal music. Skid Row was slaving to the grind, Guns and Roses told me twice to use my illusion, and my favorite, Metallica, had just released their famous “black album”. This information may seem useless, however, it plays a vital role in my life later.

I did not have a name for the gang, but there were one… two… two… five… there were five of them. There was “Curly”, the “Twins”, “The Boy Who Laughs at Everything”, and “The Kid with the Nasally Voice”. I am not sure when it started, or what I did to direct their attention my way, but for the next two years my pain became their obsession. On the first day of the eighth grade, as I got on the bus, Curly morphed into my shadow, screaming at the top of his lungs at the back of my head. I imagine that he had a restless summer not having me around to obsess about. From the moment that the bus went into gear, to the moment that they stepped off the last step, they focused all of their attention on me. I guess I should have been flattered that I was on their mind so much. I don’t know if they ever knew my real name, but they always referred to me as “Fat Boy”. Evidently, when my elementary school classmates changed my first name to “Fat”, it was a shortened version of my new full name. Like bacteria to a microbiologist, they scoured and scrutinized every flaw in my physical form. From my weight, to my extra thick blue tinted glasses in tiger striped frames, nothing was off limits. Even my long tangled up hair and acute cystic acne gave them much to gush over when I was in the eighth grade. Curly was the leader, even though he was the shortest of them all. But I suppose he who barks the loudest shall lead the pack. Once I told my brother that I was going to punch Curly in the throat as hard as I could. When my brother asked why, I said “so that he will die”. However, I would never have imagined fighting him, even though we stood nose to nose on several occasions. Word on the street was that he was the product of his father, who too was a bully. And if you messed with him, then a third of Amherst County would show up on your welcome mat. They all lived on the same street, except for The Boy Who Laughs at Everything. I’m not sure why he tagged along with them on the bus because he wasn’t their type. I think he was just along for the ride. I also don’t know why he called me Fat Boy, because he was twice more plump than me. 

The backdrop to the school day for the next two years was, of course, the bullying. I would be lying if I said that it was taking place every second of the day. This was school. There was still teaching and learning going on. But the expectancy was there as long as I was present and my heart was still beating. You never knew who would do what and when. I felt like Carrie, expecting a bucket of pig’s blood to rain down on me at any moment. I would start to look over my shoulder. Fear and Paranoia stepped in. However, what I couldn’t wrap my mind around, was that there were witnesses who refused to step in and help- the teachers and the bus driver.

They were considered to be the Blood Brothers. They would sit in chemistry and would not rest until they drew blood from each other’s knuckles. They were also on the Trojan football team and much bigger than I. I looked forward to the days that they were ill, or when I could manage to elude them. But when success wasn’t on my side, they would hang back in the hallway as the rest of the class entered the room. One minute I would walk by them, the next I was being pummeled on the ground. After I would pick myself up, I would enter in, disheveled, to the scolding of the teacher for being late for class. Was she on my side? There was also Little Mike Tyson, who sat behind me in social studies. He fell in love with my ear and proceeded to show his adoration by flicking it during the lecture. I politely asked him to stop. When the instructor asked if there was a problem, I asked him to tell Little Mike to stop. He looked at me with a long face and said… “Are you threatening me?” Was he on my side? How about the guidance counselor who requested my presence towards the end of the school year? I thought for certain that he was going to address the issue of me being bullied for nearly three years. Oh no, of course not. The rumors about me being gay and having AIDS didn’t stick too well. But since I was quiet, listened to heavy metal, and occasionally wore a Metallica t-shirt, the rumor about being a devil worshiper did. Aside from grilling me about whether or not I did worship the prince of darkness and if I sacrificed dogs and cats, he also let it be known to me that my teachers were afraid of me. Was he going to help me?

But none of these can hold a flame to the bully masquerading as a gym teacher, Mrs. M. If I struck out at the plate, she would dim the lights, throw a spotlight on me, and call the local media to break the story about how I was a failure at sports. If I dropped the ball, she would stop time in order to draw everyone’s attention to my lack of sports finesse. Never mind that I wasn’t the only one. But I was the only “special one”. “Chris, what’s wrong with you?”, “Chris, do you know how to do anything?” would be her motto of the day, which she would speak in a slightly raised voice before my snickering classmates. After, of course, she had silenced the heavens. Then one day I pushed back. The objective on this Friday was to do lay-ups. If you succeeded, you got to play basketball. If you failed, you had to run laps and do push-ups. I of course failed, along with many others. But for her, my failure was front page news. However, what she didn’t realize, was that there was a basketball goal in my driveway. And this weekend I had nothing but time. On Monday morning it was my turn to hold the ball, and just when she was preparing to stop the earth’s rotation… “boom, Boom, BooM, BOOM!” After I was done raining thunder down all over her, I noticed that I hadn’t succeeded at shutting her up. Her mouth was wide open, but all she could say was nothing. I enjoyed running up and down the court, tripping over my own feet with the big boys while everyone else ran laps around us. For once I tasted victory. And it was sweet.

I remember looking up at the bus driver while in the midst of the unnamed gang. We locked eyes in the mirror. Her glance said to me “I see you. I see what you are going through.” With my glance I answered back “HELP ME! Please HELP ME!” I could have screamed “HELP ME” loud enough to shatter every single piece of glass in Monelison Middle. But there was no one to help me. Not even the adults who witnessed it all. I came to believe that no one would help me as I retreated into my shell. The torture was inevitable without end. Hopelessness and Despair came upon me, and they bore the child called Depression.

One day, when I arrived home from school, I was greeted by an intruder in the kitchen. It was Death. He whispered something into my ear. Something that no child should ever have to hear… or contemplate. I remember holding the large kitchen knife in my hand and asking him “if I thrust this into my chest, will it stop my broken heart from beating?”

Chapter 4: Into the Mouth of Madness

My life wasn’t all doom and gloom. It was the school year that kept the wounds open. I wouldn’t sleep a second during the final night of summer vacation. Fear would keep me restless through the early morning hours. It was like this every Sunday night as well. Anxiety would toss and turn me until silly o’ clock in the morning. However, by Thursday night, I would pass into the dream theater uneventfully. Not because the week had gone better than I had imagined, but because my body was too exhausted to fight my mind. It was during the summer months that I found my reprieve. My cousins and I would make the best of the three months that we had. Four wheeling in the front fields, swimming at Holiday Lake and in a little hotel swimming pool, and splashing in the waves at Topsail and Ocean City managed to wash away the previous year’s blood stains, as well as buffeting the anxiety from knowing that the hours were winding down.

As I entered into my freshman year of High School, I began to crawl out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death. But as I dug my fingers in and drug myself up the next mountain, I realized that I didn’t make it out unscathed. I was beaten. I was broken. I was still bleeding. Yet the bullying had decreased dramatically. Maybe it was because I lost some of Fat during the summer, even though he was still hanging on for dear life? Maybe in a building that housed over twelve-hundred plus students there were more victims for bullies to focus on? Maybe there were some students who, growing ever so near to adulthood, were actually mature enough to focus on bigger things, such as their own life? The answer escapes me. 

The saddening reality was that I had no friends at a time when one would want to fit in. This is the time in life when there are homecomings, big football games, pep rallies, and the prom. Venturing out to movies outside of your parent’s chauffeuring and dating were becoming the norm all around me. Yet I had no one to share life with. Sure, there were the occasional “Hey Chris! How are you doing?” passings in the hallway, but never any “Hey Chris. What are you doing this weekend? Want to hang out?” or “Hey Chris. Let’s just talk for a while”. How could I make friends as broken as I was? I had lost trust in people, assuming that everyone was out to get and hurt me. Like an abused dog, I would cower in fear when someone would reach out to me, expecting the helping hand to strike. I didn’t trust my classmates any longer, I didn’t trust my teachers anymore and, I believe, I must’ve subconsciously lost faith in my family. One would probably wonder by now where my parents were during all of this. That maybe they were awful and could care less. But no, that wasn’t the case. They didn’t help me because I didn’t tell them what I was going through. The painful fact was that I didn’t want any help. Anyone who has been severely bullied would understand. You lose faith and hope in mankind, even those who you are joined to by blood. You almost become so mad by the pain that you embrace it, no matter how much it makes you sick. It becomes your focal point. The storm becomes all that you know. I had built a fortress around myself with walls so high that it eclipsed the sun. It was equipped with holes throughout, where I would crawl and hide when it was unbearable. Like the dead… I became silent.

I got my very first guitar during my seventh grade school year. It was a black Gremlin electric guitar. Any guitar expert would say “What on earth is that?” In less than a year it began to disassemble itself. I remember my guitar teacher pulling my Dad aside and telling him that I needed a real guitar. During my eighth grade year I acquired a cream Fender Stratocaster. As I would plug this guitar into my Crate amp, I myself would plug into the guitar. By the time of my freshman year the guitar and I were one. It was on Friday nights, when all of the other High Schoolers would be at the big game that I would lay in bed, put in a CD, and put on my headphones. Within the walls of my fortress, in the chambers of my mind, I would drift off into another world, a world that I created. It was here that I would transform into James Hetfield, Dave Mustaine, or Prince. Okay, maybe not Prince, but you get the idea. I was on stage before thousands of screaming fans, who would see me as the hero of the day. Live albums made this even more vivid. I would often look at yearbooks while I was on this stage, looking into the unresponsive eyes of those who would mock me, imagining that they were awestruck by my greatness. It was on Saturday nights, while all of the other High Schoolers were doing whatever they did on Saturday nights, I would plug in and perform a three hour concert before my invisible adoring fans. I was the god of my own world. I had found my savior.

The bullying had gained a slight advantage over me during my sophomore year. I had gained new nicknames, such as “Shaggy” because of my long mess of hair, and “Rash” because of the massive rash that developed on my neck from my acute cystic acne medication. It wasn’t nowhere near what I endured at Monelison, but my heart was still tender and my wounds were still fresh. It didn’t take much to break me down. It was around this time that my Dad’s fiancé, Crazy Cat Lady, moved in. My brother missed out on this joyous occasion because by this time he was in college and when he was at home he would stay at his best friend’s house. I didn’t blame him. So it was just little old broken me, my Dad, Crazy Cat Lady, and the demon cat from Hades. I remember some evenings, she would come home from work and scream at me for cleaning up her cat’s hairballs. I was unaware that this was her favorite pastime and that I deprived her of the greatest joy in life. I would respond by calling her by the condensed version of “female dog”. But the real excitement came when I realized that she despised heavy metal music, and guitars. My Dad never minded me blasting my music as I escaped the real world. He never minded my three hour concerts. As a matter of fact, he would often watch me play and tell me to “turn it up”. I would love to hear him tell me that he was proud of me. But that all changed. I was confused and stunned when my Dad would throw open my bedroom door and yell at me to turn it down. Both stereo and guitar. I would turn it down so that what I heard became a mystery, until he would throw open my door again. It wasn’t until I stopped altogether that he was finally satisfied. Or should I say SHE was finally satisfied? My alternate world was threatened. I was no longer able to escape the real world. I will never forget that Christmas, when my Dad bought me my second real guitar- the Washburn RR12 Flying V. I thought that she was going to surrender to the reaper. But the greatest memory was when, after they had their fifty thousandth screaming match, my Dad threw her out of the house. He had enough. I’m glad he finally caught up to me. However, all alone in my room, I had compassion towards her when she and her father came to move her out. I decided to give her a parting gift- some music to work to as they packed. Slayer blasted so loud over my speakers that the house shook. Don’t mess with my world.

It was during this time that I faced what I thought was the ultimate bully. I had heard at some point in my life that there was a God. I also had heard that he was in control of everything. I was never an atheist, or a Satanist as my former guidance counselor was convinced of. I just had no knowledge of God other than that he created the universe and was in charge. I reasoned within my mind that, since God created me, he created me to be ugly and fat. Since he created my bullies, he created them to torture me. Since he sent Crazy Cat Lady into my life, he did so to destroy the savior that allowed me to escape the pain of the real world. Through much analytical reasoning I concluded that God sat in Heaven, and enjoyed watching me be destroyed. He had seen to it that the hands of my oppressors were constantly around my throat, choking the life out of me. I reasoned that God hated me. I hated him as well.

I blamed God for everything that had gone wrong in my life. He was a big bully that wouldn’t rest until man destroyed me once and for all. And it was a slow death. I would come home from school, give God the “bird”, and scream at the heavens. “I hate you! I wish that you would come down here, because if you did I would kill you! Curse you and your wife Mary (I told you I didn’t have much knowledge of God)” I envisioned myself murdering God in ways that cannot be repeated. I truly despised him with unbridled hate. I began listening to satanic death metal. One band I fell for was called Deicide, whose name means “the killing of God”. “God, I hate you! I wish that you would die! I want to kill you! I hate you! Please… please… please stop picking on me! I don’t want you! Why did you choose me? Just leave me alone…” would be the words that crossed my lips. Not the words of Deicide. Not the words of Morbid Angel. Not the words of Obituary. But my own.

One afternoon, as my sophomore year was coming to a close, we had a fire drill. As we stood in the parking lot, a very popular female senior had startled me. She said “Hi”, introduced herself, and extended her hand for a handshake. I refused. She offered again, but I believed that she had ulterior motives. Maybe her boyfriend was lurking in the crowd, ready to pounce on account that I touched his girl? Maybe she would pull me in, throw me to the ground, and spit on me? I didn’t trust her, so I declined the second time. She said “suit yourself” and walked away. Another classmate from way back when saw the whole thing unfold. He smacked me in the back of my head and said “What’s wrong with you? She only wanted to shake your hand.” I’ll tell you what was wrong with me. I had successfully built a great wall and no one could get in. The only tragedy was that I couldn’t get out. 

Chapter 5: The Total Eclipse

Some would say “Be a man and suck it up!”, or “Can’t you take a joke?”, and others would say “C’mon, they’re just messing around with you”. However, there is a great difference between joking around and bullying. When we joke around, we typically do it to get a laugh out of the other person. Most of the time it is with people that we know. We know well enough as to what response we will get and just how far we can go. With bullying, it may or may not involve those who are known. The bully seeks first a vulnerable target. They then investigate that target to identify their weak points. This is where they strike. They strike again and again until they draw blood. Yet they continue striking that open wound, drawing more and more blood. The wound isn’t allowed to heal. The flow isn’t enough for them. They continue striking, sometimes even repeating the process with new wounds, until… there is nothing left of the target. Anyone who has been bullied understands.

The metamorphosis began taking place during the summer before my junior year. My fashion choices began to look more normal, my hair less like a rat’s nest, and the oversized tinted glasses became contact lenses. I had hit the gym harder than Midnight Train had hit me many years earlier and , by the time I was a senior, I was practically all muscle. Twelve hours a week at the gym will do that to you. Fat had died.

She was the new girl from Texas. She had never heard of Fatboy Ugly Stupid. She had never heard of Shaggy and Rash. She had never heard of that Satan worshiper from Monelison. She didn’t know that he was a sports failure in Mrs. M’s gym class. All she knew was this handsome high school senior in her chemistry class. Anytime she was working around me in class, she came undone. Just trying to speak to me, she became a blubbering mess. Trying to hand me something, she became shaky and clumsy. Many times I would look at her, just to catch her in the act of staring at me. Until she quickly looked away, of course. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve believed that she had a crush on me. Many teenage boys would have acted on such. After all, not just was she new, but she was also attractive. And the homecoming dance was upon us. However, I didn’t act. Because so many years of emotional abuse by my classmates had rewired my mind. I couldn’t relate to anyone anymore. Eye contact, on many occasions, was a forced effort. My tongue had been silenced for so long that starting a conversation was less real to me than a dream. Instead of saying ”Would you like to go see a movie?”, I could muster the thought “Oh no! This isn’t normal. Retreat!”. Asking a girl out was impossible, even if it was evident that she would have accepted the proposal. A normal response towards the opposite sex was not normal to me. Once, when in the midst of a group conversation in Spanish class (I was always welcomed into these conversations because I was the smartest one in class. According to my teacher and my test scores), I was startled. Something was rubbing my left knee. I looked down to see the hand of the girl in front of me as the culprit. I was also startled when another girl laid her head on my shoulder while we were in the hall waiting for class. “Hold on now. What?” I thought to myself. What on earth is going on here? Ugly must’ve died.

This was all new to me. On one side, I was flattered, on the other, I was terrified. For me this was abnormal. I didn’t know what to do with the sudden attention. But, because my mind was no longer firing on all cylinders, I retreated and hid every time. My skin crawled, because, according to what everyone had me to believe up until this point, I am not supposed to exist within the same ray of sunshine as another girl. Up until this point all I knew was rejection. Girls threatened me not to even look at them, out of fear that my eyes would somehow inject Ugly into their veins and create an unforgivable infection.

Other than an occasional comment from that human fever blister, Football Pro, the bullying had ceased. The classmates who were making a career out of striking my open wounds were now trying to befriend me. One member of the Blood Brothers became my buddy in art class, while the other was begging me to be on his study team because, again, I was the smartest kid in Senior English class. I suppose Stupid must’ve died by this time. Not that he ever truly existed. I was once the outcast. I was once rejected. Now I was being welcomed. I was being accepted. The accusers had shed their old selves. All of this had become surreal to me. Was this really happening? Would it all end? Can I really trust them again? Can I forgive them?

Maybe they were hammering on my fortress wall with their kindness, trying to get me out? Maybe it was because I was trying to claw my way out? I believe that this back and forth struggle, added with the fact that the wall was no longer needed, is what caused it to finally crumble. I was free from my wall. They were free to connect with me again. The sun shown dim. Something still wasn’t right. There was a bug in the system, a glitch in The Matrix if you will. I stepped out from the rubble, upon the high peak above the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and faced the sun that had been shut out from my wall. But there was something wrong with it. There was something ominous before it. It was… eclipsed.

I wanted this obstruction removed. “It shouldn’t be there” I cried to myself. I am finally free. I am finally accepted. My God! What is wrong? They are reaching out for me, but why can’t I accept them? The bullies are gone. The accusers are no more. The wall was collapsed. The peace offering is here. The enemies are no more. What’s wrong?

There in fact was one last enemy, and he was the greatest. He would torture me worse than anyone before. He would drive me mad by his oppressive grip. He would only allow me to breathe by his permission. It was up to him whether or not I could speak. If I chose the veil of darkness to escape, like a midnight shadow, he would sneak up on me and drag me back into the cell. He abused me severely. I could not run from him. I could not forgive him. I hated him. And I did not realize, after all this time of dressing myself up in the mirror before school, that he was staring back at me.

And then I met some guys…

Chapter 6: The Enemy Within

We must’ve bore a resemblance to Tuco, Angel Eyes, and Blondie as we stood facing each other in my Dad’s basement,. It was a week before graduation and there was a standoff to see who the best was. I am uncertain as to what type of axe that they had, but I was wielding my vicious Washburn Flying V. It wasn’t clear then, or now, as to who was auditioning who. But when I looked at Cris and Chris’ expressions, it was apparent that those three-hour Saturday night concerts had paid off. Chris suffered from a bad case of ADD, so he wandered off. Cris and I acquired Grif on lead guitar, and then Corey on drums. “Cryptic” was born. As the front man to the band, my alternate world seemed to come to life. I could finally act out those nights where I transformed into the front men to Metallica and Megadeth. I believe that the greatest part, however, was that we became friends. My social life, eighteen years dormant, had finally caught up to me. Cris, Grif, and I even went to the beach to attend a Metallica concert. Eventually, tragedy struck as Grif tore a tendon in his fretting hand, sidelining him for a year. Cris then grew weary of waiting and Grif released himself. Corey, ADD Chris, and I formed a new group- “Soulwound”.

After graduation I began working at the fast food restaurant and, during the Cryptic waiting years, dated a coworker. This was my first relationship (yet it would be short-lived). It would have appeared that my life was peachy. I got the girl, good friends, and a band. However, it was during this time that they were regrouping, building strength, and a new game plan. They sent forth Bitterness to their dirty work, and the dam was about to burst. The tongue spews forth what is in the heart. I became very critical towards my fellow man. Foul language came from both corners, along with coarse jesting. I once shouted the “f-bomb” over and over again into my microphone, not caring that Corey’s protective parents were on the floor above us. Ladies and children were not immune as I stood in line at the supermarket. Anything to offend. Anything to get a laugh. Anything to get the approval of my peers. Anything to know that I was accepted. 

Just as soon as it began, the relationship ended. I didn’t want it to end. Like the amber’s fly, I had become frozen in the moment. I began searching for someone to fill that void. The problem was that my heart was too fragile. Like a broken vase that has been broken and glued again many times over, it didn’t take much for it to shatter. I met and talked to many girls. Most of which began over the internet, so as to “break the ice”. They all played games. From flattering me, and then admitted that there was a boyfriend in the shadows, to telling me that they think about me all the day long, only to push me away the next day. One even would tell me how she plotted to kill her ex-boyfriend, then how she wanted for us to start dating, then how she had a crush on a coworker. I never had thought that these fickle minded females were actually the problem. I believed that it was me. That I was the problem that drove them all away. That I was broken and they could see right through the veil. I began believing that a curse was upon me, possibly from that wicked God. Not just did I hate God, but I began hating myself.

It was at this moment that it happened. Fear and Paranoia had already been resting from their hard work in middle school. They just sat back, cheering and laughing. Anxiety, Hate, Anger, and Bitterness all stood to the side. Selfishness and Lust, which was the driving force behind this chasing, ushered forth the beast. Despair, Hopelessness, and Depression had stepped forth. Like a three-headed monster, it was bigger, meaner, uglier, and foaming at the mouth, desiring to see the end of me. I often envisioned myself ripping my chest open, and pouring them all out. Black consumed my mind. I created a motto “it will never be” and developed “Woe Is Me Syndrome”, which became a nuisance to me and everyone else. I was pursuing something that I had no business messing with. I was chasing the fire that was burning me. Part of me wanted out. Part of me wanted in. I didn’t know whether I was coming or going and whether or not I wanted to come or go. They had broken my heart over and over again. It became unrecognizable like dust, unable to be put back together. My heart simply wasn’t prepared for what I was putting myself through. Then, one day, I stood in my Dad’s bedroom. But I wasn’t alone. Death was there. This time he pointed me towards my Dad’s shotguns and rifles. I wanted so bad to taste the barrel on my tongue. To hear the final “pop”, as everything would fade to black. I was done with this cruel world. However, I was stopped. Not by a mere human. Not by an angelic apparition. But by Depression’s step-child, Failure. Sometimes demons get so greedy, that they foil each other’s plans. “What if the bullet misses and fails? How long will I lay here in agonizing pain until my Dad discovers me?” I didn’t want to face the “How could you?” and the “What were you thinking?” issues. I just wanted it all to be over. Failure stood between me and the trigger. It was the same thing that prevented the knife from entering my heart years earlier. Failure.

“Dad, I need help…”

She wasn’t much of a therapist. She suffered from sleep apnea. I honestly didn’t know what to do in those awkward moments, when I would watch her sleep as I confessed all to her. I would hate to know how much she was charging my Dad for her naps. The only thing that I got out of her sessions was that my Dad and brother were the problem that I needed to escape. My Dad had been battling his own demons ever since he had thrown Crazy Cat Lady out. I had learned that, even though demons serve the same master, they often do not cooperate well when inhabiting human hosts in close proximity. After one particular head on collision with my father, and then one with my brother the next day, I packed my essentials and moved back into my Mom’s house.

The waste called “therapy”, and then eventually the anti-depressants, had ceased. They were nothing more than man’s attempt to cover up the underlying problem, which wasn’t a chemical malfunction. It’ll be dealt within a few more years. I was taken back by a new “demon”, and this one had taken hold of my Mom. She started talking about God. Him? Oh how I despised him for all that he had done to me. I used to want him dead. Now he had caused my Mom to lose her mind. She would talk about God “loving us”. What? I am certain that he hated me. 

I began the job at the telemarketing company soon after. The timing was impeccable. It was swarming with them… Christians. They owned it, ran it, and worked in it. Most were Liberty University students. Was it the prayer requests that we prayed over before we took to the phones? Was it the fact that they were so loving and nice? I do not know, but there was something unique about them, and I was drawn to it. One particular evening a most interesting question was proposed to me from my left hand side. “Do you know where you are going when you die?” the young man asked. I scoffed and said “Heaven, of course”. “How do you know that?” he said. I replied “Because I’m a good person. I’ve never killed anyone or done anything really bad.” I said. With a snicker he told me that our good deeds do not get us into Heaven. He offered to talk with me more downstairs after work. I declined. I later told ADD Chris about it. “He probably just wanted to molest you” he laughed. Yeah, probably. Those sick Christians.

I was struggling with Anger and Depression. Sometimes Anger would flip out and turn into Rage. In the fall of 1999 Grif and I formed “Featherstone” after the demise of Soulwound. Since the breakup from my coworker he and I became close friends, only separable by the routine of daily life. As the primary songwriter of the group, it was here that I poured my soul out onto paper. In “Alive” I penned “Broken dreams reveal what’s true to me/ Broken thoughts denies what’s left of me/ Broken promise to try to learn to live/ But I fell into the sands of time to feel alive”. In “Real World” I wrote “No one ever said it would be like this/ All I thought was laid to rest/ In a battle to struggle to survive/ To live is the truest test/ A new chance to learn to live/ Fight another day to get by/ All they ever taught me was to never let them see me cry”. And in “My Prison” I sang “In a world so close to me, dreams seem so far away/ Walking out that same door, holding a different key/ The hands of time are ticking away, but the clock does not move/ Within my own prison, I am lost without you/Trapped in a world unknown to me, tears fell like rain today/ In a world without windows, makes it so hard to drift away”. They say that pain makes beautiful art.

But, just a few months before this took place, I met a girl…

Chapter 7: The End

Her family didn’t think much of me. But, looking through the scope of hindsight, I can understand why. I would slyly drive my black Geo Storm down their long gravel drive, all adorned with Metallica, Korn, and various other pagan bumper stickers depicting the sun, moon, and stars. My yin and yang pendant swung from my rear view as I blasted Fear Factory over my two twelves. I stepped out like a smooth operator, with my faded JNCO jeans, Korn t-shirt, and Metallica ball cap that I wore backwards. I always wore it backwards. I was bling bringing myself up the sidewalk as the sun reflected from my choker with the dangling Buddhist symbol. I have no idea what it stood for, but I imagine it said “confused”. I must’ve been something else to look at. I can’t imagine what her grandparents thought of me as I sat at their dinner table with my backwards hat on that I so disrespectfully refused to remove. The smell of the Christian air was disturbed by the stench of this pagan from the other side of the James River. Her Dad didn’t think much of me either. I was all metal head city boy romancing the farmer’s daughter. I certainly wasn’t the kind of boy that they imagined her marrying.

Two years later, on June 16th of 2001, I thought to myself “God she is beautiful” as her father walked her down the aisle. It was a sweltering day at the ruritan club as I succeeded in holding back my tears. However, it wasn’t so with the sweat. We were like most young married couples- broke with no plans for the future. My self-worth would often bury itself as I failed to hold down decent employment. Some of which was my own doing. I would often struggle with Bitterness, which would turn into Anger, which would twist itself into Rage at times. Sometimes I would lash out at others and, after seeing the damage that was done, would often meet with Depression. It wasn’t unusual for me to cry out to God to take my life. I often felt that I couldn’t measure up to the standard that I had set for myself. I didn’t trust the outcome of the war within. Would Depression get the best of me and take the wheel, driving me into a brick wall at a breakneck speed? Would Bitterness, Anxiety, and Doubt cause me to leave my wife because I failed to provide for her? Would Rage arise out of nowhere and cause me to hit my wife? Thank God none of those things ever happened. The out of control storms within would make tomorrow uncertain. I hated myself. I didn’t trust myself. I was my own worst enemy

My wife was raised a Christian, grew up in the church, was baptized, and did local missionary work. When we met, she wasn’t where she wanted to be regarding her walk with God. She desired to reconnect, and I was beginning to doubt his hatred for me. We attended a few churches here and there. I came to believe that my attendance put me in his good graces. Whenever we attended Christian concerts and worship services, she would always give me a look as if saying “well?” when the moment of invitation arrived. I saw her out the corner of my eye. I would take in a deep breath, smile, and proudly hold my head up high. Because I didn’t need to go forward or pray a “sinner’s prayer”. I was already saved. I was saved because my Grandma was a Methodist. I was saved because my Mom lost her mind and was attending a Baptist Church (I was a self-proclaimed Baptist Methodist). I was saved because my wife was a Christian. I was saved because I attended church occasionally. I was saved because, like I had told the young man at the telemarketing place, I was a good person.

I would roll my eyes as my wife would catch me breaking her heart. It wasn’t necessarily the other women at the call center that I looked at in lust. Even though my wife and I worked together, I believe that I succeeded in employing all of my sleight of hand eye tricks. I had become an expert since my middle school years at such maneuvers. No, it was the adult pornography that I looked at unapologetically. I knew that I was hurting her. I knew that it made her feel horrible. But I did not care. Selfishness told me that it felt good and to keep the long black train on the track. I was secretly married to Lust. What harm was there in looking? 

Downtime at the call center allowed us to read. I had experienced many different literary creations during these times. The particular one that had its hold on me was “The Answers to Life’s Problems” by Billy Graham. Quite suddenly time ceased to march on. You could have heard the impulses traveling through my nervous system from the silence within me. What could have possibly done this to me? To freeze me into submission? The book told me that I wasn’t a good person (Mark 10:18; Romans 3:12, 23). The book told me that God was good (Matthew 19:17). It also told me that with Anger and Rage, coupled with my tongue, that I had murdered many people (Matthew 5:21-22). It had told me that with my eyes, I was committing adultery within my heart (Matthew 5:27-28). It had told me that I couldn’t be forgiven because I couldn’t forgive (Matthew 6:15). It had told me about someone who I knew hardly anything about- Jesus, and that he died so that I may be forgiven, given a new life, and live (Romans 5:8; 10:9).

It was a typical sweltering July day in 2004. The humidity was making the air thick and hard to ingest. I had worked hard that day with a lot on my mind, and heart. It was racing and felt as if it was going to bust right through my chest. It was there, in the living room of our third floor apartment, that I collapsed… and died.

Chapter 8: The Rebirth

As I picked myself up from the floor, I turned and looked at him. I had finally done it! All of those years of desiring death, of wanting to take my own life, I had finally done it. I had killed myself. I was there! I was the one who took the right hand and drove in the nail. I was the one who drove it through my left wrist. I was there! Yes, I was there driving the nail through the heels of my feet. I crucified myself, just like my Lord Jesus. “I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.” (Galatians 2:20).

I stood there above the old man. Without breath he was. Quite suddenly a fissure formed just above his heart. Like flood gates, his chest burst open, and out they came. First was Fear and Anxiety, looking over their shoulder as they were led away. Then there was Bitterness, Anger, and Rage, cursing and screaming on their way out. Then came Selfishness without a care in the world. Then there was Lust, whispering “do it” over and over again. Then came the three-headed beast, Hopelessness, Despair, and Depression, moping and crying as it was being led away. Finally, there was Death, realizing that his influence and sting were gone as he faded. Then, just like that, there was silence. I looked at him and cocked my head in curiosity. I nudged the old man with my foot, yet there was no response from his gray lifeless frame. Then, within the blink of an eye, he was cast as far as the east is from the west (Psalm 103:12). Never to be heard from or seen again.

In Mark Chapter 5 Jesus meets Legion, a man with many demons. We can gather from his story that people tried to help him. As he roamed amongst the graves, screaming and cutting himself, we can see clearly that he wasn’t in his right mind. His brain couldn’t function under the guise of normal. Even in his fits of rage, he was unable to be restrained by his knowledge of his finite abilities as he tapped into the strength beyond strength, breaking the shackles and chains. However, his deliverance was effortless on the part of Jesus. He didn’t have to go through methodological techniques. He didn’t have to dig deep, or consult another medium. With the authority of His word, Legion’s torturers were cast out. The man who remained, nameless, was left as the polar opposite of what he and everyone else had known before, living proof of the deliverance and salvation of the Christ.

I will confess that they come back. They always come back. My flesh crawls as I feel them slithering across. I can feel their bony little fingers upon my scars, trying to pry them open and climb back in. However, those scars are sealed by the Holy Spirit, and only Jesus holds the key (Ephesians 1:13; 4:30). Through Him I have become someone that I wasn’t. Who I was yesterday isn’t who I am today, and I won’t be who I am tomorrow. I am growing in His grace.

You may say that salvation isn’t for you. That you have done some awful things and cannot be forgiven. But this I say to you: What have you done that is worse than telling God that you hated Him and wanted to kill Him? The Apostle Paul persecuted the early church and led many believers to imprisonment and martyrdom. What have you done worse than him? God the Son forgave those who beat Him, mocked Him, and then hung Him on Calvary’s tree. What have you done that is far worse? What have you done that the hand of God’s forgiveness cannot find? You have done nothing too far from His reach.

What I have shared with you isn’t my story. At least it feels that way. As I struggled to remember my past, I struggled more to recall how it made me feel. I no longer know that man. He is so far removed from me that I felt as if I was sharing someone else’s story. But the only thing I have to bridge the two of us is the memory of where I have been. I can remember yesterday, yes indeed. However, I cannot remember that way.