Well if you are up to reading it... here goes... (pasted below)

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 dad scaring us kids when he'd fall asleep while driving the car. Sometimes he was sick and would vomit all over the floor. 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 for example. Every time I got beaten; I learned to disassociate from it. I didn't feel the pain as much if I pretended mentally to be an "outsider" peering in. I learned to numb the pain.

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. But as each year went by, I got harder and meaner. In all the beatings I received; I never once was hugged or told that I meant anything to them. 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. When I was seven; 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. (I learned years later from my grandmother; that she thought mom was molested by her father. She really didn't mean to do this but she had 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. No one.

At seven, 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. They would have pow-wows with our parents and all my parents did was shame us kids if our grades slipped. I hated report cards. I was scared to show them to them. Sometimes I'd forge their signatures hoping to not get caught. 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. 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. My father pushed us 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.

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 a lot and had to forage for something to eat. I never got caught till years later. I was intelligent and very smooth. I was also very angry inside... and I took mom and dad's silver coin collection and blew it all on pop and candy. They raced all over town trying to get them all back. They recovered about half. They rest was taken from birthday gifts from other relatives and so forth.

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 weeds 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. I wanted to learn how to make incineraries and bombs. I was fascinated watching things burn. My parents were getting worried about me and started sending 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 they could not accept that... it was always our fault. Weekly, the entire family would sit in chairs around the room and listen to mother read off a shopping list of everything that was wrong with her children. I hung my head in shame... the hurt inside was so deep, I could not express it into words easily.

Most of my peers would hit on me a lot because I was shy. I seemed to do well in classes where teachers praised me; but where they didn't; I just avoided them. I isolated from everyone. Whenever school was out; I had to get away for a while so I could think. Somedays 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.

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 cocked 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 knew I was in for it. 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 also charged with assault and battery of a teacher. I was summoned to appear before the Board of Education in a few months for expulsion hearings.

When I got home my mom already knew what happened. She 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.

I appeared before the school board on the assault and battery charges. They expelled me but allowed me back in the following year since this was my first offense of this kind and 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. 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 my spending money by donating plasma in downtown Cincinnati. I stole money from offering plates at church, and spent charitable donations given in trust as I traveled door to door promoting Juvenile Diabetes Foundation. Then 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 was excelling 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.

After the expulsion, life at Highlands High got real tough. Kids would taunt me and try to get me to resist them. They wanted me to break my probation; and I had to keep quiet and ignore them. This became tougher to do as the year progressed. 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; I met by my younger siblings. They were angry because the teachers at school would mock them on account of me. 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. They blamed us kids for the problems at home yet the psychiatrists and others didn't see things that way. This really infuriated them! Instead of sending me away; all of us kids went to counseling; the judge demanded family counseling and eventually just parental counseling.

I went on all the trips awarded by JA during my sophmore 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 in my senior year; I was coming apart inside. I had begun planning 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 and rang a loud bell inside 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 still 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 to much and would not give in. He was the first person to 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 my spirit 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.

A few months later...

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 from there on my trusty steed. Off I went; pedaling down the long winding hill to the urbanites below.

When 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. They started pushing through the lines to attack the Nazi's on stage. The police tried to disperse the crowd through firing volleys of teargas. 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 her 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. They were down here to visit a mother and thought that it would be a nice day to take a stroll down to Fountain Square. They had no knowledge of what had occurred earyer that day. Each took a turn at 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.



We spent hours down there. 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.

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 Kaballa, 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 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 Grandmistress 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 a 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 also 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 youth. Rhonda played with Doc Severson, Chuck Manjonie ( or however you spell it) 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!

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 on August 5th, all those plans were destroyed. A real blow to Rhonda's esteem... and the first trial of our relationship.

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 I was told later.

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 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 fiancee. He recognized her last name and asked if she was related to Fred W. (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 if I remember correctly.

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 here 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? Just before I passed out I saw the nurses rush in...

They told me weeks 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.

When I went under... I dreamt a dream... only, it was real! 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.

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. Inmy 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. Rhonda waited day after day at my bedside, praying... and waiting... she said my body was rigid and my eyes would stare up at the ceiling... I was comatose for twenty two days.

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 dreamed I was going through a large tunnel. It was miles wide and long with a misty white light at the end. I felt so at peace there, I didn't want to leave. I was not alone, someone was there with me. It was dark but I was not afraid. 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 was able to see Rhonda crying in the waiting room. I immediately responded, "No! She needs me!" And then 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. (There were four present) It startled some of the staff and spooked my Jewish roommate; whom I had the privilege of getting to know later on.

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 that day, I think. Only, I was too out of it to know the results till days later. 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 for years. 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 pills and painkillers I had pumped in through the iv (intra-venious) line.

The wintry day I was finally released from the hospital was too soon. Rhonda wheeled me to a McDonalds and I had a Big Mac Attack! For Real! 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 some.

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 arthritus and bursitus in 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 got cited for four felonies and misdemeanor . He received ten days and was in and out of jail long before I woke up from the coma. 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 fiancee 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 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.

About three months later, I felt strong enough to go back to work. Rhonda supported me those days. But 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. We had long ago prepared for this; though to this day I am 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 I walked up the aisle; I stared at the floor in shame over what they did there. Strangely though... this year they did the same at my brother's wedding but only worse... but that is a story for another day.

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, gets 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 terrified!

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! Together, with 126 homeless people, we watched 30 apartments go up in flames. It was a four alarm fire. Hoses were spread from a mile 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. No 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. 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 eighteen years, I never have.


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 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 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 were seen breaking into our car. They 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 have. Many gave food, small monetary donations, even an old couch and black & white tv was appreciated. Domino's Pizza provided free pizza for us on occasion. Somehow through the gifts from others Rhonda was encouraged. She would tell me that God had provided.

As for myself, I was bitterly angry. This has been the second time I was betrayed. Both times I was told that God was behind these calamities. Both times these pious Christians were wrong. 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! 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 of our unit. We never realized this when we moved in. We noticed paint stains on the wall where water streaked once.

As for Warner-Amex; we learned that they had 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.

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 said. 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 light and fell 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.

We pulled up to a series of plan brick buildings surrounded by woods and trees. One of the paramedics 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 bulemia. 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 "fakeing" 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. I abandoned God; instead I wanted to explore other religions and perhaps understand my own on a deeper level.

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 to me because 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 life of chaos; 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. They directed me to a contact here in Columbus. I read the all of Crowley's Equinox 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 idealogies over the course of his life.
After I completed my research of his writings, I moved on to the Quaballa. 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 quaballa 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 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 sheep to be slaughtered... the power you seek will be the very power that will destroy you. Satanism and all the other idealogies 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.

Yes there is power in evil. But there is always a price. And this "power" to rule over all is ruled by a higher authority. Once I knew withing 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 archaelogy 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 withing 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 complacient, 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 knawing 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. I will not continue with my testimony.

Rhonda has had five relationships since we broke up in 1993. I reeled from 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 some of that 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.

"...I took off my shirt and tied a sleeve to a pipe above the false ceiling over my bed and tied the other sleeve around my neck and jumped off the bed. I woke up on the floor. I pulled the pipe down with my weight! The fire alarm went off and I set off the sprinkler in my room. When I came too, I looked into the eyes of three nurses standing over my swollen head with tears streaming down their cheeks. I could not believe that anyone cared about me... but these people did.

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(sic) 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 homocide 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.

There are other methods too. 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 underlied 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 counseler 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. There are still other methods; I shared two today, Contact me if you want to try other methods.

The second fear I have was (and still is) 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.

I am by no means completely healed today but I can tell you that I now realize that all that anguish had a purpose in my life that very few people will ever come close to relating to. I realized over time that my identity of shame and fear did not have to remain that way because I can create a new one and rise above it. Most cant do this. But 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 of becoming that leader someday; 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 60 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 mis- understanding 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!

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!


My Hope...

To complete this essay, I want those of you out there know that I am still in pain. 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 was 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 a hope. 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!

We get there by first accepting Jesus's death for our screw-ups; past, present, and future. I had this dream one night;

"I saw Jesus hanging from the cross in total despair at watching 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 pit just outside the city gates!

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. I have expert testimony that has PROVEN He rose from the dead and did not rot in a grave somewhere. (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 godless views; 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's 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. I am a leader now. Whether I am poor and destitute, I have a future and a hope. The treasures I will have in heaven will be the eternal friends whom I have come to know here. They are closer than blood and the love I had for each other was tasted in a hospital; but it is nothing like what it will be like later on! Those that were inspired will inspire others and the message will affect people to the fourth generation. Who knows! You may rise and influence someone who becomes the next world leader!

If anyone should desire to write me, don't hesitate to do so. Fear may stop you from placing a stamp and send it on it's way. But remember, until you come to the point where you realize that you have come to then end of your self; you will only be on a ledge and may fall deeper into the pit of dispair. Albert Einstein stated that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again; and expecting different results. Do not give up seeking the help you need till you finally find it. Your life has a purpose. This very document that you are reading is proof of the divine appointment set before you to read it. Contact me or go to where I went. 1(800) New-Life.

Do not give up till you overcome your past. You have a purpose; and your purpose can only be earned through the fires of hell. Only then can you rise up and reach those around you who desperately need the wisdom you have gleaned. It will take courage... it will take many tears... but if you do not give up, you will one day achieve what few will accomplish... and that will be the joy of your heart in your old age and the hope of the future that awaits you.