Wholeness: Healing from molestation and sex addiction

you.

Preface

The message I want to hit home is sexual molestation happens to boys, just like it happens to girls. I did not realize its effect on me until I was 24 years old. My wounds from that experience were revealed through my addiction to sex and women, that grew more intense with each passing year.

It took me six more years from then to sever my sex ties with other women and another two years to make the transition from being a grown-up boy into becoming a real man. From then, it was another two years before my new self and actions came into proper alignment; thereby breaking the old ties of brokenness and developing into a whole person. There was a 13-year stretch when I had no clue of the spiritual damage I was doing to myself and to my sacredness, which prevented me from experiencing wholeness.

This book is the story of my journey to healing and my becoming a whole person and a real man.

Introduction

As you begin to read this memoir and personal narrative, understand that these are real-life events that took place in my life. Being molested at a young age and having sex at a young age can impact how you see the world and the decisions you make from that point on.

We often accept what happens to us and just move on without actually putting in the time, effort, and energy to remove the fear and look ourselves in the mirror to reboot ourselves. We never stop to deal with what happened to us so we can become a whole person and operate as a real man. We just accept it and move on.

Acknowledge your brokenness.

Make the necessary corrections.

Identify the new you and move forward.

Moving forward means you are no longer spiritually attached or connected to the trauma from your past. This book documented my life’s evolution. I desire to help other boys and even grown boys who think they are men (no pun intended) to realize that they can be, have the power to be and can operate as whole people and real men. This book will help men make the changes they need to become the men they aspire to be and prevent young ones from making unnecessary mistakes that will ultimately prove costly.

We need more healthy men in this world, and it starts by having mentally healthy boys, who will eventually become better men. Healthier men, means healthier families and healthier communities. There is no reason to be ashamed of who you are or what happened to you.

Be aware you do not have to accept it.

Carry this with you for the rest of your life.

I Love You And I Believe In You!

I hope this story sparks or triggers something inside of you. Recognize what it is, begin to unpack it, get to the root cause and address it at its core.

Once again, there is no need to be ashamed. You are a human being. What you went through does not make you less of a person, less of a boy, or less of a man. This narrative is not a boast or brag in any way. This book is to encourage you to do the opposite and avoid the mistakes I made or correct the ones you have already made.

Know that you are valuable and worthy of great things. If this book helps you to get through a challenging period in your life, saves you from severe heartache, or even preserves your life, then I could not ask for anything more.

Growing Up On Idalia St

I remember one Tuesday night at the beginning of the summer of 1996, as I transitioned from the fifth grade to middle school. I was lying on the top bunk of my cool, blue, bunk bed, just chilling, snuggled up watching Fresh Prince of Bel-Air reruns. I enjoyed the summer nights that would follow days filled with no cares, intense, competitive, one-on-one basketball sessions, and baseball games with neighborhood friends.

This moment changed my summer and the course of my life forever. I had no idea of the tremendous hurt it would bring my life as a grown man.

That evening had started with laughter, as I sat there enjoying my late night entertainment. I got quiet as my body and mind became aligned, and I started drifting off to sleep. Right before I dozed off, I had this abrupt question pop up in my head. It did not make any sense. It was out of the blue.

Do I have HIV (AIDS)?

Now the reality is, no kid, and I mean no kid at this age, should have such questions flowing through their mind about AIDS.

Well, this particular night, I did.

You may be wondering why I was asking myself that question? I will get to that shortly. I did not think much about it at first but realized I could not get it out of my head. Then my heart started racing as I began to panic. I started having crazy thoughts going buck wild in my head, like bulls refusing to be tamed.

I turned off the 12-inch Zenith TV in my room, and started taking deep breaths, trying to convince myself that nothing was wrong. Nothing I was doing was bringing my little mind and spirit any peace whatsoever.

My next course of action was calling my mom.

She did not work or live in Colorado during the week. She worked in Fort Worth, Texas. My dad was fast asleep, though he was not the one to talk to about this matter. As a young boy, I felt I would get comfort and security from my mom; she seemed to have an instinct for dealing with heart matters.

The phone was hanging at the end of the kitchen with a comfortable chair underneath. I sat in the chair looking out the window into the pitch darkness, trying to keep my voice down so I would not wake up my dad or sister. I began to share the troubling thoughts I was having with my mother.

I can still hear the tone of her voice in my head. I could not stop panicking. She was taken aback by my question. What mother would not be stunned? Imagine your one and only son calling from another state, in a fright, in the middle of the night.

I could tell that she wanted to panic as well; however, she was conscious that I had called her, so she kept from expressing her alarm. If she panicked, we would both lose it over the phone. Her staying calm was important so I could think clearly. Without it, I would have gone into a state of horror and spiraled further.

She kept her composure and asked me questions about what made me think I had HIV or AIDS. I could not get myself to calm down. It took me a while to get to a place where I could actually think in order to properly respond to her. All the lights were off except in the kitchen. My dad was a light sleeper; however, I do not believe he heard me on the phone that night. Or maybe he did and just kept quiet.

I do not remember all of her questions, but I remember several big ones: Did he cum in you? Where did this happen? Are you sure?

At 11 years old, I had no clue what cum was, nor should I have, let alone what it meant to have it inside me. HIV/AIDS was still a hot topic at the time here in the U.S. as well as across the world, and ignorance about the topic was rampant in the community. You just knew to avoid contracting it at all costs. My mother’s questions helped me divert my attention, reduced my anxiety, and calmed me down a little so I could think and try to make sense of it all.

I asked her if cum was like pee, and she responded it was not. Most kids have no clue about this.

Each of the graphic questions my mom asked required significant thought. I kept looking out the window next to the phone for something to focus on and keep me calm.

My answers were, it happened at both our house and his. Yes, I was sure that he did not cum in me.

These events were scary and created a vicious subconscious cycle. I will explain later. I could have had her on the phone with me all night just for comfort. I did not want to get off the phone. This was only the beginning of what I would consider the most extended summer that anyone could ever have.

A summer that lasted 13 years.

Every night of that summer, going from the fifth grade into the sixth, I could not get any sleep. I struggled to play with my friends. All I could think about was that I had AIDS…AIDS…AIDS.

During the earlier part of the summer days, around 10 or 11 a.m., my friends and I would hit balls at the baseball field behind our house with our bats. We would be laughing and having the time of our lives. Usually, basketball would be on our minds or the main go-to as well, but we found hitting balls of all kinds extremely satisfying to our souls.

One morning after that fateful night, I went up to the park to play with my friends. I hoped being with my friends and hitting those baseballs, racket balls, and tennis balls across the field would take my mind off the intense situation that was consuming every aspect of my existence.

Despite each joke we exchanged between all of us, and the stroke of every bat against the ball, the thought that I had AIDS or of dying in a few months proved just too overwhelming and gave me severe anxiety and a state of silent, internal panic.

I remember hitting the ball, then walking away from the field with such internal unease as I went home, all the while telling my friends that I would be right back. I ran away from them in tears, trying to sprint home, but I kept shaking intensely. I never returned to the field that day or any other day that summer. I even left all of my baseballs and bats with my friends.

Later, they asked me what was going on. I responded that there was nothing wrong, yet all the while trying to keep it together. I remember that day like it was yesterday.

Our nanny, Doris, was also our neighbor. She is one hell of a woman. A mother, teacher, and sweetest lady anyone could ask to meet or know. During the week, my sister and I were always at her house. My mother worked out of town. Dad worked four tens, (four days a week, ten hour days) at the airbase, which was about 15 minutes away from where we lived.

Doris also ran a daycare out of her house, so we were there all the time. I was up most nights during this summer period, usually going to sleep anywhere from 3 to 7 a.m., just enough for me to forget for a brief moment what I was going through. One of Doris’ daughters would come and watch us in the mornings and hang out so she could watch MTV or BET and make a little extra money in the summer. She would come over real early in the morning, around 6 or so, and I would be on the couch just getting to sleep.

It took some time getting used to going to bed at those hours. Most nights, I was lucky if I slept at all. I slept on a recliner or couch in the family room. My sleep habits were terrible, but for some reason, that recliner and couch brought some peace to me internally, so I could at least relax a little.

I could only go to my room during the daytime because the night fueled the already massive fire in my mind. It was important to me that I stayed clear of that room at night.

That struggle lasted for about three months.

When I was in third grade, I picked up skateboarding, as many kids did in the early ’90s. There were a few kids I saw in my neighborhood that loved skateboarding too. Initially, I was not friends with any of them, but I noticed them and tried to do a few of the tricks I saw them doing.

An Asian family with three high school kids lived on the cul-de-sac, one suburban block over from us. I thought that those kids were the coolest thing since Filas or Nikes. I made it a point to observe their skateboard moves regularly, and then I would try to do it on my own when no one was looking. They knew how