I remember the first person I talked to at public school. She was a pretty brunette, with brown eyes and an olive complexion. I said hello and told her my name. She called me a retard. That same day, I was called a cripple, slow-poke, diaper boy, and moron.
It went downhill from there. My memories from public school are exclusively bad. I can't remember a single good thing that happened in those years from first grade to ninth. At least, nothing good that happened Monday through Friday from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon. The worst of it, I don't remember much at all.
The brain blocks out some things to protect itself.
I was a disabled Christian dweeb in public school, which was not a combination to win any popularity contests. I was the kind of kid who could make friends with a stranger my age at the supermarket. Outgoing, friendly, eager to trust.
By the end of first grade, I had begun to show symptoms of PTSD, a condition I wouldn't be able to name until I was 29 years old. I began to wet the bed because of nightmares. I got into trouble at school and home, mostly for lying. I'd steal small things--paper clips, pencils, rubber bands. I also began to show symptoms of executive function disorder.
My church and family called it an attitude problem. I was "easily bored," they said, "bright but unmotivated." I began playing with matches, expressed an interest in violence, and occasionally hit other kids for no reason. My dad understandably yelled at me often.
Then the problems began.
The first time I was molested, it was by someone close to me. It happened again and again, always stopping short of the unthinkable. Then another person touched me. I remember brief glimpses, emotions, and sensations, but nothing much. Of course, I thought it was affection, even when it felt wrong.
If affection felt wrong, that must be my fault. And as I said in my last entry, any failure on my part was moral failure. So I asked God for forgiveness, accepted Jesus into my heart just to be sure, and suffered in silence. As the years went on, I developed a reputation in school as a sort of walking punching bag, the kid who constantly wet himself, the kid nobody liked. It wasn't uncommon for me to be tripped, kicked, or find my gym clothes caked with human waste.
Meanwhile, the problems bled over to church. I tried skipping classes like kids' choir, because I didn't want to get made fun of. I was chastised by Sunday School teachers for correcting them, or for highlighting verses in my Bible, or for asking questions I shouldn't have. Several times I was confronted by adults for things like sitting on a table, or using words like "heck."
By the time I got to youth group, I was an outcast there as well. I was routinely excluded as "the weird kid," beaten with firm pillows that managed to leave bruises, humiliated, threatened, and looked down on as a wimp for complaining. That's when I started harming myself.
When I was fourteen, I was in the gym locker rooms when my peers gave me "the gay test." Someone passed me the cover of an adult magazine. It was the first time I'd ever seen a naked woman, and it was too overwhelming. I expressed disgust, and was thus considered gay. Shortly after that on a youth group trip, a male stranger at a public pool touched me, which was probably the spark for my struggles with my sexual preference that plagued me into my late teens.
Later, I found one of my sister's magazines. There was an advertisement with a woman on it, and I couldn't help but think about the magazine from the locker room. Within hours, I'd found the website from the advertisement, and started down the road to addiction. Within a week, I'd moved from softcore to hardcore, then to chat rooms and phone services.
By fifteen, I had a daily habit that consumed my life and became my obsession. My relationships at school, home, and church deteriorated, and my interests in lust and violence collided, culminating in an attack I planned on my high school. The police quickly caught wind of my plan before I could put it into action, and my world came crashing down.
At the bottom, I think I met Jesus truly for the first time. I couldn't tell you exactly how or when, but I transferred schools, and I remember having friends, and feeling as if God had rescued me from myself. My problems still continued, and I still made some bad choices. There was a lot of damage to sort through. But for the first time, I thought I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I began to dig into Scripture like never before, which is when I came to a decision between God and the Southern Baptist Convention.
It went downhill from there. My memories from public school are exclusively bad. I can't remember a single good thing that happened in those years from first grade to ninth. At least, nothing good that happened Monday through Friday from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon. The worst of it, I don't remember much at all.
The brain blocks out some things to protect itself.
I was a disabled Christian dweeb in public school, which was not a combination to win any popularity contests. I was the kind of kid who could make friends with a stranger my age at the supermarket. Outgoing, friendly, eager to trust.
By the end of first grade, I had begun to show symptoms of PTSD, a condition I wouldn't be able to name until I was 29 years old. I began to wet the bed because of nightmares. I got into trouble at school and home, mostly for lying. I'd steal small things--paper clips, pencils, rubber bands. I also began to show symptoms of executive function disorder.
My church and family called it an attitude problem. I was "easily bored," they said, "bright but unmotivated." I began playing with matches, expressed an interest in violence, and occasionally hit other kids for no reason. My dad understandably yelled at me often.
Then the problems began.
The first time I was molested, it was by someone close to me. It happened again and again, always stopping short of the unthinkable. Then another person touched me. I remember brief glimpses, emotions, and sensations, but nothing much. Of course, I thought it was affection, even when it felt wrong.
If affection felt wrong, that must be my fault. And as I said in my last entry, any failure on my part was moral failure. So I asked God for forgiveness, accepted Jesus into my heart just to be sure, and suffered in silence. As the years went on, I developed a reputation in school as a sort of walking punching bag, the kid who constantly wet himself, the kid nobody liked. It wasn't uncommon for me to be tripped, kicked, or find my gym clothes caked with human waste.
Meanwhile, the problems bled over to church. I tried skipping classes like kids' choir, because I didn't want to get made fun of. I was chastised by Sunday School teachers for correcting them, or for highlighting verses in my Bible, or for asking questions I shouldn't have. Several times I was confronted by adults for things like sitting on a table, or using words like "heck."
By the time I got to youth group, I was an outcast there as well. I was routinely excluded as "the weird kid," beaten with firm pillows that managed to leave bruises, humiliated, threatened, and looked down on as a wimp for complaining. That's when I started harming myself.
When I was fourteen, I was in the gym locker rooms when my peers gave me "the gay test." Someone passed me the cover of an adult magazine. It was the first time I'd ever seen a naked woman, and it was too overwhelming. I expressed disgust, and was thus considered gay. Shortly after that on a youth group trip, a male stranger at a public pool touched me, which was probably the spark for my struggles with my sexual preference that plagued me into my late teens.
Later, I found one of my sister's magazines. There was an advertisement with a woman on it, and I couldn't help but think about the magazine from the locker room. Within hours, I'd found the website from the advertisement, and started down the road to addiction. Within a week, I'd moved from softcore to hardcore, then to chat rooms and phone services.
By fifteen, I had a daily habit that consumed my life and became my obsession. My relationships at school, home, and church deteriorated, and my interests in lust and violence collided, culminating in an attack I planned on my high school. The police quickly caught wind of my plan before I could put it into action, and my world came crashing down.
At the bottom, I think I met Jesus truly for the first time. I couldn't tell you exactly how or when, but I transferred schools, and I remember having friends, and feeling as if God had rescued me from myself. My problems still continued, and I still made some bad choices. There was a lot of damage to sort through. But for the first time, I thought I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I began to dig into Scripture like never before, which is when I came to a decision between God and the Southern Baptist Convention.
