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Hitting Rock Bottom

 

The months went by and turned into years as I dedicated my every waking moment to pleasing Satan and the spirit gods of my religion. But I missed my daughter Amanda so much it hurt. I felt spiritually exhausted from lending my body out to demonic forces, hunting for victims in clubs, and feeling the weight of loss from Amanda’s increasing absence in my life. The older she grew, the less time she had for me.

One morning I got up and something just clicked in my brain, like flipping a switch. “I’m not doing this anymore,” I said out loud to the four walls. “I don’t even care if I die.” For death was a near certainty. Anyone who tried to leave the religion faced a death penalty and soon became the victim of some freak accident or sudden illness. I’d seen it happen several times.

As I began to be disobedient to the demons’ requests everything in my world fell apart. I no longer did the rituals and stopped showing up for certain witchcraft meetings. As I started to lose power, my life careened into a two-year living hell on earth. In the long painful process of my divorce, I lost a $40,000-a-year job with a shipping company. No one knew of my woes because I kept my life private. I knew how to deceive people into thinking things were going well with me. But the truth was, with no employment and no money I ended up homeless, living in the first-floor vacant apartment I had been evicted from. Every night I climbed through the window just to stay off the streets.

During the day I roamed around like a zombie walking the earth, not having a clue or sense of direction. Mine was a life of broken pieces, and I had no idea when it would come together. As the daylight waned and darkness stole over the earth, I pretended I was the man I used to be—always having somewhere to go, something to do, people to see. I would roam until late at night, walking the streets of Castle Hill in an aimless rhythm. Every corner I turned showed nothing but concrete sidewalks and concrete buildings, with the smell of death in the air. I wondered how much time I had left here on earth.


As I approached my old apartment building, I looked around to make sure no one followed me home before turning the corner into the dead-end street the apartment faced. I acted like I was looking for something on the ground, then jumped up, opened the front window slightly, and dropped into the empty, dark apartment that I called home. Curling up on the bare floor, with no heat to stave off the freezing cold, I fell into a fitful sleep.

But oftentimes sleep eluded me and I would stare at the empty apartment that once had been filled with life. In my mind, I could hear the laughter of my daughter as she ran around the apartment. I envisioned her playing in the center of the room with all her toys and dolls. I could hear her calling my name, “Daddy, Daddy!” When I eventually fell asleep, I would awaken in the middle of the night hoping she would be there so I could hold her and kiss her, letting her know how much I loved her. But instead of Amanda’s little-girl giggle, all I could hear now was the sound of rats running across the living room floor. This was my reality, and I could not wake up from it.



I cried myself to sleep on the cold hard floor surrounded by darkness—a cruel reminder of what my life had become, dark with no light. Where had I gone wrong? Life had no meaning anymore. All this went on until I landed on public assistance, and eventually I found an affordable apartment on McGraw Avenue across the street from my mother’s building.

 


Date: 2015-01-11; view: 735


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