As I made my way into a new space of trying to figure out what the hell happened there was much confusion and many questions. One day I'm eating donuts on a Sunday morning from Mister Donut with my father and sister and the next thing I know is I’m only allowed to see him on Wednesday nights and for a few hours on a Sunday.

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And then of course there's that entire thinking that accompanies most children at a young age when their parents get divorced. Thoughts along the line of "This is my fault." "I did something wrong." And then the granddaddy of them all, "I'm defective and unlovable." Basically, I took on the responsibility for their divorce. I think it's almost natural and it becomes part of our constitution.

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My father quickly remarried, and my mother fell to pieces. My father's new marriage came with a set of her own children from her divorce. This compounded that "I'm defective" line of thought and I truly believed I was tossed aside and traded in for a newer model.

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Had it not been for my mother's parents, Nana and Papa, I believe my sister and I would have been totally fucked. My mother tried as hard as she could to keep it together. She worked and put on the usual routine within our home as best she could. She just didn't have the Power to keep trudging without a fall.

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I remember the first Christmas without my father. The tree went up, was decorated and some gifts even appeared below it. But it didn't feel like Christmas to me. I recall walking about the house with the hope that my father would walk through the door any moment and compliment the tree. We would all be reunited by Santa's grace. It never happened. You guessed it. "Fuck you Santa!"

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That's the funny thing about that number one resentment. It is like a snowball that is rolled to create a snowman's head. It gets bigger on its own and builds as it rolls forward. This was my experience with the number one resentment against God. It became a compounded mess of more and more resentments. And the fact that these would begin to occupy my mind and heart at a deeper level had a detrimental effect.

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These effects served only to block me further from God. They began to cause delusions. I began to start imagining things. Not voices in my mind, well maybe a touch. Delusions, false opinions, false beliefs. My mind took a turn for the worse and neither I, nor anyone in the family, noticed it.

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Mix with this the need to be a part of, to be recognized and seen, mostly by my parents, all sorts of other defects of character began to take shape. They are born like we are and grow much like we do. At six years old I became a liar. Fueled by delusion and imagination, this ability to lie extended to nearly every word I managed to get out. I began to believe these lies, my own lies, and thought others did as well. My teachers, my friends, and their parents, my parents and my grandparents. I became a storyteller and as I believed my own "stories" the delusion grew deeper.

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All of this formed a foundation for a life of behaviors that would inspire a "look at me" or "look what I did" position. I wanted and needed to be the center of attention. I wanted and needed to be the best at everything I did. The latter is not always a bad thing yet when born out of this delusional way of thinking it had no chance of ending well.

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As much as my parents enjoyed their own game of control or be controlled, I had my part and grew very skilled at the play of this game. My mother once called me a "self-centered manipulative bastard." Ouch! And that was the role I gladly accepted with ignorance.

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By the time I was in second grade, seven years old, I quickly learned how to manipulate those about me with laughter or a few tears. I recall my second-grade teacher, Miss DeMizio, catching me change a name on another classmate's handwriting assignment. That's how delusional I became in just one year. I actually thought my script matched his. Mine was a complete mess compared to his near perfection. When I was cornered, caught, I quickly reverted to tears with a sob story about how my mother and father had split and I was out late with my father the night before. The result? I got away with it. Naturally. The lesson learned? When cheating, balance the weight of consequences with a plan to avert them.

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Now you might think I'd learn a lesson and walk away from a life of deceit. Negative. The experience only seemed to bolster that triumphant feeling of "See what I did."

The thing is this. I lost that authentic self that was seeking God and chose to embrace that other self, the ego.

 

What a trip to be able to have that conversation with my second-grade teacher years later and to come clean about it. I think it took me by surprise more so than her as my recollection and amend for what I did verbally left me before I even knew what was happening. It was met with compassion and laughter.