Sincere Testimonies, Anyone?

[Cray_All_Day513]

Dramatica Angeliqua

Cray_All_Day513

My walk with Christ has been an interesting one to say the least. Growing up, church was just something I did every Sunday because my parents made me. I didn't really listen to the sermons, and through middle school, church/youth group was mostly a social gathering. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who felt like this growing up.

You're right. I've shared the same experience with you. :3 My parents made me go to church every Sunday, even though I had no interest in it whatsoever. Sunday School was a social gathering. As I've grown older I realized the importance of church. Now we have a new youth pastor, and he wants to change Sunday School and Youth Group into something more serious and devoted to God, which I agree with, but I'm wary to join again with other teenagers because I'm shy and not very social. I don't have any friends at church. And no way, silly, you're testimony was not too long at all. It should be me that everybody says "TL;DR." lol

My Youth Pastor is doing pretty much the same thing. This'll be his 4th year and he has dramatically changed our youth group for the better over those years. Honestly now he's one of my best friends and biggest influences in life. And it definitely takes time to make friends at church, but I can honestly say those are the friendships that are going to last until we all get old  

[calwri]

Hi guys, I have some more testimonies to share, if you don't mind! xd I'm going to warn you, though...the length is absurd! I had to cut this monster into two parts because it exceeded the length of 50,000 words. All right, I don't really have much to say except I've been working on this project for weeks on end, constantly adding new memories that come to mind. The finished product is quite the reward after the hard work and gazillion texts. I was going to add a real life event with an accidental summoning of a demon in the house when I was about 14. I never knew it was there nor saw it, but my dad sensed its presence and rebuked it. It was a story to be claimed as his own and not mine because I never experienced it. Before he rebuked the demon on the stairs he alerted me about it, so I refused to come downstairs for a long time. After rebuking it my dad blasted loud Christian music all throughout. But don't worry, there's nothing to be concerned about anymore...

Here we go! My super, über long collection of testimonies and dreams!

I grew up in Christian home with devout parents, taught about the Gospel of Jesus and of God. Sundays were mean to me, but not as mean as Mondays because that's when I had to go back to school. I hated going to church. I viewed it as super boring, so I had to whine and complain as my parents dragged me to the services. In church we sat in our chairs, standing only to sing, but all I wanted to do was run around and waste my enormous energy. Initially, church was a time for me to play with my curly-haired blonde best friend there and draw pictures together. My friend was a few years younger and absolutely adored me. She was fascinated with my great artwork, and so I taught her how to draw people, which she copied everything I drew. She did everything I did, and we loved to bring our baby dolls and play "Babies." A few years later my friend's family moved away, and I was becoming old enough for children's Sunday School to occupy my attention. In the services I never showed interest in listening to the sermons but enjoyed the fast-paced modern praise music, sometimes springing forward to dance in the isles, much to my mother's chagrin. I was a typical little kid whose name spelled trouble. Now as a teenager, I have come to love church because I participate in worship and listen to the sermons. I don't care too much for teen Sunday School where teens gather with all the "cool Jesus" Christianity stuff, rock music, snacks and soda, Wii games, and high schoolers clumping together to hang out and talk as if church was some kind of social party. Instead I prefer the church services, the reasons being I'm shy, more comfortable surrounded by adults, love the awesome sermons, and just want to focus on glorifying God - not whispering and giggling with other kids while the youth pastor's talking and not learning as much as my spiritually hungry self wishes to devour. That's not the reason why I choose to remain a Christian, however... My faith has wavered from time to time in the past but no longer. Retrospecting to the past and having new "events" occur is more than enough convincing, by my own experiences, that God is quite real. "Enough convincing, Lord, I know You're there."

Events

Reading Jazmyn's story about bed-shaking has aided me in reminiscing my earliest memory of strange occurrences. I believe them to have been spiritual. At the time, I was possibly close to five, I did not understand what was going on. I was a little girl gently falling unconscious in my cozy bed covers when all of a sudden my bed began to tremble violently. I remember my eyes snapping open in shock. My frightened screams carried into my parents' bedroom, and they rushed in to find me sitting up in my sheets bawling. I relayed to them that "my bed was shaking!" It had ceased quivering when I screamed. My dad exchanged glances with my mother then leaned down to speak soothingly, "Calen, those were angels shaking your bed." I merely stared at him, his presence and words calming my fear, but the event itself was nerve-wracking. The next morning I was up and about, probably forgetting the whole thing. There was nothing to worry about; they were only angels. Jazmyn's testimony has made me recall what I'd forgotten long ago. When you hear the word "angel," you'd automatically picture them to be kind, beautiful winged women that bring peace and joy and watch over you. In reality, angels have no specific gender but mostly appear in a masculine form, and not all are nice. There are two main kinds of angels: angels of God and angels of Satan (demons). If encountering an angel, to test the spirit you'd have to ask whom they serve, and they cannot lie to that trap question. No demon will ever admit loyalty to God. Whatever had shaken my bed didn't seem so friendly, alarming me like that.

Myview

Mitford

It's the Illuminati Lizard People. They send the Little Grays to shake Earthlings' beds. wink

No, seriously what is going on is *Hypnic jerk*. Do you ever wake up suddenly to a falling sensation and a strong muscle twitch just after you have fallen asleep or feel your bed was shaking? 

These strange sensations and muscle twitches are known as a hypnagogic myoclonic twitch or *Hypnic jerk* If this has happened to you on more than one occasion, do not worry, you are not alone. Close to 70 percent of all people experience this phenomenon just after nodding off, according to a recent study at the Mayo Clinic. 

Most experts agree that this is a natural part of the sleeping process, much like slower breathing and a reduced heartbeat. The occurance is well known and has been well documented. However, experts are still not completely sure why the body does this. 

The general consensus among researchers is that, as your muscles begin to slack and go into a restful state just as you are falling asleep; your brain senses these relaxation signals and misinterprets them, thinking you are falling down. The brain then sends signals to the muscles in your arms and legs in an attempt to jerk you back upright. This misinterpretation that takes place in your brain may also be responsible for the *falling* dreams that accompany the falling sensation or the feeling that your bed is shaking. These *dreams* are not really normal dreams, as they are not produced from R.E.M sleep, but rather more like a daydream or hallucination in response to the bodys sensations. 

While this phenomenon happens to most everyone, studies have recently begun to link occurrences of *Hypnic jerks* to sleep anxiety, fatigue, and discomfort. People who are having trouble sleeping or cannot get comfortable in bed appear to experience the sensation more often throughout the night. It is especially more common with people who are trying to fight falling asleep or have deprived themselves of sleep for more than 24 hours. 

Researchers believe that the lack of sleep from sleep anxiety or sleep deprivation confuses the muscles and the brain. The muscles continually attempt to relax and shut down for rest, while your brain remains awake creating continued *misinterpretations* of falling or loss of balance which causes the body to jerk and shake the bed. 

Scientists and researchers continue to study sleep twitching and jerking in a small capacity, but state that the sensation is completely normal for our bodies and is *of little medical significance*. Our bodies go through several procedures of shutting down and preparing for an extended period of rest. *Hypnic jerking* is just one of them. It does not appear to cause damage to the body and poses no danger to our physical well being.

Well everyone can take this for what it's worth...believe it or don't ...I have had these experiences for years. The jerks, I will agree are very explainable. They are a "natural" thing. The bed shaking however is "supernatural". I don't agree with pyschics or mediums but I do know that it is the presence of a spirit that causes this phenomenon. The paralysis is also caused by spirits. I was actually awakened last night to a fierce shaking and awoke to find a spirit leaning over my bed. When u get in those situations u don't need a catholic priest because they are not the only ones who have the right to cast out spirits. We all have that privalege. Call on the name of Jesus and they must flee. It doesn't mean that they won't continue to return but Jesus' name is always available. God bless!

I was maybe ten or twelve and getting ready for bed when the next queer thing happened. Every night I prayed, either standing up, kneeling by my bedside, or sitting or laying down on the sheet-covered mattress. It was a regular night, and I had remembered how I used to pray for God's guardian angels to watch over me at night and protect me from the mean, bad angels that loathed me because I was God's little princess. That's what my Lutheran parents taught me to pray, as well as praying for others, right after I'd prayed the Lord's Prayer. I hadn't done this in a long while, so I asked God to send down His heavenly angels again to guard me as I slept and keep away evil. This is where things got weird. Right when I'd ended the prayer with "Amen," (1) the whole atmosphere shifted in my room. The change could literally be felt, it was a tangible feeling I know I did not imagine, as if oppression in my room unnoticed before was forced to evacuate, and a calming peace remained. The oppressive air was lifted. I was puzzled but not scared. All around me was a light, warm, fuzzy peace oozing all over the place giving me no sense to fear. I surveyed the bedroom with a strange, suspicious look on my face before slowly climbing into bed.

As a thirteen-year-old I somehow buried myself in witchcraft, intrigued by the spells and the results some boasted about on YouTube and blog sites. I especially found mermaid spells alluring, because one time I crossed my ankles and had my hair in its naturally wavy/curly appearance, and a girl commented to me how I looked so much like a mermaid. Taking fun quizzes I did a few "What Mythological Creature Are You?" types and usually scored as a mermaid. I thought if I could somehow get a fish tail my life would be so much more interesting! Of course watching H2O: Just Add Water helped influence my want to be a mythological creature and have a more exciting life. So I looked up some spells, found something promising with good reviews, and filled my bathtub with warm water, sprinkling in table salt. I turned off the lights. I recited the printed out spell out loud then waited for a feeling or voice to tell me what to do next, which the spell said would happen. I got an urge to lay down in the water, so I obeyed. Then I got out and pulled the drain. The next few days I was constantly thirsty. Drinking eight water bottles every four hours. My mom was concerned, wondering if I had to go to the doctor, and I ate a lot of Goldfish, chips, and crackers because I craved the salt. My legs ached and felt heavy as lead, but I was unperturbed, expecting the possible side effects listed. It was to be a month before the spell said the transformation would be complete. Touching water would morph me into a mermaid. Keeping dry would mean I stayed human. A week or two before the month ended I had a few brownish splotches on my legs I hid from my parents. They were scaly to the touch. Other people, not all, received similar results. Then one girl's post on a blog rang as clear as day like an alarm bell: "Guys, you gotta stop doing those spells! My friend, she did mermaid spells and then outside her house spirits started calling her name, and now she's afraid to go out of the house! Her dad also had a dream where a spirit appeared by her bed while she was sleeping. This is scary. You have to stop." I was skeptical on the post's credibility, but it opened my eyes a bit on what possible dangers I could face. Some day later I hinted to my dad, "I'm becoming a mermaid." I don't know why I decided to confess, but it was for the best in the long run. He caught on quickly. "Calen, are you doing witchcraft?" I hesitated. "Yeah...but...but Dad, couldn't I be a mermaid and a Christian at the same time? I promise I'll read the Bible everyday!" He shook his head, a frown firmly planted on his lips. "No, Calen. You cannot serve two masters at the same time. And God abominates witchcraft." (Matthew 6:24) (Deuteronomy 18:9-13) We then sat down at the table, and he read to me a Celtic myth, which is about a creature with the upper body of a man and lower body of a fish appearing and teaching fishermen the arts and magic. I repented before God and hadn't realized the splotches disappeared until later.

An amazing event occurred while I was showering as a fifteen-year-old. Occasionally after hearing a song I like, especially if it had a catchy tune, I would replay it in my mind, but this is different, and no, I'm not schizophrenic, and I doubt this was a hallucination. One morning, and all this happened only once, a man with a lovely voice was singing in my head. He sang softly to me in a lullaby, and I was still half asleep, stepping into the shower, enjoying the gentle voice but not really listening. It was relaxing, and so was the hot water. It was Phantom of the Opera's "Music of the Night." In case you're unfamiliar with it, these are the lyrics:

Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination
Silently the senses abandon their defenses

Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor
Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender
Turn your face away from the garish light of day
Turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light
And listen to the music of the night

Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams
Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before
Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar
And you live as you've never lived before

Softly, deftly, music shall caress you
Hear it, feel it secretly possess you
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness that you know you cannot fight
The darkness of the music of the night

Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world
Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before
Let your soul take you where you long to be
Only then can you belong to me

Floating, falling, sweet intoxication
Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in
To the power of the music that I write
The power of the music of the night

You alone can make my song take flight
Help me make the music of the night

It's a creepy song, in my opinion, and I really had no idea why it was playing out in my head with the male voice treating me as if I was a baby in a rocker. I've heard the song before but don't know it very well. So, I was showering with this singing going on, and the voice suddenly grew desperate and demanding simultaneously as if it eagerly desired to tell me what to do, still maintaining it's musical melody. "Turn your face away from God! Turn your thoughts away from God! And listen to me.....only then can you belong to me..." I was seriously alarmed when these lyrics slithered past my mind, eyes wide as saucers. I recognized who it was. The solo singing was more aggressive now, and I felt I had to do something... I yelled in my head, "In the name of the Lord, stop singing to me!!!" Then I listened. Silence. Joy bubbled inside me, and I began singing a song of praise out of sheer happiness (where did that joy come from?). I sang "Indescribable," a favorite Christian song I'd memorized. Less than halfway through came the humming of a choir in the background to my exalting song. I got distracted by the beautiful voices flowing like water through a flowery meadow but continued singing to the end of the song, the angelic voices intensifying in power. When my voice terminated, thousands of breathtaking voices resounded loud and clear, singing gorgeously and triumphantly, "HALLELUJAH.....HALLELUJAH!!!!!" (2) I was momentarily paralyzed in awe, hardly believing this was happening. I shivered like crazy although not cold, goosebumps rising from the power, feeling emotional and overwhelmed. This was rare and my first. To this day I've never heard these angels again. The thing was, these angels incessantly sang with a victorious attitude all day long, even while I was at school. I never grew tired of it but was grateful they quieted down during class sessions so I could concentrate. However, once I stepped into the hallways again, thousands of voices blasted right at me in their celebration. I observed early on whether anyone else was aware of the singing, maybe acting odd. I spoke not a word, because obviously no one was hearing anything out of the norm. I didn't want people to think I was crazy.

The following event occurred three months after I turned sixteen. After mentioning the story to my mom, she brought up a surprising addition. As it was a major test of faith for me, my mother was tested in her faith as well. She stood by my father's side while he searched on his computer the remnants of a mysteriously corrupted document ("Demons are capable of messing with technology," he noted a few months later, which was his theory), while any other document on the same program were unharmed. Only the document containing my work for school were lost...supposedly forever. "I can't find it," Dad shook his head. "Yes, you can," Mom urged. Mom stated with a sure expression how she prayed tenaciously, and the results led to the Holy Spirit guiding my dad to a software that had the ability to recover my crashed document. <<>>

Dramatica Angeliqua

This is a personal testimony of mine, the first one I've ever recorded in detail but not the first I had experienced. It is the most recent event that had happened to me. Copied and pasted from my computer:

2/15/12
Here's an inspiration for you:

I am still shocked by what happened today after high school. Every student has to write a chapel talk and present it on a specific date in the year, and I had been postponing it because I was reluctant to do it; therefore, I waited until the last minute. Today was really pressuring for me because all the teachers came up to me to nag me about my speech and that it had to be done NOW because my practice presentation is tomorrow. I threw back a few resistant complaints and cried twice out of frustration and stress. I had a pretty bad day today on February 15.

When I got home, my mom was stern with me, telling me she had gotten a call from one of my teachers, and they had also noted I may have a sign of depression. I acted snappish and felt like a jerk.

I trudged upstairs to wash my face, and when I patted it dry with a towel, a thought came to me in a very quiet voice saying, "You need to have a talk with God. You cannot hide this from Him, and you cannot get through your problems alone. Go talk to Him." Now, this was merely a suggestion that the Holy Spirit strongly recommended me to do in what appeared to be a thought of my own... but the words didn't belong to me. I could have turned down the suggestion if I had wished to, but I was feeling like crud and agreed that I needed to converse with God.

So I began, wracking my brain for something to say and how to address God with my issue, "God, I'm sorry that I haven't been talking to You normally in a while. I've only been running to You when I needed help, and I feel like I haven't properly had a Father/daughter talk for so long... I realize that I can't just think about myself when everything's fine and suddenly need Your help when life goes wrong. Please forgive me. But Lord, I ask again for Your help because I'm feeling depressed, and I don't know how I'll get my entire speech written. Lord, I really need You to give me the strength and motivation to finish my paper and to take away my depression. Amen."

I was sobbing a bit (for the third time) because it's so emotional for me to pray to God. I often cry when talking to Him because I love Him... I came back downstairs and sat at the kitchen table with my mom. I felt so strangely at ease, and I had the strongest urge to give my mother a hug and a kiss. I told my mom of my prayer to God and how I suddenly felt calm afterwards. We both knew God had immediately and willingly taken away the horrible feeling in my heart. He had heard me.

My mom and I began on my speech, going over brainstormed ideas written on a scrap sheet of paper, and I typed away on my iPad (with a separate keyboard that links to my iPad through wireless BlueTooth) with my mom helping me along. My dad finally came home from work, for we could see, sitting by the window, that his car pulled in the driveway. Supper was ready, and afterwards I returned to working on my speech. All of a sudden, the Pages document crashed, and I was unable to return back to my essay. I could open up any of my other Pages documents, but not the one that had crashed: the one with my speech. I started having anxiety attacks, and my mom asked my dad to figure out the problem and recover the document (he's an engineer and a whiz on technology). My mind retrospected to earlier in the afternoon to the voice in my head that told me now was the time to speak with God and and to my prayer, trying to follow the voice's advice that I couldn't do this without Him, but I didn't have much luck calming myself down with those recent memories. I tried to assure myself that God was in control of everything that happened. And I had nothing to fear. But still...I was doubting.

Then, with such love shining in her eyes, my mom gazed directly at me, took both of my hands into hers, and said, "Have you ever heard of faith?" I was astonished, and I could only stare at her, dumbfounded, as she looked at me with such intensity...full of love!

"Mom, you read my mind," I could only answer.

She smiled. "God will do anything for you if you will only have faith in Him. You need to trust in Him completely that everything will work out."

Then we prayed together, still holding hands, for God to help my dad retrieve the document again. I still doubted that even if I put all my faith into God saving my speech document (which if it was never found again, I would burst into tears), the document would never be recovered, and all my hard work and effort would be lost. I was extremely worried and afraid something bad would happen. "But Mom, what if my paper's gone?"

"It won't be," she assured me confidently. "Your dad will find it again, I promise you. Put your trust in God, and your paper will be found. There's no reason to be scared because He is in control and always there for you."

I found myself holding hands tightly with her as if I was afraid that if I let my hands go, then God wouldn't recover my chapel talk document. It was a silly notion, but I felt rather safe and peaceful holding hands with her. I didn't want to let go. My mom casually suggested I write down any thoughts pertaining to the essay that could be added. I was hesitant and timidly explained to her I didn't want to write at the moment. She smiled as if she was amused and stated, "Are you afraid that God won't save your speech if we let our hands go?"

I sighed. "Mom, you read my mind again." So, I cautiously unlaced our intertwined fingers, breathing an inner sigh of relief when I found I was still in a calm state of mind. A Bible verse came to mind, and I told my mother, "Jesus said that if I had faith as small as a mustard seed, I could say to this mountain, 'move' and it will be done. Nothing will be impossible for me if my faith in God is strong enough." (Matthew 17:20 Paraphrased)

(An hour later)

My dad traveled back downstairs with my iPad and some pages printed out. He told me my speech document had corrupted, but he was able to copy the manuscript and email it to me. The pages printed out were the manuscript, my speech with a few strange symbols added here and there. I deleted the weird text from the document and – ta da – my document was a new one with my speech in it! I was so excited and thankful to God for supporting me as much as He did. I couldn't thank Him enough for what He had done. I later told my mom that I believed the Holy Spirit spoke to me through her because of the overwhelming love pouring out of her, and she said she believed so, as well, because she felt the love of the Spirit (yeah, at that time my mom had been acting freaky like she was somebody else). I also concurred to my mom that the Spirit aided my dad in recovering my crashed speech. He had no idea how or why it crashed when all the other documents were perfectly fine. Definitely something bizarre happened!

My mom and I came to the conclusion that God chose the right time for my document to crash on me. He allowed it to happen at the perfect time: after my dad had come home (to fix it for me later on). He let it crash on purpose, I believe, so that I could rely on Him and try to convince myself over and over: Everything will be fine! Everything goes according to God's plan! Trust in Him! He was helping me grow stronger in my faith as I had asked Him. This was where a Bible verse came to mind along with a mental image of Jesus standing on the waves and one of His disciples, Peter, coming toward Him before realizing he was walking on water and panicked. He cried out, "Lord, save me!" Jesus caught him so Peter wouldn't sink and said to him, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?" (Matthew 14:22-31 Paraphrased)

When those verses came to mind, I had asked God, "Lord I want to have faith in You. Please strengthen my faith!" In this case, God was doing exactly that. He caused my iPad to do a weird thing so my faith would grow even more.

Yes, my faith has been strengthened even more, and after my confrontation with God, I felt His strong presence linger in the house, made obviously known. I'm just in a state of shock and admiration for what a wonderful Father He is!!! My speech is finally done, for I have been working on it for 8 hours. I'm relieved that it's over with and so proud with what I've written! Too bad I wasn't able to do any of my other homework. Still, I knew that God had helped me even if it wasn't what I expected. When you ask God for help, He often aids you in surprising ways you do not expect or would not hope for. Whatever the reason God chooses to do it that way, He must see very good results and that this, whatever it is, is the best way out of all the possible choices.

"And whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son." (John 14:13 KJV)

Yeah, that's my story. On February 22nd when I was leaving art class early so I can get to chapel (the auditorium called "Assembly" by the middle school and "Chapel" by the high school, although not church-related) where I would meet Mary Heyward and Kaylie, two of my classmates who were also going to give speeches, I went into the restroom to wash my clay-covered hands. Before I did that, I prayed to the Lord to give me the strength to speak and to calm my anxiety. Butterflies were wildly dancing in my stomach, and I knew I couldn't do this without God. When I had said, "Amen," the bathroom door suddenly opened and a girl casually walked in. I immediately went to washing my hands and pretended nothing happened.

"But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly." (Matthew 6:6 KJV)

I had prayed in secret, and God rewarded me openly with my chapel talk presentation and with the compliments that soon followed for weeks after. Countless people came up to me in shock, saying that my delivery was powerful and inspirational; one person had even admitted my speech made them shiver (because of the power). I couldn't do it like I did without a supernatural force such as God. I humbly refuse to take all the glory, because I insist it was God who had delivered the speech, not me. So I'm giving all the credit to the Rightful Owner. He is faithful to me as I am faithful to Him, and I declare that without God I am nothing. I am nothing without God.

Not long after, I got into an argument with a Wiccan witch/medium on Gaia Online, trying to convince her communicating with spirits was dangerous, and demons existed just as well as angels (she disagreed, only believing in benevolent entities). As a medium, and like any medium, she summons supposed ghosts of the deceased. These so-called familiar spirits, I attempted to explain, were a mere, commonly used disguise to deceive the gullible human by malevolent entities. I can say the same for aliens, since they're ghostly and tend to leap from the spiritual realm as some stories I've read indicate in researching aliens. In that process, as I cared enough to confront and warn her, I searched demonic sites and videos to show her evidence that not all angels were sunshine and lilies. In doing so I had unknowingly opened a door for demonic attacks. For two nights in a row I was plagued with very uncomfortable dreams associated with satanism on February 18 and 19. The first included an altar with a lit candle and an inverted pentagram, and the second was crossing over a 666 landmark to be protected from some kind of curse. Before the second dream was a visualization of three snow white angels with hard, cold eyes devoid of love and warmth gazing down at me. Out of all that whiteness were luminous violet eyes. I dreaded a third dream completely expected to come, so I spoke up about it to some friends. They supported and prayed for me, one person saying she experienced the same thing when on some dark websites. I felt relieved and somehow knew those dreams would bother me no longer.

Kekku.

Dramatica Angeliqua

Kekku.

When I read your post in the guild about your demonic experiences, I suddenly remembered a horrible time in my life when I had experienced demons myself. My story is the exact same as yours. I read a few demonic articles online out of curiosity, and after that, I had experiences where I had dreams and literally could feel the demons around me. This was also after I was saved. I won't go into too much detail, as I don't want to cause you any more harm, but I just want you to know that you're not alone.

So how did I overcome it? How is it that I no longer fear? It's because I remember the scripture that says, "He who is in us is greater than he who is in the world." I also remember that God is infinitely more powerful than the enemy. Which, of course, means that the Holy Spirit is infinitely more powerful than demons. Do not worry. Pray to God and remember that He can't ever be defeated. Constantly pray. I have prayed for you as well.

Thank you... You don't know how much this means to me...

It's no problem. 3nodding Take care, and be strong.

Footnotes:
(1) Amen - Said at the end of prayers, in Hebrew it means "So be it" or "So shall it be."
(2) Hallelujah - Commonly used as a means to express celebration used by both Christians and non-Christians alike; used in worship songs; in Hebrew it means "Praise the Lord."  

[calwri]

Dreams

Speaking of dreams, my dreams have always been random and colorful, full of adventure and surprises. It is the mark of creativity. I've never had any "religious" dreams until high school...for the exception of one when I was young, the age forgotten.

Although this was my first religious-affiliated dream, I remember it clear as day. The ground was black, the sky was black, the walls were black, the space infinite. There was no light, only velvety blackness, a void. I was a small body clearly visible in the darkness running from a tall, cloaked figure. Underneath the dark, flowing robes was a living skeleton, the smiling skull exposed under the hood. It was a Grim Reaper of sorts. It was sauntering forward like a zombie, and I continued to run us in circles with me holding a big book. Why was I not fast enough? I was scared, held the Bible high in front of me, and shouted, "In the name of Jesus Christ, go away!" It did not go away. Instead my words caused it to fall in a heap. The thing slowly rose again and stumbled after me. I repeated the command several times, it repetitively collapsing. "It just would not go away!" I thought in my frustration.

The second dream was what began the chain involving Christianity in any way. I was a freshman in high school. In the dream the sky was dark and threatened to storm over. It was probably nighttime, and I was riding in a red roller coaster with an unfamiliar woman with a dirty blonde bun I called my "Aunt Ann." She did not believe in God. In the dream I was tested in my faith as the sky morphed into funnel clouds without warning, at least twelve monster tornadoes speeding toward us. We thought we were going to die, but I knew at that moment prayer was the only option. I clasped my hands together, whispering under my breath, "Lord, protect us so we will not die, and please send away the storm... Amen." One tornado was too close for comfort. To my horror I felt the roller coaster lift from its tracks, and we hysterically screamed all the way as the tornado winds heaved our coaster in the air. Our vehicle went airborne before roughly landing on another set of tracks, and we were extremely lucky to have survived the incident. Our hair was a mess, but I remarked to my aunt, "See? I told you God was real. I prayed for Him to protect us, and He did. He heard my prayers." She pursed her lips, saying, "Hmm. I'll consider it."

Another tornado dream I had (people seem to dream of tornadoes a lot) also occurred when I was fifteen. I don't remember much about this one, but I do recall being in a brick building two or three stories high with a spacious basement and the outside a flat, barren wasteland as if I was in the desert in a desolate area. In the building were many people, and I was one of them. I'm not sure what we were doing, but the tornado siren sounded, and everybody rushed to the basement to take cover. The tornado was already on the ground, ominously looming closer, its roar and high winds deafening and causing us to be pulled upward. So many people were around me, and I panicked when I was sucked upward but clumsily grasped the knob of a cabinet to hold myself in place. I said a quick prayer for God to keep everyone safe and rebuked the tornado. We all waited anxiously for it to pass. In the end it turned out everyone was fine, and the building didn't seem to suffer much.

The next was sort of vague: an elderly lady approached me at a drink machine to complain how there was a malicious witch spirit haunting her house, and she pleaded me to get rid of it. I agreed to help her and warily followed, unsure of what I would encounter. Upon entering the house a dark, insane laughter greeted me, and a blur flew past. Lights flickered, furniture rattled, objects were pushed around, some things took a suicide dive from the table and dressers. And the pictures in their frames on the walls spun and whirled. The spirit was totally unconcerned about keeping hidden: it was in full view, a transparent woman with a white gown and long black hair. Her face possibly exhibited beauty, but it was blurry and unfocused, constantly on the move. Her arms and bottom half were not visible, only the head and torso. The demon cackled manically, influencing the destruction of the room, taking nosedives every so often, always quick and unclear to the eye. This intruder had no right to remain... I projected my voice with a growing red-hot anger inside, rebuking the demonic spirit, "In the name of Jesus Christ, leave this house! You are not welcome here! Leave! Get out, in the name of the Lord! Go back to where you belong!" The dark-haired woman froze as if time had stopped, then slowly faded away into intangibility until there was nothing left. The elderly lady thanked me graciously for exorcizing the witch demon, and the peace in her home was restored.

This dream was one of the lengthiest ever. I had apparently switched schools and was now going to a preposterously small one that looked like it once was a convenience store with extensions. It was hot. It was dirty. The hallways were so treacherously narrow you had to squeeze by each other, two at a time. It was nothing like the school I go to in real life. All the teachers were Adolf Hitler clones in personality, and the principal was heinous Hitler himself. It was the worst nightmare school I've ever gone to. The fact was, all the students were Christians, and the rule of the school was: "No non-Christians allowed." I remember the part where we sat quietly in our cheap desks with a tower of musty paperwork before us. Nobody smiled. No matter how hard we tried we were rewarded with flaming red F's. The work was absurd; nothing was comprehensible, and no one learned anything. The teacher wasn't even doing his job as a teacher should; he just blabbed on the phone, obviously wanting nothing to do with us. I received a spark of courage, took a deep breath, then approached him at his desk, where his feet reposed, the soles facing me, chair swiveled. A bit upset, I hinted, "Sir, can you please go up to the front and teach us the topics we need to know?" He rudely interrupted, "Sit down and read your textbook! That's the best way to learn!" I shrunk back, grabbed a handout, pointed at a passage, and attempted again more quietly, "Teacher, I don't understand this material. Can you explain it to me, please?" He waved me away. "Silence!" It was very clear he didn't want anything to do with us... Now along came Picture Day, where the students had to get their yearly school pictures taken. Everyone was to stay in the classrooms to wait their turn as two people each were called to leave the room to get their pictures taken. We went by alphabetical order in our last names. Strangely enough, none of the kids whose names were called ever came back. There was nothing to do while waiting, so I fixed my eyes on the empty desks that would never be filled by the same people again. Ever. Eventually, my name was called; I was one of the last few students remaining because my last name starts with a W. Another kid joined me, but I don't think I even noticed he was there. Adults materialized out of nowhere and accompanied us like guards. We walked in silence, our feet noisily pattering against the tile flooring, and came to a vacant space with a man behind a camera that was fastened on a tripod. Nearby were double doors wide open, the smell of smoke and something burning outside. Two students about to have their pictures taken had their heads bowed in humiliation, wearing signs that said, "I'm a dirty Christian." The camera flashed, it's light somehow a deadly new weapon invented, instantly killing the students exposed to the flash. They fell like cement and were dragged away out the double doors. Guards surrounded us, so escape was impossible. We were doomed to perish. As the two poor kids were dragged outside to incinerate, my point of view switched to those dragging the bodies. They hauled the bodies into a gigantic bonfire in the backyard, woods in the background. The bonfire had some wood to feed it, but most of the flames hungrily licked at the mountain of flesh tossed into its fiery tendrils. The view returned as my own as I mutely witnessed a couple led to their death spot, tears rolling down their cheeks. They wrapped their arms around each other, sorrowfully parting with, "I love you." Then they kissed with glistening cheeks their last. The camera flashed, and the lovers' embrace broke away as they toppled to the cold floor. I was next. Though sad, I squared my jaw and mentally made the decision to face death head on, without fear. There was no point in blubbering before fate. I did not see what happened. My point of view transitioned over to that boy, who came with me. He was a portly brown-haired fellow, who somehow managed to squirm his way past the guards. His legs pumped as he scurried off to hide somewhere, perhaps to find an escape route. He turned the corner when - oh no! - Principal Hitler was ambling his way! So the boy retraced his steps and climbed up a stack of mattresses against the wall, breathing hard but attempting to be quiet, watching as Hitler glided past. The man paused at the end of the hallway, casually turned around, and walked back with hands calmly folded behind him. However, he halted right where the mattresses were located, leisurely peering upward with razor eyes. The boy caught his breath in terror, meeting the cold gaze with frightened ones. Later, it was possible the kid died, but what happened to him was unknown. All I knew was I felt the most tremendous peace in existence. I was laying down, a white fog gently swirling and caressing my skin, nice and warm to the touch. Beautiful music entered my ears, but I could not pinpoint the sounds; they came from all around me, far away yet nearby. I was filled with an indescribable happiness and love, so I wept, a smile spreading on my face. It was okay to cry because I was finally in a safe place. I was welcome - I belonged here. I felt as if I could lay here, wherever this was, for all eternity. Everything was so peaceful and relaxing, rhythmic, but the sublime music enticed me forward. I stood up in the fog, noticing I was wearing a white dress. My hair was its natural dark chocolate brown again when in life I've had artificial blonde highlights, lightening my hair color. I was beautiful. I shone like the sun. Something heavy was on my head... I reached up to feel it and brought down a dazzling, elaborate, tall gold crown with embedded gems of every color. I recognized it as the "Crown of Life" mentioned in the Bible. I placed the crown back on my head and journeyed through the haze, seeing trees in the distance. Once I neared the trees, I saw to my right the shore with a colorful ocean in the distance, its waters reflected by the sunset, like a painting done by God. What crossed my mind was I was on an island of some sort. Everything was so peaceful and quiet, the rainbow waters gently lapping at the white sand, the pleasing music sending me into a lull. Oh, how I longed to stay. But then on the shore I saw a man the most beautiful and glorious I've ever laid eyes on. "Heavenly angel", my mind thought. He spoke my name, a silky voice smooth as honey. "Calen, it is time for us to depart." His hand showed the way to a simple wooden rowboat with a pair of oars waiting for me. I climbed in and sat down on my heels, and the angelic man stood behind me with the oars and rowed us away from the misty island. We did not have to say goodbye to the comely music, as it carried with us to our destination. I admired the golden waters with areas of pink, and orange, and lavender, and red from the sunset. I watched intently the ripples the oars made as it brushed through the waters, the surface's glassiness disturbed. Temptation came upon me to lay down and sleep; nevertheless, my eyes remained open, unwilling to miss anything. It came to pass where the ocean became a misty haze before ending its formation into colorful clouds, bright golden along the rims where the sun shone bravely from behind, the further we rowed. No longer were we in the ocean but rowing in the air among puffy clouds of breathtaking sun-bathed color. "We are here, Calen! Welcome home," uttered the angel, and I saw where he looked, great golden gates emerging in the distance. Then the gates and everything around me faded away in slow motion into darkness. The dimming of the dream signified its end. Credits rolled across the screen. I woke up. This dream did not follow the biblical description of heaven with there being no island and the gates made of pearl, not gold. Still, this was a fantastic dream, beginning horribly but ending in such a wonderful, spiritual place. I'd love to dream it again if possible, the good part, of course.

I'm pretty sure the following dream originated from Robert the Doll and Annabelle the Raggedy Ann Doll stories and the Superbowl commercial with a child screaming in a store at a floating teddy bear, flying all by itself. My own precious Twin Doll turned evil. She was beautiful and looked exactly like me when I got her for Christmas at age nine. I still have her and keep her on a bookshelf wearing a sky-blue dress my grandmother made and brown hair braided down her back. I have a single drawer just for her full of clothes. I used to dress her everyday and wear matching outfits. Her name was Little Calen, Calen for short.

In the dream, her appearance was nothing like the painted healthy glow she has now. Her skin is fair with a tint of rose to the cheeks, the hair glossy and still intact. She has long lashes. In the dream she was physically altered, bearing a sickly pallid color drenched in cold sweat with a strange greenish-gray mold texture decorating the left side of her face. Dark shadows ringed her brown eyes, giving her a deathly look. Her hair was short and stuck out straight with bald spots where tufts of hair were lost. And the doll was naked. It was the ugliest, most gruesome doll I'd ever seen. She was a moving, living doll that was out to get me. She giggled a lot, though her face never moved, nor painted cherry lips parted. I remember a part where that short, freakish doll waddled forward, and I backed away, it still coming toward me. I would not let that thing touch me. I went to the grocery store with my mom, and we huddled together and whispered, glad to get out of that house. You could say the doll kicked us out. We discussed how the doll may be possessed by a demon, and I was open with how terrified I was. When I got home, I took the doll by the waist and crammed her into the freezer. The next day we awoke to a most horrible, insane screaming and a furious banging noise downstairs. My mom, dad, and I sprinted into the kitchen and found the freezer door rumbling and shaking as if something was trying to escape, and the angry, demented screaming persisted. Dad flung the freezer door open, and Little Calen toppled right out stiff on the floor, covered in frost and ice. No more screams ensued. Then the nightmare was interrupted when my mom woke me up. I told it to my parents during breakfast, which my father jokingly remarked, "Looks like Little Calen should be burned." The conversation led to Robert the Doll, which my mom visited the museum before in Florida, saying it was the ugliest, creepiest doll she had ever seen. Dad told her they should've burned Robert already and not entertain it and make it famous.

My next one was bewildering. I was sixteen. I was some kind of hostage in a house among many other female captives, and we all wore skimpy clothing. I recall a scene where I was unexpectedly cheerful and chatting to a twelve-year-old boy, who was part of the family of captors. We stood in the kitchen, lightly speaking of general subjects. I don't remember what we talked about, but I know my lips voiced a casual confession in that conversation, "...since I am a Christian." The boy's eyes widened ever so slightly, lips parting in shock. "You're a Christian?" he blurted, unable to believe it. "How? Why?" I could see the questions in his eyes. Then he scrutinized me, no longer readable, and an uneasiness settled around me. My grin seemed a tad forced. "Yeah!" I chirped, trying to stay cheerful, although the friendly atmosphere was gone, leaving behind tension. His brows furrowed, staring at me as if he didn't know what to think. Momentarily forgetting the dishwasher was in front of me, I walked right into it and landed on my butt. Giggling out of nervousness more than anything, I looked up at him, half expecting him to scoff. He didn't. He only gazed down at me in silence that killed. "Haha, oops," I laughed, feeling foolish. "I ran into the dishwasher!" Meanwhile I was starting to fidget, uncomfortable with his stare and unable to tell what he was thinking. The suspense was overwhelming. Was he okay with it, or did he hate me? What was he thinking? Now that I'm relieving the dream, I'm imaging the words flashing across the screen, "To be continued."

My second-to-last dream was in the summer when I spent the night at my grandparents' home, and their cream Pomeranian, Angel, slept in the guest bed with me. I'm a rising 11th grader. In this particular dream I was causing mischief with a bunch of girl and guy friends I knew in the dream but am unfamiliar with in life. I was the only Christian in the group, but I didn't think they realized. We made up our own adventures, goofing off, acting immature, and scaring people to death. It was fun and exhilarating. We did things I felt were wrong, but I trotted after them like a dog anyway, wanting acceptance. One time we were all packed into a friend's convertible and decided to do some risky stuff for a thrill. We drove slowly on the wrong side of the road, ogling and throwing our heads back in laughter when cars came our way, swerving to the other lane in a panic. Some drivers yelled and shook their fists at us. We paid them no heed. Another instance we invaded a circus tent, some of the guys running to spank unaware female circus performers. The rest grabbed for streamers and hula hoops and whatnot to fool with. There was a lot of shrieking and cursing and wild goose chases while I just stood there, stupefied. The whole shebang was ridiculous. Another time we were in a room somewhere, and I was sitting and conversing with a blonde, short-haired friend named Allison. A young man in his late twenties with light brown curly hair approached her with a booklet. He opened it up for her to see, pointing into it and talking as if advertising for something. She took one look at that booklet, threw her hands in the air, and dashed out the room, bellowing, "Church guy!!!!" I looked away with a frown, my stomach turning sour. Even if it wasn't aimed at me, her exclamation hurt my feelings and made me feel uncomfortable.

My last and most recent dream was situated in a New York atmosphere, with skyscrapers and busy streets surrounding me. It was a dark sky, early morning. In my mind, I thought I was late for my first day of school and was dashing past people in a hurry on foot. The issue was: I did not know my school's location. I was lost in the streets and pulled out my iPhone to contact my dad, but on the phone's screen displayed his black car rushing down the street, supposedly late for work, although many people in New York don't have their own vehicles. I might have been living in a futuristic era, for I possessed an iPhone that could control my dad's speed in driving. The screen showed me his car was forced to slow down because of a few cars ahead in the way of his path. I became frustrated and pushed a button. My dad's car sped instantly. He crashed into a pink car that was ramming into a semi truck, and the police arrived to arrest him. I went to the site of the accident and jogged up to a policeman with guilty tears in my eyes. I sobbed to him how sorry I was, and that I was the one who had caused the car to accelerate. "I'm sorry, sir, i-it was m-my fault! I made him crash...!" He said, "It's all right, it's all right. Come with me." He led me by the hand, and I felt as if I was being arrested. But if I was arrested, why did he not cuff me? Still I weakly followed without restraint, quietly sobbing. We were passing a brick alley before a criminal jumped out of the shadows and shot the policeman. The man fell dead, and I was just screaming bloody murder as the outlaw, a college-aged African American boy with a red rapper hat, shoved me against the wall and punched me in the gut and jaw. I was sore all over, and my throat was burning from my screaming, but I continued to struggle against him. I began to cry again, desperately hollering, "Jesus, help me! Jesus! Jeeessuuus! Save me!!!" The attacker looked at me in astonishment, almost awe. In the end he let me go. Sometime later a crazy old grandmother lady, who worked in a cosmetic shop, held me at gunpoint, but in the end she hugged me all teary-eyed, saying, "My daughter!" and let me go, too. The dream made perfect sense while it was occurring, but now it's a confusing jumble of nonsense.

As you may have noticed, my life and dreams depict a raging war. What we call the Age of the Warring Spirits between good and evil since the universe began. It's a tug-o-war between God and Satan over us, a constant battle, struggle, conflict. Oh, but how much more we're worth than gold. We experience joy, love, pain, regret, sorrow, laughter, confusion, want, peace, hatred, envy, awe, triumph, loss, agony, determination, fear, courage, in the midst of the battlefield of life. We succeed and we fail. We're on guard and we're caught off guard. We're observant and we're unaware. That is life. There will never be a break as long as the age old war carries on. In a sense, we're all warriors choosing sides. Choosing leaders. Choosing destinies. It's all one cyclopean game of dodgeball.

UPDATE: On August 11th, 2012, two days before junior year began, I had yet another dream. Another victory was won. I was in my home with my family, and relatives had come to celebrate Christmas, or so I assume, because in the living room there were candles all around with red satin bows. We lost power, which could be another reason the house was so dark save for the candles. I am currently wondering why no flashlight was seen in my dream. Separate from my dad, aunts, and uncles were my mom and me sitting in the cold, dark kitchen. Our wrists rested on the polished wooden surface of the table, and we sat in silence. Down the hall that linked the kitchen to the living room we listened to the others' chatter and laughter. Unlike the merriment nearby, my mother and I shared a silent dread we could not comprehend. We were fearful of something we could not see. We were fearful of something we did not know. We were glued to our seats, unmoving like stone statues, eyes watching the shadows move and sway. And then one shadow deepened in a rich black color and morphed into a humanoid shape. It materialized from thin air, blacker than black, blacker than all the darkness of the kitchen. I sensed a male presence, and my throat ran dry. The heavy aura was malicious and threatened to suffocate me. I saw no face nor defining features of this shadow man but observed in unspeakable fear as the form voluptuously glided across the walls, he turning to look at me from time to time. My mother was frozen useless. The faceless being struck terror in my heart, and I rose unpredictably and slammed my palms down on the table with a surge of bravery any warrior would boast about. "Go away from us, you freak! We are children of God, and you are not welcome in our house. In the name of the Lord I command you to leave! Leave! Leave!" I thought I was unnecessarily screeching my voice hoarse. I was terrified still, but I could not see it anymore. I assumed the Lord drove the enemy out.  

[SinfulGuillotine]

I've been meaning to post here, but putting it off because...well, it's a lot of typing.

Disclaimer: This is going to be frank and honest. I'm going to discuss things that might make some people uncomfortable, so rather than trying to edit it down to be more "family-friendly" or censor anything potentially offensive in white text or something, I'm just going to say that my life and resulting spiritual journey is not rainbows and puppies. If you're the type to be easily offended by homosexuality, young people having sex, promiscuity, or drug use, you're probably better off skipping this one. I'll of course adhere to the Gaia TOS, but that's all I can promise. Thanks.

I was born the eldest son to two devoutly Catholic parents. Well, the man I knew as my father wasn't actually my biological father, but he was there at my birth, was married to my mother, and raised me as his own, so he was my father in every way that mattered. My father was a lawyer. My mother was a piano teacher, until after her fourth child she decided to stop working and be a full-time wife and mother.

Both my parents were born into money, and my father had worked his way up to a very high-paying position early in my life, so I had a very privileged childhood. I went to a private Catholic school, we lived in a big house on a lot of land, where my father raised warmblood horses as a sort of hobby. (Raising horses is a "hobby" only to the wealthy, heh.)

One of my earliest memories was watching a film with my parents. I don't remember the name of the film. I couldn't have been more than five years old. At the end, I asked my mother why the two main (male) characters never got married, because they were obviously in love and in my child's mind people in love got married and lived happily ever after. I had mistaken the close friendship between the two main characters for romantic love. It never crossed my mind that the fact they were both male would change anything. My mother slapped me across the face and told me to never talk about anything so disgusting ever again. I didn't understand why she was upset, but I obeyed her order in never talking about it again.

When I was about 12 or so, I had a school friend who lived nearby. He liked to come over to my house after school and pet the horses. I liked my friend very much, mostly in the way normal boys do, but something scared me about something I felt for him. I knew it was related to the incident with the film years earlier, so I kept it to myself. One day we were up in the hay loft of the barn, rough-housing and throwing hay at each other. We weren't paying attention, and I almost rolled right out of the loft, but my friend caught me and pulled me back up just in time. And then without warning, he kissed me on the mouth. It scared me how good that made me feel, so I told him I had to practise my violin and he should go home for the day. The next day we were chasing one another around one of the pastures, and I tackles him and pinned him to the ground. Without thinking, I leaned down and touched my mouth to his. Then I told him I had to practise and he should go home. This pattern continued for some time. We'd be playing like normal 12-year-old boys, we'd end up in close physical proximity, and one of us would place a chaste peck on the other's mouth. Then I'd say I had to practise my violin and he'd go home. It never went any further. At first it terrified me, but after a time it seemed to innocent, and nobody was getting hurt, and being with him and our little stolen kisses made me so happy that I figured I couldn't be doing anything wrong.

Several months after that first kiss in the hayloft, my friend moved away. I never saw him again.

Several years later, when I was about 15, we had our fairly piss-poor Catholic "sex education," where we were taught that anything sexual was only to be shared between a husband and wife, and that every sexual act had to provide for at least the possibility of conception. In plain English, the man had to ejaculate inside his wife's v****a. If it wasn't done this way and exactly this way, sex turned sinful.

Now, puberty as a male is awkward enough under the best of circumstances, but I went to an all-boys school. I found my body reacting to my peers in the most horrifying ways. I started dragging an empty fountain pen across my ribs in the restroom whenever my body...misbehaved. I distanced myself from my peers, convinced that if I let any of them get close to me, they'd discover my horrible secret. That I was a freak. An abomination. I prayed to God every day to fix me. I prayed so hard, and I prayed constantly. "I don't want to disobey you, Lord," I'd pray, "I really don't, but I can't seem to stop. Please fix me. I know you can erase this black spot off my soul. Please let me walk in your light and carry out your will. Please fix me. Please fix me. Please fix me." But my prayers went unanswered.

Shortly after my 15th birthday, I met a boy about my age. He didn't have enough money to pay his bill at a cafe, and I covered the cost of his meal. That was when I first met Theo, my best friend and my first love. From the moment we met, he fascinated me. He was vulgar and he shoplifted and smoked cigarettes. More than anything, he seemed so sure of himself. He was only a year older than me, but this boy actually seemed to know who he was. He was everything I wasn't, and I couldn't get enough of his company. He was a welcome escape from the fear and the guilt I felt at school and at home. I was happy when I was with him. He made me feel comfortable existing, which was a feeling that had been lacking from my life for several years. He took me to where he lived, with a bunch of other kids. Runaways who lived in a house with no electricity or hot water, but I felt more at home there than I'd ever felt in recent memory.

One day he took me to a party. We got separated, and an older man, near my father's age started talking to me. He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, and I thought nothing of it when he asked if I wanted to go back to his flat for a drink. As soon as he closed the door to his flat, he slammed me against a wall and kissed me hard. It hurt, but I was so taken aback that I froze. He told me that he'd spent enough time listening to me complaining about my Latin teacher, and that we were going to do what he wanted now. He told me to take my clothes off and lay down on his bed. I didn't know what else to do, so I just did what he said. That was my first time having sex. It didn't feel good. It didn't feel right. It hurt. A lot. I nearly bit through my lip trying not to cry out. When he'd finished, he told me that he was beat and I should go home. I got dressed and left his flat. I vomited as soon as I got outside. I found my way back to the party, where Theo had reappeared. I frantically tried to tell him what happened, but he shushed me and led me into the restroom of the house where the party was. He told me he was sorry, that he shouldn't have left me alone. But he said that he could make me feel better. All I could do was nod. He told me to hold out my arm, palm up. He pulled out a hypodermic syringe and gave me my first shot of heroin. It did make me feel better. It eased the pain in my body, and made me feel like a person again. Theo and I walked back to his house and I fell asleep in his arms.

At this point, I'd decided that I was beyond redemption. God had forsaken me. By some fluke I'd been born into a nice family, but I deserved none of it. My name had been left off the list of people whom Christ had died to save.

I continued using heroin. It was the only thing that gave me any emotional relief. I felt almost like a person when I was high. My parents had always given me a long leash. So long as I practised my music and kept my marks up in school, they never questioned when I said I was at a friend's house for the week working on a project, or tutoring someone in chemistry. I could come and go as a pleased. If they noticed something wrong with me, they remained in firm denial about it.

One day a man showed up at Theo's house. Theo try to shove me out the back door when he entered, but the man grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. He asked me where I'd been hiding. I told him I'd never been hiding. Theo told him to leave me alone, said that they had an arrangement and he'd honour it but I had nothing to do with it. The man said he was changing the arrangement, and told both me and Theo to get into his car. He drove us to a flat. He told me to get undressed, but I told him I didn't want to. The man pulled out a large hunting knife and held it against my throat and told me that what I wanted didn't matter right now. All that mattered was what he wanted. So I gave him what he wanted, and when he'd had his fill, he'd give Theo and me our heroin. The man came for us every day. He made us do awful things. Sometimes he brought friends and let them "play" with us. By this point I was very addicted to heroin and had no money. Even if I did, I doubt he would have taken it. For the better part of a year, I let him torture and rape Theo and me for our fix. When he let us go and gave us our drugs, we hurried back to Theo's and shot up without sayig a word, without looking at each other. Not until the dope numbed our bodies and minds.

I have to go now, so I'll return to this as soon as I can.

Okay, onwards.

After about a year of this, I made the first decent decision I'd made in a while: I decided to get clean. I had to wait until I had a school holiday, then spent a week and a half locked in Theo's room withdrawing. Puking, shaking, sweating...it was hell, but I got through it thanks to Theo, and then I was free from that horrible man.

Besides maintaining my friendship with Theo, I managed to get myself out of that nightmare. Unfortunately, once I was sober I had to face myself again. I hated myself, and even found myself struggling in English (as a foreign language; trivia! English is my second language), and it was not typical of me to have trouble with school. My parents hired me a private tutor who came highly recommended through the school. I was instantly infatuated with him, despite the fact that he was nearly twice my age. I know it sounds like a bad porno, but, we began a sexual relationship. At first it was just sex, though "just sex" to me was considerably more profound than it sounds. Not because there were complicated emotions mixed up, but just because it was the first truly consensual sex I'd ever had. Two people with mutual attraction to one another making each other feel good because we both wanted to be in his bed. It was a completely novel experience for me.

One evening when I was collecting my things to head home, he stopped me. I don't think I'll ever forget what he said to me. "Enjolras, you've come to a crossroads right here, right now. You need to accept who you are. I'm not going to continue to take you to bed when I can see the self-loathing in your eyes every time you walk out my door. You need to decide right now if you are going to accept who you are and forgive yourself for it, or if you're going to live the rest of your life keeping this skeleton in your closet. You either face up to who and what you are, or I will refer you to another tutor and you walk out that door and never come back." It was that moment when I realised our relationship had gone far beyond casual sex partners. I was in love with him, and there was no going back. I looked him in the eyes and said in English, "I am a homosexual. I have been as long as I can remember, and I probably always will be. I'm ready to stop running." He just smiled and said, "Then same time tomorrow."

Skip ahead a year. I'm in a Jesuit university studying pre-med, just like my family wanted, and it was killing me. I'd sunk into a deep depression, and Henry, my former tutor/current lover/future partner knew it. One night, I just couldn't take it anymore. I went out and bought a lethal dose of heroin. I'd written goodbye letters to both Henry and my parents, which were in labeled envelopes on my desk in the flat near the school that my parents were renting for me. I asked God for forgiveness, and just as I slid the needle into my arm, Henry let himself in with his key. He'd come to surprise me with Chinese food, but his timing saved my life. And I don't think that was an accident. I truly, deeply believe that God sent put Henry in my life, and that God sent him to me that night. He knew right away what I was trying to do, and when he held out his hand, I gave him the loaded syringe. I couldn't talk. He just put his arms around me and let me cry myself to sleep. When I woke up, he was still there, just holding me. I tried to tell him that I couldn't go on, that I was dead inside, that keeping up the charade of being the person my family expected me to be was killing me. We had a long talk, and I finally came to the conclusion that I couldn't live for other people anymore. I needed to do what was best for me. Without my family's knowledge, I arrange to audition with a music conservatory in London. If I won the scholarship, everything but my housing and food would be paid for. I went to London for the audition. I nailed it. I was accepted with a full ride. The first thing I did when I got back was to drop out of my current university. I told my parents I just needed some time off.

Two weeks before I had to leave to start at the music conservatory in London, I decided it was time to come clean to my parents. I told them that I wasn't going to be a doctor, I was going to be a violinist. I told them that I was gay and had been seeing the tutor they'd hired for nearly two years. My mother threw a fit and threw me out on the spot. My father just sat silently. I stayed the last two weeks at Henry's. When the day of departure came, he took me to the train station. I told him I'd contact him as soon as I arrived, but he stopped me. He told me to experience university, experience being young, without being tied down to someone across the Channel. He promised we'd see each other again, shoved me onto my train, and I was off to start my new life.

I found lodging just one step above a crackhouse and was able to quickly get a job waiting tables. I realised that I could be whoever I wanted to be here. I didn't have to be the shy, awkward dweeb I was back home. I didn't have to hide who I was. And for a while, I thrived. I made more friends than I'd ever had in my life is less than a week. I loved my teacher. I loved my courses.

And then I met him. He'd just played a show at a club I'd wandered into. he bought me a drink and we to talking. He was very charming, and very good-looking, and we made dinner plans for the following week. I had no idea this was the beginning of a whole new kind of nightmare. At first he was a perfect gentleman. He paid for all our dates, he showered me with expensive gifts, but more and more, he started trying to cut me off from my friends, damanded more and more of my time. His band threw wild coke parties frequently and before long he became violent. He tried to throw me threw a third-story glass window. If I denied him sex, he raped me. He drugged me and whored me out to his friends, he beat me if he disliked my tone of voice. I was genuinely afraid that if I tried to leave him, he would kill me. But eventually my friends convinced me that he'd kill me if I didn't leave him. So I told him I was leaving him, and you know what he did? he cried. Like a baby. He begged me not to go, and was totally delusional as to how he'd treated me. He thought I was blowing things out of proportion and promised he'd be better. I spat in his face and ran like hell.

To try to wrap up a long, long story, Henry accepted a teaching job in London and I moved in with him. my life stabalised considerably. We got civilly partnered shortly before I finished my Masters. I realised what a miracle my survival and success was, and how lucky I was to have this amazing man in my life. I don't care what anyone says, I truly believe that God sent Henry to me to look after me. His mere existence helped me gain back my faith. Healing from the traumas I've suffered is an ongoing process, but I have an amazing support system, including an amazing, deeply personal relationship with God.

Long story short, I'm alive and mostly functional against all odds, and if that's not convincing testimony, then I don't know what is. smile  

[xXZirkannia]

[[Are posting styles forbidden here? I didn't see anything about it in the rules, but I don't see much coding with other posts.. I will remove it if necessary, thanks!]]

To be honest, my testimony is nothing exciting, but I'm still glad it happened somehow.

I was brought up in a catholic home, with a slight (unknown) non-denominational influence.
I hit a lot of depressing points through middle and high school. During which my mom would sometimes make me watch Joyce Meyers with her. At the time, I didn't really want to listen and found it annoying. But it helped me through a little. I was slightly "agnostic" but every now and then if something frightened me or if something was wrong, I would pray. But I didn't think much of it.

Some years later, I met a Christian coworker. At first I found him religious and annoying, every time I talked to him at work or on facebook he'd try "sharing the Gospel" with me, including putting me through the "good person test." After a while, he stopped being as persistant and we just talked about normal things, and joked about hanging out.

Later the same year, my cousin and her family were comming to my state to go on vacation and visit her hometown, and she offered to let me come with her since they'd be stopping by to visit us anyway. They're from the south and all have a very strong Faith. So the entire week I was with them, I really got to see what it was like to be like that, and I got to thinking about it.. Maybe I was wrong about them. I started thinking a lot more about Jesus, the bible, and all of that. Something tugged at me to contact that coworker again.

The day that I returned from that vacation, the coworker I mentioned asked if I wanted to hang out. I didn't really want to do anything (being in the car with four kids can exhaust a person, hahah.) but I decided hey, why not? Maybe I could find out more about God.
The plan for the night was Dinner and a Movie. After planning that, I jokingly asked him if it was a date. He responded by telling me that he only dates girls that share the same faith, and I responded by telling him that I was interested in learning about it. The night went well and we hit it off, and arranged to go to an evening service at the church he attends (A non-denominational/full gospel church) the following Sunday. [Note: I did not do this just to "get with him." I was honestly curious about the church and what I didn't understand. Although I did kind of "like" him, I did not have an ulterior motive.]

At that church on Sunday Nights, there is either the Youth Group or the main/adults service. Since he's too old for the Youth Group now, he goes to the main - so I decided to join him there because I didn't really know any of the youth.
From the moment I walked in to the end of the sermon, I absolutely loved it. Having gone to a big catholic church in a well populated city when I was younger, I was used to seeing big statues and sitting in a really uncomfortable pew, and trying really hard to listen to things I didn't understand. But this church was nothing like that. It had theater seats, a really cool stage, a worship team that sang songs in the beginning, and a pastor that explained things really well. The people were also very, very friendly. Something told me: "This is home."

After the sermon, I was introduced to the Pastor and asked if I wanted to become born again/pray the prayer, and I agreed. I felt instantly free after that. Like a huge weight just fell off.
Since then I have attended almost every Sunday morning, evening, and wednesday night service, have been studying the bible by myself and with my fiance (that coworker.) I can't say it's been easy, but it's definitely been a lot better knowing that God is in my life now. <3