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How I confessed within 1.5m or Confessions for the socially distant > September 12, 2021 It has been a time hasn't it? The purpose of this diary will be fulfilled with this last entry. I finally figured it out, all the sexual repression, hidden- leading me in my 20s and 30s to be a brothel regular and of late a camgirl addict. Before all that may I say, "G'day!" to Ric, please forgive me when you can brother. Pray for me as I you; I know you're Heaven bound, we both can't look up to heaven but beat our breast and ask God to have mercy on us as sinners. Forgive me for not being able to admit what happened at the party. Why oh why did you say to me, "F your God?" So what your dad spun a logic puzzle that I couldn't solve nor refute? So what my dad was boozed and they both fell into their old camaraderie? Yeah I was green, rookie as, but, "F your God?" Fid even said to me that you were drunk and that you didn't mean it. I told him it was already too late. If it weren't for that arvo, I nearly lost control of the Corolla driving home as I broke into tears wounded. Mum and dad were taken aback, because they had never seen me cry before, like ever. I think they finally saw me as an emotional human being and were glad. "What's wrong son? Don't worry about Tito, it's just drunk logic games." I tell him, "It's not Tito." Between sobbing and catching breath, he waits to ask, "What then?" I reply, "Ric told me F your God, dad." Then I scream and cry, "No one tells me that about Jesus!" Shakily driving, I asked the Lord to curse you, a curse fitting for a Christian. Money slips through our fingers. Up the concupiscence. It's difficult to stay sober huh? Impaired judgement was just the beginning. I wasn't just cursing you but myself also. That is God's justice and brother's still, we left each other at that party but were reunited in time. Remember I told you that God is Gracious and if you sincerely no longer want to be alive here, you can petition Him to take you away in your sleep. To be taken away in your dreams, bound in a dirty brown hessian bag, being dragged along the shore to the sea, to be drowned while sleeping. I was still in my 20s and my penance was drowning. You took heed brother stubbornly, telling me you already knew what I said and that you didn't want to hear it from me of all people. But it had to be me, as you also alluded we can butt heads and remain friends. A humble and contrite heart before God and the 'Our Father' recited slow, one being enough when time poor. I know your desire to stay but the pain of life, of your body and the realization finally that this place is not our true home. God bless you brother for living the life you were given, no one else could have lived it the way you did. From my 20s going to 30s, unfortunately, after party brothel visits leveled up to whore-mongering and the darkness that ensued, I became addicted. Not even to the youngest, sexiest, I've done it with old, way past prime, ugly if you need a label. I became addicted to paying for it. Even on a modest budget I could blow my $5k credit card and live skint til paid up and do it all over again. One brothel - 8 hours, don't know how many ladies, some half hour, some one hour, some two, never double, never thought that highly of myself. What about three brothels in a session? Sure why not? Why not go for a jog to the local looking like a jogger? Why not be on the town and some stranger I met at the pub is now being shouted by me at a brothel? Have I done it all? No. Am I the worst sexual dysfunctional? No. But I have looked into my eyes in the rear view and felt loathing. I have given money to workers, gloating inside that without me they're nothing. With that in mind, the internal conflict was unbearable, even though from my teens through faith I was given to know that Jesus is God. I can't even think of myself as Christian. I disgust myself and am in disgust with myself, blindly about, sinning and continuing, even though I don't know why? The physiological was easily rationalized. I'd visit by way of need, but even if I was in a relationship with a woman, I would stave off doing it because of my beliefs about sex before marriage. Don't get me wrong I had a few one night stands but that part of sex culture skipped me. The addiction to pay for it however did not. Do you know what a fundamentalist does when they are wrong? They redouble their efforts. In my 20s my penance was drowning in my sleep. In my 30s I began reading on saints and what some of them asked for hoping to imitate them. One female saint got my attention, her name is Saint Rita of Cascia, whom at age sixty asked the Lord to suffer as He did and she was given a thorn, a deep wound in her forehead, that bled until she died. Now what for me? I asked the Lord Jesus for a crown of thorns but also knowing that I am a weak and sinful person I also prayed for the pain to be worth one fifth a drop of His precious blood. Not a minute later I asked for the pain to be worth one tenth.Yes I am a bit slow. The result of which is a thus far incurable scalp, some day's it's normal and others dandruff and oozing that sting unbearably with the touch of water with a pain that you think you can get used to but then you realize you can't and then I cry out, "I can't handle the pain. Or the burden's too much." Or I tell myself that I hate myself for asking for what I did being so arrogant back then. That is the penance of my 30s and still with me. Ah, spiritual arrogance- that occurred after the evening when I came out of my room after, some would call it a vision but I call it a battle I had with Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. For the first time somebody called me insolent and what could I do but smile. Naturally she became mad and I could hear whom I thought were my grandparents saying in Tagalog, "Kawawa naman." Meaning- pity. That's when I went into the fetal position and Saint Thérèse she softened and said, "You have a problem, all you have to do is tell your parents." I told her that I would straight away. Vision over. A moment to collect myself and I leave my room. That I have a problem can be seen by my body. I am more gaunt than ever. I announce to dad, "Dad I have to tell you something." Then I told him about how I thought I just had a vision of a saint, telling me and you know what? The weekend prior mum and dad went on pilgrimage to another church that had the coin box (relic) of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux and as the procession was passing, my dad reached out to touch the box and with all his emotion said, "Tell me what's wrong with my boy!" Actually the spiritual arrogance wasn't from that time and being blessed with a vision. That was the day our families husband and wife team swung by to herald the good news that they were having their first child. They arrived in the afternoon which was great 'cause I already came down from the previous night/current midday. I had on sunglasses and was still drinking. If I were in the occult, I would be known as a black brother. So what is a black brother? In the occult it is a man who has tried to convene with Satan or higher demon and failed. Either by not having the juice to get into contact or contract. Well that's a meaning I read a decade ago. What happened is that I stumbled into how to get into contact with whom I call The Big Cheese. My occult knowledge is very limited but in order to make contact, I have read that at minimum you need a portal - a way in which to travel and I suppose you would need a key to open said portal. I do not know if these are the terms to describe such things. The key is often blood but can also be by drugging yourself to 'see' other planes of existence or another form of mental interrupt or both. As interesting as you may think it to speak with Lucifer, I do not recommend it. Also I will not be telling people, occult practitioners or not what I found. Actually I may for knowledge sake when I leave this place or am taken as I'm already overdue. So I was super trashy and also on booze, the space in front of me became distorted, it was as if a flat screen TV had acquired depth within the screen, so it looked three dimensional but wasn't and then a most beautiful face appeared, shimmering like a kaleidoscope all colours and I noticed what shimmered, then decayed and momentarily you could see through the gap and just as quick it was covered again. The Devil's face is so beautiful, androgenous, you don't want to look away. I struggle to stop staring as I am very curious to the what's behind the skin, that which is visible when the skin decays. I can tell you right now it is Evil trying to grab your soul, your spirit, Lucifer's teasing you with his power, but no bargain; no exchange. I walk outside to the extension because it's show time and what do I see? It's like a giant key but it's made of stars and galaxies. Gravity feels strong in it's vicinity and i wonder if it didn't wreck the old clay plumbing underneath? A few of its uses are demonstrated- speed/slow time, different postcodes, different countries, backward/forward, you can jumble the key like a puzzle, manipulate time like a DJ. For real? I'm being offered to be time's master? More like time's slave I muse. But WOW I feel like I've been tempted by the big leagues. Deceiver's track record and all. Is it a trick? Of course it is. My pride at this moment can power the universe and that was the real objective; to leave with pride swollen. I politely refuse the key objecting it's too much for me and ask if The Devil can make me rich instead? To which he scoffs, "I'm offering you control over time and all you can ask for is money? Do not mock me." I got enough problems, don't need to add mocking Satan to the list so I say, "Rich? Not rich? I'm happy either way." I wasn't being smart but when it was time for goodbye in terms of human interaction, I was given a good yank on my essence; my soul, through my right forearm. To say that it was the most painful thing I've ever felt is an understatement. It's like a tearing, searing from the dermis. You know if you repeatedly pick a scab and it scabs over, scar tissue forms that the scab holds onto and that scar tissue don't want to release with the scab. it's turned into a deep scab, that looks like you can coerce it off but the skin underneath isn't smooth. The pain that it takes to get a deep scab off but continuous. Yes that was the day proportion went sloppy dead. No bargain:no exchange. Your soul cannot be taken in parts out of the body it lives in. Even if given the devil's handshake the majority of your soul is in your body and will be attracted more strong to that. You might get tricked feeling that sensation like your soul is being coerced to leave. Simply refuse. I said aloud, "That doesn't belong to you; that is mine." Be on your guard and have your wits about you. The soul is one indivisible unit residing in the body, taking up the whole body, but if you lose a finger say, that doesn't mean you have less soul in the body that may have been lost in the finger nor does it mean you now have more soul in the body given by the lost finger. Now in my 40s I asked the Lord to save me from sexual immorality and the errors of my ways. Whilst there was a time where the addiction to pay was so strong, that time has passed currently. I now have many closed over wounds on my legs and arms and have it in my mind that even a working girl would recommend a sex doll. The first thing I remember was as an infant is hovering over my mother's nipple with my tiny hand and feeling it go erect after squeezing. My first memory before I even had words in my mind to articulate. I think shortly after I was given a cot or small mattress and my own room. A year or two after I am able to walk my parents decide to let my hair grow past shoulder length like a girl as was the girl's style of the time. When I see the giant novelty picture, I ask them why and they tell me they can't remember. In grade six and early high school I get busted with pornography at home. We still use the old way so my brother and I drop our pants and lay face down on the floor and dad belts us. This is the time I almost become a pathological liar and dad he doesn't hesitate to discipline me in public for missing appointments and lying about my whereabouts. The last time was in a car park and a trades person rolled his window down and said, "Mate, take it easy on the kid." To which vehemence came forth, "You!? Don't tell me how to raise my son." Window back up and roll. In year nine dad gets me interested in psychology, he mentions the Oedipus Complex and Hamlet. That fateful day in year 10, dad and I regularly argue over something, I've been bullied now at school for three and a half years. I'm getting ready to kill myself or my bully whichever is easier. I spray painted 'exit to a living hell' on the back of my door. I must have made him angrier than usual and I don't know where it came from, he said, "Well if you love your mother so much? Why don't you eat her out?" I didn't even know what he was talking about. I was so innocent that the first breast I cupped was of an oversize stone angel in England, in some crypt where I thought no one was looking during the very early days of CCTV. Raised Catholic repression, sexual repression- almost a double dose of the same same. When it was said it flew right over my head, but memory and subconscious be working sometime and it revealed itself at the proper moment. More than twenty years later was the proper moment's time. Yes! I did mention that I am slow. And repression. That nipple squeeze set into motion this paranoia that I might become some kind of sexual deviate, the long hair, getting caught with porn and belted, dad's thinking Freud is still legit in the 90s, no wonder I went into the very arms of working girls whom were forbidden, I had lost my trust in everyone else.
When able to read, my Children's Bible got a lot of time. Upon reading the story of Solomon, I too asked God for wisdom not knowing the fall to lust is very real. When I almost succumbed to drug addiction, the Lord sent me an agent to tell me plainly. When all I could believe in was suicide I petitioned the Lord to take me away in my sleep, I was dreaming that I was about to be drowned and then the question, "Are you sure?", "No, I want to live." In penance I pray for a weak crown of thorns John the Baptist, a prophet of God knew he was unworthy to even untie the Lord's sandal. How much more so must we be humble?
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