I grew up in a Christian home, where we moved around a lot, so I was in and out of all kinds of churches. At a young age, I could quote Bible verses left and right, and tell you any and every Bible story there is in the Good Book. As a child, I merely absorbed everything my parents ever taught me, without much thought. I was also homeschooled up through 9th grade, cutting me off from a lot of the crap that is going on in this world. In a way, that was good and I appreciate their concern and love for me for that. But in other ways, I think it may have had a weird impact on me emotionally. Either way, at the age of eleven I was introduced to spiritualism through books of all kinds. Any way I could get my hands on them, I'd take them. Slowly but surely, I became engrossed into demonism, black magic, and other occultic stuff. At first it was a "lifeline" for me...a new toy for me to play with. I enjoyed experimenting with magic and playing "Bloody Mary." But as it progressed, I became less satisfied with what I was into, and wanted something more or "better."

So there I was, standing at the age of 13, almost 14, living a totally twisted up life in what I thought was happiness. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was not happy. My family and I were torn apart (mainly because of me and my ignorance) and family fights became a nightly routine. I hated my life and did not see what my purpose was here on earth. Was I just another hopeless case? I was determined to figure out my OWN answers, but (duh) they led me nowhere. I would end up in the open field across the road after the family fights at night, screaming and cursing at the God I had refused to believe in all along. But over and over, and time after time God kept showing up, revealing to me what I had been searching for, yet I refused to accept it.

Soon my life completely backfired on me. I was deprived of sleep completely, too scared to fall asleep. The voices and forms I used to talk and chant to had now turned on me. I was "haunted" for a long time and weird things began to happen (that I won't get into). My "king" had imprisoned me. I couldn't handle my life anymore, and I tried suicide several times, which never worked. I became my own slave.

My dad had a habit of borrowing books from coworkers. Some of them were interesting, some were lame, but I had a habit of finding out. I loved to read, and since I had tried searching for the answers to life in books before, you'd figure that I'd give up and never try again. Wrong. My dad brought home a book one night that caught my eye. I grabbed it and hid it to read later. I came across the forgotten book a couple nights later after a hard battle with my parents, then another one with God up in the field. I was so depressed, and once again praying to the God I refused to believe in to please let me just die.

(You might be asking yourself: Why was she so mad at God? Why did she refuse to give in to His infinite grace? Answer: I was mad at my parents...since they had represented everything I ever knew about God, I took my frustrations from my parents out on God. In my words, I hated Him because He had given me such rotten, stinking parents. But actually, the truth was, I was the one ripping the family apart.)

Now that you've heard the darkest point of my life, here's the good part:

So, anyways, there I was, in my bedroom crying my eyeballs out, rolling in my self-pity. After I calmed down a bit, I looked over to see that book lying there. Of course, I picked it up, hoping it would be interesting enough let my mind wander away from the present scene.

As I began to read, I suddenly realized it was another one of those "religious" books, as the world would say. But it was so awesomely interesting, I could not put it down. I spent the entire night reading that wonderful book. For ages, I could not remember the title nor the author of that book, but just recently I came across the booklet.

You are "Cool Person" number to visit this page!