Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Pandora's Box (10)

"I'm not sure I want to do this. . ."

It was November 14, 2010. It was my first journal entry. My pencil quivering as I wrote the first few words.

"If I write this down, then it becomes reality. I haven't made it up. The accusation toward the Bastard becomes truth. If it isn't truth, then I am the bastard and I REALLY need help."

I knew so little back then about what AFB did to me. The pain was just so intense that I needed to find a way to release the anguish in a healthy way,  rather than over-medicate or take it out on my family.  I determined to write, write until the pain subsides, if only just a little. And, with, "It's not real," ringing in my head, it seemed as if the pain was the only proof of my reality.

"It's not real. It's not real. It's not real,"  I kept telling myself over and over.

I wanted so desperately to deny the truth. Now that the evil smoke that was imprisoned in Pandora's box of forgetfulness had escaped I wanted to find a way to contain it once again. I regretted praying that God would reveal to me what was my core issue. This was way too intense. I didn't want to know this. Sadly, as the black vapor was pouring out of its prison cell at an alarming rate there was no way to recapture it; it filled my very soul with rage, anguish and confusion.

"It's not real. It's not real. It's not real." 


I was conflicted. What were these memories I was having? They seemed so real, yet not real,  foreign and disassociated from reality. It was as if watching it on a movie screen. I couldn't accept what my brain was telling me. I needed tangible proof. So I placed a call to the local paper from where the event happened; perhaps if I could find out more details from the news articles and subsequent scandal I could confirm the memories I was having. I needed to somehow prove that I wasn't crazy, or worse. The librarian on the other end of the line was very helpful, and in a matter of moments I had an e-mail with all that was ever written on the subject.

According to the newspaper there was almost 20 survivors interviewed by the Longmont Police during the investigation. I was not one of them. With that in mind, I could only imagine the numbers affected by this man's selfish acts. It all started when he became the youth pastor in 1971 until he resigned as senior pastor in 2002.  It shocks me to this day how this animal could get away with this repulsive behavior for such a long period of time.

As I read through the pages and pages of articles written on what happened between 2002 and 2003, a wave of emotions came over me. I wept and wept. The printed pages became soaked with my grief-stricken tears. "This is me. This is me," I thought. "He did this to me." Then, my tears began to subside. Rage replaced my grief by ten-fold.

I wanted to destroy--destroy everything, create ruin and ash where I stood. When I was done setting fire to where I was, I was going to find AFB and do the same.  Destroy him like he destroyed me. Break him like he broke me. HE MUST PAY! The statutes of limitations had expired on what he had done, I had no legal recourse. So it was up to me, I was going to make him suffer, start at his knees. . . (For crimes such as this, an adult against a child or child-like, I really think there should be no expiration date.) After a time, with my wife's help, I calmed down and cooler heads prevailed. I wasn't going to let him put me in jail for what he did to me.

I read through the articles several times over the next few days, and, as I did, each time it got a little easier to do. Then one day, fear gripped me as never before. I was paralyzed in place and I couldn't move. A sensation of clammy, sweaty flesh rubbed against my face. . .

iamnotbubba