Breakfast

Red Bull is all hype.



More caffeine than a Starbucks venti coffee.

Pray for me.

Samson and the Pirate Monks

God is a trip. Sometimes you can pick up a book and you don't know why. You may even try to read it. But it doesn't click. So it sits on a shelf. But sometime later you pick it up and at that moment it is exactly what you need. I have lots of books like that.

But sometimes a book crosses your path at just the right time. You know it. You may not know why but you just know.

Nate Larkin's Samson and the Pirate Monks: Calling Men to Authentic Brotherhood is one of those books. It is one man's journey through addiction, specifically sexual addiction, and his way out. For those of us who have suffered silently, independently, stubbornly alone, this is a refreshing book. He taps into the experiences of men who share this worldview.

Traveling through life alone, living to share the adventure stories of what he calls his "persona" with arm's length friends, all the while slipping from "deprived to depraved" he bares his soul as a mirror of our own. I can't recommend this book enough. It isn't just a vomit blog of horrible escapades. No, these escapades are a premise, a mirror against which to reflect the saving grace of the Gospel message.

It's real. The grace is not the hard part; the hard part is the surrender. The ego, in all its guises and trappings, is a tiger that does not go down easy. But it can be tamed. Nate Larkin is an excellent guide on the Path we all travel down.

Here's a snippet from the first meeting of the Samson Society:

"Welcome to the meeting of the Samson Society...We are a company of Christian men. We are also natural loners, who have recognized the dangers of isolation and are determined to escape them, natural wanderers who are finding spiritual peace and prosperity at home, natural liars who are now finding freedom in the truth, natural judges who are learning how to judge ourselves aright, and natural strongmen who are experiencing God's strength as we admit our weaknesses." (p. 115)

It is in sharing, in openness, in honesty, in accountability that freedom is found. It may be painful, it may expose every weakness, flaw and shame you've ever tried to conceal but these are all "persons" (in the sense of character masks) that we've created. They are as big a lie as the counter-person created as antithesis to these things you hide.

Nate Larkin describes these well: Church Nate. Date Nate. Mate Nate. All Alone Nate. We all have these personas we create that keep us disconnected and far removed from the present.

You are not alone. Your story is not unique. We are all in this together. The body of Christ is the entire human race, though not all realize who they are in the body. The body of Christ, in harmony, is the most powerful force on the planet. Even if it just a portion of the body, those who believe, there is power in communion. And communion requires laying aside the ego and dying to self so that Christ in us may shine.

Don't be fooled into thinking no one understands, no one cares or that you are the only one going through what you are going through. It is the silence that is cancerous. This book is a great starting point. But then take it somewhere. Do something with it.

The depth of darkness...

When I was in high school I used to write stories. Aside from the "porno stories" I used to write in middle school (!), in high school the escalated. I used to write stories about blowing up the school and killing I don't remember who. I don't know that I ever named names nor did I ever necessarily have anyone in mind, though it's quite possible.

But I was so detached and everything so external I tended to categorize and label rather than personalize anything. It led to a certain form of schizophrenia. I was able to get along with pretty much everybody and didn't really dislike anyone (though my middle school yearbooks tells a different story) and had some really good friends. I had many "girl" friends but didn't date much and this, of course, is also a pretty curious detour to travel upon.

But there was a growing darkness, a gap between who I was and who I perceived myself to be. I don't remember when I did this, but below is an image of an artistic creation of mine.



And the reverse:



It's kind of bizarre looking at these things almost thirty years later. Creative? Certainly. But pretty disturbing.

Would I have ever really gone off and done the violence I fantasized about? I may have. I found enough outlets, negative as they may have been, to distract this impulse. Perhaps this is how copycat killers evolve. Perhaps these dark dreams lurk in the shadows and are brought light when seeing others pull it off.

Perhaps that is my ego rising up again, the flare for the drama to attract attention. But in digging up this past I am seeing the signs, the answers to those drives that seemed to mysterious and so compulsive. I also see it now through the eyes of love. True healing will be present when I have worked through this darkness that seems so clear now and begin to look back and see the good. When we live in a state of anger or despair or depression, we either idolize a past golden age or we filter everything through these lenses and thus only see those things that align with how we feel.

The obsession now isn't that my past was bad. I have had a good life. But right now I have become obsessed with laying these ghosts to rest. In uncovering the source of these wounds I will be able to close the door for good, heal up the gap and live in the present with no denial, no distraction and no imitation of life.

The reality is that I did have a strong support system growing up and I did have a strong sense of right and wrong, some sense of hope, that there was a future, even if that future was only dreams of escaping the stifle of small town suburbia. In hindsight, I don't know that I ever contemplated the reality of it.

There was always a part of me that was longing, love buried deeper than the hate that covered it.

Why not a sex addict?

My ego would prefer to be a sex addict. Being a porn addict sounds sleazy, cheap, creepy, perverted. At least as a sex addict you've got what it takes to get some. Even though it hurts another human being, at least there is another human being; at least there is contact. The porn thing is introverted, i.e. loser.

It's the paradox of being an addict. My addiction is compared to another's. If I'm going to be an addict, I want to be the "best" at it. Believe me, there are competitions when it comes to swapping horror stories of addiction, a sense of pride in divulging just how low a person has been. It isn't just the sharing and depth of horror shared that determines one's level of recovery but the amount of pride or humility in which someone shares the story.

I'd say it's a continuum. The truest of healing is reflected in pure humility (and not self-degradation or self-deprecation); someone still in the throes of addiction will speak with pride, even braggodocio, of the depths of depravity to which they've sunk.

But the reality is that each form of addiction is still that: an addiction and, as such, is on par with alcohol, drugs, food or any other form of addiction and all, in some form or other, harm others as a consequence, though all addictions can lead to total and complete isolation as well when the addiction causes one to be so self-centered that all choices involve the addiction over or at the expense of any and all relationships except those that somehow benefit the addiction.

So in pondering the attraction of pornography, I have realized that in the objectification of the actors what I am really doing is role playing my psyche. I am at once the one in power and the one whose power is being taken. There are times watching porn where I have a moment of conscience that usurps the numbness and I see, in horror, the look of pain in the eyes of the woman. Instantly I'm torn. There is arousal, yes, but not so much "sexual" arousal but the arousal of being in control, of having power to have said woman surrender her power, and simultaneously desiring to help, save, even love the woman who is longing for the same, her surrender of power actually a desire for love.

I am at once the perpetrator and the victim, both sides of my psyche being played out and watch live in front of me. I am the man assuming power; I am the woman who needs saved. In a sense, I am taking my own power and longing to save myself. It is the disconnect, the barrier I have created around my wounded soul, that allows this distancing so much so that I can watch "objectively" without the pangs of conscience, the lack of recognition of the symbolism I am witnessing on the screen.

Any and all fetishes or deviations venture forth from this premise, the darkness in said fetish representing some aspect of self-identification based in lack of love.

So pornography addiction isn't about sex. Sex is an objectification of interior battles, scars and hidden spots that are manifest un- or even subconsciously onto the screen. This is how women become sex "objects" and how men often devalue the personhood of women in an effort to resolve, unaware, their own inner demons.

Why Write About This? Who Cares?

Those are valid questions. It can appear as self-absorption, drama, attention getting or just plain strange, especially to those who know or have known me or carry some memory of me. It would seem my life is defined by addiction. This is true on some level as I have, over time, been addicted to pretty much everything I came into contact with, whether it be eye or nose drops, various caffeinated things, sleeping pills, drugs, alcohol, pornography and the addiction of addiction.

So who cares? No one, really. As Gordon Gano wailed: "...we've all been through some shit." People may relate and may find interest or curiosity in it but unless there is hope, unless there is a way out, it's just self-absorption, self-pity or self-congratulations.

I write not to vomit the details of an individual's past. We've all got messy pasts, things we're ashamed of, thing we'd go back and change if we could, regrets, the whole shebang. This isn't that. At least it isn't meant to be.

No, I offer hope. I am a living testimony to finding a way out of the darkness. Nothing weird, nothing magical, nothing pie-in-the-sky, nothing threatening, nothing instant. I simply offer my life. I have become much more comfortable, perhaps too comfortable, in discussing these things. Why? They are no longer a secret, a source of shame, something to hide. I'm not there anymore. Oh, the wolf is always at the door. But I'm seeing it from the outside now, much more objectively than when living in the midst of it.

And in openly discussing it, in bringing into the penetrating brightness and heat of the light, all the illusions and delusions and madness of these things melt away and that innocent childlike love that was kept locked inside for so long is allowed to shine forth.

The journey, in the end, is about love.

Pure Love

The purest of love would be so externally "other" centered that such a love could not love singly. It would be an all encompassing love.

As humans, though we may have an unlimited capacity to love, our nature is such that we only have a limited ability to actually do it. We often love out of lack, out of need, out of want.

The purest of love would come from someone so complete that love would flow from abundance, out of a "knowing" of the depths of the human condition and still the choice would be made to love, not in a dichotomous fashion, but in a pure "knowing" of purpose, in spite of, even because of, the knowledge of the human condition.

Think Christ is for sissies?

Any Korn fans out there? Brian Head Welch discusses what led to his leaving Korn.



The paradox of Christianity is that it brings the toughest of men to their knees. It is then that they realize true strength.

Freedom from Addiction

If you struggle with pornography, this video is a must see:



If you think Christ is for lightweights, think again. Below is a great site for some testimonials of what Christ has done for people.

Gospel Theology for the Real World

There is help and there is hope.

I am sorry...

The worst thing about addiction is ultimately self-absorption. In the case of a damaged soul, the damage, that rupture, the leak in the dam, is the black hole of selfishness. Everything gravitates toward that vortex.

In reflecting back over these past few weeks I've realized that I've left a trail of damage in my relationships. This may just be my perception, still self-centered, narcissistic, dramatic. But, as kind as I may have been toward people, and my general temperament is kind, when it came to relationship and the deep things of being with others, the facade crumbled and I ran, or faked it.

So I feel compelled, when thinking back on my life, to say I'm sorry. I don't see the joy, at least not yet. I am at a stage where I want to look at those I've hurt and apologize. It's quite possible that I am thinking too much of myself and that I really didn't have that much of an impact on others. Perhaps it is vanity again in thinking this much of myself as addicts, even former addicts, are wont to do. Paranoia is the same thing. So full of ourselves, we really do think the world revolves around us, albeit in a negative way, and the feelings of being watched, or hated, or lied to all revolve around this self-absorption.

Vanity leads to the incessant need to apologize to others, to have others tell you that you are ok, to have others tell you positive things about yourself, to filter out all those things that don't have anything to do with you. It is that need for attention, for approval, for love. Addicts become emotional leeches, the vortex in the soul, the gravitational pull of emotion, sucking the life out of those around you.

This isn't necessarily malicious or intentional, though it can be. But the greatest horror of it all is that it is unconscious. This is the disconnect. And it is this disconnect that leads to all the damage, taking away our ability to be real. It's always as if there is "something" wrong, that something is nagging at us, pulling at us, taking us away from reality. Even in a crowded room, we feel lonely. In a crowded room we may even feel more lonely, more frightened.

Yet there is an innocent desire at the base of it and that desire is to be loved. Beyond the pain, beyond the attempt to cover it up, beyond the desire for healing and wholeness is the desire for love. To love and to be loved. Addicts and people with mental illness do not intentionally become selfish, do not set out to live a life of narcissism and vanity. But the force of that which drives them leads to this behaviour. And it is incredibly difficult to break free from it, to be come "other" centered, to stop giving in order to get back, to stop hiding and putting on a front out of fear.

Addiction is rooted in fear.

Hurt people hurt people.

Healed people help people.

There is help available. If you look around, there are many offering to help, many proposed solutions to our addictions, to our wounds, to those things that keep us disconnected.

As long as there is still breath in our lungs, there is hope.

Pornography is about power...

Pornography is not about sex. Sex is the means. It is about power whether it be about taking power or having power taken. There is no love in pornography. There is no relationship. There is base animal instinct. The only difference is the fetishization of it, the channeling of the power of the role playing into the varieties of human desire.

Plain and simple: it is about power. In many cases, the viewer can be both the powerful and the powerless. I suppose I hold a Daoist view, seeing in each role the seed of the other so in watching a man have sex with a woman the fantasy is not only that of the man "getting the girl" but, depending on the level of violation of the woman, part of the viewer can also be tapping into a place within where power is taken.

I have discovered that the many different fetishes, all compartmentalized, and categorized, are representative or symptomatic of some deep seeded issues and if the apparent separateness of them all can be rooted to an event or events it becomes possible to see the thread between them and it becomes possibly to allow a healing balm to stitch together the disconnectedness.

The ability of the human mind to disconnect and isolate based on a symbolic level and have it manifest is incredible. Whether it be vintage porn which takes me back to the beginning of this darkness or the other varieties that tap into other areas of my life which the rupture in my innocence had opened up there is really no limit as to how deep it can go.

Porn involving children has never been an interest and is not always the way such addiction leads. The theory that a traumatic event and the origins of addiction leave the person at that age in whatever area of trauma the event occurred. So for sexual abuse, the person remains sexually immature. I managed an apartment complex for the dually diagnosed, people with a mental illness and substance abuse, for about a year and a half and realized the truth of this. There were individuals there in their forties who had the emotional maturity of a very young person. The abuse and the addiction left that area of their life immature and though they were physically forty, emotionally they acted life children.

But addiction will always take you deeper. I had gotten to the place where the self-hatred was so intense, I began to see how sex and violence intermingle. And it affected my ability to relate to others. The deeper I went, the more the withdrawal, the greater the facade and role play.

But the image that has remained with me for all these years is that of having a trash can over my head when I speak. In my dreams, I frequently dreamed about pursuing something and would ask for help but the person to whom I spoke looked at me as if I was strange. They couldn't hear me, ignoring me, and the frustration was so bottled up I would often awake out of frustration at the inability to speak, my words mumbled and jumbled like the Peanuts characters' parents in the cartoons.

Something in me refrained from going all the way and whenever I would see images of porn involving physical violence and violation, whether actual striking, acts causing vomiting or other forms of violence under the guise of sex, I was at once appalled yet compelled to look, even if just a glance. But it is out there. And it is probably far worse than I can imagine. What was a glance and repulsive could, over time, desensitize and draw me in.

Fortunately, I found salvation. This isn't the cheap variety of salvation, a quick alter call, a thank you Jesus and thinking everything is cool. No, it is so much harder than that, so much more difficult. God shines the light into the darkness but He walks with you through the shadow of the valley of death. But you still have to walk it. But the difference is there is no fear; there is safety, even in the darkness. And when the wounds begin to heal, the healing is permanent as the ego detaches from the power of the wounds.

Don't ever be fooled into thinking it can't get any darker. There is no end to the darkness. The only limit are the safeguards in your life, whether love of family, moral principles or other "natural" means. But even these will break down over time and render the addict powerless. Only when healing truly occurs at the deepest level is there any hope. And, in my case, the healing only truly began with surrender to learning who God is through Jesus Christ.

I am not completely there as there are still issues to work out. But there is an openness, a clarity that has come lately that has been life changing. It isn't quite an objective look at where I've been and how it has affected me but it is quite clear. In fact, the initial incident to which I've traced this did not come back to my memory until a few years ago. I had blocked it out or had rendered it meaningless. But when it came to me after a period of some deep soul searching there was no doubt about it: this was the event.

All the Islam, all the Daoism, all the Zen, while helping me along the path, never did the trick. They paved the way, they opened my heart and mind and gave me a foundation upon which to build. Perhaps I never committed enough, never truly surrendered so this is not to cast judgment upon upon these faith traditions. In fact, I still find great value and wisdom in them. But they are good only in so far as they align with Jesus. But it was only after truly surrendering, and continuing to surrender, to following Jesus that the healing began and the light shone in the darkness of my past.

Of course I project this outward and generalize about viewers of porn. That is my limitation. I, like all of us, am subjective, limited in focus and range and willing to listen to other takes.

After thirty years of this living hell, I can "go there" and break it down if anyone would like. It isn't about sex; sex is the medium. It is about power. And both men and women, viewers and performers alike, suffer because of it.

Pornography Addiction...Continued...

Even before being exposed to pornographic magazines, an incident occurred that had a tremendous impact on what was once an innocent mind. At around the same time as my first exposure to men's (and women's) magazines, at a sleepover in a friend's basement I was put in a situation which would have a deep impact on the formation of my views about sexuality. I don't remember all the details nor do I remember what led up to it. It's possible I've blocked some of it out but I don't believe so as I've been quite open to receiving information from the recesses of my memory and I don't wish to invent something just to have a scar to talk about.

But it involved my friend, who was two years' younger and his older brother who was several years older than me. All I remember was the lights out in the basement and I was asked to drop my pants to expose myself while they shined the flashlight on me. I remember laughter but don't remember any comments. I don't remember them doing the same to one another. All I remember was the feeling that it wasn't right, the discomfort and, later, the shame. This would become my lifelong dirty little secret and thus my source of sexual identity.

Traumatic? Certainly. Abuse? Yes. Now this isn't as horrifying as stories of abuse we all know about. I wouldn't end up on Oprah from having survived this. I have friends who have suffered forms of abuse far, far worse and have noticed the scale of the effects on their lives. Yet an event as "small" as mine had a huge impact, like the proverbial "butterfly effect" of chaos theory. That small perturbation led to a hurricane in my life.

My innocence was lost and with my innocence I surrendered power, my addictions a struggle to get it back. In a purely innocent state, we have maximum power. Abuse ruptures this power and allows influences in, influences which, at a young age, we are not equipped to process. So pornographic images of sexuality became the norm, these tempered by a feeling of guilt and shame; sex would begin to hold a tremendous source of power over my life.

I don't remember whether or not I was shy prior to this but introversion and depression and mood swings became my life. It was after this I began getting into fights, becoming combative, withdrawn, angry, alone. One event followed by layer after layer of accretion to cover the shame and numb the agitation within would be the force driving me. Everything else was an attempt at running away from this vortex in my soul.

Pornography Addiction...

It's 1982. I'm in 8th grade. Fourteen years old. My pornography addiction has been growing for four years now. Of course I didn't know it then. I was just a kid who had suffered sexual trauma and with pubescent hormones was in free fall. I stumbled across this in my 8th grade yearbook, back when I actually took the time to get people to sign it.

There is a long, deeply personal story connected to the girl who signed this, the details of which are not necessary. Suffice it to say it is significant that she wrote this.

At the time, I and another guy were writing essays during study hall to submit to Penthouse magazine. I am astounded at the fact that she knew I did this. Apparently it wasn't that big of a secret. Now it may seem like teenage hormones and no big deal. Perhaps for some this is the case. Not in my case. No, there was something deeper growing, taking root, manifesting. In hindsight, this was a cry for attention, pretty obvious looking back.

Not only was sneaking into my father's stash a regular occurrence (the look of bewilderment on my brother's face when I showed him once still lingers) but I would sneak across the street and break into the garage of a neighbor who has a huge stash of Playboys and Oui magazines. I would sneak into the garage even when no one was there. I could sniff out a stash of men's magazines in any house I entered and have gone so far as to locate them while at various jobs I've held where the opportunity arose whether in an office or in the homes of clientele. Bookstores, cigar shops, didn't matter. I had to seek them out, I had to look.

Fourteen years old.

At ten (perhaps even younger) I was shown my first porno mags. It was at a friend's house where this occurred under the swimming pool deck. He had older brothers who passed this knowledge down. In retrospect, this was a home of abuse. I can't say there was physical violence but I do know for certain the verbal abuse was intense.

I was inundated not only with Playboy and Penthouse but was also exposed to Playgirl magazine. Long before I even knew what sex was, before I had any interest in females, let alone the female body, my young mind was being filled with images of naked women and men and I was introduced to sex.

In the yearbook I took the time to white out some faces (all girls) and scratch out their names. I can't remember why there was such venomous anger, though I do remember that one of the girls was the girlfriend of a friend of mine and when I called her told him she was a 'scum' he wanted to fight me after school. Though I do vaguely remember striking him in the face, all I really remember is a few headlocks and some noogies until my mom showed up and I had to go home.

We were no longer friends after that, even though I had spent the night at his house many times and, ironically perhaps, stayed up 'til the wee hours of the morning watching Cinemax soft porn on Friday nights (the film Malicious comes to mind immediately). Cinemax Friday night softcore films were also a regular staple.

Sadly, I found out many years later that he had committed suicide. Life is so precious and the connection so tenuous and fragile, it is often too much to really comprehend.

But the darkness that was to come and the consequences of these beginnings would not come to the healing light of God's grace for almost thirty years.

Addiction...

10 years old.

Friend's basement. Older brother. Abusive home.

Flashlight. Laughter. Humiliation.

Penthouse. Playboy. Innocence lost.

Introversion. Anger. Rage.

14 years old.

Confusion. Identity. Self-hatred.

Video games. Dr. Pepper.

Vivarin. Unisom. Neo Synephrine.

Pornography. Alcohol.

20 years old.

Drugs. Eye drops.

Numbness. Darkness. Despair.

30 years old.

Struggle.

Internet. Image. Seared.

Pain. Scarred. Scared.

One moment. Thirty years.

40 years old. Light. New life...




© 2009 Art Ort Ink

Day 1

I can't believe I'm actually doing this. Blogging. I suppose it was inevitable. Got thoughts, lots of them, lots of thoughts that won't come up in normal conversation. What to do? Publish them for the anonymous masses to peruse, displaying what McLuhan hinted at when he said that our media are really our insides turned out.

I have come to realize that I am a mutt and proudly so. I tend not to be bound by convention. I'm no longer trying to be rebellious as a rebel is often slave to the very thing from which he rebels.

I am currently immersed in the midst of a spiritual/religious phase that has been ongoing most of my life, though more intensely so since circa 1996 as at that point I committed myself to (attempting to) be a Christian. But, as with most things, it wasn't too much longer after that that I found I had issues with the group think required to belong. So I'm on the outside of the inside looking in.

If I were to trace my interest in spirituality it would probably go back to hearing of God from childhood and living the majority of my life with fear, not reverence, associated with the word, as if "God" was out to get me, to punish me for being the mischievous person I was. In hindsight I realize that my self loathing and self absorption were manifestations of a narcissism that led me to believe that God was out to get me.

Self loathing and its manifestation as, in my case, depression were and are ultimately egoistic grasps at attention, sucking life out of the universe to satisfy in insatiable inner need, a bottomless vortex, akin to arrogance, both cries for help, both self-absorption to a distorted degree. I'm not sure when it started but at some point I found myself drawn to the eastern (from my western location) religions. This was probably more out of the appearance of being exotic, the hippy-dippy kind of thing I found myself gravitating toward.

In the late 80s I began stepping out of my comfort zone, aching for opportunities to break free from the suburban cultural Wonderbread in which I had been living. I was introduced to "New Age" music which, at the time, was a far cry from the big hair bands as the approved form of rebellion in suburbia. Such artists as Jean Michael Jarre, Kitaro and the Windham Hill catalogue became staples. In hindsight, these were as white bread as the big hair bands.

Eventually, circa 1991 or so, I would find the Dao De Jing, purchasing it because it seemed exotic, mysterious, enigmatic, cool. I would carry it with me, read it on the john, never really getting it. It was during this time that my drinking got heavier and I rendered myself an alcoholic, going cold turkey, substituting various chemicals in its stead. This would lead to a break with reality (i.e. leaving a $50,000 a year job to hit the road...literally). The little DDJ accompanied me in my travels.

Sitting in a rocking chair on a balcony at a youth hostel in Idaho one evening, the sun setting, in a moment, the entire book made sense. It was truly an epiphany. I can't remember which chapter I was reading but it was as if a flood gate opened. Quite literally, in that moment, I "got" it. The book suddenly made complete sense. I would be forever changed, my struggling in the confines of duality rendered asunder.