As obedient children, do not be conformed to the passions of your former ignorance, but as he who called you is holy, you also be holy in all your conduct, since it is written, “You shall be holy, for I am holy.” - 1 Peter 1:14-16
By this we may know that we are in him: whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked. - 1 John 2:5-6
Before I tell you about that incident, though- the incident which, until I was released of all the shame and guilt of my past, made me shudder just at the thought of it- there is still one more thing you should know in order to get a full picture of the 19 year-old I was. I grew up in a country which, in so many ways, neglects or outright rejects the ideals that Christianity holds. Like much of the first-world, the country I grew up in has hooked its destiny onto the many things that the world has to offer- such as financial gain and status. The result it that work is prioritised, family time is neglected, and the church is side-lined. As the great preacher J. John once said, we have created a society where:
"...people worship their work, work at their play, and play at their worship".
The point is that, within the culture that I grew up in, the church just wasn't taken seriously by the substantial majority of people . It was seen as an interference by many, and as a place for the elderly, and bewildered. But this is alarming, I realise now. The result was, simply put, that people were desperately under-guided on how to love God, and to love each other. I certainly was...
Without going into too much detail about the ills of that society, all you need to know is that, as I grew up I was never completely ignorant or dismissive of the existence of God- I was more superstitious of Him. I went to church, mainly to satisfy the will of my Mum. I sat through the sermons. I went to Sunday school. I played football with my friends afterwards, and then went home, pleased to have appeased God with a couple of hours from my Sunday. Church was not a big part of my life- it was, to me at that time, a meaningless obligation. If anyone would have asked me "Are you a Christian?", although I probably would have answered "Yes", they wouldn't have had to dig very deep to discover that I was a Christian on the surface only. My heart was not Christ's, and that was evident by my thoughts, words and actions.
"Well did Isaiah prophesy of you, when he said: "This people honours me with their lips, but their heart is far from me..."' - Jesus Christ, Matthew 15:7
So, it would be accurate to say that, although I knew of Jesus, and I even knew a little about Him, I didn't KNOW Him personally. The difference between these states would turn out to be vast, and transforming.
And so, when it came to finding a hero, the Church was not the obvious first place to look. I was a young man- I craved adventure, and excitement. I looked for role models in the world around me. As most of us do, especially as the personality is still taking form, I looked for people to show me what I should be like as I approached adulthood. I wanted guidance. I needed vindication of my actions, verification that I was acting how adults act. Seeing as God and Church meant little to me in practical terms back then, it seems obvious that they would be overshadowed by what I perceived to be more appealing contributors. I knew little of Jesus, then, and was uninterested in educating myself further about Him. To me, he was confined to that freezing, solemn church on Sunday mornings. I never opened a Bible at home. At that time, there were competitors for my attention- people who I could view, study, observe, for hours every day, if I'd wanted. Television, I thought, would have the answer.
Instead of telling you about all the people I tried to mimic throughout the first 25 years of my life, let me just tell you about the man I was trying to be like when I lost it on the shop floor at a co-worker. By the age of 18, Anger fuelled himself within me; if there wasn't a reason to be angry, he would find one. If he couldn't find one, he would invent one. If he wasn't feeling imaginative, he would dwell on a previous wrong that I had suffered, until the ill-feeling returned, and my mood was confrontational.
However, for all his self-sufficiency, Anger still needed inspiration. He still needed a WAY to be Angry that he could convince me was "socially acceptable". Naturally, he made angry figures on T.V. appealing to me. The one he settled on, was Chef Gordon Ramsey.
It sounds ridiculous to have a T.V. chef who basically bullies those around him into conforming to his strict kitchen regime as a hero (ridiculous and, for me, a little embarrassing). But try to remember- I was still learning to be an adult. I refused to go back to a state of crippling anxiety, and Anger had convinced me that his was the only way to survive.
"Just act like Gordon would...", he'd tell me. "He gets things done. He's a success...".
So desperate was I to be like SOMEONE, that I trusted him. I would watch Gordon scream in the faces of cowering contestants, swear to himself, rub his face in frustration, shout at the whole kitchen at once, humiliate and demean anyone who made the slightest mistake... and I would take these as lessons for how it was OK to act.
Is it any wonder, then, that soon my reaction to minor faults from people around me was to swear? To push my hair back and cast my eyes up to heaven? To stay solemnly quiet, and then to suddenly explode at them? To kick out at tables, to throw things across the room, to grab, to push, to hit out? My objective to be like Gordon was off to a flying start, and Anger shrieked with delight at the power and opportunities he had to express himself through me...
Obviously, this behaviour came with consequences. My friends started to share looks between each other about my latest outburst. As it became obvious that I wasn't just having a bad day, and that this was the path I had chosen, they began to distance themselves from me. For every outburst or bullying tactic I employed, I became less appealing to them. It wasn't that they were drifting away from me, like it was some incomprehensible force that was carrying them along against their will- more, it was that they were intentionally leaving. I wasn't completely ignorant- I realised that I was becoming less appealing to be around. But I'd made a choice- if anger was the only way to survive, then I'd conform to his will... with or without my friends. And so, I would spend Saturday evenings alone, online, watching T.V., drinking alone... only to come into school Monday morning to find that there had been 2 or 3 little get-togethers over the weekend... none of which I had been invited to.
Anger was less than concerned when I approached him with this issue.
"They didn't invite me..." I'd say, with a sense of self-pity.
Anger looked at me with a twinge of irritation, and disgust. "Forget them!", he'd say. "We don't care what they think, remember?"
"I guess...", I'd concede.
Anger took slight pity on me. With a sympathetic hand on my shoulder, he made me look up at him before he said,
"I like you. I'm trying to take care of you. We're a team- you and me. And if they can't handle that, then forget them!".
With Anger's lies guiding me, I struggled on. I fought the whole world- the more I felt cast out, the more infuriated I became... and the further I distanced myself from my friends. The amount of hate and anger for the world that I had, based on the fact that they weren't willing to tolerate me, was growing daily. The energy that my hatred had at being rejected was frightening. I had been convinced by Anger's words; that unless I attacked and intimidated others, be it strangers or my friends, then they would consume me. I was convincing myself they were all conspiring to hurt me- the strangers physically, and my friends emotionally. Either way, my stance towards people was aggressive.
But then, Anger made his biggest mistake- he tried to distance me from my parents. It was Anger's version of Napoleon's invasion of Russia- a step too far that would ultimately see him on the back foot from then on...
Anger had had no qualms about expressing himself at my parents. In fact, if anything, he had felt more inclined to do so than towards my friends, and he certainly had more opportunities (seeing as I spent more and more time at home). But even then, even during the angry outbursts, the kicking tables, the grabbing things out of their hands, the rampages and rants that I directed at them over minor issues that annoyed me... I could feel that they still loved me. What I didn't realise at the time was how much they were willing to put up with me; how much they tolerated from me, and how many times they were able to hold back their own tempers, and forgive me, because they loved me. Looking back at that time as I approached 20, I can appreciate Paul's words to the Corinthians...
"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things". - 1 Corinthians 13:7
My Dad could see what was tormenting me, what had taken control of me, and decided to go on the offensive. He could have sat me down, told me off, shouted himself, insist I see a psychiatrist... any number of tactics could have been employed to resolve the issue of my constantly aggressive moods. Instead, shortly before the incident you're about to read about in the next chapter, I entered my bedroom one day to find a small, brown envelope laying on my pillow, with my name written on the front.
I still remember the feeling of dread of what I was about to read as I opened the single sheet of paper.
I don't remember every word of that letter, but one line has always stuck with me:
"You can't just keep saying 'I've got anger issues'. LOT'S of people have anger management problems, but they deal with them appropriately..."...
I didn't read the letter twice. As soon as I'd finished it, I screwed it and the envelope up, and tossed them both in the bin, secretly hoping that my parents would spot it in there. At least, that's what my hands did. My mind was having a very different reaction...
As Anger was revelling in the display of throwing my Dad's advice away, I realised something. As he took pleasure in making me disregard and then discard my Dad's aid, and danced around it like it was a bonfire, I could see the hatred in his eyes. My Dad's handwritten letter, written with love, and delivered gently to me in secret so as not to cause me embarrassment, lay scrunched up in the bin... and the Angry part of me was laughing at it.
"Who is HE to think he can stop ME?!?!" I heard him shriek, between his cackles. I looked down at the letter, scrunched up in a little ball in the bin, as Anger continued to laugh hysterically. That had been MY doing- MY reaction to a kind and thoughtful gesture from someone close to me. I looked back up at Anger, dancing and celebrating... and in an instant, I saw through his lies. The destruction of my Dad's letter had finally revealed to me that Anger was willing to destroy without mercy or sentiment. I watched him dance, and it became clear how much contempt he had for me.
As Anger turned, and retreated back inside of me, still howling and whooping, I watched him go, my face expressing a disgusted realization at what he had just made me do. I knew there and then, that I had to rid myself of him. The question I needed to answer, then... was "How?"
---
Before I had a chance to speak, his left hand had grabbed my throat. It pinned my neck and head back against the wall behind me, and shock and panic spread through my whole body. It was a tight, terrifying grip, and I couldn't move against it. I should have expected what came next, but still, it took me by surprise.
His right hand hit me, his first two knuckles crunching against the cartilage of my nose, and his second two hammering into my cheek at the same time. I felt the pain of all 4 at once, and I cried out. As his fist retracted, I tried to move my head from the grip of his other hand, but it didn't budge. I struggled against my chains, making them rattle and tighten, running out of ideas, and knowing that a second punch was already on its way...
His left hand on my neck hadn't moved at all. If anything, it had gotten tighter, so as to stop me squirming. I winced at the second punch, which hit my lower jaw, crushing my lower lip into my teeth, and forcing my head back into the stone wall behind me...
I cried out with my mouth closed, as I used my tongue to desperately check the damage on my bottom row of teeth. I could taste blood, and I could feel that they were looser than before...
"He's going to punch you to death...!", I suddenly realised in absolute horror. "Do SOMETHING!"
His fist retracted, and I spat out blood onto the floor in front of me. I was hoping he would take mercy on me, but didn't dare to ask for it, in case it spurred him on. His hand around my neck tightened- that cold, tight grip dominating against my fleshy neck, and I could suddenly feel myself struggling even to breathe. I tried to resist against it by tensing the muscles in my neck, but it did little to alleviate his grip.
A few seconds later, the third punch hit me in my left cheek, and his knuckles forced their way into my eye socket. My head was forced back into the wall again, and I shouted out in pain. I could feel all four knuckles, solid and hardened in hatred against me, pushing into my face...
His fist suddenly retracted, and let my head slump forward, so that my chin was resting on his left hand, which was still holding my neck. Eventually he removed that too, and my chin went to resting on my chest. I was aware that he might make a final punch to the top of my head, which was exposed to his view... but I didn't care at that moment. I would have preferred that to another shot to the face. I waited, and allowed the blood to drip from my mouth. I was panting and I could feel water gathering on my lower eyelids, distraught at how damaged I had become in the space of a few seconds...
I didn't hear his footsteps leaving, or at least I didn't notice them. I didn't even catch the door opening. All I heard was the door slam furiously behind him.
As I stood in the darkness, struggling to breath and control the blood flow from my mouth at the same time, I realised in terror that something had changed. My captor, this mysterious and allusive jailer, who I had hoped might have felt a slight duty of care towards me... had an underlying hatred for me. And now that he felt free to express that, he had become my torturer.
