little black box under my bed.

I don't remember the first time it happened. I do know though, that the choices I made after would follow me for the rest of my life, and cause me to fall far as believed possible from grace.

It started so innocently. But then again, doesn't it always? You do it because it feels good and nothing else. Nobody told me what I was doing, just that it was wrong. Because of this, I learned to hide it, but never to control it, because why should I control a reasonless sin?

By the time I found out there was a reason, it was too late. It had become a habit, a sinful addiction that was insurmountable to overcome. And I knew it was wrong, so I tried to quit right away. Cold turkey. Cut it right out. Never let it consume me again.
But I failed.
And not once, no, instead of becoming better, it was getting worse. It controlled me, and I let it.

In order to mask my shame of failure and weakness, I began to justify it. I ignored the reasons why I shouldn't do it, and instead deceived myself into thinking that I wasn't so bad, other people did it, it was normal. But my excuses never convinced me completely, for I knew inside how disgusting I was.

It became my secret. Tucked away in a little black box, under my bed where I would know right where to find it. Too often, the lid would be opened, the contents used, and then nicely replaced when I was finished so nobody would know. It remained hidden, and my guilt with it. It was so easy to pretend when I could separate it.

I do not say addiction lightly. The contents of my little black box were used often. I don't even know why, only that it was something I had to do, because if I didn't, I was thinking about doing it. And as my addiction grew, so did my shame, and so did the reason for hiding it.

Nobody knew about my little black box, and I made sure it stayed that way. I pushed it farther and farther towards the wall when company came, and then reached even farther under the bed for it when I wanted to use it. I was consumed. I was disgusting. I was filled with shame. And I was most of all, utterly alone.

Or so I thought. One day, over a bathroom sink and a library book, I was confronted. I was cornered and trapped out of a careless slip of the tongue. I was embarrassed and so very ashamed. How could I ever be seen the same way? Once my little black box was opened, I would be seen for what I truly was. Disgusting.

But I wasn't. Instead, I was told that I wasn't alone, that the struggle was not just mine. I was not, as I had thought, the only one. This surprised me and overwhelmed me, for that knowledge alone was freeing. I was still full of shame and guilt, but I was not alone.

My addiction had choked me. It had separated me from the One that I needed the most. But I was able to start seeing that I was not disgusting. I was loved. Loved despite my weakness to temptation and my bitter struggle. Loved even though I continually opened the little black box.

This was my struggle. This IS my struggle. But maybe, just maybe by opening that little black box wide, I will be free of whats inside... forever.