the face of your addiction and acknowledging that you’ve already lost the battle can you find the path to truth and yourself on the road to life-changing victory. Acknowledging your powerlessness over your addiction becomes the foundation of your strength through which you ultimately overcome your struggle.
Another reason that it’s difficult to change is that you really only see the fruits of your recovery after one or two years. It takes a long time to cultivate a new lifestyle and to see its results. Relationships, work, finances and a clear conscience don’t happen overnight; they take time, sometimes quite a long time.
But it really is worth the effort. Do yourself a favour and give yourself a chance to change. Allow yourself an honest and fair chance at life. For too long you’ve hurt yourself and allowed your addictive behaviour to rule you. You’re better than that. So ignore your doubts because your road to triumph has just begun.
You’ll meet a God of unconditional love and eternal triumph, and He won’t let you down. He’s greater and mightier than you can ever comprehend. He’s far more interested in our character than our comfort, although He provides unbelievable protection and comfort if you’re willing to do your part. If you show Him the necessary character, He always brings the necessary comfort; He’ll reveal Himself to you if you’re ready to change your life.
Something better is waiting for you – something much better than you’ve ever known.
REVISITING THE PAST
From an early age, I hated life. I was sick and tired of everyone and everything around me – even myself. I annoyed myself and the people around me. I was uncomfortable in my own skin. I rebelled and experimented with everything. It was my way of trying to escape.
My search for escape had already began during my formative years. I was always different. The anti-establishment kinda guy. Jimi Hendrix said, ‘All I’m gonna do is just go on and do what I feel’ – and that’s precisely what I did.
All my life I heard the same words: ‘Hykie, you’re a naughty child; you are worthless and you’re crazy and weird.’ In the house where I was raised, I felt like I wasn’t the smartest child. My brother and sister performed much better than I did academically, and my brother was better at sports, too. I don’t believe it was my family’s intention to make me feel this way, but that’s what I experienced.
At school I was never good at anything; I was an average child. You know, so-so. All I seemed good at, besides attracting attention, was testing people’s patience. I tried to see how far I could push people before they’d explode. Whether it was my mom, sister or teacher, it gave me a kick to drive people up the wall.
I did terrible things to amuse myself. I’d pin my sister under a bean-bag pillow and lie on her for hours while drooling on her face. I always tried to frighten her. I hid around every corner and waited for a moment to terrorise her. It became so bad that my mother took my sister to the neighbour’s house whenever she spent an evening out with her friends, just to avoid having us both in the same house without supervision. It was only later that I realised what I was doing to my sister and how it impacted on her life. As a young boy turning into a teenager, bored with life and himself, it wasn’t something I’d thought about.
I tried doing sport when I was in primary school, but I was a little overweight. Why would I want to strain myself? My love for sweets and chocolates outweighed any form of exercise. ‘A bit clumsy,’ one teacher wrote in my grade four physical-education report card. What could I say? She was an adult, so I believed her and made the words my own. And every time I failed or didn’t achieve a goal, I engraved this belief deeper into my soul. Later, I also began to believe that I was clumsy and that sport wasn’t for me. When I experienced a failure, I allowed her negative comment to prove true in my world. In this way, the idea that ‘I wasn’t good enough’ became fixed in my psyche.
Today I understand the power words can hold, especially over children. Words can make or break them.
Rugby was something that most boys did, but I hated it. To play rugby would have meant that I was normal, just like the other kids. But I didn’t belong there, either. In primary school, I actually played rugby for the first team, but rarely got the ball. There was one match, however, that I’ll never forget.
For the first time in my rugby career, I got the ball. I was so overwhelmed that I didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Pass! Pass! Pass the ball!’ the spectators screamed. ‘Just pass the bloody ball, Hykie!’ they shouted. Everyone was shouting. I couldn’t see a gap, only my own anxiety in the eyes of the other players.
But I had the ball. And I was ecstatic. In a battlefield surrounded by spectators, I suddenly had the ball, in my hands. But where to run? I was lost. The noise, the adrenalin became too much. I was tackled. Play continued.
When sport didn’t work out for me, I tried the guitar. My mom bought a guitar for both my brother and me, and sent us for lessons. But it was unbearably boring. I wanted to learn how to play heavy metal – bands like Iron Maiden, Metallica, AC/DC and Alice Cooper were big then. I wanted to be like them: to play in front of thousands of people while the world cheered me on. Our music teacher taught us ‘Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer’ and ‘Little Drummer Boy’ instead. Rum-pum-pum-pum.
During that time rock music was considered music from the devil. Rodney Seale, a well-known religious speaker in the 1980s, addressed the youth of Lynnwoodrif Dutch Reformed congregation to talk about the ‘devil’s music’. He played vinyls of bands like AC/DC backwards, and alleged that hidden messages lurked within the lyrics.
All I heard was the sound of, well, vinyls being played backwards. I became a big fan of death metal in my later teenage years. To me, bands like Obituary, Sepultura, Napalm Death, Deicide and Judas Priest were amazing. The music was all that mattered to me.
In grade five, I wanted to sing in the choir. It seemed like fun and, although this wouldn’t involve my group of friends, I thought it might be something I could do. I’d barely completed my first audition when the singing teacher announced: ‘Sorry, my child, your notes are false.’
For quite some time, I took art classes. I really loved art. To this day, I still have a talent for drawing. I remember winning a prize in grade five for a house I’d drawn. It was exhibited in the school hall, with a gold star glued to it. I was incredibly proud of myself – until I was chased away from art class: the teacher informed my mom that I was naughty and restless. So, I gave that up, too.
My behaviour became out of control, and I began doing weird things. If you’d asked me why, I would’ve insisted that I just didn’t know. It’s the absolute truth; it was a mystery to me why my behaviour was so extreme. Just before an annual swimming gala, I flung a couple dead birds into the school pool. Sometimes I’d burn lizards with flammable deodorant. Just for fun. From the outside, I probably seemed normal to some, but inside I was in complete turmoil. Indifference satisfied me in a very twisted way.
I even tried to be academic. And all this just to be good at something at school so that I could receive a little recognition, but I wasn’t a smart and obedient schoolboy. I just couldn’t devote all my attention to homework or tests. It didn’t matter how hard I tried, it seemed I couldn’t excel at my schoolwork.
More than anything, I really just wanted to be accepted by my peer group and parents.
Liesl, a primary school blonde, was the prettiest girl I’d seen in my life. Everyone thought she was beautiful. She was the only person at school in whose presence I couldn’t utter a single word. Listening to my Walkman to isolate myself from the world, I’d imagine there was a crowd cheering me on. At
