August 1, 2017

I look at Mama Mary as my model for Beauty, Purity, Goodness, Obedience and Love.

I ask for her prayers as I pour my heart out in this phase of knowing what has been happening in my life.

I ask Papa St. Joseph, the model husband, to pray for me and my son that we may be led to live honorable lives in God’s Mercy and Grace.

I pray to Jesus, My Lord, My Savior, My Brother, My Friend, to deliver, heal, and protect me and my son as I fervently ask the blessing to live in His Light and to no longer languish in the darkness of shame, guilt, and lust.

I ask St. Michael the Archangel to defend us in battle by God’s mighty power. Amen.



I finally found the answer to my obsession with things romantic that end me up in a state of an indefinite depression.




It is a demon that attaches itself to a person and oppresses its victim with lust.


I know I have acquired this as an intergenerational “curse” as my parents succumbed to premarital sex as teenagers.  This resulted in me.


Up in my ancestry, there have been sins of fornication, infidelity, perusing pornography, relationship and sex addictions.


At a very early age of perhaps five to seven, I suffered from one-time sexual abuse which my memory buried for seven years, until it resurfaced when I was 14.  It is not clear who the perpetrator was, but he seemed to be quite young, a teen-ager or a person in his early 20’s.


Growing up, I was exposed to my parents’ sexual strains.  They would argue back and forth, my father wooing my mother and my mother resisting his advances.  This while they thought I was asleep.


As young as eleven years old, pornographic materials were within my reach.  This resulted in a shameful habit of masturbation.  I felt ugly and unclean.


When I was thirteen going on fourteen, my life was miserable.  My only recourse was the church across our house.  I would attempt to say the rosary but never finished on my own.  I heard confession often, but the priest’s questions about my sexuality (whether I masturbated or not) freaked me out.  I didn’t have anyone to confide in, I was alone.


At around the time the memory of the sexual abuse resurfaced, I was hearing mass daily.  Again, I was only 14 at this time.  I know it was a conscious way of dusting off the dirt I was feeling.  I longed to feel innocent and pure – and Holy Mass gave me the opportunity to rest from the disgust and insecurity I felt most of the time.

Things went well for a period of time.  My sense of well being increased.  I was less insecure, I felt loved by God, I felt good.


Growing up, I remember being surrounded by Western romances.  My mother was a voracious reader of Mills & Boon as she was a big fan of Hollywood.  Part of the reason I speak fluent English is my exposure to many things American.  My romantic nature was also fuelled by these influences.


Aside from devouring teen romances week after week, when I was fifteen years old, my mother and I watched Pretty Woman fifteen times in the cinema! We both desired that kind of happy ending… and sadly, I caught on the insidious seduction of lust.


But that comes later.


In high school, my ultimate dream was to be a white princess.  A leading lady loved for her purity and goodness.  I wanted so much to forget my filthy past.  And indeed, I got my happy ending.


After our graduation ceremonies which was held one evening in March, my boyfriend of a week came to my school to give me flowers and join my extended family for dinner.


He popped the courtship question on the evening of what I would learn latter on was St. Joseph’s Feast Day.  Under the guava and macopa trees of our small yard, I prayed the rosary in my head as I anticipated the question, “Will you be my girlfriend?”


Two days after we went steady, he shared that his father told him not to have premarital sex.  We agreed to this and the pact made me love him more.


We lived a chaste life as boyfriend and girlfriend.  However, after we had gotten used to what I thought was harmless kissing at first, I recall initiating physical contact that wasn’t “below the belt” but sexual nonetheless.  Instead of talking and getting to know each other more, I resorted to these lowly actuations whenever we would go out for night drives.


Over and above feeling guilty and ashamed, my relationship became my god.  This “happy ending” was my end all and be all even though we did not share the same interests and hobbies.  I was more concerned of keeping him – as he was a good catch – and making him fit into my dreams than in getting to know him and making myself a better person.


After a year and a half, he transferred to the capital city to pursue a medical degree.


Two months after he left, we talked for a long time over the phone.  I couldn’t recall what we talked about.  It was like he was saying goodbye.  I took it as a breakup and thereafter would wake up mornings for the next two months drowning in sadness with physical pain in my heart and endless tears in my eyes.


The heartache of first love was far too much to bear that I resolved not to love anymore.  If this was how much it hurt without even  “going all the way”, how much more painful would it have been had I given myself to him?


I resolved to be a different person:  sex would not mean anything, a man’s goodbye would not destroy me.


After my first “one-night stand”, years of engaging in premarital sex rolled.


When I got pregnant, unplanned, at the age of 23, my first love regretfully told our go-between that he told me to wait for him long ago.  I crumbled.  Why didn’t I listen or hear when he said this five years ago?  The father of my son was hardly husband and father material.


The die has been cast.  After the failure of my marriage to my son’s father, no matter my initial resolve, sex would always mean shame and each man’s goodbye was always a rejection.


Furthermore, as much as I tried getting close to the Lord, lust and shame, bewilderment and intellectualizing would always get in the way of a real relationship with The Lord.


Over the years, especially when I was between relationships, there have been times when right before waking up I would be sensually stimulated.  One time, I was napping on the sofa, I remember being half-conscious that my mother witnessed my body responding to a sexual dream.


I didn’t know this then.  It was the incubus.


After that, I prayed so hard that my secret of having sexual dreams would not be found out.


After my last relationship in 2008, I have not had any sexual relations since.  I went into bitter depressions over the loss of my dreams, over the corruption of my life.


At the end of 2013, hope for romance glimmered again.  By this time, I was catechized and renewed as a Catholic.  I had long repented for my sexual sins (among the many that I’d committed) and resolved to lead a clean life.  It happened that an FB friend from America was making welcome advances at me.  Like me, he was a single parent.  Like me, he was a Catholic.  Like me, he yearned to be in a relationship.  Our families approved.  His mother liked me and my grandfather was happy that someone was taking interest in me.  We were both attracted to each other.


One night, after a fun and wholesome time flirting with him in the chatbox, I dreamt that we were having sex.  It was so real that my body actually responded willingly and energetically to the stimuli.




I have kept this secret until now.


Our friendship was cut short when he died on the first day of the St. Joseph Novena.  His mother emailed me saying that he had an overdose.  Later on, it was found out that he was killed.


We never got to the point of being a couple, but his death stunned me, and sent me on  a limbo state of sadness.


After that, I had no more energy for love or romance.  I was sad beyond belief.  I was sapped of any energy for hope of being someone’s somebody special and having a good partner of my own.


Since 2014, romance would be awakened every now and then with only glimpses of what I’d dreamed of:  the high ideals of chivalry and valor, friendship, fidelity, and ultimately, love.  By this time, only movies would inspire me.  Gone were admirers that were plentiful in my youth.  Everything in terms of romance was memories of broken dreams or celluloid images of another’s person’s fantasies.  Every so often, when romantic stimuli would occur, I would get sexual dreams and wake up secretly pleased or amused.


I didn’t find anything wrong with these occurrences as I always thought sexuality was inherent in being human and even in being healthy.  And I believed that I, being without a partner (which is much to my resigned dismay), was not excused from sexual stimuli – after all, they have always been normal, “harmless”, non-obsessive fantasies.


What obsessed me (among other things) was the depressive quality of romance.  I would often be overcome by an indefinite but heavy sadness borne out love that cannot be.  I would often think about how many stories I’ve lived which all ended in the same way. The last one, a friendship snatched by death.


I was not ungainly or inferior but up to recently, I have always felt with every fiber in my soul that I was, as a woman, undesirable.


And this has always pained me since childhood and up to now.


In the third week of June, I blithely basked in the dreams of romance inspired by Chris Pine’s Steve Trevor in Wonder Woman.  I have gotten used to being an intense fan girl, no longer believing that I could actually have a real life relationship – taking all failures as God’s “No” to my prayers of relationship success.  Although the memory is no longer clear, I won’t be surprised if I had carnal dreams at this period.


I was ready to swim the ocean of dreams until my idyllic life was cut short by a deep depression after I spent a weekend being wasting intense emotions over A Street Car Named Desire and its shining star, Marlon Brando.


Following this weekend, I sought our Archdiocesan Exorcist for deliverance prayers for the intergenerational healing of my family.


(See July 31, 2017 post)


At this period, I abstained from my usual habits of watching love stories, be them Asian Dramas or the Hollywood kind.

It has been a month of intense prayers for deliverance, healing and protection for me and my son, who is now 18.  The harassments from the evil one have been harrowing, but the Grace and Mercy of God have been constant and amazing.


Recently, I have felt some ease and comfort after nights and days of torment.  I have kept my prayers strong, knowing the devil is on the prowl.


Just recently, I have resumed some of my hobbies, but with caution.


And lo and behold, after watching an Asian movie I believed to be harmless led into an opening for sexual temptation, albeit without a physical partner.


The devil used a very attractive actor from the movie to tempt me into obsessive and erotic thoughts even though I had no conscious desire to feel that way.  It pushed me into a waterfall of memories and wishes that rendered me weak and feeling pathetic.


Then I remembered reading from sites or books on Exorcism the presence of the incubus and succubus.


I have long been oppressed by this.


I know that God has answered my prayers for liberation in many areas of my life (see July 31 entry) – and thus exposed this stealthy demon to me now that I am ready to see it for what it is. And ask God to permanently remove it from my life and my descendants forever.


I have always longed for purity and love.  And this demon has been a block to my blessings.  Whether God gives me a chance at love with a real person (as opposed to a fantasy) or not, I accept His will.  He knows the longings of my heart.


But first, I ask Him, I implore Him, by Mama Mary and Papa St. Joseph’s intercessions and St. Michael’s prayers, to free me and my son from these demons that have oppressed me, us… To heal us from our painful memories, to protect us from all harm.   I pray that God lead us to His Freedom – so that we can love and relate to people the way He wants us to.  With dignity, with honor, with His quiet majesty and true love.














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