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- Herausgeber: Spines
- Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
- Sprache: Englisch
In this stirring memoir, a man recounts his journey from a tumultuous past marred by trauma and addiction to a rejuvenating discovery of faith and purpose. Traversing the harsh streets to battling inner demons, he finds solace in spirituality and connection. His tale is a raw testament to the human spirit's resilience, the pursuit of redemption, and the transformative power of forgiveness. As he embraces a higher calling, readers are invited into a profound narrative of recovery and hope, urging them to find their own paths to divine light and virtue amidst life's challenges.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026
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My Road to Damascus
Grant Anthony
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2025 by Grant Anthony
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Certain names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved
Published by Spines
ISBN: 79-8-90002-878-1
CONTENTS
“My Road to Damascus”
Prelude
1. Little Boy by the Well
2. Breadcrumbs
3. The Beginning of the End
4. Hurt People, Hurt People
5. Moving On
6. Different faces, same behaviors
7. God’s Hand
8. Showtime
9. A New Start
10. Up Top: The Final Chapter
11. Brick180
12. Two Masters
Special thanks
MY ROAD TO DAMASCUS
THE BIRTH OF BRICK180
GRANT ANTHONY
“MY ROAD TO DAMASCUS”
I did not see a flash of light, nor did the ocean part in front of my eyes. It started with a whisper, a nagging feeling that there had to be more than this…. From my broken heart and midnight tears to the long road of healing, every step of my journey has carried me closer to an awakening of my spirit, onward towards my Road to Damascus, where my pain was transformed into purpose.
Recognizing how trauma has affected my emotional, cognitive, and social well-being has highlighted my challenges in forming lasting attachments. This journey will explore my substance abuse issues linked to a traumatic lifestyle, influenced by separation anxiety and the struggle to “let go” when it is time. Since childhood, I have faced difficulties in maintaining relationships beyond their natural end.
In plain language, staying in a relationship beyond the expiration date. Drugs/Alcohol. Abusive relationships, the list goes on.
My earliest memory is of my first babysitter, Mrs. Corn. I am not sure why she was called Mrs. Corn—perhaps because she always kept a can of corn in the cupboards. She was an elderly white woman who carried herself with dignity and restraint, reflecting the post-war values of modesty and propriety. Her look was not flashy; it was about grace, tradition, and quiet strength. She showed me love and kindness; that is all I remember about her.
When I was around 5 or 6 years old, I experienced an act of kindness that remains vivid in my memory. I also recall Mrs. Corn’s generosity and kind spirit, which I duplicated one sweltering summer day on the playground as a youngster. I remember giving this little girl a quarter, mimicking my babysitter’s kindness. Mrs. Corn's generosity had left an impression on me.
The second memory that quickly comes to mind is of this young couple who loved me like Mrs. Corn did. My family was moving up north, and just before they set little Grant in the back of the station wagon, which felt more like a hearse, to never see the young couple again, and somehow, I knew I would never see their kind faces again on that sunny yet dark, gloomy day.
The charming young couple, whom I sometimes call “hipsters,” took me into a department store and told me I could choose anything I wanted. As we walked through the store, holding my small hand, I felt a mix of excitement, sadness, and happiness.
The excitement of that day quickly turned into a painful, stabbing sensation in my chest, as if a knife were piercing my heart, as my grandmother's words echoed in my mind: “We have to go now.”
Tears fill my eyes as I recall how they paid for my two cap guns and hugged me outside the department store. First, the man—wearing foggy glasses and sporting curly hair—then his wife or girlfriend, who was crying heavily. Her tears ignited my tears, making me emotional. It reminded me of a movie about a boy whose hero was a boxer who had died.
Let's refer to him as Billy for safety. When the boy understood he would not see him again, he repeatedly said, “I want Champ, I want Champ.” Many of you might recognize that emotional, heartfelt scene. As the young couple parted ways, consoling each other, I felt that invisible knife twisting in my heart and cried out, “I don’t want to go, please. Please, I don’t want to go.”
Kicking and screaming, they placed me in the backseat of that hearse. Crying profusely, I peeked my head out and looked back through the huge glass window as they waved goodbye. I knew I would never see them again. What I did not know was that I would be chasing those feelings of love, connection, and belonging in all the wrong places throughout my adult life.
As they strapped me into the 1963-64 black station wagon, reality began to settle in. I was not going to see them ever again. The back seat became a prison as I tried to fight against the current authorities in a no-win situation. My heart felt as if someone had taken it out of my chest and stomped on it until it was crushed into a million little pieces. That day, I felt what it was like to be physically present but mentally absent.
The Journey Begins
PRELUDE
At a youthful age, that little guy encountered “The Fire and The Flood,” representing the traumatic situations that have shaped my life. I have always been searching for something, though I did not know what or who it was. I have faced feelings of despair, hopelessness, and suicidal thoughts, often feeling like one of the “walking dead.” I was looking for a place to lie down and not get back up.
My words come from challenging and transformative experiences. I emphasize the father's undeserved favor and abundant grace in my life, which you will read about as we embark on this journey together. I have previously struggled with guilt, darkness, and shame. However, God’s love is unconditional, regardless of the trials we face. I trust that God uses life's struggles to shape us into vessels for His purpose at the right time, such as this.
On this journey, I may occasionally stray off-topic, and if I do, I hope you will forgive me. I will do my best to notify you when I’ve followed that little white rabbit down the hole. Please find it in your heart to bear with me as a new writer while I find my way back. Just know that I am an average person sharing my firsthand experiences, which you may or may not find interesting.
I want to share my story for several reasons, primarily because it aligns with my life’s blueprint: “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and all His righteousness, and all these things shall be given unto you” (Matthew 6:33). Please do not be misled; I have only recently committed to this timeless principle for living. I feel like a toddler taking my first steps; though I may be, and have been, unsteady, the important thing is that I am moving forward.
Now! Where were we? I hope we are clear before you criticize my punctuation, spelling, grammar, clarity, conciseness, formality, inclusiveness, perspectives, punctuation conventions, sensitive geopolitical references, vocabulary, and especially my limited knowledge of scripture. I reiterate: “This is my Road to Damascus.”
LITTLE BOY BY THE WELL
Devastated and told to keep quiet, I learned to suppress my feelings and not to share them. As a boy, confused and filled with raw, pent-up emotions, I longed to escape a fragile body that had experienced psychological and emotional abuse. I remember feeling confused, isolated, and overwhelmed by an internal fire fueled by anger, resentment, and fear toward my grandmother and other immediate family members.
My feelings were like the boogeyman in a nightmare. I was afraid to reveal them to anyone. As a child, I was never able to freely express my emotions; they were dismissed and buried for many years.
This repression caused low self-esteem and difficulties with alcohol and drug addiction. The more people or family members there were around me, the more I withdrew and isolated myself to shield myself from potential verbal abuse during my childhood.
Although I had family and others around me as I grew up, it was just a facade or illusion; I never felt the same connection I had with the Hipsters or Mrs. Corn. Unfortunately, I lacked anyone to help me confront and explore those uncomfortable feelings that made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I grew up scared of my uncle, who seemed like a complete terror—at least, that’s how I perceived him through my young eyes. (Sidebar) My uncle has now passed away, and I regret not spending more time with him, despite the mental and emotional pain I experienced. Oh, and there was physical pain too; the boy could fight his ass off! RIP, Uncle.
He did his best to teach me how to be a man with the information he had, but now, as I look back, I realize there were no positive male role models for him to follow. I resisted his authority in the worst way, often leading to fist fights, tearing up the living room, or wherever it was, whether it was in the kitchen, the bathroom, or the supermarket, it did not matter. It must have sounded like a WWF no-holds-barred match in the attic where he and I called our bedroom.
I had another uncle named Franklin. I did not know much about him, and I have very vague memories of Uncle Frank, other than the time when he and Uncle Raheem took me for a ride. It was about evening, and I remember them saying, “Let’s scare this little MF.” MF did not mean Mary Francis.
They turned the car to the right, and I couldn't see our location as I craned my head left and right, unable to see out the window. All I heard was their laughter coming from their direction as they awaited my reaction to the fear and shock building inside me.
The door suddenly swung open, shouting, “Get out, get out!” I looked around and saw stones erupting all around me. Standing all alone on the damp, wet blacktop in the eerie, cool, misty night, I was overwhelmed with fear. They quickly jumped into the car and drove off, covering about fifty feet. To a scared child, that distance might seem as far as fifty miles. The red brake lights glowed in the darkness like a beacon of hope. Suddenly, I realized the car had stopped. I ran towards the car at full speed, feeling a jumbled mix of fear, confusion, and relief.
“Get your little a** in here” (to be gentle). Crying profusely and terrified, I was told to clam up tighter than the gold reserve at Fort Knox. If not, Ali in his prime, along with a young ferocious Tyson onslaught, was heading in my direction; fearful—I had front row tickets to a few prominent events between those two, and honestly, at an early age, as the kids say nowadays, “I didn’t want any of that smoke.” I promise this rabbit hole will not be too deep. It will be educational for my ol’ heads.
→ Ol’ head: A middle-aged or senior male or female, anyone older than these damn youngsters.
→ Smoke/ Drama/ Static: Disagreement between two or more parties, sometimes resulting in violence; hence the statement, “You don’t want this smoke.”
That tidbit was for all the mothers, fathers, grandfathers, and grandmothers.
I told you it would not be a deep rabbit hole! Now, back to little G. As they were in the front seat, laughing hysterically at me, I was doing that thing that kids do when they cry for an extended period: hiccupping and gasping for air simultaneously.
It felt as if I were trying to catch my breath, not get hit, and keep from convulsing or jerking at the same time. I'm not sure what it was, but some of you understand.
I wanted safety and shelter. I longed for the Hipsters or Mrs. Corn for security, connection, and a sense of belonging—something spiritual beyond words. I sought love. Once again, I was targeted and left alone to deal with a traumatic event and told to stuff my feelings. The message I received was that my feelings did not matter, and to a child, I didn’t matter.
At that time, I couldn’t express my needs clearly and was only aware of fear and physical pain.
As we approached my grandmother's house, I was instructed not to talk about what had occurred. Overwhelmed by fear and intimidation, I learned to lie, hide my feelings, and withdraw. These reactions contributed to feelings of depression, hatred, anger, low self-esteem, and, unfortunately, my first experience with dissociation from reality.
I wish I could tell you what happened when I went into the house; trauma or denial can be helpful at its appropriate time.
Disclaimer: I am not a psychologist, doctor, or scholar. If you have not gotten a feel for who I am by now, you will.
Understand this: there is nothing new on this planet; it is revised or remodeled. I say that to say this. At an early age, I identified with pain on all levels (mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual); pain like a rash that wouldn’t go away, and I needed a doctor. The painful experiences have truly outweighed the pleasurable moments in my life; in many ways, I have a Ph.D. in pain.
Please don’t interpret my previous comment as arrogance or an attempt to inflict pain; I meant the opposite. I have endured tremendous suffering throughout my life. Some of my pain and suffering were self-inflicted, with about 90% stemming from emotional, mental, and spiritual neglect, and 10% from physical abuse.
Please be very careful about what you say to (and around) your child.
The emotional harm caused by hurtful words from family members significantly exceeds any physical injuries inflicted by both uncles. Remember, just as the eye notices more than what it is directly focused on, the ear also picks up conversations even when it seems not to be paying attention. So, we think. Trust me, I know.
Walking into the house, I felt like a bottle of pinned-up emotions: mostly fear and intimidation. I was awkward and afraid to make mistakes around the house; my childhood can be summed up in a few short words: fear, pain, and fantasy. I began to fantasize about running away, like most adolescents, I would imagine. Truthfully, I had already mentally checked out a long time ago at an early age.
I carried my fear like a cheap suit, fearing to embrace my childhood to avoid becoming a joke at family gatherings or dinner. Fantasy served as the remedy for the complex emotions I felt while growing up. We have discovered the roots of little G's low self-esteem, his detachment from reality, and my tendency to seek love, security, and validation from external sources.
I wish I had more to share about this period, but the trauma was so overwhelming that I’ve stored it away and never disclosed it. I just do not remember. What I know is this: sadly, I made mistakes out of fear of criticism and ridicule from my grandmother and uncle, which impacted my self-esteem, as we will see later in my immature decisions and impulsive acts.
I was the family's scapegoat for whatever family dysfunction was going on at the time; nonetheless, this was my road to Damascus. During my childhood, my uncle frequently made fun of the size of my feet, hands, and ears, although the family found it funny at the time; I sure as hell didn’t. Their words were like throwing gas into an already burning bush, a breeding ground for self-inflicted anger, depression, and isolation. My little world grew a little colder and darker with each joke as I became more and more distant from them and reality.
At this age, fantasy and isolation had become my closest friends; they never mocked or hurt me. I wanted to be anyone other than who I was and anywhere other than where I was. I was often scolded when my grandmother called me to go to the store while my uncle or aunt sat right next to her. This only intensified my anger and resentment. Then they would laugh, unaware that it was feeding the darkness inside.
Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, while not absolute, resonates with me based on my personal experience. I had access to air, food, and shelter, but I never moved beyond the second level. During that time, my life was filled with uncertainty, intimidation, and fear, preventing me from genuinely experiencing love and a sense of belonging. My self-esteem was nonexistent. I was afraid to see myself as anything other than a failure; I was set on a path to fail from the very start- a self-fulfilling prophecy of some sort.
Let us recap: I am frightened, insecure, and unstable. A growing darkness within me has started to eat at my being, leading to isolation and a disconnect from reality.
I want to share a few things about my mother at this point in time. One bittersweet memory of living with my mother is when I was about 10 or 12. She told me she was going next door to get sugar, saying, “Grant, baby, I will be right back.” Now, it was Christmas, and I had figured it out at that age that:
My mother closed the door, and I proceeded to do my best Kojak improv with my lollipop hanging out of my mouth. I said to myself, “The toys were in that apartment.” We lived on the 13th floor. Where was this dude going to park his sled? I played Kojak to the letter, as he was one of my mother’s favorite shows to watch before putting me to bed when I lived with her.
I snooped around in her closet and found what I was after hidden in a galaxy far away, or so she thought. It was a bag hidden amongst the hundred pairs of shoes she had neatly aligned on her closet floor. There was a bag with three pairs of double-knit slacks. “Yuk.” I continued searching—only to come across gloves and a scarf, muttering to myself, “WTF?”
“Remember, be careful what you say around your kids.” LOL
The deeper I dug, somehow keeping an internal reminder of the clock—corduroy pants. What now? She bought me a blue shirt that had an oversized collar that was so large that if you spun me around in a circle long enough, I might have taken off like a helicopter. “Okay, enough of this stuff,” (choice words) hah. My face lit up like a Christmas tree in the living room; there it was, finally.
Evil Knievel. Oh yeah, baby. JACKPOT BINGO!!! What’s this my adolescent peepers have now gazed upon? Can it be? Yes!! It’s the Evil Knievel Ramp and mobile home, oh my goodness! (In the voice of an utterly surprised granny.)
Now, my accomplishment took no more than 10 to 15 minutes. Now, for the climax. I knew my mother would be coming back at any moment; I found myself in a quagmire or a fork in the road. I had found myself in a predicament, a catch-22, or a pickle. You get my drift? A seven-year-old is forced to make such a crucial decision. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Matthew 26:41
The jury deliberated for about two or three seconds before returning the verdict: instant relief opposed to long-term suffering. My mother opened the door with sugar, and other items, when Zoom, Evil Knievel sped past her toe at 90 mph on our kitchen floor. The flesh is willing, but the spirit is weak; my spirit was happy with my new toys, but my flesh was less so over the next five to ten minutes, the 'spare the rod, spoil the child' kind of thing.
It’s often said that there’s a thin line between love and hate. For an adolescent male growing up in Newark, N.J., in the 1970s, this was especially true. My grandmother was a devout Baptist, yet my uncle and aunt were Muslims. On one hand, I was introduced to the idea of despising a picture of a God my grandmother worshipped; on the other hand, her faith was firmly rooted in Christ Jesus, whom my uncle and aunt were against. I didn’t know whom to believe regarding the truth.
