Christian Inspirational:
Finding Myself at the Feet of Jesus.
My Confession
Chris Buscher
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Christian Inspirational:

My Confession: Finding Myself at the Feet of Jesus is an inspiring and powerful memoir about one man's journey away from and then back to Jesus. Read The Summary And A Free Chapter Today.


Are you struggling with addiction or feel hopeless and lost?

My Confession: Finding Myself at the feet of Jesusis an inspirational story of a young man who turns to drugs and alcohol to dull the pain of childhood abuse. Follow Chris Buscher’s descent into despair and depression as his life spirals out of control. Struggling to deal with his past, pain consumes him as he suffers through each day of his life.

Let one man’s journey toward faith and recovery encourage you.

While recovering from a drug overdose, a simple prayer transforms his life and guides him toward the path to salvation. Still struggling with addiction, a caring judge directs him to the Christian Discipleship program Teen Challenge. There he meets Reverend Larry Low, who teaches him to hear the Holy Spirit.
Find hope for the future in this captivating story.

If your life seems hopeless, remember that Jesus is there and ready to help.

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Christian Inspirational:  Finding Myself at the Feet of Jesus. My Confession  by  Chris Buscher Read A Free Chapter

Chapter One

Innocent No More


With my eyes closed, I can feel the pain of what is happening consume me.  As my breath quickens, I hear the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.  I listen to the sound of the camera snapping photos in the background, knowing that my family won’t return for hours. How could they leave me with this monster? The more I fight her, the worse it becomes. I am too weak now to escape this nightmare; a nightmare I will never forget.


I hear her cold voice telling me this is punishment for being a bad child as I feel my pants and shirt being ripped away from my shaking body.


Please stop! I won’t say anything! I’ll be a good boy, I promise! Please! Please! Please!” I trembled.


This was the beginning of a childhood terror that haunted me for years. A memory that burns so deep the wound refuses to heal. It is my earliest memory, but not the most influential. This was only the beginning, the beginning of something more…


Raised in a small Midwestern city by a Catholic family, I heard about God from the Bible daily. God the Father, Jesus the Son, and the mystery of the Holy Spirit was the foundation of each story.  That God, the God I always heard about, seemed unreachable and distant.


Even at an early age I had an overwhelming curiosity about life.  I can remember the night that curiosity was first peaked.  One night, my father sat me down to tell me about the death of his grandmother.  Although, I was too young to fully understand the meaning of death, I could feel fear rising up in my chest.  While my father tried to help me understand, I slowly came to realize that someday, everyone dies.  I knew I couldn’t see my great grandmother anymore and I found no comfort in my father’s efforts to ease my pain through this transition. During this time I sought out the reasons for my existence on this earth and how my actions would affect life after death.


The more curious I became the more my little world grew. I soon looked at people differently, seeing the hopelessness in their eyes while they pretended to have the answers I desperately sought. I questioned everything. I questioned everyone. I even questioned myself.


The more my family attempted to find me help coping with my terror, the more distant I became. Starting at an early age, microphones, tape recorders, and video equipment were forced in front of me demanding that I relive my childhood trauma. Hour after hour, details were forced from me. Several physiologists demanded that I explain how it felt having my innocence stolen from me. Only after I retold the story through the tears, again and again, would they then study my reactions, while I uncontrollably sobbed.


My parents never told my siblings what happened but all my extended family knew. I could see it in their eyes and through the way they treated me. They were always so careful with their words and hesitant with their reactions to my outbursts. I felt fragile. I felt different. I felt alone. I felt lost.


Throughout grammar school I developed a split personality. It was as if two people lived inside of me. While one desperately felt the need to be loved and accepted, the other rejected everyone and constructed strong emotional walls protecting me from my unstable environment. While the educators were busy teaching, strange thoughts consumed me. I would fantasize all day about violent acts of death, ultimately leading to my own thoughts of suicide.


Even though I wasn’t very talkative, every teacher quickly came to understand I was different. I received proctored testing from professionals to assess my learning capabilities.  When they couldn’t find a problem with me, my parents would then be called in for a parent-teacher conference.  During these conferences my childhood secret always surfaced, once again reminding me of how very different I was from the other children.


For years my “childhood secret” haunted me and hindered my emotional development, surviving through a constant state of desperation, guilt and inadequacy.


I distinctly remember my first day of middle school. Change was happening as I felt more grown up and in control of my life. Instead of having just one teacher for the whole day, now I had four. More was expected from me at school and with the added responsibilities came more rewards. I greatly enjoyed the change of environment and quickly embraced this new found opportunity.


Throughout summer vacation, I pondered how I could use all these changes to my advantage. I desperately desired friends and needed to be thought of as normal. After getting ideas from my favorite television programs I decided that I would become the class clown.I believed if I could make people laugh then maybe, just maybe, they would want to be close enough that I could finally be and feel accepted.


I didn’t know where to begin or how to tell my first joke. Having spent the last 12 years sheltering myself from the reality in which they lived, I soon understood this would not be an easy task. Hour after hour I would listen to comedians on my tape player writing down every word and putting it to memory. Day and night I would gaze into my bedroom mirror scripting my jokes and alternative scenarios, preparing and waiting for my moment.


After a year of ‘intense’ preparation and meditation, I knew it was time. I started with my first joke in the science lab.  It was the first time my classmates heard me speak more than a couple words, so naturally all eyes were on me. I felt an instant state of euphoria, followed closely by an overwhelming sense of purpose. The whole day people looked at me differently, and for once, they met my eyes and gave me attention. Though inside I wanted to cry out with a sense of relief, deep down I knew it wasn’t going to last.


For the next two years I would be the school comedian. Not a comedian people respected, but a comedian who makes jokes at his own expense as self-preservation. However, I was still under the supervision of several psychologists who weekly would hand me medications, many of which were still considered experimental. Although the doctors made promise after promise, the medications did nothing but cause detrimental side effects including extreme weigh gain, drowsiness, outbursts, and black outs. These side effects not only altered my life by preventing me from functioning in school, but they also hurt anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path.


I gained a lot of weight from one such medication that promised to take away my pain. This poison imprisoned me in a constant state of drowsiness and insatiable hunger. Eating and sleeping soon became my daily life. I could do none of the physical activities I once enjoyed. By the time the doctors changed my medication it was too late. I was already obese and more depressed than before.


Sometimes my father would attempt to alleviate my feelings of depression. He would encourage me to ride my bicycle, roller blade, travel with him on business, or anything he could think of to encourage me to leave the computer or sofa behind. Unfortunately, when my father would ask, my response was never what he expected.


Something uncontrollable would take over me, something like rage, a demonic rage. I could see and understand my every action, but I had no remorse. No remorse and little self-control. Like an insignificant spark near fuel I would explode.  Several times I would lunge at my father, trying to kill him: reaching for guns that were securely locked away, thrusting knives at him, or finding anything I could to hurt this man.


I loved him and I knew that I did, but at these moments the ones I loved suffered the most. My eyes would roll back in my skull and the blackouts would begin. After the violent outbursts, I would wake up covered in tears and sweat only to face the destruction I created all around me. The house would be destroyed as would the relationships I had with my loved ones.


On the outside I tried to appear strong, happy, and normal but on the inside I couldn’t have been more lost. I hated myself. I hated my life. I hated my existence. I felt completely and utterly emotionally and spiritually dead.



“The godless in heart harbor resentment; even when he fetters them, they do not cry for help.”

-      Job 36:13


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