"The Broken Son: Bound by Strings

The first time I truly saw my mother's narcissism for what it was, we were at church.

We were known as holy rollers—Pentecostal Holiness, though not the snake-handling kind. Church was more than just a place of worship; it was the center of our lives, the stage where my mother played the role of the devoted woman of God. But behind closed doors, it was a different story.

My mother had a way of making everything about her. If she wasn't the center of attention, she found a way to be. And when it came to the church, that was a problem. The pastor was just as stubborn and hard-headed as she was, and they clashed like storm clouds before a downpour.

By the time I was fifteen, she had already decided how my life would turn out—at least, in her mind. She was convinced I was heading for destruction: drugs, alcohol, a life of sin. And worst of all, in her eyes, I was destined to be gay. Well, at least she got that part right.

Because of this, the church wasn't optional for me. I had no say in the matter.

"If you live under my roof, you will go to church," she would say, her voice sharp with warning. And if that didn't scare me, she would add, "Now, if you don't go, you know the pastor will come out here."

That was her favorite trick—scaring me into submission. I hated church, not because of God, but because I could feel the weight of control pressing down on me every time I stepped inside. The pews felt like cages, the air thick with expectation. I tried to find ways out—faking sickness, feigning sleep—but no trick ever worked long enough.

Eventually, I gave in. It was easier to just go along with it.

By the time I turned sixteen, something strange happened. The resistance in me faded like fog dissipating in the heat of the sun. Before I even realized it, I was doing everything the church said I should. I prayed. I studied. I obeyed. Maybe I had convinced myself this was my path, or maybe I just wanted some peace. Either way, on my sixteenth birthday, I was called to be a preacher, and I preached my first message the following church night.

I remember looking at my mother, expecting to see pride. At first, I thought I did.

She beamed as people congratulated her, as they told her what a fine young man she had raised. She smiled, basking in the attention. But as the days passed, I realized it wasn't pride in me—it was pride in how I made her look. It wasn't about my faith or calling; it was about her reputation.

And most importantly, it was about making sure I wasn't gay.

Being a preacher was supposed to fix me in her eyes. It was supposed to mold me into the person she wanted me to be. But instead, it became a prison.

For the next eight years, my life was a living hell.

Anytime I said something she didn't approve of, she would remind me, "You're supposed to be a preacher, and you're saying things like that?" If I dared to challenge her, even hint at calling out her manipulation, she had scripture ready to throw in my face.

Honor thy father and thy mother.

She always made sure I knew my place.

By the time I was seventeen, things had gotten worse. My mother's grip on my life, combined with the church's expectations, made me feel like I was suffocating. The weight of her control pressed on my chest like a vice, and the fear of rejection gnawed at me constantly.

And then there was the pastor.

He had his way of controlling people, and since I was a young preacher, I had to do everything he said. That meant long hours working at the church, preparing for events, especially the annual camp meeting.

At first, I didn't mind. But for six months, we worked nonstop preparing for the camp meeting, and it became unbearable.

Almost every day, from 9 AM until well past midnight, we worked. My brother and I were always being chewed out for something we had no control over. No matter how much I prayed, no matter how much I tried to be what they wanted, it was never enough. It was like running on a treadmill that kept speeding up.

And underneath it all, I was fighting a battle I couldn't win.

I didn't have the words for it then, but I knew something inside me was different. I prayed, fasted, and begged God to fix me. But no matter what I did, I couldn't shake it. The war inside me raged on, silent and suffocating. A quiet storm that no one could see but me.

Then came the day everything shifted.

The pastor was in one of his moods, lecturing me about how I wasn't praying enough, how I wasn't fasting enough. The same old routine. I stood there, taking it, waiting for it to be over.

But then, for the first time, he turned to my mother.

"You and Willie"—he said, bringing up my deadbeat father—"are the reason he hasn't been able to get out and preach or do what he's supposed to do."

For the first time in my life, I saw my mother wither.

It was like the wind had been knocked out of her. She had spent years building this image of herself, controlling every narrative, making sure she was seen as the perfect, godly mother. And here was the pastor—her pastor—tearing that down in front of everyone.

Later that night, she came to me, her voice bitter.

"I am not the reason you're not out there preaching," she spat. "That's your fault."

Even when she was called out, she couldn't take responsibility. Even then, it had to be about her.

And for the first time, I began to wonder:

If I was supposed to honor my mother, what was she supposed to be to me?

Because of the way I was treated, it pushed me to the point of suicide several times over the years. I never felt good enough for her, like my life had no meaning at all. I began to wonder if I would ever find love, or if I even deserved it. I thought about ending it all—just to escape the suffocating grip she had on me, just to end the pain of never being able to measure up.

But there was always a part of me that held on, even if it was by a thread. A small voice deep inside that told me I had to survive. That even if she couldn't love me, I was worth fighting for.

As I lay in bed that night, a sense of numbness overtook me. The suffocating weight of my mother's expectations, the crushing silence of my self-doubt, and the knowledge that nothing I ever did would be enough—it all coiled around me like a noose. The idea of ever being free from her grasp felt impossible like I was doomed to forever walk in her shadow.

The words she had spat at me earlier still echoed in my mind: "That's your fault." Even now, I couldn't shake the sting of her refusal to take responsibility. It was never about me, never about what I needed. It had always been about her—a need to control, to reshape me into a version of herself that would make her look perfect. A puppet to show off, nothing more.

And I began to wonder if I was even capable of becoming something more. Every time I tried to break free, it felt as though the world pressed in on me even harder. The darkness inside me grew, the thoughts of worthlessness and despair threatening to drown me. Sometimes, it felt like the only way to escape the endless cycle of pain was to end it all.

The temptation to surrender to that darkness loomed just out of reach, a silent whisper calling me to let go. But I couldn't. Not yet. A flicker of something—something fragile—kept me tethered. A part of me still wanted to believe that I was meant for more, that I didn't have to be trapped in this hell.

But in that moment, the thought of hope felt like a distant memory. What was left of me? Who was I supposed to be if the person who was supposed to love me could never see me for who I really was? The truth was, I had no idea.

I could barely breathe under the weight of it all, but one thing was clear: something inside me was breaking. And as I lay there, fighting the dark thoughts that threatened to swallow me whole, I realized that the fight wasn't over yet. But the road ahead felt like a nightmare I might never wake from.