The Devil Is Real

Unfortunately, the Devil is real.  He is not a figment of the imagination, a Medieval myth or a costume character that comes out on Halloween with horns and a tail.  In fact, he was the most beautiful of all of God’s angels.  But he rebelled against God and throughout all of history has caused sin to infiltrate the world through his ugliness and lies.

How do I know that the Devil is real?  Because I’ve had the misfortune of bumping into him one too many times.  I’ve known of his existence for as long as I can remember.  I had started a diary – a sort of memoir – and I posted my first entry on this blog.  Then I realized that I just kind of left its ending dangling with no sense of what happened next; so a few weeks later I posted my second entry.  Both entries had to do with a malicious presence in my life when I was only two or three years old.  And unfortunately, that presence has never gone away.

After rediscovering the Rosary last year, I was finally able to face up to the horrors of my life and the many bizarre, disturbing and downright deplorable events, situations and circumstances I’d found myself in throughout the last several years.  I take full responsibility for my life and the mistakes that I’ve made.  But I also know that had I been in a state of grace and living the faith that I proclaimed to believe in from birth, much of what happened to me wouldn’t have had a snowball’s chance in Hell.  (No pun intended.)  So on that note, welcome to another one of my diary entries:

Welcome to Hell

“Well, here I am,” I said to myself, as I approached the VIP Club at 20 West 20^thStreet.  It was presently New York City’s most popular topless gentleman’s club, and I had been offered a job as an entertainer (otherwise known as dancer, otherwise known as stripper.)  This was to be my first day of work, and I was scheduled to work the day shift from 12:00 to 8:00pm.

I stood staring at the smoky gray glass doors that opened to another world – a world I knew only too well but wished that I didn’t.  It was a world where, whether you are a man or a woman, you can be someone else for a little while if your own real world doesn’t feel so real and you desperately crave the freedom of anonymity and the chance to see yourself in a different light.  The thing is – there is no light in this place.  It’s a dark, cavernous trap of money, decadence, deception, glitter and greed.  It is the epitome of all that seems so right and yet all that is so very wrong in our mixed up, convoluted planet.  It’s the place where desperate, lonely souls find their solace and for a few brief hours all can seem so balanced in one’s life because the illusion of perfect euphoria wraps itself around its fragile victim, beckoning and enticing – a beautiful hallucination of the ultimate lie.

I knew all too well what sort of journey I was embarking on this crisp Autumn day in 1996.  After all, four years earlier at Stringfellow’s, where I’d worked as a coat check girl, I was able to survey the scene as an innocent bystander; a curious spectator of one of the most bizarre shows on earth.  I was insulated from the battlefield in a safe and protected alcove called the coat check booth.  I used to watch in awe as the beauty queens with their sparkly gowns and long, blond flowing hair would gyrate seductively on various stages scattered throughout the club.  They only had to look down at a man with a teasing twinkle in their eyes and smile convincingly, and in no time at all a dollar bill or two would end up in their garter and a request for a private dance in a private room would follow.

Back then, I knew in my heart what was really going on.  I knew these girls were selling their souls for hundreds of dollars.  They were steps away from being considered full-blown prostitutes.  I knew that once they’d get a few years older they’d start to lose their mystique and quite possibly their looks, and would have to find ways to compensate for the age difference between themselves and the younger crop of girls that would end up replacing them on these same dazzling stages.  It’s one thing to be 18, or 21 or 28 and be called a dancer.  But this business is all about youth, and unfortunately, what a tight 22 year old can demand just by batting her eyes at a man may not apply to a woman of 35.  But in spite of all the unfortunate awareness and possible dangers I knew I’d be facing as a dancer – and maybe even in some strange way because of it – there was a part of me that had felt left out since the first day I set foot in Stringfellow’s.

It’s the same way I’d felt back in high school when the popular girls got to date all the popular boys and ride in nice cars and wear pretty clothes.  They had money and status, yet I, shy and undeveloped, could only watch from the sidelines of the football field, as the pom pom club cheered its victors on, jumping and swaying and smiling at the crowds while the football players scored heroic touchdowns.  I felt as if I’d missed something along the way and I wanted the chance to get it right.  I wanted to throw all caution to the wind for just one shot at being popular.  I wanted to shine and be noticed and admired.  I wanted to know the freedom of flowing cash and easy earning.  I wanted to be in control of something for once in my life, and I was willing to risk my own integrity and morals for the chance to be a star.  I argued with my own conscience and reminded it that I was now 29, and certainly not getting any younger.  I needed to make myself feel important and in demand.  And as I pulled on the heavy door til it opened, I realized that it was my ego that was leading me inside.

I found myself heading down a very long corridor that led to the back of the club.  The air was tight and held the lingering odor of alcohol and cigars.  I felt as if I’d been suddenly blinded, and I had all I could do not to trip over my own feet.  Since I’d walked in, my eyes had to adjust to the sudden change from light to dark, and it occurred to me how strange it was that on a sensational sunny Autumn morning a door closes and in the blink of an eye, darkness descends.  I felt nervous as my thoughts began racing, conjuring up all sorts of lurid images of girls dancing suggestively in front of their customers, a wad of twenty dollar bills wrapped up in a rubber band and neatly fastened to their garters.

I’ll be one of them soon I nervously realized, picturing myself luring a customer into one of the VIP rooms, and walking out an hour later with a couple of hundred dollar bills stuffed into my garter.  Piece of cake.  Ya, right.  Who’s kidding who?  I tried to convince myself of something the better part of me just wouldn’t accept.  It was as if a tug of war was going on inside my head and two dialogues were taking place at the same time.

I climbed some stairs and then approached the dressing room where all the female employees and dancers of the club transformed themselves from sneaker and sweats girls to stiletto divas.  The first thing I noticed were lockers everywhere with names written on them in black Magic Marker.  Names like Mercedes, Cheyenne, Summer and Paris.  I stood there, wondering if the name Kelly, which I’d decided to call myself, would be fancy enough to keep company with these exotic princesses.

There was a girl in the room standing in front of one of the mirrors, unzipping her jeans and looking really quite collegiate.  She had blond, over the shoulder layered hair, and not a drop of makeup on her face.  Passing her on the street one would immediately see student in neon letters written all over her forehead.  So much for my image of gyrating half-naked girls with sparkly faces and done-up Barbie hair and 6 inch stiletto heels.

“Welcome to Hell,” she suddenly said, glancing at me and then rummaging through a duffel bag, pulling out a curling iron and a long white satiny gown.

How Do I Know that the Devil Is Real?

When I mentioned that I’ve bumped into him, of course I don’t mean literally.  But evil is all around us, and unless we are in a state of grace we are in a losing battle when it comes to warding off his slick and deceptive advances.  The Devil is of a much higher intelligence than we can possibly understand.  He is a fallen angel, the father of lies.  And he knows exactly which buttons to press in each and every one of us.  He preys on our weaknesses and uses any opening he can find to invade our souls and do the damage that he is fully capable of doing.

As you can see from my diary entry above, I got sucked right into his devious game by his seductive ploys and his misrepresentation of the truth.  I allowed my ego to take hold of me and threw all caution to the wind because I saw glitz and glitter where I should’ve seen decay and disease.  Because God gives us all free will to do with our lives what we please, we are all fair game to Satan’s sick enticing powers.  That’s why I turned to the Rosary.  I was finding that I had gotten myself so wrapped up in misery that I almost didn’t even feel that I deserved to break free of it.  I was a slave to sin.  And the only way to break the chains of bondage is through finding the Lord.  And a sure shortcut to Jesus’ Sacred Heart is through Mary.  She will always lead us to Jesus through the Most Holy Rosary.  It is predicted in the Bible that she will crush the head of the serpent.   The serpent is Satan, and he hates Our Lady.  So one sure way to loosen his hold is through the intercession of Mary.

I feel sorry for those lost souls who roll their eyes and shake their heads in disbelief.  I think deep in their hearts they know the truth because it was put there from God at the moment of conception.  But unfortunately, the truth isn’t always the easiest path to follow.  So they become complacent, even hostile toward anything pertaining to what being a Christian is all about.  They rant, they scoff, they call the Catholic Church a “cult” and its priests a bunch of pedophiles; they promote abortion and yet they protest war.  These people who mock anyone who believes in the existence of Satan are the very people falling prey to him.  And he probably throws a party in Hell every time someone denounces his existence.  That’s exactly what he wants us to believe; that he doesn’t exist.

We can only pray for those lost people and ask Our Lady to bring them out of their twisted state of oblivion.  The Devil is real.  It’s the lies he tells and the myths he viciously spreads that has caused so many poor souls to fall into Hell.  Want to hear more stories?  This is just a warm-up of what’s to come.

Photo by: Ed Yourdon

{ 7 comments }