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BATTLE
It was 1983. I was twenty-seven years old, and no reporting jobs were
immediately available during my impatient California work search.
Curiously, when a tantalizing offer in the music industry was given to me
through the friend of a friend, I had no problem making a dramatic career
switch.
Lionel Richie, Smokey Robinson, Jermaine Jackson, Rick James, and Stevie
Wonder—all casually walked through the studios or sat at a desk across
from mine, making celebrity small talk and telling cool jokes.
It seemed I laughed through my work all day long.
I began to hear voices, see people’s faces change, and heard and felt
demons whizzing past me uttering garbled curses.
I never made it to the Pasadena Civic Auditorium to watch the taping of the
Motown 25 television special—the program I had worked on—from a
coveted seat. Instead I was spirited away by my mother on a fast and
spooky jet to a mental hospital, a world away in Cincinnati Ohio.
I was terrified just looking at the walls. Six weeks later the taped version of
Motown 25 came on national TV. I stared forlornly at the television set in the
dayroom of the mental hospital in smiley-face green foam slippers, while
Michael Jackson made music history with his “Billy Jean” song-and-dance
spectacle that shot his career into the stratosphere.
“I worked on that show,” I said weakly. Some of the other patients tittered
and one mocked me.
More patients whooped in laughter and one of the nurses asked me if I had
taken my medication. I was diagnosed as manic depressive.
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“Q.A.”, had lost his entire career as a popular junior high school science
teacher and his marriage to my mother and his chance to be with me
consistently, because of paranoid schizophrenia?
The medical field calls it genetics, the Bible calls it generational curses of
lunacy. My most effective doctor, Jesus Christ, would whisper his
The 1990’s were upon me. One bright spot on the horizon was that I met a
tall, handsome, and talented man named Geno, with whom I had deep
intellectual conversations and who made me laugh. We traveled to Las
Vegas to get married immediately, then returned to Los Angeles to live. But
we both grappled with who God really is—and our personal struggles tore us
apart after only a year together.
“Lord!” I cried, “If you freed Mary Magdalene of seven demons, couldn’t you
free me?!” My Bible fell open to “this kind goeth not out, but by prayer and
fasting.”
As a news reporter, I had been taught to be skeptical and report only what I
had seen. But I can testify that there is an active teeming world of real
angels and real demons just beyond the realm of sight.
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I had had it. I accepted Christ as Savior and Lord of my life. I went to
church and read the Bible. I fasted and prayed like a house afire. I called a
prayer partner I have never met. He said:
Then he prayed for the Lord to deliver me. That afternoon, on Ash
Wednesday, February 25, 1998, I got down on my knees in a cold and
deserted New York City area park and prayed for the Lord to deliver me—
from manic depression, alcohol and drugs. I walked out of that