I BELIEVE!
The Broken Generational Curse Luis Orellana Could there be a curse on my family? Was I destined for the same lifestyle as my uncles? My uncles came from Guatemala. All claimed to be Catholics, but indulged in a life of sex, drugs and violence. Their parents, also from Guatemala, were part of a family with six brothers and six sisters. All grew up united with a seal that could not be broken. The great grandmother was the center of the household. After her husband died, she raised the 12 on her own, and they never lacked the necessities. Five sisters, including my grandmother, decided to migrate to the U.S. with their children when my father was 15. They all lived in a three-unit complex. The life that the children knew during those times was one of unity and bondage. The life in the complex consisted of alcohol and cigarettes throughout the week. With the mothers gone during the day, working in a factory, and no fathers around, the boys grew up the only way they knew—drinking, fighting on the streets and having sex. This was what it meant to be a man. Growing up, I heard these whispers at family gatherings: “To be a man, stick up for yourself, stick to your family, and have many women before you get married.” The pride of life had been in the family for as long as one could stare down my family tree. My mother would fight against this darkness and call out the evil patterns of thought and speech, yet, every weekend, my father took me to the family gatherings. My uncles and Dad’s cousins would chatter about the most profane things. Pride was the source of unity and manifesto. Prideful testimonies of fights, sleeping with prostitutes, adultery, and even shootings would be shared. As I listened to all this, pride took its seat on the throne of my soul and I would delight in such conversations. In fact, many times I convinced my drunken uncles to retell stories of their lives, just for the sake of satisfying my pride in the family tree. I remember many occasions when my cousins and I (ages 7-12) would jokingly say that when we grew up, we would protect one another and sleep with prostitutes so we could carry on the legendary nobility of the family. Oh Lord! My heart was so far from Thee! No sign of hope! No sign of a Messiah near! Only grace would draw God to me! For my heart desired lust and pride all the days of my youth!
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This sort of thinking dominated my youth even though it conflicted with my mother’s teachings and my conscience. I knew it was wrong but carrying the baton of pride brought meaning and unity to what my dad and uncles did. One look at my adolescence and you probably only suspect this generational curse to carry on. Who could ever overcome this generational curse? Who could ever break the bondage of tradition? The only means to transformation in this family would require the change of man entirely! How could you change the men with such wicked desires? These men drowned in the romance of lust and pride. There was a grip in the desires of these men. Round and round they went, the same motion continued. Never could one imagine such a curse broken. Yet, it was our Lord who said, “What seems impossible for man is possible for God!” (Luke 18:27) Youthful Passions As a teenager, anger, emptiness, a sense of meaninglessness, as well as longing overwhelmed my soul. Teachers recommended I see a counselor. The counselor recommended I see a psychologist. The psychologist recommended I see a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist diagnosed me with manic depression and ADHD. I took 4.5 pills per day. This brought temporary comfort. Not the pills, but the thought that I could blame my darkness on something outside of myself. My passions and longing to fill this void made me do everything possible just to discover who I was meant to be. I was entangled with many sins, but lust burned in my heart. I had found immediate pleasure and temporary escape, and always had a girlfriend. But they couldn’t fill my void, and the relationships ended quickly. Depression was the dominating emotion in my life, but I never sought to be around happy people. I found them somewhat annoying. I wrote dark poetry to express my sentiment, which only served to make me dive deeper into my state of depression. The times when even depression seemed elusive, I would put on a headset and use music to bring me back to a depressive state. Depression became my identity. Life was dark and meaningless. It was only a matter of getting by with the best experiences possible before death would swallow me up.
