By that point, I was so deep in my own mess that I didn’t even know how to talk to God anymore. It wasn’t that I stopped believing. It was that I felt ashamed. Ashamed of the drinking. Ashamed of the crack. Ashamed of the black eyes. Ashamed of loving a man who was breaking me. Every compromise felt like another brick in a wall between me and God. And the wild part? He never moved. I did.

The shame was loud. And the enemy knows how to use shame better than anybody.

The devil didn’t show up with horns. He showed up in my thoughts. “Look at you.” “You had three years sober and you threw it away.” “You chose a man over God.” “You chose a pipe over purpose.” “You went too far this time.” “God’s tired of forgiving you.” “What’s the point in praying now?”

And when you’re spiritually weak, those lies sound logical.

I started believing I had crossed some invisible line. Like grace had a limit and I hit it. Like I had exhausted heaven’s patience. So instead of running to God, I ran further into Paul. Further into the high. Further into the chaos. Because it felt easier to numb than to kneel.

But here’s the truth I couldn’t admit back then: I was in full-blown idolatry.

Excerpt From When Idols Fall