Chains Broken: How Mary, the Rosary, and Grace Delivered Me from Sexual Slavery by Jeff Callaway

Chains Broken: How Mary, the Rosary, and Grace Delivered Me from Sexual Slavery

By Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

In a world that bombards us with twisted ideas of love and desire, my life became a battlefield of bondage and brokenness. Born in 1976, I grew up in the flashy excess of the 1980s, but I truly came of age in the raw, rebellious 1990s. Back then, sex wasn't just suggested—it was shoved down our throats by every corner of culture. Television shows glamorized casual hookups, music videos pulsed with seductive rhythms, and magazines screamed that real men conquered hearts and bodies without a second thought. Virginity? It was mocked as weakness, a sign you weren't living life to the fullest. This relentless pressure wasn't unique to me; studies show that exposure to sexualized media in youth can lead to earlier sexual activity and distorted views of relationships, with many young people reporting feelings of inadequacy if they don't measure up to these ideals. Like so many caught in the grip of sex addiction—a struggle that touches 3% to 10% of American adults, hitting men harder and often starting around age 18—I chased fleeting pleasures that left only emptiness behind.

To understand the depth of this cultural trap, consider how the Church has long warned against it. In Humanae Vitae, Pope Paul VI spoke of the dangers of separating sex from its sacred purpose, predicting a society where human dignity is eroded by unchecked desires. This prophecy rings true today, as research indicates that widespread access to explicit content correlates with rising rates of addiction, affecting mental health and relationships across generations. For me, it was personal: these messages twisted my innocence into a lifelong battle, one that Scripture describes as a war against the flesh (Galatians 5:17). Yet, God's mercy is greater, offering a path back to wholeness.

The Church teaches us that sexuality is God's beautiful gift, meant for deep union and life-giving love within marriage (CCC 2337). But when lust takes over— that disordered craving for pleasure apart from God's plan—it twists everything (CCC 2351). As St. John Paul II explained in his Theology of the Body, lust reduces people to objects, stealing the true meaning of our bodies as signs of self-giving love. My story is a raw testament to this truth, a journey from darkness to divine mercy, and I share it boldly to light the way for others enslaved by the same chains.

Reflecting on this teaching, I see how my early years embodied that distortion. The Theology of the Body isn't just abstract philosophy; it's a roadmap for reclaiming our humanity, emphasizing that true freedom comes from self-mastery through grace. Studies on addiction support this spiritually: brain scans show how repeated exposure to porn can rewire reward centers, making it harder to find joy in real connections, much like how sin clouds our vision of God's love. But the Gospel promises restoration: "Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me" (Psalm 51:10).

My fall started young, in the innocent haze of fifth grade. At that tender age, curiosity led me and a few willing classmates to experiment with touches and secrets that no child should know. By sixth grade, I'd already gone to "third base," as kids called it, fumbling in hidden spots with partners eager to explore. These early steps weren't just play; they planted seeds of habit that grew wild. Looking back, I realize how vulnerable young minds are—research from organizations like the American Psychological Association notes that early sexual experiences can increase risks for later compulsive behaviors, especially in environments lacking guidance. For me, without strong spiritual foundations at home, these moments set a pattern that echoed the warning in Proverbs 6:27: "Can a man carry fire next to his chest and his clothes not be burned?"

Then, at 15, I fell deeply in love for the first time—with a sweet, beautiful soul I'll never forget. In her arms, I lost my virginity, thinking it was the pinnacle of connection. But instead of fulfillment, it sparked a hunger that only grew. This first love was pure in its way, but without God's framework, it became a stepping stone to excess. The Church reminds us that love without commitment leads to heartache (CCC 2354), and indeed, it did for me. Statistics reveal that teens who engage early often face higher rates of depression and relationship instability later—up to 30% more likely, according to some surveys. But God's plan is for covenant love, as in Ephesians 5:25: "Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her."

But Scripture warns us of this trap: "But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart" (Matthew 5:28). I didn't heed that then. Later that year, my dad's job promotion uprooted us to the bigger city of Tyler, Texas. As the new "alternative kid" with a rebellious edge, I drew attention like a magnet. Sexual partners came easily—girls intrigued by my outsider vibe, leading to encounters in backseats, parks, and stolen moments. My body count skyrocketed, each one feeding the lie that more meant better. To track it all, I started a little black book, jotting down names like notches on a bedpost, a twisted trophy of conquests that masked my growing shame.

This black book became a symbol of my slavery, a ledger that grew heavier with each entry. In Catholic teaching, such objectification violates the dignity of persons made in God's image (Genesis 1:27), turning gift into greed. Research echoes this harm: compulsive sexual behavior often leads to emotional numbness, with studies showing addicts report 40-50% higher levels of loneliness. Yet, in my rebellion, I pressed on, blind to the spiritual void.

At 16, rebellion against my overbearing parents pushed me into darker waters: dabbling in Satanism. What started as teen angst became a gateway to deviant, ritualistic sex. I delved into "sex magick," blending lust with occult rites—using body fluids and blood in ceremonies, even tying in the tragedy of abortion to "empower" spells. Exhibitionism followed: raw, uninhibited acts in front of crowds at underground gatherings, where boundaries dissolved in a haze of forbidden thrill. One memory burns vivid: a 25-year-old woman sneaking me out my parents' window for midnight rendezvous in a nearby graveyard, mixing drugs and desperate passion under the moon. These weren't just sins; they were chains binding my soul, echoing the warning in Ephesians 5:5: "For you may be sure of this, that everyone who is sexually immoral or impure... has no inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God."

The occult drew me in with promises of power, but it delivered only despair. The Church condemns such practices as grave offenses against the First Commandment (CCC 2117), opening doors to demonic influence. Clinical insights align: involvement in extreme behaviors can heighten addiction risks, with some studies linking trauma or rebellion to paraphilic tendencies in 20-30% of cases. For me, it was a spiral, far from the light of Christ who calls us to "walk as children of light" (Ephesians 5:8).

By high school graduation at 18, I'd slept with over 100 women—a staggering number that left me numb rather than triumphant. Pornography fueled the fire, a constant companion that warped my mind and heart. Studies show this addiction grips millions: about 58% of Americans have viewed porn at least once, with 27% in the past month alone, and up to 10% of men feeling truly hooked. For me, it wasn't stats—it was hours lost to screens, chasing highs that dulled real intimacy and bred isolation.

Porn's grip is insidious, as brain research simply explains: it floods the reward system with dopamine, creating cravings similar to drugs, leading to tolerance where more extreme content is needed. The Catechism calls it a grave offense (CCC 2354), perverting God's gift. In my life, it amplified the chaos, making genuine love seem boring. But Jesus offers healing: "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest" (Matthew 11:28).

The chaos intensified at 21 when I plunged into intravenous heroin use. Drugs amplified the deviance: more exhibitionism at wild parties, threesomes and group encounters that blurred lines and shattered trust. I cheated on the true loves of my life—women who deserved fidelity—losing them one by one because I couldn't rein in my urges. Always blessed with good looks, I guess, it was easy to wield power over women, drawing them in like moths to a flame. But without one—or three—by my side, life felt empty, a void programmed by that relentless media machine from my youth. Relationships crumbled under the weight of betrayal, mirroring how sex addiction leads to divorce in up to 50% of affected couples, eroding trust and leaving scars.

Each lost love was a wound, a reminder of Proverbs 7:26: "For many a victim has she laid low, and all her slain are a mighty throng." The Church teaches forgiveness through confession (CCC 1446), but I ran from it. Stats show addicts often cycle through relationships, with 70% reporting infidelity issues. Yet, God's patience waited.

Physically, the toll mounted: higher risks of infections from unprotected acts, exhaustion from endless pursuits. Emotionally, anxiety and depression shadowed me—common companions for addicts, with up to 50% facing these battles. Yet spiritually, it was a desert: far from God, enslaved to desires that promised freedom but delivered chains. As Romans 6:12 urges, "Do not let sin reign in your mortal body, that you should obey it in its lusts." I ignored that call for too long.

The physical dangers were real—STIs, fatigue—but the spiritual ones deeper, as sin separates us from God (Isaiah 59:2). Research notes addicts have 2-3 times higher health risks, but grace heals body and soul. St. Augustine's confession resonates: "You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you."

At 44, a heart attack shattered the illusion. Lying in that hospital bed, stents in my arteries and a collapsed lung stealing my breath, I weighed my life: wasted years, broken hearts, a ledger of regret. It lacked purpose, lacked God. Three years later, at 47, rock bottom hit—a dark night of the soul where suicide seemed the only escape. In that abyss, grace broke through: Mother Mary appeared, radiant in white, crowned with stars like Revelation 12:1. She spoke of grace, unveiled my sins without condemnation, assured me of Christ's love and His death for me. "Do whatever He tells you," she whispered, echoing John 2:5 at Cana. Leading me to Jesus, He affirmed His love but warned: forsake this gift again, and consequences await.

This vision wasn't hallucination; it was divine intervention, like the apparitions at Fatima or Lourdes, where Mary leads souls to Christ. The Church honors her as Mediatrix of grace (CCC 969), and her role in my conversion proves it. Studies on religious experiences show they can transform lives, reducing addiction relapse by up to 60% in faith-based programs.

The vision ignited my soul. The next day, I rushed to my local Catholic Church—Mary's presence confirming it as the true path. I found a spiritual father in a priest who heard my horrific confessions without flinching, then prayed over me. Chains snapped; I felt demonic grips release, withering away like shadows before dawn. This was redemption: "If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed" (John 8:36).

Confession's power is profound (James 5:16), cleansing the soul. Pastoral care in the Church offers this mercy, with programs showing 70% success in recovery when combined with therapy. For me, it was the turning point, banishing darkness.

Embracing Catholicism, I dove in: sacraments nourishing my spirit, daily prayer anchoring my days, the Rosary becoming my weapon against temptation. I joined the Knights of Columbus, finding brotherhood in faith. After months, I pleaded with Mary to intercede: remove all sexual desires, grant me grace for lifelong celibacy. Instantly, the urges vanished—no fleeting thought, no stirring ache. For nearly three years, I've lived completely celibate, free from the fire that once raged. Chastity isn't repression; it's freedom, integrating body and soul under God's will (CCC 2337). As 1 Corinthians 10:13 promises, "God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape."

Celibacy's gift, praised in Matthew 19:12, has brought peace. Research on faith and addiction notes religious practice lowers relapse risks by 35%, aligning with my experience. The Rosary, meditating on Christ's mysteries, reordered my heart.

This liberation transformed me. Where porn once warped intimacy—leading to erectile issues and emotional numbness in many addicts—grace restored purity. Deviant acts that risked health and soul now fade into memory, replaced by Eucharistic joy. The Church's call to chastity echoes St. John Paul II: our bodies are for communion, not consumption.

The Eucharist, true presence of Christ (CCC 1374), sustains this freedom. Studies on spiritual practices show they build resilience, reducing stress by 25-40%. In my life, daily Mass became armor against old temptations.

Brothers and sisters, hear me now. This world has sold you a lie from the moment you drew your first breath: that desire is your master, that lust is your liberty, that your worth is measured by conquest and consumption. The billboards, the screens, the music, the whispers of a thousand temptations—they scream the same false gospel: that pleasure is your god and that sin is harmless fun. But I stand here to tell you the truth I only learned after decades of enslavement: that life leads to ruin unless it is surrendered to Jesus Christ.

I have walked the road you walk. I have served the lie. I have chained myself to pornography, to compulsive lust, to behaviors that shredded my soul. I know the shame, the emptiness, the hollowness, the gnawing ache that no thrill can fill. I know the false freedom, the broken promises, the ledger of regret that grows with every surrender to appetite. I know that in the darkest hours, the devil whispers, “You are alone. You are trapped. There is no escape.”

But let me tell you—there is escape. There is freedom. There is power to break the chains. It does not come from self-will, from isolation, from pretending the problem does not exist. It comes from Jesus Christ. It comes from surrender. It comes from the power of the cross, from the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, from the sacraments that heal, restore, and make new what sin has shattered.

Do not wait another day to fight this battle alone. Take up the Rosary and pray with your whole heart. Kneel in confession and lay bare your shame. Receive the Eucharist and let the Flesh of Christ renew you from the inside out. Commit to the hard work of prayer, discipline, and accountability—and know this: the Holy Spirit will empower you. He will give you the strength to resist. He will give you the clarity to see the traps. He will give you the grace to rise from ashes you thought would bury you forever.

If you are enslaved by lust, pornography, sexual sin, or deviant desires, today is the day to surrender. Say to Jesus: “Lord, I cannot do this alone. I choose You. I give You my desires. I give You my shame. I give You my life.” Let Mary lead you to Him. Let her intercession bring you into the arms of the Savior who never turns away a broken soul.

Your chains are real, but they are not stronger than His power. Your shame is heavy, but His mercy is heavier. Your life can be remade. Your heart can be purified. Your desires can be reordered. The devil lies, but Jesus redeems. The darkness flees in His light.

Do not delay. Do not bargain. Do not believe the lie that tomorrow is guaranteed. Rise today, surrender today, be made new today. The Lord is calling—will you answer? Will you step out of the bondage of lust and into the freedom of grace?

And remember the words of our Savior, the ultimate mic drop for every enslaved soul:

"If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed." — John 8:36

~Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

© 2025 Texas Outlaw Press