THE DEVIL INSIDE ME
The Devil Inside Me is a real-life, twisted account of Joshua T. Berglan’s life that led him to lose his kids, sanity, freedom, health, money, homes, trust, and hope. What happens in someone’s life that they end up in jail 6 times, bankrupt twice, OD multiple times, get HIV, divorced 3 times, end up homeless, and become a chemsex addict? Where did it all go wrong? How could things have been different? What are the consequences of living a lie? What happens when one directly defies God and the purpose they were created for? The Devil Inside Me gives a detailed and uncensored look into Joshua’s life, his double life, and takes a spotlight directly to his shadow world that ultimately led to his death and rebirth.
Flying first-class from Newport Beach, California, on my way home to Oklahoma City, downing free drinks. ‘Was this the 6th or 7th? Who cares!’, I thought. I was already getting excited and anxious fantasizing about discovering new sex partners with my girlfriend. As my mind raced, I tried to make a mental list of everything we would need. First, I needed to pick up what had become my standing order of (2) 8 balls from my dealer. Better get poppers, lube, and sex pills too, I decided, before we started our hunt for playthings or human sex toys as I called them. I wanted to be fully prepared.
Cocaine, sex, and searching for additional sex partners had become our ritual 3 to 4 times a week when I was in town. Oh, but those nights I was just coming back from long business trips away, those nights were always the most special.
I loved my girlfriend. Loved her in the only way I understood love. My limited understanding of love was mere if you let me do what I want, I will be nice to you. My girlfriend was the first woman I had ever been honest with about my sexual desires. Not only of me sleeping with other men but my passion for bringing other guys in to have sex with the woman I love also. Not to mention my cuckold fetish, watching her be pleased by many men at one time. She let me do what I wanted with my sexual desires, so I loved her.
Cocaine fueled all of my desires and always made me want more. More of everything really. More coke, because I could never get enough (don’t get me started about meth). The only thing that made me stop snorting coke was a nose bleed or not being able to breathe through my nose, sometimes both.
Cocaine and meth made my thirst for sex unquenchable. It did not matter if we had just had 2 or 3 guys over, when they left, the hunt for more began immediately.
I traveled a lot with my skincare business. Going to cool cities, like NYC, LA, Dallas, Miami, and Las Vegas, for weeks at a time. I always missed her on those trips. Although I had fun working, frequenting bathhouses, or going to sex parties I found off of sex apps and websites, I always imagined her there with me. I always wanted her to experience the unsatisfying yet pleasure-filled debauchery I got myself into.
As I fulfilled my desires with men, my craving for her to be a part of it fueled my desire for others to ravage her even more than they were ravaging me.
My thirst for sex made me feel like what I imagine a vampire must feel after they tasted the first drop of blood.
Coming home to her brought me the same level of excitement that some people experience anticipating the next Mike Tyson heavyweight title fight. Only our rounds lasted a lot longer than his fights and being a participant, instead of just an observer, delivered the almost welcomed soreness experienced the following day, or whenever the party ended.
Experiencing the almost paralyzing anticipation of seeing her, fantasizing about what she would wear for them, was interrupted when I was struck with the numbing thought of blowing through $500,000 dollars in just a few months. The rage in my loins started to dwindle as I began to worry about how I could keep up this lifestyle of sex, drugs, and reckless spending.
Six months before, I was sitting on over a half a million dollars in my bank account from my Father’s inheritance to now watching nearly a million dollars of investment money disappear faster than a hot rail of meth. Although I never spent money on meth (because I got it while hooking up off of sex apps), the combination of cocaine, sex clubs, spending recklessly, and bad business decisions had me on the brink of losing everything, again.
I had lost everything once before from blowing money and cocaine; it is what ended my first marriage. It was then, in the process of my return from 3 months in rehab, I fell in love with chemsex (meth and sex) while seeing one of my “massage girl” friends. That is what took my sex obsession over the edge because my “friend” allowed me to be me, for only $200 a session.
I had become more preoccupied with that new obsession, forgetting all about being a father to my newborn twins. In losing everything then, I really lost EVERYTHING. I chose to give my twins up for adoption after not being able to pay for the insane amount of child and spousal support I was ordered to pay.
There I was again, only this time cognitive of watching the money disappear. What would I do? I knew I needed to do something bold but I was too drunk and too horny to care about that.
I started looking through my phone at the videos and pictures I had taken from the night before. Images from an orgy with a group of guys, a girl, and a transexual that I arranged to get myself more hyped for my return to my girlfriend.
I was relieved that we would be doing blow tonight because the meth from the last few days had caused me to eat up the inside of my mouth. Snorting cocaine would be easier for me to handle, that is if my heart did not explode.
Sex wasn’t as good on blow but I could not get my girlfriend to do meth (unless I slipped it to her without her knowing).
As I scrolled through my phone, looking over the previous night’s festivities one more time before deleting the evidence to hide any trail of my cheating, I stumbled upon a picture of my father.
I hated him and immediately I was disgusted at all he had done to me. I felt his hands around my throat as I heard the words, “you are not my son” over and over again, as my mind drifted back to that night my freshman year in college. It was that night I quit caring about him and finally allowed myself to truly hate him for all that he was, and all that he was not.
My best friend and I had been at a house party that night. As he was dropping me off after the party, cops were everywhere surrounding my home. Walking in the front door I saw that the couch was turned over, the grandfather clock that had been in my family for a lifetime was destroyed, and there was broken glass everywhere.
When the cops left, my father immediately started screaming at me with blind rage. He blamed me for the damages, saying one of my whore’s boyfriends had wrecked his home. He screamed at me to leave. “Why dad? Why? I did not do this to you, I love you dad, please stop. I don’t even have a whore right now. Stop it dad, stop! Please! All I have ever done is try to make you happy and please you. I have only wanted to make you proud.” I pleaded.
“You are not my son, get the fuck out of my home!” he yelled.
I hated him then and now I hate his wife for taking part of MY rightful inheritance.
Fuck them all.
That thought brought me right back to my panic. I had to figure out how to stop hemorrhaging money, but even more than that, I knew I needed to get the hell out of Oklahoma.
Where should I go, I wondered?
“West” came to mind, but I laughed it off because how cliche is that? “Go west young man.” In all seriousness, it is a bit ridiculous to run a skincare business in Oklahoma and if I moved to a different city, a bigger city, maybe I could finally be free to be me. Maybe I would not have to hide my sexuality anymore, or at least find out who/what I really am. Is it the drugs that fuel my desires or is this really me?
Every once in a while, after a bad experience hooking up with strange men, I would question what I was doing; try to convince myself to stop. I would force feed my mind one of the devotions my mom would send, but I just did not feel it. It wouldn’t take much, a couple of drinks or seeing a picture, to reawaken ‘It’ enough to start taunting me with its seduction. It was the promise of pleasure and euphoria that seemed to be the only thing that brought me any peace.
When I ignored It, It would taunt me more, and I could never function properly. When I neglected giving It attention, I was depressed, felt awkward and had no joy. Happiness only came when I gave It what It wanted. I owed it to him, It, the devil inside me. After all, he is who kept me safe after what happened to me as a child. He did take my pain away so who am I to deny it now?
Giving It what it wanted always seemed to make everything else go ok. Those moments I tried to stop feeding it, made my life hell. All I could think about was what I heard each and every time I went to church. I was not ‘religious’ but I did grow up going to church. Now as an adult, I only attended to make my mother happy. I loved her and I never liked hurting her. Of course as soon as I left church, I was at the bar. Then shortly after a drink or two, doing blow, or meth to kick start the debaucherous evening.
I grew up in a baptist church. All I heard was “gay people go to hell”, “sex is for marriage, between a man and woman”, “fornecators!” Well, I liked having sex with anything that walked so where does that leave me? “No sex outside of marriage or you go to hell!” I heard over and over from the preacher man. Funny thing is, he got caught stealing money from the church to buy his whore jewelry, so what does he know?
God didn’t keep me from getting molested by those men and my babysitter, so either God is not real, or he does not give a crap about me.
When the plane landed, I desperately needed blow. I was drunk from 8 airplane bottles of vodka and a little embarrassed by the scolding I got from the flight attendant that I drank too much on the plane. I was told I cannot drink like that on a plane anymore and they wanted me to promise I was not driving myself.
Flying as much as I did, at that point, I had become friends with the flight crew. Maybe they only pitied me or felt like I needed to be mothered and were not really my friends. Either way, I needed cocaine and sent the text to place my order.
Next Episodic “Inheritance”