When I was about 7 years old, I watched my father commit suicide in our family room hanging himself from the ceiling fan. At first I didn’t know what he was really doing when it came to making the slip knot and creating the semi perfect noose because I simply thought he was building something again. So when he hopped off the table, gagged due to his choking, and finally stopped moving, I thought he was no longer building but just acting like a fool and playing around. His lifeless body swung back and forth as I shrugged and went to my room to play with my matchbox cars. After being bored with my cars, I went back to the family room to see if my dad stopped playing around but he was still there. He was still swinging. And I guess that’s when it hit me. My dad was dead.

I walked over into the kitchen, grabbed a chair from the table, dragged it over to the wall, got up on the chair, and grabbed the phone to dial a number my mom told me to dial whenever my dad was being mean to me again.

911

“911, what is your emergency?”

“I think my daddy is dead.”

“What is your name?”

“Justin”

“Well Justin, how do you know your daddy is dead?”

“Well he took a rope, wrapped it around his neck and is swinging back and forth. So I think he’s dead now.”

And that’s when the operator realized that I was not playing around and frantically asked for my address, which I knew.

The police and EMS came with 10 minutes and finally saw the picture to my story.

I guess you can say that my dad’s act of stupidity put a halt to the rotation of my small town of Millington, Tennessee.

My father was the pastor of this Baptist church in my hometown. Every body would come and pack up the church to its full capacity just to hear the so called good man preach the word of god.

The people loved my father and saw him as an honest, hard working man. They would say things like “Oh that Randy Timberlake, that man is so good.” or “Randy has such a great heart.” And blah blah fucking blah.

Then it would come down to me with “Little Randy is gonna grow up to be just like his papa.”

My dad managed to put up this great front that he was an honest man of god, a family and heart warming man. But that was all bull shit in my house, behind the scenes.

My father was always an angry, depressive man. He would drink his shit away to the pits of his belly, get shit faced drunk, wait for my mama to get home, beat her ass, and then come after me. Some nights he wouldn’t have to be drunk to kick my mom’s ass.

There were countless nights, when the man would be gone and come back late, smelling like perfume. My dad would cheat on my mom with the prostitutes of Memphis, and my mom couldn’t do anything about it. He told her that if she ever told anyone about what would really go on in this house and in his life, that he would kill her. She believed he would and so did I.

He would treat my mom like crap day in and day out. She couldn’t tell anyone about how he would continuously hurt her, because every one would believe she was a liar. And my dad always managed to hurt her more and more every damn day.

For example, one night when I woke up to go to the bathroom I caught my dad forcing himself on my mother as she cried. He saw me, zipped up, and told me to go to my fucking room and go back to sleep. I did and I heard my mom cry some more.

My daddy was a true scum and everyone thought he was the greatest man that ever blessed our town. But I believed he was the dirtiest thing that has ever plagued my family.

I also believed that my dear father had another problem, sex.

This man had a collection of tapes locked away in his office and whenever he would leave, I would take a tape, lock myself in my room and watch them. This was all before I was 8, mind you.

And this is where my problem would begin.

I first began to masturbate when I was 9, first touched a girl when I was 10, and by 12, I had lost my virginity to a 14 year old girl.

And I just couldn’t stop my damn problem.

When I hit 15, I knew I had this problem and I became sick of myself. I would lock myself in my room, skipping school, just so my problem wouldn’t get me suspended again. My mother knew of this and I was embarrassed by it. I was very very disgusted at the fact that I couldn’t help myself. I also knew this was a problem my father had, and I didn’t want to become anything like my father.

I refuse to become anything like my father.

And I didn’t want this damn addiction that seemed to turn his shit upside down.

I don’t fucking want it. But I have it.

My name is Justin Randall Timberlake, and I am addicted to sex.