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Journal entry, May 30, 1981, Annapolis, MD. I left the monastery today. No drama. No fanfare. After 20 years, no one said goodbye. It was an agonizing time for me and took me years to make this painful decision. Somehow, leaving the seminary or monastery was always done this way. Leave quietly, so no one sees you. This always seemed so strange to me, even cruel. After living, praying, and serving with the same people for years, a person just quietly walked away, always at night, while everyone was asleep.

All of that happened 39 years ago. When I left, I felt like a broken man. My spirit was broken, my ideals had been shattered. And even though I knew I had to make this change, I still felt guilty and ashamed. I continued to berate myself. Sometimes, I heard this voice inside of me saying, “you’re a failure, you’re weak, you couldn’t do it, you had to give in.” And maybe that was true. Maybe I was weak. Maybe I was a failure. In some ways, it certainly felt like that. But after years of struggling to live my vows as best I could in the monastery, I just knew that I had to make a change. After years of trying my best to live this way of life, I realized that for my own mental and physical health, I had to leave.

When I left, I was afraid. I had so many questions and so few answers. Including my years in the high school seminary, I had lived this religious life style for 25 years. I had given this way of life “my best shot,” so to speak, but felt I just couldn’t do it anymore if I wanted to avoid a mental breakdown. It was only after years of spiritual direction and intensive therapy, that I came to this conclusion. I could certainly identify with the prayer of spiritual writer and Cistercian monk Thomas Merton when he prayed,

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe this: I believe that the desire to please you does, in fact, please you. I hope I have that desire in everything I do. I hope I never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it at the time. Therefore, I will trust you always for though I may seem to be lost, and in the shadow of death, I will not be afraid because I know you will never leave me to face my troubles alone. Amen1

When I left the monastery on that day so many years ago, there were only two things that I knew for sure. One, I had a place to live and two, I had a job. Outside of these two things, I could certainly pray with Merton that “I had no idea of where I was going and I did not see the road ahead of me,” but I tried to trust that the Lord would lead me by the right road even though I didn’t know where this road would take me.

Fortunately, one of these right roads emerged when a couple who were friends of mine, offered me a room in their basement. It was very sparse, but adequate. Another “right road” emerged when I was able to find a job through a friend as the personnel director for a large construction company. However, approximately three years later, this construction company began to downsize and I was “let go.” Basically, I was fired. Interestingly enough, this happened on Good Friday in April, 1987. So, now the question became what was I going to do?

In the monastery, counseling and spiritual direction had always been one of my main ministries. So, after thinking and praying about this for several weeks, I decided to investigate the criteria that was necessary to become a psychotherapist. After discovering that I had already completed all the course work and internship requirements, I learned that all I needed to do was to pass the state licensing exam which I quickly accomplished. On reflection, I realized that this was another “right road” that the Lord was leading me down. This was the beginning of my career in counseling that I very much enjoyed for over twenty-four years.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote that “the world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places.”2 Since most of my world up to that point had been my life in the monastery, this was the world that broke me down. But with my many years as a psychotherapist, I truly believe that I became strong in my broken places. Moreover, since I struggled for years to make my decision to leave the monastery, and because the emotions of guilt, shame, and depression were so much a part of my dilemma, I have tried to help others who were also struggling with these issues.

Everybody is a story. Every person has a story. My story begins with that journal entry written so many years ago in 1981. It seems like a simple journal entry but what it took for me to reach this decision was extremely difficult. In my case, it was the culmination of many years of mental anguish, confusion, and depression. This book is about my journey through these years and how I was finally able to come to my decision. For many of us, the ability to make real life, concrete decisions about some aspect of our lives can be extremely painful. In over twenty years as a psychotherapist and spiritual director, I have so often found this to be true. And now, as I reflect back on these years, I hope that my story will be healing and helpful to others who are struggling to make the right decision in their lives.

For over thirty-eight years, I have been unable to write about the experiences of my life in the monastery because I felt ashamed. For years, I thought about leaving the monastery but couldn’t make this decision because of the feelings of guilt and shame. Psychologically and emotionally, I felt paralyzed. Finally, after all these years, I have decided to tell my story.

This book has been written from a place deep inside me. It has been germinating inside of me for the last thirty-eight years. It comes out of the well of my own journey and life experiences. It’s always difficult and risky to try to put our lives into words. I found that to be especially true with this book. It has brought back many painful memories. It asked much of me. It called for a painful honesty and vulnerability that I found daunting. It asked me to go deep into myself, to share my story, to invite you into what had been a very difficult time in my life.

In St. Teresa of Avila’s classical spiritual book Interior Castle, she describes a difficult period of time in her own spiritual journey. She said “when I think of myself I feel like a bird with a broken wing.”3 This was the way I felt for a long time.

In this book, I have tried to grapple with the important questions of life, with my journey and the mystery of the human soul as I have tried to grow spiritually, emotionally, and psychologically. I have tried to open up a path that is grounded in the Scriptures, in centuries of Christian spiritual writing, and developmental psychology. I have also tried to offer down to earth truths from my own life, as well as profound truths from the great tradition of Christian spirituality. Weaving the parts of my story together has been like making a tapestry. It’s like trying to put all of the pieces of a puzzle together without knowing the final picture.

I Was Gone Long Before I Left is my story about living in a Catholic monastery for twenty years as a member of a religious community. For fourteen of those years, I was also a priest. It explores the reasons why I went to the monastery, why I stayed, why I eventually left, and what I have learned. Maybe more importantly, I have tried to understand the painful process I went through to make the decision to leave.

From the beginning, I want to make it clear that in writing this book, I have “no axes to grind.” I am not bitter. I seek no revenge. I don’t want to punish anyone. Moreover, I am not anti-Catholic Church and have no need to disparage religious life. I simply want to share my story—my journey, hoping that it will be helpful to others.

Over the years, I have come to believe that all of us try to make the best decisions we can with the information we have at our disposal at any given time. For a variety of reasons, sometimes it takes a long time for everything to come together in our lives that enables us to make those decisions which can dramatically influence the direction of our lives. This is the way it was for me.

As a psychotherapist and spiritual director for over twenty-four years, I have tried to help people make all kinds of decisions about their lives. Many times, these have been extremely painful decisions that have been very difficult for them and others. It is my hope that this book will validate their decision making process and give encouragement to others as they struggle to make decisions in their own lives. Finally, it is my hope that my effort to write this book will bring continued healing to those wounded parts of my own life.

Anne Morrow Lindberg, in her book War Within and Without, said that “one writes not to be read but to breathe . . . one writes to think, to pray, to analyze. One writes to clear one’s mind, to dissipate one’s fears, to face one’s doubts, to look at one’s mistakes—in order to retrieve them. One writes to capture and crystallize one’s joy, but also to disperse one’s gloom. Like prayer—you go to it in sorrow more than joy, for help, a road back to grace.”4 It is in this spirit that I invite you to join me on my journey.

1. Merton, Thoughts in Solitude, 81.

2. Quoted in Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms. See also www.goodreads.com/quotes/ernesthemingway.

3. Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle. www.notable-quotes.com/teresa_of_avila.

4. Lindberg, War Within and Without. www.goodreads.com-work-quotes-106051-war-within-and-without.