Warning: This essay contains a discussion of sensitive themes, including child abuse, drug abuse, pornography and suicide. It contains a link and an emergency phone number for people who may be contemplating suicide. Please proceed with care.
The other night, I watched a video on YouTube. Well, I tried to. I didn’t quite make it.
The title was “Two Vietnamese Girls React to Full Metal Jacket,” and, like a fool, I clicked on it. I think they skimmed past the expletive-filled intro, which showed off the talent, experience, and intensity of R. Lee Ermy, a Marine veteran who served in the Vietnam War and also was a real Drill Instructor. The part was going to be (or already had been) given to another actor, who eventually played a crazed door gunner who would, in flight, shoot civilians working rice paddies, while Ermey went after and got the part of Sergeant Hartman, the senior DI.
Sadly, Boot Camp is the only part of the film worth watching, as the Vietnam sequence is dreadful. So dreadful, in fact, that Kubrick didn’t even bother to move production to the Philippines, where the jungle settings and ruins would have at least been convincing. Filmed outside of London because Kubrick disliked traveling, he imported some palm trees and secured permits to use an out of service industrial complex. From the start of the Vietnam sequence to the end of the movie, it was complete garbage. Even historians don’t give it good ratings because they’re not fooled. Show a history professor a movie like that, and what you get is hilarious.
The young ladies lost me when the setting was early in Boot Camp. The sergeant has the men doing a double-time cadence. Part of it was, “Ho Chi Minh is a son of a”–
I get it. Okay, I really do. They shouldn’t have watched this movie. Mainly because it’s crap, and Platoon is a better choice, and The Siege of Firebase Gloria is even better because experts from both countries collaborated, and it kind of portrays a shorthand and dramatized account of Khe Sanh, but set during Tet.
That one features Ermey and Wings Hauser in excellent performances.
Well, as you can expect, the ladies were up in arms: “No, we don’t want to hear this. We were invaded.”
Don’t tell me now that Uncle Ho is revered, when he was cast aside during the war like trash.
I couldn’t go any further. It’s just a movie. You weren’t even alive then. Yeah, I get that the scars of parents and grandparents have been vocalized and taught in schools. And I get that both countries were waging a horrifying war. Being that I’m still studying it, I know that no single book has ever been able to contain everything about it. There are two ways an author can approach this problem: cover the operations and order of battle details or concentrate on the more intimate accounts of the men and women who fought it.
Many authors have tried both. They always fall short. It can’t be done. That war killed us all just a little bit. And I don’t like it any more than these women. I’m aware of the horrors. But I’m still an American and a veteran, and I don’t like hearing us accused of being the sole villains here. That’s not true. So you don’t want to hear the cadence. I hear you. I don’t blame you. You have the right to believe whatever you were taught. But you weren’t taught the truth.
And that is as far as I go. I’m sorry that it happened, but it did. If you’re triggered by such movies, don’t watch them. The war is over.
And this is where I wonder, just what is it about humans that they can’t seem to tolerate peace.
I have absolutely no dislike for any race, culture, country, or any single person. That may seem like a lie, but I’m being honest about it. Why should I hate? I may hate what people do or say, but I don’t hate people. First, I’ve been warned not to judge the person because I’ll be judged the same way.
Second, hatred is bad for you. Anger, hate, bitterness, and envy are our true mortal enemies. They eat you until you are consumed. Until all that’s left is evil. That’s no way to live.
I’m not judging the women on the channel. They don’t know the full history. And patreon subscribers egg them and other reaction channel personalities on to watch certain movies that they hope will be disturbing to the person or persons watching and reacting to such movies. My favorite is still “Popcorn in Bed,” and Cassie truly reacts to things in an emotional way that touches me. But I saw that someone had put to the vote an excruciatingly bad piece of garbage titled “The Human Centipede,” and that’s just her Patreon subscribers trying to hurt her. No. I have not watched it myself. But I’m aware of what it is, and I know better than to watch it.
What’s with all the cruelty out there?
I’m reclaiming my right to ask, based on my recent experience. I’ve looked back at how cruel I have been, and I deeply regret what hindsight reveals. Even as I wrote about my life as an A-hole, I didn’t think it was as bad as I now know it was.
Since Easter, I feel differently. Like a dark veil has been lifted from me, a heavy, blinding burden I have carried all of my life. People are very important. They’re precious to the Lord, and I love them.
All life is sacred.
But we don’t act like it is.
And the right I reclaim is to ask again, why can’t humanity tolerate peace? What is it that drives us to kill and cause pain to the living? What gives us the right?
Earlier, I walked up to get a coffee and some smokes. I am trying to quit smoking, and I know that I will because I hate it. I just need a bit of time.
I walked past the flag, our flag, the Colors. I rendered a hand salute. Veterans, as well as soldiers out of uniform, are forbidden this simple act of respect for our country. I did it anyway. It’s a stupid rule, and I reclaim my right to salute. I love my country no matter how I’ve criticized it. Being a critic is a civic responsibility. But you still love your country. You just want what’s right for it.
I’m proud of our service men and women. I always greet them as I did to a soldier I passed on my walk: “Good afternoon, sir. Thank you for your service.”
It makes me feel better when I see them. They stand tall. They have pride that shows in the way they walk. It’s good to see.
I greeted several people as I sat on the bench with my coffee and a cigarette. The clouds tried to conceal a very deep blue sky, and that, along with pain throughout my body down to the soles of my feet told me, not yet. Friday might be pretty wet, though.
I feel so much better around people. I’m not afraid anymore. I remember being married and paralyzed with intense fear to the point I couldn’t even go grocery shopping with my wife. She thought I didn’t want to be seen with her because she was overweight. That was never true; I loved her. She never understood how damaged I was, and neither did I. I was frustrated that I was so dysfunctional. And that I couldn’t articulate it.
And I’ve been trying ever since to figure out the extent of the damage, and so have my doctors. Over the years, since 2005, I have frustrated them with how they saw me present. They should see how it looks to me. It ain’t pretty.
I’m finally getting a therapist again. It only took since 2012. Her name’s Janie, and I’m looking forward to it. I’ve never met a Janie I didn’t like. In fact, that was the name of my father’s first wife. And since she dumped him in record time and vanished from all critical records, I have to say that I will always respect her. She knew he was a monster. She blew the scene and covered her every footprint. I’m afraid, though: he damaged too many people in his life. A sick man with demons crawling on him like chiggers on a deer hunter during Indian Summer.
He and his third wife, my mother, sure did a number on me. On this very site, I have told most of the story, but I have also gone from being positive on one post to a doomsayer the next. I hope you can forgive that, but I’m having a very difficult time with it.
Sometimes, people can’t get over their wounds. That’s because those wounds don’t heal like others do. A broken heart? I’ve heard of doctors who swore that they lost patients that way. I don’t need to swear. I know it happens.
But the wounds a severely abused child carries into old age, that’s a very different thing. And yes, it takes the wind out of you. Every day, you swear you’re drowning. PTSD causes much more than flashbacks, and while those are bad, the nightmares, insomnia, self medication, and reckless lifestyle are there as well. With those come panic attacks that make you feel as if you’re drowning without water at the end of the world, IBSD, chronic headaches, and eventually suicidal thoughts, many of which are so tragically realized. All played out against the backdrop of still more, because it’s everywhere.
In my porn adventures (which are over), I’ve seen incest become a growing theme, from role play to what’s unquestionably real amateur videos. Written stories are lurid and protracted. Snapshots are posted. I know, I’ve done the research. I know that for lots of people, it’s a fantasy, but no sexual fantasy should ever, ever come to be a reality. It never ends well. Not even “adventures” between consenting adults.
But I was so stuck in such dark places that I felt hopeless for most of my life. I hated myself. No amount of prayer, therapy, or drugs could change that. I’ve felt so dirty. I needed porn just to have real sex. All because my parents showed me and one sister 8mm movies which gave me a taste of what they then forbade me. I wrote about this and guess what happened?
Yeah. I found a story on a porn site. Like the stories you used to see in Penthouse Forum. And it was exactly as I told it, only with more detail, and it made me sick. Because the little kids in it were willing and enjoying it. Children that age don’t even have the capacity to consent.
So I grow up, and I’m in one stormy relationship after another, hurting the girlfriends who loved me, driving them away. And I have a marriage turned sour, two children I’ve outlived, and here I am, lonely, but in recovery or rehab.
I got up from that bench this afternoon and started the walk home. And as I cleared the walk past which point there were no people, my good mood turned sad. I felt lonely and depressed.
A decade ago, if I felt like that, it would stay. I might attempt suicide. As a matter of fact, I did. Three times. I was on life support that last time. Only by the grace of God can I be here with you now.
Instead of trying to kill myself, I should have pushed on ahead, no matter how much it hurt.
Today, I kept pushing. It was worth it. Here’s why.
I’ve learned that there’s always room in my life for one more step. One more minute. The minute turns into an hour. And that hour can turn into one more day. It’s hard. You don’t think. You just do it.
You find pockets of beauty. Good people. Take that and keep it in your heart. They can make life worth living. That’s what I’ve learned.
But not everyone gets to learn that. We’re all different, and to another, our lives don’t look bad to them. And it’s just that kind of thing that decides it for too many people. Nobody understands. Nobody listens. In your darkest hour, even God doesn’t hear you. Or maybe you refuse to listen to him. Maybe you don’t believe in him. And you’ve already been hurt so much, so many times that you can’t let anyone get close to you, and no matter how much they seem to like you, you ditch them before they get the chance to give you any more pain. I’ve been there.
Maybe you think the odds are against you. And maybe you think that others have targeted you, or someone close is offended by you, something you said or did pushing you away. You’re afraid you can’t risk another hurt. You have a collection of hurts, you carry them with you, hidden from sight. But you act on those hurts. And others will not understand that. You draw attention, but not the good kind. People look at you funny. Like you really need to blow that booger out of your nose, or your zipper is down. Or you have a nip slip. Or you just stepped in dog poo.
Or….
Or do you just think that they’re looking at you funny? Might they not be looking at you at all?
All it takes is a misfire in your brain. One fraction of a second, but it stays there, like the beating of your heart. I’ve been there, too. Getting help and getting dialed into the right drugs, plus support and counseling, is a great place to start.
But you have to want it. Otherwise, you strain at the bit. Otherwise, no help can come to you.
If you reach a point where you’re feeling so bad that you don’t want to live, then you’re in trouble, and you may actually do yourself harm.
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I don’t want you to leave us that way. We are far better for you being in this world than not. You’re special, unique. There’s no other like you in this universe.
Every single day, we lose over 130 people in the United States to suicide. That’s one every ten minutes. I’m sorry. There was so much potential and promise in them. Don’t make us have to live without you as well.
I’m not going to say what those who are numb to your feelings and heart say, like “you’re being selfish” or “think about someone besides yourself.”
Because I know. I’ve been there, and selfish is the last thing you’re being. But it’s you I care more about, not so much as them. You’re in trouble. You may feel unloved (I love you) or dreading some looming event or consequence. Maybe you’re in an abusive relationship and you’re at your breaking point. Maybe you’re afraid to leave, afraid of what they’ll do. Or drugs have too much of a hold on you. Maybe porn has ruined your life. And your diagnosis doesn’t matter to me. I’ve known and lived with every kind there is, including some insane criminals. Trust me when I say this: there is nothing that you can tell me that will change my conviction that you are precious and you deserve to live. Nothing will change my assertion that if you have faith and ask God for help, you’ll get help. I know. I’m more at peace than I have ever been in my life. I wish I could convey what that means to me. It’s a new and very empowering feeling.
I will be continuing this subject. Not enough people talk about mental illness from the viewpoint of one who has it. We all need to fix that.
If others, if humanity as a whole cannot tolerate peace, then I can. And it’s worth everything I’ve gone through that brought me to it. Had I not known such violence at an early age, I would not appreciate the peace I now feel. I might have turned into someone who couldn’t tolerate peace because they can’t appreciate it.
May you know peace, and may God bless you.
Prayer
Abba, thank you for giving me this time and means to try to help others through you. Thank you for my trials, as they have made tender my heart. Thank you for your son’s awesome sacrifice. May others come to you in search of peace and the atonement of sins Jesus paid for with his blood. To those who ask, please give, and to those who seek, may they find you. They’re good people. I pray that they will find hope and comfort in you. Amen.
Memoirs of an American Asshole 