Excuse Me, God, But Did You Say My Name?

I know that I have come a long way in a short time. But I’m not worthy of this. This is troubling.

I’m scared.

If you’ve backtracked my archives, or been reading for some time, you know where I’ve been. You know my past, my problems with living, when I’m tormented so by my life and so many things I’ve tried to write about.

You know of my history of being abused, but being a believer from an early age. How a simple faith helped me have the strength to keep moving. How PTSD plays a huge role in my life.

And you know that I’ve suffered ever since childhood. A bad marriage, a string of lost jobs and girlfriends, only to be topped by losing my children. People told me nobody should have to bury their children. But there were no burials.

They were just gone.

My ex asked if I wanted “some” of their ashes, as if they were some sort of trophy. No, I don’t want some of their ashes, and thanks for acting like anyone who had them all were getting some sort of prize.

Thanks, you macabre witch. Did you even love them?

I don’t want ashes.

I want my kids, back here, alive and well. I want to take their place.

But I can’t. Only bad movies work like that. Life ain’t a movie.

Then there’s the supernatural junk. Plagued by bad luck, a life full of dysfunction and sin, it began so long ago when I was three-and-four-years-old. Something was in my bedroom, something that loved scaring me. It fed on fear, and only demons do that. Oh, there were others. Strung throughout my life. Then, once I knew what they were, I also knew they had been the drivers of many nightmares. They were doing that for years.

I could differentiate between PTSD nightmares and demonic ones: the latter were always more real to me, more vile and full of torture and true terror. Then came the woman. HER.

By the grace of God, I have not seen her in dreams since the last time I recorded one here. I believe that someone prayed for God to intercede; it’s an intuition I get, and I did ask others for prayers, because I’m not very good at praying for myself. It seems selfish to me.

That’s thanks to self-hate over all the guilt I carry. I’ve asked The Lord to forgive me, but low self esteem continues to be a real part of my condition.

But I’m also humble. I believe that if I overthink too much, I’ll get careless with my faith. I’ll be corrupted. My simple faith might change to my thinking I actually know something, when I know nothing.

Recently, a very dear friend, a pastor named Jerry, asked if I would be willing to visit homeless people with him, to tell them my story. To give people hope.

That is a call, loud and clear, from God. There is no misinterpretation possible; Jerry is the real deal: rock-steady in his faith, unwilling to engage in high profile stunts like Joel Osteen, or that devil, Kenneth Copeland. That guy needs to repent. He’s driven a lot of people away from God because of his obvious brainwashing, the mark of a cult leader, and his greed for money.

Jerry doesn’t know that, while I’m in his presence, I know that we are not alone. The Spirit walks with him, and our conversations have been a source of comfort and happiness for me. It’s not my imagination, either: not many people, not that I have met, have ever impressed me with the sheer joy that a conversation can bring because the Spirit is with him. He’s a good man who I’d be honored to call my friend no matter what, pastor or not.

The problem for me is, I’m scared. I know I can’t refuse the call; it involves me doing penance, and I get that. I haven’t told Jerry that part yet.

But, I started this blog because I wanted others to see, in raw descriptions and language, that they can survive anything, but more than that; that they can live.

That they can live.

So many victims go through life, and many do better than I have done, with a weight on them which, no matter what, takes a horrible toll on the mind, body and soul. No one escapes it. No one.

If I’m growing ever more tired, and I am, and if I did start this blog to unflinchingly tell of my past, then that, plus my condition, makes it imperative that I answer the call. That, scared or not, there are people out there I may be able to help. Lord knows, this blog doesn’t reach a lot of people. Some subscribers don’t even read anymore. I understand that easily enough, that’s how it works. I write for free. I have no donors, no patreon, and ads that appear here I take no money from. Because too many people charge for what should be free, especially in the name of helping people, or trying to. Because, isn’t helping each other our responsibility?

I think, how I really feel, is contained in this song.

May God bless. Be well, folks.