Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.
I’m an American Asshole. That’s my name. I hate my given name. I hate it because it was my mother who wanted to name me “Michael.”
I still waiver from time to time; do I hate my mother, can I finally forgive her, do I know for sure that she’s dead, do I wish that if she’s dead that she went to Hades?
I can’t answer any questions about anything. I don’t know.
She told me many times that she chose that name because of Saint Michael, the archangel. That’s pretty funny considering what happened–what she did to me–what both of my parents did to me… what pain they caused in the name of God and what they turned me into.
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It’s funny. How I kept on living, I mean. Like some kind of fucking joke: I’ve been shot at with machine guns. Survived over 35 automobile accidents. I’ve fallen, jumped, gotten crushed, tried to kill myself 3 times, almost got the job done on the third try, and that’s not counting heart attacks and open heart surgery, a coma, and by now, I’m probably leaving some things out. Which makes me very frightened, because, how in perdition do you ever forget that kind of stuff?
She actually named me after an angel. An angel that she and my father felt free to rape and fuck and beat half to death. And instead of being angelic, they really turned me into a demon whose madness drove him to leave a swath of injured people and two dead children behind himself as he kept running from a twisted reality that no author should be capable of doing justice to.
And here I now sit, triggered by a blog prompt: the memories rush at me like a tsunami that I can’t outrun. A flood of emotions from decades past, a horde of demons I can not possibly fend off, pain so overwhelming that I can’t even cry.
I didn’t ask for this. Nobody would. Why it happened, that’s beyond my ken. I’ve tried to understand it, and every time I think I’m close, my grasp weakens. I’m left standing all alone, wondering what the hell I’m still doing here.
To start off with a name like mine, only to wind up my namesake’s opposite, that’s some kind of cruel irony that even I can’t appreciate, no matter how sick I am.
The title of my site is accurate. I own it. I’m an asshole from my skin to my soul. It’s true. I have no problem with it because it is true, and I love truth. I’ll take a painful truth over a pleasant lie any day.
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I don’t think about my namesake every time I sign it. But when I do think about it, every bad thing in my life comes back to me, and I wish for death rather than face all that horrible shit. But so many times, I should have died, and yet I am still here. People have told me that it’s because God wants me to do something. I have no idea what that means. I’m unworthy. A sinner. A man broken in mind and spirit. What can God possibly want from me?
Yet, I like that simple concept. That’s why I write here. I have lots of depressing posts on this site, and even so, I can, on rare occasions, tell you that there is always hope. Because I have seen miracles happen, and I’ve had miracles happen to me. My faith may be weak at times, but I never abandon it. There’s hope. There’s prayer, and any prayer is heard. What others call a ghost in the sky, I think of a being I was never meant to understand. I have to keep my faith simple like a child’s faith. I can’t overthink it, and I can’t put words in his mouth. I can only have faith. With that in mind, with all that I have survived and endured, the abuse, the danger, the loss of my marriage, and then my children, ending up with a solitude I most certainly deserve, with mental illness and unending nightmares that wake me in mental and physical pain, I’m still me inside. On the inside, I’m still an asshole, but I do occasionally have some peace. Those are times worth living for. Those are times when I don’t hate my name, when I can sigh, let the odd tear slide down my face, and say, “Thank you, Father. Thank you for my life.“
If a battered and weary old man can still be thankful for his life, then anything is possible.
I do not miss my ex. But every day, I miss my children. It’s a burden no father should have to bear. But I sometimes remember how they touched my life, my heart, and my spirit. This brings back good memories that are mine to keep, and there’s no way anyone can take them from me.
Do keep in mind, then, that no matter what happens, you are watched and protected. I’ll try to do the same. As always, thanks for visiting me and indulging me. I appreciate and love all of you.
Remember, one who has no hope is truly doomed. Find hope anywhere you can, and cling to it like a life ring at sea. Never give it up. In this world, there is no one like you. You have gifts, and with them, you can accomplish anything.
Stay well.
Memoirs of an American Asshole 