I know that life can be brutal. It’s all here in my archives, and it’s stuck in my head. I know the feeling of pain in mind, spirit, and body. I’ve been through so much.
I often wonder how one man could take it all and yet keep living. I’ve been dead, went to a deep, dark place with eternity all around me. Alone. Just suspended in darkness that could not be defined nor described except to say that the pitch-black void had no boundaries and above, below, front and back, and side to side,there was nothing. I couldn’t move, but I felt that I would be able to after time. Without seeing or hearing, there came an awareness that below me, to my right rear, a curtain moved as a breeze I couldn’t feel came from the other side of it. Foul, evil things were beckoning me to go and join them.
It was not a place of comfort. I believe Hell could be entered through that curtain.
I did flat-line, but for how long, I can’t say. Time meant very little there in the dark place. All I can say for sure is, I don’t want to go back.
Before that, I had littered the east coast with my blood and a few small body parts.
You name it, and there’s a chance I’ve been through it. It’s not anything to brag about or to be proud of. And I only survived by the grace of God because nothing else explains my being here except the word “miracle.”
My soul, my body, my mind. Sick, through and through. And I am never free from my anguish, pain, regrets, or broken heart.
And still I go back to wondering, Why am I still alive?
Anyone else would have given up the ghost. It’s not that I’m tough. Not that I am strong. Not even that I was lucky.
Because luck wouldn’t be so cruel. You have to figure, after a while, luck would let you off the hook.
Or maybe that God would.
Oh, he’s up there, alright. And he’s forgotten about me. I’m sure of it.
I used to think, until recently, that God had saved me, kept me alive, and had done so for a reason. Maybe so that I could, by sharing my life, help someone in a crisis to say, “If he kept going, then it can be done. I’ll do it better than him.”
And I wish that could be the case. The thing is, though, I wouldn’t know if I had. That’s another way that life can be brutal. So many of us have asked, “Really, Father, is there no more to life than this? If not, then it’s a joke.”
We really shouldn’t, but yes, at one point or another, we do ask. Fortunately, he’s patient with our lapses of faith and our stubbornness that makes us try to strike out on our own. We always fail when we’re on our own. Even when we don’t think we’re failing, he’s ready to catch us if we return to faith in him.
Still, how could he have forgotten me? I’ve been ready for a long time. But I’m alone all the same, and the demons I couldn’t outrun taunt me, taking turns at making sure that I can find no rest, no peace. I knew when my son died, following his sister to an early grave, that my foreseen death, alone and with no one to hold my hand or kiss my cheek, would come true. The only one there will be Christ. He will lead me to a place to await the day when God sentences me.
I just hope that he remembers on that day that days like this with news like this truly affect me. I hope he remembers that an asshole like me cares about the women and children of the world and hates that evil takes their lives so readily. And I hope that he remembers that the killers like Vladimir Putin and Netanyahu never believed in him at all and that all sinners have been warned that they would be judged equally. A one-time murderer will still suffer just as Hitler is, although the degree of suffering each get might be different. But eternity in suffering is still suffering to infinity, so why seek it so intensely?
For the wages of sin is death. Hmm, I don’t know what to make of that. Does it matter? I think not. Because death and hell may be different, but without God, who needs it? I don’t hate myself enough to think about choosing such a thing.
I’m an asshole. That’s the truth. I don’t let myself off the hook because of PTSD and other conditions; I take complete responsibility for my own life, and refuse to claim that “PTSD” or “the devil” made me do anything. I did those things. It is not about me so much as the people I’ve wronged and hurt. It doesn’t matter if I acted out of conditioned fear, triggered by a horrible memory. I’ve pushed people away and knew that it would hurt. I acted anyway. I regret doing so.
The most important things in all our lives are love and how we treat each other.
We sure don’t act like it, do we? I don’t. I know better, but I constantly fail. The post I wrote about pro wrestling is full of expletives and acidic rage. I stand by what I wrote. Former wrestler Kevin Nash has taken to the defense of Vince McMahon, and that shows me what kind of man he is. I never liked him anyway, but I’m not supposed to judge him. How, though, can I avoid it? Vince and others like him have ruined lives. He will reap the whirlwind without my help, but why am I so outraged at them? God will repay. Vengeance belongs to him. Right?
Except that, yes, while we live, we have a duty to stand up for the hurt, the injured, and the wronged.
If we are neutral, uncaring about the pain others go through, then we are as evil as those who hurt people. I can’t be that kind of man. I refuse to be that kind of man.
I hate what predators do. Having been a victim too many times, I can feel their victim’s pain. I can almost hear them when they weep. And they all weep. Their pain is forever. And if good people do nothing, they get covered up in the same sulfurous stink of evil as those who do evil.
I’m sorry that I’ve lived my life being hurt and seeing others hurt. This race we call “civilized” is capable of incredible horrors.
But I’ve seen beauty too. I’ve known love, and I still get to feel it, even when I’m alone. I still watch the sunrise and sunset, hear music, see people being kind. That makes me more sad than happy; kindness is such an amazing thing, awesome in its power to do everything from making someone smile to saving lives. Yet cruelty is so often chosen over it, and that is plain to see. It’s everywhere. Vladimir Putin grows more evil and more powerful with each passing day. A terrible food shortage already exists, and it will get worse. Governments of the world refuse to help. They’ll send weapons and ordnance before they’ll send food.
I’m sorry that I’ve had to see that as a fact of life, a policy of death before life. Don’t you wonder if God expects better? Does anyone? I don’t see people trying to take him into account, yet he asks so little: be good to those who use you. Pray for your enemies with your heart. Do things to help others. Give to those who have nothing and do it quietly without expecting anything in return. Be humble and listen because you never know when God might just whisper in your ear. If you’re busy yelling, you’ll never hear him.
I’m so tired. I’m always so tired. And yet here I am, still alone, still in pain, inside and out. I have nothing to offer anymore. I’m sure that I never did. Stormy romantic relationships got to me so much that without choosing celibacy, i chose to stop everything. I was meant to be alone.
We suffer while we’re here. Through that, we learn. What we learn, the most dreadful of lessons, we are obligated to pass on to others. We do this through music, like composing a sad violin concerto, writing a book or blog, podcasting, word of mouth, a song that tells a story, a poem, or by just being nice to others, which teaches by living an example, an ideal, which, in the end, has usually been learned from pain. Long, drawn-out, and intense pain.
What matters most? Love. Love, and how we treat each other.
I am tired, but I’m not going to curl up and surrender. I would never treat another person as I have in the past; haven’t I felt the pain that the cruel so easily inflict?
Whatever I say here, however full of anger and outrage at what I see, I won’t mistreat another. Venting and social commentary end on this site. I can’t allow myself to be a villain. I haven’t lived through so much to let that happen. I am a sinner. But I trust God to know what’s in my heart.
I also trust him not to forget me for too much longer. Sometimes, though we fight on, folks do get a bit tired, you know?
Memoirs of an American Asshole 