I may be a decent person. I’m not sure. I think I’m just an asshole.

I may be a decent writer. I’m not sure of that, either. I don’t get very widely read, so I doubt it. More likely is the possibility that a few posts are interesting to a few readers, and that’s fine. Mostly, though, people don’t care about what assholes say.

I’ve had to revert to the original title of this site, Memoirs of an American Asshole because the American Observer seemed a bit pretentious to me. And no matter what one other person (just one) says, I am an asshole. I can’t change that by obeying one person’s protests.

But there’s a lot to this claim that I’m an asshole, mostly, I believe, things which are not my fault, but which made me what I am. I cannot lie about what I am. And I have no idea who I am.

Memory lapses, notable ones, indicate more than simple PTSD by itself. And that condition is every bit the hell I’ve been trying to describe, but there’s a worse kind.

Sometimes called by the clinical name complex post traumatic stress disorder, there is a whole different list of symptoms of the illness. The usual victims are children. The causes are “imprisonment”; or being in a situation of danger which is prevalent and from which there is no escape; being subjected to slavery; sexual abuse for an extended period of time; being in a solitary confinement situation; being denied healthcare; proper parenting and guidance, constructive growth reinforcement and encouragement, replaced by strict reinforcement of fear conditioning to prevent certain behaviors outside of the home base environment.

There’s more to it. I’ve been, along with my siblings, compared by a professional on the Donahue Show (1992) to a concentration camp survivor. I never felt that was a fair comparison since real survivors of the Holocaust went through a literal hell on earth. Who was I to claim what they had endured?

By 1992, I was, for all intents and purposes, already gravitating to the liberal view of politics and social and societal ideology and dynamics, respectively. I held interest in studying war and the horrors it never failed to create, so Europe in World War Two was an area of study I found as fascinating as I did disgusting.

In the winters the prisoners in forced labor camps froze solid. Before that, toes fell off. Fingers turned black, wooden in sensation, then disarticulated the same way toes did.

Lice, human fleas, worms and disease were constant. Lashes with whips and beatings with every object possible; there was rape, child abuse both sexual and other kinds, and the slaughter was staggering. Anyone who survived was going to be forever scarred. Who had any right but they in claiming they had experienced a literal hell while still alive?

But as I approach another birthday, I realize that there have been scores of people from every civilization in human history who have experienced hell.

I seek not to compare myself nor my pain with any other, but I know in my heart that victims are victims, no matter where they come from, no matter what’s been done to them. The end results are always the same: broken people who have known evil and savagery. Fucked-up people.

And so, I’ve grown old despite the odds. The price for this is too high. Never-ending pain, loneliness, longing, and mental illness that drugs can moderate but never cure. A gently shifting personality that seems to cause memory problems and even accent and writing-style changes. Mood changes that must be mysterious to others, but never to me. Sleeping and eating disorders, compulsive behavior, long periods of depression and consequent inaction. Memories I can’t get out of my head.

I remember better times. I really do. But the horrible things always come creeping back, and I can’t stop them.

Friends have told me, “Don’t think about it!” but they haven’t been through what I have. Or what you have. We can’t say a prayer or wave a magic wand and stop anything. And we were made this way for a reason, and we evolved this way for a reason.

Only God knows the whole picture, but in the years when I believed in God but thought he had turned his head away, I had to keep from wondering how much of a reason he really had. For anything.

God was so far away then. And I was so very alone.

I looked for him. I begged for help and I cried. But the pain went on, the torture went on.

I became mean, bitter. It took years, decades. I became an asshole. I did things nobody will ever know about. Things so shameful they’ve never made it to a post on this site, and they never will. Things I must take with me to the grave until the time comes to account for myself to God.

I fear that day.

I fear very little here on this earth. What can be done to me that has not already been done? Not much.

My family does not understand, but they do try, and I love them all the more for it.

My lady friend knows more about me than anyone else has ever known. She is the one who hates this blog title. But I can’t believe that she knows everything I’ve told her and thinks I’m any better than what I say.

I need to talk to my doctor about my diagnosis. Because things just get worse, and I would normally say at this point, it’s not fair, but of course it isn’t, and everyone who shares my experiences knows that. But God gave us the ability, if we’re willing to use it, to sustain grievous damage, learn from the pain, and adapt, learn and search for more clues that, in the end, might help another in our position. I believe that is why we’re here, able to communicate, reach out, and grab that hand reaching down to pull us up.

Because one day, we’ll be the ones reaching down to pull someone else up. We may never know it if that happens. Sometimes people in trouble don’t have anyone to talk to. Sometimes they come across a blog while looking for something to grab onto. It could be yours. Could be mine.

They may never leave a comment, but perhaps in your words, they’ve gained the strength to get through one more night of loneliness, one more day of pain. Maybe, just maybe, God speaks through you once in a while. Didn’t you ever write something, come back later and not remember writing it, yet you find the words to be moving? Who knows what that’s about?

Sometimes, God might whisper in your ear so that you can help someone. Maybe he even whispers to an asshole like me. I’d like to believe that. Such a thing would make my hell a bit less unbearable. Would make the pain and the memories mean something.

Share what you know. Tell people what you have endured, only to live to tell the tale. You might save a life. That’s why we’re here. Not to kill, make war, or work every day like a robot. I believe that. I believe it in my heart.