A Troubled Heart

That last post, the one about pornography, was difficult to write. My thanks, iOLANDEMELODY of YouTube, for your frank discussion on pornography and its destructive power. (She’s an extraordinary person and is blessed with a kind and giving spirit, and that’s how I want to be).

The essay I wrote took research and the exposure of my guilt in engaging in the sins of the flesh. While it’s true that I worked hard and suffered from the post, I have been left with a troubled heart. I’ve dwelt so on the horrors that Linda Boreman (Lovelace) and so many others endured that I have felt helpless and hopeless.

Sometimes, we think we have learned something, and we find that we learned nothing at all. Other times, we learn a truth that will stay with us forever, something good… or something terrible.

When it comes to porn, all of it is terrible.

Slavery, open adultery, and all manner of sexual sin should make us sick and repulsed and leave us never wanting to see it again.

Everything that is not of the spirit is of the flesh, and everything of the flesh that is a sin harms the body and the soul.

I learned things I dared not print. Things far too horrible to inflict upon you, my brothers and sisters. Sometimes, the less said, the better I get through. Now, I don’t get likes. Nor do I expect them. I don’t get many views. Well, I don’t expect those, either. All that I can hope to do is to help others. And so I felt moved to write that post. I didn’t spend much time editing. I wanted to post it and put it behind me.

But I can’t.

Learning that it’s already like the “days of Noah” was a revelation I was not ready for.

Regarding that, I don’t want you to worry. If you are saved in Christ, you have no need to fear.

It’s just that so much of what I endured as a child came back to me, heavy and heartbreaking.

However… I am here to remind both of us, you and me, that no matter who hurt and abused us, they ³sßwill face God and The Son one day and, on that day, they will suffer.

That means it’s God who will repay. Not us. It is our duty to God and ourselves to honor Him and confess our sins to him. And to not be weasels, blaming our parents or attackers, but speak of our sins later in life as if only we are to blame. Because that’s the hard, cold truth. The acts of those who hurt us must be dealt with in counseling both with a therapist and a trustworthy pastor. We must get rid of anger, blame, and hate. Those things become fixations, obsessions, and, ultimately, lead us away from peace, from closeness with God, and to the seeking of revenge, which will never help you but is a terrible sin.

I used to hate my parents. But we’re not to hate. The Bible tells us to love those who hate us. God gave us a spirit of peace and love, not of fear and hate; the latter being inspired by Satan.

That blog truly hurt me. Ever since, I’ve been dissociative and distant, not just from myself but mostly from reality. I can’t control that. When I left my card in the slot of an ATM machine, I clearly dissociated, somewhere I can’t remember, reliving bad things. I walked away from the machine while it was still beeping.

But it’s okay. Even that taught me a lesson: proceed with caution. You and I want to change the world. Then reality creeps in, leading to doubt. We have forgotten our mission and yielded in defeat.

Are we really going to give up so easily? I’m not.

Mental illness makes life very difficult. When I asked my doctor to change my diagnosis from PTSD to CPTSD, she didn’t even know what it was. She looked it up. It was a telehealth appointment, and I could see her searching and reading. As I began to tell her some of the things that I was going through, she looked as if she was torn over whether I had been holding back or if I had made it up.

Clearly, United States health care is way behind.

But in the following video you can see why mental health is very important to your spiritual life. Trauma gets in the way, like it does with other things, but worse. It gives the powers of evil a means and a weapon to tempt and torment a Christian in many ways.

Pornography is one. Committing sins of the flesh are some of the most deadly ones. Husbands here in this country have been found out by their wives to have been seeing another woman for years and even fathering children with her. Adultery violates one of the Ten Commandments. Worse, Christ told us not to even look at another with appraising, lustful eyes. Doing that is still like sinning in real life.

I was drowning in porn. My posts were riddled with expletives. That didn’t make them any less true, but people do subtract points from your presentation for it. I claimed that I was a Christian, but not a very good one. I’ve come up with some excuses in my time, lies to cover all sorts of things. But that one was particularly evil. It came from the knowledge that I was a believer but not a walker in faith or truth. It showed that I was unwilling to turn away from sin. I wasn’t even going to try.

What a harsh judgment awaits we who profess faith but act contrary to the scripture?

It would be too much for me.

People play with evil. They believe that witchcraft is harmless and a legitimate religion. Some say they only use “white magic.”

Well, there is no white magic. It’s all drawn upon the powers of darkness. People play with ouija boards like they’re harmless. Until something gets inside their house that makes them regret it.

Demons are real. They’re everywhere, although on the spiritual plane, but they are allowed to afflict us. If you don’t believe in them, you’ve made a mistake. They are never to be underestimated. Satan is real. His favorite trick is to make people not believe in him or in Hell. People let guilt not interfere in their sinful ways because he isn’t real.

Except,  he is. He knows already what he’s doomed for,  but he won’t give up. His goal is to get between us and the Lord and make you his cell mate in Hell. He knows he can’t win. He’s just so purely evil that your soul is a prize to him. He will stop at nothing to pull you down from grace.

Too many people indulge in sins of the flesh, ignoring the consequences. I don’t want to be one of them. Do you?

There is, at the end of this day, however, hope to mend a troubled heart. Jesus said, “Let not your hearts be troubled,” because we have the final decision and power to handle temptation and all the challenges life throws at us.

He also said, “In this world ye will have tribulations, but be brave; I have conquered the world.”

It’s up to us. I will pray about what happened to me during and after writing that porn essay. I can’t stop porn, and that’s not my fault. But I can speak up about how evil it is and about addiction and Hell. As for the victims of the industry, it’s too late to pray for the dead, but the living, they can be saved.

Peace is Not an Affliction

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.

Aren’t they so beautiful?

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.

Click on the link

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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.

CPTSD: How I Got Here

By 1964 I was already terrified of my father. No child should be scared of his father, much less terrified of him. But I was.

And until I was aware that he had died, I remained so. That’s at least 43 years.

But if I was that afraid of him before I testified against him in an Annapolis courtroom, then seeing him get walked off to prison in leg irons and a belly chain didn’t help, and in fact made it worse. I knew he’d killed before. Now I feared his revenge from behind bars, and in fact often convinced myself that he would escape and come for me.

Unreasonable, you might say, but across this country and around the world, people of all kinds suffer the same fear. And it doesn’t matter what age or gender you are; that kind of fear is hardly unreasonable at all. People die that way.

Let me make it simple.

For at least ten years I was sexually abused (including rape) by both parents. It had nothing to do with “teaching” me, which is what they both called it. Rape and abuse are always motivated by control. The need to dominate and control every second of a child’s life in order to gain the feeling of satisfaction through power is it. Period.

The sole driving force in many violent crimes and all sex crimes is a feeling of having no or little power, and filling the burning need for it.

Beyond that, no one can possibly explain why it happens. Children may be attractive sexually to any perp, but no sex crime is ever about attraction. And even if that becomes part of the pedophile’s psyche, it’s a defined sexual deviance, but always it remains the nature of the crime and the targeted victim: weak, unable to fight, the lack of adult physical features and the high from hurting an innocent.

Over an extended period, the trauma of the very first attack is compounded exponentially. The damage becomes far worse than any human is capable of recovering from. The victim has learned crude coping behavior that is never sufficient but which can get him or her through the worst of it. These mechanisms go on to become behavioral problems because they get used to get through all crisis events. There is no known damage to the perpetrator except that, over time, rationalization and the ease of continuing to abuse is made him unable to use restraint. The sociopath becomes even more immune to guilt; never even considering the harm they have caused. In the case of abusive parents, they go on to expect their victims to display academic excellence and other unrealistic accomplishments. When the child fails to live up to these demands, the child is typically tortured. Physical beatings, revocation of privileges and withholding meals may be involved, among other things. The trauma is reinforced and added to.

One coping method children can display is the obvious attempt on many levels to please their parents, and to adopt their social, religious and political views. The child learns to conform. It’s basically risk reduction, and this is purely survival at its most pitiful and desperate level.

Since the views the parents have are themselves either ethically wrong, biased ot hateful based on their self-image of inadequacy, the behavior of the child leads to serious problems in school, social circles and more. It becomes dangerous.

If the parents are bigots or racists, the child invariably reflects that in inappropriate settings with words or actions.

Into adulthood, the child has learned and will be unable to break his or her dependent behavior and not sever ties to parents. Holidays become occasions where victims are belittled and treated lovingly at the same time. It is a no-win situation and it causes more trauma. For instance, visiting for Christmas with a frowned-upon spouse (they always are) is a tense running of the gauntlet that both the original victim and his or her spouse is actually traumatized by. These are not happy, festive gatherings; it is just more of an opportunity to abuse, mostly verbally or through the giving of trivial, demeaning gifts. More damage for the parents to inflict. And they love every second of it, every hurt look on the victims’ faces. More power.

In my case, all off this actually happened.

The sexual abuse, including sodomy and rape continued unimpeded until I was 16-years-old. The mental abuse, which included verbal abuse of the harshest kind, continued until I filed charges with the police at the age of 28. After the trial and sentencing, I never saw them again. They’ve both since passed away, leaving various levels of damage behind in their children. Yes, they got us all.

The nagging question for me has been, why do some of my siblings prosper, while I have been the most hurt and severely crippled?

The short answer is, there’s no way to know.

All I can say is that I was a very sensitive, imaginative and very kind kid at one time. What they didn’t take away from me, they damaged. But CPTSD did far worse.

The descriptions I’ve read so far indicate that it is exactly what I have.

I’m not just mistrstful of others; I’ve actually believed that they would stab me in the back. There was no reason for such a belief so I thought that I was paranoid. It’s not paranoia. It’s a symptom of CPTSD that I now deem incurable. It used to be called running, what I did. Draw a line, you get this close, no closer. Every time I dared cross the line, it ended badly, with hurt feelings and confusion that I had caused. But coming to the conclusion that I was meant to die alone took 50 years. Still, I was socially and extremely sexually dysfunctional. Even a casual relationship was impossible for me to handle. Everything was scary, dangerous and caused my fight/flight response to kick in, which was aberrant. There was no danger. No one to fight. So I just fled. Self protection at its worst.

Other problems continue. The nightmares grow worse and worse despite an increase in prazosin dosage. As I wonder how much more I can take, I am constantly triggered, and flashbacks happen every single day, more than once in a day. Triggers are everywhere because the abuse took place during my formative years when I was experiencing new things, learning new things, becoming more aware. Even pictures of the past that remind me of things I liked trigger me. Things I liked I spent so little time with, and those times were always interrupted by harrowing beatings and sexual abuse. Of all the times I had sex during my marriage and with girlfriends before that, I believe my mother still has the record for most times a woman copulated me. It’s disgusting and I’ve had a hard time accepting that probability. Yet it’s valid.

That is a hell of a thing to have to write.

Tomorrow I will conclude this three-part study. For now, I’ve had enough.

The Crime of the Ancient Asshole

Like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, doomed to tell of his thoughtless crime until he died, so here am I; skipping a year only made everything worse.

And, like the wedding guest in his epic poem “The Rhime of the Ancient Mariner” (It is an ancient Mariner, and he stoppeth one of three), I now stop you, dear reader, and grasp you by your arm. You are trapped, bound by fate to read my true story of Christmas, tragedy and loss, and of warnings concerning things not yet come, but which surely will. Sit back, and give me your attention.

It was Christmas Eve, 1994. I was recently separated from my wife, forced out of home, away from my children, Beth, age eleven, and Michael Jr., age seven. It was hard on them as well as myself; we were so close. I packed their lunches, took them to school, picked them up, made snacks and ran and played outside, I helped with homework, and read stories at bed time. You can’t be closer than that. And when you get pulled apart, there’s no pain like it. At least that’s what I thought.

How wrong I was would become clear.

That year, that first year, I did not want to see them for Christmas. I had no money for gifts, not anything at all to even resemble a gift. And so, after years of lighting up Christmas morning with toys, this year I wasn’t going to feel much like a daddy, and certainly not a man. It was cold that night and for some reason, darker than any night I had ever seen in desert or mountains. It could have been my perception, probably was, but my heart was equally dark. Black, lacking any of the sentiment or cheer I had felt when I was with them. I was not going to visit them.

I had an infection in my left eye. I would awake every morning, a Krispy Kreme glaze of white over my eye and eyelid, I’d steam it away, and have to repeat cleaning it several times in a day. I planned to go to the hospital, so after work at Papa John’s, I killed time so that I would get there very late and there wouldn’t be too many people in the Emergency Department waiting room.

Having Christmas tips, (enough that I indulged in a Wendy’s Triple for dinner), a friend told me about how my plan for avoiding my kids on Christmas sucked. He was young when his parents divorced, and he would visit his dad every Christmas. He said, “I didn’t care what he gave me, or if we sat and just watched TV. I just wanted to be with my dad”. That was the first lesson I would get that night.

I arrived at John’s Hopkins Bayview Hospital at eleven or a bit after. The waiting room was stuffed with sick people and, worse, many were children. I felt guilty as I signed in. Told that it would take time to be seen, I went outside to smoke. It was dark there in the parking lot, and this time not merely by my soulless perception. I lit a Winston and a soft but pathetic voice behind me made me jump: “Got a light?”

I could only barely see him, there in the dark. He lit the Bic I handed him, and in its glow, I saw something I have never forgotten: a black man, black as coal, the face being lined and aged as that of one who has been to Hell and only halfway come back. Part of him was still there. I was filled with pity. My fear of him was gone. Here was a man I wanted immediately to hug. I often wish that I had.

“I’m here trying to get committed,” he said, and the sadness poured from every word. Like the Mariner’s wedding guest, I would hear his story; I was helpless to do otherwise.

“I’ve been — I lost my family. I lost everything.  I had a wife, two kids, great job, house, two cars, even a boat. One day…”

One day his wife and children were killed in a car accident. Three lives were ended so suddenly that no human on this planet could ever tell him again that God is real, that it was fate, or that any reason under the sun had a part or explanation in or for such a horror.

“I went into the bottle after that,” he said, “and I never came out. I lost my job. Then my boat. Then my car. When the sheriff came to get me out of the house, I swung on him.”

He had lived on the cruel and merciless streets of Baltimore ever since. And aged grievously. Here was a man so beaten down by tragedy that he was not living, but merely surviving. He was so tragic to me that I felt tears in my eyes. A security guard came out and yelled at him to get inside. He was supposed to be on suicide guard, and the guard had let him slip away. And was castigating him for it. Before he turned to leave me, he said the saddest thing of all: “I just want my kids back.”

Well. I never saw him again. Next morning, I called my ex. I said I had nothing to give the kids. I didn’t feel right visiting. She put my daughter on the line. Beth was far wiser and kinder than anyone I’ve ever met. She said, “It’s okay, daddy. Your gift can be that you love us.”

She melted my heart. Standing at a public payphone, I silently wept. And I remembered the two lessons given me the night before.

And so I crossed the Francis Scott Key Bridge, went to visit, and we did lots of hugs and talking and I never again looked back, except Christmas time, when I honored my teachers: a friend who taught me that no gift is equal to a father’s love for his children, nor is their love for him, and one very broken man who pulled his heart out and let me see the ghosts of Christmas Future.

I skipped this story last year, but this year I realized that I never told it for myself.

Because it does no good to me. I learned the lessons and I acted on them.

But that’s not the point of the story. Like the Ancient Mariner, I am bound by honor and fate to retell this shamefully selfish plan I had in 1994. The man whose face was blacker than a New Mexico night taught me about boundless love, unbearable loss, and how he just wished he could have another chance, how he wished his children could have another chance. I could not feel his grief, but he did make me feel guilt.

The story I tell is now identical to his. Although many Christmases and birthdays would pass after 1994, and we made great memories and and went on epic adventures, the times came for me to lose them both. And that is why I’m writing this.

I want you to think about this: you never know how much time you have with any loved one, be they family or friend, and now, especially now in these busy, frightening times, you should always put them first and spend every second you can with them. Because tomorrow, they may not be here anymore, nor ever again to pass our way. You will be heartbroken. Feel guilty. You will cry endlessly. And the holidays. Oh, the holidays! They bring a special pain, one you cannot escape. No amount of alcohol and no drug can deaden it. Can’t even moderate it. Substances merely make everything worse.

You may find yourself even hating this time of year, full of bitterness and unable to see any good in the world.

Beth died in 2012, Michael Junior in 2018. The last time I saw him was Christmas Day 2017. I spent years never being able to control my anger, my grief, my bitterness. When my son died, we had mourned Beth together. When he died, I was dropped into bewildered despair. I went crazy and I went to Hell. I started this blog afterward and tried to give an accounting of myself because I hated myself and I secretly wanted everyone else to hate me, too. I wrote terrible things. What I wrote was always true and as faithful to memory as I trusted them to be.

Now, after trying to reconcile with other family members, and in so doing help them to see that the hurtful things I said after Junior’s death were uttered or written by a man no longer sane, I’ve regained what little bit of honor I had before my children died. An apology when forced is difficult to utter; but one truly meant chokes up the throat and releases tears of guilt you never should have retained at all.

Yes, mental illness does play a part in this tragedy, but so do other things.

Things like remorse, pain, loneliness and emptiness. Regret. Guilt. Ever looking backwards, living the past again and again and again, a prisoner in my own mind.

But it does not do to trap yourself so, holding yourself hostage for terrible things for terrible reasons. You cannot live; you’re merely surviving.

It is far better to live as best you can, and, like I, finally climb a peak where the air is fresh, vision ahead is clear, and to my back there is only the best of what I left behind. The climb stripped me of regret, remorse and guilt. I am not on the highest mountain, but neither am I still in Hell.

I prefer to remember a time when I was younger, and I ran with my children under gray skies and blue, laughing every step of the way. We were so free.

Now, I have faith that they live in Heaven.

Still…this time of year…I do miss them.

And so, my story. And my fated mission. I hold it to be an honorable one: I never told it for me.

Dear friend, I tell it for you.

Every day, tell those you love how you feel. Hug and kiss them when they’re with you. Resist argument and bring the subject up: what if you didn’t have each other? There’s no time for fighting. No tomorrow. Nothing to take for granted. Remember that.

I release you, friend. Go in peace share this post, tell others how loss truly feels. Especially with things left unsaid. Life is like that. It knows how to be cruel.

May the season bring you joy, and a bit of peace. God bless; be well.

The Fog

The Essentials
1 January 2022

The fog rolled in last night. It didn’t leave. This afternoon it was still there. Not heavy, just enough to blot the sun and lower spirits. Nobody was cheerful, and perhaps it was a hangover and maybe just the lack of sunshine.

I walked through the market. No one was talking. Nobody was in a hurry. Starbucks had no line. Cashiers were not swamped.

On New Year’s Day in the 70s, everything was closed. Driving through Glen Burnie with Dave Lowman, on our way home from buffing floors at a warehouse office my father owned, there were high winds blowing the traffic signals horizontal so you couldn’t see whether it was red or green, made the scene surreal.

I’d rather have the fog. Or a blizzard. Anything but just the wind by itself, especially after dark. I hate windy nights in winter. I don’t know why, but outside of a metro area, they scare me. But then, I’m also scared of metropolitan districts. For different reasons, of course.

But somehow, fog doesn’t bother me. One night I was in an 18-wheeler, dragging a 48 ft. Trailer full of paper towels and toilet paper through the Pocono Mountains. I was following another B.Green & Co. driver, but it was so foggy that I had to keep his rear clearance lights in sight or I’d have been in trouble. I didn’t know the area, which exits to take, nothing. And I couldn’t see worth a damn. If I’d lost him I’d have turned off my headlights. Just the marker lights would have been sufficient and they didn’t offer up the glare feedback that had led so many drivers before me to their doom.

But it was the worst fog I’ve ever seen, even to this day.

There’s a different kind of fog.

The kind you get in your brain when you mix mental illness and chronic somatic illnesses with too many fucking pills.

They keep me alive. Sometimes I wish they didn’t. Sometimes the fog facilitates dissociation or runaway thoughts. And dissociation always takes me through time to the source of my mental illness: severe child abuse including brutal beatings, torture, both mental and physical, rape and other sexual abuse.

It’s inescapable. It sucks. And the pain crushes me. The blue pills, Klonopin, are for my nerves. I take it twice a day, but sometimes anxiety hits me so hard that I can’t breathe. So I take one extra dose. That calms me but if I’m not in the fog, I soon will be.

I have to go. I’m fogged up and coffee didn’t help.

I Hate Myself And Want To Die

Warning: This Post Deals With Suicide. If You or Someone You Know Is Suicidal, click here . Help Is Available 24 Hours A Day.

Another day, wasted. I did nothing. I could not cook. Couldn’t take a shower. Don’t remember the last time I was out. Had to ask a friend for cigarettes. It’s bad, really bad.

This is in fact worse than I felt the last time I overdosed in the effort to leave this shitty world behind.

It is 03:15 on the East coast. I slept maybe two hours.

I’ve had a couple of Marlboros but they didn’t help. I’m just starting on a cup of Colombian coffee but it is denying me the rush of brief euphoria from caffeine.

My left hand trembles, making it difficult to type. It does that a lot lately. More all the time. This time I seem able to work with it but usually it renders my left hand useless.

My back has a slipped or herniated disc. It fucking hurts and I’ve yet to get the X-rays. Worse, 43 years of lighting up has caught up with me. I’m out of breath after doing simple tasks. How stupid am I. A true asshole.

Everything done to me haunts me. If you can’t get that, good for you, you’re blessed. Be thankful.

I can’t get anything from the past outta my fucking head. It’s all there, every day. In my dreams I’m tormented. There is no comfort in anything these days. Shit like cigarettes and coffee are all that sustain me on some days. I can’t do jack shit.

Sometimes I’m amazed that I’ve managed to get up and piss in the proper place.

My heart is broken, has broken so many times that I wonder how much one man can take.

I miss my children so much. I would give anything just to have been able to say goodbye. If they had to go, why couldn’t I have just had a minute or two to tell them how much I loved them, how empty I’d feel when they left, and how sorry I truly was to have failed them so many times?

Because that’s not fair.

I take no comfort in my belief in God. I can’t pray. I can’t do anything but cry, write about my miserable life and smoke the cigarettes that nearly killed me over a decade ago and will finish the job soon enough. What the hell have I become?

Cry, you loser, you asshole. Every good thing you have had you fucked up. Every job you had, you failed. Go ahead. Cry like a baby, loser. You’ve been cursed by God or the Devil and you never had a destiny that was better than this. You were born to suffer. Go ahead, end it, you chickenshit. You aren’t like a real man. They all laugh at you. Everyone does. You’re a joke to them. Do it. Kill yourself and be done with it.

I hear myself say these words on nights like this. And I’m tempted. No one will find the body. I’ll be reported missing. Nobody will care. They’ll forget. I’m not worth remembering. I left Facebook. I’ll bet money everyone’s already forgotten me. I was never anything to them anyway.

I miss talking to my friend. We used to talk a lot on the phone. It got to where I was too sick to do it. Always so fucking miserable. I could barely hear her in the end. My mind was too broken. I was all pain. I would have brought her down at a time when she needed to be strong for her kids.

If this post is bringing you down, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt myself. God cursed me with a hidden will to survive. Besides, I can’t avoid whatsoever is coming to me. I feel it creeping toward me.

Fear not; there are still stories to tell, and like the Ancient Mariner, I’m doomed to tell them. The bad…and the good, when I can remember good. Tonight, I can’t remember good.

I long for peace. For rest. God promised to wipe away my tears. I have to believe that; if I didn’t I would not still be here.

God, are you seeing this? I believe you. If suffering is your will for me, I’ve had enough. But I guess I can hang a little longer. You know my pain. Can’t you help me just a little?

20 Years of Celibacy, 50 Years of Being An Asshole

You read the title right. The last time I was intimate with a woman, the Twin Towers were still standing.

What brought this to be was not an immediate, conscious decision. It happened because of two things, both related.

My undiagnosed mental illness had me on shaky ground. I was erratic, moody and very insecure. It had been that way every time I was in a relationship.

Then there was jealousy over imagined things…insecurities and low self esteem made me convinced that no woman would ever be happy with me. I just couldn’t believe it. Invariably I would begin to question. That would turn into accusations. I hurt the one I loved, I confused and frustrated them to the point where they had no choice but to walk away.

I have loved many times in my life. Being abused and made to have sex at a preadolescent age changed my development and my perception of love and sexuality. At an early age I felt unloved and lonely in a house with four sisters and three brothers. I so wanted to have a girlfriend and be loved and yet had no belief that any girl could love a piece of shit like me. So when I did fall in love, I was too afraid to voice it. In Lee Ann’s case I thought of her as someone I was not only not good enough for but also as a special girl destined for a life of happiness that I would never be able to provide. She was the first girl I had too much respect for to take the chance of hurting. I left her alone.

That was when I was in third grade. I’ve never stopped loving her. I’ve never stopped loving anyone I ever loved. I don’t have that capability and it has caused me a lot of pain but I carry that pain gratefully. I have a heart. At least I can say that.

But that doesn’t mean I’m okay to be in a relationship. In fact my last one made me lose good friends. She got hold of their numbers and, never even having met them, called and badgered them as to where I was whenever I wasn’t with her. My friends stopped taking my calls.

I finally ended it. I moved to another town. She found out where and changed my address in order to intercept my mail. Why, I don’t know. I had to make a police report and another for the Postal Service. She did other things which constituted stalking, and that wasn’t my first time with a stalker. Wasn’t the last, either.

I was a low shooter. I picked girls who were dysfunctional or less than what I wanted and if you’ve ever done that due to your level of self esteem then you know I’m being truthful here. It’s really a thing.

And it means you need help. Low self esteem will lead you to a dead end where all of your dreams die. Where you talk trash about yourself in front of friends who are hurt to hear your words. A dead end that has all the opportunities for drug and alcohol abuse, even suicide.

The decision to go celibate sounds really hard. It isn’t at a certain point. I realized that I was never going to be able to have a normal relationship with any woman. I was saddened by the revelation but it was the truth. And sex with no love is not a thing I ever enjoyed because of my desperation to be loved. I wanted the whole package or nothing. I chose the nothing.

I’m not counting self pleasure; that’s not covered by my interpretation of being celibate despite the technical definition. For me, it means to surrender a part of your life for your own protection, whether that be mental, physical or emotional.

Some consider what I chose a sacrifice. I don’t. I’m proud of it. To be getting emotionally involved with someone who you’re never going to truly be happy with is wrong. Wrong for you and wrong for the other person.

For the past few years I was involved with someone I met on Facebook. We had lots of hours of conversations on chat, phone and video. I came to genuinely love she and her family. I still do, but I’ve known for some time that it was impossible for us to meet in person. I knew all along that even if we did, she would never have been happy with me.

I knew because of several things but the other day I had to break all contact. I had dreadfully overreacted to something she wrote in a comment. I took it to heart when she called me a name which, had anyone else done, would have been funny. A year ago it would even have been funny coming from her.

I didn’t think it was funny and it hurt me. She responded in such a way that it made me break all chances of contact. Except then she left a voicemail that made me not regret it at all.

She threw things in my face. She had been there for me.

She left out things I’d done for her, and of course that was because she was angry. She missed every sign that I’ve gotten worse; she’s had a lot going on lately and my deteriorating mental condition – severe depression, anxiety and sensitivity, along with noticeable changes in sleep patterns are easy to tick off in a sentence but have been hell to live with. I spend days borderline suicidal. I’ve not known such a deep and extended period of depression in years, my nightmares are enough to make me question my sanity, and I feel terrible pain from some back injury that I believe happened just because of aging. I’m sorry I severed ties. I know it hurt her.

But it is much better to hurt someone once than to maintain a relationship that will keep causing pain. I’m simply getting worse.

Moreover I’m getting my house in order. I didn’t even notice I was doing it at first. It’s some kind of need that I can only think of one cause for.

While I did such a shitty thing to someone I loved, my level of caring about others has increased. It’s my nature to love even people who seem to hate me. It’s my nature to hurt for people I know even on social media. If I put a sad emoji up, it’s because it’s how I feel. Sometimes I’ll tell someone how sorry I am, and I mean it. I never say how deeply I’m sorry or feeling their pain. Or most of all how worried I am.

COVID-19 didn’t just make me sick. It changed my whole world. I have had long lasting damage from it, mostly with memory and that’s mostly forgetting people. But I noticed behavioural changes as well. My southern accent usually is well hidden. I used to slip into it only when very tired or very nervous. Now it changes and kicks in all the time and I hate it. I feel as if I’m going to sound as if I have multiple personalities. If I did, they’d all be assholes. Just saying.

I hear shit wrong too. The Terminix commercial where the deck falls with a couple on it has a guy with a British accent step into the foreground and say something but it sounds like “Don’t get caught sucking your dick…” and the rest is indiscernible.

Everything is just fucking wrong. It is a given that my physical pain isn’t helping. I know when I’m seen for it I’ll be sent for X-rays then a CT then an MRI. They want money. The MRI is what I need. But I need relief and treatment too. Simple tasks can send me into a pain level that brings me close to tears, and pain is something I have become used to. Not like this, though.

With all of this going on, I’m not even fit company for a phone call. Against my nature I’ll be thinking about myself, preoccupied and distracted, and I do believe it will get worse, as it has been for months.

That said, I can’t live like this. I want to help people. To cheer them up and tell them they’re treasure to me. My next door neighbor, a widow, hasn’t been handling her grief and anxiety well. I love her dearly. I told her that today. I said that to me she’s treasure. That I hurt too, seeing her suffer. That I’m here for whatever I can help her with.

That’s what I want to tell everyone I love.

But my life has never gone the way I wanted it to. These memoirs, they’re full of things some find too disturbing to read. Some posts are, to some, too outrageous. The paranormal stuff, mostly. But it all really happened and at times there were witnesses.

Therefore I have not always gotten to be or do what I wanted. When my parents killed my dreams and turned them into a preoccupation with sex, making what should have been dreams of becoming someone who mattered into sexual fantasies, the day came when all I had left was the hope and desire to just be a decent man. To overcome their racist beliefs, their example of control and manipulation and to treat everyone in a kind manner.

I couldn’t even have that. My PTSD and other forms of mental illness keep me from being anything. I just exist. I take up space and waste it.

Behind me, online and in real life, lie the dead. My children, friends I had as a kid, family. There also are uncountable closed doors and burned bridges. I can’t undo any of it.

I ran away from people who were getting too close. I didn’t want to be hurt anymore. Some ran from me. I drove them to it. I drew a line. A circle around myself in the sand. Nobody gets inside it. I no longer make women turn their heads. I make them cross the street to avoid me.

I’ve become my own prisoner in my own circle of hell. I have no hope more often than I have it. I am alone, as I always knew I was fated to be. It was part choice and part instinctive self defense.

No more pain. I felt too much. I cared too much. I loved too much and love always got me hurt. I became a coward.

I wish things had been different. That the bad things would go away and let me live, really live.

Yet I find, on this night after a day that saw George Floyd’s killer convicted, that I’m ashamed. Seeing his family’s pain, I empathized because I know loss. I have cried for people I never met. I always will because after all, I can’t really stop loving and caring.

To readers abroad, as always, I’m grateful you’re here. I can’t imagine what you think of the United States but perhaps you’re confused. I’m confused and I live here. It should not make the news, the horrible things that you’ve been seeing. The shame of the Trump presidency will never go away. Killers roam our streets, mass killings are more common than you can know, cops killing people of color are monsters with badges and no consciences and we are less to you than we wish we were. For so long, especially after World War Two, we had a national pride that I believe hurt us. We thought we were so great.

Now we’re pulling the last of our troops out of Afghanistan and perhaps there aren’t so many of them as to make a difference but in the minds of extremists it will be a great victory. They will immediately begin to engage in heinous acts, mostly against women. Our presence there has had an influence on culture and politics. Leaving will destabilize all power of the government and anyone who had extended contact with us will curse us. It is a mistake to leave now when our mission was not accomplished. It is dishonorable to leave, knowing what girls and women will go through. All we accomplished will be reversed and it will be worse than before we went there.

It is a betrayal in my mind. I don’t like war, but to bug out is to do the same as we did to the Kurds. It dishonors us and leaves people to be tortured and to die.

We’re in a national mess, and President Biden wants to do things to clean up that mess. I’m sure his decision was hard for him and yet I strongly disagree with it.

Meanwhile Republicans are against him no matter what he wants to do. He’s a good man with a big heart. He called George Floyd’s family today. A president who cares, and is honest, is special. More so after the debasement of America by Donald Trump. Russia knows now is the time to test Biden and is massing armor and infantry on the Ukraine border. This follows harsh lessons Biden tried to teach Putin, a man notorious for not learning anything except new ways to attempt world supremacy for Russia. He loves to test, probe and corrupt. Whoever follows him will very likely be even worse.

The Janssen (Johnson and Johnson) vaccine was ordered stopped being administered last week, but here in Maryland one corporate entity producing the vaccine had some kind of incident and that made it worse. Anti Vaxxers just got handed unlimited ammo to convince others not to be vaccinated which, down the road, will cause death.

In all of this, and more, I feel stupid bragging about 20 years of celibacy. As if the world turns around me and anyone cares.

But it was necessary and I’m kind of proud of myself for it. Perhaps I’ve caused less misery than I otherwise would have.

But I still cause pain, no matter how hard I wish I had no power to do so. I can’t be the simple, decent guy I wanted to be. I can’t even manage that. I won’t cop out and blame mental illness.

Because there’s just more proof that I’m an asshole.

On The Ward

Being turned into a moderate Democrat wasn’t what I felt going on. I don’t even know when it happened. But here I am, sick to my heart after four years of pure insanity. You’d think it would be a swing further left. At one time I think I was there.

Because Trump should have sent a lot of people running hell bent so far left that they wound up as progressives. Oh, some did. Now they’re just extremists spewing hate, which they’re supposedly against. They don’t like Republicans. They blanket all conservatives as “demons” and say they’re all going to Hell.

Some claim to be Christians, and forget the love, forgiveness and compassion of Jesus. That’s never going to make any sense to me.

Truth is, Republicans helped get Joe Biden elected. Let me say that again:

Republicans helped Joe Biden win the election.

Republicans voted for impeachment. Republicans have spoken out against Trump. I don’t want to hear about the ones who did so too late. I dont want to hear about the last minute bailing of his staff and cabinet. You and I know that doesn’t mean anything. Just people trying too late to escape whatever reckoning it is that they fear. Because of course they know they’re likely going to get a subpoena to testify against Trump when the information comes hemorrhaging forth about corruption in the administration.  And that information will come, as people regain their senses and clear their heads when distanced from the man. The thing about a corrupt man out of power is, people aren’t afraid of him anymore.

Inside the White House, it has been a nightmare. I know for a fact that he held his staff in abject terror with screaming rants, including petty demands, wild, illegal ideas and commands, and most of all, threats. There’s no way I can describe the collective feeling they had. That doesn’t excuse the fact that some remained there, some enabled him and lied on top of it all.

What I know is, some Republicans, all along, resisted Trump and thought he was a sick man. Well, not so much thought, as they saw it and knew that there was something wrong with him.

He lacked everything they wanted him to have, needed him to have. In the end, just before the 2020 election, I asked if Trump was trying to lose, because his rhetoric grew more outrageous, his claims more evil and unhinged.

The damage was already done. Republicans are not evil and not demons. Trump had alienated too many of them and if they didnt rush to shout it aloud, they can’t be blamed; they knew it was dangerous.

Still, Trump, after four years of nightmares, received a lot of votes. You may find that scary; but what happened at the Capitol proves you correct.

Immediately following the insurrection, I read comments wherein his followers asked what Trump had said that in any way encouraged or ordered his rabid crowd that morning to do anything illegal or incriminating.

Those made my blood boil. What part of what he, Giuliani and Trump jr. had they not heard?

Then I realized that’s all part of his base’s M.O. and they knew exactly what to say. Deflect, deny and question the questioners.

It’s been appalling to watch the traitors to the United States show support for Trump, but more so in light of his obvious connection with Russia. One woman who was in the insurrection that day stole Speaker Pelosi’s laptop. A serious crime in itself, but she told a former lover that she planned to sell it to Russian intelligence. The former lover turned her in and she was arrested. That’s so egregious to me that I have no sympathy for her and hope she gets hard time. It’s insane. How do you make America great again? For five years, that answer has been to solicit Russian espionage.

We’re dealing with people whose ideas are so sick that they act out without fear of any consequences, growing so bold that I fear they have little left of any restraint.

The insanity goes from one walk of life to another, many complicit in a conspiracy that coordinated what happened. As they entered the building and shouted “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!” they had absolutely no idea that it was they who were traitors. The cult of Trump has so skewed their decision process and their basic thoughts and beliefs that they still believe they did nothing wrong and are expecting a full pardon by their god.

On The Ward

After three suicide attempts, each one of which landed me in a psychiatric ward, I saw lots of people who weren’t particularly bad but who suffered from mild to severe mental illness. I met a successful prosecutor whose life had gotten out of hand and who was protecting herself and her job by seeking help. I remember the most dazzlingly beautiful black woman who was so intelligent that I felt unworthy to have a discussion with her. I never knew what kind of work she did but she was exquisitely articulate and every move was graceful, as if an angel had come to Earth. I dont know what troubled her to put her there, but there came a sad night when she said, “This isn’t for me,” and I knew she was turning her back on all treatment then and there. The variety of people on the ward scared her. She had worked long and hard to gain what she had, and like so many, what she saw in hospital frightened her. There’s a stigma to being diagnosed with a mental illness; once the outside world finds out, it will attack. People diagnosed bipolar lose jobs. It’s discrimination but that’s easy to cover; employers just tell a court you were terminated for another reason. Nobody can prove that isn’t the case, so there’s a career ended.

Tell a life insurance company that you’re on an antidepressant and your estimated premium costs get raised on the spot. That’s if they dont immediately close their briefcase and leave. Because they see a potential suicide or accident victim. Insurance companies dont want clients who are considered high risk. They want you to pay for insurance for years but never need it.

So I saw many walk out of the hospital, headed toward a fight I prayed they would win, doubtful as I thought that was. Some people who do need help are refused. Some are put on the streets after 72 hours with nowhere to go.

That’s sad. I’ve seen people leave and knew in my gut they would die out there.

You meet all kinds of people on the ward. Some you’ll bond with. There’s nothing to stop it, as you’re down so low you can’t even think about politics, religion or anything else. You see humanity at its most basic, and you can’t come away from it without a great respect for all people, because everyone, you realize, has their basic humanity beneath it all, and that’s a wonderful discovery to make.

I never looked down at people on the ward; most were the kindest, most gentle people I’ve ever known. Some were so wise I learned from them. There’s not much to do on the ward, so having conversations between therapy and occupational therapy is natural.

The one time I made fun of someone was when a schizophrenic woman, a hippie girl who, as hippie girls so often are, was beautiful. But her disease was prevalent and her treatment lacking; she walked around with an imaginary radio receiver she pressed into her ear. She smiled and talked silently to whoever was on the other end. When asked, by someone who meant to take the piss out of her, who she was talking to, she said, “The mothership.”

“Can I talk to them?”

“No, you have to have the blue chip. It means you have John Lennon’s blood.”

“I don’t have it?”

“No.”

“Does Mike (me) have it?”

“He does.”

I still dont know what to make of that. I’d been making fun of her along with the other guy. We’d press imaginary cellphones to our ears and say, like the AT&T guy, “Can you hear me now?”

I stopped. I was getting an education. Treat others the way you want to be treated. But sometimes you don’t. And they’ll love you anyway. By saying I had the “blue chip”, she was accepting me as a friend, an equal. That, from anyone, is special. From her, it was touching. I was accepted as part of her world.

I’ve never forgotten any of these people. I learned humility, I learned to deepen my sympathy and learned that bigotry anywhere is ugly, shuts you off from people who can enrich your life and teach you things you need to learn.

Outside

Out here, the comfort of the ward seems a cocoon I could have lingered in indefinitely. It’s scarier out here than any psych ward I’ve been in. But I know other places exist that have the worst of humanity within their walls, and I just got lucky. From my perspective, seeing the Capitol attack was a true glimpse of madness. I was seeing horrible acts committed on account of Donald Trump, but more than that, I was seeing sick people who made horrible decisions, and came away without remorse.

These people too contain a large cross section of the population like what I saw on the ward. The difference is that some, while obviously mentally compromised, have never been stripped of the trappings of their existence as it had evolved; they had every comfort to rely on walking to the Capitol Building. They had weapons, bear repellent spray, pepper spray, even a few gas masks. Some were military, police, fire fighters, business people and more. They were part of a cult which they had effortlessly given themselves to. All arrestees claim they were obeying the orders of the President of the United States.

That takes the lame argument that Trump never meant for the crowd to enter the building and throws it out. Mitch McConnell has said that the mob was provoked by Trump and that’s him throwing Trump under the bus once and for all.

The problem with analyzing human behaviour comes when one person becomes a mob and does something violent and unprecedented. How do you gauge anything they did, and what do you use as a gauge when something has never been done before?

Mob behaviour isn’t predictable beyond the observation that no action can be anticipated. What one person would never do alone now, in a mob, no longer feels taboo; anything can go.

Servile Wars

Back before there was a Roman Empire, Rome was a republic, and before Julius Caesar the republic suffered the Servile Wars which were exactly what they appear to be by the name: armed revolts by slaves which escalated into actual wars. In the third Servile War, a gladiatorial slave named Spartacus conspired with others to escape from the camp and arena. Not much is really known about him but one conclusion is legitimate. He wasn’t the sole leader and wasn’t out to free slaves. He was selective in which kinds of slaves he recruited, scorning those without tanned skin and calloused hands, as they were unworthy and ill-suited for combat, and therefore not even worth training and feeding.

He meant business, whatever that business was. There was no hope of overthrowing the republic; he had several chances after routing legions to escape to outside territories and failed to do so. In this way there is proof that his revolt wasn’t about freeing slaves, and since a complete overthrow was not realistic, to this day we cannot determine what his goals were.

Made up of slaves for the most part, we do know that former legionaries joined him; the conclusion here being that his ranks had a wide selection of races, talents and even specialists who could feed and arm his forces. What we also know is that his army was full of those with a great hatred of Rome, making the rebels only semi-disciplined and likely to ultimately fail.

On the other side, Rome was fighting a frontier war in Spain and was not yet at the height of its military power.

Still, their territory was growing and their legions well disciplined, well trained, well equipped and formidable. The end result was always in Rome’s favor. There isn’t much dissent among contemporary and modern historians. The failure of Spartacus and his co-leaders to take advantage of an escape route sealed the fate of the entire force.

The final battle soaked the field in blood, and the body of Spartacus was not found. The rebel survivors, numbering six thousand, were crucified on the side of the road, all the way from Capua to Rome. The famous film starring Kirk Douglass ends with Spartacus on a cross. Part of that scene was edited out before wide theatrical release and I’m unaware if it was ever restored; nonetheless it’s full of inaccuracies. The big wooden rigs used as crosses are wrong. Rome would never waste resources like wood on crosses. Those consisted of one upright (stipes crucis) and the cross beam (patibulum). The very public display was, as with all crucifixions, meant to serve as a warning, a deterrent to further rebellion and crime against Rome. Crucifixion became known as “a slave’s death”, and by the time of Christ no Roman citizens were ever crucified. They could choose other methods considered more merciful, such as by spear, archers and others.

The cross section of the army of Spartacus included barbarians and even soldiers of Rome. Before it was over there were likely Roman citizens included; as word of the successes of the rebels spread, it’s fairly obvious that people romanticized the war and the rebels. This is human nature; some guesses here are fairly safe to make.

Spartacus was not a saviour of slaves. He led them instead to slaughter and very likely lay among the dead of the final battle. For that I use the description of many a battlefield of antiquity; fields were covered with blood, severed limbs and internal organs. Faces were disfigured by blunt force, shield thrusts, swords and even cavalry. It is not easy today for most to imagine such carnage being done by close quarters combat, but rest assured, it was always a frightful scene. Men were known to go mad before battle concluded, and post-battle more so.

When all is considered, then, the likelihood that Trump followers will grow in number is real. It is likely too, that should that happen, it will end in bloodshed, with survivors being drastically punished.

Conclusion

It is historical fact that few wars were ever started by a force made up of one “pure” race. Even the nazis were mutts and the Aryan myth was a known lie by Hitler and his propaganda ministry. Always, there is a cross-section of various peoples. By present day, the Native American tribes aren’t usually made up of any one bloodline. Tribes were routinely assimilated by others as settlers began to truly decimate their numbers.

This lends no conclusive information to anything, just that almost every final battle joined has opposing forces comprised diversely. The MAGA rebellion will not achieve its goal. It is not cohesive despite the fact that the siege on the Capitol was somewhat coordinated via websites and social media. They have no prospect of forming any hierarchy and voting for commanders. They lack the basics that even Spartacus had. Sure, veterans are in there, police as well, but in the end, should they insist on further insurrection, it will not end well for them. History speaks to those willing to listen. History strikes down all who are not.

So, tonight, take heart. No matter what you fear, don’t be troubled. Pray for our new president and vice president, our country and our neighbors. I greet any neighbor or stranger without screening them for their political beliefs. It’s time we all do that while keeping in mind, if you hear something, say something. Never worry that law enforcement will blow you off. What you have to say is what they’re there for.

Most of all, as I say often, be good to yourselves. This is the eve of a day that signals the beginning of clarity and order. Be hopeful and have faith. Worry will only hurt you. And there has been enough hurt.

It’s Not Your Fault

WARNING: The following post has triggers and adult sexual content. It contains references to suicide, child abuse, rape and their subsequent trauma, social dysfunction and mental illness. Read carefully, stop if you can’t handle it, and leave comments or contact me if you wish. This memoir is an ongoing account of my life. It was never pretty.

And when I get to Heaven, to St. Peter I will tell,

“One more Survivor reporting, sir,

I’ve done my time in Hell.”

A jogger just went by. I was outside, smoking a 72. Which, of course, is crazy.

The jogger was loudly clucking, like a very slow chicken. Which, of course, is crazy.

You and I may have heard about people doing crazy things lately, and that’s true enough, but people have always done crazy things.

I know. Don’t think I came through abuse, rape and assault lasting over a decade without actually going a bit nuts. Guys, especially when entering adolescence, have a source of guilt girls can hide, even though they feel just as guilty, just as soiled. Sexual contact, whether forced or consensual, causes some level of “excitement”. Stimulation, however scary, eventually causes a physical response. And adolescent boys can’t hide it when they have an orgasm.

After the guilt sets in, it will not easily go away. It’s a lifelong companion and the enemy of your soul. It will consume every good and positive thought you would have had. It makes you unfairly blame and hate yourself.

That leads to bad choices, costly decisions and pain. Incessant, unyielding pain. It is my contention that every survivor is automatically traumatized. There are few things in life more horrible than sexual violation. What comes after is a hellish existence.

An adult who endures this but who grew up in a relatively safe home and social life may be silent and never report it. The shame is too much to bear, the pain too much to ever give vent to, not even with a spouse or friend, or spiritual leader, not even a doctor.

I can only talk about them from things I’ve learned over the years. But the violation from as far back as I can remember, at least four years old but in the criminal case only to age 7, that I’ve written and spoken about many times. I’ll never get the whole story out; there’s just too much. And I know it first-hand, and that’s the worst way to know about any kind of abuse.

While on this journey of laying my life out for everyone to see, I’ve inadvertently hurt others. I tried to contact old friends on Facebook. They either weren’t there or they decided not to interact with me after a small taste of my writing.

I never wanted that. I regret it no end. But then, I have a lot of regrets. They haunt me. Like the memories that can never be wiped away, the pictures in my mind, the movies of the past, they haunt me.

I’ve told the truth. From the supernatural events to the mundane, which you can find in my archives, every story, every detail is laid down as I remember it. That thing in my room when I was little was real. This was no child’s imagination fueled by fear. That thing was there, and whatever it was, I felt its intense hatred. I didn’t understand hatred. But that was my first experience with it.

What I want to say now is about guilt and regret. Those things often hang out together in my mind. These days, approaching my sixtieth birthday, I’m disabled and alone. I have time to deal with them, face them on days I feel strong enough. And I remember…

Loneliness. In a family that kept being added to, I was always lonely. Dad would pit us kids against each other. He would come home from work and before he could open his car door, we went to our respective rooms for safety. Invariably one of our names would be called in anger. The belt would come off and someone went to bed with their back striped. You stuck to the sheets. You didn’t really sleep. We never trusted one another. I did very little ratting, but I was often the target of it. Looking back, I’d have to say, I’d rather it be me than my sisters or baby brother. But I couldn’t save them even when I was older. There’s some justified guilt for you. And I became a lone wolf. Everyone knew it.

One of my biggest regrets is my social life. My interactions with others. While other boys in my third grade class were dreaming of being astronauts and baseball players, I fantasized about what my teacher looked like naked. And what we could do together. I’d begun my training as a sex object. Sex was always on my mind.

I loved a girl that year. She distracted me from my abnormal fantasies. She was beautiful and happy and I never even made friends with her. I left her alone. I realized such a beautiful girl didn’t deserve the fucked-up thing I was becoming. I love that girl to this day. And the truth is, I imagined she’d just hurt me like I was hurt when my girlfriend the year before left with her family for Thailand. I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again.

Odd; school pictures show me smiling. I rarely smiled. I laughed, but only at the expense of others.

But I digress. I’ve loved others over my sixty years. I still do. They’re a comfort and a source of empty regret at one and the same time. In high school I dated two girls. I loved them both, not at the same time, of course. They both dumped me. It hurt. I was suicidal. I even tried to cut my wrists. It hurt too much, and I looked for other ways.

Somehow, I got through it and my life seemed to have turned better when I met and married a woman who thought I was a nice guy. It would not occur to us until later that we were better friends than lovers.

In 1984 I met a receptionist named Peggy. She was exquisitely beautiful and she made my heart pound so hard every time I looked at her that my kidneys hurt. She was soft-spoken, with the voice of an angel. I knew she could tell. I never actually told her, but she knew. I was head over heels in love. Here was a special person, one who made me listen to sad classical music in my car, violins speaking a truth I couldn’t bear: I wasn’t good enough for her. My wife came to the same conclusion about me. I’ve been alone ever since. I’ve had affairs, trysts, but nothing serious. I’ve been celibate since the Twin Towers were still standing. To this day, I love that woman. I regret never having told her how special she was, even if I could never be with her. I wish I could change that. Regrets are merciless and they don’t leave you. Not easily, anyway. As surely as I carry all those I’ve loved with me, I carry the regrets that go with them. The things left unsaid. The crazy things I did, that they always found out about. Most of all, I think the regrets of being socially awkward and sometimes misunderstood may nag at my mind the most.

I didn’t know how wounded I really was. I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t know what it was. From one job to another, from one apartment to another, one town to another, I carried some insidious malignancy in my head that made me nothing close to normal. I didn’t understand it. I felt like everyone hated me. I knew they hated me. The last time I saw Peggy, she had a look on her face that broke my heart. Hatred. Anger. I can’t get that image out of my head.

In 2000, over a decade later, I was living alone. I had no friends. A crazy demonic girlfriend I couldn’t get rid of. And I was getting worse. The depression would keep me in bed for days. I’d miss visitation with my kids. I was descending into a pit. Once at the bottom, and I could picture it, I was sure I’d never get out.

It took me three serious suicide attempts. Twice I wound up in intensive care on ventilators. Once at St. Joseph’s Hospital and once at Howard General. For weeks, I didn’t even know who I was.

But I still hated myself. For anyone who ever hated me, I assure you that I hated myself more. PTSD is a condition affecting millions. That along with bipolar II disorder, and learned behavior they call personality disorders, well, I’m a mess, and the decision to go to the state hospital in Sykesville was the best decision I ever made. I was properly diagnosed and treated. I was allowed to be sick, and in that, I began to slowly grasp that I had to learn to live with being so injured. First, I had to find a way to forgive myself. The guilt was out of place. It belonged to my parents, not me. The regrets I have to work on. I’m doing that. Yesterday a girl walked past, singing a song. She was pretty. She returned a bit later, waved enthusiastically and said, “I love your flannel.” It’s a hoodie and I hate flannel, but it’s the last thing my son ever gave me. But without hesitation I said, “And I loved your singing.” She was so happy. It was never my nature to be outgoing. There was a time when I would have said something mean. Or nothing at all. Friendliness scared me. My defense was cruelty.

I liked the way I handled a simple friendly compliment. Actually she may have been stoned, she was so happy. But that’s groovy. It was nice.

I saw my friend Stephanie who works at the grocery. I told her I admired her courage during this dangerous time. In parting I said, “Be safe, okay? You’re my hero.”

I’ve never been sorry that I was nice or that I had a friend. I’m still taking meds and I enjoy talking with people. Much more socially comfortable than I’ve ever been. There’s just the nightmares, dissociative states, anxiety stress and panic, the dirty feeling like I can never get clean, and of course, depression.

And guilt. No matter what, I’ve got to do something with it. Forgiving myself for something that wasn’t my fault is a tall order. Remember that scene from Good Will Hunting? I want all of you to know. Every one of you. You’ve been violated, beaten, had your mind fucked, been told you’re worthless until you believed it, you who feel dirty, guilty, you who hate yourself and all the awkward shit you do, all you who thought about or tried suicide, all you who have mishandled or purposely fucked up relationships, to know one thing: it’s not your fault.

It’s not your fault. I may not know you, but we’re brothers and sisters. We have been through hell. Too much of it, and life’s not fair, and we all know it. Forgive yourself. It’s not your fault.

If you need help with post traumatic stress and anxiety, there are resources easily found online and in your area.

If you or anyone you know is suicidal, having suicidal thoughts or feeling like you can’t go on, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 24 hours a day, 7 days a week at 1-800-273-8255.

Your life is worth more than how you’re feeling it is. You’re not worthless. Suicide is final; often done on impulse in a moment of deep fear and despair. You can’t change your mind once it’s done. No matter how terrible you feel, I don’t want you going that way. And if you think no one loves you, well I love you. Brothers and sisters, remember?

It’s not your fault.

And it’s not my fault, either.

We good?