It seems I am very good at praying thy will be done…except in this area or that situation. I can’t quite come to the place where in every choice, at every crossroad, my question is what does God want for me. Which option is more likely to take me closer to where God wants me to go?
I don’t believe God really cares what I have for dinner tonight, so even when I say every choice, I obviously don’t mean it. God gave me a mind for a reason. He’d like me to use it. I do have the capability of making some choices for myself, some things just don’t matter on the eternal level. God doesn’t care what deodorant I use, so I feel perfectly within His will to simply pick the one I like to wear. I don’t believe God wants to micromanage my life, or anyone else’s.
I used to be the chief photographer and photo editor of the Pine Log. In that position I hired photographers to work for me and gave them assignments. Each had his or her own areas of excellence, their own artistic eye and talent. I often tried to assign shoots based on who was better to shoot that particular subject or style. If someone had questions about how to do an assignment I would answer them, and I always tried to give a general this is what we need kind of guideline. Then I allowed the photographer shoot how they wanted. I didn’t say only shoot from this angle. Or use this shutter speed. I didn’t micromanage. Sometimes that meant I saw an unexpected result, and sometimes that unexpected result amazed me.
I think God is sometimes like I was as a photo editor. He gave me certain gifts and attributes that I can use to accomplish His will, the next assignment, the next right thing. But how I go about it, sometimes there is some leeway to do something the way that most suits me. But sometimes I know the assignment calls for a two-column horizontal face-on shot, and the lighting demands a certain shutter speed to attain that, and there is little to no room to put my own flair into doing what my editor wants.
But life isn’t a photo assignment. And I don’t always know exactly how the editor has the layout planned. What image is needed from this day in my life. Which shots I am free to choose to make on my own and in my own style and which ones I need to call and get clear-cut directions on what and how. Those are the scary places for me. Choices I want to make for myself, but can’t because I don’t know which is going to get me where I need to be, where I want to be. But choices I am too impatient with to wait for clear guidance from my editor.
I feel I am standing at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere, clueless as to where I am now or which direction to choose. I am not entirely sure if this is a choice I should make, or if I need to wait for a text from my editor to tell me which road to take. I jumped from a crashing plane of chaos, confusion and manipulation and landed right square in the middle of this back-country four-way.
One direction I wanted to try, but I know that it’s the wrong road. And someone put a great big road closed sign in front of it. I am grateful for that. Knowing saves heartache, and for more people than just myself. So the road to my left is closed. Then there’s the road in front of me, familiar and comfortable and safe. Should I take it? Should I go in that direction? But the next path to the right, the third road, offers much of the same country to drive through as the road I am so comfortable on. But a little less safe. And a little less of the beauty and joy and inspiration that fills my soul as I travel. I believe the journey is more important than the destination, and there’s just some landscape I prefer over others to drive by. Then there’s the fourth road, which I know nothing about. The great unknown. Could be wonderful. Could be hell. Could be the path I’ve always dreamed I could travel on, or it might be the road to loneliness and despair. The signs are missing, and I can’t see past the first turn to get a look at what exactly I’d be traveling through.
And for some reason that I can’t quite put my finger on, I’m afraid to ask my editor which road I need to take. And I don’t feel capable of making the decision on my own with the information I have. And I’m afraid that if I don’t pick a direction and start moving down a road, any road, if I just stand there in the middle of the crossroads trying to wait for a clear indication of which way to go, I’m going to get hit by a truck. I’m afraid to stay where I am, to not move, and I am afraid to pick one of the three roads that aren’t closed and start the next leg of my journey. It all boils down to the same essence. I am afraid.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Peniel - Day 4...11:57pm
I’ve been putting off this last Peniel entry all day. I just don’t know how to say what I feel I need to without it just sounding so blasphemous. Maybe it is just that so there’s no way to describe it as otherwise. But I explained it to my pastor/father this morning and he understood what I meant and agreed, or at least didn’t disagree to the point that he felt he needed to advise me to rethink or do something different. But I can’t remember what or how I explained it to him. The discussion was intense, emotional and actually quite informative. When I shared with him what I have discovered and concluded this past several days, he remembered some things that happened when I was four that helped me get a little further down the maze. An idea or two about what caused that four or so year old boy to start believing he is a bad person, and we discussed the effects. It all fits. About a half an hour later, my mother added another piece of the puzzle.
Why oh why did I wait so long to do this, to delve these depths, to admit how I felt and fears, to talk to my parents about my early years in a non-avoidance way and see what the three of us together might discover. The healing I feel is beginning now could have begun when I was still a child if I had been able to just voice my need for help, to voice my feelings and fears. But the lie had me trapped and caged. And the fact that I never did expose the lie, that core belief of my horribleness and worthlessness, not even as I got older, is my part in the pain. It’s what I did to keep the wound fresh and alive and effecting my life. I have to accept my part, learn from it, and forgive myself.
Then there is the part that belongs to the people who damaged and broke a defenseless and sensitive young boy into pieces. Some of them were children who had obviously been damaged in much the same way. They were victims themselves, sick and broken. I don’t believe it’s a continuation of the pattern of letting it be ok to damage me to not hold them responsible. What they did was not ok. But I have to forgive them. From what I’ve pieced together from what little I remember and from what my father remembers, I don’t believe malice motivated them. I blame whoever abused them. So, what about whoever that is. Well, he or she must have been sick to do that, but I don’t know anything about what happened. What I do know is that hating them will not make what happened go away, it won’t damage or punish them in return, it won’t provide justice for that innocent little boy who had his innocence obliterated. But it will kill me. So once again, I must, in self-defense, choose to forgive.
And that is the attitude I must take in the case of the crazy lady next door who quite probably was the initial source of trauma, the first speaker of the lie, who wielded the words that destroyed me emotionally. Sick bitch. Looks like there’s some anger there. But what kind of damage makes a woman attack a barely four-year-old child? God, she must have been hurting so badly. I have to forgive her.
And God’s part. God didn’t do anything wrong, unless it was to make humans with free will. Since I happen to be quite fond of the whole free will concept, I can not fault my creator for that. And since each of us does have free will, he could not, without overriding said free will, force any of those first abusers not to hurt me. He could not force me to ask for help instead of holding all the pain, guilt and fear inside. He could not force me to quit believing the lie. He was there the whole time ready to begin the healing the first opportunity I gave him to do so. But I had to stop pretending and hiding and be honest for that to happen. The adult me knows all this. Understands it to an extent, and believes my God is innocent of wrong doing. The child I was felt totally abandoned by the God he believed in, trusted, loved more than anything. That child felt hurt by God. That feeling was legitimate, even if the understanding was flawed and therefore placed the blame on the wrong subject. And so, brace yourself for the blasphemy, I must forgive God. I must release my maker from the guilt, real or imagined, of the boy I was being broken and for that broken and cracked foundation being used as the blueprint for the actions and reactions for three decades. For allowing a life to be so destroyed.
Why oh why did I wait so long to do this, to delve these depths, to admit how I felt and fears, to talk to my parents about my early years in a non-avoidance way and see what the three of us together might discover. The healing I feel is beginning now could have begun when I was still a child if I had been able to just voice my need for help, to voice my feelings and fears. But the lie had me trapped and caged. And the fact that I never did expose the lie, that core belief of my horribleness and worthlessness, not even as I got older, is my part in the pain. It’s what I did to keep the wound fresh and alive and effecting my life. I have to accept my part, learn from it, and forgive myself.
Then there is the part that belongs to the people who damaged and broke a defenseless and sensitive young boy into pieces. Some of them were children who had obviously been damaged in much the same way. They were victims themselves, sick and broken. I don’t believe it’s a continuation of the pattern of letting it be ok to damage me to not hold them responsible. What they did was not ok. But I have to forgive them. From what I’ve pieced together from what little I remember and from what my father remembers, I don’t believe malice motivated them. I blame whoever abused them. So, what about whoever that is. Well, he or she must have been sick to do that, but I don’t know anything about what happened. What I do know is that hating them will not make what happened go away, it won’t damage or punish them in return, it won’t provide justice for that innocent little boy who had his innocence obliterated. But it will kill me. So once again, I must, in self-defense, choose to forgive.
And that is the attitude I must take in the case of the crazy lady next door who quite probably was the initial source of trauma, the first speaker of the lie, who wielded the words that destroyed me emotionally. Sick bitch. Looks like there’s some anger there. But what kind of damage makes a woman attack a barely four-year-old child? God, she must have been hurting so badly. I have to forgive her.
And God’s part. God didn’t do anything wrong, unless it was to make humans with free will. Since I happen to be quite fond of the whole free will concept, I can not fault my creator for that. And since each of us does have free will, he could not, without overriding said free will, force any of those first abusers not to hurt me. He could not force me to ask for help instead of holding all the pain, guilt and fear inside. He could not force me to quit believing the lie. He was there the whole time ready to begin the healing the first opportunity I gave him to do so. But I had to stop pretending and hiding and be honest for that to happen. The adult me knows all this. Understands it to an extent, and believes my God is innocent of wrong doing. The child I was felt totally abandoned by the God he believed in, trusted, loved more than anything. That child felt hurt by God. That feeling was legitimate, even if the understanding was flawed and therefore placed the blame on the wrong subject. And so, brace yourself for the blasphemy, I must forgive God. I must release my maker from the guilt, real or imagined, of the boy I was being broken and for that broken and cracked foundation being used as the blueprint for the actions and reactions for three decades. For allowing a life to be so destroyed.
Peniel - Day 4...8:28am
Dalyn is not my given name. It is a nickname, a chosen name. It is a combination of my given first and middle names David and Glyn. I remember when I began using it I told my father that it hadn’t anything to do with not liking my “real” name. I do. David is a good name, but that’s always been him, not me. I am a junior. But I felt like God was giving me a fresh start and with it a fresh, new name. That was years ago, and I never really thought much about it again. Dalyn is my name now, and it was simply a combination of my given names. Nothing more, nothing less. But I never quite lost track of the idea that God gave me that name.
This morning, after I read my daily reflection, topic “stepping into the sunlight”, I suddenly had the urge to see if my name had a meaning attached to it. So I hooked up the good old wireless laptop to the internet and looked it up. There it was, Dalyn, a boy’s name originating in Scotland, meaning from the little field. My heart burst with joy.
That probably sounds foolish. Allow me to try to explain how much that simple phrase meant to me. I am not a country boy. Those who know me can attest to this. I love the city. The shopping, shows, galleries, streets, lights, everything. I love it. And I doubt I could go long without a little dose of it. Wilderness living is not for me. The pioneers did not have it good, thank you very much.
That said, my best moments in life, my most conscious contacts with God, have always been in nature. My greatest moments of peace, and the times I can remember being truly happy in the moment - not from engaging in some activity that allowed me to escape like shopping, or a concert, or a show in the city, but moments of being totally rooted in the moment on this earth and content to be so, from my childhood until now, have almost always had a field involved.
My best moments as a child, when I felt closest to my father, when I never doubted his love and acceptance for me, where everything was right with the world and good and life was worth living even if the work was hard took place in hay meadows all over Nacogdoches county. Later, as a preteen and young teenager, when I hurt so bad I couldn’t stand it anymore and didn’t happen to have anything chemical to change the way I felt, I would slip out of my house at night into this field behind it, climb this one particular tree at the edge of that little field and gaze out over the clearing and up at the stars. I cried up in that tree more times than I could count. It was the one place I could always find release, where I could usually be able to find a moment of peace. It was where I felt close enough to talk to God more honestly than I ever could in church or anywhere else and tell him how much I hurt and how angry I was with him. No, he didn’t strike me down for that, he gave me peace.
And now, when I had to find a way to connect with God on a deeper level before I died, I didn’t run to the city and its distractions, I went to the wilderness. I camped in the woods on the edge of a field, and walked often in the field feeling like I was closest there to what Adam had in the garden when he walked with God and talked with God. The night the neighboring property owners ran me out, I spent my last moments in my new special place, on the edge of that field, talking to my father, awed by the big sky full of stars overhead, and, full of pain and anger, peace creeped in. There’s just something peaceful about a field to me. They are little islands of contentment.
Even now, in the place I retreated to after having to leave the very isolated, I am on the edge of a field. It’s the one part of this place I love. It’s the one aspect that made it acceptable as a place to continue my quest. And the fact that I get a better signal here didn’t hurt. But I digress.
It’s like God was saying to me you are Dalyn. You are the part of the little boy that came from the field. That connected with me. That knew and believed that life was good. The one who knew peace. You are the man born of that place. And when you leave the field you can take it with you, because you are from it. After all these years using this name and never even thinking it might have a meaning, I feel like it was God telling me that he wants that connection as much as I, that I can have that peace and contentment and connection and closeness and permission to feel all the pain and all the joy and not have to run from it.
I don’t know. I imagine that may look quite foolish from the outside. But from the inside it feels like God reaching down and touching the deepest, most special places and moments of my childhood, the times when I experienced respite from the pain without engaging in one form of escapism or another, concentrated all of those fragments of peace and contentment and said this is what you are from, this is what you are meant to be, this is where I want to take you, inside, this is what is at your core, under the wounds.
You are from the field.
This morning, after I read my daily reflection, topic “stepping into the sunlight”, I suddenly had the urge to see if my name had a meaning attached to it. So I hooked up the good old wireless laptop to the internet and looked it up. There it was, Dalyn, a boy’s name originating in Scotland, meaning from the little field. My heart burst with joy.
That probably sounds foolish. Allow me to try to explain how much that simple phrase meant to me. I am not a country boy. Those who know me can attest to this. I love the city. The shopping, shows, galleries, streets, lights, everything. I love it. And I doubt I could go long without a little dose of it. Wilderness living is not for me. The pioneers did not have it good, thank you very much.
That said, my best moments in life, my most conscious contacts with God, have always been in nature. My greatest moments of peace, and the times I can remember being truly happy in the moment - not from engaging in some activity that allowed me to escape like shopping, or a concert, or a show in the city, but moments of being totally rooted in the moment on this earth and content to be so, from my childhood until now, have almost always had a field involved.
My best moments as a child, when I felt closest to my father, when I never doubted his love and acceptance for me, where everything was right with the world and good and life was worth living even if the work was hard took place in hay meadows all over Nacogdoches county. Later, as a preteen and young teenager, when I hurt so bad I couldn’t stand it anymore and didn’t happen to have anything chemical to change the way I felt, I would slip out of my house at night into this field behind it, climb this one particular tree at the edge of that little field and gaze out over the clearing and up at the stars. I cried up in that tree more times than I could count. It was the one place I could always find release, where I could usually be able to find a moment of peace. It was where I felt close enough to talk to God more honestly than I ever could in church or anywhere else and tell him how much I hurt and how angry I was with him. No, he didn’t strike me down for that, he gave me peace.
And now, when I had to find a way to connect with God on a deeper level before I died, I didn’t run to the city and its distractions, I went to the wilderness. I camped in the woods on the edge of a field, and walked often in the field feeling like I was closest there to what Adam had in the garden when he walked with God and talked with God. The night the neighboring property owners ran me out, I spent my last moments in my new special place, on the edge of that field, talking to my father, awed by the big sky full of stars overhead, and, full of pain and anger, peace creeped in. There’s just something peaceful about a field to me. They are little islands of contentment.
Even now, in the place I retreated to after having to leave the very isolated, I am on the edge of a field. It’s the one part of this place I love. It’s the one aspect that made it acceptable as a place to continue my quest. And the fact that I get a better signal here didn’t hurt. But I digress.
It’s like God was saying to me you are Dalyn. You are the part of the little boy that came from the field. That connected with me. That knew and believed that life was good. The one who knew peace. You are the man born of that place. And when you leave the field you can take it with you, because you are from it. After all these years using this name and never even thinking it might have a meaning, I feel like it was God telling me that he wants that connection as much as I, that I can have that peace and contentment and connection and closeness and permission to feel all the pain and all the joy and not have to run from it.
I don’t know. I imagine that may look quite foolish from the outside. But from the inside it feels like God reaching down and touching the deepest, most special places and moments of my childhood, the times when I experienced respite from the pain without engaging in one form of escapism or another, concentrated all of those fragments of peace and contentment and said this is what you are from, this is what you are meant to be, this is where I want to take you, inside, this is what is at your core, under the wounds.
You are from the field.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Peniel - Day 3...10:14pm
Right now I don’t feel angry about my past. Instead I feel exhausted and saddened by what appears to be a life of destruction built on the reactions of a four or five year old boy to something, I don’t even know what. Somehow a child became convinced he was bad and worthless and that false understanding provided the base from which all future choices and reactions were launched. It doesn’t seem fair or right. Ok, I guess I was wrong. I do feel angry. A little child’s reactions should not hold enough power to direct the course of a lifetime. A child has no understanding, no wisdom to build on, no way of knowing that the instinctual reaction is one of error and destruction. How could God let my choices and reactions of that time lead step by step to the pain and misery that has been my life? How dare you hold a child responsible for his actions to such an extreme? Why didn’t you do something to change it, to stop it, to redirect it. If you loved me, how could this be allowed to happen. Even the law doesn’t recognize a child’s free will or their ability to make decisions of any importance. How could you?
Peniel - Day 3...9:45pm
In my search for recovery and healing, I am specifically looking for the truth in two areas. The truth about me. And the truth about God.
I know now that a significant amount of my pain is the result of believing things about myself which are not, were not, true. Choice after choice, act after act, I have declared to the world I hate me. Underneath that self-loathing, somewhere is a lie that I swallowed, hook, line and sinker. While it might be nice to actually love myself, I would be much happier with just seeing and accepting an accurate view of myself, my worth. The good and the bad. And then feeling the appropriate feelings about that view. No longer downplaying the good while exaggerating the bad would be a good start. But I want to achieve this by truly healing, not convincing myself with logic or mantras that something that goes contrary to the core of what I believe about myself is actually the truth. That might work for a while, but something will come along to shatter the illusion. It always does. No, I want to find the core of that belief and change that.
I believe that all of us are essentially spiritual beings who have an instinctual hunger for relationship with God. I know I do. I love God, and the vast majority of the time these days I deeply believe that he loves me. But even right now, when I am totally and completely relying on him to guide me, teach me, heal me, get me through this, there is an element of distrust. A lack of faith. There is even some anger and resentment directed solely in his direction. There is a part of me that says I don’t want to submit to your will or do things your way because you let me get hurt, you let me get broken, and then you let me make it worse. You let me destroy myself, and then you even refused me the escape of death, leaving me here to suffer alone. I know this is not an accurate portrayal of the God I believe in, but there is still a part of me that feels just that. Why? Because in my pain, loneliness, sense of abandonment and confusion, I have bought a lie about my creator. I seek now the truth about the one I surrendered my life to.
I know now that a significant amount of my pain is the result of believing things about myself which are not, were not, true. Choice after choice, act after act, I have declared to the world I hate me. Underneath that self-loathing, somewhere is a lie that I swallowed, hook, line and sinker. While it might be nice to actually love myself, I would be much happier with just seeing and accepting an accurate view of myself, my worth. The good and the bad. And then feeling the appropriate feelings about that view. No longer downplaying the good while exaggerating the bad would be a good start. But I want to achieve this by truly healing, not convincing myself with logic or mantras that something that goes contrary to the core of what I believe about myself is actually the truth. That might work for a while, but something will come along to shatter the illusion. It always does. No, I want to find the core of that belief and change that.
I believe that all of us are essentially spiritual beings who have an instinctual hunger for relationship with God. I know I do. I love God, and the vast majority of the time these days I deeply believe that he loves me. But even right now, when I am totally and completely relying on him to guide me, teach me, heal me, get me through this, there is an element of distrust. A lack of faith. There is even some anger and resentment directed solely in his direction. There is a part of me that says I don’t want to submit to your will or do things your way because you let me get hurt, you let me get broken, and then you let me make it worse. You let me destroy myself, and then you even refused me the escape of death, leaving me here to suffer alone. I know this is not an accurate portrayal of the God I believe in, but there is still a part of me that feels just that. Why? Because in my pain, loneliness, sense of abandonment and confusion, I have bought a lie about my creator. I seek now the truth about the one I surrendered my life to.
Peniel - Day 3...9:18pm
Despite knowing some of my positive attributes and characteristics, finally having people in my life I trust besides my parents who point out good things about who I am (things I know that they’re right about by the way), I am haunted by feelings of inadequacy. I think I may finally have a chance to beat this, if I can find a way to walk straight into the face of my pain. To stop trying to avoid and escape the things that are so hard to look at in my life. That is what I am trying so hard to do now. My goal is not to erase all my pain and enter a world where no pain exists, I tried for years to do just that. That world doesn’t exist on this plane. It is a fantasy, or a mask to be worn on the outside while dying on the inside, or living from one state of oblivion to another, a world of escapism. My goal is to find a way to become healthy enough to live in the real world, where confusing and painful things happen, without being crippled or overwhelmed by them. Without immediately being reduced to a state of hopelessness at the first sign of something negative. As scary as it is, I have hope. Hope for recovery, for wholeness. And hope that open wounds I can not even see within myself will heal, leaving only scars that may even fade with time.
But am I being foolish to feel this way? Am I simply laying down on the altar to be sacrificed again? Am I setting myself up for even more pain than what drove me to do this in the first place? I hope not, but I am afraid.
I don’t expect this healing to be immediate. For me to walk away from this period of isolation and searching totally whole and well. But I am hoping for the major work to have been done and healing to have begun, true healing, of the wound(s), not merely the many symptoms.
What makes this attempt different from times past where I have searched for healing? For one thing, I am on a quest for truth. Truth about myself, my relationship with God and others. Truth about why. And I am determined, though afraid, to seek out and discover that truth, regardless of the costs and pain. From childhood until now, I have done anything and everything I could do to avoid this pain, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. Though my escapism almost always caused pain, that was not the intent. Even as a cutter and self-mutilator, the goal was to focus and change the pain, to mask the real pain inside by distracting myself with pain on the surface. If I want to solve my problem, I have to travel the path of truth, which unfortunately seems to lie somewhere in the general direction of the pain in my life.
But am I being foolish to feel this way? Am I simply laying down on the altar to be sacrificed again? Am I setting myself up for even more pain than what drove me to do this in the first place? I hope not, but I am afraid.
I don’t expect this healing to be immediate. For me to walk away from this period of isolation and searching totally whole and well. But I am hoping for the major work to have been done and healing to have begun, true healing, of the wound(s), not merely the many symptoms.
What makes this attempt different from times past where I have searched for healing? For one thing, I am on a quest for truth. Truth about myself, my relationship with God and others. Truth about why. And I am determined, though afraid, to seek out and discover that truth, regardless of the costs and pain. From childhood until now, I have done anything and everything I could do to avoid this pain, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. Though my escapism almost always caused pain, that was not the intent. Even as a cutter and self-mutilator, the goal was to focus and change the pain, to mask the real pain inside by distracting myself with pain on the surface. If I want to solve my problem, I have to travel the path of truth, which unfortunately seems to lie somewhere in the general direction of the pain in my life.
Peniel - Day 3...8:52pm
It’s weird. I think I screamed for help every day for years. I am sure that is an exaggeration, but I know I screamed for it all to stop. For someone to help me and make it better. I know I got angry when no one saw how I was hurting. No one helped me. But I can’t once remember asking for that help out loud. It’s like I didn’t want anyone to know what was going on in my head…and yet, I expected my protectors to read my mind and race to my rescue.
My anger turned inward, against myself. I guess I thought I was bad, a loser, so I was the reason these things had happened to me, were happening to me. So I got angry at myself. I became a martyr, the sacrificial lamb to bear the guilt of anyone and everyone who hurt me or let me down on my own shoulders. I never realized that before. It’s a little sickening.
I hurt so much that I cried out help me, I don’t want this to happen anymore, but my cry was never out loud. Still, inside my head, the silent screams were deafening. When help didn’t come, not even from God, the feelings of aloneness and powerlessness overwhelmed me. That is also a pattern that continued, it would seem, until quite recently.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t count on anyone else to help me anymore. I would help and protect myself. And when, at thirteen, I vocally and determinedly included God in this group I would no longer rely on, the situation worsened. Mainly, things worsened because I could no more protect myself than I could stop the pain, and the things I did to try to do so only added to my wounds. I made myself vulnerable to almost everyone, anyone, quite often people who did not deserve to be trusted with my vulnerability. But I trusted noone. And when those I placed myself at the mercy of, crying out please, just this once, love me, accept me, don’t hurt me did just that I felt confirmed in my belief that that was what I deserved.
I always felt that I trusted fairly easily, too easily, because I did subject myself time and time again to the whims of those who would take advantage of me. But I realize now, I never trusted at all. Even with those who did not abuse my vulnerability, I waited impatiently for the shoe to drop, for the hurt and rejection to come. If it did not, I would eventually do something to force it.
On the surface, I often came across as confident and trusting. Maybe that’s part of why no one seemed to notice anything was wrong. But no, I didn’t trust anyone not to hurt me, reject me, take advantage of me. I put myself in situations that would lead to that over and over again, praying for someone to prove me wrong. And when anyone approached that historic mark? I sabotaged the situation. I didn’t deserve that kind of love, to be accepted, to be cared for. Anyone special enough to love someone like me deserved better than me. My God, this is not some post-prison guilt and shame over my record attitude. I’ve felt like this since my earliest relationships. And I destroyed them all that had a chance. The ones that didn’t have a chance? Those were the many, many times I placed my life in the hands of vampires and predators and dared them not to eat me alive.
I looked in desperation for someone to fill the void. I could not be alone. There had to be someone in the world who would love me, someone who wouldn’t consider or treat me as worthless, someone who would free me from the way I felt inside, especially about myself. There must be someplace I could go. But since I didn’t deserve the company, love, and acceptance of people who were worthy of trust, the people I turned to looking for these things so desperately were people who wouldn’t even try, much less have any chance of, making these hopes and dreams reality. And of course, anyone who could give the illusion of caring and loving and accepting me had free reign to do with me pretty much as they pleased, which led me to some pretty dark places, including prison.
I feel ineligible for a good relationship with someone of value, for a dream job I love, for a nice place to live, etc. So, I either refuse to really aim for these things and risk not getting them in the first place or do things to sabotage them. Not every single time, but almost. And while that attitude may have gotten much worse since prison, where I have tried to convince myself I would be happy with a shack and crumbs because I am afraid to dream of the mansion and feasts, it’s been there for years. I don’t remember it not being there.
As a child I began living day to day in a series of compulsive behavior. Do something, anything, that might take away the pain, if only for a moment, or failing that provide relief by changing the type of pain. Actions that at least might give me the illusion of control over how I hurt and how much. These behaviors escalated into addictions and acts that nearly killed me many times and quite literally destroyed my life. I am praying that by finding and dealing with the wounds that started this avalanche of agony I can stop these destructive cycles in every area, not just alcohol and drugs, heal and finally rebuild.
My anger turned inward, against myself. I guess I thought I was bad, a loser, so I was the reason these things had happened to me, were happening to me. So I got angry at myself. I became a martyr, the sacrificial lamb to bear the guilt of anyone and everyone who hurt me or let me down on my own shoulders. I never realized that before. It’s a little sickening.
I hurt so much that I cried out help me, I don’t want this to happen anymore, but my cry was never out loud. Still, inside my head, the silent screams were deafening. When help didn’t come, not even from God, the feelings of aloneness and powerlessness overwhelmed me. That is also a pattern that continued, it would seem, until quite recently.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t count on anyone else to help me anymore. I would help and protect myself. And when, at thirteen, I vocally and determinedly included God in this group I would no longer rely on, the situation worsened. Mainly, things worsened because I could no more protect myself than I could stop the pain, and the things I did to try to do so only added to my wounds. I made myself vulnerable to almost everyone, anyone, quite often people who did not deserve to be trusted with my vulnerability. But I trusted noone. And when those I placed myself at the mercy of, crying out please, just this once, love me, accept me, don’t hurt me did just that I felt confirmed in my belief that that was what I deserved.
I always felt that I trusted fairly easily, too easily, because I did subject myself time and time again to the whims of those who would take advantage of me. But I realize now, I never trusted at all. Even with those who did not abuse my vulnerability, I waited impatiently for the shoe to drop, for the hurt and rejection to come. If it did not, I would eventually do something to force it.
On the surface, I often came across as confident and trusting. Maybe that’s part of why no one seemed to notice anything was wrong. But no, I didn’t trust anyone not to hurt me, reject me, take advantage of me. I put myself in situations that would lead to that over and over again, praying for someone to prove me wrong. And when anyone approached that historic mark? I sabotaged the situation. I didn’t deserve that kind of love, to be accepted, to be cared for. Anyone special enough to love someone like me deserved better than me. My God, this is not some post-prison guilt and shame over my record attitude. I’ve felt like this since my earliest relationships. And I destroyed them all that had a chance. The ones that didn’t have a chance? Those were the many, many times I placed my life in the hands of vampires and predators and dared them not to eat me alive.
I looked in desperation for someone to fill the void. I could not be alone. There had to be someone in the world who would love me, someone who wouldn’t consider or treat me as worthless, someone who would free me from the way I felt inside, especially about myself. There must be someplace I could go. But since I didn’t deserve the company, love, and acceptance of people who were worthy of trust, the people I turned to looking for these things so desperately were people who wouldn’t even try, much less have any chance of, making these hopes and dreams reality. And of course, anyone who could give the illusion of caring and loving and accepting me had free reign to do with me pretty much as they pleased, which led me to some pretty dark places, including prison.
I feel ineligible for a good relationship with someone of value, for a dream job I love, for a nice place to live, etc. So, I either refuse to really aim for these things and risk not getting them in the first place or do things to sabotage them. Not every single time, but almost. And while that attitude may have gotten much worse since prison, where I have tried to convince myself I would be happy with a shack and crumbs because I am afraid to dream of the mansion and feasts, it’s been there for years. I don’t remember it not being there.
As a child I began living day to day in a series of compulsive behavior. Do something, anything, that might take away the pain, if only for a moment, or failing that provide relief by changing the type of pain. Actions that at least might give me the illusion of control over how I hurt and how much. These behaviors escalated into addictions and acts that nearly killed me many times and quite literally destroyed my life. I am praying that by finding and dealing with the wounds that started this avalanche of agony I can stop these destructive cycles in every area, not just alcohol and drugs, heal and finally rebuild.
Peniel - Day 3...3:55pm
My life became a private torment. The question why is this happening to me consumed me. But my fear kept me from asking anyone but God, and he never answered. My masks I learned to wear so well hid the depths of my pain from the world around me. And while God didn’t answer my often repeated question, I did. It’s my fault. I didn’t know why, but I knew it must be true. I felt personally responsible for everything that happened to me, for every unacceptable feeling and thought.
I remember watching the movie It’s a Wonderful Life as a boy and just knowing that if that were done with me, if I were given the chance to see what the world would be like if I had never been born, then I would find a much better world with those I cared about happier and better off with my absence. I’m not sure what gave me that idea, but I know once it hit me for the first time I never quite shook it. That feeling haunts me even now. All I knew was that I was the reason for the pain.
Could it be as simple as this? At the tender age of four or five when I began to feel the pain, confusion and emptiness, when it first felt like bad things were happening to me, did I then with my child logic evaluate the situation, declare that good things happen to good people, bad things happen to bad people and conclude that I must therefore be a bad person. Then a little boy is left to struggle with the question of what is it about him that is so bad and unacceptable when he can’t figure out what he did that was bad except feel these hurts. Self-branded as bad, I could no longer believe it when I was told I was good, when someone showed pride in me I thought, why? I thought they can’t be right, because if they’re right then why do I feel this way. And if they’re wrong, then it’s because they don’t know how I really feel and am. If they find out they won’t feel pride and love for me. I will no longer be accepted. I had love and acceptance, but I didn’t because I believed it to be for some other boy they saw and not for the me who lived beneath the mask that boy wore. I traumatized myself with this idea that having done nothing wrong I was still bad and that noone could ever see that truth because then I couldn’t be loved or accepted anymore. And so loved and accepted I was neither. And a hunger for those two things was born. I became the person who starved to death while sitting at the banquet table a thousand dishes within reach.
Fear entered my life. Fear that I would be discovered as unacceptable, fear that I would lose the love in my life that I didn’t really feel was mine in the first place. Fear that I would never be able to measure up. And fear brought his friend guilt. My new and constant childhood companion. I took personal responsibility for everything I felt was wrong in my life and more. For a year now I have struggled with guilt and the idea that the drop in the size of my father’s congregation while I was in prison was my fault. I have wanted to talk to him about that many times, to hear that assurance that of course not, it hasn’t anything to do with me or what I did. But fear and guilt say don’t bring it up, because if the suspicion and feeling is hurting you how are you going to deal with it when you find out it’s true? This foolish responsibility for the lives of others, some of whom I never even met, in this new, improved, healthier me of the past year is nothing compared to the weight I put on myself as a boy. Where oh where did this nonsense come from? How did I begin to take responsibility for and feel guilty for anything and everything bad that happened around me? Of course it was my fault. I was bad so bad things happened. But I wasn’t bad. I wasn’t perfect, but I wasn’t bad. But here we are again, right back to that same place. A little boy with no major wrongs somehow concluding he was, at the core, a bad person. How did this happen? I think I may finally be getting close to the root. And I feel beaten and exhausted. I think I need a break. Maybe go drop a line in the lake and bask in the nice afternoon and the presence of God and try to realize that whatever that little boy felt, no matter how it effected every day after that, it wasn’t, it isn’t necessarily true. Not everything I feel is real. This is where it begins to matter that I know I am forgiven and loved by my creator. And where the anger burns again. How could a small child of four or five feel this way and nobody see it? How could a God who loved that little boy let that happen?
I remember watching the movie It’s a Wonderful Life as a boy and just knowing that if that were done with me, if I were given the chance to see what the world would be like if I had never been born, then I would find a much better world with those I cared about happier and better off with my absence. I’m not sure what gave me that idea, but I know once it hit me for the first time I never quite shook it. That feeling haunts me even now. All I knew was that I was the reason for the pain.
Could it be as simple as this? At the tender age of four or five when I began to feel the pain, confusion and emptiness, when it first felt like bad things were happening to me, did I then with my child logic evaluate the situation, declare that good things happen to good people, bad things happen to bad people and conclude that I must therefore be a bad person. Then a little boy is left to struggle with the question of what is it about him that is so bad and unacceptable when he can’t figure out what he did that was bad except feel these hurts. Self-branded as bad, I could no longer believe it when I was told I was good, when someone showed pride in me I thought, why? I thought they can’t be right, because if they’re right then why do I feel this way. And if they’re wrong, then it’s because they don’t know how I really feel and am. If they find out they won’t feel pride and love for me. I will no longer be accepted. I had love and acceptance, but I didn’t because I believed it to be for some other boy they saw and not for the me who lived beneath the mask that boy wore. I traumatized myself with this idea that having done nothing wrong I was still bad and that noone could ever see that truth because then I couldn’t be loved or accepted anymore. And so loved and accepted I was neither. And a hunger for those two things was born. I became the person who starved to death while sitting at the banquet table a thousand dishes within reach.
Fear entered my life. Fear that I would be discovered as unacceptable, fear that I would lose the love in my life that I didn’t really feel was mine in the first place. Fear that I would never be able to measure up. And fear brought his friend guilt. My new and constant childhood companion. I took personal responsibility for everything I felt was wrong in my life and more. For a year now I have struggled with guilt and the idea that the drop in the size of my father’s congregation while I was in prison was my fault. I have wanted to talk to him about that many times, to hear that assurance that of course not, it hasn’t anything to do with me or what I did. But fear and guilt say don’t bring it up, because if the suspicion and feeling is hurting you how are you going to deal with it when you find out it’s true? This foolish responsibility for the lives of others, some of whom I never even met, in this new, improved, healthier me of the past year is nothing compared to the weight I put on myself as a boy. Where oh where did this nonsense come from? How did I begin to take responsibility for and feel guilty for anything and everything bad that happened around me? Of course it was my fault. I was bad so bad things happened. But I wasn’t bad. I wasn’t perfect, but I wasn’t bad. But here we are again, right back to that same place. A little boy with no major wrongs somehow concluding he was, at the core, a bad person. How did this happen? I think I may finally be getting close to the root. And I feel beaten and exhausted. I think I need a break. Maybe go drop a line in the lake and bask in the nice afternoon and the presence of God and try to realize that whatever that little boy felt, no matter how it effected every day after that, it wasn’t, it isn’t necessarily true. Not everything I feel is real. This is where it begins to matter that I know I am forgiven and loved by my creator. And where the anger burns again. How could a small child of four or five feel this way and nobody see it? How could a God who loved that little boy let that happen?
Peniel - Day 3...3:07pm
Looking back over my life I see this one huge, horrible cycle of expectations of myself, striving to achieve them, failing in one point, falling into despair, and then plunging into the opposite direction until my then destructive behavior nearly killed me or I got so sick of it I knew I had to stop it. Then I would resolve to clean up and repair my broken life, set my expectations and demands upon myself, and the cycle repeats.
My spiritual advisor and I had a talk not long ago about the demands of perfection I place on myself. It’s the first phase, or maybe the second, of this vicious cycle. I have a need to be perfect which is so intense, it is ruling my life and preventing me from being able to see things in perspective. I set myself up for failure.
I’m starting to see also a pattern of vulnerability in my life. Of course, we are all vulnerable as children. That’s why we need to be protected as we mature, but I think, perhaps some of my perfectionism and other destructive choices stem from a root, or maybe base of a trunk that was vulnerability.
My parents loved me. I know that now, and see that in so many ways it was obvious even then. I don’t have a horror-story childhood full of abuse, and I am grateful for that. If I dare to even think the word neglect, I am slapped in the face by the fact that I had more care, love and attention than many of my friends, of many of the people I know now. I am reminded of a dear friend whose mother left her in drug dealer's home for extended periods of time. Of a friend who was left in a hotel room to care for his younger brother as his mother abandoned them. No. I was not neglected, not in the light of stories such as these and so many worse.
I can recall times where my father’s love and approval made me the happiest little boy on the planet. Sacrifices he made to be with me. And yet, for some reason I don’t understand, it wasn’t enough. I had more love and attention than so many, and yet I starved. My family loved me, and there was no abuse. But somehow I felt the loneliness and pain of a form of neglect, and the resulting vulnerability set me up for disaster.
I remember times of feeling so loved and cared about. But I also remember sitting under a tree at five years old, crying to God because I hurt and didn’t feel that anyone loved me, that I wasn’t good enough. I don’t really know where I felt I had fallen so short of this “good enough” at five or what major sin I thought I had committed, but I remember the agony of those feelings now as though they were fresh, and the tears on my cheeks tell me this wound is more alive than dead in the past. I felt so alienated. Still do.
My, perhaps exaggerated or unhealthy, needs for love and approval somehow didn’t get met in the environment of a home full of love. That’s messed up. I don’t understand how it happened. But I know that it did. And I can see over the next 33 years how I made choice after choice and engaged in destructive behavior after destructive behavior to find that love and approval. When that need and drive became the all-consuming fire in my life I became vulnerable to influences outside my parent’s home that I never stood a chance against.
When I truly began acting out in earnest as a seventh-grader, when I began getting in trouble with or because of alcohol, drugs, sex, and many other unacceptables I knew better. I knew it was wrong. I knew I acted contrary to my own values and the core of what I believed of God. I did things I never once saw in my parents home and knew the reason that they weren’t there. I did it anyway. Why? In some twisted way to find love and approval. I searched desperately to find those two things at any cost. This led to risk-taking, great and specifically directed risk-taking that came close to killing me many times over.
I remember sitting on my swing-set at nine years of age asking the question why is this happening to me? Why do I feel this way? It was a question directed to anyone, everyone, noone and to God himself. And the only answer I heard was that something was terribly wrong with me and that if I pursued the answer further by asking parents or anyone else, if anyone ever knew what I was feeling and thinking things would only be worse. I was a mass of contradictions. I knew I was loved and didn’t want to lose that love. And yet I felt totally alone and unloved. How can that be? I don’t know, but there it is. I knew my mother loved me and would always love me, and yet I lived in a daily terror that somehow I was going to lose that love. I knew my father loved me and would do anything for me, and still felt that I was the least important person on the planet as far as he was concerned. I basked in his pride of me and felt that I never came close to measuring up. I lived in a constant state of confusion.
Sitting on that swing crying, completely overwhelmed by hopelessness and despair I saw my jump rope lying on the ground. A song filled my head, the words fueling my desperation. When we all get to heaven, what a day of rejoicing that will be. When we all see Jesus, we’ll sing and shout the victory. I wanted that so much. No more sorrow. No more tears. No more fear and confusion. The perfect love, acceptance and connection with my God. That day I tied that jump rope to my swing set and hung myself for the first time.
How on earth did this happen? How did I get so far off the beaten track? How could someone so loved and treasured by both parents feel so alone and unloved? I wish I knew. Oh God, I need to know. I just don’t understand.
My spiritual advisor and I had a talk not long ago about the demands of perfection I place on myself. It’s the first phase, or maybe the second, of this vicious cycle. I have a need to be perfect which is so intense, it is ruling my life and preventing me from being able to see things in perspective. I set myself up for failure.
I’m starting to see also a pattern of vulnerability in my life. Of course, we are all vulnerable as children. That’s why we need to be protected as we mature, but I think, perhaps some of my perfectionism and other destructive choices stem from a root, or maybe base of a trunk that was vulnerability.
My parents loved me. I know that now, and see that in so many ways it was obvious even then. I don’t have a horror-story childhood full of abuse, and I am grateful for that. If I dare to even think the word neglect, I am slapped in the face by the fact that I had more care, love and attention than many of my friends, of many of the people I know now. I am reminded of a dear friend whose mother left her in drug dealer's home for extended periods of time. Of a friend who was left in a hotel room to care for his younger brother as his mother abandoned them. No. I was not neglected, not in the light of stories such as these and so many worse.
I can recall times where my father’s love and approval made me the happiest little boy on the planet. Sacrifices he made to be with me. And yet, for some reason I don’t understand, it wasn’t enough. I had more love and attention than so many, and yet I starved. My family loved me, and there was no abuse. But somehow I felt the loneliness and pain of a form of neglect, and the resulting vulnerability set me up for disaster.
I remember times of feeling so loved and cared about. But I also remember sitting under a tree at five years old, crying to God because I hurt and didn’t feel that anyone loved me, that I wasn’t good enough. I don’t really know where I felt I had fallen so short of this “good enough” at five or what major sin I thought I had committed, but I remember the agony of those feelings now as though they were fresh, and the tears on my cheeks tell me this wound is more alive than dead in the past. I felt so alienated. Still do.
My, perhaps exaggerated or unhealthy, needs for love and approval somehow didn’t get met in the environment of a home full of love. That’s messed up. I don’t understand how it happened. But I know that it did. And I can see over the next 33 years how I made choice after choice and engaged in destructive behavior after destructive behavior to find that love and approval. When that need and drive became the all-consuming fire in my life I became vulnerable to influences outside my parent’s home that I never stood a chance against.
When I truly began acting out in earnest as a seventh-grader, when I began getting in trouble with or because of alcohol, drugs, sex, and many other unacceptables I knew better. I knew it was wrong. I knew I acted contrary to my own values and the core of what I believed of God. I did things I never once saw in my parents home and knew the reason that they weren’t there. I did it anyway. Why? In some twisted way to find love and approval. I searched desperately to find those two things at any cost. This led to risk-taking, great and specifically directed risk-taking that came close to killing me many times over.
I remember sitting on my swing-set at nine years of age asking the question why is this happening to me? Why do I feel this way? It was a question directed to anyone, everyone, noone and to God himself. And the only answer I heard was that something was terribly wrong with me and that if I pursued the answer further by asking parents or anyone else, if anyone ever knew what I was feeling and thinking things would only be worse. I was a mass of contradictions. I knew I was loved and didn’t want to lose that love. And yet I felt totally alone and unloved. How can that be? I don’t know, but there it is. I knew my mother loved me and would always love me, and yet I lived in a daily terror that somehow I was going to lose that love. I knew my father loved me and would do anything for me, and still felt that I was the least important person on the planet as far as he was concerned. I basked in his pride of me and felt that I never came close to measuring up. I lived in a constant state of confusion.
Sitting on that swing crying, completely overwhelmed by hopelessness and despair I saw my jump rope lying on the ground. A song filled my head, the words fueling my desperation. When we all get to heaven, what a day of rejoicing that will be. When we all see Jesus, we’ll sing and shout the victory. I wanted that so much. No more sorrow. No more tears. No more fear and confusion. The perfect love, acceptance and connection with my God. That day I tied that jump rope to my swing set and hung myself for the first time.
How on earth did this happen? How did I get so far off the beaten track? How could someone so loved and treasured by both parents feel so alone and unloved? I wish I knew. Oh God, I need to know. I just don’t understand.
Peniel - Day 3...1:09pm
I broke and wept, but I shut it back down quickly. It scared me. No, I’m not afraid to cry. I used to cry quite easily, and while the tears don’t flow as quickly as they used to for me, I still have less trouble with that concept than many who are afraid to show their pain or emotions or lose control of the heart’s pressure cooker. I don’t tie whether or not I cry to my manhood. The shortest verse in the Bible is a two-word sentence, “Jesus wept.” If God can cry, so can I.
But this scared me, because it wasn’t a release of the pressure built up in my soul so much as an explosion of the container. The pain, hopelessness, despair, and sheer pointlessness of it all just washed over me in an instant. I felt as though I’d been plunged into icy waters that have no bottom. I couldn’t breath, would quickly drown, and die. Since I am not quite ready to give up on encountering God on this plane rather than the next, I couldn’t surrender to the desire to just let the waters swallow me. Although I am usually a just jump into the cold and let it steal your breath away, get it over with quickly person, I know that these waters I must ease into if I am to survive. But the release is needed. I need those tears to fall and wash away the poison that’s killing my heart and soul.
For too long I have been dealing with the symptoms, with the leaves and shoots and branches in my life. Maybe once in a while with the trunk, but I haven’t gotten near the root, not even in a quite fearless and thorough moral inventory, where I saw more trunks than branches. Tired and lethargic? That was likely the small branches of depression. So I treated the depression. And in doing so, I realized that under the depression was the larger limbs of anger, so I tried to give my anger to God and learn ways to mange it and release it. Then looking more closely I see that the anger goes back for years, a huge trunk in the tree of my life from early childhood. And that’s as much as I’ve been able to see. But I know that under the ground that stops my vision, beneath the canopy of exhaustion, depression and anger, is a root in my heart that is scarred and wounded somehow, and that that wound is poisoning my entire tree of life. There’s something wrong, that has been wrong for a very long time, that is causing the visible signs in the trunk, branches and leaves of my life. It’s time to quite trying to doctor what I can see and get to the root of the problem.
I feel as though my entire life has been hindered. The most important experiences of life are out of reach. Obstacles such as fear and the past, interfere with relationships, with self-image, with performance and achievement, with happiness. The destructive behaviors the symptoms of my wounds made it feel natural to choose have repeatedly halted the progress of my life. Anger cost me so much. I have lost important people and opportunities for years to this little luxury I can no longer afford, and feel burning me up from the inside out, even now. I have been frozen and imprisoned by fear. Guilt has eaten me like a cancer, quietly killing me as I pretended it was not even there. Symptoms, each and every one.
I have tried the focusing on each major symptom to fix my life. Trust God to dispel fear. Accept forgiveness and erase the guilt. Stop treating my everything with drugs and alcohol and my life would get better. And it has. But the truth is I have a shattered soul. And fixing the cracks on the surface of my life will not give it stability and integrity. The fissures go too deep. They must be fixed below the surface or the foundation will simply shift and crack again and again, repair after repair. But right now, the symptoms are in the way of getting to the problem. I am so angry and lost in the darkness of a past I can’t erase or escape that I can’t see to get at the real problem. My life has been a season of destruction, and the healing is not going to be a simple process of identifying and dealing with one or two issues.
But this scared me, because it wasn’t a release of the pressure built up in my soul so much as an explosion of the container. The pain, hopelessness, despair, and sheer pointlessness of it all just washed over me in an instant. I felt as though I’d been plunged into icy waters that have no bottom. I couldn’t breath, would quickly drown, and die. Since I am not quite ready to give up on encountering God on this plane rather than the next, I couldn’t surrender to the desire to just let the waters swallow me. Although I am usually a just jump into the cold and let it steal your breath away, get it over with quickly person, I know that these waters I must ease into if I am to survive. But the release is needed. I need those tears to fall and wash away the poison that’s killing my heart and soul.
For too long I have been dealing with the symptoms, with the leaves and shoots and branches in my life. Maybe once in a while with the trunk, but I haven’t gotten near the root, not even in a quite fearless and thorough moral inventory, where I saw more trunks than branches. Tired and lethargic? That was likely the small branches of depression. So I treated the depression. And in doing so, I realized that under the depression was the larger limbs of anger, so I tried to give my anger to God and learn ways to mange it and release it. Then looking more closely I see that the anger goes back for years, a huge trunk in the tree of my life from early childhood. And that’s as much as I’ve been able to see. But I know that under the ground that stops my vision, beneath the canopy of exhaustion, depression and anger, is a root in my heart that is scarred and wounded somehow, and that that wound is poisoning my entire tree of life. There’s something wrong, that has been wrong for a very long time, that is causing the visible signs in the trunk, branches and leaves of my life. It’s time to quite trying to doctor what I can see and get to the root of the problem.
I feel as though my entire life has been hindered. The most important experiences of life are out of reach. Obstacles such as fear and the past, interfere with relationships, with self-image, with performance and achievement, with happiness. The destructive behaviors the symptoms of my wounds made it feel natural to choose have repeatedly halted the progress of my life. Anger cost me so much. I have lost important people and opportunities for years to this little luxury I can no longer afford, and feel burning me up from the inside out, even now. I have been frozen and imprisoned by fear. Guilt has eaten me like a cancer, quietly killing me as I pretended it was not even there. Symptoms, each and every one.
I have tried the focusing on each major symptom to fix my life. Trust God to dispel fear. Accept forgiveness and erase the guilt. Stop treating my everything with drugs and alcohol and my life would get better. And it has. But the truth is I have a shattered soul. And fixing the cracks on the surface of my life will not give it stability and integrity. The fissures go too deep. They must be fixed below the surface or the foundation will simply shift and crack again and again, repair after repair. But right now, the symptoms are in the way of getting to the problem. I am so angry and lost in the darkness of a past I can’t erase or escape that I can’t see to get at the real problem. My life has been a season of destruction, and the healing is not going to be a simple process of identifying and dealing with one or two issues.
Peniel - Day 2...closing
I am hurt, and I am angry. Those symptoms I talked about this morning, full blown flu-like pain. I nearly tried to kill a man tonight. Instead I chose to walk away. And though it was the right thing to do, part of me still thinks I'd feel better right now if I'd shoved that machete through his guts.
My beautiful, ideal, isolated camping spot where I can get down to the nitty gritty with God, be vulnerable with my creator, cry or scream or both without audience or interruption is, temporarily at least, a thing of the past. Once again, that past I’m supposed to be able to forgive myself for, to accept God’s forgiveness for, accept my part in, do what I can to make it right and then go on with my life free of, bit me in the butt. People keep telling me to tell people I’m not serving a life-sentence. But that’s bullshit, because I am. And standing by watching this game warden trash my campsite searching my place was a quite nice reminder of just that. I had every right to be there, and the officer even acknowledged that as he made me leave. That gratefulness I had a phone signal of some sort in case of emergency got a whole lot bigger tonight as I called my father to make sure I was in the right before standing my ground when the deer hunters on the next property over took issue with my being there.
I did the next right thing. I left, when I could have forced the issue. I’ll let the officer check out the legalities come Monday, and when it’s all cleared up, I can go back in and no one will be able to make me leave again. But in the meantime, all the pain and hurt of having to stand there while an officer tore through my property after living that powerlessness for seven and a half years came back like a flood. Is there nowhere I can go and have peace?
All I wanted was some time in isolation alone with God. I spent the evening with lights in my eyes and rednecks worried about their petty right of way fight with the land owner of the property I was camped on. I got caught up in someone else’s fight, which I knew nothing about, when all I wanted was some peace and quiet and solitude to connect with God. And yes, there’s a part of me that’s not real happy that God let it happen in the first place. But that’s one wound I don’t have to dig very hard to find. The torment and powerlessness of prison did quite a number on me.
That stupid yahoo that wanted to get in my face and bully me has no idea how close he came to seeing a side of me he never wants to see, no idea how hard it was for me to lock that fighter that lives in the back of my brain out and stay in control and turn and walk away and wait for the game warden to come and settle the issue. I could have stayed. Even the officer admitted that. But it could have led to problems while there is any question about which of us was right, the man who owns the property and told me I could camp there or the men who want to run even other’s little piece of the world. When it’s settled, I can return and the rednecks will simply have to deal. If they actually get stupid enough to come down to my camp to harass me, I’ll let the fighter out. He hasn’t had any fun since I got out of prison.
Ok, that’s the wrong attitude, I know that. I’ll settle down soon. I am just angry, hurt, and feel oh so violated. But I have another place where I can continue my quest. And maybe if I get done what needs to be done inside me spiritually I can have healing even in this area. I can find freedom for once. This new place isn’t near the awesome, beautiful wilderness I had, but at least it’s safe from harassment. I’ll be okay here for a day or two. I don’t know if this event actually hindered or helped what I’m doing. There’s no doubt it brought many of the frustrations, fears, and hurts that I’m dealing with right to the surface were it will be easier to scream at God about them from. On the other hand, believe it or not, I think there are more important wounds, older wounds I need to deal with, and unfortunately, those will have to wait, as my anger will allow me to think of nothing else but this current straw sitting upon my camel-like back.
I’m going to try to get some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll bring it all to God. Work it out. Write it out. Pray, cry, scream, whatever it takes. But I haven’t changed my goal. Like Jacob at Peniel I will not release my fight with God and let him leave until he blesses me, teaches me, changes me, heals me…and if I walk with a limp the rest of my life, so be it.
My beautiful, ideal, isolated camping spot where I can get down to the nitty gritty with God, be vulnerable with my creator, cry or scream or both without audience or interruption is, temporarily at least, a thing of the past. Once again, that past I’m supposed to be able to forgive myself for, to accept God’s forgiveness for, accept my part in, do what I can to make it right and then go on with my life free of, bit me in the butt. People keep telling me to tell people I’m not serving a life-sentence. But that’s bullshit, because I am. And standing by watching this game warden trash my campsite searching my place was a quite nice reminder of just that. I had every right to be there, and the officer even acknowledged that as he made me leave. That gratefulness I had a phone signal of some sort in case of emergency got a whole lot bigger tonight as I called my father to make sure I was in the right before standing my ground when the deer hunters on the next property over took issue with my being there.
I did the next right thing. I left, when I could have forced the issue. I’ll let the officer check out the legalities come Monday, and when it’s all cleared up, I can go back in and no one will be able to make me leave again. But in the meantime, all the pain and hurt of having to stand there while an officer tore through my property after living that powerlessness for seven and a half years came back like a flood. Is there nowhere I can go and have peace?
All I wanted was some time in isolation alone with God. I spent the evening with lights in my eyes and rednecks worried about their petty right of way fight with the land owner of the property I was camped on. I got caught up in someone else’s fight, which I knew nothing about, when all I wanted was some peace and quiet and solitude to connect with God. And yes, there’s a part of me that’s not real happy that God let it happen in the first place. But that’s one wound I don’t have to dig very hard to find. The torment and powerlessness of prison did quite a number on me.
That stupid yahoo that wanted to get in my face and bully me has no idea how close he came to seeing a side of me he never wants to see, no idea how hard it was for me to lock that fighter that lives in the back of my brain out and stay in control and turn and walk away and wait for the game warden to come and settle the issue. I could have stayed. Even the officer admitted that. But it could have led to problems while there is any question about which of us was right, the man who owns the property and told me I could camp there or the men who want to run even other’s little piece of the world. When it’s settled, I can return and the rednecks will simply have to deal. If they actually get stupid enough to come down to my camp to harass me, I’ll let the fighter out. He hasn’t had any fun since I got out of prison.
Ok, that’s the wrong attitude, I know that. I’ll settle down soon. I am just angry, hurt, and feel oh so violated. But I have another place where I can continue my quest. And maybe if I get done what needs to be done inside me spiritually I can have healing even in this area. I can find freedom for once. This new place isn’t near the awesome, beautiful wilderness I had, but at least it’s safe from harassment. I’ll be okay here for a day or two. I don’t know if this event actually hindered or helped what I’m doing. There’s no doubt it brought many of the frustrations, fears, and hurts that I’m dealing with right to the surface were it will be easier to scream at God about them from. On the other hand, believe it or not, I think there are more important wounds, older wounds I need to deal with, and unfortunately, those will have to wait, as my anger will allow me to think of nothing else but this current straw sitting upon my camel-like back.
I’m going to try to get some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll bring it all to God. Work it out. Write it out. Pray, cry, scream, whatever it takes. But I haven’t changed my goal. Like Jacob at Peniel I will not release my fight with God and let him leave until he blesses me, teaches me, changes me, heals me…and if I walk with a limp the rest of my life, so be it.
Peniel - Day 2...5:13am
Flipped open my little book of daily reflections to read the day’s entry, and color me unthrilled. The topic for the day? Let go and let God. Then of course was the reminder that I am supposed to pray only for knowledge of his will for me and the power to carry that out. Further into the reading were these two sentences: “Because I find it hard to let go of these kind of worrisome thoughts and attitudes that cause me immense anguish, all I need to do during these times is allow God, as I understand him, to release them for me, and then and there, I let go of the thoughts, memories and attitudes that are troubling me. When I receive help from God, as I understand him, I can live my life one day at a time and handle whatever challenges that come my way.” How gloriously simple. I can go home now and warm up. But it’s not that simple. Not hardly.
First off, I don’t believe at all that all I should pray for is the knowledge of God’s will for me and the power to carry that out. Maybe my life would be simpler if I did. But I don’t. The model prayer I pray regularly, the Our Father, opens with praise to God, then, yes, for his will to be done, but it doesn’t stop there. There are requests for needs and protection and guidance.
And the same person who gave us that prayer got down on his knees in a garden one night, knowing full-well what the will of God for him was, and full of anguish, prayed for other options. Sure, at the end was not my will but yours, but the time that brought the drops of blood from his brow? That was during the hey, let’s rethink this idea, could there possibly be another way to get this done part. So, while I agree the end result needs to be your will not mine, show me what that is and give me the strength to do it, I don’t feel I have to keep my mouth shut about what I’d rather see happen. Besides, God already knows I don’t want to bear that cross, whatever cross it is, in the first place.
And maybe it’s just me, but I need a break from the enough help to get through life one day at a time. When I say to God during moments of “immense anguish” release me, and I get some relief that’s wonderful. But if I don’t get to the core of the problem, face myself, my fear, and whatever is causing the problem in the first place it will simply return to my awareness time and time again. It will pop up in new and interesting ways to torment me, while I go through the steps to let it go again and get through one more day.
Living from one day to the next, finding relief today with no clue if it will still be there tomorrow but knowing I can repeat the process if the situation crops back up, in my opinion, is spiritual poverty. Living paycheck to paycheck spiritually, never knowing if an unexpected bill or expense is going to hurt you. I don’t want one day at a time any more. I want security. I want a nice spiritual savings account, so that I know I’m covered.
All these things I keep giving to God and finding situations that trigger them again and again are simply symptoms of the real problem. I have a wound somewhere deep inside me. The symptoms of this wound that is slowly killing me are fears, insecurities, doubts, low self-esteem, loneliness, etc, etc, etc. I can give these fears to God when they pop up. I can let go of my doubts daily. I can release my loneliness to my creator for a nice daily reprieve, treat the symptoms and never ever heal. Because the problem isn’t all these symptoms causing me agony, the problem is the wound that is causing the symptoms. If I can figure out what the wound is and get that treated, then the symptoms won’t keep popping up for me to have to wrestle with letting go and letting God over and over again. It can be done. But I have to dig, and go through the anguish of finding out exactly what the root of the problem is before I can give it to God. If he simply takes the wound, with me having no clue what it really was because all I ever saw were the symptoms it caused, then I learn nothing from it, and gain no wisdom, knowledge, or experience in the healing of that wound that can help someone else. I need to see the puss-filled core of the wound that’s killing me. Then, I can let go of it and let God heal it. But this constant treating the surface anguish, the symptoms, and not what’s at the root of it, makes me have to keep dealing with, keep letting go of, the same thing in situation after situation. And that’s a big part of why I really wouldn’t mind dying right now. I no longer am satisfied with release from the pain of the symptoms. Even if it means I have to feel them a little longer, I want the healing that comes from uncovering and dealing with the wound.
First off, I don’t believe at all that all I should pray for is the knowledge of God’s will for me and the power to carry that out. Maybe my life would be simpler if I did. But I don’t. The model prayer I pray regularly, the Our Father, opens with praise to God, then, yes, for his will to be done, but it doesn’t stop there. There are requests for needs and protection and guidance.
And the same person who gave us that prayer got down on his knees in a garden one night, knowing full-well what the will of God for him was, and full of anguish, prayed for other options. Sure, at the end was not my will but yours, but the time that brought the drops of blood from his brow? That was during the hey, let’s rethink this idea, could there possibly be another way to get this done part. So, while I agree the end result needs to be your will not mine, show me what that is and give me the strength to do it, I don’t feel I have to keep my mouth shut about what I’d rather see happen. Besides, God already knows I don’t want to bear that cross, whatever cross it is, in the first place.
And maybe it’s just me, but I need a break from the enough help to get through life one day at a time. When I say to God during moments of “immense anguish” release me, and I get some relief that’s wonderful. But if I don’t get to the core of the problem, face myself, my fear, and whatever is causing the problem in the first place it will simply return to my awareness time and time again. It will pop up in new and interesting ways to torment me, while I go through the steps to let it go again and get through one more day.
Living from one day to the next, finding relief today with no clue if it will still be there tomorrow but knowing I can repeat the process if the situation crops back up, in my opinion, is spiritual poverty. Living paycheck to paycheck spiritually, never knowing if an unexpected bill or expense is going to hurt you. I don’t want one day at a time any more. I want security. I want a nice spiritual savings account, so that I know I’m covered.
All these things I keep giving to God and finding situations that trigger them again and again are simply symptoms of the real problem. I have a wound somewhere deep inside me. The symptoms of this wound that is slowly killing me are fears, insecurities, doubts, low self-esteem, loneliness, etc, etc, etc. I can give these fears to God when they pop up. I can let go of my doubts daily. I can release my loneliness to my creator for a nice daily reprieve, treat the symptoms and never ever heal. Because the problem isn’t all these symptoms causing me agony, the problem is the wound that is causing the symptoms. If I can figure out what the wound is and get that treated, then the symptoms won’t keep popping up for me to have to wrestle with letting go and letting God over and over again. It can be done. But I have to dig, and go through the anguish of finding out exactly what the root of the problem is before I can give it to God. If he simply takes the wound, with me having no clue what it really was because all I ever saw were the symptoms it caused, then I learn nothing from it, and gain no wisdom, knowledge, or experience in the healing of that wound that can help someone else. I need to see the puss-filled core of the wound that’s killing me. Then, I can let go of it and let God heal it. But this constant treating the surface anguish, the symptoms, and not what’s at the root of it, makes me have to keep dealing with, keep letting go of, the same thing in situation after situation. And that’s a big part of why I really wouldn’t mind dying right now. I no longer am satisfied with release from the pain of the symptoms. Even if it means I have to feel them a little longer, I want the healing that comes from uncovering and dealing with the wound.
Peniel - Day 1...7:28pm
It’s been a fairly productive afternoon, considering I spent most of it trying to run away. Yes, I balked already. Not thirty minutes after my last entry a question popped into my mind. I immediately began fighting the compulsion to begin writing it out, to work through it with pen and paper. Partly because I don’t know the answer. Partly because I know I’ve been living the wrong side of the question. But mostly my fear stems from knowing the answer has little to nothing to do with God and everything to do with me, something I’m afraid to look at. My mind starts acting like a horror movie viewer talking to the potential victim who can’t hear him. Don’t go in there. Whatever you do, don’t go in there! The monster is in there, the killer. But the actors never listen, and neither did the rest of my mind.
But I tried to stop it. In twenty minutes or so I felt more anxious, not quite the right word, antsy, that’s it, I felt more antsy than I have in a long while. I couldn’t get still, physically, mentally, or emotionally. All the while, the question kept turning over in my brain, but why…?
I had a spiritual advisor who told me once she stopped worrying about when she pointed out something I needed to do or change and my first reaction was no, I don’t think so. She said I fight it, but then I get off by myself and work it out and come to the place I need to be and do what needs to be done, because the no is fear and underneath that I’m a true seeker and willing. I don’t know why I always fight looking into the scary place, why I make myself miserable trying to keep myself from looking, because, in the end, I always look. And when I finally do look, I have a tendency to beat the subject to death. To talk it over or write it out until I finally see it, get it, understand it.
But today I stalled. I had to fight not to leave the camp. The compulsion to go…well, to forget this alone with God thing for a little while, take a break, and go get laid was nearly overwhelming. I probably would have lost the fight, except it scared me to see that as I grew more and more uncomfortable that’s where my impulse took me. I treated the call away the same as I would have if the impulse had been to leave, drive to the nearest liquor store about twenty miles away and buy a bottle. I stayed, but I still couldn’t look deeply at the question. Wouldn’t look is more truthful.
Suddenly I felt tired. Fighting God will take a lot out of you. So, I took a nap. I slept for about two hours, had two strange but quite revealing dreams, and woke freezing. The area cooled quickly as the sun set. There is no question in my mind that these dreams were my subconscious working through some of my relationship issues. I think I may have even made some progress, and I can think of a few people who will probably be glad to hear that.
Upon waking up, besides being cold, I felt angry. So I built a fire (yes, I managed to accomplish this feat), and it will be ready for cooking soon. Then I sat down and started doing what I knew all along I needed to do. Write it out.
I just heard an owl. Great. Native beliefs of hearing an owl being a harbinger of death flood my mind. Maybe I’m about to die? Feels like it. But then, as bizarre as it sounds, you have to die to live. To find my life I have to lose it.
Ok, dinner is cooking, a little vegetable meal I feel my dear friend Maegan would appreciate. While it’s cooking, I’ll surrender, quit stalling, and truly begin to write it out.
The ever-so-frightening question. Why is God’s forgiveness not enough for me? It looks like such a simple question written out like that, but no, it’s not simple, and there are dangers beneath the surface. I can feel them, even if I can’t see them.
Why, if I have God’s forgiveness for what I’ve done in the past, do I need the forgiveness and approval of people, not just friends, but of strangers, of this mass consciousness we call society? Why, if I believe that I am forgiven by God, do I live as though I am not or as though I don’t believe it? That’s quite a can of worms you got there sonny.
Do I believe I’ve been forgiven? Yes, but there’s a voice that just said, “sure, but it doesn’t matter.” Now that’s stupid. Of course it matters. But part of me feels like it doesn’t. Why? Why doesn’t it matter that I’ve been forgiven my past choices and mistakes?
It’s quite simply that I feel God’s forgiveness is of no value. There. I said it. What’s it good for? Sure, I believe it means everything when standing before the judgment seat, but I’m not there, I’m here. What good is it here and now? God’s forgiveness and a dollar won’t get me a cup of coffee these days.
This is blasphemy, I know, but the ground isn’t shaking, lightning isn’t striking, and the owl shut up an hour ago. So, I’ll continue. God’s forgiveness doesn’t mean much to me when Joe Blow doesn’t forgive me and throws my job application in the trash. God’s forgiveness may take away the guilt, but it doesn’t wipe the slate clean, and it doesn’t mean that much to me when four out of the five people I’ve been interested in romantically in the past year have these damn lists of what a man has to have and can’t have done to be in their life and my past, the one I’ve been forgiven of, gets me x after x on qualification after qualification on said lists. Well yes, I see I’ve missed every question on your little survey there, but you see, I’ve been forgiven by God. Whatever. And another lost connection walks away never to call again.
And the coyotes are stirred up now. What a chilling sound. The fact is it’s all foolishness, because it does matter. I know in my mind that it matters, that God’s forgiveness is the base for all the positive changes in my life. But my emotions, don’t care about what my mind says, and I lose sight of the fact that it matters when I’m hurting, frightened and alone. And I lose that vision quickly too. I’m mad. I’m mad and treat forgiveness from my creator as though it has no value because I haven’t gotten what I want when I want it.
God, this is embarrassing. I’m a toddler throwing a tantrum because he can’t have his own way. Sheesh. How sad and silly is that? Selfishness and self-centeredness truly is the root of my problem.
So why was I so afraid to look at that? Because God doesn’t have to change anything in me to fix this problem. I do. I have to sacrifice myself. My will, my demand to have my own way, which is the root of my selfishness and self-centeredness, must die by my own hand if I am to live out the prayer I prayed earlier today. And that, for me, is scarier than hell.
But that’s me just not seeing, not understanding. My faith can not be based on what I can understand with my mind. The ants in the bed a few feet away from my tent have no clue that when I put the apple core in the west side of the their mound it was in hopes that they wouldn’t explore east and get in my tent. They don’t know what I was thinking, nor do they understand my motives. But they are enjoying the apple.
I can’t understand God any more than those ants can understand me. The wisest of all us humans can’t fathom the depths of the universe, much less the God who created it. What arrogance on my part to declare that if I can’t understand it, it must not be. If I can’t comprehend the purpose it must have none. Do I even really want a God I can wrap my mind around? I have to choose to respond in faith that God loves me and wants the best for me and can provide that even when I don’t understand it, especially when I don’t understand it.
But I tried to stop it. In twenty minutes or so I felt more anxious, not quite the right word, antsy, that’s it, I felt more antsy than I have in a long while. I couldn’t get still, physically, mentally, or emotionally. All the while, the question kept turning over in my brain, but why…?
I had a spiritual advisor who told me once she stopped worrying about when she pointed out something I needed to do or change and my first reaction was no, I don’t think so. She said I fight it, but then I get off by myself and work it out and come to the place I need to be and do what needs to be done, because the no is fear and underneath that I’m a true seeker and willing. I don’t know why I always fight looking into the scary place, why I make myself miserable trying to keep myself from looking, because, in the end, I always look. And when I finally do look, I have a tendency to beat the subject to death. To talk it over or write it out until I finally see it, get it, understand it.
But today I stalled. I had to fight not to leave the camp. The compulsion to go…well, to forget this alone with God thing for a little while, take a break, and go get laid was nearly overwhelming. I probably would have lost the fight, except it scared me to see that as I grew more and more uncomfortable that’s where my impulse took me. I treated the call away the same as I would have if the impulse had been to leave, drive to the nearest liquor store about twenty miles away and buy a bottle. I stayed, but I still couldn’t look deeply at the question. Wouldn’t look is more truthful.
Suddenly I felt tired. Fighting God will take a lot out of you. So, I took a nap. I slept for about two hours, had two strange but quite revealing dreams, and woke freezing. The area cooled quickly as the sun set. There is no question in my mind that these dreams were my subconscious working through some of my relationship issues. I think I may have even made some progress, and I can think of a few people who will probably be glad to hear that.
Upon waking up, besides being cold, I felt angry. So I built a fire (yes, I managed to accomplish this feat), and it will be ready for cooking soon. Then I sat down and started doing what I knew all along I needed to do. Write it out.
I just heard an owl. Great. Native beliefs of hearing an owl being a harbinger of death flood my mind. Maybe I’m about to die? Feels like it. But then, as bizarre as it sounds, you have to die to live. To find my life I have to lose it.
Ok, dinner is cooking, a little vegetable meal I feel my dear friend Maegan would appreciate. While it’s cooking, I’ll surrender, quit stalling, and truly begin to write it out.
The ever-so-frightening question. Why is God’s forgiveness not enough for me? It looks like such a simple question written out like that, but no, it’s not simple, and there are dangers beneath the surface. I can feel them, even if I can’t see them.
Why, if I have God’s forgiveness for what I’ve done in the past, do I need the forgiveness and approval of people, not just friends, but of strangers, of this mass consciousness we call society? Why, if I believe that I am forgiven by God, do I live as though I am not or as though I don’t believe it? That’s quite a can of worms you got there sonny.
Do I believe I’ve been forgiven? Yes, but there’s a voice that just said, “sure, but it doesn’t matter.” Now that’s stupid. Of course it matters. But part of me feels like it doesn’t. Why? Why doesn’t it matter that I’ve been forgiven my past choices and mistakes?
It’s quite simply that I feel God’s forgiveness is of no value. There. I said it. What’s it good for? Sure, I believe it means everything when standing before the judgment seat, but I’m not there, I’m here. What good is it here and now? God’s forgiveness and a dollar won’t get me a cup of coffee these days.
This is blasphemy, I know, but the ground isn’t shaking, lightning isn’t striking, and the owl shut up an hour ago. So, I’ll continue. God’s forgiveness doesn’t mean much to me when Joe Blow doesn’t forgive me and throws my job application in the trash. God’s forgiveness may take away the guilt, but it doesn’t wipe the slate clean, and it doesn’t mean that much to me when four out of the five people I’ve been interested in romantically in the past year have these damn lists of what a man has to have and can’t have done to be in their life and my past, the one I’ve been forgiven of, gets me x after x on qualification after qualification on said lists. Well yes, I see I’ve missed every question on your little survey there, but you see, I’ve been forgiven by God. Whatever. And another lost connection walks away never to call again.
And the coyotes are stirred up now. What a chilling sound. The fact is it’s all foolishness, because it does matter. I know in my mind that it matters, that God’s forgiveness is the base for all the positive changes in my life. But my emotions, don’t care about what my mind says, and I lose sight of the fact that it matters when I’m hurting, frightened and alone. And I lose that vision quickly too. I’m mad. I’m mad and treat forgiveness from my creator as though it has no value because I haven’t gotten what I want when I want it.
God, this is embarrassing. I’m a toddler throwing a tantrum because he can’t have his own way. Sheesh. How sad and silly is that? Selfishness and self-centeredness truly is the root of my problem.
So why was I so afraid to look at that? Because God doesn’t have to change anything in me to fix this problem. I do. I have to sacrifice myself. My will, my demand to have my own way, which is the root of my selfishness and self-centeredness, must die by my own hand if I am to live out the prayer I prayed earlier today. And that, for me, is scarier than hell.
But that’s me just not seeing, not understanding. My faith can not be based on what I can understand with my mind. The ants in the bed a few feet away from my tent have no clue that when I put the apple core in the west side of the their mound it was in hopes that they wouldn’t explore east and get in my tent. They don’t know what I was thinking, nor do they understand my motives. But they are enjoying the apple.
I can’t understand God any more than those ants can understand me. The wisest of all us humans can’t fathom the depths of the universe, much less the God who created it. What arrogance on my part to declare that if I can’t understand it, it must not be. If I can’t comprehend the purpose it must have none. Do I even really want a God I can wrap my mind around? I have to choose to respond in faith that God loves me and wants the best for me and can provide that even when I don’t understand it, especially when I don’t understand it.
Peniel - Day 1...1:13pm
I’m sitting on the sandy bank of the same creek, but in a different spot. It’s cool, but not uncomfortably so. In fact, I’m glad that I am wearing a short-sleeved shirt. My burning Winston’s wispy smoke adds to the calming effect of the sunlight painting patterns with shadows through the trees and the leaves swirling gently and floating by in the slow, lazy current of the water.
I have no bobber to watch at the moment. My line is not in the water for now. I’ve seen one fish. It was about three inches long, maybe half an inch thick. At least I know there’s something alive in the brown water before me.
I abandoned the first hole. I got hung up on a submerged log and broke my line, losing my hook, weight and bobber. Undaunted, I rerigged my line and continued to fish, attempting to avoid the place I encountered problems. Before very long, I snagged what I suspect is the same submerged log in a different spot, about 10 feet further into the middle of the creek. This time I managed to save the bobber, but another hook and weight was lost. I rerigged my line yet again, but this time, I packed my gear. I would change locations. The fish weren’t biting there, and I kept losing to dangers I couldn’t see below the surface. Time to move on. Try something, some place, different.
It occurs to me though, that I am not despondent over this turn of events. I didn’t give up or shut myself down to the idea of fishing. I didn’t beat myself up or feel guilty for losing a bobber, two hooks, two weights and a couple of Catawba worms to the game. I didn’t fall into self-pity and wail about how I will never catch a fish because I’m not a good enough fisherman or that I’ll never be good enough to catch a fish because I keep getting hung up on logs (or worse, simply because I have gotten hung up in the past). No, I simply moved to a spot I felt I might have more luck.
I baited my hook and cast. Nothing. Time and time again. But I did see tiny. Then wham! A bite? Success? No. Another log in the middle of the creek. Snagged again.
As I did the last time, I managed to save the bobber. But the count of hooks, weights and worms lost climbed to three.
I decided to stop for now. Maybe think of a better place to try. A place with less trash under the surface. Even now, I don’t berate myself as a failure. I don’t throw my past experiences in my own face and declare I’ll never succeed because of them. I sit and enjoy the scene. I know I can try again, in a different body of water. I don’t get frustrated or afraid. I stop, relax. Enjoy the day a different way.
Relationships have been compared to fishing, hence the saying there are more fish in the sea when an opportunity is missed or a relationship is lost. So now I have to wonder, why can I react this way fishing, which is actually what my self-esteem, or lack of it, is greatly tied to from my youth, believe it or not, and not do this in the romantic waters?
I wanted to die as a child over lack of fishing skills and enjoyment. I prayed, crying in my pillow, over and over as a boy to be a better fisherman and hunter, and to actually figure out whatever was so fun about these activities in the first place. So, no, it’s not a matter of fishing being less important in the grand scheme of things than romance.
Somehow, I’ve changed. gained perspective, even a sense of it doesn’t matter if I am good at it or not if I have fun attitude toward fishing. I’ve grown up. But when it comes to relationships, I’m still that 13 year old boy who fell in love with a woman who nearly killed him and helped set him out on a very self-destructive path and yet still shudders at the thought of speaking ill of his first love. I need to figure out how to grow up here too. My self-esteem should no more be tied to romance than to fishing. Relationships, or lack of them, should no more define who I am than whether or not I catch a fish does. Something needs to change.
I have no bobber to watch at the moment. My line is not in the water for now. I’ve seen one fish. It was about three inches long, maybe half an inch thick. At least I know there’s something alive in the brown water before me.
I abandoned the first hole. I got hung up on a submerged log and broke my line, losing my hook, weight and bobber. Undaunted, I rerigged my line and continued to fish, attempting to avoid the place I encountered problems. Before very long, I snagged what I suspect is the same submerged log in a different spot, about 10 feet further into the middle of the creek. This time I managed to save the bobber, but another hook and weight was lost. I rerigged my line yet again, but this time, I packed my gear. I would change locations. The fish weren’t biting there, and I kept losing to dangers I couldn’t see below the surface. Time to move on. Try something, some place, different.
It occurs to me though, that I am not despondent over this turn of events. I didn’t give up or shut myself down to the idea of fishing. I didn’t beat myself up or feel guilty for losing a bobber, two hooks, two weights and a couple of Catawba worms to the game. I didn’t fall into self-pity and wail about how I will never catch a fish because I’m not a good enough fisherman or that I’ll never be good enough to catch a fish because I keep getting hung up on logs (or worse, simply because I have gotten hung up in the past). No, I simply moved to a spot I felt I might have more luck.
I baited my hook and cast. Nothing. Time and time again. But I did see tiny. Then wham! A bite? Success? No. Another log in the middle of the creek. Snagged again.
As I did the last time, I managed to save the bobber. But the count of hooks, weights and worms lost climbed to three.
I decided to stop for now. Maybe think of a better place to try. A place with less trash under the surface. Even now, I don’t berate myself as a failure. I don’t throw my past experiences in my own face and declare I’ll never succeed because of them. I sit and enjoy the scene. I know I can try again, in a different body of water. I don’t get frustrated or afraid. I stop, relax. Enjoy the day a different way.
Relationships have been compared to fishing, hence the saying there are more fish in the sea when an opportunity is missed or a relationship is lost. So now I have to wonder, why can I react this way fishing, which is actually what my self-esteem, or lack of it, is greatly tied to from my youth, believe it or not, and not do this in the romantic waters?
I wanted to die as a child over lack of fishing skills and enjoyment. I prayed, crying in my pillow, over and over as a boy to be a better fisherman and hunter, and to actually figure out whatever was so fun about these activities in the first place. So, no, it’s not a matter of fishing being less important in the grand scheme of things than romance.
Somehow, I’ve changed. gained perspective, even a sense of it doesn’t matter if I am good at it or not if I have fun attitude toward fishing. I’ve grown up. But when it comes to relationships, I’m still that 13 year old boy who fell in love with a woman who nearly killed him and helped set him out on a very self-destructive path and yet still shudders at the thought of speaking ill of his first love. I need to figure out how to grow up here too. My self-esteem should no more be tied to romance than to fishing. Relationships, or lack of them, should no more define who I am than whether or not I catch a fish does. Something needs to change.
Peniel - Day 1...12:27pm
I’m sitting on the sandy bank of a fishing hole my father told me about, glancing up from time to time to see that my bobber is still confirming that fact that the fish are not biting, and a thought comes to me. Why do I have such a hard time giving up complete control to the God who has proved that he’ll help me? Why do I insist I don’t want to lose all of myself when I don’t even like myself? Insist I must be able to make my own choices when my choices have always led to pain and heartache? That quandary, to me, is the very definition of insanity.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Peniel - Day 1...9:33am
God, I know you’re real. I know you’re “out there” and in us and pretty much everywhere, but I need you to reveal yourself to me. I want to know you. And I ask for you to reveal myself to me. Who I am. Who I can be. Help me to settle once and for all my value and worth. Finally, I ask you to prepare me for love that’s right. Not me losing it for someone unavailable or who doesn’t feel the same for me and making him or her and myself miserable, not settling for comfort, companionship and sex without the glue of love to make it wonderful and last. Not substituting sex for love and just trying to fill the void with someone, anyone, usually someone more broken and sick than I. And most of all, not shutting down where it’s okay to be alone because I no longer want and need to share my heart and life.
Surrounded by nature the songs of birds remind me that I have never doubted God is. And the evidence of how my life has changed in the past year, how my heart has changed, my direction in life has changed, my passions have changed…these things tell me that God is also real and active in my life. And all these changes have been improvements, and my life is better. So why do I resist further change and growth, especially since not having it is killing me as surely as my addictions were?
Could it be that I have lost some of my desire for change because the wonder and awesomeness of my relationship with God has grown old? The passion of relationship reduced to something I need to do to maintain my sobriety and get through life? God I don’t want that. That sounds like religion, and I hate religion.
Any relationship of any kind must grow and develop or become old, dry and boring. Friends drift apart in new and separate directions, romantic relationships die as one or both involved reach out for the new and exciting or simply something with fresh potential. Relationships fail when we don’t keep them fresh.
When I don’t maintain a true, heart-to-heart connection with God, where I am being honest, open and real with him, then anything spiritual I do is just going through the motions. It’s dead ritual. I have to regularly dig deep inside myself and pour my guts out to God. Allowing any distance allows staleness to creep in, and part of me begins to wither like a flower in need of water.
I’m not talking about “you need to pray every day” or “pray this (insert prayers of choice here) every day or in such and such situation. That can too easily become restrictions and rules, which I’m not fond of, it becomes a rut, traditional and ritualistic. That’s not what I’m looking for. I want a living, vibrant relationship with God, as I would have with a best friend, only better. And please, any friend who comes to me the same way, saying the same thing, day after day, won’t be a best friend long. That’s not a relationship. I don’t want to go through the motions with God. God I want to be real with you. I don’t just want you in my mind as a concept or tool, I want you in the very center of my heart, at the core of my life. I want you to be real right now, today, and everyday.
I’ve been told by some my approach is wrong. I have the wrong attitude. I can’t sit out here in the woods, demanding contact with God, ready to argue and fight and struggle till something in me understands and can change. It’s not respectful enough, or something. I don’t know. They seem to think I should ask God for guidance and wait to receive it. Ask for relationship with God and wait to receive that too. That word receive. Sheesh. Such a huge part of Christianity…have you received Jesus…ask and you shall receive…and so many more sayings have Christianized Americans who don’t even believe in Christ agreeing with those who do that we are all supposed to sit quietly and wait for God to give us things we need, things we will then receive. After all, it’s not polite to grab.
Forget that attitude. The meaning of the word receive in the Greek the New Testament was written in means to get a hold of, to seize, to obtain, to take hold. The Greek word says we don’t sit back politely, wait for God to move in. It says to receive God we take hold of him. Receive is an action word. I don’t care who it offends, Because I don’t believe it will offend God, but I intend to seize him, to seek, find, connect with, grab hold of, and not let go.
So that’s what I want to do. But what do you want from me God? I think you want every piece of me, not just my mind and puppet-like obedience, but my heart, my life my soul, my passion, my every little bit of who I am. I think you want to direct my life to where you are the center and I am not. And I think that meshes well with what I said I want.
And I do want it. I want it enough to come out here and make it happen or die trying. And yet it frightens me terribly. I’m not totally sure why, but it does. That idea goes so far beyond belief.
I admit I am afraid. And that part of me resists this idea of, well, complete and unconditional surrender, even now. But I know I have to do it. I have tried holding on to some of my old ideas, to myself, and I have received the fruits of doing so, a lack of results. It isn’t working. I must let go absolutely. Half measures have availed me nothing. I stand at the turning point and ask for God’s protection and care with complete abandon. Still, I am afraid.
Lord, I’m tired of just knowing in my head that you’re real. I need you to change my life. I ask you now to come and take control. I give you every part of my heart, soul, mind and life. it’s no longer me in charge, but you. That doesn’t mean I won’t ever balk at all or that I won’t at times try to take something back. But if you’ll help me when I do, I will do my best to move forward again and to give back what I took back more quickly every time. Change me from the inside out. You’re the Lord, the King, Queen and all authority. I surrender to you. I offer myself to you, all my hopes, dreams, fears, doubts, positive attributes and character defects…all of me, to build with me and do with me as you wish. Free me from the bondage of self, that I may better serve you. Take away my difficulties, that my victory over them and freedom from them may bear witness to those I would help of your love, your power, and your way of life. May I do your will always.
Surrounded by nature the songs of birds remind me that I have never doubted God is. And the evidence of how my life has changed in the past year, how my heart has changed, my direction in life has changed, my passions have changed…these things tell me that God is also real and active in my life. And all these changes have been improvements, and my life is better. So why do I resist further change and growth, especially since not having it is killing me as surely as my addictions were?
Could it be that I have lost some of my desire for change because the wonder and awesomeness of my relationship with God has grown old? The passion of relationship reduced to something I need to do to maintain my sobriety and get through life? God I don’t want that. That sounds like religion, and I hate religion.
Any relationship of any kind must grow and develop or become old, dry and boring. Friends drift apart in new and separate directions, romantic relationships die as one or both involved reach out for the new and exciting or simply something with fresh potential. Relationships fail when we don’t keep them fresh.
When I don’t maintain a true, heart-to-heart connection with God, where I am being honest, open and real with him, then anything spiritual I do is just going through the motions. It’s dead ritual. I have to regularly dig deep inside myself and pour my guts out to God. Allowing any distance allows staleness to creep in, and part of me begins to wither like a flower in need of water.
I’m not talking about “you need to pray every day” or “pray this (insert prayers of choice here) every day or in such and such situation. That can too easily become restrictions and rules, which I’m not fond of, it becomes a rut, traditional and ritualistic. That’s not what I’m looking for. I want a living, vibrant relationship with God, as I would have with a best friend, only better. And please, any friend who comes to me the same way, saying the same thing, day after day, won’t be a best friend long. That’s not a relationship. I don’t want to go through the motions with God. God I want to be real with you. I don’t just want you in my mind as a concept or tool, I want you in the very center of my heart, at the core of my life. I want you to be real right now, today, and everyday.
I’ve been told by some my approach is wrong. I have the wrong attitude. I can’t sit out here in the woods, demanding contact with God, ready to argue and fight and struggle till something in me understands and can change. It’s not respectful enough, or something. I don’t know. They seem to think I should ask God for guidance and wait to receive it. Ask for relationship with God and wait to receive that too. That word receive. Sheesh. Such a huge part of Christianity…have you received Jesus…ask and you shall receive…and so many more sayings have Christianized Americans who don’t even believe in Christ agreeing with those who do that we are all supposed to sit quietly and wait for God to give us things we need, things we will then receive. After all, it’s not polite to grab.
Forget that attitude. The meaning of the word receive in the Greek the New Testament was written in means to get a hold of, to seize, to obtain, to take hold. The Greek word says we don’t sit back politely, wait for God to move in. It says to receive God we take hold of him. Receive is an action word. I don’t care who it offends, Because I don’t believe it will offend God, but I intend to seize him, to seek, find, connect with, grab hold of, and not let go.
So that’s what I want to do. But what do you want from me God? I think you want every piece of me, not just my mind and puppet-like obedience, but my heart, my life my soul, my passion, my every little bit of who I am. I think you want to direct my life to where you are the center and I am not. And I think that meshes well with what I said I want.
And I do want it. I want it enough to come out here and make it happen or die trying. And yet it frightens me terribly. I’m not totally sure why, but it does. That idea goes so far beyond belief.
I admit I am afraid. And that part of me resists this idea of, well, complete and unconditional surrender, even now. But I know I have to do it. I have tried holding on to some of my old ideas, to myself, and I have received the fruits of doing so, a lack of results. It isn’t working. I must let go absolutely. Half measures have availed me nothing. I stand at the turning point and ask for God’s protection and care with complete abandon. Still, I am afraid.
Lord, I’m tired of just knowing in my head that you’re real. I need you to change my life. I ask you now to come and take control. I give you every part of my heart, soul, mind and life. it’s no longer me in charge, but you. That doesn’t mean I won’t ever balk at all or that I won’t at times try to take something back. But if you’ll help me when I do, I will do my best to move forward again and to give back what I took back more quickly every time. Change me from the inside out. You’re the Lord, the King, Queen and all authority. I surrender to you. I offer myself to you, all my hopes, dreams, fears, doubts, positive attributes and character defects…all of me, to build with me and do with me as you wish. Free me from the bondage of self, that I may better serve you. Take away my difficulties, that my victory over them and freedom from them may bear witness to those I would help of your love, your power, and your way of life. May I do your will always.
Peniel - Day 1...5 am
It’s 5 am, November 6, 2009. I just failed miserably to start a fire, and the damp air, cold in my lungs, is making it sound like a whistle-pop is lodged in my throat. About an hour before sunrise it’s bright as day outside with the few-days-past-full moon sitting directly overhead in the clear sky. It’s like a vampire’s version of high noon, except the night is almost over.
Technically day three, I am tempted to cal it day one. The real day one I started too late. I should have left earlier, but I had a few more supplies to buy, and I wanted to see Jan. It wouldn’t have been right for me to leave without seeing her first when I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. We didn’t talk about the things we are going to have to talk about soon.
By the time all my supplies were gathered and I’d spent a few hours scouting out a good camp location, it was well past dark. I couldn’t set up the tent without being able to see what I was doing. So, I snuck home and crashed on the couch. Guess I’m not a candidate for Survivor after all.
I felt so tempted to turn on my phone, but no, that wouldn’t do. My period of isolation with God had begun. Besides the main reason I wanted it was to call or text Emily. Not a good idea. But I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I really don’t like the way I left things, and I wish I knew how badly I hurt her. She’s going through enough right now, and all I did was make it worse, harder for her. Some friend.
A guy I new from a group I’m in showed up about 12:30 am, banging on my door. I refused him entry, so we talked on the porch for a few minutes. He walked over to my house, drunk, looking to score some Vicodin, or weed. Took forever to convince him I didn’t have anything (I guess he doubts my sobriety) and longer that I had no one I could call to score through. He left upset, and I returned to my couch to sleep.
Awoke day two - still in my trailer, and drove back to the place I am camping. Took me a few hours to set up the tent, even in the daylight. It took over an hour to clear out the space with a machete. Then came the multiple treks back and forth to the van to hike in supplies. My knee slowed me down quite a bit. By mid-afternoon I had all but the last load carried in, Resting my knee, I caved to the urges I’d had all day, since the night before truthfully, and turned on my phone. Not much of a signal here, but I have one. Nice to know in case I get in trouble.
Messages flooded in. Seems I’ve worried some folks. I feel bad about that, but I need to do this. It would also appear that few of the people I sent my blog URL are reading it. That’s OK, but I had counted on my last entry letting people know what I was doing so that I wouldn’t worry everyone.
I called Jan and left her a message to lock my door when she carries some of my property from Center to my house. The pill-head stopping by spooked me some. I also texted Dixie and Nichole. Nichole has become a dear friend to me, and I feel bad I didn’t let her know what was going on.
Dad came by later to check on me. He showed me this place, so he could find it, and I thought it would be wise to have at least one person know where I’m at. And since I really don’t want him to ever have to find my body again, like he did after my October 27, 1999 attempt, him being the only one who knows where I’m at will insure I hold off as long as possible on that option. We went fishing, my first time since before prison. Neither of us caught anything, but it was nice. I enjoyed the time tremendously.
After returning to camp empty handed, he took me in his truck to gather fire wood from the sides of the road leading to the edge of the area I’m in. I now have enough wood to last me a while, without doing much damage to my knee to get it. The downside? He got stuck. Took a while to get him out, but it was so cool. He tied a log to each of the rear tires and drove up on them. A few feet at a time, we walked the truck to solid, or closer to it, ground.
I cooked us dinner, a salmon, clam and shrimp spread he seemed to enjoy. We both ate too much. I walked him out to his truck. By this time it was nearly 9 pm, and the moon was big over the eastern horizon. Beautiful. The spot he’d left his truck provided the best view around. I told him it was worth the walk just to see the view.
He said he hoped he didn’t interrupt what I needed to do too much, and I assured him it had been good to spend the evening with him. He hugged me and drove away. I stayed there a while longer, staring up at the moon, fighting tears. My father loves me so much. I wish to God I knew why.
After a while I hiked back to camp. It wasn’t cold, so I let the fire Dad built die down. I fought the urge to hike back out where I could get signal and try to call Emily. I really wish I had left things better there. For the next hour or so I watched the fire slowly turn to glowing embers and waited for my knee to stop throbbing. Then I stripped, zipped up my tent, climbed into my sleeping bag, and tried to sleep.
Thus ended day two with absolutely no progress made toward why I came out here in the first place. I slept. The beat of the nearby oil well lulling me like a Shaman’s drum. I woke, cold. But the cold didn’t bother me as much as the damp air. Everything is wet. I tried to build a fire and failed. I lit the lantern and, fully dressed now, began to write this. The sun will soon rise on day three, but it’s easy to see that today is day one. My quest is just begun. I think I’ll slip back inside my sleeping bag and hope to get some sleep without the bizarre dreams that filled my slumber last night. When I wake, I will begin in earnest…day one.
Technically day three, I am tempted to cal it day one. The real day one I started too late. I should have left earlier, but I had a few more supplies to buy, and I wanted to see Jan. It wouldn’t have been right for me to leave without seeing her first when I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. We didn’t talk about the things we are going to have to talk about soon.
By the time all my supplies were gathered and I’d spent a few hours scouting out a good camp location, it was well past dark. I couldn’t set up the tent without being able to see what I was doing. So, I snuck home and crashed on the couch. Guess I’m not a candidate for Survivor after all.
I felt so tempted to turn on my phone, but no, that wouldn’t do. My period of isolation with God had begun. Besides the main reason I wanted it was to call or text Emily. Not a good idea. But I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I really don’t like the way I left things, and I wish I knew how badly I hurt her. She’s going through enough right now, and all I did was make it worse, harder for her. Some friend.
A guy I new from a group I’m in showed up about 12:30 am, banging on my door. I refused him entry, so we talked on the porch for a few minutes. He walked over to my house, drunk, looking to score some Vicodin, or weed. Took forever to convince him I didn’t have anything (I guess he doubts my sobriety) and longer that I had no one I could call to score through. He left upset, and I returned to my couch to sleep.
Awoke day two - still in my trailer, and drove back to the place I am camping. Took me a few hours to set up the tent, even in the daylight. It took over an hour to clear out the space with a machete. Then came the multiple treks back and forth to the van to hike in supplies. My knee slowed me down quite a bit. By mid-afternoon I had all but the last load carried in, Resting my knee, I caved to the urges I’d had all day, since the night before truthfully, and turned on my phone. Not much of a signal here, but I have one. Nice to know in case I get in trouble.
Messages flooded in. Seems I’ve worried some folks. I feel bad about that, but I need to do this. It would also appear that few of the people I sent my blog URL are reading it. That’s OK, but I had counted on my last entry letting people know what I was doing so that I wouldn’t worry everyone.
I called Jan and left her a message to lock my door when she carries some of my property from Center to my house. The pill-head stopping by spooked me some. I also texted Dixie and Nichole. Nichole has become a dear friend to me, and I feel bad I didn’t let her know what was going on.
Dad came by later to check on me. He showed me this place, so he could find it, and I thought it would be wise to have at least one person know where I’m at. And since I really don’t want him to ever have to find my body again, like he did after my October 27, 1999 attempt, him being the only one who knows where I’m at will insure I hold off as long as possible on that option. We went fishing, my first time since before prison. Neither of us caught anything, but it was nice. I enjoyed the time tremendously.
After returning to camp empty handed, he took me in his truck to gather fire wood from the sides of the road leading to the edge of the area I’m in. I now have enough wood to last me a while, without doing much damage to my knee to get it. The downside? He got stuck. Took a while to get him out, but it was so cool. He tied a log to each of the rear tires and drove up on them. A few feet at a time, we walked the truck to solid, or closer to it, ground.
I cooked us dinner, a salmon, clam and shrimp spread he seemed to enjoy. We both ate too much. I walked him out to his truck. By this time it was nearly 9 pm, and the moon was big over the eastern horizon. Beautiful. The spot he’d left his truck provided the best view around. I told him it was worth the walk just to see the view.
He said he hoped he didn’t interrupt what I needed to do too much, and I assured him it had been good to spend the evening with him. He hugged me and drove away. I stayed there a while longer, staring up at the moon, fighting tears. My father loves me so much. I wish to God I knew why.
After a while I hiked back to camp. It wasn’t cold, so I let the fire Dad built die down. I fought the urge to hike back out where I could get signal and try to call Emily. I really wish I had left things better there. For the next hour or so I watched the fire slowly turn to glowing embers and waited for my knee to stop throbbing. Then I stripped, zipped up my tent, climbed into my sleeping bag, and tried to sleep.
Thus ended day two with absolutely no progress made toward why I came out here in the first place. I slept. The beat of the nearby oil well lulling me like a Shaman’s drum. I woke, cold. But the cold didn’t bother me as much as the damp air. Everything is wet. I tried to build a fire and failed. I lit the lantern and, fully dressed now, began to write this. The sun will soon rise on day three, but it’s easy to see that today is day one. My quest is just begun. I think I’ll slip back inside my sleeping bag and hope to get some sleep without the bizarre dreams that filled my slumber last night. When I wake, I will begin in earnest…day one.
Peniel - the introduction
It’s eleven thirty-one pm on Saturday, Nov. 7. I am a mess. There has been a snag from hell in my little isolation with God experiment. Quite frankly, I am worse at this moment than I was when I hiked off in the woods. I had made a little progress, but now I feel I am back at step one, or regressed further than that. But I will get to that in a moment. I will be doing some serious writing in a little bit here. Me and God gonna have ourselves a little pow-wow.
But first, I am going to go ahead and transcribe from my notebooks I’ve been writing in to the computer, so I can post the spiritual retreat, such as it is, so far. I told someone I have entrusted myself to that I would do this, and I am also hoping that in the transcribing I will see that there was indeed good in the trip so far and stop wanting to die because it turned so twisted on me. Like I said, that’s a subject for later.
I am posting my thoughts, my journaling, of my retreat and isolation with God, for three reasons. First, so that a couple of people who are concerned about me can have access to periodic updates on how I’m doing. Second, so I will be held accountable to work through this as quickly and as thoroughly as I can and not skimp. Finally, I felt like maybe, just maybe, there might be one person out there who can find some sort of help or comfort in seeing another seeker's journey, raw, ugly, piecemeal. Maybe someone can see pitfalls to avoid, or something that might help themselves. I don’t know. I do know however, that my ability to maybe help someone else by exposing my heart and journey is one of the few things I have left, so I am going to try to make something good come of my mistakes and misery.
After I get the first few days already passed entered, I am not sure how often I will post, but I am guessing every day or two. Maybe a little more or less. But I won’t let putting what I’ve already written on the blog, stop me from being able to work through with pen and ink what I set out to work through.
One final note about the following entries. They were written for me. I am sharing them, but they are straight out of my journaling this trip. I am not going to take away the immediacy of writing for myself to explain certain people and events that are clear to me and may not be so easily understood by others reading this, if anyone does. I think the soul of the matter will still be clear. In this case, the journey is not in the details.
But first, I am going to go ahead and transcribe from my notebooks I’ve been writing in to the computer, so I can post the spiritual retreat, such as it is, so far. I told someone I have entrusted myself to that I would do this, and I am also hoping that in the transcribing I will see that there was indeed good in the trip so far and stop wanting to die because it turned so twisted on me. Like I said, that’s a subject for later.
I am posting my thoughts, my journaling, of my retreat and isolation with God, for three reasons. First, so that a couple of people who are concerned about me can have access to periodic updates on how I’m doing. Second, so I will be held accountable to work through this as quickly and as thoroughly as I can and not skimp. Finally, I felt like maybe, just maybe, there might be one person out there who can find some sort of help or comfort in seeing another seeker's journey, raw, ugly, piecemeal. Maybe someone can see pitfalls to avoid, or something that might help themselves. I don’t know. I do know however, that my ability to maybe help someone else by exposing my heart and journey is one of the few things I have left, so I am going to try to make something good come of my mistakes and misery.
After I get the first few days already passed entered, I am not sure how often I will post, but I am guessing every day or two. Maybe a little more or less. But I won’t let putting what I’ve already written on the blog, stop me from being able to work through with pen and ink what I set out to work through.
One final note about the following entries. They were written for me. I am sharing them, but they are straight out of my journaling this trip. I am not going to take away the immediacy of writing for myself to explain certain people and events that are clear to me and may not be so easily understood by others reading this, if anyone does. I think the soul of the matter will still be clear. In this case, the journey is not in the details.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
I Shall Return
I reached a breaking point. I got a few days relief with the idea of a chance to support myself, but the situation and problem goes so much farther than finances or love or any other outside situation. Something inside me needs to change. Has to. I’ve been broken inside for too long. I have lived a life hearing that I am special, have so much to offer, have such special gifts, etc. and never really believed it. Or when I did believe it, I didn’t believe it had anything to do with me…what good I have, potential, gifts, whatever was always for the benefit of others. I didn’t deserve it. Look at it like a psychic being unable to use their gift for personal gain but always only for the benefit of others. Not that I’m psychic. If I was…nope there’s that personal gain thing again.
Anyway, I need to fix what’s broken. I need to find a way to love me. To believe that I am someone worthy of love. It has little to do with relationships, although it’s effected all of mine. Little to do with finances, or labels I wear, or sanity or anything other than I seem to have been born retarded in the self-esteem department. Somewhere I bought the idea that I am worthless, and I regardless of the positive changes I’ve made, I can’t seem to be able to shake it. And I can’t live like this any longer. Even finding a connection and relationship with a God I most times believes loves me has not improved things much when it comes to how I feel about me. But somehow I know that’s where my answer lies. I didn’t get to hit the road and chase the American Dream, and maybe that’s because that was a surface issue. What I need to chase is a little healing. A little grabbing of cloak and screaming I won’t let go until you bless me, until you heal me. I need to be that broken man on the side of the road repeating Son of David have mercy on me so often and so loudly he can no longer be ignored. A little I’m standing here until you make me move.
So I am going to the woods. No internet. No phone. No people. No distractions, although I may take my camera. A few days. God and I we’re going to have a little chat. Something in me has got to change. It may even be my insistence that God has to do things my way. But we are going to walk together and fellowship and fight and struggle and commune and love each other, and I will find Him here and who I am in Him, with Him, who I am in general. I told a friend a few minutes ago that I would meet with Him here or there, and I meant that. I believe if you truly seek you’ll find. I’ll be happy to seek in the woods, but I’ll knock on the gates if I have to. I will have my audience with my Creator. Arrogant? Perhaps. But I don’t believe so. I believe it’s just the lack of protocol that comes from pain and total desperation. I believe in a God who understands and responds when someone finally gets to the point that they’re willing to storm the gates of heaven if that is what it takes but they will settle for nothing less than a response from Him and time with Him and reaching Him will do. I don’t believe my God is ready for a face to face with me just yet, so I figure I will find Him in the silence.
But my selfish focus on myself and my pain and my fear has caused me to hurt and frighten those I love more than I love myself. Obviously that doesn’t take a lot. But it is still unacceptable. I can not be that person. The man who runs over and damages others, especially those he loves, trying to escape the burning house. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to make it right or find forgiveness for the damage I’ve done, but maybe, just maybe I can find a way to fix what allowed it to happen in the first place.
So I close this entry, and this blog for a few days, with a song that so often has helped get me through times like this. In fact, it was purposefully the last song I listened to before I surrendered myself to the court and began my prison term. The song is “I Shall Return” by Govt. Mule. It’s worth giving a listen. Check it out here -- I Shall Retun - lala or I Shall Return on youtube with lyrics
And for those who can’t or don’t want to listen to it, here are the lyrics….
As this wheel goes 'round and I search to find my way
Struggle just to hold on through an ordinary day
I do believe I'm slipping away
But I shall return though I'm losing myself
I shall return
I shall return from the depths of my own hell
I shall return
Fate should not have blinded me
For your beauty steals my eyes
and what good is my wisdom
when there are no words to say
How I feel everyday
But I shall return though I'm losing myself
I shall return
I shall return from the depths of my own hell
I shall return
Daylight finds me sleeping dreaming of my youth
But darkness calls my name out loud
And I answer to the truth
But I shall return though I'm losing myself
I shall return
I shall return from the depths of my own hell
I shall return
Oh, I shall return though I'm losing myself
I shall return
I shall return from the depths of my own hell
I shall return
(It really is better with the music…ta ta for now, be blessed dear reader.)
Anyway, I need to fix what’s broken. I need to find a way to love me. To believe that I am someone worthy of love. It has little to do with relationships, although it’s effected all of mine. Little to do with finances, or labels I wear, or sanity or anything other than I seem to have been born retarded in the self-esteem department. Somewhere I bought the idea that I am worthless, and I regardless of the positive changes I’ve made, I can’t seem to be able to shake it. And I can’t live like this any longer. Even finding a connection and relationship with a God I most times believes loves me has not improved things much when it comes to how I feel about me. But somehow I know that’s where my answer lies. I didn’t get to hit the road and chase the American Dream, and maybe that’s because that was a surface issue. What I need to chase is a little healing. A little grabbing of cloak and screaming I won’t let go until you bless me, until you heal me. I need to be that broken man on the side of the road repeating Son of David have mercy on me so often and so loudly he can no longer be ignored. A little I’m standing here until you make me move.
So I am going to the woods. No internet. No phone. No people. No distractions, although I may take my camera. A few days. God and I we’re going to have a little chat. Something in me has got to change. It may even be my insistence that God has to do things my way. But we are going to walk together and fellowship and fight and struggle and commune and love each other, and I will find Him here and who I am in Him, with Him, who I am in general. I told a friend a few minutes ago that I would meet with Him here or there, and I meant that. I believe if you truly seek you’ll find. I’ll be happy to seek in the woods, but I’ll knock on the gates if I have to. I will have my audience with my Creator. Arrogant? Perhaps. But I don’t believe so. I believe it’s just the lack of protocol that comes from pain and total desperation. I believe in a God who understands and responds when someone finally gets to the point that they’re willing to storm the gates of heaven if that is what it takes but they will settle for nothing less than a response from Him and time with Him and reaching Him will do. I don’t believe my God is ready for a face to face with me just yet, so I figure I will find Him in the silence.
But my selfish focus on myself and my pain and my fear has caused me to hurt and frighten those I love more than I love myself. Obviously that doesn’t take a lot. But it is still unacceptable. I can not be that person. The man who runs over and damages others, especially those he loves, trying to escape the burning house. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to make it right or find forgiveness for the damage I’ve done, but maybe, just maybe I can find a way to fix what allowed it to happen in the first place.
So I close this entry, and this blog for a few days, with a song that so often has helped get me through times like this. In fact, it was purposefully the last song I listened to before I surrendered myself to the court and began my prison term. The song is “I Shall Return” by Govt. Mule. It’s worth giving a listen. Check it out here -- I Shall Retun - lala or I Shall Return on youtube with lyrics
And for those who can’t or don’t want to listen to it, here are the lyrics….
As this wheel goes 'round and I search to find my way
Struggle just to hold on through an ordinary day
I do believe I'm slipping away
But I shall return though I'm losing myself
I shall return
I shall return from the depths of my own hell
I shall return
Fate should not have blinded me
For your beauty steals my eyes
and what good is my wisdom
when there are no words to say
How I feel everyday
But I shall return though I'm losing myself
I shall return
I shall return from the depths of my own hell
I shall return
Daylight finds me sleeping dreaming of my youth
But darkness calls my name out loud
And I answer to the truth
But I shall return though I'm losing myself
I shall return
I shall return from the depths of my own hell
I shall return
Oh, I shall return though I'm losing myself
I shall return
I shall return from the depths of my own hell
I shall return
(It really is better with the music…ta ta for now, be blessed dear reader.)
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Who Am I?
A friend gave me an assignment, to write in 500 words who I am. I have this bad habit of doing things beautiful women ask me to do, but I don’t think I can do this. For one thing, as anyone who has read much of the rest of my blog, I can’t hardly write my name in 500 words. Not really, of course, but I think I used more than 100 words to say here’s a story by someone else for Halloween, and hello my name is 89.
But that’s not why I can’t do it. I can’t because I don’t know how to say who I am, how to define it. I don’t know who I am. I think about a country song I love that centers on the subject, but the song is wrong, none of those are WHO she is as much as what she is or what she does or, even more dangerous, what she’s done.
I know those things. I am the oldest son of a preacher-man, and yes, I love that song as well. I look more like my mother, for those who don’t believe that, they should see pictures of both of us at age 17. I am a middle-aged man with the spirit and mind of a man in his late twenties. I am an artist, a photographer, a writer. I am a good friend who knows how too listen, be honest, and put the needs of others above himself. I am a selfish man who wants and wants and wants for himself and never seems to know just how to achieve any of those desires. I am a therapist and counselor. A guardian and caretaker. I am a father with no children. A social butterfly who isolates. A man who can openly and honestly pour his soul out on paper making his heart an open book for the whole world to read who still feels that few know him and fewer still understand. Obviously, I am a man who slips too easily into the abyss of self-pity.
I am a mean who feeds and lives on the dream of the fairy-tale, the dream. Someday my prince or princess will come. I want the partner I can love in all the deep, crazy, wonderful ways the unrealistic romantics believe defines love. I want the wonderful, amazing, intelligent, strong-willed, straight-talking, beautiful person to love. That part’s not hard to find. But oops, have to complicate things, I want her to love me back. Ah, and there lies the rub. Because I am a man who knows I don’t deserve her. Because while I have much, and I do believe that, to give…I am kind, want the best for the people I love even if that means I don’t get what I want (or need) sometimes, understanding, generous, unselfish in matters of the heart and bed, and more (like not being a controlling beast)….the scales have to be weighed, does the above good (listed and not) outweigh the bad, the baggage that I bring to the relationship that any partner of mine would be instantly stuck with like a bad tattoo? That above list is not who I am, it’s how I behave, who I am is a man who doesn’t believe that measure up in great enough quantities to override what I’ve done, which is also, for those paying attention, not who I am.
I am a man who has had only one relationship in a lifetime where he has not cheated, and the one only lasted a couple of months. Do I believe I can be faithful? Yes, but actions speak louder than words, so…I am an alcoholic and an addict. Sure I’ve been clean and sober for over 10 months now, but I lived in that bondage for over 25 years. Those 10 months aren’t enough for me to feel confident to use the word recovered rather than recovering. I almost through it all away a week ago. I am a divorcee, for any who don’t understand how that relates to the first two parts of this paragraph, please stop reading now, you’re wasting both our time. During what may be one of the most darkest and destructive periods of my drinking, drugging, cheating career I made a choice, a mistake, said yes to the wrong girl (quick side note of warning to guys reading this, just because a bouncer let a woman in the club, doesn’t necessarily mean she’s a woman or of age). So I am a felon as well, and one who has to register so one who can’t pretend he’s not. What a wonderful thing to saddle someone you love with. I am a man who has way too many psycho-exes and one-night stands littering his past. It says something about how I treat myself and the partners I choose more than the partner I want does.
I can not support myself much less others, going further in debt every month. Living on plastic, perhaps that has become the American Dream. I own little and less that I acquired on my own.
Some of that I can not change, and I must accept that. But just because I have to accept it, doesn’t mean someone else should have to. What I can change, I am trying to. I have had less romantic or sexual partners this year than I did in any ten month period since puberty, including the time spent in a cage. I have mostly eliminated the psycho factor from my life, and haven’t slept with any in months. I am starting a business which has the potential to eventually support me and others in my life. Today will be one more day further along the path of recovery and 24 more hours of time to add to the total of clean and sober. Tomorrow, will be another. I dare not count on more than that, and yet, I look forward to my one-year birthday in December. I am a man who is finally growing up, who is cleaning up the wreckage of his past to the best of his ability, who is changing for the better slowly enough to make sure the changes are real and lasting. And yet I am still a man who believes that any person I could love and respect enough to totally give myself to, any person worthy of the man I am have become and am becoming, is too good for the baggage that comes with me. And the reverse, that any person I could care about so little as to ask them to share in the life I has as a result of my own destructive choices, well, that is a person who most often tends to turn out to fall into the psycho category I mentioned before. My picker is not broken. I pick the best. I always have. And then when I dare not unleash the hurricane of my life upon them, I walk away into the night with the easy, crazy, and broken like me. There’s been one exception to that, and I nearly destroyed her. That simple fact makes it that harder to let go of the idea that I am unworthy of the sane, relatively healthy, smart, beautiful people that fall into fairy-tale status.
So who am I? I am an insecure egomaniac. A narcissist who hates himself. I am a man who sees the good in him that others say is there…and never believes it is enough to outweigh the bad. I am a man who aches for the fairy-tale he doesn’t truly believe exists for himself. A man who helps others, because that’s what those few good qualities enable him to do, but who doesn’t have a clue how to help himself. A man who’s growing and changing and becoming a better man and is not one inch further from the wreckage of the past as he was a year ago. And like the ruins of the coliseum, some wreckage simply can not be cleaned up, must be lived with in plain sight every day. I am a mass of contradictions, a self-pitying, whining fool who hates self-pity and whining. Who am I? I don’t know. And I am not sure I really want to find out, because the what I am and what I’ve done and what is on the surface as a result of who I am, whoever that is, scares me enough.
But that’s not why I can’t do it. I can’t because I don’t know how to say who I am, how to define it. I don’t know who I am. I think about a country song I love that centers on the subject, but the song is wrong, none of those are WHO she is as much as what she is or what she does or, even more dangerous, what she’s done.
I know those things. I am the oldest son of a preacher-man, and yes, I love that song as well. I look more like my mother, for those who don’t believe that, they should see pictures of both of us at age 17. I am a middle-aged man with the spirit and mind of a man in his late twenties. I am an artist, a photographer, a writer. I am a good friend who knows how too listen, be honest, and put the needs of others above himself. I am a selfish man who wants and wants and wants for himself and never seems to know just how to achieve any of those desires. I am a therapist and counselor. A guardian and caretaker. I am a father with no children. A social butterfly who isolates. A man who can openly and honestly pour his soul out on paper making his heart an open book for the whole world to read who still feels that few know him and fewer still understand. Obviously, I am a man who slips too easily into the abyss of self-pity.
I am a mean who feeds and lives on the dream of the fairy-tale, the dream. Someday my prince or princess will come. I want the partner I can love in all the deep, crazy, wonderful ways the unrealistic romantics believe defines love. I want the wonderful, amazing, intelligent, strong-willed, straight-talking, beautiful person to love. That part’s not hard to find. But oops, have to complicate things, I want her to love me back. Ah, and there lies the rub. Because I am a man who knows I don’t deserve her. Because while I have much, and I do believe that, to give…I am kind, want the best for the people I love even if that means I don’t get what I want (or need) sometimes, understanding, generous, unselfish in matters of the heart and bed, and more (like not being a controlling beast)….the scales have to be weighed, does the above good (listed and not) outweigh the bad, the baggage that I bring to the relationship that any partner of mine would be instantly stuck with like a bad tattoo? That above list is not who I am, it’s how I behave, who I am is a man who doesn’t believe that measure up in great enough quantities to override what I’ve done, which is also, for those paying attention, not who I am.
I am a man who has had only one relationship in a lifetime where he has not cheated, and the one only lasted a couple of months. Do I believe I can be faithful? Yes, but actions speak louder than words, so…I am an alcoholic and an addict. Sure I’ve been clean and sober for over 10 months now, but I lived in that bondage for over 25 years. Those 10 months aren’t enough for me to feel confident to use the word recovered rather than recovering. I almost through it all away a week ago. I am a divorcee, for any who don’t understand how that relates to the first two parts of this paragraph, please stop reading now, you’re wasting both our time. During what may be one of the most darkest and destructive periods of my drinking, drugging, cheating career I made a choice, a mistake, said yes to the wrong girl (quick side note of warning to guys reading this, just because a bouncer let a woman in the club, doesn’t necessarily mean she’s a woman or of age). So I am a felon as well, and one who has to register so one who can’t pretend he’s not. What a wonderful thing to saddle someone you love with. I am a man who has way too many psycho-exes and one-night stands littering his past. It says something about how I treat myself and the partners I choose more than the partner I want does.
I can not support myself much less others, going further in debt every month. Living on plastic, perhaps that has become the American Dream. I own little and less that I acquired on my own.
Some of that I can not change, and I must accept that. But just because I have to accept it, doesn’t mean someone else should have to. What I can change, I am trying to. I have had less romantic or sexual partners this year than I did in any ten month period since puberty, including the time spent in a cage. I have mostly eliminated the psycho factor from my life, and haven’t slept with any in months. I am starting a business which has the potential to eventually support me and others in my life. Today will be one more day further along the path of recovery and 24 more hours of time to add to the total of clean and sober. Tomorrow, will be another. I dare not count on more than that, and yet, I look forward to my one-year birthday in December. I am a man who is finally growing up, who is cleaning up the wreckage of his past to the best of his ability, who is changing for the better slowly enough to make sure the changes are real and lasting. And yet I am still a man who believes that any person I could love and respect enough to totally give myself to, any person worthy of the man I am have become and am becoming, is too good for the baggage that comes with me. And the reverse, that any person I could care about so little as to ask them to share in the life I has as a result of my own destructive choices, well, that is a person who most often tends to turn out to fall into the psycho category I mentioned before. My picker is not broken. I pick the best. I always have. And then when I dare not unleash the hurricane of my life upon them, I walk away into the night with the easy, crazy, and broken like me. There’s been one exception to that, and I nearly destroyed her. That simple fact makes it that harder to let go of the idea that I am unworthy of the sane, relatively healthy, smart, beautiful people that fall into fairy-tale status.
So who am I? I am an insecure egomaniac. A narcissist who hates himself. I am a man who sees the good in him that others say is there…and never believes it is enough to outweigh the bad. I am a man who aches for the fairy-tale he doesn’t truly believe exists for himself. A man who helps others, because that’s what those few good qualities enable him to do, but who doesn’t have a clue how to help himself. A man who’s growing and changing and becoming a better man and is not one inch further from the wreckage of the past as he was a year ago. And like the ruins of the coliseum, some wreckage simply can not be cleaned up, must be lived with in plain sight every day. I am a mass of contradictions, a self-pitying, whining fool who hates self-pity and whining. Who am I? I don’t know. And I am not sure I really want to find out, because the what I am and what I’ve done and what is on the surface as a result of who I am, whoever that is, scares me enough.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Fairy-tale Dreams
I’ve been told many times over the past year to avoid certain states of being. Too long or too much of being hungry, angry, lonely, or tired can be quite dangerous for me. I believe this is because when I feel these things, my energy, focus, attention, etc. is on myself while my defenses are lowered making me unable to escape the self-centeredness that is the root of all my problems. The other day I heard someone say he has no business being lonely today, because of his relationship with his Higher Power. The idea behind that statement is that if one’s relationship with God is right there is no loneliness. God is enough. That spiritual connection brings fulfillment and completion in a way that meets every need. In some form or another I think I have been taught that my entire life. For a few days now I have been asking myself the question do I really believe that?
And the answer, I’m afraid, is no. No, I don’t completely believe that. My thoughts travel to the scriptures and the Old Testament. Adam in the Garden of Eden, surrounded by perfection, his every need met, with a perfect relationship with his creator, was not complete. Adam lived the very relationship God intended to have with the created, perfect fellowship. They walked together, side by side in the cool of the day. Fear held no power. And God said then about the subject of the one man who had total and unblocked fellowship and communication with the Creator, it is not good for man to be alone. It is not good. Fellowship with the Creator was not enough when it was perfect, can it, no should it truly be enough in my life today when the relationship, communication and connection is not even close to the perfection of the Garden?
Of course, I believe Adam and Eve had it easy when it came to picking a partner. Every time I hear someone say I wouldn’t be with so and so if they were the last person on Earth I think ridiculous. Of course they would. When there is but one choice there is no choice. But how do you make that choice when there are billions of people on the planet. How do you know?
Experience tells me not to trust entirely on emotional responses to people and relationships. Emotions fluctuate like the tides and are unreliable. Feelings can change, be hurt, and are effected by fears, hopes, the past, and so much more. And the language of the heart can never be spoken in a logical dialect. Pure reason and problem solving comparisons won’t yield much fruit in the garden of love. Yet they can’t be ignored completely either. And no matter how much our brain tries to tell us to measure the weights of the good versus the bad, to examine percentages of how much a relationship is good and healthy against the bad and destructive, the damaging and sick, the heart, which despite all biological evidence to the contrary, has a mind of its own, so often refuses to listen. What then is acceptable? Like a soul living in two timeshare condos, do we live in hell for the majority of the year to enjoy a few weeks in paradise from time to time? How much pain do we have to endure before the heart even agrees enough is enough? There is much to be said for comfortable and secure, and not so bad, and close enough. There can be contentment in the soft glows of embers that isn’t always there in the high flames of passion. But is that enough? It is not good to be alone, but is it therefore good to be not alone if it’s not the ideal? Can a relationship be right if it is not two becoming one? I’m not talking so much about marriage. I’m talking about one person being totally happy putting the other person first at least half the time, to wanting the best for the other person over their own desires…and receiving the same in return. At which point does compromise become a liability? I wish I knew. Love as a mutually beneficial relationship between two people. An experience that is comfortable and warm and full of contentment in the glowing embers but also has times of high flames, energy, and passion that do not come just from sex or at the expense of one or the other people involved. Is that fairy-tale nonsense or the way things are supposed to be, can be? Part of me feels I’m too old, seen too much to believe in fairy-tales. But most of me wonders if life can be worth living without that very hope.
And the answer, I’m afraid, is no. No, I don’t completely believe that. My thoughts travel to the scriptures and the Old Testament. Adam in the Garden of Eden, surrounded by perfection, his every need met, with a perfect relationship with his creator, was not complete. Adam lived the very relationship God intended to have with the created, perfect fellowship. They walked together, side by side in the cool of the day. Fear held no power. And God said then about the subject of the one man who had total and unblocked fellowship and communication with the Creator, it is not good for man to be alone. It is not good. Fellowship with the Creator was not enough when it was perfect, can it, no should it truly be enough in my life today when the relationship, communication and connection is not even close to the perfection of the Garden?
Of course, I believe Adam and Eve had it easy when it came to picking a partner. Every time I hear someone say I wouldn’t be with so and so if they were the last person on Earth I think ridiculous. Of course they would. When there is but one choice there is no choice. But how do you make that choice when there are billions of people on the planet. How do you know?
Experience tells me not to trust entirely on emotional responses to people and relationships. Emotions fluctuate like the tides and are unreliable. Feelings can change, be hurt, and are effected by fears, hopes, the past, and so much more. And the language of the heart can never be spoken in a logical dialect. Pure reason and problem solving comparisons won’t yield much fruit in the garden of love. Yet they can’t be ignored completely either. And no matter how much our brain tries to tell us to measure the weights of the good versus the bad, to examine percentages of how much a relationship is good and healthy against the bad and destructive, the damaging and sick, the heart, which despite all biological evidence to the contrary, has a mind of its own, so often refuses to listen. What then is acceptable? Like a soul living in two timeshare condos, do we live in hell for the majority of the year to enjoy a few weeks in paradise from time to time? How much pain do we have to endure before the heart even agrees enough is enough? There is much to be said for comfortable and secure, and not so bad, and close enough. There can be contentment in the soft glows of embers that isn’t always there in the high flames of passion. But is that enough? It is not good to be alone, but is it therefore good to be not alone if it’s not the ideal? Can a relationship be right if it is not two becoming one? I’m not talking so much about marriage. I’m talking about one person being totally happy putting the other person first at least half the time, to wanting the best for the other person over their own desires…and receiving the same in return. At which point does compromise become a liability? I wish I knew. Love as a mutually beneficial relationship between two people. An experience that is comfortable and warm and full of contentment in the glowing embers but also has times of high flames, energy, and passion that do not come just from sex or at the expense of one or the other people involved. Is that fairy-tale nonsense or the way things are supposed to be, can be? Part of me feels I’m too old, seen too much to believe in fairy-tales. But most of me wonders if life can be worth living without that very hope.
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