I agree that this is not intended for everyone. I don’t believe the following subject is something that most people will know about, nor should anyone have to know about this.
However, in the sad desperation of hardship, or in the course of imprisonment, and whether this jail is figurative, external or self-induced, or in the interest of darkness and after the fallouts or the aftermath of battle, or the drunken bouts of shame, or as a result of drug-induced sickness, or an otherwise circumstance, I think of the times when life was at its worst.
I think of when my back was against the wall or on the floor and the only way up was too far or too high for me to climb. I think of my own madness and the drooling lunacies of emotional downfalls or mental health catastrophes.
I think of the self-destructive moments, sad and terrible.
I think about the absolute desolation of faith.
I think about the abandonment and absence of hope, as if to say that all was sunk or submerged and life was drowning in plain air, and above the waterline—as if to mean that the soul was dying alive and motionless in the stillness of some unforgivable life.
I think about how the darkness of truth was all too encompassing and the light was all too distant.
As for hope, hope was gone.
And as for the topic of God, I agree that many people find God in jail but in fairness to the environment and amongst the violence and amidst the cruelty of men, no.
There is no God here. But he might be in the infirmary- if you know where to look.
I think about the desertion of faith or the details of faithless surrender.
I think of when the doors rolled shut. I think about how the rejection of good suffocates the soul.
Meanwhile, hopeless and endless, the body folds. The mind bows in submission and gives way as we find ourselves, begging for mercy, and pleading for forgiveness.
And down comes the gavel . . .
All of this takes place while rejecting the love from Mother’s touch, lost or caught in the fear that comes from when we are faced with the exposure of truth. Thus, in the enlightenment of sin and exposure to the light, the answer is yes, I strayed and I failed and yes, I did wrong.
I found myself in the face of my consequences, hated and furious. While noticing the smell from a cage, which is otherwise known as a holding cell that is perfumed with the aromas of body odor and cleaning solvent; and while listening to the hollow emptiness of a tier, which is a long hallway aligned with cells, not unlike this one, not unlike the caged cruelties that rest at the border of cruel and unusual punishment—and in the sad regrets that come after we reach a moment of awareness, that yes, this is really happening, and this is only the beginning, we find ourselves in the figurative mirror, facing ourselves, and aware that something bad is about to happen.
Just don’t get shivved.
This is the place where they keep evil men or hard men, angry and threatening.
This is both the breeding ground and the learning center for crime — and alas, behold the den of thieves.
This is here where I saw no reflection of hope and, to be clear, I was sitting in the absence of repentance and in the rebellion of hell or the march of hell bound saints with hellbent desires to yearn or to bleed in proof of life. Thus, I found myself resisting the light.
I wanted to hide in fear that I would have to face myself, or to hide from the judgments to follow by way of judges and gavels. So, in the resignation of rage and selfishness, alas I think of times when steel doors rolled shut.
I think of how this sound intrudes and how the slam of a door can exclaim, like a punctuation, with a loud slam, which dictates the sound of imprisonment. Yes, — I saw myself in the faceless mirrors of demented corruption.
I saw myself in the hollow emptiness of self, as if to be half of myself, at best, or as in empty, as if my chest was only a shell, and my heartbeat was a drum, pounding inside of my skeleton. To be clear, I was nothing more than another addition to the skeletons in my closet.
I was desperate and afraid, as if to say that behold, I bring forth the evil of all mankind, here in the bullpens of men who await their judgment, or if nothing else, I sat amongst them, awaiting conviction, and awaiting the decision of bail or an otherwise hopeful release on my own recognizance.
There is no hope here.
Jail.
This is not a place of hope,
at least not for some—or most.
There is the rejection of truth, similar to the desertion of Christ, or while summarizing the rejection of Christ, and while sitting on a hard bench in contemplation of sin, I sat beside others and their details of denying their own Christ.
Each person sat in contemplation of their own past and their own sin. Some were more sinful than others. Some were more comfortable on this side of their purgatory. Some were petrified.
Some were back home.
Still, I sat with men who denied their purity and denied their truths and most of all, no differently from the disciple, Peter, who denied Christ three times, who swore he would never do this, yet the truth in his soul and love in his heart, he still denied Christ.
Even though he sinned and although Peter denied ever knowing the Son, Himself, and though he wronged the love in his heart and though he was fit for punishment and to stand with the evil of mankind – still, even Peter was forgiven.
So, would I be forgiven?
Would you?
Would we be forgiven and allow this past to be forgotten?
How long would something like this have to live in infamy?
How long would I have to be my own worst enemy? If I were able to break free from the chains or rid myself from this prison of “self,” could I rid myself from the remnants of my past?
Could I free myself from the confines of my own thinking or, at minimum, if I were able to amend my sin, regardless to the receipt of forgiveness—how much will I have to pay until I am forgiven and square or even with the house?
There are no judges, really. There are those who have power; however, no differently from how The Son of Man reminded Pontius Pilate, no one would have any power over me, if it were not given to them from above.
I think about this.
I used to run a small program in a jail . . .
I used to see the faces of different men. I noticed the expressions on their faces. I do not call myself better or above because I am not better than anyone nor am I above any law, or breaking it, nor am I anyone who is prepared to claim an honest adherence.
I am a sinner. I am often faithless and frequently lost and frustrated. However, I am hopeful and ask for the help of St. Dismas, the Patron Saint of prisoners. While I am not imprisoned nor am I confined to the likes of a cell, I do understand the unbearable imprisonment of self. And so, I offer this as my own act of contrition.
Blessed Father—
Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all of my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because I have offended Thee—my God, and as for you, my most special friend, and you, the one whom I love, and you the one whom I hurt, and you, the one whom, above all, who chose to stand by me, and yes, behold the bosom of woman, I firmly believe in resolve with the help of you, and your love. Thus, as I stand here, free from the momentary burdens of my past deception—behold, my apology.
Behold my repetitiveness, my sorrow, my regret and behold my unforgivable and undefendable sins—I do not run from them. No.
I own them all.
And so, if at all possible, and if my amends can stand the light of your scrutiny and disgust—then allow me to build and to rebuild or to begin or re-start this journey.
Please allow me to double down and circle back, and come to grips with my rejection and hesitation of faith.
Behold, my scars for they tell my story.
I have no excuses.
I have no defense.
I have nothing more than my knees which have been bent in humility—forgiven or not—I am here, alone, and hoping to find sanity, by way of finding peace—with you.
I am no one who can stand the test of light.
I am someone with a list of sins.
I am as imperfect as all men . . .
But at least I am here, which is better than where I was.
(You know??)
The Written Addiction 