I was told something a long, long time ago.
I was told that I have to believe.
I have to have faith.
But how?
Life is all messed up. The world is an angry place.
Everything is so hard . . .
I say this to you now, sipping from a freshly made cup of coffee.
I do my own mix too. This cup is a mixture with a coconut flavored brand, a 4-ounce salted caramel cappuccino, and a shot of dark chocolate espresso to give the finish a nice, bold, and strong flavor.
And um, at the risk of patting myself on the back, I have to say the coffee is good — even if I do say so myself. And I do.
I come here to let myself go. I know that you know this.
I come here to speak openly and freely.
No judgment. No thinking. No analyzing anything.
Everything I write is true to my heart — even if I am dishonest in other ways or other places, this here?
This is all very true to me.
This is all to expose the better parts of me. What’s more, I come here because you are the most important person in my life. I say this knowing full and well that reality is separate from fantasy.
I say this with a full and complete understanding that thoughts have ways of making us betray ourselves — and others as well. I have done this.
I have no defense.
I come here to expose my unwanted truths. Also, I am here to rid myself of the five most degrading and evil thoughts to the soul.
These are blame, shame, fault, guilt, and regret.
I know that you have heard me describe these as the five fingers of rejective thinking.
Yes. I have said this before.
And yes, I repeat myself.
I come here to follow up with an agreement, to which I betray sometimes.
However, this agreement was not made between me and someone else.
Not at all.
This was between me, myself, and I.
In the same breath, I acknowledge this was an agreement made in the depth of my darkest foxhole prayer. I was in too deep. To the unknowing, a foxhole prayer is one that is made in fear.
Or as if I were in the trenches of war, this is the prayer that often comes to an otherwise faithless soldier who begs and pleads “Dear God, please get me out of this!”
I have had these moments.
And who hasn’t?
“If you just get me out of this one, I swear, I’ll be a good boy.”
Maybe I honored this for a while. Maybe I was a good boy.
But my fear of falling from the ledge of my sins was removed because I was saved . . . therefore, the danger was removed and so was the ledge. Hence, I forgot the pain and the shame of facing an unnoble death.
But wait. Am I noble?
Am I good?
Am I so brave? Am I so genuine or deserve grace?
Maybe . . .
or maybe not.
Maybe this depends on who’s asked about me.
Sure, I have enemies.
I have votes against me. I have done my share of bad things.
Absolutely. I never told anyone that I was better or some guru.
In fact, I explain that I am unwell and there are times when my unwellness gets in my way and hurts the world around me.
I have no right to act better than anyone else. I am no better or worse than most.
And I know this.
I am certainly no better or worse than the majority of my accusers who, in the same regard, have their own dishonesties or who had affairs.
Others have lied to their significant other and continue to do so — and no, I am not better or worse than anyone.
Or maybe I am worse.
Maybe I am less-deserving, that is, if you ask my so-called enemies or to the rest of the world
Maybe . . .
I do not come here to stroke my ego or to stroke anything else for that matter.
I am not here to forgive myself and say, “Don’t worry. It’ll all be okay,” because sometimes, everything is not going to be okay.
And it isn’t okay.
It’s not okay to hurt someone.
I am no better than my accusers nor am I any better than the accusations against me.
I have all “the fives,” — and yes, I have blame, shame, fault, guilt, and regret.
I hurt really good people qnd this is undefendable.
I agree.
But this is not written to defend myself.
This is not written as an advocate for the sad or the depressed or the lonely or for those in despair.
I am not alone, by any means. I am not the only one who sees life with contempt and asks the sky, “What the fuck?”
I am not the only one who lied nor am I the only one who was lied too.
Like the saying goes about not healing from what hurt you, yes, I have bled on people who did not cut me.
I am done with this.
I came to an intersection of my life, or like the unsureness of a crossroad; I wondered where to go, which way, and what happens now?
What’s next?
What do I do if I walk away?
What happens if my past calls me again and reminds me of the pain?
More than any of this bullshit, why the hell do you or I hold on and cling to the people, places, or the things that nearly killed us?
Why?
Why do we hold the past the way we do?
Why do we allow something so unresolvable, like the past disputes, to dictate the wealth and happiness of our future?
I think these are all real and valid questions.
I see my past all the time, by the way.
I see this when I drive around.
I work in the same neighborhood for nearly 30 years.
I pass the building in New York City where my so-called real and adult life began. This was a place that I call 909 because that was the address. It’s tattooed on my wrist . . .
I have to pass this place all the time.
And fine.
This is my life. So be it.
I accept what is.
I have to face the reminders of what took place.
I have to see people, places, and things that remind me that image and pretending “to be” is nothing more than a fake or plastic existence.
And yes. I was weak.
Fake too.
Plastic?
Maybe.
Or maybe I was a result of my bullshit excuses.
But this is not about that either.
I have to do so many things now.
I have to face, process, and handle the consequences of my choices, actions, and the failures of both.
I have to live, and I have to do this despite the requests of others who have asked me to do otherwise.
And that’s fine.
I get that. I understand.
Don’t worry. My time will come and those who choose can eat popcorn at my grave if that’s what works for them.
Like I said.
That’s fine.
I go through bouts with faith.
This is more than whether I believe or not. This is more than my bouts about the belief and the existence of God, or some kind of Good Orderly Direction.
G.O.D. (Good Orderly Direction) was an acronym that someone told me when I was young and faithless. I remember because I swore there was no God.
Besides, I was living with demons who arrived in plastic bottles and packages of white powder which I cooked and dissolved into a purified toxin to flood my bloodstream and keep me sick.
Some call this deadly.
Some call it euphoria.
Some call this the devil himself.
I don’t care what this is called,
not anymore.
I go through bouts of faithlessness and yes, I look around.
I see what I see.
I know a girl, beautiful as ever, but her limitations are the challenge that limits her ability to see her beauty.
Some call her limits “CP.”
I call this something she wears, and still, she is beautiful.
Despite the fact that we don’t talk — that’s fine. Beauty is still beautiful, and the truth is still true, despite our past interactions — or the lack thereof.
I report this and send this out to the atmosphere of hope. However, I am unsure how God or my association with Good Orderly Direction can change the weakness of a young girl’s left side.
I report this while finishing my cup of coffee.
(It was good, thank you.)
I report this with all my abilities and capable fingers that push the keys, fast and loud, and misspell or butcher the grammar in my streams of conscious thought.
Fuck you, Critics.
Go read and ruin someone else’s hope for a while.
I often complain about my little place.
I complain about some of my neighbors.
I complain about a lot of things.
Meanwhile, my problems are similar to living on Park Avenue when compared to someone who is living on a park bench.
I see good people endure the worst of life, and I find myself wondering “how?”
“Why?”
“What the fuck?”
To be honest, I see how I have committed the same sins by hurting someone who was undeserving.
But this is not about that either . . .
How is it that sicknesses can exist in what I was told is supposed to be a Godly place?
I had the chance to help a young woman the other day.
My position at work holds me responsible for accessibility in the inclusive bathroom where someone needs extra support and a grab rail that goes beyond typical standards — and she needs this just to go to the bathroom.
What I saw was unfair, yet this young woman did nothing but smile.
Meanwhile, I complain.
I bitch, and I argue.
I shake my fist at the sky.
I spit at the ground –
Pray all you want. Life is still life.
CP is still CP
But also—
The enemies at the gates are still lurking.
People who live in glass houses are still throwing stones. To be clear about this, so have I for that matter. I’ve been throwing stones in my glass house and looking curiously to wonder why there’s always a draft coming through.
Maybe I should stop this — or take the beating, so they say.
Face the music.
Face the consequence.
Face the world.
Okay. So be it.
I’m the guy . . .
But not today.
No . . .
None of this is about that.
I am going to face the Ever-loving Mother this afternoon.
I am going to kneel before the statue of Mary.
This is at the shrine near the beach Point Lookout.
I am going to bring The Mother a shell from the beach.
I will place this at her feet and ask, “Bless me, Mother. A Sinner.”
Maybe I am not worthy of Her
or you.
But I have to live. I have to try.
At the same time, I have to realize —
Maybe I’m saved more than I think.
I think . . .
Every shell has a story they say.
Isn’t that what you told me?
I have an old story too.
Blessed Mother, take this story from me.
Help me write the next chapter
and help me be deserving of forgiveness
(and deserving of her).
The caffeine from my special coffee is kicking in.
And so are my emotions.
I love you.
That’s all I have.
The Written Addiction 