Being Honest With Fiction

I understand that I say that I am being honest with fiction.
And yes, this is true.
But everything that I have put here is true.
I understand that I change names, dates, people, places and things to protect the less-than innocent, including me.
But as fictional as tis is; all of this is true.
Or better, all if this is true to me.

I remember you from the basement of an old church and how you used to smile at me.
I saw nothing to smile about.
And you still smiled.
I saw nothing to be happy about.
But you still smiled.
I saw no reason for me to be where I was and still, you smiled at me and said, “Keep coming back.”

I always shook my head.
“What the hell is the matter with him?”
You would tell me, “It gets better!” and then you would smile.
I doubted every word.
I doubted your sincerity.
I doubted your hospitality.
I questioned everything you said because to me, you and all your 12-Step friends were cult members trying to be cult leaders and to me, you could all kiss my ass and die right afterwards.

I remember you telling me how I should keep coming back and how, “It works if you work it,” and then you would tell me, “You’re worth it!”
I used to see this as an insult.
Perhaps it would have been easier for me to process the things you would say if you cursed at me or threatened me with physical violence. 

But no.
You smiled.
You stayed kind.
But who the hell is always so kind?
Who can smile like this?
Who is that happy with their life?
Fuck that.
Everything is a lie.
No one is happy.
No one is at peace and no one is content with who they are and what they have.
No one!

“Don’t quit,” you would say.
I thought to hell with you.
To hell with all this bullshit.
To hell with all of the steps to sobriety. And to hell with the so-called suggestions.
To hell with the principles.
To hell with their preambles and the “How it works,” introduction that one of the members read before every Alcoholic’s Anonymous meeting.
To hell with the slogans and the sayings and the so-called higher power and the spiritual awakenings.

I had enough spiritual awakenings.
I had no friends.
That was an awakening.
I woke up to the loss of my youth.
The girl I thought who loved me told me I’d never be good enough for her.
That was an awakening.
I had no dignity.
I hardly had an eighth grade education.
I could hardly read, let alone write well enough to share my poetry.
That was another awakening.

I had a job that came with nothing but a weak little paycheck.
And when I say the job came with nothing; I mean not a semblance of achievement, not a semblance of joy nor were there any feelings of satisfaction at the end of the day.
I had nothing left in my heart.
I was fine to vacate the premises and leave this earthly place.
I was fine to die, which is why o was fine to drive around with a nickel-plated .357 revolver beneath my car seat.

I was a high school drop out. So, I was uneducated at best.
In fact, I am still a high school drop out. I earned my high school diploma in my mid to late 20’s. I passed the test to get my General Equivalency Diploma. Or G.E.D which also stood for just “good enough” diploma.

I was a salesman in a dying industry.
I had no skin in the fight and no interest in the future of my employment.

I lived with lifelong depression and anxiety, which was (and still is) medication resistant.
Everyone I knew seemed to be better than me.
Everyone else seemed to be happier than me.
I was broke. I had more bills than income.
I had more enemies than friends.
I had more doubt than faith.
And here he was, an old smiling whitehaired man who always greeted me kindly.
He always had kind things to say.
He always told me “Keep coming back,” and “don’t quit before the miracle happens.”

What miracle?
What was there to be grateful for?
Was I supposed to be grateful that I was alive another day?
Was I supposed to be happy that I would have to live through something else?
Something tragic?
Something catastrophic?

Should I have knelt with a humble and holy heart and prayed with gratefulness?
Should I have been grateful that I had ten fingers and ten toes, two lungs that worked, a heart that beat, and bones that helped me to stand straight?

Was I supposed to offer my thanks that the birds still chirped and the sun still broke the night and dawn showed up to start the daylight?

One could argue that yes, I should be grateful for all these things.
One could argue that I have survived everything that happened to me.
One could say that I should thank the Heavens that I am not where I could have been or should have been.
One could suggest that my life could have been worse.
Much worse.
One could say that I should be grateful that I am healthy or that cancer has not come along to destroy me down to the bone.
One could obviously say that I survived all of my previous hardships and somehow, despite what took place, I survived all of my near-death experiences.
I surpassed all of this.

I might have taken a scar or two.
I might have been hurt and broken and beaten, and I might have been emotionally destroyed, and worse, I might have died a little more than I lived a little.
At the same time, somehow, I’m still here
And I still showed up, regardless of the critics and the enemies, or the stalkers, or the old employers and of course, I can expand on these people but why bother?
They are not important.

I fucked around and found out.
I hurt good people.
I listened to the wrong people.
I let too many windows close and now my opportunities are not what they used to be.
Time is running out and the hour is later than we think.

I was a young man when I knew that kind old whitehaired man.
I was ready to die. I was hateful and resentful.
One day, I saw his smile and I had to tell him how this was an insult to me.

I yelled at him with all of my hate.
I showed him my rage.
I blew up with the worst and most disdainful contempt and with all the wrath I could muster, I shouted at the kind old man.

Fuck him and his kindness.
Fuck him and his positive affirmations.
Fuck him and his telling me, “Keep coming back. It works if you work it,” and fuck him for telling me, “You’re worth it.”

When he asked me how long I had been clean, I answered reluctantly because I knew whatever he would say would be truthful and make sense.
But I did not want truth.
I did not want anything to make sense.

I was somewhere around 90 days clean, maybe a little more. I had just finished another 30 day stint in rehab because I relapsed.
I let go of the one thing that allowed me to be proud of myself and more, I traded my dignity for the biggest theft of all, which are the lies that come from tempting doses that come with short pulses of euphoria.

I lost my mind.
I could not take it anymore.
I still remember how the old man looked at me.
I still remember him telling me about my accomplishment of showing up, despite my thoughts and feelings about my losses
I was a loser in my eyes
But if that were true, then I would have lost and quit.
I told him how long I was clean/

“90 days,” he said.
He mentioned how, “You went through all that and somehow, you’re still here.”
Then his eyes watered as if he felt my pain.
He knew I survived a suicide attempt.
he knew I wanted to die.
Then he told me, “Son, you are still here. And if you don’t think that you are a miracle, then God help me because I don’t know what a miracle is!”

That man helped changed my life.

I am finding myself in humble times.
I have not lost my sobriety.
But I have certainly entertained the boundaries of giving in
I have not entered the realm of another deadly attempt to hurt myself.
But yes, depression and I go back for as long as I can remember.
Anxiety too.
And somehow, I survived all of this.

I suppose my point is there are people who come along and push us or show us our truths.
And there are people who show us that we are far more worthy and capable than our doubts and insecurities lead us to believe.

I admit that I do not have a lot of people in my life.
And this is for the better.
At least I know who is true and who is being truthful
I am not living a lie or living double lives anymore.

But I have to say that when you have someone you love deeply, and when they look at you in such a way that you know the world could explode but as long as you have that one person; nothing will ever hurt you.

I am not in that position at the moment.

But I think I need to realize that somehow, I survived more than I realized.
There has to be a reason why I’m still here.

And one day, maybe in my afterlife, but one day, nonetheless, I will have the life I’ve always wanted.
In this life or the next.
For life or longer.
And for now. My answer is as follows.

Thank you, sir.
I promise.
I won’t quit before the miracle happens.

But wherever you are now, and if you have any pull with the Angels who run the Uptown scene, could you mention my name please.
I know I might not be worthy of their forgiveness.
But like you always told me, “it works if I work it,” because you were one of the first people to ever tell me I’m worth it.

I lost the one person who convinced me I could “do it!”
So, for now . . .
. . . I suppose I’ll just have to save my own life

for now.