Faith Restored... Somehow

When I was ten years old, I lived in England, and I had a friend named Ahmad.  He was of Lebanese origin, and his family owned a Lebanese restaurant in London.  One day, Ahmad took me there.  The menu was large, and I had no idea what to order.

So they brought us everything.

To this day, it is the second best meal I ever had.  It is second-best because later, while we were on a shopping trip to Harrod's, I took my mother to the restaurant.  When Ahmad's mother recognized me, suddenly we again got everything on the menu.

And ate it all.  It was fabulous, luscious, vibrant, delicious food.

This hospitality impressed me mightily.

I bring this up because lately I have struggled to keep faith in God, and more importantly in humanity.  I've wanted to believe in us, that we can address the problems we all face - and I haven't been able to muster much by way of faith.  We've all seemed... doomed.  Selfishness, self-centeredness: the root of our problem.  And it has seemed intractable to me.

But then I remember the generosity and dignity that was shown to me by Ahmad and his family.  I remember the Good they displayed.

This basic compassion is, I believe, the way in which we can connect with an immense Power greater than ourselves, that can restore us to a life of modesty, decency, and care.

Ahmad's generosity inspired me to study Islamic law.  I have become an Islamophile.  I have studied and memorized portions of the Qur'an, which I believe is the most beautiful poetry ever expressed, in perhaps the most beautiful language humans speak.

All of this has inspired me again to enjoin goodness, and a restored faith.  I can believe in God once again.  He is no longer some external spirit, but the very thing that animates the universe and gives it life, beauty, grace.  And He is contacted in each moment we tap into the compassion within us.

I want you.

I want you and I want to buy you a Belgian Tervuren puppy.  I want you and I want a house in the country with loads of animals.  I want you and I want to buy you an SUV even though the idea disgusts me.  I want you and I want to have a daughter with you.  I want you and I want to be your son's "Dad."

I want you and I want a future with you.

You're asking so much of me, and expecting it to be of little consequence.

How dare you?  I mean, really how dare you?  I bet my life on this hand, and you dealt me a pair of twos.  I'm hoping against hope y'all got nothing better, because I've bet my stack on this hand.  I have nothing left.  There is no come back.  It's all down to this.

But you expect me to play my hand no matter what.  You know the chips are down, you know I'm fucked if I lose, but you expect me to play this hand.

Fuck you.  Fuck you all to hell, you motherfucker.  Why didn't you deal me something slightly better?

Because I've got a stone where my heart should be.  And it hurts like you wouldn't believe.  I've been beat up a thousand times, and this is what you give me: a stone.

And I still have to make it beat.

Self-Confidence

I guess that I wish we could still be friends.

I understand her point, that a relationship can't have two people with mental illness.  I understand how rough it can be to be around me, when everything is constantly on the edge of slipping into a chronic, painful madness.  I am, to put it bluntly, a depressing person to be around.

What I wish I could give her, or explain to her, is the fact that I actually have a deep faith in myself.  I know that I will continue to struggle with my problems, but I refuse to give up.  It's a powerful force in my life.  It has kept me alive despite everything that has happened, or will happen, to me.

It's a strange confidence, but a sustaining one.  And - I know that I myself need a partner who can also have that faith in me.  It's a tall order.

But a necessary one.

I suddenly feel OK.

Of course the answer was right there all along, staring me in the face.

"For God so loved the world that He gave." (John, 3:16).

And I don't mean this in a boring Christian episcopal, evangelical way.  John is describing an action, a course of action, for all of us to perform.

"For God so loved the world that He gave."

Almost one year ago, I made this promise.  I promised that no matter who or how I was, I would give as my expression of love.  I would be, for her, the ultimate expression of love.  For almost a year, that has been as a lover; and I have made a decidedly poor show of it.  But now is the opportunity to do it as a former lover, as an ex.  I am called upon to be selfless and pure without reward, to love for love's own sake.  And by God, I shall do it.

It is a time of endings.  She has left me and she has left me and she has left me.  I have no future now, nothing to look forward to.  Desolation and exhaustion are what I feel.  But also a curious kind of peace.  Something bigger, something larger is screeching to a halt.

I don't know what it is.  Me, I suppose.

Confusing Moods

It's been almost a year. Two months shy of a year, and yes - two months is a long time - but I feel strangely reflective lately. It started when I realized that I missed my parent's home. I didn't think I'd ever say that, considering how much I wanted to move out of there as soon as possible, but I do miss it.

I miss the central air. I miss the space. I miss the enormous bathtub. I miss the backyard. I miss the dishwasher, and the kitchen in general actually.

I want to say that things were better, then.  Gone is the memory of the crippling depression, only hinted at briefly in various bits of writing that I did from time to time, then.  Instead there is the memory of their ostentatious - but comfortable - house.  Instead there is the memory of watching Torchwood, watching Sherlock, smoking a hookah and feeling... more in tune with whatever it was I was feeling back then.  At least that's the current perception.

I feel more outwardly quiet, now, but quite conflicted inside.  We're living in a small flat in Hartford.  It's a rather downtrodden set of digs, in a not-terribly-nice-but-not-terribly-terrible part of town.  Money is fairly tight, and I have nothing to do all day long while I wait for the summer to wind down so that I can go back to school.  Two months, roughly.  Just two months to get through.

I honestly can't tell how I'm feeling.  On the one hand, it doesn't feel as if much has changed.  There's still depression, still wayward thoughts of suicide, still self-hatred.  I still want to crawl out of my skin and into someone else's.  This past year has been... rough, shall we say.  Relapse, divorce, dating a twenty-year-old with an autistic son, numerous hospitalizations for depression or contraindicated chemicals.  I'm trying to find my sea-legs but am not having an easy time of it.  On the other hand, for the past few days I've been feeling, ever so slightly, better.  More "whole."  I couldn't tell you why or what changed, but I'm feeling just a bit more "up."  And yet missing the past whilst staring hard at the future.

I have a year left of school.  Hopefully after that, I'll find work.  And when I find work, then I can do things that seem miraculous, like pay off the extant bills.  I would love to pay off my credit card, to have access to a bit of credit so we could do things like, I don't know, have decent coffee instead of Folgers in the morning, or shop at Trader Joe's once in a while.  Things like that.

I'm quite hopeful, you see.  There's a pit in my stomach all the time, but I'm still hopeful about the future and maybe it's that contradiction that confuses me.  Or maybe it's the fact that I'm feeling somewhat alright yet pining for the past still.  I don't know what to make of my moods.

It looks like I'll be getting an implant to help with the pain, and that has me looking up a bit as well.  We went to Lake Compounce, yesterday, and although I survived much better than I had been expecting, I'm hopeful the implant will make days like that seem a breeze.  The pain still cripples me, physically and emotionally; with luck, the implant will fix all that.  Though there is still a wad of painful emotion every time I watch someone walk barefoot, swim, jump, wear shorts.  I still run up against my envy of them and their able-bodied life.

But it's all changing, and rapidly.  Difficult or not, the past year has seen a lot of growth in me.  I should really smile more at my success, at all that I've accomplished.  I get stuck looking for things, things I can point to that are indicators of success, and in this case there aren't any.  But I'm still successful.

12 years ago this Saturday, I overdosed on heroin, permanently paralyzing myself and causing the chronic physical pain that has been a feature (if not the feature) of my every waking moment since.

I am the prodigal son.  I left my home to pursue selfish, self-centered things.  My fortunes ruined, I am just now returning to that home, to beg the father within me (that of God in me) for forgiveness.

I know that he is described as All-Forgiving, but I hesitate to bring this to him.  I am so deeply ashamed of what I have done, and I wish - in a way - for punishment.  I wish for justice.  I wish for the sick, self-centered fuck who maimed me to get just punishment.  I am angry.  I want retribution.

That anger keeps me from my forgiving father.  That anger clouds my heart, distorts my judgment.  But I love it so.  I love it because the cause is so just, because the perp who did this to me is so thoroughly rotten to the core.  I want this done to him.  I want him to suffer as I have.

I want to suffer.

What I don't see in this is the way that the anger is hurting others.  I am angry, so I punish myself, and then I seek to lose myself again and again in alcohol and drugs.  I am furious with myself, I push for more pain, and then I beg this torturer to stop through bribes of hedonism.

This is hurting others.  This is hurting my girlfriend, my parents, my friends... this is hurting my forgiving father within.  This pattern cannot stand, cannot last.

I must forgive myself for what I have done.  I must do the impossible, and reconcile my angry firebrand self with my prodigal son.  My angry self must become the prodigal son's father.  My angry self must learn to forgive this idiot son who has done so much damage.

I must start by learning to accept the forgiveness of others.  I must seek to make amends for my actions, and with luck I will be forgiven by at least some of the people I have harmed.  I must watch them, study them, learn how they do this thing called forgiving.  And perhaps then I will learn how to forgive myself..

I know what I must do, but it is the hardest thing for me to do.

I must forgive myself.  I must forgive myself for overdosing on heroin, paralyzing myself, causing the chronic pain I have had to live with for the past 12 years.  I must stop blaming myself for all the substance abuse, for the depression, for the fucked-upness of my life.

Honestly?  I don't know how to do it.  I hate myself.  I hate myself for all the damage I have caused, to me and to other people.  I feel I have been a constant source of anguish and hurt for all around me, and for myself.

I know the only way to end it is to forgive myself, to stop the hatred.  If I can forgive myself, then I won't feel prompted (at all times) to cause more damage.  I won't see-saw between self-righteous indignation and constant despair.

I have to learn to see the good in me.  I have to learn to value what I am and what I have.

But I don't know how.

Dear Debbie and Melissa,

Jasmine tells me that you’ve been concerned for me, and I just wanted to write and tell you that I’m now out of the hospital and, as best I can tell, doing well.  Thank you for your thoughts and prayers; I’m not one to believe in supernatural phenomena, but I can decisively say that it has been wonderful to know that others are giving me some thought.

            As best I can tell, I have a very rare, very strange illness.  For periods of time I will act oddly, and subsequently I will ‘come to,’ in a sense, without any memory of the odd actions, the strange things I say and do.

            The picture is complicated by the fact that I am an alcoholic and a drug addict.  Very often, in these black-out moments, I will drink or use some kind of drug.  This happened regularly – I think – which is why this strange dissociation was not discovered earlier.  We all assumed I was simply blacking out from the booze or the drugs.

            I am told there is no solid treatment for my condition.  I was put on a mild dose of an anti-psychotic drug, and told to go into intensive therapy.  The drug seems to make my anxiety a great deal worse; and neither appears to be stopping this phenomenon.

            I am at a loss as to what to do.  I feel deeply ashamed and embarrassed, especially by the degree to which this illness forces me to impinge upon other people’s good will.  I am close to finishing law school, but now deeply concerned that I should not practice law, as my illness may gravely affect other people’s rights.  After an unpleasant but blessedly brief divorce, I have a new girlfriend whom I care about deeply.  Yet I am sorely worried about all that I put her through because of this illness.

            My faith is worn thin.  What was once a proud and strong edifice now seems a slight, papery wall.  I find it difficult to believe in a loving God, try as I might.  I know it is self-centered and selfish to wish God’s blessing upon myself, but I struggle to understand His will for me or how I might use this disease so as to demonstrate His kindness and generosity to others.

            In short, I feel as if upon the edge of a precipice.  Below me is madness, chaos, the Biblical waters God (and later, Jesus) calmed.  I wait for Him to blow across the surface of the waters, wait for the infinite ocean of light and love but only seeing darkness and destitution.  I cannot, do not believe He intends this.  I fought for faith after my paralysis; I would do so here, as well, if I knew where to begin.

            Thank you for remaining examples of what it truly means to be Christian.  You and your families remain in my thoughts and prayers.

                                                                                    Chris

Letting Go

I have racing thoughts.  A lot of them, and all the time.  It’s either a part of my mental illness, or it’s a reaction to the medications that I’m on.  I have to ask the psychiatrist if there’s anything that can be done, though I dread adding another chemical to my daily cocktail.

With my racing thoughts I want everything done yesterday.  I want to plan for events so far in advance it’s ridiculous.  I’m tetchy, on edge, sometimes nervous other times dickish.  The only total and complete cure for this state of being is alcohol.  Yes, a pair of fingers of Irish whiskey, a fat cigar, and those annoying thoughts settle right down.  I’m in the moment, in the zone, when I have a little liquor in the belly.  As an alcoholic those moments , brief and ephemeral, are like fading glimpses of a nirvana never entirely known.  Clues, ephemera of lost Shangri-La.

Which is why being told that if I let go into the tao of living, the racing thoughts will subside, is so hurtful.  I know it’s right, but all those racing thoughts say no, say to pack a parachute first, to be prepared.  Trungpa Rinpoche said that the bad news is that you’re falling, no parachute, nothing to grab onto.  The good news is that there is no ground.  I recall that in moments like this, and wish I were braver, wish I could step to the edge, look down into it, smile and jump.

It’s more like I cower my way to the edge, close my eyes rather than look into it, cringe and run away.

I can’t this time, though.

I’m looking down into the gaping maw of life, the rush of it, the forceful strength of it, knowing that I have to jump in, that it’s the only way the thoughts will go away, it’s the only way I can move past the pent up fear and fully live, fully embrace life.  It’s the only way I stand a chance of keeping my girlfriend, it’s the only chance I have to drop all that hurt and annoyance when it comes to my family, it’s the only way I can accept who I am with all my limitations and not cry over all the spilt milk.

I have to do it.  Forced to lean over the edge like this, hair tossed a million different ways at once, face revealed in a golden glow and all sound reduced to the white noise of rushing air.  I must jump.  I must trust there is no ground.  I must do it.

OK, so how?