Hopelessness.
Somehow the word fled my mind whenever anyone asked the questions it could answer.
It had a ring to it; a tonality I'd recognized and craved for its familiarity.
That must've been why I'd forget it so often. I always found that the things I craved, the things I longed for, whatever I cherished; all had the common attribute that I'd find myself at a loss for words to describe.
Sure, I could search for the words but I didn't want to. A moment is lost once it is remarked upon. Not my words, but all of the things I couldn't immediately describe made me happy. I didn't want words for them because I didn't want to spoil the moment.
As for hopelessness, I craved the empathy. Like someone felt like I did, too.
Bible study. Okay. Game plan: no favoritism. Treat everyone the same. Stop saying 'heck yes'. Stay away from the women.
2 Samuel 11:12-13. King David and Uriah. I nearly know the story by heart. Moral of the story: men should stay on task so that they don't wind up fucking shit up. Don't be complacent. It made way more sense now.
Oh, and stay away from couches.
I tried to contribute but truly only made the study last longer. Maybe it had been good food for thought. I don't know, honestly. The only good that came of it was that I realized I really did know the answers to my questions, or at least why I asked them.
I wanted so terribly bad for someone to tell me I wouldn't have to do this alone.
Its everywhere. Loneliness=no buenos. Me? I was the exception. In groups I was malicious. It seemed nearly impossible at times not to be. When I wasn't, and held everything back, I appeared sweet. Harmless.
Like a snake in the grass.
I could lead, I could change minds, I could make people follow. I never wanted to, though, because I craved chaos rather than peace.
I could make people believe in Christ. I had faith in that and I had faith in Him.
Thing is I didn't believe I had ever been meant to love. Not anyone or anything. I could emulate it, sure. I could do nurturing things, protective things, endearing things but love?
I couldn't.
More than one person had come to the agreement that I was pure evil. People occasionally disagreed, but I could convince them to change their minds pretty quick. The only sin I hadn't committed was murder.
Why not? Don't play coy with me. I know you're human. I know you've imagined or maybe even fancied it. I know you're lying if you dare say you haven't ever dreamt of killing anyone or anything.
I didn't kill because of two reasons. 1) It was horribly messy, to my knowledge, to continue life after it without consequence. 2) I believed to live indefinitely was far more torturous than death itself.
Anyway, I'm just telling you that because tonight I want you to know how cold I am.
I'd always wanted to save people. From what, I didn't know. I only knew I wanted to be a hero. Sadly, I'd really never saved anyone from anything.
You spend your whole life wanting something you'll never have, you start focusing on easier, more attainable things. Sex, drugs, fitness. Stupid, fake meaningless goals that made it so much easier to lie to yourself to feel better when you realize how far you are from actually being successful.
Vices.
I was having trouble fitting my vices into my values. It seemed sometimes like my vices almost replaced my values and it went the other way around. I felt ashamed.
It didn't feel like I could trust myself. Probably because I couldn't.
I mean, fuck, I'd managed to lose a friend (or at least lose the ability to trust myself to talk to them) within a solid fucking month and I hadn't even had bad intentions.
Pardon me, but allow me to whine here about myself for a minute. I can put this like the logline of a short film. Here it is:
A boy finds himself speechless after finding Christ through a chance meeting with a beautiful girl after ruining the budding friendship by professing his undying love for her soul while belligerently drunk and then continues to follow the path to find salvation through the Lord while completely unable to look upon or speak to her again out of shame.
I'm telling you now that if you can't already tell its a horribly shitty movie. Incomplete at best, devoid of closure and dripping with tangible sticky awkwardness.
However, it did sound like a good beginning of a movie. I'll give it that.
In Bible study the Church Gang determined it okay to be rude. I liked that. It lifted a little pressure off of my shoulders. The girl seemed devoid of it or immune in some way or another. I wasn't a girl though, and I was pretty sure guys were... what am I saying? Regardless of gender, people were people. Having a cock between your legs didn't justify being a dick.
I couldn't shift the blame. I was guilty of sin upon sin. She'd been nothing but good. It was like hitting gold, meeting her. That's exactly why I fucked it all up; same as with gold, I'd grown obsessed and turned her into an idol so instead of loving God or doing whatever the right thing to do was I turned her into a vice. I treated her like a drug, got addicted, and proved to her and myself and anyone else who knew about the brief whatever the fuck it was that I was batshit crazy.
Dead serious. If I told you what I'd said to her, you'd feel ashamed of yourself just for reading it. Shit, I was lucky she hadn't called a mental asylum on me, if that was a thing.
Dear God, please forgive me for being a fucking idiot, a drunk, and please heal whatever scars I've left in the minds of anyone I've ever spoken to.
I had so many vices. Alcohol, Adderall, Xanax, pretty women, porn, depersonalization, vanity, sympathy, diagnosises, and it felt like more. I hated telling my story, I hated feeling the shame, but I guessed or knew it was right by Christ.
Either way, it felt good knowing that I could at least admit to God and everyone that I was wrong and wanted to repent.
I'd rather have prayer as a vice and believe in Christ rather than whatever else I had been doing and believing in myself.
The only good thing about Xanax and Adderall was that killing your inhibitions while being able to focus would let you recreate yourself really easily.
I didn't know if it was trus. I wanted to believe it.
Stefany had started showing me kindness again, and I liked it, I really did, but I could only accept it or feel happy about it when I had drank or taken Xanax. Whatever would make me feel safe made me think I needed to escape, and therapy still hadn't worked me through that. Even then, women were my kryptonite, and baby mama was no exception. I needed, I fucking needed, Christ. Nothing else. Everything else had left me miserable, lonely, hateful, half-dead, brain dead and full of regret.
I wanted to scream. I couldn't scream. I wanted to sing. I wanted to do anything but keep all the terrible feelings inside me all to myself.
I wanted to repent.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd written a poem. Maybe it was a good idea. At this point, anything seemed like a good idea, because in what felt like seconds after I'd bragged at Bible study how prayer had saved me from extramarital sex-
Which, for your record, had entirely been my fault as soon as my drunk, assinine self had made an assinine request in the form of a question the night before to satisfy my lustful, sinful flesh,
-I totally ran up upon the opportunity again. This time, it wouldn't be as easy to turn down.
Fratboy Jesus had just turned up the difficulty level on this game up more than a notch.
Fuck, it was bad. Even if I could deny it, the fact that my flesh wanted it made me feel like a pig. I'd asked and I had fucking gotten the invitation to receive. I left that part out in Bible study.
In the final comments of the night, Manny had mentioned my question about whatever the fuck I had asked (which I couldn't remember now), which had led him to say something about...
Xanax and Fourloko made remembering anything a strenuous activity. I knew whatever I had said that Manny had suggested memorizing Bible verses. I couldn't remember a damn thing.
... and Merry had added,
"Accountability."
Once I'd thought I was good at that. Anymore, I didn't really know. I had to think, and I had to meditate on it, and I had to avoid getting fucked (or being the fucker in charge of fucking) in the process.
I couldn't tell if it was paranoia or truth that those words had been aimed at me.
What a fucking pair, right?
Abstinence and accountability.
Next
Somehow the word fled my mind whenever anyone asked the questions it could answer.
It had a ring to it; a tonality I'd recognized and craved for its familiarity.
That must've been why I'd forget it so often. I always found that the things I craved, the things I longed for, whatever I cherished; all had the common attribute that I'd find myself at a loss for words to describe.
Sure, I could search for the words but I didn't want to. A moment is lost once it is remarked upon. Not my words, but all of the things I couldn't immediately describe made me happy. I didn't want words for them because I didn't want to spoil the moment.
As for hopelessness, I craved the empathy. Like someone felt like I did, too.
Bible study. Okay. Game plan: no favoritism. Treat everyone the same. Stop saying 'heck yes'. Stay away from the women.
2 Samuel 11:12-13. King David and Uriah. I nearly know the story by heart. Moral of the story: men should stay on task so that they don't wind up fucking shit up. Don't be complacent. It made way more sense now.
Oh, and stay away from couches.
I tried to contribute but truly only made the study last longer. Maybe it had been good food for thought. I don't know, honestly. The only good that came of it was that I realized I really did know the answers to my questions, or at least why I asked them.
I wanted so terribly bad for someone to tell me I wouldn't have to do this alone.
Its everywhere. Loneliness=no buenos. Me? I was the exception. In groups I was malicious. It seemed nearly impossible at times not to be. When I wasn't, and held everything back, I appeared sweet. Harmless.
Like a snake in the grass.
I could lead, I could change minds, I could make people follow. I never wanted to, though, because I craved chaos rather than peace.
I could make people believe in Christ. I had faith in that and I had faith in Him.
Thing is I didn't believe I had ever been meant to love. Not anyone or anything. I could emulate it, sure. I could do nurturing things, protective things, endearing things but love?
I couldn't.
More than one person had come to the agreement that I was pure evil. People occasionally disagreed, but I could convince them to change their minds pretty quick. The only sin I hadn't committed was murder.
Why not? Don't play coy with me. I know you're human. I know you've imagined or maybe even fancied it. I know you're lying if you dare say you haven't ever dreamt of killing anyone or anything.
I didn't kill because of two reasons. 1) It was horribly messy, to my knowledge, to continue life after it without consequence. 2) I believed to live indefinitely was far more torturous than death itself.
Anyway, I'm just telling you that because tonight I want you to know how cold I am.
I'd always wanted to save people. From what, I didn't know. I only knew I wanted to be a hero. Sadly, I'd really never saved anyone from anything.
You spend your whole life wanting something you'll never have, you start focusing on easier, more attainable things. Sex, drugs, fitness. Stupid, fake meaningless goals that made it so much easier to lie to yourself to feel better when you realize how far you are from actually being successful.
Vices.
I was having trouble fitting my vices into my values. It seemed sometimes like my vices almost replaced my values and it went the other way around. I felt ashamed.
It didn't feel like I could trust myself. Probably because I couldn't.
I mean, fuck, I'd managed to lose a friend (or at least lose the ability to trust myself to talk to them) within a solid fucking month and I hadn't even had bad intentions.
Pardon me, but allow me to whine here about myself for a minute. I can put this like the logline of a short film. Here it is:
A boy finds himself speechless after finding Christ through a chance meeting with a beautiful girl after ruining the budding friendship by professing his undying love for her soul while belligerently drunk and then continues to follow the path to find salvation through the Lord while completely unable to look upon or speak to her again out of shame.
I'm telling you now that if you can't already tell its a horribly shitty movie. Incomplete at best, devoid of closure and dripping with tangible sticky awkwardness.
However, it did sound like a good beginning of a movie. I'll give it that.
In Bible study the Church Gang determined it okay to be rude. I liked that. It lifted a little pressure off of my shoulders. The girl seemed devoid of it or immune in some way or another. I wasn't a girl though, and I was pretty sure guys were... what am I saying? Regardless of gender, people were people. Having a cock between your legs didn't justify being a dick.
I couldn't shift the blame. I was guilty of sin upon sin. She'd been nothing but good. It was like hitting gold, meeting her. That's exactly why I fucked it all up; same as with gold, I'd grown obsessed and turned her into an idol so instead of loving God or doing whatever the right thing to do was I turned her into a vice. I treated her like a drug, got addicted, and proved to her and myself and anyone else who knew about the brief whatever the fuck it was that I was batshit crazy.
Dead serious. If I told you what I'd said to her, you'd feel ashamed of yourself just for reading it. Shit, I was lucky she hadn't called a mental asylum on me, if that was a thing.
Dear God, please forgive me for being a fucking idiot, a drunk, and please heal whatever scars I've left in the minds of anyone I've ever spoken to.
I had so many vices. Alcohol, Adderall, Xanax, pretty women, porn, depersonalization, vanity, sympathy, diagnosises, and it felt like more. I hated telling my story, I hated feeling the shame, but I guessed or knew it was right by Christ.
Either way, it felt good knowing that I could at least admit to God and everyone that I was wrong and wanted to repent.
I'd rather have prayer as a vice and believe in Christ rather than whatever else I had been doing and believing in myself.
The only good thing about Xanax and Adderall was that killing your inhibitions while being able to focus would let you recreate yourself really easily.
I didn't know if it was trus. I wanted to believe it.
Stefany had started showing me kindness again, and I liked it, I really did, but I could only accept it or feel happy about it when I had drank or taken Xanax. Whatever would make me feel safe made me think I needed to escape, and therapy still hadn't worked me through that. Even then, women were my kryptonite, and baby mama was no exception. I needed, I fucking needed, Christ. Nothing else. Everything else had left me miserable, lonely, hateful, half-dead, brain dead and full of regret.
I wanted to scream. I couldn't scream. I wanted to sing. I wanted to do anything but keep all the terrible feelings inside me all to myself.
I wanted to repent.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd written a poem. Maybe it was a good idea. At this point, anything seemed like a good idea, because in what felt like seconds after I'd bragged at Bible study how prayer had saved me from extramarital sex-
Which, for your record, had entirely been my fault as soon as my drunk, assinine self had made an assinine request in the form of a question the night before to satisfy my lustful, sinful flesh,
-I totally ran up upon the opportunity again. This time, it wouldn't be as easy to turn down.
Fratboy Jesus had just turned up the difficulty level on this game up more than a notch.
Fuck, it was bad. Even if I could deny it, the fact that my flesh wanted it made me feel like a pig. I'd asked and I had fucking gotten the invitation to receive. I left that part out in Bible study.
In the final comments of the night, Manny had mentioned my question about whatever the fuck I had asked (which I couldn't remember now), which had led him to say something about...
Xanax and Fourloko made remembering anything a strenuous activity. I knew whatever I had said that Manny had suggested memorizing Bible verses. I couldn't remember a damn thing.
... and Merry had added,
"Accountability."
Once I'd thought I was good at that. Anymore, I didn't really know. I had to think, and I had to meditate on it, and I had to avoid getting fucked (or being the fucker in charge of fucking) in the process.
I couldn't tell if it was paranoia or truth that those words had been aimed at me.
What a fucking pair, right?
Abstinence and accountability.
Next
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