פרק א
I hung myself with my umbilical cord on the day of my birth. Attempted abortion suicide. It took six days for the doctors to revive me. I was on a respirator. Fluid filled my lungs. I had been all tangled up. It was a miracle that I survived.
I knew from the start this would be a hard life. From the womb I could see my doom. Something instinctual made me do it. My birthday almost became my deathday. I came into this life almost dying.
Whether it was an accident or not is open to debate. I believe it was intentional, but that the will of fate was mightier than mine. I have work to do in this life, and God won’t let me shirk my duties.
The story that is about to unfold is fragmented and at times a bit hard to follow. Well, it was also hard to live. Sometimes a whirlwind of energy sweeps you away and it is hard to stay grounded. I have tried to escape my whole life, and sometimes the attempts are successful. A little too much so, as months at a time could blend right by and all that’s left afterwords are shattered shards of glass and mirrors. In a Hilton hotel room. That you rented for 5 nights with a debit card that only had money for one. Yeah. Those things can happen. It’s all part of a grander scheme. One in which I am just a puzzle piece. Sometimes without a place.
I am hesitant to tell this story, for I have been persecuted in the past for my writing. But at this point, I know the risk and I understand the worst that could happen. I’ve been there before. I don’t think it could get much worse.
You see, the song “Jesus of Suburbia” really spoke to me. It really got me thinking deeply about something I had always considered. What if there was a spokesman for God who came back today? Where would he come from? How would we know it was him? How would he know it is him? Is it in some way a personal decision, and anyone can become a spokesperson for God? Was Jesus called or did he call upon? Which came first, the nazi or the jew?
It is thoughts like these that wind me up in mental hospitals. 13 and counting. I call them concentration camps. Because they teach us to concentrate. Ok. I’m sorry. Bad taste. Regardless, mental hospitals are wretched places.
Oh doctor, please tell me I’m sane. Please cure me of my brain. I have a chemical imbalance now that I take your pills. I thank you for giving me the establishment sponsored chemical imbalance that is socially acceptable in this modern age. I am your humble servant and will always thank you each time I swallow your pills.
I prefer the sysrp, but that’s another story.
There are many on this earth who are downtrodden. There are many who pass through the walls of jails and mental hospitals. We are portrayed in the news as criminals. But do we see ourselves that way?
“We are doing this for your own good.” The Voice declares.
Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am. Thank you, thank you. For my own good, yes. That makes sense. Thank you for your deepest concerns and your gracious sympathy. Thank you for bringing me back from my delusions so that I can function and have a normal life. It was difficult at times, but we have succeeded.
I am now living in San Francisco. Working a regular job. Loving my neighbor as myself. And taking the daily pills to keep me sane.
Things have been going quite well lately, and as I pause to reflect upon the years leading up to this point, I realize the magnitude of the journey behind me. It was difficult at times and exhilarating all the time. An age of innocence, of innocence lost, then reprogramming, and recovery. I am grateful for the man I am. I count every day as a blessing.
The past is over and done with.
The future is so far away.
I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow,
But I know where I am today.
And I am thankful.
But there have been many times when I was not.
