Three days. That’s all it took. Three days of of complete self sabotage. Three days of lying in my own piss and vomit. Three days of staring at a ceiling full of white swirls and talking to myself like a crazy person gone mad. Three days before I desired some change.
It took three fucking days of complete misery to long for my sanity back.
And then it took three seconds to put the knife to my throat and pull it as hard as I could.
The quest for rebuilding started out with a nice long walk from my house to a church that I once called my second home. A long walk with myself to see a God that I once knew. A God that used to love me. A God that I was now ashamed to be in front of. I dropped to my knees in the side yard and stared up at the white cross mounted to the side of the chapel.
Lowering my head in shame I rested my broken forehead on the ground and I repeated a prayer that I wrote a long time ago. A prayer that used to mean everything to me.
“You are The Way, The Truth, and The Life. Without you, I can do nothing, I can be nothing, and I can go nowhere. I want to live through you, for you, with you, by you, to serve you.”
I felt regret and I pleaded for forgiveness and tried to shield my mind from it’s constant thoughts of doubt. Christianity is a funny concept. Submitting yourself to a higher power. Living a life for a purpose greater than your own. Being a child of God and wearing the face of Christ. Sacrificing self and embracing humility. Relinquishing all control.
The answers were all right in front of me but they were too hard to accept. Control was something that I could not relinquish. When I had everything, I thought it was own doing. And now with nothing, I know so. Yet, I continue to play master and commander.
Everyone is screaming “iceberg ahead, we need to do something”.
Everyone is pleading for me to change direction.
They all have some stake in me not sinking the ship in the depths of the sea.
But ego is hidden deep down inside somewhere and it says to plow straight through that mother fucker. I keep thinking we’ll all come out fine on the other side. But really, I know that I’m sinking the ship and I’m taking every single person on it down with me.
Avoiding ego is hard. Embracing humility is harder. And giving up control to a God through nothing other than pure Faith in his existence is just down right impossible.
When you’re staring up at an enormous mountain, even if you know the right path, it’s always easier to just head back down.
I thought of my wife Mayla and I felt rage rush through my body. And then regret. And then anxiety. I lifted my head and stared at the bottom of the cross. The final resting place for the feet of Jesus Christ.
The truth was that I desperately missed my wife. I missed our life together and hated myself for ruining it.
It was just last summer that we were sitting with one another on our front porch swing. Hand in hand.
I missed wrestling under the covers and waking up everyday knowing the world is at peace, because someone close by loved me more than they loved life itself.
The literal path back down the mountain was a ½ mile walk from the church to Jim Sons Tavern. There is a great dilemma that non-alcoholics can’t seem to grasp. They will say things like “you know you shouldn’t, so why do you?”. If you have never felt it, it’s not worth my time to try to explain it to you. The brain instantaneously becomes at war with itself.
It has rationale and reason saying, “go home”, and then your unfulfilled desire saying “This is it. You want it, you need it, at any and all costs, go get it.”
I got to my feet and walked up to the cross. Staring up at it I whispered those words that have become my common plea to a God who I desperately hoped was still there.
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me for what I have done.”
I turned and headed straight for hell.
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