It was 10 months or so, in reality. I had just broken up with N - a vicious breakup that left us both bleeding profusely from everywhere but the places you can see. It was an ugly time and my response to overwhelming emotional pain was to simply not acknowledge its existence. I cut everything out of my life that reminded me of her, Taylor, our situation. I transferred with my job, moved far away, and changed every contact method anyone had for me. It was an immobile wall of distance that protected her from me, me from her.

I deleted those things I could out of my tangible files. Her numbers were erased, her emails were erased, her pictures gone, eradicated with a sterility of emotion of which I was newly finding myself capable. I couldn’t forget her numbers, but when I was compelled to find her, I would work.

I worked like a demon. I was promoted twice during that time, unheard of for my age, my experience, to find myself where I was, but I was hungry. My teeth had sunk into my career and I was chewing it down with a voracity that nauseates me to this day. I’d work all day, through the night, and only realize the volume of time spent at the office when the staff would return to see me, still sitting there.

I operated in a sense of suspended reality where there was no quiet time to think about anything other than work. I developed the gray in my hair during this time, it still peppers my temples as a reminder of those times - my father only started to go gray into his 50s.

When work was slow, I worked out. I suppose this could be considered a healthy step for me, if it weren’t for the pain I was seeking out of it. I didn’t go for the physical rush of exercise, I went to hurt myself enough so that I couldn’t dwell on anything else.

I didn’t write. I didn’t feel anything other than pain, not the kind I needed to feel, but the physical pain from my back, or knees or some other place where I pulled muscles, tore ligaments. I sacrificed myself for my inner sadist.

I didn’t live. I was there, I interacted, I responded, but I felt nothing other than what physical pain I had allowed myself. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t want to sleep, there was too much silence to be found in my bed. I aged 10 years in that time, erased them off of my life as if they never were - or never will be. I’ll die earlier for what I did to myself then.

It was my own personal hell. I punished myself, harsher than I would ever punish another, for failing so horribly. I failed myself, I failed N, I failed numerous others. I knew what my responsibilities were and neglected them.

It is only by pure luck that substance abuse didn’t claim me, or perhaps just some deep seeded evil I sense in them. I never drank, never touched drugs during this time - it was as if I knew how fragile my grip was holding me here.

Oh I wanted to die. I’d already climbed where I wanted to be. I had the things I wanted from my life. I had climbed the mountain, seen the top and fell from grace so swiftly that I impaled myself on my own egocentricity and self-destruction. I wanted to die, but only in the most utterly painful and time consuming way.

They sent me to therapy after an episode where I blacked out during a fit of rage. Over a missing paragraph in a contract.

I went for two months, every single day - I was on a leave of absence pending the outcome. An evaluation to determine if I still had a hold on my sanity, I suppose.

The final day, I mark as the end of my 10 months.

I’m not the person I was before or during this time. I don’t think my sense of humor has recovered. I doubt I will ever regain the optimistic edge I once had.
There are losses that I know I haven’t recognized, and may never grasp fully.

What I’ve gained.
I have gained an appreciation for the truth - emotional truth included. I never smile because someone else is smiling. I’ve learned that I am not a Deity, despite my more humorous moments of god-like arrogance. I no longer seek to gain everything I don’t have. I’ve learned that the world doesn’t rest upon my shoulders - even my own world. I’ve gained respect for my faith, despite its flaws. I don’t dwell in the past or the future, but in the moment. I’ve leaned that sadism, while a part of me, doesn’t define me as a person anymore.

And I write, even when it hurts to write.

I never waste my time anymore.

I’ve been asked to deliver the eulogy for a friend that passed recently. His mother arrived at my office yesterday morning and asked it of me. She said it was something he wanted - I knew, he had mentioned it years ago when he was first diagnosed with the brain cancer that would eventually leave a normally brilliant and bright star eating from a tube and peeing from another.

I’m not ready to see him again, pale and laying amid flowers that would look so out of place near him. I’ve never handled death well, despite my faith that should inspire some sort of hope for him. I always feel cheated. Robbed. Angry and hurt.

And I have to put that aside, stand before his family and friends, and read something I haven’t even written, on why his life was so important to us all.

My hands are too soiled to give him justice and my heart bleeds for his loss.

I’ve lived through every kind of weather you can imagine.

Tornados - Texas has them in spades. Virginia, also.
Hurricanes - No place better than Florida, North Carolina and Virginia - I’ve lived in all three during a major storm. (and now Texas)
Hail - Reference Texas again. Dimes, Quarters, Softballs? I’ve seen them here.
Blizzards - Try crossing Wolf Creek Pass in Colorado for a little white knuckle driving.
Earthquakes - I didn’t enjoy the big one, but the after shocks were fun in California.
Down Drafts/High Winds - Texas again, takes the cake on this one.
Lightening - Texas.

I would take it personally, but the way I figure it, God could have me shot by one of the many angry Texas drivers. I seem to only be missing drought fueled, swarming locusts from my list.

Now normally, I wouldn’t dwell on weather, but the fact is that NM is in Houston at the moment. I know she is leaving. She said as much too me when we spoke - but I still am fighting the urge to go retrieve her myself. I know she is an adult. I know she is capable and independant. I know these things, but somehow I can’t stand that I am unable to stand between her and the weather.

Meanwhile, I will pace. I will pray. I will ask for the power to stand between her and harm.

But I already know the answer.

I attended church today - an effort considering the events that happened the last time I visited. Has it really been that long?

It went as expected. The polite women greeted me. The children avoided me. The men kept their distance. Church has become more like a social gathering than a sign of faith. The same groups abound - cliques - that have formed in the elegant and sacred walls of the church. The body intended to take in the meek, the desperate, the weary has dissolved under the pressures of the very evils the ‘mass’ would proclaim to eschew.

I was welcomed, of course, I think people want to draw in the ‘demon’ than shun him. The irony of my name isn’t lost upon these people. The others in my family are known here and I know they inquire about my name to them. Never do they ask me. I admit that I look down on them for their lack of courage.

The priest - someone I have known since I moved to this state - and I have become quite close despite my sporadic attendance. Somehow we understand each other - even if he tries too hard to get me to attend more regularly. He asked me to see him after the mass concluded.

Despite the social beast that the church body has become, there is still silence when the priest speaks, and a soothing calm as the words are repeated by each person in unison.

I saw him after the mass in his office. He told me I looked tired. I told him he looked too hard. He handed me an old bible and a worn, wood beaded rosary. Told me he had been holding onto it for 4 months. The bible had pieces of paper that marked special pages.

It was his. He told me that the pages were worn, yellowed - the rosary likely to break as soon as I left. He said it was strung together by faith.

And that I needed faith to sustain it.

And with that, I end tonight’s post. It hasn’t broken yet.

‘Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.’ - Martin Luther King Jr.

Today was as expected.

My home phone is off. My cell phone is off. The TV is off. No music, no sound.

The only light is from this computer screen which will soon be off. I’m not even checking my email. I’m certain there will be something in there that will compel me to work. If I don’t know about it - I can ignore it. Ignore it until the morning when my ethic will again be renewed.

No evening jog. No dinner. Lots of water. Tons of it - I can almost hear the slosh of it when I shift ever so slightly.

So tired, but so unwilling to sleep. Perhaps not avoidance of sleep, but more avoidance of the long dark before sleep finally comes. I’ll meditate to calm my mind, but it won’t work. Shrewdness is the enemy when you are trying to escape - even temporarily.

I’ll seek my faith - not in prayer because I lack contrition and any ability to feel my words. No, tonight the strands will have to content themselves with being wrapped around my palm - the beads will feel the pads of my fingers, the warmth of my skin - but hear no prayer whispered.

I have nothing to say to Him that he doesn’t already know.

——–Another restless day spent prowling in front of my computer screen in the failed effort to do some work. Now, having accomplished the items I needed to touch upon, I am now free to write in the vain hope to nuture some calm. Be aware that the below contains strong graphic content.——–

My hands were clasped together, my fingers intertwined with strands of evenly spaced hematite beads. Their glossy and gray surface easily reflected the soft candlelight in the cathedral. A simple crucifix dangled from the chain about 2 inches from the point at which the beaded strands joined. My gaze was averted from the sight of it. I did not touch it for surely the symbol of my holy father would burn itself into my palm.

My thumb grazed lovingly over a larger bead made from onyx. My prayers, said with each bead of my rosary, filled the silent air of the hall. My voice served as the only noise that resounded. It was undeservingly beautiful, even to my ears, and for a moment it seemed as if God himself was trying to carry me through these dark thoughts. Even as I prayed with the rosary beads sliding across my fingertips, I could only concentrate on failing images of life around me. I spoke in Latin, a vain effort to focus my mind on my prayer and yet it had done nothing to halt or lessen the burdens on my mind. The strain of living was becoming too great.

‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…’ I started again, for the third time. My hands trembled where they clasped the beads, my grip tightening dangerously upon the fragile, beaded strands. My bowed my head deeper, gray streaked hair falling across my forehead, and began for a forth time. ‘Pater noster, que es in caelis…’ I broke again.

‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…’ A voice spoke from the back of the hall, and was punctuated by the soft sound as the heavy doors closed.

My hands shook even more violently, and the beads dug tightly into my skin before they suddenly went lax. I glanced down, unwinding the broken strands from my fingers and, making the sign of the cross, I rose. I tucked them away with a sense of foreboding, as if they had predicated a greater fall from grace. I turned to face the intruder and stopped.

‘Hello, Father.’ She stood there, a hesitant smile upon her mouth. ‘I am sorry if I interrupted you - you seemed - to be struggling.’ Her words were broken, reluctant. ‘The doors were not locked, I had hoped you still remained awake.’ I stared at her for a long moment and then smiled.

‘Thank you, Maria.’ I struggled to remember her name. ‘I don’t seem to be able to concentrate.’ I felt the blood pulse thickly in my veins, my voice deepened a bit as I spoke, ‘What…,’ I coughed slightly, ‘What can I help you with, my child?’

Her gaze met mine and then she glanced down coyly to her shoes - red heels. See seemed to be ready to go out this evening. I watched as she toed the carpet and her voice was so soft, I had to lean closer to hear her words. ‘I need confession, Father.’

I closed my eyes briefly and sent a silent prayer for aid in getting through this. I could smell her perfume, it warmed me as a drug might. I nodded my head and walked with her through the pews to the confessionals. I opened the door, and gestured inside before moving to another door and sitting down. I hurriedly spoke a prayer and opened the divider between her compartment and my own.

She spoke before I could. ‘Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been 1 day since my last confession.’ She paused and I watch through the screen as she swallowed hard. I could not understand her nervousness. ‘I have had impure thoughts about a man, Father, and these have left my body warm - hot even. I can’t sleep at night, I think of nothing but him, his hands upon me, fucking me, touching me. I would do anything for him.’

I felt my flesh respond to her words. My cock, which normally obeyed my will, stirred under the robes I wore. I struggled to find speech again. ‘Have you acted upon your thoughts?’

She shook her head then. ‘No father, He does not know. He would scorn me.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Sometimes, I can’t help but give in to my skin - It crawls for him to touch it. Nothing helps. Prayer - It doesn’t help.’ Her voice trailed off.

My fingers glide over the dark wood grain arm of my chair. My eyes have long since adjusted to the darkness of the room. My pupils are dilated until nearly nothing remains of color, just a cold, glossy black. My senses are able to hear every sound with acute clarity; the whispers of the wind remain as the only disturbance in the room.

My eyes are fixed on the open door, left ajar as a silent warning to you before you enter. There would not be an escape for you once it closed. I sit unmoving, my body giving no indication of my mood other than the rhythmic ticking muscle in my jaw. My nostrils flare slightly and my gaze shifts to the window as your car pulls into the driveway. My fingers pause upon the arm and my attention is diverted to the silhouette that moves in the car. I can just make out your features, illuminated by the glow of the porch entry light.

Your movements are unhurried, and slowly you slide from the car, clutching your purse and a small plastic bag from the grocery store. There is a punctuation of noise in your arrival that echoes through the house - the slam of the car door and the customary search for the right key to the front door. You have not noticed its unspoken invitation. Even the porch light cannot puncture the pitch dark inside the house.

I watch as your head lifts just before you leave my sight and a twisted smirk finds my mouth as your own lips part in concern. Your eyes dart into the large front window, searching the darkness. I move just a fraction so that you can see that a predator is home. Your gaze zeros in on me and I stare back at you, silently communicating the mood in which you find me.

You hesitate. My lips press into a thin line as I watch the options race across your face. The rise and fall of your chest is jagged, uneven with your breaths. I wait silently, each moment ticking by only increases my anger and the inevitability of you breaking. The thin plastic of your grocery bag stirs as your grip tightens on the handles and you take the step forward and leave my sight. My eyes fall back to the hallway just as you emerge from the door. A soft click sounds as the door closes.

I stare at you. My blood is racing hotly in my veins. I am waiting for your movement.

‘Hello.’ Your voice is soft, yet still incredibly loud to my ears, so adjusted they have become to near silence. I do not respond. You walk into the kitchen, disappearing from my view once against and I hear the nervous rattle of the bag as you put away the various items. The soft click of your shoes on the entry tile comes once again and I find you with my gaze.

‘Would you like me to turn on a light?’ You ask, still standing in the entry.

I do not answer. Instead, my hand shifts to the table at my right and a flash of light bursts from my hands as the match ignites. I light a small candle, my eyes leaving you only briefly to ignite the wick.

‘Come here.’ I speak finally, in a low tone that demands obedience.

‘I’m not certain I want to.’ Your answer sounds quietly. You slip your foot out of your right shoe to delay the moment.

‘Leave them on.’

Your eyes dart to me and your shoe is on once again. I reach inside my jacket and pull out a small box of needles. They are placed upon the table beside the candle and my eyes find you once again.

‘Come here.’ I repeat, my voice dropping in tone and softness.

Your tongue darts out to moisten your lips and you place a smile on your face. It is pained. You already know at least one of my plans. You take a step forward, meeting the carpeted floor of the living room.

‘Is it something I have done?’ You ask, taking another cautious step.

‘It is time to pay for your sins.’ I answer still watching every slight inflection on your face.

‘Sins?’ You pause and stare at me as your teeth tug at the fullness of your bottom lip. ‘ I go to church every week, Dae.’

‘Yet you are not absolved.’

‘I said my prayers, my rosary.’ You take another step closer.

‘Not to me.’

Your brow furrows and your throat swallows quietly as you digest that statement. ‘You are not my God, Dae.’

‘Aren’t I?’ My answer is a feral whisper of noise.

***To be continued.

I have been under the weather for a few days and still managed to attend mass at the request of my family.

My skin was burning from fever. I was under a massive leather coat that barely kept me warm. The rosary burned into my palm. It seemed hotter than a fire - like it was going to melt into my skin. I expected its impression to remain once it was removed.

I could hear the hiss of the candles that were being lit, their wicks sizzling and popping as they ignited under the flame from another candle. Sweat beaded on my brow. A soft chant echoed in the large hall. My throat jerked and I coughed once - a loud bark of sound that drowned out the rhymic words of the priest.

I closed my eyes and willed my body back into my control. It was a matter of will power.

I coughed again. They handed me a handkerchief. It had yellow flowers on it. I felt wrong for taking it, but still crushed it in my fist.

I coughed once more, this time it seemed to rise out of my body as it God himself had willed it. Blood burst from between my lips and the rosary fell unheeded to the floor. I wiped my lips and chin across the cloth. The white cloth was stained with my blood.

I looked and caught the worried gazes of those around me. It was too much.

I left.

The fever…the illness…the blood? It may just be a virus, but…
It will be a while before I venture into His house again.