What am I running from? I have the right to be angry. Anger is a natural part of the grieving process, and I’m grieving. I’m grieving and angry because I’m a loser. I’ve lost people whom I’ve loved. I’ve lost friendships and communities. I’ve lost places and possessions. And, most of all, I’ve lost my own sense of dignity and self-worth. I’m a poet, a performer, and a perpetual student, none of which are valued in our society unless you’re one of the unfortunate few who get discovered and become famous. I don’t want to be famous. I want to work hard and to play hard. I want to enjoy spending time with friends and family. I want to contribute to the transformation of primary education in this country, and I want to help make the world a better place for the people who are already here as well as for those who will come after us. It shouldn’t have to be such a battle. It’ shouldn’t have to be such a losing battle. Instead of running from all of the grief and loss and anger, I want to run toward mercy, grace, and acceptance. But I’m too tired to run anywhere at the moment. So, I think I’ll just sit here and rest for a while.

How can I not believe that anyone actually cares about me? I have some really great people in my life. It’s not too much to say that I love them. I can relate to their stories, to the struggles they’ve gone through, to the struggles they’re dealing with currently. I understand where they’re coming from, and I choose to believe that they understand how I feel; they understand my struggles and my pain. I’m even able to believe that they care. It’s hard. It’s still really hard for me to believe that another person can actually care about how I feel and what I’m going through. But, if I can care so much about them, then, surely, they can care about me too. They might be sitting at their computers crying and typing about how much they love the few people in their lives who really, truly, honestly care about them. These relationships allow me to witness them and for them to witness me. All that really matters in the end is that these people have seen me, the real me, and I have seen them. They bear witness to my life, and they validate my story. They matter to me, and I matter to them.

What makes me so sure that I don’t deserve to be here? I couldn’t figure out how to use an eyedropper. It’s stupid; I know. You squeeze the bulb at the top to push the air out through the tube to create a vacuum. Then you dip the tip of the tube into a liquid and release pressure on the bulb, which then sucks the liquid into the tube to replace the air that went back into the bulb. You then relocate the tip of the tube to wherever it is you want to release the liquid and squeeze the bulb again so the air inside of it now pushes the liquid out of the tube. I know how it works, and I understand why it works. Nature abhors a vacuum. I get it. I just seem to lack the ability of practical application. As in every area of my life, I choke when the pressure’s on. I go blank. I try to think of what I’m doing, and my brain obstinately disconnects. So, I fake it, I lie, or I run away crying. I feel like a fraud if I receive any kind of a reward because I know I wasn’t honest or because I know I bent the rules. Or worse, I try and I fail; I make a mess or look like an idiot or I miss the mark and get flooded with shame. It’s super painful. Most of the time all I really want is for someone to see me with empathy in their eyes instead of judgment or lust. I want someone to offer me a hug and to tell me that everything is going to be okay. But that never happens. So, instead of getting angry at every other person in the world, I’ve decided to be angry only with myself. I’m sure I don’t deserve to be here because it hurts less than failing to prove that I do.

Where did I go, and how do I get back to me? There is no way “back” to my true self. She’s been here with me the whole time. I’ve just turned my back on her because that’s what was modeled for me. Everyone else turned their backs on me, and they turned their backs on themselves. The true self isn’t acceptable. The true self is too vulnerable to pain. I need to pay attention to what everyone else wants from me, who everyone else wants me to be. Then, I pretend to be what everyone else wants. I pretend to be cool. I pretend to be successful. I pretend to be smart, and I pretend to be strong. I just really suck at pretending. I’m not successful, and I’m not cool, not by anyone else’s standards anyway. I’m a weirdo. I’m a loser. The real me isn’t smart or strong or even as sweet and silly as I often think I am. The real me is scared and hiding under the couch while the fake me sits still, faking a smile.

Why is there so much shame associated with suicide? Everyone dies at some point anyway. You’d think that in a culture that is so obsessed with freedom, individuality, and personal power, that choosing when, where, and how you want to die would be hailed as the ultimate option. Maybe the shaming is a preventative measure. If committing suicide were seen as permissible, way more people would be opting out and our entire economy would collapse. Maybe it’s our selfish tendencies that cause us to prevent death at all costs because we don’t want to lose someone we love regardless of how much pain they’re in. It’s not selfish to tire of fighting to stay alive; it’s selfish to expect others to live in order to stall our own grief. As someone who has struggled with depression my entire life, I know how much it hurts. It deeply, painfully, physically hurts. And there’s not always a cure. I’m trying. I’m still doing everything I can to heal my brain as much as possible: medication, supplements, meditation, therapy, diet and exercise, and, most importantly, trying like heck to develop a supportive community. I’ve survived this far only by the grace of God and my strong desire to be there for my kids. My girls need their mom for now, and that’s enough to keep me fighting. But if it ever gets to be too much, if the pain becomes more than I can bare, then I want to be able to die with dignity. I want to choose how, when, and where if death doesn’t come unexpectedly before then. I want to be able to say good-bye without fear and without shame. I don’t want to hide it. My brain is damaged, and it causes me tremendous amounts of pain. It could kill me someday, but I don’t have to live or die alone just because I’m hurting.

If I write a story and no one ever reads it, am I still a writer? Writing really isn’t up to me. I can’t not write. It’s not what I do; it’s who I am. I’ve been writing since before I could ever hold a pencil. Stories play across the pages of my mind, mostly love stories. The world is simply starving for more love. I’m no exception. I’m surrounded by love; it’s like the air I breathe. I couldn’t live without it. Love is in everything, inside of everyone. We often don’t recognize the love we see in our lives, though, because it looks so much like fear. Love never walks alone. Love has many companions: rejection, sorrow, abandonment, humiliation, disappointment. We can’t have light without shadows, and we can’t experience love without an equal amount of pain. Breathe in the sorrow. Rest in the fear. Feel the full force of love in all of her fierceness and glory. When I accept the full reality of life and face the darkness directly, I grasp the hand of suffering with one hand and find love is holding my other hand, leading me into the darkness toward home.

What do all the greatest rulers, the wealthiest elites, and the most powerful conquerors throughout world history have in common? They’re all dead. Even the rich and famous of modern times are going to end up in the same place – in the ground. We take nothing with us when we die except for our memories, who we become as people – individually and collectively. What really matters the most at the end of my life isn’t going to be which fancy restaurants I went to, which kind of car I drove, or even how many friends and followers I had on social media. What really matters to me the most now isn’t going to fancy restaurants or driving an expensive car, though I do appreciate driving a comfortable car since I spend so much time there. I also care about the people with whom I interact on social media, not so I can be famous or popular but because I need the mutual edification. Cyberspace is the only place I have for connection at the moment, so, although it’s absolutely not the most ideal, I’ll go with it and make the best use of it as I can. What really matters the most to me now is family, friends, fitness, and fun. I want to have fun. I want to enjoy my life and the people that I have in my life. These matters are what matters. Fame and fortune are fine and fleeting, and they come with a much higher price tag than most would ever suspect.

Is this as good as it gets? Yes and no. Every major goal I’ve ever accomplished has been anticlimactic at the time. My educational goals have been met amongst personal illness, a national recession, and a global pandemic. I doubt there will be an actual zombie apocalypse when I graduate with my doctorate, but I’m still going to be prepared. I finished a marathon in the last decade with no fanfare; it was accompanied only by an emotional breakdown when I wasn’t able to find my car in the parking garage afterward. Even minor goals have seemed irrelevant at the time: finishing a painting, buying a new car, self-publishing four poetry books. In themselves, these things account for nothing. My hopes of feeling complete with each task I complete amount to nothing. Still, I’m tempted to think that as soon as I…once I…when I…then I…nope…not going to happen. Get over yourself, Chris. Where I am right now is as good as life gets, and there is room for improvement.

Why not me? As I watched introduction videos for a class I’m auditing at my alma mater, I began to wonder why these professors were hired at this particular institution. One actually helped found the school, and the other has been teaching there for over a decade. They each went straight to seminary from high school. They each have a PhD from a respected educational establishment. They also pair well together as a straight guy-funny guy combo, even though the “straight guy” is female. There’s nothing stopping me from accomplishing the goals I have for my life. I could teach at a seminary once I finish my doctorate. I could write a book. I could work at any number of jobs in full-time ministry. My massive inferiority complex is really the only thing getting in the way; that and my laundry list of physical and mental disorders. I feel so much pressure to accomplish something with my life, to prove that I’m not a waste of space, to produce more than I consume, to add value to the world. Why is it so hard to simply relax and enjoy myself? The idol of progress is never satisfied.

Should I do it anyway? Force it? Posting on my new blog every day is a good goal, but some days my brain isn’t functioning well enough to string two sentences together. I don’t want to write crap, and I don’t want to recycle old material that was written years ago, or even months ago. This blog is for now. It’s my way of expressing where I am now, what I’m going through now, this season of my life now. Sure, I’ll have references to the past for context. I didn’t get what I wanted in life, and that loss can leave me feeling bitter and sour at times. I still often wonder if there’s anything I can do now to get myself from here to there, to attain the life I’ve always wanted in the second half of my journey since I somehow missed the mark with every attempt over the past thirty years. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I think I’ve finally figured out where I keep going wrong. Here! There is no “there” to get to. No matter where I go, no matter what I do, I’m always only ever here. If I want to experience the life of my dreams, I need to invite it and allow it into the present moment. Now is the time to sing and dance and write and play. If I don’t do it now, I never will. Here is the place and the time to live my dreams because now is only ever in this moment, and here is the only time I ever have.