This is the first of a three-part post about the last six months and what happens next. I will be very frank. I have had…I have…and I will continue to have a consistent struggle with my own worth. Each day is a struggle as I fight within myself; see things going on all around that I want to fix but can’t; and trying to understand the ability to love that I have been given. Essentially, I do not think my life is all that great, and I often spend enjoyable times waiting for the let-down. But God gave me some writing ability, and a story to tell. I hope in the end, you will see that I am still a blind beggar, and what He did, not what I do.
September 22, 2018
Six months ago, I got help.
The day before, I had made a decision to end my life. When I went to get the gun, it wasn’t there. Stacy had hidden it. To this day, I still don’t know where she put it, and for that I am thankful.
Stacy talked to Kris, and together we all decided to contact crisis. I couldn’t believe I was doing this…you know, I should be standing on my own two feet. Be a man. But really, I didn’t give a fuck about anything.
I spent five days in the mental health unit. I wasn’t allowed to wear my shoes or my belt. I felt like I was being treated like a child and was seething with anger at first. At the end of those days, however, I realized something. I had not been taking care of myself.
Even though I’d noticed a shift in my moods prior to this point, I did my best to hide what I knew. To hope that no one noticed. I drank to numb the pain, and then dealt with the additional pain with either more alcohol, Xanax, or a combo of the two. I thought of that gun often. I wrote a suicide note and my obituary, and self-medicated more. I made the plan. I have thought of suicide for most of my adult life, but never made a plan…until now.
Then, an event happened. I’m not assigning blame…I’m fully responsible for my own getting in trouble at work. I really didn’t care. I wasn’t pulling my weight, I knew it, and I truly did not care. I hated it there and wanted out in the worst way, but that’s not an excuse to not do my job. But being in trouble meant everyone probably knew what I had failed to do, and knew I was a total loser.
Five days in the hospital, new meds, counseling, and psychiatry helped. I got back to life and felt great. I realized that I had to continue to practice self-care if I didn’t want to get right back to where I had been, so I have done that. For the most part, I still feel great.
I tried approaching my job with a new viewpoint, but I continued to let happenings knock me down. I continued to refine my hatred for the organization, and I let my perception of how they viewed me eat away at me.
Then, an opportunity came about. A new job, title, and income. I left the old and began the new. Loved it. Thought it was going really well. Things had never been better. But then the rug was pulled out from under me. Let go because I wasn’t a “good fit” for the culture.
It took me a weekend to figure out what had happened. In that weekend, I lashed out at God, my family, my pastor…spent the weekend either drunk or asleep. Then Monday happened. Normally, Monday is Monday. But for the first time in my adult life, I had nowhere to get up and go on Monday. This Monday was enlightening; a God moment, if you will.
…to be continued
The Beggar's Bread 