Behind the Curtain (a bit)

This post has been stuck in the purgatory of indecisiveness (about posting) for a while…but screw it, it’s honest and it’s me.  One thing to add is a musical thought to set the mood…a stanza from a song called “You Get What You Give” (yes, another Chuck Ragan song…I’m pretty sure I have a man-crush there, too):

When you hit bottom
Man, it’s hard enough to climb
Much less not lay down
Much less stay awake
Or hold your head high enough
To see what’s in your way

How do you say this?

I had other stories I wanted to write, but I chose to write a sequel to Wrath & Tears instead.  The others would have papered over the problems, but Silence just makes them worse.

The first story was a way for me to explore my own feelings and issues about suicide (more directly than people realize, given how close I was to the characters, and what I went through to write the fucking thing).

That book was supposed to be a one-off.  There were going to be NO sequels.

I don’t like exploring my own problems…I’m much happier talking about other people’s issues, to be honest.

But I couldn’t let it go.

I chose to write the second.  Worse, I chose to write knowing that it was going to, once again, have my own faults and failings as a subtext.

Faith, this one is about.  My own faith, and my own troubles therewith.  My own faltering, and my own lack.

I grew up a Christian.  For most of my life I have been a Christian.  Through some of the best and the worst times I have been a Christian.

I’m not sure I fit that anymore.  I’m not sure I believe anymore.

Maybe it’s because my path has been so convoluted and hard…maybe it’s because I’m weak…maybe it’s because I’ve forgotten the lessons I once knew.  I really don’t fucking know.  And I hate myself for not knowing.  I’m a failure for not knowing.

I’m self-aware enough to know that I have problems with self-worth and depression, but I’ve had those forever.  I don’t love myself, so how could anyone else love me?

I fight with that every single day.

This isn’t a problem about writing a book…this is a problem about being me, and I no longer know how to fix it.

I have, in all honesty, lost faith in myself as much as I have lost faith in God.

The coming Christmas actually helps…as weird as that is.  There’s a carol—an old one—that means more to me than all the rest: Little Drummer Boy.  It may be a semi-nonsense song, but if you really listen to the words it’s about someone with nothing in this world, someone with no worth, offering his own worship.

I wish I had that faith.  Shit, I NEED that faith…and I don’t have it.

I think with words, and I feel by spelling things out.  I don’t like or want to burden anyone else, but there’s also this nagging, itching need to explore and to know.  The only way I have to know is to write.  I play a very good fraud—I can be the most together, happy, connected person in the world when I choose to be.  And it’s all bullshit.  It’s an act.

I’m the kid in the corner who’s too scared to talk to anyone.  Reality and the real world aside—and intellectually I know I can kick the shit out of anyone I meet—I’m the kid who’s afraid of everyone else.

And that kid is winning the battle with the “me” that believes I can do anything…

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