Northward Midget

Tag: atheism

  • Fuck You

    All of you.

    All your fear.

    I lie, inasmuch as I don’t know the truth.  Inasmuch as everything I say is some dialogue of script I’ve written moments before, seconds before, split microframes of life before speaking it.  And I mean it.  At the time.  But it all fades.  Truth is ephemeral.  It’s a whisper misheard and repeated with mutations and twisted with prerogatives and turned into hateful resentment.

    I’m drinking now, and I’m posting publicly.  Now, I know this is the wrong thing to do.  I know this is what caused some … some person to … to cause me to be committed to a mental hospital.

    But I won’t stop.  I can’t stop.  We can’t stop.  None of us.

    Just say it.  Do it.  Act what you feel.

    What’s more true than the words and motions queuing up in your frontal lobes, waiting to be spilled upon the world?  If they don’t understand, fine.  If they don’t understand and don’t try, it’s a pity.  If they don’t understand and don’t care, then fuck them all to Hell.

    Years ago.

    What if she’d been honest?  What if, instead of skirting around her real feelings, hiding behind some ludicrous fear, what if she’d told me how she felt?  Because, honestly, and truly, I had no fucking idea.  I didn’t know.  I couldn’t understand.  She’d try to explain, sometimes, and I’d listen, intently, trying — but it was all gibberish.  We were speaking different languages.

    There’s only one language we all understand, and that’s the rage and tears that spill from an honest heart.

    Fuck you all and fuck God.  What kind of world is this, where we can’t communicate?  Babel was never dismantled.  It was never finished as a vain, clever gedankenexperiment by a smug watchmaker of a God.  It persists, and none of us can relate to each other.  Our fears, our pain.  They can’t be quantified or qualified.  They’re boolean values.

    We are afraid and we hurt.

    And instead of trying to fix it?  We go on to someone else.  We think they’re different.  We think they understand us.  But they’re the same beneath a different shade of paint.  We’ll get tired of them.  We’ll find some flaw.  We’ll hate them as much as we hate the man we left, or the woman we left — the person we couldn’t stand to even try to be with anymore.

    Some goddamned cunt looked me in the eye over her bifocals at CPEP and said she had never considered suicide.  Never.  Never in her life had she just wanted to turn it all off.  Deluded, or a fucking willful liar.  She must have been a doctor, a doctor of the mind, a mesmeristic witch pretending to know how people tick.  Had she never looked at herself?  How can she even be real?  Just another slug sliming her way across the illusory manicured lawns of this putrid Earth?

    Is someone going to call the police?  Is someone going to say this poor man needs help?  That he’s in a crisis?  That he’s a bad father?  That he doesn’t deserve to live but he wants to die so you should put him in a cage?

    Fuck you all.

    Every Christ-fucking one of you.

     

  • God, Or Lack Thereof

    My father kept a picture of Jesus on the console of his car.  It was the Anglo Jesus we Americans raised as Christians know so well, with the soft flaxen locks and the blue eyes.  This was after the divorce, and I remember seeing the picture there and asking him about it on one of his weekend visits.  It was to remind him that “God is his co-pilot.”

    He wasn’t always a Christian.  I have vague memories of him explicitly telling me he was an atheist.  I recall being very upset on one visit seeing his stack of Playboys.  I knew those were “wrong” according to God, and I threw an awful tantrum.  Being a father now, I can imagine his frustration with a child wailing about something no amount of logic would assuage.  It wasn’t just the dirty girly mags, but more the thought that my father was Godless, as had probably been hinted at by my mother.

    He left us for another woman, when my youngest brother was still a baby.  I know he regrets that to this day.  I can barely remember it.  I was in kindergarten or first grade at the time.  I have memories of my mother crying a lot, but that seemed to always be the case.  The father role was dumped on me, at least inasmuch as taking care of my brothers and comforting my mother.

    My most recalled father anecdote is when he’d remodeled a room in our house, before the divorce.  It was to be our playroom, and he asked if I liked it, and I replied, “I love it!”  He said, “You can’t love inanimate objects.”

    I remember him from those days as all logic, much as I am now.  He didn’t find Christ until he was hospitalized.  It was for depression or anxiety of some sufficiently acute nature.  I should ask him about it before his time on Earth is done.  Maybe he’d have some advice for me, although since he’s still a Christian, that advice would likely not apply.

    Sometimes I wonder if I’m going to wander back to God.  I left Him in college, when my loneliness was so severe that I begged God in midnight sleepless prayers to just kill me, let me die, stop this terrible life.  Then I turned to Satan, begging for him to buy my soul.

    Nobody answered.

    I know God and religion are crutches, allowing those to walk who would otherwise be crippled by the cold realities of life.  I’m pretty sure I’m too far gone now to be propped up by them.  Godlessness has become part of who I am, and killing it would be killing one of the few parts of me of which I retain some amount of pride.

    That picture in the car seemed to give my father some comfort, and the presence of Christ in his life continues to do so.  I don’t know if he’d still be around without it.  Part of me doesn’t want to discuss religion with him (or my other relatives, for that matter), because I don’t want to take it away from them.  They need it.

    And they can have it.