What do you want? The answer to that question leaves the soul of a man naked, exposed in his absolute purity. It tells you who he is.
I want my loved ones to hate me as much as I do. Just so that, when I die, no one misses me.
Dear God, I want no one to miss me.
I want punishment for my soul... I don't want to be forgiven.
Help me, Lord. Please change my angry heart.
The other day, I was listening to My Chemical Romance, the song, This Is How I Disappear. As the drums beat, I imagined someone hammering nails into my wrists. I ask myself, why do I imagine this image so much? Who is crucifying me?
Then I saw Jesus. He was on the cross, tears rolling from His eyes, as He cried out in such agony I cannot express adequately. It brings tears to my eyes as I write this. And it was me who had the hammer. I was nailing His wrists. I was appalled at myself. I've heard preachers say, "We crucify Him daily when we sin". But most people aren't monsters like me. For the me that swung the hammer was rotten, with a chelsea grin carved into his cheeks, and teeth like razors. Black blood seeps from his body. He is my sin, the fleshly part of me. And the fleshly part is angry, and vengeful.
It breaks my heart to realize that this part of me is the Flesh. It is the nature that wanted to protect the young boy, to make justice. But it wanted to punish those who had wronged me. He wanted to do unspeakable horrors. The terminology that has frequently crossed my mind, for the past few days, is "abject cruelty". He is cruel, and unforgiving. So were the Romans who crucified Jesus. In such angry thoughts, I am the Romans, I am the Judaists. I am worse than Judas, for even he did not scourge Him.
I have to forgive myself, if I want to go forward. Why is it so, so hard?
I ask the question rhetorically, but I know the answer. I know why it is so hard. Because I have seen how I was not enough. I've heard my loved ones accuse me, and list off my sins. I've heard them recite the words of the voices in my heads, nearly exactly. I never cease my sins. I keep being awful. I keep being that disgusting thing that I hate. I don't want to be inside this monster anymore. I don't want to be him. He is disgusting. She called him disgusting today. I agree with her.
I was angry when she said it, but I agree with her.
Hello, welcome to my dead blog. I started it after I was molested. I was about 11 when I published this blog, as well as a youtube account attached to it. Both died with the little boy I used to be. I remember how I would cry in the shower, and I didn't understand why. I remember when I didn't understand why all the will to publish on this blog or to publish videos completely left me. I was depressed, and I had no idea why.
You know that memory repression is a defense mechanism? When someone experiences something too traumatic for the mind to handle, it represses the memory. It makes them forget. Yeah, your brain forgets, but your body never forgets. So you have all of these triggers that you don't even understand, and you're lost in a pool of confusion.
I know no one will ever find my blog again. Maybe, I don't want them to. I just... want to disappear. I wish the world would forget me, so that they wouldn't miss me when I'm gone. For too long, I've felt inadequite, like I'll never be enough for anyone. My girlfriend tells me that I'm enough for her, but she tells a different story when she's crying. I think she's afraid to admit that she believes the same things about me that I believe about myself. I think that, in the deepest of grief, I am alone -- there is no mortal on earth who understands, or truly desires to understand. Not even I understand. I am lost in the black confusion that is life. After about eight attempts in the past four years, being in and out of psych wards, I wonder why I even am alive. It's not like anything in this world is enjoyable. And when she's angry at me, I don't think she wants me enough for me to want myself. I don't want myself. I feel like I am trapped inside the skin of a monster, who committed the greatest moral atrocities the mind could ever imagine -- yet I do not understand the monster. I am not like him. I want to be free of him.
I'm three months clean of pornography. Crazy, I think my addiction began close to the time I published this blog. It seems like children who have been molested incline to one of two extremes: 1) never wanting to be intimate again, 2) being absolutely obsessed with sexual desire. I was the latter, and I blamed myself. I hated myself, and I still do. I try not to, though. Jesus once said, "Love your neighbor AS YOURSELF", giving a clear command to love myself. Since I'm a Christian, and fight to serve Him to the best of my ability, then it follows that I should obey His command.
Maybe I don't hear His voice sometimes because my hatred for myself is so deep, and sin makes us deaf to the words of God. I am trying to forgive myself, but the greatest difficulty is...
I don't want to.
