A couple of years after my father's death, I was flying back to Humboldt next to a gentleman who inquired about my business. He was a little older than me, a kindly, smaller man with a narrow face and a straggly goatee. I told him everything I knew. I was going back home to spend some time trying to find myself. "Don't take too long," he said. Then his face retreated to a shruggish smile and our conversation was over. He read his book. I thought of something else.
I live in a strange world. School children of the 70's heard about the Great American Melting Pot. We were fed dreams about cooperation, potential, and a better tomorrow. At least, I was. Teachers told me I might become the President. Everyone praised me for being smart, tall, athletic, artistically talented. I just wanted to be loved, to not feel so alone. The story adults told me about the world I lived in didn't exactly fit with what I wanted, but I was good at adjusting myself to imagine happiness in it. Of course, times alone with my dad were a complete nightmare, but I had accepted that as a temporary component of my life, a soon-to-be-overcome hindrance to my full connection with the rest of humanity, a humanity that had something figured out, something I had never quite fleshed out in my own mind.
I live in a strange world. Teenagers in the 80's sang along to "We Are The World". We were scared by threats of nuclear war in a climate of adults who acted like the crises would be resolved soon, leaving room for something. Peace? No one fed me big dreams anymore. I was hoping to land somewhere in between my grandmother insisting I could be a doctor and my dad's "you could be a good cocksucker in prison" mantras. As my dad got more and more violent with me, I felt more and more alienated from the possibility of ever figuring out how to be like the other kids. By my senior year, I was happy with keeping a calm look on my face, hoping for no more than an invisibility of sorts. Can no one see how devastatingly out-of-place and disconnected I feel? Good. If no one saw it, maybe I didn't need to feel it.
False confidence is a machine of inertia. Through strength of will or fear of complete rejection and destruction, I learned to keep acting as if everything was ok. A day at school might be followed by a night waiting in the car for my dad to be kicked out of this bar so I could drive him to the next one. Getting up and doing it all over again with a straight face took a lot of self-control, especially when I didn't know what insanity might be unfolding at home while I struggled to focus on my physics test. The difference between refracted and reflected light got all mixed up in recalling last night's speed purchase and the general mood of my father while his female companion for the evening asked if he would buy heroin for her. What was this one's name? He didn't like buying heroin for women. That look in his eye was often a precursor to murderous violence. Coming back to the classroom, I would look around to see if anyone had noticed me, the one in the class who didn't fit. Then I would turn back to my test paper quickly, gripped with fear that my thoughts had been on display. What question was I working on? Wishing I had had time to study, I felt my self-confidence falling. Smart was all I felt like I had. This would surely be another mediocre performance, another failure. I always got the third highest score on these exams, always third. What if I had the chance to really try. At least I still had my potential.
I live in a strange world. It's strange to me. When dad killed Sandy in front of me, I felt like the stranger. I hadn't let go yet of my idea that I would someday assimilate and belong, not until that moment. Before that day, before those magnificent, gasoline and tire-fueled flames engulfing her body, mocking the light drizzle through the trees, I had had a chance to make it. Before that grey day, before that very second, I could have fooled everyone, passed for normal, acceptable. I watched him staring into the fire. A single drop of rain struck my brow and dropped from the tip of my nose. The cold mist in the air was my messenger from God. This was the end of my hopes. I was too dirty to ever be clean again.
I gave up on my life when I was 16, and I've been beating myself into faking it ever since. Every morning the sun has risen and forced me to keep up the charade. At times, like everyone else, I've felt happy and hopeful, forgetting my childhood trauma for years at a time. It's always been there, along with the nagging reality that I just don't belong here, driving me to recreate and also retreat from the patterns of my youth, sabotaging my happiness and wreaking havoc on the people around me. At 42, I can honestly say, this is as much as I've been able to figure out. My life is still a train wreck. The cars stopped moving years ago, but the parts of me that still see it happening are still impacting the parts of me that tried to forget and pass for normal in this world that still seems so strange to me.
In finding myself, how long is too long? If I don't take my whole life to do it, won't I just be accepting a false construct? Could I be satisfied to live out the rest of my life based upon a version of me that I made up for the sake of peace? Should I shorten the search for self to lessen the difficulty of life; move forward in false happiness with my fingers in my ears, blind to the nightmare swirling at my deepest core? No thanks, man on a plane who has no fucking idea what it's like to be me. I get that people just want me to be happy, but I'm not. Would you be? Are you? Would it be the end of the world if we all admitted how we really feel about this life, this strange world? Maybe it would only be the end of feeling like strangers.
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Bible Reading and Writing
Writing about Sandy's murder is hard work. The Investigation Discovery channel has done a couple of shows on the subject featuring well-diced interview clips with me. I am working on my own version. It's a big story to tell, for me, because remembering watching my dad kill his girlfriend opens more than just a can of worms in my mind. I've spent most of my life stuffing that shit down and keeping the cork in tight!
Those who know me personally, while professing to like me a lot, have certainly witnessed the pressure of whatever's in my head leaking out in angry outbursts, financial failure, and self-destructive sexual scandal. At this point, I want so badly to be the captain of my own mind, that I am going in, win or lose, to whatever horribly frightening shame and pain resides there. I simply must. Jesus! Why would I want to do that? I'm not really jumping in. I'm creeping forward, testing the waters, and, up until now, I've taken entirely too long.
If you read the rest of my blog entries, you may find them somewhat incomplete, filled with snippets of truth, shreds of emotion, and vague explanations. I'm circling the burning bush of my soul, with no lessor goal than to integrate my history, my God, and my own true life-purpose in a way that might just alienate me from family and friends. When, in the Bible, a man or woman follows God's direction, it's usually with an automatic judgment and death sentence from the church leaders of their time. If I'm on the right track, I expect nothing different. I hope for it.
Am I just looking for a fight? Sure, but my dad is dead. I wish no one physical pain. I cannot bring myself to fight in anger against any one. So, I intend to fight ideas. I intend to fight American Christianity and family values for their role in the alienation of my father and therefore, the death of my mother and LaSandra Turpin. Perhaps my anger is misplaced, but why not? The church needs to be judged before they successfully inoculate the whole world against ever taking seriously the book I bled for.
Yes, Christians, your book is a laughing stock among the uninitiated. Surely you know this. I know it's a wonderful book, full of useful guidance for turning this world around. Properly applied, the principles in the New Testament could have saved me from my childhood nightmare. Of course it's too late for me, but the world still groans in suffering. And, just hold your horses. We don't suffer because we don't have Jesus in our hearts. The world suffers for lack of the thing offered by Jesus that the church misses as well. Here's a good litmus test. Church, if non-believers aren't commenting on how you're following Jesus, there's no reason for you to announce it. Stay home on Sunday. Beat yourself over the head until your blood stains the pages of your Bible. That's how I read it growing up, and, after a lifetime in church, I know that hardly anyone else read the damned thing at all. Church, if you're not going to take the word seriously, just shut up. Even Greek mythology is useful because no one is crazily insisting on faith in Zeus! We non worshippers are free to learn the lessons of a system. Bending of the knee in a fancy building is no path to righteousness. Surely, we all know that. Surely, I don't have to explain.
So, what have I learned in this life about God, the Bible, and humanity? Honestly, I haven't learned much. I've mostly been caught up in unlearning. Don't we just take in what our parents teach us at first? Then they tell us there's no Santa Claus after all, or we come to realize that they're dangerous. Later in life, if we're lucky enough to be broken enough to seek help, we may come to see our parents as separate individuals and ourselves as changeable. Do some parents impart this to their children peacefully? hmm... Interesting...
Society discusses the rebellion issues of youth as if it's a foregone conclusion that adult systems are perfect. Surely, children who do not joyfully conform must be flawed in some way! Terrible Twos, Teenage Rebellion. Are two year olds completely responsible for not responding well to our systems? Are teenagers just too sinful to get things right without physical "discipline" of some sort? Do kids need to be scared by ideas like coal in their stocking or a Hell if they don't do what Mommy and Daddy say? I don't mean to be rude and beat up on religion, but when it's used to tell children they have something wrong with them, then it's just a fancy version of all the ways in which we communicate to children that they have something wrong with them. Maybe children ARE messed up. But are the adult world conventions we've bought into necessarily less messed-up?
No, it's natural to rebel against that which is unnatural. It's also natural to adapt, conform, and tell ourselves we're happy to be advancing the righteous system that was handed to us. Can it be natural to question all that we've accepted?
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
Those who know me personally, while professing to like me a lot, have certainly witnessed the pressure of whatever's in my head leaking out in angry outbursts, financial failure, and self-destructive sexual scandal. At this point, I want so badly to be the captain of my own mind, that I am going in, win or lose, to whatever horribly frightening shame and pain resides there. I simply must. Jesus! Why would I want to do that? I'm not really jumping in. I'm creeping forward, testing the waters, and, up until now, I've taken entirely too long.
If you read the rest of my blog entries, you may find them somewhat incomplete, filled with snippets of truth, shreds of emotion, and vague explanations. I'm circling the burning bush of my soul, with no lessor goal than to integrate my history, my God, and my own true life-purpose in a way that might just alienate me from family and friends. When, in the Bible, a man or woman follows God's direction, it's usually with an automatic judgment and death sentence from the church leaders of their time. If I'm on the right track, I expect nothing different. I hope for it.
Am I just looking for a fight? Sure, but my dad is dead. I wish no one physical pain. I cannot bring myself to fight in anger against any one. So, I intend to fight ideas. I intend to fight American Christianity and family values for their role in the alienation of my father and therefore, the death of my mother and LaSandra Turpin. Perhaps my anger is misplaced, but why not? The church needs to be judged before they successfully inoculate the whole world against ever taking seriously the book I bled for.
Yes, Christians, your book is a laughing stock among the uninitiated. Surely you know this. I know it's a wonderful book, full of useful guidance for turning this world around. Properly applied, the principles in the New Testament could have saved me from my childhood nightmare. Of course it's too late for me, but the world still groans in suffering. And, just hold your horses. We don't suffer because we don't have Jesus in our hearts. The world suffers for lack of the thing offered by Jesus that the church misses as well. Here's a good litmus test. Church, if non-believers aren't commenting on how you're following Jesus, there's no reason for you to announce it. Stay home on Sunday. Beat yourself over the head until your blood stains the pages of your Bible. That's how I read it growing up, and, after a lifetime in church, I know that hardly anyone else read the damned thing at all. Church, if you're not going to take the word seriously, just shut up. Even Greek mythology is useful because no one is crazily insisting on faith in Zeus! We non worshippers are free to learn the lessons of a system. Bending of the knee in a fancy building is no path to righteousness. Surely, we all know that. Surely, I don't have to explain.
So, what have I learned in this life about God, the Bible, and humanity? Honestly, I haven't learned much. I've mostly been caught up in unlearning. Don't we just take in what our parents teach us at first? Then they tell us there's no Santa Claus after all, or we come to realize that they're dangerous. Later in life, if we're lucky enough to be broken enough to seek help, we may come to see our parents as separate individuals and ourselves as changeable. Do some parents impart this to their children peacefully? hmm... Interesting...
Society discusses the rebellion issues of youth as if it's a foregone conclusion that adult systems are perfect. Surely, children who do not joyfully conform must be flawed in some way! Terrible Twos, Teenage Rebellion. Are two year olds completely responsible for not responding well to our systems? Are teenagers just too sinful to get things right without physical "discipline" of some sort? Do kids need to be scared by ideas like coal in their stocking or a Hell if they don't do what Mommy and Daddy say? I don't mean to be rude and beat up on religion, but when it's used to tell children they have something wrong with them, then it's just a fancy version of all the ways in which we communicate to children that they have something wrong with them. Maybe children ARE messed up. But are the adult world conventions we've bought into necessarily less messed-up?
No, it's natural to rebel against that which is unnatural. It's also natural to adapt, conform, and tell ourselves we're happy to be advancing the righteous system that was handed to us. Can it be natural to question all that we've accepted?
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
Lend Me Your Light
I had a pretty sweet childhood. Mom was a beautiful artist, intelligent and kind. Dad was all-powerful and safe. I lived on a peaceful goat farm, spending my days playing alone in the fields or listening to my favorite music in my room. I had nightmares. Why did I have nightmares? Was something wrong with me?
Everyone in the family knew it was remarkable that I predicted my mother's death one day in advance. At age five, I concluded that Jesus had magically revealed the future to me. In retrospect, I suppose their awestruck comments about my mental prowess were covering up that everyone knew he HAD actually killed her. I bet it impressed or shocked them that such a young man might have been more clued in than they realized.
Throughout my adolescence and teen years, Dad did his best to support my fairy-tale version of Mom's death while continually acting out the truth of the matter on my ever-stronger body and mind. He would drink and cry, sharing his shame over not being a good enough husband to her. I heard it so many times, but I relished in the retelling. These were the times when he was peaceful and proud of me. Perhaps deep in my mind, the part of me that knew the truth enjoyed these lies so much because it was just a matter of days before the scene would shift. Not consciously, but I was aware that I would soon be cowering under his blows, hearing in loud, angry, definite tones, how glad he was that my mother had not lived to see what a worthless cocksucker I had become. It was coming. It was always coming. I would endure his abuse in the moment, but when it wasn't happening, I didn't give it a thought. I lived in a delusion.
Thirty years after he killed her, almost to the day, my Dad also died. I wrote a respectful, dutiful obituary. I delivered his eulogy, fairly, kindly, blindly. I was happy he was gone, until he came back. In the months that followed his death, my mind began a multi-year unfolding that put my teenage anguish to shame. Friends remind me that I survived the hard times, that everything is fine now. That's so sweet. They're just wrong. I have mostly suffered alone the last seven years with feelings long buried. I've coped by largely distracting myself. Even fleeting memory glimpses have kept me on the edge of suicide for more of this time than I would have thought I could survive.
Finally, I'm starting to face that I HAVE TO face what happened. All of it's in there, in my head, driving me, hurting those around me, keeping me in the prison constructed for me. Hey, happy people of today, I get it. You might think I deserve to smile and enjoy life. Maybe you think I should put it all behind me and life the kind of life I want. Well, how about if we compromise? I'll live the happy life you think I deserve. Just please accept that the life I want to live is the brutal, demon-slaying bloodbath of exploring my emotions and memories. I must not run.
When Dad killed Sandy, I was numb inside. The year before, when he almost killed Patty, I was barely awake enough to see her as a person. Rewinding through my childhood, for most of my life, always lead to an idyllic story of my Mom's accidental drowning. After seven years of feeling and opening my mind, as much as I felt I could, I am coming to what feels like my most helpless failure, the failure not only to act but even to see what he did to my Mom. There in that trailer, alone in the country, the three of us wrote my tragic script. Visually, I only remember the time he cut her nose off. The rest I've pieced together from his stories, my knowledge of his lying style, and my own adult-life failures, the tapestry upon which the intuitive five-year-old in me acts out what he knows.
Now, I'm not like my dad. I paint pain, anger and bloodshed in self-destruction and passive-aggressive emotional manipulation. I wear the chaos in my painted, torn clothing. I carry the baggage in mangled possessions, stacked high in my car and the room I occupy in my ex-wife's basement. I parade my internal feelings of failure. I always remembered hiding in my closet. Now I'm starting to hear her screams from the adjacent room.
I want to write my life story. I have to write it. Soon, I'm going to be unveiling an investment plan for self-publishing, an opportunity for you, my readers to invest in this project. It's too much for me to struggle to survive, fixing people's houses, running out of money before payday each week, while bearing the enormous burden of entering the evil dungeon of my mind. I don't know if I can make it this way. Stay tuned for a chance to make a difference in my life and perhaps the world we live in.
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
Everyone in the family knew it was remarkable that I predicted my mother's death one day in advance. At age five, I concluded that Jesus had magically revealed the future to me. In retrospect, I suppose their awestruck comments about my mental prowess were covering up that everyone knew he HAD actually killed her. I bet it impressed or shocked them that such a young man might have been more clued in than they realized.
Throughout my adolescence and teen years, Dad did his best to support my fairy-tale version of Mom's death while continually acting out the truth of the matter on my ever-stronger body and mind. He would drink and cry, sharing his shame over not being a good enough husband to her. I heard it so many times, but I relished in the retelling. These were the times when he was peaceful and proud of me. Perhaps deep in my mind, the part of me that knew the truth enjoyed these lies so much because it was just a matter of days before the scene would shift. Not consciously, but I was aware that I would soon be cowering under his blows, hearing in loud, angry, definite tones, how glad he was that my mother had not lived to see what a worthless cocksucker I had become. It was coming. It was always coming. I would endure his abuse in the moment, but when it wasn't happening, I didn't give it a thought. I lived in a delusion.
Thirty years after he killed her, almost to the day, my Dad also died. I wrote a respectful, dutiful obituary. I delivered his eulogy, fairly, kindly, blindly. I was happy he was gone, until he came back. In the months that followed his death, my mind began a multi-year unfolding that put my teenage anguish to shame. Friends remind me that I survived the hard times, that everything is fine now. That's so sweet. They're just wrong. I have mostly suffered alone the last seven years with feelings long buried. I've coped by largely distracting myself. Even fleeting memory glimpses have kept me on the edge of suicide for more of this time than I would have thought I could survive.
Finally, I'm starting to face that I HAVE TO face what happened. All of it's in there, in my head, driving me, hurting those around me, keeping me in the prison constructed for me. Hey, happy people of today, I get it. You might think I deserve to smile and enjoy life. Maybe you think I should put it all behind me and life the kind of life I want. Well, how about if we compromise? I'll live the happy life you think I deserve. Just please accept that the life I want to live is the brutal, demon-slaying bloodbath of exploring my emotions and memories. I must not run.
When Dad killed Sandy, I was numb inside. The year before, when he almost killed Patty, I was barely awake enough to see her as a person. Rewinding through my childhood, for most of my life, always lead to an idyllic story of my Mom's accidental drowning. After seven years of feeling and opening my mind, as much as I felt I could, I am coming to what feels like my most helpless failure, the failure not only to act but even to see what he did to my Mom. There in that trailer, alone in the country, the three of us wrote my tragic script. Visually, I only remember the time he cut her nose off. The rest I've pieced together from his stories, my knowledge of his lying style, and my own adult-life failures, the tapestry upon which the intuitive five-year-old in me acts out what he knows.
Now, I'm not like my dad. I paint pain, anger and bloodshed in self-destruction and passive-aggressive emotional manipulation. I wear the chaos in my painted, torn clothing. I carry the baggage in mangled possessions, stacked high in my car and the room I occupy in my ex-wife's basement. I parade my internal feelings of failure. I always remembered hiding in my closet. Now I'm starting to hear her screams from the adjacent room.
I want to write my life story. I have to write it. Soon, I'm going to be unveiling an investment plan for self-publishing, an opportunity for you, my readers to invest in this project. It's too much for me to struggle to survive, fixing people's houses, running out of money before payday each week, while bearing the enormous burden of entering the evil dungeon of my mind. I don't know if I can make it this way. Stay tuned for a chance to make a difference in my life and perhaps the world we live in.
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
I'm God, and I'm Crazy
Warning: If you are prone to strong negative emotions and judgments when hearing unorthodox and potentially "heretical" declarations, turn back NOW!
I'm God. No, seriously, I think I Am. Yeah... well, hang on a bit, and I'll try to explain. I want to address everything, all at once, my life, the human experience, the meaning of existence, and the dizzying circus of my own mental perception and interaction with the whole. How can I boil down my experience growing up with my dad and it's deeply interwoven religious training component. I'm not exactly sure how to summarize my ideas here in a single blog entry, but I think, if I had to boil down my overall direction into a one word, one question, one answer, it would be "God." Three words? "I am God." Let's see if I can get there, with a surprise ending for you, my lucky reader. Save your thanks til the end. :)
Today I caused pain for someone close to me. I probably do it every day, for someone. I could argue my case, but that's how I hurt my friend. I see that I'm always defending myself, even though I'm tragically at odds with myself or rather, my selves.
After I went forward with the circumstances of Sandy's death and whereabouts http://www.cnn.com/2010/CRIME/04/09/california.body.found/index.html some suggested I was an accomplice to murder. Aren't we all accomplices to the entire human experience? My dad grew up in this country, in this culture, in a Christian home, in a Christian nation, in a society that worships money, individualists, and violence. By purchasing and participating in this society, all of us are accomplices. If we did not work to stop it, we allowed it through inaction. Of all the people in America in 1987, I was the only one that saw what my father did. I didn't stop him, ultimately, but I was trying. All of human history is complicit in the making of Ernie Christie Jr, Sandy Turpin's murder, and my traumatic childhood. I should ask the "accomplice" crowd if it's sinking in on any level that they are accomplices through their own passivity, not only to Sandy's plight but to the suffering of a whole world, using accusation as a way to salve the shame of their own helpless inaction. Can I let you in on a little secret? I don't think turning the tables on my dad would have been an easy manner. There were great risks. I didn't want to get killed. What's your excuse? We as individuals don't know how to find out who's being abused, and we don't know how to help. True. But do any of us spend any time trying to figure out what could be done? How many of us are even trying? How many of us have the time? Aren't we all too busy working our jobs to pay our loans and keep our houses? Are the rich to blame? I think I'm to blame for allowing there to be rich and poor in my world. I'm certainly not doing all I can to even the playing field. I didn't stop my dad from overpowering Sandy, but I don't do anything to stop CEOs of large corporations from living high off of the sweat and misery of their armies of minimum wage slaves either. I didn't do anything to stop my country's government from murdering millions of civilians in Iraq.
Why is it offensive for me to suggest I'm a god? Because none of us want to carry the shame of selfishly denying benefit to others when it is in our power. We want to feel justified. How dare I acknowledge my power and lift the curtain of plausible powerlessness to which we all cling! I'm sorry. I know it might trigger shame to think about what we're not doing. I personally would not be able to read a blog like this, but I think people are generally better than me and less likely to take things personally than me. Well, no, that's a lie. I know my writing will offend. Who cares?
I'm offended by anyone who judges me over Sandy. Do you know why? It's because such judgment automatically puts me in a cross. I think we should choose one of two paths of thought about the crimes I witnessed. Either I should have done everything I could to save her or I should be excused from any responsibility. If you think I should have saved her, then I think it would only be fair for you to devote your life and finances to saving someone or something. If you want to get away with living your life in complete denial, then please allow that I was perfectly within my rights to watch and not intervene in Sandy's death.
Of course, I'm only offended because of some expectation of fair treatment. Clearly, my dad taught me that life is inherently unfair; he said as much on many occasions. Jesus even teaches that Heaven requires accepting less than our "fair" share for the sake of love. Philosophically, I agree. How about this? I totally failed to stop my dad from killing Sandy, but I don't want to blame anyone for being oblivious to the suffering they do not see. How about we all just try to evaluate ourselves and our own contributions with the greater good of others in our minds? How about we learn from our mistakes? I'm writing a blog. Yes, the rest of my life might be ordinary, but I try to love people as much as I can without allowing them to run over me and beat me into the ground. Can I let you in on another secret? Do you know how people can be kind of selfish, ruthless, and uncaring? I've known a lot of cruel people. On the whole, my dad was just like everyone else.
My dad used to say "If you don't get to Heaven in this life, nothing will change when you die." What in the world did he mean? I've spent a lot of years pondering his ideas about salvation. I don't believe the way I used to believe, but there is a sense in which I was saved. Through faith in something greater than the world of me and Ernie Christie Jr, I managed to hold on to hope for something greater for me. I learned to suffer and wait. I learned that I was capable of choosing my path, even when I didn't feel like I had a choice at all. I've been saved by Jesus in that I didn't just follow my dad's path completely.
Now, he believed in Jesus as an actual being with a personality and a plan for our lives. I believed the same until after my dad died. Then, I began to think about all the things God "saw" when I was growing up. Sure, I never stopped my dad, but neither did God. Whatever impact I had on my dad was god-like in its proportions. I never saw God adjust the situation at all. At least I started telling dad he was wrong. At least I convinced him to stop hitting women. The only gods in those private moments in my childhood home were my dad, me, and the ideas of "God" in our heads.
For me, the only useful application of religion is done here, on Earth, while we live. I turned the other cheek thousands of times. In one sense, that got me hit a lot more. In another sense, perhaps I had a positive impact on the whole course of things. Either way, following Jesus kept me stuck there loving him, and following Jesus gave me the strength to survive it. But in the end, I'm the one who was there, made choices, and now carries the weight of it all.
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
I'm God. No, seriously, I think I Am. Yeah... well, hang on a bit, and I'll try to explain. I want to address everything, all at once, my life, the human experience, the meaning of existence, and the dizzying circus of my own mental perception and interaction with the whole. How can I boil down my experience growing up with my dad and it's deeply interwoven religious training component. I'm not exactly sure how to summarize my ideas here in a single blog entry, but I think, if I had to boil down my overall direction into a one word, one question, one answer, it would be "God." Three words? "I am God." Let's see if I can get there, with a surprise ending for you, my lucky reader. Save your thanks til the end. :)
Today I caused pain for someone close to me. I probably do it every day, for someone. I could argue my case, but that's how I hurt my friend. I see that I'm always defending myself, even though I'm tragically at odds with myself or rather, my selves.
After I went forward with the circumstances of Sandy's death and whereabouts http://www.cnn.com/2010/CRIME/04/09/california.body.found/index.html some suggested I was an accomplice to murder. Aren't we all accomplices to the entire human experience? My dad grew up in this country, in this culture, in a Christian home, in a Christian nation, in a society that worships money, individualists, and violence. By purchasing and participating in this society, all of us are accomplices. If we did not work to stop it, we allowed it through inaction. Of all the people in America in 1987, I was the only one that saw what my father did. I didn't stop him, ultimately, but I was trying. All of human history is complicit in the making of Ernie Christie Jr, Sandy Turpin's murder, and my traumatic childhood. I should ask the "accomplice" crowd if it's sinking in on any level that they are accomplices through their own passivity, not only to Sandy's plight but to the suffering of a whole world, using accusation as a way to salve the shame of their own helpless inaction. Can I let you in on a little secret? I don't think turning the tables on my dad would have been an easy manner. There were great risks. I didn't want to get killed. What's your excuse? We as individuals don't know how to find out who's being abused, and we don't know how to help. True. But do any of us spend any time trying to figure out what could be done? How many of us are even trying? How many of us have the time? Aren't we all too busy working our jobs to pay our loans and keep our houses? Are the rich to blame? I think I'm to blame for allowing there to be rich and poor in my world. I'm certainly not doing all I can to even the playing field. I didn't stop my dad from overpowering Sandy, but I don't do anything to stop CEOs of large corporations from living high off of the sweat and misery of their armies of minimum wage slaves either. I didn't do anything to stop my country's government from murdering millions of civilians in Iraq.
Why is it offensive for me to suggest I'm a god? Because none of us want to carry the shame of selfishly denying benefit to others when it is in our power. We want to feel justified. How dare I acknowledge my power and lift the curtain of plausible powerlessness to which we all cling! I'm sorry. I know it might trigger shame to think about what we're not doing. I personally would not be able to read a blog like this, but I think people are generally better than me and less likely to take things personally than me. Well, no, that's a lie. I know my writing will offend. Who cares?
I'm offended by anyone who judges me over Sandy. Do you know why? It's because such judgment automatically puts me in a cross. I think we should choose one of two paths of thought about the crimes I witnessed. Either I should have done everything I could to save her or I should be excused from any responsibility. If you think I should have saved her, then I think it would only be fair for you to devote your life and finances to saving someone or something. If you want to get away with living your life in complete denial, then please allow that I was perfectly within my rights to watch and not intervene in Sandy's death.
Of course, I'm only offended because of some expectation of fair treatment. Clearly, my dad taught me that life is inherently unfair; he said as much on many occasions. Jesus even teaches that Heaven requires accepting less than our "fair" share for the sake of love. Philosophically, I agree. How about this? I totally failed to stop my dad from killing Sandy, but I don't want to blame anyone for being oblivious to the suffering they do not see. How about we all just try to evaluate ourselves and our own contributions with the greater good of others in our minds? How about we learn from our mistakes? I'm writing a blog. Yes, the rest of my life might be ordinary, but I try to love people as much as I can without allowing them to run over me and beat me into the ground. Can I let you in on another secret? Do you know how people can be kind of selfish, ruthless, and uncaring? I've known a lot of cruel people. On the whole, my dad was just like everyone else.
My dad used to say "If you don't get to Heaven in this life, nothing will change when you die." What in the world did he mean? I've spent a lot of years pondering his ideas about salvation. I don't believe the way I used to believe, but there is a sense in which I was saved. Through faith in something greater than the world of me and Ernie Christie Jr, I managed to hold on to hope for something greater for me. I learned to suffer and wait. I learned that I was capable of choosing my path, even when I didn't feel like I had a choice at all. I've been saved by Jesus in that I didn't just follow my dad's path completely.
Now, he believed in Jesus as an actual being with a personality and a plan for our lives. I believed the same until after my dad died. Then, I began to think about all the things God "saw" when I was growing up. Sure, I never stopped my dad, but neither did God. Whatever impact I had on my dad was god-like in its proportions. I never saw God adjust the situation at all. At least I started telling dad he was wrong. At least I convinced him to stop hitting women. The only gods in those private moments in my childhood home were my dad, me, and the ideas of "God" in our heads.
For me, the only useful application of religion is done here, on Earth, while we live. I turned the other cheek thousands of times. In one sense, that got me hit a lot more. In another sense, perhaps I had a positive impact on the whole course of things. Either way, following Jesus kept me stuck there loving him, and following Jesus gave me the strength to survive it. But in the end, I'm the one who was there, made choices, and now carries the weight of it all.
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Dirty Old Man
I once had a lover, and she used to call me her Dirty Old Man. I won't go into much extra description of the circumstances surrounding such a nickname. It paints it's own picture. Anyway, that's what she called me. It was sexy and romantic. It was her special name for me. I guess I imagined that, for the rest of my life I would look back and remember "Dirty Old Man" as simply the super hot and creatively personal nickname she charmingly bestowed upon me with a wink.
Today, while getting a haircut, my mental paradigms about myself and my place in the world were drastically shifted by the young girl with brown hair getting her hair cut in the chair next to mine. When I first noticed her reflection in the mirror through a darting glance, I was vaguely aware that she was looking at me. I made conversation with my stylist for a few minutes and then looked again, this time purposefully. She was looking at me again. We stared. I felt uncomfortable, smiled. She smiled in return. Afterward, I realized she was quite young, perhaps under fourteen years old. I avoided making eye contact again. Now, I'm not the kind of grown man that is going to try and capitalize on sexual opportunities with underage girls, but we had had what I like to call a moment. I couldn't help but notice, throughout the rest of my haircut, that she was looking my way from time to time. Who could blame me for avoiding such an interaction? I felt shame for having even entered into that short, shared smile. Yes, aren't you relieved? And yet, I felt bad for not returning to our friendly exchange, bad that I might make her feel unappreciated, undesirable.
Do you ever feel like we have signs on our foreheads like "Hey, you can take advantage of me." or "Hey, I won't fight back!" or "Over here! I'm easily fooled?" I sure feel that way. No one knew what I was going through growing up, but the bullies at school didn't need to read my book to know they could get away with harassing me. It seems unfair, but I think I wore my victim role on my face, inviting new people to try and exploit me. I can make sense of getting hit at home and getting hit by bullies, but, and this is the point, it hasn't been so clear to me what sign is on my forehead with women.
Just for now, let's try on "Dirty Old Man." What if that's the sign my young lover saw? What if the much younger girl getting her haircut was reading the same sign? It's hard for me to know what she read. Generally, I attract women with dysfunctional relationship habits, lots of self-hatred, and lots of anger toward some man in their lives who greatly disappointed them. Dirty Old Man sounds sexy and desirable, but leaves plenty of room for hatred and judgment later on. There might be something to all of this, but assuming women are reading a sign on my head is convoluted and keeps me from looking at my own part in interacting with other humans and myself. Plus, whatever any girl reads on my head is most likely more about her than me. There's something to the types of people we draw, but I can't sort it out at that level anymore.
How does Dirty Old Man apply to me? Getting easy stuff out of the way first, I am a man. To an ever increasing number of people, I am old. Dirty? Well, with a wink, I'll tell you I'm not so bad. In my defense, I live among human beings, a species that conspicuously hides its sexuality with clothing, lies, and shaming judgments. At least we don't stone adulterers in the streets anymore. No, we just destroy them socially, if we can. Some people shudder at the growth of shamelessness about sexual behavior, but, what good has all this shame done for us? So, I'm sexual. I enjoy it. Sex in this society is already hidden and forbidden so much, and my family was full of rules, secrets, and lies about it. So, yeah, a little bit of dirt is a little bit exciting to me. I'll admit that.
What draws me to women is something different, something about their vulnerability, something connected to my mom and my shame for allowing my dad to beat her for years and ultimately kill her. I guess my heart is drawn to abused women like the fists of those bullies were drawn to my face. I don't mean to be abusive. I don't think I really am, but, in these recreations, it always seems to get told that way. From my side, I feel compassion and reach out, the woman shares her vulnerabilities, and then I'm an asshole for not having loved the right way or for having needs of my own. That's fair. I usually enter romance as a man without needs. I'll give for a long time and then start wanting something back.
My dad was this way, except his interactions often included violence. He would present himself as cool and without needs, until he started feeling attached. Then he would begin building a case against the woman, ultimately unleashing his anger. He wasn't a serial killer or stalker. He didn't kidnap anyone, well, unless they had been lovers previously. He had a nasty habit of believing that he owned anyone he had ever slept with. I guess I'm included there.
What was the sign on his head? Had he been sexually molested as a child and felt like the other person took all power from him? Just questions prompted by the last paragraph.... Your thoughts?
Do you ever feel like we have signs on our foreheads like "Hey, you can take advantage of me." or "Hey, I won't fight back!" or "Over here! I'm easily fooled?" I sure feel that way. No one knew what I was going through growing up, but the bullies at school didn't need to read my book to know they could get away with harassing me. It seems unfair, but I think I wore my victim role on my face, inviting new people to try and exploit me. I can make sense of getting hit at home and getting hit by bullies, but, and this is the point, it hasn't been so clear to me what sign is on my forehead with women.
Just for now, let's try on "Dirty Old Man." What if that's the sign my young lover saw? What if the much younger girl getting her haircut was reading the same sign? It's hard for me to know what she read. Generally, I attract women with dysfunctional relationship habits, lots of self-hatred, and lots of anger toward some man in their lives who greatly disappointed them. Dirty Old Man sounds sexy and desirable, but leaves plenty of room for hatred and judgment later on. There might be something to all of this, but assuming women are reading a sign on my head is convoluted and keeps me from looking at my own part in interacting with other humans and myself. Plus, whatever any girl reads on my head is most likely more about her than me. There's something to the types of people we draw, but I can't sort it out at that level anymore.
How does Dirty Old Man apply to me? Getting easy stuff out of the way first, I am a man. To an ever increasing number of people, I am old. Dirty? Well, with a wink, I'll tell you I'm not so bad. In my defense, I live among human beings, a species that conspicuously hides its sexuality with clothing, lies, and shaming judgments. At least we don't stone adulterers in the streets anymore. No, we just destroy them socially, if we can. Some people shudder at the growth of shamelessness about sexual behavior, but, what good has all this shame done for us? So, I'm sexual. I enjoy it. Sex in this society is already hidden and forbidden so much, and my family was full of rules, secrets, and lies about it. So, yeah, a little bit of dirt is a little bit exciting to me. I'll admit that.
What draws me to women is something different, something about their vulnerability, something connected to my mom and my shame for allowing my dad to beat her for years and ultimately kill her. I guess my heart is drawn to abused women like the fists of those bullies were drawn to my face. I don't mean to be abusive. I don't think I really am, but, in these recreations, it always seems to get told that way. From my side, I feel compassion and reach out, the woman shares her vulnerabilities, and then I'm an asshole for not having loved the right way or for having needs of my own. That's fair. I usually enter romance as a man without needs. I'll give for a long time and then start wanting something back.
My dad was this way, except his interactions often included violence. He would present himself as cool and without needs, until he started feeling attached. Then he would begin building a case against the woman, ultimately unleashing his anger. He wasn't a serial killer or stalker. He didn't kidnap anyone, well, unless they had been lovers previously. He had a nasty habit of believing that he owned anyone he had ever slept with. I guess I'm included there.
What was the sign on his head? Had he been sexually molested as a child and felt like the other person took all power from him? Just questions prompted by the last paragraph.... Your thoughts?
As I learn to let go and grow, I'm finding that my perceptions are not so permanent. At the wise age of 42, I'm seeing myself in everyday life like never before. I'm feeling my feelings more powerfully and fully, and, yes, making those I love most quite miserable as well. I'm probably pissing off lots of people, and I just haven't noticed. Maybe it's been this way all my life. I've been doing lots of writing and soul-searching, and it sounds good to attribute the changes to my heroic efforts to be a better person and bestow my gifts upon mankind. Oh, how I love to represent myself that way. Really, that's only part of my story. I say I'm wise and 42 with tongue in cheek, a high-five to a very special young woman who has spent the last couple of years experiencing my foolishness first-hand, perhaps for her own selfish reasons, perhaps to give me the gift of insight. Maybe it's both. Maybe neither of us knew what we were doing. I'm trying to learn about how the world sees me and how I choose to interact.
We all have patterns of loving and patterns of pain that seem to go hand in hand. May we all learn about ourselves and make the healthiest choices we can.
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
We all have patterns of loving and patterns of pain that seem to go hand in hand. May we all learn about ourselves and make the healthiest choices we can.
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
Friday, October 11, 2013
Why Men Enjoy Porn
I tell my stories in a rather round-a-bout way. I'm just discovering this. Do you do that too? :) Me too. Well, I said it already, I guess. I don't really know if I should apologize for the quality of my example. Anyway, welcome to what I am pretty sure will be a story, told all backwards, kind of like me and the mind I am learning to love, mine.
So, I'm apparently really smart. Yeah, thanks, I'm tall too. Oh, and I'm white and attractive. I've had a lot going for me in life. Smart people like me are supposed to go to college. I withdrew from classes in my first semester. See, this seems all backwards, but how do I just come out and say my dad beat me up in the kitchen over my alleged intention in interacting with the woman he currently had at the house and then made me drop out of school? Don't worry; it's all very anticlimactic.
Without any further subjection of this already abusively stretched blog to the chaos of detail, I give you this:
Dear Reader,
Forgive me, for I have sinned. It has been 40 days since my last blog entry. I'll admit it; life has not gone the way I expected since I last wrote here. I had ideas of self-reliance mixed with good love and renewed purpose. I got all those things, but not by stoically quoting scripture and bravely denying my appetites. Jesus, it is written, spent 40 days in the desert, being tempted by Satan. I spent 40 days thinking about the ways in which I enter these roles as well as that of God, their silent partner.
Satan challenged Jesus to make the stones into bread. I have been working hard to earn more money after years of being stuck in poverty, living paycheck to pawn shop visit and back again. I haven't been offered a deal to betray my values. I do that for free. Satan offered Jesus all the kingdoms of the world if He would bow down and worship him. I've considered life's questions and the reasoning of my mind, in some cases choosing to set aside old virtues and parental directives. If the fruit looks good, sometimes I eat it. Satan dared Jesus to jump off the temple, presumably to impress the people with his immortality. I don't put much stock in angels catching me, but I did fall off a ladder yesterday, more accurately, I fell into it, toppling and hitting the ground along with it. Strangely, I don't have a mark on me.
Please, lovers of Jesus, don't take offense. I mean no disrespect. Quite seriously, I have been meditating on God, Jesus, and the Devil and how the drama of my mind can be understood through their stories, contained in the Bible. I used to think the Devil was evil, God was good, and Jesus was safe, all of them actual beings with those distinct personalities represented by Christianity. I've got a metaphorical angle going on God. Let's see if I can show you what I mean.
Remember me dropping out of college? There was this woman named Sam, just like me. She had arrived in Eureka sometime in the previous year, finding refuge in a warehouse controlled by a small group of semi-homeless men. My dad knew them. I remember hearing them talk about her. She was the "whore" they all wanted to fuck. They spoke disdainfully of her. "She can't be trusted." Then they would drag me into the conversation laughingly adding, "Don't leave her alone with Sammy!" I thought she was attractive, but, at 17, I didn't join in with such revelry. The fishermen and downtown drunks would join my dad in mocking me for my facial reactions to their comments, but I was determined to continue seeing Sam as a down-on-her-luck human being, not a sex opportunity to be exploited. How could they joke about using her for sex without any consideration of how to help her regain her dignity? Oh, that's right; her shameful position was part of the attraction.
I never saw her hang her head. She was proud and defiant when she stood up for herself. Maybe she was a little crass at times, but she was kind and polite to me. I liked her. They viewed her like a devil, untrustworthy, unfairly beautiful, and unworthy of their Christian charity or virtue.
Dad brought her out to the house a number of times. They would do drugs and have sex. By the way, now that I'm older, I would just like to say that doing drugs and having sex can be really fun! Growing up, I had no idea. Maybe that saved me some trouble as a youth, but I found it anyway as an adult. Why is our society so uptight about making sure kids stay on some straight and narrow path to recreating the currently broken social system? But that's another subject.
My dad, the God of the Bible, and most evil characters in fairy tales have this in common: They are all guided, to some degree, by their own selfish goals and personal emotional states of the moment. You could argue that God is good, but I will say that God's "good" is whatever he says it is. He is not guided by some greater idea of what is good or evil. If so, then that rule would be above God, begging the question "from whence did it come?" In that self-directed way, he's just like my dad. Stick with me here....
I had just gotten home from my morning classes at the University. I knew Sam had spent the night with my dad, but I was hoping to slip into the house, make lunch, and leave for my afternoon drawing class, unnoticed. As I finished making my mac & cheese and sat down at the bar in our kitchen, the two of them entered the dining room arguing. Dad's hair was wet with sweat and matted, his eyes refusing to make contact. He was on speed. I prepared to eat quickly and make my exit.
I heard her ask for a drink. She turned and headed toward me, just half a step, and I was already planning. Dad had expressed concern that I might be attracted to her in the past. In his paranoid, unpredictable state at that moment, I was trying to avoid any hint of inappropriate interaction between Sam and I. She was coming for a glass. I was sitting directly under that cabinet. To keep her from reaching over me, arousing his anger, I reached up and got one for her. She moved to other side of the kitchen and prepared to pour some juice.
Dad interrupted her, yelling at her, and made her leave the house without her juice. I guess she walked home. I thought he was putting the juice away until I felt that gallon burst against the back of my head. I withdrew from my classes the next day and went to work for him. Anyway, that's how I quit college.
So, how can I understand my mind in this story through the metaphorical characters in the Bible? I don't even know what I was thinking or feeling. I was just reacting to those around me. In that way I am both the Devil in his role as God's dependent second opinion and God in his role of omnipotent denial of his own internal self-judgment (the devil). Jesus is perhaps the forward step that I need to take. Jesus, in his setting aside of his own life and ego for the sake of some higher purpose, is attempting to lead me out of my God vs. Satan duality, my raging emotions overpowering and condemning my calm rational thought, arrogant animal impulses vs. sober self-judgment and patience. I believe it's a trap to think of these characters as separate beings. When they're seen as parts of the whole of the mind, then they start to make sense.
By the way, if all of this seems confusing, please accept my apology. I'm just trying to get the words out. Please offer comments and questions. I love questions!
As soon as I saw that God, Satan, and Jesus were all archetypes for stuff that happens in my own head, I remembered the words of Jesus.
"I and the Father are one."
"The kingdom of heaven is within you."
What if Jesus is the ultimate ego model? Fully pleased to follow the Father, he is free to act bravely.
What if God is an imperfect emotion model? If he wasn't so bad, Jesus wouldn't need to be so self-sacrificial.
What if Satan is a model for dispassionate skepticism? Is there any way to help these three get along?
"Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it."
What if giving up what I want for me and making my choices based upon my own highest values would actually make me happier and braver than if I chose what seemed best in the moment?
I just didn't want to get hit. I just wanted to avoid Dad's anger. I work hard to anticipate what other people need. I stress about it. I have for years. Ironically, it hasn't worked well. I'm totally inept when it comes to setting people at ease or making them feel loved. In this way, the blind Father God of my ego must make peace with the objective questioner of my intellect, and it may require that my body make the sacrifices of its appetites in order to do that, to bring my whole being completely under the direction of my own mind. Maybe self-direction sounds scary. What if I do things like my dad did? What if I justify bad behavior by insisting that I may decide right and wrong? Well, it's good enough for your god to do the same, right?
Ok, this one's a mess, so I'm expecting your lively debate!
Thanks,
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
So, I'm apparently really smart. Yeah, thanks, I'm tall too. Oh, and I'm white and attractive. I've had a lot going for me in life. Smart people like me are supposed to go to college. I withdrew from classes in my first semester. See, this seems all backwards, but how do I just come out and say my dad beat me up in the kitchen over my alleged intention in interacting with the woman he currently had at the house and then made me drop out of school? Don't worry; it's all very anticlimactic.
Without any further subjection of this already abusively stretched blog to the chaos of detail, I give you this:
Dear Reader,
Forgive me, for I have sinned. It has been 40 days since my last blog entry. I'll admit it; life has not gone the way I expected since I last wrote here. I had ideas of self-reliance mixed with good love and renewed purpose. I got all those things, but not by stoically quoting scripture and bravely denying my appetites. Jesus, it is written, spent 40 days in the desert, being tempted by Satan. I spent 40 days thinking about the ways in which I enter these roles as well as that of God, their silent partner.
Satan challenged Jesus to make the stones into bread. I have been working hard to earn more money after years of being stuck in poverty, living paycheck to pawn shop visit and back again. I haven't been offered a deal to betray my values. I do that for free. Satan offered Jesus all the kingdoms of the world if He would bow down and worship him. I've considered life's questions and the reasoning of my mind, in some cases choosing to set aside old virtues and parental directives. If the fruit looks good, sometimes I eat it. Satan dared Jesus to jump off the temple, presumably to impress the people with his immortality. I don't put much stock in angels catching me, but I did fall off a ladder yesterday, more accurately, I fell into it, toppling and hitting the ground along with it. Strangely, I don't have a mark on me.
Please, lovers of Jesus, don't take offense. I mean no disrespect. Quite seriously, I have been meditating on God, Jesus, and the Devil and how the drama of my mind can be understood through their stories, contained in the Bible. I used to think the Devil was evil, God was good, and Jesus was safe, all of them actual beings with those distinct personalities represented by Christianity. I've got a metaphorical angle going on God. Let's see if I can show you what I mean.
Remember me dropping out of college? There was this woman named Sam, just like me. She had arrived in Eureka sometime in the previous year, finding refuge in a warehouse controlled by a small group of semi-homeless men. My dad knew them. I remember hearing them talk about her. She was the "whore" they all wanted to fuck. They spoke disdainfully of her. "She can't be trusted." Then they would drag me into the conversation laughingly adding, "Don't leave her alone with Sammy!" I thought she was attractive, but, at 17, I didn't join in with such revelry. The fishermen and downtown drunks would join my dad in mocking me for my facial reactions to their comments, but I was determined to continue seeing Sam as a down-on-her-luck human being, not a sex opportunity to be exploited. How could they joke about using her for sex without any consideration of how to help her regain her dignity? Oh, that's right; her shameful position was part of the attraction.
I never saw her hang her head. She was proud and defiant when she stood up for herself. Maybe she was a little crass at times, but she was kind and polite to me. I liked her. They viewed her like a devil, untrustworthy, unfairly beautiful, and unworthy of their Christian charity or virtue.
Dad brought her out to the house a number of times. They would do drugs and have sex. By the way, now that I'm older, I would just like to say that doing drugs and having sex can be really fun! Growing up, I had no idea. Maybe that saved me some trouble as a youth, but I found it anyway as an adult. Why is our society so uptight about making sure kids stay on some straight and narrow path to recreating the currently broken social system? But that's another subject.
My dad, the God of the Bible, and most evil characters in fairy tales have this in common: They are all guided, to some degree, by their own selfish goals and personal emotional states of the moment. You could argue that God is good, but I will say that God's "good" is whatever he says it is. He is not guided by some greater idea of what is good or evil. If so, then that rule would be above God, begging the question "from whence did it come?" In that self-directed way, he's just like my dad. Stick with me here....
I had just gotten home from my morning classes at the University. I knew Sam had spent the night with my dad, but I was hoping to slip into the house, make lunch, and leave for my afternoon drawing class, unnoticed. As I finished making my mac & cheese and sat down at the bar in our kitchen, the two of them entered the dining room arguing. Dad's hair was wet with sweat and matted, his eyes refusing to make contact. He was on speed. I prepared to eat quickly and make my exit.
I heard her ask for a drink. She turned and headed toward me, just half a step, and I was already planning. Dad had expressed concern that I might be attracted to her in the past. In his paranoid, unpredictable state at that moment, I was trying to avoid any hint of inappropriate interaction between Sam and I. She was coming for a glass. I was sitting directly under that cabinet. To keep her from reaching over me, arousing his anger, I reached up and got one for her. She moved to other side of the kitchen and prepared to pour some juice.
Dad interrupted her, yelling at her, and made her leave the house without her juice. I guess she walked home. I thought he was putting the juice away until I felt that gallon burst against the back of my head. I withdrew from my classes the next day and went to work for him. Anyway, that's how I quit college.
So, how can I understand my mind in this story through the metaphorical characters in the Bible? I don't even know what I was thinking or feeling. I was just reacting to those around me. In that way I am both the Devil in his role as God's dependent second opinion and God in his role of omnipotent denial of his own internal self-judgment (the devil). Jesus is perhaps the forward step that I need to take. Jesus, in his setting aside of his own life and ego for the sake of some higher purpose, is attempting to lead me out of my God vs. Satan duality, my raging emotions overpowering and condemning my calm rational thought, arrogant animal impulses vs. sober self-judgment and patience. I believe it's a trap to think of these characters as separate beings. When they're seen as parts of the whole of the mind, then they start to make sense.
By the way, if all of this seems confusing, please accept my apology. I'm just trying to get the words out. Please offer comments and questions. I love questions!
As soon as I saw that God, Satan, and Jesus were all archetypes for stuff that happens in my own head, I remembered the words of Jesus.
"I and the Father are one."
"The kingdom of heaven is within you."
What if Jesus is the ultimate ego model? Fully pleased to follow the Father, he is free to act bravely.
What if God is an imperfect emotion model? If he wasn't so bad, Jesus wouldn't need to be so self-sacrificial.
What if Satan is a model for dispassionate skepticism? Is there any way to help these three get along?
"Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it."
What if giving up what I want for me and making my choices based upon my own highest values would actually make me happier and braver than if I chose what seemed best in the moment?
I just didn't want to get hit. I just wanted to avoid Dad's anger. I work hard to anticipate what other people need. I stress about it. I have for years. Ironically, it hasn't worked well. I'm totally inept when it comes to setting people at ease or making them feel loved. In this way, the blind Father God of my ego must make peace with the objective questioner of my intellect, and it may require that my body make the sacrifices of its appetites in order to do that, to bring my whole being completely under the direction of my own mind. Maybe self-direction sounds scary. What if I do things like my dad did? What if I justify bad behavior by insisting that I may decide right and wrong? Well, it's good enough for your god to do the same, right?
Ok, this one's a mess, so I'm expecting your lively debate!
Thanks,
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Sick Actor or Tortured Soul
Wow, I'm only on my seventh post, and all I can think right now is that I'm not exactly sure this is the seventh. Someone in my head says "I should go check."
"Open a new tab!" he cries out with urgency
"I can check it later and change it if necessary."
Wait, who said to open a new tab? Who are these characters? How can I explain the experience I have in my mind? I'm trying to map it. I have to find a way to understand my thought-life so that I can tolerate real life without being dependent on distractions, addictions, or, worst of all, vulnerable people who will love me even when it takes a toll on them. I don't know what I'm doing here with this blog. I don't know what I'm doing in life. So, bear with me while I try to figure out how my head works.
People in my life often say they don't know how to take me. When I started getting honest, those comments increased. I often choose to reveal myself in some confusing mix of indirect vagary and blunt shock. A recent television show covering my story invited viewers to question whether I was a sick actor or the tortured soul I claim to be. I think I'm both. . As a child,I had learned, or tried to learn, to display and express the feelings, thoughts, facial expressions, desires, and attitudes that adults expected from me. The confusing part for me has been that I never knew these things about myself until very recently. I'm just starting to discover why I've struggled all my life in social situations and in feeling comfortable in my own skin.
All my life I've lived out a facade, hardly looking within, trying so hard to be the kind of person everyone else might desire. As a kid I learned to be an actor. Deep down, I always knew that I was playing a role. I just couldn't spend too much time thinking about it and risk exposure. I imagined that everyone else had life figured out, and that they would condemn me if I did not appear like them. Even wise sounding advice like "just be yourself" was processed in my mind as "just act like you're being yourself." I've always looked outside of me for who I should be, how I should act. I'm just now starting to see what's sick about that. I wasn't able to look at me, so I wasn't able to be "me." "Be yourself" always came with the promise of feeling whole, natural, comfortable. I've always been myself. I've just always had a discomfort with seeing myself or feeling like my natural self. So, I've been an actor. The sickness is the tortured soul inside of me that could not heal as long as I could not see him.
In my childhood, I looked outside of myself, to Jesus, for peace. Religious faith was helpful sometimes, but also kept me stuck. I held onto Jesus during times when the me inside might have been completely destroyed. On the other hand, I held onto Jesus at the expense of seeing and acknowledging the real me. I allowed my internal self to suffer at the hands of others, mainly my dad, because none of it was hurting Jesus. As long as Jesus was intact, I could go through anything.
After my father died, I gave up on Jesus. At the age of 36, I had finally suffered enough, lost enough, destroyed enough, that I was ready to stop following this outsider to myself. I talked to a few Christian friends about my decision. One said to "be still and know that he is God." They seemed to think I was making a horrible mistake in leaning on my own understanding. I reasoned that I couldn't give a thing to God that I had never had in the first place. I had to find myself, apart from my dad, apart from God.
The last seven years have been messy. Christians teach that we have some sort of hole inside of us that God fits into perfectly. They will also acknowledge that, if God is rejected, people may try to fill that hole with drugs, sex, abusive relationships, money, basically sins of all sorts. I did. The world is full of things I can look to while refusing to see the tortured soul inside of me. It's painful to see myself, especially in light of all the sick acting I've done over the years. I feel like I've whored out the hole left by my hidden self to everything but me. Me has sat in the dark, alone, unseen, while my brain runs my body through life, coping, recreating, rationalizing, but never finding peace.
Recent events in my life have opened my "mature" heart like a set of surgical tools, revealing my life-long problem of self-avoidance. I fell in love with a young woman who may be more damaged than me. I tried to fix or save her, not realizing that I was, again, simply trying to dodge seeing myself. Ultimately, realizing that I was not fixing her but causing her more pain, I had to face that it was my pain that I needed to address. As the charms of our romance wore thin and our pain began to emerge, our fights became more regular. And as we fought, I began to see, over and over, that what she was saying to me seemed like something she could have said to herself. And, after I judged her for that, I began to see that all the things I had been saying to her, including my judgments of her projecting onto me, were things that I should have been saying about ME. I had not been seeing me. Seeing her was just my most recent and most tragic stand-in for seeing me. Her pain touched mine in a way that finally allowed me to admit that I had been avoiding myself and acting like I wasn't, all my life. I would say that I love her, but I think she would have been better off without me.
I'm seeing that I've hurt people throughout my life, albeit in more socially acceptable ways than my father did. But what progress have I made if I'm just causing damage, blind to myself, in a dialed-down version of his blindness? I've set out to write this book in desperation. I've known I was suffering, known I needed healing, but writing about my childhood experience has highlighted my life-long reluctance to feel the pain in my soul, the soul I've ignored all my life. I haven't wanted to face my pain. I've felt like I couldn't bear to see myself, so I couldn't face that I was using everything and everyone, including my false representation of me to avoid actually feeling my own pain. Now I have to face the hurts in my childhood soul as well as the hurts I've inflicted on myself and others in my adulthood.
My life may look boring and unsuccessful on the outside, but I'm taking myself out of the acting game to see my sickness which is nothing more than the game I've been playing. I've been playing the game of anyone or anything but me. Now I'm just facing how I feel about it. Looking at the real me involves facing all my childhood fears, the reasons I learned to deny me in the first place. It feels like the most epic risk to simply sit with myself and feel. You might see me sitting on my couch right now, making my typing face, flexing my toes. The real battle is in trying to feel comfortable here without calling a friend, checking my social media, watching a movie, or seeking escape through sex or drugs.
Just here, I sit. I breathe. I feel a little bit sick, but I am ok. I think I can do this. I think my blog entries are about to get real....
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
"Open a new tab!" he cries out with urgency
"I can check it later and change it if necessary."
Wait, who said to open a new tab? Who are these characters? How can I explain the experience I have in my mind? I'm trying to map it. I have to find a way to understand my thought-life so that I can tolerate real life without being dependent on distractions, addictions, or, worst of all, vulnerable people who will love me even when it takes a toll on them. I don't know what I'm doing here with this blog. I don't know what I'm doing in life. So, bear with me while I try to figure out how my head works.
People in my life often say they don't know how to take me. When I started getting honest, those comments increased. I often choose to reveal myself in some confusing mix of indirect vagary and blunt shock. A recent television show covering my story invited viewers to question whether I was a sick actor or the tortured soul I claim to be. I think I'm both. . As a child,I had learned, or tried to learn, to display and express the feelings, thoughts, facial expressions, desires, and attitudes that adults expected from me. The confusing part for me has been that I never knew these things about myself until very recently. I'm just starting to discover why I've struggled all my life in social situations and in feeling comfortable in my own skin.
All my life I've lived out a facade, hardly looking within, trying so hard to be the kind of person everyone else might desire. As a kid I learned to be an actor. Deep down, I always knew that I was playing a role. I just couldn't spend too much time thinking about it and risk exposure. I imagined that everyone else had life figured out, and that they would condemn me if I did not appear like them. Even wise sounding advice like "just be yourself" was processed in my mind as "just act like you're being yourself." I've always looked outside of me for who I should be, how I should act. I'm just now starting to see what's sick about that. I wasn't able to look at me, so I wasn't able to be "me." "Be yourself" always came with the promise of feeling whole, natural, comfortable. I've always been myself. I've just always had a discomfort with seeing myself or feeling like my natural self. So, I've been an actor. The sickness is the tortured soul inside of me that could not heal as long as I could not see him.
In my childhood, I looked outside of myself, to Jesus, for peace. Religious faith was helpful sometimes, but also kept me stuck. I held onto Jesus during times when the me inside might have been completely destroyed. On the other hand, I held onto Jesus at the expense of seeing and acknowledging the real me. I allowed my internal self to suffer at the hands of others, mainly my dad, because none of it was hurting Jesus. As long as Jesus was intact, I could go through anything.
After my father died, I gave up on Jesus. At the age of 36, I had finally suffered enough, lost enough, destroyed enough, that I was ready to stop following this outsider to myself. I talked to a few Christian friends about my decision. One said to "be still and know that he is God." They seemed to think I was making a horrible mistake in leaning on my own understanding. I reasoned that I couldn't give a thing to God that I had never had in the first place. I had to find myself, apart from my dad, apart from God.
The last seven years have been messy. Christians teach that we have some sort of hole inside of us that God fits into perfectly. They will also acknowledge that, if God is rejected, people may try to fill that hole with drugs, sex, abusive relationships, money, basically sins of all sorts. I did. The world is full of things I can look to while refusing to see the tortured soul inside of me. It's painful to see myself, especially in light of all the sick acting I've done over the years. I feel like I've whored out the hole left by my hidden self to everything but me. Me has sat in the dark, alone, unseen, while my brain runs my body through life, coping, recreating, rationalizing, but never finding peace.
Recent events in my life have opened my "mature" heart like a set of surgical tools, revealing my life-long problem of self-avoidance. I fell in love with a young woman who may be more damaged than me. I tried to fix or save her, not realizing that I was, again, simply trying to dodge seeing myself. Ultimately, realizing that I was not fixing her but causing her more pain, I had to face that it was my pain that I needed to address. As the charms of our romance wore thin and our pain began to emerge, our fights became more regular. And as we fought, I began to see, over and over, that what she was saying to me seemed like something she could have said to herself. And, after I judged her for that, I began to see that all the things I had been saying to her, including my judgments of her projecting onto me, were things that I should have been saying about ME. I had not been seeing me. Seeing her was just my most recent and most tragic stand-in for seeing me. Her pain touched mine in a way that finally allowed me to admit that I had been avoiding myself and acting like I wasn't, all my life. I would say that I love her, but I think she would have been better off without me.
I'm seeing that I've hurt people throughout my life, albeit in more socially acceptable ways than my father did. But what progress have I made if I'm just causing damage, blind to myself, in a dialed-down version of his blindness? I've set out to write this book in desperation. I've known I was suffering, known I needed healing, but writing about my childhood experience has highlighted my life-long reluctance to feel the pain in my soul, the soul I've ignored all my life. I haven't wanted to face my pain. I've felt like I couldn't bear to see myself, so I couldn't face that I was using everything and everyone, including my false representation of me to avoid actually feeling my own pain. Now I have to face the hurts in my childhood soul as well as the hurts I've inflicted on myself and others in my adulthood.
My life may look boring and unsuccessful on the outside, but I'm taking myself out of the acting game to see my sickness which is nothing more than the game I've been playing. I've been playing the game of anyone or anything but me. Now I'm just facing how I feel about it. Looking at the real me involves facing all my childhood fears, the reasons I learned to deny me in the first place. It feels like the most epic risk to simply sit with myself and feel. You might see me sitting on my couch right now, making my typing face, flexing my toes. The real battle is in trying to feel comfortable here without calling a friend, checking my social media, watching a movie, or seeking escape through sex or drugs.
Just here, I sit. I breathe. I feel a little bit sick, but I am ok. I think I can do this. I think my blog entries are about to get real....
© 2013 Ernest Samuel Christie III
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