Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Hidden Corpse


A broken will.  A broken man.  The minimum to survive.  The minimum to feel good about oneself

 I used to fight against the gay.  I used to believe there was an end to the conflict.   If I worked hard enough, prayed sincerely enough, or placed my life in the hands of a wise therapist.

But it didn't work.  The mind raking continued unabated.   I wasn't perfect.   Maybe if I would have done one of the afore mentioned solutions I would be changed.

I used to think I could change through force of will.  Isn't will the key to all of life's problems.   Isn't will how we become better, get good grades, stay in shape, keep the commandments.  It's all force of will. 

Years of willing it gone turned to hate.   I hated my gay.   I still do.   Perhaps if I showed enough hate toward the manfire I would be accepted of the Lord.  He would see my desire for righteousness and change me.

It never happened and I gave up on it.  I didn't give up on the gospel, but I gave up on changing.  I still keep the rules.  I still do the minimum for what I need to do to be a "good Mormon."  And I do feel the goodness of the church.  But I abandoned my desire to change.  The battle was too pointless.   It was futile.  The harder I fought, the stronger desires came, like a demonic hydra there was no success in cutting off the head.  It just came back stronger.

Then I thought I needed to be wiser, so I told people.  I told therapists.  So many dang therapists.   The therapists who promised if I did the things they said I would be straight.  I would forget my homosexuality.  That eventually I would look back at this time in my life as a small blip on the radar.

Their wisdom failed me.   Their promises were flat.  Their exercises were clownish, humorous if it wasn't a matter of life and death. 

Along side both these paths was the spiritual.   The weekly fasting.   The comprehensive confessions of every thought, act, and fleeting biological response--oh those biological responses.  How they damned me in my head.  How they came at the most random of  times.   So I damned them.  I forbade them.   But they found a way.  They still came.   And with them weeks of hell on earth.   Weeks of shame with each one.

Righteousness eluded me.   No porn addiction.  No self stimulation.   But I was still evil, vile, less than all those around me.  And the gay flavor of my feelings made them immediately of a deeper  sin category.

Then I gave up.   I stopped the fight to change.   I don't have the energy anymore.  Life isn't better. I still have the mind raking digging deep furrows into my self image.  Fag!  Pervert! Unholy!  Those are the valleys it has made.

And I have lost my drive.  My ambition.  It has left me.  I failed in this battle of life, so why do other battles matter.   Why should I lose weight, when my belly is a chastity belly.   Why should I try to advance my career when I don't know if I'll even be around in five years, and will never had a kid to train up.  Why should I write a novel.  Effort does not bring results. It brings sorrow.  It brings frustration.  It brings stronger armies to fight.  So why fight, when I can lie on the battlefield amongst the corpses pretending to be dead, and the enemy ignores me.

I am the walking dead.   I care not for my future, please, just don't hurt me anymore

 
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But there is some warmth.  A spark of life.

 This corpse we found in the pile of dead still responds.

All it takes is an ember.   As long as we can find the faintest glow, we can tend it.  Feed it.

All is not lost.  This body may once again move with passion.  He may once again enter the battle and win another prize.

Nourish the little flame.  Do not blow to strongly on it.   This soul is beaten but not gone. 

We will watch over carefully.  Who knows? Maybe he has a light to spread.

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