I’m in Hell on Earth

The things we say, the things we do… they all cause. In each action we cause good, or we cause ill, trouble, or something we do not always intend to happen. This is why our intentions are important, for our intention can differentiate between whether or not we sin or we defend, protect or harm.

With that said, the “road to hell is paved with good intentions.” (first published by Henry G. Bohn’s “A Handbook of Proverbs.”)

I’m worried because I am convinced that I have built up a ‘hell-on-earth’ around me which causes another greater fear in my heart: the fear of salvation and the desire to spend my eternity with God. And I know that if I continue living like I do, that’s not what my eternal reward will be. For example, I cannot wear myself thin nor to the point where the veil is shredded between this life and the next in order to ensure that everyone else is okay.

I find it awful easy to judge myself to be in a good disposition, to be strong for those whom I love and to hoist myself up as some sort of solid rock they can all grasp to, then I remember that I am not God. Easy it is to imagine that my tether could keep someone fully grounded, that my love enough would blot out every trickle of anxiety that assaults them – when I, myself, am asphyxiated by discontent and a sickening restlessness.

But, I promise: I’m trying. Perhaps in the past I have not articulated, really, the uneasiness that is my cross. Throughout my life I have dealt with more loss than gain and I’m only in my twenties. Having a family that is primarily of an older generation, death is frequent. Belonging to a generation in which depression and despair is rampant, like one ever-descending icicle. I’ve found myself trying to be the main-station for all. I can not do that. It is not my purpose either.

I will help as much as I can, but often enough, I need help as well. I’m reflecting upon these past two years in particular. My eyes have been closed and my own, personal descent down-hill hidden from my sight yet so palpable to those around me. No kindling remains lit in the fire, yet the lights are on and nobody is home, lyset er på, men ingen er hjemme, some might say.

So I admit defeat and I have no shame in saying it, either. God will build me up again, like anything that falls.

Five months ago I drove into the ocean and ruined my car, but as soon as those waves crashed over me I also felt the love of God consume my heart and soul and I knew that what I was doing was wrong. I called my mother to get me, and we towed the car out because, thank God, the water was shallow, more shallow than my thinking and selfishness. The wharf is down from a grotto of Our Lady, so I tried under her very eyes to end my life and she dragged me right back to start it again.

I sought counselling afterwards, it didn’t work. Twenty-two years old and already at rock bottom. There are scars on my body that no intellectual could ever decipher, there are words I have said that no book ought to have written in them. I’ve cried enough, wept enough, to give the banshee a run for money. But I did one thing at least, one thing: I “raged against the dying of the light.”

I never want to think like that again. I never want to feel those dregs of vexation and depression. In that one moment, I figured I would be bringing myself to my true home, to true happiness…but in reality, how quite the opposite would the reality have been!? I have lost a lot. I have lost so much in my life, and the road has never been an easy one, but how dare I become someone else’s loss as well? Not only that, I would be a loss unto myself and the glory of God.

Pray for me, my friends. I will keep writing. On March 2nd, I’ll be going to a place for some help, a hospital of sorts but one that treats cancer of the heart and mind rather than of the body. I won’t be ashamed when I go, and I won’t be afraid to admit to my weakness which is my own, but I will rejoice in my strength which is God’s.

Suicide is Closer to Home than Ever

I have written about suicide before. Many friends have tried, many friends have succeeded, but for this past month, that mortal choice has been closer to home.

A while ago my dear cousin, raised as my brother, attempted twice. His first attempt failed him: his weight hanging by the noose broke the branch. The second time, the branch also broke but he fell unconscious to the ground. We called the guards, the police, and the ambulance. That dark night the fog filled the forest and we couldn’t find him, but his six-page letter gave an answer as to “where is he?” Eventually one of the police dogs found him, and we all transported him to hospital. As he was not of age he was admitted to the children’s psychiatric ward.

It was upsetting because he had been one of my rocks throughout my course of anxiety and depression and we told each other everything, every intimate thought, all of our deeds, all of our troubles. I knew he was troubled. His parents were abusive and I often protected him to my own detriment, and he did the same for me. There were days where I’d receive fourteen to twenty calls from him, and I would answer only when able, and the guilt weighs upon me like a boulder. His faith has died, his will to go on has been snuffed out. I am his only allowed visiter at hospital: today he told me that it was selfish for us to want him to keep living. This handsome, intelligent, Dean’s list young man has been crucified to the point where he wishes to take his own life. Without thinking I went to the hospital with a set of Rosary beads, something to grant him grace – they were promptly taken from him as they were considered dangerous to his health. The vicar was up to see him and he refused to speak.

Can you please, my dear readers, take a moment to pray for him? I have not slept in about a month, and I don’t feel bad asking also for your prayers as I struggle to keep my closest family member, whom I love dearly, alive. Please pray he will cooperate with the doctors – something he refuses.

God love you all.

Nature of Love

Love. Do you love your husband, husband, do you love your wife? Have you ever loved someone to the capacity that you would do something stupid for them? Have you ever loved to the point where your heart will ache? Or been the subject of love to the point that you repress your feelings by drinking and become an absolute devotee to the image of a man? If you have, then you’re my friend, and you’re also God’s. To be enchanted in a cave, underground, with many a circumstance. That would be normal liberality as the sexual programme prescribes.

They are wrong. True love has been abandoned. Any love between men is deemed “gay.” You, my dear friends, might know of my previous encounter with people who have committed suicide, well last week I received a bad account about my first cousin who tried it. Twice in a row. Firstly, he tied himself to a tree by way of a noose and he jumped. The branch broke. The second time, he climbed higher and tied himself to another, otherwise looking strong, branch. He jumped, the branch broke, and he knocked himself out on his way down. Police were called and the dogs found him, gently gnawing on his leg and letting the police know by barking. He believed in God until he woke up.

Upon waking up, he renounced God and renounced life and is mad at all of us for letting him live. He admitted to me that since the age of seven he has wanted to do away with himself. I have been crying ever since. I thought my troubles were great. No, his are worse.

He is now in the children’s hospital ward as he is only seventeen. I have been visiting him daily and for great hours. I spent the night last Thursday. He has no sense of life or of vitality, of happiness or suffering. He just wants to be dead. Now. He refuses the nurse’s advice, the psychiatrist’s advice, and the love of his family. I am his only allowed visiter because we have always been on the same level and I know how to talk to him, and he’s helped me out of a few situations regarding my own mental health. He knew how I thought, but he held back on revealing to me how he though. Now we are honest with each other but he’s still nihilistic. After a six-page letter, he decided to travel two kilometres from his house and do the deed.

My buddy, my brother from another mother as they say, tried to end his life. Please pray for him to great accord, and pray for me as well. I am doing my best to love him as much as I can, so he knows God’s love as well. He is in care, and they’re doing their best to make him know the same. He will not comply. Pray for him. Pray that he comes along. Pray that people who have these feelings and thoughts can find the strength to think differently and feel the love of their families.

God Himself loved us so much as to allow His own Son to die, the second person of the Trinity of the one God. To become human and to be sacrificed. At that crucifixion Jesus bore the sins of all of us, including my cousin. He bore the suffering he is now experiencing. Pray.

Christ, have mercy.

Lord, have mercy.

Our Lady of Grace, take care of my cousin and grant him peace of mind.

 

The Debt of Grief

A few weeks ago, someone I had known, committed suicide.

The mother found her strung up like a fallen power line, having lost, what we are told, a long period of depression. A night so dark and deep, that not even the starlight of her family’s love could reach the pit. This individual was active in the parish, taking responsibility for various children’s endeavours and ministries for the youth. We pray for the repose of her soul.

But where do we go from here? How can a parish, indebted to grief, console her children when a member of the family chooses to end his own life. Suicide is a grave perversion of natural order, and, a violation of the fifth commandment. However, when mental illness is involved, the lines blue. Dana Dillon of Catholic Moral Theology wrote an excellent little treatise on the moral situation of suicide. She writes “our culpability for what we do is measured in large part by our freedom in choosing it.” And this point, exactly, was the homily for Mass preceding the day of the funeral. Where exactly does our freedom end?

Dillon writes, “when someone has severe depression or is living with the hallucinations and delusions of schizophrenia or the challenges of an anxiety disorder, the brain simply does not process information in a normal way.” The mind of someone who struggles with an anxiety or depressive predisposition, is, set apart from the rest. Perhaps the phrase victim soul could apply. Regardless, we cannot stand in judgement of a soul which only God himself peers into. What moves me so, however, is prospects of our future as a society.

What kind of cry for help is death? A reaction to the oppression and violence of this world, a violence often underhanded, in nature. And who can handle the grief of a lost child, especially under these circumstances?  A mother weeps, bitter tears fall like rain upon memories of a body once so small and able to fit in the palm of a hand. The future becomes overcast, blurry, invisible. I write not to answer any questions like this.

I write to sort out the mess of human brokenness.

You may recall that we are all children of the same God. We converge not only by the breath of life but also the actions of our mortal inclination. Each person possesses his own sliver of a shard, which is why the Blessed Lord Himself came to defeat death. To restore in us, our new life, one we receive in baptism.

Our brokenness manifests itself in diverse ways; we all have our own temptations, but it is easier with God and Our Blessed Mother. We are not alone; we are not automatons, just given over to the desires of the flesh as modernity often likes to present ourselves as being. Reject not your soul, reject only the world.

We can no longer be so hard on each other. We can not be guilty of being a shade against our brethren. Do not be afraid to love. Perhaps if we love each other a little bit more, like a spark of light, we will become the light of the adorable Saviour in a culture affixed to darkness.

Let your heart be a broken door, a latch turned to dust, open wide.

Meantime, along the narrow rugged path,
Thyself hast trod,
Lead, Saviour, lead me home in childlike faith,
Home to my God.
To rest forever after earthly strife
In the calm light of everlasting life.

-Blessed John Cardinal Henry Newman