It just hit me.
I was in the hospital for a while following another suicide attempt that, this time, was ALMOST successful, had it not been for Maddog being good at tackling in his college football days, I most likely wouldn't be here typing this now.
Five days of learning brought me to a man-made, yet somehow comprehensible realization that some people with a severe case of mental syndrome like myself just have to picture and visualize their problems in ways only they understand from a first person perspective. Two actually.
First is that some people, such as myself, have a problem that takes the form of a being of purity and wholesomeness and one other of darkness and sin living in their souls. On my end, they were...
The White Man: A solid white, radiant silhouette with a bright face and a welcoming personality. He wants only what's best for the host body, and is ultimately a protector.
"My good man, nobody is perfect. Have faith."
The Black Man: An inky, misty shadow with a sinister grin of shark's teeth and a distant, threatening aura. Don't get too close.
"PATHETIC. ALL OF YOUR THOUGHTS ARE SIMPLY PATHETIC. YOU MAKE ME SICK, YOU FAT LOAF OF LARD!"
Need I say more?
Other than this:
In those five days I was in everyone's Hell, in a place in South Carolina known as the Lighthouse, a behavioral health facility, I struggled to protect myself from the wandering, stray-minded individuals who bellowed at the wrong color of clothing and brandished plasticware made for military MRE's from the cafeteria, silently fighting battles which demanded no weapons, no bloodshed, until finally I happened upon a lucid dream once more of The Black Man.
He sat there tied with a Fictive rope to a chair I had placed, thrashing and snarling like a wild animal scorned. When he saw me...
"YOU...! YOU DID THIS! YOU DID THIS TO ME!"
The White Man stood behind me.
He smiled, and I knew what I had to do. Just this once, he assured me, it was okay to do, because it was for the good of my being, the good of my soul and my life and the lives of everyone that loved me, just this once I was given a free pass to kill any one thing that could even dare say it was alive.
So I made the perfect choice, and chose my one and only target: the Black Man.
"YOU CAN'T KILL ME. YOU CAN'T KILL THIS SON OF A BASTARD. YOU CAN'T MAKE ME GO AWAY, I'M NOT SOME MONSTER LIVING UNDER YOUE BED: I'M A PART OF YOU! YOU HEAR ME?! I **AM** YOU, YOU PATHETIC WISP OF A KID! THIS ISN'T OVER! THIS ISN'T OVER BY THE LONGEST OF ANY SHOT IN THE DARK! I HAVE NO BEGINNING, SO I CAN HAVE NO END! YOU FOOL YOURSELF, GROWN CHILD. YOU'RE KIDDING YOURSELF! IF YOU'RE TRULY THE MAN THAT MAD DOG WANTS YOU TO BE, THEN SIT YOUR BUTT DOWN AND LISTEN TO ME! I CALL THE SHOTS AROUND HERE! I AM YOUR LIFE!"
I was not fazed by his shouting. And neither was the fictive shotgun in my hands, pointed to his face. The White Man came to me and handed me two golden shells.
"Just this once. On one condition."
"What?"
"Read the label."
The label on the shells was a simple inscription: "For the good of one's soul and being"
"Go ahead. You're not gonna go to Hell for doing it. I promise. God knows it's time and it's the only way. Some things just don't have a place in some people's lives."
I hugged the White Man and cried.
The Black Man began to thrash again...
"HAHA.... HAHAHAHA! LOOK AT THE TEARS FLOW.... A PATHETIC WATERFALL OF WEAKNESS! GO AHEAD AND CRY! SEE HOW FAR IT WILL GET YOU, SEE HOW MANY ANSWERS YOU'LL GET! WAKE UP, KID! THE ONLY THING CRYING IS GOOD FOR IS TO TELL MOMMY YOU SPILLED YOUR MILK. FACE IT; YOU HAVEN'T LEARNED A DAMN THING, NOT EVEN IN CHERRY'S LESSER COUSIN! YOU'RE STILL THE SAME TWERP YOU WERE IN NORTH CAROLINA."
I wasn't listening.
"There's a difference, Black."
"WHAT?"
"You're dead."
Click, snap. Bang. The ink splattered, shriveled and died. And i smiled for the first time.
Don't let yourself sabotage yourself.
I was in the hospital for a while following another suicide attempt that, this time, was ALMOST successful, had it not been for Maddog being good at tackling in his college football days, I most likely wouldn't be here typing this now.
Five days of learning brought me to a man-made, yet somehow comprehensible realization that some people with a severe case of mental syndrome like myself just have to picture and visualize their problems in ways only they understand from a first person perspective. Two actually.
First is that some people, such as myself, have a problem that takes the form of a being of purity and wholesomeness and one other of darkness and sin living in their souls. On my end, they were...
The White Man: A solid white, radiant silhouette with a bright face and a welcoming personality. He wants only what's best for the host body, and is ultimately a protector.
"My good man, nobody is perfect. Have faith."
The Black Man: An inky, misty shadow with a sinister grin of shark's teeth and a distant, threatening aura. Don't get too close.
"PATHETIC. ALL OF YOUR THOUGHTS ARE SIMPLY PATHETIC. YOU MAKE ME SICK, YOU FAT LOAF OF LARD!"
Need I say more?
Other than this:
In those five days I was in everyone's Hell, in a place in South Carolina known as the Lighthouse, a behavioral health facility, I struggled to protect myself from the wandering, stray-minded individuals who bellowed at the wrong color of clothing and brandished plasticware made for military MRE's from the cafeteria, silently fighting battles which demanded no weapons, no bloodshed, until finally I happened upon a lucid dream once more of The Black Man.
He sat there tied with a Fictive rope to a chair I had placed, thrashing and snarling like a wild animal scorned. When he saw me...
"YOU...! YOU DID THIS! YOU DID THIS TO ME!"
The White Man stood behind me.
He smiled, and I knew what I had to do. Just this once, he assured me, it was okay to do, because it was for the good of my being, the good of my soul and my life and the lives of everyone that loved me, just this once I was given a free pass to kill any one thing that could even dare say it was alive.
So I made the perfect choice, and chose my one and only target: the Black Man.
"YOU CAN'T KILL ME. YOU CAN'T KILL THIS SON OF A BASTARD. YOU CAN'T MAKE ME GO AWAY, I'M NOT SOME MONSTER LIVING UNDER YOUE BED: I'M A PART OF YOU! YOU HEAR ME?! I **AM** YOU, YOU PATHETIC WISP OF A KID! THIS ISN'T OVER! THIS ISN'T OVER BY THE LONGEST OF ANY SHOT IN THE DARK! I HAVE NO BEGINNING, SO I CAN HAVE NO END! YOU FOOL YOURSELF, GROWN CHILD. YOU'RE KIDDING YOURSELF! IF YOU'RE TRULY THE MAN THAT MAD DOG WANTS YOU TO BE, THEN SIT YOUR BUTT DOWN AND LISTEN TO ME! I CALL THE SHOTS AROUND HERE! I AM YOUR LIFE!"
I was not fazed by his shouting. And neither was the fictive shotgun in my hands, pointed to his face. The White Man came to me and handed me two golden shells.
"Just this once. On one condition."
"What?"
"Read the label."
The label on the shells was a simple inscription: "For the good of one's soul and being"
"Go ahead. You're not gonna go to Hell for doing it. I promise. God knows it's time and it's the only way. Some things just don't have a place in some people's lives."
I hugged the White Man and cried.
The Black Man began to thrash again...
"HAHA.... HAHAHAHA! LOOK AT THE TEARS FLOW.... A PATHETIC WATERFALL OF WEAKNESS! GO AHEAD AND CRY! SEE HOW FAR IT WILL GET YOU, SEE HOW MANY ANSWERS YOU'LL GET! WAKE UP, KID! THE ONLY THING CRYING IS GOOD FOR IS TO TELL MOMMY YOU SPILLED YOUR MILK. FACE IT; YOU HAVEN'T LEARNED A DAMN THING, NOT EVEN IN CHERRY'S LESSER COUSIN! YOU'RE STILL THE SAME TWERP YOU WERE IN NORTH CAROLINA."
I wasn't listening.
"There's a difference, Black."
"WHAT?"
"You're dead."
Click, snap. Bang. The ink splattered, shriveled and died. And i smiled for the first time.
Don't let yourself sabotage yourself.
