Shatter Me


Shatter me with your passion and send my soul into the wind. That I may fly towards another and share your words. Cradle me against the torrent of humanity, the tears of anger and sadness of others wash over me. I close my eyes to the pain of the world for a second, a second just to myself… Laying down the boulders of others, I take up my own cross and begin to climb The Hill. Inadvertently I follow the footsteps of others, but I do not share their trials or their story. The mud from their tears provides a fresh pavement for my own footsteps to leave their impression. A trail of humanity for the next.

J.C.C.

Final Post – My Adoption Story: Depression and the Devil


Man’s greatest triumphs can sometimes be found during his most difficult times of adversity.

This is my new saying when I reflect upon the “Dark Ages” of my life and my deepest days of depression. I am often not a praying man, which is odd considering my father is a priest and a doctor, and I don’t consider praying in times of need and praying to win the lottery as being a “praying man.”

I feel comfortable talking about my dark ages now, perhaps it is the mask of my pseudonym that gives me courage; but no, it is actually because I have moved on to greener pastures. My dark ages were a product of finding my birth mother at the age of 18. This came about in the most innocent of ways, in the form of a senior graduating gift from my adopted parents, my real parents in my eyes, a gift of adventure and excitement. It was a trip to Korea with a group of other adoptees from Holt International Adoption agency. I could never have dreamed prior to that trip, a trip I packed for with such excitement and enthusiasm, that it would be a trip that would usher in my darkest days. Granted, I had an acceptable childhood (no childhood is perfect), I had already struggled with demons of race and depression. I never considered that those demons would be small compared to the Devil I was about to encounter.

I really won’t get into the specifics of the trip unless someone asks or I am inspired to do so at a later date. Needless to say, since I have already provided the window to view it through, this trip was awful. I had been provided my adoption package by my adopted parents at an earlier time so I “thought” I was prepared for this trip. I “thought” there would be no surprises. I was wrong, depressingly wrong.

I found the information about my birth mother and my blood sister in Busan, South Korea, in a pathetic orphanage that I don’t even remember the name of. I have never liked hospitals or orphanages and I now knew why. No one, unless you are also adopted, can understand the pain that is brought when you are faced with the reality that you were not wanted. Add to this the pain that your mother decided one sibling was less trouble than you would be, and what you have is a maelstrom of emotions, regret, and anger. My storm could have killed me, it almost did.

When I returned I immediately went to college. A time that was supposed to be filled with excitement and growth, was instead filled with depression, anger, weed, and alcohol. I filled my time finding things to fill my “hole.” It did not help; it only delayed the sorrow and pain that I had to face eventually. When I dropped out of college after three and a half years the only welcoming I really wanted was a grave. Failure had become a part of me and it evidently had originated when I was left on that lonely street in Busan, South Korea in 1983.

I become a drunk. At 23 years old I was a first class alcoholic. I recently read Anthony Bourdain’s book “Medium Raw,” and part of my inspiration for writing this comes from him. The other part comes from my loving wife and my two wonderful children, all three of whom I continually feel that I do not deserve but I am forever thankful that I have. So thank you Anthony for the courage to speak or rather to write.

I remember, vaguely of course, stopping every day at Joe’s liquor store and buying a daily pint of the rawest whisky I could find, I believe it cost around $3 dollars a pint, and feeling like the drunks I had always despised I would begin to guzzle it on my short ride home. Before you judge, YES I know this was highly stupid of me and irresponsible, but who can ever say they were responsible while being depressed and drunk? If you know anyone that can make that claim I can in the same breath claim that bastard is a liar. Alcohol was my friend, my confidant, and his name didn’t matter whether it originated in Mexico, America, or hell even some African country. It didn’t matter as long as it felt good touching my lips.

It was late; I would say 3 am, when I saw him. He was not what I expected and I really can’t be sure if it was him or if he just gave me a glimpse of what I would see if I ever really met HIM. I was drunk; I think Braveheart was playing in the background. I was in the upstairs of my parent’s house, yes at age 23 I was living at home again another dagger to my heart, and I felt a presence at my door. In my childhood my father used to have the (then) annoying habit of standing behind us and watching our TV show with us. I never thought about it then, but looking back, he just wanted to be with us even if we did not particularly, at age 15, want him there. This presence was not a comforting one; I felt the hair on my arms stand. I saw a man, it was a man, but he was a shadow of a man at the same time. He looked at me and something awakened in me, it was fear. I had never been so afraid in my life. Keeping in mind that alcohol and weed are the nectar of the gods and that with those coursing through my veins I had thought myself fearless. I was mistaken. With one look the Devil showed me my humanity and all I could think was that I desperately wanted to live. I cried and shut my eyes and when I opened them he was gone. I still to this day do not know if I was dreaming, I really doubt it.

Fear can drive a man crazy, but it can also drive a man to life. I look back on that day and I realize that fear had kicked my ass back into gear. Today I am content. People ask me if I am “happy” all the time, I don’t think like that anymore. I look upon my life with my wife and my daughters and I realize… sometimes being content is enough.

Jason

The Daily Opinion – The Death Penalty


http://news.yahoo.com/arizona-inmate-dies-2-hours-execution-began-230855668.html

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/07/23/joseph-wood-execution_n_5615308.html

 

So who here feels sympathy for this guy?

The Lost Journals: The Introduction – Pg. 2


It took me some time to decipher the intent of the writer. I quickly realized that the journals were all penned by the same hand. The time consuming task seemed daunting to me, I have never been a fan of the delicate art of replication, but these journals were obviously the meticulous product of many drafts. There were hardly any errors on the pages and the plain brown covering of the journals gave little indication of what was to be found inside.

I at first thought these books were a series of diaries written by someone and I was very interested to see what the life within held. It was after reading the first two that I realized that was not what I owned at all. What I actually held before me was seven different lives narrated within separate bindings. I was astounded. It basically felt like opening one present, expecting a single gift, and suddenly finding that a box full of toys is inside instead.

The story actually grows from here. After completing the seventh book one early morning I set my cup of coffee down on the breakfast table and walked out onto the deck. I looked up and watched as the sky gave birth to our daily sun once more. I contemplated what I had just read and the amazing impact it had on me. I was aware I had just been given something special, but it was not yet clear to me why this story was so important. I believe after reading The Lost Journals, my readers might begin to understand and to share what I felt that morning. A glimpse into what was, what is, and what could be.

***

This is my blog book I am offering to the readers of my blog. The whole story can be found at the following link http://aopinionatedman.com/category/the-lost-journals/ I hope you enjoy the story. All content is owned and copyrighted. You may re-blog, pingback, or share the contents but please give credit to the author and this website. Thank you, -OM

Page 2 OM 12/18/2013

Random House


Our rooms are painted with emotion as we live our life within them. We play our parts well under sun and stars. No script is needed as our hearts spar daily with one another. So passionate is the act our shadows join in the dance. They smile maniacally back at us as they observe the scene of the day. Random House… you present both ends of the essence of feeling and tie our humanity in a knot. Our hands meet and pause while we consider the mood of the moment. Moments spun together presenting life, the life found within the Random House.

Goodnight WP,
-OM

MegaChurch


Modern day Cathedrals of Steel, you stand as an example for man. But what example is it that you set? Who is being worshiped upon stage lit by flashing bulbs and never ending cameras. It matters not if housed between those walls are the most spiritual of people because they are not of the people anymore. They are religious movie stars and how amusing that so many in this world turn a blind eye to the mansions that mirror these plastic churches. Who dwells in that fine house that sits in the shadow of the MegaChurch that feeds it? Does God live there as well?

No… only a man. A man with other people’s money.

-Opinionated Man