I Know It Seems Foolish

      To whom it may concern,

What is the Devil? I mean really, what is he? Or she? Or it? What is God for that matter? Please don’t think this missive is a half-baked religious treatise, for it is not. I’m just putting pen to paper, jotting down thoughts attempting to make some sense of all this one final time.

Anywho – The Devil and God. Why pray tell, no pun intended, is it the Devil, and simply just God? Then again one can go with Satan. Why not the Satan? Wait. There is the Lord. I would normally google it, but as I’ve rid myself of computer and phone, another mystery goes unsolved.

“God works in mysterious ways.” 

Indeed. If you are one to believe there is someone or something pulling the strings, or even if you scoff at such a concept, you’ve noticed that there appear to be no mind-altering, “Ah Ha” miracles happening. But riddle me this: The Big Bang, and abiogenesis. The original elements burst forth from nothing and hello universe. Then several billion years later our Earth formed, and when the rock had barely cooled and the meteors scarcely filled the primordial oceans, organic sludge twitched to life. Fast-forward three billion years and here we are. Bugs, plants, fish, birds, mold, mice, lions and tigers, oh my. And of course, sentient humans. Science explains almost all of it. Almost. But what of those unfathomable short spasms of time between nothing and everything? Between inanimate and striving to procreate and survive? 

Those were miracles plain and simple. The rest is God, or fate, if you prefer, placing paths in our lives which though smarts, or luck, we choose the next direction.

The Devil is a smart dude. History wants us to believe that he - she? God can be female but you never hear about a woke Devil, but I digress again - spends his time and considerable energy tricking selfish and greedy louts into signing their souls away for some deed or dream where Satan then turns the tables on the poor slob and Hell gets another victim all the same. Now I’ve considered this and what has befallen me and while I know those “deals with the Devil” do happen, I am convinced that ol’ Beelzebub is so much more intelligent, crafty, and sinister than he is ever given credit for. 

Two other expressions come to mind and seem apt here:

“You can sheer a sheep time and again, but you can only skin it once.”

“The Devil is in the details.”

What good does it do the Devil’s unsatiable hunger to control humanity and piss off God by only taking souls? Why not latch on to some unsuspecting wretch and slowly, meticulously, like a life-long water torture, chip away a person’s confidence and resolve? This is where I discovered my Devil was in my details. For as long as I can recall every action or decision important to my ego and personality, while still keeping my existence in working order, found a way to be subtly and ingeniously thwarted. I know it seems foolish to rational minds, but I am haunted – no, not haunted, but possessed. Even that word does not seem totally correct. 

I am a marionette and Satan is my puppeteer. 

People around the world in their myopic ways take care of the big horrible actions: genocide, divisiveness, prejudice, and the like, and the Devil satiates his great hunger. What gets him off is the constant small tortures. Back in the day I enjoyed a dramady on tv that followed the lives of regular folks living in Alaska. One episode involved Satan passing through to do what he does best. He appeared as an everyday-Joe travelling salesman. He garners the trust of the young beautiful ditzy waitress who was married to the old codger who owned the restaurant where she also worked. At that time, they needed money to keep the place afloat, and Satan offered the sum if she would do just one tiny thing for him. It wasn’t signing away her soul for all of damnation. It wasn’t performing some salacious act. All he required was for her to throw away hubby’s old, ratty sweater to which he attached comfort and memories, but she found offensive. It seemed a simple task. He’d believed it misplaced, she’s rid of the old thing, and they would receive the much-desired cash influx. Yet in the end she refused. Even with such a seemingly insignificant item, in her heart she knew it would sadden her husband and that was not acceptable.

The devil lives in the details.

And I think he resides in me as well.

Maybe it’s a demon, I don’t know. Never studied up on that. Apples and oranges and so forth. Something has latched onto me, slowly, inexorably, bleeding me dry of the will to trust and believe. Scaring and scarring me to death. 

I racked my brain to locate a time when and how this could have happened. No Devil worshipping or games of “Bloody Mary” in a pitch-black bathroom. No pentagrams or red rooms dug into the basement. But damn, for it is campy, there was that time my brothers tried to frighten me with the Ouija board. The usual trope: Parents away. Dark room. My little hand under theirs on the planchette while it moves about the board under its own powers, mysteriously answering spooky questions. Nothing that hasn’t happened a million times with that creepy game. However, maybe the myths contain truths. Delving into supernatural whimsies like that might open doorways to different plains of existence. Innocent energies syphoned for the power necessary for malevolence to cross over, and what better a place than a young impressionable, frightened mind of a child? Or perhaps I was always a likely target. Too weak-willed to fight off or fight back. 

Teen years into adulthood proved to be a litany of bad luck, stupidity and various other transgressions I suffered, committed, and endured. Confidence slowly but inexorably stripped away in tandem with coming of age where building blocks of spirit and poise are carved out in the psyche. Naturally at this point, one turns inward. I solidified my introverted personality. I chose to avoid conflict to protect my paper-thin ego. I averted or mollified arguments rationalizing that those were the realms of the self-assured within the goal of proving how right they are. 

Sliding into the depths of despair is akin to standing in quicksand made from the moist scrapings of your own resolve and tears. Little soggy grains spill off over the years until the pit is deep and you sink slowly and you may only advance with difficultly as you slip under. By mid-adulthood I found myself barely above this sad hole made of my own foul-ups, bleeps, and blunders. It was at this point I chose it give in and instead of fighting back I took to judging these stumbling blocks, rating their uniqueness and creativity…I still laugh at myself for that last part. I literally carry on conversations with an unknown entity, possibly my own mental creation, congratulating it on the ingenuity of these trials put upon me.     

At the same time my life in general proved to be acceptable at worst, and comfortable most always. Never wanting for food or shelter. Opportunities for life and career advancement. All did come with their own glass ceilings. My progress in personal and professional realms always reached the same level and no further. It was all predictable. 

I could never find a path to reconciliation with this personal yin and yang. I tried psychotherapy, and I appreciated the efforts, but in the end, I could not trust that despite all the training and professional empathy, these doctors did not judge me as human beings ultimately do. That was the toughest pill to swallow compared to the Lexapro and Klonopin they prescribed. So, no go with the shrinks. My mother thought me selfish and weak. My two wives found their way to irritation with me based on lack of understanding and sympathy when I found the courage to expound on these very personal attitudes and beliefs. Except the deepest, darkest one:

“Dearest, I am so sorry for my failings, but I am haunted by a Demon who gets his jollies by pricking me with metaphysical pins on a daily basis.”

The heat of disdain I endured nonetheless.

The Devil is in the details.

I actually began this final epistle with some whimsy. True to the reports that when the final decision is settled upon, the heart and mind lighten. However, as I near the conclusion, this pen becomes heavy and shakier, my swallows thicker. The earlier thoughts of making away with myself accompanied with some relief. The oval shape of the noose dangling before me, at times open and inviting, now takes the form of a scream of abhorrence. Is this the configuration for the battle of my soul? 

Good-bad. Happy-sad. Love-hate. Comfort-worry. God-Devil. 

The yin and yang of the universe.

Thus my life. The Lord wrapping me in the protection of a comfortable life. The Devil slowly killing me by 1000 paper cuts to my soul. But age and experience seasoned with retrospection led me to accept a third belief - The perfect trifecta of possession - I am haunting myself.

Being marginalized growing up because I am so much younger than my brothers - strange footsteps at night on the stairs. 

Random and other seemingly inexplicable happenstances at crucial moments in a young life - Lights flickering and cold spots.

Mother telling me I am failing at family and life. Great. Another little boy with mommy issues - BOO!

Ego, confidence, and desire slowly disintegrating. I’m possessed. I have no control over events. I am dancing on the end of strings.

So very tired of attempting to reconcile all this. Far too many long nights staring into the dark with thoughts and images crowding my brain. When one does too much thinking - When you are a captive in your own mind, a haunted house of your own design - thoughts overpower actions, like endless impressions of unseen spirits. Even speaking in a jumble of words coming out faster than the brain can form, mimicking demented ramblings in ancient tongues. I am exhausted. I am sad - in both connotations I suppose.

I’ve reached the end of these scribblings. The other note is typed-written with all necessary instructions to hopefully make wrapping all this up easier.

I sit here in the gloaming marshalling in the end of the day and I am watching with equal parts fascination and trepidation as the soft evening light shimmers though the patterned window pane casting a stark crucifix shadow on the opposite wall. As the sun lowers, the cross and the shadow cast by the long noose slide ever closer. I’m going to watch this tincture of events, this silent joust between light and gloom, hope and doom, and When darkness arrives, I’ll close my eyes and wonder who proved victorious and what voices might guide me when the sunrise brings forth another day.