Don't Look Back

I sit here with so much noise in my head, and all I can think about is how everything seems to be going wrong.

How am I so easily shattered?  I don't remember putting that much stock or faith or security in my marriage, but that's silly to say that, because of course I did.  I put a lot of stock and faith in assuming that when I got home there would be hugs and kisses and kids and food and sex, and sleep in a bed, and netflix, and internet, and video games.

Now I look at all of it and I see that it is nothing but complete vanity.

I guess I hadn't thought about it, but I really do rest a lot of personal worth on my home, and what is waiting for me back ashore.  Is it because I'm a sailor, or has it always been that way?  As a Christian, am I supposed to have faith so solid, that if I went to work one day, and came home to find my wife and kids had all been slain in some tragic sort of house fire, or explosion, or earthquake, that I'd weep with my hands in the air, worshiping God as the creator of all things, with the ability also, and right, to remove all things from my life?

To make matters more complicated, it seems that I've married a woman who (seemingly) expects me to never tell her my feelings, even though she asks me to, and expects me to, tell her my feelings.  I feel like usually they're presented in a constructive enough manner, but no matter what I try, no matter the tone of voice or word choice I use, her first reaction is always to make herself to become backed into a corner.  At that point I pursue her to find out what's wrong, to which she responds with actually backing into a corner [emotionally] now as I approach.  As if to say, oh no, here he comes, wanting something.  Oh no, my husband needs something other than food and watching his kids.  Oh dear no, he expects some kind of response; what do I say, why is he waiting for me to answer, I am freaking out.  At this point I'm the bad guy, and I am continued to be seen as an attacker, regardless of if I apologize and drop the conversation like she wants, or if I try again to speak my mind in a different way (this just makes it worse, now that I think about it--first I jab, then I cross, with two different forms of saying whatever it was that initially made her feel attacked).

Part of me keeps saying use it.  Use it, Derek, fuel your book, but I feel like it's just Satan working in the background, trying to corrupt me and my novel into something dark.  Use your backslide into sexual sin, Derek, how you can't go more than a week without it.  You should explore it, he says, for research, of course.  Sin, then mentally record how that makes your brain feel.  It's ok if you're making a book with religious overtones, if overall the work is good, right?  Use it, Derek, when your wife doesn't understand you.  Use it, Derek, when the finances somehow become the topic of conversation, even though you wanted to talk about how being in the military supports murder, no matter how indirectly.  Use it when you feel devastated by your lack of faith; you put more stock in homely securities than Godly ones.  Turn it into your main character, while you explore the depths of the filth in your mind.  Don't clean out your gutters, Derek; photograph them, dig through them, and leave all the filth there, so you can come back to it for inspiration.  Even this, Derek, use this journal to improve your word count.  You can draw on this.  All the worry, the self-doubt, it makes you real, it makes you keep banging out word after word as you explore the ultimate answer to the ultimate question. 

Is God really real?  Look how easy it was for you to make your own religion in your book.  Are you C.S. Lewis, or L. Ron Hubbard, Derek?

How will you sleep at night?  In your book, Alyss uses sleeping drugs to sleep, to quell the noises of doubt and fear and shame in her head, to avoid fighting through it for God's sake, avoiding a righteous life and right relationship with God.  Just like you, wanting so badly to get some porn onto your computer, so that you can self-medicate.  You know, deep down, that it won't really help you sleep, and all it will do is numb your mind, blacken your soul, and leave you wanting even more, night after night, and ultimately destroy not only your life, but your family's as well.  Your wife will leave you, or you her.  Your son will grow up a sex addict, a man-whore just like you.  Your daughter will sell herself on the street.

Hate yourself, Derek.  Good, this is good.  Look at you frowning at the keyboard like it means something.  Next you'll upload this to a website where you can feel good about yourself, and edit your feelings into a useable format.  Someone will read it.  Maybe a russian bot will link you to penis enlargement pills.  Maybe your wife will give a damn enough to read the things you write, but probably not.  She just wants you to come home so you can hold the kids for a while, right? Right?

Shut up.

Shut up.

Shut up.

That can't be it.  Can't be true.

There's more to life than this, right, God?  Some sort of divine point, right?  Because I'm not feeling like there is.  I'm feeling like at this point, there's no point.  I can live righteously for you, but for what? 

To hate my family, and my own life, by comparison to loving you, what will that ultimately achieve?  A pile of bodies that died for nothing?  A broken home full of confusion and anger, where nobody talks to each other?  A worn out bible that never seems to have the answers, only convicting, hurtful truths about myself, that I am the scum of the earth, that I am completely useless and worthless, and nothing I do will ultimately matter in the universe.  An invisible dot, on an invisible dot.

Who am I, that you should give a crap?

Where do you get off, O God, caring about an individual like me?