I remember the phone ringing and for some strange reason I knew what had happened or at least this much, that Shawn had killed himself. My sister answered the phone and I remember sitting there waiting for her side of the conversation to speak it out. More so I felt it -the shock. It's not even as if I could see it coming in the natural.
Asphyxiation is what they called what happened to him. I had never heard of that nor what was called "The Ultimate High." Maybe that has to do with the fact that I don't read "Bikers and Babe" magazine. But I know of someone who tried it and didn't survive. It was Shawn. He had hung himself while masturbating. He didn't mean to kill himself.
Shawn was my sister's boyfriend's brother. They set us up on a date once but we did not have much in common to talk about. I was in college and he ran around the city. My sister said he had a pentagram poster on his wall and his mom abused him physically. She told me after he died.
Shawn was a good-looking guy living in a neighborhood that you'd likely not choose to live in. He wasn't that smart, but I don't think that his environment helped him reach his potential in anything, so who is to say what he could've been brain-wise. But he had carmel-brown eyes that were a bit sad.
I was already angry at God for a number of things. Perhaps it was for everything. See - everything in my life was just not working. I was burned out from art school (who get's burned out from art school)
For some reason it seemed like God's fault. Actually it seemed like He didn't care. Here I thought I was his biggest fan. I don't know why, but I thought I was and here I was treated like this. You'd think you'd get better treatment if you liked Him.
Maybe I was going through spiritual shock therapy. Maybe anger was thick in the air and I was spiritually and emotionally sensitive enough to get knocked out by it, but I tell you I couldn't handle the anger/rage I picked up at the funeral service.
It wasn't held in the main room of the church, but in the hallway before it. That church, the catholic church, had decided that he was going to hell, so they wouldn't let him have a regular service. Somehow that knowledge filtered into my mind and I'm surprised that much got in. That was the last straw.
I had had enough and I realize I haven't made the long list of things that bothered me in life, but it just doesn't matter because maybe that really wasn't it. Maybe life just seemed stupid. Not worth it. So I planned to get it over with. If this is how it is, who wants it. I was planning to kill myself. And the plan was very dumb actually. I would just run until I became knumb and fall in the February snow (ice). I pictured myself dying under a bridge (how symbolic). I would freeze to death.
I don't think I ever heard Jesus' voice before this. I'm surprised I even heard His voice above all the spirits floating around me at the time. I didn't even know of anyone who spoke to Jesus. But I heard some voice say "Talk to you father." Somehow I know the voice was referring to God. I thought "I can't talk to Him." But then I thought again and realized what do I have to lose because I'm going to lose everything anyways. But I gave it a shot.
I don't know where this happened. I think it was at night and outside in a place where none could hear but God. I just yelled at the top of my lungs "YOU DON'T EXIST." I expected nothing. Just then I was lifted up to a place where I watched myself pointing at myself. God asked me three questions and I think this is how it went:"Who are you pointing at?" I answered "YOU!" He then asked "What are you saying." I answered "YOU DON'T EXIST!" He then asked "Why are you yelling?" I answered "BECAUSE I MEAN IT!" It was a complete moment of insanity as my side of the conversation indicates. And then God spoke my name and said something like "If you really don't believe I exist than you wouldn't even make a sound." I was so mad and humiliated that I screamed at the top of my lungs and proved him right.
I don't know if I spoke it or thought it but if I spoke it I said "I don't have a problem with that Jesus guy, in fact I think He's nice, I have a problem with YOU." A class on systematic theology would prove that I did not understand my own theology. And that's okay. God can work with people who don't quite get it.
So I gave up talking and continued on with my plan for the next day. I remember it was a Friday after work some time in 1990 or 1991. I had possibly two spiritual dreams in my life before. One was sometime before kindergarden. I told some old men in my church that I saw God in a dream and said that he wore a outfit like my dad wore when he fixed cars (it was a carpenter's suit) and he had a voice a lot like Calvin's (one of the ministers in my church.) They just looked at me like they were waiting for me to tell more but that's all I had to say. But it was not until college that I had a dream (of the painting). And than the third dream was THEE DREAM.
I was just going to grab my backpack and put in a clean pair of underware (only God knows why) and some small cash amount like $10. I wasn't going to leave a note. I just wanted to leave my life. Get it over with.
I was just walking down the hall and I opened the door and I got really, really tired. I barely made it to my bed before I fell into a dream.
PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR,
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