The Way Out Is Through: a survival story

“The Way Out Is Through: a survival story”

By Charles Metcalf Jr (Chuck Morgue)

There is no denying that we are living in changing times. While organized activism has been paving the way for progress on everything from the climate crisis to voting rights to economic inequality, the #MeToo Movement, the Kavanaugh hearings, the Epstein and Weinstein cases, and the Surviving R Kelly documentary have all helped recently to shine a light on the mostly overlooked Rape Culture that permeates our society. While it has been inspiring seeing women stand up to share their stories of sexual assault, the silence from men who have been victimized has been deafening. A few people, such as actor Terry Crews, have spoken up about their personal experiences. While we know the statistics, that 1 in 3 women, and 1 in 6 men, experience some form of contact sexual violence in their lifetime (CDC National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey: 2010-2012 state report), the instances of men actually speaking out is so rare, it is generally believed that such assaults are also quite rare. But we are all starting to learn that this simply isn’t the case.

It is important for both women AND men to share their stories, when they feel comfortable doing so, and for the rest of us to listen and empathize. A disturbing trend I have noticed lately is a large number of people reacting to such stories with disinterest, if not actual vitriol.

Conservatives called foul during the hearings of supreme court appointee Brett Kavanaugh, attempting to cast doubt on the claims of sexual assault victim Dr Christine Blasey Ford. Fans and associates of musical artist R. Kelly came out in force, denying the allegations of his victims. And more recently, liberals have been downplaying the accusations against former Vice President Joe Biden. It has been disturbing to watch how large segments of society react negatively towards alleged victims of sexual harassment and assault, which further reinforces the culture of not coming forward out of fear of unwarranted backlash.

It was this fear that has kept me silent for twenty years. I was not comfortable sharing my own story before. But I am so disappointed in how these stories continue to be downplayed, I feel emboldened to finally speak up.

Content warning: sexual harassment, sexual assault.

Twenty years ago, I was pulled into a situation which I had no idea would escalate as quickly or as far as it did. I want to share my story, for the first time. Names are excluded. Events have not been embellished. It has taken me years to come to grips with the fact that I am a victim of sexual assault, and accepting what effects that has had on me. This is not easy for me. It’s never easy for anyone.

In 1999, at the age of 20, I was just starting my first real job, delivering auto parts around Natchez, Mississippi, a small Antebellum city that had long given up trying to stay relevant in a contemporary world. Natchez, a city on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, is made up of a combination of meticulously preserved but seemingly ancient mansions, deeply impoverished neighborhoods, fast food restaurants, and golf courses. It is a haven for wealthy retired white men, and a poverty trap for so many other people. It is part of the Mississippi Delta region, where a history of slavery and systemic racism helped give birth to the Blues. It is a place where once sacred indigenous lands with countless “Indian burial mounds” are now tourist attractions. A great place to start a journey on the infamous Hot Tamale Trail, but not so great for forward thinking socioeconomic progress.

I was just this awkward kid. I was 20, but still so incredibly naive. I had a girlfriend. I played guitar in a rock band. I spent a lot of free time writing stories and recording songs. I had a future of endless possibilities unrolling before me. I had been considered fairly weird for a number of years, and while I got along with people well enough, it was still pretty obvious I was out of touch with my surroundings at most given moments.

It was my first year attempting to figure out who I really was. Who I was going to be. And it was the year that a certain police officer took a disturbing interest in me.

The Officer was a woman of color, a decade older than me, probably a handful of years more. She was in an apparently strained relationship with a coworker of mine, another woman of color around the same age as The Officer. The Officer was at my workplace regularly, and at first her behavior towards me seemed mostly harmless. Comments about how cute I was, or asking if I had ever dated a black girl, became common. She would usually laugh it off, and I would too, but after a few months it wasn’t particularly funny anymore. It was just annoying.

When she began playing with my hair or pinching and cupping my butt when no one was looking, I became more and more uncomfortable. Other people noticed, and would joke about it. In front of me. In front of her. She would laugh. I would laugh. But I didn’t want to. It had been going on so long, several months, and it seemed harmless to most people, it was just one of those things people joked about to make the work day go by a little faster.

This continued for about a year, until one day something else happened. The Officer and my coworker were going through a bit of a rough time. The Officer hadn’t been around my workplace for weeks. But she saw me while I was making a delivery. She followed me to a fast food restaurant, where I had stopped for a drink and fries. She approached me, in full uniform, while I was sitting in my work vehicle. She knocked on the window, and I rolled it down. It started with small talk, but the way she was looking at me, with very intense eyes, and that disturbing half grin, it immediately put me on edge. She reached in to tussle my hair, asking did I miss her coming around. Asking what time I was getting off. Asking about the coworker she was currently separated from. Then she reached down and grabbed my crotch. She said “You have no idea what I could do to a pretty boy like you.”

I told her I needed to get back to work, and she held firm for a minute, then let go. “I will be seeing you around,” she said, with a huge smile. She returned to her patrol car. I was mortified. I had no one I felt comfortable to speak to about this. I figured no one would believe it. She was a police officer. And as far as most people were concerned, she was a lesbian. Why would she want to mess with some nerdy hippie guy? I knew no one would take it serious. So I avoided making unnecessary stops anywhere for several days. If I noticed her cruiser parked at my job, I would continue driving for another fifteen minutes or so, until she was gone. I would frequently get verbal reprimands for taking longer than necessary on my deliveries. I was determined to avoid The Officer at all costs, but she caught up to me again about a while later.

I had heard through my coworker, that she and The Officer had been fighting a lot over the phone. The Officer met me outside of a business after I had made a delivery, and she asked me to follow her someplace. She said she wanted to talk about the coworker, and wanted me to give her something. She seemed very emotional, and I took pity on her, and agreed to follow.

She drove her patrol car a few miles and parked on the side of an abandoned building, like an old workshop. I parked beside her, and she got out of her patrol car and got into the passenger seat of my work vehicle. It was obvious she had been crying, and I asked her if she was okay. She said yes, and took my hand. She pulled me towards her and put my hand on her thigh.

“I would fuck your whole world up, you know that?” She asked me.

I sat quietly, as she gave me that unsettling grin.

“I am sure you could” I said.

She laughed and moved my hand to her crotch, pressing my palm hard against her. With her other hand she grabbed my crotch. I wanted to ask her to stop, like so many other times. I wondered if I had stopped her a year ago, if it may not have escalated. But I was scared to death of this woman. I was scared of her badge, her gun, and her forcefulness. I was scared of her authority.

She urged me to pull my pants down, and she fondled me. She performed oral sex on me. After a few minutes, she sat up and said “I want to watch you.”

She wanted to watch me pleasure myself, as she put her hand down the front of her pants. When we both finished, we just sat there for a while, sweating and breathing heavy. She pulled up her pants. I pulled up my own, and said nothing.

The Officer got out of the vehicle, tucked her shirt in, and composed herself. “That was fun” she said, smiling at me. She got back into her patrol car and left.

I returned to work, and was berated by my boss for taking so long to get back. I told him I stopped for food. He instructed me to start eating while I drive. If I had told him the truth, who knows what the outcome would have been.

A few weeks later, The Officer and my coworker moved back in together. The first few days The Officer dropped by my workplace, she didn’t say anything to me. Didn’t mess with me at all. I thought perhaps she had gotten whatever it was out of her system, and was concentrating on her relationship with my coworker.

I was wrong.

After work sometime later, after dark, we ran into each other at a convenient store. She was off duty, in regular clothes. She grinned at me, waiting in line, but didn’t say anything. She made her purchase, and went outside. She was waiting when I came out. “Come see” she said, walking to her vehicle.

“You gotta be somewhere?” She asked.

“I was just going home,” I said. “I just got off.”

“Come hang out with me,” she said.

“I really can’t,” I said. “Not tonight.”

She looked at me, unamused. Opened her passenger door and said “Get in, I just want to talk. Five minutes.”

I got in, and watched as she walked around and got into the driver seat. “Why are you so shy?” She asked.

I responded, “I don’t know.”

She started the car, and drove back to my workplace. The store was closed, everyone was gone. She parked around back, beside the garbage dumpster. She told me to get in the back seat. She joined me there, and took off her shirt and bra, put my hands on her breasts. She told me to kiss them, and I did. She told me to bite her nipples, and I did. She unbuttoned my pants, and once again performed oral sex on me. This time she didn’t stop until I finished.

“I love fucking with you” she said, smiling.

She took off her pants. She asked me if I wanted her. I replied that I should really be getting home. I pulled away from her, and we both got dressed. She drove me back to my car. I went home, and cried myself to sleep. I had no idea what I should do.

Sometime later, I went to my boss’ house after work, to watch the premiere of the new season of South Park. For the first time ever, I told someone some of what had happened. I didn’t tell him everything. Just that The Officer had started groping me, telling me she wanted to do things to me. My boss said I shouldn’t worry about it. He said The Officer had been dealing with some shit with my coworker. That she probably doesn’t mean anything by it. That she is probably just blowing off steam. Knowing that I had recently become single, my boss said “Just enjoy the attention. Live a little.”

I knew I couldn’t tell him everything. I couldn’t tell anyone.

I felt especially awful for my coworker. She seemed to love The Officer a great deal, despite how toxic their relationship obviously was at times. She admitted to catching her with other women, which led to fights, but my coworker always forgave her. She seemed depressed a lot. I wanted to tell her what had happened. But I had no idea how she might react. What she might be capable of, or what The Officer might be capable of, in retaliation.

The Officer continued to stop by my workplace a few times a week. Usually ignoring me, but occasionally grabbing my butt, or making a joke to amuse whoever was around. “Looking cute today,” she would say. Smiling wide and licking her lips. Everyone would laugh. “Better watch out” they would say. “She is sweet on you.”

If they only knew the truth.

Other than that, she never attempted to meet up with me. It was like the physical escalation had never occured, and she had returned to the creepy flirtation that started it all.

A few months later, I was in a new relationship. Not long after that, I was engaged, and moved away from Natchez, Mississippi. While the experience with The Officer wasn’t my driving factor in leaving, it certainly cemented my awareness that I did not belong there. With a lot of personal issues and creative dreams, I could not stay where I was.

Unfortunately, this respite from Natchez did not last long. After a few months, I returned there. Married, with a child on the way. I got my old job back, and fell back into familiar routines. I was frustrated by my inability to escape that life. I was disappointed by my creative projects fizzling out. The Officer still came around for a while, though her relationship with her coworker was just as chaotic as before. I saw her less and less, and her flirtations slowly came to an end. Eventually she gave little more than a smile and a “good morning.” Eventually, I changed jobs, and somehow managed to never run into her again.

Life got pretty busy for me over the next decade, and while I did not dwell much on those experiences, they certainly stayed with me.

In 2007, I released my first book, a very graphic horror novel titled “The Horns Of Evangelina,” under the pseudonym Chuck Morgue. The book features occult activity and a lot of perversion. I feel compelled to note the story features a police officer who is very morally problematic, and a female antagonist who sexually assaults the central male character. Not exactly what happened to me, but certainly echoes of that experience.

I never considered myself a victim. I bought into the type of rhetoric that insisted “men can’t be raped” and “if you are aroused then you must be enjoying it.” I just thought I was a guy who spent a few years dealing with an uncomfortable situation. As someone who was bullied relentlessly from childhood into my teens, this just seemed like more of the same. Only different.

After coming to grips with my own problematic shortcomings over the years, and reading stories from sexual assault survivors of all genders, I realize now there isn’t really a sliding scale for this sort of thing. Someone’s personal experience is not diminished by that of someone else.

At 40 years old, I finally feel comfortable with admitting what happened to me. Admitting that I am a victim. I am a survivor. And it pains me to know I never did anything about it then. But it’s also a relief, knowing it had a lot to do with how much I fear (not just distrust) police officers even now. The experience scarred me more than I ever realized.

I never explicitly said “No.” But I did not consent. I bit my tongue, out of fear of whatever repercussions could come my way. Unless I could prove I was actually raped, the statute of limitations ran out over a decade ago. Either way, I am not really interested in revenge. I am not interested in justice. But I am not interested in finding it within myself to forgive this person, either. The Officer would be in her mid to late 50s now and I don’t even remember her last name. I don’t know if she still lives there. I don’t know if she is still a cop. I don’t know if she is still involved with that coworker. There are many years, and many miles, between there and then, and here and now.

I have only stayed in touch with one coworker from that time, and he has remembers The Officer’s fixation with me, though he admits to never knowing it went beyond the joking and playful flirtation. Which means likely no one else did either. My boss apparently took what little I told him to his grave. At least I know people weren’t just sitting around gossiping about it. But I also regret how easily The Officer hid all of her actions. And I regret how easily I hid my emotions.

The point of this is not to detract at all from the experiences of anyone else who has survived sexual assault and harassment. I only wanted to share my experience, and show solidarity. I understand how hard it is to come forward when you have been so inhumanely wronged. So violated. I understand the effect it can have on the rest of your life, even if it takes years to really admit it to yourself.

I know there are people who will insist I have made this up. And I know there are people who have dealt with similar and much worse situations, who are still keeping it to themselves. I just want to join the countless others who have spoken up over time, letting everyone else know they are not alone.

Even though, on some days, memories of what happened me, remembered at the wrong moment, can make me feel more alone than I have ever been. But atleast I can talk about it now. I only hope others can also finally find the strength to do the same, when they are ready.

© 2019 Charles Metcalf Jr. All rights reserved.

The Infinite Howl

There is a

Part and Parcel

Part and Parcel

a short story by Chuck Morgue

Vernon Ackerman watches from his window as the carrier places the package upon his doorstep. He has not been expecting anything in particular, but as he steps out to retrieve the package, he is overwhelmed with a familiar eagerness that he has not felt in years. The muscles in his back ache as he bends down for the package. At 71, he is not as agile as he once was. Not that he was ever that particularly athletic or anything. But even still, if picking up a box is such a chore now, he dreads what the coming years have to offer. He examines the outside of the box. It is a plain brown shipping box, with that familiar return address: 666 Applesauce Street, Saint Mary Mead, Downshire. A fictional address, of course. The town and county a reference to the books of mystery author Agatha Christie. Vernon will need to call this in, but for the moment he just carries the box inside, pulling the front door closed behind him.

     He sets the box upon his dining table and retrieves his teapot from the cabinet above the sink. He fills the pot with water and sets it upon the flame of his stove. He glares at the box. It has been about a decade since the last one. Twice as many years since he retired from Scotland Yard. He had assumed there was nothing left to send by mail. Or that the sender had perhaps died. Or been arrested for an unrelated offense. Either way, former detective Vernon Ackerman is now feeling instantly exhausted at the prospect of opening this box.

     Thirty years ago, when the packages first began to arrive, the detective greatly enjoyed the thrill of the mystery. A young woman, a rather successful lawyer based out of Manchester, by the name of Grace Davies, had gone missing after a morning jog through the gardens at Fletcher Moss. Soon after a series of letters from her supposed killer began to arrive at Vernon’s office. A few months thereafter, the first package arrived. Inside was the right hand of the missing lawyer. It appeared to have been delicately, surgically removed. Every six months, another package arrived. Each with another body part. Each with a letter, written with exquisite penmanship, specifically to the detective. There were never any fingerprints. No DNA evidence except for that of the victim. This killer was careful. Methodical.

     For nearly twenty years, the packages haunted the investigators at Scotland Yard. Until one day, about a decade ago, they just stopped. A few years later, the case was shelved, doomed to remain unresolved. Soon after, detective Ackerman retired. Over the decades, Vernon had solved many cases. He brought many criminals to justice. He was far from a failure by any stretch of the imagination. But the lack of closure on that particular case always haunted him.

     “Why now?” Vernon wonders. After all these years, what has made the killer decide to reach out again. And what more could be left of his victim to send? The packages were filled with random bones in those last few years.

     Vernon knows he should call it in. Let those detectives still on the payroll take the box and put it with the others. But he can’t. His curiosity is piqued.

     The box feels heavier than to be merely a few small bones. Whatever is inside, is solid. A new victim, perhaps. Has the killer come out of retirement, deciding to kill again?

     Vernon carefully cuts the box open. Inside is something wrapped in newsprint, and a note folded on top. He opens the note, written in very crude handwriting: 

Greetings, detective. I hope you are well. I am not, unfortunately. I am afraid that I am not long for this world. I would like to enjoy what time I have left. If you feel so inclined, I invite you to join me in our little game, one last time. I invite you, detective, to come find me.

     Vernon sets the note aside, and unwraps the newsprint to find a hand. It’s the right hand of a male, fairly older in age. Vernon looks at the hand, then to the note. And he understands why the note is so crude, while all of the previous letters were quite eloquent. The killer is right-handed. Or, was, it seems.

     Vernon knows that the fingerprints will most certainly give an ID. Finding the actual killer will not be so easy, but there is hope. He stares at the hand, and grins.

     “I’m glad to finally meet you,” he says.

Vernon reaches for his phone to put in the call. There is no time to waste. They will get this killer. As the phone on the other end begins to ring, the teapot begins to scream from the stove top, and somewhere out there, in the fictional town of Saint Mary Mead, in the fictional county of Downshire, a killer changes the bandage at the end of his right arm, contemplating where to cut next should the detective need more time.

© 2017 Chuck Morgue. All rights reserved.

Illustration by Justin Talarski.

The Twenty Year Frost

The Twenty Year Frost

a short story by Chuck Morgue

The pie is almost ready. The tender meat and herbs, a handful of root vegetables, it’s a recipe nearly as old as the family tree. Dozens of generations had passed this secret down, mothers teaching their daughters how to prepare this unique offering. Years were spent getting it just right. Sometimes lamb was procured for the pie. Sometimes veal. Sometimes duck or goose. The meat is of little consequence. These pies are merely practice for the main event. For this is a meal the entire village anticipates, every twenty years. The winter pie is not merely a village tradition, it is a vital part of the villagers’ way of life. It is a meal that requires true heart and soul, which are so important around the Christmas holiday.

     As Agnes takes the pie from the oven, and sets it upon the counter to cool, her husband Willem and daughter 8 year old Klara are putting on their thick wool coats. The weather outside is much colder than in recent years, as is always the case. The Twenty Year Frost, the locals have always called it. The last time was 1957, and it was a particularly brutal winter storm. Half the village perished. They are all hoping for a more managable winter this year.

     This little Irish village of only a hundred or so has been relatively sheltered from the influence of the modern world. Children just a few dozen kilometers away are eagerly awaiting the morning, to squeal with joy over the new Atari Video Computer System they have been anticipating, or perhaps that new Queen album with that song about Champions that all the kids are loving, whatever it is they are hoping for, their Christmas morning will surely feel magical. But they know nothing of real magic. They know nothing of what this time of year truly means. It is about family, and togetherness. It is about keeping the darkness at bay, and letting the light out to warm the world in the spring. It is about tradition, and careful timing.

     It is almost midnight, the full moon shining bright overhead. The snowfall has calmed down for the past few days, but could surely return with frightening vengeance come tomorrow. The O’Brunte family joins the rest of the villagers at the edge of the woods, everyone holding candles and lanterns, and like a small parade they make their way along the rocky trail that leads through the small cemetery and towards the Elders’ Tree, the snow and ice crunching beneath their feet every step of the way.

     The Elders’ Tree is a mighty pine, well over a century old, and a very important part of the history of this nameless village. It stands over 100 meters tall, a giant of these woods. The smaller surrounding trees have been adorned with traditional Christmas decorations, most handmade by the children of the village. In stark contrast, the Elders’ Tree stands bare, untouched.

     Agnes O’Brunte approaches the Elders’ Tree, and kneels before it. She places the pie on the ground, and speaks a soft prayer for forgiveness and mercy. Young Klara grips her father’s hand, trembling. Willem looks down at her, smiling. He pulls his hand away and whispers to her “Show no fear, love.“

     The whistle of the cold wind through the trees fades away. All is calm. All is bright, under the glowing moon. The quiet is almost tangible, as the villagers stand patiently in the chilly night. The quiet is splintered by the sound of creaking branches, from high on the Elders’ Tree. The sharp cracks growing louder, as a shadow, like a patch of black mist, descends from the higher reaches of the tree.

     The shadow settles upon the ground, and no one dares make a sound. No one moves, not a single muscle. They refuse to even shiver in the cold. The shadow moves towards Agnes O’Brunte, still kneeling on the ground. She does not look up. There is no need. She has seen her before, twenty years earlier.

     The shadow solidifies over Agnes. It has taken form, a woman in a dark, tattered cloak. She lingers there for a moment. Agnes breaks the silence. “Forgive us,” she says. The woman looks down upon Agnes, and then at the pie sitting on the ground. She lets out a low crackling groan, and reaches up to pull her hood back, revealing her pale, ghostly face.

     Klara releases a terrified whine and runs away from her father’s side. He tries to stop her, but she is too small. Too quick. The villagers gasp as Klara slips out of sight, into the woods.

     Klara runs clumsily through the snow, which is soon up to her knees. She trips over a log buried in the white and tumbles down a slope, landing facedown at the bottom. She lies there crying in the moonlit dark. Then she hears that low crackling groan, and she rolls over slowly.

     The spectral woman in the cloak is hovering over her, her skin glowing in the moonlight, from between dark veins like cracks or spiderwebs. Klara, crying harder now, begs the woman not to hurt her.

     The woman leans down, closer to Klara’s face. “Are you scared, child?” she whispers, her voice crackling, a sound caught between a woman who is ill and something akin to those little wooden ratchet noisemakers popular at birthday parties. Klara just sobs, unable to reply.

     “I was scared,” the woman says. “When they pulled me from my home and beat me. When they tied me to that wretched tree. In the dark. In the cold. When they left me to die, because I was different from the rest of them, because I was accused a witch. When my blood froze, and my eyes went black, I was so very scared. But when Death finally embraced me, and I cursed the whole village, I was no longer afraid.”

     Klara has stopped crying. Instead she now looks up at the woman, somewhat intrigued. “Why do you want the pies?” Klara asks. “Why do you want the… meat?”

     The woman smiles wide, her teeth like broken and jagged tombstones in a long-forgotten cemetery. “I demand the meal, so that the village will forever understand the true pain I felt on that day. I was not alone on that tree. I was not alone as I froze to death that night.”

     Klara is quiet for a moment, the woman’s words slowly finding clarity in her adolescent brain.

     “You were with child,” Klara says. Not a question, for she knows it is true. This is the reason why every twenty years, the witch comes out of the Elders’ Tree. Why a woman in the village has recently given birth, knowing the fate of that infant. Knowing what horror that old pie recipe demands. That little heart and soul that sets the pie apart from all the others. Klara and the woman stare at each other in silence.

     They are soon distracted by the sound of footsteps in the snow nearby. “Klara!” Agnes shouts, the villagers gathered behind her. Klara looks to her mother, holding that dreadful pie, trembling in the cold.

     Klara looks back up to the woman. “I am sorry about your child.”

     The woman groans, closing her eyes tight. Then she nods, and turns to the villagers. Agnes steps forward, holding the pie out before her. “Please,” Agnes says. “My daughter meant no harm. Please accept our offering this night.”

     The woman moves towards Agnes, taking the pie from her. She then drops it to the ground. “My appetite has spoilt,” she says. “When I come again, I shall expect two pies. From the little one.”

     The woman points to Klara, still sitting in the snow. Agnes begins to cry. She starts to apologize again, but the woman moves past her. Through the crowd she floats, losing form, becoming that dark shadow, and ascends back into the high branches of the Elders’ Tree. Agnes rushes over to Klara and picks her up into her arms, squeezing her tight.

     “I’m sorry, mother,” Klara says.

Agnes tells her to shush. It’s not her fault. It’s the fault of the village. The fault of their ancestors. The past does not know how its actions will haunt the future. But it is the present that pays the price. And tomorrow, should they all be lucky enough to not have that violent winter storm return, Agnes will have to begin training Klara on how to make the winter pie. For in twenty years, when Klara is a grown woman, and the frost has taken hold of the village, and the witch once again climbs down from the Elders’ Tree, the future of the village will be in her hands. And if she fails, she will learn the price, and it will be the village children’s future that pays for it.

© 2016 Chuck Morgue. All Rights Reserved.

Illustration by Justin Talarski

Take One Down, Pass It Around..

Friends, Romulans, Countrymen.. Lend me your ears. I come to bare my soul, not to praise it. I have a few things to get off my chest. Things that have been weighing upon me with varying degrees of pressure. This will not be easy for me, even though I proclaim to be a writer. There will be a lot said here, so please bear with me. Take a seat, grab yourself a bottle. Don’t open it though. I’ll get around to that in a few minutes. I will start this off by going back a bit. Not quite to the beginning. But close enough.

When I was a kid, I was bullied a lot. Tormented. Daily. As if I weren’t already naturally a pretty insecure and introverted kid, this cemented that personality. For the rest of my life, I’d be a rather passive individual. I didn’t like confrontation. I liked for things to be easy, predictable, and convenient. This informed everything from my eating habits to my musical tastes to my relationships to everything in between. It’s not the healthiest way to live one’s life, but it worked. Or at least, it felt like it did. In hindsight, I have often found that I was misdirecting myself more often than I ever realized. Which lead me to spending over a decade in a marriage that I had lost a real interest in years earlier. While I fancied myself a writer, musician, and artist, I jumped from creative project to creative project, out of fear of commitment to the artistic struggle and perceived inevitable failure. I worked a revolving door of entry level day jobs. In my personal life, I let important things slide. Money problems, personal grievances, most adult responsibility. I became complacent, wallowing in procrastination, in nearly every facet of my existence. And while I have attempted to correct some of my mistakes, I now find myself just a few months shy of 38 years old, realizing (not for the first time) that I wasted so much time overthinking things, instead of just doing them. Even now, as my current project (a children’s book titled The Emerald Cat) is dragging on, I feel torn between pushing it harder to completion, and the fear of pushing too hard, and scaring off my creative partner on the book, so I find myself hesitating, as so many times before, until the project fizzles out, to spend the rest of it’s life ALMOST finished, on a shelf, with it’s creative siblings, never to see the light of day. That is not just a dreadful truth of my self-damning creativity, but an analogy for almost everything I have done (or didn’t do) in my life.

Most people struggle with depression. I certainly have. Ever since I was a teenager, even if I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time. The bullying I put up with in adolescence continued into high school. While no longer physical, being picked on regularly still had a damaging effect on me. And it was for many of the same reasons as when I was a kid. People thought I was Mexican. I actually have some Native ancestry, and I had dark hair and darker skin that tanned easily. They would call me a “spic” or a “beaner” or some other derogatory term for anyone whom they percieved as being Mexican or from any other Latinx culture.

Sometimes people said I was gay, and looked down on me, because I was quiet and drew a lot. I read a lot. Short story collections, comic books. I had an action figure in my pocket almost everyday. I was a little nerd. I was soft spoken with a mid-range voice. Combined with that passiveness, I was seen as somewhat effeminate. I was bisexual, of course, but never outwardly indulged my own queerness. I was ashamed of it. Afraid of it. I was afraid of being ostracized even more than I already was.

People thought I was a “devil worshipper,” an assumption which I did sort of embrace for a time, feeling quite edgy and mysterious, finding refuge in studying occult and New Age religious practices, philosophy, and science. I had lost any sort of real connection to spirituality as a kid. I recall getting pummeled by a bully while at church, around the age of 8. This kid, a year or so older than me, had put me on the ground. Punching me in the face and chest. Calling me “faggot” and “pussy.” I remember the church elders just standing there. Just watching. After a few minutes, which to me felt like hours, someone finally pulled him off of me. I prayed for days, asking God why he let these things happen to me, and at church of all places. There was no reply. Ever. When you included the bigotry I heard coming from the mouths of most religious people I knew, family in particular, people who read their bible daily, swore their very hearts to their lord and savior Jesus Christ, yet still spit out words like “nigger” or “queer” as if they were sour milk on their tongues, all I began to see was the hypocrisy of it all. Which pushed me to embrace what I saw was the opposite, and dabbled in the “dark arts,” as superstitious adults would say, but I found those concepts just as irrational, regardless of how interesting and entertaining it all seemed to me.

In my late teens I eventually traded the supernatural for the logical, the skeptical, and discovered I was actually atheist. Well, certainly agnostic, at least. I don’t believe I settled on atheist until later in my 20s. All I am getting at here is that I was often perceived as different from most people around me, so I was singled out. And I made it easy for them. They viewed and treated me as an outsider, so I became one. This did little to counter the stress from bullying and self-doubt. I bottled up so much that for several years as a teenager I broke out in hives, usually prominent on my torso and arms, which made me even more self-conscious and socially awkward. That problem eventually subsided, but there are stress-related compulsions that started then and still effect me to this day, such as chronic cheek biting and biting the skin around the ends of my fingers. Behaviors that as a teenager I didn’t even realize were actually harmful. I don’t know if I would have even stopped if I had known otherwise. I just ignored things like that. I would have denied they actually pertained to me. So I remained passive. Bottled up even more, and just tried not to let the weight of the world crush me.

I have rarely stood up for myself, or even truly pushed myself, in anything. So I bottled up my thoughts. My feelings. My curiosities. My desires. And that did not help with my emotional and psychological issues. In my early twenties, I got married without considering the long term consequences. It was just something that people did, and I didn’t put much more thought into it. In hindsight I know it was an attempt to escape a plethora of personal struggles I was dealing with at that time. Struggles that I may delve into another time. I am not ready for that yet.

I also didn’t care much for speaking into the drive-thru speakers at restaurants, so getting married and having someone there to do that was certainly a positive. But over time, I became disenchanted with the arrangement. I grew depressed and angry more frequently, but I hid it. It was easier to push my depression and anxiety aside as a teenager. I didn’t want to bother people with my personal problems. I had several affairs over the years. I’m not exactly proud of these flings, and not exactly ashamed either. I knew I wanted more than what I had, but I didn’t consider divorce for a long time. I didn’t want my family and friends to look upon me as a failure, nor did I want my children to fall into stereotypical broken family problems.

In my early thirties, I attempted to make the best of the situation, but my depression just became worse. I continued to bottle it all up. Along with all the bottles from years before. Eventually, you become overloaded with those bottles, and you reach a breaking point. I separated from my spouse in 2014, and I was able to throw some of those bottles out. I got over my worries of the stigma of divorce, and for the most part my kids have turned out okay. Not great, of course. But okay. I failed them a lot as a father over the years, retreating to seclusion in my room to write or draw, because I did not want to be around their mother, or her family, people I had grown to despise on even good days. I have personally owned up to my mistakes with my children, and set out to do right by them. Through the divorce, I obtained domiciliary custody of my four kids, and they have improved greatly in school and at home. Having a son who has been diagnosed with ADHD and high-functioning autism (Asperger’s to be precise) sort of helps to keep me on my toes. It’s still a very tough job, and I get complacent and passive still, and let things slide, and bottle up, and then I lose control of situations and discussions and thoughts and feelings. I often feel lost and do not know what to do the majority of the time, but my kids seem to be surviving despite my flaws and I try to use that as determination to keep trying harder. Everyday I have little successes. And everyday I have little failures. Just like everybody else, but it affects me in ways that make me uncomfortable to admit.

I like to think of myself as a good person. But at times, I have been anything but. Everyone has their bad moments, they’ve done things they are not proud of. But these things eat at me. Because they were bottled up so long ago, and never dealt with. I never personally owned up to the vast majority of my mistakes. Little things like smoking pot at school, or breaking into abandoned cabins at the lake as a teenager. Bigger things like adultery and voyeurism and shoplifting. Things I knew were wrong, but I did them anyway, because I was seeking release from the stress of my personal problems. Of course, when people act out, they tend to involve themselves in things more dangerous than what they are trying to distract themselves from.

I was never much of a drinker. I didn’t do drugs (aside from pot, and a few experiences with hallucinogens). I instead chose to do things that I felt I would have to be sneaky about. Secretive. Things that, in their way, still fit my preference for being passive. They were things I could do alone, out of the social spotlight. I was never much for teamwork, so to speak. I regret a lot of that. It was immature, and at times, immoral.

You see, the real point of this is, I have had so much bottled up for so long, and I have begun bottling up new problems, and it’s beginning to weigh me down again. Much harder than ever before. Because the stakes feel higher. I don’t know how my kids are going to turn out in the long run. I don’t want to fail them. I don’t know how my creative endeavors will turn out. I have written three novels, published myself, but never really promoted because of that fear of failure. Even though that creative outlet has always been my saving grace. It’s always been my escape from the world, my happy place. But even that I have tended to poorly. Getting closer to age 40 scares the absolute shit out of me. Because it reminds me to look back and see what little I have actually accomplished with myself. I see old friends who have managed to get their lives on the right path, and some who still struggle, more than myself to be honest, and I still feel jealous of where they are at times.

Please, allow me to continue unbottling for just a bit longer. I feel that if I maintain control of the flow of all of this, right now, I will not ultimately collapse into myself like a black hole.

I find myself very argumentative online. I get into discussions, which turn into debates, which turn into arguments, which turn into vitriolic mudslinging shitstorms all too easily. This, I feel, is completely due to my passive nature in real life. I still avoid confrontation in the regular world, but when I get online I can unleash upon people, sometimes strangers or acquaintances, sometimes unfortunately friends. The problem is I am unleashing my pain and anger over delicate topics, without addressing why they bother me so much. I argue in race discussions because I was taunted as a kid, perceived to be Latinx. I empathize with POC. I was raised in the south, and casual racism was always just part of the cultural landscape. I thought nothing of it as a kid. Jokes about Black people were commonplace. I laughed at them. I told them. It wasn’t until I was a teenager than I began to see things very differently. And I felt ashamed of myself for what I had been a part of. White guilt is something that people laugh about, but for some people it really is a thing.

I still feel guilty for things I said as an ignorant kid. And I go out of my way to try and make up for it to this day. I have even been told that my insistence in researching my family tree, researching the Native American branches, is my way of trying to shed my whiteness. To adopt that “other” that I was taunted for being seen as. It’s a point I find myself unable to really argue with, and that might make me a bad person, but I know there’s more to it than that, and we are all screwed up anyway, right?

I also argue in favor of the LGBTQ+ community, for obvious reasons. Even today, due to the social stigma of growing up in the south, saturated with religious conservatism, and the fear of disrupting the lives of loved ones, even if only temporarily, I have been unable to get a grip on that part of myself. I have never felt comfortable discussing any of that with people outside of a few very close friends. But there it is. Unbottled. And I still don’t really know what to make of it. I haven’t wanted to deal with it, because of my passiveness. Because of my fears.

But please, whenever you can, call me out on my bullshit. Tell me when I am being an asshole. Tell me when I get something right. Tell me when you are concerned I may be making mistakes. I will do everything I can to be better than I was before. Even though somedays I feel absolutely crippled with anxiety. I sometimes don’t even want to talk to friends or acquaintances when I run into them in public. I am working on that.

I still fight depression constantly. But now, I don’t feel so alone. I don’t feel so bottled up. I want people to know who I am. I am a damaged asshole, an internet SJW, bisexual atheist father of four. I am an artist. A writer. A proud geek. A politically-progressive Leftist. I feel more empathy than many I know for people who are struggling in ways I can only imagine. I miss my friends. I love them dearly. I am proud of their accomplishments, even when I am disappointed that they abandoned their dreams long ago (I understand why, of course, but I still miss the dream). I have done bad things. I have done wonderful things. I want to do great things. I want my kids to do great things.

I want everyone to do great things.

I want to enjoy seeing all of these great things. I have more bottles, to be sure. I likely always will. But right now, they are so irrelevant I can’t even read their labels. I think this was enough, for the moment. Thank you for sitting with me. Thank you for letting me unload some of this. Thank you for your patience. To anyone who has an issue with anything I’ve said, either here, or in another conversation at some point over the years, I hope we can discuss it and come to some sort of common ground. I’m not quite the same person I was before I started typing, but I’m not very different either. I am still me. I just want you to know what it’s been like in my head over the years, and how I hope to get to a better place in the years to come.

An adventure is coming..

By now, some of you are aware that I have been very busy with my next book, The Emerald Cat. This book will mark quite a departure from my previous work. This illustrated fantasy book will be my first for all ages. I have acquired the remarkable talent of artist Kathryn Godsey to bring this little tale to life.

Described as a gothic fantasy adventure, it is inspired by classic children’s fiction like The Velveteen Rabbit and The Brave Little Toaster, with a good bit of Edgar Allan Poe added in.

There will be more info after New Year’s, which is when we will be launching a Kickstarter campaign to finance the publication of The Emerald Cat.

In the meantime, you can check out Kathryn’s art which she occasionally posts on her Instagram: @katgod42

 

Gods and Monsters..

Greetings, friends! It’s been a while since I’ve had a place to park my work online! After a year or so of personal life changes, I made the decision to retire my previous company (House of Morgue) and start a new publishing adventure. Nautilhaus represents strange new and deep things for my imagination, and I hope you’ll join me for this voyage into dark creative waters. Who knows what lies beneath..