Back in November the mother of my son gave me the advice that I should read a book by Roger Housden about a young man who is inspired by the Mystic Rumi to go searching for the thing that pulled upon his heart. The unknown mystery that pulls at every man to discover his own creation. That insistence which can not be ignored, lest they worse than die.
The man that we have come to know as Rumi, was a 13th-century Persian Sunni Muslim poet, jurist, Islamic scholar, theologian, and Sufi mystic. And a stark reminder today that it isn't the religion that makes the extremist, but the misunderstanding of those belief systems. For he was a man whose highest desire was Love.
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, one of the names he was known by, became a companion of a man who was searching for one who could "endure his company." I'm not going to speculate on the nature of their companionship, but it was one of heartfelt love, no matter its relation. After Rumi's companion was murdered, instead of giving into the sorrow and pain, he used his grief to understand the nature of his heart.
Inspired by both the book, Chasing Love and Revelation: A Fable about finding the Heart's True Desire, and Rumi's poetry, I had decided to delve into the nature of my own grief and longing to understand what it was that my Heart truly desired.
I know that had I read this book back in November, the relationship that I had would have probably been salvaged. But that's a very slim probably. I still hadn't understood the nature of my own grief. I was still in the process of digging into my wounded heart, to see what the hell was going on with me. And if I had read it then, I wouldn't have the conviction and understanding of my heart that I do now. And maybe, MAYBE, the self-doubt that I had back then would have overwhelmed anything that I could have learned.
It wasn't until I was back in Missoula, after I had once again lost everything my heart desired to my own pain and self-loathing, that I surrendered to my grief. I gained the gift of love from that grief.
I spent a lot of time on the living room floor crying out to the universe to end me. My shame crashed against me like thunder. I, still to this day, have no idea what really went on. Every question I asked was met with a challenge or an accusation. Every memory examined for the smallest of details, wondering what I missed, how I could have been so foolish, what I had done to deserve this. Most days I could hardly move, I lost 9kg, and because I lost so much muscle and strength the ache in my bones amplified. Never in my life have I been in so much pain. I cried for mercy, I cursed the gods, should they exist, threatened them and begged them. But no answer came.
Back in November, on Veteran's Day, I had a suicide attempt. My Lady had been up in a tussle, and I was getting sick. While I lay in bed she had written out in a blue notebook all the things that she hated about me then left it in the open for me to find. When she left, I had decided to get up and do all the chores that needed to be done before she came home so we could rest. When I came across the notebook I was devastated.
I couldn't understand why she believed these things about me. It was like she believed I was somebody else. Like she was poisoned by something. Past memories, events? I still don't know, nor would she tell me. But none of that matters now. Except that she never believed me to be me. Thought I was weak. Maybe I was, but not in the ways she thought.
I looked around the apartment and I cried. She had been the only thing I was holding on to. The only thing that I felt that I could trust was our love and then... I went into free fall. I was so numb I could barely write a note. I simply apologized and told her that I loved her. Asked her to tell my mother that I was sorry and to take care of my dog. I had failed her. I couldn't overcome the circumstances that I had found myself in. In the end, THEY had won.
I had told my truth in front of the world. And yet I couldn't keep my world together. I was being attacked and stalked by people hiding behind internet pseudonyms. I had no trust in governments or establishments. I felt like I had no one I could reach out to, and I kept everything hidden inside because she was dealing with too much as it was. A man who was dying heart, mind, body, and soul cannot be loved by anybody.
I had foolishly placed my faith in nothing. In a way, many of my attackers were right. I was just a pawn. Nothing more. Once I outlived my usefulness I would be discarded. And I had wasted so much energy and strength to do what I believed was necessary and right, I never gave thought that if I needed help it wouldn't be there.
That's too much to handle for anyone, much less a pregnant woman struggling with herself. Regardless of how strong she is, everyone breaks. If I learned anything from my time in the military it is that. Everyone breaks. I had broken more times than I should have.
So i went east, to the statue park and overlooked the fjord. My migraine was so bad that I could hardly see anything, the light sensitivity driving my eyes to the ground and deep into my hood. My body ached to the point where I was walking with my cane and the effort strenuous enough to drench me in sweat on a cold winter day. But I walked as far as I could.
I came to a small clearing away from any disturbances. In my pocket I had a large bottle of Mead and in my other the dagger that I had been issued by the 3rd SOS during my time in service. My plan had been to sharpen a stick, ram it into my gut, and slit my own throat, in a mockery of the Samurai's honorable suicide. I saw no better ending for myself. No amount of honor could be regained. I was damned.
I drank the bottle of mead from the horn I brought with me. I poured my heart and soul out to the universe, asking for the strength to finish the deed. I didn't want to die with a gut wound, those are painful and the ending isn't quick. I couldn't go with the stick method so I tried to stab myself in the heart. Every time I tried, my heart whispered, "wait!"
I argued with it. I asked, "how could she love a man like me? I told her things that I had never told anyone else and she saw me as a monster. She was disgusted. The last time I tried to be open with somebody they did the same thing and it caused me to crumble with the guilt of what I had done."
"So what?" It replied." Don't you love her? Don't you love your unborn child? The past is meant for us to overcome its terrible experiences. Wounds and damage heal, lessons are learned. Wisdom is only gained through pain. Growth only comes with struggle."
I cursed my heart and I passed out.
When I had come to it was dark and I didn't know how many hours had passed. On top of my migraine I was hungover and dehydrated. I could hardly move. I slowly made my way back west towards the city, stumbling over my clumsy feet. All I could think of was her. How I was going to make it up to her. How I would do better and gain strength again and overcome. I placed all my self hate in a cup, my holy grail, then made my way back to the apartment.
I don't exactly know how long I stood outside wondering what I would say. In the end all I could think of was hugging her and apologizing. I walked in the door, and she attacked me. I reacted out of instinct and hit her against the wall. And my cup spilled. I was damned. I could think of nothing other than my failures. My most recent failure to kill myself burned with rage inside of me. And I had done the one thing that I had promised myself I would never do. Harm the one that I love.
I'm not placing blame on her, on anyone but myself. She was terrified. My reaction gave her cause to be terrified. I was terrified myself. I broke, again. And this time I wasn't sure if all the kings horses and all the kings men could ever put me back together again.
Fast forwards through three of the most confusing months of my life. Pause at the birth of my son, the most important event of my life. I think Alan Watts said there are two important moments in your life: your birth and the moment you find out your reason why you were born. He became it. No, always was it.
Where I will always love his mother for giving me my reason to hold on, it wasn't until I held my son in my arms the first time that I understood what True Love really was. The reason that I exist in this world is for him. I have made mistakes in my life that people seem to constantly want to punish me for, but for my son I can overcome all things. That I can teach him the lessons I learned, pass on the wisdom that I have accumulated... I've come to the conclusion recently that there is no greater purpose for me. There is no greater love that I could give than that to my son. And I think that is why I still love his mother after all that she has done to me. Why I can thank her for the pain, and the grief. For destroying my inflated sense of self and reminding me of where my true heart lay.
I would give anything, have given everything, for truth and reconciliation. I would endure all pains for my son. I have found True Love in my heart, and it was with me all along. For discovering that, no greater gift have I been given. And my heart sings with Joy in the midst of all my pain.
I love you my son. Forever and Always.
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