I failed.


It was me against me, as usual. And I failed.

I am not the Ozark Poetry Slam Champion. And I did not lose because there was someone better than me. I could have handled that. I lost because I made a stupid mistake when I should have known better. I slammed my heart out like a badass mofo, but a 2 point deduction, because I did something STUPID!!!, in the final round, lost it for me.

I placed fifth. Doug gave me third. I owe him for that.

I would have tied for first, and she and I would have had a Haiku-off tie-breaker. . . . I could have handled that.

And it was in the wake of that self-defeat, and with 1.5 hours of sleep, that I faced today.

My beloved wife now has a masters degree in English from U of A. And her family couldn't give a shit. It makes me furious. She alone is worth more than all of them. At least MY family appreciates her, and knows how to love her. She is ours, now. And I am truly, truly proud of her.

Then I ditched my friends tonight. Again - a failure. But, I feel like I'm on the verge of an emotional breakdown. You see, I was half-catatonic this afternoon (could only move half my body, repeated the sames phrases over and over - my mind unwilling to move at the shock of . . . of what I percieved to be financial doom laying at my feet) and barely functional this evening. This was my worst panic attack in years, and one unlike any other. . . . Heather deserves better. So do my friends.

After forcing myself to do what could be done among the shards of Tigger's wrath (poor Tigger - he should NOT have been left inside the house and alone for 9 HOURS after a full night's rest!), I layed down, and I could barely move. Music helped; the heavy stuff - with powerfull riffs and sweet breakdowns - cutting through my numbness. I layed there and begain to think in straight lines again, replacing the frozen-brain mantras with a piecemeal confession to God. I told God what he already knows, as usual (it is for our sake that we say it), and what he has heard from me a hundred times before. I told Him that I am a failure. That there is no good in me that cannot be undermined in a second by my own stupidity, by my own chemical flaws. (Last night, the feeling that came over me when I realized I had caused myself to lose the slam was one of the most familiar feelings I know! All I could think was, " not again.") And then I said something that I don't believe I can ever say, and mean it, in a non-psychotic-episode frame of mind. I said I don't want to be special! ...I don't want to be good at something. I don't want to be looked-up-to. ...Or looked-at! I am truly no more than filthy rags - a peice of shit at His feet.

I said I don't want to be special. Because it is all a fool's hope!

I told him that I don't want to be special (and I'm repeating it over and over again right now because I may not ever say it again aloud), because I can't be special! I am unable. Dis-abled.

BUT, I said I believe that He is God of everything - even a piece of shit, even a failure. And so what I ask, what I beg, is all I CAN ask, all I can EVER ask. It is this: ...to be USED. I asked him to forget the special, forget the good, forget the glory, the praise, and every other credit that I long to have ascribed to me, and just simply USE ME!

Then I will at least mean something. Then I will not fail.


The "truth" of this may be covered in holes. It may lose, in translation, all practical application to your life. But I'm talking about having a massive panic attack, a half-frozen brain. And I'm trying to distill and communicate where my mind went and what it came back with.

I don't know where to go from here. Well, I probably do, but I can't make words of it right now. Perhaps, for now, I'll just go to sleep.