The Eye That Called Itself I

The Eye That Called Itself I

I do not know the proper word

for what lived inside me.

The closest image I have
is the Eye of Sauron—
an unblinking flame
suspended over a ruined land,
watching everything,
judging everything,
burning everything it touched.

The Eye—
or perhaps the I—
was what I believed myself to be.

For simplicity,
I will call it my ego.

But it was not simple.

It was an armed intruder
living inside my consciousness,
and somehow,
I mistook the intruder
for myself.

Though it felt invasive,
I called it me.

Though it forced its way
into every quiet room of my mind,
I called it me.

Though its words violated
everything I knew to be true,
I called it me.

It pressed its weapon
against the back of my thoughts
and whispered:

You are worthless.

You are a mistake.

You are undeserving.

You are worth less
than your own sun-bleached bones
scattered across
a barren wasteland.

And its favorite sentence—
the cruelest weapon
in its arsenal—

You should kill yourself.

You would cause less harm
to everyone around you.

Sometimes,
in brief and desperate moments,
I tried to wrestle control
from this invisible force
that ruled my life
while insisting
that it was me.

But every time I resisted,
it pistol-whipped me
with memory,
shame,
fear,
and rage
until I bent the knee.

I was its slave.

It was my master.

I obeyed,
or I was beaten
into submission.

It demanded entertainment.

It fed on fantasies of hatred,
on visions of revenge
against strangers
and people I loved,
against anyone
who had disrespected me,
challenged me,
slowed me down,
or refused to bow
before my illusion of control.

It raged about injustice—
not injustice in the world,
but every inconvenience
the universe had arranged
specifically against me.

A red light was an insult.

Traffic was persecution.

A crowded room was an attack.

A mistake—
mine or someone else’s—
was proof that existence itself
had looked directly at me
and said,

Fuck you.

Anyone moving too slowly,
anything standing in my way,
anything refusing to become
what I demanded it become
could ignite the fire.

And after the fire
came fantasies of violence.

I lived constantly
on the edge of war—

fight,
flight,
freeze,
fawn—

though mostly
I fought.

The ego refused help
from anyone
or anything.

We do everything ourselves,
it said.

We always have.

And it was right.

I had no mentors growing up.

I had abusers.

The few people
who later entered my life
with open hands
were met with suspicion,
rejection,
and criticism.

Kindness looked like a trap.

Guidance looked like control.

Love looked like the moment
before someone hurt me.

I learned early
that survival meant
depending on no one.

When I became old enough
to defend myself
and finally escaped
the reach of my abusers,
they did not disappear.

They simply moved
into my head.

Their voices became my voice.

Their hatred became my hatred.

Their hands became
the invisible hands
wrapped around my throat.

Then a church leader
taught me that even God
could be cruel.

And I hated God
more than I hated anyone.

God had allowed it all.

God had watched.

God had remained silent.

When I watched
and listened
as a good friend burned to death
inside a truck in Iraq,
I challenged God
to appear before me
in human form
so I could kill Him myself.

Everything had been taken.

People could not be trusted.

God could not be trusted.

I could not even trust myself.

There was nowhere to run,
nowhere to hide,
no one to turn toward.

I was alive
inside an absolute hell.

Then came the night
when everything broke.

I was drunk,
screaming at my wife,
while my children hid
inside their rooms,
terrified that my rage
would consume the house,
the family,
and everything we had built.

Then my oldest daughter,
thirteen years old,
walked out of her room.

She stood face-to-face
with the monster
destroying her family.

She stood without trembling,
as though God Himself
had placed a hand
upon her shoulder.

And she spoke.

Mom was not the problem.

No one else was the problem.

I was the problem.

That little girl,
standing fearless
before everything
I had become,
crushed the last resistance
remaining inside me.

My will collapsed.

My control collapsed.

My anger,
my rage,
my certainty—

all of it crumbled.

I stood before her
as the broken shell
of a man.

No direction.

No control.

No sail.

Only a ruined ship
set adrift
upon the sea of the universe.

For the first time,
I knew I could not stand
on my own.

There were only two choices:

death
or surrender.

The ego tried desperately
to rebuild its throne,
but it had been weakened.

And then,
from somewhere I could not see,
a flimsy reed appeared.

It did not demand submission.

It did not threaten me.

It did not promise
that everything would be easy.

It did not care
whether I grasped it
or refused it.

It was simply there.

A choice.

Refuse it
and descend completely
into the hell
I had built for myself,

or reach out
and take hold
of something
that looked far too fragile
to save me.

With great reluctance,
I grasped the reed.

I did not know then
that this small decision
would begin the unfolding
of my awareness.

I enrolled myself
in a twenty-one-day
alcohol rehabilitation program.

During my first week of sobriety,
I received my first gift.

One morning,
without warning,
something struck my mind
like a lightning bolt.

For the first time,
I saw the ego
as something separate
from myself.

I watched it.

I watched it arrange thoughts
and memories
like pieces on a chessboard.

I watched it try
to maneuver me
into the exact position
where I would drink again.

The realization terrified me.

I thought I was going insane.

There was another presence
inside my consciousness—

and it was not me.

Then the ego noticed
that I was watching.

I saw the recognition
pass across its face.

It had been seen.

The curtain was pulled back.

The all-powerful monster,
the master of my life,
the Eye that claimed
to see everything,
stood before me
naked
and exposed.

It was not God.

It was not all-powerful.

It was not even truly evil.

It was terrified.

Years passed.

In my third year of sobriety,
I stood face-to-face
with that monster again.

But this time,
I did not raise a weapon.

I did not curse it.

I did not try
to destroy it.

I said,

Thank you.

I told it
that it was welcome here.

I told it
that without it,
I might not have survived
long enough
to stand where I stood.

I told it
that I loved it.

That I accepted it.

That I appreciated it.

Then I stood beside it
and asked it
to give me the burden
it had carried
for all those years.

It hesitated.

It held the burden tightly,
as though the weight
was the only thing
that gave it purpose.

But eventually,
reluctantly,
it placed the burden
into my hands.

Its eyes looked up at me
with a question:

What am I supposed to do
if I no longer have this
to carry?

And I answered,

I do not know
what you are supposed to do.

All I know
is that you are free.

You are free
to do whatever you want.

And for the first time,
the Eye closed.

The armed intruder
lowered his weapon.

The master
released the slave.

And the frightened creature
I had mistaken for myself
stood quietly beside me—

no longer my enemy,
no longer my ruler,
no longer abandoned—

free.

Me

Me

I never wanted to be me.

I was never enough.

I never felt loved.

Love was something I had to fight for.

I never wanted to be where I was.

I always wanted to be somewhere else—

though I never knew where.

Just not here.

Not now.

Where did I belong?

I couldn’t answer that.

I wasn’t good enough for my mother.

I wasn’t good enough for my father.

I was treated like the wrapper on a hamburger—

used to get to the next thing,

never cared for,

thrown away but never discarded.

I became the crutch for a woman who thought only of herself.

I was the tender she used to get her way.

I wasn’t taught anything useful—

only how to be ashamed.

To work, but never receive.

To carry weight like a beast of burden.

These lessons followed me into adulthood.

My shame kept me from killing myself.

I was too ashamed to even consider it.

But maybe that wasn’t it.

Maybe suicide was never in my deck of cards.

Maybe I’d lived this life before—

chosen that route already.

Maybe I knew it wouldn’t free me,

that I would simply recycle back into this life

until I figured it out.

Nothing I learned came from a loving mentor.

It came from bleeding knuckles,

broken bones,

anger,

rage,

and sheer determination.

Damn anyone who stood in my way.

I was the master of my fate.

What I chose to do, I did.

I didn’t need anyone.

I never had.

I picked myself up every time I fell.

I was relentless.

The only emotions allowed were anger and contempt.

No one wanted me.

No one cared.

So fuck them all.

Eventually, I couldn’t outrun my demons.

So I tried to drown them with alcohol.

It worked—

until they realized what I was doing.

Then they lashed out harder,

more vicious than before.

I was torn.

How could I become who I wanted to be

using the same weapons that were killing me?

I had fought as long as I could.

I knew no other way.

I’d fought every battle.

I’d been knocked down,

beaten,

bruised,

knocked out—

and still I got back up.

Fuck you.

I will not submit.

I hated God.

I challenged Him to show Himself in human form

so I could kill Him

for what He had done to me.

I had destroyed my family.

I had destroyed my friendships.

I hated everyone.

I hated myself.

I had worked my way to the ninth circle of Dante’s Inferno,

staring the Devil in the face.

There were only two choices left:

defiance or submission.

I could no longer defy.

I had turned every rock,

fought every fight.

There was nowhere left to go.

I needed help—

though I didn’t know it then.

A hand reached down and grabbed me.

A voice spoke:

Defiance or submission.

Death or freedom.

“You don’t have to understand.

You only have to believe in something greater than yourself.

Just grasp this flimsy reed.”

Out of pure desperation, I did.

And things began to change.

Instead of free-falling into oblivion,

I felt the gentle tug

of a parachute opening.

Today—almost three years later—

after an immense amount of work,

guided by countless loving, courageous people

who cleared this path so I could walk it—

Alcoholics Anonymous.

Veterans Exploring Treatment Solutions.

Psychedelic medicines.

The Wisdom Dojo.

And my Higher Power, whom I call God.

I am at peace.

I am present.

I am loved.

I love.

My family is connected.

I get to be the person I always wanted to be.

I get to be the father I never had.

I get to be the brother I never had.

I get to be the friend I never had.

I get to create.

I get to write.

I get to give.

I get to be me.

I get to live in the present—

not the past,

not the future.

Here.

Right here.

Right now.

I get to be.

I get to be the true me.

Thank you.

The Walker

The Walker

A cascade of dazzling light ruptures the dark sky and drifts downward.
The air holds no sound.
Only the Walker’s breath breaks the silence.

The light falls like embers from a dying fire—
slipping through the trees,
settling on the forest floor
where it rests like sleeping fireflies.

This is new to the Walker.
There has never been this much light here before.
Something has changed.
He must have finally arrived.
It has been so long.

A flute startles him as he stands in awe among the drifting lights.
He turns and begins to walk toward the sound.

The flute is beautiful—full, gentle—
its melody reaching out,
slipping past defenses,
caressing the Walker’s heart.

As he draws closer, a glow appears between the tall pines:
a campfire.

The Walker stops just beyond the firelight.
A white canvas tent stands nearby.
A bearded man sits on a log beside the fire, the flute in his hands.

The Walker remains motionless in the darkness, listening.
The bearded man plays—slow and smooth.
The sound is comforting, embracing, ancient.

The music fades.
The bearded man lowers his gaze toward the fire.

Beside it lies a young boy on the forest floor, just waking.
The boy looks around, confused, disoriented,
until his eyes settle on the bearded man.

His small voice carries through the clearing.
“Who are you?”

The bearded man answers with a gentle shake of his head.

“Have you been here the whole time?” the boy asks.

The bearded man nods.

The boy’s eyes wander across the surrounding darkness—
and then stop.
They fix on the place where the Walker stands.

The Walker startles.
It is far too dark for the boy to see him.
And yet… he has been sensed.

“Am I supposed to go into the darkness?” the boy asks.

The bearded man nods again.

“I’m afraid,” the boy says.
“Will you come with me?”

The bearded man finally speaks.
“Only you can go into that darkness.”

He turns back to the fire.

The boy rises, brushing dirt from his clothes.
Tears streak his face.
He is terrified.

He begins to walk—
straight toward the Walker.

Soft cries escape him as he steps beyond the firelight,
blindly entering the dark,
arms outstretched,

hands waving in desperate search. 

The Seeker

Before sight awakens,

you must seek
 the one who is seeking.

Not outward—
 but inward.

Into the quiet beneath thought.
 Into the dark before knowing.
 Into the place
 where names dissolve.

There, in the unlit depths,
 the seeker waits.

When you find the seeker,
 do not speak.
 Do not reach.
 Learn instead
 to see through their eyes.

The seeker sees
 without distance.
 The seeker sees
 through veils and layers.
 The seeker knows
 that what appears
 is a dream wearing light.

When the dream is recognized as dream,
 its spell loosens.

The lies grow thin.
 The light moves in.

And in that light,
 nothing is fought,
 nothing is condemned.

The illusion is not destroyed—
 it is forgiven,
 and washed clean
 with love.

Midnight Fire

I am a midnight fire. 

Ripping through these fields of mine.

Raging like a tornado. 

Across the open skies. 

Raging.

Tearing.

Burning.

If it ain’t the soil beneath my feet.

If it ain’t the true me. 

It must be consumed by this fire. 

Within me.

Raging.

Tearing.

Burning.

There ain't no room for the wicked past. 

There ain’t no room for these doubts.

There ain’t no room for this shame.

There ain’t no room for these lies you have told me.

Raging.

Tearing.

Burning.

There ain’t no room in here.

For anything that ain't the soil, beneath my feet. 

This midnight fire rages with burning heat.

From my journal

From my journal. 

Horrors

I have done and seen truly terrible things. I know the boundlessness of evil. I have seen it with my own eyes. I have met evil with my own evil. I have drank from the dark well and understand I cannot give it back. Only time and death can erase the true horrors of what I have seen and done. Only the dead have seen the end of the evils of this world.

Heads

I hate the people who cut the heads off of other people and leave them on the side of the road for us to see. It was like a good morning gift of what these people would do if they got their hands on me. If these people so freely did this to their own people, what would they do to someone like me? Because of these people I had to turn my morals off. I became ruthless. Everyone was a threat. Men, women, children, boxes, culverts, donkeys, cars, trees, dogs, and buildings. You name it. I have killed it. I am not proud of that. It is what it is, and I must live with that.

Angry Bees

The scream of the rockets passes by and raises the hair of the skin. The guns roar to life spitting their fiery rays towards the sky. The crackle reports and hopes are dashed as the ground bucks and the whump of the explosion deafens the ears. The British artillery fires, but in the wrong direction. “Fuck the British!” Raises from my lungs. “Why the fuck are we here!” Rocket pieces litter the ground, the concrete is pot marked and insulation floats on the breeze. Someone's room has been hit and it seems like giant terrible bees have ripped through the building. Thankfully no one was in there, when it hit.   

Fuck Them

Lights flash, the siren wails, the brass dangles by its string, the truck rocks, the gun is hot. The hits are good, the car burns, no one gets out. We drove by as though I didn't just kill an entire family. “Why the fuck did he do that. “Why the fuck did he ignore us!? He had to have known that was going to happen! Why? God I hate people who don't pay attention! Fuck them!”

4 Inches High

The building burns, someone is alive. It's not possible, the walls are four inches high. The bombs missed the mark and it was raining dirt, tears wet my cheeks. Blood and brains coat the hood of the truck. I watch Rob lying naked breathing his last breath with tears streaming down his face, they said he died instantly but corpses don't breathe and cry. Rob knew what was happening to him. The trucks march forward, the guns turn the house into a nightmare killing field. Cease fire! Comes the cry. They drag a body out of the rubble and he is still alive. “How?!” I exclaim. That wall is four inches high. He complains about his finger as both of his lungs collapse. The trucks are shot to shit. Don lies there dying. Chief packs bag after bag of gauze into Don. “Oh God what the fuck has happened!” The car burns and the pilots can see it for miles. Everything is fucked! Including me.  

Sniper

No sleep, 24 hour shift. I am the only one on watch, life sucks ass. I sit on the roof! Last night was terribly cold. The sun begins to get hot. My body armor is miserable. I haven’t seen a single soul other than trucks passing on the highway in the distance. Snap! Boom! Zing! The bullet sings. Concrete peppers my face. “What the fuck was that! Oh fuck that was a round! Its a fucking sniper trying to kill me!”

Cacophony of Death Music

The phone rings. “The A-10s did what? They smoked one of our checkpoints, what the fuck! Load the trucks and get the Iraqis ready!” Comes the cry. The HESCO barriers are shredded and there is blood everywhere. The Airforce sure did a number on these dudes. The phone rings. Some of the Iraqis we brought got ambushed and some of them are missing. The trucks are in the ditch burned to a crisp. The Iraqis say that some of them were taken alive. Let's see what happens when we get close to that village. Bullets whiz by. It's kind of fun. The rounds are not close. The 50 rocks sending tracers into the distance. Who knows where the rounds hit the village? It is so far away. SNAP! Says a round as it passes close by. Someone who knows what they are doing has shown up. It's time to leave, we can't get any closer to the village because of ditches and we are being baited into a trap and we can smell it. The brass from the guns firing at the village have jammed the turrets and we drive until it gets dark before stopping to get out to unjam them. Rob is on the roof of his truck in front of us working to unjam his turret. Tracers streak through the sky from the right. There are three PKMs firing from close range. “How the fuck did they get there! How did they know where we were going to stop? They must have been following us on motorcycles under nods.” Rob in full body armor and helmet dives off the top of the truck like he is diving into a swimming pool. He must have gone to sleep from the impact. The .50 on my truck opens up. I hear the brass and links ting into and on top of the truck. The smell of gunpowder envelopes me. I stare numbly out the front window and watch tracer after tracer streak directly towards me in slow motion like I am watching a movie. Tracers bounce off the hood of the truck and and dazzlingly smash against the front window of the truck. I am mesmerized by the sight and am brought back by the jarring and crashing of the overwhelming roar of the .50 cal and the screams of Syid who is attempting to crawl underneath his seat creates a cacophony of death music. I begin to feed ammo to the cook who is manning the gun. I had gotten tired and felt that all the fun to be had had been had and allowed our cook on the gun. I am not sure how he has done it. I have handed up a number of cans of ammo and the gun has not stopped. Chief who is in the truck in front of me opens his window facing the enemy fire and opens up with a SAW. I watch as the gun spits fire and sparks. The short barrel doesn't allow for a clean burn of the powder and looks like a poorly made dirty sparkler. I don't know the true body count. But war math says 14 bodies are found the next morning. 

Shame

Shame,

Shame has been with me a long time.

So long it has learned my name.

So long it has learned how I breathe.

At first it spoke quietly,

like concern,

like caution,

like a friend trying to keep me safe.

It taught me to watch myself.

It taught me to watch the world for proof.

It taught me,

To measure my tone.

To calculate my presence.

To move carefully through the world

as if existence were something

I could misuse.

When I had energy, it warned me not to take up too much space.

When I was tired, it told me I was failing.

When I worked, it said I was running.

When I rested, it said I was lazy.

It never raised its voice.

It never had to.

It was always there.

If I took time for myself,

shame called it selfish.

If I didn’t,

shame called it weakness.

If I felt anger,

shame said I was dangerous.

If I was mistreated,

shame said I deserved it.

When I leaned on others,

shame called me a burden.

When I stood alone,

shame called me empty and pathetic.

When people were kind,

shame said they didn’t know me.

When they were cruel,

shame said they finally did.

It followed me into ordinary moments—

into traffic,

into conversations,

into rooms where nothing was wrong—

and made sure I felt wrong anyway.

It judged my kindness.

It judged my refusal.

It judged my generosity.

It judged my boundaries.

It told me there was no correct way to exist.

Alone was wrong.

Together was wrong.

Giving was wrong.

Receiving was wrong.

Shame grew sharper with time.

It stopped commenting

and started sentencing.

You do not belong here.

You never did.

You were a mistake that no one wants.

It said I should be reduced to something smaller than human,

something discardable,

something that wouldn’t be noticed

being thrown away.

It said even that was too much mercy for my worthlessness.

It poisoned death itself,

telling me I should be ashamed

for wanting an end to the pain.

I thought once that 

discipline,

service,

and war

might burn this thing out of me.

I thought if I carried enough weight,

ran far enough and fast enough,

if I did enough violence in the name of duty,

shame would finally be satisfied.

It wasn’t.

It only learned new words.

New images.

New ways to accuse.

And still—

something in me has been watching,

and waiting.

Something in me can say:

This is shame.

Not truth.

Not justice.

Not God.

Shame is loud,

but it is not all-knowing.

It is relentless, it made me relentless,

but it is not right. 

I am still here.

Breathing.

Feeling.

Trying.

Not because I have proven my worth.

Not because I have earned forgiveness.

Not because I have been allowed to live.

But because my existence

does not require permission.

I will no longer be bound by these chains, 

I will no longer live under the thumbs of those who have mistreated me.

If we shall pass as two ships passing in the night so be it. 

Today,

I am enough