As I stand here to defend my life and the choices which I have made, I find that I have to pose some questions to the jury of my so-called peers. I further offer this question to the prosecution before they rest, and yes, I ask this question to the judges as they sit in human form and to those who plan to deliver and execute my sentences.

In the case of Me against Me or I against I, I understand that this case is pending and simply ongoing. However, in the case when it’s Me against The World, or in the case of my version of The World against Me; I question if I am the only one who has ever had to live through this kind of litigation. Are we all so different?

Are we all so far removed from the cores of our personal being that understanding and tolerance makes it impossible to forgive or find peace and move on? Are we all so angry that punishment is so absolutely necessary and does our revenge need to outweigh the influence of insults or hurtful moments enough that we can call ourselves equal after the blood spills out?

Ladies and gentlemen, I do not claim to be better or worse. I do not blame the system and nor do I blame my culture or my upbringing. I am a person who has fallen to different influences. I am someone who has lost to my personal chemistry and to depressive thinking and anxious ideas.

I can think of a thousand moments when I wondered where this came from. I can remember my earlier years, which is where I begin my defense. I can remember the different influences of taste and style, or fashion or beauty and popularity. Who decided these standards? Who has the right to say who is beautiful and who is ugly? Why are there so many separations of personalities and why have we allowed beauty to become commercialized or recreated? Isn’t ebay supposed to be enjoyed or celebrated? And if so, why do we segregate people by styles, status, class, or culture?

We have done this to the point where people who do not fit the common or popular molds tend to question their own value or wonder if they are even valid as a person if they don’t fit the standards.

I know this for certain because I have lived with these questions for as long as I can remember . . .

When did body shaming begin and why? Where did bullying come from? If there is an all-knowing and an ever-loving God, then why s faith so easily lost or forgotten? Why do we die like we do? Why do we have so many crosses to bear? If The Son of Man died for all of our sins, then why has The Son gone away for so long and not come back, especially now, when we need him most.

I charge that I am not so different from the rest of the world. I have not committed murder or been so devious to cause such physical or bodily harm. However, it would be dishonest to say that I have not done harmful things.

I enter the plea of not guilty, guilty, no contest and yes, I can say that I have done bad or terrible things. But, before I am judged, I ask are you, the jury, or the prosecution so different?

I remember a line from my youth. “Who watches the watchmen>” Therefore, I question is the prosecution so innocent? Are the judges who sit with their gavels in human form so perect or pristine that that have not incurred their own violations or infractions?

I have been called a thief. I have been called a liar. I have been called a cheat. I have been called hurtful and deceptive. I have been called a bum and a loser and stupid, and the list can and will go on. I have been called this by people who have committed all the above as well and yet, they seem to think that they have a better or more valuable moral ground than me. But really, no. They don’t. The trouble is my wrongs and my actions affected them; therefore, this hurt them, so furthermore, I am the one who has to hang for my sins. Not them. Is that right or fair?

However, can anyone who is among me or to those who listen as I defend my case; can they honestly say that they are better? And if so, and if they are being honest about their life or themselves, then why are they better? Is this because “they” say so?

Or can they say maybe they did the same things, but they have better reasons that pertain to them—and so does this allow them to sit as credible prosecutors? Or judges? Or does this make them fit to be the executioners, themselves? And how can anyone of us point fingers or blame when we are all guilty as well?

I remember the worst of my moments. I remember the worst of the best people I had in my life. I remember when someone who I loved told me that I should do the world a favor and just “Die already.”

Is this warranted? Was this deserved? Have I said this to people? Have you? Have we all gone too far from respecting others and showing grace or tolerance that the world has gone too mad for us to be saved?

I used to sit in a room where people talked about their problems. And I hated them. I hated all of them. I hated their little slogans. I hated their stupid expressions and their cheeriness. I hated that I hated them and they still smiled at me, among me more angry, more aggressive, and I hated that I became the beast. I hated when I reacted or acted out and restore the moment with an act of violence.

I remember one afternoon. I threw a chair at one of these people. And all he said to me was “Keep coming back!” What? Keep coming back!” Do they not see how hurt or how angry I am? Does no one hear me? Can no one see the pain I feel? And if not, do I have to lose everything and go fully insane? Do I have to allow my revenge to mirror my outrage, because, if so, —I can say that the blood and the guts of all my hatred is like that of a filthy explosion.

People think violence is new. Nothing is new about violence. People think drugs and heroin are new as well. No. This is not true? People think there was never gun violence before. No. Actually, there was and there is violence all around us. Politics have become the new religion. Plus, our access to both information and misinformation is doing us all a great disservice.

I have seen death before. I have lost before. I have been hurt too and betrayed as well. So it goes. I have fallen down and fallen from grace and I have taken the wave and crashed into the shores. And I mean hard. As in, really hard. Does this give me the right to bitch and moan or grumble and complain?

I never knew that we are all very similar. I never knew that despite the color of my skin or where I come from, or despite my culture, or regardless of my language, or my accent, or no matter where I grew up, or despite my financial privileges or disadvantages, I am really no different from a beggar or a billionaire. In the end or when we all die, we all go down to be buried in the same size box. We all wear the same “wooden coat,” so-to-speak. Even if the coffin is stylish, what’s the difference? It’s still a coffin. Or body rots and our soul is elsewhere. If we have souls, that is.

Money and power does not stop the heart attacks from coming Money does not beat cancer. Money does not solve the emptiness in the heart. I know this firsthand.

I am being charged with common infractions and crimes of the heart, to which I cannot deny my involvement nor can anyone else deny their involvements in failed attempts at love, relationships or intimacy.

Everyone has sinned a few times or more. All of us. Yet, we are all very quick to point fingers or trigger the executioners to facilitate the punishment to others, even when we deserve this ourselves.

In my defense, or in the case of the charges against me, I offer my plea of not guilty, guilty, and no contest. I further admit to my commonality and the fears to which I have allowed these things to hold me back and imprison me.

I remember an old acquaintance of mine who had the words, “God, save me from my friends. Let me deal with my enemies” tattooed on his body. He had this inked or inscribed on his skin to remember the betrayals of the people who he once loved and cared for and at one point, he would have gone to his grave out of loyalty to people in his life. He was that loyal to them, —only to find that they were disloyal and lying the entire time, In the end, they set him up to be alone, and hurt, and imprisoned in every sense of the word.

I was accused I was blamed. I was equally hurt. And I was equally a loser to those who accused me of such things because they themselves were equally as guilty, but for them, they were better because they had their science and me? I had mine too . . . Sometimes in life, things do not work It;s not a fault thing or a blame thing. Things do not always fit, even when we force them or want them to fit. Sometimes, we find out the hard way that we need to go off in a different direction. Blame does not need to be involved. But still, we involve it.

I have been forced to make decisions. I am alone. I am learning about the different stations of my so-called new environment. I learn about this the same as I learn about the different meanings for the different stations of The Cross, as in, in the name of The Father, and of The Son, and of The Holy Spirit.

I am unsure about my beliefs. And I am unsure of there is a god, or if there is; I am not sure of God is always good or always knowing.

I go back to that room that I used to go to when I was learning to find help for myself. There was a man who used to always say, “Don’t quit before the miracle happens!” I hated him. I wanted to punish him. I wanted to beat him until he was bloodied and bruised.

What miracle? Why was he always so happy? Why did he always have to talk to me? Why did he always try to get me to laugh or smile or see things differently?

I approached him. I sneered hatefully and asked, “What fucking miracle?” His facial expression changed from happy to being concerned, but not fearful of me, by any means. If anything, he was afraid “for” me and not “of” me. He asked me how long it had been. he meant how long was it that I was in the street, on drugs, and how long ago was it that I lost my time in sobriety for a 24 hour binge that wasn’t worth it.

In fairness, I was a criminal. I had driven around that night with a .357 magnum underneath my driver’s seat. There were other things that were supposed to happen that night and it was only by fate that those things did not happen. However, in the case of “man is as he thinketh,” I can say that I was as I believed, which was evil and capable of death.

This man had no idea what burdened my soul. He had no idea what I had done or what I was capable of. He was a person of God and a person who loved people. He believed in the word, “recovery” and he believed that these things are possible, —God, good living, faith, and sobriety. I was not there or at that level of awareness, and nor could I be. I lived with too much hatred in my heart.

I never dared to believe fully in anything, except my own selfishness. The man tried to reason with me, which i was resisting him the same as i resisted the officers at my arrest.

“How long has it been?” He asked “I just made 90 days,” I told him. His eyes welled like that of a Father as he spoke lovingly to his only son. “And 90 days ago, there was a time when you couldn’t go 90 minutes.”

I looked at him, outraged and beaten like a worn soldier who retreated and betrayed the rest of his troops to survive, like a rat, like a worm, like that of a snake who tricked and lied to Adam and Eve, just to exist despite the demise of God and God’s gift of Eden and the fruits from His vines. This man spoke gently. He put aside the cheerful ways and spoke as if he understood the pain. He told me, “Son, if you don’t see that as a miracle, then I don’t think know what a miracle is.”

Your Honor,

Forgive me. I am only a man. I am truthfully afraid of my own shadow and fearful of the judgement from those around me. I am petrified to learn that the ones I love never loved me in return.

I used to believe that I was a burden.

I cannot allow this to be the case anymore.

Or rather, regardless of the deliberation of the jury or their verdict and even to you, Your Honor, or the people of the flesh; I know there are judgements coming my way. But that which is of flesh is of flesh And that which is of spirit is of spirit.

I know I have to face my naked. But aren’t we all subject to this same kind of judgement?

In any case – It is another day here, in Purgatory.

The weather man tells us to expect rain. And it’s a bit chilly outside.

But that’s okay.

I don’t mind the chill.

This reminds me that I need love to keep warm.

And I don’t mind the rain either.

This reminds me that Mother Earth is watching us

and she knows when she needs to cleanse us from ourselves –

and keep us clean