My birthday is October the fifth and this year I would be sixty.
Six decades of hurt.
REM performs a song whereas they sing, “Everybody hurts, sometimes.”
So, why do I hurt MOST times?
Since my earliest memories I hurt. Even during happy times I suffer the pain of knowing the hurt will always be a constant companion.
My biological mother left me to die in an empty apartment at around six years old.
Unfortunately, my father came home to his empty home and ‘saved’ me.
Discovering that Mom had taken all their furnishings and my two older siblings and fled his tyranny to the safety of Regent Park in Toronto.
Did Dad ‘save’ me or just prolong my existence of agony and tears?
Only the Shadow knows that truth.
Sixty years, 21,900 days, and I still do not know.
My life is fairly well documented within my blogs. I will not rehash the evils of my past. The violence, the drugs, the lost loves and the sorrows.
I was Blessed with living a life many could never understand. I was born into this world at a time that will never be again.
A time when technology consisted of ‘party line’ telephones, round television screens, the birth of rock and roll and a time when families had values and respect.
An era of playing in the dirt with ALL the neighborhood kids. Of never disrespecting authoritive figureheads. A time when men were men and women were women. A time when bathrooms were either male or female.
When every song on the radio was a message of some positive sort. Not teaching greed and disrespect. Not ‘money, weed and whores’. Not promoting guns, gangs and frack authority.
I believe that society is at the end of days as we know it. The world is not going to ‘end’.
I believe that whatever gods you believe in – beit the Cosmic Muffin, God or Odin – are about to slap mankind in the face with a hardwood stick.
Many will perish, yet those who survive hopefully will learn from past societies and bring back the days of old. That they may teach their children well in the ways of coexistence with their fellow man and all of Earth’s beautiful creatures.
Hopefully I am right or else history will repeat itself once again. For if man does not learn, then the end of days for we humans will come to be.
I did not learn. I convinced myself I did, but I lied to me. I was never a greedy bastard. I was a simple man with a simple plan.
All I ever desired was to be a loyal husband and father. My heart felt want was not to raise a child who would live as I was forced to live, with thirty-two sets of foster-parents in their first ten years.
My first marriage lasted eight short months. Falling into ruin upon the edge of the boning knife that Robert George Stevenson used to murder my mother.
“Ever since your Mom got murdered you have been acting strange and I can’t take it”.
And out the door Michelle, aka ‘Mrs. Dann Verner’ went.
I was Blessed with a second marriage of thirty- two years and raising three sons. One of my sons was even my biological child. Lol.
Despite what any other soul may say, I NEVER committed Adultery during that relationship. (The only Commandment of the Ten I did not break.)
But, today, Sunday the sixteenth of July, 2017, as I sit here trying to avoid suicide, I am broken.
Maybe beyond repair.
A failure to myself, to my youngest child and to my beautiful loving dogs.
Homeless with no known way to ever get first and last months rent deposit together. Knowing that even if by some miracle I were to get the funds my son and I have no furniture. Just a truck load of meager cardboard boxes containing thirty plus years of memories.
Boxes of reminders of my failures.
And my youngest child looks upon me with an emotion I cannot comprehend.
I have failed him.
I have failed me.
Hell, I even failed my pups.
The monster called ‘Suicide’ dances in my head. Taunting me. Laughing at my disgrace. Edging me to take that walk down the path of physical destruction.
And that monster is winning.
I actually committed suicide on August the twenty-second in 2002. Only to be revived by the gifted hands of the EMS team.
Another failure of me, LightHouse Dann Verner or Shakie Dann Verner, my other self.
What part of suicide did not they understand?
Presently, I have little hope of my life getting back on track. (How selfish of me to say ‘my life’.)
I have lived my life.
My son’s are yet to live theirs.
Did Henry “Harry” Verner save me that cold winter’s day in March 1958,?
I am not sure.
If I post tomorrow he did.
If not I failed once more.
Till the morrow I remain, Dann, just as I am.