What's a Bi Atheist with Bipolar Doing Here?

When Cole met Jane, something special happened, and they found love.
He never expected Anthony to return…

Three Ways – The Ways In, a contemporary romance in

Sydney, Australia, all yours on the cheap at Amazon

Amazon Australia          Amazon Canada          Amazon US

      Hi guys,

      Yep, I’m a week late. Forgot last Sunday, and slept through my window Monday. Still, I could blog again in three weeks, it’s still lockdown so there’s a chance, but I haven’t planned anything after this, and I’m not sure what else I’d have to say.

      A few weeks ago, I mentioned having trouble finding that God guy. I might be guessing, but I’m sure I’m not the only Christian, new or old, having that kind of trouble, falling off the prayer bandwagon, getting doldrummy. No, lockdown isn’t helping it, there being online services, no munch of JC, and no confession.

      Maybe I can do something about the last one, but I’m committed to lockdown, hesitant with Mr Golden Crowned Lurgy floating about. I’ll see what eventuates, but did the rosary with the GF last Sunday, we watched the Maronite Mass (it was St Mary of the Cross day), got back into the Gospel of Matt – there’s an interesting convert – and life is, well, a little up.

      And lockdown isn’t so bad with wine and Scotch at my disposal. As the man on my favourite greenback, Benji, said, “Wine is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Guess it’s likewise of my favourite animal, the platypus, proof that God loves us and has a sense of humour. Love that little evolutionary throwback!!

      Where was I? Oh, yeah, interesting converts. Matt was a tax collector for the Romans, the ultimate lowlife scumbag in Judea. Throw in Jesus and hey, there’s the dotted I, crossed T evangelist. Saul of Tarsus? Straight up persecutor of early Christians, until his famed flash of light encounter with Jesus, and he’s Paul, powerhouse of the early church.

      Then there’s me. Funny story in the end, considering I was elated as hell and off my meds for three days, no sleep. But come a Friday in mid-August, having quit one job on Tuesday and had a very public manic episode, turned up to the other a day and a half after said episode, I opened the doors of my local Catholic church, got a wave from Father P, and entered into peace and quiet.

      And when your brain has been running at a gazillion miles an hour, you’re still on hyper comedown, that burst of tranquillity was one of the most amazing, transformative things I’ve felt. I thought, “I’m home.”

      But what was I, a science-abiding, bi atheist with bipolar doing at church? Surely I’d be crazy because only stupid people aghast at science go to the guy upstairs. I had a walk-in problem with two catechisms (out of 3800-odd, not bad). Must definitely be mentally ill to want to punish myself with a lot of “I’m unworthy; I’m a sinner; OT God is iron-fist absolutist, where is the actual mercy?”

      Yeah, I was kinda Saul of Tarsus, smarter than Christians because science was so provable, don’t need no pesky God judging me for my faults. Atheism had its charms, and I’d found a place in existentialism, here because we’re here, and that’s fine by me. Then flash of light, total transformation, done and dusted, right? Well…

      I’d read some bible, Genesis and Exodus, Leviticus, Deuteronomy, Numbers, then flipped to Revelation and had the C. R. A. P scared out of me. I had to go to scripture classes in one school because no Non-Scripture, where I first heard about Moses hidden in the reeds (Hi Superman inspiration!). Religious Christmas cartoons were the thing back in the 80’s. I’d seen King David (Richard Gere’s nappy dance, lol), half of King of Kings, and of course Life of Brian.

      Funny thing one pre-convert Christmas service, the Priest’s microphone cut out, and “Speak up!” was my brain’s logical response.

      There was the time I asked about the patriarchal bent on Yahoo Questions, and got the explanation about the Virgin Mary. The service for my niece’s christening taught me the significance of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet (it was Passover, lots of sheep in Jerusalem for slaughter, lots of poop, and donkey-riding Jesus stooped over and served, getting his hands dirty). And I’d gone down the Stations of the Cross just to see.

      Still, atheist, more or less. One night at 18, though, something happened that I had to put my jury out on. I do have reservations saying this, but I think it was a miracle – which puts me at odds because I wonder why I was saved, when so many don’t seem to be.

     (A readthrough of Catcher in the Rye on Wikipedia sort of put it into perspective; and though I haven’t put it in prayer in a while, the thoughts of those who’ve taken their lives, who might have missed what I received because the pain is too much, still invoke sadness. While we’re here, kindly give them a thought.)

      Back out into the atheist pasture I went, that instantly-trustworthy voice bubbling away in the background. Then came the creeping mania brought on by a swap of meds; an awful YouTube argument with an arrogant so and so who said I denied Ontology (which opened my eyes); the acute sleepless mania (who needs meds?); the inspiration to find Jesus on Wikipedia; and the drive to solve 0/1, arriving at infinity, and there’s one of that so… “Hi God!”

       Then I went nuts, got policed to St Vincent’s, got the visit from the psych, tried to walk out, got strapped down and sedated, held in the PECC ward overnight, and woke up with the acute knowledge, “You know you had an episode, right?” No more the future is now, winning every Nobel prize for proving all theories right, travelling at the speed of our minds. Just a shaky reality with acceptance it was back on my old med, a rough Thursday at work, then off to Church the next morning, fronting up to Father P after Rosary, and saying, “I’m looking to be baptised.”

      What a ride that was, what a proper born-again moment. And what a touching moment, learning love was a bunch of strangers that don’t know you stopping you from hurting yourself when you’re acutely manic, and learning that first Sunday that people had been praying for myself and others in a fix without even knowing it.

      Where does it put me, three Easters up at about the anniversary of my episode? Well, I’ve built a team of Saints who I really need to get back to, failed some vegan experiments three Lents in a row, haven’t solved looking for God in the wrong things and places, and I’m still bumbling around in my cycles.

      But it got me hanging with the nannas in the reading group, getting some good formation up. It’s led me to look at relationships with a faith component. There’s forgiveness and somewhere to turn back to and go despite the falls. There’s hope and an urge to try for myself to keep going.

      Becoming Catholic hasn’t made me perfect, but pointed me in that direction. It hasn’t solved my Tweeter arguments, but it’s helping me stop posting some things. I’m not some Bible scholar or basher. It hasn’t cured my bipolar, hasn’t changed my sexuality, and hasn’t changed my love of science (the what and how flipside to religion’s who and why). And I quite liked the love neighbours, respect “enemies,” peace on/to/from Earth for a long time.

      It has just become a part of me, and I quite like the part I have in it, even if there’s more understanding yet to come.

      I’m not sure what this post has done. Maybe comments will come (still waiting on engagement, I feel like I tweet into a void). Maybe someone will consider a faith journey, and maybe someone will block me because of this. And, well, someone could’ve gotten to the God bit and stopped reading. Thems the breaks with this.

      I’ll let you go now. Thanks for reading, I hope you are well and safe in these uncertain times, and if you or someone you know are headed down the depressive path I went down, life so hard it hurts, reach out and seek help, because yes, you’re worth it, and have something to teach the world about your hardship, maybe in writing like me

      Take care all,

      T.M.

A Brain That Don’t Quite Work, Or Where’s That God Guy?

When Cole met Jane, something special happened, and they found love.
He never expected Anthony to return…

Three Ways – The Ways In, a contemporary romance in

Sydney, Australia, all yours on the cheap at Amazon

Amazon Australia          Amazon Canada          Amazon US

      Hi guys,

      Well, look at that, I posted a blog three weeks after my last one! Been a while, huh? Don’t worry, it’s me, not you.

      So, low motivation to post blogs is just one thing of mine. So’s motivation to write. Or making my coffee the night before so I can chug it cold in the morning, before going for a walk, before praying, before going to work. Um… yeah, it’s a mood thing, and something I have to fight.

      But, well, waking at 6 in a cold winter? Bed be warm. Working? Yeah, gotta pay the bills, but takes it out of me. Home in the evening? Can’t be bothered with writing… Actually I snuck down to Macca’s last Wednesday for a coffee and got into a fight scene, then closed off three quarters the way through at 7:20. And that was it, I crawled into bed, crashed around 8:30. Early bed for the next few days, too. And no, it does nothing for making mornings easy.

      That’s giver upper for you. It’s ingrained in the brain, makes its workings quite, well, meh. Now, throw in the bipolar and possible schizoaffective (been psychotic, so yeah), and blend with ice. Quite a recipe for whatevs – or feeling peaked because I forgot to take my night meds and finding lights in the car park, keys very entrancing. Sounds like fun but, after my very public manic episode, something acutely dangerous.

      It all comes with a wish, that I was normal. That I could live without needing three different meds to function. To wake after eight hours of sleep feeling fresh, downing that coffee, going for that walk, and not feeling exhausted and needing to lie down after it. To write when I get home (okay with a coffee pick-me-up). To go visit the GF and three days a week and feel drained (yes, it happens, and no, I haven’t quite brought it up yet). To go out to stuff like Hamilton mid-week without it impacting my sleep or my mood for the rest of the week, and triggering unhealthy coping mechanisms. Without grogginess and sleeping in to twelve on my dedicated writing day.

      Quite a wish, huh? Let’s not forget everything else that went wrong in my life (Sometimes I’m surprised I’m still kicking). And that, coupled with that tweeter person I dealt with telling me what good is a God that couldn’t save me, the tiny thoughts I’ve had about that on my own time, leaves a feeling that kinda hurts. Where’s God, or especially that wondrous, healing, demon-casting-outer Jesus guy?

      Faith wasn’t my thing. In fact the very mention of spirituality conjured thoughts of angry God. Reading Revelation, Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers didn’t help there. Then there was dealing with the no outsiders allowed to marry in, the “go back and kill all the men, boys, women who’ve given birth, and take the virgins as your wives.” That messy OT… It still gets to me. But fast forward to the Gospels and, nice God, loving God, healy God.

      Where does it put me, just about two thousand years later, scatterbrained, on meds, slammed by memories, in bed early and not sleeping all that well to begin with (let alone when I forget my meds), low motivation, bouncing along in my stuff and needing to pop by ye olde confessional again? Let’s not forget getting locked down for the next two weeks thanks to the Golden Crowned Lurgy – that’s gonna be fun!

      Though its lesson was great on Boston Tea Party day, when I wrote my prompt for this blog, what hit me got lost on me. Good thing at least for coming back to the prompt and putting this back fresh in mind. I know, I’ve round-abouted, so here’s what I got from Corinthians 2 – The Lettering, courtesy of Paul, Patron Saint of Talking Underwater:

      “To stop me from getting too proud I was given a thorn in the flesh, an angel of Satan to beat me and stop me from getting too proud. I have pleaded with the Lord three times for it to leave me, but he has said, ‘My grace is enough for you, my power is best in weakness.’

      “So I shall be very happy to make my weaknesses my special boast so that the power of Christ may stay over me, and that is why I am quite content with my weaknesses…”

      What was it Paul had? From the homily, it was intimated the guy was beset by migraines. And no, he didn’t have codeine to do much about it. And as he says, he turns to say hi to the guy in the sky, but doesn’t actually get relief from his ailment. As Jesus said to the horse thief in The Chosen, there will always be broken bones in this world.

      So, where does it leave me? Where is God in this S. H. I. T. in my head? At the time of the reading, in wonder; three weeks later, well, you’ve read this post up to this point. It’s ultimately in the giving up – and the forgetting (thanks, turbulent not-working-properly brain). Am I doing something wrong? Is the faith I found failing already? Am I not taking Paul as an example? I felt better, smarter, than the faithful, then, one kawham of a conversion later, I’m religious. Am I failing the zeal test? Are years of atheism putting up barriers for me?

      Time to stop that tangent, least of all for the unhealthiness. It might not be time for the answer. There’s also the matter of not praying, not going to that team of saints, and yes, that’s on me. And there’s the thinking that no matter what faith, there’s no healing of this brain of mine. Perhaps I’m waiting on magic, or that miracle when I was eighteen was what I needed and I’m not reflecting on that.

      Ho hum. This has been a long and deep one. But, I'm in lockdown so another week off at least, I've gotten to walking in the morning. I've been grinding ground coffee to knock up heart starters. I’ve gotten some writing done, I'm play Oblivion some more, I took a lamb roast over to the GF's (I promised her lamb,) and I'm getting into my wines from last year. And I’ve got church services to watch from around the grounds courtesy of ye olde internette.

      Maybe that’s where God actually is for me. And for my next blog, more on how I wound up Catholic.

      So from Golden Crowned Lurgy Lockdown, have a good one, and put your thoughts and prayers towards those of us with Covid, those of us in hospital, and those lost.

      T.M.

Out of the Wilderness, I Think…

       Hi guys,

      Welp, it’s been a looooooong while since my last post - around that deathy and rebirthy time - and, while I entertained a post back in May, I never felt right about it, and never got the mood to proceed with anything.

      It’s like my writing, it’s taking forever, motivation is low. Just depression talking? I don’t know, I am flustered, trying to dodge flatmates in the morning and still feeling prefigured when they’re in the bathroom or kitchen when I get up – I love a quiet morning, no noise, often no lights, its great when I have early starts.

      The psych suggested a paradigm shift. Get up early on first alarm, have cold coffee, go for a walk. So far, I managed a walk once. I’m still sleeping in half an hour, having shower first, but I’ve changed my rhythm. And just as I got into one… My weekend got stuffed around thanks to training, shifts got swapped (I still hope it was because of a reasonable reason, not party time), and wasted a day for a three-hour shift (long story). And yeah, back to square one.

      I feel this happens a lot, whenever I get the motivation to start something new, things come along that week and derail it. Want to go for morning walks? It rains. Want to start this early stuff? Flatmates, work in way. Have a go to church Thursday and Sunday? Late finish thrown my way. I hate it, the idea of a great life conspiracy. It hits the depression up, cues the “Why bother?” Meanwhile I’m steadily putting on weight, spending is, well, happy, faith is getting left in the wayside – so much for calling on help from above.

      I’m a giver-upper. I’m also a rut-runner. I really need scheduling in life, a rhythm, and if I’m knocked out of it, it’s off into the wallows. I hate the pick back up, get going again. I know it’s part of life, so being bipolar, possibly schizoaffective, certainly doesn’t help. But here I go, back into the breach, try again, again, and again, trudge, trudge, trudge. No, I’m not looking forward to it, going cap in hand back to confession, but, well, unlimited forgiveness, and I’m sure the guy upstairs knows how messed my life is, has been, and will be. Looks down, but, well…

      I was told I needed a better God because I went through hell and nothing was done, “What good is a God that won’t protect you?” It bemused me more than anything, I’m on the other end of the skateboarding kid analogy from Angels and Demons – you want your kid to live, even if he wants to Tony Hawk off gutters with its mad risk of ouchies. But it came on the back of an example of God’s plan relating to a child’s death.

      How do you fit into a plan that allows this pain? Put simply, the example in question held a faithful position and kept things in perspective, what you’d expect to be a harrowing time. Chances are it was a harrowing time, and still will be, but the faith was kept, though the non-faithful person observing it found it callous. Then there was my turn, the observer going on to tell me what I needed from those times when I was abused.

      Put simply, I got that intervention the night I wanted to end my life – something I could not explain at the time, but a voice I knew I could trust. That, too, has put me at odds – why was I so lucky, when so many torn apart don’t? Is it because I can write about it, have that empathy for them? Is there a whole Catcher in the Rye deal for those who pass? (This is what I believe).

      That moment put God on the backburner for me; 18 years later, here am I, ex-atheist, getting God in my life, though it’s a patchy thing. Yes, I get my doses of Church, pop of to adoration at Saint Jockas, Mares’ dad (that’s Saint Joachim, father of St Mary), love that bite of Jesus. But prayer? Yeah, slack at it, but always wanting to improve. Maybe its best as a morning thing, rather than an end of night deal (which I’m failing at).

      But even with the downs, the stumbles, the sight at the end, I’m succeeding. In two months, I’ll be able to move out again on my own, hopefully somewhere closer to work, and prepare for life ahead, the GF and I, well, there’s plans afoot. And after two months of dragging-out, I finished another chapter of TWO – the GF was very happy.

      And if I call upon them, I’ve got 18 Simons of Cyrene to trudge along with me – yep, that’s a footy team with an exchange bench. That makes me smile, a little shyly, but hope is hope, it’s good, and can help me through to the plan when life sometimes throws you to the mud.

      Still, my woes are small compared to others, and my hopes aren’t everybody’s. Before I go, a shoutout to those doing it tough, tougher, toughest. Have a think about them, not to consider how lucky you are – that, to me, is the wrong way to look at life – but to consider their wants, needs, dreams. While you’re there, consider a charity serving those wants, needs, dreams, so it’s more than thoughts and prayers – could be once a year, or a monthly contribution.

      And when you’re there, consider voting and agitating for them. I don’t know if it will help, but it’s back in that try again, and again, and again, trudge, trudge, trudge.

      And… Yep, that’s all I got. Okay, it’s Corona Cave time with lockdown, room for a bit more gaming and writing, but missing of the GF and Jesus – but there’s livestream mass. Hopefully I’ll get back to a three-week blog cycle, and hopefully, it’ll be out the Corona Cave by then, so, until then, or whenever,

      Have a good one!

      T. M.

      Hi guys,

       Well, it’s that time of the year, eggs, bunnies, springtide (for the northern hemisphere), that Passover thing, and welcome back to that Jesus fellow. And in Bible belts, your KFC declaring HE IS RISEN. If I ever see this, I’m going in to find out if Colonel Sanders is back.

      Blogwise, well, I only got a 26 views last post. I didn’t help much not posting about it on ye olde Tweeter on Sunday, but I think I’d only get a few more views. Turns out my religious posts don’t get as many views as some of my others. Not complaining… Okay, maybe I am. But I won’t address it for now, I’ll work on it.

      But I will say that’s another Lent out of the way, and I’ll have to work on diet better next year. Let’s just say I crash dieted, and kinda wrecked myself along the way. Iron deficiency from no meat, I think, and I might be addicted to dairy and having withdrawals. But I’m a bit Psalmed and propheted up and that counts for something.

      So, where to this post? I really don’t know. I’ve written Monday and Wednesday, start of another side project, #WriterLife, so there’s a start after a stagnation, and stagnation on TWO. Guess it just needs its time to flow onto the page. It’s Lebanese charcoal barbeque today (shout out to the GF and her family), so gotta go for a walk afterwards. All in all, it’s been an okay week, and so far, I feel okay.

      Back to that pesky where to question. Stuff it, I’m feeling expansive.

      Last Friday I had a horrible feeling. I still don’t know what brought it about, waking too early, being so protein free for Lent, work getting me down, finding homily rambly, prayers not quite working out, I really don’t know. But a thought struck me – I’m out of control.

      Sure, I brought it up with the GF. Not wholly, I was reserved, just the basics, but that was a fair bit of me speaking up. And that’s one of my things, part nervousness, part shyness, and part isolationness. Let’s just say I cut a lonely figure, quite a habitual rut I drag myself through a lot.

      Sure, got noted on my confidence and curiosity at work back when we started the customer service award program. And I have that Mister Confidence mask I wear. Ask the GF, I’m foot forward. I just don’t feel it at times, and at others, there’s feeling fake. Telling my uncomfortable moments? Yeah, good luck that coming out.

      But I said it to the GF, explained it, if in brief bloke directness. And I brought it up in couples therapy (chillax, it’s all good, this is for building the relationship, with communication, empathy, all the good stuff). And I survived digging deeper into it, even though I really couldn’t explain what was behind it… And felt crap about that.

      I still don’t know what made me feel out of control. Maybe it came on the heels of another one of my epiphanies, not being in control of the world – like in traffic, things happening at work – and the decision to throw that up to my homie upstairs. Maybe my week just got to me (yeah, it was one of those work weeks), and it was a delayed reaction. Okay, all of that.

      All I know is it hit me fast, and fled after telling the GF and having a coffee. And there I was in the session, struggling to explain it, sore because I couldn’t, sore feeling a bit to a lot misunderstood, but all-in-all truthful, honest, open before the GF, and one of more than a couple of times this fortnight I’ve revealed things.

      Vulnerability is hard, especially when it’s ingrained that weakness is something to be despised, or kept quiet about, and when you find or sense no healthy avenue for it. It’s all part and parcel of my, I’ll say it, troubled life. It’s not as troubled as some, and I make sure to remind myself of those going through the same or worse – pain is valid – but it has hurt, and at times I don’t feel worthy of the good thoughts and things.

      Perhaps I’ve done the vulnerability wrong. Three Ways is quite expansive on some actual pains of mine, and going into it here – not in full detail – is quite above and beyond openness. But it’s what makes this writer, soz, author, and this blog is an exercise in what makes me tick. I only hope it’s not just a mere story but it reaches someone on a more visceral level.

      I don’t know what else to say. But this is an exercise I’ll come back to, even if I dull out and skip off into the wilderness – another thing of mine. Three Ways is a story I’ll just finish and get out there. Mister Side Project is hopefully  one I need to get out there. And just maybe I can grow in this relationship – well, that’s more than a maybe, things are great there.

       ‘Til next time, Happy Easter, whatever your Easter may be, have a good one!

      T.M.

For a Good Book, It's Kinda Bleak In Parts

      Hi guys,

      You know Hosea’s gonna be bad when chapter one, verse two features the instruction “go marry a whore.”

      I’ve been reading the prophets for Lent. The Bible quiz said I should dive in to the Good Book... Okay, the older part of the Good Book... Alright the bit better known as The Good, Bad, and Ugly book, emphasis on the ugly.

      So far out of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel, it’s lots of the sword, famine, and plague, idolatry likened to adultery (and vivid promiscuity for epic Egyptian dong in Ezzo).

      Such a colourful bunch, and quite a preachy bunch. Issy went naked for three years. Jezza prophesied for twenty odd years, after which he was kidnapped and dragged to Egypt. Nice holiday? Nope, Egypt copped a spray of incoming wrath. Mic, dropped.

      Ezekiel? Tied himself up on his right side for a couple of months, left a couple, eating food cooked over poo. Um, yummo? Oh, and the best bit? Told by God he won’t be listened to. Still went dope on the mic, still dropped it.

      Welcome to my faith. No, I’m not going to convert you, but I’ll save you the read of said prophets, though: “Stop that infernal pagan stuff, we’re gonna get wiped big time, but it’s gonna be sweet after, you’ll see!”

      So, how did I get here? I was pretty much a science, logic, “smarter than holier thou,” atheist whose first hope at fame is a fantasy where the pagans fight off Christian invaders. Well, except for the voice behind my ear that saved my life at 18, a voice I just knew I could trust.

      Yes, I had an experience that I couldn’t explain. Then four years ago, I had one you’d probably (correctly) put down to going off my meds and not sleeping for three days. Long story short, I wound up strapped down, sedated, and held overnight in hospital. And a day later, I rocked up to church.

      I’ll keep it as a story for another time, but as it so happens, that latest book of mine which explores the part of me I would put on hold in a relationship, became exploration put on hold for my chosen religion.

      Prophetic? Umm, maybe? I don’t know, things can work out in ways you wouldn’t expect, or might not find out unless you find God mathematically by answering that age-old conundrum, dividing by zero. Let’s just say that and a branch of metaphysics blew my mind... And could potentially blow yours, or someone else’s.

      I’ll save that formula, lesson, and story for another time. The only Lentmassy thing I’ll ask of you is, if you can, go give $10 to a charity; or, if you do need the help, don’t be afraid to approach one.

      Hopefully peace unto you all, and have a good one!

      T.M.