The Furious Force of Binding Bullet Wounds and Disarming Self-Made Weaponry

This is a handwritten journal entry about my frustration with my own pride.
Just wanted to share. 


I see firsthand what pride, idolatry, greed, and vanity can do to people.  It causes us to (as if we are not the direct cause! how postmodern to relay the blame to external third-person lingo) manipulate a situation, to course-correct our own selfish behaviors by justifying and compensating for our angry outbursts with thousands of retcons and fanwanks and plot hole bandages, to wrestle control with stubby fingers and never admit we are wrong — as if wrongness is tantamount to losing the flag and giving up the fort.  So much overblown drama would crumble if we could simply say, ‘it’s my fault” — but this is too painful for many to bear.  It’s like surrendering a child to armed forces, handing over the keys and your badge and your gun — I cannot lose! I am own my own campaign manager! I refuse this inquisition of my ego!

No one enjoys frank self-awareness (everyone already hates frank — he’s never invited to cocktail parties and hipster shows) because it’s too threatening to examine the self. 

Imagine those movie scenes where the hero removes a bullet from his gut with rusty forceps and a discount lamp — he has to do it or he will die, and extracting the bullet is only the first step to healing.  He has to sew up, preferably with that semi-circular cat claw of a needle and fishing line.  He needs Vicodin and a wide-spectrum antibiotic and bed rest and Aquafina and — you know, he should probably look for another line of work.

Everyone hates this part.  Yes, it looks heroic and manly in movies.  But I cringe — because I don’t think I could do it.  I hate self-surgery and examining my motives and baring all before God.  I’d rather dig for the bullet than dig in my heart.  Physical pain is nothing like the spiritual stab of unveiling pride, dropping excuses, seeing my childish control games, and looking someone in the eyes to say, “I’m sorry and I’m wrong and please tell me how to make it right” — without adding the desperate death grip of “But.”

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