A Dark Night of the Soul

By: Andy Miller

6/14/2020

Writhing in distortion, I ferociously rocked my head back and forth, hearing my neck crack and pop. It was a physical expression of the spiritual and mental distortion inside. I had sought to seek pleasure, it had left me high and dry, and while the few hours at the peak were fun, the fall was a sobering, life-changing experience. It was December 19, 2017 when I had come to experience the greatest darkness I’ve ever experienced. My shadow had increased tremendously and I was blatantly exposed to the darkness within, which protruded beyond the brink of disregard.

December 18th: and the story begins. My friend and I welcomed the night to be one of thrill and pleasure. I needed both in order to numb my mind, which was enveloped by the repugnance of waking into a nightmare, and each night returning to one. A true pleasure it was to decide if I’d prefer the nightmare of the day: stressors contained by the trap of balancing highs; or of night: of dreams I’d “wake up” in only to find I was still in the nightmare, just much more conscious of the demons, interactions, and sensations that filled my dreams.

The cocaine we attained gratified my need for dopamine, and the women at the strip club caught my attention as a simulation of the care and solace I yearned for; my friend brought validation to my decisions. It was a crisp cool night in December. The Colorado cold was dry, and not fierce. It was weather to appreciate, even if you hated the cold as much as I did. After a long day of work, the night welcomed me perfectly. I saw the lights of downtown Denver glitter as we approached that sensational carnival of my eye. My mind was switched to autopilot while I sat in my personal sphere of bliss and relaxation, for the time being. Upon arrival at the strip club, me and my friend Josh sat outside, in his slightly worn, black 2008 Dodge Ram, as we conversed freely over an 8-ball. The line of clean, white coke traveled smoothly through the rolled bill, off of the truck’s center console, and into my right nostril. It ran up my nose flawlessly, like an acrobat flipping in defiance to gravity. Through the air, swinging and gliding, and yes, the crescendo moment of it all, a flash of permissible pain to my brain from a determined snort, cueing the ecstasy of a standing ovation from the vivacious crowd within. My anticipation was gratified, like a child finally departing in the seat of the most sought after roller coaster; I was milliseconds away from the taste of the seductive narcotic at the back of my throat.

But, my night, my high, had to come to an end—unaccompanied by any of the vices which had aided me in distraction from the monster within. The morning of December 19th had approached, but the darkness was still there. I was dropped off by my friend Josh, scared to face what I had left at home, metaphorically and now literally speaking. I began to come down from the cocaine which had me once elevated in mind and energy. It left me with the bar of expectations raised and with the possibility of achieving a greater high, even further. A beautiful fairy in the night, teasing and dancing through the forest, out of my reach, drawing me in deeper and deeper, as she got further and further. She had lost me, and I lost my way back.

The door to my house shut behind me and a voice in my head began to intermittently laugh and punch out the words, “Where are you going to go now?” I made my way to the couch and quickly turned the TV on to try and zone out. Bouncing between “Slasher,” and “Black Mirror,” I struggled to swallow the muck trapped at the top of my throat, caused by my futile attempts to consistently snort back the cocaine residue in my nose. In vain I tried to breathe through my swollen nostrils. Every breath was inhaled with the thought of, “It would have been fine had you not done so much blow,” and every gulp was mocked by the word “almost.” Relief was a matter of time, I thought. But time! Time was in control, I could only wait and endure discomfort. I sat in the hands of merciless time.

On par with my chaotic thought-life, a memorable episode of “Black Mirror” was being played. A video game creator would draw in his employees, without their knowing, into his own virtual reality where they could not die. He strangled one of his subjects at the snap of his fingers--she would not die--just suffer. In his psychotic virtual world, salvation was nowhere in sight. Time and condition warranted this conclusion.

Discomfort and anxiety slung the door open, ironically, in order to make themselves comfortable in the throne of chaos within me. I couldn’t cool down, I couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t get away from my mind; I could only fall slave to my condition. Helpless, I began to willfully contribute to a conversation prompted by the devil’s helpers who latched onto my mind and swam through the veins of my spirit. I had welcomed in parasites who were not ready to leave, parasites who wanted to consume me. They were addicts, sucking the life out of me; as an addict myself, I could sympathize, however their drug was me--I did not like this.

Before we continue with the events unfolding, I must give you some context to the situation at hand. Growing up, I was introduced to Christianity through my mother at a young age, but commitment and devotion were absent. I did the dance as a younger child. I made the prayer and I attended church every so often too, but my dad, another dominant influence in my life, was an atheist, and furthermore the thought of “God,” to him, was ludicrous. With his beliefs and way of life came undeniable freedom. I was, by comparison to being with my mother, able to roam freely and do as I wished when I was with him, so long as murder and blatant crime were not apparent. As I was shuffled between my mother’s and father’s, I found that with my mom came Christianity and strict parenting, while with my dad came... neither. As a pre-teen, at my dad's, my friends and I would spend countless hours getting into mischief. Why? Well, as far I had put it together, “God,” was not there. It had led me to question my beliefs, and the authenticity of my claim as a Christian. I was a Christian by a prayer, as absent minded as it may have been as a child, but my life showed no indication of that. I realized that the idea of God was prevalent, and every so often would appear as evident in my life, but for the majority of my teens, God was not much more than a possibility, and a damper on the experiences of drugs and sex.

On with the night we go.

Those savage parasites and I had cut straight to the core of my internal conversation regarding faith quickly. I was coaxed into the thought of God while in torment. Looking to heaven I exclaimed, “God! I know I am not making it to heaven according to that book of yours!” Anger and despair forced their way into the crevices of my mind. There wasn’t enough room. My head was on the verge of exploding. “Do you truly love me? Because if you did I think you would’ve given my creation a second thought. If you knew I wasn’t going to heaven, why would you set me here to be condemned to hell?” I questioned.

As I was prompted by these remarks, I began to deeply analyze options between two foundations of belief. Either God was real or not. In my head I pondered: One possibility is that my belief in the metaphysical is bullshit and I can abandon faith and attempt to walk in indulgence, gratifying every need of my body possible—or opt out all together--that doesn’t sound bad right now.

Parasite 1 nagged, “Fall to your worries and concerns; find your salvation in permanent rest.” “That’s what you want anyways,” Parasite 2 snickered while feeding off of my dilemma. But then I thought, if heaven and hell are real, well then, I will have the opportunity to visit hell with no return and really discover what a life in hell is, lest this not be it. And what if I choose to believe there is no such thing as “God,” yet be unable to shake the reminiscence of conviction? What if I run with the faith of there not being a God to the end having never found salvation by my own hands and vices? While half in indulgence and half weighed by conviction, exhausting myself in every attempt to lose conviction, I could potentially come to judgement day dead in spirit and ready to be condemned... I could just run the hamster wheel in hopes of getting somewhere. Great.

In that moment, the walls came crashing in. I realized the questions I was asking and dealing with had to do with eternity. There was no escape, I was powerless to the containment of the infinite nature of time. I thought of the episode of “Black Mirror” I had just watched. I was a rat in a maze, with no way out.

“Run rat, run, run rat,” the two Parasites taunted. I began to pace, banging my head to express the excruciating pain I could not fully fathom. I subconsciously danced to the drums of demons as they ran circle after circle around me, faster, faster, in triumph they rallied. As they did, the weaker I became. My breath became shorter, my chest tighter, I had to throw up the sickening heat in my stomach, but I couldn't. I felt my heart pound ferociously and with every pound, my breath shortened. Boom, pant… boom, wheeze... boom, whisper… boom, gasp. Blood rushed to my cheeks and inflated my head like I was hung upside down. Like a sledgehammer swinging to drive a wedge through the channels of a log, pressure built and pressed into my temples. My heart then constricted, I felt every lost centimeter in the bind, exquisitely. I felt insects crawling as fast as my thoughts paced, with every step of their little legs being pricks of hot and cold flashes. I was sweating out my energy, falling into a state of physical deprivation. I was pale, the sockets in my skull sucked in my eyeballs.

I trudged out to my garage and grabbed my weed in hopes of peace. The sun was now out. I’d been up for nearly 24 hours. The beautiful light radiating from the sun made the hurt worse; shimmering it said, “If only you could feel the harmony I cast.”

The light breeze whistled, “If only you could feel as weightless as I.”

“Please, I don’t care what or who, just make it stop!” I exasperated. No answer, fine, I’ll do it on my own. In further consideration, I lit the bowl and inhaled expectantly. And voila… I felt… even worse.

Again, Parasite 1 chimed in: “You were better off beforehand. Congratulations dumb shit, you could’ve avoided this.”

“Fuck this,” I said. “‘God,’ you don’t exist, and the devil is bullshit! Leave me alone, leave me to myself, it’s all just a bunch of bullshit.” Serenity brushed by me, I felt totally in control, I had established silence for one moment. Then within seconds, like a grazing gazelle absorbing the claws of a lion, I was pummeled to the earth, forced into the position of submission I had felt. My body gave way, mirroring my spirit. I fell to my knees at the loss of something. I had felt the eviction of goodness.

Though I had been in torment, something deep, important and good, had been evident; I only came to know this by the loss of it. I could only pin it to being the loss of the presence of God. This was the only viable option I had from my upbringing. As it was, He respected my request for Him to leave, and I was left alone to deal with the demons who couldn’t care less to respect my wishes. It was one thing to become numb to blessing but quite another to say, “I do not want it, leave.” I weighed out the declaration I had made to God. I saw that I had abandoned hope. Was this choice set in stone, I asked myself in desperation, did you just lock your potential place in hell for good? I evaluated myself in the moment, reflecting on how drained I was, how confused I was... how alone I felt. Is this what hell is like? Does this even touch the surface of it?

Broken, and in need, again I looked to heaven. “Lord,” I whimpered… “Father... I repent. I do not know what I am doing, I don’t understand. I feel hopeless and lost. There is no way I can make it to heaven.” I was right, but to my surprise, peace fell upon me. Fear and anxiety were pressed out.

I felt cleansed. I was brought back to memories as a kid. Times when me and my brother would run laps in our driveway, laughing and yelling as if no one could hear, playing tag for hours. Or like the time I sat in my mom’s bed, asking my grandpa over the phone to tell me the funniest joke he knew. Times so simple, so joyful, so warm. Tears came due to goodness for the first time. As light reached into the proximity of my darkness, tears flooded my vision and wails of humility were sounded out.

The ears of my spirit were awoken, “Son, get up. You are home, you are with Me. I love you, I love you—you are loved.” Symphonic notes rang in my heart. “I will lead, and you follow,” said the voice. “When I lead, I will help you follow. We will get through this. You have Me. First, rest,” He declared. The words I heard were pressure-ridden, as were the voice of the demons I had faced, but this was not a pressure used to pulverize; this was the pressure of an endearing embrace.

No longer did my thoughts have the best of me. No longer was the burn of my nose, the lack of breath, the weight of anxiety, or the inability to swallow in control.

I had been overwhelmed by my shadow, cast by the light shining behind. I stared at my shadow, and the Son called to set my eyes on Him. So I have. Now, slowly, sometimes painfully, and in peace, I walk, and my shadow follows, to the destination where the sun shines and the shadow is no longer cast.

He said, “Let the shadow be, it is only temporary.”