May 26th, 2010

I have days when the grief over how my brother is suffering overwhelms me. It feels like it’s almost impossible to go on. Taking a handful of pills which would let me sleep to the end seems preferable. I was at that point this past Saturday. I struggle with knowing that people I once thought had heart, thumb their nose at the immense hurt and simply DO NOT CARE. I blame a religious belief that teaches that only a few are chosen. I blame a so-called minister who claims God’s grace is not sufficient. I blame a religion that teaches it’s congregation that it’s okay to send threatening emails to a person they believe is not chosen.The email I received announced that “someone like me should have their eyes cut out and bleed to death through their eye sockets.” That kind of email, along with watching Rick slowly fade, drove me to seek help from a professional this week. I was reminded then that I am not the Messiah and that only God can handle this hurt. I was reminded that God does love me and my brother and nothing can ever take that away. I’m still sad, but it’s not as bad as it was. Keeping my thoughts on my writing and the Old West helps. I am working on Chapter 10 of the Custer book. And speaking of the Old West, on this day in 1874, John Wesley Hardin celebrated his 21st birthday in Comanche, Texas. He won heavily betting on horse races and finished the day by killing Deputy Sheriff Charles Webb. Hardin escaped the pursuing posse but his brother, Joe, and Bud and Tom Dixon were soon caught and lynched by townsmen. You got to love frontier justice.