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How Does It Feel to Be Dead?

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I would guess it would be immensely easier than the reality I see. I was asked by someone, “How does it feel to be dead?” I am of course above ground, but having a credit specialist at an auto dealer tell you that when she ran your credit you came up as deceased, all kinds of thoughts and feelings swirled in my mind and body. She said, “I assume you weren’t behind this? I guess that you would not be using a Social Security number of someone you knew was dead. This is your number isn’t it?” I was in shock, not literal shock, I know that experience too. I felt as if I had to pull my spirit back into my body. My heart and breathing both paused. That moment reinforced the idea that in difficult situations I disassociated, detached. I was told, at that time, they could not help me.

Some time later when I was able to process, the rage came up first. Rage at my father and sisters for going around telling people that I was never sick, unless it was mental. I never had cancer. I was never poisoned. My ex never molested my sons. I made up all those lies to hide the truth. According to them, and proposed by my father, was that the truth, the only truth, I am gay, and that I perpetrated those lies to distract others. I was looking for sympathy. I was looking for attention. I wanted people to feel sorry for me. That is their story.

Jayna, Corene, and Angela (a cousin) insisted that I quit blaming everyone else for who I am. They said nobody gave a damn if I was gay. I HAD TO admit it. That would have been all well and good, IF I believed I was gay. I don’t. In my mind, if they don’t care about what my orientation is, why do they feel they have the right to insist I admit it?

I was told that I was never poisoned, that my sons never were molested, and I had to quit telling people I had cancer, when I didn’t. I found it egregious that in one breath Angela told me that she didn’t even know me, then in the next that my parents never did anything to me, that if my sons had been molested, then why hadn’t the courts given me custody. It just went to prove that I am a liar, and I need to get over myself, if I want to keep people in my life. She said I was acting the way I was because I hated myself for being gay, and that I had no right taking it out on other people.


My mother’s youngest sister Sandra, too, had similar thoughts. She told me that she didn’t know me. She does know my ex-wife, however, they met once. Sandra told me that she heard the whole story from Andrea and she knew the truth. Andrea was said to be a good person and a good mother. Sandra knows that Andrea never did anything wrong to me. When I tried to help Sandra understand how painful it is to be violated, she responded back in an e-mail with blood red, bold caps. How does that strike you? I didn’t even read the hate. I simply responded to her that I was sure we would not be able to communicate, and that by the time she got the e-mail, ALL her contact information would be deleted. I would never speak to her again. I fully intend to keep that promise.

Jayna and Corene decided to get in the middle of my conflict with our parents. I had every right to be upset with them. They both insisted that I quit abusing our parents, that neither of them ever did anything to me, and that they both had been better to me than I deserved. I was told that no matter what trouble I caused, that I was always supported by the folks. I was called an A-hole repeatedly. I was called selfish, controlling, back stabbing, manipulating, hateful, and unappreciative. I always thought the world had to revolve around me. I was accused of always being in the middle of our folks’ marriage, that I did everything I could to try to tear the family apart. I was accused of never being happy, unless I was making other people miserable. I needed to grow up and take responsibility for myself and quit thinking that everyone owed me something. It is not their job to help me run my life, and come by and wipe my ass when life didn’t go the way I demanded. I had no right to think they were at my beck and call.


I knew exactly where all that came from, our father Joel. All his negative attributes were attached to my character. Everything he is was used to describe who I am. Am I perfect? I would say no. I have done things that I sincerely wish I had not. There are things I have said about others that I would rather have not felt the need to. In the end, I have to tell the truth. If others have no issue using lies to describe me, I feel I have the same right to use the truth.

What about being dead? Yes, it would have been immensely easier. In the process of fighting cancer, I failed to follow protocols for the cancer treatment I was using. I was told NOT to use the cancer salve in more than one spot at a time. I was terrified that if I grew unable to take care of myself, that I was up sh*t creek, as they say. It was a good thing that I wasn’t seeking sympathy, because I certainly never got any. At the time, I was parked on the sofa at my folks. It was unexpected, but it happened.

I certainly did not enjoy my stay. I was being verbally accosted by my dad daily about my orientation, my marriage, that I was interfering with his marriage, that I was lazy, and I knew he was bad-mouthing me to my siblings and my wife, every chance he got. I had more than one reason to want to get off that sofa. I applied the black salve to the spot below my navel, as I had been, then also on my shoulder, below the clavicle. I had to get better soon.

The salve draws cancer from the body, to the area where it is applied. Cancer cells travel through the blood stream and gather underneath the salve. The reason one never uses two sites is so the body is not confused. In my case, cancer cells were drawn into the blood stream and did not know where to go. They could travel to my stomach OR my shoulder, but which one? The cancer stayed in the blood flow.


I felt off, I went into the bathroom. All of a sudden my energy drained away. I sat down on the toilet and hollered out for my mother. I was aware that my body was falling forward, but I don’t remember hitting the floor. The next thing I remember was being crumpled on the floor, with my mother saying, “Mike?” I said, “yes?” She told me she was sure I was dead. As a nurses-aide she had never seen a person the color I was, and still alive. She said she prayed harder in those minutes, than she ever had. She said she asked Jehovah God not to let this happen, not to let me be dying.

My mother called Corene, and together they took me to the Manhattan hospital. I was admitted to the ER. I was hooked up to an IV, taken for a cat scan of my head. Blood was drawn and I could not hold liquids. Twice in two hours the nurse had to bring in a urine bottle so I could unload my bladder. Before I left, I was set up with a follow-up appointment with a doctor. I decided not to bother. That doctor treated me like I was some sort of lunatic. He said I was ill advised in my use of a “natural” substitute for a very “real” condition, and that he could have me arrested for practicing medicine without a license. I told him that as a citizen, even if I was crazy, I could mix cat urine and dirt, put it on my skin if I wanted, and there was nothing he could do about it. I was not going to tolerate threats from him or anyone else. I saw my condition as too serious to put up with any more crap. I had put up with my father’s abuse for a couple months at that point. I had also put up with threats from my wife and her mother. I was, so done.

I said I did not go to the follow up appointment. I also got an ER bill for over four thousand dollars. I had earned little more than that in that past year. I did not pay it. I was still ticked for being abused by medical “professionals”. I didn’t contact them in any way. I have to assume that when I did not pay the bill and they had my blood and urine samples, they listed me as deceased to account for the non-payment. Looking back now, it was just another example of others trying to force you to conform and be what they need you to be.


The other part of being listed as deceased that ticks me off is, that so-called family can insist that I was never sick. Somebody must have thought I was. I had nothing to do with listing myself as deceased. I had the means and the plan to make a real death happen whenever life got to be too much. For me, it’s time to tell the doubters to “SHUT THE HELL UP.”



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