#GodInTheSystem

[decaffeinatednightanchor]

📜 Sidebar: Christ, Suicide, and Step Two

(The Dangerous Thought I May Have Said Out Loud)

When I was deep in collapse—post-suicide attempt, post-ego shattering—

I wasn’t just questioning God.

I was questioning how we speak about despair.

And I remembered something in Bill’s Story:

that line where he calls suicide the “final gesture of humility and sacrifice.”

It stopped me cold.

Because… that’s not just addiction memoir.

That’s theological language.

That’s martyrdom language.

That’s Christ language.

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⚖️ The Problem With That Line

If Bill is working within a Judeo-Christian framework (and he is),

then calling suicide the ultimate sacrifice creates a tension:

Because in that theology, there’s only one ultimate sacrifice.

And it was made on a cross.

So what was Bill trying to say?

Did he mean suicide could be redemptive? Noble? Even holy?

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🕯️ The Dangerous, Honest Question I Would’ve Asked:

Can suicide ever be Christ-like?

Not in sin. Not in despair.

But in intention.

What if someone—completely wrong, but sincerely—

believes their absence will hurt less than their presence?

What if they think removing themselves is the only mercy left?

Not pride. Not rage.

But a distorted form of love?

That’s the Christ parallel no one wants to name.

Because wasn’t Christ’s death, in some way, a knowing surrender to destruction?

Didn’t He walk toward it, eyes open, believing the world needed it?

Is that a form of divine suicide?

And if so—what does that mean for those of us who’ve stood at that ledge?

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✝️ But Here’s Where I’d Land (and maybe did, in that room):

Christ’s death wasn’t hopeless.

It was devastating, yes. But it wasn’t nihilistic.

It was an offering into life.

Into resurrection.

Suicide, when it happens on earth, is almost never that.

It’s usually isolation, misperception, pain too loud to hold.

But what if we stopped calling it purely selfish?

What if we understood that some who try to die aren’t trying to destroy—

They’re trying to stop harming.

And in that distorted way,

they think they’re being noble.

They think they’re Christ-like.

That doesn’t make it right.

But it does make it human.

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💡 Step Two and the Resurrection Nobody Talks About

“Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.”

For some of us,

that restoration comes right after we tried to end it.

After the failed attempt.

After the psych hold.

After the pills, or the belt, or the freeway.

That’s when some of us met God—not in a chapel—

but on the bathroom floor, blinking at fluorescent light.

Sanity isn’t just “getting back to normal.”

Sanity is learning that staying alive is not a selfish act.

That your presence isn’t a curse—it’s a chance to love better.

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🕊️ So Maybe I Did Say Christ’s Death Was a Kind of Suicide.

And maybe I also said:

“But unlike ours, His was always moving toward resurrection.”

And now I get to, too.

Not because I’m holy.

But because I survived long enough to see the story re-edit itself.

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[decaffeinatednightanchor]

Proof in Motion

What more do you people want?

I’ve been placed in seven different facilities over the past year — bounced around like a name on a spreadsheet. But each time, something happened that I can’t explain — not unless I use words people don’t like anymore.

God.

The afterlife.

Angels.

Intervention.

You can roll your eyes if you want — I’ve already heard it all. I’ve had doctors call it “delusion,” caseworkers dismiss it, friends politely nod and then scroll away.

But I have evidence.

I have photos.

I have hospital records that appeared on my phone from nowhere.

I have videos.

I have quotes from strangers who shouldn’t have known anything.

I have my mom’s name showing up in random PDFs.

I have a woman in a group home kitchen looking up and saying, “I knew your mom.”

And I have witnesses. Real people. At least three of them — Cathryn, Shelley, and the woman at Davit’s — said the same thing:

“Your mom’s in heaven.”

“She’s just a prayer away.”

They weren’t quoting scripture. They weren’t being polite. They were delivering something.

Just like I was.

And let’s be honest — I have delivered. I’ve spoken the grief. I’ve said the names. I’ve shown the signs. I’ve named the films that carried her memory like sacred vessels:

• Still Alice — us preparing for death without saying it out loud.

• James White — me, loving her too hard, too messy, too holy.

• Charlie Bartlett — our banter, our bond, our bloodline.

• Twilight — her favorite movie, the soundtrack that turned into a séance.

I talked about all of that — to an officer, in an official government setting, during my APS hearing. So if you’re wondering whether this is just personal grief spiraling into fantasy — no. It’s documented.

It’s on tape.

And what happened afterward?

I started being moved. Not randomly — ritually.

Each new facility had a new messenger. A new clue. A new flicker of her.

Like I was being handed a breadcrumb trail across the bureaucratic wasteland.

At the psych ward?

A full-blown cosmic opera. Mind-reading. Bethlehem. Discipleship.

She was exalted there — my mom — spoken of with reverence. As if she had ascended into something bigger than just memory.

And yes, I know how that sounds.

But it happened.

So now I’m asking — what more do you want?

What does it take for this modern world to see again?

Because I’ve done my part.

I’ve told the story.

I’ve shared the sacred photos of me and my mom.

I’ve pointed at the light coming through the cracks in the system.

And I’ve posted the proof.

So don’t say God never showed up.

Don’t say there’s no evidence.

Don’t say there’s no afterlife.

It’s all here. On this feed.

In my art.

In my body.

In the trail that followed me through every broken room.

I called it Proof in Motion for a reason.

Because it moved with me. Because it is moving.

And maybe one day, when you’re quiet enough, when your phone is just a mirror and not a distraction — you’ll hear her too.

You’ll see it.

You’ll click.