When I was a kid, the thing that scared me the most in life was death – the primal thought of ceasing to exist upon the exhale of your final breath.

It would keep me up at night, the thought of nothingness after filled me with terror and fright. 

I wanted to live forever and purge those dark thoughts with the purity of the morning light.

As I grew and experienced more of mankind’s plights, the single thing that lost it’s shine was life.

The evils of humanity contrived, stealing away the beauty of the dawns early light – leading to days now filled with fright. 

I now only see the dangers I’m exposed to if I continue to breathe. Maybe death is the light at the end of the tunnel; the final reprieve.

I hope one day to rediscover the warmth of light – washing away this fear of life before death finally embraces me.

I lay this at the feet of humanity as my final plea. 

Stop the darkness.

End the suffering.

Stop the pain.

Return the light.

And banish the Fear of Life in me.

I wondered if the jars on the shelf are as empty as the jar in hand, and what happens when all the jars are discarded only to reveal a cupboard barren?

Will I then feel as hollow as I knew I was all along – or is that a vacuous emotion as well?

Maybe the emptiness is too far gone?

Empty of emptiness, absent of something and the presence of nothing.

A medicated nihility – lacking of lows and completely devoid of highs.

No more fear of tomorrow’s empty hellos or pointless goodbyes; a void husk of vacancy goes to a place where all things die.

All this to only learn that the yearning to feel nothing has left me barely alive.

Every once in a while I feel an emotional break, the dam holding the darkness inside gives way.

A cascade of sadness and self designated worthlessness leads the wake.

You see a steely stoic demeanor, but as soon as you turn away – the tears will flood my face.

Constantly thinking of other’s needs and attempts of inclusion – Friends appear to be an illusion to placate.

Surrounded by smiling people, but it’s nothing truly meaningful. I’m not good enough without change, as person I called “brother” attacks me with their faith.

Even for a friend I was willing to relocate, but now that I’m here – I unknowingly did something for them to alienate.

On a day like today, I truly wonder if the world would notice if I wasn’t here, or would it even care if I had the strength to show it the tears streaming down my face?

I apologize to my readers. I have been struggling with several life changes and events. The adjustment to those changes and events have been daunting and then combine that with spending the majority of my free time on the book – proof reading – rewriting – proof reading again (rinse, cycle, repeat); time has escaped me, and the excuse of “Life” has reared its ugly head into view again.

Well I am here to make it up to you. I am going to share the first chapter of the book with you. It is a very raw rough draft, and it brings to light some of the darkest things in my memory. Most of it is true, with some added details to bring lines together in poetic form… it’s not for the faint of heart… if you are not comfortable with the deepest of buried skeletons, turn away. You’ve been warned.

Oh and if you spot any grammar errors punctuation, please let me know!

Chapter One: Forsaken

One of my earliest memories alive, in dry Texas heat and night time had finally arrived.
Maybe a child of four, locked in a bedroom of a trailer that was a single wide.

Laying on the floor with a plastic pumpkin Halloween bucket of months old candy was sometimes all there was to eat to survive.

I shared my candy with the mouse that lived in the wall until he was trapped, poisoned, and died.

That mouse was my only friend and I would talk to him for comfort when I would hide.
It was nice to not be alone because in the dead of the night – the violence would come alive.

I can hear my mom in the other room being beat; bruises and black eyes.
I close my eyes only to envision fleshy wounds being cut wide.

I’m scared.

The feeling of enviably crawls and nips at me.

I know what is coming next.

In mere moment it would be my time.

The concept of praying wasn’t foreign to me and with God still on my young impressionable mind, I’d close my eyes like we did in church and ask for help between the sobs of my cry.

The sounds of violence – the screaming pain, the sound of fist on bloody flesh has stopped.

What happened to mom – has she died?

I’m so scared.
I’m so alone.
Deeper in the corner of the room I climb.
The footsteps are coming now.
They come to an abrupt stop at my door.
I cower in my corner as my ears are filled with a metallic grind.

It was the mechanical releasing of the hook latch from the outside – the thing they used to keep me locked away inside.

I can’t escape.

The door slowly opens with a creak.
An imposing figure walks to my corner and stands over me.

“Look at me”, the monster speaks.

Trembling, I look up and I see him.

A twisted face with cruel eyes behind clenched teeth and my mom’s blood is splattered all over his white Tee.

The monster is the biggest man I’ve ever seen, an evil giant that towers over everything.
The world goes black as his hand connects with my cheek.

I prayed, why did God forsaken me?

Some days later I came home from Pre-K and the trailer door was wide open.
Knowing it should always be closed or I would really get beat – I hurried to the door as fast as my little legs and feet could carry me.

I made to the door wearing a giant backpack, I’m sure for any spectator it was a sight to see.

As I climb the metal stairs, I’m counting like I learned today.

One!
Two!
Three!

Mom I’m home!

You’ll be so proud of me!
I can count to ten! What a feat!

Now I am inside with the door closed to my relief, but only silences came to greet.
I searched to left, passing through the living room.
No one is here, did they abandon me?

I keep hearing strange noises, but I am losing my courage to go look and see.
I hear the soft wheezing of an exhale in labored efforts to breathe.

It sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen and as I pass the garbage, it’s full of strange magazines.
I stop and look.
I’m so confused.
The pages show men without clothes and the same with ladies.

I move in to the kitchen, shaking the pictures from my memory.
I never did forget them, or the next unsightly scene.

There mommy lays on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood.
Her eyes are open, staring into space.

I don’t understand.

I’m right here mommy, why do your eyes look right through me?

Why are her eyes hazy?
As hard as I try to stir her, she does not respond to my pleas.

I am brave I tell myself.

My mommy needs me, but what am I supposed to do?

I know!

I need to call that number they teach.
It’s Nine-One-One I tell myself.
Or at least, I think.
There is a problem, they corded phone is on the wall and no matter how hard I try – it remains just out of my reach.

I run out of the trailer – I know help is what I seek.
Continuing up the dusty drive there is a big house, but no one is home.
I yell for help through my sobs but there are no responses, not even a peep.

I ventured past the cattle gate, there’s nothing to the left or to the right as far eyes can see.

This is the furthest from the trailer I have been on my own.
Knowing if I go any further, I will get beat.
I don’t care anymore – mommy really needs me.

I decide to go left and I walked along the empty highway for an eternity as it seemed.
I finally came across a lady in a flower bed – pulling weeds.

She sees me approach.

I’m scared and I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, but my mom – I’ll do my best to be strong for her.

Through streams of tears I try to explain.

Not knowing what to tell her, I don’t think I have the words to explain.
I stick with three words I do know;

Help.
Mom.
Please.

Her facial change signifies she understands.
“Come with me inside Sweetie” she says as we enter the house.

She motions towards the couch and directs me to take a seat.
“You poor little boy, I can only imagine how exhausted you are from walking in this Texas heat.”

She walks to the cupboard and pulls out a plastic cup and then calmly fills it with water from the sink.

She returns, handing me the cup.
My hands are shaking and I spill half of it right down the front of me.

I’m so afraid, normally for accidents I would get beat.

She just laughs.

I feel a strange feeling internally, I don’t quite understand – this feeling of relief. With a smile the lady walks to the phone, picks it up and then dials the police.

When the police arrive, I’m still panicked.
I find the SUV with all the lights and sirens exciting, proving momentary relief.

The officer gets out of the car and approaches the nice lady.
I can see they are talking and she keeps motioning towards me as she’s explaining.

After a few minutes, the officer calmly walks towards me and flashes me a smile and he stops in front of me, slowly taking a knee.
With a slow Texas drawl, he asks “Son, where do you live?”

I’m so far from home so I shrug and point toward the general direction in which I walked from.

“Where are your parents?” Mommy… help, I tug at his sleeve.

Internally I’m thinking – just follow me please.

The officer makes a quick movement towards me as he stands, I flinch and cower at his feet.
“Ah son, there’s no need for that. You are okay.”, but I just wait there like a dog about to be beat.

A little slower this time, the officer bends over and scoops me up and is carrying me to his police car and then gently places me in the seat.

We are now driving down the road back towards the direction I pointed.

“When you see something that reminds you of home, let me know please”.

I’m so young that I don’t quite understand the concept of time but I am sure the minutes click by five, ten, to fifteen.

The fear starts to trickle its way in.

I’m afraid, what happens if I miss the gate? What if I can’t tell him when I see it?

Wait! There it is!

It’s a wide steel gate, rusty with remnant paint blotches of blues and greens.

The officer sees me point and hits the brakes and we come to a stop with a screech.

We turn down the long dusty drive and cruise past the big house and on up to the trailer. We come to a stop as the dust plume engulfs us.

I reach for the handle, but the door is locked.
Tears spring forth, I point.

Help Mommy Please.

My mommy is alive in the hospital, but now I’m left alone with the monster every night.

I’m so scared.
I’m so alone.
Deeper in the corner of the room I climb.
The footsteps are coming now.
They come to an abrupt stop at my door.
I cower in my corner as my ears are filled with a metallic grind.

It was the mechanical releasing of the hook latch from the outside – the thing they used to keep me locked away inside.

I can’t escape. I close my eyes, bow my head and pray. I’m crying, Please help me!

“Look at me”, it speaks.

The world goes black as its hand connects with my cheek.

As I come to there’s so much weight I’m underneath.
I’m face down on the bed; my small body is shaking back in forth.
Someone is on top of me.

I can smell the stale beer and cigarettes on its breath – it reeks.

I feel something inside that shouldn’t be followed by a grunt.
There is so much pain. I cry, but no one can hear.

Somebody help me – Please. God? I need you…
And that is how the ending of my innocence came to be.

I prayed, why did God forsaken me?

Darren Deason 1/8/2021

Just wanted to write a bit of an update as I’m aware it has been a little silent on my front. My writing time has been primarily dedicated to a book. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, I am writing a book. Hopefully it doesn’t suck *shrugs*. Joking aside as of now the book doesn’t have a set title, instead I’m just code naming it Project Forsaken.

My vision for this book is pseudo-autobiography in the style of an epic poem. The goal is to touch events in my life that have really culminated into who I am as a person today by diving deep into the darkness that life tends to provide. The hope is that we all can move forward in eliminating the stigma behind not just mental health in Men, but truly creating and encouraging open talks about some very serious and damaging topics for all.

How can we move past and grow from events if it appears not to be acceptable by societal standards?

How do we address the pandemic of mental health in our country if no one is brave enough to be the face of the battle?

We have to do this together, and my hopes within this book is the empowerment of others.

I love you all. Thanks for everyone’s support on this blog, and also those whom know me personally; y’all are the foundation in which I continue to build on. Let’s do this!

A wise woman once said to me, you are the company you keep. Her seventy years of life experiences should have made me stop and think, but a few nights later I found myself with a rough crowd that really liked to drink.

A night on the town and a couple of frat boys acting tough at the beach. What should have only been a small scuff turned into a full scale throw down – up until the cops showed up and started knocking all of us around.

Man, I ended up in the back of a cop car headed to the jailhouse downtown.

The following morning upon my release, there stood my grandmother wearing a scowl.
And yes – if you’re wondering, she most definitely wasn’t pleased.

With a shake of her head “next time I’ll have them throw away the damn keys. One of these days Darren, you’ll actually listen to me.”

That ride home the silence in the car was beyond deafening.

I know you’re upset, that’s easy to see.
I know you’re disappointed, but this silence is killing me.
Don’t make me ride all the way home carrying this grief.
I swear I’ll listen this time.

Just say something, please.

Later that year I found myself luck with the ladies. I was home on a long weekend away from the military and I brought home with me my -then- current fling. We were staying at my grandmother’s house and she wasn’t impressed when she caught us in a risky act of intimacy.

She shook her head and turned away.

“When your finished, I’ll be in the kitchen come talk to me.”

I washed up and put fresh clothes on, not knowing what my grandmother would say or how things would be. I knew she was disappointed, but I couldn’t just walk away or leave. So I walked to the kitchen and there she sat at the kitchen table with a bag of tobacco and a cigarette rolling machine.

She looked me in the eyes and said “look around Darren don’t you see, where is your mom? Just like her when you were conceived, you’re much too young to risk having a baby – accidentally. Just be safe and please, just for once listen to me. There are other things than just the risk of babies too, you could even catch an STD.”

With a slight smile, “you need to make sure she’s the one, because dealing with a broken heart ain’t easy.”

A year later I was still with that same girl, but now she was pregnant and our relationship was quickly deteriorating. Grandmother’s words came to fruition when that girl ended up cheating on me.

Man, if that didn’t sting.

That level pain and heartache is debilitating so I decided on something extreme. Suicide isn’t something to take lightly, but with a noose in hand and a broken heart I wanted to take the jump and let my body swing. I ended up on the floor, weak and defeated – effectively being brought to my spiritual knees.

In that moment I realized only one person in my life would have cried for me. Finding my strength, I dialed her number and when she answered I explained everything. The moments after dragged on forever with the silence on the line becoming deafening.

I know you’re upset. I know you’re disappointed, but this silence is killing me. I swear I’ll listen this time.

Grandmother say something, please.

Life seems to have a cruel sense of humor because I now understand the biggest lessons my grandmother tried to teach me; It’s a few years too late but damn it if I didn’t miss the moments – to say something.

All these years later, I now see the wisdom in the times words were left unsaid and it’s meaning. I thought the silence was to hurt, but it was meant as an opportunity – to formulate an constructive response after deep objective thinking.

I know now only a wise woman could have succeeded in raising me and after thirty two years I finally have an understanding. I love her and I sometimes imagine how proud she would be, but now only in my dreams do we get to speak – she’s been gone since 2017.

If you love someone, take time to understand each moment and what direction to lead – to objectively or subjectively think, just don’t miss your opportunity to say I Love You by taking too long to say something – please.

Darren Deason 07/08/2020

I know it’s been a little since I’ve posted any new material, I have a few things in the works that I need to wrap up and finalize prior to publishing on the blog. I apologize to my readers! Now to my update!

In between extremely busy work weeks, I was able to go home to Jacksonville and visit with friends and family. I also stopped and visited a good friend that lives outside of Charlotte. We worked on my car a bit, did a transmission flush, installed a cold air intake, and opened the gap on the spark plugs. After we drove around and enjoyed the huge car scene that Charlotte has and we stumbled upon a few car meets. Walking around and socializing with fellow gear heads gave me an idea of starting an instagram account for the car to connect with others that share the same hobbies. You can check it out on IG at consensual_induction.

While in Jacksonville I visited a few friends and visited with my Mother, I also was able to go out to dinner with my Aunt and Uncle. Everyone is doing great despite the Corona Virus and Protests. Leaving home has saddened me though in hindsight because I didn’t do something that I really wanted to do.

Some of you may have realized that I had a really strong relationship with my grandmother whom passed away in 2017. I wanted to visit her and my grandfather’s grave, but I couldn’t find the emotional strength. I am ashamed of myself for this because I left a lot of things left unsaid before she passed. I should have told her how much she meant to me, how much her love and influence shaped the man I am today. I missed that opportunity and I firmly struck out by not visiting her grave. Like a lot of people, I let time get away from me at the excuse of “life”.

My grandmother was a wise and strong woman, and she taught me a lot of lessons. Some I listened to her, others I had to learn the hard way to understand the validity of her words. She never lost faith in me and loved me, even when I fell face first due to my own hubris.

Some of those lessons led me to writing a new poem called “Say Something” which I’m actively working on finalizing with a target posting date later this month. I know that’s a little bit away, but I have some other BIG things I’m working on too!

I’m in the process of trying to launch a business with the intention of combining my love for cars and my desires to help others.

The target is to bring awareness to Veteran Suicide and to help them in transitioning from military to civilian life.

I’m naming it Machines of Valor.

End goal is to build custom vehicles with military influences on painting and customization and then auctioning or raffling them off and using that to assist that transition from Active Duty to Civilian Veteran.

I have started a go fund me account under the same name. I have also applied for the VA Vocational Rehab program, it allows me to find help establishing a business plan and giving me other tools to be successful.

If you’d like to be a part of this, please reach out to me. I’m open to ideas, direction, feedback, and constructive criticism in lieu to donations. You can message me through here or email me at majordeason@yahoo.com or if you wish to donate (not expected at all) you can follow this hyperlink: https://gf.me/u/x8qvhm

You may have to copy and paste the link into your browser.

Thank you for reading, thank you for your time as well because time is something you can’t get back. I love you all, stay safe.

-Darren

The absence of mother’s love.
A father that wasn’t in present in my life at all, or remotely long enough.
Step father rendered a sharp knife instead of love and it cuts.
Amounting wounds flayed wide that never healed, despite me biting the stick and sewing them shut.

And then I had you.
The lone saving grace gone too soon.
An angel gone from my life and the world too.

I’m afraid. I’m all alone.

I’m afraid of this thought.
This idea of being alone.
Surround by people that say they love me.
Secretly facing this fear everyday coming home.

You’re in my life here and now, but someday I know they will leave.
By death, by choice, or by me being me.
Everyone leaves me. Here’s how, you’ll see.

Some stay long enough for me to fuck it all up, but no one stays long enough for me to get it right.
Some pass through – a wayward traveler searching for their next curiosity.
Then stealing off into the night.
Some leave me behind because life has sniffed out their light.

It’s only a matter of time, before my inability to open up and truly love will chase you out of my life too.

Or my biggest fear, you’ll be taken from me once I do.

Once more you’ll all be gone and I’ll be alone.
I’m afraid and I hate this albatross picking at my bones.

Darren Deason 02/11/2020

I don’t know if you’re still alive.
Do you even care if I’m still breathing?
Yeah, you taught me a lot of lessons.
To cause me everlasting pain was their meaning.

I needed a strong father figure but instead you gave me a strong hand.
Definitely not a strong helping hand, but one that knocked me down…
Again and again.

I remember coming home from school, trying to get away.
You were sitting on the steps to the porch and I could tell you were in a mood.
High, eyes red and probably didn’t sleep all day.

“Come here boy”, I heard with a cringe.
I approach head down, submissive waiting for the moment you’d come unhinged.

I must have not said “yes sir” quick enough. Or was it too meekly and too quiet like a mouse.
The words you told me then I’ll never forgive. “You’re just a guest in this house”.

And I’ll never forget the times you’d beat me for things from a drunkards mouth.
If I was lucky you’d only just grab the paddle, you know the one you cut out from the siding of grandma’s house.

You’d grab me violently and tell me to drop my pants south.
That’s not even the worst. On the days you were angry I’d have blood running from my mouth. And lets not forget all the times you choked me out.

Your hands would squeeze my neck like a noose and I’d pass out. Wake up on the ground, look around but too afraid to move about.
I wasn’t a person or a son, just a punching bag for you to use. Someone to raise your voice at, intimidate and shout.

All the physical abuse couldn’t compare to the emotional though.
You in the carport, gun barrel in mouth. This scene all through the eyes of only a twelve year old.

A drunken argument between two adults and suicide romanced.

.357 Smith and Wesson revolver in hand.
You shouting “I’ll kill myself Stacee, do you understand!?”. Showing no fear, I run down the wooden steps and grab your hand. “Don’t do it Dad, I love you”.
That’s what you meant to me at age 12.
I know I didn’t mean shit to you then, now at 32.

Darren Deason 01/10/2020

Here I am again on this old bar stool.
Broke over the fact she doesn't feel like she use to.

I drive to you through the driving rain.
To the very same bar, feeling this exact pain.

I know it only seems like I call on you when there is no one else that cares.
I get played a fool and yet here you are to provide your fare.
You give me 90 proof and she needed 90 reasons to stay.

I know its early and I probably shouldn't, but I press you to my lips anyway.
You get me over the the things I couldn't and the comfort of your warmth feels great.
You give me 90 proof.
She needed 90 reasons to stay.

Oh I wish love was like whiskey.
Because like whiskey love is suppose to get better with age.
Whiskey tends to mellow and stay.
Now the loves gone more sour than the whiskey mash.
From Jack Daniels and Scots Grey, taking a trip overseas and gone away.

You give me 90 proof.
She needed 90 reasons to stay.

On this bar stool I'm getting closer to Tennessee by the hour.
Hell, I might end up in Scotland shooting these Whiskey Sours.
On this bar stool trip, I'll find me a sad song and crank it up louder.

Yeah, I wish love was more like whiskey because she needed 90 reasons to stay.
And whiskey gives me 90 proof everyday.

Darren Deason 11/27/2019