That’s Amazing

I woke up in an emergency room feeling groggy. I noticed the police officer in the room and said “Hey, cop. Screw you.”

He replied, “Hey, I may have just helped save your life and I don’t appreciate you talking to me like that.”

I apologized to the officer and tried to figure out what was going on. My stomach had been cleaned out – I think by being administered something to induce vomiting. I was told I had nearly drunk myself into a coma that night. I was 15 years old.

My parents were out of town and I had a party at the house. We pooled our money and obtained various liquors. I just didn’t know when to stop drinking. It was raucous so the police showed up. I was taken to the hospital in an ambulance.

I didn’t slow down after that. I smoked, ate, drank, or snorted any substance I came across that would get me “high.” I loved methamphetamine. LSD was my favorite. I was not fond of reality and sought to escape it permanently. Eventually, I determined I would die before age 20.

“What happened with my happy little boy?” That’s what my mom said. My parents couldn’t figure out what had gone so wrong.

What caused my decline would be quite obvious to an outside observer, but it has taken me a long time to see it clear enough. I listened to Bill Reel’s “Interview With Morris” this morning and thought about my experiences.

I grew up on a farm in Utah. I was under 8 years old when I found porno mags in a haystack. Really? Yes. It was other places, too. The neighbor boy coaxed me into doing things.

When I was in the 9th grade, I started smoking pot. I have been asked why. Well, it made me feel better. It made me ignore the sense that I was fundamentally flawed. Why would I not want to do that?

My life started turning around when I had a “bad trip” on LSD. Jesus rescued me. After my mission, I fell into a depression and saw a therapist. I told him about some experiences I had with the neighbor boy. The therapist said, “Since he was only one year older than you, it was not sexual abuse. It was ‘child sex play’.” His tone told me to shut up and quit worrying about it so I dropped the issue.

Over a decade later, I now want to tell him, “Thanks for putting a label on my experience. It really helped me get over the pain. Here’s a label for you: ass. I can’t believe you were more concerned about avoiding a police report than you were about helping me. I still suffer every day! The kid was bigger than me – the toughest kid around. I don’t care that he was only one year older!”

Mom, that’s what happened to your happy little boy. I’m sorry you didn’t know.

I am not angry with Heavenly Father. Everyone has stuff. I can say “Oh, Morris, I’m so sorry you went through that, brother. I can empathize.” I would prefer to have not had those experiences. I wish no one else did, and that there were no need for such empathy. But this is mortality.

Jesus can empathize with everyone. For anything. That’s amazing.