A little righteous anger...

So, I realize now it's been almost a month since I've posted anything.
It's not like nothings been happening since then, but my access to the Internet is limited and my will to simply write when I'm at home is thin at best.
I also realize that the blog seems to be as much about my faith, or lack thereof, as much as it is about my struggles with my addiction(s) and the damage left in my wake.
I returned to Massachusetts and am staying with a friend who is graciously allowing me to stay in exchange for helping him out around his farm.
I am humbled and appreciative of his help, but feeling very isolated from the outside world...my phone gets no service where I am and he has no Internet connection at his house.
This, as you might imagine, makes job hunting difficult.
I was, however, invited to interview for a small paper in Boston and spent a good part of the day taking trains and buses into the south end of the city. I arrived very early and found my way to a coffee shop to sit and read while waiting to head over at the proper time.
I neglected to bring the book I've been reading, so I fished through my bag and found my trusty Moleskine notebook.
This book was a gift from Karen, the woman I wronged and the mother of my son, for my 35th birthday. Since then this book has been written in, spilled on, lost, found, run over, found again and is still not full. It has random thoughts, story ideas, shopping lists, work notes, take-out orders and musings inside.
I rarely have gone back and reread it from the beginning, but with plenty of time to kill and nothing else to read, that's exactly what I did.
I read from the beginning, from the time before Connor was even born..through his birth, the low point of my menial job, before getting hired by a newspaper.
I read all of this and got to one section that made me stop cold.
"8/10/05 Connor, I saw you breathe today".
I saw that on an ultrasound about 3 weeks before he was born.
It was unusual because I can't recall any of the other entries in the entire book being dated..but that one was.
More than that, I grabbed my phone to confirm..it was the same exact day, four years later.
Now, when you take into account the convoluted set of circumstances that led to me looking at that particular entry in that notebook on that day..it's pretty damn staggering.
Which is where the crisis of faith comes in.
There are two possibilities here, neither are very appealing...at least not to me.
1)Either everything is completely random and uncontrolled. Life itself is nothing more than a complete crapshoot, completely absurd and every now and then these random elements line up and make a face of Jesus in a pancake or a cloud that looks like your dead Aunt, or makes you read through and old ratty notebook four years to the day after seeing your son (who, through your own foolish and selfish actions, lives 3,000 miles away from you and who you miss so much that his absence creates a never-ending ache in your heart) breathe.
OR
2)Something is in charge of all of this.
So...if #1 is true...nothing we do matters. if #2 is true then whoever is pulling the strings has a sick, twisted sense of humor and seems to get off playing elaborate and cruel practical jokes on us.
Now, I have said in the past that God and I are not on speaking terms.
That doesn't mean I don't believe in a higher power, it just means that I want nothing to do with him (her, it) and I would prefer that they leave me alone as well.
Driving home I had it out with whatever it is.
"Fuck you!" I screamed. "I am finished with you!"
I was boiling over with righteous indignation...how dare someone..anyone, I don't care what they are..fuck with people like that.
"When is it enough? When exactly are you finished fucking around with me? I can feel plenty miserable on my own...I can do a fine job punishing myself for the pain and suffering I caused...I do not need any help from anyone in that regard...if you're not going to help then leave me alone. Fuck You!"
So, since I don't believe in mere coincidence, I've managed to answer one of the great mysteries...at least to myself.
There is a God...he's just an asshole.