Your Own Personal Jesus
Your Own Personal Jesus
Where the Sunbeams End: Chapter 10
I came out of the darkness to the sound of screams and moans. It took me a few seconds to realize the screams were my own.
The male nurse pleaded with me to sit still. I heard my mother’s voice and could see her sitting in a chair in my periphery. Her presence was a calming rain. My mind began attempting to retrace my steps as the nurse finished sewing up my forehead.
It was early morning when we left the hospital. The sun breaking across the valley skyline like God’s own flashlight, asking the question: What you been doing boy?
The news of my incident had seeped its way back home and by Sunday the church was saying a special prayer for me. I was obligated to make a phone call to my head coach because word of my drunken headbutt had spread through the campus. I was hoping he wouldn’t answer and I could leave a voicemail, but alas he picked up on the second ring.
I struggled for my words, beating around the bush, finally settling on, “Apparently, I guess. I was drunk and put my head through a van window.” The words on my own tongue shocked me. It wasn’t the whole truth. Perhaps I should have simply blamed the incident on the alcohol and stopped the boozing then and there, but I didn’t. Well I didn’t drink for a month or more, and I gave up the hard liquor for years, but I knew right away that there was something deeper that had been exposed. This dark place, a splinter in my mind’s eye.
It was the worst embarrassment of my life. I would have much preferred my own mother walking in on me masturbating than facing the reality of that night. For many friends and colleagues I am sure I will always be remembered as the drunk who smashed his head through a window.
~~~
It was my senior year of undergrad at Radford. November 30, my birthday. I was twenty-two years old and it felt like everyone had forgotten about me, I was alone. My uncle had just succumbed to cancer, my grandfather passed away a year before. I was sitting in my room. The room was simple. A single bed, a desk where I would work and piles of books stacked here and there. And there was a poster over my desk. A view of a tropical ocean, a small rocky island, and a boat. With the quote, “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”
I was crying, but my tears turned to laughter. There was a strangeness to the moment, almost a sense of awakening, reaching enlightenment.
It’s when the delusions truly started. It’s difficult to remember exactly what was going on in my head, but I still recall the chain of events following that moment. I was home within a few days.
I stood across the kitchen table from my father, trying to explain why I was leaving school.
“Life sucks,” he said.
In my mind life had never been so grand. Forget school and every single obligation. I was riding a wave.
The following day Mom and Dad went to work and Abby was off to school. I hadn’t slept much and the wave continued to build. I wrecked the house, smashed my laptop and pushed the T.V. off the hutch. I had never felt so insignificant and small. The world around me was expanding before my eyes. I believed that some greater force or entity was communicating with me through technology. It’s difficult to explain. Difficult to remember.
The Mazda was on empty, but I had to get over to her house. Her name was Brittany. She had passed away a few years before. I pulled into the driveway and got out, carrying books in my hand, one of them being a bible.
Her mom answered the door with a small dog by her side. She didn’t recognize me.
“I think Brittany is in a good place,” I said.
The only thing I remember her asking me was, “Are you suicidal?”
I stopped rambling for a few seconds.
“I’m not sure,” I finally answered.
She didn’t call the police, but she left. Explaining that she would get help. I wandered upstairs to what I imagined was Brittany’s room. I said a short prayer and then knew I had to leave. The car wouldn’t start.
I walked around in a frenzy of sorts. I got into her brother’s old car and tried to start it with my own keys. I finally gave up and made my way back to the house. I took out my I.D. and debit card and left them on the paved sidewalk. I went back inside and returned to Brittany’s room. Their small dog followed me as I laid down on the bed. I closed my eyes.
Then there were loud knocks on the door. I kept my eyes closed. The dog stayed with me. The police officers eventually let themselves in and found me on the bed. The dog was ferociously barking, protecting me. Brittany’s mother came up the stairs and called for the dog. The dog continued to bark as the police made their way over to the bed. My eyes remained closed.
One of the officers peeled back my left eyelid. I opened my eyes and sat up. There was questioning, but what lingers is the moment they asked me my name.
“My name is Peter Smetanick,” I explained.
The officer pushed the talk button on his radio, “He’s saying he’s Jesus Christ.”
“I’m Peter Smetanick,” I said again.
“Ok son, you’re gonna have to come with us.”
“I’m Jesus Christ,” I said.
“So your name is Peter Smetanick?” Asked the officer.
“Yes, I’m Peter Smetanick, my I.D. is outside.”
Another push of the button, “He’s saying he’s Jesus Christ again.”
“I’m Jesus Christ,” I tried once more.
“Ok Peter, you’re gonna have to come with us.”