Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: resilience

  • Forgive the Darkness

    By Jamie McCarthy

    I used to think pain was a phase.

    Like acne or Gucci shoes.

    Something you grow out of

    if you drink enough water

    and pretend your parents didn’t screw you sideways

    before you had a chance to know what “boundaries” meant.

    But no.

    Pain’s the long-term roommate.

    It doesn’t pay rent.

    It just smokes your last cigarette,

    eats your leftovers,

    and laughs at your dreams as it takes the last bite.

    I’ve loved people I shouldn’t have.

    Hurt people who didn’t deserve it.

    And spent years thinking guilt was a personality trait.

    Turns out it’s just spiritual cholesterol.

    There was a time I thought I could out-run my grief.

    So I ran.

    Straight into a bottle of Crown Royal,

    my ego always leading the way,

    believing meaningless sex would cure me,

    and finding worse friends to somehow give me virtue.

    All of it, from this end, feels like a bad dream.

    And the American one?

    Just a scratch-off ticket with not a goddamn thing to scratch off—

    which doesn’t matter,

    since I don’t remember the last time I had a quarter in my pocket.

    But somewhere along the way, I slowed down.

    Not by choice.

    Knees cracked, knuckles busted.

    Friends—the good ones—passed on.

    The mirror stopped lying.

    And there I was—

    worn out, scarred up,

    but somehow… aware.

    It’s poetry—

    the moment you stop chasing what you thought mattered,

    only to trip over what actually does.

    I learned to say “I’m sorry”

    without adding “but…”

    Learned silence is sometimes louder than performance.

    Learned forgiveness isn’t something you get—

    it’s something you give,

    to others, yes,

    but mostly to the idiot I used to be.

    Now I’m on the back 9.

    Ball’s in the deep rough.

    And there are no mulligans after the first tee.

    And yet—

    somehow—

    I’m finally relaxed, swinging better than ever.

    Isn’t that the rub?

    We spend our youth running from the fire

    only to become the match that lights the way for someone else.

    So yeah, I’ve made an enormous mess—monumental mistakes.

    Unforgivable, if you asked the old me.

    But the new one?

    He’s got crow’s feet, a shorter fuse,

    and no interest in faking a smile.

    He’s lighter.

    Less righteous. Open-minded.

    And if the darkness still follows—

    I just turn and nod,

    “Come on then, bastard.

    You’ve earned the ride.”

  • Heavenly Invasion

    The gods—you can choose to listen or not, but you will hear me.

    God. A silence that leaves me sideways, and it makes no difference if all I get is indifference. I look up into the grey void, a guttural scream shaking the earth—

    “Where the fuck are you, you cruel bastard!”

    He pretends not to listen, like I’ve got my proverbial head in the clouds, but he knows. Knows what it’s like to lose a son. Knows the emptiness, the gut punch, the 24/7, 365-day guillotine choke around my throat.

    And if God is everywhere, like they say, then when I escape to meet Jack in a dream, that means he’s under the bed, listening. Listening to the cracks in my heart clattering onto the mattress.

    Is he sorry?

    I don’t give a damn. And I sure as hell won’t bother with a plea—I’ve been on my knees long enough.

    So, consider this a declaration. A warning.

    Grief blackened my heart, changed its beat—forever pounding out some new twisted rhythm of madness.

    My plan? To invade heaven.

    A place I once questioned, but this loss—this hole where my son should be—has me lacing up my boots, ready to stomp through those golden streets, kick down every door in the happy hunting ground until I find what he took from me.

    Is this war? Doesn’t have to be.

    But Dylan Thomas said, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’

    Well, fuck that.

    I won’t go quietly into anything. Not the night. Not the silence. And sure as hell not into some pearly-gated bullshit where I’m expected to nod along like a good little ghost.

    So when I come knocking, when I tear through those gates with grief as my war drum, you better be ready.

    Because I won’t leave without him.

     

  • FATHER SICARIO

    The streets pulse like open veins, black tar slick, the night a slow bleeding thing. Neon hums. Buzzing flies. A dealer on the corner licking his lips, pulling at his collar like he knows. Like he smells it. The reek of old grief turned to something else. Something with teeth.

    I move through the alleyways, pockets heavy with ghosts, fingers tapping the weight of the thing inside my coat. Not a gun. No. Something older. Something sharper. A father’s rage honed to the edge.

    And then there’s the voice in my head, Del Toro-cool, a slow drawl:
    Jack is gone.
    Jack is gone.
    Jack is gone.

    And someone has to pay.

    I remember the last time I saw his hands—calloused, taped up, always ready for a fight. But he never saw this one coming. Didn’t know the rules. Didn’t know the game was rigged before he even stepped in the ring.

    He was a fighter.
    This dead city made him a corpse.

    I light a cigarette, let the smoke coil in my lungs. The dealer sees me now. A flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition? No, not yet. But he will.

    He shifts his weight, sniffs. He thinks I’m just another buyer. Another lost man looking to fill the hole in his chest with powder and promises.

    But I’m not here to buy.

    I’m here to collect.

    I step forward, slow, deliberate, the way a lion moves before the pounce. He starts to speak—some rehearsed pitch, some poison-laced gospel—but I cut him off.

    “Shut your mouth. You’ve already said enough.”

    And then I show him.

    The steel. The weight. The cold certainty of a father who has nothing left to lose.

    His hands go up. Shaking. Sweat pools in the hollow of his throat. A scared animal now. His mouth moves faster than his brain, words tumbling out, desperate, sloppy.

    “I—I didn’t know, man, I didn’t know, I swear! I just—It wasn’t personal.”

    And then there’s the voice in my head, Del Toro-cool, a slow drawl:
    “For me, it is personal.”

    I press the blade against his ribs, just enough for him to feel the promise behind it. I lean in close, my voice low, steady.

    Miranda, pleading like an 8-year-old, who’s lost his blanket and thinks crying will bring it back.

    “I didn’t know!”

    I’m somewhere between uncontrollable rage and elation, but 100% locked in the moment.

    “Well, now you do.”

    His breath stutters. A whimper caught in his throat.

    I exhale smoke in his face, watch the fear seep into his bones.

    No prayers.
    No deals.
    No mercy.

    Only the reckoning.

    FATHER SICARIO (Del Torro Cool)

  • Last Man Standing

    I walk into a bar.

    Not a “mixology lounge,”

    not a “craft cocktail experience,”

    just a bar.

    A place where the stools wobble

    and the whiskey doesn’t need a citrus garnish or an approval rating.

    I take a seat.

    The bartender nods.

    He knows.

    I don’t ask for a menu.

    Don’t scan a QR code.

    I say “club soda and cranberry, neat,”

    because I’m here to rehydrate,

    not curate an experience.

    To my left, a guy swirls a drink

    that looks like it was made in a science lab.

    A woman to my right stares at her phone, checking for notifications that will never make her happy.

    The TV plays a fight.

    Real men bleed on the screen.

    No one apologizes for it.

    I exhale.

    “You good?” the bartender asks.

    “Better now.”

    Outside this bar,

    the world is drenched in apologies.

    Men say “sorry” before they speak.

    Before they order a steak.

    Before they hold a door open.

    Before they exist.

    They bend over backwards, twist themselves into apologetic pretzels just to prove they’re not like the bad ones.

    They’re “safe.”

    They’re “allies.”

    They’re “good men.”

    And in doing so, they’ve traded self-respect for a participation trophy in male guilt. And, potentially given the obvious away, these men aren’t trustworthy. Shakespeare would tell you same.  

    I refuse to participate in the virtue game. Maybe it’s better to let them know you are recovering.  Healing the guilt that comes with being masculine. Some would call it barbarism, I call it, science. 

    A woman sits next to me.

    “You alone?” she asks.

    “No, I came with my emotional support group.

    We just broke for snacks.”

    She smirks.

    A real one.

    Not a “haha, I hate you but you’re paying” kind of smirk.

    A flicker of genuine intrigue.

    She orders a drink.

    A real one.

    Not a “pink nonsense in a mason jar.”

    Not a “statement piece for Instagram.”

    I raise an eyebrow.

    “What, no oat milk?”

    She laughs.

    I laugh.

    And for a moment,

    we exist in a world before the noise.

    Before men became house-trained.

    Before attraction was a liability.

    Before everything we said

    needed a disclaimer.

    A world where men led,

    women challenged,

    and neither needed a corporate webinar to explain the difference.

    Outside, the world keeps spinning.

    The New Age Man is still waiting

    for permission to be masculine.

    The Diversity Committee is still

    conducting witch trials in the break room. And the Virtue Hustlers are still selling rebellion at a markup.

    Last man standing

    But me?

    I finish my drink,

    tip my bartender,

    and walk out into the night,

    unapologetic.

  • Well Preserved for the Funeral Home

    Most people will die with their bodies in damn good shape.
    Neatly kept, clean, like they were waiting for the mortician all along.
    A few crow’s feet, maybe a little sag around the chin,
    but overall—good enough for the open casket.

    The funeral director will nod,
    “Looks just like them,” they’ll say.
    As if that’s some kind of fucking achievement.

    But then there’s us—
    The ones who didn’t treat life like a goddamn waiting room.
    We come in with screws in our bones, plates in our heads,
    scars running across our skin like crude roadmaps.
    We come in with cigarette burns, busted knuckles,
    wrinkles earned in back alleys, in bars, in love, in wars in octagon of life
    (physical, emotional, financial—pick your poison).

    Our hands don’t look soft because they weren’t.
    Our ribs might have been cracked, our teeth chipped,
    and our hearts—
    well, our hearts certainly don’t come in mint condition.

    No embalmer can fix what life did to us.
    No makeup can paint over the shit we’ve been through.
    They might try to sew up the damage,
    smooth out the years,
    but some things don’t hide.

    And maybe that’s the point.
    Maybe it’s better to arrive at the end,
    not looking like a goddamn mannequin,
    but like someone who actually lived.

  • HOPE IS A LIAR

    footsteps in the hall
    a trick of the tired mind
    hope is a liar

    #jackiemac4ever

  • Where I Buried the Brine and the Bruises

    Born pickled
    a bundle of brine,
    spit out with the pigs,
    stepped on, tossed aside,
    buried under the muddy rugs—
    the carpet chorus muffled,
    rolled up and stained with the slap of hands,
    wet dirt naming me sinner,
    naming me fool,
    while the silence screamed back.

    Junk on my hands
    but my fists stayed open—
    bound wrists,
    tight-rope veins walking the thin edge of despair,
    slippery slopes greased by whispers,
    shadows hoarding truths
    behind my spine.

    I dreamed of the bottom of the bag—
    hiding in burlap shadows,
    draped over my shoulder,
    the sack of sorrow dragged uphill.
    The sun was a dagger,
    its glare split my skull,
    its fire pushed me to the peak
    where the earth yawned open.

    And I fell.

    Down through the dirt,
    down to the roots
    that never asked forgiveness,
    that held the mud and called it life.

    I planted my name there,
    deep in the soil.
    The weeds forgave me.

    I sprouted new hands,
    climbed the hill backward—
    not to escape
    but to meet the sunrise
    and the bruised boy
    I’d left behind.

    I held his face in my palms.
    I said, “We are here now.”
    And he disappeared
    into the light.

  • Tightrope Act 101 

    I’ve spent my life on a tightrope,

    no safety net, no audience,

    just a dizzying abyss waiting below.

    The extremes tug at my ankles like rabid dogs—

    one side screaming “Perfection!”

    while the other whispers,

    “Why bother?”

    It’s not balance I seek, not really.

    Balance is for the zen masters,

    the kale-eating crowd with too much free time.

    No, I’m just trying not to fall,

    to not let gravity win.

    One misstep,

    and I’m back to licking the dirt.

    I sway between hunger and apathy,

    between the bottle and the book,

    between the lover who stays

    and the one who only pretends to.

    The rope wobbles like my convictions,

    weak promises I make

    at 2 a.m. and break by dawn.

    Some mornings, the rope feels too tight,

    cutting into my feet and bleeding regret.

    Other times, it’s slack,

    a lazy threat, daring me to jump.

    But I keep walking,

    not because I’m brave,

    but because standing still

    feels worse than the fall.

    And maybe that’s the trick.

    It’s not about balance;

    it’s about motion,

    the forward stumble,

    the glorious, awkward shuffle

    that keeps me alive. 

    Subconscious Voice: (what a fucking bore)

  • Resilience

    Resilience

    I was just a piece of paper on a desk,

    blank and waiting for the ink-scars to dry

    A gust knocked me off, I spiraled, fell,

    landed on a Bukowski poem and stories of office kissing chaos.

    The cleaning crew even dumped us,

    Inside recycling bins we met The Rum Diary,

    Hunter’s ghosts mixed with mine.

    In the back of a truck,

    we joined a thousand paper lives,

    half-written notes, guilty pleasure receipts,

    paper planes from Dublin to Detroit.

    Felt the muscle of existence,

    The grit, grind and weight of every story,

    whipping fear into submission.

    The journey from umbilical cord

    to last breath.

    Transforming tears and touch, and every spill of coffee into a worn and tarnished work of art, never quite complete.

    In every recycled pile of randomness

    we found connection,

    Bukowski’s brutal honesty,

    Hunter’s wild search for meaning,

    mundane records, whimsical flights,

    proof we were here.

    Pieces of a puzzle called, resilience.

    To become resilient is to embrace the ride,

    see beyond the immediate storm,

    reflect on the scars and whispers of wisdom.

    To find out enlightenment is a space between fragility and strength

    No more than a ball cap, flipped and worn.

    Mental callus doesn’t come in a day.

    It’s born from trials, falls, and the muddled reflections in midnight whiskey.

    Staggering but eventually standing firm amid life’s gusts,

    knowing each fall is a rise, a rebirth.

    Among the papers, I learned

    the art of turning fragility into armor.

    Shaping the journey of imperfection and somehow arriving totally unfazed.

    Happy I ignored the doubters from 30 years ago that are now all dead.

    Resilience—

    is becoming

    Evolving from a drifting scrap into a grounded whole.

    Through time, experience, reflection,

    we find our place, our strength, yes. our resilience.