Best Seller True Story Book 2021:
Addiction | Mental Health | Self-Help
About The Author
Jeromy Wensley, (1978 to present): I was born and raised in Fort Frances, Ontario, Canada. My hometown's location is very isolated: Town's are few and far between, having most of the landscape replaced with bush-country and lakes. (Freshwater fishing and hunting are very popular extracurricular activities within the community). Winters are frigid, with temperatures exceeding minus 25 during the majority of January, February. Feet upon feet of snow envelopes the community during the winter months.
As of recent, I am working on my poetry skills. This is my favorite poetic line up to date: Yesterday's ‘doings’ have long passed, and tomorrow's ‘could-bes’ haven’t yet arrived. It is important to be present. Live in the moment, be here, not there, because RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW, is all we will ever have.
Confessions From A Prophet's Past
The first couple of chapters in this book involves a horrific scene that took place when I was nineteen. After that, it starts with my childhood and, as the chapters progress, my age advances forward; in order. (The book title is explained within the pages of the novel).
My childhood saw its share of ups but also several unbearable downs, all brought on by alcoholic parents who chose to place the bottle in front of their children’s wellbeing. [Side effect from alcoholism]. The Rotten parenting behaviors included: physical and emotional abuse, domestic violence, and neglect. The results prompted a low self-esteem, anxiety, and depression. I felt worthless, stupid; nobody could ever love me. [Aftereffect from abuse and neglect]. I strolled through my early High School years, hoping that the horrors wrapped inside my head would vanish; forever disappear as if they were never there. I desperately needed an escape from my inner thoughts: An escape from reality.
One day during my early teens, I came across alcohol. At once, my negative mind thoughts were eclipsed with positivity. Liquor gave me courage, inner peace, good looks, all from this glorious drink that contained spirits. Friends arrived in abundance, and my popularity rose as if I were a rock star who just topped the charts for the first time. However, during the years to come, that freedom I felt from negative mind thoughts [because of liquor] ventured in the wrong direction, sending me on a crash course to Loser-Ville. My grown-up life was littered with depression, alcoholism, addictions, jail, and umpteen suicide attempts. Chaos and near-death experiences became rampant, all on account of drugs and alcohol.
My chaotic life-path would eventually come to a sudden halt because of one conversation with the Creator.
Some Heroes Don't Wear Capes
A harsh reality penetrated my path, leaving me dangling by a thread, nearly free-falling to an instant death. My drinking had bypassed the every-so-often escape from reality, erupting into an endless need for the drink. Alongside alcohol, drugs tore a hole in my soul, altering my mindset to a state of being that one cannot imagine; I felt utterly wrecked:
I was at my stepdad Fred's house: I had accumulated a sizable amount of doctor-prescribed medications over the previous few months. (Doctors prescribed me more drugs than I could handle). Not only did I have a lot of pills, but my stepdad Fred also carried his own mountain of medication within the household.
I snagged all of my medication bottles and treaded just steps away to the living room. Quickly, I dumped the whopping amount of drugs onto the small coffee table. I swerved and treaded to the bathroom, then stopped. I reached into the medicine cabinet, and grasped several more bottles of medication, then steamed back to the living room. At once, I began dumping the prescription bottles, one after the other, until a mound of medication enveloped the small coffee table. (Perhaps enough medication to knock down an elephant? Perhaps the amount was sufficient for the beast to lay in rest; a fatal blow?) I halted, gazing at the possibility of eternal death, having the accountability to be at the works of my own hands. Abruptly, I ripped my hand out, clammed the pills, swooped the pills up, and sank a mitt-full of medication: choking them down with a nearby sip of water. Afterward, I gulped down mitt-fulls of tablets, after mitt-fulls of tablets, until there were no more, but me---entangled in the rising of my own demise.
Time drifted as tender tears gently grasped the air, and soon my soul would evaporate into the shadows as if it were never there. Quickly, I forced the tears to stop, followed by saying a silent prayer: "Jeromy, there is no turning back, so just accept your fate, and in a few more moments, there will be no more."
An hour passed; I began to ponder: “Why am I still conscious?” “Why am I still alive?” “Why haven't I passed on, leaving this seemingly horrid life, moving on to the afterlife in the hopes of having a spot in the Heavens, or possibly nothing at all but a bitter end?” Suddenly, an idea grabbed my attention: "My good friend Kyle is just a few blocks away, so I may as well say one last farewell."
I snatched my keys and zipped out the door. I hopped into my truck and raced the eight-block drive to Kyle’s apartment. I arrived, walked into Kyle's apartment, and halted at the sight of Kyle standing just feet away. Instantly, Kyle gave me a look of sorrow; an expression of pity. Kyle beamed at me with this puzzled look as if he knew something was wrong but did not understand what. Politely, Kyle asked, "What's on your mind, Jeromy?"
I gave a gentle gaze towards Kyle. Tears badly wanting to pour from my eyes. Even still, none dropped, and I muttered out the words, "I'm going to be taking off for a bit, Kyle. So, you make sure you take care of yourself, buddy."
Kyle brought forth a demanding voice in his reply, “Something’s not right, Jeromy. I know something is not right. What’s going on? What’s the matter?”
I looked at Kyle and then turned away---a pause drifted---and nothing; I could not tell him; I did not want to advise him what I had done. But I had to, and I gently whimpered, “I just took at least a thousand pills, Kyle. I'm leaving this world, buddy. You did a real good job at being a friend.” Instantly, tears barreled down my face, parading towards the ground.
Kyle broke into a panic, pacing back and forth, followed by, “Okay. Let’s go to the Emerge, Jeromy.” He paused for a second and then barked out, “RIGHT NOW.”
I tilted my head towards Kyle and said, “No, Kyle. This is it for me, buddy. My life is just a few minutes away from being done, and that’s all there is to it.”
Kyle hesitated for a moment, piercing me with a look of withdrawal, then charged aloud, "Jeromy, if you don’t go to the Emerge, we are going outside to fight. I am positive I will lose, but I will just keep getting up, over and over, until you go to the Hospital. So, you just go ahead and do what you got to do, but know this: You are going to have to kill me to stop me from saving your life!"
The sincerity in Kyle’s voice struck my heart, leaving me with the word 'surrender' spinning within my soul. My ego yielded and wept out the words, "Alright, Kyle. Let's go to the Hospital."
With panic and the worry of time on his mind, Kyle said, "Alright, hurry up. We will take my car."
Kyle bolted out of his house. I followed, and we both jumped into his car. On that two-minute car ride to the Hospital, my eyelids began diming---drifting up and down. [I was starting to fade unconscious.] Abruptly, my eyes shot open; I turned to Kyle and muttered, "I don't think I'm going to make it, buddy, but what you did back there was the greatest thing anyone's ever done for me. Thanks."
Seconds later, we pulled up to the Hospital Emergency Department: Kyle slammed on the brakes, hopped out, ran to my side of the vehicle, and flung my door open. I hobbled out of Kyle’s car and stood---dizziness crept in---then: COLLAPSE, straight to the ground I went. Kyle sprinted into the Hospital, screaming for help at the top of his lungs, "SOMEBODY HELP JEROMY, HE IS DYING."
Doctors and nurses ran outside to my aid. Two of them flung me up on a stretcher and rushed me into the Hospital. The Doctor grabbed a nearby defibrillator, energized it; sank the defibrillator to my chest, then: “ZAP.” My body jolted, but nothing; it didn't work. So, he began performing CPR, trying to engage the breath of life back into my lungs; it didn't work either. Back and forth the Doctor went, working relentlessly, trying to energize life back into my soul. (45 minutes of this passed, with me showing no sign of life. Not one breath; not one movement; absolutely nothing.)
(The Doctor working on me had known me since I was a youth: He watched me grow up in our small town, gazing at my play with other young ones, and, likely, he saw the odd hockey game or two. More than likely, my fatality would bring sorrow to the Doc.)
Fatigued and exhausted, the doctor said to the nurse, “I am going to stop soon.”
At that moment, Kyle, at his wits’ end, paced back and forth in the Hospital waiting room.
“Shit,” Kyle said, “My friend is going to die.”
Kyle stopped his stride and sat on a nearby chair; his head sank, he covered his eyes as tears of sorrow flooded down his face.
“I should have driven to the hospital faster,” Kyle whimpered, “I should have done something different; Jeromy is going to die.” Instantly, sniffling and sobbing echoed the hospital waiting room.
Moments later: ‘Tap, tap, tap,’ Kyle felt on his shoulder. “What,” Kyle muttered.
“Kyle,” a man’s voice said.
“What,” Kyle snarled.
“Kyle, I am the Doctor that was working on Jeromy.”
Kyle lifted his head upward: saw the Doctor, and said, “Did he die?”
“No, we managed to bring Jeromy back,” the Doctor said.
Kyle brought forth a stance and wrapped his arms around the Doctor [hugging the Doctor]. Kyle lifted the Doctor right off the ground and said, “Thank you so much, Doctor.”
YEARS LATER: looking back on that day of misery and how everything played out: It was Kyle who played the role of a hero. He ran on the instincts of knowing a friend would soon be laid to rest, unless a circumstantial action was taken, or his friend [Me] would surely die. He was willing to risk a beating, if not more, as if it were Kyle’s way to say: "Today, Jeromy, is not your day to die."
On That Day: Kyle didn't fly like Superman on TV. He didn't zip a web and soar through the city like Spiderman. He didn't have the strength of the gods like Hercules, tossing boulders up in the air, sending them soaring who knows where.
On That Day: Kyle showed great heart in his doings, having determination backing his task at hand. He was a friend who saw fit to save a life rather than bury one six feet under, leaving my bones to decay, and surely my existence would fade in the days that I once was.
On That Day: Kyle was far better than any superhero one would see on the TV.
On That Day: THE HERO WAS REAL!!
5.0 out of 5 stars | A true story from Northern Ontario
I read the whole book in one sitting! I was able to understand and sympathize with Jeromy's emotional battles and struggles with drugs and alcohol. I have never understood more clearly how transferring one drug for another just doesn't work for some people attempting to quit. (Jeromy explains the feeling in his brain) The Methadone program seriously needs an overhaul, in my opinion. I was born and raised in Thunder Bay, Ontario, so I could easily follow Jeromy's journey to all of his small town adventures. I shared Jeromy's story with my husband. He could sure relate to the alcohol abuse, and fighting and poverty. I highly recommend this book. Thank you Jeromy :-)
5.0 out of 5 stars | Couldn’t put the book down until the end
Wow, this book was nothing shy of amazing. The author really makes you feel like you’re experiencing this wild ride with him the entire time. 100% raw real emotion.
5.0 out of 5 stars | Inspirational
Confessions from a Prophet’s Past is truly an inspirational read. It depicts the impact of trauma while also shining a light on the strength of friendship, the human spirit, and a higher power. I am looking forward to part 2.