Broken

I wrote briefly about my shocking discovery that I was terminally ugly. That post could be expanded into a book. I will attempt to focus this post on my feelings that surrounded that discovery and their lasting effects on my psyche.

Writing what I wrote this morning felt raw, felt like poking at a spot on my emotional core that was far more sore than I expected, but most importantly felt unexpectedly unfamiliar. The experience lingered within my body long after I saved and synced my post, so I have since attempted to match the feeling with others, some familiar and some only imagined empathetically.

Why would my feelings shock me nearly two decades after I stopped believing in the god of my childhood? The demise of my faith was neither abrupt nor without careful examination. For years, I have stated innumerably that I realized once I had my own children that I could not be an “imitator of God as dear children.” The first facet of my faith to erode as a result of this revelation was the belief in and fear of hell—the very concept that once led me to cling tightly to faith for fear of finding my permanent residence therein. My keen awareness of this erosion intact, I began to question whether love would compel me to correct my children if I discovered that they were under the serious impression that I wanted to “go and do the same” to them. Betrayal was the primary emotion that I experienced during this time. When I realized that one of the few scriptures that I could agree with was directly at odds with the “gospel”—namely that “perfect love casts out fear”—I felt like I had been lied to. My kids deserved better, and so did I.

I have often stopped there in my analysis. God is a fabrication, the specific characteristics of which vary across time and cultures to meet societal needs for population control. Why spend my time thinking any more about such a story? My compulsion to dive deeper into my feelings on the matter seemed unimportant and even silly—I haven’t thought about poking holes in the story of Santa, so why the Christian god? Perhaps that is precisely because adults don’t go around writing laws and locking people away for their (lack of) belief in bearded men with jolly dispositions and miraculous abilities. This morning, I realized how much the love of God feels like the love of an abusive father. We are encouraged to “fear him who, after destroying your body, has the power to throw your soul into eternal damnation.” The letters in my bible are red here. If they weren’t uttered by the most powerful deity to have ever existed, then they could be redacted and the author stricken with some disease or even death. The interpretation of this and other scriptures may be incorrect, yet the implications of that vagueness are in themselves a condemnation of any claim to these being divinely inspired. I am human, and my words fail me. The god we are told is the “logos”—the literal word—could be expected to have a better command of the medium through which it communicates. Such a missed opportunity to have had the vision be written plainly for anyone who reads it to understand what it says and run appropriately. To my childish mind, God’s words were clear. He wanted to harm anyone whom he failed to convince that his wrath awaited all who fail to believe and receive his goodness. “Behold the goodness and severity of our lord…”

When Dad gets home, he’s going to beat the shit out of you if you don’t clean up your room, take a bar of soap to your face and hands, and change your filthy garments (more specifically, your bloody menstrual rags; “your righteousness is as bloody menstrual rags”). The neighbors are trying to poison you who say that he’s not nice, that he’s too demanding, that he doesn’t love you with unconditional love, or that you are perfect just as you are with your flaws and all.

I’ll stop here for the night. My body and mind are exhausted.