U.G.L.Y.

I remember when I first heard that I was ugly. I don’t remember the comment—probably something about big ears, a big nose, or something. My mom had told me that hurting people often just want to hurt us, too, so they say mean things to us, attempting to show us how much they are hurting inside. I half-believed her. Standing in front of a mirror in my room, I would often try to find the beautiful person that my mom said I was, both inside and out. I would sometimes see it.

I remember learning that I was precious in the sight of God around the same time. The topic definitely came up in the aforementioned conversation, but it also had been coming up at church. “Jesus loves the little children of the world,” the song claims. The scriptures I was learning also proclaimed, “You are fearfully and wonderfully made.” That has a way of getting you motivated on a shitty day, right? It didn’t matter what I thought or what my peers said. I had within myself the confidence that God viewed me as special.

I also remember, quite vividly, when I learned that I was actually ugly on my own, that my precious visage was afforded to me by the perfect sacrifice of God’s only son rather than by virtue of my being beautiful to God on my own, and that I could only approach my heavenly father if I applied the blood of Christ to cover my ugliness.

This ugliness was terminal. God would throw me, body and soul, into a torture chamber for eternity if I forgot to wear my Jesus makeup. While other kids were dreaming about Santa bringing them toys, I was dreaming about Hell. So many nights, I lie awake, afraid to go to sleep, afraid to think, afraid that I would somehow die before I woke, with a little of the blood of Christ smearing off of my disgusting body, revealing the vile thing underneath to a judgmental god.

On Sundays, I would visit “God’s house” to learn songs about how wonderful my spiritual father was, only to then be told, repeatedly, that I my heart was wicked “but for the grace of God” and destined to eternal damnation if I weren’t careful to reapply my makeup regularly. I was told that there was an enemy of my soul who wanted nothing more than to make me forget to cover myself properly, thereby ensuring that I would “bust hell wide open.”

But “Oh happy day!” God sends angels to protect us. “He is able to keep that which is his against that dreadful day,” I was told. All I had to do was to “believe in my heart” and “confess with my mouth.” So I did just that, every night (sometimes several times in a single night), for years of my childhood. Staring at the ceiling, I would ask to be forgiven for being wicked in his sight, to be covered by the blood of Christ, and, once properly adorned, to be protected from the demonic forces that stood wing to wing right outside of my bedroom window just waiting to grab my soul if I weren’t careful.

Do you know what it feels like to believe that someone loves you only because of what you do for them? Only because of what you say to them? Only because you promise to keep praising them? Only because you promise to hide your true nature from them? That god was “the lover of my soul” who would “never let me go.” Writing this now, I have a fire inside of my chest that burns with indignation, longing to protect the child I once was from the abusive words of a serial killer in a religious horror story. The story I heard was not one of unconditional love. “Fear has torment,” the scriptures state. I was tormented daily for at least a decade of my childhood by the constant threat that my ugly soul would peek out from under my protective covering just long enough for a car to crush my body, sending me to an eternal hell. I knew that God could keep me in his clutches, but I knew that I was capable of walking away on my own. “God is a gentleman,” they’d say, “and he would never force you to do anything against your own will.” Well, unless you’re a pharaoh.

I’ll stop here for now. Perhaps I’ll chat next time about how the belief that I was rotten to my core shaped my opinion of myself and may have had a negative impact on my behaviors when I dabbled in disbelief as a teen. I am deeply sorry for my actions during that time. Hurts that I caused are my own doing.