Losing my religion (One)
I think it's important, now with the hindsight I have of my life, to preface this by saying that, although throughout this retelling I will be attempting some form of comedy alongside these events, this truly is a tale of desperation, depression, and what, at least during these moments, felt like a real, tangible insanity. I think it's easy to experience a story which adds just a smidge of wit, and feel its authenticity crumble, as if the author themselves, whether knowingly or not, has doomed their writing to be buried under six feet of obscure pop culture references and irony. Anyway, however ‘ironic’ and somewhat hypocritical this next statement is, this really did feel like a ‘Donnie Darko’ situation…or maybe Fight Club? Without the fighting and explosions, or the big anthropomorphic rabbit or time travel, and a lot more self hatred and black suits.
There is a multiplicity of factors that go into someone’s mental health. This can be big or small, from childhood trauma to stubbing your toe on the side of the bed on a really bad day. In writing this, there is the issue of where to begin this story. How far back do I go? Childhood? Parent’s divorce? The first introduction to Him (which either or will be spoken about in this story)? That's the problem with us all isn’t it? We are multifaceted beings. We are an ever expanding spider diagram of reasons why and whos, whats and wheres, which could fill pages upon pages upon pages of books to people to read and gawk at, and possibly even relate to.
Speaking of books to gawk at, The Bible!
I think I never truly ‘believed’ in the way most of the other kids around me believed in God. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t loading up the family computer and going on forums to spread edgy atheist talking points like a mini Richard Dawkins, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the amount of praying or idea that I was sinful just because I was alive. I went to a Catholic primary and secondary school (both of these were connected together under the same name ‘St.John’s’) in the small town of Kinswood, which was neither a strongly religious area nor a strongly anti-religious area. Religion was never forced upon me growing up. My grandmother went to church each Sunday, however I believe now this was more for the after service coffee shop nattering with her friends, than praising the Lord. My mother, who had sent me to this school, identified as Catholic at this time, however as the years passed, the crucifixes and small trinkets of Mother Mary were replaced with Amethysts and diagrams of Chakras hanging off the walls. In fact, I believe I was sent to this school mainly due to the fact that it was the only one in the area which wasn’t rated a 3 or below on the Ofsted review chart.
As you can imagine in a school where Catholicism was the main focus, belief and faith were a big deal. We prayed a total of eight times a day, this included:
Before starting
Before first break
After first break
Before lunch
After lunch
Before second break
After second break
Before home time
This was enough to create two sects of kids. Those who fully believed, and those who prayed just to get it over with.
I was in a weird third group, a sort of believer-non-believer.
This wasn’t because we also learnt about science and evolution. This isn’t a story of ‘breaking out of the lie’ or something, as I had never truly believed in the idea of the seven days, and as such didn’t see it as strange if people did, given the fact of the prayers and the Thursday Mass and the hymns (side note, Mrs. McConvey, I truly hope you are living a beautiful life, thank you for making Mass fun to a kid who couldn’t sit still).
No, this is because of prayer.
Say you went out one day, with the soul purpose of getting your question answered by The One. The One, he has all the answers, to why the stocks keep fluctuating, to why Stacey dumped you last Tuesday even though the night before she said she saw ‘a future’ with you.You head to his house, well one of his houses, he owns quite a few you see, perks of knowing everyone who has ever lived, including it seems some real good realtors and landlords. You go on in, and whilst everyone else is knelt down, asking questions with collapsed hands towards a portrait of The One, you just stand still, realising something it seems no one else does:
‘Wait, he doesn’t live here?’
That's the crux (or I suppose the ‘cross’) of it all, a tale as old as religion itself, I couldn’t see him, so I just… didn't believe in him. No righteousness with it, I wasn’t on the playground spreading my ideas around and corrupting the other kids, I just let them believe. I also didn’t do this because, in a sense, I still believed too. Even now, in some regard.
Talking to God became a staple of life. You do something eight times a day, five time a week, you’re bound to take it home with you. I will of course be blunt, I prayed not out of belief, but out of a need for answers, or in some cases, out of desperation. As such, the rest of my life was filled with one sided conversations to God about failed relationships, justified self-hatred, and about Him, as he sat on the end of my bed listening in, smiling smugly in his three piece black suit, that red tie piercing my eyes to tears. He knew as well as I did I couldn’t just ‘pray him away’ (and no, ‘he’ isn’t a metaphor about homosexuality. Thankfully I’m comfortable in the fact that men and women share the same amount of space in my brain).
Well, I guess that leads to the big question. Who is ‘Him’?
Well, he’s me. And not.
Let me explain.
