Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.
I am not always certain of what sins require my atonement, as I have been recently informed all my actions are undoubtedly sinful.
Is it sinful to love? Is it wrong to have passion, fiery and true, about the things taboo?
Our Father, who art in heaven, are you even fucking listening?
The truth? You can’t handle the truth!
I scream movie lines toward the sky. If God has a hand in everything, then I certainly would like to hold him accountable for my Mother’s sudden death.
And what lesson was I supposed to learn from that? Was I supposed to learn that you giveth and then you taketh away? To hug my family a little tighter everyday, because tomorrow may never come?
Well, I am squeezing these children with the tightest hugs that don’t cause asphyxiation. On the days I can pull myself out of bed. Those days seem fewer and far between with this weight on my chest.
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to God to leave me alone this week.
I crossed the boundary of blasphemy long ago. I am nothing but a heretic trying to find his way back to the light. I lost the road and my map doesn’t show me where the line is drawn in the sand between devout and sacrilegious.
I denied you many times more than the three of your apostle, does that mean you have buried the line and I will forever nomad this land?
I whispered to the sky, daring your wrath. I double dared your might and waited, smile on my face, I waited. I sat and when nothing happened, I stood. I paced back and forth waiting for lightning bolts to pierce my heart and send my soul to Hades. But you are not Zeus and you are not answering me.
Is it smite or smote or what?
I just want you to hear me. I know you’re busy, and maybe I am too busy screaming to listen.
Next time, take me instead. I am ready and willing.
I prayed upon the mountaintop and came down, ready for my judgement.
I sought comforts in your churches, only to be told it was not enough to be a child of God. It is not enough to try to find yourself on the right side of the line. So I sat, waiting for anointment. I sat, waiting for water from a basin I can only assume was filled up from the rectory bathroom. Yet, still I sat, devoted to finding a certain comfort I could not find in myself.
And then, just like that, I walked away too.
On January 28th, 2015, Briton Underwood lost his mother. The next year became one of the most difficult journeys in his 24 years. It brought him to the depths of depression, forcing him to question everything. Today, he lets those feelings go, hoping the next year brings him more healing, more positivity, and more understanding. While this post might be harsh and a tough read, it is a part of a long healing process.