For the Atheist Depressives and Existential Dreaders

 

The disconnect between the lives we live, and what we call divine without thought is discouraging to me, dear reader. Our experience is separated into what we can understand in simple terms, and what we can’t. What exists outside the limits of language we often call God, and by doing so we dismiss the thing that is actually beautiful about being alive. 

With this ‘either or’ we dismiss how incredibly beautiful it is to ask questions–to uncover why and how and where. By calling something Divine–say the concept of soulmates–not only do we discount our autonomy, but the things that (I think) are crazy beautiful about human relationships. 

Stay with me here if you can my darling reader; I have a point I promise. 

The choices we make, our ability to make meaningful connections with others, the chemicals that tell us when we’ve done so–this is so dope to me. It’s insane. 

I promise I’m not shitting on God–I think having faith great–I’m only offering something for my fellow atheist depressives. Maybe it’s because I’m stubborn to a fault, but religion isn’t something I can hang with. Either way, appreciating why something is the way it is is emotionally fulfilling to me. 

So here’s my take on destiny, my dear, sweet reader. Spoiler: I shit on it.

It’s impossible to nail down the start of the unraveling. It started long before I was born and will continue after I’m dust. I’m just one tiny choice of many, and being so am both the result of and the reason for infinity. So are you, dear reader.

I’ve been told this sentiment is cheesy, but I think its earnest. 

I was in a hospital with a woman who let me borrow her calligraphy pens, and this is why I moved to Boulder. Fuckin wild.

Her name is Megan. It wasn’t God with an all knowing, benevolent, crusty hand that mashed our worlds together, but every decision that we made until that point. 

It was the little bits and choices that lead Megan to work in an Eating Disorder treatment center, and all the ones that brought me there. Of these there are so many huge ones–big life changers mind you–and infinite tiny ones that I have long since forgotten. 

I got sick. I got sicker. I tried treatment. I decided to see a new therapist who recommended a psychiatrist who introduced me to a nutritionist who recommended the hospital she worked at. And those leave out all the really boring life stuff that made me the kind of person who would want to borrow calligraphy pens. 

A nurse walking by my room saw the writing I’d done with Megan’s pens, and told me about a calligraphy class she’d taken at a school in Boulder.

I looked it up. This place had a writing department called, and I shit you not, the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. Weird as fuck and right up my gauze-laden, boost-heavy alley.

It wasn’t magic. Not God’s crusty hand. But all of Megan’s choices–influenced by everything else in the world–and all of mine which had been influenced just the same. If I had endless time and a big old brain, I could make some kind of ridiculous decision-spreadsheet. I’d maybe even make an altar for it. 

But instead I will not do that. Cause I don’t have to. 

But I was talking to someone quite lovely about fate, and how when something bad happens, not believing in destiny kinda blows. Knowing that things are really just that bad right now, leaves a hole we are prone to filling with some flavor of anger. 

Here, where the atheist depressives and existential dreaders live, there is no dodging pain or loss with a simple “wasn’t meant to be”. Not believing in fate can be infuriating. See, our will has limitations. 

I got sick. I remember sitting in the car with my mom at the very onset of my disorder, crying because I couldn’t get these really punishing thoughts out of my head. 

I was so scared. 

They came without my consent–without me having chosen them–and no amount of starving or running or avoiding my life would get rid of them. Not believing in fate left me devastated then, and still does now. There was no REASON my brain or genetics or trauma existed this way. It just did. It’s insane. 

But see, the absolute destruction of a life and a lovely chance encounter with a beautiful stranger are only possible together. The absence of destiny means both are equally possible, but neither are required.

I would prefer that we didn’t die without our own consent, but see we don’t meet our best friend on purpose either. It just happens. It just happens because it does. We make choices because we have to. We get sick because the brain isn’t perfect. I think it’s beautiful and devastating and the only reason to keep going. 

Thank you Megan for the pens.

Thank you, dear reader, for all the decisions that lead you here tonight.

It was cheesy, but I mean it all.

I love you heaps.

Take care.