Confession

I was raised Catholic, dear reader, and with this came a childhood spent learning how to treat myself with punitive guilt. I know this is not, technically speaking, the heart of Christianity, but in the skewed and partial practice I was exposed to, it felt like being alive was enough reason to be ashamed.

Prayer was obligation–it felt like an empty attempt at righting my wrongs, and the wrongs of people I didn’t even know. In first grade I had my first communion, and was taught that receiving Christ (a dry, tasteless wafer with whom I have more in common than Christ himself) was a sacred affair. I needed to be pure. We wore white.

I had my first confession; I sat alone in a room with a priest, and told him of my shame. His response felt punitive too. Saying the Hail Mary forty times or something equally inane. Why?

Maybe it was young Allison who was unreceptive and closed to the ideas presented every Sunday–maybe it was being young and confused. I think, however, that it had more to do with the fact that these words of “forgiveness” and “selflessness” came from an old white man standing on a literal altar.

I think that in my very small, Northern New York town, going to church felt like something for somebody else. It wasn’t for me–a little girl who knew only that she was powerless and afraid.

I’ve heard a Catholic childhood described as, “the wounding of distorted Christianity.” I feel this. I felt wounded and cold and alone–not supported or loved by God or Jesus or the spooky holy ghost. Not even by the people sitting in the church around me, or the cup of piss cheap red wine.

I don’t like dismissing anything without trying to understand. So with great pain, years ago, I deep dove into the writing of modern Christian scholars. I was stunned by the descriptions of Christianity as a feminine form of receiving a loving God. It is open and passive and hopeful. It never felt this way to me. It felt cold and bitter and punishing.

Again, there’s something to be said of being young and skeptical and confused. Even so, as a child I wanted nothing more than to feel the kind of love that was (apparently) promised by this divine connection. 

Yes, I resist a relationship with God. I resist recognizing the existence–real or symbolic–of any God at all. I do and I’m really not sorry or afraid of that. I don’t understand how faith could come at the expense of one’s self-compassion. I want to love myself–I do. Even if my actions don’t reflect that. I don’t want to hate my body or pleasure or getting angry or sad or drunk.

I don’t know If I will ever be able to see Christianity as something separate from “pro-life” fascists. And this is my own bias. I see that. I know that. But after a lifetime that, so far, has really kicked my ass, I’d like the option to have sex and get myself off without guilt. Thank you very much.

Religion isn’t my thing. But, hey. Dear reader, if it is yours, I’d love to hear from you. I want to hear how it has impacted and shaped you. I really, really do. I love when people surprise me–it is my favorite thing.

Every bit of my love.

Allison The Atheist.