My friend Stephanie wrote a blog post. I read it and remembered that I had one too.
I have not been writing.
I have not forgotten. I have been avoiding. Very actively.
I am tired.
I am tired of trying. I am tired of the shame. I am tired of the disappointment.
Is this what burnout feels like? Is this what spiritual burnout is?
I cannot make sense of anything, to be honest. I think I am tired of myself.
I am tired of toeing the line between belief and disbelief.
I am tired of being uncomfortable talking about this.
I am tired of the judgment I am convinced people will throw my way when they find out. Or when I find out. That I do not believe the way they believe.
I am tired of making sense of what feels like nonsense.
Yes. I said it.
Nonsense.
Even typing that word out made me flinch. As though some invisible hand was poised to strike me for the sentence I had just written.
I still believe in God. I am still holding on to that.
But for now, I am giving up on everything else.
I pray to the God I feel.
The one I believe loves unconditionally. The one I cannot fathom hating innocent Muslim children, or Hindu children, or the children of whatever other religion is not Christianity. The one who loves gay people and trans people and bi people and any other good person walking around.
The one this world continues to bastardize. Continues to paint as a villain.
I do not care what anyone says.
A God who creates life and then decides that that life is not worthy because of the way they love — is the villain.
I refuse to be convinced otherwise.
I hope that God — once I have regained some strength — shows me the real way.
Because I am so tired.
And I am so done with the version the world keeps trying to shove down my throat. The version of hate.
Maybe this is finally me writing out my stance.
If God hates the people He has made, then He is not my God.
There.
I said it.
It is written out now.
No take backs.