Category Archives: Emotional and Personal Reflections

Autism-Adjacent, Part Two: Hopefully a Conclusion

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I have to begin this post with an apology. I haven’t been ignoring you all, It’s been a helluva roller coaster ride with health issues around here. Enough for a completely different post…

So, now where did I leave off…? Oh, yeah. The BIG, BAD DIAGNOSIS!

To be absolutely honest, I was aware of this “condition.” I’ve known since childhood. Thing is, I also honestly thought it didn’t fit me anymore. Like I grew out of it or something.

I guess not.

I was too ashamed to admit this publicly at first. It’s just embarrassing, especially as it’s not a “real” diagnosis. If you ask me, it ought to be. It’s every bit as difficult, socially and mentally, as the two (or more) conditions its related to. Problem is that, much like autism, people who don’t have the condition would never believe it. The bullying alone is damaging enough.

Granted, there are a lot of my “side conditions” that haven’t got much at all to do with the BIG diagnosis. Then again, there are definitely some that came right from it or were indirectly a cause. Like my anxiety, for instance. I do still believe I was genetically more vulnerable to that. However, my Mom had been badly bullied as a child and so was incredibly worried about me when it started to affect me as early as Kindergarten. So, what did she do? Like anyone trying to protect a child, she helicoptered. She and the mother of a friend of mine who was also a bullying victim, started a Brownie group. She was a room mother at my school. She was constantly watching me out the kitchen window unless I was at someone else’s house. I had very strict rules as far as where I was allowed to go and when, and even in the summer we were in the house after dinner, which was at the ridiculously early hour of 4 pm. Those are just examples, of course. There was so much, much more. But in understanding her, I can’t blame her. I just focus on my own healing.

So, what on EARTH is the big, bad diagnosis?

Well, this Venn Diagram is it. Yep. I’m not Autistic. It’s not ADHD, it’s not even OCD which is another affiliated condition (although I do have many similarities with that one, too…dammit.)

No, I’m GIFTED. WTF. Seriously. This is another one of those situations where people who have no idea what this means think it’s a “good” condition. Take a look at this diagram, though. Good? No. Honestly. It’s like people who have been plagued by the dead since they were children which is also called a “gift.” If you’ve ever met someone who encountered these Spirits as children, I’d say I doubt that it’s a gift. Seems more often to be a curse to those who suffer with it. And it’s the same thing with me. If you think being a teacher’s pet is hard, imagine what the entire school knowing your “gifted” does. It ain’t no fun, I’ll tell you that.

And although I know all that having lived with it all my life, it’s something I did start beginning to believe I’d grown out of it. Everyone else in the world had somehow caught up to me, I was completely normal. I don’t know. Maybe that was my self-defense system finally kicking in. Unfortunately, one of the major differences between gifted and autism is in the realm of emotion. My emotions are…insanely intense. INSANELY. I can’t hold them in, I can’t pretend I feel differently, I’ve never had to “mask” to fake emotions but damn straight I wish I’d been able to mask to hide my emotions.

That just made the bullying worse. When a bully smells blood in the water like that, they don’t stop, they beat harder. Then, to complicate things even further, I had no understanding from my home life. I was constantly told to toughen up, it wasn’t that big a deal, fight back with words. Granted, my words are one of my strongest weapons, but have I mentioned I don’t “fight or flight?” Nope. I “freeze or fawn.” That makes it DAMN hard to think quick and fight back with words or not.

Things were briefly better for me in Junior High as I had a large group of “outcast” friends. We looked out for each other. Three of them had been in my grade school class with me. Which was, btw, for “gifted children.”

My husband and his brother were in that class with me as well. 😉

The additional complication that gifted people have, above and beyond the symptoms and the bullying, is the profound feeling of failure and depression that occurs. No matter what you do or where you are in life, you’re not up to the expectations everyone placed on you as a gifted child. My life hasn’t been easy because of that. I expected the absolutely best just like everyone else did for me. At the end of the day, however, I failed at working, I failed at finances, I failed at a business, and to add salt to the wound (womb?) we were unable to have children making me a failure at even being a woman, a very basic thing. Maybe even the most basic. On top of all the oddities and eccentricities in my behavior that put the target on my back, the expectations of myself and others caused a lot of mental anguish. But, you know, I wasn’t supposed to actually show those feelings.

If you’re wondering, yes, you can have more than one condition the answer is, “yes”. Some of you might be even more complicated than you knew. It’s kind of hard-to-find resources online about adult gifted people. There are a few books on the subject, but to be honest I haven’t read any of them yet, so I can’t honestly recommend them. When I do, I’ll be sure to share them here.

And here we are at over 1000 words again. I told you my words are my weapons! Feel free to ask me anything you want. I guess it’s out on the table for the world to see now. Therapy is very helpful for this. My self-esteem is slowly coming back, my anxiety is slowly receding, and I’m starting to understand the things that trigger me. I can’t say that I have embraced being “gifted,” as I don’t know that I feel gifted yet.

I guess that’s the next mountain to climb.

And I don’t usually say this, but “likes” and comments would be warmly welcomed. This is probably the hardest blog I’ve written yet.

~*~ Camylleon~*~

Autism-Adjacent, part One

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I believe I’ve made a few references to my mental health battles here. Maybe not much specifically, but little hints here and there. Some might have assumed these were jokes but I assure you, they’re not. 🙂 With that in mind, I figure I might want to actually explain what that journey has entailed.

I can’t believe I made it this far into my life without therapy, honestly. The first time I saw my primary care doctor, which is going on 6 or 7 years now, she immediately had the nurse drag in the EKG chart and hook me up; my heart was racing that badly. Panic attack? Likely, only I didn’t know what that was. I mean, how do you explain what that feels like to someone who has never had one? They’re all so individual or at least can be. I now know that one of my reactions is a throbbing in my lower back, and sometimes the entire world turns yellow. No one’s ever said anything about panic attacks like that to me.

I thought it was a heart attack. Kinda glad it was “only” a panic attack.

One of the many traumas in my life that I’ve had to deal with is one I’m sure many, many women will relate to. Horrible doctors that minimally don’t listen and maximally berate you, or worse. I hadn’t had a decent doctor who listened in ages at this point, aside from the doctor at that practice who had moved on and abandoned me, and I’d only seen him for about 2 years.

Needless to say, when my PCP got the test results from the EKG and I broke down in tears, she sat down to talk to me. I bawled and explained that I felt like I had some sort of medical PTSD. When I first attempted to get my neuropathy diagnosed (I was pretty sure by this point I knew what it was), the first doctor didn’t even look at my feet or send me to a specialist or anything but write me a couple of prescriptions. The second doctor had told me there was a 40% chance we’d never know what was wrong with my feet, but when I asked about a specialist, she said there wasn’t any need for that.

Right.

But finally, I found a doctor (female, of course) who was listening to me. Not only did she write me my first prescription for anxiety medication, and send me to a therapist, but she also sent me immediately to someone when I complained of menstrual issues. The absolutely WONDERFUL (female) doctor I saw for that caught the endometrial cancer and sent me to a WONDERFUL gynecological oncologist who got me in for surgery 5 days after I saw her with the diagnosis. 5 years later, I’m still clean, and I hope to stay that way.

Long way around, I’m sure, but that’s the background for how I finally got help.

As you can see, and probably know, or at least likely can understand, some of my issues were caused by direct circumstances. Attending what should have been a fairly normal, mainstream church during a particularly fervent Charismatic Movement messed me up, sure. But when combined with an authoritarian father who was really a Baptist in Episcopalian clothes and my innate need for his approval, well, it did double damage. They either refer to that as religious trauma or sometimes religious PTSD. I’ve got issues, like many people, because of bullying throughout my public-school career. Anxiety, just a touch of OCD, social anxiety to the point of avoidant personality disorder, and a little privacy issue. Just a little. Yeah, there’s event-based damage that I can track back, and have traced some of it.

But then, there seem to be issues that were just always there. I wrote on the wall inside my mom’s closet “why doesn’t anyone love me” when I was six. I remember getting stomachaches and not wanting to go to school in kindergarten. I used to hide in my closet to be alone, to the point my parents would freak out and start looking for me. Something was going on genetically, I assumed.

After a false start with a therapist who sucked, at least for me, I ended up with the person I see now who is phenomenal. Perfect for me. Grew up in the same town as I did, even knew some of the same people although she’s a few years older. Her sister was a Wiccan and into ghost hunting, so she knows what I’m talking about in the largest and most important parts of my life. Also, that same sister who unfortunately departed the mortal plane too soon, was trans. She gets my life, my point-of view. I don’t worry about judgment. Phew.

So, the time came when I had a question to ask her. I’d been on TikTok (bad idea, btw), and seen many, many, many people discussing being autistic. I’d picked up a lot, but at the same time many of those people were self-diagnosed. No judgment there, because I understand how hard it is for most people to get therapy and treatment for their mental health. Self-diagnosis is often all they’ve got.

At the same time, I wasn’t sure then, how accurate they were. I had so many “symptoms” that were similar to autism. SO FREAKING MANY!!! Hyperfixations, anyone? I’ve got my share and then some. I’ve been studying cults and religion since grade school. If you want a good genealogist, find someone with a hyperfixation, you won’t regret it. I am amazing at research. If I want to know something, I will not stop until I do. All the food I hate is because of the texture. I will not wear polyester, and you can’t make me. The feel of that is just…slimy…I’m cringing even thinking about it. And of course, there’s more.

When I brought that up to my therapist she smiled broadly, which did worry me slightly, I’ll admit. But she said, “you’re ready for your diagnosis.”

OMG, I’m over 1000 words already! Since attention spans are so small these days, I guess I’ll have to put the rest in a part two. See you there!

Side Step

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Decisions, Decisions, Decisions…

I just did the math. I met my BFE (Best Friend EVER) 17 years ago. Its gone too goddamn fast. I can’t believe how long we’ve been together now, and at the same time it seems like we’ve known each other forever. Weird how that works, isn’t it?

I remember when I met her. I had moved the store from one side of the theater to the other which had given me a lot more room. It was still a ridiculously small storefront, but it was what I could afford, and it worked. Jewelry is, after all, pretty small.

I’d already been invaded by the first round of leeches. I’ve had problems with leeches all my life, so this was no different. Its only recently that I’ve been able to figure this problem out, and Bestie has been a major part of understanding why I keep getting into that cycle.

It took finding someone who knows how to be a best friend for me to be able to compare and understand who isn’t a friend, to start on that path.

The leeches in this part of my life we’ve been referring to as the “Evil Three.” Not as much for anonymity as because it seems people we never want to see again have a strange way of showing up after we say their names out loud. Call it superstition, call it evocation magic, but it happens an awful lot. Its been nearly 20 years since they’ve been relevant, let alone evil, but we’ll roll with this for now.

The players here are Evil A, Evil J, and Evil M. M wasn’t as evil as the other two; he was as much a victim as I was, however he had a helluva anger issue, and lost all concepts of rationality when he’d get angry. He was also hopelessly (and stupidly) in love with Evil A, so he had a tendency to take her causes a bit too much to heart. To this day, I feel sorry for him.

I met Bestie when she came with Evil J to the store for the downtown business Halloween trick-or-treating. It was more of a social function than anything else, and Evil J was dressing as a witch. Bestie was ostensibly there to help her with her costume which was a witch complete with prosthetic nose.

A nose that Bestie and I realized she didn’t even need. It wasn’t much bigger than her own, frankly.

Now, when I started this store, and for that matter when I moved into this house some ten years later, I thought of myself as at least nominally Wiccan. I’d started drifting into polytheism by virtue of having run into a couple of Deities already, but I still thought in a Wiccan framework. When I set up my “Spooky Room” at the house here, I had four small altars for each of the Quarters, and the main altar in the middle so I could face whatever way I’d needed. Verrrrrrrrrrrrrry Wiccan-ish.

Bestie came in with this energy I was immediately drawn to. She has this bright red hair, a little girl voice that doesn’t match her physique but really matches her child like nature and joy, and she was wearing layers of beaded necklaces. I was so curious, intrigued, and drawn in. I always am curious about people who are different, so I suppose that isn’t all that odd for me. I didn’t want her to think she was some sort of freak show, so I was trying to let her release whatever information about herself she wanted to in a pace she was comfortable with.

That wasn’t easy!

As I remember it though, we took to each other immediately. Talking at a hundred words a minute or more. She was the first Voodoo practitioner I’d ever met, at least to my own knowledge. Curious doesn’t really even begin to explain it. Given I’ve had a hyper-fixation on religious beliefs and magickal practices as long as I can remember, to say I was obsessed is a polite term.

Thankfully, she seems to have felt the same way, and she came back. A lot.

But things happened, as they always do for me. The Evil Three became more and more controlling, more and more manipulative. They also showed up at the store more and more. It became harder and harder for me to get business in as they were generally always there, and it started to look like a hangout.

They weren’t the only ones, either. There was a handful of teenagers, or I should say successions of teenagers who did the same thing. I didn’t mind as much Friday nights as the town had a car show every Friday night so having people in and around the store wasn’t so very odd. But Evil A, in particular, began acting like she owned the place.

Now, I made several of my own mistakes in all of this, and I’m sure to get into those sooner or later. Some of that was that I was too sympathetic to Evil M. As I said, we’ll get there.

Evil J was the particular problem at this juncture though.

First off, I realized how little she actually knew. She’d been in a coven, I hadn’t. I wanted to have Wicca 101 classes at night once a week when we were closed. As I hadn’t been in an actual coven, I was a little insecure teaching that part of the religion. I could teach from a sole practitioner perspective, but the coven she’d attended had been Gardnerian. I wanted that input for the class. So I asked her if she’d like to teach the class with me.

The suggestion I made is that I would handle the spell work portion, if she’d handle the ritual portion. We could alternate weeks, and I’d jump in for the solitary work if she wasn’t comfortable with it.

We started off the first lesson with her presentation. I really ought to have discussed more with her before hand, I really ought to have…

Because immediately she got into spell work. She didn’t know the difference between spells and rituals. I don’t even think, in retrospect, that she understood the Wiccan holidays enough to describe them, let alone teach about them.

It was disappointing, to say the least.

Evil J almost immediately, as she saw Bestie and I bonding, started bitching. There was always something wrong about Bestie. It got old, fast. And as much as they were supposed to be best friends at the time, she was constantly putting her down. That is, unless she was bragging about her. If anyone at all said something about Bestie being smart, or cool, or impressed with her in anyway, suddenly Bestie was J’s friend. It was odd.

It didn’t take long for her to start shoving Bestie off, either. She didn’t drive, so she was dependent on the train. Her (at the time) boyfriend would pick her up from the train station. If she wanted to stay later or she missed her train, she would ask for J to take her home. Now J lived to the east of the store, Bestie lived one town farther to the east, about 10 minutes or so.

But it was too far for her. Every single time Bestie wanted to stay and asked if J would take her home, J would say yes, and then J would, without Bestie hearing, ask me to either persuade her to take the train or ask for someone else to take her home. After telling Bestie she would drive her home.

Sometimes I would just wait with Bestie at the train station, making jokes about it being such a “horrible neighborhood” that I didn’t want her to risk being there by herself. Eventually though, I started just driving her home. It was faster than the train, and we didn’t have to stand around at the station waiting, which made it even faster for her. It didn’t seem to take more than a few minutes for me to drive her either, so even though I was a good 45 minutes to the west of there, it wasn’t problematic for me at all.

And it gave us a chance to talk. Alone.

That explains how we got closer and closer. Considering the kind of people we both are, it also explains how we started exchanging information about religion and spellwork. Because of course we did. This also explains how I started to understand Voodoo.

It wasn’t long before we parted ways with the Evil Three. Maybe I’ll get into that some day, maybe not. There’s not a lot there I care about anymore, except for the lessons I learned.

Bestie quit her job and became my “work wife” not long after we saw the Evil Three depart. We spent more than eight hours a day together, six days a week, and never once tired of each other. In all our years, we’ve had one break down (I’ll get into that, for sure…) and I got mad at her exactly once, but it wasn’t even her fault then. I think she got mad at me once, too, so we’re even. In seventeen years. That’s not a bad run.

At some point between her being there sometimes and being there all the time, Bestie met a Babalawo at a local flea market where he had a booth. For those unaware, this is a type of priest through Ifa or Santeria. That’s how the Side Step happened.

Throughout this all, I’m wresting with what I’ve learned. Because someone so burnt by Christianity, who threw it out whole cloth, is going to have issues with Voodoo. Especially someone with one foot already in polytheism who hasn’t completely deconstructed Christianity yet.

Voodoo has a veneer of Christianity over it to this day. Some people have started trying to “restore” it to its original pre-slavery context, making it into some sort of African Polytheism, but that’s not the tradition practiced by most. For the rest of the world, they’re Catholics who happen to venerate the Lwa.

Then, Bestie ends up taking me in to see her Babalawo, who found my ruling Orisha. I had to start smashing square pegs into octagon shaped holes. It wasn’t easy. An awful lot didn’t get straightened out until I began to understand both the history of Christianity better, and the concept of Omnism.

Funny how our paths will seem so straight and predictable for years and years until we just get curious and find that weird path off to the side of the main path and we end up on a completely different, and even less trodden path.

Free to Worship or Not

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My years in Christianity weren’t exactly a waste, for all that they were debilitating to my psyche, I did learn quite a bit. Some of that was definitely painful and hard to extract from my brain later in life, some of it was life-changing and highly influential on my future spiritual and magical life.

First and foremost, the Bible became one of my hyperfixations. Well before I knew what that was, I had begun reading books about “The Book.” You’ll hear zealous Christians constantly push reading the Bible, over and over again. Memorizing verses, reading obscure books out of it, and of course, believing the interpretation of whatever guru-type-pastor is in vogue today. If you’re the type that doesn’t passively read, if you’re the type of person who thinks and analyzes while reading as I am, this is a sure-fire way to read yourself back out of Christianity. Because that’s exactly what happened.

I’m not just fixated on Christianity, I’m fixated on religion, and on mythology as well. When I started analyzing the Flood, for example, and realized that comparative religion and mythology had many similar tales, the passive reader might expect that is because the story is true. An active reader? I realized that yes, there were many similar stories. And I realized several were older than the earliest written Judaic text mentioning the story. So logic would have the older story as the more likely original.

Ummmm…

If you’re wondering, this is still something I’m absolutely obsessed with, although I find it rotates regularly with other fixations now. As an adult, I don’t have quite as much time to devote to these studies of mine. I’ve added into the mix cults and what I’d call para-religions. I feel a kinship with people who have escaped cults, likely because of all they have in common with the Evangelical/Charismatic religion I’m a refugee of.

Oddly, as its something I had to wrestle with, I also felt the presence of a god for the first time.

You can imagine, I’m sure, this was a real bear to merge together. I threw out Christianity whole; baby and bathwater altogether. But at the same time, I had experiences that could not easily be dismissed.

In the tradition I was raised in, there were three positions taken by the acolytes. The crucifer who carried the cross, and then the others who each held a torch on either side of the cross and just behind for the procession and recession. What I began to understand quickly is that the person who is the crucifer is the focus of attention and energy from the congregation. And in ECUSA, as in other traditions, there’s a reverence that’s given as the procession passes. If you’re even remotely sensitive (at the time I was very closed off energetically, its really amazing anything got thru at all, that will tell you how much I’m talking about here), you can’t help but feel that energy. You’re a funnel, taking all that energy, and its going through you to its destination.

And yes, that destination is a Deity. Ironically, most Christians don’t have any idea of this at all.

I did, and I do. It gave me a great deal of difficulty as I threw the entire belief system out, and wrestled with all the condemnation that came with that belief system. I embraced several different versions of paganism one, after the other, and every single time had to wrestle with where “God” and “Christianity” fit into my life.

Santeria and Voodoo were the worst. Those born into those religions have no compunction at all about blending African spirits with the Christian God, Church, and all its trappings. They don’t even blink. It hurt me so horribly, I can’t even explain it. Its like trying to use an overnight bag when you’re going to be away from home for a month. It just didn’t fit.

Here, at this place in the story, is where my hyperfixation comes in handy.

There are a lot of gods actually written of in the Bible, most of which are buried under layers of culture and mythology. Two are closer to the surface than most; Elohim who is actually a pantheon of gods under a primary god named El (Get it??? Beth-El??? After you’ve seen it once, El is everywhere in the Bible…I love tying things together like that!), and of course Yahweh. Thing is, both these gods were Canaanite gods. Remember the Canaanites? The ones the Hebrews were instructed time and time again to steer clear of? Those same Canaanites is exactly where their primary god came from, a mix of El and Yahweh. Turns out the Hebrews very likely were Canaanites who split off and claimed this God as the god of their tribe.

El and Yahweh have little else in common, frankly. El is the wise, old, white-haired gentle father god, and Yahweh is the vindictive, cruel god of storms, lightning and punishment.

This is the moment I became an Omnist. I see it so clearly now that its ridiculous. There are indeed two different gods of the Bible, or at least there are two primary and active gods in our world today. There’s Yahweh, the god of Evangelicals and Conservatives who instructs hatred of the fellow man, cruelty, and war; and El, the god of peace, love, and understanding who we learn of through the Christ of the New Testament.

Now, saying that either of those gods are gods doesn’t mean that I am called to them, or have any need to worship them. I can recognize that they exist along side my own Spirits because two things (or more) can actually be true at the same time. I don’t need El or Yahweh, and they don’t need me. I belong elsewhere. That doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you that you don’t belong with one or both of them. That’s your business not mine, and I’d no sooner try to tell you who to worship than I would tell you who to have sex with or not, for that matter.

I am now free. Free to work with Spirits who are under the reign of Christ or El (I’ll keep away from Yahweh as much as I can, but thanks anyway) such as those Spirits of Voodoo or Ifa that I love, and not have to give up my pagan ways. I can follow new pagan and magical directions as my own Soul guides me because I do get instruction directly from my Spirits; and who am I to say that my Brigid is your Brigid? Perhaps she’s different, and then has different requests and needs?

That’s a whole other can of worms though. I’d best stop here or I’ll never stop tonight!

This blog post was written after I’d begun my evening “medication” (medical marijuana) please forgive any awkward phrasing or grammar, I will go back over it when I’m in a more sober state of mind. Expect editing!

The Beginning

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As with most people in the US of A, I was raised in a Christian household. Not my choice.

Like so many of us in the US of A who were raised in a Christian household, it messed with my mind. More than I ever knew, honestly. At the age of 52 my primary care doctor diagnosed me with anxiety when I broke down in her office. Again. The very first time I’d seen her, three years or so prior, I’d burst into tears and had a heart rate high enough that they slapped an EKG onto me to check my heart.

That was fun.

I was surprised and relieved all at the same time. She gave me a prescription and recommended therapy. I am happy to say that all the above is covered by our health insurance, a privilege not everyone in the US of A has. I am taking FULL advantage of this as long as I possibly can. After a false start with a therapist who did not fit me at all, my second try was a winner and I’m now actually starting to put myself back together again. Its been a long, hard road. Turns out that aside from the generic, garden variety social anxiety and the super-special avoidant personality disorder that comes up now-and-then, I also am the proud owner of some lovely PTSD, straight from Christianity.

And most of the damage was self-inflicted.

My major anxiety is related to a need for approval, love, acceptance. The usual, I suppose. This includes a need for my father’s approval. My father’s father was a Baptist minister, his mom played the organ for their children’s ministry. He converted to ECUSA when he and my mother married. Sweet, I know, but he never did lose the fire-and-brimstone edge to him .Now, they’re both Catholic and things got weirder. But we’ll get there eventually.

As explained to me by my therapist, we humans start to develop our own moral system somewhere around the age of 12 or so. I smothered mine. I forced my square peg into the Christian round hole (why does that sound mildly dirty?) for years. Forcing myself to accept the good girl myth and all the restrictions that come with it. I did some serious damage to my own psyche as a result. Could I blame my parents? Sure, plenty of people do. The truth is, however, that I’m complicit in this, and I know it. I own it.

At the height of my involvement with the Church, I was an acolyte (“altar girl”), a member of Junior Daughters of the King, I assisted Sunday School teachers (until they figured out I was too young), attended youth group weekly, and Bible Discipleship once a week. Fairly often, my brothers and I would be called in to assist at the early services when other acolytes weren’t available. On the most involved week, I would be at the 7:30 am service as an acolyte, I would be working for Jr. Daughters to tend the altar between services and lay out vestments, then down into the nursery to attend to that for the 9:00 service, again, for junior daughters, then I would attend the 10:30 or 11:25 services simply because I hadn’t sat through services myself yet. After lunch, I’d be at the church plenty early for youth group, and then Wednesday nights I’d return for Bible Discipleship. And that doesn’t include classes for my Confirmation.

I was involved.

Not all of that experience was bad. There were some experiences that have stuck with me throughout the years. At the same time, the damage I did to myself, the emotional and psychological damage that was done to me by both other church attendees and my own father are things I now have to deal with. You just can’t keep up with those expectations and live under a constant fear of hell without some damage.

When I was seventeen, the dam finally broke and broke with style although I hid it well. I still hide it well. My parents, now in their 80s, have no real concept of how far from Christian theology I have strayed. Everyone else in the world knows, but not my parents. Not because I’m seeking their approval still but because I love them. My mother isn’t as strict of a Christian as my father is still, to this day, and we’re extremely close. I love them both. They are true believers, and have every right to their own beliefs. But I couldn’t live my life happily if I thought they were on their knees praying for my soul every day of their lives. I will save them the anxiety and worry that I carry, I want them to enjoy these last years on earth.

There will be time enough for them to find out when they’re no longer physical beings.

This was originally published on my soon-to-be deleted blog W.I.T. on March 26, 2023