A Short Story About Me

A few months ago, my therapist asked when I realized I was an atheist. I didn’t have an answer. There was never a single moment where I realized I didn’t believe in god. It was more of a gradual process. Honestly, it started with laziness. Then it was anger. Finally logic.

I was raised Roman Catholic. When I was 8 or 9, my parents became what are called Traditional Roman Catholics. That means that the mass was in Latin and the ceremony itself was longer. We drove 3 hours each way every Sunday to go to church because that was the nearest place that offered the traditional mass. Then the priest convinced my dad that we had to be raised with home schooling, because the liberal education system would corrupt our souls.

Puberty hit me hard. I had these hormones rampaging through my system, and no outlet. I tried skateboarding, but had no talent, and no one to skate with. The whole point of skateboarding was camaraderie, but I didn’t have that. I tried to keep my emotions in check with music. But even that I had to hide, because I would get in trouble for listening to the music I liked. I couldn’t sleep; a problem that I still deal with today. I was suicidally depressed for over ten years. Literally. Most people who are depressed are only depressed a few days a week. They have good days, but they have more bad days. I was depressed non stop. From 11 (the first time I really thought about killing myself) until I was 22 (when I had a girlfriend). Every second of every day, I dreamed about jumping from a building or stabbing myself, or suffocating myself. Heh. I just checked, and the scar I used to have from that suicide thought when I was 11 is gone.

Even though I was surrounded by my family, I felt alone. They had no idea what I was going through. They saw psychology as a lie. My dad was a tyrant, and my mom refused to stand up to him. I remember the times my dad would be away for work, and the rest of the family would celebrate by renting a movie. For that short moment, we had freedom. But even during those times, I was alone. My sister was always social. My brother was also alone, but he had more anger than I did. And he had an outlet, in video games and studying war. I had music. I remember running an extension cord to my tree house, and listening to my boom box for hours. I would record tape after tape after tape of music.

I never hated god. God was an idea. He was a loving entity that watched over us. I was told that anything bad that happened to me was either because he was testing me, or because I was being punished. I wasn’t a rebellious teenager. I was introverted. I kept everything inside. Hidden. All of my pain, and feelings of being trapped in a small town, and smothering parents. I felt that in every bone in my body. But that’s where it stayed. When people looked at me, they saw a quiet person, but not a person that longed to die. So why was I being punished?

I remember buying the Wallflowers CD, Bringing Down the Horse. When I listen to it now, I think it sounds too country, but at the time, Alternative music was popular, so I liked it. One time, my dad did one of his periodic “raids” of my music and found the CD. I tried to explain that it was Bob Dylan’s son’s band. He refused to listen. It was rock music. It was bad. I had to get rid of it. So I gave it to my cousin (my only friend at the time). I told my cousin to just hold onto it. In a few months my dad would calm down and I would get it back. By the time I got it back, my musical tastes had changed so I gave it to my sister. I don’t remember how long later, but at some point, my sister was listening to it on the way home from church. My dad asked what she was listening to, and she told him. So he put it in the car stereo so that we could all listen to it. He loved it. It just reminded me that everything about me was “wrong” and everything about my sister was “good”. It wasn’t my sister’s fault. My dad just liked her more.

With the combination of the long drives to church, and the constant persecution I felt, and the fact that I didn’t think I was that bad of a person, I couldn’t understand why I was stuck in the life I was given. Surely a loving entity wouldn’t punish me like this. What had I done that was so wrong?

My salvation came in the form of a radio show, called Loveline. It was hosted by a doctor and a comedian. They were (are) a helpline. People would call in with their problems and would get advice. I consider Loveline to be the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. Best, because I learned that I had a passion for psychology. Worst, because I learned that my family was thoroughly faulty. I learned that I wasn’t being punished because I deserved it. I was being punished because my dad was insecure. By beating me, he could feel like he was a man. By controlling every aspect of our lives, he could feel like he was in charge.

From that point on, I just kept a low profile. I knew that I would be 18 soon enough, and then I could get the fuck out of there. I had no intention of talking to my parents ever again. They hadn’t earned my respect, but had earned my eternal scorn. I tried to do what I was told with a smile and without argument. If I could just make it a few more years, I would be set.

I started to read. The Count of Monte Cristo, a story about a prisoner who escapes and seeks his revenge, struck me. I truly felt like a prisoner. I was allowed minimal choices. I was told what to think. I was punished for the slightest infraction. Hell, even to this day, with the exception of my sister’s wedding, I haven’t been back to my home town in 8 years. And I’m not sure I ever will.

At some point, I became somewhat deistic. I wasn’t sure if god existed or not, but I did know that if he existed, he didn’t care about me, and didn’t participate in my life. I tried to live a good life, but not to appease a god that never was there for me. I did it because I didn’t want to hurt others.

Then that just transitioned into atheism. Militant atheism. I see certain behaviors in me now, like difficulty in relationships, and can directly link it to the nonsense my parents believed. I mean, I’m mature enough to admit that my parents weren’t bad people. They were stupid. They simply didn’t know any better. They were raised a certain way, and it never occurred to them that it could be wrong. Or perhaps they were worried about going to hell. But if that’s your sole reason for doing something, you’re not doing it because you believe it. You’re doing it because you are afraid of what might happen. I don’t kill people because it’s wrong, not because I would go to hell for it.

Now, I’m almost 30. My dad had 3 children by the time he was my age. I can’t have a relationship last a year. I try to be the mature one about it. I know I’m smarter than my parents. I know I’m even a better person than they are because they do it out of fear and I do it out of logic. I call my parents on their birthdays and holidays. Sometimes I call them just to say hi. They have not called me in the last 5 years.

I may be a better person, but I will never be healthy. I will never be complete. That’s because they believe that god told them to raise me in a way that made me react like this. If there is a god, and I go to hell, it’s because of god’s inaction. Not because I am a sinner.