It’s a serious question you know. For as long as I can remember, I’ve struggled with the whole concept of God.
Who is this god?
What is this god?
Why is this god?
Even as a young girl growing up in a Catholic home, I could never understand how so many people could come together and worship something so abstract and foreign yet, behind closed doors, turn around and worship
their bottles and Percocets,
their mommas and needles;
beasts of an entirely different nature. We sing our hymns and recite our Apostles’ Creeds but, shit, how can we believe in something so unknown when we can hardly believe in ourselves?
Crawl inside me, taste my hunger, smoke my energy; walk hand in hand with me into the depths of my madness and then tell me there is a God. Feel my heart beat, drown yourself in my 80 proof memories, lay beside me as I fold myself into one and then tell me there is a holy light. Get high off me, get buzzed from me, get trippy with me. Confess to me all your sins and then we’ll see which one of us gets saved.
What about the girls who look for their mother’s in the eyes of strangers hoping that one day- someday- they’ll find the addict who left them years ago. While I went missing you, you went Missing In Action. I swear I would save you if I could.
What about the girls who spend their childhoods hoping that their daddy’s would raise an angry hand so that they would have an excuse to run away and escape it all. Because words don’t leave proof. They never do. And you never did.
What about the girls who eat air. What about the girls who spend more time in the shower throwing up than they do actually getting clean; from their days worth of sweat, from their years worth of addiction. What about the girls who have contemplated selling themselves because they needed the money and they needed the love and they needed the rush. Or, at least, they thought they did. I thought I did.
What about the girls with old souls and heavy complexes. What about the girls whose bodies become their language. What about the girls who were born in the generation of “less is more”.
When do we get saved?
I think my problem with God is that, right now, I just don’t understand him- so many questions, so much skepticism. Where is the evidence? Where is the proof? I don’t get it.
With that being said, a few days ago, I came to the realization that in order for this whole recovery thing to work, I need to believe in something– something bigger than myself. I have to believe that there is something in the end for me- that my life has a purpose, right? I think we all do.
I may not believe in a man in the sky or the whole “life, liberty, and the pursuit of heaven-ness” concept, however,
I believe that I am made of nature and all things beautiful.
I believe in lights at the ends of all tunnels.
I believe in my abilities.
Today officially marks my fourth consecutive day eating disorder free- the longest streak thus far.
I will count the seconds and the minutes and the days- I will count the moments of freedom and the freedom in moments until I am better.
With or without God.