Confession

Hey, Mom. I never told you this before, but you’re the reason why I hated God….and you’re the reason why I hated myself. Now that I’m an adult, I stopped hating God.

Adult. That’s an interesting word, isn’t it? I mean yes, I’m old. Old enough to have grown children, but a lot of times, I’m still that same three-year-old boy, dressed in a white shirt and blue jean overalls, playing with trucks in the front yard when you bent over and kissed me goodbye for the last time. I just watched your youngest grandson graduate from high school. Your oldest grandson is starting trade school now to be an electrician, and the middle grandson is doing coding for computer systems. Then there’s my niece, your granddaughter, who will be starting high school this year. And you’ve never gotten to meet any of them.

It's not your fault, really. It’s not your fault that my father left me before I had a name. It’s not your fault that you married a biker. It’s not your fault that those busses were racing each other that night on that dark, windy road. It’s not your fault that the bus hit the motorcycle, or that you were thrown off, or that the bus kept going right over you.

No, it’s not your fault, but everything happens for a reason. That’s what the preacher said. That’s what everyone mimicked. But if everything happens for a reason, then it has to have a cause. What could cause this? God has a plan, they said. It’s in His hands, they said. So, if it’s in His hands, then its His fault, and I hated him for it. Sure, I knew there were people starving all over the world, I knew that there were people being brutalized and abused, and I knew that kids were dying of cancer, and he was letting all of it just happen, but for me, my pain, my truth, was that He took my Mother away from me.

You were the second person to leave me. The third was your father. When you died, he looked at me and said that nothing was going to hurt me, that he would take care of me, but five years later, God took him from me with cancer. The fourth to leave me was your mother. She lived another 35 years, but mentally, emotionally, she died the day we put your father in the ground. I’ve been on my own ever since.

And I hated God for taking you, I hated God for taking them all, and I wanted answers. I read the bible cover to cover. I found no answers. I studied the Koran, the Buddhist Sutras, the Bhagavad Gita, the Kebra Negast, all of them, every spiritual scripture I could find. I wanted answers. I wanted answers from God, a god, any god. It didn’t matter. Nothing. Silence. No answers. No consolation. Nothing. God mustn’t be real. And I hated Him even more for being so.

I stopped searching for answers that weren’t there, but I noticed how I attached myself to people, how I interacted with them. I noticed how I was never really present. Loyal, yes, and fiercely so, but I could never give myself to anyone, never open myself. It made friendships difficult, and relationships, real relationships, with anyone, impossible; and yet, I would dream, I would see that little three-year-old boy, dressed in a white shirt and blue jean overalls. I would see that young woman with the blonde hair and blue eyes lean down and kiss that little boy and say, “I love you.” And I would see that little boy, without looking, content in his playtime, say, “I love you, too, Mommy,” but it wasn’t his voice, or rather, it wasn’t the voice of a child, but a man’s voice. My voice. I dreamed this over and over again until I realized that I was that boy, and I was the person watching it from a distance, as if trying to distance myself from the pain of my last memory of you. In doing so, I was distancing myself from everyone, anyone who could get close to me, anyone who could hurt me,….anyone who could leave me, again.

Then I found a new hate. I didn’t understand why I was here, I didn’t understand why anyone, anything, could create a life and leave it isolated from society yet surrounded by it. I was ever the loner. I had a new dream, too, but not a real dream, more of a voice, a calling, a tactile sensation, a need…to understand what it felt like to burn my skin. I needed to see what it felt like to pull the blade across my skin and feel the liquid move in between my hairs. I needed to feel the breath leave my body. I needed to feel the cool, calm darkness surrounding me, comforting me like nothing had ever done so before. I needed to feel……..something…..anything…..please. And I hated myself for it.

I met someone. You would like her. You would love her. She’s a lot like you. Strong, in ways I couldn’t be. She keeps me sane, she keeps me happy, she challenges me, and makes me better. She pushes me, and she believes in me. We’ve been together for decades and have this wonderful life with your wonderful grandchildren; but every now and then, late at night, I still dream of that little boy in that white shirt and blue overalls, and of you kissing him goodbye. Every now and then, late at night, I still feel the urge to feel the fire or the blade or the silence.

The first time I heard “bipolar” I didn’t think of myself. I thought of, you know, “really crazy people.” Then I realized that it’s not. Sometimes its normal people trying to make a happy life but still having those dreams, still having those urges, and knowing it’s not good, and its not safe, but also knowing that it’s forever. I get help, I talk about it, I medicate it, but it will never go away until, at some point, the silence takes me. And worse yet, I got it from you, and have probably given in to your grandchildren. It’s not your fault, though. You didn’t know. You couldn’t be here to know.

Hey, Mom. I never told you this before, but you’re the reason why I hated God, and you’re the reason why I hate myself. At least I stopped hating God.