Blasphemous rumors

During the past year, I have gone through some difficult experiences and had to make the single most anguishing decision of my life. I've experienced extremely painful (although arguably necessary) losses. In many ways, I've emerged OK. I now own a house. I have a few good friends and an affordable number of cats. I'm not holding out hope for a relationship with someone who isn't remotely suitable (or interested), and I don't have to wonder why my so-called best friend won't answer or return my calls.

I think I feel less than I did before the events of 8-12 months ago. I think the open, raw place in my psyche that oozed constant pain and confusion finally was stabbed so deeply that it actually scabbed over and started not to hurt so much anymore. This is probably good. Antidepressants are effective unguents only up to a point.

Re-reading, the "open, raw place in my psyche that oozed constant pain and confusion" sounds very melodramatic. But depression, to me, IS melodramatic, or perhaps melodrama is simply the most apt way to express the almost physical pain that penetrates to your bones, your marrow, your soul. And sometimes hyperbole and melodrama even bring you laughter when nothing else does.

Along with the sadness, I've lost some of the joy and the laughter and the sense of unconditional love that I was beginning to equate, tentatively, with God. God's love to me has always been a troubling concept, elusive when I sought it, a threat when I didn't (maybe my mom told me a few too many times, "God is going to do whatever it takes to bring you back, even if that means something really horrible happening to you"). I've always had the sneaking uneasiness that if I ever decide to really trust God, the first thing that will happen is something truly awful, because God will have to test the sincerity of my trust. Because that's how God works, right? the vindictive God of the Old Testament and the Puritans, the God of Colorado Springs Calvinists who scorn the idea of a touchy-feely-loving God and instead make statements like, "We love homosexuals by letting them know that what they do is an abomination in the sight of God and will land them in the fires of hell forever." Love isn't just a feeling, but if what you feel is hatred or condemnation or superiority, no twist of semantics or definitions can make it love.

And, more than the wrong things people told me about God (at least I hope they're wrong), what I keep running up against is my own sense of betrayal: all those very, very bleak times when no one was home to answer my calls, God sent me nothing--no sign, no sense of peace or presence--and I was completely alone with my own damage and a razor or scissors or a piece of broken glass. Even then it was a dare, defiance: Fine, if my body really is a temple of the holy spirit, if you, God, care at all, then stop me from desecrating this temple. Help me, darn it. But maybe that isn't how God works. It certainly wasn't how God worked for me; I have the scars to prove it.

So when I do go to church, when I open the Bible, when I make any sort of tentative attempt to connect with God or develop my spirituality, I run up against that wall. And the events of the past year in some ways make it worse: more unconditional love that's gone from my life; more damage I might have done to beings I loved, in trying to do the right thing. A capacity to care that I don't seem to have anymore, at least right now. A sense of hope, which I've never had in abundance. A belief in anything other than the profound absence of God in my life.

This absence in many ways shapes The Nightmares of Lost Ghosts, my novel in progress. There is a line from a Sisters of Mercy song, "No Time to Cry," that sums it up perfectly: "It's ... just like Jesus never came."

A few weeks ago, I was at my mom's family reunion. I had a good time, but I kept thinking about what would happen if these people--people I care about and who, I am beginning to realize, care far more about me than I ever fathomed--were to read my novel. I think they would be hurt. I doubt most of them would understand, although perhaps I am underestimating them. Mostly, they seem happy; they love Jesus, and it works for them. They are confident enough in their faith that they want to share it with other people. Me? I struggle all the time. I struggle mightily with the idea that God is good and loves me. My experience of faith, of God, of Christians is not such that I want to lead anyone else to it. The most accurate reflection of my theology is the refrain from Stephen King's novel "Desperation": God is cruel, and His cruelty refines. I wish this wasn't my theology, but it absolutely nails the sense I've had since I was a teenager.

Several of my cousins exchanged blog URLs. I am still undecided about whether to share mine. So, if you are a Bierma connection and you are reading this, know the risk I am taking with you. Don't judge me, try not to be offended, and treat me gently.