Dream Journal: 2016-02-20.01

Is it out of line to throw a temper tantrum in front of a god, to a god? Just asking, in case someone other than me gives a fuck.

So that monotheist demiurge is a-courting me again, and I lost all measure of decorum.

The summary of my screams thesis is plain: At a crucial moment when all I needed to show was faith, that faith was discarded as not enough.

When he (as/or his son) appeared in that vision so many years ago, I was ready to let it all go, right then, right there. I had faith, knowing and blinded, to the point where I knew on some primal level that a high probability outcome of my hand in his was the death of my body, and that was fucking okay because it meant leaving behind everything unclean and dirty about me.

My spirit would be redeemed, and ashes become ashes while dust becomes dust.

Never before or since that moment had my faith in him been so complete.

And he let me down.

I’m sure apologists will say that I was the one who faltered. That I allowed my sight to wander from the pure and ultimate truth. That my moment of weakness is what the attending angels reacted to with unsheathed hostility.

I have been told by some well-meaning fanatics that the whole purpose of that vision was to demonstrate to me why I didn’t deserve redemption in the first place and why it would never be granted.

But my bitch-fit isn’t with his slavers.

It’s with that sunnavabitch on the throne, right there. ~points~

I have fucking suffered in his name. Y’all know how Job had lost “everything” including his health, but never suffered the indignity of losing his autonomy? Yea. Job ain’t got shit on what I have been held down for in the name of [that fucking bastard]. Funny how everything Job “lost” was things Job could obtain later.

How the fuck do you “obtain” anything resembling what you were before after being held down for … physical education of the worth of a woman.

And that moment of “weakness”, that moment when I realized that the attending angels would kill me and sentence me to destruction before I could even so much as reach for his hand, made me question not only my faith in him, but all that I had been taught that he was.

So now here I am… a decade and a few years after that vision, and a multitude of experiences that has dethroned him as Supreme Leader in my eyes. And I’m getting visions of that wee little Anglican church again. Where he took on the guise of a poor little parish priest in a small and humble building, where we could sit down and discuss matters of faith, love, and acceptance, while eight very pissed but very loyal angels watched over us in golden silence.

And once the rage passes and I recover a veneer of civility, all I can say to him is, “Where were you? Where were you when I was beaten in your name? Where were you when I was raped in your name? Where were you when I was being programmed to be the physical scapegoat for that cult in your name? Where were you when my visions showed themselves to be more than the ravings of an already abused and tormented child and I needed a token from you that my spirit could hold on to weather and survive the coming storm? WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I NEEDED TO KNOW WHAT UNCONDITIONAL LOVE IS? WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU THEN AND WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU IN MY FUCKING WAY NOW?!”

He says nothing as the echoes of my still weeping pain and anguish echo off the stained glass windows.

I am listening with all the senses that I know and a few others I hadn’t realized I had until that moment. I don’t know if I want to hear him apologize. I don’t know if I want to hear him justify the abuses upon me. I don’t know what I want to hear, so I am desperate to hear anything.

“I have always loved you.” It is a quiet voice. Soft, but not tired. Firm, but not straining. It is a fact that he speaks, with the same surety as [another truth].

It stokes my rage back into a devouring flame.

I jump to my feet and back away as the anger devours me. I clench my hand and find Mary’s rosary biting between my fingers. My rage instantly calms into something I can seize and hold at bay. After a few deep breaths, I hold up the fist between us, not as a threat, but as a statement. The unadorned cross swings in the empty air.

“For her, I take my leave. You had a chance. You could have called the angels back. You could have spoken any number of truths that would have dispelled all the lies I had been indoctrinated into but still allow me to remain a dedicated Christian. You could have done anything but you did nothing. I had such faith in you that if you had thrown a knife at my feet and softly requested I slit my throat that day, my blood would still be staining the pavement now.”

I pulled the rosary adorned fist back to my chest. “But that was then. And this is now. I am lost to you. Your inaction made sure of that. [A certain declaration is made that really pissed off the angels above us.] I don’t know what you want from me now. I suggest you speak with [Mary] about whether or not I am the right contractor to hire for whatever task you wish of me. If it is one that requires faith, well…”

I placed my still clenched fist in my coat pocket. Stiffly bowing a formal farewell, I wished him a good day for whatever passes as a day to him. I nodded to each of the barely hidden angels in turn. A formal step backwards, a military about-face, three steps to the old wooden door, then I’m gone.

Some wounds take all lifetime to recover from.