True Faith

It’s easier for me to talk about my sex life than it is the state of my faith. I’m pretty sure that says something about me, but I couldn’t tell you what, exactly.

I need to talk  write about faith the same way I once needed to write about sex. I just have no idea how to go about it.  I’ve written — and tossed — reams of words trying to explain it. None of it works.

So I’m here with a chainsaw, hoping to get to the meat of the matter. I’m willing to shave some extra skin just to get the subject on the table.

I didn’t want to be a person of faith, so I tried my best not to be. That didn’t work. No matter how I tried to ignore matters of the metaphysic I would always work my way back to it. It was a long process, mainly because I spent so much time looking at other people’s opinion’s on what  The Great Answer is. After many years of saying “well that doesn’t make much sense to me” I finally started asking myself what made sense.

I stopped asking the universe what I should (could? would, even?) believe and started asking myself.

To be honest I haven’t gotten far. To be very honest (and as much as I hate to do it, snag a metaphor from the Bible) I’ve actually been somewhat of a Jonah.

I started with a very basic idea of things that made sense and started working with that. And it did work. I discovered what true faith means — what it means to me, this is my UPG, doesn’t have to be yours too — and I was in a very happy place spiritually.

See, here’s the part I always choke on, the thing that’s always hardest to really talk about.

I was in a good place spiritually with my homemade heathen faith and then on two separate  occasions some … fuck, I don’t know, some energy, some thing, spoke to me.

The first time it spoke into the room and told me exactly what I needed to hear to make a very big, very serious decision.

The second time it spoke into my ear and is directly responsible for my last (in every sense of the work *knock wood*) pregnancy. Of course we never really know what would have happened had we chosen a different path in the forest, but I’d be willing to bet everything except my children that without a voice speaking into my ear to suggest what a wonderful Christmas present it would be to forget the second part of coitus interruptus, I wouldn’t be sitting here looking across the room at my Ferocious Beastie.

So yeah, not only did I have faith, I had proof. And I’ve spent the last five years or so running away from that proof, trying to tell myself it was all in my head.

There have been some mitigating factors, most notably a horrible case of postpartum psychosis and the subsequent two-year cruise on The Good Ship Zoloft. When your chemicals go haywire and your brain tries to convince you your newborn is possessed by demons, being comfortable with the idea of spirits speaking to and guiding you isn’t easy. Add to that the numbness of being I experienced while medicated, and you have a good recipe for swinging between abject fear and no fucks to give.

I’ve tried everything I know to talk myself out of the surety of those voices speaking to me. I simply can’t, the same way I could never find a way to completely embrace atheism (or even agnosticism).

I’ve come this far so I might as well keep going.  A few months ago I decided to pick up the remains of my faith and try again, see if I could plug back in after all this time.

Not only was I able to plug in, as soon as I did the voice spoke to me again.

“Welcome back. We’ve been waiting.”