Religious Trauma - Tumblr Posts

the insanity of never knowing without absolute certainty that there is a divinity and yet longing it to be true so wholeheartedly. the cursing and the begging to not be forgotten. the suffering and the righteous hatred. the wanting that it was not all for nothing. the terror of being right. the aching loneliness of being yourself because there is no one quite like you and so that means there will be no one who quite understands.

the endless cycle of the snake eating its own tail.

It occurred to me waking up that the objective “realness” and inherent, self-determined substance of any divine being whom people place the foundations of their faith upon is.. less relevant than I thought it was, barely nine hours ago.

The faithful create their own god - a thousand thousand thousand twice over, like a strained tapestry of divine fragments, close enough to form one full picture of the almighty He until our pathetic mortal fingers try to touch and the tapestry gives - and those thousand thousand thousand twice over shards struggle away from each other, though stretched so thin the mantle already is over the shoulders of a thousand thousand twice over of the self-professed faithful.

Though I am not faithful, I can see the work of small gods everywhere - as if they sit on the shoulders like some caricature of conscience. I see the hand of small gods in fiery rhetoric in the newspapers about rightful ownership of this land and that land and this country and that country - for a truly good being would not allow his faithful to be misled so blatantly. So, I blame the small god, because I know one person does not reflect the wider faith.

It is difficult, not to condemn the faith as a whole - absolute power corrupts absolutely, yes, but the belief in an absolute power has equal potential to corrupt, both for the faithful and unfaithful, as well as to be corrupted. I hear “good works” and am reassured of the morality of faith until I recall proselytism is good works, conversion is good works. I hear “faith is the measure of morality” and “faith is the key to heaven” and panic - how do you expect a person to behave with no limits on their actions but that oh-so-malleable faith and with a key to heaven strung above their head, as opposed to round and round their neck like the millstone it should be.

Were a god real tomorrow, especially the one which occupies my thoughts given its impact in the world outside of its jurisdiction of faith, it would not deserve my faith. Any self-declared all-knowing, all-powerful god that tolerates the blatant and deliberate misuses of its creed for hundreds of years - even one day - is an outcast of my mind, an exile of my philosophy, a fugitive of my internal laws. Any god which allows its name to be used to condemn whole swathes of people it claims to have created in its own, self-claimed flawless image - will experience the same, tiny protest. I hope it bothers someone, somewhere. A minuscule mortal grit in a divine boot that is unlikely to even exist.

This isn’t to say the past, present and future of all faith is hopeless; the message of a faith is often evident through what appears to be doctoring. Faith is no tool or weapon or rallying cry - it is a box of things. You simply take from it what you need. It is those who hand out hate and say ‘this came from the box’ that deserve any vitriol I have toward faith. Those who accept all until it comes into their own home are a close second.

It has occurred to me that this likely stems from a deep-rooted hatred of unnecessary hierarchy, especially those that enact unnecessary violence and bureaucracy. Faith symbolises that, for myself, as it commands that it should not be questioned. How do you free somebody from something they’ve been conditioned, likely from the point of awareness, that they do not wish to be free from?

Why yes I do think I’m better than god. Because I’m able to process my emotions and forgive people and be empathetic towards them. God can only forgive if he tortures and murders his own son and if everyone begs for forgiveness their entire life and serves him. We are not the same.

Humans aren't born evil. But being born into an abusive religion that repeatedly tells you that you are, that tells you to deny fundamental parts of yourself or risk death, that relies on guilt and fear tactics to keep you in line, being born into that? That sure makes you feel like you're evil. Being repeatedly subjected to that kind of abuse breaks you down, it makes you feel like you're the scum of the earth. It's a self-reinforcing loop. You're set up with unreasonable expectations, and when you can't meet them, you're shamed. You're broken down and then told that you're broken; you're broken down and then sold a "cure" that only breaks you even more, until it starts to feel true. You feel like you're evil.

But the truth is, you are not inherently broken. You always have the ability to heal: it's been inside you the whole time. What is truly evil is the way that you were treated. You never deserved to suffer for being born a human.

i think there's something really sad and also really scary about coming to terms with the fact that my future is not going to be about succeeding in my career, finding love, and moving to a big city because in reality nothing will be waiting for me. i am going to be a climate refugee stuck in poverty and isolation.

religion, parental abuse and patriarchy stole my childhood and youth from me. now, capitalism has stolen my future from me. i'm being told not to despair, but im sorry. its too late. and im not forgiving the ones who did this. if hell is real, i hope you rot there.

It’s crazy that I used to prey every single day and go to church at Sunday since kindergarten.

Then I turned 13 and stopped believing in God. Why is it always 13??????

I don't care if religion is real or not and it has probably been said here before, but if I were Mary, I would've stopped believing in God the second I saw my son being almost dragged through the streets by the Romans.

God promised he would be the savior, that I would carry His son and give birth to him.

I gestated him, I felt him in my womb, I felt him kick. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh.

And when the time came, I held him when he took his first breaths, when he wailed after being born, when he was still covered in my blood, when he was but a small helpless newborn.

And I comforted him, and I nursed him, I gave him everything he would ever need. I loved him. I raised him.

I tended his wounds while on childhood. Probably taking care of his scrapped knees, maybe some splinters when he was learning to be a carpenter. Cleaning his tears after a nightmare, holding him tight after he got lost in a crowd.

I saw him perform his first miracle, my brain remembering how all those years ago, that angel promised my son to be not only the savior but also the son of God. The happiness of knowing he will be safe because he's the son of God, isn't he? God would never allow anything to happen to him.

See him grow, performing more miracles, watching him gather crowds and followers. Hearing him teach those same crowds, inspire people, help the poor, heal the wounded, resurrect the dead...

After 30 years, I would probably would have felt secure that God would never allow anything to happen to him. To his son. To my son.

I imagine how heartbreaking would have been to Mary to hear that he had been betrayed. That he was imprisoned by the Romans. That he was in danger.

And she probably prayed and prayed, begged God to take care of her son. Her child. Her baby. She was restless, trying to find ways to get to him.

She probably kept her faith and tried to keep a strong belief in God. After all, He's the creator, supreme being that would help keep His son safe.

And then she sees it, the verdict delivered by the hand of Pilate. Her son must die on a cross. And I imagine her faith waver, thinking that no, it has to be a mistake. God will save him. He has to. Her son is not only the savior but also an innocent man.

Yet there he was. Carrying a cross. A crown of thorns over his forehead, the same she had kissed goodnight so many times before. His frame holding the heavy cross, the same frame she had hugged goodbye, probably less than a month ago. His back bloodied by the lashes that the Romans delivered onto him, the same back she rubbed to take the burps out when he was a baby.

And God doesn't help him. He doesn't intervene. He doesn't save her precious little boy. He doesn't hear her begging.

They crucified him, they put nails through his wrists, blood dripping down, the same blood she has running through her veins. And she hears him wail in pain, but she can't hug him and tell him he'll be fine.

She sees him up there, suffering, barely conscious for three consecutive days. Three days when the Romans poked him with a spear, cutting the same ribs, she probably massaged when he was sick as a kid.

And I honestly believe that she would've lost all her faith. She wailed in pain and despair, screaming to the sky in anger, clutching her heart because her baby, the supposed savior, was dead. They took him from her.

She had given her body, her milk, and now her tears, to a God that could not even bother to give her son a merciful end, to take his pain away. She gave everything of her and still lost him.

So I don't think she would've kept being faithful to God or even keep believing in Him. He used her, and it was only then, only when she could see her son being tortured, that she started realizing it.

Birth & Death of Christ

The Virgin of the Lilies † Pietra by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

Tbh, I would actually KILL to read fanfics about it

I would KILL

Can we talk about how Santo (Saint) is basically abused and manipulated??? Like... He's gaslighted and manipulated all the time by the father priest. And his mother loves him very much but she only cares about him being a saint. It's sad to see he always seems so lost and lonely.

I don't believe that God has a physical form.

As a Muslim, we know that God doesn't have a physical form that we can see or touch yet. But while I lay here with a dull ache in my heart, I tried imagining being held in someone's arms. Something to soothe that ache. But then I got this image in my head. A warm blanket of light, of noor, being wrapped around me. I felt a warm feeling spread inside of my body.

That's the same feeling that I used to have whenever I prayed Tahajjud.

God will find a way back into your life and no matter what, you will always end up appreciating it.

Thinking about Her (Lot’s wife)

Listening to Hozier is all fun and games until he sings "I do not have wings, love, I never will" and suddenly you're ten years old again. Just a ten year old Catholic school girl terrified of hell and desperately trying to be good enough for heaven.

The way I view my childhood is weird because on the one hand, I strongly disagree with how I was raised. But on the other hand, everything was so much simpler before I started questioning. Ignorance really is bliss.

I have catholic trauma but I still love Mary so much. She’s just a beautiful figure and her suffering is not talked about enough. My OG mother figure.

Virgin Mary tears

Church Boy-Truthful

TW

I stood up from the floor. "Larry, do you have some paper and something to write with?" I ask. "Yea, right here." He said, pointing to a shoebox next to him. "Thank you." I said, opening it to reveal a few notebooks and some writing utensils. 

"No problem, Travis." he said, continuing with his art. I walked back to the spot I was at and sat down once again. I sat the paper on the top of the lid to a container nowhere in sight that was resting on the floor.

"𝐼 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝓇𝑜𝓃𝑔. 𝐼 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌. 𝒢𝑜𝒹, 𝓅𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒. 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓎. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝐼 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇. 𝑀𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑒, 𝒾𝒻 𝐼 𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓉, 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇. 𝐼 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝐼 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝒶 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝓃𝑒𝓇. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁. 𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓋𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒. 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓉𝓎𝓁𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓂𝑒. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁..."

I wrote, tears coming to my eyes. 

Sal's POV: 

I was in my room, lying on my bed and holding the stuffed cat my mother had gotten me when I was younger. It looked like Gizmo. My dad got Gizmo because he looked like an animal, we got him after the accident. He was my favorite little boy. My lil' meatball boy.

I smiled a little, happy I still could after what just went down. I tossed and turned around. Soon after I got comfy, my walkie-talkie beeped, and Larry started talking to me. "Hey, Sal?" he softly called out. "Yea?" I exasperatedly ask. "Travis is being, like, super fucking weird. He's being all quiet and polite. Can you come over?" he asked, a genuine sense of worry in his voice. "Sure, I'll be right up." I assure him, slipping on my shirt.

*Time Skip*

I was in the elevator now when my walkie-talkie went off again. "Dude, he just left." Larry said, panic settling in his voice. "Where'd he go?" I ask, just as concerned. "Outback. Asked me for some paper and something to write with. After he wrote something down, he put it in his pocket and left. What if it's, like, a suicide note or something?" Larry suggested, causing my heart to race and my brow to sweat. "Let's hope not..."

I ran out of the elevator as it opened, the door still sliding slightly. I ran to his room, not bothering to knock or tell anyone why I was there. "Hey, Sal." My dad greeted me from the couch. "Hi, dad!" I yelled back, faking happiness as I panicked harder. I busted into Larry's room to find him already dressed and ready to go. "C'mon!" I yelled, grabbing his wrist and dragging him to the door. 

As we exited the building, the sight of bright blonde hair at the top caught me off guard. "Travis, what the fuck are you doing?" I yelled, body beginning to shake but most likely not from the cold. "I'm fucking done." he yelled back, taking a small step forward. 

My heart sped up and my intrusive thoughts got the better of me.

Travis' POV:

I was standing at the edge. His bright blue hair caught my attention. "Travis, what the fuck are you doing?!" he yelled. "I'm done." I replied, taking a small step as I recalled every fucking time my father punished me. 

Every time I watched my mother bleeding on the floor.

Every time I cut my body up. 

Every time I feared coming home. 

Every time I begged for my father's approval and love. 

Every time I thought of Sal. 

Every damn time.

"Leave. I know you don't care. I know it. Stop pretending you do so everyone will look at you like you're a saint. You are the epitome of evil. You are a sinner. A freak!" I yelled, clenching my fists. Sal took a step back and looked at Larry. He said something, I could tell because his mask shifted. 

After he turned away from Larry, he faced the treehouse and started bolting towards it. He climbed the steps at an inhuman pace, something I never thought would be possible for a guy his size. 

Once he reached me, he tackled me to the ground and pulled me into a hug. "Travis, what the fuck were you thinking?!" he screamed, hugging me tighter. 

Sal's POV:

I looked up at the boy, fear in his eyes and anger in his stance. I turned towards Larry and started talking. "I'm going to save his life, even if it costs me mine. I promise." I said, Larry turned to me with fear and guilt in his eyes. "I love you, bro. So much. Be fuckin' careful and don't do anything stupid." he said, looking back toward Travis. He looked down at me with hate. "Leave. I know you don't care. I know it. Stop pretending you do so everyone will look at you like you're a saint. You are the epitome of evil. You are a sinner. A freak!" he yelled.

I took a deep breath and ran as fast as my legs would take me to the treehouse. I climbed up the steps, ravaging my fingers and hands as I did. Once I reached the top, I tackled him to the ground, hugging him and wishing I could hold on forever. "Travis, what the fuck were you thinking?!" I screamed, tightening my grasp. 

He looked at me with pure fear. "I don't know..." he said, falling into my arms and letting the tears drip from his deep amber eyes. "Don't you ever fucking scare me like that again..." I whispered, taking in everything I could. 

He smelled like vanilla and new book; his eyes were amber, and he had dark bags under them. Small freckles could be seen if you looked hard enough. He looked exhausted. "I was so scared..." he admitted. "Travis, I was too..." I assured. "What...?" he asked, confused and sad. "I tried too. My dad found me and cut the rope. I'm so fucking grateful..." I said, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding. 

Travis stayed silent for a moment, accepting my hug and letting me rub his back as I talked to him. "Trav, why do you hate me?" I asked, trying not to dampen the already cold mood. He said nothing, instead, he sighed and buried his face into my neck. "I don't know..." he truthfully answered. "It's okay..." I assured, using my fingers to massage his spine. 

"Travis, we don't have to be enemies, you know that, right?" I ask, cupping his cheek as he stared at me. "I know..." he said, dropping his head onto my shoulder. "Friends?" I ask. 

"Friends..."

(Originally Posted March 19th 2023 on Wattpad)

"Church Boy." - Truthful - Wattpad

Church Boy-Sinners

Today was 14 days before Christmas. A few months ago, Travis and I started dating. We had our first kiss and first time together. I couldn't see myself with anyone else in the world. 

Amazingly, our school didn't offer any breaks for Christmas. They said it was because a holiday didn't require time off. It did when you go to Nockfell High...

I had already gotten, Travis, Neil, Larry, Ash, Maple, Chug, Todd, and everybody else their gifts. I got Travis a matching necklace that I and him were going to wear, along with rings that matched too. I got Neil a new coffee mug. Larry got some new drumsticks and art stuff; Mainly acrylics and canvas'. Ash got more art stuff and a sketchbook. Maple got a new switchblade. Chug got an assortment of chocolates. Todd got a new book about the theory of the space-time continuum and some writing stuff.

I was sitting in my living room, wrapping the gifts when a knock at the door caught my attention. I ran over and barely opened it. Travis was standing in my doorway with another man behind him. His eyes were fearful and pleading. "Hey, Travis." I greeted. "Give me a second, I'm wrapping presents and you can't see yours." I informed, gently closing the door and completely flipping out. 

I ran to my father's room and opened the door. "Dad! Travis' father is here and he wants in! What do I do? He's homophobic! I-" 

"Calm down, Sal. I'll get it and I won't say anything about you two."

"Okay..."

My father gave me a reassuring smile and walked to the front door. He opened it and let them in. The two men stepped inside and the taller one looked around before beginning to speak. "My son has informed me that you and he are very close." he stated, voice deep and raspy; he had likely been yelling prior. "Yes, Mr. Phelps. Travis and I have grown very close since I moved here." I informed, adjusting my mask. 

"Hm..."

"So, is there any problem with him and me?"

"Potentially."

"Well, let's sort that out, then!"

"You're not a faggot, are you?"

"I- no...I'm not. They are the epitome of the devil."

"Agreed."

"...Mhm...

"Then, tell me, Mr. Fisher. Why have you corrupted my son's soul? You've turned him into a faggot. A sinner..."

"I didn't-"

"Silence. You and Travis are to have no further interactions. If that isn't clear, I can make it."

"I-"

"Since you want to lie, let me read through his journal. "Today I walked past Sal. His pigtails bounced and swayed when he walked. I like how his hair looks today. It looks good every day, though. 

I miss his touch. The other night was amazing. I love him. He saw me and walked over. Looping his arms around my waist, I was pulled into a warm hug. He told me he loved me and I told him I loved him back. 

We walked to our classes and then ate lunch together as well. He kept his hand on my thigh while we ate. I'm so glad we sit near the wall so nobody can see.

So perfect and pretty, yet he loves me out of everyone else. Wow..."

"Travis, you wrote that?"

"He did."

"I-"

My words were cut off by the man leaving and grabbing Travis by his wrists and dragging him along. Before the door shut, Travis turned to face me and mouthed the words, "I love you" before being dragged away.

My heart sped up and I soon could no longer breathe. "Sal, what happened?" My father asked, re-entering the room. "I can't-" my words slurred. "Travis and I can't see each other..." I choked out, coughing and sobbing. "Sal, I'm so sorry. I really am..." my father muttered, rubbing my back. 

*Time Skip*

I was now lying in my bed, flat on my back with my arms at my sides. I was no longer crying. Now, nothing would come out. The worst part had to be the fact that I had to see him tomorrow at school. 

I was lying with my thoughts until something brilliant struck me. He's close with Ms. Gibson. I'd go talk to her. 

I threw on my mask and a different shirt. "Dad! I'll be right back!" I yelled, dashing out of the door and down to the first level. The elevator ride felt so much longer than it should have. Once it stopped and the doors opened enough for me to slip out, I did and ran to Ms. Gibson's room. 

I aggressively knocked on the door until it opened. "What?" she spat, glaring at me with contempt. "Travis." I choked out. Her eyes went wide, and she let me in. "What? Did something happen?" she interrogated. "His father...made him stop seeing me. He found his journal and when his dad brought him over...he had more bruises and scars than I do." 

"Are you fucking serious?!" 

"Yes..."

She smiled sadistically before disappearing into her room. 

She returned a second later, wielding a shotgun...

Travis' POV:

He grabbed my wrist and dragged me away from Sal. I turned away and told him I loved him, even if it were to be the last thing I ever said to him. 

His eyes hurt so fucking bad. Those baby-blue pools just staring at me...

I wanted to just break away and kiss him, so bad. I just want to touch him again. Even hearing his laugh would suffice. Or seeing him smile at me when we were playing games or joking. To watch how his hair moved when he ran to me from across the school hallway. Or even his smell...That vanilla and coffee scent.

I felt tears rising to my eyes as we drove away. I saw him watching out of his window as we parted farther and farther from the apartments. "You are a sinner." my father declared, monotone. 

"Yes..."

Originally posted March 30th 2023 on Wattpad

"Church Boy." - Sinners - Wattpad

Church Boy-Enough

TW

We arrived home and my father began to smile. I knew what was going to happen, so I ran up to my room and locked the door behind me. My father was now right outside, banging so the door rattled. 

"Open this fucking door!" he screamed, jiggling the handle and banging some more. "Please! Don't!" I cried, hugging my knees to my chest. The banging and yelling stopped. "Travis, please open this door." he kindly requested, stifled anger surging through his voice. "No! I'm not falling for that! Leave! Kick me out, even! I don't care!" I screamed, voice wavering and shaky. "Then leave."

A few minutes later, a loud cracking sound could be heard from right next to me. The door had been split through the center, a large ax through the cheap wood. "You-" I muttered, seeing my father standing there, body shaking. 

"Please..." I whispered, watching as my father charge toward me and knocked me to the ground. He took his hand and balled it into a fist, striking my face as I did my best to cover it. He grabbed my chin and forced me to face him. 

His green eyes shot through me as he slapped me across the face. He then used his other hand to slam my head into the ground. I screamed but he covered my mouth. "You make another sound," he whispered, lowering himself to say it into my ear. "I'll break your jaw..."

A shiver went through my body, and I felt blood gushing from my nose. His hand was on my forehead, forcing my head down, and the other one was by his side and clenched. He raised his fist and struck my eye; a deep bruise would be there soon...

I could barely see now, only out of one eye. He smeared the blood from my nose all over my face, slapping me as he did. "I wish you were never fucking born!" he screamed, spit flying out of his mouth as he yelled. " So do I!" I boldly retorted, letting the pained tears fall from my face. 

He sat up and removed his belt, quickly smacking my torso with it multiple times. He stood up after even more hits, beginning to kick my body as I curled up to protect what I could. "You pussy." he hissed, kicking me so I rolled onto my side. Stomping a foot into my guts, he spat onto my face before leaving. 

I gasped for air as I lie there, shaky and bloody...

It's time to leave...

I tried to sit up but before I could, he was back in my room with a knife. He got on his knees and flipped me effortlessly onto my back. cutting the back of my shirt and exposing my scarred skin. Slowly but violently, he traced the blade down my back, breaking the skin and causing crimson blood to spill out. 

I writhed but to no avail. "The more you squirm, the more I'll hurt you." he threatened, not once removing the cold blade. I knew he was drawing something; I just couldn't figure out what. 

Eventually, he lifted the blade and got off the floor. I felt blood seeping off the sides of my body, contrasting with the cold of the wooden floor, the warm liquid pooled around me. 

I felt dizzy as my father laughed and left, closing the door behind him. "Fuck..." I muttered, putting my hand on my back to evaluate the damage. 

Before I closed my eyes, I could hear screams and gunshots emanating from the rooms beyond mine. "I found him!" a boy shouted, though I couldn't figure out who. "Where?" a woman's voice frantically asked. "Oh my..." she muttered, gasping. "Hurry! He's alive!" he yelled. 

Soon, I felt someone lifting me and putting me on another flat surface. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I heard more people talking and crying.

Sal's POV: 

Ms. Gibson and I broke it, she had brought her gun and wasn't afraid to use it. 

We heard screaming from outside, and even worse, we heard silence right after. We busted in, running into the blonde man who had been at my home. He had blood dripping from his clothes and off of the knife he was holding.

He swung at me, hitting a spot in my arm. Ms. Gibson pulled out her gun and shot him in the arm, causing him to drop the knife. He screamed and I ran up the steps to see if I could find Travis. "I found him!" I yelled, taking a step as I looked at the bloody boy in front of me.

The back of his shirt had been sliced open and his olive skin was exposed. He was bleeding and had the word "Sinner" carved into his back along with a pentagram. "Where?!" Ms. Gibson yelled, following suit. "Oh my..." she muttered, gasping for air.

I picked him up and he nodded in and out of consciousness. We called the ambulance and they arrived quickly. Once they were here, Ms. Gibson and I carried him down and placed him on the stretcher. 

He muttered something that I couldn't have made out if I tried. The paramedics sat with him while one of them cleaned my wounds separately. Once they were finished with me, they went and tended to Travis. 

*Time Skip*

We arrived at the hospital, and they wheeled him out. Once we were inside, they brought him to a room and allowed us to see him after a few hours. I didn't leave the waiting room, not once. 

Ms. Gibson went home as I sat there by myself, sobbing and wishing I could've been there sooner. Wishing I could've said something to save him. 

Wishing I would've never loved him.  

Wishing I could've had some control and stayed away.  

Wishing I never became his friend.

 Wishing I could take back everything I'd ever done.

 Wishing...

 Wishing is never enough...

Hoping he would be okay...

Hoping he'd forgive me...

Hoping he didn't love me...

Hoping that he'd recover... 

Hoping is never enough...

Originally posted March 30th 2023

"Church Boy." - Enough - Wattpad

I think we should keep something in mind this Christmas/holiday season. As the Christian narrative floats around, the white swaddled newborn plastered on billboards, and the focus on what's "sacred" and "holy" circulating through churches around the western world...

The body being "sacred" has nothing to do with some fucked white European idea of chastity or purity. It has absolutely EVERYTHING to do with making sure people are able to feed themselves and their children, not be straight up poisoned by pollutants, or fetishized and exploited for profit. Holiness has nothing to do with being clean or looking your Sunday best.

It was never actually about "purity" or "virginity" or "cleanliness". If it was, why the hell would Jesus have been crucified? The real historical dude said stuff that pissed off people in power so much they fucking merked him. Nothing pisses off agrarian feudal lords or modern capitalists more than telling the masses that they aren't simply morally justified, but on the side of GOD when they steal medicine and food for their children. If you don't believe me, I highly recommend reading William Herzog's "Parables as subversive speech", read about what theologians actually think historical Jesus was talking about all those years ago. Whether you believe in God or not, think religion is a plague or pray a rosary every night, I think keeping this in mind is like super important.

Christianity becomes dangerous and, in the opinion of this demon girl, blasphemous when it is removed from the context of its social cause, when it's co-opted by those in power and disarmed of the radical rhetoric that it was born from originally. I think that's exactly what we see in broader society. I think that an entirely rational response to this is to equate all of Christianity or even all of religion with evil... But I think there's nuance here.

To be clear, I stand with the satanists who support the fight for separation in church and state by chastising the corrupt institutions who have become the opposite of what they claim to espouse. I stand with the atheists who keep the naive theologians in check, and offer peace to the people who have been ravaged by the monster modern Christianity is to so many. Don't stop doing what you're doing. If Jesus was standing here today he'd be standing with you. You're fighting modern day pherisees out here and I'm for it.

Now, this is not to say there aren't problematic things that were always present in the Christian religion, of course there are. And they're quite abundant. I think Christians need to be very aware of that as well. There's nuance there. What I'm calling for here is a realization that the religion of the oppressed is not the same as the religion of the oppressor, and that the religion of the oppressed, when not stripped of its merit and co-opted by systems of greed, can be a force for good. And when we use that lens to look at this bizarre spectacle we call "Christmas", we can learn some interesting stuff.

What I'm saying is, if you're trans, gay, whatever, for the love of God, literally, please LIVE. Listen to your friendly demon izalith. By existing as who you are, you are sacred. Don't let the people wearing robes and claiming to be on the sides of angels and "God" tell you who you can or can't love, or what you can or can't be. If there is a God out there, and he's with those punks, then he's no god. I spit on his name. Angels are overrated anyways... It's the demons, the poor person who steals from Walmart to feed themselves and their children, the prostitute who is proud of their job and the life they work hard to sustain, the fat trans person who goes to Christmas mass in goth makeup... It's those people who the religion was originally made for. It wasn't made for the rich, the white, the straight, the normative. It was made for us. For all those people who are downtrodden, cold this winter, unable to buy food, scared and tired. Fuck that shit they used to traumatize us and belittle us when growing up. It's all lies and venom anyways. If no one loves and accepts you, this demon will.