I had grown up in the church. It was a part of my life, a part of who I was.
I was baptized in the LDS church at the age of eight, something I had said I wanted to do. I felt like I was strong with my faith. I knew everyone would be proud of me, and immensely pleased with my decision. So I held my breath as I was dipped under the warm water, my white suit clinging to my skin.
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| In the stalls before the baptism. |
As I was expected to, I felt the spirit. The spirit of The Holy Ghost. The one I had always been told I could feel, and that it would be very strong on this day.
Afterwards, things changed. I started questioning things, coming to my own independent thoughts and feelings. I noticed I was the only one who didn't know the bible stories, or watch the conferences. And not much longer, I realized that I didn't agree with what I had always been taught. I realized that I no longer had a belief in a God, or any supreme being.
And it scared me.
But I continued in church. I continued to go to the meetings, to take the sacrament, participate in the prayers, even give a talk. Hoping that no one would figure me out, before I even figured myself out. I even kept saying prayers nightly, hoping that these thoughts were temporary, and that the man I had been told all along would help me, would help me to not think these things.
Nothing changed. I started to hate myself.
But I never told anyone, for I feared I would disappoint everyone. It tore me apart thinking about my mom knowing. I thought she'd be angry, full of regret. I sat still with this pain for over two years.
Then I remember one night I just couldn't stay silent anymore. I had my mom come into my room, and we sat on my bed. My heart raced and my eyes sobbed. After what seemed like forever, I spoke. Each syllable tearing me up inside.
"Don't hate me." More crying, more silence.
"I don't believe in God." Uncontrollable sobbing.
I was eleven.
And of course she didn't hate me. But I still felt the overwhelming guilt.
I began getting stomach aches -the kind you get when you're nervous. I learned in church about atheists. And I didn't want people to know I was one. So I carried this bag of stones on my back everywhere I went, sometimes telling someone the truth, and letting a stone roll out of the bag, and on to the ground.
Going to church less and less. And with that, feeling guilty less and less. Coming to accept who I was, and hoping others would as well.
Little did I know the journey I was about to go on.
