Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 23

I wasn't sure I believed in something like God until about a year ago. After my teenage Catholic conversion didn't stick (before I even went through with the forced confirmation), I tried to wear atheism to match the grunge vibe at the time but never could mean it, cuz it felt too sad. I then claimed agnostic to prove I had big thoughts, but also hope. I prayed erratically and in a wash of something I wonder if certain bisexuals feel--guilt for hedging my bets.

Now that I believe there is something like God who protects me and works through me and guides me when I finally listen, I love them to bits but I believe atheists are just cynics who are just closeted optimists whose feelings were super hurt and they're not over it so they aren't ready to be publicly or perhaps even privately hopeful. They aren't healed and they think they don't want to be. In fact, if you ask them, they might aggressively claim to not be hurt at all. Which makes you wonder, then, why they are so angered by the suggestion that they are. You can't make them acknowledge or believe. Foot stamp. Bronx cheer. I feel bad and will continue to because life is unfair and someone hurt me so there is no God. If there was a God, she wouldn't have let this bad shit happen to me. Or worse, maybe there is a God, but not for me, because my case is so hard and I am so unlovable, even to a superpowered entity who loves people without front teeth and with little formal education. In fact, because those yokels believe in God, I cannot. Not my God. Not in my America.

Don't let me convince you there is something like God and she loves you even if you worship nothing or the devil. I mean, your beliefs are none of my fucking business. Until you hurt someone who doesn't deserve it because there is no God or right and wrong and nothing matters anyway so I might as well hurt people because I am hurt and in pain so if I transfer that to someone else, even if it doesn't make me feel better and in fact makes me feel worse, that's a kind of justice, right? Well I don't know, you nonbelieving Satan-worshipper, is it?

So, science. Einstein believed in miracles and God. If you trust PBS, their programming states the vast majority of scientists--hard scientists, soft scientists, malleable middle scientists (well that just conjured some provocative images of lab coats and nothing else, man scientists packing various stages of wood)--believe in a higher power. The doctors I've worked with and for, the lifesavers, the perfectionist egotists who stop and start and replace and heal hearts, the greedy ones, the ex-military ones with PTSD and too much whiskey, those divorced from their 3rd heartstopping blond, even the really kind and hot young married 1 with 2 little kids who I'm pretty sure jerked off to my voice over the phone in his office when the clinic was slow and he thought I didn't know or wonder why he was spending his very expensive 15 minutes encouraging me to vocalize sensitive thoughts and then was the only doctor to give me a going away gift when I left the job--luxurious local spa BODY CREAMS probably meant for his wife; these doctors, foot soldiers in the army of science; they believe in God. Because it's too fucking hard not to.

If you've read all the blogs, you know I've had a difficult year. The exact kind of year that might lead to a come to Jesus moment or a psychotic break--whichever label makes you more comfortable. A nonbelieving friend who positively celebrates and does the backstroke in his pessimism (he lives in Portland, so you understand the pressure he's under to be hopeless), he thinks I am into astrology and tarot because of drugs. What a darkly Portlandish view. He knew a speed freak girl who he thinks got too heavy into the stars from taking too much speed for too long. I take a small daily dose of prescription stimulant for ADHD. It says right on the interwebs that this drug can cause delirium (yay!), psychosis (boo!),  and heart failure (already happened. Wait, no. I have heartbreak). So he could be right. But my friend did not cite the interwebs for his view. Why was he, a champian of science and cynicism, convinced by a single instance of anecdotal evidence plucked from his personal life? Because he has faith in his beliefs?

Portland is adorable. I would love to know the percentage of those in America's most well-read city who took in The Alchemist with prior knowledge that it is a spiritual work, or voluntarily read the bible, or The Secret at all, or with open minds, not seeking passages to mock. If read with honest interest, it might be in secret. It was an accident, I swear! Read under a tented sheet with a flashlight, hoping their Montessori kids believe Mommy is hiding something more innocuous, like porn.

Don't let me bully Portland. There is much to love in the Rose City. Rose's symbolize love. Portlanders love themselves almost as much as they love outrage and injustice. Besides strong coffee and vegan donuts, they live on hipster ire. If you believe the hype. There is a rose in Spanish Portland. It is a special one. It never sees the sun. It only comes out when the moon is on the run. I imagine secret believers prowl Portland at night, dressed in burglar black, chain smoking joints, praying a rosary hidden in an ironic Mom Jean's pocket, sneaking to midnight mass after their judgemental junkie friends nod off.

I try to only pick on people who seem to need it. I know it's wrong. I should be bigger and better. But I'm a work in progress. Just like pessimists and atheists and agnostics and Satan-worshippers and tarot watchers and bible thumpers and people who happen to live in Portland.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness