On Sunday Mom asked me a few questions about Saturday's Mass which I attended alone.
"I don't remember," was my response to all of her questions.
"Then why do you go to church?" she asked.
"Because you make me," I responded.
"Well, that's bad. You should go because it's in your heart," she said.
"I know, but what can I say? It's the truth," I said.
Today, I attended confessionals because yes, Mom pretty much forced me, but also because I haven't done this little ritual in probably over a year... I'm not sure, I don't remember. I figured it'd be good therapy... if all went well.
I haven't had the best of luck during these things... I've been chastised the majority of the time, which frustrates me, because... how am I supposed to feel better when I get lectures like:
Priest: Why are you socially anxious? Do you feel like you're not good enough?
Me: Yes. Sometimes. Since I was a kid.
P: Do you believe God made you the way you are?
Me: Umm... y...es? More of a society thing, I guess?
P: But do you believe that God created us?
Me: ... Yeah?
P: And knowing this, you still feel you're less than everyone else? You think he made someone--YOU--imperfect?
Me: ... uh...
P: You're offending God by saying YOU'RE imperfect. By believing you're less than someone else. You're offending him, saying he messed up.
Me: ... Oh...
Then there's that time I got the glare from hell with the priest telling me I was a criminal... that felt fantastic and made me want to be the best Catholic alive (sarcasm there).
This time around, I was sweating bullets... sweat literally dripping from my pits down to my elbows.
Before the eight priests took their different spots around church, we had to sit through a half-hour sermon from some evangelical catholic man... who, not gonna lie, was pretty fucking great at the whole public speaking gig.
What was the speech about? Suicide.
I sat there trying not to behave like a criminal whose standing in front of a hoard of cops.
WTF... who spoke to this guy? WHO HAS BEEN READING MY BLOG?! (again, I'm just joking here. I know it was a coincidence... but it was weird as shit, this coincidence)
So, after half an hour of listening to this well-spoken, charismatic man, I decided I was going to come clean to whichever priest I got as my confessor. I'd go ahead and tell him about this recent bout with depression and the numerous times suicidal thoughts crossed my mind.
If I get banished, oh well. Just as long as I don't get a glare from hell... or that fucking stupid "MAN UP!" speech, I'll be good.
While I was initially nervous as fuck as I took my spot in line for my favorite priest (the one who a few years back scared me/made me crack the fuck up when he forgot to turn off his mic after Mass and wound up saying "FUCK YOU!" to his homie who was making him laugh. The laughs/curse word echoed through the church thunderously. From that moment, I knew this dude was my people).
Then the savages began entering church-- late. The manner in which some Latinos (especially when in large groups) turn into complete blockheads when given instructions-- how they decide to just... blatantly ignore them-- drives me berserk. My nervousness turned to frustration... and once a cunt who was no taller than 5 feet tall PUSHED me from behind into a bench, I damn near turned violent.
But I relaxed. Somehow, I managed to relax.
As I told the priest my issues, he was calm... and then he did something that... I don't really know how to describe the feeling or the shit that ran through my mind... but... he just... randomly held my hand. Just. Fucking. Randomly. As I kept yapping away.
He released my hand and gave me some council... and after that, I continued yapping some more.
Then he held my hand in the same gentle fashion a second time... and then a third... and then once it was time to go, he gently squeezed my hand for a fourth time.
As previously stated, I have no clue how to describe what exactly I felt... like... in my chest cavity. It was... like... it was... confusion... relief... tenderness... it was... I don't know.
He didn't need to touch my hand... I don't think a priest ever has physically reached out to me during a confession. And the tenderness he did it with... it was... I wanted to cry and smile at the same time.
I'm sure he saw the confusion in my face... because I was puzzled as shit... no way someone would have NOT noticed.
All I could think was "He is... literally holding my hand through this... someone is holding my hand through this... I was just complaining about no one ever taking the time to hold my hand through tough times... getting scolded for 'NEEDING' someone to give me a hand... but now someone's... holding my hand."
The thought made me want to shed every last tear in my ducts... but also smile...
Since this was WAY too public for me to burst into tears, the only thing I found myself doing was smiling... I smiled. A smile with relief I had not felt in a very long time.
It may sound stupid... it may get scoffs out of people... I may be judged... or mocked... but... it just... shows how something as simple and insignificant as holding someone's hand can just... change shit.
He didn't know about my rant... I never mentioned it... but his kind gesture just... meant more to me than anything he could have said.
Hands-- they've punched me, slapped me, pinched me, choked me, pushed me... yet I've always liked them, they've always been my favorite feature on people. They can-- and they have-- hurt me so much, but their ability to heal me is... indescribable.
A gentle, caring touch-- that is more important to me, more meaningful... than any fucking amount of money I could ever posses... more than any trip to any foreign country, more than anything material I could ever be given.
A simple, gentle, supportive touch-- priceless, absolutely priceless.
"I don't remember," was my response to all of her questions.
"Then why do you go to church?" she asked.
"Because you make me," I responded.
"Well, that's bad. You should go because it's in your heart," she said.
"I know, but what can I say? It's the truth," I said.
Today, I attended confessionals because yes, Mom pretty much forced me, but also because I haven't done this little ritual in probably over a year... I'm not sure, I don't remember. I figured it'd be good therapy... if all went well.
I haven't had the best of luck during these things... I've been chastised the majority of the time, which frustrates me, because... how am I supposed to feel better when I get lectures like:
Priest: Why are you socially anxious? Do you feel like you're not good enough?
Me: Yes. Sometimes. Since I was a kid.
P: Do you believe God made you the way you are?
Me: Umm... y...es? More of a society thing, I guess?
P: But do you believe that God created us?
Me: ... Yeah?
P: And knowing this, you still feel you're less than everyone else? You think he made someone--YOU--imperfect?
Me: ... uh...
P: You're offending God by saying YOU'RE imperfect. By believing you're less than someone else. You're offending him, saying he messed up.
Me: ... Oh...
Then there's that time I got the glare from hell with the priest telling me I was a criminal... that felt fantastic and made me want to be the best Catholic alive (sarcasm there).
This time around, I was sweating bullets... sweat literally dripping from my pits down to my elbows.
Before the eight priests took their different spots around church, we had to sit through a half-hour sermon from some evangelical catholic man... who, not gonna lie, was pretty fucking great at the whole public speaking gig.
What was the speech about? Suicide.
I sat there trying not to behave like a criminal whose standing in front of a hoard of cops.
WTF... who spoke to this guy? WHO HAS BEEN READING MY BLOG?! (again, I'm just joking here. I know it was a coincidence... but it was weird as shit, this coincidence)
So, after half an hour of listening to this well-spoken, charismatic man, I decided I was going to come clean to whichever priest I got as my confessor. I'd go ahead and tell him about this recent bout with depression and the numerous times suicidal thoughts crossed my mind.
If I get banished, oh well. Just as long as I don't get a glare from hell... or that fucking stupid "MAN UP!" speech, I'll be good.
While I was initially nervous as fuck as I took my spot in line for my favorite priest (the one who a few years back scared me/made me crack the fuck up when he forgot to turn off his mic after Mass and wound up saying "FUCK YOU!" to his homie who was making him laugh. The laughs/curse word echoed through the church thunderously. From that moment, I knew this dude was my people).
Then the savages began entering church-- late. The manner in which some Latinos (especially when in large groups) turn into complete blockheads when given instructions-- how they decide to just... blatantly ignore them-- drives me berserk. My nervousness turned to frustration... and once a cunt who was no taller than 5 feet tall PUSHED me from behind into a bench, I damn near turned violent.
But I relaxed. Somehow, I managed to relax.
As I told the priest my issues, he was calm... and then he did something that... I don't really know how to describe the feeling or the shit that ran through my mind... but... he just... randomly held my hand. Just. Fucking. Randomly. As I kept yapping away.
He released my hand and gave me some council... and after that, I continued yapping some more.
Then he held my hand in the same gentle fashion a second time... and then a third... and then once it was time to go, he gently squeezed my hand for a fourth time.
As previously stated, I have no clue how to describe what exactly I felt... like... in my chest cavity. It was... like... it was... confusion... relief... tenderness... it was... I don't know.
He didn't need to touch my hand... I don't think a priest ever has physically reached out to me during a confession. And the tenderness he did it with... it was... I wanted to cry and smile at the same time.
I'm sure he saw the confusion in my face... because I was puzzled as shit... no way someone would have NOT noticed.
All I could think was "He is... literally holding my hand through this... someone is holding my hand through this... I was just complaining about no one ever taking the time to hold my hand through tough times... getting scolded for 'NEEDING' someone to give me a hand... but now someone's... holding my hand."
The thought made me want to shed every last tear in my ducts... but also smile...
Since this was WAY too public for me to burst into tears, the only thing I found myself doing was smiling... I smiled. A smile with relief I had not felt in a very long time.
It may sound stupid... it may get scoffs out of people... I may be judged... or mocked... but... it just... shows how something as simple and insignificant as holding someone's hand can just... change shit.
He didn't know about my rant... I never mentioned it... but his kind gesture just... meant more to me than anything he could have said.
Hands-- they've punched me, slapped me, pinched me, choked me, pushed me... yet I've always liked them, they've always been my favorite feature on people. They can-- and they have-- hurt me so much, but their ability to heal me is... indescribable.
A gentle, caring touch-- that is more important to me, more meaningful... than any fucking amount of money I could ever posses... more than any trip to any foreign country, more than anything material I could ever be given.
A simple, gentle, supportive touch-- priceless, absolutely priceless.
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