Destined

I think all priests and pastors should die a slow, painful death. What with all their telling children to be ashamed of themselves and then turning around and fucking them in church backrooms or in the floor by the pews. Making them feel unworthy of love while making love to them. Calling them names: stupid, bad, sinful, idiot. Then, good girl, special, beautiful.

I couldn’t handle the nice names. When you’re a kid serving men and they’re giving you gross compliments, you feel disgusting. You feel yourself rotting. But somehow, part of you also needs it: to feel useful, wanted, seen. To feel as special as they say you are. And there’s this overwhelming shame from needing it, for doing something so disgusting and wrong.

Then, there were the preachers who said it was my fault: “You’re just too beautiful. I couldn’t help myself.” They made me feel revolting, like the scum of the earth. After all, how could I make a pastor, a priest, break his vow of chastity? How could I be that evil, that sinful, that wrong? I was truly destined to go to Hell, then. There was nothing I could do about it, and yet, it was all my fault.

The guilt was suffocating. And we still feel it now. We’re always apologizing, insisting we’ve done something wrong. Whenever we make a mistake, no matter how small, we’ll do anything to make up for it. And we’re constantly trying to label our actions as “good” or “bad," still believing we need to be punished or do penance or somehow make up for anything “bad.” Part of me is convinced that I’ll feel this way forever.

I’m having a hard time convincing myself otherwise.