nirvana

tw: religious trauma

there are nights when the darkness feels alive, curling its fingers around my throat, whispering ancient hymns that sound more like curses. in those moments, i can feel God’s eyes on me—not the gentle gaze from stained glass windows, but something piercing, all-knowing, suffocating. the weight of His omniscience presses against my chest until i can hardly breathe, and i wonder if He’s watching me suffer or if He’s the one turning the screws. i grew up fearing Him, not in the reverent way priests preach about, but in the way you fear a vengeful father—one whose temper could shatter worlds. as a child, i learned of His love through fire and brimstone sermons that painted sinners as writhing figures, their flesh blackening in eternal flames. i couldn’t imagine a God who loved and tormented in equal measure. but i prayed then, kneeling with bruised knees and clasped hands, begging Him to save me from the hell i was told i deserved. i whispered apologies for sins i didn’t understand, wept for forgiveness over thoughts i didn’t choose.

now, i don’t pray. i haven’t in years. but sometimes, when my suffering feels unbearable, i consider falling back to my knees. it’s a desperate thought: maybe if i repent, things will get better. maybe if i give Him my heart, He’ll stop crushing it.

but then, the fear claws its way back in, sharp and unrelenting. i fear Him in two ways, and both terrify me. one is the fear of His power, the kind that makes me want to grovel, to submit, to erase myself entirely in hopes of earning His mercy. this fear whispers, you are nothing without Him. it gnaws at me, twisting my insides with shame and longing. when i’m in its grip, i imagine myself as a sacrifice, my flesh laid bare on an altar, pleading to be made whole again. the other fear is darker, colder, and it pushes me away. it’s the fear of a God who might not forgive, who might see my suffering and turn away. i fear that if i returned to Him, i’d find not salvation but condemnation. i wonder if this duality is why i feel so lost. i am caught between longing and loathing, between the God who might save me and the God who might destroy me. my suffering has carved me into something unrecognizable—a hollowed-out version of the child who once sang hymns with trembling lips. sometimes, i look back at that child and mourn her innocence. she believed in miracles, in the warmth of His light. but i also pity her. she didn’t know the weight of the cross she was carrying, didn’t understand that faith was not just a shield but a sword, cutting deeper with every doubt, every misstep.

i try to fill the void with other things—distractions, fleeting joys—but they all crumble. the ache always returns, a gnawing emptiness that no earthly thing can satisfy. and that’s when the temptation rises again, the thought of surrendering to Him, of letting Him take this burden from me. it would be so easy, i think, to give in. to pray, to repent, to become His once more.

but then i remember the sermons, the fire, the unending agony of those who fell short. i remember the faces of saints painted in anguish, their eyes turned heavenward in silent pleas. i remember the child i was and the pain she endured in His name. and so, i remain torn, a soul trapped between heaven and hell, between belief and rebellion. i wonder if He sees me in my torment, and if He does, i wonder if He cares. the answer terrifies me, either way. 

—✶L