When I was younger, my mother forced her Roman Catholicism down my throat. I was baptised, made First Communion, did my first confession, and was guilted into Confirmation as her last wish.
I’m not comfortable with religon. I spent my first confession trying to figure out what did that was so bad that I needed to beg some “gawd” into forgiving me. I pretended to mutter my punishments with my head down at the pew, as I instead told myself stories. I watched my mother drag her tired and beaten down body to mass, having to sit in a small room off the altar since she couldn’t stand crowds since the chemo. I listened to sermons that told me I was a bad person, being a woman, and only fit to be a vessel, or property.
My full rejection of religion came after my mother died. For awhile, I tried desperately to find gawd, to hear a voice speak to my heart. I wanted it to! I wanted the comforts of faith, the blind belief that someday I would be rewarded for my suffering, a solace in the wilds of my grief.
I found nothing by myself, talking in the darkness. I paged through other religions, throwing my voice out, hoping someone, something would hear me.
It came to a head when I tried to kill myself, and all I found was blackness until I woke up.
I raise my children as an atheist. I do not believe in a supreme being. I do not believe that I will go somewhere wonderful, or terrible when I die. I believe that when I die, my body will return to everywhere, my atoms scattering, and the “me” I speak of with either find another reality in other dimensions, or it will cease to exist. I believe that a small part of my mother exists in me as I sit here, her atoms perhaps part of my bulk.
I know that people wonder how an atheist could possibly raise a moral child, since us atheists are all terrible, horrible blind folk aren’t we? How can I have a grip on what a moral ethical person is?
But in my eyes, I have it better. I don’t teach my children the crutch of a faith that makes no rational sense. I teach them to trust their eyes. I teach them that compassion, kindness and mercy are the tools of good people. That we should be good people because we want others to treat us as such. I teach them to love themselves, to respect their minds and bodies. I teach them that being a woman means nothing in the grand scheme of things, but at the same time, I teach them about the magic that is a woman, how incredible and awesome it is to be life givers.
I don’t raise “miserable, cynical children” as I saw someone accusing atheists of being. I’m not miserable and cynical. I’m happy. I lead a joyful life because I believe that’s all I have. I’d love to believe that I’ll be reunited with my mother someday, but I rationally know that I won’t be. So I try and enjoy the days I do have with the people I love.
Why is it that believers so often try and paint the non-believers as monsters? I’m not a monster. I believe myself to be caring and kind. I consider myself a very moral person, based on principals that most people inherently believe-don’t hurt other people, don’t steal from other people, don’t be an asshat. Be a good person. Act as you expect. To me, these are natural beliefs.
I went through many years of catholic school, and while I believe a received an excellent education, I spent a lot of time fighting off the demands that I follow their dogma, and many actions that contradicted the “beliefs” espoused by the school. I wanted so badly to believe in their gawd. I really did. But at the end of the day, believing in any gawd made as much sense as believing that aliens visit us daily, or that JoJo’s Psychic Alliance is real.
I need proof. I need more than simpering platitudes or tsk tsk, you’re going to HELL! dancing around me. I can see myself in the mirror, and that’s enough for me.
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