This is Part Two. In case you missed it, Part One is here.
I get the feeling this one might be a disappointment and an anti-climax for some people. I apoligise. But this is truth, and truth is fluid. I’ll keep you updated.
To be honest, I’m really not sure about God anymore. And I’m unsure about being unsure.
If that makes no sense, go back and read this post. I firmly believed in a Something, but not in any organised religion.
I’m not even sure if I believe in a Something anymore.
While Tony was in the ICU, I prayed. I had hundreds, thousands of people praying for me and for Tony, through my blog and Twitter. I visited the hospital chapel every day, gave myself to God and Jesus, sobbed and begged and thought I felt some divine strength within me.
As I said, I’m far too angry to give any higher power credit for that strength. That was me. I was alone. If God exists, I shouldn’t have had to look so hard for him. If I was prepared to give up, give in to him…. why couldn’t he do the same for me?
It’s difficult, when you have little faith to begin with, to maintain it, when such desperate prayers go unanswered.
I remember, the day after Tony died, there was a hashtag trending on Twitter- #Godmakesnomistakes- in hindsight, it was probably something Gaga. But I can’t describe how angry I felt, how cheated I felt, glancing at thousands of Tweets, proclaiming that sentiment. God had just made a fucking huge mistake. And I was the one paying for it.
These days, God and I… we’re not on very good terms. If he exists at all-which is, in my mind, very, very much in doubt- he is laughing at me. Fucking with me.
I asked for strength, if that was all he could give me. And I got it. But that still feels like a cheat, when he could have given me so much more.
I always believed God was inherently kind.
Now, I’m not nearly so sure.