Obligatory Religious Post

My parents had very different ideas of how to raise children.

They both did their best to raise me in their own ways, and you know, I think I turned out pretty damned great. But sometimes their values conflicted. My mother wanted me to be a good girl, and my father wanted me to be inquisitive. When you're a little kid and your divorced parents are throwing you different ideas, and each claims the other is wrong, it gets a bit confusing.

Despite this difference in opinion, when I was small I was taken to church every Sunday, regardless of which parent had custody of me that weekend. I think my dad may have taken me because I would actually ask him to. I was a good girl and going to church was a good thing to do. If you didn't it would make god sad. To paraphrase what my mother told me, so my five year old ass could comprehend, god made us and everything around us and he just wants us to visit him once in awhile to say thank you.
"But if god is everywhere, why do we need to visit him at church?"
"Because that's his house."
 I never questioned it too much. I hardly ever paid attention. I actually found mass rather boring, but I liked singing the songs and reciting the prayers. Going to church made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

I went to catholic school for a little while in kindergarten. I don't remember why I changed schools. I remember one really bad experience with my teacher and that's about it.

I started getting sent to CCD (catechism classes) every week so that I could get my seven sacraments (Roman Catholic thing). At this point (around seven years old) I got really serious about this shit, even started taking pride in it, because suddenly my religion was school, and I was all about doing well in school. I memorized more prayers. I started praying more, on the school bus in the morning, before meals. I learned to genuflect properly and how to use a rosary.

I also started reading the bible, and paying attention in mass. And I think this is when I started to doubt.

I don't remember the progression of my doubts very well, but I know I started doubting the institution of religion long before I started doubting the existence of god. One Christmas Eve, I had a discussion about religion with my cousin Melissa, someone I really looked up to, who talked about it in a way I'd never heard before. She said that she viewed religion as a personal thing, that you should have a relationship with god in your own special way and that the church should have nothing to do with it. She talked about some of the ways the church changed religion for the worse. I started talking about it more, and asking more questions.

In my preteens I started to resent going to church. My father stopped taking me. My mother had to drag my stubborn ass.

I began my freshman year of high school still referring to myself as a Roman Catholic. Then I got my laptop, my very first entirely personal computer. I had the internet, and access to millions upon millions of personal opinions. A classmate of mine also introduced me to LaVeyan Satanism, which wasn't at all what one would imagine, and had a set of virtues I could more easily get behind.

Satanism depicted Lucifer, the dark bringer of light, as the hero of the bible. God placed Adam and Eve in paradise, and gave them everything except knowledge. Adam and Eve were stupid, and god wanted them to stay that way. He just wanted them to walk around in paradise and eat and sleep and fuck and sometimes talk to him. (I wonder what they'd talk about?) But essentially, god wanted us to live no differently than any other animal, he just wanted us to be obedient. And at the same time, he knew we would disobey him and gain knowledge and self awareness, and then he punished us for it. I found the thought abhorrent. I had a thirst for knowledge, I loved learning more than anything. And according to the bible, this is what Satan gave us. The bible was no longer a thing of value to me, fact or fiction.

Furthermore, I began to examine the goal of Christianity: getting into heaven. That was it. But what if there was no heaven? How sad is to to spend the brief time you're given as a conscious being trying to attain the unattainable? And if there was a heaven? It sounded incredibly boring. This seemed like a lose-lose situation. I much preferred Dante's description of limbo:

Charon ushers you across the river Acheron, and you find yourself upon the brink of grief's abysmal valley. You are in Limbo, a place of sorrow without torment. You encounter a seven-walled castle, and within those walls you find rolling fresh meadows illuminated by the light of reason, whereabout many shades dwell. These are the virtuous pagans, the great philosophers and authors, unbaptised children, and others unfit to enter the kingdom of heaven. You share company with Caesar, Homer, Virgil, Socrates, and Aristotle. There is no punishment here, and the atmosphere is peaceful, yet sad.

I grew hatred the idea of the Christian god and started forming one of my own. I quietly renounced my religion. I started calling myself agnostic.

But my mother continued taking me to church and sending me to CCD so I could receive the sacrament of confirmation. I could understand why, she wanted to do what was best for me. I mean, how often does a fourteen year old know what the fuck they ought to do? But I started being a smartass about my assignments. We had to listen to the gospel every week and write what we learned from it. I started writing the same exact lesson for every week: "Have faith in Jesus."

One morning before school I worked up the courage to tell my mom I wanted to stop going to church, I didn't want to be Catholic anymore. She wasn't very happy about it. It was kind of scary, but the whole thing dissipated quickly. I was still forced to attend church and CCD, but I knew it wouldn't be for long, and it felt good to have that off my chest.

Sometime after that my mom started going to church less an less. I always wondered if it was my fault, to some extent. I didn't know how to feel about it. I wasn't too unhappy about losing my own faith, but you know, I imagine it wasn't quite the same for her. It made me kind of sad.

Through high school and college my ideas about religion and god evolved constantly, and change still. I learned the semantics of gnostic vs. agnostic and theist vs. atheist, and can now refer to myself as an "agnostic atheist." I fit a few different labels, such as "spiritual without religion." No matter how you boil it down though, I'm completely secular. I find no personal value in religion which you can't get from philosophy.

I have have an idea I refer to as "God," but it is not a deity. It's a possibility. It's a name I lend to that which I do not know or may not be able to comprehend, and I acknowledge that. It allows me to enjoy the use of the word as a metaphor in art, music, literature. It's not a big part of my life.

I don't have a particularly valuable or witty closing thought.

Thoughts on Love and Intelligence

Do you think those of a higher intelligence are able to love more deeply? (Please try, for just a moment, to not turn this into a semantics argument.)

When this question was first posed to me, I answered "yes" automatically. But then I immediately reconsidered. Why? Why did I answer yes to that?

 My younger sister, Maggie, is one of the most energetic thirteen-year-olds you'll ever meet. She has an innate vitality that follows here everywhere. Sometimes it's almost as if she has more than her physical being can handle. She has a very active imagination, good memory, and impressive logic and problem solving skills.

Maggie is also autistic. She's in the "special" class at her middle school. You don't have to be around her for long before you realize that there is something very off about the way she behaves and communicates. She is extremely stubborn, fervent and temperamental.  She is a creature of habit completely uncomfortable with change. Her skills in speech, reading, and learning are all several years behind where they ought to be. Overall, she's not very well adjusted, though I think she is entirely capable if getting there with time.

Growing up with her, I always thought I understood her better than anyone else, at times moreso than her own mother. I introduced her to video games at a young age and was a diehard advocate for her continued exploration of them as she got older. They were something she became passionate about, just about the only thing she was passionate about, and I believed the skills she could learn from them to be invaluable.

The only time she really communicates openly is when she's talking about video games. If you ask her about her day at school she won't answer. She won't talk about books or people or anything really. But if you ask her about the new treasures she's found in Pikmin 2, she could go on for hours. Video games, in a way, are her world, and a common means for someone else to enter her world. (Being the only one in her immediate family to also play video games, I always thought this fostered a special connection between us.) Some might think this is unhealthy, but I disagree. If not for video games, what would she have instead? Television?

At any rate, I think that in certain areas she is very intelligent, much moreso than people give her credit for. But her social intelligence is lacking, as are her communication skills. It made growing up with her an unusual experience. She doesn't usually make eye contact. Her sentences are often ambiguous or disjointed. She does not understand or experience emotions in a way that I can compare to the average human being. You know, I don't think I've ever in my entire life heard Maggie say, "I love you."

But I know she does.

Sometime in the past year or two, while I was off 500 miles away from my immediate family who I hadn't seen in months, I received a call from my mother. She was sitting aside a hospital bed, calling to tell me Maggie had gotten a serious MRSA infection. I could heard loud, aggravated grunts and groans in the background, as if in protest of something. My mother informed me that Maggie was angry because she absolutely insisted my mother didn't tell me she was in the hospital.

I felt a pang in my heart. I don't know how it seems to an outside observer, but as someone that's known Maggie her entire life, what she did that day was the greatest expression of love I had ever seen from her, and perhaps ever felt in my own time. She understood the severity of her situation, and despite her own pain and difficulty, she wanted to spare me the burden of worrying about her. It was absolutely beautiful.

In reflection, I know why my gut reaction was to answer the initial question in the affirmative. Those with higher intelligence are often better capable of expressing their love, and so they can more deeply share their love, and by this line of thought, those of higher intelligence can more deeply fall in love with eachother. Communication is incredible that way. However, I must disagree with the sentiment that they can feel love more strongly, because at this point in time, I know better. My dear Magpie has shown me otherwise.

Plans

The class applauded at the end of her speech and she returned to her seat, feeling confident she'd done well. She made only two mistakes, and they were likely noticeable only to herself. There was a lot of effort and rehearsing put into that speech. She sat through the rest of her public speaking class with mild interest - she resented having to take such a course given her academic plans, but she enjoyed learning either way.

She was going to be a vet. And using this as a springboard, she was going to do great things. Maybe inspire an animal rights reform. Maybe research astrobiology and Mars. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do exactly, but she knew she wanted to do things.

Class ended and she stepped out into the November air, cool and thin, carrying the faint smell of rotting Halloween pumpkins and decaying leaves. She fastened her coat and mounted her bike, and as she rode home she ran through her schedule in the front of her mind. I am going to go home, start dinner, take my dog to the park, and then study chemistry until my brain leaks out my ears. Maybe I'll even have time to practice the violin or watch a movie with Daniel.

But then a dull pain throbbed in her lower abdomen. Almost forgot about that. Pharmacy, then dinner, Fort, and study. Not too much of a hassle, it was on the way anyhow.

Halfway there she swerved to avoid a car and hit a pothole. Suddenly her bike was handling quite funny. She braked and dismounted to find that he back tire had gone flat. Pharmacy, then bike shop, then dinner, the park, and studying.

But wait, that's too late to take Fort out. And I still have to go to the pet store before eight. Shoot.

The entire way home she was preoccupied with these events, trying to arrange them in a suitable manner. She walked in her front door with a bike that was still flat. She greeted her dog cheerfully but was distracted by other things.

She walked up the stairs, still thinking of other things to be done, when suddenly her very enthusiastic dog bounded up behind her and ascended the stairs by weaving through her legs. She was thrown off balance, and tumbled head over heels down a very steep, narrow staircase. On the second landing her head hit the wall in such a way that her neck snapped, and she died almost immediately.

"But I have so much to do."

Drugs

This morning I went to the doctor's for a simple procedure: the placement of a copper IUD. I'm now baby-free for ten years. Hurrah, etc, etc.

In order to prepare for this procedure I was instructed to take 800 mg of ibuprofen before my visit, as well as a drug that would soften my cervix and make the procedure easier. I was told that the procedure would hurt a bit, a kind of pinching sensation, in addition to cramps during and after.

I was not prepared for the agony that ensued. I screamed. Tears ran down my face. That shit hurt way more than I could have possibly anticipated. And after everything was in place it didn't get much better. I tried to communicate the crippling pain I was in, but the procedure had gone perfectly and I think the doctor probably thought I was being a wuss. I was instructed to take 400 mg of ibuprofen every six hours for up to a week if the cramps persisted.

The pain was intolerable. It washed over me in waves. Walking home in this condition was a nightmare. In the cold and and rain, no less. The moment I got home I promptly tore through my apartment in search of something to take the pain away.

I had taken 800 mg of ibuprofen just three hours ago (and it wasn't helping me for shit), and I couldn't possibly take more. So I took 1150 mg of a combination acetaminophen/caffeine/pyrilamine maleate for menstrual cramps. And 10 ml of codeine left over from when I had strep throat. And 50 mg of trazodone left over from my hospitalization in hopes it'd knock me out. And a glass of wine, for good measure. I laid on my couch crying and writhing in pain and wished for relief.

After about ten or fifteen minutes, relief finally came. The waves of pain gradually ebbed away. I felt more comfortable than I've felt in a really long time. You don't realize just how many minor aches and pains you deal with on a day to day basis until something removes them.

I sat up and the room spun. It then occurred to me that I was stoned off my ass.

My first reaction was to think: can I get in trouble for this? No, of course not. I had done nothing illegal (save the wine, I guess, though I think my state was mostly attributed to the codeine), and all the medications were even in my own name. I was amused by my own worry. Why did I think that? I was nervous about possible repercussions over the fact that I was high. This is the part of the paranoia instilled in us by our country's hypocritical, misinformed, propaganda filled, completely bollocks drug culture.

Have I done something wrong? The idea still plagued me. I couldn't think of any reason why I might have. I was in pain, I sought relief. I found a short term solution for a short term problem. I wasn't harming anyone, or even myself, as the doses I had taken were nowhere near dangerous amounts. Though my perception was most definitely altered, I was still thinking rationally, and still entirely in my right of mind. But I thought of a close friend who would most certainly frown upon my current situation. Why?

 That same friend claimed drugs should be used only for medicinal use, not recreational.

What's the difference?

What if I treated my terrible pain by smoking pot instead?

Marijuana is currently available for medicinal use in parts of our country. It's used to treat pain, asthma, nausea, glaucoma, epilepsy, multiple sclerosis, and dozens of other diseases in conditions.
Yet in other parts of the very same country, possession of it can land you in jail.

Poppies can be used to make opium tea, a brew that has been used around the world for centuries as a pain reliever, both physical and mental. It's served at funerals in the middle east to help loved ones deal with grief.
In the US, growing poppies and having knowledge of what you can do with them is sufficient to get you arrested.

Hallucinogens of all sorts have been used in various cultures for many generations as a means to a "spiritual experience." Native Americans living in reservations in the US are still allowed to use them because it's part of their religion.
Meanwhile, possession of four tabs of LSD can get you 5-10 years of jail time.

Drugs like oxycontin are prescription-only in the US, yet available over the counter in Canada.

How come recreational amphetamines illegal, but we essentially shove it down the throats of children who have a bit more trouble paying attention ("ADHD")?

When you have a look at all the different ailments, diseases, disorders and conditions that are treated with drugs, you have to wonder, what the bloody hell is the difference? How do you know what ought to be treated and with what? How do you know when something needs to be treated? It's difficult to tell, and at this point not always necessary. Doctors dole out prescriptions so easily people pretty much choose how to medicate themselves. Narcotics, barbiturates, psychedelics, amphetamines, stimulants, opiates, cannabinoids, stimulants, depressants, steroids, sedatives, dissociatives, empathogens. They're all just chemicals. They all have potential to be abused, and become dangerous to the user. But they all have beneficial uses as well.

So how do you differentiate medicinal usage from recreational? That guy getting prescription codeine for chronic back pain could be faking it just to get high and feel good. And that guy smoking pot without a medical marijuana card could be doing it to combat depression or arthritis. How do you know, and does it matter? Is the guy who enjoys a cup of coffee in the morning that different from the guy who enjoys a hit from his bong before bed? Is the woman who destresses by going fr a run or playing video games (releases endorphins) that different from the woman who does the same by having a glass of wine?

Drugs are a part of your life whether you like it or not. Sometimes you need them to combat sickness. Often your brain makes them automatically. Sometimes people just like to add a little more to their lives, does the reason really matter?

Ineptitude

I resent my part time job. I know I shouldn't, I'm lucky to even have it. However, it sometimes gets the best of me. Namely because it is mentally exhausting to interact with hundreds of people hours at a time, especially when you have to force a smile and a happy mood. To be fair I think there is a certain advantage to working such a job at some point in your life, it can really do wonders for your perspective.

On the other hand, it can be entirely dehumanizing. When you're standing behind the counter, not everybody seems to remember that you are a human being. I will open with a friendly greeting and often the customer will interrupt by just barking menu items at me. I tend to take pride in my work, and I take things personally, and these two traits are awful vices to have when you've got a job in fast food.

From time to time my thoughts give way to the "cog in the machine" mindset, and I feel rather worthless. Here I am, selling my my life (for time is a very precious commodity) for $7.40 an hour. I find it remarkably degrading. I think I'd rather be a stripper. I just feel like I'm better than this, like my time is worth more.

Yet I can't get a better job for the life of me. Am I that inept? A kid who has been working at our store almost exactly as long as I have just got promoted to shift manager. Why not me? I can't even get the managers to train me on anything but the register. What am I doing wrong? It's not like I lack work ethic. Am I that unskilled? I've long thought of myself as being "above average," but evidence points to the fact that I may be lacking. Am I completely inept and I just don't realize it?

Burning Bridges

When I was a child (moreso than I am now), I was awful at making friends. I had a few in passing, sure. A Puerto Rican girl in first grade that turned out to be really mean, a quiet girl in second grade who was into all that Lisa Frank shit, this chubby girl in my neighborhood who was super nice and who I actually got pretty close to. By and large though, I got picked on a lot, and I only ever had one friend in all of grade school that I still consider a real friend.

My dad would try to make me feel better by saying I didn't "need" friends. This may or may not have helped lead to my current mindset.

When an acquaintance of mine whom I highly respect said that "friends are expendable," I found myself agreeing with him. And I feel bad about thinking this way, but I don't think I'm at fault for it.

The number of friends I have depends on what mood I'm in and how you define "friend," and therefore ranges anywhere from zero to three-hundred eleven. But it's usually about six. This number recently dwindled to five.

I seem to have a knack for getting close to people who eventually cut me out of their life entirely. This is entirely understandable. If someone is poison to you, for whatever reason, then you ought to cut them out of your life. It's what's best for you. We can't all go around sacrificing ourselves for the sake of sparing other people's feelings. At the same time though, I can't comprehend it, because nobody has ever done something to me awful enough to warrant this. Does that mean I have done things to other people that are awful beyond my own comprehension?

Anyhow, I find it increasingly difficult to become close to people. When they disappear they do so quite suddenly, and I feel like I always have to be prepared for that.
I'm certain I'm not alone in that, as a matter of fact, I'm willing to bet most college students my age might say the same thing. Or not, I don't exactly have a large sample size at my disposal.
I wonder if it can be helped.

The Princess and the Pie

When I was a child (moreso than I am now), my father used to make up bedtime stories for me. They were full of magic and castles and all that great Disney stuff. I can remember a handful of them, but there's one that sticks out in my memory, and it goes something like this.

There once was a beautiful princess in search of a prince to marry. But her father, a very wise and powerful king, would not let just any prince marry her, he had to test them to find one that was smart and kind and worthy. So he sent a message to every corner of his kingdom, offering his daughter's hand in marriage. But only to a prince who could make her cry... without hurting her or being mean to her in any way.

And so princes from all across the land came to the castle, one after another, to try and make the princess cry. They sang her sad songs, told her sad stories, told her scary stories. But nothing anybody came up with could make her shed the slightest tear.

Then one prince came to her and asked her to show him to the kitchens, because he wanted to cook for her.

The princess found this very unusual, because royalty do not cook. They have servants to do it for them! But she was curious, so she led him to the kitchen and watched as he began to gather his ingredients, saying he was going to make her a mince meat pie. She watched him work, curious and questioning, and wanting to be polite, she also asked if there was anything she could do to help.

"Why yes! Could you please do me a favor and chop up these onions?" So she picked up a knife, and slowly but surely began cutting the onions, and before she knew it, tears began to roll down her face.

So the prince and princess were happily married with the blessings of the wise king, and they lived happily ever after and made mincemeat pie together every week.

I'm not even going to list all the ways this bothers twenty-year-old me. What the hell, dad?

I feel like, if I were to tell a bedtime story at this point in my life, it would go more like this. If I had a daughter.
(I hope I don't.)

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who fell in love with a handsome prince. He was kind and charming, very smart and he made her laugh. They did everything together, and one day got married and went to live in a beautiful castle.

But they didn't live happily ever after. The prince turned out to be an evil sorcerer in disguise, who used magic to trick many princesses into falling in love with him. When the princess discovered this she was frightened and heartbroken, and she fled the castle and escaped to her old kingdom. But not before the sorcerer cursed her, and covered her heart in ice so she could not fall in love again.

The princess was bitter and scared, but still very lonely. So she once again began the search for someone to live happily ever after with. Many princes came to court her, but the curse around her heart was so strong they could feel the evil coming from it, and it scared them away one after another. The princess grew very tired of meeting princes only to have them run off, and she began to lose hope of ever breaking the curse.

But one day something unusual happened. One certain prince did not run off, he came back to see her a second time. And then a third, and then a fourth. He came to visit her over and over, and they talked for hours, and walked through the castle gardens, and began to smile and laugh with each other more and more. Little did the princess know, the prince had the same curse as she, only cast on him by a witch! And every time they spent a day together, the ice on their hearts melted a little more, until one day it was gone entirely. They fell in love with each other at long last, and finally live happily ever after.

See? It's magical and realistic. Sort of.
I can't believe I just wrote that emo bullshit. Was it funny? Let's pretend it was funny.

I'll try to write about something less trite next time. Like how I think adults should talk to children about sex.
Yeah. that'd make a good youtube video.