Hello hello! It’s been a year since I posted “Dad, I’m an atheist”,  and I am honestly shocked people are still reading it. Really. I haven’t thought much of it since I wrote it. James Tracy messaged me on another site and asked me how things are going with me and my dad. I thought I might give you all an update.

I still don’t believe in God. I’m still questioning. I’m still thinking. I’m still learning.

My health hasn’t been the greatest this last year. I had to miss another year of school (working at home, again) because my mental state is still too fragil for me to go back to school. And it turns out I’m not even bipolar. Ha. Ha. Ha. A misdiagnosis. The second one actually. I actually have something called Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Go figure. Oh well. It’s all turned out for the best. I joined a youth group associated with NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) in my home town and I’m actually doing some public speaking telling my story of my struggle with mental illness. It’s amazing. I’m getting better and am hoping to be able to go back to school for my senior year next year (fingers crossed).

But of course, you all want to hear about my dad, right? Well, he and I are doing as well as can be expected. We don’t talk much. He doesn’t take my mental illness well. He doesn’t want me medicated. He hasn’t once come to see me speak on stage. But the Bible waving and preaching has subsided. He still has his moments from time to time, but I’m handling it.

Everyone else knows as well, about my de-conversion I mean. My friends have accepted me just fine. I’m actually getting along better with my peers. On the surface, everything seems great. Except for one little thing: my family doesn’t believe that I’m actually an atheist.  To them, I’m simply “having trouble with my faith.”  It’s kind of ironic actually. I finally get used to the idea of being an atheist, gather up the courage to tell the folks, and look what happens; they don’t believe me. I was stressing horribly about how I was going to tell my sister and my few Christian friends. Well…I didn’t have to tell them anything. Word spread around the church that I was “having trouble” and needed prayer. Of course my mental illness is brought up. Of course I’m angry at God and that’s why I turned my back on Him. Why else would anyone leave the church??

Yes, I was terribly bitter when I first realized this is what everyone thought. Then I realized something else: what if it’s not such a bad thing? Who cares if that’s what they think? There’s nothing I can do about it anyway. I realized as long as I don’t compromise myself, I don’t owe anyone an explanation. Life goes on.

And it did. Then I got depressed. Suicidal. I did things I’m not proud of. Things that make me cringe just thinking about. I lost myself. Was it because I was without God? Did I need Him in my life in order to get through this trial?

I started doubting my doubts, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It eventually led me to go to church, just to try it. I wanted to see what it was like to be looking in from the outside of something I used to be so very much a part of. I went to my sister’s church. One I’d never gone to before and where no one knew me and my “troubles”. It went fine. Nothing changed for me. I made the mistake of going back the next week, and well, all hell broke loose.

I can’t for the life of me remember what the pastor’s sermon was about. All I remember is that he turned into my dad up on that stage. Every word was a knife cutting into my gut. Shame. Your mind has been poisoned. Shame. Morals like Hitler and Stalin. Shame. This is the truth! What do you live for?! It took all I had to calmly walk out of that sanctuary instead of bolt at a dead run screaming like my body wanted to. I went to the parking lot by the car and cried until I was sure my brain had melted. My sister came eventually and we left. I don’t remember much after that.

This is how it was for me for awhile, and how it continues to be even today. I see my dad everywhere. I can’t escape him. I close my eyes and see him pointing at my bleeding arm, bleeding because I cut it, and hear his voice: this is an act of an unsurrendered life to God. My dad’s words hurt me. His actions hurt me. He isn’t a bad guy, really. He’s just got a lot of problems that he’s never bothered to look at. I have told myself that I don’t care what he thinks and that I’m done with him. But he’s my father. I can never be “done” with him. Inside, I’m still that little girl that wants her daddy to be proud of her. In some ways, I think I’ll always be that little girl.