Now is about the time I fall back. I need a hit, a fix. To give up and subject myself to IT again. IT looks so good at a backwards glance. The memories seem so bright and right. Our minds cling to the positive and run from the negative. But when you stop and acknowledge, pay your respects to the bad, realization comes. For every high there is a low. Don't go back. The temporary rise is a façade, the pain after the inevitable fall is real. That ending is the only "hit" that should count.
It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...
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