Conscious Contact

Before I begin, let me back up. On Wednesday night, I went to an AA meeting at the clubhouse at 8:00 PM. It was an 11th Step meeting, so we read from the 12&12 about how we “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.”

And it pissed me off.

I’ve been known to twist people’s words. At the meeting, it sounded like here was a roomful of people telling me how to pray. Don’t pray for yourself. Don’t beg God to relieve some of this unbearable pain. Don’t ask Him to quiet the trauma storm inside you, to soften your heart, to help you be kind. Just ask God to do His thing, which He’s going to do regardless of whether or not I ask Him to. That’s not how I want my “conscious contact” to be.

I have conversations with my Higher Power. She wants me to make good choices, to be the best version of myself that I can be. Sometimes, She makes mistakes. But She never abandons me. She is always listening.

Sometimes, I forget this. I get hung up on the patriarchal, Old Testament version of God, and I think He is vindictive, cold, not listening, and punishing. I hadn’t been maintaining conscious contact with God, regardless of whether God is male or female or something else entirely, so that night, I told God to fuck off. I turned off my faith for a little while, and it was like vomiting right out of my heart.

I didn’t pray for the next few days. I didn’t go to synagogue on Friday. I went to a meeting instead and left early because I was angry at the people there for having faith.

I felt so empty. Alone. In free-fall.

So after a couple of days of reminding myself not to ask God for help, not to reach out to God, not to pray, I broke down in tears and prayed. “God, it hurts so much,” I cried. I begged Him to ease the pain, to show me that He loves me. I went to a meeting, where I saw an old friend I haven’t seen in months. Stubbornly, I didn’t say the Serenity Prayer or the Lord’s Prayer at the respective beginning and end of the meeting.

I asked myself, “Why?” over and over. “Why did God allow me to be abused at such a young age? Why did He put abusive people in my life over and over? Was I put here just to be hurt over and over?”

The way I choose to make sense of these questions is by telling myself that God has all the answers and is keeping them safe for me until I die. The answers are so much more perfect, beautiful, and complex than anything any mere human could comprehend.

I am okay.

I apologized to God for telling Him to fuck off. When I was a teenager and I’d slam the door in my parents’ faces, eventually I’d have to apologize and make things right. My parents always knew that I didn’t hate them, that I was just having a “moment.” God knows my heart. He made it, with all it’s flaws and imperfections and character defects–all the awful things that are inside me, but He also gave me so much goodness, a little spark, ruach, or, Divine magic.

I am okay.

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2 thoughts on “Conscious Contact

  1. This is Aly from fb ❤
    You probably know that I'm a Christian, so I do have different beliefs than yours. While I disagree with some of the… ideology, I guess?… I have to say that I'm really proud of you for being so conscious of what you believe and – more – what you don't.
    You may have also heard me say that I am a firm, firm believer in "everything happens for a reason." I've gotten the vibe, based on your posts, that you are not. But still, I thought this was worth sharing. You might have read this before, but here it is anyway. One of my favorite quotes…

    I am trying to see things in perspective.
    My dog wants a bite of my peanut butter
    chocolate chip bagel. I know she cannot
    have this, because chocolate makes dogs
    very sick. My dog does not understand this.
    She pouts and wraps herself around my leg
    like a scarf and purrs and tries to convince me
    to give her just a tiny bit. When I do not give in,
    she eventually gives up and lays in the corner,
    under the piano, drooping and sad. I hope the
    universe has my best interest in mind like I have
    my dog's. When I want something with my whole
    being, and the universe withholds it from me,
    I hope the universe thinks to herself: “Silly girl.
    She thinks this is what she wants, but she
    does not understand how it will hurt."

    Like

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