I was being led to the slaughterhouse, I thought. Some heads peeked out of doors but immediately fled once they saw the monster of a priest. We marched with him to his office through the dark, soulless hallways. The first time I'd heard him really yell. He looked at my face closely then seemingly decided that the wounds weren't so bad that they required immediate medical attention. He let the other boy go and then firmly lifted me up by my wrist. The priest started at the boy.then at me. Before I could even speak, the other blurted it out. He didn't yell often, but he still spoke in a booming way that filled up the whole room. Simultaneously loud and whispering at the same time. He took the boy by the collar and lifted him like a misbehaving animal. I swear, I think he did it with a single, massive arm. 'Faith and Experience in Early Monasticism', 'The Brothers Karamazov', 'Anna Karenina'.just a few of his dense, cold favorites. He changed books every day, which I took it to meaning that he read about a book a day. He'd read all of the strange, daunting, difficult books that kids like me were warned about. When not lecturing or reprimanding or giving orders he was reading or just standing around looking intimidating. He had a Bible passage for every situation. He was the most Catholic person I'd ever known. Strong, stoic face with a gleaming, shaved head that I supposed he had to shave cleanly every morning just as sure as he'd brush his teeth. In between his Bible study I assumed that his primary hobby was lifting things. He had to be upwards of six-five, broad-shouldered and built like an ox.
He looked like a Mafia hitman impersonating a priest. If it weren't for the stiff roman color and dark clothes, you'd never guess. Despite this, he was also the strictest person there. He was a young priest, the youngest in the entire school. I remember wishing death upon everything as I saw who had come to my aid. The door to our room flew open and the sight to be seen was two boys in their night wear, one bleeding and sobbing on the ground while the other was perched on top.
I don't know how long I struggled with him but it seemed like a painful eternity. I screamed and held up my arms to block his blows, but he was bigger and stronger than me and he was angry beyond words. I mean, we all do, right? Especially when we're young. I was smart, I had fantastic grades, no one suspected I was different.īut.I made a mistake. I just had to get through it, treat the theology like a game to play, and eventually distance myself from it all when I moved out of the house. No one had to know I was gay, no one had to know I didn't believe in God. When I was done with elementary school, I was shipped off to a notoriously strict Catholic boarding school, the name of which I won't say. I studied the good book, I went to Church, I avoided the temptation of admiring Devon Sawa.whole nine yards.
As I grew and matured, I stopped believing in God altogether.īut I loved my family, and so I kept it all bottled inside. No just God would make me a sinner on purpose. I hated the God who would go out of the way to make me different from other boys, to give me something sinful and awful that I couldn't control. From a very young age I remember not being okay with God. I'm a gay man who grew up in a very, very devout Catholic family.