Confessions

This article is an instalment of MUSE Magazine’s Mental Health Theme week, taking place from October 25th to October 30th, 2021.TRIGGER WARNING: ARTICLE CONTAINS DISCUSSIONS OF MENTAL HEALTH, MENTAL ILLNESS, AND SUICIDE, WHICH MAY BE A TRIGGER FOR SOME READERS.DISCLAIMER: THE AUTHOR WANTS TO ACKNOWLEDGE AND MAKE IT KNOWN THAT THESE ARE THEIR PERSONAL EXPERIENCES. THE AUTHOR WOULD LIKE TO RECOGNIZE THAT OTHER PEOPLE HAVE OTHER EXPERIENCES AND THAT NO TWO PEOPLE ARE THE SAME.ConfessionsBy: Victoria Noon Confessions - Victoria Noon at duskwhen the room glowed violet,i etched my soul into thebed frame.etched in symptoms, waitingfor an answer.playing alchemist inhues of sickened sundowns,having gone through all theprophets, the platos.the time when “God” felt morbid.Why do I feel this way? this is a fever dream,shakes and cold sweats at 4 AM,designed to wake me up,hold me down.arms weak from tension,they taught me He wouldn’t let this happen.to believe a saving grace wouldspoon-feed me wisdom, hold my hand whenfaced with any ill.because my mother taught me to be good,my father to be obedient,but i was always better athopscotch thanOur Father. they came to me deaf.swallowed my words,lent me a smile,sent their pity,before they neglected, baptized every word I uttered.i can still feel the cool water in my spine like needles,wearing out each nerve in my body,which has brittled with invocation.i was prompted this wayin that violet haze;i have felt this all the same.everytime a chorus hymn hummed up my neck,soaking my thoughts with hopeless worship,i am spun back into countless offerings for an answer,a resolution.Why does He let me feel this way? i learned to wear my sunday best,utter confessions to hidden, shadowed men.i learned to praise the absent,to keep my notions husheduntil Father opens the gate.Bless me Father, for I have sinned. they do not recognize invisible illnessesbut they recognize the Creator,and blood as blood.They don’t believe me. i had to stop wandering places i did not belong,aimless.homesick in my home.my mother taught me to be good,my father to be obedient,so i taught myself to study.count every rosary bead 4 times,read the scriptures before bedtime,the final desperate act of seeking.yet i could not be votary,as much as i had tasted His blood on my tongue,carolled his praises to the sanctuary.i was vexed at how, somehow,my thinking was counterfeit.i cannot go there with open arms anymore,the gaping eyes of the devoted burn atthe back of my skull like holy water,i only asked,Why don’t you believe me? i do not resent the faithful,i admire their hope,i am not bitter towards their parish.yet there came a point, for myself,where i could not neglect inner twistedness,could not search unwelcome for ease in places where invisible is valuable until it questions grace.i came to realize;Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way.