Story Time

Faith has never been my forte. All through my life, I've been plagued with doubts and cynicism. I think too much; I know that.

What’s the reason for my depersonalization symptoms, my obsessive-compulsive disorder, clinical depression, and possibly even my obstinate agnosticism? I have trouble believing.

I've never believed in a God, nor have I ever not believed in one. I have trouble placing the bets in anything. Friends, family, doctors; they've all labeled it different things – a disorder, disturbed self-image, maybe even just my personality. But how wrong does it feel, knowing you cannot even staple down the simplest thing in your life? I cannot describe my personality, whether it is cheerful or sad, or social or lonely, or optimistic or pessimistic, or blue or red.

I've often envied other people for their so-ready faith. I used to pity them – ignorant fools; why couldn't they see there was no proof? I always wanted it, yet a part of me claimed it was better to have doubt.

A severe hypochondriac as a child, rather than go to the doctor's, I'd stay away –if I didn't go, if I didn't have the disease confirmed, it mightn't be there, might it? This doubt was all I clung to when things got wrong.

If I didn't believe in Heaven or Hell, I had no worries when I disrespected my mother or my father, or lied or cheated, beyond those that I would be punished in our very own realm.

Of all the aspects of my personality, I've hated this the most: my ability to analyze things, my inability to let go. I would consider it my biggest flaw, the most hidden aspect of me, apart from what the people around can observe from their points of view. And, strangely enough, of all my characteristics, it is the most prominent.

Why hide such a thing? In the simplest terms, it leaves me detached. I search through life like an old miner, pinning the tiniest things to my forehead, and wandering around for a mirror. I can't let go. I can't believe.
Faith has never been my forte.