But what if you don’t feel God?

Recently it seems that almost every book I read in which the author speaks of personal despair and adversity, God is being referenced. And it kinda infuriates me. Because I can’t relate. I love reading about people’s struggles and how they overcome them, except when they say that “God saved them” or that this is when they found God. That’s where they lose me. I frequently hear about people referencing the lord and the grace in which they find in him; the comfort and safety in knowing he is always there. But what if you don’t feel that? What if, to you, there is no God? Does that not exacerbate those feelings of isolation and loneliness? Because that’s a glimpse of how I feel.

Growing up, I went to a Uniting Church School in which we went to chapel every week. We prayed, we sang songs, and we listened to our peers share their musical talents. And I used to love chapel, for that latter reason and because of the passion of our chaplain. As for the praying and the singing, I never really engaged. I didn’t really feel anything; good or bad towards religion. I went because I had to, but I didn’t participate. It wasn’t until I came to the states, to Georgia of all places, that I started to understand my religious views.

Within a few months, I started to hate God and everyone who claimed to be a Christian. All I could see were judgmental individuals who were using their relationship with God to proclaim to be better than me. I had teammates, even strangers, try to force their beliefs onto me. I had a teammate that after admitting I have dated girls in the past (because I believe in forthcoming honesty), proceed to tell me that, “It’s okay, because I believe God gives everyone a second chance.” Uhhhh I don’t think that me being “gay” is wrong and is something that needs to be forgiven. I had other individuals explain that unless I believe in Christianity, I am bound to be unhappy for the rest of my life. Even if I decided to pursue a religion like Buddhism, I, in this gentleman’s eyes, would be unfulfilled and unsatisfied; Christianity is the only way to live a fulfilling, happy life.

And so I came to despise religion and everything that it represented. But then I went through a period in which I was determined to try and understand these individuals; to understand why it is that they believe. I went to ministry meetings, I went to church, I had conversations about God, the Bible, and religion in general. I questioned and questioned and questioned. Because that’s what I do. I cannot accept things just because; they have to mean something to me. A friend of mine recently told me that it’s apparent I do not like to conform and perhaps that is why I struggle with religion, because I see it as a conformity rather than something that makes logical sense. Amidst my questioning I came to understand the purpose of God in many peoples’ lives and I could respect that, almost admire it, but I realised and accepted it was not for me. At least not for right now.

Many people who have found God have explained that their story began with great suffering and that it was on their darkest day, a day in which they considered taking their life, that they were saved. After writing the piece, The Beauty in Pain, a friend of mine annotated it. And she annotated it with bible verses. She even proceeded to change the title to, The Savior in the Night. And this frustrated me greatly. It was almost as though my feelings, my experiences, my control were being invalidated and given to something else, something I didn’t believe in. The night in which I had intent to end everything, it was the thought of my parents that saved me. Not God. I didn’t feel shit from him. All I felt was the burning disappointment and suffering that I would cause my parents had I acted on my intent. And, given my childhood, this fear of disappointment is completely contextualised.

When I have questioned individuals that believe in God, “How do you know he/she exists?” I have been answered with, “Well how do you know wind exists? You can’t see it, but you can feel it.” I understand this metaphor, however, wind can be measured; objectively. To me, measuring the existence of God, other than individuals’ claims that he exists, is not possible. There’s nothing really scientific about it. But this leads me to my primary point and question…perhaps the reason religion infuriates me is because I can’t feel God. And what if the former gentleman is right?

Religion and faith have now become more about feeling God rather than fearing God. But what happens when you can’t feel God? Feeling is entirely separate from our conscious awareness, so it’s not as though I can make a decision to miraculously “believe” and I will be graced with the presence of God. Our feelings don’t work like that; they are not under our control. Perhaps then, I am envious of those that do feel God and feel the comfort of his presence because I can’t relate. I don’t feel what they do; I can’t feel what they do. Which leads me to question, is there something wrong with me? If life really is better with God’s presence in one’s life, why then can I not reap these same benefits of safety and security? What is wrong with me?

Some might claim it’s because I’m not open to his existence, that I haven’t accepted him into my life, but again, this is not something I get to choose. We do not have control over our feelings. Jamie Tworkowski, author of If You Feel Too Much and founder of To Write Love on Her Arms, writes about how we all have God-shaped holes within us, holes that can only be filled by his presence. I feel that hole within me, but I don’t believe in a God to fill it. Am I destined then for an unfulfilling life? For dissatisfaction? Why would a God choose this life for someone, why would they destine someone for misery? After all, God has a plan for all of us so it seems logical then to believe that God has planned this suffering for me.

I struggle to relate to writers who talk about their experiences with God and the grace in which they have found within him because all of a sudden, it makes me feel like they can’t understand what I feel. How can they understand my feelings of loneliness, isolation, and misery when they feel the presence of God? When they are never truly alone? Being alone, completely alone, both physically and emotionally, is one of the scariest places to experience. We are all humans in need of other humans, and when we don’t have other humans, nor the presence of a divine entity, then what? Can you understand then, how the darkness of these feelings might lead someone to consider the serenity and comfort they might find in reaching the other side, or at the least, lead them to consider acting on these feelings?

I admit that there is an underlying negative charge that exists within this post and I want to clarify that this is not me taking a stab at religion, rather me trying to express my frustrations of being unable to relate to those that have found comfort in feeling God. It is uncommon to find influential writers that share their story without referencing God. I understand that to many, love is God and God is love, but what if you can’t relate? Can love not exist without the belief in God? To me, these writers make it seem like it is not possible to experience adversity and survive entirely by oneself, a feeling I do not find comforting, but instead, isolating. I suppose then, that I am hoping these words might find other non-believers and offer some understanding into the loneliness and feelings of brokenness that they too, potentially feel. So in the words of Jamie Tworkowski, may you find a friend in these words.

Give me that ticket!

Monday night I was driving home from work around 11p.m. and I was doing a little over 50 in a 35 zone, until I was pulled over. The cop greeted me, explained that he was having a hard time keeping up doing 50 in this 35 zone, took my driver’s license and then proceeded to run my information in the system. He came back a few moments later with nothing but my driver’s license and said, “Thank you Ms. Calder, please slow down on Bells Ferry Road.” I graciously thanked the cop and proceeded to drive home. Speeding. Whilst also mulling in significant frustration. I was disappointed and outright appalled that I didn’t get a ticket. And here’s why.

If I was a male? I probably would’ve got a ticket. If I was driving a sport’s car? I probably would’ve got a ticket. If I was black? I probably would’ve got a ticket. If I had prior convictions on my record? I probably would’ve got a ticket. But I didn’t. Because I was a white female with a clean record driving an ordinary car. People might think that I’m ungrateful because I’m upset about not getting a ticket - this has nothing to do with gratitude. I am grateful. But I’m also filled with rage. Being a feminist is not about believing that women should receive special treatment, it’s about believing in fairness and equality for all. Not just women.

The reason this event is so significant, as are the numerous other times that I’ve been pulled over and let off for speeding, is that it touches on something incredibly important, especially for those involved in our criminal justice system: biases. And we all have them. They’re automatic and deeply rooted within us. I certainly have them too; cultural biases, racial biases, sexual biases, age biases etc., but the difference is that I am aware of them and can admit that I have them.

When a cop walks up to a car, they become immediately filled with preconceived notions about the individual purely based on what they look like. For the most part, these initial reactions are unavoidable. What is avoidable though, is whether they choose to act on them and how they choose to act on them. I am not here to criticise police, because I certainly would not want their job, but instead, to draw attention to the fact that cultural biases exist. The first step in obtaining cultural competency and fairness for all is awareness; being able to identify when these automatic cultural biases are present and then consciously choosing to override them.

The other reason I am frustrated that I didn’t get a ticket, and the primary reason that I don’t have a lot of faith in the American criminal justice system, is because how am I ever going to learn? If I continue to speed and I continue to avoid consequences, what incentive do I have to change my behaviour? Well, I don’t. Which means my behaviour is not going to change. And it’s the same reason that individuals who drink and drive are invariably multiple offenders; because they are either not caught, or when they are caught, their consequence is so insignificant or delayed that it does not deter them from repeating their former behaviour, thus actually serving to reinforce the undesirable behaviour. So in order to effectively administer punishment (which is defined as decreasing the frequency of a behaviour), these factors need to be fulfilled:

• Immediate, not delayed

• Consistently (as much as possible), follow EACH occurrence of the undesirable behaviour

• Intense enough to suppress the behaviour

• Punishment of inappropriate behavior should be complimented with positive reinforcement of appropriate behavior

As you can see, the American system fails to implement many, if not all of these factors. In Australia however, they implement a few of these. Because of the use of radar guns and red light/speed cameras, it is almost demerit point suicide to speed; there is a much higher likelihood that when you do speed, you will be caught – fulfilling the second requirement. Typically, if you see a radar and know you were speeding, the punishment is immediate because the consequence is so severe; a potential immediate loss of license, or at the minimum, a few demerit points and a significant, $400+, fine.

I am not here to glorify Australia nor to criticise the police in this country, but I do want to acknowledge the flaws in this system and the people in which operate this system. We entrust police officers to implement the law, and we entrust them to do so fairly. What I have experienced though, is this is not the case. Police officers, like us, are human. They possess automatic, cultural biases that shape their world and their perception of it. We, collectively, need to do a much better job of acknowledging and admitting these biases. It’s okay to have them and to admit that you have them; ignoring them is futile and ignorant. We cannot change what we do not know exists. And so I write this post to start conversations, to help people hold themselves accountable, and to help hold those in power accountable.

The contrast necessary in genuine appreciation

Is it possible to ever truly appreciate something without being exposed to the stark harshness of its contrasting and opposing experience? At the conclusion of all of my serious relationships, of which I’ve been in three, I have wished heartbreak on my ex. Yep, that’s right. I wished that someone would break my ex’s heart. I wanted them to feel the tormented feelings that I was presently experiencing. I wanted them to know what it was like to have your heart destroyed, trampled on, and completely neglected. I suppressed these feelings and thoughts though because that’s not what love is. Love isn’t wishing harm on your ex, no matter what they did to you. Love is supposed to be about wanting them to be happy, even at the expense of your own happiness. At least that’s the message we’re conditioned to believe. And so I thought of myself to be a monster. A horrible human. A sadistic, spoilt brat who couldn’t handle not getting what she wanted. So any time someone would try to convince me that I was a great, kind-hearted individual, I resisted these compliments because I knew them not to be true. How could they be? I was intentionally wishing harm on those I claimed to love.

Some might understand these thoughts and feelings as being associated with the anger stage of grief; anger which is completely warranted. Others might understand it as projecting one’s own feelings onto another human, and what better human to project it onto than the one who inflicted this heart shattering misery. But what I’m coming to realise is there’s a deeper element associated with these thoughts and feelings. Although the former statements might very well be true, the wish is rooted in something more complex. And it’s this belief that we can’t truly appreciate something, or someone, until we’ve been exposed to its polar opposite. Until we’ve known complete darkness, how can we ever truly appreciate, or notice, a faint candle light in the distance? My understanding is that we can’t. And so with regards to heartache, unless someone has had their heart broken or been treated poorly, how would they ever be able to truly appreciate their partner? Small gestures are likely to go unnoticed because they’ve always been known. It’s not until something isn’t known or that something is lost that its true value can be experienced and appreciated.

So me wishing heartache and pain on my exes might not be as sadistic as it sounds. Instead, it’s a wish for them to learn to appreciate something good when they have it, but also to understand what the converse feels like; what it feels like to have one’s heart broken. What it feels like to be cheated on. To be lied to. To have all of your fears confirmed. To be abandoned. Neglected. Underappreciated. To be alone: emotionally, not just physically. And I know what that feels like. And it’s one of the scariest, darkest, and loneliest feelings I have ever endured.

Two years ago when I was going through my incredibly difficult patch, I felt alone. Isolated. Abandoned. Everyone I reached out to turned their back on me. But particularly those that were in my inner circle. Those that promised not just me, but my family, they would take care of me. I’m referring specifically to my mentor at the time. This individual was a role model to me. She challenged me to be the best version of myself. She held me accountable. She listened. Understood. And she supported me. I idolised her. So much so that I wanted to be her. Heck, I almost was her. It was scary how similar we were; seemingly the same person, just 15 years apart. But when I needed her, when I really needed her, she was nowhere to be found. She had told my parents they didn’t need to worry because she was going to look after me. But she didn’t. She never came to visit me after surgery. She didn’t respond to messages. And she didn’t make time for me. I was desperate. I was in an extremely dark place. I needed her. And she knew it. Instead of walking beside me in the darkness, she ran. As fast as she could in the opposite direction. She freaked out. She felt responsible for me. As a sports psychology consultant, she knew that she wasn’t qualified to be my therapist. She wasn’t a clinical psychologist and nor could she be. To her, what I was going through required professional help, of which she couldn’t provide. And she was right, I did need professional help. But I was getting it. What she didn’t realise is that I didn’t need her to be my therapist. I just needed her to be my friend. To do nothing but be there. But riddled with fear, she chose to abandon me.

I was recently presented with a very similar situation, but this time I was the mentor. After conversing with this ridiculously intelligent and emotionally mature individual about what was going on, I freaked out. I felt responsible for her wellbeing. I started telling myself that it was okay for me to run because I’m “not qualified to deal with this” and she wasn’t my responsibility. I wasn’t a therapist, nor could I be one to her. She needed help and I couldn’t help her. Fortunately though, I met with some fantastic parents over dinner who helped me process these feelings. After vaguely expressing the situation to them, they proceeded to ask me, “How can you be a crisis text line counsellor, but then run away from this situation - what’s the difference?” I thought about this question a lot. Was it because I knew this individual, so the intimacy and weight of the relationship was naturally heavier? Or was it because I felt responsible for her? The answer I concluded was nothing other than fear. I was afraid. And in the midst of my fear, I ran. But then I remembered what it felt like to be abandoned. To have someone you revere so deeply and sincerely literally turn their back on you in your most desperate time of need. That kind of pain is damaging. Heartbreaking. Traumatising. Here I was, being presented with an opportunity. An opportunity not to fix or heal this individual, but to be the friend I had wished my mentor had been to me.

Too often we think that when our friends are in need, we’re responsible for fixing them and that responsibility can be overwhelming and overbearing, especially if an individual is suicidal. We end up internalising their pain as though their mere existence is a burden in our lives. We then proceed to pressure ourselves into feeling solely responsible for their wellbeing. But we aren’t. And that’s not what they need. People don’t need to be fixed, nor can they be by anyone but themselves. What people need is validation. They need empathy. They need a friend. And a friend is someone who knows when to lead, when to be led, and when it’s necessary to do nothing other than just walk alongside someone. But without being numbed by disappointment and tortured by abandonment because of my mentor’s actions two years ago, I’m not sure I would have accepted the opportunity that I was being presented. An opportunity not to fix or heal, but to be the friend this kid needs. Am I scared? Absolutely. What I know though, and I know this from my own personal experience, is that inaction and absence is far more detrimental and debilitating than incorrect action and presence. Fear of saying the ‘wrong’ thing is overwhelmingly potent, but it is mild compared to the fear that this individual will experience the intense and heartbreaking abandonment of having those she respects and reveres turn her back on her.

So my opening question still remains, is it possible to ever truly appreciate a situation, a person, or a thing, if you have never been without it or exposed to it? Because I’m not sure you can. And so I believe that maybe, just maybe, there is a purpose to all of this pain after all. And maybe that purpose is to provide a level of understanding, compassion, appreciation and empathy that is foreign to those who have never really endured the darkening isolation of being abandoned in one’s most desperate time of need. Perhaps one’s suffering is never in vain. Perhaps your suffering might be used to help yourself, perhaps to help someone else, or perhaps it might just save someone’s life. “The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.” – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross