good at god
By: Dr. Rachel Kallemwhitman
Tags: Death, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Bipolar, Religion

I wish I believed in god because I bet I’d be really good at it.

Temple every Saturday. Church every Sunday. Not enough for me. I wouldn’t take any shortcuts. I’d make time for The Light, the Lord of Lords, the King of Kings, Allah, Elohim, Adonai, Yahweh, eery heavenly, damn day. Every morning dedicated to religious yawns, afternoons of worship over lunch, dinner served with a side of deity, and before you go to bed “AMEN” screamed into your pillow. You name the day to pray and I’d be there. The rituals, the traditions, singing songs or sitting quietly, I bet I’d shine. I like rules and structure. Tell me what to do. Tell me what not to do. How would you punish me? Tell me and I’d take it to heart. I’d obsess. I’d think about it every day. No, every moment. Every fucking second I would wonder if I’m failing. Disappointing a higher power. That kind of shame and rejection feels familiar and sits comfortably in my heart. I wear worthlessness well. Drenched in disgrace, my grace. I’m a mess, god bless.

I’d be so good at god.

Not only the scriptures and the psalms and knowing right from wrong, but get this — I know I COULD and WOULD talk to god if I believed. Not like a Catholic priest who you’ve got to watch out for — especially in PA, those guys are always looking for prey — I’d talk to god like a holy vessel. Not a pedophile, not a predatory piece of shit wearing a white collar, just an unthreatening white lady wearing t-shirts and boat shoes with her hands clasped and pointed at the sky. Channeling the lord.

Confession: I’ve actually done it before. Ten Hail Marys and you have to keep my secret. Whenever I’m crazy here he comes to sit on his throne carved between my ears. He tells me to believe. He pushes lightning bolts into my brain. Or is that Zeus… it doesn’t matter because whoever he is is magic and majestic. Beautiful and busted brain they’ll say but I hear god. He clears his throat and I beg him to forgive me. For what I’m not quite sure but better safe than sorry. I kneel in reverence of his gnashing teeth and the widest red eyes I’ve ever seen. He pats my head because I’m his servant and his puppy, hopefully not a plaything, but I guess we’ll see.

I feel strange.

And he’s nice for a while but then he stands up, cracks his back, and electric sparks sizzle and singe his robes (designed by Zeus?), and he leaves without a word for me. So I wait. I do everything right. I make my bed and I put gas in my car. I’m so good. I rip out my flowerbed, which is bad behavior, but then I leave honey for the ants. Keep sweet. I balance bad and perfect. I balance bipolar. I’m a professional. Do as I say, not as I do. I learned that from religion. A catchy and threatening chorus.

So I wait.

I feel sick.

Jesus sneaks up behind me and rubs my shoulders singing, “daddy’s home.” Or maybe that’s the priest? Or any other man of faith who says, “call me this,” “wear that,” “do as I say,” “your body isn’t yours, ”and “stay afraid. I would if I were you.” I wince and he whimpers because we’re all going to die and he really loved dying for us. I sip his sacrifice. I suck his poison. Jesus leans against a cardboard casket and asks me how I’m log fluming my way to hell. “To hell? But I behaved so well and that gets you saved, right?” “Who knows” he shrugs. “Different department.” “Dad does this and I do that.” I’m confused but I want to be good at god so I smile and dove until I make dents in the floor. I only eat bacon in the dark. I show a lot of skin but I think I can spin that — embracing the sacred temple of the self — “HELLO WORLD look at what god gave me! Chiseled out of alabaster, what a pale creature!” I want people to see his work. Marvel at this blob who is unproductive and an idiot and does nothing but cry and pray all day but at least religiously puts on sunscreen to keep this rental pristine. “Well done, Jesus! Or god… I don’t remember. Who is Zeus again?”

I am scared but I don’t know why.

Mortality is a bummer. Who will save us after we’re dug deeply into the ground, or thrown cheaply into a ditch, or we’re scattered by the seaside, or paying rent for residing in an urn above the fireplace that we can’t afford. Will we be forgotten? Thinking about dying is something I’m good at — I’m not afraid to not wake up one of these days — but what’s next? I can’t help but bat my big blue eyes in Morse code looking longingly at that old book over there that is brimming with answers about my bones. It reads, “hold tight to your predetermined fate, prescribed by the Almighty, and if you start to question his divine plan FOR YOU remember to HAVE FAITH. Unquestionable faith. Devout faith. Grey and fuzzy faith. For faith is the currency of the lord.” I will eat those words until they dye my tongue and I blink back Hebrew. The world is fucked but luckily we have a guy who rides high in the sky and if you play nice and do everything right you can meet him. Goals. Dreams. Do what you’re told. Firm handshake and a curtsy for the Supreme Being. If only he was real I could die with a fortune buried with me.

But maybe he is?

My brain is frothing with fever.

I wish I believed in god.

So when he tumbled out of my mouth I could say, “noooo I’m not crazy, I’m divine. Right on time it’s a holy day and here’s what Jesus has to say!” But the Jesus I know cries a lot these days about being a failure and screams at the stars and slits his wrists until the aisles run red with blood or wine — depends on who you ask — and he’s paranoid and says god left us long ago and we are here with nothing. Jesus whispers into my frizzy hair that if god came back he’d plunge us into the belly of the Earth where we’d fry and die in silence. Jesus misses his Holy Dear Old Dad but he’s so afraid of him that his teeth chatter just like the sound the pearly gates make when their rusty bars are locked tight. “Keep you out, keep them in,” hammered into the chastity belt that bars entry and has no key. Sweet Jesus. He bites off his nails, from tips to knuckles, and yelps, “how can I pray with my hands folded now that I just have palms dotted with bloody stumps? My saintly fists dripping in blood!” “I think he likes that,” is my offering.

This is my Jesus. This is who I hear sulking in my skull. And people say it means I’m crazy as fuck, which is probably true, especially because I am Jewish, but this is exactly why I wish I believed in god because it wouldn’t be my fault when everything goes to shit. I would be a mouthpiece for hallelujahs. And the crazy stuff would be folded in. And people would believe in me — not call me insane while shaking maracas made of medication. Oh I wish.

I just swallowed my teeth and my hair is dragging tumbleweeds across our wooden floor.

Wait — who am I?

But at least I‘ll die someday and maybe I’ll figure it out. Make the right kind of friends. Angels hanging by the vending machines, the cool kids in school. I was never that popular. My junior year of high school for AP English I made a shoebox diorama for the book, “AS I LAY DYING,” my capitalization for emphasis, by Faulkner. Did you know he had a thing for pipe cleaners? Bouquets of pipe cleaners were the only presents he accepted and I thought wanting socks for Hanukkah was weird. Sorry man, I passed on the pipe cleaners relying instead on a Designer Shoe Warehouse infrastructure, a construction paper backdrop, and a meticulous scene spun out in glitter glue depicting an old barn and flames licking the sky. And suspended on minty dental floss was a coffin. A brown paper coffin with an arm flapping out of it. If you blew it, it would sway like it was caressed by a fake pastoral breeze, fanning fake smoke into second period. Perfect. I got an A+ and then accidentally stepped on it. Crunched that floating coffin into a crumpled brown paper ball. I hope that’s how I’ll die. A+ and under god’s sneaker. Byeeeeee.

My insides bubble and boil and I break in half.

It’s easier to hide when you have fewer pieces.

Will you help me?

I believe in god. Unless I don’t. I’m not sure now. The truth is I don’t understand any of this but that’s ok! You don’t need to get it to be good at god. You just need to be crazy. Or maybe that’s just me. What does my medication say about the Messiah? Do I deserve to be saved, sane or sick? Am I just fractured beyond fixing? Who broke me in the first place? Was it you?

Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.

I’m too pasty for eternal flames so I hope I figure this out soon.