9.1

Cries and Laughters

“He’ll decide right and wrong for you, and you’ll be grateful because you don’t even know you’re a puppet.”

9.

“Why doesn’t Grandpa visit us anymore?”

“He can’t, honey, he’s . . . I should’ve told you this before, but he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Remember how he was ill? Well, he just couldn’t recover, God took him to heaven.”

“Why? I don’t think he wanted to go.”

“It was his time.”

“Will God take me too?”

“Oh!”

“What’s wrong, Mother?”

“He won’t take you, not for a long time, if there’s any justice in the world . . .”

“God is a bad man then?”

Diary:

I’m completely withdrawn these days. I don’t really talk to anybody, don’t really listen to anybody, not really do anything at all. Just going through the routine like I’m sleepwalking, nothing truly requires my attention anyway.

Except for one thing, one thing I can’t stop. When I’m walking, when I’m riding the bus, when I’m lying in bed, when I’m doing a chore, when I’m doing anything at all, I think. About the meaning of life. The existence of God. Well, Christian God.

I don’t know why I keep thinking about these things or how I can expect satisfactory answers. No, I know why. I have to come to an understanding. I need some sort of justification. Because life seems meaningless, and I don’t think God exists.

What is the meaning of life? Is it possible that the purpose of life is merely to mow the lawn? How silly and trivial. How could it possibly be the right answer unless it’s something profound, something we would immediately identify with as soon as we heard it? If anything less could be justified as the right answer, then there’s something wrong with the question. It’s not the right question.

But what is the right question? Surely it’s not what God had in mind in creating life. If mowing lawns is what He had in mind, then that would be the right answer. But that can’t be.

And why should it matter whether someone gave you a purpose? I mean, why should it matter to you? Do you automatically have an obligation to accept that purpose? No, that’s silly. If you’re free, you should be able to choose for yourself. But the purpose of life can’t be just anything you choose, the question is not worth asking then, and life might as well be meaningless. I guess what I really want to know is what makes life worth living because there doesn’t seem to be any point.

Even if all problems were solved, all pain overcome, even if life was blissful through and through, what’s the point? Is the struggle merely for bliss? Or is there something higher, something better, something that makes life meaningful?

Even religions don’t offer anything better. If I went to heaven, then what? Perfect, eternal bliss? It comes down to bliss again.

But without bliss or its possibility, what would be the point of anything? Honor. Honesty. Justice. Love. What would be the point of any of these without bliss? If they contributed nothing to the happiness or unhappiness of people? Better yet, if justice always promotes unhappiness and injustice happiness, why should anyone prefer justice over injustice? If they have any legitimate claim, it must be because of the power of bliss, not because of what they are in themselves.

What of God? Is serving God or being with God a higher thing than bliss? But without bliss, why should anyone prefer to be with God? If the choice was between God and happiness, surely happiness should win. Only a fool would choose to be with God and be unhappy than be without God and be happy. No wonder religions always promise bliss as a reward.

But how can happiness give life any meaning? It seems so shallow. He lived a life of bliss, so what? Why should we care, why should we admire him for that?

Admiration is for others. It doesn’t matter whether they admire you. The question is whether life would be meaningful for you if your life was blissful. It would be a nice life by definition, but still seems shallow. Maybe I don’t properly understand it. Maybe my perspective would be different if my life was blissful. Maybe.

And this question of the existence of God, I already don’t believe it, but it’s not enough. Heaven, I’m indifferent about, it never sounded very pleasant. But I couldn’t be indifferent about hell. My fear is so deeply entrenched it’s not enough to simply disbelieve the Bible, it will remain until I’m absolutely sure. I know it’s irrational, like being scared of the monster under the bed, but so much of my religious experience is based on it it’s very hard to extinguish. Maybe I’ll never get rid of it fully, but I’m obsessed with it. I have to purge this disease from my psyche or I’ll never truly be free. But how do you undo years of emotional brainwashing?

It’s probably responsible for more pain in my life than anything else because I was never completely sure of my beliefs. There was always some doubt, things that didn’t make sense, things that seemed inconsistent. I would suppress them as well as I could, but the doubts linger, and with them the possibility of going to hell. Always on the brink of eternal torture because salvation is based on some stupid belief, something you don’t have any control over.

I don’t know about the existence of God, but the more I think about it, the angrier I get. I’m becoming more and more convinced that this God, if He exists, is a monster even worse than the likes of Hitler. At least Hitler had the decency to be mortal. At least he could torture only so much. At least he killed only millions in the name of his madness . . .

The things that happened in that war, the unbelievable things people went through . . . How could anyone do that to another human being? How much hate or stupidity would you have to have to be able to do something like that? But it’s worse, much worse, indeed infinitely worse, when God sends people to hell because there’ll be no respite, no end to the torture. How much hate would you have to have to cause infinite suffering to a human being? How stupid would you have to be? This is their idea of perfection. This is their idea of benevolence. A monster so perfect and benevolent it thinks it’s justified in its horrendous oppression just as Hitler must’ve thought, just as Stalin must’ve thought. A monster so perfect and benevolent it thinks it’s doing you a favor by giving you a way out of its wrath if only you’d accept its terms, if only you’d respect the gun it’s holding against your head. This is the monster they worship. This is the monster they pray to. So petrified, so brainwashed, they don’t even know they’re slaves.

War. Downstairs in the kitchen. Incensed words, sounds of misfired glasses shattering against walls, more shouts. Civilized beasts trying to prove otherwise and doing very well.

This is what couples do. Loving, Christian couples. Lessons of what not to do inscribed in each crack of the wall — numerous, somber warnings of marriage.

Slightly safer in my bedroom, but still too close. At least my stepsister’s in here, bless her heart. She’s holding the invasion at bay though she doesn’t know it. They wouldn’t dare. Not while she’s here with me . . .

Get straight A’s, get along with teachers and students, participate in extracurricular activities, blah blah blah. Just so it looks good on college applications, just so you can go to a good graduate program, just so you can get a job doing whatever someone tells you. Some moron that doesn’t know what you’re capable of even when you show them, some moron who will grossly underpay you . . . What was the point of being a corporate slave again?

Go to college so you don’t have to deal with the nonsense at home. Yeah, so you can move on to the nonsense of the world . . . No, I’m tired, this world holds nothing for me.

“They’re fighting again.”

Weariness unmistakable in her voice. Poor child, because of me she has to suffer, I’m no good to anybody these days.

Their faith, misplaced from the start. Their hope, should’ve considered more carefully. Their love, can’t fault them for that, not a matter of choice. How ironic. The greatest of all is out of our hands. We control only the trivial things.

“No doubt it’s about me.”

She knows it too, but she’s too nice to agree. Too nice, too innocent, too undeserving of this poison. A victim of circumstance, aren’t we all?

Broken leaf. Dead flower. Shattered glass. You’re the blessed ones, you’re free of the curse.

If you could, would you take my place? If you would, will you make it right? If you don’t mind, will you tell me your secret?

“I swear, once I’m off to college, I’m never coming back. Never.”

Nothing. No response. Just sad eyes considering me, saying everything that needs to be said.

I know. I’ll miss you, and maybe you’ll miss me. But that’s how it has to be, don’t you see? It’ll be better this way; they’ll have no more reason to fight. Peace is all I can offer you, little girl.

Continued shouting. The cease-fire must be over. Rested, rearmed, and ready for another round. They won’t come in here, but they’ll call me down. Because I’m the one who needs to be punished, I’m the reason for the war.

Yes, right on cue, took you long enough. Should’ve called me down and punished me the first thing, save us the time and the anticipation.

That’s right. Look at the frightened boy. It’s what you want to see, it’s why you called him down, someone to take out your frustrations on. So go on, administer your justice. You never explained it before, you never justified it before, so why start now? You’re the parent, you make the rules, isn’t that how it works? Don’t even ask me, I’m just a slave, what I think doesn’t matter. You studied It well, you’re just like Him, God would be so proud of you. So do it. Make his bottom burn, make him cry. Make him apologize for things he’s never done, for things he’ll never even think of doing. Tell yourself it’s for his own good. Tell yourself he deserves the beating. Tell yourself you’re only doing your job. Just don’t tell me because I’m not that stupid, because I’m tired of confirming your lies, your self-serving rhetoric.

Are you happy? Will this end the war, at least this battle? Can we go back to the bliss of a Christian family?

Lies. More lies. Needless lies made necessary because of your petty, narrow minds. Absurd questions and absurd conversations based on lies on top of more lies . . . That’s all you know, that’s all you can speak. I go along, pretend to agree, but I know better. I won’t always be your slave. I won’t always be at your mercy. You have the power now, you decide right and wrong for now, but it won’t always be that way. One day I’ll be free, one day I’ll be gone, and it’ll be my turn to pity you. Because you’re the real slave, not me. Because my helplessness is only temporary while yours is perpetual. Because you’re too stupid to see, too closed-minded to even consider, too afraid to ever be free of your master. I see you for who you are, I’m already free in spirit. But you’ll never see Him for who He is, you’ll never be free. He’ll decide right and wrong for you, and you’ll be grateful because you don’t even know you’re a puppet. You miserable, hollow shell of a man.

A serialized coming-of-age novel about a boy who must decide whether to live or die after surviving an abusive family and the death of his love: first.