I Hated the World You Lived in but That Made Me a B*tch

The moment you realize that the people you trust the most are the ones to lie to you the most

Truth is, I’ve never been a trusting person. The only person I trust is me. But when I let someone in, that means I trust the person and it takes a lot of courage to trust.

My godmother was my guardian angel. I believed her. I worshipped her. I adored the ground she walked on.

I trusted her more than I trusted anyone.

You know that point when you think someone can do no wrong? Yes, that was the moment it clicked for me– that humans aren’t perfect and that we all are capable of hurting someone.

I was that naïve young girl who thought her godmother was a fairy. She would sweep in at the nick of time and save the day regardless of whatever challenges she was going through.

I loved that woman more than myself. She meant more to me than life itself. When I met her, I was at my lowest. It was a time I had lost faith in God. I didn’t believe in anything or anyone.

But when she spoke to me, something was lifted off my chest. We felt like kindred souls. She understood my life like no other. She felt my pain. And I released my burden to her.

During that time, I felt God had abandoned me to my fate. The little hope I had was restored when I met my godmother. She was my god in the flesh. But that was my biggest mistake and also my greatest blessing.

It was a glorious Sunday morning, on the eve of New Year 2002. Everyone was getting ready for mass. I hadn’t been to church since I fell out with God. My godmother had preached endlessly to me throughout that week and I wanted to surprise her by renewing my faith.

Going to church was the first step. I wore an emulate white gown my mum had bought for my aunt Cecilia’s wedding. I didn’t like the gown. It’s not that it wasn’t beautiful. But the representation of the white color gave me the irks whenever I wore it.

People would call me a white angel, or Virgin Mary — names that signify you are pure and holy. I didn’t like the false identity people projected on me. My cousins made jest of me whenever I wore that dress because the older ones assumed I was the purest in the family even when my faith was lost.

My godmother was the only one who accepted that I had flaws. She was an addict for 12 years before she was reborn. She inspired my confidence and walked in my path. She understood I wasn’t perfect, but there was time for me to change.

Did I ever know her or did I know the reflection she wanted me to see?

When we got to the church. The sermon corresponded with how I was feeling — lost and rejected. As the Father preached about forgiveness and the undying love Christ has for us, I felt sorry for myself.

All the while I was angry and bitter at God, yet he still loved me and was waiting for me to acknowledge him in my darkness. My burden was unbearable. Spiritually, I was drained of all emotions. I looked around for my godmother. Usually, she would sit in front, beside the choir, but her seat was empty.

Why didn’t she come to church? I wondered.

She never missed church no matter how sick she was. What could have happened? When I saw her on the 31st night she looked hale and hearty.

Did she travel in the night?

When the mass ended, I went to my godmother’s house to find out if she was alright. There was a crowd at the gate. I managed to squeeze my tiny body inside. Getting to her room, they were carrying out a corpse covered in a white cloth.

She died that morning. Her family found her dead body hanging on a rope. She committed suicide. Why? No one knows. Too many rumors reared their heads. Some said she was owing the church a huge sum of money. Another story said she owed the bank. Yet another said she was dying of a terminal illness. But no one knew the actual cause of her death.

That day, I went home more deprived than ever. How could she who condoned my suicide attempts take her own life? Where was that God she preached to me about when she was dying on that rope? Why didn’t God save her?

If God couldn’t save my godmother who wore the embodiment of Christ, then what made me think he would save me? My feeble faith scattered once more. This time there was no coming back from the dark hole.

I couldn’t understand why my godmother didn’t practice what she preached. She said people who kill themselves go to the depths of hellfire. I believed her. Those this mean she wanted to be in such a fierce burning fire?

If only I knew what was going on in her head in the last days of her life.

Everyone in our community knew my godmother as a righteous Christian. She never fought with anyone and she always stood by her principles. Or so we thought. It was after her death we learned she was having an affair with a Reverend Father.

All I knew of her came crumbling down to my feet. She appeared spotless, bearing her faith in Christ with pride. No one suspected she was a two-faced liar and a cheat. Her husband must have known but kept her secret safe. Her children had no idea until the rumors started spreading.

I was inconsolable for the rest of the year. I had built my faith around this person and now she was gone.

When I finally accepted her death, I turned into a different person. I began self-absorbed. I was arrogant and ruthless to anyone who dared to preach to me about God.

There was no reason to believe in someone who wasn’t flesh and blood when the one person that encouraged my spiritual journey deceived me. I remember accusing one of her disciples of being in league with her.

Because the woman was very close to my godmother and would spend most time at her place. If birds of a feather flock together, then I was certain the woman was my godmother’s partner in crime. I would shame and mock her whenever she passed my house.

I was ruthless to anyone who claimed to be righteous. I didn’t want to believe their lies or be caught in their midst. To me, all the so-called “born again” were deceitful sluts who think they are better than everyone.

After a couple of months, I was able to accept that God had a greater plan for me and that her death wasn’t the end of my life, but rather the beginning.

But something died in me with that event. I stopped trusting people and I stopped expecting people to be perfect. I think I was meant to live that experience so I would learn to value God and myself above all else.

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