It all started when Mom was sick. I prayed. I prayed and I begged for time. I prayed for her health and for our family. The sicker she got, the more I spoke with my Gods. Please, let her live to see my children. Please, let her live to see Tracy graduate. Please, let her live to see me get married.
The night she passed, I prayed that she would live long enough for my sister and her brother’s to arrive.
Nothing happened. She died 3 hours before they arrived.
After her death, I prayed that my half siblings would come to their senses. I prayed that they would see what they were doing, what they were saying. I prayed that things weren’t going the way that I feared they would. I prayed for peace.
Through it all, I held fast to my faith. I saw others waver. I did all I could to keep up the conversation with my own little concept of a higher power.
Then I got pregnant. I was full of hope and dreams. I felt so connected to everything. I researched rituals, blessingways, meditations, yoga. I felt like a part of this wonderful energy of the cosmos, like somehow, this beautiful little person inside me had tied me into the universe again.
When I went into labour, I naturally reached out to the earth, to the Powers that Be. I breathed, I moaned, I swayed and asked them to hold me and guide me through.
I didn’t feel anything.
I felt completely cut off. Completely on my own, in my own body. That connection, I realized, wasn’t there. Had it ever been there?
My nephew has schizophrenia, as well as a bevvy of other mental disorders and addictions. He was fundamental in the development of my faith. It was through him that I found my own path, though I had already been looking into it on my own for years. When we realized how ill he was, I was shaken. Had my faith been mental illness too? No, I was so sure what I had felt and experienced had been real.
Was it real?
I have been Pagan for 15 years. I did not grow up with religion. My mother, as a girl, had bounced from church to church, following friends and choirs. The one common element was Jesus. My father had had a very negative damaging experience with Catholicism and was a steadfast atheist after that. The only church I attended as a child was for weddings, funerals or because my nanny brought me. For the first time since I found faith, all on my own, I don’t believe in anything. I am completely lost.
I have a son, nearly one year old, and I don’t know what’s out there, what happens next. What I know is that there is a dark hole where my gods and goddesses once stood.
I feel so alone.
EDIT: I’m ok. I know I’m not alone alone. It’s more that itty bitty ant feeling. I have friends, I have family. I just no longer have my faith and the empty hole is gaping.