4:39 p.m. - 2005-08-03
My de-conversion was painful: long, drawn-out, and full of self-inflicted guilt and torture. I think it started as a child. My parents had me tested at age 5 for hyperactivity, thinking I had some sort of mental disorder. I couldn't sit still, and constantly badgered my mother with question after question. After two weeks of testing and talking with a professional in the field of child development, they told my mother I had an I.Q. of 153 and to just give me lots of crap to keep me occupied. So she did. And still, I questioned and quested for knowledge. I was that trite little 'sponge', soaking up everything around me. By the age of nine, I was reading an average of 6 books a week, and none of them could be found in the children's section of the library. I used books as a distraction, not a learning tool. I longed to be that good girl who could sit still and be quiet and leave Mommy alone for 5 minutes while she washes the dishes. I found that the only time I felt that glow of approval from my parents/grandparents/aunts/uncles was when I was doing something church-y. Ya know, like learning this week's bible verse, or volunteering to help the younger kids at Sunday school. I grew to associate that wonderful glowing feeling of being wrapped in your parents' love with all things Christian and of the Church. I still recall the day I came home and told my grandmother I had been 'saved'. She cried and held me and wrapped me in her love. Yet through all those years of being the good little Christian girl, I never felt like a Christian. Honestly, I did it because I wanted to be a good girl, and good girls love Jesus. Plus, I'm not arguing with Christmas dude! No way!