“I don't feel any ‘divine being’ shine within me.
I only feel government propaganda.
They all say the same thing:
He is real.
As a child, I just knew that the “god” that they speak of, that they speak ill of, wouldn't burn anyone eternally just because they're different. But they shun anyone that exposes their dirt, like a hive mind.
They all say the same things, parroting each other; eating one's lies.
“Being gay is a sin.”
“You'll die if you repent.”
“Just pray and all your problems will go away.”
That's the problem.
They isolate and think of themselves as ‘higher people’ and, like a dictatorship, their “god” instructs them to abuse and kill those who disobey them.
I've had enough.
Religion was made to control you.
Religion was made to consolidate power.
Religion is not real.
God is not real.
If there is a god, he will have to beg for the millions that he has killed.
That is the truth, and not selective salvation.”
I left this as a suicide letter of anger to my whole congregation. Or rather, a fake one. I'm not planning to kill myself, but I'm running away. Ever since I've heard their plans of sending me to a conversion camp because they saw me in a room dancing, I've planned to either end it all—or burn my past.
But dying won't expose them.
If you've read this, I am far, far away. I also sent the letter to a newspaper and their staff accepted it. I don't know how.
Since then, I've been running and hiding anywhere—in a lousy hotel, in a friend's house, or the like. But, one day, as I was eating my instant noodles in a dirty hotel, the electric fan giving me background noise, someone knocked on the door. As I came to pack my things, the person behind the door destroyed it.
It was my father. Not only that, but a whole group is there.
It was my congregation.
They've come here with crosses and bibles. I can't get out. They've completely surrounded me.
They put their hands slowly on my body—some on my chest, many on my shoulders, and the pastor, wearing his usual smug look, put one of his hands on my head, the other carrying a cross, as if they're exorcising me.
They grabbed my blanket and my pillow, and some left just to grab more weighted blankets.
I read this once. They're going to suffocate me.
I ran as fast as I could, pushing and punching the people that were blocking me, but they were faster than me.
This time, they were stronger and smarter than me.
They pinned me down and dragged me to my room.
Once I got there, they smothered me with many blankets while chanting in Latin and English.
They were trying to
remove the ‘devil’ in me.
I guess I was the whole demon.
Written by Aeternumia, Insight PH
Aeternumia, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
