I was a good girl once. 

Correction. 

I was conditioned to be good. Conditioned…the precision of the word is frightening, for I was nothing less than conditioned, like Pavlov’s dog, to salivate over the wrong thing. 

My pious family branded my ass with Catholicism on the seventh day after my birthday, baptized me at some local place of worship; later I would be a part of its psychotic congregation, receive the Eucharist in a fluffy white dress, have my confirmation ceremony and be betrothed, too early for my age. 

As I climbed the ladder of education, grade by grade, school by school, I was heavily indoctrinated into religion I did not understand. Religion taught love, you see, actually, love for God, exactly the two enigmas I saw less and less of the more I questioned the doctrine. When I asked my catholic teachers why wouldn’t such an omnipotent and benevolent God save people from getting sick and murdered, robbed and raped, traumatized and miserable, they’d reply with a disturbingly calm smile – God’s plan. That’s it, God’s plan. At least they didn’t beat the shit out of me like my granny, who’d simply slap me, lock me inside a cold balcony with barely any clothes on and without food or water for the entire day only to let me out at night, shake my rigid body to full alert and spit her own bullshit response, “Suffer those who question God’s Will.” She was nuts. Besides making me pray at daybreak and before each goddamn meal, she used to barge into my room in the middle of the night, again, to pray, without giving two fucks about interrupting my sleep. Sometimes I thought that if I were dead she’s still shake me back to life for a prayer. She spat on privacy, personal space, solitude, me-time. No such words existed in her vocabulary. No matter the time, circumstances, age – I had to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Thrice. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. And there was nothing you could do but to get your ass up and groan the lines through drowsy hate. If I gave her shit, she’d point an angry finger at me. “Watch your attitude, young lady!” And if I still gave her shit, she’d, of course, slap the fuck out of me, sometimes with her hand, sometimes with what was in her hand. And apparently that was a normality, the abuse. My parents gave her green light to hit me, I’m sorry, to condition me, for as long as it was – quote unquote – for my own good. For my own fucking good! Needless to say, I tried my hardest to not give her shit. I once questioned the meaning of praying. “What’s the point?” I asked her. Granny responded, “To ward off evil”. I immediately thought of a prayer that could ward off my granny. Was there one? I wondered. Because to me she was the very embodiment of Satan, that woman. And tell me why she would not enter my room when I remembered to pray for its protection. A fluke? Unlikely. That bitch was truly wicked. That’s why. She frightened me. Muttered horror stories of demons snatching profane children right out of bed and on a continuous loop frying them in a pit of fire like quail eggs before devouring their burned flesh to a mad laughter. And she’d describe it like she was actually there, watching it all happening. “You stray from God – you burn in hell.” She’d say. 

My parents had their own way of grooming my faith. They did not slap me but simply took away all that provoked me to wonder. I only had to question the absence of God’s interference in a felony I witnessed on CNN, and, “No TV for a week,” mommy would say. I only had to spend a little too much time on a science volume, and, “Give me that book,” daddy would say. I only had to mention my friend’s ‘unorthodox’ lifestyle, and, “No more hanging out with that kid,” they’d say. They hid encyclopedia like it was pornography, wouldn’t let me watch news and movies besides some lame religious kids’ channel, wouldn’t let me hang out with other kids without their blessing, wouldn’t take me places farther than my catholic school and their parish. Therefore my world was tiny, and yet it was more than enough to see plenty of ungodly shitshows that made you question the very existence of God. Unimaginable shit, unfathomable…unless you were me, walking that shit of a mile in my clean church shoes.

Take my school, for instance. I do not remember exactly when the fairytales about the biblical vipers, holy rainbows, and sacral sheep were proclaimed reality, but the lines surely blurred at some point, and the Holy Bible was promoted from a children’s book to the Universal Truth in which even the Big Bang and the following, excruciatingly slow evolution, which was time and time again supported by science, absolutely had to be re-supported by Adam and Eve. 

Now, if you think the Earth rotates around its axis because of how it had been formed some 4.6 billion years ago, through the accretion disk, gasses, collapse, momentum and inertia, and revolves around the sun due to the gravitational pull, think again. Essentially (big emphasis on the word) all these motions were God’s doing. Sun turned to moon because of God. High tides became low because of God. Climate changed because of God. Birds chirped and dogs barked because of God. Flowers bloomed and produced fruit because of God. So you better be grateful for your daily bread, you ungrateful fuck! The Big Guy himself blessed you with it! Yeah. The same applied to humans. Men excelled or failed because of God’s will and not hard work or lack of determination. Filthy and unresourceful? God’s plan. Dying from cancer at twelve? God’s plan. Lost a loved one in, say, a car crash? God’s plan. And god forbid if you thought otherwise – in hell you went! And in heaven, if you befriended Jesus and followed his commandments.    

Commandments…hm. 

Those were particularly contradicting. For example: Thou shalt not covet. Okay, let’s talk about it. I knew this one nauseatingly righteous, god-loving kid in middle school…Richie the grasshopper. He was paralyzed on both legs, moved around by means of a wheelchair. So every day during a lunch break that dude rolled himself right on to a soccer field (thus the nickname) and choked on both stale sandwiches and envy watching fit guys kick ball in Jesus’s name right in front of him. And who can blame him? You? Life’s unfair 9 out of 10. Everyone wants what they don’t have. Everyone knows that. You know that. You choke on envy too watching your friend enjoy their new toy, matters not an iPhone or a dildo. Just a side note, Richie’s mother was both an alcoholic and a heavy smoker, chose to be one up until she gave birth to a cripple. But hey––God’s plan. 

Next. 

Thou shalt not kill – no shit there. Unless you’re a psychopath with a fetish for some bleeding raw flesh, you ain’t gonna end no life. But this world is dark, DARK, so you never really know who you’re talking to, a saint or a serial killer. 

Or how about when they preached thou shalt not steal at dawn and stole at dusk, all the money they never earned, ideas they never imagined, credit they never deserved, souls they never owned? To top it off, they swore to God of innocence. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain! 

That was interesting. 

And when they recited, thou shalt not commit adultery at a Sunday mass, that was even more interesting because you could be sure they fucked. Hard. With whoever, however, and whenever they pleased. ‘They’ inferred to all those teachers, spiritual guides, clergy and parents horny enough to not care who they banged, their equal, someone’s spouse or a kid of ten. Just think about it, taking a confession from Margaret in the morning and then raping her children at noon. Next to the statue of Virgin Mary. Horrendous, yes. Sinners, yes. But! Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. I like that one. So I’ll just throw it out there before you start judging, you sinner. Dark shit crosses your mind too, no doubt there. You’re just good at suppressing the urges to screw your hot neighbor or slit your boss’s throat or shoot that vicious chihuahua your spouse had gotten two Christmases ago. Great job at self controlling. 

Point is – nobody’s perfect. And apparently it’s okay, my family, school and church would assure. God’s plan and all. Besides – God is Good. Good at washing away sins if asked nicely. So go ahead and steal, but don’t forget to come to mass. Fuck a child and beg forgiveness. Murder a man and plead for mercy. It shall be granted, and you shall once again be squeaky pure, for God is good. That was precisely the shitshows I saw and heard with the ear to a wall, with an eye through a crack in a door, with a peek here and there. All the righteousness disregarded, purity tainted, rules broken, God’s name corrupted. In their places – muffled screams, lustful moans, whispers and schemes. All the dirty laundry they washed over and over with that mighty fine detergent God is Good. 

Honestly, how could one not question God’s existence after seeing all that shit? I thought, surely if there was God, almighty and all-just and all-powerful and all-loving, he wouldn’t let my own family beat me for not understanding Him. He wouldn’t let kids to be raped next to mourning sculptures of guardian angels. He wouldn’t let people’s hard earned money go into some filthy bastard’s pocket just so the latter could spend it on his own disgusting needs. He wouldn’t let bright minds and amazing talents die in vein, go to waste. He wouldn’t let innocent souls get sick or be killed. He wouldn’t let those who wished to change the world for the better leave the world at their very prime of changing it. He wouldn’t let bad guys go scot-free. He would surely punish them, make them suffer, make them miserable. 

Clearly not. 

The more I watched those fuckers sin, the more I saw them thrive. Too bad what I saw stayed unspoken. My scarce friends hardly discerned white from black, so shallow they were. And my family…well. What can be inferred from individuals whose house resembled a shrine? Walls strewn with crosses, each elevated flat surface crowded with porcelain cherubim and candles with stickers of saints, and every room, including bathrooms, supplied with a proverb in a frame, so even when you shit you’re in prayer. What can be inferred from a theology professor, a worship director, a lady who owns a crystal shop, a retired librarian, and a retard who kicks the ball in Jesus’s name? I’ll tell you what can be inferred. They’d rather believe a filthy priest because of his holy san than their own oblivious little daughter who let her imagination run wild. That’s how spiritually brainwashed they were, to the point of blindness. 

Brainwashing, boys and girls, is real. All it needs is a mind blank, blunt and pliable enough to be broken by persistence, repetition, and isolation. I watched many of my friends turn to Catholic zombies ready to jump off a roof to prove their faith to nobody. Thankfully, I was spared of such a mind, no matter the threats and abuse. And so I don’t remember what day it was, but I became an atheist, way before I knew what an atheist was. Too bad for me, atheists in my household were handled like vampires, with a stake through a heart. So I had to be careful, play by the Bible, recite and memorize inane orisons, waste time on farcical deeds that apparently pleased God, be a zombie, be a good girl to not be crucified or fried like a potato, not by demons but by my own fucking granny, for instance. And so it went, and went, and went, until my blood was shed and I’ve had enough. 

My period came at 13, as far as I can recall. I was on the floor, doing something childishly unimportant, when I felt a kick in my lower abdomen. Then a harder kick, and then a sharp blow in my vagina. I squirmed, face contorted in pain, as I clutched at the throbbing center. Then I looked at the blood on my hand. It was heavy and thick, with an odd odor of iron, salt and something foul. The smell was so foreign and strong I could subconsciously taste it on my tongue. No one had ever told me that women bled, so I thought I was dying. Dumbfounded and dismayed, I yelled for mommy. She came, saw me sitting on the floor, bulging eyes, skirt folded up, legs wide open and the spreading mess between them. Her eyes went round, and she yelled for her mommy. 

“Mother? Come here. We’ve got a situation.” 

When granny appeared, her eyes narrowed as she regarded me a long, long moment. “So it has come.” She uttered dryly. There was silence and two pairs of calculative eyes glaring at me before granny commanded, “Run the bath, Hollie. We’ll need to make her presentable.” 

Arrangements were made in immediate order, a haste which I could not comprehend as I soaked in a bathtub upstairs. I heard phones ringing ceaselessly, two at a time, then mommy’s voice explaining this and daddy’s confirming that. Then a doorbell’s ding dong and someone’s voice congratulating my parents. 

“What’s happening?” I asked granny, who sat on the stool next to the tub and scrubbed menstrual blood off my thighs. It sounds disturbing, I know, but that was my life, so bear with me. 

Granny’s hand halted momentarily, and she said, “You are soon to vow abstinence before God.” 

Her scrubbing resumed. I watched her, dumb as could be. 

“What?”

She gave me a menacing look, a stare of a Bulgarian witch before she sends out a curse. “You are a child no more, Genevieve, now that you have bloomed. You body is no longer yours but Lords alone. And He declares, it shall stay a promise of purity to the one He has chosen for you.”

I did not get one fucking thing she had told me, so cryptic it sounded, so I asked again, “What?”

Granny only scrubbed, and scrubbed. There was nothing left to scrub anymore as my skin glowed spotless pink, but she still scrubbed as if I were head to heels in dirt. “A bitten fruit rots fast.” Another cursing glance my way as she added, “Henceforth, watch your chastity. The devil aims to taint.” Fucking librarians, I thought, with their ‘henceforth’ and what not. 

That day I had been dressed, groomed and brought to a ceremony, which daddy had organized at his parish. There weren’t many people, all recognizable faces, mommy’s friends, daddy’s friends, a priest. A boy. His face was unfamiliar, so I studied him longer. He looked about my brother’s age, about 15, stood next to his parents near the altar, dressed like a little groom. 

My parents dragged me over to him, we exchanged a look of reciprocal confusion. 

“Why, how…” the boy’s mother hesitated, “…lovely you look, sweetie. Doesn’t she? Peter?” Her polished fingers crawled to her son’s shoulders like spiders. 

The boy took his time to nod, face twisting in a subtle grimace, which I hoped was not that of disgust.  

I felt a spider of my own, my mommy’s strong grip tightening around my forearm. A gentle reminder for me to speak. 

“Thank you,” I mumbled, gawking at Peter who clearly did not want to be here. I wondered what they told him. Was he also bathed in bloody water by his grandma to her cryptic speech? I wouldn’t be surprised. I was surrounded by a bunch of lunatics, one madder than the other. 

The ceremony was brief. We only had to kneel on the right place, repeat verses at the right time, and receive our hosts from the right hand. Then the boy slid a chastity ring on my finger with cold finality, and we were done. Later it would dawn on me, I was to remain pure for that boy, for Peter. I was thirteen. And betrothed. And could do nothing about it. Yet. 

I learned a new word – sex. Specifically – sex before marriage. Dirty. Immoral. Promiscuous. Low. Vile. Dark. A sin. In other words – hell. My family kept their eyes peeled for manifestation of any of those in my behavior. If they caught it, or thought they caught it, I was disciplined back to righteousness by means of a leather belt or otherwise loveless, unorthodox method of conditioning. Eventually, not only my mouth and manners but even my physical appearance was controlled. 

I never felt pretty to begin with, given my hooded puddle-gray eyes, short stature, and untamed black curls, which I had inherited from my now bolding father. I looked like a sheep. But they turned me into something much worse, an absolute – and I mean absolute – loser, protecting my hairy modesty under layers of bulky clothes in the name of Christ, AKA Peter. No jewelry besides a teeny-weeny silver cross necklace that was always hidden, and my ridiculous chastity ring that was always on display, scaring off potential relationships. Hideous ruffled socks and outdated boots. Makeup nowhere to be found, and perfume – off limits. Not even a deodorant, people. Not even a chapstick… Attributes of lust, they’d say. Tell you what. If you saw me walking by, you’d gag, either from how I looked or smelled, exactly what all the guys and girls, and most adults for that matter, ever did, cringed and winced each time I passed by. So yeah, I was miserable, in every sense isolated, deprived and controlled, wearing Peter’s chastity ring like I was his property. Studying under my teachers’ strict eye, receiving consecrated hosts under the priest’s shrewd eye, doing homework and housework under my mommy’s sharp eye, eating under my daddy’s heavy eye, enjoying few allowed hobbies under my grandpa’s suspicious eye, getting trolled by my brother’s scornful eye, getting beatings and praying under my granny’s menacing eye and sleeping under God’s omniscient eye. Indeed, I was a prisoner…and still I managed to escape, albeit, ironically, into a different prison.