Deconstructing makes it hard to write

I’ve been knocked off of my perch of faith confidence. There’s been a fire in the building of my heart.

I want to avoid my parents indefinitely, at this point. I want to not feel like words are only for the point of building up faith and having a simple black and white answer punchline.

I want to throw the sewing machine that a trump supporting old friend gave me against a wall. I want it out of my life. Part of me wishes that none of this had ever happened. That ignorance was bliss. But I know that comes from a place of privledge. When the world was nothing but good to me, many others were disenfranchised and rejected and hunted. Like the LGBTQ1A+ people I was taught to be suspicious of.

I was taught to reject abortion and gay marriage. Those were the issues to vote against. That was the mark of being a good christian voter. I was taught so much crap about the bible and being an american and faith and miracles and a loving God and a Jesus that died to save people from hell. And it is so much work to figure out what is real. It’s like there’s been a fire that has wreaked my heart and I’m pulling out bits of burnt photographs out. I’m separating what is salvageable but I’m so tired. It’s taking so much work to clear the soot off. I just want to be inside where it is warm and comfortable but the building is gone. And I’ve got all these beleifs laying out, all crinkled and faded. And it looks like rain is on the horizon and it might just all be washed away.