three

When I was younger, I went to Bible Camp.

I didn't really think about how weird this was until I mentioned it to a friend, off-hand, and their eyes widened in awe.

Sorry, what?

So, yeah. I used to go to Church every Sunday, Religion Class every Tuesday, and Bible Camp for a week every summer. I was -- technically, still am -- Roman Catholic by birth. My mom was raised in the Church, as was her mom before her, as was her mom before her.

We never really talked about the Bible at camp, which was the weird part. We talked about Jesus loved us and how we would all go to heaven because we went to Church and listened to our parents and said our prayers.

So I didn't really worry about going to Heaven.

I didn't worry about it when two women moved in across the street -- not best friends, as my neighbor friends said, but partners -- and I stowed that information in the back of my head.

I didn't worry about it when I was in 5th grade and found myself making up crushes on random boys in my class so I could feel a little less scared of being different.

I didn't worry about it when I was in middle school and had the strange sensation of wanting to hold hands with girls in the same way that my friends were holding hands with boys. Maybe I worried about what my friends would think, but never really what the Church thought.

The truth was that I didn't worry about what the Priests or the Church thought about me, my blossoming sexuality, or my divorced, mostly liberal family until I was 13 years old and becoming an adult in the Church. I was afraid that my little, gay soul was in jeopardy.

And...okay, that probably sounds ridiculous. But here I was, barely even a teenager -- years off  from being a legal adult, mind you -- and coming to the startling realization that I was not only gay, but now also going to Hell. I was going to be subjected to the never-ending fire and brimstone, an eternal sentence with the Devil. No exceptions.

(The weird thing -- they didn't tell me any of this until I was in middle school. If it was this important, why did they withhold that information from me? Perhaps this is yet another Mystery of Faith)

But I didn't say anything. I went through with my classes. I went on Spiritual Retreats with my peers and sang the typical Kumbayah bullshit. I prayed harder and hoped that something would change -- either myself, or the Church.

Plot twist: it didn't.

Another plot twist: I made my Confirmation. I shook hands with the Bishop and wore a dress and had the chrism smudged all over my forehead. I went home that night and cried, because in my eyes, the deal was done. I was a goner.

I was also in the closet for a very long time because of this. I stopped going to Church, cut my hair short, and let myself embrace some of the things that I pretend I didn't enjoy (example number one: I bought rainbow merchandise in mass quantity last year). Hell, I came out to everyone in the school paper because I just wanted to get it over with. I was nervous, sure...but also, maybe a little guilty.

Which is weird, right? It's weird. I've told myself that over and over again -- you no longer believe in that kind of thing, you've reconciled with your past and you've moved on, you're not even sure if there's some Big Guy keeping tabs on you 24/7.

But I guess the uncertainty thing is what kills me. Because the Catholic School training has me constantly doubting myself and making me think that, yeah, I'm probably doing something wrong just by being born, and that I'm going to suffer because I had no choice in the matter. But maybe I'm right.

I guess I'll find out one day.