It has taken two years for me to be able to sit through a church service without having to leave to compose myself from anxiety. Anxiety. Anxiety. That word is thrown around so much, it hardly has it’s own meaning anymore. By that word, I mean, a feeling that takes over my entire body where my head goes hot, my eyes blur, and my heart beats at an non-traditional pace. If someone were to hold my shaky hand during this, chances are there hand will turn as white as my face as I pick an object and focus all my attention on it in order to not scream. What would I scream? I have no idea. But I need to. Once my mind realizes I will not scream, it goes onto to the next thing it can think of: Crying. But back to my original statement, it has taken two years. At that time, someone spoke some words about me and to me that my brain decided to tattoo all over my identity. I breathed those words, I danced with them, I fell asleep chanting them, I woke up in a sweat because of them. I was convinced they were true. They aren’t, but that didn’t silence them. In my experience most people hurt by the church confuse God with the person who hurt them, most likely because that person confused themselves with God. How different my life would be if everyone, including myself, let humans be humans and God be God, whatever both those things mean. .