I wonder how many people have lived whole lifetimes in this place in the same kind of low key abject horror that I’ve been marinating in, these last long years of dread.
The irony is believing in a God who unconditionally loves, and then living fear like that. Perfect love casts out fear? If I believe it so absolutely, then what is this utter mess? How could this be?
I wonder if these patterns, etched as they were during those most formative of times, are simply the way things are.
Could they be?
To feel that I must earn such hatred from God by how I am.
To feel it so intensely.
How many lives have been spent here like this?
If the Devil wanted anything, he would want this for us, and that should be proof enough that it’s not what God wants. But nothing is good enough to be proof of anything, anymore. The power of the mind itself enough. Everything could be an illusion.
Faith seems to have been supported, for me, by experience, and to such a degree that I find it nigh on infallible. Can the certainty of faith be absolute? Or would this make it something other than faith, by default? Because faith must be hoped for, and hope for things unseen, must then total certainty be actually something else?
Perfect fear casts out love, and that seems to have been what happened to me. It still happens sometimes, and when it does, I choose to ask for help.
I tried alone, and that’s no good.
