A Catholic Fraud?

Dear Hearts,

I asked a question on a social media site about what if you don’t like your priest and you refuse Eucharist from him. I got a lot answers.

This is what I replied: START

I feel like it is silly to respond to each of you individually with a copy and paste “thank you.”

So I just chose the first answer to reply to all of you.

I thank you for your time, honesty, compassion, and effort you put into all your answers.

Maybe I shouldn’t have become Catholic at all. The Parish into which I was initiated—St. Marys, Albany, NY—I had never felt such a connection to a Church as I did to St. Mary’s. The Peoria, Illinois Diocese is very conservative. Even if the message was read word for word from an online article I never heard to criticism in NY and PA that I hear in Ill.

I love Saint Mary’s and Saint Patrick’s in Milford, PA. I did not have issues any of the priests there.

I want to be a good Catholic, but maybe it’s in vain. And, no I am not going to be born again. I have been pulled toward Catholicism since I was a child.

It’s not just a matter of hearing things I don’t agree with—it’s the tone, attitude, and…
The first reason I walked out was because the substitute priest made a joke about a using a dead woman to fish for lobster. Last Saturday I walked out because I was told by the priest “in persona Christi” that the only place one could worship God was in a church with other people. You cannot worship God in the woods or anywhere else. And, he basically said that we should be in Mass every Sunday because that is the only time worshipping God works. You can pray, but not worship God alone. He also felt he had the right to replace the Nicene/Apostles’ Creed with a two verse song that I think he wrote.

I don’t take the Eucharist from a Eucharistic minister. Only from an ordained priest. I wear a veil to Mass. I believe every word of the Nicene and Apostles’ creed. I believe in transubstantiation. I don’t believe in the entire catechism. I wish I could but I don’t. I am part of the Eastern Star Masonic Order. I grew up with the Masons (my father is one) and I KNOW there is nothing anathema to the Catholic Church in Mason. Technically, I should be excommunicated. I can’t be 100% prof-life. I know priests are people who sin and makes mistakes. Hell, I make them all the time. Like every 15 minutes.

In my heart I can’t accept that missing Mass is a mortal sin. I value the sacraments. I value Mother Mary. I value the Saints. I value Pope Francis.

But, I cannot abide by the constant negativity that I here in this diocese. No where else, and I also went to a Catholic college, have I heard this kind of ”fire and brimstone.”

When I was 30 and at my Sister-in-Law’s funeral, I swore I would never attend a Mass again. The priest talked only about sin and the consequences of a life not lived according to all the rules.

I have had epiphanies in Mass. In this diocese, I met with the usual priest and I don’t agree with him on everything—but I respect him. He doesn’t spew “fire and brimstone.”

At 37 I was initiated and confirmed into the Catholic church. I felt so wonderful to be a part of something so great and true.

I left the Protestant Church as a teenager because of the “YOU WILL GO TO HELL” if you…

I love confession--it's a precious sacrament as long as you are not made to feel worse about yourself. Confession is supposed to be healing.

Those priests who did molest children…were they “in persona Christi” during Mass? I am NOT comparing the priests I have dealt with to child molesters. NOT AT ALL. And I DO NOT believe the Catholic Church is filled with molesters. There are child molesters in every organization. 

I have done Catholic Bible Studies and I am enlightened! Amazed!

But, I don’t believe that you can’t worship God outside of a Church building. That goes against my fundamental belief of God. When my Dad is in the woods “hunting,” really he goes to the woods not to hunt but to think and pray. Don’t tell him his worshipping God doesn’t count there.

I know I am a sinner. I just in my heart of hearts—believe that Christ and Pope Francis would NOT tell my other sister-in-law, who after several attempts finally took her own life—that she is an adulterer and fornicator in the confessional when her marriage wasn’t even in the Catholic Church.

In my heart of hearts I can’t believe Pope Francis and Christ would say you cannot worship God outside a community church building.

Maybe, I’m not really a Catholic. Maybe I am a fraud. I am not giving up on all that I believe—but maybe the Catholic Church would be better off without me “pretending” to be on of Her own. 

Maybe I will just have to hope for God’s mercy.

Thank you again.

END

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Health

Oreo pie

Angel

Time

Mom’s lasagna

Great iced coffee

Reading and smoking quietly without a timer on

The Child is Father of the Man

Dear Hearts,

So I have no excuse to not blog tonight. Today was the first day that I didn’t feel “under the clock.” Well, after I got up at fucking 6 o’clock to get mom to the airport by 9.30. OH FUCK GRAMMAR. I AM HAVING AN EPISODE. But maybe if I get this shit out of me and into the abyss of the internet.

I just microwaved g-pa his dinner—mom’s lasagna and some vegetables. At least they were hot enough.

Anyway. We were up early. I slept most of the way to the airport. I had my head at an odd angle so apparently is whistled as I slept. I fucking hate airports. I hate the way they smell. I think the people are all suspicious. TSA makes me nervous. And the idea of getting on one of the germ incubators where they give you three peanuts is enough to induce a four milligram Xanax panic attack.

The fact that WORD corrects so much of your grammar and spelling for you is rather pathetic. I sound old, but no wonder kids don’t get grammar anymore. They don’t fucking need it. a machine does it for them. I digress.

My episode is moderate. I am shaking and fingers are spasming –how the sweet mother of fuck do you spell that word?! I am just kind of twitching all over. The best full body workout ever.

I’m not being pessimistic. Just realistic. I will probably have these episodes for the rest of my life. I can’t blame my OD. Even though Cunt-Face Shrink said God would punish me if I tried to kill myself. Disfigure me, were her words. Maybe that’s why my acne is back. Or my hormones are changing into pre-menopausal. There’s a fucking depressing thought. But I’ve had these episodes since I started the Lithium way back in 2014. That drug sucked.

Mom and I talked about it on the drive out. I never wanted kids. Not even in tenth grade when I have “twin egg babies” Amber Mahesh Star and Autumn Jade. Mahesh was teenage-angst epitomized boyfriend’s idea. We were just kids. But he was abusive too. He hated himself so much. He just didn’t belong. He is a genius. He just didn’t work on the same level as the rest of us. NOT AUSTIC. He just didn’t belong. Neither did i. I still feel like I don’t belong. I am digressing and my mind is starting to get involved in this episode too.

So I never wanted kids, but it was always an option. I feel rather…I don’t know the right word…sad…that it’s not an option anymore. Like now the decision has been made for me. God saved me—to have had kids with Arthur! Or T.! (T. did want to knock me up.) And, me. Uh, yeah, I’d be a great mom. The best of my child-bearing years are behind me and I would have to go off all my meds anyway. Should I really reproduce, anyway??

Since late April I’ve been with Mom and Dad. I was a daughter. I didn’t have to be the ADULT. I still don’t feel like a fucking adult. I mean I take care of all my shit, bills, responsibilities, etc. I appear to function like an adult, but I don’t feel like one. I just feel scared.

Mom left today. I laid my head on her lap last night and told her I was afraid. I think I know why now. Because I am alone. Mom is my best friend and well, Dad is my Daddy.

I have Aunt Faerie out here. But right now she is so sick. Poor, poor, Aunt Faerie. She is killing herself with like five different independent jobs. She is doing all of them perfectly—but she doesn’t think so. She is so stressed—she seems on the verge of tears all the time. I wish I could make it better for Aunt Faerie.

And Aunt Faerie I am sorry. I am sorry I am obsessing about you being sick. That is my number one OCD trigger. Germs. It just is. When I was in Jersey seeing my shrink—Dad and I stopped at a Starbucks after—I tried to open the door with my foot. There were no paper towels. And I forget what I was wearing. But after putting my boot on the handle there was not fucking way I was going to touch the knob. So the door kept banging as I tried to open it. Finally, a guy who worked there came to my aid and I pretended that the door lock got jammed. So Aunt Faerie—I love you—but your being sick just raises my OCD anxiety level to the top. Just being honest. I really am sorry.

I should just fucking tattoo "I’m sorry" backwards on my face so I could stop saying it so much.

I do want a tattoo of a wolf head and maybe something Christian. Small. I think I am gonna get it on my left shoulder IN THE FRONT, not on the side. I want it near my heart. And I want it not to sag with age. That’s a ways from now because I ain’t going back to that fucking freak who did my wrist tattoo. He wanted to lick my belly and thought Edward Snowden was a national fucking hero. He also thought Trump was a plant to make sure Hillary won. That worked out well. And he believed masturbation and sex were the answer to all woes. Eww.

I want to deserve the tattoo though. I would get it done with my guy on the East Coast.

Mom just called. Drug insurance and student loan issues. Oh yeah, the government will forgive my student loans because I am disabled but then count the 30 grand as fucking income and tax me on it! then for three years, I can only make so much blah blah. I don’t want to suck off the government teat. That is the last thing I want to do. I have fucking paid into disability since I was working “legally” at 16.  I’ll deal tomorrow. I know G-pa is gonna wanna take a long ride in the country. Ugh. I do it for him without resentment. But I still don’t gotta like it. I am way digressing.

I feel like my wolf tattoo should be earned. Like if I can through all this shit—until after the house is outta my name and all my stuff is out—then I will deserve the wolf tattoo. But maybe the wolf tattoo would help remind me. There are a few saints that are actually associated with wolves. I dunno. I KNOW I am going back East for my 40^th. Maybe then…

I am kinda helping Aunt Faerie in a way. I’m feeding G-Pa tonight and tomorrow. I am already worrying about being near Aunt Faerie on Pie Day. What would life be like without Anxiety and OCD?

Episode calming. Just small twitches.

I fucking hate being this way Aunt Faerie. I love you. But…it’s just…like OCD is this evil serpent-worm that takes over all my sensibilities.

But Aunt Faerie has her own OCD anxieties…so I will just hope she will understand…

Mom and I rearranged the bedroom yesterday. We put the bed under the window so I do have more room. Now I gotta work up to courage to ask G-Pa if I can borrow the bookcase next to the computer until Dad brings my furniture out.

I need my sanctuary. My room has got to be it.

I took a great nap today. You know, the kind of nap that just makes you feel good. I love those. And I have my Amish Pumpkin Cinnamon Roll from when Mom and Debby went to the café over the weekend. I saved it for tonight because I knew I’d be sad after Mom left.

God, what do you want of me? If you are telling me and I’m not hearing you…I’m sorry. Knock me upside the head. I want to follow the Path of Righteousness For His Namesake.

I could not stay in Mass on Saturday. I left before the Lord’s prayer. The usual priest wasn’t preaching. If I had been exposed to this shit in NY—I never woulda become Catholic.

I’m not gonna dwell. I have reached my 1,500 word obligation. And I kinda want a cigarette. No. I do definitely want a cigarette.

Quick Note:

Dear Father Righteous,

1.     I’m sorry that like Christmas and Easter, Pentecost has no commercialized mascot. Maybe you can create one and then you could be a saint.

2.     Don’t fucking compare being on the golf course with being in the woods.

3.     God doesn’t need us to worship Him. He is Omnipotent and Omniscient. We need him.

4.     Don’t fucking tell me that you can’t worship God in the woods. You can only worship him in the Church with strangers that you really don’t have a personal stake in? Bull fucking moose cock.

5.     Who the sweet mother of fuck gave you the right to replace the Apostles' and Nicene Creeds with a song that I have a strong suspicion you wrote. And, by the by don’t quit your day job. My gift to God is to not sing in Church. Consider that idea.

6.     My father, who “walks alone” with God doesn’t need your fucking prayers. I have—Dad has seen the face of God in the woods. Where do think God might be more present: a55,000-acree ranch where the land looks that same way it did 10,000 years ago or in your nice little building?

7.     I don’t like you.

8.     Jesus and Pope Francis would never talk like you. Christ wouldn’t make me cry and feel bad about myself—nor would Papa Francis.

9.     PS: To the bitch would gave me the “second look over” because I was wearing a veil…”You wanna go, bitch? ‘Cuz I’ll do it right fucking here in the pews.

Oh, and a comment about working at Burning Bed Friday. You’re right A. bruises heal—the word-wounds don’t so much. And Boss Lady, I can stay calm, call 911 and, do a decent job of reassuring a snot-sobbing (you know that level of crying) woman on the phone. But, I can’t arrange your fucking china the way you want? Fuck you and the minivan you rode in on.

To be clear: I am not giving myself all kinds of laurels for my convo with A. on Sunday. But she wasn’t snot-sobbing when we hung up. So that’s something.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

PS: Um, God, G-Pa randomly exclaiming loudly intelligible words—like “I need someone” and “Help me…” Give me a hand there. I don’t want to fail him.

Grateful For:

All my blessings—that I will never have three-year-old, late rent, and $26 dollars to my name

Faith

Family

Angel

Amish Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls

Cigarettes

Naps
Health
UC Remission

God, please don’t give up on me.

Hold On

Dear Hearts,

I am back in The Holy City.

I feel ambivalence.

Martha says that is okay.

We did not get the NY House packed or anywhere near finished. I am still living in 3 different houses. And, I left the portable keyboard in the NY House. I know exactly where it is. In my mind’s eye I can see it.

I am almost 40. If someone asked me if this were the life I wanted at 40…I wouldn’t say “yes.”

Interesting question. (By the by—I ought to be unpacking, but that is totally overwhelming.)

If I could have anything, what would I like my life to look like at 40?

Married. Happily. I know that no marriage is perfect—but married and in love. With that person I used to believe I was supposed to be with. I’d be a teacher who was not afraid of her principal. I would be a non-obsessive, fearful teacher. I might have written something.  I certainly wouldn’t choose panic attacks, PTSD, and Clinical Depression.

I know what I am doing here is good and important and I’m supposed to be here. As I have cleaned out the NY House more—I feel the squeeze of the small room here. And I am so grateful that I have a room of my own! In a house that I can call Home. But it’s not the same.

I just feel adrift. Turning 40. That is huge and it really, really bothers me. I have lived half my life. I am not “young” anymore. I am middle-aged. And, I don’t have a helluva a lot to show for except stuff.

I have been obsessing about getting a bunk or loft bed with storage underneath. I would just get a bunk bed that is empty underneath, but I don’t think Angel would want to climb up to a top bunk to sleep with me. Mom is exasperated with me and my “loft bed” obsession.

Cutting tethers and anchors is all good and fine—but you need something to hold onto. God. Family. But, my roots are exposed. I was uprooted in a storm and now my roots are just sitting above ground sustaining various “whips and scorns.”

I really don’t know how to get planted again.

And, I can’t. Because I know—even though I am not supposed to think about it, yada, yada—all the incredible work that still needs to be done on the East Coast.

Am I really gonna fit in here?

Tomorrow is my first day alone at Burning Bed. 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. I am alone with the clients, one of whom is clinically psychotic. I have to do rounds to make sure everything is kosher around the shelter tomorrow and answer the phone for any emergency shelter requests. Can I really do good at this? I am anxious about tomorrow, of course. I was gonna blog tomorrow, but my portable keyboard is on the Eastern Seaboard. Yeah, I can draw and surf my kindle or iPad. But, I am the only one in charge there. I’m it. Just me.

I haven’t drawn or cross-stitched since I got here. I have just been so fucking tired.

Tuesday night at 11 p.m., when Mom and I were in the hotel, Dad called. Maddie, the $17,000 dog, was throwing up. For a dog with Lar-Par, throwing up is the number one concern because of possible aspiration into the lungs and subsequent pneumonia. I heard such panic and abject fear in Dad’s voice.

“As long as Maddie is fine, I am fine.”

Those were Dad’s last words to us as we pulled out of the driveway. I decided that night that Mom would rent a car and drive home and I drive to The Holy City myself. Thanks to Saint Francis, Maddie seems to be doing better.

People can fucking criticize my parents all they fucking want for spending that kind of money on Maddie. But what the fuck do you do?

Your BELOVED dog is sick. Initial vet bill: $3,000.

“Okay, Doc. Just treat for up to two more grand, then we will put her down.”

$10,000 has been spent on the dog who is now suffocating in Dad’s arms.

“Go ahead and let her die, Doc.”

After $17,000 she has pneumonia?

“Let her die now, Doc.”

You can’t do that. You don't do that. Not if you have a bond with animals the way my parents (and I) do. Angel helps keep me alive. That was a big stressor at the NY House—Angel wasn’t with me.

The Vanilla Flavor of Blu E-Cigarettes is the best. It gives the best throat hit. I digress.

Mom and G-Pa are out on a drive. Fuck that. I am fucking sick of driving. I don’t drive for fucking fun. We’ve had pie and dinners and G-Pa seems happy that we’re here. But I am gonna get in trouble for the mess in the living room soon.

The other drama was that Thursday Mom ended up at the ENT with a LIVE FUCKING TICK IN HER EAR. IT WAS ALIVE AND ATTACHED TO THE POSTERIOR WALL OF HER EAR!

EWWWWWWWWWW!

For five days the fucker was in there.

Dr. Stephanie was so nice. She is the go-to gal for foreign object ear removal. She is saving Mom’s tick and is gonna name it. She didn’t make us feel like white trash—because Mom had a fucking tick in her ear!

Today, tomorrow is Pentecost. I was released from the first nut-house on Pentecost. So, I will go to Mass tonight even though I don’t wanna. Why? ‘Cuz I don’t feel like it.

It was on Pentecost that the Holy Spirit came to the Apostles and allowed them the power to spread Christ’s word across the world. My flame tattoo. A sign of Pentecost, The Holy Spirit and Saint Jude.

So, I guess you could say that the Apostles received all this wisdom and stuff—this ability to go out and do the work of God.

I can’t even unpack.

Life is hard. Life is scary. It would be so much easier not to…but I will and I am. Just sayin’, though.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Mother Mary—Guide Me…

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Café Pie!

Café Coffee!

Faith

Health

Warmer days—and being able to smoke outside at night

I’m gonna give packing the good ole’ college try.

Live in the moment. Yeah, fucking, right.

Or maybe I'll call Amazon about my non-charging Kindle and give myself another reason to slit my wrists. Gallows humor!