God said so

Suicide note

This is for the Ri who’s 15. She doesn’t know yet her name is Ri. She calls herself Corina. She has purple hair and the reason for that is simple. When you enter school with a new hair colour everybody notices. And many of the people who never talk to her all day, will say something like: “he, Corina, you dyed your hair.’ They never say it looks good, they just say they notice it’s different. But that’s enough. There are days she spents hour after hour without a single interaction. She navigates the building with more than a thousand students, and none of them think to mention her, to greet her, to ask her how she is. But with every new hair colour at least 10 people will mention it. So she dyes her hair frequently, until that trick wears out and she enters the school with yet another hair colour, and nobody bothers to address it anymore.

There’s a girl named Corina standing on the train station. She takes the train to and from school, as do many of the students. Sometimes she travels with a group of girls, sometimes she even calls them friends. But she knows that word isn’t mutual. The other girls would never call her friend. She’s too different.

It’s a tuesday. On tuesdays she leaves school after the 6th period, and she has to wait for the train for a while. If she is on the train station on time, she’ll see a freight train. The freight train comes every tuesday at 11 minutes passed 2. She knows this. That train doesn’t stop.

Freight trains go slower than passenger trains, and she is not exactly sure if they go fast enough to kill a person. But she has to try. Passenger trains stop at every station so you can’t jump in front of them. The freight train will be right here, just a few moments from now. It’s big and loud and it just might end her life. All she needs to do is jump. Will she be brave enough?

At 14:09 the group of girls she sometimes travels with enters the train platform. They see her. They walk towards her and stand all around her and involve her in their conversation. The train comes and she doesn’t jump. How could she with all these friends here? She stairs at the train as it goes by. She hates herself. She hates that she found yet another excuse to not jump. Now she has to wait a whole week again. She has to stay alife another week.

A new person enters the train platform. It’s me. My name is Ri, but I was a Corina once. I was a 15 year old with purple hair ready to jump once. So I approach her. I approach me.

I see the darkness inside you. It’s so big. It’s so everywhere. I know you see no way out. I know you think nobody loves you. I know you don’t really have friends, and even if somebody would want to be your friend, you wouldn’t let them. I know every friend you ever had let you down and you never want to trust again. I know it all seems hopeless. I know you know nothing but dark, and you don’t even remember what light looks like. I wish I could tell you this will all end. I wish I could tell you tomorrow is a new day and people at school will actually see you. But that’s not the way it all went. Tomorrow is another day, very hard, very lonely. And so is the next day. And the next.

But I’m here. I’m 33. I’m you. I’m overflowing with happiness, and gratitude, and my life is amazing. I wish I could tell you this will be your reality soon. But that’s not the case. This wasn’t your last suicide attempt. This wasn’t the last time you gave up. And you’ll stay depressed until you’re 25. That’s a real long time to be desperate. I know it, I’ve been there. You’ll give up many times. And many times you’ll decide to end things. Many times some very mondane thing will prevent you ending things, and you’ll hate yourself so much for that. But I am thankful. You think those girls just came out of nowhere? You think it’s a coincidence they enter the platform at 14:09. No way. It was orchestrated. And every time you’ll be this close to death, there will be someone or something. You’ll never jump. And I know you’ll hate that, and you’ll hate you, but I’m you, 18 years later, and I’m overflowing with gratitude, because you made it. You did.

You battled depression for 15 years. You almost gave up every day, but you never really ended it. You were there. You were strong. You had the weight of the world on your shoulders, and you just kept going. Pretty much every person I remember being in your life then hurt you in terrible ways. You’ll be the loneliest person of the school with literally nobody to talk to. You haven’t even had the worst yet. There’s betrayal coming your way. Heartbreak. Loneliness. And even though there will be people trying to help you, they will not succeed because you have a very strong armor up. People will blame you for that, as if you have another choice at this point.

I see you. And you don’t need to dye your hair for me to see you. I see right inside you, and I see a lot of power. I know you can’t see it. It’s hidden behind all the dark. But it’s there. You’ll start using this power to fight for you. To fight for what’s good. And at some point you’ll start fighting for other people too.

I don’t have to tell you to hang in there. Because I know you will. Because I did. But I want to give you hope. There’s a light very deep inside you, and some day it will be shining bright. And I promise you, that it is an absolute fact. One day, very far in the future, you’ll be so happy you can’t stop laughing out loud. You’ll be so happy you start to sing spontaneously. And you’ll dance under the shower.

The darkness won’t end soon, but I’m sending you hope. Music. Poetry. People who support you no matter what. Literal stars. Sometimes you’ll see them. Sometimes you won’t. But I promise you, every day, there will be something. There will be at least one reason to hope and hang in there.

You’re not alone, little Ri. I’m with you. I’m the power inside you and you’ll be the power in me. Together we will make it. We will find hope. We will find joy. We’ll lead a good life.

I’ve been hesitating sharing this, all of this. I have many ill and chronically ill friends and I don’t want to give even one of them, for even one second, the impression that I know the magic cure to what is bothering them. I don’t want to suggest or imply you all should be doing what I am doing. I just don’t want to be quiet any longer. Right now this is a big part of my life and I want to share this part with the people who care about me. So let’s be very clear about this. This is not about you and about what you should be doing or believing. This is only about me.

So, I read a book one day. The book, communing with the devine by Barbara Y. Martin taught me about God and angels. It was really interesting, but not lifechanging. Until the end.

It gave me a new instruction for meditation. I’ll leave out the details, but it asked me to think about what I wanted to receive from the universe before meditating. I decided to try it. I decided to meditate every day during advent with this new instruction. I got candles and everything, because I hate noticing my own breath. (I try to focus on candles instead of my breath.)

Day 1 I asked the universe to help me to know what I wanted most. Day 2 I asked what I could do to get healthy. At the end of the meditation I had the sense either my fear was causing my illness, or it was blocking the cure. Day 3 I asked what was behind my fear. I started to sense there was something big there I didn’t want to face. Day 4 I asked to help me to face what was behind my fear.

Day 4 I went to bed in the evening and there was a thought in my head that didn’t feel mine.

“I am Archangel Michael and I’m going to stand next to your bed the whole night.”

“Okay what?”

“I am archangel Michael and I’m going to stand next to your bed the whole night.”

“Okay why?”

“You asked me to.”

I don’t remember asking anything.

“Your higher self asked me when you were meditating.”

I got the sense Michael was bigger than the room. So him being there had the side effect the up- and downstairs neighbours would be blessed as well. I got the sense that he was holding a weapon in his hand. (A week later another book [sorry, can’t figure out which book] confirmed he is holding a sword)

This meditation was a little more powerful than I bargained for. Day 4 and I was inviting archangels to my house? Woah. WOAH WOAH WOAH. Hold on. Slow down. I got something here. If you ask the universe sincerely to help you, you envoke all kinds of magic.

I didn’t meditate again for the rest of the year.

Time passed and it gave me a time to think of what I wanted. It was clear what I wanted. I wanted to get cured from this terrible illness called ME/CFS. I wanted to get better at take care of myself and do all the things healthy people get to do all day.

I didn’t know how. I now believed I could be healed, but was meditating really enough. Didn’t I need guidance? Didn’t I need someone to guide me?

Well, I guessed there were angels on my side. They were clearly involved in my life. I guess since I don’t have money to pay anyone and not enough spoons to travel to anyone, all I could do is trust my spiritual guides. I already experienced how powerful meditation can be so I figured.. next year I’ll meditate every day. I’m going believe I can get healthy and see what happens next.

What happened next is I started to believe in the book I was reading. The journey by Brandon Bays. I had bought it since it was on a 80% discount and the cover looked interesting. This was in a period in my life I was buying more books than my own budget allowed me.

So the book started crap. The author had a tumor and she decided to ignore advice from her doctor. I hated her. Does she know how much privilege it takes to go against a doctor? She started eating super healthy. Again, not something I can do. I’m not able to cook my own meals anymore. She traveled the world and visited all her spiritual friend for advice.

My attention peaked when during a massage, she was asked to go inside her body and see what emotions she found there. She ended up in a childhood memory and at the end of it forgave everyone involved. That night she could feel her tumor started shrinking.

I don’t know exactly why I didn’t call it all bogus but instead started to believe in the book. But I did. I guess it must be because of what she later described when she was going into the emotion. She found inside of every emotion was another emotion. Until there wasn’t. Until everything was black. And when she jumped into the black, she didn’t fall. She was flying.

This rhymed with my own experience. I knew there was something behind my fear. I didn’t know what. I started describing my fear as a wall protecting me from whatever was behind the wall. I started to believe I needed to look behind the wall to get healthy.

I was hungry for knowledge. At this point I still believed meditating by myself was my only option. But I needed to know more about this Brandon Bays and what she was offering now. She now teaches people how to heal themselves and others, calling her program ‘the journey’. I found her website and exchanged my emailadress for free meditations.

Only a few days passed until they started using my emailadress to promote their free webinar. Of course, the free webinar was only to promote the paid webinar. Also the free webinar was in the middle of the night in my timezone. But I decided to sign up.

I got an email asking me to share with them what I was expecting from the webinar. I decided to write them. I was as open as I was in this blogpost so far. I was honest and vulnerable and I had no idea if anyone would ever read my words or if I’d just get an autoreply.

The new year started and I started meditating. No miracles yet. Just a lot of struggles with attention and focusing and getting itchy. But I was so determined in anything I did. I was so sure this was the year I would get better. And then the emails started coming.

Apperently my email to ‘the journey’ touches everyone who reads it. W. decided to give me 3 free ‘the journey’ sessions with a practioner in training. She forwarded the email to coworker N. to make that happen. N. decided to give me free access to the paid webinar (called the journey intensive) and indeed forwarded my email to S. in Sweden who started to work with me.

If any emotion stands out from this period, it’s bliss. I felt so blessed by the whole universe. These were people whose businessmodel was to make me pay money, but doing the opposite somehow. They honestly believed they can help me heal myself, and they decided to give me that gift. I cried for hours out of pure happiness. And with every follow up email, some as mundain as asking where I live, I started crying again. More than these people helping me, I felt like the holy universe was helping me. I had asked. No, I hadn’t even asked, I just intended. And the help was flowing in.

For a full week I was on a cloud of bliss because of the kindness given to me. The second week was bliss combined with a lot of PEM and frustration about PEM, so less blissful. On the 15th I had the call. THE call. The zoomcall with S. The first of my three sessions.

All week I had been thinking about this poem:

Come to the edge. We can’t, we’re afraid. Come to the edge. We can’t, we might fall. Come to the edge. And then they came. And he pushed them. And they flew.

• Christopher Logue

I knew I had to come. I knew I had to not let myself stop me, but actually go through my fear and come to the edge, knowing I’d fly once I’m there.

All day I prayed for 3 things. Bravery to overcome my fear. Faith in my own healing power. A good internet connection and a stable laptop.

2 days later, I can confidently say, 2 out 3 prayers were answered. We overcame the internet issues by installing zoom on my phone. From then on the connection was flawless (except once, but then it was actually helpful).

This is getting lengthy, and the journey I went on (it really was a very long journey) would take at least as many words to type so I’m keeping most of that to myself.She brought me into a meditative state but let me sense all kinds of things in there. Let’s just say there was a guru, a body part, a campfire, a flying session, a city in the sky, a lost loved one, a lot of emotions, and finally, I heard myself say: ‘I don’t think there’s another emotion in here, but it’s very dark.’

I was asked to go into the darkness. I didn’t want to. I knew this was the edge from the poem. I knew this was what I’ve been scared of. I knew I had to overcome my fear and walk inside. So I did. I was on a carpet, and on the count of 3 the carpet would be pulled away. I really thought I was going to fall. I really thought so, but I knew I had to do it. The carpet was pulled away.

I was flying.

The darkness was gone. I was in the light now. Inside the light was another light. Inside the brighter light was me. Inside me was my body (That’s interesting! I’m bigger than my body). I went inside myself and expanded. This is were the connection failed and having no idea my instructor was gone, I assumed the silence meant I had to keep expanding. I sensed myself growing bigger. I was the oceans. The mountains. Planet earth. The solar system. The universe. I thought it would end there but it didn’t. There were other universes, other dimensions. I was bigger than everything. Everything was inside me. I was God. (Wow, don’t think I have a super big ego, I think everyone is God.)

This is not the end of the journey, but again, details. After 100 minutes I opened my eyes. Was I reborn? Was I cured? Nah, for now I was just tired.

The next day I crashed (PEM).

That night in bed I tried to go back to the flying sensation, like I was instructed to. When I was flying, I felt compelled to make myself small again and go inside my left foot. I started proclaiming health on it. I went to my stomach. I started telling it it was healthy. I went from body part to body part, telling everyone the good news. “You are now beginning your journey towards healing.” I proclaimed health on every body part and then on any body part I might have forgotten. I proclaimed tomorrow I would be able to go out to my apointement without crashing afterwards.

I felt even more powerful than in my journey session. In the session I had experienced I was God, now I was acting like it. I was convinced I had power over my body parts and they would listen to my command to heal.

The next day I went out and came home again, without crashing.

That’s all. The rest of the journey didn’t happen yet. I’m sure you know by now I’m convinced I will be healed from ME/CFS soon. I’m sure you are still convinced of the opposite.

Time will tell.

But even if I was wrong, and I’ll stay ill for the rest of my life... this was one wild adventure that I didn’t want to have missed.

This is to the woman who told me I will kill myself if I keep doing what I'm doing, by which she means, not exercising up to her standards.

This is to that woman who keeps comparing me to people with other illnesses. Who keeps emphasizing exercise, and truely believes I should just re-think my illness and throw away the devices that aide me.

I don't even know what to say to you. You're someone I really liked, and it would be so good if you were on my side, supporting me in fighting this awful illness. But instead it feels like you're fighting me.

This is to the family member who sincerly asked, when I finally asked for help with something that would improve my life: “Why don't you do it yourself? That's more fun.”

Well, because I can't. I have less than 10% of the energy of a healthy person. And that's on a good day.

This is to the family member who expressed her worry that me and the family are growing apart because I never visit.

Don't you realise how ill I am? Don't you know after all these years how much it costs me to travel? Why don't you visit me instead?

This is to the family member who advices me a new diet or vitamin pill every month because you heard a podcast about a disease I don't even have.

You're not my doctor. Stop trying to fix things that even doctors can not fix.

This is to the extended family members who spent time together every year without even once asking me if there's any accomodations they could make so I could be there.

I miss you guys. It's been 5 years since I saw any of you. Don't you miss me back? Don't you want to put in a little extra effort so I could come, too?

This is to the friends who think I stopped caring because I cancelled our plans 3 times in a row.

I didn't stop caring. I just can't plan more than one 2 hour activity per day. And even that is no guarantee I can actually come.

This is to all the doctors who gaslight and fatshame their patients. This is to the doctors who tell my peers their illness isn't real, is psychological, or just because of their weight.

Even if I didn't met you myself, your words get around. You're making it harder for me to search medical help when I need it. Because even though I have learned to stand up for myself, it's too much of my energy, wasted. Don't tell me or any of your patients I wasted your time. You get paid at the end of the day. It's you who wasted my energy.

I'm so tired. And I don't mean I'm tired because I have an illness with 'fatigue' in its name, cause I am, but I'm even more tired of explaining myself. Telling the basics of my illness again and again. Defending myself against your misinformed advice and your lack of believe in its severity. I'm tired of constantly having to inform you of the senserity of my illness. I feel like I have to do that so you'll understand me. I would rather do the opposite; inform you of all the little joys I have despite everything:

I can walk 500 meter now. Do you know how many gardens you can pass in 500 meters? Every garden is a tiny world. They all have beautiful flowers right now.

And on days when that 500 meter is too much, I can stare at the tree outside my window. It's growing. And I have plants that developped themselves from seeds, and they're now little alive beings.

On a bad day, when I'm bummed out because I can't do some activity, I can still (9 out of 10 days) read a book. Do you know how much joy a book can bring? I'm living the wildest lives in so many fictional realms, but my even bigger passion is non-fiction. There's so much knowledge just there for me, waiting to be devoured.

I want to tell you about the internet friends who have my back whenever I complain about one of you guys. I want to tell you they make sure I never feel alone.

I want to tell you, my life is filled with joy. So many happy moments. But I'm afraid that when I tell you that, you'll take my illness even less serious. So I tell you about my symptoms and the things I couldn't do instead, and I'm worrying I'm becoming an unlikeable grump.

This is to my friends, my family, and to the many people who are involved with me professionally:

My illness is incurable. But your attitude can change.

My uncle Billy

Content warning: suicidal thoughts, and physical injury.

I can't emphasize enough how hard life was in my late teens. Spells of depression, spells of suicidal thoughts, even some half-hearted attempts. But there was art. So much art. Art was my life line, and there was one artist in particular who pulled me trough. Andrea Gibson.

Their poem photograph was my favourite for many years. One day, in a very weird hebrew class that was more about homosexuality than learning hebrew, I started to write the poem down. The whole poem went in my notebook. I never memorised it on purpose, but I just.. knew it. I could write the whole thing down without mistakes. Later I started memorising ashes, together with my brother who would later come out as trans.

Years went by and sometimes I would lose touch with Andrea Gibson for a while, but I'd always turn back to their poems at some point. In 2011 I discovered their facebook page, and I wrote under the tour anouncement: I'm still waiting for the day you'll come to Europe. But that would never happen. Poets don't go on international tours. Meeting Andrea Gibson would always be a dream, only a dream.

When the madness vase came out, a poem about suicide, it became my new favourite poem. This poem literally saved me. Whenever I didn't know how to continue living, I would listen to this poem on repeat.

let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet. You, you stay here with me, okay? You stay here with me.

In january 2015 or 2016 (aargh, which year was it?) I got an e-mail anouncing new tour dates. I didn't know why I'd click the e-mail. But I did. And.. Europe. They'd start in the UK, visit my country two days in may, Amsterdam and Rotterdam, and after that they would also go to France and Sweden. And I, well, I got my brother, who was better at online purchasing stuff, and told him to get two tickets.

In the months that followed, I caught up with Andrea's work. They had a lot of new poems since I last paid attention, and I wanted to know them well when I saw them live. I saw one video of a live performance and Andrea Gibson forgot a line. Many people in the audience shouted the right line to them, and I couldn't help thinking: wow, that must be magical. You didn't just listen to them, you contributed.

May arrived, but with bad luck. In april I had moved to my very own tiny loud studio apartement, and while still unboxing, my knee suddenly just stopped working. I was 3 meters away from my phone when it happened, but it took me ages to crawl to my phone. I remember screaming in pain with every tiny move I made. Finally I was close enough to reach a table leg and I just pulled the table closer to me until I could reach my phone and call for help.

I told the person on the emergency call I thought it was a dislocated knee. It happened to me before, 5 years ago. Exactly 5 years ago, later I would realised both of the accidents did happen at may 10. The ambulance came, with a man and a woman, and the woman was in charge. She kept looking for a broken bone, which was very painful. I much have told her several times I thought it was a dislocated knee, but she wouldn't listen. Dislocated knees only happen after things like motoraccidents, not spontaneuously when someone walks in their own house... Finally the male ambulance person spoke up. 'Wait a second, didn't you use to live at... [he described the house I just moved out of]'. I did. He then told the woman: 'She did have her knee dislocated. It was very strange'. The woman believed him, and stopped the painful process of finding the broken bone that wasn't there. Next up was: call the fire departement. There was no way to get me out of the house over the very steep stairs.

In the hospital, the same thing would happen. People looked at my chart and assumed there had been a mistake. 'Wait, this thing says your knee is dislocated. Do they maybe mean kneecap?' The doctor in the first aid left me in pain for many hours because, despite being a experienced doctor, she had never seen this injury before, (and expected she would never again in her carreer), and she wanted to call another doctor for advice. Which of course she didn't do until it was morning. I remember I kept asking for painkillers and they would tell me I was already on the maximum dose.

I was not allowed to climb stairs for many weeks that followed. Since I lived in an apartement without elevator, and not on the ground floor, my only option was going to my parents' house. They put a bed in the living room and I didn't have a chance to shower for weeks.

My parents house... well, it's my unhappy place. I spent so many years there being depressed, suicidal, and misunderstood. I'm okay there now, but in my twenties I hated visiting it. It was like the location would instantly make me more depressed. And here I was, in a bed in the living room, living in that freaking house again.

My parents, well, they try to be nice people, but they're judgemental. They didn't understand how difficult it was for me, to be here, and in a lot of pain, and they said a lot of things that made it even harder. My mental health was poor, and I could not even walk out of the room to get some alone time. All evening, I was forced to watch on tv whatever they were watching, but during days, I'd be left home alone. They wanted me to spent those hourse studying, but I couldn't. I couldn't even study when I was in university, how was I going to study in some sort of personal hell, with so much physical pain?

So, what did I do all day? I'd read a little, but mostly, I would cling to my life line. Andrea Gibson. The poem that fitted best right now was new and called Angels of the get trough.

This year is the the hardest of your whole life. so hard you cannot see a future, most days. The pain is bigger than anything else. Takes up the whole horizon, no matter where you are. You feel unsafe, you feel unsaved. Your past so present you can feel your baby teeth.

I lived that poem, and so many others. These poems, they got me trough the pain. Both physical and mental. Days followed days and very soon it would be the 29th. The day Andrea Gibson would perform in Rotterdam, and I had a ticket. But I couldn't walk. And I had no transport. Rotterdam is 50 km from my parents house and they were not going to drive that far just to please me. They said things like: 'get a taxi' they said things like: 'it's just a concert, you can go to something else when you're better.' They didn't get it. Andrea Gibson was my life line right now and I waited sooo many years to see them. Maybe a chance like this would never come again.

I tried to convince my dad to let my sister borrow his car and my sister to drive me, but they both looked at me like I was crazy. But my sister was the only one I knew within this area with a drivers license. My own life was 150 km away from me, and all of my friends were more fellow students than real friends, so they wouldn't help me.

I started to face the ineviteble. I wouldn't go. I felt crushed and like I would not survive this period in my life. Not without that one glimmer of hope. But there was one last option... my cousin had a driver's license. Would she be able to borrow a car? Would she be willing to drive me?

Miracles do happen, and that friday evening, me, my brother, and my cousin were in a tiny church in Rotterdam. We were front row, because wheelchair places were front row. Andrea Gibson walked onto the stage, started performing, and it was... magical.

I needed to remind myself to stay quiet. But my lips moved. I worded many of the words of many of my favourite poems. Because this was a church, and because Andrea Gibson never performed in a church before, they ended up doing some of their older work. They said that with some of these poems, they always felt like these belonged in a church. And that was great for me, because their early work was the poetry I knew the best, and therefor loved the most.

At some point, near the end of the show, they introduced a poem they wanted to read. They talked about art and how important art was. I was trying to guess which poem this was an introduction to, but I couldn't. But then they said: 'this poem is called yellowbird'. Music started to accompany the poem, but Andrea stayed quiet. And they said: 'I forgot the first line.'

The room started laughing, but I got super excited. THIS WAS JUST LIKE IN THAT YOUTUBE VIDEO I SAW. I could contribute. I struggled to remember the words and while the laughing died, I shouted: 'My uncle Billy was the..' I couldn't come up with 'Little Debbies snack cake sales man' so I stopped after 5 words. But I was in the front row. Andrea had heard me. And they said to me: 'What?' and I repeated simply: 'MY UNCLE BILLY'. And that was enough. Andrea Gibson said: 'Oh yeah..' and then they performed the whole poem.

I got to talk to Andrea after the show and I bought some merch but that's not my favourite memory. My favourite memory is shouting the first words of their poem to them. I contributed to their poetry.

2021 was the year I lost my faith. My Christian faith, I mean. I think, but I'm not sure, that most people who lose their Christian faith, do that, because the story is too big for them. How can all of this be true? How can all of this have really happened? Or they lose their faith, because the Christian God is too small. How can God not care? How can God have let this happen?

I lost my Christian faith not because it was too big. It was too small. Christianity is my old pants. They were my favourite for many years, and they kept me save and clothed, but then I started growing again. The pants got tensed. They couldn't expand together with me. Holes started appearing. I kept wearing them but then one day: the big rip. They were no pants anymore, just some fabric. Too many holes to still justify the word pants. I needed to find something bigger to wear.

I still believe the Christian story. Most of it, or all of it, I'm not sure which one. There's so much beauty in it. So much hope. So much joy. But I discovered bigger truths. In Christianity, I had one life and would suffocate in eternal bliss afterwards. Now I have infinitive lives, and I go in and out of eternal bliss as often as I please.

In Christianity, I had to believe in one (three) God named Jesus. I never stopped believing Jesus is God. I'm just... I can't accept Him as the only one any more. Everywhere around me I see Gods. Gods that are here to give me something. To teach me something. Gods just here to enjoy that eternal bliss together with me.

My God is not too small for Christianity. It's too big. My God is the whole universe. My God is every person in the universe. Every object even. Every star and every spec of dust. Every bus and every mountain. Everywhere I look, I see God.

In Christianity, God created me, and the purpose was for Them, I needed to praise or serve or something. In My New Faith, I am God. I created myself. My purpose is whatever I choose it to be. Right now, my purpose is eternal bliss.

I became human because, as God, I could only Know, but not Experience. As human, for many years, I experienced, but didn't Know. It's an infinitive travel. I go from Knowing to Experiencing, from Experience back to Knowing. But you know what's so great about the infinity symbol? The lines meet. Every life cycle there are times I Know I'm Experiencing. And I Experience that I'm Knowing. Every now and then I'm complete. I'm on my way to one of these moments now. I can already feel its Bliss radiating in all directions of my life.

The day I lost my Christian faith, is the same day I started encountering eternal bliss. I lost something precious to me, but I found something so much better. And this is just the beginning!

Bowling pins

I used to be a christian. The dogmatic kind. To me, a dogma is just a tiny piece of faith. You believe in 6 day creation. You believe all non-believers go to hell. Those are dogma's. Tiny pieces of truths in a bigger belief system.

I believed everything my parents, the church and the christian schools taught me. Lucky for me, they never contradicted each other. The world was simple, there were many truths. On top of that, I was a special one, for being in the know. In a world where both Christians and non-Christians believe so many wrongs, I grew up in a world of truths. So lucky.

I was gay. Am gay. The moment my bisexuality became a fact, something else became a fact: God hated me. What's that word again? Abonimation. The Dutch word 'gruwel' sounds even worse. I would maybe translate it as 'awful'. Well, that's what I was now. Afwul in Gods eyes. It was one of the truths that was taught me. I was never taught to doubt the truth.

Immediate faith crisis. Life crisis. Did God love me? Did God hate me? Was I blamed for something that I just happened to be, without ever choosing so? Would I be okay except and until I started dating females?

I connected with Christian Gays over the internet and in support groups. It was a very slow and painful process, but I learned a new truth. God loves gays. It took me years to start believing I was actually fine. But I now was different. I had fallen out of my faith system. There was a childhood-truth I couldn't see as truth anymore. I had replaced it with my own.

Other truths were changed trough the years. First slowely. I struggled with female ministry for many years. As a theological student, I had the option of becoming a minister some day, but not in my church. I realised this was discrimination. I realised this was telling all the young girls in all the churches they were 'less then'. They were equal in society, could become everything they want, but in church, the holy place, they could only consumate, not contribute (fuck all males who'll respond to this with 'well they can lead the childrens club, clean or serve coffee').

I struggled with bible texts for years. I realised they were discriminating, but they were there. In my faith system, every verse was a dogma. Couldn't let them go. But I was a theology student. They taught me to look to the message of the whole book, not just the verse. They taught me to study the culture the letter (most New Testament books are actually letters to churches) was sent to. Then I realised, the bible was giving women freedom. In culture, they were slaves, in church, they were equals. It was not easy, but it felt like the right thing to change my mind again. Women should be equal in my church too. (Surprisingly, my church changed its mind around the same time I did. We have woman ministers now)

Hell had to go. My little brother, my favourite person in the whole world, became an atheist (that's how I remember it, he claims he was an agnost). I couldn't blame him for that. You can't believe what you don't believe. It's not a choice, a faith change is just something that... happens. 3 weeks I was in despair that he would burn or suffer for eternity, but then I remembered Gods love. God who created my brother loved him more than I ever could. Again, I couldn't explain the bible texts, but I knew there was nothing to worry about. Whether my brother believed it or not, God was his father, not his torturer. I got a little help from Rob Bell with this one.

6 day creation had to go too. I just got tired of defending it. So many of the arguments I was taught were just irrational. There were probably no literal Adam and Eve, so I was confused about 'original sin'.

Being against euthanasia went away quite early. I realised believing in free will and in a world with different opinions should mean letting the other do what they want, even when you think it's a mistake. I still struggle with abortion. I want every woman to have agency about their own body, and I want every unborn baby to get a chance to live.

God being all male? That stopped being logical. I started training myself to see trinity as non-binary, God and Jesus as males, Wisdom/Christ as female, and the Holy Spirit as female. I guess God is above gender (which they invented), and they use whichever one they think convenient at a certain time.

The more dogmata fell, the faster the process went. The first truths took years to drop, lately it took just seconds.

I read a lot of spiritual literature. Zen masters, Buddhists, Mystics, modern teachers, and dialogues. When I found Neale Donald Walsch' conversations with God, I had no doubt this was a true book. Not a doubt. It made sense to me God would communicate like this. I started reading and it was like my dogma's were bowling pins, and God had a big ball aimed towards them.

Every page, He hit another pin. I can't tell you all the dogma's He changed, for that you'd have to read the book. But I'll name a few.

So you believed there were only humans in the universe? Not a chance. There's aliens everywhere, some are even visiting or monitoring you. So you think you lived only once, to be followed by a bliss-full eternity? Nah dude, you reincarnate hundreds of time.

Jesus was God (is God) incarnated, but so am I. I am a part of God who chose to forget who I am so I can experience how great I am.

So God went bowling trough my beliefs. I guess I no longer believe Jesus died for my sin. Or in sin, for that matter. I guess the bible is no longer holy, but still a beautiful mythology.

I am greatful. My faith expanded. I feel bigger now. I feel better now. But also confused. I'm a closeted panentheist, assumed to be christian. I have a faith community, which I'd like to keep. I have a family that would believe I'd be on my way to eternal damnation, if they knew what I believed.

So what do I do? What do I say to my bible study group, to my family members? How to be honest and not kicked out?

Gods money

When I was 20, I had an income around 450 euro per month, while the poverty line in my country is roughly around 1100. This one day, I had 10 euro and 5 days left, and I went to the supermarket to buy food for those last 5 days. I was worried. Would I have enough? Would I put too much in my basket, causing me to have an embarrassing moment at checkout? I wasn't worried about hunger, just about being able to buy what I wanted.

I arrived at the (budget) supermarket and was friendly greeted by the homeless person selling papers. She knew me. I always greeted her when I entered the supermarket, and then when I left the supermarket, I would make some smalltalk and buy a newspaper. (I often ended up with 3 identical issues of that newspaper, since I would just buy one whenever I saw here).

So I entered the supermarket, after greeting her, and immediately, I had an ethical dilemma. Her hope. Her expectation. My low funds, and my desire for pizza. What would I do? What should I do? I could just make the small-talk, tell her I had no money today, and leave. Why should I give away my money, when I needed it myself??

Halfway the supermarket, I realised something. It wasn't my money. It was Gods money, that just happened to be in my wallet. Now it was simple, really simple.

When I left the supermarket, I bought a newspaper, and gave her the chocolat bar that was intended for myself when I was buying it.

I didn't tell you this to boast how good I am, or something like that. Two euro and a chocolate bar hardly makes me a saint. I just had to share it, because this moment, this realisation has been an inspiration for me trough the years.

Money is more than income or property, it's responsibility. If you see it as yours, your moneys only aim is to please you. If you view it as Gods, or as the communities' money, the more you have, the more responsible you are.

Not long after this realisation, I started buying biological and fair-trade products, as much as I could. Yes, I did that on that ridiculous low income. My money was my responsibility. My choices impacted real people. I had to make the right choices.

I guess it's this realisation that makes me keep going from very old second hand phone to second hand phone. Trust me, I have money for a new one, just not enough money for a fairphone. I don't want to buy a cheap phone if that means polution and slavery. (Sometimes I'm very close to buying a new, cheap phone. Just yesterday I put one in a digital basket, so I could see how much it'd be with shipping. It would be great to just be able to download all the apps my friends have.)

I'm at an interesting position, when it comes to money. My income is now around the Dutch poverty line, which makes me poor in most eyes. I just can't help realising that it makes me rich compared to most of the world. I don't think I'm poor. I don't let a professional cut my hair and vacations are something for once every 3 years, but like I said earlier this week: I can't buy all the books I want, but if I really want a book, I can buy it. I can add 10 euro extra to my weekly grocery delivery, without worrying my bank account can't take it.

I don't consider myself poor, I consider myself lucky. I have enough to live a comfortable life, but not so much that I face a lot of ethical dilemma's. Sometimes, I use my poor priviledge to judge people with a middle income around me. Wait, so you're going on a vacation again, instead of giving that money away? (When I go on a vacation, I'm entitled to it, because others do it so much more often.)

But today I gave some money away, to someone who could use some new clothes. I have enough clothes, why not give that same priviledge to one of my internet friends? I know my money will make a lot of impact in this persons day, while for me, it would have been just a number in my bank account.

So my brother said: 'ah, so you put your money where it has the most impact.'

Well, I guess I did. This time. But I have plenty of money left that's just sitting there. I keep saying it's the responsible thing to have some money in case something breaks. I don't want to have to ask for help when I need a new fridge. And I want to be able to buy the next book I really want.

Back in theology school, my ethics teacher mentioned a philosopher (sorry, can't think of his name) who claimed it was immoral to keep money on your bank account: If you could save a child from drowning, you would be morally obliguated to do so, even if it ruined your new, expensive shoes. If a child in your street was starving, you would buy them food. So why not safe as many starving children in the poorest countries as you possibly can?

I don't know how the other philosophers rebuke this. They probably found a way, since most of them have big bank accounts. For me, it's easy to state that I need my own money in case of emergency. In my twisted mind, the possibility of my washing machine breaking is more important than someones meal. As if washing by hand is not a possibility!

I don't know what I should do with the money I own. Should I give it all away? Probably not... But why not? Why the hell not?

My task

Content warning: suicidal ideation

Two months ago, I was suicidal. I wasn't worried about that. I was surprised.

Here I was again. Years later. Suicidal at age 12, suicidal at age 32. But it had been years since I had been. Therapy and general wellbeing had taken my struggle away roughly at age 26. But here I was, again.

Where suicidal thoughts usually come from a place of dispair, mine came more from a place of hope. I mean, I probably was depressed, temporary. I was in autistic burnout and that made me forget how to do all the self care things I had learned trough the years.

It was like a spaceship going down. First the lights, then the radio, and suddenly the oxygen tank is beeping. In human terms that is: First my nights rest, then a chronic headache, then I didn't remember how to be kind to myself, and bam, suicidal. My spaceship was minutes from crashing.

I was hopeful. This is the most hopeful suicidal I have ever been. Where earlier suicidal thoughts had been about fleeing from, this was fleeing towards. My faith was stronger than ever. I was convinced of a world beyond this world, without suffering.

I didn't know all the details, but I knew enough. I was done with my earth life, I wanted the afterlife. I wanted it, now.

Except... I didn't. If I was finished with this life, I would have simply died. Not suicide, just, let go of life. At this point I believed God would simply call me home if I was ready here. So I was angry with God for letting me stay here, and I asked him: Why am I still here?

I knew from Lorna Byrne, a Mystic who talks to angels, that I chose my own life. My own country, my own parents, my own circumstances. I wondered if this means I also chose my chronic illness, or if that was just bad luck. Do you choose the things that will happen to you at age 22, or are they just 'shit happening'?

I've read enough about near-death-experiences to have no doubt about the afterlife being there, but here's the thing. All those people who told us they experienced some kind of heaven, they all came back. And they didn't come back randomly, they came back 'because they had a task'. I learned that right in my suicidal period, because I just happened to be reading a book about the subject. Problem is, none of the near death experiencers remembered what their task is.

So this is what I knew. I chose my own life, and I had a task. Apperently, I was not supposed to remember my own task. Maybe that would mess with my task. I didn know, but I knew I gave up a lot of knowing to become human. I didn't know why I gave up knowledge, but I guessed knowing that would have messed with my task.

What's my task? Apperently I wasn't supposed to kill myself. The NDE-book told me suiciders more often have a hell-like experience. Didn't want that. But if I shouldn't kill myself, shouldn't I at least KNOW what my task is? I mean, I didn't feel like working on any task. I was just drifting, living a rather sheltered, mundaine life.

I asked the universe to tell me my task, expecting no answer. But I got my answer. It's hard for me to even write down all my past doubts, because my task is so clear to me now. I have no doubt as to why I'm here and why I chose the life that I have.

The suicidal episode only lasted for two weeks. When medical circumstances occured, my attention simply shifted. My strong longing to start the afterlife was still there, but in the background again. Like it's been for the past 6 years.

A book found me, one week after the medical mess. I'd been wishing to read this book for months, but finally the Gods of the library granted my wish. Just kidding, it was regular God. The book said so itself: You're reading this book at the exact right time in your life. It's not coincidence you're reading it right now.

I've read many books. But none of them changed my life so suddenly and completely as this one. You see, I know now. I know my task. I know why I'm on earth, in a chronically ill body.

I'm God.

I'm God and I always was God, but I was all there was. I wasn't really God, since I couldn't compare myself. So I split myself. Into here and there. Into light and dark. I created cold, so I could experience how warm I was. I created evil, to experience how good I was. I created fear, to experience my love.

I created me. The person I now see as self, it's just something I created. You see, being God and all-knowing and all that, I couldn't really experience anything but perfect. So I needed to forget I'm God. That's what I did. I created earth, I created a background story. I created parents and circumstances, and then I started living a human life. I started living billions and billions of lifes simultaniously. (Can't say God kept it small, can you?). In order for all this to work, I needed to not know I'm God. So I forgot.

I forgot everything I knew and can do, and entered the human experience. You see, at christmas we celebrate God becoming human, but I realise now, every human birth is christmas.

But what about all the suffering? Why did I chose to let that happen... to myself?

Well, did you ever try to write a story without anything bad happening to any of the characters? Wasn't it just the most boring thing ever? But you don't feel bad if you make a character suffer, because it's just a story. It's not real.

Well, I'm not real. I'm just God pretending to be human. Playing a role on a very big stage. My suffering is okay, really, because it's a good story, later. Being sad now allows me more happiness in eternity. Can't enjoy warmth if you've never been cold.

I get it now. I'm God in a human body, and I came to earth to experience. My lack of memories allows me to really live the story. And it's a damn good story.

I don't think I'll end the book before its time. I'm going to experience the story, however it plays out.

For a while, in 2019, I was really close to God. Close enough to hear them whenever I wanted (God always talks, it's the listening that I have a problem with). This one day, I was cycling, and I reached out to God. It's like adjusting a radio dial inside your mind. The more you do it, the easier it gets, the less you do it, the harder it gets. Right now it's very hard again. But in 2019, I could do it while cycling. So I rushed my bike trough traffic, and I thought: Hey God, what do you want to talk about?

And God answered: about your weight.

My heart sank. I was weighing more than 160 kg. I was constantly told by society, both friends and strangers, that my weight was my biggest problem. Was God going to chime into that choir? I know, I thought – not to God, just to myself- I know I have a problem. But I am trying to change, okay? I had signed up for weight loss surgery – something God was rather indifferent about, they had let me know earlier that to them it was the same weather I got it or not. So what did God have to say? Were they going to scold me for getting this big? Would they urge me to try even harder?

Here it comes, I thought, and I reached out to God with fear: Okay, what do you have to say about my weight?

and God responded:

I am proud of you.

What? Can you say that again?

And God repeated:

I am proud of you.

I was beaming all day. I was beaming all week. 2 years later, I'm still beaming. Did God really say that?

Why not ask them? And so I did. Many, many times that day, I repeated the same questions:

God, was that really you? God, are you really proud of me? God, did I hear you correctly?

And God would say: yes, yes, yes. They didn't get tired of my questions. They would just answer. At some point they even started laughing. I'd start laughing. It's silly, to ask the same thing over and over again when you're not a toddler. But God didn't mind. God realised I needed affirmation, because their message was so.. unexpected.

I listened to God about a hundred times. I have a journal where I write down some of their words. Many times I'm skeptical of the process. I can't proof that the voice in my head is actually God, and not me, playing tricks on me. Every message they ever gave me I doubted and refused to fully belief. All messages but one.

I would never, in my wildest dreams, have told myself God was proud of me. I thought God was just tolerating me because of the whole Jesus thing. I was just tolerating me because of the whole Jesus thing. If my subconcious would have faked a God-message, it would have said the opposite. I would have never believed it if it said God was proud of me.

And paradoxically, that's why I believe it. The one message I never doubted is the one I got on my bicycle in 2019:

God is proud of me.