Thursday, 11 September 2014

Contemplating the meaning of... life?

Philosophy is a really difficult subject. I dislike feeling unsure about my existence when my existence feels downright dreadful. It's kind of weird to imagine that things around me might just be my imagination or the work of some demon.

Today we were introduced to a topic that basically contemplates the reason for living.

I don't believe we have a reason.

It's not that I'm being pessimistic, I just see the truth.

When I was younger, I believed in God. I was in a Catholic school, my family and most of friends were also Catholic. We attended Church weekly. I made my communion and followed the rules. But that was it. In my head, I'd never been given much of a reason to doubt God's existence, for my entire life I had been taught to believe in this all-mighty being. But when I turned eleven (when I first started becoming depressed) I began to doubt everything I had been told to believe. How could this omnipotent, benevolent and omniscient God exist? If he was all-loving, then why was he allowing an eleven year old girl to want to kill herself? Why was he letting her suffer through panic attacks? Why was he letting people bully her and call her a freak?

I'd spend hours and hours crying. Wondering what I did to make God punish me this way. I just didn't understand.

I don't really know exactly when I stopped believing in God. It was more of a gradual process. Of course, I was still forced to attend mass. I didn't want my parents to know the truth anyway - not at the time. But when I finally came to the conclusion that God could not exist, at least not in the way that I was taught to believe, I really gave up hope. I realised that I actually didn't have someone looking after me no matter what. It made me feel so insignificant (even more so than I already felt). I felt scared knowing that no one was watching me as I traveled to and from school, no one was making sure I didn't get run over whilst I crossed the road. My future was entirely in my hands, there wasn't someone who already had it mapped out and ready for me. It was up to me.

I don't know if that's where all of my anxiety stems from. But crossing the street is a difficult task for me, especially if I there are no pedestrian crossings available. Just leaving the house is challenging, opening the door, knowing an entire world of strangers and different possibilities is out there, scares me so much. What must strangers think when they walk past me? A thousand things rush through my mind. Do they think my clothes look stupid? Do I look really fat in this? What if my hair is a mess? What if I smell bad? What if they can see my trembling hands and my teary eyes?

I guess I can't pin the blame on my lack of faith. But it definitely contributes to how horrid I feel.

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