Isn't it funny. I'm enjoying my hatred so much more than I ever enjoyed love. Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you, changes its mind. But hatred, now, that's something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It's hard, or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but Hatred cradles you.
— Janet Fitch, "White Oleander"
The anger is inescapable. You are not permitted to be angry with God. It is not to be done. Thus my anger finds its home wherever it can. Each slight against me becomes a mortal threat. Each unkind word a declaration of battle. Each opponent in a fight the source of all the rage boiling up within.
I sought out conflict. Intellectual where possible, physical when I could. Carrying all that anger with only other people to be my target.
Yet it was God I was angry with. A God who created broken people and expected perfection. A God who allowed Sin yet condemned the Sinner. A God who demanded blood for the smallest slight against him. Blood sacrifice. A God who kindled an eternal fire for those who rejected him. Who built a cosmic horror in which to thrust those who displeased him, disobeyed him, scorned him. A place of eternal torment and suffering. A God I had grown to hate.
I could not allow myself to admit that it was God I hated so I hated everything else. Everyone else. The hormones of puberty mixed with rage in a terrible alchemy that left raw hatred transmuted in my soul. Misanthropy writ large. Anger and hate turned at any I could.
I was quiet, shy, withdrawn. I did not voice my hatred. Instead it stewed within waiting for an outlet. Waiting for justification to unleash.
I found it at times and hurt others. I found it at times and was hurt myself. I didn't win every fight. You never really win a fight. I tasted defeat. It simply fueled my rage.
It was God I hated. A God who created me broken. Who watched me Sin. Who condemned me as a Sinner. Who demanded blood for my atonement.
I denied it, for as long as I could. Until one day I could not.
I hate God.