Since I just wrote about the cancer demon fantasy, it reminded me why there is so much anger in me. It is all frustration. Mostly, I hate that I don’t have something concrete to blame for all this crap. So I make up things to blame. As a kid and teen, it was mainly that demon thing. As I’ve grown older, I mostly blame God. The invisible guy that almost everyone says is there.

Are you there, God (it’s me, Chris)? I don’t know. In fact I killed you too.  You know when that happened? It wasn’t when I was diagnosed with cancer. It wasn’t when I had to recover from surgery. It wasn’t when I was being poked, prodded, and bugged every hour. It wasn’t even when I found myself puking almost every day.

No, I killed you the day I found out Manuelita, my beloved grandmother, had terminal cancer. How DARE you. You piece of rotting, stinking shit. Was it not enough to torture me in my youth? Was it not enough to shove rods in me only to have them ripped out again? Was it not enough to be filleted like a fucking piece of meat?  No, not for you, you sadistic fucker.

I wonder, God, were you thinking “Damn, kid, I can’t get you down… hm, but I CAN destroy your loved ones”?

How can I believe in you, when you have crushed me so? All I want to do is keep hating your all-powerful, divinely mysterious, bullshit self.

Fuck you, God. Fuck you with a hot poker shoved up your ass. Fuck you over and over again.

You want to bless me with your grace? HOW ABOUT HEALTH, ASSHOLE? When did I ask for pain and grace anyway? Where was MY choice? This path of suffering is supposed to lead to some kind of maturing or enlightenment. But you know, maybe I’d RATHER be a stupid, dumb jock. But you made up the plan without any input from me. You went ahead and infected my cells. You took those choices from me. Free will? Fuck you. If it was truly free, I’d have options. I wouldn’t have the shit pain you stuck me with.

God I want you to know I believe in you. But make no mistake: it’s only to hate you.