Foxhole.

So I had a massively humbling and totally human moment recently and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Oh, the editors here at Standardkink have asked me to tell you that due to my ongoing nervous breakdown, this will be less of a “writing” blog for a little while and more of a “holy shit this guy needs some serious therapy” kind of blog.

Anyway, back to that profoundly human moment … I recently got some news that shook me to the very core of my person. In order to better protect the innocent, I’m not really at liberty to tell you much about what happened (it isn’t really my business to share) but suffice to say it will affect me in some way for the rest of my life.

The point here though is that all the fuses in my head melted and I couldn’t remember how to breathe or sit. I’ve done some googling and it appears I had an honest to god panic attack (I’ve only really ever had one once before, but it was nothing like this). I ended up spending the better part of ten hours just walking aimlessly around town. I probably walked twenty-five or thirty miles that day. By the end I had these fat disgusting blisters and my legs felt like jelly. At one point I went home to drink some water and I ended up – no kidding – praying.

I am not a religious person and it isn’t that I’m profoundly opposed to religion and I don’t call myself an atheist (though others might, and they’re free to if it makes them feel better) I’m simply not a religious person. I have trouble not seeing religion as myth; it’s the writer in me.

Yet all that notwithstanding, there I was, on my knees in my little bedroom, hands clasped together, deeply apologetic that I’m in my thirties and had never really prayed before. If God was paying attention he at least didn’t make fun of me. 

So I asked for what I asked for, apologized a lot, made some halfhearted jokes that were probably inappropriate and then said my amen, crossed myself all Catholic-like, felt strange about it, apologized again and then left the apartment quickly, as though leaving an awkward first date.

Clearly there’s something disingenuous about me praying, but I swear, the asking for help part was entirely genuine. Probably as genuine as I have ever been. So what does that mean? Or does it mean anything? Or does it just make me an opportunist and a hypocrite?

Probably those last two, huh?

I guess it goes back to the old adage about how there are no atheists in fox holes. Well, I was in my fox hole dammit and I reached out. Though in my defense, I would have prayed to Voldemort too if I thought it would have helped. I can say though, I appreciate now more than ever how soothing it must be to possess religious faith; to believe that someone supremely powerful is out there and cares about you and your happiness. It was a calming experience and deeply humbling, and I need a little humbling from time to time.

Now the postscript, of course, is that nothing has changed and my prayers have decidedly not been answered (surely God knows how impatient I am!), but that’s not the point of this post. I just felt it was a strange enough experience that it should be remarked upon. So there you have it, I guess, it has been remarked upon.

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