Still the Same

Still the Same

I was not happy as I walked down the steps from the old chapel on the hill. Newry was a very small Irish city, placed in what could be described only as a natural washbasin, surrounded by slopping hills that was populated by council houses and the entire plot of ground was pin pricked with large patches of green which surrounded parks, Schools and that old Novus Ordo Church in the centre. I was not happy today, not happy at all. Two weeks previously I had just finished my own bout of spiritual crisis, it was not fun, not fucking fun at all. Five weeks ago I was feeling a little upset bout my weight, the Bible says Jesus went for forty days without food. In a fucking desert. And me living in the land of plenty, (plenty of rain), that made me feeling a little like a light-weight by comparison, so I decided to go on a week-long fast. No I didn’t abstain from food completely, just the stuff I loved; chocolate, candy, sweet drinks…. Especially Coke. Believe it or not I found it very easy to blindly ignore the food I loved, why not? For a full 16-18 years I’ve ignored the alcohol in my Dad’s pub which I live next to. Ignoring coke would be easy. Too easy to be let away with it.
Two days into it and then it happened. I forgot. Everything really, my philosophy, who I was, (In the manner of identity, not namesake and temporal stuff), my habits, my method of thinking. What’s worse I didn’t realise till later that’s this had happened. Then came the doubts. Out of the blue, out of nothing, they came. ‘Why bother?’ To myself I already had this question answered years ago, but as I mentioned, I had forgotten everything I had reasoned with before. These thought began to develop and to grow from no source and become increasingly frequent. Then the doubts started straying to God.
Hold up a minute. This didn’t sound very Gallo-like to me, not Gallo-like at all. So I asked myself a question. “Why not believe in God?” A silly question to ask you’d think, wouldn’t you? Afterall most people buy the concept of relativism, all things are what they are to all men, God apparently fits into this. Whatever, the voice in my head didn’t answer, and that scared me more. The questions and the doubts persisted; I found them unreasonable, simply because I was having them. They wanted change, they wanted me to be different, they wanted me to think my life over. I didn’t, I was happy the way I was, not to blow my own trumpet, but I was a nice guy because of who I was. I lended money to my friends almost on impulse when they asked, knowing full well because of it they’d help me later in life. I went out of my way to see what was wrong with someone and try to help them. I got myself into a manner of habitualism which gave me self control and greater will. I also knew who I was, what I was, and what my name was. I was proud of myself, yet I was humble. I was fucking happy.
Wednesday of the first week, by this time I had convinced myself that the devil or something was talking to me directly, after blatantly telling the voices to shut up and get out. They did after I got particularly riled up, this worried me greatly, it didn’t suggest self control, it suggested I wasn’t fully in charge of what went on in my thoughts anymore. In school, I went to lunch, it was a dark-ish, overcast day in winter swept Northern Ireland, the courtyard was soaked in the aftermath of the rain and as a consequence, the corridors were packed with the student body, rushing for food, talking, yelling, horse playing, the usual. I was not happy at all, my mind was working over time, argueing with itself, (I thought I was at the time), trying to remember what it was I had forgotten. Trying to get that little fucker off my back. The usual banter went on in the little side annex of the canteen corridor, I only took part in it every now and again. I had to keep up the façade that nothing was wrong with me. Ironic, I spend my entire life studying people, seeing if something is wrong beneath the surface, see if I could help, then I go and do the same thing in reverse order.
Then I saw it… The biggest rice krispie bun I ever saw, (Well, the only one I managed to get my hands on in years), ever since I got promoted to senior school, my lunch time was pushed further down in the timetable, so the junior students always managed to get the deserts and buns, (Another reason why I loathe them, but that’s another story, lets not digress, shall we?), so I never got my favourite desert bun. It was only when I bit into it that I remembered, ‘Shit, I’m supposed to be off this stuff’, I finished eating, I consider it sinful to waste food. Especially if you’ve already bit into it. So, yeah that pissed me off. The rest of the week went pretty much like the first part, cept I went a little stricter on myself with the fast. It culminated on Sunday night when I got the best good night’s sleep all week. (After a lengthy prayer, but I digress), And I woke up, I would make this new week a penance fast, just to let God know I wanted to make up for my failure the last week.
It went the same, except the doubts, the thoughts of self change began becoming louder, more invasive. More alien. I could definitely tell it wasn’t my voice, but at this point, I didn’t know who’s voice was what, who I was, what was I doing, why I was doing it and pretty much wasting my time thinking up a philosophical reason behind every simple fucking action that should’ve come naturally. Oh, but I didn’t tell you the other side of the story yet, have I? Yeah, God was talking too, just not in my mind. Throughout my life I’ve seen blatant signs that point to what I should be doing, I even recognise them from the word go sometimes. Although I’m ashamed to admit I often purposefully ignore them a lot of the time. But these fast weeks, one thing kept popping up wereever I looked. I went on to Catholicbridge.com as its good for finding out stuff I didn’t know before, I found a passage about suffering and why it happens. Particularly personal suffering. If you’ve never experienced a spiritual crisis, you have no idea what I’m talking about. Its sorta like your heart’s trying to turn itself inside out from the opposite direction. Anyways, I read on, I discovered some stuff. Apparently the apostles went through the same crap, and were glad about it. They believed it was helping them become better, that through suffering on earth and accepting it, they wouldn’t have to suffer later. And another quote that went like this; “What happens when are prayers aren’t answered? Well that’s the cross” And more beside. This was one example of recurring hint, it kept popping up all over the place.
Another example was when I went to the school chapel, I have developed the habit this year of visiting it three times a day, seeing as it my favourite number. Before you roll your eyes, no I didn’t see a vision. No, Godly, deep booming voice spoke to me. Something much more interesting happened. On the way out of the chapel, the bible is placed on a stand opened up for visitors to read while the go out. (The caretaker turns the pages each day to appropriate bible passages for each day. We’re Catholics, we’re weird like that), I also made sure I read at least one passage on the two pages displayed, and if I’m short on time, I always read the smaller passages and then run for it. Being placed next to the door, the wind easily gets in, and the pages flipped by the time I got there. I looked down at the passage….. and by God. It was the same fucking message. But also this time it was placing the empathise on prayer, self denial and perseverance.
Needless to say this made me a little uncomfortable. Its not the first time that a random bible passage had absolute relevance to my current state in life, but come on, that’s just freaky. The hints kept happening every now and again. Of course I was being self denied, I was fasting after all; of course I was praying, I’m habitual in that regard now. It was the perseverance thing that needed to be accomplished. I slowly and almost unknowingly spiralled downwards. I began to become meaner, unfriendlier, less generous, more cynical, more apathetic, more doubtful; all traits I had before hand loathed with all my being. I was essentially turning into the opposite of myself. I was rehearsing for a play this week as well, it was going to be my last play in St.Colman’s College, I wanted it to be a fun time. No, because of this civil war of the soul, I could not enjoy myself, I could not join in on the antics of my fellow actors when we were not busy being dictated to. I could enjoy the upbeat music and engaging storyline of the play. Even on the nights that we were on show, I sat backstage, cross legged in a corner, trying to get some sleep before my next part on stage. I was trying to quiet myself, get that blessed quiet and peace of mind I once had. I wanted myself back! Whatever was wrong with me, it didn’t affect my acting, I came through loud and clear on stage. (I didn’t have a mic either, I naturally have a deep, loud voice, all I had to do was turn up the volume a bit), but fuck me, I was not happy on stage, it was bothering me. Eventually people started noticing, several people stopped me as I was passing, asking me ‘What’s wrong?’ I was a little startled that anyone noticed, I was so good at hiding whatever I was feeling beneath a smile and a chuckle, I always replied ‘Nothing’ and carried on. I was going to crack.
For the past several years I’ve been meaning to go to confession. Most Catholics in my town don’t go, the usual save it for ‘the big stuff’ Like murder, rape, genocide, robbery and all those big things. I thought of it differently, I thought that every little sin piled up on one another, every curse, every mean thought, every little thing was recorded and you’d be held to account for. And I hadn’t gone to Confession in at least a decade. We had a new Priest in the parish, a Red haired guy around 20-ish, nice guy, met him at a few wedding and funeral receptions and he knew how to get points across in a sermon so they never last longer then 15 minutes, (I remember our last priest, 40-50, kinda rotund guy, likeable enough), just so happens after mass that Saturday night I went round and asked him when we could have confessions. (I was drowning and pulling at straws at this point, in extremis), he said they were usually held before mass or he could hear me now if I liked. He even offered to allow me to come back the following week if I was not ready. I considered it, a nudge in my head said go for the offer. But I was afraid that by the following week I wouldn’t have any faith left at all. I swallowed my pride, shut the voices away, all of them, and said I’d rather have it now.
He was very easy going about it, a MAJOR misconception is that priests are medieval minded and go all Holy Crusader on your ass when you come clean in confessions. They are not like that at all, they are trained for this crap, the hear this crap all the time, the deal with everyone’s crap. They’re like psychotherapists only with less bullshit and they actually know the person they’re talking to. I recommend any problems you have should be resolved with these guys, they’re really great. He listened to all the crap I could remember, rarely speaking until the ominous silence made it clear I wanted him to reply. (This was done in a confessional booth, if you don’t know what they are for, they are essentially there to give the confessor and the person confessing a sense of secure privacy, and that God is present, and its only you two that will ever here what is said in there. Never to be spoken of again. The seal of the confessional), Then it came to the topic of the voluntary fast, and I spilled everything.
Everything, what I thought, what I felt, what I sure and unsure about, my worries, everything. I even mentioned the part were I was convinced the devil was talking to me, I have expected a scoff. To my immense surprise after it I was met with a ‘Well-go-on’ kind of silence, and went on towards everything. By the end of it, I walked out a lot happier, the priest remind in the booth for some time after I left it, he even casually asked me from inside; ‘Ya headin’ to da football by any chance?’ as if nothing had ever happened. Then another thing dawned on me, technically after a confession, nothing had happened, you had not sinned, you had not lied, you had not stolen, you had not hurt someone, you’re sins were gone. It was like being born again. Of course walking to the exit I looked up at the altar and felt an inexplicable wall of dullness between me and the hanging cross, ( I was looking at it at the time), the same wall I felt when I was praying, the same wall that made me feel cut off, the same wall that was causing me such distress. My confession didn’t remove it.

At least the voices stopped.


That isn’t the end of it, I woke up the next morning practically an atheist. I had been contemplating this for the two weeks previously and always shook it out of my head. It was not who I was, my religion was the defining and driving force behind everything I did, and now all of a sudden I’d give it up? Forget all that God did for me? For no reason at all? I had an uneasy trip to school on the bus, leaning against the window trying to get an hour’s kip before school like I did every morning. This was were the real battle was being raged. I had to fight with myself the whole day to get to the point were I overcame myself and tried to think clearly again. Think about it yourself, if you suddenly forgot everything you held dear in your mind, would you honestly consider any life altering choice you make to be valid? I didn’t, it didn’t make sense, it wasn’t logical for this to suddenly happen without reason. But I persisted anyway, in an almost self-loathing attitude, I kept my habit of visited the chapel three times a day, praying for the sake of prayer. Feeling incredibly uncomfortable while doing it. It continued again all that week of the play, Half way through I realised the poetry of my situation.
I had always loved the trinity, and even adopted it as my artistic symbol, as a consequence I loved the number three, I loved all those little coincidences that involved the number three. I loved the number three so much I began doing everything in threes praying in threes, blessing in threes, visiting in threes. It was a habit I really loved. And here I was suffering for three weeks with my faith. This either means God has a good sense of humour or he’s trying to tell me something through the irony of it all. By Sunday that week it was over. Most of it. The voices stopped for the most part. But I still lost my identity, who I was, what I was, what I believed in except for God. I didn’t know.
Every now and again I experience little bursts of doubt, and sudden waves of spiritual heights. (One night I was about as high as I’ve ever been and the next day I was in the proverbial gutter), its agony. But they were some positive things through it, I gained a new favourite place. The Dominican church of St.Catherine on one of Newry City’s sloping hills. It’s a traditional Catholic Church, Plain on the outside, but glorious on the inside. When I first saw the interior when I was getting out of the rain one day months ago I was completely floored. I had honestly never seen such devotional beauty since my field trip to Rome. I immediately fell in love with the place. Apart from this, I also gained a new found fondness for several saints. The Holy Mother, Saint Michael The Archangel, (I’ve adopted him as my Patron Saint), Saint Patrick and Saint Brigit, (Patron Saints of Ireland), Holy Father Benedict, (I’ve been wearing his medal crucifix throughout), Padre Pio, (A famous 20th century saint known for having the wounds of Christ), Saint Gerard Majella, (Another Italian Saint, I bought a rosary containing his medal and a relic of a cloth that had touched him during a novena), Saint Martin, (A Dominican Saint whom I discovered in the chapel I had henceforth mentioned), St Joseph, (Jesus’ adopted father), and my two Grandmothers, whom I consider both to be saints. I am also now of the opinion that the reforms of the second Vatican Council in regards to the mass are gravely blasphemous and must be changed back. I made this decision after taking part in a mass on a retreat during my crisis, the thing was a hootenanny and a disgrace.
Ever since I’ve never truly been at peace with myself, I’ve always been in and out of faithfulness, but I’ve remained doggedly certain in my prayers. I will not falter, I’m sick of change, change saw the degradation of my country’s culture, change saw the ruination on national pride, change is crushing who I am. No wait, I do want change, I want a change to this notion of militant progressiveness immediately equals betterment, I’ll challenge the popular vote, I want a little bit of draconism. I want to take a few steps back, I want to see where the fuck I’m going before I leap. The voices wanted me to change, to have a sudden revolution, for my betterment. No fuck it, I’m utterly sick of it. To hell with change, I was happy, now I’m distressed, now you want me to become apathetic? FUCK!
I forgot to mention one thing, zeal. I remember when I was younger I used to have it in abundance, it was as if my very blood was on fire. Ever since I’ve lost it and I begged God to give me it back. He didn’t, not until one night during my crisis. I went to my favourite chapel and prayed, I got nothing, no comfort, nothing. Sighing I walked out, and stopped in the entrance. The had magazines from the African missionaries, (The catholic missions in Africa have always been popularly supported in Ireland), as well as a very anti-European Union Catholic Newspaper called Alive!. I picked up one of the magazines out of interest, and flipped it on the back. I saw a picture of two young African girls smiling at me, I smiled myself, it was a common image used by charities and missions to try to get people to support their work. But this wasn’t the interesting thing, what interested me was the quote written above their heads. It was made on behalf of the Patrick society, (I think), I can’t remember what it said. But it caused a sudden revelation that hit me like a truck. It was doubt by which people were justifying the bad crap that they do. It was the doubted they’d ever have to answer for what they do that they do it anyway, it was because of doubt that society is on a downward spiral, it was because of doubt that shit is the way it is now.
After this I looked back upon myself and how I was acting, I was being selfish, offering up a million prayers and petitions for myself and not one for the billions suffering worldwide. I hated myself. I walked back into the chapel and knelt at the front pew, praying fiercely on behalf of everyone in every continent who was suffering. Everyone I could think of. I walked out of the chapel afterwards, and marched down to my school, (Roughly half a mile away if you measured the winding streets), with an almost military pace. Furious at myself, but another thing was in my favour, the fire was back in my blood, and images of Saint Michael wouldn’t leave my mind.
I have since forgotten this and everything I learned from my experience except for three things:
1: I must adopt a Holy Anger towards sin in the world
2: I must humble myself; this meant no more fantasies of grandeur.
3: I must firmly reject satan always and everywhere. Literally.

I still haven’t recovered all that I lost because of the crisis, I need to research the 3000+ year history of Celtic culture so I can identify myself again, I need to find out everything I had found out before. I need to take a new found interest in History, politics and English Literature as well as my religion classes which form the basis of my 6th year education. But because of my three week crisis, I had began to fail in all four. Rediscovery bites, but at least it can happen. I’m not changing, I’m coming back.

This is a summery by the by.