Note:New stuff starts page 50. 

Middle school brought my first fights with the spiritual realm that I can remember. Now, at the time, I didn’t know that my struggles were associated with the spiritual realm just as much as they were with the physical realm. The way my bullies treated me made me severely question the existence of God, and in turn, allowed much darker thoughts to enter my head. I was suicidal, but I was too afraid of pain, death, and the slim possibility of there being an afterlife to do anything to myself. As much as I wanted to die, or at the very least, cease to exist, I was always stopped by the question, what if? What if there is an afterlife? What if there is a God? What if there is a hell?

I was pretty convinced that if I followed through with suicide, hell was waiting for me. I didn’t consider myself a Christian by then. I didn’t want to be around God, and to be honest, I didn’t even think He existed. I knew from bible study that hell was reserved for those who didn’t want to be with God. It wasn’t reserved for life-long unbelievers or criminals or mean-spirited people. Hell was for those who died but still rejected God’s free gift. And I knew that if I were to die then, I would be too upset and angry to accept God’s free gift of grace and salvation. In other words, I wanted to go to hell. I was just too afraid of death and pain to send myself there for eternity.

I was already in hell, however. I separated myself from God, and as a consequence, I suffered completely alone. My mom had me in therapy in an attempt to heal me from my Post Traumatic Stress, but the treatment did nothing but further disturb my inner demons and make me even more stressed and anxious. So, she told me to form a close relationship with God. But, I didn’t believe in God. I thought prayer was just talking to a wall. God didn’t answer my prayers throughout middle school. He left me to suffer alone, so I gave up on Him and wrapped myself in my own misery like a security blanket.

Over time, I got comfortable being miserable. I decided that’s just how life was supposed to be. Deep down inside, I knew it wasn’t supposed to be that way. I wasn’t healthy at all. In fact, my misery was literally killing me. My physical health was slowly getting worse and harder to cope with. My anxiety made my stomach hurt so badly that I’d have to go home from school early. I had to get a backpack on wheels because I was too weak to carry the weight of several thick binders and books at once. I was cold almost all of the time, even in the summer, and spent my days at home and at school wrapped up in hoodies and blankets. And, for the first time in my life, I had a productive cough even though I didn’t test positive for any lung infections. Clearly, something was very wrong, but I didn't know how to fix it, or if I could fix it.

All of this terrified my mom. She knew I didn’t have faith in God anymore, and therapy wasn’t working either, so she turned to her Christian friends for help. One of her friends envisioned a dark, demonic energy surrounding me. It concentrated around my lungs, and slowly but surely, it was constricting around them, squeezing the air out of them. At that moment, my mom knew something needed to happen to save me from that darkness.

She decided to go home and lay her hands on me to pray, but I refused to let her near me. And when she suggested we go to church for a prayer session, I told her I’d never go to church again. I hated church, and prayer was completely useless! God was dead, and I killed Him! With that, I stormed upstairs and slammed my bedroom door, leaving my mom standing in the kitchen speechless.

Something did happen that night. I wouldn’t call it a prayer, but I did express my anger towards God in an epic, tearful rant as I paced around my bedroom. I asked God why He allowed me to suffer so much. I was well aware that my own suffering was impacting others in my life, and I hated that. But the pain I was in was too much to hide from my family. My body couldn’t take the stress either, and was visibly failing. My whole life was falling apart, and I didn’t have the ability to fix anything. I urgently needed support that no one I knew of could offer me.

However, I still rejected God. While I did plead for help, I still reaffirmed that I did not believe in Him. I was just wasting my time, ranting to my bedroom walls. However, something deep down inside me seemed to recognize the reality of God’s existence. God was real, and He was listening to my desperate, angry, painful call for help. He wasn’t upset that I was angry with Him. In fact, He was probably overjoyed that I even asked Him for something, even though I repeatedly cursed Him and pushed Him away, saying over and over again, “I’m probably just talking to a wall.” throughout my tearful prayer. I didn’t say Amen. Instead, I just collapsed on by bed and sobbed into my pillow, eventually falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Nothing seemed to have changed after that prayer. I still went to school the following Monday, where I was still bullied just as severely as I had been before. I still came home late with a stack of homework I didn't even bother to look through. I still went to bed and woke up the next morning to repeat the same routine on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. That pretty much confirmed to me that God was not there. He was not real. I was alone in this battle, and I didn't expect to survive it. I'd eventually lose my fear of death, and if illness didn't kill me first, I'd gain the courage to do it myself. 

Two weeks later, I found myself walking through the doors of a new school. I was accepted there with open arms. But, I was still very nervous and pushed the friendly students away for the most part. After what I had just gone through, I didn’t want much to do with anyone. I just wanted to be left alone so I could finally relax and heal. I was too exhausted to befriend anyone at that point, and didn't think they were trustworthy anyway. After all, the kids at my previous middle school were nice to me for the first week I was there. Surely, the kids at this new place would eventually turn on me too.

I was still skeptical of God, though much more open to Him, and hoped He’d show Himself again so I could confirm His existence. I prayed again for God to reveal Himself to me, letting Him know my heart was open to the idea of His existence. But I also warned that it would take quite a lot to convince me He existed, but I was willing to believe if He could just prove Himself to me. 

God had a lot more in store for me than I honestly bargained for. When I prayed for a sign, I was asking God to show Himself in a much more minor way. Instead, my life was whacked into a downward spiral once again. My lung function dipped down into record-low numbers, and I found myself being led down a hospital corridor into a small hospital room; room number 665, directly across from a storage room labeled 666.

My grandpa was the one who pointed that out to me. At the time, I brushed it off. I was far too worried about the needles and IV medications I’d have to deal with for the next two weeks, to even consider what the number 666 symbolized.

My doctors were surprised that my condition had deteriorated so quickly. They determined that I had MRSA, and that was causing my illness. However, I’d been growing MRSA for years and it never bothered me until then. I suspect that stress and anxiety, coupled with depression and my loss of faith, made me weak enough for MRSA to take over and make me incredibly sick.

For two weeks, I struggled to get better in the hospital. I was allergic to an IV antibiotic called Vancomycin, which we only figured that out after it gave Red Man’s Syndrome, which basically set my skin on fire for two days before it finally subsided. The other antibiotics wrecked me in other ways. I was usually too tired to leave my hospital bed, and needed help doing some of the most basic tasks, including showering and getting dressed. I hardly digested anything, and eating just made my stomach cramp up, which would put me in a fetal position on my bed.

As I physically suffered, I suffered mentally and spiritually as well. I could barely sleep at night in the hospital, even though my parents and grandparents slept on a pull-out couch just a few feet away from me, because I’d be tormented by nightmares in my sleep. And during the day, I was so anxious that nothing could stop me from shivering with fear or chewing my nails until they bled. I was truly in hell, and as time wore on, I realized that I needed to give God another chance if I wanted to survive my ordeal.

When I got out of the hospital and returned to normality, I realized that believing in God wasn’t as easy as saying, “I believe!”. I had a lot of questions, doubts, and fears. I hid my unbelief from my family for the most part, though at times I’d approach my grandpa with questions, hoping he could answer them for me. While he provided satisfying answers to some of my questions, he couldn’t answer every question for me.

These unanswered questions built up over time, and I got very frustrated.

I was still very sick, and my suffering further fed my doubts and anger towards God. My mom and I temporarily moved in with my grandparents so she didn't have to take care of me without help. I struggled a lot with severe, unpredictable coughing fits that lasted an average of 15 to 20 minutes. If I had a particularly excruciating coughing fit, my grandpa would have me lay face-down on his massage table, and he’d pound my back and chest until I could finally catch my breath again. Then, he’d have me roll over so he could massage my back and sinuses until I stopped shivering and relaxed.

On top of that, I was going to the doctor's every few weeks to get checked on. My health was still pretty bad, and while it didn't look like it was improving, it wasn't getting any worse either. So, doctors decided that unless I got worse, I could continue to do treatments at home. Those treatments involved a handful of different oral antibiotics, as well as exercise, extra supplements and vitamins, plenty of healthy whole food, and lots of rest.

While my diet helped with my digestion, I wasn't sure the antibiotics were doing anything to get rid of my lung infection. MRSA is antibiotic-resistant Staph, and it felt pointless to continue fighting something that was immune to most antibiotics with antibiotics. But my doctors didn't let me get off any antibiotics, telling me I'd be a lot sicker if I got off them. I had to show that my lung function was improving by more than just a few points at a time, in order to even have a chance at getting off the antibiotics. 

This motivated me to get on with life as usual, hoping that I could somehow fight the infection by ignoring it the best I could. I still went to school, and while I was at school, I participated in PE the best I could. I was still too sick to attend Tae Kwon Do, but I was determined to get back to my old self again and stay out of the hospital. 

I knew I couldn't do it alone. My health was not really in my control. I could do everything right, and my condition could still get worse. But I wasn't quite ready to put my faith and trust in God. I still had a lot of unanswered questions, worries, and fears about God. I struggled with the problem of evil often. Either God was all-good, but not all-powerful, or God was all-powerful, but not all-good. But He couldn't possibly be both, even though the bible claimed God was both all-good and all-powerful. I wondered if God hurt people on purpose, just to perform miracles and trick them into believing He was all-good and all-loving, like some sick joke. But, I also wondered if God truly meant well, but He just wasn't powerful enough to stop all evil and suffering in the world. Either way, Christianity didn't seem right to me, but at the same time, neither did atheism. 

In the meantime, I continued going to school. I hid my illness pretty well, despite the coughing fits. I was well enough to participate in PE, even though I struggled to keep up with everyone else. At least I could play. This gave me the little hope I needed to rise above my depression and anxiety, and I could finally learn how to trust people better and heal. I had a long road ahead of me, but I was excited to finally be on that road to recovery, and didn't care how long it took me to reach the end. 

My fear, on the other hand, was much harder for me to hide. I knew my peers sensed my nervousness, and they did their best to reassure me that everything would be ok. My family did this too, because I was much more open to them about my fears. But no one could convince me everything would be ok. I was still sick and running from the very real possibility of ending up in the hospital. My doctors tried to make me relax by promising me I could get a PICC line, spend only two days in the hospital to learn how to use it, and then complete the rest of my IV antibiotics at home through the PICC line. But there was no way I was going back into that hospital room, even for just a day, without putting up an intense fight. 

After about a month, my doctors threatened to hospitalize me if I did not show any improvement. My health had stagnated over the previous month, and my doctors were worried that I could suffer permanent damage if I didn't get rid of the MRSA infection. While one of the doctors explained this to me over lunch in the hospital's cafeteria, I broke down. I could not spend another night in the hospital ever again. Not after what I had gone through previously. My doctor gave me another month to improve. But if I came to the next check-up still sick, I'd be admitted right away. 

It took me about a week to fully digest what my doctor said. I realized that I was pretty much screwed. The antibiotics weren't doing anything, and I had no reason to believe they'd suddenly start working over the next month. My family, most notably my grandparents, believed strongly in the power of prayer. Somehow, my grandpa convinced me to attend church with him one Sunday morning so the congregation could lay hands on me. 

I was very uncomfortable during that Sunday's church service. I don't remember what the sermon was about, but I do remember squirming in my seat while the pastor preached. Something felt very wrong, but I just couldn't figure out what was wrong. All that I know was I felt very uncomfortable, and I had to actively fight off the urge to bolt out of the church, especially when it came time for people to pray for me. 

To be honest, I left that church feeling no different about my health situation than before. I was just relieved to get away from everyone. I was still convinced that I would end up back in the hospital, where I'd undergo a PICC line placement procedure. Even if I could go home as soon as I (and a few family members) learned how to properly use and care for the PICC line, it still didn't help ease the dread or anxiety of being hospitalized. 

A few weeks later, I woke up in the middle of the night with an exceptionally bad coughing fit. I just could not stop coughing, no matter how much water I drank or how much I tried to stretch myself out while pacing around my bedroom. My grandparents were asleep in the room next door to mine, and were woken up by my painful, barking coughs. They knew there wasn't anything they could do to help me, and I didn't want any help anyway. So, my grandparents laid awake in bed, silently praying for me. My grandparents didn't realize the other was awake. 

When my grandma finished praying, she closed her eyes and opened them immediately, thinking she forgot to turn the lights off in the bedroom. She said she saw light when she closed her eyes, even though when she opened her eyes back up again, her room was pitch dark. At the same time she saw this light, my coughing abruptly stopped, and she heard me getting back into bed and sighing as I fell back asleep. My grandma closed her eyes and again saw the light, but instead of opening her eyes back up again, she kept her eyes closed as the light slowly faded. She felt an overwhelming sense of peace wash over her as she fell asleep. My grandpa also felt this same sense of peace come over him as he too, closed his eyes and went back to sleep, completely unaware of the light my grandma saw.

The next morning, I remarked that I felt well-rested despite my midnight coughing fit, and I felt like I could breathe better too. Then, my grandma told me about the light she saw in her sleep, which appeared at the same time I stopped coughing. My grandma hardly ever dreams, and never has had a vision before or since. She had no reason to lie, and was a terrible liar anyway, so I didn't think she was lying. Plus, I remembered how quickly I stopped coughing the night before. I went from being unable to catch my breath, to being completely clear in just a couple seconds. I didn't feel anything get dislodged, and I didn't cough anything out. I just suddenly felt much better again, and was able to fall back into a deep sleep for the rest of that night. 

This gave me something to ponder for the rest of the day. I barely coughed on the way to school, at school, on the way home, or even at home for the rest of the day. I felt like I could breathe in deeply and clearly. My lungs weren't rattly anymore like they had been. Something happened the night before, I was just not sure what. My grandparents believed it was God's doing, and while I was skeptical of their claims, I went along with it. I just hoped that if it was really God, He'd show Himself to me further. In fact, I asked for solid, verifiable evidence of His existence. If God could provide me with that, then I'd be a believer for life. 

Less than a week later, I was brought back to the hospital for another check-up. I was convinced I would be admitted to the hospital that day, and braced for that moment the best I could. My grandparents and my mom weren't so convinced, because they believed that God healed me. I figured that if God really healed me, then my lung function would've drastically improved. However, I couldn't tell just by feeling if my lungs were healed. I could breathe more clearly, but I didn't notice a change in my energy levels or my ability to breathe in deeply. 

I expected my lung function numbers to be in the low to mid 90 percent range, if that. But when I stood up to do my PFT's, the first number that came up after my first attempt was 113%. I was shocked and so was my doctor. Just a month ago, my lung function was barely 90% with Albuterol. But suddenly, for no logical reason (I was not doing any different antibiotics or other treatments over the last month than I did the previous months following my hospitalization), I broke my own best lung function record by a long shot without the help of Albuterol, even though I was still noticeably sick. The doctor asked me to do several more PFTs just to verify that number was correct and it was not a glitch, and my PFTs never went below 108% that day. My doctor, rather dumbfounded, told me I didn't need a PICC line and could go home. I was able to get off my oral antibiotics a week later, and only got better from that day on. 

I decided to start taking Christianity seriously after that. I agreed to attend church every Sunday, and my mom bought me a bible to study on my own time. I got very into the bible, and enjoyed long conversations about theology and spirituality over a game of cards with my grandpa. By then, I had more or less forgotten about the problem of evil, and instead asked questions I knew the bible and/or my grandpa had answers to. My childlike faith in God had been restored thanks to that one miracle, or so it seemed. 

As months passed, my life at my dad's house got increasingly difficult. Not long after I was healed, my stepmom gained full custody of my stepbrother, meaning my time with my dad was cut by half. I still got to spend time with my dad over the weekends at his house, though instead of spending Friday afternoon until Sunday evening with him, I only got to stay with him from Saturday afternoon until Sunday afternoon. I rarely, if ever, saw my stepmom for several weeks. 

I did get to see my paternal little half-brother however, who stayed with my dad instead of going with my stepmom and stepbrother to his grandparents' house. He was a rather difficult child, and my dad usually struggled to put him to bed. We had a routine though. After dinner, my dad would start winding his son down in preparation to go to bed, and within a few hours, my little brother would be asleep. Then, my dad and I would watch a movie together. In the meantime, I kept myself entertained, waiting for my little brother to finally fall asleep so Dad and I could spend some time together. 

Unfortunately, as the weeks progressed, the tension and anxiety within the house only escalated. My stepmom started leaving my stepbrother at her parents', and then coming back to stay with me, Dad, and my little half brother for the weekend. Because of this, we often got into petty conflicts that would escalate into full-on screaming matches. My stepmom was upset I didn't see her as a mother-figure, but rather as someone to be actively avoided. And I was upset that my stepmom didn't seem to respect that I already had a mom. 

My dad was at a complete loss. He didn't know who to believe after every fight, so he just stopped trying to get involved. In his mind, as long as no physical fighting happened (which it never did), it wasn't his problem, and there'd be no harm other than temporarily hurt feelings. My stepmom was very good at turning herself out to be the victim, even though she was always the one to start the fight in the first place. I actively tried to avoid her and even told her every chance I had to leave me alone. If she got too close, I'd retreat to another room unless she cornered me. If she cornered me, I'd have no choice but to fight back.

She often made rude and unnecessary comments about literally everything I did, degrading me based on everything from my looks to my hobbies. I ignored her the best I could. She hardly ever said anything new, so I quickly got used to it and just learned to not take things personally. I wasn't the girly-girl she wanted, and because of that, she did everything she could without laying a hand on me to make me into that girly-girl. Unfortunately for her, the more she bullied me, the tougher and rougher I got. 

My stepmom took every one of my counter-arguments and disagreements with her personally, even though they weren't. If she suggested I should wear a dress one day, and I said no, she'd get red in the face and act all offended, almost as if to guilt me into dressing up for her. It never worked. In fact, it actually backfired on her. Whether or not she was actually upset didn't matter. I felt empowered knowing she couldn't rule over my life or my decisions. She could never force me to do something against my will, no matter how hard she tried.

But, what did get me every time, was when my stepmom would badmouth my family to me. She accused them of being dirty liars, cry-bullies, and more, blaming them for breaking up her family. She could no longer achieve the dream of having a perfect family since her son was ordered by the court to never be around me. So, she blamed my family, and especially me, for ruining her life. Not that her life was actually ruined. She just didn't get her way. 

I felt obligated to defend my family whenever she slandered them, even though I knew my family would never hear her say it themselves. These long, exhausting arguments over my family never went anywhere. They were just circular, and eventually I'd run out of steam. My stepmom only got more energized by those arguments. She had lots of fun. I, on the other hand, would have to lay down on my bed in silence for an hour to recharge. Then, I'd reluctantly leave my bedroom, and as long as my dad was not around, the fights would continue. 

The tension in the house got so bad, though, that all of my energy would be drained the moment I stepped inside the house every Saturday afternoon. There was an intensely oppressive feeling in the house, like the weight of the world was slammed down on my shoulders every time I walked into the house. There was also a lot of anxiety in the house. I always anticipated a fight, so I was always on high-alert, regardless if my stepmom was there or not. I started having intense, repetitive nightmares of being held down, choked, and then murdered in my sleep. I'd often snap awake from these dreams gasping for air. Sometimes, I'd wake up stuck to my bed, like I was being held down by something. Thankfully, those sleep paralysis episodes never lasted more than a minute or two, and I never hallucinated. Nevertheless, that doesn't dismiss the terror those nightmares instilled into me. 

To add to all of this, I started sensing more than just tension and anxiety in the house. That house was full of the presence of evil. I hated that feeling, especially since it followed me everywhere throughout the house, making me extremely jumpy and easily angered. As soon as I walked out the front door, almost all of those horrible feelings would leave me, but they'd be waiting for me as soon as I came back inside. I really started to crumble over at my dad's house, unable to bear the weight of the tension, and too exhausted to hold my ground for long when my stepmom fought with me.

My mom could sense that something was very wrong whenever I came home from my dad's. I came home visibly upset and easily angered. At first, I didn't tell her much, but after several weeks, I finally told my mom everything. She understood, believed, and validated everything I told her. My mom also experienced my stepmom's rage for awhile, but my mom wasn't as little as me, and she didn't see her regularly. My mom told me to not worry about defending my reputation or the family's reputation when my stepmom attempted to tarnish it. My stepmom's insults, no matter how personal, came from a place that had nothing to do with us. She was just upset she didn't get her way, so I should just let her rant and walk away, rather than share in her misery. 

I knew my mom was right. I wasn't obligated to defend my family from words they'd never hear or be affected by. Plus, I couldn't argue with my stepmom. She had a lot more energy to argue than I had, and she had no desire to admit she was wrong. Perhaps, she knew she was wrong. She just wanted to upset me more than anything. Or, maybe she truly believed what she told me. Either way, instead of giving her what she wanted, I just needed to ignore her. 

That was easier said than done. The next time I saw my stepmom, I felt obligated to defend my experiences again. But somewhere in the middle of our argument, my mom's words repeated in my mind and I shut up. After my stepmom finished her rant, she pressured me to respond, but I just stood there, staring past her blankly. To my relief, it worked. And from then on, I just stayed silent during my stepmom's rants, and she eventually gave up on trying to get me to respond. 

Of course, our relationship was still extremely tense, and we got into different, pettier fights over dumb things, such as why I didn't like hip-hop music like my stepmom did. However, I just had to teach myself to be the adult in the room, to just sit down and shut up. I needed to let my stepmom rant and not intervene. My stepmom would eventually run out of steam and leave me alone for awhile. 

Meanwhile, my faith was once again challenged with something I hadn't really encountered before. I didn't understand why God would allow me and my stepmom to be at each other's throats all of the time. I didn't understand why God would allow us to be in each other's lives in the first place. Clearly, me and my stepmom couldn't stand each other, and our fights were affecting more than just us. My relationship with my dad was getting tense too. And my relationship with my mom was also not as great as before, because I'd come home from my dad's and put a lot of my leftover anger on her and my little brother. I didn't mean to be so angry, but it would just come out of me over the littlest things. My bedroom door also started falling apart, and needed to be nailed back together because of how often I slammed it shut. 

I really started to scare myself and everyone else with my random bursts of anger. We all knew where it was coming from, but no one was sure how to channel it out of me. Tae Kwon Do did help with that to an extent, but I never felt less angry after each class. I was just too tired out to express it. 

Thankfully, my mom understood that I needed love and support more than anything. Sure, she did reprimand me whenever I had a fit of rage, but more importantly, she reminded me constantly that I was loved. I wasn't alone or going crazy. I could get the help I desperately needed, and I'd be ok. My mom hesitated to tell me to pray to God for guidance, since she wasn't sure if I considered myself a believer. To be honest, I was on the fence again. But she told me to pray anyway, and that even if prayer wasn't effective in reaching a Higher Power, at least it could serve as a form of meditation for me. My mom also suggested that I wrote down the things that were bothering me the most. Perhaps, then, I could find some sort of release through writing. 

I tried my best to pray about and write down the things that were bothering me. Prayer wasn't as effective for me, but writing was. In fact, that's how I discovered just how much I enjoyed writing, and how good I was at it. It gave me a place to put my pain that could be safely stored away, rather than bottling it up inside myself until it boiled over. So, to keep my sanity and regain a sense of calm, I wrote almost everyday, talking about the things that were hurting me the most. I also started writing about the things that I did enjoy, and began ending all of my essays on a more positive note, no matter how I started them. That way, I left my phone, laptop, and/or iPad with a smile on my face, and could carry on that sense of happiness for the rest of the day. 

Writing allowed me to release the memories without having to worry about forgetting them. I knew it was probably important to document the things I was going through, so if I suffered long-term pain from those memories, I could pinpoint the issue and heal quicker. Also, writing them down prevented bad feelings from festering within me, so I wasn't nearly as easily angered or upset. 

Through writing, I was able to regain a sense of peace in my life. I stopped aiming my anger at my mom and little brother, and would instead retreat to my bedroom right away after my dad dropped me off at home, to put down all of the bullshit from my dad's on a digital writing document. Then, I could join the family without lashing out at them. Occasionally, I shared my writings with my mom, though rarely. She already had a good idea of what was going on at my dad's house. Plus, once I had it written down, I didn't want to reply those memories again. I didn't want to piss myself off again. There was no reason to. 

My mom was very relieved that I was back to my old self. And, even my dad noticed I wasn't so tense at his house. While it was still quite unbearable at his place, I knew how to remain calm and not lash out at anyone. If I felt myself getting upset, I'd retreat to my bedroom or the couch and put that stuff in my iPad. Then, I could put the writings away and eventually forget about them. I didn't have to carry the weight of the tension between me and my stepmom. My iPad could store it for me, and I'd never have to read my writings again. I could even delete them if I wanted to. 

My stepmom began noticing I was spending a lot more time typing away on my iPad. She didn't let me know she noticed it, but she kept a hawk's eye on me. I didn't notice her watching me very often, because I was busy listening to music and typing down my everyday life. I was utterly oblivious.

She finally confronted me one day. She asked me to give up my electronics so she could look through them. I instantly felt my blood run cold. I knew I didn't have much to hide, but I knew what she was up to. Unfortunately, I was cornered and couldn't get away. So, I said a silent prayer while I reluctantly gave up my iPad, then immediately asked my dad if we could go on a long bike ride as far away from the house as possible. 

As I biked alongside my dad through Cherry Creek State Park, my mind raced a million miles an hour. I didn't know what my stepmom would look through. I just hoped she was only interested in my internet history, because that was very boring. But I knew, deep down inside, that wasn't what she was interested in. She knew I was writing about something, and probably speculated that it was about her.

Unfortunately for me, most of what I wrote was about her. I never wished her harm. But I wanted her out of my life, and I knew if she read about that, she could figure out a way to twist it in her favor, and possibly convince my dad that I was a danger to everyone. My biggest fear at the time was losing my relationship with my dad, and I felt I was on thin ice. If my stepmom got her way, I knew my relationship with my dad would be over. The thought of losing my dad still physically hurts. 

When we returned after being on our bikes for nearly 2 hours, I found my iPad sitting on my bed. I quickly turned it on and looked through it. Nothing was moved, missing, screen-shot, or anything. I sort of relaxed, hoping my stepmom did just look through my internet history. 

That week in therapy, my therapist looked quite concerned, and asked to talk to my mom before she talked to me. I was instantly alarmed, as was my mom. My mom gave me a reassuring nod as she followed my therapist into her office, and closed the door behind her. I couldn't hear their conversation over the TV, and to be honest, I was afraid of what my therapist had to say. Those five minutes spent I spent sitting alone in the waiting room felt like an eternity. I nearly jumped out of my skin when my therapist's door opened, and my mom beckoned me in with a smile. 

In the middle of the floor between my mom and therapist was a large cardboard box of papers. I instantly recognized the font and writing style as being mine. 

"Uh, what's this?" I asked as I kicked at the box on my way to my seat. 

"Your dad brought these in at the request of your stepmom." my therapist replied, "He said she was very alarmed by what you wrote in these."

"Why?" I asked. 

"Apparently, you wish a lot of harm and death towards your stepmom in your emails and letters." my therapist casually sighed. 

"Did you even read them?" I asked through clenched teeth, "I never wished harm or death on her. I want her out of my life, but that's nothing new. That's the worst I've said in my writing. I don't want her to be harmed or killed. By the way, how the hell did she get these in the first place?"

"Your dad said she got them off your iPad, after she asked if she could look through it. You gave it to her, happily." my therapist explained. 

"Happily my ass!" I growled, "She forced me to give it up. I didn't want to, but she made me!"

I couldn't believe that my therapist was so naive. I was seething with anger. I'd been seeing her for almost a year, and for basically that entire year, I spent my therapy hours ranting about my stepmom and seeking advice from my therapist. My therapist led me to believe she understood, and would stand by my side if my stepmom tried anything. But I suddenly realized she had only been doing that to be professional. Suddenly, not only was my privacy grossly invaded by my stepmom, but she printed that stuff out and had my dad deliver it to my therapist in hopes that I'd be confronted. And, there I was, being confronted by my therapist and treated as if I was in the wrong. My therapist believed my stepmom's lies, and never bothered to fact-check my stepmom by reading the documents herself. Sure, I didn't want those things to be read, even by myself, but it would be better than being accused of writing stuff I never wrote. 

Needless to say, that therapy session was cut short by my mom. She promptly lifted up the box of papers and pushed me out the door, while telling the therapist she'd look into it herself. My mom was just as angry as I was. Maybe even more so. 

I broke down in uncontrollable tears as soon as I got into the car. I was absolutely destroyed. My mom couldn't say or do anything that would comfort me. The damage had been done. All we could do was ensure that my privacy wouldn't be invaded again, especially by someone who had no good intentions.  

As soon as we got home, I wiped my old email clean, and created a new email I knew no one but myself had access to. Meanwhile, my mom got me a brand new phone with a brand new email, and then together we set it up once she came back home. I reset my old phone, so it was completely wiped clean of anything that had to do with me, and put it away in a junk drawer. Finally, over the rest of that week, Mom began looking for a new therapist for me. I could not trust my therapist anymore. She hadn't been honest with me, so I had no reason to continue on with her as if nothing happened. 

As expected, my dad didn't say much about the whole ordeal. He more or less shrugged it off. But I could tell it really bothered my stepmom. I decided not to associate my iPad with my email or any of my personal accounts for that matter. I also wiped it clean of any writings I kept on there, so my stepmom could find no trace of anything if she asked for it again. She did ask for it again later on, but because there was nothing there for her to see, she lost interest and never asked to look through it again. 

Instead, my stepmom once again harassed me over my interests. She tried to create a rule where I could only do educational things online, rather than "waste my time" on video games and internet memes. Unfortunately for her, she couldn't enforce it, and I didn't listen to her anyway. She was not my parent and certainly didn't have my best interest at heart, so there was no reason for me to give her that authority. 

Unfortunately, my stepmom's treatment of me made me extremely paranoid for awhile, and temporarily killed my passion for writing. Even though I knew no one but myself had access to my writing anymore, I couldn't trust it. I tried handwriting things down for awhile, but I couldn't write nearly as fast as I could think, and I often worried about someone finding my journals too. I ended up putting all of my old handwritten journal writings through a shredder, then I dumped the shredded pieces in the box of printed-out writings my mom put in the garage. I wasn't sure what to do with the box of writings. I didn't want to throw them away, for fear someone would get curious and dig them up again, and I wasn't about to spend a couple hours shredding them all up. I figured the best thing I could do was keep the box until I had an idea of what to do with it. 

I once again lost my go-to stress outlet, and was again easily irritated. I didn't even have a therapist to talk to, because I refused to go to my old therapist again. In an attempt to protect other people from my anger, I isolated myself. At school, I sat alone at lunch, and if people tried to get me to join them, I'd tell them to just go away, and I needed some time to be alone. My mom got phone calls from several worried parents and teachers, whom she reassured that I was ok, and just needed some space. In reality, we all knew I wasn't ok, but we had no idea what to do. We just didn't want people to worry. To keep myself busy, I attended Tae Kwon Do three times a week, and my mom continued to look all over the city for a new therapist I could trust. 

As I suffered, I interrogated God through prayer every night. I asked Him what the point of all that suffering was, and what I did, if anything, to deserve it. I began to question God's morality yet again. I really started to believe that God was pretty sadistic, only performing miracles to rope people back into His arms, just so He could hurt them again. I felt myself slipping back into hell, and everyday, I got a little meaner and a little more isolated as I desperately tried to fight off my inner demons with no help whatsoever. 

Just when I thought I'd lose that battle, my mom found a new therapist for me to go to. It was actually a therapy group, led by a respected and very experienced older couple, who had spent their lives studying and writing about psychology. They'd seen it all. Best of all, I wouldn't be attending therapy alone. I'd be accompanied by my mom, and everyone else in the therapy group, so I could learn how to trust therapists again with some help. The only downside of this therapy group was that it was well across town from my home. 

Every Tuesday evening, Mom and I would make the commute across town to this therapy group, which was at the therapists' house. It was a cozy old house, nestled in a quiet neighborhood with lots of tall trees. There was tea set out on the coffee table for everyone who wanted it, and everyone was very friendly, so I quickly got comfortable. I let my mom do most of the talking for me at first, especially since I didn't know what to say or how much I should say. I didn't want to overshare, even though everyone was encouraged to talk about their deepest feelings. 

As much as I learned to trust everyone in the group, as well as the therapists who ran it, I wasn't sure if I was ready to have a one-on-one session with a therapist. I was nervous, and didn't want my privacy to be compromised and used against me again. 

I was feeling slightly better, but I was still very irritable and upset. My mom finally sat me down and asked what would make me feel better, because I was clearly in need of help but didn't ask for it. One-on-one therapy? Church? A frozen yogurt? I wasn't sure. I just wanted to be able to trust that I could write and have a private therapist, and not have to worry about all of my deepest secrets and inner feelings coming back to bite me. My mom understood, and told me she'd find me a therapist who was nowhere near my dad's house, or even remotely associated with my stepmom. But in the meantime, the therapists who ran the group therapy, specifically the wife, wanted to do a few one-on-one therapy sessions with me. My mom assured me that she was very safe and very experienced, and had no idea who my stepmom was outside of the stories we told her. So, I agreed to go. 

Beyond that, my mom also gave me a memoir written by a man called Victor Marx. She wanted me to read it, because she wanted me to be inspired by someone's real-life story of rising above adversity and coming to Christ. Then, after I finished the book, we could meet Victor Marx in person, and he could give me some personal advice about getting on with life despite its challenges. I desperately needed that inspiration, even though I didn't know that at the time. 

Getting back into one-on-one therapy was quite difficult for me at first. I wasn't sure of what to say or how to respond to my therapist's questions, even though I had known her for a few months through the group therapy sessions by that point. Thankfully, she was very kind and understanding, so we took it slow. Within a few weeks, I finally relaxed and believed that I could trust a one-on-one therapist again. So far, nothing bad happened, and none of my personal information was compromised. My therapist wouldn't even tell my mom what we were talking about if she asked, and would only talk to her about it if I was completely ok with that.

Before, many of my therapists, especially my previous therapist, believed that my parents had every right to know what was going on with me. But the oldest and most experienced therapist I ever had believed otherwise, saying I, even though I was barely 14, had every right to have secrets and feelings my parents didn't know about, and it was perfectly normal and healthy for me to have them.

On top of that, my therapist had been watching me closely from the first day we met. She could tell I had a lot of trauma just based on the way I carried myself, but I was still very stable and mentally strong. She knew of a handful of other therapists who specialized in PTSD treatment, and agreed to give my mom a list of therapists to get in contact with who could help me. She could tell that my PTSD was pretty detrimental to me, even though I didn't notice it.

My PTSD didn't show up in cliche ways. I rarely had nightmares, even though they were always intense when I did have them. I wasn't easily scared or disturbed. I could sit through horror movies and gory movies easily without having any adverse reactions to them. I was just very wary of people and hyper-aware of the world around me, and built up walls around my emotions almost nothing could get through by the time I was 15 years old. This made it much more difficult to treat my PTSD, especially since most of my childhood had been blocked from memory. I only knew bad things happened to me because I was told bad things happened to me, not necessarily because I consciously remembered bad things happening to me. 

My therapist could tell I lost a lot of hope when she told me this, so she quickly told me to not worry so much. My PTSD could be treated in other ways. Just because EMDR and talk therapy didn't have much of a healing affect on me, didn't mean there wasn't something out there that could have a healing affect on me. I just had to do a little bit of digging and perhaps get creative. My therapist told me to start investing some time into religion, adventures, productive hobbies, and social relationships, and perhaps then, I'd find healing. 

I came home later that night, and once again, made a deal with God. I didn't necessarily disbelieve in God, but I was very suspicious of Him. I lived under the assertion that God was a sadistic being, Who enjoyed inflicting pain on His creation just to heal them, and then hurt them again. I more or less challenged God to prove to me that He wasn't just hurting and healing me for fun. Perhaps, God could show me that He was the ultimate embodiment of mercy and love, in a way that I'd get the message. At the time, I thought I'd cornered God, and finished that prayer with a heart full of triumphant pride. Surely, God couldn't get out of this one, and Christianity would crumble at my feet!

I'd forgotten to consider that there was another side to the spiritual realm. It didn't just contain God and His angels. There were darker forces in the spiritual realm as well. If there is a God, there must be a devil too, right?

I was having a particularly rough time at my dad's house. My relationship with my dad was getting rockier every weekend, because I could not get along with his wife. This inability to get along with her was nothing new, but because I was getting older, I was growing a bit of a backbone when I didn't have one at all when I was little. Whenever my stepmom tried to get me to do something or push me around, I fought back. I wasn't afraid of her anymore. I knew her threats were empty, and her blame against me for shattering her vision of the perfect family by lying to the court system to keep her son away from me, was completely baseless. I was 6 years old. 6 year olds don't know how to play the court system like that. 

In an attempt to bring me to heel, my stepmom tried some new tricks, such as being nice to me for a time to bribe me into a relationship with her, and then pounce on me once she had enough emotional ammunition, but I never fell for most of those tricks. As tensions in the house grew, so did everyone's anxiety. By then, I was well aware of what anxiety felt like. It gave me a sense of impending doom and forced me to be on guard all of the time, but there was something else under that feeling of anxiety that I only felt at my dad's house, regardless if my stepmom was there or not. 

When I was 13, my stepmom gained full custody of her son. So, for most of the weekends I was with my dad from then on, my stepmom was at her parents' house with her oldest son, leaving Dad at home alone with me and my little half-brother. I felt a little more relaxed without my stepmom around, but that other, almost indescribable feeling under my anxiety remained. I only felt it at my dad's house, but as soon as I left the driveway, I felt fine. 

At my dad's house, I often got the feeling that I was being watched, and it was not a good or neutral feeling either. It felt malicious, like there was a predator hiding just around the corner, waiting patiently for the right moment to pounce. I'd check around the house and there would be nothing around that should've been giving me that feeling. Yet, I'd get that feeling often, day or night, alone or in the same room as my dad, but I never got that feeling of being watched anywhere else. It was just at my dad's house. 

I wasn't sure how to let people know what I was feeling. I was worried that I was starting to lose my sanity, or that people would tease me if I told them what was going on. The only people I figured I was safe telling were my mom and grandpa Lyle, because they openly talked about those kinds of things to me, and I hoped they'd reassure me that I wasn't going crazy, and maybe I was just paranoid in that house because of my stepmom, or I was just letting my imagination run away from me. Nothing other than that feeling was out of the ordinary. 

When I had both my mom and grandpa Lyle in the same room together, I opened up about my experience with feeling watched at my dad's house. I told them I couldn't explain it. It didn't feel like normal anxiety, it would just come and go at random, and I wouldn't feel it anywhere else except for at my dad's. I admitted that I was worried I was going crazy, and begged them to refrain from teasing me or blowing it off. I was losing a lot of sleep over it, and the feeling of being watched seemed to only get worse every weekend I stayed at my dad's. I went from being perfectly comfortable with staying there alone, to barricading myself in my bedroom and sleeping with the lights on because of that awful feeling. 

My mom and grandpa both assured me that I wasn't going crazy, and that my concerns were valid too. There was a huge leather bible on the coffee table in front of us, and my grandpa cracked it open to a few verses and biblical stories he thought were relevant to my situation. At the time, I was more agnostic than Christian, but listened closely anyway. Perhaps it was true, and it had some worthy advice when it came to dealing with anxiety and horrible feelings I ought to take to my dad's house. 

The first verse my grandpa opened up to was Ephesians 6:12, which read, "For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms."

 

 The passage comes from a description of the Armor of God in the bible, which Christians are commanded to wear at all times. Of course, the armor of God is not literal chain and steel armor, but a metaphor to stay on guard because the spiritual realm, as Christians believe it is, isn't just God and angels. It is also the devil and his demons, which the bible openly states in plenty of other verses in nearly every biblical book, have the power to influence the world around us. 

At least, that's how my grandpa described it to me after reading Ephesians 6:12. I knew what he was getting at, but I didn't like it. I didn't want to believe in that part of Christianity, not just because it initially sounded crazy to me, but because if it was true, then that was absolutely terrifying. It meant what I was feeling at my dad's house was not just anxiety or my imagination, but something very real that was powerful, not of this world, and was the furthest thing from all that is good and holy. 

I asked my grandpa if these things were actually real, and if he could find any biblical stories that were more literal than metaphorical that proved these things were real. So, my grandpa turned to Matthew, verses 8:28-34 to be exact, and read me the story about how Jesus exorcised two demon-possessed men, and then cast those demons into a farmer's pigs, which ran off a cliff into the ocean and drowned. 

That story definitely got me thinking, but I still wasn't all that convinced. In my mind, it was just a story in the bible. I wasn't at all sure if that story actually happened, or if it was just another fictitious tale in another ancient religious book. My grandpa chuckled at this and asked me if I'd forgotten about something. Since I was drawing a blank, it was clear that I had. 

In the early 1990's, when my mom was a teenager and my grandpa Lyle's marriage with my grandma Debbie was falling apart, my mom got sucked into a pretty bad crowd of equally broken teens. She often snuck out at night to hang out with her friends at the local graveyard, where they did some very questionable things, such as automatic writing and medium sessions. That eventually escalated to my mom inviting her friends over for a sleepover to play with an Ouija board, which they did on the coffee table with the lights off and only a handful of candles illuminating the main living room. 

Almost immediately after that night, stuff started to happen. At the time, my mom had a Chow Chow called Bear, who was a very protective guard dog. The day after my mom and her friends messed with the Ouija board, Bear went from being a fearless guard dog, to tucking his tail, hiding in the coat closet, and pissing himself for seemingly no reason. Then, my mom, aunt Jessie, and grandma Debbie all started hearing, feeling, and seeing things they'd never experienced before in that house, which they had lived in for over a decade before my mom decided it would be a great idea to mess with the occult inside the house. 

My aunt Jessie would mainly see a dark shadow of a person wandering across the hallway and standing at the bottom of the stairs, always in full view, and rarely in her peripheral vision. My mom would usually see little balls of light floating in empty corners or shooting across the room at or away from her. My grandma would often see door knobs turn by themselves, only to see that door fly open and then slam shut, and also witnessed water faucets turning themselves on and off. However, while many specific things happened more often to specific people than to others, everyone experienced the same things as everyone else for the most part. 

Interestingly enough, my grandpa never really experienced these things at first. He wasn't home often due to work, and being the agnostic atheist he was back then, he blew off the girls' experiences as just being paranoia because he was gone all of the time. His argument would've probably held more merit if Bear didn't react to the things everyone else was reacting to, as well as to things people could not see or hear. Bear's behavior alone was usually enough to scare everyone out of the house until my grandpa came home from work, because it was just so unusual. 

My mom admitted she thought she was going crazy until her friends, as well as her mom's and sister's friends, began to experience things with them. One day, my mom and one of her good friends from middle school were at the house alone together when they both heard the distinct sound of the garage opening. As it slowly squeaked open, my mom decided to open up the door from the house into the garage to watch her dad drive in. But as soon as the door was open, she and her friend discovered that the garage door never opened in the first place, and the noises completely stopped.

Just as they closed the door to the house, trying to dismiss it as someone else's garage door, or maybe the house settling, the landline phone began to ring. The only problem was, the landline that was ringing was broken and had been unplugged for years, and it didn't stop ringing for 5 minutes until my mom gained the courage to hang up the phone. Needless to say, the girls didn't stick around after that. 

The "paranormal activity" in the house peaked when my grandparents finally divorced. The negativity from their divorce, as well as from the death of the beloved family dog soon after, seemed to only feed whatever it was that was living in that house and tormenting pretty much everyone who stayed there for longer than a few hours. It went from only showing itself occasionally to certain people and messing with doors, to having the ability to chuck things across rooms, mess with electronics, growl, stomp around, mimic people's voices and figures, and physically mess with people.

My aunt Jessie recalls being scratched so hard by an unseen force, that her skin welted up, and my mom once stayed on the couch with the TV on all night long after she walked into her bedroom and saw the imprint of someone sitting on her bed slowly rising in the memory foam, as if someone had just gotten up. My grandpa was tormented by horrible nigh terrors, and a few nights was alerted by the sounds of glass breaking and men clambering inside, only to rush downstairs and see nothing out of place at all. 

The activity didn't even begin to subside until one of my mom's friends came to stay with her for the summer during college. This friend was a very devout catholic woman, and immediately felt what she described as a demonic presence in the house. She picked up some holy water, salt, and a bible, and went around the house with my mom, saying prayers, reading verses in the bible demanding whatever my mom invited into the house to leave, and then finishing off by sprinkling salt and holy water on every door and window in the house. The only place they didn't bless was the basement. The entity was so pissed off that it growled at them when they opened up the basement door, and since they rarely used the basement for anything, my mom and her friend decided the demon could have the basement. 

Over a decade later, I was born, and when my parents divorced, my dad stayed in that basement for a few months while he got his finances figured out and found another place to live. As skeptical and agnostic as he always was, even my dad admitted that there was something seriously wrong with that basement. He'd hear and see things he could not explain away, and despite hiring exterminators and setting off cans of bug spray every week to kill off anything and everything while he was away at work, my dad could not get rid of the massive spider infestation down there. He described the spiders as being unusually large and fast wolf spiders, and had to shake out his blankets every night because the spiders would crawl into bed with him sometimes. 

My grandpa's point of telling me these stories was not to scare me, even though that's exactly what he did, but just to prove that spiritual forces besides God existed and influenced the world just as much as God did. But he did advise me to put on the full armor of God, so if it turned out I was dealing with something similar at my dad's house, I would be protected. 

I argued with this point. As far as I knew, nobody was playing with the occult at my dad's house. Nobody was actively inviting anything negative into our lives as far as I knew. But my grandpa told me it wasn't just Ouija boards that had the power to provoke demons into our lives. Negativity had that same power, and there was plenty of negativity to go around at my dad's house. 

What my grandpa didn't tell me was that the devil does not like it when someone turns towards God, and if he is allowed, the devil will do everything in his power to thwart that person away from God. In my case, a lot of the things that happened to my mom and her family in the house she played with the Ouija board in, began to happen to me too at my dad's house. I would've written off my experiences at my dad's house as my imagination if my dad's dog didn't react to the same things I was reacting to. 

I stopped sleeping with the dog at my feet, and instead let my little half-brother sleep with him, because every night, between 2 and 4 AM, I'd wake up to my dad's dog growling with his hackles raised at the distinct sound of footsteps wandering up and down the hallway between my room and my dad's room on the other side of the house. Occasionally, my dad got up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water from the sink downstairs, but he never went downstairs in the darkness. Whenever I heard those footsteps, I'd get up to check and the hallway would always be pitch dark except for a little bit of light from the moon, as would the living room and the kitchen, which I could see from the hallway through the banister railing. 

I never wanted to alarm my dad or make him think I was going crazy, so I kept everything to myself. He never asked me any questions either. Even when I became too afraid to stay at the house by myself, or refused to sleep with the lights off, he never asked me why that was, and I was glad he didn't ask. He wasn't religious at the time, and regarded those things as silly stories people make up around campfires. Or so I thought. 

Years later, after I'd long since moved out of the house, and my dad moved too, he opened up to me about his experiences in that house during lunch. He arguably experienced the worst of the activity in that house, because he was home most of the time for work. 

He never saw things move in front of his eyes, but he heard things moving, and would see that they moved when he had his back turned. He turned the basement bedroom into his office, and while the kids were away at school, his wife was away at work, and his dog was at his feet, my dad and the dog would both hear footsteps and movement upstairs pretty often.

My dad would go upstairs to investigate, and usually there was nothing there, but sometimes he'd find things out of place, like the keyboard to the upstairs desktop on the floor on the other side of the room. When he found things laying around or open that weren't originally laying around or open, he was led to believe someone else was in the house that wasn't supposed to be there. But every time he checked the windows, doors, and the attic for signs of human activity, he'd find no evidence of anyone there. It was a very safe neighborhood, and there were neighbors around all of the time who would call my dad or his wife every time they saw an unfamiliar vehicle or person at their house. Yet, for some reason, he'd still find cabinets and doors standing open that he knew were closed earlier, or random objects lying in the center of rooms that weren't there before. Nothing of value ever disappeared, so my dad didn't have the evidence to conclude he was being robbed in broad daylight almost daily, while his car was in the driveway.  

He continued to work from home despite the strange events that continued to happen, at least until he went into the basement bathroom one day and found the heat bulbs that had been securely screwed into their metal sockets for years, both shattered all over the floor like something straight of a horror movie. My dad rushed to clean up the mess, and then moved his office upstairs that same day. He never told anyone this, because he too, was afraid he was going crazy. 

Interestingly enough, like my grandparents' old house where my mom played the Ouija board, that house also had a severe spider infestation my dad just could not get rid of no matter how hard he tried, or how much money he dished out for expert exterminators. When he was helping some hired moving guys move some bookshelves out of the basement, they found literal piles of spiders underneath the shelves. In some places, the layer of dead spiders under the shelves was inches thick, and some spiders were about as big and fury as tarantulas. To my dad, that was the kicker. That, in his words, was what turned him from an atheist into an agnostic. 

For a a few years after I left my dad's house, I never experienced anything particularly bad or even interesting. Life just went on as usual. But, my experiences at my dad's house did turn me pretty religious for awhile. I didn't want to run into that stuff again. It freaked me out and made me question everything I thought I knew. So, I avoided discussing, reading about, or even thinking about the dark side of the spiritual realm. If I didn't bother it, then maybe it wouldn't bother me.

I did my best to get close to God. I studied my bible, attended church, and prayed every night. Whenever I visited my grandpa, we'd talk about theology and Christianity for hours, discussing everything from the life of Jesus Christ to miracles. However, I resisted it if the conversation ever began to turn towards demons or the devil. 

After about a year of outright refusing to deal with anything that was remotely associated with hell or the devil, I finally relaxed. I figured if I could go a whole year without experiencing anything, I was probably safe. I could let down my guard and get that stick out of my ass. I felt confident and secure in my faith, and my mom reassured me that I was safe from evil as long as I called upon the name of Jesus Christ for help if I needed it. 

However, as my life turned stale, I felt my faith in God slipping once again. I held onto it strongly through the rest of middle school and my freshman year of high school. But, once I moved houses and began attending a private Christian school for my sophomore year, I really started losing grip on my faith. 

My private Christian school wasn't the undenominational Christian school the staff claimed it to be. It really was just a private fundamentalist school, where I was taught that demons are lurking around every corner, it was a sin to read any bible translation except for the King James Version (which was a problem because my bible was a different translation, but I refused to get a different one because I really liked what I already had), and the world was out to get Christians. Several of my teachers believed the world would end within that school year, citing Alex Jones' conspiracy theories and random, cherry-picked bible verses as proof. At times, I couldn't help but laugh at their wild beliefs and point out why they were likely wrong. Other times, I just played along to avoid a confrontation. Because of that, I was labeled as a rebel, and my questions and concerns were often shot down or ignored. 

I struggled to get along with many of my classmates who grew up in the school. They were painfully naive and sheltered from the world, so holding a productive conversation with them was often too difficult for me to do. They just didn't know the world quite like I did, because unlike me, they were heavily sheltered from it by both the school and their parents. Plus, most of them never knew someone who suffered from a terminal illness like myself. Many students, and even a couple teachers, believed that if I just prayed enough and got very close to God, my Cystic Fibrosis would be cured. While I didn't doubt God's power, and believed He could cure my Cystic Fibrosis like He cured my Pulmonary Atresia if He wanted to, I didn't think that God would just take away my CF if I just prayed hard enough. He gave me CF for a reason.

As the school year progressed, I really started to rethink religion. I didn't want to be associated with people like those fundamentalists. Many of their claims were crazy, and I finally understood why so many people in the world were resistant of religion. These fundamentalists firmly believed every negative thought, action, and event in life was caused entirely by the devil and his minions. Every bump in the night, every odd gust of wind, every shadow, every growl, every hole in the road, every fear, and every strange feeling was caused by demons. They strictly banned anything associated with things like Harry Potter and Halloween, fearing that just merely mentioning those things would invite an evil presence into their lives. They even banned Monster Energy drinks, because apparently the logo represented the Hebrew letters for 666. 

Growing up, I was told that evil entities do exist in the spiritual realm, and they can and do interact with our realm. My mom proved that to be true by playing the Ouija board when she was a teen. But I wasn't taught that they were lurking around every corner, or were just waiting for me to play World of Warcraft one too many times so they could raise some hell in my life. In fact, my family told me that most evil entities aren't powerful enough to do anything in the physical realm, and I ought to be skeptical of claims such as haunted houses and possessed people. I shouldn't actively seek out those things to mess with them, but I shouldn't give it much thought either.

If for some reason I ran into an evil entity or felt something was wrong, I could just call it out in the name of Christ and be done with it. There was no need to obsess over spiritual warfare, or spiritual matters in general. God was, is, and always will be in control, so I never had to fear the invisible things that were outside of my control. Nor did I have to worry about every possible reference to satanism in society. I could drink all of the Monster Energy drinks and read all of the Harry Potter books I wanted, and nothing evil could come from it. I just didn't do those things because I was never interested in Harry Potter or enjoyed the taste of Monster Energy drinks. I was (and still largely am) a hardcore fan of nonfiction books, and practically lived off of Mountain Dew. 

But, I must admit, I rebelled against my Christian school. I didn't do anything most normal people would call rebellious against the school. I didn't start drawing pentagrams on the whiteboards or slipping the bibles in the fiction section in my school's library. However, I actively challenged the ridiculous claims made by many of my teachers and peers. I acknowledged that evil entities do exist, and you shouldn't pull out a Ouija board and start asking questions. But you shouldn't give the devil and his minions power where they have none either. 

Harry Potter wasn't encouraging kids to get into satanism. Monster Energy drinks weren't inviting demons into people's houses. Violent video games weren't turning kids violent. Harry Potter was just a stupid book-turned-movie series about silly, nonexistent magic. Monster Energy drinks were just crappy tasting energy drinks with a meaningless logo printed on every can. And violent video games were just fun things to waste time on. They had no real power to cause harm. 

Yet, despite what I said, nobody listened. Eventually, my teachers just started shutting me down right away, or simply ignoring me when I asked difficult questions regarding their beliefs. Because of this, I really questioned the strength of God and Christianity in general. Was God so fragile that a discussion about the real world could destroy Him? Were demons so powerful that a movie about silly fake magic could empower them enough to attack people in the physical realm? Unfortunately, neither of those questions, or any challenging question for that matter, was allowed in my Christian school. They were just blown off as insignificant, a waste of time, an attempt to provoke the class, or just an evil thought implanted in my mind by the devil to kill my faith in God. 

In reality, the questions I had weren't to blame for my dying faith. It was the lack of answers, as well as the stark denial of the real world by people who were supposedly well-educated, that were screwing with my faith. So, I turned to the internet for answers, as well as to my grandpa Lyle, who seemed to be the only person in my life who was not afraid to tackle the hard questions with me, as well as give me useful advice. 

I didn't agree with everything my grandpa had to say. In fact, I often found myself challenging him, because I didn't like some of his answers. But unlike the teachers and students at my school, my grandpa listened, acknowledged that these were difficult questions, and then tackled them with me. He admitted that neither he, or the bible, had all of the answers. The bible was not a science book. It wasn't a history book. It wasn't a book about every other religion out there. It was a book about how to have a relationship with God. The bible did have some science, history, and stuff about other religions written into it, but that wasn't the reason why the bible existed. God left a lot up to us to discover, explore, and understand ourselves, rather than just giving us all of the answers in a collection of 66 books bound together into one. 

Overall, my conversations with my grandpa really helped me stay a Christian. However, I did my best to distance myself from the people in my school. I took everything they had to say about God and the world with a grain of salt, and focused on keeping my grades decent rather than retaining any knowledge. I accepted that I was viewed as a black sheep in the school, simply because I was severely struggling with my faith and attempting to come to terms with that struggle, and was very open about it. I was not afraid to admit that I was wrestling with God, and that made a lot of people very uncomfortable, because they felt their faith was being threatened by my questions and concerns. So, naturally, they got defensive because of their fear. 

People in my school seemed blissfully unaware that struggling with God was basically a core commandment in Christianity, and that was painfully obvious when we read about the struggle between Jacob and an unidentified man. Our teacher simply glossed over it, saying she, nor anyone else, could understand it, thus it was rather insignificant, even though the man permanently dislocated Jacob's hip with just a single touch. That was probably the most significant moment in Jacob's life. His name was changed to Israel (which means "struggle with God"), and he walked with a limp for the rest of his life, all because he struggled with a man who many theological scholars say was God Himself. Out of every story that should've been deemed insignificant to Christianity, Jacob's struggle with God was certainly not one of them.

I felt better knowing that my struggle with God was biblical, so I figured I was doing something right. I didn't have childlike faith in God like my school preached was essential to get into heaven. I had a very critical faith in God, but perhaps that meant my faith was much more meaningful, because I actually took the time to challenge it, which gave God a chance to solidify my faith in Him. I was exercising my faith like a muscle, tearing it apart so it could rebuild itself twice as strong. As much as I suffered then, I had faith that my struggle with God would not be in vain. Whether or not I came out of it a Christian didn't matter to me. What mattered to me was discovering the truth, or at least, getting as close to the truth as my ability to learn and understand could get me. 

Unfortunately, my journey either towards God or away from God didn't progress much during the rest of the school year. Everything just sort of paused, so by the time summer rolled around, I was very much an agnostic. I didn't know if God existed, but I didn't deny Him either. I was willing to believe in God if He could show me He existed, which was a common theme throughout my walk with God. I'm very thankful God has always been patient, merciful, and loving, or else I probably wouldn't be here right now. If God had the same mentality as man, I would've been struck by lightning multiple times by now. 

Almost as soon as school let out for summer vacation, I joined my grandparents for a two week trip to my grandpa's childhood farm in North Dakota. We drove there, taking my dirtbike along with us, because I wanted to spend my days riding around from sunup to sundown, while my grandparents and their siblings renovated the old farmhouse. 

While there, I was in the middle of a major existential crisis. I had so many questions about God, Christianity, atheism, and more that didn't seem to have any answers, though I desperately needed some answers to feel at peace. During the day for the first several days, I actually managed to briefly forget about everything that was bothering me. I'd start my day by chugging down two bottles of Mountain Dew, and then immediately run outside onto the warm, windy plains to shove my big head into my helmet and go riding on my dirtbike.

I couldn't think about anything except for the present when I rode my dirtbike the first few times. North Dakota is a lot closer to sea-level than Colorado, which meant my dirtbike had a lot more power there than it did at home. On top of that, during the day, the wind was very strong. There wasn't anything to stop the wind as it blew over the plains, and I usually rode my dirtbike on some very exposed hills. So, not only did I have to be conscious about my dirtbike's newfound power, but I had to consciously lean into the wind to prevent it from blowing me over. Eventually, I did get used to riding my dirtbike in North Dakota, and that's when my existential crisis came back to haunt me. 

At first, I tried to avoid those questions by doing really stupid and daring things on my dirtbike. One hill in particular was very steep and roughly 20 feet tall, because it was made out of huge boulders my grandpa moved from the croplands decades before. So, in order to induce some extra adrenaline, I'd race up that hillside. My dirtbike would rear up like a horse when the front wheel reached the crest, and I'd have to stand up on the foot pegs and put all of my weight forward to keep my dirtbike from flipping over and body-slamming me. There was also a creek nearby that fed into a stagnant green pond. I'd race through the creek and then skid my rear wheel across the slick mud and grass ahead, fishtailing side-to-side for a few times until I'd regain control. Unfortunately, after only a few more days, even these stunts got boring, and my existential questions bit me in the ass yet again. 

I finally realized I couldn't run away from my problems forever, and reluctantly admitted defeat. That night, I asked my grandpa to join me in the old farmhouse while I did my treatments so I could talk to him. While we played a few card games, I told him about my concerns. I admitted that I no longer could consider myself a Christian, but I couldn't consider myself an atheist either. I didn't know where to turn or what, if anything, I should call myself. 

My grandpa assured me that what I was going through was a normal phase every Christian goes through at some point in their lives. He suggested that instead of blasting out my eardrums with hard rock and fast-paced bluegrass while I rode my dirtbike, I ought to listen to some sermons and lectures dealing with my questions and concerns. The dirtbike would keep my mind from wandering, so I could better soak up whatever I was listening to. Surely, someone, somewhere on the internet, had the answers I was looking for, and had a sermon or a lecture about it that I could listen to. I just needed to do some research, which was something I was very good at. 

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, I sat out on my aunt Donnell's back porch and stared up at the Milky Way. There wasn't a moon or any light pollution to hide the universe above me. I'd never seen the stars so bright before, and I was in absolute awe of them. While I stared up at the night sky, I realized just how small and insignificant I really was. I was just one person, on a planet of almost 8 billion people, but my planet wasn't unique. It was one out of billions. And out of those billions of planets, there were many out there very similar to Earth that likely could support life. Perhaps, those planets may even have intelligent life on them. If we discovered intelligent life, or just life in general on another planet, what would that say about the bible's claims that humans are unique?

Aside from that, the universe was very old, and according to my understanding of modern science, it came from a singularity; a tiny dot floating around somewhere else. Somewhere else beyond space and time. That begged for a God. But, was the biblical God responsible for the creation of the universe? Or was it someone, multiple beings, or something else? 

I was torn between two different ideas that had equal merit. Alien life definitely made atheism appealing, because if we found intelligent life out there, to me, it would be problematic for the bible's claims that humans were the only ones chosen by God to bear His image. On the other hand, the creation of the universe definitely appealed to the biblical God, and seemed impossible to happen without a God, at least in my eyes. I knew they were two unrelated things that were sparring in my own mind, but I had so many questions that I just didn't care. 

For most of the remainder of my trip, I listened to my grandpa's advice, and spent more time listening to discussions dealing with God rather than melting my brain with Greensky Bluegrass and Dropkick Murphys. While a few of the discussions did answer some of my more minor questions, I still didn't find what I was looking for. Even when I listened to atheists talk about God, nothing they said seemed to move me away from God. In fact, most of the time, the atheists I listened to more or less beat around the bush. They neither denied or accepted God. They were neutral. Likewise, I was just stuck in a strange, uncomfortable limbo between God and atheism, from which I didn't expect to escape any time soon. 

Towards the end of my trip, I parked up on the farthest hill in the pasture, facing west towards the sunset, and killed my dirtbike's ringing engine. I did this every night on the farm, because I didn't want to miss North Dakota's epic sunsets. It was very peaceful there, and calmed me down after a good, long day of riding and being outside. By that time, the raging wind of the afternoon had died down to a gentle breeze, so I could hear every songbird, every pheasant, every steer, and every other creature that existed within several miles from me. I avoided making direct eye-contact with the sun as I lifted my shaded goggles so I could take in all of the wonderful colors that lay before me. The sky went from a bright yellow towards the horizon, to a dark violet towards the sky, and the clouds that hung towards the west were painted with shades of gold, pink, red, blue, and purple. Even the color of the grass was enhanced, turning the golden-green plains of the day a beautiful glowing green-gold by the evening. 

 

While I sat there on my dirtbike, taking all of that rural beauty in, I felt the sudden urge to pray. While I would've resisted that urge during any other time of the day, I was in a deep state of awe, so I prayed without question. 

"Lord..." I began quietly, "I'm not sure You're here. I'm not sure if You'll hear this. Hell, I don't even know if You exist or not. But, if You do exist and can hear my voice, I want to make a deal with You. If You can provide me with empirical evidence of Your existence, then I'll start taking my faith more seriously. I'm not promising I'll fall to my knees and become an ultra religious Christian on the spot, but I am promising one thing; I'll quit it with the bullshit, stop screwing around, and actually start to take Christianity seriously. I'll believe in You, Lord, if You can show me who You are in a way that I can see and measure. But, until then, I'll continue going down the path I'm on. I'm not sure where that'll lead me. Probably nowhere good. But, God, I need confirmation of Your existence to stay a Christian. You gonna accept this challenge, or have I finally disproved Your existence in my life?"

With that, I cracked open a soda, chugged it down while the last ray of sunlight sank below the prairie, and hauled ass back to the farm so I could have dinner while it was still warm. In a strange way, that prayer felt freeing. No longer did I feel obligated to listen to hours upon hours of debates, discussions, sermons, and lectures while I charged across the plains on my red steel steed. It was God's turn to reveal Himself to me. I was blissfully unaware of what I'd just challenged God to do, and had no idea what I was in for in the fast-approaching future. 

I returned from North Dakota feeling refreshed, but not completely. I still thought about my faith, or lack thereof. I still desperately scoured the internet for answers, but came up empty handed each time. Occasionally, I'd mumble a prayer, but for the most part I was convinced I was talking to no one when I prayed, so I eventually stopped trying to reach the Man upstairs. I drifted through life day by day, not really doing anything interesting. Most of the time, I was just at Clarke's house, enjoying the company of the horses and dogs, and the peacefulness of the plains. 

In July, I headed out with Dad to Minnesota to visit family. We drove there, and it was a very miserable drive. The AC belt snapped while we were still in Colorado, so we had to drive all the way through Nebraska, Iowa, and half of Minnesota, in the middle of summer, without AC. Even as dad sped up to 90 miles per hour with the windows rolled down, the heat was unbearable. We sat in miserable silence for the majority of the trip, doing our best to stay alive. We miraculously arrived on the farm in one piece, 12 hours after the AC belt snapped, and I couldn't wait to get out of the truck. 

 

For most of the trip, thoughts about faith and God didn't cross my mind once. I was too busy being with family and enjoying my time on the farm. For the first time in a long time, my mind was clear, and I was relaxed. My days were filled with dirtbike rides, shooting firearms, and playing with the animals on the farm. At night, I'd settle down with family around bonfires under the stars and listen to them tell stories almost all night long. Overall, I had a great time, and dreaded the day I'd be headed home. 

For some reason, on the final evening of my trip, I was overcome by an overwhelming sense of dread while I watched the sun sink behind the pole shed. I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to leave the safety of the family farm. I desperately wanted to stay on the farm for another week or two. I just couldn't get myself excited to return home, where within a few weeks, I'd be going back to school. I knew something was deeply wrong. Subconsciously, I knew something bad was in my near future. I just didn't know what. 

I decided to just choke down this horrible feeling of dread, and wiped away the tears that had welled up in my eyes as I plodded back to the farmhouse to wait for my dad to return from a party. Once inside, I sprawled myself out like a bear rug in front of the TV, while my grandparents sat behind me. My grandpa stared at the TV intensely while my grandma sat next to him in her rocking chair completing a suduko puzzle.

I breathed heavily as I rode out a massive wave of inexplicable anxiety, but managed to hide my distress from my grandparents. I didn't want them to worry about me, because in turn, that would worry me even more. My grandpa's state of health at that point was already a constant source of anxiety for the family, and I didn't want to add onto that by letting everyone know that I was anxious about my future, like I was sure all teenagers were. I figured if I just focused on my grandparents' game show, my anxiety would eventually subside. 

Unfortunately, it never did. 

Back at home, my anxiety only seemed to get worse as my first day of school drew closer. I spent my final two weeks of summer at Clarke's house. The first night I was there, we had to pick Hannah, Ryder, and Ryder's best friend up at the airport. It was a late pick-up, and Clarke wanted to take us all out to eat afterward if everyone was up for it. If not, we'd stop by the local Walmart on the way back to get some food and snacks for the night. 

While we were driving to the airport, we ended up getting caught in a heavy thunderstorm. As the pressure suddenly dropped, blood started to spew out of my nose like Niagara Falls! For the first few seconds, I had no idea what was happening, and pitifully asked Clarke for help. Hannah often had nosebleeds growing up, so Clarke was used to dealing with them and quickly reassured me that it was normal. Except, for me, it wasn't normal. I couldn't remember the last time my nose bled, and the time I did remember it bleeding, it didn't bleed nearly as heavily. This nose bleed was so heavy that I couldn't breathe through my nose without sucking up huge amounts of blood. 

Clarke and I dug through his truck hoping to find tissues, but there were none. He recently cleaned out his truck, so the only thing he had was a handful of yellow notepad sheets. I held my nostrils shut with one hand while I quickly gathered up a fistful of crumpled notepad sheets. Obviously, yellow notepad sheets aren't meant to clean up fluids, so I quickly bled through everything, and had to use my hoodie to clean everything up the best I could. In the end, I was drenched in my own blood, as was the seat I was in, the floor below my feet, and even the ceiling had a few impressive blotches of blood on it. 

For a half-hour, I had to sit with blood all over myself before Clarke could pull into the nearest gas station. He quickly handed me a bunch of brown paper towels from a dispenser, which were out there to be used to dry off windshields. I used about 40 of those brown paper towels to clean myself and my area up the best I could. Clarke bought a couple of water bottles from the convenience store, which we used to wet some of the paper towels so I could clean up the dried blood on my face and the faux leather seat I was sitting on, but they didn't work to get any blood out of my clothes. 

For the next three hours, I sat uncomfortable and mortified in my blood-soaked clothes. When we pulled up to the pick-up curb at the airport, I could do nothing but flash a half-assed smile while I refused to move from my seat. Ryder's best friend, whom I'd never met before, just took one look at me and instantly called shotgun, while Ryder and Hannah played rock-paper-scissors to see who'd have to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with me. Ryder ended up having to sit in the middle next to me, while I did my best to squish up against the window as much as possible. I didn't want to be touched just as much as Ryder didn't want to rub his bare knees against my bloodstained jeans. Ryder even mumbled something along the lines of, "I knew I shouldn't have worn shorts today."

When Hannah finally gained the courage to ask me what the hell happened, I told her I did not know. I hadn't gotten into a fight with someone twice my size or pissed off the wrong gun owner, although that's exactly what it looked like. I just had a record-breaking nosebleed that lasted for 20 minutes before even beginning to taper off, and there was nothing I could do to stop it or clean up the mess. If Clarke wasn't there to verify my story, I'm sure everyone else would've called bullshit. Nosebleeds that bad don't just happen out of the blue, even though that seemed to be exactly what happened to me. 

I ended up taking that as a sign of bad times ahead, and got even more anxious. I knew something was seriously wrong, I just didn't know what. I seemed very healthy. Clarke's roommates were gone for a week, leaving me to care for the horses, while Clarke, Hannah, and Ryder took turns taking care of the dogs. I took care of the horses with ease. I chucked bales out of the hay loft and then carried them to the feed box everyday, moved the horses from the paddock to the pasture and back every afternoon, made sure their water trough was always full, and gave the horses some attention when they needed it. Usually, when I get sick, my health dives down really quickly. My strength and energy are usually the first to go, and they go fast. But, that did not happen to me that time, so I had no reason other than anxiety and that nosebleed to suspect anything was wrong. Towards the last week of my summer, I decided to write my nosebleed off as a freak incident, and finally felt my anxiety begin to subside. 

When I checked my calendar and saw that I only had a few days left before school began, about a week after the nose bleed incident, my anxiety got kicked right back into overdrive again. I was tormented by a horrible sense of dread for those last few days. I didn't know why it was so horrible. It just was. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt before.

My subconscious mind was desperately sounding every alarm bell possible, but consciously, I didn't know why I was so worked up. I was pretty used to going to new schools, and I'd decided a long time before that the new school I was attending for 11th grade was the answer to my prayers regarding getting into a better school. I was enrolled in an art class, a creative writing class, had two free periods I could use for study hall, and would be surrounded by 300 other students and many other teachers who didn't all think the same way. Surely, there was nothing to be afraid of. Yet, I was still extremely anxious, and couldn't talk myself out of that anxiety.

When the first day finally dawned, I was instantly greeted by excited teachers and an overwhelming number of students who wanted to get to know me. At that school, the dress code was very relaxed. I was allowed to hide my eyes below the bill of my camo hat I wore that day, so I didn't have to make eye-contact with everyone who shook my hand and asked who I was. As the day progressed, I finally began to ask myself why I'd been so worked up. There wasn't any danger. That school was actually a lot easier on me than any of my previous schools had, especially since half of my day was spent doing art, writing, and mostly reading or sketching in study hall. Also, I didn't feel pressured by anyone to think, dress, or act in a certain way. Just as long as I was respectful towards everyone, I was ok to be who I wanted to be. 

But, my subconscious mind refused to listen to my logical brain. It kept on sounding the alarm, and as the days progressed, I got more and more frustrated. I wasn't getting a lot of sleep, and at school, I really struggled to sit still at my desk due to anxiety. 

But, no matter what, my anxiety did not subside. Within a week, I began to notice other things. I was very tired, which I attributed to not getting much sleep. But I was also developing a cough. It was subtle at first, but when the second week of school came, it was considerably worse. At home, my mom questioned me if I was getting sick. While deep down inside I knew I was, I lied and told her it was just stress. My mom clearly didn't believe me, but decided to leave me alone. She kept an eye on me, however, and was disturbed by just how quickly my health deteriorated. 

By the second weekend of the school year, my rosy cheeks had turned pale as snow, and I had bags under my eyes from exhaustion. My cough was also consistent, and I couldn't breathe out of my nose due to the congestion. I was clearly sick from something, though I refused to admit it until my mom pressed me to tell the truth. Finally, I burst into tears, and told her what was really going on. I hated to admit it, but I had to. My mom, satisfied with my answer, sent me to bed early, and told me to cancel all of my bus and uber trips to school that week. We needed to get to the bottom of that infection before I went back to school, because in her own words, I couldn't attend school if I was dead. With Cystic Fibrosis, if an infection is left untreated, death is a very real possibility. 

I laid in bed awake, sobbing out of fear and defeat. I knew something was seriously wrong, but I wasn't sure what, and I was almost too afraid to find out. All that I knew is that I felt terrible, and the only way I really knew how to fix the problem was to get on antibiotics. But then my anxiety kicked in. What if the infection I had was antibiotic resistant? What if I ended up in the hospital? What if my illness turned out to be a cluster of antibiotic resistant infections? I tried to shut my emotional, anxiety-ridden mind up, but I knew those were questions that had some serious merit, and logic wasn't gonna stop them. They were logical questions after all! 

I eventually fell asleep, though I shivered and cried the whole time my conscious mind was awake. Fear had a hold of me once again, and it wasn't letting go any time soon. I knew I had a long road ahead of me, and was not looking forward to taking it on. 

My fears were confirmed a few days later, after a few throat-culture samples were taken. I had a pretty serious Pseudomonas infection in my sinuses. But since it wasn't in my lungs, or proved to be antibiotic resistant, I was sent home with a month's supply of Tobramycin, an inhaled antibiotic, and enough Ciprofloxacin, an oral antibiotic, to kill a horse. If things got worse, I was instructed to contact my doctors right away so I could be put on a different set of antibiotics. But, if that didn't work out, and my Pseudomonas infection became completely antibiotic resistant, I'd just be stuck with it.

Unfortunately, living with a chronic Psuedomonas infection was not really an option. Pseudomonas is an aggressive flesh-eating bacteria. It was literally eating my sinuses, slowly but surely making its way through the layers, which explains the extreme nosebleed I had about a month before. If it was allowed to chew away at my sinus tissues for just a few more years, or worse, somehow found its way into my lungs, I wasn't gonna live for very long, and the last years of my life would've been too miserable to enjoy. I wouldn't have the energy, or the comfort, to do things I loved doing, such as dirtbike riding or hunting. I would've been home bound, or hospital bound, slowly but surely dying from something I couldn't fight back against. 

I knew if my Pseudomonas infection became chronic, my life would come to an abrupt and bitter end. 

I breathed in the Tobramycin, which burned my eyes and drenched everything it touched within me in a thick, sticky, bitter-tasting layer of gunk, and took the Ciprofloxacin twice a day, which obliterated every living bacterial cell in my digestive tract. I cursed God for allowing such a terrible thing to happen to me. As much as I considered myself an atheist at that point, a part of me still believed in God, and that part of me was ultra-pissed at God for what He was doing to me, assuming He existed. I didn't understand why He was allowing such a terrible illness to hit me, or why He'd miraculously heal me so many times throughout my life, only to lift His protection and deal me a deadly blow to my health. As much as I wanted to deny it, I knew I was dying, and I was dying quickly. 

As the days wore on, my health only got worse. The more optimistic people in my life tried to reassure me by saying things like, "It always gets worse before it gets better", and "Trust in the Lord! He will heal you!" but words like that only made me more upset. They clearly didn't understand the pain I was in, the state of my faith in God, or the seriousness of the illness I was battling. I knew they could see the torment in my eyes, but that doesn't mean they could empathize with me.

The pain in my sinuses got to be so unbearable at times, that I'd have to lay down in a fetal position and cry. My sinuses also bled nearly constantly. While it was a very slow bleed, a considerable amount of blood still came out whenever I made a pitiful attempt to blow my nose. Only, there was just too much snot and clotted blood in my sinuses to really get anything out, so I'd only irritate the increasingly sensitive tissue in my sinuses, which would sometimes sting for hours. The stinging in my sinuses felt the same as rubbing shards of salt in a sensitive wound, if that salt was also white-hot. 

Unfortunately, due to my mom's job and us living so far away from relatives, I was often left alone during the day. I lived off of chicken noodle soup that was kept warm in a crock pot all day for me, but otherwise spent every hour of every day in bed. Due to the drainage from my sinuses, I lost my voice for the most part. Whenever I spoke, my voice was deeper and croakier than usual. Sometimes, no words would come out at all. 

My mom would return to my school weekly to pick up assignments for me to do. Unfortunately, I usually lacked the capacity and the motivation to do my school work. I was just too tired and in too much pain to even think about doing my school work, but that didn't stop me from blaming myself for missing so much work. My mental health was just as affected by Pseudomonas as my physical health, and without a solid faith in God, and the hope and reassurance that comes with such faith, I had to face my troubles completely alone.

I had no hope for my future. I was convinced that I was actually dying. In fact, I knew I was dying. And, without faith in God, I had no faith in an afterlife. I was absolutely petrified of death. Neither the Tobramycin or the Ciprofloxacin seemed to have an affect on the Pseudomonas infection, and I knew IV-injected antibiotics would do more harm than good. However, what other choice did I have? As far as I knew, I had no other choice. 

Less than two weeks after my mom forced me to stay home from school, we were playing around with a new pulse-ox monitor my mom bought off the internet. She tried it on herself, and then my little brother, to ensure it was accurate. Then, she handed it over to me. Due to Pulmonary Atresia, my pulse-ox has always been a little lower than usual. However, the pulse-ox monitor showed numbers that were way lower than my usual. In fact, my oxygen saturation percent was at 85% and dwindling by the hour. If my oxygen saturation percentile went below 80%, I'd officially be suffering from Hypoxia, and I could be dead within an hour. But every minute in Hypoxia meant critical organs in my body would be starved of oxygen and permanently damaged, especially my heart, lungs, and liver, which have all been affected by my chronic conditions one way or another. 

So, my mom called the doctor and asked what we should do. The doctor freaked out and told my mom to get me to the ER immediately! This, of course, scared me. The absolute last thing I wanted was to end up in the hospital again. Yet, I was on my way to being admitted against my will. At first, I tried to fight it, but when my mom dialed 9-1-1 and was ready to call them if I spent another second arguing with her, I hung my head and slowly plodded to the car. 

In my panic, I was hyperventilating uncontrollably and felt like I was gonna pass out at any moment. I was shaking so badly that I could barely buckle my seat belt, and my vision was blurred by my tears. On the way to the hospital, my mom tried to pray for me, but I viciously snapped at her by shouting, "If God was real, then we wouldn't be here now, would we?!"

My mom didn't say a word to me for the rest of the drive to the ER. She knew there was nothing she could say or do that would comfort me. All she could do was helplessly watch as I gasped for air and desperately tried to slow down my breathing, but to no avail. I honestly hoped I'd pass out, so my body could reset itself without my conscious anxieties getting in the way and riling things up. I wanted to pass out in that car, so I could wake up again in the comfort of my own bed and realize all of that was just an awful night terror. But, my consciousness refused to let go. While I could feel Hypoxia setting in as my airways slowly constricted, and I breathed in more rapidly and shallowly with each passing minute, I begged myself to let go, but I just couldn't. 

My memory cuts out after that. One minute, I was in the passenger seat while my mom sped down the highway going way faster than the speed limit, and the next minute I was seated in a cold plastic chair while a kind nurse took my vitals. I wondered if I passed out, but according to my mom, I managed to walk myself into the ER without help, despite tripping over my feet a few times along the way. 

My vitals showed that I had record-breaking levels of anxiety coursing through me. My heart-rate was somewhere near the 160-180 beats-per-minute range, which was almost twice as fast as a person's average resting heart-rate. I was also still hyperventilating to the point I could not tell the nurse if I had any pain. I didn't notice any pain at the time. All I could feel was fear. 

While I sat completely frozen in fear, my mom was staring at the pulse-ox monitor completely slack-jawed. The pulse-ox monitor showed that my oxygen saturation level in my blood was 94%, which was technically impossible, considering the altitude, my illness, and my heart problems. But, my oxygen saturation continued to rise. While the nurse went to get another pulse-ox monitor assuming the one I was currently hooked up to was glitching, my pulse-ox rose to 96%. 

Hyperventilation can (and often does) cause false pulse-ox readings, especially since during hyperventilation, the human body struggles to process oxygen. However, the oxygen levels in my blood were rising at a rate that was basically impossible considering the circumstances. What I was experiencing was something else science had no answers for. 

When I was hooked up to the second pulse-ox monitor, it also read a 96% pulse-ox level. Tears of relief began to flow down my mom's cheeks while I continued to sit still, completely frozen in fear. I was in full-on panic mode, and no matter what my mom or the ER nurses tried, they could not get me to regain control. 

The nurses decided it was best to lay me down in a hospital bed, while still keeping me hooked up to the second pulse-ox monitor. They were waiting for me to pass out so my body could reset itself, and then I could get a few chest x-rays to see what was going on in my lungs. However, I held on. For an hour, as I continued to pant, I was hooked up to yet another pulse-ox monitor, because the second one showed a steady pulse-ox increase from 96% to 98%. Either my body was not absorbing any oxygen into my tissues at all, which should've resulted in me passing out, or something beyond science was going on.

The third monitor picked up on the 98%, but then my oxygen saturation levels (SpO2) jumped from 98% to 100% and stayed there.

At this point, every nurse and doctor in the ER and surrounding wings were notified of my condition, and I ended up getting a lot of unwanted visitors. Unfortunately, while I was beginning to retain a few of my logic and reasoning skills, I still couldn't really tell anyone what I felt or what was going on. All I could focus on was my breathing. It felt like I was trying to breathe through a coffee stir straw, while I fought to remain awake and alive. I didn't want to pass out, and then be completely at the mercy of all those strangers in yellow gowns while my mom bawled her eyes out. I wanted to at least be aware of what was happening to me. At least then, I'd actually have some memories to go off of when I survived it all and began therapy again. 

After another full hour of drama, my heart rate finally slowed down to a reasonable, but still anxious pace. My blood oxygen levels remained at 100%, even as I finally took control of my breathing and began to force myself to relax. The nurse that my doctor talked to as my mom drove me to the ER, gave me a hospital gown to change in, so I could get my chest x-rays done, and we could finally get to the bottom of everything.

Once those were taken, I was led back to my room in the ER, and the nurse pulled up the x-rays so they could be reviewed by the ER doctors. While they were a little congested, my lungs didn't look very infected, beyond a couple of clusters of mucus in the superior lobes of both lungs. But, the doctors and nurses determined that those clusters were just a normal CF thing. Pseudomonas obviously pent itself up in my sinuses. I was just glad to know it hadn't found its way into my lungs yet. 

After a few more conversations with baffled doctors and nurses, the head nurse came in and got into interrogation mode while I pulled my boots back on. He asked me, sternly, why I'd made such a big deal over everything if I was obviously fine. While I wasn't very offended then, because I was just glad that I could continue treatment at home, I later reflected on my conversation with that nurse and realized how accusatory it was. Thankfully, my mom piped up, and admitted she was the one who got so frantic.

She explained the situation with the pulse-ox monitor we had at home, like how she made sure it was accurate before sticking it on me, and then called the doctor to ask if the low pulse-ox levels were ok, like any responsible parent would. Then, my doctor ordered my mom to take me to the ER right away, because if my pulse-ox levels were allowed to dip down 2% lower, Hypoxia would set in, and my funeral would be held. Clearly, it was an emergency, and I'd been taken to the ER against my will. My mom was ready to rip the nurse's head off once she was done explaining the situation to him.

The nurse quickly apologized, and that was the end of that whole episode. 

At home, all I wanted to do was sleep. It was 9:00 at night, so my mom let me go to sleep without worrying so much about me. But, before she let me get all the way downstairs, she told me that I ought to pray and thank God for what He did for me that night. Even if I didn't pray, at the very least, I should reflect on what God did for me that night. He completely disregarded medical science, and saved my ass once again. Even if I was still skeptical of His existence, I should still consider the possibility of His existence. 

I nodded, and then crept down the last flight of stairs to my bedroom. I'd never been more excited to fall back into the safety and comfort of my own bed. I still felt like death, but I was just too relieved to notice the pain I was still in. However, I was hesitant to thank God for everything. I did acknowledge His presence at the ER in my prayer, but I spent more time interrogating God for the reasoning behind letting me have such a close brush with the worst case scenario, than I spent actually thanking Him for saving me from such an awful fate. 

One could call me ungrateful for that, but to me, that was just the very beginning. I was still at the brink of being hospitalized. If my infection was proven to be antibiotic resistant, or I got sicker, or both, I would end up being hospitalized. An antibiotic resistant infection as dangerous as Pseudomonas would likely slice decades off my lifespan. While it didn't progress as quickly in my sinuses as it could in my lungs, it was still eating away at bone and tissue in my sinuses, slowly working its way towards my brain. Just the thought of that alone is still enough to make me feel nauseous every time I think about it. 

That night, I ended my prayer demanding God to heal me. If He didn't, I wouldn't waste my time anymore. I'd drop the faith and live the rest of my short, agonizing life as an atheist. I'd die in a horrific state of fear, not just because I had holes in my skull or an infection in my brain, but because I was afraid of death. I was afraid of dying and ending up in nothingness. And, with a swelling brain full of puss, and holes in my face exposing my brain to the outside world, I couldn't even imagine the pain I'd eventually be in. How could an all-powerful, all-loving God allow someone like me die from such a horrible condition? What was the purpose of that strife? 

As time went on, and my illness only progressed, I asked my family members for help when it came to reconciling my faith with my suffering. My mom and grandparents told me I should just have faith, and feel blessed to still be at home, rather than at the hospital. In a way, it seemed like they were avoiding my questions by telling me to just have faith. But what did having faith even mean? Did it mean just ignoring the bad and being grateful for the good? Did it mean blindly following a belief without any evidence beyond an ancient collection of writings from thousands of years ago? Did having faith mean I had to just be grateful and tender towards God all of the time? If that was the case, then I had no faith to begin with, and what I was going through then only turned me even more bitter and faithless. 

Since I wasn't getting any useful answers from my family, I decided to ask God directly for the reason why He allowed me to get so sick. But, the only answer I got from God was complete silence. I was hit with the crushing realization that I was entirely alone in this battle against an unpredictable and increasingly worsening illness. I came to the conclusion that there was no God. There was no afterlife. There was no hope. What happened that night in the ER was just a freak incident. Freak incidents were common. Maybe not nearly as common as the status quo. But they were still common. Scientifically speaking, humans still haven't figured out shit, so there was a lot of room for "miracles" to happen. But, one day, maybe far off in the future if we didn't blow ourselves up first, we'd eventually find out a material cause for those "miracles", like how we eventually found out what caused lightning thousands of years after Zeus was invented. 

A couple days after my first brush with death, I got some tests done to see if the antibiotics were having any real effect on my infection. When I got test results back several days later, my heart shattered. My infection was only getting worse, even though I was going at it full-force with two very powerful antibiotics. Doctors suspected that my Pseudomonas had finally evolved to be antibiotic-resistant, and they had no other treatments available to counter it. Doctors never gave me a death date, though they hinted at it when they told me the only way I could survive was if I was extra, extra diligent with doing my treatments, exercising, and eating the right food. But they warned me Pseudomonas was a very aggressive flesh-eating disease, and it would soon cause me much bigger problems, regardless of what I did. I might be able to hold it back if I tried, but I could never stop it. 

They ended up referring me to an ear, nose, and throat doctor to begin discussing sinus surgery, which would involve drilling holes in my sinuses to provide drainage holes directly through my nostrils, so the snot didn't have to fight gravity to exit my sinuses. Doctors hoped that the sinus surgery would slow down the progression of the remaining infection by relieving some of the pressure and limiting the breeding ground for Pseudomonas to occupy.

X-rays revealed that both of my upper and lower sinuses were completely full of mucus, which would only help Pseudomonas with its ultimate goal of eating through my skull and infecting my brain. Pseudomonas-caused-meningitis was a very serious, and often deadly condition. It could kill me, or at the very least, cause me to suffer even more permanent disabilities within a few hours of infecting my brain. And there wasn't anything I could do about it. If Pseudomonas made its way into my brain, my brain would swell up, and I'd become an unconscious vegetable, unable to interact with or even process the world around me. 

After that appointment, I went home and locked myself in my bedroom. I paced around the room and cursed God over and over again. He was not there for me then, and I was convinced He was never there for me at all to begin with. What I was going through was solid proof that there was no God, and even if there was, it certainly was not the God the bible described. This God was absolutely sadistic in nature. He toyed with the world like a cat played with a mouse. He tormented people, let them go for awhile, and then pounced onto them again, until He got tired of them, and finally put them out of their misery. The God I was experiencing was not a God of love or mercy. I was not being shown any mercy at that point. My fate was sealed. I didn't have a lot of time left to live, and I'd be too sick to enjoy anything as my time came to a horrendous end. 

My family would have to watch me as I slowly, yet rapidly at the same time, lost my health. I'd get my sinus surgery, which would take me a few weeks to fully recover from. Pseudomonas would still be eating its way through my skull, even without much mucus to thrive in, which would hurt worse and worse as it got closer and closer to infecting my brain. It was almost certain that Pseudomonas would eventually infect my lungs through post-nasal drip, which would then progress much faster through the soft tissues in my lungs. I'd end up in the hospital once I lost my ability to breathe on my own, and then I'd lose my voice when doctors would eventually be forced to cut a hole in my throat and insert an artificial trachea, which would be connected to a ventilator. I'd lose my ability to eat, and would have to live off of protein pumped into me through a G-tube. And, once Pseudomonas breached my cranium, my brain would swell up, and I'd become an unconscious vegetable. Then my parents would have to be the ones to turn off the machines keeping me alive, assuming Pseudomonas didn't kill me first.

It would be a terrible end to my short life. It would be clear on that dreadful day, that I'd suffered for nothing, and that there was no God. Surely, my family could not justify God's existence then. No being Who is described as being all-powerful, all-loving, and all-knowing, could allow such a thing to happen to anyone. Yet, it seemed like God was allowing me to go down that well-beaten road. I was not a very unique case. Lots of people needlessly suffered everyday. If there was a God, He was more likely to be Satan than Yahweh. 

While I lost all hope and faith, and fell deep into a black hole I was certain I'd never escape from, my family kept theirs. My grandma Debbie caught wind of an experimental medication that was being tested on anyone who was willing to sign a waiver to participate. This medication, called a phage virus, was actually not very new at all, in historical terms. It was the world's first "antibiotic" before there were any antibiotics, and it was completely natural. Phage viruses are just that: viruses. For every bacterial infection, there was a virus that had the ability to target that infection, hijack it, and destroy it. Every time a new kind of bacteria evolved, a countering phage virus would also appear to destroy that new bacteria. Which, theoretically speaking, meant for every new breed of Pseudomonas that evolved from older species, there was a phage virus out there that could destroy it. 

My grandma Debbie quickly sent the link to the study to my mom, who then got in contact with the doctors and scientists running the trial, and begged them to let us participate. They were all the way out in Portland, Oregon, which meant we'd have to embark on quite the trip. We'd fly into Seattle to drop off my little brother with our distant relatives, and then drive the 3.5 hours it took to get from Seattle, Washington, to Portland, Oregon soon after. But, as long as we were willing to do that, they were willing to let me into the trials. 

When my mom excitedly announced this new "miracle medicine" to me, I scowled. To me, it sounded like bullshit. My mom presented it the same way she once presented essential oils and supplements to me, when her anti-vax friends preyed on her desperation and tried to sell her what was basically snake oil. Essential oils were really only good for making things smell like plants and flowers, and irritating my sinuses to encourage snot to come out. Buffalo hot wings basically had the same medicinal effect on me as essential oils, so I preferred to eat hot wings rather than drip essential oils into my sinuses whenever they got clogged up. 

My mom told me to research it, and reassured me it wasn't woo-woo bullshit, like she always said about essential oils and supplements. I shrugged my shoulders and told her I'd look into it, but warned her to not get her hopes up so high. I was willing to bet my life that those phage viruses would end up in the same category as essential oils. Maybe they had some sort of medicinal effect, but it probably wouldn't be aggressive enough to save me from death.  

For two days straight, I researched these phage viruses, hoping to find something to discredit them and convince my mom to cancel our plane tickets. Not only was I skeptical of those phages, but I was scared of flying, especially since I was so sick and miserable. At the same time, if I ultimately decided to fly out to Seattle, I told myself I'd sit by a window directly behind an engine, hope that engine exploded mid-air, and the shrapnel from that engine took me out of my misery. I knew that was extremely unlikely, but so was being born with Pulmonary Atresia and Cystic Fibrosis. I seemed to win every unfortunate lottery possible. I wasn't exactly suicidal, but if I was going to die so soon, I wanted to go out instantly and in style! 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I safely arrived in Seattle one week later, after I was satisfied with what I'd researched online about phage viruses. Those phage viruses weren't snake oil after all. Many European and former USSR countries endorsed phage virus therapy as an acceptable and effective treatment against antibiotic-resistant bacteria. I found a lot of documentaries online about the effectiveness of phage therapy. My mom found a book that detailed a few people's experiences with phage therapy. And my grandpa Lyle somehow got a Navy captain on the phone, because the United States stored the bulk of the country's supply of phage viruses on Navy ships, and they talked about phage therapy for almost two hours. And better yet, no Secret Service agents came knocking on my grandpa's door. 

My mom's boyfriend at the time, Matthew, accompanied us on our trip. He thought it was cool that I was going to use military-approved biological warfare to hopefully kick Pseudomonas's ass! He jokingly suggested I ought to walk into the doctors' office in Portland wearing a military helmet. It would complement my camo hoodie and my cowboy boots very well! I smirked at his joke, but my humor only lasted a second. The situation I was in was way too serious to joke about at the moment. I still didn't have a lot of faith or hope in those phages, or the God that created them. I was willing to try the phages, and give God another chance if they showed promising signs. But, for the most part, I was almost certain I'd be six feet underground in no more than several years. 

Long story short, we drove to Portland, I interrogated the doctors and scientists to make sure they weren't full of shit, and then got a box of phages sent to my house. My mom wanted to take them on the plane with us, but both Matthew and I convinced her that was a preposterous idea! The vials of phages were labeled in Georgian, not English! If TSA inspected those things, we'd get into trouble that only the Navy captain my grandpa talked to could get us out of. I wasn't about to get myself incarcerated by the United States government for possession of mysterious Russian liquids. I was already drowning in Shit Creek!

On the flight back home, I was still secretly hoping the plane engine I was sitting directly behind would explode, so all chances of me dying slowly and painfully several years down the line would be reduced to zero. But, I was spared yet again, and found myself crawling into the safety and comfort of my own bed at home, where I stayed for almost the entire week as the phages truly kicked Pseudomonas's ass for me!

But the treatment wasn't entirely risk-free, or side-effect free. There was always a possibility that I could inhale a corrupted phage, which could cause me bigger problems. But, it was a risk I was willing to take. I was already dying. The worst thing a phage could do to me was kill me sooner. 

Also, in order to start the phage virus treatments, I had to stop taking all of my antibiotics for a full five days, which I did while I was in Oregon and Washington. By then, I'd been taking Ciprofloxacin (also known as Cipro) and Tobramycin (also known as Tobi) for a month straight, which I later learned permanently damaged me. Cipro, aside from presenting me with the usual side-effects of oral antibiotics, such as digestive issues and nausea, was also very detrimental to my joints. Until then, I never had a problem with joint pain or discomfort, but after taking Cipro for a month, my knees would give me trouble ahead of every weather front, and writer's cramp set in much sooner than before, which I found out when I picked up a pencil and attempted to work on some assignments for my creative writing class.  

I could barely get through two paragraphs without having to pause and massage my right hand as it tensed up in a Charleyhorse, when before I could plow through entire essays without stopping.When I returned to school, my creative writing teacher let me do all of my assignments online so I could keep up with everyone else. My toes would also get stiff at night, and I'd have to crack them back to life every morning so I didn't walk like I had nails in my feet.

Tobi also had some serious long-term side effects, though they weren't as severe as the joint problems Cipro left me. I noticed that I didn't hear as well as I did before I started Tobi. Turns out, Tobi was notorious for causing permanent hearing-loss. Some people have required hearing aids after taking Tobi for years. That was terrifying. Everything was terrifying actually. My Pseudomonas infection was aging me faster than I ever thought was possible. I was well on my way to losing my ability to walk, hear, and actually just exist, considering Pseudomonas was inching towards my brain and would eventually infect it. 

When my doctors revealed that side-effect to me, only after I endured a month of Cipro and started having joint problems, I was frothing at the mouth as I half-interrogated, half-ranted to them about how horrendous so many "treatments" for my illnesses were. I got even more pissed off when they told me I should've asked them to test the antibiotics against my throat cultures in petri-dishes before they prescribed me anything. They never once told me that was an option. How I didn't end up on top of one of my doctors with my hands around their throat remains a mystery to me. Maybe there was a God after all, preventing me from committing first-degree murder at the hospital a week before Christmas. 

I was pretty cocky after I survived such a close brush with death. It wasn't the first time I shook hands with the Grim Reaper, but it was the first time I shook hands with the Grim Reaper and still had the audacity to look at the Christian faith with a tremendously critical eye. I credited myself and my family way more than I credited God for my healing, and I wasn't about to give God the credit He truly deserved unless He could prove Himself, without a shadow of a doubt, that He existed. 

I had a lot of questions for God, most of which have remained unanswered. I wanted to know what the point of my infection was if I ultimately ended up in the same place. As soon as I was Psuedomonas-free, I went back to the same school as before, which still had problems with water leaks and mold throughout the building. I remembered a prayer I'd prayed months before, begging God to get me to a better school, and I thought He answered it! I thought He promised me in a tiny, quiet thought, "You will get to a better place soon."

So far, I was right back where I started in 11th grade. God hadn't answered His promise, and I didn't have any faith that He ever would. I was more of an atheist than a Christian, and my faith seemed to shrink every day. 

I used memes and dark humor to cope with my pain, instead of prayer and faith. I masked my worries and fears behind a smile so my peers, teachers, and family members couldn't tell I was still suffering. I may've been free from Pseudomonas, but I wasn't free from my inner demons who seemed to have been empowered by my illness. My humor got so dark at one point that I scared myself with the things I could laugh at. I was worried I was becoming a nihilist, which, looking back, I suppose I was. My peers fed into my dark-humored nihilism by laughing at the same things I did, and sharing the same memes over social media as I was. 

As I went through the first month of school after Christmas break, I started feeling sick again. My illness got progressively worse, though I desperately tried to hide it using the same tactics I used to hide my anxiety. Unfortunately, I couldn't hide my pale, sunken face, the dark bags that formed under my eyes, or my exhaustion each time I climbed the stairs to my upstairs classes. My peers noticed my condition, and pestered me for information. I was flattered that so many people were concerned about me, but I told them not to worry. Illness was normal for me. It was just a CF thing. But, I knew that was a lie. What I was experiencing was anything but normal. 

When a severely productive cough settled in, I knew, right away, that I was infected again. I suspected it was Pseudomonas, but the only way to find out was to get more throat swabs taken and cultured, which would take days for the results to come back. My sinuses also swelled up, and my face was sore to the touch. I didn't want to admit that I was sick with the same damn infection again, but I had to. 

My mom made me stay home from school at the start of February. As much as I denied it and tried to downplay my illness, my mom could tell I was sick. Not only was my appearance disheveled, but when I refused to acknowledge I was as pale as the snow outside, my mom poked at my cheek by my nose, and I yelped in pain as I lurched away from her as if I'd been slapped. I finally stopped trying to deny the obvious, and cried myself to sleep. I was right back where I started. I was terrified, but I was also pissed. I was pissed at Cystic Fibrosis. I was pissed at God. But most of all, I was pissed at myself, and cursed myself for being dumb enough to return to school, knowing they had mold in the vents! 

The next morning, I woke up and called the only person I knew who might be able to help me process my feelings. I called my grandpa Lyle to talk about God and theology, and how to fit them into my current predicament. My grandpa was gentle and carefully chose his words. At first, he told me that I wasn't as screwed as I thought I was. Sure, the situation was far from good, but at least I had access to medication that proved to work the first time, so I could trust that it would execute its job again. I wasn't going to die. I was going to get very sick, but I wasn't at death's door. 

Then, my grandpa told me, as gently as possible, that he believed there was a lesson for me to learn, and God was using my suffering to teach it. I wasn't too offended by my grandpa's idea, but it was still pretty offensive between me and God. Why would a supposedly all-good, all-powerful, all-knowing God allow me to endure such suffering? Couldn't He just teach me a lesson without putting me through hell? What was the point of torturing and traumatizing me with my crippling health condition? Surely, a God like the One the bible described wouldn't do such a thing to me. I voiced these concerns over the phone, and towards the end of our long discussion, my grandpa suggested I read the book of Job to see if it changed my perspective. 

I read the entire book of Job in just under an hour. I read it slowly and carefully, so I could digest every ounce of information the biblical book had to offer. At first, I understood that the book of Job was basically a story of God and Satan making a bet. It sounded like Job was God's favorite, and Satan wanted to see if he could pull Job away from Him. God agreed to test Job's faith, by taking everything he had, to see if Job would curse God or if he would continue to worship God as faithfully as he did when he was so wealthy. I really related to the story already at first, but it failed to answer any of my questions. I refused to believe God was using me as a pawn in His silly bets with the devil. But, at the same time, the book of Job made it seem like I was, and I finished reading Job even more angry and upset at God. 

Still, I remained skeptical of my own conclusion. When I thought about it, my conclusion seemed really immature, especially since I came to the conclusion before I even finished reading Job. Perhaps I just needed some time to work it out, and hopefully come to a different conclusion. Maybe then, I wouldn't be so pissed at God. 

I called my grandpa and told him what I thought about Job, and he told me I just had a very naive, surface-level understanding of Job. The book of Job was not about God and the devil making a bet at Job's expense. Job was a very proud, self-righteous man, which was apparent when he lost everything, and instead of cursing God, he cursed himself and wished he was never born. Job never got mad at God. Instead, he got mad at himself, and worked harder to please God to get his stuff back. I was partially in that same boat, but I was more upset at God than I was at myself. I did get big-headed when I beat Pseudomonas the first time, but that was because I thought I'd outsmarted Pseudomonas myself, and God had nothing to do with it. Job and I had different reasons and reactions to our situations, but the core of our situations was the same. We were both suffering tremendously, and we both misunderstood the point of our suffering, as well as the point of having faith. 

My grandpa told me to read Job again, and again, and again, until I came to a different conclusion about it. It would give me something to chew on other than my illness, and hopefully I'd mature in the faith, and come back to God. Maybe, in the end, I'd at least have a slight understanding of the point of my suffering, and understand that God wasn't deliberately harming me for fun. 

As I'd expected, I got just as sick as I did the first time. Only, I avoided antibiotics, and went straight to treating my condition with the phages. Unfortunately, the second Pseudomonas infection buried itself deep within my lungs, so gravity wasn't on my side that time. It wasn't the infection itself that was the main issue. It was the aftermath that was the real threat.

When phages kill off an infection, they do so by literally blowing up the cell, leaving behind a mess of cell matter much larger than the cell itself. This dead cell matter wasn't infectious, so it couldn't eat through my body like the living Pseudomonas could, but it was awfully sticky and hard to get rid of.  

The phages killed Pseudomonas in less than two weeks, but it was extremely difficult for me to breathe because of what was left behind in my lungs. Every time I coughed, I coughed long and hard, expelling sticky stuff out of my windpipe every time. Sometimes, the stuff that I coughed up only made it to the back of my throat, and then slid down my throat into my stomach. Because of this, it was really difficult for me to eat without getting sick, so I lost a ton of weight. 

I was still pissed at God, so I gave Him the silent treatment as I believed He did to me. In my mind, I still thought I was the one who pulled everything off. If anyone deserved any credit for my healing, it was myself, family, and doctors, not God. Of course, whenever my family talked to me about it, I hid my disbelief from them. Everyone except for me seemed to believe the phage treatment was introduced to us by God. Personally, I wrote it off as a lucky coincidence. The only thing that would open my heart up to God again was to get back into a school I could thrive in. If God could fulfill His promise from over a year before, then I'd take God more seriously. But, I wasn't about to attend another school with other students and multiple teachers ever again, even when I healed completely. 

Unfortunately, my anger at God and CF spilled out into the world for everyone to see. I was very short with everyone who was around me, and spent most of my time in my bedroom, hiding away from the rest of the world. Even my dad, who was an agnostic himself and didn't bring up religion with me, was shocked when I blurted out I wasn't very religious anymore. 

"What happened? What changed?" he asked. 

"Life." I sighed. 

That short, simple answer continues to haunt me to this very day. Life certainly did change for me, and it didn't change for the better. I was sick and exhausted. I was suffering intense pain and frustration. I was frustrated for the most part. After all, I was a total dumbass for going back to a school building I knew would get me seriously sick again, but I wanted to see if I could finish high school before Pseudomonas finished me. I only had one thing on my mind: graduate high school. I felt like I could never forgive myself for not using my head as much as I should've, and because of my own stupidity, I was back at square one and at risk of ending up on my death bed. 

I was also frustrated at my family. They didn't understand what I was actually going through, and really didn't attempt to hear me out. As soon as they heard me say something even related to, "I think I'm becoming an atheist", that was the end of the conversation. My mom firmly believed that if she just forced me to go to church, I'd have an epiphany that would completely change my mind and attitude towards God and my circumstances. But her choice to bring me to church every Saturday night once I could stand on my own two feet again, only made atheism more attractive to me. 

For the record, I did not like the church my mom was going to. Worship service was literally a rave for Jesus, complete with live contemporary Christian music, smoke machines, and flashing lights, followed by repetitive, vapid sermons that seemed to last for an eternity. If I was going to consider Christianity again, I needed a completely different church environment, but when I tried going to a Wednesday night bible study group, it was just as fulfilling to me as the same old "Jesus loves you" sermons I had to sit through at my mom's church. Pretty much every question I brought to my bible study was met with blank stares and shrugs, even from the adult leaders. 

My frustration only grew when my mom found a letter in our mailbox from my school. She opened it up and I read the letter over her shoulder as she read it to herself. My school was threatening to sue us for truancy because we didn't provide them with enough doctor's notes to excuse my absences. Thankfully, I was 16 years old, so legally I was allowed to drop out of school so long as my parents agreed to let me do so. If the school really did try to bring us to court, they'd lose pretty quickly. However, when my mom told the school this, they threatened to fail me for truancy instead. If they couldn't get the court to do anything to us, they might as well hold me back a grade instead, and ensure my failing grades remained on my permanent record. 

My mom was seething. She literally screamed over the phone, demanding whoever was in charge of this ridiculousness to back down. They didn't. At least, not until my mom got her best lawyers involved. Then, my school dropped all charges and failing grades when they received a phone call from my mom's lawyer, who threatened to sue their asses if they didn't drop all charges and failing grades. We had plenty of evidence to prove I ditched school for a total of 4 months for a very good reason, while my school did not. 

After that little episode, my mom finally decided a regular school was not for us. She promised to find me something, anything, that would allow me to graduate high school and suite my needs. But, she also admitted that she had no idea where to go from there, and she needed guidance. She told me I had to do nothing, except one thing. 

"I want you to pray." my mom explained, "You need to pray for a better school. I know you don't trust God right now, but you have to. I know you think I know what I'm doing, but I don't, so I need you to pray for guidance. Got that?"

"Yes." I nodded, "I'll start praying every night from now on, regardless if I believe in God or not."

To be honest, I spent more time sleeping and playing video games than I did on praying, and when I did pray, I spent most of that time ranting at God for being so careless towards me. God clearly did not care about me if He allowed me to go through so much torture, at least in my mind. But, despite my irreverence and anger towards Him, God refrained from striking me with a deadly bolt of lightning the next time I ventured outside. Looking back, I've realized that God was showing me a lot of mercy, patience, understanding, and love by not letting me die. Sure, I was in tremendous pain, both mentally and physically, but I wasn't dying anymore. I wasn't even at the slightest risk of dying anymore. I was still sick, but the risk of death was nonexistent. 

I didn't even begin to realize that my hatred towards God had nothing to do with God, but had everything to do with me, until I finally saw a light at the end of the tunnel. That light was a home school program provided by the county that I strongly qualified for, and could use to graduate high school on time. Before then, I was certain I'd have to repeat a grade, which meant I'd have to endure another two and a half years of hell instead of just one and a half. But, with this home school program, the likelihood of me repeating a grade dwindled. Unless I suffered another crippling infection, I was going to graduate high school on time. I just had to be willing to pull my own weight, since chances were, I wouldn't have anyone around to crack the whip. I had the reins, and that was very exciting to me! 

In order to get into that home school program, I had to somehow buck the system. Most of my doctors strongly urged me to go back to the same school building that tried to kill me twice, and that school had a hold of me and refused to let go. They wanted me back, and would fight through hell to get me back. By then, I was healthy enough to fight for myself a little bit, but my mom held me back, reassuring me she had everything under control. She'd much rather keep me in the dark, because she later admitted she didn't want me to get my hopes up too high. She wanted me to focus all of my time and energy into improving my physical health, in case I was dragged back into a regular school environment. 

While my mom and her lawyers fought the school system, I set my sights on getting completely back to my old self, but I had a long, hard road ahead. I weighed 112 pounds soaking wet, when I really should've weighed between 130 and 135 pounds. Most of that weight was muscle that I'd lost, so in order to gain my weight back, I had to exercise regularly. It was getting to be the middle of March, so the seasons were changing, and the weather was warm enough for me to venture outside in several layers. Since I'd lost so much weight, I didn't have any insulation, and my circulation issues also contributed to my inability to stay warm. 

I finally emerged from my hibernation den ready and excited to experience warmer weather. But, I soon realized I couldn't just venture outside like I wanted to. I couldn't make it down the street before I started getting wheezy and sore, and I'd be ready to collapse from exhaustion by the time I limped back to my doorstep. But I pushed through it, and everyday, I was able to get a little further without stopping to rest. Unfortunately, the changing seasons and seasonal allergies were not kind towards my joints or my sinuses, so if it was gusty or cold ahead of a weather front, I was stuck at home, wrapped in down-feather blankets, massaging my throbbing knees and knuckles. Ibuprofen only did so much, but it didn't numb the pain enough to make it possible for me to go on a walk. 

During this, doctors excitedly announced a new prescription drug for me called Symdeko. At the time, I was on a drug called Orkambi, which aimed to help my cells function a little more normally to reduce the rate at which CF progressed, and make my health a little more tolerable. Orkambi only managed to help my cells function a little less than 10% better, but that 10% had massive effects on my health, as well as the health of those with the same kind of CF I had (double delta F508). I didn't experience nearly as much success on Orkambi as most people, because I was so much healthier. Orkambi had an exponential effect on a person's health, depending on how sick they were. The sicker a patient was, the better Orkambi, and drugs like it, worked to increase weight and lung function. 

Symdeko spurred on my cells to work 20% better, which meant I might see a jump in lung function, as would many others, though that increase in lung function would be marginal for me. Still, it was a very promising drug, and certainly gave me hope for the future. However, Symdeko also strengthened my notion that it was science, not God, that had been behind my health all along. So, I again found myself challenging God to do something to prove Himself. I did so very confidently, because I firmly believed God was finally dead, and I could get on with life without Him. If science could cure CF, and God couldn't, who in their right mind would call Him God if He didn't have the power to cure CF? How could an all-powerful God, Who has supposedly existed forever and created the universe, lose to 30 years of research at curing CF? 

Turns out, curing my Cystic Fibrosis was not on God's list of priorities, but getting me into a better school environment was. After fighting the system for almost a month, my mom finally got me approved for the home school program. She told me it took a few miracles along the way, so I ought to thank God more than her for it. I smirked at that, but my mom reiterated that and told me she was serious. God was there every step of the way, answering every prayer my mom had. 

I really didn't know what to expect, and to be honest, I had zero expectations. I didn't want to get my hopes up only for the home school program to fail, because if the home school program failed, I was certainly going back to the dilapidated school that almost killed me twice. That thought sent chills down my spine. I knew if I attended that school a third time, I probably wouldn't live long enough to graduate high school, and I certainly wouldn't graduate on time! So, I finally mumbled my first non-accusatory prayer since before I got sick the first time, asking God for reassurance and peace. I needed to know if I was going to survive high school, and still maintain my recovering health. 

On the day I was supposed to meet my teacher for the first time, I ignored my mom's pleas to come home not smelling like gas and ass, and headed up to the mountains with my dad to do some enduro riding and off-roading. I was incredibly stressed out and anxious that day. Not only did I have zero idea who my teacher would be, but I knew I would start school again the next day with that teacher, regardless if I liked them or not. Going back into school required me to muster up every ounce of courage and faith that I had, even though I didn't have much of either.

When my conversation with my dad died down while we were driving through the mountains towards Rollins Pass, I took that time to silently ask God for peace. I also begged God to answer His promise to me, and provide me with a teacher who actually knew what they were doing for once. I knew if my home school teacher was anything like any of my past teachers, I would never graduate high school. I wasn't about to put myself through the same shit I'd put up with for over a decade. I'd been called incompetent, lazy, and useless by my teachers all too much over the years. The last thing I wanted was to be told that in home school as well. Home school was plan Z, and I was about to execute it. 

I completely forgot about my evening plans the second the sweet scent of two-stroke smoke founds its way to my nostrils. I'd missed that scent for months, and it instantly awoke that little redneck in my soul that had been hidden away for months, almost completely forgotten about. It was true liberation to be out in the wilderness again, even if the sounds and smells of nature were blended in with the addicting scent of blue smoke and the ringing and ticking of my dirtbike's engine. 

I'd been imprisoned in my own home by a devastating lung infection pretty much since the school year began. I'd been pent up for so long that I'd forgotten how awesome it was to ride my dirtbike. Thankfully, I didn't forget how to ride my dirtbike. If I had, then I would've crashed almost immediately, because the trail I was riding on was not an easy trail.

But I did forget just how awesome it was to feel the wind rushing up against me as I engaged all of my muscles to work with the dirtbike, so we could successfully overcome obstacles as one. I also forgot just how difficult and engaging enduro riding was. But the adrenaline, coupled with cold snow melt getting kicked up onto my legs and back as I charged ahead fearlessly on my steel steed, and a strong headwind howling off the snowy continental divide, was more than enough to numb the pain of tearing muscles. 

When the ride was over, I was drenched in mud and sweat. I was shivering from cold and exhaustion, and also nauseous from putting my unprepared body through literal hell and high water, but I was more satisfied than anything. That ride proved to the world that I was well on my way to recovering back to my old self again. Cystic Fibrosis tried its best to kill me, but it failed yet again. That much-needed dirtbike adventure also opened up my heart to be more accepting towards God.

One of the many reasons why I was leaning toward atheism was because I was wilderness deprived. I hadn't been out in the wilderness for months, except for one day in the middle of October when I went pronghorn hunting despite my illness. However, I'm hesitant to call that adventure a hunt. It was like shooting fish in a barrel because there were so many pronghorn running around. My great uncle Courtney chauffeured me around in his heated truck, and only had me walk a few yards away from the truck to shoot. I had myself a pronghorn by noon. 

But the dirtbike ride was much more engaging. I wasn't in severe pain anymore that was caused by illness. Of course, I was in quite a lot of pain during the ride because my legs weren't exactly ready for the exercises I put them through, and it turns out my hands were almost too weak to control the throttle and the clutch. But, it was a good, reassuring pain, not pain caused by a Pseudomonas infection trying to turn me brain-dead. The soreness in my legs, and later my hands, reminded me that although I'd been at death's door, I wasn't anymore. If I was physically strong enough to race that dirtbike uphill over rocks, ditches, potholes, downed trees, snowdrifts, and through deep, muddy puddles, I was physically strong enough to get back to life as normal. Soon, I would be back to my old self again. 

Of course, my anxiety immediately returned as my dad drove me home. I knew I was not presentable in any way, shape, or form. My mom would be pissed if she saw the condition I was in, and I only had so much time to get cleaned up before my teacher came knocking on my door, whoever they were. My blue jeans were now a crusty brown color from all of the mud I rode through. Cold water sloshed around in my boots, and my socks remained soaking wet when I poured out the water. My hair was matted from being allowed to blow freely in the wind, despite my best efforts to stuff it into my hoodie, and also had clumps of mud and tree debris stuck in it. And, when I was filling up my dirtbike with gas before the ride, I managed to get some on my clothes, so I really did smell like gas and ass. 

But, I still returned home with an ear-to-ear grin on my face. For the first time since I got sick with Pseudomonas the second time, I was genuinely happy. I wasn't exactly proud that time. Instead, I was just relieved that I was on the upswing. My health was returning, and pretty soon, I hoped the clothes on my back wouldn't feel so heavy anymore. I'd regain my muscle, my lung function, as well as my energy that Pseudomonas stole from me. I'd be back to myself again in no time, and nobody could ever tell that I went through such a terrible tribulation.

However, I still worried that school might jeopardize everything. What if home school didn't work out for me, or was merely a temporary step to launch me right back into the classroom with all of my peers, where I'd likely end up with all sorts of fun lung infections? What if my home school teacher turned out to be just as bad as my in-school teachers? What if I lost motivation to do school, or I fell behind again, or I didn't remember anything useful from school? What if I flunked out of home school? 

All those questions and more spun through my mind as I cleaned myself up and waited for my tutor to knock on my door. To say I was gripped by fear would be a massive understatement. I was downright terrified. Yet, I managed to hide it. At least, I hope I did. 

Turns out, home school was the best thing that could've happened to me at that moment. It took me several weeks to fully realize that God had fulfilled His promise to get me into a schooling environment that actually fit me very well. But, it was pretty obvious to my mom right away. The teacher who was assigned to me, a guy who introduced himself to me by his first name, Eric, which was pretty unusual considering he was my teacher, also had health problems of his own that mirrored mine in a lot of ways. Sure, our disabilities were different and had different causes, but Eric understood, at least partly, what CF put me through.

In the past, none of my teachers understood what I was going through. They just thought I was being lazy and/or stupid, and treated me as such. Knowing my home school teacher would not make wild assumptions about me based on what my condition caused, was already enough to relieve a lot of my anxiety about school, making it possible for me to take on school without too much holding me back.

In fact, I was so relaxed that I no longer dreaded school. I actually enjoyed it, and looked forward to it. Not only did Eric teach me the way that I learned, but I didn't have to worry about keeping up with my peers, or worry about getting sick and exhausted from spending 7 hours in a crowded building, 5 days a week. Instead, all I really had to do, was wake up a little later in the morning, about 8:30 or so, walk a mile to the library, which was located in a beautiful park, spend an hour meeting one-on-one with Eric, and walk the mile back home.

However, if the weather was bad or I wasn't feeling too well on a particular day, my mom told me to use Uber to get to the library and back. If I was feeling too sick to do that, I could easily Skype into school from home, or wherever I was. That meant, over the summer, I could still go on trips while keeping up in school. Also, when I crashed my dirtbike in North Dakota, and returned home a few days later unable to walk or put pressure on my left shoulder, I was allowed to Skype into school from home until I was healed. 

For a long time, I wondered why I hadn't enrolled in the home school program earlier. If I'd enrolled in it before I ever went to that dilapidated school for 11th grade, or even better, before I even went to a school building with my peers, I would've had a much easier time in school. I wouldn't have nearly as much social anxiety as I do now, because home school would've saved me from my bullies. I wouldn't have a sketchy school record, because in home school, I could've kept right up with my studies, regardless of my health.  I would've likely been healthier in the long run, since I could've avoided many of the lung infections and struggles I had to deal with while in school with other students. Life would've been so much easier if I'd just stayed home. 

But, that's when it hit me. God did not allow me to get sick to spite me. He allowed me to get as sick as I did in 11th grade to save me. In order to get into that home school program, I had to be very sick, which I never really was until that point. At least, I was never sick enough to get enrolled into a home school program. That's why I suffered so terribly in 11th grade. I was only able to graduate high school on time with the best grades I'd ever had, because God lifted His protection and allowed a major infection to ravage my body, just enough so I could attend school online with the help of a tutor. But, God never lifted His protection completely.

Along the way, He did save me from unnecessary suffering. God didn't allow the doctors to hospitalized me, where for at least two weeks, I would've been quarantined and pumped full of mostly useless antibiotics that would've only made Pseudomonas harder to get rid of. He didn't allow the Grim Reaper to drag my soul out of my body either, even when I was close to death at times. He only allowed me to get sick enough so I could qualify for the home school program, where I stayed for the rest of high school. 

Of course, even in home school, I did suffer quite a bit. I was still pretty sick when I first started meeting my teacher at the library. I wasn't infected with anything anymore, and most of the aftermath from the Pseudomonas infection was cleared out of my airways. But, I was still severely underweight and weak. Over time, walking two miles everyday, five days a week, and my constant appetite, made it possible for me to gain back my weight and strength Pseudomonas stole from me, in almost record time.

In the early hours of Memorial Day, I woke up at exactly 5:00 AM in an inexplicable panic. It was like I'd just woken up from a night terror, only I did not remember what I'd dreamed about. I was drenched in sweat, my muscles were tense, and I was wheezing. I eventually caught my breath again and calmed down. Since nothing seemed wrong, I managed to fall back asleep. But, when I woke up again several hours later, I felt like shit. As a result, I was very mean and irritable, even though I didn't know why. Nothing was wrong with me. In fact, life was pretty damn good. 

But, around noon, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket. It was my dad. My heart skipped a few beats because my dad never called me just out of the blue like that, unless something was seriously wrong. Shakily, I answered the phone, and it was clear by the hesitation and the raspy sound of my dad's voice, he had been sobbing. In fact, he still was. I sobbed too when he informed me that at about 6:00 in the morning, Minnesota time, my grandpa Bob passed away. He apparently was having a heart attack, but held on long enough for family, friends, and EMTs to arrive. The EMTs worked on him for a good hour or so before letting him go, and I woke up panicked out of my mind at the exact same time my grandpa passed away. That really, really messed with me, and still continues to baffle me to this day. 

I ended up bringing that up the first night I stayed with family for my grandpa's funeral. I was gonna stay at the old farmhouse alone, which I really wasn't looking forward to given the circumstances, and because the house just had a strange vibe overall, so I stayed up late with my aunts and uncles recounting our lives prior to and after grandpa died. I wasn't the only one who experienced something very strange before my grandpa passed away. My uncle Wes, and his wife, Jess, were camping in the blufflands with their sons. The whole time they were there, they didn't have any cell service.

At least, not until the early hours of Memorial Day came around, when Wes and Jess woke up to Wes's phone ringing. That should've been impossible, but at the time, neither Wes or Jess really thought anything of it. My aunt Stacy was calling to let Wes and Jess know that grandpa was having trouble breathing and was complaining of chest pain, and the EMTs were headed over in a helicopter. This was pretty routine, since my grandpa had been disabled and ill for most of his life, especially during his later years, and my uncle Wes would've stayed at camp had he not felt a tremendous urge to visit the farm. So, Wes got up and headed to the farm, just in time to see his brother, my uncle Wade, arriving at the farm after receiving a similar call from Stacy.

About an hour later, after the EMTs did everything in their power to resuscitate my grandpa, they stepped back and allowed everyone to say their final goodbyes, explaining there was nothing else they could do. My grandpa was gone. As sad and sudden as his death was, everyone in my family had a sense of relief. My grandpa was no longer suffering from any number of his debilitating diseases or disabilities. And, he had passed away exactly as he intended to. He had lived on that farm from the time he was a toddler, and had planned on passing away on that farm, surrounded by friends and family. His wishes were fulfilled. 

After staying up late into the night with my aunts and uncles, my aunt Stacy took me to the farm where grandma Shirley was waiting for me. Grandma could tell I was on edge, and tried to make everything as comfortable for me as possible. I appreciated her efforts, but I had basically no sleep that night. As soon as my grandma went to bed, leaving me alone in the dimly lit farmhouse, I had this awful sinking feeling as if I was being watched. I did my best to ignore it, telling myself I was just freaked out and upset by the whole ordeal, and that in reality, I was safe and secure. But, the feeling only increased as the night went on, no matter what I told myself or what I did to distract myself. I had the TV on, a fan running, and was playing video games on my laptop with the living room and dining room lights on. But, I was still absolutely petrified, like I knew there was a mountain cougar hiding around a dark corner, just waiting for the right moment to pounce. 

When the clock struck about three AM, I decided that I needed to head to bed. Reluctantly, I shut everything down, except for the fan and a small nightlight my grandma had plugged into the wall in the dining room. I tried to tell myself as I laid down on the couch to sleep, that any noise or movement I might pick up on was easily explainable by the age of the house, or the fact that I was sleep deprived. I was able to brush off most of the things I experienced that night as something just associated with the old house and my imagination. Occasionally, the house settled and pipes rattled, which I was used to. Outside, I could hear coyotes howling in the distance from time to time through the open window, and heard some movement outside, which I could chalk up to wildlife or the wind. A couple of moths congregated around the nightlight, casting shadows around the rest of the house. None of those things bothered me, but I was still on high alert, because I just felt like something else was nearby.

I managed to fall asleep, but then I woke up again, needing to pee. By then, I'd fully relaxed and the anxiety was long gone. That was, until I swung my legs over the side of the couch and had this instinctual urge to snap my neck in the direction of the kitchen doorway, which was across the dining room to the right of me. I couldn't see it while I was laying down on the couch, because there was a wall in my way. But, as soon as I was sitting on the couch, I could just barely see part of the doorway leading into the kitchen. I saw what seemed to be the silhouette of a large man dart past the doorway in the moonlight. It moved too quickly to actually be a person. It was just a blur. But, it was enough to convince me that I really didn't need to pee all that badly, and neither did I need to sleep. Even though I tried to tell myself it was just a hallucination, I didn't really believe it was. It didn't look anything like anything I'd ever seen or hallucinated before. So, I just parked it right back on the couch and refused to open my eyes or move until dawn. 

I didn't tell anyone about what I'd experienced the night before until my aunt Stacy arrived. She arrived while grandma Shirley was getting ready and I was seated at the table eating breakfast and wearing earbuds, completely oblivious to the world around me. I nearly fell out of my chair when my aunt shook my shoulders from behind me. I whipped around and ripped out my earbuds, and my aunt Stacy had an interesting expression on her face.

"I swear, I just heard grandpa." she said.

"Um, what?" I responded, not quite sure I'd heard her right.

"Right when I opened up the front door, I heard grandpa's voice shouting at me from the living room." she explained further, without breaking eye contact with me, "I think he was shouting hello!" 

I stared back at her, not sure of what to think or say. Obviously, I hadn't heard a damn thing with my earbuds in, so I couldn't back up or deny what my aunt claimed. But, I couldn't escape the conviction in her eyes. She clearly heard something, even though it was silent except for a few birds chirping in the oaks outside. The TV and radio were both off, the AC unit wasn't running in the living room, and neither were any fans. No water was running. Grandma had finished taking a shower an hour or so before my aunt arrived, and was busy getting pictures ready for the wake, so the usual rattly pipes were quiet. But besides the silence, my grandpa's voice was incredibly distinct, and he would usually call out a hearty "hello!" or something else like that whenever someone walked through the front door.

What my aunt told me seemed to line up pretty well with the past, and the conviction in her eyes was undeniable. Obviously, we both knew grandpa had passed away, but my aunt told me that just because he passed away, didn't mean he was gone yet. I had conflicted feelings about that, but was glad that my aunt opened the door for a discussion about what I experienced the night before. 

When I recounted the shadowy blur I saw the night before, as well as the dreadful feeling of being stared at, she was convinced it was grandpa watching over me, and told me I should've been much less afraid and more comforted by his presence. But, that didn't sound quite right to me. If it really was my grandpa paying me a visit, why did I feel so much fear? Shouldn't I have felt a feeling of relief or comfort if it was actually grandpa, instead of so much fear that I refused to answer nature's call? I knew if I'd seen that blurry figure one more time, I would've made my great escape through the nearest open window and called my uncle Wes to come rescue me. In fact, I am certain if I had my driver's license and a set of keys that night, I would've ditched the house within the first several minutes of picking up on that awful feeling of being stared at, hours before I saw that very strange thing in the kitchen.

I didn't reiterate how scared I was to my aunt. She seemed to fully believe it was my grandpa paying me a visit, and since the figure wasn't short or slow moving at all, my aunt took that as a sign that my grandpa was fully healed. I wasn't in the right state of mind to argue or really think about it further, so I just relaxed knowing that I wouldn't be spending the next nights alone after that experience. My cousin Taylor, and her fiance Charles, would be staying with me after the Wake.

 To be honest, I wasn't at all prepared to see my grandpa in his casket. I thought I was. But, nope, I was inconsolable when I saw his lifeless body in a pinewood casket. All I could think was how much I missed him, and how cruel this world was. Why did God have to allow so much death and suffering to enter into the world? Why did it seem like the worst things happened to the greatest people? My grandpa was only 76 years old. For 2018, that wasn't very old. He should've lived a lot longer, but he didn't. 

Based on what my family told me, my grandpa was his healthy old self just a week before he died. In fact, he'd spent five hours mowing the lawn in his tractor, and then several more hours outside with his youngest grandsons the Monday before Memorial Day. But, when illness got a hold of him, it dragged him down to death's door within days of setting in. Such a cruel thing should never happen to anyone, especially to someone as kind and honest as my grandpa. How could a good God allow such terrible things to happen, and still be called good?

After the Wake, I brought up my hard feelings towards God with my grandma Shirley, who had been married to my grandpa for over half a century before he passed. She told me God's timing was perfect in every way. My grandpa Bob was suffering tremendously, so God finally taking him home was the greatest act of mercy He could've shown my grandpa. Grandpa was incredibly sick and suffering from multiple organ failures. He'd fought for his life everyday for the last 36 years. He was at peace and ready to go, and Grandma was just as ready to let him go. It was excruciating for her to watch my grandpa suffer as much as he did. Had the EMTs successfully loaded him into the helicopter the morning he passed away, his wish to die on the farm surrounded by family would've not been fulfilled.

On top of that, my grandma made me realize that God took my grandpa Bob home when He knew everyone in the family could take it. Up until his death, nothing was really troubling me. I was in a good place, mentally, physically, and even spiritually. God took my grandpa away from us when He knew everyone, including myself, could handle saying goodbye. So, even if his death was abrupt and extremely distressing for everyone as a result, he couldn't have gone to heaven in a better way or at a better time. God's timing always was, is, and will be perfect, no matter what. 

Even better, my grandma told me we'd all be reunited in heaven one day. I would see my grandpa again one day. After all, that's why Grandpa specifically asked in his will that the hymn God Be With You would be sung just before his casket was lowered six feet deep in God's country. 

Still, I struggled with the idea that God's timing was perfect in every way. I struggled with how a supposedly faultless and perfect God could create a world full of so much imperfection. Why didn't God just create Heaven right away, without providing His creation a way to possibly screw everything up? Why did He create angels, only for 1/3rd of them, including Lucifer, to decide they were better than God, which led God to cast them out of heaven, turning them into demons? Why did He allow sin to enter this world, which resulted in death being introduced? If God truly was all-powerful and all-knowing, couldn't He have created creatures of free will without having allowed things like hate, evil, strife, and illness to exist? After all, if we didn't know what hate and evil were in the first place, surely that wouldn't interfere with our free will, would it? Suggesting that it did would be like suggesting an artist can't construct a beautiful painting without using red or blue. 

These questions and more messed with my faith quite a lot. I still felt devoted to God. I couldn't deny the fact He provided me with a better school where I could actually learn and stay healthy at the same time. He did prevent me from dying or being hospitalized while I struggled with Pseudomonas for almost an entire year. God really was working very hard behind the scenes to keep me from dying. But, even that brought up feelings and questions relating to survivor's guilt.

Why did God keep me healthy and alive, but still let so many other people die? Why did God answer my prayers, but ignored the prayers of so many others? What did I do to deserve such special treatment? As far as I knew, I was the last person God should've continued to pay attention to. I'd continuously cursed Him, distrusted Him, walked away from Him, openly told other people that God did not exist, possibly sending them down a path of permanent faithlessness, yet God did not leave me alone. He continued to make Himself known to me, whether or not I accepted it, regardless of what I said or did to try and buck Him out of my life.  

I ended up bringing up my survivor's guilt to my grandpa Lyle while we were on our way to North Dakota. For the next four hours, as we passed the plains of Wyoming and headed into the Black Hills of South Dakota, my grandpa and I had a deep discussion regarding faith and survivor's guilt. He agreed that what I was going through was pretty normal for someone like me, and that some questions like, "Why does God let some people live but others die?" didn't have an earthly answer. But, my grandpa did say that instead of getting upset at God for saving my ass but letting others die, I ought to think about it differently.

My grandpa said if anyone was the unlucky one, I was! Those who died despite begging God for healing weren't being ignored or punished by God. Instead, they were actually receiving the greatest blessing of all. They were going home to heaven, where there weren't things like death and disability! Those who survived their predicaments were bound to suffer again and again on earth until their time came, instead of going to a place right away where suffering was nonexistent. 

Of course, at the time, I planned on using that as an excuse to remain resentful towards God, this time for leaving me to suffer even more in this merciless hellhole called Earth, but my grandpa stopped me in my tracks. 

"You ought to be very, very thankful to God for where you are at now." my grandpa sternly said, "If God didn't intervene when He did, you wouldn't be healthy or passing high school right now! But, because God loves you and wants the best for you, He answered your prayers and brought you to a place in life where you can thrive! So, don't get so upset about the things you think God isn't doing that He should, because it turns out, God knows better than you do!" 

I realized my grandpa was right, but his answer still didn't satisfy me. I almost had to know why God was the way that He was. What was the purpose of allowing so many people to die in such, horrific and seemingly meaningless ways? How could God sit back and just let things happen, and still be considered all-good, all-loving, and all-powerful? To me, none of it made any sense. The only answer to those questions that seemed to make any sense was, "He can't. It's not possible to be all-good, all-loving, and all-powerful and still allow little kids to die of starvation." 

Of course, that was a very atheistic answer. So, naturally, I was again drawn more towards atheism than I was towards Christianity. Even though I promised God that I'd practically fall to my knees in worship if He answered my prayers regarding school and my health, which He did, I broke that promise. I was just too critical and inquisitive to surrender to the faith so easily. I just had too many questions, and not enough answers, to surrender myself to God. 

Aside from those philosophical questions, I also struggled with God scientifically. I thought I'd resolved all of my scientific issues with God until I brought up my scientific beliefs to my grandparents, who viciously denounced my views as wrong. My grandparents had just come back from visiting Ken Ham's Creation museum, and gave me a bible study guide annotated by Ken Ham himself. They asked me to read it, and then tell them what I thought. I have to admit, I couldn't get through Ken Ham's biblical study book. It was just too cringey for me to get through. I skimmed through all 200 pages of it, all the while struggling to figure out how someone as intelligent and seemingly scientifically literate as Ken Ham, could believe in such nonsense.

My conversation with my grandparents was very polite, but none of us budged on our beliefs. My grandparents subscribed to Ken Ham's idea of creationism hook, line, and sinker, and I agreed with the modern scientific community in the same way. I figured if I had to pick between God and science, I was going with science, because unlike God, science was provable and easily observed. And, as far as I knew, science strongly disagreed with Ken Ham's version of creationism, or any version of literal creationism for that matter! 

Like many times before, I isolated myself from the Christian faith, struggling to reconcile my faith with modern science that time. According to many Christians, the bible was very clear that God created humans right away, rather than evolving them into existence. The bible was also very clear that the universe was created in 7 days, not in billions of years. There seemed to be a lot more than just those things that the bible disagreed with modern science on, at least, according to the Christians I grew up around. 

When we arrived at the farm in North Dakota after 12 hours of driving (and at least 10 of those hours were spent talking about theology), I was brain-fried and ready for a vacation. I still had school to work on, but since I had my laptop and a cellphone to tether off of so I had access to the internet, I could work on school while enjoying my stay in North Dakota. 

I expected it to be a relaxing vacation, full of fishing, dirtbike riding, and other family activities. While I was right in some ways, my trip to North Dakota turned into a series of misadventures that I've been trying to forget about. But, some of the stuff that happened to me during that trip was so traumatic, that I've had bad dreams about those events, which were basically just memories being replayed in my sleep. 

Out of all of the bad things that happened to me that trip, I think the storm that hit us in the middle of one night takes the cake, as far as how scary it was. 

We knew to pay close attention to the weather report at all times, because tornado season peaks in late June and all of July in North Dakota. My family had me staying in a bedroom in my great aunt's manufactured home. As nice as that place was, especially since it had air conditioning and modern appliances, I didn't feel comfortable staying in that house because it didn't have a solid foundation or a basement. So, I decided to spend about half of my nights (and days) in the old farmhouse, about 10 yards away from my great aunt's house, because it had a basement and was much more solid than the trailer home. 

At first, my entire family made fun of me for being such a wuss, because whenever the western skies looked even slightly threatening, I would bolt out of my great aunt's house, sprint across the lawn, and practically throw myself into the safety of the farmhouse, drenched in sweat and out of breath, regardless of what was going on back at my great aunt's. I think I abandoned the dinner table with my plate at least twice during that trip, after I was startled to my feet by the noise of thunder.

My great aunt said she'd lived in that manufactured home for five years, and nothing ever bad happened to it. She did, however, admit to fleeing either to the farmhouse or the neighbor's house when the sky turned an eerie green, black, and/or purple, and the sky began to churn, which happened often in the summer. Though, over the years, she stopped doing that. In her mind, if nothing bad happened before, it wouldn't happen in the future. I thought that was one of the dumbest things I'd ever heard, so I dismissed my family's teasing if that was their mindset. 

Of course, during the first few thunderstorms, the storms were never very severe. We got some gusty winds, heavy rain, and small hail from the worst storm, but nothing that was life-threatening. That incentivized everyone to poke a little more fun at me for being so skittish, but I refused to let down my guard no matter how much my family gently teased me about it.

One evening, the weatherman got very serious. He highlighted Mercer county, which was our county, as the county with the highest risk of severe weather, explaining that we were at an alarmingly high risk of experiencing overnight severe weather that would likely be life-threatening. My relatives dismissed the weatherman's report, saying things like, "Yeah, they like to sensationalize things." and "We've had higher risks and nothing bad happened."

But, I took the weatherman very seriously. I grew up in tornado alley. I knew a moderate risk of severe weather meant it was likely we'd experience some serious shit, and there was no way in hell I was gonna ride it out in a manufactured home. So, I shamelessly packed a bag of clothes for the farmhouse, and headed that way as soon as I was done eating dinner. My grandpa and little brother (who were staying in a bedroom in the old farmhouse) weren't far behind me. 

That night was relatively uneventful for the first half of it. Before he went to bed, my grandpa asked me if I really wanted to stay on the living room couch in the old farmhouse, rather than curl up in my very comfortable memory-foam bed back at my great aunt's. It was getting close to midnight, and so far, nothing was happening. All was quiet, except for a slight drizzle and the occasional roll of thunder. Still, I wanted to stay right were I was. I had every electronic I owned open and connected to the internet. I was tethering all of my electronics to my grandpa's phone, because I didn't have one. I fell in the river while fishing with my phone in my pocket several days before. But, I still had an iPad and a laptop, as well as my grandpa's phone, so I was all set to survive whatever was (or possibly wasn't) headed our way. 

I was afraid to look at the radar at first. I had it in a tab, but I was afraid of opening it. I knew, just from the weatherman's report earlier that evening, that a very large and serious storm was headed our way. As it continued eastward, it was growing in intensity, especially since it was sucking up moisture from lake Sakakawea, and it was a storm that had already dropped a handful of very large and dangerous tornadoes behind its wall of wind, hail, and rain. But, because of how petrified of it I was, I refused to look outside or even take a quick glance at the radar. I'd rather be blissfully unaware of my impending doom rather than fully aware of the inevitable.

Just before the storm hit, I had the irresistible urge to pray. As attracted to atheism as I was at that time, I could not ignore such an intense feeling. So, I silently asked God to protect the farm, if He was willing to. If not, then I asked that everyone's lives would be spared. But, if it was our time to go, I guess there wasn't much I could do to thwart that fate. There was a basement for everyone to take shelter in, but it had been gutted, and there were windows every few feet or so, including a large egress window towards the center of the basement. There really wasn't a safe place to hide in if the storm got that serious.

About 10 minutes after I prayed, a very strong gust of wind rushed up against the house from the east. I had the window directly behind me open to cool the warm house down with the cold, wet air from outside. The wind caught the curtains and slapped me in the back of my head with them. The pressure difference was so drastic that the front door rattled in its frame. I startled out of my seat, slamming my knees on the bottom of the oak table, but ignored the pain and rushed to slam the window closed. My grandpa, who had been sleeping in the bedroom, came rushing out to close the windows in the kitchen before too much rain blew in. As soon as he slammed the windows shut, the wind radically shifted directions, so my grandpa rushed to close the windows on the western side of the house as well. 

Meanwhile, I stood in the center of the kitchen, trembling in shock and fear. Just as my grandpa was returning to the kitchen, the power was knocked out. But, we weren't left in total darkness. In the dark, churning skies above us, lightning constantly flashed, allowing us to see inside and outside without any help from a flashlight. 

My grandpa was fascinated by the storm. He was in awe of its power, and loved the constant lightning. But I remained frozen in place, waiting for my grandpa to stop talking, so I could chime in and beg him to go into the basement with me. I knew it probably wasn't a good idea to stay upstairs. Even if there was no tornado, the wind was probably just as strong, and it was getting stronger by the minute. The house was surrounded by large trees, most of which were rooted in soft soil. I knew if the wind hit them just right, those trees were going to crash through the roof of the house. There was also an old RV parked by the house that could've easily been picked up by the wind and thrown against the house, possibly breaking through the wall. I didn't want to get crushed to death by a fallen tree, or suffer any other storm-related death that could've easily been avoided if I'd just obeyed my instincts, and gone into the basement.

I didn't want to die, especially since there was a small part of me that fully believed in God, and knew I didn't have it right with God. After all, I'd disobeyed Him constantly and deliberately, denied Him, called Him horrible names, told Him I was better off without Him, so on and so fourth, all out of anger and hatred. I knew if I was to die that night, and God truly did exist, I'd be the one soul in my family who would've fallen through the basement floor, rather than ascended above the dangerous thunderheads. 

Even when I did finally manage to tell my grandpa we should probably head underground, he told me we didn't have to, and he didn't want to. My little brother was fast asleep in the bedroom. The last thing my grandpa wanted to do was alarm my little brother. We both knew he'd lose it if he knew what was going on. Still, I figured it was better to freak my brother out than to stay upstairs and risk getting seriously injured or losing our lives, but my grandpa disagreed. He told me we'd only go into the basement if the storm got worse, as if it already wasn't bad enough. 

Reluctantly, I headed back into the living room and sat down at the table, while my grandpa returned to bed. I don't think he slept, but he did lay down in the bed next to my brother to attempt to fall asleep. I finally had the guts to check the radar, after I'd situated myself on the opposite side of the table, away from the window, just in case. I regret checking the radar to be honest. We were just on the very edge of a bowed storm that was 400 miles long north-to-south, and 100 miles wide west-to-east. We were just 5 miles into the storm, and what we were experiencing then didn't even compare to what was coming. 

The storm only grew more intense as the minutes ticked by. The wind was so loud that I couldn't even hear my own thoughts. It literally sounded like a jet engine. But what made it worse were the sounds of things hitting the house, as well as tree branches creaking and breaking. At one point, I glanced towards the front door, and through the window in a series of lightning strikes, I saw one of the large trees by the road break in half. That was the moment I decided it was time to head to the basement, but when I opened up the basement door and gazed down the dusty wooden steps into what was basically a concrete pit, I wussed out. I really didn't want to go down there alone if I didn't have to. So, again, I tried to convince my grandpa to wake up Jack and head into the basement, but he reassured me everything was fine. 

Frustrated, I stormed out of the bedroom and sat back down at the kitchen table, and checked the weather reports as I chewed on my nails. The wind gust reports were terrifying. The winds outside were howling at a steady 70-90 miles per hour, with gusts between 100-120 miles per hour! The rain was coming down at almost two inches per hour, and there were widespread reports of golf ball sized hail and possible tornadoes. I also heard debris hitting the side of the house, and fully expected something to get launched through a window eventually. Yet, despite all of that, the house was still standing, and none of the trees surrounding our house had fallen. I'm sure they were pretty close to crushing the roof, but for some reason, none of them ever fell. 

At times when the wind quieted down just before another tremendous gust hit, I could hear my grandpa's voice calling out to God from the bedroom, asking for His protection. A few minutes later, I also heard my brother's shrill voice saying prayers along with my grandpa. Even though Jack didn't seem very afraid (in fact, he seemed very confident that God was protecting us), I figured it was time to head to the basement if the guys were calling out to God for safety and protection. But my pleas to join me in the basement fell on deaf ears, and I still hadn't garnered the courage to go down there alone. So, I just parked it right back at the kitchen table, and sincerely asked God to keep the roof from being ripped off the house. If He could do that for us, then I'd be a staunch believer for life. 

In hindsight, that roof really should've come off. That old farmhouse had basically sat abandoned and rotting for a decade before my relatives decided to fix it up again. We knew, just from inspecting the roof a couple years before, that it was weak and rotting. We also knew every tree surrounding the house was at serious risk of being blown down onto the house. We hired a few farmhands to remove some of the largest trees, but there were still a dozen or so trees that posed a serious risk when that storm hit. Those trees should've fallen on the house. They were so much sicker and flimsier than the oak tree by the road I saw get split in half. Yet, for some reason, those dying trees remained standing, and the house kept its roof and all of its windows.

Sleep deprivation finally got the best of me between 3 and 4 AM. I decided to sleep in my dirtbike helmet and boots, hoping they would save me somehow if the storm managed to tear up the house while I was laying on the couch. Looking back, I really shouldn't have slept on that couch. There was a large picture window just behind the couch, as well as two other windows adjacent to it that could've easily shattered if the pressure differences were drastic enough. The front door was also in that same room, still rattling in its frame. But, I was too exhausted to assess the risks, and passed out on the couch. 

I woke up the next morning to my grandpa shaking me awake. Outside, the skies were clear, and I could hear birds chirping in the trees by the front door. Everything seemed remarkably normal. But, scattered throughout the lawn and piled in the ditch were debris of all shapes and sizes, proving to me that I didn't just have a horrible, horrible nightmare. It was all real.

I slowly got up, rubbing my eyes and stretching as I did so. I didn't really know what to expect once I stepped outside and gazed at my great aunt's house to the west. There wasn't enough stuff laying around on the lawn to suggest her house had been ripped apart, but there was no way in hell a manufactured home could've stood up to that weather, especially my great aunt's, which stood broadside to the wind. 

But, when I stepped outside onto the grass, which squeaked under my boots as I walked, the house was still standing, completely undamaged as far as I could tell. The lawn chairs were gone, but that was the only thing missing from the house. Everything else was untouched. 

My family fully believed God was watching over us that night, sheltering us from the full strength of the storm. 3 miles away from us, a farmhouse was destroyed by what had to have been a tornado. The family inside was woken up when the roof got torn off. As the parents rushed to get their kids, the walls began to collapse. The parents got their kids together, but when the father tried to get the basement door open, he couldn't. The pressure difference kept the door shut. So, he got his shotgun and shot a hole in the basement door, so he and his family could get to safety, all the while the house continued to fall apart. 

Less than 2 miles away from us, a handful of grain bins were blown away, and a nearby tractor shed was shredded, leaving only a pile of debris on a concrete foundation. Not even a mile away from us, a historic barn collapsed, and several telephone poles across the road from it snapped in half. Plenty of telephone poles snapped in half in Pick City and Riverdale too, knocking out power to almost the entire county. Historic trees were also downed everywhere. In fact, not a single tree was standing on top of the Garrison dam, after winds gusting up to 120 miles per hour rushed across and down the dam. Along the road between the Garrison dam and Riverdale, which ran through a small canyon, the wind was accelerated and wiped out nearly every tree and bush that once grew in that canyon. 

Unfortunately, the storm that hit us didn't just damage properties, take out trees, and injure people. Across the Garrison dam at the lake, a family friend was killed when his camper was picked up and thrown on top of him, while he had ventured outside to either get to safety or tie things down. Park rangers found him drowned in the lake under the frame of his destroyed camper. He was the only resident to pass away, but his death was a stark reminder of just how dangerous and destructive that storm got. 

Needless to say, my family didn't laugh at me whenever I sought shelter in the farmhouse from then on. In fact, if I went running to the farmhouse, some of my relatives weren't far behind me, except for those who arrived after the storm had hit. They still made fun of me and stayed in the manufactured home, even when the skies turned threatening. 

That storm, as scary as it was, did not really do much for my faith, or lack thereof. It just made me more skittish and alert of the weather. I had one of those "atheist till the plane starts falling" moments during the storm. But, as soon as it was over, I pretty much completely forgot how intensely I prayed to God. I was begging for His protection as the storm bore down on us for 6 hours straight, waiting for the storm to either move on or destroy the farmhouse my grandpa spent his childhood in. During that storm, I was a hardcore Christian. But, as soon as the threat was gone, I immediately reverted to my old atheistic ways, silently scoffing at my family members as they prayed over every meal, or raised their hands in worship during church the following Sunday, the same way they scoffed at me for being scared of North Dakota thunderstorms. 

I was so glad to be headed home after spending two insane weeks in North Dakota dodging death. Unfortunately, I didn't go home unscathed. Three days before we were scheduled to leave, I thought it would be a good idea to test my skills on my dirtbike by attempting high-speed wheelies. I was pretty successful at first. But, just before my aunts finished cooking dinner, I whiskey-throttled myself into the air.

I'm still not sure what happened, or how I ended up so high in the air. But, I remember watching, almost in slow motion, as my legs hovered ahead of me, reaching for the sky. Below me, my dirtbike wobbled off to the right and fell over in the grass, ripping a dirtbike-sized chunk of sod out as it slid to a stop. But I kept going. I missed the grass and landed on the sharp, shale gravel on my left side. First, my shoulder hit the ground, then my ribs, then my hip, then my left knee. Then, I rolled onto my back and skidded for a good ten feet before I finally stopped moving.

At first, I didn't notice any pain. I just sprung up to my feet and sprinted away from the scene of the accident. Since I could sprint, my legs weren't broken. But, pretty soon, I felt something wet dripping down my arms and back. Scared, I practically broke down the front door as I bolted into the farmhouse where all of my aunts were cooking dinner, and they all gasped in shock as blood dripped from my arms and lower back onto the linoleum kitchen floor. They sat me down on the couch, because I started getting dizzy, and spent the next 10 minutes cleaning me up. They picked rocks out of my skin, drenched my wounds in rubbing alcohol, and then used toilet paper to wipe up the trail of blood I'd left behind and keep me from bleeding all over everything anymore. It was very dramatic. 

That night, I remained pretty comfortable. I wasn't in any pain. Of course, I also had a lot of adrenaline rushing through me that didn't taper off until much later in the night. While I wasn't wearing any real protective gear on my arms, torso, or legs, I was wearing my helmet, which saved me from suffering a major concussion. But, since I was otherwise just in cowboy boots, jeans, and a T shirt, everything else hurt like hell once the shock and adrenaline wore off.  

My entire left side of my body was bruised, and my knee had a golf-ball sized bump on it, making it impossible for me to walk without a severe limp. I also had a severely bruised hip, which added to the pain whenever I attempted to walk. My shoulder took the hardest impact though. It hurt so badly and was so bruised up that I was worried I might've broken it. But, because I could still move it from side to side (just not up and down), I figured I didn't need to go to the ER. 

On the 12-hour road trip home, I refused to talk or even move. I was in tears at times because of how painful my injuries were. So, the 12-hour theology talk my grandpa hoped to have with me didn't happen. And, whenever he did try to start a conversation with me, I didn't even look at him. All I could focus on was the pain. That time, I couldn't get mad at God for allowing me to do such a thing. It was clear that I had the free will to do as I pleased, even if that meant sending myself into the air without a soft place to land on, resulting in some pretty gnarly injuries that left some scars on my arms and lower back. I was just thankful that those scars were barely noticeable. The last thing I wanted was to have to explain what happened to everyone who asked. But, I learned from my mistakes. Instead of doing wheelies on my dirtbike without very much protection, I vowed to only do wheelies if I wore a hoodie and some knee and elbow pads. 

Back at home, the answers to my scientifically-related questions that'd been gnawing at me came unexpectedly. It turns out, typing "does God exist" into Google doesn't actually bring up anything useful. I know, what a surprise. So, I decided that if God really wanted me to believe in Him, He would have to come get me, rather than expecting me to seek Him at that time. If God really was there, and really was listening to my heart, and really cared about me, He would know how to lure me back into His presence. 

I don't really remember what I was doing online at the time, but I came across a website created and run by a guy called Dr. Francis Collins, where he wrote extensively about reconciling the Christian faith with modern science. I knew the name Dr. Francis Collins sounded familiar. I don't know exactly when or where I heard of him the first time, but I do know that he was the reason why the gene that caused Cystic Fibrosis was discovered way back in 1989, which was a massive breakthrough. The discovery of the CF gene is the reason why I am here today! It allowed doctors and scientists to spring forward into finding effective treatments, and hopefully a cure, to Cystic Fibrosis. Thanks to that discovery, CF went from being a childhood death sentence, to being a condition that patients could survive with well into adulthood. 

Dr. Collins was also the head of the Human Genome Project and director of the National Institutes of Health. He was not only a very credible scientist and doctor who was arguably the most reputable and respected doctor in the States, and possibly even the world, He was also a devout and outspoken Christian. He was not even slightly shy about his faith, contrary to what I'd been taught my whole life up until then. I thought scientists and doctors, no matter what their credentials were, lost all credibility the second they admitted they believed in God. Apparently, that was not the case. 

I read article after article, blog post after blog post on Dr. Collins' website, and I felt all of the scientific reasons I'd mounted against God shrivel up into obscurity by the time I'd spent a couple hours reading those articles. Of course, there were plenty of comments and blogs written by other people who were attempting to discredit the ideas that yes, evolution and the story of Adam and Eve are compatible, and yes, the 14 billion year old universe and the Genesis account of the creation of the universe were also compatible, as well as many other scientific truths people often claimed contradicted the Word of God.

However, I realized that most of those arguments against science-based faith were purely emotion based. If we accepted evolution, or evilution, as some of the more rabid evangelicals described it, surely, that would open the door for us to become morally and spiritually corrupt, since evolution taught that humans were just another animal rather than the image of God. If humans were just another animal, how did that make us the image of God like the bible said we were? But, to counter that question, weren't we already depraved? Did creationists suddenly forget that Jesus Christ died on the cross because we were infinitely sinful and corrupt, and the only way to pay for that was to sacrifice God's Son? Did it really matter whether we came from a common ape ancestor or created as-is by God, if we were already corrupted by default? 

When I enthusiastically brought my findings to my grandparents, they basically pulled out the same emotionally-based arguments that other evangelicals used to discredit theistic evolution, and other ideas like that, and then told me to watch Ken Ham's debates with Bill Nye. Bad idea. I thought Bill Nye absolutely obliterated Ken Ham's version of creationism. It was quite entertaining to watch, to be honest, and reminded me of what happened back in 10th grade when myself and my peers watched a live debate between a Christian creationist and a Christian evolutionist. My grandparents also told me to go on Ken Ham's website and see what he had to say about theistic evolution. He apparently wrote a lot about it, and to my grandparents, he was well-written and thoughtful. Well, I checked, and it was everything I expected it to be. Pretty void of anything intellectual or honest. 

I decided that since my scientific discussions with my family led to nowhere, I'd just drop it and go my own way. They could believe what they wanted, and I'd go on to believe what I wanted. After all, nobody was being harmed as a result of my family's creationist views as far as I knew. 

But the philosophical side of faith continued to gnaw at me. I knew avoiding those questions wouldn't lead me closer to the truth, whatever it may be. At the same time, I worried there weren't any answers to those questions. I grew up being taught that there were no such things as stupid or wrong questions, yet the more I asked questions like, "how could a perfect God create such an imperfect world" and "why does God sit back and let bad things happen to good people?", the more I began to wonder if there were, in fact, stupid and wrong questions. 

I know now that at least one of those questions are obviously wrong. If I'm going to be consistent, I have to acknowledge that because of sin, nobody was perfect or even good. Even the best of people had their moments of tremendous selfishness that harmed other people. Everyone could be roped into doing unspeakable things, as experiments like the famous Milgram experiment showed. Everyone who has ever existed, exists today, and will exist in the future has always been just one little step away from committing murder. Truth is, there never was, never is, and never will be a good person for bad things to happen to. The only truly good person who ever existed was Jesus Christ Himself. But does He really count, since He was God in human form? 

The reality of sin wiped out at least half of my questions regarding the morality of God. However, at the same time, it gave birth to even more questions. If we were so terrible, why did God create us in the first place? Even better, why the hell did He continue to shower us with love and mercy despite the fact everyone was dangerously susceptible to becoming the next Hitler? Surely, if God was all good and all loving, He'd just wipe out His abominations once and for all, leaving no chance for humans to repopulate the world ever again.

But, maybe God didn't have to kill us all Himself, as justified in doing that as He would be. We'd likely do it to ourselves eventually, given how many nuclear weapons we've created, and all of the idiots that somehow found themselves in very powerful and important positions in politics. It wouldn't be long before someone in a political position of authority decided it was time to press that big red button. As of 2019, the Doomsday Clock is 2 minutes to midnight, which is the closer it's ever been to midnight since 1953! Maybe the evangelicals were right about Jesus coming back sooner rather than later all along!

I finally decided that, despite my unanswered questions, I'd give God another shot. After all, it couldn't hurt to get right with my Creator, especially considering the circumstances I've been faced with for my whole life. Not only did the threat of death follow me like a shadow wherever I went due to my health condition, but the chances of me (and everyone else in the world) getting turned into nuclear ash have been growing every month. But, I underestimated the power of doubt, and soon turned back to my usual critical way of thinking. 

Despite my insufferable critiques of Christianity, God somehow found a reason to tolerate me. He continued to protect me and ensure that I was in a good place, for the most part. But that does not mean I was totally safe from suffering and strife. 

In August of 2019, my mom decided it would be a great idea to buy a fixer-upper house with her boyfriend at the time, who was not in a good place in life. He'd just lost custody of his son after a lengthy custody battle with his ex-wife, and while he had visitation rights, he'd have to travel to Puerto Rico to see his son unless it was a major holiday. If it was a major holiday, he was entitled to see his son in the United States for the duration of the holiday break. Still, I sensed a whole lot of trouble on the horizon, which I didn't have time to deal with considering I was taking on my senior year of high school at the same time. 

Not only would we have to renovate our new house while we lived in it, but living with my mom's irritable and grieving boyfriend would be immensely challenging in itself. Despite how much I protested and told my mom it was a terrible idea, she went ahead and moved us into the house, where renovations and major fixes began right away. 

The house had a lot of water-related issues. The pipes were old, and the foundation was weak. The house sank so much over the decades that the ground around it sloped towards the foundation of the house, causing the basement to get flooded every time it rained any significant amount. My mom got the house mudjacked, soil placed around the foundation of the house so the ground didn't slope toward it anymore, and the basement window wells extended and drained. But, despite her best efforts, my bedroom managed to flood the day I was supposed to finally stay in it for the first time, after spending an entire month sleeping in the upstairs guest room. 

I didn't even think about the possibility of getting a lung infection from the window well water, which mixed in with a thick layer of dead and rotting leaves before gushing down the wall and onto the carpet. All I thought about was moving all of my stuff away from the window so it wasn't ruined by the water. My mom came rushing down with buckets and towels, while her boyfriend got a neighbor to help him pump the water out of the window well as it continued to rain cats and dogs on our house. 

In the end, we did successfully stop the flooding and clean up the mess, but we were all soaked in the disgusting well water, that was stained a pale brown from all of the rotting leaves it stirred up. Not even a few days later, I began to experience the symptoms of another Pseudomonas infection that were all too familiar. I had a productive and consistent cough that brought up the taste of blood, as well as this other unknown taste that made me want to puke, which I assumed was what Pseudomonas tasted like. I also lost a lot of my energy, and since we didn't have any phages at the time, I had to go on antibiotics until my mom could locate some for me. 

That time, I did not direct my anger toward myself or God. Instead, I became extremely hostile towards Mom and her boyfriend. My mom later told me living with me was like living with a grizzly bear at that time. I didn't trust anyone, and I was very pissed off at my mom for moving me into a house we knew had water-related issues long before we moved in. I didn't prowl around looking for fights, but I definitely distanced myself from her and got upset when she overstepped my boundaries. While I knew it technically wasn't her fault I had Pseudomonas again, in a way, it was her fault. It wasn't like the flooding was a surprise. So, I decided the best way to deal with my problems was to run away from them for awhile. I ended up staying with my grandparents until we were sure my bedroom wouldn't flood again, and my health was back to normal again. 

During that time, my grandparents often got curious about where I was faith-wise. To be honest, I wasn't sure how to answer their questions, so I did my best to beat around the bush. I did consider myself a Christian, but I had a lot of doubts, anxiety, and anger towards God. That Pseudomonas infection ramped up my fear of death, fed my doubts and questions, and made me physically miserable. I managed to keep up in school despite my health, which my grandparents deemed a miracle of God. Personally, I still wanted to believe I was just lucky, rather than there was an all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-loving Being watching out for me. If atheism was true, then I could shake off my survivor's guilt a lot easier than if it turned out Christianity was true.

But, my grandparents didn't let me dodge their questions for long. Eventually, they decided it would be good for me to attend their Wednesday evening bible study group while I stayed with them. They told me that the bible study group happened at a friend's house out in the country, and it was more than just a worship service. We would sing a few hymns and say a prayer, but beyond that, it would be very interactive and the perfect place for me to bring my toughest questions to the table. This was not really a worship service. It was a time to have a very deep discussion about theology with a bunch of other people. Also, there'd be lots of homemade food for dinner that I could eat as much as I wanted. The food part was what ultimately convinced me to go along with my grandparents the next Wednesday night I was with them. 

It was dark and sleeting when we arrived at the house bible study was being held at. The house was way out in the country, surrounded by hills and ponderosa trees. I could hear cattle bellowing in the distance under the sound of rain drizzling on the trees. Unfortunately, it was too dark to see anything besides what a few dim porch lights revealed. 

Inside the house, there was an overwhelming number of people, all of whom were older adults. I walked inside behind my grandparents, hoping they'd distract most of the adults so I didn't embarrass myself with my terrible small-talk skills. But, because I was several inches taller than my grandparents and a new face in the crowd, everyone in that house was drawn to me like moths to a flame. By some miracle, I managed to introduce myself and hold a few conversations with people without coming off as an awkward, stuttering mess. I still don't know how I managed to pull that off, considering I still have a hard time making my own doctors' appointments over the phone without getting nervous and tripping over my words.

While I avoided embarrassing myself while I had conversations with people, I forgot how tall I was. I was bent over a crock pot of soup on the kitchen table, filling a small bowl of it for myself, and ended up standing up to my full height too soon. I smashed my head on the chandelier in front of everyone. I was fine. The chandelier was fine. But my dignity was in the toilet. Later on, I found myself wondering, "How could God keep me from embarrassing myself with my bad social skills, only to let me do something else equally embarrassing in front of 15 or 20 adults I've never met before?" 

But, I soon realized that stupid mistakes like that are almost never remembered by anyone else except for the person who did it. Not 5 minutes later, bible study began as if I didn't almost destroy someone's antique chandelier. It started off with a prayer, then an older woman headed upstairs to the balcony where there was a piano, and played along while everyone else sang hymns. I didn't sing any hymns. Not only did (and does) my singing voice sound worse than nails on a chalkboard, but I wanted to remain as quiet and invisible as possible, because I was still mortified by the chandelier incident. Also, I wanted to get a feel for the kinds of Christians I was dealing with that time. I hoped that they'd be a fairly diverse group, so maybe I'd get some diverse answers to my questions. But as far as I knew, everyone in that room shared the same Christian beliefs as my grandparents. However, I'd only know for sure if I threw out one of my many "unanswerable" questions. 

I never gained the courage to ask any of my questions. Even when the discussion dulled and got quiet for a moment, I never made a sound. I tried, but it was like as soon as I had a chance and opened my mouth, I forgot the English language. My mind would go blank, and I'd feel a rush of adrenaline as flight-or-fight kicked in. Social anxiety took over me and silenced me.

I'd managed to maintain small-talk with people before bible study even began, but as soon as it seemed like all eyes were on me, my ability to speak vanished. I was pretty upset at myself for being so afraid of the whole group that I couldn't even look at them, but that wasn't anything new. I'd always struggled to interact with people, especially those I didn't know. I was the kid that ran to hide behind my parents whenever I was around strangers. I was the student in school that avoided talking with my peers as much as possible. I was (and still am) that overly-vigilant woman who sprints to my car if there's nobody around to escort me to it, even in broad daylight. I also still struggle to start conversations or hold eye contact for longer than a few seconds, if at all.

I could only hope that if I continued to attend that bible study with my grandparents, then I'd eventually be comfortable enough to ask one of my many theological questions that I thought I just needed an answer to. Unfortunately, I never gained that courage. I remained silent during every bible study I attended. Even if I was dying to ask a question, my thoughts would instantly scatter as soon as there was an opportunity for me to speak. I hated that about myself. I still do. Maybe if I did have the ability to throw out a question or more, my faith in God wouldn't have been nearly as unstable as it was. 

Early in October, I had the opportunity to go hunting for pronghorn. Getting outside and away from most other people gave me some time to clear my mind and reset. Even though the weather was pretty shitty out on the exposed plains near the Wyoming/Colorado border, it didn't take away from the breathtaking beauty of the great plains. I didn't realize just how badly I missed life outside of the city until that opening weekend. I also failed to realize just how much the city life influenced my beliefs. I didn't see much beauty or experience much peace in the city or the suburbs, which led to me having a restless, pessimistic mind. But, out in the country, far away from the Denver metro area, everywhere I looked there was beauty, and for once in a very long time, I got to experience true peace and quiet. 

During that day, I finally felt like I was in the presence of God Himself. I had left all my worries about my health, school, work, and family life at home. I was almost completely at peace, though I did get progressively more agitated as the weather got worse and dusk grew closer, since I still hadn't filled my tag. But, my hunting guides reminded me to remain optimistic throughout the day, and just to enjoy myself. Enjoy the scenery. Enjoy the isolation. Enjoy the fresh air. I rarely got to get as far away from civilization as I was that day, and my hunting guides and grandparents were certain I'd miss those wide open ranch lands almost as soon as I returned home. I knew they were right, so I took in a deep breath and slowed myself down the best I could. 

However, there was something within me that made it nearly impossible for me to slow down. I hadn't eaten, but I was hardly very hungry. I hadn't had much to drink, but I wasn't dehydrated. I'd been moving around almost constantly, jogging up draws and charging across the flat, windy tops of plateaus, but I wasn't sore. I was running purely on instinct. It was almost like I'd hunted a thousand times before. I'm not quite sure how to explain it, other than it felt a little like deja vu, but so much more compelling. I don't recall having too many thoughts that day. At least, not much that I can remember. I was simply determined to hunt a pronghorn down, and every time I saw something that even remotely resembled my prey, a massive surge of adrenaline would rush through my veins. I was no longer a spectator of nature. I was literally a part of nature, doing something that humans had been doing long before they resembled humans. 

If literal creationism was true, I doubt that connection with the wilderness and my animalistic instincts would be possible. After all, according to creationism, I am neither genetically related to other plants and animals or have the same instincts as other animals. God created everything as-is, and only allowed things to change very slightly. So, just because we looked a lot like many apes, didn't mean we were related to apes in any way, shape, or form. Same can be said for canines, equines, felines, bovines, and all other animals. While there can be genetic variations within a kind (such as within the canine kind that includes dogs, wolves, and foxes), nothing genetically connects a dog to a cat, or a cat to a human. At least, according to literal creationism. 

Yet, my experiences as a hunter have strongly disputed those claims. I saw and experienced the natural world as a natural predator. I scoured the landscape for hours and hours, braving the elements, using all of my senses to locate my prey the best I could, all without a single conscious thought crossing my mind. I was in autopilot for basically the whole day I was out there. Looking back, that is certainly something that is very strange and nearly impossible to put into words. One just has to experience what I have in order to understand what I am trying to say. 

The next morning, after an unsuccessful first day, we were already out on the hunt before the sun was up. It wasn't windy that morning, but it was freezing cold and the fog was very dense. Chances were, once the sun rose above the horizon, the dense mist would burn off. But, until then, we could not legally shoot an animal. 

Thankfully, when the sun did rise, the mist began to burn away, revealing my prey right in front of us on the road. In fact, my hunting guide and I got out to chase after a large herd of pronghorn that came bolting across the road in our headlights. We had to throw ourselves under a barbed-wire fence, load my rifle, and then sprint over a ridge in order to find the pronghorn again. Unfortunately, I couldn't get a good shot once we were in position on the ridge overlooking a valley. The pronghorn were just moving too fast and far away, and the sage surrounding myself and my guide blocked my view through the scope. 

But, we soon had another opportunity to sneak up on a smaller herd of lone does grazing right by the railroad tracks. We had to hike about a mile to get into position on a ridge overlooking the bowl the pronghorn were grazing in. Once we were settled with my rifle resting on a tripod while I knelt down to view the pronghorn through the scope, I finally had time to pick a pronghorn and shoot. 

It was a surreal experience staring at living, breathing animals through a rifle scope. I'd hunted twice before, but that did not make me any more used to that jittery feeling called Buck Fever, or any more prepared to squeeze the trigger. However, I knew how to calm myself down enough to take the life of a pronghorn as quickly and ethically as possible. I did not want to ruin any meat, nor did I want to cause my prey to suffer. So, I took in several deep breaths as I waited for the right opportunity to pull the trigger. When that opportunity finally came, I squeezed the trigger and was severely disoriented for a few seconds immediately after a loud shot disrupted the silence on the plains. 

My hunting guide and I cautiously approached the downed pronghorn about five minutes after I shot her. I'm not quite sure how to put into words what I felt. There was, of course, a feeling of great sadness, because death was involved. But, there was also a sense of relief. I finally did what I came to do. The tag was filled. My freezer would be full of delicious wild game for quite some time. On top of that, there was, of course, joy and excitement. I was excited because I knew I'd get lots of fresh meat off that pronghorn, and I could not wait to process my kill so I could eat it. 

But, there was also another feeling I had. One that I really, really struggle to put into words. It felt as though God was right there with me. It felt as though He had provided that pronghorn just for me. Now, I don't mean that in a literal creationist sense. God did not create that pronghorn just to be turned into steaks and sirloins. But, it was as if He guided that animal throughout its life, so after its living purpose was fulfilled (after it had bred, grazed on and fertilized the land, stuff like that), then its final purpose could be fulfilled. That was to be brought down by a hunter and eaten. That hunter was me, but it could've easily been a hawk, coyote, or even a mountain cougar. But, I was the chosen hunter for that pronghorn. And for that, I was extremely grateful to God. 

I gave my hunting guide the rifle and knelt down by the doe. She was large. In fact, I think she weighed just as much as I did, which was impressive for a pronghorn doe. When I removed my gloves and stroked her fur with my right hand (my left hand had a bunch of little cactus needles stuck in it, so I didn't use it if I didn't have to), she was still warm. Her warmth was a stark reminder that she had been alive just a few minutes before. She was a living, breathing, warm-blooded animal. Evolutionarily speaking, she wasn't much different than myself. Sure, I may not have hooves, horns, a long face, rectangular pupils, or fur (at least I hope I don't), but I am still a mammal with two eyes, two ears, a nose, two lungs, a heart, so on and so fourth. 

That was very humbling to me. In fact, hunting in general has been very humbling to me ever since I started it, since hunting has forced me to tap into my more primitive, animalistic instincts that weren't otherwise known to me. Hunting has proven to myself, at least on an emotional level, that I'm fundamentally the same as every other animal on this earth. When I'm participating in nature, I'm just as successful as a lion or a wolf according to some very interesting statistics. Sure, I may use a firearm, a tool, to hunt, but so do crows, orangutans, chimps, bonobos, and shrikes, just to name a handful. 

Hunting, at least to me, is the nail on the coffin of literal creationism. As a hunter, I have experienced, first hand, what it is like to rely completely on instinct just like all other animals. Now, I'm not sure how to put how it feels like to run completely on instinct into words, but I guess I could compare it to what happens when we touch a hot stove or see an oncoming car headed our way without slowing down. We don't think. We just react. Our hand automatically jumps off the hot surface of the stove before we even feel pain. We automatically start heading for the best escape to avoid getting run over by the oncoming car before we even realize what we are doing. That's what hunting does to me. It's purely instinctual. I'm sure most other hunters can relate to that. 

Not only has hunting proven to me that humans are just another animal, at least biologically, because I was able to tap into those predatory instincts many people believe only belong to lions, bears, and wolves, but I've seen and studied the biology of other animals. Turkeys, pronghorn, elk, whitetails, squirrels, etc, etc, all have the same organs we do for the most part. Of course, there are minor variations. Unlike turkeys, we don't have gizzards. And, as far as I know, turkeys don't have gallbladders or appendixes like we do. But, turkeys still have lungs, a heart, a liver, a stomach, a pancreas, and intestines located in the same general areas as those same organs are located in our bodies, as well as in the bodies of pronghorn and wolves.

If evolution wasn't true, but literal creationism was, why are there so many similarities spanning across all different animals? Why is DNA so similar from one animal to the next? We share 99% of our DNA with chimps. We're so similar that it kind of makes me uncomfortable whenever I stare into the chimp exhibit at the zoo. Chimps interact with each other and the world around them very similarly to how we often do. Hell, they look a lot like us too! It's freaky how similar we are!

If literal creationism is true, why are there so many fossils that are very clearly separated in layers, that show how animals gradually went from these cute little trilobites to modern humans? You'd think that a global flood from 4,000 years ago would stir things up in the fossil record. But, scientists have yet to discover a trilobite fossil next to a tyrannosaurus skull, or in the same layer as an ancient horse skull. In fact, if anyone ever found a fossil belonging to one period of time in the same layer of a fossil belonging to another period of time (such as if someone discovered a trilobite was hanging out with a T-rex just before they both died), they'd literally rewrite natural history and everything we thought we knew about biology! Scientists would welcome them with open arms! After all, scientists quite literally pay each other to challenge and disprove each other's ideas, and the winners often end up being revered in the scientific community!

Yet, for some reason, not a single fossil has ever been found out of place. T-rex did not hang out with trilobites. And they certainly didn't hang out with humans, even though for some reason, an alarming number of people, grown adults in fact, firmly believe that Moses had a pet dinosaur. As cool as that would be, there is not a single shred of scientific evidence that shows that belief is even remotely close to being true!

Of course, I kept this stuff to myself, considering every Christian in my family was (and still is) a literal creationist. But, that definitely took a toll on my faith. I didn't like being such an outsider, and not having anyone to really discuss science and theology with. I didn't even know anyone else, other than a handful of people from the internet, who believed the same things about God and science as I did. To be fair, I didn't go around asking people at church either.

But, every church I ever went to was pretty open about their creationism, and nearly every one of my family's Christian friends also agreed with creationism as far as I knew. I felt very alone and afraid to speak up about where I was, faith-wise anyway. If my grandparents or Mom asked how my relationship with God was going, I was purposefully vague. I told them it was fine and I was satisfied with my relationship with God, even though I really didn't have a relationship with God. I rarely prayed. I never read the bible anymore. Whenever Mom forced me to go to church, my mind would wander rather than focus on what the preacher was preaching (especially since the sermons were so vague, repetitive, and vapid that I just couldn't pay attention no matter how hard I tried). I was honestly bored with most of my life, upset that I was pretty sick with Pseudomonas, and frustrated that I had no one to discuss my faith with face-to-face that had anything valuable to tell me. 

I remained in this limbo for a few months. I decided the best way I was going to cope with my problems was to immerse myself into school as much as possible, and ignore my problems the best I could. There wasn't much else I could do about anything at that point. I couldn't change other people's minds no matter how hard I tried. I was already doing every treatment possible to kick Pseudomonas's ass again. My relationship with my mom was spiraling the drain because of her obsession with her boyfriend, Matthew, and with the house that got me sick with Pseudomonas in the first place. And, God seemed to be pleading the fifth every time I asked Him to help out with something. But, I was enjoying school for the most part. I hoped that if I just focused on that, maybe all of my problems would eventually go away. 

A couple weeks before Christmas, my health took a pretty big blow. I kept having low blood sugar problems, so I was called into the Barbara Davis center in Denver to discuss Cystic-Fibrosis-Related-Diabetes. While at the doctor, they decided it would be best to stick a week-long monitoring device into my arm to see what my blood sugar was doing that entire week. I was pissed, but what could I really do? I knew ignoring CFRD was a terrible idea that had potentially deadly consequences. So, I reluctantly let a couple of fussy, overly dramatic nurses stick a monitor into my arm. They told me to brace for pain that never actually came. After that, I was sent home and told to log my meals, recalibrate the monitor twice a day (which involved sticking myself with a needle and taking a blood sugar reading from my blood sample), and make sure to not remove the monitor or let it fall out until the week was over. 

That week was one of the most irritating weeks I'd ever endured. Matthew's entire family was staying with us, so I never got any real silence. On top of that, the little monitor stuck out of my arm and I kept bumping it into things. It didn't stick out further than an inch, but being someone who was used to having that extra inch, I had a hard time navigating through life. Each time I ran that damn monitor into something, the tape on my skin would pull, causing a pinching pain. I tried to protect it the best I could. I used medical tape to keep it from moving and wore extra layers of clothes to keep it protected. But, none of those things really helped make things easier when I rammed it into the side of a doorway or brushed up against something. 

During this, my mom was extra fussy. Now, Mom has always been the fussy, over-dramatic, touchy-feely, controlling type, especially with me. But, while I had that damn CFRD monitor in my arm, which had the same effect on my patience as a flank rope has on a rodeo bull, my mom was extra fussy. We had arguments over the dumbest shit constantly.

Mom wanted to make me feel better, but she didn't really know how. She assumed that the things that made her feel better would make me feel better, even though that was never the case. Mom and I have always been on opposite sides of the spectrum on literally everything. While my mom thought giving me lots of hugs and playing with my hair would make me feel better, because that's what always made her feel better when she was feeling down, the opposite was true. When I feel like shit, I need my space, and I made sure to let her know that almost immediately every time she tried to get all touchy-feely with me.

I ended up barricading myself in my bedroom, really only coming out to eat and occasionally go somewhere. I was actually content once I was away from everyone else. But, I did feel pretty lonely at times, especially when I was around everyone else. Nobody understood what I was going through, and nobody really bothered to step into my shoes for awhile. Matthew's dad was a pastor, and he was pretty adamant that everyone took their hats off, bowed their heads, and said "amen" after prayer. Personally, I didn't do that. While Matthew's dad didn't really say or do anything, I definitely sensed he was a little angry that I did not take my hat off, bow my head, or say "amen" after prayer. 

He did attempt to connect with me a little bit, to his credit. One afternoon, I decided to crawl out of my hibernation den and get to know him. We met on the back porch in the backyard, where we sat in green lawn chairs across from each other. Matthew's dad told me he was a pastor on the weekends, but a part-time substitute science teacher for middle and high school. That got me excited. Finally, I thought, there was somebody who could verify that I could reconcile the Christian faith with modern science. So, as soon as I could, I asked what he thought about modern science and God, and if those two could be reconciled. 

"Yes, of course!" Matthew's dad nodded, "God is the author of science after all! God and science can and do work together! However..."

I felt my heart drop when he said that dreaded word. I braced myself for what came next. 

"Man doesn't have it all right. Man's science is not God's science. Man's science is faulty in some places. So, while we are right about some things, such as a created and expanding universe, we are wrong about other things..."

He paused. He noticed that I was nervously sucking air through my teeth. But, I urged him to keep going. 

"For instance, man says that the universe is billions of years old. However, the bible says that it was created in six days. So, who should you trust? God or man? The bible says God is perfect and infallible, but man is very imperfect and fallible. So, it only makes sense to trust God's science, and not man's science." Matthew's dad explained like he said those exact words a million times. 

Meanwhile, I sat stiffly in my chair, grinding my teeth out of frustration and disappointment, debating on if I should just walk out of the conversation right then and there, debate the guy, or just let him continue to tell me why creationism was true, which went against everything I had learned in science class over the years. I felt like I'd just received an uppercut kick to the jaw. I thought I finally found someone who was scientifically literate and wiling to reassure me that being a theistic evolutionist was perfectly logical and okay. Instead, I got a substitute science teacher who was just as entrenched in literal creationism as almost every other Christian I knew. That really, really sucked. 

As far as I knew, the universe was not only 6,000 years old. It was billions of years old. I learned all about the age of the universe and the earth in Physics, and the methods and equations scientists used to prove that the universe was around 13.8 billion years old and the earth was a little over 4 billion years old. Not only that, I also knew evolution was true. The fossil record proved it. DNA proved it. Anatomy proved it. Hell, my battle against Pseudomonas was proof of evolution right there, because Pseudomonas was constantly evolving into entirely different species as it desperately tried to thwart the phages (which also evolved) from killing it.

If I really had to choose between God and science, I was totally going with science! After all, science was easily observable and provable, while I kept getting absolute silence from God. If creationism really was the correct interpretation of the bible, which, after listening to Matthew's dad who went to school to be a pastor, sounded like that was the case, then I was an atheist. God was dead! End of story! I should've given up Christianity years before, instead of wasting all that time stressing over and trying to justify obvious bullshit!

Of course, I kept all these thoughts to myself. To be polite, I sat there and listened to what Matthew's dad had to say in order to justify literal creationism. He mentioned a book called Darwin's Black Box, talked about how flawed carbon dating was (even though I'd learned in Physics that carbon-dating was anything but flawed), completely shat all over the fact that scientists use light years to verify and measure the age and size of the universe, and came up with some interesting conspiracy theories about how real scientists knew a lot of their methods and theories were wrong, but because Christianity was apparently under attack, scientists had to keep their mouths shut about "the truth" unless they wanted to be stripped of their credentials and kicked to the curb. Apparently, it was illegal for scientists to believe in a personal God and be open about it. Somebody forgot about Werner Heisenberg and Dr. Francis Collins!

I was honestly speechless. I lost the desire to debate that guy about how wrong he was. I could prove creationism was wrong using the notes I took for Physics, or by picking up a fossil out of my collection and showing just how different it was compared to the skeletons of living creatures, or by asking Matthew's dad the last time a living raptor bit at his ankles. But I knew that he was so convinced of his beliefs that there was no reaching him. I wasn't going to waste any energy trying to show him he was wrong, because I already knew he was gonna pull out the "God's knowledge trumps man's knowledge" card every time. So, I just remained seated under the mostly barren trees in my backyard, listening to Matthew's dad ramble on, completely and utterly baffled by what I was hearing. It was like witnessing a bad car wreck. I really didn't enjoy it, but I couldn't look away.

I remained there just to be sure I wasn't hearing shit wrong. Matthew's dad repeated many points, showing that he did, in fact, fully believe that most of modern science was satanic, and was being purposefully used to steer people away from the faith. I was baffled that a grown man who was well into his 60's, who claimed to be a man of knowledge and science, believed in that stuff. I just didn't know how to respond. It's been almost a year, and I'm still just as baffled as I was that late afternoon into the night.

Yeah. I sat through about three hours of that crap. I don't know how I managed to pull that off. 

Several weeks later, after a rough trip to Seattle, Washington to visit with overbearing relatives, I was stuck at Clarke's yet again after the flu took over my house. I did enjoy my unexpected stay out in the country in some ways, but I was also sick, on multiple medications to combat a sinus infection and tame down the flu if I had it (since I was exposed to the flu at home before I left for Clarke's), and the weather really sucked on those wide open plains. 

I had plenty of time to be alone with my own thoughts, which inevitably led me to start thinking about God. I wasn't really ready to give up on God just yet, even after the ridiculous lecture I heard from Matthew's dad. I tried to tell myself that people didn't necessarily represent the faith. There were crazy radicals in every religion, political party, family, friend group, so and so fourth. That person, or people, did not represent what they were a part of as a whole.

Just because many of the Christians I'd interacted with believed that the King James Version of the bible was the only valid translation, the universe and earth were both only 6,000 years old, and evolution and human caused climate change were both fake news, didn't mean every Christian believed in those things. There were plenty of Christians out there who accepted modern science. I just didn't think I'd run into many of them yet. 

On our way back to Elizabeth after seeing a movie in town, Clarke and I somehow got to talking about religion and what he believed. Clarke declared himself an atheist. He argued there was just too much suffering and disorder in the world for there to be a loving, personal God. I empathized with him, and agreed with a lot of his points. 

Clarke grew up with an abusive and later absent father. Then, a couple decades later, met and befriended a paraplegic man called Doug who was about as anti-religious as one could get. Doug was very bitter about being so disabled, and wasn't shy about pinning it all on God. Doug was basically the father Clarke never had up until he died in his 60's. Not even a year after Doug passed away, Clarke lost his mother after she battled ALS for less than two years. Clarke spent those two years taking care of his mom, and was forced to watch helplessly as she rapidly lost her ability to move, eat, and breathe. Clarke has also known me since I was five years old, and had seen me absolutely crippled by Cystic Fibrosis multiple times throughout my life. I didn't really have much to say against what Clarke was saying. He was right. This world was seriously fucked up. How could a perfect, loving, all-powerful God create such a messed up place? And, why did it seem like He singled out certain people to suffer more than others? 

That discussion with Clarke gave me a lot to chew on, especially since I was suffering so much at that very moment. I couldn't digest anything because antibiotics destroyed my digestive system. I was incredibly anxious because of my illness and risk of developing the flu. If I developed the flu, I would certainly die, or at least come very close to it. And, even if I did recover from the flu, I'd never be nearly as healthy as I was. If I got the flu, I wouldn't outlive my parents. That was a terrible pill to swallow. I also felt increasingly lonely and sad. I was stuck out in Elizabeth, Colorado in January and into February. The weather on those great plains during those months is always horrendous. I wasn't spending much time outside because of it. I was confined to a 2,500 square foot house with only two other people, and was on the verge of losing my mind. 

Not only was science gnawing at my faith again, but so was philosophy. How could I continue to believe in a loving, all-powerful, infinitely knowledgeable, perfect God if almost everything in my life was going wrong? To be honest, I really couldn't. Life was just going too wrong for there to be a loving God out there watching over me. Not only did Cystic Fibrosis have me pinned to the ground, but I felt as though atheism finally caught up to me as well. I didn't have anyone to really talk to, except Clarke who was an atheist on the verge of being an anti-theist. He would give me an outlet to vent, and he could also empathize with me, but he wouldn't help me reconcile my current problems with God. If anything, he would only confirm that atheists were right about God. 

Once again, I was stuck in this black hole of atheism. I really didn't want to be there. I desperately wanted to cling to religion. But logic, reason, anecdotal experiences, and science were all dragging me away. Those were much more compelling to me than a collection of ancient books that were probably just as mythical as Roman and Egyptian religions. However, the fact that there were people who were much smarter, older, and more educated than me who believed in the bible tripped me up a little bit. Why did they believe in the bible, but disregard all other religions and myths? What was so special about Christianity?

Once I'd gotten physically better and began to return to normality, my dad took me on a short hike in the mountains one cool, sunny spring day. On the way there, he asked me what I was up to in school. My dad still didn't think I was getting the most legitimate education at home, even though I was following the public school curriculum and being taught by a man who actually knew what he was teaching and how to teach it to me. But, regardless of my dad's skepticism, I opened up quite a lot about how well I was doing in school, and my dad was stunned by how positively I talked about school. In the past, I absolutely despised school and dreaded it every second of my life. But in home school, I was really enjoying myself, and the stuff I was learning was actually making sense to me and sticking in my mind. 

When I started talking about what I was learning in Physics, my dad followed along and then said, "Isn't it kinda strange how our universe seems to have been literally coded into reality? I mean, we can describe and predict what will happen to things with numbers! Isn't that crazy?!" 

"Yeah, it actually is." I admitted, "I never really put too much thought into how wild that is, to be honest."

That was the beginning of a very long discussion that spanned for the rest of our drive to the trailhead, our whole two-and-a-half mile hike, and the drive home. In it, my dad said that Physics and Math were the two things that made him question his atheism. Yes, my dad was an atheist, but he still felt that because of how good math was at explaining the hows, whys, whens, and wheres about the behavior of materialistic things, there must be something intelligent behind it all. My dad was willing to consider every possibility of what that intelligence was.

Maybe we were all in virtual reality, and when we died, we woke up in the real world. Maybe we were just a coded experiment, all living in a computer in a science lab alongside hundreds of other computers running similar programs. Maybe we were the product of aliens who created life and then dropped us off on Earth before going back to their own planet in some other far off galaxy. Maybe there really was a God. Perhaps He wasn't a personal God. But, maybe God created the universe and the laws that govern how things work, and then let it run its course while He went off to do other stuff. Or, maybe, just maybe, there was a personal God who created the universe, and who was interested in our lives and enjoyed interacting with us through prayer and miracles. Whatever it was, my dad was pretty convinced that there must be something behind our existence, since math worked so well to explain materialistic things. 

Who knew a conversation with an atheist would be the reason why I decided to give God yet another chance! After I thought about my dad's thoughts on science and continued to learn more and more about Physics in school, I realized that it really was wild that our universe seemed to have been coded into existence. Of course, that begged for there to be an intelligent Being behind it all. Whether or not that Being was personal or even just a single Being, rather than multiple Beings, was up for debate. But, there must be something beyond our universe that created it. In fact, the expansion of the universe seemed to be proof of that. I mean, what was our universe expanding into? Better yet, why the hell was it speeding up instead of slowing down?! Also, what triggered the Big Bang in the first place? Why did a tiny little dot of matter suddenly decide to expand? And, of course, where was this tiny little dot and what was it expanding into? 

Those were one of the many questions not even the best physicists could really answer. Sure, everyone could speculate and come up with ideas, but it was pretty much impossible to really answer those questions with the knowledge and technology we had (and still have) at the moment. But, I wasn't ready to put my faith in God yet just because there were a lot of things science still couldn't explain. I needed a lot more than just scientific unknowns to convince me that there really was a God. I felt that there was a major missing piece to this whole God puzzle that I didn't have.

At the time, I wasn't quite sure what that missing piece was. But, looking back, that missing piece was fellowship with other Christians. I didn't really know anyone who believed in God similarly to how I did, or who was even willing to question and learn things along with me. I wasn't looking for people who had the exact same beliefs as me, but I was looking for people who were willing to hear me out without shutting me down, just like how I was willing to hear them out without shutting them down. I was also looking for people who could verify that it was ok and reasonable for me to believe the things that I believed. But, throughout my life, I didn't really have that. Sure, my family encouraged me to question things, however they definitely played the "God knows more than anyone" card when I lead them into uncharted territory. 

It was true that I was very lonely at that time. In fact, I still am. As much as I desired to be around other people and interact with them, I didn't really know how to make new friends or not be so skittish. I didn't really care about what people thought about me, in the sense that people could give me weird looks or make little disapproving comments about me and I just wouldn't care. But, I was afraid of what people were capable of doing to me, especially after the abuse I'd endured for most of my childhood that came from all sorts of people, including people from church and that private school I attended. I knew if I was gonna find other Christians who were more similar to me, and who were interested in the intellectual side of the faith, rather than the emotional or the traditional sides of faith like my family was, I'd have to venture in that alone. That terrified me. 

But before I began venturing out into the real world where I could make friends (and probably some enemies), I had to finish high school, turn eighteen, and then get my driver's license. I was excited to graduate high school, but I was not at all excited about driving. Driving scared me just as much as forcing myself to check out new places to befriend strangers on my own. After all, both of those are very social activities. 

I don't remember too much of anything specific happening, at least, that has much to do with my faith in God until my eighteenth birthday. When I finally reached my eighteenth year of life, I had a massive celebration with my grandparents and great uncle Courtney up in Greeley. On the way to Greeley that morning, my grandpa Lyle rambled on about how blessed I was to have reached the ripe old age of eighteen!

"I don't think you realize just how profound this is, Maya." my grandpa said while I just sort of shrugged my shoulders as he talked, "You were not supposed to make it this far. Every doctor and scientist I talked to while you were just a little baby in the hospital, told me there was no way you'd make it to adulthood. They told me and your parents, that the oldest age you had just a slight chance of reaching was sixteen years old. Yet, here you are, eighteen years old, extremely healthy and able! God healed you! He cured you! Your heart valve is proof that God exists!"

For some reason, the weight of his words failed to hit me. I'd heard very similar things come from a lot of people throughout the course of my life. It was old news to me.

While my grandpa was in the middle of his speech, I suddenly piped up, using a much more serious tone of voice than I intended, "Are you sure all of this was God's doing, and not just some weird abnormalities? I mean, there's always gonna be exceptions to the rules and crazy coincidences. I kind of struggle to understand how one could attribute all of these things to a God, if it's possible the human mind is just really good at connecting the dots even if there are no dots to connect, and freaks of nature do exist."

My grandpa sat in silence for a little bit, digesting what I just threw out at him, practically out of the blue. I kind of wished I could take back what I just said, or kept it to myself, but something just compelled me to blurt out my thoughts at that very moment. 

After a few more excruciating seconds of silence, my grandpa continued, "If you look back through the course of your life, there are just too many 'coincidences' that happen to be considered 'coincidences'. Atheists like to call miracles 'abnormalities' or 'coincidences', even if it is obvious those 'coincidences' are not just merely 'coincidences'. Take the last couple years of your schooling, for example. You just happened to end up in a home school program that fit perfectly with your current situation, and you just happened to end up with a teacher who just happened to be everything you could've asked for as far as a teacher goes, and you just happened to pass high school with a beautiful report card."

He paused for a bit to let me digest what he said, and then my grandpa continued. 

"Also, you just happened to come across life-saving phages. You just happened to have a pulse-ox of a hundred percent at the ER when you were supposed to be admitted that night, and then pumped full of antibiotics for two weeks that likely wouldn't have killed your infection, but would've likely killed you. You just happen to have a perfect lung function. You just happened to live past the age of sixteen. You just happened to be the only person who has ever been cured of Pulmonary Atresia."

Again, my grandpa paused to let his words sink in. 

"Are you beginning to realize how flawed the atheistic worldview is?"

My grandpa wasn't getting frustrated with me, but he was trying to get me to see the flaws in my logic. And, I realized, rather reluctantly, that he was right. Those major events in my life weren't just products of blind chance. They were answered prayers. I didn't pray all that often, especially when I was a teen. But, when I did, it appeared that God did, in fact, answer my prayers, especially when I was begging to be saved from the jaws of death, or from a fate worse than death. After that realization, I decided to change the subject. That hit a little too close to home. No longer could I attribute miracles as being exceptions to the rules. Nor could I just write off answers to my most heartfelt prayers as mere coincidences. There were just too many coincidences for them to actually be coincidences. 

I tried to forget that little epiphany I had while in the car on the way to Greeley, and for a month or so, I did forget it. But, it wasn't long before it all came flooding back to me. However, I refused to accept that I wasn't just a product of blind, dumb chance. I didn't care how much I had to deny in order to deny the existence of God. That realization that my life, and the rest of the world, was just too finely tuned for there to not be an intelligent Being behind it all honestly scared me. And, when I get scared, my first instinct is to run. But, if I cannot run or hide, my next best bet is to turn hostile and fight back. 

Clearly, for my whole life, God had been pursuing me. In a way, I had been pursuing Him too. However, I was doing everything in my power to keep a safe distance, while still relentlessly challenging and criticizing God. But, suddenly, I was out of objections and questions designed to rip the idea of God apart. I could no longer defend atheism. It was as unbelievable to me as Santa or the Easter Bunny. Yet, I so desperately wanted to cling to a worldview where, in the end, nothing mattered. I so desperately wanted to cling to a worldview where I could look back at my life when I was on my death bed and declare, "I did that", instead of admitting that I hadn't actually done much of anything, but God did. I so desperately wanted to cling to a worldview where I didn't have to worry about living forever, or worry about my relatives living forever. But, that worldview had just been obliterated. 

The problem of suffering was no longer something I could use against God, since it was clear God used my suffering for my greater good. The problem of morality was no longer something I could use against God, because it was clear that humans were the depraved ones, not God. The problem of evil was also not a problem for God, but was a problem for humanity. God gave us all we needed to create a perfect world, but we fucked it all up, and will continue to fuck it all up. Modern science was no longer something I could use against God, because it was clear that modern science was perfectly compatible with Christianity, no matter what the creationists or fundamentalists or new atheists claimed. There was not a single passage in the bible that contradicted or disproved another passage in the bible, when it was read in the proper context of course. 

God had me cornered, but I was not yet ready to surrender myself to Him. So, I did what many people in my situation would do. I prayed that He would let me go and leave me alone for life. I prayed that He would stop trying to get a hold of me, and to just let me be. I needed some time to myself. I needed to be completely left alone. That meant no more miracles. No more help. No more hints. No more protection. I wanted so badly to cling to atheism, that I would much rather face the uncertainties of life completely alone and unprotected, than surrender myself to God. 

One night, I had a very vivid dream where I was viewing things from the perspective of a fly on the wall. There was a cloudless, blue sky above, and just flat, white sand below. There weren't any other features. It just just blue skies and flat, white dirt forever. But, in the middle of that desolate place, there was a round pen containing a red roan horse and an old cowboy. The horse was obviously wild, just based on its behavior. However, it was well kept, as if someone had been keeping it fed, sheltered, and properly maintained. It didn't have a wild, matted mane, rough hooves, or a slim figure like what a truly wild horse has. It looked civilized, but it clearly did not want to be anywhere near the cowboy, and was doing everything it could to escape the pen that contained it.

For a few minutes, I just watched how that horse reacted to the cowboy, who was just standing completely still on the other side of the pen, barely even breathing. The horse was on the opposite side of the pen from the cowboy, eyes wide, tail high, nostrils flared, ears moving in all directions, pacing back and fourth, throwing itself against the metal bars that contained it, and even trying to rear up and throw itself over the round pen. But the pen was just too tall and strong for the horse to break out of it. The horse only stopped for a second at a time to look at the cowboy, before trying to escape the round pen again.

It was hard to watch. For some reason, I felt tremendously emotionally connected to that horse. I could feel its terror, frustration, exhaustion, anger, and discouragement. I could almost feel the physical pain that horse endured each time it rammed itself against the rusty railings or tried to throw itself over the pen, resulting in it falling over backwards and slamming onto the hard, white ground on its back. That horse was in hell, and it knew it.

Eventually, the horse seemed to tire itself out. It was breathing heavier than ever and frothing at the mouth. However, it was still terrified and ready to bolt at any minute. It stood stock still, facing the cowboy, watching to make sure he didn't make a noise or move a muscle. The cowboy made no sudden movements, but he did slowly make his way to the gate of the round pen, and gently placed his hand on the rusty slide bolt that held the gate closed. 

"I've taken care of you for a long time." the old cowboy slowly spoke, in a deep, low voice, "I've made sure you had everything you needed. I've protected you, both from threats that you were aware of, and threats you weren't. I've never left you without food, water, or proper care. I've never let you endure storms, cross valleys, or wander through territories teeming with predators alone or unprotected. I've spent years and years trying to gain your trust so I can put my reins on you and lead you through the rest of life. Yet, you clearly never trusted me or liked me. You've been running from me ever since day one."

The cowboy pushed down on the slide bolt, "So, I'm going to let you go now. I won't pursue you anymore. You can go on without me. However, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me."

With that, he pulled the slide bolt out of its socket, swung the gate open, and moved away from the gate. Almost as soon as the gate swung fully open, that red roan charged out of the round pen, and galloped away into the barren abyss without hesitation.

I woke up from that dream feeling strange, for lack of a better term. I just wasn't bothered anymore by those theological and philosophical questions that had haunted me for years. However, it wasn't like I'd come to any real conclusions. I was still where I was before, just without the desire to keep seeking the truth. I just didn't care about God anymore. I wasn't upset, but I wasn't happy either. I was just numb, I guess is the correct term. I felt empty, but I wasn't bothered by that emptiness. I felt like some weight had been lifted off my shoulders, but I wasn't even slightly emotional about that. I felt neither relieved or worried. Again, I was just numb. Blank minded. Soulless. 

I got dressed and headed upstairs to find something for breakfast. I was home alone. Mom was at work. Jack was at sports camp. Neither of them would be home until later that evening. I figured I'd have a leftover fish filet along with a bowl of steamed broccoli. I didn't feel like cooking anything new. I put the broccoli in the microwave first, and once they were done, went ahead and cooked the fish in the microwave. While I was cooking the fish, I salted the broccoli and stirred it around using a fork. When the fish was done, I turned my back to the bowl of broccoli to get the fish out of the microwave. 

During the few seconds I had my back turned to the bowl of broccoli to get the plate of fish out of the microwave, someone stole the fork out of the bowl of broccoli. I'm being serious! Somehow, in less than three seconds, someone who was not anyone I knew of, snuck in behind me, pulled the fork out of the bowl, and left the kitchen completely silently. I didn't see, hear, or sense anyone. I knew I was alone in the house, and I would've definitely noticed if I wasn't alone. Plus, who the hell steals used silverware out of other people's food, when there's an entire drawer full of silverware directly below the counter that bowl is sitting on? 

I was very confused. I went around the house just to confirm that I was, indeed, home alone, and all of the doors and windows were locked from the inside. I texted my mom to see where she was, and a few minutes later, replied that she was at work and wouldn't be home until the evening. I checked around the house one last time just to make sure I was alone, and peered outside through my mom's bedroom window to make sure nobody was parked in the driveway or out on the street. 

According to my observations, I was totally home alone. But, where the hell did my damn fork go? I would've heard it clamber on the tile floor if it fell out of the bowl. I would've definitely heard and seen someone approaching me since my kitchen was small and enclosed. Yet, I didn't hear, see, or even feel a single thing. I knew, logically, that I was alone, and it was impossible for a fork to just magically disappear. But, I certainly didn't feel so alone. 

I decided that there wasn't anything I could do about anything. If there was an ax murderer in my house who had somehow managed to steal a fork out of my bowl of broccoli, that I left on the counter literally two feet behind myself, who also avoided getting caught or being heard as I checked every dark corner and empty room, and somehow got inside my house without breaking any windows or disturbing any locks, there wasn't much I could do to defend myself from him. He was just too damn good. If I was destined to get hacked to death, I guess I was just destined to get hacked to death. 

An hour or so later, I'd completely forgotten about the weird fork incident and headed into the bathroom to do my business. I closed the pocket door and turned around, only to lock eyes with a fork in my bathroom sink that had a couple of tiny pieces of broccoli stuck to it. Now I was convinced there was an ax murderer in my house, and he was waiting for me to open up the bathroom door so he could hack me to death in the one little room I could not easily escape from. But, I wasn't going to go out without a fight. 

I decided I'd use that fork as a weapon. I held it like I'd hold a knife, with the prongs ready to be stabbed into anyone who might be lurking on the other side of the door. Then, I wrapped a couple of fingers from my free hand around the pocket door handle, and gave myself a couple seconds to prepare myself for the epic ax-verses-fork battle I was sure was coming the second I slid that door open. But, when I threw that door open and raised my arm to stick that fork into my attacker before they had a chance to swing at me, I stopped. There was no ax murderer waiting for me on the other side. In fact, there was nothing. I was alone, and I could see my dog on the main room couch snoring away. He loved people and would be very excited if there was someone else besides myself in the house. But, it was just me and him, and the fact that he was audibly snoring was proof that it was just us. 

I relaxed and headed to the kitchen to rinse off the fork and put it into the dishwasher with the other dirty dishes. While I did this, I realized just how weird the whole incident was. I mean, I remembered using a fork to stir my broccoli around so every piece got salt on it while my fish was cooking. But, maybe I was remembering things wrong. Maybe that fork wasn't mine, but came from my little brother, even though I knew he knew better than to use my bathroom sink as a place to store his dirty dishes, and he hated broccoli. I knew I wouldn't do that myself. I gagged at the thought of bringing anything from the kitchen into the bathroom, unless it was just to fill up a cup of water. 

However, the events leading up to the fork going missing were all too real and conventional to dismiss as something I'd just imagined. My broccoli tasted salty, and there were a couple of pieces of broccoli on the fork that I found just sitting in my bathroom sink. So, clearly, I must've used that specific fork to stir up my broccoli, because I did not salt or stir my broccoli with the new fork. But, how and why did my first fork end up in the bathroom sink, especially since I was alone, and didn't even go near that room once until I had to actually use the bathroom an hour after I finished my breakfast? And, why would I go out of my way in the first place to put a fork in my bathroom sink?

I was beginning to worry that I was going crazy, and figured the best way I was going to deal with the fork incident was to pretend it didn't happen at all. Nobody else was around to witness anything, and I wasn't about to call my mom and ask if she had stolen my fork for some reason without me knowing. If I really needed to get that shit off my chest, I had an appointment with my therapist in a few days. She'd know what to do!

But, the next day, I had a similar experience, this time with a soup spoon. And then next day, I had another experience just like the other two involving another fork. On top of that, I was starting to hear things, which really got me worried I was losing my sanity.

A day before I headed to therapy, I was down in my bedroom working on my memoir, when it sounded like my mom had come home. I heard the familiar sound of the front door squeaking open, and her high heels clicking the tile floor above me. I even heard her drop her purse on that floor, before walking to the dining room table where she kept her laptop. I figured I'd go upstairs to greet her and see what she was doing home so early. It was just after noon. She didn't usually return home until the later evening. 

I headed upstairs, calling for my mom, but I was getting no responses. I figured she was just very busy, so I quietly walked through the living room and rounded the corner to face the dining room. It was empty, and her laptop was closed. I then turned around and stared at the front foyer. My mom's purse wasn't where it sounded like she dropped it. It wasn't anywhere to be found at all. And her keys were not on any tables, counters, or key rings throughout the house. Hell, her car wasn't even in the driveway! I even sent her a text, asking when she'd be home, and she sent a text back explaining she had a few meetings that day and would be home later than usual, and to make sure I got the house cleaned up.

Again, I did my best to dismiss the noises, but wasn't exactly sure how. They were incredibly distinct. It wasn't just the house settling, or the pipes rattling, or some other typical house noise I was used to by then, and there wasn't anything going outside that could mimic the sounds of my mom coming home. It was really strange and freaky, and I had no idea what to make of it.

The next morning, Mom and I had back-to-back appointments with my therapist (who was also my mom's therapist), so we decided to carpool together. We left pretty early since we had to drop off Jack at camp and fight the tail-end of Denver's morning traffic, so I was pretty drowsy and not speaking in the most coherent sentences. Mom and Jack were having a conversation while I listened to heavy rockabilly music, trying to keep myself awake while I waited for the caffeine to kick in. 

Suddenly, as I was just zoned out minding my own business, I felt a very cold, very large, splash of water against the back of my head. Instinctively, I snapped at my little brother who I assumed just threw his entire water bottle at me, but he just stared back at me like a deer in the headlights. 

"Jack, what the hell was that all about?!" I shouted. 

"Maya!" mom yelled at me, "He didn't do anything!"

"Yes he did!" I argued back as I took a handful of my soaking wet hair, "He just sprayed me with his water bottle!" 

"No he didn't! I was watching him through the mirror the whole time!" mom replied, thinking I was making something up. 

"Look!" I demanded as I held up my hair, "Jack totally did this!"

Mom and Jack both gasped when they saw just how soaked I was. I was pissed. I thought they were playing some rude prank on me, but the looks on their faces said it all. They were totally innocent and just as surprised as I was. 

There was so much water that I had to wring out my hair. In fact, it was too much water for it to have just come from my little brother's water bottle. I again turned to face my little brother, hoping he would crack under pressure and admit what he just did. Jack has always been super sensitive and has always been terrible at telling lies, just like myself and Mom. But, Jack didn't admit to doing anything. In fact, he even showed me it was impossible for him to spray water out of his water bottle. I told him to give it to me, and I also tried to get water to spray out of the water bottle, but nothing came out, not even air. It was one of those water bottles that are made in such a way that it's impossible to squeeze anything out of them. We were all baffled. 

Even stranger, when I reached back to see if I could feel another water source, the back of my seat was completely dry, including the headrest, which would've been directly in the line of fire had my brother actually drenched me with water. I was completely and utterly baffled. However, I felt a sense of relief knowing two other people witnessed everything.

While Mom walked Jack into his sports camp building, I tore the car apart looking for anything that could've sprayed me with freezing water. I found a pair of pink running shoes, a handful of receipts, a bag containing a yoga mat, and a few other items. But I didn't find anything that could explain away the whole water incident that had just happened minutes before. When Mom returned, I just had to shoot her a look, and it said it all.

"I-I can't explain it." I stuttered, "Everything's bone dry. There's no water bottles or anything else containing even a trace of water anywhere. Also, the seat and back of the center console is completely dry. I'm stumped. I don't know what to think." 

I got back into the front passenger seat while Mom got behind the wheel, and I continued, "What the hell was it? I can't come up with an explanation."

Mom smirked a little bit as she pulled up to a stop light, "I think it was a demon."

"A de- what? No! There's no such thing." I scowled, "You know I don't believe in that crap!" 

"Be careful now." Mom warned a little sarcastically, "It might still be here with us." 

"Alright. If that's the case, I want it to-"

"Don't challenge it!" Mom suddenly snapped, much more seriously this time, "Just pray it away. Ready? I'll lead."

"That's about as absurd as praying the gay away..." I mumbled to myself. 

"What did you say?" mom yelped. 

"Nothing..." I sighed, "You just do your little prayer. I've got nothin' against it. Whatever makes you feel better."

"Ok! Repeat after me! In the name of Jesus Christ!" Mom began, but I kept my mouth shut. 

"Say it!" Mom commanded, "In the name of Jesus Christ, I command this demon to leave this car at once!" 

Again, I kept my mouth shut. 

"Maya! Say it!" 

"Absolutely not." I growled, "If there's really power in the name of God, you saying it should've taken care of the problem by now. I don't need to say crap."

After a few more attempts to get me to say her demon-banishing prayer, Mom stopped trying. I wasn't going to say it. It felt really silly to say such a thing. I wanted to know exactly what sprayed me with water, but I wasn't about to attribute it to a demon out of all things. In my mind at the time, that was as absurd as blaming the tooth fairy for disappearing loose change. But, if my mom wanted to believe in demons, and believe that one can cast that demon back to hell just by mentioning the name of Jesus, I wasn't going to say anything. Her belief wasn't hurting anyone.

However, I was planning on mentioning everything to my therapist, but in what I considered a much more logical and reasonable light than "a demon did it". I didn't care if she had a PhD in Theology. My therapist had a PhD in Psychology too! Clearly, Mom and I were just suffering from some shared psychological delusion, and not a fucking haunting straight out of the Poltergeist movies, and my therapist ought to recognize the symptoms right away. At least, I sincerely hoped we weren't experiencing actual paranormal activity. That would just be another nail jammed into the already-sealed coffin containing my atheism. 

"How have things been?" my therapist asked me as usual, once I was seated comfortably in an office chair ahead of her.

"They've been alright," I hesitated, "I guess."

"You guess? What does that mean?"

"Well, ah, hmmmmm... Uh, how do I put this?" I thought to myself aloud. 

"You can tell me anything. Just say it." my therapist shrugged, "I don't bite."

"Ah, well.... I guess- er... Shit... Uh... I-I think I'm going crazy." I stammered. 

"Why's that?" my therapist asked as she leaned back in her chair. 

"Well, uh..." I glanced up at all of the crucifixes my therapist had hung on the wall behind her, as well as the bookshelf with a bunch of bibles stacked on top, and then reached back to rub a handful of my damp hair, "I've been experiencing some weird shit for the last several days or so. And I don't know what to make of it."

My therapist narrowed her eyes, "Weird shit as in..."

"Like, things have been moving around my house while I've been home alone. I've also heard my mom come home, only to find that she hadn't yet come home. Stuff like that." I stopped as I nervously squeezed some of my damp hair, "I also got sprayed by a shit ton of water on the way over here, but neither myself or my mom could figure out what happened. We tried to figure it out, but we couldn't." 

My therapist remained silent as she took in everything I'd just thrown at her. That silence was deafening. After spending a few moments deep in thought, my therapist leaned forward, reached for a bible, and then put it on the desk in front of us. 

"Have you ever heard of the term 'Spiritual Warfare'?" she asked. 

"Yes. A lot!" I replied. 

"So, you're aware that more than just God can influence the world around us?"

"That's what I've heard. Not sure if I believe that stuff though." I replied. 

"And that's ok. You don't have to believe in it. Its existence doesn't depend on whether or not you believe in it." my therapist said, "You understand what I'm saying?"

"I think so." I mumbled, "I'm not quite sure if I like what you just said though."

"Again. That's ok. You don't have to like it. You don't have to believe it. But, I'm telling you, what you're going through is biblical." my therapist explained, tapping the leather-bound bible with her nails. 

"So... I'm not going crazy?" I squeaked. 

"Not at all!" my therapist practically shouted, "Everyone goes through stuff like this from time to time, regardless if they admit it." 

"So, what is it?" I asked apprehensively. I was kind of afraid of the answer. 

"It's spiritual warfare." my therapist answered, "You're very spiritually vulnerable at the moment, and everything, both holy and unholy, knows it."

I didn't like that answer, but I wasn't about to say anything. However, the look on my face must've said it all. 

"I know it sounds like woo-woo bullshit, but it isn't. There are countless stories in the bible from both the old and new testament, detailing what spiritual warfare is all about." my therapist attempted to assure me, "Plus, your mom played with the occult when she was a teenager and invited all sorts of fun shit into her life, and I've known plenty of people who have done similar things, and ended up opening spiritual doors they didn't know how to close. And, I've even experienced spiritual warfare in the physical realm. Demons don't like it when someone is on the verge of discovering God."

"I... I just don't know if I even believe in the bible, or God, or anything like that. Like, it's just, well, it's just hard for me to believe in things I can't see, feel, hear, and/or touch. Ya know?" I struggled, "I don't see how I'm close to 'discovering God' as you put it."

"Maya, your hair is wet." 

"Yeah, but-"

"Uh-uh. No buts! Your hair is clearly wet. Why?" 

"Well, uh, I don't know." I admitted, "But I don't want to jump to any wild conclusions." 

"You aren't jumping to wild conclusions if you ruled out any and all possible material causes." my therapist said, "Besides, you've clearly been going through a lot. I can just tell. What's getting to you?"

I took in a long, deep breath, and began to tell her all about the death of my reasonable atheism. I told her how I'd been challenging God for years. Asking the same questions. Going through the same patterns. Using the same tired arguments that I knew were bullshit, but I liked because they criticized God and couldn't be debunked or answered by the average Christian.

Basically, I'd go through a hard time, blame God for my suffering, realize my suffering was not a problem for God. Then, I'd get mad and try to disprove God using science, only to end up basically confirming the bible using science, and then I'd go through a period of "submission", only to scare myself out of putting all my trust in the Lord, and repeat the vicious cycle. I was sick of it too, but didn't know how to quit. I just didn't want to surrender myself to God, and I was probably gonna repeat the same stupid cycle a million times before I finally surrendered myself to God. Actually, more like if I surrendered myself to God.

I was just like that damn dog in Proverbs 26:11, and I knew damn well that I was constantly doing the same old dumb shit too, which made it so much worse for me. Unlike a dog, who probably doesn't put too much thought into eating its own puke, I kept making the same conscious decisions to make the same exhausted arguments against God, with just a single shred of hope that maybe if I listened to Christopher Hitchens or Stephen Hawking a couple more times, I'd pick up on an argument that put God between a rock and hard place that wasn't a logical fallacy, and couldn't be turned against me. 

Yet, each time I repeated the cycle, God would win in the end every damn time! So, what was I left to do after doing the same stupid thing many times over? Well, I basically told God to leave me the fuck alone. I knew He was real, but I wasn't ready to fall to my knees and surrender myself to Him. I wanted to see if I could take on the world without Him. And, well, He let me go, without hesitation. He just opened the gate and let me sprint away from His presence. And, what ended up happening? Well, in my therapist's office, I realized that if I couldn't handle losing silverware without explanation and later finding it in my bathroom sink, without being convinced I was about to get murdered, maybe I really shouldn't try to get through the rest of my life without some help and guidance from God. God really was working behind the scenes to protect me from things I didn't even know were threats.

I was a wuss without God, and that was ok. Most people are. But, with God, I was so much more powerful than all of hell combined! So long as I had God by my side, nothing from hell could even get near me unless it wanted to get instantly obliterated. 

"So, I have an assignment for you." my therapist told me towards the end of our session, "I know you're gonna think this is stupid or crazy or whatever. Trust me. I get it. But, if something happens when you're alone again, I want you to just call it out in Jesus' name. Just tell it aloud, 'In Jesus' name I command you to leave', or something along those lines. And, it will have to leave." 

"Uh... Okay?" I cringed. I really didn't think that would do anything besides make me look like an idiot.

"Trust me. It works. I know you think I'm bullshitting. But it works." my therapist reiterated, "Just do it. Nobody has to know that you said anything. I'm not taking your mom's approach. I'm not asking you to scream it from your roof. You just gotta command it to leave you alone in Jesus Christ's name, and it will leave you alone. That's it."

"Alright. I'll try it. But only if anything weird happens again." I finally said, "And if it doesn't work-"

"Oh, it'll work." my therapist interrupted me. 

With that, I headed out of her office and motioned to my mom, who was waiting in the lobby, that it was her turn. I had a lot to think about and chew on, so instead of spending the next hour waiting in the lobby for Mom playing Minecraft, I took the whole hour to type down my thoughts on my phone, just trying to make sense of everything I was dealing with. I was still very skeptical of everything, but at the same time, I was beginning to accept that there was more to reality than just the material world. But, that did not necessarily mean I believed it was the God the bible described Who ran the universe. It just meant I was beginning to accept the idea that there was something else going on neither I, or really anyone, could even begin to understand. 

I returned home and just went on with life as always. Nothing particularly interesting happened until that night. It was pretty late when I was in the middle of my nightly routine of doing my CF treatments and playing few video games before bed. I was sitting at my desk, playing World of Warcraft as I waited for my vest treatment to finish up. As I was sitting there, totally focused on playing my game, I saw my mom come into my room in my peripheral vision. Looking back, I've realized that her figure was too tall and dark for what I saw to actually be Mom, but at the time, I just assumed she needed something from me, and turned around in my seat to see what was up. As soon as I looked directly at her, she was gone. There was nothing standing where I believed I saw someone standing there. 

I knew it was strange. I knew I saw someone standing there, and they couldn't have left so quickly without me noticing. But, as soon as I turned in my chair, which took less than a second, and looked in the direction of the figure I saw was still standing in my peripheral vision just before I turned around in my chair, the figure was gone. 

I figured I was just seeing things, and went back to playing video games. Barely even a minute had passed before I noticed the exact same thing walk into my peripheral vision again. And, once again, I turned around to see what it wanted, still believing it was just Mom. But, when I turned to face it yet again, it had vanished into thin air yet again. 

I was a little put-off by this, but not yet worried. I was just curious. So, I got up just to make sure I was the only one awake in the house. When I opened up my bedroom door, I was greeted by a completely dark basement. I flicked on the basement lights, headed upstairs to the main level, discovered that all of the lights were off up there too. So, I turned on the main level lights and stared up the stairs to the second floor. My mom's bedroom door was closed and every light upstairs was turned off. Because it was late and knew I Mom was fast asleep in her room, I turned off all of the lights and headed back to my bedroom. 

It didn't hit me until after I'd sat back down and resumed playing video games, that something seriously strange had just happened. I rarely, if ever, hallucinated anything, and if I did, it was because I was very, very tired. But, that evening, I'd made the mistake of drinking a couple of caffeinated sodas, and I was naturally a night owl, so I wasn't tired at all. I was actually a little jittery. It didn't make sense that I'd hallucinate anything. I was sure it was possible, but it was very unlikely and unusual. I decided to crawl into bed as soon as I completed my vest treatment, because I didn't want to deal with the growing anxiety that I was seriously going insane. 

Once in bed, I was still too awake to fall asleep. I cracked open a book and began to read it, hoping to tire myself out a lot more quickly. I was reading for awhile when I saw a shadow, about the size of a medium-sized dog, move from my bedroom door to under my bed, again in my peripheral vision. However, I'd seen it a lot more clearly than I saw the previous shadow, since the only thing between my eyes and that figure was a book, and I'd watched the figure directly as it slid under my bed. 

I knew it wasn't my own dog. My dog was sleeping on my bed with me. Also, I had drawers under my bed. Nothing wider than an inch could fit under there. Yet, I did see something pretty large slide under my bed. Still, just to be sure the matrix hadn't glitched so badly that my clothes were no longer stored under my bed, and I had another pet dog that liked to sleep under my bed, I got up to confirm that nothing substantial had changed. The drawers were still under my bed. My dog was still asleep on my bed. And, the rest of the house was dark and empty. Nothing was there. Nothing at all. 

Finally, I remembered what my therapist told me about spiritual warfare and how to deal with weird shit. At first, I was tempted to scoff at that again. It was stupid in my mind. I still didn't believe that literal demons actually existed, or had any power to do anything on earth if they did. But, then I realized that I'd gone through the trouble of sweeping the house and checking under my bed just to reassure myself that I was, in fact, alone and the only one awake. Not only that, but I did get sprayed in the back of the head by some water earlier that morning, and I did experience other weird things earlier that week. So, why not finish everything off with a quick, out loud prayer, banishing the supposed demon back to hell where it came from. So, reluctantly and in a very quiet, monotone voice I said, "Alright. If there's anything here that is trying to bother me, in the name of Jesus Christ I command you to leave me alone."

With that, I crawled back into bed, turned out the lights, and fell asleep.

It really wasn't dramatic like what is often depicted in the movies. The supposed demon didn't crawl out from under my bed and try to attack me. I didn't hear any bumps or growls or footsteps. I didn't feel anything touch or scratch me. There was no breeze or whoosh. There was just silence, besides the white noise from my little fan and some slight snoring coming from my dog. 

I never was afraid of anything. I didn't feel threatened or even think about the possibility that I was experiencing demonic activity. At least not until I opened up about my experiences to my mom and then my therapist. After that, I was just curious, and felt silly for the most part. After all, you'd think a demonic haunting would be so much more dramatic than what I experienced. Instead, the most dramatic thing that happened to me was getting sprayed in the back of the head by water that literally came from nowhere.

But, that wasn't scary to me. It was just incredibly irritating and perplexing once I realized I had no natural explanation for what happened. But it didn't freak me out. The only thing that freaked me out was the first missing fork I found in my bathroom sink, but not because I feared demons. I was worried that there was another person in my house with me who was not supposed to be there, and I was alone, cornered, and pretty much defenseless. 

Since that demon banishing prayer, I haven't experienced anything strange or felt anything threatening that didn't have a natural explanation. So, I guess I have to admit that, as stupid as I felt, saying that prayer did do something. 

Aside from letting all of hell know that I was aware of it, but not even a little afraid of it, that prayer did give me a lot to ponder. I couldn't even get through a week without God, without encountering the evil side of the supernatural realm I didn't even realize existed or was something God was protecting me from. Turns out, there is far more to evil and suffering than what is right in front of us. 

That realization brought a lot of questions to my mind, this time considering the nature of evil, why there was evil, where it came from, how it came to be. But, it also brought up similar questions relating to the nature of God. I no longer wrestled with the problem of evil and suffering like I did before. Before, I was convinced evil and suffering disproved the Christian God. Now, I was pretty sure the problem of evil and suffering was more of an issue for atheists than God. After all, if you really think about the atheist position, we just came from blind chance. Blind chance knows no good or evil. Yet, it is clear to everyone who is honest that there is an obvious line between good and evil. Perhaps you have to go to the extremes to find that line, but it is there, and it is obvious to people who don't have something seriously psychologically wrong with them. As C.S. Lewis put it, "A man does not call a line crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line."

I decided the best way I would begin to answer some of those questions was to start attending church again. I needed other people with me to bounce ideas off of, and to give me their own insight. There was no way I could tackle those questions alone. But, where should I go? I didn't have a place in mind. I decided I should probably just go somewhere, anywhere, to see if I could establish a stronger connection with other Christians and our Creator. Maybe church didn't work out for me before because I didn't have a connection with the spirit of God. 

I didn't have my driver's license yet, so it would have to be a place either my family was willing to drive me to, or was within a reasonable Uber ride there and back. Since I didn't have a church in mind, I simply tagged along with my mom to her church when she went on Saturday evenings. I planned on doing that with her weekly, thinking I might be able to establish some sort of connection with God and His believers, as well as strengthen my relationship with Mom, which was very unstable and full of anger.

Mom had just broken up with her boyfriend a second time after getting in a pretty nasty fight with him in front of me and Jack. She broke up with him just several months before and promised he wouldn't be back, but one day I came home from spending a day with my dad, to see her "ex's" jeep in our driveway. I didn't trust Mom's word that her ex would stay her ex a second time after the first breakup ended with them getting back together. And I was pissed that she let the situation get so out of hand the second time, that they could not help but show their true vitriol for each other in front of me and my little brother. 

Ironically, Mom and I got so invested in an argument about her showing so much bitterness towards her boyfriend in front of me, that it turned into a shouting match similar to the one she had with her boyfriend in front of my brother and I. Thankfully, Jack wasn't home when Mom and I had our big fight about her behavior, but I'll never forget the feeling I had when the fight died down and I realized that I was being a massive hypocrite. Shame and regret do not even begin to explain how badly I felt. In fact, I still carry that guilt with me. 

When I arrived at my mom's church, I was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people filing into the church. It had probably doubled in size since the last time I had attended it, and I was not expecting that at all. My social anxiety and my claustrophobia shot through the roof as I scuffled through the growing crowd, until I finally made my way to a pair of seats near the front of the church Mom had picked out for us. I could feel my anxiety building as time went on, though I did my best to suppress it. 

I was panting from the anxiety by the time the pastor stood up and began to introduce his sermon. It was quieter and less chaotic, but that didn't matter. My anxiety was only getting worse, and it was beginning to show itself through shallow, short breaths, profuse sweating, and my wide, darting eyes. Pretty soon, my legs were shaking uncontrollably, and I could feel my sinuses stinging as tears welled up in my eyes. I did not know why I was having such a horrible anxiety attack. I decided that as soon as the pastor stopped preaching, and the church band came on stage to play several contemporary Christian songs, that I'd leave the church and get some fresh air outside. 

As soon as the band came on the stage, and the pastor began to lead the congregation in an ending prayer, I booked it out of the church. I made it outside to a little courtyard, where for the next 20 minutes or so, I paced around with my hands on my head, struggling to fight back tears and take in long, deep breaths. My heart felt like it was going to explode any second. I could actually see it beating through my clothes. My airways were severely constricted to the point I whined each time I inhaled and exhaled. I was in hell, suffering at the hands of a major surprise anxiety attack, and it took me a good half hour to calm myself down. 

The anxiety attack wasn't what hurt me the most. It was the feeling of rejection that ripped me up. I felt as though I'd been kicked out, not by the churchgoers, but by God Himself. It was a pretty awful feeling. I knew, logically, it wasn't God's doing. However, God allowed it to happen, so it was difficult for me to not blame God for the anxiety attack I had. I knew I'd been over the problem of evil and suffering a million times, so I wasn't willing to let myself get dragged through it again. However, I needed someone to talk to who could help me answer the doubts and questions I was beginning to deal with. But, if I couldn't even attend church, how the hell was I going to find anyone who was willing and able to help me through all of that?

Mom wasn't much help. On the way home from church, she told me I'd just have to desensitize myself to the crowds and attend church with her every week, even if I got anxious each time. After all, if I was willing to face my fear of driving to get my driver's license, I might as well have the willingness to get over my fear of crowds too. If I truly wanted to have a relationship with God and His people, I needed to lose my fear of crowds.

Unfortunately, I knew it wasn't that easy. I couldn't just "get over" my fear of crowds, just like I couldn't just "get over" my fear of driving. I was willing to face my driving fears because I knew I needed to learn how to drive if I wanted to be a functional adult. But, I wasn't willing to face my fear of large crowds since there wasn't exactly a need for me to do it. Plus, I wasn't exactly afraid of large crowds like I was afraid of driving. I could deal with people in the city. I just didn't feel safe being crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of people in a single room. I was sure there were many functional adults and devout Christians who shared the same fear of being crammed together like that as I had. 

Driving, on the other hand, was something that kept me up at night. It didn't matter if I was driving on some random dirt road in the middle of nowhere or driving through the heart of downtown. The fear was the exact same, and it was crippling. My fear of crowds wasn't a major issue until I was forced to be shoulder-to-shoulder to people, which happened very rarely. There had to be nearby churches and bible study groups that did not require me to battle my way to my seat or my pew, just so I could be told by the pastor again and again, that I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

But, Mom wasn't having it. In her mind, it was her way or the highway. Her church or no church. Her people or no people. It was non-negotiable. I needed to attend her church with her every Saturday night regardless of how I felt about it. Even if I made no friends and got nothing of value from the sermons, I still had to attend church with her. I could leave the church as soon as the sermon ended. But, I had to sit there for the opening songs and the sermon. After all, I told Mom I was willing to do that. However, that was before I had that anxiety attack. So, now I wasn't so willing. 

At that point, I knew my faith in God was screwed. If all I was going to get out of being a Christian was anxiety, then I wanted nothing to do with it. I had enough shit to deal with as it was. I was already crippled by anxiety on a regular basis. My chewed nails and dark eyes were enough proof that I didn't need any more anxiety in my life if I could avoid it. 

I'm not quite sure how I weaseled my way out of going to church with Mom, but I did. Unfortunately, this didn't exactly help my faith in God. Fortunately, though, it didn't really hurt my faith either. Again, I was just in this weird limbo between God and atheism, though I was comfortable considering myself a Christian. I could probably use whatever sliver of faith I had to get me through driving school, which I dreaded until the first day of class arrived. 

Because I was an adult with a learner's permit, I could skip the written tests and just had to do about 6 hours of behind the wheel instruction. Knowing myself, I ended up taking 12 hours of behind the wheel classes just to diminish my anxiety about driving as much as possible, so I could pass my driver's test the first time and hopefully start driving immediately after. Unfortunately, my plan didn't exactly work that way. Sure, I did 12 hours of behind the wheel classes and passed my driver's test with a perfect score, but the anxiety was still very much there. My first car only added fuel to the fire. 

I was excited and grateful to have a car. It had belonged to my mom's best friend for 12 years. But, it was an 18 year old car with original everything. Toyota transmissions and engines last forever, but every vehicle needs regular maintenance no matter what. Unfortunately, Mom's friend didn't do all the regular maintenance, so her old Rav4 would sometimes jolt as the gears shifted. It didn't have enough power to go uphill without losing speed even if my foot was literally on the floor. Also, my brakes were bad, so I didn't have the greatest stopping distance, and the pedal itself was dangerously mushy. I definitely had more than my fair share of close-calls, and my driving anxiety only got worse and worse.

As I suffered from anxiety, the doubts began to creep in again. I tried to shake them off. I knew I'd been over the problem of evil and suffering a thousand times. But, they only grew and festered, which shortened my temper and made my life increasingly difficult. I was pissed at God again, because this time, it appeared that He had kicked me out of His house and wasn't willing to have a relationship with me, or compensate me for anything. I knew God wasn't some sort of magical vending machine where if I put good works in, I'd get rewarded with the desires of my heart. But allowing me to suffer a massive anxiety attack at church, when I'd gone there specifically to get closer to God and worship Him with other Christians, seemed totally uncalled for. To me, it was like receiving two massive "fuck you" fingers from the Almighty Himself. 

What made things worse was my physical health. I began to notice things going wrong that had never really gone wrong before. At least, nothing that I really noticed before. I'd wake up every night between 2 and 4 AM extremely weak and shaky. I didn't feel better again until after I raided my brother's snack drawer and ate something really sweet and sugary. I didn't like the taste of his really sugary snacks, but it's what I had to do to feel normal again so I could go back to bed. I knew it was a sign that my CFRD was getting worse, only, instead of having trouble with high blood sugar, I only had trouble with very low blood sugar, which meant that taking insulin was probably not the best idea. 

Also, my joints were getting to be very tender. In the past, I could feel some tightness and soreness in my joints from time to time. But it was never so bad that it disrupted my daily life until then. As the seasons began to change, my joints were having more problems than ever. It freaked me out, because I had no idea what was wrong with me, and worried it was a sign of some other underlying issue I wasn't aware of and didn't have anything to do with Cystic Fibrosis. I was never told that Cystic Fibrosis could cause Arthritis, so I assumed that being on Ciprofloxacin for a month a couple years before to fight Pseudomonas was to blame, since Cipro was known to cause permanent severe joint damage if taken longer than a couple weeks at a time. 

That was my hypothesis anyway, until my joint problems began to interfere with my daily life and fun activities. I went horseback riding with a friend after being out of the saddle for nearly two years. I'd ridden horses a lot over the years and never had any trouble. But, when I clambered into the saddle of a frisky red roan, and followed the trail ride leader through the beautiful prairie grass, I was in constant pain.

Still, I put on a brave face as my ankles tightened up to the point it felt like they were being constricted, and pain shot up from my feet to my shoulders each time I attempted to post with the horse's rough gait. Behind my stoic face, I was in agony. I knew what was I experiencing was not normal, but I had no idea how to address it. So, I just ignored the pain and kept going for two hours straight. 

Insert edited version of "Progression" here

After the new medication was announced, I was very cautiously optimistic. People hyped up the medication to be some sort of miracle drug, much like how they hyped up similar medications, Symdeko and Orkambi, both of which I had taken, and neither of which had a significant impact on my health. I didn't expect Trikafta to live up to the hype. After all, it was made out of the same stuff as Symdeko was, with just one more ingredient added into the morning dose of the medication. 

I don't know where scientists came up with the names of the medications. But, the "Tri" in Trikafta was clearly a play on the three medications mixed into one tablet (or, in the morning dose's case, two identical orange tablets). On various online CF forums, people were jokingly equating Trikafta to the Christian Trinity. As blasphemous as some people might see it, I actually liked that comparison, though I still didn't buy into the hype. Maybe Trikafta was the metaphorical savior for CF. Maybe it was the medication that saved 90% of the CF population from an inevitable premature death by drowning. However, I didn't count on it. In my eyes, it was just another overhyped medication that did basically the same shit as Orkambi and Symdeko, though was a little better at its job. I did not expect it to do anything profound to me. 

It took a couple of months to get my insurance to pay for the medication, which cost a whopping $315,000 a year! During those two months, I researched as much as I could regarding Trikafta. I joined online forums for those starting the medication to discuss what it was doing to them. I read what the FDA had to say about it. I learned how Trikafta worked and what it would likely do to my body. The more I researched, the less I believed Trikafta was just another one of its cousins. People were describing complete turn-arounds in their health. They were talking about their bodies purging out mucus for weeks on end, and getting energy they never had before. People were literally calling Trikafta a "miracle drug" and the "cure" to Cystic Fibrosis. 

Of course, there were a handful of people who didn't experience the same dramatic effects others were describing, so I decided to err on the side of caution. Instead of letting myself get all wound up on Trikafta success stories, I convinced myself it wouldn't have a very dramatic effect on me. However, I still had a lot of "what if" questions surrounding the medication. What if it actually worked for me like it worked for so many others? What if I had to endure some pretty unpleasant side effects? What if Trikafta lived up to the hype? What if, what if, what if.

Pretty soon, my cautious optimism turned into impending doom. I was overwhelmed with anxiety at just the mere thought of taking Trikafta. I wasn't sure if I could muster up the courage to actually take it when I got it. If it turned out to have some dramatic effects on my body, how fucked was I? Would I survive to live the rest of my long life like my peers who didn't have CF? Or, would the purge prove to be too much for my body to handle, forcing me to get off Trikafta or die of liver failure? I wouldn't know until I took the medication. When I called the doctors, they admitted that I was entering some very uncharted territory. They'd monitor me closely, and gave me a mile-long list of things to watch out for. But, beyond that, they were just as clueless as I was. 

It wasn't very reassuring to be told by old people with MD's and PhD's that I, an eighteen year old who did really dumb shit on a regular basis, was just as smart as they were when it came to Trikafta. Regardless, even though I went from cautiously optimistic to downright terrified, I was gonna saddle up anyway and take the medication, because my life literally depended on it. 

As the days to my first dose of Trikafta drew closer, I became increasingly distraught. I wore a visible path in the carpet at home from pacing anxiously, pondering every possible worst and best case scenario I could come up with. Over the holidays, while I was full to the brim with the Christmas spirit, my anxiety attacked me at night when I was finally alone and the Christmas cheer had died down for the day. My attempts to explain my terror to relatives didn't really garner me much sympathy. Everyone in my family was only excited about all the possible benefits of the medication, but didn't give the negative side effects too much thought. Most of them thought I was just overreacting, and more or less told me to stop thinking about the worst case scenarios and just revel in the fact that I'd be feeling much better soon. 

Obviously, that didn't help diminish my anxiety one bit. If anything, it made it worse. I felt very alone, especially when I reached out to the CF community online and was met with pretty much the same shit I got from my overly optimistic relatives. Very few people empathized with my growing fear of the medication, further validating to me that I was truly a wuss and was probably letting my anxiety get away from me. I ended up crying myself to sleep most nights, especially the last several nights before the day I finally had my hands on the medication, because I was so fucking scared but had nobody to turn to. 

The only one I could really turn to during those horrible nights was God. By now, I'd fully accepted that He existed. I couldn't deny His existence anymore. Not after all we've been through together. Every night, I prayed to God that everything would go smoothly, and also made an effort to apologize for being so stubborn and angry towards Him. I felt guilty for the way I treated God in the past, and asked for forgiveness which I knew He gave freely even though I didn't deserve any of His love and mercy. However, despite my fears and my confession of faith, I still wasn't ready to surrender myself to God. 

For me, my stubborn refusal to trust in God with all of my heart was not rooted in disbelief anymore. Atheism no longer contended with Theism for me. This time, it was fear that prevented me from trusting God completely and unconditionally. I was terrified of trusting God. After all, what if He let me down? What if things didn't go the way doctors and scientists envisioned they would go? What if Trikafta was just another false hope? How could I trust God when I was engulfed and drowning in uncertainty? How could I trust everything would be ok, and I would be healed, when for my entire life, my health was deteriorating more than it was healing? 

When time for me to take my first dose of Trikafta finally came, I slowly and shakily got into the front passenger seat of my grandma Debbie's car. I'd been staying with her over the holidays, and she agreed to watch over me as I endured my first week of Trikafta. She knew I was afraid, but she didn't have much to say to me that was reassuring or helpful. She wasn't being intentionally callous. She just didn't fully understand why I was so nervous.

I could understand her position, which was similar to everyone else's positions. Everyone who knew me was just ecstatic that Trikafta would potentially allow me to live a much longer, healthier life. However, they were all on the outside looking in. Everyone I reached out to in real life had normal, healthy bodies. They didn't know what it was like to be born into inescapable suffering like I had. They didn't truly know what it felt like to have CF. On the flip side, I didn't know what it was like to have a normal, healthy body.

I was born into suffering, and for my entire life up until Trikafta was announced, doctors, scientists, news articles, blogs, books, my own friends and family, all told me I was never gonna get better. My condition would continue to exponentially deteriorate over time. I'd have to rely on disability and a part-time job at home to survive. I'd be dead before I reached the age of forty five. And, as I grew up and things only got worse in the long run, I fully believed and even accepted the fact that I would not live as long as my peers or outlive many of my older relatives.

But, when Trikafta came along, everything just took a complete 180, and I wasn't sure how to cope with such a huge change. I shakily took my first dose as my grandparents stared me down. I really didn't know what to expect that day. Would I feel any different? Would Trikafta actually have a positive impact on me? Would it live up to the hype? Those questions and many more reeled in my mind as I counted down the minutes since I took the medication. 

Trikafta had an almost immediate effect on my health. Within two hours of me taking the first dose, I was coughing stuff up. Within eight hours, my sinuses were draining. And, within a few days, other places were purging mucus as well. The side-effects weren't exactly fun to endure, but I hesitated to call them "bad". The side-effects were promising signs that the medication was doing what it was supposed to be doing.

My body was getting rid of most of the mucus that it had comfortably accumulated over the years, and as a result, I began to feel way better. I didn't know just how severe CF actually was until the veil was lifted. Sure, throughout my life, my numbers had always been very impressive considering what I was born with. But, it turns out, I was still sick as a dog when compared to those without CF. 

My energy levels on Trikafta breached the edges of the universe. I'd say they shot through the roof, but that would be a great understatement. I went from feeling tired all of the time and relying on multiple daily energy drinks and naps to get me through most days, to being so full of energy that I could do everything I wanted to do in one day, and then some without any naps or energy drinks! 

Also, about a week after I took my first dose of Trikafta, I went for a run around my neighborhood. Well, I left my house intending to just go on a walk, but I was feeling very frisky, and that's how I ended up sprinting about seven consecutive blocks before my body finally forced me to slow down. However, I didn't stop because my lungs were burning for air and my heart felt like it was about to explode. My heart and lungs were just fine. It was my legs that were begging for a break. They were burning and numb, while my lungs were breathing normally, and my heart wasn't pumping nearly as hard as it used to whenever I worked out. 

Not only that, but as I sat resting on a bench facing a small, icy pond surrounded by tall, pondersoa pine trees, I noticed I was picking up whiffs of a scent I couldn't quite pinpoint at first. Soon, I figured out that I was smelling the sweet, earthy scent of the ponderosa trees. I also caught whiffs of other smells I hadn't noticed before. I caught the faint scent of a distant BBQ, the scent of stagnant water being carried off the icy pond by the breeze, and a few other smells I still haven't figured out what they were. It was all too much for me to handle, and I broke down in tears. For all my life, I'd been deprived of so much, I just didn't know it until I was no longer deprived of those things. 

Not only could I run with ease for the first time in my life, without needing caffeine or an extra motivator (such as paintball) to get me moving, but I could actually smell again. I didn't need to be directly under the pine trees on a windy day to smell them. I didn't need to be within a few yards of a BBQ to smell it. I didn't need to hover above the water to smell it. The scents came to me now. I didn't realize how much CF negatively impacted my sense of smell. I knew I had a weak sense of smell. But, I didn't know just how weak it was, until my sinuses cleared out and I began to smell things I've never smelled them before. 

And, on top of that, as I breathed, my breaths were clear and deep. I no longer huffed and growled like a tiger whenever I breathed during or after any cardio activity. I no longer choked and gasped as thick sputum filled my windpipe. Breathing was incredibly easy compared to the effort it took just a short week before. I didn't realize just how hard it really was for me to breathe, especially considering how high my lung functions were, until it was no longer so difficult. Breathing became effortless on the new medication. I'd been bound up by the suffocating chains of Cystic Fibrosis, but didn't even know I was being suffocated until I was no longer drowning.

I was shocked. I didn't know how badly CF had affected me until Trikafta came along and almost completely defanged it, allowing me to breathe easily and completely. I was no longer facing a future of worsening symptoms, or the prospect of dying prematurely due to some CF-related complication. I was so much healthier than I ever was before, and the world had just opened up to me. I had been wrapped in chains my entire life, but I didn't really know it until Trikafta removed those chains from me.

Now that I was free, I was left with grieving the last eighteen years of my life that I spent sick and fighting an uphill battle. I was left with trying to figure out how to take on the rest of my long, promising future ahead, even though I felt grossly unprepared. I spent my entire childhood expecting to die decades before my peers died, so I wasn't sure how to cope with life now that I was no longer at such a high risk of dying early. 

From that day on, I was very emotionally sensitive. The emotional walls I'd built up over the years to maintain a stoic appearance were no match for the effects Trikafta had on me. As a result, I avoided talking about Trikafta as much as possible. When Mom took me out to dinner, I tried to avoid discussing the medication as much as possible because I didn't want to cry in the middle of a busy restaurant. When my grandpa Lyle called me to ask how I was doing, I didn't say much about Trikafta. But, a few hours later, as I wiped away tears, I sent him a lengthy text describing just how amazing the new medication was. When my dad called to ask how things were going, and discuss lunch plans, I finished our short conversation sobbing. 

But, what really hit me in the feels was any discussion that had anything do with my faith. God was scribbled all over Trikafta. Dr. Francis Collins, the scientist that was part of the team that discovered the gene responsible for Cystic Fibrosis way back in 1989, and spurred on medical research to figure out the best ways to correct the faulty gene without crossing ethical lines or screwing up other things, was (and is) a devout Christian who was never shy about his faith. Also, the FDA approved Trikafta in record time, catching even the most up-to-date people completely off-guard, barely even two hours after I had sat in my car hurling every creative, vulgar insult I knew at God, because I was suffering so much from CF-related complications. And, Trikafta was ridiculously effective. The things I was bitching at God for letting me endure were no longer problems that I had to worry about. As far as I could tell, I was no longer diabetic or suffering from joint problems, and cold weather didn't bother me as much as it once did. 

God truly heard my cry for help, and answered my prayer in a way I was definitely not expecting. I never expected God to fix my genetic issues. I never expected my health to get any better in the long run. But, God apparently had other plans. Sure, I still have Cystic Fibrosis and I will still have my bad days. But, CF no longer runs the show. It is no longer riding on my shoulders, dictating what I can and cannot do. It is no longer something I constantly have to consider every time I want to do something. All I really have to do now, is take the medication religiously, keep a few enzyme pills on hand to take with fatty meals, and that's it!

Physical treatments? Don't need them. Sure, I still need to stay physically active, but do I need to spend two hours of my day wearing my afflovest? No. Do I need to sit in a chair for a half hour everyday breathing in medication? No. In fact, I quit nebulized medication cold turkey because it was hurting me more than helping. Do I still need medications? Of course! But I don't need nearly as many as I once did. I went from taking between 30-50 pills a day to taking 10 pills a day, including the Trikafta. Why? Because my organs are working almost normally thanks to Trikafta.

I can digest most of my own food using my own pancreas. I can eat things like sugar and fat without suffering severe indigestion. On the flip side of that, I can't eat an entire bag of gummy bears without feeling a little queasy afterwards, which is still a good sign. It means I'm digesting sugar and it's giving me a sugar high. I am gaining weight, even though I don't have much of an appetite. Now, half of my jeans don't fit me, and my pelvic bones no longer stick out. My resting heart rate has slowed down. It doesn't take me multiple attempts to satisfy a yawn. I can laugh without wheezing and coughing. My eyes no longer burn from the salt when I cry. I no longer need to drink multiple energy drinks a day to stay awake and functional. I no longer need to bring soap right up to my nose to smell it. 

Trikafta took away the chronic pain that had plagued me for my whole life, especially over the few years before I started taking the medication. The chronic pain was literally crippling. The joint pain was one thing. Yes, it was terrible at times, especially during the last several months before I started taking Trikafta. But, for the most part, I learned to live with it. I refused to let it cripple me, and did my best to walk normally even when the pain was searing, all because I didn't want to end up with a visible disability.

However, my menstrual cycles were a very different story. They were impossible for me to ignore, and even harder for me to predict. I knew the pain from my menstrual cramps couldn't possibly be normal, because they were so bad I'd be curled up in a tight ball with tears streaming down my cheeks. Menstrual cramps are not supposed to be anywhere near that bad.

I was afraid to talk about it. Not only was my pain often dismissed by my mom, who was the only person I was willing to talk to about that, but I feared doctors would react similarly to how my mom did. I did briefly bring it up with one doctor, who suggested that if it was not CF related, then I might have Endometriosis, which was just about as incurable as CF unless I opted to get it surgically fixed. It turns out, I did not have Endometriosis. My menstrual problems were entirely CF's fault. 

Amazingly, Trikafta took away both my joint pain and crippling menstrual cramps. Strong weather fronts no longer crippled me. In fact, if it didn't get so damn windy ahead of those fronts, I would've never known they were even coming through. Also, my crippling menstrual cramps went away. I still felt them, but they were hardly noticeable compared to what I was used to. It stunned me to find out that the menstrual cramps I experienced prior to taking Trikafta, were just as painful as actual childbirth. Yet, after the initial shock from the pain, I somehow managed to get up and resume life. Do with that what you will. 

The majority of my pain and suffering was gone, however it was far from forgotten. I'd grown so used to living with CF, that a life without its influence was completely foreign to me. As much as I despised such a godforsaken condition, I missed CF in a way. I learned a lot of valuable life lessons because of CF, that I otherwise would not have learned. CF taught me how to endure excruciating pain with a genuine smile. CF forced me to stay physically active so I could stay as healthy as possible. Even though CF attracted a lot of bullies, it attracted even more supporters and friends later on in my life. CF forced me to confront my mortality, and come to terms with the fact that, unless a miracle happened, I'd die very young and in a very horrible way. 

As crazy as it sounds, I found peace and security in knowing when and how I'd likely die. Even when I was an atheist, I still felt comforted by my premature death. Why? Well, CF was often a tremendous source of unbearable pain for me. I didn't want to live to be sixty or seventy if I was bound to struggle as much as I was for my entire life. I became comfortable with having only twenty more years to live by the time I reached eighteen, because while I'd spend those years suffering horribly, at least I was already halfway through it by the time I reached adulthood. Don't get me wrong. I never was suicidal. However, if I was going to suffer from crippling pain and traumatic lung infections my entire life, I didn't want to endure sixty to seventy years of hell on earth. 

If I was going to live to be an old lady, I wanted to live the bulk of my life free of the things CF did to me. However, I never believed that was possible. I never thought that, within my lifetime, an effective medication would come out, that would make it possible to live a long life with minimal CF symptoms. Then, scientists released Trikafta to the CF world, and suddenly, the far-fetched wish of growing old without CF running the show became the reality. 

Trikafta truly was from God. Sure, scientists developed it. I get that. But, guess Who created science, and guess Who created those scientists and gave them the intelligence to come up with these medications? God did. So, while I am so very thankful to the scientists and doctors that developed and will continue to develop groundbreaking medications for Cystic Fibrosis, as well as other genetic conditions, I am also very thankful to God for giving them the ability to invent these things in the first place. God doesn't replace the scientists. But, the scientists don't replace God either. 

As my health rapidly improved, I began to focus on other things besides my amazing health. Now that I was no longer anxiously awaiting the next time I got fucked over by an infection, I felt much more comfortable with change. I decided to start that off by getting a new bed and mattress, as well as helping Mom rearrange some things, and get rid of some stuff in the house that needed to go. I really liked my old bed, but it was old and needed to go. Plus, I figured it would be foolish to ignore the fact that Mom could afford brand new everything for us. Five years ago, we relied on free shit from Craigslist to furnish our house, but thanks to my mom's booming real estate career, we could afford everything we wanted and then some. 

I woke up early one Monday morning to disassemble my old bed and bring it outside to the driveway. I had everything I needed. Tools? Check. Music? Check. Freakish physical strength granted to me by Trikafta? Check. Diet mountain dew? I didn't exactly need it since I was already jacked up on Trikafta five minutes after waking up, but I still enjoyed the refreshing taste of it, so I took fifteen minutes to drive to the nearest gas station to get my day's dose of caffeine.

As soon as I came home, I popped open my tool boxes and went to work with the one wrench that fit the nuts holding my bed frame together. I also armed myself with my expensive, multi-bit screwdriver my mom had borrowed and then lost for almost a year, to tackle the two-by-fours that held the mattress over the bed frame. I was going to town on that bed! Within the first fifteen minutes, I was more than halfway done. Only two more nuts and bolts held the side rails to the headboard. However, there was a problem. I lost my wrench. The only tool out of my entire collection that fit the specific nuts holding my bed together had vanished. But, my room wasn't messy, so where could it have gone? 

After I spent at least twenty minutes desperately searching around my bedroom, as well as searching the rest of my house to see if, for some strange reason, I misplaced my wrench somewhere I knew I hadn't ventured to all morning, I accepted the fact that my wrench had glitched out of existence. The nuts holding the rest of my bed together were quite loose, and the bolts were very short. So, I laid down on my back and used my legs to shake the side rails until the nuts were loose enough for me to unscrew with my fingers.

Only, there was another problem. As soon as I unscrewed the last nut and pulled out the second side board, that headboard was gonna fall over. So, I did what any genius adult would do. I went into the storage room across the hall from my room, found my dirtbike helmet, and sat back down on my bedroom floor knowing damn well, as soon as I moved that side board, that heavy headboard was gonna fall on me. I unscrewed the final nut off the final bolt, slid the side board away, and had enough time to catch the headboard before it landed on my protected head. 

I moved all of the disassembled parts into the main room of the basement, walked up the basement stairs, opened up the garage door, and headed back down again to start moving individual pieces outside. By then, Mom had come home, so she helped me move everything out into the driveway. Even though the whole demanding project took over an hour for us to complete, I was barely feeling it. I was still very energetic and breathing just fine, even after all of that hard work. Typically, I would've needed a two hour nap halfway through the disassembling process, and would've probably needed another two hour rest after finishing disassembling the bed, let alone moving everything up a flight of stairs, into the garage, and out onto the driveway.

Yet, I'd done all of that in the morning, without stopping, mostly on my own, and I was still as hyper as a squirrel on crack! I didn't even feel like I'd done very much work. My heart wasn't racing. My breathing rate hadn't increased. I wasn't sweating or panting. The only physical sign that I'd done some work was a slightly tight muscle in my forearm. But, even that went away after several minutes of rest. Mom was just astounded. She tried to wrap me in a tight hug, but I dodged it. I didn't want a hug. I wanted to keep moving. So, like anyone would do in my situation, I threw on my hiking shoes and went on a two hour walk. 

During my walk, I again noticed just how scent-filled the air was. Aside from the scent of ponderosa pine trees, I didn't know what I was smelling. All that I knew is that everything smelled pleasant and fresh. A strong weather front was also moving through, but I only noticed it because of how windy it was. If the wind wasn't gusting as hard as it was, I wouldn't have known there was a cold front moving through. My joints and sinuses were completely unaffected by the fast-moving weather system. I could also breathe extremely easily, even against the wind that kicked up dust into my face. 

That was another thing that was completely new to me. Before Trikafta, I couldn't deal with dust or wind without choking on it. I avoided the outdoors when it was that windy out, and if I couldn't avoid it, I'd turn my back to it and hide my airways behind my sleeve. But now, thanks to that breakthrough medication, I was doing just fine in that weather. The only complaint I had about it was that I kept having to chase down my damn hat! But, thanks to Trikafta, I had more than enough stamina and speed to keep playing the same stupid game of chase, every time a big gust hit me head-on when I didn't have a hold of my hat's bill. And before someone tells me about this amazing technology called "string", let me ask what kind of dork ties their baseball cap down with string? 

After I'd finally tired myself out, or more accurately, after my bottle of water had made its way through my system, I finished my walk/run a little sore and incredibly satisfied with myself. My day wasn't even over by then. I still had a full sink of dishes to wash, a writer's meeting to attend, and my new mattress arrived shortly after I returned from my walk. Getting that thing open was an adventure in itself. I knew what that mattress would do once I sliced away the layers of plastic holding it into a tight roll. But, because I had no other choice, I sat in the line of fire and carefully sliced the plastic with my bowie knife, which was the only knife I had on hand because all of my other, much more reasonable knives were packed in a box deep in the storage closet.

I slid my knife over the plastic using the same technique I'd used to skin the pronghorn I hunted, until the mattress suddenly burst through the remaining layers of plastic, literally knocking my feet right out from under me. Thankfully, I had a soft place to land, and since I was fully prepared for what happened, I had complete control over myself and the knife I was holding. But, even though I thought I knew what would happen, nothing could prepared me for the force and the speed that mattress had. I certainly expected to get hit with it. I didn't, however, expect to get knocked off my feet as violently as I was. That was startling!

I yet again did more than one day than I'd ever gotten accomplished in a week, thanks to that lifesaving medication. I just could not believe how beneficial that medication was to me.

Since I was so much healthier, and my future was so much brighter, my faith in God was becoming a lot more positive and childlike. Was I still interested in pursuing the intellectual side of Christianity? Of course I was. But, was I pursing that side of the faith because I wanted solid, irrefutable proof of God's existence to thwart my atheism? No. Because of how much healthier and so much more optimistic than I once was, I was now interested in apologetics and the science behind Christianity because I was curious. I wanted to really get to know Who God was, and develop a very personal relationship with Him. 

However, I still held (and hold) a lot of anger and bitterness towards God. Cystic Fibrosis, as well as a lot of other things, stole my childhood from me. Sure, I had good times, but my life still revolved around CF, and I still had other problems to worry about, such as the issues caused by a broken family that never got along, school bullies (including and probably especially bullying from teachers), my total lack of self-esteem, my severe anxiety, depression, and so much else. Why did God allow me to endure so much suffering, especially at such a young age? What was the point? Was there a point? If God was truly trying to teach me something valuable through my strife, what was He trying to get me to understand? And, why did He feel the need to teach me such valuable lessons by allowing things to happen to me that no one, especially a little girl, should ever have to endure? 

I know I've chewed on the "problem" of evil and suffering a million times, and have come to the same old conclusion each time. Yet, it continues to come up, and I still find myself pondering on the question, "Why God?"

I may be physically healthy and emotionally happy now, but I am left with grieving and coming to terms with my past, which will be no easy task. I mean, let's face it: I got completely screwed over in life, and have gone through some horrible shit that nobody should ever have to go through. As a result, I was left physically and mentally maimed, and I still have to face challenges on a daily basis most people never have to face. Most people don't seem to get that. Trikafta has helped me tremendously, but it failed to solve most of my issues. I may have my physical health and energy, but emotionally, I am struggling.

I've been dealing with intense, vivid nightmares that aren't actually fictitious. They're slightly exaggerated traumatic memories being replayed in my sleep, and I've been waking up sitting straight up in bed, drenched in sweat, panting, shivering, and in tears. Therapy has helped, to an extent. However, it will be a long time before anything gets resolved to the point I will stop having such intense dreams. 

Also, emotionally, I'm very sensitive, and everyday, I endure a rollercoaster of emotions. One hour, I'm perfectly happy and content. The next, I'm bawling my eyes out upon being hit with a huge wave of intense sadness. And, then the hour after that, I'm back to being perfectly fine. This is all normal, because I am grieving quite a bit. It's not easy to endure such a dramatic change as I have, even if that change is seriously amazing. I was comfortable living in the shadow of death. Now that I no longer live in its shade, I'm feeling very vulnerable and unsteady in life. I never knew a life outside of the imminent threat of death, at least until now, and I'm now treading through completely uncharted territory, and almost completely without the empathy and support from other people. 

Nearly everyone I know has dismissed the negative impacts Trikafta has had on me. Don't get me wrong, the benefits of the medication far outweigh the issues. But, I'm still struggling to deal with the effects this medication has had on me, and the things it has revealed to me. I really wasn't nearly as healthy as I thought I was, prior to taking the medication. Now, I'm left with trying to come to terms with that terrifying realization, and trying to figure out how I managed to make it nearly as far as I really did in life. Also, I feel completely unprepared for my future, especially now. I don't even know how my own body really works anymore, and it will take me quite some time to get used to it (I'm four weeks into taking Trikafta, and I still discover new things everyday, and still have a lot of old habits that I need to break, such as taking more enzymes than I need). 

The more I think about it, the more it becomes clear that my ability to get through each and every day, despite my health prior to Trikafta, was a miracle. Everyday was a miracle. Everyone who ever saw me, whether or not they realized it, was witnessing a real miracle, because I was so sick yet acted so damn well. I guess in that sense, ignorance truly was bliss, because I was unaware of how bad things were, and got on with life like everyone else thinking that I was just as healthy and able as everyone else, even though I wasn't. I may of had exceptionally good stats for someone with CF, and I may have been able to stand up on my own two feet. But, it unfortunately turns out, that sometimes numbers and looks can be deceiving. 

Faith-wise, I'm comfortable considering myself a Christian, especially since I really do believe in God, and fully accept that Jesus Christ died on the cross for our sins, and then triumphantly resurrected a few days later. However, feelings of resentment about my past, as well as all of my questions, keep me from fully surrendering myself to God. Perhaps by admitting that I believe in the Christian God is submitting myself to Him, but I'm not entirely sure. I'm still very resistant and rebellious. I grew up being told that surrendering myself to God meant that I needed to stop resisting and being so rebellious. In order to surrender myself to God, I have to quit cussing so much, stop looking at things so pessimistically, and stop questioning God's infinite knowledge and wisdom. But, perhaps that description is very inaccurate? I'm not sure.

All I know is that I'm comfortable calling myself a Christian, but I'm not sure if I'm saved, and I still have a lot of questions and a lot of pent-up anger that probably need to be dealt with. If I have to stop swearing, start looking at things like the glass is half full rather than half empty, and stop asking God "why?", well then I'll probably never be a Christian. But, if it turns out that description of God I've been raised with is entirely inaccurate (which I strongly suspect it is), then perhaps there is hope that I'll be a Christian. Perhaps, I'm already a Christian, and have been one for a long time. I just don't know. 

I decided that because I was physically healthy and mentally doing okay, I ought to take on a single college class. I'd do it online, because I didn't want to overwhelm myself by going to college in-person, where my social anxiety might shoot through the roof. Also, the flu season was gnarly, and I didn't want to ruin my good physical health and GPA by contracting the flu. Online college made the most sense, and I felt confident going into it because my professor had on-campus office hours, and I could get assignments and essays done whenever I felt like it, so long as I had an internet connection.

Understandably, I was very nervous prior to starting college, and it really showed. I knew everyone who was around me could sense something was off. Some were more quiet about it than others, but everyone basically had the same thing to say to me: "Relax! You'll be just fine!" and "You'll have fun!"

A part of me truly believed that they were right, and that I was just overreacting. But, a larger part of me wasn't so sure. My gut instinct kept telling me that it wasn't the best idea to start college yet, and came up with a million reasons why I should put it off for another semester. I just dismissed this sinking feeling as irrational anxiety. After all, everyone I talked to said that college would be much easier for me than high school was. Since I'd graduated high school on time and with good grades, I was now physically healthier than ever before, and I really didn't have too much going on in my life that could get in the way of college, I figured there was no valid reason to put college off for another semester. I actually couldn't wait to begin working towards another ambitious goal of mine. I felt ready to attend college, and was certain my anxiety was just my irrational side of me acting up. 

Unfortunately, things didn't turn out the way that I'd hoped.

On the first day of college, I immediately knew something was wrong. I had access to the online course, but there was nothing in it. The professor hadn't touched the course at all. There wasn't a syllabus posted. The professor's email hadn't been posted. There were no assignments. The assignment schedule was bare. The only thing in that online course that showed any signs of life was the class list, which showed that other people in the class were logged on, and were probably just as confused and alarmed as I was. 

I spent the first day of college desperately trying to get in touch with my professor, as well as with other staff members of the English department, trying to figure out when class would officially begin. I got no answers.

The "second" day of college was basically a repeat of the first day. My anxiety was through the roof that entire day. But, later that afternoon, the professor finally showed up! However, my anxiety didn't go away. A part of me desperately tried to get me to understand that something was very wrong, but I simply dismissed it as anxiety and not anything that had any real merit. 

In the first syllabus, lecture, and in an email, the professor admitted that online course was the first online course he'd ever taught. He apologized for being so late and disorganized, and blatantly stated that he'd likely be a little more on the "disorganized" side of things during the rest of the course, but he'd do his best to keep it as organized and consistent as possible. This really rubbed me the wrong way, but because I was completely new to college, I didn't realize that was a major red flag. 

I thought it was strange that the professor was so unfamiliar with the course he was supposed to be teaching, but I was more focused on finding out what my first assignments were than dwelling on my professor's inexperience. The assignments themselves weren't very challenging. Sure, I had to read things carefully and think things through, but the assignments weren't any harder than many English assignments I'd tackled in high school. A few college assignments were actually a little easier than some of the assignments I remembered tackling in English. However, a couple days after I'd completed the assignments, my professor replaced the first syllabus with a second syllabus, explaining that he'd changed his mind about some things. 

That would've been okay to me, had the professor actually killed and replaced the assignments he said he had killed and replaced. When I checked, the "dead" assignments were still up and would soon be graded. I just didn't have access to them anymore, so I couldn't read directions or turn anything in. Panicked, I sent an email to my professor explaining what I'd discovered, and included the links to make sure he knew what I was talking about. A couple days later, the professor replied basically telling me he had no idea what I was talking about, and to rest assured that the assignments he "killed" weren't being counted against my grade, even though they clearly were. 

When the second week of college began, I opened up to my parents about the issues I was experiencing in college. The course was more disorganized than ever, especially since the prof replaced the second syllabus with a third one. My parents, without outright saying it, encouraged me to drop out. But, a couple days later, after they had told other people what I told them, they decided to tell me more blatantly that I ought to drop the class. After all, sticking to a disorganized class with an incompetent professor was a bad idea. So, with a heavy and discouraged heart, I abandoned ship. 

Just before I dropped the class, I checked the class list to see if anyone else had dropped the class. The class list had shrunk considerably, further validating to me that dropping the class was the best idea. 

I took it really hard, even though I knew I logically shouldn't have. I knew it wasn't my fault that the course was so disorganized, and that I'd made the right choice by dropping out of the class in time to get a refund. But, I still felt horrible about it. I knew feeling that terrible about dropping a shitty college course was not normal. So, I scheduled a few therapy appointments to see if I could shed some light on where the pain was truly coming from, so I could solve the problem, or at the very least diminish it, before I headed back to college. 

Unfortunately, no amount of therapy seemed to be doing the trick. No matter how much I vented out my frustrations, or had those frustrations validated by someone who understood, or told that I did the right thing dropping out of college considering the circumstances, I only felt worse over time. Physically, I was still doing amazing. But, my mental health was getting worse at an alarming rate. 

My anxiety no longer manifested itself through anxiety attacks and the "what if?" question. Now, I just felt stuck, lost, and riddled with guilt of all kinds. I felt guilty for dropping out of college, even though my parents would've just spent a thousand bucks for me to fail had I stayed with the course. I felt guilty for being so physically healthy, but not being overjoyed by it. I felt guilty for having access to Trikafta in the first place, when everyone else in the world didn't have it because their country's universal healthcare plans didn't include new and expensive medications for rare genetic diseases. I felt guilty for being too lonely and socially anxious to reach out and serve others, like so many Christians in my life were telling me I ought to do. All of this guilt just weighed me down. The harder I tried to plaster a smile across my face and talk about all the things I was grateful for (which, for the record, I was genuinely grateful for my health) instead of paying attention to the things that were weighing me down, the worse my mental health got.

As my mental health worsened, so did my physical health. I never had a hard time breathing or stopped gaining weight. My physical health was still better than ever. But, I started taking afternoon naps again, and had little to no motivation to do anything enjoyable for myself. I had the energy to get chores done, spend time cooking good meals for myself, going to appointments, and exercising outside, but that's about it. I didn't spend much time paying attention to hobbies or hanging out with other people, and I had such terrible writer's block that I couldn't even type down a paragraph a day, which made it impossible for me to make much progress on my book. 

The people around me could tell that I was pretty out of it. But, their "solutions" did almost nothing except for upset me even more. Many of their solutions, such as going for long walks, listening to upbeat music, and keeping the house clean were things I was already doing. I listened to feel-good music several hours a day, completed daily chores, and went outside everyday. Yet, none of those things made me feel any better. I didn't even get the slightest feeling of joy or satisfaction whenever I came home all sweaty after another long and successful walk/run, or when I stood back to admire the house after I was done cleaning it, or when I listened to music that usually got a smile out of me. Even when it snowed, and I spent an hour and a half clearing the snow off the driveway, sidewalks, and mine and my mom's cars, I didn't feel even slightly satisfied after all that hard work. I just went back to my bedroom, where I took off my snowy clothes and curled up under a couple of thick comforters for a few hours. 

At least, I recognized that I was depressed and wanted to nip it in the bud, instead of ignoring it until it completely ruled over me. I made sure to tell my therapist and parents exactly what I was feeling, and also wrote down a note to ask my psychiatrist if I could get on medication the next CF doctors appointment I had. I knew medication wouldn't solve my problems, but it would at least make things a little easier for me to deal with. 

My grandpa came over one day to see how I was doing, and noticed that I wasn't my usual positive self. He offered to take me out to lunch to talk things through with me, and I agreed. I got in the driver's seat of my truck, and my grandpa got in the passenger's seat. I wasn't entirely "with it", but I was okay to drive. I just wasn't as aggressive as I usually was, and I wasn't cracking deprecating jokes regarding the bad drivers around me, when I usually had something to say about pretty much everyone and their vehicles. 

At my favorite local sushi restaurant, my grandpa brought up how unusually quiet I was, and asked what was getting to me, if anything. I admitted to him that I was pretty unhappy, and gave him a list of possible reasons as to why I wasn't feeling good. My grandpa seemed to sympathize with me pretty well until I mentioned that I'd likely be going on medication. My grandpa perked up a bit when I mentioned the medication, and then asked me if I'd exhausted all other possible solutions. After all, medication wasn't a fix-all, and sometimes it actually made things worse.

I agreed that medication wasn't a fix-all, and that it sometimes made things worse, but I reassured him I wouldn't be going on anything particularly strong or harmful. Doctors could actually use information gathered from my DNA to get a rough idea of what medications may or may not work, which reduced the chances of me getting prescribed something that made things worse. Plus, I knew I'd only be on the medication for a few years at most, so I didn't want to go on something that was practically impossible to get off of. Still, my grandpa was very alarmed that I'd be taking medication to make my depression and anxiety a little easier to cope with, and again asked if I'd exhausted all other possible solutions to my problems. 

I knew where he was going with this, and didn't like it. Even though I reiterated that I'd done everything I knew to do to escape my depression and anxiety, I knew based on my grandpa's expression, what was going to come next. 

"Have you tried praying for God to take away your anxiety?" my grandpa asked. 

"Everyday and night." I sighed, "It hasn't gotten easier."

"What about socializing?" my grandpa asked. 

"Yeah. My mom hosts and attends dinner parties that I go to, but that hasn't put a dent in my anxiety either." I answered. 

"Well, have you tried putting yourself out there more?" my grandpa asked. 

I cocked my head a little bit, "What do you mean?" 

"Well, I like to entertain people by playing the accordion and the piano. People love music. I know you can play the guitar and the piano very well. Haven't you thought about playing a song for two for people? I also find that people everywhere like to talk. I can strike up a conversation with almost anyone, and can usually get a lot out of them. Have you tried to strike up a conversation with any strangers?" my grandpa asked. 

"You know me." I smirked, "I can't even talk to the waitress without having a mini anxiety attack. There's no way I could ever get myself to entertain people with music or hold a meaningful conversation with someone I've only known for a few minutes. I admire your ability to do that, but I ain't like you. Plus, my problems are largely genetic. There's no coping skill in the world that can treat my genetic problems." 

"Well, it doesn't hurt to put yourself out there every once in awhile." my grandpa replied, "Maybe you just need to leave your comfort zone instead of going on medication." 

"But my problems are literally genetic." I replied, doing my best to suppress my growing anger and frustration, "Both of my parents have anxiety and depression issues that they're on medication for."

"I'm not denying that genetics play a part in your issues, Maya." my grandpa said, "I just don't think you've tried every possible thing besides medication yet. Plus, I think you'd be surprised by how easy it is to be more outgoing." 

"Trust me, I've tried to be more outgoing before. It didn't go very well." I growled. 

"What about going outside? Have you tried that?" my grandpa asked, just as the waitress brought our food. 

"Yup. I'm out there everyday. Snow or shine." I nodded, "It literally has no effect on my mental health." 

"What about music? What kind of music do you listen to?" my grandpa asked. 

"Almost all of the music I listen to is upbeat. But, it doesn't help." I said as I broke apart a pair of chopsticks and prepared to chow down on my raw salmon sushi rolls. 

"But is it Christian? Sometimes, music can have a negative effect on us, regardless if it is upbeat or not. You don't listen to too much secular music, do you?" my grandpa raised his eyebrows

"Are you suggesting that I'm depressed and anxious because I like secular music?" I asked, getting offended again. 

"Well, not necessarily." my grandpa shook his head, "I just don't think it's a good idea to listen to that stuff all the time. Christian music really helps to ease the mind when it gets anxious."

"Again, I've tried listening to music, including Christian music, to ease my mind when it gets anxious. And, again, it doesn't have much of an impact." I sighed again, now visibly frustrated. 

"Well, what does have an impact on your anxiety and depression?" my grandpa asked. 

"Nothing much." I replied, "That's exactly why I think medication is the next step. I've tried literally everything else, from exercise to a good, healthy diet, to socialization, to prayer, to meditation, to music. Literally nothing seems to help diminish my anxiety." 

My grandpa again asked if I was sure I'd exhausted all other options, even though I just reiterated that I indeed went through every other possible treatment for anxiety and depression that I could think of. It was clear, at least to me, that at least some of my mental health issues were a physical problem, much like how Cystic Fibrosis and Pulmonary Atresia were physical issues. Unfortunately, my grandpa really didn't agree with me, and I eventually stopped trying to argue with him. 

After lunch, I headed back home and proceeded to barricade myself in my bedroom. I was frustrated that my grandpa just didn't understand it. He was helpful in a lot of ways, and in the past had a lot of good ideas and advice to give me. But, when it came to my depression and anxiety, he had no good advice to give me. He just seemed hellbent on discouraging me from taking the next logical step towards feeling better, which was getting on medication to give me a slight boost so I could better deal with my problems. 

However, as I further digested the frustrating lunch conversation with my grandpa, a new and rather disturbing thought popped up in my head. 

What if your depression and anxiety are a sign you're not close to God. After all, aren't you supposed to be joyful and grateful for everything if you really had Jesus in your heart?

As I thought back on my experiences with the church, as well as what my grandpa was saying, I realized that thought might actually be correct. What if I was depressed and anxious all the time because I wasn't yet a true Christian? What if my mental health issues were a sort of punishment for not putting all my faith and trust into God? As I chewed on these thoughts, my palms began to sweat, and my legs felt weak and wobbly. My heart was fluttering in my chest as my airways constricted. Once again, I began to endure another severe anxiety attack, and I broke down in tears fearing the worst. 

I seemed to sink to an all-time low after that lunch. I was just haunted by the idea that I'd truly been forsaken by God. After all I'd done to get in touch with Him, and get to know Him, I was again kicked to the curb. I was riddled with anxiety that was growing worse by the minute, and there was also a level of depression. A growing part of me just wanted to quit trying to connect with God. After all, what was the point? Nearly everyone I talked to about God, and within many memoirs I'd read that were written by Christians who weren't always Christian, it seemed like everyone but myself reported a sense of inexplicable peace and joy shortly after confessing their faith. Yet, here I was, depressed and scared, after all I'd done to try to establish a connection with God. I wasn't at peace at all, nor was I happy or grateful. 

That night, I was exhausted, yet at the same time, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned in my bed for a couple of hours, until I had to get up to use the restroom. When I returned to my bedroom a couple minutes later, I noticed that I'd left my bible on my night stand. I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame for some reason. I'd began to read through 1 Kings a few days before, but got bored because nothing I was reading seemed very interesting to me. I was at the part where the bible describes how Solomon's temple was built. Not all that interesting or relevant in my opinion. Regardless, I decided to crawl under the covers, and read a little further through 1 Kings. Something within me just wanted me to do so, and I didn't think I could sleep unless I tried. Perhaps the boring book would make me tired enough to fall asleep. 

Nothing really jumped out at me as I read through the chapters. It just seemed like a bunch of boring biblical history to me. At least I felt myself getting tired as I read about king Solomon and Elijah. That was until I reached 1 Kings 18. In that chapter, Elijah headed to the city of Jezreel, confident that Jezebel and Ahab would soon be dethroned, if they hadn't already lost their power. When he arrived to Jezreel, Elijah found out that not only were Jezebel and Ahab still in power, but they were actively seeking and killing anyone who didn't bow down to their gods. Elijah was their number one target, so he fled the city in fear, headed into the wilderness, and ended up collapsing under a tree. While he sat under that tree, Elijah begged God to kill him, and then he succumbed to his exhaustion and fell asleep. For two days, Elijah slept under that tree, only waking up when God sent an angel to deliver food to him everyday. 

I paused. It took a little while for my tired mind to connect the dots. Like Elijah, I thought I was doing everything right when it came to forming a relationship with God. Of course, my circumstances were much different than Elijah's, but the roots of the message were still the same. I thought that if I just studied my bible more, prayed more, and did my best to look at the bright side rather than succumb to my pessimism and self-deprecation everyday, then I'd feel much closer to God and feel much more at peace in life.

Similarly, Elijah believed that if he just followed all of God's commands, he could defeat the evil rulers who wanted to kill everyone who didn't worship their gods, and take back Israel for God. Instead, Elijah was crushed to find out that his opponents were still in power and actively trying to kill him. Similarly, I was crushed when I realized that my depression and anxiety were only getting exponentially worse, despite my best efforts. 

Like Elijah, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I wasn't close to being suicidal like Elijah was, but I was beginning to believe again that God had abandoned me. I wasn't thinking very clearly throughout the day, and I was only waking up to do things I was obligated to do, such as eat and take care of basic chores around the house. I didn't have the energy to pay attention to hobbies, or the ability to think clearly enough to type down a coherent sentence. I tried, but I always just ended up staring blankly into space, yawning a hundred times, and then crawling back into the warmth and comfort of my bed to sleep off the day.

I was very surprised by how God reacted to Elijah's depression at first. God didn't tell Elijah to get off his ass and do something productive. God didn't miraculously heal Elijah. God didn't lecture Elijah about how unacceptable and unfaithful his behavior was. Instead, God simply let Elijah rest, and made sure to feed him every now and then. Not only did God simply let Elijah rest, He actually commanded him to rest, so he'd be strong enough to embark on his next journey. If Elijah didn't rest and tend to his physical needs first, he wouldn't be able to fix his problems completely, if at all. 

This struck me pretty hard. Unlike so many of my relatives, God was very aware that mental health issues were often tied a physical problem. Many of my relatives seemed to deny that I had any physical problems that were contributing to my anxiety and depression. After all, physically I was amazingly healthy! What other physical problems were there that had to be fixed? Well, my anxiety and depression issues were obviously genetic, at least in some ways. Both of my parents, and many of my grandparents, needed medication to fix their anxiety and depression issues. So, it was pretty obvious that I had some genetic issues in my brain that needed to be addressed, before I could begin to address other things that were contributing to my worsening mental health. 

My eyes welled up with tears and I could no longer read through my blurred, teary vision, so I decided to put the bible down and try to go to sleep for the night. It was clear to me that, while many people didn't get it, God understood exactly what was happening to me. And, best of all, He was ok with it. What I was going through was normal. So normal in fact, that one of God's most faithful followers fell victim to severe depression and anxiety too, thousands of years before I did. My depression and anxiety didn't make me any less of a Christian. They were just another part of being human. 

I cried myself to sleep that night, though my tears didn't come entirely from a place of pain. I felt more relieved than anything. I was relieved that God acknowledged my mental health issues were largely genetic. They were physical problems that needed to be addressed. And, while many people tended to over-spiritualize my issues, God recognized that I really needed a little help from medication, and a lot more sleep than what I was typically getting, to get back on my feet. Of course, I needed support in other ways too, including from God. But, the first step was medication to take the edge off, so everything else would be much more effective in combating my mental health issues.

Several days later, I headed into downtown Denver to my dreaded doctor's appointment. My mom came along with me, and for the whole car ride, did her best to calm me down. My palms were sweaty, my heart was racing, and I was doing everything in my power to breathe in deeply to prevent my airways from closing up. Mom reassured me that we'd only find out good news that day. I wasn't sick. I wouldn't undergo any unpleasant procedures. And, I wouldn't have to talk to very many doctors that day. It would be a very quick and easy check-up appointment, so there was nothing for me to be afraid of. 

This frustrated me, because I was telling myself the same exact things. I knew, logically, that everything would be alright! I knew my anxiety issues were illogical. Yet, no matter what I did, my anxiety only worsened as we got nearer and nearer to the hospital. 

As I expected, I was physically very healthy. I had nothing to be concerned about there. But, my mental health was a different story. My doctors agreed that getting on medication was the right thing to do, and a first step in getting me back on my feet. Apparently, nearly everyone who was on Trikafta was on some sort of antidepressant. Many of them were just as overwhelmed by the effects that medication had on them as I was. On top of that, at least some of my mental health issues could be blamed on genetics. So, it wasn't a premature or unreasonable decision to get on an antidepressant, considering the circumstances. 

After I was done talking to the psychiatrists, a nurse came in with all the necessary equipment to draw some blood. It wasn't a requirement, but I wanted to make sure my liver was handling things alright just to get some peace of mind. Unfortunately, my body had other plans. Every single vein in my hands and arms shrank at just the sight of the butterfly needles in a plastic baggie. I was shocked by just how quickly my fight-or-flight response kicked in, as a response to a childhood phobia I thought I'd conquered years before. Because of my body's intense physical reaction to something as trivial as a blood draw, which I'd done countless times before without issue, no blood was drawn that day. The nurse stuck me with three different needles, and dug around with them for several minutes at a time with no luck. 

I kept apologizing to the nurse as if the anxiety was my fault. However, she and I both knew it wasn't. One can't voluntarily force their veins to shrink. That's just not possible. The nurse assured me my body's physical reaction to the needles was not my fault. It wasn't something I could control. It was just an instinct, and was yet another piece of evidence that my mental health struggles were more physical than anything. 

After torturing me with needles, the nurse asked if I'd be willing to get other tests done, like a bone density scan and MRI scan of my lungs. I almost agreed, until I asked the nurse what the bone density scan was, and she told me it was like an MRI scan, but just in a smaller box. Basically, to get the bone density scan done, I'd be trapped in what was essentially a tanning bed for several minutes. I immediately declined. One of the few phobias I had left was that of tight, enclosed spaces. The failed blood draw had spiked my anxiety enough already. The last thing I needed to do was agreed to be trapped in a box for several minutes without sedative medication. 

Since the bone density scan and the MRI scan weren't necessary, I was finally allowed to leave the hospital. I needed to get my blood drawn within a month or two, but the doctors said we'd cross that bridge when we got there. For now, all I had to worry about was getting on anti-anxiety medication, and staying healthy. 

Unfortunately, my anxiety only got worse. I was worried about the state of my health. I knew I was probably fine as long as I didn't turn yellow or start pissing blood. Still, not knowing for sure how my body was doing was difficult for me. I really wanted to know, and I was upset that I couldn't get my blood drawn so I could know exactly how my body was dealing with the Trikafta. At the time, I was dealing with some alarming symptoms, but I wasn't sure if they were good or bad news, and my doctors didn't know either. I often experienced random pains throughout the day in my abdomen, especially close to my liver. I also felt a lot of pressure near my liver, or like things were moving around it. Doctors theorized that perhaps all of that could be attributed to my gallbladder working for the first time, and it was just clearing itself out. They also thought that my liver was purging all the mucus that had built up in it over the years. Unless I felt something absolutely crippling, I shouldn't worry about it. But, it was impossible for my anxious mind to not worry about that, among many other things. 

For the next couple of months, I endured crippling anxiety attacks every single day. They seriously wrecked my daily life. I couldn't do anything without possibly being interrupted by another horrible anxiety attack. Some were so bad that I strongly considered calling 9-1-1, fearing I was having a heart attack. My fear wasn't entirely irrational. I was born with Pulmonary Atresia, and unlike literally everyone else with PA, I went my entire childhood only needing a single open heart surgery. My heart had also raced my whole life, and had an extra beat too. It was only a matter of time before the lack of open heart surgeries finally caught up to me, right? 

Prayer only did so much for me. It didn't rescue me when I was in the midst of one of my anxiety attacks. However, what did help me was going back to the story of Elijah in 1 Kings. Elijah spent forty days wandering around in the wilderness before coming to a cave. He couldn't have possibly been having a good time during those forty days. I wondered if I was sort of in the same situation as Elijah. I certainly felt like I was lost and wandering aimlessly. I mean, my life completely stopped due to my anxiety and depression. I stopped writing. I stopped working on art. I stopped talking to people. I slept for most of the day, everyday, only getting out of bed to do essential things, like eating and chores. So, maybe I was right where God wanted me to be, even though I wasn't where I wanted to be at all. 

Even when I finally got on medication, nothing changed for quite some time. I was prescribed Zoloft, which was what I was prescribed before even though it didn't seem to have much of an effect, except I was put on a different dose of the medication. I was told to take Zoloft for three to four weeks to give it time to start working, and if I didn't feel any different, I could call the psychiatrist and figure something else out. Otherwise, if it worked, I'd be good to go. Personally, I didn't think it would work, but I had to give it a second chance. 

I knew those next three to four weeks would be really difficult, and they were. I still had day-ruining anxiety attacks, and my depression made it very difficult to think and talk. My mind was completely fogged up. I couldn't think about much of anything, let alone talk about it. But, I held on. I leaned into God more than ever before, even though I didn't feel very close to Him. I held onto any and all hope I could find. I made sure to take care of my physical needs, even if I didn't feel any joy come from it. I woke up before noon everyday and got ready. I ate well and abstained from sugar and processed food as much as possible. I went outside everyday, regardless of the weather, to enjoy nature and stretch my legs. I talked to my therapist and parents about my struggles regularly, even if I couldn't put my feelings into words very well. And, of course, I prayed and buried my head in my bible every night before bed. 

Things slowly began to improve. I started having tiny moments during the day where I felt like I could think again. They were very occasional and fleeting at first, but they still gave me a lot of hope. They were a sign that I had hit rock bottom, and things could only improve from there. I finally began to see the light at the end of the tunnel, even though it was dim and distant at first. Soon, I would be back to my old self. 

But, more importantly, I think I finally began to grasp Who God really was. For the first time, even though I didn't hear from God or experience any miracles, I felt close to Him. Somehow, I just knew God could hear me every time I prayed, and was with me wherever I went, even when I was in my own personal hell. If, for some reason, I felt myself slipping in my faith during those hard times, I read about Elijah in 1 Kings to remind myself that God was with me, even if things were tough. Revisiting that story also reminded me that things would get better soon, even if it took forever. I just needed to get through life one day at a time, pray, and hold onto hope that things would get better soon. 

As spring drew nearer and the weather warmed up, I ended up spending a lot more time outside to soak up the sun and enjoy the fresh air. Things were just beginning to wake up after hibernating through the winter. Tiny green blades of grass sporadically sprouted from the barren fields. The creeks were swollen with snow-melt. Birds of all kinds were everywhere and busy building their nests. Rabbits and squirrels playfully chased each other around and munched on the new blades of grass. Tiny buds began to pop up on every tree and barren bush. Pine cones began to grow on the pines as well. And, best of all, there were flowers, and I could smell them for the first time. Like, really smell them! And, I didn't even have to shove my nose into them to even catch a faint whiff of their scents. 

Unfortunately, while spring was upon us, a new disease arrived in the United States, hitting Washington state very hard. I'd heard bits and pieces about a new zoonotic virus that shut down parts of China, but it didn't really catch my attention until it arrived in the States. When it did, cases began to pop up everywhere, coming closer and closer to home. Now, I was nervous. 

I went to therapy one morning, as usual, and brought up my anxiety surrounding the new virus to my therapist. She listened to me, told me what researchers and scientists already knew about the new virus to put my mind at ease, and finally told me to "Jesus up!". I ought to see this new disease as a challenge or a test. I was a Christian, after all. I could communicate with God, and I should also trust in Him with all my heart, and not rely on my own understanding of the world.

Yes, we ought to be smart. My therapist was planning on continuing therapy from home using technology until the new virus was no longer such a threat. But, there was nothing bad about getting close to God and trusting Him during times of crisis when we, as individuals, were already doing everything in our power to not get sick. My therapist also reminded me that I was already a master at avoiding illnesses, so I shouldn't get too worked up about the potential pandemic. After all, God was in control, and I had been trained my whole life to avoid getting sick. 

Instead of getting offended or put-off by my therapist's motto "Jesus up!", like I usually would have, I actually liked the idea. It didn't mean I'd rely solely on God to stay healthy, while not taking other measures to stay healthy (unlike what an alarming number of Christians were doing, since they fully, and wrongly, believed they were immune to the virus because God wouldn't allow them to get it). I was still gonna listen to what the doctors and scientists said about the new disease as they learned more about it. It just meant I'd lean into God and trust that He had everything under control, while I did everything in my power to stay safe and well. For the first time in my life, I was willing to give God the reins, and trust Him fully. 

After all, there wasn't anything I could do to stop a soon-to-be-pandemic. There wasn't anything I could do that would ensure my friends and family would take this disease as seriously as I was, and stay safe and healthy. There wasn't anything I could do to help the doctors and scientists learn about the virus, and come up with new treatments and a vaccine for it. And, there was a very real possibility I couldn't do anything to prevent myself from getting sick, as many people were getting sick from the virus and had no idea how or why. All I could do was stay home, wash my hands, take care of my basic needs, and pray. I'd already been doing three out of the four things all my life, so it wouldn't be too hard to talk to God everyday too, right? 

Even though it seemed like the apocalypse was among us, I remained at peace. I don't know how to explain it. It was just really easy for me to stay calm, even though everyone else was acting like the end was nigh. I had no trouble disregarding the news media as a bunch of morons looking to make a few bucks off a global pandemic, by reporting on the scariest stories no matter how absurd they were. I found myself laughing aloud at people's ridiculous rants on social media, where they spread conspiracy theories around and played the blame-game. I slept well at night, and didn't have any more anxiety attacks. And, it was getting exponentially easier for me to think and focus. I was no longer lost in the fog of depression. Overall, I felt great, and I was beginning to resemble my old self again. 

Even though the new virus, which was eventually named Covid-19, posed a huge risk to my health and life, as well as to the health and lives of many of my loved ones, I remained calm. After all, God was in control. I trusted He had a plan for everyone, whether they lived or passed away. Sure, I was still very worried about everyone I knew and loved, and made sure to contact everyone I knew to make sure they were okay and taking things seriously. But, I was able to stay calm by reminding myself that God was in control. I felt even better knowing that almost everyone I knew and loved was taking things very seriously. I prayed for the few who thought it was all nonsense, or agreed it was real but didn't really care to take any extra precautions. But, beyond that, I focused on keeping myself healthy and safe the best way I knew how. 

While I was tethered to my home due to the virus, as was everyone else I knew, I still made sure to enjoy the great outdoors. Every day the weather permitted it, I drove three minutes into the mountains to hike on private secluded hiking trails. I had access to the trails, since I was a resident of the neighborhood, even though I lived in the older part of the neighborhood just east of the mountains. Since the hiking trails were only for residents, there weren't many people on them. And, if there were people on the trail, there was plenty of wide open space for me to venture into so I didn't get too close to others.

I absolutely fell in love with those trails. While the world was in utter chaos, and the threat of illness and death again loomed over me, those trails offered me a serene place to escape to when I just needed some alone time out of the house. I couldn't go to any stores, or see my friends and family outside of my household in-person. But, I could go into the wilderness, which had a meditative effect on me. 

I felt incredibly close to God during my hikes through the wilderness in the foothills. I spent most of my time thinking about God during those hikes, as well as praying to Him, and simply gazing at the wilderness around me in awe. Even though spring had just arrived, and most of everything was still dead and hibernating, there was beauty everywhere. I just couldn't get over how epic the landscape around me was. I'd seen landscape like it numerous times, but it never failed to astonish me, no matter how many times I saw it. 

Some trails led me through treeless valleys, where rocky foothills blanketed in golden grass reached towards the wide open skies above. Other trails wound around huge red rocks that protruded from the earth in the middle of the neighborhood, and led a little ways out of the neighborhood along a creek swollen with snow-melt, and surrounded by flame willows, cottonwoods, and aspens. But, my favorite trail led me along and sometimes through a creek sheltered by trees and brush of all kinds, and into the woods to the west, where wildlife watched me as I followed the red dirt path deeper and deeper into the woods. Some of God's wild creatures were a little too friendly, but I managed to keep my distance. For the most part. 

During one of my many adventures in the valley, I suddenly came to the realization that I'd surrendered myself to God. It happened way sooner than I thought. But, I couldn't lie to myself and deny the fact that I'd finally, after years and years, surrendered myself to God.

When I say "I surrendered myself to God", I don't mean I did it out of fear, or in a dramatic way. I didn't surrender to God like outnumbered soldiers surrendered to their enemy. I didn't fall on my knees, bawling my eyes out, shouting to God I'd finally surrendered, begging for His acceptance and forgiveness. I knew I was already loved and forgiven, and there was nothing that could get in the way of God's love and forgiveness. I just accepted that almost nothing in life was in my control, but God was in control of everything. I also accepted that God was, well, God. He created everything, and there wasn't an atom in existence that God did not create or have control over. A buddhist quote, "Relax. Nothing is in control." came to mind, except it was a little different. 

"Relax." said a quiet thought in my mind, "Nothing is in your control, but it's in God's."

While I didn't even have control over my own heartbeat, God was in control of literally everything, and had very good reasons to justify why things were the way they were. Sure, God may not always do what we want Him to do. But, there are good reasons for that. A kid may want to eat nothing but candy and do nothing but play video games, but is that good for the kid? No. Parents make their kids eat their vegetables and go to school for very good reasons. Sure, the kid usually doesn't get it in the moment, but looking back when they're older and wiser, they'll see why school and broccoli were so much better than gummy bears and video games. Similarly, God doesn't always do what we would like for very good reasons way may or may not understand right now, but we will understand those things later. Occasionally, we'll come to a revelation about something in life, but we probably won't understand why everything happened the way they did until we die and go to heaven, where we can ask God Himself. 

I still don't understand what God was doing when He allowed me to be born with two extremely rare and dangerous health conditions, that could've easily dealt significant, permanent damage to nearly every major organ in my body, but didn't. I'm honestly still angry and upset about those things. But, the anger and resentment I feel due to my medical past doesn't overwhelm how grateful I am to be alive and healthy, and how amazed I am by the miracles it took to keep me alive and healthy.

If God did not miraculously heal me or provide me with the perfect doctors and treatments at exactly the right times, my open heart surgery scars would remain fresh, my respiratory and digestive systems couldn't sustain me on their own like they can, and my quality of life in general would be horrible. So horrible, in fact, that I probably would've opted for assisted suicide, or done the deed myself. I couldn't imagine surviving in a failing body for the next sixty or seventy years. That would simply be horrendous and cruel. But, maybe I would've had a different view if I was actually in that situation. Instead, I'm seeing life in a body crippled by illness from a body that's no longer crippled by illness. Perhaps, people with no health issues at all look at me and think they'd rather die than live in my body. 

While I am still afflicted by my health conditions, and still have to take care of myself than most, I'm not seriously ill. In fact, I'm pretty much a normal person. At the time of writing this, I've been on Trikafta for four months now. I no longer suffer from joint pain, CFRD, major digestive issues, weight loss, frequent infections, or breathing issues. I can breathe and move like never before. I can eat foods without getting sick that previously wrecked me, which means I've been going a little crazy with spicy tacos, pizzas, chocolate cream eggs, oatmeal made with whipping cream, celery and apples with peanut butter, bacon, and so much more. I've gained close to twenty pounds since starting Trikafta with almost no effort, and feel stronger than ever before. I have Pseudomonas, but it is completely asymptomatic. I can fight off colds and viruses with ease. I can hike and run in the mountains without feeling extremely short-of-breath. I don't even cough anymore.

On top of that, despite being a little strange, my heart still works like it should. Sure, I have an extra beat and my feet are always tinted a shade of blue. But, those are not abnormal for me. My heart can keep up with ease, even as I rigorously exercise. I'm the only person in the world with Pulmonary Atresia who has survived this long and well without medication or multiple heart procedures, and there's no reason to believe that will change in the future. Cardiologists still don't know why my heart was healed, or even how it happened. If that's not a miracle from God, I have no idea what is. 

I began to see things differently. Okay, while my faith in God was restored and stronger than ever, and continued to strengthen everyday, my faith in humanity was dead. People were fucking stupid, and the pandemic really showed off their true colors. But, since I was pent up at home, and my mental health had healed tremendously since the start of the year, I began to write for the memoir again. As I reflected back on my life and typed up my thoughts at lightning speed, I realized that there was a silver lining to every horrendous thing that ever happened to me. And, I began to feel truly blessed despite everything I'd gone through.

Sure, I suffered a lot, and I still fantasized about a life without Cystic Fibrosis, or Pulmonary Atresia, or a broken, blended family, or anxiety, or anything like that. But, if it weren't for those things, I wouldn't have such a huge family, or the close friends I now have, or the wisdom I have, or the faith in God I have. In fact, I realized my suffering was what ultimately led me to surrender myself to Christ, and accept Him as my Lord and Savior. If I'd been spared of all the suffering I had endured, either I would've had a very shallow faith in God, or no faith at all. But now, for the first time in my life, I felt truly confident in my faith in God. 

I could also relax, knowing almost nothing was in my control, but everything was in God's control. God was not malevolent or careless, meaning I could fully trust Him with my life, and the lives of others. After all, God knew way more than I, or anyone else, could ever know in a lifetime. And, He was infinitely more powerful than anyone or anything else. So, why shouldn't I trust Him? Truth is, there wasn't a reason I shouldn't trust Him. God had shown me, again and again throughout my life, that He was in control, and He knew what was best for me. And, He could turn even the worst circumstances into blessings. 

Needless to say, I was exhilarated by my newfound faith in God. It's hard to put into words what I felt. I was still having issues with bitterness, anger, and worry. I wasn't perfectly happy or at peace, due to my human nature. I didn't show off my emotions. I remained my same stoic self. But, at the same time, I felt just so much better, even though nothing in my life, besides my faith, had changed. I knew God was changing something within me. I wasn't (and still not) sure what it was. But, I could feel it happening. 

While I still had the same personality, other people in my life, especially those living closest to me, could tell something was changing with me. According to them, I had a little more life in my eyes, was a little more optimistic, and wore a smile more often than usual. I was even becoming more social and extroverted. Most of everyone who noticed these things about me assumed it was due to Trikafta, which I'm sure part of it could be attributed to that lifesaving medication. But, deep down inside, I knew it was mostly God's doing. 

I kept quiet about my faith in God. My journey through faith was between me and God. I didn't, and still don't, want to open up about it to people, especially since I fear many people wouldn't understand it. My family, in particular, freaks me out.

My mom and one set of maternal grandparents are Christians who subscribe to literal, young-earth creationism. My dad, as far as I'm aware, still considers himself an atheist. My other set of maternal grandparents are mostly agnostic, though my grandma Debbie believes in some sort of Higher Power. Clarke still sits on the verge of anti-theism. I'm sure I have a few buddhists and pagans in my family too. And, most of my paternal relatives in Minnesota are conservative Lutherans. As far as I know, my faith's pretty damn different from what I was raised with.

I still believe that Christ is the Son of God, Who died for our sins on the cross and rose from the dead three days later, although I'm beginning to learn that the resurrection of Christ isn't as simple as I was taught. But, beyond that, my faith is pretty different from my Christian family members' faiths, in some ways or others. I've reconciled modern science with my faith, while my mom and grandparents still subscribe to literal, young earth creationism. Evolution, dinosaurs, and the Big Bang, which have overwhelming scientific evidence behind them, aren't at odds with my faith. If anything, modern science actually further supports my faith. I'm in awe by just how much time and detail God put into our universe.

Could God create a 6,000 year old universe, ditch billions of years of evolution to create things as-is, give Moses a pet dinosaur, drench the entire globe in water that rises above the tallest mountains, and everything else young earth creationists claim God did? Of course! If He did such things in this universe, I'd expect modern science to agree with young earth creationism. But, it doesn't. 

There are living trees and ancient human civilizations that are thousands of years older than the universe young earth creationists believe in. Rocks and sediment have settled in obvious, flat layers all over the world, instead of settling in swirls like you'd expect to see if there was a global flood, and there's not a single fossil from one time period that has been found in a layer from a different time period. We have fossils that clearly show how one animal has slowly transitioned over millions and billions of years into a completely new animal, and bacterial cells and viruses turn from one thing to another thing all the time. The language of DNA has clearly linked every living thing on earth to a single common ancestor that lived a very long time ago, and is how doctors can figure out how to treat and cure genetic conditions with medication, such as Trikafta for Cystic Fibrosis. 

When we look up in the night sky, we are literally staring into the past thanks to a unit of measurement called a light year. Most of the stars and galaxies we see in the night sky died millions and billions of years ago, and have probably been replaced by new celestial bodies. If there's an alien civilization in a galaxy millions of light-years away from us, and they built a telescope powerful enough to zoom in on us, they'd see earth as it was millions of years ago. They wouldn't see the continents as they are now, nor would they see life as it is now. Instead of people, they'd see dinosaurs. 

According to the laws of physics, the speed of light is constant, while time is the variable. We know the speed of light, and how far away other stars and galaxies are away from us, allowing us to figure out how old things are using mathematical equations, some of which I remember solving in high school. We've seen and taken pictures of what things were like over thirteen billion years ago, thanks to the speed of light. We also know what the Big Bang sounded like, thanks to a staticky echo (the white noise) that radios and TV antennas pick up on. 

We know how old things are and how things work thanks to modern science. Modern science strongly conflicts with young earth creationism. Modern science is also the reason why I'm alive and well today. Cystic Fibrosis treatments rely on our modern understanding of biology in order to work. In fact, Dr. Francis Collins, who was part of the team that discovered the CF gene and has spent his entire career inventing new medications and treatments to treat and eventually cure CF, among many other cool things, is a Christian, and has written numerous books reconciling modern science with Christianity. There are many other doctors and scientists just like him. 

Knowing all of this (which doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of what science has revealed about the world), why would God make the world look so old if it's only 6,000 years old? Personally, I couldn't put my faith and trust in a God who would create the world so quickly, yet make it look so old. Literal creationists also claim that the laws of nature and science have changed over time, such as the speed of light and the way trees grow. That would mean that the laws of nature are not constant or trustworthy, even though modern science is certain that the laws of nature have always been the way they are, thanks to mathematics. Why would God allow the laws of nature to change so rapidly over time? That would be deceptive. I don't worship a deceptive God. That God is not trustworthy. I worship a God I can trust with my life, and the lives of everyone else. 

Unfortunately, a lot of people refuse to let go of literal creationism. They claim it's dangerous to reconcile Christianity (or any religion) with modern science, since it apparently undermines the authority of God. Reconciling modern science with Christianity is also another way we allow the sins of modern culture to seep into the faith. The evidence and arguments literal creationists have to back up these statements is pretty weak, in my opinion, especially since their arguments to back up these outrageous claims rely on even more literal, western interpretations of scripture.

We really should be trying to view the bible as ancient Middle Easterners viewed it. It's pretty easy to do using the internet. It doesn't take a theologian or native Hebrew or Greek speaker to read the bible in the original language it was written in, since we can just ask the internet to show us what the raw Greek and Hebrew texts say in English. Also, we can see by reading those texts, as well as learning a little bit of ancient history, what an average person living in those times thought about the world. They viewed the world and the bible very differently than us modern westerners. 

Sadly, most literal creationists won't do that, which seems to be a major reason why Millennials and Gen Z'ers are leaving Christianity in droves. Literal creationism pushed me away from Christianity for a long time, and if I hadn't stumbled across the things I did, I'd remain a staunch atheist for life. The God literal creationists worship hardly stands up to scrutiny these days, since we live in the age of information. 

Literal creationism was pretty widespread and unchallenged in the 1990's and before, because people didn't have access to the internet back then. Parents could homeschool their children to shelter them from modern science, and their kids wouldn't question it, until modern biology hit them like a truck in adulthood, resulting in a lot of people becoming bitter atheists. I felt very betrayed by the faith I grew up with, and I wasn't sheltered from modern science at all. I can't imagine what it must be like for kids who were homeschooled their whole lives, who have almost no idea what modern science really says, to suddenly learn about modern science in college or through the internet. No wonder so many young people are ditching the Christian faith. It's tragic. 

Anyway. 

I felt alone, and frankly, kind of threatened. I knew if my family found out about my newfound faith, they'd excitedly bombard me with questions aimed to figure out what happened, and what my faith is like. It wouldn't exactly be bad. I wouldn't be punished if I mentioned I left the cult of young earth creationism and was now very much against it, though I still loved and respected everyone who still believed young earth creationism. After all, it's possible to hate the belief but love the believer, just like it's possible to hate the sin but love the sinner. On top of that, one's salvation didn't depend upon whether or not they took Genesis literally. We all follow and believe in Christ. That's what makes us Christians.

Still, I didn't want to end up in a massive debate with my relatives, or somehow talk about the last three years of my life in an hour long lecture, where I might get ten minutes of that to defend my position if I tried hard enough. I wished I could talk to my family about my faith in God, without it turning into a long, exhausting, circular debate. I longed to have a productive discussion about my faith. I wanted to strengthen my faith. I wanted to bounce ideas off of others. I wanted to learn from others, take their advice to heart, and pray with them, so I could take what I got from them and apply it to my own life, so I could get closer and closer to God everyday, and build on my faith more and more. I wanted to have a faith in God so strong that nothing could shake it. I wanted to know God like I knew my closest friends and family members, so I could live my life as God intended me to. Iron sharpens iron, after all. 

But, to do that, I knew I needed to meet new people. 

I already had a handful of friends who seemed to see Christianity as I did, at least for the most part. But, I really wanted to join a church, and get to know others who could help guide me as the years wore on. I knew my faith in God was solid, but that didn't mean it was perfect. I knew I'd stumble and fall in my faith, again and again, for my entire life, and longed to surround myself with people who could help me reconcile my faith with the challenges I'd inevitably encounter. Also, I knew it was good for me to meet new people. I was (and still am) very shy and anxious. I may not show my social anxiety, but I feel it. Every time I wander into a new social situation alone, I feel like I'm hobbling into a hungry bear's den with my legs tied together and sausages wrapped around my neck. But, I figured with time, practice, age, and some Divine Intervention, I could get over that anxiety, and make new lifelong friends. 

Unfortunately, due to the pandemic, all the churches were shut down. However, that was also a good thing. A church a good friend of mine (who was also my former high school teacher) recommended to me, moved their sermons online. I wanted to attend that church in-person, but my social anxiety, mental health, and the fact I never was a morning person, all got in the way of that. I really did not feel even slightly comfortable attending a new church completely alone, having no idea what I was getting myself into, especially since I was already struggling with anxiety at the time, and struggled to go anywhere without having an anxiety attack.

I trusted my friend, and knew I wouldn't be wandering into a cult, complete with snake handling, over-enthusiastic faith healing, and praying in tongues. But, I still just didn't feel comfortable going to a new place completely alone, considering the circumstances. I wanted to be able to attend a new church anxiety-free, so I could really take everything in and figure out if I liked the place or not, without being distracted by my problems. 

Since that church's sermons moved online for the foreseeable future, I could get to know the pastor and what he preached without my anxiety getting in the way. I also didn't have to worry about getting up close to the crack of dawn. I could listen to the sermons whenever I liked without even leaving my bed. There were only a few short sermons posted online, as far as I found. But, I really enjoyed those sermons. They were thought-provoking and slightly uncomfortable.

The sermon the pastor posted online for Easter was especially uncomfortable, since he challenged the simplistic view of The Resurrection that I'd grown up being taught my whole life. However, it was a good feeling of discomfort. I didn't feel like I was listening to a wolf in sheep's clothing. In reality, I felt betrayed by previous churches I'd attended, much like how I felt when I discovered evolution was easily compatible with Genesis.

I wasn't as shocked by the Easter sermon I was listening to, like I was when I learned just how much shit those who preached literal creationism were full of, probably because the science vs God stuff I explored made me realize that Christianity was so much deeper than what I was originally taught. If there was so much more to Genesis than the literal creation of Adam and Eve from dust and a rib, then all of Christianity must be much deeper than the simplistic stuff I grew up with. So, I really wasn't too surprised when I learned the Resurrection of Jesus Christ wasn't actually a simple, straight-forward story. 

It excited me to learn and explore Christianity from a new perspective. Learning just how deep and meaningful Christianity really was, set my soul on fire. I was starved of that side of Christianity my whole life, which is why I became an atheist for awhile. The world wasn't simple, yet for a long time, the faith I was brought up in was simple. Too simple for this world. But, there was another, much deeper view of Christianity I thankfully found out about. Looking back, the fact that I'm a Christian today is a miracle. God heard my angry rants and felt my frustration and resentment towards Him and the church, and over months and years, slowly lead me back to Christianity.

It took a long time, but God was patient and kind. He never once whacked me in the back of the head with a tree branch whenever I mocked Him. He didn't strike me with lightning whenever I got mad at Him and called Him nearly every name in the book. He didn't reject me whenever I came crawling back to Him after fooling around for awhile, even though He knew I'd get pissed off again and turn my back on Him. Instead, God remained patient with me, and only showed me love and kindness. He also allowed certain bad things to happen to me to teach me valuable lessons I otherwise would not have learned, and to get me to places I needed to be. Now, after over six grueling years of struggling with God and faith, I'm comfortable calling myself a Christian, and feel very different than ever before. 

I'm not quite sure how to describe that "different" feeling. I just feel confident in my faith, I guess. I feel like I finally have a strong foundation to stand on, when before, every time I "came back to God", I felt like I was on shaky ground. I avoided exploring many of my questions, fearing I'd lose my faith. Truth is, when I finally cracked under pressure and explored those questions, I did lose my faith for a time. But, the faith I had from childhood was shit anyway and needed to go, so God could replace it with a much stronger faith. It took awhile to "un-learn" everything I learned from my days in sunday school, and I still have a long way to go before I learn what Christianity is really all about. But, after six long years, I learned enough to know and accept that I didn't know shit about Christianity, and would spend the rest of my life learning as much about it as possible, so my relationship with God would only get stronger and more meaningful. 

I had a lot of time to spend with God because of the pandemic. I didn't really go anywhere or do anything. However, after being quarantined with my mom and little brother for a little over a month, I needed a break from them. Of course, I love my mom and little brother very much. But, we were getting on each other's nerves. So, I went to stay with my grandparents for a couple months. They needed someone to keep them company, and could use some help figuring out technology so they could hang out with their loved ones. 

During the pandemic, my grandparents' small, conservative Lutheran church was smart enough to hold sermons and bible studies online instead of in-person. That meant, I could sit and listen in on the sermons and studies. Of course, my faith had changed in such a way that I disagreed with nearly everything the pastor and others had to say both in the sermons and in the bible studies. But, I stayed silent and off camera, critiquing the sermons and bible studies in my mind instead of speaking my thoughts.