My Spiritual Journey

   I grew up an atheist. I was raised believing that there was a big bang that resulted in the creation of our planet, and all life that inhabits it. My father wasn't one to speak about religion very often, but when he did he said that he saw religion as necessary, for it prevented millions of people from commiting atrocious acts against others all for the fear of going to Hell. My stepmother, as far as I remember, taught me about evolution, and we rarely discussed the Demiurge (God, as most people refer to him). My birth mother's side of the family was Catholic, but I was never forced into believing anything, surprisingly. My grandmother (Mimi is what I called her) was extremely religious, but in the most pure and authentic way possible, not like most Catholics and Christians nowadays. She went to church every Sunday, and brought me along if I was with her. She prayed in private, lived by the word of the Demiurge, and never tried to impose her beliefs onto anyone. Not even the malleable minds of her grandchildren. I may have followed in her footsteps if she wouldn't have died, but I'm glad that I didn't. I'm not exactly sure why I didn't end up Catholic, but I'm sure it had something to do with Mimi dying from cancer. 

I was in 7th grade,  and the only things I had to worry about was my upcoming speech I was to give in my English class, and the boy I had a crush on. Mimi had driven me to school early that morning, and we sat together in her car listening to John Denver, per usual. I adored that woman, more than I adored anyone, and when I was with her all was right with the world.

"I want to talk to you about something important this morning," Mimi turned down the music, her large arms swaying with each movement. I readied myself, expecting to hear that they were out of my favorite ice cream at the grocery store, or something else that might disappoint me.

"Okay, what is it?"

So unsuspecting. So innocent. So clueless to the callousness and selfishness of the Demiurge.

"I have colon cancer," she said it so softly that I almost asked her to repeat it. She seemed ashamed, and I had no idea why, cancer was no big deal, surely she'd be fine. She continued, "do you know what that means?"

I shook my head yes, "You're sick, but you'll be okay."

Mimi smiled and grabbed my hand, assuring me that angels were watching over her and that she indeed would recover.

Less than a year later we were lowering Mimi into the earth. Her body was no longer the warm and loving bundle it once was, it was empty and cold. It was devoid of all that, only days ago, made her my grandmother. Her soul was long gone, I knew it was, there was no point in mourning over her now soulless body. That was the day that everything changed. That was the day that my hatred for the Demiurge began. I hated Him for what he'd done to her. Hated Him for allowing such a devoted Catholic to die such a terrible death, right under his nose. He became nothing to me, and I was for sure that He didn't exist, because if he did and loved all his children as Mimi said, He would have never let this happen.

For years after Mimi's passing, I spewed hatred for not only the Demiurge, but towards his devout followers as well. They were ignorant and complete fools for believing in such a ridiculous story. They were imbeciles for altering their values and themselves to live in the Demiurge's image. I took any and all opportunities to ridicule and berate Christians (since at the time I thought being Catholic and being Christian were one and the same).

One day I was at my other grandmother's house with a friend of mine, and my grandfather must have picked up on my attitude towards religion, so he took it upon himself to attempt to scare us into believing in the Demiurge. He spat at us, "you guys have to believe in God or you will go to Hell!"

I scoffed and rolled my eyes, knowing it was only a scare tactic Christians used to attempt to manipulate those who weren't believers. This was the beginning of my hatred for my grandfather (who I'm not even related to, he's my grandfather by marriage). Perhaps if he'd gone about trying to convince me of the Demiurge's existance in a way that was welcoming, I would have fallen into his trap. But alas, he chose what all Christians choose: fear mongering. This was also around the time that I learned about him calling his gay son a "faggot" and refusing to accept him, so of course I hated him. When the Demiurge encourages hatred of people unlike yourself, that should tell you something about the Demiurge, He certainly isn't tolerant. Anywho, my grandpa came to represent all Christians in my mind, and my hatred grew astronomically over the years. 

Upon reaching adulthood, I called myself an atheist and I made sure everyone knew it. I stretched my ears, pierced my face, colored my hair blue, and wore clothing that signified that I was most definitely not a Christian (I know not everyone with this physical appearance is an atheist, however, at the ripe age of 18 I thought it nescessary to make sure everyone knew I was extremely far removed from religion). I lived like this for a very long time. Making fun of others who lived by the word of the Demiurge. 

My need to rebel against religion intensified as more people around me professed their love for the Demiurge, so I took it a step further and looked into The Satanic Temple, thinking it was the ultimate rebellion against the loathsome Christians. I knew nothing about Satanism, much like most that decide to join The Satanic Temple, but decided to pledge my allegiance