I don't know how I feel about God. I do believe, and I can't help that- I don't think your belief is something you can control, you can't force yourself to believe in something you don't. Things that happen can change your belief, but I don't think you can just will yourself to believe or not believe in something.
When I was first diagnosed, I was so angry. Angry at people for not understanding, angry at the doctors and nurses for pouring fire into my veins, angry at my friends for carrying on with normal life. But most of all, I was angry with God. Angry because he had forsaken me, he had given me this awful thing to cope with and just left me when I needed him. I wouldn't go to church, I wouldn't pray, and I would swear hands down that I was an atheist. But I don't think I was, I mean- even if I was angry at him, then it still meant I believed.
As the chemo got worse and worse and the throwing up came and the peripheral neuropathy and the pain, I got desperate. I used to stay awake in the early hours of the morning, making bargains with God. Saying I would do anything if he just made it a bit better. If he helped me get even a little better, I would give up chocolate, or I would go to church or pray every day. I would have done anything at that point.
When it didn't get better, then I got angry all over again and wouldn't talk to God at all until I broke and started bargaining again. It was an endless cycle of hating God and pleading with Him.
When I got better, and started to get my energy back and lost weight and started to feel more like myself- I turned back to God. I thanked him for me getting through it, thanked him for making me better.
People probably think I'm crazy when I say this, but I could feel it when it came back. I could feel it in my bones that something was wrong. When I was up late at night, my stomach would be at my ankles with the fear- knowing I would have to go through it all again, knowing that I could feel it growing back inside of me.
I even called my Mum one day during school, when I had gotten a particularly bad chest pain, and asked her to pick me up. The first thing I said to her as we got in the car was "I think it's back."- I knew, I just could.
I prayed and prayed and prayed in the three months until my scan after it had grown a little. I stayed up late, and cried, and listened to music that made my heart feel like it was being ripped in two- I just wanted to feel the pain. Feel the pain before, so that when it came to the diagnosis that I knew was coming, I would feel nothing. It doesn't work like that, apparently. I didn't cry, when it eventually came, and I shaved my head after my operation. I didn't tell anyone but Lucy, who did it for me. I was shaking the whole time, watching the hair fall from my head and knowing I had to go through hell again- wondering why God had done this to me again. Wondering what I had to do just to stay alive, and why I of all people had to fight for my place on this earth all over again.
I kept my faith, though, I convinced myself that it wasn't God's fault. That it was my genetics and that these things happen and He can't control them. But as soon as I got on to the ward, and saw every teenager there so sick, and some dying, I couldn't. My faith toppled the first night after my operation, as I heard someone screaming in pain down the corridor. I curled up after my parents left, and I cried again, but not because I was hooked up to three different drips, or had three new scars along my back, or because I knew I wouldn't be able to have a proper shower again in another nine months- but because the belief that it wasn't God's fault just toppled again. It just went, and I felt like I had nothing to believe in. He had made me better the first time, right? So if I didn't believe in him now, I would never get better, right?
Wrong. So, so wrong. Because God didn't make me better. Doctors did. God didn't help me through those difficult, pain filled nights. My Mother did. God didn't stroke my head when I was sad because he knew it soothed me. My Father did. And God did not come home and tell me funny stories or take the piss because he knew it made me feel lighter. My sister did.
And you know what? God didn't give me the strength to get through everything I had to go through- I did. I FOUND the strength inside me. Humans are incredible, and I found how Incredible I could be when I was diagnosed the second time. I realised that I believe in Him, I do. I love God and just because I don't church doesn't mean I love him any less. But I believe in myself and the power of people. I believe people can find strength from anywhere- no matter what their belief, or lack of belief, or colour or age or gender.
So when people ask me what my belief is- I say people. My belief is in humans. I am a Christian, too, but above anything else I will always believe in the good of humanity.
Anyway. I hope you are all well, and I believe in you all.
Befuddled Believer x
When I was first diagnosed, I was so angry. Angry at people for not understanding, angry at the doctors and nurses for pouring fire into my veins, angry at my friends for carrying on with normal life. But most of all, I was angry with God. Angry because he had forsaken me, he had given me this awful thing to cope with and just left me when I needed him. I wouldn't go to church, I wouldn't pray, and I would swear hands down that I was an atheist. But I don't think I was, I mean- even if I was angry at him, then it still meant I believed.
As the chemo got worse and worse and the throwing up came and the peripheral neuropathy and the pain, I got desperate. I used to stay awake in the early hours of the morning, making bargains with God. Saying I would do anything if he just made it a bit better. If he helped me get even a little better, I would give up chocolate, or I would go to church or pray every day. I would have done anything at that point.
When it didn't get better, then I got angry all over again and wouldn't talk to God at all until I broke and started bargaining again. It was an endless cycle of hating God and pleading with Him.
When I got better, and started to get my energy back and lost weight and started to feel more like myself- I turned back to God. I thanked him for me getting through it, thanked him for making me better.
People probably think I'm crazy when I say this, but I could feel it when it came back. I could feel it in my bones that something was wrong. When I was up late at night, my stomach would be at my ankles with the fear- knowing I would have to go through it all again, knowing that I could feel it growing back inside of me.
I even called my Mum one day during school, when I had gotten a particularly bad chest pain, and asked her to pick me up. The first thing I said to her as we got in the car was "I think it's back."- I knew, I just could.
I prayed and prayed and prayed in the three months until my scan after it had grown a little. I stayed up late, and cried, and listened to music that made my heart feel like it was being ripped in two- I just wanted to feel the pain. Feel the pain before, so that when it came to the diagnosis that I knew was coming, I would feel nothing. It doesn't work like that, apparently. I didn't cry, when it eventually came, and I shaved my head after my operation. I didn't tell anyone but Lucy, who did it for me. I was shaking the whole time, watching the hair fall from my head and knowing I had to go through hell again- wondering why God had done this to me again. Wondering what I had to do just to stay alive, and why I of all people had to fight for my place on this earth all over again.
I kept my faith, though, I convinced myself that it wasn't God's fault. That it was my genetics and that these things happen and He can't control them. But as soon as I got on to the ward, and saw every teenager there so sick, and some dying, I couldn't. My faith toppled the first night after my operation, as I heard someone screaming in pain down the corridor. I curled up after my parents left, and I cried again, but not because I was hooked up to three different drips, or had three new scars along my back, or because I knew I wouldn't be able to have a proper shower again in another nine months- but because the belief that it wasn't God's fault just toppled again. It just went, and I felt like I had nothing to believe in. He had made me better the first time, right? So if I didn't believe in him now, I would never get better, right?
Wrong. So, so wrong. Because God didn't make me better. Doctors did. God didn't help me through those difficult, pain filled nights. My Mother did. God didn't stroke my head when I was sad because he knew it soothed me. My Father did. And God did not come home and tell me funny stories or take the piss because he knew it made me feel lighter. My sister did.
And you know what? God didn't give me the strength to get through everything I had to go through- I did. I FOUND the strength inside me. Humans are incredible, and I found how Incredible I could be when I was diagnosed the second time. I realised that I believe in Him, I do. I love God and just because I don't church doesn't mean I love him any less. But I believe in myself and the power of people. I believe people can find strength from anywhere- no matter what their belief, or lack of belief, or colour or age or gender.
So when people ask me what my belief is- I say people. My belief is in humans. I am a Christian, too, but above anything else I will always believe in the good of humanity.
Anyway. I hope you are all well, and I believe in you all.
Befuddled Believer x
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