The Shadow of Guilt

Guilt is an inherent human emotion of which we cannot rid ourselves. A guilty conscience tells us the difference between right and wrong, light and dark, sin and virtue. It permits us to look inward and redress behavioral flaws; if we're lucky, we may even develop a better sense of our behavior and how it affects others. In a sentence, guilt breeds repentance.

But what happens when our guilt is a little too extreme? It is perhaps not a good idea to wolf down five chocolate bars in a row, and we know it, but regardless, guilt soon starts to kick in. That's something we should be wary of; guilt pays you unwanted visits whenever it wants. We feel guilty for the smallest, most meaningless things in our lives. Feel bad for going back to work and leaving your newborn under the care of a stranger? Hello, guilt. Feel horrible for gobbling up not one but two cheeseburgers? Nice to meet you, guilt. Forgot to do your homework and nodded off instead? Long time no see, guilt.  

It's hard to purge ourselves of guilt. In fact, it's nearly impossible. Guilt and I interlock arms almost every day, skip down a path, and hum a happy tune. We're well on our way to becoming BFFs.

I sometimes hold myself culpable for having anxiety. I've always thought I brought it upon myself, willed it into existence somehow. Research tells us anxiety stems from a chemical imbalance in the brain, so why should I blame myself for it? This guilt isn't one-sided, however. The people I didn't expect to judge me did. They told me I should be able to keep my anxiety at bay. And if I couldn't, then it was probably my fault. It's all in your head. They drilled this mantra into my head until I couldn't help but feel ashamed, guilty, and weak. There came a point where I simply resigned myself to guilt, bowed down to it, and put myself at its mercy, vulnerable and afraid. 

There is no doubt most of us have felt guilt over something, but we have learned to cope with it. However, what happens when this guilt consumes us wholly? When there's no reason behind it? What if we cannot move on? The answer is to simply live with it. Guilt doesn't intend to make us feel bad; it wants to help us change our behavior. But unreasonable guilt blows up insecurities to billboard size. We feel guilt at having eaten those cheeseburgers because we know we should be watching our weight. Because we know that, if we don't, we'll be putting on pounds. But we need to eat. So should we feel guilty for surviving? Unless your goal is to end up like a shriveled corpse, then no. 

A few weeks ago my dad shamed me for refusing to read non-fiction literature. I seethed. How dare he criticize my literary taste? I did what most teenagers do: I sulked, ruminated, and wallowed in guilt (fraught with a dose of anger). What if he was right and fiction is in fact "garbage"? It's never too late to acquire a new literary taste, right? Some more rumination later and I wasn't close to figuring out what I wanted. All the while I was feeling bad for having spent all those years reading about supernatural creatures, a crazy man who thinks a race of extraterrestrials abducted him, the same crazy man who thinks he has come unstuck in time, and then there's the crazy man who murdered his father and married his mother (albeit unbeknownst to him). I felt guilty for filling my head with "garbage" when I should've been enlightening my mind with Plato's The Republic or Sigmund Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams. It was then, amid anger and confusion, that I saw an answer beckoning. My guilt was altogether unreasonable. I should not feel guilty for reading. There are enough years left in my life to develop a taste in non-fiction literature, after all. The best strategy I had at my disposal was acceptance. I had to accept guilt as part of the human nature. It's a small fragment of who we are, of who I am. Emotions are identified as either "positive" or "negative," but in reality every emotion is valid. But when we throw self-judgment into the mix, emotions can be very damaging. 

I sometimes wonder what guilt and conscience would say if they engaged in conversation:

Enter Guilt and Conscience

Guilt: Hello, sexy lady. Hope you had a nice break from me, but don't worry, I'm never leaving you again. I'm here to stay permanently!

Conscience: Ugh! You again? What do you want? Isn't it enough that I have others things to worry about without you hovering in front of my face?

Guilt: But...I'm not so bad. In fact, I can be very fun! And you know you like mischief!

Conscience: I do not mingle with the likes of you. I'm a lady and if you'll excuse me, I have things to think about. 

Guilt: Aw, come on! Don't be such a party-pooper. Loosen up and have fun. Do you know what fun is? It's the one thing you've never had. (Laughs maniacally)

Conscience: Ha, you're so uncouth. Off with your head. 

Guilt: You can't escape me. I've ensnared you. So let's make this fun, you and me.

Conscience: (sighs) I suppose I could learn to live with you, but of course, that will never happen. Now, begone demon.

Guilt: Baby, come back! (mockingly).

Conscience: Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?

Guilt: Once or twice. Has anyone ever told you I'm a nagging force? I'll haunt you so long as you live.

Conscience: You're impossible! Who would want to live with you? You detestable, completely narcissistic, infuriating thing.

Guilt: Oh, so now I'm a thing? I thought I was an emotion.

Conscience: Go to hell. (groans loudly).

Conscience stomps off stage. All exeunt. 

When Jehovah and the Norse Gods Clash

It has come to my attention that, in recent years, I've found myself questioning the existence of God, the fundamentals of organized religion, with shameful frequency. This inner struggle against the religion I was taught to follow blindly has accumulated a jumble of questions that bounce around in my head. Why, if God is all-merciful, aren't we allowed to question Him? Is the Bible but a big lie? Why is there only one god in the universe? Who is God? No matter how many times I ask, I've never gotten a response.

I was raised in a strict Catholic household. Daily prayers were as normal a routine as brushing one's own teeth; I was told that praising the Lord at the early hours of the morning would please Him as much as creating the universe did. I was not sold. How can God, a single entity so to speak, be everywhere, or listen to everything and everyone, concurrently? If we were created in His image, why can't we, then, be omnipresent as well? Shouldn't we, too, possess divine powers? Where is our spark of divinity? But I can understand why this isn't plausible. Men cannot be trusted with too much power, because, as it transpires, they are inclined to abuse it. 

My questions are many. My doubts surpass my questions. I don't remember the last time I prayed or why I prayed. How does one pray anyway? Should I simply kneel and utter words? But I will be talking to the winds. Why should God listen to my pleas when the world--its "finest" creation--is engulfed in a miasma of despair? And if our destiny is controlled by an invisible string, shouldn't we then blame our actions on predestination? According to the Bible, no creature is hidden from God. God scrutinizes us like bacteria under a microscope. We are in a sense exposed and vulnerable. But if nothing escapes His eye, then He must surely see the doubts brewing in me. Right? 

During my prepubescent years, when I had set out on a journey of self-discovery, my parents would advise me to pray. Suffering from corporeal ills? Pray. Emotional dysfunctions? Pray. Trouble in school? Pray. God will help you, they said. But, if truth be told, I'm not sure I wanted to pray. I'm not sure I wanted to believe. Rather, what I wanted was reassurance, understanding, and love--all of the things which prayer failed to provide. 

The odyssey of Christianity was one of death, violence and torment. I know my Old Testament pretty well, from the Creation down to Moses. There is rape and murder in these books, deceit, incest, madness, and rivalry. The crucifixion was more or less a gruesome representation of Roman brutality. A Father who sacrificed his one and only Son on our behalf was far too extreme (albeit admirable). It displayed a love for us so great, so pure, but also deadly. The Bible tells us about a time when the wickedness of men had seeped into the crevices of earth like poison that God had no choice but to wipe out all of humanity. A catastrophic flood, he concluded, would destroy every living thing on earth. If you're unfamiliar with the story, this is the part where Noah builds an ark, fills it with two of all living creatures, and endures a flood that lasts for a period of forty days and nights. The rest is history. 

In these shadows and punishments I first encountered the primal darkness of the world. I wasn't drawn to that darkness. In fact, I was repelled by it. I didn't want any part of it. I wanted to stay as far away from it as possible, but that meant ridding myself of the book which holds the secret to eternal life--the Bible. 

The Bible and I go back a long way. It was the first book I'd ever read; the first disappointment I suffered; and my primary source of doubts. Long ago, my religion teacher advised me against taking the Bible literally. The Bible, on the whole, is laden with metaphors and symbolism, he said. I listened. On the opposing team, my parents asserted the Bible is but an accurate reflection of the creation of the world. In a sense I was being pulled in too many directions. I grew up thinking that to spurn one's religion beliefs altogether was to, ultimately, condemn oneself to eternal damnation. 

We seek religion because we're afraid of what would happen if we don't. We fear our lives would be meaningless if we suddenly stop believing. We fear the tunnel of infinity. We fear the suspension between the truthfulness of life and the nothingness of death. We want nothing more than to flee into the safety and peace of Paradise, Elysium, or Valhalla, you name it.

At this age my mind is but a congeries of questions. I have a lot of soul-searching to do before choosing a religious affiliation. And although part of me wants to devout herself to worshiping God, an even bigger part believes that, in a desolate spot in the universe, past other worlds and cosmic debris, the gods of old still exist. 

The world of Norse gods and men and giants begins with darkness, and ends with darkness. The Norse gods are mortal. Mortal gods. Just as impure, flawed, and unfit as we are. Their flaws of character--vanity, deception, unfaithfulness, pride, cruelty, adultery--proved their undoing. The gods themselves are no better or worse, in the moral sense, than humans. In the Bible, we are blamed for the darkness and everything else that came after it. But in Norse mythology, the gods are just as responsible for setting in motion the events of Ragnarök as we are.

The mortality of the gods--their hopes, fears, and weaknesses--make them all the more endearing to me; all the more beautiful. 

10 Things You Wish You Knew About Me

My circadian rhythm is not cooperating with Daylight Saving Time. This morning, as soon as my eyes flew wide open, I knew the world had been turned upside down. I glanced around my bedroom: my desk overflew with books, a shelf stared back at me, and my cat snored peacefully. Nothing seemed amiss--at least nothing of importance. I began to feel an edginess instead of the soporific calm the early morning hours seem to induce. Then it finally slapped me: I knew what was missing. It was an artifact as ancient as the universe itself, but far more precious--my jar of creativity. What I believe happened is that, before I was fully awake, during REM sleep, my right brain surrendered power to the abominable writer's block. My "active mind/relaxed body" afterglow refused to linger on. My head felt as if it was full of cotton, wrapped in gauze and under the mind control of Hypnos--if that's even possible!  

However, after an extensive period of meditation, I knew just how to remedy my "writing ills". You may be surprised, but Googling writing prompts in an effort to combat writer's block is the most time-honored panacea of all. That is until you run into another obstacle....

Selecting a writing prompt is the easy part, the hard part is yet to come. Whilst I know the gist of what I want to say, the word will not pour out. I feel as if I'm in a dark cave groping for the light switch, finding it, and feeling it disappear as soon as it makes contact with my fingers. How easy a writer's life would be if only we could pour words into a bottle, dip a brush in, and paint our innermost thoughts onto a canvas. At least then I wouldn't be struggling to form in my mind the sentences I want to write, search for the right adjectives, or finish half-formed thoughts. But I suppose a writer's tools are limited to pen and paper--or in this case monitor and keyboard.

Enough mindless chatting. Today's writing prompt is 10 things I wish people knew about me. 

Seems easy enough, right? Or maybe this is one writing assignment for which I'm particularly unqualified. 

O.K., I suppose I shall do my best. Here are 10 things you wish you knew about me but don't:

1. I'm obsessed with Greek mythology--or mythology of any kind, really. If we are not alone in the universe, then forces as powerful as God (with a capital G) must surely coexist in it. The beauty of believing is that science and magic work in tandem. Science arose from mankind's faith in magic; our curiosity to explain natural phenomena led us to create a field of knowledge far more credible than the mythical forces governing the universe. At least that's how I've come to see it.

2. Seltzer is my favorite drink. There is something about the acidic fizzle of this effervescent drink that entraps me in a cloud of euphoria.

3. I'm afraid of the dark. This is not an uncommon phobia. Mankind fears that which he cannot see. And, in the dark, nightmares come to light. Pun intended.

4. I accumulate books. I keep books I love and books I find uninteresting. If I had to estimate, I'd say I only get through one-third of a book before ransacking the bookstore for another one. 

5. I love ripped jeans. I don't like to show skin, but I do take delight in making a fashion statement. Sometimes I like to go the extra mile and cut holes in my jeans. My mother, upon seeing my newly ruined pants, simply knits her brows and sighs. Deep down, she wishes she were wearing them.

6. I have Greek ancestry. I wouldn't be surprised if I'm descended from Theseus, or Perseus, or maybe even Jason. Probably not Hercules. He did, after all, murder his wife and children.

7. I hate writing. I love having written. Writing is gruesomely difficult. It consumes who you are and what you do. And even then, I can't see myself not writing--it simply defines me. I shall let you in on a little secret: writing never ends. Whilst we live in world of words, success doesn't come overnight. One must work hard for it. Writers don't enjoy the satisfaction of retirement, because writing doesn't stop. It resembles a Ferris wheel; it spins round and round. Never stopping; always going. As Hemingway famously put it, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." 

8. My middle name is Maria. It's such a joy to be named after the Virgin Mary, despite my paucity of faith and unwillingness to attend Sunday Mass.

9. My dad wanted me to be called Lillian, in honor of my late grandmother. But, before any plans were set in motion, my mother decided she was going to name her last kid Gemma, after the eponymous Italian saint and Dante Alighieri's wife, Gemma. However, she added her own personal touch: my name was to be spelled with one m. I suppose she didn't imagine most people would have trouble pronouncing it.

10. I'm secretly a demigod. This isn't completely factual, but it should be. Having a powerful Olympian parent comes with a big price tag. It would make me a very high-profile target, monsters would help me along to my doom, and I would cower in fear. I must confess that, after having a steaming mug of coffee, my imagination runs wild. Let it be.

11. I know I said ten facts about me, but I'm a spirit of contradiction. It's in my nature. Also, I find candy revolting.

An Ode to Reading

"No entertainment is so cheap as reading, nor any pleasure so lasting." - Lady M. W. Montagu




Reading is one of the many pleasures in life that's free of charge. There is nothing better than to hunker down with a hot cup of coffee and a really great book--and I truly mean nothing. If you think you have no friends, think again. Book are your friends. A book is a friend for whose loyalty you will never have to beg--they are the best of things. Eleanor Roosevelt once said that great minds discuss idea. Well, she failed to mention that great minds also read books, and only then can they discuss great ideas. Think about it. How else can you discuss an idea unless you've read about it?

Empires have perished, races have died out, and conflict is perpetual. But books have remained a constant variable in a world where nothing is guaranteed; where the movement of plates underneath the surface of our lives threaten to shift our location in the universe.

The habit of reading lasts when all other pleasures fade. It will be present to you when your body is withering and you can no longer support yourself. It will nourish your soul even when other viands fail to nourish your body. It is an orgasmic whirl of zeal. Unparalleled, momentous, incomparable. Should I go on?

There are not sufficient words in the English language to honor the service books have done for us. Not even the nuance of the Mona Lisa can rival the beauty of reading. I'm sorry, Leonardo da Vinci.

To enter into the world of reading is to enter a world full of melodrama, fantasy, and grandiose revelations. Reading doesn't only take you on unexpected journeys; it can also stimulate you,  inspire you, nurture you, and caress you. You haven't really lived until you've read a book that you're obsessively, madly, hysterically in love with. If that's the case, then I've lived one hundred and one lives.

Reading can invigorate you, like the Fountain of Youth. It resembles a meeting with an old flame, sans the heartbreak. It is the ambrosia of the mind; the purification of the soul; the key to the expansion of the intellect; a best friend. My only friend.

I reiterate, very few pleasures in life can compete with the pleasure of reading.