I couldn’t stop saying it.
I lay, knees up, half-crouched on my bed and I rocked, clutching my chest, my shoulders, my neck, and I sobbed “oh my god” in an endless litany, and felt waves of shame and horror and grief roll over and crush me. Oh my god.
I felt like I had broken something, like I had smashed some sacred statue, crushed an ancient artifact, like I had broken sacred promises, willingly cheated at some very important game that everyone was lightly playing just for fun.
Like I’d stepped out on my one true love, and I was watching Him, ring in hand, slowly crumble as He realized the truth.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I felt my sin. The weight of it, the truth of it, not just the fucking, not even the savage flirting and tempting and the ravenous jezebel way I had slunk about online looking for someone to devour and enslave; every lie and dirty look and broken promise, in a wave as I suddenly, briefly, horribly realized what I had done.
I felt like I was punching God: God as He hung vulnerable on the cross, God arms spread, naked and vulnerable and dying, my fists sinking into soft, brutalized flesh. Over and over.
And all I could hear him saying— in a voice of groaning and of pain— was “More,” —with nothing left but suffering—“Hit me again.”
I hung God on the cross and I killed Him. Over and over again.
Hit me again.