I tried giving up on God.
I spent so much time, in those two months after opening Grindr and after fucking David, I spent so much time trying so hard, not to pick up my phone, not to think, not to fantasize, not to touch or taste or see or even picture, and nothing worked. Nothing I could do could hold it off for even a day, the longest I’d ever made it without going on Grindr was a week, right after the first time I had sex. After that my record was two days.
I had God up above me, and I was doing everything I could not to completely ruin myself before Him. Everything I could possibly do, because all I wanted to do was all the things I wasn’t allowed. All I wanted was sex and to be admired and reassured and powerful.
I tried so hard, with all the tools I had, with common sense and fear and shame and pride, and nothing worked. Because I didn’t want it to.
All I wanted was to plunge, to throw myself—into what I knew was shark infested waters—and be devoured.
And God was doing nothing.
I didn’t want Him to, I wanted Him to leave me alone, maybe come back in a year, but leave, leave, leave me to throw myself off the cliff and be torn apart.
But He wouldn’t.
So fucking change me.
Make me actually want to do better, instead of just not doing bad because there were so many people to disappoint.
And He wouldn’t.
Late in August I went on a three day binge of Grindr. I left a profile up, for days, went online on my lunchbreak at work, intentionally refreshed in different places to attract more guys, chatted (sexted) one guy for three days.
I shut off God completely. I refused to speak to Him, I slammed the door shut and turned away.
But He was still there.
He kept waiting, sitting in the cold outside, just past the door I slammed in His face.
And when I came back crying, because a boy with pretty eyes had rejected me, He was there, ready and waiting.
But He still wouldn’t change me.
I knelt by my bed, and I buried my face in the sheets and sobbed. I was guilty, and ashamed, and horrified with myself and desperate, and I still, I still didn’t want to stop.
But I wanted to so badly.
I couldn’t stop thinking of all the people I would disappoint, all the people I would let down. The mounting, stampeding weight of my family, Spencer, Jeremiah, all the people who didn’t know yet but would learn.
So I summoned up all the Pentecostal in me, and I knelt by the bed and demanded God fix me. I demanded He change my heart, I demanded to want to be better, to want to stop (same thing, right?). I demanded strength, and will, and trust and determination and desire and everything would need and didn’t have, everything I would need in order to do and be better. Everything I should want.
I fell asleep exhausted, tear-stained and worn out, but confident. Hopeful, and maybe at peace. Things were going to be different. They were going to change.
Two days later I had sex with David.
And then everything really fell apart.