I became a fundy because I thought God was talking to me. This presence, giant, constant, holding me tight, pawing me for an answer. I felt it at night and in the day. Be Mine, I thought It said. The pressure from way inside of me. I said yes. The altar call, crying for hours, buzzing like electricity for days.

What was it? Who was talking to me? Myself? That's what a shrink told me once. Do I have that power? When I prayed, relief smashed through me, turned me into a cooing baby. Did I do that? The impulses, the urges, the "words from the Lord"? Who is yapping in all these Christians' inner ears? Who yapped in mine?

For a while I thought it was God, then after I left the fundy fold I thought maybe it was Goddess. After alcoholism, bulimia, psychotic episodes and three mental hospitals, I still don't get it. My little dance with the tired, crabby misogynist in the sky has left me hollowed-out and incoherent still. All these years later. What the hell happened to me?

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