Martyrdom, Guilt and Other Tumors of the Psyche

As a child trapped in parochial school, I heard a lot of things that made absolutely no sense to me.

For instance, prior to the Second Vatican Council, Roman Catholics couldn't eat meat on Fridays without their souls turning black with mortal sin. I had friends who were not Roman Catholics and ate hot dogs on Fridays with abandon. Were they going to hell or was the whole idea just a crock? My mother explained that they didn't believe it was a sin and therefore it wasn't. Well heck, I didn't think it was a sin either so why couldn't I eat meat?

The idea of blind obedience to rules and regulations that seemed illogical at best was never something that sat well with me. The brainwashing to make me think otherwise was never successful.

What was the big deal about martyrs anyway? St. Lucy ripped out her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at dirty pictures. Hey, I thought, LOOK! Who the hell cares?

Life always seemed precious to me. It seemed foolish to throw it away on some so-called noble cause.

When studying the middle ages and the willingness of the rabble to follow the whims of the powerful, I realized that these poor slobs were never going to get anything except misery in this world. Their hopes for the next seemed much more promising so an early death was just a ticket out of a miserable existence.

The older I get the more I see the shortfall of my remaining days. They grow fewer; I am reluctant to waste my time.

I ended a marriage that was too painful for me to continue. I stood in the shower one day and heard myself saying, "I can take this until I die," and realized I was as miserable as one of the mud-slogging serfs for whom I had no patience.

I still think we humans are entitled to more than misery, and if we have a chance to make things better for our existence we should do so. Maybe not a notion that will earn me a postage stamp or pigeon shit covered statue in the park, but I'm hoping it will keep me happy here and now.