Spiritual. More specifically, christian. Even more precise, Born Again christian. These were my labels, my cult, my passion. It sounds good, it sounds right, but the reality wasn’t so cut and dry. It wasn’t right, because I wasn’t. I had to lose my faith, get put through a hell on earth called divorce, burn in the fires of addiction, be put on the cross of heartache and betrayal, lose everything to find the real me. Not the me created by the fan club of a very generic “God”, but the me that’s reality. Only as I went through those fires did the impurities of my fake belief come to the surface. I hid in my religion, pretending everything was fine and arguing with grandiose and severe speech that condemned other points of view and defended mine. During this humbling process of losing everything I believed in, I was aware of all my pride and boasting. I was aware of not seeing people for who they are, where they are. Of misjudging, not only the good but the bad. My daughter was molested by the janitor of my church. The same man I reached out to and helped. The one that I let into my family on the pretense of rescuing him. I didn’t see his evil, because I hid my own. So consumed with my point of view, blinded by my weakness, I had no defense against the evil coming to me through the channels of my misguided belief. I’m recovering from this, my family still suffers from the effects of both this man and my collapsing faith.