The last time I went to church was about three weeks ago. It was also my first time attending in nearly a year, or was it the first time in a couple of months? Quite honestly, I couldn’t tell you how long it’d been because it felt like an eternity; I settled so far into a church-free existence where I didn’t have to confront my problem head on. Still, I knew it would happen someday.

When we arrived, I got out of the car with my dad and bit down on the inside of my cheek, watching my blurred reflection in the mirror. “How is it,” I thought, “that despite vowing never to return, I’ve found myself back at this place so soon?” Initially, I wanted to beg my dad to take me back home because just the thought of entering that building up ahead turned my stomach like a blender. However, I couldn’t tell him why, so I went inside anyway

Two minutes in, I excused myself to the bathroom to cry, my back pressed against the stall, my chest heaving and stuttering. I thought about how much of a liar I was, how my family would abhor me if they knew. I hated the hiding, I hated that stupid building, and I hated myself. Still, I dried my eyes, patted my face down with a wet paper towel, went out, and clenched my teeth through an hour and a half long sermon.

On the drive home I told my dad I was bisexual; in fact, I nearly shouted it at him. I think that, after going to church—a place where I couldn’t be myself—in what seemed like forever, I was finally tired of hiding; something inside of me was sick of holding my secret in. Then, I cried again, this time for longer than I ever had before because of the years of pent-up anger and frustration that poured out of me. I started on the freeway and didn’t stop until we parked in the lot of a Michaels not far from home.

“If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.” – Leviticus 20:13 NIV

As tears ran down my face in the car that day, I couldn’t help but think of just why it hurt so much to come back to church, and how my religion attaches such a stigma to anything queer. It’s no secret that Christianity in itself is notoriously homophobic; in the Bible, homosexuality is a notable sin. To make matters even more complicated, in my family, religion runs so deeply that my relatives make up the church clergy. So, like most forms of hate in this world, I couldn’t truly avoid it if I wanted to, which I desperately did.

Ultimately, the idea that you’re a sinner no matter what, that who you are and who you love is unquestionably wrong, hurts, especially if that kind of talk comes from people you love. These people would think less of you and love you less if they knew; they’d treat you differently or cast you out because of one thing. And that’s where the heartache started for me.

Whether in life or death, I felt that I would be bound by pain and suffering. Though I’d like to imagine pearly white gates once my time is up, when I got to thinking about it, my mind would conjure up burning sulfur, crying, and eternal pain, witnessing the women I’ve loved sunken in rivers of fire. Additionally, I couldn’t imagine my life on Earth turning out the way I wanted either. In the seventh grade, as I noticed the softness of my best friend’s touches and her lingering hugs, I thought of my grandmother, who I adore and idolize, looking at me with angry or disgusted eyes; I also thought of empty seats at my wedding.

“Or do you not know that wrongdoers will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor men who have sex with men nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God.” – Corinthians 6:9-10 NIV

Christianity, whether to say this is right or not, has been at the root of all my internalized homophobia and self-hatred regarding my sexuality. As I came out to myself, I felt that I didn’t want to own what should have been mine. In my pubescent times of need, religion had been a source of strength and a shoulder to cry on in the dark. It couldn’t be anymore. Instead, religion had become, to me, nothing more than a source of a pain.

So, I tried to toss it out. Tried.

My attempts to avoid religion started at an early age, but they weren’t necessarily as effective as I wanted them to be. For instance, when I was younger, I’d consciously choose not to pray before bed, and I’d feel the guilt of it weigh on my chest. As I grew older, I’d close my eyes and count to five when my mom told me to pray before a meal because I felt I had to keep up the facade. With friends, I’d call myself an atheist, and my toes would involuntarily curl at the very mention of God. But, when I did go to church, there was something there that was hard to deny.

In fact, on the day I went back to church, after patting my face dry and entering into that holy room, I sat between my grandma and cousin for the sermon. They asked about my schooling, about the band, and about my life. They hugged me and kissed me. I held the hymn book while we sang. We laughed as my uncle delayed the church’s after-sermon lunch by ten, fifteen, and then twenty minutes. I got to see my entire family sitting around me, and we talked over plates of fried chicken and my grandpa’s yams. I helped an old woman clean her spilled juice. At the end of the day, those little things gave me joy.

“There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the one who is able to save and destroy. But you—who are you to judge your neighbor?” – James 4:12 NIV

I’ve noticed that there’s something so beautiful about religion. When its words are not twisted and sharpened as spears, they bring people together, creating a loving and caring environment. The people I’ve met are kind, good people, and their faith is, somehow, still admirable to me. How is it that something so central to my pain and loathing still be so wonderful?

Through my religion, I’ve felt like my love is damnable; but, Christianity is and always has been a central part of my life. It can be beautiful, it can be reassuring, but I can’t seem to get a clear view of it. It seems to be that even if religion is at the root of so much of my strife, I can’t shake it.

It may be that Christianity is ingrained in my brain like home training, that some odd form of Stockholm Syndrome has latched onto my memories; or, perhaps I want to hold onto who I was and could have been disregarding certain parts of myself.

Or maybe I just want the beauty that hate tainted back.