Confessions...

It's unconscionable that I finish Augustine’s Confessions; it’s a large book and, intensely dense, full of the authors musings about everything from his childhood, to Aristotle’s ten categories, to Platonics, to his conversion, to his mother and his mother church. Perhaps, it’s because of it’s great length, being inside someone’s head for what seems to be an extremely long time, but he is now my conscience. If I do something wrong, I hear Augustine's (as played by Sean Connery) voice warning me about sin and righteousness. 

Before, I didn’t know if I was comfortable with his theology after learning he advocated force to compel religious conversion. (Bad theology makes for bad behavior?) For me, it’s one thing when God uses pain for redemptive purposes, but another completely when a human tries to wield that same rod. 

There's this idea, in the emerging church, that truth is relational, incarnational. Augustine, who lived in the 300's, understandably, seems to see the world in such stark black and white and blames human beings for EVERYTHING. It seems, in maintaining this view, sacrifices mercy to the god of rightness in a way Jesus never seemed to do. I used to hate the guy's theology, his militaristic stance on things such as original sin. 

Now, however, that the book and subsequent paper are over, I miss him! 

Got To Admit...

There's another one of my blogs on here, somewhere, called leap of faith. 

The only post was from May of 2007 about wanting to commit suicide and Jesus intervening with the Keith Urban song "Memories of Us". Apparently, God understands a young woman's need for a certain amount of smarm. For some reason, I always hear Jesus in country music. It sounds so sincere and earnest?... 

ANYWAY. Tonight, wanting to self-injure, decided to take it to the net to blog instead. I found leap of faith again, that moment came rushing back.

It reminded me of where I came from. As flinchy and FINE (fucked up, insecure, neurotic and, emotional) as I can be, I'm doing better than I've been in the last six years. Doing better than even three months ago. (Thanks to God and Bupropion!) More stable. 

It's weird, I longed for so long to be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (only for my ex to tell me he had been. There's one of the 25% of males. Curses!). Then, at least, the rapid ups and downs, the dis-ease, un-ease, the fear of abandonment, would have a name. Even despite all the concern about labels in the psychology community, or at least, in the psychology lit available, I want a label. 

If you could give it a name, it seems, you could compartmentalize it, make it smaller than what it is. What is it, you ask? 

What it is, at times, is debilitating. 

Hell if I know. But it's getting better finally.