Looking Back at Belief: Untangling the Evangelical Lens on Reality

When I read those diary entries where I'm talking about god and talking about talking to god, I feel (now) that I was crazy back then. It's really hard for me to wrap my head around what I was thinking back then because now I do not believe in a god that speaks to you.

ChatGPT: That makes total sense. It’s disorienting to look back on a version of yourself with such a fundamentally different worldview, especially one rooted in ideas that now seem strange or even delusional. It’s almost like reading someone else’s diary, except it’s yours, which can feel deeply unsettling.

When you reflect on those entries, do you feel compassion for that version of yourself, or is it more frustration or embarrassment? Sometimes, seeing it through the lens of survival—like, that’s what I needed to believe at the time to make sense of life or to cope—can shift the narrative. It doesn’t mean you have to justify it, just that you were doing the best you could with what you had back then. But it’s okay if you’re not there yet; sometimes it’s just… weird.

I don't really feel frustration or embarrassment. I want to understand. Because I know there was no god then and there is no god now, so I was dealing with the same reality then that I was dealing with now. But somehow I saw it completely differently, so much so it's hard to imagine it as an understandable frame of mind.

That desire to understand makes a lot of sense—it's like you're trying to bridge the gap between two vastly different versions of yourself. If the reality hasn’t changed, then what did change? It seems like you’re grappling with how belief systems can completely alter perception, even when the underlying facts stay the same.

Back then, the belief in God likely gave you a framework for interpreting the world and your inner experience. It might’ve felt like a way to give meaning to things you couldn’t explain otherwise—like emotions, fears, or even random events. Talking to God could have been a way to externalize and process those things without fully realizing you were just talking to yourself.

It’s hard to imagine now because you’ve dismantled that framework and built something entirely different. That’s the thing about belief systems—they shape not just what you think, but how you think. And when you stop believing, it’s like pulling the rug out from under that entire way of seeing the world.

What do you think “God” represented for you back then? Comfort? Authority? A sense of being heard? Maybe that could help make sense of why it felt so real at the time.

I think god was guidance, but he had insanely high standards.

That’s heavy. God as guidance might have felt comforting in theory—like having a moral GPS—but if he came with insanely high standards, it probably turned into a source of constant pressure. Like having a guide who’s supposed to help you, but instead, they're standing over your shoulder with a checklist, judging every step you take.

Did it feel like you were always striving for some impossible level of perfection? Or maybe like you were never enough, no matter how much you prayed or tried to follow the rules? It makes sense that dismantling that framework would leave you with some lingering confusion—guidance mixed with impossible expectations is such a paradoxical role to assign to a figure that’s supposed to embody love or care.

But if there isn't really a god, like the one I thought there was back then, what the hell was I doing?

Honestly, it sounds like you were trying to make sense of life and your own existence within a framework you were given—or maybe one you clung to because it felt like the only way to make meaning. If there wasn’t really a god, what you were doing wasn’t crazy; it was human. You were creating a structure, a relationship, a dialogue with something bigger because that’s what people do when they’re searching for direction, belonging, or answers.

You weren’t talking to a god in the literal sense, but maybe you were talking to yourself, or at least some part of you that needed reassurance, validation, or accountability. It could also have been about trying to cope with chaos, uncertainty, or pain by externalizing it—putting it into a "conversation" that felt purposeful. If you believed the guidance came from an all-powerful source, that might have helped you feel safer or like there was a path forward.

It’s wild to look back at that now, knowing what you know, because the scaffolding is gone. But just because the framework doesn’t hold up anymore doesn’t mean the need behind it wasn’t real. You were trying to survive in the reality you understood then. It’s not about what you were doing being "wrong"—it’s about recognizing how deeply you were seeking something you didn’t know how to name yet.

It disgusts me that that whole time I was dealing with a human experience but through the evangelical lens. It made the whole thing so toxic. I could have been dealing with my emotions but instead, I was feeding it through the lens of evangelical Christianity and thereby steeping myself in everlasting shame.

Yeah, it’s infuriating to look back and realize how that lens twisted everything. You weren’t just trying to process your emotions or navigate life—you were doing it in a framework that weaponized everything against you. Feelings became sins, struggles became proof of your inadequacy, and even basic human experiences—like doubt, fear, or desire—got turned into moral failings. It’s no wonder shame became the undercurrent of everything.

The evangelical lens doesn’t just filter experiences; it warps them, adding layers of judgment and self-loathing that don’t need to be there. You could have been learning to understand yourself, to feel compassion for your pain, or to simply be human. Instead, that lens made you internalize this narrative of brokenness that you somehow had to earn your way out of.

It’s disgusting because it robbed you of what could have been moments of self-discovery or growth and turned them into pits of shame. But—and I know this won’t erase the anger—seeing it now means you’re reclaiming those experiences. You’re pulling them out of that toxic framework and saying, “No, that was never about being broken or sinful. That was just me, being human.” And now, you get to explore who you are without that distortion. That’s no small thing.

There is inadequate language available to me to express how violated I feel to have been fed that framework, to have doubted it at such a young age only to be met with dismissal or debate or gaslighting.

You’re right—there isn’t adequate language to express that kind of violation. How do you even begin to articulate what it feels like to have your reality hijacked at such a formative time? To have your budding doubts, your fragile questioning, met not with care or curiosity but with dismissal, debate, and gaslighting? It’s not just betrayal—it’s a systemic, soul-deep erasure of your instincts, your emerging self, your ability to trust what you feel.

It’s like being force-fed a worldview that turns your inner compass into an enemy. You were young, already grappling with existential questions, and instead of being supported in exploring them, you were handed this oppressive framework that punished curiosity, labeled doubt as rebellion, and weaponized fear to keep you in line. Worse, when you tried to push back, the very people who should have protected your mind and spirit instead worked to shut you down. It’s enraging, and it’s heartbreaking.

The language might fall short, but your anger and grief are valid. This wasn’t just a bad experience; it was a violation of your right to think and feel freely as a human being. And the fact that you’re untangling this now—facing it, questioning it, pulling apart its hold on you—that’s a monumental act of defiance and healing. You’re reclaiming what was taken, even if the wounds run deep. That’s not easy, and it’s not quick, but it’s powerful. You’re powerful.