In sifting through some of the accumulation that’s just never been addressed, I happened across a strap of leather tied in a loop with a little knot at one end that secured a rather large nail.

This was an idea that somebody at Calvin College came up with, ostensibly around Good Friday, to remind us college students that we ought to be a tad bit more pious.

I’m not sure if that nail is meant to be a historically accurate replica of a crucifixion nail or if it’s just ugly-looking enough that it serves its purpose for tender modern minds–I’m not familiar with building supplies or Iron Age execution devices to know the difference… and neither does it particularly matter.

I don’t have any particular reason to keep it anymore, but it’s interesting that I kept it at all. It tells me quite a lot about how desperate I was to continue belief that I would hold on to a worthless trinket.

I think I must have seen it at some point over the past 10 years as it was located in a box with items that I know were repackaged at some point. As with so many of the items in those boxes I’ve been carting around, I would pick it up, sigh (externally or internally), and place it back in the box with the thought, “I will deal with this, later.”

To be clear, I am done with anything resembling personal religion. It’s not possible to believe in something that doesn’t exist, and my standards for truth involve empiricism and logic, not tradition or hysteria or other such things…

But the nail is a symbol of more than a bygone religiosity. There is a stack of paper 2 inches high of journal entries I have written over the years–and this stack is only what I’ve consolidated so far. The majority of that writing took place while I was in college, especially at Calvin, and throughout that writing is interwoven a relationship with “the Lord” most of the time, less frequently “Jesus” or “the Spirit”. I haven’t looked over them in detail in quite some time, and there are some pages that I’m sure I haven’t seen since the pen left the paper.

There is a sense of guilt and shame around those pages. I could destroy them, just as I’ve destroyed lots of other things… and if I were to discard them, I would destroy them, as they are nobody’s business but my own. I suppose it’s that the memories of those writings, with phrases catching my eye, evoke within me the feelings I had at the time, which were despair, shame, guilt, isolation, and depression… and, for the most part, those are the feelings that I am dealing with now in therapy.

These feelings and experiences certainly did not originate at Calvin; I had been experiencing them for years prior. It just so happened that being separated from my overbearing father allowed me to connect with my real experience of life, such as it was.

It is no surprise that he was so opposed to me living outside of his house. As with many other things, I doubt it was a conscious decision on his part. It was, in its most simplest form, the fear of being outed as an abuser. It certainly wasn’t care or concern about my well-being.

So, I look at this nail, and I look at those journal entries, and I reexperience those old feelings… and while I did experience them, I do not believe that they belong to me. I do not believe that the despair, guilt, shame, and depression I experienced were my actual feelings any more than the relationship I wrote about with god was real.

What would I as a young adult have to feel guilty about or ashamed of? My worst crimes in my life to that point were shouting at people and being late to class–the latter being almost a thing of identity, the former being rare as I spent little time interacting with others.

The things I felt the most guilt and shame around were things that I should have been able to appreciate, enjoy, and celebrate: sexuality; creative skills; lack of faith; skepticism; relaxation.

These are simply not organically shameful things. Organically shameful things include things like murder, rape, assault, lies, and corruption. Those are things you should feel shame for, and they are also things which people strive to avoid feeling shame for.

Given the degree to which I felt guilt and shame, despair and depression were inevitable, and I am lucky that I did not succumb to depression’s ultimate goal. I don’t actually know what kept me going all those years except for possibly a fear of immediate physical pain, or a lifetime of paralysis if I was unsuccessful.

I will offer a slight correction regarding despair here that just occurred to me. Given the evidence I had at the time, despair was entirely appropriate. It was not until I was introduced to a new experience of life that I was able to question my despair, for though it had not taken root in an immediate demise, it had ground me to a stop such that movement was unnecessary and undesired.

I have since begun to move again… and I no longer need this nail.

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