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A Priest Called Me Promiscuous and I Cried Tears of Joy
How confession was key to my mental health
It wasn’t the first time I had come to talk to this priest. We’d met privately a couple times before. I was going on my fifth consecutive year of pain, fear, and misery. There was no end in sight.
I clung to my torso with my arms crossed as if giving myself a much-needed hug. My ribs stuck out. I was malnourished — both nutritionally and spiritually.
Depression had a way of dulling hunger pains and twisting my stomach into a knot of hopelessness and grief. I wasn’t suicidal, but if something “happened” to me, I wouldn’t have cared. Maybe I tempted fate. Back then, I took a lot of unnecessary chances.
I still can’t write about how I found myself in this state of utter despair. It’s a tender spot on my heart I don’t care to expose to the general public.
My priest was in his early eighties, but his mind was sharp. He could give a rousing sermon that held your attention and made you contemplate it for the rest of the week. The best part was, he wasn’t out of touch with today’s problems.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, but I wasn’t sobbing.
“You can’t shock me,” he said, with a grandfatherly kindness in his eye. “I counsel women…
