Nonbeliever

I believed in God when I was a child.

            I believed in love, happiness, bliss, hope, satisfaction, and everything else that optimists can hold onto. I believed that someday, I would meet Prince Charming at the age of sixteen, go to Prom even though I felt I didn’t belong, and dance with him at the end. I thought I would get married and have kids, a set of twin boys and a girl. I’d have a husky named Zeus and a German shepherd named Hera. I thought I would have a job as an English teacher and be completely happy.

            But that’s not what happened. In high school, I stopped believing in love when I caught my boyfriend cheating on me at the mall. I stopped believing in happiness when my parents died in a car crash on their way home from getting back together after their third attempt at separation. I stopped believing in bliss when a few of my friends decided to join the ‘It’ crowd to get dates.

            In college, I stopped believing in hope when my second boyfriend dumped me for his ex back home. I stopped believing in the idea of being satisfied when I first had sex, feeling nothing but pain in my nether regions and emptiness inside my gut.

            I stopped believing in God. He doesn’t exist. If he did, my life would be so much simpler and better, and I would have faith in so many things and in people. Life would have meaning. Now it doesn’t. Especially now that I know I can’t have children.

            God does not exist.