My god was a malicious monster.
I was a better person than my god was.
My god wasn’t real. He was a phantom in my mind, a phantom created by people and placed in my mind by people, and it was their hierarchy and their will that I tried to obey, while praying to the phantom in my mind.
If there was any chance at all that my god was real, I wouldn’t serve him. If I ended up in eternal torment for that, so be it.
Was there a real God of love out there? I didn’t know. I was so tired, now. Religion and spirituality and faith had wrecked my life. I didn’t have it in me to seek the truth about God. If a god of love existed, that god would know what I had been through and how tired I was. They would understand why I had to let my faith slip away and why I could no longer make adherence to religion the central part of my existence. They would never send me to eternal torment for being too tired to keep seeking the truth.
I’d been told that losing one’s faith was a very traumatic experience. Those that became faithless lived empty, sad lives with no meaning. In their heart of hearts they missed their faith and suffered in its absence.
That was yet another lie.
My faith was gone and I was at peace with that. A crushing burden was finally gone.