The other night at a church night of prayer, we came together to pray. And for a bit it felt ok, a little more quiet and calm then all other prayer meetings I'm used to. This one was quiet, simple, but still honest and reverent to God. Just different.
We followed an ACTS method of prayer to keep order and focus. Adoration, and then Confession. Simply hearing that word, made my stomach tense, and the air catch in my lungs. I couldn't focus on confessing at the moment, all I could think of was how it's been misused against me in the past. Less about confessing my sins to God for open honesty and forgiveness, and more about using my sins against me as a form of control.
Confessing to someone else meant guilt, shame, and possibly losing acceptance and support. So it was always just between me and God. Confessing sins to him like self injury, doubt, not praying or reading the word enough. Because I genuinely felt like these things were wrong and heavy sins.
Prayer and reading the word were promoted as good and holy, there were "requirements" placed oh how much time you should be spending doing each, and if I didn't meet that expectation, it ate me up inside, even if no one else knew. Self injury, depression, and doubt were taught to be all signs of a lack of faith.
So I learned early on how to keep things hidden, how to say the right words out loud, and keep the real ones buried deep enough that no one would find them. I learned how to look faithful while I was unraveling inside. The fear wasn't just that I had sinned, but that there was something spiritually wrong with me.
When the topic of confession came up that night, my body reacted before my mind even knew what was happening. Muscles tighten, air felt trapped in my lungs, and instead of feeling invited to grace I braced for exposure, as if my honesty could cost me my safety, and naming the truth could be weaponized against me.
I know that confession was never meant to feel like this. It was supposed to feel like a time of release not punishment. A place where grace covers us, not where same suffocates. But trauma doesn't speak in logic, it speaks in memory, and sometimes my memories are LOUD.
I sat in that room filled with people trying not to just get up and leave, trying to breathe instead of run. Reminding myself that this isn't the same room, this isn't the same people, and that God wasn't waiting to tally my failures. But still the echoes lingered.
I don't have a happy ending for this, no big miracle that happened at that moment, no huge revelation that chased the echoes and fears away, But I made progress, I didn't run, I stayed, and for right that moment, that was enough. Healing takes time, and patience , both of which God has in abundance, and learning to trust myself, and God may take more time, more then a single night of prayer, and that's ok.
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