You know vomit? You know how disgusting it is, but people talk about it anyway? Like when someone’s  been really sick, and they want to tell all the details, even though you know the details about being sick, but everyone likes to share their own horror stories about it, so you listen? Don’t worry, I am not going to talk about anything gross, I promise.

I hate being sick. By the way, I always say how much I hate being sick. And then I think, “That’s a dumb statement.” I mean, does anyone like being sick? Isn’t it just a given that we all hate being sick? But then I think, “Well, I probably hate being sick more than anyone else does, so I am going to keep saying ‘I hate being sick’ so people know how much I hate it more than they do.”

There are a few things I really hate about being sick:

1. How confusing it is. On one hand, you feel miserable, and you know that your body just wants to get rid of the evil alien inside that is making it sick. (Side story: in Madagascar, if you are visiting and have a sensitive stomach to the local food you say, “Vazaha Kibo” which loosely translates to “I have a stranger/alien/foreigner/white person tummy.” I always thought it was “there is a stranger in my tummy.” Either way, it’s pretty funny imagery, right?) You totally don’t want to throw up because it is the worst thing ever. The worst. Ever. But you know how much better you will feel if all that junk is out of your system. So, you don’t want to, but you kind of do. And you are afraid to, but you keep a bucket close by in hopes that you will.

2. How it warps all sense of time and reality. Even if you know it is a 24-hour bug because that is all anyone has talked about on Facebook or at the bus stop for a week, you are still terrified that it may never go away. You forget what it is like to feel normal, to eat real food, to function as a human being.

3. How it is such a waste. You should be happy—you have a day or two to lay on the couch, drink 7up, eat saltine crackers, and watch Pride & Prejudice without any expectation that you should be doing something productive! But you feel like crap. So, the whole time you resent being stuck on the couch, only being able to drink soda and eat crackers, bored of watching Pride & Prejudice, and anxious to be productive again. And of course, three days later you wish you could “just have a sick day.”

Apparently, processing an event like, you know, leaving the church you have known your whole life, feels a little bit like the stomach flu.

Finding a way to share my story without being swallowed up in it is a balancing act. There are still doors I don’t want to look behind, shelves I am afraid to talk about, and a giant rabbit hole of doctrine that I don’t want my blog to fall into. But the need to share tugs at me, like an evil stranger in the bottom of my soul, clawing to get out. Even though it scares me, I know I will feel better letting it out. And with each post, I see that the evil stranger isn’t a stranger at all. It is actually a beautiful, vulnerable piece of me that just wants to be free.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get past this stage—where little things are constant triggers, and where I have to work hard to change the narrative that has been ingrained in me. I worry that I will never know how to just be normal—how to trust my own instincts instead of following a “prophet.”  I find myself connecting with people and the world around me, and then hear a general authority’s voice reminding me to “not be of the world.” The voice that tells me I am just desensitized to the sin and evil around me.  Sometimes, when I laugh hard at a dirty joke, or swear out loud, or watch a rated R movie, I feel a pang of guilt. But it isn’t real guilt—it’s just a reflex from being told for so long to feel guilty about things like that. Right when I think I am adjusted, that I am past that phase, and that I am over those feelings, a Mormon idea will pop into my head and throw me back in. I can look around, and see friends and family who have left it all behind and are settled into a new life. I can rationally tell myself, “it’s just the 24-hour bug”—you’ll feel normal again soon. But it’s so easy to forget.

Lately, I have been paralyzed with the realization that I have the chance to push the Do Over button, and I don’t know what to do. I look at all the decisions that led me to where I am today, wondering which were my own and which were just the path I was on. I ask myself, what do I really want? I’m excited for the opportunity to start over fresh and change so many things, but I’m also terrified of the change and the new opportunity for failure. I’ve felt so frustrated with some of the choices that I made when I was younger, based on the principles I learned at church—choices that have affected my entire life. I’ve longed for the chance to change my destiny, my perspective, and yet, in this moment I’m so afraid. It’s like wishing for a sick day to watch Pride & Prejudice, but now that I have it, I don’t know how to enjoy it.

Sitting here next to the pool with my glass of wine, my laptop, and wearing my pajamas (I can do that now, because I am being a writer, and we get to do cool sh*t like that), I see the similarities between a sick day and faith crisis. I feel it consuming me, but I know there must be an end in sight. The Do Over button is frustrating and intimidating, but it is also exciting, and I don’t want to miss my chance to change. Most of all, I need to release the scared, delicate, not-so-evil stranger inside. Every time I write a post, I feel a tiny bit freer.  Writing that I don’t believe in the temple makes me feel less self-conscious when I run into a friend from church and I am wearing my shorty shorts and tank top. I don’t care if she’s trying to figure out why I am not wearing garments. I tell myself, “If she wants to know, she can read the blog.” Sharing the story about piña coladas (and bravely writing at the beginning of this paragraph about my glass of wine) makes me feel less paranoid about posting a picture on Facebook of me and my friends at a bar. I think, “Meh. Everyone knows that I like to try new cocktails. I don’t have to worry that they all assume I am an alcoholic. I wrote about it in my blog.” Admitting that this has been a traumatic process, a decision that I did not take lightly, and opening up about the tears I have shed, gives me strength and confidence. When someone wants me to attend a church event that I know will hurt me and trigger a lot of pain, I don’t need to feel guilty about not going. I feel comfortable thinking, “Don’t take it personally. My blog explains that this has nothing to do with you. I just need space to heal, and acceptance as I do this in the best way I know how.” The more that I share (or purge, since we are still comparing this to the stomach flu), the more free I feel, the more true to myself I become. Releasing these little bits of myself, and my story, allows me to come back to reality and opens the space to move on. So, I guess this blog is a little bit like the bucket I keep next to the couch on my sick days. Sometimes, I feel anxious about using it, but in the end, it always feels better when I do.