What The Hell Is Wrong With Me?

 What The Hell Is Wrong With Me?

While most people are enjoying their life in all possible ways, at whatever life stage they are in, at any age, any profession, doing normal ordinary things every day, I’m hounded by questions about the meaning of life, our purpose, who created us and what for and the annoying feeling of being insignificant in the greater scheme of things. 

This is not something I started doing in my old age. I remember when I was a kid maybe 6 or 7 years old after calling my mom so many times, I started to think why am I calling her mom? Who decided that she should be called that? Who created this language that I’m speaking? How did all other languages came to be? At that age I had already heard about God, and that he/she was our creator and that God is omnipotent, that he is the ultimate judge and can punish or forgive, that he decides if we go to heaven  or hell. 

The source of my information was the religion classes that we were taught in our Armenian school, our church and my family. I remember that my mother prayed every nigh before bed but I had never seen dad do the same. I don’t remember either of them talking to me or any of my brothers and sisters about God.  We did go to church but not every Sunday.  We did celebrate all the Christian holidays. At our church there were no sermons just the religious ceremonies and hymns. 

However at some point during my teens I stopped believing in God. The main reason being the Armenian genocide. I could not comprehend and accept that he, the Almighty had let such an injustice happen to the first nation that had accepted Christianity, a nation who’s land was dotted by countless churches and monasteries, a nation who had struggled and sacrificed so much to stay a Christian nation. What kind of god would let that happen?  I reasoned that if god existed all the atrocities that happened on Earth would not have happened. As I got older I decided that I am an Atheist and there was no going back. 

I have lived a fairly ordinary life, reached all the normal milestones that millions of people reach, I have most of the typical relationships that people have, I’m in no way much different than any other human on this Earth, except that I question everything in life and I’m unable to find satisfactory answers and therefor I can not enjoy my life even though I have a lot to be grateful for.  Since nothing seems to make sense, nothing matters.  I am in a constant state of apathy. 

I exist but I’m not alive. 

Random Memories, Picnic.

 

I have this one memory of my childhood that I cherish. One summer day my dad came home and told us kids to pack some bread, cheese and hard boiled eggs because we were going to have a picnic.  It was my three older sisters and I that would go. One of the older sisters packed everything we needed. We crammed in dad’s VW Beetle which was either light green or light blue I can’t remember and off we went.  We didn’t know where he was taking us, we were just happy to be out of the house, out of the city and with dad.  The whole time he was driving we were singing in our excited shrieking voices. He loved it when we sang but he kept asking us to lower our voice.  Finally he stopped the car and we all got out. The place was outside of town in the countryside. There was a stream gurgling happily nearby. Dad told us to pick some mint that had grown on the banks of the stream and wash it.  We spread our picnic blanket and placed a tablecloth in the middle. We arranged our Lavash bread, feta cheese and hard boiled eggs on it and also the freshly picked mint leaves.  The reason my dad asked us to bring eggs because that was his favorite breakfast food. He liked hard boiled eggs and also soft boiled eggs that he would spoon out of the shell with a little spoon and plenty of salt.  After eating we had a great time running around and picking flowers until it was time to go home. We all loved it when dad would do spontaneous things like that. To this day I love to eat hard boiled eggs with fresh mint leaves wrapped in soft flat bread we call Lavash and plenty of salt.