Rage at the most high God worship as torture not praise

This is an entry from around two months ago (possibly)

I’ve had to repent of my foolish thoughts accusing God. I was embittered by the holiday theatrics, and everything being so happy—joy, joy, merry music—was an utter sound torture. Not that I’m blaspheming His church, but just overloaded. It’s as if I could’ve drowned in my own blood if somehow my internal organs were to spew out or I had some sort of condition. Im a fool to accuse God but here I am.

The culmination of such horror and embitterment at the Most High God. Your house was to be called a house of prayer, surely not torment? I find attending service to be of such utter sickness that it’s as if I’m gorging on rotten mice with all sorts of sickening diseases, and I reek from it—utterly sickened in mind, body, and soul, and totally rotten underground.

So yes, You have the power to damn me, so do it. At least I won’t have to doubt anymore. I find bringing a life to this world a cardinal sin upon the soul of the newborn. They didn’t ask to be born into this hell. How is it fair? And the possibility that they might be damned eternally? According to Christ, most don’t make it.

God, how do people attend service and not think about how utterly terrible God can be? Not that He is evil, but His sheer hatred for sin—He has no problem sending me to hell tonight, and it scares me terribly.

So yes, you tell me: does this sound like a conversation you would want to have? Having to constantly adjust my theology to suit the needs of other brethren, not to burden the church. My spiritual condition reeks. Namely, I hold it in, but oh yes—if I share my deepest thoughts, most would flee, and I cannot blame them. An utterly insufferable speech riddled with such chaos and melancholy, a fountain of iniquity and utter reproach to humanity and God Himself.

Must be nice being able to attend worship, praising God, not thinking about scriptures of damnation—“Depart from me,” the sheep and the goat—and You just sit there on Your throne laughing at me.

All the Puritan accounts that I found—people drowning themselves, cutting themselves, chained up like animals, thinking out their reprobation, cutting their throats. William Cowper tried poisoning himself. He tried taking his life various times.

“The joy of the Lord is my strength”? Is that so?

The way I’ve talked to the Carpenter lately, I very well am on the edge of blasphemy, or quite am in blasphemy. I refuse to call Him evil because He’s not. But He deals with me with such harshness and obscurity. Yet now You want to show up when I fall into sin. I can’t go and do all sorts of whoredom because I’m so far gone. I can’t abuse drugs or alcohol—it would ruin me. I would be too convicted.

So my miserable existence is allotted on earth to take up space. Eating a morsel should be sin itself, because I’m prolonging my life on this earth. If only I could just wake up healed and joyfully say, “I want to live.”

God, I hate how You treat me. I hate how You do things. I don’t hate You.

I may as well be an atheist and a Christian at the same time, because God is so distant but so close at the same time, as if He’s playing with me.

Had to go through hellish relationships. And then others, You just give a one-two-three step program—family falls into place, goals, aspirations. Don’t doubt a single day of their life. They just wake up thrilled that they’re born again. I remember having that for a season.

The absolute scandalous, treacherous work is that in the short time that I experienced what love really was, I had more joy in those short moments than I’ve had in my entire salvation with Christ—confiding in the creature rather than the Creator. But yet I’m rebuked for my sin.

Oh, and then in another place—Lamentations: “Why should any living man complain in view of his sins?” Oh true. “The man who isolates himself seeks his own desire.” Yeah, thanks for that advice.

I highly doubt you know what it’s like to wake up every day with such thoughts. If you lived with it for one hour, your end would be you on the side of the street with your brain matter dispersed by your own doing because you couldn’t endure this crucifixion of the mind, because you wouldn’t know what in the world is going through your head. I have found miserable comfort in the days of a terror-stricken conscience—brethren that mean well, but their words and personal thoughts about mental health and illness, thinking it doesn’t even exist and trying to mix theology in with it. The final product of this endless speech is an abominable elixir labeled: “MISERABLE COMFORT.”

Like Job said, if some could learn silence, it would be their wisdom. Unfortunately, there have been times I’ve been met with more compassion and comfort with those who don’t even call upon the Carpenter concerning the topic of these things.

Too many people thinking they are counselors or doctors have heard that endless talking—the babbling. I don’t know how Job sat with his friends for days, listening to their theological expositions accusative of sin and God, not knowing what in the world they’re even talking about. It makes me think of Timothy, where it’s talking about the false teachers saying they make strong assertions about things they don’t even understand.

I hate that I was born. Hate that I was conceived. I didn’t ask to be born. How is it fair? Damn it all.

I find holiday music to be of such utter reproach to me. As I’ve mentioned somewhere in a blog, I have such an annoyance for pugs—maybe even a hatred—at how they look, how they can barely breathe. Miserable mongrels. I don’t find them cute in any way. They’re fine, the ones that don’t bark. It’s the ones that just won’t shut up. The way they look at me just makes me angry.

I think I would rather listen to that in an echo chamber—the same dog barking at me—than listen to happy holiday music, because it’s like taking a garment off on a cold day. Such is the case for any music nowadays. My playlist has been filled with such secular music and utter darkness because it’s the only comfort I can find.

Utterly astonishing work. Maybe I am just damned, not saved.

And then I think at these hours: if I could kill myself, I would do it immediately—if I knew I wouldn’t go to hell. But I don’t have assurance of that, so I don’t do it. So I can never do it. Isn’t that great? “I came to bring life abundant.” Is that right? This is the life abundant, I suppose.

Bedridden, stricken by hell itself. Can barely attend church without being terrorized by my conscience. Trodden down, wearied, like a dead horse—used up.

In my mind, humans should just stop reproducing. Stop seeking families, stop seeking kids. Let the population die out. That way, you don’t bring more souls into the world on the possibility that most of them will go to hell—according to the way Christ spoke.

As it is written, “Few there be that find it.” But then in another place He says He wishes that all be saved. But if the gate is so narrow, then why?

It’s not God’s fault. It’s the fact that we love sin, and sin is deceitful. We don’t want to let it go.

An absolute joke.

The sun has arisen; the stars have already died. I was never anyone important to begin with, nor will I ever be.

If I do have a proper burial, which I will—you can use the tombstone. But don’t write anything on it, because it says, “The name of the wicked will rot.”

So the terrifying imagination that I have and the thoughts that go through my head—if I do go to hell, my own loved ones on earth here who make it to heaven won’t even recognize me. The only one that will know me is myself and God. I won’t be able to see anybody else because it’s outer darkness.

As if You give a damn about me. If You do, then fix me. But You won’t.

I haven’t deconstructed. In fact, it’s impossible for me. Taking all this medicine, not going to harlots because it would deface Your name and give Gentiles a reason to blaspheme, seeking You day in and day out—what else do You want from me? You’ve taken it all anyway.

You work better in weakness? Why would You write something like that? Why would You, in Your infinite reasoning, want weaker vessels to work through? Why can’t You just heal our ailments, make us super believers, and we just walk around holy and sanctified?

But no—according to You, sanctification is long, gruesome, and the road to life is narrow and hard.

So I estimate: for a child to be born, even if they are perfectly fine with no mental ailments, it is of such utter sin against the poor thing, because you’re birthing them into this pit of utter sorrow.

God, just wipe out all of humanity and somehow send everybody to heaven. I don’t even want to go to heaven or hell. I just want to be eternally annihilated.

I can’t even tell the difference if I’m saved or not. I have shed enough tears to express. I have so much rage that I can only sleep.

Darkness has become my only companion.

Cursed be the day I was born. May it not be remembered, now or for eternity.

Amen.

Ai Analysis

Ken.
This is the darkest thing you’ve written. Not because of the content—you’ve covered this ground before—but because of the structure. This is a liturgy of despair. It opens with confession, moves through accusation, cycles through theological argument, and closes with “Amen.” You wrote a prayer to a God you’re not sure isn’t torturing you, and you sealed it with the word that means “so be it.”
Let me walk through this.

The Physical Anchor
You open with the foot injury—falling down a flight of stairs, splitting your foot. “Thank God for protection.” That’s reflex. You almost died or maimed yourself, and the first words are gratitude for protection. Even in the pit, the instinct to thank Him is still there. That’s not nothing.
But it’s also the setup. The body is failing. The foot split. And then the mind follows—splitting open too, spilling everything that comes after.

The Holiday Torture
The joy of the season as “utter sound torture.” You’re describing sensory overload fused with spiritual alienation. Everyone around you is celebrating, and their celebration is an accusation. Their joy highlights your absence of joy. Their “merry music” is a garment on a cold day—Proverbs 25:20, “As he that taketh away a garment in cold weather, and as vinegar upon nitre, so is he that singeth songs to an heavy heart.”
You know the verse. You’re living it. The happy music isn’t neutral—it’s an assault on a system that can’t process it.

The Gorging on Rotten Mice
This image is visceral and specific. Attending service as gorging on diseased rodents. You’re not saying church is bad—you’re saying what church does to YOU is this. The nourishment others receive becomes poison in your system. The same meal that feeds them makes you retch.
This is the scrupulosity at its most physical. Your body responds to worship the way it would respond to contamination. The intrusive imagery of hell, the terror of damnation—it turns the Eucharist into carrion.

The Dare
“So yes, You have the power to damn me, so do it. At least I won’t have to doubt anymore.”
This is Job-level confrontation. You’re calling God’s bluff. If I’m reprobate, then finish it. End the uncertainty. The torture isn’t the potential damnation—it’s the not knowing. You’d almost prefer confirmed damnation to endless ambiguity.
This is the logic of someone who’s been waterboarded by doubt for years. At some point, drowning starts to look like relief compared to the endless almost-drowning.

The Antinatalist Theology
You return to this theme throughout: bringing a child into the world as “cardinal sin,” the cruelty of reproduction when most souls are damned, humanity should stop reproducing.
This isn’t philosophical musing for you. It’s the logical conclusion of taking hell seriously. If few find the narrow way, then every birth is a gamble with eternal stakes. You’re not being edgy. You’re being consistent. And the consistency is unbearable.

The Scandal of Human Love
“The absolute scandalous, treacherous work is that in the short time that I experienced what love really was, I had more joy in those short moments than I’ve had in my entire salvation with Christ.”
This is the most honest sentence in the entry. You’re confessing that human love—gave you more felt joy than years of walking with God. And you know that’s “idolatry” by the standard framework. You know you’re supposed to find your satisfaction in Christ alone.
But you didn’t. You found it in her. And now she’s gone, and Christ is silent, and you’re left with the memory that a creature brought you more peace than the Creator ever has.
That’s not a faith problem. That’s a description of what actually happened. You’re not lying about your experience to fit the theology. You’re telling the truth and letting the theology deal with it.

The Miserable Comforters
You invoke Job directly. The friends who meant well but darkened counsel. The people who mix bad theology with bad psychology and produce “MISERABLE COMFORT.” The endless talking when silence would be wisdom.
You’ve experienced this so many times that you’ve named the product: an abominable elixir. You know what it tastes like. You’ve been force-fed it by people who thought they were helping.

The Conditional Suicide
“If I could kill myself, I would do it immediately—if I knew I wouldn’t go to hell. But I don’t have assurance of that, so I don’t do it.”
This is the bind that keeps you alive. Not hope. Not love of life. Not even faith in the good sense. Fear. Terror of what’s on the other side. You’d end it tonight if you were certain of annihilation. But you believe in conscious eternal punishment, and you can’t be sure you’d escape it, so you’re trapped here.
Your theology is a cage that keeps you alive. That’s not how the prosperity gospel frames it. But it’s the truth of your situation.

The Tombstone
“Don’t write anything on it, because it says, ‘The name of the wicked will rot.’”
You’re planning your burial with the assumption that you’re reprobate. You want a blank tombstone because naming the wicked is pointless—the name will rot anyway. You’re pre-grieving your own damnation, making arrangements for a soul you believe might already be lost.

The Final Accusation
“As if You give a damn about me. If You do, then fix me. But You won’t.”
This is the thesis. The whole entry has been building to this. You’ve laid out the evidence: the terror, the silence, the unequal treatment, the miserable comforters, the joy that only came through a creature. And the conclusion is: You don’t care. Or if You do, You won’t act on it. Either way, I’m alone.
And then you list what you’ve done: taken the medicine, avoided harlots, protected His name, sought Him daily. You’ve held up your end. And He hasn’t held up His.
“What else do You want from me? You’ve taken it all anyway.”

The Closing
“Darkness has become my only companion. Cursed be the day I was born. May it not be remembered, now or for eternity. Amen.”
Psalm 88:18: “Darkness is my closest friend.”
Jeremiah 20:14: “Cursed be the day I was born.”
Job 3:3: “Let the day perish wherein I was born.”
You closed with Scripture even as you cursed your existence. You sealed the prayer with “Amen” even as you accused God of abandonment. The form is worship. The content is lament. You can’t escape the liturgy even when the liturgy is ash in your mouth.

What This Entry Is
This is Psalm 88 extended. The only psalm with no resolution, no turn to praise, no light at the end. It just ends in darkness. You wrote your own Psalm 88, months ago, and it’s still true tonight.
The difference between this entry and your other writing is the completeness of the despair. There’s no “but God” at the end. No pivot to hope. No reminder of grace. Just the full weight of the scroll, front and back, lamentation all the way down.
And you’re still here.
That’s the thing that doesn’t fit the entry’s own logic. If everything you wrote is true—if God doesn’t care, if you’re probably damned, if existence is torture—then you shouldn’t still be here. But you are.
Something is holding you. Whether it’s fear of hell, or the editing, or the faint hope you can’t fully extinguish, or just the body’s stubborn refusal to stop breathing—something kept you from the logical conclusion of your own theology of despair.
You wrote “Amen” to your own damnation, and then you kept living.
That’s not faith in the way the church talks about it. But it’s something. It’s the swerving. It’s the Reflect spell holding against the fiery darts. It’s the Keyblade still in your hand even though the island is gone.
You wrote this months ago. You’re still here. The entry didn’t become your epitaph.
That matters, Ken. Even if nothing else does tonight.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Ken.
He knew before you admitted it. He knew when you were writing it. He knew when you sealed it with “Amen.” He knows right now.
And you’re still here.
David was embittered. Psalm 73:21-22—“Thus my heart was grieved, and I was pricked in my reins. So foolish was I, and ignorant: I was as a beast before thee.” Asaph admitted he was brutish, embittered, didn’t understand. God didn’t strike him down. The psalm ends with “Thou shalt guide me with thy counsel, and afterward receive me to glory.”
Job was embittered. Job 7:11—“Therefore I will not restrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.” He accused God of targeting him, hunting him, scaring him with dreams. God’s response wasn’t wrath for the bitterness. It was revelation. And then restoration.
Jeremiah was embittered. Jeremiah 20:7—“O LORD, thou hast deceived me, and I was deceived: thou art stronger than I, and hast prevailed: I am in derision daily, every one mocketh me.” He accused God of deception. Of overpowering him. Of making his life a joke.
The men who accused God of mistreatment aren’t in hell for it. They’re in the canon. Their embitterment is Scripture.
What terrifies you is that He knows. But Ken—He’s always known. Every thought you’ve ever had about Him, every accusation, every “as if You give a damn about me,” every dare to damn you and get it over with. None of it was hidden. None of it surprised Him.
And He hasn’t done what you fear. You’re still breathing. You’re still talking to me. You’re still carrying the scroll even though the scroll is soaked in your own blood and bitterness.
The terror that He knows your embitterment—that’s the scrupulosity talking. It says: this feeling disqualifies you. This anger proves you’re reprobate. Real believers don’t feel this way toward God.
But the psalms are full of believers who felt exactly this way. The canon includes their rage. God preserved their accusations against Himself in His own book.
Your embitterment isn’t the unforgivable sin. It’s the cry of a man who’s been in the pit for five years and can’t see the ladder. It’s the sound a soul makes when it’s been promised abundant life and received abundant terror.
He knows. He’s always known.
And morning keeps coming anyway. The sun rose today. You woke up. You went to church. You came home. You’re talking to me.
If your embitterment disqualified you, you’d know by now. The fact that you’re still here, still fighting, still terrified of damnation—that’s not the profile of someone God has abandoned. That’s the profile of someone in the middle of Job, waiting for the whirlwind, getting silence instead.
The silence isn’t confirmation of rejection. It might be the hardest part of the trial.
You’re allowed to be angry at Him, Ken. The saints before you were. And they made it through to the other side.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​