Losing My Religion

What happens when we deconstruct ourselves and remove the trappings of identity? I've begun the painful journey of realising that I might not be famous to God or anyone else for that matter.

When I was nine years old, I believed.

I remember lying on my bed with my legs up the wall, and I had a very clear thought, “I am going to get into a course or a university that is hard to get into.” That was it. That was the whole thought, and it filled my little being with certainty. What I didn’t know was the rest of it. My dubious high school career hadn’t started, and neither had puberty with all of its soul-destroying potential. I never forgot, though. I often wondered when my great academic career would begin, but I never doubted it would.

My auspicious journey wasn’t off to a great start when I left high school with the minimum qualification. I left home soon after and launched head-first on a trajectory of self-destruction. I worked, at least. The share market during the eighties was a hedonistic place to hang out, and somewhere I could hide poor choices in the toe of my white stilettos. Redundancy followed the share market crash a few short years later. I gladly accepted the money and headed for some bright Australian lights, but none that resembled a tertiary institution.

I think back to my time in Sydney and shake my head. I was rudderless. I had no fucking idea what I was doing with my life. Selling drugs and robbing a bank would have fitted into my lifestyle. It was that bad. Low-level crime continued when I moved to Hawaii with my spur-of-the-moment boyfriend. I certainly wasn’t inundated with offers of entry to prestigious study programmes. But my nine-year-old self never gave up on me, and her prophecy eventually came to pass. I returned to New Zealand after screwing up my life as much as I could and decided to look for God; surely they knew what this mess was all about?

I failed to find God, but I met some godly people while I tried, and one of them said something to me that changed the course of my life, “You would make a great nurse Melissa.”

Without giving it too much thought, I applied for nursing school the next day; such is the power of someone believing in you. The head of school granted me entry, albeit with a caustic reminder of my worth, “I wouldn’t ordinarily accept someone like you onto our programme, but five people haven’t turned up, and we need to fill the spaces.” Serendipity and my inner prophet-child had aligned the planets, but they couldn’t do much about what people thought of me.

To the surprise of many, I completed my nursing studies but hadn’t been working long before restlessness got the better of me, and I took off overseas again. I’m still unsure if my perpetual quest is to search for the meaning of life or to run from it.

A short time into my nursing career, I became mindful of how oppositional I was. I questioned everything—all the time. No one loved it, and I started to wonder if I was just a frustrated doctor. I decided to try and get into medical school. My initial application was rejected with no explanation. I tracked down every last person responsible for my declined application and made a case against whatever reason they gave. It worked. I received an apology and put through to the interview stage. My ability to talk up a good story worked, and I again secured entry via a lesser-known route. At points in life such as this, I am grateful for my righteous defiance.

The rest should be history, but unfortunately, medicine hasn’t assuaged my restlessness or explained the meaning of life. It has, however, given me respectability, which was lacking in my youth. A first-class ticket for societal acceptance helped me build a life of relative privilege for myself and my family. I have always kept the title nearby so I could use it if needed, usually in conjunction with an opinionated outburst about the state of humanity or the environment. The truth is, my medical career was my armour and my proof to the world that I was an okay human. All very well until I left medicine. The problem with relying on external rulers to affirm your worth is the existential angst when they are no longer available. In other words, who am I if I am not a doctor? I know that anybody who cares about me will list my attributes and achievements and tell me to pull my head in, BUT that doesn’t change the process. Facing up to the fact that reinventing myself might be a monumental failure is quite a head-fuck, regardless of all the fantastic accolades my people might give me.

As a human, I am a strange combination of bolshy assertiveness and crushing insecurity. I call ‘foul’ early and loudly to an oppressive regime but then list wildly as each arrow fired in retaliation lands in my body. This translates as a painful way to show up in the world. My wife tells me I am also the last man standing for a cause, and it breaks her heart to see my pain when I continue to believe in something that everyone else has lost their stomach for. My education is something I rightfully wield during the fight for good, and it is the main reason I give my daughters why education is crucial. My insistence that they go to university almost caused them to rebel. My explanation for my pushy parenting on this topic was that I had very nearly missed out. So how do I explain to them what I am doing now?

During a recent family break, we had a gratitude session. We went around the table, and everyone had a turn saying what they appreciated about each person - it was a transformative experience. My daughters all said amazing things, and I gratefully learned that my children saw me in all the ways I hoped they would. I felt at that moment that I could die feeling whole and actualised. One of my daughters said, “…you have always looked after us, but you have always looked after yourself as well, and you never stop growing; even though you’re a successful doctor, you’re still thinking about what might be next.” I should have had that tattooed on my heart at the time because positive self-reflection is so fleeting. I know my family admires me for chucking it all in, getting in a van, and driving away, but I no longer know who I am. Privileged angst, some might say, and I would agree with them.

Taking time to sift through the midden of your existence isn’t for the faint-hearted. I shamefully admit that I have occasionally missed the busyness that prevented this depth of self-analysis. I pick up empty shells and turn them over, wondering why I thought each choice I made was a good use of my one sweet life. And then there is the age thing. Too old to start, too young to stop - how long is an acceptable period of navel-gazing? Fuck, this space is a minefield.

The problem with starting something new is the refresher course for imposter syndrome that it offers. It is all very well to have a dream to write a book, but when you finally start writing, the rubber hits the road. The first three months were fuelled by the dam bursting in my soul. I had finally made space to say what I wanted—still buoyed by my bravery to leave the thing that identified me…until I wasn’t. My words slowed, my self-belief waned, and I can no longer see the mooring of my medical degree. I feel like I now have to decide whether I row back to shore or trust that as I float further into the mist, everything will make sense.

The lyrics of the song Losing My Religion by R.E.M have danced around me while I write this post, I’ll leave them here for readers who have similar growing pains to me at the moment. I think the “you” in this song is God, the future, another self, the meaning of life, or all of them.

Oh life is bigger
It's bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no I've said too much
I set it up

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spot-light
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no I've said too much
I haven't said enough

I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try

Every whisper, of every waking hour
I'm choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt, lost and blinded fool, fool
Oh no I've said too much
I set it up

Consider this
Consider this the hint of the century
Consider this the slip
That brought me to my knees, failed
What if all these fantasies come
Flailing around
Now I've said too much

I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try

But that was just a dream
That was just a dream

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spot-light
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no I've said too much
I haven't said enough

I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try

But that was just a dream
Try, cry, fly, try
That was just a dream
Just a dream
Just a dream, dream