I don’t like painting. I mean, I do like the result and the smell of a freshly painted house, but I can’t stand the process. It’s a lonely task, and you’d think my mind would be at rest partaking in such meticulousness, brushing each stroke, blending the white hues, angling the bristles, in a sort of satisfying silence — but you see, it’s not the act of painting itself that I despise. It’s the silence I’m afraid of; the stillness that allows my demons to roam freely. With each stroke, it’s as if I invite them to resurface, unwelcome guests crashing the party. Memories, bitter and sharp, claw their way back into consciousness, forming a timeline of the most degrading moments in my life.

And then those slow, smooth strokes turn harder, more erratic, splattering droplets onto my tile floor, wiping them away with my pinky, staining my skin the same way I’ve been tainted all those years ago.

I use degrading because that’s exactly what they were. Dark stains on the fabric of my existence, scenes so repulsive I could never write them down — I’d never confess them to my priest either — because if someone were to connect the dots, I’d be ruined. I’m better off faking my death if it ever hits the fan.

The embarrassment and shame live rent-free in my head, and the further I push them down, the stronger they fight back — waiting for the perfect moment to ambush me. They enjoy catching up with me when things are going right. These shitty reminders of what dirt I used to be — such garbage — never allow me to forget all the wrong I’ve caused myself. Because why should I deserve to be happy now when I was getting off to it back then?

I can try to rationalize it, blame it on youth and ignorance, but deep down, I should’ve known better. I was raised with principles. I grew up level-headed and righteous. Yet, there I was, sinking to depths I never thought possible. So how could young little me do what I did? Because no one was ever going to find out. Secrecy was my shield, my armour against judgment. No one suspected, no one even imagined that I could plummet to such lows, to the bottom of the barrel with the gunk that no one wants.

I held myself to a higher standard, so the mere thought of me engaging in such acts seemed ludicrous — far-fetched — like a plot spun from the wildest movie. That’s the only justifiable answer I can probably give you — that my ability to deceive and manipulate would shield me from any accusations. But the real answer — I wanted every minute of those filthy snippets of my twenties.

Self — condemnation; I guess that’s what I’m dealing with currently. 8 years have passed, maybe a little more. Does it matter? I’m over here battling demons whispering to me all day — ‘You’re worthless. You’re unforgivable. You know what garbage you are? If he ever found out…’ It’s gotten to the point that the only way to shut them the hell up is to avoid any task that requires concentration and silence. Even with writing, the quietness is a breeding ground for spiralling, and I find myself hitting the delete key more often than not, erasing any trace of the evidence that threatens to consume me.

I grew up Orthodox, and we believe that God forgives us when we turn to him for mercy. But just because we receive this forgiveness from Him, do we truly forgive ourselves? I am fully aware of my sins — and they say that’s a good thing. Though I’d rather forget them. Self-condemnation is a deceitful trap. You know why? Because the accusations and nasty words we tell ourselves hold greater power than the mercy of God. And regardless of the forgiveness God gives us, it’s the Devil that prevents us from letting go of these regrets and haunting memories. It’s under this temptation that we allow God to forgive us, but we still can’t forgive ourselves. This is the grip self-condemnation has on me. And I know I have to ignore those whispers inside of me, and listen to the word of God, because that’s what I’m taught to do. God sees our sins, even the ones we hide from ourselves, and if he can find a way to forgive us for the sake of Christ, then we have to believe that his mercy is much stronger than any guilt or remorse we carry on our shoulders.

God is either greater than us, or He isn’t. If he can forgive, so can we. But I haven’t gotten to that point yet. I haven’t even asked God for any mercy because deep down I know how bad things looked back then. I took it on the chin, accepted what I did, and prayed no one would ever know. It was one of those situations that spun so out of control that there was no way out but to pretend like it just never happened. I was deeply disappointed with myself that I couldn’t even speak the truth if I wanted to, because the consequences would be far worse than what I actually did.

You’d think feeling sadness or shame over these sins would be a good indicator to not repeat them.

But I was so spiritually sick that I repeated my actions tenfold. I didn’t try to stop. And that’s what I think about now. God provided me with so many opportunities to pause and think before acting, and in those pauses, the Devil was on my shoulder, handing me a good time. And I took it.

The way Orthodox people view sin is a little different from that of Catholics or Protestants. Sin isn’t this state of guilt, or deep remorse running through our veins; it’s a spiritual sickness, a disease of the soul, that distorts our energy, corrupts the image of God, and deteriorates our potential to become deified in communion with God.

The Biblical Greek term for sin, αμαρτία (amartia), means “miss”; implying that we aren’t aligned with our goals, morality, or living to our full potential. The end goal is a union with God.

Repenting for our sins is not a ‘forgive me, Lord’, and then go to sleep like a baby.

To Orthodox, it means feeling it in your entire body and soul, the madness and fury of our sins. It means changing our way of thinking to reflect a sense of holiness in our way of life.

True repentance takes practice and insight. I’m still not there yet. I find myself praying when my thoughts are eating me up; but that’s the Devil diverting my course, using virtue against me; making me believe I’m engaging in some type of progress, when in fact, I’m going around in circles. I know my progress has to be consistent — for real repentance, for true forgiveness, I have to walk a lifetime with God.

There are times the pressure to tell my story feels overwhelming. I question my words, doubt my worth, and seek this validation from the woman in my mirror. I remind myself that I am not defined by the names I call myself in private. My identity is fluid and multifaceted, and it’s only mine to define. I am who I am, unapologetically and without reservation. Who I was, and what I did all those years ago, is nowhere near who I am today. The only thing I have left to do, is believe that.

I want to share my story with you, but for now, this will be enough. I have to tell God first.