For most of my life I played the part of the Good Christian Girl. On the inside, I questioned it all.

This began at fourteen. I kept a blog, so occasionally I would post an essay I thought harmless, like “What is Truth?” But after feedback from my friends, I stopped, tired of hearing about how dangerously close I was to ‘falling off the deep end.’

At sixteen, I reformed. I wore girl’s clothes, carried a purse and a frilly Bible, everything to convince myself and others that Jesus was my man. I felt the euphoria after singing at church or a deep conversation at Bible study. I was going to marry a good Christian man, have good Christian kids, and live happily ever after, because I was a good Christian girl.

At nineteen I left Raleigh and went on a novel writing retreat in Oregon. For once, I was around people who didn’t require my facade — except I couldn’t simply toss it. Christianity was my security and I made it known, arguing null points out of duty — but secretly? All I wanted was to finally speak a thought all my own.

Back in Raleigh, I unraveled. I hadn’t been chasing God; I’d been chasing happiness and acceptance. I was using Christianity like a drug, because it had been marketed to me as one. Christian kids who fall off the bandwagon are often labeled as lost causes and essentially shunned. Could I be the next to go?

I couldn’t stay in Raleigh; everything haunted me. I left and went to New York to work at a Unitarian Universalist summer camp, where I discovered two things: I am an introvert, and there are people who don’t care what you do or don’t believe.

I returned to Raleigh, attempting to maintain a balance of belief in God and science, and a participation in Christianity with secular ideals. This kept most people happy while I continued processing internally.

It began to crumble before I was ready as I saw my good Christian boyfriend use faith to manipulate me emotionally and physically. Going to church was deeply irritating my depression and anxiety. Panic attacks and self-mutilation became a post-church ritual.

It finally dawned: trying to make religion fit me was the problem.

I did not have to be a Christian.

I am not a Christian.

And it is okay. I am okay.

I stopped pretending. I tried to ease out of churchgoing, but stopped altogether because the anxiety and panic attacks persisted.

I moved from Raleigh for good; my soul began to heal as I left behind every pressure, every trigger.

I am not 100% better.

But in this journey, I have learned there’s no quick fix place, state of mind, food, drug, experience. I am human in an imperfect world. I think I believe in God: the God I see in the world, people, nature, in everything beautiful and every moment of hope. Regardless, sometimes I still ask my mother to pray — just in case.