a wolf at the table

i just finished reading my third Augusten Burroughs novel (Running with Scissors, Dry). i LOVE him. i also really love this passage from the book. a little unexpected atheism creeped up on me!
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At home my father saw me kneeling before my mattress. I seldom knelt when I talked to God. kneeling is for people who aren’t friends with him, I thought. Kneeling was formal. Kneeling was for guests. You would kneel if you weren’t certain. Kneeling was wanting and showing, not knowing and believing. That’s just what I thought, at least.

But I was kneeling that night because I needed so much, so desperately. And what if I was wrong? What if kneeling was merely good manners? Like never putting your elbows on the table, the way my grandmother Carolyn taught me.

“Augusten, what are you doing down on your knees like that?” my father asked disdainfully.

I turned around as I stood up. I sat on my bed. “Nothing.”

He parked his fists on his hips and asked incredulously, “Son, were you praying?”

The sheer disappointment on his face made my own cheeks burn. “A little,” I admitted.

“Oh, son,” he said, rolling his eyes and lightly shaking his head from side to side. “Jesus Christ, Augusten. You’re much too old for this praying business, much too old.”

His eyes continued to bore into me as if the full magnitude of my dishonor was only just beginning to be revealed.

He continued. “Praying is something little kids do. Son, it’s like writing a letter to Santa. Now, you wouldn’t sit down at your desk and write a letter to Santa anymore, would you? Praying is just exactly the same thing. You’re old enough now where you have to understand that if you want something in life, you are responsible for taking care of your needs yourself.”

Boldly, I said, “But you were a priest.”

He didn’t shift position, but I sensed a change, a certain tensing of his body. “Well, no. That’s technically not correct. I wasn’t a priest. I was a preacher.” He waved his hand in the air to dismiss the distinction. “Son, there is nobody in life who is going to do anything for you. There isn’t a God in any traditional sense; a man up there in the sky who grants wishes like a magic genie or a wizard.” He laughed softly, even contemptuously. “Is that what you really believe, son? That there’s an all-knowing something or other up there in the sky with a magic wand who’s going to get you a new record player or whatever it is you’re asking for?”

I had been on my knees, moving my lips along with the silent prayer, because what I was asking for was that important.

God, please take my father away. Please make him leave. I am very afraid that he’s going to do something bad. there’s something wrong with him. And I am very worried that my mother and I won’t make it. she used to say he was dangerous and I didn’t understand. But now I do. If death is the only answer, please take him. If he doesn’t hurt me, I’m afraid I might hurt him. I’ve become quite good with the rifle, you know. I’m sure you’ve seen me. Unless you think I’m the one that’s bad and then you can take me. I won’t be mad at you.

When I spoke to my father my voice came out low and soft, almost a whisper. “I don’t really believe in a God that gives you new ice skates and stuff.” I kept to myself then when I ate vanilla frosting straight from the can, I could feel god standing right beside me like a real best friend, watching and smiling and wishing he had a mouth.

My father stepped forward and slapped me on the shoulder, a rare and shocking instance of physical contact. “Okay, son, all right,” he said and walked out of my room. Without having to watch him, I knew for a fact that as he walked down the hall and into the kitchen, he turned off each light switch as he passed it. He then checked all the burners on the stove, even though nobody had cooked a thing all day -- I’d had cold cuts from the package for dinner, pickles from a jar. Next, he would walk into the living room and peer at his thermometer-barometer unit, which was bolted to the wall. he’d repeat the figured in his head until he made it back into the kitchen where he would write them down on the top page of his diary. Next, he would pour himself a glass of vodka and carry it into the living room. He would sit in his rocking chair in the dark.

I didn’t know if it was because of what he said or just that I was getting older, but I soon stopped feeling God standing right beside me everywhere I went. I stopped talking to him when I was alone in the woods or under the bridge looking for diamonds among the river stones. I stopped asking God to protect me.

I came to think that maybe God was what you believed in because you needed to feel you weren’t alone. Maybe god was simply that part of yourself that was always there and always strong, even when you were not.

And if I put everything in God’s hands, wasn’t that a cop-out? If I didn’t get what I wanted I could use God as an excuse, I could say, “He didn’t want me to have it.” When, in fact, maybe I hadn’t worked hard enough on my own.

If I wanted to be free of my father, it wasn’t up to some man in the sky. it was up to me.