Catholic. Fascinating word. If you go back, far, far into the history of the English language, 'catholic' means 'universal'. It was an adjective to describe something, anything, that could be applied to everyone, everywhere. Water was a catholic liquid. Love was a catholic emotion. That sort of thing. That's what Catholicism was originally intended to be, of course. The Universal Religion. As though all humankind could *ever* completely agree on anything as pliable as religion. Catholicism, however, had and does have one thing going for it that most religions don't, something that keeps converts and originals stuck to the path of the straight and narrow, wether they will or no. Guilt. Have you ever felt anything like this before? I doubt it. It's a burning sensation, deep in your gut, irremoveable. It starts in your belly when you're no more than two or three years old, slowly growing, as they teach you more and more of what a sinner you are, how inherently evil, how God shouldn't even turn your way, yet he does. Of Hell and Purgatory, quoting the Children of Fatima, who saw Our Lady, "and souls shall fall into Hell and Purgatory as snowdrops fall from the night sky." The Guilt doesn't attack the pious as it does the others. The many and numerous others, who have pointed out the flaws and inconsistencies of dogma, who go to follow The Power That Is in different forms, or leave the realm of religion entirely. Those others who refer to themselves as 'recovered Catholics', knowing full well how their psyches have been affected in many devious ways from as soon as they could understand language. These others, kicking and screaming during the day, must face the quiet night alone, with a small, insidious voice from the back of their heads destroying all their conviction. "But what if you're wrong?" it whispers, frightened. "What if your wrong and you've doomed yourself to hell and you will suffer for all your days? Shouldn't you just maybe believe? Go to church tommorrow, go to confession, pray for your sins, because what if you're WRONG??" and the voice shouts the last word, twisting your spine and your neck as you thrash to be free of it. You can't be. Always, always, you will doubt and think maybe, maybe, you are wrong. It isn't something that can be removed by logic. It can't be removed by strong belief in a different faith, no matter how true that belief is. It fights a guerilla war, subsiding as you argue against it, making you believe that you won. And as soon as you stop, relax, try to just bask in your peace instead of striving to maintain it, it returns with gut- wrenching, psyche-deforming certainty. You. Are. WRONG. And you will burn for it.

So don't look at me, annoyed. Don't just roll your eyes and say, "But you know better now, what's the problem?" Don't make empty promises of driving back the voice, of how you'll make sure it never comes back to haunt me. You *can't*, don't you see? This guilt is a part of me, always will be, as much a part as my voice and my thoughts and my love for you. In all religious wars, this was the trump card Catholicism held, keeping it's follower's against their will, because how can I claim to be free of it when it's guilt consumes so much of my energy, my thought? Don't judge me, don't call me weak. Don't tell me to just get over it. This isn't a matter of getting over, a matter of being under. This is *me*, an integral part, that I will never be quite rid of. What can you do for me? You can give me time. It will always be there, but... it can get smaller. If I continue to fight, it might back down. A little bit. And shrink until it's a nagging thought that I have during old age, brushed aside with the knowledge it will come back that night. But still, brushed aside.

Because the only, really, truly universal part of Catholism is the guilt.