[​CW: This story contains religious themes and discussion of mental health. Please do not use my comments section to argue about religion, this is simply an impulsive creative writing project.]


“And how does that make you feel?”

“It hurts. It hurts more than you’ll ever know, Dr. Rice.”

“You can call me Sandra if you’d like. When did this all start?”

He leaned forward into his chair, pressing his forefinger and thumb into the crook of his nose bridge as the pain grappled with the shriveled remains of his heart. “I don’t even remember. I’ve been God as long as I can remember and time is completely meaningless at this point.”

Dr. Rice sighed and set her notepad aside. “Sir, if I may, I think this is a larger issue than something that should simply be noted down and responded to according to my training. Talk to me, heart to heart. We’re equals here.”

Rage boiled from deep within somewhere unknown, overtaking him rapidly as he shook with nought but wrath and burst violently forward out of his seat. The air rippled around him slightly and sweat evaporated from the forehead of his therapist. “EQUALS?!” he accused, “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU STAND BEFORE?!”

“Please, sit down, Mr. Barabbas,” she looked at him calmly, “We established early on your importance to the universe, but here, in this room, we’re on equal grounds. You may be God, and I may be your therapist, but here and now, neither of us is any more important than the other.”

God composed himself for a second, and sat back into his seat. “Abba, please. Bar Abbas is my son’s title. It’s like how you’d attach the suffix -son to someone who was the son of their father.”

“Of course. My apologies, Mr. Abba-”

“Just. Just Abba, please. Or Elohim, if you’d like.”

“I think Elohim will do nicely, if that’s okay with you.”

“Yes;” he wiped tears that had fallen from his eyes unexpectedly, “Yes, that’s okay. Thank you.

I just.

I don’t know where to begin. There’s not really a defined beginning.”

“Then let’s start with a concern you voiced earlier in our sessions; your discomfort with being God.”

He tensed up slightly. God could feel stress overtaking him again, but this time, not with malice: but with melancholy.

“I’m… I’m not the only one, you know. I had a family, but I haven’t spoken with any of them in so long. I don’t know what I’m doing. And frankly, neither did they, but… I just wish I wasn’t so lonely.”

“Is this why you created life?” Dr. Rice inquired. “To help soothe your loneliness?”

God sighed and leaned forward, pressing his elbows into his thighs as he planted his head into his palms. “It’s not that simple; it’s never that simple! You can’t possibly understand.” He licked his lips nervously; they felt so chapped - when was the last time he drank water? “You literally do not have the capacity to understand.”

Dr. Rice sat for a moment, pondering quietly.

“Then give me the capacity to understand. You have the capability.”

Tears welled to his eyes again and they fell without grace; he could no longer stop them. “You’re going to be so, so mad at me. Are you sure?”

She braced herself, admittedly unsure of what was to come. “I’m sure.”

The air froze, time like molasses, as the heat sucked away and light faded more and more blue until it was black, and suddenly, Dr. Rice felt a great void open within her that rapidly filled with overlapping memories of thousands, possibly millions, of lifetimes worth of thoughts and experiences.

Dr. Sandra shook in her seat for a moment, unsure how to respond. She cleaned her glasses off gently and quietly replaced them. She leaned forward in her seat, empathy washing over her; “How many times have you created a universe?”

God cried in his seat, ashamed. “I lost count. I lost count so long ago.”

“Why do you keep sacrificing your daughters and other children? What are you trying to protect people against; truly?”

“I didn’t think about the consequences of my actions. I just…,” he wiped his face as sweat beaded at his temples. “I don’t want just anyone to end up in my kingdom. But I don’t know how to filter properly. And after a while, I feel horrible. I just want to give them an outlet.”

“But why your daughters? Why your children? And why your only son this time?”

Something inside God broke. “To punish myself.”

“For what?”

“For being a terrible God. I’m not qualified for this. I’m so scared, Sandra. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Do you feel like you deserve this pain?”

He shook as mucus dribbled from his nose; it felt so disgusting, but he was crying so hard that there was nothing he could do about it. “Yes. I’ve screwed up everything over and over again. I can’t do anything right and I don’t know if anyone actually loves me anymore.” He looked up at the ceiling, trying desperately to stop crying. “I’m a terrible father.”

Dr. Rice placed a comforting hand on God’s shoulder. “Sometimes, when we’re scared and alone, we take on overwhelming tasks without really understanding how to do them.

We feel obligated to take on projects bigger than ourselves, and we try to take comfort in them when no comfort surrounds us. You’re not alone, Elohim. While your experience is truly unique, thousands of people experience similar woes every day. It’s okay to be upset.

You can’t undo the past. You may uniquely be able to change the things you’ve done, but those memories will still haunt you. All we can do now is learn from our mistakes, consider our experiences, and try to move on.” She cleared her throat, “I believe you may be depressed, Elohim, and you definitely have at the minimum PTSD, perhaps even CPTSD. Do you know what that is?”

God sniffled. “Yeah… I don’t understand how even after as long as I’ve lived… and being literally both omnipotent and omniscient… that somehow you can still act as a common sense filter for myself.”

A small smile tweaked at her lips slightly. “That’s my job, Elohim. I’m here to help people - even if you are God.

I think that, instead of starting over this time… you should let this universe play out into its heat death. Take care of it, protect it, nourish it, and cultivate it. Let it propagate its own life if its members find a way to leave their universe.

As a father, it hurts to see your children grow. It hurts to see how your mistakes affect them, and I can understand how frustrating it must be for your followers to align more with your original teachings, rather than what you taught your son to spread, and others still distorting your word entirely for their own profit and exploitation of others.

I understand that the estrangement of your family has left you alone, but you made the choice to be a father, and some day, you have to let your children go. You have to let them grow up. You have to let them mature.

I’ll die someday, and you’ll keep going, but that’s okay. I’m not meant to live forever, and it’s something I’ve come to terms with.”

He’d finally stopped crying. God wiped the dribble from his nose. He looked up at Dr. Rice, almost making eye contact, but more staring beside her eyes. “So what do I do now?”

“I think, for your own good, you should look into having your people counsel your actions, so that you aren’t operating alone. Especially other parents.

It’s going to be okay, but you need to know that sometimes it’s best to ask for help. Being God doesn’t mean you have to be on your own. People still love you. I love you.

Despite your mistakes, you’ve still tried your best. You’ve done horrible things, and people aren’t obligated to forgive you for them, and that’s okay. You’ve learned from them, and you’ve finally reached out, and now you know how not to repeat them.

We’ve made so much progress today, Elohim.”

A nervous smile twitched across God’s face as a final tear rolled down. “Thank you, Sandra. I… I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I froze it, admittedly. I’d run out of time for today’s session and didn’t want to leave.”

“It’s okay. I’m proud of you.”

…

“Therapy for a God,” by Holly Donovan