I vaguely remember going into a room with a timber ornate screen that shielded me from the priest I was about to make my confession to. I could see him. I knew who he was. So of course I made up a bullshit sin to tell him. As IF I was going to tell him I’d been thinking about wanting to pash Dennis Walcott behind the sports shed (never happened due to me constantly looking like a boy). Or that I had sworn Fuck approximately 24 times since my last confession. More often than not I would confess I hadn’t been totally respectful to my mother or had been “nasty” to my brother. 3 Hail Mary’s and off I trotted. I bet I was being considered for the next Saint, such was my apparent lack of ability to sin.
I got thinking about the confessions I should have been making, back when I went to Church. Wait, I was booted out of that place when my dad got done for stealing money from the collection plates he had been voluntarily passing around the local Catholic Church for the past 7 years. True Story. I couldn’t make that shit up if I tried.
Back in the 80’s, my brother and I followed my dad to church in Southport, a Catholic Church, every Sunday, some might say religiously, for many, many years because it was what we did. At 5:30pm we started out on the fast walk to Church whilst mum go her only reprieve of the week, watching A Country Practice and relishing the smoke free air.
We would get there, I would go nuts running around the Church car park and buying ten cent cards with Mary on them whilst my Dad and often, my oblivious brother, would be roped in to collecting the money from the devotees. We often used to ask Dad on the walk down, if we would be going to the local RSL or, Rissole as my brother and I called it, after Church. His standard response was “We’ll see”. I now realise “We’ll see” was code for “Depends on how much money I can snare from the collection plate this evening”. How revolting is that? Of course we had no clue. Mum had no clue. And when it all finally came to a head and Mum was made aware, her shame and her despair that my brother and I had been anywhere near this kind of disgusting act, gave her what I realise now, was a nervous breakdown.
So back to confessions. I have one, which I had long forgotten about, but reckon it might be time to get off my chest. It wasn’t a sin as such. But it was nasty. And I am definitely not proud of myself.
I moved out when I was 18, with 3 other guys. All friends and it seemed ideal. We moved into a house in Main Beach costing $55 per week each. It was awesome to start with. Then I split with my boyfriend, their friend too as it happened, and it all changed. One housemate in particular became very narky towards me. We went from being great friends to basically mortal enemies. Ridiculous in hindsight but totally right in the moment.
So Barry, let’s call him Barry, my old friend, now not so much, began to get kind of freakishly lucky with the ladies. So he said. No one ever saw them, but he continuously boasted about these “ladies”.
Here’s where I became someone I am not. Barry was constantly nasty to me. Horrible. All because my ex, his friend, was no longer my boyfriend. Jesus dude, get over it. He couldn’t, so I took revenge.
Valentine’s Day was imminent. Barry’s constant bragging about his conquests continued.
I went out, brought a Valentine’s Day Card and wrote the following:
No one loves quite as much you as much as I do,
Love Barry xx.
And then I sent it via post to our house. Valentine’s Day rolled around; Barry took his mail off the kitchen bench making quite the deal out of an obvious V Day Card. His mates gathered around and Barry, whilst I watched from the corner, read it out loud. Silence. I retreated, so did his friends.
I hit my mark but I felt strangely, terrible and empty. He never realised it was from me. Barry wasn’t the brightest star in the sky. Plus he had more than one frenemy, so to speak.
So Barry, Sorry. I was a bitch. Please let me know how many Hail Mary’s will square this away.
Got any confessions? Anonymous comments welcome.