“The only way to escape the signs was to surrender.
The divine signs came to me through all channels and mediums.
Even the girl in the ill-fitting naughty nun costume on my doorstep Halloween weekend was a message.
This was just another of the many signs barraging me throughout my senior year of college.
Mental illness is complicated like that.
I didnt pack deodorant or shampoo.
What does hygiene matter in a life of interminable celibacy?
I asked my parents on the 10-hour drive from Michigan to the convent.
Tears fell as the teller rang up the deodorant, shampoo and Oke Doke popcorn.
The reality of my impetuous move was finally settling in.
Their shock was always evident: I mean, look how sexy I am, they seemed to say.
You know I played football, just like you guys, they would say.
I shopped at the mall.
And then the talks would lead up to the moment.
At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a priest, theyd explain.
The moment is what sent a bomb exploding in my gut.
Clearly, it didnt quite matter whether onewantedto be a nun, it happened to you.
Certainly the moment would come for me too.
The signs started appearing sometime during my senior year of college.
I knew Gods arrangements couldnt be escaped, just postponed.
I finally got a response in my job search from a small Catholic newspaper in Kansas City, Missouri.
That was the final sign, the one that knocked the walls down.
I was perfectly aware I had mental health issues.
But it was my sophomore year of college when I was raped that these issues were exacerbated.
I denied the trauma for months before finally sharing with my parents.
Very few minutes passed without my mind consumed with impending doom.
The only way to escape the signs was to surrender.
She was all business, explaining their expectations so she could get back to gardening.
The days began with morning prayer and then breakfast.
Then off to work.
The Sisters of Charity have a twofold mission of sanctity and service.
Most of the sisters were teachers or worked in womens or homeless shelters.
After work, there was dinner, which we each took turns cooking.
As a desperately extroverted person, I was eager to forge friendships with the sisters.
But there was none to be had.
The sisters I lived with were serious about their work, and very insular.
Feeling the sting of their perceived indifference, I became more silent, reserved.
I stopped sharing my opinions or telling jokes.
These sisters werent cruel or unholy.
Even in the convent, they found me.
It was time to go.
But at home, I found myself dreading my return.
Each day, I broke down crying at unexpected moments.
I couldnt make myself get on that Kansas City flight.
I still believed I was supposed to be a nun, but maybe not there, not that order.
I sent the sisters an email.
They were incredibly loving and understanding and, Im sure, not in the least surprised.
My mom and I picked up my things and made the drive back home.
A year later, I went on a backpacking retreat in the Rocky Mountains.
The French monk who guided the backpackers, Fr.
Antoinne, was an odd yet magnanimous leader, like a contemplative Mr. Bean.
Antoinne was behind me.
Here it was, another moment.
He asked me what I hoped for in my life like a sixth-sensed warlock.
I dont know, I said with a heavy sigh.
I think Gods probably just going to make me be a nun, so Ill probably do that.
He looked at me, startled for a second, then burst out laughing and grabbed my cheeks.
Youre not going to be a nun.
Youll be a wife, youll be a mother and Ill pray for you every day.
Shaking his head, he walked up to the peak, meeting up with the rest of our group.
I followed as we scaled the side of a wall as the sun rose.
I wasnt sure I could believe him.
It didnt seem possible.
Too good to be true.
But the permission in a strangers startling laughter was something I savored at the top of that peak.
There was something that took years of therapy and medication to realize.
He was tall, handsome, humble, reserved.
Wait, he said.
Are you talking about Fr.
But here was that damn heartbeat of mine quickening, those familiar goosebumps flowering up my arms.
Andrew was a confusing wrench to throw into a nest of ticks and neurotic thought spirals.
My post-assault self had told me I couldnt trust myself or my desires.
And it is a very good life.
This article originally appeared onHuffPost.
