‘You considered becoming a nun.' The 11 things you know if you grew up in a Catholic family.

As an adult who grew up culturally Catholic, my primary emotion is guilt closely followed by shame.

This is probably unsurprising, given that I - according to Christian doctrine - was born with original sin. Which seems kinda heavy for a baby but okay.

You see, apparently a really long time ago, a snake (??) told a naked lady to eat an apple, and she did it. Mostly because she was hungry but also because when a venomous animal tells you to do something, you listen. Her naked husband also ate it, and humanity inherited the consequence of such a horrid act.

So, yeah. I'm guilty. Constantly. I'm also ashamed of myself and all my wants and/or desires. 

Is this the fault of the Church? A little bit, yes. But more specifically, it's a byproduct of a very specific type of Catholic upbringing - one where there were crucifixes everywhere and Dad got mad when you used the Lord's name in vain and you only half-listened to bible verses, but never forgot the one that said no one was allowed to touch you when you had your period. 

It turns out, there are certain experiences you only understand if you grew up as a repressed Catholic. And at the risk of offending God himself, here they are. 

Sex makes you feel weird still.

Sexuality? Ew. God doesn't like it. 

You have sex for one reason and one reason only and that is to have babies and don't you dare take pleasure in it you naughty gewl. 

All that sexual repression has now made me a prude and I hate it. Everyone's on Instagram talking about their favourite vibrator and I'm like haha what does that do haha what's that for haha where do you put it.

You're genuinely terrified of stigmata.

At some point during my Catholic primary school education I went down a stigmata rabbit hole, and then the movie Stigmata came out and boom: I was convinced. It was only a matter of time until the crucifixion wounds of Jesus Christ started to appear on my body. 

Do you know what it feels like to study your wrists and feet for puncture wounds?? DO YOU?

It ain't right. 

You keep finding religious trinkets.

In the bathroom at my parents' house, there's a tiny sculpture of the Last Supper. 

No one knows where it came from, but it will never be thrown out. Because when you grew up Catholic, you're used to trinkets materialising out of thin air. 

Rosary beads. Crucifixes. Bibles. Laminated prayers. A chain with an image of St Anthony attached. 

They're everywhere and they cause clutter but also chaos. 

You're mad you never got to use your Confirmation name. Anywhere. 

I spent months contemplating that decision. MONTHS. 

Like most people, I had very strict criteria about the saint's name I would choose. Was it a pretty name? Did she die in a dramatic way? Was she the patron saint of something fun?

And you know what I'm never asked for, on any paperwork? My Confirmation name. 

And thank God because I made a terrible choice.

There was a moment where you considered becoming a nun.

Maybe it was longer than a moment. 

But the idea of living with a bunch of women, not having to think about what to wear, and focusing exclusively on being a good person felt like a... vibe.

In all honesty, nuns were ahead of their time in terms of mindfulness and living a simple, spiritual life. The schedule for meditation retreats in Bali are eerily similar to a nun's life. 

Guys I think I still want to be a nun. 

You still get an urge to give something up for Lent.

I once gave up television for Lent and Mum said I had strong will power. Ever since then, I have shown absolutely no sign of self-discipline and it fills me with shame. 

So every year, about six weeks before Easter, I tell myself I'll give something up. 

Chocolate, maybe. Instagram? Terrible reality television? 

Then I forget about it and next minute I'm eating Easter eggs and feeling God's judgment. 

You remember making up sins for confession because you were only a kid and the worst thing you’d ever done was biting your brother for reasons you still can’t articulate.

Why did we... do this. 

No part of me understands why we had to confess to a priest as children. When we hadn't done anything wrong, except for the really naughty kid who threw a rock through a neighbour's window but somehow I don't think he was being honest about that. 

I do, however, remember being very upset when I learnt that women couldn't be priests, because what if I wanted the gossip?? What if I wanted to sit there and hear everyone's sins?

I'd never known such injustice.  

You're not really into physical affection.

Again, the byproduct of intense sexual repression. 

But shaking hands at church was as close as you got to other people. And you'd like it to remain that way.

In fact, even shaking hands is awkward because you never knew if you'd go to shake someone's hand and they'd actually be intending to shake someone else's, or when the priest would interrupt with ENOUGH NOW. THAT'S ENOUGH PEACE BE WITH YOUS. 

And then you'd be left hanging. 

When you go to church now, you're excited for snack time (Communion).

Okay, I do think it's quite clever that the Church realised their services were quite long and needed a snack and wine break. 

In the few times I've been to mass in the last few years, I eagerly await the little biscuit the priest hands out, even though it tastes like cardboard.

I am, however, conscious of not breaking it in half when it sits on the roof of my mouth, because it's Jesus' body and you gotta be respectful, etc.

You still pray to St Anthony when you lose something.

I'm sorry but I feel like he knows where it... is. 

St Anthony is the patron saint of lost things, and growing up I was always told to ask him for help when I lost my school hat, shoes, books, cat, and so on. 

It's only as an adult that I've learnt he's also the patron saint of amputees, animals, Brazil, elderly people, horses, oppressed people, poor people, pregnant women, and shipwrecks and sir, pls pick a niche. 

In fact, when you're really desperate, you still pray. And say things like OKAY SOZ FOR DISAPPEARING FOR A DECADE BUT IF YOU MAKE THIS HAPPEN, I PROMISE I'LL GO TO CHURCH.

(You never go to Church).

But you still have a weird sense that there's someone there to help when things go wrong. Which I guess is the benefit of organised religion? 

As someone who grew up as a repressed Catholic, I'll always feel like no matter what I do, there's an old man with a long grey beard sitting in the sky, exasperated by my behaviour and generally disappointed in me. 

And same, mate. Same. 

For more from Clare Stephens, you can follow her on Instagram or TikTok.