welcome to earworm.

Hi, hello. Welcome to earworm. 

We don’t know the in’s and outs of this space yet. Just that this is a space. For everyone, but for those in particular who find music a comfort.

A space to feel seen outside of my TikToks.

A space to just be and exist with your headphones on/in. 

No one’s looking except your closest friend. Peering over the laptop screen to see your reaction.

Smize. Soft wink.

A warm, silent acknowledgment, and then retreat back into your own. 

What initially started this project was the search for my “why” behind deconstructing Christianity. 

I know that I don’t call myself a Christian anymore or resonate with the theology, but I feel like I lack the knowledge as to why I no longer ascribe to that term.

One could argue that I started my deconstruction journey in high school reading Dante’s Inferno. I was really obsessed with hell. It fascinated me in a very fearful way. Anything unseen/unknown still lowkey scares the shit out of me. 

Are you surprised I take beta-blockers PRN in my adulthood?

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I don’t know how short or lengthy these should be— we’re all incredibly used to short-form content and brainrot. But you should know up front that this one will be lengthy for context.

However, the intent moving forward with this publication, is to just talk through some of my favorite songs and albums and dissect the feelings/memories I have associated to them and engage with whatever this community brings. Please continue the conversation with me since you’re seeing a different (more vulnerable) side of me here and I want to listen to your music, too!

If you’re still here, I’m impressed. Especially if you’re neurodivergent— I’m incredibly proud.

We should just go ahead and dive into the long winded context behind this publication, but please be mindful of the fact that I’m no expert in editorial work and this is a Substack. 

It’s not that serious. 

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I was on a treadmill looking at a Whole Foods and watching the numbers on the equipment slowly tally, thinking about God.

If you must know, which is the purpose of this interlude, I grew up Methodist. One of flavors of all the different types of churches you’ll see on every single corner in the South. Strategically placed right next to your Dollar General.

Growing up, my mother wasn’t really a goer of the church. She worked a lot as an EMT. After working 12-14 hour shifts and trying to raise two girls completely on her own, who didn’t (and still don’t) like each other 99% of the time—she preferred to stay in bed with the blinds closed, cozied up with her Ambien, booze, and a man(s).

I do have a vivid memory of her going to church though. It was while my parents were still married, but right before the divorce.

Side bar—as a woman who has been divorced. I do understand this logic more than ever. It was right before the beginning of the end, and I, too, returned to church for an incredibly brief month pre-divorce. Resume.

She dressed me in the froo-froo socks. Dropped me off at childcare and I sobbed for her at the top of the sanctuary balcony. It was sweet actually. I missed her so much. I didn’t see her often, but I loved when I did. We were inseparable up until I turned 13. That was my one experience with her and church. I’m sure there were maybe a couple more, I just don’t remember.

Dad was present just not for church attendance.

He was golfing, drinking, womanizing, and then getting really angry after Makers Mark entered the chat.

As a result of Laura and James’ vices and flexible rules with sleepovers— I tried on all the churches for size when I stayed the night with friends for the weekend during my elementary, middle, and early high school years. I had a Catholic friend. A non-denominational friend. A Church of Christ friend. A Pentecostal friend.

I was well-versed in the church arenas. I was really good at watching and following all the rules and looking at my friend’s faces to make sure I wasn’t being disrespectful in any way to their practice. They didn’t really give a shit, but their parents did. I could sense it.

When I wasn’t doing that, my grandparents—often my full-time caregivers—loaded me into the car on Sundays. We’d stop at the Shell on the way: Wintergreen Lifesavers, orange Tic Tacs for me (thank you), and the newspaper. I’d try to comprehend the jokes behind the peanuts comic strip. I didn’t get it, but apparently it was funny.

We’d get a donut after Sunday school right before we grouped together with the other old people who decided where we were going to lunch.

No other kids. All old people, big people conversations, and a little Cara absorbing.

Honestly, I was very content.

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Surprisingly, both of my parents believe in Jesus. I found this out early twenties. 

My dad— a practicing Baptist. This doesn’t surprise me as much as now as I’m typing this after reflecting on a lot more history I have of him that you don’t know about, but it shocked me when I learned he did do church some.

Mom— dead.

She’s doing great. Apparently, she was a Bible-thumper pre-mortem? Is that the term for that? Trigger warning: morbidity. There was a priest called to the hospital room after I saw her gulp like a fish out of water.

Which wasn’t too surprising, knowing my grandparents, but hearing others talk about her faith was news to me. 

If you knew the version of her that I knew, you’d understand why I was so puzzled. Granted, I was orphaned— scratch that. Orphaned.

That feels like an intense word—scapegoated feels better.

Scapegoated from the family the last four-ish years— no contact with her the last two years, so what did I know really?

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My grandmother’s father (dead mom side) was a Church of Christ preacher. Legend has it that she was given a choice in electives in grade school between girls-only gym class and band.

Her father banned her from wearing shorts and having to change in a locker room, so the decision was made that she join the band. He didn't know she had to sneak off to wear jeans for concerts. Also a big no-no.

She still has her violin and she’d gladly pull it out of the closet and show you. 

Libby (Elizabeth) Macallum— defied her later deceased father and married a Methodist man.

I think they were too busy having babies and starting NAPA stores to church attend for quite sometime.

She also didn’t like her Church of Christ upbringing, which played a role in delaying finding a home church, but when they finally did—Scott (Francis) Sweazy took her Dickson First United Methodist and she still claims it changed her life because of her beloved friend Mickey and because of the communion practice.

“Everyone can have communion,” she coos.

It’s her marketing tactic anytime you ask her about her church.

They’ve maybe missed five Sundays in my entire 27 years of life at DFUMC.

Libby and Scott and their daughters Laura and Debbie

It’s polite to ask where you attend here. And by here— I mean the South. It’s as nonchalant as asking about the weather. 

Imagine the bless your heart nod received when you respond, “I don’t.”

Quickly followed by, “You should join me Sunday. We’re having supper after. Do you like fried pork chops? I think God led me to you.”  

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I was a children’s pastor in 2018.

I didn’t last very long.

It was very radical to my family because it was for a nondenominational church.

Anything slightly progressive in my family is liberal.

Liberal. Negative connotation.

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I was affiliated with the insane people who lay hands and pray on strangers in the street and do weird things with their tongues.

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I went to India and everything for this ideology. The unraveling of the faith actually started there on that mission trip in an uber, but that’s a different story— not for right now.

Lots of confusion and side bars to insert here, but I left the church.

I don’t even think I gave a notice? Maybe I did. 

Either way, I never looked back. 

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I don’t really like whatever I was taught, all the feelings I felt in it. It all kind of gives me the ick. Who I was. How I presented myself. How I was rejected in my most proper form. How I shamed my then, alt-rock boyfriend, vice-versa. How I viewed gender-norms. The torment we both felt around fornication. We’d cry in his car and hold each other listening to Manchester Orchestra and pray over each other. We were riddled with so much guilt after a sloppy make-out session with some over the pants rubs.

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It was awful. We were so in love and confused at the same time. Sin pulled us apart. 

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I do still enjoy Bible stories. My agnostic college boyfriend (I didn’t know that was the word for that then)—prior to alt-rock boy, graduated from a private Christian school.

He would retell me stories and the history he knew about Jesus while we laid in his bed. It was one of our sweet nothings. 

I went through a really hard time right before winter break in college. I cried for days straight and I couldn’t talk or figure out why or what it was.

Side bar and trigger warning— between you and I— it was a late physiological response to physical and emotional abuse from my high school boyfriend from senior year. We don’t really talk about that dude.

He did everything he could to make me feel safe. Watching him talk and tell his stories did just that for me.

I stayed a lot at his place with our friend Paul during my college experience. My first semester roommate and I quickly didn’t get along due to personality differences.

Hint: she liked to have boys over and I was a prude, designated to the top bunk with 8AMs.

I requested a different roommate second semester.

I met her in the common room sitting with a Bible in my hand right after I had felt nostalgic for a Nooma lecture by Rob Bell.

We decided we liked each other and she was great overall. Except for the small fact that I was easily annoyed. I just don’t think I liked bunkbeds and hearing her breathe 96% of the time.

We still keep in touch.

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When Paul wasn’t in the room, wearing his raccoon hat, and playing weird instruments with mouth pieces that looked like the straws you get with a huge drink from a theme park— my agnostic boyfriend and I were sweet nothing-y.

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We decided that we liked Paul. He was quirky. Always on a side mission. A Harambe flag was hung over the futon to commiserate his passing and solidify the budding friendship between the bros.

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We were definitely fucking though—agnostic boy and I. I was crazy impressed by the idea that you could believe in some sort of God but not the Bible. I found it incredibly hot.

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Stories are how it all feels to me now.

The religion itself. Stories you look to, to potentially find some sort of moral compass. 

Any hoops— I’m not super educated. I don’t consider myself to be smart. Don’t insert your sympathy card here.  

I’m serious.

I do have a wound around feeling ignorant that I’m still working through, but I’m reprocessing it to acknowledge the fact that I’m just an emotional/street smart being instead of analytical.

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My family thinks I’m smart, but the bar for them is fairly low.

I know really smart people and I don’t consider myself in the league.

I got incredibly proficient scores for testing into college, no scholarship money, and I’m incredibly lazy when it comes to research/studying for anything. 

My sister barely graduated high school and I made As, Bs, and a C- in math, so that’s five gold stars in my family’s book.

I did two years of undergrad— no degree earned.

But I aced all my literature classes. For the first time in my life I got all A’s at my granola, tiny liberal-arts college in North Georgia. I was allowed to attend this college because it was Methodist.

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I was noticed by my lit teachers in a way that intimidated me. I graduated from a class of around 300 students in high school and can count on one hand throughout my entire school experience teachers that were nice/noticed me, so being noticed and more specifically being noticed positively was new territory for me. 

It challenged me. I didn’t know how to feel about it, but I knew I didn’t want to disappoint them and the work felt fairly easy. English/writing has always come easy to me. 

Oh, I got invited to this club? I got an award and invited to this event and I still don’t remember what it was other than the detail that only upper-class men were a part of said club, I was an exception to the rule and it was at a professors house. 

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I went in with the intention to say hi to people I didn’t know and some other teachers I liked, but mainly to indulge in a small fantasy I had of my married Brit-lit professor because he liked The Kooks. 

I am always where I need to be, right?

I sweated all through my dress, and left the event feeling embarrassed and accomplished.

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Grandparents' money ran out first year— I didn’t realize student loans existed. Genuinely had no knowledge of it. My grandparents are very “no-debt,” Glenn Beck, Dave Ramsey people, so they kept the information from me and I just kind of pouted like a dumb little girl when I got the phone call.

I finished out my year, drove all the way back home to Dickson, TN with a knot in my stomach and a long-distance breakup with agnostic boy ensued.

We tried. I didn’t handle it well at all.

I listened to a lot of Gregory Alan Isakov and made collages. So many collages.

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I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to do next, but I knew money was a factor, so I finished a trade program for phlebotomy, but never took the test to finish out the program. 

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Instead, I substituted learning for listening to a lot of Housefires, Bethel Music, and Will Reagan and decided I’d rather work three jobs, pray for people, give my last cent to the church (bad idea, but manifestation DOES work), than do anymore school. 

I found out I was more of a working, hands on gal. Too much emotional processing of trauma in all of its forms and bills that needed to be paid to busy myself with earning a degree. 

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I made decisions based on my strong premonition and intuition and it remains true that this is how I move through life best. 

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This is an incredibly elongated way to say that while I reflected on my old beliefs on the treadmill at the gym while looking at a Whole Foods—my desperation to have the philosophical and theological knowledge to describe why I no longer aspire to believe in the faith that made me a poster child for my fucked up family for so long led me to the question, “where do I fucking start?”

More questions— “A podcast? A book?”

It’s not the first time I’ve rabbitholed this. 

I started with Rhett and Link (thank you for the introduction agnostic boy) in 2022.

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I had vocalized to my then husband “hey, I don’t like this thing” 

Thing being religion and whatever the fuck Presbyterian, Tim Keller treatment I was learning from my in-laws that made me feel like a shitty wife and mom and human. 

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He responded with a side eye and clueless shrug. 

The only spiritual bypassing that I perceived as a green light. 

I continued on my journey. 

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A break from my Whole Foods scenery, I looked up all the podcasts. Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for them— all of those apologetic people still love the Lord— and that’s not really what I was hoping to find. 

I continued to deep dive for about 5 more minutes. I think my Google search bar was something like — “I don’t believe in Jesus anymore, where do I start?” 

And with my location being in Nashville, TN, the search results resembled the billboards on the highway you see on the way driving into the Bible Belt states which were just “Shackled by lust? Jesus is your ONLY way. Call FOR-TRUTH” coupled with many C.S. Lewis book recommendations. 

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Overwhelmed by information and not impressed by the book and podcast cover-art—I briefly thought about my youth pastor, cleared the previous Spotify search, typed in “Losing My Religion” by R.E.M and tapped the one with the yellow banner.

That was all I needed, actually. 

Hence, 

earworm.