An excerpt from
A Nun's Diary
by Ann Diamond
I did not like being married to God.
Often I came home and found him occupied with something absurd: hammering little nails into strips of tin. Nothing on the stove. Facing him there in the kitchen, I was frightened by the emptiness, the cold, his oppressive hunger, my own emptiness and inadequacy.
Sitting there in the evenings I saw his apathy and hostility, saw how quickly I had turned into a meaningless object, a spot on his retina, something he had taught himself not to see.
The dead routines, the grim self-consciousness, the shortlived relief of laughter subsiding into another painful silence. The crushing weight of his constant presence. A weird Hell that only he could have invented.