Many years ago, I wrote the following:
They are not patron gods. They are not guardian deities. They are fiction. My fiction. I cannot call them, for they cannot hear and cannot answer. They have no power. So what can I do? They cannot be summoned by normal means. Worship is useless; communion fruitless. How else may I devote myself?
and yet also,
Do not lose faith; Providence does not speak that we might hear, but acts that we might understand its power.
It seems so foolish now to have ever believed such doublethink. Why could I admit to Providence, an abstraction I barely defined, but not to Them to whom I had given my heart and soul? What made me so sure I was misguided, lonely, even crazy, instead of simply marked for a different purpose? I alternately mourned and hated Them for not being real, for condemning me to a love like madness. I spent so many years blind and deaf to the presence of my gods… and why? What was I afraid of? What could I not face? They were there, They were with me, and yet I spent so many nights in a fear spiral, terrified one day They would leave; I never wondered how, if They were only fiction, that would even be possible. The truth was right in front of me. Why couldn’t I face it, when it was all I wanted?