The first few weeks, well more like months, brought waves of guilt.  But then, it was nice to be able to sleep in on Sunday mornings and have lazy breakfasts.  It felt rather indulgent.  I thought, "So this is what all of the non-church goers experience each week."  In fact, it was so nice that I started to understand why they would rather stay home than show up for all that fellowship and togetherness that churches purport is so necessary and amazing.  
The initial guilt floods were furthered by my mother's phone ramblings and tirades on my wrongness.  However, there was also a sense of liberation in seeking to explain my new found beliefs to her.  Not that she cared to listen, mind you.  Oh no!  I was wayward and out of line.  Yet, being able to vocalize and give my thoughts a outward path brought resolve.  At several points I tried to go back, but didn't at all feel as though I fit in any longer.  Not to mention that the now previous guilt had been replaced with a burning anger and indignation at the now glaringly obvious inconsistencies. 
I walked out the door and down the stairs 4 years ago.  I really haven't looked back and that is initial guilt is long gone.  I wouldn't go back for anything now.  I believe in my decision.  Yes there has been a cost: emotionally, socially, familial, relationally and perhaps even financially.  Yet, I have never been one to make decisions based upon the potential cost.  I only make bold moves when I believe it is the right thing to do.  That has always been my modus operandi and I have never been one to follow the herd.  The lifelong familiarity of standing alone and apart made my decision easier, I suppose.  My mom believes that I'm a sheep gone astray.  I think that her flock is about to take a nosedive off a cliff and I'm simply one of the lucky ones that got away.  Nonetheless, I'm gone.  I left church.