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Christianity is the ultimate spiritual romance novel for the emotionally dependent. Everything about it reeks of feminine energy—submissive, yearning, tear-soaked devotion to a man who left and promised he’d be back. You’re cast as the bride, the sheep, the child—never the sovereign. You kneel, you obey, you wait. Your identity is built entirely around being chosen, forgiven, and loved by someone greater than you. That’s not strength—it’s cosmic codependency. You don’t become whole; you stay broken and call it humility, waiting for a divine man to come kiss your wounds and tell you you’re still worthy.

This isn’t the religion of warriors—it’s the religion of abandoned wives. You light a candle, stare at the door, and whisper prayers into the dark, hoping your celestial husband returns. You weep over his suffering more than you face your own. You love him because he died, and you keep loving him because he hasn’t come back. The whole structure is feminine submission: loyalty, longing, and eternal emotional service. It flatters weakness, glorifies waiting, and calls surrender strength. No wonder the moment you get called out on it, you lash out like scorned brides. You’re not living a path of power—you’re trapped in the most beautiful dependency ever written.