I couldn’t stomach having to kneel down every Sunday, whisper ‘I am not worthy, but only say the word and I shall be healed’

As a child, I had what some might describe as a religious fervour, writes Louise O’Neill

I loved going to Mass, and felt sanctified when receiving Holy Communion. I had a collection of illustrated Bible stories that I read every night before bed, keeping a keen eye out for the Devil whom I was certain was biding his time before he tempted me into sin. (I wouldn’t succumb, of course, that was for the less devout.) I served as an altar girl, asked for a missal

as a present for my ninth birthday, and, after a trip to Fatima when I was 10, gave serious consideration to the possibility of becoming a nun one day. I also prayed/begged that I would be lucky enough to experience visions and speak in tongues, which, let’s be honest, seemed much easier than actually learning a foreign language from scratch. All in all, I was the ideal Catholic child — devoted, committed, and zealous.