It is my experience that those who have endured a Roman Catholic education are most repelled by God and farthest away from finding Him.
Roman Catholicism is a manmade interpretation of God, delivered by intermediaries - priests.
True Christianity has to do with just you and God getting together and having a chat. No religion, no intermediaries, just you and Him.
Please, on no account put any faith in either me or my opinions. However, if you detect within them some truth, then may I point you to the source of that truth - my Father, God.
Always, you must arrive at your own conclusions. No-one else's research or experience can ever replace your own. No-one else can dictate another's need or tell them how it should be met. These are matters for the individual. All I can do is point you in the direction of where I have found satisfaction on every level of human existence. But whether or not you choose to to either look or go there is your choice alone.
I'm sure you will be forgiven. And if no-one else does, I do.
Edited to add:
Your post reminded of the falsity of Roman Catholicism and how I expressed it in a poem I wrote a while back (and, yes, I'm sorry about all the poetry I have resorted to in this thread, but sometimes it encapsulates in a condensed form what can barely be committed to paper, never mind articulated. It can sometimes express the otherwise inexpressible.)
Perhaps it may mean something to you.
I was fifteen when the Christian Brothers
folded their hands and fumbling fingers.
Brother Mulholland gave me a one-way
train ticket to London, our motherâ€™s old
address and a parting grope. I dug my nails
into my calluses and cursed him for his love
of the rod and young boys. I discovered
our big brother had been spared
these monkish habits. God knows how
but heâ€™d got our father home from the asylum
where heâ€™d been put after swinging that axe
at the butcher. Theyâ€™d used electric shock
treatment. He could barely speak
when I saw him. Our mother was shit-scared
of the six-foot-six zombie. Wouldnâ€™t let him
have a fork for his food, never mind
a knife. Left him all day, staring, alone
with the cats in the stinking parlour. She even
made him sleep in that pissed-on chair. Heâ€™d beg
for me to shave him. I hated his dribbling
face. Our mother said heâ€™d been handsome
when they got married, always polished
his shoes. â€œIt was Wipers what sent
him mad.â€ I cleaned up the cat shit
before I joined the Merchants. Our mother
wasnâ€™t bothered. Thatâ€™s when you came
home from the convent; you were
thirteen, hair the colour of Jamaican
rum. Iâ€™d never spoken to a girl
before. Our mother made you share
my bed; there was no other place
to sleep. I left for sea in the morning. Gone
for five years. But you always knew
Iâ€™d come again for you.