State of Mind - Intro

I've been working through a lot of things lately. To make a long story short, this past April I wound up in counselling (something longtime readers have probably seen coming since the inception of this blog). One day I'll probably post that story here -- it's all written out and waiting for the right time.

Through counselling, though, I've had to face the issues that I knew were haunting me and even a few that I had nearly forgotten were there... obviously the year 2015 is in there, as well as the youth group I attended as a teen, the trauma surrounding the birth of my youngest brother, and the loss of two of my best friends in the world (one to a significant move, one to death). But in our collective digging, I've begun to revisit my home life during my teen years...

I remember things being difficult at home in those years. The reason I stayed at that horrific youth group was to escape the horrors of home. But while the treatment I received at the hands of the Christian youth remained fairly fresh in my memory, the details of my life at home had not. I was in survival mode for the better part of ten years and did not have the luxury of properly encoding the memories... I was too busy trying to survive.

As a result of some of the things that have come up during counselling, I decided to go back through the draft archives of this blog and see what I had written and never published. I had originally started this blog as a place to escape (however temporarily) from the difficulties of my life at home, so I knew some of those drafts would probably touch on it.

What I found made me feel a bit sick, even though I had already lived it. I had wondered, sometimes, if I was exaggerating when I recalled those days in the counselling sessions. I wondered if perhaps I was being melodramatic -- I am, after all, an artist. But the posts I found proved that I was actually not doing those days enough justice. Things had actually been worse than I remembered them to be.

It's funny how much you can justify. It seems incomprehensible to me that someone would simply stay in an abusive situation and not attempt to get out -- yet I did that very thing. I knew even at the time that something was wrong, but I didn't realise until last week how wrong things really were. I once heard another domestic abuse victim (abused as a child) say, while talking about his experience, "I thought it was normal. I didn't know anything else. What is normal, anyway?" (It was actually hearing about that experience that made me realise that perhaps my own childhood experience had been at least borderline abusive.) Although I knew innately for years that my experience was not ideal, I thought perhaps it was just me being my melodramatic artist self reading far too much into things and being far too sensitive. To realise that it was all real and that something was at least as wrong as I had suspected... that's still kind of a blow. I'm still absorbing it.

As such, I don't really have a proper ending to this post. But I wanted to warn you all that this is where I am right now. Future posts may expand on this.

A Voice of My Own

Originally written 5 November 2016.

I have a fairly intense singing semester at college this year: choir, voice lessons, and vocal master class. I'm spending more hours a week singing than I ever have dancing. The music students and faculty I interact with keep saying I'm improving, but I don't hear it and instead of gaining momentum I'm actually shrinking back. I haven't really sung in two days -- I've been in the practice rooms, but I've been doing breathing exercises or lip trills or speaking the text for the songs I have or playing the melodies to 'get them in my head'... but no actual singing takes place. I've mentioned before how I hate the sound of my voice and it seems that no matter where I turn I run into my voice, this awkward, clunky, wooden thing that can hit a note but sounds like the screen door on your grandma's old farmhouse in the process.

Their big thing here is volume. Because I hate my voice so much, I speak and sing as quietly as possible so people won't have to suffer the fate of hearing something so ungainly. I've done this for so long that I physically can no longer speak or sing very loud. My second year here stretched my volume boundary a bit, but not as much as is expected of me. I'm in this constant battle between wanting to sing more loudly because that's what my teachers ask of me and never wanting to sing again so no-one has to hear me.

Where did this come from? Nobody has ever outright told me they hate my voice. I've gotten 'I hate you,' and 'you sing flat,' but never 'I hate your voice.' Even the person who told me he couldn't stand me and basically wished I would go die in a hole told me I had a nice voice -- in the same conversation. (Come to think of it, that probably explains why I have such a hard time accepting compliments.)

It must have come from experience... The experience of being in that youth group and not even having a name. The experience of telling my parents I was NOT okay with a certain arrangement they had made and having them ignore me --- thrice (even after watching me spiral downward dramatically after the first two instances). The experience of constantly being ignored and shushed (and rebuked for the things I did say) in the youth group and having the God-card pulled on me at home. The experience of screaming to God for help, comfort, peace, anything for months when hell broke loose in 2015 and hearing nothing in response.

Nobody valued my voice -- literally or figuratively -- until I came to this college. I spent twenty years being systematically silenced and told I meant nothing, that my opinion didn't matter, that my voice was pointless. And now I have to sing loudly? Are you crazy? Who wants to hear that? Nobody.

Music Day

This song, for me, like time traveling to 2008, to the Bible study I was in at the time with our youth group -- all twelve or so of us crammed in the youth pastor's cosy living room eating his wife's baking, fresh from the oven, playing with the cat and the eight-month-old's toys. There resides many of my favourite memories, even though more than half the original members are abroad at school, the very youngest members of the study are all now in their final year of high school and the youth pastor himself has since spent a year as a head pastor at another church and is currently back in seminary.

I had never heard this song, nor even knew of the artist, back then, but the connection remains because the title of this song is the title of the book we studied.

That book grabbed me by the shoulders and woke me up. And I do believe I'll be forever grateful for it. So it was little wonder I thoroughly enjoyed the song which (I'm fairly certain) is inspired by that book...

Title: Don't Waste Your Life
Artist: Lecrae
Album: Rebel
Year: 2008
Label: Reach Records
iTunes here; YouTube here (official video) and here (full song).

I don't listen to any so-called 'secular' rap at all, but I've heard many people say this guy is on par with the biggest names out there in rap right now (I won't even try to name them because I have no idea who they are), and this, by far, is his best performance to date (according to me). (Actually this is his best album to date according to me.)

See your money, your singleness, marriage, talents, your time
They were loaned to you to show the world that Christ is divine...

Onions

Several years ago the youth group and I went to Vancouver in a serving-the-community endeavour. It was only for a week, but it was one of the greatest weeks in my life.
One of the funniest memories was in the kitchen of one of the churches.
Most of our group was assigned to help at a kids' camp in this church that must have been last renovated in 1972.
Three of us were assigned to the kitchen to fix lunches and snacks for the kids, per the menu the director had written out for the week. On the Wednesday, burritos were on the menu and Kristin, JJ, and myself were fixing them.
Kristin was at the far end of the kitchen mixing a five-gallon jug of fruit punch and I was shredding cheese when JJ started to chop the onions.
He was at the far end of the counter, beside the sink under the window which no longer opened and the exhaust fan that made more racket than a German metal/scream band when it wasn't tripping the main power breaker.
I was at the other end of the counter, near the door and the bulletin board, with my back to his, shredding cheese with the tiniest hand-grater on planet Earth into a little bowl.
Within a minute of JJ's first cut into the little onion, my eyes had teared up. Soon it was so bad that I couldn't open my eyes the slightest crack to see what I was doing and quickly discovered my hidden ability to shred cheese manually with my eyes closed.
But that wasn't the end of the onion's vengeance. Oh no.
Even though I'd already squeezed my eyes shut, they still stung. The pain in them only diminished when I squeezed them more tightly shut.
I now know that it is possible to squeeze your eyes shut so hard that the muscles in your face begin to cramp. I can't imagine what JJ was going through, since he actually had a sharp knife in one hand and he was much closer to the onion than I was.
Despite all this though, for some reason we found it utterly hilarious and we laughed and we rubbed furiously at our burning eyes which only made it worse and we made onion jokes that I don't remember as tears streamed down our faces. Anyone without the ability to smell would have thought we were all certifiably insane.
But it was so much fun. (Even as I write this, my eyes are starting to sting from the memory.)

Justice, Sweet Justice

Do you remember the party I mentioned the other day?
The primary reason nobody responded (I found out later) was because of the annual paintball tournament put on by the church. I had completely forgotten it was this weekend until I'd already sent out invitations to my party.
Oh well, I thought. Even if they come late, they can still come.
So I changed the information in the Facebook event (and made it known to those who aren't on Facebook) to make it clear that if you had to come late, it would be perfectly all right.
Still no one responded, except the youth pastor heading up the paintball event. He and his wife would most definitely be there, he said, but they would be a bit late.
While I appreciated that, it frustrated me quite a bit to know that the youth pastor was willing to take the time to attend, but no one else was. They were going on the same paintball excursion; they would be arriving home on the same bus; for the most part they all live within the same town; yet the youth pastor was willing to come and they weren't.
They didn't say they weren't willing, of course. Those who I asked point-blank said something along the lines of 'I'm so sorry, I really wanted to come but I can't because paintball day is a big tradition for us so yeah...'
No, you don't really want to come. You aren't sorry at all. If you were, you'd come out for at least the second half of the party.
So I simmered, although the sudden availability of two close friends who had previously been unable to come eased the pain a little.
But now, today -- paintball day and party day -- it's raining, twelve degrees (Celsius), windy, and muddy. Less than an hour ago, paintball day was officially canceled.
And all those who thought paintball was more important than one they call their friend (and who even went so far as to lie to that friend) will now spend their afternoon sitting at home refreshing Facebook and/or mindlessly watching crap on YouTube while my real friends and I laugh together and enjoy steak and crisps in my house.
Sweet, sweet justice.

Tough Crowd

Bible study night.
It's a small crowd today -- Youth Conference Edmonton is apparently still ongoing and of course all the popular kids are there. But the group that remains is mostly comprised of those I have fairly deep ties with. It's almost like the old days.
Toward the end, the leader explained a bit about the impending camping trip the group is going on. Even though she has previously made a rule that no non-Bible study members are allowed on the trip, she is breaking the rule.
From behind me JJ, ever quick, hollers "Stone her!" We all laugh.
But this is a worthwhile exception, she explains after the laughter has died down. This is her nephew, aged thirteen, whose home has burnt down, whose parents are going through a messy divorce, who has almost given up on life. This kid needs a getaway. She goes into a lot of other details, but that's the gist of it.
When she finally finishes reiterating she says, "So I think you understand why I'm breaking the rule."
She looks around the room. A few people give little nods. No objections... for a moment.
Then from behind me comes the cry again.
"Stone her!"

Good old JJ.

What Happens To Dirt When You Drink Pepsi

There's no real point to this story, just me writing it down so one day, maybe two months, maybe six months, maybe a year or more from now, I can look back on it and smile...

Our church has been doing a serving-the-community thing for about six months now. Every Saturday morning, whoever shows up at the church before ten goes out to help people around the community. If no one's called during the week and asked for our help with something (usually yard work) we go pick up litter somewhere.
But today we were asked to help move a pile of dirt from someone's front yard to their back yard. So we went out there.
It was a small group today -- only Thomas, JJ, Mr D, Joshua, and myself.
The pile of dirt was fairly sizable -- more than half as tall as me and wider than that. But we had half a dozen shovels and about as many wheelbarrows, so we took it on pretty readily. After all, fourteen hands (counting the homeowner and his son-in-law) were still better than two.
So we dug in. Literally.
We worked for about an hour perhaps, maybe more... I didn't look at a clock. But by the time we stopped for a break the pile had visibly diminished and we'd only lost one wheelbarrow (blown out tire).
Our hosts graciously offered us some soft drinks -- Coke and Pepsi. The Pepsi was in the regular 491 ml cans, but the Coke cans were those new '100 calorie' ones -- smaller and shaped more like a tin can than the average pop can.
There were four Cokes, three Pepsis (one held by yours truly) around the circle in the garage. Joshua commented on the size and shape of the Coke cans (he was one of the Cokes) and JJ said "They're the new hundred calorie ones."
Mr D said "So I gotta drink two of them now?"
We laughed and JJ said "I guess so."
We finished our drinks and JJ, Joshua, Thomas and I started on the rest of the dirt pile while the others went out back to finish tamping it in place.
Shortly after we resumed shoveling I noticed the pile seemed much smaller now than it had been before we stopped. About the same time Joshua said, "Wow, there's not much left."
I said, "I know; it seems much smaller now than before the break."
"Ah, that's what sugar and caffeine does to you. Reenergises."
JJ laughed and said, "It's like in that movie Over The Hedge. You know that little guy -- Hammy; and he drinks that soda or whatever and everything slows way down."
"Oh yeah..."
"Just for us everything shrinks."
"Nice," Joshua said.
"Now imagine how much smaller it would be if those Cokes had been regular size," I said.
JJ laughed.