My Confession - Part 6

At some point after my return from University, McDonald's began operating 24 hours a day, and I started supervising the night shift full-time, from 11pm until 7am, Tuesday til Saturday.  I really liked this shift for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the consistency of staff with whom I worked - I described a few of them in a previous entry.  As much as I liked the shift, and as much as it did suit my personality well, it ended up facilitating a sedentary lifestyle that left me perpetually bored and unproductive.  I was still living with my parents when I started the night shift, and easily fell into a comfortable routine.

Every night at 10:30 I would head to work.  I managed the floor and did prep work until midnight or one o'clock, then did office work until about three.  At around 3am the cleaning staff would take their breaks, and I would sit down with them to chat and play cribbage.  We played a lot of cribbage on the night shift.  After they got back to work, myself and the other two night staff would play cards, getting up to serve the occasional car that drove through.  At five, we changed over to breakfast and then resumed our card playing and newspaper reading.  When six o'clock rolled around the opening manager would arrive and we would get up and look busy for an hour, lest our rather casual approach to work be discovered and chastised.

After heading home, my first order of business was getting some breakfast and chatting with my dad, who was always up and getting ready for work.  He would leave shortly before eight, and my mom would either be getting up and ready to head out, or in bed with a migraine.  Once she left as well, I would procure my little bag of supplies from my bedroom, and go out to the back porch.  Here I loaded a small pipe and smoked pot for a while, meditating and relaxing.  Upon returning to the cool interior of the house, I scrounged in the kitchen for a mid-morning snack, usually consisting of a plate of cheese and crackers, and whatever cookies or sweets were in the cupboard.  Then I'd head up to my room to watch television or play video games until the 'burnout' effect of the pot kicked in, and a powerful urge to sleep knocked me out - usually with a half eaten plate of cookies and cheese on my floor.  I learned something very interesting during this phase - hard cheeses left in a warm room do not mold!  They turn dark orange and start sweating grease, shriveling and shrinking into a crusty rank rectangle.

My pot smoking habits were a source of tension in the household.  Neither of my parents were agreeable with me smoking up on their property, thus I made significant effort to hide it from them.  Oftentimes I would go out into the alleyway just to be able to say I wasn't doing it on their property - I chose to disregard the fact that I was still keeping it in their house.  My mom's distaste for the habit seemed to be rooted in her sense of morality; adherence to propaganda, and the common social perception had convinced her that marijuana was a harmful substance with no positive aspect, and that it was inherently wrong.  It's legal prohibition was merely the validation of her moral opposition, and a tool to render all arguments moot.  My father seemed to be more pragmatically opposed to the habit.  His respect for the law prevented him from entertaining any argument for the justification of its use, but he wasn't morally opposed to smoking pot, he was morally opposed to breaking the law.  He was open enough that we could discuss the issue, but my opposition to its legal status was met with a challenge to do something about it, not the passive acceptance that I was after.  Regardless of the cause of opposition, what remained was that they were against it, and I was living in their house willfully disregarding their conditions.  Conflict inevitably arose and I eventually moved out, after a particularly explosive confrontation.

I'm not sure exactly what my motivations for using marijuana were.  I definitely liked the culture that surrounded it, and was particularly drawn to the sorts of people who indulged.  If culture drew me into it, I think it was escapism that kept me enthralled; pot allowed me to turn off my brain and be passively entertained.  Colors were more vibrant, jokes were funnier, food tasted better, and my level of emotional connection to music increased tenfold.  That connection in particular influenced my continued use; it gave me a window to the conventional emotional experience.  Music has always been a portal to emotional connectivity for me, and marijuana intensified the sense of connectedness that I was lacking in my day to day life.  The problems arose not because of the marijuana, but rather because I did not know how to fill that need in any other way.  Had I known why I had such difficulty feeling connected, perhaps the issue could have been addressed much sooner, but alas life is not so simple.  After moving out, my habits ceased to be petty vices, and began to dominate my existence.

My routine change so that instead of coming home and smoking up once or twice while my parents were away, I was coming home and smoking up constantly.  I was also providing pot for both my brother and my girlfriend at the time, and would easily spend hundreds of dollars over the course of a month.  This was not disposable income I was spending on the herb either, it was rent and bill money.  Fairly regularly, at the end of the month I would call my dad, and explain to him that I did not have enough money for rent.  It had to be fairly obvious why I was consistently short on cash, but I had a few bargaining chips which I played well enough to win his sympathy.  When I couldn't pay rent, dad came to the rescue.  It wasn't easy for him, and he made sure that I knew it.  What frustrated him especially was my tendency to only let him know a day or two before the end of the month.  I did this because of the intense shame I felt about being unable to cover my costs, desperately avoiding the disappointment I assumed he would express. 

This went on for a significant period of time, until I was thousands of dollars in his debt.  It got to the point where he had to tell me he actually could not lend me more money, as he was at the end of his credit.  This realization snapped me out of the childlike vision I had of my fathers resources.  I do not think I fully realized how burdensome I was being, and how difficult it was for him to hold me accountable until he informed me that I had officially sapped him, and there was nothing else he could do.  By the time I realized what had happened, the damage was already done and a significant obstacle was set in place; a five thousand dollar chasm preventing me and my father from relating as equal men, the only thing he had ever wanted from his sons.

It wasn't until I understood the limitations that my father was living with, that I began to finally see through the shroud of childhood innocence I had been living in.  He had always been a fallback, so my sense of personal responsibility only existed within that framework.  Yes, I had decisions to make and consequences to consider, but never the sorts of consequences that really force you to abandon the irresponsible whims of youth.  Learning that I had put my dad in a risky position, and knowing that it was my irresponsibility that had done so instilled in me a profound aversion to dependence on him.  That singular moment marked a turning point in my life.  I ceased to be burdened with a sense of aimlessness, and was immediately laden with a burning desire to pay back the money I owed.  I had a goal, and a sense of purpose.  I resolved (albeit with a forced hand), to not borrow any more money from him, and to make positive changes that would allow me to realize my new goal.

The change of mindset did not immediately alter my behavior and choices.  I still maintained irresponsible habits and made choices that did not further my progress towards my goals.  The difference was that I was now aware of the choices that I was making, and they were no longer so easy to make.  Tension continued to exist between us when it came to financial matters, but he could see the intention was there, and effort was being made.  It was at least a powerful step forward in a lengthy journey towards mutual understanding.

At some point I decided to try going back to school and signed up for the Agribusiness program at ACC.  I applied for student loans and at first felt very positive about it.  Not very long into the program though,  it became apparent that it wasn't a good fit for me.  I dropped out of the program and used the remainder of the student loan money to pay back the large majority of what was owed to my dad.  This might seem like a poor decision on my part, and it has had some significantly negative consequences, however I do not regret doing so in the slightest.  I received a letter informing me that I will no longer be allowed to apply for student loans until I pay back the amount that was awarded to me, which I did not use for school.  This effectively means that I cannot return to school for the foreseeable future. 

As much of a hindrance as that is, it is something that I joyfully accept and live with.  By using that money to pay back my father, I took away the sense of indebtedness I had towards him, and gained an affirming notion of personal responsibility.  I was now burdened by the consequences of the choices I had made, and no longer allowing that fallout to be shouldered by anyone else.  Paying him back bridged the chasm that stretched between us, and allowed us to relate as equals.

I continue to have to live within the parameters that my irresponsibility eventually dictated for me.  I am tens of thousands of dollars in debt, and my options are limited.  The important thing though, is that I have accepted responsibility for my situation, and understand that the path to freedom is rife with sacrifice.  I still make poor choices.  I still progress more slowly than I could if I were to really focus on eliminating my debt and making proactive choices.  But I acknowledge that the poor choices I make are what hold me back, and no longer project the consequences onto anyone else.  Instead of slowly sinking further into the quicksand, I am slowly but surely pulling myself out of it.  And now my father can provide me with proper support - he is no longer stuck beside me in the mud, but able instead to throw me a vine, and encourage me to keep climbing.

Next post I will shift gears and look back on the journey that has brought me and my mother to a place of mutual understanding and acceptance.

Peace and sanity upon us!

My Confession - Part 5

My favorite place to study and relax at St. Francis Xavier was a small facility in the middle of the campus called the Wellspring Center, operated by a couple of sisters from the local convent.  If you are picturing a couple of little old ladies puttering about in traditional habit, with incense and crucifixes, then perhaps a bit of clarification is in order.  These were two engaging and spry women in their sixties, casually dressed and using their time to maintain a place for students to come and eat lunch, read, study, relax, and quietly converse with their fellows.  It had a home-like quality that the stiff silence of the library was lacking, and was treated with respect by those who occupied the couches and chairs.  Windows along the walls let in the warm sunlight and shuttered out cold gray rain.  There was a small kitchen with a fridge and microwave, and of course, a coffee maker and teapot.  Juice and cookies were in the fridge, and the sisters were always about, chatting with students or tending to their own business. 

It was here that I spent my between-class time.  When there were a lot of people, I would saunter off down a carpeted hallway, to a cozy chapel in the back of the facility.  Stained glass windows gave sunlight a vibrant array of color, warming the medium length brown carpet that I enjoyed many a nap upon.  Other students seldom came into the chapel, and so it became my own place of sanctuary - one of the only places on campus I could generally assume would be open for me to enjoy solitude.  Here I would pace the length of the walls, quietly meditating or listening to music.  Here a sleepless night could be remedied with a morning rest or an afternoon nap.  I felt very at peace in the Wellspring.

Two days out of the week, my last class of the afternoon was World Religions.  This was far and away my favorite class, partly because of the fascinating subject matter, but mostly because of the professor.  He was a young man in his early thirties, with reddish-brown hair and a full beard.    He was an atheist, which made for many very amusing lectures.  He was never disparaging, only careful to point out obviously fallacious and oftentimes hilariously misguided beliefs.  He was equally critical of his own beliefs, and never judgmental.  The point of the class was to give us an overview of religions over the world, throughout time.  None of this was in depth, and what we took away the class was only a very simplistic understanding of individual religions, but we came away with a much deeper understanding of the connection that all religions have. 

I think that if he was really trying to communicate anything substantial, it was that religion is the product of an underlying motive in humanity that transcends our cultural differences.  We express our spirituality in vastly different ways, but we all seek the same thing.  Understanding that really intensifies the sense of sadness one is gets when they consider the terrible things that our religious determinations have brought upon us.  It seems so obvious to me that people in every corner of the globe seek the same truth, and that we are all privy to only the tiniest reflection of it.  I struggle to see how anyone could be so convinced that their humble vision of the universe is the correct one.  I have spent a small amount of time learning about many different religious world views, and it seems to me that the real truths are those that appear time and time again, regardless of cultural and theological differences.


I could go on and on about this subject, and never really get anywhere.  The point is that my already existing doubts about my early beliefs were validated when I learned about how they fit into the big picture.  Being in this class and having everything laid out was eye opening and affirming.  I was particularly inspired by what I learned about spirituality in the east, something that our professor was quite passionate about.  His explanation of philosophies like Taoism and Buddhism struck a chord with me.  These were ideas that could address my spiritual nature without my having to ascribe to religious tenets and dogma.  I loved the metaphor of the river of life; the idea that our lives have a current and direction, and that we can learn to paddle with ease downstream, or we can fight our current and find ourselves exhausted, frustrated, and no further along.  I wanted to find my flow, and learn how to stop fighting against it.  To me, it was the realization that I had no hope of controlling the course that my life was going to take, and that I could take comfort in the knowledge that despite not knowing where my river would flow, it was most assuredly flowing somewhere.  All I could do was keep paddling, and watch out for rocks along the way.

By learning about the actual nature of religion and understanding that it is what lies beneath that is really important, I was gradually able to work through the fear that Christianity had instilled in me as a child.  Fear of doubt and fear of being wrong.  Fear that my rational development was really some kind of satanic deception and that what I was leaving behind was reality.  Fear that my early mentors would be proven right and some day I would return to the fold with my head bowed, unable to ignore the supposed "Call of God".  These fears all began to fade away as I grasped onto an inkling of spiritual understanding that held up under intense rational scrutiny.  I accepted my ability to believe in something without the determined sense that it had to be true.  My beliefs could be malleable and undefined, and most importantly, they could be anything I wanted them to be.

The last class I took was also most helpful in my journey towards independence from my early belief system.  It was called History of Christianity, and to be honest it was mind-numbingly boring.  Our professor was in fact, not a professor and was teaching the course as part of his doctoral work.  He studied the Greek language, and his thesis had to do with the interpretation of original Greek documents.  This gave him a very interesting perspective on Christianity, as he was able to read and understand the New Testament as it was originally written, and not as it was translated.  He would often note interesting mistranslations (or at least controversial translations) that had wormed their way into the very heart of Christian belief.  Unfortunately I can't recall any specific examples.  It was particularly interesting because he maintained that he was still a Christian, even though he did not consider much of the mythology of Christianity to be historically accurate.


I had many interesting conversations with him after class, and though his lectures were a slog, getting to chat with him afterward was something that I looked forward to.  What I learned in the class served to solidify my burgeoning beliefs, and gave me the knowledge I felt I needed to really understand what I was trying to leave behind.  It painted Christianity with the undeniable palette of human creation, and made it easier to face the arguments the mentors of my past had left with me.

As I continue to write about my time in Nova Scotia, I begin to realize that what I remembered as a very difficult time for me, was in fact one of the more valuable experiences of my life.  What was difficult was acknowledging that here again, I was something of an anomaly.  I was again feeling different.  I didn't go out on the weekend, and I didn't hang out with friends.  I didn't bond with any community and kept to myself.  The few friends that I did have were often frustrated by my seeming lack of interest, as I would only talk to them during school, never progressing beyond casual greeting and conversation.  The sorts of people I could identify with were people who I didn't want to be identified with.  I was afraid of being branded as 'different'.  Looking back, I can see how incredibly naive such an outlook is.  Not only because I am beginning to learn how to embrace my difference, but also because my fear of not fitting in was entirely rooted in the mistaken assumption that somehow I was a focal point.  Maybe it was because I spent so much time looking at others, that I thought equal attention was being paid to me. 

By the end of the year my interest in my courses had convinced me to stay at St. Francis Xavier and finish a degree.  I found a room mate and made plans to move in with him after the summer was over.  I felt some excitement at the prospect of taking a giant leap forward on my own, because my brother was graduating, and would not be a safety net for me the following year.  I left most of my things with the guy I would be moving in with - including a guitar, my notebooks and text books, a collection of over a hundred compact discs, a suit and other clothing, and various other sundry items.  Then I flew home, stopping in Ontario to make a round of visits to family there. 

Over the summer, I began working at McDonalds again, and started to settle back into the routine I had developed before I went to Nova Scotia.  My plan was still to return to school, and I had locked myself in by making arrangements with a room mate, so I couldn't easily back down.  Sure enough though, as summer carried on, I grew more and more unsure of my decision, and started to wonder if there was a way I might cancel my plans without leaving him in the lurch.  Then one day, I received a phone call that I quickly decided was a signpost in my river.  He called to inform me that the house we were planning on renting had been sold, but not to worry, he would find another place.  I felt as though I was being given the very opportunity I was hoping for, and excitedly tried to explain to him that I would then not be moving back to Antigonish.  I was totally oblivious to it, but I think he was rather offended that I responded this way, because the $200 check I sent to have my things shipped back to me was cashed, but I never received any of the items I left there.  He never took another call from me either, and wouldn't return a single message I left on his machine.

I felt cheated for a while, but was rather easily able to forget about what I lost and move on.  The thing I miss the most are my notebooks.  I would love to read what I wrote then, and have a clearer reference to what was going on in my mind. 

Deciding to stay in Brandon is, in my mind, the beginning of a journey that has had both great joy and great sorrow.  Looking back on the last five years, I see a series of experiences that build on one another, breaking me down and building me up.  Before University, I was feeling lost and couldn't decide where to go, or what I wanted to do.  When I came back, I settled into a particularly negative lifestyle that ultimately left me feeling trapped and powerless.  Working to get out of the emotional and financial hole I dug for myself has been a long process, and continues on today.  I am still burdened by the choices I made in the years that followed University, but having to deal with the fallout has really elucidated what it is I want out of life.  It seems that to figure out what I wanted to do, I had to not be able to do it.

In the following posts, I will begin to talk about things that are still particularly painful to recall.  I squander my income on marijuana and beer, find myself engaged to a depressed and suicidal 16 year old, lose my job, and make a comically botched attempt at robbery.  Here comes the good stuff!

Thanks for reading, I had strep throat for a week and was being a big suck, so I excused myself from writing.  Turns out, the longer I go without writing, the harder it is to motivate myself to start again.  It is way too easy to say I'll do it later.  So again, thanks to those who have shared stories and comments, I would most assuredly have stopped by now without that motivation.

Fear and the Color Blue

As far back as I can remember, I can recall feeling a very strong aversion to brightly colored foods.  During my childhood this included many different types of candy, vegetables, and fruits.  Apples and oranges and bananas were fine, because the fruit inside is not brightly colored, just the exterior.  I was particularly averse to beets and yams in the vegetable department, and blueberries and grapes in the fruit department.  The candy store had great appeal to me, but there was a limited selection of candies I would enjoy. Primarily, what I wanted to avoid was the transfer of colors onto my tongue and teeth.  While all bright colors were a potential threat, I was particularly averse to the color blue.  The thought of it staining my lips still sends a familiar shiver up my spine.  I am now able to control this aversion to a certain degree.  If I am certain the brightly colored food will not impart its hue, then I can eat the food without feeling ill or panicky.  This does not apply to blue.  Should blue food of any kind be anywhere near my mandibles, I get a knotted feeling in my stomach, wrinkle my nose in disgust, and lose my appetite.

I think I can trace my particular aversion to blue to two separate occasions in elementary school.  The first involved a trek to the candy store with my closest childhood friend.  He bought some jawbreakers, the kind that come in a package of six, and gave me a blue one.  I didn't want to eat it, but he said it wouldn't make my mouth blue, so I did.  Then I looked in a mirror and my heart stopped for a few seconds as I realized the deep ocean hue that my maw had been imbued with.  That was the last time I ever ate a dark blue candy.  The other occasion happened a little bit later, though not too long after - maybe a year or two.  I had some smarties, and I was eating them during lunch break on the deck in front of our school doors.  I was consciously aware of the blue smarties, but fairly certain they weren't going to stain my mouth if I chewed quickly.  The bell rang and kids started streaming through the doors in front of me.  I heard a girl say, "Eww your mouth is BLUE!".  I don't know if she was talking to me, but it was enough to terrify me.  I vigorously wiped my lips with my shirt and have never again eaten even a blue smartie.  Those go in the garbage.  Where they belong.

When I was much younger, my Aunt and Uncle came to visit our family in Winnipeg.  I recall nothing of this visit except for a brief episode that continues to haunt me.  My Uncle took an orange marker and put a dot on my nose.  No big deal right?  He soon discovered that it was, in fact, a startlingly big deal.  As soon as the ink touched me I was overwhelmed with a feeling I cannot well describe, all I can say is that I did NOT want that ink on my face.  It was a combination of violation, embarrassment, anger, hurt, and just a whole lot of bad stuff that I was only able to express in one way.  I screamed.  Not like a terrified girly shriek, more like a bellowing, heart-wrenching wail.  My dad came rushing to the scene to see what the problem was, and I was a blubbery mess of tears and toddler snot.  My Uncle was stunned.  I was acting as though he had done something profoundly disturbing, and all he had done was put a dot on my nose.  I feel bad recalling this memory - he must have felt terrible.  Needless to say, it never happened again.

I was a very sensitive child, as you can see rather plainly.  When I was nine years old, something happened to me that led to a time in my life that has been instrumental in the development of my feelings of inferiority.  It began at a friends birthday party.  For his birthday party, he was allowed to have a sleepover with his friends from school.  He wanted to rent some movies to watch, and I went with him and his dad to the video store.  Cue the foreboding music.  While he and his dad went off to find the movie he wanted, I sauntered off on my own, to peruse the videos.  This was the first time I had ever been on my own in a movie store and I stumbled upon the horror section, looking about to make sure I wouldn't be caught in what I perceived to be a "naughty" area.  In front of me I saw movie boxes with fascinating artwork and intriguing titles.  I had heard of Freddy Krueger movies, and noticed the case on the shelf.  I was consumed with curiosity - why was I told they were so bad?  What could possibly make these movies so terrible?  I picked up the case, and flipped it over to see the small pictures that gave a glimpse into the world inside the oversized cassette tape.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw, and the image seared into my memory, continuing to haunt me for years.  Instead of a few little pictures, it was one big picture that took up half of the back of the box.  I saw a stark white bedroom, with a bed in it.  On the bed was a young woman looking down with a horrified expression as her feet disappeared inside the giant maw of a demonically grotesque, burn scarred head resting at the foot of her bed.  I was startled at first, and filled with the feeling that I shouldn't have been looking at it.  Shame and regret gripped me, and I quickly put down the case and rushed over to where my friend and his father were.  I don't know which part of the image disturbed me more - the disgusting giant head eating the woman, her terrified expression, or the knowledge that the woman was being eaten alive.  In any order, for my naive mind it was the trifecta that won me months of insomnia and night terrors.

I was fine that night.  I don't know if it was because there were enough distractions to keep me from thinking about it, or if shock had just left me stunned for a time, but I was able to finish out the night and have a good time watching the movie and playing video games.   The next night I was not okay.  It began with my reading a few chapters of a Goosebumps book before I went to bed.  This was a terrible idea of course, but I loved those books.  My parents were not fond of them, but as long as the subject matter wasn't demonic or having any religious theme (they would screen them before I read them), I was allowed to read them.  This one was about a camp in which the children were disappearing.  It turned out they were being used as slaves by a giant Jabba the Hutt looking thing that occasionally ate them for a snack - this was the part that I got to when I decided to shut out the light and go to sleep.  The feeling of dread slowly crept up on me, slowly enveloping my whole body.  I started to remember the image from the back of the movie box.  I started to feel a deep and profound discomfort at the thought of the woman actually being in that situation, and my mind began to consider what she might have been feeling, or rather, what I would be feeling in her position.

Once those considerations took hold, there was no turning back.  There began a vicious whirlwind of fear as thoughts of pain, suffering and torment busily etched new horrors into my brain.  I was paralyzed.  I remember the blue sleeping bag that served as my blanket becoming heavier and heavier as the thoughts became more vivid.  I began to convince myself that the heaviness was the burn scarred head from the movie, resting at my feet ready to consume me and punish me for having looked at it.  I was the innocent child who saw too much, had learned something I shouldn't have, and was now going to die a terrifying death.  The night had always been a scary time for me, and many times I had knocked on my parents door and ended up sleeping on a mat next to their bed, but this was a different sort of scared.  This was fright that was somehow coming from inside of me, and I couldn't get away from it.  I was feeling too paralyzed to even call out, but somehow I managed to find my voice, and I screamed.  This time though it wasn't the bellowing wail,  it was the terrified girly shriek.

My dad came rushing downstairs in a panic (wearing only underwear, just so you have comically accurate image), thinking again that something terrible had happened.  I think I began to babble about the head at the foot of my bed, and was just generally trying to describe to him what I was afraid of.  He took me upstairs, and that night I slept in my parents room.  The next day was back to normal, and no mention was made of the previous night's terror.  But when it came time to go to bed, the severity of the fear began to be apparent.  I wouldn't go downstairs.  I wouldn't even put my foot on the first step.  My parents said they would come with me, and tried to convince me that there was nothing to be afraid of, but all to no avail.  I was terrified at the thought of being in the basement.  So that night I again slept in my parent's room.  And then again the next night, and again the night after that.  After a while my mat beside their bed was moved into an area in their room that my dad used as an office.  It was the same room, just with a desk between me and my parent's bed, and it was a struggle to get me to cooperate with even this much separation.  I don't recall exactly how long this went on for, but it wasn't a matter of weeks, it went on for a few months.

The effects of this spilled over into my school life.  Occasionally boys in my class would have sleepovers.  I very much liked these sleepovers because I was generally able to play video games I couldn't otherwise play, and watch movies I wouldn't otherwise be allowed to watch.  Invariably though, once my classmates had all fallen asleep, the fear would get to me, and I would knock on the host parents door, asking them to call my parents.  One time I was staying overnight at a friends house who lived an hour away from Brandon, and sure enough when bedtime came and I was alone, the thoughts began and the devious streams of fear were unleashed, pouring through mind like angry rivers tearing at muddy banks; ever widening, always rushing, and impossible to dam.  I began to cry, not wanting to be heard, and yet desperately hoping that I would be so that someone would come to my side.  They did hear, and I was given the phone to call my parents, and then given a teddy bear and reassured that everyone gets homesick and I shouldn't feel bad.  This did help me to not feel so embarrassed and small, but they didn't understand that I wasn't homesick.  I was afraid of my thoughts, and the terrifying visions they would force upon me.  I had no way of controlling it.

After a time I discovered I was no longer being invited to sleepovers, and I asked why.  I was told by my friends that their parents had told them not to invite me, because they did not want to have to get up in the middle of the night to call my parents.  I understood, and did not want to be a burden - but I felt terribly hurt by it, and very small.  I felt inferior because I had a problem doing what no one else seemed to have a problem with.  I thought my friends parents considered me weak and didn't want to deal with my inadequacy.  I still had sleepovers with my closest friends, but I no longer participated in the group activities with most of the class.  I felt too different, like there was not room for me and my foibles. 

I eventually did move back into my basement room, though it was a lengthy and taxing process for both myself and my parents.  At first my father had sleep on the floor next to my bed.  After I got used to that, he would only stay until I fell asleep.  He gradually decreased his time there, challenging and encouraging me to be on my own, until I was able to function normally.  For a long time this period in my life was something I looked at with shame, and never shared with anyone.  I hid it, because I thought it was something that betrayed my weakness.  As far as I knew no one else was sleeping in their parents bedroom in middle school, and definitely not because  they looked at the back of a scary movie.  My classmates would talk about watching things that I would shiver at the thought of.  How can I be so much weaker than them?  Why am I the only one who can't handle it? 

Now I look back and cherish the things that made me different.  For whatever reason I was, and still am an incredibly sensitive person.  This means I deal with many things differently than a lot of other people, and I have grown to be okay with it.  I can watch a scary movie now because I can distinguish the difference between reality and fantasy - something I was unable to do at a younger age.  My religious indoctrination did not help at all, as many of the terrifying thoughts that I had were in my mind a real possibility, not an imagined fantasy.  I was constantly being taught about "real" demonic warfare and  was threatened with the very real reality of eternal torment and suffering.  I still do not watch movies or read books in which I am faced with innocent people suffering violence and pain.  I experience severe discomfort at thoughts of others experiencing duress and harm, and avoid those stimuli.  But the burn-scarred head is no longer a manifestation of the real threat of evil that I was raised to be vigilant of.

A problem I now have, is that I have trained myself over the years to halt the creative thought flow that was at work to cause my paralyzing fear.  I have trouble accessing it now, because I am so averse to the possibility of being so helpless.  I think I've managed to cut off the part of me that creates, and now I'm trying to find it again.  It's a process, but hopefully this blog is a good start!

Thanks for following along, I'll be resuming my confession soon, but felt compelled to get this part out.  I'll probably be punctuating the confession posts with more of these anecdotes as I carry on, I have a good many experiences I want to put into word, but that don't fit within the time line of the confession.

I welcome your commentary, thanks again!

My Confession - Part 4

The weeks leading up to my departure for Nova Scotia were experienced with equal parts of excitement and dread.  I was excited to leave Brandon for something new, but I knew that it was going to be stressful adapting to a new environment.  I had no idea what my new living quarters would look like, as my brother had made all of the arrangements (I would be living with him and a friend of his in a trailer park a couple miles from the University).  I don't recall how I imagined it was going to be, but I do remember that when I did arrive, it was significantly different than I had expected.  We had to take a total of three planes and a two and a half hour bus ride to get to Antigonish, the small community where St. Francis Xavier is located.  This was at a time when I was smoking cigarettes, and it was the longest day of my life!  Until that point I hadn't had to forgo my fix for more than a couple hours, this was my first time enduring an entire day without a smoke, and I was none too happy.  I vividly recall the cigarette I enjoyed outside of Halifax airport, sitting on my luggage against the cement wall, along a sidewalk with my brother, waiting for the shuttle bus to arrive.

We arrived in Antigonish mid-evening, and took a cab from the bus depot to our trailer.  It is interesting to recall the vastness with which I perceived the small community, and its descending scale as I got to know the area.  Our trailer was the epitome of the middle of the line.  There were no luxuries, apart from the in-home washing machine and dryer.  The floors were mostly hardwood, in decent shape, with worn linoleum in the kitchen.  We didn't have television, but we did have the internet, a necessity for three University students living more than a quick jaunt from their school.  My brother and I had both agreed to let Jon take the master bedroom, and we each took one of the smaller rooms, about the size of a small dorm.  My brother had managed to acquire a couple of old cot sized mattresses to sleep on - Jon came from a community an hour away and brought with him his queen sized box spring and mattress, I think his bed was bigger than our respective rooms.  When I looked in my new bedroom, what greeted me was a worn mattress on the floor, a small flimsy desk with a wooden chair, and an empty wire rack for a shelving unit.  Home, sweet home.

My brother did a lot to make me feel welcome and comfortable.  My first days were particularly overwhelming, and he did his best to ease me into life in Antigonish.  The day we arrived, we walked around the town, stopping in at one of the pubs for a couple of pints - this was to become a very regular habit of mine, and easily consumed thousands of dollars of my student loan money.  He showed me the important locales, such as the Tim Hortons, and a convenience store where I could buy cigarettes.  The first week was registration and orientation - he showed me around the campus, and even waited with me in a couple of obscenely long registration lines.  Basically he made sure I knew what I was doing, and that I wasn't overwhelmed by the process, and I was very grateful for his being there.

The first week of classes was called "Frosh" week, and involved games, events, and contests for freshmen in the University.  Most first year students lived on campus in residence.  Each residence had a name, and was a team for the various events.  "Off campus" students formed a team as well, but I did not feel at all like participating.  I may as well have been in a different country speaking a different language.  All I saw were people who were feeling at home amongst the crowd.  I felt as though I were an intruder.  There was a kick-off picnic that my brother convinced me to go to for the free food.  I stood in a thicket of trees way off to the side of the field and watched people.  I wasn't too frightened to join in, I simply did not want to.  The activities seemed juvenile, and I did not want to be associated with the so-called "fun".  I sat by myself in the shade, picking blades of grass and chewing on the sweet, moist stems.  This was where I felt comfortable and content. 

Finally, after a very long week, classes began.  I took five courses to begin with, they were all six credit-hours (two-terms), as most first year classes are at St. Francis Xavier.  English was a given, as I was entering into a BA program.  I also took Intro to Philosophy, Intro to Psychology, World Religions and History of Christianity.  I was very lucky in all my classes to have the most sought after professors (there were at least two or three for each class, the more popular ones had as many as four or five).  I recall speaking with some other students about their classes with other professors, and being very relieved that I had by chance ended up where I was. 

My English professor was a brilliant young woman, specializing in Romantic literature.  Her post graduate work had been done at Oxford University, and it was immediately apparent to me that she was not your average professor.  She was contagiously enthusiastic, and very much outside of the box.  She encouraged original thought and creativity, and allowed a great deal of wiggle room when it came to selecting essay topics.  It was clear her primary goal was not to bog her students down with technical instruction and by the book analysis, but rather to inspire a love of literature and to expand the minds her students.

Philosophy was a particularly enjoyable class for me, and my professor absolutely made the experience far more fruitful than it could have been.  His lectures were engaging and invited a great deal of student interaction - he had been doing this for a very long time.  His knowledge of the philosophers we were to study was of course, impeccable, and he had a profound knack for elucidating the often confusing and rambling diatribes of Nietzche, Hume, and Descartes.  Surprisingly I found the easiest concepts to grasp were the oldest - Plato's Republic in particular was fascinating.  Hume, on the other hand was next to impossible to decipher, and it wasn't even a translated work.  In fact it was the only work we studied that was in its original language.  The papers I wrote for this class were by far the most difficult to assemble.  At one time I recall having twenty pages of notes laid out on the floor in front of me as I tried to organize arguments.  The easy B's of high school were long past, and my professors had particularly high standards of quality.  I worked very hard for the B's and A's I received in my year at University.

It was at this time that I began to realize my difficulty in learning from text.  It wasn't until much later that I learned that this too was associated with my spectrum traits.  I spent countless hours trying to read the texts required for class, and encountered unending frustration at my seeming inability to synthesize the information I was reading into manageable notes.  I seldom did the required reading in high school, depending largely on internet summaries for study material.  Elementary school and junior high reading was much easier, but even then I struggled with things like analyzing novels and stories, and breaking them down into their constituent elements.  I am unable to perceive the big picture when it comes to text.  Every new sentence pushes the previous sentence out of my mind, and the more I read, the more difficult it is to maintain a sense of continuity.  It is as if my mind is a table, and the book is a collection of puzzle pieces.  Rather than organize the pieces into a picture, my mind places them in a string, and as new pieces are added to the end, the pieces from the beginning are pushed off the surface, so a picture never forms.  I end up reading sections of text many times over before a concrete idea can form in my mind.  Needless to say, this method of learning is enormously inefficient, and due to the quantity of text to be digested, it simply was not going to work.

I had to solve this problem if I was going to be successful, and I began to get creative.  I had found that taking notes from lectures in class was very difficult, especially if the lectures were not distinctly organized.  If I took pause to make a note of something, my focus was diverted from the lecture just long enough to ruin the flow of speech.  I would get lost easily, and miss vital information in the process.  I was able to learn far more if I put down my pen, and focused on listening.  This was problematic too though, because despite my best efforts, there was plenty said that I could not later remember.  I solved this problem by purchasing a small digital recording device, and proceeded to record the lectures while I listened.  I took these recordings home, and made detailed notes, pausing the audio while I typed.  By doing this I ended up with a series of very thorough and organized notes that corresponded directly with our assigned readings.  I could also later reorganize the information, or add new information to previous topics.  Page references and indications of secondary reference material were embedded into the notes, which made studying for exams and finding quotes and references for papers a much more streamlined process. 

I used this method primarily for Philosophy and World Religions.  I spent two to three hours every day making these notes, and the payoff was huge.  My notes became a very popular resource at exam time.  This also largely solved my problem with completing the readings.  I still did the readings, but I concerned myself far less with what I was taking from them, and consequently experienced a great deal less frustration.   I do not think that I would be able to use the same method at a higher level though - it worked primarily because we were tested on the material as he had explained it. While there was a great deal of emphasis placed on the synthesis of this information and drawing our own conclusions, I did not have to rely on the texts themselves for my understanding of the concepts.

I did not deal with every problem that arose so proactively.  While recording lectures largely solved my difficulty with Philosophy and World Religion, allowing me to learn via a method that was suited to my particular needs, Intro to Psychology presented me with a difficulty that I decided, in a panic, to run away from.  I think part of the problem was the way in which the professor addressed us.  The way he communicated his expectations was something along the lines of "you aren't in high school anymore, get ready for a reality check."  This put me off kilter from the very beginning, I just felt as though I was somehow inadequate, or not up for the challenge.  When the first midterm rolled around, I looked through the review material and was stricken with self-doubt.  I had a week left before the drop date, and simply did not think I could keep up with all the information for this class, as well as maintain my success in the others, which were of greater importance to me.

The day before the mid-term, I sat down to study and had an overwhelming feeling of panic.  I stopped in my tracks, logged onto the University website, and dropped the course.  I could have written the exam, and still had a few days to drop the course if I did as poorly as I expected.  No one would have held it against me, it is a common occurrence for first year students to be overwhelmed.  I couldn't even face the prospect of writing the exam and doing poorly though, so I chickened out.  I was a rather engaged student in his class, and he was surprised to see that I had disappeared from the roster so unexpectedly.  He contacted me and asked what had happened, and I explained that I wasn't going to be able to keep up with the work, and that my other classes were a priority for me.  I think he had anticipated that I would do well, which I probably would have had I tried, but my fear of failure got the best of me.  He expressed some disappointment, and I applaud him for not treating me like a number, I am sure many professors in the same boat really wouldn't care.

So I was left with four classes instead of five and was refunded money for the course, which I promptly added to my beer and cigarette fund.  I felt regret for a while, but in the end it was probably an okay decision.  I still had plenty on my plate.

Tomorrow I will talk about the remaining two classes, World Religion and History of Christianity.  Two very different professors, with profoundly different philosophies.  They each had an incredible influence on how my thoughts on religion and spirituality developed in the following years.  While I learned a lot in English and Philosophy, my courses in religion helped me to grow as a human being, and were instrumental in establishment of my post-Christian beliefs.

Thanks to those that have taken the time to give me their thoughts and encouragement, you are greatly appreciated, and motivate me to continue to understand myself. 

Peace and sanity upon us!

My Confession - Part 3

I'm just going to jump right into it.  Not writing anything for three days has left me unsure of how to continue on with my story.

After high school, I began to work full-time at McDonald's.  I had basically been working there full-time anyhow, as I only had one class during my final semester of high school, and it was an easy and natural transition.  I enjoyed working at night, as there were fewer employees on at that time, and those that did work with me worked consistent schedules, so I tended to work shifts with the same people.  I especially grew fond of the night cleaning staff.  Three very distinct personalities, all of whom I was comfortable around and felt natural speaking to.

The first was a middle aged man with a penchant for video games, comic books, and grotesque humor.  Many would label him a pervert.  Like it or not, I thought his antics were amusing and despite his boorish offensiveness, I took a liking to him.  He would make startling comments about young female staff, many of which, had they been heard, would certainly have led to his termination.  His commentary was a lucid demonstration of decades of intense sexual frustration, that was both fascinating and disturbing.  He often spoke of the strange pornography he enjoyed, or spoke flippantly about jerking off while making jagged, awkward motions with his arms.  Frequently he would joke with the male staff about bending over and using a mop handle in, shall we say, creative ways.  This makes him sound like he was some kind of sexual predator, but rest assured he was harmless.  He had found his niche working overnight cleaning a fast food restaurant, and he knew well with whom he could joke, and who would not take kindly to his humor.  He was over the top and profoundly offensive, but in a way he was refreshing, and certainly eye opening.

The second was also in his forties, balding, with shoulder length curly blond hair (he always wore a baseball cap, so his "skullet" was seldom seen.  In fact, the first time I saw him without the hat I had to hide a very startled reaction to the gleaming dome that was hidden underneath).  He was a drummer, and had played in a number of bands throughout his life, and continued to play, now approaching his fiftieth year.  He was staunchly opinionated, though very willing to listen to others thoughts.  While very personable, one could see very readily that he was brimming with anger.  The idealism of his youth had long faded away, and his unhappiness with his job and current situation was very apparent.  Most of the time our conversations would revolve around his musical history, his political opinions, and his religious views, and occasionally he would become quite violent with his speech.  I avoided him when he was in such a mood, as I imagine he would have preferred anyhow.  I learned a fair amount from him, perhaps not ideologically, though he did have many interesting things to say.  Mostly, I developed a sense of what I didn't want to happen to me.  I didn't want to become so cynical and bitter, and very much wanted to avoid becoming so devoted to my opinions.  I wanted to have his determined sensibilities, without becoming lost in them, and I didn't want to whittle away my motive with drugs and drinking, as he had done, and spoke of with regret.

The third was in his early thirties.  He had a youthful appearance and was uncompromising in his kindness and respect.  This was a person who I truly looked up to - not in aspiration perhaps, but certainly in behavior and philosophy.  His arms were a matrix of colorful tattoos, a somewhat startling contrast to his mannerism.  Our conversations never ran deep, they were always lighthearted and brief.  He was responsible and accepting of himself, both qualities I had yet to truly establish.  I still see him from time to time, during the course of daily business - most recently, for example, at a 7-11 while picking up chocolate milk for work.  Seeing him always brightens my mood, and makes me think that I would like to be perceived as such a person.  Cheerful and kind, unique and expressive. 

While at McDonald's, I moved in with an acquaintance from high school.  He had been working at the same store, and we were both swing managers.  Living with him was a strange time in my life, though I think a particularly positive one.  His personality was both similar to mine, and at the same time, as different as it could possibly be.  We both had a strong connection to music and performance, and playing together was what led to my moving in with him eventually.  Our musical partnership never flourished, I think in large part due to how our personalities differed.  He was extremely confident, outgoing, and unafraid to express himself.  I lacked confidence, preferred the quiet of home, and only felt comfortable expressing myself under circumstances that dictated that I was entitled to do so, such as on stage, or on my own in front of the bathroom mirror.  This difference largely meant that he was significantly more interested in socializing than playing music, whereas I was the opposite.  His time at home was spent doing the things that facilitate socialization, and I was uncomfortable playing music while he or anyone else was there.  I ended up sitting on the couch watching television or playing video games with him and his friends.  Ultimately, as time went on, I never felt the draw of these activities, especially with other people around, and it made me feel as though I was lacking something. 

This never came to any dramatic conclusion, we simply parted ways after a time, and I moved back to my parents house.  I think it was my lack of purpose that ended up making me feel desperately that I needed to leave Brandon, because there was really nothing negative happening to me, I just had no direction, and no sense of self to suggest what path I should be taking.  Two things kept me from pursuing my passion for music and writing.  The first was fear of failure.  I had painted success as something that was determined by the response of others to my singing and writing, rather than my own personal satisfaction at its completion.  I was unable to take the step of making myself heard, for fear I would learn that I was not as good as I thought I was.  As it turns out, taking that step is vitally important, and I was right - I eventually did learn that I was not as good as I thought I was.  But it wasn't until I learned this that I had the motivation to put the effort into being as good as I could be.  That is where I am at now.  I have learned that I have an ability, but that I am only as good as the work I put into developing that ability.  I continue to work to develop my skills constantly, and know that there will always be things to learn, and skills to improve.

The second thing that kept me from pursuing my passion was my ego.  This goes hand in hand with my fear of failure.  I was not arrogant by any means, but I did shy away as an adolescent from participating in things that I felt I was above.  Of course I was not above them, and if I had participated in them I would have jump started the process of development that I now have begun much later.  My ego was there to protect me from the knowledge that I was not automatically going to be successful.  It shielded me from the fear of failure that was so paralyzing.  In some ways, I think I believed that if I had to work at something, it diminished the success of accomplishing it.  In elementary and middle school, learning came easy to me.  I did not have to work particularly hard to pass with A's and A+'s.  High school changed that, but rather than motivate me to work harder, the habits I had developed influenced me to accept the B's as success, rather than work for higher achievement.  I perceived easy B's to be more rewarding and indicative of my ability than hard-earned A's.  This is something I would urge teachers of young people to take special care to avoid - never reward a young student because something comes easily to them.  Use the knowledge to challenge the student, and never let them feel like they do not have to work to earn your respect.

I eventually made the decision to move to Nova Scotia, to go to school at St. Francis Xavier.  Before I left, I recorded an album of songs I had written throughout highschool, and in the years that followed.  I was motivated to do so by a girl at work who had asked me for a recording of my music.  It's amazing what the request of a pretty girl will do to motivate a lonely boy.  I worked with a friend who is a graphic art designer to develop an album cover and lyric book, and spent two weeks recording in my bedroom, with the help of my dad and brother.  It was the biggest project I had ever undertaken, and it was the most work I had ever put into developing something of my own.  Many hours went into the final product, which is something I hold near and dear to my heart.  We used paper cutters borrowed from the college, and we hand bent staples into each of the 50 album covers in order to make them as professional and authentic as possible.  Folding and assembling the last case, placing it on the pile, and looking at what I had to distribute was at that time the most proud moment of my life, and having that tangible piece of myself to take with me to Nova Scotia helped me to get through the loneliness I felt there.

More on that tomorrow, thanks for reading!

Peace and sanity upon us.

The Non-Confrontation

A break from the confession today, I will pick that up on Monday.  Today I want to talk about something that happened to me this morning at the Corral Center that shook me up.

My typical weekday begins with me getting up (sort of) and heaving myself a foot to the right of my bed, onto a chair in front of my computer.  I then whittle away an hour or two reading forums, facebook, news, etc... This morning I did just that, and decided about an hour into it that I was a bit peckish.  Since I had run out of eggs, I decided to make a trip to Subway get a breakfast sandwich, and also stopped off at the video game store to see if they had a new magazine.  It didn't play out quite as I had anticipated, and being someone who very much likes to adhere to routine and follow a determined plan, this didn't bode well for the rest of my morning and afternoon.  Bear with me here, there is a point to all this.

So I throw on my clothes, and head downstairs.  I've been expecting my new pair of Buddy Holly glasses to arrive in the mail for the last couple of weeks, so I grab the mail key on my way out and check the box.  No glasses - its taking considerably longer than I expected, I'll have to look into this.  I head towards my car and then stop as a thought hits me - I should bring the mail key back inside in case my room mate needs it.  Normally I'd just pocket it and return it later, which I'm sure would not be problematic, but the other day he was looking for it and I had forgotten it was in my pocket, so I am being vigilant to put it back in its place.  Alright, so I walk back and put the key on the table.

Back to my car, I sit down, assume the driving position, and turn the key.  I look to my left and see Jordan and Meghan walking through the parking lot towards their car.  They live in the same complex as me.  I wave, and as they approach Jordan mock shoots me, and I pretend to be hit by the bullet.  He laughs, and I laugh.  I open my window and say hi, standard 'in-passing' conversation ensues, and I think to myself "Well, this is a good start!"

I hit reverse and pull out of the parking lot.  Driving down Braecrest, I am looking forward to the warm sandwich and cold chocolate milk that awaits me.  I turn left onto 18th street, and drive down the hill.  Nothing exciting to speak of here.  One more left at the stop light, then a quick right and I am in the parking lot in front of EB Games, they know me there.  What can I say, I like video games.  I get out of my car and head towards the door, digging through my unnecessarily crammed pocket to make sure my debit card is there.  Uh-oh... no debit card.  I continue to rifle through my pocket, identifying pill bottles and key rings and coins and things, just to be sure I didn't "overlook" it.  Nope, still no card.  Alright, maybe I left it in my backpack.  I walk back to my car, and check the pockets.  No luck.  "Oh well," I say to myself "I've got just enough change for my sandwich and milk."  I decide to forgo the magazine and just hit up subway, no big deal.

I start my car and am about to put it in drive, when a glint of white catches my eye.  Stuck between the seat belt fastener and e-brake is my debit card!  Well happy day!  I hesitate momentarily, as I am already prepared to go to subway, but I turn off the ignition and end up going back to the store.  I say hi as I walk in, and see that the new magazine is not out yet anyways.  I've missed the last couple so I ask the guy if they have back-issues.  He says not that they can sell.  They have to tear off the covers and send them back to the distributor.  Personally, I don't really get that, but hey do what you have to do I guess.  "No problem," I say, and head out of the store.  Back in my car, I pull forward and turn left to proceed to Subway.  This is when things get a bit dicey.

I'm a little bit on the wrong side of the road I guess, but its a parking lot and its hard to tell really where one side ends and the other begins.  There isn't anyone approaching anyways.  I look to my left, just in time to see a young male in a car pull a sharp U-turn in the middle of the parking lot, and nearly run into me.  Like I said, I 'm sort of in the middle, so I have to swerve to get out of his way, and he has to jam on the brakes.  Crisis averted.  I'm a little perturbed though, so I give him a "What the hell" kind of look and wave my hands a bit.  Yeah, probably shouldn't have, but I wasn't particularly rational at the time.  So this is when I really get a good look at him.  He's wearing an oversize peaked cap, and clothes I suppose I would describe as "faux gangsta".  He looks pretty angry.  He starts mouthing words at me, I can't really decipher them, but I'm pretty sure I get the gist.  Just keep driving, I'm thinking to myself, no need for confrontation.  I look behind me and see he has proceeded to get out of his car and is continuing to holler profanities at me, and angrily waves his middle finger in the air with arms upraised in a rather textbook display of dominance.

At this point I'm a little shook up - I don't handle this sort of thing very well.  My flight response is pretty forceful here, which I would say is a good thing.  I might have been able to hold my own in a fight, but to be honest he looked pretty motivated to let me have it, and I didn't really feel like getting physical about it.  Mostly I'm just wanting to get out of the parking lot at this point, not really thinking about breakfast anymore, but I've got the vague notion that I'll go to A&W instead.  Then it dawns on me that they don't serve breakfast after 11.  So these thoughts are running through my head as I drive up the hill, and I look in my rear view mirror only to see the same car racing up the hill behind me. 

Now my heart starts pounding pretty hard.  I'm not sure what to do, but after double checking I am positive it is the same guy, in the same car, accelerating much more quickly in a bid to catch up to me.  My instinct says to turn onto Braecrest and head towards home, which I do.  He continues to follow me in a tailgating fashion, and I rethink my destination.  The last thing I want to do is lead an angry pretend gangster to my home.  So I drive past the parking lot and keep on going.  I decide to drive towards the police station.  Classic worse-case scenario thinking here.  If this guy just keeps following me, I'm at least going to lead him towards law enforcement.  Looking back on it, I chuckle to myself - probably a major overreaction, but a good number of none-to-pleasant scenarios had been running through my head, most of them resulting in significant damage to my car, and myself.

As luck would have it, before I even reached 1st Street, a police car came into view in the oncoming lane.  This relieved me a bit, although I did consider that there was really no way to communicate my concern to the officer.  So I leaned into my window, adopted my best "something is up" face, and communicated in the only way I could think to - I waved.  I don't even think the cop looked at me, let alone read into my not so subtle expression or noticed my waving hand, but as it turned out his attention wasn't going to be necessary.  As I passed by the entrance to the trailer court, I noticed my tailgaters turning signal turn on, and began to put two and two together.  He was just going home - of course, not without further intimidating the schmuck who he clearly assumed was responsible for the near collision, and whose reaction he did not take all too kindly.

It took a while for my heart to stop angrily thumping against my chest, and my hands continued to shake for a good couple of miles, but eventually I calmed down enough to feel hungry again.  I decided to go to the Subway by the Trans-Canada instead - worst case scenario thinking placed my former follower directly outside of the Subway in the Corral Center, just waiting for me to naively return for my breakfast.  At Subway I sat in my car for a few minutes, checking all directions to make sure he hadn't somehow followed me up there.  When I was fairly certain my rational mind was correct, I stepped out and stood up on some shaky legs, and went inside to get my sandwich.  I had to wait for a large order to be made, so for a few minutes I furtively glanced about the parking lot, so as to be prepared for his return.  Every car that pulled into the lot made me jump a little, but they were all driven by senior citizens.  Of course I knew I was acting crazy, but that didn't stop me from being hyper-vigilant.  That's just how I operate I guess.  If I'm aware that my behavior is paranoid and irrational, but I still act paranoid and irrational, am I really paranoid?  Or am I just irrational?  Best not to answer that question.

So now I'm at home, having enjoyed my Bacon and Egg sub on Italian Herbs and Cheese bread, with my chocolate milk stowed safely in my gastric passageways.  I still have a bit of a sense that he's going to find my car, or track me down at work -- my favorite worst case scenario is the one where I'm minding my own business behind the desk at the gym, when he comes in with a gun and shoots me dead, in front of all of the people on the cardio equipment.  That would be an exciting way to go out I suppose. 

I can't help but go over the events that led up to the near accident, and all the random things that happened that ended up timing my pulling out of the parking spot so precisely.  Had I just pocketed the key, no near collision.  Had I not gone back into the store, none of it would have happened.  So many steps along the way, and take away just one of them, and I wouldn't have had a story to write here today.  It makes me think about how uncertain life can be, and how easy it can be to get caught up in routine and expectation.  This morning wasn't my idea of a grand ol' time, but it was a hell of a lot more exciting than my standard breakfast jaunt, and it gave me a story to tell.  Maybe I could be a little more proactive about creating some excitement in my life, after all I've only got this one, and you never know when an angry pretend gangster from the prairies is going to chase you down and bust a cap in your bumper.  Just something to think about I guess.  By tomorrow I'll have pretty much forgotten about the whole incident, and I'm already laughing at the seriousness with which I perceived the situation at the time, but I thought it was a pretty good example of how I deal with threatening circumstances, and maybe, just maybe, a bit of an interesting story.

Signing off for today, back Monday with more of my confession!  Thanks for reading, as usual, feel free to leave a comment below!

My First Confession - Part 2

Alright, carrying on with it!  So, a little more about who I am now, then a little more about how I got here.  I mentioned my difficulty in high school, dealing with depression and feelings of isolation, and not understanding why I felt like I was the only one feeling that way.  I think not knowing that I was autistic was a major contributor to my lack of identity.  It was very hard to define myself when I couldn't look around and compare my perception of myself to my perception of others.  I spent a great deal of time 'pretending' to know what my peers were doing and feeling, and this consumed a great deal of my energy.  I think though, that learning to mimic the behaviors of those around me was instrumental in the development of my acting skill and ability.  When the opportunity to be in a play came up, the skills I learned in the hallways transferred neatly onto the stage.  Perhaps this is why I feel so at home when I am acting.

Anyhow, I now consider performing to be part of the core of who I am.  I have always felt an affinity for the stage.  Many times the relationships and interactions I take part in on the stage feel more real to me than those that take place in my day to day life.  I imagine this is because everything on stage is scripted.  I can know and understand exactly what others are feeling and communicating, because it is written in stone.  Because I don't have to actively process this information, I can then place my focus inward, to really dig within myself to discover how I might communicate the feelings my character is experiencing.  This does not often happen outside of the theater for me.

I think this is also why I have developed a strong attachment to music and film.  Watching movies allows me to experience the emotions that I otherwise am rather oblivious to.  In high school I was particularly influenced by the movie Moulin Rouge.  The first time I watched it I was spell bound.  I wanted to feel the way the penniless writer felt, utterly lost in passion and love.  I wanted it to be real.  When the movie came to a close, I felt my heart break as Satine passed away, and I experienced the desolation that Christian feels as everything he believes in crumbles from underneath him. 

Music has been central in my emotional development.  I oftentimes forget the power it has for me, and will go for weeks or months without feeling much of anything.  Life will become a dull exercise, and a redundant chore.  And then, I will click on a facebook link or watch a youtube video, and everything will come pouring out.  Music has helped me to grieve, and to celebrate.  It has taught me how to release, and it continues to be a dominant force in my life.

So, performance is how I express myself.  Whether through music, theater, or film, by performing I am able to experience the manifestation of my inner being.  But that is only a part of who I am.  To perform there are all sorts of barriers I must cross.  Anxiety, apprehension, and self-doubt to name a few.  The other part of who I am lies in how I have managed to break through these barriers, and how I continue to deal with them.

I believe wholeheartedly that the key to happiness in life, no matter who or where you are, or what you are doing, begins with the health and maintenance of one's body.  Our mind depends on the successful functioning of our physical body, and vice versa.  They are co-dependent.  This is something I have come to learn while training at the gym.  I am by no means a perfect example of healthy living - but I strive to be aware of the things that I do that harm and benefit my body.  Someday I do hope I really will be that example of healthy living, so that I can passionately communicate the foundation of my success.  As with anything else though, this is a process and it is one that cannot be rushed.  The progress I have made over the last three years is something I am very proud of, and it is something that motivates me to continue to first be aware of the things I do that negatively affect my well-being, and then to address those behaviors and change them for the benefit of my body, mind, and soul.  It's a journey that will never really end, as there will always be ways in which I can improve.

This is why I decided to become a personal trainer.  When I began going to the gym, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, what to expect, or how to go about achieving the vague goals I had in mind.  I enlisted the help of a personal trainer, and it remains one of the most important and instrumental decisions I have made on my journey to self-acceptance.  He gave me the direction I needed to feel validated, and challenged me to believe in myself and the possibilities that exist for those who that work hard to achieve their goals.  Under his guidance, and through my own willpower, I learned how to be confident and assertive, despite not necessarily feeling that way.  This was my first step into the process of accepting myself.  Learning that I was autistic certainly served to cement and solidify this acceptance, but I think it is important to note that my belief in myself does not depend on that knowledge, it is enhanced by it. 

I want to be able to share with others, what my personal trainer was able to share with me.  I know there are many out there who struggle with the same feelings that dominated my adolescent existence, and I want to be help them realize their potential.  So after I had been going to the gym for a few years, I signed up for the Can-Fit Pro self-study exam challenge, spent 6 months studying and learning on my own, and then travelled to Winnipeg to write an exam and complete a practical assessment.  That day was one of the most nerve-wracking days of my life.  I had to traverse completely foreign territory and meet new people, and communicate confidence and self-assuredness that I assure you I did not feel in the slightest.  All of the skills I had developed and continue to develop were put into action, and I felt very much like running away.  But I persevered, and the work I had put into studying and learning paid off. 

The hardest part of the day was the practical exam.  For any of you who have been to a gym, you know that at first, it can be a terribly intimidating place.  Well I have gotten pretty use to the small gym where I work, and have gotten to know a good number of people who use it.  But I was not prepared for the behemoth that awaited me in Winnipeg.  For my practical exam I had to develop a workout plan for a fictional client, and then take that client through a "session", under the scrutiny of a pro-trainer.  In private, I could have done this easily - I was prepared, I knew what I was doing.  I didn't realize I would be doing it in a very busy gym in a big city.  Needless to say, that flight response kicked in full gear, and my knees were pretty wobbly.  Being amidst so many people was incredibly daunting, and having to "train" my dad in front of all of them was a challenge I had not anticipated.  (My dad accompanied me on the trip and got to play the part of 28 year old Maria, my pretend client!).

The point of all this though, is that I did face the challenge.  I passed the practical with an 89%.  I covered all of the technical bases, and the  only comments were that I should have interacted more with the client - I spent sixty minutes talking pretty much non-stop because I was so nervous!  But I covered all the information I needed to, and then some.  Walking out of that gym, knowing I had finished what I had set out to do six months before, in the face of some pretty scary challenges filled me with confidence and self-respect that I continue to draw on in times of doubt.  Now I want to use that knowledge and experience to help others achieve the same sense of self-confidence.

I sometimes wonder how high school might have been different if I knew then, what I know today.  Of course it would have been, but taking that into consideration, I have to admit that I wouldn't have wanted it that way.  Sure high school was a difficult time for me, and yes I did deal with some pretty scary lows.  But if I hadn't had to deal with that difficulty, I never would have learned how to value and believe in myself.  And high school was not all bad, by any means.  I had a lot of fun too.  I did have friends, just not close friends.  My lows were complimented by highs, and there was plenty of happiness to be had.  That didn't make it less of a struggle, but it made the the fight worthwhile.   Knowing that I never gave up then is motivation to to continue to press on today.

When I graduated from Crocus Plains, I had no sense of direction.  I didn't know what I wanted to do and still felt overwhelmed by my sense of difference.  I felt I had cut off ties with all the people I had gone to high school with, and after working at McDonalds on the night shift for a couple of years, I hit an all-time low, and had to get away from Brandon.  I ended up going to the same school as my older brother, St. Francis Xavier, for one year.  That marked the beginning of a very dark period in my life.  Whereas as high school was difficult, I still experienced a sense of purpose and direction there.  Leaving behind the corridors and classrooms left me feeling very empty, and travelling thousands of kilometers away from home served to intensify the loneliness I felt.  Nova Scotia will always be the beginning of the end to me, as my time there served as both the final catalyst in my breaking down, and the stimulating jolt that woke me up.  But more on that tomorrow, I must practice my lines for Buddy Holly!

If you've stuck with me this far, thanks again, and as always your thoughts and commentary are appreciated.  Thanks to those who liked and commented on my previous post, the response has left me with a very warm feeling.

Peace and sanity be upon us!

My First Confession

I am writing this for myself.  As any human being with an ego does, I do appreciate an audience, especially an appreciative one.  This is for me though.  If there are a few people who become interested in my words, then I am grateful for their attention, and hope it serves to motivate me to impart more words, for my own good.  If anyone apart from myself gleans something from this, perhaps it is because we share in what we struggle with.  Perhaps if you are one of those people, we can learn from each other.

Why am I writing this?  To discover who I am.  One of my struggles, and perhaps it is the very foundation of my struggle, has been to establish some kind of identity.  To feel valued by myself.  I find I am so wrapped up in what others must think of me, that I give no ear to that feeble voice within that wants to say what I think of myself.  I silence the voice with worry and doubt, making it all the more difficult to stand up against the opinions of others.  More often than not, these opinions are not really the thoughts and feelings of other people, but actually my own thoughts and feelings, misplaced and misrepresented. 

This blog is for me.  It is made public so that I may invite inquiring minds to speculate and comment on what I have to say, and maybe even identify with.  What follows is my confession.  I will strive to omit nothing, not for shame and not for its apparent lack of value.  What follows is who I am.

My name is Rene, but you can call me Will.  Rene William Moes.  I have what is referred to as Asperger's Syndrome.  I don't like calling it that though.  I am 25 years old, and only found out a few years ago that this is what makes me feel different from you.  By you, I mean every single person I have ever met.  Asperger's Syndrome, is a controversial term used to refer to certain people who live with something called the Autistic Spectrum.  You have probably heard of Autism.  You may have seen Rain Man with Dustin Hoffman and thought it was kind of cool, albeit something you were glad you didn't have to live with.  Autism is a complicated subject and I don't want to talk a whole lot about it right now.  As I go on, I will be recalling things from my past that I now view in a different light.  Things that I thought were something only I had a problem with.  Things that I thought were just me being weak, or frail.  Learning that I am an autistic person has been one of the most profound and affirming things to ever happen to me.  It has helped me to accept myself.  Now I seek to understand myself.

I feel I should at least briefly explain what I mean by the autistic spectrum, in case you are unfamiliar.  Autism is a psychological condition that affects ones perception and understanding of the world they live in, as well as having a significant influence on their behavior.  It is a spectrum because different people experience it differently, to varying degrees of severity.  The example of Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man is one that is extremely autistic.  His character is unable to function in society due to his autism.  He lives in a psychiatric institution under the care of doctors and psychologists, and cannot care for himself.  This extreme form of autism accounts for a very small percentage of autistic people.  To say one has 'Asperger's Syndrome', such as myself, is basically to say they exhibit a mild form of autism.  I'm not going to outline all of the diagnostic criteria, or explain it in detail. 

An 'aspie' is someone who is fully capable of learning to function in society.  Learning is the key word here, because it is a different kind of learning than for most other people.  While social skills develop naturally for most, the development of social skills requires explicit instruction for someone with Asperger's Syndrome.  And while the fundamental skills can be learned, the subtleties of communication that others grasp may always escape them.  This results in someone with AP being "the same, but different", and makes it especially difficult for them to experience what they see everyone else around them experiencing.  Like I said, this is a very complex subject, and there is no way I can explain it in two paragraphs. 

What I wanted to describe though, is this sense of not quite fitting in.  It is something that has been with me my entire life.  Others see me as fitting in, but I do not feel as though I am fitting in.  Nor am I particularly compelled to try.  My social interactions are dictated by necessity.  I do not like being around many people at once, as it is just way too much information to process.  Large groups of people are like a school of fish to me - one that I can observe, and even learn to swim along with, but I can never truly "go with the flow".  They all seem to know what they are doing and where they are going.  I struggle to make sense of it.  As you may have determined, my identity is very tied up in this.  I would not be so accepting of myself today, had I not learned that there really was a reason for my feeling so different from nearly everyone I ever met.

I was born in Guelph, Ontario on May 8th, 1985.  I do not know any further details about this time in my life.  The life I remember began in Winnipeg, Manitoba in elementary school.  The earliest memories I have are of painting with my hands and being absolutely terrified at the prospect of placing my hands in the paint.  I have vague recollections of walking to and from school with my older brother.  I once visited Minnetonka Elementary School as an adult.  It struck me that the doors seemed much, much smaller than I remembered them.

Halfway through grade one, my dad got a job in Brandon, a couple hours away from Winnipeg.  We picked up and moved here.  We moved to a small community about thirty minutes away for a brief time, and I spent a year at University in Nova Scotia, but apart from that nearly all of my memories come from Brandon.  This is my home.  Maybe I will move away someday, maybe even someday soon.  But this will always be home to me, it is where I came from.

I spent eight years at a Christian School - much much more on that later.  I didn't realize it during those years of course, but those years served to worsen and cement my social difficulties.  I am sure there are aspects of myself that flourished there, that could not have flourished in a secular environment, and in truth I value my time there.  I cannot deny though, that the process of integration following those years has been incredibly difficult, and at times painfully isolating.  I was also indoctrinated with fundamental Christianity there.  These beliefs simply did not hold up as my rational mind developed.  Again, more on this later.  Suffice it to say that my education at a religious institution is a fundamental part of who I am, and has made my departure from religion to be especially painful, albeit necessary.

I moved from the christian school to the largest secular highschool in the city in grade nine.  I went from a class of 12 to a class of 300.  I went from a school in which I knew every teacher and every student, to a vast sea of unfamiliarity.  It terrified me.  Ultimately I did not end up integrating into this community.  I always felt isolated, and for the first couple of years tended to wander the halls with a notebook, writing notes and thoughts, slowly slipping into a heavy depression that lasted until my early twenties.  In grade ten I did find at least some sense of community through theatre, but I never really connected to anyone.  I would sit with them in the hall at lunchtime, the quiet one, wondering to myself what it was that made me so different from them, and why they couldn't seem to see it, or if they did, why they didn't say anything about it.

In fact, there was one person who I did feel a connection to in high school.  He was one year older than me, and in him I saw the closest thing to a reflection of myself.  On theatre trips I would sit beside him and he would tell me about the music he liked, or discuss his impressive knowledge of history.  I would have conversations with him in which I actually felt as though what I had to say was important, and valid.  We even seemed to wear the same kind of clothes - not quite fitting in with the fashion choices that proliferated the halls.  Yet, we never established a real friendship.  I felt drawn to him like no other person, because he seemed most like myself.  Yet at the same time, I felt very repelled by him, because he seemed to not fit in.  He demonstrated behaviors that I worked hard to conceal.  He seemed to be the me that I was trying so desperately to not let other people see.

I did not find out until a couple of years after high school that in fact, this person also had Asperger's Syndrome.  I was drawn to him because he was the only one of many that I could actually see myself reflected in.  And I avoided being like him for precisely the same reason.  Only I thought the things that he did that made him different were the things we were supposed to be hiding.  This was me not realizing that there was a very valid reason for these behaviors, and it was going to be a long time before I finally began to accept them, and will be much longer yet until I understand them.

And it is here that I will sign off for the day.  Tomorrow I will continue on, but I have already taxed my focus, and I fear pushing myself too far will only result in me giving up on this confession, and that I will not allow.  If you have read this far, thank you.  If you come back to read more, bless you.

Peace and sanity upon us.