Drowning in Dreams
"There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality; and then there are those who turn one into the other." ~ Douglas H. Everett (Author)
When everything went to shit, and it did go to shit, I fondly remembered those times that were so influenced by my dreams. Well, when I wasn't wishing myself or him dead. And I say that not because I am one of those loony ex-girlfriends who wishes all past partners dead - not at all. I say that because the circumstances that involved the end felt like the literal end in how traumatic they were. The transition between him being present in my dreams and being startlingly absent from them was difficult. Difficult being defined in this particular juncture as: spontaneously crying all the time, missing work, not eating, and isolating myself....for months upon months.
To explain what happened, I feel the need to describe an imaginary situation that you can apply to your own life, in hopes of you possibly "getting it" in your heart instead of your head. Intellectually, I know what I should have done.....emotionally, that was impossible. This is pretty personal...so, here we go.....
I want you to imagine the love of your life. The one and only person you have ever dreamed of spending a lifetime with. The one and only person you have ever considered joining with in a union that represents "forever." The one and only person you have ever considered having children with.
Go that? Ok.....
I want you to imagine that one day you wake up and, spontaneously, that person has disappeared with no explanation. He or she is gone. Their side of the bed is empty. You call their family and you call the hospitals and no one knows what happened to them. They are gone.
Following me?
For days and then weeks, you do not hear from him or her. You are frantic and sleep deprived. Eventually, you get in your car and drive the streets looking, searching. All you think is, "how could this be?" You drive and drive until your eyes hurt from looking so hard. And, one day, you see a person that resembles your love, that has all the features of the person you've been looking for, yet looks empty. Like a ghost. And when you run to them, when you embrace him or her, they are only the shell of the person you once knew. Regardless of the fact that you have found them, they are still gone.
Bringing it home now....
This continues for months. At times, you are able to bring him or her home and restore some of what you have lost, but only for short periods of time and it never feels quite the same again. Having your love around has become equally as difficult as having them absent, which they frequently are for weeks or months at a time. Eventually, your devastation, your heartbreak, your sorrow turns into a hardened bitterness of what should have been. You become just as hollow as they are. Your sleeplessness becomes chronic. You are drowning in dreams that haunt you.
Imagery complete. This is what it is like to be in a relationship with a recovering addict who suddenly becomes "not so recovered." A relapsing addict is not a pretty sight. What might make my story - this story - unique from other similar stories lies in the severity of the transition between sober and not sober. Going from having employment, living with me, and weighing in at 225lbs to living on the streets, smoking crack and injecting other choice drugs, and weighing in approximately 70lbs less took about four to five weeks in total, with very little in between. Living on the streets was immediate, as was the drug use; the weight loss took a little longer. Think back to an episode of COPS - one where it showed the mug shot of a crack addict coming in off the streets. That's basically what I was dealing with. And I did not deal with it well.
As an aside, I figure you might be wondering what in the hell all this blabbering has to do with Africa. It is significant in the sense that this experience contributed to changes that would come later on in life, which had a direct impact on turning Africa from a dream into a reality that's happening in less than a year. Prior to this relationship, I had done a lot of damage to myself as a individual; however, I can honestly say that I had never experienced that much damage from being with another person. I'm sure there are other women out there who would have handled it differently, better than I did. I am not those women and I dealt with it in the only way I knew how - survival.
I remember my wonderful women colleagues (and friends) asking me how it was possible that I was at work with all of this stuff going on. If I wasn't at work, I was in my apartment, lying in my bed, sobbing; therefore, work seemed like the more productive option. One thing I hugely regret from this time was how absent I became in my job - not just physically, but mentally. I can recall a certain female youth I was working with telling me something about me had changed and that I wasn't the same person anymore. This was confusing and frightening for her, as the therapist should be human, but more importantly reliable and attentive. I was neither. And that feeling, or lack thereof, stayed with me (on and off, but mostly on) for a very long time.
I tried going to see my own therapist during those couple of years. It was pointless. He was wonderful, a social worker like me, but I was unable to engage in the process due to being too lost within myself. I didn't know myself any more and I wasn't in a place where he could help me find that missing person. I cancelled a lot of sessions before finally giving up and letting myself try (in futility) to forget. In trying to forget, something I know from my line of work isn't effective, I forgot who I was. And, in doing that, Africa got forgotten as well. In fact, it was grieved and then forgotten, as were most things that once held endless possibilities. Ultimately, at some point I had to move on and face the reality that we (him and I) would not be working together, him building things and me working with children, youth and adults living in poverty with HIV/AIDS. That dream was ooooooover with a capital O.
What followed was "radio silence," a virtual lapse in dreaming of anything, especially Africa.
When everything went to shit, and it did go to shit, I fondly remembered those times that were so influenced by my dreams. Well, when I wasn't wishing myself or him dead. And I say that not because I am one of those loony ex-girlfriends who wishes all past partners dead - not at all. I say that because the circumstances that involved the end felt like the literal end in how traumatic they were. The transition between him being present in my dreams and being startlingly absent from them was difficult. Difficult being defined in this particular juncture as: spontaneously crying all the time, missing work, not eating, and isolating myself....for months upon months.
To explain what happened, I feel the need to describe an imaginary situation that you can apply to your own life, in hopes of you possibly "getting it" in your heart instead of your head. Intellectually, I know what I should have done.....emotionally, that was impossible. This is pretty personal...so, here we go.....
I want you to imagine the love of your life. The one and only person you have ever dreamed of spending a lifetime with. The one and only person you have ever considered joining with in a union that represents "forever." The one and only person you have ever considered having children with.
Go that? Ok.....
I want you to imagine that one day you wake up and, spontaneously, that person has disappeared with no explanation. He or she is gone. Their side of the bed is empty. You call their family and you call the hospitals and no one knows what happened to them. They are gone.
Following me?
For days and then weeks, you do not hear from him or her. You are frantic and sleep deprived. Eventually, you get in your car and drive the streets looking, searching. All you think is, "how could this be?" You drive and drive until your eyes hurt from looking so hard. And, one day, you see a person that resembles your love, that has all the features of the person you've been looking for, yet looks empty. Like a ghost. And when you run to them, when you embrace him or her, they are only the shell of the person you once knew. Regardless of the fact that you have found them, they are still gone.
Bringing it home now....
This continues for months. At times, you are able to bring him or her home and restore some of what you have lost, but only for short periods of time and it never feels quite the same again. Having your love around has become equally as difficult as having them absent, which they frequently are for weeks or months at a time. Eventually, your devastation, your heartbreak, your sorrow turns into a hardened bitterness of what should have been. You become just as hollow as they are. Your sleeplessness becomes chronic. You are drowning in dreams that haunt you.
Imagery complete. This is what it is like to be in a relationship with a recovering addict who suddenly becomes "not so recovered." A relapsing addict is not a pretty sight. What might make my story - this story - unique from other similar stories lies in the severity of the transition between sober and not sober. Going from having employment, living with me, and weighing in at 225lbs to living on the streets, smoking crack and injecting other choice drugs, and weighing in approximately 70lbs less took about four to five weeks in total, with very little in between. Living on the streets was immediate, as was the drug use; the weight loss took a little longer. Think back to an episode of COPS - one where it showed the mug shot of a crack addict coming in off the streets. That's basically what I was dealing with. And I did not deal with it well.
As an aside, I figure you might be wondering what in the hell all this blabbering has to do with Africa. It is significant in the sense that this experience contributed to changes that would come later on in life, which had a direct impact on turning Africa from a dream into a reality that's happening in less than a year. Prior to this relationship, I had done a lot of damage to myself as a individual; however, I can honestly say that I had never experienced that much damage from being with another person. I'm sure there are other women out there who would have handled it differently, better than I did. I am not those women and I dealt with it in the only way I knew how - survival.
I remember my wonderful women colleagues (and friends) asking me how it was possible that I was at work with all of this stuff going on. If I wasn't at work, I was in my apartment, lying in my bed, sobbing; therefore, work seemed like the more productive option. One thing I hugely regret from this time was how absent I became in my job - not just physically, but mentally. I can recall a certain female youth I was working with telling me something about me had changed and that I wasn't the same person anymore. This was confusing and frightening for her, as the therapist should be human, but more importantly reliable and attentive. I was neither. And that feeling, or lack thereof, stayed with me (on and off, but mostly on) for a very long time.
I tried going to see my own therapist during those couple of years. It was pointless. He was wonderful, a social worker like me, but I was unable to engage in the process due to being too lost within myself. I didn't know myself any more and I wasn't in a place where he could help me find that missing person. I cancelled a lot of sessions before finally giving up and letting myself try (in futility) to forget. In trying to forget, something I know from my line of work isn't effective, I forgot who I was. And, in doing that, Africa got forgotten as well. In fact, it was grieved and then forgotten, as were most things that once held endless possibilities. Ultimately, at some point I had to move on and face the reality that we (him and I) would not be working together, him building things and me working with children, youth and adults living in poverty with HIV/AIDS. That dream was ooooooover with a capital O.
What followed was "radio silence," a virtual lapse in dreaming of anything, especially Africa.
A Long Hiatus
~ Georgia Harkness (Christian Theologian).
After confirmation, there was what I refer to as a "religious silence" for a long period of time. As mentioned, the parental expectation of attending church regularly lessened and as a family, we gradually drifted towards "C & E" status. With the pressure of being forced to believe in god off of me, my incessant questioning ceased and I simply stopping thinking about it so damn hard. Somewhere within that, within that time where I could reflect on my own thoughts without the influence or burden of adult judgement and persuasion, I found comfort in believing that there just might be something out there bigger than the rest of us. That there might be someone or something that watched over us and cared about our existence and success. Over time, I came to the conclusion that it was, in fact, easier to not think about it and to "just simply believe." Arriving at this place was not momentous at the time (as many things of that nature are not for teenagers); however, reflecting upon it at certain times later in life forced me to explore how significant simply believing was. A lot of frontal lobe development was necessary for such critical thinking.
After that, when I went to church, I prayed. If grace was being said around the supper table, I participated. And sometimes, in my head, I had conversations with who-knows-what that started out with,"dear god..." It did not feel symbolic, nor did it feel consequential. It just was. It was what my family did and what I did and what many of the people I grew up with did. As an adult, I do not regret this time; rather, I am happy for it. And, I am happy for the times that came after it where I was more devout, as it served to strengthen me. And, at present, I grateful that I am now in a different place, where I understand these things on a level that did not exist before.
"It's evolution baby."
"Clinish"
"The best compliment to children or friends is the feeling you give them that they have been set free to make their own inquiries, to come to conclusions that are right for them, whether or not they coincide with your own." ~ Alistair Cooke (British/American Journalist & Broadcaster)
Never, in a million years, did I see myself working with "troubled teens." In fact, I avoided working with the teenage population for my entire career (minus almost four years now). After completing my MSW and then subsequently being unemployed for six months (due to a lack of french language skills)....I would have likely taken any job that was offered to me. Never being unemployed before....the first two to three weeks were amazing, followed by the next five months of life being pretty shitty and involving racking up even more debt. How I landed the job I currently have with zero experience in working with adolescents is beyond me. My supervisor has told me that she saw something in me that I didn't even see in myself. I'm glad she did.
My initial thought: teenagers....how hard could it really be? As it turns out, really, super-duper hard.
To clarify, the kids I work with aren't your average "troubled teenagers" who argue over not having a good enough cell phone or kick and scream about designer jeans or curfews. The kids I work with would absolutely love to have problems that benign. To provide a brief description, the youth I work with have mostly been in the care of The Children's Aid Society for quite a number of years and, almost entirely have the worlds most fucked up parents (in North America anyways). These are the children of addicted parents, of parents who abuse and neglect and who shove away instead of holding close. Most often, the kids I work with - their parents were exactly where they were years earlier, because their parents weren't much better. The intergenerational issues are omnipresent and generation upon generation of families are functioning poorly and struggling with the same issues over decades. By the time these kids end up on my doorstep, they are super messed up individuals who have no understanding of appropriate love and limits. They are totally out of control and, most often, they have been through every placement available and finally someone has clued in that they need more than a place to rest their head at night and, therefore, they are sent to treatment. That's where I come in.
I've been working for the same agency for just over three and a half years now and my role within that agency is primarily to provide therapy to youth and their families. There's a lot more to it than that but, I want to focus these entries on the kids and what I learn from them. Yes....what I learn from them. What they teach me about life and love and the world is far greater than I could ever offer them in their one-hour session, once a week. The youth in our programs live with us (not me, within the agency itself) as we provide residences in the community, most of which can house seven to eight youth at a time. In general, they stay with us anywhere between nine to twelve months to receive treatment - and, almost always - they do not want to be there (at least initially). Providing therapy to young people who generally don't want it makes my job challenging and I have become uber creative as a result.
My job title is "Clinician," which in reality translates into: listener, problem solver, hugger, confidant, person in which to laugh and cry with, and the one-who-does-not-judge-me. I judge parents sometimes, even though I shouldn't and even though I am aware that you can't parent if you've never been parented. They're the easiest target to hit when a kid is describing the ongoing abuse they suffered since age four. And, the fact of the matter is: it is the "parents fault;" I know this because therapists make their money off of "mothers." If there were no mothers, the need for therapy would likely decrease by 85%. There is good reason for this; however, this is not the forum in which to get into attachment theory.
One of the first youth I ever worked with, who was extremely violent and intimidating at his 250lbs, changed my title to what it remains today: clinish. He felt that the title "clinician" was far too professional and removed, so he changed it and I have continued to refer to myself as this since that time. He was the first youth I had success with - and "success" in my line of work has a different definition than it does in mainstream society. Success does not mean that this youth went on to complete school (which he did), become meaningfully employed (which he also did) and become a "productive member of society." Rather, it means that he learned to love himself, to forgive his past, and move onto a life where he experiences happiness. That is my measurement of success.
Some of the daily issues I am exposed to are: self harm (cutting, burning yourself), drug and alcohol abuse, suicide attempts, running (from the program and into the more dangerous parts of society), aggression, sexual acting out, and lots and lots of yelling and tears. What these particular kids need is LOVE. Unrestricted love and attention and then more love. As a professional, I am not "allowed" to provide these things to kids (again, for numerous reasons that I'm not going to get into here), but I love them. Yes, I certainly do love them - in all the right ways.
Different aspects of my life have drastically changed since working at this job. First off, I have grown to love children more than I ever thought possible. I am extremely passionate about these little people (aka. circus clowns) and I have challenged myself to learn everything possible (which is virtually impossible) about child development. My love for children and youth exists deep into the core of my being and my only concern is: protect, protect, protect. That's all we need to do. Love and protect. I have also decided that having children is not for me. Now, this was solidified since working with this population; however, the feeling that I would likely never embark on that adventure has been present for many years. When people ask me if I have kids, my stock answer is: "yes, eight of them....and they are totally fucked up." Of course, it's more complicated than working with the more damaged children in society, but, I feel that my love can be offered more usefully to other people's children than my own. Most of my colleagues think I'm crazy for choosing not to have my own children, as I have been labelled as someone who likely would be an "excellent mother." They don't know me (and my sometimes profound levels of immaturity) all that well.
I often wonder how it will be in Africa, working with kids who are damaged for different (and similar) reasons. How will I handle working with those kids, as it took me quite some time to develop the skills necessary to manage listening to stories of abandonment and abuse all day. I hope I am awesome at it.
Never, in a million years, did I see myself working with "troubled teens." In fact, I avoided working with the teenage population for my entire career (minus almost four years now). After completing my MSW and then subsequently being unemployed for six months (due to a lack of french language skills)....I would have likely taken any job that was offered to me. Never being unemployed before....the first two to three weeks were amazing, followed by the next five months of life being pretty shitty and involving racking up even more debt. How I landed the job I currently have with zero experience in working with adolescents is beyond me. My supervisor has told me that she saw something in me that I didn't even see in myself. I'm glad she did.
My initial thought: teenagers....how hard could it really be? As it turns out, really, super-duper hard.
To clarify, the kids I work with aren't your average "troubled teenagers" who argue over not having a good enough cell phone or kick and scream about designer jeans or curfews. The kids I work with would absolutely love to have problems that benign. To provide a brief description, the youth I work with have mostly been in the care of The Children's Aid Society for quite a number of years and, almost entirely have the worlds most fucked up parents (in North America anyways). These are the children of addicted parents, of parents who abuse and neglect and who shove away instead of holding close. Most often, the kids I work with - their parents were exactly where they were years earlier, because their parents weren't much better. The intergenerational issues are omnipresent and generation upon generation of families are functioning poorly and struggling with the same issues over decades. By the time these kids end up on my doorstep, they are super messed up individuals who have no understanding of appropriate love and limits. They are totally out of control and, most often, they have been through every placement available and finally someone has clued in that they need more than a place to rest their head at night and, therefore, they are sent to treatment. That's where I come in.
I've been working for the same agency for just over three and a half years now and my role within that agency is primarily to provide therapy to youth and their families. There's a lot more to it than that but, I want to focus these entries on the kids and what I learn from them. Yes....what I learn from them. What they teach me about life and love and the world is far greater than I could ever offer them in their one-hour session, once a week. The youth in our programs live with us (not me, within the agency itself) as we provide residences in the community, most of which can house seven to eight youth at a time. In general, they stay with us anywhere between nine to twelve months to receive treatment - and, almost always - they do not want to be there (at least initially). Providing therapy to young people who generally don't want it makes my job challenging and I have become uber creative as a result.
My job title is "Clinician," which in reality translates into: listener, problem solver, hugger, confidant, person in which to laugh and cry with, and the one-who-does-not-judge-me. I judge parents sometimes, even though I shouldn't and even though I am aware that you can't parent if you've never been parented. They're the easiest target to hit when a kid is describing the ongoing abuse they suffered since age four. And, the fact of the matter is: it is the "parents fault;" I know this because therapists make their money off of "mothers." If there were no mothers, the need for therapy would likely decrease by 85%. There is good reason for this; however, this is not the forum in which to get into attachment theory.
One of the first youth I ever worked with, who was extremely violent and intimidating at his 250lbs, changed my title to what it remains today: clinish. He felt that the title "clinician" was far too professional and removed, so he changed it and I have continued to refer to myself as this since that time. He was the first youth I had success with - and "success" in my line of work has a different definition than it does in mainstream society. Success does not mean that this youth went on to complete school (which he did), become meaningfully employed (which he also did) and become a "productive member of society." Rather, it means that he learned to love himself, to forgive his past, and move onto a life where he experiences happiness. That is my measurement of success.
Some of the daily issues I am exposed to are: self harm (cutting, burning yourself), drug and alcohol abuse, suicide attempts, running (from the program and into the more dangerous parts of society), aggression, sexual acting out, and lots and lots of yelling and tears. What these particular kids need is LOVE. Unrestricted love and attention and then more love. As a professional, I am not "allowed" to provide these things to kids (again, for numerous reasons that I'm not going to get into here), but I love them. Yes, I certainly do love them - in all the right ways.
Different aspects of my life have drastically changed since working at this job. First off, I have grown to love children more than I ever thought possible. I am extremely passionate about these little people (aka. circus clowns) and I have challenged myself to learn everything possible (which is virtually impossible) about child development. My love for children and youth exists deep into the core of my being and my only concern is: protect, protect, protect. That's all we need to do. Love and protect. I have also decided that having children is not for me. Now, this was solidified since working with this population; however, the feeling that I would likely never embark on that adventure has been present for many years. When people ask me if I have kids, my stock answer is: "yes, eight of them....and they are totally fucked up." Of course, it's more complicated than working with the more damaged children in society, but, I feel that my love can be offered more usefully to other people's children than my own. Most of my colleagues think I'm crazy for choosing not to have my own children, as I have been labelled as someone who likely would be an "excellent mother." They don't know me (and my sometimes profound levels of immaturity) all that well.
I often wonder how it will be in Africa, working with kids who are damaged for different (and similar) reasons. How will I handle working with those kids, as it took me quite some time to develop the skills necessary to manage listening to stories of abandonment and abuse all day. I hope I am awesome at it.
All For Not
“Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.” ~ Anais Nin (French Born American Author)
It didn't end with the dreams I had those nights in Montreal, the flashes of images and the strange understanding of somewhere I had never been. Frankly, that would be a devastatingly boring story. What makes for interesting stories? Love. Fantastic or fucked up; love.
I received a lot more than an academic education that year in Montreal and, for quite some time, what I received was fantastically wonderful (followed by fantastically awful). I allowed myself to fall deeply in love with a man and, having said that, I feel that I should qualify what I mean by "allowed myself." In this particular circumstance, a choice surrounding whether to pursue - or not to pursue - was available to me, accompanied by big bright flashing lights that pointed towards the latter. Before the love bug had bitten me, when I was a rational human being, I made the choice to embark on a relationship I knew would be difficult. And, although I may not have known it was going to be that difficult, if I'm being honest with myself, I knew it was likely not going to work out in the end. I made a choice knowing (or at least sensing) these things, so you won't find a lot of "poor me" happening here.
I fell in love quickly, may be before it even started. In reflection, I think it was a massive combination of love, passion, obsession and co-dependency - but, that's my rational side talking. I didn't allow him to call me his "girlfriend" for months, thinking this would keep my already slightly damaged heart somewhat protected, but it was all for not. 'All for not' was super awesome for awhile. During 'all for not,' when we finally let ourselves go deeply into the crazy abyss of love, our dreams soared higher than reality would allow. I allowed myself to dream bigger than I ever had before. Prior to this, I had never "allowed myself" to think that far into the future with another human being. It was....all encompassing. And, in the end, after the final conversation was had, it remained all encompassing in an entirely different way.
He was intelligent in ways you would have never guessed upon first meeting him. Tough guy appearance, yet intelligent and sensitive. His appearance matched his life, his history, his story. If you simply judged him by how he looked, you would have likely misunderstood who he really was. He was the person I shared my dreams with while in the abyss and, in doing so, they grew and expanded.
As a social worker, the plan was for me to work with children, youth and adults who were living in poverty and affected by HIV/AIDS. So, basically everyone. Initially, his job description wasn't quite as clear; however, it was clear that it would involve building things. I imagined schools and resource centres - where I would work! It all made sense. We would do what we loved to do and what we were good at, or at least what we thought we were good at. During my masters degree, I specifically did not take any course work associated to working with children - in poverty or otherwise. I did this because I had no interest in working with children or youth; I knew my calling and it was in adult mental health (which is pretty ironic considering I've been working in children's mental health for just under four years now and won't even consider going back to adult mental health). And, after seeing him hang some curtain rods and doing other small jobs around my place, I am fairly confident that he couldn't have built....well, much of anything significant. But, while in the abyss, you do not think of practicality; rather, you virtually ignore it while continuing to swoon in dreamland.
I remember lying on my bed in the spot where a sunbeam was streaming through the window, with closed eyes, thinking of Africa. At that time, what did I know about Africa outside of what I was taught in that class during my undergrad? Essentially nothing, which clearly didn't seem to matter. The Beatles, one of my favourite bands, once sang "all you need is love," and this actually seemed plausible at the time. Love and good intentions. Apparently, they wrote this song before Yoko came along and broke up the band because Paul, George, John, and Ringo obviously needed more than love to keep them together.
And, that's all I really want to mention about 'all for not.' It is a piece of the story; however, over time it has become a piece that has shrunken in size and significance. But, I thought I should mention it.
It didn't end with the dreams I had those nights in Montreal, the flashes of images and the strange understanding of somewhere I had never been. Frankly, that would be a devastatingly boring story. What makes for interesting stories? Love. Fantastic or fucked up; love.
I received a lot more than an academic education that year in Montreal and, for quite some time, what I received was fantastically wonderful (followed by fantastically awful). I allowed myself to fall deeply in love with a man and, having said that, I feel that I should qualify what I mean by "allowed myself." In this particular circumstance, a choice surrounding whether to pursue - or not to pursue - was available to me, accompanied by big bright flashing lights that pointed towards the latter. Before the love bug had bitten me, when I was a rational human being, I made the choice to embark on a relationship I knew would be difficult. And, although I may not have known it was going to be that difficult, if I'm being honest with myself, I knew it was likely not going to work out in the end. I made a choice knowing (or at least sensing) these things, so you won't find a lot of "poor me" happening here.
I fell in love quickly, may be before it even started. In reflection, I think it was a massive combination of love, passion, obsession and co-dependency - but, that's my rational side talking. I didn't allow him to call me his "girlfriend" for months, thinking this would keep my already slightly damaged heart somewhat protected, but it was all for not. 'All for not' was super awesome for awhile. During 'all for not,' when we finally let ourselves go deeply into the crazy abyss of love, our dreams soared higher than reality would allow. I allowed myself to dream bigger than I ever had before. Prior to this, I had never "allowed myself" to think that far into the future with another human being. It was....all encompassing. And, in the end, after the final conversation was had, it remained all encompassing in an entirely different way.
He was intelligent in ways you would have never guessed upon first meeting him. Tough guy appearance, yet intelligent and sensitive. His appearance matched his life, his history, his story. If you simply judged him by how he looked, you would have likely misunderstood who he really was. He was the person I shared my dreams with while in the abyss and, in doing so, they grew and expanded.
As a social worker, the plan was for me to work with children, youth and adults who were living in poverty and affected by HIV/AIDS. So, basically everyone. Initially, his job description wasn't quite as clear; however, it was clear that it would involve building things. I imagined schools and resource centres - where I would work! It all made sense. We would do what we loved to do and what we were good at, or at least what we thought we were good at. During my masters degree, I specifically did not take any course work associated to working with children - in poverty or otherwise. I did this because I had no interest in working with children or youth; I knew my calling and it was in adult mental health (which is pretty ironic considering I've been working in children's mental health for just under four years now and won't even consider going back to adult mental health). And, after seeing him hang some curtain rods and doing other small jobs around my place, I am fairly confident that he couldn't have built....well, much of anything significant. But, while in the abyss, you do not think of practicality; rather, you virtually ignore it while continuing to swoon in dreamland.
I remember lying on my bed in the spot where a sunbeam was streaming through the window, with closed eyes, thinking of Africa. At that time, what did I know about Africa outside of what I was taught in that class during my undergrad? Essentially nothing, which clearly didn't seem to matter. The Beatles, one of my favourite bands, once sang "all you need is love," and this actually seemed plausible at the time. Love and good intentions. Apparently, they wrote this song before Yoko came along and broke up the band because Paul, George, John, and Ringo obviously needed more than love to keep them together.
And, that's all I really want to mention about 'all for not.' It is a piece of the story; however, over time it has become a piece that has shrunken in size and significance. But, I thought I should mention it.
Confirmation....Of What Exactly??
"If it were proven that there is no God there would be no religion....But also if it were proven that there is a God, there would be no religion." ~ Ursula K. Le Guin (American Author, Poet)
I didn't say the words. This is the first time I've ever disclosed that information; although I realize that this is not the same as disclosing, for example, where the Lindbergh Baby was.....it's still significant to me. The religious, traditional ceremony of becoming confirmed into the catholic church requires the young person to repeat certain phrases under the direction of the priest (e.g. he says it, you say it). I didn't say the words. I didn't want to get confirmed and my parents (by which I mean my mother), in their infinite wisdom demanded that I get confirmed. So, I did. It wasn't like the other aspects of my life that I stood fast by - like the idiots I wanted to date, or a particular set of pot smoking friends I wanted to associate with. The important stuff. But, it was important enough to me that I didn't say the words - no one could control that.
This decision was greatly influenced by my equally inquisitive friend who was mentioned in a previous post. He rebelled enough that his parents couldn't make him go to the confirmation ceremony and, even though I wasn't ready for an act of rebellion this big, not saying the words was the most I could conjure up at the time. I remember standing up in the church, alongside of all my childhood friends who had been with me in Sunday school and the ongoing years of catechism classes. They all said the words. I wonder if they believed in them or if they were saying them mindlessly? I have no idea.....church and faith weren't topics we teenagers discussed outside of complaining about having to go. And I complained a lot - mostly to my parents who continued to insist we attend church on Saturday evenings. Who the hell attends church on Saturday evenings? If I was going to be forced to go, could we have not at least attended on Sunday mornings like other normal people? Apparently not.
After the confirmation ceremony I did not feel any different, but I chalked that up to not saying the magical words that officially gave me the invisible stamp of approval from the catholic church. However, my friends didn't appear to feel or look any different either - and they had said the magical words. Weird. I don't remember any of them talking about feeling the hand of god placed upon their shoulder or experiencing a transformation of any kind that would suggest that they were no longer mere humans but part of something holy and bigger than me. What this confirmed for me was that whether or not you said the words, it was likely that nothing significant changed, or may be this is what I wanted to believe so that I could validate my own experience. What did change was the demand placed on my sister and I to attend church after that point, which made getting confirmed kinda worth it. There was a shift at some point where I remember my parents attendance at church slowly changing, eventually leading to us becoming what is known as "C & E's," Christmas and Easter church attender's. Those were the two religious holidays that needed to be honored by attending church in my household - and that was fine by me.
Where Was I Again?
"I close my eyes, then I drift away, into the magic night I softly say. A silent prayer, like dreamers do, then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you."
~ Roy Orbison
I suppose it would be useful to explore how this dream of mine developed - look at the why's and when's. Regretfully, as many things are in my mind that involve the use of recollection, these memories are somewhat disjointed. If I work backwards from today, I arrive in the year 2007 for some reason....2007 rings a bell.
Where in the hell was I in 2007? I've moved so many damn times over the years that the memories all blur into one tragic apartment complex after another. I was living in Montreal, Quebec - attending grad school at McGill. However, neither Montreal or grad school had much to do with the dream, if I remember correctly that is. Four years ago, just over. I was 29 and, just for the record, I would love to be 29 again. 29 forever, perhaps. Alas....
My peaking interest in international development emerged during my bachelors degree in Halifax, NS, when I was a mere babe of 27. I studied The Culture of Capitalism for my sociology degree - a course that was way out of my league intellectually. The professor was a hard ass who demanded that you learn what he was teaching - simple memorization would not do. He was harsh and brilliant and most of the students thought he was a complete asshole. I shared this opinion, however, I also thought he was extremely intelligent so - to me - he was a genius asshole. A genius asshole who prompted me to think for the first time in my three year degree. I had to give him props for that.
It was in this course that I learned about the history of the development of the world, the emergence of the division between rich and poor, and the contributions "have countries" make towards "have-not countries" (and the ongoing efforts towards keeping them that way). It was a level of thinking that I had not yet been exposed to - or at least had never challenged myself to engage in. Regardless, it stirred up something inside of me that made me think of people living in far away places where the term "nothing" had an entirely different meaning.
I digress. I will apologize now for how frequently that will, for a fact, happen. Where was I again? 2007. In 2007, I was living in a run down apartment that was huge and creaky, with tall ceilings and high baseboards, a gas stove, and a cocaine dealer living across the hall. I affectionately (note sarcasm) called my landlord "the trailer park boy" whereas he bore a striking resemblance to "Ricky" off the Showcase Comedy "The Trailer Park Boys." This man would have been the 6 foot 4, 300 pound, francophone version of "Ricky." During the year I lived there, amongst the incessant noise of the streets of Montreal, coupled with the sounds of the man living above me (who I nicknamed "stompy") and the saxophone player who's music drifted through the windows in the summertime, I began to have a reoccurring dream. Less of a dream and more like flashes of images, I suppose. May be it was too loud to have a full-fledged dream.
Now, the rest of this is going to sound cliché, so you'll also have to forgive me for that. I'm simply telling how it happened....to my recollection, of course. The flashes of images comprised a scene where I was working with children, in a place where poverty was omnipresent and people were suffering. And I....I was helping. And the sun was hot and the ground cracked beneath my feet. And there were definitely elephants. And I was happy and at peace, which is not a feeling I am super accustomed to. And from this, I surmised this place was Africa. I said it was cliché.
If you've been reading my other blog entries, you can probably assume that I did not (and do not) think this was some divine intervention or calling from god or anything of that nature. I chose to believe it was the beginning of a seed that was planted in my brain that turned out to take just over four years to really start growing. I intend to write a fair bit about the journey that eventually lead me to actually plan a trip to Africa - a process that is going on right now and that will be happening in 11 months. It's a significant event and therefore, I think it qualifies.
And, I think that is brilliant.
~ Roy Orbison
I suppose it would be useful to explore how this dream of mine developed - look at the why's and when's. Regretfully, as many things are in my mind that involve the use of recollection, these memories are somewhat disjointed. If I work backwards from today, I arrive in the year 2007 for some reason....2007 rings a bell.
Where in the hell was I in 2007? I've moved so many damn times over the years that the memories all blur into one tragic apartment complex after another. I was living in Montreal, Quebec - attending grad school at McGill. However, neither Montreal or grad school had much to do with the dream, if I remember correctly that is. Four years ago, just over. I was 29 and, just for the record, I would love to be 29 again. 29 forever, perhaps. Alas....
My peaking interest in international development emerged during my bachelors degree in Halifax, NS, when I was a mere babe of 27. I studied The Culture of Capitalism for my sociology degree - a course that was way out of my league intellectually. The professor was a hard ass who demanded that you learn what he was teaching - simple memorization would not do. He was harsh and brilliant and most of the students thought he was a complete asshole. I shared this opinion, however, I also thought he was extremely intelligent so - to me - he was a genius asshole. A genius asshole who prompted me to think for the first time in my three year degree. I had to give him props for that.
It was in this course that I learned about the history of the development of the world, the emergence of the division between rich and poor, and the contributions "have countries" make towards "have-not countries" (and the ongoing efforts towards keeping them that way). It was a level of thinking that I had not yet been exposed to - or at least had never challenged myself to engage in. Regardless, it stirred up something inside of me that made me think of people living in far away places where the term "nothing" had an entirely different meaning.
I digress. I will apologize now for how frequently that will, for a fact, happen. Where was I again? 2007. In 2007, I was living in a run down apartment that was huge and creaky, with tall ceilings and high baseboards, a gas stove, and a cocaine dealer living across the hall. I affectionately (note sarcasm) called my landlord "the trailer park boy" whereas he bore a striking resemblance to "Ricky" off the Showcase Comedy "The Trailer Park Boys." This man would have been the 6 foot 4, 300 pound, francophone version of "Ricky." During the year I lived there, amongst the incessant noise of the streets of Montreal, coupled with the sounds of the man living above me (who I nicknamed "stompy") and the saxophone player who's music drifted through the windows in the summertime, I began to have a reoccurring dream. Less of a dream and more like flashes of images, I suppose. May be it was too loud to have a full-fledged dream.
Now, the rest of this is going to sound cliché, so you'll also have to forgive me for that. I'm simply telling how it happened....to my recollection, of course. The flashes of images comprised a scene where I was working with children, in a place where poverty was omnipresent and people were suffering. And I....I was helping. And the sun was hot and the ground cracked beneath my feet. And there were definitely elephants. And I was happy and at peace, which is not a feeling I am super accustomed to. And from this, I surmised this place was Africa. I said it was cliché.
If you've been reading my other blog entries, you can probably assume that I did not (and do not) think this was some divine intervention or calling from god or anything of that nature. I chose to believe it was the beginning of a seed that was planted in my brain that turned out to take just over four years to really start growing. I intend to write a fair bit about the journey that eventually lead me to actually plan a trip to Africa - a process that is going on right now and that will be happening in 11 months. It's a significant event and therefore, I think it qualifies.
And, I think that is brilliant.
Frustrated Teachers. Frustrated Me.
"The great end in religious instruction, is not to stamp our minds upon the young, but to stir up their own; not to make them see with our eyes, but to look inquiringly and steadily with their own; not to give them a definite amount of knowledge, but to inspire a fervent love of truth; not to form an outward regularity, but to touch inward springs; not to bind them by ineradicable prejudices to our particular sect of peculiar notions, but to prepare them for the impartial, conscientious judging of whatever subjects may be offered to their decision; not to burden memory, but to quicken and strengthen the power of thought." ~ William Ellery Channing (American Moralist and Clergyman 1780-1842)It might be notable to begin with the clarification that the people teaching me catechism were not actually teachers - meaning they did not possess a teaching degree. They were mere humans from my congregation who made a commitment to the church to provide religious instruction to a bunch of teenagers who could not care less. I commend them on their bravery in this aspect as I presently work with teenagers and know they aren't the best audience unless some underage troubled kid is singing on a stage complete with a laser show. In looking back, I can now see through my adult eyes that it would have been easy to perceive me as an asshole rather than a curious kid, as my delivery wasn't always the greatest. There were parts of me that got great enjoyment out of asking questions that they did not have tangible answers to; however, there was also a part of me that was longing for someone to provide me with something that I wasn't getting.
As the teachings progressed through the old to new testament, I was unable to fathom how I was expected to take these teachings literally. The idea of believing, in literal fact, that the universe was created in seven days, that Adam and Eve existed and created all man and woman kind, that Mary and Joseph birthed a son - the savior off all mankind - who was the child of God, that there was a great flood that wiped out of the Earth - save for the animals that were gathered two by two and placed on an ark. My favourite questions in catechism class undoubtedly were: "but what about this.....????" and, "but there's no evidence to prove this.....????" Again, in this environment, the standard notation was the same: "it's simply faith.....you just need to believe." Apparently, I wasn't that faithful.
Further confusion emerged as I began to enter into the beginning stages of my critical analysis of the hypocrisy presented in the bible. During my teenage years, these skills were not as fine tuned as they eventually developed to be; however, they were nonetheless developing in catechism class. I did not understand how god, a supreme being of kindness and love, could assert that he loved everyone - except for certain people. I did not understand how the place called hell existed if all sins were forgiven. I did not understand how an all-loving god could leave souls in purgatory for all eternity or why wars, famine, poverty and violence existed despite his watchful gaze. How could something be true when it was contradicted within the very verse it was written in?
As I sat back and observed the other teenagers in my class, it astounded me that few of them seemed to share in my confusion. I'm not sure whether their seeming ambivalence towards the subject was just that...ambivalence, or if they simply accepted these teachings as the word of god in the same way they had once believed in the tooth fairy and Santa Claus. To me, believing in all of this god business was not an option at the time - it was just what you did. However, Santa had in fact turned out to be a legendary, mythical, folkloric symbol.....so, could god not turn out to be the same?
It amuses me that this might be another great example of that concept I mentioned a few entries ago.....foreshadowing, as my views about religion and god (and Santa, for that matter) have evolved to include concepts such as the moralization of civilization and social control. But, at the time, my underdeveloped frontal lobe was not processing on that deep of a level. Combined with the fact that I had recently discovered marijuana, my brain certainly wasn't working at 100%.
The Beginning of the End of Obligatory Religious Ceremonial Formalities
"Faith is believing in what you know ain't so. If there was an all-powerful God, he would have made all good, and no bad. If there is a God, he's a malign thug." ~ Samuel Clemens (Author, Mark Twain).
When Catholic children are in grade 2 they participate in something called their First Communion. This is a traditional ceremony where children experience their first confession, which is then followed by their first experience of taking the Catholic Sacrament of Holy Communion. For those of you unfamiliar with holy communion, it is the ceremonial process where a priest does something called transubstantiation. This very fancy word defines a process in which a priest turns ordinary bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. In turn, Catholics then eat and drink the bread/body and wine/blood during mass. It's a big deal. When you are little, you attend Sunday school to prepare for this event, in part by coloring pictures (as mentioned before). However, when this big day arrives it is viewed as a rite of passage for children in their journey to becoming part of the Catholic church and faith. Little girls often dress up in gowns that look like miniature bridal dresses (with veils) and little boys often dress up in miniature suits (with ties).
I entered back into the good graces of Sunday school after completing my 8th grade at private, Catholic school. After begging my mother for two years to place me back into the public education system, she conceded, and - no longer in a religious environment - I was back to the mundane teachings of mere humans once a week. I guess this would have been when I was 14, in grade 9 at a junior high school that was located down the street from my house. In Nova Scotia, kids attend elementary school (grades 1-6), junior high (grades 7-9), and high school (grades 10-12). Once in high school, the obligation to attend religious teachings of any kind ends as you get confirmed into the Catholic church prior to completing grade 9. And presto! The Catholic church owns you....or something like that.
When Catholic children are in grade 2 they participate in something called their First Communion. This is a traditional ceremony where children experience their first confession, which is then followed by their first experience of taking the Catholic Sacrament of Holy Communion. For those of you unfamiliar with holy communion, it is the ceremonial process where a priest does something called transubstantiation. This very fancy word defines a process in which a priest turns ordinary bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. In turn, Catholics then eat and drink the bread/body and wine/blood during mass. It's a big deal. When you are little, you attend Sunday school to prepare for this event, in part by coloring pictures (as mentioned before). However, when this big day arrives it is viewed as a rite of passage for children in their journey to becoming part of the Catholic church and faith. Little girls often dress up in gowns that look like miniature bridal dresses (with veils) and little boys often dress up in miniature suits (with ties).
As I type this out, I realize how odd this ceremony might sound to someone who is unfamiliar with Christian traditions and practices; however, in grade 2 this was all very exciting. In reality, it was really all that I knew and, because it caused me no harm and because my friends were all taking part in the same things as me, it just made sense. I went to church every Sunday without thinking about it. I went to Catechism classes every Tuesday evening without thinking about those either. It wasn't until I got older that I started to question things and my 14th year was noteworthy in terms of my attempts to critically analyze what I was learning about the Catholic faith. I chose to play out this critical analysis in catechism class, along with my best friend at the time.
We had been best friends since kindergarten where I distinctly remember us playing together in the sandbox. I also clearly remember crying my eyes out every time he wasn't there, which - when we were older - he loved to tease me about. The first time we got into trouble together, we were about eight or nine. I was spending time at his house and my mother came to pick me up and instead of getting ready to leave - as instructed - we took the opportunity to take off on my friend's bike (complete with an awesome yellow banana seat) so that I could stay longer. After calling out to us for over an hour, my mother eventually surrendered to the fact that we were not coming back anytime soon and sat to have tea with the other frustrated mother. If you recall, one of my earlier posts mentions something called foreshadowing - this would be another example. We were great friends who were not the best of influences on one another. My mother was always scared that I would grow up and marry him someday, which - in her opinion - could produce nothing but a possible jail sentence for both of us. In the event that we had ever gone to jail (which we did not), I'm quite certain that we would have found a way to escape together. Our friendship was built on thoughts of escaping that developed late in the night as we lay on cool asphalt under glowing street lights. We understood each other with a depth that still exists today, in our 33rd year, despite the fact that we have not laid eyes upon each other in many years. We were little shits. I am quite sure our catechism teachers thought the same in that grade 9 year.
Catholic School: How Did I End up Here? (The End, aka: finally, this particular narrative has ended)
"Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind."
~ Albert Einstein (Theoretical Physicist)
I don't think my parents had hopes of turning me into a religious enthusiast by compelling me to attend private, Catholic school. It's my impression that they were far more inspired by the prospect of me having a better education than producing a better Catholic. I guess I could say the Catholic aspect was a mere fringe benefit of the whole endeavour. And, in reality - did the Catholic conditions scar me for life? Absolutely not. I will say that, overall, it didn't help with matters in the mind of a curiously confused grade 7/8 student. In all honesty, I think my questioning was, in part, an attempt at active defiance - towards the school, towards my parents. In my case, this is what we would call foreshadowing. But, this wasn't entirely it.
As a small child being raised in the Catholic church, I did believe - most kids do. Little ones don't have the ability to critically analyze information, which is why they love unconditionally. I loved my parents unconditionally and, therefore, believed in everything they said. This included Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and God. My parents knew EVERYTHING, right? I mean, if Santa watched me all year round with his rather judgemental eye, it wasn't terribly far fetched to believe that a spirit in the sky did the same. But, it wasn't quite the same. Of course, by my ripe old age of 12-13, long gone were the days of believing in Santa. And, what about that? My parents had, in fact, lied about Santa - and all those other characters who brought candy and toys and financial donations. The time of these discoveries was acutely perplexing and I distinctly remember the day I detected the remarkable similarity between my mom's handwriting and Santa's. At that moment, not only did I know that parents knew EVERYTHING, I also knew they lied. About things of catastrophic importance. To say that this had an impact on my likelihood or ability to believe in my parents word would be a gigantic stretch; however, it did enlighten me to the idea that there were questions begging to be asked about a lot of things that I had been taking for granted.
(I would just like to note that I had a sister that was older than me by five years who never revealed the fact that Santa - or any other fictitious character - was not real out of spite or disdain towards my existence. I've always thought that was pretty incredible).
If I once thought that parents or nuns could answer my questions, these thoughts were quickly dispelled as I got older. Attending Catholic school was the beginning of this realization by simple fact that I had nuns and Jesus's on crosses around me on a daily basis. So, when I look back, I can say with certainty that being educated in a Catholic school environment had zero impact my understanding of the Catholic religion or myself as a Catholic (just in case there are parents reading this who are considering sending their child to Catholic school, purely for the betterment of their understanding of Catholicism). The only (unfortunate) thing my experience in private, Catholic school impressed upon me was a disinclination towards liking and doing well in school.
What a let down.
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