transitions

Life, much like writing, is simply a series of transitions. We move from situation to situation in the ever-changing narrative that is our life. In writing, the transitions are tailored to the narrative and make sense, unfortunately, life does not follow these rules and sometimes our literal transitions can be abrupt, confusing, and messy. 

If my life followed the rules of a good story, and if all the transitions in it had made narrative sense, I would be in a much different place than I am today. Hell, if life made sense, I would have never been born in the first place. It makes no narrative sense that my parents met, yet they did.

I was born in the port city of Nanaimo, birthplace of the Nanaimo Bar, on a cold winter’s morn. I happened to be an emergency caesarian, and was immediately placed in a little glass box so that I could live. Not the most auspicious start to one’s life.

My best friend was the girl next door. If this were Hollywood, we’d be married. Instead, we live 2000 km apart and rarely speak. Dad was a social worker who worked with street kids and gang members. When I was seven we moved to Saskatchewan so he could be a mechanic and fix tractors.

Ever since that day I have wanted to go back home.

Home lays with the heart, and my heart lays with the ocean and the mountains.

My friends don’t understand; they’ve never lived anywhere else but the desolate prairies. They’ve never left their homes and their hearts behind.

In the prairies, I found god.

In the prairies, I lost faith.

Having finally thought found myself, I found myself lost. Amidst these strangers and strange things, I found religion to find stability.

With this religious stability, I found and weathered (whether or not I wanted to) many things: love, loss, despair, depression, suicide, self-loathing, self-hate, lies, and much more. With religion I learned to hate myself for who I was!

Who was I?

Bullying was not an aspect of my life until coming to the prairies. Hate was not an aspect of my life before coming to the prairies. I had no notion of what those really were, but I would soon learn. In the small town where I went to school, I was hated because I was from somewhere else. I wasn’t from another country. I wasn’t from a different race. I was simply not born in Saskatchewan, and so I was ostracized.

I love camping. It lets me be alone, and it lets me pretend that I am at home. With the woods blocking out the rest of the world, I can pretend that I am somewhere else.

When I was four, I broke my arm on a rock protruding from the ground. I was racing a friend back to our new house on Gabriola Island, and I lost my footing. The ferry to Nanaimo had already left, so it had to turn around so a four year old could be taken to the hospital. I honestly don’t remember the pain. I remember the wait of nearly nine hours before a doctor saw me, but the memory is like gossamer. How many lives did I interrupt in that moment? How many meetings were delayed, how many dates were cancelled? All because a four year old on a small island broke his arm?

When I was in my early twenties, I had my faith shaken. A few years later and it was shattered. This focal point of my existence was gone. All my decisions prior to this time were based off my faith, and now it was gone. My education (to become a youth pastor) was now useless, and all of those years felt like a massive waste.

 Growing up, the church taught me that there were only two genders and that being straight was proper, and anything else was a one-way ticket to hell. I believed them. Why wouldn’t I? These guys talked to God, they had to know what they were talking about.

Nudity was a large part of my bible college experience. I lived in an all-male dorm, and everyone was constantly half-to-completely nude. We would bond together on a couch while only wearing boxers, and often there would be cuddling involved. I enjoyed it. The physical contact felt good, and the openness that came with the nudity was refreshing. It was also intensely homoerotic, a claim which would be vehemently denied by my dorm mates.

When I discovered my own gender and sexuality, a year after I left the church, I was scared because I knew that I would go to hell. Even though I had no faith anymore, I was still scared that I would go to hell for this. Part of me still believed the hate that I had been taught as a child.

I wore bright leggings and bright pink lip-gloss to the first pride that I attended. My sister came with me, dressed even more flamboyantly; I’m pretty sure she even had glitter on her chest and neck.

I worked in a school.

I interned at one of the longest running film festivals in the world.

I work in an office.

Instead of moving closer to my goal, I have moved farther away from it.

With each transition, the narrative of my life grows more confusing. The plot, incoherent. The characters, despicable.

What happens next matters only as much as what has happened before.