Besides names being changed, this piece is unedited to preserve the authenticity of the time in which it was written. Please note that the way I phrased and structured my writing back in 2008, when I was 22, is not 100% on par with where I'm at in 2025, although it does seem as if some of my core values remain the same.
Aug12.2008
I thought of it all tonight, on my drunken walk home. Of my fear of the light, as I feared my safety, -- my fear of being raped again
Of being exposed.
They spoke of the light in women's group at church
I thought of my love of the darkness and the comfort I found of not being seen, of being part of the shadows.
I thought of the Mormons, and I thought of God
I thought of anger
My anger at the light, because of my pain.
Because of that which light brings ---
ME.
The light brings ME.
It brings the sight of ME into this world.
But in a lifetime where being seen has been negative, I saw for once why I shutter away
Why I blame,
and why in the past I’ve cursed out at the lord, shouting, “WHY?!” WHY ME?”
“FUCK YOU!” and “why me”
I saw and I see.
August13.2008
.Revelations.
I guess it is true that I am a turmoiled soul. Yet I cling to my chaos like the air I breathe.
It follows me in the night sometimes, awakening me from dreams
But always behind it there lingers new questions
From the ashes of the fires that brim with rage, I find the diamonds gleaming.
In my angst I find the joy of being able to reach out and relate to my fellow man.
It is the pain that seeds my wings, and the joy that currents the air beneath them.
Together they meld in a fiery flood to reach up and out into the glory of the skies
It is the pain that breeds such empathy, that I mourn for the life of a fruit fly.
It it the turmoil and confusion of my body’s brute struggle to be one with my mind that makes me ask not what is,
but what could be.
It is alas the air I breathe.
---
I wrote Revelations, this brief poem in thought of the Mormons, and why I can’t seem to just let it go and accept or embrace the glory of that which they present.
And they do, they present it well. They are so kind and seem to hold such values of family and community that they weaken my barriers, my heart, and I almost dream I could step into the glistening garden that contains them.
But No. I chose the hard way. Like always. I choose the turmoil and angst and the bitterness of starless nights. And Why? Because somehow I know it brings me closer to my fellow man.
I am still a humble servant to the lord, like them, but I have learnt of sins differently.
~~~
There is a sadness that resonates within me at the Mormons and their beliefs. It seems like a beautiful fairytale, waiting for the prince on his white horse to take me to his castle in the sky. So beautiful, it aches me.
So beautiful that I remain on the path I steadily call life. Brown and tinted like an old photograph. Filled with cans, and homeless men. Filled with needles and lost children. Eying as I walk the beautiful green pastures of my new Mormon friends.
Yet I feel Sure of my place. I feel sure of my path, and I smile as I continue into the browning edges of the faded photograph. Knowing it is where the people lie, the people that I need to reach.
--
It seem in my constant confusion that I have found peace. Once I saw weakness in myself, the weakness of my addictions, my anger and my shame. But it seems to me that my weaknesses have now become my strength. A strength that lets me reach out and connect to others with the same weaknesses.
I wonder what I am writing for. Wonder of my undying urge to explore different faith and belief systems.
The other night as I waited for Elder Fir and Elder John I ran into a bunch of underagers drinking in the park. They bummed a few smokes off me, and in a sign of friendship offered me the remainders of a beer, then gave me a hug. When the Elders approached the kids hissed at their uniforms. I doubt it had anything to do with them being Missionaries, as when I had first met them in the park with Theo, I thought they were some sorta sports team. I remember mumbling beneath my breath, “fucking yuppies,” as they approached. Unsure of their honesty when stating they were Mormons.
When I saw the young kids react in such a fashion, it dawned on me that through my own addictions and downfalls I had been given a window of entry into a place that many cannot reach. Those kids welcomed me and they would have accepted me as one of their own.
Sometimes I fear to let go, as I change and my habits drift. Slowly I become reintegrated with the normal society. Reintegrated with the youth that I lost, and the bitterness of sobriety and having to feel the wounds of which i’ve spent a lifetime trying to run from. I fear that as my habits fade I will lose my connection to the people I wish to help. I will lose my all access backstage pass to hanging out with the people of whom I wish to aid. I will lose the homeless, the crack heads, the prostitutes, the dealers, I will lose the children who are new to the Night. I will lose those who struggle, who feel alone, and who are in pain. I will lose the addicts, the curious youth, and I will lose those who I know the Missionaries cannot reach.
I have grown up in the night, with the creatures who lurk in the shadows. So many ties have been cut, and so many friends lost so I can survive and have a healthy life. So I can flourish. With most of my friends that have cleaned up and changed their ways, they do so and don’t look back. But I cannot do that.
As I attempt to write my book I am forced to dive back into the darkness. Over and over, I force myself. I go through my old journals and page after page of horror memories go on for years, jutted carelessly in black letters on lined school book paper. I look for the answer of how I can connect. I swim through my own demons reliving in agony the pain I’ve suffered and sometimes I wish to just shut the journals and turn away. I wish I could embrace the light more easily, be normal, finish up school, and move on with my life. I wish to leave the darkness far behind, but I can’t. I can’t because I have to go back and help the others.
I remember when I was using I was so suicidal and I would scream out at god. I would scream so hard that my vocal chords ached and I could barely speak. I remember standing in the night with psychosis thick in my mind. I remember the voices in my ears, and the distortions in my sight. I remember finally giving up inside of myself. I remember screaming in tears for the devil to take me. I remember with everything in my body and heart begging him to just take my soul completely. No more partial darkness, no, I was begging for the absolute.
And nothing happened. And nothing happened. Days went by, weeks, and nothing happened.
Some people ask me how I managed to clean up, and the most honest answer I can give is that it was forced upon me. Not by my family or my doctors, but by god, or the earth(the term I sometimes use for god in my writing so as I may still connect with those whom the actual word ‘god’ causes unease in).
I had no desire to clean up, and so it seemed my body turned on me. I was literally forced off the high peaks of my castle by anxiety attacks and a heart murmur that had become apparent from my cocaine use. I remember trying to compensate, I would break up my rails really small and snort them slowly, far apart, even though I knew it very well could lead to a heart attack. I still tried to, I can still feel the chaos in my body as my brain screamed “NO!” but the strength to stop the withdrawal symptoms thundered and prevailed.
I remember the feeling of shaking, eyes sunken, body a frail statue of a girl I saw only in the mirror. I remember it felt as if god were standing over me, an annoyed but loving father, peering down on me as I lay crippled. Peering down to say, “Okay. I have waited, and I have watched, and now it is time for you to change.” I felt the warmth of a father who would love me no matter what. For the first time in years I didn’t feel ashamed, or like I had done something wrong.
In grade 6 I had a near death experience from an anaphylactic allergic reaction. I remember I couldn’t breathe. I remember arriving at the emergency room with my mom, and the nurse simply grabbed me. She did not take my name or put me through triage. I remember the grip of her hand on my wrist as she yanked me down the hall. Then I remember the needles and a swarm of faces peering down on me. I remember waking after some time later to the sound of voices in the distance and the soft hum of the IV next to me. I remember feeling the warmth of someone holding my hand, but when I turned my head to see, there was no one there.
~~~
I see Elder Fir flick an ant and it makes me flinch. I laugh even at myself when I say it seems to me that I found god through a spider. I remember for weeks as I used it sat in my tub and tormented me. I thought of washing it down the drain a few times, but then the song ‘itsy bitsy spider’ would roll through my head. I’d laugh as I remembered that the itsy bitsy spider crawled back Up the water spout.
I finally decided to take it outside, but then the next day it returned. And the day after that, and the day after that. Every time I took it out, it would just come back.
I remember just giving in and letting the thing be. I would warn it when I had a shower and try and scare it into a corner where it would be safe. I remember slowly how the spider became my friend. I felt all alone, and I would come home to it. Slowly I started talking to it about my life and about my day. I felt sorrow when alas the spider did go away.
I learnt from the darkness that life is god. I learnt that the insects are life, as are the plants. It still somehow seems that in my darkest time of need a tiny bug will appear and I know that I am not alone. Sometimes I’ll see a weed creeping up between the sidewalk stones and I know that god lies with me, even in the tiniest form.
----
I see my own inner struggles in more clarity since I have met the Elders. But since Elder Lucas is gone I feel a space between us when we talk. Elder Lucas was more of a talker and often when he called to book a meeting, he simply seemed to want to chat. He would tell me of his fishing and his basketball. He told me about his Canada day and coming from a small town. He told me how they watched the fireworks over the water for the 4th of July. I liked that, just simple chatting.
I want to know who they are these Missionaries, what made them or led them to the path that they now lead. I feel our sessions impersonal, and I wish to learn more about them as well as the bible. I want to hear them when they speak, with conviction and heart in their scriptures and words. Sometimes I don’t feel it, our last meeting I felt was disorganised, but the mosquitos were biting and my head was in a fog.
I want our sessions to focus more on learning the book of Mormon and the bible, and less on my actual conversion into their faith. I did not like Elder John at first for the questions he asked. Although I always thought Elder Fir to be more conservative I was glad when he stepped in and apologized. I was glad for the baseball game as it gave me a chance to see both Elders more playful and relaxed. I enjoyed that, and have no ill feelings towards Elder John anymore. I still laugh at him claiming he can’t perform under pressure, and laugh harder at the last time I heard a man say that.
I found a calendar called Men of Mission on the net. It focuses on men of the Mormon church who have returned from their Mission and posed in topless poses for this calendar. The man who started the calendar was excommunicated from the church and there seems to be great controversy surrounding it. My Missionaries did not seem keen on the calendar either. Elder Lucas made a statement that they did not look like that, and I’m still unsure what his comment really meant.
I however really do like the calendar, and not just for the pictures. I think it’s neat to read about the young men’s Missions who’ve posed in it. I find their stories fascinating, and I would like to hear the stories of my own Missionaries. The calendar has shown to me what most men in it claimed they wanted to show -- that they are just regular guys at the end of the day. I think that is important. As an outsider to the church I think that the personal connections are powerful, as most people want to talk to people, not suits who believe.
---
Elder Fir spoke of communications, and how when the devil comes, that’s the first thing that he would attack. Our communications to god, and to each other (? check what they said). I think here in western society there has been a loss of communication, a loss of community. The Mormon church seems to have scads of community but I find their methods of reaching out to people poor.
I have found in my experiences that most people want just two things. To be loved for exactly who they are, and to have someone to talk to. I find the Mormons more offering the gift of god but not the human communication that most people seek. Most people don’t want answers. I would say most people in my experiences who feel alone don’t necessarily even want god (or at least know they want god), they want the communication of men to each other. That is why the homeless and the elderly always want to just sit around and talk, telling you the stories of their lives. No, people most of the time don’t seem to want the answers, they just want another human being to stop, sit down and talk with them.
People seem to fear one another in our society today. I cannot get on a bus and sit next to someone without them clenching their bag a bit tighter.
I was on the bus one day and a young man came on and sat next to someone at the front. He spoke loud, introduced himself and tried to start up a conversation. I remember sitting there with a twisted look on my face, thinking “fuck, is this guy on drugs?” and then my own inner pain hit at the thought that friendliness was considered odd.
~~~
My mind wanders back to my book, the question of “hmm, what am I writing for?” I guess I want to bring light to the darkened corners where some would wish not to tread. I want the world to see what I have seen, the beauty of the broken. I want to somehow show the beauty of the darkness that I have been granted. Gods darkness, a holy darkness cast by the shadow of the moon. I wish to show Gods soldiers fighting satan in the cold and dark trenches of the soul. Fighting hand on hand combat.
I think of war and how line soldiers cannot stay clean from the gore and the muck. How it is the line soldiers whom will most likely die first. I see it is the line soldiers that take the worst fire, and live painstakingly in the heart of hate, fighting for what is right. I do not wish to fight, but I still remain in the trenches trying to heal my fallen comrades.
I want to show the hope and kindness that still burns in the hearts of some who lie far and deep into the blackened pits. So deep that I know some of them think the light cannot reach them, but I know it can. I know I can reach them.
Once I felt scorned to feel such pains, yet now I know how to navigate through the shadowed moors and the aching souls that reach out to me. I know a bit better now of how to reach those that only the moonlight strokes.
The Mormons say in their plan of salvation that the stars are the Telestial Kingdom, or the lowest form of kingdoms. They say it is for liars and murderers and unrepent sinners. I think by the end of my life that I would be happy to be a star. The stars pierce the blackness with a friendly light. They are what my dreams ride on to see how high I can reach up into their canopy and pluck them from their celestial limbs. Haha, I am not sure if I should mention to the Missionaries that stars are still suns.
----
We face our own challenges, and face challenges as a whole of a nation, a species, a gender, a religion. When we bleed, we bleed the same blood. The muslims, the mormons, the jews, the agnostics and the atheists. I want to write about the layer between the earth and the skies, the layer of us, of Mankind. I push the proof and the hope that we as god’s children have not turned our backs on each other. I want to show the world that the bond of humanity still exists.
--
I want peace. I want to hear the Mormons and I want the Mormons to hear me. I see so much controversy as to what is right and wrong, and what is truth. I do not really care for the truth I suppose, I just want love. I want people-- Mankind, to lay down their swords and see that they are fighting for the exact same thing (in religion) Love.
I want us to let go of our ideals, me included, and Love.
Love. Love. Love..!
I scream it from the bell towers of my soul.
When I became such a fan of the word I do not know.
But that is what I dream, my Utopia. When all can be as one, while distinctly their own.
However I see now it is not just in me that this dream lies.
It is that which I yearn, more than the aching of my lust.
I Yearn Peace.
I want Peace.
I want to love every human being for Exactly who they Are.
and the wind she breathes
that to speak the truth will set me free.
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