A letter to Dallas Green

Dallas,

I recently attended your concert at the Georgia Theatre, the second time I have been fortunate enough to see you perform live. After your performance, I felt compelled to write to you given how much your music has impacted my life.

Just over two years ago when I first saw you perform, I was deeply in love with this girl. We admittedly first connected over our intense love for your song, “The Girl,” which was fitting given our relationship. Despite this love, I was in an immense amount of pain and so was she. This led to our relationship quickly becoming toxic as we fed off of each other’s’ darkness. I learnt quickly that she could not be there for me, no matter how much I needed her given that she was still processing the loss of her mother earlier in the year – when someone can’t be there for themselves, they certainly can’t be there for you. But that is when I found you. And more specifically, “Sleeping Sickness”. I used to listen to this song on repeat, crying, hurting, and searching. I was being consumed by darkness and I couldn’t save myself. I wanted someone, anyone, to save me. And although the events in my life continued to spiral out of control, for a moment I felt understood. I felt heard. I felt comforted by the words in your music.

Your music had an ability to connect to the deep chasm of pain I was feeling. This has led me to believe that you have suffered greatly because of your ability to connect and understand others’ sufferings. Although I would never wish great suffering upon anyone, I do know that some of the most beautiful people and work have originated from such great pain. Your music, in general, articulates this truth. You have an uncanny ability to write about the depths of pain in a beautiful, harmonious, hopeful way. “Body in a Box” is another favourite of mine for this reason – you take something that is usually considered depressing and you make it almost joyous, but in a way that does not sacrifice the understanding of the pain involved in such events.

I found myself in tears at your recent concert. Tears because of the heaviness I felt in my heart; a heaviness that includes the painful memories and emptiness of my suffering two years prior, but also a heaviness that is deeply grateful for your music, your words, and for you. In 2015, I had considered ending everything. And somehow, I feel that you have been there too. So amidst your pain and your suffering, the work you have created has offered me a friend. A solace. An understanding. Things that I could not find, nor receive, from the world around me. Your words saved me Dallas and I’m not sure I could ever articulate how sincerely grateful I am for that. To this day, I am continually moved by the raw and heartfelt work you produce, so thank you. Thank you for providing a friend for me during my darkest days. Your work is saving lives. And so are you.

In gracious appreciation,

Nicole

The humbling nature of suffering

There is much to learn from being on the receiving end of a particular situation that has formerly caused significant pain and suffering. And it is within this alternate, uncomfortable perspective that we become humbled.

Over the years, and as has been written in one of my more recent poems, I have struggled with friendships that have seemingly vanished without explanation. These were friendships that I considered true and balanced; vulnerabilities were reciprocated and effort mutual. The appreciation and gratitude for the other’s presence in one’s life was constantly established and known. So after sharing so much of oneself, how then could they merely disappear? And disappearing in today’s society is not literally disappearing, but a refusal to respond and acknowledge one’s existence in the form of replying to messages, hand-written letters, phone calls, and anything else posted on the internet.

I have come to learn that there are many things in life that we will never be able to understand. The disappearance of these individuals from my life was incredibly painful and still is to this day. These were individuals I felt deeply connected to either intellectually or as a soulmate. Their beliefs continually challenged my perspectives and I felt that I’ve grown from their relationships more than I have from many others. I continually found myself questioning: why? What is it about me that caused them to just stop talking to me? What did I do? What is fundamentally wrong with me?

But recently I have been humbled. I found myself on the receiving end of this situation as it was I who did the disconnecting. My brain tried to rationalise “why” – I tried to grasp onto any explanation to justify my behaviour, to help explain my actions, but I couldn’t. I just disconnected. And as much as I know it fucking sucks for the other individual, I genuinely could not help it, nor explain it.

And so I realise that the question I had been asking myself about the loss of former friendships was indeed the wrong question to be asking. A few years ago, one of my beautiful friends taught me about this concept of seasons and how people will come and go from your life, each coming initiating a new season. Some friendships only last the one season, while others might reappear annually. Each season serves a purpose and within that purpose is a lesson. Once this lesson has been learned, their presence becomes obsolete and you find yourself having to move on. The point this friend was making was that there is an acceptance and grace necessary as it pertains to friendships. To not accept, is to struggle. And to struggle is to suffer. Part of loving someone is accepting them, as they are, imperfect in their flaws. Love is not meant to be conditional, and in this context, my friendships had become conditional to me. I was only willing to love them if they were present in my life. But to do so is to create an energy of deficiency within myself, a neediness that repels those you are missing.

My mind keeps referring back to a podcast I heard about six months ago. In life, we are constantly moving through seasons. And when we hold on to a season, or a person in this situation, what was supposed to be a beautiful graduation, now becomes a messy and painful divorce. When we struggle against what is by attempting to explain it or understand it, we prolong the suffering. That is not to say we cannot grieve, because we must. An end of a season or the end of a relationship is no different than the end of a life; we must grieve the loss. Grief is a natural, necessary process and one in which has no fixed timeline. So instead of wishing for them to re-enter your life or to understand their intentions, be grateful and commemorate the interactions you shared and the purpose they served, whilst allowing yourself the space to grieve their absence.

I have a theory that the reason we still feel pain or bitterness or resentment about a certain situation or person is because there are still lessons to be learned from that experience. Often times I believe that is the reason we cannot let go of our past because we are still learning from it. This theory has held true for many of my most painful experiences in my life and I believe it is why I cannot let go of my collegiate experience, nor of the last girl I was seeing. I have not learned all there is to learn from my pain, but I know the learning is still constant. And I know this because I feel it within my heart as it slowly begins to soften and re-open towards others.

I am currently in the process of reading The Journal of a Solitude by May Sarton and within some of her early pages is the excerpt, “So sometimes one has simply to endure a period of depression for what it may hold of illumination if one can live through it, attentive to what it exposes or demands.” My understanding of this is that it is within stillness in which answers will arise. But answers cannot be provided unless one has first endured a period of depression, a period of learning and struggle. Because it is within these struggles that our deficiencies become illuminated, that it highlights where we are still stuck.

Pema Chödrön writes about this too in her book When Things Fall Apart. She talks about how when we are struggling, we feel we need something to grasp onto. We do not like not having reference points, or not being able to understand, but it is within this uncertainty that we find our answers. It is when we no longer hold on, when we choose to let go, that we come to understand. It is within this liminal space that we allow ourselves to see situations as they are, rather than what we want them might be. In uncertainty, and in stillness, our heart speaks loudest.

Over the past few months, I have struggled tremendously. But I find myself now nearing the other side. The heaviness in my heart is lifting, and lessons from my struggles are being understood. I realise that I could have saved myself much angst if I just sat within my pain and uncertainty, instead of attempting to explain and understand it. For the understanding comes when the storm has passed and clarity in one’s perception is restored. And May Sarton articulates this beautifully by stating that real life exists in solitude, in the opportunity to explore and discover what is happening or has happened. So allow yourself this space and uncertainty and you will find the answers you seek.

The destruction caused in the name of religion

Do I like her? As a friend? As something more? Do I want to be her? Do I envy her? Do I like her style? Is she into women too? These are the questions that frequent my mind any time I feel remotely connected to another woman. Being attracted to the same sex is confusing as hell. But not only are there these constant internal struggles, but the external struggles still faced by members of the LGBTQI+ community are what I consider to be nothing short of destructive. And at the core of some of these struggles? Religion.

Just last week I was confronted with an incredibly challenging and upsetting conversation. One of my great friends is a chiropractor and she met an overwhelmingly inspiring individual during one of her appointments. After the appointment, she called me and was ecstatic saying something along the lines of, “I just met this really awesome person who does something that I think is extremely cool and interesting. Basically she interviews people and writes about their overcomer story and I thought, ‘Woah! Cool! I have a friend who I think has a great overcomer story!’ And that friend is you. When I mentioned that to my client, she was definitely intrigued and now wants to interview you!” I was beyond flattered. Not only that this great friend thinks I have a worthy overcomer story, but this individual, this stranger who I was yet to know, wanted to interview me of all people.

So my friend, with my evident permission, passed on my contact information to her client, Taylor. Before too long, Taylor contacted me and asked if we could chat for ten minutes before interviewing me. She also mentioned that there would be an overcomer get-together on March 11th that I could bring my friend to. Naturally then, I started planning attendance to this event and anticipated our interview. On the phone, she asked me briefly to explain my story, to which I asked what my friend had already told her. She mentioned that my friend had said I had overcome severe depression a couple of years ago and was now using my experiences to help mentor younger kids. I elaborated somewhat, explaining that I became suicidal due to a combination of tearing my acl, being trapped in an environment with a very selfish coach and teammates, and also being in a toxic, destructive relationship. She then asked, after confirming that I had certainly overcome adversity, how I was using my experiences to help others. I proceeded to mention how I was presently mentoring a kid who is struggling with her sexuality and how this was so important to me because of how I’ve struggled with my sexuality throughout my entire life. I mentioned that I was hoping to be to this girl what I had wished I had had when I was growing up.

She then stopped me. “Nicole, I’m going to have to stop you right there.” Here we fucking go, I thought. “I’m wondering…how central is this struggle with sexuality to your overall overcomer story? Is there any way that you can talk about your story without focusing so heavily on your struggles with sexuality?” I laughed internally. Is she serious right now? I bet she’s religious. I then calmly, despite being evidently hurt and offended, informed her that not mentioning this struggle would mean lying to myself. Given that I pride myself on authenticity, there would be no way to talk about my struggle without focusing on my sexuality, especially given the significant distress it has caused me over the years. “I thought that might be the case. I’m in a little bit of a dilemma here Nicole and I don’t want you to think I’m a judgemental person because I’m not. I’ve interviewed other gay people before and I don’t have a problem with your sexuality at all. But here’s the truth, I’m on the verge of writing a book that will be published in the Christian section of bookstores. I know that if I write your story, I’m going to lose a lot of readers. I certainly think you have a great overcomer story, but I wouldn’t want you to be upset if I interviewed you and wrote your story while neglecting to focus on what you thought was the primary issue.” Ha. I fucking knew it. Christian. Yep. That’d be right. I concluded the conversation shortly after that, not having much else to say that wouldn’t have been extremely harsh, so instead, I will write my thoughts here.

My initial reaction was, what a coward. She’s worried about losing readers because she might write something honest, something brutally raw, something real and relevant? Something that a lot of people struggle with but are too afraid to talk about because of people like her? She might actually have gained readers had she posted a story like mine. But instead, she has not only tarnished her own reputation, but that of other Christians too. And I know what some of you might say, it’s wrong to generalise based on one negative experience. But when this has been your experience your entire life, how can you blame me for generalising? Another friend recently sent me this quote, “Do not be too quick to condemn the man who no longer believes in God: for it is perhaps your own coldness and avarice and mediocrity and materialism and selfishness that have chilled his faith.” (Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation). I have met more close-minded Christians than I have close-minded non-believers. Those that don’t believe tend to be so much more accepting and open-minded than those who claim to be religious. Better yet, they don’t promote nor claim to be accepting, they just are. Whereas those that claim to be religious seem to hide behind this façade of “I’m a good person because I’m a Christian.”

I actually think that racism and sexism today are potentially worse than what it was in the past. And the reason is because these –isms have become a lot more discrete, subtle, and indirect; they’ve become covert rather than overt. In the past, people were openly against gays, but today, people claim to be more accepting, shit, even the law seems to be more accepting, but it’s all a façade. Because my experience above is not an isolated event, unfortunately this is a common occurrence and its effects are devastating. Why? Well because, and perhaps naively too, I believe that the world is more accepting and that I don’t need to worry about my sexuality anymore (I’m also frequently told this by many people I meet). So when presented with an opportunity to share my story, I did not consider for one second that it might be an issue. I instead, was excited, flattered, and even honoured to be interviewed. Alas, because my struggle centres around sexuality, a concept that Christians have still not fully accepted, my story could not be shared. How can I believe that we live in a more accepting society when the reason my story could not be written is because of my sexuality? “I’m not a judgmental person,” she might not be, but she’s certainly still a discriminating one.

After our conversation, despite being visibly upset and fighting back a torrent of tears, I realised the importance of the work that I am doing here. Writing my truth and sharing my story, without reservation, without fear, there’s power in that. Have I lost readers because of what I’ve written? Probably. But do I care? Not really. I’m writing for myself, not others. If I write something controversial? Good. It means I am challenging society and those within it to expand their conventional beliefs and open their minds and heck, maybe even their hearts too. Another author that I met through serving once told me, “Write like no one is going to read your material,” because the minute you start concerning yourself with offending others, your work becomes forced, filtered, and inauthentic. You start writing for others and not yourself, hence losing the real you in the process.

I know consciously that not all Christians are like Taylor. But again, as I mentioned in a former post Bury your gays, there’s only so much I can process consciously that won’t have an effect on my subconscious and henceforth affect my daily interactions. Just two weeks ago I was sharing with a couple of individuals how miserable I’ve been recently and how I’m still emotionally pretty messed up from the last girl I was seeing. One of their initial responses was, “Have you thought that maybe the reason your relationships have failed is because you’ve dated women? Maybe it’s time to consider something else.” To which I, reactively, responded, “Oh that’s a great idea, force myself to date someone I’m not attracted to because that’ll make me soooo much happier. Oh and hey, when things didn’t work out with the guys you dated in the past, did you ever stop to think that maybe the reason was because you were dating men? Maybe you should’ve considered dating women.” Don’t get me wrong, I think I can understand where they were coming from with this statement, they hate that I’m suffering and their immediate conclusion was that it’s because I’ve dated women and not men. But the problem I have with a comment like this is that it would never be suggested to someone who was attracted to the opposite sex. “Oh your relationship failed? Must be because you’re straight. Maybe you should consider being gay for a while.” Have you ever heard someone make that claim? Probably not. And it sounds pretty fucking ridiculous too, doesn’t it? This comment also highlights a fundamental belief held by many that being “gay” is still a choice, something you can override merely by electing to.

I contemplated not writing this post because it focuses heavily on an interaction with a specific person, but I realised that this post draws attention to an interaction that frequently taints my life and perception of religion. I wish I could tell this kid that I’m mentoring that the hardest thing she’ll ever have to go through is figuring out the origin of her feelings, the answers to my opening questions, but unfortunately I know that not to be true. And it’s sad. It’s sad that on top of these internal struggles, struggles that are heavily influenced by society’s subliminal message that homosexuality is still “wrong”, people are also covertly cruel with their discrimination. And because of its subtlety, its destruction becomes devastatingly painful; it destroys hope. Hope in a better world, hope in better people, hope even in a better God. So before you attempt to force your beliefs of God onto those who don’t believe, perhaps it might serve the world more if you check yourself and consider how your actions, reactions, and responses have overtly or covertly affected those who now no longer believe.

Note: The name in this post has been altered to preserve the privacy of the individual involved.