Moving forward -- Sword, meet Wand -- Welcome back, Katie

As many of you know, 2011 was a pretty stress-filled year for me.  I won't call it the year from hell, because lord knows I've survived much worse (and there were some fabulously good things that happened during the year, too), but... it was a year of great battles, both internal and external, which has raised up many ghosts from the past, and uncovered many new hauntings.

Most loyal friends and followers know only the tip of the iceberg of what I went through last year.  There is much that has happened which I have not been -- and never will be -- able to make public, in part out of a desire to protect the innocent and respect the privacy of loved ones, in part due to an imposed court order (ironic and blech).  Suffice it to say that dealing with cancer was actually the easiest part of 2011.  That may sound cold to many of you, but... trust me, I'm anything but a cold person.  It was a truly gruelling year.

Yet, while the year was one of battle, it was also one of victory.  And while nothing will ever bring back all that was stolen from me so long ago -- both literally and figuratively, internally and externally -- and true justice seems a ridiculously naive concept, there is no small satisfaction in seeing the end of the battle.  Alive.  Intact.  Relatively sane.  Content.  Hopeful.

We had great visions of saying good-bye to 2011 and being able to just leave it all behind, celebrate our great victories and dance our way into the rose-coloured future.  OK, we really knew better, but parts of our inner-child selves clung to that blissful naiveté...  The end of the external battle was just the beginning of the internal one.  My main partner-in-fighting-crime is now battling PTSD, I'm scraping and clamouring myself as far away from that abyss as I can.  We're all exhausted, overwhelmed, waiting for this to all be truly over.  Knowing that wish is probably more blissful naiveté.

There is a certain beauty in fiction, in fantasy.  The hero conquers all, the dragons are slain, everybody lives happily ever after in blissful splendour.  Neat and tidy with a bow and a cherry on top.

There is a greater beauty in real life.  You win the battle, you take a look at what it has taught you, you deal with it, you become a stronger and wiser person, better equipped to take on the inevitable bigger dragon hiding around the next corner.

Because, let's face it, if I were stuck sitting around and eating bon-bons all day, I'd be really frikken' bored.  What kind of dragon-slayer just sits back and eats bon-bons?  Dragon-slayers are too busy itching to go for their next dragon.

So, yeah, I'm pretty sure none of you expected me to go the bon-bon route (wine, maybe, but not bon-bons).

2012 so far has been a year of tying up loose ends, shedding the excess, putting things in place, getting ready for the next frontier.  I had great visions of all the loose ends and excess and place-putting being done by now, but... hardeharhar.  That's not how it works, Lyssy.  Still... while I will always have lots of stuff on my to-do list, the big and overwhelming things are finally out of the way.

     I have cleared the space

     It's time to take my place

     Open up my youth

     Stand up and be the proof

It is embarrassing to realize how long ago I wrote that song...  Earlier that year, at our annual girls' night Tarot reading, I was given the Ace of Wands and the Ace of Swords.  The creative spark meets the valiant sword of truth and justice.  I knew exactly how it was going to play out, what I was going to do with these two energies.

I just didn't know how many years it would take.

You see, for decades I have had a dream that I wanted to make a reality.  The Katie Project, named after a song I wrote in a rare 17-year-old moment of clarity.  Music had saved my life, and I was going to pay it forward by using music to help save others.  The Katie Project was going to use music to help my fellow survivors of childhood sexual abuse -- to give them a means to speak their truth, to reduce the stigma and taboo of the subject, to open up a dialogue and an awareness, and give people the tools they needed for self-healing.

In late 2005, I was given the means to get this project started.  Or so I was told.  In 2006, that means was stolen back.  For two years, my original abuser's co-conspirators played a cosmic game of monkey-in-the-middle, and even when the ringleader died, it turned out systems had been put in place (one might say illegally, if one were allowed to declare such things) in perpetuity to prevent me from speaking my truth, let alone realizing my Katie dream.

What Oz and his side-twits with the greed-coloured glasses didn't realize was that I had some awesome (I hate the mis- and over-use of that word as much as you do -- these people are truly awesome) co-conspirators of my own.  AND I keep impeccable records.  (When you've grown up with a family of gaslighters, you learn to collect every shred of proof you can.)  Really, freakingly impeccable records.  People make fun of me for having two over-stuffed filing cabinets and a basement full of file boxes.  Well, I get the last laugh, darlings -- never try to tell lies to or against a chick with two over-stuffed filing cabinets and a basement full of file boxes.

Battle ensued.

It would be nice to say that our side won.  Let's call it a Pyrrhic victory.  Let's just call it over.

     I have cleared the space

     It's time to take my place

     Open up my youth

     Stand up and be the proof     

And so...

The means are back.  Not just as a promise, but in my hot little hands, as Mom would say.  Almost seven years later, I can finally get back to creating the Katie Project.

Yes, many of you have seen the website (www.katiefoundation.com), pathetically stating "we're still waiting for seed funding, please be patient" for seven damned years.  Well, I haven't quite gotten around to fixing the website -- will do so before any "official" announcement, I promise.

But to you, my friends and followers, allow me to officially declare:

THE KATIE PROJECT IS ABOUT TO BE BORN!!!

It's been a long journey, it's been a great fight, it's taken a great deal of energy.  But from now on, the energy gets to be a POSITIVE kind -- moving forward, rising out of the ashes, creating a healing, loving, caring energy for all who need it.

To all those who asked if I'd finally be sitting back and relaxing again -- nope, sorry.  :-)

But this is different than those other projects I've been systematically putting aside -- this is where my passion lies. This is what my passion has been looking forward to since I was a little kid, wondering why there was nobody around to protect me, and vowing that I would never let that happen to anyone on my watch when I was a grown-up.  I'm still going to be busy as hell -- probably even busier than usual -- but I can assure you, I will be happy and satisfied, and feel like I'm making a real difference in the world.  I never wanted to be a victim, I refuse to identify myself as a victim.  I am a Dragon-Slayer, damnit -- bring 'em on!!!

To all those who were worried I might be neglecting my creative side -- nope, don't worry.  :-)

That's the beauty of it all, it's going to force me to be more creative -- and, as it seems now (explanation below), it's going to push me in creative directions I haven't attempted before.  Avoided like the plague.

It's not entirely selfless, trust me.  :-)

Now, the one very sad side-note to this story is: just as the battles were coming to an end and we were seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, one of the co-conspirators who had stood by our side through the battles since 1993 died unexpectedly.  Not even 24 hours before the end.  He was a dear old friend who had offered to help me set up the charitable foundation arm of the Katie Project when it was time.  Now that he is no longer able to do so, I am searching for someone with similar expertise in creating charitable foundations -- if anyone has any suggestions, I would love to hear them!

It sounded like this could take some time, what with red tape and all, but once all the Sword's t-s are crossed and the i-s dotted, the Wand will be sparking up and lighting the way forward.

Although the Wand might be getting a head start.  In part to make good on a deal I struck with all those horrible nightmares a few months ago, in part because of a conversation I was silly enough to have with a friend and strong Katie collaborator, in reference to said deal...

You see, my initial vision was to kick off the project with a collaborative CD, raising awareness, funds, etc. -- songs of truth, but also of hope and healing.  That's still part of the plans.

But there's another part... a part that it seems I need to do on my own.  Whether I want to or not.  Because both my nightmares and my friend have vowed to kick my ass if I don't.  :-)

And so... here I am... saying it out loud.  There's a book I promised to write.  Yes, after all these years of my mother telling me I should be a writer, I'm actually going to call myself a writer.  Of course, my mother is probably not going to like this book, and will probably take back everything she said in the last 40 years about me needing to be a writer.  But I'm writing a book.

It has already started.  I am writing a book.  I have no idea what publishing company in their right mind would ever publish a quirky dark comedy about child abuse, but neither my nightmares nor my collaborator seem to care what a publishing company would want.  She's already ordered a box set for YRAP (note to board: don't fire her, she hasn't actually signed a contract, if the book sucks you don't have to buy it, I promise!)  Not only that, but she's asked for a whole series of other books to be written on various subjects near and dear to the issues -- they might not all have the same humour as the original, or maybe they will, I'm not sure.  But it seems they're needed.  And it seems I'm writing them.  Yes, it seems I'm a writer.

Happy now, mother?  ;-)

So...

1.  Battles are over, I can return to my normal programming

2.  Normal programming is pre-empted for my life vision to be fulfilled

3.  If anyone knows a good lawyer who can help with said life vision, please get in touch

4.  I'm going to be spending a lot of time on a computer

5.  If saying all this out loud makes me lose all that creative energy, I'm going to be really pissed

6.  Zehrs had better stock up on a lot of mac & cheese and the LCBO had better stock up on Rioja -- Lyssy's gonna be needing some comfort food

7.  If anyone knows someone who would like to publish a dark and twisted side-splitting comedy about child abuse, please send them my way

8.  Sorry for keeping you waiting, especially Lisa (I know, I just saw there was a message from you on my cell, I promise to hit "upload" and call you back right away) -- but after the number of false starts I'd had on the Katie Project before, I wanted to make 100% sure it was going to work this time, before having to recant yet another announcement

9.  I don't really have anything else to say, but really like the roundness and completeness of the number nine, so wanted to keep as much good mojo going as possible for myself, lest #5 fall into place

There you have it.  I can't back out now.  Even if my nightmares took pity, I know you folks won't.  :-)

None of them can ever hurt you like that again, Katie.  You are a frikken' Dragon Slayer.  Lace up your combat boots and grab your sword.  We're going in.

More music... and girly V-bits

I attended my first rehearsal for "The Vagina Monologues" last night -- being performed to benefit the Women & Children's Shelter of Barrie.  (Earlier in the day, we were told the April 26 show has already SOLD OUT -- yippeee!  A second show will tentatively take place May 15 -- check http://www.barrie.ca/Culture/Theatres/Pages/MadyCentre.aspx for confirmation.)

I'd been asked to come on board to sing a couple of songs and play cello during and between some of the scenes.  The director, Mareka Martin, sent me the script and invited me to come meet the cast last night, and see if we could come up with some ideas for music.

This is all fun stuff for me.  I really enjoy doing theatre work.  In fact, for those of you who complain I don't toot my own horn enough -- the musical soundscape I created for Jeffrey Nisker's play "Sarah's Daughters" was nominated for a Brickenden Award (London's theatre awards) a few years ago.  Toot Toot!  :-)  Collaborating with people in other disciplines gets my brain moving outside of its usual pathways, and it's quite fun to just let loose in a field where I don't expect myself to be particularly awesome.

A little sidebar: on my way to rehearsal, a musical colleague had called the house for me.  Don told him "oh damn, you just missed her -- she's on her way to a Vagina Monologues rehearsal!", and gave him my cell phone number.  The stammering when he called me on the cell was a thing of beauty:  "uh, Don told me, uh... where you were... what you were... uh... the play thing you're rehearsing... uh..." and so on.  I tried very hard to not let my giggles loose on him.  I mean, the man's wife is a nurse, he's got three daughters -- SURELY he's had to say the word before?  Vagina.  Va-gi-na.  Not the prettiest word in the universe, but seriously -- is it THAT scary to say?!?

Apparently so...

Anyhow, back to me.  ;-)

Knowing that Mareka wanted me to open the show with a song of mine, Don challenged me a few weeks ago to write a new song.  A vagina song.

Now, I love challenges, but this one is eluding me so far.  And it's not that I can't find anything to say about the subject -- it's that I can't figure out a way to whittle everything I have to say into 2-1/2 minutes!  I mean, even the play just scratches (don't got there...) the surface.  I could approach it from sooooo many angles (I said, don't go there...)  I mean, my vagina alone has had over forty years of stories, and just think of how many vaginas are out there in the world!

There's good stuff, there's bad stuff, there's funny stuff, there's embarrassing stuff, there's clinical stuff, there's... WAY more than 2-1/2 minutes' worth of material!!!  It's been quite an interesting journey, exploring my relationship with this particular body part.  (hey, I said don't go there!)

I mean, seriously, where to start?  So much obvious stuff springs to mind, so many stories.  I almost want to make it a victory song -- incest-survivor-makes-it-through-into-adulthood-survives-further-abusive-relationships-to-finally-grow-into-a-happy-healthy-sexual-being-with-a-fantastically-awesome-sex-life-with-the-love-of-her-life is a pretty awesome story, I think (though perhaps not a light-and-cheery opening to a play).  There's the story about how shocked my grandmother was when my sister shouted from the bathtub "Alyssa stuck her toe in my vagina!" -- not so concerned about the apparent location of my errant toe, but scandalized that Tarah knew the word vagina.  There's all the OTHER names for this part of the anatomy (some of them cute, some silly, some of them downright NASTY -- I looked it up online, which is not a good thing to do when you're eating lunch in front of the computer, just sayin'...)  There's the joyous, celebratory side.  There's the lonely side.  There's the shameful side.  There's the "power tools" side.  There's the I'm-horny-as-hell-and-I'm-not-gonna-take-it-any-more side.  Not to mention the medical side, and my near-death experience last year when Big Ethyl tried to make a break out of my uterus through my cervix and crawl OUT my vagina into the free world.  I mean, seriously, if they made a movie about my vagina (which would be kind of a weird movie, but I'm just speaking artistically-hypothetically-metaphorically here), it would be an awkward blend of ridiculously-unrealistic-soap-opera, cheesy-uplifting-and-empowering-movie-of-the-week, gushy-romance, naughty-porno, riveting-suspense, psychological-thriller meets Cronenburg flick.

Try fitting ALL THAT into 2-1/2 minutes!!!

I'm still trying, but... fortunately, the gals last night loved my "Plan B" option.  Which is good, because I still have to finish my tax return and prepare a bunch of other performances, and I don't know how much more time I can spend attempting to write light and humorous songs about vaginas.

So... the opening song is going to be a few verses of "Sasha", as it stands now.  One of the women said afterwards, she thought I'd written the song about her (no, and I'm not telling who).  I think most of us have either been Sasha or known Sasha at some point in our lives.

               Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

               Ain't it amazing what a swish of the hips can do?

     'Though all the boys wanted to touch her, they were too mystified to talk

     But they bragged about what they'd done with her anyway

     While nobody believed each other's stories, they'd relive them each night in solitary glory

     And by day, freeze like deer at the hint of her headlights

          They'd hold their breath with panicked hearts

          Yearning for a brush of skin as she slinked by

          And just the thought of her lit them up from the inside

               Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

               Ain't it amazing what a flick of the wrist can do?

     Though all the girls wanted to be her, we wouldn't be caught dead with her

     'Cause who'd want to hang with that tramp anyway?

     While nobody had met a friend of hers, we knew they must all be tres glamorous

     So we scowled in her shadow, wordlessly praying for acceptance

          We'd hold our breath with jealous hearts

          Wishing her magic might rub off on us as she skulked by

          And just a word from her lit us up from the inside

               Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

               Ain't it amazing what a lick of the lips can do?

     Though all the men wanted to own her, they were afraid to be alone with her

     But she could be their mid-life crisis any day!

     Nobody ever figured out where she lived, but many dogs were walked where they thought she did

     As they orbited 'round her oblivious sun

          They'd hold their breath with guilty hearts

          Praying for some inner strength if she swayed by

          And just one glance from her lit them up from the inside

               Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

               Ain't it amazing what two fluttering lids will do?

     Though all the women wanted to protect her, they knew she was a threat

     'Cause what sort of men wouldn't prefer her to them anyway?

     Nobody ever knew anything for sure, but her eyes said she'd had a lot to endure

     So they all gathered 'round to shelter her flame from the wind

          They'd hold their breath with conflicted hearts

          Hoping they could be of help if she stopped by

          And just one grateful smile lit them up from the inside

               Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

               Ain't it amazing what a little mystery can do?

...it kind of sums up a lot of those issues -- and without even mentioning the word vagina!  :-)

It's almost like I knew, six or seven years ago, that I'd be stuck writing (or rather, NOT writing) a song for the Vagina Monologues.  Not only that, the director specifically asked for verses of "Breathe" to be interspersed with some scenes.  How perfect is that?  A song that was inspired by the birth of my niece, and all that I wished for her in life -- the first two verses are definitely childbirth-and-therefore-vagina-related, the remaining song about triumphing over hardships along your path and becoming a strong, empowered goddess of a woman.  Plus I get to sing loud in that song, and I like singing loud sometimes.  :-)

So... I haven't given up on writing a new song, but the pressure is off a bit.  I'm sure, though, that once I actually start working seriously on my taxes, the new song will pop out of me (birth reference intentional here) as a marvellous procrastination technique.

And with that, I'm off to do my taxes!

(Hey, I used the word vagina 14 -- nope, now 15 -- times in this blog.  Do you think I'll get flagged for adult content?  Vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina...  ;-)  )

Musically and vaginally yours (but not in THAT sense, buster!)

Alyssa

OK, back to music...

Sorry, been a while again -- juggling many things this past week-plus, including a wee bit of depression that was inspired by the same events as my last posting.  (Call off the suicide watch, I'm ok!  Just needed to give myself some alone-time to process through the muck.  And those damned lucid dreams are back...)

One of these projects is preparing for two upcoming performances of Missa Gaia, in Orillia (April 21) and Midland (April 22) with the St. Paul's United Church choirs.  It's going to be a big multi-media performance of Paul Winter's jazzy Earth Mass -- for choir, instrumental ensemble (percussion, piano, organ, guitar, bass, saxophone, cello), and a collection of wild animals.

OK, don't panic, there will be no wild animals at the show -- their performances were taped in advance.  But you will hear the songs of wolves, whales, seals and birds interspersed with the live music!

There is an extensive cello solo mid-mass, called "Stained Glass Morning".  The conductor, Blair Bailey dropped the score off to me last Thursday.  It's a meditation, very improvisatory -- I imagine the original cellist improvised the whole thing and then notated it after the fact.  I took a peek through the music and decided it wouldn't be terribly difficult to put together.

That is, until I made the quip about whether I got to be in a cello-wombat duet.

No wombat (damn!), but it turns out I DO have to play this along with a bunch of birds.  (Probably more musical than wombats...)  First is a 40-second recording of a musical wren.  Then a 19-second recording of a woodthrush.  Then a 1-minute-and-10-seconds recording of a dawn chorus of birds.

Nowhere in the score does it indicate how I'm supposed to interact with the recording -- i.e., where I should be in the piece by the time the birds do their best to drown me out.  Listening to the soundtrack isn't helping me, as the piece the cellist plays is very different from what he wrote down in the score.  So... I'm gonna do it my way!  :-)

The opening in the score has me playing around on a bunch of high harmonics.  I figure that'll be me and the wren.  Not a clue about the woodthrush, though...  it's a pretty quick tape.  Maybe that'll be my cue to start the improv.  The harmonics come back -- with a vengeance -- at about the half-way point, so I figure that's when the morning birds can start to go crazy.  Maybe they can drown out the really weird harmonics I have trouble hitting cleanly.  :-)  It's kind of an unusual experience, trying to figure out how to do a duet with a bunch of birds...

So, if you hear some strange whistling and squeaks and squawks coming from the music room in the coming days, it's just me, Lady Jo (the cello) and my new birdie friends.

Musically,
Alyssa

P.S. -- to those of you who are going crazy waiting to hear the details about my new big-and-scary project (yes, you, Lisa!) -- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to drag it on like this.  And trust me, I'm going crazier than you are (yeah yeah, I know it's not difficult...).  Things that were supposed to be in place before I could safely make the announcement are still dragging their sorry arses.  Working on it!  Hopefully by the end of the month, at the VERY latest.  With any luck, before the YRAP Gala next weekend!

Two disappointments, many heroes

Two events have monopolized my heart and brain space this week.

First, the ridiculously-insulting sentencing of Graham James for the child sexual abuse of Theo Fleury and Todd Holt (also Greg Gilhooly, although those charges were stayed as part of James's plea bargain).  Second, the excitement of the NDP leadership race and the inspiration of one Nathan Cullen.

I'll start with the latter, for I suspect (as do my regular readers, I'm sure) the former will have me going on for a while.  :-)

Don and I had thought of signing up for the NDP so we could vote this weekend, but... between our usual procrastination, fuelled (or un-fuelled, I guess) by a lack of enthusiasm for any of the candidates (although I had been really impressed with Romeo Saganash, he dropped out of the race before the registration deadline), we never quite got around to it in time.  Wouldn't you know it, a couple of days after the deadline had flitted by, people started sending us video clips of Nathan Cullen's speeches.  Ah... if we could turn back the clock...

What a breath of fresh air this guy is!  Eschewing all the cynical politics-as-usual-these-days crapola, spreading a positive message, down to earth, open to new ideas...  I found myself getting excited about politics again for the first time in ages!  And hopeful.  Hopeful is good.  Fresh, exciting, inspirational.  Which of course made it look like he didn't have a chance.  :-)  But over the last month or so, the word was spreading, the joy was spreading, people were getting similarly engaged, and he was working his way to being one of the top contenders.  Truly remarkable.

I found myself, in the last week, hoping for big surprises.  Hoping that the slow and powerful surge which had brought him so far was enough to push him to the top.

I was, unfortunately, disappointed.

Cullen, however, showed no disappointment -- and well he shouldn't.  He got further than anyone thought he would, introduced new issues to the membership, ran a classy campaign, and earned high, high praise and admiration from some of the party's "elite" -- most notably, the CBC News panel of Olivia Chow, Stephen Lewis and Pat Martin.  As Peter Mansbridge said, he may not have won this race, but he's one to watch in the meantime, and could easily be the next leader.  And he sure has the ear of the party now!  Maybe that's the reason why he was reported to be the last candidate still on the dance floor at the after-party.  :-)

So -- thank you, Nathan Cullen, for reviving my interest in politics, and giving many of us hope for the future.  Congratulations on making it so far, and being such a huge influence and inspiration.  You are making a difference, and are a big hero.

OK, that's the latter disappointment and hero.

The former one is so much more difficult...

As Graham James's own brother stated: "[Wall Street swindler Bernie] Madoff is in jail for 150 years for stealing people's money.  Graham stole much more than that from his victims -- their childhoods, their lives, their dreams -- and just got a few years.  To me, Bernie's crimes pale in comparison."

Agreed.

What the $&#* was Judge Carlson thinking?

Apparently, she believes he'd "been able to manage his desires because he has not reoffended since being released from jail for previous sex offences in the late-1990s" [source: CBC]

Uh... are you freaking kidding me?!?  First of all, all the Canadian court system knows is that no new crimes have since been reported to the Canadian court system in the last decade -- which kind of makes sense, since he's been LIVING IN ANOTHER COUNTRY since he was released from his first sentence.  And, as is shown time and time again, it usually takes several years, if not decades, for victims of childhood sexual abuse to come forward.  I'm also not certain that the awareness or laws in Mexico are any better than the still-pathetic laws in Canada (I mean, seriously, if James had been growing a few pot plants, his sentence would have been longer than he got for destroying a few lives!!!)

Secondly, he's already told the Canadian court system himself that he still prefers young boys, so it doesn't really sound like he's stopped being a danger to young boys at all.  And next time he leaves the country, he'll probably go to one with even more ridiculously lax laws about child abuse.

Thirdly, if you read ANY of the literature, it becomes quite clear that by the time a man has sexually assaulted this many children, there is virtually no chance of him ever being rehabilitated.  He's not ever going to stop being a danger to society.  Giving him a longer sentence isn't about punishment, it's about harm reduction.

The 3-1/2 year sentence he previously received had him out of jail after 18 months.  This new 2-year sentence will have him back out in September.

Even if you thought there was a modicum of a chance of rehabilitation, you can't undo several decades of severely abusive behaviour with only six months of attempted rehabilitation -- and, you know what?  I haven't seen any mention or evidence that he will be receiving any treatment intended for rehabilitation.  (Please correct me if I'm wrong, because I would like to see a glimmer of hope that the Canadian justice system has any concept of what it's doing when it comes to cases of childhood sexual abuse.)

OK, silver lining, Lyss, find that friggin' silver lining...

Well, at least he got sentenced to SOMETHING.  That's more than my father got (he never had to even make it into a courtroom, thanks to the mighty intimidation techniques of my Great-And-Powerful-Oz grandfather), and more than many kids' abusers have gotten.  Baby steps.

Also heartening, the public reactions to the sentencing have been loud and angry.  Even if the courts don't get it, the public is starting to wake up to the horrifying destruction of lives that childhood sexual abuse brings.  Big steps.

And a bunch of rough-tough-macho-superstar hockey players have had the strength and bravery to come forward as victims, thus making it easier for the young kids of today to admit and acknowledge their own abuse (anecdotally, my various contacts in the field have noted a surge in disclosures by males in the last few years -- likely not because more males are being abused than they were before, rather, because more males feel it's ok to seek help).  They have put a very public face on a very private crime.

I have been rather disgusted reading some of the comments below the articles (I know, I know, stop reading the comments, already!), claiming the only reason this is news is because the victims are famous.

Well, yes, it's too bad that it takes a famous person to come forward for anyone to pay attention, but GEEZ, people, don't criticize Fleury, Holt, Gilhooly, Kennedy, et al, for being famous victims.  They weren't superstars when the assaults took place -- the sexual abuse hurt them just as much as it would have hurt anyone else.  For crap's sake, read and listen to their victim impact statements!!!

Others (don't read the comments, Alyssa, don't read the damned comments!) criticize them for not speaking up earlier, insinuating it's some sort of publicity stunt now.  Uh, SERIOUSLY?!?  It's not like they decided as kids to let themselves be assaulted and raped so they could become famous for the abuse a few decades later.  Do you people even have two brain cells to spark together?  And if you aren't taking them seriously now that they've proven their credibility in court, why the hell do you think they'd have been brave enough to come forward when they were teenagers?!?

I sooo have to stop reading the comments.

These asinine comments, and the judge's ridiculous-excuse-for-a-rational-sentence are all further examples of how people's reaction to the abuse is often harder to get over than the initial abuse.  Maybe because these asinine reactions don't ever stop, and can nail you in the gut when you least expect it.

As I've said before, I've managed to get myself to a point where I've "gotten over" my father's abuse -- it wasn't easy, it wasn't quick, it certainly isn't complete, if my damned dreams are any indication, but I've been able to move past it, and get on with my life.  I've even managed to find some compassion for the man, which I have to say, I find pretty impressive.  :-)

Without making excuses for their choices or behaviours, the statistics indicate that the vast majority of pedophiles were sexually abused themselves.  It is becoming more and more apparent that the "game changer" of who goes on to be abusive as an adult depends in great part on the reactions and support network they have upon disclosure.  I do not know for sure what happened to my father.  I have a theory, cobbled together from what little evidence has been allowed to slip through the cracks of my heavily-fortified-firewall family members, but I will never know for sure.  I do know for sure that he wouldn't have had much of a support network, even if he had ever chosen to disclose (again, not a clue). Needless to say, I do know he was right-royally messed up, definitely treated abusively, though not necessarily sexually, with perhaps some mental health issues that went undiagnosed -- how many healthy people see giant coke bottles chasing them home?  I think it's safe to say that, on a messed-up scale of one to ten, he was a twelve.

Which does not make what he did to me acceptable, but it does make it understandable.  I'm still angry that he chose to continue the pattern instead of seek help, but I can also see how his parents (his father, anyhow) would have fought him every step of the way, even if he had sought help.  It sucks, and I'm still angry as hell at him and what he did to me, but I can no longer hate him, or wish him harm.  (OK, I kind of hope there's an afterlife, so that some of the good dead relatives will spend the rest of eternity kicking his ass, but... only until he gets the message and repents.)

The people I have way more trouble forgiving are the ones who *didn't* see coke bottles chasing them home.  The ones who had all their wits together, saw what was going on and didn't do anything.  The ones who helped cover it up and deflect the blame to an eight-year-old.  The ones who wouldn't help me upon disclosure, but did enlist me to protect my younger sister -- yes, the grown-ups wouldn't protect either of us, but it was this child's responsibility.  The paediatrician who diagnosed me with V.D. (the same one my father had), and thought I must have caught it in the highly-chlorinated swimming pool (even though my sister and I took baths together in non-chlorinated water and she didn't have a thing) -- I can only assume it's because people in the 70s thought child abuse only happened on the wrong side of the tracks, so they weren't looking for it in fairly affluent and powerful family.  The ones who handed me self-help book after self-help book so I'd stop being "so moody."  The church leaders who had counselled me, but completely lost their memories when my grandfather started donating big-ticket items to the parish.  The people who insist that my childhood must not have been so bad, because I never ran away to become a crack whore.

OK, I don't think crack existed back then, but you get the point...

Disclosure, even as an adult, even decades later, is difficult.  You open yourself up, make yourself vulnerable to a whole new level of abuse, while having to re-live the abuse of the past.

Yes, Fleury and Holt and Gilhooly and Kennedy and the others are receiving, for the most part, praise for their bravery in coming forward.  But I'll let you in on a little secret: one abusive comment can render the other one-thousand useless.  Because those abusive comments are exactly what keeps people silent in the first place.

You don't need to blame the victim, the victim is still blaming him- or herself just fine, thank you very much.  Even those who have done as much of the grunt work as I've done will still catch ourselves thinking "oh, if only I'd thought of talking to... or saying... or doing... or..." on a regular basis.  If only we'd been super-heroes, we could have protected ourselves -- why didn't we try harder to fly or be made of teflon?

We don't need a judge to put our abusers away for a mere six months in order to get the message that the damage done to us wasn't really that big a deal.  We get and give ourselves that message every day.

It would be very easy for these men to now shuffle off and disappear behind the scenes, never to speak of this again, never to open themselves up to such abusive comments or ridicule or shame.

But they're NOT.

Each of them is continuing to speak up, to push for change -- not for themselves, not as a P.R. stunt, but to make sure that this stops happening to the kids of the future.  Some of them have started foundations, some of them are using their stature to influence politicians, some are speaking to organizations, some are just speaking.

And that's why they are heroes.

They can't change their own past, they can't undo the damage done, but they can help prevent it from happening to others.  They are putting their own stories, their own pain, their own images on the line to help others.

You don't need to fly or be made of teflon to be a superhero.  All you need is a will and a voice and a desire to make the world a better place.

Yes, this week had two disappointments for me.  But it also reminded me that there are a lot of superheroes in this world.  And for that, I am infinitely grateful.

I survived - prove it

Survived the family March Break visit.  Yay me.

Well, the family March Break visit wouldn't have been a problem (other than the fact that Don had to go in for more surgery mid-visit, oy!).  It's really the Mom visit I'm referring to.

In fact, it had all been going quite well.  Including, I must report, a very mature late-night conversation with my mother and sister (Don was in bed recovering from anaesthesia) about survival techniques and coping strategies, how nothing in life was ever just one person's fault, you could take responsibility for your own actions without taking the blame for the entire situation, etc.

As I tried to keep my mouth shut, it was actually my sister who brought up the idea that our childhood had been traumatic -- and Mom actually agreed with her.  I kept my jaw off the floor, mouth still closed, taking it all in with wide-eyed wonder, waiting for the arrows to start slinging, but the arrows never came.

Sounds pretty hearteningly impressive, doesn't it?  I was so very proud of this mother-I-raised, finally blossoming into maturity, away from her black-and-white ways, into seeing the bigger, open, compassionate picture.  It did my heart good.  I went to bed that night thinking "wow, what a turn-around", and looking forward to a new, open, honest, grown-up, compassionate relationship with the woman who gave birth to me.

Do you see where this is going?

Because I did not see where this was going...

The next night, our last night, I made the mistake of bringing up a comment I had read on a report card many years ago.  The report card was from my nursery school days, but I didn't read the comment until years, probably decades later.

Yes, the poop hit the fan, not because I commented on something from our traumatic childhood, but because of a passing remark I made about a comment on my nursery school report card.

"Prove it!" was my mother's reply.

Now, to understand this comment, you first need to picture the force that would have been required to Heimlich a tennis ball out of my mother's throat and have it tear through my body and hit the opposite wall.  This is the force with which "Prove it!" was (and usually is) spat out.

Secondly, you have to understand my own personal history with "Prove it!"

"Prove it!" was similarly spat out over the years any time I noticed something I wasn't supposed to, or remembered something they didn't want me to remember.  It basically implied that, unless I could produce incontrovertible proof of my statement that very second, I would be reduced to the kid in the tin-foil hat who was hysterically shrieking that the sky was falling, and nothing I said from that point on would be even remotely believable.

When you're a kid whose sky IS falling, this type of rebuke is simply devastating.  You make sure you only say things that can be easily proven -- although when you live with people who claim that the sky is green and the grass is blue, there's not much that IS easily proven...

This is also the reason, or at least part of the reason, why I became such a packrat.  You never know when you'll need to "prove it".

While this tendency drives my husband nuts and makes for a very over-stuffed basement, it has also served me well over the years -- not just in "proving it" to the people who would like to declare me insane for believing and speaking my truth, but in keeping me centred and sure of my own sanity during the times when my family (and others) fought to convince me that black was white and up was down.  In more recent years, it helped keep my abusive ex-husband from coming back into the country to stalk me again in real life (as opposed to just cyber-life -- hello, asshole, hope you're enjoying the read!), and helped me fight a legal battle against my original abusers' co-conspirator (my word against yours -- really?  Here's your handwriting from 1983, sucker -- yes, I've kept everything the last 30 years, your client taught me well.).

When you've grown up with and previously married a bunch of gaslighters and crazy-makers, you learn to gather all the incontrovertible proof you can.

Sadly, on that day I read my report card from nursery school, I never considered it was something I would later need to "prove".  If I had any inkling, I would have probably found a way to sneak it out of my mother's house, or at least make a copy for myself.  But it really didn't seem like that big of a deal at the time.

Well, that's not completely true.  It did give me an "aha!" moment, but... it didn't really seem like something anybody would freak out about a few decades later.  The teacher's comment was that I was very quiet, disliked speaking up, seemed overwhelmed making decisions and in group activities, and did not mix well with other children, preferring to be by myself -- there was some concern I might be mildly autistic.  I clearly remember reading this and thinking "of course I was overwhelmed, look what was going on in my life already!"  And then wondering why nobody investigated this idea any closer -- if they had bothered looking into why I was terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing, or of being with other people, maybe they would have discovered what was really going on?  (Of course, realistic Lyssy understands that they probably wouldn't have figured it all out, especially without "proof" or even a name for it at the time, but it's a nice fantasy every once in a while...)

Of course, Thursday night, this wasn't even the context of my mentioning the report card comment.  So I still don't understand the tennis ball that got lobbed into my gut.  I had quipped about it in the context of people not understanding introverts -- no danger, no blame, no icky stuff.  At least I thought...  Apparently, it hit some sort of unforeseen nerve, though.  And I was flattened.  So much so that yesterday I dug through the boxes in the basement, on the off-chance that I had stolen the report card those many years ago... no such luck.

And so, I am now stuck with trying to convince myself I'm not crazy.  That I haven't just made this memory up.  Which, as the "prove it" lob, is ridiculous -- I've always been referred to as "the elephant" of the family, and not because of the creases under my arse, thank you very much.  I remember things.  I am the walking encyclopaedia of piddly little useless facts.  When people can't remember someone's name from our old church, or a birthday, or someone's favourite sweater from 1976 or where we used to store the sewing patterns or whatever, they ask me.  I remember things.  Perhaps it's a genetic gift, but I've also trained my brain to remember things, anything that might be needed later, for whatever stupid reason.

Why, then, do they (and I) call my memories into doubt when somebody doesn't want me to have that memory?  Why do I NEED to have swiped a piece of paper from my mother's house in order to fully believe that piece of paper ever existed?  Or for others to believe that I read it?

"Prove it" has haunted me since those nursery-school days of being terrified of saying the wrong thing or making myself unbelievable.  I know this.  And yet...

To those who need me to "prove it", the proof is probably never going to be enough, anyhow.  If I had been able to produce that piece of paper the other day, I would probably then have had to prove it was original, or gotten lost in an argument over why I had taken it in the first place, thus burying the proof under a mountain of "your trust issues" (!).  And who knows, maybe I didn't actually write my diaries in the 1980s, but waited until last year to forge kid-style writing and falsely age the pages to try and prove my idiotic, faulty memory...

Part of me wants to just toss away all the boxes and be done with it all.  The other part knows, though, that as long as there is an older generation alive that will fight like gangbusters to cover up the truth, those boxes are there to remind me that *I'm* not the crazy one.

I was talking with my friend Ali (head of the York Region Abuse Program) a couple of weeks ago about this new project of mine (yes, Lisa, I'll let you know what it is soon!).  In this discussion, we came back to the idea that the sexual abuse, while horrendous, is far easier to recover from if the child gets a positive, supportive reaction upon disclosure -- if not, the neglect and abuse of those other caregivers is often more harmful than the original abuse.

I, my over-stuffed filing cabinets, cluttered basement and spider-webbed elephant-never-forgets brain seem to be "proof" of that.

I've been "over" the sexual abuse for quite some time.  I have an awesome, healthy sex life, with no strange hang-ups or fears.  There is no surface or subliminal association between my adult sexuality and my childhood sexual abuse.

Oh, how I wish my brain had the same story to tell...  It's STILL playing stupid brain tricks -- shutting me down, discrediting me, telling me I'm not important or worthy, keeping me quiet (well, trying!) and "in my place."  Decades later, this is still a constant battle -- partially with that older generation, but mostly because I've internalized all the messages I was given way-back-when, and now tell them to myself.

I can't help but fantasize: IF ONLY there had been an adult version of Ali back then, who could have said "hey, kid, those people are nuts -- what's happened to you is awful and you deserve better."

That's all a kid needs.  Someone to say "what's happened to you is awful and you deserve better."

I can't remember the statistics off the top of my head, but I'm sure Ali could quote them to you -- the kids who are told these things are (approximately) a gazillion times more likely to grow up and live minimally-neurotic, healthy lives.  They don't have to fight the "brain clouds" when their crazy-makers tell them the sky is green and the grass is blue.  They don't continuously hook up with abusive partners until their heads crash through to below rock bottom.  They don't have to do battle with and/or keep vigilant watch against addictions and other self-abusive behaviour.  They've never had to flatten themselves against the back wall of the subway platform "just in case".  They don't have to question every single thought, action and motivation to make sure they're being true to themselves and not just reverting to neurotic knee-jerk patterns.

ALL IT TAKES for abused kids to grow up and lead relatively normal lives is for ONE PERSON to say "geez kid, that sucks, you deserve better."

ONE PERSON.

We all need to be that person.  If we could all be that one person, Ali would have to find a new job -- what a beautiful tragedy that would be!  (Sadly, doesn't look like that will happen any time soon -- her waiting lists are growing exponentially, because people are STILL trying to keep child abuse quiet.  See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.  Thank god for the Theo Fleurys and Sheldon Kennedys of this world -- true heroes for speaking up and putting a public face to this usually-silent crime.)

Be that person.

If someone discloses abuse to you, be they child or adult -- for crap's sake, LISTEN TO THEM.  Believe them.  Help them.  Don't demand proof -- the tone of their voice, their body language, their eye language will be all the proof you need.

Listen.  Believe.  Help.  Their future partners, basements and moving crews will thank you for it.

A wee change...

...well, maybe not so wee.  Closer to "we".

The more observant of you will note that I've changed the title and description of this blog.  Some changes are a-coming.  I'm not quite ready to unveil the full details, but...

There is a PROJECT in the works.  It's big, it's scary, it will probably engulf most of my spare (?!?) time.  But I need to do it.  My wretched sleep and dream patterns need me to do it (yes, the nightmares are back -- they're apparently mad at me for procrastinating on this project, after we struck a deal!), and after a late-night conversation with a beloved friend, I believe it will do a whole world of good for people stuck where I was ten, twenty, thirty, fo... [shh!] years ago.

So... there ya go.  I'm committed.  Until I get committed...  ;-)

You can never go back (phew!)

My high school is having its 100th anniversary this May, and I signed on to be a part of the gala concert at Roy Thomson Hall.

As many people have asked me since -- WHY?  Why would you want to go to a high school reunion?  High school is an ugly memory for many people, and I'm no exception.

And yet...

The music program at my high school was one of the few things that kept me (relatively) sane, and definitely the only thing that kept me in school.  Oh sure, high school itself was the same angst-ridden, pimply-faced den-of-zero-self-esteem for me as it was for many, but... those hours when I got to hide behind my cello (and there were many) were the hours when I started to feel like I actually belonged somewhere, that I fit in with something, that I was actually OK at something.

Of course, this was all still haunted by the not-dead-yet spectre of my grandfather.  Which managed to keep me from believing in myself fully, and made me doubt myself fully, while sort of thinking I might be OK... but not really.

For starters, I wasn't even supposed to go to North Toronto -- I was out of district (if I'd lived across the street I would have been in district, but the dividing line kept me out).  But North Toronto had the best string program at the time, and I really wanted to be there.  There was a waiting list to get in, partially determined by musical ability, based on an audition.  Meanwhile, my best friend's mother -- who also wanted both of us to get in to NT, as Ali lived on the wrong side of the street, too -- did her usual "I'll fight for my children, whatever it takes" routine (oh, what a great honourary mother to have!) and went in for a private meeting with the Principal.  Very soon after, Ali and I both learned we'd been accepted -- thank you, Jane!

She did let it slip later, however, that one of her tactics was to declare that I was Don Wright's granddaughter, so any music program worth its salt would be begging to have me.

Not because of me.  Because of my grandfather.

So... was I in because of merit, or because of my ancestry?  This question haunted me throughout both my high school and university years.  The name opened many doors for me, gave me many opportunities, let me get away with missing a rehearsal or two when others were kicked out for less than 100% attendance.

I was chosen to be principal cellist of the junior orchestra in grade 9 -- was that because I was good, or because I was Don Wright's Granddaughter?  I was chosen as our school's music delegate for the Ontario Student Leadership Course -- in my incredible shyness, I didn't see how I could possibly be considered a leader in anything, so assumed it was because of my grandfather.  I was principal of the senior orchestra in grades 12 and 13, but always felt like a phoney, like I shouldn't be there, when there were so many other talented musicians who didn't have family pull.

I was proud of my accomplishments, but forever suspicious of them.  This combined with my family's assertions that I would never be able to "make it" in the same way as he had led to some very conflicted feelings toward music, cello, me.  (Fortunately, I eventually got over it -- especially once learning what a B.S. assertion it was!)

And so, I found myself waking up at 6:30 on Saturday morning (yes, really!) and heading down the highway to Toronto.  I had been dithering for weeks whether I really wanted to go through with this, but... did it anyhow.  I met up with a snowstorm about halfway down, and started to seriously question the decision again.  Fortunately, I had made an appointment at the Sound Post for later that afternoon, otherwise I would probably have chickened out and driven right back up the highway.

There is a sick, anxious feeling I always get when I'm on the 401 and approaching the Avenue Road / Yonge Street exits.  It grows as I get off the exit and drive through my old stomping grounds.  People often ask me why I don't move back to Toronto (especially now that we're considering moving to a different big city) -- the truth is, that's where I spent my years of terror, and I don't like being constantly reminded of it.  If I get this ill on a drive-by, how the hell would I live my life on a daily basis?  There's too much horror, too much sadness, too many reminders.  I don't need reminding, thank you very much, my stupid dreams are keeping me in the loop just fine.

Driving down Yonge Street, so much has changed -- the stores are different, it's more developed in some areas.  But the landmarks are still there.  The anxious buzzing reaches a crescendo as I pass Lytton... Craighurst... Briar Hill... St. Clements... and there are the lights for Broadway.  I turn left and enter the new parking garage that was promised in the directions to the new/old school, but have yet to see the school itself.

You see, the school I went to is no longer there.  They've torn down the old building and put up a new one, with condos above and storefronts on the Roehampton side, and a huge football field.  I've been curious to see it, although still trepidatious.

I go to the machine, buy my ticket, head back to the car.  "Alyssa!" someone shouts.  It's Alan, father of one of my former classmates, and fellow cello player -- we shared a cello teacher when I was in high school, and would often commiserate on who cried the most at the last lesson.  A very nice man, with a very nice family.  He (re-)introduces me to his wife and sister: "you know, Don Wright's granddaughter."

Ah yes, the Great and Powerful Oz himself...  my stomach does flip-flops... it's too late to run, now that I've been spotted.  Breathe... breathe... smile... he doesn't mean this in a bad way, he has no idea what battles you've been through at Oz's hand, or what fresh hells have been opened up in the last six years.  Breathe, breathe, smile, breathe, breathe, smile.  Brace yourself, because this is probably the first reference of many -- why didn't you consider this in the snowstorm, you silly twit?

We walk as a group out of the parking garage and towards the school.  I can see the north side of Broadway just fine, looking pretty much like it always had.  And then... holy mother of Zeus!  The school is nothing like the old building.  Nothing whatsoever.  The old anxiety-filled high school is gone.

I can feel my shoulders.  Sort of.

After a significant journey trying to find an open door, we venture inside.  Inside, it's a combination of old and new.  The old Ontario Scholars plaques have been transferred to the new walls.  There's a courtyard with the old bricks and arches.  The old Maytime Melodies photos are on the new walls (oh lordy, there's me with braces and helmet hair -- make the lambs stop screaming!).  It's kind of like a dreamworld, where the building you know is transformed into something else -- you know what it's supposed to be, but the details aren't correct.  A bit surreal.

And then it's into the music room, where a few familiar faces have already gathered.  Some closer to their old faces than others.  :-)  The old anxieties try to surface... I shouldn't be here, what if I let the truth slip out, what if somebody already knows my secrets?

Geez, Alyssa, you write and speak regularly about surviving childhood sexual abuse -- why are you suddenly afraid people will know your truth?

Right... ahem... yes.  They're allowed to know things now.  Not that it's really polite conversation at a high school reunion, of course, but... you don't have to freak out.

Yes, high school is an awkward time for the best of us.  I was not among the best of us.

Just before grade 9 began for me, my mother had finally told my father he was not allowed to come back to the house, because she had had enough.  Of course, she was still sending my sister and I for sleepovers at his new apartment, so I guess she didn't think we'd quite had enough...  Many secrets still had to be kept.  As well as haunting my musical life with the Toronto District School Board, my grandfather was busy trying to prove I was a liar about my father's abuse, and using his sleazy lawyer to basically try and crush us all into submission.  And by October, it had become apparent that my mother was involved with her psychologist, thus introducing sexual predator #2 into our I-thought-it-was-finally-going-to-be-happy home, as well as a whole other layer of secrets to worry about -- she knew enough, apparently, to know that it was unethical for a psychologist to sleep with (and later marry) his patient, and that we shouldn't let anyone know what was going on, she just didn't know enough to not do it.

Back then, if I was in the hall talking to people, I was at risk of spilling the truth.  If I was hiding behind my cello, no words had to come out.  Can I tell you how very much I loved my cello in those years, despite all the self-esteem issues that came with it?!?

Ahem, back to the present.

I see my friend Debbie come in -- who never knew me in high school, but is now the head of the music department.  She will be my reminder of who I am now.  I will not slip back into who I was.  And just to prove it, I go over and talk to the people who I used to not feel worthy enough to talk to.  And hey, they talk back, and give genuine hugs.  Maybe I wasn't as unworthy as I always thought I was... Oh shut up, Alyssa, you were NEVER as unworthy as you thought you were.  NOBODY is as unworthy as you thought you were.

The concert organizer -- who I've never met -- comes up and tells me that I was one of the two people identified as possible principal cellist, he's sorry to let me know so late, but would I mind sharing the job?  Hell no.  :-)  A total stranger, who probably has no idea who my grandfather was -- but even if he did, could not expect any special favours from him since he's now dead -- has just told me I'm worthy.  Damn straight, I'm worthy.  I feel five years of adolescent stupidity start to melt away... well, start, anyhow.

In comes David Ford, the head of music from my high school days, the man who always asked after my father and grandfather, who I spent five years smiling and trying not to spill the truth to, five years wondering if he actually saw any value in me, or if he was just trying to gain favour with Oz.  He recognizes me, but fumbles for my name.  Oh lord, I was obviously nothing, nobody, unworthy... Shut Up!  Seeing his embarrassment and discomfort, I offer up "Alyssa Wright" -- he grins and gives me a huge bear hug.  The Great and Powerful Oz is not mentioned at all.  He remembers me.  Me.

I remind myself that neither he nor most of the people in this room would recognize Me Today after knowing Me Then.  I've had conductors from my university years not know who the heck I was decades later, after spending years sitting directly in front of them.  I would hide.  I would blend into walls.  I would be quiet.  I would do my best to NOT be noticed (and then, of course, be resentful when nobody noticed me -- oy!).

Oh sure, I'm still an introvert.  But I'm an infinitely more confident introvert.  With, some might argue, a pretty big mouth.  :-)

The fact that I actually approached him to say hello probably threw him off more than the extra pounds, extra wrinkles, hair cut by a professional (i.e., not unevenly hacked off by me in the darkness of my mirror-less room and then gelled into submission), and lack of leggings, dark makeup and way-too-bulky men's sweaters.  This is what I'm telling myself, anyhow...  ;-)

I'm talking with my section-mates, realizing that there's only two of us doing music full-time.  So I must be worthy, right?  Duh...  Oz never had much sway outside the school system (not that I was aware of that until much later), this is me.  Merit and me.  Hard work, merit and me.

Rehearsal begins.  We get to the Medley -- a medley of several medleys from over the years.  I recognize many of the arrangements, some of them my grandfather's.  Oh, here we go... nope, nary a mention.  Phew!

There's a cello solo.  I'm ready to defer to my co-principal.  Debbie, who is probably wondering where Alyssa just disappeared to, announces it's supposed to be for electric cello, and would I mind bringing mine in for the concert?  The girl who never got picked for a solo is now the woman who gets picked for the solo.  Worthy, worthy, worthy... oh lord, WHY am I still stuck there?

Of course, the solo is in the nose-bleed section of the cello, and I'm sight-reading -- but instead of the devastated "I suck" that would have hit me in high school, I just fake it and laugh and say I'll look at it better for next time.  I'm imperfect, and that's OK.  The Old Me would never believe it.  It's OK to be imperfect.  And even in my imperfection, heads are nodding and voices are saying it's going to kick ass in concert.

Why yes, it is.  :-)

It took me a few decades, but I'm actually enjoying high school.  I will brave the snow storm (and early morning alarm) next weekend too.

After rehearsal, it's a stop down to the Sound Post, where I offer up my old cello for sale.  Mild (!) kick in the gut when I'm told it will probably be sold for about $5,500, minus the repairs it needs and their commission.  This is the cello I bought at the end of high school -- thinking it would last me for university and then I'd get a new one, though I only replaced it last spring! -- for $8,000.  I went in to debt with Oz to buy it.  I scrambled and scraped my way through university, taking on extra jobs to pay Oz back as quickly as possible, but still getting "why haven't you paid it back in full yet?" letters on a regular basis.  This cello was stressy.  I fought this damned cello for almost 25 years.  In inspecting it for sale, I learned all the reasons why it was so difficult to play, and how they'll fix it to make it playable -- yet nobody had mentioned this to me in all the years I'd spent taking it elsewhere for repairs.  Lesson learned.  But kind of depressing that after all that time and effort and stress, it wasn't even worth the purchase price any more... if it had ever been in the first place.

Oh well, Alyssa, it's a symbol of the past.  Get rid of it.  You have a beautiful new cello now that does everything you want it to.  Get rid of the past.

I do.  At least I hope I do.  They have it for 120 days, at which point they can change their mind if it hasn't sold.  Anyone want an angst- and pain-ridden cello?  Real cheap...  ;-)

And so, driving up University, my mind is pondering Old Me, New Me.  Old Life, New Life.  Old School, New School.  Old Cello, New Cello.  How much has changed, how much is no longer there, how much that I never could have imagined is now in my life, how much EASIER it is to be alive.  University becomes Avenue Road.  Oh look, there's my former shrink's office, where I spent an hour a day every day for seven years, trying to unravel the web of lies that had been the Old Me's Old Life.  Coming up to where I hung out with the friends from my youth group, trying hard to be somebody else.  My old primary school, where much of it all began.  Two more blocks, the street to my first house.  One more block, the house of hell.  I'm always tempted to do a drive-by, masochist that I am, but I opt against it, choosing instead to revel in all that no longer exists, not wallow in what used to be.

Yet... since then, I've found myself fantasizing about knocking on the door.

I have just had it hammered home that my old high school no longer exists, is not the same, that I'm not the same.  While the house from hell is still standing and fully intact, I'm 100% sure it's not decorated the same, and they've probably made a bunch of changes in the almost-20 years since my mother finally moved out of there, and... it's just a house.  With any luck, an abuse-free house.  It's tempting...

But then again, how would a normal person react if a total stranger knocked on the door and said "Hi!  I was abused in this house for ten years, could you please give me a tour?"  Yup, wacko, bolt the door!  ;-)

There's no place like home (Thank God)
You think there's no place like home?
Well you can change all the names,
But the characters stay the same
Oh there's no place like home

[from "No Place Like Home", Alyssa Wright, 2006]

Well, as much as all the characters continue to fight for the status quo...  I've changed.  I've changed, and my life has changed.  They can keep their status quo.  I'm happy to never go back.

...when you're ready, your heart holds the tools
So say goodbye to that road of salvation
And the heartless, the coward and the fool
Oh my
The heartless, the coward and the fool

[ibid.]

You can't go back.  Even if you wanted to.  Everything changes.  It stays the same in your mind, but only if you let it stay the same in your mind.  The beautiful part of living a long life is that you can change your story.

I can stay stuck in "not-worthy-land" as long as I feel like it -- or I can choose to see that all those years of feeling unworthy forced me to work my ass off and get farther than I ever could have been if I just plodded along in a "normal" life.  I can cringe at my choice of makeup application, or I can recognize that I was creating an obvious mask to go with the emotional one I needed to make it through to the end of high school and out of the damned house.  And enjoy the fact that I'm confident enough to not wear ANY makeup on a regular basis these days -- what you see is what you get, this is who I am, like it or lump it.

I am no longer a helpless child or a hopeless adolescent.  And those years helped me grow into the strong, capable, independent, blissfully happy and love-filled woman I am today.

I have cleared the space, it's time to take my place
Prepare to speak my truth, stand up and be the proof
Be the Proof... 

Only the Truth remains

[from "Sword and Wand", Alyssa Wright, 2009]