Life and Its Mishaps

Chapter 8

   There's this camp in the middle of nowhere that is run by a very Christian couple, and I used to think the people there were good. However, many years later from my first visit, I see they are not, and this is for a variety of reasons. In the end, their goal was not to teach of God and Jesus, nor was it to open children's hearts up to love. In the end, they were brainwashing all of these sixth graders into conforming to a society that did not have their best interest at heart. In the end, they wanted to keep people from having control over their own bodies and they wanted to rid of everyone different than themselves.
    Soon after realizing I was queer, my heart grew heavy with an anxiety whispering to me that God didn't love me and didn't want me. I returned with the hope that this place would prove me wrong. Funnily enough, their intentions for this summer trip was to knock people like myself down. Their whole lesson plan being about how gay people shouldn't be married, transgender people aren't real, abortion is sinful, and how the people in the government who allow these things are wrong. And, though their intentions were to smite me with a stick proving that God wasn't okay with gay people, they somehow managed to do the exact opposite of that.
   Friday Nights were special nights. This was supposedly when Jesus would speak to us through Mr. Michael, the camp leader. He had a message for us all, individually. On this visit here, "Jesus" straight-up told me to come out of the closet. "The world is ready for you. You are ready, and you know what you have to do to be happy." He told me in Mr. Michael's voice, in code, but as soon as I heard it said, I knew exactly what it meant.
    I didn't really question the legitimacy of these Friday Nights, and it's because Mr. Michael would say things I had never told anyone. For example, I used to never be scared of the dark. That is until seventh grade rolled around, and I began seeing clouds of the darkest black swirling over my head every night. I knew if I looked at them too long, they would suck me out of my covers and swallow me whole. After that, I started sleeping with my Christmas lights on. This only made them less intimidating, as my string lights alone would never make them actually go away. But I was too embarrassed to tell anyone. Even at this camp when the counselors would offer a nightlight before we all went to bed, I'd deny, and suffer in the dark instead. This same visit, Mr. Michael told me in the hospitality house with my hands in his and my head tilted so he could pray over me, "He says to not be afraid of the darkness any longer, as it cannot hurt you, for you are a beacon of light." I cried so hard that I had to lie down on one of the mats set out for people who found themself in the same place I did that night.
    But out of all five visits, out of all the Friday Nights, there is only one that I'll never forget. First-Year Summer kids weren't supposed to come to Spring Break retreats until they were Second-Year Summer kids, but supposedly Jesus told Mrs. Linda, Mr. Michael's wife, that I needed to come back for it anyways. And as much as I hate that place now, it's a really good thing that I did. Because that was seventh-grade, when I first became depressed. From losing my friends, to taking my first advanced class. From feeling like my dad didn't care to experiencing extreme social dysphoria (something I didn't even know existed at that point) in the locker rooms. From my dad dismissing any and all of my debilitating pain, to being forced to run two miles every morning despite it. I was heavy, I was ready to die. I wanted nothing more than to give up. There has yet to be a time more painful than seventh-grade. Crying myself to sleep every night, feeling so worthless and unworthy of living, feeling unwanted and unloved by my family, it was all just too much. The depression has been off and on since then, but now when I get better, it's because I put in the effort to get to a good place, and not because some churchy old people magically say I'm cured because Jesus blah blah blah.
    At that point, I thought everyone was somewhere close to me in terms of mental state—that's why they're here, right? Hoping some God can relieve them of their pain? I'm proven wrong when Friday comes around on this Spring Break. That night, I found myself in the same numb, disinterested, unhappy state. Mr. Michael says my *deadname—the only name I went by at the time. I scoot to the front of the room, bow my head, and wait as everyone encapsules me, hands on my back, arms, head, kids resting their hands on me and on other people touching me when they can't find a spot left on my body. Mr. Michael took my hands in his, and he sucks in a sharp breath, followed by a heavy sigh—feeling overwhelmed, I'm sure. "Mrs. Linda," he said. "Please, help me pray over deadname on this night." At that point, I was scared and confused. Mrs. Linda doesn't really do that. I mean, she does. She does it every single day. She does it constantly, but not ever openly for Friday Nights. That is Mr. Michael's, AKA "Jesus'" time to speak.
    Mr. Michael gives her one of my hands, and she has the same reaction as he did. "Oh, deadname," I remember her saying, her voice practically trembling. "Oh, deadname, deadname, does the devil have a hold on you." She prays over me for what feels like forever, 'forcing Satan's hold on me to loosen' according to her. I cried the whole time. Then, Mrs. Linda called Ashton up to the front of the room with them. Ashton supposedly had some special type of powers when it came to praying. To have him pray over you was like having an angel enter your body and take out every bad thing that was ever within you and replace it with pure light. I'm not even Christian anymore for many personal reasons, but I wouldn't mind having Ashton (despite the transphobic comments he made years later) pray over me again. That night, Ashton prayed, running his warm hands over my arms, breaking me free from chains I didn't know were there. Finally, Mr. Michael told what Jesus needed me to know, which is that I'm stronger than any obstacle that has ever and will ever come at me. That I can overcome anything.
    That message still holds true to this day. I haven't felt any heavier than seventh grade since.
    I think the reason that time was so memorable is because I finally felt valid in all of my many feelings. I finally felt like all the time I spent locked away, crying, was okay. That I wasn't just weak for the tears. Feeling like I wasn't in bad enough of a situation to be depressed or that my mental illness wasn't real because I had yet to take a blade to my wrist was something that never happened again.