Misunderstood is a loaded word, I know. We overuse it, particularly when referring to our childhoods. The truth is we're all misunderstood, tiny mysteries that baffle those around us as we grow into ourselves. But even so, I have always been the black sheep in my family.
I was a pagan child raised in a Christian household, with undiagnosed Asperger's. My understanding of others, which included God, was vastly different than anyone else's I knew. It was a constant struggle to come to terms with the paradox of my own conscience at odds with the only worldview I thought existed.
Breaking through that boundary was an existential act, and every other barrier in my life came down with that wall. I wanted to answer questions I'd never thought to ask myself before, about music, literature, religion, sexuality, relationships, ethics, morality, philosophy, spirituality, my purpose, origin, existence, goals, values, dreams, fears, and limitations.
I slashed and burned while I tumbled and fell in the chaos of my rebirth. Consequences were dire, in that my exploration of myself outside the world of Christianity prompted a familial rift that continues to separate me from them. Years of effort have built a series of bridges across that chasm, but the chasm remains.
This loss continues to permeate my music, my writing, and my self-image. I’m still learning from those experiences. Writing and composing give me the opportunity to expunge guilt and confront demons, even 15 years forward.