As we wander through the abyss of time that is life - a void of depression and euphoria. envy and contentment, fury and peacefulness, lust and chastity, hate and love, greed and charity, hunger and fullness, death and life and, above all, constant and unebbing pain - we are faced with many questions that we must ask ourselves. Where do I go? What will I do? How will I know? When will it happen?

The most pertinent of these questions - the one which we deal with at least 100 times every day - is: Why? "Why what?" you may ask. "Why" is a wildcard question, because "What?", "When?", "Where?" and "How?" are questions that demand a set answer, while "Why?" demands an answer that will usually vary from time to time and place to place. It's the question that asks, not for facts, but for opinions. I ask myself "Why?" all the time and I get no answer because I know none that will suffice.

"Why do I work on a web page when less than 50 people a day go to it?"
"Why do I work on a web page when not more than, maybe, 5 people actually really care if it closes."
"Why do I work on a web page instead of doing homework?"
"Why do I play on the computer when I should be doing homework first?"
"Why do I put off doing major projects until the last week?"
"Why did I tell off the boss of my first job ever, knowing that I spent 6 months looking, only to find it and now I'll have to look again?"
"Why did I spend almost $200 on computer games when my bank account is dwindling enough as it is?"
"Why don't I call my friends and ask them to get together, rather than sitting at home on the computer, playing games?"

Those above questions are what I call, "Physical Questions." because I can affect them just by doing something differently. For example, if I wanted to call my friends, I could just pick up the damn phone. Those questions address problems that I can do something about...They are basically malleable.

"Why do I go over things in my head so much, that I get anxious over them and throw up?"
"Why do I always just feel like lying in bed all day and never getting up again?"
"Why do I purposely avoid having close friends?"
"Why do I mark everything as a necessity so I can't afford to buy things that really are necessities?"
"Why do I constantly complain about things not happening and when they finally happen, I let them pass me by?"
"Why do I seek to make myself look like someone whom I have no hope of ever looking like?"
"Why do I compare myself to people who have radically different lives, and get depressed when I can't live their life instead of mine?"

Those questions are "Metaphysical Questions." They are more difficult for me to correct, but still possible, given the right directions to follow in order to stop the obsessing and the spending. They look more on the overall picture and less on the trivial affairs.

"Why do I have my mother and not a mother who would have loved me as a child and brought me up to be loved and respected?"
"Why did my father leave and why did he leave me with a person who, while possessing half my DNA, is incapable of taking care of kids?"
"Why do I have a sister who's constantly fighting with me and not one who gets along and recognizes that, despite all else, I'm her brother and I love her?"
"Why am I obsessed with Zac Hanson?"
"Why am I living my life and not Zac's, or JTT's, or anybody who was brought up relatively normally?"
"Why am I Bisexual?"
"Why can't I wake up in the morning with a good feelings and an overall positive outlook on the day?"
"Why doesn't my hair grow long and look nice like Joseph Gordon-Levitt's or one of the Hanson brothers?"
"Why am I suddenly breaking out in acne pimples at the age of 17 when I had totally clear skin going through Puberty?"
"Why am I still alive after trying, genuinely trying, three times to kill myself?"
"Why do I burst out crying sometimes for no reason that I can think of?"
"Why am I still depressed over a dream I had over a week ago about a band I never met?"
"Why do I wish death on Hanson and yet believe that I couldn't live without them?"
"Why didn't it work out that Zac Hanson was my best friend?"

Those questions are "Spiritual Questions." They are questions for which I have no answer and haven't had an answer ever since I started asking them. I doubt anybody has any real answer either.

I will try and explain some of the questions I asked and maybe by typing them and reading them over and over, I can find answers to my own questions. By the way, my name is Redrick. The following story is about 80% true.

Over the course of my life, I have gone through much in the way of depression and personal pain. The only people I had to turn to were my friends; people who were supposed to stick by you no matter what. Instead, I turned them off. Instead of telling me that i needed help, they used my personal problems to make me feel even worse. Some call my rants about my lack of friends to be nothing more than whining...Maybe they are. Some tell me that my problems as a result of friends are not normal and I should seek help...Maybe I should.  The beginning of my tumble downhill started when I was 12-years-old, almost 13. I led a sheltered life with my mother all those years before and had just learned a few things recently that were new to me.  My parents had gotten divorced when I was only 4. I never spent much time with my dad, only seeing him for two weeks at a time, every two years, when he drove from his apartment in British Columbia to Montreal. The summer of my twelfth year, I flew out to BC to visit my dad. It was the first time I had ever seen him away from my mother and sister. For the first time ever, I had to make my own bed, clean my own room and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Back at my mom's house, it was and is, to this day, "Leave your mess on the floor because the maid will clean it up. Leave the dishes on the table because the maid will clean them when she comes."

The maid she spoke of only came once a month, by the way, so we'd go whole months eating out of mixing bowls and eating our food with our fingers. I hated it, but she wouldn't let me near the dishwasher or washing machine because she thought I'd break them. She wouldn't let me near the vacuum for the same reason. All I could do, was clean my room as best I could and hold my breath when the stink got too bad.

But I digress...

I cried for computer games and toys and, again for the first time ever, I wasn't allowed to get them because my dad would say, "I don't have enough money." A new phrase for me.

Needless to say, I returned from British Columbia very happy to be home...for a day. The next morning became the first day on my depression; something that hasn't let up since. I realized that, for all the hard work and refusal I had to deal with amongst my dad and step mom, I wanted to be with him. For the first time ever, I realized that I hated my mother. I cried and bitched and sulked that I wanted to live with my dad. My dad's answer was, "When I buy a house and we have a room just for you, you can live with me." So, I remained in Montreal with my mom and sister.

After the summer, I started high school. At that high school, there was a boy named Raven.

Now, I never really knew much about my attraction to males at this point. I had never had a girlfriend, but then again, I hadn't really met many people. My sister always had posters of Jonathan Taylor Thomas on her wall and, whenever I'd go into her room, I'd get a funny feeling "down there". It never occurred to me that I might be gay or bi. I just knew that looking at him made me feel good, so I did it a lot.

So anyway, I started high school and met Raven. Raven was the best looking guy I'd ever met and I immediatly became attracted to him. He had beautiful green eyes, black hair and an adorable face. Everything I found so great looking, he had, so I immediately wanted to be with him at all times. I spoke to him in my usual, upbeat way and pretty soon, we hit it off. We confided in each other about everything, just like good friends like we were did. I told him my sob story and he tried to be sympathetic. He told me about his desire to move to California and how his dad wouldn't go(His parents were divorced too.) I enjoyed his company and he...well...he seemed to enjoy mine. We had the same likes and dislikes and we used to like the same movies and TV shows and stuff like that. I still hadn't told him about my attraction, though, so we stuck to being friends at that point. There came a point, though, when curiousity got the best of me and I took a make-or-break chance and told him that I was attracted to him. I got lucky...He turned out to be gay and had a thing for me to. From that day forward, we hung around each other all the time. In school, we did everything we could to be near each other, without letting it show that we were actively going out. Behind closed doors, though...but I digress...

Love: A feeling of affection and devotion for another person.You want to be there for that person whenever they need you. You want to be close to that person. You feel sad when they're sad and happy when they're happy. You feel a spiritual bond with that person. You want to do things for them. You want them to be totally unburdened. You get a feeling of unparalleled joy whenever you're around them. Doesn't even compare to the love you feel for your relatives or children. You want to know everything about them and will love everything they tell you. They could have messed up hair, zits all over their face, spinach on their teeth and gained 20 pounds, but you'd only find them cuter and would love them more. It's part sex, but it's so much more. It's trust and it's a bond. It doesn't have to be mutual, but it's better when it is.

Lust: A feeling of unerring sexual attraction for another person. You want them in every possible way. You spend hours thinking about them. You want to be with them because you think they're just sooo fine. Every little thing about them, you find attractive. You hope to God that they don't change one bit. You couldn't give a damn about their spiritual side...You want their body against yours! It's sex, and not much else. It could eventually evolve into love, but first you would have to find a non-physical thing about them that you enjoyed..

Given those two definitions, I could say, with total honesty, that I loved Raven. I loved him more than I loved anybody else I'd known up until that point. I loved the way that his laugh always sounded over exaggerated. I loved the way that, when he smiled, he always sort of bit his lower lip. I loved how he always used to watch scrambled porno movies with me, whenever he'd sleep over, and laugh at the bad acting. I loved how his beautiful green eyes shone whenever he was happy. I loved his body and his mind. Basically, I loved every little trait and feature that was Raven. He told me that he loved me too.

Unfortunately, there was something about him that would become the bane of my existence, even today...Raven had long hair. I mentioned above that I had only recently discovered that I couldn't have everything I wanted. Well, I felt that Raven was just so wonderful and I loved him and everything about him was fantastic. Therefore, I wanted long hair just like him. So, after years of getting short haircuts, I stopped for many months and watched it grow.

Now...the thing with my hair, is that it grows out much quicker than it grows down. In other words, I ended up with a sort of afro before it got even close to looking like standard long hair. However, I refused to get a haircut because that would be admitting that I couldn't have something that I wanted. So, I continued to let it grow. I tried special shampoos, blow-drying, ironing. It did no good. As much as I longed for thin long hair alla Taylor Hanson or even thick long hair alla Zac Hanson(who, by the way, were still doing concerts in front of an imaginary audience in their basement at that point), I ended up with a mop top afro type deal, alla Super Fly.

Soon, the features I used to love about Raven became the things that I hated him for. I hated the way his hair always looked so shiny and silky after a shower(Once, he showered at my house...). I hated the fact that he looked so cute with a ponytail. I hated how, whenever he went swimming, he always had to dip his head back to keep his hair out of his eyes.

I felt total love and utter hate, both at the same time, for Raven. One day, after a Phys Ed class, him and I were chosen to clean up the equipment and bring it back to the Phys Ed office. He ran off leaving me to do the job all by myself. After I was done, I went down to the subway station, walked up to him, and punched him in the face. I punched him, not because he did something as trivial as leave me with cleanup duty, but because that small betrayal of his was the thing that caused all my love and hate for him to boil over and explode. I loved him so much, yet I couldn't stand him. I apologized, but he knew why I had hit him and our friendship went downhill from there. I constantly told him that I wished I had his hair and his face and his life. I used to wish that he'd go bald, but, at the same time, I wished that he never lost his beautiful mane of black. Two years into our friendship, I walked up to him in the same gym where he betrayed me a year earlier - he had been treating me rather coldly for the past few weeks - and asked if he wanted to play badminton with me. He said no. I asked him the question that I'd been wanting to ask, yet was afraid to because I knew the answer. I asked, "Are you still my friend?" He shook his head no. I asked why. He answered by saying, "The only reason I ever said I loved you, is because I had nobody else at the time. Now I have a girlfriend, so I don't need you anymore. You're depressing to talk to and you're very screwed up...Now leave me alone!"

The dream was shattered...

That day, I went home and demanded to get a haircut. After it was done, I went home and cried for hours.  Raven left me with many scars that haven't and may never heal. To this day, I have a sometimes irrational attraction to guys with long hair. Also, every male that I find attractive, I always compare to Raven.

As stupid as I look, I have regrown my hair in honour of him, despite the fact that I saw him recently and he had shaved his head. Raven could have been just another friend who didn't work out, but he wasn't. The reason, was that he was my friend at a very vulnerable point in my life and he had offered some help. Also, losing him as a friend left me with the same burning feeling in the pit of my gut, as when you break up with a girlfriend or boyfriend. That was the final indication, I feel, that I was genuinely in love.

The summer after our friendship, my dad finally bought his house and I moved out to live with him and his new wife. I was finally going to get away from Montreal and my mother and my sister and, most of all, Raven.

Arriving was the greatest feeling of my life, I thought, since it had been a dream of mine my whole life. However, it wasn't until my bags were unpacked and I walked into what was to become my bedroom, that I felt finally at peace. No amount of making my bed, vacuuming, showering every day, or doing my own laundry could smash this feelings. For the rest of the summer, I went everywhere with my dad and my pregnant step-mother. We were finally a family.

When it came time for school to start, I pictured the best possible time: I'd go and meet whole new friends, do really well and come home at the end of the day. My dad would be in the garage working on his truck, or maybe he would be in the garden putting up the fence. I'd put my bags away and run and help him. Father and son stuff, you know. My step mom would come home and we'd all have supper together and discuss our days. I'd have friends popping by at all times to do my homework with or go biking down the mountain into the beautiful farmland surrounding our suburban development - I never really had friends back when I was living with my mom - and we'd have a blast.

As is their wont, the Powers That Be saw to it that my dreams were, once again, utterly shattered.  Upon beginning school, I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of anxiety. The first day, I remember feelings this burning pain in my body through every class. It wasn't an "ouch" pain, though. It was as if my insides had become a neurotic nerdy looking man pacing back and forth and saying, "What am I going to do? What am I going to do? What am I going to do?..." over and over to himself.

My thoughts were not focused on Grade 11 English, but were a constantly cycling mess of thoughts. It went something like this:

"I have to spend seven...SEVEN...seven hours a day here...Barely making through...Not going to...Can't do it. I go home and I'm just going to have to come back tommorow...A whole year! It'll never end! I can't do it! No point! Why bother, because I'll just have to do it again...A whole year and than I'll have to do another year! 365 days! I'll never be free. Homework all the time! Too many people running around! I'll get trampled...TRAMPLED! They'll all crush me when the bell rings!"

By lunch-time, I stood in the huge lunchroom watching the 1000+ students talking and eating and joking. I looked and I just kept repeating the above thought over and over, faster and faster, until I grew so anxious that I ran to the bathroom and threw up. After lunch, I went back to class, and the thought just kept looping and cycling, over and over, and halfway through drama class, I passed out.

I woke up in the Langley Memorial Hospital with EKG pads on my chest, an IV in my arm and a throbbing headache. My dad and step mom were sitting beside me and looked very worried. The doctor explained that I had suffered an arrhythmia. After explaining my experience at school, it was deduced that the arrhythmia was self-inflicted and that it was probably a really bad case of first day jitters. I was released and went the school the next day, as normal.

I made it through two classes before I began to feel faint again and I got permission to go home. Back home, I explained to my dad that this was not an isolated thing and that it would probably happen every time I went to school. My dad is a smart man and he decided, based on what I told him, that I was making myself sick so I wouldn't attend school. Thus, the next day he forced me to go to school again. Low and behold, I couldn't do it. I had just arrived in BC and, already, the people knew me as someone who has some problems.

My dad decided that since I seemed to be preventing myself from attending school, I should go see a psychiatrist. Before seeing the psychiatrist, I decided, one day, that if I couldn't live the way I wanted to with my dad, than I wouldn't live at all. I took a whole bunch of pills and passed out on the couch.

I woke up - the attempt apparently failing - in the hospital again, but this time my dad and step mom weren't there. Instead, a man who identified himself as, let's say, Dr. Waters was standing beside the bed and told me that he'd like to have a little talk with me. He explained that the reason my father and step-mother weren't there, was because my father was investigating a fatal accident and was told that I was all right and he needn't walk away from his duties. My step-mother, however, had the option of coming but chose not to out of disgust.

As it turned out, Dr. Waters was a psychiatrist and wanted to know why, exactly, I was actively trying to avoid going to school. I explained that I did, in fact, want to attend school, but just couldn't. We bantered back and forth for over an hour before he, after consulting with my father, prescribed Prozac, as well as a mild tranquilizer, for me. He called my father again and told him that, based on his findings, I should be kept out of school for a month until the Prozac had a chance to take effect, then give it another try.

How was I throughout this whole ordeal? Well, I was grappling with two major problems. One, I really wanted to make my dad proud of me and knew that, despite the calm way he was handling my current problems, he was probably very frustrated. Two, I wanted to be with my father at all times, which was probably the root of my problem.

I'm going to leave out a bunch of things now, for the sake of not making this thing drag on, but suffice it to say that the Prozac required cooperation from me and, after re-entering school, I subconsciously decided that I didn't want to go, so I continued with the anxiety and palpitations. The psychiatrist went back to his notes and decided that I had missed far too much school already and that the idea for beginning a home-schooling plan should not be unheard of.
My father was undecided regarding this, but my step-mother tipped the scales of decision with a undisputed "No Way!"

You see, my step-mother had this thing about privacy. If she had her way, I'd go to a full day of school, leave and go to work, finish at 10 pm then come home and go to bed. Basically, she didn't want to see me much. Not because she didn't care about me, but because she didn't think a boy my age should be sitting around the house doing diddly-squat. The idea of me staying home at all times was out of the question. I love the idea, of course. My dad finally decided to agree with his wife on the grounds that home-schooling would prevent me from meeting friends. Case Closed. But I couldn't go to regular school, so a new plan had to be formed.
That new plan came along after another month of sitting at home doing nothing, effectively making my step-mother completely avoid me. That plan was called A.C.R.P. or Adolescent Crisis Response Program. Basically, it was a full day school that only lasted for three months until we were forced to return to normal school. However, it was very different.

Allow me to elaborate...

The A.C.R.P was a small building next door to the Surrey Memorial Hospital. It was a one floor deal with two bathrooms, two classrooms, a kitchen, an art room, offices for the staff and a student lounge. There were two teachers, 8 students, two social workers, one physical health coordinator, one psychiatrist and one mental health therapist.

The place was owned by the mental health therapist, Lori. We never had much contact with her, as she was usually in her office. The only time we'll see her was during our "sharing time," which I'll get into a little later.

The two teachers, Jane and Marsha, were each able to teach three subjects. Jane taught humanities like: English, Social Studies and History. Marsha taught sciences like: Math, Science and Chemistry. Of course, the sciences were done completely by theory and on paper, because we didn't have a lab setting; Imagine eight mentally ill students with volatile chemicals!

The social workers, Maggie and Eric, were the people we'd come to if we had problems during the day. For example, the first day I was there, I got anxious, but instead of going home, I went to talk to Eric about my anxiety. His goal was to calm me down and send me back to class.
The physical health coordinator,Pauline, was not only in charge of making sure we got enough exercise, but also our field trips, rainy days activities and cooking duty.

Finally, the psychiatrist, Ian, was in charge of monitoring our sanity and deciding what treatments we needed. You'll notice, right away, that everybody was going by their first name. The reason, they made it perfectly clear on the first day, was that they wanted to ensure their privacy. Afterall, they wouldn't want a bunch of mentally disturbed kids knowing their last names so they could find them!  We'd go to school and sit in the class for a total of three hours: One and half per class, then we'd have an activity which is differed depending on the day of the week.

The activities went as follows: Monday was two hours of art class and than we'd go down to the community center nearby and do sports in their gym. Tuesday, we'd all go in to their discussion room - a room the size of their classroom with a whole bunch of chairs - and talk about how to manage our emotions. One Tuesday, we'd talk about anger management and another, we'd talk about how to keep from being depressed. Thursday, we'd have "Sharing Time." What that was, was, basically, we'd into the discussion room with Lori and have a round robin discussion about whatever was on our minds. One week, we talked about racism, another we talked about how cops are always hassling you. Friday, we'd have a two hour evaluation with Ian. We'd go into his office, lie down on the couch, and talk about problems we'd have. He'd have his notepad and take notes on what we'd say. We'd have a fifteen minute break in between each hour. The final two hours, we'd have a group meeting. We'd all gather in the kitchen and talk about ideas for field trips, how we like school so far and other such things.

The first day I went there, I begged my dad not to make me go, but he insisted. I found out really quick that they wouldn't allow me to go home for being anxious...They just took me out of class to study me. However, the first day I arrived, we went on a field trip to a film school. It was there that I made two revelations.

The first, was that I wanted to be an actor. The woman who talked to us about film acting and things of that sort, well, really got me thinking. I'd been acting in the odd play now and again ever since I was nine-years-old and, after listening to the woman, I realized that, all along, I loved acting and it's what I wanted to be.
The second, was that I really liked it at this place. The reason, was that they always paid attention to me! True, everywhere we went, we'd always be escorted like little kids and they never had any sharp objects that weren't locked up, but they always watched me!

You see, I always had very low self-esteem. Acting was the logical career choice because, not only did I really love it, but it forced people to pay attention to what I did. When I was on stage and on screen, people stared at me and applauded me. Dr. Ian told me that the applause of an audience was only that satisfying for me, because I never really got loved enough as a young child. I agreed. The school was fulfilling because I knew people had to pay attention to me. I went into the place as being suicidal, chronically depressed and unstable. All the attention made me feel good.

I also met a boy there who I was attracted to. However, this time is was simple lust. Every morning, he'd walk into the school wearing black, bangs of hair were always in his eyes, and he'd sit on the couch in the student lounge, in total darkness, and read his Star Wars books. Marsha would walk in, shake her head, and say that darkness promoted depression and she'd turn on the lights. As soon as she left, he'd get up and turn them back off again with a "Fucking bitch." muttered under his breath. I found out through the social workers that his name was Shawn. As in, "Shawn, leave the damn lights on!" and "Shawn, sit down and shut up!" and "Shawn, put down that knife or I'm calling the police!"

Now, I'm not one to judge looks, but Shawn wasn't anything special. He had ratty brown hair and always wore a scowl on his face. I found out after a week or so, that once he'd gotten so pissed off at Marsha that he'd walked into her office and punched a hole in the wall. He'd broken his knuckles and he had to pay the damages. That's why he was there; He had a problem controlling his anger. He was very quiet, but he was a rebel so I lusted for him. I took it upon myself, as with Raven, to copy him, so I began dressing all in black, sitting in the darkness and not talking much. Through that, I gained his respect and he opened up to me. I found that he'd been here for over a year, much longer than the set maximum setting. Through talks with Eric, I found only that his parents had worked out a deal with the school; a deal that prolonged his stay. Through Shawn, I discovered that his parents basically bribed the school into keeping him there. I, eventually, became Shawn's friend...well..perhaps "friend" isn't the correct word. I became his confidant, but in the sarcastic tense. Basically, I did what he did, which was get in trouble. The difference was that my parents weren't paying the school to keep me there. Eventually, Eric had a meeting with me where he basically told me that Shawn was scum and I shouldn't associate with him. Immediately after the meeting, I went and told Shawn and Shawn got so mad he walked into Eric's office and threatened to kill him.

Eventually, a kid of only twelve-years-old, the youngest they'd allow, was enrolled in the school. He joined Shawn and I in rebelling. The interesting part happened about two weeks later when I asked where the kid was. Eric told me that he'd been kicked out for being disobedient. I questioned about why I hadn't been kicked out since I was being disobedient, and Eric just smiled and said that he knew I didn't mean it. This was solidified one Friday soon after, when I sat in Ian's office to have my usual session with him. The first thing Ian said was, "You're attracted to Shawn, aren't you?"

Now, for some weird reason, this came to me as a surprise. However, I nodded my head and agreed with him. The session that followed was very intriguing for me, because Ian decided to pursue this angle, questioning me about any previous times when I had had feelings for another male. I, of course, told him about Raven, to which he nodded and took several notes. He asked me if I ever had a girlfriend or feelings for a girl, to which I responded an emphatic yes to having feelings for girls, but a no about having any girlfriends. After the first hour, he concluded that I was probably Bisexual. From that point on, I began to agree with this theory more and more.

Fast forward to two months later. I had a meeting with Eric, Lori and my dad and step mom. They mutually decided that it was unnecessary for me to complete my full term at the ACRP. In fact, they had decided, it would be in my best interest to get as far away from Shawn as possible, as he was corrupting my good nature. I didn't see it, personally.

So, I left A.C.R.P and, in February, I returned to regular school. This time, however, I was able to do it. Second term, I did fantastic. I met a few new friends and my step mom had recently given birth to a girl, my half-sister, and she had begun to forgive me. Things went fine until about April, when a girl I'd been going out with for the past two months broke up with me suddenly. My first ever break-up...with a girl, I mean. Therefore me, in my dramatic way, decided to take my own life. This time, though, I collapsed on my bed. It had been late afternoon when I had passed out from the drugs I had taken. I woke up the following afternoon - having been smart enough to attempt my life on a Friday so that if it failed, I wouldn't get in trouble for missing school. Having failed again, I got up and, when asked what happened, I simply said that I was really tired after school on Friday. Nobody was the wiser, it seemed. However, I had failed twice at killing myself which made it occur to me that perhaps I really didn't want to die. Either that, or I had found something else that I wasn't any damn good at. For the latter, it would be very frustrating, because I wanted to kill myself because I wasn't any good at killing myself...

The rest of the year passed smoothly. I marveled as my baby half-sister grew and began to do things on her own. I was still grappling with the issue that maybe it would be better if I simply returned to Montreal, because it may be better for my health. I didn't want to leave my dad, though. So, we came to a compromise: I would return to Montreal on my summer holidays and live with my mom for a while. At the end of the summer, I'd let my dad know where I wanted to be and that would be that.

So, come June, I flew back to Quebec. Upon arriving, my mom immediately started on her old insane ways of doing things. She had planned a trip to Europe, still complaining all the while that she was poor and had no money, and shipped me off to stay with my paternal grandmother in Ottawa. About a week into the stay, my step mom called my grandmother's home and had a "private" conversation. I put private in quotes because I stood by and listened in. What was said shocked me. My step mom told my grandmother that I was not allowed to return at the end of the summer. It had been decided that, for my own good, I was to stay with my mother. She told my grandmother that my father would call me as soon as I returned to my mother's house and I would be explained this.
My first thought was just how much this reminded me of the Bret Hart situation. Bret Hart is a Pro Wrestler from Calgary, Alberta who used to work for the World Wrestling Federation. He eventually became unsure about whether he wanted to stay or leave and go to the rival federation, World Championship Wrestling. He told the boss of the WWF this and, at a Pay Per View event in Montreal, the boss told Bret a lie about how the match was to go. At what was only supposed to be the middle of the match, Bret's opponent put a move on Bret Hart and the boss of the WWF rang the bell, ended the match, fired Bret, and ran away. In both situations, the decision that was supposed to be left up to the person, was made by the other party. Like Bret, the first thing that went through my mind when this came to pass was, "They screwed me, the lousy bastards!"

I knew that it wasn't supposed to happen like this. I'd basically been called on the phone and been told, from someone 3000 miles away who was unable to see my reaction, that I'd been double-crossed! By my own father, yet! I think it was my step mom who orchestrated it, though.  The aftermath was that I now, once again, lived with a mother who I hated, a sister who I couldn't tolerate for very long, in a house that was and is a pile of filth! My dad is in Beautiful British Columbia with his new wife a child, living a much happier life without his mentally deranged, suicidal child!

But I don't blame him...No...I could never blame him...I blame it on the situation...Ya, the situation...I'll just keep telling myself that and maybe I'll believe it one day.

As is pretty obvious by now, I had a few things wrong "upstairs." Once again living with a mother who once pulled me up by my hair and attempted to hammer throw me, simply for saying that I didn't like her stew, didn't help. My sister was just as spoiled as I was, only see never had the awakening I did. It was common place to hear her yelling at our mother because she wanted to get a fifth or sixth hole in her ear. My mother would nod her head, go in her room and cry. I felt no pity for my mother, though. I stopped feeling pity about the same time that she called my paternal grandmother a barren old witch who was not allowed to see her grandchildren because she couldn't have her own children(My dad was adopted...). Comments like this eventually made her so depressed that she fled the province and moved to Ottawa.

My mother - who didn't work, lived off the money her dead father left her, and lay in bed all day eating and talking to her equally pathetic friend - was the one who shouldn't have been allowed to have children.

The sad part was that my dad always told me that he had enough evidence(He once showed me a file folder full of tapes with recorded phone conversations on them, transcripts of conversations, letters she'd sent, etc...) to prove her unfit to care for children, but couldn't use it because he didn't have the money to pay for court or take care of my sister and I when my mother lost.

As a result, my mother's poisoned my sister, the only child who'll listen to her anymore, against her own father since she was young. You ask my sister about her father and she'll say that he's a cheap bastard...Her mother's words, of course. If I had enough money, I would have moved away from that paranoid, insane bitch long ago.

It was assumed, because of my mother's diagnosed manic depression and her mother's diagnosed bulimia and kleptomania, that my psychological problems stemmed from her family. My dad's mother confirmed, after checking with my father's real parents, that there was no history of mental illness. Thus, I was pitied by the community as having a sick mom.

I was depressed, suicidal and enrolled in a school that was two steps from being a mental asylum. I knew I'd never make beable to re-enroll in regular school for the second term starting in February. I needed a laugh, so I sat down at 11:30 at night at watched Saturday Night Live on the week of Christmas 1997. Guest stars were Helen Hunt and Jack Nicholson. Musical Guest was...Hanson.

Now, I'd heard of Hanson only through crude joke and insults over the Internet. They were called hippies, faggots and androgyny personified. As a result, I jumped on the bandwagon and sent e-mails asking for pictures of this band of humorous innuendo. I got pictures of their heads juxtaposed onto women's bodies and humourous jokes regarding their milk ad. Therefore, when I heard that they'd be performing on the Christmas edition of Saturday Night Live, I just had to see them and laugh at their stupidity.

Helen Hunt come out and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen...Hanson!" and three boys, aged 17, 14 and 11, came on stage and began to play. My eyes moved from the guitarist, to the keyboardist, to the drummer and back again. They all had long blond hair and brown eyes except for the 14 year old, who had bright blue eyes. All thoughts of insult or quip faded away as the long hair and boyish faces of the boy-band caused me to instantly become enamored with them. The middle one, Taylor, as a cutie and the oldest, Isaac, was pretty sweet looking too. It was the youngest, though, that had my most attention. Despite the age difference of almost half a decade, I was throughly attracted to him. I wasn't smiling yet, though, just looking dreamy.

About a half hour later, Hanson did a skit whereupon they were trapped in an elevator by terrorists - played by Helen Hunt and Will Ferrill - and forced to listen to "Mmmbop" until they went insane. Basically, Isaac, the oldest, and Zachary, the youngest, flipped out but Taylor, the middle child, was unaffected and saved them. However, the way that young Zac went insane - grunting and screaming and moaning in a very over-exaggerated way - made me smile. For the first time since I began my anxiety and depression, I actually smiled. I also felt something for Zac. It wasn't total lust...It wasn't really love. I had this feeling that I absolutely needed to know everything about him; To get to the meat of Zac Hanson.

The next day, after psycho school, I was busy on the Internet downloading as many pictures and information as I could find. I learned that his middle name was Walker, his favorite food was pizza, he could talk while burping, his favorite colour is blue. All the way through January, I pinned up pictures of Zac all over my room and computer area. I saw Hanson on Regis and Kathie Lee, The Tonight Show, Late Night with David Letterman, and TGIF. The whole time though, I was drawn to Zac. My dad and step-mom took this sudden change with worry and doubt. Eventually, this attraction began to worry me as well, so the next time I had a session with Ian, I told him about my attraction to the 11-year-old - which he wrote down with great interest - and asked him, point blank, if I was a pedophile. Ian asked me a few more question regarding how I felt, making our whole session based on it, , took many notes, and finally deduced at the end that Zac was a lot like I was at his age and that I subconsciously wished I could be him and be with him. Furthurmore, I see him as a personification of what I could achieve, seeing as how we basically started out the same(Personality wise). In a way, as strange as it may sound, he had said Zac Hanson had become a sort of Guardian Angel for me. He went on to say that any feelings of sexual attraction I feel for him do not make me a pervert, but are simply an extension of the fact that I feel a form of love, yes...love, for him. It wasn't so much a physical love, though, as it was an emotional love. He did warn me, though, that I also seem to have a physical attraction as well and he advised me to not tell too many people about this as it might be seen as very strange.

So, using the example of Zac Hanson, I overcame my depression and started regular school. I truly owe it all to that kid who doesn't even know how much he means to me. I'd love to shake his hand and thank him for everything. Maybe even try and keep in touch...

Unfortunately, most of my school soon found out about my attraction. Upon starting into normal school again, a place where over two-thousand kids went, I continued to use sing the praises to Zac Hanson. I had a web page devoted to him and I wore a T-shirt that I'd put his picture on. I'd only been in school a week, when I walked into math class and there was a large rolled up paper on my desk. The class was giggling and the teacher wasn't around. I walked over to the desk and unrolled the paper. It was a Hanson poster. However, the pictures of Isaac and Taylor were blacked out and the picture of Zac, had written on it, in bright red letters,

"To Redrick, The Baby Fucker"

There was also a loose-leaf paper with some poetry on it, regarding actions performed between Zac and I. It was worthless to stand there and explain myself, so I simply picked up the poster, left class and ran down to the guidance counselor's office, hearing their cruel laughter as I walked away.

She suspended those kids involved, but told me that it was brought on by myself and that I should keep my preferences to my own person. I explained that I wasn't a pedophile. She simply nodded and said that she knew, but that teenagers are quick to make assumptions and may not have the spiritual connection that I do.

Thus, I went home and, doing the only thing I could think of, I wrote a letter to Zac Hanson. No reply ever came, but I only wish that I could thank him for his help bringing me out of my stupor and I extend my hand in friendship because, as strange as it may sound to want a friend who's five years younger than you, I really think we share a lot in common...Or did at some time, somewhere... 

The one that people seem to notice about right away, is that I seem to have very little self-confidence.

This is true.

The reason for it, can be interpreted in many different ways. For example, some people have said that it is because my parents never loved me enough when I was very young. My mother was, and still is, incapable of giving me the love that I needed and my dad was never around. I guess my mother never realized that it can detrimentally affect a young child if he'd constantly told he's stupid, he's ugly, he's fat, he's useless and he's a mistake. When I was five and six-years-old, my mother used to keep telling me that she wished she never had me. I guess that that couldn't have been good for my young and developing ego. My dad left when I was four and my mother should never have been allowed to keep me. I'll get into my dad's personality in the next chapter.

Another school of thought, could be that my mother basically scared away all my friends to the point when I didn't have any. My mother almost never allowed me to have friends over, not that they liked coming over, what with the mess that our house was. It was always that I'd have to go over to their house and eventually their parents tired of the one-sidedness of it all. There were also the times when I would come home after a minor tiff with my friend and I told my mom about it, a mistake I regret. She'd call their parents and raise hell. It's not too hard to see why I didn't have many outside influences while growing up.

The main reason, at least in my opinion, is because of the fact that I was spoiled. Right up until the point when I first went out to visit my dad, I can't recall any problems. I was completely normal and happy under my mother's tyrannical, sometimes physically abusive, rule. An issue I'll get into in a few chapters.

Once I went out to see dad, though, I realized that I could not, in fact, get what I wanted all the time. This was a very rude awakening for me and my mental troubles began at that point. I looked at everybody and saw people getting ahead in life while I was left behind.

My first point of jealousy, hatred and depression, was Jonathan Taylor Thomas. At nine-years-old, his parents had been so cooperative about his dreams to be an actor, that they actually moved from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, to Los Angeles, California, and got him an agent and everything. He did modeling, acting and became a famous star. Everybody has heard of JTT and every time I see him, I get a burning feeling in my stomach because I believe that it could have been me, had my parents been nicer and more attentive to my dreams and wishes.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt, another child actor, got his big break while singing in a children's choir. He never even thought about acting before then! Once again, it could have been me playing "Tommy" on 3rd Rock From The Sun.

Finally, Hanson. As much respect as I have for them and as much gratitude and attraction as I feel for Zac, I still get that burning pain when I see them. Their dad paid for their music lessons and their first independent album. Their parents supported them when they decided that they wanted to become rock stars. Zac is five years younger than me and he's been all over the world, met President Clinton and been to Japan. He lost a tooth on tour in England. Taylor Hanson's voice changed while recording "Mmmbop" They're going through Puberty on stage, in front of the fans. It could have been me...It really could have been me.
People don't care about me when I cry the blues to them. Instead, they yell at me and say that I obsess about wanting to be a famous celebrity, as if it were the most important thing in the world. They tell me that being famous isn't always fans cheering and money flowing in like water. They tell me that I get all depressed over Hanson, yet I have no interest at all in becoming a musician.

My decision to become an actor stemmed, not just from the woman in the film school's speech, or the fact that I genuinely enjoy it. I seek to become an actor because I want the overblown fame and recognition. I want to be able to walk on a bus and have people walking up to me and saying, "Hey, aren't you the guy from that TV program? Cool! Can I have your autograph?" I want to have people interviewing me. I want people to care about whether I wear boxers or briefs, or what color toothbrush I have. I never got the attention from my parents or my friends, so as a result, I'd much rather have the shallow fame and recognition of millions of strangers, than have the approval and genuine love of my relatives and family. I want to work alongside the JTT's and the Joey Gordon-Levitt's and the Hanson's. I loved the small amounts of fame I got from the plays I put on in school. I would walk down the hallway for a week after, and have students come up to me and call me by my character's name or say, "Good job during the play!" Every person who did that to me boosted my self-confidence a little, but it was temporary. I've always loved working with actors, but never watching them. As much as I feel hatred for Leonardo DiCaprio, I think I'd really have fun working with him.

Don't get me wrong, though! I love the affection I get from my dad, but it's multiplied when I'm acting. I remember a big school play I was in. I was doing my part and my dad was in the audience smiling approvingly. Afterwards he told me that I had done a fantastic job. I don't think I ever loved him as much as when he told me that. I don't know why, but I couldn't imagine myself doing much else except performing, whether it be on stage or screen.
No...I take that back. I could imagine myself doing several things besides acting, but they would all be careers where I had a measure of power. As an actor, I would have the ability to make people hate me, love me, cry for me, laugh at me; I could control their emotions! Power, not because I'm that power-hungry, but because I want people to listen to me, for a change!

I would enjoy being a teacher, for example. I enjoy introducing ideas into the minds of others and helping them if they don't know stuff. Plus, as people who talk to me soon find out, I am a genuinely interesting person. I hope this will affect my ability to teach others. Most of all, though, I would love having some twenty kids calling me Mr. Redrick. Not like a man on the street would, but Mr. Redrick to rhyme with Mr. Boss. The power to fail someone, or to decide who writes the best essay in the class, or who I should send to the principal's office for making fun of my name.

I would enjoy being a psychiatrist(What irony that would be!), because people come to me to pour out their souls and reveal their darkest secrets and I have the power to make sense out of it and give them my diagnosis. Best of all, I have the all powerful "Doctor" title beside my name. Being a psychiatrist, especially to teenagers, would actually be a good plan because I feel that I relate better than most would because of what I went through.

I would enjoy being a police officer. What power that would give me! The ability to burst into a classroom and drag out a sixteen-year-old car jacker. The peace-keepers of society, they are.

Above all though, I just want to do something that will make people like me. Acting seemed logical because people like actors...well, they're supposed to!