Monthly Archives: January 2014

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Manifesto of Pain and Personal Power:

28 Tuesday Jan 2014

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Manifesto of Pain and Personal Power:

A Response to False Assumptions and the Reduction of Human Trauma to Personal Pathology and Defectiveness Or: Where the Fuck Were You When…?

M. City University of Seattle, December, 2008 (Edited, January 27, 2014)

Context:

Class in a Masters of Counselling Psychology Program; 2008. Gloria is the therapy-subject-patient in a very oppressive – in my view – psychotherapy-teaching video, by one of the old-white-boy-masters-of-psycho-therapy. I comment about my perspective of the video and how I believe Gloria has been completely shut down, patronized and invalidated by the master. A female classmate notes that it does not appear to her that Gloria is ‘the kind of woman,’ who would take any shit. The comment triggers a profound internal response for me; I think about the limited information people base this type of judgment, and other ludicrous assumptions, generalizations, and perceived knowledge(s) on, specifically, in that moment, assumptions I have heard ad-nauseum, about me, about my life experience. The Manifesto; is my immediate, and deeply hurt, internal response. Until today, I have shared it with next to no-one, and when I have, almost without fail, regretted doing so. I choose, in this moment, to let all judgment of it, me, my truth, go.

If I offend you with my reality and profanity, if you “cannot hear me because I am angry” (Lorde, 1984, p. 125), please, stop reading now.

The First Point

Your Assumptions: Cleverly Disguised as Acronyms

So, you think you know who the fuck I am? While I have been working on it for the better part of 50 years, your brilliance has deduced, in record breaking time, that I am a certain kind of woman; with negative, self and other harming behaviours and tendencies. According to you I have A.D, A.D.D, A.D.H.D, A.D.A.D, P.T.S.D, P.M.D.D, GAD, DID, and DEPS, and you want to treat me with E.M.D.R, C.B.T and R.E.B.T (MedHelp), so that I can de-sensitize, think straight, and emote rationally. Oh, I probably still have B.P as well, because you haven’t come up with a way to cure me of my obsessive-compulsive motor oil fixation. I should defer to your genius. Surely you came to your infinite wisdom in the Cracker Jack Box of Pop-Psychology; I think Dr. Phil lives there too. Do not bother saying hello; he doesn’t like me, either.

The Big Question

Where the Fuck Were You When…?

Are you ready? This is the real deal baby, the Full Monty of my life, as lived by me, M.Y.F.M (aka Kubač, aka Turjančík) live and in person, last call for those easily offended by profanity and (my)truth, to stop reading, now. Once you start you cannot stop, at least that is what Al told me as he proceeded to give me a sexuality I did not ask for, so I request that you, afford me the respect of finishing what you have started, also. Still reading? Well then, let us begin.

1961 – 1971

What the fuck do you know about who I am, where I come from, what I have survived, endured, been subjected to, and as you so quaintly put it with your patronizing pats on the head, overcome? Where the fuck were you when I was six years old, and in the name of liberation, the Soviet Union rolled their tanks into my home land, onto my street, forcing my family to flee our home under the darkness of night, and a threat of murder to my conscientiously objecting father, with his delusional hopes of democracy and a better life in this country? Where were you when I cried for my grandmothers arms? Where on earth were you when I cried because I lived in terror that they would find him; and where the fuck were you when he died, under extremely curious circumstances, 12 days before my 10th birthday?

Where were you when they came to tell my mom that he was dead, and where the fuck were you when she went down to the basement to find his hunting rifle, so that she could take us all out? So immense was her grief that it seemed possible to kill herself and her children, so immense was ours that we wouldn’t have cared. Where the fuck, were you then, hmmm? Not beside her, not with my brother and me, I did not see you, because you were not there.

Where the fuck were you when she struggled to give us a future without him, bereft of any financial or emotional support, in a culture that belittled her for not understanding their language and corrected her when she (mis)spoke it with an accent? The $8000 that the mine paid her for ‘his accident,’ barely covered a funeral, and unfortunately she could not have understood, that the conditions of payment included that we leave sleeping dogs, or rather, my dead father, lie. Where were you then? Where were you when she realized she was trapped here, for to go back meant that she would be imprisoned and her children would end up… where? Not with you, I did not see you, for you were not there.

1972 – 1981

Where the fuck were you when they taunted me for my ‘uniqueness’ at school, and the pain was so great that I had to leave the only thing I ever thought I was good at, or die? And where were you when 32-year-old Al plied 13-year-old-me with wine, and obviously lost his grasp of the words NO and STOP in the English language, proceeded to teach me a lesson by helping himself to my virginity? And where the fuck were you when 30-something Ed, upstanding attorney, fed 14-year-old-me MDA and told me as I lay paralyzed on the shag carpet, that a body like mine was made for fucking, while his drunken wife lay passed out upstairs, and I dared not scream for fear of traumatizing the children I babysat (theirs), in the fucking hell house I lived in with them, because my mom’s ex, Reg, had set our place on fire, because she booted him out for being an abusive asshole, and we were fucking homeless? And where were you that summer when the one person in my life I thought I could trust, decided to get a sex education on my body?

Where the fuck were you when 36-year-old-Jeff W., limo-driver to the stars, thought that it was a good idea to have 14-year-old-me as a girlfriend and tell everyone that he was fucking me and my mother, while he fucked every stripper at Circus-Circus? Where were you when my choices were limited to staying there or moving in with 17-year-old-Jeff L., who sold dope for a living and thought it would be a good idea if 15-year-old-me got pregnant and we could play house? And where were you when I consented to the sexual proclivities he forced upon my body and soul, by drowning it out with lethal quantities of alcohol?

Where the fuck, were you when Doug left me pregnant in Vancouver at 17 because I wasn’t the right of kind of girl to settle down with and take home to his upstanding parents in Alberta?

Where were you when 33-year-old Lu, wealthy upstanding business man and hobby-pimp, turned me out with promises of riches and eternal love, and then threw me out because now, at 18, I was dirty and all used up?

Where were you when Shane introduced me to cocaine and a needle, and where the fuck, were you when I realized, that it would save my life for a while? Where were you when his fist broke my nose because I wouldn’t sell my ass to buy his dope any-more, and where were you when I chose to sell it so that I would have a choice in the matter? Where the fuck were you when I left my home to get the fuck away from him, and where were you when I ran all the way to Switzerland so that he wouldn’t find me?

Where the fuck were you when RK, the man I married so that I wouldn’t have to go back to Canada, held me hostage with promises of eternal love, a permit to stay in the country, and by beating the remaining soul out of me for 3 years? Where were you when the police brought me, black and blue from head to toe, to my mother’s house and begged her not let me go back, and where the fuck were you when he dragged me back, again and again, because legally, financially, and emotionally I had no-where else left to go? Where were you when I escaped from my home, to have nowhere to go because he had all my money?

1982 – 1993

Where were you when I desperately needed to believe Honza, Alois, Francis, Jano, René, so many more, when they told me that they would love me forever, only to take my money, fuck me and walk away? Where the fuck, were you when Jano picked up where Shane and RK left off, because I wouldn’t provide him with refuge when he got out of jail?

Where were you when George promised that he was not like them, and then cracked my head open while our baby lay in the next room, and where were you when he broke my nose, because I stood up to him? Where the fuck were you when I was detoxing in a bug house in Switzerland because he spent our health insurance money on his friends, and where were you when I had to come home to a house full of drunks and alcohol to try and stay sober, and couldn’t? And where were you when it started to eat my body and I had to be hospitalized for the DTs so I wouldn’t die? And where on earth were you when I was so tired that I lay down on my kitchen floor to die? Where were you when the benzos and booze wore off and I awoke to the horror that I was still alive? I did not see you, for still, you were not there.

1994 – 1997

Where were you when I left my home, and brought my baby back to Canada to get away from him/them/it, to be told by the Welfare man and my own family that I need to get over it because, really, it hasn’t been so bad? Where were you when I walked into my new Dr.’s office armed with a letter from a Swiss Dr. who got it, got me, only to walk out knowing that the new one didn’t, armed with a head full of pathology, and a pocketful of prescriptions for the next phase of my healing?

Where the fuck were you when joining my old best friends alcohol and pills, food became my new best friend, and I lost any remaining vestige of identity or self-worth (my body and my looks) in 70 pounds of fat? And where the fuck were you when Bobby and his magic crack pipe seemed like a good idea because at least I wasn’t sticking it in my arm, and at least I wouldn’t be fat any-more and feel like (more) shit? Where the fuck were you when the pit of despair and self-loathing became so deep that when Dwight showed up with the needle, I welcomed my oldest, truest, best and most loyal friend, and the only question that remained, was how was I going to do this and not lose my mind and my child? Where were you when those losses became inevitable, and I was told to take care of 3 decades of violence and trauma, in 30 days or else; and a piece of shit like me chose the streets of this city over willingness to change, and my own kid?

Where were you when I walked 66 blocks in the rain, weighing 72 lbs, wanting to live, despite you, and got 6 weeks of treatment that endeavoured to cure me of my disease, and ease my pain by opening the can of worms that held decades of violence, abuse and you-inflicted self-hatred, self-doubt, shame, guilt, blame, but forgot to show me how to put the fucking lid back on, when the worms turned into snakes, which then slithered out and began to eat my soul, again.

Where the fuck were you when the people who were looking after my child while I cleaned up my mess, told me, and him, how fucked up and sick I was? And where were you when despite all of the systems that tried to help me, I got him back, to be left alone in it? I still did not see you, for still, you were not there.

1998 – Present

And where the fuck, were you when I asked for help, to be told that I’ve had enough help, and to pull up my boot-straps? And was it you that cut my boot-straps off every time I tried to pull them up, and then just took the fucking boots right off my feet? No, I didn’t think so, because still, you were not there!

Where the fuck were you when I went out barefoot to get somewhere, and the Feds decided that I can’t have student loans and the scholarship I worked my ass off for, threw nails under my bleeding feet and raped me again by cutting me off until I paid it back??? Where were you for the next two years while I waged a war against them, to win, at a personal cost beyond these pages, and very likely, your capacity for understanding?

The Next Point

Your Assumptions: Cleverly Defined as my Defectiveness

I will take your lead and assume, that by now you have surely recognized my negative, self- and other-harming pattern(s), including attraction to, unwillingness to let go of, or comfort with, abusive males. Well let me enlighten you Einstein: Not one of them, not a single one, introduced himself to me with; ‘Hey baby, come on out with me, and in a few days, weeks, months, I’m going to start tearing you down, piece by piece, very methodically, under the guise of my charm and attention, so that by the time I’ve gotten to punching your ugly fucking face in, you won’t know what hit you.’ Not one of them, not a single one, asked me how I would enjoy having my head kicked in, my nose, my jaw, my arms and ribs broken, my vagina, my anus and my throat, violated with their penis, and mostly, my spirit crushed with their love, on the day that I met them, the week after, or even a month later. No, they were very charming, attentive, charismatic, kind to my family, and full of promises for a bright and happy future. This then, is what I was attracted to. Wouldn’t you be? My mistakes were obvious, my mistakes were craving love, and believing them when they told, and showed me, that they had some to give. I am quite certain that you would have been more astute, and figured it out; because you are not ‘a woman like me,’ you do not attract losers. Back to me though, because clearly; I am the one who is fucked up and defective. You keep telling me so, it must be true.

Has it occurred to you, genius, that the so called losers are the ones who end up back in the dating pool because smart women don’t let the good ones go, or did you convince yourself that you have to explain my behaviour and responses by convincing me, and you, that I can’t handle a nice guy? That I am stuck in a comfort zone, that I am a creature of habit and patterns? Have you ever asked yourself how comfortable abuse and violence really are? I invite you to invite it into your very own living room today, and take them for a test drive; comfy? I didn’t think so.

Have you for a moment considered the options for women and children who are trying desperately to survive and/or leave abusive partners, parents, husbands, siblings, friends, room-mates, uncles, cousin, and did you know that research and statistics exist to prove that more women are murdered by their former abuser after they leave? Or do you actually give enough of a fuck to ask yourself these things, because after all, it is much simpler to hang onto your comfort zone of putting me and everyone like me, in a stereotypical box of your making, than to critically examine your culpability in our misery?

The Big Question: Part Two

My Very Own Personal War: Cleverly Disguised as Your Spectator Sport

Where the fuck, were you all of the times I tried to get out and had nowhere to go, and no money to get there? Where the fuck, were you when my choices, were welfare, minimum wage, selling my ass, selling dope, and selling my soul? I didn’t see you there when I made the silly, silly choice of staying home to raise my child, instead of pursuing a career so that I would have better choices when I finally did escape.

Were you sitting pretty on your judgment and assumption throne, condemning my survival responses to acts of deviance, self-harm, maladaptive behaviours and a host of other pathologies; an observer of my very own, personal war against violence and oppression? Were you cheering me on from the spectator seats of your world when my response was correct in your view, through the lens of your life, and did you self-righteously critique my performance, when it wasn’t?

And where the fuck are you now, that the system I have used for years to survive, in 12 easy steps, has turned on me by joining you in a refrain, which tells me that my character is defective, that I am self-centered to the core, and that I gave you my power. Let me set the record straight: I NEVER gave you, or any of them, my power, every one of them, every single one, decided they were entitled to it, as did you. Where are you now that I have no-where to go? Are you watching me flail, again?

The Revelation of Truth

I Know Where You Live

There you are; I finally found you! I see you up there in the bleachers; it must be you because I have never seen you come down to my very own, personal, front-line, to ask what happened, how I got there, to get some fucking context! Oh but forgive me, for I have forgotten that you already knew all about me, you decided who I was, and what I was all about, and all of this, based on an interaction that is comparable to buying Sushi at the Great Canadian Grocery Store, and becoming an authority on Japanese cuisine, culture, norms, customs, geography, and how these things interconnect and work together. It is apparent that you are that insightful and wise, or perhaps just smarter than the rest of us, but especially, smarter than an abuse-attracting-junkie-whore like me!

The Final Point

Me: Cleverly Disguised as a You!

There you were then, and here you are now. I see you, you’ve been circling my war zone for a long time now, and you didn’t even notice when my war zone became the life you lead: the College, the University, the work place, the grocery store, the park… The spaces inhabited by normal people like you. I’ve invaded your territory now, and you can’t point the junkie-whore finger at me without 3 fingers pointing back at you; and without a damn good fight from my corner. You cannot know me without hearing my truth, and that is worrisome for you. For it makes you part of my world, and could mean that you have a part in my suffering. This is disturbing.

So, you make the next assumption: an assertive woman like me can take your shit, so now you vacillate between shovelling it onto my back and telling me how strong I am for taking it, or subtly ingratiating me with it, through passive-aggressive sarcasm and thinly veiled as snippets of humour, cleverly designed to take me back down to where you think I really belong. After all; who the fuck am I to tell you, that who you think I am, is so far off base it left the fucking country? Are you shutting down because my anger feels unsafe, is it threatening to you, does it hurt to feel attacked?

Don’t be silly, you shouldn’t feel that way, I can’t make you feel, and you are not like me! This is worrisome, but I finally know for certain where you were, and more importantly, I know for certain where you are now. Peek-a-Boo, I see you! Know that I will keep you closer than my friends; for my hard-won victory has come from understanding, from knowing, that you do not know. I know where you live. But please do not fear me, for I aspire to live by a principle that could be foreign to you. I will continue to live by an ethic of love (hooks, 2000), and in so doing, endeavour to do you, and me, no harm.

Postscript

My Victory: Cleverly Disguised as a Way to Oppress Others

I am sad, for my victory feels hollow when you use me as a poster-child for overcoming hardship and struggle, and throw me into the face of those who are where I have been, without taking their context into account, without asking yourself where was I when…, and what do I really know about what happened…, what would it be like if that happened to me?

I am not the template, I am not the norm, and though many have prevailed, too many continue to writhe in a pain that appears to be beyond you, for if you do not see the barriers that are blatantly visible, how can I ever hope to motivate you to look at the ones that are not? Too many have died, and too many will, unless you become open to the idea that what you think, don’t think, do, don’t do, say, and don’t say; matters in someone’s life. It mattered in mine, and still does, but only to the extent that I allow you in. Don’t forget, I know where you are now, because, contrary to what you have decided about whom and what I am, I know now, who I have always been. I also know your modus operandi, for it is the same as mine: survival(?). But, mine includes love, does yours?

The Last Word

Done Surviving

For those who have in the past, continue to, or presently, love me unconditionally, those who don’t simply tolerate my uniqueness, my disparity, my tattoos, my passion, my anger, my hurt, my humanity; in the spirit of bell hooks, thank you, because it is, ‘All About Love.’

And for those who surely mean(t) well, but harm(ed) more than help(ed), I owned my part a long time ago, made my amends, continue to live in a way that does not generally require too many new ones, and have said sorry to you, too many times. I am truly sorry, that many of you, to this day, do not know who you are, that you are oblivious to the fact that my pain and that of many others, is, wrapped up in your words and actions, and yours, are wrapped up in mine. It is my sincerest hope that one day, you recognize me, in you. So; in the words of Lilla Watson; “If you have come here to help me, then you are wasting our time. But if you come here because your liberation is bound up in mine, then let us begin.”

References

hooks, bell. (2000). All About Love, New Visions

Lilla Watson, Australian AboriginalWomen’s leader

Lorde, A. (1984). Sister Outsider: Uses of Anger. Berkeley: Crossing Press

Med Help http://www.medhelp.org/health_pages/Mental+Health/Know-Your-Code—Acronyms/show/4?cid=60 retrieved December 06, 2008

 
 
 
 
 

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Back in the Box: Response to ‘The Good Wife’s Guide’

25 Saturday Jan 2014

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B A C K   I N   T H E   B O X

From Bombeck to Steinem
T o     B u r n i n g     B r a s
Brave — Bouncy — Women
Demanding    Fresh    Laws
B o o b i e s      B o p p i n g
F r e e  i n  t h e  B r e e z e
Hubbys’    Jaws    Dropping
Well  – Past – the –  Knees
How  dare they act F r e e?
INGRATES  and  WENCHES!
How  dare  they  be “ M e “
Get Back in Your Trenches!
Back to Your Kitchens now
For H E A V E N F O R B I D
Y O U should  B E anything
Save the bearer of Kid (s)!
B A C K  in Y O U go N O W
G E T   back in that  B O X !
All  –   Safe  –  and –  Cozy
Just     Like     Fort     Knox
There    there    now   Dear
R e- t i e  YOUR    A p r o n
of    Gingham    and     Lace
Like  a  Good   Little  Wifey
You(should)KnowYourPlace

~M.Y.F.M, 2004

The Good Wife’s Guide

From Housekeeping Monthly, 13 May, 1955

GoodWife

  • Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
  • Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.
  • Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
  • Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dust cloth over the tables.
  • During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
  • Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.
  • Be happy to see him.
  • Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
  • Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
  • Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.
  • Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.
  • Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.
  • Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
  • Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
  • A good wife always knows her place.

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On recovery and the dreaded ‘R’ word…

24 Friday Jan 2014

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No, it is not (drug)- Replacement, not even Relapse, though perhaps they both fit, also. The ‘R’ word I speak of; or words rather, are Romantic Relationship. Double R-whammy! You know; that thing you are told from your very first (recovery) meeting to stay out of.

Let us be clear on my position: No-where, to the best of my knowledge, in the primary book, in its many incarnations, of my preferred 12-Step Program,  does it say to “stay out of relationships.” That little tid-bit of life-advice seeped in from various unaffiliated treatment programs over the years, and was adopted, by many, as program dogma. It says somewhere in that same book, that relationships are often a difficult area of recovery. That is all.

I heard for many years, from various program (power) couples, how I needed to focus on myself and stay out of these silly, silly relationships. For too many of these years, I did not actually have the voice to stand up for myself. To let them know it did not seem right for folks who had used with someone, got clean with someone, and went on to (re) build a life with that same someone, to pontificate on the topic, to folks like me. To lecture me about staying out of a relationship, to roll their eyeballs at me whenever I shared in a meeting (or privately), about how difficult it often was to function in a pathologically-partnered world. To bring me to tears of frustrated invalidation with self-righteous tirades on how to love and accept self, to be a proud single parent, and other similarly stupid bla bla. To patronize me to this day, almost 16 years and much personal work later, about how I need to focus on self. And all of that, while, they tell me about how they could not have made it through this that or the other major life event without the support of the other half of their twosome. Addiction left me utterly alone. Bereft. Abandoned by self, community, society and family, my child removed from my care. A woman in her mid-thirties, forsaken, just before Christmas, in 1997. Sick, sad, hungry, tired, beaten, broken, deeply wounded and ashamed, on the streets of a city, literally looking from the outside in, through the windows of Starbucks, thinking: I do not belong to this world any more; or to anyone in it. I am completely alone, disposable.

Again, let us be clear: I have waded through more shit in life than most people have flushed and come out smelling like a rose. So if you wish to get loaded again because your other human did, or because they turned out to be an asshole, or because your mother died, or your dog ate your shoe, please, by all means. Using drugs, or food, or gambling, or consumerism, or sex, or or or, are always options. So is going outside my back door at night when I hear Mr. Bear out there, but I won’t be stepping out, to make his acquaintance any time soon, either.

So here’s my deal: I made a commitment to myself and to my child when I got clean, that I would not use, no matter what. No matter what is all-encompassing for me, and since April 25, 1998 I have honoured that commitment. I have also honoured my need and want as a mature, wise, intelligent, well-educated, funny, energetic, passionate, loving, accomplished, human-woman, to pursue love, and my very own, personal, version of the romance fairy tale. Interestingly enough, I have actually spent more time being single in recovery than ‘coupled,’ though I have enjoyed, as well as suffered a number of shorter and longer term relationships and/or dating scenarios. Every single man I have dated, slept with, been in a serious relationship with, had the same choices I had, in regard to the relationship as well as recovery, if he were a member of this not-so-exclusive club; many were not. It is not a pre-requisite.

How does this all relate to my recovery and continuing personal growth, my argument that it is not the place of well-intentioned program members, to tell me what to do in my personal life? In a nutshell: I have continued to do my work, within the parameters of this program and well beyond them. I am not stagnant or stuck in never-ending cycles of abuse and/or patterns that I could give you a hundred ridiculous victim-blaming-physcho-babble names for. I am human, and I long for another human in my life. One that is capable of the same kind of fun, commitment, craziness, passion, Madd-love, that I am. Had I been stuck or distracted from my recovery and personal work, I could not possibly have a) stayed clean, and b) come to the following stunning insight, one of many, in the days following an entirely unexpected, heart-wrenching and cruel ending to what I believed, with everything I had, was my final romantic relationship: I have a deep and compassionate understanding that we all come to our shit honestly. Along with a life well lived, and multitudes of horrific life events and barriers triumphed over, used as opportunity, this makes me really good at my job. I get it, but can usually stay detached enough from the person/family/issues/circumstances/systems to see it all clearly, the good, the bad, the ugly, the indifferent. I have realized recently, that the same compassion and understanding about how humans get how they get, makes me really bad at navigating the bad, the ugly and the indifferent in various personal relationships. I am learning that just because I get why people behave like ass-holes, does not mean I can continue to provide them with permission and forgiveness when they dump their neglect, shit and abuse on me, treat me like human waste, without consequences. Primarily, the consequence that they miss out on a really cool, really smart, really loyal and loving friend, lover/mate, sibling… Period.

This insight translates as well to many false-loyalties I have continued to hold in terms of friendships. I should never be working harder in any relationship than the other party, to maintain the quality of said friendship. So; the point? The program has taught me much over the years, including, how to get better at relationships, all relationships. Not by watching others have them, not by reading about them in self-help or Social-Worky and Psych text books, not by listening to my counsellor expound on how-to, or not, but by having them. By being real, 100% unadulterated, unfiltered, pure Marcela. Because that, is what the program, has given me the most of. Unfortunately for the 12-Step dogma-sheeple and related literature, pure Marcela comes equipped with critical thinking skills and the capacity to take what I need, and to dissect and disseminate the rest, as I wish.

Gratefully yours, always,

~M.

November 10, 2013

 

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On Love and the wounded heart…

23 Thursday Jan 2014

lovepinklight

If-I-stopped-believing-in-Love-because-my-heart-has-been-wounded-I-would-need-to-stop-believing-in-everything-I-do-and-if-I-stopped-believing-in-everything-I-do-I-would-need-to-stop-doing-everything-I-do-and-if-I-stopped-doing-everything-I-do-I-would-cease-to-breathe-because-Love-is-the-basis-of-all-human-and-life-connection-and-human-and-life-connection-are-the-basis-of-everything-I-do-and-must-be-the-air-that-I-breathe-or-I-will-suffocate-on-hate.

~M.Y.F.M, January 14, 2013

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The Love Stories of a Queen; at the Hand of an Odd God…

23 Thursday Jan 2014

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The Dissolution of Illusions, of the Queen of Balconia; at the Hand of an Odd God.
High above the thoroughfare
that is the highway to hell
perched on her pretty-penny porch,
the queen of Balconia eyes her empire
with the denial
of one recently dethroned,
but unwilling to admit defeat;
or is it,
that?
 
A
point;
to ponder perhaps,
nothing is new and all in its place;
in this, her getaway from the everyday
where fantasy is a right of freedom
responsibility is the right to rebellion
and chaos the only order of the day;
defeated?
Not she,
but different…..
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
(an odd kind of god)
jaunts by on a jetstream
dismembers her daydream;
silence is severed with a screech
in a tone that tells her,
“make note missy;
my view is better,
than yours”!
 
Really,
the royal realm
below her pretty-penny porch
is still the same as it was yesterday
and the several since,
she bid farewell
to a love,
that outlasted many
and outshone them all….
It is an odd god
who sneaks into her soul
in a moment of memory;
(a big blanket on Balconia
on the night of a thousand stars),
and pierces perilously close to her heart
but heals the wound with the thought:
she has grown
a little more….
 
It is,
an odd god;
to provide the prince for a while
the boy-toy of Balconia
and odder still;
to let her – let him go
smoothly with serenity
deprived of the drama;
that long was the benchmark
of the queen of Balconia.
 
An odd god indeed,
that led her on an ocular odyssey
a surveillance of her situation
from this, her pretty-penny porch
high above the highway to hell
as a ruse, a ploy, the prelude;
to the dissolution of illusions
of the queen of Balconia,
in the stunning supposition:
that “Love,
has many
gentle
endings….”
(M.Y.F.M, 2004)
 
The Reinstatement of Faith, to the Queen of Balconia; at the Hand of an Odd God.
Perched on her pretty-penny-porch
still above the highway to hell
but from a more poignant point of view,
the Queen of Balconia surveills her situation
devoid of the denial
that may have dethroned her,
derailed the mission;
or was it
that?
 
The
next point:
Power: she ponders it well;
Was it his, hers, theirs
or was it in the tattered remnants
of her disheveled dignity?
A mission? Perhaps ….
but poles apart
from the one previously in place.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
(an odd kind of God)
perched high in his Aerie
rouses her from her reverie;
quiet is quelled with the admonishment;
“Make note Missy,
the big picture
is still
mine”!
 
Still
the same view,
just slightly askew
from days previous to this
and the several since;
the April Fool darned her tattered dignity,
with the loving hand,
of one who had stitched too many incisions
inflicted by
the slaughterers
of souls.
 
It is an odd God
to provide one April Fool
golden silk on his spool,
there in the moment
at which the wound is most gaping
freedom emerging,
still clawing and scraping;
at the prison walls
that had closed in
on her
soul.
 
The
demons
released now,
the April Fool mended
her mishandled heart;
and gingerly tended
to the restoration of the being,
of a woman massacred:
by the machismo of men.
 
It is an odd God;
who brings her a King,
puts the writing in place
with a silver-tipped wing:
“This Fool is worthy of her highness’ heart”
Not a boy, not a toy, no prince and no pauper;
The April Fool is her King
with the power to stop her
senseless
self-
destruction.
 
An odd God
indeed,
though he knew of the Fool,
let her dissolve the illusions
with her own set of tools.
The reinstatement of faith
to one so horribly wounded,
for the Queen of Balconia
the truth finally sounded,
in the stunning supposition:
that Love;
has many
strange beginnings.
(M.Y.F.M. April, 2005)
 
The Dawning of Reason, for the Queen of Balconia; At the Hand of an Odd God.
Perched back on her porch
of pretty-penny fame;
the Queen of Balconia
calculates the carnage of this,
her most recent journey
along the highway to hell,
on a mission of love:
a quest for equality
or was it
that?
 
April,
now May,
and the Fool far away;
a memory so distant
she is highly resistant, to the idea
it was even real…
Real though it was
and her heart it did move;
for the Queen of Balconia
the Fool missed his groove
His mending and tending
a thinly veiled ruse
a means to his end,
to dump shit and abuse!
She is wiser today though,
saw right through his ploy
For one April Fool
This Queen
is too
Coy!
 
Self-
respect and her dignity,
still firmly intact
The Queen of Balconia
Enters a pact:
To self and her Deity,
she solemnly vows;
never again will I settle
for a mere facsimile,
the thin veneer of a fraud,
Nothing short of the perfection
Of my very odd God
(M.Y.F.M, unfinished(?): 2007)
 
Next: Runaway Queen (coming soon…)

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the hand i used to hold…

09 Thursday Jan 2014

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the hand i used to hold…

when the knife went in my heart it was not the blade that tore it open – it was seeing your hand grasping the hilt…  it was the nonchalance of your words… the indifference in your demeanour… as though you forgot, child! Yours, was the hand i used to hold…

~M.

October 08, 2012

Context:

It was Thanksgiving Dinner, 2012; a tradition which is not normally celebrated where my people and I hail from, but randomly upheld in our family, in an effort to try and bring our motley and far-flung peeps together.  Seeing my one and only child for more meaningful interaction than what had become what I call ‘drive-by-huggings,’ was/is generally, my primary motivation for attending/putting on such a gig. This particular dinner was of great import to me. I had felt for some time, that my relationship with this, my favourite human, was devolving into something I was painfully uncomfortable with, and very, very sad about. So, when he came to this dinner at my mother’s home, and announced a few moments later that he would not be staying, with little explanation, I expressed my hurt and, really, more than anything, bewilderment, in the words above. Secretly, silently, at first… for I knew that something dire had occurred somewhere in his life to bring about this uncharacteristic behaviour, and that he would tell me when it felt safe for him to do so, but the hurt was acute, none-the-less, and I had to let it out, before it consumed me…

May 11, 2020

8 years and as many lives later, we are here again, because of an other’s influence and actions… I am more bewildered than ever, that we have landed, here.

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No Shrinking Violet

02 Thursday Jan 2014 

Your big box ways

            Cannot shrink wrap Me

into a submission

            that makes you comfortable

with who you think I Should be!

I am not here,

            to provide you with comfort

Au contraire!

            I am here to make you squirm;

For I am Not neat and tidy

            a packaged femme of your oppressive vision!

I am every single woman

            You ever abused;

Suffocated in your shrink wrap world,

            and I have come Undone,

you Cannot, wrap me back up!

 I am messy and I am Loud;

            I will regurgitate your vileness

and spit it back at you

            with a clarity so undeniable

that it will shatter your frozen soul

            for you know it, to be the Truth!

 I am all of them, every single one!

            and you Cannot win

with mere cling wrap,

            for I am No shrinking Violet!

~M.Y.F.M May 07, 2008

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Ideastumble…

02 Thursday Jan 2014

cropped-20170927_162917-2-e1571076151158.jpgIdeastumbleoverthoughtstumbleoverfearstumbleoverfeelingstumbleoverthestones
inthecreekthatleadstothecoresmoothingeversmoothingtheroughedges
making space in-between for thecoolcoolwater
thatisLoveforMeandYou.

January 30, 2013

 

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I Win?

02 Thursday Jan 2014

You win, because I didn’t even know it was game on…

I lose, because you created the rules…

You win, because when I figured out the rules, you changed them…

I lose, because you speak the language of fear, hate and blame…

You win, because my heart and soul can’t translate that shit…

I lose, because I can’t play the game…

I win, because I won’t play the game.

January 14, 2013

~M.Y.F.M

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Commendable, but…

02 Thursday Jan 2014

http://www.flickr.com/photos/arnade/sets/72157627894114489/

I think that this is a commendable effort to get to know the ‘humanity’ of addiction, but I am concerned that it also perpetuates the stereotypical view of many, that addiction only impacts ‘those’ people. It also connects substance use to sex work, which at times is, but just as often is not, connected, and implies a correlation. There are as many reasons why folks get into sex work, as there are sex workers, and the same is true for addiction. This story depicts ‘addiction and the addicted’ (and by extension sex workers) in an impoverished New York City neighbourhood, like so many others across North America and other parts of the world; this is NOT a realistic picture. Addiction impacts people from ALL walks of life, ALL levels of education, ALL genders, ALL cultures and ethnicities, and above all, ALL levels of socio economic status. If I had a dollar for every time I have heard a well-off (educated and/or employed/housed/well clothed/well fed etc) addict tell me that they are not an addict because they are not like ‘those’ people I could probably pay off my student loans… The same is true for folks making ‘hierarchical’ comparisons regarding sex work… What we ‘see’ on the streets, in this, and other neighbourhoods like it, is roughly 10% of the actual battle/issue. It is the stereotypes and stigma that keep the other 90% hiding in their cozy suburban and upper class neighbourhood homes, and prevents them from being honest and seeking help/support; thus keeping addiction and the addicted in the margins of our culture, and fueling the victim-blaming agenda of the status quo, at the political, and personal levels. Again, a commendable, and sincere effort from what I have seen/read/researched about this project, but not a realistic picture. And unfortunately, for all of its good intentions, the project inadvertently strengthens the ‘us and them,’ mentality, and takes the systemic issues (context) right off the canvas.
~Marcela.

~M.Y.F.M

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