He sat downstairs and played video games
I sat upstairs and cried
He sat downstairs and played video games
I went to work and cried
He sat downstairs and played video games
I went grocery shopping and cried
He sat downstairs and played video games
I hauled in the shopping and cried
He sat downstairs and played video games
I cooked dinner and cried
He came up to bed and read a book
I went downstairs and cried
He screamed that my crying was unattractive, and that is why he stopped touching me
I screamed back and then sat silently, gouging holes into my arms
I watched them bleed and cried
He sat downstairs and played video games
I went shopping for his needs and cried
He screamed that I had broken him, that is why he sat downstairs and played video games
I screamed back and went for counselling, for all my ills and cried
He came to counselling with me, screamed my counsellor was an idiot, that is why he will counsel me himself
I drove away and cried
He sat downstairs and played video games
I went to the trail to cry
He sat downstairs and played video games
I hid out back to cry
He screamed he’s sick of my crying games, his truck is broken, that is why he can’t work
I screamed back, then I bought a truck and cried
He went to work and cried, about his sacrifices for me
I looked at my empty bank account and cried
I looked at my empty soul and cried
I looked at my empty life and cried
He screamed that he would like to finish me for good, though he would probably be sorry the next day
I could not scream, I looked desperately for Marcela to help me, I could not find her, I looked everywhere and cried
I cancelled self-esteem and cried
I cancelled physio and cried
I cancelled the dentist and cried
I cancelled the trail and cried
I cancelled school and cried
I cancelled writing and cried
I cancelled my life and cried
HIM TO LIVE.
August 13, 2016
I love Canada. Three years ago today, as a matter of fact, I was on many airplanes, traveling back to Canada from a going home(s) tour with the two humans I love most, my mother and my ManChild. We (my mom, dad and brother and I) came as refugee-immigrants when I was 7 and I have lived here on and off for 36 of my almost 56 years on this planet. I also love the Czech Republic. I was born there when it was still Czechoslovakia and we lived there until the former Soviet Union chose to liberate us, with their tanks and their army. (BOOM! Think about this, no, I mean just think about why they thought they could/should roll in, in the context of this missive). And, I love Switzerland. I lived there for 13 years while trying to escape me and the stuff I carried from the Czech Republic and Canada.
All of these places are home to me, the various towns and cities I have inhabited in these countries are all my ‘home-towns.’ I made connections, I loved, I lost, I laughed, I cried, I worked, I got married, I got divorced, I had a child, I raised step children, I fucked up, I cleaned up my messes, I did it all again. I LIVED, in all of these places.
From the time I was a small child I could not, for the life of me, understand the vigor with which the natural born-natives, and I use that term loosely, of these countries, posited their better-dom (yes, that is a word), over other folks, quasi-Canadians, wanna-be Swiss, or even smarter-than-the-Slovaks-Czechs, when we were still one country.
This is important: I am not ungrateful to have had a place like Canada to come to when those pushy Soviets rolled in so rudely, as I sat on my grandma Mrnka’s knee in Karlovy Vary, on that memorable August day in 1968 (revisit BOOM, here). I am not ungrateful to have had an opportunity to live and love in Switzerland (even if I had to marry an asshole to do it) when I found myself in dire-straights and in serious peril in the company of some unsavoury Vancouverites. I am not ungrateful that years later, I was able to return to the place my dad traded his life for, in order that my brother and mom and I, could have one.
My point, quick and dirty: I am not a patriot. The word itself, its origins and various incarnations is problematic to me, but you can do your own research. There is little tying it to the commonalities we share with every, single, culture and ethnicity on this planet, patience, I am getting there. I am not ethnocentric. Again, do your own research, please. From patriotism to ethnocentricity to, I try not to be racist. Admittedly though, I have had it much easier as an outsider sporting my lily white skin, fitting into ‘foreign’ cultures like Canada and Switzerland, than those of a different epidermal hue, and I recognize this as an unearned privilege. Three words, all connected, all lead to every single one of the world issues we have going on. War is not about peace and freedom is not about taking away that of others. Wealth is not about raping and pillaging this planet’s resources so the superior folks have enough by creating poverty and suffering, and then blaming those whose suffering they have created, for their inadequacy.
From where I sit, we are one type of two-legged, upright humanoid with a number of sub-types based on geography and culture, one home world as we know it. The research is not united, and frankly I don’t actually give a flying fuck about whether we all stem from one woman somewhere in the African desert, if we are all mongrels, or if any or all of us are aliens who came in the Tardis with Dr. Who, for that matter. Genetic research ought to be used well for all our benefit, not abused to create more reasons for fear and hate of ‘other.’ Everything else is socially constructed and geographically determined, and more importantly, it is driven by the almighty dollar, dinar, koruna, frank, euro, gold, silver, shit, call it what you will. It is about fucking money, power and fear mongering, fundamentalism, fanaticism and greed, plain old, greed, and better-than-ism. Yes, that is a word, also.
So no, I will not fly my patriot flag today, or any other day, at least not any higher than I would for anywhere I have enjoyed (and not) living, for anyone else I have enjoyed (and not) sharing that place with.
~Marcela: Unapologetically yours, and with the utmost gratitude for all my home(s), past, present and future, cause I’m not done here yet.
July 01, 2016
(Post image courtesy of Google search ‘earth heart.’)
A queen licks her wound
to the fury and wrath
of one psychopath
Heart reaches again
wounded not slain
core splits asunder
pillage and plunder
Intuition screams loudly
alarm bells warn soundly
bent but not broken
words left unspoken
No over just through
sight-lines slightly askew
vision is hazy
dense fog of crazy
her tally and score
of moves close and more distant
this ache is persistent
from deeds so nefarious
calculated to maim
not knowing this dame
A Czech-chick hard-core
stretches her wings
flies higher on swings
No guts no glory
this is the story
of a girl with she-ballz
a glued porcelain doll
Unabashedly human, and fully unfettered:
…is not a pathology, a DSM Mental Health diagnosis, a deficit,
or disordered, or wrong.
Intense is bold, strong, courageous to the nth degree, in your face, truthful.
Intense is neither flexible nor choice.
Intense is not willing, wishful, wanting, hope, or even drive, ambition.
Intense is a primal need;
to push, limits; mine, yours, theirs, ours, always.
And exactly when you think;
Intense has pushed enough, pushed too far,
Intense pushes again;
further, than ever here-to-fore.
Intense is pure, unadulterated.
Intense is the epitome of unfiltered.
Intense is emotional excess:
the good the bad, the beautiful the ugly, the high, the low;
not despite having known pain, but because it knows pain.
Intense and pain, are intimately acquainted;
they are, in fact, in love, inseparable,
pain is fuel on the fire that is,
Intense is often confused and contradictory, no, not contradictory,
Intense is highly conflictual.
Intense is deeply connected, insightful, wise, awesome-crazy, vulnerable and even, volatile.
Intense is wild.
Intense is unfettered.
Intense is not funny or amusing;
Intense is hilarious.
Intense cannot be contained, will not be boxed.
Intense puts the shattered pieces back together;
in a way that creates a picture more beautiful,
than the one which was seemingly in-tact,
prior to its shattering.
Intense has wings.
Intense makes pigs fly.
Intense knows not, of impossibility.
Intense is the home of creativity, its very core, its essence.
Intense is never indifferent, and never, ever, mediocre or neutral.
Intense knows no middle ground.
Intense is love and hate, war and peace, black and white;
but it resides, in living colour.
Intense is primary, neon, even.
Intense registers no nuanced hues or shades of gray.
Intense has no space for washed out and faded.
Intense is not boastful, but it is proudly aware of its inherent
Intensity and character.
Intense is a student and humble teacher.
Intense appears bossy, but is in actuality, a leader.
Intense is loud, especially when silent.
Intense will not walk the talk of shameful suffering and pastel-coloured pity.
Intense occupies souls and fuels the infernos of spirit-blazes too hot to extinguish.
Intense will be doused only, with (premium)fuel.
Feed the flame;
evil; with Love.
Intensely yours: MyLa, Unfettered.
August 21, 2014
Postscript, Nov. 22, 2015:
Intense will no longer apologize for its intensity.
Image from: http://funnyand.com/truth/
I am overwhelmed.
I am overwhelmed because I have some insight into my overwhelmed-ness.
I am overwhelmed because I have some insight into your overwhelmed-ness.
I am overwhelmed because I have some insight into others’ worlds, their overwhelmed-ness.
I am overwhelmed because I have some insight into the big picture of events in our world, the planet earth, and those engaged in destroying it, each other, and all of us, as well as those engaged in not.
I am overwhelmed with information and stories I want to tell.
I am overwhelmed with information and stories you want me to tell.
I am overwhelmed with stories I need to tell, stories which I believe the telling of, has value for me, and value for you.
I am overwhelmed with information and stories you tell me I ought to tell, because you believe they have value for you and others.
I am overwhelmed with my seeming inability to tell these stories without offending you.
I am overwhelmed and broken, when you tell me that my life experience offends you. Even the life experience we share. I am overwhelmed, especially, then.
We live in a world in which the truth, being yourself, being real, are encouraged… and judged, in one and the same breath. ~MyLa
I am overwhelmed with living up to the cheerleader’s rah rah of just be yourself Marcela, we wouldn’t have you any other way. And I am beyond overwhelmed with finding the ballz to be myself, 100% Marcela unfiltered, to receive the big stop-hand in my face: This admonition: Be yourself Marcela, just not that much.
I overwhelm you with being myself. I am too myself, for you to love and accept me as myself, the way I am. Myself.
I am overwhelmed with continuing to listen to the refrains that have overwhelmed me for too many years.
I am overwhelmed with feeling understood and valued for being myself for approximately 3 minutes out of each 24 hours.
I am overwhelmed with feeling misunderstood and confused about being too much myself for 23 hours and 57 minutes of each 24 hour period. Yes, I am overwhelmed even in my sleep.
I am overwhelmed with looking for my part in being overwhelmed, what I have said and done to make us so overwhelmed.
I am overwhelmed with thinking about what I need to change to make you stop being so overwhelmed with my life experience, with trying to to make you understand me and where I come from, when I endeavor to tell you about it, without making you overwhelmed.
I am going to be myself. Courageously, and with ballz. 100% Marcela, the overwhelming one. I have some insight into what will occur, what the outcome of my experiment will be. Do you?
Overwhelmingly yours, MyLa: Unfettered.
August 02, 2014
Someone asked me recently, on my day off, what exciting things I had been up to all day. I answered truthfully, as I always do when I am asked these questions. When they asked me why I bother to do all these things, I answered truthfully, as I always do when I am asked these questions.
I made a stock pot full, and bottled, the ginger tea I make because it saves my mind and health, every day. I ran 7 K on the trail I love because it saves my mind and health every day. I made homemade deodorant, because I walk my talk of living clean. I went to several farm stands in my area and to the farmer’s market because I walk my talk of living clean, of knowing my food producers and how they raise and treat their fields, plants and animals, and I want to put my well-earned cash in their pocket. I returned glass milk bottles because I walk my talk of trying to leave as minimal a footprint on this earth as is possible. I made citrus peel and vinegar cleaner and bottled it in glass spray bottles because I walk my talk of living clean, and as chemical free as possible. I sunbathed, I read a book, I did laundry, and I cried a lot. It has been the norm when I am alone in recent weeks, more often than I would like to admit. Why? Read on, and check out Best Regards and The Experiment for more on that. I may be unfiltered, but I am acutely human. That means I cry when in pain.
It appears that the individual who asked me what exciting things I had been up to, got more of a response than they bargained for. It occurred to me in this moment, that while I get a lot of rah rah cheerleaders and fleeting admirers in my life, of all genders and varieties, in all areas of my life and work(s), quite often, they run, or worse begin to criticize, because all of those things they rah rah on about, so greatly admire about me, generally end up being more than they bargained for. Way more. I have always known that this is their issue, not mine, now I just wear it on the outside instead of carrying it on the inside and hurting me. I am complex, not to mention way mufti-faceted, and a really cool chick. I ought to be raising the bar, in so many areas… .
Peek-a-boo! I see (through) you! Furthermore, I have survived, overcome, triumphed over, thrive not despite but because of, do, EPIC shit. Therefore, nothing about me is simple(ton), it is EPIC! Clear? Great. Peace.
Epically yours, MyLa: Unfettered.
July 29, 2014
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)
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.
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
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.”
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