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Marcela: Unfiltered

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Contradictions… III

21 Monday Sep 2015

Tags

Fear, Life, Love, Poetry, Power, Self

female-fragment-1.PaigeBradley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contradictions… III

I am…
…loosely cemented… no, inured and secured… of far sighted vision… sight lines fully obscured… entire… no partial… I cower… no rise… small silly child… no, crone oh-so -wise… zig zag and waver… no, I walk a strong gait… run to a finish line… no (im)patiently wait… emptiness, hollow… fill my bottomless soul… stubborn… no willing… fragmented… no whole… pieces of puzzles falling down to a floor… fall apart… no together… build a wall… no, a door… treasure inside… open it, open it… no, slam it shut… should have known better… Pandora! You slut.

~Myla: unknowingly certain.
September 21, 2015

Image: Female Fragment, with masses of love and gratitude for the art of Paige Bradley

 

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Poetry, The 'L' Word, Unfettered

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The Aff; by any other name… is still, not a toad.

29 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by ~MyLa in Poetry, The 'L' Word, Unfettered

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Tags

Heros, Love, Poetry, Relationships, Self

 

 

 

 

 

 

Be still my heart
drilled by the dart
of the man called Dieter
nothing sweeter,
than this curt curmudgeon
with truth he doth bludgeon
the remnants of trolls
stealers of souls,
nurses the valve
no conditions as salve
for a heart left bleeding
leaves me conceding
I am but a babe
in the woods,
of love.

Of Nibelungen fame
he sports a grand middle name
Siegfried at center
this soul he did enter
pierced the protection
raised by the rejection
of mangy mongrels
insipid scoundrels
(anal)ytically real
his nerve endings of steel
(re)awaken the fury
leaves this child in a hurry
to grow,
the fuck
up.

One Aff-and-a-half
message often a gaffe
comes from far-a-field
a shining sword he does wield
rips a wound in my oh-so-sensitive-spirit
his points ever-and-always laden with merit
their intent is assistant
for this girl’s e’er and persistent
fear of succeed/fear of fail
constant-companions (mis)read threats to bail
his words the tick tock
an alarm on the clock
of my life and our time
rise’n shine cutie-pie, this love is:
real.

Cleverest one of them all
walks all handsome’n tall
a bowl of bodacious banter
he’s a righteous ranter
full of hysterical hijinks
in an Absinthe-esque labyrinth
caused a cacophonous conniption
defying description
tends to and mends with the roar of a lion
safeguards (t)his damsel with fists and love made of iron
hysterical hyena
reminds that I’m Xena
or just me…
his sweet and sca(r)red, warrior;
Princess.

Yours always and with all the love I have;

~ The Yve to your Aff; and also fully Marcela; unfiltered, and duly undone by this thing called love.

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Through the Eye of the Storm(s); Open Letter to My Child: March 22, 2015

23 Monday Mar 2015

Tags

Children, Family, Honesty, Love, Relationships, Self

Sunny'sArm

Eye of a storm… lest we forget the lessons…

Dearest Sunny:

here we are again, March 22nd; the 24th March 22nd that I have the privilege of sharing with you; it is the absolute honour of all honours to be your parent. My Sunny-Boy-ManChild-BabyCakes, and all the other crazy names I have attached to your beautiful spirit over the years, you know, the ones you initially balk at, but always throw the good-son towel in on, because you know, mama gonna be mama and call you things other than the names so carefully and lovingly chosen for you before we ever met face to face.

I will spare us the regurgitation of all the reasons I love you so fiercely, we can revisit them here in our old(er) age, in the event that we forget, but they are indelibly etched into the very core of my being either way, so when the world blows up (ala Alex Jones ;) ) and we have lost all e-records and interwebs postings proclaiming my mama love for you, we will know anyway.

This March 22nd begs a different message from me to you. It begs a message of thanks and deeply profound gratitude, and with any luck, some-mama wisdom that one day, you will see fit to use, the way that I was able to use the uncondionality you once again showed me, through some of the toughest shit in a while, over this past year.

Thomas:

Thank you for standing your ground with mama in what in the grand scheme of things was a relatively benign little online exchange, around some political ideas on anti v. pro-activism. The discussion we had off-line about the process of it, for both of us, is what real love, trust, and this thing called relationship, are made of.

Thank you for standing your ground and letting me know in no uncertain terms that you wanted the Europe trip to happen no matter what, but that you would not be happy doing it without the mama. It was our trip for as long as we can both remember, for so many more reasons than I can articulate here, and it matters not, for we both know.

Thank you for forcing mama’s hand, in the kindest, gentlest, but completely Thomas-honest way, and helping me remember what is actually important in the world, reminding me what the last five years of struggle and re-building of Marcela, and by natural extension, how I do ‘parent of Thomas,’ has been all about.

Thank you for seeing beyond the surface of everything that had to do with everything about our going home(s), re-meeting your dad, your brothers, your nieces, your nephew, your cousins, your aunts and uncles, all of them, it.

Thank you for understanding my pain through it, thank you for not trying to fix what was never yours, thank you for holding my hand through all of it, in the midst of your own process through it. Thank you for having your mama’s back, unflinchingly as ever, no matter what.

Thank you for making it one of the most singularly spectacular events in my well-used life, other than the day of your actual birth, 24 years ago today.
Thank you for last summer after we got back. For the ear through the phone line during so many tearful drives to and from Nanaimo, up and down that LaMaHat, for the drive-by huggings at PV and the softness in your voice when you could read my broken heart all over me; the one threatening to obliterate everything I knew to be true about me, again.

Thank you for holding my well-lit heart together with the unconditional glue of who you are, and for seeing it, me, as the fallible human-parent I am, and your loyalty to our relationship not despite that, but because of it.

Thank you for expressing your disdain for men(?) behaving badly in both my personal and professional worlds, and thank you for behaving well despite your disdain and anger toward those less chivalrous, less kind.

Thank you for your response to that most unexpected of phone calls this afternoon from your dad, only one of us responded with the grace and wisdom of the Universe itself; clearly, age is no guarantee of these things, and thank you for understanding, once again, my misguided irritation by parts of said phone call. It was a beautiful thing, and that, is all you saw. I take another page from your book.

Thank you for all of the trust you continue to place in me with the really great, and really tough life shit, and thank you for showing me, over and over again, the many variations on any given theme. For an open-minded mama, my ever well-heeled feet can dig in, hard, at times.

Thank you for simple happiness at the recent changes in my life, completely and utterly bereft of chagrin at the speed in which things are changing. Thank you for understanding that risk is necessary.

Thank you for starting to put into action your next great adventure, and thank you, more than you will ever know, for saying you would come back for next April 25th. Thank you for allowing me to mama-guide you, ok, I ordered you, not to.

Thank you for using the lessons of my and your own well-used life, to propel you forward, ever forward, and for teaching me back, my own preach about teaching children How to think, not what to think.

The beautifully important and life(choice)-scarred words that mean so much to you they are permanently etched onto your forearm often bear true Sunny, ‘Storm is prerequisite for mental gain,’ but just as we are the creators of our own happiness, the same is true for the storms, if only by virtue of the reactions, responses, associations, patterns, meanings, we Choose to attach to any of it; the good, the bad, the ugly, the indifferent, the sublime, and the ridiculous.

That there; be mama’s current learning curve BabyCakes, BabyCzech, and Number One Marsupial-Child! It is my most fervent desire for you, that you don’t require almost 54 years of life to get there, and if you do, I have all the faith in the world, that you will traverse the trails, highways, byways and ditches with the same wild abandon and spirit of risk, that you have watched your mama grow into, and continue to understand, that the Only failure, Ever, is not trying at all.

Our Dorothy used to say, ‘pain and suffering are inevitable in this world, continuing misery, is purely optional.’ Curmudgeonly beauty that she often was, she was right.

I love you with the same ferocity and wild that I often go at anything with, only infinitely deeper.

Always,
YourMama: Unfiltered.

Tattoo on Sunny’s Arm by Sam, Killer Bees Tattoos – Melbourne, Australia

‘Storm is prerequisite to mental gain’ from ‘Liquid Sovereignty’ by Eydea & Abilities

 

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Life Lessons & Stories

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My Well-Lit-Heart

08 Monday Sep 2014

Posted by ~MyLa in Poetry, The 'L' Word, Unfettered

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

</3, Honesty, Love, Pain, Personal Power, Poetry, Relationships, Self, Truth

My-Well-Lit-Heart

          My-Well-Lit-Heart       

Intoxicated by intention
I neglected to mention,
that holding this damsel at bay
since the advent of May,
t’was not at all, in keeping
with the deeds of the true Dragon-Knight,
dear BB-D-K.
‘Tis in doing not saying
that sets hearts a’flutter,
sadly sadly
your actions did, but stutter and mutter.
No Dragon-Knight honour is found in mere utterance of words
when to the ground they plummet,
with the utility of turds.
(and stick on the soles of this damsel’s ever-well-shod feet)
No gallantry present in noble intent,
when in sadness, a damsel’s Morns Days’n Eves,
be endlesslyyy spent.
Well-meaning plot
is worth nary a thought,
here, today, at this juncture –
how many (more) opportunities, do I provide you
to puncture;
this
<3
?
Zero ↔ oreZ
e   <3   e
r     r
Ø

September 07, 2014
Yours; Shining, well-lit through the wounds:
MyLa: truly Unfettered.

(Image: Marcela, Sep.2014)

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Intense…

22 Friday Aug 2014

Tags

boxed in, Humanity, Life, Love, Self, Truth

 

Help People!

Help
PEOPLE!

Intense…

…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.
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;
watch,
Intense incinerate,
evil; with Love.

Intensely yours: MyLa, Unfettered.
August 21, 2014

Postscript, Nov. 22, 2015:

Intense will no longer apologize for its intensity.

 

 

 

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Poetry, Rants & Other Musings: Unfiltered-Raw, Unfettered

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Runaway: The Decade Long Amok, of an Acutely Human Queen

23 Friday May 2014

Tags

Humanity, Life, Personal Power, Self, The Marketed 'Dream.', Unrealistic Expectationsm

 

...go on, splash a(muck) on the Nellies...

go on, splash (a)muck on the Nellies

Several pretty penny porches
now mere remnants in memory
the Queen remorselessly
ruminates on these;
the veritable vestiges
of a domain,
duly disheveled
by her perilous pursuit
of the marketed realities,
called success
and
the dream.

Many years many roads,
a number of princes
unveiled
as wart-toads,
the Queen throws an eye backward
wistfully winces
at the folly,
that may well have been
her final undoing,
or was it,
that?

She lowers ear to her heart,
unearths a new truth
owns her sizeable part
with measured grace,
and some couth:
Eyes wide shut to the pain
agendas pursued
with worrisome might;
full throttle, warp speed
hellish highways of fright;
she collected Queendoms and letters
behind her inadequate(?) names,
blindly but deftly
she excelled in the games;
sold to her and the masses
by the predators
of peace,
preachers of pink
glasses
bamboozle the brainwaves
about life’s short-term lease…
the reality
‘tis no more than the blinking
of sightless glass eyes
the pursuit of happiness
sold in the guise
of more, better,
bigger,
fluff and stuff
with which to;
kill the pain
kill the pain
kill the pain.

Pernicious perverts
had her
chasing the dragon
the dream an imposter
the trickster,
approval a need
love an elixir
a name on a deed…
self-deception
false buy-in
the seed,
of her
very own,
personal,
undone-ness.

Hunters of humanity
fished for her favor
left her bereft
of power to savor
the very Queendoms and royalties,
she had spent the years chasing
bird-dogging banalities
mind-body-heart
constantly racing
toward a non-existent,
finish line.

The place called success
look at me look at me
she was finally worthy
of their ilk
and decree
that she had arrived,
Broken.
Again.
</3

Jonathan Rebel Seagull
(perfect aerialist and relentless odd ungod)
swoops into her cloud
ruffles her feathers
always stern, never loud:
thought you lost me hey Missy?
Nice try
epic fail,
with you ever and always,
while they stood still
watched you,
flail.

Look neither hind Missy,
nor fore to the morrow
take only the lessons
step away from the sorrow!
Keep that which you need
to live free of their voices,
succumb only
to more resilient choices
than the greed,
widely accepted,
as normal.

Blow up the boxes
of success and their dream
each day every moment
hear the voice of (y)our soul,
not that of their scream.
For you intuit the truth
it soundlessly waits
to show you
to guide you
in a more even gait.
Walk do not run
for you are likely to miss,
the kiss of the Dragon-Knight
hard-fought and won battle,
of and for,
your own
bliss.

You are the Queen of your life
this we know to be true
as said the other odd ungod,
‘no-one’s you-er than you.’
So go out and be You,
truer than true
this ain’t your first rodeo
so please,
no boo-hoo!
Life is a mud puddle
so pull on the Wellies,
go splash about
spray (a)muck on the
Nellies (negative that is).

(M. 2014)

Image from: http://lawnfix.co.nz/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/gumboots-splash.jpg

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Poetry

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Through the scary…

16 Sunday Mar 2014

Tags

Fear, Humanity, Life, Personal Power, Poetry, Self

Hold my hand
and I
will hold your fear
hold my fear
and I
will hold your pain
hold my pain
and I
will hold your heart
hold my heart
and I
will hold your love
safe
with mine
hold my love
safe
with yours
and I
will walk with you
through the scary…
 
~MyLa.
 

It went on for weeks, with little to no reprieve, day and night. Triggered, unknowingly and unintentionally, by a completely unrelated, but to my still raw heart, similar circumstance, and by what the man known as Dickwad-what’s-his-name (and others) inflicted on my mind, body, heart and soul. For so much longer than I ever ought to have allowed.

It, was an anxiety and spiritual pain too profound to articulate well, at this point, while I still stabilize. I took action yesterday, that for some reason I was terrified to take. It was a phone call, a question, and it wasn’t because I got the answer I wanted to hear that it began to subside, it was because the terror of not taking action, and enduring another moment became too much for me to bear, for another second.

It has been one of the most frightening times that I remember in recent years, but the silver lining is, I thought about escapes, of every ilk, variety and severity, and even utilized some that directly contradict the way in which I strive to live my life, free of the consumeristic traps of the ‘marketed dream’ (stay tuned for that one). I bought art, Banksy ;) one dress, books and a pair of shoes, but chose what I believe to be the lesser of all the evils I could subject myself, and the people who love me to. I rescheduled some work appointments when it was too much to keep my people safe, after all, I make a living directly off the backs of the suffering and pain of others, but no-one was cancelled, and to the best of my knowledge, I did no harm.

I got up every day and survived, hating every moment, and savouring every millisecond that I was able to think about, focus, pay attention to, see, hear, feel, touch, taste, experience, something, anything, beautiful in the world. The real tragedy of it, is seeing how much I hated myself. I thought about the person I love most in the world, and when he told me about punching himself in the face until it was swollen almost beyond recognition, because he hurt so badly, about what someone else did. I thought about that when I was driving down the highway and caught myself smashing my head into the head rest of my seat because I couldn’t stop the fear, kill the pain, kill the pain, kill the pain. I thought about the suffering that this truth, the truth that led to the trigger, has caused me, and I thought about how I should have acted differently 34 years ago and wouldn’t be here now had I not been so desperate, then, when I was 18, and broken.

He, Dickwad-what’s-his-name, or anyone like him, should not, will not, ever get that kind of power over me again. Some day, I will give you the details, and pray, that this particular lesson is learned, for real for real. Funny thing, it all started because I cannot live (with) a lie, I had to tell someone about something that has caused me untold pain for 34 years. I did not hear the words I got back, I did not examine the evidence against my fearful thoughts well enough to see and believe what was real. I allowed white space and the past to inform my thoughts and feelings. I believed my own (mis)interpretations of what is happening. I allowed
F alse
E vidence to
A ppear
R eal.
It could very well have cost me a very beautiful thing, the next great thing. It is here. I will cherish it more than ever. Thank you for being there through it with me. You may not know the details, and you may not realize how you helped, I may not even know you personally, but you were there, I felt you. And for that, I thank the God of my understanding, and you, always those of you, that know, me, my humanity. Thank you, for not letting me get lost in the forest, thank you, for holding my hand, through the scary.

Yours, as always,

~Myla: Unfiltered. March 16, 2014.

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under My World(s), Poetry, Unfettered

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there are days…

10 Monday Mar 2014

Tags

Humanity, Love, Relationships, Self

nanaimo-jan-4-6-2014there are days I wish:
I didn’t feel(you)so deeply,
didn’t love(you)so completely,
could love on(with you):
so sweetly in ignorance –
of your pain,
and mine.
 
~Myla, here and now.

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Poetry, The 'L' Word

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Slave

05 Wednesday Feb 2014

Tags

Love, Personal Power, Poetry, Relationships, Self

For.You.Pic.4For you…

…I hung suspended in time, until the arrow of (y)our essence punctured my heart, and it bled, like a red candle, hot, languid, to the centre of my humanity, into my soul…

For you…

…I have waited, poised, with the faith of one blessed with the knowledge that when you breach(ed) my armour, I would see you, know you, and encounter precisely, whom I intuited you to be…

For you…

…I wear, with the deepest humility, the open shackles of (y)our love, black for the darkness you embolden me to embrace in the profound absence of shame, white for the light, the surrender of my heart to (y)ours, and any vestige of ill-will I harbour toward those who came before you, us, you are not them, we are not they…

For you…

…I will bare my true face, devoid of the pretense and painted masks we both disdain, knowing, that trust is earned with honesty, and love, is at the core of your desire to see me stripped, of the tattered remnants of defense that remain, to shield the nudity of my core, from (y)ours…

For us…

…I will, at liberty, be a slave to (y)our love, barring only that my enslavement, should begin to take precedence over my respect for, and love of, self, and threaten to subjugate, my own soul…

With reverence, for you Affy, and for me, and for us, and with all the love I have,

~Yve.

(Photo: Craig Morey)

Edited February 12, 2015

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Poetry, The 'L' Word

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Manifesto of Pain and Personal Power:

28 Tuesday Jan 2014

Tags

Love, Negative Social Response, Pathology, Personal Power, Self, Victim Blaming

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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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Rants & Other Musings: Unfiltered-Raw, Unfettered

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I’m good with me, 52.5 years in…

22 Sunday Dec 2013

Posted by ~MyLa in The 'L' Word

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Love, Personal Power, Self

Thinking out loud, December 22, 2013:
I was just going through some ‘thinking out loud’ writing, looking for something else entirely, and came across some thoughts from this past summer. I wrote it (for me) after a significant falling out with a former love(?), and his comments about all the women in his past giving up on him, most specifically, his wife. The one he has been legally separated from for over 10 years, but would not divorce. He lied to me about moving forward with that, because it would mean there was nothing (legal) holding him back from a real commitment to me, to our relationship:

July 02, 2013
“Love, the word, the feeling, the emotion is not all of it, it is not enough, it requires work, effort, sacrifice, seeing, feeling the darkness in another and loving them not despite it, but because of it… walking the talk of commitment… she gave up on you because you gave up on her (lying), and when you did it again and again… not to do so, would have been giving up on herself… have I given up on myself (again), because I continue to be the (only) one to talk, to love enough to fight for this relationship and what’s important, to talk about, change, walk through the hard shit?”

Truthfully? I started to lose huge parts of me, I needed to get out, then, at the latest, July was not the first time he lied to me, led me by the nose, was abusive in the most hurtful, manipulative, sneaky and passive-aggressive ways (my beautiful, insightful son  calls it ‘greasy’), blamed me, constantly, for everything that was attached to his own behaviour and lashing-out responses to anything real… I met him in January 2012, started seeing him early April that year, he lied to me the first time on April 19th, the second time in May, then the manipulation and blame started, there were huge issues in June, July, August and September… a ‘fluffy-phase’ in October and part of November, and then it continued, in the guise of love, and I moved in with him in May 2013… he was good, at the ‘talk’ part of ‘love?’ and most importantly, I bought in, because 1) I loved him for real, not because I didn’t see the dark, but because I know my own, and understand how we get there, how to move beyond it to the light, to turn love into real intimacy, into real attachment, real commitment, how to love with everything… I thought he would too… I saw the potential… and 2) I wanted what I wanted, I wanted to be in love, and I lost so many parts of me again, I went backwards, to believing old stories, that no-one else would/could love me… truth is, he never did…

I have counselled for years, social-worked many and developed/taught life-skills programs that included these brilliant insights: “…we cannot be in love with another’s potential, for it is their current place of being, that informs how they treat us in the here and now… … love and abuse cannot exist in the same environment, they nullify one another…”

Take my advice, plenty to give, because I’m not (wasn’t) using it . Don’t get me wrong, please, this is neither an exercise in Marcela-beating-on-Marcela, nor is it one in blaming, beating on him, never really went there once we were done-done a number of months ago… it is an exercise in reflection, and a note to self about this evenings ‘next’ date. A thinking-out-loud moment about what love is, in all of its incarnations… the thing I intended to write about today in the first place:

About my focus for 2014: Focus on the ‘do’ of what I want to do as opposed to ‘not doing,’ what harms me… focus on the ‘start’ of doing as opposed to the ‘stop’ of what harms me… focus on the Love and Light that lives inside me, in massive abundance, as opposed to the distractions of darkness and hate. I already know what harms me, and you, I know what is terribly wrong in the world, and terribly wrong with us, as a culture, as a species… Focus, on Love and Light, mine, and yours. And when, my reality, the truth about who I am, 100% unfiltered and pure Marcela, blows up your fantasy of who you thought I was, who and what you want me to be, mosey on Buckaroo, Buckarette, I’m good with me, fully, and in totality… finally, 52.5 years in.

~M.Y.F.M

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