You. You there, with the morals. Come here a minute.
First of all, thanks so much for pausing in your scrolling to read this. Sure, I may be hanging out in your tabs somewhere, among a few petitions, natural flu remedies, vaccine stories, political junk, and inspirational pins, but I think that it's worth being here. Just in case someone wants to listen.
For the last 3 days, I have been a raging inferno. My heart is either ablaze with righteous fury, or I am slowly burning to death inside. Personally, I think it's a little of both.
A week since the shooting. One week. It took me 5 whole days to react.
It came so suddenly. A white scream into a void of junk noise. A mother screaming in a crowd for her missing child. The turn in the nanosecond of the sight of the bus. A moment of nothingness.
More people killed. More people, young people, doing their very best to better themselves and the patch of cosmos they inhabit. Christians, Pagans, Agnostics… all dying while educating themselves, while making connections, while fulfilling a small but vital piece of their potential.
Black lives.
White lives.
Old lives.
Young lives.
Human lives.
The aftermath begins to sound like Hell's own Dr. Suess book. Except instead of becoming wondrous and silly, we all recognize our own little deaths, the enormous deaths of our offspring, and once again shrug and log in and like and share and comment.
I have no more comments. I have only rage.
Who among us can say with a straight face and a pure heart that we deserve all of the random happenings that placed you in front of your screen right now? Certainly not I. People I love, and people I hate, and people I'll never know got me here. Shit and blood and rot got me here. My intuition got me here. Love got me here.
And you? Where are you? Who are you loving, and who are you disgusted by? What makes you or I or her or him more worthy to have not been affected by untimely death today? Who decides what kind of world our children will thrive or wilt within? Which policies support the unfolding of the spirit? Which pundit speaks your truth? Where can you find your humanity amongst your perceptions, your prejudices?
Whose flesh is at your feet and whose blood is on your hands today?
Who did you make shine today?
What harm did I fund today?
How can I make more Love today?
How can I move my feet every. damn. day. to uphold that which is Sacred among us?
How we judge right from wrong is not beholden to our personal morality. The only choice between right and wrong is to ask: Which of these will make me a better human? This most simple question can be the most difficult to act on.
Quote your Constitution, your Bible, Ronald Reagan. Go ahead and post those memes. I know I will. But, for the sake of the Soul, for our shared experience of humankind, choose wisely, and only with Love.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Monday, July 6, 2015
depression, and other woes
I have finally come to grips with being depressed.
It's difficult to describe to myself what this actually feels like. A sinking feeling, a heaviness, a unique kind of nausea. Sadness, deep sadness. Despair. Hopelessness. Fatigue. Lost-ness.
Randomly, I try to reconnect with the little girl who was me. I was an early reader, I loved to draw and write, I loved acting and singing. I loved God. I loved my family.
I can never remember being close to my mother. I can't help but wonder if that itself is not the root of my depression.
I can remember, vividly and with a busted heart, being close to my father. Now, I wonder if he doesn't think I am the worst person he has ever met- I have no indication to believe he feels anything for me anymore. Somewhere around puberty and first boyfriends, I began to lose him. He has steadily pulled away from me for the last 23 years. It seems that quietly getting married to an outstanding and strong gentleman was the nail in the coffin of our fading relationship. He rarely sees his grandsons, and he lives but 9 short blocks away from me.
I was also extremely close to my paternal grandmother. Gosh, there was no greater love to me. She was my stand-in mother, and my real mother did all she can in the early years to sabotage us. It only made us stronger. Over time, and with great reluctance, I came to distrust my grandmother. It was a few little fibs here and there, some biases, a touch of manipulation. After several years I realized that she, too, was hurting me deeply, manipulating me, abusing me emotionally. She'd learned to play on my vulnerability to keep me feeling obligated to her. She was terrified of living, and at some point I realized that she'd rather see me beside her than to see me successful.
I remember the night I awakened to the idea that all I had been able to hold on to was a lie, a dalliance, a stop-gap. (I'll return to this subject later)
My heart became fully broken and I became lost. I remained lost until I found yoga in 2007. My heart began to creak open, my body angrily began to awaken from a long sleep, and my mind found some stillness. My life became vibrant again.
I remember having interests. I was, and still am, good at nearly everything I tried to pick up. The problem was never with talent, but with stability, with support. I remember my mother's horrible choice in matrimony introducing me to his older aunt, and after she'd asked me what I liked to do, I had replied, shyly, "I like to draw." He, the man who was abusing our entire family, laid his oppressive hand on my shoulder (my signal to shut the fuck up and take it) and laughed, "yeah, she draws flies!"
I had no idea what that meant, since I'd never tried to draw a bug. It took me more than 20 years to realize that a grown man just called a six year old girl a piece of shit.
Well, thankfully I haven't so much to complain about in this current time. In fact, if anything, I should be rejoicing. Yet, it's deeply difficult to embrace love when it's been your enemy during those formative years. I find my first reactions to my children's requests for touch, my husband's affectionate gestures, and even phone calls and texts from dear friends is to turn away. Reject call. Push away, walk away, go away. My life is literally filled to the brim with people who love the pain out of me… and I usually say 'no' to them all.
I'm trying. Naming this devil inside me the name of Depression is helping a little. A lot actually. I can feel more deeply than I can ever remember. One wise and wonderful friend says this: "Perhaps you had to bury that part of yourself so that you could get stronger. Maybe now you are strong enough to see what you need to do." Another, this: "Perhaps when the mind realizes it is in a safe place, your heart begins to open and you can now heal those places that were hurt." I'm sticking with those concepts for now. I'm finding that accepting it is getting me further than fighting it. My guard is down but my awareness is up. My mind is tired but my body is still loving. My heart is hurting, but it feels more like breaking free than breaking down. Perhaps I am grieving that old, suppressed, apathetic part of myself, and what feels like nausea are actually the excitement of butterflies at the chance to heal and live anew.
Here goes everything.
It's difficult to describe to myself what this actually feels like. A sinking feeling, a heaviness, a unique kind of nausea. Sadness, deep sadness. Despair. Hopelessness. Fatigue. Lost-ness.
Randomly, I try to reconnect with the little girl who was me. I was an early reader, I loved to draw and write, I loved acting and singing. I loved God. I loved my family.
I can never remember being close to my mother. I can't help but wonder if that itself is not the root of my depression.
I can remember, vividly and with a busted heart, being close to my father. Now, I wonder if he doesn't think I am the worst person he has ever met- I have no indication to believe he feels anything for me anymore. Somewhere around puberty and first boyfriends, I began to lose him. He has steadily pulled away from me for the last 23 years. It seems that quietly getting married to an outstanding and strong gentleman was the nail in the coffin of our fading relationship. He rarely sees his grandsons, and he lives but 9 short blocks away from me.
I was also extremely close to my paternal grandmother. Gosh, there was no greater love to me. She was my stand-in mother, and my real mother did all she can in the early years to sabotage us. It only made us stronger. Over time, and with great reluctance, I came to distrust my grandmother. It was a few little fibs here and there, some biases, a touch of manipulation. After several years I realized that she, too, was hurting me deeply, manipulating me, abusing me emotionally. She'd learned to play on my vulnerability to keep me feeling obligated to her. She was terrified of living, and at some point I realized that she'd rather see me beside her than to see me successful.
I remember the night I awakened to the idea that all I had been able to hold on to was a lie, a dalliance, a stop-gap. (I'll return to this subject later)
My heart became fully broken and I became lost. I remained lost until I found yoga in 2007. My heart began to creak open, my body angrily began to awaken from a long sleep, and my mind found some stillness. My life became vibrant again.
I remember having interests. I was, and still am, good at nearly everything I tried to pick up. The problem was never with talent, but with stability, with support. I remember my mother's horrible choice in matrimony introducing me to his older aunt, and after she'd asked me what I liked to do, I had replied, shyly, "I like to draw." He, the man who was abusing our entire family, laid his oppressive hand on my shoulder (my signal to shut the fuck up and take it) and laughed, "yeah, she draws flies!"
I had no idea what that meant, since I'd never tried to draw a bug. It took me more than 20 years to realize that a grown man just called a six year old girl a piece of shit.
Well, thankfully I haven't so much to complain about in this current time. In fact, if anything, I should be rejoicing. Yet, it's deeply difficult to embrace love when it's been your enemy during those formative years. I find my first reactions to my children's requests for touch, my husband's affectionate gestures, and even phone calls and texts from dear friends is to turn away. Reject call. Push away, walk away, go away. My life is literally filled to the brim with people who love the pain out of me… and I usually say 'no' to them all.
I'm trying. Naming this devil inside me the name of Depression is helping a little. A lot actually. I can feel more deeply than I can ever remember. One wise and wonderful friend says this: "Perhaps you had to bury that part of yourself so that you could get stronger. Maybe now you are strong enough to see what you need to do." Another, this: "Perhaps when the mind realizes it is in a safe place, your heart begins to open and you can now heal those places that were hurt." I'm sticking with those concepts for now. I'm finding that accepting it is getting me further than fighting it. My guard is down but my awareness is up. My mind is tired but my body is still loving. My heart is hurting, but it feels more like breaking free than breaking down. Perhaps I am grieving that old, suppressed, apathetic part of myself, and what feels like nausea are actually the excitement of butterflies at the chance to heal and live anew.
Here goes everything.
Friday, January 9, 2015
choosing life
A few of my relatives wonder why I stay away. They've called me all kinds of names. I don't care- I choose Life.
My mother's husband, Glenn, was a cop. A real crooked one, at that. He drove fear into the hearts of my little brother and me, and I wakened in the wee hours of the night when he was on the late shift, the sounds of his freshly polished shoes threatening to come into my room.
It was no secret he was a liar, and a cheat. Everyone knew it. The people at church, our neighbors, my mothers brothers and sisters... still, no one challenged him, no one said a word. Nearly all of our babysitters had been approached by him at one point or another and propositioned for sexual favors. My mother knew about it and never acknowledged it. Even when I told her about what the girls had told me when I was about 6 years old, she and her friend Marcia had laughed it off, told me it was not true. After that, I knew she would never believe me.
As it happened, once when I was 12 I told a friend at school what had been happening. How he touched me through my clothes, made me sit in his lap when he had an erection, how his hands would wander. I told her that he would force me to hug him when he was hard, pressing me into him, and how I was scared that soon it would get worse. We'd had a girl living with us, a babysitter who'd gotten pregnant and kicked out by her parents. Glenn had raped her, I later learned, or rather intimidated her into letting him do it to her. She was 5 months pregnant, and terrified. When I told my friend what was happening, a domino effect got underway. She told a teacher, who called in the counselor, who contacted my mom, who nearly had a nervous breakdown. Before I knew it, our house was full of relatives, yelling, accusing, and shouting- all because of me.
My mother didn't believe me. Though I was an obedient kid, got good grades, was by all accounts a wallflower and got into no trouble, she convinced herself I was making it up. No one stood up for me. She stayed married to the bastard for 5 more years, until he left her for another woman.
You read that correctly. HE left HER.
She was a mess. It wasn't long before she found someone else, and stopped coming home. The same woman who couldn't be bothered to pick me up from after school programs or sports- because it was too far, and too much trouble to drive- drove from her work to her new boyfriends house, almost an hour away, every night. Occasionally she would come home long enough to get some clothes, and leave again, assuring us she'd be home later. Except she wasn't. She'd stopped coming home.
It wasn't unusual for me to stand in as the mother figure. I was the oldest, and my mother had been leaving me home alone with my siblings since I was 7. At seven, I was left in charge of my 5 year old brother and my 1 year old sister. I was responsible for changing diapers, making dinner, washing dishes, and packing lunches. Often, we wouldn't have food for lunch, so we went without. It wasn't because we didn't have money, because my mother bought new clothes and went out every weekend. To this day, I still often forget to eat lunch. I am used to feeling hungry.
So, when he left her, I breathed a sigh of relief. Even though my mother wasn't coming home, at least the predator was away and my over-dramatic, narcissistic mother was somewhere where she couldn't belittle us. Nothing really changed for me, except that I felt slightly less fear.
One day, my sister came home sick from school. She had always had asthma, but now, it seemed she was really sick. My mother was home that evening, presumably to get some clothes, or maybe the school nurse had called her. I seem to remember that she was happier than usual, which usually meant that she was leaving us again. She seemed to hate our very existence, so having her gone was a great load off my mind. My sister was in the bathroom when she made an awful sound. My mother and I were on the other side of the house, and, instinctively, I pushed past my mother to run to my sister's side.
My sister had to be taken to the hospital. Turned out she had pneumonia. She was 9 years old, and understandably scared. She was going to have to stay in the hospital while she received treatment. My brother had gone to my dad's, so it was just the three of us. That is, until my mom had to go. I asked her if she was coming back, and she said no. She didn't feel like driving all the way back to Savannah from Richmond Hill (I knew she was really going to her boyfriends house on Wilmington Island, in the opposite direction from ours).
We had it out in the hallway. Or at least she did. I tried to contain my rage as she went on about how she didn't feel like driving so much, that who was I to question her. It escalated, with her, as usual, storming off in a very soap-operatic type rage, permed hair and shoulder pads and designer shoes angrily clacking down the hospital hallway.
I stayed with my sister for all but one of the 5 days she was admitted to the hospital. Her father stayed on the last day (probably the only decent thing I ever remember him doing). Our mother didn't stay once. She had a concert to attend over the weekend, so, understandably, she was too busy. I remember my sister looking like death, and a chill ran through my bones. It was just me and her… what if she died? I was 15, and frightened as hell.
This is just part of my story. I have more, so much more to share. Thank you for taking the time to read it.
My mother's husband, Glenn, was a cop. A real crooked one, at that. He drove fear into the hearts of my little brother and me, and I wakened in the wee hours of the night when he was on the late shift, the sounds of his freshly polished shoes threatening to come into my room.
It was no secret he was a liar, and a cheat. Everyone knew it. The people at church, our neighbors, my mothers brothers and sisters... still, no one challenged him, no one said a word. Nearly all of our babysitters had been approached by him at one point or another and propositioned for sexual favors. My mother knew about it and never acknowledged it. Even when I told her about what the girls had told me when I was about 6 years old, she and her friend Marcia had laughed it off, told me it was not true. After that, I knew she would never believe me.
As it happened, once when I was 12 I told a friend at school what had been happening. How he touched me through my clothes, made me sit in his lap when he had an erection, how his hands would wander. I told her that he would force me to hug him when he was hard, pressing me into him, and how I was scared that soon it would get worse. We'd had a girl living with us, a babysitter who'd gotten pregnant and kicked out by her parents. Glenn had raped her, I later learned, or rather intimidated her into letting him do it to her. She was 5 months pregnant, and terrified. When I told my friend what was happening, a domino effect got underway. She told a teacher, who called in the counselor, who contacted my mom, who nearly had a nervous breakdown. Before I knew it, our house was full of relatives, yelling, accusing, and shouting- all because of me.
My mother didn't believe me. Though I was an obedient kid, got good grades, was by all accounts a wallflower and got into no trouble, she convinced herself I was making it up. No one stood up for me. She stayed married to the bastard for 5 more years, until he left her for another woman.
You read that correctly. HE left HER.
She was a mess. It wasn't long before she found someone else, and stopped coming home. The same woman who couldn't be bothered to pick me up from after school programs or sports- because it was too far, and too much trouble to drive- drove from her work to her new boyfriends house, almost an hour away, every night. Occasionally she would come home long enough to get some clothes, and leave again, assuring us she'd be home later. Except she wasn't. She'd stopped coming home.
It wasn't unusual for me to stand in as the mother figure. I was the oldest, and my mother had been leaving me home alone with my siblings since I was 7. At seven, I was left in charge of my 5 year old brother and my 1 year old sister. I was responsible for changing diapers, making dinner, washing dishes, and packing lunches. Often, we wouldn't have food for lunch, so we went without. It wasn't because we didn't have money, because my mother bought new clothes and went out every weekend. To this day, I still often forget to eat lunch. I am used to feeling hungry.
So, when he left her, I breathed a sigh of relief. Even though my mother wasn't coming home, at least the predator was away and my over-dramatic, narcissistic mother was somewhere where she couldn't belittle us. Nothing really changed for me, except that I felt slightly less fear.
One day, my sister came home sick from school. She had always had asthma, but now, it seemed she was really sick. My mother was home that evening, presumably to get some clothes, or maybe the school nurse had called her. I seem to remember that she was happier than usual, which usually meant that she was leaving us again. She seemed to hate our very existence, so having her gone was a great load off my mind. My sister was in the bathroom when she made an awful sound. My mother and I were on the other side of the house, and, instinctively, I pushed past my mother to run to my sister's side.
My sister had to be taken to the hospital. Turned out she had pneumonia. She was 9 years old, and understandably scared. She was going to have to stay in the hospital while she received treatment. My brother had gone to my dad's, so it was just the three of us. That is, until my mom had to go. I asked her if she was coming back, and she said no. She didn't feel like driving all the way back to Savannah from Richmond Hill (I knew she was really going to her boyfriends house on Wilmington Island, in the opposite direction from ours).
We had it out in the hallway. Or at least she did. I tried to contain my rage as she went on about how she didn't feel like driving so much, that who was I to question her. It escalated, with her, as usual, storming off in a very soap-operatic type rage, permed hair and shoulder pads and designer shoes angrily clacking down the hospital hallway.
I stayed with my sister for all but one of the 5 days she was admitted to the hospital. Her father stayed on the last day (probably the only decent thing I ever remember him doing). Our mother didn't stay once. She had a concert to attend over the weekend, so, understandably, she was too busy. I remember my sister looking like death, and a chill ran through my bones. It was just me and her… what if she died? I was 15, and frightened as hell.
This is just part of my story. I have more, so much more to share. Thank you for taking the time to read it.
it's been awhile
it's been a looong while.
nearly a week ago, i came out with the story of my sexual abuse on Facebook. i incited some rage and anger, because i named names. i got mostly support from so many who had their own stories to tell.
never let someone silence you.
i want to keep sharing stories. not because i need the attention, but because it is healing. it is enlightening. by sharing our stories, we help others to find their voice, to find some strength to face their own fears, to find their own healing.
people will get hurt. i hurt someone i didn't mean to hurt. upon the initial release (after which i found myself sobbing violently in a ball on the floor), i began to want to shout it, to wear it on a t-shirt. i wanted to tell everyone i met. i got carried away, and upon being accused by someone of lying, unintentionally threw an innocent party under the bus.
i have an amends to make.
for the others, while i am sorry that they feel angry or persecuted, i feel no remorse. i feel no remorse for outing a person who for at least 30 years has sexually manipulated countless women, including his own grandchildren. i feel no remorse for calling out his accomplices, women who would rather quietly and demurely sit next to him at family dinners than to stand up and speak out. for thirty fucking years i have swallowed the pain of my mother, sister, and others coming to his defense, being close with him, taking children to his home. i will stay silent no longer.
because i have to ask myself what i would regret more: speaking out or not speaking out. i suppose we all have to ask ourselves this in order to know which next right step to take.
nearly a week ago, i came out with the story of my sexual abuse on Facebook. i incited some rage and anger, because i named names. i got mostly support from so many who had their own stories to tell.
never let someone silence you.
i want to keep sharing stories. not because i need the attention, but because it is healing. it is enlightening. by sharing our stories, we help others to find their voice, to find some strength to face their own fears, to find their own healing.
people will get hurt. i hurt someone i didn't mean to hurt. upon the initial release (after which i found myself sobbing violently in a ball on the floor), i began to want to shout it, to wear it on a t-shirt. i wanted to tell everyone i met. i got carried away, and upon being accused by someone of lying, unintentionally threw an innocent party under the bus.
i have an amends to make.
for the others, while i am sorry that they feel angry or persecuted, i feel no remorse. i feel no remorse for outing a person who for at least 30 years has sexually manipulated countless women, including his own grandchildren. i feel no remorse for calling out his accomplices, women who would rather quietly and demurely sit next to him at family dinners than to stand up and speak out. for thirty fucking years i have swallowed the pain of my mother, sister, and others coming to his defense, being close with him, taking children to his home. i will stay silent no longer.
because i have to ask myself what i would regret more: speaking out or not speaking out. i suppose we all have to ask ourselves this in order to know which next right step to take.
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