She spoke in the lyrics of poetry
wearing multiple silicone bracelets
in a rainbow of causes she bought
Her magenta locks growing back
from a meltdown done with hilarity
and Lorraine who strong has her back
She spoke in the lyrics of poetry
wearing multiple silicone bracelets
in a rainbow of causes she bought
Her magenta locks growing back
from a meltdown done with hilarity
and Lorraine who strong has her back
The First Husband
April is Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault Awareness month (among others).
I am a survivor of Domestic Violence.
I felt the wash of rage strike through my stomach when I saw you there
With a ONETWO punch of viciousness, I cringed as if it were a physical blow
Violence flashed before my blackened eyes that have long since healed
I remembered in crystal clear detail the fire you created
That burned my possessions forcing me to be your possession
That charred my childhood into echoes of musical damnations
Removing the blessings my mother gave to me
On sunny afternoons in the plant room of my childhood home
And you, with lighter fluid in hand, me begging forgiveness
You tossing key upon key into the blaze despite my please, thank you.
There you were, glaring your judgement on my friend
Turning your nastiness towards someone I love
Every bit of forgiveness I thought I could give was erased
“I think you’re just being vulgar for the sake of vulgarity.”
Fuck you! You’d still have the wife you pledged to protect
If you wouldn’t have pulled her gun on her, or slapped her,
Or pushed her, or punched her, or threatened her, or raped her
Or abused her, or took her love and threw it like your smelly shoes, away.
You no longer are allowed access to me, you son of a bitch.
You are denied access to love from me or my tribe.
You are rebuked and are denied absolution from my heart because of your actions.
Lie all you want to the people in your life now, but we both know what happened.
We both know you are not the “Christian” you claim to be.
We both know what you’ve done.
The door is closed, return to your own hell.
The story I’m about to share with you is intense in emotion, digs into some really dark corners that many keep locked and heavily guarded. I am not opening the door with the spotlight shining in to require pity, request comfort, nor to have anyone claim, “Bless her heart.” I am shining the light into my darkness so that, hopefully, my flashlight can reach someone who feels betrayed, solitary in their suffering, shameful, or guilt-ridden. I end this first paragraph with this:
IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. I BELIEVE YOU.
The month of April is Sexual Assault/Domestic Violence awareness month. For those of us who have survived through these violent crimes, it’s an important month to help educate others about the necessary resources to protect ones physical, mental, and emotional self, commonly without financial ability to pay due to the clandestine fleeing that can be crucial to becoming a survivor and not a victim.
I’m not going to spout statistics, or at least not a lot of them, because those are just numbers. I want to share with you my face.
This is a picture of me at around age six. By the time this picture was taken, I was already quite skilled in how to be the twisted version of the good daughter. I had secrets I couldn’t tell to anyone or my mom and my brother would be killed. I already understood that I was good for one thing. I was so carefully bred to be a victim, I never associated (even up until about six weeks ago) myself with that word or with the fact that things that happened were violent crimes against my person. I just felt like I’d survived, my mom and brother were still alive, life was good.
When I’d reached age 21, I was in full blown PTSD (non-combat trauma). When I read off the symptoms back then I sincerely believed that someone had been following me around writing my every move. It was terrifying to realize that other people had gone through the same thing. It was even more petrifying to realize that it happened to me. Denial is a vicious place to live.
After intensive in-patient treatment, several years of intensive outpatient, and then several MORE years of follow up (as needed) therapy, I feel comfortable and confident in saying that I’m on the other side of PTSD with minimal triggers. It took me 40 years of hard work (30 years actively) to get through the shame, the guilt, the depression, the feelings of being unworthy that were planted from the time I was very young.
The way that I identified myself changing from a total sexual being into a loving human being took devotion, courage, strength, guidance, and determination. It was a life or death battle that left me weary, broken, bloody, and sometimes hanging on by a thread of the Fates. But, as my matriarchs taught me, whether by grace or design, to thrive is the best testament to victory over that which demanded submission.
I ask you this question:
How long does it take before you say enough of a bad relationship? How far will you allow the violence against you to continue before you fight back? How much will have to be stripped of your personal dignity before you look around and say, “I can do better. WE can do better.”
I say, the time is now. Tomorrow may be too late to save one more girl from rape. Tomorrow may be too late to rescue one more child from starvation. Today. This is what we have. Join me, humans, in rescuing ourselves from one of the greatest tragedies and the source of our joint suffering, the lack of equality between genders in the name of LOVE, for the purpose of LOVE, with the intent of LOVE brought into action.
If we do not stand together as the majority population and demand equality, then we fail our sisters, our mothers, our grandmothers, our daughters, our children, our humanity. Men that wish equality are those we should cherish, nurture, encourage to defend, but never to rescue us. You can’t expect those who wish to keep us under their heel in the name of religious or political beliefs to release us from slavery (as the article this was inspired by) stated. That’s like allowing a wolf to watch ones sheep or a (JOKE ALERT) police officer to guard a doughnut.
Maya Angelou kept rising despite the anchors that attempted to drown her. So shall I rise whether anyone follows or everyone shies away from the truths. We must move for unity and equality, but for the right reasons, because it’s the right thing to do.
I’m being hoodwinked
I’m being mislead from
my firm belief that EVERYthing
matters
It is irrelevant how tattered
my vision becomes or my
failing belief that *I*
can make a difference
that *I* matter
I pick up the tape
and wrap my hands individually
like Halloween candy
Protecting them from
broken fingers
fumbling grasps
Reinforcing my purpose
as if it matters
to ANYone else but me.
I wrap my hands in justice
eliminating foes
with ONE-TWO punches
Powerful with animosity
Strong with furious passion
of faith and
conviction
Does it matter?
Damn right it matters.
It ALL matters
It matters when my eyes
open in the morning
with deep breathing snoring
lovers wrapped up warm
against my ample body
It DOES matter when
I grab my fists from the floor
where I carelessly threw them
after another violent day
of fighting
for what matters.
It doesn’t phase me
to hear the onslaught
of rage streaming
silently from his lips
second thing in the morning.
It doesn’t occur to me
to let him remain split
into shards of himself
It doesn’t push me
But it pulls me
yanks me
spanks me
drags me
slams me
punches me
infects me
bashes me
beats me
thrashes me
It pummels my beliefs,
stomps and screams
tantrums LOUDLY
FURIOUSLY
But I take it because
it matters. It all
matters
I tape up my hands individually
like pocket tissues
cd’s
candy promises
of sweet
sweet
returns
My taped hands protect
them from
broken fingers
fumbling grasps
reinforcing my purpose
with paladin-like
integrity
honesty
all in perpetuity
all into discarded
thoughts of coffee ground fantasies.
It’s all good.
It’s all real.
It all matters.
*I* matter. THIS matters.
End-of-Life Doula
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