Call to Arms

Gods of winds and sons of storms

Awaken to this call to arms

Boil your blood in righteous anger

Be hurricanes of powerful danger

Be your swords quick like zephyrs whirl

Seek out justice in your mother’s world

The holiness of your sacred birth

is denied her value, refused her worth

Defend against the denial of her choice

the objectified feminine merits a voice

Sons or father’s you needn’t speak

but you mustn’t allow those too weak

to erase half of you without a fight

Support the women! Support her rights!

Cost of Living

Candle of Hope

How much am I worth to you?

Another theater, another school?

Another place where people gather

Out in public, or doesn’t it matter?

How much can I pay you for

your children’s blood on classroom floors?

How much is the fiance’ worth

if she’s wedding before the baby’s birth?

Tell me, because I don’t want your guns

you can keep them, I’m wanting none.

If you collect or if you hunt

I have no interest in killing your fun.

But any sane person should agree

that these “daily” mass killings are a spree

With romanticized violence the law of the land,

as responsible owners, please take a stand.

Show them what it means to be smart

Give us something, someplace to start

 

I don’t want to be afraid to go to the store

become another pawn in this domestic war

If it happens to one it’s a tragedy

but if it happens to more, a statistic you’ll be

Terrorism doesn’t have the brown skin like we’re told

It’s the murderer’s body count, sin chillingly cold.

Four Healing Helping Guides: TRIGGER WARNING

How we walk with the broken speaks louder than how we sit with the great.

How we walk with the broken speaks louder than how we sit with the great.

There was a long time in my life when I was called broken. No matter how much I screamed my denials to anyone who would listen, I was, indeed, broken. I was a child who believed in love when there was consistency but not when there was disappointment. I was conditioned to believe in betrayal, horrific plots against my personal safety, but worse yet, when those things went unheeded or unnoticed by my self incarcerated authentic being.

I’ve many times shared my stories, my poems, my grief over the loss of my childhood. I noticed there are themes at work among my purgings. I’m not a psychologist. I’m not a doctor. I’ve read extensively trying to understand, “Why?” For me, these are things that have worked.

Give Permission to Yourself to Grieve

There is no right way to grieve. There is no time limit. There aren’t any set in stone management techniques that apply to everyone. But, if you don’t allow yourself to grieve over the very real, very true, loss of time, safety, comfort, betrayal of trust, anger, hostility, and the myriad of emotions, then you’re not allowing yourself to be human. Grieving is a key to healing. It allows a walk through those emotions that, as a child, you weren’t able to process. In essence, you’re teaching yourself to again feel.

Process the Feelings Individually

Because, when you begin to heal there are so many emotions, it can be extremely overwhelming. I was misdiagnosed with bipolar, clinical depression, anger issues, and anxiety, and finally, accurately diagnosed with Non-combat PTSD. I suffered from major depressions for much of my early adult life.

At one point I suffered so much I developed agoraphobia which kept me locked in a room for months. If my friend hadn’t realized that my isolation was causing me to plan suicide, I wouldn’t be here writing this. Without her intervention, a forced promise to talk to a doctor the very next day, I wouldn’t be here.

ALL the emotions must be met with compassion for oneself. I had to look at it as, “What if I were comforting someone going through everything I am right now?” I’d talk to my mirror self, coaxing gentle thoughts when I was afraid. I could sit with myself and be as angry as I wanted to. I could hate myself if I felt the need, but compassion towards this “other” person was necessary. I had to rethink how I’d approach someone who was hurting so deeply, then adjust my behavior towards myself. Sometimes I’d look like a lunatic talking out loud to myself negotiating “me” off the ledge of despair or frustration. It was necessary. I had to feel what I’d forgotten in order to remember.

Fear is a Liar

One of the hardest things I’ve ever faced was the demons in my darkness. The places where I squirm uncomfortably because I did, said, or acted in a way that was not becoming to how I see myself. Example: My grandmother had the same color skin I did when it came to makeup. I was out. She was not. I took it. Even with my hands red with lies, I denied it. I swore up and down it was mine. Nobody believed me. (*) Can’t imagine why! (*)=Sarcasm Alert (btw) Yeah, that’s not a big one, but I don’t steal. I know better. I knew better. I did it anyway.

As I write about it now, it seems so trivial. It was a stupid thing I did. But, it made me afraid to tell the darker things in my life. It made me fear that if I told about my sexual abuse I wouldn’t be believed either. Because we can all see how stealing something and sexual abuse are related right? I could. Fear held me captive for far too many years. It became such a part of my life that I was suffocated by its “good” intentions. I was wrong. It kept me from living as I was meant to. It kept me from love. It kept me from light. But most of all, it kept me from finding personal grace.

When I realized fear was holding me back, I decided to change that. I started talking about my demons. I started disclosing the cobwebbed ideas that I’d held hostage under the guise that people would judge or hate me. I had to purge my closets. I had to release it. And holy cow was a scared to death! But, as with the next section, once I lopped off the ugliness and embraced me, allowed fear to fall away, I discovered I was okay. That people still loved me, still liked me, still talked to me, and I felt a freedom that I’d only fantasized about through much of my young adult life.

You Have Always Been Worthy

You are worth of love. You are worthy of compassion. You are worth a beautiful life. You are worth happiness. You are worth being every moment who you were born to be. Others may have attempted to steal away your being, but once you’ve decided to heal, as with ceasing any negative behavior, repeating positive messages to yourself when you “hear” the bad things you’ve been told is crucial.

Your inherent beauty is and always has been within you. You don’t have to believe me. You can write this off as new age fluff if you want to, but I know this is true. I see it in people who have no idea how very wonderful they are. There are people who are so confident in their very nature that they exude a sense of light from every action. You know those people. The ones that no matter how crappy your day is, just seeing them, hearing from them, or being with them makes you smile. A small secret here. YOU ARE THAT PERSON! I kid you not.

Understand that those voices, my beloved human, are not real. When you close your mind to the outside and listen to your spirit, you will know this to be true. You are new. You are whole. You are everything you’re meant to be. It’s up to you to decide you want your life to be love. It’s up to you to decide if you are worthy. I assure you, my dearest friend, you are. You really, truly, without a shadow of doubt, are that light of love.

Fighting

ONE, TWO punch

ONE, TWO punch!

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.

Letter to a Woman

I wrote the original of this in January 2014. I’m pretty sure it was because I was encouraging someone to think differently. Here is a repeat performance as we enter into bikini season, as the fashion bullshit-o-meter calls it.

Ruby the Bodyworks beauty

Ruby the Bodyworks beauty

Dear Human,

I am reading your posts about someone(s)calling you fat. In our society where a size zero is revered and anything over that is overweight, it’s so easy…so, so easy to think that you’re nothing unless you meet that standard. People, as a whole, don’t care if it leaves you crying when they call you fat. They don’t care if you’ve lost 100 pounds and are still working towards the goal. If you’re not the societal warped version of a body, then you’re a nothing, not a zero because that would be skinny, but a nothing.

When I was young, I was not thin, but I was womanly in my curves. I had a relatively flat stomach until I was 22 when my body flipped me the bird and gained 100 pounds in six months. I felt horrible all the time. Just seeing myself in the mirror would bring me to tears and eventually, I just quit looking. It was too painful and awkward.

At 26, I realized I was dramatically unhealthy. Not just fat, but unhealthy. I went vegetarian and worked out every day for 3 months and went from 256lbs to 159. I kept that weight off for two years, minimal effort, and although I fluctuated a few pounds here and there, I kept my exercise and diet plan clean and clear.

In 1999, I was raped. Unfortunately, that happened to coincide with my thyroid going bat shit crazy and I gained all but 20 pounds of the weight I’d worked so hard to lose. I was back up in the 230’s…high end. With stress eating and hormones flying around like the Wizard of Oz monkey’s, I got suicidally depressed.

2005 rolled around and I moved to TN with my best friend and her boyfriend to live at my father’s house. I had to eat at restaurants for the next two years, and although my weight stayed in the 230’s, I wasn’t really happy. I could look at myself in the mirror, but I constantly tore myself apart. If my boobs didn’t sag. If my butt had a shape other than pancake. If my arms didn’t have bat wings. If my belly didn’t make me look like the Michelin man. So many things I couldn’t like about my body. I further admit that I read celebrity gossip rags religiously and loved the way their bodies looked and dreamed of being like them.

And just like my use of drugs when I was in my late teens, I just woke up one day and said, no more. At first that little voice, that constantly criticized me and told me I was fat, ugly, unworthy, un-loveable, etc. was so loud it made it hard to hear anything else. But, every time I’d hear that voice (whether internal or external) I’d reassure myself that I am okay.

After a while, it became second nature. I replaced all of the bad things I used to tell myself and have told to me, with positive things. I can walk. I can touch my toes. I can breathe. I can do a push-up. I can work harder than most people. I am rather attractive. I am kind.I am compassionate. I’m a helper. I’m a giver. I’m appreciated. I am worthy. I am loved. And the body issues, for me, fell away like the weight so evident on my thighs.

I want you to know that I share this with you because you ARE beautiful. Even with me saying kind things, NEVER believe anyone but yourself. Trust your instincts, ignore everyone else’s opinions because in the end, you’re the only person responsible for your own happiness and the only one you’ll have in your life 24/7/365 until your last day on this plane. You’re wonderful. I guarantee that. You’re compassionate.I’ve seen it. You’re a kind woman to everyone. You’re a great mother and a good wife. I’ve watched you. You’re a devoted friend with a kind heart. Love yourself enough that anyone who objects to your value, clearly doesn’t know your worth.

Sincerely,

Mare, the first wonder twin, Martell