october 1, 2022.

 

My kids are of the age now that they are becoming both cognizant & able to verbalize the behaviors of their peers and others around them. Spending quite a bit of time with their classmates over the past 3 years, I, too, have watched and taken notice of the vast spectrum of personalities in these children.

 

There’s one little boy I think of sometimes that I met last year on the zoo field trip; He had me in hysterics that day – he was such a delight. The kid had zero inhibitions, would talk to anything and everything, and liked to hide from the teacher he was supposed to be holding hands with then jump out and scare her. He was…. different, but he made me smile.

 

I’ve taught (am teaching) both of my kids to be kind to everyone and they really are – my son, in particular, likes to take care of the underdogs (he might have a slight hero complex, will think on this), and he sometimes will play with that little boy from the zoo and when he does, he always gets into the car after school with a funny story about them playing. It was last Tuesday when the kids get in the car and instead of telling me some funny story about this little boy, the first thing out of my son’s mouth was that this kid was crazy (he’d had a meltdown in front of the entire class). As he’s telling me the story, I’m in my head recalling what I’d witnessed at the zoo that day & I’m in total agreement with my son thinking, “bro, he is most def crazy”.

 

And then it hit me, marked by visceral disgust. A defining moment in awareness for Self; how can things change if I participate in dehumanizing other human beings? This little boy’s uncontrolled emotional outburst was just that and it did not make him crazy.

 

“He’s not crazy, baby, his brain is just different than other people. Let’s remember that they are special or else they wouldn’t be here; they might act differently than you and me, but they aren’t crazy. We should learn about what they’ve gone through, not make them feel alone.”

 

 

 

I used to post this gif of a woman throwing cats any time one of them would call me crazy, tell me I was damaged goods, that I was going to die old and alone. I knew that telling my story, sharing the journey of the aftermath and beyond with the world was risky. To me, however, the benefit of helping others, exposing abuse and broken systems to help us become a better society/country, and to be a light for others in some very dark times far outweighed the possibility of potential consequences for doing these things, like dehumanization from my own peers.

 

The weapon of choice against Cake is always her trauma. Call her crazy, that will get her. Tell her she's delusional and paranoid. Ostracize her. Single out and neutralize the threat.

 

i always want to ask the ones that do this to me what exactly kind of threat am I to them?

but i know the answer and whether it's chosen ignorance or unconscious internal shame, the assholes will never admit that their treatment of me and others

is

simply

because

of

fear.

 

using someone's pain and suffering to discredit and dehumanize them says quite a lot about those doing it.

& it has

nothing

NO THING

to do with you, the receiver of this shitty treatment, my dear,

that has caused their villainization of you.

 

if you need to use words like crazy when speaking of another human being,

to justify how you treat them,

i suggest a mirror and therapy

 

the human condition comes with insecurity, there will always be an aura of hesitancy in vulnerability for humans.

 

insecurity is shown in different ways; an insecure man might spin 48 plates and then wonder why no woman will love him - he uses women to feel better about his insecurities whereas an insecure woman might target who she perceives as competition and passive aggressively bully her publicly - this gives her a false sense of power to fill those insecurities.

 

in a perfect world, we all have awareness about our insecurities and actively work on overcoming them in positive ways but, we live on Earth, in America (most of my readers), an existence of imperfection BECAUSE of the constant search for it.

that was deep. might want to re-read that a couple of times *winky face*

 

so why are not all of us, if insecurity being innate is in fact true, assholes? why do some of us not use our insecurities to tear others down?

CHOICE

 

of entitlement.

they think they are entitled to treat others like shit because they have an unconscious hatred of Self.

 

 

and then they call you crazy. lulz.

 

insecurity (plus) the CHOICE of thinking you are entitled = your modern-day abuser, asshole, kween bee, whatever you want to call all of the people that try to break you.

 

 

 

power - insecure and entitled

resorting to

malicious means to climb to the top of the social structure(s) they are a part of

 

which is cool by me, just leave me out of your ascent to hell (you're living life upside down, fyi). i want no part of Maslow's overturned hierarchy.

 

i live on the outside of the pyramid for a reason and i suspect,

this is where the jealousy, the fear, the inability to treat me as a human being stems from.

 

 

i imagine them in bed at night thinking:

use her trauma against her

(my insecure passive aggressive tactic will) hopefully make her feel permanently broken and undeserving of any kind of support or human relationship.

 

and you know what, it sometimes works.

my armor isn't always on.

sometimes i take it off to rest.

and i feel

because i am human

and although i understand the why's of humans doing this to me,

i still cannot understand the how's.

 

 

i am a woman who lives with a disorder caused by severe abuse over the years that

not only continues, but has multiplied

 

this isn't the life i dreamed of as a little girl - to be used, abused, violated, shamed, humiliated, isolated, finding herself without a friend.

 

to say i am crazy, unwell, or any other slur you'd like to call me is just not true.

 

i was not born shattered like the stars in the night sky; i was born alive with the ability to choose, just like you.

 

my choices have been to turn my traumas into proof, tangible proof, that despite being human and all of the difficulties, at random, that come with it, strength, vitality, and resilience can persevere despite the odds.

 

i am proof, that even in those moments others make me feel immense shame for things i logically know i have no reason to feel shame about, that you don't have to stay in those moments of shame, you don't have to believe the lies they tell you about you.

 

i am proof, that attempts to silence me will not work; it only makes me want to speak louder. I refuse to suffer in silence. I've had to do that too many times before and not once can i think of that it benefited me in any way.

 

i am proof that admitting to and speaking about a mental illness caused to me from years of abuse does not make me broken or crazy, it makes me honest and real - alive in the ways those who bully me only wish they could be.

 

words carry weight, especially in this current era where trauma is prevalent, both generational and ongoing environmental/societal. the walking wounded are all around you with scars you cannot see, but scars, nonetheless. those soldiers who have seen the unthinkable, have had to do the unthinkable, the child who acts a little off because his mom did drugs while pregnant with him, the man sitting by himself at the bar because his wife treats him like a second-class citizen, the single mom who is crying alone on her bed wondering if she really is this worthless because all she knows is being used and abused.

 

i chose to not stigmatize the very real ramifications of trauma; i choose to continue speaking about my story, my journey, my good days and my bad because i refuse to be a part of the growing group of insecure, entitled humans that make it hard for others to speak up and get help.

 

 

i choose to fully embrace the human experience and all that comes with it, the emotions, the fear, the love, the joy, the beauty

to share with the world all of these things i experience

 

and you know what,

i think i'm doing a pretty damn good job at not being what they label me as

considering what i've been through....

 

but,

 

those stories are for another day

 

on October 1st of every year my mother would start the day off by telling me that today was the day she went to the hospital to have me. Every single year she'd tell me this, followed by, "I was having contractions but had to wait for your father to iron his jeans and shirt before we could go", which made me giggle every time because how apropos for my very narcissistic father.

 

it was a sentiment of hers i grew fond of; despite my eye rolls and "moooooooom" when she'd tell it, i secretly enjoyed and expected that story every year.

 

but now... but now she is gone, no story, only the memory

 

and i think to myself, today, the first time without hearing this melodramatic tale of the beginning stages of my birth from her, that i was special to somebody.

 

and that somebody didn't think I was crazy, or damaged, or unlovable.

and that somebody would be devastated to know that her daughter, whom she brought into this world, is treated so callously, as an object, as a means to an end. Because the way I am treated is essentially a slap in the face to the person that loved me unconditionally and gave me life - it's telling her that her creation was trash.

 

 

 

 

and after all of this, i think what hurts most, is that there is a man out there that knows these things are untrue - these dehumanizing things said about me, yet, he not only doesn't say anything, but he also remains friends with the very people that make me question my significance as a human - that make me want to just give up.

 

there is a man out there, that for years told me i was the strongest woman he knew, that he'd never loved anyone like me, said i was the best mother he'd seen, who sat with me through some of the darkest times of my life and i, sitting with him through the same, and said i was the only light he'd ever known, and now

 

now,

he just watches as a passive bystander as his insecure and entitled friends swallow him whole, causing him to forget everything he once stood for.

 

those realizations really do a girl in.

 

but

 

she's still not what they call her.

 

and

she'll continue being everything they wished they were, despite the unwarranted hurt they cause her.

 

 

most importantly, she will keep telling her story; silencers be damned.

 

because Truth, capital T, is the strongest weapon.

 

and the girl you call crazy and broken,

she holds that Truth in the palm of her hands.

 

10:08 p.m. I turn and see the Cheshire cat smiling back at me

 

When the day becomes the night and the sky becomes the sea,

When the clock strikes heavy and there’s no time for tea.

And in our darkest hour, before my final rhyme,

She will come back home to Wonderland and turn back the hands of time.

 

or,

maybe that's my mom in the cat's grin & words...

 

OR,

maybe it's me

october 2, 2022.

When the fear becomes stronger than the feeling,

i become paralyzed by the paralysis.

 

Anger – my anger – the feeling of anger – is always directed at those who are/have been abused, as well, because those are the ones that hurt me, hurt others.

 

and what a conundrum, you know…

this is what it’s like to have grace and empathy while being slaughtered.

 

Always in your head going but how will they learn? who will hold them accountable? It’s just their trauma cakey, show them compassion.

 

[insert that inner war between God and Satan I spoke of last night]

 

The anger obviously stems from fear and in these wars of the Holy, in my requests for silence from the crowd during them, I've been paying attention

 

my fear is

 

that there won’t be any good humans left anymore – that society will become one giant white horse sinking in the swamp of sadness, and that if only they’d listened to me…..

 

There’s my ego heyyyy-oooooooooooooooo

 

(resentment for this is real and can easily be overcome by vengeance)

ay, but this is not a path I care to go down; I do not think I could even if I wanted; I don’t have a vengeance bone in my body, just the Truth in the palm of my hands.

 

……something resembling an umbilical cord……

 

Truth is contained in the

Thing, which leads to

Love.

 

It gives life to the other and that life is reciprocated.

This Thing cannot be severed.

 

It’s leaving Mississippi

On I-20

And saying goodbye to the half of your soul you left behind,

Handing them the keys to it.

 

Where do the angels go that are losing faith?

 

 

 

i think i'm distracting from the real thing here...

 

i miss them all and angry they had to go.

october 3, 2022.

i saw him in a dream, in the numbers, felt him in the sun's rays

 

 

i was always a peculiar girl

only child

of divorced parents

hidden in my head, or by a book

but always watching

 

i will never be like the other girls and i think,

i think i am finally ok with this

i don't particularly want a man that wants those other girls

those girls are so manly and boring and insecure and just

 

not me.

 

 

and intuitively, i think looking back, that i always knew i was going to be the heroine of my story.

 

there is always a lesson in the conflicts and i feel that i am always searching for that plot, that conflict and resolution, the thing that ties it all together, and in this search

i realize i will face many existential crises.

 

 

without them,

there would be no "why's" or "how's"

 

there wouldn't be humans like me, born to seek, ask, and speak of the hard things most want to pretend don't exist, or deny they are a part of

 

 

 

 

 

i've cleared my mind this week (for the last 4 years, really, but healing isn't linear, they say)

held personal intention and integrity with (S)elf

removed, to the best of my ability, all layers of conditioning

and i think, i think i made it through the dark night, removing Ego Self.

 

the irony is, Satan thinks he got my soul for that key - he has no clue i had hidden the one to the door marked freedom. Took a lot of work for that key to freedom, but i got it.

 

and so, i ask myself, tonight, the last night of a decade full of horrors i wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, was it worth it? was it worth all of the misfortune(s)?

 

 

 

 

 

the skies were a brilliant shade of orange and purple

we watched the sunset together

stood in the rain

kissed like we were dying

spoke in riddles and poetry

my fingers gliding over mountains and valleys

hands on hearts and thighs

we were safe, i was safe

and they said i see you

as i stared into that angel's soul

 

and so yes, the misfortune was worth it.

 

because i am Loved

and

i Love.

 

always have and always will. nobody can take that from me.

 

 

 

The death of Cake's soul took a decade to happen. Time measured by meaningful moments grew so very slow. I became a character in The Neverending Story, I WAS THE WHITE HORSE LOST TO THE SWAMP OF SADNESS.

 

It was only when there were signs I could not ignore, watching my mother die, watching my(S)elf die, that I realized unless I did something my time here on Earth would be spent failing to resist to conformity & power, control. I would become the human version of The Nothing AND of Artex dying in that stupid swamp; despair, destruction, voids everywhere. I would have no meaningful moments that give my soul what it needs to thrive. The death of a soul doesn't last forever. Eventually, it really does die & then what? I don't want to find out that answer.

 

the next 10 years... I cannot wait.

 

I hold it true that thoughts are things

Endowed with bodies, breath and wings,

And that we send them forth to fill

The world with good results or ill.

That which we call our secret thought,

Speeds to the earth's remotest spot,

And leaves its blessings or its woes,

Like tracks behind it as it goes.

We awaken in another

Just the thoughts our minds contain.

If we're kind, we win their kindness,

If we hate, they hate again.

We pass on to brother mortals

The vibrations of the soul,

And the knowing ones receive them,

As they search from pole to pole.

We build our futures thought by thought,

Or good or bad, and know it not

Yet so the universe is wrought.

Thought is another name for Fate,

Choose, then, thy destiny and wait

For love brings love and hate brings hate.

 

-Victor Segno

 

 

 

My step-father brought me my favorite cake this morning- red velvet

 

Said he won't be able to be over tomorrow

 

I think it reminds him of my mom & her memory is too much... I empathize

 

& so... as I do most things, will go into the next chapter alone & full of conviction & faith.

 

but lonely

 

God, I am lonely.

 

Sad & scared & lonely with conviction & faith.

 

a hug was all I needed.

october 4, 2022.

it took me until today to understand that grief =/= grieving.

grief is grieving's dark and sadistic cousin

it feels like someone walks into the quiet room you're sitting in and starts screaming out of nowhere

it leaves you disoriented, scared, trembling and sobbing on the floor of your bedroom

and then...

 

it's gone again.

 

so last week, last week i was an absolute shit show. i kinda sorta am already, but that grief, she got me good. it was like i was grieving the grief i *assumed* i would have as my birthday neared and hooboi, did i get spun up. there were a lot of trips to go privately sob in the bathroom and it was one of the rare occasions i was a tiny bit glad my ex had the kids over the weekend so i didn't have to pretend to be <insert positive feeling jazz hands here>.

 

i'm really not good at pretending... i wear my heart on my sleeve, proving this over and over again with my raw word vomits and piles of art, both of which contain mass quantities of feelings and e m o t i o n.

 

i expected the intensity of pain to pick up as the days went by but things have gotten weird.

 

i think i might have smiled. for at least a half a second on at least 3 separate occasions.

and the tears, they would not come no matter how much i willed them.

neither would the intense sadness and pangs of loss that induced those tears.

 

 

 

I read C.S. Lewis's A Grief Observed years ago and cannot stop thinking of it today.

an anthology of journals he wrote after the loss of his wife - theirs a story of Love, capital L - a story on its own worth reading Helen Joy Davidman (Mrs. C.S. Lewis) 1915-1960: A Portrait - C.S. Lewis Institute (cslewisinstitute.org).

 

losing someone integral to your experience, to your very existence, is profoundly traumatic.

 

the questions after that loss (or those losses) are on a carousel that is run by a man that has done an insane amount of stimulants with the clowns in front of the tiger's cage, and so he just keeps the carousel going; finger constantly tapping the start button.

 

you see the horses and other painted animals going up and down, taunting you

you catch reflections of yourself in the mirrors, but they are spinning so fast you only see parts to the whole

is that an eye or a lip, a hand or a heart?

each question is riding one of those animals with its face frozen in fiberglass horror

and each answer is in those spinning mirrors above them

 

there is no escaping grief, for any human - it is a universal experience to be had at an individual level

 

it is a universal transition from life before the loss to life after

 

it is a universal fear

 

God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn't. In this trial He makes us occupy the dock, the witness box, and the bench all at once. He always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down.

 

 

 

 

 

she'd had 5 miscarriages before me and had a hysterectomy after i was born.

she'd tell me i was her miracle

her only

 

now that i've had my own children and have experienced the moment my very being brought another human into the world, i can appreciate that my birthday wasn't always about just me.

 

it was a celebration of us, her and i

this moment only we'd experience together and can never be recreated - like a thumbprint

of the moment a woman became someone's hero and of the moment some little girl would someday become hers

it was a woman shedding her identity to embrace unconditional love for this human she had brought into the world and teaching this little girl to have it for others

 

i always wanted to hide on this day, only wanting attention when i want it and i never liked attention on my birthday.

 

my mother, though, my mother's actions showed she thought it was about the best day of the year. there have been so many sleepovers, trips to Vegas and other countries, times when it was just her and i...

 

no matter what there was always red velvet cake and

 

unconditional Love.

 

 

 

 

after a week of self-induced torture, of darkness i don't want to speak of or ever remember, of demons and shadows

 

i have made it through.

 

what i've taken away from this week, this decade -

 

there isn't one shell, there are many one must break, and the shells get harder the closer to your soul they get

 

grief/suffering is the hardest but best way to gain knowledge/derive wisdom

 

surrendering and handing over control to something called faith can be quite comforting

 

people will hurt you, really, really bad - these people are hurting - it helps to remember that

 

sometimes, all you have to do is look up

 

the soul is unbreakable, once you get to it

 

strength and courage are just words; most things are just words

 

Love exists and can save you, us

 

most people are not good and

 

you really only have Self - make peace with that reflection in the mirror; forgiveness of Self > forgiveness of others

 

because you never know when crisis will strike, and sometimes, the crisis is not physical