I AM More Important Than Your History

Random thoughts as I woke up this morning, and began my daily motions crept into my head. I have been thinking about the acecssibility of my city, or the lack there of. The excuse I am given in new buildings is that the sticker on the door should be enough. Some places obviously tried and usually it shows in grand ways. Other places give the excuse that to put a ramp in, or wide enough doors would be destroying the historical importance of the building that their business sits in. I am more important than the history of the world. All people are.

I know that this makes me appear to hate history, yet this is the opposite of truth. My first passion in life was history and I have always loved taking part in reenactments. I am for preservation but not when the preservation includes the history of excluding others based on arbitrary things such as skin color or ability. I suspect that the place I live is far from the only one guilty of such crimes, yet I look at the excuses and they no longer work.

The first time I approached a historical building and there was no ramp, the excuse worked, because then I did not know my rights under the Americans with Disabilities act. The second time I was told this, the excuse did not work but I had no power. Since then I have regularly avoided the section of town that is considered somehow worthy of preservation. Even going along the side walks outside is difficult as the inclines on the “accessible” places are so steep my power chair cannot make it, and coming down the other side of these inclines would likely be an act of suicide. Old Town is lovely, and often has events that are free and meant to gather the entire community. These events only count if you are willing to burn out your chair engine, sink into grass, or sit on the only part of the side walk that you can get to that is safe. The excuse is history.

None of these buildings retains their original purpose. They are all shops selling the same tourist crap. There are a few restaurants but they too are selling the tourist crap. People claim native ancestry and sit out on the side walks, because this is apparently historical too and barricade the way. I have had people get angry at me for asking them to move so I can go past. Then there is the staring. For some reason people react more strongly to my presence in this section of town. The idea that a disabled person may be near these expensive shops, may want to see some old time gun battling, or in general may want to be on the side walk that has curb cuts at BOTH ends (an extreme rarity in this town no matter the section) boggles their minds.

I have found my response finally, for why they need to have access for me and others who are disabled. I am more important than your history. It is not my history if I am prevented from learning about it. It is not a history I can embrace when a store that is selling the same tourist thing as the one next door can have stairs and no entry and their excuse is history. I realized this morning that the lie does not work for a very simple reason.

All of these buildings have restrooms. Every single one has a place to go when your bladder is full, when the tourist trap food gives you a stomach ache, or when you need to check your make up. Every single one. All of these buildings were built without restrooms. Every single one. They were built with out houses in the back, all of which are torn down. If access is less important than poop, you are obviously not thinking straight. If you prize history over poeple, you lose vital lessons about people that history contains. Yes, the stories here are amusing, amazing, and important. So are the people who want to hear them and might not be able to.

So there it is, my reply has been cemented finally. Whenever someone plays the history card in this never ending game of poker for bigots, I have my answer. If you can put in an outhouse, you can put in a ramp. I am more important than your history.

Pumpkin Pie (Trigger Warning)

a cat with silver fur, black stripes, has wide eyes and is being fed a bite of pumpkin pie

Not how thanksgiving looks inside my head

Pumpkin pie, soft, creamy, and since mine is crustless just a wad of soothing and cold chewiness. The scent trickles into my mouth to tease at me, and is the only Thanksgiving day food I can eat without becoming ill. Mashed potatoes are also fine but must be different than the recipes from my family dinners. No gravy, cheese, and almost always something in the food. Turkey, I can barely type the word. I can barely say the word. I will not eat it. I have been forced to by people using that vulnerability against me and I react to it with a mental allergic response. It is not somatic but the PTSD triggers hard and fast.

This is what I expect of Thanksgiving.

Yesterday I remembered something that has given me a sense of relief. Today as I continue to process the revelations I am left staring down the barrel of gender identity issues. I have had gender identity challenges my entire life. They base in my being autistic and as many other autistic women face challenges of being accused of decidedly unfeminine behavior so have I. There is a root with in the numerous and enduring sexual abuse that has dominated my life and was the end all be all of my childhood. From being prostituted to ministers and the supposed holiest people I know at the age of three and raped by my father to the rape at gun point by a high school boy who didn’t seem to understand this was why I stabbed him with a fork at school when he put his hand on my shoulder. I once tried to cut off my breasts to become a boy, and I have never really appreciated my femininity.I am aware there is more to this, including the fact that I am intersexed physically. I have testicles AND ovaries. Maybe if my mother had eaten, I would have been a male child. Maybe not. I do not consider myself to be of one gender in a sense but I am either feeling male or female.

I have spent years keeping this a secret, and in public I might still. Yet I am thinking this doesn’t matter. My carer knows. My best friend knows. My sister of choice knows. I know. To me this is who matters. I dress according to the way I feel, and even my male side is prone to wearing dark red lipstick. It feels sexy. I have fought and clawed my way through life trying to exist, and I have been told repeatedly that girls just don’t fight back. It is a fiction in a bad life time movie that women can ever do damage, we are eternal victims.

It wasn’t JUST the media that sent me this message. Nor was it subtle. It is my nature to fight back when I am in danger. I have very good survival skills. I am fully capable of killing you if you try to kill me. I won’t murder you but I won’t let you murder me. This has been unequivocally a part of who I am and I have wondered if when I was raped for the entirety of Thanksgiving weekend, so Wednesday night on through a Sunday night, when I was beaten and when the fragmented memories didn’t match the normal abuse patterns… did I even try to fight back?

Therapists told me no. If I had tried to fight back then he would have killed me. Except he thought he did and I have very real memories of meeting Osiris the god of the dead in Egyptian Mythology and having him put me back in my body and ordering me to live. I have marks on my chest that match where his hands were. My father wanted me to be dead, and did not try CPR. He thought I was dead. I don’t know about pulse checking and I am very aware that this could be a response to the very serious trauma to my brain from being bludgeoned with a gun, but I was left for dead.

My mother, who a child loves and believes on pretty much anything until Mother proves to be a person. No matter the health of relationship good or bad, Mothers do happen to be humans and thus the teenager occurs. Yes, my mother spent my entire life telling me that we don’t fight back in my family. The men are the abusers and the women in my family are there to be hit. She has said less of this to my baby sister but the message still is there. Women don’t fight back.

I have had mental hospital doctors torture me over my fighting back, I fought them and yet I was not allowed to have fought back against my father when I was alone. My agency was denied as children don’t fight back unless they are penis bearers. My father made it clear that if we fought back we would die but there are other memories of me fighting back. My siblings sometimes declared their hatred of me because my morals got us into a world of literal hurt. Then again they also wanted me to lie and I am still very bad at that.

When I was somewhere between 11-13 and was raped by someone else and I did fight back the police told me they wouldn’t let the boy press charges. I took a bit of rebar to his head, his father’s car, his house and let his dog go (never came back). I was willing to kill him for what he did to me and yet again, the police told me that women just aren’t allowed.

The media does this too. In movies it is extremely rare for a woman to fight back unless she was already a victim with years of self defense, hiding in terror and her abuser finds her and then she either kills him, takes him back and tricks him, or is rescued by the new romance in her life. Not just life time folks but block buster films. It is never with in the intial attack that a woman fights back. In horror movies, the attacks come in waves and it is finally after a breaking point, or the loss of all of the human shields that the female fights back and often still dies. Running away is good, as happens in horror movies with the cliched fall so the bad man can still get you. This is an acceptable reaction and is something I approve of, just don’t trip.

It is the female who is unfeminine in movies that is the villain. Either a caricature of a woman with sexual appetites such as Famke Jansen’s role in a James Bond movie or a woman who is something ugly, othered or is somehow defective. These are our female villains. Any villainous who is beautiful tends to not be acting under her own charms or supposedly it is more scary for a waifish beauty to be bad. Again, by being beautiful she is supposed to subvert the norms of who is acceptable with in a violent situation.

Women become their traumas. This is the other message I have struggled with my entire life. I was reduced not to a bad childhood but this single moment in a trauma filled life. None of my traumas are my identity even if they chipped some of the facets of my personality or left scars on me that changed the outcome of my personal growth to this point. The good moments in my life had just as much impact and I am the result of everything I have thought, read, heard, and learned. Every person I met, every person I did not meet. Every bit of media I have heard. It is not my trauma that makes me who I am. The Brave One, the entire premise of the film, which I linked above for my example, is that the woman is just her trauma.

This is a perception that removes the humanity from She Who Fights Back. You are no longer human but you are Rape. You are not actually a Woman, therefore it’s okay once more for you to be violent. There must be something wrong with you if you are a woman who fights back, this is the pervasive message I have been living with. There have been years I nearly killed myself over the simple fact that I did not fight back. I could not live with the idea that I did not, even as a small child, try to get away.

I remember when I first began to wonder why I didn’t fight back, it was after I was told by a therapist I would be lying if I claimed I had. I sat there quietly for the rest of our session, I was in a mental hospital at the time. The first time. I watched her face and I wondered if she had ever been hurt too, and if she had fought back. She had long plastic nails that she was tapping on her clipboard. I felt like she was angry at me, and my more experienced interpretation of her expression still reads anger. She went from someone I could talk with to a cold wall of rage when I asked about trying to get away or maybe hitting him back. This was just a few months after and I still had pain in my shoulders that radiated from the underside of the joint, and my hands were still swollen. In fact my hands have never fully recovered from the kick of the gun and my shoulder dislocations started then. We had fired guns before as a family, that wasn’t my first time but I never liked it because of the pain and the loudness.

Even as I am writing this I am playing in my mind the moment I picked up the gun. There was no hesitation. Something again that movies show. Women always hesitate with weapons. Men sometimes do, but they have the option of not. I pointed it at him. I remember his face. His eyes betrayed his shock, surprise, and then anger. I pulled the trigger. He didn’t get to mock me first, he didn’t get any lines out like the cliche, “You won’t do it.” He had lunged for me and I fired the gun until the bullets ran out. I have another new fragment but it is like a single frame of video. I see him in it with a police officer, but everything is hazy, I am just aware he is convincing them that nothing is wrong. This is new too, but I had never expected if the police came that they would rescue me. I learned that well before 1992. I just realized it couldn’t be 93, because my brother wasn’t born until AFTER this incident, I was off by a year.

So I have been fighting this for longer than I thought. I have found the most painful idea in my life was that I would just let him hurt me. This is of course not what happened, and no victim EVER lets their abuser hurt them. Even if you cannot or do not fight back, you did not give him permission. My personal battle was learning this. Fighting back is pivotal in my mind as something important. Even if you don’t win, you must try.

I know as an adult fighting back entails more than shooting or stabbing someone. It can be the moment you open the door and smell someone’s pumpkin pie and think “I am free”. Even if that is not true that little moment can give you a hint of the truth for years. The shifted association of foods during Thanksgiving from being all disgusting and triggering based on being raped, force-fed and torn apart with food as the supposed reason I deserved to be raped and beaten even pumpkin pie has confused me. Why was that pie safe? I still can’t eat my mother’s version of mashed potatoes. My father didn’t like green beans so those were safe until the allergies happened but the pie has been as much of a mystery to me as my wondering who I used to be.

I was not reborn in that moment after all, the idea was just a way of coping with the blatant lies I was told about who I was allowed to be. It is amazing to me how many people, in the name of supposed survival, reject the idea that women can be strong at all ages. This has effected my writing, my game play and what I could do. This is not trivial in any way shape or form. The core of who I was did not break, and that is important. My spirit never broke, and who I am is essentially the same on the base level as who I was before. This means perhaps I did not really lose my innocence but instead it was hidden away, so I could survive.

I do not cry much but I am crying now. How can I not cry for I know there are other little girls, women, people in between the male and female who wonder if they fought back. Who are told every day that this is an impossibility. Children do not have the knowledge yet to think critically about if people are lying, this is a skill we learn as we grow. A facet of being nuerodiverse in this world, and everyone fits in there somewhere, is that people learn these skills at different rates. The ability to critically assess a situation or the media is something that must be taught or it must be learned. Not everyone is capable of this and children have to learn from somewhere.

I am left questioning the validity of mental health for women, children, and anyone with chronic pain or PTSD. How can so many therapists male and female believe that women just don’t think of fighting back? Making self defense a taboo or something that is only allowed after a violation is incredibly dangerous. This is a part of the forbidden dialogue of rape itself. We are warned to not talk about rape as survivors. Victims may be unable to do so and a part of this is, even at the age of eight it was hinted that I deserved to be raped. Was eight year old me just so sexy she deserved it? That’s what I have been told. I also came forward with in the statute of limitations and because my father raped me I was told that my case just wasn’t worth the District Attourney’s time. They beleived me. They just didn’t care because I was a little girl. I have never forgotten being told I am not enough of a person, that wasn’t the first time but that was the moment I lost faith in the world itself and knew I stand alone.

Except I do not stand alone. Of all the lies that came out of this worst trauma it was the lie that I was somehow the worst female in the world, worst at femininity, worst at self defense, worst at being loved and that I was alone and no one else would know what it was to want to die, to suffer, or to fear. I was defective. I do not want to kill myself today, and this is the first thanksgiving in a very long time.

I am afraid for the children of this world. The messages that are being taught, the things that even adult women fetishize such as Twilight with its codependant pedophilic necrophiliac abusive manipulative beastiality domestic violence women stay in the kitchen marry for sex and all the other crap that Twilight is REALLY about underneath the sparkling vampires… these messages are the normal for our children not the exception.

James Bond (Trigger Warning and Destruction of Fantasy Warning)

James Bond, the fantasy of many men. The ideal that men are told they must be. He is deemed sexy, he drives fast cars, and shoots people without remorse. The super spy, agent 007. James Bond is every ideal according to the media and is a role model for elegance for many men. James Bond is a rapist. James Bond is a Misogynist. James Bond is not the type of person anyone should model their sex appeal after. James Bond’s franchise shows more violence against women while dehumanizing them than many others, while making this seem like a good thing. The female characters that Bond has sex with are reduced beyond a name but to property. The Bond Girl. A Bond Girl.

It started out as a pleasurable afternoon activity, a reward for my hard work. I turned on Doctor No, and though I was aware the film would be disablist, racist, and generally ridiculous I was prepared for that and Sean Connery’s stereotypical white man in the movies good looks. I was not prepared for the growing disconcertion that would happen as I proceeded through my Bond movie Marathon. Bond is a rapist, he commits sexual assault and his female coworkers should file complaints daily. This never happens of course. MoneyPenny instead becomes entranced with him, wanting to be a Bond Girl herself but of course she’s just not good enough for Bond. Little does she know this saves her from what I have deemed his Death STD.

I became unable to like Bond by the end of From Russia With Love. You see, I was prepared for the sexism, I was prepared for the violence and the racism as I said. I was not prepared for a scene which I had forgotten was present. James Bond doesn’t take no for an answer, in fact this is a part of his trademark. He ‘seduces’ women who are unwilling. As the female fights and pushes him away, as she says no he continues to force himself on her. Bond’s body pins Tatiana Romanova down. She said no, he kisses her and she stops fighting him. That was when I stopped the movie and had to deal with the fact that James Bond is a rapist. I couldn’t just turn my brain off, instead my brain kicked into hyperdrive cataloging everything wrong with Bond.

I could list them here and run out of energy to type. Instead I will skip over the fact that every single Bond Villain up to Quantum of Solace has a disability, disfigurement, or blatantly uses a wheelchair. I could in fact point out that although the Bond films have more people of color acting in them than many other films, all the roles they have are of villains. Such as guy who blows up, guy who gets shot by Bond, etc etc. I could even talk about the objectification of violence but instead I am stuck on the dehumanisation of women, the constant sexual assault, and the frequent rapes that are made worse with the very bad puns.

The female characters in the films defined as Bond Girls for the purpose of this ramble will be defined as such: Bond has shown interest in them, he has had sex (consensual or no) or flirted with them, and they are given a name that makes absolutely no sense and is often some sort of sex joke. These females come in sets of three in most movies, he only marries one, and they all end up dead with the notable exceptions being the female lead in Quantum of Solace. They must also be rescued repeatedly, even M once the role was given to Dame Judi Dench is not saved from this humiliation, they must scream and flail a lot, and every single one of them says “Oh James!” during sex. In fact most of them look exactly alike, they are all “beautiful” by society’s standards. This is a loose definition in some areas and yet there is absolutely no deviation even in the newest and supposedly renovated Bond Films.

By naming the female characters things such as Octopussy the characters are dehumanised, they are reduced to sex. James Bond furthers this by treating every woman that he deems attractive, and that is most women, as if they are there just for his penis to enter. There is no concept of lesbians and if there ever is in a bond film it will be Lesbians for HIS pleasure. Most Bond girls are blonde, though there are a few redheads and the newer films have more dark haired females, all have large breasts except Halle Berry who was misbilled as the first female of color to be in a bond film. This erased Grace Jones’ tenure as the “scary black villainess”. In fact the lack of a signular identity for the characters reduces them to Bond’s property. They exist only for Bond, at his pleasure and discression. Every Bondgirl is attacked, beaten, and most are murdered because they belong to Bond and destroying his property is a good way to get him to react. He almost always “avenges” them but it would be far better for him to just stop having sex all together so that his female companions don’t die. My friend M and I discussed this and he pointed out that this makes it less emotional when he moves on. The woman didn’t die, she died. This means he has a free pass at the next female paragon of his sexual pleasures.

In the 22 Bond Films that exist at the time of this writing over half of the Bond Girls say no. Not in the “playing hard to get” fashion either. The majority of his sexual encounters are non consentual. The other half change their minds once they see how manly he is. Though if a man acted like Bond in person, even his white male privilege would be placed into jeopardy as at least in my local social sphere a person who drives that many sports cars, plays with guns as much as he does, and tries to act so overtly macho is deemed to have impotence issues. This played through my mind often, and helped ease what became an excercise in torture.

It took me exactly 1 week to the hour to watch all of the Bond Movies, though this became my day job. I admit fully that several times I had personal revelations about the forumula for Bond. As a child I wanted to be Bond, not the Bond Girl. This still stands, though I wouldn’t rape anyone. I was disciplined for this and I firmly associate Bond with the assignation of gendered behaviors that is so present in Western Society. I suspect other colonized societies carry this burden too but I can only speak from my sphere of existence. By wanting to drive the fast car, shoot bad guys and get the girl I was being unprofessional. Four year olds aren’t supposed to want this, that was what my mother said. My father corrected her, violently, and pointed out that Boys can want this. Being in a female body, I was forbidden to want the girl, the car, or the “fun”. I realize as an adult that the culture of violence we live in disguises being nearly killed constantly as fun. We pay great deals of money to endure mindless torments in the US. We pay to watch people beat and kill defenseless and rather stupid women.

Back to the Bond Girl Formulae I wrote above. We can expand his Bond Girl related deaths by deeming every female in the bond films a Bond Girl. This means that the charactes that I can recollect surviving right now aside from the final Bond Girl (he usually has two or three women he “loves” during each movie, one to betray him, one to die (sometimes combined) and one to survive to fuck another day) would be MoneyPenny, who is oddly credited as Miss MoneyPenny in the early films as if this will somehow explain why Bond does not desire her, via her being too good for him. The second would be M as Judi Dench.

MoneyPenny is thankfully not brutalized violently, beaten, shot, stabbed, poisoned, suffocated by being painted in gold, dipped in oil, strangulated, dies saving bond, or as a casualty of a drive by style violent thing but is constantly objectified and teased by Bond. The one woman that would consent easily to his sexual requests is rejected, this adds to his predatory nature. MoneyPenny is also one of the few female characters that is shown to have a brain in her head. From the beginning she often could procure information that others with in the agency struggled with. There is no MoneyPenny currently, in the Daniel Craig series. She is now a computer at best, though perhaps she will be made into his equal, a spy of equal power. Of course not. No she will likely be lobodimised or was recast as a male and I didn’t notice. Bond still treats her as if she is a child, another crime against the women, even through the end females are infantalized. We need the big strong men to tell us how to think and act.

The Early Twenties Bondgirl sex doll pattern was advertised as being broken when Die Another Day was being released. I remember the trailers, the supposed controversy over Halle Berry being a bond girl. There were racist pigs who decided she was too black, despite her being on the paler end of the dark skin spectrum. She was billed as the first strong female counter part to bond. A CIA Agent who could take care of herself. Except, this was a lie. She ends up tied up, drowned, and then for some reason having sex on a pile of diamonds. I suspect they chose diamonds because that has to be the least comfortable way to have sex ever. The only deviation in the usual bond system aside from her skin color was her flirting with Bond. This meant twice as many really bad puns while bad guys died, but just as when M was locked in a cage, Bond had to save the girl. Over and over again.

This is the Bond formulae. Bond is a training ground for violent rapists, normalizing the fact that we are just meat. Roger Moore’s era had the least intelligent Bond Girls. One accidentally saved the world by bending over in a bikini. Another was too stupid to realize people were shooting at her. Intelligence is not something a Bond Girl has, though the Daniel Craig films did improve on this slightly.

There is one other thing that I am compelled to note. James Bond is actually a horrible spy. He sucks at his job. The idea of spying is to NOT get caught. In each and every bond film his cover is blown, followed by things blowing up and women dying. He usually figures out that people know James Bond is James Bond when he finds one of his victims dead. The Death STD he carries is in his own lack of wit. He may be able to make innuendo but a real spy would do their utmost to not use their real name, to obfuscate their origins, and they would try to blend in. A real spy aims to be average. This is of course unless the Russian Spy ring that was recently caught is used as an example. They seem to have gone to the James Bond School of Spying. The man kills all his contacts, ruins most of his equipment, and causes so many international incidents. It is a wonder that the British people embrace this male supremicist pig rapist as a wonderful thing.

I have no answers to why James Bond is so popular, except that if you can watch a movie without thought and go “ooh pretty explosions” it may be alright. The contrived plots of this spy franchise however should offend almost everyone alive, unless they are so innundated with White Male is Right thinking that the idea that anyone should just shoot Bond to put England and the rest of us out of our misery is bad. The idealism of Bond goes so far as the fact that I have heard and seen via the internet people of color that lament their genetics as they prevent them from being like bond.

We need a female spy of color who doesn’t rape people, kicks as much butt and doesn’t blow her cover. Of course, the media doesn’t want people to realise that Bond Girl is synonymous with Dead Barbie, or James Bond is synonymous with bad spy. They want everyone to ignore that this normalization of violence effects each of us. The ambiguity of the sexual assaults, as some are very hard to spot, and the acceptance of his rapes as being sexy and beautiful adds to the dangers women face. I know this because I have been raped in the name of Bond. I have been told that to be a good girl you must submit to any man that deems you penis worthy. Not just by my father but by most of the white men I have dated. This phenomenon is well documented with many franchises and I am sure I am not the only person to go “Oh my god Bond raped her!” I just think more people need to.

I am going to find some brain bleach to try and get the 22 films out of my head. I must wash it off! WASH IT OFF!

Heavy Metal (Trigger Warning)

I am considering changing my blog title to Trigger Warning, seriously. Might save me some time debating on if my words could cause someone else pain. I know that this pain can be beneficial and not everything I write is a knife through the heart. Still, I am bothered again.

I realized today that I still am struggling with the expression of anger without referencing violence. Quite honestly, I don’t know how. I have gotten to the point where I won’t actually raise my hand and make a stabbing motion anymore but it is there, in the words I use and in the words i manage to not. At every turn anger is equated with violence.

I think this is contributing to an issue that I am having with someone, but I can’t talk about that as we’re working on it. None the less, I am finding this depth of anger is not something that I can seem to satiate. I have tried everything, and yet the only thing that brings me peace right now is to crank the metal. It can be any band Dimmu Borgir, At Vance, Black Sabbath, Nightwish… most of my metal is more symphonic than heavy. When I reach for the gut busting ear gouging metal, I know I am reaching critical mass. Today, I did so.

I use music in the place of drugs, I think. I listen to a lot of classical and folk music because it mellows me out. I listen to metal when angry because it helps me burn off the anger. Yet what I visualize with each song is also very different. With Walking In the Air by Celtic Woman, I imagine myself dancing in the stars, there is no one but me despite the lyrics implicating another person (or Snowman). Instead I am merely awhirl in the stars, freed to be nothing but what I see as my inner core. Sometimes I take the cats out for a twirl too.

With metal, it is always violence. I am a warrior with at least one sword, never a sheild. I take blows but deliver them with more force. My gleaming blades reflect light into the dark abyss of whatever hell this place is. I see my enemy mostly as shadows and it takes more than just speed to survive. I will dance the dance of death, and blood will fall.

Right now, probably because I am hungry against my will, I want to make that dance real. I want to take the sword off my wall and play with it, to tease it, to whisper promises of blood. I won’t. I am not actually a danger to others, I am just so angry that this seems like what a reasonable person does with anger. I have no conception of how to handle my anger in a constructive way. I guess at this a lot.

What I do instead of stabbing someone between the rips to pierce their lung and watch them drown slowly, and yes a slow death seems way more fun right now, varies. The fact that a part of me derives pleasure from the imagery that my anger carries also bothers me. These are the things that I learned weren’t normal in the mental hospitals. Those places are where I get the information to formulate a guess on how to handle my wrath from.

“Why did you punch Eric?”
“He touched my fork.”
“Okay did you ask him to not do that?”
and I punched the therapist.

That’s how my brain sees anger. You just hit someone and are done. Except that actually hitting or stabbing doesn’t make me feel anything but worse. I feel guilt for their pain and or near death experience. I feel guilt because I am capable of such things, and I feel broken because I could not surmount it. These feelings are especially potent because I have been taught how to kill you in ways that won’t show. I know how to do damage. When I give in to that anger, I do damage. I haven’t since I was 17. I don’t consider punching someone who won’t back off and is hurting me as an attack of anger, as usually I don’t feel THIS kind of anger. Instead I see that as self defense. I only hit them once, and I made SURE it wasn’t somewhere that was a vital area and could do permanent damage.

I wonder too if my choice to only hit someone when I actually am rather calm is “off”. I know hitting is bad and it is my last resort but why? What makes it wrong? Do I have those guilt feelings when I do hurt someone with my anger because it is wrong or because I was told it is wrong?

I think I have them because the act of violence especially out of the idea that hurting someone will bring me pleasure is one of the things I see as a supreme wrong. If hurting someone was a good thing, and I mean hurting them for real not the consensual acts of BDSM, then BDSM would be vanilla sex, pets would be tortured because that’s what they are there for, and humanity is even further into the abyss than I realized. Good thing that most people see hurting someone as bad. Stabbing is assault with a deadly weapon with the intent to cause harm. Then there’s attempted murder. Bricks, sticks, and stones also count as weapons in this case too.

So when you are taught that you really should stab someone to death because they pissed you off what guesses can be made on how to really handle anger?

1. Take a breath and say something, don’t yell it if you can help it but say, “This job was not done properly, please try again and if you need help or more directions ask me.” or “I am not okay with your choice of date, I don’t feel comfortable with you trying to coerce me into going somewhere that makes me feel unsafe.” It feels cheesy to me. It feels like something from therapy. That’s where I got it so this makes sense. I modified their methods though, they wanted me to be so passive that I apologized for being angry. Sometimes I do because my father and mother made it clear my anger meant I was very very VERY bad. Not just a little naughty but the worst of the worst.

2. When the above does not work, it’s okay to wait and write down the angry words, then come back to the person, hand them a note with the words that aren’t hurtful and are to the point and explain you can’t say them right now. Some people read this as a passive aggressive gesture, and it may very well be for some people but when the slightest challenge to my expected patterns can put me into a state where I cannot function or panic when I must, such as fire or hunger etc, then this is different. This is a tool for communication. Therapists may not agree with me, but this plays in to why I am not succeeding in finding one. If they aren’t willing to work with me because of my disabilities or think outside the DSM, they aren’t going to be able to work with me. You work with me not ON me and we’re good. That one word makes a difference.

3. Tell them to fuck off. Yes, this is one of my methods of handling my anger. I know it isn’t super positive, it borders on the edge of not okay land. If it comes down to stabbing you in the eye and telling you that you can go fuck yourself with a razorblade, you can go fuck yourself with a razorblade.

That’s about it. Counting to ten makes me angry. The act itself causes anger so it doesn’t work when I am at the point of snapping. I have objects that I use to visualize containers for my anger too. If something else carries the burden of not stabbing the dumbass, then it helps. I am told that this is also unhealthy. I don’t agree.

I know my mother tried to help me find outlets for my anger. I rarely think of the good things she does, and today my anger may be related to my brother’s birthday (old now haha) but i don’t think so. I think it is the other things. In fact, I think with the current events I cannot talk about in a public space occuring, anyone would be this angry. My mother once told me something that I think turned out to be wise after all. I thought she was just pandering to me at the time. I was 9 or 10, and I thought I knew everything. Then again I also nearly killed someone over a sandwhich. “A parent can only teach you the skills they have.” I think she is wrong but also right. She cannot know everything but she can still find resources for you to learn with. Then again, I think my mother was actually trying to do so. She just had no idea that a mental hospital is a jail where they torture you and rape you. The other things I am angry with her for aren’t excused or gone of course but on this, I think she had a point. If she responds to anger by shutting down and this is unacceptable to me, and the only other people I have seen angry stab someone to death or other things on that same level, what am I going to think my options are?

So I am cranking my metal, not enough to bother the neighbors though, and I am trying to ride out the wave. After all, the villains in my imagination all wear the faces of my abusers, if I contain the anger until it passes without hurting anyone else or even myself (anger isn’t harmful if channeled properly) then I am actually stabbing them in a way. They want me to suffer, and instead I am obtaining pleasure from imagining a scythe in their viscera, their eyeballs bleeding, and their screams as I hack them to pieces.

This is my dark side, the side I fear most. It is the side of me I try to pretend isn’t there but it haunts my everyword. Maybe it is time I stopped pretending that if I ignore it then it will go away? Maybe I have been working towards this point for a while and didn’t realize the top of this mountain meant facing the mirror image of myself made of hate, rage, and nazi sentiments. This next step in my life won’t be pretty but if I don’t take this plunge I stagnate. Besides, I get to imagine really cool swords, who doesn’t like awesome swords? Raise your hand?

On Bended Knee (Trigger Warning)

Something that I think most able bodied people take for granted is motion. After all they may get sore muscles the next day but, a little sleep and they have this thing called energy (huh? What’s that?) and their sore usually goes away. They may also need a massage or just secretly want an excuse for one.My body is not made for movement. From a professional dancer/ Model this seems a bit funny to say.

It sounds vain as hell but I was VERY good at the dancing I did. I also had to work at it twice as hard as those around me and started dancing tired. I thought this was normal. Being raised to never question the whys of things, I had just begun. After all if you ask why and are going to be forced into prostitution or homelessness or both? It’s just not worth it to question things. I remember my first audition. I am not a formally trained dancer. I watched people and mimicked. The person who watched us commented on my stiffness. I had to learn to relax my body and flow.

I never actually did this. I learned how to create the illusion of relaxation. For as long as I can remember relaxing causes intensive pain. I remember trying to not cry out, because tears meant my father would come and beat us until we couldn’t cry. The first memory that comes to mind is last night, my mental chronology is working backwards. So the last one is when I was three. I have my most clear childhood memories at three. Three predates the “worst” abuses and post dates a lot of trying to learn mobility and the basic survival skills of living with someone who wanted to murder you for existing.

I had been carrying something heavy, something no one else seemed to ache with when they did. The thought memories are vague pictures of milk jugs and boxes. I was so tired that the sun was still up and I could hear my siblings playing but I just needed to lay down. I crawled under the bed with my dog friend Muttlee and tried to get comfortable.

Why under the bed? If I was caught sleeping then I would be hurt worse. I remember the dog friend shifting and making room for my small body. She licked my face and I squeaked at her, as I still squeak at Sprite when I lay down on my bed and she wants attention or wants to help me feel better but I am in that realm of suffocating pain. They both back down and don’t leave me.

I take a deep breath, and it hurts. I lay flat, and stare at the underside of my mattress, the dimmed light of my small space comforting. I hadn’t been tortured with the wool blankets in summer in the closet yet. Small spaces were my friend because HE couldn’t find me. What strikes me most about this memory is I start trying to relax. I even remember why. My Aunt Nan had been talking to my mother about how important this Relax thing was and how it was a letting go.

I started at my toes and let the muscles go. By the time I got to my knees I was in tears. I didn’t stop. I relaxed all my muscles consciously. The little pains (okay really horrible bad pains) that I have felt my entire life upon laying down? This beat them. I screamed. The dog growled and bit me in fear. Even the dog knew to not make sounds. A part of me always believed she was taking the fall for me. My muscles unlaxed and I climbed out from under the bed bleeding, afraid, and aware that there was a precipice of pain that even my father could not inflict.

This lead to my first time running away, while toting a boulder. This lead to my ability to survive in some ways. Most of the memories I  have of torture, such as my punishment for screaming itself I remember thinking “This hurts and I want to cry but you can’t hurt me as badly as I can.” I didn’t know what it meant for a long time. The pain in the relaxation memory was so bad that it was pushed away. My subconscious never let it go and I didn’t try to relax again until I was a dancer and hurt so badly after working that I went for a massage.

I know torture first hand. A lot of the time people make jokes about torture, not necessarily in the Guantanimo Bay sort of way, but often yes. I have been waterboarded. Usually if the toilet wasn’t flushed my father would waterboard his own children. He was the one who didn’t flush it. One of us would eventually take credit, and there would be blood. Now a toilet that is not pristine can send me into panic where I feel like I am drowning.

I have had my toenails torn out. Flat nose pliers work better than needle nose for that. I may someday take a picture of my feet. My toes, if I am not standing, curl inward because of the years of infection and damage to the muscles. The pain  in my feet from dancing? It wasn’t real pain as far as I knew. Real pain was what daddy did.

Most of the scars I should have don’t show now that I avoid things that inflame or damage my skin. You can’t see the stab wounds. Most people when they see the strange little round scars don’t know those are bullet holes in my skin. When people joke about gangrene (I am not sure how that idea is funny) I usually tell them, “Uh that’s not funny. I’ve had gangrene four times.” The modern era of medicine saved my feet.

Oh I know pain. Right now the cold snow on this supposedly Spring day, or at least I think it is supposed to be Spring with a capitol S… the pain matches the moments when I pulled out my own toenails. You see, I thought that trimming my toenails was the same thing my father did.

This post is actually about motion however. All of these things have effected my ability to move. Disease, Disorder, Syndrome, Torture, Abuse, and mostly Pain. My pain is omnipresent. I have been in pain since birth. My pain effected my friendships, Schoolwork, and has effected every social interaction. In fact, my ability to walk would be greater if there wasn’t a pain issue.

The wheelchair assessment opened some cans of worms medically and mentally. The idea that I would use my feet when I can is no longer welcomed. I knew it was painful but the pain means don’t apparently. I have never really bent my knees except when dancing. In all my memories good and bad my knees don’t bend. My sister did and hers dislocated. My body is so much more flexible that in order to walk I tightened all my muscles and I heave my body forward pitching to one side.

Totter may be a word. I think of an object that is off balance on a table or something, it goes side to side before it either falls over or steadies itself again. It moves when it rocks. This is how I have walked for my entire life. The pain in my hips and their chronic dislocations has an answer. Walking. If you don’t use the joints properly they will be damaged.

I have little flicker memories, pictures with emotional impressions really, of learning to walk. Most of them come with terror. Anger. Rage. Pain. There it is again. Pain. I can hear my mother’s voice as she cries. “Come on, you can do it. Please walk? If you don’t walk soon he’ll hurt you.” This ignores that he already had hurt us both for years. Those same words can be put on many memories, my ability to talk was born out of terror, my ability to read chapter books like little women came at gun point. Basic milestones that I would probably have been more delayed on, I did them to survive.

I am left to wonder how any doctor could see me walk for my lifetime and not comment on it. Yes, when I was younger it was worse, then when I tried to blend in and during my time of Sports until the end of the Dancing phase I faked it  better, but if you only bend your knees when sitting or in bed because you are in the fetal position crying as you fold up like a rag doll… shouldn’t they notice?

I have been institutionalized, hospitalized, psychiatrized, and called the patient for so much of my life that sometimes that is the name I hear in my head. Why then is it a quest for a doctor to be attentive enough to take note that there is some greater wrong? Medicine cannot be something you treat like a retail job! Medicine must be treated like it is something where every moment can save a life.

I don’t hold my shoulders “right” either. I actually didn’t stand once for this physical therapy evaluation. I moved my legs while sitting and that was enough to startled this woman. Apparently people with my level of flexibility almost never learn to walk. My life time of shoes that even when the doctor’s cronies measure them they do not fit, my life time of aches that I thought everyone had until it was too late, my life time of falls, wobbling tiredness, and sheer frustration that I couldn’t be as fast as everyone else has answers.

Still, when every child I ever knew noticed I moved funny and I had nicknames from “The Robot” on to “Stiff Whore” on to “The Crunchbacked Hunchback”… when I was stigmatized and tormented until the moment of my first self awareness as Woman and often… so very often… after? Why the hell can a doctor not notice that I do not even bend my knees on their stupid tables. I have spent my life running, jumping, plieing, twisting, turning, walking, and shifting but never bending my knees without falling.

It actually takes a conscious thought to bend my knee even sitting. A part of this is life long and some is exaggerated by my spinal cord injury. It takes more than one try usually for the signals to get from my brain to my legs. Then it takes several tries for my body to make the movement happen. It’s a process. It has always taken more time for me to get my leg to go forward. I have to consciously imagine it.

The first time I made snow angels that I can recall, not the actual first time as there are flickers and age disparities in the collage of memory but the first time I think I wanted to do so was also the first time my body was good for something because of the stiffness. I had to walk to school in the snow. It was a snow delay, and I actually never made it there. Another random moment with a random stranger who by the standards of my family I guess I should have feared?

I had sat down on a rock outside some house and was crying because I hurt and had fallen. The trashman stopped. I wish I remembered his name. I asked, I didn’t call him the trashman but the memory is buried under so much rubble. This was the first time I was allowed out alone after my first time in an institution and I was screwing it up. I told him so. He didn’t react like I was a monster. My own mother has just begun to treat me as a person.

This man was a mexican. From Mexico. He and I talked about how his father and mother had brought him illegally across the border when he was a small child. He had legally applied for citizenship as an adult was was proud of it. His first winter, they had made snow angels to celebrate. They were too poor for anything else. He asked if I could make one and I burst into tears again, “I always screw them up.”

He asked how. I couldn’t make a snow angel without smudging the wings or body or leaving foot prints. He laughed, not at me but the laugh of an adult who cares. I don’t know why he cared. “See that big pile of snow? Go make a snow angel, I will help you get up without ruining it. At first I was crying while making the snow angel. The snow made it’s crunching sound, I made mine. He made a face when I did. My knees crunched, my hips popped, my shoulders ground. It didn’t hurt, it was just the sounds of motion. He asked if I was okay each time. I thought he was insane.

When my angel was satisfactorily angel like he said, “Bend your knees.” I did, then he said get up. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead of yelling at me, as I already expected he pondered the situation and said, “You know the problem with your angel is … where are her feet? Angels have feet and legs right?”So I put my legs out and rolled up until I had my feet. He helped me balance. I hopped away from the angel and my angel was perfect in my eyes. “For you, the perfect angel is going to always be the most unique.”

He had to get back to work, and I spent the rest of the day making snow angels. I have thought of that moment often, usually when winter induces pain levels that make me squeak and cry with every movement of my arms and hands. I am squeaking a lot right now. It stands out as one of those memories where adaptation occurred or I was treated as a person. Those were so very rare until I was 21. At the age of 21 I began to pursue what I wanted.

My dancing career was short. A year at most. I remember always worrying about making it through the next audition. Would I be strong enough? I remember throwing up from pain. I remember too just how cut throat the world of Dance can be. I don’t dance in my wheelchair. I can, I think, but I no longer need to dance. I need to simply allow my body the stillness it requires.

I will think about every time I have bent my knees, I have them bent right now, because this keeps me from falling off of my chair. I will think on every footstep and the pain. A part of me is angry at my mother over this. That part of me needs to heal. A part of me is afraid. A part of me rages at a dead man. Mostly however, I feel relief. I am never going to have to do the basic things that my ability level has never matched. I don’t know how I blended as a dancer, and perhaps it was my unique style that let me work. I am never going to be able to walk normally and it turns out, it was unlikely I ever could walk from the moment of birth. My disability has always been here, now I just need to learn to respect my body and what it needs.

Shaming the Survivor (Trigger Warning and Foul Language Warning)

It is everywhere, the societal shaming of people. I could title this victim shaming or victim blaming yet, there is an aspect to being a survivor beyond the aspects of being a victim. The part of me that is a survivor identifies with John McClain, it wants to die hard if it has to die at all. The part of me that identifies as a victim couldn’t fight hard enough to survive. Same coin, two sides. When I advocate I must be a survivor, the victim aspect is too fragile to risk exposing to the shame.

You may have already run into this, at least once in your life. Something happens to you, and instead of being happy that you are alive, someone you know or must deal with reacts with disgust that you had to do things to survive, things that hurt you or went against the grain of society. The person that defends herself against a violent man and hurts him is not lauded but is feared by the patriarchy. Society moves to shame the survivors, keep it hidden away, don’t talk about it. This aspect leaks into other things. Surviving rape is immediately putting yourself at risk of being accused of deserving it. Rape can be deadly, therefore, to live you must have given in slightly, this is the myth. You asked for it and enjoyed it or you would be dead right? Wrong.

There is overlap with victim blaming yet, I haven’t come across a discussion about shaming the survivor. In a country/culture that has fat shame, thin shame, skin color shame, hair shame, race shame, gender shame, sex shame… it is hard pressed to find anything that is not seen as shameful. Other things are never acknowledged. Perhaps it is in that the feminists who are able bodied or did not endure domestic violence or… (insert qualifier here) cannot put it into ideas. Perhaps it is that these same women who attempt to speak for everyone with a vagina but only if they were born that way and are able bodied and white… do just that. They exclude. Before I was disabled I felt excluded because I  have survived. I felt shamed for having questions and not having picked up books on the subject. My nascent moment of identifying with the feminists died the moment one of them shamed me. I remember the words, the tone, and the sting. The woman was old enough to be my mother, she was blond, tall, and pretty. The topic was how to raise awareness about domestic violence, which resonated with me. I asked this question: “What if we pooled some money or raised funding via grants to open a shelter that gives access to women who aren’t married?” I hadn’t been homeless as an adult yet, I hadn’t known I would be in a sinking boat. I went further, the room had fallen silent so I stood up. In that moment I was appearing as able bodied, straight, white, and pretty by the societal standards. “Most of the shelters in our city cater only to those with children, and there needs to be a place for everyone.” That was what they were preaching. I thought the idea would be great. The response instead was as follows.

“Women like us never use shelters, we don’t need them, because we won’t ever lose our jobs or our families.” In that moment, the words said in this acid tongued manner that curdled by gut, I sat down and wondered why they called themselves feminists and why they bothered trying. I was excluded by class, my clothes were fashionable but I was not in the class I appeared to be. I was excluded by experience. Obviously the woman who spoke had never been in need, and in that moment I was cut adrift from feminism. I tried many times to reconnect but, despite some correct things and other incorrect things I did not belong in their puzzle. The ideals fit, but the people did not. There was discussion of how to further how to protect, but never the action that would help lower class (financially and educationally) women. Instead there was a pandering aspect to their own able bodied white privilege.

It hurt. It left me feeling so alone in the world. Months later I was further away from their ideal woman, deserving of help. I began to advocate alone. I have only worked with someone else during my advocacy rarely, because I do not want to be shamed for my experiences and I have yet to find true intersectionality. Sometimes my methods for getting my voice heard horrify people. To me there is nothing wrong with being a bit loud, or refusing to move when the police order me to as long as it is legal for me to do so. I am a rebel with many causes, and I see it everywhere I turn with the larger groups, if I do not fit their expectation of survivor there is shame.

Thankfully advocacy groups are rarely seen from this angle, I know I have the benefit of being a social chameleon, and that cuts down on people accusing me of things, assuming the wrong thing, or I just don’t admit what they do not need to know. I should say didn’t, as, in the last few years I have stopped hiding the parts of me they won’t like. I lost allies, but they weren’t true allies as a result.

I haven’t been shamed for surviving in a long time, but I had put distance between what I had survived and the moments I was living in. I see in my head snapshots of myself through the ages of my life, the phases, and the moments. They tumble down, twisting around each other before they burn up into a cloud of white smoke and I am still me. I let myself grow distant from them, focusing on living. Living became the act of surviving and once again I am being forced to justify my reason for not letting myself be murdered.

I realized that it was an attempt to shame me with the insurance. This week I had to justify the assessment for the wheelchair again. The woman on the phone asked me what I did to damage my body. “I had an abusive caregiver, I was starved and my first chair was damaged. It also never fit my needs or worked properly before that.”

“Uh huh, well did that caregiver beat you because abuse is just not reason enough for us to approve this chair.”

I wanted to scream, curse, cry, and shout. Instead I took a breath and said. “I was starved, are you aware of the ramifications on the body caused by starvation? I had less than 750 calories a day. My body consumed it’s strength to not die. My internal will to live also came into play, when I had to escape said abuser, I had to move. The replacement caregiver was also abusive, so I had to clean the entire apartment myself, I had to lift boxes, and I had to do this or I would have nothing left of my life with no way to replace it. I had to do this with a wheelchair that was broken.”

“So this is a self inflicted injury.” She started to go on and I let myself snarl.

“So you want your clients to just die when the options are injury that further disables them or death?”

She was quiet, I felt my anger and I let it be. I am working on that, as I fear anger. Anger usually means violence. I just felt it. It was about ten seconds, she was obviously thinking.

“No, it was just… you should have asked for help or something!”

It was my fault, in this woman’s mind. I have met her before, she is like the woman who shamed me for having an idea, like the reporter who didn’t understand that the ADA protects her too, and I had the click. Society wants survivors to stay silent, or to take the blame. It’s the same aspect, but in t his case the blame is the act of living itself. It is all tied like a spiderweb to the same isms, over and over again.

“I did, many times over. I begged, I pleaded.” I described the murder kit to her, I described my efforts of cleaning, lifting, dragging, crawling. Then, I turned it towards money. “So, now that you know all that, let me add something else into the mix. The chair will cost you less than the surgery and ER visits needed when I crack my head open because I lost my balance trying to do it your way, check my records I recently went to the ER. That costs you once about as much as the chair. That visit was preventable with treatment. You can approve me or deny me, I know others also have a say but if it comes down to my life being worth less to you than the cost of the chair, I will cost you more because I won’t die. I am a survivor. I plan to live a very long time, and as angry as you are that some disabled person gets help from your taxes… that’s just too damned bad.”

I was told it is too expensive. I was told over and over it is too expensive. My right to the freedom to move is too expensive. Even if it means I might die. I am hoping that my words left HER feeling shame, and anyone who hears the recording of that call. She and her company should be ashamed that my living is less important to them than profiting off of the illnesses of people. The capitalistic nature of my country has caused illness to be comodified. I am not a commodity item to the insurance company but I am to the wheelchair company and in a nursing home my name would be beds. I will now always be poor, but I refuse to be known as cost burden, potential profit or beds.

My name is Kateryna Fury. If you think it is wrong for me to have fought and dug and clawed my way out of abuse more times than I can count, fuck you. You heard me. I am breaking my own personal rules. It makes me edgy mentally to do so, a bit nutty feeling but FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU FOR THINKING THAT IT IS BAD FOR ME TO LIVE. When you break, because everyone does eventually in some way, someone will shame you for not dying. I hope you think for a moment and realize that you did the same over and over again.You are the cause of the term Survivor’s guilt. No one should ever feel guilty for living. EVER. Even bad people have a right to life, maybe you and your epic hatred of all things with a pulse made the person you think is bad act in that manner. Maybe it is all your fault you FUCKER. FUCK YOU.

My name is Kateryna Fury. I am glad to know that you also have survived, that you have fought and clawed and dug your way out of abuse, that you are a survivor. If you are in the act of surviving, then know you are not alone. I am proud of you. Your living has value not just to you but to me. It is so wonderful you want to live. As you recover, remember, you are loved.

What makes the world go round?

I have had time to think, between the cleaning. My apartment, this temporary shelter is now clean. I look at it and if I could just feel safe, I know I could stay. I could live here.

I cannot open my door alone, every white van that drives by, it has me jumping out of my skin. Plus, the rat things that were here could return. I cannot stay.

I have reminisced too, thinking on what I was, what I could be. I keep going back to that fateful day when I became irrevocably disabled, when I couldn’t escape it any longer. Yes, I thought I was able bodied, but it was a lie. I was merely Temporarily Able Bodied.

I’ve played it out in my head, the moments, each heart beat. I remember the lift of the van seat, and tried to see what would happen if I had just flowed with the van. It’s a dramatic opera in my head, like an underwater ballet.

The crash of glass is added in, as I, not yet buckled when the accident hit, go through the window. I die in this scenario, the children too. Nothing is better. It is in a way worse. It is worse because of the potential I would’ve stiffled.

It’s the what if game. What if I had made a different choice? Would I still be pent up? Would I still be burdened by fear? Would i still have met my now Ex?

I don’t know. Too many unknowns leave shadows in the game, it lets my mind run wild. None of the alternative scenarios are good. Most of them end in a gory death. I turn my imagination off and wonder too, the what if’s of the future.

What if they cure my disorders? Will it be an in the womb cure? Eugenics? Do I want them cured? Then I back track into that past of mine again, dodging the shadows of terror, to acknowledge my disabilities have saved me too.

I cannot change the past, and again am reminded, I do not want to. I want to be just me. I like who I am. I like knowing what makes me tick. If I changed the past, I would be someone else, and I do not think I would be happy, if alive.

This too reminds me of the cure, if they were to cure this body, it would take an erasure of my own history, which would again alter me. Without my memories do I lose my essence? Probably.

I am tough, and I can be out and out mean. I have had to let this meanstreak run. Oh, I may make a few barbed jokes here and there, but while cleaning this temporary shelter, while digging my way out with the help of K my new care giver, I have had to be cruel.

I cannot return every single thing he has bought to him, because I do not have room to store it all. I am still astounded at the amount of trash that one person can accumulate. We went into the storage area today, I secretly long to find my missing stuffed rabbit. The only vestage of my childhood. I know she’s gone forever. I know he likely desecrated her.

I am going to do something wicked too. I am going to live. I will find a place that I can go, I will find a place where I can thrive. Today, I renew myself, fertile grounds to grow in. The seeds of who I am are planted, and although I have had many winters in this life, as the world I live in turns to fall, my own heart begins a spring.

I dream of feeling safe. I dream of freedom. I dream of walks on sunny days. I dream of taking the cats out to play. I dream of small children visiting me. I drema too, of the stories I will write. When I am moved, I can return to my novel. I can feel safe enough to let myself play.

Today, I plant the seeds of dreams. I set new goals. They are all short ranged goals, but they are goals. I will survive. I have survived. I am surviving.

My Name:
by Kateryna Fury

My name is not victim.
My name is not survivor.
My name is not Woman.
My name is all these things and more. My name is life.
My name is Joy.
My name is Love.
My name is freedom.
My name is strength.
My name is mine.

  • Polls

  • Ye Olde Archives of Fury

  • Top Rated

  • Top Clicks

    • None