resilient

May We

May we walk unfazed through life’s invisible fence. You know the fence. The fence of – you should know better. The fence of – playing small. The get it right the first time – fence. And lest we forget, the fence of… I don’t belong. The cage that minds our business. The trap that has us playing small, dimming our own light, asking for approval and chasing validation under someone’s spell.

Head up, passing through. Anyway. Follow me if you wish but I cannot hear you. My ears dammed and scarred from absorbing your lies. Your fence reaching beyond our visual fields. Innervating even at the corners of my psyche. Interference, blocking everything grand, conceptualized or spoken. You penned it, dammed it. Kept it contained. All my free, wild and imaginative snuffed before coming to fruition.

Only now can I freely roam, untethered, cord severed. Free to discover in my own head space. None of my freedom sacrificed to your cause. My original medicine, realized. My -who I came here to be, paying no mind to your disgust, contempt, salivation or wanting to devour me. My body expanding, unfurling. Without you.

Never serving you again. This is what revenge looks like. I have exsized you from my loins. My energy system. My property. No longer free to take from me. No more toying with my power or grooming me to serve you. Where there was ownership there is disconnect. I unplugged you from my energy. You can no longer charge your system by draining my life force battery.

I am a true warrior, I sincerely thank you for this. My Spirit drove me to be more, separate from you, don’t look back and put myself first. Everything you never wanted for me. Well, you’ve got 7 others. You won’t miss me much as you continue to decimate their lives with your disgusting, hungry energy.

Continue to search for me if you wish. I’m not hiding. I’m boldly dismantling fences.

awareness · challenge · resilient

Your Crazy’s Showing (part 2)

The search continued. It had to. Can’t ALL be so unaware, so aloof, disinterested, re-victimizing…could they? Even if you suck at what you do you STILL have experience. They said they had experience with childhood trauma. Hmmm. With limited awareness and clarity with your own process, how can we expect you to properly assist another person on their healing path? Having been exposed to these well meaners compounded my lack of faith in humanatee. A big fat sea-cow in an ocean of disdain. 

Confirming my, “I am irreparable” notion, all due to people not doing their “work”. My expression of graphic truth touching their darkness resulting in their shut down, perilalysis, or disASSociation. Say, for instance you’re in a restaurant. The person next to you clutches their chest in pain, maybe a heart attack. You want to help but as you rise from your chair YOUR chest also begins to hurt, you go into a full-blown panic attack, rendering you useless to the other person. -A simplistic depiction of countertransference. Trauma triggering trauma. Emotional entanglement/meshing/merging/fusing with the client, which negatively impacts a therapist’s ability to lead. 

Enter Paul, my next psychoterrorist. A charming Victorian third floor office. Beautifully decorated. He came highly recommended with much experience in the area of abuse and women’s issues. Finally! This would be IT.  Fingers and toes crossed. Paul, a bald, middle-aged and deeply baritone voiced gentleman, welcomed me, with open harms, to his practice. We began. Small talk. About where I’d been. And his experience with clients of my gripe. Lol. Nice enough.

Writing feverishly…enter the million dollar question.What brings you here… I got into it, hard. Haven’t I wasted enough time with the other do-gooders? He began smiling, like I was telling him a joke and he was anticipating the punchline. He added some “yes, go on” and “oh, really?” scripts every client expected from a paid listener. “Tell me more” and “Tell me again” with what sma-hack-ed of enjoyment and entertainment on his creased face. Like I had just delivered some juicy gossip. “That is fascinating” and “Are you sure this happened”? Actually escaped from his jagged smile. Any minute now, I expectorated him to pop up and put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. His affect clearly needed a tune up. 

Shifting in his comfy seat, I got a peak of his legal pad – he had drawn a CAT!! Silly me, I thought I was saying something worthy of recording. Thought he might be taking notes. I felt completely deflated, invisible and devalued. If THAT wasn’t rea-dick-a-less enough …nearing the end of the session, I offered some disgustingly graphic trauma piece as a last bitch effort to get some authentic reaction. (Which I am incredibly good at – thanks Mom). For what seemed like a minute, his mouth dropped down and gaped open, eyes wide. His body, except for his neck, froze. He slowly turned his mannequin head to the right and stared out the window for a very uncomfortable miNUT. So, remember the THIRD FLOOR thing? Nothing out there except sky, lots of sky guy. I actually got up and looked too, his stare was that intense. Dude, there’s nothing out the window, nothing. He sat, lifeless, no blinking, no swallowing. Nothing. And just like that, he returned from his long strange flip. T-why-light groan. Holy weirdness. Another disaster. 

So this tiny little blurb about a Sexual Abuse Support Group caught my I. Beyond excited. All women in the group. Perfect. Group of 5. Harold introduced me to the group and all of the women shared a blurb. Very lovely women. I was the youngest member. All very charmed by Harold, giggling when he spoke. A dandy guy. Harold offered his  background. He expressed his special brand of wisdumb, “After all, men are idiots. We should cut off all their penises and ship them to a deserted island”. God’s honest truth! His exact words. Later that night, Harold offered more creep… “Yeah, you know, I touched my sister and it wasn’t a big deal, so there’s nothing wrong with that” AYFKM? He looked around nervously to see how he was being received. Eyes bouncing from one participant to the hexed. Harold, poised on the edge of nervous laughter and arrested exhale. He excused himself, apparent worry broke out amongst the group mates. Come to think of it, Harold excused himself at least 5 times during the 2 hour group – just adding to an already bizarre situation. 

In his absence, I questioned the other women, asking how long they’d been a member. The responses were between 2 years and 7 years. What?  After that night, I never returned. But Harold wasn’t done tryin to work me into his gig, his magic act. He wouldn’t let go. He sent me a letter, “You need this group, this will help you. You really need to return for support”. THIS is straight up cray-cray. Of course, no response from me. Another month went by and he sent me another postcard, reminding me of the group ”you should be here” Now I was pissed. I wrote him back. “How dare you try and take advantage of the most tender, most vulnerable population by insinuating that I could not make it without you” “You call yourself a therapist? You are basically pushing your agenda onto me and scolding me for not complying” “That’s abusive” “I put a boundary and you are not honoring that”. I should have reported him but I would have been cast as just another crazy patient. 

The final crazy encounter, with a physician, occurred when I was seen for a panic attack visit in 2000. I was new to the panic world and, just like everyone else, was convinced that it was something else. Anxiety couldn’t possibly make me feel like I was gunna die…. So this well-meaning, lovely Indian Physician listened to me as I talked about my long history of anxiety stemming from a dark childhood. When I told her about my abusers, her “helpful advice” was the following. “Why didn’t you punch them? or tell them that you didn’t want that to happen to you? You have to tell them” 

Ok Dr., like it’s as easy as telling them to hold the onions on your burger at McDonald’s. Excuse me, yeah, no onions please, ok, thank-you. I so desperately wanted to live in her world where all you have to do is tell someone to stop and they do. Wow, whammo, why didn’t I think of that. Holy mind fuck. Blame the abused. Thanks a bunch. LOL

Kinda hard when your abuse began when you were pre-verbal. Maybe you were older and when you said no, it was the same as yes. I don’t really think a 2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9, 10-year-old girl is any strength match to male teens and adults, hmmm, you? What a bizarre suggestion (punch them). Most likely our first abusers are family members or friends of the family or someone entrusted with our care. We rely on them for safety, a roof, food in our bellies and love. When you are reared to believe your privates/body belongs to others – where does the protest fit in there? The trickery, convincing and games fuck a child’s mind. 

Is it the responsibility of a child to keep her/him self safe? That’s an awful lot of burden to shoulder. A tiny little girl. A Dr. offering “help” sprinkled with the nasty energy of blame– I  should have done something, I should have stopped it, I should have protected myself and ultimately, I could have done something but I didn’t ………………. Today I would tell her that she’s got a lot of clean up to do on herself. Her nasty is showing. And that my little girl knows I’ll protect her. 

Let’s do our inner work DO THE INNER WORK. So we all can be there for each other. Without our fear or anger or frustration or judgement coming at the person and overshadowing our HELP we intend to give. So we may hold each other/clients/patients in the way they truly deserve – in love, compassion and understanding. If nothing else, at the very least, validate how hard it must have been for that person to grow up in that atmosphere. So very powerful. Validate, listen. 

Maybe some of this…”Wow, I’m so sorry. That must have been really hard for you. You must be so sad. What can I do to help you? You are so strong. You are doing amazing seeing all you’ve been through. Do you have someone to talk to/confide in? Would you like me to refer you to someone who knows more about this? You must have been so scared. Do you feel safe now?”

Celebrate · resilient

Inside Job


The purging hurt so good. The expir-yay-tion of an antiquated pattern, I shed my dumb-suit. My beauty radiating blissfully in all directions North, South, East and Best. Camouflage now turned reflective. Reflecting on how different I am today. It hit me hard. Like my heart was cracking open to love – a long aweighted love for myself. Heavy Go-Found-Me realization. I am here. Voicing this. The badasst thing I’ve ever claimed.

Yes, out loud “I am very intelligent, my brain is astute, clear and perceptive. I have so much to offer. I deeply feel that I’ve always been this way but shrunk into my-cell-f to “fit”. To go unnoticed and be less trouble in my fam-ill-y. Fully realizing how I continued to play small. This really Hertz, renting out my Cadillac potential while I settled for the Hyundai.

Who damm-pens my light, my potenchill? I do! I willingly took the torch and waaa with it. Murdering myself once again. We do it to ourselves. When we’re ready to take responsibility for our own lives, we stop blaming others for screwing them up. An inside job folks. So in-crud-ibly painful, the journey, like peering through a thousand panes of shattered ass. My own. Pain is so often the back asswards crack through which profound personal growth enters us.

Ignore the crack, walk towards the crack and pretend we didn’t see it. Feel the crack with our fingers, wondering all thorts of sings. Flatten our eyeball against the crack in curiosity. Does crack kill? Curiosity killed the cat, the cat’s eyeball and the crack. The blind cat leading the cracked eyeball. Or something like that. All kinds of excuses and distractions conjure up rather than to just aloe pain and truth and light to illuminate our womb-dead parts. You know, those parts that never had the chance to freedom their way from the Geico.

An absolute vodka miracle, with all these choices, that any of us choose to – not only walk through the doorway of pain – but go back uh-gain and again because we know this is the only way to true healing. Despite the pain, despite our suffering, we strive for better lives, a better egg-sistence. The born-again -open up your pocketbooks-, best possible, newest version of ourselves.

Now, a new confine-dents is mine. If ya try an lock my shit up ya might get lumped up. I own that shit. Not borrowed, rented or stolen. Permanent, home, comfort. A new normal. Clearer lens. A calmer presentation of me. No arming or bracing or caring what you think of me.

No apologeez. Your opinion of me filtered through your dysfucktion anyway. Love me. Hate me. None of my business. My emerging self doesn’t give a frog’s fat ass what you think you NO. If my bovine-size self-love makes you uncomfortable that is understandable. My bulls-y-ness has made me squirm for quite some time, too. Looks like I’ve made peace with that. When pain knocks, will you answer? Everytime.

anger · resilient · shadow

Anger’s Voice

When I’m angry, my words flood in scritch. Like scribing stone. So they may never disappear. So they may never leave. Writing gets less peak and vallyish and more jagged, bouncing above and below the lines. Words connecting in disconnection. Sorting through hot angry choices – ideas flow like lava into tiny cramped villages. Hear the screams? See the blood? Flowing blood of 14 murdered run-on sentences, double negatives. Just desperate to be heard, stealing your breath – all the while you barely notice you’re in a strange paragraph.

Anger speeds to keep the spotlight, arriving sideways on two wheels, smoking suffocating fumes. Pull up a chair – make room at the table of litter-al disgust, humiliation or just plain carnage. No napkins, no condiments, no apologies. This is straight up bite me. And it usually does. No questions or permission required, Anger spews and spills anyways. Anyways.

Yelling in caps, bold and underline. All or nothing. Live or die. My anger oblivious to pourameters. Taste the personal power, one syllable calorie at a time. The rage growler is full, no worries, just keep pouring. Anger grumbles…”pour yourself a glass of get the fuck to work. My milky words have come in, express me and fortify your inner child baby”. Anger laughs. Cause anger always laughs louder and longer. Longer and louder.

Tumbling out, a force of a thousand word winds. Rushing, gushing, flushing my pink skin once again. Words that stab at the page, armed with darkness to teach the light page a lesson. But Silence, Stuck, and Blank, the Ex-wives of anger arrive to block his best efforts. My writing calms, grounded saccharine sweetness once again ensues. My full power snuffed until the fault lines shift. Unseen, but still the lyrical fire smolders under the so pretty, dry compost. Soon to ignite in a risky rage, on an ink less page. Implode or willingly purge, it builds. Gather the poops, on the shit deck.

Once again Anger is victorious. I reach in and grab it, dirtying my hands with its wretched filth. Words arrive blunt, raw, real. No brakes, no wheels. Better write quick, before the richness fades. Shit, the good ones fade quickest – like breath on a mirror. Evaporation. The best worst thing that’s ever happened. Clearer energy, yet a cluster at the same time. This time it consumes my mind. Shit show. My only weapon, my keyboard.

Uppercase, lowercase, special characters squeezing out between wrinkled fingers. Letters morph into dripping hot metal, keyboard slippery, steaming. Begging, pleading to be used, fondled, tapped and fingered. Keys popping, huddled into one corner, safety in letters. Line the fuck up. Backspace, you too. Fingers purposely pouncing on keys, aching. A desire to rip something open, expose the beautiful guarded truth.

The killing, a channeled energy of precision. I slaughter, shred and shape syntax taking prisoners. It all sucks, it’s all brilliant. Anger doesn’t give a fuck if it doesn’t have a voice. Rage abides by no rules. Needs no direction. Bring it inward or vomit it onto others. Anger is never homeless. The seat of simmering lives in the golden land of swirling belly current. Solar Plexus real estate.

Writing, just a vehicle for my seethe. My ugly. Words dancing on hot coal paper. Jumbled, scratchy and ashy. Fuck punctuation. Use.them.all. Use-them-none. Hyphen-loving head case. I’ll keep writing till there’s none left. Fuck all your rules. Ju,s!t t)r.y and fi?gu!re this Sh(i’t O;u”t. Not listening to your linguistic lalala. Yer haphazzard hipee hooplah.

My angry words burn the coating off a smile. Wicked words, siracha sentences, putrid paragraphs. A remedy in the making. My darling Anger, have I represented your likeness a-cure-late-ly?

resilient

Two sides of the same coin

Just where tf do you think you’re going?

I can go wherever I want, I answer to no one, I’m grown now.

Who are you kidding? you need a God Damn chaperone, you’re never on time and so incredibly wishy-washy.

I am a grown woman, capable of anything I put my mind to. I’m working on my organization and everyday I make strides.

Smh, mutters under breath, probably don’t even know where the keys are….

What was that? squints eyes…. I heard you, but I’m not listening, your opinion doesn’t matter anymore. There was a time when I listened to you, you kept me out of harm’s way by suggesting I play small. For that, I am thankful but your services will no longer be required.

Oh? Oh? Who thinks she’s the baddest ass around? Aren’t you so special, special little Karen, entitled to everything life has to offer. Needs NO help, isn’t she incredibly special. eye roll.

Well, I am very special, I was born with so much to say and do. I have great wisdom. Every day I retrieve more of what had to be surrendered, what was lost. I have made it out of the depths of hell despite your constant chatter and sharpened teeth at my heels.

Me? Meeeee? I’m not the evil one, my sweetie, you are evil – the way you dismiss people from your life? like flushing the toilet! Good people too, people in your own family who love you so much.

What? now you have completely gone off the tracks! Let me tell you about those “good” people. They do not deserve any piece of me. They wish nothing but to silence me, disown my authentic parts and smile while shoving the knife of betrayal into my aliveness. They fantasize about silencing me and erasing all that has occurred.

I think you are not thinking clearly, they seem nice to me, they have lots of friends and make good money and they are very attractive. Maybe you’ve got it all wrong, they seem pretty normal and like they’re living life freely – seems like they’ve moved on and you’re still wallowing in what was.

Well, let me tell you, it is not my duty to make them “see” like I do. For a long time I was hell bent on getting some well deserved validation for the hurt, invasion, violence, crazy, and damaging ways I was treated. Validation no longer interests me – I know the truth and that is enough. They don’t have to believe me or be sad with me or be angry with me for the injustice and trampling of rights, personal freedom or dignity. They “look” as though they’ve got amazing lives because we all perfected the art of “AS IF”. As if we had a perfect family, as if we were loved, as if we were safe.

Well, that sounds like psycho-babble, who tf gives you the right to interpret how their lives have or have not turned out? You’re not a professional, a therapist, a doctor…you are not them.

Listen here buttercup, I grew up with these birds. I know what each one of my siblings is made up of, the denial, the blame, the betrayal – I don’t have to have a degree in psychology to tell you how crazy it was in that stupid, fucked up house. The old patterns are still alive and well in each of them. The eating disorders, alcohol and drugs, self loathing, gambling, cheating, non-existent boundaries, lack of emotion, loyalty to a narcissistic, crazy Mother…. My eyes are wide open to the old ways of existing. Just existing. I am well schooled in energy healing and have availed myself to wisdom filled Spirit Guides who lavish me with support and encourage me stepping into my aliveness.

But wait one minute, Princess, you had a good childhood, lots of day trips, hand me down toys, clothes, food from the church, a bike to share amongst yourselves, a dog, a cat, one house that you never moved from. Wtf are you complaining for? your childhood was just like everyone else’s. What about all those pictures you’re smiling in? Huh? What about that? Enstein!

Children will do whatever it takes to get love, attention and to have safety. Whatever it takes. If I had to smile, I smiled. If I needed to act appreciative, I did. The last thing I needed was to be abandoned or disowned or starved or ignored. I needed to stay alive. I made the best decisions I could as a small child with a child brain. The same reason I stopped telling about the abuse.

Oh, THAT again, ugh. You’re so dramatic. Nobody hurt you. You were always friends afterward. It was just part of being in the family. When you say “abuse” that’s kind of harsh, I didn’t see anything like that happening. It looked like curiosity and play.

I don’t need your approval or understanding. I know in my body and mind what happened. It was my experience, my history.

Well, you just look crazy. I wouldn’t tell anyone. No-one will ever back you up or support you. You’ll look like a fool, AGAIN.

I have an army of Spirit Guides and Angels who are always with me for support and guidance. They communicate with me in a variety of ways. This team of mine lavishes me with support and encourages me to live into my aliveness.

anyways · appreciation · healthy · human condition · old patterns · resilient · Transformation · triggers · worthy

What’s Right With Me

Everywhere we go, what we see on social media, TV, magazines, pod casts, seminars, etc – is like a billboard showcasing how we are flawed. They are talking to us, right? Or just me? Ugh. At least this is how it feels…How we are doing it all wrong. What we should be doing. What could we be doing better, faster, cheaper, more efficiently, with less effort…How we are not doing enough. How we don’t know enough. That we’re not buying the right products. Not doing, trying, learning, relaxing, or efforting enough to make our lives “right”.

No shortage of messages. They might as well add, “ What the fuck are you doing with your life? You dumb ass. You are ___ years old and look at you, you’re doing it all wrong. You haven’t figured anything out. Where have you fucking been? Here, listen to me and I will FIX you.” Well, at least that’s what I hear.

So what do we do? We buy the supplements, the gadgets, the memberships, the subscriptions – just to terrorize ourselves more. To drive home how idiotic we feel. Perpetuating how ignorant, oblivious, unaware, unconscious, unenlightened, uninformed, unwitting and in-the-dark our existence is. Thanks a bunch. Thanks a fucking bunch. Love you, thank you for helping me to move further away from my true self, into an external, more aesthetically pleasing version of my existence.

Ever stop and think about the billions of dollars we flush down the “I suck at life” toilet? This nonsense has to stop. Such a brilliant business tho. Aren’t we all programmed to get on the self improvement bus? From a very young age 99% of us are told we do not measure up. We’re not someone else’s idea of perfection. Hearing this message loud and clear…Projected onto us by very unhappy adults, older siblings, well meaning aunts, uncles, grandparents, neighbors, coaches, teachers and even religious groups.

All this buy-in to self doubt was never ours to begin with. It was never part of our early fabric. I’ve never met a toddler who said, I’m not going to wear this cause it makes my arms look too fat or dance this way cause it’s weird or draw this picture cause it won’t come out perfectly and someone might laugh at me. Nope.

Before we got the message that we are flawed beyond fucking repair – we were happy-go-lucky beings, living by trial and error, as the wind blows, trying life out, discovering what makes us happy and healthy. We Experimented, made mistakes and got feedback that we JUST MIGHT fit in in our tribes. All without the crushing self judgement, without the feeling of “lack” or self blame if we got ill or came upon some troubles.

Do we really need repair? Or do we just need to fall in love with all our imperfections? All our FU’s? All the ways in which we give up, phone it in? Leave too soon? Stay too long? Take too much? Don’t take any? Don’t try? Try too much? Start many things? Finish nothing? We are the managers of our own programs.

There is nothing wrong with you. Never was. Tell those naysayer head voices to go F themselves. Their time in your life has expired. Feel good about recognizing their lies. All day long. Call them out. You are a beautiful mess. Allow yourself to know this.

Uncategorized

Human. Being.

As unfortunate things happen to us – and they will – it’s easy to forget all the good in our lives and sit in self pity. Trust that there is often a plan, people you wouldn’t have met, places you wouldn’t have gone inside yourself, feelings you might not have expressed – if the “unfortunate” thing never happened. Shitty things will happen and many times, we will close down from the weight of it all. Pain and tragedy are catalysts for growth too. We can do this! The human condition.