Leave Me to my Misery

Leave me to my misery

The darkest part of me cries

But why be miserable

When all that can change

Is how I choose to survive?

Leave me to my misery

Something within me cries

But misery I’ve done,

And serve me well it did not,

So why would I allow it to thrive?

Leave me to my misery

The faintest part of me cries

I wrap it in my arms

And hold it to my breast

Wiping all of the tears dry.


Explain to me, oh Darkness of night

How this Mist serves as my muse,

Does it serve me, or do I serve it

Or is it something far more confused?

Explain to me, oh Darkness of night

How this Mist has become my muse

Particles land and dance on my skin,

Leaving me feeling amused.

Explain to me, oh Darkness of night

How this Mist has become my lover

I write and I sit and I smoke cigarettes,

Finding I am utterly consumed.

Explain to me, oh Darkness of night

How this Mist has become my muse

Do I serve it, or does it serve me,

Or is it something  far more confused?

Enchanted Dreams

Setting sail to the

Land of Dreams,

Following wherever the

Stars may lead.

In many directions they

Cast their glow,

Where they lead

Only they know.

Does the land hop

From place to place

Or do those magic 

Stars guide and lead

The sailors of those

Enchanted Dreams?

Pump the Brakes

I’ve had rape dreams all week.  Different faces, different scenarios, but my rape remains the same.  It is definitively a rape, however I am accepting of it.

My self always seems to say, ‘Well, this hurts, and this is awful, but this is a thing that happens, so I have to deal with it.  There is nothing that I can do to stop it or to change it, and to even contemplate otherwise seems silly.’

Before this week, I cannot recall the last time I had a rape dream, probably the last time I was forced to see the ‘man’ (for lack of a better term) who raped me.

Now, let me pump the brakes and toss us into reverse for a moment.

When I was six weeks old, I was adopted into an entirely Caucasian family with two parents – a man and a woman, who had three boys.  The eldest of these boys molested me when I was about eight years old.  Repeatedly. For how long, I am not certain, I only know that it took place over a significant span of time, as I had more than one bedroom (he, my brothers and I liked to switch our rooms, to keep things interesting).

Eventually, after repeated inquiries from my father, I admitted that the eldest son was “touching me” (which in fact it was far more involved and far more disturbing, more on that at a later date) and after this admittance, the molestation ceased.

However, no one saw fit to address the fact that the abuse took place, or to seek out the assistance that any abused child would need to lead a healthy life going forward.  Instead, they swept it under the rug, and even went so far as to have me take a photo with him on his birthday shortly after the abuse ceased.  As if to say ‘Hey, so that stuff that was happening, that really gross, awful, horrible, completely and utterly inappropriate behavior which was taking place? Yeah, forget about it.  No big deal.  It happened.  We’re not even going to tell you that it wasn’t okay, we’re just going to move on.  One big happy family. ‘

And we were.  One big happy family, despite several bits of us not being one big happy family.  But I was “closest” with him, because I felt that were I to tap into my true feelings, the feelings which told me how dirty and disgusting I felt and how much I despised him, well, we wouldn’t be a big happy family anymore and then what would happen to me?  The newest member, the only member not related by blood, by race, by anything.  So we were close and we were ‘happy’.

Until I hit my twenties.  Until severe depression set in (mild depression followed me for the entirety of my teen years) and I couldn’t function.  I couldn’t work, couldn’t eat, couldn’t go to school, couldn’t live.  Enter therapy.  Enter someone hearing me.  Enter someone validating me.  Enter someone telling me that I should never have to see nor hear nor speak to that person ever again.

Enter my family.  Enter an entire different message.  Enter my mother telling me, when I finally mustered up the courage to tell her about my childhood abuse (I was under the impression that my father was the only one who knew), “Well, I wouldn’t put it like that.”


Rage. This is the mindset which I have been fighting.  Validation? Forget about it. Blaming the victim?  Oh, in spades.  This is what I have been fighting.

Throw it into drive. I have been having rape dreams all week.  I have my brother’s wedding to go to (as far as I am concerned, I have two magically, beautifully, brilliant brothers, who have an older brother, the youngest of which, is getting married) and I am a ball of nerves.  I am torn.  I also have my mother’s wedding to go to next weekend.  I am torn.  I am in both.  The prospect of going to either gives my heart leave to beat out of my chest.

Is the juice worth the squeeze ?  I am not certain.  I have been traveling down a very beautiful road to self-acceptance, self-forgiveness and self-love, and I fear, oh how I fear that these interactions with the rapist will throw me off track.  He will be all smiles, all simpers and purrs. He is the sort to not realize how entirely fucked up he is.  In a letter I constructed to him to tell him how fucked he is, he had the audacity to say “I just want my little sister back”.  This is the sort of fuck we’re dealing with folks.  How am I to abide this?  How am I to come out with my sanity and mental equilibrium intact ?

Have I walked this road to healing long enough to not be detoured?  Long enough to not be turned around?  I fear I have not.  Is familial guilt enough to make me chance it?  At what point do we cease worrying about others, and start worrying about ourselves?

I am torn.

May You live in Interesting Times

It has been a while since I have written.  This is due to various reasons, however, the heart of it is that I have not had the heart for it.

Recently I have been undergoing a serious overhaul of my inner self.  I was walking out my days in a blissful haze, letting the heat of the sun dance upon my back, wandering the streets with friends, singing, dancing and howling at the moon.  This soul needed it; needed a chance to let out all of the bitterness and hurt that had settled there.  This soul needed the opportunity to stir itself and remember why it burns with such passion.

The reason it burns, ekes out fire, as a tree ekes out life, is because this world needs it.  Long have I been under the misapprehension that I am limited.  I have walked out my days thinking that though I have dreams, they are somehow out of reach.  Yes, there are countless people who have been blessed with an idea, a dream and through the courage of their convictions, brought that dream to beauteous life, but I always knew that wasn’t for me.

It wasn’t until I was wandering down the streets of Portland, caught in a heady daze, when I had a startling break through.  Patterns in my brain connected which had never before met and I realized that nothing is impossible.  I’ll say it again, no thing is impossible.  During this moment, I was granted a glimpse through time and sprawled out in front of me was a vision of my life ten years from now, and for the first time since the world told me I couldn’t, I realized I could.

I have something in the works.  This thing is big, and it is dreamy and it is so so so important and I can make it happen.  I will bring it to fruition. That knowing, that utmost certainty brings tears of an emotion I have yet to name bright to my eyes.

“May you live in interesting times” is said to be a curse.  Perhaps it is.  The fact is, we do.  We live in a time when nothing is certain, and everyday people are hurting, everyday people are suffering and people are craving change.  This world cannot survive without a change.  It is felt in the air, this change is craved in climate, in behaviors, in culture.  We live in interesting times and I have every intention of making them just a bit more interesting.