I’m stuck between tearing off my scab and letting it bleed or leaving it alone and letting it heal.
If I let it heal…has the poison left or will it eventually effect my entire body?
If I keep picking at it will I scar severely?
It’s a mind fuck of what ifs.
I don’t know how I should feel. I really liked not feeling anything. Silence. I felt silence. My thoughts were silenced.
I stare.
I stare at nothing and let the slideshow of memories freshly wound me yet again.
New memories.
Memories I had almost forgotten.
Those memories were kept back it seems to disable me …or was it to taunt me…I wanted so bad to purge them all at once to be ok once again. I keep forgetting it will never be ok again…not ever.
Each fresh memory takes every ounce of breath I have ….It leaves me powerless to intake air.
I turn my mind to focus on…
Please give me something else to think on.
Or is that wrong too.
 Should I pick my wound or leave it to scab…

I wake to find myself running through my hall deep in the night. In my dream state I can feel him trying to tell me something…something important….something that will help me rest again…he is talking but I cant hear him.
It makes perfect sense, this telling he tells  to me in this state of between dreams…this state of almost sleep I reside in… But when I am fully awake I cannot grasp the thoughts.
I fear it is like dreaming that you should make coffee in the toaster. While your in the ‘in between’ state of dreaming, it makes perfect sense to make coffee in the toaster…but when you wake…the thought is ludicrous.
Are these wakeful dreams I try to run from just as ludicrous?
I wake running and the image of his little face in my dreams…its like he is shouting, he wears a sad face…he is trying to say something, but I can‘t hear him…

laughter is laughing at your audacity!

Validity…
To be valid. To make sense. To use logic.
       So a few years ago I did my own personal study of human reaction. I love to watch people react and interact.  Stating thoughts, weather the thoughts really mirror my own or not , just to watch the reaction of those ‘intelligent’ people around me makes my existence in the world a little  more jovial…a little more interesting.
      I am currently watching the reactions of those that think they know me or my diagnosis…hilarity is my constant companion.
      I will not deny that I have times of insanity. I do. Everyone does.
I am reminded of the great philosophers of centuries past. Those dudes were really crazy…until all of a sudden they made sense. Hehehehehe…then their weird crazy thoughts become a part of  reality. hmmmm
         I live my life with no apologies…always have.  Look,  we all have crazy tendencies, crazy thoughts, crazy interactions, crazy behavior.
That was really my point to all my crazies….embrace your crazy maybe you’re the very next Einstein.
Yet so MANY things happened because of my announcement…so so many.
First, watching people pick apart every word spoken and every nuance made was hysterical…yes h y s t e r I c a l!
  Amusing myself, I began to pick apart those that pick me apart…there are a LOT of craziness out there…just walking around…pretending to be normal. Hehehehehe
     Now I would NEVER deny my insanity…I’m kind of proud of it…like in the south they bring their crazy people out and brag…I love being so creative that I can slip into my ‘marys world’ and lose myself.  Now before when I used to say a statement like that people close to me would say…oh that’s just Mary…she is a little different and move along….but now that there is a definite known word,(schizoaffective, scitzophrenic, bi polar 11, any fucking really crazy word you would like to insert) attached to my name everyone gets all jumpy…it's so funny…cuz I have never changed…nothing about me has changed…but peoples perception of me changed…lmfao!
Problem is...im really ok… I move around a bit(transient)…but I believe I have conquered that.  I have weird thoughts (delusions). The difference in me and the resident crazy talking your ear off about stupid…is that I can recognize a weird thought and chose to put it in a story or laugh my ass off at my raining insanity.  I don’t get lost in it…like my poor crazies around me….I really really have a heart for them….they can’t find their way out and that makes me sad…but I don’t live there…I merely visit.  ;)
My words do get tangles in my mouth sometimes(jumbled speech)…I have so many thoughts...they sometimes fight themselves trying to be heard first… gripping the reality of any situation is paramount to survival.  And when you work around a lot of crazy people…well you better gird your loins. Hehehe
When I ‘don’t feel good’ I recognize it and stay away or don’t speak…’not sure’…don’t feel good’  are a very big part of my vocabulary because I do not trust my thoughts…Nor do I trust my perceptions…I contrast every nuance…sure wish everyone did!
I met a young girl the other day. She was talking with a group of girls. She told a story about her friend. She said, ‘that is like a schizophrenic…your so funny, girl.: and went on. People didn’t stop and analyze it… they announced it and went on. When I asked her about her thoughts on her ‘crazy’ friend she said, ya, she is different…very sweet, says the funniest things.” ahhh to be young.
Dang…I’m bored with this again…
But first let me remind you of the first few lines in the scriptures… God created our world while His world already existed…many worlds…I know it’s a little deep…it’s a little more then surface belief…its more then ‘Jesus loves me this I know’…oh well next time,maybe….

transforming

Riding the tale of a comet, I pause to reflect on the antiquity of my sorrows.
Yesterday is the foundation of my remarkable dash between the dates on my tombstone.
I search for peace inside the beating of my heart that matches the universe as I scale the wall to my tomorrow.
I yearn for solitude ,yet crave company in my turmoil.
I cannot fathom the reason for the face that I see.
I seek rapture and no longer crave redemption.
Passion is the fleeting symptom of release to the side of oblivion I careen into as I sleep.
Waking is merely words falling from my face as I try to rectify my existence.
Shadows slither so slowly now I can see the total outline if I stare long enough.
Solid masses solidify out of the curtain of nothing as I search for nonentity.
Seeking to name this delusion is a terrible waste of the precious beating of my aging heart.
Truth can be vanquished if we return to normalcy.
Nothing gained by pretending.

title me done

Hmmm, I have battled this subject for such a long time.  A long enough time that I have become quite an expert on the subject.  The vast first hand knowledge that I have is to encompassing to sort through all at once.  I am forced to write my thoughts today in fear that I will become bitter if I do not at least let some of them go from me…out into the infinite whiteness of this computer screen.
        Rape victim…not what is a victim, as we all think we know what that is… but the battle the victim fights…
         I have been a victim.
         My children have been a victim.
And like all victims I have ever met, and it has been a considerable number,  how do we not remain a victim.
I would love to tell you that once your ‘perped on’ you move forward as if the event never happened. I would love to tell you that ,but I cannot…It would be a lie. This is a vast phenomenon of human misunderstanding, human fear, human reactions.
   As I walked myself calm at the YMCA last night I pictured in my swirling mind the rage and disbelief falling from my form as I strove to answer the screams in my head.
         I turned to my young pre teen daughter and told her, “We have not, as a society come any further then Tamar’s’ story  in the biblical days.”
   Tamar is not a well known story in the bible, so if your scratching your head in wonderment your probably not alone.  It is a very short story.  It is contained a  very short number of paragraphs. It is a horrendous testimony contained in one chapter.  
        I use her story almost daily, as victims will continually seek me out.  As I have said the story is very short, and there is not a lot to teach from.  In the beginning of my wavering teachings it was enough to let the other victims know that they were not alone…that this atrocity had been happening for a long time.  Yet as time has merged into a place where I should be able to offer something more then just a comrade in this horrible event, I am forced to look at society and how we fail victims so miserably. It is not enough to shake my head at the world around my little victims as they try to steer through a world that still protects the perpetrators.  It is not enough to understand how a victim feels. That only goes so far.  It is not enough to parrot back how they feel as someone somewhere (everywhere) do not know how to proceed in the fragile world of a victim of such an atrocious crime.  The emotions a victim goes through is to raw to talk about, and It would not be fair to share such  intimate details.  Furthermore it is my firm belief that you as a reader already know…the statistics are truly staggering.  The age old question then rears it’s ugly little head.  Why treat the victims as if they have been wrong in complaining about their treatment…their rape…their total loss of power over their body, their life, and their future.  Why do we re-victimize the victim?
     Even victims will turn into victim abusers.  Why do they do that?  Where they as victims told the age old lie themselves.  Where they told that it was not to be spoken about.  Where they told by not speaking it was inherently telling them that they were not good enough to proceed to the truth. That  their pain was not important.   And in so doing then they made life choices based on the assumption that they were not worth a second thought as they fought to find solid ground.  So they made life choices that did not speak to release and happiness but to pain and despair no matter what anyone else told them.  They forever from the moment someone told them to,  “hush be quiet”, they started telling themselves that their sanctity, their body was only a tool , only something to be used for the power and control of another.
      I know a lot of victims.
          I’ve met victims that sell their body because someone somewhere first made them a victim.  Secondly, someone somewhere told them that it was ok for that to happen to them.  The victim didn’t really believe that but find her only solace with the others like her. Those others that had also been hurt and then told to shhhhhh.  Those who also knew it had been wrong.  those who welcomed them into their personal hell.  Their world that survived in the underbelly  of existence away from the ‘clean’ parts of society. They became a counter -culture into and of themselves. Bound by their own rules. But first they were a victim.
        I know victims who are so angry you  can feel the anger roll from their  bodies like waves of hate.  They are unable to move through the stages of a victim,  because no one was there to give them the tools.  No one was there to offer them a hand out of the pit they had been thrown into. First they were a victim.
       I know victims that  accept horrendous treatment from their lovers, husbands,  pastors, teachers, church  leaders… any one with power over them because they had been told to shhhhh, don’t say anything…and they didn’t.  First they were a victim.
      I know victims that need,  achingly need to use something…anything to make the angry voice in their head be quiet for just a minute so they can be human for just one second. They use any sort of substance, so they can halt the hate tirade that lives in their head endlessly. The inner shouting voice that tells them that they are not good enough for fair treatment.  The loud accusing voice that tells them that they deserved to be treated like a mattress. First they were a victim.
       I know victims that reside  more in then out of mental institutions because they cannot find their peace with what has happened to them.  No one took the time to look them right into the eyes and tell them that what had happened to them was wrong, and they are right to be angry.  Their fractured thoughts are so jumbled that they have to be medicated to not attack themselves.
 First they were a victim.
I also know a lot of victims that live a semi-normal life hating and pushing people around them so that they feel powerful, if only for a minute.  They need to feel powerful because they once  at one time was so powerless.  They made it through to appear normal to the world, but they hate themselves daily. 
 First they were a victim.
        Each victim is my victim.  Because they were first His, and He has taught me to reach out to them with dignity, compassion,  with no judgment or control over how they get through to the other side of the abyss they swim in.  I cry for them when they can’t see me cry.  I won’t let them see me break.  I am a tower of strength for my vics…I am their goal, the way they want to live, the way out of the pit. I offer my shaking hand to them.  I warn them that there will be pain, utter pain….and they will hate me…and that is ok too.  Cuz while they are hating me…I will still be loving them …pulling them forward through their personal debris. 
 But…I can’t fight the world, can I?
Society is a stubborn mistress that seeks to annihilate  the panic stricken of the hurt and abused.
You know those pictures on the internet. The ones that are a picture of something but if you stare long enough you see the hidden picture.  When I look at the picture I immediately see the hidden picture.  Victims are like that to me.  Their victim-ness jumps out at me.  I instantly see the pain and disbelief they try to hide.  
But that is not the point of this writing.
My plea is for us , as society to stop  treating victims the way you were treated and bring civilization to the standard it should be...we have been arguing this argument  since biblical times beginning with Tamar.
       Let me tell you about this tough chick named Tamar.   Tamar was a princess.  She was King Davids daughter by one of his wives.  King David also had several sons by other wives.  The point is that Tamar and ansolem were half siblings.  They both lived in the grand castle, with each having their own servants. Anmon was in love with Tamar.  She was very beautiful.  She and her  full brother were two of the most beautiful children of the castle.  Anmon could not stop thinking about her day and night.  He grew frail from loving her from afar.  His cousin told him of a plan to finally have her for himself.  So he did as his cousin suggested and pretended to be sick.   When the king came to check on him. Amnom told the king, his father that he needed Tamar to cook for him I his chambers so that he could feel better.  The king ordered it so.  When Tamar came in to cook for her brother she was merely being a good sister.  She was doing the right thing, the proper thing.  In short she was being a good girl and following orders.  Amnom told her that he could not eat unless she brought it to the bed for him after he had told all servants to go.  She did as instructed as did the servants.  As soon as the servants were gone Amnon tore at Tamars clothing.  She begged him not to do this thing. She reminded him that it was wrong. Wrong against God, wrong in society.  She reminded him that the king would give her to him if asked.  He did not care he had to have her and he did.  As soon as the rape was completed. His disgust for her was as encompassing as his lust had once been.  He told her to gather her robes and get out.  Tamar knew that this was a certain kind of societal death for her. She would be reduced to mere servant now. Her future was gone.  She would never be allowed to marry of have children of her own.  Her life was over. She plead with him again to marry her, so that she could have some sort of life, some future beyond servant hood.  He not only refused to listen to her.  He ordered his servants to escort her out and bar the door.  
         Our little Tamar refused to go away quietly though.  She tore at her glorious virginal robes to indicate her loss and screamed through the streets.  She was not a silent victim.  She had been wronged.  Gotta love that brave chick.  But what did she have to lose? She had already lost everything.  He had taken everything form her.  Everything she had held dear to her.  




To be continued…

Leaving the tapestry of my rigid thoughts.

Diagnosing my fear as a symptom of disgust.

Living as if I can find solace.

Laughing glances follow me to oblivion.

Radiant lovely whispers caress my tongue.

Breathing becomes labored as I seek the valor of my thoughts.

Taking the encapsulated pieces of time resurrect my soul…one second at a time.

Wide eyed stare keeps me safe from the harm I feel all around me.

Talking to air is my rapture.

Knowing the degree of time is a constant nuance of forever.

Comprehension of knowledge inside the madness of laughing bubbling lights transpires my clinging fingers from the darkness.

I leave nothing unturned.

I furrow the depth of my weakness’

There is but one that can hold the madness back…

Only one.

musings....

musings....

Wiping away the vapor that encapsulates my mind,I look around me like a toddler touching grass for the very first time.

Raidiating luminosity rains inside my brain freely…

Easily I take in the landscape around me.

Clinging to the past is not consequential.

There is nothing to be gained by standing still.

No ground to cover if I remain in the same steps that led me there.

Boredom teases me with melancholy.

My mind springs forth and travels well before my troubleome body relents to journey.

tresspassing into the confines of normalcy I remained unchanged.

My heart,my soul remains intact as I continue my search for more…

Pondering my ability to remain still…I seek the confines that will not shackle me.

befriending truth

Stuck in the hiccup of pain…

Coaxing degradation from innocence…

Unwinding ribbons of hatred…

Recognizing agony casually, while trying to replace responses…

Survival is a tragedy…

Stuck in the hiccup of pain…

Taking the hand of a silhouette that cannot tolerate touch…

Transpiring against lunacy to negotiate with rage…

Living inside raw liquid emotions that must bubble to the surface without abatement…

Relinquishing history is a truce between the shadows that trip through the night…