Hazards Of The Trade: A Disclaimer!

We’re nearly 6 months deep into this blog. And I like to pride myself on being as honest as possible without being too blunt or deliberately offensive. Sadly, sometimes this can be a little difficult. What I perceive as inoffensive, someone can take to heart. This is sometimes applicable when you’re talking about something that others consider taboo or that others don’t want to think about at all, or ever again.

I’ve never been one so shy away from what inspires passion in me…I do, however shy away from those who try and put a stopper in my passion or silence me when I know, with all my heart, that I am doing what is right.

Last week, on Tuesday the 8th of March, I celebrated International Women’s Day by doing a besties make-up and taking part in talks for Reclaim The Night: Portsmouth 2016. I gave a small review of the topics covered, a small review of my experience and then said the poem I wrote at the end of my PTSD treatment in 2014.

I think the biggest fear I had was speaking the poem and being rejected. Maybe people would walk out, accuse me of lying, talk throughout or call me names, accuse me of being disgusting or filthy. Not a single part of me feared judgement…but who doesn’t get a little skittish at the thought of an angry mob?

None of this happened. In fact the opposite happened. I was praised for sharing it. I was hugged in thanks of displaying bravery and for showing my strength.

That wasn’t the reason I shared it; Joan Of Arc, I am not. It was to show that we are still having the same discussions, the same arguments. And there are still the same excuses for why a woman is assaulted being uttered under peoples breath.

“Was she drunk?” “Can she prove it?” “What was she wearing?” “She was asking for it.”

2010 to 2016…and there is no change!

Regardless of my reasons, I find it remarkable that I am actually having to fight the corner of me and every other woman in that room, against a rather surprising set of opponents. Often those close to us want to ignore or outright refuse that these things happen at all. No one likes to imagine that someone they love experienced an event that “won’t happen to me”. It is shocking when we sometimes have to prove ourselves to those we love or those who claim to love us, and convince them that we are not lying.

This, in itself, is a true testament as to why I will never shut up. My words and the words of every other woman whom has suffered at the hands of a known or unknown predator must be heard. And not because the reality of human suffering is the most pervasive connection we have; but because human strength is the most powerful influence we have on each other. If you deny our stories, if you deny our experiences (sexual assault, chronic illness, bullying in the work place, an insult to our child rearing, a bad haircut from a crappy hairdresser); then you deny us a very important part of our humanity.
Strength and passion are catching. They’re contagious. Contagious like laughter or someone humming Sheryl Crows “All I Wanna Do”. No one changed the world by keeping their mouths shut; so I’m gonna keep shouting.

So here’s to being offensive. Beware: Shit’s about to get serious again.

Clothes are short cut; short but short of nothing but the word “no”
Is embroidered on me from head-to-toe.
Cross stitch, pearl stitch with not a stitch
On but stinking piss
Seaming down my legs. “You okay?”
No- no way.
Go ‘way.
There. Stay.
And don’t come near.
Because I fear- of course, I fear!

Lonely light. Camera type? No. No dice. A lonely price
for pissing in the private night.
“You okay?”
I’m fine, okay? Stay that way? No, not today.
Skin, black. Night, black. All black. All over, Jack!
All over me.

It doesn’t hurt me, no agony in that cavity
where his fingers have no right to be.
Blind in my prefontal cortex
A dissassociated vortex
Of no thought, every thought;
Distraight notions of how and what I should feel next.
Nothing.

Mind is gone; all is wrong. From this point on we’re physical
and nothing is so trivial
than how long I have to think
and drink in the thought
of the brink being close
and the stench of some unwanted, foreign stink.

His hands crawl upon the former wretch; A motionless wall of flesh
while I become a being, fresh
with primal bite and primitive, spite-
ful screaming to the waking night.
And he will run from what he has done,
from whom he’s done.
As I, with mighty fury, have won.

Tomorrow morning views two inches of local paper’s news:
Girl fucked up in Festing Mews.
And four more years of closing doors
and drunk dance floors; still screaming
while that Girl is reeling
to break free from feeling
every thought, no thought. Nothing.

Empty girl is forever mourning another morning
of empty motion and no emotion.
But not this morning. Nothing for it.
Grin and bare it.
And stare it down this time.
The trial is not behind, or in front but now.
And wow….
I am powerful.

It was disgusting, it was filthy, it happened to me and it was real down to every last word. I am powerful. And I am a force to be reckoned with. And I will make sure others who experienced the same thing know that if one person is capable of such strength then they are too. Comment below to show your support. Write your own blog. Share the strength…

I… Wanna Soak Up The Sun…I wanna tell everyone to lighten up!

Peace out!

I Think Shit’s Gonna Get Serious.

It’s difficult to admit when you’re having a relapse. That feeling of weakness and utter degradation of having to have your partner, your world, your reason for breathing come into the bedroom to make sure your back is supported by pillows, that you’re not in pain. And you’re extremely aware that you smell similar to the back end of a rhino and you didn’t remove yesterdays make-up. But you keep fighting; you walk tall even though your back is killing you. You stand upright even though it is exhausting and your balance is shot to shit.

I forever speak in riddles, jokes or hyperbole…shall I go for some honesty here? It’s rare so prepare yourself.

I speak in we’s and you’s when I am at my most vulnerable. It is a coping mechanism I created to feel less alone so when I failed at something I could always say “we are trying something new” or “we decided to take a walk”. I is usually reserved for when I screw up.

I is ownership. I is a way of identifying what feelings are mine. I is how my heart beats faster when something has touched me. I is a very strong individual.

But I didn’t come from nothing. I sometimes forget that the path I left behind is strewn with mistakes and problems and paths untravelled and abandoned dreams, relationships, toys, people etc.

I’m rambling. What I am getting at is that I have fought my way through a lot of stuff…and I often fall into old habits of taking my strength for granted. And I think it is something we (I) often do; usually when we (I) want to be taken care of or when we (I) make a mistake or when we (I) long for someone to understand where we’re (I’m) coming from… (See all the ‘we’? I must be hitting a nerve!)

Riley and I had a conversation tonight and, to cut a long (and private) story short, she reminded me of how important learning to love myself was to how my life is now. And how I don’t think I would go back and change anything that has happened in it for the world because I trust that I was doing it for the right reasons at the time. And I love the person that made those decisions then as much as I love myself now. I was doing what I could. I regret some of them, sure. And I would have done things differently if I had the brain and love for myself that I have now. Insert long sentence of self loathing.

But…hindsight is 20/20, lense power adjusted due to experience. Cant have one without the other.

I am going to share something important with you. And it is possibly triggering so please mind the gap- shit’s about to get deep. It’s a poem. And it is a poem that was the turning point in my recovery from before. It was when I became this girl; a girl on fire. I love with wild abandon, I live for the moment and I know my own strength. I think, often, we are too humble and take our strength for granted… so I’m going to type this out to you to remind myself where my strength comes from…and when I discovered it. And maybe it will touch you so you remember where your strength comes from. I wrote this when I first entered recovery for PTSD in 2013.

Clothes are short cut; short but short of nothing but the word “no”
Is embroidered on me from head-to-toe.
Cross stitch, pearl stitch with not a stitch
On but stinking piss
Seaming down my legs. “You okay?”
No- no way.
Go ‘way.
There. Stay.
And don’t come near.
Because I fear- of course, I fear!

Lonely light. Camera type? No. No dice. A lonely price
for pissing in the private night.
“You okay?”
I’m fine, okay? Stay that way? No, not today.
Skin, black. Night, black. All black. All over, Jack!
All over me.

It doesn’t hurt me, no agony in that cavity
where his fingers have no right to be.
Blind in my prefontal cortex
A dissassociated vortex
Of no thought, every thought;
Distraight notions of how and what I should feel next.
Nothing.

Mind is gone; all is wrong. From this point on we’re physical
and nothing is so trivial
than how long I have to think
and drink in the thought
of the brink being close
and the stench of some unwanted, foreign stink.

His hands crawl upon the former wretch; A motionless wall of flesh
while I become a being, fresh
with primal bite and primitive, spite-
ful screaming to the waking night.
And he will run from what he has done,
from whom he’s done.
As I, with mighty fury, have won.

Tomorrow morning views two inches of local paper’s news:
Girl fucked up in Festing Mews.
And four more years of closing doors
and drunk dance floors; still screaming
while that Girl is reeling
to break free from feeling
every thought, no thought. Nothing.

Empty girl is forever mourning another morning
of empty motion and no emotion.
But not this morning. Nothing for it.
Grin and bare it.
And stare it down this time.
The trial is not behind, or in front but now.
And wow….
I am powerful.