The Recent Omission of My Truth

I recently removed several of my posts because I’m job hunting and applying to graduate school. I know that this blog will cause great detriment to my chances of being admitted to my graduate program of choice and receiving the necessary funding as well as being offered employment. I’ve had so much taken from me over the years that I can’t bear the thought of loosing more so I gave in to the -isms of the world and removed my reality with the hopes of moving forward. I’m now on my third week of mind numbing pain that has now kick started my depression and I say “fuck it”! This is who I am and this is my life and if an employer or graduate school is too blinded by their own ableism to see my intelligence, dedication, and worth then it’s simply not a place I want to be. My previous posts are going back up.

Another note, I’m now seeing a Rheumatologist. My hands and wrists have decided join the chronic pain party. As a result of this and other health issues several of my doctors suspect that I may have an autoimmune disease. Yippee. One more obstacle to overcome. As if I needed more.

In the meantime I’m searching for part-time, temporary jobs, studying for the GRE because my scores from my previous test are now invalid, applying to policy grad programs and funding streams, am an Organizer for an anti-racist group, and am now on a programming committee for a local abortion doula organization and am half-way through my doula training.

I’m fighting like hell to keep going as if my life isn’t over, but there are some days when the pain is so intense that it’s impossible to find a shred of hope. I suppose that continuing to write openly and honestly is one of the ways in which I do that. No one will take that away from me.

I will not omit my truth for you

Suffering, Self-Destruction, Speaking Out, & Political Warfare

The last year and a half have been some of the more difficult years I’ve had to face in some time. Due to this I haven’t had the emotional, mental, or physical energy to write for this blog, my book, or most other pieces. I’ve occasionally had a poem come upon me that I felt was appropriate to post, but bringing for the where with all to write deeper and with further explanation has simply never happened. Obviously there is a great deal that has occurred over this period of time, but I’m going to keep it as short as possible.

I was in a relationship that turned out to be very dishonest, manipulative, demanding, and emotionally abusive. Under normal circumstances I would’ve left a relationship of this sort, but I simply couldn’t afford to move out of the apartment we shared. My health problems have become so severe that they have placed great limits on the type of housing I can live in which of course significantly raises the cost. Rents in the Boston area have sky rocketed over the last few years, my health care costs are insane now, and my income stream is abysmal compared to these current costs. I was forced to stay under the roof, due to my disability and finances, with someone who mentally and emotionally tortured me day in and day out.

As one can imagine this led me down a very dark path. I fell apart and without a proper support system I was at a loss as to what to do. My mother, whom I no longer speak to nor do I ever see myself speaking to again despite my deep love for her, knew of the situation and offered no help. The irony in this is profound given that she was once in an abusive marriage and that several of the women in my family have also been in abusive marriages.

Things reached the point that my pride broke and I began looking at shelters. I told my ex that I was going to contact the police if he continued his behavior. He soon moved out after this with the promise that he would pay the rent on the apartment until I either moved out or the lease ended. Like all words that escaped his lips, this was a lie.

Two months later I came home to find under my door a notice to appear in court for an eviction hearing. The apartment management company never called me once nor did they ever follow MA law and send me all of the paperwork that comes before the eviction hearing notice. This was now the end of May 2014 and I had been looking for a place one month after we moved in together which was July 2013. The cost of apartments, my physical needs, the extreme biphobia in the Boston area (the minute potential roommates would hear that I’m bi they were no longer interested in me), and the housing shortage that left many of us scrambling to pay $800 to live in a closet in an unsafe house with 5 roommates no where near the train or life necessities left me unable to find anything. Thankfully I found the horrific place I’m in now at the last minute. I still had to go to court and deal with the mess though and of course my ex, nor his family, could be bothered to attend even though we were all legally obligated to be there. The one bright side of all of this is that I never have to see him nor his loathsome family ever again.

I had a few professional difficulties arise during this time. I have never been a fan of the area I live in. Over the years I’ve found it to be very gender conformist, racist, especially towards us Natives, pro-colonialism, horrifically biphobic, elitist, ableistic, puritanical, self-congratulatory, arrogant, stand offish, cold, and rude. This is not to say that I haven’t found some pleasures of living here, but it’s never been home. Despite this I’ve tried to be socially and politically active, but this came to a breaking point for me, like many things, in the spring of 2014.

I found myself disillusioned with the politics, parties, and the way social and political issues were addressed, if at all. An issue came about that caused great difficulty in my life. I found myself dealing with a set of -isms that were too blatant for me to ignore. After years of suffering out right abuse in “liberal” politics-being called an “injun,” hit on at work, told that I’m bi so bring in sexy bi girls to get the male donors, not being paid for my time and reimbursed for my expenses, told I don’t deserve time for a meal break during a 14 hour day, being told “If you don’t shut up I’m going to throw you through a wall” etc-I simply couldn’t take it anymore. While this situation was not that volatile it was still bad and indirectly told me that I was worthless. I left the environment and was soon threatened with a lawsuit. There were no grounds for the suit, but because of my financial state I couldn’t lawyer up. The same day the eviction notice came was the same day I was threatened with the law suit.

One week prior to this I finally snapped and tried to kill myself. The day I left behind unhealthy professional environments was the day my mother finally went too far with me. I have dealt with years of her emotional neglect, dismissal, and denial of the many abuses I’ve suffered over the years. I choose not to rehash them now, but they are great and they are painful beyond belief.

When I told her that I left this particular situation and why (over a text message because she never called me on any day) instead of giving me support and love or even saying a simply “I’m sorry” her immediate response was to say that her and my step-dad couldn’t give me money. I never said one word about money as a concern of mine let alone asked for money. This is a woman who once told me that I was only angry at her and my step-dad for not giving me enough money. Meanwhile I had just told her I was beyond hurt and angry for things such as her ignoring me telling her when I was only 14 that my boyfriend had raped me. Two months after that I tried to kill myself because I couldn’t take the nightmares and the other symptoms of PTSD any longer. She still denies this to this day. I think she doesn’t even believe that I was raped. Yet she has the audacity and the heartlessness to think that I’m shallow enough to be angry because they won’t give me money. This is one of many examples of heartache my mom has caused me.

I read that text and something in me just broke. I went to my liquor cart and grabbed my bottle of Jack, mind you it was the largest bottle of Jack you can buy, and I started drinking. I drank 3/4s of that bottle. That alone was enough to put me in a hospital. I didn’t stop there. I went to my pills next. Given my health problems I have my own pharmacy. I started mixing them all taking handfuls. I made sure to mix in a nice batch of the narcotics so that they would combined with each other and the alcohol and stop my breathing. I was also careful not to take so many pills that I would be sick and loose them all.

Apparently thanks to my worthless, broken body having health problems that goes back to my childhood I am now like an elephant. It takes large animal size tranquilizers to take me down. I didn’t even get one day of relief from my life. I woke up 6 hours later! I was a groggy, disoriented mess, but I was still awake. I never went to the doctor nor the hospital. I simply drank a lot of water and slept it off.

When I finally decided to tell my therapist and psychiatrist about it they naturally were worried, but sadly not too surprised. My shrink pushed for hospitalization, and then out patient day treatment, both of which I refused. I went through those horrors as a teenager and I’d sooner die then go through them again. [If asking for help means being forced into hospitalization I simply won’t ask for help. That’s how bad my experiences were as a teenager and how much I know about the US mental health care system (not that it deserves to be called “care”) as an adult. I’ll go it my own before I suffer that abuse again!]

After hearing everything I drank and took that night my psychiatrist said in so many words that I was lucky to be alive. I was furious I was alive! I stayed angry for months after. Some days I’m still angry about it. I’m not sure how I didn’t do it all over again, and for good measure slice wrists up like a child making paper dolls, when I received the court notice and the lawsuit threat. Believe me when I say I’ve had the thought many times since. Writing this now has me thinking about it.

I hate that I feel this full of pain and I wish I had the solution to make it all go away, but I’ve spent the bulk of my life trying to hide it all because when I asked for help no one cared. I can’t say that too many people (there are some and they are amazing, loving human beings!) seem to care still, but I refuse to be silent. I don’t give a damn anymore if that means lawsuits or if it hurts my career kissing ass to a bunch of self-righteous, self-congratulatory suits that don’t really care about those of us who are suffering in whatever manner that may be. I could care even less if it makes people “uncomfortable.” Too damn bad! If just hearing about my realities makes you uncomfortable then imagine living them? I am doing everything within my power to care for myself, to better myself, and to have the future that I so desperately want and so rightfully deserve.

In the mean time, I try to remind myself of something that two amazing women have said. One is my fabulous, Indigenous friend, Elyse. She has told me a few times when I’ve felt low that not only am I loved, but that our continual survival as Indigenous women is an act of resistance against colonialism and the powers that want to do away with us. I’ll admit that the few times I read that when I felt so low I wanted to cut myself, starve myself, drink myself into an oblivion, or even kill myself, I wanted to tell her to go “fuck herself.” Elyse is amazing person and I love her dearly, but those words don’t mean a lot in when you’re at one of your greatest moments of suffering. I always told myself though that she loved me enough to say that to me and helped relieve some of the pain.

The second woman whose words ring in my ears are Audre Lorde. I’ve always loved her saying “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” Recently though an amazing revolutionary lovin’ man in Boston, Eroc, posted on his Facebook page another Lorde quote that I try to remember: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation and that is an act of political warfare.”

My actions that make people so uncomfortable and angry with me that they go so far as to threaten me with unfounded law suits or personally attack my character are my form of self-preservation and that is my resistance against the colonizing powers that want to destroy me and this is one of my acts of political warfare.

Alienated, Full of Rage & Pain, & Fed the Fuck Up

Fuck men who eye rape me while waiting for the bus

Fuck men who are bus drivers who hit on me and make me feel unsafe

Fuck men who take advantage of a full train so they can rub against my ass

Fuck these asshole men who do these awful things all within a 20 minute time span on one fucking day so I can spin the fuck out and fall apart.

Fuck my mom for her half-assed emails that I only just saw because I checked my old email account.

Fuck her for thinking a half-assed apology without meat behind it would make things right

Fuck her for causing me more pain

Fuck the “community” and the goddamn white, well to do breeders for thinking that marriage “equality” was some big win for all of us.

Fuck white, financially well off gay men and women who think they have a right to be condescending to me, a Native American, bisexual, disabled, poor woman, with a long history of abuse in all its forms by telling me how hard life has been before gay marriage “equality”

Fuck WordPress for making me be subjected to their bullshit rainbow header because hey, today they care about all us queer folks. Never mind about all those days in which so many of us have been beaten, raped, imprisoned, impoverished, homeless, and so forth. Yeah, we matter today because those that are well off are suddenly “equal” under the fucking law.

Fuck them, fuck you, fuck everyone!

I’m fighting like hell to not self-destruct right now because there is NO safe space for me, but hey, I now have “equality.”

Pulling the Plug Before It’s Too Late

May and June are very emotionally charged and gut wrenching months for me. Mother’s Day, the anniversary of my very close friend’s suicide, the last time I tried to kill myself, my mom’s birthday, my Degee’s (my maternal grandma who meant/s the world to me) birthday, my birthday, Father’s day, my father’s birthday, and a few other painful memories to boot. I don’t think even the healthiest of people could make it through two months of those horrible days and their associated miseries without contemplating their death. Since I have chronic health problems-my mortality, short, and long term well being are always on my mind, but it’s especially prevalent right now.

It hit me just a few moments ago that if I don’t kill myself at the right moment in time then I could easily end up a shell of a person. Not only would I be dependent upon someone to completely care for me right down to wiping my ass that I might also not even be able to speak. That last bit never even occurred to me until now. What if I was just a person stuck in a body that didn’t function in any real livable way, but it never died? What if I had to suffer literally unspeakable abuse for countless more years?

I’m loosing my body with every minute of every day, but I’m doing all that I can to keep my mind. All I have left is my mind and my spirit which has been ripped away from me bit by bit. The fucking drugs I take are eroding away my intelligence. My memory is a joke and my focus is shit. Of course none of my doctors want to own up to this. I’m not an idiot though. I know that some of the same meds that keep me going are the same meds that are making me fall apart. I accidentally stumbled upon the fact that the 175mg of Wellbutrin I was prescribed on top of all of my other meds was on were contributing to my sleeplessness (not getting to sleep until at least 5am), my DAILY migraines, and depression. If anyone doesn’t need any of these issues made worse it’s me.

I (I say “I” with emphasis) weened myself off of Wellbutrin and I’m doing better as a result. I’m far from good, but I’m better. My 36th birthday is next week on the 12th and I’m a mess though. I’ll spare all of my sadness, anger, disappointments, and so forth with where I am in my life and just say that I shouldn’t be worrying about when and how to end my life. At (almost) 36 my concern should be how to keep my life going and how to do it with the most joy possible. Instead I’m hedging bets about whether or not my mother will even send a card or a text (Forget calling. That takes effort she’d never put forward) and am terrified about when my body will be so dilapidated that I won’t be able to kill myself for relief from all of my life’s pain.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

Questioning my Self-Esteem

For the last few years I’ve thought that my self-esteem was rock solid, but as the many self- discoveries have hit me I am no longer so sure.

My 36th birthday is coming up and it’s a constant reminder that I am utterly worthless. I am not worth a good fucking goddamn to the bulk of family. I’m fat, ugly, stupid, worthless, and an all around waste of all things good and true.

My father told me when I was 14 that If I wasn’t perfect then no one would love me. Those words haunt me to this day and I don’t know if they’ll ever leave me. Factor in my horrible mom who didn’t give a shit about the abuse I suffered and then there you go. It all adds up to my feelings of worthlessness.
Birthdays are a cerebration of one’s life, but my life is clearly not one worth celebrating.

I think I might have found someone worth caring about. BUT I’m too fucked up to care about anyone. I don’t know how to care for others and allow them to care for me. I’m perpetually afraid that they’ll deem me unworthy of their love and affectionate and will ultimately abuse me or leave me.

There are many people to put the blame on for this, but I’m looking at my so called parents. They’re supposed to give unconditional love and support and do all that they can to protect their children from harm. In the words of a very close friend of mine I was raised by wolves. I think wolves would have been kinder.

New Follower-No Editing Yet Again-Staying True to It All

Today my step-dad decided to follow my blog. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react to that. Should I block him because he’s had years to connect with me and never did? Should I block him because the only time he’s truly been kind and fun to/with me has been when he was drinking-oh yeah, I noticed this over the years!? How can you only be nice to someone when yhou have a couple of drinks in you? How can you only greet the dogs in the house yet walk right by a human being-your step-daughter, in your home? Oh wait, because your wife only cares about you and not her child. Because YOU only care about your selfishness and fuck your step-daughter and the abuse and pain she’s battling through.

Should I block him and my mom because fuck them for not being there for me when I needed them or for even making me type this?! Should I say to hell with this and him for the years in which I tried to build a family in which I was a part of down to the point of me trying to make myself interested in his bs like golf while he gave not one damn about me and my passions? Fuck him for his arrogance in thinking he can suddenly come around now and try to get a glimpse into my life. Fuck Tom for thinking he can follow me and my writing now like it’s important for him. I’ve been important for decades. Where the fuck have you been?!

Posting without editing. True to form

I began this hours ago, but am just now posting it. Meh, Life happens,

I have so much to say that I can’t even begin to be intelligent and coherent and articulate right now. Honestly, I just feel like I could scream and throw shit and hit shit and hurt myself and fall the fuck apart. I just can’t take my life right now.

Yes, I did have really good parts of my day today and I won’t ignore those amazing hours, but I can’t ignore the painful aspects either. It’s so sad and maddening that the painful parts continually outweigh the happiness. I don’t even know what the fuck to do anymore.

I’ve been without mental health care since October 2014-not that the Western clinical model was doing much for me anyway. This has NOT been by my doing. My therapist left the community health center to go into a smaller practice where they don’t take my poor person insurance just like no one else in private or smaller practices. I’ve been busting my ass for fucking months to find a therapist and psychiatrist that will take my insurance and treat me and it’s been impossible. They either don’t care about poor people or they hear my history and diagnoses and they’re done. Apparently I’m so fucked up that they think I’m beyond helping. I’m clearly so damaged from all the abuse, and I’m too poor, that I’m hopeless. No one thinks I’m worth taking on. So yeah, every day has been shitty and rocky for me for the last several years for many reasons I will not disclose, but these last few months have been awful in ways I can’t even begin to verbalize.

I’m mourning so many countless things right now. At this moment I’m mourning the two careers that I fought for so hard that have been stolen from me because of sexism, patriarchy, misogyny, ableism, racism, colonialism, and elitism. I’m not saying one can’t overcome some of those bearers, but when you have all of those to contend to it’s simply too much for anyone.

I’ll be 36 on June 12th and all I can hear is my miserable father telling me how I’m fat, ugly, stupid, worthless, and if I’m not perfect no one will love me. I also can’t get past my mother who chose a shitty man (instead of me) who didn’t want me around because she was too selfish to care for me. She was too selfish to be there for me when I told her I was raped when I was only 14. She was too selfish to listen to me when I tried to tell her about the abuse I suffered at the hands of my father, my classmates, the misogynistic boyfriends I had in the past and I have had up until the last year, etc. I don’t blame her for the abuse others’ inflicted upon me, but I do blame her for not giving a fucking shit!

My mom knows that I finally snapped and tried to kill myself this time last year. She knows about a bit about all the horrible things that I don’t dare talk about. She knows/knew about my birthday on June 12th. Yet, I never heard from her and I still haven’t.

If you ever wonder why I’m a bit lacking in the trust department this is why. I will say though that the fact that I still write, I still lobby, I still attempt to make friends and even date,