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agustaviolin · 3 years

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i am in love with you

i hate to be the bringer

of such devastating news

four and a half years

you wouldn’t believe it

i had my first in a rich neighbourhood

so far away from you

i hated it

had my second in a dorm

just like yours

only you weren’t there

same as the last four and a half years

she laid herself out like a feast

the third

but it wasn’t what i wanted

because it wasn’t with you

for whom i was made

oh, with you

into a golden universe

i am in love with you

and you found someone

before i could tell you that

that my life was made to die with yours

my body made to die with yours

on your bed, somewhere, anywhere

i walked down a hill

in that sleepy coastal city

i was on my way to weatherspoons

to meet your namesake

carrying a heavy bag after class

end of january, i had met you for the first time

and thought to myself

i have found her

it was astronomical

the refrain of the almost free

saw you walking behind that woman we both knew

you were asking her about the bible

it’s a vivid picture

i almost followed you

i had a question for you, too

a few days later

i was traversing the pavement

and upon the hill, a flicker of light

much like a cross

you were standing there

with some girls, some boys

and i was a magnet to your ism

said hi, we talked, you’d just got a new haircut

and i could’ve pressed my lips against every strand of your hair

in a sacred prelude, but i didn’t

have it in me to even tell you how beautiful you looked

better than the birth of venus

we stood there for a while

i said come ‘round the catholic church, please

there’s free lunch on sundays

it made you laugh

then you said

we ought to have a cup of tea

earl grey, your favourite

tea

and with it all the kindness of life

tea

and within me i immortalised you

i immortalise you

and i meant to tell you that

one month before we met

i met someone from your hometown

they took me ‘round the bay and i took a picture of the church

right where you grew up

the foundation was laid

for a house never built

i fell in love with the streets and the lamp posts and trains and cliffs that made you

though i didn’t know you yet

how afraid i was

that’s why i didn’t say

i didn’t know that it was okay to want you

and you were the only one

who didn’t ask where i came from

you just accepted me

and then you offered branches

a bridge between two falling stars

i didn’t understand all the lust bursting out of me

in your vicinity

so i stopped looking at you

and it only made me want you more

and i told our mutual friend

when i was drunk on cheap cider

in may when you were taken

that you must feel like silk

to an intimate observer

and as we walked into the corner shop

on wet cobblestone

i told her that i loved you

said i love her, i love her, i love her

i wonder if she ever told you that

then shame hurt me

and i stopped taking her calls

your scarf, your scarf

autumn or winter upon you

it doesn’t matter

it’s all a golden-red dream

and my nights are full of your perfect movement

your gracious hands and soul

unattainable literary ballerina

purple heart, you sent me one

when i was on the train to paddington

and in the air there was a beginning unreconstructed

you asked if i was okay

because you didn’t see me that day

i should’ve picked up the pace

should’ve told you anything

you would’ve listened

i know you would’ve listened

and lavender was your breath, your scent, your colour

and our friend tried to make plans

on that valentine’s day

plans that fell through

i didn’t know why it wasn’t our turn

but we already merged like waters

a thousand rivers ago

i can feel it

like lana del rey would say

all roads that lead to you as integral to me as arteries

i remember you in your leather jacket

when you sat next to me with a cough

i wanted to nurse you back to health

then we’d sleep inside each other

that’s what freedom would’ve meant

and i saw you in the half-light, perfect under blue skies

at 2 pm in june

fate was still trying to patch it up

bare-faced, you were the last living rose

i restrained myself from hoping

i was slate-grey inside

leaving for the counterfeit summer

you were with somebody then

somebody bolder, somebody to break you, another

it was the last time that i saw you

tried to get back in touch

tried to tell you about it

i never had the words, i’m sorry

and i know i act like we’re close

but trust me, i know

i know it when i see it

and i haven’t seen it since

and maybe you never saw me for who i am

for i was traumatised

i couldn’t be myself

i hope you see me now

i know you want immortality

you wear it like a pearl

the designation to be

remembered by the halls of time

well, that i could’ve given you

i wrote a book of poetry about you

in my mother tongue

it will be published soon

even though they rejected it at first

i wrote three hundred songs about you

at the very least

covered all of my canvases

in colours to beckon you

fixed your name into these walls

at night, when i required you

and that’s when i wanted to ask

never had the chance

but i wanted to ask

is it wrong if the only thing

i want to wear for you

is my skin?

i believe in letters

that’s why i’m telling you this

if you ever ask, like oliver did

whenever i watch that film

i think of you and what could’ve been

my childhood was a prison cage

and i get by in reykjavík these days

without any substances

i don’t know how i get by

there’s a man who watches over me

and still i am alone

i practice my violin four hours per day

and i don’t have any family

and everybody wants to know me

and everybody wants to love me

and everybody wants to fuck me

but some days i feel like i can’t move

i’m blooming, i’m barely living

and i am just as much a man

as i am anything else

and i am starved

to the bone

of you

of every atom in you

it is my calling

to reach into your depths, somehow

i’m twenty-four

i can’t remember your birthday

but something tells me it’s in the pulp of summer

not at the death of it like mine

and time isn’t linear

but i will still need you tomorrow

a habit fastened into me

throughout a thousand days

i didn’t know my name for years

on this frozen island

i couldn’t stand

and then they burned my heart

with a catheter, you know

i had nobody to hold

i was so sick

made my peace with dying young

and living slow

an undue burden

on a life never begun

a wasted garden

strong and alone

i’m doing better now

i was in london

when i almost died

around midnight

it stopped beating

i thought about you every day

and i tried

in my way

it’s okay, it’s okay

i play my violin

and something great awaits me

and nothing measures up

to the idea of you

and it’s not just an idea

but a tangible memory

it’s so simple

it’s scripture

no, i’m not religious

but maybe there’s some merit to it

for it brought me you

they don’t know who you are

and i’ll never tell them

only you know who you are

i heard about the shooting

i might understand what led him to do it

he just needed someone to love

i am in love with you

i don’t know why

i just am

it’s pathetic and strange

but maybe it’s what you’ve been waiting for

all this ever-changing time

it’s taken me long enough

i am in love with you

this is my verdict, my promise

this is all i can say

#poetry #lesbian poem #lesbian poetry #queer poetry #love confessions #confession #i love you poem #Sapphic Poetry #sapphic poem #sapphism #sapphic

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haileyyanneupton · 4 years

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nina cried power

🦋 VANESSA ROJAS | CHICAGO P.D 🦋

INSPIRED BY ‘NINA CRIED POWER’ BY HOZIER

WARNINGS: INTERNALISED HOMOPHOBIA, HOMOPHOBIC SLURS

“It’s not the waking, it’s the rising. It is the grounding of a foot, uncompromising. It’s not forgoing of the lie, it’s not the opening of the eyes — it’s not the waking, it’s the rising.”

Vanessa Rojas went through 32 different foster homes starting from the time she was three years old. She had learnt early on that if she wanted to survive in the real world, she had to be completely self-sufficient and non-reliant on others for her needs. She had learnt never to leave anything out, hide anything you didn’t want to be found but most of all, she learnt never to give anybody a reason to want to throw you out. The latter had caused Vanessa to repress one of the biggest parts of herself for her entire life, stirring up a concoction of self-hatred and insecurity that would follow her around, leaving a terrible taste behind.

At fifteen years old, Vanessa had her first kiss in a park behind her school. Sure, she had been pecked on the lips once or twice when she was younger by the odd boy here or there, but her first real kiss was different. It was soft and passionate, terrifying yet thrilling, but there was one thing that stood out above all else.

Vanessa’s first real kiss was with a girl.

It kind of just. . . happened. Neither of them had planned nor expected for it to happen, but when it did, Vanessa’s heart almost exploded from beating so fast. It was the first time she had ever even acknowledged to herself that she liked girls, the revelation one that invoked panic as she thought about the repercussions. She would never forget how liberated she felt, thinking ’this is me, this is who I am’, but along with the liberation came a fear and frankly, a disgust in herself that she didn’t know what to do with. Vanessa walked away from the park that day with her head hung low as she made her way back to the eighteenth foster home so far — an older catholic couple — feeling an overwhelming amount of shame that ate away at her like cancer. There was shame for feeling ashamed, shame for the fact that she had enjoyed it so much — everything just got thrown into a pot and then doused over her without warning.

Vanessa had liked the old catholic couple who had taken her in a lot. They were kind, they didn’t use her for money from the state, but most of all — they gave her a family. Though she was fifteen and some would argue that it was a bit old for trips to the zoo with your ‘parents’, Vanessa loved all of the trips they would take her on. One of her favourite places in the world was the butterfly enclosure, the warm temperature mixed in with all of the beautiful creatures that were attracted to the girl as if she were a magnet never failing to bring a smile to her lips. Butterflies had always followed Vanessa — they were her good luck charm in a way — in a world where everything she had was always being taken away, where the ground beneath her was never concrete and she felt like she was endlessly falling, the creatures always came to visit her when she needed them the most. They were her only constant.

Vanessa never did talk to the girl she kissed in the park again. The embarrassment and fear of somebody finding out was too much for her to bear, and though she probably felt even worse about the fact that she was freezing out the girl that she truly had liked for no reason other than her own guilt and shame, she simply couldn’t bare the thought of having her biggest secret blabbed out to the world. Still, curiosity got the best of her, leaving her to utilise the new computer that her foster parents had bought to help her with her schoolwork to work out if she could find even just one other person to relate to. So when her foster parents weren’t home, Vanessa tip-toed of her bedroom and began searching for answers.

Within the week, Vanessa was on to her nineteenth foster home. The catholic couple had gone through Vanessa’s search history only to uncover her secret, leaving the fifteen-year-old completely heartbroken. They wouldn’t even look the girl in the eye after they had found out, telling the agency that things with Vanessa just weren’t going to work out. She had been with them for nearly six months — it was the longest she had ever stayed with any foster family — now it was back to a week here, two days there, and maybe at most a month somewhere else. It was on that day that she told herself she wasn’t ever going to let anybody get that close ever again. Not even herself. Just a few months later she sat in the garden of her twenty-second foster home, making the decision to live as if she were just like everybody else. She felt like a fraud deep down, but she thought it was the right decision; the monarch butterfly that had landed on her knee with its glorious wings and all only cemented it in her head even further.

🦋 🦋 🦋 🦋

“It’s not the song, it is the singing. It’s the heaven of the human spirit ringing. It is the bringing of the line, it is the bearing of the lie — it’s not the waking, it’s the rising."

From then on, at her new school — she went through a lot of those, too — Vanessa reinvented herself as the boy crazy, typical teenage girl that everybody expected and wanted her to be. She’d pick a boy to obsess over with her friends, talking all about how cute he was and how much she wanted to kiss him because that’s what she was meant to do. . . right? When her friends would switch from boy to boy, so would she. Vanessa had no idea what she was doing, but going with the flow seemed to work well enough for her.

One night, Vanessa snuck out of one of the group homes she had been staying in for that week to go to a party thrown by a bunch of seniors at her high school. She was barely a junior, so getting an invite was a big deal to her and her friends — for some reason unbeknownst to her, making yourself come across as if you were older than you actually were was all the rage. What Vanessa hadn’t expected was being lured up to a bedroom upstairs with one of the said seniors, the door closing with a firm click as he crashed his lips upon her’s forcefully.

“Woah." Vanessa’s eyes went wide as she pulled away, her hand on the boy’s chest to keep him a safe distance away as her heart pounded. “What are you doing, man?”

“Come on Vanessa,” the boy huffed, rolling his eyes slightly. “What did you think we were coming up here for?”

“I-I. . .” Her voice trailed off as she took one step, two steps, then three steps backwards. “I don’t want to.”

“We don’t have to do — that — we can just kiss.”

Vanessa shook her head. “I don’t want to do that either.”

“Then what do you want to do, Rojas?”

“I don’t want to — I don’t want to do anything. I. . .”

The boy huffed yet again, this time it was in a much more exasperated manner. “Fine. What are you, anyway? Are you a dyke?”

Vanessa’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach as panic ensued. Fear crossed her face before it morphed into pure and utter rage — how could he dare insinuate that she was that? She wasn’t that. She was just like everybody else. She had to be.

“I am not!” Vanessa hissed angrily, forcing herself closer to the boy as she leaned in for a kiss once again. “Come on, let’s do this.”

“Didn’t you just say you didn’t want to —“

“I changed my mind.”

🦋 🦋 🦋 🦋

"It’s not the wall, but what’s behind it. Lord, the fear of foul men is mere assignment and everything that we’re denied by keeping the divide — it’s not the waking, it’s the rising."

It was that night that Vanessa lost her virginity. It wasn’t at all how she had imagined it, nor did it live up to the expectations everybody else had laid out for her, but it was the closest she had ever come to filling this emptiness in her soul that was eating away. Yet as the years went on and she denied herself to the truth, with each man she slept with, the emptiness only grew bigger. Each man unintentionally would shatter a tiny piece of her as they gave her the sense of relief that only lasted while they were skin to skin — being intimate with a man was the only way to convince herself that she was straight. Hypersexuality became Vanessa’s coping mechanism for the internalised self-loathing that she felt, and though it never truly made the feelings go away, though she never truly enjoyed it — it got so close to making it all go away that if she tried hard enough, she could pretend for just a second that it did.

At 20, well and truly aged out of foster care, Vanessa was without any kind of guidance or fall back. Still loaning out her body to any man she could find, Vanessa wasn’t exactly familiar with healthy coping mechanisms or outlets alike. Her form of taking control of the world around her involved testing the limits in a newfound talent in thievery, stealing everything from candy bars to moderately priced jewellery for the sole reason of seeing if she could. She had only ever been caught a handful of times and had been lucky to get off with barely a slap on the wrist — at least, that was until she and her long time friend Luis went out one night, the two of them slightly tipsy, with plans to jack a car. Why? They didn’t know. But testing the boundaries and breaking the rules was the closest thing Vanessa could get to a distraction without needing to pretend she wanted sex.

Vanessa and Luis Reyes had a strange relationship. They were roommates — had been since they both aged out of the system together. Luis had always had the girl’s back since the age of eight when they met at one of their many group homes — no matter how many times things got shifted around, they’d always manage to find their way back to each other somehow. He was the only one who knew what it felt like to have the rug pulled from beneath your feet over and over and over again, the only one who knew just how cruel the world could be to the less fortunate. Though he wasn’t always the best influence, Luis always had Vanessa’s best interests at heart. He was her best friend — well, they were a little more than friends — it was an on-again, off-again thing — sometimes Vanessa convinced herself that Luis was basically her boyfriend simply so that she could use it as her own defence. How could she like girls if she was with a guy?

“V,” Luis whispered in the girl’s ear as sirens sounded in the distance. “Run. Get out of here. Don’t wait up.”

Vanessa’s eyes grew to the size of saucepans, shaking her head with a hand against the window of the Mercedes they were trying to jack as she froze. She was baffled that he would even suggest such a thing. “Luis! No way! You already have a record, they’ll throw you in jail and —“

“Exactly, V. I already have a record. I don’t mind taking the fall if it means you still have a clean sheet.”

“But this is a big deal! It’s not some petty theft charge, man, you’re risking serious time —“

“Just promise me you won’t waste your second chance. Do something good, yeah? If you’re only going to go out and get caught doing something dumb next week, let me know so I don’t waste my breath.”

“Luis —“

“V, go. Run while you can."

It was the biggest sacrifice anybody had ever made for Vanessa. Thanks to Luis, Vanessa walked away without a blemish to her name. She felt terrible to have to watch her best friend walk away in bracelets, knowing that he would for sure face jail time with his other offences haunting his name but it was too late to change her mind now. She had to live up to what Luis had asked of her — there was no more fucking around. That day, as she walked back to the apartment which she would now be living in alone — at least for the time being — Vanessa realised what she wanted to do, the realisation punching her in the gut with its sheer force.

Vanessa wanted to be a Chicago Police Officer.

And just like they had so many times in the past, a butterfly landed on the end of the flower charm dangling from her keychain, staring up at her in all of its glory. Despite the misery Vanessa had put herself through for the last five years, despite the hell within her that had been unleashed as her soul slowly yet painfully tore apart as it fought between conformity and the truth, the sight of the butterfly was one she knew all too well.

Everything was going to be okay. Somehow.

Vanessa was accepted into the academy and flew through it with ease. Her street smarts came in handy when it came to working her way around certain situations, her past giving her a competitive edge that helped her to stand out from the rest. She finished the top of her class as she walked through her graduation ceremony in her dress blues and in amongst the group of graduates, Vanessa was approached by a Lieutenant working in Organised Crime, a look in his eye that told the woman he had plans for her.

Before she knew it she was moved to an undercover apartment and assumed the identity of Nina Rodriguez, a bartender at Darius Walker’s bar. She slowly gathered information on the seasoned criminal and fed it back to the Lieutenant, making sure not to get closer than she had to with anybody who came in and out. She had no problem giving off the illusion that she was all buddy-buddy with the other guys working in the bar, but she never connected with anybody until a man walked in one evening with a charming smile that she couldn’t help but return.

“I’m just saying, women don’t understand how hard it is to be a guy these days. We’ve gotta be tough, but we’ve also gotta be sensitive and —“

“Contradictory,” Vanessa smirked over at the man and his friend, handing them both a drink each. “I know. But trust me — no woman is asking you to save the world and no good one is asking you to pay her bills. At the end of the day, it’s simple.”

The man cocked an eyebrow curiously as he took a sip, beckoning for Vanessa to go on.

"We’re just asking you to be nice.”

There was this look in his eye that Vanessa hadn’t seen in any of the other guys she had been working among for the last three months — though it was familiar, she still failed to place it. He was new and in turn that made her weary; she didn’t particularly feel like being hunted down if they realised she was an undercover cop. Just like his words, she felt contradicted by her instincts — she wanted to trust him, to get to know him, but she knew getting too close could ruin everything.

Still, her fear didn’t stop her from making friendly conversation in an attempt to pry information from anybody that she could. As the man walked out from Darius’s office one day, she could see by the look on his face that something was wrong — usually, when something was wrong around here, it meant someone was about to be killed. The death of Smokey, a drug runner who they had just lost only a few days beforehand was a prime example.

“Your goldfish die or something?” Vanessa joked lightly, trying to earn a smile out of the man.

He turned back to her, an almost vacant expression upon his features as he shook his head lightly. “Nah. I’m just deep in thought.”

“‘Bout what?”

The man glanced over at Darius’s office briefly. “Business.”

“What kind of business?” As soon as the words escaped her mouth, she shook her head and wished for them to retreat back. Though she didn’t really know him, she liked the guy — he seemed nice, and she knew that if he told her anything illegal she would have to report it. “Wait — Don’t tell me. I don’t even wanna know.”

Vanessa glanced down at the bar she was sitting by for a moment, trying to gather up her words and organise them so that they would come out in a cohesive sentence. She didn’t even know this guy’s name let alone anything about what he was doing with Darius Walker — whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. She could use the excuse that she was working her undercover assignment to find out more, right?

“Buy you a drink?” Vanessa — Nina — offered, raising an eyebrow at the man hopefully.

“Nah.” His tone seemed defeated. “I gotta go. Raincheck?”

“I don’t do rainchecks, sweetie,” she answered simply. “Especially on a sunny day.”

“But you know how that Chicago weather is."

Was this the first man she truly. . . liked? Vanessa couldn’t tell the difference at this point between real attraction and fake attraction. There was something comforting about the man, something that made her crazy trying to work it out — that was until they drew guns at each other and she had to break her cover. Suddenly, everything made sense and Vanessa realised she should have trusted her gut to begin with. After relying on her instincts for so long, Vanessa had developed a pretty good sense of judging character. She soon learned that the man’s name was actually Kevin Atwater, an officer working out of Hank Voight’s intelligence unit — a place she was going to have to become familiar with after being offered not just a job there, but a place to live by one of the detectives on the unit — Hailey Upton. Now that she was out from her undercover mission and officially in the police force, working on the most elite unit in the whole city, Vanessa’s life was finally coming together. This was what she was meant to be doing.

Despite the fact that she was finally finding her place in the world, there was still something tugging at her sleeve, begging to be addressed. She knew what it was; she knew it wasn’t going to go away no matter how much she pretended it wasn’t there, but it wouldn’t stop her from trying. It was costing her her happiness, leaving her in a constant state of misery that was sure to catch up to her — fast. She had tried everything, searching for something to fill the void and the only thing that had ever worked was faking it.

Vanessa at some point had managed to trick herself into believing that she was falling for Kevin. She felt at ease around him — something she hadn’t ever felt around any other man, the woman mistaking that feeling for attraction as they managed to grow closer and closer to each other until they were in bed together. As she sat straddled over the man, throwing her shirt off to the side, tears pricked at her eyes and in a split second began rolling down her cheeks without warning.

“Hey, wait –” Kevin placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders as he sat up with nothing but concern in his eyes. “– are you okay?”

Vanessa nodded furiously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Kevin gripped Vanessa’s hand gently. “What’s going on, V?”

What it was about Kevin, she would never know. She would never know what made her spill her guts to him that night, what made her trust him so much. She would never know why the universe had bought them together or how she could let her guard down around him, but she could do all of those things without even thinking about it.

“There’s something wrong with me,” Vanessa cried gently, her hands trembling as Kevin pulled her body into his. “There’s something so wrong with me."

Kevin shook his head lightly as he tried to comfort the woman. “No, V, there’s nothing wrong with you. Why would you say that? If you don’t want to do anything tonight, that doesn’t mean that there’s something wrong with you—”

Before she could even process it, the words were flowing out of her mouth in a rambling babble that seemed endless. Vanessa let someone in on her secret for the first time ever, telling the man how she really felt. How she had been dealing with her attraction to women, and how much she hated herself for it. To her, being gay wasn’t a bad thing for other people — only for her. It meant she was different, she was a target. And being a target terrified her more than anything else in this world. Little did she know that from that day on, Kevin made a promise to himself that he was going to protect Vanessa no matter what.

🦋 🦋 🦋 🦋

“And I could cry power — power has been cried by those stronger than me. Straight into the face that tells you to rattle your chains if you want to be free."

Slowly, Vanessa fought against her own inhibitions as she branched out in an attempt to accept herself for the first time in her life. Kevin was the only person who she had said anything to and in turn was playing fake boyfriend to keep guys off of her back as she navigated her way around this completely new person she wasn’t aware she had within her. Hailey was the next to find out, though Vanessa had a feeling that Hailey had already known — in fact, she was more surprised when Vanessa told her she was ‘dating’ Kevin than what she was when Vanessa came out to her as a lesbian.

It was hard not to think about how much a supportive family would have helped her grow when she was younger. If the old catholic couple had accepted Vanessa for who she was when she was fifteen instead of shunning her the way that they did, they could have saved her years of heartbreak, years of pain — years of self-hatred. They were years that she would never get back, but Vanessa wasn’t one to dwell too much in the past. As soon as she started to acknowledge her feelings rather than pushing them down until they were ready to burst, it was as if a heavy weight was lifted off of her chest — Vanessa felt like she was floating.

Vanessa felt free.

The first time she kissed a girl was — like she had described it — liberating. The next time she kissed a girl was nearly ten years later — the feeling that erupted in a hotel room of a girl she had been talking to for months was nothing short of empowering. Being able to embrace who she was and even find a girlfriend who she loved more than anything in the entire world was electric, and Vanessa couldn’t imagine going back to how she was living before. Every day was a battle to reprogram her brain into loving herself — all of herself — but she had never shied away from a challenge. She wasn’t about to start now.

🦋 🦋 🦋 🦋

"But I could cry power, ‘cause power is my love when my love reaches to me."

Nina was her turning point. When Vanessa was Nina, she was starting a new chapter of her life that allowed her to break her shackles. She could be whoever she wanted to be when she was Nina, and after meeting Kevin that night, Vanessa was sure that she owed the man her life. She hadn’t realised how bad things were until someone pulled her up from beneath the water and showed her the light for the first time in forever, the sun beaming down on her skin giving her a newfound sense of hope and confidence.

For the first time in her life, Vanessa felt whole. She felt complete. Surrounded by the family she had made, she feared nothing but the dark and spiders, leaving her to thank Nina for what she had done for her. That undercover assignment had completely changed her life for the better — she wouldn’t want it any other way.

As she sat at a table at Molly’s with her family and friends around her, her fingers interlocked with the woman she called her girlfriend and an arm around Kevin, nothing but love could be felt. The love glowed among them all as they raised their beers, a small smile on Vanessa’s face as she uttered the words that would hold a special place in her heart.

“Nina cried power.”

Nobody knew how it got there, but as Vanessa lowered her bottle and held it tightly to her chest, she caught sight of a winged insect that she was all too familiar with. There on the neck of the bottle sat a beautiful butterfly, slowly flapping its wings as it made its presence known to the woman. Vanessa could have sworn that it looked right into her eyes before taking off in flight, disappearing out the door as she felt her heart warm.

She was okay.

I hope you like this! I’m really proud of it even though it’s not perfect and kinda gets a bit messy at some parts but if you liked this please let me know because i really really like writing oneshots like these based off of songs. Also if you have any requests for any one chicago characters and a song you want a oneshot based off of let me know <3

#chicago pd #one chicago #vanessa rojas #kevin atwater #hailey upton #intellegence #lgbtq #hozier

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the-gay-cryptid · 6 years

Text

On Religion

As some of you know, I attend a catholic school and have done so since I was the tender, gullible, impressionable age of 5. I was also, of course, raised catholic. Which, for those of you spared the experience, should know means “I grew up catholic but hated it and I’m still not comfortable outright saying I’m not anymore because I feel guilty.”

I don’t often talk about religion here, but I’ve been rereading The Poison Wood Bible for school (fantastic book by the way, easily one of my favorites I’ve ever read) and it’s really stirs up my emotions surrounding my own religious upbringing, so here we go.

Until I was in the fifth grade, I had no idea religions outside of Christian, Jewish, and Muslim existed. I was also taught that Muslims were savage, oppressive, violent people and the all Muslims wanted to kill everyone who wasn’t Muslim. So. Just to give you perspective. I was also led to believe that Jewish people weren’t as bad, but they were just misguided and stuck in the past.

Around seventh grade, I began to suspect I was gay. Thankfully I’d become somewhat desensitized to that good old catholic guilt by having it beat into my very being since before I comprehended object permanence. But I didn’t want God to hate me, so I decided I had a crush on this boy. He was nice to me and we liked the same shows and he had a smart ass sort of attitude towards the less mature boys that I appreciated. So obviously since I enjoyed this boy’s company I must’ve liked him.

But I was still curious about my sexuality in relation to my religion. So I took every opportunity to ask about it in “religion” class. Despite the name, we only talked about The One True Religion. I got different answers depending on which teacher I asked.

Senora Baskin, our Spanish teacher who spoke shitty Spanish and was obsessed with Mexican culture and said it saved her from getting an abortion, told me that the pope said being gay wasn’t a sin, just being in a gay relationship. So I could be gay, but I could never date, get married, or even kiss a girl.

Mrs. Shaver said that gays go to hell. She also told a kid whose dog had died that all dogs go to hell because animals don’t have souls. She also told me I’d go to hell for listening to music with cuss words in it. Imagine that: a class of kids going through their edgy phase, listening to MCR and other punk bands of varying quality being told they were going to hell. I didn’t much value Mrs. Shaver’s opinions anyway.

Mr. Miller sort of stuttered a moment, then told me that he wasn’t actually allowed to talk about that. That’s when I learned catholic schools usually don’t talk about the shit the church is against. We don’t get to debate gay marriage, abortions, or the death penalty. We are not supposed to think critically or form our own opinions, because the opinions of a higher organization should replace our own feelings.

I eventually asked my mom. She told me about a gay couple she was friends with. They were married, but not in the eyes of the church. So any time they had sex, they had to go to confession and apologize for sex outside of wedlock. I didn’t like that solution either.

In eighth grade i sort of just shrugged and said “well. Guess I’m gay then.” I made an effort to bring it up in class more. Gay rights, not being gay. I’d never tell anyone, that would be horrible! I did come out to a few of my close friends, mainly because i realized I really wanted to kiss my best friend.

Freshman year, my religion problem amped itself up. The rhetoric was all the same. I was hearing the same lessons over and over and over again. I’d heard the same things since I was five, just in increasingly complex terms. I finally admitted my serious issues with my religion. My mom told me I didn’t have to be Catholic. I could be Baptist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Jewish, even Muslim. I just couldn’t be polytheistic or Mormon. I decided that it wasn’t worth fighting about and didn’t bother telling her I wasn’t sure I believed in an anything. The only thing that would hurt her more than me not being christian, would be me being an atheist.

Religion had been important to her when she was little. She’d been bullied mercilessly, abused by her older brother, had a rocky relationship with her step father. On church retreats, she found camaraderie and comfort. It’s where she met her best friend. They’re still friends, and seeing them together they might as well still be stupid teenagers who don’t need anything but each other.

Sophomore year, I came out to my whole family as gay. It was good. I also met the best religion teacher ever: Mrs. Khouzam. She is, to this day, one of my favorite teachers I’ve ever had. There was Mrs. Rae, who lent me more mature books and encouraged my love of writing, and Mrs. Fava, who taught me that I was allowed to have any opinion I wanted, but it had to be backed by facts rather than a person’s skin or the opinions of my parents. Mrs. Khouzam loved God unconditionally. And she loved us.

She was the Mother Mary incarnate, and I loved her with my whole heart. She reminded me of the paintings of women who cradled ragged men like their children. She just exudes mother. Because of her, I began to love my religion again.

Then junior year that was ruined.

Mrs. Langomez was a short, stout woman from the Philippines who spoke too softly and disregarded our opinions with a quiet reminder of Jesus. We wrote journal reflections in her class, and I’d long since abandoned giving the vague “I love Jesus” shit for opinion questions on my work. I told her out right that I had serious issues with Catholicism and that I was gay. She only wrote on my paper that she glad my family accepted me.

Then it went to absolute shit. I sat in my desk on the front row and watched this woman I had only rolled my eyes at and joked about with my classmates give a 40 minute power point presentation on why homosexuality was a sin. She described how god designed men and women to love each other, and since gays couldn’t procreate in the normal way, they were incapable of real love. Being gay damaged one’s soul and relationship with god. She said there were special religious retreats for gay people to strengthen their relationship with god and overcome their gay urges.

I was..horrified. Humiliated. Furious. Hurt. I just sat there, staring at the board with my fists and jaw clenched. I glared at her. I ignored her as I left. My classmates snickered at how stupid she was. I joked that I wanted to punch her and we laughed. It was their quiet way of saying they didn’t agree with her.

I shook the whole way to lunch and explained what had happened to the lower class men I ate with. And like a dam breaking, I felt that horrible weight in my chest. I grabbed a friend’s water bottle, trying to drown my crying before it could rise. I shook and shuddered and bit my lip and tried everything I could to stay steady. A few classmates sat with me and held my shoulders and told me Langomez was stupid. I admitted it was the first time I’d ever faced someone who so clearly hated me on the basis of my sexuality.

I couldn’t stand to stay there, so I left for the office with my backpack and told them I needed to go home. I’d already texted my dad. The principal saw me crying and asked if something had happened. Mrs. Langomez stood at the printer, half watching this. I told the principal I was fine and just needed to go.

I cried the whole way home. My mom called the principal and told her why I’d been so upset. I sent her an email later that night, explaining in better words than I’d be able to say, that it had been gut wrenching to sit somewhere I’d thought was safe, and be told in textbook language that I was a sinner and a perversion and incapable of love. I was promised an apology from Langomez that I never got.

It’s true that there are Catholics like Mrs. Khouzam. People who love unconditionally. But there are Langomez too. Hateful people. And they don’t all yell and scream. Sometimes they’re quiet and passive aggressive and pity you for being gay. And I couldn’t let that go. I was tired of the conflicting rhetoric. I was exhausted of grappling with god.

So senior year came. Langomez had moved to Japan with her husband in the military. My current teacher is a young woman who graduated from my high school in 2013. I don’t ever hide my sexuality. The whole school knows. We don’t talk about homosexuality in her class, because senior year theology is about vocations.

But I stopped taking communion. It felt horrible to cross my arms over my chest after so many years of cupping them in front of me. I nearly had an anxiety attack as I walked down the aisle. I imagined god striking me down then and there.

I only tell people I was raised catholic now. I once told my current theology teacher that my relationship with Catholicism felt like an abusive one. I was dragged up and down. I was shamed and ridiculed. I was dismissed and ignored. I don’t give a damn if not all Catholics are like that. I’m done having to take that gamble every time I meet one.

I’m not an atheist at least, which makes my mom happy. I believe in a Something. Maybe a polytheistic Something. I’ll figure it out when I’m somewhere I can learn it outside the context of catholic propaganda.

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signorformica · 5 years

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Bibliothèque Infernale presents:

HOW ELEVEN CHINESE DEVOURED THEIR BRIDE (1926) —A grotesque, infamous short story by HANNS HEINZ EWERS

This is a story about sodomy and bestiality. Most people don’t understand such things and don’t like them. That’s all right, but, if you were born a Tartar there would be no question that sodomite stories are always very funny.

If a case comes before the court, the Judge, Public Prosecutor, clerk, Lawyer and curiously even the Justice of the Peace all see the humor in it. Only the public can’t see the humor. It is out of the question because the morality of the Public must not be endangered in any way.

So enjoy this mild story of our black gowned family. Naturally it is a light hearted story that will not seduce anyone into sodomy or bestiality. Especially when he sees how this abomination can get a poor devil stuck into prison for a couple years just for a small bit of pleasure.

That is still mild and humane says the Law. Things were not always so light. We read that our dear God rained both pitch and brimstone on the contaminated cities of Sodom and Gomorrah destroying them to the ground.

Only the noble Lot and his daughters were spared. His wife was turned into a naked pillar of salt simply because she once turned to look back toward these abominable cities.

Now the Lot family was not completely morally strong all the time. The behavior of the God fearing family was such that the one and only God sent angels to deliver them from this decline into abomination. How their countrymen desired these messengers and wanted to go out with them! Lot got them drunk and pleaded with them to take his daughters and use their blessed wombs instead!

How do you say, they looked pretty only after you had a few drinks?

Nevertheless this is a funny enough story in spite of all the pitch and brimstone. Funny too are the sodomite abominations in our time.

Yet they have been horribly punished. Sodomites have been crucified, quartered, drowned, broken on the wheel, burned at the stake and still they exist in all parts of the world. The weed of sodomy and bestiality is constantly new and blooming over the entire world. No pure gardener of high morals has ever been able to eradicate it from the garden of humanity.

Impassioned human lust will always explore all possible desires of the flesh. The beat of time appoints individuals across the country and in the city. Soon here, soon there, the false God, Sodom, needs a sacrifice.

The second half of the 11th century was a blooming period for sodomy and it existed in the Order of the Templars, the infamous secret sodomite society. A small group of sodomites existed as well in Sicily and the Abruzzo. The head of their organization was in India.

Today in southern China a pretty piece from Tunis and far into the Caucasus exists an abominable city of sodomy with a temple that holds all their secret love techniques. It has followers in all the large cities of the world.

In all countries, in one city or another there is a place where sodomy and bestiality are now blooming. First it is a bird, then a four footed beast that is strangely popular.

In the Rhienland in the old city of Mettmann the court is known for producing such amusing cases and almost as amusing punishments. The worthy citizens complain to the court and curse that which I applaud!

My friend, Justice of the Peace John, wanted to write his doctoral thesis about it.

“The Origin and Cultural Development linking the district of Mettmann to the second paragraph of Statute 175 R.-Str.-G.-B from the 12th century to today.”

But the Heidelberg Judicial Faculty had little sympathy for this theme. They suggested he choose to write instead about the indebtedness of the District Hubbelrath to the movement of the common people which is certainly very important but not half as humorous.

No one can deny that there is a humorous side to every single case of sodomy or bestiality. From the “Golden Ass” of Apuleius into modern times there is a long chain of droll and amusing anecdotes. These are all harmless crimes. It is a crying shame that medical knowledge never applies in these cases. In criminal law books all around the world the worst tortures known can be found.

These are promoted not only by the common people but by the higher class, the so-called educated rabble. The sturdy masses merely see these incidents as humorous. Boccaccio, Aretino, Voltaire, Goethe and Balzac all have highly polished jokes about it.

Heine’s sarcastic poem begins:

“Zu Berlin im Alten Schlosse

Sehen wir in Stein gemetz,

Wie ein Weib mit einem Rosse

Sodomitisch sich ergötzt.”

[Translator’s note:

“In an old castle in Berlin

We see chiseled in stone

How a woman with a steed

Amused herself through sodomy.”]

The Royal family has never forgotten this mockery of their illustrious ancestor depicted in this joke as a steed lustful woman. Who can really be further offended? Friedrich the Great had a great laugh over it even though he stopped work on Voltaire’s rough draft of him with his greyhounds because it was not to his taste.

He found himself in good company with Voltaire’s “Pucelle”, which depicted the virgin, Joan of Arc, after her conquest of Orleans riding an ass into a bedroom. Voltaire really intended the love as only allegory and the ass signifying the Catholic Church.

Such humor is known to date from the 18th century and while not appreciated by the common folk was by the Lords that ruled over them. They rewrote the language and revised an old judgment where a poor fellow that had been caught in obscenities with a goat should be burned at the stake. “The offender must burn,” so declared the Law. The clever Lords revised it to read, “The goat must burn”.

Friedrich the Great was an animal lover with a great sense of humor. When a cavalry member was caught making love to his mare he hung them both along with a sign that read, “The fellow wanted to be transferred to the infantry”. Today he would hardly be reported by his comrades.

The sodomy and bestiality in hidden bloom during World War I was so pervasive there were constant jokes about it. A cow is called Mrs. Sergeant-Major Lieutenant in the East and such four legged soldier wives exist in all armies around the world.

That is simply the way things are and no cleric or Judge can change it. Everyone knows that centaurs, fauns, and other mythological beasts come from the interbreeding of human and animal species. We all know they come about through this horrible obscenity but no one really sees any wrong in it.

It is the same with this incidentally full blooded adventure of the eleven Chinese that I will now relate. This story of strange love is not meant to be taken in an evil way.

So, there were these eleven Chinese in Chicago-

But no, I must begin it differently. My friend Fritz Lange lived in Chicago. He owned a laundry business. Really he was a land assessor and gambled on the hounds, but not in this story.

Over in America a man can do what he wants. He can be a waiter, dishwasher, bill poster, carriage maker or anything. Fritz finally had some luck and married the daughter of a Laundry owner. He began working there to learn the business so that when the old man died he could take over and do well with it.

Now he had built it into a mighty laundry business with a dozen pickup and delivery points scattered throughout the city. One day he came to me very excited. I needed to help him. Eleven of his workers had been arrested. Chinese naturally, they are equally the best and the cheapest washers in the city. I could help him because I knew the criminal Judge that had the case.

It was Judge Mc Ginty, whom I played stud poker with twice a week. Now Mc Ginty was a sociable man and liked to talk. He didn’t want the eleven fellows to get off easily and it would be hard to get them released. The eleven Chinese were confined because they had beaten up a God wretched pathetic red-haired fourteen year old Irish rascal named Jackie Murphy.

“Why did they beat him up?” I asked.

“He seduced the bride,” said Fritz Lange.

“That’s not going to be good,” I opinioned. “Judge Mc Ginty is very much a son of Erin and will certainly decide for the young rascal against the yellow brothers. Still, many a man can be persuaded by whiskey.”

“It is so dangerous!” My friend Lange cried. “The bride, that’s what my Chinese call her! The bride is not the bride of just one, but strangely of all eleven! To them she is not just a feminine being of white or yellow color! In short, the bride of the eleven is not human. To be entirely correct she is curiously enough a four legged sow!” “And Jackie seduced her?” I asked.

“Entirely correct,” nodded the land assessor. “The Chinese here live on nothing. They only save and save through the day and through the year until they have enough to go back home with a full purse. There is only one thing they can’t renounce and that is the desires of the flesh in any form. They are horny as apes and can’t stop themselves. They must have something so the eleven fellows went out and bought a pig. From an economical standpoint it is certainly a clever idea, you could scarcely find anything cheaper.

They all live together in a basement apartment and the sow lives there with them. Jackie, the son of the house manager, was hiding and saw the entire obscenity go down. Then, when my Chinese were at work he snuck into the cellar and climbed into the circular pen with their lover. With him it made an even dozen. When the Chinese found out the jealousy grew so strong in their love-struck fruitcake souls that they beat the red-haired rascal half to death.”

“Thunderation!” I cried. “That looks very bad. Does Judge Mc Ginty know all this?”

“Naturally he knows,” answered Fritz Lange. “Jackie’s father had the Chinese arrested. They apologized for the atrocity and for mishandling the boy but when they found out they were going to prison they started screaming that Jackie was the 12th and in league with them. That’s when he first learned from the Chinese what really happened.”

“What will the outcome be?”

“Twenty years in prison is the minimum according to the Law in the State of Illinois. They are not as mild here as they are across the ocean! And I have lost my best workers! But there is still a chance. The case is still with the police and has not yet gone to court. I’ve always been on friendly terms with the police. I need you to take this to Judge Mc Ginty.”

He reached into a bag and brought out a large piece of Nephritis, Imperial Jade, of the most glorious green color and wonderfully cut into the shape of an enormous turkey. It was easily worth more than a few hundred dollars.

“Here,” he cried. “The fellows have given me this. It is something very valuable that can possibly get them out of this jam. Take this to Judge Mc Ginty; I think he will talk with you.”

So I took the stone and went to Mc Ginty but he was not home. His wife greeted me. She was pretty and distinguished despite being fifty-four years old and she understood the situation. I gladly showed her my lump of jade and her eyes got bigger and bigger.

“I received this as a present,” I said weakly. ” I wondered if your husband was interested in it. I could really use a few dollars right now.”

At that moment Mc Ginty came.

“Buy it!” His wife cried out to him. “I’ve been wishing for a piece like that for many years. He’s letting it go really cheap, only-“

The Judge took the glorious piece and set it down on the table.

“Come with me,” he said. “I don’t want her to hear our little chat.”

He took me around back despite the pleading of his wife who stood with both hands clasped together in front of her.

“God, I’ve got fifty dollars,” she cried after us.

“What’s this about?” He asked me out on the street.

“It’s like this,” I said. “You know about those Chinese that were arrested yesterday. My friend Lange needs his workers and wants them released. The fellows gave him this stone to sell so they could get some money for their defense.”

Mc Ginty looked at me sharply.

“I know it’s not right-, “he began. “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing special,” I lied. “They beat up a fourteen year old.”

“Nothing else?” The honorable Judge asked.

He winked at me and gave me a poke in the ribs.

“Nothing that I can remember,” I laughed.

Judge Mc Ginty chuckled, and then he said. “Good, I will buy this stone because my wife wants it so badly. But I can’t give you more than ten dollars for it. There, that is enough for your defense. Go quickly to Jim Mc Namus, the lawyer, you know him. Give him the ten dollars-wait a minute,” He put down another. “There, he gets one for each. The rascal Murphy must defend his son because he is Irish, he won’t talk.

Tell Mc Namus to be in court at 6:00 this evening to get this over with quickly. Now, please excuse me. I must go to my wife and bring her this little thing she is so madly in love with.”

He played with the stone on the table.

Judge Mc Ginty knew what he was talking about. I was at the criminal court that evening. A policeman said that the eleven coolies had beaten the young Murphy. The rascal said nothing. The Chinese said nothing. The defense asked for a mild sentence.

Judge Mc Ginty ruled that each pay a dollar to the state and another in damages to the father of the youth. Fritz Lange immediately paid the twenty-two dollars and another twenty-five for the cost of the proceedings. Everyone went home happy. It didn’t take over five minutes.

A week later Fritz Lange stopped by. I should go with him to his Chinese, he said. They wanted to thank me. So I went with him. We went down into the cellar, all eleven were there and so was the young red-haired rascal Murphy.

They were very polite to me, offered me Saki and a little rice. Then the feast began. It was pork sausage. They had been taken in once and paid dearly.

“We are not doing that again,” they said.

So they slaughtered their bride, and consumed her with enviable appetites.

I like to think that I am moderately open minded and unprejudiced. I am no food critic, but it was a bit too much for me.

*Von elf Chinesen und ihrer aufgefressenen Braut. Hanns Heinz Ewers ~ 1926

“How Eleven Chinese Devoured Their Bride”: translation copyright Joe E. Bandel

Original German version, via Spiegel Online Kultur: gutenberg.spiegel.de/buch/grotesken-7613/3

Image: Hanns Heinz Ewers, ca.1900: “Blood is Life”

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mandeebobandee · 5 years

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I said I’d write a post with my experience with mental illness and here it is. I put it off for a while because I wasn’t sure how personal I wanted to get, or if anyone would be interested, but hey. It’s been bouncing around in my head for a long time, and if this helps me or anyone who might come across it, I suppose it’s worth it. I’m going to put a read more here so that this doesn’t kill people’s dashes, since I have a feeling this is going to end up being long and rambly, but...here we go.

I’m not actually sure when my first symptoms showed up. It’s possible that I had some form of mental illness almost as far back as I can remember? I remember being in preschool and having a fear of wetting my pants for an entire day, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t seem to get the thought out of my mind. In first grade, I remember being seized by a fear that I would start swearing at the top of my lungs in the middle of class. I didn’t, but it popped into my head, and that felt bad enough. A couple of times in 2nd/3rd grade, I had difficulty falling asleep because I couldn’t stop worrying about trying to get to sleep, and I would keep repeatedly counting out how many hours of sleep I would get if I fell asleep right then, and if it would be ‘enough sleep’.

So yeah. I always was a worrywart, it seems like.

I feel like I should note that I went to Catholic school from kindergarten through 2nd grade. I should also note that I’m fairly certain my experiences with religion shaped some of my first experiences with mental illness. This is not to say anything against anyone who is religious - I respect you and your faith. However, certain things I learned through religion...didn’t exactly help me, with how my mind worked.

In Catholic school, confession is a thing. You go in front of a priest and tell him your sins, and he gives you a way to seek penance for it. Usually repeating a certain prayer a certain number of times, or something along those lines. I dunno, it’s been a LONG time since I’ve actually done it. I’m agnostic now, so I don’t exactly go to church.

The reason I bring this up?

My experiences when I was younger MAY have qualified as mental illness. I’m not 100% certain. What began near the end of 3rd grade? There is NO doubt about that.

It was Good Friday 1998. I was 8, soon to be 9. The reason I brought up my religious background is this - a religion related discussion precipitated my heardfirst dive into obsessive-compulsive disorder.

I’m pretty sure the comment was relatively harmless in hindsight, my mom making a comment about how Jesus died for our sins or something like that. All I know is that I suddenly found myself besieged by an overwhelming guilt as I thought about everything ‘bad’ I’d done in my life. Saying bad words, sneaking candy when I was 4 years old, all of it kept jumping to the forefront of my mind, and I felt like I had to confess it all to my parents as it came to my mind. I’m not sure how long this lasted...probably only a couple of weeks, honestly, but it wasn’t fun.

Also, the weirdest things became concerns of mine at that point. I had to make certain not to stick my middle finger out too far, or else I was afraid that I’d accidentally flip someone off, which I knew was bad. I didn’t want to say words like ‘wash it’ because...well, the end of the word wash combined with the word it sounded like ‘shit’ and ‘oh no bad word!’.

...I hate to say it, but this was only the beginning.

My mom and I were praying at one point at night when a really bad thought popped into my head. I was terrified, because what if it came true because I thought it while I was praying? And I didn’t really want to talk about it with anyone, because it was so horrible that I didn’t want anyone to know about it.

This continued for much of fourth grade. I was afraid I would hurt my mother. I didn’t actually want to, of course - I recognize now that these were what are known as intrusive thoughts, but there aren’t many nine year olds who know that now, let alone in the late 90s when I was experiencing all of this.

I recall being afraid to even touch knives, if that tells you anything.

I would also pray. By this point I recognized that what I was doing was ‘weird’, so I found ways to hide what I was doing. I would go into a room by myself and go through my routine, or I would do my daily ‘prayer’ in the shower.

...here’s why this was an issue.

I wasn’t just saying a quick prayer. I had an entire script memorized, that had to be said exactly the right way or I’d have to repeat it all over again. And it wasn’t a quick script either. And I often WOULD have to repeat it all over again. I recall at least one point where my parents actually made a comment about how long I spent in the shower, and the water grew cold with how long I spent in there. I didn’t tell them why, because I knew it was weird

That particular phase reached a boiling point one night when I was watching The Lion King. Here, I feel I should note that The Lion King was my favorite movie when I was younger. It came out when I was 5 years old, and I was Simba for Halloween in kindergarten. I had Simba and Nala stuffed animals, a Simba windbreaker with matching pants (yes, windbreaker..it was the 90s, okay?) that I took my school picture in, a Lion King casette tape, Lion King sheets on my bed...

You get the picture.

I bawled my eyes out during that movie, and while yes, I did often cry at certain scenes in that movie, for obvious reasons...this was different. This was almost hysterical crying, and my parents knew there was something wrong. They managed to finally coax me to admit my fears, and that seeing Simba accused of what happened to Mufasa in that movie was...well, it was a little too close for comfort.

Talking to my parents helped. I still had worries, of course, but my next big flare up didn’t happen until 5th grade.

Once again, the thing that set it off should have been something that didn’t affect me. It wouldn’t affect most people.

A girl in my gym class cut her knee on one of those rolly scooters that you’d sit on and roll around on in gym class. Obviously not the greatest thing, but you wouldn’t think it would be something that would set someone off...would you?

Ahahaha. Yeaaaaaaaaah right.

To preface, some of this was due to ignorance on my part. I was 10, I didn’t know the details as to how the disease I was so afraid of was transmitted. I only knew that you could get it from blood, and there was blood on the floor in gym class. So then I started worrying that I might have gotten it on my shoes. Then, that anything my shoes touched could have gotten something on them. Then my clothes. Then...

You, uh, get the picture.

I was afraid that anything I touched would give me AIDS. X_X Again, I KNOW now that it doesn’t work that way. I also know that even with other diseases, those pathogens eventually DIE outside of the body, so you don’t have to worry about your shoes being contaminated with the same virus two weeks later. But, again, I was 10. I actually learned shortly after this the truth of how AIDS is spread.

Anyway, this was one of the points where my OCD was most stereotypical. I washed my hands constantly. Obviously my parents noticed, and they tried to poke and prod into WHY I was doing this. Once again, my shame and fear and recognizing that what I was doing was ‘weird’ led me to hide the truth to some extent. We’d watched Johnny Tremaine in class and my dad mentioned that after he watched that movie he’d been afraid that his hand would get disfigured like one of the characters’ in the movie’s hands did. So I claimed that I feared something similar, and that was why I was washing my hands.

I’m pretty sure, looking back, that he probably didn’t buy that.

6th grade came. My mom had surgery. My best friend had diabetes. Neither of these were their fault, of course, but both I’m fairly certain had an impact on my already anxious mind. I started worrying that I would develop diabetes like my friend had. Now, I was old enough at this point to understand that diabetes wasn’t contagious, so at least I wasn’t worried about contracting it from my friend. I was, however, afraid of contracting other diseases, so...yep, the hand washing continued. We also happened to have this lovely book of illnesses from the 80s that my parents bought with an encyclopedia set way back that I spent way too much time reading. Actually, reading that became one of my compulsions. There was an entry that I would read through every night before I went to bed. The same entry.

My mom wound up in the hospital with chest pains a couple of weeks after surgery. They sent her home with a diagnosis of acid reflux. It was 2 in the morning and they took me to a side room to see if I could get some sleep. I couldn’t. We were learning about the plague of all things and I couldn’t get the idea that plague bacteria could be lurking anywhere in that room out of my head, so...yep. Didn’t get to sleep until they released my mom out of the ER at 6 or 7 in the morning.

I started fearing heart attacks around this point. I would literally feel for my heartbeat several times a day, just to make sure my heart was still beating.

Christmas that year was...stressful. My mom was still recovering from her surgery, there was family drama, my uncle’s girlfriend had a possible diagnosis of TB so everyone was paranoid of being around him because of THAT, my dad’s side of the family insisted on smoking despite the fact that being around smoke made me feel blah...

Still, that was a walk in the park compared to New Years.

We were invited to a neighbor’s New Years Eve party. Everything was fine until I walked in the door.

I still don’t entirely know how to describe the feeling that came over me. 11-year-old me summed it up as ‘I feel like I’m going to pass out’. I tried to continue as if everything was normal. I didn’t want to disrupt the party. The neighbor’s toddler daughter, who liked showing off for the ‘big kid’, wanted to show me a dance or something that she’d learned.

The feeling didn’t go away. I told my mom I wanted to go home, that I still felt like I was going to pass out.

We made it back home. I remember pleading with my mom to take me to the doctor, because I was honestly afraid there was something seriously wrong with me. The feeling eventually abated, but not without my discovering something quite interesting.

Remember that childhood illnesses book? When I read it, I usually stuck to certain communicable diseases that I was concerned about, or things like the diabetes that my best friend struggled with. My mom was looking through the book trying to figure out what was wrong with me, and started reading a definition that stood out to me. I don’t recall what all it said, and we no longer have that book (as it would be over 30 years old at this point). One thing I do recall was that she read something along the lines of ‘feeling like you’re going crazy or dying’.

It was under the heading of ‘panic attack’.

That New Years was the only New Years I can ever recall NOT staying up until or past midnight.

I ended up getting a fever a few days later, and in the midst of my fever, my delirious mind pounced on my fears and kept asking me ‘what if you really do want to hurt somebody?’ I was shaking uncontrollably, not realizing that I had chills and a fever, and ran into my mom’s room sobbing and telling her I thought I was going crazy. She felt my forehead and told me I was burning up.

You can understand why, when it was time to return back to school after Christmas break, I was uneasy as my mom pulled up to the curb to drop me off. I was afraid that I’d get a headache, or that I’d feel like I was going to pass out again, or any of the multiple things that seemed to be wrong with me recently. Of course, I had to pull up my big girl panties and still go to school, but...I started to become afraid to do things, out of fear that they would ‘set me off’, that something like what happened at that New Years Eve party would happen again.

And it did.

Not right away, of course. I didn’t walk into school and have it happen right away. It happened once in gym class. It happened at a school party. It happened when my parents were driving.

It happened twice in one day, at the beginning of 7th grade. To be fair, though, there were special circumstances that day. One instance was precipitated by a mental picture in my head of a plane crashing into our school, if that gives you some idea. Needless to say, even the adults seemed confused and panicky that day, and given how I was already..yeah, it wasn’t any surprise that 9/11 left me particularly frazzled.

The summer between 9th grade and 10th grade was quite possibly the worst. I spent hours doing my various ‘rituals’ that I had to do each day. By this time, I was already getting involved with online fandoms, and every day before I could actually posted what I wanted to on the Harry Potter forum I was on, I had to post certain posts over and over again. By this point, I more than suspected I had OCD.

I actually mentioned it to someone on the board, who pretty much laughed and said. ‘You don’t have it. If you had it, it would be noticeable’.

...like it wasn’t? Did they think I was posting the same thing over and over again for fun? I was doing rituals until 1 and 2 in the morning for pete’s sake.

This was honestly the pattern off and on through high school. 11th grade was particularly awkward, as it began to affect my grades. Certain readings in American Lit would give me ‘weird feelings’, and I couldn’t bring myself to finish the assignments for them for that reason.

The summer between 11th and 12th grade was when things hit a head. I developed a thing for straightening shelves in stores, and my dad was poking fun at me doing it at one point. I love my dad, but he can be particularly harsh when he teases, and by that point I was already in a bad position.

I burst into tears in the middle of Walmart. Not one of my proudest moments.

That said...it gave me the impetus to finally go to my parents about what was wrong. I knew I’d needed therapy for a few years prior to this point, I’d just never worked up the courage to talk to them about it.

The first part of the conversation actually went how I feared. My parents thought it was like the diseases I looked up as a child and would come into their room telling them I feared I’d get it (...ironically, I did that BECAUSE of this disorder, but moving on).

I left the room crying and began to write out my experience year after year, much as I did here (though probably not quite as eloquently...I was 17 at the time, after all). Once my parents read THAT, they finally realized how much this was impacting my life, and agreed to take me to the doctor.

Not only that, but they confessed that they did similar things. Now both of them admit to having OCD to some extent, and it’s pretty darn obvious that much of my family struggles with anxiety and/or OCD...on both sides.

Sad thing is? It took until the millennials (me and my cousin on my dad’s side) and Gen Z (a cousin on my mom’s side) before anyone actually sought help for any of this. X_X

I’m not going to pretend that I went to therapy and things magically got better. Therapy did help. I stopped therapy when I was 19, because my therapist was about to have a baby. I never went back to see her after that, figuring I was doing better at that point.

Of course, the ensuing decade after that was full of ups and downs.

2016 is probably when things began to get extra difficult again. I began to experience tremors. I would get dizzy/have palpitations. My doctor sent me to see a cardiologist and a neurologist.

They ran their tests, determined there was nothing physically wrong with me. The tremors, dizziness, and palpitations were new manifestations of my anxiety. At some point (not 100% sure when), I also gained a diagnosis of GAD.

Last year, I finally began to see a therapist yet again (the 2017-2018 flu season scared me particularly badly, and I still have a paranoia because of it), and started a new medication. Has everything gotten completely better?

No, but it has improved some from where it was prior to that point. I’m still working on it, and I’ll probably be working on it in some way, shape, or form for my entire life.

But hey, at least I can be more open about it now. And I know that I’m not alone, and that makes a huge difference as well <3

#intrusive thoughts #religion #mental illness #anxiety #ocd

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tr33-g1rl · 6 years

Text

I don’t know what to tell you,

Which is a shame, because I’m supposed to be good with words.

Yet my mouth is dry and my tongue lays sleeping

In the quiet of this late night turned early morning.

The sky has been dark for many cold hours,

And goosebumps have been present on my skin for even longer,

Yet I refuse to get up and change into warmer clothes,

Because I dare not leave out of fear that you will be gone when I return.

For so long, I sat alone, watching the sky change with the hours.

My skin was covered in everything

From sunburn and morning dew,

To icicles and snow.

From new blooms and cool rainwater,

To absolutely nothing at all.

I believe it was the barrenness I despised the most,

For I was a shy youth who used her branches and leaves to hide herself.

Thankfully, my serrated leaves and long branches kept people away;

They would admire my appearance from afar

And comment that I was a quiet girl,

Before moving on to a flashier specimen

(Much to my relief).

However, as I grew,

I found the distance between myself and others...

Melancholic.

Sorrowful.

Depressing.

Yes...

Yes.

It was depressing.

I was depressed.

Depressed and so very alone.

My meals were eaten in silence as I hid behind my branches.

My free time was spent at my tree, hidden from sight.

I was alone, so alone, and I didn’t know how to fix it.

Then one of my branches was cut,

And my tree was cut down.

I had to follow my branch to its new home,

To make sure that last living part of me stayed alive.

And then it was planted in a new place, a place that scared me.

But now it was my home.

My new home was crowded, but not by many trees.

Instead, there were lecture halls, labs and dorm buildings,

Restaurants, cafes and bakeries,

Clothing stores, craft shops and bus stops.

I was lost, and more alone than ever.

I couldn’t find help from anyone around me,

Because I was too scared to ask for it.

Instead, I hid behind my branches

As I waited for my new roots to grow and form.

It was such a delicate situation,

Because I knew I needed help to grow,

But anyone could have decided to yank me out

And leave me, with withered roots exposed, to die.

I was scared.

Of course I was.

Who wouldn’t have been?

But I couldn’t get my hopes up and let my roots grow,

Only to find they weren’t secure

And the friends I thought I had made left me behind.

So instead, I stayed at my tree, which was now surrounded

By buildings on one side and roads on the other.

I felt so out of place, but I still tried to grow on my own.

It was hard, because I wasn’t used to my new home.

I was out of place, and it showed.

Even in my classes, I was out of my element.

What I had been good at in my old school,

I couldn’t seem to do right here.

Every class, every assignment, was a battle,

And I lost each and every one.

The semester was a war,

And I was soundly beat.

I ended up waving a white flag stained with teardrops and raindrops

Before I carried myself back to my tree and wept.

But then I found one of you,

The selkie who had swam in the same pond as I had been planted near.

I remembered you;

From the sapphire eyes to the pale skin,

The daffodil hair to the grin.

And you remembered me, too.

It was only minutes,

Seconds after you called me into the conference room,

Before I had met so many others.

First I met a sandman that I talked video games with,

Followed quickly by his best friend, a demon,

Who had gone to a catholic school.

Then I met a a faun and a sylph,

The best of friends who shared a love for memes.

I chatted with a valkyrie who had had hair like wildfire

And a personality to match.

I groaned at the robot’s terrible puns

And laughed with the vampire and pixie

And talked about nerdy things with the dream fairy.

Before long, my roots were growing strong.

They soaked up the sunlight of all of your collective laughter

And grew in the shade of our movie nights.

I soon began to develop the strong branches I’d had back at home,

But I stopped hiding behind them.

Instead, I now tie them back and proudly show my face,

Even if I have marks or scars or cracking skin or dry lips.

Because now I know that my branches are not to hide behind,

That my tree isn’t my only home.

Now I can raise my voice and speak my mind.

I don’t have to let myself freeze alone on a winter night

Or stay up to study on my own,

Because now, I have friends,

I have a family.

But I can’t tell you that.

I can’t tell you all that I’ve never had friends I was this close to.

I can’t tell you that you make the pain go away.

I can’t tell you that I’ve cried over the thought of not seeing you again.

None of that can fall from my guarded lips.

Because I know that you don’t expect that of me.

You only know me as the tough one,

The one who’s gotten in fights,

The one who’s stronger than any challenge

(Except for anything that tests the mind).

I’m the badass with a smirk and a hyena’s laugh,

The one with a leather jacket and black boots,

The rebel with bad grades who couldn’t care less about their health.

I’m the one who doesn’t give a shit or a damn or a fuck.

...

Or, at least, you all think so.

And I love having that reputation.

So I’m going to let you think that for just a little longer,

Just until I break for the first time in a long time

And I find myself in desperate need of all of you around me

As I live up to my namesake.

But, when that time comes,

My tongue will not stay still.

And though I may have tears flowing like rivers down my face,

Know that I mean it when I tell you all that I love you.

#for my irl friends #who i love so fucking much

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thesinglesjukebox · 6 years

Video

youtube

LIZZO FT. MISSY ELLIOTT - TEMPO

[6.75]

I suppose this would be an Allegretto...

Alex Clifton: This is a dream combination -- not sure how these two hadn't worked together before. I now judge high-energy songs on whether or not they'd be good to run to (weird metric but it's been working so far) and the beat on "Tempo" is a winner -- easy to keep pace to, easy to dance to, easy to get stuck in your head. I'm also delighted that we have a song with the lyric "thick thighs save lives." I'm not as in love with this as I was with "Juice," but Lizzo continues to sound good as hell. [7]

Stephen Eisermann: At this point, I'm starting to wonder if Lizzo will ever release an objectively bad song; her track record is pretty flawless. I first heard "Tempo" in the car while dancing at my sister's wedding reception this past weekend. My sister has always been curvier, and it was a big concern for her on her wedding day, but she seemed as confident as I'd ever seen her Saturday -- that is, until this song came on. Gone was the quiet confidence of my sister dancing politely to "Suavemente," "El Sinaloense" and "La Negra Tiene Tumbao" and instead out came a whole new Liz, one who was twerking in the center of her dance floor while all of my Mexican Catholic family watched, shook, wondering what happened to the self-conscious girl of before. But that's what Lizzo does, constantly. She takes a hot beat and empowers you, either with some feel-good rap or, as is the case here, some good provocation. Even if Missy's verse feels incomplete, it doesn't matter, because Lizzo came to play and it's hard to hate on confidence that sounds, feels, and looks this good. [8]

Katherine St Asaph: I don't dance, and any confidence boost the lyrics might provide slams fatally against the fact that the external world views my body as a collection of misshapen, unsightly, useless parts, an awareness I can't just turn off. (Which is the case for every song like this.) This song isn't for me. It doesn't help that the "When Doves Cry" guitar squall and Missy's verse, where she turns into Chingy, completely overpower Lizzo's subdued verses, which isn't supposed to happen at all. [3]

David Moore: The way Missy Elliott finds a little flicker of an idea and kindles it into a blaze of inspired silliness is always a thrill, but here it serves the counter-productive purpose of revealing the weakness of the rest of the track -- Lizzo's enthusiasm and ebullience can't hold a candle to Missy's lark. [6]

Alfred Soto: It's not twenty seconds old before "Tempo" blasts us with a distorted funk riff and the too long gone Missy Elliott. Nothing's changed -- "twerk skills are legendary" you knew. The chorus flickers, disappears. Chorus? Who needs one when Lizzo and Missy compete for sound effect attention? [7]

Tobi Tella: This collaboration feels epic in the same way Christina Aguilera and Demi did, a symbolic torch passing from old-school to new-school from two similar artists. Lizzo has Missy's classic swagger and flair, and the fact that she hasn't lost any of her uniqueness as she becomes more and more mainstream is truly something to be commended. This bangs as hard as anything she's ever released, and hopefully it becomes our generation's body positivity anthem over some more questionable songs... [8]

Katie Gill: I am always here for a bonafide ass shaking song, especially when it starts off with such an amazingly fun guitar riff like this one. The song is a beautiful cacophony and plays with sound in such a fun way, shifting from that minimalist beat to air horns & sirens, only to almost IMMEDIATELY drop back to the beat. And it's clear that Missy is having a blast, making the most out of every 'r' she gets to roll. This song is pure unadulterated fun, an ass shaking song that knows exactly what it is and spends the right amount of time crafting everything to near perfection. [8]

Iris Xie: Never thought I'd be so happy to hear "Truffle Butter" again, but I like "Tempo" and its version of that pinging synth more. "Tempo" takes that initial synth and layers it underneath with a heavy bass and a stop-start militaristic rhythm that makes the atmosphere simultaneously warm and domineering, and Lizzo's command is ice cold, casual, and driven. She's absolutely done with anyone telling her she can't command the dance floor, and whoops, she now is! The verse that starts with "pitty-pat" and ends with "cat" winds up your dance moves and is pretty much twerk material. But Missy, that sweet deliverer of unflinching vision, sonically grabs the theme of the song and busts out all the 'rrrs~'. But then she becomes very rude in the best way, and creates her own equivalent of a feature stage at 2:05 by changing it to a melted stadium band that sounds like the equivalent of lightning charging, with a brief drum clatter solo that sits with you long after it comes back to Lizzo dictating you to fuck it up to the tempo. But most importantly? The entire sentiment of the song is for any big girls (and anyone who identifies with those sentiments) who have ever felt really bad about moving on the dance floor -- it was never your problem, it was always the boring-ass "slow songs." And if that's really not one of the best ways I've ever heard about taking up space in clubs that can be hostile to those who don't have normative bodies, I don't know what else is. [9]

Jonathan Bradley: Eight bars of Missy rhyming tongue trills is worth the admission, but this beat isn't fucking anything up: the bass knocks but it doesn't move. A modulating arpeggio sounds like a placeholder waiting for the finished edit. Lizzo matches the effort; her last appearance round here underserved her personality, but here it's like she's waiting for a reason to show up. What she does offer are some very rote verses and a chorus that isn't sure it's not a verse. It's quite demure, even if you don't start to think on how unrestrained Missy could be in her heyday. [5]

Joshua Copperman: You know that old friend you had in high school that was into the same kind of music you were into? You said you'd stay in touch but grew apart from them because they were in a different, faster crowd than you? That's Lizzo. Her BJ Burton "artsy-fartsy phase" spawned some stellar, aggressive music, but her major-label music is more fun and positive to somewhat mixed results. Oak (of "Pop &" fame) made a manic beat more reminiscent of those early days, but the actual content is light enough to make room for cat puns including "prrr me a glass." It's a shame she won't go back to that earlier, more raw music when rappers like Cupcakke balance the high-concept antics with brutal honesty, but it's clear that's not what Lizzo feels like doing. That artsy phase increasingly feels like something she overcame than something she plans on revisiting. You occasionally hear back from that high school friend, but it's clear that they were never going to be the person you wanted them to be. But it's better to accept that because they're happier and freer the way they are now. They should really put away the guitar, though. [7]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Two overrated artists release a song that sounds exactly like you'd expect? I find the fireworks and beat switch fake-outs more exciting than the vocals. When the song ends, I'm left with... nothing, really. Lizzo's recent singles have all been ordinary crowd pleasers, the sort of standard we should have for solid stock music. "Juice" felt like Facetuned Prince. "Tempo" is similarly watered down. [3]

Nortey Dowuona: *incoherent babbling* Lizzo going in *MORE INCOHERENT SHRIEKING* Missy going in *GLEEFUL HOWLS OF TORMENT AND JOY* A small Afro was found on top of the MSNBC offices yesterday. *sounds of confusion and slight annoyance* [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#Lizzo #Missy Elliott #rap #hip hop #pop #music #music review #writing

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kitchsykitchenwitch · 6 years

Text

TW: Religion. My personal experiences with mental health, psychiatric hospitalization, and suicidal ideation/attempts. Some mild discussion of the current political climate.

So, this is a half-cooked essay I’ve had rattling around my head for a couple of years now, but hadn’t really found a good time to write it all out. After watching the Jesus Christ Superstar Live special today, I think now is as good a time as any to put this out in the world. Please not the aforementioned trigger warnings, and also be advised that this is probably gonna be a bit ramble-y and not the best written piece on the interwebs.

***PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS NOT A REVIEW OF THE JCS LIVE SPECIAL!***

Some background on me. I am an atheist who grew up in a Catholic family, and I struggle with C-PTSD and bipolar II disorder (which weren’t properly diagnosed until about four and two years ago, respectively), as well as chronic autoimmune and pain conditions. When I was a kid, every year during Lent, my mother (a theater junkie) would play both the soundtrack and 1973 movie of Jesus Christ Superstar. The original soundtrack has always had some sentimental value to be because of this.

A quick aside on my faith, or lack thereof. I never considered myself a very strong Catholic. Fortunately, I grew up in one the lucky few liberal Catholic families, and was always taught to think for myself and question everything. My questioning of religion first started when I was in fifth grade, and became very interested in Greek mythology, which soon expanded to Norse and Celtic myths as well. I loved the stories and fables, and it didn’t take me long to draw the parallels to Christianity and Catholicism. I began to think to myself, if these stories aren’t true, then why is Catholicism the one true way? I also struggled with prayer and forming that “personal connection to God” that my youth leaders insisted I must develop. I grew up in a turbulent, and at times, abusive home, and my pleas to find some peace were, of course, left unanswered. I struggled for years thinking that there must be something I was doing wrong, or something inherently wrong and broken about me as a human being. This added to the depression that I struggled with as an adolescent, but I kept my reservations to myself out of fear of alienating my family and friends in the Church. Eventually, I found myself sitting on the agnosticism fence, finally making the jump over to atheism about a year and a half after I graduated college. I discovered that I found more sense of worth and fulfillment in taking responsibility for my own actions and accomplishments, more agency and knowledge in the presence of evidence and facts, and far more comfort in the love of those here with me in the physical realm. For a long time, Jesus Christ Superstar and any other remnants of religious music fell off of my playlists for many years as I came to terms with my beliefs.

A couple of years ago, as I was building a Broadway playlist on Spotify, I decided to put the original soundtrack on and see how it played to me as both an adult and a critically thinking atheist. I was expecting to experience that nostalgia that I spoke of earlier, but I was not prepared to be emotionally bowled over at the realization that this is a story of not only faith, but of struggle with mental illness. I mentioned this to my mother after my revelation, and she told me that she wasn’t surprised. I didn’t know this, and some of you may not either, but she told me that when the show first premiered, there was a lot of push-back and anger because people didn’t approve of such a raw, radical and purely human portrayal of their Messiah, preferring the calm beatific and self sacrificing demigod of their scriptures. Listening to it now after being on both the loved one of someone who is mentally ill, and being a mentally ill person myself, I found myself relating to the characters in whole new ways that felt absent before, and it completely flipped the traditional Passion story on its head for me.

I’m going to take the soundtrack (nearly) song by song and give my thoughts. The ones that are irrelevant to the overarching themes I mentioned, I will skip over. I’ll also provide YouTube links to the ones I do delve into.

Heaven on their Minds

Even though I’m an atheist, and one would think I’d relate to him more because of this, this is the only song in the show where I truly sympathize with Judas. I look at this song through the lens of watching an older family member struggle heavily with bipolar I disorder, which was left untreated for many many years. This came into stark focus for me when I reached adulthood and the two of us became much closer. He is hands down the most intelligent and one of the most empathetic people I have ever met in my life, but the flights of mania, ego and rage and the crushing depression he experiences has a major impact on everyone who loves him. I struggle with this as well to a lesser degree, and being on both sides of this coin, I really do sympathize with those who love someone with this disorder. The struggles we go through can leave us hyperfocused on ourselves, forgetting that the people who care about us are also deeply hurt and concerned for our safety and well being. Judas is begging for Jesus to take a step back and look rationally at how his (in Judas’ perception) egotistical and selfish actions are harming himself and those around him, imploring that he still admires him and cares for him as a person, but eventually ends the song in frustration as he realizes that his friend will not listen to him.

What’s The Buzz/Strange Thing Mystifying

I had two major thoughts on this song, and I’ll go through them separately.

This song is where my sympathy for Jesus begins and for Judas comes to a screeching halt. Judas proves himself to be a misogynistic prick as Mary Magdalene attempts to provide some small comfort to Jesus as he is growing more and more frustrated with his disciples. The slut shaming rubs me absolutely raw, and if I had been in that situation, I would have jumped down his throat just as Jesus did.

The second takeaway from this is that this is where I see parallels to mental illness start to take root in the show. Depression lies. Depression will tell you that nobody in your life truly cares about you, and that they will all leave you alone in the end.

“I'm amazed that men like you Can be so shallow, thick and slow There is not a man among you Who knows or cares if I come or go!”

This, obviously, leaves his friends reeling, and they beg of him, how can he possibly say that about them? He doubles down with the final lash out of “Not one, not ONE of you!” I have similarly lashed out at those who mean the most to me when in the depths of a depressive low. Thankfully, my circle understands that when I say things like that, it’s not truly me, but the monster that lurks within me that I usually keep quiet and calm in the back of my mind.

Everything’s Alright

Judas, buddy, you really lose me here. He turns from slut shaming and goes into full on neurotypically ableist fuckery. The is implication that his friend doesn’t deserve a few small comforts because there is some greater cause that must be served, and that he should suck it up because there are people who have it worse.

Jesus, in response, reminds him that there will always be people in the world who have it worse and who are suffering. This is a concept I struggled with for years. I would always minimize my pain by saying “Well, it could always be worse.” This kind of thinking just led to more self-berating, beating myself up when I couldn’t pull myself up by my bootstraps and force happiness into my chemically-misfiring brain. And here he takes another emotional dig, saying that Judas better shape the fuck up, and leaves the vague threat of suicide hanging over his head as another lashing out, which I have also done in my worst moments of pain and despair.

Mary, bless her, proves herself to be the true caring partner as she swoops back in to attempt to soothe him to sleep, wanting to provide some form of comfort to the man she loves.

This Jesus Must Die

When this essay first started taking shape in my head a couple of years ago, I wasn’t planning on including this song.

Then the election of 2016 happened.

I won’t ramble on too much on this one since it doesn’t directly tie in to the overall themes I outlined earlier, but I’d feel remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the indirect connections.

The disturbing trend of othering, tribalism, and white supremacy that has taken hold in the US can be seen in the lyrics of this song. The willingness to outright harm and even murder those who are different because of ignorant fears of having their way of life destroyed is as much a problem today as it was then. This affects all who don’t fit this mold: POC, non-Christians, women, LGBTQ+ folks, the disabled, and, you guessed it, the mentally ill. It’s chilling to see these attitudes, which these types of Christians claim to revile when speaking of the priests and pharisees in the Passion story, so thoroughly inform their worldview and morals. It makes me feel physically ill to see this happening.

Simon Zelaotes/Poor Jerusalem

Oh Simon. You are that one “friend” or family member that every mentally ill person has. The one who thinks they have all the answers. The one who gives you all kinds of unsolicited “advice” and tells you how you should think and act, because that’s how things are gonna get better for everyone else (oh and I guess you too). This isn’t one of my favorite songs, so I’m gonna end it here for this one.

The Temple

This is more regarding the second half of the song, when the lepers are demanding that Jesus heal them. This one resonated deeply with me. I am a very empathetic person, and I also have a very hard time saying no to people. I want to help as many of my friends as I can and make them happy. The problem is, I don’t always know how to turn that off, and I end up overextending myself with either physical demands or emotional labor. When Jesus cries “There’s too little of me,” I felt that on a very personal level, as I have said similar things when I take on too much. He finally breaks down and snaps, screaming at them to heal themselves. Again, I have expressed similar thoughts when I reach my limits and break.

Everything’s Alright Reprise

I Don’t Know How to Love Him

The story now shifts the focus from the mentally ill individual to the partner/spouse/caregiver of the one who is ill. This is SO important. It’s very easy for our caregivers to stay silent and power through for our sake, while they slowly burn out trying to help us and to continue to live their lives. They tend to stay in the background, shouldering enormous tasks, and very rarely do they receive help that they badly need.

Mary does her best to calm Jesus, keeping on her smile until he falls asleep. Once her job is complete for the evening, she goes off by herself to vent her fears and frustration into the ether. She loves him, but at the same time, he deeply frightens her. That monster that lurks in us is scary, and not just for the person who is ill. It reaches out and threatens everyone that the person loves, and for those who don’t know what it’s like to have that in your head 24/7, it’s terrifying. But who does she tell? Who else could possibly understand? So she just lets her fears out to no one but herself, and at the end, collects herself and goes back to work.

Damned For All Time / Blood Money

Some of my sympathy for Judas comes back in this one, but only but so far. Being the friend who realizes that someone they care about may truly be out of control and a danger is a terrible position to be in. Do you call the police and have them involuntarily committed? Or do you keep trying to fix things yourself? It is never an easy call to make. He handled it EXTREMELY poorly though.

The Last Supper

This is where everything goes to hell and falls apart. Jesus and his friends gather together for one final meal, but his mind is already far afield with self destruction and suicidal ideation. Right off the bat, he makes throwaway comments about his friends’ apathy.

“For all you care, this wine could be my blood. For all you care, this bread could be my body.”

His own apathy launches back into anger as he spits:

“I must be mad thinking I'll be remembered - yes I must be out of my head! Look at your blank faces!

My name will mean nothing Ten minutes after I'm dead!”

The group immediately launches into rebuttals and reassurances. Judas is finally fed up with his friend taking his anger out on everyone and speaks up, telling him that he has alerted the authorities. Jesus doesn’t care and goads Judas into blowing up at him and basically telling him to stop being a dramatic asshole. This is behavior I have both witnessed in others and done myself in my angry/manic swings. You think so little of yourself that you think you have deluded your friends into thinking you are a good person, so the addled logical next step is to make them understand just how bad of a person you truly are and shove them away, violently if necessary. Judas takes the bait and flees, while the rest of the group tries to placate their friend with, what we would perceive as empty, platitudes and optimism.

Gethsemane

The similarities to this song and my own inner dialogue when I struggle with suicidal ideation are staggering to me. The exhaustion, the “Am I really this worthless?” and “Maybe the world would be better off without me” statements, looking to lay the blame on someone else, wanting someone else to do the deed for you because you don’t have the guts to do it yourself, rage at a spiritual figure that you feel either doesn’t exist or doesn’t care. That was like a swift punch to the gut. I never thought that as an atheist, I would relate so heavily to the character of Jesus, but this song drove it home for me that I really do, and that it’s not a bad thing, and that I can relate to him as a person without it having to be a religious experience.

Pilate and Christ

Short blurb for a short song. I view Pilate as the role of the medical professional who is dealing with a particularly difficult case. In this first appearance, he takes on the role of the apathetic doctor that all of us neurodivergent individuals fear we will get, someone who really takes no interest in your problems and instead kicks you to the mercy of another office or the insurance company.

Could We Start Again Please

This is another one that speaks to me on a deep, personal level.

“I've been living to see you Dying to see you but it shouldn't be like this This was unexpected, what do I do now? Could we start again please? Could we start again please? I've been hopeful so far Now for the first time I think we're going wrong Hurry up and tell me, this is all a dream Or could we start again please? Could we start again please? I think you've made your point now You've even gone a bit too far to get your message home Before it gets too frightening, we ought to call a halt So could we start again please?”

These are very similar to what my husband said after my suicide attempt. He told me that he felt like the whole thing was a nightmare that he couldn’t wake up from. He told me that he was terrified, and that he wished there was a way to do a hard reset on everything. He told me that he wanted to help me, but that he didn’t know how to even begin to do that. Fortunately, with lots of therapy, we have been making it work, but that was his first experience with serious mental illness. When I was in psychiatric hospitalization, these points came up yet again, as he had never experienced this and didn’t know how to handle someone he cares so deeply about be committed and see the bad and good that goes with it. It’s all scary as fuck, and this is why our caregivers need support and love and someone to talk to as well.

Judas’ Death

Again, keeping this one short. The regret train rolls into the station as Judas realizes that maybe he made a mistake. I’ve heard fellow patients in hospitalization say this about loved ones who had them involuntarily committed. When they make the call, they think it will be a few days in the hospital and bam! You’re cured! They end up coming to the horrible realization that psychiatric hospitalization is difficult, scary, and at times, dangerous. Some people step up to the plate and help their loved ones through it, while others balk at what they’ve done and bail completely.

Trial Before Pilate

We come back to the doctor/patient metaphor with this song, this time with Pilate taking the role of the doctor who genuinely wants to help a patient, but the combination of the patient’s complete apathy/desire for self destruction and pressures put on by outside forces (like overwork, various bureaucracies, and bullshit from insurance companies) force their hand into making the harsh call of commitment. Pilate realizes that since Jesus refuses his help and also refuses to help himself, he has to make the hard call. I have been in the position of having a doctor ask me questions to help, and I basically told them to fuck off. Doing so forced the issue of hospitalization (which, by the way, I’m not directly comparing to a death sentence, just pointing out connections that I see).

This is an inelegant collection of the thoughts and emotions that this show creates within me. I’m not really sure how to close this out, now that I’ve finally written down the comparisons and analysis that has been in my head every time I’ve listened for the last couple of years. It feels good to get it out, even if the writing doesn’t flow very well. So there you have it. How a mentally ill atheist can still find meaning and their own story in a work of entertainment based on religion.

#jesus christ superstar #broadway geek #mental health #mentally ill

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fashiontrendin-blog · 6 years

Text

From Embracing PDA to Choosing Happiness: 7 Love Letters to Pride

http://fashion-trendin.com/from-embracing-pda-to-choosing-happiness-7-love-letters-to-pride/

From Embracing PDA to Choosing Happiness: 7 Love Letters to Pride

Toward the beginning of June, we asked you to share your personal stories about finding LGBQT+ pride, however meandering or direct your path. Below are seven different experiences, from coming out accidentally, to fighting for space, to choosing happiness over anything else.

Palm trees and droplets of water line my periphery. I am quiet, small, serene. The breeze comes lazily, hot air blowing bamboo wind chimes left and right and back again. They whisper to each other, the clusters of fine wood sharing secrets.

My father has a glassy-eyed, wine-induced stare fixed on my phone screen as I scroll through Instagram. He slurs through his stupor: “Are you okay?” I assure him casually that I’m okay, tossing my phone onto the couch as I head into a cabana for a mid-afternoon nap.

Drunk from the sun and the day I draw the curtains and drift off to sleep. I wake up startled — I fell asleep with the sun ablaze outside, but it’s gone now. There’s no discernible moonlight, and I know I have slept too long. I stumble out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing my face with water to wake myself up.

I walk through the sliding doors to the patio that leads to the kitchen, my throat begging for a sip of water, and my father grabs my arm with tears in his eyes. “I have to talk to you,” he says. I tell him to talk. “Not here. Not in front of everyone,” he replies.

Who died? is my first thought. Which grandparent? Is the dog okay? It’s not unusual for him to be emotional after a few glasses of rosé, but this feels different, somehow.

He tells me he spent the two hours I was resting sifting through his mistakenly gathered information, retracing each step of his parenting, beating himself up for not doing better.

Through his tears, he apologizes for trying to make me someone I wasn’t. He explains he saw a picture of a shirtless surfer on my Instagram feed over my shoulder earlier and thought I was on Tinder. He asks me if I am gay — I say yes, thinking he asked me if I was okay. He tells me he spent the two hours I was resting sifting through his mistakenly gathered information, retracing each step of his parenting, beating himself up for not doing better.

Flashbacks of pain from my childhood race through my brain like the slideshow of photos he made for me on my 18th birthday: the look on his face when I brought my Ariel doll to school with me, when I begged for Avril Lavigne tickets instead of rugby gear, when I dyed my hair red because I felt like I was fading away.

Then I remember the good stuff: pride beaming through a smile that reached his eyes when I graduated, the tears in his eyes when I performed my first headlining set at the Hard Rock Cafe. I realize: I am finally okay. This is okay. We are okay.

The secret that burned my psyche for 20 years is out there, by accident, in the lap of the person I thought I would never tell. My father looks me in the eyes and says, “I couldn’t be prouder of who you are. I wouldn’t change you for the world.”

Hello. My name is Allyson, and I am bisexual. Sounds more like a confessional you might hear at an AA meeting, right?

I hate having to define my sexuality; I feel that I need to define myself for others more so than for myself. I have one foot in the closet and one foot in the world of acceptance. The bisexual community is forever in the closet. We are looked at like a step sibling — not fully a member of the straight community, not fully a member of the gay community.

My close friends know I am dating a woman and support our relationship, but I am petrified for my (male) ex to find out or to tell my family. I am petrified to be vulnerable in the face of the family that has made derogatory comments about the LGBTQA+ community in the past. I am so comforted by the brave souls who have gone before me and come out. As a recovering Catholic, I am most saddened by keeping my partner from my family, feeling as though I am guilty of lying by omission. I have an inkling my parents know I am dating someone. My dad has asked me on multiple occasions who “4546” is that I am calling and texting during the week late into the night. 4546 are the last four digits of my partner, my love.

Our love story is one of those meet-cutes that Tinderites adopt when they don’t want to tell people they met their significant other online. I live in a tiny mountain town on the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range in Southern Colorado. My partner lives in a tiny Mormon town nearly two hours south.

After our first date in her studio, I wrote some love notes on paint chips and stuck them underneath the windshield wipers of her Toyota 4Runner.

One crisp summer night in mid-August 2017, I decided to go to a poetry reading with a new group of friends. That same night, my partner decided to get out of her six-mile radius and go to the same poetry reading. When she performed her poems, I knew I had to talk to her. After acquiring the sort of courage you can only acquire at one of these poetry readings (if that guy sat up there for ten minutes talking about the beautiful color change of leaves in the fall, I think I can go up there and share my truth), I got up and read some of my own. At the end of the evening, my future partner came up to me and said, “That was really brave of you, thank you for sharing.”

Later, after some serious detective work, I found her (and her art) on Facebook. Her words were so comforting to me: “How are you going to change the world? Through language. If I provide the opportunity for change and one person receives it, I’ve done my job.” Lock and key, I have been loving her ever since, and together we have been scheming about how we will bring positive change to the communities we thrive in.

After our first date in her studio, I wrote some love notes on paint chips and stuck them underneath the windshield wipers of her Toyota 4Runner. She didn’t find the notes until the next morning, after turning on her wipers to clear the snow. I was in Albuquerque when she messaged me about hanging out on my way back through Colorado. Our first dates were bookends to the long weekend, and our second date revolved around watching Girl, Interrupted, a walk outside at sunset, a potluck with close friends and our first kiss, lying in bed in the dark with our eyes open.

Around this time a year ago, I had to take a $65 Uber ride from a burger place in Torrance to my apartment in Downtown Los Angeles after getting dumped by my first Love. I came home crying and into the arms of my mother, a Filipina immigrant. She asked why I was crying, and I told her that I got dumped by a girl. I’d finally had the pride to tell my mother I was gay. That night, she slept on the bottom half of my bed to watch me fall asleep as tears rolled down my cheeks.

I grew up in a typical Asian household in Southeast Asia. Coming out in a developing third-world country was not a “good option.” Nevertheless, my queerness was an open secret. I got a pixie cut when I went to college and was not proud to be regarded as the 6th lesbian in school, so I purposely dated boys to validate my heterosexuality to my peers. My mother was living in Los Angeles at the time, more than 7,000 miles away. She would call to tell me how much she missed me — and my long, black, shiny hair. Numerous times she warned me not to date guys out of fear that I’d get knocked up at a young age. In my head my eyes would roll, for it was an absurd warning.

We held hands after our fourth date. To hold her hand felt very uncomfortable, but also right.

During my sophomore year, I grew out my hair and moved to Los Angeles to be with her. The freedom to come out felt closer than ever, but it still took me a year, when I met Molly, to finally dress up in button-downs and bring back my pixie. Molly and I dated for three months. We held hands after our fourth date. To hold her hand felt very uncomfortable, but also right.

One chilly night, over dinner, she asked if she could kiss me. I pretended not to hear her and kept eating my burger. When we walked out of the restaurant, she told me that she needed to find someone who actually cared about her. I told her that I did care for her. She began to cry in the middle of the crowded plaza. When we sat down, she leaned in for a kiss and I shoved her face away as I looked around at the crowds. I was afraid to publicly display my affection for her because I cared more of what people would think. I knew that she felt hurt and unwanted, and it made me realize something as simple as PDA is a heterosexual privilege. I have publicly made out with boys before, but I never found the courage to kiss the girl I loved until I lost her.

And so, at 11 p.m., I spent $65 to get home, full of regret and shame. It was that night I realized that in order to express pride, I had to be able to express being “queer” without any fear of judgment — from finally buzzing my head to holding my significant other’s hand in public. It was also the night that, for the first time ever, I told my mother about my sexuality.

Now, a year later, I have proudly kissed five beautiful queer women in public and have only spent my money on metro rides.

I had been dating a man for seven years. We were likely to get married any day, I thought. But something felt unsettled. I often felt lonely. At the time, I worked as a hostess in a nice restaurant. I often worked back-to-back shifts; I wanted to leave but couldn’t find the steps out. My relationship began to feel the same way: unobserved and slowly chugging along. I had accepted that I would always feel this way. The feeling of loneliness was my closest relationship. It was on a crisp fall evening that all would shift.

On a whim, I went to an ’80s dance night with my friend and on the way, she asked, “Oh! do you remember Bee?”

I said yes.

“They’ll be there tonight and are very gay now!”

I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but I was intrigued to find out. Bee had gone to a different high school then me, but I remembered the name, and that they had been very popular.

When we walked in, my memory is that the crowd opened and there, in the middle of the dance floor, was Bee. Wearing a red backwards baseball cap and a white T-shirt with a wolf howling and a razor blade on it, Bee looked like a confident, incredibly handsome and mischievous boy. We said hello, eyes locking as though we had so much to tell each other, if only we could find the time to tell it.

Later, when my friend left after a bit of dancing, I stayed. Like magnets, Bee and I started talking. I felt so enlivened; Bee’s confidence and swagger filled me. Bee had just graduated from Columbia University and was telling me about all sorts of amazing projects they were involved in. How could I jump on board?! Is all I kept thinking.

Bee was passionate and mindful, confident but refrained, sweet and intuitive. I was completely enamored. Shortly after that night, I heard that Bee was moving to Los Angeles. I remember taking a shower and feeling heartbroken. I tried to comfort myself. We only met one time. The ache overtook though; I felt like I was meant to take Bee’s hand in a great adventure. I felt it so deeply I could almost see it.

I got word about a month later that Bee had gotten a job in our hometown and would be staying for the time being. I quickly gathered myself and went into action mode. I knew in my heart that we were meant to be together. When Bee and I finally went on our first date, it was the feeling of two peas finding their pod. I loved Bee’s presence. Their confidence and style was beyond sexy. And the wisdom that comes with going against what is put on you as a norm provided such a special insight. I would say it was love at first sight.

That day, I repeated to myself under my breath: ‘You have a right to be here.’

Bee and I got married on June 17th, 2011, in Washington D.C. so that our marriage would be legal. Looking back, I am so proud that we made such a strong political statement with only the strength of wanting something as personal as love.

We navigated wanting to be married legally, but not as a same-sex couple, because that’s not how we identify — Bee feels most comfortable with a more masculine identity, but when going to check off that binary box, neither feels entirely right. We let the officiant know our chosen pronouns. And we slowly fought for our space to be. That day, I repeated to myself under my breath: “You have a right to be here.” And when I looked in Bee’s eyes as we were wed, I saw that Bee saw me. I was finally being seen and loved.

On June 17th, we will celebrate our seventh wedding anniversary with our one-and-a-half-year-old son, Jack, and our dog, Harry. And I was right: it has been a grand, sweet and loving adventure.

I knew from the very beginning of puberty that there was something different about me. I was titillated by Francesca Lia Block’s fantastical world of bisexual fairies and scanned the backs of obscure VHS tapes for any indication of homosexual content. But I was also desperate to fit into the socially acceptable constructs of my Midwestern youth. I told myself that maybe I just felt ALL things really intensely and everyone had similar experiences.

In high school, I dated boys (and men, unfortunately), but harbored secret crushes and had my share of make-out sessions with “good friends.” I shelved any self-reflection and was careful to never label myself. Then, after a post-breakup study abroad program in college, I knew I could not forever question what it might be like to date a woman but never try it. I was always one to admire those who lived outside of socially acceptable norms, so why I was so afraid to join their ranks? Shortly after returning to the United States, I had my first serious girlfriend. The experience was eye-opening for me, because even though the person was ultimately not right, so much of the experience was.

Still, I couldn’t really accept myself. I kept quiet, afraid for people at college to know and terrified to tell my cousins or best friends. I wasn’t proud; I was afraid. I knew that this was me, but I didn’t see a reflection of myself — this super femme, fashion-obsessed bookworm — in the lesbians I knew or knew of. Life seemed more exciting, fast and tinged with possibility, but I felt so uncertain.

I learned so much from my mistakes; I don’t need to fit neatly into a label. It’s vastly more important that I honor love and live authentically.

Somewhere along the line, to complicate things, I fell in love with my best friend. She was one of my five college roommates and had also embraced her sexuality later in life. I was in love, but I was terrified. Was I gay? Would this ruin our friendship? Ruin her romantic prospects? Those few years in my early twenties, in which I desperately loved her but also denied my true self and, by turn, her true self, are some of the most shameful in my memory. I didn’t allow either of us to be proud. I kept our love secret and dismissed it, acted flakey and irresolute. I hurt her. I hurt myself. And she hurt me. It was only after things ended between us in a deeply painful way that I truly embraced who I was. Through that pain, I found my pride. I learned so much from my mistakes; I don’t need to fit neatly into a label. It’s vastly more important that I honor love and live authentically.

Luckily, not all was lost. Despite the hurt and tumult, we eventually got back together. Fought (and loved) our way through an open long-distance relationship to a monogamous one. Moved to Brooklyn, where she eventually proposed. I came out to all my family, colleagues, friends and any random person that inquired about my marital status. We had a big, fabulous wedding in Minneapolis months after gay marriage was legalized there and everyone cried buckets.

I couldn’t be prouder. Of her, of us, of the life we have carved out together or of the baby we worked hard to make and will welcome next month. This June, I honor the struggle for pride on a macro- and micro-level and the ways our society has eradicated labels and divisions and strives to allow everyone to love freely, no matter what that looks like or who sits in the White House. I’m proud to be a gay American, desperately in love and, very soon, a gay mom!

At the end of May, I celebrated one year as a woman. I sometimes struggle to wrap my head around the fact that I made it happen and that it went so well.

I know that there are many who never take that step. If you are considering it, I hesitate to urge you do so because every situation is different. You may not wish to risk your current life, be it family, job, etc. That is understandable. All I ask is you don’t close the door on the possibility.

For me, I kept my relationships, my job and so on. I lost nothing but the baggage — the years of anxiety and the years of worrying about being outed. Unfortunately, I may be in the small percentage of transgendered individuals who can say that. I hope I’m wrong in that assumption, but so much of what is reported in the media is the bad. But “bad” is not always the end result. You can come out the other side being who you were meant to be, bettering your life and, most importantly, being happy. Being happy is f-ing fabulous!

What follows is an abridged version of the coming out announcement I posted to Facebook on the morning my transition was announced at the office. It’s a short synopsis of my journey and where I was a little over a year ago. Take what you can from it and know that the journey is there for you if you choose to take the first step.

***

The time has come to address the cryptic posts of the last few months, to clear some New Year’s resolutions that have lingered way too long, to fulfill what I once thought was only a dream.

What has this all been about? It’s been about how I want to live my life. It’s about being happy and not settling for contentment. Screw being content. I want to be HAPPY. That’s something I never thought I would say.

Ten years ago, I reached a crossroads where I had two paths in front of me. One path was to stay as I was, battling my demons and hoping for the best. The other was a riskier path, but one that offered a chance to defeat my demons and live the life that I deserved.

I chose the latter.

I chose wisely.

I chose to become a woman.

There. I said it.

Ten years ago, I decided to figure out if becoming a woman would resolve the anxiety I’ve been dealing with off and on almost my entire life (the first inkling was in elementary school). There have been periods when I could suppress it and periods when I could not, but it was always there.

So I started experimenting — taking little steps and evaluating how each step made me feel. Each time it felt right, so I took another step. In late 2015, I decided to confirm everything that I thought, everything that I had read and every step I’d taken. I talked to a therapist. Turned out I was a textbook case of “gender identity disorder.”

If you’re not familiar with gender identity disorder, it’s not cross-dressing or being a drag queen (no offense intended). It is also independent of sexual partner preference. Gender and sexual preference are not related. Gender identity disorder is also genetic. It has ZERO to do with how you are raised, a point I repeatedly drive home with my parents. Someone on either side of my family (or both) was like me, whether they were aware of it or not.

I mean it. I’m happy. That’s what this journey has given me. Happiness.

I started hormones in 2016. The first few weeks were an utter panic because I was afraid of the unknown (and almost everyone knows I can’t deal with anything medical, i.e., I faint). The panic eventually subsided and I forgot about it. Then, at a point that I can’t pin down, I became happy. The shit in my head was gone. When someone asks how I am now, I say “fabulous,” “super” or “fantastic.” And I’m not saying that to just say it — I mean it. I’m happy. That’s what this journey has given me. Happiness.

My new name is Genevieve. It honors the original, but also gives me the opportunity to define the new me. Don’t fret if you happen to call me Gene, Geno, Andy (from younger days) or any pronoun such he, him, etc. I will still respond. This is a change for everyone, and I recognize it will take time.

I was planning to thank everyone that helped make this possible, but after ten years, the list is long and simply too much to include here. You know who you are. You had a hand in this journey, and I owe each one of you a debt of gratitude. You have always shown me nothing but encouragement and, most importantly, respect. I love all of you.

I also want to thank those I informed leading up to this announcement. You are my dear friends and co-workers who were unaware or unsure. Please don’t hold it against me that you were not “in the know,” but this was a journey I had to make in some seclusion. Your response, including the response from my company, has been overwhelming. I’m simply blown away by it and I love all of you as well.

My parents are still processing this, and it’s going to take a while. My initial discussion with them went much better than expected. There was no crying, yelling or screaming. Initial shock, yes, but we worked through it. People who love each other do that. By the end, I heard the words that I wanted to hear above and beyond anything else…they love me and will support me no matter what. I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

I’m posting this to Facebook because I want you to be informed. Ignorance and misinformation could be hurtful for my friends, co-workers, parents and myself, and I’d rather avoid it. If you have a question, ask me. Ask me in the comments of this post, reach out by messenger or however you would like. I can’t promise you I have all the answers, but I’ll honestly tell you all I can.

If you can’t wrap your head around this, that’s fine. If you want to unfriend me, that’s fine too. You do what you feel is right, but what you do is not going to change how I choose to live my life. I’m choosing HAPPINESS.

A rainbow comes after a storm. For many LGBTQIA+ youth, there is that storm.

With multiple deaths by suicide in the national spotlight, it seems important to highlight how LGBTQIA+ youth are extremely at risk. According to the CDC, lesbian, gay and bisexual teens are almost five times more likely to attempt suicide than their heterosexual peers. So while it’s important to celebrate this Pride Month, it’s also important to be aware of these realities and to shower others/ourselves with “I see you” love and kindness. For queer youth and our allies: LGBTQIA+, people of color, folks with disabilities.

I can’t speak for the entire queer community, but I would personally love if Pride were a celebration for all the otherness people feel and experience. Let your freak flag fly! Tell your friends, family and chosen family that you love their freak flag!

You can bet I’ll be bopping to Hayley Kiyoko while wearing a rainbow caftan, screaming to my queer family and allies that they all matter and that they make this world more special.

As a self-identified queer, white cis-female, I have privileges. With those privileges, I can champion others around me. So, how am I celebrating Pride? You can bet I’ll be bopping to Hayley Kiyoko while wearing a rainbow caftan, screaming to my queer family and allies that they all matter and that they make this world more special.

To quote Lena Waithe, as everyone should: “The things that make us different, those are our superpowers — every day when you walk out the door and put on your imaginary cape and go out there and conquer the world because the world would not be as beautiful as it is if we weren’t in it.”

Here are two quick things that might save a life or brighten someone’s day:

Donate to The Trevor Project, the leading national organization providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer and questioning (LGBTQ) young people under 25.

Send a gif or text/call a friend to tell them that you were thinking about them. Reach out — that’s what matters. And while you’re at it, might I suggest a “Happy Pride” to your queer fam? A rainbow flag flying behind a bald eagle gif recommended, but not required.

Feature photo via Getty Images.

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rochellecrete · 7 years

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My testimony- Healing from trauma and abuse

ok just a quick rough draft. Here it goes......

My Testimony - Healing from Trauma and Abuse

Rochelle Crete

God has brought me an amazing way. From where I was in the ashes and pits of despair to becoming an overcomer and walking in the victory. What I'm about to share with you today is not easy. My life has had many struggles and heartaches. I'm not sharing what I’m about to share with you for you to feel sorry for me or because I need to get it off my chest as it is pretty heavy subject matter. The reason I am about to share some of the hardest moments in my life as raw and real as it has happened is because of what God has done to bring me out of it. See I went through some heavy trauma and abuse in my life. Not just once or by one abuser and not just one form of abuse. I experienced every form of abuse and trauma you can imagine from sexual abuse from a very early age to physical and mental abuse. The first time I met my first abuser and the one who abused me sexually I was three years old. He was our next door neighbour and soon his daughter and I were best of friends. We still are to this day. The first encounter with him at 3 years old I was scared of him. I saw dark figures surrounding him when I walked into his backyard one day by mistake and stared at him through the window. I went home terrified of this man only running into him for a few seconds and went home and told my mom a bad man I was scared of lived next door. She laughed thinking it was funny. Later I discovered that this was one of the first incidents that led to me not trusting myself and my own gut feeling as well as my judgement on hearing Gods voice. This was not discovered till I was 41 and at a cleansing stream retreat where it was revealed to me in a vision where God healed that brokenness. I was later abused by this man until I was 14 and we moved to Canada and therefore were no longer neighbors. This brought a huge amount of shame and guilt and self-hatred to how I saw myself. I don't exactly remember when he first started to abuse me but I also don't remember a time when he wasn't. I know it was really bad and escalated between ages 12-14. After that I blocked out this memory. I will share more on this later.

I was away from this man for the moment but my mom got remarried as my parents divorced when I was 3. This man also abused me but this time it was physical abuse. I was beat and hit and went to school with hand print bruises on me from him pinning me to the ground. This was done not even when I did something wrong, but even if I got a phone call from a friend. That was enough to set off his temper. I had to take myself to the hospital several times for concussions due to this but yet never said a word to anyone.

I moved to my dad's shortly after this to get away from him but that was not always a whole lot better. There was a lot of fighting there as well and also a lot of manipulation and emotional abuse. I started turning the abuse on myself and started abusing myself as well. I began to be self-destructive including cutting myself. I was numb and broken and depressed inside and I always felt unworthy and dirty and had very low self-esteem. I began college at the local community college and I was working three part time jobs on top of that. I was getting roughly 3-4 hours of sleep at night. It was during this time that the memories of the abuse came flooding back as my friend's dad was also a professor at the school and started stalking me in the halls. I had a nervous breakdown that led to my first hospitalization. There were many more to follow. I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety and later told I was bipolar.

When my mom was in the hospital after having a heart attack and quadruple bypass even though I was an adult this man beat me again. This time for the last time. All over letting the dog in the house which my mother told me was ok to do. He pinned me to the ground and bashed my head against the tile floor. He also threatened to shoot and kill my dog and he had a gun ready. This time I called the police on my cellphone and he ended up staying in jail and his guns taken away.

I had one more man that abused me. This one I let into my life on my own as I married him. Things got bad quickly and the violence, emotional and verbal abuse escalated fast. He worked at a beer warehouse and spent his paycheck on beer rather than bills or groceries. We went without heat often in winter. He would even take my car keys and take the phone right out of the jack and take them to work with him so I couldn't call anyone for help even if it were an emergency. I was so sick at this point that I couldn't use my legs. They simply couldn't hold me up and so I used a wheelchair the majority of the time. I also had trouble even getting to the bathroom on my own and often just left alone to lay in bed feeling completely alone and helpless. This was probably the lowest point in my life. I wanted to die. I felt dead inside. Along with the other forms of abuse he also forced himself on me when he came home from work drunk. He made me feel useless, unworthy, broken and empty. I was lost.

One day one of my friends came over and I finally had the courage to tell her what was really happening in my life and at home and how I felt I no longer even wanted to live. How I felt suicidal even. On the subject of suicide, because of the abuse and trauma and how horrible and empty and alone I felt I had attempted suicide multiple times. Luckily I was not a success at this. My friend that stopped by took me home to her house and let me stay with her and helped me get away from my ex husband. This was not an easy process though. He not only threatened my life but everyone that helped me. Those friends' life's as well as the pastor's life that tried to help me get out as we turned to her for marriage counselling but with no success on his part to do much participation. She finally realized that it was a matter of safety and suggested I stay in a domestic violence shelter and we all got a personal protection order out on him. It was the scariest time of my life.

This abuse affected me for a long time, I had nightmares and flashbacks, I'd get so sick I'd throw up from just the trauma of the memories.

So where was God through all this you ask? Well He was right there with me. I just couldn't see it because I was clouded with the cloud of depression, shame, guilt, rejection and self-hatred but He was still there none the less. And he eventually got me out of it as well. I'll share more on this later.

My relationship with Him at this point was a bit distant. I grew up going to a conservative Lutheran church where I also attended school. I remember as a young child loving church service and the worship music and I held onto that feeling tightly, but God still felt distant. I had loving grandparents who also took me to church with them and they were my saving grace. If it weren't for them I don't think I'd be the person I am today. They were nurturers and loved greatly. They were the two people that never once mistreated me or said anything hurtful or critical and like I said they were my saving grace. They were my heroes.

When I was in third grade my mom was working many hours as a nurse and she would watch kids during the week to be with me and cover a double shift at the hospital on weekends. Because of her busy schedule we stopped attending church for the most part. This led to being excommunicated from church followed by me being removed from the school. I then attended public school from 4th grade on and we never really regained a church life.

It wasn't until I was a young adult that I started attending church again. I first tried a catholic church during the time I lived at my dad's but it didn't really fit me. Still I was searching. I didn't find what I wanted though so I didn't continue looking long. When I moved to Texas in my 20s I started attending a unity church. It wasn't what I needed but it was a stepping stone. When I moved back to Michigan I moved in with my friends I mentioned earlier that got me out of an abusive relationship with my ex husband. They were a wonderful Christian family who later brought me to the Lord and I began attending church with them. This is actually where I met my ex-husband and since you already know that situation and how it ended I won't repeat myself. However, I will state that once others found out about the abuse after I came forward instead of making him leave the church they made us leave instead. So, the two churches up till this point that I regularly attended I was told to leave from even though I didn't do anything wrong. This turned me away from church for a while and I had a bit of a rebellious period. It didn't last long but it was still there and it still effected my walk with God. He felt even more distant now as I felt rejection from church.

After I was free from my ex-husband I moved back to my condo in Ann Arbor. The abuse however and distance I felt from God still affected me. I was struggling but still had a desire to find what I was so desperately searching for. A friend recommended a church for me to try. It was the Ann Arbor Vineyard. I attended a bit reluctantly and a bit shyly sticking to myself. I finally felt home here. I finally found God here and Christ as my savior. I finally felt acceptance and freedom here. I felt the beginning of healing and wholeness but God was not even close to being done with me. I was baptized in the spirit at this church. Met some great spiritual mentors, and experienced some of the first stages of a deeper healing and a deeper relationship with Him. Even though I loved this church and always will and I am forever grateful for what I experienced here I also got hurt here as well. How or why doesn't matter so much but I stopped attending regularly and started partying a little harder. I wasn't celebrating but rather drowning my pain and struggling with my mental health.

Skip a few years ahead and I find out my mom has breast cancer so I moved back to Canada to help her out. I went through a really bad time of depression that eventually led to being hospitalized again. Many of you may remember this time and just how low I was. I did get help and got back up again but it was a long struggle. I was attending wpa at that time but I was struggling both in my mental health and my spiritual health. At times I wasn't even sure what I really believed.

When I went to camp in summer 2016 life changed. I received so much healing from God through prayer and words of encouragement from so many there. I felt the pain, anxiety and depression lift completely. I felt different, I looked different, and I was different. It was life changing for me and many remember my testimony from then. However I struggled when I got back and still slipped back into old ways. The depression and anxiety also returned, not as bad but still there.

My mom while I love her with all my heart often criticizes and puts me down and I still slipped back into the depression and doubt again. I was still doing a great deal better than before and even started working. I really wasn't looking for a job when I got my job, I was looking for a bus. I met Sandy at work and she became my boss. I liked and felt comfortable with her right away which is not the usual for me. I loved working there but I was still struggling with depression and anxiety. I started having nightmares of the abuse again and had one panic attack so bad it led to taking a month off of work. I wasn't even aware at the time that it was the abuse triggering my panic attacks. After a month off and starting back up I felt like I needed to talk to my boss about what triggered my panic attacks. She had an uncanny way of calming me down when I had one at work and therefore I felt safe to talk to her about it. I had no idea however how much support she would be or how much of an impact this would have on me. I felt strength and I felt freedom in just telling someone the whole story and was overwhelmed with the love and support I was given. My nightmares stopped and they changed to her being a superhero with me fighting the bad guys with me. We even ran them over with the bus. I felt a strength and confidence I have never felt before. This lovely lady now means the world to me and I am forever grateful for her support. It has given me the strength to get to this point in being able to publicly share my full testimony in a raw uncut form.

I also feel like God is going to use this to help others greatly as many people suffer in silence from both mental health as well as trauma and abuse. There is a stigma attached to both of these that needs to be broken. Breaking the silence breaks the stigma so that is why I am choosing to break the silence and share this so openly and publicly. It is hard, it is frightening and terrifying, but in that there is also freedom and strength. As Joyce Myers always says "I may not be where I need to be, but I'm far from where I used to be." God has brought me so far in my journey, in my healing and with my walk with him. He has brought me out of the brokenness, out of the shame, and guilt and fear. He has made me unbroken, fused me back together. He has made me whole and has me walking in victory. He never meant for any of this to happen but he certainly will use it for His good and His glory. What Satan meant to kill and destroy God will use for good. That is certainly what He is doing here. If I reach just one hurting person who has struggled through what I have it will make it worth it. I highly doubt that God is stopping there though. I feel He will use me to reach many.

So, If you feel broken or unworthy or suffered through abuse or even if you didn't but still feel broken I want to pray with you. If you are reading this feel free to message me, call me, text me. I will listen, I will pray, and I will understand.

Feel free to share this as it needs to be heard to help others. Thanks for taking the time to read it.

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