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How most people with invisible illnesses are treated by health care “professionals”

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my gf is ethical capitalism

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Aries — oh, my sweet, sweet child, what has the world done to you? you were a bright promise, the tomorrow we had hoped for, holding flowers in your mouth without crushing them and trusting blindly in those around you. and then came the blood; and now your fire is a quiet thing, a crackling murmur hidden in the shadows. you’ve curled into yourself like a newborn babe, held your heart tightly to your chest and began the tedious healing. and all the salt in your tears made the deep wounds sting; was it this what kept you pure? I wonder, oh, I wonder. before you, I had never seen an anathema so full of innocence. (the world tried to cast you down from paradise; and it succeeded. but the fall couldn’t maim you, for fire cannot kill fire – it simply shrunk you, much like a mimosa bloom. I hope one day you’ll feel safe enough to flower, for there is so much beauty in you.) Taurus — I wish I could wrap my hands around your shoulders and hold you close for a while, because oh, what sad things they are, your bones. I am so sorry, beloved; so very sorry. and I am well aware these apologies cannot change anything, but I want you to know that there is someone who sees you as you are – even when all the others see is your superfluous frivolity and your desire for riches, I see the thoughtful mind, the gentle gestures, each and every of your heartbeats. the song of you is imprinted into my memory as the change in seasons is; you are unforgettable, something so precious and so very dear. (don’t let them shame you for your greed – those who try to do so cannot wrap their all too little minds around the fact that sin is not necessarily negative. your love for gold has root in the same place as your love for others; you only want it so you may share it.) Gemini — it’s lonely, isn’t it? not being the way all others are. they tell you you’re a forgery, that your smile is a mask and your composure an act, simply because they cannot accept the idea that people are supposed to be multidimensional. on and on they go, pinning their ignorance to you under the name of blame, seeing in you only that which they wish to see. sometimes, you wish you were like them. I know you do. you shouldn’t. it might be lonely where you are, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing; lonely doesn’t mean secluded. there are others like you, with minds like diamonds. others like you, who are only habitual in their tendency for change. (you will find someone who can make sense out of you, one day, you know. they’ll know you better than you yourself do – every single aspect of you, every single frantic facet and feeling. and when you do, the wait will be more than worth it. I promise you won’t die nor live alone.) Cancer — you poor, poor, poor thing. it’s been a thousand years since you’ve curled into yourself, hid your heart deep in the cradle of your ribs and let yourself sleep; then the time came for you to awaken, and you found the world unchanged – it was as if everything had stood still. reality swept into you like saltwater into gaping wounds, and every fiber of your soul wept. fearful, you took the broken glass road still, walked it fully aware of what laid in waiting; like a bride the night she is wed to a stranger, you swallowed your terror and saw it through. often, those ignorant make you out to be such a bumbling coward. you’re not. you just aren’t. (in fact, you’re on of the bravest people I know; it takes so much courage to let the world see you weep – and it takes even more of it to wipe your tears and keep moving forward. above all, it takes immense courage to allow yourself to love even when you know it’ll hurt.) Leo — the size of your heart puts to shame both Jupiter and your own pride and ego; to this day, I am not sure if you would have been better off with one much smaller, but I know for sure the world would have been emptier by far. you see, your touch is one of gold; whomever you decide to invest your time and love into grows the size of Atlas, and so, without you as you are now there would have been much less in the world. that is your downfall, isn’t it? always has been. the way you’ve always put others first, giving them all of you, never asking for anything to be given to you in return. you are a gardener, dearest, and people are your roses. (it breaks my heart that all your selfless effort was almost always repaid in hurt and sorrow; know that you are not to be blamed for any of it. you have done nothing wrong – sometimes, things simply fall apart. don’t shut your heart. I’d hate to see your love rot and turn to hatred.) Virgo — you have endured well the contempt of others, my dear; you have taken every blow with open arms. they have called you frigid and prude and arrogant and everything in between, but you knew better. tell me then: if you can endure so well the slander of others, if you don’t care what they make of you, why do you worry so? why do you see only blemishes when you look at yourself in the mirror? your hesitance to trust others stems in your fear that if you let them in they’ll see your ugliness, all the imagined imperfections you see in your reflection. you can’t trust others because you don’t trust yourself; and I wish so badly that you would have a little more faith in who you are, in your beauty. (being unable to forgive, jealousy and lust do not make you terrible. hate is human nature as much as love is; emotions, be they bad or good, are intrinsic to mankind. you are such a passionate being, despite your outward delicacy, and that, my dear, is simply stunning. please try to love yourself.) Libra — darling child, didn’t the gods tell you the mob sees dancers as something of the devil, especially when their preferred stage is the sharp edge of a sword? few in this world love truth, and fewer still are fond of things like righteousness and justice. your ability to remain indiscriminate in the face of contradictory realities and deny none of them is both a blessing and a curse. your mind, I fear, is the Pandora fate has crafted specifically for you; a beautiful gift that hides such doom and sorrow. and you are aware of all of this – how you were meant for greater things, with your noble mind and your true heart, yet on you dance, fighting against the windmills of adversity. how brave you are. (know that your effort will not go without reward. know that you won’t be forever unloved, nor will you be forever misunderstood. there will be those whom, like you, have the makings of just men, and they will understand. keep your eyes open and search the crowd; that is what you do best.) Scorpio — I look at you and my heart grows small; there is so much sadness in you, from the flower of your eyes to the slouching arch of your shoulders. you have been misjudged and falsely accused for so long: whore, they said; monster, perverter, sickness of the soul – and all of it because you like sex, as if somehow they are the virgin mary reborn, the goddamn hypocrites. this, too, is something they have misunderstood; it is not sex that you crave or are interested in. it is intimacy: it is the vulnerability that comes with having your soul completely bared and lain before another; you crave love, in its’ purest of forms. (and I know they have convinced you that someone of your kind is not “worthy”; fuck that. your love is priceless, and one day someone will call your battle scars a masterpiece. one day someone will love you as wholly as you deserve to be loved. they will love all of you.) Sagittarius — there is such wanderlust in you – you’ve made a home out of the long, long roads, walked the earth to its’ ends and bathed in the oceans of the horizon; the sky was your sole companion, its’ stars your map, the wind a spellsong to ward off the passing sadness and melancholia that threatened to dim the flame of your heart. oh, my child; how very wonderful you are, a barefoot nomad forever in awe of the world. the feeble minded call you rootless; how wrong they are. having a voyager heart does not make you afraid of commitment. it simply means your roots lie elsewhere, splat across the world. (do not let their malice plant doubts into your mind’s garden; your gypsy heart is worth more than all their empty ones combined. keep daring the world, sate your thirst for journeying; only exploration can ever lead to discovery, so let your feet and head both walk the world.) Capricorn — good god, you’re so tired. life has worn you down to the marrow of your bones, took everything from you until you were bare-handed; and yet. and yet you’re still here, standing before me, your spine hardened to titanium, a delicate thing that can withstand even the most apocalyptic of sieges; you still find it in you to smile, bitter-bloody-all-teeth and still happy, somehow. know that I am proud of you; of your bravery, of your resilience, of how you’ve clung to life by the skin of your teeth. I am proud of you. (and know that you deserve happiness – you may feel like you don’t, you may feel that it is above the likes of you, but you deserve it; you have earned it. know that one of these days, the sun will shine down on your lane, too.) Aquarius — there’s so much of you inside your skin I am often surprised it has yet to come apart at the seams; there’s so much of everything inside your skull I am left in awe of your bones – often I wonder, how are they strong enough to contain the exploding universe inside? my god, this world of ours has seven wonders and you are all of them. the fortitude of your bright mind ceaselessly surprises me; I know what to expect, and yet I am still thrown off by your ingenuity and your ability to remain rational in your abstract ways. nobody but you is open enough to accept it all; nobody but you can see through the prism of all eyes and walk away with their sanity intact. (I know they call you “cold”, an ice queen of the Siberian tundra. let them be. those who cannot see your white-hot warmth are not worthy of your brilliance. you are the brightest star, my dear, someone accepting and embracing of it all. do not settle for anyone that is blind to your light.) Pisces — and how terrible it must be for you, who lives always halfway, to be stuck in a world that demands certainties which you will never have to give. it is not to say you don’t want to be resolute – you simply cannot. your world does not have truth, nor does it have falsity; all that your world has are colors, swirling, forever mingling anew like the clouds in the sky. one day you are overflowing with everything that blooms inside of you, and lilies are spilling out of your ribs; the next, you’re empty, and you can’t for the life of you find something that is all-encompassing enough to fill the growing abyss south of your sternum. (know that it is okay. the most humane thing you can be is full of contradictions; as maddening as it can be, each paradox gets you closer to the entity your peers call god. it was never the devil that built his home on the crossroads, you know. embrace your nature.)

poetry for the signs: the “you’ve done well” edition, L. Schreiber (via angelicxi)

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the bar for 2017 is set so low it’s incredible

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When I told you I needed space, you made a canvas of my chest and painted me entire galaxies with your lips.

NKZ   (via wnq-writers)

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When you see it, REBLOG IT.

Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696

Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433

LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255

Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386

Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743

Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438

Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673

Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272

Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000

Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253

If you ever want to talk: My Tumblr ask is always open.

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How to Get Out Alive

Gather as much rain as you can carry.

Name everything you own something ugly

so the only beautiful thing left is you.

Swallow all the cherry pits.

Flinch at the moon and the strange forgiveness

of echoes.

Remind everyone in your life that losing teeth

is no less painful than losing a body.

Go to all the wine and cheese tasting parties

on the block

and steal every other bottle.

Learn how to love loss.

Learn how to love loss.

Learn how

to love loss.

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I don’t ever want to forget your smell. I’m terrified by the thought of your memory fading because it feels like you’re leaving me all over again.

jackietran (via wnq-writers)

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But your blade—it might be too sharp I’m like a rubber band until you pull too hard, Yeah, I may snap and I move fast But you won’t see me fall apart ‘Cause I’ve got an elastic heart

For Orlando. 🌈 ❤️ 💛 💚 💙 💜 🌈 

Stay strong LGBT kids. Love will win. Love always wins.  

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for all my autistic/adhd followers or anyone who just likes to fidget:

There’s this website called Stimtastic that sells toys and jewelry specifically designed for fidgeting with!

They’ve got phone cases with infinite bubble wrap (you can pop it as much as you want):

Rings that you can spin:

Even necklaces and jewelry designed to chew on:

(I just bought their “phoenix” chewable pendant)

Anyway, I’m autistic and I stim a lot so I got reallly excited when I found this, thought I’d share it with you guys.

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RAISE A HAND IF YOU’RE NERVOUS ABOUT THE FUTURE OF YOUR COUNTRY

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That’s the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.

 Charles Bukowski, Women (via eroticolours)

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On Claiming Worth in Rape Culture | Jeanann Verlee

In a recent poem, I wrote about chewing glass. I don’t actually sit at the dinner table eating shards of glass. It’s a poem, it’s allowed to be grandiose.  But then, I do eat glass. As in, bite my tongue, suck back the words. Act polite. Internally swelling with fit and rage and regret. And I’m not alone. That’s what this is, living as woman. We get along to get along.

***

Sunday evening, June 5th, my husband and I go to the local pub to watch the Cavs/Warriors Game 2 of the NBA Finals. When we arrive, some acquaintances from the neighborhood are there, one of whom I haven’t yet met but have heard kind things about. I’m happy to meet him. My husband makes introductions—hello and handshake and cheers. The man then taps my arm and abruptly asks, don’t I, as a woman, prefer a man who is rich over a man who is not? Immediately I sense the calculated layers of this questioning. (As a woman, I represent all women and my answer will stand as such; we are not autonomous beings. Women only want men. Women only want men for their money. Women need men for money. Women are hateful because we won’t accept a man without money. Etc.) My temperature rises. I think, Maaan, I just came out to watch basketball. I explain to him that, for me, it isn’t about money, it’s about who I love—and quietly hope the questioning ends there. But he’s hyped up on friends and a few drinks and he presses, explains yeah, yeah, he knows love is at the center, but, really, aren’t I more into a man who can take care of me over one who can’t? And I pause, drain my mouth of venom before saying, simply, that I make my own money, I’m good. At this, I decide it’s best to disengage entirely because it’s only going to spiral. I turn to focus on the basketball game, trying to un-hear the rest of the conversation.

***

On June 2nd Brock Turner, a privileged white Ivy-leaguer who had been caught in the act of raping an unconscious woman, was convicted on three felony counts but sentenced to only six months of jail time.

***

When I first released an essay I wrote about my experience as survivor of intimate partner rape, a number of people commended my “bravery.” It didn’t feel brave. It felt like I was occupying too much space. Funny how erasure makes any kind of sight feel that way. It was a long time before I mustered the courage to go to the police. I still wouldn’t call it courageous. I was losing the battle against PTSD, and I needed to take a stand to repair my own fractured psyche. And while the police believed my story—believed it enough to bring it directly to the Chief DA of sex crimes—the DA explained it was an “unwinnable” case (lapse of time, lack of physical evidence, history of intimacy) and suggested that if my PTSD was indeed an obstacle in my day-to-day living as my rapist is a participant in the same industry, I should leave the industry altogether. Blink. Blink. Even as she sat with her elbows propped on the inches-thick pile of documentation I had provided—including his own confession. Then, she refused my request for a restraining order. Go, she said. Leave the writing community behind. I sat in that room and was told that I should go. Me. I was occupying too much space.

***

On June 6th, news came of Maria Sadaqat, a young Pakistani teacher who was beaten and then burned alive by a group of men for refusing a marriage proposal.

***

Earlier that Sunday—a hot, lazy afternoon—I fell freely into a rare nap. I deserved it. Rest, I mean. We all do, sometimes. I rarely sleep. And my sleep is rarely restful. What woke me wasn’t the dog barking, or my husband shifting about the apartment, not even the low hum of the television in the background. What woke me was the dream. I was racing through an unfamiliar house, fleeing from a man I did not recognize—in my dream-mind, I knew exactly what was coming, could simultaneously see the future assault taking place while actively fighting to escape. I ducked and ran, I slammed doors and locked doors and barricaded doors as he systematically broke through each one in pursuit. I hid, I ran, I crushed his hand in doorjambs, kicked him off, I ran and kept running. When he caught me; when he bent my body in the grotesque, familiar way I recognize having had my body stolen from me repeatedly; when he loosened his pants and pulled my hips toward him with force—I woke.

***

Janay Rice was vilified for staying.

Amber Heard was vilified for leaving.

Rhianna was vilified for both.

90% of women incarcerated for murder are convicted for killing their abusers.

Mary Spears was killed by a street harasser for rejecting him.

Janese Talton-Jackson was killed by a street harasser for rejecting him.

All of Holtzclaw’s victims. Period.

***

That Sunday night, I chewed glass. Again. Spoonful by spoonful. That Sunday night—after a man I scarcely know tossed his tiny bits of misogyny at me under the guise of casual bar talk, after I said only a fraction of what I wanted to say in efforts to keep peace, after I bit my tongue and rolled the shame and rage in my head for the duration of the basketball game, after other folks asked me to give him a chance: he’s really a good guy, they said, he didn’t mean it, they said (and I’m sure he is a good guy, I certainly don’t hold him as the epitome of evil)—I woke at 3:00 a.m. chewing glass. Still hurt, still angry. Baffled at how I was encouraged to get over it and accept him as he is—instead of him being encouraged to examine his misogyny and accept women as we are: people.

***

Turner’s survivor got a life sentence. Turner faces six months.

My assaults return to me in dreams and startle me in crowded spaces. All of my abusers are free.

Rice and Heard and Rhianna have had to eat glass.

Sadaqat is gone. Spears is gone. Talton-Jackson is gone. They were occupying space.

Every day, women are threatened, stalked, beaten, raped, and murdered at staggering rates—women of color and transwomen suffering vastly disproportionately—yet a man I scarcely know gleefully prods me to confess that women are only concerned with men’s money.

Sir, we are concerned for our lives.

***

I signed a petition to punish the men who burned alive Maria Sadaqat. I signed a petition to recall judge Adam Persky from office for undermining the severity of Brock Turner’s crimes. I signed a petition to pass the acid attack bill, to pass legislation to combat sex trafficking, to make revenge porn a criminal offense, to end gender taxation. I sign petitions all the time. I donate to programs and advocacy groups when I can. (I make my own money.) Petitions aren’t going to resurrect Maria Sadaqat or Mary Spears or Janese Talton-Jackson. Petitions are not going to right Adam Persky’s perspective or un-rape Brock Turner’s survivor. Petitions aren’t going to gender equalize or gift women autonomy in the eyes of patriarchy or do much more than rattle a few windows. (Though rattle we will.) So, note to self: when I’m goaded to help a couple of cis men determine whether women are either sinister gold-diggers or callous heartbreakers—even when I can be sure it will devolve into an argument—I have an obligation to my self-worth to spit out the glass, occupy the space, and speak.

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