OutLet

Happy Father's Day

2010-06-20T13:53:00.000-07:00

This Father’s Day, I would like to break old habits and actually show my appreciation for the fathers who have brought happiness into our world. Today, fathers, it’s all about you. Because you deserve it.

~~~~

To the fathers who teach their children how to appreciate and love life; the fathers who plan, prepare, and follow through with making their children’s lives better than their own; to the fathers who love their children and show it; the fathers who love their partner(s) and show it; to the fathers who allow their children to be who they are; the fathers who allow their partner(s) to be who they are; to the fathers who are responsible; the fathers who work in and outside the home; to the fathers who are strong enough to cry; to the fathers who will reach out for help, I wish you all a very Happy Father’s Day.

To the fathers who never use drugs just to get by; the fathers who never blame drugs for their incompetence and mistakes; to the fathers who never lie; the fathers who never separate their families from the rest of the world, especially their extended family; to the fathers who never make their children cry at their own awards ceremony; the fathers who never make their partner(s) cry at work; to the fathers who don’t control their children and/or their partner(s) lives; to the fathers who never eavesdrop, I hope you all have a Happy Father’s Day.

To the fathers who will admit when they are wrong; the fathers who will deal with the consequences of their actions; to the fathers who speak the truth; the fathers who lead by example; to the fathers who share their heritage; the fathers who appreciate their rich and remarkable ancestry; to the fathers who will teach what they can; the fathers who understand that their children can teach them new things; to the fathers who appreciate the work their children and partner(s) do; to the fathers who take the time to listen, I wish you all a very Happy Father’s Day.

To the fathers who know how to control their anger and frustration; the fathers who never abuse their children; to the fathers who never beat their children until they are bleeding and covered in bruises; the fathers who never threaten to kill their children; to the fathers who never bully their children until they cry; the fathers who never humiliate their children for being different; to the fathers who never abuse their partner(s); to the fathers who never shove paint into their pregnant partners’ mouths, I hope you all have a Happy Father’s Day.

Disorder

2010-06-07T12:27:00.000-07:00

My days have been plagued with disorder. I'm starting to see that this isn't a new thing: that I have always felt extremely anxious, on the brink of a panic attack – actually having panic attacks… always. While living with my parents, I used to have panic attacks. There was one particularly painful moment in my life when I had a panic attack every single day. Sometimes I would even black out randomly – although, that may have partially been encouraged by my eating disorder. I think somewhere in the back of my head, hidden in a little treasure box which itself was stowed away in a safe place waiting for me to open it when I felt safe, when I left my parents, that I knew something was wrong. I had to have felt the confusion, fear, terror. None of my friends shared with me snapshots of the darkness, fears of heart attack, sweating profusely, hyperventilation, and cutting for some kind of release. My experiences seemed unique. Hm, then again, I never told anyone either. Ah, who knows anymore!

Perhaps I knew somewhere in my mind that all these disorders mixing and exploding was the product of something atrocious. But when such things like panic attacks become a daily activity, it’s as though their existence is taken for granted, completely accepted and understood as normal. To add to this familial history of one betrayal after another is the sexual abuse I’ve endured since I was 16 years old. Behold! Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and it's taking over my fucking life.

I hate acknowledging this, the fact that I actually have PTSD and that it’s consuming my life. I don’t want it to. I’m fighting it, but it’s much too strong. How can I fight it when I’m still not even sure what’s causing it? All I’ve been able to discern is that I’m triggered when a man expresses sexual interest in me, when a man is violent – verbally and/or physically, when my privacy is invaded, when I try not to think about anything, when I’m alone, when I’m around people, when I’m walking in the street, when I’m alone in my room…It seems to me that almost everything encourages my heart rate to increase in fear and eventually I must prepare to hide myself in the unfortunate event that I might actually have a panic attack.

And so many people I know tell me, “Angelica, don’t let your abusers win. Don’t let their petty actions control your life like this.” Such statements only make me feel so much worse, especially when the anxiety, the panic attacks, the hypervigilance, insecurity, the flashbacks all decide to do their thing regardless of what I want. My responses are out of control! I'm not letting anyone do anything! But I am fighting, and I most definitely don’t want them to win! Obviously I don’t like feeling this shit. And I will never, ever let anyone control me.

Honestly, it feels to me like I’m doing all the rights things by avoiding whatever triggers me. I push my already tiny and shrinking comfort zone whenever I can. Whenever I go out and my anxiety doesn’t consume me, I feel accomplished. I pay attention to the little and the big steps I take. I’m doing the best I fucking can!

The more I work, however, the more difficult the process becomes. I discover more questions and still no answers. I discover more roadblocks, more huge-fucking-normous walls to climb. I’m stumbling through an inner struggle to understand where my abused self ends and my real self begins. Are they two different people or are they one in the same? Is the answer to incorporate them or keep them separate? Does my abuse have to define me? I really don’t want it to. It hurts too fucking much! I don’t want to be defined by my scars. What does it mean to take pride in my scars? How do I deal with their presence? Is it possible that I can think about them too much/too little?

What the hell is this healing stuff all about anyway? What exactly do I need to heal and how do I do it? I understand that what happened to me wasn’t my fault now. That I never deserved such treatment. That I deserve better. I love myself, goddamnit! And this is mainly why it hurts! I’m out of control – if someone decides to abuse me, WTF CAN I DO?! Sure, I can fight back but what good does it do? I’m going to be honest with myself and y’all, if someone attacks me again I’ll probably curl up into a ball and have a million panic attacks on the spot. I’d like to believe that I would kill the motherfucker, but I doubt that would happen and I doubt it would help much.

What else drives me nuts is that the abuse I’ve endured isn’t a rare occurrence: My experiences are NORMAL. I don’t feel safe or in control. I feel vulnerable and powerless.

In my head I keep asking myself two questions:
How can I have a disorder when I feel like one of the only sane people left on this earth?
How am I classified with various disorders when the world around me seems to be crumbling?

Change

2010-05-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

It is time for change.

My parents have turned my only sister against me. There is only so much I can do to help her understand my situation when she lives with them and is forced to hear them demonize me every single day. To my parents, I have been brainwashed by feminazism to hate family and men. To my parents, I have been brainwashed to think of myself as only a victim. Now, my sister believes these horrible lies too.

I am in a great deal of pain. I feel irrevocably betrayed and cruelly misunderstood. There is no hope for my nuclear family: I have no hope. I cannot reach out to them. And no matter how much I try to remind them that I am a human being, that I require my humanity to be respected, they will not listen. There is nothing I can do for them...

There is nothing I can do for them.

There is nothing I can do for them.

Angelica, remember, that while you cannot do anything for your parents and sister, you can do plenty for yourself: Look inward.
Angelica, you are not alone.

Yes, it is time for change.

I can, and actually have already started, to redefine my own family. As a child my parents told me repeatedly that my maternal grandmother and paternal aunt were vicious, narcissistic women that I should avoid. In recent months I have spoken to them, and now see that my parents' stories were complete lies. I have made friends with these women, and in so doing I have created some semblance of family. Currently, our bonds are still weakened by the way we have all been treated by my parents. So we spend our conversations trying to ease the pain and heal.

I have recently graduated from Colgate University and am now completely on my own. It is very scary, but I'm doing it with some help from friends and family. Change is happening whether I like it or not. I'm in San Diego, California right now working. And will be in New York City in September for more stable work. Indeed, change is happening.

I must remember that I cannot spend my time changing people. They have to do that for themselves. And by that same token, I must remember that I can spend my time changing myself. I can, I really MUST, spend my time on ME. More introspection, more reflection, more work. Blog, get ready for some more action. I created OutLet so that it would be just that, an OutLet. Instead it has become a place where I post very deep and well thought out essays. I want to keep doing that, but if that becomes my standard I'll never write anything else. (And as you see I haven't.) So, I'm going to focus on expelling more of my raw emotions and thoughts.

Let it Out. Let it aaallll OUT!

Can You Do This For Me? An Open Letter to Richard

2009-11-14T07:56:00.000-08:00

I have just woken with an overwhelming need to write, to let my thoughts and emotions pour out of me ungoverned by a revision process or the worry that my goal is not accomplished. I know y'all will get it.

Last night, my emotions started to shift. This morning, they have transformed. And this is not to say that my emotions have taken on a mind of their own, choosing to take me any place they please. I take full responsibility for these changes. But I guess this is what people mean when they say they have a change in heart?

Damn, it has been too long. I have been far from this blog, too busy to write and pay attention to my inner-most feelings. This can't go on any longer.

Last night, I ran into the person who is responsible for sparking all of the suffering I have had to deal with since August. I ran into the guy who sexually assaulted me. And instead of wanting to enjoy watching him suffer when my presence forced him to hide his face, I felt the need to hug him.

I know. This shocks me too.

It all starts with arriving at Colgate University, and wanting desperately to find my group. Immediately, I searched for the metal heads. And I found a few. One who is now my partner of 3 years and going, Dan. Another who became a fairly good friend. We'll call him, Richard.

We'd cross paths quite a bit. Stop and talk to each other in the rain for hours. He listened to my stories of pain - about being abused by my father, about being stalked and raped by a man 12 years older than me in high school. Richard seemed to have a heart and a good set of ears. Why wouldn't I trust him?

So, when I had invited him over to my apartment that August night to listen to some metal, I didn't expect him to turn into such a douchebag. As soon as we set foot into my apartment, he didn't seem to care about the music anymore. He asked me to sit next to him, so I did. And he immediately laid on top of me.

"Are you hitting on me?" I asked him.

"Duh."

Sigh. "If I wanted to fuck you, Richard, I would have invited you over to fuck. Not to listen to music," I stated.

And he responded by guilt-tripping me. Saying things like, "Oh, I might as well leave now," and, "I didn't know you were that kind of girl."

Frustrated and hurt, I said to Richard, "Look, I want you to stay because I do want to hang out with you. But I am not going to fuck you." So he stayed, but there was still no interest in music, or hanging out. He kept bringing up his desire to be sexual with me. Eventually he asked me, "Could I at least kiss you?"

And before I could say no, he was on top of me and I couldn't move my head. His tongue was in my mouth and I couldn't push him off me. Scared, I kissed back hoping that this would encourage him to shift his weight so I could push him off me.

"I don't want to do this," I stuttered.

"Ok, I'm leaving," said Richard. He got up and went to the bathroom.

I ran to my computer and IM'ed the only person who was still online at 2 a.m. He was in Virginia. "Stay online. Something bad is happening," I said to him. And he stayed.

Richard came back, and leaned over me in the chair. "You're so beautiful," he said to me as he leaned in and stole another sloppy kiss from me. It hurt so much that he wouldn't listen to me. I never consented to any of this. I think back to this moment, and my heart slows down, pounding harder, crying louder. The shock of each thump shakes bits of scab off ancient wounds that are desperately trying to heal. He told me that I am beautiful and then he violated me. Who is this person, and does he not realize how much he is hurting me?

I pushed him off me, shaking, and I said to him, "Richard, stop. I don't want to hook up with you."

And this motherfucker. THIS MOTHERFUCKER SAID TO ME: "I'm not leaving until you give me a kiss good-bye."

HOW FUCKING STUPID COULD ANYONE POSSIBLY BE?!?!?!

Fuck you. Leave me the fuck alone. If you do not leave I will castrate you. You've already stolen too many kisses. LEAVE!

So what does Richard do? He leans over me and tries to steal kisses from each side of my cheek. I'm moving my face to avoid his lips, and I'm getting furious each time he kisses my cheek or the top part of my neck. I feel so dirty. I want to be clean.

I turn to him. I wrap my fingers around his esophagus and clench. I stand up and I look him in the eyes and I say, "I don't want to hook-up with you. Leave."

Eyes wide, he choked, "Wow. You're strong." And he stumbled around my apartment, calling friends, trying to find another way to get his kicks. I felt weak. I was shaking. My stomach clenched and I felt that at any moment it would turn inside out.

He eventually left, but his taste wouldn't leave. The fear wouldn't leave. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about what happened. And I started to blame myself. I even thought for a good while that I wouldn't tell anyone.

But I knew that it wasn't my fault and that I had to talk about what happened. Already being a survivor of rape, I knew that I needed to be true to myself and everyone else. I decided to confront Richard, to tell him how I felt and how he shook all the stability I had been working so hard on.

After I confronted Richard, and he gave what seemed like a sincere apology I went to Campus Safety and reported the event. In my experiences, when abusers have apologized for their actions they go back to old habits. This couldn't happen anymore. I wanted to work on mediation with him. Educate him about sexual abuse and about positive sexual relationships.

Consent isn't when you force her to kiss you back. Consent isn't when you encourage a very negative environment in which a woman is too scared to fucking speak. Consent isn't when you have to work harder and harder to get her to stop saying, "No."

Consent is when the prospect of sex comes up, she smiles with excitement. Consent is when she tells you what she likes. Consent is when she asks, "Can you touch me this way?" Consent is when she is comfortable enough to touch herself in front of you. Consent is when she says, "Yes!"

Richard goes back on his word, and he is not willing to work on any mediation. So I am forced to take disciplinary action within the school. Which is a long and painful process because the administration at this school doesn't care. I finally have a chance to share my case, get my justice, and they do not punish Richard.

Words cannot describe how hopeless, how lost, how betrayed, how hurt I felt when the administration told me, "He is given probation. You should be grateful."

But he still doesn't know what he did wrong! You are only teaching him to abuse women who will not speak!

For two weeks I felt a rage within me that I didn't know existed. Caught in the same daydream of slaughter and revenge, I was paralyzed by my rage. My rage bubbled up so furiously with no outlet I thought about cutting again.

"I could manage to hide the cuts on the bottom of my feet," I thought to myself one night when Dan, my partner, was looking at me concerned. Then Dan started to deal with his own rage. Both of us caught in the flame of revenge, isolated in our own apartment, stewing in the pus of our infected, ancient wounds with no outlet, no hope, no recollection of a life worth living.

I decided that I needed to drive through all this shit and deal with it later. So, I avoided dealing with my own problems by starting a movement against sexual abuse on campus. I figured if I was going to avoid my problems, I'd better do it productively.

This past Wednesday, I held a speak-out and gave a speech on the main quad where students, staff, and faculty are always walking past. Over 200 people showed up to listen to my speech and share their own experiences of sexual abuse at Colgate. We all shared. We all listened. We all cried. We embraced each other. It was hands down the most positive experience of my life and I will never forget it.

The Syracuse news showed up as well, and I was interviewed. http://www.cnycentral.com/news/video.aspx?id=375812

The speak-out has been quite popular on campus. Every time I leave my room, I am approached with smiles and gratitude, "Angelica, you did such a great job! Thank you for what you are doing!" This is much nicer than leaving my room with the fear of running into Richard. I feel accomplished, like I can sit down alone and feel comfortable again.

So when I ran into Richard last night, it didn't bother me. In fact, I had a hunch that I would see him at this event and that didn't bother me either. I'm not scared anymore.

This friend of mine says to me, "Angelica, that was a great speech!" And he continues talking about what we will do next. I notice he is sitting next to a guy who is ducking his head down so low, one might think he was trying to hide. "Richard!," I think to myself. How fucken ironic is this?

So we keep talking about policy on sexual abuse and the coverage the movement has gotten. Richard continues ducking his head. I wave for my friend to take a walk with me because I couldn't look at Richard any longer. His noticeable fear is making me pity him.

After the event is over, I notice Richard run out of the venue as fast as he could. I reunite with Dan and he tells me, "Yeah, I've been staring at him all night. He, and his friends sitting in front of him looked uncomfortable."

While sitting in our apartment, shooting the breeze and talking about fairly serious things, I tell Dan, "Ya know, if Richard would just apologize to me I would forgive him. I would even want to be his friend again." He expresses the same feeling, but says, "He would never do that."

The thought doesn't leave, and I keep fantasizing about what would happen if he walked up to me and apologized. I would cry. And I would embrace him. I would want to be his friend again.

I wake up today with love in my heart. I feel new energy swelling inside me, and it's becoming increasingly positive. After so long, I am not used to waking up without a desire for vengeance, or enacting institutional change. Today, I feel like weeping, like letting my tears cleanse my swollen wounds and finally leaving them to heal. I feel like weeping for the shame that you feel, Richard.

You said you were sorry once, but then betrayed me twice. I don't know what's going on in your head, Richard, but I know that you are suffering too. I know you treated me the way you did that night because you feel alone. But Richard, know this: if you had just asked me to hold you, to lick your wounds, I would have. Richard, know that if you had confided in me instead of lashing out at me, I would have listened. Richard, know that if you had cried to me I would have kissed your tears away.

And even after all the pain I have suffered, I'm not sure if the love I once had for you ever disappeared. Richard, all of this hurts me so much because I felt love for you and your lack of compassion for me made me feel guilty. I don't want to feel guilty for loving someone.

Richard, know that my wounds can never properly heal without you. I'll do my best to work on it myself, but this pain is so deep I need an extra hand. And the only hand that knows how to put these shattered pieces back together is you. You were there, Richard, and I know that you remember what happened.

Richard, if you feel the same way I do, you know exactly what it is that you need to do.

MySelfLove

2009-08-18T08:57:00.000-07:00

“How long have you loved yourself?” Professor Spires asked me recently during one of our beautiful, unplanned, and extremely engaging conversations.

I thought for a second and responded, “About two and a half years.”

Now that I think about it, the truth might actually be one year as I spent that first year and a half learning how to just like myself. I was just so happy that Spires even asked me that question. What I really wanted to say was, “I’ve been waiting so long for someone to ask me that!”

I have spent so much time building a relationship with my Self, I sometimes wish people would ask me how long I’ve loved my Self like they ask me how long I’ve been with my partner, Dan. Perhaps someone might think it an odd, or even a queer question to ask, but it seems quite fitting for today. Except for maybe some professors and artists – all people significantly older than me – I don’t know anyone my age who has yet to build a healthy relationship with their own identity and the body they reside in.

I used to hate myself. In fact, at one point in my life I had a death wish. But as much as I wanted death, when it looked me square in the eyes I didn’t like what I saw. One might say I was scared; I know I did back then. But now, perhaps I would redefine that fear as hope and the acknowledgment that I do have agency.

“Do you want to see them?” the nurse asked me as I slid off the operating table towards my clothes. Dazed on lydocaine and still frazzled I managed to puke up a “yaa.”

She rushed over to the countertop and turned back around excitedly, “This is what they look like. Each one will be tested separately to see if the dysplasia has spread.” There were three clear cups, each a miniature version of those cups I’ve had to pee in for pregnancy and UTI tests. They were filled with a clear solution. Inside each of those cups were small slices of my cervix, removed for more testing. And most importantly, these pieces were removed to prevent the onset of cancer.

I tried to look as close as possible. Each one floated about, spinning a little from the nurse moving so fast. They were dark red, almost black, and blood was emanating from them, dyeing the once clear, aqueous solution they now rested in. My uterus finally caught up with the impact of the surgery and started to clench. The nurse hurried back over to the counter, carefully placing the small cups down and organizing things – I didn’t know, or care to know at this point, what those clanking things were. Three pieces of my cervix were sliced off of me, and I wasn’t even sure it was worth it.

Two weeks after my first pap smear, I got a note in my mailbox saying my results turned out “abnormal.” There was a card for a doctor named “Kruger” attached to a pamphlet explaining HPV with the words “mild dysplasia” circled in blue pen. What the hell is mild dysplasia? Who the hell is Kruger? And why do I have a pamphlet about HPV? I shoved the pamphlet in my desk drawer screaming in denial.

Months passed as I was determined to ignore the issue. Later on I couldn’t handle the stress anymore so I called the school nurse, set up another appointment for a pap smear with hopes that maybe the first set of results was just a mistake.

Test results: medium/high dysplasia. I had to see Freddy Kruger. Whoops! I mean, Dr. Kruger.

He ripped me up. He didn’t explain to me the procedure. He never looked me in the eyes; in fact, he barely shook my hand. I had a colposcopy, and I didn’t even know what it was. My vagina stunk like stale vinegar and leaked brown goo for two weeks. I grimaced every time I had to pull my pants down to piss.

Results: mild dysplasia. Wait 6 months and get another pap smear.

A year goes by. I get another pap smear. The results are worse. I cry. I scream. What the hell is wrong with me?! I refuse to get cut up by that douchebag, Kruger. As far as I’m concerned he should fucking die. I finally tell my mom what’s happening. She tries to tell me my body will work it out and I have to explain to her.

Look, I have a fucking STD. Alright?! I need to get this shit figured out because I’m scared. I tell her about the first doctor and demand that no penis-bearing fuckwad will ever put a sharp object near my pussy again. Great woman that she is, she finds me an all female-staffed private gynecology practice in Syracuse where I end up with a better explanation of a colposcopy while sobbing my brains out. It’s a biopsy.

We’ve already figured out you have HPV, although we don’t have the tools yet to figure out which kind. A lot of women have this; in fact, when a woman gets an abnormal pap smear we assume it is HPV because it is so common.

It’s common? What?

Test results: Extreme Dysplasia/Pre-Cancer. Come back to Syracuse ASAP and get a LEEP. It’s like a colposcopy, only more of your cervix is removed and you get an anesthetic!

At least I didn’t have to deal with needles stabbing, poking, and tearing at my cervix. Just one needle for the lydocaine along with a sharp pinch, and then the heart immediately speeds up. I felt my face blush and I started sweating. I could feel my gynecologist’s hands brush against the inside of my thighs every once in a while. Was she cutting the pre-cancer out? I couldn’t tell. The nurse held my hand, blabbering about babies. I zoned her out, focusing on the wall behind her, sucking back tears.

After my LEEP procedure was finished, I thought about those three floating slices of cervix a lot. Every time I closed my eyes, there they were floating, dead. I couldn’t tell if I was scared of them, proud of them, or if they just grossed me out. I tried to think of them as symbols of trauma. One for being raped. Another for being abused by my father. And the other for….self hate? I displaced my problems onto them, thinking that those Three Pieces of cervix were the problem. And now they were gone. These problems didn’t bother me anymore.

Then one day all my troubles consumed me and I rushed over to my bedroom. I hid under my covers crying. What the hell was wrong with me?! I hated everything. But most of all I hated myself. Gawd, what I would have given to have just run away from myself and be someone else less shameful. Why did I have to have been raped and abused? My body sucked. I had migraines all the time. I hated that I was gaining weight. And my only source of happiness – my partner, Daniel – was always worried about me. I came with so much baggage and I hated it! I was a problem and I needed to be fixed.

I mention all of these happenings briefly to professors and students. I don’t mean to. In fact I regret it as soon as it spills out of my mouth. It was like these stories took on an agency of their own and found ways to slip out without my permission. A professor once said to me after my story jumped out of my mouth and into her ears: “It’s hard acknowledging one’s mortality.”

She was right. I couldn’t understand why, but even though I hated myself so much I knew I didn’t want to die. I’d thought of death before. In fact, I spent the earlier part of my life with a death wish dreaming about being gunned down by police or a gang and watching my parents mourn me. I dreamed of not existing, melting into the universe and becoming the omnipresent and completely neglected body of existence that surrounds and molds us, the space that binds us.

Despite those dreams, I was discovering that perhaps life could be possibly fun.

My gynecologist called me with hopeful results: my cervix still had mild dysplasia, however they were hopeful that by the next pap smear everything would be normal. I tried to stay calm. Every eyelash wished on was about having a healthy cervix, a healthy body. I engaged in activism, day by day, gathering sources to raise awareness about people like me, and finding resources for those already suffering: like me. I gathered the courage to tell my story about sexual abuse in multiple public settings. Slowly, things got a little better.

My next pap smear wasn’t normal and I walked into the gynecologist’s office sobbing again. She explained to me that a lot of women just have abnormal pap smears for the rest of their lives. HPV is permanent, and she treats it hoping that eventually it will lay dormant in my system and not bother me anymore. I deal with yet my third colposcopy, go back to my parent’s house, and sleep for the rest of the day. I am preparing for a sad and lonely future as an HPV infected scumbag whose cervix gets cut up once or twice a year.

My results: completely normal.

I do a double-take. I ask her again and she chuckles wholeheartedly. “Angelica, your colposcopy results came back normal!” I blush and thank her. Immediately, I call Dan and tell him the good news. Happily, I cry in between excited fits of what possibly may have been an acknowledgment, an appreciation for the remarkable surprises in life.

Now, I look back on my experience with my “diseased” cervix and think, “Wow, I’ve been to hell and back.” That wasn’t even the first time – and probably not that last. And you know what else I think? Damn, I survived that shit. I am proud, too!

Soon after my finally normal test results, I discovered happiness in solitude. This came by further realizing that pain is a universal language. And although it seemed like my pain ostracized me from the rest of the world – goddess knows I will never feel as lonely as I did then – pain was what kept all of us from connecting with each other. The funny thing was: All of us are/can be connected by our pain. I really learned a lot by acknowledging that everyone knows pain in some form or another. Imagine if every pained individual – and I’m hypothesizing that everyone is – came out and shared their experiences feeling insecure, incompetent, incomplete! We would be acknowledging the shit out of our fears and banishing them for good!

I am thankful for my big mouth, because if I never got my stories out I never would have met so many survivors. I have also met a lot of assholes, but like the stories of my fellow survivors they encouraged me to keep exploring and sharing. My big mouth and my compassion for others is the root of my activism, my healing process, and my identity. Without any of these things, I would not be alive.

And so I crack myself open once more to share with you a love story, my most humiliating and terrifying experience of acknowledging my existence as it is and finally, passionately, submissively, and completely making love to myself as though the next day was not going to happen. While I know that love isn’t, and most definitely shouldn’t be about being terrified, it is ultimately about acknowledging and becoming the one thing that makes us complete, the one thing we are taught to fear: our Self. And while I also know that death is a legitimate thing to fear, no matter how tangible death seems in instances like mine where a seemingly untimely death is upon us, there is always today.

The Self does not know time. To the Self, there is no such thing as tomorrow or yesterday. The Self exists now. Even though the pain is a reminder of time, our Self, ourSelves, and ultimately each other are more importantly reminders of our agency, the possibilities, and the pleasure.

With the Maadest of Love,

Angelica A.

How do you see me?

2009-08-16T11:28:00.000-07:00

Lately it seems that more often than not I am reminded of how different I am from my acquaintances rather than of how similar we are. I wonder how people see me.

A couple days ago I was telling a professor about some of my negative experiences with other professors in the classroom who failed to be an ally when I needed it most, and those who just failed altogether at being intelligent. He pointed out to me that it sounds like a fair number of professors and students have found a way to make me into a cartoon image by displacing any kind of controversy on me. Way too often have I been used for controversy, and have been placed in the defensive in classroom discussion.

Plain and simple: Don’t tell me racism, sexism, homophobia, or any type of oppression doesn’t exist because I will have to prove you wrong. I am living proof that oppression still exists. And so are you.

Even outside the classroom where people attempt to wear their “true” mask – the one they put on when being someone’s friend, instead of the stuffy intellectual asshole mask I see so often in the classroom – people find ways to trivialize who I am. People make accusations of my interests and thoughts. “I know you think I haven’t changed at all,” someone coldly stated to me while cutting off our friendship. How the hell does he know what I’m thinking? I suggest watching a movie and people say, “Oh, I don’t like gory movies.” I like gory movies? I didn’t even know that! People point out my piercings and tattoos in shock, disgust, mild interest and try to get me to explain them just because they demand it. Anything that makes me physically unique somehow is a free pass to making judgments about me without consulting or getting to know me first. Not once has anyone asked me, “Angelica, why do you engage in body modification?” Or, “Why don’t you do drugs?” Or , “Why do you talk so much about X, Y, and Z?”

And then there’s the gang of women who have confessed so many times throughout my life that they were mean to me because they were scared of me. I don’t understand what is so scary about me – and better yet, why bullying is the proper response to fear. I don’t believe violence is the answer to anything and I would never do anything to hurt anyone so long as I can help it, so why do people think I’m going to beat them up or commit an offense? Women have taken one look at me and proceeded to treat me like a rotting skunk corpse. One of these women I have recently befriended and she said I was too outspoken. I told her that I had never spoken to her or in her presence until way after she mistreated me. She then said because she knew I was from the inner-city. How did she know that? Do I look inner-city? She couldn’t answer. I’m just scary to people on the outside apparently.

I try my best not to get bitter about any of this but it is difficult when my desires and passions, my internal and physical identities are placed in direct opposition to what society considers acceptable, or even pleasant. I literally wear my beliefs on my sleeves and it scares people away! I must confess I feel awfully lonely because of this.

Choking back tears and frustration, I continue attempting to communicate with people in a multitude of ways about my experiences and passions, my love for life and human connection.

[am I speaking your language?]

I love it when people are passionate about all kinds of things, even the things I don’t appreciate – like chick flicks, or horse shows, or pop music.

[how about now? am I speaking Your language?]

It’s true that I can be aggressive at times, but I’m just trying to sift through superficial barriers and restraints.

[do you Like this?]

The thing I love most is humility, the moments of enlightenment – or, rather, enlightened confusion: As Speed Levitch said it, when people go “dancing with [their] own confusion.” Let’s cut the crap and just dance!

[can you hear Me?]

I wish people would tell me in more detail what it is they are thinking, why they think that, and engage in some real human connection with me: that is, discussion. Because unless I tell you, there is absolutely no way you can read my mind or tell me who I am.

Please tell me, I wanna know

How do you see me?

Bus Stop Winter

2009-08-15T13:04:00.000-07:00

Clumps of snow gradually fall onto the street signs, garbage cans, and piles of shoveled snow and slush. A few large bumps appear in the snow on the right side of the street directly ahead of me; at seven a.m., most people are not awake yet to brush off their cars and go to work. The only living thing, except for the snow, is we who wait at the Fowler High School bus stop every morning. And yet, we seem to be out of it, still locked inside our own dreams rather than at the bus stop, entranced by the ever-falling whiteness that conceals my home in Syracuse. Maybe I haven't woken up yet, but it seems like everything that was once human is now buried under a massive white canvas, and I'm standing in the cold waiting for the bus to take me away.

At the corner diagonal and to the right of the one on which I stand is the bus stop for Henninger High School, our high school's rival. There is never any tension between our bus stops, in fact, we rarely acknowledge each other's presence. They are on Fowler territory anyway - school districts are divided by streets - so very few Henninger students are at that stop. Their corner is directly in front of a store with large barred windows, beer signs, and announcements for Marlboro cigarettes. Many corner stores especially known for being owned by Middle Easterners who sell cigarettes and cheap dutch cigars are sprinkled throughout Syracuse. I can only see the one across from me, and it is one of few corner stores within a five-block radius that are open this early in the morning. The store is at the bottom of an apartment complex and to the left of that, directly in front of me, is another apartment complex that is home of a cheap and unprofessional looking garage where a few of my old boy friends supposedly work. The other two corners, mine and the the one to the right of me, also have apartment complexes, but the rest of these streets have one and two-story houses. The streets that divide my stop and the Henninger stop are at the bottom of a hill, and they seem to stretch for miles ahead of me. The four roads that branch out from my bus stop all angle upwards, and I am stuck at the bottom of a bowl covered in snow and ice.

“Yo nigga, I got mad fucked up last night!” some guy in a black Carhartt hooded sweatshirt too big for him said while waddling over in his sagging jeans towards another guy wearing the same outfit. He lit a dutch, continued with the story, and the smell of marijuana tickled my nose. Most of the discussions among people at the bus stop were about the recent beefs people had and the fights that went down, so it was a nice change to hear about a fun party. The two guys speaking did not have on a backpack or any papers in their hands. They didn't even look familiar, which led me to believe that his probation officer told him that he needed to make his monthly appearance at school. A lot of people disappeared and came to visit once in a while, but usually once people stopped they didn't bother to come back. Most of the girls that used to stand at this bus stop have dropped out and had children, and most of the guys have gone on to deal drugs.

I am one of about few people wearing backpacks, and the rest who outnumber us are in a little group gossiping. Those of us who are wearing backpacks stand alone, patiently waiting for the bus while either trying to ignore the loud chatter or listening to music. Most of my friends live within walking distance of Fowler, and my friends who live near me usually get rides. During the winter, the bus arrives anytime between 7:15 and 7:45 a.m., meaning that I have to leave my house at 7:05 and hope that I don't have to wait for too long. I never bring a watch with me, so I am unaware of the time. All I know is that the bus always takes much longer in the biting cold, and is sometimes late.

I lean against the Stop sign and take a deep breath of the cold, charcoal-scented air. My finger turns up the volume of my cd player, and the fast, crunchy guitar riffs and double bass drums from Fear Factory's song “Corporate Cloning” match the speed I wish I was moving.

The half hour wait early in the morning seems like another day, another mandatory ritual that I have to endure in order to arrive at Fowler's front doors. Yet, still, I am going nowhere. The bus takes me away from the snowy world, leaving track marks on the white canvas in case I need help getting back home. But I somehow end up back to that same place, at the same time, and there are no track marks. No evidence of my departure or arrival, and no change in my daily life to make me feel like the next day will be significant, worth living. Footsteps and track marks are filled in with fresh snow, giving the illusion that Syracuse was untouched by human influence. Snow is persistent at covering any evidence of change.

Winters in Syracuse drag on for about seven months a year and makes standing at the bus stop more difficult. I am always too cold and frustrated that my jeans are wet for the rest of the day. Falling is a constant fear of mine while walking down to the bus stop, or walking on slippery carpets that have exceeded their slush-holding capacity. The snow is an inconvenient presence that makes my daily routines even more frustrating. I am always in a rush to leave my house in the morning because I need to get to school, do pointless homework, and have superficial conversations with friends. But the snow always slowed me down as if to torture me more. The monotony of my life wasn't bad enough.

Even though my relationship with snow is often rocky, I always enjoy my waits at the bus stop more during the winter than in any other season. Snow covers the streets that were once littered with beer bottles, used diapers, cigarette butts, and papers. What was a rundown and filthy looking city is now a glistening white castle. Snow lights up the city and gives it a brightness it doesn't have during any other season. During the winter time, people stay inside, and when they do go outside they are too focused on staying warm to worry about anything else. Syracuse is a violent and depressing place; the people are poor, or at least always in need of money, and there are few opportunities to make money. Because a lot of people don't have jobs or aren't in school, they loiter in the streets and start trouble. When heat first breaks through the snow and ice leftover from winter, all sorts of crimes are committed in the streets. The news has nothing but negative things to share with people whose eyes are glued to the television. A homicide here, a gang rape there.

I was jumped on one of those nice days with my friend. We decided to get off the bus on the block before my bus stop so we could walk. A black guy about my age came toward me, “Hey mami, why you walkin' like that? Why don't you come sit on my dick?” I tried to ignore him as the rest of his gang started crowding around us. I kept walking while they continued to push and harass me. They punched my friend in the face, “Why don't you help your girlfriend out? What, you don't like her?” We were followed up to the corner store and then they decided to go bug someone there. The police didn't care. We weren't seriously injured. They had more serious crimes to deal with anyway. During the winter, I don't have to worry about getting jumped or gang raped or murdered because everyone is inside. With snow came safety and quiet streets.

I waited at the bus stop in a blizzard one morning during my freshman year. There was probably a foot of snow on the ground, but the news hadn't said anything about a snow day before I left. Twenty minutes passed. “I'm too black for this,” a girl exclaimed while brushing off the snow on her hood, implying that Africa never got cold. There was a surprising number of people at the stop that morning, maybe ten or twelve people. We stood there, attempting to fight off the snow for another ten minutes. Everyone slowly vanished from sight, exclaiming that school wasn't worth the wait. Luckily it wasn't too windy outside, or else I would have nearly frozen to death. After about an hour, it was just me and Dante. He turned towards me, peeking out of his snow-covered hood, “Do you think it'll come?”

We were tempted to leave, but we both didn't want to go home. We had nothing to look forward to. When the bus finally came about forty-five minutes later, it was empty. We stepped into the bus and were immediately warmed up. We walked straight to the back of the bus and sprawled out, the right side was mine and the left his. The bus drove slowly, but I didn't care. As long as I was moving away from that world of white oblivion, then I was happy to wait to make the transfer to yet another world, and another.

I Have a Confession to Make….

2009-08-15T12:57:00.000-07:00

I am absolutely in love with the movie Twilight.

Despite all my experience, my activism, my feminism, I am hopelessly and reluctantly in love with this movie. It’s weird. I’ve watched the movie 4 times now in less than a week’s time, and every time I watch it I think to myself, “What the hell am I doing?”

Twilight has all the things in it that I hate: a weird stalker boyfriend, the recently adored Edward Cullen, who make jokes about killing his girlfriend, the pale beauty, Bella; non-consensual sexual interaction, pushing, and shoving; high school clicks and gender stereotypes; de-humanization of Natives (poor Jacob, he’s so cute!); and terrible acting.

As I watch the movie I remind myself of these things: the same things that steer me clear of most atrocities Hollywood gives birth to. And then the camera zooms in on Edward’s pale, tortured face as he exclaims, “I don’t want to be a monster,” and I fall in love again.

What the hell?!

So what’s to like about this movie anyway? I would never recommend this film to anyone with the slightest hint of intelligence. And I’m watching it alone, curled up in a ball on my bed, trying hard not to cry when Bella is forced to cut off a relationship with her father when she becomes the target in a sadistic game of let’s-hunt-Bella.

I do like vampires. When I was 14 years old, I was reading Kim Harrison’s steamy novels about vampires, witches, and demons. However, these books had much more sex in them – which honestly isn’t saying much in comparison to Twilight, because these books didn’t have much sex either. There was A LOT of sexual tension though. Maybe that’s it: the whole movie is one long foreplay session. Just like the rest of Twilight’s fans last August, my behind-all-the-most-recent-fads-self is now dying to know when and how Edward and Bella will satiate their murderous desires to fuck.

I read a review of the Twilight series in Bitch magazine a few months ago that describes the books as “abstinence porn.” The movie is about Edward’s struggle to refrain from “biting” Bella, and I know that he finally does when they get married. (Way to wait until married, Big Guy.) Also, Edward has the power of all sexuality in this movie. Unbeknownst to Bella, he barges into her room and tells her he wants to try something and that she must not move. Painfully, he slowly moves in to kiss her and she becomes extremely aroused. Edward stops the whole thing and then prides himself on his ability to refrain, while Bella chastises herself, “I wish I could say the same.” Edward can either give the affirmative or the negative. All Bella can do is wait, and she seems happy with that. We even see her blush when her mother asks over the phone, “are you being safe?”

While the abstinence porn idea fits quite nicely, there is something else to it that complicates this whole thing. Bella wants to be bitten, even after she gets a taste of the pain of conversion (re: death). She practically begs at their prom. I also hear that she ends up kissing Jacob in the second book? (OMG I CAN’T WAIT TO FIND OUT WHY AND HOW!!!!) She’s very adventurous and claims quite persuasively that she is, “not afraid.”

This movie begs for it to be viewed with an S/M lens of pleasure, power, and submission. Who has the power? Who’s submitting? And ultimately, how pleasurable is this for the players involved? Bella and Edward seem very happy - err, lusty. And Bella and Edward seem to take turns torturing each other with sexual desire and refrain. And as far as my knowledge and experience go, (someone can always challenge me on this), especially for S/M sexual practices, it’s not about when the sexual act begins, it’s about the play. And the play happens when someone acknowledges a sexual attraction. When the players are getting ready and setting the boundaries, demolishing others…

The sexual act is always just the sexual act. But the beginning of play, the end, the playground and its rules change, interact, repeat, and even make love to each other. And as Andy Warhol points out in his art over and over again, there is no such thing as a beginning and an end to sex: it just is

a vital part of the relationship

the essence of human connection

intense longing

the eternal waiting

Bella and Edward have already engaged in sex.

This all leads me to another movie criticism/curiosity/question: what about that scene where we actually see Bella and Edward make out? As some of us may have noticed by now, in all movies “sex” – as in the naked, physical connection – that the camera sees is raunchy, dirty, and, ultimately, trivial. When the sex is meant to involve love or is considered significant the camera turns its view to some trains, oceans, rainy windows, or in Twilight’s case tree tops in the beautiful Washington forests. Twilight treats those moments when Bella and Edward look into each other’s eyes like sex scenes. But then when we get a glimpse of what we define as sex, the camera stays. Why? Maybe this fits with the abstinence porn thing: we are given examples of the bad sex, and are forever confused about what good sex is.

Or, perhaps this scene plays to our/my/the audience’s fantasy of what the naked, physical act of sex would look like between our two anti-heroes. Maybe this movie is engaging in sex with us. Teasing us by giving us a sexual connection, and then torturing us by cutting the act short (Edward pretty much runs away), and literally dangling their sexy bodies in our faces, out of reach but definitely in sight and in mind. Because we are not directly involved in their relationship – we have no fallen desperately in love with either of them, and likewise, they haven’t fallen in love with us – engaging trivial attempts at expressing love and connection, the naked, physical sex I’ve been referring to, is the only way for us to get directly involved. Even art, as great as it is, is limited and must make petty attempts at imitating humanity.

humanity creates art

to define itself

to engage in humanity

and art struggles

to keep up

And as horrible a boyfriend as Edward is with his stalking and murder jokes, his humility and need to maintain a human connection with the world, his desire to fight his destiny of becoming a “monster” is what attracts me to him. There’s hope for him yet. I have faith in him to commit to change, to love, and productivity. Although I’m not sure I trust him, I’ll have to see how our lamb, Bella, stands up to the fight.

Suicide Note

2009-07-21T16:43:00.001-07:00

A close friend of mine called me the other day crying. She confessed to me that she had tried to commit suicide for the second time.

When I got off the phone I couldn’t help but feel that I knew the second attempt was coming. After learning of her first attempt about 3 or 4 months ago, I watched with empathy, pity, and disgust as she drunkenly continued to spiral downward towards anywhere that didn’t remind her of herself.

I think about her a lot. And not just because she’s attempted suicide, but because she is a painful reminder of the struggles I’ve endured and seen so many people endure. I remember one summer, I was 16 years old watching my father quit marijuana cold turkey. I watched him go through withdrawal symptoms – insomnia, lack of hunger, anger, suicidal thoughts. Wide-eyed, I watched him pull hair out of his head and punch himself in the face screaming about how he wished he could die. Another time, my father had been screaming at my sister for something stupid, as usual. She started having an anxiety attack so I stepped in and told him to leave. Surprisingly, he complied; and once he was out of our way, in between sobs she exclaimed that she had thoughts of stabbing herself in the stomach. “Sometimes,” she gasped, “I wish I wasn’t alive.” My sister was only 8 years old.

If any of these people – my friend, my sister, and even my father – ever succeed in committing suicide, I would be in a great deal of pain. Whenever anyone commits or attempts suicide someone will be in a great deal of pain. It seems to me that when people want to leave this world we are bound to in life, they don’t realize that their death, and even their suffering, affects everyone else – however intimate or strange everyone else may be to them.

Don’t get it twisted: Suffering is the universal language.

I want to share my own suicide note with this good friend of mine, and anyone else who is considering walking the tight rope between life and death. I hope my attempts at making any sort of connection aren’t futile – or even worse, cheesy – as my intentions couldn’t be any more sincere.

Dearest friend(s),

I have been watching you very closely, listening to and feeling your pain. I notice each self-deprecating remark; each time you say, “Oh, I’m alright,” and then avoid eye contact. I hear how closely you analyze your food intake and criticize everyone else’s supposed “visible happiness.” Each story of drug intake and each confession of emotional rollercoaster rides find their way to my core, where many of my own wounds are still open and sore. I know that you are suffering, because I suffer too. In fact, I know a lot of people who are suffering.

Too many of our friends, lovers, and family members know too well how to hate themselves, but not how to love themselves. Easily, we slip into blaming ourselves for not knowing how to find enough control to search for happiness. And before we know it we start torturing ourselves. We are professional teachers, perpetrators, and victims of loathing and self-hate.

To be honest with you, all of this self-hating, depression, and suicide has become very limiting and boring. I’m sick of hurting and worrying all the time. The bad news has gotten redundant and, now, predictable. I can only feel so much pain before it starts to drive me nuts. I understand that you are suffering, but you have to know how hard this is on me as someone who has already endured and survived these same struggles; and as someone who has seen many people deal with suicide and depression.

I’m calling us out: We need to start using our imaginations for something more innovative, productive, interactive. We need to visualize and create a new perspective with which to view ourselves and the world: a perspective that is not focused on destruction but creation.

The only thing we need to be destroying is the horrible lie we have been made to believe, the lie that claims we deserve to suffer, that we live only to suffer, and that we all die alone. We need to re-create – or give birth to – a self which acknowledges and appreciates the fact that our existence is predicated on the existence of others. If we have the power to destroy our own lives, we, too, have the power to create our own lives.

And if we can create ourselves over and over again, then anything is possible. Why would we want to run away from this exciting and pleasurable opportunity to explore the limitless possibilities of the worlds we already inhabit? We can die some other time, in a less painful, hateful, and lonely manner. And when that time comes, we can cross over together.

May our journeys through existences never end!

Maad love,

Angelica A.

Fuck off

2009-07-15T17:45:00.000-07:00

So, my mother just called to chat.

"Hey, how's it going?" she asked me. I told her I was ok and she proceeded to ask the kind of questions that are thrown around during small-talk.

She tells me she misses me. She tells me she loves me. But apparently, if she says I'm out of the family, I'm out. She kicks me to the curb, throws a million middle fingers my way, and then talks to me like none of it happened.

I don't understand any of this. I'm so frustrated and confused! How do you tell me to fuck off and then proceed to ask me how I'm doing?!

For the past 5 months I've been put through this torture. Back and forth from vicious emails and phone calls to random check-ins. Ya know, just to say, "hey!" I can understand that my parents miss me and love me and all that crap. But I still don't get how they could force me to compromise my identity, silence me, push me away, and then confess their love for me.

"Because we're family," my mother attempts to answer my question. Because she's my mother, she loves me, and perpetually confuses the shit out of me. And, of course, because I'm her daughter I must do the same. But I don't want to, damnit. I never asked for any of this. My love has standards. I need to feel comfortable and safe to express that. Is honesty, comfort, and safety too much to ask for?

How am I supposed to deal with two confused parents who don't know how to explain to me that they love me, but sure as hell know all the right ways to tell me to fuck off? How am I supposed to help them and encourage a better relationship among all of us if I can't even bring any of the problems up without my mother ostracizing me? Why would I even want to in the first place? I have no happy image of our "family" (whatever that means) to hold on to or even want to create with them. All I want to do with them is yell at them, maybe spank 'em a few times and send them to a counselor with a coloring book and some crayons.

I'm ashamed that I'm so angry at them. And I hate how my mother spits in my face by being nice to me. Especially after she tells me I'm not allowed into the house to get any of my stuff and I have to threaten to call the cops. Where does this niceness come from? Is it to spite me or does she really feel it? If she loves me so much why can't she fucken be consistent with it?!

My mother's niceness makes me second-guess all the work I've done this past year to try to make big changes in all our lives. I've asked my parents to go to counseling and deal with being abused and being abusers. I've told them that I'm unhappy with them, that I'm angered and sad by the way I've been treated. They tell me there's no point. They tell me I'm overreacting, I'm making stuff up. They tell me to fuck off.

My earliest memory in life is watching my father shove a used, wet paintbrush in my mother's mouth when she was pregnant with my younger sister. I can't make that shit up. My father beat me. I can't make that shit up. My father ignored me for the entire month of December. The only time he spoke to me was to threaten my life and try to kick me out of the house. I can't make that shit up.

Ya know what, mom, if you can't be nice to me AND help me heal by acknowledging, pledging the rest of your life to making sure that none of this ever happens again, then YOU can fuck off.

Why Does it Hurt?

2009-07-13T20:26:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday I went to pick up my belongings from my parents' house. They taped newspapers up in the windows so I could not see into the house. They also made sure they were gone when I showed up.

Goodbye?

Being kicked out of a family, especially one as unpleasant as the one I was born into, isn't as easy as I imagined it would be. I used to say to my partner that I would be fine never seeing or hearing from my family again. But all of a sudden when my mother started saying to me, "Fuck off" for wanting her to seek counseling, my world crashed.

Did it hurt because I wasn't given the ability to disown them? Because my own mother, the one who was supposed to be on my side during the huge battles my father forced us to deal with, was now supporting my shitty, abusive, life-sucking, good-for-nothing father? Or could it be possible that I might have some feelings for my mom, and maybe even that piece of shit father I was given?

I really don't like the thought of liking these people. They neglected me, took part in watching me suffer, and now they refuse to acknowledge any such abuse. Even worse, they absolutely refuse to make our relationship better. Trust me, I've tried. Oh God, I've tried.

Why on earth would I possibly have any feelings for them?

It's not like I'm losing the perfect family or even any good memories. When I lived with them, I would spend my days floating about the house, writing emo poetry and journal entries about how I wish I could feel emotion, enjoy food, and stop hating myself so much. Maybe I'm stuck on some idealized imaginary family that I always wanted to have. My parents have this image too, as I think I've gotten it from them. They'd share these wonderful made-up stories about our family with other people, including our extended family members, that clearly said to me: our family isn't what it should be.

I think I'm digressing. I'm not stuck on an idealized image of my family because I always knew it was fake. I think what I might be trying to get at is that through the expression of a better family we all began to notice that we at least had the same desire for a happy family. Somewhere in their thick skulls, my parents acknowledged publicly without even noticing it, that they do have the imagination for a better family. The problem is, their fantastic family created for story-time with 5-minute acquaintances has seemed to become their reality.

Of course, they had their own abuse to deal with. And because they didn't fully recover, I had to suffer too. However, living my days with the passion to heal is what separated me from them. Once I expressed that my love has standards, they dropped out of my life like flies. Sure, I may be in pain because the slightest tinge of affection might be lingering in my heart somewhere for my parents. I may even pity them for their inability to gain perspective. But I'm mourning. I mourn for the death of any hope they once had that life could be better than what they have.

My mother tells me that life with my father now is so much better than it ever was. And all I want her to hear, to know is that LIFE CAN BE SO MUCH BETTER!

Blood v. Tears: An (un)Apologetic Revelation

2009-07-08T20:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish that all pain left a physical mark. Instead of having to endure hurtful (and obviously false) remarks about my being, I would get punched in the nose.

People don't like to listen to memory because, of course, anything anecdotal about emotion isn't proper evidence. Because words aren't real, they are just sound, balls of fluffy air that softly brushes our eardrums. No, words don't actually mean anything. In fact, this blog entry is just a figment of your imagination and no matter what combination of words I use I will never fully communicate to you what I mean.

Show them a scar or a bruise, a bloodied towel, and all of a sudden people have the gift of sight.

My parent's lack of imagination is beyond mediocre. It is narcissistic and boring.

I remember this one time, during my junior year of high school. After a dance my father picked me up in the snow and started yelling at me because he had this weird hunch that I'd skipped the dance and drove around town. Once I confessed that the dance was boring, that I in fact skipped out to hang out with some friends down the block, he took me home and threw me into a pile of barbells, loose weights, and the bench press. He proceeded to whack me with chairs and tables, calling me names and threatening my life. He concluded by punching me in the ear where my newest piercing was.

I started bleeding profusely. Once he noticed the blood, he stopped and started crying.

"I'm sorry, Angie!" he yelled in my face. He explained that he was angry because his friend had died in a car accident earlier in the day, and he was scared that I was going to die too.

I wanted to ask him that if he was so scared I was going to die, then why would he beat the crap out of me?

The next morning I was covered in bruises and my ear was swollen. While showering I analyzed every marking in my line of vision. I reveled in the fact that my father had finally snapped and took the next step: he actually tried to beat my face in like he always said he would. I secretly wished that from then on the beatings would get worse. Then, I wouldn't have to think about harming myself. Then, I would have proof for the next time I try to convince my guidance counselor at school that I'm not happy at home.

The truth is, the only reason I went to that dance was because I hated being home. And I hated my school. So why not go for a joy ride? Ya know, hang out with some people who actually respect me? These guys never called me a bitch, or mocked me, or threatened to kill me, or beat me. I felt safer driving around in their tiny beat up car than with my maniacal father who doesn't even know how to control his own temper.

When my father noticed the blood gushing out of my ear, he looked like he had a revelation. Holy shit he finally crossed the line! I think that was the fastest I ever saw him jump out of a fit of rage. How is blood dripping out of my body any different than me sobbing? I always sobbed when he got angry at me.

The pain is always there. Just because there isn't any blood, that doesn't mean the person next to you isn't dying.