Why Did You Just Kill Me?

I am relaxing on a soft, off-white, leather couch. There is someone sitting on either side of me. My legs are stretched out in front of my body, and my head is resting comfortably on the back of the plush couch. I am laughing and talking with my present company as I watch the people around me.

This appears to be a party at someone’s house. There are a lot of people everywhere, standing in front of me, drinks in hand, throwing their heads back as they have joyous conversation.  

There is an attractive man directly in my gaze. My eyes zero in on him. He is wearing a baby blue, thin, cotton shirt, lazily untucked over washed out jeans. It is rolled at the cuffs up to his forearms and slightly unbuttoned at the chest. He reminds me of the ocean. He has a brilliant smile. His eyes even seem to gleam. I can’t break my gaze from his beautiful face. He is mesmerizing. He notices me looking at him and flashes a smile my way. I return it, and our eyes connect in a depth which makes the room temporarily fade away.

I turn my attention onto the person to my right. I cannot see anything about their body. They are a filmy grayish/silver figure, a mirage, not seen, but more felt by me. Their presence is there. I do not know our conversation’s topic. I know I feel happy inside of a rare moment of physical comfort in the midst of strangers.

Suddenly the man in the blue shirt walks swiftly towards me. He has a gun in his hand. He moves faster than I can blink. The gun is pressed against the bottom of my rib cage, and he is pulling the trigger over and over. As bullets enter my abdomen, my body bucks upwards. We have locked eyes, and he has the same sideways grin on his face. Except he isn’t beautiful to me anymore. He is sinister and cold, uncaring and damaging. Now I see pleasure in his eyes, pleasure which represents his love of hurting other people.

I feel disappointment in him. Why would he do such a disgusting and horrible thing? I had felt that he was one of the good ones.

“Why did you just kill me?” I ask him, but before I can hear his answer the dream fades to black.

I awaken with tears sliding down my cheeks. The clock tells me it’s shortly after three. My heart feels sad as I drift back to sleep. Yet, when I woke back up this morning, my spirit was filled with anger at how disappointing humans can all to frequently be.

Born Crazy: A Video Poem

You’re crazy.”

How often have you heard this phrase thrown around, either flippantly, in jest or to victim blame someone who has overcome or is recovering from abuse?

I heard this often as a post-cult teenager and well into my adult years. While I was actually dealing with the behavioral aftermath of being an extremely abused child, instead of receiving support, caring and nurturing I was told that I was crazy. When a child is told enough times that they’re mind is insane, we begin to believe it.

This poetry piece is from my spoken word album, Dusted Shelves, which is available on Amazon in paperback and c.d. Written in 2013, it is a representation of a life by which I was conditioned to believe that I was crazy.

Some abuse survivor work is considered to be dark and oddly psychotic. This piece would fall under that theme.

**Trigger Warning for those who are sensitive to these themes**

Born Crazy

Forgiveness Is For the Egomaniac

Forgiveness.  Sometimes I get tired of hearing this word.  What does it mean to me?  It feels moot; an unnecessary element in the totality of my growth journey.

I’ve learned a great deal about myself through this journey of therapy.  This host who carries these parts of me, she is intelligent and free spirited, kind and giving, thoughtful and strong willed.

These past few years have been a procession of betrayals, subsequent disenchantment rightfully created, and a slow withdrawal into an even tighter state of mistrust.  Yet, this is not the way I thought I was supposed to live.

I watch my cats closely.  I learn a lot from them.  One element of a cat’s personality is the way they are with people.  Rarely does a cat let someone close right away.  It takes time.  They watch.  They wait, observing.  My lack of waiting or accepting the signs that things with certain people were not right, have cost me relationships and a lot of hurt.

Yet still, I work through the process of these hurts and how does forgiveness play a role in it.  I don’t feel forgiving towards certain individuals.  I feel disappointment.  I feel anger.  I feel betrayed and used.

In what way would forgiveness change those emotions and what does that mean?  It feels plastic to me; passive aggressive, a sweep of the hand over the heart and the soft cliche of “I forgive you so that I can heal.”

That’s not how I feel.  To say that would be a line of bullshit.  I don’t forgive anyone who doesn’t have the humble ability to own their behavior.  I don’t expect forgiveness if someone feels I don’t own mine.  I say fuck off, get out of my life, and accept it if someone feels the same about me.

Forgiveness feels overrated and fake most of the time.  It feels like a way to smooth over or make excuses for shitty behavior and give someone a chance to wear the forgiveness crown.

No, I don’t forgive you.  That doesn’t make me bitter.  I’m just keeping it my kind of real in a “please, with sugar on top, fuck off” kind of way.

In the end, life continues on, and I wish no human any harm.  Forgiveness doesn’t hold miracles or healing for me.  I heal because I choose to.  I go forward because I move my feet.

Forgiveness feels as if it is for the ones who enjoy the idea of hanging as a victim on a cross, a personal self built pedestal, so they can announce to the world “forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

Forgiveness is for the ego-maniac.