Blackout, Bowdlerization, Bullshit

bowdlerization

 

Today is fucking frustrating.

This whole week has been frustrating, upsetting, triggering, disheartening, and fucking terrible for women in North American. I refuse to talk about the fucking shit this week that has proven that women’s voices mean nothing, but I will talk about me being able to do my best to claim some sense of dignity and power in a world that has stripped me bare.

In fear of feeling ostracized by folks, I will not post the cartoon that caused the reaction that questioned my self-worth. Out of fear of being told that I am a contributor to someone whom I admire and look up to being ‘trigged af’, I will not post the cartoon.  In order not to be shamed and called out publicly, I will not post the cartoon that in one small brief moment, made me feel like I had a voice.

I won’t even post this on Facebook in fear of offending that one person that hurt my heart and my pride and my dignity.

I have been silenced in fear of not being considered a good person, a decent feminist, an ally to those that have been sexually assaulted.

The cartoon in question is from Bruce MacKinnon of the Chronicle Herald printed on September 29th. What was shown was a woman with blond hair, much like Dr. Christine Ford, held down by a man in a suit with Republican logos on his sleeves. She is blindfolded and her mouth is covered by his hand, while the scales of justice are strewn behind her, victim to the disintegration of justice she has experienced.

She, Dr. Ford, and all women who have been silenced in the face of assault were that woman in the cartoon.

Never before, have I EVER felt so akin to a depiction of anything as I have with this cartoon. I have never been sexually assaulted, but I have been very close. I have never called out these men that were ‘so close’ in my assault because I never thought it was anything. I say I have never been assaulted, but I really have – I just thought that it was something that happened when you were young and drunk.

So I made this post my Facebook cover photo.

And I was promptly told that it was triggering as fuck by someone who I hold in the highest regard.

And than I felt bad and took it down.

But I am still mad.

Furious.

Hurt.

I am feeling censored, silenced, bowdlerized.

It was my wall, my thoughts, my fears and my power. I apologized to her and said that it wasn’t my intention to trigger her.

She told me my intention was irrelevant.

I felt like a terrible fraud.

But I am not.

This whole week I have felt like I have been attacked over and over again by every white man in power, by my own father that claimed this all to be a witch hunt. So I claimed my power by posting something that was everything true in my eyes.

Shot down.

Silenced.

Fucking bullshit.

Now we are attacking each other.

I feel defeated.

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Blackout, Bowdlerization, Bullshit

To all the Pride’s I’ve loved before…

Today, Pride Calgary officially raises its flag at City Hall. For the first time in years I have decided to check it out before heading to work. At some point, a few years ago, my absolute elation with the Pride movement took an ugly turn, and even now, talking about it immerses me with anxiety. As most of you know, I (and dozens of other volunteers) spent 5 years digging Pride Calgary, the organization, out of a bit if a hole. The finances were iffy, our relationship with the city was tumultuous, and the faith of the queer community in Pride Calgary was toxic at best. I am so proud of the work that myself and all the volunteers that tirelessly dedicated themselves to serving a community that we all love. This was a part of my life that stands out above all others.

Once my tenure with Pride Calgary was done I moved to Toronto and worked just as hard for the Dyke March, but it was very different. In Toronto I was woken up to the realities of the injustices of the Pride movement and how I played a direct part in it. I was blessed to be surrounded by the best sort of Dykes in my committee who questioned me on my priviledge, called me out on my whiteness, and taught me how to recognize my cisgender priviledge.
I understood the need for $$ but the heartache of corporate greed. I felt like I truly understood the power of community, particularly when my mom was sick thousands of miles away and my people showed me how to deal by the simple art of crocheting banners of resistance. I also realized that this community of Dykes that I felt so connected to were not connected to the Pride Movement. We were seen as disruptive, grassroots, and political. I realized that Pride did not represent everybody.

When I came back to Calgary, I didn’t want anything to do with Pride, except for publicly challenging them with my new found knowledge. This hurt me more than helped because I was exerting my frustration with anger which was not fair to the current board and it was killing me inside.

Years later, I became much more aware of the injustices to the folks of colour in my community that felt unsafe at Pride. I was invited to listen to the community. I can’t thank these folks enough.

Today, I have began to do the things that matter the most to me. I am working with an amazing organization that empowers the kids in our community to be themselves and live as equals. These are the folks that are going to make it better. I am so excited for that.

So, for those who will take this.. Happy Pride, however you chose to celebrate and/or fight.

For those that do not, please know that this is ok too. There is no universal queer have-to-love Pride pact. Stay safe, take time for yourself.

To all the Pride’s I’ve loved before…

Orodomop

 

220px-Il_pomodoro

 

 

I hate ‘technique’. I hate rules of ‘creativity’. I hate identifying nouns, verbs, and constantinoples or whatever they are called. Who made these rules? Why are they rules that we have to follow? If I am baring my soul to the masses of strangers that read my blog (there are at least 10 of you), why do I have make certain that I have inserted a semicolon and not just a colon! A colon is a part of your ass, not something one needs to pay attention too during writings of emotional strife.

Like right now.

I am sitting here, on my laptop, legs curled, yelling at my cat because he won’t stop meowing because he murders birds (whole other story), watching the Real Housewives of New York (the one where Luann gets arrested), and testing out the ‘Pomodor’ technique. For some reason, saying the ‘Pomodor’ technique reminds of saying a favorite and very reliable system we used as teenagers called ‘the pull-out method’, but I digress because the two methods/techniques are not even remotely similar.

I am a procrastinator. I have lists and lists of things that I must get done. In my ever quest for seeking meaning in my life I have created things that must be done to attain this. I am fantastic at making lists, and should probably market my technique, however I really haven’t figured out how to actual do what is on my list. Actually rewind that. I can do the things on my list that mean nothing.

  1. Wash dishes
  2. Clean carpet
  3. Floss
  4. Pluck
  5. Clean windows

Everything else remains on my list, and gets carried over to my final task:

  1. Make new list.

On this new list (and every new list) is the task ‘write’. Make sure to write. Write an outline. Find that book on how to get published. Finish your story. Find apps to help you finish your story. Again, finish your fucking story.

Finishing a story is a tall order, I know, and as a writer I will not stop writing until I am dead, or my fingers fall of because of my inability to control my Diabetes – whatever. What I actually mean by ‘write’ is to actually sit down and create. My hard drive is chalked full of beginnings of stories, ideas of stories, paragraphs I wrote when I could not see through my tears, and words that inspire me. I also have finished stories, however before you ask me than what my problem is, these stories and essays were given to me as assignments. If I did not do them I would not pass a course. So, regardless of how I feel about the finished product and how great they are, they are still assignments. What I mean when I list ‘write’ on the top of every list is to actually write because I want to, because I don’t feel scared, or full of self doubt, or tired, or hungry, or anything else I can think of to not write.

In this search to keep myself focused I recognize that I need help. Help on my own. Self-guided guidance if that is a thing.

I have found one thing.

The Pomodoro App.

I know that the Pomodoro (pull-out .. argggg) technique is not a new thing. Apparently it is a big deal that many people have done for many reasons. It is also a pasta sauce. I really don’t care about the history of it – I just want it to work. I have also just decided to rename it the Orodomop because I don’t want to think about the pull-out method anymore. Anyways, I am so happy that I found something that was simple and what thrilled me the most about this technique was the little photo pops up as my App icon on my phone.

A little tomato timer.

My grandma had one of these, and a tomato pincushion, and each one these fascinated me to no end. Call it nostalgia or a far cry from Grandma Alma from the grave telling me to get my shit together and write. Either way, it worked.

I am on day two or writing 750 words per day. This is a big deal. It may not be sole focus of the bestseller I am writing (or not writing), but it is something.

I will take something over nothing at this point.

And a bowl of pasta.

And another 16 words to make it 750.

But, I won’t, because, you know, rules.

Orodomop

wishes under a cloud of unbalanced seratonin

  • TW: depression, anxiety, suicide

 

I wish I was normal like you

I wish I didn’t have to run away all the time

I wish I didn’t feel like swallowing a bunch of pills would be a better alternative than dealing with a broken heart.

  • or drinking to oblivion
  • or just laying down, shutting off my brain, and hoping that someone will just take me somewhere so I could breathe

I wish we didn’t fight all of the time

I wish she never cheated on me twice

  • I wish I had listened to my gut

I wish Christmas was normal again

I wish I was a famous writer

I wish I could be normal like you

  • smile
  • be positive
  • be at one with the universe

I wish you would be willing to die for me and never let me go

  • because I would in a heartbeat

I wish I wasn’t terrified all the time

I wish I didn’t cry every day

  • for no good reason
  • maybe because I am tired
  • tired of fighting with tiny neurons and atoms and chemicals that impede on any ounce of normalcy

I wish I realized how lucky and priviledged I really am

  • and all this ridiculousness

I wish I wasn’t such an open book

  • I wish I wasn’t only able to just write my thoughts
  • But not say them
  • Unless I drink wine

I wish I didn’t drown my sorrows in carbs

I wish I liked going to the gym

I wish I was smaller than you

I wish I was stronger than you

I wish I could stand in my underwear without having to turn out the lights.

I wish we hurt each other less

I wish that the bill collector would stop phoning me

  • I wish I could answer the phone

I wish I could do my volunteer work for a living

I wish I had someone to come home to

I wish I could ease your mind

 

 

 

 

 

wishes under a cloud of unbalanced seratonin

Except My Own Confusion

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As I sit here searching through quotes of those that were just as angst-ridden, crest-fallen, bat-shit crazy, and fucking confused as I am trying to find something or someone to explain to everyone where I am at – at this very fucking moment i contemplate why I posted this one. It hints at where I am at – slightly. But than, as I read it over and over again.. analyzing its every word, connotation, and style I realize that it is not where I am at this very moment. It can’t be. I didn’t write it – Jack Kerouac did.

So where am I right now? Well, it’s not going to be summarized in some Haiku-style work of art like Kerouac could do. Mine is much more detailed, and messy, and exciting, and devastating. Kerouac couldn’t write this shit. I am not certain that I can either – but I am going to try.

If there is one thing that I have learned throughout this two years of self – preservation, self-hatred, self-discovery, self-care, and just being by myself is that no one person can make me ok. I have to do that. You can’t be anything for anyone authentically unless you are nothing but authentic to yourself. This is actually that just came to me while I was having sushi with my dad here in Comox about 20 minutes ago.

I am an analyzer. I will tear down one idea until it is nothing. This is some parts my personality and one part my crazy. I have explained the crazy over and over again and am, quite honestly, tired of explaining it. But anyways.

I wonder about my actions. I wonder what other people think. I always wonder what other people think. I ruin great days by over analyzing text messages that I sent and that were sent, or times between texts, or Facebook messages, or Facebook posts that I do of great writer’s quotes. I wonder if other people will read it the wrong way. For example, Kerouac’s quote above. What does that quote say about me? Am I confused about other people? Am I unreliable? Am I a bag of shit?

No! What I was trying to say is.. I am ready to just get going, I want to get going.. but I have baggage .. so please be ok with me working through it. Not much magic in that quote so you can see why Kerouac won in the quote department.

So.. here is where I am at right now for all those that want to know…. including myself.

I am happy, I am sad. I am confused, yet calm. I am terrified at potential because I am terrified that it will backfire over and over again. I am certain that I question your intentions not because of you, but because I question my own authenticity. I am only learning how to stand up for myself. I am only starting to peel the layers I have built onto my self to reveal that heart of who I am. This authenticity is new .. and I am only learning who I am right at this moment. I know that I am in this inner turmoil of questioning only because I am not happy with my current situation. And I am changing.. right as I sit here. I am losing my comfortable madness to uncomfortable goodness, and I am scared. And I am grieving. And I am lost in this new found beauty of self discovery.

It is necessary. It is necessary to scare myself this way to keep going. It is necessary to keep going this way to test my trust issues. It is necessary to be vulnerable to prove that I can fucking do it.

And this is where I am.

 

 

Except My Own Confusion

…..

When I don’t know what to say… i say it with dots. When I don’t know what to say, I write it here. When I don’t what to say, I write. I want to be heard, I just don’t know how to say it with my shaky and uncertain voice.

I have been perusing through my posts lately, trying to figure out where and what I am trying to say. There is a direction there.. and it is so glaringly clear.

The thing is.. I have never felt so vulnerable as I do now. Never.

And I want to be heard. I want to do everything… I want more.. so much more than I have ever allowed myself to do.

This past month has challenged me in so many ways. So many perfect, and scary, and amazing ways. It has taught me patience and a will to fight for what I believe in.. wholeheartedly, without my somewhat selfish and terrified soul in consideration. My fear and extreme self doubt has taken second place. And this has never happened before. And it is good. It is what I have been fighting for my whole life. A belief in something greater than me.

These recent chaotic, brilliant moments have allowed me to practice my authenticity. To declare loudly that I am vulnerable and strong and worthy of love. That I am not afraid to say with the written word that I am ok.. I am better than I ever was because I am not afraid to fail.. or to try. That I have had moments that have made me melt in so many delicious ways.. and I am not afraid to talk about it or feel like I am not deserving of it.

So with this, I am going to continue to just go… go forward and hope and fight for all things deserving. I will continue to take the needs of others close to my heart and welcome them, because we are all the same really… just looking for love and acceptance and meaning in this world. I will practice patience and above all else respect for those that I simply adore.

And, above all else.. I will write.. unashamed, unafraid.

…….

 

 

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