shades of grey

I listened to an influx of tragic music. As much as I wanted to feel my anger I could only muster a film of depression that cut off my air flow as her hands once had. The lonliness swallowed me. I needed someone, but my voice echoed off of bare walls and my cries were unrequited. The only person I could imagine might hold me with the care I needed was someone I had offered no tenderness. I struggled with the abuse I had subjected another to while I attempted to sort out my own experience of abuse. I often thought of calling him. I believed in his unconditional friendship. I was also ashamed and felt selfish – like I didn’t deserve support from this person. He was another victim of the abuse I succumbed to. I guess another part to my resistance to reach out to him was the fear that she would be angry. He was a source of conflict in our relationship, another reason I tried so veraciously to eradicate him. It still felt like I was hers and the risk of inflaming circumstance was too much.

My friends hounded me with questions, and supported me as one might support a case study. The other took on my victimization as a personally meaningful assault. She jumped right in with me but her only reaction was anger. It felt like the only acceptable thing to feel in her presence and I wasn’t up to the task. There was no-one else around for me. Another woman I could have sought support from was also a player in the game. She has been harrassed by my partner out of jealousy and rage and was already too involved. Through all of this she remained constant and loyal, but I still didn’t feel comfortable going to her.

My workplace was her workplace. I was terrified of being stigmatized by my co-workers and humiliated in a public forum where anti-violence work was such a huge part of my existence. We worked in a shelter for women experiencing violence. We were experiencing violence. I felt unable to do my job, distracted and moody. The stakes were high for both of us. I worried for her safety and well being. I wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t be further victimized and I carried her pain with me as an excuse for her violence: the cause and the reaction. I read about abuse as related to my own partnership, rather than being the reality of solely the women I work with. I felt like a hypocrite.

Since this was my first relationship with a woman, and my parents had had difficulty adjusting, my concern was the implication the abuse would have on their view of me, and their judgements about my involvement with another woman. I also thought it might be too much for them considering what they had already dealt with, with me. Homophobia and embarassment kept me silent. I held tightly to the idea that we might some day be reconciled and feared how they might react if they knew about past abuse.

Layers and layers of complexities presented themselves over a bare expanse.I was completely alone.The sad part is that the only one I wanted was her. Or him. He had always made me feel safe and it was safety that I craved.

I wanted so badly to feel whole, to be accepted, loved. I thought she gave me something, part of me. Now I realize how much she took.

Dumplings

I could urge you to let go of this relationship, to see it for what it is, but I’d be urging on my own realization. I’d be talking about my own relationship(s). Many broken threads, disconnects, unfinished businesses. A thousand tiny deaths.

This is the first time I’ve recognized the finality of the end. It’s the first time I’ve said goodbye, outloud, in so many words or more. Here in this place of magic and dumplings. Here where possibility fluttered erratically about the room, our hearts lifted just so, hoping against all odds.

When I didn’t trust your love for me. When I shouldn’t have. When her cheeks flush with embarrassment, considering emotion and feeling crazy. She’s not crazy. You’re not crazy. She’ll cover it up, bury it and hand over her heart to one who won’t hold it. She’ll cling desperately to the flapping wings of chance.

It will be bittersweet. It will be an end she’s not able the feel the finality of.  Oriental mugs and plastic table cloths, Chinese tea and stairs too steep to climb alone. Heartbreak and dumplings.

If I knew the story

When did i start feeling like being known was unsafe. I learned that I was too much – that I was painful. My Mother, enveloped by her own pain and sadness, was unable to hold my grief. I learned that whatever I was feeling would cause turmoil, a rift, a burden. I used to be proud of being unknowable; of needing no-one. I went so far as to try to need nothing. When you have nothing, nothing can be taken from you. What was taken from me? My parents were present. I try to frame my family as one that provided safety, but there are other things it lacked. They were there, but they were unavailable. I thought I needed to protect my pride. Thought I would be responsible for holding it together, and ultimately, for it’s demise. I thought, to keep everyone at bay was to keep them. I thought they wouldn’t hurt because of me; turn away because of me, unable to hold on to my story.

Eden and the poisonous apple

When you kissed me I felt electrified

Body vibrating from the pulse you send from your lips

And tongue

I thought I would stop at nothing

But I did Stop

Her tears burden

I hurt, she hurt

Franchised VS. Disenfranchised

Why do I feel so dismissed? Why do I feel so misunderstood by them. They who have known me longest and loved me despite myself – correction, because of myself. My true self, the one that came to seed years ago wrapped in their love. It’s a different love now. I’m not sure which I long for more – for myself – the love that was or the love that is.

My membership in this family, gives me a sense of appreciation. This is a net that has always stretched to accommodate my exploration. Yet I feel unsettled.

Act three: drawing lines.

These margins, drawn by those yielding power, have infiltrated every aspect of our lives. Lines are not just drawn around our lineage, or country of origin, or our race – these umbilical cords sever each and every relationship we have to the earth; our ability, who we love, our expressions of gender, sexuality and the colour of our skin against the backdrop of the universe. Each and every characteristic – fragments of identity – can be classified in a pyramid of worth vs. unworth. It is in this kaleidoscope of binaries and oppressive limits, that we find ourselves either on the fringes or guarded by a gate we may or may not have chosen. We didn’t cross the border, the border crossed us.

I have too much time on my hands…

There’s a clove of garlic in my vagina. I know this may be a bit of a shock to you. Some of you may be considering whether or not this is an overzealous attempt to keep vampires away. (I’ve always believed that vampires are more than just understimulated white guys with a passion for science fiction, and a real affluence for organizing cults) I assure you, this is not the result of an unfourtunate gardening accident, nor a Doctor-Patient role play – concocted by a serious food fetishist – gone horribly wrong.

I, as a progressive, well informed woman, have chosen natural remedies rather than inflated, OTC products with tag lines that leave even the most stable woman, bending over in bathroom stalls, to verify those noxious, natural scents are being kept safely at bay. I need not remind you that women’s genetalia have long been under attack for their stubborn dissimilarity to air fresheners.  This concept of fresh is far too powerful in the lives of women.  We worry that we’ll age, wear last seasons trends, be a brunette for life, sport chipped nail polish, appear mature and serious, flash off white teeth at strangers, have periods, occasionally smell of body odour, perspire on hot days or after exercise, and perhaps most  alarming of all: get a yeast infection. Perhaps it’s the countless Maxi-Pad advertisements boasting of enclosed ‘fresh wipes’, or tampons that not only prevent leaks but also swab the vulva every 2-3 hours. Canesten and Monistat want us to believe that treating a yeast infection is at par with finding a cure for cancer. Women with appropriate amounts of gratitude flock fervidly to the drug store, in search of  overpriced, inconvenient, toxic products to conjure up that ocean breeze feeling.

I don’t know about you, but I love the smell of pussy. I can tell you with certainty, that if I were to encounter any artificial smells, or reminders of the Annual Spring Tulip Festival, hovering around the nether regions of my lover, my inclination would be to refile under never region. And even if you don’t have a real appreciation for the scent of pussy, being reminded of an industrial plant, or hospital each time you spread your legs can’t be pleasant. Now that we’re on the topic of scent, there’s another important point to establish here. Smell is a diagnostic tool invented by nature – use it.  If we’re really in touch with our bodies – our beautiful  bodies – then we can sense a difference when something’s not quite right. Sometimes this means the way it feels, the secretions we notice, and most often and importantly, the smell. Smells like fish? Bacterial Vaginosis! Smells like bread dough? Yeast Infection! We should be proud of our sniffers and our scent. It’s like a fun fair activity, only the prize you win is sexual health! What could be better than that?

Let’s talk about cost, perhaps something consumers, neo-libs and capitalists can relate to on a more concrete level. Clove of Garlic? .05 cents. Unpastuerized yogurt? $5 a tub. Canesten, Monistat and the like? $15 – $20 on a good day. Of course this estimate isn’t taking into account the current recession – oops! sorry. If we consider for a moment, how many women are currently living below the poverty line – due to patriarchy, capitalism, racism and gender based oppression - it’s not hard to imagine that purchasing a vaginal cream, suppository, or pussy pill, might make or break the budget. If it was necessary, we might even lobby that OHIP covers the cost of these cunt cures. But the truth of the matter is: It’s not! Women have been treating down there discomfort with natural, earth friendly, holistic methods for centuries. Let’s join together and say goodbye drug stores, hello farmer’s markets!

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, I’d like to move on to a more pressing matter. How do I get this thing out?

Disencumber

I rid that bag of broken things.

Their voices no longer echo through my kitchen.

You won’t force this silence on me anymore. You won’t choke the words out of me. Your presence makes me still. Movement a liability. Desperate to coax you into calm.

I’m so angry with you. I’m not crazy. You think I’m overzealous in my assessment of you. It’s generosity which has kept me, from naming you as you are. It’s belief you can change. Not for me. Not about me. You. Raw. Unearthed.

I felt wrong for so long. You lied to me. Told me I wouldn’t have to feel. Longing. Difference. Unknown.

You were selfish. So selfish. Arrogant, malicious, cold, childish. Incapable of care, and self absorbed. Indulgent. False. A fraud. Blackened soul like mica, glimmer halted. Empty. Vengeful. Alone.

Rage and raving. You lied. You are nothing and everything. Anything but love. Each moment an act in your play. Each moment acted. Greedy, you shuffle. Too impatient to follow through. You disgust me. You loved no-one – not even yourself.