Category Archives: writing/poetry
I’ve posted political articles on and off since the political season began (whenever that was…seems like it went on forever). I supported Bernie and then happily and with no reluctance moved my support to Hillary. I was open about that.
The majority of my posts post-election day have not been about politics as normal. They have been about how this man makes people (me) feel. When you dismiss what I post or what I write with a “sorry you feel that way but it’s not true” or long explanations as to why what I just posted is plainly just wrong when it was an opinion piece that expresses hurt and sorrow, you aren’t saying my political views are wrong, you are saying that the way I feel and am choosing to heal is wrong. And that is far more damaging and hurtful than anything you could argue with me about.
I’m not going to stop posting articles to Facebook. I’m not going to stop talking about what I am doing to heal from my trauma – on a global scale and on a personal scale – but I am going to be limiting who can see what I post. It may be a relief to you too. You probably don’t enjoy seeing what I’m posting because you disagree with it so strongly anyways. Perhaps it offends you. I’m not going to apologize for that but I am going to make it easy on both of us and limit our contact. Because you must understand, when you argue with me over articles or memes or whether something is true or not; whether I have the right to feel this hurt.; whether I have the right to feel this way about Trump; I hear that you are telling me you don’t support me. You don’t support survivors. If you met my abuser’s and they told you their version of the story you would believe them over me. Or you just wouldn’t care. That is what I am hearing. More than likely I’m wrong. But I’m not claiming to be rational. I’m simply claiming to be doing what I have to do to survive.
And so you’ll still see me post on Facebook. I would’t want to keep everyone from seeing my dog pictures now would I (maybe those annoy you lol I don’t know)? I do wish you luck. But, I can’t wish for everyone to “just get along right now” because as the movie quote says “I’m mad as Hell and I’m not going to take it anymore”. But I do wish you health and hope.
– Still very proud to be “With Her”,
When the Nazis came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.
When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.
When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.
When they came for the Jews,
I remained silent;
I wasn’t a Jew.
When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.
- Martin Niemoller
I seldom get into politics on my blog (I can’t say never because I do sometimes) and I realize I’m breaking a long silence with a controversial post but I’m tired of being silent.
I first read this poem at The Holocaust Museum in Washington DC. And it struck me then as important and in these recent days it has been apparent to me just how important the lesson in this poem is. And how it still applies today.
The refugee debate on Facebook has been strong this last week and it has saddened me how hateful and coldhearted some people can be. At some points it has just plain scared me. Have we learned nothing from history? Condemning a whole group of people as terrorists, dangerous, unclean and unwelcome seems dangerously similarly to how Jews were treated during WWII.
We once turned away a ship full of Jewish people and that act is regarded as shameful as many of those people returned to Europe to be murdered. Yet, here governors, presidential candidates and my Facebook friends call for us to turn away another generation of refugees. We shall someday regret this and look with shame on our actions I believe.
People have given many arguments for why they don’t want refugees coming to the United States and one I have heard is “we don’t have the resources to take care of our own homeless”. At the end of the day that problem will still be there whether we take in more refugees or not. And I ask you – how much did you care about the homeless before this debate started?
I don’t even want to touch on the terrorist argument. It just seems absurd to me that we should deny a whole group of people entry because one or two may put us at risk. And that isn’t guaranteed. It is stereotyping of Muslims that drives me crazy. I’d rather debate about how many people white males kill with guns.
Returning to the poem at the beginning of my post: while people sit at home typing on their computers I hope they remember that we as human beings have a responsibility to be there for one another. One day we might be the person that needs taken care of and if we don’t help now there may be no one there to help us when the time comes.
Who first called me that?
Was it me or was it them?
And when did it sink down into my bones and begin to strip away my flesh
Was it the first time it was uttered on the playground
Or a passing insult at age thirteen
Or none of those at all?
Was it something my mind simply whispered to torture myself in the wee hours of the night
And then drilled into my brain, then my heart, my liver, my kidneys
Trying to kill me and almost succeeding
So much power.
So much destruction.
This poem/thing-without-a- proper- name describes some of my past experiences with dissociation.
I’ve lost control of my own body.
My brain has once again betrayed me.
Not in thoughts. They betrayed me there long ago.
But in my movements, my mechanisms of survival.
I am trapped. Trapped in a body that won’t connect.
That skips flight and fight and goes to freeze and fall.
Holding onto banister and walls to walk willing myself to stay upright
But what good is will when the brain can trump all the willpower in the world?
They say – “walk. Don’t fall. You lie.”
I stand and walk.. But then – something happens. Something I do not see and suddenly the floor is rising up to meet me.
I cannot comprehend how my brain has forced my legs to betray me.
And neither can they. Attention seeking they call it. Despair I call it.
Wheelchairs, lectures, the silent treatment.
My brain has once again brought me to this lonely place.
A place I am familiar with. A place I am disliked and despised.
A place where my history has proven I belong.
A place where people hate little girls who have the wrong haircut
Sixteen year olds whose only crime was to play the wrong instrument
And an eighteen year old whose worse offence was to be born female
And now my brain has brought me there again – forcing my legs to slide and slip.
And so I’m back where I belong.
Alone. Hated and disliked for something I did not choose and cannot control.