Wow, I haven't posted here for so long, I nearly forgot about this place. I just got tired of how negative this place became and how dispirited I became in 2016-17.
I'm still pretty tired of the state of the world and I still feel weary, so I'm not sure how much I will post here.
The next post will be pretty long, so if you don't enjoy text walls, I apologize.
Stay safe. Try to smile.
Some recommendations for now is to check out TheThinkingAtheist and AronRa on Youtube.
DFTBA
måndag 13 augusti 2018
torsdag 17 november 2016
Ultimate Game of Chance
2016 has been a terrible year. I try to undersand the hatred, the shame, and the violence, but it just doen't compute. How something that doesn't have any effect on someone can make that person hate.
In Europe, calls for harsher laws against humans are raised in every governing body. Leaders of nations, safe in their homes with three meals per day, a roof, warmth, and a bed, have decided that humans running from falling bombs and mass executions are worth less than the people in charge.
In Russia, a former KGB agent rules supreme and is persecuting his own people. In North Korea, a dictator is hunting his own people. We call them names, and by doing so, give them more power.
A new leader sits at the top of power in one of the most powerful countries in the world and everyone is freaking out. No, not everyone. This man got half of the votes of the electoral college, representing roughly half of the people who voted. Sure, he got less than the opposition, but he still won. When we belittle Donald Trump, we belittle those who voted for him, and by doing so, we give him more power.
Polititians are calling for the people to accept the state of things, to not work against the leaders, but that is not how a democracy works. There is an opposition for a reason.
Cercei Lannister said "When you play the game of thrones, you either win, or you die". In Roger Zelazny's Amber, the one who loses ends up blind in a dungeon, or meet a more merciful death. In Unadan, the champions can be banished, kept away for the sake of humanity.
In these epic stories, the weak have a chance of becoming heroes, the underdog can win and save the world. We like these stories, because they give us an escape from our own world. We like to forget the fights we face and just move into a more managable narrative.
Humans are rarely that simple. Every human is a complex being, with wants and needs, desires, fears, and attractions. Some are accepting, some are not. Some are conservative, some are liberal, some just want a meal that day. It would be so easy if we could live in a world like in "Equilibrium" or the "Divergent" series - everyone is the same, just a different face.
But. We. Do. Not.
Humans are complex beings who need to be imagined complexly. We come in different sizes, colors, religions, ethnic backgrounds, and sexualities. We look different, we think differently, but we are ONE species! Our current leaders want to turn us against each other so we will forget to hold them accountable. Let us turn back to them, raise our voices, and make them answer for what they are doing.
Birth is the ultimate game of chance. A human doesn't decide their skin color, hair color, eye color, size, or sexuality. To hold someone in contempt for something we have no control over is a coward's way. Let us turn to our leaders and demand to know what they will do to not be cowards. To dare to imagine people complexly. To be brave enough to shout from the rooftops "We are different and it is awesome!!"
But, you know what? We can be the underdog that saves the world.
Do not accept the staus quo. Use the laws and oppose cowardly politicians. Do not stoop to violence or name calling, but make the haters powerless by being the braver person.
DFTBA
In Europe, calls for harsher laws against humans are raised in every governing body. Leaders of nations, safe in their homes with three meals per day, a roof, warmth, and a bed, have decided that humans running from falling bombs and mass executions are worth less than the people in charge.
In Russia, a former KGB agent rules supreme and is persecuting his own people. In North Korea, a dictator is hunting his own people. We call them names, and by doing so, give them more power.
A new leader sits at the top of power in one of the most powerful countries in the world and everyone is freaking out. No, not everyone. This man got half of the votes of the electoral college, representing roughly half of the people who voted. Sure, he got less than the opposition, but he still won. When we belittle Donald Trump, we belittle those who voted for him, and by doing so, we give him more power.
Polititians are calling for the people to accept the state of things, to not work against the leaders, but that is not how a democracy works. There is an opposition for a reason.
Cercei Lannister said "When you play the game of thrones, you either win, or you die". In Roger Zelazny's Amber, the one who loses ends up blind in a dungeon, or meet a more merciful death. In Unadan, the champions can be banished, kept away for the sake of humanity.
In these epic stories, the weak have a chance of becoming heroes, the underdog can win and save the world. We like these stories, because they give us an escape from our own world. We like to forget the fights we face and just move into a more managable narrative.
Humans are rarely that simple. Every human is a complex being, with wants and needs, desires, fears, and attractions. Some are accepting, some are not. Some are conservative, some are liberal, some just want a meal that day. It would be so easy if we could live in a world like in "Equilibrium" or the "Divergent" series - everyone is the same, just a different face.
But. We. Do. Not.
Humans are complex beings who need to be imagined complexly. We come in different sizes, colors, religions, ethnic backgrounds, and sexualities. We look different, we think differently, but we are ONE species! Our current leaders want to turn us against each other so we will forget to hold them accountable. Let us turn back to them, raise our voices, and make them answer for what they are doing.
Birth is the ultimate game of chance. A human doesn't decide their skin color, hair color, eye color, size, or sexuality. To hold someone in contempt for something we have no control over is a coward's way. Let us turn to our leaders and demand to know what they will do to not be cowards. To dare to imagine people complexly. To be brave enough to shout from the rooftops "We are different and it is awesome!!"
But, you know what? We can be the underdog that saves the world.
Do not accept the staus quo. Use the laws and oppose cowardly politicians. Do not stoop to violence or name calling, but make the haters powerless by being the braver person.
DFTBA
lördag 3 september 2016
Alan would have turned 4.
Bombs are falling over
civilian homes and people are fleeing towards the only safety they
can imagine. When they reach the borders, soldiers and tall fences
stop them and tell the fleeing to turn back. Soldiers shoot at
children and old people. Politicians talk of a refugee crisis and the
need to stop refugees from coming to their country. Children are
drowning, getting shot, or starve to death along railway lines and in
forests as they are running from bombs and soldiers, gas attacks and
unlawful imprisonment.
The year is 1940, 1964,
1985.
The year is 2015.
In safety, the people asked
to lend a hand scream about stolen jobs, freeloading bastards, and
children eating our food. They look at an 8 year old boy in shock and
call him a terrorist. They look at a young mother cradling a dead
infant and sneer at her desperate, silent tears.
We who have everything have
a chance to prove that we are humans, but all politicians can talk
about is "room to breathe" and "systems falling
apart". They refuse to see that it is humans we are talking
about. The people running, fleeing for their lives, want nothing more
than going home, but their homes are gone.
German bombs 1941. British
bombs 1944. American bombs 1945. Russian bombs and Syrian chemicals
2015-2016.
We look at history and say
"Never Again", then turn around and cheer the same politics
repeating. In Sweden, we say that we don't have the resources to help
fellow humans, then boast about the cleanest drinking water in the
world and our food exports. We say there is no room for humans, then
close down refugee housing and impromptu camps.
During World War 2, Sweden
let Nazi walk through our country to invade Norway, then accepted
Norwegian refugees. We grudgingly accepted Finnish refugees. During
the Cold War, Sweden said nothing, and established research into
"keeping the race clean".
In 2015, our Prime Minister
calls for open hearts and accepting homes, then passed a law that
would divide families, leave children without parents, and parents
desperately searching for their children. The politicians are closing
down housing for refugees, yet still claims to be a the forefront of
humanitarian aid.
We are all humans. It is
time to raise up against the de-humanization and show off our
infinate potential for empathy, understanding, and to do good. Prayer
is fine, but action is far superior and unless we want a repetition
of the 1930-40s, we need to act now to push down xenophobia, hatred,
and fear mongering.
Do not let Alan Kurdi have
died in vain.
DFTBA
fredag 27 maj 2016
Memories of No one*
My mind is a weird place, both to inhabit and to describe to others. I have no way of relating to people who describe the world in just words, because, to me, thoughts and emotions are images on a reel, like the Cinematic Records in "Black Butler". This comes with the added difficulty that I have a very hard time separating memories from imagination. Unless I have photos to back up what I remember, I can't tell the difference between what happened and what I dreamt happened. Add in the fact that I've been through the wringer with gaslighting and physical abuse, and I have to have people I can trust to ask if I remember things correctly. I can talk about what happened to me in the past mostly because I can't really tell the difference. Sure, I can say "I have a hard time speaking in front of a group because of the humiliation I suffered from bullies" and my brain and my anxiety will confirm its truthfulness, but I no longer have an emotional reaction when I think about said humiliation. I no longer seek retribution and I no longer get angry if I meet any of the bullies. I have the same response to that pain as I do when thinking about the nightmares I remember.
As I now get ready to move from Ireland back to Sweden, it opens up the possibility that I won't be able to tell with certainty if anything I've experienced here is actually real. I have photos and I have souvenirs, but will that be enough to quell the sensation of waking up from a dream? I don't know. I hope it will. This past year has been so much fun. Sure, my room mate could use some serious social therapy and I've been just as out of luck in the job department as I was before I moved here. However, being away from the pressure from society, the shaming from the Employment Agency and Welfare Office (I wonder if they know that shaming someone is the least effective motivator available), and the feeling of inadequacy I experienced in Sweden, I've managed to get a working foundation for myself. The memory of being on a daily dose of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication is already settling into "Are you sure that wasn't a bad dream?" territory and maybe this nagging dread I feel when thinking about my room mate will join my other bad memories in a faded lull between memories and imagination. In just one year, I've learned to control my social anxiety, to rely on Boy when my general anxiety and chronic depression gets to be too strong, and to trust my own judgement, both when it comes to decision about my life and what my brain can do.
And one day, many years from now, I might look back at all this and wonder if it was all just a dream, something I made up, or if this uncertainty is just something that's part of me and something I can control by photos and people I can trust.
DFTBA
*Title taken from the "Bleach" movie of the same name.
As I now get ready to move from Ireland back to Sweden, it opens up the possibility that I won't be able to tell with certainty if anything I've experienced here is actually real. I have photos and I have souvenirs, but will that be enough to quell the sensation of waking up from a dream? I don't know. I hope it will. This past year has been so much fun. Sure, my room mate could use some serious social therapy and I've been just as out of luck in the job department as I was before I moved here. However, being away from the pressure from society, the shaming from the Employment Agency and Welfare Office (I wonder if they know that shaming someone is the least effective motivator available), and the feeling of inadequacy I experienced in Sweden, I've managed to get a working foundation for myself. The memory of being on a daily dose of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication is already settling into "Are you sure that wasn't a bad dream?" territory and maybe this nagging dread I feel when thinking about my room mate will join my other bad memories in a faded lull between memories and imagination. In just one year, I've learned to control my social anxiety, to rely on Boy when my general anxiety and chronic depression gets to be too strong, and to trust my own judgement, both when it comes to decision about my life and what my brain can do.
And one day, many years from now, I might look back at all this and wonder if it was all just a dream, something I made up, or if this uncertainty is just something that's part of me and something I can control by photos and people I can trust.
DFTBA
*Title taken from the "Bleach" movie of the same name.
tisdag 17 maj 2016
A family of many
Today is International Day Against Homophobia, Bi-phobia, and Transphobia. It breaks my heart that this day has to be a thing, but it makes me proud to stand with the people defending the right to be an individual and to love whoever your heart has decided to love.
I have tried for many years to understand how people can hate others based on who you love or who you are. I understand hate based on actions. Hitler deserves to be hated. As does Mussoulini, Putin, and several others. They killed and destroyed for their own gain.
But to hate someone because they want to be left in peace? I just do not understand it.
In psychology, there are two terms I have taken to heart and now use frequently - Family of Origin and Family of Choice. Family of Origin means the family that raised you. Doesn't have to be biological in any way. It's just the group of people who raised you. Family of Choice is the group of people you feel close to, but aren't necessarily related to, for example soldiers in the Marines, LGBTQIA+ allies, or a close knit sports team.
My Family of Origin is my mom, my dad, and my younger sister. My parents have been married for almost 33 years now. They both identify as straight and belong to the Swedish Protestant Church. Their church activities are limited to the odd Christmas Choir Conserts and not much more. My sister doesn't like labels and therefore doesn't use them that often, but when pressed, she says she's gay. She's also a Protestant, but mostly in name, like most Swedes. I am gray-asexual and a Shintoist.
My family of Choice is a bit bigger. There's my sibling Jackson, who follows Universe, my, I think, sexuality-fluid sister Sakuya, who's religious views I don't know, and my husband Andreas, who refuses to follow any creed except Ego Sum ("I am"), which makes labels exceptionally arbitrary, both in sexuality and religious views.
My family of Origin are all of Germanic descent. My maternal grandmother came from Germany, my father's ancestors are of Swedish-Norwegian descent.
In my family of choice, there are people of Irish, Latin-American, and Germanic descent.
In my combined family, we all have varying degrees of hair and skin pigmentation. We speak different languages, we see the world through different lenses. We have freckles and ginger hair, we are big bodied and slim bodied. We are tall and short.
And we are all family.
I will never understand hate based on who you were born as. You can't change who you love. You don't choose who you are.
Stand proud as who you are! Do not let others dictate your individuality! Yes, it sounds much easier than it is, and trust me, standing up to oppression is the hardest thing you will ever do, but living in hiding, living in fear, crushing who you are to make others accept you will just make you hate yourself more.
You are a miracle just the way you are, and if we stand together, one day, we will win.
DFTBA
I have tried for many years to understand how people can hate others based on who you love or who you are. I understand hate based on actions. Hitler deserves to be hated. As does Mussoulini, Putin, and several others. They killed and destroyed for their own gain.
But to hate someone because they want to be left in peace? I just do not understand it.
In psychology, there are two terms I have taken to heart and now use frequently - Family of Origin and Family of Choice. Family of Origin means the family that raised you. Doesn't have to be biological in any way. It's just the group of people who raised you. Family of Choice is the group of people you feel close to, but aren't necessarily related to, for example soldiers in the Marines, LGBTQIA+ allies, or a close knit sports team.
My Family of Origin is my mom, my dad, and my younger sister. My parents have been married for almost 33 years now. They both identify as straight and belong to the Swedish Protestant Church. Their church activities are limited to the odd Christmas Choir Conserts and not much more. My sister doesn't like labels and therefore doesn't use them that often, but when pressed, she says she's gay. She's also a Protestant, but mostly in name, like most Swedes. I am gray-asexual and a Shintoist.
My family of Choice is a bit bigger. There's my sibling Jackson, who follows Universe, my, I think, sexuality-fluid sister Sakuya, who's religious views I don't know, and my husband Andreas, who refuses to follow any creed except Ego Sum ("I am"), which makes labels exceptionally arbitrary, both in sexuality and religious views.
My family of Origin are all of Germanic descent. My maternal grandmother came from Germany, my father's ancestors are of Swedish-Norwegian descent.
In my family of choice, there are people of Irish, Latin-American, and Germanic descent.
In my combined family, we all have varying degrees of hair and skin pigmentation. We speak different languages, we see the world through different lenses. We have freckles and ginger hair, we are big bodied and slim bodied. We are tall and short.
And we are all family.
I will never understand hate based on who you were born as. You can't change who you love. You don't choose who you are.
Stand proud as who you are! Do not let others dictate your individuality! Yes, it sounds much easier than it is, and trust me, standing up to oppression is the hardest thing you will ever do, but living in hiding, living in fear, crushing who you are to make others accept you will just make you hate yourself more.
You are a miracle just the way you are, and if we stand together, one day, we will win.
DFTBA
torsdag 12 maj 2016
When toys are no longer toys
When are toys no longer just toys?
When we, as adults, assign certain values to toys and tell children which values belong to which of the binary genders. We tell children that there are only two genders and that Girls can only play with toys with Girl Values and Boys can only play with toys with Boy Values. These values stay with the children into their adult lives and translate into jobs, roles, and interests. Check this article for same sentiments.
And gender swapping toys is just as bad!!
"Oh, I have my son play with dolls to break gender roles!" for me translates to "I know dolls are Girl Toys and I'm so hip for making my Boy play with them."
I will never stop being grateful for my mother being who she was when it comes to toys. She never tried to influence me or my sister when it came to the toys we wanted to play with. She encouraged me when I dressed up as He-Man and ran around the house, screaming "I'm He-Woman!!". This is where conservatives would go "What!? A girl, dressed as a male action figure, and telling everyone she's He-Woman? My mind can't handle the gender-ception anymore!" Psst - there are more than two genders, and generally, a 3 year-old don't really care either way.
My sister and I had a wide range of Legos, Barbies, cars, My Little Pony knock-offs, glass marbles, build-a-slide things, fire crackers, and basically any variety of toy that could get stuck in a bath tub drain, stepped on, lodged in the vacuum cleaner, brushed, braided, or beaded imaginable. We also rode bikes, skied, skated, built tree houses, and climbed hills and trees. My sister was in a soccer team, she played in U17 competitions in tennis (when she was 12-13 years old), and played land hockey. I was a competitive swimmer and practiced martial arts. I can't imagine not being allowed to play sports or collect plushies because of my percieved gender.
Someone, sadly can't remember who, gave me this gem:
Just change "For boys or girls" to "for all gender identities"
And this is really my view on toys. Toys are toys. They usually don't have genders and playing with a toy does not asign any values or traits to the player. Once society stop stereotyping gender and toys, we can all play and have fun and learn without bias.
DFTBA
When we, as adults, assign certain values to toys and tell children which values belong to which of the binary genders. We tell children that there are only two genders and that Girls can only play with toys with Girl Values and Boys can only play with toys with Boy Values. These values stay with the children into their adult lives and translate into jobs, roles, and interests. Check this article for same sentiments.
And gender swapping toys is just as bad!!
"Oh, I have my son play with dolls to break gender roles!" for me translates to "I know dolls are Girl Toys and I'm so hip for making my Boy play with them."
I will never stop being grateful for my mother being who she was when it comes to toys. She never tried to influence me or my sister when it came to the toys we wanted to play with. She encouraged me when I dressed up as He-Man and ran around the house, screaming "I'm He-Woman!!". This is where conservatives would go "What!? A girl, dressed as a male action figure, and telling everyone she's He-Woman? My mind can't handle the gender-ception anymore!" Psst - there are more than two genders, and generally, a 3 year-old don't really care either way.
My sister and I had a wide range of Legos, Barbies, cars, My Little Pony knock-offs, glass marbles, build-a-slide things, fire crackers, and basically any variety of toy that could get stuck in a bath tub drain, stepped on, lodged in the vacuum cleaner, brushed, braided, or beaded imaginable. We also rode bikes, skied, skated, built tree houses, and climbed hills and trees. My sister was in a soccer team, she played in U17 competitions in tennis (when she was 12-13 years old), and played land hockey. I was a competitive swimmer and practiced martial arts. I can't imagine not being allowed to play sports or collect plushies because of my percieved gender.
Someone, sadly can't remember who, gave me this gem:
Just change "For boys or girls" to "for all gender identities"
DFTBA
fredag 29 april 2016
TW: The destruction of Childhood
This post will be heavy. It will contain possible triggers for mental distress, trauma, suicide, self hate, self harm, bullying, mental disorders, and extreme loneliness.
Yesterday, I found this very interesting note on my Twitter wall and today I've decided to write about the moment that changed me.
I'm not sure when or why the other children in my class decided to turn against me. My Mom would tell me to not respond to the harsh words, that being ignored would make the bullies stop. She kept saying this for the five years the bullying was a part of my life. My teachers would say that it was because the other children were jealous, but no one would tell me why or what they were jealous of. The one thing that was clear to me was that it was my fault, because I was doing something to be jealous of or I didn't ignore the kids enough.
At first, it was words - witch, fatty, snail, slow poke, disgusting, filth, useless, waste of space, worthless, stupid, nasty.
Then came the addition of pretending that I wasn't there at all. People talk about being selected last for teams in PE. I wasn't even selected. The rest of the class would just pretend there was no one there when there was just me left.
Then came the violence. Snow filled with ice and rocks thrown at my head and face. My face pressed into mud and snow, depending on season. Being pushed from monkey bars, trees or the balancing beams in PE. Tripped and pushed whenever there was something painful I could land on. The water turned to freezing cold or blistering hot when I was showering after PE.
Then came the destruction of my things. A quilted pillow I had made for my Dad got cut open, the red panda plushie I was forced to take to school for "Plush toy Show and Tell" had its tail torn off, my back pack was ripped. Someone carved deep lines into my desk (luckily, the teacher saw who it was, or I would have been made to repair it) My jacket got stolen often, my shoes were hidden, and my books mysteriously lost their cover paper.
I don't think I managed to stay in school a full school day for two years. When the teachers finally figured out what was going on, it had been going on for almost five years. And then it just stopped. All it took was two parent-teacher conferences and one principal's speech to the entire school about the effects of bullying, and I was left alone. At this point, I no longer cared. Life. Death. Night. Day. I was just going through the motions of wake up, have breakfast, go to school, come home, have dinner, watch TV, go to sleep. Repeat. I was so far down into my well of despair that I didn't even consider suicide.
I went to another school for junior high and suddenly, I was among the popular kids. My homeroom class was filled with kind, intelligent, and funny pre-teens who genuinly liked me, and I could not understand why. After five years of daily abuse, suddenly, people were kind to me. It didn't make sense. So, I figured it had to do with my performance in school and in group projects. I belonged somewhere for the first time since I was seven years old, and I was prepared to fight for my place. We moved to another part of town around Christmas that year, and since some of my old abusers were in my class, I decided to change school again. In hindsight, that was a bad decision. It was hard to be accepted at the new school, but I managed to find a group of kids to belong in. I started martial arts and fell helplessly in love with my instructor's younger brother. Said instructor was also my math teacher for a while, and the whole damn school was convinced I was in love with my teacher. Someone even sent him letters in my name, which ended up in said teacher asking my Dad to tell me to knock it off. Yeah, that propelled me down into the pit again, and efficiently shattered any confidence I had in seeking the brother's attention.
Despite the set backs, I was making steady progress forward, getting more and more confident and dare-I-say happy by the week. This also ment that I worked myself up from I-don't-care to suicidal.
I was 13 years and nine months old, give or take a few days, the day I decided I couldn't stand being alive anymore. It wasn't that I wanted to die, specifically. I just didn't want to be alive. Life seemed completely pointless and too painful and too empty. I remember the light filtering in through the blinds of the one large window in my room, dancing in lines and spots on my white-with-pink-and-blue-dots walls as the blinds swayed in the slight breeze from the open window. It was a warm day for being September, but I can still feel the cold in my chest. I had located my Mom's sleeping pills and pilfered a handful when she was too busy to notice. I remember not bothering with a note, thinking that my diary would be explanation enough, even though I didn't think anyone would look for it. At sometime after 5 pm, I took the pills and layed down on my bed and waited. I must have dozed off, because it was almost 6 pm when Mom called that dinner was ready.
And I got up.
For 16 years, I didn't know why I got up from that bed. It had nothing to do with my mother's voice, the food being served (spaghetti, meat sauce, and grated carrots. Yes, that's how ingrained this evening is in my mind), or the potential grief I would cause if I died. Then, last year, I figured out that it was because I just wanted to experience more Everything. I simply wanted to live badly enough to break through the haze of too-many pills and too much pain. I had dinner with my family, I watched TV until 9 pm, then I went to my bedroom, grabbed the book I was reading ("Castle of Wizardry" by David Eddings) and the book after it, and sat down to read. I was convinced that I would die if I fell asleep, so I decided to stay awake that night. When I went to school the following day, I was in more pain than I could remember. Every step hurt, my head was just filled with buzzing, and my eyes felt like needles of ice. I managed to stay awake until 10 pm that night, and then I fell asleep and didn't dream.
I can never go back to the happy-go-lucky child my Mom tells me I used to be. The girl who would flirt with everyone and was absolutely fearless. That child died at the hands of bullies. I can also never go back to that 13 year old girl who felt that the only way to stop the suffering was to die. I don't want to be her again. That girl died on that bed 17 years ago.
I have known pain and trauma. I have experienced emptiness, coldness, and soul shattering loneliness. I was the tiny flame on top of a match in a locked, dark basement, fluttering with the lack of air.
And today, I am a woman who will never stand idly by when someone needs help. I will never ignore a child who needs support and I will never accept abuse from anyone or done to anyone, if I can prevent it. Because that feeling of betrayal and darkness is a part of me, a part of who I am, I will do whatever I can to prevent others from experiencing it.
DFTBA
Yesterday, I found this very interesting note on my Twitter wall and today I've decided to write about the moment that changed me.
I'm not sure when or why the other children in my class decided to turn against me. My Mom would tell me to not respond to the harsh words, that being ignored would make the bullies stop. She kept saying this for the five years the bullying was a part of my life. My teachers would say that it was because the other children were jealous, but no one would tell me why or what they were jealous of. The one thing that was clear to me was that it was my fault, because I was doing something to be jealous of or I didn't ignore the kids enough.
At first, it was words - witch, fatty, snail, slow poke, disgusting, filth, useless, waste of space, worthless, stupid, nasty.
Then came the addition of pretending that I wasn't there at all. People talk about being selected last for teams in PE. I wasn't even selected. The rest of the class would just pretend there was no one there when there was just me left.
Then came the violence. Snow filled with ice and rocks thrown at my head and face. My face pressed into mud and snow, depending on season. Being pushed from monkey bars, trees or the balancing beams in PE. Tripped and pushed whenever there was something painful I could land on. The water turned to freezing cold or blistering hot when I was showering after PE.
Then came the destruction of my things. A quilted pillow I had made for my Dad got cut open, the red panda plushie I was forced to take to school for "Plush toy Show and Tell" had its tail torn off, my back pack was ripped. Someone carved deep lines into my desk (luckily, the teacher saw who it was, or I would have been made to repair it) My jacket got stolen often, my shoes were hidden, and my books mysteriously lost their cover paper.
I don't think I managed to stay in school a full school day for two years. When the teachers finally figured out what was going on, it had been going on for almost five years. And then it just stopped. All it took was two parent-teacher conferences and one principal's speech to the entire school about the effects of bullying, and I was left alone. At this point, I no longer cared. Life. Death. Night. Day. I was just going through the motions of wake up, have breakfast, go to school, come home, have dinner, watch TV, go to sleep. Repeat. I was so far down into my well of despair that I didn't even consider suicide.
I went to another school for junior high and suddenly, I was among the popular kids. My homeroom class was filled with kind, intelligent, and funny pre-teens who genuinly liked me, and I could not understand why. After five years of daily abuse, suddenly, people were kind to me. It didn't make sense. So, I figured it had to do with my performance in school and in group projects. I belonged somewhere for the first time since I was seven years old, and I was prepared to fight for my place. We moved to another part of town around Christmas that year, and since some of my old abusers were in my class, I decided to change school again. In hindsight, that was a bad decision. It was hard to be accepted at the new school, but I managed to find a group of kids to belong in. I started martial arts and fell helplessly in love with my instructor's younger brother. Said instructor was also my math teacher for a while, and the whole damn school was convinced I was in love with my teacher. Someone even sent him letters in my name, which ended up in said teacher asking my Dad to tell me to knock it off. Yeah, that propelled me down into the pit again, and efficiently shattered any confidence I had in seeking the brother's attention.
Despite the set backs, I was making steady progress forward, getting more and more confident and dare-I-say happy by the week. This also ment that I worked myself up from I-don't-care to suicidal.
I was 13 years and nine months old, give or take a few days, the day I decided I couldn't stand being alive anymore. It wasn't that I wanted to die, specifically. I just didn't want to be alive. Life seemed completely pointless and too painful and too empty. I remember the light filtering in through the blinds of the one large window in my room, dancing in lines and spots on my white-with-pink-and-blue-dots walls as the blinds swayed in the slight breeze from the open window. It was a warm day for being September, but I can still feel the cold in my chest. I had located my Mom's sleeping pills and pilfered a handful when she was too busy to notice. I remember not bothering with a note, thinking that my diary would be explanation enough, even though I didn't think anyone would look for it. At sometime after 5 pm, I took the pills and layed down on my bed and waited. I must have dozed off, because it was almost 6 pm when Mom called that dinner was ready.
And I got up.
For 16 years, I didn't know why I got up from that bed. It had nothing to do with my mother's voice, the food being served (spaghetti, meat sauce, and grated carrots. Yes, that's how ingrained this evening is in my mind), or the potential grief I would cause if I died. Then, last year, I figured out that it was because I just wanted to experience more Everything. I simply wanted to live badly enough to break through the haze of too-many pills and too much pain. I had dinner with my family, I watched TV until 9 pm, then I went to my bedroom, grabbed the book I was reading ("Castle of Wizardry" by David Eddings) and the book after it, and sat down to read. I was convinced that I would die if I fell asleep, so I decided to stay awake that night. When I went to school the following day, I was in more pain than I could remember. Every step hurt, my head was just filled with buzzing, and my eyes felt like needles of ice. I managed to stay awake until 10 pm that night, and then I fell asleep and didn't dream.
I can never go back to the happy-go-lucky child my Mom tells me I used to be. The girl who would flirt with everyone and was absolutely fearless. That child died at the hands of bullies. I can also never go back to that 13 year old girl who felt that the only way to stop the suffering was to die. I don't want to be her again. That girl died on that bed 17 years ago.
I have known pain and trauma. I have experienced emptiness, coldness, and soul shattering loneliness. I was the tiny flame on top of a match in a locked, dark basement, fluttering with the lack of air.
And today, I am a woman who will never stand idly by when someone needs help. I will never ignore a child who needs support and I will never accept abuse from anyone or done to anyone, if I can prevent it. Because that feeling of betrayal and darkness is a part of me, a part of who I am, I will do whatever I can to prevent others from experiencing it.
DFTBA
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