Just Another Brick, In The Wall (February 27, 2016)

www.123rf.com

Before me

One of my writing books

Lays open

With three stanzas

Written out.

As I struggle

With a learning disability

That locks away

My thoughts

Behind

A mental wall.

(One of several

I have been diagnosed

So long ago

In grade seven.)

Which makes

The Great Wall of China

Appear like

A backyard fence

Between neighbours.

My pen lays

Beside the book

As one of the cats

Gives friendly swats

At it.

Driving me

Nuts

As I know

What I want to write.

For I can

Describe it

To you

In full detail

But

Can't transcribe it

Onto the written page

Or computer screen.

Is it

Any wonder

My exam times.

Whether

At high school

Or university

Were very anxious periods

For me.

Never mind

My small cramp writing

That I had

A high school teacher

Tell me:

"Type it

Or else."

Implying

It wouldn't be

Looked at

By him.

Thus

A failing mark

For me.

Know

I should place this

Aside

For now.

But

Can feel it.

So close

To be

Bursting out

From this mental prison

Of mine.

As it

Slips away

From me.

With

A frustrated sigh

I walk away.

Hoping

Next time

The wall been removed.

Allowing me

To finish

This poem.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Since, I started kindergarten (1975), until I got my B.A.(1994), I have been, in and out, of special education classes, for various reasons, but only, got tested for learning disabilities, during the school year of 1983-84. The results showed, I was an above average student, at the second deviation for I.Q, reading level of first year university, with a reading comprehension, at grade 11, and spelling level, at the 25th percentile (which means, 75 % of my age cohort is ahead of me.).


Never mind, my grades were C's and D's, on the report card. Or that my grade one teacher failed me, for being "lazy", on my final report card. Ironically, they told my parents, not to show me, this learning assessment, as if, I would develop a huge ego, from reading this. When, the opposite is true, as I have low self-esteem and self-confidence.  Something, the report failed to discover.

My Purring Panther (February 26, 2016)

Star, as kitten, on my dirty laundry.

Not sure

Why our paths crossed

As they have

Over 4 years ago

Star.

Except

Your very presence

Has offered me

A very rare gift

Of love and compassion.

From someone

Who has known

The toxic touch

Of being abused

And abandoned.

Of how

On your first night

You hid

Under the toilet cistern.

Scared

Out of your mind

With fear.

As I laid

A trial of kibble

From the bathroom

To the centre

Of my heart.

Little

Did I know.

The healer

Would become

The one

Who is

Being healed.

As I watch you

Over the months

Grow and heal

Into your true self.

Greeting me

Every time

I enter

Our shared apartment.

With your deep purr

And a gentle kiss

For me.

Forever leaving

Your paw print

Upon my beating heart

As you snuggle

Against me.

While

Laying down

To rest

For the coming day.

As I give you

Star

My daily thanks

For you're being

A part of my life.

Therisa © 2016

Author's notes: Am sorry, I don't have any decent photo, which shows Star, at her true self, as she is, extremely camera shy, whenever, I attempt to get a photo of her mature self, beyond the few of her, as a kitten.

Lazy Freeloader (February 25, 2016)

www.sdcitytimes.com

Lazy

Son of bitch.

You sit there

All day long

Doing nothing.

Except

Playing computer games.

I don't want

To hear

Your feeble excuses

For your slacking.

Especially

After a long day

Of hard labour.

Could've you

At least

Have washed

Those few dishes

From breakfast?

Is that

Asking

Too much

Of you?

Whatever.

Just shut your trap

And do it

Now.

Before

She stormed out

Of the apartment.

I left her

With these words

Of advice.

You'll

Just have to

Pull yourself up

By your bootstraps

And get over it.

I don't care

If your shrink says

Otherwise.

You're not depressed.

IT'S ALL

IN YOUR MIND.

Attempting to

Get out

Of your responsibilities.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note:  A compilation of various situations, I have witnessed and/or experienced, on a first hand basis.

When Cassandra Spoke (February 24, 2016)

www.walking-on-eggshellz.blogspot.com

Outside

A hospital parking lot

She spoke

Those fateful words

About her grandma's health.

In pronouncing

Her doom

No one wanted to say

Or talk about.

Family

Or medical staff.

"Grandma has cancer."

Never expecting

The sudden swing

To the head

By her dad

That missed.

A man

Who rarely shared

His strongest emotions

Publicly

With others.

As he fled

Crying

To the car

His world

Rocked.

A month

Or so

Later.

They buried

Her grandma.

Unable

To hide

The tumours

Upon her body.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: In June 1996, my oma breathed her last breathe, as cancer claimed her body. I was, one of three sets of sibling grandchildren, who acted, as her pallbearers. I so dearly miss her, and the way, she greet all grandchildren and great grandchildren, by calling us, little ones, in broken English and Dutch. No matter, how tall, we have gave grown, over the years.


The above poem, is my recount of that fateful day, in May 1996. Dad, if you can hear me, I didn't mean to hurt you, by speaking the truth, like I did. I forgive you, for your actions.

The Martyr (February 22, 2016)

www.reclaimingthemind.org

I stand

Before you.

As

A silent witness

For the crimes

You have committed

Against me.

In the name

Of your God

And religion.

In knowing

Nothing

I can

Or will say

Shall change

Your mind.

As you prepare

A pit area

For the execution

Of my sentence.

Death

By stoning.

A stranger ask:

"What crime

I'm guilty

Of committing."

To which

I reply:

"Of loving

Another woman

Instead of

A man."

First stone

Hits me

Behind my ear

Drawing blood.

The riotous crowd

Cheer their approval

As my knees buckle

Under the malicious assault.

Praying

I won't show

Any sign of weakness

For these vultures

To prey upon.

Forcing them

To realize

How spiteful and hollow

They are.

By their action.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note:  For the record, I'm a trans-lesbian, who has been brutally rejected, by my own mom. And I don't ever expect her, to change her views, towards me, as her trans-daughter.

If you seek more information, how the various countries and regions, breakdown, on same sex relationships, please click on, the following lick: 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LGBT_rights_by_country_or_territory

From Hair, To Eternity (February 22, 2016)

The song, "Hair," from the rock opera, "Hair"

Looking at

The ringing telephone.

A sad

But frustrated sigh

Escapes.

Knowing

Without picking up

The receiver.

How

The dread conversation

Will go.

In a negative way.

Rehashing

An old and stale argument

That runs

Along generational

And gender lines.

As if

The length

Of one's hair

Is a social taboo

Of the most grievous kind

One can commit.

Why

Should it matter

How long or short

A person's locks are.

If they are presented

In a neat

And attractive way.

By expressing

One's view

On gender

And sexuality.

It's only dead cells

Extruding

From one's scalp

After all.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: For about 5 month period, between 2005 and 2006, my mom would phone, almost, on a daily basis, long distance, asking me, if  I was ready, to get my hair, and wanted her, to pay for it. You would think, she get the message, after a month of saying, “No”, or not answering the phone. Even after, storming out of her car, at a local mall, and walking home, she, still didn’t get the message. Only, the intervention by someone else, did she stopped her harassment of me. Although, she wasn’t very happy, about the sight of me, growing my hair.

Since then, I had all of my hair cut off, as the 2007 perm, developed a life of its own, making combing my normally wavy hair, a royal pain, in February 2009. In 2014, a trim, to cut off, my spit ends and tidy up, my unruly mop.

Throwing Away The Key (February 20, 2016)

www.express.co.uk

Been told

I have travelled far

In this healing journey

Of mine.

And yet

Find myself

Clawing

At the walls

Trying to maintain

My equilibrium.

In being triggered

By the slightest thing

These past few weeks.

Questioning

My grasp

Upon sanity.

In my struggle

With PTSD

And chronic depression.

As if

They're imaginary friends

I have invented

As hold overs

From my childhood.

Wondering.

Is this

The new me

That I have

The pleasure of

Looking forward

To?

Of being

A virtual prisoner

Within my mind.

Never

To experience

What parole means.

Or

Able to remove

These burdensome shackles

Of my hyper-vigilant senses

That bind me

To this plane of existence.

Isn't

A lifetime

Long enough

To punished?

Even

The most dangerous

Of prisoners 

Who are serving

Life sentences

Have a faint hope

Of parole.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: My first exposure to PTSD, occurred, after my electrical burn, to my mouth, in November 1974. Have been told, I was lucky, to have survived, with my mouth being blown out, and not being buried, as a result of this event. Even now, over four decades later, I still experience sensory flashbacks, to that November night. Never had any formal therapy, for this traumatic injury, over the years. Unlike, the visual and auditory flashbacks, I have experienced, from my abusive past, as a child and an adult.

Over the past 9 years, I have had some counselling, but it has been focused, primarily, upon my chronic depression and various anxiety problems. And pharmacological therapy is, a "no go", for me, given my chemical sensitivity, and the side-effects that it generates, in my body.

A Friday Afternoon (February 19, 2016)

www.braincoretherapy.com

Around me

The chaos of life

Bubbles forth

Like a babbling brook.

As I struggle

To stay connected

With myself.

Despite

My rising levels

Of anxiety

Reaching towards

A panic attack.

Leaving me

Feeling

Extremely vulnerable.

As people walk by

In the library.

In knowing

It's just my body

Extending

Its hyper-vigilance.

A by-product

Of an abuse past

I'm trying to

Overcome.

Fighting

This growing urge

To runaway

And hide

Inside my apartment.

To do so

Would be admitting

Once again

I have failed.

Refusing

To allow

Any tears of frustration

To grace my face.

As I beat back

The growing sense

Of being

A worthless failure.

Trying to control

My trembling hands

While

Typing this

Out.

In claiming

One small victory

At a steep price.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Have been diagnosed, as having living, with chronic depression, various anxiety disorders and PTSD, (I refuse to say, suffering, as I know, these conditions, will be, with me, for the rest of my life) as the result of a very abusive past, growing up, as a child, and later on, as an adult. As part of my healing process, I have taken Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT), at a local hospital, near my apartment. Never realizing, until afterwards, a lot of the stuff, I having doing, on my own, has been CBT techniques, to distract myself, in triggering situations, like the above poem. To analyze, what is causing this reaction, while, in the library.

Before The Coming Storm (February 18, 2016)

www.flickr.com

Like tumbleweeds

Blowing across

The semi-arid landscape

Of the southwestern

United States.

My mind is devoid

Of any rational thought

As the mental winds

Brush away

Any possible idea.

Leaving behind

A barren soulscape.

Awaiting

The gentle

And nurturing touch

Of a poetic shower.

Never have

Experiencing it

By my soul

Or body.

The type

One sees

In the distant

Mountainous horizon.

As a moving curtain

Darkening

The nearby sky.

Renewing life

Once more

With a tender kiss

On the cracked lips

Of one's soul.

Bringing life

To the once wasteland

As words blossom

All around me

Once more.

Therisa © 2016


Author's note: For the past 48 hours, I have been struggling with writer's block, am hoping this poem has lifted this burden, from my shoulders.

A Heart's Cry (February 16, 2016)

www.myfinalphoto.com

Across

The Northern expanse

My soul does travel

Seeking refuge.

The Northern wind

Blows cold

Through ones body.

Leaving it

Frozen

To the core.

White tears

Gather around

My eyes.

Before falling

To the ground

In a pile of snow.

As I wonder

Will you

Be there?

When

As I stumble

And fall.

To pick me up

Again.

Sharing my love

With you

Now and forever.

Therisa © 2016

Author's notes: Something different, from me. Will admit, I had Sarah McLaughlin running through my mind, as I wrote. Guess, you could call it, a belated Valentine's Day poem.   

Family Ties (February 15, 2016)

Once more

It's the third Monday

Of February

As Ontario celebrates

Family Day.

You'll pardon me

If I don't join you

In its observance.

For

I am

A survivor

Of domestic violence

By a family member.

Even now

Almost nine years free

Of his physical presence.

But

His shadow

Still impacts

My daily life.

In being

Hyper-vigilant.

Jumping at

Any sudden

And loud noise

Like an argument.

Or

An apartment door

Being slammed shut.

Cursing

My long term memory

For capturing

In 4K detail

His attacks.

Of me

Cowering

In my barricaded bedroom

Crying myself

To sleep

In my late teens.

Wishing

I had died

From my electrical burns

In November 1974.

Can understand

Why some victims

Of abusive relationships

Kill their attackers.

Only recently

I have admitted

In wishing

I had killed him

After his preemie birth

In October 1972.

Thus

Sparing me

Decades of pain

And sorrow.

But

I realize

The road of "Only if"

Will lead me

Further astray

In my healing.

As I travel

The long and difficult path

OF reclaiming my life

One memory

At a time.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: This poem is, one of my most exhausting mentally and physically that I have written. It took me, 9 hours and 15 minutes, to do this. Needing several long breaks, to just write the first draft, in my writing workbook, yesterday. Not to mention, the 2 hours needed to transcribe this, onto one of e-mail accounts, before posting it, here. Right now, I can feel my stress levels reaching the point, I am  having, the beginning, of a very nasty tension headache.

It's Only -26 C, With The Wind Chill (February 11, 2016)

Error

Failure to connect

To server.

Flashes

Before my mind's eye.

As I try

To access

My Muse.

Wondering

If today's

Extreme cold alert

By the city of Toronto

Is causing this.

Sluggishly

My synapses

Are responding

To my requests.

Feeding

This growing need

To curl up

In my warm

And comfortable bed.

Caring not

What the world thinks

Beyond this

Of keeping my body

Comfortable.

Outside

Walking piles of clothing

Are identified

As humans.

Shuffling

From point A

To point B.

Leaving behind

A vapour contrail

Marking their passage

Like jets.

And myself

Am cuddled

With my cats.

Awaiting

More humane temperatures

Before venturing

Outdoors

Once more.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Right now, southern Ontario is under an Arctic deep freeze, as the wind chill is being clocked, at -30 C and colder.  Perfect timing, as Toronto, is hosting the year, NBA All-Star game. Bad enough, we, Canadians have to live this stereotype, as the land of the frigid North. Never mind, parts of the continental US are, as cold or colder than Toronto is, right now. I can't wait until Spring and the warmer temperatures that seen like a distant memory, from last year.

Standing Before, The Portal Of Past, Present And Future (February 13, 2016)

www.quotehd.com

Before me

Stands

An open window

To my past

And future.

One

I had walked away

Fourteen years ago

On my own.

In hating

Whom I was.

But

Unable to voice

This inner truth

With anyone.

Family

Or friends.

Wanting

To rebuild

These bridges.

I have left

To rot

Over time.

Scared

By doing so

Will expose myself

To rejection

And hate.

For few know

The journey

I have taken

Since.

Do I take

This risk

And climb

Through this window?

Or

Slam it shut

Destroying all ties

To my extended family

And the past.

A question

I wrestle with

As both sides argue

Within my mind.

Against

The rising tide

Of anxiety.

Indecision

Wracks my brain

And soul.

While

Choking back

A nervous sigh

As I write this.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Earlier, this afternoon, I searched the name of one of my 26 paternal cousins, who I haven't seen, since June 2002, at a family reunion, marking the family's 50th year, of immigrating to Canada, from The Nederland. Of all of my cousins, he is, the one that I feel, the most comfortable around. growing up, being close, in age.  I know, he's support of LGBT+ rights, which makes my decision, a tad bit easier, but I'm not sure, if I am ready, to share myself, with him.

The Listener (February 12, 2016)

www..stress.about.com

Not sure

If this

Is a curse

Or a blessing.

You tell me

I have

A rare gift.

One

Of true healing.

As people

Of all genders

Come to me

Sharing their hopes

And fears.

But

Who do I

Have to turn

In my time

Of need?

Wish

I knew

As I struggle

With my own daemons.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: It's funny, but looking back, over my life, whether, I'm male or female, people have come to me, in sharing their intimate selves, especially, with high school,  as the other girls felt a sense of comfortableness, in talking to me, one wouldn't associated with a "boy". Never realizing, my own personal daemons that I was struggling with, like wanting to ask them, out, but scared, of being rejected by them.

The first time, I was told, by another person, I have this gift, occurred, during my stay, at women homeless shelter, in June 2007. She was Vietnamese-Canadian, who had, in her past, been violently attacked, damaging her vocal cords. Despite this, she had an inner beauty that shone brilliantly, with her caring soul. She described me, as a soul, who's yin and yang was, in perfect balance, thus, allowing me, to see beyond the soul's surface, and to connect with others. My biggest regret is, I didn't stay, in contact with her, since leaving the shelter.

Since than, there have been numerous other times, I have told, about this gift, I have. The last time, occurring earlier, this week, in my apartment building. Not sure, why I have this gift, but I do. Is it, a legacy of being, an old soul? For I have been told, it's a very rare gift that few people have naturally.

Trypanophobia (February 10, 2016)

www.trendhunter.com

Avoidance

[uh-void-ns]

noun 

 

1.  the act of avoiding or keeping away from:

the avoidance of scandal; the avoidance of one's neighbors.

2. Law. a making void; annulment.

source: www.dictionary.com

I hold you

Within my hands

Unable to

Push the trigger.

To draw

The needed blood

For testing

My glucose levels.

As if

I was holding

A poisonous snake

About to sink

Its venomous fangs

Into my body.

Never mind

I face

The possibility

Of needing to use

Insulin.

To control

What pills can't

Anymore.

I have long memories

Of being held

Or threaten

By medical staff.

As they try

To inject medication

Or draw my blood.

Especially

Those early years

I had to undergo

Several corrective surgeries

To repair my mouth

From a severe electrical burn.

And those

Torturous visits

To the dentist

With his hamfisted touch

Around my constricted

Mouth.

A frustrated sigh

Escapes

At these triggering memories

From my childhood.

* * *

Against my body

It rest

Awaiting

For that final push

Into me.

My hands shaking

With anxiety

Like a Fall leaf

In a gentle breeze.

As I tell myself

I can do it

Over and over

Like a silent mantra

In my head.

Only to

Walk away

In fear

And Frustration.

At another failed attempt

To prick myself

For that bead

Of blood.

Never mind

Those times

I couldn't inject myself

With saline.

In the vain hope

Of relieving

My fears

About needles

And injecting myself.

No matter

How small or big

A needle is

A needle.

Thus

An object of fear

And avoidance

For me.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Not sure, if anyone can truly appreciate, my utter fear of needles, given my current medical situation, of facing the strong possibility of having to inject myself, with Insulin. During my last visit, with my nurse practitioner, we talked about my lack of test results for the glucose monitor and what I was going to do, to improve the number of times that I use it, to test myself. She suggested, I do the bare minimum of 4 tests/week, which means, before and after breakfast, after lunch and after supper, to build up, a database to get a clearer picture, of how my body is breaking down glucose. Sadly, in the 11 days since, the appointment, I have did it, only twice. Am hoping, this weekend, to have tested myself, 3 times, as it’s a long weekend, in Ontario.

The Dream Has Grown (February 11, 2016)

"A nation's greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members." ~ Mahatma Ghandi


Have you

Ever have a dream

That you're willing

To pay the ultimate price

Like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr?

Knowing

Your dream is

Bigger than

Any one person

Or organization.

Radically challenging

Society's paradigm

With its simple message

Of love and equality.

For many transpeople

Our very existence

Is a testament

To our community's dream

Of acceptance and equality.

Just stepping

Into a public space

Is truly

An act of courage.

Aware

In doing this

May mean

A death sentence.

As Canada

And the United States

Celebrate Black History Month

Throughout February.

The struggle

For human rights

Isn't just limited

To ones:

Skin colour

Religious observation

Gender

Or sexual orientation.

Rather

Involves everyone

For no one

Is truly free.

If one person

Remains repressed

In any manner.

And you

Dr. King

Your dreams

Still

Lives on.

Only

It's shared

By a wider community.

Who's hearts

Are filled

With its vision.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Although, I was born, into a white, middle class Canadian family, I have known, what it means, to live your life, in abject poverty. Having spent time, in the Toronto women homeless shelter system. Not a place, I want to go back to, again.


Like the Afro communities, of Canada and the United States, the Trans community knows, all too well, what the phrase, "strange fruit", which Billie Holiday sang about. Having your application rejected for housing, because, the landlord wasn't comfortable, with having "one of those tenants". As if, all trans-people work the street or use drugs. Never mind, the hidden crisis of mental heath problems that remain largely unaddressed, by society, at large. One need to hold onto a dream of hope, if they want to grow and heal, as a community, as a whole.

Word-blind (February 10, 2016)

www.forums.psychcentral.com




Wish

I could describe

The emotional impact

Of my words

Upon all levels

Of myself.

As I write

About my abusive past.

But

I can't.

Placing myself

Behind a one way wall

Of disassociation

That blocks my response.

Thus

Allowing

My subconscious self

To express

Those repressed memories

From my childhood.

Without triggering

Those destructive flashbacks

That leave me

Physically and emotionally spent

Like a dead battery

For several days.

Barely

Able to move

From the bed

To take my meds

Go to the bathroom.

Or

Look after

Venus Star

And Squeak.

My faithful feline

Companions.

Will the day come

When I can feel

The emotional impact

Of my words

Without needing others

To tell me

So?

Or being

So strongly triggered

By these remembrances.

Wish

I knew.

Giving myself

A mental shrug

Of shoulders.

As

I wipe away

The tears

From my eyes.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: Wish, I could say, my experience with disassociating, is limited, to writing, but it's not. My earliest remembered episode, occurred, during the summer of 1985, when I felt my "spirit" separate from my body, as I watched my brother, try to land upon me, after being pushed down the upstairs.


Must admit, the most embarrassing episode happened, while, shopping at a local supermarket. I couldn't remember, why I was, in a particular aisle, as I wandered aimlessly, for several minutes, as my anxiety, started to reach panic attack levels, before I clued in.

The Doll And The Beast (February 8, 2016)

www.talexior.deviantart.com

Can feel

The Beast howling

At the soul's gate

Demanding entrance

Right away.

Hastily

It tossed aside

My mental defences.

As if

Cotton candy.

It's razor-sharp talons

Tearing away

My mental walls.

Constructed

Over the years

Hiding away

My dark memories

Of abuse.

Leaving me

To feel like

A rag doll

Being tossed aside

In whatever direction

It wants.

Covered

In various rent

And tears

Across my cloth body.

My stuffing

Leaking out

Like dark blood

Upon the tile floor.

Various shades

Of stitching

Enveloping

My doll's body

Like scar tissue.

Highlighting

The previous attacks

Over the years

By this furious Beast.

Although

Not all stitching

Is visible

To the naked eye.

As invisible thread

Marks

The harsh damage done

To my doll's heart

Over the years.

In wishing

This living nightmare

A bad dream

That would disappear

Upon awaking.

And

The Beast

My loving brother

I never knew.

Alas

Faerie tales like this

Is the stuff

That fantasies

Are made of.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: Used to think, I was responsible for my younger brother's action, toward me and my mom. Especially, during the Summer of 1985, when my dad had his first serious heart attack, at the age of 49. Being the oldest, almost of the responsibility of the yard duties, where transferred to my teenage shoulders. While, my younger brother got to live his life, as before, being 12 years old, at the time. As if, I was doing something wrong, to attract his anger, given his past and future history, of unprovoked attacks, upon me.


Ironically, I was told, by my parents, to grow up and not let his antics, trigger me, into a violent reaction, on my part, against him. As my complaints fell upon, the deaf ears of my parents. Thus, he escaped, from any responsibility for his actions against my mom and I, for the Summer of '85. As I relive these days, in my dreams and flashbacks


This August will mark the 9th anniversary, since I told him, to his face that he's dead to me, and the next time, I'll see him, will be, when he's buried 6 feet under. Until then, I won't have anything to do, with him. Having told my mom, this, six years ago, when I reminded her, of the violence that he committed against both of us.

A Fate Worse Than Death (February 9, 2016)

www.forums.sega.com

Upon the wings

Of midnight black

I soak

The night's sky.

Seeking

My true love

Whom I lost.

As a murder of Crows

Scrawls Heaven

And Earth.

Where

I can't go.

As punishment

For dealing

In the darker arts.

By pursuing

Forbidden knowledge.

In the hope

Of curing

What was killing you

My wife.

Never realizing

In healing you

I was condemning us

To a fiery fate.

As that ignorant fool

Of a priest

Led the lynch mob

Against us.

With murder

In his heart.

Even now

On these dark

And lonely nights

A single blood red tear

Is sled.

As I remember

How I abandoned you

To your doom

On the pyre.

By invoking

My dark Masters

In a single moment

Of weakness

On my part.

For which

I was rewarded

By having my body

Transformed

Into dark sex siren.

Condemned

To roam

The nightly sex dreams

Of men.

Until

I find you

Once more

My dear  heart.

And earn

Your forgiveness

For my sins.


Therisa © 2016


Author's note: Every so often, I like to search, through the gothic images, and see, if there are anyone that pique my curiosity, to write a poem, about it. Sadly, I can't think of a gothic tune, which would compliment this event. Maybe, next time.

Citylife (February 6, 2016)

www.thepolyman.com

Frozen

White tears

From the Heavens

Fall.

Covering

The barren grey landscape

Temporary

In a blanket

Before melting away.

Hiding

The countless kilometres

Of asphalt ribbon.

That scars

The landscape

As far as

One can see.

Surrounded by

Tall sterile towers

Popping up

Haphazardly

Like mushrooms

On the street's edge.

As people scurry

To and fro

From these modern ant colonies

Without knowing

Their next store neighbour's

Name.

City planners

Tell us

It's the way

Of the future.

As cities need

To get more

And more denser.

In reversing

Their philosophy

Of the last 50 years

Where urban sprawl

Reign supreme.

Not having a car

Marked you

As being poor.

Public transit was

A distant afterthought

For the politicians.

Now

Cities and towns

Are playing catch-up

In correcting

Their narrowed mindedness

As the billions flow

Into these massive projects.

Never mind

These endless roads

Are approaching

Their best before date.

Thus

Requiring billions more

To keep them

At peak efficiency

For the growing economy.

Ever conscious

Of voters' volatile mood

Politicians refuse

To raise taxes

Needed to cover

These growing expenses.

Forgetting

We elected them

For bold and decisive

Leadership.

(Well

Leadership

At least.)

And not

This political waffling.

Scared to make

A firm stand

On anything

That might raise taxes.

As the city

Crumbles

Around their council chairs.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: Originally inspired, by the light flurries that flew, on Friday morning (February 5, 2016), as I scurried, to make it, to a 10 am doctor appointment, about my future need to inject myself, with Insulin. Around the way, I have to travel through, a very densely populated area, called St Jamestown, which is getting even higher level of density, with the construction of luxury apartments, in this high priority needs area. In which, a local supermarket was closed, for this construction, leaving the area bare, for this necessity, without having to travelling a long distance of transit, to find food.

Thus Speaks, Depression, (February 6, 2016)

www.asknormen.co.uk

My story is

But

One voice

In the wilderness

Seeking acknowledgement.

Of the struggle

To find

Self-acceptance

And self-worth.

Knowing

My own journey

Hasn't been

The hardest

Or the easiest.

To reach

This point of my life.

As a dark cloud

Looms large

Over my horizon.

Feeling myself

Shrinking

Into nothingness.

Except

A bubbling cauldron

Of negative emotions

And empty space

That once housed

My physical body.

In wondering

What difference

In my presence

Making.

Other than

A space filler

Most people don't see.

Even if

I'm standing

Before them

On the sidewalk.

Unless

They stumble

Over my feet.

Maybe

If I'm lucky

Tonight

I won't wake up

On the morrow.

Rather

Will find

That sacred gift 

Of true peace.

For my body

and soul.


Therisa © 2016



Author's note: If you asked me, at the moment, what my level of suicidal ideation is, would have to tell you, it's about 5-5.25, an increase, from Friday's levels of 4.5-5. As I find myself, in the balance, between being passively and actively suicidal. For most of my life that I can remember, these thoughts have always been a part of my life. Existing, most of the time, as a background static, like a radio, just out of tune, for that particular station, you're trying to tune in.


Right now, I am, in no danger of committing suicide, beyond the radio, is getting tuned in.

That Unattainable Itch (February 3, 2014)

www.lifetasteswell.com

Within my soul

I feel

A stirring.

Or

An itch

If you prefer.

Calling out

In a language

I don't fully understand.

But

It feels

So familiar.

As If

I have heard it

Being spoken

Before.

In a distant dream

Or long forgotten memory

From my childhood.

Teasing me

With its familiarity.

As it rolls

Around my head

Driving me

Insane.

Leading me

In an unknown direction

That only

It knows.

Don't feel

Any sense of malice

Or darkness

From it.

Beyond

My frustration

Of being led

Blindly.

Wondering

If I shall ever learn

What this message

Is being offered

To me.

As I have

Little to no patience

For jigsaw puzzles

Like this.

As this thought

Floats

Through my mind:

"Patience

Grasshopper

Patience."

Making me

Want to clench

My teeth

In frustration.

Knowing

Full well

Only time

Can provide

Those answers

I seek.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Am just old enough, to remember watch Kung Fu, in reruns, as a child, which the quote: "Patience, Grasshopper, Patience", is taken from.

A Soul's Wish (February 4, 2016)

www.yogawithtali.wordpress.com

Silence.

Only

A soul can hear

And understand.

Is what

I seek.

In muzzling

My inner critic

Permanently.

Reclaiming

What's every child's

Birthright:

Self-confidence

And self-esteem.

By undoing

A lifetime

Of destructive comments

And brutal body blows

To the soul.

At times

My psychic pain

Is too much.

As I shrink

Ever smaller

Into a space

Of lost hope.

As the words

Logic and sanity

Are only found

In a dictionary.

Depression

And extreme anxiety

Sink their talons 

Deep

Into my soul.

Simple act

Of opening and exiting

My apartment door

Takes on

Heroic measures.

As I cower

In my bedroom.

Shedding tears

Of frustration

And shame.

Knowing

Only last week

I could do so

With the greatest

Of ease.

Wondering

How long

My jail sentence

Will be

This time.

Before

The cycle changes

In granting me

Parole.

Until

The next time

I'm held hostage

Within my apartment.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: My last bout of agoraphobia, occurred, during the summer of 2014, lasting 3 months, before I was able to leave my apartment, without any assistance. Marking my second cycle of agoraphobia, within the past 6 years.

Caught Between Two Worlds (February 3, 2016)

www.forward.com

Can feel

My emotions

Pushing forth

Beyond the barriers

I have built.

Wondering

As I question myself

For thinking

This way.

Am I

Delusional?

In my challenging

The status quo

That society has

So rigidly imposed

On those

Who are different.

In my wanting

And needing

To fully embrace

This change.

On the physical

And spiritual level.

Knowing

By doing so

I have become

A leper.

For those people

Who fear

And avoid me.

To do otherwise

Would mean

Continuing living

My life

As a ghost.

Moving through life

Unable to connect

With people

On a meaningful level.

Beyond

Being seen

As a pale shade

Of myself.

Neither

Fully alive

Nor

Truly dead.

Sadly

My own answer

To this question.

Is a shrug

Of my shoulders

And a frustrated sigh

As I move on.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: Not exactly sure, why I wrote this, beyond this driving need, to do so. In having done so, I do feel, a tad lighter physically and spiritually. Either way, this probably, my most spiritual poem, in a long time.

This Is Me (February 2, 2016)

www.quotesgram.com

Identity

noun, plural identities.

1. the state or fact of remaining the same one or ones, as under varying aspects or conditions:

The identity of the fingerprints on the gun with those on file provided evidence that he was the killer.

2. the condition of being oneself or itself, and not another:

He began to doubt his own identity.

3. condition or character as to who a person or what a thing is; the qualities, beliefs, etc., that distinguish or identify a person or thing:

a case of mistaken identity; a male gender identity; immigrants with strong ethnic identities.

4. the state or fact of being the same one as described.

5. the sense of self, providing sameness and continuity in personality over time and sometimes disturbed in mental illnesses, as schizophrenia.

6. exact likeness in nature or qualities:

an identity of interests.

7. an instance or point of sameness or likeness:

to mistake resemblances for identities.

source: www.dictionary.com

November 15, 2016

Will mark

My 11th anniversary

Of my acceptance

For whom

I am.

Having spent

Over 28 years

In hiding.

Filled with shame

Fear and self-loathing

Since August 1977.

(As my family live

In a small rural

Ontario village

At the time.)

A vain attempt

To protect myself

From the other kids

Who sought

To attack me.

Both verbally

And physically.

Turning

Their negative energy

Inwards

In a corrosive manner.

Where

Life has no meaning

Beyond death

And release.

Until

One day

In early 2005

I stopped suppressing

Myself.

Letting out

This timid child

Into the light.

Offering her

A chance to grow

And heal.

In realizing

After a few months

Of cross dressing

This wasn't me.

I need more

In my life.

To fill

This huge hole

In my soul.

Standing over

My dad's grave

On November 15, 2005.

I found myself

Able to release

This 10 tonne elephant

From my shoulders.

As tears of relief

Streaked my face

In  the late morning mist

On an unusually mild

Mid-November day.

As I shared

With my dad's ashes

My true self.

By taking 

The first steps

In my journey

Of real healing

As a woman.

With small steps

Towards the ending

Of my abusive

And destructive past.

In the rebirth

Of myself

As Therisa.

Regardless

What others think

Whom I am.

I'm

A

Woman.


Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The hardest journey, one will ever undertake, is to look deeply, into ones soul and make the necessary changes, for true healing to occur. Even if, this means, you must go against the flow that Society views, as normal. Knowing, you'll face fierce opposition, based upon, fear fuelled ignorance around anything that's different.

The Waiting Game (February 2, 2016)

www.healthdefine.com

An anxious sigh

Escapes my lips

As I chew on

One of my fingernails

On my right hand.

Know

It's a bad habit

That I should stop.

But

I don't care.

As I face

Another three days

Before I face

My doctor

And the latest A1C result.

Will admit

Am scared witless.

In facing

The strong possibility

Of having to start

Injecting myself

With Insulin.

Not sure

How I should read

My nurse practitioner's

Response.

When

She says

The results are better

Than last time.

Given

Prior to that test

I had been off

All of my meds

For about 4 months.

And yeah

The results were

Disastrous.

That's putting it

Mildly.

Any result

Would be better.

Given

I'm back

On my meds

(HRT and diabetic).

But

Is it enough

To avoid

The need for injections?

That's

The million dollar question.

One way

Or another

Will be answered

At my Friday morning

Appointment.

Can only hope

It's good news

Until my next A1C test

In late April.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: By nature, I'm not the most patience of people, as you can tell, with this poem. I just want the results back, so I can move forward with my life, regardless, if I need to start using Insulin. And yes, this waiting is killing me.

The Jagged Wound (February 1, 2016)

www.williamtollefsonvalues.blogspot.ca

Don't understand

Why I'm being triggered

By these images

Right now.

When

I thought

These memories

Had been dealt

With.

In a safe

And constructive way.

And yet

Tears are streaming

As I find myself

Being transported back

To another place

And time.

Wanting to curl up

Into a foetal position

Hoping to disappear.

Even now

Two days later

Am still

Emotionally

Ripped wide open.

Wondering

How long

Will I need

For these emotional wounds

To scab over.

And for

The healing process

To complete itself

Once more.

This time

Completely.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: On Saturday, January 30, 2016, while looking for images to use with another poem, about identity, I found myself, being triggered by these images. I know these images can't hurt me, but still, I had a very emotional response to them, leaving me, feeling like, a PTSD flashback had occurred. Even now, three days later, am still feeling the residue of that occurrence, as my soul, slowly recovers.