Saturday 27 February 2016

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

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
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
As I know
What I want to write.

For I can
Describe it
To you
In full detail

Can't transcribe it
Onto the written page
Or computer screen.

Is it
Any wonder
My exam times.

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."

It wouldn't be
Looked at
By him.

A failing mark
For me.

I should place this
For now.

Can feel it.

So close
To be
Bursting out
From this mental prison
Of mine.

As it
Slips away
From me.

A frustrated sigh
I walk away.

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.

Friday 26 February 2016

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

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.

Out of your mind
With fear.

As I laid
A trial of kibble
From the bathroom
To the centre
Of my heart.

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.

Laying down
To rest
For the coming day.

As I give you
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.

Thursday 25 February 2016

Lazy Freeloader (February 25, 2016)

Son of bitch.

You sit there
All day long
Doing nothing.

Playing computer games.

I don't want
To hear
Your feeble excuses
For your slacking.

After a long day
Of hard labour.

Could've you
At least
Have washed
Those few dishes
From breakfast?

Is that
Too much
Of you?


Just shut your trap
And do it

She stormed out
Of the apartment.

I left her
With these words
Of advice.

Just have to
Pull yourself up
By your bootstraps
And get over it.

I don't care
If your shrink says

You're not depressed.


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.


Wednesday 24 February 2016

When Cassandra Spoke (February 24, 2016)

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.

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
With others.

As he fled
To the car
His world

A month
Or so

They buried
Her grandma.

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.

Tuesday 23 February 2016

The Martyr (February 22, 2016)

I stand
Before you.

A silent witness
For the crimes
You have committed
Against me.

In the name
Of your God
And religion.

In knowing
I can
Or will say
Shall change
Your mind.

As you prepare
A pit area
For the execution
Of my sentence.

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.

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: 

Monday 22 February 2016

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

Without picking up
The receiver.

The dread conversation
Will go.

In a negative way.

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.

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
From one's scalp
After all.

Therisa © 2016

Author's noteFor 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.

Saturday 20 February 2016

Throwing Away The Key (February 20, 2016)
Been told
I have travelled far
In this healing journey
Of mine.

And yet
Find myself
At the walls
Trying to maintain
My equilibrium.

In being triggered
By the slightest thing
These past few weeks.

My grasp
Upon sanity.

In my struggle
And chronic depression.

As if
They're imaginary friends
I have invented
As hold overs
From my childhood.


Is this
The new me
That I have
The pleasure of
Looking forward

Of being
A virtual prisoner
Within my mind.

To experience
What parole means.

Able to remove
These burdensome shackles
Of my hyper-vigilant senses
That bind me
To this plane of existence.

A lifetime
Long enough
To punished?

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.

Friday 19 February 2016

A Friday Afternoon (February 19, 2016)
Around me
The chaos of life
Bubbles forth
Like a babbling brook.

As I struggle
To stay connected
With myself.

My rising levels
Of anxiety
Reaching towards
A panic attack.

Leaving me
Extremely vulnerable.

As people walk by
In the library.

In knowing
It's just my body
Its hyper-vigilance.

A by-product
Of an abuse past
I'm trying to

This growing urge
To runaway
And hide
Inside my apartment.

To do so
Would be admitting
Once again
I have failed.

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
Typing this

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.

Thursday 18 February 2016

Before The Coming Storm (February 18, 2016)

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.

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
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.


Tuesday 16 February 2016

A Heart's Cry (February 16, 2016)

The Northern expanse
My soul does travel
Seeking refuge.

The Northern wind
Blows cold
Through ones body.

Leaving it
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?

As I stumble
And fall.

To pick me up

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.

I am
A survivor
Of domestic violence
By a family member.

Even now
Almost nine years free
Of his physical presence.

His shadow
Still impacts
My daily life.

In being

Jumping at
Any sudden
And loud noise
Like an argument.

An apartment door
Being slammed shut.

My long term memory
For capturing
In 4K detail
His attacks.

Of me
In my barricaded bedroom
Crying myself
To sleep
In my late teens.

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.

Sparing me
Decades of pain
And sorrow.

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.

Saturday 13 February 2016

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

Failure to connect
To server.

Before my mind's eye.

As I try
To access
My Muse.

If today's
Extreme cold alert
By the city of Toronto
Is causing this.

My synapses
Are responding
To my requests.

This growing need
To curl up
In my warm
And comfortable bed.

Caring not
What the world thinks
Beyond this
Of keeping my body

Walking piles of clothing
Are identified
As humans.

From point A
To point B.

Leaving behind
A vapour contrail
Marking their passage
Like jets.

And myself
Am cuddled
With my cats.

More humane temperatures
Before venturing
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)

Before me
An open window
To my past
And future.

I had walked away
Fourteen years ago
On my own.

In hating
Whom I was.

Unable to voice
This inner truth
With anyone.

Or friends.

To rebuild
These bridges.

I have left
To rot
Over time.

By doing so
Will expose myself
To rejection
And hate.

For few know
The journey
I have taken

Do I take
This risk
And climb
Through this window?

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.

The rising tide
Of anxiety.

Wracks my brain
And soul.

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)
Not sure
If this
Is a curse
Or a blessing.

You tell me
I have
A rare gift.

Of true healing.

As people
Of all genders
Come to me
Sharing their hopes
And fears.

Who do I
Have to turn
In my time
Of need?

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.

Friday 12 February 2016

Trypanophobia (February 10, 2016)


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.

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

To control
What pills can't

I have long memories
Of being held
Or threaten
By medical staff.

As they try
To inject medication
Or draw my blood.

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

A frustrated sigh
At these triggering memories
From my childhood.

* * *

Against my body
It rest
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.

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?

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.

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
Or sexual orientation.

Involves everyone
For no one
Is truly free.

If one person
Remains repressed
In any manner.

And you
Dr. King
Your dreams
Lives on.

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.

Wednesday 10 February 2016

Word-blind (February 10, 2016)

I could describe
The emotional impact
Of my words
Upon all levels
Of myself.

As I write
About my abusive past.

I can't.

Placing myself
Behind a one way wall
Of disassociation
That blocks my response.

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.

Able to move
From the bed
To take my meds
Go to the bathroom.

Look after
Venus Star
And Squeak.

My faithful feline

Will the day come
When I can feel
The emotional impact
Of my words
Without needing others
To tell me

Or being
So strongly triggered
By these remembrances.

I knew.

Giving myself
A mental shrug
Of shoulders.

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)

The Beast howling
At the soul's gate
Demanding entrance
Right away.

It tossed aside
My mental defences.

As if
Cotton candy.

It's razor-sharp talons
Tearing away
My mental walls.

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.

In various rent
And tears
Across my cloth body.

My stuffing
Leaking out
Like dark blood
Upon the tile floor.

Various shades
Of stitching
My doll's body
Like scar tissue.

The previous attacks
Over the years
By this furious Beast.

Not all stitching
Is visible
To the naked eye.

As invisible thread
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.

The Beast
My loving brother
I never knew.

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.

Tuesday 9 February 2016

A Fate Worse Than Death (February 9, 2016)

Upon the wings
Of midnight black
I soak
The night's sky.

My true love
Whom I lost.

As a murder of Crows
Scrawls Heaven
And Earth.

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
Into dark sex siren.

To roam
The nightly sex dreams
Of men.

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.

Saturday 6 February 2016

Citylife (February 6, 2016)

White tears
From the Heavens

The barren grey landscape
In a blanket
Before melting away.

The countless kilometres
Of asphalt ribbon.

That scars
The landscape
As far as
One can see.

Surrounded by
Tall sterile towers
Popping up
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

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.

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.

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.

We elected them
For bold and decisive

At least.)

And not
This political waffling.

Scared to make
A firm stand
On anything
That might raise taxes.

As the city
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)

My story is
One voice
In the wilderness
Seeking acknowledgement.

Of the struggle
To find
And self-worth.

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
Into nothingness.

A bubbling cauldron
Of negative emotions
And empty space
That once housed
My physical body.

In wondering
What difference
In my presence

Other than
A space filler
Most people don't see.

Even if
I'm standing
Before them
On the sidewalk.

They stumble
Over my feet.

If I'm lucky
I won't wake up
On the morrow.

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.

Thursday 4 February 2016

That Unattainable Itch (February 3, 2014)

Within my soul
I feel
A stirring.

An itch
If you prefer.

Calling out
In a language
I don't fully understand.

It feels
So familiar.

As If
I have heard it
Being spoken

In a distant dream
Or long forgotten memory
From my childhood.

Teasing me
With its familiarity.

As it rolls
Around my head
Driving me

Leading me
In an unknown direction
That only
It knows.

Don't feel
Any sense of malice
Or darkness
From it.

My frustration
Of being led

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
Through my mind:


Making me
Want to clench
My teeth
In frustration.

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)


A soul can hear
And understand.

Is what
I seek.

In muzzling
My inner critic

What's every child's

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.

And extreme anxiety
Sink their talons 
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.

Only last week
I could do so
With the greatest
Of ease.

How long
My jail sentence
Will be
This time.

The cycle changes
In granting me

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.

Wednesday 3 February 2016

Caught Between Two Worlds (February 3, 2016)
Can feel
My emotions
Pushing forth
Beyond the barriers
I have built.

As I question myself
For thinking
This way.

Am I

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.

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.

Being seen
As a pale shade
Of myself.

Fully alive
Truly dead.

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)


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.

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.

Their negative energy
In a corrosive manner.

Life has no meaning
Beyond death
And release.

One day
In early 2005
I stopped suppressing

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.

What others think
Whom I am.


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.

Tuesday 2 February 2016

The Waiting Game (February 2, 2016)

An anxious sigh
Escapes my lips
As I chew on
One of my fingernails
On my right hand.

It's a bad habit
That I should stop.

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

She says
The results are better
Than last time.

Prior to that test
I had been off
All of my meds
For about 4 months.

And yeah
The results were

That's putting it

Any result
Would be better.

I'm back
On my meds
(HRT and diabetic).

Is it enough
To avoid
The need for injections?

The million dollar question.

One way
Or another
Will be answered
At my Friday morning

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)

Don't understand
Why I'm being triggered
By these images
Right now.

I thought
These memories
Had been dealt

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
Ripped wide open.

How long
Will I need
For these emotional wounds
To scab over.

And for
The healing process
To complete itself
Once more.

This time

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.

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