The Coming Out Party, Yeah Right. (May 31, 2016)

In my mind's eye

It unfolds

Like a tragic drama

In slow motion.

Knowing

It'll end

In broken emotions

And tears.

Wanting to scream

At myself:

"Stay away

From the apartment door

Don't open it!!"

At the sound

Of mom

Knocking

Unannounced

At my door.

Not expecting

Anyone

From my family.

Wearing

A navy blue floral skirt

And red t-shirt.

Fingers and toes

Painted

In Revlon Raven

(A dark shade of red).

And

Golden studs

Adoring my ears.

Did I

In answering

The door.

Not sure

Who was

More surprised.

Her

Or I.

Should have

Told her:

"Good-bye".

As I closed

The door.

Instead

I let her

Enter.

Thus

My descent

Into Hell

And madness.

In forcing

Myself

Out of the closet

Before I was ready.

As her trans-daughter

Who happens

To be

A lesbian.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: There is more, to this story, but I don't feel comfortable, in sharing it, right now. Safe, to say, I crashed and burned, emotionally and mentally, after this Canada Day long weekend, in 2006. Since, this incident, I have broken off, all ties, with my family, given my mom's transphobia and my brother's abusive behavior, over the years.

Wasn't the poem, I was expecting for my 2700th, but some things are beyond our control.

Holy.... (May 29, 2016)

In stunned disbelief

The news rolls

Over me

Like a tsunami

From Vancouver.

Upon hearing

The Conservative Party

Of Canada

Has approved

Same sex marriages.

Thus

Has joined

The 21th century

At their policy convention

With the rest

Of the world.

Although

I wonder

If someone had spiked

Whatever

The delegates were drinking

Before the vote. 

Else

Had created

The world's biggest bong

For the more conservative

Evangelical members.

Stopping them

From fracturing

The "Right"

Again.

As happened

During the late 1980s

With the formation

Of the Reform Party

From the Progressive Conservatives.

Just hope

No delegates sue

The party

For it's whiplash change

Over this sudden political

Turnabout.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Never thought, the Conservative Party of Canada, would actually amend their policy platform to support same sex marriages, given their vocal and religious protest against. Wonder, will they also change, their transphobic attitude that kill the last attempt to protect Trans' rights, under the Canadian constitution, by supporting the changes, to the Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms, by specifically making it a hate crime, to knowingly attack and hurt a  trans-person. Wish, I could ask this, but, future gazing, isn't one of my powers.

In Doubt (May 30, 2016)

Gentle tapping

Upon the keyboard

As the words flow

Before me

On the computer screen.

Releasing

Unconscious thoughts

Without realizing it.

Often wonder

Why people read

My minimalist poems

About my daily life

And the things

That grab

My attention.

Know

For most people

Am exotic curiosity

Outside of

Their experiences.

In being

A minority

Of a minority.

Often

Abused

And targeted

With hatred.

What power

Does my words have

That makes people

Want to read them?

Beyond

The exotic nature

Of whom

I am.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: There are times, which I question, why people read my poems, at all. Knowing, I don't have the technical skill or polish that others have, in their writing. This is, one such time.

Untitled (May 30, 2016)

I do not stand

Before you

Preaching intolerance

And bigotry.

In forcing you

To be

Someone.

Who

You're not.

In having

Been forced

Myself

Several times.

Thus

Knowing

The pain.

That's felt deep

Within

One's soul.

As

A result

From this type

Of bullying

By others.

All

I ask

From you:

Is an open mind

And a willingness

To listen.

Nothing more.

Otherwise

I shall walk away

My heart sadden.

At the raw power

Of ignorance

Has over your soul.

Therisa © 2016

The Prisoner's Letter (May 29, 2016)

If

You're reading

This.

Then

My muse has escaped

From this inferno

Of Hell

On Earth.

How

I don't know.

But

She has.

As

I write this

On a scrap piece

Of paper

Lying nearby.

Not knowing

The next time

I can write.

If

At all.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: An exercise, to break up, my writer's block, caused by, the nasty heat wave that has southern Ontario, under it's grip, for the past week and showing, now signs of letting up, soon.

My Butterfly Effect (May 28, 2016)

A simple mistake

In misreading

The 519* support group

Schedule.

Finding myself

Standing

Before

The wrong group.

Brimming full

With destructive anger

And corrosive pain

From mom's rejection.

Just two weeks

Previously

On the Canada Day

Long weekend.

Looking for

A safe shelter

To ease my burden

With those

Who would understand.

Timidly

I enter

The group room.

Only then

Did I realize

My blunder.

Shaking

Like an autumn leaf

In a September breeze.

I asked

The F2M group

For a kind ear

To listen to

My story.

As I released

The pent-up energy

In a healing circle.

Never realizing

Until later.

A simple "no"

From them.

And I

No longer

Among the living

That weekend.

Or graced

By the lasting

And healing friendship

Of Z.

This July

We'll celebrate

Ten years

Of this mistake.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: After my mom's rejection of me, on Canada Day 2006, I had spun down, into the blackest depression, which, almost cost me, my life and job, at the time. With the help of Z, I have been rebuilding my life, ever since. Will admit, there are times, I feel overwhelm, by everything that has happened to me, especially, during the flashbacks, and crippling anxiety attacks.

*519: a community centre, in Toronto, that serves the needs of local residents and the LGBT+ community of the greater Toronto area. It's called, the 519, due to its address, 519 Church St, in the heart of Toronto's gay village.

Melting (May 27, 2016)

Every year

It catches us

Unaware.

As if

It's the first time

For this

To happen.

As people rush

To strip down

Their body

Bare.

In a respectable fashion.

Seeking out

Their favour altar

To roast themselves

In various shades

Of cancerous tan.

Others

Hide-away

In the coolest

And darkest spot

Possible

Without A/C.

Their bodies

Give off

A pale bio-luminance glow

With their pasty looks.

Rest of us

Broil away

In the sweltering heat.

Praying

To whatever God/dess

For relief.

As the first heatwave

Grips the land

Without any sign

Of easing up

Any time soon.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Written, while waiting for my various medical appointments, this morning.

Deepest Wish (May 26, 2016)

Shall

You offer me

Chance of a time

To have

A fully functional

Female body.

With

The only catch being

After a year

My time

Upon this plane

Is up.

Without

Any hesitation

Or second guessing.

My answer is

A resounding

"Yes".

Even with

The most advanced SRS

Will never be

Fully female

In body.

That's if

I get approval

And funding

In the first place.

Before

You start yelling

And screaming

At me.

I know

Changing my body

Won't eradicate

My various mental illnesses

Or the other issues

I have.

But

For a moment

I'll experience something

That's forever

Denied

To other trans-women.

Having a period.

However

Brief

It may be.

It's worth it.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Written, while doing my laundry, late, at night.

Janus, Would Be Proud (May 26, 2016)

They call

Themselves

Christians.

Instead of

Preaching love

As their religion

Espouses.

Pure hatred

Oozes

From their frozen hearts

Like oil

From the ground.

Sitting

So smugly

In their Sunday best

Upon the church pew.

Praying
For my soul's

Salvation.

Fake smiles

Plastered

Upon their faces.

Like a poster

Wrapped around

The telephone pole.

Advertising

The latest release

From a local indie

Group.

Hate to think

How they would

Treat me.

If I had reacted

In a disrespectful manner

To them.

Guess

They don't read

Their own religious text

In having forgotten

The golden rule.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Often wonder, how someone, who claims, to speak, in the Voice of God, can be filled, with such hatred, like many socially conservative Christians. Last time, I looked, the Christian bible wasn't filled with ignorance or pure hatred. Although, I must say, I'm not a Christian, nor pretend, to be one. Had too much religious hatred, forced down my throat, for being, a trans-lesbian.

From The Ground Up (May 26, 2016)

Some

Who read this

May think

I'm venting

My sour grapes.

But

I ask you.

"What's it like

To be

At the top

Or near it?"

From someone

Who's always

Looking up

At others

From the bottom.

Having to fight

For whatever

I have.

Medically

And otherwise

In my life.

Standing

On the fringe

Of society

Looking inwards

With a heavy sigh

Upon my heart.

Dreaming

Of a day

With total inclusion

For all.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The older, I get, the more, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., is influencing me, with his philosophical message of inclusion, as his "dream" has grown closer, in some ways, but further, in others. And yes, you can call me, a dreamer, but, without my dreams, I would have died, years ago, by my own hand, in total despair and sorrow.

More, Is Less (May 18, 2016

It's the simplest

And yet

Most profound thing

One can do.

As we walk

Upon this journey

Of true

And lasting healing.

In realizing

The most elegant solution

Is the simplest one.

For some people

A paradoxical answer

That confuses

Them.

Conflicting

With their inner

Value system

And learnt ideology:

"More

Is better".

And yet

The opposite

Is true.

Give

Any young child

The choice

Between

A cardboard box

And an expensive toy.

They will chose

The box

Over the toy.

Playing for hours

With the box.

While

The ignored toy

Sits

And collects dust.

A lesson

We need

To remember.

It's the journey

Itself.

And not

One's lavish display

Of wealth

That matters.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: This poem grew out, of the therapy session of May 18, 2016, which I talked about how we approach life, will influence our pace of healing and world outlook. In that, more, isn't better, rather, it's harmful, to our spiritual and healing needs

Swimming, In A Sea Of Red Tape (May 25, 2016)

I didn't ask

For the various labels

That hang around my neck

Like a hangman's noose.

Often

Without knowing

They're around

Me.

Rather

Have gather them

Over the years

From other people.

Starting

At the tender age

Of four.

With the medical

Community

And growing

From there.

In seeing me

As a problem

That needs

A solution.

Instead of

A person

Who needs

Understanding.

Forced

To play

By a myriad

Of Byzantine

Bureaucratic rules

That dehumanize

All applicants.

Fighting

To pry open

The locked doors.

Where

Vital decisions are

Being made

Without my presence.

Only to find

The reports are

Sealed.

Thus

Am forced

To become

What I hate.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: My collection of labels, started, in November 1974, with my survival of a severe electrical burn, to both sides of my mouth. And from there, have grown, with the start of school, the following year, with kindergarten. Having experienced multiple years, throughout my academic career, in special educational classes, for speech therapy, gifted student program and last for, various learning disabilities. Am only aware of some of these decisions, because my dad broke protocol, with a backroom committee, and in showing me, their reports.

As an university student, I had to identify myself, to my various professors, as having various learning disabilities, before the start of each new course, or lecturer. A royal pain, in the butt, having to do so. Even on, on the job site, I have to do so, to prevent them, from discriminating against me, because, of this.

Quite frankly, I rather not, have to disclose such personal information, about myself, that people can use, against me. I don't like using labels, but the rules of society forces them, upon people, like myself, regardless, of our personal feelings, towards them.

The Day, The World Changed (May 25, 2016)

Every June

The family
Used to gathered

Into one spot.

A hundred or so

Of us.

Celebrating

The anniversary

Of our (1952) arrival

In Canada

From The Nederland.

Ranging

From toddlers
To senior citizens

And every age

Inbetween.

Never 

A shortage

Of eyes

To look after

The smaller children.

As various games

And activities

Were planned

For everyone.

Until

February 2, 1984.

Forever

Marking the day

The laughter died

With my opa's death.

Opa loved

To play jokes

On us

Grandchildren

And great grandchildren.

His face

Would light up

Like a Canada Day

Fireworks display

With his toothless smile.

Now

It's all faded away

Into memories.

Like the fall leaves

In a brisk October breeze

The family drifted

In its own way.

Lost

Within this grief

Was my birthday

I never had.

And

The unwanted present

Of a prolong depression

I struggle with

As a result.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: One of the biggest lessons, I learnt, as a child growing up, surrounded around the family, and how it came first. Sadly, with opa's death (1984 )and oma's death (1996), the extended family broke down and drifted apart. Only gathering together, for deaths and weddings.

Truthfully, I never really felt comfortable, during these annual gathering, and never knew why, until now. They triggered, within me, a mild anxiety attack, with so many people, in a small space.

Until Next Time, We Meet (May 24, 2016)

'Tis

The night before

We chatted

Over the phone

You and I

Dad.

Never realizing

On the morn

We'd be rushing

Helter shelter

To your bedside.

Through

A mid-November

Ontario snowstorm

On unplowed

Rural gravel roads.

Your voice

Filled with joy

As your beloved Leafs

Were victorious

Over the Chicago Blackhawks.

By your bedside

I grasp

Your cold clammy hand

In mine.

Inane things

We did chatter

Finding comfort

In the sound

Of your voice.

As the hour

Approach 1 am

And bed

For me.

The doctor said

You had irreversible

Brain damage

At the Saturday morning

Meeting.

All

I could think

Were the final words

That I said

Before hanging up.

Giving us

The medical options

To furthering

Dad's care.

"Good-bye Dad

I love you."

To which

We responded:

"Remove the machines

It's his wish

For this."

As I gave him

One final kiss

Of good-bye

Upon the cheek.

Never seeing

His live body

Again.

Until

The family viewing

At the funeral home

Before the funeral.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: I was returning a phone call that my mom had made earlier, in the evening, while I was still, working my afternoon shift, for an electronic firm's distribution centre, in Mississauga, Ontario. The sound of my dad's voice surprised me, as he was suppose to be, still hospitalized, before his long trip, to London, Ontario, to see the heart specialist, at University of Western Ontario.

A day doesn't go by, which I wish, I had said more, to him, over the phone. Despite the fact, I was the last person, for whom, he talked to, before his fatal heart attack, the next morning, on November 13th (a Friday). Only, to be revived, by local paramedic, but the damage was, already done. At 21:50, on Sunday, November 15, 1998, my dad was declared dead.

Sound Of Total Silence (May 24, 2016)

My biological clock

Was still-born

At time

Of conception.

Never

Able to experience

What it means

To be fully female.

In all aspect

Of life.

Only

An approximation

At a surgical best

By a scalpel.

Leaving me

Neither

Male nor female

As a result.

Rather

A third gender

Straddling

The gender divide.

In fuelling

My unanswered yearning

To give birth

And hold

Within my arms

My own child.

No amount

Of counselling

Or river of tears

Can change this.

Thus

Haunting me

To the grave.

Therisa © 2016

Author's notes: Unlike the early years of SRS, the current version, doesn't include, the transplantation of the female reproductive system, into a trans-woman. In one way, sparing the horrors that the earlier SRS recipients had to face, with organ rejection and the numerous surgeries, as a result. But, I wonder, given the advances, in stem cell research, if it's not possible to do this, without the worry of organ rejection and the need to take medication for the rest of our lives, as a result of these advances. For myself, it's too late, and I know it.

The Unseen War (May 21, 2016)

For many years

The word

"Hope"

Existed as

A swear word

To me.

Knowing

Any second

Another fist

Or kick

Will land.

As I struggle

With my toxic experiences

Of domestic and schoolyard

Abuse.

Praying for

The welcoming embrace

Of Death

And the darkness

She brings.

Knowing not

These criminal attacks

Upon my body and soul

Aren't my responsibility.

Although

Placing

The blame

Squarely

Upon myself.

Letting my tears

Eat away

At my soul.

Like falling drops

Of concentrated acid

On cloth.

Until

My self-esteem

And self-confidence

Were reported.

As vague rumours

To have existed

At all.

Even now

I have to

Remind myself

Constantly.

I'm stronger

And better

Than those

Who hurt me.

For too many years

Of my life.

Therisa © 2016

Farewell (May 21, 2016)

A portrait of Lili Elbe by Gerda Wegener, a watercolour from 1928 Credit: Wellcome Library, London

Like a child

Scared

I did pose

My love.

Never realizing

The catalyst

It would prove

For us.

In awaking

Our inner self

To each other.

Never knowing

It would tear us

Apart.

Although

Death is nigh

For me.

I must live

My life

As a woman

In all aspects.

By ending

This lie

I'm male.

As your paintings

Does show.

Am sorry

Gerda

My love.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: For those, who don't know me, I'm a transsexual lesbian, who been out of the closet to my family, since July 1, 2006, when I, disastrously outed myself, to my mom, on Canada Day. Let's just say, she wasn't very supportive, of the ideal, of having an eldest daughter, instead of, a son. As a result, I nosedived, into a very dark and black depression that almost cost me, my life, as a result. Have since, broken off, all contact, with my immediate family.

The film, The Danish Girl, is a fictionalized account of Lili Elbe's transition, from  Einar Wegener to Lili Ilse Elvenes. And, the love affair, Lili had with her wife, Gerda, spanning several decades, during the early 20th century. Although, it's never said, outright, in the movie, but Lili died, from organ rejection, as the drugs to counter this, weren't available, until 1980. I wonder, if it's possible to transplant female organs, with the consent, of these families, of death women (who have signed organ donor cards), given the level of today's technology, compared to the early 1930s.

Please click, on the following links, for more information, about Lili Elbe and the truth, behind the movie, The Danish Girl:

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

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/films/2016/04/14/the-tragic-true-story-behind-the-danish-girl/

Just The Facts (May 21, 2016)

itspronouncedmetrosexual.com

I realize

As I read

The daily news

People are being confused

By the various usage

Of labels.

Within

The trans-community

Itself.

Never realizing

The term

"Transgender"

Is an umbrella heading

For us.

That covers

Many diverse groups:

Transsexuals

(Male to female/Female to Male)

Cross dressers/transvestites

Drag kings/queens

Gender queers

And two spirited.

Just to name

A few of the groups

Standing beneath

This growing umbrella

Of ours.

For which

I must apologize

On behalf

Of my community

To the cis-world.

For people

Like Lili Elbe

And I.

We are

Transsexuals.

Wanting to live

Our lives

Full time.

As our chosen gender

By having surgeries

To remove

Our offending genitals.

If medically

Or financially possible

That is.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The following links, provide more information, about the trans-community:

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

http://www.belongto.org/resource.aspx?contentid=4580

Facing A Truth (May 20, 2016)

Don't fully understand

Why I'm crying

Right now

In a public place.

As

A slow stream

Of tears

Stain my face.

And please

The next moron

Who says:

"It's because

Of the hormones

I'm taking."

Gets

A good swift kick

To their family jewels.

As if

Having estrogen flowing

In my body

Will radically change

My emotions.

Honey

Have a newsflash

For you.

Prior

To starting estrogen

My soulscape was

An emotional wasteland

Of repressed emotions.

Threatening

To fully consume

My body and soul

In a toxic maelstrom

Of negativity.

Just hold

The shiny little

Estrogen pill

In my hand.

Was enough

To give myself

Permission

To be

My true self.

Emotionally

And physically.

Something

You'll never understand

No matter.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Early on, during my transitioning, I have been asked, several times, how I felt emotional, since starting estrogen, to which, I told them, the true. Emotionally, I'm repressing my emotions, less than I was, as a male. Otherwise, I haven't noticed any difference, except my bouts of depression, don't seem, as deep as, before starting estrogen, more prolong, in duration.

A Sad Reality (May 19, 2016)

Silence

Cut the soul

Like a hot knife

Through butter.

As it weeps

Bitter salty tears

That corrodes everything

They touch.

Turning

A confident young child

Into a cowering baby.

Scared

Of its own shadow

And loud noises.

The punches

Fall like

A steady rainstorm

Upon the body.

The runoff collects

In red pools

Staining everything

In a shade of rust.

That comes

Into contact

With it.

People

Gather around

To watch

The latest

Afterschool fight.

Letting loose

Their blood thirsty

Savage side

In a circle of hate.

Where

All rules of war

Don't exist.

Except

Just win.

"Forget

That poor excuse

Who got pommelled

Within inches

Of their life.

"Join the crowd

In celebrating
The glorious victory

Over that wimp."

Never mind

The victor is

Most despite bully

In the school.

Or that

The vanquished

Will go home

And attempt suicide

Tonight.

Only failing

Because

The knot came

Loose.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: There are elements of my own life, interweaved, within the above poem. As for those people, who think, things will get better, are totally out to lunch, in believing a simplex slogan, will change a person's life. Sorry, honey that only works, in Hollywood. What is really needed, is a strong supporting network that breaks through the sense of isolation, which is compounded by a feeling of helplessness and hopelessness, that this type of oppression will ever end.

I think, if this type of support had existed, for me, during the 1970s and 1980s, I wouldn't be so traumatized and suffering severely, from mental illness, like I am. I know, only speculation, on my part, but leading thought is proving that measures that support and break through isolation, will reduce occurrence of mental illness and suicide attempts. Something, the current health system has been short, in delivering.

Thursday's Wanderings (May 19, 2016)

Know

Am not

The first

To share.

What it means

To be trans

In a cis-world.

Nor pretend

That I am.

Just too dumb

To keep

My mouth shut

About the injustices

And barriers

My community faces.

In breaking

The deadly silence

We have kept

For too long.

Out of shame

And justifiable fear

Of attracting

Even more

Negative attention.

From those

Filled with blind hate

And ignorance.

 

Guess

I reached

That point

In my life.

Either

Continue running

Or stop

And stand my ground.

Figuring

I had nothing more

To lose

Anyways.

In cutting out

What I was taught

Is more important

Part of my life:

My family.

For health reasons

Mentally

And physically.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Almost 11years, the moderator of my Male to Female support group, suggested, I should start writing a journal or something, to deal with the struggles, I was facing, as I attempted to transition, at work. Like anybody, who heard, a smart and reasonable suggestion, I resisted and prognosticated, for almost a year, afterwards, until March 30, 2007, when I posted my written first poem, since leaving high school, in 1990. And the rest, is history, as they say.

Hostel (2007)

She lays on her bed, thinking of better days and times from her past;
When, she could afford to treat herself to finer foods or a night out on the town;
Instead of being dependent on the hostel for her daily food and nightly shelter;
A temporary measure until she can stand financially on her own feet again;
Right now, its a dream that seems, as far as the Earth is from the Moon.

Feeling like a stranger in a strange land, she uses the hostel for the first time;
Having always been living on her own since going away to university;
Seventeen years of independent living is gone overnight, in a blink of an eye;
Struggling to adjust to a new culture and lifestyle, which is totally alien to her previous life;
Even after a month in the hostel here, she still feels like a fish out of water.

Many of the hostel residents are harden survivors from living on the streets;
Where the only law, is to survive by any means possible at hand;
Whether, you begs, borrows or steals. And lying to everyone, including themselves;
Denying and burying part of their souls, which prevents you from surviving on the streets;
For no one else cares about another face in the crowd, asking for the basic needs of life.

Creating the ultimate disposable product for the disposable society, the poor and the homeless;
People, who by some twist of fate, are now dependent on others for their needs;
While, society has labelled these people, as being lazy and welfare rip-off artists;
Sadly, this view is totally out to lunch, for many of the people are trapped here;
Hasn't society learnt the lessons that Dickens wrote about in his novels? Sadly, it hasn't.


Therisa © 20o7


Author's notes: I wrote, this poem, after leaving the woman's homeless shelter, in 2007. Not exactly sure, of the day and month, I wrote it, but do know, it was between July 4 and November 8, 2007. As I have lost the original copy of this poem. And yes, my writing style has changed over the years.

Not A Victimless Crime (May 18, 2016)

Bullying

A word

That's forever etched

In my mind.

For

I don't need anyone

To tell me

What it means

To be bullied.

As I struggle

With my recovery

After decades

Of bullying.

From chronic depression

Various anxiety disorders

Suicidal thoughts

Agoraphobia

And PTSD.

Which

Is worsen

By being trans.

In doubling

My odds

Over the general population.

For suffering

Depression anxiety

Compulsive behaviour

(like self-harming)

And PTSD.

Would give anything

To never have experience

Night terrors

Or PTSD flashbacks

In my sleep.

As I'm plagued

By chronic insomnia

To the point.

A good night is

Having five hours

Of  uninterrupted

Sleep.

Welcome

To my world.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Whether, or not, people realize this, but bullying (A form of abuse) is, a crime of power, which won't go away, as long as, there two or more people, in a given locale . The best, we can hope, is to limit the damage that's done, to the victims, by the aggressor.

A Day To Mark Ignorance, Of Others (May 17, 2016)

Know

I am

A Technicolour dreamer

For believing.

One day

Homophobia transphobia

And biphobia

Will end.

Having

On more than

One occasion

Been on

The receiving end

Of ignorance filled hate.

But

I have to.

Otherwise

My bitter tears

Of sorrow

Will never end.

As I reflect

Upon my memories

Of brutality

That I've survived.

Unlike those

Who's names

Are called out

On Day of Trans-Remembrance.

Hoping

They have found

What was denied

To them

In their lifetime.

Rest

My brothers

And sisters.

For your suffering

Will never be

Forgotten.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Written for International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia. In hoping, each year, is the last year, we have to mark this,

Just Watch Me (May 17, 2016)

A charismatic soul

Who charmed the women

Young and old

Throughout his life.

(Some called him

A lady's man.)

Canada's answer

To Beatlemania

During his years

In politics.

An independent spirit

Who never took no

As the final answer

When he believed

He was right.

Redefining

What it means

To lead.

During

Times of crisis.

In Canada

And around

The world.

Managing

More escapes

Than Houdini

With his political life.

In repatriating

Canada's constitution

(In 1982)

From Great Britain

Without Quebec's

Support.

Until

His famous (1984) walk

Announcing

His retirement

From public life.

Which

He kept private

Until his death

In September 2000.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The title of this poem, is the answer, that he gave, when asked, how far was he willing to go, in response, to the FLQ Crisis, in 1970. For more details, on this, please click on the following link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/October_Crisis

A Chance For Hope? (May 17, 2016)

www.pinterest.com

Please

Someone pinch me

To wake me up

Telling me

It isn't a dream

I am having.

Too many times

In the past

(Six previous denials)

We have reached

This point.

Only

To have

The rug pulled out

From us.

As if

Transgender rights

Doesn't matter

In a societal

And legal sense

In Canada.

Pardon me

As I wipe away

Tears of joy

And hope

For Bill C-16.

Knowing

What's written

On paper

Won't change

Attitudes.

But

One needs

A starting point

For real change

To occur.

Maybe

Bill C-16

Is it.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Today (May 17, 2016), Canada's federal government has proposed constitutional change that would protect a transperson, under the Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms. Choosing today, as it's International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia, for the announcement. The following link, is the announcement, of this proposed federal legislation:

http://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/transgender-bill-trudeau-government-1.3585522

My biggest fear is, these changes are cosmetic, only,  and don't have any real bite, to them, in protecting people, like myself. Much, like the old Soviet Union's constitution, great on ideals, but pitiful, on implementation.

Untitled (May 13, 2016)

You can

Call me

Nuts.

When

I say

Can hear them

Clearly.

As if

It was yesterday

They spoke

Their toxic words

To me.

And not

Decades

Ago.

Wish

I knew

Why I retain them

Over happier

Encouraging messages

Throughout my life.

Building lofty spires

Of happiness

And encouragement.

Instead of

The numerous graves

Pockmarking

My soulscape

I have dug.

Many

Still unfilled.

Those filled

Contain parts

Of my self-confidence

And self-esteem.

Without

Any ceremony

Or marker

Left behind.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Wrote this, on my way, to Friday's art program. Have been struggling with my emotions, lately, and a rising need to isolate myself, from the world, in all manners.

Days Of Darkness (May 16, 2016)

The late Spring Sun

Spills over

Toronto

Bathing it

In its brightness

And promised warmth.

And yet

For some

Like myself.

It harkens

Another day

Of inner darkness

And battle

With mental illness.

Wanting

To leave behind

This cavernous hole

That I find myself

Hiding in.

Each step

Towards 

The entrance's lip

My levels of dread

And anxiety

Rises.

Nailing me

To the spot

Just short

Of my apartment door.

As if

Another crippling bout

Of agoraphobia

Is preparing

To strike.

It's fangs

Deep

Into me.

Memories

Still fresh

Of the last bout

That lasted

The Summer of 2014.

Fearing

A command performance

As a virtual prisoner

Trapped.

Within

The mental walls

Of my mind

For another prolong

Run.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Can feel myself, slipping away, into an agoraphobic Hell, once more. As, it's getting harder, to stay out of my apartment and not be triggered, by other people, when outside of it.

Beyond The Hole (May 14, 2016)

Am not

A vengeful person

Given the path

My life has

Been forced

To follow.

Nor

Do I seek it.

Instead

Have internalized

This very negative

And destructive energy

Within my body.

Surprising people

At the release

Of my anger

At someone.

As if

Mt St Helen's

Had exploded

Without warning.

Honestly

Am very willing

To overlook

A lot of things

And move on.

And yet

People are shocked

Never seeing

The tattletale signs

Of an impending venting

Before them.

Am I

So opaque

No one sees

Anything?

Or being taken

For granted.

Like Mikey

In the old Life cereal

Commercials.

Who'll eat

Anything

Placed

Before him.

Damn

These pigeonholes

That people place us

Into.

Therisa © 2016

Approaching The Explosion Point (May 16, 2016)

You call me Very brave. And yet Am struggling To remain In one spot. As the irrational need To run away And hide Fills me. Knowing No one can Or will harm me In the library. Can feel My mounting frustration Threatening To explode In the form Of self-harming. Caring not If blood is drawn As the keys Rake my legs. Only wanting To regain Self-control Over this runaway wreck. I call My life. Therisa © 2016 Author's note: Once more, my agoraphobia is triggered, by a crowd. This time, a class of grade one or two students, visiting the local public library, with their teacher. On a scale of 1 to 10, I would rate my anxiety, approaching, 5, just below, the threshold of a full blown anxiety attack, which I had, on Friday afternoon, at my art program.

Under Control (May 14, 2016)

Won't pretend

I understand

Why people read

My poetry.

Knowing

Other poets

Exist.

Who write

More technically

On more conventional subjects

Than I do.

As I struggle

For daily balance

And restraint

With mental illness.

While

Exploring

What it means

To live life

As a woman.

Too often

Am fighting

To remain upright

Just below

My equilibrium point.

As anxiety/panic attacks

Strip me

Of whatever dignity

In a very public way

For everyone

To see.

My body trembling

So badly

Barely able

To control it.

As if

I have some form

Of palsy

Or neurological

Disorder.

Fighting against

The destructive impulse

To hide-away

Within my apartment.

Where

It's safe.

In knowing

I need to

Face it

Head-on.

If I am

To get better

Mentally.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Yesterday (May 13, 2016), I was triggered, in a very bad way. While, attending the art program, I go to. It was one, of my worse anxiety attacks, recently. For several hours, my right arm and left leg trembled, uncontrollably. Almost felt like, a metronome, from the trembling. A combination of aromatherapy and sleep, I have gotten the anxiety attack, under control, last night.

Distant Voices (May 13, 2016)

Distant echoes

From my past

Giving voice

To a darkness

That never disappears.

Tainting

One's soul

In the blackest

Of blacks.

With

Its corrosive

And destructive

Touch.

Leaving me

A hollowed out

Shell.

Scared

To make

A move

Or sound.

Tears

Drops of acid

Dissolving the soul

Upon contact.

Reducing me

To a little girl

Who's scared

Of the world.

Wetting herself

In abject fear.

As the brutal images

Of a teenage boy

Being constantly

Beaten up.

Loop around

In her mind's eye

Startling crystal clear

4k picture clarity.

Wanting to hide.

But

Nowhere

To go.

Except

Ever deeper

Into the darkness

And madness

Of self-denial.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Found myself, this morning, filled with dark thoughts and images, which happens, on an occasion, to me. Just writing them, as the safest way, of dealing, with them, in a constructive way.

Faith (January 14, 2015)

Like a shotgun blast

My emotions are

Scattered

before me.

That tangents off

In all directions

At once.

Leaving me

Feeling vulnerable

To the slightest

Emotional breeze

Across my soul.

As the tears flow

At the gentlest

Of touch

Upon my heartstrings.

Smothering remains

Of blackened holes

Once contained

My burnt out eyes

Stare blankly.

And I wonder

Why bother.

As I slip away

With every breath

I take.

Into the embrace

Of darkness.

Therisa © 2015

Author's note: An older and darker poem.

An Offering Of Hope (May 12, 2016)

"Hardest part

Of any creativity

Is coming up

With something new

Every time ."

-Therisa Godwaldt

If one listens

Very carefully

You can hear it.

A distance howl

Of a wolf matriarch

Who's crying

In pain.

At the abandonment

Of her words

During this time

Of need.

As anger

And frustration

Mount.

And yet

Sweet poetry

Flows through

The core of her body

Like a river does

Through a canyon.

True

At times

Our words

Will ebb and flow

Like the tides do

Upon the shore.

Bringing us

A different perspective

On the world

Around us.

As we try
To understand
The chaos
Of everyday life
With little success.

Forcing us

To have

The patience of Job

In decoding everything.

Please be

Ever so gentle

Upon yourself

'Til that eureka moment

Greets you

With your morning coffee

And newspaper.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: This is, my gift to Sherry Blue Sky. who requested that I post it, on my blog, as she struggles, with a prolong writer's block. Do hope, she finds her muse, once more, thus able, to share her unique spiritual writings.

Birthday Wishes, For A Ghost (May 12, 2016)

Hello

And happy birthday

Dad.

Wish

I could be

Sharing this

In person

With you.

And not

To your departed

Soul.

Who left us

Almost 16 years ago

On a November night.

Much has change

In the family

Since.

Not all

For the better.

A wall of silence

And distance

Has been built

To stop

The hurting

I have endured.

How I miss

Your protective presence

In my life.

In making

The biggest things

Appear small

And totally bearable.

In vanishing

Those ghosts

And daemons

That haunted me.

Pardon me

As your eldest daughter.

(Yes

Your eldest daughter

And not son).

Wipes away

A tear or two

From her eyes

Dad.

Wishing you

The warmest thoughts

On the anniversary

Of your birth date.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Today, would have been my dad's 80th birthday, if he hadn't die, on November 15, 1998, from a fatal heart attack, on November 13th. A day doesn't go by, which I find myself, missing his presence, in my life.

Nothing Is Perfect (May 12, 2016)

I don't write

To crucify

The institution

Of motherhood.

Rather

Am dealing

With the hurt

And pain.

From

One misdirected

Woman.

For whom

The world identifies

As my birth mother.

Never realizing

Or believing

Some women

Aren't meant

To become mothers.

Unlike

Driving a car

That requires

One to earn

A license.

Child rearing

Doesn't.

Instead

One is thrown

Into shark infested waters

Without any safety measures

And expected

To thrive.

Most do

For those

Who don't

The children suffer.

As I did

With my mom.

When

My younger brother

Went ballistic

In the summer of 1985.

Not sure.

Whether

It was pride

Or guilt.

In failing

With us.

That kept her

For reaching out

To the community

And family

For help.

 

Only hindsight

Knows.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: A reflective thought, on yesterday's poem, The Caged Bird, that I wrote. Yes, I retain a lot of anger and hostility, towards my mom, for the things that she did to me, over the years, which has harmed me, in my development, as a person, and her child. And yet, I wonder, how things would have turned out, had someone intervened, and took my brother out, and helped him, to deal with his own issues, which he took out, on the rest of the family.

The Caged Bird (May 11, 2016)

Behind

These gilded bars

Of a golden cage

You keep me

As your canary bird.

In the mistaken belief

You're protecting

A fragile

And weak creature.

Expecting me

To be

Your little bird

Of happiness.

Warbling

Sweet melodies

Of love.

Never mind

My soul is

Filled with sad songs

Of the blues.

As depression

Sets in.

Wishing

To spread out

My wings.

Upon

A gentle Spring breeze

With the other birds

In finding

My true love.

Instead

My emaciated body

Barely

Hangs there

Upon the perch.

Waiting for

Death's arrival

And release.

Knowing

You'll never understand

Why I need this

Mom.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: A metaphor, for the relationship, with my mom.

When The Past Bleeds Through (May 10, 2016)



www.groundedtraveler.com

A distant

And muffled knock

From the past.

Upon

A heavy door

I dare not open.

As fear

And self-loathing

Fill my soul

To overflowing.

In grabbing

Whatever

I can

To barricade it.

Still

It grows louder

In my mind.

As

The barriers collapse.

Leaving me

Reliving the abuse

All over

Again.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: For those, who don't know, I'm a survivor, of childhood abuse, by my younger brother. Even though, its been almost, a decade, since I last seen him, I still get these flashbacks, of the violence, he did, to my mom and I. For years, my mentally constructed doors, kept these memories, at a distance, until August 14, 2007, when a very severe panic attack, destroyed my defences, and these memories flooded me.

Welcome, To My World (May 10, 2016)

www.flickr.com

Through my words

You enter

A dimensional gate.

Unlike any

You've seen before.

Transporting you

To a world of wonder

And pain.

Where happy endings

Are the creation

Of faerie

And old wives tales.

As true darkness

And horror

Can be found

A stanza away.

If you dare.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Just a hint of horror.

What The.... (May 10, 2016)

Society thinks

The trans-community is nuts

In removing

Those sexual characteristics

That brand us

In our birth gender.

Never realizing

The many psychological hurdles

We must jump over

Before a blade is used

Upon our bodies.

Until

Your average Joe Shmoe

(Justin Jedica)

Decides to transform

His body

Into a living Ken doll.

Just puts down

His plastic

And 190+ surgeries

Later.

Wants more

Becoming

A walking pile

Of implants

And other foreign objects.

And people say

I am crazy

For wanting

To live my life

As a woman.

Sheesh.

Honestly

Has this man tried

To work out

His psychological issues

In a less evasive manner?

Before he goes

One surgery

Too many.

Thus

Destroying his body

And his immune system.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: I saw something about Justin, in my Yahoo! news feed, and did an Internet search on him, which I found, the following link to him:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3099324/Man-spent-150-000-bid-human-Ken-doll-goes-knife-set-WINGS.html

After The Ice Age (May 10, 2016)

Ever

So slowly

The days are

Getting longer

And warmer.

As Winter

Is left

Behind.

And yet

A cold lingering

Darkness

Remains.

A throwback

To the days

Glaciers covered

My soul

In their frigid grip.

Crushing everything

Except

A wish for oblivion

And a permanent

Soul's rest.

As tears

Like glacier fled rivers

Carry away

The rumble of my soul

To parts unknown.

Now

I must traverse

Across my soul's fjords

Rediscovering

The real meaning

Of living life.

A journey

Harder

Than facing Death

Herself.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Just feeling blah, today. And yes, I do finder harder, to live life, than to embrace Death. Always, have seem Death, as the equalizer, in balancing out, one's pain and suffering.

Just The Way, It Was (May 10, 2016)

Am surprise

By your reaction to

A part of my life.

Especially

From the 1980s

And early 1990s.

Dark times

For the LGBT+ community

As we were forced

To confront several epidemics

At once.

Not all

Were related to

The emerging killer

HIV/AIDS.

Being expose

To the virulent hate

For the first time

Of transphobia

And homophobia.

Not from

Other kids

But adults.

Already have

That t-shirt

Years ago.

When

I started kindergarten

In 1975.

Along with

The PTSD flashbacks

Auditory and visual

In constant rotation

Throughout the years.

Naively

I thought

With the gaining of age

One got smarter and wiser

About the world

Around them.

Just part

Of the curse

Being

An optimistic-pessimist.

Yeah

I know

It's an oxymoron

Like military intelligence.

So sue me.

On second thought

Better not

Still have money leftover

From my disability cheque.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Guess, the little things that most people take for granted, are those memories, which filled us, with sadness and regret.

Only If.... (September 4, 2012)

Another
School year
Is starting up
And I find myself
Looking backwards.

Wondering
What if I had gone
To my senior prom.

As
Whom I am
A girl
Dressed in
A formal dress.

While
Alphaville's
"Forever young"
Is played
At the last dance.

Alas
This isn't
The reality
Of what happen.

Instead
I stayed home
Conflicted
Between perception
And reality.

Of
Having to wear
To a suit
If I wished
To attend.

Might
As well been
Wearing a straitjacket
Is how I feel
About having to
Wear a suit.

Sigh.


Therisa © 2012


Author's note: I can relate, to Ms. Wolf, and her wearing a suit, to her prom, which the school strongly objected to, by threatening, to call, the police on her. For more information, please click on the following link: https://ca.style.yahoo.com/post/144105521800/school-threatens-to-call-police-on-girl-who-wore

Joys Of Insomnia (May 9, 2016)

Weary

My tired brain

Tries to focus

On the task

At hand.

As my fingers

Keep on missing

Their proper keys

To type.

Creating

One huge dyslexic

Puzzle

To decode

And unscramble.

Do I

Move the mouse

Over this mess

And delete it?

Or

Save it

For a later time?

By attempting

To apply

Some sense of order

To brain-fogged creation

Of mine.

As I hear

My pillows calling

Like the Siren

Of Greek mythology

To my bed.

Shall I surrender

Any hope

Of a night's rest

Is gone

For tonight.

Cursing me

To another night

Of a brain

Stuck

In overdrive.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: As a child, I've experienced, a chronic problem, of falling to sleep, which has worsen, over the years, with the PTSD flashbacks, and 3 feline companions, who want my love and attention, at the oddest hours. A good night's sleep, means 6-7 hours of uninterrupted rest, if I'm lucky.

Friend Or Foe? (May 9, 2016)

Often wonder

How doe we know

If the person posting

On the web

Is real

Or a troll?

As stories

Fill the airwaves

Of predators

Who have lured

Too many innocent victims

To their deaths.

Or

Scammed people

Out of their life savings

With fake illnesses

And promises.

A question

I ask.

Knowing

How vulnerable

Some communities are

Like my own

The transgender.

Exposing ourselves

To these monsters

And their evil intent.

In the hope

Of friendship

And validation.

Of whom

We are

As a person.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Another night, of broken sleep, found me, wide awake, during the wee hours of this morning. After a futile attempt to get back to sleep, I got out my writing book, and started to write. This is, the second of two poems, which I managed to produce, in an hour's time, before I crashed out, for the rest of the night.

Finding myself, needing to ask, this very important question. Given the huge number of people, who have fallen prey, to these monster. But, as a trans-person, I have a fear, I may fall, for such, a monster, myself. Especially, given my abusive past, and my lack of self-confidence and self-esteem.