Intolerance (August 6, 2016)

Why do you seek

To force me

Into your beliefs?

Knowing

Full well

My steadfast

Refusal of them.

As if

My rejection

Is spurning you

Forward

In this pursuit

Of madness.

Does not

Several decades

Of "No"

Mean anything

To you?

In pushing me

Ever further

From your side.

By creating

An insurmountable divide

Between us

That only death

Can bridge.

I ask this

As your time is nigh

And won't  be there

For your final breathe

Or funeral.

Knowing

You'll never change

Before Death's embrace

Mom.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Reflections on, part of my therapy session, I had, earlier this week (August 3, 2016), how my mom has refuse to accept the boundaries, I have placed around religious observation, in regards, to attending a Christian church. Never mind, her narrow mindedness, and the irrational fear that grips her, towards my transitioning, into her daughter, from a son.

A Forged Past (June 4, 2016)

A sad sigh

Is gently released

Through clenched lips.

As my mind wanders

Down memory lane

With the numerous albums

Filled thousands of photos

Of me.

Documenting

Thirty-five years

Of living

A horrendous lie.

My mom

Has taken

Of me.

Just like

My old cub handbook

And anything else

That reeks

Of this falsehood.

I want them

All burnt.

Honestly

These objects

Only matter

To one person.

My mom.

To her

As witnessed

By her actions

And body language.

I have

Already died

On July 1, 2006.

Why keep

These fraudulent images

For many

She has stalked me.

With the camera

Like a tiger does

To its prey.

Knowing

My countless requests

Not to.

And deep animosity

Towards

Having my photo

Being taken.

Not

That she

Ever listened

To me.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: My mom and I have had numerous fights, over her taking my photo, without my permission, over the years. To the point, I have deliberately gone out of my way, to spoil any chance photo, she might take of me. Just one more case, of her, not respecting the boundaries, I set up, for myself, with her.

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.

Why Do Parents Place, One Child, Over Another? (April 2, 2016)

How does

A parent

Place the needs

Of one child

Over the other?

Especially

As the chosen child

Is abusive

And manipulative.

A question

I'm asking myself

For the past 30 years.

The irony is

I am

The one

That gets chosen.

Whenever

It's time

To go shopping

For clothes.

Until

I come out

Almost

A decade ago.

Becoming

Persona non grata.

As if

Having fiction

Confirmed

As reality

Was too much.

Although

They denied this

When confronted

By me.

Like my memories are

A figment of my imagination

That I made up

Of those trips

Over the years.

Yeah right.

And Canada is

Officially

The 51st to 61st state

Of the United States.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: During my Thursday meeting, with the social worker (March 31, 2016), the conversation got around, to talking about my relationship, with my mom. To which, I described, as dead, for the past 3 years, at my decision, for emotional and psychological reasons. Given my mom's inability to respect the boundaries that I have set up, as part of my healing process, and her reluctance, to be seen, in public, with me, when we go get together, at a neutral location. As if, neighbours, from 20 years ago, are going to start gossipping about me, and the transitioning journey, I am undertaking. Honestly, I haven't seen these people, since I moved out, for university, in 1990.

Sheesh. Give me, a freaking break.

My Biggest Regret (March 14, 2016)

Within my mind

The toxic game

Of "what if"

Is being played out.

As I castigate

Myself

For being

Too chicken

In not telling you

About my true self.

Although

I think

You knew

I was different

From the other kids.

Just that

You wanted me

To speak

These words

In confirming

Your hunch

I'm gay.

Not sure

Whether

I should be laughing

Or crying

Dad.

For your intuition

Is only

Half right

About me

Being gay.

Dad

You have 

A daughter

And a son.

And not

the two sons

You went to

The grave

Believing.

Please

Forgive me

For waiting 7 years

After your death.

To tell

Your ashes

At the grave site.

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.

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 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.

The Road Taken (January 8, 2016)

Never thought

I would be

Looking back

In a positive way.

On losing

My apartment

And ending up

In a homeless shelter.

Knowing

I can laugh

About it

Now.

Never realizing

How big

Of a barrier

Moving to Toronto

Would be.

Physically

And psychologically

In my liberation

Of you

Mom.

In beginning

My life

Anew

As a woman.

No longer

Needing to hide

In the darkest gender closet

Filled with fear

Of being discovered.

Will admit

I wasn't prepared

For the culture shock

That greeted me

At the woman's homeless shelter.

Struggling

With chronic anxiety attacks

And depression

In a brutal environment

Like a fish

Out of water.

Especially

Being pre-everything

In regards

To my transitioning.

Beyond knowing

My true name

Therisa.

Taking extra precautions

So no one saw

My ugly male body.

Unless

Fully dressed.

Dreading

Someone would see

Or react

To me

As a male.

Knowing

I wouldn't survive

In a man's homeless shelter

Without being raped

Or brutally beaten up.

Never

Feeling safe.

Until

I had my own apartment

Again.

To further

My self-exploration

Of the feminine side.

Learning

My true self.


Therisa © 2016

Author Note: June 3, 2007, found myself, at the front door, of a woman's homeless shelter, in downtown Toronto, with a suitcase and duffel bag, filled with woman's clothing. Interesting enough, my mom never asked me, if I wanted to move out, to the country, until I got myself, back on my feet, again. A move, in retrospective, would have signed my death warrant, given her negative reaction, to coming out to her, as a trans-lesbian. Being forced to be dependant on her, for transportation for all of my medical appointment.