Showing posts with label Frustration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Frustration. Show all posts

Friday, 7 December 2018

Never Forgotten (December 6, 2018)



Twenty-eight years ago
I was studying for
My fall exams
At Carleton University
In Ottawa, Ontario.


As Canadians mourn
Ecole Polytechnique Massacre
Previous year
In Montreal, Quebec.


Marc Lepine’s
Murderous rampage
Killed 14 women
Wounding 10 others
And 4 men.


Before turning his gun
Upon himself
Murder victim: fifteen.


Remember
Feeling angered
Being excluded
Sharing grief.


News outlets reported
Women only march calls
On Parliament Hill.


Yes I cried
Hearing this news.


Like my soul
Had been sacrificed
On altar of hate.


As if
All males are
Murderous misogynistic
Beast.


Looking back
As a transwoman
Can understand
This anger and frustration.


Having myself
Been targetted
By similar behaviour
From men.


As U2’s song “40”
Plays in my mind
“...how long...”




Therisa © 2018

Author’s note: For more information, please check out this link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89cole_Polytechnique_massacre

Saturday, 1 December 2018

Summer Of '85, Revisited (November 26, 2018)

Warning: May contain scenes and situations that are triggers.

You think
By now
Summer of “85
Be distance memory.


Sadly not.


Too many tangled knots
Need straightening out
And secrets share
To move on.


Never shall.


Toxic relationship
Between mom
Younger brother
And I.


Wanting real reason
For the shitstorm
Returning home
Visiting family
In Alberta.


Special relationship
Peanut and dad had
Can only dream of.


How it changed
Seeing dad
In a CCU bed
Wired with cables and tubes.


First heart attack
We know of
On Canada Day.


Born premature
Peanut is a narcissist
Sought our parents’ spotlight
Finding things easy.


Attacked me
All ways
Except sexually.


Blame myself
Too weak to stop him.


Enrage berserker
In 12 year old body
Fueled by caffeine and sugar
Needing two adult males
To restrain him.


Several times
Tried to kill me
Coming behind
Pushing my body
Down stairs.


Before jumping
Several stairs above
My prone body
On the landing below.


Only mom’s shielding me
Prevented him
Crushing my ribs
Under his flying body.


Could have
Puncture lungs/heart
Sanguinating
Before help arrives.


Why did mom tell me
Don’t call the police
But allowed a neighbour?


Clearly
Peanut was
Out of control
Beyond our ability
To help.


Scared
CAS would take
Peanut and I?


Judging her
An unfit parent
Juggling a job
Raising two children
With a sick husband.


What really ticked off
This walking time bomb
Of hate?


In Peanut’s
Abnormal display
Of violent grief
To dad’s hospitalization.


Understand
His not wanting
To visit dad.


Not personalized nature
Of the attacks
On mom and I.


Looking back
This has all of the markings
Of mom trying to protect me
In her shielding of reality.


Like I’m 4 years old
Coming upstairs
With mouth blown open
From electrical burn.


My first words
“Dad had a heart attack”
Upon meeting mom
At the airport arrivals.


Not hello
Or hi mom.


Mom hates driving
On the 400 series highways
Does anything to avoid them.


And yet
She’s picking me up
With a neighbour.


Sigh.


Just adding
2 +2
And getting 4.


Will admit
My immaturity
Didn’t help mom.


Silently
Struggling with gender identity
Learning disabilities
Undiagnosed PTSD anxiety
And depression.


Just every day
Teenage angst issues
Nothing more.


Therisa © 2018


Author’s note:


Peanut: Nickname that my parents give to my brother, due to his small size, as the result of
his premature birth. He hates it, with a passion. Reason that I use it. Also, I don’t like using
his birth name, as it’s a very common name.


Canada Day: July 1st. Celebrating the British North American Act, which united the
colonies of Upper and Lower Canada, Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, as the Dominion of
Canada.


CCU: Critical Care Unit, in the hospital.


CAS: Children Aid Society. They look after children, who are taken into care, for various
reasons.


Have written this, attempting to understand, why I blame myself for the evil done that
summer. Even now, am fighting back the tears of shame and pain, I have so long
suppressed behind mental walls. Obeying mom’s request, not to tell anyone, until decades
later. When I needed to share this, in my trans support group. Was truly shock, one member
wanted to punch out my brother, for the things that he did to mom and I. Never had anyone
react like this, in my defense before.

As much, as I don’t want to, I need to share with you, the poem that sparked this emotional
output and still haunts me, Summer of ‘85: Season in Hell, which I wrote, in 2012. Be warn,
should you read it, this poem may contain triggers, for those, who are abuse survivors, as
it did to myself.

Monday, 23 July 2018

Beyond The Edge of Understanding (July 22, 2018)

See the words
Staring before me
On the printed page.


And yet
Don't understand them
Like someone wrote
In a foreign language
Instead of English.


Want to scream
In abject frustration
Lack of comprehension.


Cursing my inheritance
My parents’ genes
That blessed me
With this gift.


Mind wanders
As the anger grows
Berating myself.


Bleeping moron.


Knowing
Having read and understood
More challenging literature.


Can hear
The accusations
Already.


Lazy
Slacker
Doesn't apply themself
Needs to do more.


Is it
My fault
I have troubles
Focusing on the task
At hand?


A tear or two
Escape my eyes
As I walk away.


Silently
Swearing
At my learning disabilities.


Therisa © 2018

Author’s note: Early 1984, I was officially identified, as having multiple learning disabilities. Prior to this, I had teachers stopping of calling me, stupid. Although, I did have one teacher call me, lazy on the report card and failed, because of my learning disabilities, in grade 1.

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

The Loneliest Number (May 10, 2017)

How do I describe
This irrational feeling
That grips my soul
In its iron grasp.

Of this need
To run away
And hide
From people.

Simple things
Like taking transit
Triggers anxiety attacks
Bordering on
Outright panic attacks.

Needing outside help
To leave my apartment
For taking out
The garbage.

Self-hatred 
And self-loathing
Fill my soul.

As I rattle the bars
Of the invisible cage
Inside my mind
That holds me.

Hoping to find
One loose bar
To aid
My escape.

As another bout
Of agoraphobia
Sinks its talons.

Deep
Into my struggling soul
For who knows
How long.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: This will mark my third major bout of agoraphobia, in the past 8 years. The previous two bouts, lasted several months before I could resume, what passes for my normal life. I am hoping, that I am wrong, in view the past 6 months, as a warning sign, to a possible renewal of agoraphobia, which last visited me, two years ago, staying for 3 months, before departing, after Labour Day. There are times, I hate my body, for the mental and physical struggles, I face, on a daily basis.

Saturday, 9 July 2016

Not All Victims, Are Black (July 9, 2016)

It's times
Like this
That I wish
I was less empathic.

As the pain
Sears my soul
Like a red hot poker.

Dragging me
Ever deeper
Into a land of sorrow
And constant tears.

Reliving
My own memories
Of police harassment.

With
The resulting feelings
Of anger and hopelessness
From it.

Knowing
The cops had
No valid reasons
In carding me
Both times.

Especially
The first time.

Stopping me
Just minutes away
From my basement apartment
In Brampton.

For the next 10 minutes
I experienced
A level of verbal abuse
With a hint of physical violence.

Unlike
Anything before
Or since.

Explaining
I looked suspicious
To him .

And that
There have been
A rash of break-ins
Locally.

A B.S. story
As no one was talking
About this
In the neighbourhood.

Yet
I stood there
Quietly
Taking this abuse.

Scared.
More 
Was to come.

In reality
Just wanting
To go home
And get some food.

Before collapsing
For the night
In bed.

Sadly
Having a driver license
And taking transit
To and from work.

Because
I couldn't afford
The expenses
Of the maintenance
For a car.

Ticked him
Off.

So
As the news
Of the deliberate killings
By the American police officers
On patrol.

Brought back
These dark memories
Of mine.

Damn them
To whatever Hell
They came from.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: These are memories that I have kept locked away, for the most part, rarely, talking about them, to anyone. I know, these reactions, by me, are wrong, but the feeling of shame, anger, and frustration, were greater. After this past week, I need to release these memories, in a safe and constructive, thus, ending their corrosive hold, over me.

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