A Dream Postponed (May 10, 2017)

To some people

I am

A freak.

Who dreams

Of giving birth

To my own children.

But

Can't.

Genetics stopped

That biological clock

At conception.

Without great risk

To myself

Or my developing child

Outside of the womb.

How do I explain

To you

This feeling

Of incompleteness

I have.

In the early days

Of SRS

Of the late 1920's

And early 1930's

Doctors would've transplanted

Female reproductive system

From cadaver donours.

Enabling

My chance

Of a normal pregnancy.

Although

At great cost

Of rejection

For the transplanted organs.

Unlike today

Tissue typing

Wasn't done.

And anti-rejection drugs

Weren't developed

Yet.

As many transwomen died

From the shock

Of organ rejection.

And still

This siren call

Beckons me

Forward.

Of one day

Being able to hold

This bundle of joy

With stem cell research.

Regardless

Whether

We are cis

Or transwomen.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Given my age and medical condition, this remains a dream for me.  

A Small Act Of Defiance (August 16, 2017)

I have travelled

The darkest path

Of one's soul.

Where hope is

A distance shore

Out of reach

To the outstretch hand.

Waking up

And getting dress

Are major achievements

On a daily basis.

Acts

Most people take

For granted.

But

Not for me.

As I sit

Before a library computer

Typing this out.

Struggling against

My fight/flight instinct

To runaway

From here.

To the safety

Of my apartment

With Venus Squeak

And Star.

By surrendering

To that act

Am giving

My anxiety and depression

Another victory

Over my soul.

Forever 

Keeping me

A hostage

To the mental illnesses

I live with

On a daily basis.

So I ask you

Not to make this

A mountain

Out of a mole hole.

Rather

Sit by me

And say

"Good job Therisa".

Nothing more.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Since last November (2016), I have been struggling with my chronic depression, which has refused to leave me, in March. Turning my fall/winter bout of depression, into a 9 month ordeal for me. Over the past weekend, I have started another prose project, which for me, is a huge step forward. Not sure where it will take me, but anywhere is better that staring at a blank screen, like a zombie.

Stigma Of Surviving (February 24, 2014)

Silence

The chain

That binds truth

In lies.

Of the horrors

Committed

In the name of love

And punishment.

Twisting the light

Into a dark parody

Where reality loses

All meaning

Except for pain.

Molding one's soul

Like clay

On a potter's wheel

With deft hands.

As the banshee wails

Outside
The bedroom window

Heralding the death

Of another innocent.

Which

No one hears

Or cares

Until too late.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: I'm a survivor of child abuse, by a family member, who was, a child, themselves. The abuse was dismissed, as sibling rivalry, by my parents. In recent years, researchers have come forward, in saying, what was thought, as sibling rivalry, in some case, is really abuse/bullying of one sibling, over the other(s). For many years, in my life, I have experienced suicidal thoughts, low self-esteem, and low self-confidence.

I know, not all of this, is strictly related, to my brother's actions, against me, but also includes the bullying, I had to endure, on and off of the schoolyard, by other children, around my age, starting when I started kindergarten, in 1975. Only, to end, when I transferred to another high school, at the end of grade 10, in 1987. Still, for the next 3 school years, almost constantly depressed, to the point, I was attempting to take my life, by pushing a knife, into my ribcage, hoping to puncture my heart or lungs. Only stopped, due to the lack of arm strength to push the knife, into me. 

On The Edge Of Tears (November 19, 2016)

We look

At the future

With rose coloured

Glasses.

Dreaming

Of an emerging world

Filled with love

And compassion.

Knowing

Our past is

One filled

With extreme prejudice

And violence.

For too many

Of our brothers

And sisters

Have paid

In their lives.

Whether

At the hands 

Of family members

Or complete strangers.

Something

I know

All too well.

Having experienced

Traumatic events

From both.

Almost 

Costing me

My life.

Sitting here

Fighting back

The tears.

Threatening

To unleash

An emotional tsunami

Upon my soul. 

Knowing

Tomorrow is

November 20th

Day of Trans-Remembrance.

Which

My community

Remembers those

Were murdered.

Or driven

To their deaths.

Praying

It's the last time

We must gather

And read off 

New names.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Around the world, the Trans-community will be observing Day of Trans-Remembrance, on November 20th, for our brothers and sisters, who died, at the hands of others. In Toronto, The 519 will marking this event, from 4-8 pm, at 519 Church St., Toronto, Ontario.

Storm Front (September 28, 2016)

Can feel it

Eating away

Like a cancerous growth

On my soul.

Its taint growing

Ever darker

With passing day

I breathe.

Each tsunami

Grows larger

In the emotional impact

They have

Upon me.

Slowly

My soul's shoreline

Is being eroded

Under this barrage

Of tears.

Forcing me

To flee

Ever deeper

Inwards

Into my inner shell.

Stopping

One step short

Of the ultimate out.

As my soul

Whither away

Like some strange fruit

On a tree branch.

Awaiting my body

To join it

In embracing Death

For one last time.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: I wrote this poem, during the wee hours of morning, on September 28, 2016, as I struggled with my sleep, after a brutal and very emotional weekend, previously, for the second straight weekend. Not sure, which is worse, the constant lack of sound sleep, or the emotional yo-yoing, I have been experiencing. 

The Long Good-bye (October 3, 2016)

I see 

How you look

At me.

Thinking

I don't noticed

Your scared 

Or nervous look

In your eyes.

Never mind

How your body language

Speaks differently

From the words

You express.

Don't you realize

This dichotomy 

Is hurting me.

As I struggle

With anxiety attacks

Pre- and post-meetings.

Despising 

Your self-lying

For it's hypocritical 

Nature.

In reality

You don't want

To be seen

Around me.

By anyone

Who knows us.

Scared

Of being labelled

The parent

Of a freak.

Go live 

Your isolated life

In the boonies.

Where 

No one knows

About me

And my transitional

Journey.

For I have

My own life

To live

As well.

As a woman

And not

As a man.

Which 

You have

Mistakenly believed

For the past 42 years.

This November

Will mark

The 4th anniversary

Of cutting you

Out of my life

Mom.

A move

Long overdue

By several decades.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note:  Three years ago, in late October, I tried to get my mom, to help me, in the purchase of a new winter jacket, as a combine birthday/Christmas present, for me. As my birthday falls, in February, and we don't see each other, due to the harsh winter conditions, around her rural Ontario home. For almost a week, she avoided responding to my request, until finally, I had enough, over a series of phone calls, laced with f-bombs, I told her, she was no longer, to have anything to do, with me. I didn't listen to any of her returned messages or have called/or written to her, since. Must admit, I feel very guilty, in breaking off, all contact, but she was holding me, in my healing process, and supporting my abusive brother, over me, when forced on the matter.

Causes Of The Storm (August 5, 2016)

Cold

That pierces

One's soul

To the core.

Draws me

Ever deeper

Into darkness.

Tears cascading

Downwards

From my red eyes.

As the words

Dry up

One letter

At a time.

Leaving behind

A shivered 

And burnt out

Soul.

Struggling

To describe

In words.

The emotional

Roller coaster

Am stuck on

With no release.

Moods swing

From one extreme

To another.

Covering me

In a literal black cloud

That never lifts.

Even after 

The latest bout

Of depression does.

From a lifetime

Of self-suppression

And self-hatred

From an abusive past.

Told

To keep quiet 

About this

By mom

Did so

As a dutiful child

'til my mid-30.

When 

My psychic walls 

Collapsed

To mental dust.

During

A 26 hour 

Panic attack.

Thus

The past 9 years

Been crawling out

Of my own personal Hell.

As wave

After wave 

Of repressed memories

Are reawaken

In me.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Since November 1974, I have been dealing with PTSD symptoms, after I was electrically burnt, around my mouth, on both sides. Having endured numerous surgeries, to repair the damage done, over the years. Every time, I look, into a mirror, I see traces of the scar tissue, on my right side of my mouth, and have to be, very careful, when eating food, otherwise, I will/have bitten into the scar tissue that lines, both sides of my mouth, with live nerve endings. Even now, almost 42 years later, I still have flashbacks (visual and sensory) of that night, which I have trouble, using a lighter, as the flame, is a trigger, for me.

The following year, I started kindergarten, and my life, when to Hell, literally, as my decade + of schoolyard bullying, began. Ending, at the end of grade 10, when I transferred, to another local high school, in Brampton, Ontario. Still have trouble talking or writing, about this period, in my life. It was, during this period, before the age of 12, I attempted my first suicide. By my twelve birthday, I would make 2 more attempts, on my life, all of them failing, for various reasons, which I won't talk about, right now.

As for my family life, I wish I could erase almost all of my memories, especially those, which revolve around my younger brother. For my earliest memory of him, is the two of us, fighting, at his integration. Wish, I could say, he grew out of this need to hurt me, but I would be lying, to myself and those, who are reading this. As I written, in previous posting, like my "Letters Never Sent" blogs, which are letters, written to my younger self, about a particular time, in my life. My only enter, so far, deals with the summer of 1985, and the Hell, he created for my mom and I. Must warn any who read it, about the graphic violence and abuse, I describe, in it. And yes, Timothy, is my birth name (an Anglicized version of it), given to me, by my parents, in honour, of one of dad's brothers, who choked to death, during an asthmatic attack, in my aunt's arms. 

Attempt At Order (June 6, 2016)

How I wish

I could say

My life has been

All moonbeams

And roses.

And

Those violent experiences

Are mere figments

Of my imagination.

Except

The mental strain

And the damage done

Over the years

Says otherwise.

You must realize

My unique situation

Isn't the norm

For most trans-Canadian.

Rather

Just one

Of the more

Extreme cases

On the violent end

Of the experience

Spectrum.

Please understand

I don't write poetry

In the hope

Of gaining pity.

Or

Other similar

Emotions.

Should

I want them.

Only

Have to look

In the bathroom mirror.

And see

My reflection

Staring back

At me.

No

These stanzas

You see

Before you.

Are my lame attempt

To impose order

On the chaos

I have lived

Through.

Never expecting

Anyone would read these

And respond back

Like they have.

Therisa © 2016

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.

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.

Still Incomplete (May 7, 2016)

You laugh

And shake your head

At me.

As if

I have said

Something silly

Like a young child

Would.

In expressing

My avid wish

To be complete

As a woman

After SRS.

Knowing

The most skilled surgeons

Can't create

What I wasn't born

With.

A

Female

Reproductive

System.

Sure

I can have

A vagina

And a clitoris.

Or

What approaches them

Out of my male genitalia

That I despite.

The fact remains

I will always be

Incomplete

As a woman.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Over the years, I have expressed my desire, to have a fully functional female reproductive system, instead of, the male one, I was born with. To which, the following response, has greeted me: "Are you freaking nuts?" Never realizing, my incredibly strong need, to be, totally female. Or how, it's fueling my chronic depression.

Mixed Feelings (May 6, 2016)

On Sunday

May 8th

Canadians and Americans

Celebrate Mother's Day.

A day

Personally

Am feeling ambivalent

For various reasons.

Especially

The societal pressure

To honour

An abusive parent.

As the department stores

Wind down

Their full court blitz

For Mother's Day.

The only reason

I call her

Mom

Is because

The DNA

That we share.

Nothing more.

A sad sigh

Escapes

As I see

A young woman

Pushing

A baby carriage.

Knowing

That'll never be me

Given my age

Birth genetics

And fear.

I will continue

The cycle of abuse

With my own children

Like my mom

Did to me.

Still

I long

To have

My own child

For whom

I have given birth to.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: This July 2nd, will mark a decade, since I have told my mom, not to expect any children from, to which, she replied; "Already figured that." After I had accidentally outed myself, to her, the previous day. I know, many women will think, I'm crazy, for wanting to experience a mensal cycle, but even after the SRS, I won't feel complete, until it happens.

Beyond The Yin And Yang (May 4, 2016)

A void

Nothing more

I am

To most people.

That leaves you

Scratching your head

In bafflement.

Why

A white "male"

Would give up

"His" position

Of entitlement

To live life

As a woman.

Locking

Your tunnel vision

Upon the economic

And political powers.

Never mind

There's life

Beyond them

If you look

Without your blinders

On.

Realizing

Sometimes

One must move

In a different direction.

Realigning

Their spiritual needs.

To the point

The physical form

Unites

With their inner soul.

Regardless

Of the price

One must pay.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Written on the subway, this afternoon (May 4, 2016), to see my therapist.

Secret Agent Gurl (May 4, 2016)

Like a spy

On a dangerous mission

Slipping through life

Over two years

In the deepest cover.

Living the stress

Of a dual life

Straddling
The gender divide.

One foot

Firmly

In the closet.

My nerves

And senses

Hyper-vigilant.

Every knock

Upon my door
Sent hiding

My feminine self.

Knowing

Society frowns

Upon "males"

In dresses.

Something

I've learnt

The hard way

As the memories

Of being trans-bashed

Lingers.

Those drive-by slurs

Whether transphobic

Or homophobic.

Doesn't just evaporate

Into thin air

Like dry ice does.

However

I wish

They would.

Is it

Any wonder

So many trans-people

Attempt suicide.

Given

This warm reception

From society.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: From 2005, until June 2007, I walked the narrow dividing line, between male and female, when I lost my apartment, and was forced, into a woman's homeless shelter, in Toronto. As I had to physically move, to Toronto, from Brampton (about 30 minute drive, by car) , for there are no shelters there that are aimed, to help the trans-community, like Toronto has done. It's ironic, by losing my housing freedom, I have gained, the freedom to dress, in my true self, as a woman, full time, 24/7/365.


For more information, about the daily struggles that the trans-community faces, please click on the following link: http://www.vocativ.com/culture/lgbt/transgender-suicide/

November 13-15, 1998 (March 30, 2016)

Never

Shall I forget

That last weekend

Of your life

With me.

Of holding

Your clammy hand

Within mine

That one last time.

Gone is

The rock

That anchored

Throughout

Those depressive storms.

Never more

Shall your voice

Reach me

Over the telephone

In my time

Of need.

As darkness

Surrounds me

In its strangling web

Over my soul.

Gone is

The rock

That anchored

Throughout

Those depressive storms.

Knowing

Never was

Your favourite child.

Whom

You cried yourself

To sleep over

Dad.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Over the Labour Day weekend of 1998, I helped my parents, to clean up, the inhuman mess that my younger brother had created, in his basement apartment unit. For everything reeked of human waste, as we piled up, the garbage bags, several high. As my dad cried, at the destroyed antique red maple bed set, he had restored, for him. My parents left, with heavy hearts and piles of soiled clothing, which took multiple washings, to get rid of the smell.

For every night, until November 13th, my dad cried himself, to sleep, repeating my brother's name. On that fateful Friday morning, my dad had his last heart attack, as he prepared, to get dressed, for the long car ride, to University Hospital, in London, Ontario, for an appointment, with a heart specialist. One, he never made.

Paramedics tried, in vain, to revive my unconscious dad, but their efforts, were too late. For too long, his brain had been without oxygen, and only machines kept him, alive, which we removed, as per his wishes.  And yet, his body survived, almost 36 hours later, before the last breathe, at  9:50 pm, on Sunday, November 15, 1998.

Thus, marking my seven years of my mom's attempting to make me, into a clone, of my dad. As I had to submerge my own grieving process, to become, the "man" around the house. Even though, I lived a 3 hour drive away, from her, and had my own life, to live. As I sunk even deeper, into depression and resentment, towards her. As I worked long hours, so I didn't have to face her, every weekend.

I ask, anyone who reads this, doesn't leave any comments, as I won't be approving them, rather, be deleting them. This is, as far as, I feel comfortable, in sharing, this private moment, in my personal life.

Healing Blossoms (March 18, 2016)

www.thriftyfun.com

Am dreamin'

The long hard winter

Of my soul

Is slowly

Ending.

Having survived

Those long terror filled nights

Of my turbulent past

That replayed

Before me

In crystal clarity.

As the first 

Tender shoots

Of hope

Start to push through

My soul's frozen soil.

Knowing

There will be times

Which

I'll find myself

In the blackest

Of weather.

But

The worse has

Past.

Since

The last killer storm

Had blown across

My soul

Five years ago.

During

The holiday season

Of 2010-11.

As I reach out

To the emerging Sun

Bathing

In its warmth

And light.

Content

In the moment

Real change is

Slowly

Occurring.

Therisa © 2016

Am dreamin'

The long hard winter

Of my soul

Is slowly

Ending.

Having survived

Those long terror filled nights

Of my turbulent past

That replayed

Before me

In crystal clarity.

As the first 

Tender shoots

Of hope

Start to push through

My soul's frozen soil.

Knowing

There will be times

Which

I'll find myself

In the blackest

Of weather.

But

The worse has

Past.

Since

The last killer storm

Had blown across

My soul

Five years ago.

During

The holiday season

Of 2010-11.

As I reach out

To the emerging Sun

Bathing

In its warmth

And light.

Content

In the moment

Real change is

Slowly

Occurring.

Therisa © 2016

Paradoxically, Me (March 5, 2016)

www.blog.shareaholic.com

Before your eyes

My soul is

Being laid bare.

One word

At a time

On the page

And computer screen.

Like an onion

Each new poem

Is a different layer

Of experiences

I have lived.

Knowing

By doing this

Am creating

A polarized reaction

By my very existence.

For some

I am

An abomination

Meant to be

Put to death.

Others

A symbol of hope

And courage

By being 

Myself.

In the past

I hid

In the darkness

For my own protection.

And yet

Find myself

Torn

In two directions.

Whether

Or not

I should emerge

Fully

Into the light.

Exposing myself

To greater risks

And rewards.

Else

Move closer

To the grey shadows.

Offering me

A limited degree

Of protection

And possible benefits.

But

I want

Both.

Ok

Will admit

I'm being greedy.

Having been deprived

For so long.

Except

I'm scared

Will harm myself

For that very reason.

Like Icarus did

When he flew

Too close

To the sun.

As

An aspirated sigh

Escapes.


Therisa © 2016


Author's note: Releasing some inner angst, about my wanting to be more open, with my life, of being more socially engage then, I am, right now. Struggling, with anxiety and depression.


This is, the poem that inspired me, to write, "Just Another Brick, In The Wall".

When Cassandra Spoke (February 24, 2016)

www.walking-on-eggshellz.blogspot.com

Outside

A hospital parking lot

She spoke

Those fateful words

About her grandma's health.

In pronouncing

Her doom

No one wanted to say

Or talk about.

Family

Or medical staff.

"Grandma has cancer."

Never expecting

The sudden swing

To the head

By her dad

That missed.

A man

Who rarely shared

His strongest emotions

Publicly

With others.

As he fled

Crying

To the car

His world

Rocked.

A month

Or so

Later.

They buried

Her grandma.

Unable

To hide

The tumours

Upon her body.

Therisa © 2016

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


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

Throwing Away The Key (February 20, 2016)

www.express.co.uk

Been told

I have travelled far

In this healing journey

Of mine.

And yet

Find myself

Clawing

At the walls

Trying to maintain

My equilibrium.

In being triggered

By the slightest thing

These past few weeks.

Questioning

My grasp

Upon sanity.

In my struggle

With PTSD

And chronic depression.

As if

They're imaginary friends

I have invented

As hold overs

From my childhood.

Wondering.

Is this

The new me

That I have

The pleasure of

Looking forward

To?

Of being

A virtual prisoner

Within my mind.

Never

To experience

What parole means.

Or

Able to remove

These burdensome shackles

Of my hyper-vigilant senses

That bind me

To this plane of existence.

Isn't

A lifetime

Long enough

To punished?

Even

The most dangerous

Of prisoners 

Who are serving

Life sentences

Have a faint hope

Of parole.

Therisa © 2016

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

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