Taking Control (June 3, 2017)

Don't call me

The latest flavour 

Of the month.

Another fad

To be tossed aside

On garbage day

To the curb.

Giving me

A month or so

Before I change 

My mind.

Truth is

I have experience

The brutal downside

That life can give.

That would've left

A lesser person

Crying 

In total despair.

What you consider

A rash

And impulsive decision

On my part.

To throw

Everything away

And begin

Anew.

Although

You never say so

Your body language does

Loud and clear.

Never considering

My life isn't centered

Around your wants 

And needs.

To do

Whatever 

You want.

At your beck

And call.

Those days

Are long gone

Like one

Of those stories.

You find

In a long forgotten 

History book.

Never expecting you

To understand this

Regardless

How many times

I try and fail.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Just something, I needed to write.

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.

Untitled (May 4, 2017)

Never wanted

To be different

From other people.

But

I am.

Feeling like

I'm cursed

Or worse.

A diseased biomass

Meant to be

Put down

As a mercy.

Asking myself

Why is it

Am able to

Help other people.

And yet

Am struggling

To help myself.

Trying

To bash through

This invisible cell

That surrounds me.

As guilt

Fills my soulscape

Like a layer

Of freshly fallen snow.

After

A long and emotional

Blizzard.

Touching

All parts

Of my life.

The past

Present

And future.

As the tears

Of sadness and frustration

Roll down my face

In shame.

In wanting

To reject this "gift"

Of being hyper-empathic.

Therisa © 2017

A Fool's Dream? (April 17, 2017)

Am I

Insane?

Knowing

I can never be

Fully

A woman.

Doomed

By genetics.

Regardless

How many times

A surgeon's scalpel

May be used.

Or

Hormones taken

And suppressed.

One can't create

A silk purse

Out of a sow's ear.

And yet

I try.

Hoping

This fantasy

Becomes reality.

One day.

Therisa © 2017

The Poison Game (April 13, 2017)

I know

Within my mind

I'm not responsible

For the abuse/bullying

I have experienced.

And yet

There's a part

That does.

Being pulled

In so many 

Different directions

I don't understand.

As various layers

of guilt

Built up

Around my soul

Is slowly

Stripped away.

Holding back

The tears

In my ducts

Can't help

But think

How things 

Could've been different.

If I was born

Cisgender

Instead of trans.

A question

I'll never have

An answer for.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Sigh. For the past month, or so, I have been dealing, with a renewal bout of my depression. In that, I have been isolating myself, to the point of becoming agoraphobic, again. In real life, and on the Internet, Struggling, in finding ways, to express this darkening of my soul, in a positive way, that would prevent me, from falling into the trap of self-pitying myself. Having done enough of that, over the years.

Cracking Of Eggshells (April 9, 2017)

The black ink

Lays on the page

Like dried blood

Before me.

Clotting up

A long opened wound

Hemorrhaging 

From long suppressed

Memories.

Within my soul

A consuming fire burn

So bright

Promising

To devour me

With an angry rage.

Tears 

Unleashed

Like a tsunami

Threatening

To drown my soul.

The sluice gates

Open up

Wide

From the levee.

Blowing across

My soulscape

Winds of self-condemnation

Telling me

I'm a FAILURE.

A so tired

Of this constant struggle

Just want to rest

And let the pain go.

Sigh.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Been having a very rough period, for the past 3 days, with very negative emotions and very low self-worth, as I have been isolating myself, from the world, real time and cyber-wise. I know, isolating myself, is wrong, but I don't feel strong enough, to walk, outside of my apartment, right now.

Reclaiming My Soul (April 6, 2017)

Peace.

A five letter word

Am struggling

To come to terms

With.

In feeling

The bottled anger

Thrusting up

Against my self-imposed

Mental barriers

For most of my life.

Blaming myself

For the abuse/bullying

In not being

Good enough

To protect me.

As the physical

And verbal blows

Rain down

On my body

And soul.

Internalizing

Those negative words

Within my inner critic's voice

Attacking myself

Years later.

As I battle

Self-doubt

And low self-esteem

In isolating myself

From others.

Even now

It's a struggle

I fight

On a daily basis.

Knowing

It's one of my pillars

Of my soulscape

I have to rebuild

For true healing

And inner peace.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: For more years, than I can remember, I have been struggling, to find that balance, which will give me, true inner peace. Having hit such depths, that I have spent the better part of 3 years, constantly suicidal, as a teenager, without telling anyone of my struggle, during my last years of high school, until decades, afterward.  Even now, on a daily basis, I have suicidal thoughts, in my mind, depending on the severity of my depression, are mostly static background noise, I am able to ignore. And yes, my medical team, is aware of this, as I have shared this, with them. It's one of the questions, I get asked, whenever, I see my nurse practitioner. Along with, how do I rate my level of depression, on a scale of 0-10, 0 being depression free, and 10: having attempted to commit suicide. 

For I have never reached true equilibrium, that balance point, between being manic and depressed, in my life. Even during the time that I was taking a cocktail of several anti-depressants, and suffering in silence, as my body rebelled against them, with constant side effects, which made my life, a constant living Hell. Ranging from constant migraine headaches, from two different drugs to bloating, gaseous and severe cramping, from another drug (only thing missing from my constant period, was the blood on my panty). Worse, several of these medications used a form of sugar, as their delivery vehicle, into the body. Part of the reason, why many people with depression, have a higher than normal rate of type II diabetes.

Hair! Hair! (April 3, 2017)

A frustrated sigh

Escapes my lips.

Looking at

The reflected image

Of my hair

In the mirror.

Thinking

Women will/have

Spend a fortune

For wavy hair

Like mine.

Truthfully

I look at my hair

And cringe.

Regardless

Of my hair's length

It has

A mind of its own.

Have tried

The punk look

With the Mohawk

As a teenager.

Alternating

With various 

New Wave/Goth styles

As I finished up

High school.

Still shudder

At my failed experiment

Of getting a perm.

Rather

Shave my head

Like Sinead O'Connor 

When she exploded 

Onto the music scene.

Knowing

All of my scars

Will be exposed

That I hide

Under this mop.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Right now, my hair reaches, about the midway point of my shoulder blades, when straightened out. The last time, a pair of scissors was taken to it, was about 4  years ago, to cut out split and dead ends. Something, I need to do, again. 

Sigh. 

Releasing Dark Fears (March 17, 2017)

Out of sync

Body dysfunctional

With reality.

As if

I don't belong

Here.

Like an Internet troll

Who's pretending

To be

Someone else.

Scared

Someone will call me

An imposture

Or worse.

Telling me

My experiences

Of abuse and hate

Are imaginary.

From the pages

Of a horror story

One can buy

On-line.

Tossed away

When done.

Found unbelievable

Even for

Fiction.

Into the delete bin

Of your computer

Or smartphone.

     *   *   *

You call me

Justifiably paranoid.

Never once

Did you acknowledge

My attempts

To share my past.

Rather

You sought

To exercise 

Your fear.

Repeatedly

Asking the same question

Session 

After session.

As if

You don't believe

My answers.

If you're trying

To anger me

It won't work.

Given

My high threshold

Before I will react

To you.

And yes

I do know

You're transphobic

By the manner

You interact

With me.

As witnessed

By my housing worker

During our last session

Together.

Handing over

The psychological assessment

For my application

To Ontario Disability Support Program.

An assessment

With many glaring errors

By you.

     *   *   *

So

Tell me

Doc.

Are all abuse survivors

Justifiably paranoid

By our inability

To make direct eye contact?

In blaming ourselves

For the actions

Of others?

In the destruction

Of our innocence.

Internalization

Of our abusers' words

By our inner voice

That repeatedly call us

Rude and shameful names.

Like a record

That's constantly 

Skipping?

Or

The anxiety/panic attacks

We experience

In crowded situations

Due to past abuse/bullying.

In which

The crowds

Re-enforces

These abusive actions.

Catching us

In an endless loop

On our personal PVR

Available on demand

24/7.

A struggle

That often ends

In a graveside service.

As the private

Become public.

For those

Who surrender

To the pain.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: On Wednesday, March 15, 2017, I had an appointment, with my therapist, and the above poems, are some of the topics that we talked about, during that session. Before anyone thinks, it was all grim, I had the therapist laughing, at my puns, play on words, and one-liners. 

Like many of my therapy poems, I need to explore my feeling, in a manner, I couldn't or didn't have the time, in the session, last Wednesday. And yes, there were several times, I found myself, on the edge of outright crying, as I opened up, about this part of my life.

Therisa Ascending (March 2, 2017)

From the smothering

Testosterone tainted ashes

I emerge

Once more.

As I brush off

Various remnants 

From my past life

Off my soul.

Knowing

A long road

Awaits me.

In my sojourn

As a woman.

Wiping away

Those bitter tears

Where hate reign

Supreme.

Surprising myself

With how far

I have travelled

In the past decade.

In finding

Courage and strength

To be honest and true

With myself and others.

Knowing

There are others

Who'll oppose

This journey

Of self-discovery

And healing.

On ignorance

Alone.

Pity.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Wednesday, March 2, 2007, marks the last day that I have worked when I quit my job, as the result of transphobic pressure, applied to me, by the company that I worked, for then. Basically, I had to fight, to attend a peer support group, that met twice, every month, except for December, as the group took that month off. Wasn't unusual for one of the company drivers, to make homophobic comments and jokes, as I worked. 

Over the past 10 years, I lost my apartment, lived in a homeless shelter, been on welfare and now, a provincial disability support program, for my chronic depression, anxiety disorders, agoraphobia, and PTSD. I have learned coping strategies, in dealing, with my various mental illness, and seeking closure, to my abusive past that I have suppressed, for most of my life, without realizing it, until my mental barriers collapsed, on August 14, 2007, when I experienced a 26 hour long panic attack, triggered, during a morning rush hour ride, on the TTC subway line 1. Since then, I have tried to avoid any appointments that placed me, on the TTC, during rush hour, whether it be morning or afternoon.

Am sharing this, with you, to show how far, I have travelled, in the past decade, and how much, is still left to be done, before I can rejoin society and earn my way, as a productive member, able to help others, with my experiences and knowledge. 

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.

Not By My Choice (May 6, 2016)

You call me

A brave

Courageous fighter.

And yet

What options

Do I have?

Either

I surrender

My body and soul

To those

Who are filled

With hate

And ignorance.

Knowing

Death awaits

At the end

Of this road.

On all fronts

Spiritually

Physically

And emotionally.

Or

Attempt to

Weather out

These violent storms.

Choosing

Those battles

To stand and fight.

Even still

Too many times

I have found myself

Standing

At the Abyss' edge.

One step

Away from Death.

None

The wiser

Why my soul weeps

At the trail

I had to walk

To find life.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Often feel like, I don't deserve this nouns, when people describe, what I have done, over my life. Truthfully, I had no other options left to me, beyond death. And right now, am not ready for that last tango, with Death.

A Soul's Need (May 5, 2016)

Ironic

Isn't it.

What is

My greatest fear

To live life.

Is something

Most people fight

Tooth and nail

To maintain

At all cost.

While

I welcome

With open arms

Death's embrace.

Knowing

When we dance

Our last tango

Together.

Peace and serenity

Await me

As we part company

That last time.

Forever

Silencing 

The bean nighe

That haunts me.

In my troubled dreams

And memories

Of the violent darkness

I have lived.

Some people

May think

I'm being suicidal

In writing

About this.

But

I am not.

Rather

Just voicing

How my soul feels

Right now.

In needing

A spell or two

Of rest.

Recharging

My drained batteries

For the next round

Of healing.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: This was one of the subject matters, my therapist and I, talked about, during yesterday session (May 4, 2016). Not sure, I will ever be granted, this wish, of mine, as life has, a way of complicating matters, when you think, you have it figured out.

I have used, the Scottish term of bean nighe, instead of, the traditional Irish' Banshee. For more information, please click on the following link:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banshee

When Darkness Whispers (May 4, 2016)

Am I

Delusional

For thinking

My poems are

Making a difference?

By exposing

The rawest

And darkest pain

Of the soul

One can endure.

Without

Committing suicide

Afterwards.

I ask

As my inner darkness

Threatens to unleash

A tsunami of tears

Upon me.

So tired

Of this constant battle

I find myself

Bogged down

In.

Only wanting

A mere moment

To be free

Of this engagement

Most soul perilous.

Knowing

To surrender

Would be suicidal

On a lesser scale.

But rest

I must have

For the sake

Of my own health.

Or

Else.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Written, after another stress filled therapy session, which I touched upon, some of the darkness and negative emotions, I have internalized, over the years.

Avoiding Arrest (April 20, 2016)

Today Am fighting myself Knowing What awaits me Should I lose. Imprisonment Within the walls Of my apartment. Contained deep In the organic mass Of tissue I call My brain. To everyone else But me. These bars are Invisible And non-existence. Having given up Any hope Of the door Being left ajar By my jailors. Only time Will provide The needed key For release. As I watch The world Unfold Around me. Therisa © 2016 Author's note: Yesterday (April 19, 2016), I got the bad news, concerning my out of control A1C readings, from my diabetic nurse. And I can feel the darkness of my depression, threatening to consume me, in a darkening bout of isolation, which will worsen, over time, to the point, I will attempt another suicide try. Part of the joy, of knowing how my body reacts, to certain stimuli.

The Bell Tolls (April 19, 2016)

Can feel

My heart racing

At 1000 km/h.

As I wait

To see

The newest members

Of my medical team.

Knowing

Bad news  waits

When I hand in

The required forms

For my food log.

Feeling like

A condemned prisoner

Who been served

The last dinner

Before the gallows.

Each second

The minute hand moves

Brings me

Ever closer

To my doom.

Three days time

My life is

Forever

Changed

By insulin shots.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Written, while waiting to see my diabetic nurse and nutritionist, on April 19, 2016.

Doing It, For Myself (April 13, 2016)

Been asked

In the past

Am I transitioning

As a way

Of striking back

At my mom.

A question

I can answer

Truthfully

No.

The greatest weapon

I can hurt her

Is silence

On my part.

Or

In reaction

To the years

Of abuse

By my younger brother.

Another question

That I can answer

No.

My first conscious memory

Of seeing myself

As a girl

Occurred

More than

Forty-one years ago.

Sitting

In a bathtub

Alone

Covering my chest

In bubble bath bubbles

Like I have breasts.

Similar

To mom's.

Never mind

The big differences

In how

I played

With my toys

As a child.

By being gentle

With them

Like they're fragile dolls.

Not the smash

Bang

Crash'em way

Of most small boys.

Or

My teenage years

Walking

Throughout the house

When alone.

As if

I was wearing

High heels.

Like the models

And actresses do

On TV.

Therisa © 2016