The Urge To Purge (August 14, 2016)

As I look

My body over

An anger fills me.

At the cruel twist

Of fate.

I have been forced

To endure

Over my lifetime.

Knowing

I'm trapped

Within the wrong gender

And powerless

To change it.

Even though

Modern medicine 

Has advance

To the point.

Of giving me

A feminine appearing

Body.

Stopping short

Of a truly feminine body

Able to give birth

With a female reproductive

System.

Fighting

The very thoughts

That would end

My life.

By 

Permanently removing

My male genitalia.

As these depressive thoughts

Threaten

To overwhelm me

With the need 

To act out

And make this

My new reality.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Wish, I could say, these feeling of self hatred towards my biological body, weren't so intense, that I want to self-harm myself, in correcting the disconnect, between the physical image that I present to the world, and the mental image, i have, of myself. And yes, like my chronic depression, these thoughts of self-harming are cyclical, in nature. Never aware, when they will arise and overcome me. 

To date, I have manage to contain these thoughts, but do know, the day will come, when I will be powerless to stop them, from happening. I have told my medical team, about these thoughts, and they're monitoring me, to see, if they get any worse.

Distant Echoes (July 30, 2016)

Can still hear

Mom and dad

Shouting

At each other.

Guilt fills 

My 6 years old

Soul.

Like

I am responsible

For their verbal fight

That happening

Before me.

Even now

Almost 4 decades 

Later.

The guilt

Still haunts me.

As tears 

Threat to overflow

My tear ducts.

Gushing forth

Like Niagara Falls

Regardless

Of my location

In a public area.

Leaving me

Brimming with curses

At my long term memory

And its ability

To retain them.

Wishing for

Total amnesia

Of any long term

Memory.

Failing that

Then

Death.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: For more years, than I care to remember, my long term memory has been able to retains events that I would rather have erased. One of the huge disadvantage of this, is a "Swiss" cheese like short term memory, which I have forgotten numerous conversations, after I or the other person has left. As a teenager, my mom stopped asking me, to get anything from the downstairs pantry, as I would forget her request, by the time, I got to the pantry. 

Widening The Crack (June 12, 2016)

This Friday

I did something

That's totally

Out of character.

In opening up

And sharing

My self-harming secret

And the reasons

I harm myself.

Sure

In the past

I have written

And posted poems

About this.

(As I don't

Have to see

The reader's reaction

To my dark truths.)

(Thus

Don't feel like

I'm being judged

By them.)

But

Never shared

With someone

Who wasn't part

Of my healing team.

While

Dropping my shields

Even further.

By sharing

My passive anger

Towards myself.

Which

At times

Broils over.

Wishing

I had died

In November 1974

From the electrical burns

I had suffered

As a child.

Therisa © 2016

 

Author's note: Since January 2, 2014, I have been attending, on an on/off basis, an art program, for people, who have mental illness, and are trying to break through the barriers (stigmas) associated with it. Attending session, on Monday and Friday afternoons, whenever possible, for me. The above poem and breakthrough happened after the June 10th session, with another member, from the program, as we waited together, for the 506 streetcar, to take us, on our way home.

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.