Suicide

As I write this, a mother and father grieve the loss of their fourteen year old son.  Fourteen.

No one knows why.  Hearts are breaking all over my community, and I sit here at a total loss of words.

If you, or someone you know feels that suicide is an option, please know that no matter how low you feel, there is always, ALWAYS, a light at the end of the tunnel.  

Some peoples’ tunnels are longer than others, but there is a Goddamn light there, and it is just waiting to light up the world.

There are no pretty poems or eloquent words that can fix this sort of broken.  I barely even knew this young man and yet, I sit here in tears mourning his life.

My children.  Oh Gods, my children.  I hope that they never EVER feel this sort of broken or lost.

I will hold onto them tonight so that we can hold each other’s worlds together.

Please.  If you feel like suicide is an option, check out these resources.

Please don’t give up on yourself.  I don’t know you, but I still love you too much to let that happen.

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

http://www.boystown.org/hotline

http://www.helpguide.org/mental/suicide_help.htm

National Suicide Prevention Week 2016

http://www.metanoia.org/suicide/

 

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How Do You Hold Onto Your Words?

My words flutter around inside my brain, beating their wings against my mind’s walls, like thousands of butterflies fighting to get out.

I used to use these words in speech.  I would tell clever stories, make witty quips, and scathing remarks.  The words would march out of my mouth, like dutiful ants, returning to their queen.  Structures perfect, reaching their goal head-on.

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Lately the words do not obey me like they used to.  I frequently ask my children  to “Put the dirty dishes in the oven” or to “Put the leftovers away in the dishwasher.”

My children like to tell me that I am just creating a secret language that is unique to our family, our own secret code.

Some days it’s a fun idea, but other days it leaves me unsettled.

I don’t want these confused words trapped inside the iron cage, chewing away at the linings of my focus.  

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I want them set free.  Free to again float away.  Free to comfort.  Free to inspire.  Yes, even free to annoy.  

Free to land, wherever they may roam.

Why My Heart Hurts Tonight

http://www.dailydot.com/opinion/how-internet-responds-porn-star-abuse/?utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook&utm_campaign=main

I posted this post on my Facebook page.  It is about how the internet, twitter in particular has turned War Machine’s ex girlfriend Christy Mack from a victim of a horrific act of violence into a less-than-person, who deserved to be put into the hospital.

I had a friend remark that  “In the article, she said something to the effect of, “He’s beaten me before, but never this bad.” Makes me very, very sad to know that she kept this psycho in her life after the first beating. She knew what he was capable of, and yet she stayed.”

I said the only thing I could think of in response.

People who are abused can’t or won’t always leave.

With my Father, I was conditioned to believe I deserved every hurtful word, and that the bruises were just the horribleness inside me being shown to the world.

I felt that I deserved to be hit, because I was such a source of stress that he couldn’t help but to lash out at me.

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With my Ex-Husband, I was afraid.

I had kids.

I had no money.

I had a Mc job.

He has parents who are both well off enough that he COULD have taken those kids from me. In a heartbeat.

He always threatened to.

My current Husband (such a wonderful man) even tells me now that it took a long time after we got together and MARRIED to realize that I didn’t deserve the treatment I was given.

I still have bad days and relapse.

There are days when I feel frustrated, and tongue tied, and I just can’t think straight.

Days when my Husband will hold me, and kiss me, and try to help me calm down.

Some days it works.

Other days he has to deal with a total meltdown because I still don’t always understand that it is ok for him to love me even when I screw up constantly.

When I break a glass and then get cut cleaning it up, I deserve to go get a bandaid.  

I do not have to sit on the floor and pick up the glass, piece by piece, and then take time to clean up the blood, so that it doesn’t stain the floor.

That is no longer my life.

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When my fingers stopped flying across my keyboard, I could feel my heart stuttering in my chest.  I could feel the fear that I used to feel when I was a young girl, listening to my father screaming my name in slurs, a sound that always preceded an accusation of some assumed slight that I could never rectify fast enough to please him.

The slap would come fast and hard, and not always by itself, the sting settling into a burning that I would pretend to not feel.  

I am almost 33 years old.  The abuse stopped by the time that I was 21, from almost all fronts.  There is still the occasional intimidation from my Ex-Husband, but my current Husband ALWAYS has my back, and if I can’t handle the bullshit, he will carry my load.

Admitting this to the public makes me feel raw and wrong.  I still almost feel like it’s my fault.  My father, my own personal hell, drank himself into the ground years ago.  Somedays I can recognize that I was well fed, well clothed, and never wanted for physical comforts.  Some days, I can still manage to love him.  But most days…

Most days, he is still the monster in my head, and he doesn’t want to leave.

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The last image came from Dakotaa on Deviant Art.  Please go check out Their Gallery.  They have such wonderful work.

Clouding the Real Issues

I just unearthed an article I wrote 2 years ago, and I thought I would share it here.

5196ca80a2867.preview-620 *This photograph and the article of her sentencing can be found here.

July 22, 2012.  In lincoln Nebraska, a woman named Charlie Rogers stumbled from her home, naked and bleeding, to a nearby neighbor’s because she had been attacked.  Anti-Gay slurs were carved across her body and spray painted on her basement walls, she had her hands zip tied behind her back, and her basement had been set on fire.

 

The LGBT community rose to support Charlie and no one could understand how something so awful could happen to such a nice woman.   The attackers, three men, were unidentified, and no one could do more than financial and moral support.

 

The police did their jobs.  Charlie’s case was investigated and facts began to climb into the light, while people looked on, not believing what they saw…

 

According to police, on July 18, Charlie’s FaceBook page had a suspicious post that presented them with a clear suspect for motive.

 

“So maybe I am too idealistic, but I believe way deep inside me that we can make things better for everyone. I will be a catalyst. I will do what it takes. I will. Watch me,”

 

This information, along with forensic evidence collected from the crime scene, lead people to wonder what might really be going on.  Police found white knit gloves, a box cutter, and zip ties in the home, and while that in and of itself is not really suspect, the fact that they believed them to have been purchased on July 17, at the local Ace Hardware, was.

 

When the gloves were tested all of the genetic evidence came back as a match to Rogers.  There was no male DNA.

 

A few days before the attack, Rogers had sent her friends a picture of herself with a cross shaped cut on her chest.  Another inconsistency in a quickly muddling story.  Her home also showed no sign of a struggle, and no blood on the bed, which is where the incident was alleged to have taken place.  This lead an FBI forensic pathologist to conclude that Rogers had either injured herself, or had an accomplice do it for her.

 

An arrest warrant has been issued for Rogers, and I can only hope that a false reporting won’t happen again.  An official related to the law enforcement agencies said:

 

“The FBI, the Bureau of Fire Prevention and the Lincoln Police Department have spent an exorbitant amount of time and personnel resources investigating this,” he said. “We aggressively investigated this. Every day since this incident has happened, there have been investigators working on trying to identify who these assailants were.”

On Tuesday, August 21, four Nebraska gay rights groups released a joint statement crediting police for conducting what they believe was a balanced and thorough investigation.

 

“It is important not to focus on the actions of any single individual,” the groups said in the statement. “As residents of Lincoln we must continue to bring our community together to declare that violence and hate are not the values of our city.”

 

Now.  My problem with this situation is a big one.  Rogers is a woman who is representing a community that is currently struggling for their rights.  I may be married, but I am also a Bisexual woman and the LGBT community really does mean alot to me.  Each and every one of us is a representative of the community as a whole.  If we respond to anger with anger, we are violent.  If we respond to hate with hate, we are a hate group.  If we want to get married and have children we are crumblin the very fabric of society.  It doesn’t matter what or how we do it, we are being judged at all times.

 

When one person of a group makes a false statement, we all become liars.  We want attention, and nothing more.  It’s all an act for us.  We all lie.

 

And this brings me to my bigger issue.  The media circus that follows.  The lights are on, the cameras grab every angle and every shameful glance, and all the while other people, people like Kayla Elliott, 29, in Oklahoma, get pushed into the background.

 

Kayla was staying in her father’s apartment with him while he was ill, so that she could take care of him.  Sometime during her stay, her father’s upstairs neighbor, Camino Nicole Maxwell, began harassing her over her sexual orientation.

 

According to reports, the harassment went on for months, escalating into a scuffle, where Maxwell threw a punch and Elliott had to retreat into the apartment.  Later in the evening, according to nearby neighbors, Elliott went outside to retrieve a necklace that had fallen off during the scuffle and was attacked by Maxwell, who shouted “I’ll make you straight”  and I’m gonna kill you”.

 

Witnesses separated the women and called police.  When police arrived, Maxwell was arrested, and is being held on a $5,000 bond for “probable cause of assault with a deadly weapon”.  Elliott was taken to the hospital, as she has suffered a cut to her head that required 18 stitches.  

 

Now while Elliott is trying to get the charges elevated to attempted murder, the media firestorm in still in Nebraska.

 

Will Elliott’s case have the national media coverage that Roger’s case had?  We will just have to wait and see.

 

Let’s just hope this issue doesn’t stay clouded, because not all of us lie.

 

The Unrest Among Us

Last night I sat here, safe in my home, transfixed by my twitter stream.  I wasn’t seeing what I thought I was.  This was some sort of elaborate prank.  

It had to be.  

This is the United States of America, land of the free, home of the brave.  The footage I was watching wasn’t from Egypt, nor was it from the infamous ISIS, but from Ferguson, Missouri.

Now, personally, I live inside a bubble.  I hardly watch the television.  I get my information from Facebook and Twitter trends, because social media is a place where I need to learn to thrive.  I make it a point to avoid the news.  I am an out of touch viewer.  

I had to reach a family member who works in Ferguson just to be sure that this was reality.  She can hear the shouts and bangs from her office.

I want to do something.  I want to be sure I can make them safe, not just my family, but other families…  The ones caught up in the crossfire.

All I can do is refresh my twitter stream and swallow my heart until I hear that my family is home and safe.

I hope for a peaceful solution.  It can’t come soon enough.

 

*for more information and a first hand account of the happenings in Ferguson, please visit Washington Post’s reporter Wesley Lowery, and The Huffington Post for first hand accounts.

The importance of losing your mind…

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It’s 6 a.m., the thunder and lightning are fighting to dominate my skyline and I am sitting here awake.

I wish you could imagine my thoughts, as my mind and sleep intertwine, dancing a forbidden tango that my body does not approve of.

Tragically, my disapproving matron, Insomnia, has pulled my mind away from her forbidden lover, shoving her into a room filled with screaming voices and overwhelming stimuli.

I find myself out of bed and in front of my computer without even thinking, the blinding blue welcome screen searing my corneas, and forcing me to blink away tears of pain.

The comforting click of the keys on my keyboard sooth my nerves and wake up my inner dialogue, the words leaping to life in my mind and then being born on the screen.

The screen, she must be beautiful, as her blinding light can light up my bedroom.  I have heard attractiveness described this way many different times over my life, so why should her shining brilliance be any different?

The words inside of my head stutter, reminding me that I have a title on this post, and so far my rambling doesn’t seem to support the idea I have presented you with.

My eloquence is broken, as I click a new tab open to pull up facebook.  My brain stutters and slowly dies at the monotony of the same things running down my screen in varied intervals.

“Seen this, read that, I knew about this two weeks ago…”

I think about the possibilities that await me if I can just shatter the box, that little room that my mind is currently huddled in the corner of, shaking.

If I can let her free, to get lost in this big open world, what could she do?  What would she experience?  What would she try?  Would she learn new and exciting things?

I reach into my thoughts, grabbing the prison cell that my mind has been sealed up in, and throw the box into the sky.  I feel the prison dissolve into the wind.

My thoughts float idly away, looking for something, that one thing that will thrill her.

That one thing that can bring her home.