Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Trigger Warning

The working title of this piece is gas-lighting, trigger warning 
or I am a trigger warning.

“Do you have thoughts of self harm?” is the question they always ask.
Thoughts, more like an obsession.  
I want to hack my body to pieces
and reform it like a cyborg.  
I want to take any humanness away.
Cut out my heart
my cunt
they are useless.
Add a robotic cock then maybe
I can make someone happy.

Do you have suicidal ideations?
Do you have a plan?
Have you acted on them?
Always in that order.
I want to spout the answers before they are even asked.
But I must remember not to be rude; this is my gatekeeper.
I need to make them like me so that they will let me through the gate.

This life I have been given is a joke, a joke on me.
I am not here nor there.
I am not anywhere.
I am not you and I am not me.
I am nothing.
I am alone.
You think you can understand what my life was like.
You think I couldn’t have had it that bad.
You think you know me but you don’t know what I have survived.

I have been trained not to talk about it.
Hide it. My secrets.
My secrets that slowly eat away at my heart.
Eat away at my lust for life.

I could tell you my secrets and then you will fear me.
For no logical reason.
Just because you don’t want to know I exist.
You don’t want to deal with how fucked up the world is.
I am the manifestation of this fucked up-ness.
I am the product of your cultural genocide.
which has also been erased.

Moreover you don’t want to think that I might be better than your nuerotypicalness.
I might be smart. Stronger. Freer.

Instead I know the feeling of my body falling like deja vu.
I’ve dissected the different methodologies.
As any autistic would.
Taking them apart at the pieces.
Analyzing each part.
Looking at viability.
Pain factor.
to needed resource;
to implement plan.

You all think we just wake up one day and then off ourselves.
You don’t get that this penetrates our every moment.
It takes over our thoughts.
Becoming an obsession.
We try to hide from these thoughts.
Sometimes we drink.
Sometimes we become drug addicts.

It’s not like we don’t like life.
Life doesn’t like us.

Sometimes we are queer, trans or differently gendered.
autistic.  Bi-polar. PTSD. Borderline.
poor, people of color, people with disabilities, chronic pain, immigrants.

Actually, we are many of these things.

And the cross section where they met is our death.
It is when we take the knife, make it hot
And push it into our skin.

It is when we feel the pain that grounds us.
We hurt to take away the hurt that we can no longer tolerate.
We hurt to stay alive.
And sometimes that pain is not enough.
Sometimes we can’t, we just can’t tolerate the world anymore.

There is NOT something wrong with us.
There is something fundamentally wrong with our society.

You say but some folks have a neurological imbalance that causes major depressive disorder....There is treatment for that if our society made it accessible to folks who need it.

Maybe you know nothing of these things.
Maybe you don’t know what PTSD means.
aka Post Trauma Stress Disorder.
It turns your brain into swiss cheese.
You randomly forget things all the time.
You don’t know where you put your keys ; your wallet.
words, names, they just fall out.
and people think there is something wrong with you.
They even call it a learning disorder.

& Having someone walk about behind you
Might result in them getting punched in the face.
Completely involuntary to you.

“Silly” “insignificant” things terrorize us.
But we can be completely calm in
Moments you would be incapable of dealing with.

Furthermore, we don’t produce dopamine correctly so
We tend to also be thrill seekers.
Finding life in the adrenaline.

Things that might not make any sense to you are necessary to us.
Maybe it’s sitting facing the door in the very back of the restaurant.
Maybe we fly off the handle when someone touches us.

We are constantly being told that we are inappropriate
Because of things we did not and would not wish for
And how that makes us respond.
You tell us we have an anger problem
You tell us we are depressing.
Complain too much.
That we think the world is out to get us.

Well, you know what, we have to deal with it so You can too.
You can deal with our anger because you don’t have to deal with our problems.
You are our problems.
You can deal with us being depressing because you are what makes us depressed.
You can deal with us complaining because we are complaining about you.
And you know what?
the world IS out to get us!

And maybe borderline just means that we are fucking oppressed.
Maybe instead of blaming us,
You could actually do something to change the root of oppression.
Instead of gas lighting us.
Alienating us.
Isolating us.
Making us think we are crazy and that it is a bad thing.
Instead lets have a conversation about how to  really protect us.

Not a:
You tell us.
that we need you to protect us

Not a:
You tell us; that we need you
That we need you to help us navigate the world.

Not a:
You tell us that we are not ok.
And that we are incapable of dealing with the world.
That somehow our own adaptions are inadequate.
What would we do without you?

Oh I don’t know... be happy.
What would happen if we could just be and live.

Asbergers/ Autism.
You think that is what the rain man had
You think that is the only way it looks.

You don’t see how it can affect
“high-functioning” individuals
All that means is we haven’t been institutionalized.
Not that we are actually functioning.

But what is functioning.
‘Working or operating in a proper or particular way.’
What is proper?
Who decides what is proper.
Not me.

But I do know that we strive to submit
to your expectations of who we are supposed to be.
We jump through your hoops,
trying to access basic resources in order to survive.

We are homeless.

We are dead.
You call it suicide.
I call it murder.

You murder us.
Slowly day after day.
We close our hearts.
We close our mouths.
We close our minds.
We become nothing.
We are nothing.
We are invisible.
And then we just don’t exist.

We were amazing when we were alive.
We were writers and artists.
We were thinkers and scientists.

Maybe we wanted to be a doctor.
Until society told us we couldn’t.

Maybe it was the standardized tests.
Maybe it was the language barrier.
But we should have been able to be a doctor.
We should be able to have all the same opportunities that you do.

What would you do when your life had been taken away from you
To the extent that you had no voice.
No sense of self.
just because you become easily confused
when dealing with people and social interactions.
When the world was constantly telling you that you are worth nothing.
Telling you that it didn’t want you in it.
When you couldn’t get a break.
When every day you had to stress and worry
about things most people take for granted.
Even things like food and shelter.

But you can’t be part of the shelter system
because you don’t fit into their ideas of
who you are supposed to be.

And at night you go to sleep alone
Because you can’t seem to find relationships that aren’t abusive.
You can’t find partners that don’t gas light you.

You are so alone.
It permeates every pore of your body.
You just want a normal connection
Some physical touch from another person.
You want to know that you are sexy.
That someone would want you.

Maybe you bind your breasts
Trying to show the world your true gender.
Maybe the compression becomes a
Holding in your heart, your breathe,
Constraining it from the world.
Because you have too much life.
You have too much energy, too much love
Too much hope.
It must be constrained.
Held down.

Maybe you want to mutilate yourself.
Cut out these pieces that no longer serve you.

maybe you take hormones to feel like yourself.
then you loose who you are in who you have become.
which is something you are not.
You are no longer transgendered.
In searching for that space of the third gender.
you lost your gender, you lost your sexuality.
you become an anomaly.
Everyone wants to talk about what’s in your pants
but no one wants to get in them.

You try to date others like you and quickly realize
that not only are they not actually anything like you
other than being trans
but that your community is the size of a tea cup.
and you’d call it incestuous but just hearing that word;
is a trigger for you.
As is physical touch.
As is when someone tells you they love you.
& you filch awaiting the attack.
You find someone attractive, so you run away.
Knowing that if you like them they must be abusive.

So you hurt to forget the person you are.
You hurt to stop the hurt.
To remind yourself that you are real.

You dream of falling.
You know the feeling of the air underneath your back.
The whisps of hair blowing against your face.
Looking up at the sun.

It becomes beautiful.
It becomes real.
It becomes escape.
It becomes reality
When life is no longer a reality.
When you have lost so much of yourself
That death appears to be more real.

Death IS more real.
Death is beautiful.
Death is love.
Death is freedom.

Why wouldn’t you want to die?
Why wouldn’t you want to escape?
Escape the pain and misery?
Escape how much everyone hates you.

That is not reality.
A person cannot exist within a world like this
and keep any grasp on sanity.
But one has choices; one always has choices.
or release. freedom. death.

And now that you’ve read/heard this piece,
you don’t know if it is a fuck you to the world
or a love poem to death.
nor what the difference is.
and you never will.
Unless you always have.


So many of you know I am obsessed with the number 23 and numbers in general as well as making new friends by randomly 'friending' people who look interesting on facebook. Sometimes that means I have interesting and sometimes frustrating conversations. But that seems to happen in life anyway at least on here I can turn it off. anyway this long prolog is to state that I have 2288 friends on here that means that if you take the 22 from the first part and add it to the total number 22 +2288 than I will have 2300 "friends". And I think something interesting will happen when I reach this number but it will be epic when I have 2323 friends. Maybe then I will actually be famous instead of just kind of famous famous or maybe I will be mainstream. Maybe I will be a sell-out. Maybe I already am. Maybe I am just a puppet, some sort of armature pretending to be a person. Maybe there is no such thing as an artist, performer, writer, scientist or if there is they don't actually exist as a person like other people do. they are something else. Maybe when I reach that magic number of 2300, I will have re-found myself. Maybe when I reach 2323, I will realize that I am you and you are me. 

...Or maybe I just haven't been sleeping.

look me up: