A friend once looked down on me for being so open, told me I should post more of my angst and emotions in private. Like I should be ashamed, or something. But later, someone who's opinion I respect said they couldnt respect people who hid, who couldnt be honest. That struck me, though I said nothing, because at that point I had finally taken the first friend's advice, and had gone into hiding. It was more than simply he said so, it was that what I was doing wasnt working for me, I was losing everything, and I didnt know why. Every warrior must pick their battles, must know when to fight and when to retreat. I retreated.
And then felt shame for the retreat, for I have never backed down in my life. Its not about being introverted or extroverted, about being a good person or a bad one, about being couragous or even sane. Its simply about living, one day to the next, not being held back by fear to the point of paralisys, about being unashamed in the face of your agressors. I stand before you, bloody and naked, raped and tortured, dragged through the mud, pissed upon, lied about, treated as garbage; and I will be battered, and I will be bruised, and I might cry from the wounds or puke from fear or pass out or even beg for mercy. I might, I dont know.
But I WILL NOT be ashamed.
Put me on your crosses if you like, tear me to pieces if you must, take me down and tell me what I am how horrible I am. I have been a monster every day of my life, tortured for crimes I cant even guess at. But I wont be afraid of you, you silent nightmares and unholy shadows, you demons of darkness and desire, I will not be afraid of you!! And I will not be ashamed. Not for simply being me, being mortal, being fallible, for loving too much or too hard, for desiring a mate, a life, just some simple peace. For the temper which has murdered good people and I keep so carefully under control, the animal inside that flows beneath the surface that I fear. For the abuses, for being less than human in the eyes of so many, a tool or a characature, a sex toy or a disposabler doll, toilet paper to wipe asses better than mine. These are my wounds, see them. This is my broken and batrtered body, my mangled mind, know them. This is my life in all its beauty, joy, and terror, in all its garbage and filth and regret, see it.
I am here, just a face among millions, just one untold story in a throng so vast it boggles imagining. But I have a voice, dont I? I have hands to write, dont I? Eyes to see and a mind to think and a tongue gifted with the drip and flow of a thousand lyrical words. In my head, in my mind, all crowded and scattered are worlds, each with a life shattered, each with a person or people struggling towards what we all desire; salvation, redemption, being made whole. Hand reaching out to hand, heart reaching out to heart. It isnt about being on some mental schedule, or about money or jobs or where you are in life, or where you're going. Its simply about you and me, in this instant, in this lifetime, and this one single moment we have, that we can turn to wonder...or regret. Our power.
We have always been our own gods.
Last night again I was lauded for my courage, a courage I cannot feel myself. What others call courage I simply call....no, I dont have a word for it. Its the animal, taking down its rightful prey. Its the panther, lounging on a tree branch. Its a snake shedding its skin. Its grass, stretching towards the sun, blowing in the wind, drinking in the rain. Its not courage, its just...right, natural, with that sense you may have birthing your first child and you know its all in nature's hands, or that sense that watches over you watching the sun set from on top of a mountain, or the mist roll in. We are this moment, she and I and he and I, and everything else is peripheral. School and work, money concerns and things you own, ghosts of family past, nightmares you have lived, toubles yet to come, your bank balance, your car, your clothes, your very name, its all peripheral. You are simply you, I am simply me, and it is simply us, reaching, touching, making one singular moment in time ours, trying to find a way out of the past, out of pain and regret and the shattered bits of our soul, and into the future.
Why is this so hard for so many people to understand?
And then felt shame for the retreat, for I have never backed down in my life. Its not about being introverted or extroverted, about being a good person or a bad one, about being couragous or even sane. Its simply about living, one day to the next, not being held back by fear to the point of paralisys, about being unashamed in the face of your agressors. I stand before you, bloody and naked, raped and tortured, dragged through the mud, pissed upon, lied about, treated as garbage; and I will be battered, and I will be bruised, and I might cry from the wounds or puke from fear or pass out or even beg for mercy. I might, I dont know.
But I WILL NOT be ashamed.
Put me on your crosses if you like, tear me to pieces if you must, take me down and tell me what I am how horrible I am. I have been a monster every day of my life, tortured for crimes I cant even guess at. But I wont be afraid of you, you silent nightmares and unholy shadows, you demons of darkness and desire, I will not be afraid of you!! And I will not be ashamed. Not for simply being me, being mortal, being fallible, for loving too much or too hard, for desiring a mate, a life, just some simple peace. For the temper which has murdered good people and I keep so carefully under control, the animal inside that flows beneath the surface that I fear. For the abuses, for being less than human in the eyes of so many, a tool or a characature, a sex toy or a disposabler doll, toilet paper to wipe asses better than mine. These are my wounds, see them. This is my broken and batrtered body, my mangled mind, know them. This is my life in all its beauty, joy, and terror, in all its garbage and filth and regret, see it.
I am here, just a face among millions, just one untold story in a throng so vast it boggles imagining. But I have a voice, dont I? I have hands to write, dont I? Eyes to see and a mind to think and a tongue gifted with the drip and flow of a thousand lyrical words. In my head, in my mind, all crowded and scattered are worlds, each with a life shattered, each with a person or people struggling towards what we all desire; salvation, redemption, being made whole. Hand reaching out to hand, heart reaching out to heart. It isnt about being on some mental schedule, or about money or jobs or where you are in life, or where you're going. Its simply about you and me, in this instant, in this lifetime, and this one single moment we have, that we can turn to wonder...or regret. Our power.
We have always been our own gods.
Last night again I was lauded for my courage, a courage I cannot feel myself. What others call courage I simply call....no, I dont have a word for it. Its the animal, taking down its rightful prey. Its the panther, lounging on a tree branch. Its a snake shedding its skin. Its grass, stretching towards the sun, blowing in the wind, drinking in the rain. Its not courage, its just...right, natural, with that sense you may have birthing your first child and you know its all in nature's hands, or that sense that watches over you watching the sun set from on top of a mountain, or the mist roll in. We are this moment, she and I and he and I, and everything else is peripheral. School and work, money concerns and things you own, ghosts of family past, nightmares you have lived, toubles yet to come, your bank balance, your car, your clothes, your very name, its all peripheral. You are simply you, I am simply me, and it is simply us, reaching, touching, making one singular moment in time ours, trying to find a way out of the past, out of pain and regret and the shattered bits of our soul, and into the future.
Why is this so hard for so many people to understand?
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Do what you need to do -
why do people judge anyone of us