Capitalism and Assault

At around the same time that I got raped, my family faced a crisis of needing a new place to live. Everything suddenly felt too heavy, it’s funny how different forms of oppression cross simultaneously. At around this same time I didn’t really have anyone to hang out with and everything felt isolated and dark. I took so many trains at this time, trying to escape all the violence that was currently afflicting me. The first thing that I did was try to date the guy who raped me. I recall how much the darkness suffocated me. I don’t think I escaped that place. Every day I have to find the inner light to guide me out of the overwhelming darkness that surrounds me.I resorted instead to seek a friendship, but this friendship was not nurturing, it was the kind of friendship where I had to be happy to feel loved. I have learned to be happy even when everything feels awful. I have been so fucked by capitalism to say the least. I have been in danger of losing my access to education, have felt the reality of having nothing to eat in the house, was forced to abandon the country where I was happiest, and have felt the anxiety over not knowing where we would live next. To top that off I still don’t have health insurance; this is probably the worst reality I currently live as I really need trauma intervention. When people see me, they often do’t know how to take me, I am at once a firecracker, full of happy gestures, and an explosive full of nervous energy. How can I not be nervous when my existence has always felt marginal, always contested. Legislation and the capitalist market contests my humanity every time I don’t have access to something that should be my human right. This is the main reason that I attempted to hide and instead hung tightly to the person who I thought would never abandon me. Losing such a person was a bit of a wake up call, it reminded me that I am in a hostile world and no one will do the work that I have to do to find my own home and safety. The sort of life that I have lived has given me many negative qualities but at the same time its made me the sort of person who doesn’t stop nor gives up. Somewhere down the line I hope that I am able to deal with my negative reactions and begin to truly live. I hope that in this path I find a person who will love me for everything that I am and never finds a reason to leave. I am a lot because I have lived through a lot. I don’t want to hate myself for it, I want to begin to love my scars.

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Introspection: what is safety?

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It’s been a hard year and by hard I mean:

  • My anxiety got worse because a subject raped me; Hypnotic was flowing through my veins, the emotion of coming to the realization that someone was thrusting their genitalia inside me as I laid sleeping was overwhelming. I tried to hurt myself for too long to rid myself of the anxiety that made my body its chamber.
  • I fell into a cycle of self-destructive patterns; it seems all my actions are just attempts to clarify that I am not worthy of love, so each time people show me kindness I have no idea how to react except to run away.
  • I realized that alcohol and my brain don’t like each other, and this is probably the only realization that will save me. My last hangover was particularly awful and I never want to feel that way again.
  • I entered a relationship with an emotionally unavailable person who constantly resorted to a pathological conditioning pattern where my behavior either earned me affection or distance. This part was in particular hard because linked to the former led to me spiraling out of control and becoming a pathetic, needy version of myself.

I was just listening to z tapes and a line said : my good friends are kind to me but I still get nervous metaphysically…I am person and object. I don’t think I ever more related to a song; Feeling constantly nervous is a difficult way to live but I am finding little ways to make places feel like home. When I went to Lourdes France, I recall feeling overwhelmed with the thought that no place would ever feel like home. But home is comfort and safety; home are the friends that hold us in our most pathetic moments. Home is not a metaphysical person or object but rather something we must create. I feel as though my body itself is becoming my home and this is better than all my other previous attempts to run from myself.

 

 

 

Going through the Hegelian dialectic of a leaf

“No cultural object can retain its power when there are no longer new eyes to see it.”

The leaf rested on the barren ground

a brown thing had consumed it but from the outside

a flame reflected:

it had seemed beautiful, the way the color

now didn’t seem drab.

But was the color a flame, could the leaf

feel the burn, or was it merely

a reflection of the taillight

of a mechanism called a car.

Language carries power,

such power is not objective;

in it-self language is neutral,

while reflecting the power structures that we participate in.

Telling your ex boyfriend that he was bad at sex

is your way of exerting him as an object

something you felt he so often did.

The light grows brighter, on your periphery a car moves,

power structures are in constant motion

but it is time to remove yourself from this long drive

you no longer desire the spinning happiness,

you just want tranquility and to be the brown leaf

laying on the grass, asleep.

 

 

A long Haiku about moving on and by Haiku this is a stretch

The moleskin with the blue cover is lost; Relief is knowing that I don’t have to look at its contents anymore:

Mania gripped me

spun me

and as I grasped your hand

you didn’t care.


I dance again now and joke about the suffering I experienced, not out of anger but out of acknowledging that life is not static but rather a wavelength of dreams. I survived the nightmare world that surrounded me and now I’m searching not just for someone who is interesting or cute or funny but for the real thing. The real thing is not to be found but rather will occur so I am focusing on finding me. The last 6 years have been chaotic and that’s an understatement. I dated a myriad of people and don’t really know how or why. I’m tired of being an object or of using people as objects. I’ve been a really fragmented person and I have broken myself too many times. In the way my rapist held me at the beach only to walk me to my end, my eyes were closed as he entered in and out of me. I had so much anger I never expressed and I directed all that energy in frustration to the boy who often emotionally neglected me. There’s a connection to this romantic tragedy. I keep escaping one tragedy by clinging to people who can’t see me or who see me and run. Run girl run. I’m taking a seat and seeing life not for anyone to like me but for me. I spent too much of my energy becoming a concept for someone but then my little wall would crack and people abandoned me for another concept or else I abandoned them for some concept. I have been really hurt and likewise I have really hurt people. I’m not going to be responsible for all these bad feelings anymore. I’m abandoning this endless pursuit in the name of real love. Love is not made but found and you find it by being truly yourself.

This is How you Lose Everything

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This post is written post psychosis, with a heavy heart, full of guilt and nausea. As David Foster Wallace once said:  “There’s good self-consciousness, and then there’s toxic, paralyzing, raped-by-psychic-Bedouins self-consciousness.”


There is a buzz in my head: a sound bleating so loud I can’t ever sleep nor eat. [I] seem to have lost control of my impulses: run around listening to a whispering and looking upon strangers who I once thought were friends. The whispering is particularly ugly, in form it might be some faceless shadow; in reality it is probably a part of my brain that wants me dead.

  • Why must my brain continuously fling these horizontal variations at me? I stand. I sit. I punch the air quotes. I pray to some other form that the pain flies away. Metaphorical existence — The only form of courage I can muster to bring myself back some days. Hegel once said: “The spoken word unites the objectivity of the corporeal sign with the subjectivity of gesture, the articulation of the latter with the self-awareness of the former”. But what happens when there is a part of your brain disconnected from so called rationality; this battered part that only reacts by slowing down interactions and contiguously outlining words, crossing out literal meanings, and inserting interpretations unaligned with the text. I tell my students every day to provide textual evidence when their answers don’t match the text. Is this what we learn from reading and understanding text: how not to let psychosis take over your brain?
  • I lost someone who I thought and still think was my twin flame. Again there is no sense of reason in thinking that divinity exists. If divinity exists why did I lose everything again? The other day we were reading a story where a family is losing their home and the mother said it must be the intention of God for them to lose their safety. My student claimed that such a quote was a misunderstanding of the situation, the loan agency was to blame. I asked: does blaming God give the woman a sense of control.  [If God is in control, he may save them.] The church did always say: ” your deeds will save you.” Who will save me?
  • The fractions keep popping in my head. After my sister told me that my relationships always end due to my unhealthy interactions, I kept visualizing 8/6 and how it could also be 4/3 and how they both reduce to 1 and 1/3 and kept checking to see if 1 and 2/6 would truly reduce to 1 and 1/3. I’m not really sure what the fractions mean, I just spend so much time solving them.
  • Party on the L train; except the L train is always late or stuffed with people, or else it gets stuck in the tunnel or leaves you right by where you and your twin flame went to the street fair, seeing the state of hipsters, you both ran. You know that the relationship ending is not entirely your fault. And you know that at least September is over and with it that part of your brain that wants to kill you is finally dormant. You make a home out of nothing and start to sleep again.

 

Hope is that thing with feathers. And although you lost it all, you didn’t lose your hope.

 

My first language often feels foreign

I spent too much time trying to escape

the identity into which I was born

but identity is some outdated term

and part of a totality of power structures.

Love in the Age of Terror

  1. Eternal

(I entered the scene; black shirt, black jeans, a can of cider, bought at the liquor store where I didn’t pay for my cigarettes this one time; I walked out and ran, justifying the theft as karmic justice: Who doesn’t have a bathroom?)

How can the eternal begin but with the idea of heavenly bliss?

“We are doomed to choose, and every choice may entail irreparable loss”

I chose out of some skewed concept of autonomy: a hand had held my shoulder.

I should have known better, should have known

——That karmic justice was awaiting me: (There is no patriarchy here)

Who said that and why did they lie ——-

That escaping horizontal violence didn’t mean

I was free from pain;

The hand that touched me was eternal

felt like home; like a friend that I never wanted to lose; enter hypothermia

I thought the priest was honest when he said love would come to stay

Love did feel eternal, but eternal meant:

[Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it]

I did eventually find a bathroom.

Maybe the eternal is the rush of the urine as it hits the water

The mix can always be reversed;

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The hum of everything sings as it did when we forgot to see each other and saw what we most hated about ourselves: the stench of being a person.
  1. Climax

Aren’t climaxes supposed to feel like the resolve of a conflict

Or maybe I’m confused

And the climax never ends

But continues going on

Like the way dreams envelop images

And in the images the hand that felt eternal suddenly feels

To be floating away.

  1. “Acceptance is usually more a matter of fatigue than anything else”

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The hum of everything sings as it did when we forgot to see each other and saw what we most hated about ourselves: the slow acrid banality of existing.
  1. Denouement

The gnat is causing quite a spat

Is this how it feels to die?

like a spinning nostalgia that isn’t just metaphorical but literal?

“i killed the ego”

is that the superego speaking?

the chemicals push out images of some form

a crippled fraction lingers in my head.

the crack in the back of the couch is pulling me away; my hands are holding

my iPhone

while this verbal mastication digests

the images of some night

far away,

i killed the gnat and

he said great.