Pop Monster City

     My skin got in his way         so I cleared it off my brow         then my sinews crossed his path         and he tore my tendons down.     I still had my blood vessels         but they didn’t fit his beat         so I plucked out all my capillaries         and threw them in the street.     Then my muscles blocked his chi         and my organs were too loud         so I stuffed them underground         and he hid them with a shroud.     I asked to keep my bones         and said he’d help me out,         but they kept him up at night         so he ground them into grout.     After he stole my voice         all I had was my mind,         and he couldn’t pin it down         and it grieved him all the time.     For it rang loud and clear         always roaming through my head         so he threw up both his hands,         and this is what he said,

I’m always kind, I treat you sweet, as gentle as can be,

She shot a sparrow with a BB gun.

She got it from her stepfather’s house, The one he abandoned after he went crazy and started storing things where the government can’t see them.

Its wing twisted underneath, she watched it die. An old woman passed by as she did it.

Sour looks. Judgment. Hate.

She wasn’t bothered.

Everyone sees the sparrow and the twisted wing.

Only she saw the nest of the mourning dove She was protecting.

The smallest predators Are the deadliest.

I danced in the nebulas, I flirted with flames, I skirted through gravity’s devouring gaze.

Stray flecks of blood

in the toilet bowl.

I am bereft.

"Mind." Grace Savides. Acrylic & oil paint on canvas.

She sipped from

the trough of

yesterday's hopes.

It

never

Trigger Warning: Emotional Abuse.

It didn't look like abuse when he told me he didn't really love me. He didn't hit me. Or scream. Or cheat. He calmly, coldly informed me he'd lied when he said he loved me because he didn't know what love was.

I wasn't afraid of him. Or, I didn't think I was.

It didn't look like abuse when he kicked me out of his apartment on the one night a week I was allowed to spend the night. He left to play guitar with his friends. And when I started to get upset he got upset first.

"You have no right to be mad." His favorite phrase.

I didn't think it was abuse when I was only allowed to spend two lunches and one night with him a week. It didn't seem strange when he put limits on how often we could see each other.

I didn't think it was abuse when he got to decide when and how we had sex. And how he'd sigh and roll his eyes during my turn, frustrated that I hadn't orgasmed.

I didn't think it was abuse when he told I’d gained weight and, yes, he was less attracted to me. He was just being honest. How could I fault him for that?

I didn't think it was abuse when he told me he loved me less than I loved him. When I'd wait for him to call me for weeks at a time. But he wouldn't. He told me he didn't miss me. So why would he call me? That just makes sense.

Abuse was giving someone a black eye or getting drunk and throwing your clothes out the window. Victims were small, beaten woman who couldn't leave. I could leave, couldn't I? Anytime I wanted.

At least, I thought I could.

I didn't know it was abuse when I spent all of my winter break psyching myself up to break up with him only to chicken out at the last second. It was below freezing and I was worried he wouldn't drive me home.

I didn't know it was abuse when I tried a second or third time, but then we had a nice night and maybe I had imagined the whole thing. Or the countless fights that should have ended our relationship, but didn't. He explained it was a more effective use of our resources to be together than apart.  And wasn't it better to be with someone than alone?

It didn't look like abuse, I didn't think it was abuse, I didn't know it was abuse,

But it was. It was abuse. It was abuse. It was abuse.

It was abuse when he refused to hold my hand or kiss me in public.

It was abuse when he was so mean to me on the phone his friends were shocked to learn he was talking to his girlfriend.

It was abuse when he made me sleep on the couch after we'd been dating for three years. Or when he said he didn't want to spend a whole day with me because he wanted to do other things with his day.

Because physical abuse is serious and scary, but by not hitting you your partner you've only established that you are less shitty than the shittiest possible.

Because everyone has baggage, and I'm sure he did, but you get to choose how to treat other people.

Because, even if I gave him the benefit of the doubt he was, at absolute best, neglectful and cruel. And that's not very good.

Because I'm still afraid when I see men with his dimensions on the street or on television or in person.

Because the person I love now will say things in jest that he would have said in earnest and it shakes me to my core.

Because I did things I regretted in that relationship, but I loved him and always tried to own up to my mistakes. Because he never saw me as a full person. Because even on my worst days, I apologized and took responsibility for my actions and he never did.

Because one of these moments could be a mistake, a blip in the radar, but put together they form a pattern of behavior that destroyed my self-esteem. It was a methodology constructed to control me and keep me where he wanted, whether or not he knew he was doing it.

It was abuse. I know that now. And I deserved better. Everyone does. And I do too. And every day I come a little closer to believing that.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day I finally do.

In the last hour of my

  eleventh year,

a scowling, harvest moon rose high and hard

and refused to set.

Crimson stained my thighs

as I donned the body of a woman

with none of the benefits.

Stubborn and judgemental and insecure,

   I longed to duck behind

   a rotting oak

   until I was grown.

Rabid preteens made mockery of my sexuality

because I was not Female Enough-

and I didn’t brush my hair for two straight years

and I didn’t smile, not even once

because smiling was for

I have finished classes for which I will now receive a degree.

I am excited to return to work-life-love-boyfriend-dog-healthy living-balance

and-

Feeding the unquenchable creative fury that calls me to unleash strange upon the world.

It was six years ago,

            almost to the day-

  And I still see you in stolen glances from, a stranger,

And I still hear you in

                        chromatic chords.

And I still feel you in

            that heaviness on my shoulders

and

            instinct to shrink,

and,

            the words I don’t say

because

            I still think you might overhear

            and crush me

            one last time.

  It’s been six years,

            and I finally

found that spark

that confidence

that flame

that love

that joy

  that you tried to stamp out, but

of course,

you never could.

  You were never strong,

Many years ago, I dated a person who was not very nice to me.

It’s a simple statement, but it’s taken a lot of tears and bouts of self-hatred to say it with no (okay, very little) judgement or hurt behind it.

I won’t divulge many details about the person (and please do not call them out if you know), but I will say this-

It was toxic. I made many mistakes, but they made more. It was abuse, but it didn’t look like what I expected so I didn’t see it. The breakup was nasty and I was angry for a long time.

We’ve all heard conventional advice about how long it takes to get over someone. A week. A year. Half the time of the relationship. Little tricks and rules about the timeline of grief. I blew past them all.

I could see my friends, my family, and others getting worried about me. I knew I had said all of it before, but I couldn’t stop. Even when I met the love of my life, who has improved my existence more than I could say, it still hung around.

Forgiveness is a concept that was hammered into me from an early age. Between growing up Christian and having to incredibly kind and people-oriented parents, I learned to be humble, admit my own mistakes, and see people as the complex creatures they are, not as villains. It’s a life lesson that I am very grateful for.

But somewhere in there, forgiveness started getting pushed as a reflexive reaction. It didn’t mean granting some reprieve for their mistakes. In my mind, it became shorthand for, “don’t get angry.”

That’s impossible, of course, so I would mostly tamp my anger down until it exploded it wildly inappropriate ways. And, once I was angry, I was so glad to finally have my righteous vindication that it consumed me. Forgiveness was something I staved off with the hardened stubbornness of a child. I had earned the anger. It was mine.

So when I finally allowed myself to be angry at my ex, it was explosive and ugly and poisonous and it consumed me. When someone told me to let it go, I clutched harder and hated myself for letting so much time go by and not being over it.

In the past few years, something has changed. Finally, tackling my emotional problems and realizing what I can and cannot control has made me more able to control my depression and anxiety. More than that, I realized that, once again, my anger had been displaced.

I wasn’t mad at my ex. I was mad at me.

I was mad for not being strong enough to walk away. I was mad for not standing up for myself. I was mad because I thought I should know better and be stronger.

But it’s not about strong or weak in abuse. By it’s very nature, abuse is about a person who made a decision to hurt you whether maliciously or through ignorance. Abusers are manipulators that make you question your own sense of reality.

Does that mean you’re powerless? Of course not. You have choices. I have tools now that I didn’t have then so I can communicate better with people to get my needs met.

And, to clarify, this is not a conversation about a mutually destructive relationship or a miscommunication. Those situations exist and it can be difficult to see the part we play in them. Sometimes, it’s also important to realize that someone else hurt you and it’s not your fault.

That brings us back to forgiveness. It’s common to tell people that they need to forgive. Part of being compassionate and empathetic is about overlooking people’s foibles.

But you do not HAVE to forgive them. You are not REQUIRED to let go before you’re ready. Forgiveness can be cathartic and healing and so worthwhile, but if you try to force it, you will only make yourself angrier.

You do have to forgive yourself. We make mistakes. We are wiser than we were yesterday. If you know in your heart that you do your best to be a good person and make amends to those you’ve hurt, you don’t have to include the unworthy in that list.

As for me, I’m getting closer to forgiving my ex. Maybe when I stop feeling a flash of fear every time I see a stranger who bears a resemblance. Maybe when I no longer see phantoms in my current relationship with the most wonderful man in the world.

Today, I forgive myself. I tried so hard to do the right thing. Though I have regrets, I did the things I did from a place of love and honesty. They did not. I have learned lessons and tried to change what I can.

I wasn’t strong enough to walk away, but I’m strong enough to look in the mirror today and say, “I’m sorry,” and, “I love you.”

Step One: Have Your Heart Broken. A LOT.

Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean the casual kind of heartbreak where you listen to punk music and end up getting a regrettable hair cut. I mean the kind that cuts our your bones and makes them in dioramas. I mean the kind that makes you start or kick a nasty drug habit and then move to Portland and tell homeless people that you’re sorry you never have enough to give them, because you’re barely holding it together yourself.

Personally. Professionally. Synthetically. Fatally. Wound yourself over and over again like it’s going out of style.

Step Two: Get Depressed and Eat Too Much Cake

You can substitute your own comfort food here. You will be doing this again throughout the process.

Step Three: Invite Your Personal Demons to Have Tea and Chose the Complete Wrong Color Scheme

No one’s happier than a writer. Just kidding, that’s not true. Because no one’s happy. Or maybe everyone is. Whatever. The point is, it’s time to wallow. Curse the bricks on the foundation of your apartment and yell at the ants. Give your neighbor that plays their bass too loud a dead fish and tell them you speak to angels but only on Tuesdays. Scream at your favorite TV show and make finger puppets out of your overdue bills.

Then, get your shit together.

I mean, that’s a big step. Far bigger than any other. But it starts small. Throw away that moldy thing in the fridge. What even was that? Where did you get it?

Next, completely change the direction of your life. Get a new career. A new job. Or maybe just start going to a different tailor or coffee shop. Kiss every third person you meet on the hand, but only if they say its okay first. Start carving out huge sections of time to listen to obscure poetry in a dead language.

Or do none of those things. Because maybe you don’t have time to or maybe your life is together or maybe you just have to make rent right now damnit and it’s not fun but I’m just so goddamn happy to be making enough to pay the bills for once.

Follow your dreams. Then dump them over text messages. Follow some different dreams. Balance the practical and the fantastical. Don’t ignore your wailing inner child or your massive credit card debt.

Find that perfect balance between work, life, and calling upon supernatural forces to heal your psychic wounds. Got it? Good. It’s about to get a lot harder.

Step Four: Go to Therapy

“But I don’t need therapy!” Yes. Yes, you do. Everyone does. Humans weren’t meant to have all the existential angst we now have to deal with. Our minds are too big.

If you don’t have enough money, I’m sorry. Find something else to examine yourself. Maybe a church or a spin class or some kindergartners who paint brown splotches on the lawn and tell you your hair looks dumb.

Figure your internal shit out. You have to. It’s the hardest thing but also the best thing. Love yourself unconditionally. If you’re a shitty person, change. If you’re not, celebrate.

Kiss each and every one of your fingers and toes every night until you love yourself as deeply as the universe does.

Step Five: Try

Do something bold, daring, and uniquely you. Pour all your hopes into it. Don’t hold back.

Step Six: Fail

Have no one get your jokes, art, poetry, or simply not understand why you painted an old school bus blue and tried to convert it into a monastery for squirrels. Cry a lot.

Step Seven: Eat Too Much Cake

Like, really, waaaaaay too much.

Step Eight: Repeat Steps Five Through Seven

Do this until you give up. Then, throw yourself back into the cycle. Go on long after everyone else has lost interest in your projects. Write the U.S. Congress about small grievances. Smear yourself with honey and roll around in autumn leaves. Then, try again.

Of course, do not continue to do so if it impacts your physically or mental health or hurts people or destroys relationships beyond repair that are important to you. That is no good.

But do take your dreams out once a night, let them wonder around your apartment, and feed them fairy tears and champagne flecks. Tell them you love them. Tell them they are coming true. Soon, my loves, soon.

Step Ten: Fail Again

Cats don’t even need eye insurance. What were you thinking?

Step Eleven: Try the Same Idea

Or maybe THEY DO?

Step Twelve: Fail, Fail, Fail

No. No they don’t.

Step Thirteen: Succeed

And you will succeed. It may be a small project or a big one. It may be the culmination of a year or work or simply eating some vegetables this week. 

Celebrate every success, large or small. Don’t brush them away or undermine them by saying, “Well, it was okay, but I didn’t X,” or, “I’m not as good as Y.” 

You matter. You are important. You did a thing and that thing is good. X and Y may be unattainable or are flawed in some way you cannot see. Like maybe they pick their nose in private. You don’t know.

You will succeed. It may not feel like it. It may not always be in the ways you expect it. But you will. And it will feel good if you let it.

Because no matter how good or bad you are at any given craft, no matter what you wear and what you look like or how white your teeth are, always remember this-

You made me ill. It was my fault, for eating the whole box. I knew you were sugar rot, lard, bacon, fat, booze, corn syrup, and some molecule they cooked up in a lab. But if I took small bites—

No. I never sip or savor. I consumed. I tore your psyche in my jaws. Pressed my face into your chest and slurped up your tragic childhood and mental illness.

You weren’t my snack. And I knew it, but I wanted to be yours. Garnish and glaze to happiness. But it doesn’t work that way.

I got food poisoning. I deserved it.

Image via Flickr: Jane Gross.

“Harden yourself!”

That's what they said.

“Take steel and coal and platinum, Railroad tracks behind your old school, Scabbed knees, razer-nicked skin, Utterances of scowling distemper, Slick, sharp criticism from parents, Dirt-ugly, smudged face of self-loathing, And ember butterfly moments too,      ones with sweet sighs and intimacy-brushed cheeks.

“Take them, pound them down—      with hammers. Melt the rage bones—      molten lead works best. Scour out the institutional skeleton—      bitten cuticles will do for now.

“Crush it down to armor. Wear your loss, but never speak it.”