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Reality is going to kill you.

She takes her trip to the Netherlands and for what, to add it to the countries she's visited. I wish she could visit reality. I wish she could see her true self in the mirror and then fade to nothing from the gravity of her errors, her crimes. I wish she could be crushed by it. She hurt my mother. She really hurt her.

I hate your faces. I hate the way you walk and the way you drive and talk on the phone at the same time as if you're someone we should stop and ask, who is that?

Today you told me I'm worthless, useless. I didn't skip a beat. I didn't strike back. I didn't back down, I just kept on going, as usual.

One of my favorite movies the girl is crying on her knees and says, I'm not worthless. I'm not worthless. She worked so hard to wipe the dirt from herself, to be respectable, but she still fought stigma and the times. Times have not changed, women are still the object valued in dollars and cents, or with our clothes off.

I am not worthless. I've wiped the dirt off my face. I've paid for crimes I didn't commit. Don't say I'm worthless. Don't say anything at all. Slip into the cloud of reality, smell it, taste it. It's going to break you. Reality is going to break you, something should.

The Netherlands. You're going to the Netherlands. Conquer that, too.

I am not worthless.

I am not worthless.

This is the only thing I have to explain where I was today and where my mind still is. I wrote this a few years back but my body is determined to live up to every line.

Thunderstorm

There’s a thunderstorm in my body. It’s not a hurricane or a tsunami that wipes everything out leaving people stunned and shocked at the devastation. Responders rush in to help clean up, help house and keep warm those who have survived. No, this is a thunderstorm, the type that rages until it’s almost normal.

I’m used to being wet.

Soaked. I'm soaked to the heart, to my lungs and my knees.
The rumblings make my teeth chatter. My body swings to the tune.

There’s a thunderstorm, a lightning fire in my hands, between the blades of my shoulders, in the soles of my feet.

As anyone in the rain, I walk with urgency through the dark.
The electricity is out. There are no street lights, just headlights playing tricks
in the raindrops that arouse ghosts on shiny black pavement.
I’m cold. I’m always cold but I’m used to being wet.

I can barely feel the rain yet my shoulders are held high, my brow is deep, vision swimming.
I keep walking.
I walk with white sheets of rain coming down so fast and so hard they beat anything that ever tried to grow, right back into the earth.
What might have been blows down the street, to where I can not see.

From nowhere in this norm there is thunder that shakes the trees
and lightening that threatens to set them on fire.
I hold my ground.
On shaky legs I slosh through gravel and water which has created a gritty crunch beneath my feet.
I’m going home, I think, or maybe I’m just walking.
I don’t even know the name of the street. I can’t see anything, it’s so dark.
I can’t see, anything.

My clothes cling to me.
My hair is water logged, skin shriveled, fingers numb.
I am accustomed to the rain. I’m used to being wet.
It is the thunder, it is the lightening that shakes me to the core.
The thunder is so loud, the lightening so fast
and so close
it nearly singes the last bit of my mind
the thunder didn’t take with it.
I grit my teeth and I bear it because I know with each step I’m closer to home.
I’m going home, I think.

It’s been hours, surely there is nothing left of this storm.
Surely the lightening will tire itself
and the voice of thunder will become sore and faint. It’s been hours.

I’m used to being wet, but I am so cold.
I’m so cold.

FMA

It's not pretty - this meadow of mineI posted a photo on my FB page about PTSD but later when I visited the page it linked back to, I erased it. There's probably valuable information on the page so I do not fault it for that. I removed the link because of the memes and quotes....and how they landed this hour of the night. In other words, they didn't do anything wrong......it's just hard right now. I'm ranting, anxious, triggered and tired.

Set off......

I completely object to the idea of showing PTSD as pretty, the same way I am disgusted by people showing Lupus in a dreamy way. I assure you, when I'm in pain I don't think about purple butterflies with trailing light. When I'm up this late I don't think about anything other than running from the brain vomit produced by PTSD.

I've been up too long, and I'm mad....at everything. I can't get myself to go to bed. It's hot and sticky. My brain won't shut off.  Why do I only think to take something for the anxiety when I'm far gone, like this?

I hate this world. I've thought recently of just walking away and living quietly in some place...who knows where......just some place. I'm weary, worn out and appalled by the human condition. I'm appalled by the lack of reason, the abundance of openly hating one another and purposeful harm in action and words. It's like there's blatant behavior to inflame and keep communities unsettled. From top to bottom people seem to want nothing more than to upset and destroy each other. It's hard to watch.

I want no part of loving anyone....or hating them.  ...continue reading "PTSD Isn’t Pretty"

with all her imperfections fmaShe's a young one with sad eyes called "With all her imperfections."

Can you love her with all her imperfections? Can you forgive her moody ways, her tendency to frown instead of smile? Can you love her shyness, her uneven horizons?

She spits out poetry like she's on a stage show before college kids smoking herbal cigarettes and talking about diversity. She'll never fit in with them because she thinks they're shallow, but she can't bring herself to stop the verse.

Her eyes have been wide shut to ambition, calling it the true path to unhappiness. Her eyes have been wide shut to the clamor of panels on the news telling her how she should feel about the newest outrage, describing it as "woke". She can't stand it. She feels too much, says too much, writes too much and excels at imperfection, but she needs you to love her. With all her imperfections, can you still love her?

Her face is the canvas of her few years of life. There's still room on her cheeks for roses, still time for the love of life to kiss her lips pink. The brow line still rises and behind sad eyes there is living hope.

Can you still love her? With all her imperfections, can you still love her?

Faith
May 7, 2017 - 7:37pm ETS

"She speaks the dream" - availableLet her scream.
Let her sing
Let her speak her dreams.

Let her pant on, glide through waves of churning water and
strike back at lighting.
Let her eyes be open,
her hands
open

Let her feel the wind.
Let her rest on soft clouds.
Take her home.

Title: Mindscape - "She speaks the dream"
Art by: Faith M. Austin
Size: 5.5 x 8.5
Medium: Acrylic ink, 98 lb paper
Finish: Signed, acrylic seal, unmounted
Style: Expressive, Art Brut, Outsider Art

Original art is available in my Etsy shop or via PayPal. Contact information is on the sidebar.

1

what I require.
gentle words, soft hands, moss under my feet,
rocks to turn in my palms and run over my fingers.
water to flow and fish to fly
the purr of the cat
and a pillow that doesn't reveal my prayers.


Fish in the air

Fish wish to fly.
They spread their wings in a watery sky.
They dance and dive like sparrows,
hold heat under their wings as an eagle, and
Circle like a crow.
To their dismay, grounded they remain like a laughing, senseless ostrich.

fma

April 21st, 2019 3:20 am EST

I've been once again drawing trees obsessively.

Before girl's night with pizza and a movie, I cut out of here for a nature walk to the park. There were a few families there, separate from one another and weary of each other. There was an uneasiness I refused to be part of. I was there to touch the trees, to look at the bark, search for early moss and breathe.

I came home with walnut hulls that now hold early spring moss.

It was a long day and an even longer night with a still stagnant day to follow. Yesterday's activities with the girl's didn't go as well as I'd hoped because two of us weren't really in the best frame of mind to gather with others and be 'normal'. It ended badly, as badly as a joke. Two depressed girls and an artist walk into a bar.... ......bad.

The pizza was good.

This evening I opened the windows to trade out stale air for new.

Jane is lazy, but not my mind.

...continue reading "I Touched the Trees"

The video is a quickly thrown together sound bite with several art pieces that fit the topic. Death of my brother as well as sexual abuse, suicidal ideation and self harm (cutting) are discussed along side art stills. Close to the end of the video one photo of a box of crayons is seen for several seconds, then the video ends. That crayon photograph marks a detailed discussion of first being abused.

Life without Crayons

No coloring books
No cousin to first touch as I held gray
to fill in a cat who chased
but never caught the mouse.
No crayons would mean no dowel rods on my three year old body because
liberties were taken.
Life without crayons would never ask if
dowel rods broke before my mind had to.

Life did change that day. She saw me differently. Whatever she didn't beat out of me that day made her violently mad until I left home.

...continue reading "Therapy Review: Abuse. Sadism. Self Harm"

Grey Elephants
Pecan ice cream, pecan pie, cat fish.
Comedy shows, dance, theater, the arts.
Clothes, appearance.
Languages.

You were a dreamer and that irritated the heck out of me.
A low tolerance for alcohol.
Handwriting large and round; I always thought it strange.

You rooted for the under dog and let everyone know.
You'd go left when all others turned right, but you never went quietly.
A soprano but otherwise not one to raise her voice.
You couldn't cook to save your life, or mine.

Jordan

Eerie gusts of wind made the curtains rumble.
At will the wind blew strong enough to send the curtains flying,
but mostly it caught them and shook out a chilling sound.
Had I not been half in, half out, I would have closed the windows,
but all I did was lay awkward, looking above my head,
at blue curtains lit up by flood lights,
caught in some unearthly grip.
A grip that soon found it's fingers around my neck.


I clawed at the invisible trying to breathe,
I turned toward the window to catch the next wave to come through,
to gasp it in,
but it was never enough..
The more I struggled the more my chest compressed.
Pillows, covers, clothing were left piled where I wouldn't stumble.
When every stitch had been discarded I realized it was yesterday sitting on my chest,
suffocating me,
And I knew, the incubus of my past had again won the night.

written 10182016-504pmest Jordan

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