Wednesday, March 5, 2014

to them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room.


Repeat after me: the by-stander effect:
Today an elderly women got on the same bus as me, she carried a black trolley of groceries and looked frail and weary. As the bus pulled away, a younger man dress in dirty clothing started yelling and banging on the doors, forcing it to stop. He was pointing at an older man sitting next to the women and demanded he get off the bus. He was pointing aggressively at the man, the women looked tense and upset. The man kept yelling, "don't you fucking touch her! You never touch a women like that, you got it? You don't fucking touch women like that!". The women was so distressed (or embarrassed) by the scene that she got off the bus; the old man followed. Shaken, the bus driver drove away, and as we merged with the oncoming traffic I watched the women holding her hand out in defense and mouthing "no!" as the old man scurried behind her. The man in the dirty clothes walked away, swearing - "don't you fucking touch her" - as if this were a novel idea.
There was nothing I could do. I was on my way to my counselling session with CASA, already shaken and anxious, and I had to stop myself throwing up from disgust and shock at what I had just witnessed. "You never touch a women like that, you got it?!" kept ringing in my ears. Why are men so awful? Why are people so cruel? It makes me sick, revoluted and scared to live in a world to remains silent to everyday abuse such as this.

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The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear.” Stephan King

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A small list of sad things, jumbled, raw and unedited:
*Zhi Hui hasn't spoken to me for weeks and I've lost Violet Bow and M in the process of our "friendship break" - it feels so odd that I don't know where they live or what's going on in their lives...what am I supposed to take from this? Having a mental illness is okay unless it's life threatening? Always be there for your friends, except when you physically can't? Grief and loss is not supposed to be a shared experience? Battle of the sickest?
*Health care professionals and uni support staff keep congratulating me for being so honest and articulate with them as to my needs and my story, and I kept thinking: well fuck, who else am I allowed to be honest with?
*The first day back at uni I hid from old FNAPPs (such as Lou and Maddy D) in the library and the book shop because they don't speak to me if I don't speak to them, and even then, I think I've overextended my allocated "fucked" time-frame (aka. "too much") - I'm tired of me too, you know?
*My closest friends are probably all adults or "comfy" friends like Kit-Cat or Magnus who I can do nothing with and it still feels okay (although on Monday I went to high tea in the city with Magnus and I've been watching Fringe S2 with Kit-Cat - both highly enjoyable, healing activities)
*My new friend and trauma ally, Banksy, told the Poet about our meeting last week and what we discussed and he called me and texted me several times - the beginning of his text (I couldn't bear to read the rest) said: Eri, when we had sex, I always asked you if you were okay...but he didn't, he didn't, he didn't. He is a lying asshole. I'm going to continue to be raped and murder him in my dreams until he is punished/reprimanded for what he did

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