neologistic logorrhea

It came-- the year anniversary of my dichotomy. My fragmentation. My nuclear explosion.
I woke up with sobs welling upward, grasping my throat in their hot fingers. Nine a.m.; I was sleeping on that day. The fool I slept beside in that tent must have been especially high from his 6 a.m. methadone shot. An orange drink in a dixie cup.
But I am writing about MY yesterday, not last year's yesterday.
My yesteday, I woke up to ominous billowing sobs, but I also woke up beside a man. Not a fool; a wise lover. Instead of the drug-induced monologues about mystical messages from God and the cryptic stories of faceless dream girls thought up during hallucination-states, the wise lover is a man of few words when it comes to expressing verbally what love he feels for me. 
Instead of torrents of confusing but urgent words-- I slowly unpeel my wise lover like a fruit one eats in a moment of solitary bliss. Each time a layer pulls back, the taste is sweeter. I am surprised. (Is there a word for "happily dumbfounded"?) I am so accustomed to fruits which are just barely edible on the outside; their insides full of rot and decay. I am so ACCUSTOMED to methodically desensitizing myself into states of denial; suspending disbelief when I don't want to see the ugliness of something that has wrapped itself so tightly around my spirit.

PTSD. 

Just today I caught myself thinking something silly but true. "Who the FUCK invented this thing, and have they been shot in the asshole yet?"
(Not talking about who technically coined the term. Come on, you know what I'm talking about.)

I've found that getting better is a much longer, slower process than I ever would have imagined. And that we all process it differently-- with similarities though, which is why it's a recognized mental illness. Brain injury, I prefer to call it. 


One cool thing I've found in my progress is that major improvements often come in the form of "epiphanies". I'll realize something, perhaps a new way of looking at things or a new coping mechanism, and BAM! I jump up one rung on the ladder of recovery. 
Sometimes I fall back down several at a time, but upward movement is always good. Always.

So here's something I just noticed: even though I have hyper-vigilance as a strong symptom (and thus do not like unnecessarily noisy environments, as they could be covering up noises that indicate a threat), putting on my headphones and blasting non-triggering music actually seems to help.
It forces me to hear something that comes from outside of my own head and focus on it. 

*Sigh*. Sometimes it's discouraging how my HUGE EPIPHANIES are things other people do without even thinking about them. 
But I remain hopeful.
 

"Never Go Back"

EVANESCENCE

The Valley Advocate: The Public Humanist

 My husband is teaching a class called “Forbidden Fictions” this summer, to a self-selected group of high school almost-seniors. One of his first thoughts: “This might be the only opportunity I ever get to teach Lolita to high school students.”
He reread the book with far more discomfort this time around, for now he is the father of two 13-year-old girls. I noticed odd behavior when he took it out in public. He practically had to slip it inside a magazine or brown paper cover to read it in the waiting room of a doctor’s office. And the girls’ gymnastics gym, full of pre- and barely adolescent girls? No way. He sat in the car reading that night.
“Well, then,” I said, goading him as is my duty, “if it makes you this uncomfortable, why are you going to subject these poor young minds to it, traumatizing them forever?”
My sister supplied one answer as we stood around discussing the book over coffee on a sunny weekend morning. Wuthering Heights and Lolita were the first books she read, she said, that changed her “understanding of what literature is for or what is possible.” They expanded her ideas about “what might motivate me to read to something that goes beyond escape pleasure.”
(My other sister, telling me about a book she just read, said, “I haven’t loved a book so much since I read…Lolita!”)
My husband sent an email to a group of teacher and reader friends, asking for ideas about supplemental texts for the class, and one woman suggested he look at the 50 Shades of Grey phenomenon, how the book began online in an arena in which people often don’t censor themselves at all. The point is a good one—what does censorship, what does “forbidden” mean in a world in which we have direct access to the sordid contents of each other’s minds from the comfort of our homes? “But,” I howled in dismay, “you can’t teach 50 Shades—it’s not literature!” Maybe the subject matter is risqué—so what? If you enjoy redundant writing, and get a thrill following the jolly antics of a woman who screams “Holy cow!” whenever what’s-his-name tightens the handcuffs, then you go, girl, or boy, but I’m pretty sure this is reading for “escape pleasure.”
Does this sound snobbish? I don’t think so. Genre fiction can get us through hard times, and so can pop music, but we’re talking a literature class here, a bunch of bright kids preparing themselves for the rigors of college reading, not the reading they’ll do on the weekends to put all thoughts of their gimlet-eyed English teacher out of their minds. If they can crack Lolita, if they can extract even a portion of its juice, if they can broaden their understanding of what literature is for, they’ll be closer to ready—not just for college lit classes, but, as my sister says, “for the actual shades of grey that a full rich life must be lived in.”
Lolita starts with language so poetic, so unusual, that even once you know of what, and of whom, our unreliable narrator Humbert Humbert speaks, the words still dance around in your head like a refrain, still beg to be spoken, to spill from your tongue as the syllables of his beloved’s nickname slip from Humbert’s: “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.” Nabokov, in the voice of Humbert, seduces us with that language, draws us in, and in so doing makes us wonder if we are complicit in Humbert’s deeds. Our percolating discomfort lets us know his actions are wrong, wrong, wrong, but it’s hard not to feel sympathy for the devil. He’s pulled us inside his head. We feel his pain. Should we believe him? And the language is so gorgeous. We’re squirming not just in distaste, in revulsion at Humbert’s actions, but in delight, in awe at what that clever bastard Nabokov can do with language, at his power over words and through them his power over us. If we feel that thrill, that pressing desire to read on, then are we partly to blame for what happens?
If you want to be made even more uncomfortable, listen to Jeremy Irons read Lolita aloud, or read it when you have adolescent daughters—or, perhaps, read it in Tehran. But read it. Read it to understand how writing can be so powerful that people fear it, governments fear it, religions fear it. Read it to understand the possibilities inherent in literature, and to be grateful that, for the most part, we are free to read what we wish, from oft-banned books to forbidden fictions.

𝔼ℝℤ𝕌𝕃𝕀𝔼 𝔻𝔸ℕ𝕋𝕆ℝ, 𝔽𝕀𝔼ℝℂ𝔼 𝔻𝔼𝔽𝔼ℕ𝔻𝔼ℝ 𝕆𝔽 𝕎𝕆𝕄𝔼ℕ 𝔸ℕ𝔻 ℂℍ𝕀𝕃𝔻ℝ𝔼ℕ

In the Voodoo Pantheon, there is an important group of female loa (goddesses)whose first name is Erzulie. While all of them share in their role as Goddess of love, art, and sex, each has additional areas of life which is theirs to defend and assist. Erzulie Dantor is a mulatto woman who is often portrayed as the Black Madonna, or the Roman Catholic "Saint Barbara Africana". She has tribal scars on her cheek, and is considered heterosexual because she has children, but she is also the patron loa of lesbian women. Thus, she loves women fiercely, and will defend them to the death. She loves knives and is considered the protector of newly consecrated Voodoo priests and priestesses, as well as of women and children who are victims of domestic violence, and women who have been betrayed by a lover. She is highly respected and much feared due to her Woman Power. Most Haitian women serve Dantor, as do many men who honor and respect women. Erzulie Dantor is also the patron loa of New Orleans and so she is served by many there as well. She supports independent business women and is the patron of women's finances. Many women invoke Erzulie Dantor against their partners (male or female) should they become violent. And enlightened men also serve Dantor, especially men who honor, love and respect women.
Erzulie's personal story is a tragedy. She was a warrioress who fought with her people during the Haitian revolution. However, her own people cut out her tongue so that she would not tell their secrets should she be captured. Thus, she is mute and can only speak a stammering monosyllable, "ke-ke-ke-ke-ke!" This is the sound of her tongue clicking on the roof of her mouth. She is often pictured with her daughter Anais, who serves as her translator and interpreter. 

Indestructible

𝕰𝖗𝖟𝖚𝖑𝖎𝖊 𝕯𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖔𝖗 embodies the feminine. She is beautiful in appearance and loves silver chains and silver jewelry in general. She also loves Creme de Cacao, black female pigs, Reve d'Or perfume, and knives of all sorts - especially daggers.
Erzulie Dantor is the kind of loa you don't want to piss off. Her love of knives and virtual indestructibility precedes her and her character is recognized in traditional Voodoo songs. Here, one song about Dantor describes her love of knives and her indestructibility:
Set kout kouto, set kout pwenya,
Prete m dedin a pou m al vomi sang mwen,
Set kout kouto, set kout pwenya,
Prete m dedin a pou m al vomi sang mwen,
Sang mwen ape koule.
Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the dagger,
Lend me the basin so I can vomit my blood,
Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the dagger,
Lend me the basin so I can vomit my blood,
My blood is pouring down.
Now, at the surface this is a graphic, repulsive song. However, it illustrates the fortitude Erzulie possesses; to be able to sustain seven stab wounds, throw up blood in a sink, and still carry on. It is also reflective of the reality of the lives of so many women who live through the traumatic experience of abuse. Despite the abuse, the power of Woman Spirit is such that we carry on. Sometimes we carry on as victims, other times as survivors. Let their be no mistake, Erzulie Dantor is not a victim; she is the personification of Woman Power, which is why she is so feared.

Reve d'Or , Erzulie's Favorite Perfume 

She'll Vomit Blood All Over You

Okay, in case you are thinking my illustration of Dantor's Woman Power is lacking, consider this song:
Jou ma' koule
Jou ma' koule
Jou ma' koule
Map vomi sang mwen bay yo
English:
The day I am run down
The day I am run down
The day I am run down
I will vomit my blood and give it to them
In other words, even if you make me bleed, I will bleed my blood all over you! Now this is attitude, folks! Indeed, Erzulie Dantor is classified as a hot spirit and sometimes likened to a djab (devil-like), similar to any woman referred to as a "bitch" because they are assertive, independent, and strong.
In Voodoo ceremonies, the loas will often make an appearance by possessing one of the participants, a phenomenon referred to as "mounting the head". When Dantor mounts someone, she will sometimes vomit blood. This is a sure sign that she has arrived. However, if Dantor throws up blood in a basin and hands it to someone, this is not a good thing. On the contrary, it is a clear indication that Dantor is pissed off at the individual and will punish him or her. You don't want to experience the wrath of Dantor! She has been known to be a very destructive spirit and is associated with heavy rains and hurricanes that destroy everything in its wake.

Erzulie Dantor as Saint Barbara Africana

Dantor is served with the image of Santa Barabara Africana, also known as Mater Salvatoris. She is associated with other Madonnas who hold a child such as Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Our Lady of Czestochowa, Our Lady of Lourdes, and the Patron Saint of New Orleans, Our Lady of Perpetual Help.

Tribal Scars

Scars can be seen on the face of Saint Barbara Africana images. The marks are often called "twa mak" or three marks, even though there are generally only two shown. I reflect these scars of oral tradition on my Voodoo dolls. You can see the scars in the close-up photograph of Dantor.
There is a story of violence that is at the origin of Dantor's facial scars. However, facial scarring is commonly found among some African groups and so they also point to Dantor's African roots.

More than Sibling Rivalry

As I mentioned at the top of the lens, there is a powerful group of loa that go by the name of Erzulie. Among them is Erzulie Freda Dahomey, who is one of Dantor's sisters. They apparently hate each other; a hatred thought to be fueled by jealousy. According to legend, Dantor and Freda both loved a particular Ogou loa. They engaged in an all-out cat fight over him, which took a very violent turn. Dantor was so pissed off she took her dagger and stabbed Freda in the heart. Freda took out the knife and sliced Dantor in the face a few times. This story is reflected in Freda's saint image where a gold knife is seen coming out of her heart, and is Dantor's saint image which has scars on her face.

 

epiphanic (a poem about PTSD)

I was feeling low  and talking to my bro
and I'm tellin' him about how
when I first got here, I was 
combing the basement floor
looking for dropped nugs amongst
the cockroaches and mouse
turds
bug carcasses
lead paint chips

and as I sparked up my very
sentimental bowl of some
very sentimental resin
I felt a thrill of euphoric contentment
rush through my entire 
body.

It was something I haven't felt
in so long

not since the first few weeks after it happened
when I didn't realize I was in shock
and hadn't even processed the event and
what had happened to me
and what it meant
But  soon, 
I started to slip.
My childlike giddiness faded away;
the pillars of denial I was leaning myself upon
began to shake and give way
and a sick psychosis set in.
I began to play games
like 
russian roulette with paint cans and steak knives
and the burning ends of 
countless cigarettes.

Soon 
the countless cigarettes became tools 
and my flesh a canvas
marking days
weeks
forming lines upon lines upon lines
of round scars.

And then
the tears I hadn't cried yet
the agony I hadn't felt yet
the paralyzing fear upon realizing the gravity of the 
"event" -- 
all began to break loose.
My nights were filled with screams,
sobbing, pounding on the concrete floor
and no one ever heard them
no one ever saw
how these demons would torture my body and mind
as soon as the sun began to set
every
single 
day.



Today, I am haunted 
with images
of the slow decay
of my core; my very being.

At every stage of this thing
that has been given a name:
Post-traumatic stress disorder
,
a new fragment of person emerged
and the task at hand, now,
is to "integrate".
Somehow
I am supposed to take all of these
shards of girls 
who used to be parts of one ME
but have each grown into their own beings...
glue them together
and be fixed. 
But 
I wonder: won't I just be a monstrous fabrication
a bastardization 
of a person
like an Elephant Man
but instead of flesh,
there will be shards of girls
sticking out all over the place
?

My epiphanic moment has perhaps passed
but it happened.

I need to remember it, forever.