Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Kiss my Sweet Arse

O illness of mine which has torn me asunder,
I hate you as much as the weather I’m under.
You rob me of joy and of life and of breath.
And of you, chronic illness, I am sick to death!
Chronic illness is something I would not dare send
To kith or to kin, rotten enemy or friend.
It breaks and it weakens and hurts you some more
Til you rail against heaven and stomp on the floor.
This illness I have has cost more than I thought,
Friendships, relationships, more pain than it ought.
One thing rings true when you have something chronic,
You aren’t going to fix it with gin or with tonic.
You can’t fight your battles, though many they are,
You can’t walk or see straight, you can’t drive the car.
People will judge you for gluttony and sloth
Unless you fall down, seize, and at the mouth froth.
I’m so sick of hearing, “But you look so good!”
This illness does things that no illness should.
I may look okay when at me you first glance,
But give me an hour and I may pee my pants!
Incontinence is only one “joy” in my life,
There’s double vision, weakness, worry and strife.
Don’t forget isolation, boring and lonely,
Even from one who is the one and the only....
Fill in the blank, be it family or spouse;
All I know is I’m often alone in this house.
Some people hang around for a month maybe more,
But soon their own lives come and knock on their door.
So for us who are chronically, totally ill,
We wait and we wait for that one magic pill.
The one that will take us to where we’ve been wishin’
That oh-so-desired, elusive remission.
Remember for now that if you see someone odd,
They may be that way by allowance of God.
They may have some reasons they can’t “this or that”
And it’s not ’cause they’re lazy, insolent or fat.
O illness, my illness, your death I desire.
I want to be free again, free to admire
The outdoors and swimming pools and even bee stings.
I want to be outside to hear when birds sing.
I will never give up this fight I am in.
And you, blasted illness, you will never win.
I am strong (and I’m funny); I also have class.
So you chronic illness, can kiss my sweet arse.
(Kerri Sweeris)

Monday, September 21, 2015

The Three Most Important Dates in Life

There are three important dates in one’s life: the day you were born, the day you realized why you were born and the day you die.  

"The timing of death, like the ending of a story, gives a changed meaning to what preceded it." - Mary Catherine Bateson

I do not remember the day I was born but my mother told me that she had her head in a pillow and her arse in the air while she wailed and kicked her legs.  She had no idea what birth was all about.  Of course, after me a lot of children came via the same route so she got better at it.

The day I realized why I had been born is the day that it finally got through to me that I can weave magic with words and by being absolutely authentic in my own life, I can inspire others.  I was born to fight injustice.

According to Mary Catherine Bateson, what precedes my death will change the meaning of it.  Right from the start, let me tell you that I am unafraid of death.  What frightens me is living a life that has no meaning.  So, what precedes my death?  How will I be remembered?  The correct ending of my story cannot be “She died after a long illness bravely borne” because I have not been brave. – I have done everything but borne this illness bravely.  I have screamed and shouted, cried and howled, researched and followed leads, joined support groups and have learned more than any medical doctor other than two professors who actually work on the rare diseases I have.   Instead of just sprouting out these long medical diagnostic terms, I will just say that I have a gene mutation and all my b- and t-cells are fucked.  It is very hard to live with this illness.  It took the meaning of my life away from me for a time and I had to work hard to get that meaning back.  I have learned that I do not have to go out and do these things myself.  I can use words as my weapon against injustice.
So what would be the correct ending of this story – of this life?  Don’t bury me with those stupid words.  Bury me with my boots on. 

Monday, September 7, 2015

My Tattoo is My Badge of Survival

It took a longer time than for most, but when I was around 40 years old I put a tattoo of a fairy on the left side of my arse. Most people I know who have tattoos have put them on their bodies to remind them of something or it becomes a ritual for having achieved something; even if it is just falling madly in love.  Of course, the more inconsequential the reason for putting a tattoo on one’s body, the more likely one is to regret having it there which will send you scurrying back to the tattoo parlour to get them to fill in, fill out, change and colour the tattoo so that it no longer reminds you about the thing you never wanted to forget in the first place.
Like most, I also had a reason for that tattoo of a fairy that I put onto my arse.  When I was 15 years old, I was walking through the kitchen in my bikini when my father called me to stand in front of him.  He had a permanent marker in his hand.   He had a lot of male friends visiting him who were also standing around the kitchen.
“Turn around’, he said.
I did and I felt him pull my bikini bottom down and draw something on the left bum cheek.
“What did you write Dad?, I asked him.
“Go and look”, he said, above the laughter from the men.  
Off I went the bedroom I shared with my sister.   I turned around and pulled my bikini up so I could see what he had written or drawn on my bum.  There was just one word written in permanent black ink. 
I had to figure it out because it was now a reflection in the mirror and the letters were back to front.  I had no idea what it meant and looked it up in the dictionary.  I was mortified.   I scrubbed and scrubbed my arse but even when it was red from all the scrubbing, the outline of “whore” still showed through.
I never forgot that incident and vowed that never again would anyone put such a horrid word or idea onto my body.  And then…the opportunity arose.  I had the tattoo put in the same place as the indelible ink word had been put.  I closed that chapter of mortification by changing what was on my arse.   I have never regretted that tattoo.
BUT, the funny side to this story is that it no longer resembles a fairy and it no longer is quite as high up on my arse cheek as it was before.  As I have got older, so gravity has done its work.  The fairy is sliding down towards the back of my leg and now looks exactly like a dragon.  I now see that dragon as a triumph over adversity – it is a badge of survival. 

Thursday, September 3, 2015

To be Authentic is to Allow Others to See Your Vulnerability

A eureka moment...I have just realized that I am a very vulnerable person.  I don’t have walls built up around me to protect my mental, psychological or emotional state.  And because I feel connected to all people on one level or another, I get hurt.  That hurt is especially bad when the other person says something untrue and unkind about me.  I don’t get hurt, I get angry and made when it is a hurt against another.  But an incident like the one I had on FB the other day from Neil disconnects me from humanity; putting me in a place where I need to choose whether to retaliate or not.  I do not like feeling disconnected from humanity.  The vulnerable “me” would rather not retaliate.  The vulnerable “me” would rather walk away.   The authentic “me” would like to give as good as I get, as well as get one good punch in so the person is rendered senseless for long enough that he never stands on my toes again.   But I chose not to retaliate; so I carry the hurt, indignation and disgust with that person three days later.  This is another lesson that I have learned.  It is OK to be vulnerable as long as you remain authentic all the time.  I will respond authentically from now on and will not make a distinction between fighting against injustice for others; and fighting injustice for myself.  Why should we treat pigs like people, when all they do is grunt?  

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Oral Sex and PTSD

When I am feeling down, I dig around in my mind to find a funny memory.  This is one of them.
She loved oral sex.  He did not mind doing it and got quite a thrill from it himself, culminating in a really impressive erection and equal satisfaction.   His PTSD from the bush war was to create a memory of oral sex which has been passed on through the generations of our family.
He was busy with his head between her legs when she realized that she had a massive fart on board.  The more pleasant his tongue on her clitoris was making her feel; the more difficult she found it to hold that fart in.  There was a build-up of sexual energy of such force, and on the point of orgasm, that pesky fart escaped between the cheeks of her bum making a violent “ratatat” sound.

In a split second, he had grabbed his .38 special and was standing at the window, peering through the curtains, ready to shoot the bastards in the yard.  And in that split second, the erection was gone.  The momentum of the orgasm for her disappeared as fast as he had moved from between her legs to the bedroom window.  After years, the PTSD was cleared up and oral sex resumed as though the ‘farting’ incident never happened.  Perhaps this memory of mine will lift your spirits and make you smile too.