The letter is what I free-wrote while/after completing this art project I have called, “the black lung.”
This is in dedication to everyone who ever told me, “you know that will kill you” when they saw me smoking a cigarette. Yes — I am aware that I will die.
And, smoking... and quitting — mades me think about all the times I used poison to cover up my breath; when I didn’t want to speak, so I suppressed.
It also made me think about what is friendship? And why do people gather together to partake in their favorite vices.
And what’s the point of life? Because what is art without that question?
I hope you like my rambles and the progress pictures since the last portrait I posted of the background :)
Dear friend who listened to me talk;
And held my hand when I cried — thank you. I didn’t need anything more than an ear that heard to comprehend. It didn’t cost a dime; it was the only gift I ever needed.
I once felt violated and sexualized by my father and mother reading my sex scenes in my journal. Passing them onwards to doctors to talk about my “provocative and promiscuous” behavior. The conversation was not with me, ever. All dialogue about this process was had passively. I sat them down when they confiscated the weed I had just bought; fight time smoking alone, caught. I am not here to defend my actions, but three years of psychiatric prisons? I fought with my parents over their strict authoritarian rules. No phone past 6pm. No computer that isn’t monitored by my Chinese-government like father. No sleepovers; grounded for truths my father believed. Told I was lying when I was telling the truth — that’s what was hurtful and damaging to the long term perspective. It made me confuse what was real and what wasn’t. It told me that there was no value behind my words.
And I have a lot of compassion for myself growing through the stages of awareness. I did not understanding the power of clarity and definitions. And I never compared my context to others of a normal peer group since. I think that is what was so valuable about sherman. I was able to understand what normal was again; I had a very skewed version of reality. Before I had sex, I witnessed stories of brutal incest told in therapeutic settings. I was fearful of the act before it ever happened. Then I see individuals talk about it in a positive sense at school; could it be safe? How I viewed sex while owning my sexuality for what it was — rather than what I believe it should be if I was molested myself. I once believed that my attraction for females was a result of my trauma — and today I can own that it was not and perhaps a little bit too. Nurture cannot be separated from nature; and it doesn’t matter anyways. I believe myself now; even if everyone else doesn’t understanding any of my words or poems.
I do, and that’s the point. What we say are spells; magic is real. My words have value.
My personal boundaries were all messed up. Believing that this whole scenario of everyone seeing through me; telling me what was true or not. It felt like fame. It felt like the white hot spotlight of scrutiny. My teenage, consensual sexual behavior was reprimanded as a mental health issue. My mother was looking for it; her brother — my uncle had just left medical school on account that he went crazy. They say schizophrenia but now — after digging into this family secret for a year now. I think he really likes Xanax and is gay. He also never wanted to be a doctor, he wanted to be an artist like my grandfather did in his spare time. It’s a familial cycle.
How did the experts help my parents? I had given one handjob, two blow jobs and one time I got my clit licked in a corn field — all over the course of three years. That was labeled mentally ill. They put me on meds for every symptom of growing up. I got drunk once, smoked weed a few times and that was called addiction. So bad that I could die any day and had to leave three days before thanksgiving. And that’s the problem. Who were the people being indiscriminate again?
Then I was forced to recount this entire narrative to the group. That was my story to tell. Sex is however the person desires; it’s intimate, it’s personal. That was my private journal that was read and then used against me — publicly and punitively. All of a sudden the my entire world could read my files at any given time. I was institutionalized for years due to oral sex and cannabis. My parents were authoritarian and extremely trusting of the psychiatrist that I was seeing. He would later be arrested for insurance fraud; however, “they didn’t know that then”.
The way that these programs operate is criminal; and frankly unhelpful. How does placing children on point cards that track their every move help? It’s extreme behavioralism that becomes programmed into ones mind. Each move is questionable; how do I operate in such a way to avoid the constant critical analysis? I begin to disassociate. I became extremely unaware. I didn’t want attention when I asked questions twice; I literally never heard it in the first place. And god it was horrible to miss big chunks of information constantly. This was the effect of trauma on the brain.
It began as a coping tool as it begun to blunt the incoming information, it hurt so much; I needed the abandonment dulled. I let others chose for me. I gave away my power as a coping strategy. I became extremely passive and manipulative as a coping skill to meet needs. It was how I learned to communicate. I bought in; I begin repeating my favorite mantra at the time, “my dad is not always right, but most of the time.” And i believed I was wrong 80% of the time. This was my extreme insecurity; that I was broken, just like everyone had told me for years on end. I think I thought becoming a doctor would heal my need for credibility.
I guess I went to grad school to see for myself; and I studied enough to know this — I am perfectly and wonderfully made. I believe that with as much power and strength as I once did the Bible. I am grateful for the strong contrasts; I am grateful for the pain. I found myself, so it’s now all okay. I think that’s the worst part about trauma; loosing yourself.
But I saw her again, ughhhh I saw her one more time. I saw her charm, I saw her charisma — I saw her ability to unite people again. I wasn’t born for school. I mean; yes, I can do it. I think of anyone I’ve ever met, you all believe me when I say, “i am capable of becoming a doctor.” I talk just that I was born to be an artist. And I don’t think I WANT a board degree. I had one; I had a state license and the restrictions on what I say and write. My words piss the world off. Why was I going to chiropractic college to be a writer?
I love chiropractic and if universe willing I have enough millions and billions of dollars I will open a string of tonal chiropractic offices and hire doctors! Yes — totally up for that. And; if none of it happens, I am happy today. I am content now. I am thrilled to be alive again; and it came with a tad bit of forgiveness of my mother; and the complete destruction of my fathers dream. No wonder I was seeing my dad everywhere; in practically every guy friend.
I guess I just wanted them to see me like you two. I wanted my dad to see my heart. I wanted my mother to teach me to trust my intuition rather than what others say. And in some ways I did want to go back to high school; and I wanted to relive the glory days just one more time before I let it all integrate and fall away.
So, you saw my high school self. And then you saw me heal, deconstruct. It was a horrible process but I did it where I felt safe. Inside Sherman’s walls I broke down all my barriers and masks. I let all the bullets hit me because there was a ton of wisdom in even the cruelest comment. I got to find out the practical application of “take what I needed and leave the rest.” I found myself, I found the low I needed to be able to find that teenager again. She was at the bottom of the well, and I climbed down to get her. Pulled her up and out of that thirteen year cell.
So now when I hear my mother say, “stop digging” in my head. I can hear her high self whispering how proud she is that I kept going.
I took on the weight
of this generational curse
and I felt it.
E m o t e d t h r o u g h i t,
R o d e t h e b r e a t h w a v e.
I chose to live
outside the
Arbitrary
lines of lies
I had drawn.
I only wrote this letter today
To say I survived and to tell you
I made it to the other side, alive.
It might have been a picture perfect resume; but it truly was was paper dreams.
If anyone says anything negative.
Remember, the president of the sorority
Lost to me; so I burned my secret stash of
Paper.
To all the isolated aristocrats;
P.S. I love you.