Anger Management

2014-11-10 Miss Poison Anger, Being Real, Emotions, Finding Your Truth, Honesty, Loyalty, Musings, Pieces Of Me, Poison In Lethal Doses, Therapy, Unfiltered, Writing Anger Management, Be Real, Honesty, Honor Yourself, Poison In Lethal Doses, Therapy, Untamed, Writing

For about six years, I’ve diligently tried to work on my personal anger issues. It took me on an interesting journey. I learned so much about myself that I was a little astounded by the epiphany I had several months ago.

During all of the time where I walked away from arguments and fights, kept my mouth shut, disengaged from negativity, discussed how I felt in therapy, and then took all of that knowledge into my daily life, I lost something big. There is a fine line between taming an issue, working on yourself for betterment, and changing yourself to accommodate other people. That fine line is where you completely lose the unique aspect that makes you, YOU.

Somehow, all the “this is how you handle this situation” crap turned me into some kind of tame pet. Therapy only skims the surface, depending on the therapist. It changes you if you allow it, but what if the core of who you are didn’t truly need changing? Again, the result is being turned into a a tame pet, a person who no longer reacts intensely to anything or anyone. Somewhere along the line, my “on” button was turned “off” almost completely.

A very common misconception with me is that I am “sweet” and“nice”, which somehow loosely translates to “passive”. I’m not. Not on any count. However, I’d allowed therapy and the tools I had learned there to take the fiercer aspects of who I am away. I’d become less apt to say “Fuck you.” and more apt to say nothing. There’s only so much you can hold in before you lose it. A few months ago, I LOST IT. However, in the loss, I also gained.

Sometimes you have to be reminded of exactly who you are and what you’re capable of. You need those reminders, otherwise life becomes monotonous and you have no answers or problem-solving abilities. You’re so wrapped up in being a tame pet, that you forget how fierce you are. You forget all the things you have done, and continue to do. It’s an easy mistake, and easily corrected.

I think therapy is good if you truly need it for very serious issues. I thought my anger WAS a very serious issue, but therapy taught me that I was angry at the right things and the right people, that the anger was not self-directed. However, it did turn me into something I am not, and in many respects, I’m glad to no longer be going weekly, even though I still feel I had finally found someone great. Maybe in the future, I will return.

But for now, what you read is what you get. This is who I am. I might not have a vicious reaction to everything and everyone, I don’t usually break out the “bitch card”, but I am fully capable of being a complete version of myself now. I’ve been reminded that it’s okay to honor my emotions and be myself. It takes nothing away from me to be angry at the right time, directing it at the right person, and not allowing it to BE me.

Generally, I’m not an angry, hateful, mean person. If you push me, I will unleash my wrath, but generally, I’m pretty laid back. Intense, yes. Fierce, absolutely. I can’t sit and be a tame little bunny, I have to be me.

From here on out, if something is going on in my life, no matter how good or bad, I feel capable of handling it. I was always capable of handling it, I simply needed to be reminded that I’m lethal.

Mess with me, and the poison flows. Stay on my good side, and you will receive loyalty and respect. It’s probably easier for everyone to stay on one side, as opposed to the other. I’ve noticed recently that I’ve become a little more fierce than usual, but I’m accepting of that. In fact, I now fully see that there’s nothing wrong with it.

Looking in the mirror each day and being the absolute best version of yourself is, above all else, the most important thing you can do.

Honor yourself and honor those in your life. Be you, be untamed, be honest, be real, don’t be a fucking pet!

Right Now

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Sometimes, the most important thing I need is silence. Having finished that hellacious read-through, I am glad to be able to be done with it and be able to put it behind me. One of the most important things I have learned about reading a truly raw manuscript is that as a writer, I truly know what works and what doesn’t. This particular client seems to only want people to kiss his ass and tell him how fabulous his work is. I have to be honest. There were some well-written parts on the character end of things, but mostly I felt like someone had handed me half of a book, or maybe even a third of it, and said “What do you think of this? I want lots of feedback.” All I could think at the end was “What the fuck did I MISS here?!” I later learned he’d hired several other people to read different sections of the book, as opposed to hiring ONE person to read the entire book. Yeah, that’s more than half-assed to me, but whatever. Not my monkeys, not my circus.

Since that job came to a close, it’s given me some time to respond to e-mails and look over my own manuscript. I sat here earlier reading the first few chapters and was so immersed in the story, I forgot who’d written it. That is the mark of a great story teller. If I can completely forget it’s my own work, I have done something really special. I saved some extra bits I wrote, and exited the program with a smile on my face.

In a completely non-arrogant, non-cocky way, these past two jobs have shown me that I am not a hack. I’m experienced, I have talent, and I know how to put a story together. Yes, some people write their first book and totally knock it out of the park, and others write in different genres for YEARS before they ever write their first book. I think the most important thing is that I see who I am now, very clearly, and I’m proud of that person, that writer. I have grown. I’ve exceeded my own expectations, and that’s truly something special.

I look forward to what each job brings me in terms of self-awareness because I might be helping other writers polish their work, but what I’m really doing is shining my own diamond. I’m proud of book one, and I am proud of the progress I am making on the other books as well. The fact that a few months ago, I was questioning my own progress, education, experience, and writing ability seems so ridiculous to me.

No, I didn’t go to Harvard to “be a writer” (Harvard was NEVER my dream.), but I’m also not lacking in anything. Everyone’s journey is different, and that’s okay. People can criticize me, and they can say what they will, but at the beginning and end of each day, I know who I am.

I’m many things, but in the grand scheme of it all…I AM A WRITER. Color me discovered!

Okay, Here’s The Deal…

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Fall is still in “full bloom”. The trees are lush with color, but there aren’t a lot of completely leaf free trees, mine included. Naturally, this is right about the time when I might get sick.

It’s slowly been affecting me for about a week now, but I kept saying “Oh, the time is about to change, I just need more rest.” Turns out, I am SICK. I would betray you right now for a constant influx of hot tea, soup, mashed potatoes, and a few other choice comfort foods.

It’s hard to tell if you’re actually sick when you have Fibromyalgia. I take all the necessary precautions. Vitamins, balanced diet, as much exercise as I can do without ending up in a body cast, and I wipe down everything with Lysol at home, and antibacterial wipes in public. It might seem a little OCD, and it is, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I keep a bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse. Bath & Body Works has the best purse size versions and they smell awesome. You can get them in store, or buy a few on clearance on eBay. I usually buy 4-5 at a time and keep them in different spots. They’re lifesavers.

I know I am sick because I have swollen glands. That doesn’t happen for me with Fibro. I don’t have a fever, but I feel frozen down to my bones, and this is with the heat on. I finally bit the bullet and took a multi-symptom tablet with all the things I think it should have because whatever I have, it’s all from the neck up, save the physical aches and pains, and the weakness and exhaustion.

If you know me, you know I HATE being sick. I’ve had illnesses that have left me in bed for weeks wanting my mother (who is sadly, no longer there to call upon.), and other times, I bear it through weeks of soup, tea, ginger ale (for some reason, diet root beer is immensely helpful when I’m sick. I discovered this a few years ago and now I’m obsessed with it.), and toast because the thought of anything else being in my stomach just isn’t going to happen.

I definitely don’t have the flu. A close friend thinks I’m having sympathy pains, which is not unheard of. In fact, it’s entirely possible.

So, if you see a woman running around the Northeast with a purse size bottle of Lysol and hand sanitizer, stop and say hello, but make sure she’s a short brunette, or you might end up looking like an idiot. LOL. (My friend is writing me a letter of permission to carry said objects with me, lest I be arrested for trying to disinfect every store I go to.)

A Single Sentence…

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Coming Out Of The Ancestral “Closet”

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Coming Out of The Ancestral “Closet”

I find it more than a little appalling that in 2014, I am still being asked “What are you?” Not “What religion are you?” or your average, inappropriate social questions, which, by my standards, are still rude. No, it’s always been “What ARE you?”, with such profound emphasis, as if I am my own species. It’s become ridiculous, and as we’ve established, I am not a patient woman.

Growing up in New York City; a small, fair skinned, dark blue eyed, dark haired child, I was utterly adorable. I have pictures to prove it. My peaches & cream complected, blonde, hazel eyed mother was very clear in my genes, but so was my olive skinned, raven haired, dark brown eyed father. I was clearly a genetic mix of my parents and maternal Grandparents. For years, my eyes had that perfect Asian up-tilt, a gift of my Tribal Siberian and Mongolian ancestry, something that I now enhance with carefully applied eyeliner when I have the patience to do so. I was about six years old when they changed in color from dark blue to hazel. It normally doesn’t take such a long period of time for a child’s eye color to change.

Where am I going with this? Well, I will tell you. I’ve known for about 8 years now that I am indeed part Latina. I have absolutely no reason to hide it or not discuss it if it comes up in conversation, especially now that Spain and Portugal are allowing Jews to return for citizenship. I have to say, I was very sorely tempted to pack my bags and leave.

Growing up, everyone assumed I was either 100% Puerto Rican or 100% Italian. I am neither. In fact, I’m not 100% anything. I am so blended, I should have my own flag. My Latina roots come from Spain (Zaragoza) and Argentina (Buenos Aires).

Several months ago, while filling out some forms I checked the Caucasian box, as I’ve done my entire life, and followed up with Hispanic on the second portion of the form. It is truly the first time I’d ever done it, but I simply felt like not putting it down was to lie, and it bothered me, so I checked the box proudly. The woman handling the paperwork looked at me immediately and said “You’re Sephardic?!”, with such utter disbelief as she looked at the color of my skin and eyes, that I glanced up briefly from filling out the forms and said “I am Ashkenazi, Sephardic, Russian Siberian, and Jewish Asian.” In truth, that’s not even the half of it, but it was short and to the point. I didn’t owe her an explanation of my lineage, but I’d be damned if I was going to be treated any differently.

Really, why the hell does anyone give a shit?! Why did she? I later found out that as an immigrant to this country, she did not want anyone knowing she was Sephardic. I was slightly astounded, but anyone who is at an age where their Grandparents or parents may have died during the Holocaust is probably still hiding what they are. Having been born here, I suppose I do not feel the need to hide. I’ve never felt the need to do so, not ancestrally or religiously.

People tend to forget that Latinas come in all different shapes, sizes, and colors. Some are blonde and blue eyed, some are more like me, and others are dark haired, dark eyed, and always look naturally tan. I cannot tan to save my life, and since I detest sun damage and the sun on a whole, I religiously wear sun protection. Some of us speak Ladino, Yiddish, Spanish, Portuguese, or older versions of various languages. Some of my cousins, also Sephardic, speak French (My brother does, I do not.). I grew up in a bilingual home, my closest family friends did too, and they all spoke Spanish. I spent years studying other languages, and am now teaching my brother Italian, Russian, Ukrainian, and Spanish. I understand languages I don’t speak, but I base that on the fact that some of them are incredibly similar. I have been trying to learn Swedish for a couple of years now. Not for any other reason than I think it’s beautiful when spoken. Welsh is next on my list.

I’m a great observer of others, but I try very hard not to judge people based on race or religion. Everyone is an individual. If you treat me like shit, I am not going to judge your ethnic background for that, just you. If you treat me well, I’m not going to automatically assume that everyone like you will show the same kindness and respect.

I have friends from all walks of life, and I accept and respect them for their individuality. I don’t care where a person is from, so long as we treat each other with respect and courtesy. Most of the people in my life who are closest to me are not American born or American citizens (though I can now say for a fact that more are). Two of my best friends are Israeli and German. My boyfriend holds dual citizenship. He is Welsh born, returns to Wales several times a year to visit older relatives, but is not an American citizen. His parents and siblings are not American citizens either, but they’re some of the loveliest people, and to me, that’s all that matters.

I have a friend who, for damn near our entire friendship, would openly declare herself Hispanic “From SPAIN!”, she’d tell people loudly. She’s also part Cherokee, which shows. Honestly, it doesn’t matter, but now that our friendship has declined so badly, I have noticed more and more that she is embracing the fact that her ancestry is actually Mexican. It’s always been pretty evident to me, but would I ever have said a word to her about it? No. That’s disrespectful. That’s like catching me on a dumb day and then pointing out that I have some Polish ancestry. It’s rude and it’s not something you say or do.

I think what bothered me the most about her saying it so often is that people would ask her if she was Hawaiian, saying that she looked “exotic”, and I’d then think of Stefanie, one of my best friends, who is Native Hawaiian. There’s a definite difference, not just in looks, but in so much more. She is not simply born and raised there, you can see her Hawaiian and Japanese ancestry in her hair, eyes, skin, and beauty. It shines like a beacon. Her Italian mother, we often joke, barely got a gene in. Between her and her siblings, she is the one who most looks like her father’s side of the family. For the previously aforementioned friend, ancestry and honoring it is clearly a big issue, so I never, ever tried to make her feel uncomfortable, nor did I ever press her on it. I feel it is something to honor and show respect, not hide from or deny, but that’s me and my otherworldly view since I’m still being asked “What ARE you?”

The next time someone says that to me, I might very well declare myself a vampire, purchase a really cool pair of colored contacts from Italy, and not say a word to anyone ever again, until the sun sets. Stupid questions deserve stupid answers, do they not?

So, this is me. Part Latina. Owning it, not ashamed, remembering to use my Spanish instead of forgetting that I can speak it, completely unconcerned if my honoring it bothers someone else. It’s my genes, my ancestry, and if you’ve taken issue with it, fuck off!

Domestic Violence: It’s Always Going To Be Personal

2014-11-02 Miss Poison Being Real, Boundaries, Honesty, Pieces Of Me, Poison In Lethal Doses, Thought-Provoking, Women, Writing Abuse, Being Real, Bruises, Domestic Violence, Honesty, Poison In Lethal Doses, Writing

Domestic Violence: It’s Always Going To Be Personal

I don’t talk about my personal life on this platform much. You’d really have to know me and be able to read between the lines to pick up on subtle nuances. However, there’s an issue that’s been bothering me and I have decided to open up here and confront it. This might trigger some people, so please read the title carefully and if that is too much for you, it’s okay to ignore this.

Originally I planned on writing this on another blog a year ago. I got side-tracked with other commitments at the time and whatever I had planned fell to the wayside. Not this time. This is the right place to publish it. I no longer feel safe on the other blog and quite frankly, what I have to say isn’t something to be judged by hundreds, least of all those who deem themselves superior. This is not a place for competition, it is a place for sharing, openness, and honesty.

It starts with a very simple comment, one that I’ve said many times before. I am a product of domestic violence. I’m not shy or quiet about it. If asked, I always tell the truth. I knew very early on as a child that there was something “really not normal” about my family life. I vividly remember the fighting, the words, trying not to be home, hating being home, and how things escalated to physical violence. It is one of the reasons I am a writer, it allowed me to “escape” and be fully in control, where no one else could touch me.

I wasn’t even 10 at the time, but I’d had enough. I was the protector. I would put my mother and brother behind me and say “Go ahead, hit me. But you’re NOT going to hit them.” I never knew if my father would reach a point where he’d lay a hand on my mother, but I wasn’t EVER going to find out.

There’s a very fine line between disciplining your children and abusing them. Not all abuse is physical or sexual in context. Some of it is emotional and verbal, and leaves the same type of permanent scarring. It follows you through life.

I would NEVER take anything away from someone who has been in a worse situation, I have no right to do so. All I can say is that I didn’t live their experience, I only lived mine. And yet, I understand, I relate, and I will not speak against your pain, I will only do what I can to support you.

What a lot of people don’t know about me is that I am still living with a form of domestic violence. No, I am not married to that person (I would NEVER tolerate abuse from someone that claimed to love me, and the person I am in a relationship with knows that. He’s known me since we were kids, so he also knows I’d knock his fucking teeth out if he so much as spoke to me out of turn. He also knows that’s not me being abusive or being a bitch, it’s simply a reaction. He knows not to sneak up on me, to announce his presence if I don’t sense him, and not to do anything that might make me react in a poor manner. He’s always known these things and he is incredibly respectful of “the boundaries”.), it is not coming from someone who claims to love me, but it IS coming from a family member who shall remain nameless.

Over the last few years, I have had guns and knives pulled on me regularly, a sword was recently held to my throat, and I am often covered in gruesome bruises. There’s a huge difference between bruises where I truly am being a klutz (I walk into the side of my bed or the foot of my bed OFTEN, but that’s ME, and it’s different.) and bruises where someone is intentionally harming me and later denying they ever laid a hand on me. I’m here to say that they have and they are.

This person has been abusive for a good 20 years or so. They are a product of their environment, and no, I am NOT defending that. I think it’s sick and warrants therapy and medication, all of which I have encouraged. I was later accused of “trying to be controlling” by suggesting medication and therapy. Seriously? That’s a fucked up response, but it also explains the mentality behind this person.

Whenever something happens, I am often asked “Why didn’t you call the police?” For one, I know my state laws. Unless I’m beaten bloody, the cops aren’t going to give a shit. You have to show them a history. Unless I go to the ER with broken bones, etc., the cops aren’t going to give a shit or even take a statement. Yes, this person DID fracture my wrist many years ago. The person that took me to the ER that day pleaded with me NOT to say anything to the nurse, doctor, or to press charges. I did not agree with them, but when the time came to speak, I don’t even remember what I said I’d done or what happened to cause the injury. Yes, I am VERY angry at myself for not putting a stop to it right then and there. Maybe things would be different today if I hadn’t had that voice in my head trying to control me.

Moreover, the person harming me can turn on a dime. One of his best friends is a cop, so one phone call and he’d be out of lock-up pretty fucking fast. Is that my only stance on it? No.

What will it take for me to call the police? More evidence. Bruises don’t mean shit to the police. I’d have to be calling them constantly on domestic disputes before they’d do anything, and I have yet to meet a police officer in my current state of residence that is willing to take me seriously. There’s something disturbing to me about a 5.3 ½” woman being harmed by someone twice her size and a hell of a lot taller and no one giving a shit about it, or having them think it’s a fucking joke. In fact, they’ve laughed and not believed me.

I’m not weak. Far from it. I will shoot this person if I have to, and when I fought back over a week ago, I ended up breaking a short sword. Fighting back prevented me from being harmed far worse than I was. This person didn’t care that they’d hurt me, they cared that the sword was damaged! That is the kind of sickness I am dealing with.

I don’t condone violence, but I have to be honest here, because this is serious. I sleep with knives close by. Knives that are bigger than my forearms. I sleep with a 500,000 volt Stun Gun. I keep the Glock locked up, only because it’s all too easy to shoot someone once they’ve pushed you to the point of no return. There’s no way in hell I’d only shoot once. I know myself, and I know that I’d empty a mag, reload, and keep going. That probably sounds awful, but it’s the truth. I know myself well enough to know that certain things will escalate. A gun can protect you, and it should, but I know that if I have to pull, that’s the end of it. My life is not worth that because to everyone else, this person is “normal”. Their ability to turn it on and off is terrifying to witness. Everyone likes or loves them, and that is sociopath 101.

With practically everyone else on the planet, this person is absolutely lovely. Genuine, funny, shirt-off-your back real, and the list goes on and on. The fact that they’ve threatened me in public and said things to me in public that no one has done anything about is quite disturbing. I get nothing, but violence and vitriol. I sought therapy for it, thinking it was me. Repeatedly I was told it was not me, that this person is the one that needs help and medication. And yet, there is no way to help them because they do not believe there is anything wrong with them. They believe I am the problem. I have medical professionals to back up the fact that, that simply isn’t true.

October is National Domestic Violence Month. It is now November 2nd and here I am to say, we shouldn’t just have one month a year where we openly discuss domestic violence. We should discuss it the second it happens, to whoever will listen and take us seriously, with whoever we trust. Don’t stop speaking until you are heard.

I don’t consider myself a victim because I do know how to protect myself. I consider myself a survivor. Unfortunately as women, we are almost always the physically smaller sex. We know this, so we teach ourselves and are taught to fight dirtier. I have some training to protect myself, but as I stated, this person is twice my size, and because they have martial arts training, they think nothing of throwing me down on the floor. In fact, they think it’s funny. I was recently thrown down onto a flight of stairs and dragged by my legs. Again, nothing, but laughter. There’s nothing funny about it.

I have decided to use photos to document proof, in case I ever need it. I am not posting any of them here because that’s not going to be helpful. I’m not even sure I’d legally be allowed to keep this post up if something happened, but I’d much rather someone hear it from me than see me on the 10:00 PM news and think “Wow, I never knew this was going on.” Don’t pity me. That’s not why I wrote this. I wrote it because I am empowered to put an end to all of this.

It is time to break the chain.

The Only Reason…

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“The only reason for being a professional writer is that you can’t help it.” –Leo Rosten

The Need For Silence

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Tomorrow is Samhain, which is Halloween for the uninitiated who can’t even pronounce what I just said. I’ve taken some time this week to be quiet, to look deeply within, and to give myself some space. Every year brings a new set of challenges, and I am hoping to embark on happier ones this time around. Simply put: I am sick of the crap. Every last ounce of it. I’m ready for positive change, happy change, and I am looking forward to putting a lot of unhappiness and negativity to rest.

My only plan for tomorrow is to try hard to finish the read-through I am doing, and catch up on some little things that need to be put in the mail. Beyond that, nothing. I want a quiet day, I want to light candles at dusk, and I want a night of quality sleep. I don’t need scary movies to “get into the spirit”. I’ve already seen Sons of Anarchy and Stalker this week, I’ve had my dose of gore and I’ve been thoroughly ‘creeped out’.

It probably seems odd for someone so young to be in such desperate need of silence, but it’s honest. I already bought sweets this week and they were for myself. Okay, so I shared, but you get the point. The actual Halloween aspect doesn’t reside in my home. Samhain, on the other hand, does. It’s when I honor my loved ones who have passed away and light candles of remembrance. It’s when I keep my cats close to me and SAFE. I don’t believe in having outdoor cats, I never have and I never will. That is a personal choice because I believe that if you are going to have any kind of pet, you should do what is absolutely best for him/her and their overall well-being. When you rescue, you should give them a safe home. Last year there was a lot of concern over black cats being harmed. I own an all-black British Bombay who is the sweetest, most laid back little girl, so it’s even more important to me to keep her safe and sound. I don’t ever want my cats to know “the street life” again, which is precisely why I adopted them. You save a life, but you also save bits of yourself in the process.

Also, I have a very dear friend in the hospital, and I want to make sure I say a special prayer for her recovery. I’m breaking out the big guns on this one! 🙂

So, if there isn’t another post this month, enjoy the holiday however you choose to embrace it and keep yourself and those you hold dear safe & sound.

Bright Blessings.