I've made a Podcast on Anchor.fm for those living with (C)PTSD. I was inspired by another living with this condition and decided to make podcasts to share methods I've learned throughout my recovery of Post Traumatic Growth. I hope they are useful. I will be uploading episodes along my journey.
It is entitled Darren Creating Refuge on Anchor.fm. Download the Anchor app for Android or iPhone. https://anchor.fm/darren9
1 Comment
I am having a very hard time. I was served divorce papers the day after Christmas. As one can imagine, this doubled my trauma of being abandoned, not celebrating the holidays at all - I was alone. I am not going to speculate the intentions of my spouse because doing so will just send me in a tailspin. I won't give her that power. Additionally, I am navigating a severe concussion as a result of being assaulted. On top of this I am also handling a workers compensation claim - the accident occurred before the assault. This had led to a mess of paperwork and various entities trying to sort out the mess and the withholding of any monies. To make matters worse I'm navigating a divorce. All this just brings up notions that I am not made for this time. That I do not matter - confirmed by abandonment - repeated narcissism by various loved ones. The Oakland police department confirmed this by letting my attacker go. Their reasoning was that I was "in the wrong" for defending myself. As I write this, people are marching just as they did a year ago in support of women's rights. I am trying not to be critical of such displays of power; however, something just feels inadequate and insincere. Marches. The same tactics. The same old shit. To be seen. To hold a sign. To pose for pictures. MLK day. Same old shit. Lets champion the dead and frame them as some idol to project our collective longing on. The 1960s are over. The system just laughs at the cyclic actions of "collective" acts that just predictably fizzle under the guise of individualism, meritocracy and capitalism. The masses go home after they punch their card - acting - to the safety of their homes as if they did their part. Nobody truly cares about the well being of their "brother" or "sister." It's all cliches. And the ones who've perfected that cliche make a living off of it - a good one at that - and enjoy the abuses of power mirroring the very systems they rally against manifesting in philandering, harassment, exploitation. Perhaps this is all expected. We are all human after all. Some have integrity, some don't. The grip of the cultural revolution that was the 1960s in America is ever unwavering. The byproduct of Baby Boomers - their offspring - is left to sort out their mess and legacies: Civil Rights, Women's Rights, Gay Rights, Disabled Rights and we never get it right. Those of us who were children of hippies deal with the reality that our upbringing was not correct; that we were raised by children shunning rules; that everything was OK when in fact it was very wrong. Those raised by parents captivated by freedom under the guise of power get swept up in the rapture of careerism and representational politics only to be continually let down by illusion. They often get caught up in the familiar - the popular culture of their childhood - clinging to music and films of the 1970s like a mothers bosom. Its nectar comforting, nourishing and providing the often much sought after unconditional love that was absent from their upbringing. The music of the hippy generation - in particular the Beatles - resonates throughout my body as it does for many others of those with hippy parents. Youtube revealed some unreleased gems. One - Child of Nature - later reimagined as Jealous Guy by John Lennon brings me to tears. I remember running wearing a Chinese down embroidered coat at Cal State Hayward with a huge smile on my face. I often wonder where that child went. The child full of wonder. The Wild Child - as Jim Morrison sang. I soon fall into a pit of despair recounting tales of California Babylon: my fathers unsavory friends, questionable babysitters, counterculture gone wrong, the lack of boundaries. My body tenses. My jaw and temples pop as I'm ridged as a board. My creation and the reminder of it - my birthday - presents itself as a reminder that I am a survivor - that I'm still alive. I've lost a lot of friends. I temporarily lost my family due to an accident and have slowly mended relations with my sister and my mother; however, I will doubtfully ever extend the same forgiveness to my father. My wife left me. I have forgiven her; however, I doubt if I will ever marry again. I doubt if I will ever love again. I doubt if I am even lovable. Nobody seems to want to take responsibility for what happened to my spouse and I after our union. Neither families. Nobody. As if it was an anomaly. It is what hurts the most. Love was destroyed because nobody could accept what was. Now I'm just left with what is. Abandonment. Being left. Being misunderstood. Being blamed. And nobody cares. Much of 2017 was spent preoccupied wrestling with desire. Longing. Wanting. Fulfillment. And never quite satiating that need. I took to online means, as I did before, following a number of Instagram accounts of beautiful people - triathletes, models, dancers on various poles of the gender spectrum. Alas such following did not fill any void whatsoever. They just perpetuated a continued state of lacking - of comparison. This dawned on me after one of my teachers shared the following after meditation practice: "There are two selves: the one we present online that is gleaned and curated versus the one we live in real life (IRL)." Reality contains all the murk and dirt -the complexities of life- its positive and negative attributes whereas online identities one often creates an idealized portrait of who they are. When in reality, it is a facade. Guards are down online and as a result filterless - take it or leave it opinions - propagate the landscape. Is it any wonder that we have a filterless celebrity in the White House? This dawned on me however so slightly after the presidential election. I unplugged the TV. I closed my Facebook account as a shield to the constant opinionated wagoneering that amounted to nothing but increased anxiety; however, I started following users on Instagram to such a height that my feed was discriminating which accounts would appear. Following was not reciprocal. A nagging notion told me that my raw posts were too much to handle or take. I’ll never know why so and so unfollowed me. Maybe it was my identities, trauma, rawness and/or tenderness. In the end it didn’t matter for I just felt abandoned. On the dawning of the new year, I started to unfollow a large amount of users. The trauma hounds still followed me. Those in transformation be it spiritually, mentally or physically still followed me - yet the beautiful ones disappeared. It reminds me of a friend who said that she was so disgusted of the posturing of perfect relationships on Facebook when beneath the surface she knew all the dirt - the affairs, the abuse, the dysfunction. In essence, this desire to present the perfect self or unions presents humans as nothing more than robots of perfection. Cyborgs anyone? As I was walking around Lake Merritt, I overheard a middle aged woman complain about somebody de-friending someone else as if it was an ultimate betrayal - a conspiracy that warranted investigation. I laughed and wondered - “wow, if that really bothers you, I wonder how you would handle being abandoned?” The desire for validation of one’s online self as evident by the need for followers/friends often supersede the need for interaction IRL. My pleasure for bicycling took a dive after an assault (concussion, black eye, bruised left side, broken teeth resulting in two root canals). Job insecurity and an aging yet fit body served as a constant reminder of impermanence. Bureaucracy and the navigation of systems served as a constant reminder of my conditions. I maintained my daily meditation practices. Cycling took the proverbial back seat for two months. Much of 2017 was spent reading an enormous amount of spiritual texts on self-care, ascension, divinity, transformation and dreams. One book in particular - Working On Yourself Alone by Arnold Mindell (1990) - spoke to my fondness of the dance space. Using a syncretic formula of psychology mixed with East and West spirituality - Mindell presents different forms of meditation including dance. It spoke to the experience of accessing the Divine on the dancefloor, accessing past traumas, working through them and ultimately transforming. It dovetailed nicely with Johanna Cherry's Living Mastery: The Expression of Your Divinity (1997) and Jacqueline Small’s Transformers: The Therapists of the Future (1982). Thus my syncretic soup is slowly percolating. Its product soon to come. As I danced at the Uptown during the closing night of the Hanging Garden, a monthly goth club in Oakland, California, I accessed the divine after two months of not dancing. I sweated out the previous years pains: navigating a thankless job and a crippled safety net, divorce, solitude and transformation much on my own. Before long a huge sweat stain adorned the wall as I pounded it with my fists in unison with the beat as paint fell to the floor. Striking many yogic poses during the five hour night I attracted a couple mesmerized by my Spirit. I shared my techniques, enjoyed the admiration, withheld judgement and posed for photographs. I also shared the name of Jacqueline Small’s text since one of them is a therapist. By nights end I disappeared to the restroom - incognito - and changed out of my sweaty clothes. Unrecognizable to many, I rode home on my bike. Before the evening began I met Bella who also rode a bicycle to the venue. He shared that he used to go to the Twilight Zone as I had during my teen years only he commuted with friends from Santa Rosa - an hour away. We spoke of those who’ve passed on, fashion, abuse and its cycle. Then we were interrupted by Owen adorned in a ruffled neon blue sparkled skirt. Later, Owen and I spoke about the goth scene: how the Bay Area's scene is so friendly;how commuting for DJ gigs in Santa Cruz or Sacramento is not a big deal;how losing the Hanging Garden is like losing a child. Its these moments that touch me beyond the curated and gleaned presentations often presented online. Its beauty mesmerizing. And the joy unforgettable. In the Spring of 2017, post-abandonment, I began working as a youth counselor in Napa, California for the Mosaic Project on the campgrounds of the Lighthouse for the Blind. Hours were intense. I woke at 6am to meditate and exercise before my shift began by 8am. The work day typically ended at 12am. Staff were required to act, sing, dance as well as facilitate self-esteem workshops to young grade school children After the children were put to bed, staff would attend a meeting from 9pm to midnight in which plenty of food was available. Staff would routinely eat throughout the day to refuel to meet the demands of work. I sought alone time during breaks by lifting 30 pound free weights, reading my texts -Shakti Gawan's Creative Visualization, Frost's Tantric Yoga, Lama Yeshe's An Introduction to Tantra, and SSOTBME's An Essay on Magic - while doing yoga poses or meditating on the sounds of nature while basking in the sun. There was a moderately steep hill that I was required to go up and down multiple times a day and night. It was a mile long. I carried a Chrome Industries backpack throughout the day and night weighed down with two water bottles, food, supplies and other sundries to add to the climb. One of my duties was being in charge of the lost and found. It would require me to additionally carry a large tub filled with wet clothes weighing twenty or more pounds down a steep short cut into the main campgrounds. It was hot - a typical northern California dry heat - adding to the sweaty often physically demanding nature of the job. After the first week, I brought a single-speed bicycle to ride up and down the hill during the mornings before my shift began. Soon as tensions between staff and campground employees became tense, I returned the bike home and brought my jogging shoes. I would run roughly two miles up and down a couple hundred feet of hills to start my morning after doing yoga poses with stretchbands and/or hand grips. Later I found a balancing rope that I included into my various fitness routines. On the 36hr military like weekends (half Friday, Saturday and half Sunday), I would find time to ride my bicycle up to 60 miles at most. When my contract ended, I was fit and pleased with my body. My shoulders became more broad, abs re-developed, my neck's thickness shrank and I was reinvigorated with a new found energy Soon after I began working in San Francisco as a bike tour guide. My job required me to take tourists from Fishermans Wharf, the Marina, the Presidio and over the Golden Gate Bridge and back. Since it was the height of tourist season I would often have back to back tours. When I would return home to Oakland, it would not be uncommon to clock in 60 plus miles. During tourist season I would on average ride 150 miles a week. After a tour, I was often required to work on bicycles lifting heavy 50 pound Cannondale Hybrid Adventures onto a bike repair stand. Such repetitive work helped define muscle mass in my upper arms. When I would commute home, I would execute yoga poses while riding the ferry to Oakland. I would receive a lot of glares; however, fitness was the utmost importance to me. On my time off I still found time to Go Go dance at the Cat Club in San Francisco or the Uptown in Oakland. Within dance I located the divine - the equilibrium between masculine and feminine with the help of Tantra. My outfits became more risky and I showed more skin as I became comfortable with my newly sculpted body; however, I began to dance more with my eyes closed or with my Tibetan blue polka dot scarf covering my head. To my elation, I would discover photographs of me taken by photographers capturing my aura - often blue - the color of love. Despite being separated, alone, and without a "sex-life" compounded by a sexless marriage I am at ease with what is. I am. I am divine. It is not uncommon for people living with (C)PTSD to constantly relive their traumas through retelling their narratives to others - like a broken record - or replaying events in the mind often to the point of paralysis. Movement - be it dance, cycling, yoga, weight and/or resistance training - all help me ground and live in the present moment. I temporarily let go of the past and experience sensations of the body - new sensations discovered through exercise as the body morphs into a product of my own creation - not impacted by others (unless of course there is an accident or assault). The newly found sensations inhibits a sense of wonder that I thought was long lost and ultimately serves as the highest form of entertainment. I am no longer entertained by watching the fictitious lives of others on the bigscreen, TV or in books. It doesn't interest me at all (however, I had to see Blade Runner 2049). My own body has become a positive narrative after years of self-harm through drinking, over-eating, smoking, etc. This coupled with acupuncture and reading a variety of spiritual, "self-help," therapeutic and/or medicinal texts have proven to be a potent mix for my recovery. The journey, post-abandonment, has been filled with illuminating experiences for my mind and spirit. Since spring, I have attended East Bay Meditation Center religiously - often up to four times a week in-between jobs. I attended workshops on cord-cutting to let go of my marriage, intention, completed a Bodhisattva course and took my Buddhist vows and precepts. Within this, I have come to the realization that we are indeed interconnected. Through the sharing of stories with fellow members of the Sangha (community) - I have found that some of us have a collective trauma and many seek the path to recovery. It is not about Western preoccupations of minimalism, nebulous enlightenment, Asian derived fashion, and/or mysticism in some convoluted Asiaphile-like inspired fetish. It is about healing. It is about humanity. It is about liberation. Within my journey thus far, I have encountered Bodhisattvas - Kwan Yin (the Goddess of Compassion), Amitabha (the peacock is his vehicle), Manjushri (the one who slices through B.S.) and Tara (liberation). I have fostered a relationship with a nun in my neighborhood of the Quan Am Tu (Kwan Yin Shrine) of the East Lake neighborhood of East Oakland. Whenever we share stories, she says all-knowingly, "I know" despite things often being lost in translation. Kwan Yin in particular hears the cries of the world and appears in times of need. I liken my tears to hers. The tears that sometimes flow uncontrollably when I awake or am triggered unknowingly. I let them flow. I am not ashamed. Boddhisattvas and boddhicitta (compassion for all beings) has given me insight into my own suffering as a gift that has allowed me to develop and recognize my life as an empath and has also provided a great lesson. The lesson is discernment between compassion and empathy. One can have compassion for all; however, empathy requires discernment. It is unwise to have empathy for all. To do so is to have no boundaries. This is where self-care is crucial. For those of us living with (C)PTSD this is an integral lesson one must come to realize. Otherwise we will be helping others with a half empty cup and die from thirst. Lastly, it is important to understand this: "you cannot control what created you, but you can control your creation." Be it through the arts, cooking, gardening, dance, exercise, building - what have you - what you create is a gift. We may not be able to control the external forces of our environment or what has happened to us, but we can control one thing with practice and that is our minds. Through meditation - be it through movement, creation, breathing, repetitive work, one may be able to temporarily take the needle off the skipping record, take the record off the platter and put it back in its sleeve and onto the shelf. Open a new record. Your life. By living in present. It sounds easy. It is. And it isn't. In closing I share with you Shantideva's Bodhicarayavatara as inspiration for your journey on the road to recovery. It always brings me to tears: May I be a protector to those without protection A leader for those who journey And a boat, a bridge, a passage For those desiring the further shore. May the pain of every living creature Be completely cleared away. May I be the doctor and the medicine And may I be the nurse For all sick beings in the world Until everyone is healed. Just like space And the great elements such as earth, May I always support the life Of all the boundless creatures. And until they pass away from pain May I also be the source of life For all the realms of varied beings That reach unto the ends of space. "Gate Gate Paragate Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha!" On March 3rd, it happened. My spouse left me for good. I was abandoned. Alone. I will spare the details of that traumatic day in an attempt to avoid spiraling down the vortex of misery that highlighted our marriage. Alas, I shall share some tidbits of that failed experiment. Since her departure I've been sitting with desire daily. Longing and wanting. Wanting to be touched. Wanting to experience. Sexually frustrated - we had a sexless marriage. As a highly sensual person I felt as though I was in a sensory deprived gulag - kept in a torture chamber mentally and physically in a space filled with emotional pain and neglect. Self survival mode strategies prevented even the simplest tasks be taken care of. After the removal of a lipoma from my injured arm (3 years of numbing sharp pain) - the physical pain subsided; however, it unveiled the reality - that I was being deceived not only by my spouse but also her family. I was never a part of the "family" - just tolerated. There were no photos taken of us together by her family. No photos of us in their home. Workholism, careerism and being somebody marked by papered degrees littered their landscape. Control and gossip highlighted their conversations. Little did I know I would fall victim and be taken advantage of. Lies. Deception. Financial abuse. And now ultimately, limbo, stasis and non-action - just like our "marriage." However, I survived. Am I grateful that I do not have to live the rest of my life with the feeling that I left my spouse with nothing: no insurance, no job, no family - absolutely zilch. She will. It is amazing what another person can bring out of you - the worst or the best - physical ailments or somatic glee. Mine were the former. I was always sick. The neglect heightened my isolation. Conversations and discussions meant to be had between us were had with therapists, friends and family members. I was the prey of a mindfucker. A mindfuck of stasis. Of indifference. Of total neglect. Of deception. Of lies. Zero reciprocity. Neglect brought about sexual frustration. The longing and need to be touched. I coped by exercising despite the lipoma - yoga, meditation and dancing. The root of sexual frustration lies with the desire for human interaction. I feel like I exist when others speak to me - something my spouse could not even bare to do - tethered to her phone, laptop, Netflx or a book. I could count on two hands how many times we had sex in our going on four years of marriage. Yet she would demand sex from me; however, she would not be intimate with me despite my bodysculpting, dancing and cooking for her, attending to the house - playing maid. I suspect she was seeing someone else. It is no surprise that she left after I had inquired if she indeed was. Yet I am the one to blame. The queer one. The one who dances. The one who is a good dancer who's cousin-in law spied upon at the club. Cowardly bullshit. Christian judgement as a shield to deflect neglect from somebody who thought nobody would ever marry her. Now I know why. Post abandonment, I filed hastily for MediCal coverage and soon found that I was covered under her plan- more deception and lies that her new found county job was a "temp" position with no benefits. Hence why she never applied for Covered California while we were still together. She planned her way out. Took 15k from our joint account that she never wanted - money that was awarded to me - not her - for my settlement. Changed her address - it came to the house. I foolishly believed it was merely a PO Box change. Lies upon lies. So infidelity probably which a much older man - her past relationships prove this and was and is most likely her way out. Constant talking about her coworkers and their lives, networking parties, Quaker meetings, etc., highlight how she was scanning for a potential escape plan through finding a more desirable partner. All these "survival mode" strategies characterize an unethical therapist with narcissistic tendencies. In the end I'm left alone. I'm handling it quite well despite receiving another layer of trauma I did not ask for. I am coping with disappointment, resentment, betrayal and ultimately desire. Working in Napa for seven weeks provided a brief escape from the urban malaise that is Oakland. I connected with nature, cut the cord of our toxic relationship, became in tune with my surroundings and had enlightening conversations with my coworkers. While in Napa I walked 10 miles a day up and downhills with heavy loads, executed yoga bends, used hand grips, stretchbands and weight trained. Since my spouse left, I have lost my love handles thanks for a freezer not full of ice cream. I have a steady non-junk food, mostly sugar free diet, cooking foods from scratch - mostly high protein dense dishes for fuel. My insomnia has gone. Opportunities abound in the present - thanks to voracious reading and clearing the apartment of reminders and other ephemera of our failed marriage. Reading Creative Visualization played a pivotal role in reframing my mind. I've become more kind and gentler to myself. I no-longer have the impulse to renew my medical marijuana card. I ceased smoking. I haven't fallen off the wagon - still sober from alcohol. There is no need. I'm not coping with a neglectful spouse I can't connect with. I am grateful for the online PTSD community, Instagram followers, and friends that live afar that I have connected with online. The mere checking in with me speaks volumes. One - who is clairvoyant expressed that something is dying in my life - she was right. It was my marriage. Shedding that skin has been painful but also rewarding. I know who I am. I know my journey. I know I have survived and appreciate the support from people also afflicted with this disease. I am now about to take up a job in San Francisco which involves physical work and bicycles - my love. I am also pursuing establishing a PTSD national group with a colleague that also focuses on bicycles. Logos are being drafted and cyber spaces being claimed. Patience is important and I will maintain and push forward. My zeal for writing has rebounded - coauthoring a piece for AmerAsia Journal's forthcoming issue on mental health. I'm not looking for acceptance - just validation. For I and others afflicted with (C)PTSD deserve to be heard - not isolated, ignored or avoided. It is my hope that together and alone, we can support each other through this illness - in real life and online. The author at the summit of Hawk Hill, Sausalito, California behind the Golden Gate Bridge, March 2017
"There are two types of people in life: watchers and doers." - Juliana Buhring (cyclist) Bruce had me up to three miles a day, really at a good pace. We'd run the three miles in twenty-one or twenty-two minutes. Just under eight minutes a mile. So this morning he said to me "We're going to go for five." I said, "Bruce, I can't go five. I'm helluva lot older than you are, and I can't do five." He said, "When we get to three, we'll shift gears and it's only two more and you'll do it." I said, "Okay, hell, I'll go for it." So we get to three, we go into the fourth mile and I'm okay for three or four minutes, and then I really begin to give out. I'm tired, my heart's pounding, I can't go any more and I say to him, "Bruce if I run any more - and we're still running - "If I run any more I'm liable to have a heart attack and die." He said, "Then die." It made me so mad I went the full five miles. Afterward I went to the shower and then I wanted to talk to him about it. I said, you know, "Why did you say that?" He said, "Because you might as well be dead. Seriously, if you always put limits on what you can do, physically or anything else, it'll spread over into the rest of your life. It'll spread into your work, into your morality, into your entire being. There are no limits. There are plateaus, but you must not stay there, you must go beyond them. If it kills you, it kills you. A man must constantly exceed his level." - Stirling Silliphant (Student of Bruce Lee) Imagine an abyss of darkness characterized by filth, dirt, mold and grime. Imagine, if you will, a family gripped by death - its markers so apparent the pangs of guilt predetermine their actions. Imagine slowly suffocating in a quagmire of deception, manipulation, platitudes and lies. Imagine, if you will, that this is considered familiar - normal even. The basics of fight or flight. Survival mode strategies. Constantly living in a state of anxiety. Reaching for the freezer - you feed your face. Kick back a beer. Smoke. Lethargic apathetic lumps sitting soaking up radiation from television or the computer screen. Repeat the process. Such is modern living. Imagine you enter a spiritual community and become reacquainted with your former self. A spiritual reawakening of the mind, body and spirit. Your soul reactivates. You see a myriad of colors free from the trauma space. The thunderbolt. Insight. Movement. The shedding of weight. The quest for happiness and joy. To be at ease. Sought through exercise, dance, cycling, walking, yoga and the climbing of multiple apparatuses made of steel. One morphs, changes, transforms. The sculpting of desired perfection. In face of multiple disabilities. You arrive. The emergence of the authentic self. Self actualized. Deities guide the way. Hints and glimmers suggest synchronicity as the path unfolds: Amitabha, Pandara, Mahamayuri, Kwan Yin, Tara in various forms, and Kwan Kung. Incense lit ablaze emoting gratitude, passion, fire, compassion and loyalty. The touch of a monk on drive-side (right) injured leg. Resulting dreams of a Hmong East Oakland compound. Agrarian. Smiles. Home. Offerings of seeds and clippings. Searching for the fertile soil. Intuitive guides to the Other Side. The tongue touching the roof of the mouth. Collapse. Tears. Release. The resulting transformation just moments in. The ink. The work. The symbols. The scabs. The shedding. The arrival. Quiz-like admiration in the face of dubious Christian judgement subsumed by the air of death. Marked by preoccupations of right and wrong. Dizzy in a polemic dance of gossip - tired and aged by (dis)ease marked by ruts laid upon mud - its routes replayed in a cycle of grief, despair and disrepair. The thunderbolt. Liberation. To be. Awaken. Shatter imposed judgement. Disavow material gain. To hell with money. For reconnecting with the body, mind and spirit presents entertainment in of itself. To locate the joy within free from the mandates of manufactured entertainment. To sculpt. To be in awe. To be rewarded. To be seen. Heard. Noticed. To climb slowly out of the abyss of death. To loosen and break free from the clutch of Kumari - Kali. To enter the light after years upon years of spiritual death. To reawaken free from a manufactured Jesus claimed by many in essentialist fashion - fought over like the crumbs of careerism. Their tongues exclaim Satan when in fact they are lost. Lost in the grip of death. They find joy in psychoanalysis. Lost in the minds of others. They neglect their own. I swing like a majestic monkey. Breathe deep. Awaken the lungs previously mired by smoke. Ujjayi-like moans liberate the hips as I swing upside down. Legs extend back parallel to the ground. Insect like tenacity. I morph and change. Free the hips from (dis)information - years of academic murk leading to nowhere. The cyclical spin of the mind. Chasing dreams of this or that. Hyper-criticism leading to obesity - negatives manifested in cellulite. A sponge of grief. The university of consumption marked by the lure of normalcy - marriage, offspring and vicarious living. The peacock struts its dance. A vehicle of Amitabha, Kwan Yin, Mahamayuri. Feathers mark my skin as I take flight - targets in sight. Goals to attend to. Morphing. Changing. Realizing. The double breath opening channels once blocked awaken the eyes. The marker is set. The City of Ten Thousand Buddhas. Destination(s) (un)known. For I do not watch. Watch me. Do.
"If I could choose, I'd have nothing to lose. But I'd be miserable then, so stay a while my friend. Never given a choice, always following the calling voice. Coming back for me again. And she says, "Jump!" And in the jump you remember the feeling. Maybe you'll never be reaching the ceiling but at least you're not touching the floor." Never O'Clock by Molly Nilsson
It will come. To unfold. Unravel. Reveal. Awaken. Transform. To recognize patterns. Habits. Behaviors seemingly passed on by shadowhand-like DNA wizardry combined with familial, physical and/or emotional blunt trauma. What is it? Bust through the "why?" The me. Investigate. Connect the dots. Make a hard left. Take a new path. The void. Complete darkness. The cacophony of consciousness. The feeling of being watched. The eyes of Shiva. Fentanyl x 2 as the guide. Six arms after twenty some odd nerve cutting attempts. Dislocation remedied by a white sheet. Darkness. Followed by Light. And more darkness. Habitual sadistic familial trauma in times of crisis. Homelessness. Abandonment. Victim blaming. Newlyweds. Financial ruin. Lawsuit. Self care survival strategies. Picking up the pieces. Navigate the in-law maze. Medicated. Sick. Broken. Sad. (Dis)ability. Jesus. Injections and realizations. Reiki. Acupuncture. Herbs. Massage. Wounded warrior. Hypermasculine. HSP. Empath. Self hate. Addiction(s). Anger. Rage. Rehab. Meditation. Cycling. PT. Yoga. Dance. Kettlebell. Pushups. Jungle gym. Walking. Stretchbands. Go Go. Pole Dance. Vitamins. Supplements. Diet. Ketos. Vegan. Pescatarian. Vegetarian. Meat. Chemicals. SSRI. MDMA. Therapy. Search. Seek. Find. Wolf pack. Tribe. Sangha. Connect. Brief moments of joy. Liberation. Sweat. Tenderness. Tears. Sometimes blood. Toil the soil. Add waste. Grinds. Peels. Tea. Stalks. Its decomposition fueling the life below. Sprouts allowed to mature to seed and re-bloom. A cactus stands erect flowering above and below. Baby broccoli hybridity. Watchful trees and Marlboro Black. Coffee and nicotine dreams awaken the fire within as I connect on a plane free from the murk. Detroit. Witness her. Controlling the elements. In a windstorm. Rain. Keeping on. Pulled the plug. Enamored. Looking. She knows. Synthesis. The mask. The monster. How did she come to be? Loom. The taxi. She's off. Amaze and wonder. That night. Awaken. Two men beside me on each side of the hotel bed. A black murky figure comes out of the wall. Grips hands and pulls me in. Scream. Go away. Awake. Contemplate. What is the grip? The twisted desire for drama? For pain? For familiarity? Understanding? Replicate and repeat the process until the soiled sheets shine albeit not nearly as new. Set the sheet on fire. Adorn colors. S.O.S. Social Media Savvy. Blossom in the night. Revisit the haunts called home. Seek solace in others. Lust. Long to connect. To be touched. Reap the physical rewards. Experience adoration from a distance. Connect without obligation or expectation. Resign hope. Resign desire. Totally immerse one's being in the physical space and find moments of joy within interplay and connectivity. The cherry blossoms have already bloomed. The flowering and withering of Jade plants coincides with body sculpting. New sensations. Look and touch. On the box adoration. Documentation. Praise. Repeat the cycle. Reach within the search. Make new objectives. Scissors guide and assist revealing elements. Alchemy in synthesis and desire. Transforming habits. Wrestling demons. Getting reacquainted. Witness her on the screen. Shouting in Japanese. Leathered up. Strapped. The sinister laugh. The slap. The power. The control. Patterns. Cycles. Sometimes predetermined. Craft excites. To mold. With or without volition. To be side by side. The byproducts of obsession. She. Scars. Imprinted. Homeless. Multiple. Musing. Creating. Creatrix. Peacock. Femme. Wounded. Mend. Flight. Witness. We explore the haunted. Grasping in the dark. Found in the wanderlust of spontaneity. Destination unknown. Vagabonds fueling up for another quest. Bumming around. They often go. Marry. Find home in the homeless. Often the lost of Israel. Neapolitan outcomes. Shift of priorities. Heteronormativity. Bowie betrayals. The box. Nuclear family dreams. Consumption. Vicarious living. Expectation gone wild. Her scar. Revealing. Kwan Yin. Compassion. Kwan Kung loyalty. Unspoken understanding. Working in concert. Finding home in each other. She glides her hands across the table littered with devices encased in ABS plastic and metal. Wires. Knobs. Twiddling. Noise. Craft. Vinyl. Gloves. Catsuit. Of German. Of Japanese. Chaotic musings disclosing fierce opposition. She of leather. Of vinyl. Stamped. Othered. Beyond. Rotate the dial. Tune in Tokyo. Realize the lost sisters. AWOL. Reemerge. Face the fear. Clip cut reassemble. Break back slug eaten leaves. Weed the garden. Reap the reward(s) manifesting out of the darkness. Nearing my arrival as Jihad Spice (2014)
Darren. Uncertain. Etymological. Origins. Great. Gift. Bewitched. Darren. Nerrad. Bok Fu. Max. Mr. Brown. D. Dare. Dare-bo. D-bo. Darewon. Brownie. Charlotte. Klenderfender. Bing Bing. Chong Chong. Space Prince. Jihad Spice. Creatrix. Peacock. Eva Braun. Names. Markers. Nicknames. Recreations. Reimaginations. A reclaiming of the self post-birth free from the genetic code that binds with an intent keen on perpetuating the self-fulling prophecy of a society adrift in a sea of suffering - the process - procreation and offspring. Birth. Categorization. The box. Four enclosed walls and vicarious living. Maternal desire and aspirations. Secrecy. Clandestine maneuvers. We roam. And find. Among the gallows imaginations intertwine offering glimmers of light in the darkness - opportunities to lessen the grip through strategic sharing, insight and transformation. Petals fall. As do leaves. And snakes shed their skins. Together, Yet apart. Techno soirees aid communications dreamed and discussed years before - premonitions of the future realized. Similar struggles. Navigating the systemic maze of capitalistic care, we fall deep within an abyss of self-questioning. We are diagnosed. We are stamped. Something is wrong. On the pharmaceutical hamster wheel of production. Produce and contribute. Or die. Legs twisted in the wheel. Limbs mangled, we emerge and recount the stories of surviving the complexes of the world. Realities cross and sometimes run parallel. Gazing at the wheel, we recognize the myth of meritocracy - and split. We take control. Cryptic comforts litter the binary landscape posing anarchic arrivals of identities suppressed. Slowly we emerge as we transform ourselves. Sensory overload as emotions once hidden emerge as machinery rebrands and crafts a new self anointed to fight, love and fly - treasures found beneath the oozing blood. The we. Careering. Multiple hats. Performing. Smiling. Assimilating. Slow death. The rot. Mind mush. Take another. Have another. Feed the emptiness. The closet of the mind. Mental arsenal inventory. Various ingredients chopped, slow cooked and stirred; its alchemy a result of combination. We don our wares and emerge. We arrive. The craving and the resultant carving - we find space. Attitudes, moods and broods. Praise, shades and disses. We outdo each other. Learn. Share. Get better. Morph. Like "Jap girls in synthesis" we confuse and offend. Outrage documented on celluloid for we inhabit a site of resistance in motion - we confound history. Out of the muck our wings flap as mud dirties the lens. The camera man wipes and we are gone. Home, we take off the mask. Shower. Observe the mirror. Question who we are. I am anarchic. Switch. Shift. An object. Pay me. To feel and absorb the sensual possibilities of crossing the bridge. And the bridge is me. Come down. Revisit the self. The third eye aided by the screen. Electronic documentation. Photos of movement. Global praise. It's all "1's" and "0's." Repeat the process as the singular yet multiple I - now inhabiting a space of cyber-reality. Express the suppressed. The longing to connect not just within ourselves but with others. The carving becomes tiring. To constantly carve. To search. To belong. To feel. To feel beautiful. We whittle. Our crafts a result of percolation. We reveal. We hurt. We emerge. Recreations become a declaration, a testimony to that hidden part of ourselves we are in battle with. Our movements beyond rhetoric - a purging of the mundane - an openness to spontaneity in which we find home outside the confines of the four enclosed walls. Inertia ceases as we find brief moments of liberation. In movement. In concert. We search. We arrive. "One of the first things an empath must learn is how to protect their own heart without shutting it down. It is a lesson in discernment and love." Feelings. Emotions. Stories. Sharing. Insight. Premonitions. And more feeling. Spirits. Ghosts. Demons. The void. A voice reminds me, "don't throw litter in black holes." Having a hypersensitive personality (HSP) or emphatic qualities is one of the markers of living with (C)PTSD. Multiple layers of trauma manifests in a hyper aware body that easily absorbs the pain of others in a knowing fashion. My abilities are heightened by the "supernatural" - seeing ghosts, leaving the body, feeling various energies in objects, people and places; however isolation has presented an obstacle - an ever reoccurring one - seekers in search of guidance and/or comfort. Providing comfort is an immediate response for an empath for they have been helping others most of their lives. In my case taking on adult responsibilities at a young age, living the death cycle coupled with delayed experiences in regards to milestones (i.e.., losing one's virginity, multiple "graduations" and accomplishments ignored) erected an invisible faulty defense system. Seekers seek and always find. Those in pain seek the sensitive for the light. For guidance. For a shoulder and an ear. For commonality. When the commonalities are so similar excitement is the result. The empath knowing the void so well enters the space of another constructing in the dark stacking building blocks of possibilities on an empty canvas of white shining in the darkness. Getting lost and found in the dark - similarities clung to as old friends. Bad habits. Fall deeper into the abyss of disenchantment. Longing and desire. Captivated by synthesis. Intoxicated by possibility. It has happened before. Empathic sisters walk by my side although apart - our thoughts intertwined. They knew. Didn't know the specifics and knew. My energy was pouring out into an empty well. Flowers spilling over the brick. Possibility. The body morphs as the soil beneath the bountiful garden springs forth its fruit. Sisters raise their hands and reach out electronically and exchange wisdom. To psychically ground. To return home. To leave the dark castle. The pleasure palace constructed with divine intent - masculine / femme - syncretic synthesis offering complete openness. The condominium of vulnerability. Before it led to mass extinction. Self loathing. Self hate. Drinking all the time. Powdery substances. Nicotine. Leaves. Food. Junk food. Anything to dull the pain. The familiarity of understanding. The pain that binds. The collective longing and insatiable thirst for something more. Collapse inward in the mind space. Neglect the body. Literally die. "You deserve all the honeys," she said. Process. Ride the bike some more. Watch the water. Observe the planes coming and going. Lift off! Flight! New possibilities. New directions. Locating that wonder. Finding that pulse and seeing it through. I will buy a motorcycle and ride it alone. Flickers of light along the journey captivate the mind. Thai body work on a "fit brother," Krishna cat-callings, peacock fierceness and octopus tenacity. On the box a myriad of lights showcase my wares - the contours of a body once beaten emerges in an incandescent glow announcing my arrival as I scan the crowd. She sits in her hat. Eyes a glimmer in admiration. The side glance opposite stage right. She dances. She speaks. We "Fade to Grey" as we reminisce. "Change Your Mind" croons Gary Numan behind a cake of makeup as we dip before the mirror - opposites side by side. Alcoholic lubrication alongside a sober peacock finding its pulse as multiple hands grab or slap its behind. I scan the crowd to a sea of open eyes a dazzled. Admiration. Connection. Strangers. Possibilities. Conversations. So much excitement I forgot my hogtie rope as I dressed and jumped off the box for the front room exit. I was greeted by Stevie Nicks. The first woman I ever thought was a "witch." I'm reminded of my blood sister and her affinity for Fleetwood Mac. I recall Prince crafting the song "Stand Back" as I lift my backpacked burdened muscled arms skyward to the angelic chorus: La, la, la-la, la, la, laaa, la-la La, laaaa Dance at the bike rack. Connect with a Bay Area Native cat. Suit up. Ride the humid night air in my vest. The air soothing my steaming pits. The quiet before the El Nino storm. My new ink exposed in more ways than one. Shedding skins and taking in. No more playing in the darkness for now. Empathetic love is priceless. It is a gift. Don't let it kill you. "Two different voices constantly call to us. One comes from within, the other from without. The one from without is one’s daily duty. If the part of the mind that responded to duty corresponded exactly with the voice from within, then one would indeed be supremely happy." - Yukio Mishima, Sun & Steel Happiness. Desire. Hope. Longing. Fulfillment. Such states are commonplace for those with (C)PTSD gnawing underneath the skin percolating to the surface in a sweat of frustration, anger and/or rage. The silent scream and the resulting sadness. Unheard. Unseen. Invisible. One may utilize a variety of approaches found in the proverbial "toolkit" acquired from afflicted fellows, therapists, spiritualists, and/or health professionals. A multi-prong approach is most effective; however, I have found one practice extremely suitable in my recovery - Go Go Dancing. I have been dancing since I was a child; however, such "feminine" activity was not encouraged for I was crafted and molded as a soldier and martial artist at a young age. Being referred to as the next Bruce Lee and absorbing a barrage of violent films extinguished this fire leaving my innate desire to dance sequestered in a tomb of apprehension and fear. As a young child afflicted with hyperarousal, I easily became aroused by music. Music videos, Solid Gold and Dance Fever mesmerized my young eyes. Dancing seemed like the ultimate escape - a stage on which anything could happen. My favorite video of the time was "She's Fresh" by Kool & the Gang. The video featured a modern day black Cinderella in futuristic silver attire ascending a staircase complete with smoke and mirrors. I was enraptured. It felt like fantasy realized. Creation. Fun. A wonderland. I would soon attempt to recreate this feeling in my bedroom with the radio blaring. My body gyrating. Two songs in particular come to the forefront - "Cuts like a Knife" by Bryan Adams and "Tarzan Boy" by Baltimoro. "Cuts like a Knife" felt similar to John Cougar Mellencamp's "Hurts so Good" only more dangerous. It also spoke to my pain and trauma thus resulting in sexual arousal. I would dance slow with myself touching my skin mouthing the lyrics. Alternatively, "Tarzan Boy" was explosive and I was hooked on the drummachine beat, jungle calls and storytelling. My liking of the song was met with disdain just as my penchant for the Culture Club. Baltimoro, a "one hit wonder," was one of the first mainstream artists to succumb to HIV/AIDS. It wasn't until I was a young pre-teen that I finally broke through the fear of moving to music in public. I went to my first dance in eighth grade. Looming as a wallflower wearing a trenchcoat and lacquered gelled hair, I watched my fellow classmates dance to the songs of 1988 with glee. I absorbed the experience in amazement and wonder. Peers dancing expressing their true selves as adult chaperones eyed the revelers. The announcement came. The last song of the afternoon - "Lean on Me" by Club Nouveau. I danced. I felt embarrassed nevertheless grooving to the cover song solo breaking a sweat. It was a temporary moment of release from the mind maze. The brain came to a full stop and my body took over. As a teenager, I attended the local punk rock industrial goth club -the Twilight Zone - every week. I broke through the fear of attending the club by listening to a close friend who questioned my assertion that going to such a place was considered "taboo." The first night I attended I sulked in my leather jacket. The owner Ray gave me a complimentary t-shirt to lift my spirit. It worked. As the last song reverberated through the club, I nervously sauntered on the floor and started swaying to the beat of Soft Cell's "Tainted Love / Where Did Our Love Go?" I left with a smile on my face. The following week I had my first dance with my dear friend to Soft Cell's "Sex Dwarf." I gyrated as if I was convulsing even before the kick drum began to laughter. Soon my attire became outrageous. I was a peacock. The rave scene had landed in the Bay Area via the UK from the likes of many transplant DJs. I attended gay clubs - the Mix, J.R.s among others - soaking up the "four to the floor" beat as well as the sights - Go Go Dancers! These ripped men would dance on the stage stripping down to nothing but a towel their members playing a game of hide and seek. Later I would encounter outrageous Go Go-ers wearing lavish outfits at the End Up in San Francisco. Soon I mustered up the courage to dance on the stage at Universe just as I had at the Twilight Zone. The space. To be carved. To exist. To be acknowledge. Not a "safe space" rather a "collective space" for which the tribe celebrates one's existence. The dance continued throughout adulthood but so did alcoholism and drug abuse. Soon, I did not like what I saw on the floor as I often glanced at my reflection in mirrors. I was fat. Bloated. Acne faced. Balding. I felt ugly. And so began a long spiral of self-hate and loathing. More booze. More drugs. A cycle of suffering - Samsara. When I approached my late thirties, I knew it was time for a change. A multitude of ailments persuaded me to buy a single speed bike and within months I lost eighty pounds. For the first time in my life I had defined abdominal muscles. I loved my physique and wanted to show it off by dancing on a box. Recalling the box at the Cat Club in SF, I took it upon myself to dance after my bike couriering shifts. I felt beautiful. Seen. Reborn. A sight to behold. A peacock in full bloom. Go Go-ing was short-lived though since I had suffered a serious accident; however, it took just a couple years to rehab my body and get back on the box. This time was different. I wasn't in the exact same shape and I was preparing for the Seattle to Portland ride. I didn't let this stop me. Weekly my outfits changed as well as my body - morphing into a slender muscled physique. I amassed plenty of colorful clothes - compression pants, tank tops, outrageous tacky socks, hats, bondage rope, handcuffs and gloves. I had broke free of the goth-mode of wearing all black by celebrating and showcasing the colors which are found throughout life. However things had changed. SF was no longer the SF I was accustomed to. The inevitability of change. The new clientele did not reflect the old demographic. Folsom was no longer Queer. Normals. Straights. Boring. As a result, Go Go-ing became as extinct as the Do Do bird. Taking it upon myself, I decided to reinject that energy into what I perceived to be a dying culture. As a result, I have grown accustomed to pointed fingers that are just as bad a being pelted by tomatoes. Ultimately this leads to the question of openness. To be open to experience. Regardless whether it is positive or negative. Relinquishing control. For when one lets go of desire or hope as to how things should be - love manifests. I inhabit love on the box as a peacock. Moments of disdain and praise or indifference are inevitable. However, I am seen. As I ride home alone by bike, I process the night's events. The conversations. The admiration. One night, Heidi - a young Vietnamese international student with bleach blonde hair and tattoos - bummed a cigarette from me as I unlocked my bicycle from the rack. She admired my "don't give a fuck" attitude. She said, "fuck them" to the haters seeing my beauty. She thanked me for the conversation and embraced me. I felt love. I found what I was seeking - acknowledgement, a connection and praise. I left for home alone. Processing. Dancing is a moment of liberation for liberation is not set in stone. One is never truly liberated. There are only moments. Sometimes I am captured on film and the resulting photos shared online. I marvel at onlookers admiration as I inhabit the peacock space. The totality of being. Of being me. For the dancefloor is the space upon which I am truly happy. |
Details
AuthorDarren Brown, PhD. ArchivesCategories |