An amazing poem with a stunning opener line for the new year. By my friend Marie Abanga in Cameroon.
for the world
Please let me be queer
let me be queer it’s my life
be all the regular I don’t care
Please let me be a misfit
I am done trying to fit
You can do all the fit in I don’t care
I come from a broken home
I now lead a broken home
keep your fixed home
He cries mama
she teased my papa is gay
And so what I ask?
gay means happy
why be any judge?
and then go to church?
sing unconditional love
and love so conditionally?
They call me a rascal because I love pascal
he is such a friend
we trust each other so
sinners you say?
who did HE come for?
Winners they who followed HIM
Shabby may be the dress code
merry the constant mode
you can care for your body
I’ll care for my mind
View original post 15 more words
Only nine days after that last adders-pit hospital —
You still wear sunshades to protect others from you
though no one out here believes they are in peril.
Nevertheless, the staff there described you
as “assaultive,” dangerous to self and others,
unfit for company or visitors.
Neither accurate nor truthful
they wrote lies for the sake of their convenience.
Now you are a week from making new friends
in far northeastern Vermont,
in a place magically named the Kingdom
and it’s a move your bruised mind
requires, still unable to let go of
the half-nelson grip of hospital guards
bent on eliciting pain, who, when told to strip you
then four-pointed you naked to a mattress,
replaying their favorite rape scene,
yanking each limb apart to expose and humiliate, knowing
that the nurses’ own official policy was hands-off
and would protect their asses.
You want truth, you wish for reconciliation
but how, you wonder, does any Truth or Reconciliation proceed
when so many refuse to acknowledge
that hospital staff broke every rule,
stopping short of murder only
because you submitted nick of time,
your terror strangled in a towel they wound
around your head and face,
before they injected punishment drugs into your buttocks,
then muted the intercom and sealed the door
No one was ever there to bear witness.
That was always the point,
from your father to the hairdresser
and all the hospital staffs in-between.
They’ve made a religion of secrecy
and no one Outside wanted to know
what they didn’t want to know…
Call this, “our family business,”
call it, “a private shampoo,”
call it, “necessary treatment.”
they could always do what they wanted to you.
And when it broke you, as it eventually would,
when your sudden screams split the night,
and no one could explain what drove you
to empty your lungs,
ripping the air to shreds,
they stood aside and declared you
just “one of the family” now,
no better and no different than anyone else,
now that they’d finally fixed you for good.
Do take a look at this site, both for my newest artwork, (only a detail is the featured image above) which is featured at the link, and for the AMAZING pictures of the birds you can find there. You will learn so much from browsing at Hemant Kishan’s DigitalPlumeHunter blog, as I did when I was looking for photos of the birds I needed for this fractured portrait. DPH’s photos are so crisp and clear and beautifully shot they are artistry embodied. Just click the link below!
Click and it will re-orient itself properly! This is beautifully done! Brava, Mercy!
AFTERWARDS, WHAT THE MOTHER SAID
I was happy when those green birds
flew shining into my garden.
I thought it meant that Allah had smiled
and fate would be kind.
But the grindstone turned.
For my son, the struggle was all. I did not know
the meaning of his great determination
to be al shaheed al hayy, “the living martyr.”
The small birds clung to the line
for nearly an hour
before they hurled themselves to the sky
in a great shrill.
Now I can think only of the gore
of innocents on a shredded shirt
I’d washed the night before,
the blood on his Quran left on a bench nearby.
I was ashamed when asked
to claim him as my child.
You ask me
am I happy my son has joined the martyrs?
Do I rejoice to be the mother of a hero?
Who cares of heroes or martyrs
I have lost my son.
May those whom he murdered forgive me.
Inshallah, we will not meet again,
no, not even in Paradise.
But had I known of his plans
I would have taken a blade, sliced open my heart
and crammed him deep inside.
I would have seamed it tight to seal him in.
I would have never let him go.
Copyright Pamela Spiro Wagner 2017
Excuse the poor video quality here though the sound is fine. Not sure whether using the “selfie mode” on my iPhone made the video poor or what?? Anyone have suggestions? Anyhow I would love reactions to my reading below….(Just nothing obvious on how bad the vid quality is. I ALREADY know this! By the way, I made this for David H. and his project in the U.K. so that is why I referred to the Brits in it…
(posted on youbtube by Franque Michele)
Mentally strong people have healthy habits. They manage their emotions, thoughts, and behaviors in ways that set them up for success in life. Check out these things that mentally strong people don’t do so that you too can become more mentally strong.
14 Things Positive People Don’t Do
Now I want to share a website where you can find out more about YOU, and why you are the way you are. This website provides a test and a resulting personality profile, which will give you a clue about your ways of being and how and why your interact with others the way you do, as well as your preferences in life for being and doing. http://16personalities.com The test here is free and may be saved as long as you remember to register by putting in your email. The basic profile is free and you can pay for an indepth one but once you get your test results, which is four letter code, much info is available for free on the internet.
Another site, with the official Myers-Briggs test or MBTI, of which the 16 Personalities is a version, and gives much the same results, and this can be found here: https://my-personality-test.com then go to the Personality TYPE test. Now, some of you may be fearful of being labelled but the thing about the MBTI is that it has nothing to do with labels being IMPOSED but any individual’s personal preferences leading to their type being discovered. I found it quite extraordinary, after taking the test a few times, and getting the same results each time, upon reading my profile with an open mind, just how predictive as well as descriptive of my behavior it was. The one thing it never is was prescriptive. It does not tell you what you HAVE to do only what you are likely to want to do or how you are likely to react in any given situation, given your personal preferences in life, and your personality style. Try it, if you don’t like it or don’t respond to it on a visceral level, disregard it!
Wow! Thats all i can say! One lovely, gutsy, charming lady and my friend. Marie A. Abanga from Cameroon. Brava!!!
Find her blog here: https://marieabanga.wordpress.com marie abanga’s blog
“This little light of mine, am gonna let it shine…
This little love of mine, am gonna let it flow…
This little life of mine, am gonna live it full …
Let it shine, let it flow, live it full…
This little laugh of mine, am gonna laugh it loud…
This little smile of mine, am gonna smile it broad…
This little frown of mine, am gonna frown it all
Laugh it loud, smile it broad, frown it all…
This little dream of mine, am gonna dream it real…
This little tale of mine, am gonna tell it all…
This little cheer of mime, am gonna share it all…
Dream it real, tell it all, share it all…
And when all is said, am gonna say it still…
And when all is done, am gonna do it still…
And when all is lost. Am gonna find it still…
Say it still, do it still, find it still…
And when my light goes dim, am gonna grateful go…
And when my turn is up, am gonna graceful go…
And when my life is nought, am gonna let it go…
Let it go, let it go, let it go”
by Marie A Abanga
I’ve been thinking about this sort of thing for a while, ever since i first came across the notion who knows when. In fact, i always wondered, even as a child, why this was considered so impossible and the answer given was that “people would become lazy…” to which i had not enough life experience to respond adequately or knowledgeably. Now, however, my own life has given my a tiny hint of whether that answer was correct or not. And my answer comes from a life in which i was provided, by virtue of being “on disability” for decades, a poverty-level income, plus shelter and varying levels of food support. I did not become lazy at all. In contrast, as soon as my life stabilized when i no longer was in constant search for housing and had enough to eat for “the forseeable future” at any given time, i could settle down into my life of low but livable income and i taught myself to write poetry. This was a goal that i could accomplish given that it required very little extras in the way of expenditures, beyond a pen and a notebook and eventually an electric tyoewriter, paper, and a few envelopes and stamps. For 25 years i lived and breathed only to read and write poetry, and became an accomplished poet, with hundreds of poems under my belt.
The one thing that my stable if low income did not do was make me lazy, it did deprive me of many other things, but the basic “security” it provided to me of shelter and food and medical care, however basic level they were, permitted me the freedom at least to write my heart out.
Later, when my income doubled due to a a tragedy in the family that had a positive effect on my social security benefit, once again freedom from penury permitted me to become an artist, because i could buy the art supplies that before that time i could never have afforded.
The point is that people will always do what they do, and want to do, when the chains of utter compulsion are taken off. There is plenty of money in this world, enough to fund a system that takes care of all, if we have heart and soul to do this. The question is, Do we dare?
I remember names…some of them. For instance, the short, chubby, blond nurse, who was worried about her weight and who was so instrumental in torturing me? Her name was Debra. And the head nurse who seemed so oblivious to the fact that her policies were indeed torture, even though she admitted that she expected the guards to inflict pain on patients when “escorting” them to seclusion in order to “subdue them faster” as she put it to me, openly. Her name was Barbara, and even though I was horrified by things she told me, I believe that she was innocently deluded and believed in her job, did not mean to be mean, not the way Debra seemed to, and honestly wanted the best for her patients. But let me start at some beginning which is to say, anywhere at all, and give you an idea of what I am talking about.
I have written in multiple places and on many occasions about what happened to me at New Britain Hospital (aka Hospital of Central Connecticut on Grand Street in New Britain) and I do not want to go into the whole thing here. All you need to do is search on the subject of Michael E Balkunas at this blog and you will get most of the gory details. That said, much that happened has never been told not even here. For instance, that Debra was the nurse who in a sadistic impulse and in an apparent fit of frustration, decided to have the security guards strip me naked when she was secluding me for some unknown (and always unnecessary) reason yet again…as they did nearly daily at W-1 in New Britain Hospital in May 2014….that it was Debra who was directly responsible for this I have never stated. But I remember her name clearly, and her face….And the fact that after she did this the second or third time she went on leave for several days, and when she came back told me she had almost quit her job.
I was momentarily cheered because I thought perhaps she had had some serious regrets about what she’d done to me. I asked her, Was it because of me? I thought she would tell me yes. She looked at me, and nodded, then said, “Because you are such a challenging patient.” Huh? I looked at her, and saw no remorse, no regrets only residual anger and scorn…and a certain unrepentant rancor that I had “made her do what she did.” Clearly she felt that I was to blame for her behavior, that I was to blame in general and that it was all justified.
But to get back to what happened. After she had me stripped naked by four male guards, after I loudly and vociferously protested being left alone in that freezing seclusion cell for I never knew how long, I began mildly hitting my head on the wall in protest. They threatened to four-point me and then they came barreling back in and threw me onto a restraint bed. The thing is, I knew, completely naked, I could not take the cold in that seclusion cell. But if they restrained me they would HAVE to cover me with something, and at the very least I would not freeze to death in that frigid cell for an indefinite number of hours…But when they came for me, they grabbed me and angrily threw me onto a gurney, even though I put up no resistance, spread-eagled my legs, deliberately exposing my private parts, and shackled them to the corners of the gurney with my arms pinioned above my head until I shrieked in pain even as they laughed. Then they held me down, gratuitously I might add, since I was already restrained, compressing my neck and chest, in order to give me the usual three-injection cocktail of punishment drugs — Haldol, Ativan and Benadryl — forcibly slammed into my buttocks. All of this done to me while I was naked and immobilized in four point restraints. Then fearing that they would leave me alone there, freezing cold, I screamed for them to cover me. With a look of disgust, someone threw a draw sheet over me, but no more.
The charge nurse came in for my “face to face” interview to see that all was “proper” and she visibly and audibly shivered, but refused me a warm blanket, or any at all, due to “safety concerns.” Then she left with the rest of them and turned off the intercom, so “we won’t have to listen to her scream.” They closed the door behind them, leaving me all alone behind a metal cell door that did not even have an observation window in it.
I screamed from the base of my lungs as deeply and as loudly as I could for as long as I could last. No one took mercy on me or brought me water or a blanket or spoke to me the entire time. Only when, exhausted, I finally lapsed did they relent and ask, from outside the door, “can we turn the intercom back on? She is quiet now…” And apparently got assent for that… Because eventually I heard someone flip a switch but nothing more.
After I was released, the next day, I told the unit director, Dr Michael E Balkunas what they had done to me, and he must have recognized the egregious nature of it because his response is telling. Instead of dismissing it as not so terrible, he said: “They would NEVER do such a thing as that in my hospital. You are a liar!” So he saw how awful it had been, what they had done to me, he just refused to acknowledge it had happened, and that he did not in fact what his staff were up to. But I was never in fact the liar he believed me to be. His stock answer to everything he did not want to see or believe was routinely that I was lying, but this was not true, and he was so sickeningly dismissive of the truth that I did not wait to listen to more this time. I was so wiped off the map by his response that I got up and walked out of the interview room and did not bother with him from then on…I KNEW I was never a liar, and that in actuality it was the STAFF who lied all the time, but telling Balkunas that would have done no good. He wanted to believe what he wanted to believe and nothing i said got through to him from day one…So I thought, so why bother ? WHY BOTHER. Balkunas wanted to murder my body and my spirit, and I could not let him succeed. He could imprison my body in his hospital, but i was damned if i would let him get my spirit. FUCK HIM!
But Dr Balkunas, Michael, you did not in point of fact know what went on at W-1 ever, nor at the ER, when you were there. Abuse was rampant because you encouraged it to be…and you never cared much what they did to achieve “order” so long as it was “quiet” when you were around. So you gave tacit assent to the tortures that they inflicted, and you likewise tacitly approved the very behaviors that you told me would “never happen on your watch”…Yeah? Well, I feel certain that if they behaved as they did towards me, they had done it before me, and did so to others after I left as well…and they continue to inflict these things on patients to this day.
I will leave it there. Your unit staff and you too, Balkie, are Out of control, and deserve, as my Obama post notes, to be CLOSED down for good.
The other day I made this little polymer clay figure to illustrate what Debra did to me.
It blew me away and I could not sleep all night the night I made her….Until Wendy and I decided to heal her, and perhaps heal me, from the experience, First, talking to the figure in the little bed calmly and with compassion, we covered her with a thick cotton blanket. That brought me some relief as I no longer felt chilled. Then we took off the restraints, which despite being made of polymer clay actually slipped right off, and we brought her arms down to her sides so she could sleep in comfort. By the time we were through I felt immensely better.
Neither of us could even imagine treating another human being as Balkunas had had me treated on numerous occasions by routine.
6:30pm this coming Wednesday evening Sept 13, 2017.
Please join us to listen and participate!
Please listen to this. You will find Cortland Pfeffers intro fascinating, and of course pamela as usual has much to say!
Here is a little new art to entice, just a small drawing i did while at fhe hostel in Boston during the Hearing Voices Congress. I hope to post that power point soon.
Yes, i will sell or make you jewelry. Please contact me with queries. I do sterling, wired with beads, and netting, but i tend not to do plain beads on beading wire as many others do that so you can find it elsewhere.
Work in progress, but unfinished…
Writer | Editor | Translator
a maker, a teacher of making
Handmade Life: Lover of All Things Handmade
Opeyemi Parham, M.D., Ceremonialist & Healing Artist
A fine WordPress.com site
But still worth reading.
The 9 Lives of Buffalo Tom Peabody, Gunther Tootie, Ignatius “IGGY” Rattlebottom-Bunn, Larry "Bubba" Flowers & Doodlesack. NO AWARDS. please.
"While I breathe, I hope"
Fashion & Fine Art Designer Candace Turner's Exploration
The grief diaries
An autistic artist learning her craft.
A personal blog about freedom from psychiatry and psychotherapy, and other institutions that support eugenics
Inspiration and tools for creating the future we want. Courage to live it now.
This site explores in real time one persons options for life or death...
Beware the Evils of Psychiatry and Big Pharma!
Psychiatrist & Author of : "Psychotherapy of Character: The Play of Consciousness in the Brain"
painting & drawing
resources for life after therapy, pills and ECT
A blog about psychiatric abuse in the UK
Narcissistic Abuse & Complex Trauma