Archive for the ‘The Book’ Category

Meet the woke misogynists. Surprise! They’re pretty much everywhere.

Saturday, March 18th, 2017

This is my lived reality.

With former boyfriends, with former peers in the supposed sex positive/healing communities, with men in the intersectional feminist movement, with lauded teachers and self proclaimed sex healers; Every single fucking feminist woman I know who tries to date men and talks with me about it has been traumatized by this ‘Bob’ creep just like I have. Over and over and over again both personally and witnessing it go down with others.

We are constantly seeing vulnerable communities tolerating foxes in the henhouse who are ‘trying’ to learn how not to hunt and slaughter the god damn chickens, often with the added intensity of witnessing these men rise to leadership and power positions over the people they systemically oppress while invalidating our own signals of danger, like we’ve been fucking trained to do, and it’s utterly crazymaking. We observe this while denying to ourselves it’s happening until we find out about someone geting really hurt, and it’s destructive to ourselves and one another.

We are counting days between learning that one more fucking high profile feminist guy we let ourselves believe was doing it right is actually serially abusive or a flat out sexual predator. We allow the truth to break only once one of us is brave enough to scream loud enough about it to give the rest permission to speak, and frankly, it’s devastating. 

Additionally, these dudes are naturally padded by coward rape apologist niceguy’s who take their sides and feel sorry for them having to face the fucking music, by women still struggling with internalized misogyny and the social conditioning to leverage their understanding of this shit to cape for/protect/try to teach their abusers and predators not to be abusers and predators (guilty!).

In fact, I can count on less than half of one of my hands how many people over the last THREE FUCKING YEARS of my periodically talking openly and publicly about the person who raped me in 2014, how many people have asked me to tell me who he is. For a long time, I thought it was because everyone knew. But over the years it’s trickled out that people don’t know. They don’t know, and they don’t ask, because they don’t want to fucking know.

Abusers, by the very nature of our fucking society, are shielded by their powerful allies, and the snowed communities of followers of which they hold power or interest over. They invariably leverage that power to maintain that stasis they seek to maintain, despite being disgraced, at the expense of the people in those same communities who are betrayed, violated, and hurt by the shit they’ve chosen to do. 

So, so often, they double down. They make excuses. They go silent, disappear, and hide like fucking cockroaches when the lights come on. They refuse to resign their positions as presiders over people who are systemically vulnerable to their flavor of abuse. They gesture as though they are stepping to the plate, but don’t. And in alternative communities like feminist communities, kink communities, hacking communities, queer communities — where already marginalized people seek out solice — we seem to be even more apt to automatically fucking protect the living shit out of them until it is far, far too late.

At one time I fantasized of dating that mythical, truly dedicated openly feminist man who was into fighting for my humanity as much as I am. I really wanted to believe we as a collective were ready for that to actually exist. And I was still very attached to the possibility of finding a mate to grow with indefinitely.

But you don’t domesticate the fox by just letting them hang out with hens a bunch with a fucking bowl of kibble tucked in the corner. Now, I have adopted a zero-tolerance for supposed ‘consent accidents’ in the rare instance I find myself willing to even consider fucking any of these lingo-slinging space-taking dudes, who I generally won’t even give the time of fucking day to after the camel-breaking shitshow straw that was Charlie Glickman’s public “apology” to his ex, and how disgusted and manipulated I felt by having ever ended up a part of that.

Because while restorative justice models exist and are gaining momentum, I have yet to personally see a feminist man who has violated women in his community truly commit to and complete that process. Because, frankly, they don’t fucking have to.

Now, I only remotely entertain the posibility of trusting ‘feminist’ men who make their own space feminist, religiously credit the women they are learning from, and fight the fight within their communities of OTHER MEN in their feminist activism rather than buddying up with their female teachers and their circle of women activists.

Protip: if a man says he’s feminist, but mostly only hangs/talks shop with feminist women, and you don’t see him out there being the change in front of other men, he’s at best a cowardass crap ally in it for cookies and free education/emotional labor (that the women near him will both supply AND pay for), and at worst is a rapey gaslighting predator fuck who will then use the knowledge he’s gleaned to weasel out of being accountable to the same community that has invested pricelessly in his growth and resulting status. 

You are NOT WRONG to mistrust these guys, or to be angry as fuck that you have to. 

You DO NOT have to be polite, tolerant, or accepting of men in your community who give you the fucking creeps, violate your consent, rape you, abuse you, gaslight you, even if they are ‘nice’, and even if they tell you what you’re seeing isn’t true.

People who truly want to learn to dismantle their oppressive behaviors in order to take their fucking boot off your neck will find a way to do it without your having to further sacrifice yourself for it. They will find a way to do it without demanding that you be nice about it or prioritize their fucking feelings. They will find a way to do it without leveraging the social capital the have over you — be it money, or being straight, or white, or male, or being socially entitled for centuries to your validation and obedience — and when they fuck up they will fucking own it, air it, apologize like a fucking grown up and move the fuck on.

You don’t owe people who don’t have the skills to respect you, who are clearly struggling to see you as an actualized fucking person worthy of the breath meant to pass through your own neck, a god. Damn. Thing.

ANNIVERSARY: NAME DAY

Monday, June 27th, 2016

Every year, google calendar reminds me that June 27th is my Name Day.

Unlike my birthday, which is a passive obligation based in celebrating something I had very little to do with, my name day brings me a sense of pride and reverence for myself and the work I have done to actualize my own personhood and stand firmly within my own integrity.

Two years ago, early in my Year of the Nee, a year of celibacy, therapy, teetotaling and self focus, I became Courtnee Fallon Rex.

My drivers license picture is of me beaming from that day. My most vivid memories are of walking downtown after taking myself to the market, glowing, because something about me had broken open. Something that flourished and gasped gratefully in the raw, rushing air. A seed so sealed and protected, only the tire fire that was my life at the time could have set it free.

I won’t go so far as to say everything changed that day I simultaneously released myself and claimed my masculine royalty. That would be an offensively simplified version of the events that lead to and preceded that particular June 27th. But, I am able to think of very little of my life that has remained the same since.

Now, after that dense year I dedicated to only myself, Name Day is the lingering milestone. An appreciation for what has come, gone, been gained, and lost. I still think about the many casualties of that fire. I am grateful for their sacrifice as I continue to refine; into my Self, into my vision, into my senses, and into my appreciation for who I, so uniquely and messily and strangely and passionately, am.



** As I continue to fine-tune the edit I notice that this piece appears to be about my transformations over the last two years, specifically illustrating the experience of music as a catalyst for moving forward, while existing in a world which most of the time I clearly do not belong.

This weird little project was made possible by my supporters at http://patreon.com/courtnee

me, Clayton, rape.

Friday, April 15th, 2016

me, Clayton, rape.

It wasn’t rape because that’s what he growled at me the first time he overwhelmed and coerced me when I’d just said I wanted to wait before we started having sex together.
It wasn’t rape because he’d only gone down on me and fingered me and heroically resisted sticking his cock in my body.
It wasn’t rape because when he walked out without fucking me, saying “That’s all I wanted”, licking his lips at my door, I smirked.

It wasn’t rape because if it had been rape it wouldn’t have signified the start of a long term relationship.
It wasn’t rape because I came so many times, every time.
It wasn’t rape because I’d agree to do things I’d said I was uncomfortable with after he said over and over that he needed them.
It wasn’t rape because I’d agree to try things I was scared of and it would be my fault he wasn’t satisfied with the outcome.
It wasn’t rape because we were “the power couple”
It wasn’t rape because he was the “top”

It wasn’t rape because I tried to leave him 7 fucking times and kept going back.
It wasn’t rape because I suspected I was with a sex addict and still stayed with him.
It wasn’t rape because I suspected he was a sociopath and still stayed with him.
It wasn’t rape, because he was cheating, and it has to be one or the other.
It wasn’t rape because gaslighting.
It wasn’t rape because manipulation.
It wasn’t rape because power struggle.

It wasn’t rape because ‘his sexual needs’
It wasn’t rape because I became accustomed to never not having sex when we were together.
It wasn’t rape because he made sure I got off before he did.
It wasn’t rape because any critique of his treatment of me was immediately escalated to my accusing him of it and rape is a bad, bad word.

It wasn’t rape because I’d done the same toward others and couldn’t face it.
It wasn’t rape because I knew I’d ‘met my match’ in him.
It wasn’t rape because I was trying to be less controlling — surrendering was the whole point.
It wasn’t rape because we were ‘sex positive’

It wasn’t rape because I was already damaged.
It wasn’t rape because I had to be Good, Giving and Game
It wasn’t rape because I was learning.
It wasn’t rape because I was getting what I deserved.
It wasn’t rape because love is hard.

It wasn’t rape because my life revolved around being good at sex.
It wasn’t rape because I suspected he was in love with Zita, and not me.
It wasn’t rape because he bought me dinners and marathon texted.
It wasn’t rape because he invited me to meet his family.
It wasn’t rape because there was something wrong with me.

It wasn’t rape because losing my mind in that relationship was my fault.
It wasn’t rape because I was the one who screamed and yelled
It wasn’t rape because I could see the scared little redhead boy he kept trying to cover up
It wasn’t rape because part of me wanted to make babies with him
It wasn’t rape because part of me wanted to marry him

It wasn’t rape because I let him get away with it.
It wasn’t rape because I knew no one would take my side.
It wasn’t rape because I’m not supposed to have to need anyone to take my side if I’m telling the truth.
It wasn’t rape because I didn’t want to be in love with a rapist.
It wasn’t rape because I didn’t want to have been a rapist.

It wasn’t rape because what about the theater we worked at together.
It wasn’t rape because it was my fault his ex’s wouldn’t talk with me about him
It wasn’t rape because all those other girls are just jealous of you, Courtnee.
It wasn’t rape because I was the dangerous one.
It wasn’t rape because I was the evil one.
It wasn’t rape because I was the powerful one.

It wasn’t rape because fighting for my sanity was exciting.
It wasn’t rape because I was the one who was so fucked up I’d get suicidal
It wasn’t rape because when it all came crashing down, I was the one the ‘sex positive’ community ditched.
It wasn’t rape because he succeeded at peopling and I failed.

It wasn’t rape because the Judge clearly hated me and sided with him.
It wasn’t rape because his pretty ex girlfriend made amends with him just in time to show up in court by his side.
It wasn’t rape because the other woman he raped and then pretended didn’t exist ran and hung me out to dry.
It wasn’t rape because I needed to burn the shit he had given me and that’s just crazy.

me, Clayton, rape.

So I watched Jessica Jones on binge a few months ago. Alone.

I shouldn’t have been alone for something like that, but I didn’t expect for it to bother me so terribly.

It bothered me so. Fucking. Much. I hated her so. Fucking. Much. I spent the second half of that show vehemently wishing she would kill herself. I kept wanting to see her kill herself and when she did it I would have woken the neighborhood celebrating. I fucking hated her fucking dramatic drinking and her stupid decisions and I fucking hated how fucking weak and pathetic she was. I wanted to see her die.

I knew when I was watching it it was bringing up some massive shit, but I couldn’t figure out from where. It couldn’t have been from David. David was a fucking meatheaded boundary pushing fucking emotional moron who finally went too fucking far, not a god damn Major of Psychological Warfare like Killgrave.

So what the fuck was it? What the fuck was triggering me so badly?

Yeah. OH.

How did I write this, without seeing ^^^^^^ this ^^^^^^? I don’t know. I’m not supposed to know everything. But I’m going to Keep Going. I am, perhaps naively, looking forward to a time in my life when my gnashy, suicidal trauma surfacings don’t revolve around figuring out/remembering who in my distant past fucking raped me. This broken record shit is getting really, really old.

Still pooping on rape culture

Thursday, January 28th, 2016

So I was told yesterday that comically centering my own nonsexual nudity in any of the constant reminders I post about my patreon existing is disingenuous, because I rail against rape culture.Mmmkay.

I was told that it’s ok to use nudity in my art, which I have done for over 20 years, but it’s not ok to make a joke about posting boobs on patreon so haha sign up.

Mmhmm.

I was told that harnessing my own agency and inviting people to support me in a way that ever centers that portion of my body of work devalues everything else about me.

*files nails*

A man, who has been at times clearly conflicted with his own attraction to me, which is what he centered when stating his ‘honest opinion’ about his perception of not being able to afford to see my tits (the image is public, actually, in my modeling portfolio) told me this, and claimed to be trying to point out what he viewed as internalized sexism.

*yawn*

He told me I couldn’t have it both ways, that I couldn’t critique and work to transform a culture which seeks to objectify and shame my body without my consent, and ever consent to being gazed upon with my nipples showing and having the audacity to suggest that it’s possible to be financially supported in that.

*side eye*

He told me this in response to the first post I’ve penned in almost two years in which I centered my nudity, much less in good humor, and, even though he is a fucking therapist, failed to recognize how deeply vulnerable and brave of a step that reclaiming was for me in my healing.

*scowl*

This is an aspect of rape culture. That women are not allowed their own pride, agency, or to make money with their bodies, as long as any old man who gets a boner doesn’t have free license to objectify her any time he wants.

It’s a part of rape culture to hold the belief that a womans figure, nudity, sexuality is consumable only if she’s giving it away freely, and doesn’t expect compensation unless she sits down and shuts up.

I am officially on record as not here for that shit.

I’m not here for being shamed and diminished by some creepweasel fingerwagging shitbiscuit just as I’m rising from ashes and reclaiming an openness about my own fucking body  — an openness that has brought me joy and exhileration and freedom and makes me laugh and allows for me to return to a more complete expression that I’d long since lost to fucking trauma.

I am not here for shaming nude artists of any form, including my friends who are porn stars and sex workers, or even remotely implying that their willful participation in that negates their stances or validity as rape culture critics/consent culture advocates.

So you can thank this asshole for the verocity of the flood of nudity that is likely to become present in my immediate work.

And you can sign up to support that work, along with my book, my music, my neverending nomadic journey, at http://patreon.com/courtnee

*sips tea*

Tight Ass

Wednesday, January 27th, 2016

So back in the day, in 2004 or so, when I was married to a Microsoft guy and still had snazzy health care, I finally went to a butt specialist doctorguy to find out why it had bled and hurt every time I took a shit since I was a teenager.

It had taken me about 10 years to realize that it wasn’t actually normal to go blind with pain when taking a shit, but if I am honest, back then, I really just wanted my prolapses looked at because they were embarrassing and messing up my slut groove. I wanted to know why I was developing flowery little bulbs on my asshole and get them snipped off.

I had been misdiagnosed countless times by gynecologists who told me I had hemorrhoids, but once I went to the ButtMan I found out that what I had was an anal fissure; a tear in my rectum that kept breaking open and hadn’t healed for a decade.

I made jokes for a few years after getting the surgery, a lateral internal sphincterotomy, in which part of the internal anal musculature is shaved off to deal with overzealous tension, that my problem was just that I was a tight ass.

And that was, literally, my problem. After years of pain and consistent constipation I had taken to both squeezing and pushing at the same time. It was a weird, futile attempt to both squeeze down the giant unforgiving logs I was passing and attempt not to rip myself open again. It never worked. And periodically, usually from a hangover or the aftermath of a massive meth binge, I’d get buttvomit that seemed to irritate things even more. It was, in a word, prettyfuckingawful.

I remember the first poop I took after the surgery, and how afraid I was that it was going to hurt even more. I was told to stay relaxed at all costs but I was petrified at how much it might hurt. I literally cried when it actually slid out pain free. I couldn’t remember ever having that feeling before. It was magic. It was such a fucking relief. I didn’t even know it could be like that.

Keeping the possibility of pain free shitting in my life was one of the catalysts for the massive undertaking which ended up being years of focused food experimentation and figuring out what actually fueled my body. Part of the reason I wasn’t in agony that day was based on my post-surgery diet.

It also was one of the catalysts for getting into psychotherapy the year after, leading down the lifelong path of ultimately addressing and acknowledging the years, and I now realize, centuries, of collective trauma that I had been trying to shut out with the drug and alcohol binges.

Eventually, my conventional therapy experience along with ‘alternative’ indigenous and grief related work ended up bringing me to where pooping is actually a release meditation for me. I release what no longer serves me through it. I visualize what I want to release or connect metaphysically with it, or choose a symbol to represent what I am ready to let go of and I literally shit it out of my body.

This was a practice that came to me organically (haha), ended up being how I kept my sanity after David raped me before testing positive for HPV and I was having dreams of thick primordial slime dripping off his insect-swarmed dick. I shit those infectious fuckers out every day, sometimes twice a day. My poop was my ally when both of the men in my life had fallen beyond short. It was glorious.

My poop is still my ally, but it’s telling me things I don’t want to hear right now. It’s been a month since I haven’t bled, I’m going every 4 days maybe, and it’s been since the shed that I was consistently regular. It doesn’t matter how much water I drink or how many fucking apples I eat, it’s like passing stones through a fucking esophagus every time right now. Because I am stressed, on the move and transitionary all the time. Like literally all the fucking time.

So here’s the thing. I get that I’m not the most happy go lucky person basically ever, and that right now I’m voicing a lot of the shit that’s really grating on me about the world. There are a lot of people who actually know me/have met me and recognize that the Facebook thing isn’t the totality of my existence, but a lot of you probably don’t understand that not only is this my venting space, it’s also my main source of superficial social interaction and release. I spend a lot of time alone, on here, or with people I don’t actually know. I spend a lot of time stressing and driving around. I spend a lot of time thinking really fucking hard about how I could possibly ever maneuver my privileges, my values, my talents, my passions and my needs with integrity in a world that often seems hellbent on molding me into something I’m not. And, lately, I spend a lot of time how I’m not pooping.

And like some of you who’ve mentioned lately, and thank you for that, what I am doing is not fucking easy. It’s not glamorous. It’s not stable. Freedom isn’t fucking free. There’s a reason so many people never break out of the status quo to explore the truth of themselves or the possibility of embodying something different.

Seriously man I just wanna fuckin’ poop right.

Belonging

Saturday, June 27th, 2015

I used to think I would never find a place I belonged.

The lonliness filled me to the point that for a long time I didn’t even have the energy to wander anymore, looking for it, literally or figuratively.

I’d talk myself out of going anywhere I felt I might find my place before the possibility could take shape.

I talked myself out of distancing from people who I could feel saw me as projections of their fractured selves and believed they were smarter, better, and more worthy than me.

I struggled against a rising tide to stay where I was, even as it became clear while the life I’d built for myself fell away piece by piece that it was time.

For years, opportunity and the damn near limitless directions I could take overwhelmed and paralyzed me. And it seemed as though no matter where I went in the world, no matter how well my skills or personality fit into a certain group of other humans, I would never be free of that feeling; I don’t belong. Anywhere.

So in a way, it didn’t matter what the fuck I did. But I had to do something.

So I decided to belong to myself, even though I only felt it part way.

I decided before I was ready, before I really believed, that I had to figure out a way to believe that the possibility of belonging was someplace other than where I was told it was, where I had been encourage to look for it.

I decided to give up most of what I know the majority of the people in my life to work their entire existence stabilizing. I let go of things that I know friends of mine lose sleep over getting, having, and keeping.

I gave away massive amounts of expensive possessions, one of a kind art, things that had defined me for decades.

I flew the nest I’d spent 17 years building and tending as it smoldered behind me, wrought from the merciless determination of a universe demanding transformation, and I left.

One thing I’m quickly learning after doing that, one thing that keeps coming up for me as I look around Texas and camp and experience myself in this environment, is that I don’t actually ‘belong’ any more here and now than I have in any other time of my life.

Yes, it’s true, this camp is strangely well suited for my natural theatrical gifts. And yes, it’s true, the recycling mentality in Texas makes me actually cry sometimes. It’s a mixed bag. Seattle was a mixed bag, too.

But the path to belonging, that feeling I thought meant I was so close to having belonging for myself for so long, was actually control, and dominance. I felt I belonged when I was in charge, when I was leading, when I was on display, and when I was in power.

I learned a long time ago that sort of ‘belonging’ was not only fleeting, high maintenance, and high anxiety — but that I didn’t feel very good about myself once I was dethroned, either. The mist that rationalized the oppressive nature of my height and status, and the grief of having worn mask after mask to maintain the facade that I enjoyed it, once gone, paved a view of someone I was deeply ashamed of.

Belonging is something I now know as a learning.

It’s something that helps me grow, expand, and something I take with me in my soul when I move on.

It’s not popularity in high school, it’s not being the better half of a beguiling power couple, it’s not running a nonprofit — belonging is a muscle I work, that gets stronger and stronger when I am where I should be, experiencing and connecting in ways that feed my soul.

So much has changed in my life. Almost everything. But those changes aren’t why I belong where I ended up.

What’s changed is me.

I belong with me.

ANNIVERSARY: Name Day

Friday, June 26th, 2015

Simultaneously like yesterday, yet longer ago than it seems, I was about two months into Year of the Nee, my official year of celibacy and no intoxicants.

I’d come to embark upon that decision in large part due to my romantic relationships and the patterns I had seen in them, one of those patterns being a tendency to put my life and direction on hold to ‘be’ with someone who I had immediate visceral doubt about, but who wanted me, which I had historically found to be more important.

In my solitude, I traced that pattern all the way back into my childhood, back to the first instance of being presented with the illusion of a choice I never really had, and did not have the capacity to make in the first place.

I recognized in that moment, that all of my life, since before I can even remember, I had belonged, in one form or another, to a man — beginning in the form of taking ones name as a toddler — and I could see, finally, how that experience and the nature of that relationship had helped to shape the whole of my teenage and adult experiences with other males as well.

As of tomorrow, I have been Courtnee Fallon Rex for one full year. And I am still drug free, alcohol free, and free to love myself in whatever ways I deem fit.

BAM.

Achievement Unlocked: Year of the Nee

Friday, May 1st, 2015

Commonly, upon achieving some sort of long term goal, a leader is supposed to have some sort of rousing speech full of pithy insights and inspiring prose.

But what of long-term goals that ultimately involve only the leader? Who are those speeches really for, anyway?

In short: I don’t have a speech or a big post to commemorate the last year I have spent celibate, without intoxicants, focused on my own health and what ended up being yet another extensive series of transformations within transformations.

I don’t have a lot to say about the lessons, the experiences, the challenges, the tests, the few times I faltered and righted myself just in time.

I don’t have a lot to say about the subtle fueling clarity of being sober, how much I like it, or how avoiding bonding sexually did not in fact serve to keep me from breaking my own heart open on others’ moats lined with jagged backbiting rocks.

I imagine at some point when I have easy access to a computer again I will go back and read through my YotN posts, to reflect on all the journey has taught and shown me, much of which I wrote very little about.

I might also observe how the changes in my life which I adopted as part of YotN supported me in the massive internal shifts that had been so long coming and still continue to come. How challenging my most deeply embedded patterns of self avoidance accelerated me to the point that, sometimes, I actually felt my skin ballooning from my bones and whipping off.

I might have more rousing speeches in me, then. Maybe.

For now, I’ll let something my dad randomly said at lunch today speak for me:

“You’ve really become a free spirit, haven’t you?”

‘I guess that depends on what your definition of a free spirit is?’ (Expecting some gripe about what a vandwelling hippie I am about to be)

“You’re not bogged down in an 8 to 5. And, when you want to change something, you… Change it.”

Yeah.

Yeah, I fucking do.

Fluid

Monday, April 13th, 2015

Identity. It’s ideally supposed to be fluid, but not too fluid. Stable, but not stagnant. A means of psychic survival, context, and reference. A way to form and rationalize our routines and habits.

A way to garner an illusion of a security and control in ones experience, and view of, life.

Part of my approach to that illusion of security has depended on figuring out, identifying, who the fuck, I, consistently, am. Or so it has been that I have told myself.

Thing is, I would think that someone who has spent the kind of effort and energy and focus scrutinizing themselves, changing shit, and showing the world exactly what they’re fucking made of, would have a bit better concept of who they are and what they’re about in their core than I seem to.

Instead, I have spent as long as I can remember struggling with shaping my identity, and in many ways resisting against the natural fluidity of my personality in the face of attempting to establish one.

One example of how I have struggled with identity is having seen my tendency for picking up the mannerisms, gestures, and accents of the people I admire as immature and shameful. As childish indication that I don’t know who I am, can’t be trusted to hold to my convictions, and don’t know how to be my own person already.

Another example is seeing my propensity for diving, passionate and headlong, into activities, communities, relationships, and cultures, as proof that I am not strong enough to maintain a selfhood of my own free from the frivolous influence of others.

Yet another example has been seeing the impermanence of these dives as being a fault I can work away somehow, a problem with my personality that needs to be solved.

And, worse, I have seen these sorts of things as confirmation that I just leech my messy hodgepodge selfhood off other people.

Which is sort of a fucked up way of looking at things since that’s how people.. you know. Grow. Which is sorta my thing, I think, maybe.

And yet on the flip side, I periodically ignore what I *have* come to know about myself.

For instance, I do things like experimenting with attempting to form myself into a person of routine and habit when I have never in my entire fucking life accomplished having the same fucking morning twice. As if that isn’t really me, I just, what.. haven’t found the right habits, yet? Am not disciplined enough, yet?

Sure. The person who kicked heroin, meth, cigarettes, and has transformed their existence on multiple levels multiple lives over with no end to the rebirth in sight just hasn’t picked up the *right fucking habits* to be a person who functions on a basis of reliable morning routine?

The fuck outta here.

I have yet to come to a balance between what I know myself to be, and what I expect to be able to convert of myself, with enough effort to ‘grow’ as a person. My self-dar in this way is broken.

Currently, I am in the midst of a deep personal transition, probably the most core and uncomfortable, uncertain one I’ve ever experienced.

In picking apart what I’m going through, limping along as this half-mutated caterpillar sprouting butterfly limbs thing with no fucking shelter to speak of as the life I built over the last 17 years crumbles away, I’ve started coming to a bit of clarity about this. A bit of clarity as to my hopelessness in attachments and love, and in my hot/cold fear complex that virtually guarantees the continuous re-enactment of abandonment in my life.

I’ve come to think I’ve been stuck, and resisted a lot of my self-knowing in this way, because I believe somewhere deep that it’s the reliable, steady ones who are, ultimately, deserving of love and longterm devotion.

Which sort of explains why I’ve always kinda hated people like that, the lazy stagnant self-avoiding fuckers.

I think it’s true, though — in my subfloor belief system, it’s the stable ones, who don’t move around much, don’t shift much, have a consistent manner, can be trusted to do the same things the same ways, who are the deserving ones.

Because somehow (kidding — I know exactly how.) I picked up the notion that it’s those people, the ones who stay forever, the ones who can be counted upon to be there, stationary, prepared to reflect that dedication back; Those people deserve love.

People who are me do not.

So I went along my merry way, thinking, I expect, that if I can just figure out what I am, consistently, and represent that accurately to others, I’ll finally be worthy and capable of lasting love, and finally be drawing people who appreciate and can joyfully roll with those things about me, to me. Right?

Except what happens when what you keep finding out about yourself is that you’re not conventionally consistent at fucking ALL?

What happens when you equate a fixed, resilient identity with personhood and worth, while simultaneously being of a personality that is a constant rolling boil of introspective challenge, experimentation, movement, transformation, and change?

I won’t bother describing it. Imagine it for yourself. If your stomach drops into your asshole and you feel like you have to cry, chances are you’re my people. Sup. *fistbump*

Ultimately, what I am finding is that identity is a piss poor reflection of personhood.

Regardless of what I identify myself as, whether it be a drug abuser, an artist, or a ‘healer’, or snarky, or someone without a racist bone in their body, at any moment that identification, if I’m paying any fucking attention at all to the world around me, can be utterly shattered.

And it’s been my experience that if I am at all actually living my life, my identity is shattered in that way often.

I guess even my identification with identity wasn’t safe from my bulldozer personality.

Good.

Tiny dreams hit the road

Tuesday, April 7th, 2015

As part of Year of the Nee, I’ve recognized a few things about myself that I’d discovered at one time and then lost again. Things like an affinity for dinosaurs, and reading fantasy and sci-fi books.

I’ve also gotten back to music by making a very focused album (the whole thing is about patriarchy) in a way that I haven’t approached creating albums before.

I’ve come to accept that I miss performing, particularly after performing in Los Angeles during Amanda Palmer’s ‘Art of Asking’ tour, and that I want to do a lot more of it somehow. I periodically miss Little Red Studio, theater which laughs in the face of the fourth wall, and being part of a troupe.

I’ve also come to accept that I need, desperately need, to relearn how to have fun again. I’ve been saying that, but I’m getting it now – I am fucking dying over here without that shit. YotN showed me how imperative it is that I relearn how to relax for the joy of it, not because I am in an isolated burnout from the weight of the world. One avenue toward that is to reconnect with my skills as a performance artist in a way that also helps people — like what I had set out to do when I created Vita, but with way less weight and responsibility.

And I really, really need to be out in nature, more. Less media. Less internet. Less fucking ‘stuff’. More rest. More air. More dirt. My hatred of capitalism, my horror at the declining state of the world, following politics, following activist movements, trying to fit in with this fucking society.. it hurts. I gotta get rooted in the basics, get grounded with being an actual part of this living rock rather than an earth raping meatsack alien invading it, or I’m going to lose my fucking mind — and I need all the practice at that I can get.

All these things have been swirling around as I’ve been working within the status quo I’d created for myself around making a living and maintaining a private healing practice in the heart of a gentrifying city.

I’ve been wondering how to put it all together, melding past and present interests, sticking as close to my ideals and what I want to support in life as I can and still manage to eat. At the same time, I have become aware of how fatigued I am of doing it all myself — maintaining my own office, putting on and producing my own shows, etc.

It seems this summer, I may be getting a little taste of what all that might look like — just as I was finally, finally letting this life of mine as it stands now, go (and completely fucking freaking out about it, frankly).

It all started when I put some ‘home’ savings, which I’ve been clinging to for a year now, where my mouth has been, and bought a friends van to live and travel in. Nothing particularly hospitable for that purpose, mind you, but something with enough room to carry my gear and art supplies around, small enough to park anywhere, big enough to crash in.

That set in motion the desire to set something, anything concrete really, to actually travel toward. I’ve been planning to leave the area near the end of May, when Shedlyfe has run its course, but hadn’t had a specific destination in mind. I had ideas of what I want to be doing (busking, sleeping, playing open mics, visiting old friends, meeting new people, checking out healing and arts communities), but not where. Mostly I’ve been kinda suspended in this super uncomfortable what the fuck am I doing freakout place without actually having a vehicle to do any of this stuff in.

One thing lead to another, and I found myself planning to visit a couple friends in Austin, TX as part of my trip. As circumstance would have it, no sooner had I pinged my friend about when would be good for her, she asked if I would want to hang out in Austin to do a job.

For two months of the summer.
At an immersive literary theater camp.
For creative, booklovin’ kids.
Where I would play a 3000 year old androgynous storytelling singer poet.
With a story outline, and tons of improvisational interaction.
In a realm created in a series of fantasy books for 6th graders.
Which is rooted in greek mythology.
Wherein the 12 year old protagonist is dyslexic and has ADHD (both of which indicate that you might be a demigod).
In a state park.
For money.

Um. Yes.

Yes the fuck I would.

Sweltering heat be damned: Camp Half-Blood, here I come.

http://kylekurlick.blogspot.com/2009/10/camp-half-blood.html

The support of my patrons at Patreon is how I am getting to Texas to do this (and eating, and filling the van with gas, and basically living, period): Thank you.

bobbing cork in a bucket

Monday, March 30th, 2015

On one hand, my ‘fuck the bucket’ epiphany (and artistic ritual) was really valuable to align myself with a deeper knowledge.

Taking into account that myself, crabs who snip at my heels, and the crabs whose heels I am compelled to snip, were never meant to be in a fucking bucket in the first place really blew the doors off my views of the socioeconomic and interpersonal warfare I witness and am actively resisting.

It also really fucking crushed the shit out of my spirit, I am finding. It wasn’t apparent at first, but I am finding now that it was around that time that the little precursors to my epic nosedive, which I am still exhausted and recovering from, began manifesting.

It was around that time I started becoming quietly overwhelmed by the vast uncertainty in my life. Everything, from income, to vocation, to housing, to location, to intimacy, to resources, are in flux. It’s a time in my life where things I thought were stable are dying, where things I thought I needed are shedding. Things I invested years in maintaining are ending their life cycles, too. Everything is changing.

A friend described himself this morning as ‘Hanging in there. Like a cork on the ocean.’

Man. Do I feel that. Disorienting. Lonely. A little freeing, maybe? A cork on the ocean needs only to continue to do what it does; float. I relate to the frustrating simplicity in the circumstances of a tiny seabound cork. And I rather liked the implication of the impossibility of his drowning in them.

I won’t drown, either. Right?

Right.

Also I want some answers goddamnit. Any time now.

Perhaps they will come later this month, as I bob like a cork in the actual ocean.

Valentines 2015

Saturday, February 14th, 2015

“I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself”
― Simone de Beauvoir

This Year of the Nee valentines day, I am celebrating myself, my accomplishments, my efforts, and the fruits of those efforts.

Most pointedly, I am celebrating my album release, my release party performance (which was fucking amazing.), and having finally, finally learned, deeply in my guts, the profound difference between woundmates and soulmates.

Revenge: A feminist manifesto

Monday, January 26th, 2015

Patriarchy. I am so fucking angry with you, sometimes I just can’t even.

Angry for me. Angry for them. Angry for what I’ve endured because of how you’ve emotionally lobotomized them. Angry for them because of how you taught to me to push them to be big but force them to stay small. Angry for all of us because of what we’ve done to each other because of what you’ve done to us. Angry. I am fucking angry.

Mostly, I am angry because I don’t know how to be angry with you, and not also with them, yet.

And I’m angry because you fucking taught me that, too.

But I full on fucking see you, patriarchy. I am learning.

And I’m a fast fucking bulldog thrashing typhoon of a fucking learner.

My days of being confused and misdirected by your conditioning are dwindling. One by one your patterns in me are shattering.

And I am coming for you.

With all my moxie and my fury and my cleverness and deviousness and getshitdoneness and my huge broken battered swollenass fucking heart and everything I’ve ever fucking learned from fighting, from watching, every day of my life, I am fucking coming for you.

I’m coming to avenge my pain, to avenge my loneliness, to avenge the safeness I have never had the opportunity to feel because of what you’ve broken in every single person I’ve ever fucking met.

I am coming to avenge the men I’ve loved and fought so hard to help heal from you while being myself encased in your unending dry heaving treachery.

I’m coming to avenge my failures.

I’m coming to avenge him.

And I’ve got people, patriarchy. I’m healing in community, where I am seen, and I spread. All around me, in tiny electrical impulses, I’m helping other people wake the fuck up, laying down the synapses, supporting more people than I’ll ever fucking know in moving beyond your brainwashing.

I’m barreling on a crash course up your fucking ass, patriarchy; dragging mines.

And when I get there, I am going to spend the rest of my fucking life ripping your motherfucking guts out.

FuckYouDelete

Friday, January 16th, 2015

It’s become so amazing to me how much commonly-accepted forms of dialogue are just flat out silencing, erasing, entitled fucking bullshit.

Not long ago I would feel ‘irrationally’ slighted over it, and blame my ‘damage’ for my ‘sensitivity’ and wonder what was wrong with me.

Fuck that noise. I ain’t internalizing that manipulative crap anymore.

“Grow some balls and smile” while I systematically minimize and belittle you, little girl… unless of course I am appreciating how hot I think you are. FuckYouDelete

“Feel free to delete this patronizing, uninformed comment” that I as a complete stranger have left on your accessible facebook post about feminism, which I see as my right as an entitled white guy rather than a courtesy you offer. (I did).

“Notice now how I’m coming in here to point out something completely irrelevant which paints you as a naive overemotional idiot so I can talk about this thing I think is more important. Also I didn’t read the article this conversation is linked to” FuckYouDelete

Y’all. These are just some of the silencing, minimizing tactics used on me this week. It’s rather incredible how utterly common this shit is. But in particular, here’s my thing lately:

“You should be helping more caustic abusive men because they’re just wounded, not calling out the privilege and misogynist sexism which keeps them from seeking help for themselves in the first place”. Mmmm. Right.

I have a soft spot for these privileged, wounded geek males who are whining about how mean girls are being to them by insisting they wake the fuck up and level the playing field by, I dunno — unlearning their ridiculous fucking programing and not treating women like subservient magic objects that are supposed to make your life worth living for you, maybe.

I grew up with them, and in a lot of cases, they’re still basically exactly where they were back then, stuck in their same old patterns, which basically look like: ‘your poontang would save me if you’d just give it up more/differently/better/easier/whatthefuckever’ or ‘your poontang scares me’ plus ‘and that’s your fault somehow’, even though I’m so immature and emotionally stunted all I really have to consistently offer is paying for shit and standing around impotently when life hits the fan and you actually need real loving support and some fucking backup.

Hearing their tales of misguided blame and agony is sad. Even though 5000 years of women being treated as livestock and sexual property is immensely sadder than the plight of these nerdlords who still think they’re being oppressed by society into the bowels of their parents basements, I recognize that they are fucking trapped, and I’m all about doing what I can, safely, and within my scope of skills and ability, to combat the consequences of the capitalist patriarchal conditioning that’s causing these guys (and ME) so much pain.

AND: It is not feminisms, or women’s, job, to heal the men who make feminism needed right now. It is the job of feminism to work toward equity by raising up and supporting the people who are systematically beat down by the existing structure of inequality (women: US. WOMEN.), and to point out how the privilege of that structure is hindering the powerful from healing themselves (and one another) so they can address the power dynamic they perpetuate among themselves.

The idea that a feminist should shift to focusing on healing men is simply another symptom of the patriarchal ideal that women are supposed to sit around taking this shit and ultimately focus their efforts on feeling Stockholm syndrome for, and going out of their way to ‘help’, their oppressors.

And most importantly; no one, woman or otherwise, can help a person who doesn’t want help. No woman with any sense of self preservation will willingly engage in ‘trying’ to heal a person who a) hates them and b) isn’t asking for help.

“An overwhelming majority of us come from dysfunctional families in which we were taught we were not okay, where we were shamed, verbally and/or physically abused, and emotionally neglected even as we were also taught to believe that we were loved. For most folks it is just too threatening to embrace a definition of love that would no longer enable us to see love as present in our families. Too many of us need to cling to a notion of love that either makes abuse acceptable or at least makes it seem that whatever happened was not that bad.”
—All About Love: New Visions by bell hooks

What men are suffering from is the same fucking childhood traumas we all suffer from PLUS the dark side of their supremacist status in patriarchy. I truly hope you break free some day. To do that, ‘men’ need to step up to the plate to heal themselves, and then one another. Men need to learn how to do that, rather than insisting that the ‘women’ they benefit from collectively (and often subconsciously) erasing and raping and blaming step up to help them fucking do their god damn work for them.

pa·tri·arch·y
ˈpātrēˌärkē
noun
a system of society or government in which men hold the power and women are largely excluded from it.

The nature of this sad state of affairs that none of us signed up for is: This is your fucking supremacist shitshow. Without your active engagement as the empowered group, we all stay fucked in this soup of fuckary. You are the ones who need to use YOUR fucking resources to pull your shit together and then help US pull this bullshit paradigm apart. Use the fucking money you’re making to get some fucking therapy, use the power your voice inherently has to influence others as you learn, stop trying to suck your healing from us for free using your fucking sideways patriarchal shitbaggary against us. Grow some fucking integrity.

If you want help to heal, I will fucking walk with you through burning pillars of dog shit to do it. I will bare compassionate witness with you through your patterns worst petty death throes. I will stand firm while I get hit with the ripples of your previously unfelt agony. I will hold a safe, intentional container for you while you lose your fucking mind and everything you thought you knew about yourself dissolves into a shadow. I will teach you every fucking thing I know about overcoming that shadow. I will fucking remind you over and over again how brave and powerful and strong and viable and good you are even when you make mistakes. And I will call you on those mistakes so that we can work together to ensure you have what you need to do better next time. I will blow your fucking mind by being the best teacher and champion you’ve ever had, if you want (and pay) me to do that for you. To HELP you, support you, guide you, as YOU make the effort to work through YOUR OWN fucking shit.

What I will not do is cater to those who presume I should spend even one more moment of my life martyring myself for stubborn, privileged men who deeply, profoundly, subconsciously fucking hate me AND WANT TO KEEP HATING ME.

What I will not do is ever, ever be in an intimate relationship, professional or otherwise, with another person like that, ever, the fuck, again.

What I will not do is spend another fucking moment of my life making the pain of wounded manchildren with their fingers dug into their fucking ears more important than the devastating impact their sickness has on me.

What I will not do is pretend that these unwoke guys don’t sit on thrones with fistfulls of cake while insisting that women set aside their fight for their own sovereignty and female equality to bring them fuckers more fucking cake. Often so that said cake can be thrown back in our pretty painted faces for us not being capable of magically chewing it and swallowing it for them, as well.

What I will not fucking do is spend even another second of my life ‘trying’ to do your fucking work for you so you can sit around fat and happy and fucking ignorant, syphoning the energy I generate.

If going back to doing any of that is what it is you think I am good for, if that’s what you think I should be doing with my life and my work and my social justice efforts: FUCK YOU.

Truly. Fucking fuck you. I been through way too much growing and pain and subversive fucking abuse to fuck around with y’all. Not even a little. Block, delete, go fuck yourself, byebye.

Say Something

Saturday, January 10th, 2015

“Some are quick to use the crabs in a bucket trope, but it’s important to remember that crabs were never meant to be piled in a bucket.” – Ryan Dalton

Fuck your fucking bucket. Fuck your fucking fear. Fuck you for trying to keep me in it with you. Fuck you for trying to hold me down and stop me from climbing out. Fuck you for trying to erase me and minimize me and manipulate me away from my truth. Fuck you for giving me no other choice but to leave you behind.

Fuck you for not coming with me.

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Related: Rock Lobster: Finding Home.

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Monday, January 5th, 2015

“Love is challenging in all its forms. Familial love, love in friendship, love in romance. Love in our relationships with ourselves. There are all sorts of definitions for love, all sorts of ideas about what love is. In All About Love, bell hooks talks about love as “the will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.”. I like that definition, it sounds right. And simple enough in the way a definition of love off simple.

Only it isn’t simple at all. Because in order to extend one’s self for anyone’s spiritual growth, including one’s own, one has to first be capable of extending one’s self, and then be willing to choose to do so.

And extending oneself, for the purpose of anything, let alone love, is really fucking scary.” — Mia McKenzie

That one time rape made me racist

Friday, December 26th, 2014

When I was in my early-20’s, I spent some time as an escort. In that time, I had many lovely experiences, some weird experiences, some forgettable experiences, and some gross experiences; three particular gross experiences with Asian clients, which seemed a notable pattern, and one awful one (which ended my career) wherein an Asian man attempted to rape me.

I was doing sensual bodysurfing stuff (and didn’t offer sex as a service), so when he physically attempted to force himself in me, one of the things I recognized immediately was that I had hundreds of dollars of expensiveass equipment with me — and was trapped in the guys house.

My response was to coo redirections at him over and over with a pained ‘we cant do that’ face and pet him and still get him off, while he continued multiple other physical attempts to force me back on top of him. It was like some kind of fucking surreal fake mating dance with a psycho, who belonged to a demographic I’d already begun to experience as high maintenance in my extremely dangerous (and lovely) and vulnerable (and empowering) work.

As soon as I was out the door I was utterly sick to myself. I hated, hated, hated how weak and accommodating I had been. I hated how afraid I had been that if I had been more forceful he would give me a bad review. I hated how all the smart verification hoops I made prospective clients jump through before they were able to see me didn’t protect me from this guy. I hated how if I had been more forceful he may have turned (more) violent.

No sooner had I stepped out that fucking door, I started in on myself. Ruthlessly. I couldn’t even let myself be hurt or afraid because he hadn’t actually managed to rape me (ladies, take note: this is what internalized misogyny looks like), all I could think about was what a fucking doormat whore I had acted like.

Part of me wished I had fought, so that at least I would have had my dignity even if he butchered me. Part of me wished he’d butchered me so I could have torn his fucking face off his skull. I toiled over and over about the things I must have done wrong. My instinct had taken over, and I am sure now it served me well. But back then? Fuck was I mad. At me. Stupid whore.

For years after, I proudly and loudly expressed to my friends that I wasn’t racist, but I hated Asian men. And I had reasons. By George I had reasons. The stories were funny and engaging, too. News of my distaste spread like fire ants through my group of friends and soon none of them could think of an Asian man without remembering my horror stories of lizard kissing and smegma plugs stuck to my back. It was a grand old time.

Funny how I mostly avoided telling that rape story, though.

The truth is, I never hated Asian men. I had trauma associated with experience and used an accepted avenue: racism, to vent it.

Because vulnerability wasn’t as kosher as racism was.

It wasn’t safe to talk about how trapped and helpless and fucking violated I felt, it wasn’t worth the potential silencing, being mishandled, to open myself up and express my frustration and regret in how my autopilot maneuvered my shock and being in danger.

There wasn’t a place, with my friends or in me, for the truth of my feelings. That I was hurt, that I was injured, and that I had lost faith in doing a kind of healing work that I valued and had been truly gifted at. 

Racism was how I coped.

Even after I had my big racism get and I was fiercely tackling my automatic neuroassumptions about Black people, I hung onto my distrust of Asian men. I backed it up with cultural criticism of how they treat women ‘over there’, I made myself feel all smart and rationalized about it, and for a while, I even dropped the “I’m not racist” for “I know I am racist.” and kept on keeping on like that for a bit. For real.

What allowed me to begin to heal my prejudice around Asian men (I say begin because I am still on constant alert for it, though it looks very different now when it shows up – like a toilet bowl in need of a new blue bleach cake thing after lotsa flushes) wasn’t even race related: it was addressing my internalized misogyny, including how I devalued and shamed myself for being a sex worker, by healing my issues with my mother.

Of many things that were passed down through my parents, my mother passed internalized misogyny down to me, and then behaved in a manner that allowed me to corroborate why all women were hateful deceitful lying abandoning bitches (my dad helped). The hurt wasn’t about race, it was about my response to being violated by someone else’s choices being to, frankly, hate myself for it.

Of course it wasn’t only from my parents that I developed these tactics and beliefs – we are all steeped in it as a culture – however, when I got to the place in my healing work where I started working on my family of origin stuff, the murk in my race water cleared drastically. It was the combination of absorbing, listening and learning about the struggles of Black women, and being in my own therapy, that did it.

And this brings me to the thought I want to leave you with; I want you to consider that not only are you racist, (Spoiler alert: You are.), but I want you to consider that you are racist because of trauma.

I want you to consider that racism in and of itself is derived from pain and hurt and heartache that’s been buried and mutated – whether by direct experience like mine with Asian men, or by osmosis like the Black and Brown racism that I inherited from people around me, or potentially by something that may have absolutely nothing to do with race at all.

I want you to consider that racism as a systemic civil structure (and as a climate you learned to cope within) is also perpetuated and sustained by our inability and unwillingness to process our traumatic experiences. To believe we are superior than weak people who need that kind of help and guidance.

And I want you to consider that perhaps one way to transform your confusion and frustration and guilt, to rise above the status quo, is to split off a thread or two, and invest in healing yourself, for real.

Finding Amanda: An internet love story

Friday, December 12th, 2014

Amanda Palmer and Courtnee Fallon Rex Photographed by Steve Kuhn The Art of Asking Book Tour. Sat, November 22, 2014. First Unitarian Church – Los Angeles

When I was young, I thought I had all the answers. Or at least, I thought I knew the problems, the deeper causes of the things I was seeing in people, that needed answering.

And I thought, since I seemed to be the only one who really *saw* what the problems were, saw them and felt them in my guts and talked about seeing them and feeling them in my guts, I was naturally responsible for fixing them, too.

All of them. Everywhere.

That turned out to be a bit of a problem for me. One I’ve since largely solved in my growth, accepting my role as a healer, an activist, and learning about boundaries.

Back then, I kept wishing I had been born earlier, so I could have been a part of the uprising in the 60’s, when “shit mattered”, when the ambient rage against this profoundly sick world order had a focus and a voice.
Now, I really really miss the 90’s.

I did my best to rebel and find my own way, but internalized a contempt for my own perspective and an intense hate for my sensitivity.

As a tiny girl I had started cussing and spewing sexist racist shit like a motherfucking truck driving military sailor, and I basically hated everyone. I lied about my age (when I was 11 I was 14) and hung out with older boys. I started smoking when I was 9, drinking when I was 10. I stole shit and resold it at school. I experimented with drugs.

In middle school I had found my niche as a leader of a small group of nerdy weirdos. I, like most middles schoolers, was bullied and pushed around, once by a large group in my own front yard.

I was the girl who peed her pants laughing, daily, at lunch. I was the girl who responded to being given flowers by immediately eating them. I was the girl who stayed at school until 6pm hanging out with the uncool teachers because they cared about me and I didn’t want to go home to an empty house and I secretly loved and adored them even though that wasn’t cool and I don’t think I ever told them how much they meant to me and I wish I had now (Thank you Mr. Pericone, Mr. Ebi and Mrs. Wollard).

By the time I was 15 I was so acutely aware that the system was a sham, I was going insane. I saw so clearly the dynamic of perpetrated violence in society, and in my life. I saw the pain hiding in peoples eyes, but I didn’t have the support to find my ground to stand against it. Everywhere I looked what I saw was how we were killing each other, and how I unconsciously contributed to that cycle.

I hated High School, even though I barely attended, and once I went there, I immediately fell deeply into drugs. I’m talking deep. Few know how bad it was. I quickly dropped out to join the workforce with a fast food job, so I could go on USEnet and use my minimum wage to buy Nirvana bootlegs, and more drugs.

I had no direct examples of self-supporting ways to cope with the cruelty of the world, and if I did come across them indirectly, they weren’t cool or appealing anyway because they weren’t ‘powerful’ like domination and violence seemed to be.

Emotionally, I was broken open and rawly empathic, connected with attrition and the damage we inherently do to one another simply by existing, and enraged at my impotence in fixing it. Physically, I was, frankly, killing myself.

I hadn’t lived enough then, well enough, to have the decades of varied experience and intense healing it would turn out I’d need in order to break out of my patriarchal conditioning and trust the instincts I was trying to snuff out. I was going crazy in part because that’s what I believed I was.

A new (digital) hope

In early 1995, in Sacramento California, from a commodore 8088 connected to a shell account with crl.com on a screechy modem with an actual WIRE, my dad showed me how to get on this Internet Relay Chat thing he’d told me about.

CRL’s root .ircrc file had a bunch of dead servers referenced in it, and I’d spent likely not nearly as long as it felt like I had being suicidally-frustrated with trying to figure out how to get the fuck online. Dad swooped in, figured out there was a /server command, and my life thus changed forever.

There were words on a screen attached to real-yet-fantasy humans who, when they weren’t talking about overthrowing governments and anal rape, were telling me I was not alone. That the social system we inherited was fucked and we were going to unfuck it by fucking it. There was a space, suddenly, to tell people what I saw.

There were vulnerable conversations about emotion and loss and pain where the ‘real’, world had been about image and learning how to be an expert on being fake. I’d found people who weren’t afraid to talk about the despair we all felt, through a medium that protected us better than any person had.

That was where, I thought, I found salvation. And for a while, I suppose I did. I wasn’t a sad sack high school nerd druggie statistic everyone fucking picked on, I was a social engineer in the thick of a god damn underground hacker revolution that only some people picked on.

My social life was with criminals on IRC, where I could explore my rage, screw the man, and say whatever the fuck kind of offensive abusive shit I wanted. I spent my time on meth and anything else I could find, listening to The Prodigy, chain smoking reds, fucking around with linux and waiting for the years to cycle to the next DEFCON.

I started maintaining my own web pages, gnashing my teeth about the worlds fuckedupedness (and how it caused me to feel), in 1995. I was one of the first webcams on the internet. I had my own irc channel (#nee). I had fans.

People emailed me often to tell me they’d found my site and how much what I was writing mattered to them. That my words mattered to them. I kept expecting waves of hate. They sent me fan art. They shared their stories. They told me I had saved their lives and that my spews of misery and hopelessness gave them hope. They told me I helped them feel less alone.

The first time someone told me I should write a book of my life I had been alive 15 years. I was a social advocate without really knowing it, a musician without accepting it, a community leader without being responsible for it, a digital artist. A flawed and miserable human being, with an intimate community online that fueled and supported me, nodding, saying; I see what you see, thank you for saying it.

mainhttp://journal.neevita.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/main-404x348.jpg 404w" sizes="(max-width: 500px) 100vw, 500px" />

As a musician I had a bit of a business on the original mp3.com in 1999/2000, but had started recording cover songs long before. I went by the name Not Applicable, and I insisted, vehemently, proudly, that my music would always, always be available for free, on my site.

But things change, and so did all that.

The RIAA destroyed mp3.com, and with it, my faith in the world supporting my niche-y emo-enya never-gonna-sell-shit-for-sony music. I went from identifying as an empowered independent artist with a support structure that validated me, from being featured and interviewed by ABC news (and my cam images being used in the original piece as well) regarding the success of the movement I was a part of, to feeling displaced and bullied and utterly rejected, with my dreams in flames at my feet.

With the fall of mp3.com, I also went from being a part of a community of artists and musicians who were, once again, revolutionary, by collaborating worldwide via audio files online, to drifting alone in space. I was always in the top 3 of the ambient electronic charts, and many people sent me remixes of my work and collaborated with me by finding me there, including one of the trance musician idols I’d had at the time, and lots of unknowns who are still unknown.

We were a creative artist economy birthing cross-pollinated artwork existing inside the payback for playback and DAM CD models for making money. It wasn’t going to make us all filthy rich, but it was a god damn fucking internet revolution utopia all the same.

I shrugged it off and didn’t let myself think about losing that community part all that much. I spewed anger at how unfair mp3.com’s demise was, and suddenly focused on the money, the wopping $2700 I’d made in a year, because of course it was just weak and selfish and shitty to want support and connection and love from people.

It had taken such immense courage for me to share my deeply personal and vulnerable music, music that made me cry from being so good and double over in pain for being so raw, music that rose out of me from a dark place I didn’t understand. I kept waiting for the hate to come, especially after I joined the mp3.com community from sharing my songs by DCC sending to friends in my IRC channel.

mp3.com was my taste of vitality as an artist. It was the first place I was confronted with irrefutable proof from strangers that my music was good. It was my bridge, back when I was still the only Courtnee on the internet, and the internet was all the connection with the human race I had that fucking mattered to me. It was a community that I’ve never found a comparable replacement for.

The hate never did come. Perhaps because it never had the chance to. For my efforts, for my courage, I received virtually nothing but waves of acceptance and love, feature after feature on the site praising my work even though I was a screwed up crazy hermit making weird whiney sad music that would never end up on the radio.

Losing that relevance changed me, reconfirmed my doubts in myself. I utterly loathed the music industry, threw up at the thought of playing shows. With mp3.com, I had let myself open up, and feel some hope. The loss of this flow of connection for me was staggering. And because of it I hardened.

I turned to the other revolution I was a part of for comfort and belonging while grieving my artistic self, to find it wasn’t there anymore, either. The geeks, the remaining foothold of my revolutionary home base, are no longer the underdog freedom fighters, and they haven’t been for a very long time. They’re the ruling class in the same system we despised.

It hurts to see your revolution become the system. Maybe even more than it hurts to see the revolution get flat out crushed by it. It’s a fucking betrayal I can only barely wrap my head around, but I feel it in my body. It’s a fucking betrayal I keep seeing over and over again in my life. Seeing the entropy, seeing the fear, seeing how the people who are doing what is most needed in this world are getting fucked and assimilated.

It got under my skin when the powers that be managed to napalm the countryside we were beginning to settle with mp3.com. Feeling like I almost had it, like I was almost valid — and then I closed my eyes and covered my head while the power in the world which already had way more than it needed clubbed me, and when I opened them again everything was different.

I didn’t realize how much I was still hurting. Not until Amanda walked into my office.

I can articulate now, after a lot of processing, and galvanizing our connection a few weeks ago by performing for her and her fans in Los Angeles, I hated Amanda Palmer because she represented for me the person I was who died with mp3.com and the internet as I had known it. Died “because” I didn’t have what Amanda Palmer had — a stream of fanbase supporting her when her conventional link to them [a record label], which I knew would have fucked me, fucked her, too.

She represented who I could be now if I hadn’t divorced from my core and spent years of my life chasing money and stability betraying myself in the tech industry before finding my way back to myself.

She represented for me the damage I did to my soul by choosing to take that path, for going through the motions while shutting down who I really was, for taking the RIAA attacking the home I’d found in mp3.com so unbelievably personally.

She represented the pain in becoming even more isolated and quiet as a musician, my most vulnerable and profound form of art, the paralyzation of being introverted and insecure and losing my foothold.

She represented the reality of only knowing how to be a solo musician making music in the safety of my dark little cave and posting it on the internet.

Healing is a pretty important aspect of being a revolutionary. It’s hard to cheer someone on who breaks through the glass ceiling you’re still concussed from smashing into and weakening for them.

In the rise of the digital music revolution, the unsigned artists of mp3.com got royally fucking fucked. As we grew in closer path alignment over the years, Amanda served as a screen for me to project that disembodied grief.

I had it first. I was there first, I had it, I had the following, I had the waves of love, I had the future, I WAS the future, I was AHEAD, and then I fucking wasn’t. In utter projective emotional simplicity that makes little logical sense, I was an Amanda Palmer before Amanda Palmer.

And then I wasn’t.

In the decade after the blow of mp3.com, and countless other events that knocked my fragile sense of self around back in those days, I am finally beginning to feel and trust in the ripples of reward for the tremendous amount of exertion and surgical accountability it’s taken to come back to where I am ready to step into myself again. Into my seeing, into my caring, into my vulnerability, into the vivid authenticity that steams off of me as a performer and a music maker and a singer, into my talents, and into my contributions.

It’s been a long decade.

Finding that I was still so emotionally fucked up over a website going down a decade before was an embarrassing reality to resign to in order to write this, but it’s just the honest truth of things. The impact to fragile hiding 22 year old me, losing mp3.com and what it represented in my life, at that time and at that point in my delicate career, caused a painful rift between me and myself that has taken a long time to sew back up.

Thank you for helping me heal it, Amanda. Thank you for helping that part of me come back.

Bad/failed relationships? READ THIS.

Saturday, December 6th, 2014

Oof.

This AMAZING article is saying all the stuff I’m living but hadn’t articulated yet.

Preparing us for marriage is, ideally, an educational task that falls on culture as a whole. We have stopped believing in dynastic marriages. We are starting to see the drawbacks of Romantic marriages. Now comes the time for psychological marriages.

http://www.thebookoflife.org/how-we-end-up-marrying-the-wrong-people/

PTSD no moe

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2014

EXPERIMENT: Cognitive Process Therapy to address nearly 30 years of a Post Traumatic Stress Disorder: Fin.

Here are the results.

Consent is IDEAL

Sunday, November 16th, 2014

When I came up with Empathic Consent (aka DELI) back in May, one of the things I wrote about was that I had countless opportunities to practice DELI outside of my sex life.

Which is good, cause right now I’m celibate and uninterested in romance, and well, every relationship benefits from both parties understanding what’s being agreed to.

While I’ve formerly written mostly about rape and that trauma, those of you who follow elsewhere will probably already know I agree with this author (who is also a very good friend of mine): We need to rethink the importance of consent on a very basic level in all human interactions.

In fact, my most recent experience with the kind of consent ambiguity I’ve been talking about revolved around a completely unsexual friendship, when I accepted someones offer to half-live in their house when I knew damn well it wasn’t feeling right for either of us.

Consent is a fundamental element of shifting our culture around rape, in addition to addressing the sexism and patriarchal shaming elements of our society which make getting sex from others the most accepted means of belonging and validation.

And how do we get sex, usually? Sex that matters to us, and can seemingly fill those voids? We get it through relationships. How many relationships of mine have actually been consensual in the terms outlined below? Zero.

If we haven’t practiced skills in consent in areas outside of sex, and pressure to have it is coming from everywhere around us including our confusing and overwhelming bodily responses, how the fuck are we supposed to know we’re on the same page and not raping somebody? Even *without* intoxicants at play?

I really like this derivative of DELI consent, and not just cause the acronym IDEAL is like.. SO way better. It illustrates more succinctly the ’empathic’ part of the consent model that the original name I’d had for it spoke to, which was lost when I changed to an acronym — the part where you’re in touch with yourself, and are in touch with your empathy in regards to the other person, and you *stop to address it* if actions aren’t lining up with words.

Really happy to see the improvements and the continued conversation that’s been happening around all this since I wrote I Don’t Like Being Raped; Apparently That Makes Me a Weirdo. Nice work, Ava of Attractive Arts.

IDEAL (Informed Direct Engaged Aligned Lucid) Consent is:
INFORMED
I am fully aware that I am being propositioned, and what it is I am being propositioned for. I am aware of any surrounding circumstances that pose a risk to me. I am free to ask questions and am given clear and honest answers.
DIRECT
I have communicated clearly and emphatically through my words and/or actions “I want this.”
ENGAGED
I am interested in what we’re planning and I’m enrolled in that process as well as in the results. I am decisive; even if that means I have decided that I want you to decide what it is we do.
ALIGNED
My words and actions match up, there is no contradiction between what I say I want and how I am behaving. Furthermore, this activity is aligned with my values as I understand them; my overall feelings about participating in this activity are positive.
LUCID
Lucid means I am awake, I am conscious, and I have control of myself.

These are the places rape culture starts

Saturday, November 8th, 2014

This is an amazing account of the very real corrosion and trauma that results in loved ones blaming the victim of sexual abuse/assault in the name of trying to make everything ok again. I related to this, and I am glad I got away.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/michelletea/my-stepfather-the-peeping-tom

In black and white.

Wednesday, November 5th, 2014

As some of you may know, part of my Year of the Nee (my year of celibacy and no intoxicants) that I began in May (Half way!! WOOO!) included seeking out a more formalized psychotherapy approach.

In doing so, I ended up at the Sexual Assault and Traumatic Stress unit at Harborview with a diagnosis, finally, of clinical PTSD, engaging in Cognitive Process Therapy since June. (They are amazing, and I highly recommend them).

I’ve filled out many surveys, usually every couple of weeks, tracking my PTSD, Anxiety and Depression symptoms. I’ve completed many worksheets and modules, made improvements, and things were kind of clicking, but it wasn’t quite.. complete, seeming. I still felt like my wheels were spinning for some reason, and even with all my supplemental healing strategies, I was water logged.

In my third post in my series about rape culture on Medium (the one that goes into how I am healing from it), I talk a little bit about having to be willing to be lonely. To be willing to cut people out of my life who don’t align with what I’m discovering are my core values.

I’ve had to do this multiple times — when I quit doing drugs was one of the biggest, because at that time in my life, my friend base was based on basing. I had to start over, and it was fucking scary. But.. I found new friends. Good friends. People who are still my friends, after many a transformation since.

What you’re seeing above is my depressive symptom graph. The spike is the sprint time period in which I was desperately attempting to keep engaged with the last of the rape culture intimates in my life. The last throes of my incredulousness as to where he stood. The drop is when I finally picked up my jacket, walked away, and didn’t look back.

Not everyone has the gift of this kind of visual feedback in their process. Even as I’ve felt my fog lift, even as I’ve settled into my sense of self that I have, even with how clear I have been about being done with that relationship, seeing this visually was incredibly profound.

Maybe you’re in a struggle right now. Maybe you’re trying to find your way out of something, surrounded by people you know aren’t good for you, people whose positive traits you’re weighing over your own needs, people you know in your soul are bringing you down and holding you back.

For you, and for those like you, I wanted to post this, in black and white.

You are worth dropping the cement blocks that keep dragging your face under the water.

You are worth that.

Thanks for that, dude.

Monday, November 3rd, 2014

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”
― Edmund Burke

This Ghomeshi thing, how his friends and community are admitting to knowing he was up to some shit, brings to light some ugly things for me. Ugly things that encouraged me to continue raping in my sex life. Ugly things that effected me when I broke out of my own cycles of abuse at the hands of others.

I’ve been thinking about that Edmund Burke quote a lot lately. Thinking about myself, thinking about the agonizing impotence of many people who have let me down, standing aside, watching. Thinking about how that contributed to how long I remained an unconscious rapist. How long I remained in corrosive situations that deeply, deeply damaged me.

Most pointedly, these events have been reminding me of something a man I know said. Something that angers me, and has been the perfect surface from which to reflect my collective grief and rage.

It was something this person said about the man who raped me in April, when I told them — a close friend of his, who had lived with the rapist for a period of time — that I didn’t know how said rapist, whom he hadn’t seen in a while, was doing, because I didn’t speak with that guy anymore (and why).

His response was: “Yeah, I’ve seen how.. selfish, his maleness is.”

Yeah. No. This shit needs a do-over.

Let me tell you a little story. See, me, as a woman, and the friend of mine who was also dating the same man who raped me this year, as a woman, both talked with him about his creepy behavior. We talked with him about it in the context of our own discomforts and boundaries which he sucked at respecting, was always rubbing up against and trying to push past. But it went even farther than that.

We figured out we both got the creeps from him in the same way and, because we considered him a friend, we had a *fucking intervention* with him about it. He was all appreciation and ears, as he normally was when we were swatting him on his fucking nose about being a pushy cockbrained asshole; wanting to know how he could do better, because he didn’t wanna be “that guy”, even though it turns out he, acting like “that guy”, and continuing to return to behaving like “that guy”, was totally “that guy”.

QUACKs like a duck? Hmmmm.

A few months after this friend and I took him to dinner and schooled him, the guy I’d had consistent confusion around and periodic boundary conversations with raped me after witnessing my getting shitfaced drunk while choking on massive waves of grief.

Additionally, he had sex with me without the condoms I’d had to constantly insist that we fucking use because he made sure to remind me every time we had sex that he’d been ‘tested’, and for a special added bonus, did so without having told me he’d stopped using protection with one of his other partners months before.

The next morning, and throughout the week-long shock period before all the elements of his dickbaggary had come to light and I dropped him like a sack of hammered shit, he’d already started bitching to ME about how bad *he* felt, expecting me to be his fucking support system for it.

Here’s a thing that I think people on the more powerful aspect of this sexist patriarchy spectrum are missing: Even when the courageous miracle happens, where someone who is being leveraged upon by this system of ours that has trained us for thousands of years to see femininity as property, stands the hell up for themselves within their relationship, it *doesn’t work*.

The women these people are fucking have zero power to influence the unconsciously indoctrinated cultural behavior of these men. Zero.

The reason for this in my experience is that there’s not enough incentive, when women these men are already getting their toxic masculinity validating sex from, speak up. They are the people with whom that creepy fucking approach was proven to work on already. They are the people who have shown investment in that approach, and in the person behind that approach. They are the people who have already volunteered to represent what is silently and unconsciously hated and objectified, people with whom that physical bond is already established.

It’s like throwing a toothpick into a volcano when a woman who is in an active loop of this behavior stands up and says that shit actually, well, stinks. They are the people who have been putting up with the fucking shit and listening to the fucking excuses and still giving up that good ol’ validating sexual property.

I suspect it really doesn’t work from that being-fucked position when attempting to influence people who apologize for this behavior, either; The men who stand on the sidelines listening to the struggles the women they fuck are having with the pushy abusive men in their lives, or the harassing ‘nice’ guys on the streets. I spent the last 7 fucking months, learning that one.

It’s really easy to sit back and say, ah, well, let her handle it, when you know something is wrong. It seems like the really nice, polite, proper thing to do; mind your own business, and as a bonus, cover your own yellow ass.

It’s also really REALLY easy to look at the results of a mans misogyny and abuse manifesting in the woman they’ve been dating, and decide she’s just off her rocker and that’s more of a problem than what might have been wrong with the way she was treated by the guy.

I know how easy that is, in part because it is what happened with the one “top” (HAHAAHAH) I dated, who used to get pissed and entitled toward me for not liking the sex he’d pressured me into trying in the first place. Who had been gaslighting and lying to me about the multiple people he’d been cheating on me with for the entirety of our relationship. Who had been systematically breaking down my psyche with his lies and selfishness, and done that while he was using the Edward Cullen stare on me and talking about babies. Who I had been calling out on his shit over and over and over again and being met with lies and accusation.

When I finally, finally cornered him in his lies and that relationship finally, finally hit the fan, everyone who seemed to have had any influence on the fucker, including prominent voices in the sex positive and BDSM communities we had both been a part of, stayed ‘neutral’ and watched bewildered as I had a fucking nervous breakdown. Many of them lifted the abusive sociopath to the top levels of the festival community I had once been a part of, all while failing to understand and even shaming me for being so fucking angry and betrayed by them for it, not seeming to grok how I could feel so abandoned and unprotected by their complacent niceness toward him.

You effect what you have your attention on. And too many of you have your attention on proving women aren’t being truthful, proving that you’re the good guy by standing back and doing fuckall to actually act like one, proving that it’s women who should be accountable for some boundary pushing asshole that YOU KNEW ABOUT ALREADY raping them and “making” you feel like cowardly shit.

Well you know what? You *should* be feeling like shit, hiding your real power behind willful impotence and listening to yourself talk over the women who you claim to give a fuck about.

Use your fucking privilege and get the fuck in the ring with us already.

I know you’re dying to throw it around, because every time I talk about this stuff, there’s a gallery of you at the ready to chime in and tell me about your intellectualizations of my life as a female. There’s always a few of you to press your resistance toward accepting that my life experience is real into my conversations. There’s always a few of you to talk about what you think from your objective perspectives needs to be “done”, and usually it has to do with what you as a fucking man think *I*, or “they”, need to be doing.

I’m telling *YOU* what needs to be fucking done, you clueless wounded fuckers: Drop your own sexism, that shit that helps you think your philosophical opinion of this issue trumps the lived experiences of the people who actually fucking deal with it, take your incredulous self-involved topic-shifting bullshit the fuck out of my facebook threads, and then go work to drop the act that being neutral about the abuse, sexism, rape and misogyny you see in other men is anything but fucking cowardice.

This is tough love purification by fucking fire. This is ending thousands of years of conditioning and inertia. Your greatest self can only rise from the fucking ashes of the lesser you, and here I am the motherfucking flame thrower. Stop telling ME you’re not that fucking guy: tell other MEN you’re not that guy, and tell them WHY, and actually BE NOT THAT GUY when you fucking say it, or I will FUCKING INCINERATE YOU. Grow some FUCKING BALLS and stand the fuck up for the women in your life, stand the fuck up for the men you want to see other men grow to be.

That best friend of yours isn’t a “White Knight”, he’s a sexist who thinks women need his saving, and he probably hates them for it and abuses them and that’s why all his girlfriends are fucking crazy and can’t seem to function. That friends boundary pushing-coercive maleness isn’t ‘selfish’, it’s fucking rape, and it’s probably why all the women he dates eventually refuse to ever talk to him again. Use your fucking privilege to be the fucking change.

And yes, it IS fucking street harassment, and here’s a guy doing what you should be doing: Working his ass off to walk the fucking walk, and contributing to other guys on how the fuck to walk it too.

But there he was, that close friend of the man who raped me, a person that the guy actually valued, listened to, had meaningful conversations with, looked up to, a person who wasn’t relied upon for their dick-wetting validation, tsk tsking in the seat next to me — because aww, how unfortunate that male mans selfish maleness had bit me in the ass, too; that maleness he’d seen and grimaced at and knew was fucked up — who had been in the position to take a stand and to make a difference. And he didn’t.

Thanks for that, dude.

And by thanks? I mean fuck. You.

I own a bladder full of dead people

Monday, November 3rd, 2014

So I have this solar plexus that usually has a big black tar knot in it. Rarely in my life have I not had that knot, and the times it’s seemed to have melted off were times of extreme gladness — new relationships, summer vacations, purring warmly on the beach — of intimacy and of acceptance that has, of course, never lasted.

As I have grown into my understanding of this experience of being, I’ve intuited more and more that this solar plexus place holds a powerful connection for me, some sort of tether to a knowing field I can’t really explain.

For a long time, I’ve expected that to be my soul, or perhaps rather, where my connection with ‘source’ lives. Which is why, as I’ve healed and come to know that soul part of me, building it up and feeding it, determining and embodying the things that are important to me — compassion, teaching, healing, kindness — and as that soul of me has strengthened and come to a place of ease and of being finally seen, my solar plexus with its big black tar knot has grown to concern me.

That black tar ball space in my guts has periodically felt empty since I started my year alone. It’s a weird stretched out psychic ache feeling, which has been so utterly unsettling, once I’ve felt it, it usually only took a few moments before I tried to fill it with something. Like the collective grief of the world. Or the cancer in the person I was touching. Or the responsibility of someone else’s “Aha!” moment.

Now I am to the point where I can mostly catch myself before I draw things in, especially in person. I have been practicing letting that space be empty for the time being and it’s been more lonely than I can express. To get here, I have had to really work that little barf muscle, to get rid again and again and again of things that aren’t mine, random shit that doesn’t even fit in there just to have SOMEthing in that hungry place.

I’ve learned I have to insulate myself from people who invite me to hold their shit for them, people who deflect from their own inner work by watching me do mine. And at times, I’ve needed a lot of releasing help to let go of shit that doesn’t belong to me. It’s been an interesting balance of solitude and intense intimacy with the right people.

What we worked this weekend in our constellation healing circles is ancestry; a concept which I have historically had NO fucking relationship with. I have been, in my deepest knowing parts, an orphan alien loner, who truly has no one, belongs no where, and isn’t meant to ever stay in one place, isn’t meant to be accepted and loved, but instead, is meant to set something cosmic and transformative in motion, and then get the fuck out of the way — hopefully before what I just catalyzed barrels me the fuck over like a dump truck.

It’s been lonely and heart breaky and it’s really sucked to feel that way all my life, and is also the big reason I kept my attention on romance and intimacy rather than healing myself. I kept trying to prove myself wrong and I kept failing at it.

Now that I’ve stopped that cycle, and I pushed through the transition of learning to be for myself rather than for others, I am getting this deep sense of lineage emerging. A knowing sense of how I am the product of hundreds of thousands of years of human experience, and that some of that experience is wise and whole and healthy.

I’ve been tapping in to that well of knowledge periodically in meditations and constellations and visualizing — one example is visualizing a crowd or a long line of my ancestors behind me when I’m say, driving my car. Another is to sense into what it might feel like to already know how to do something I am learning how to do, like being patient and compassionate toward people who are challenging me and triggering my trauma patterns.

“The knowing field is sparking like static against my skin today. I am in the eye of my own storm, drawing electric up through my roots, piercing precision kintsugi out my hands. Aligning.
Level up.” — Facebook

This weekend I had the revelation that this connection with my ancestry, this sense of being unconditionally supported, is what belongs in my solar plexus space. I started imagining my ancestor energy filling it like a trickle into a bowl, but I wasn’t really grokking how I was gonna USE that.

I was expecting this post to be a bit different, to be returning to my monthly challenges of adopting a habit of some sort during Year of the Nee. The challenge for November was going to be practicing a daily ritual in some form which connected me to the wisdom of my ancestry, experimenting with what my trigger word or phrase or physical gesture or visualization might be to signify tapping into that solar plexus space, that bowl full of the sense of knowing and support I’m so recently becoming aware of.

Due to a scheduling fuck up, my half of a bodywork trade I was expecting a couple weeks ago happened today instead, which turned out to be basically perfect. While she touched my belly, the tar ball, which I hadn’t even been aware of, grumbled and groaned and then it fucking BURST, and tingly energy moved through my intestines and branched out eventually to my limbs.

As I felt into that completely new experience, I realized the wisdom of my ancestors isn’t a stationary bowl. It’s an unlimited FUCKING MORPHINE DRIP. All I have to do is imagine a squeeze of the bladder to release that shit whenever I need it, and through me it will flow, like ink in water.

The arc of evolving consciousness is long. We are moments breaking the patterns of centuries. I have needed all the help I can get, and still, it’s seemed I had never found it, and I despaired that I never would.

I find that notion highly questionable, now. I believe I may have perhaps finally found a faith of some sort. I believe in where I came from, those wise loving sources buried under so many centuries of violence, supremacy and hate. I believe in myself, and my ability to ultimately connect with that knowing.

Not sure I need much more to believe in, than that.