big fat trauma queen's Open Salon Blog

My Homeless Neighbors

Tue, 29 Mar 2011 21:03:42 -0400

Not all of my neighbors live indoors.

I'll bet not all of your neighbors live indoors, either. I'll bet some of them sleep in cars. Or behind dumpsters. Or in doorways.

I'll bet some of them pick bottles and cans out of the trash.

I'll bet some of them have teeth that are broken and decayed.

The eyes may be the windows of the soul, but the teeth are the mirrors of the heart. And what does that make us if our teeth are coated with veneers?

People whose teeth are coated with veneers tend to look away from people whose teeth are naked and brown.

We segregate more by the color of teeth than by the color of skin.

My brown-toothed neighbor, John, used to smash my car window to search for loose change under the seats. I decided it would be cheaper to make friends with him and give him the change directly.

So I introduced myself.

John has the smile of a nine-year-old boy who rings the doorbell and runs. He squints to smother the baby in his eyes. But you can see him anyway, peeking out from under the cover of his lids.

John asks me for money, but I say no. I tell John that heart disease is the number one killer of women, and that hugs have been proven to reduce heart disease. I tell him he can sell me a hug.

John laughs and hides his face in his hands. We hug. I pay him less than what a human hug is worth, because I can't afford to pay a fair price.

John brings me pretty scented candles he's found in the trash. He brings me poems that he's written. He brings me a painting he found, and tells me, "Put it on ebay. It might be worth a lot of money."

John tries to give back. John aches to give back. And I accept his gifts with gratitude.

It isn't having nothing that kills us; it's thinking we have nothing to give.

John is a huge blessing in my life. He doesn't believe me when I tell him that. He just laughs and shakes his head.

He's a wonderful neighbor.

I Wrote A Book

Sun, 20 Mar 2011 14:03:56 -0400

I haven't been posting on Open Salon, cuz I got a full time job as a social worker. I've also been polishing up my book so I could publish it and share it with family and friends.

So, friends, here's an excerpt: The book is called The Dumpster's Daughter, and it's about a homeless woman who finds an abandonded baby.

She left it. She set it down right in the middle of a full black garbage bag and walked away. It’s lying there right now. Right fucking now. It’s even uglier up close., and it’s gray – just like her. Gray and scrawny, like a baby bird. But not cute, like a baby chick or anything. More like a gross looking baby condor. It might even be dead. Oh, shit. Thanks, bitch. Thanks a lot. Leave your dead, fucking baby with me. Now I have to sit here and watch it shrivel up and rot. Wait – oh shit – it’s moving. It’s fucking moving. That’s even worse. Sooo much worse. Okay, okay, okay. Its gray little legs are moving in this spastic, twitchy kind of way. I think it’s having a seizure or something. Now both legs are moving. Its hands are like tiny little balls – little fists. It can’t have fingers – nothing could have fingers that small. It does have toes, though. These funky little teeny-tiny monkey toes.

I’m not looking at the fucker. I’m just rocking and rocking and rocking. I don’t see it. I don’t hear it, I don’t hear it, I don’t hear it. The thing is making this weird sound – a high-pitched, scratchy, crackling kind of cry. And it is digging like a mother fucking drill through my head. What would it take to shut it up? A hand smushed over its face? A greasy plastic bag? A clumped up handful of old newspapers?

I stop rocking. A scream roars up my throat and knocks hard against my teeth. My teeth are clenched, grinding, crushing themselves in my mouth. I am about to cross a line. No. That’s not true. A line is about to cross me. And I can’t stop it. It’s rushing like a train. Its jaws are open. It has fangs and a tongue. Its tongue reaches out of its mouth and twists itself around me. It squeezes and breaks the breath out of my lungs. I am not breathing now. But my body is moving. It is moving toward that ugly putrid noisy little thing that won’t let me rest, won’t leave me alone, won’t shut its nasty, greedy, hungry little mouth. My moist grubby hands reach out for it, and I swear to god I can’t do one fucking thing to stop them. They aren’t my hands anymore. One hand slides under its soft floppy ball of a head that lies like a warm wet egg in my palm. My other hand slides under its boney little back – its whole body fits on my forearm, stretching from my wrist to my elbow. I bend toward it, seething, heaving, my eyes burn into it, my mouth floods with saliva, and I lift it to my chest. I press it into my stink and dried blood. I feel it squiggle against me, feel it squirm into my foul smell and moldy coat. I bend my face down, close to its head - it’s softer than a sparrow’s breath head - and I breathe the creature in. I breathe deeper than I’ve ever breathed before. Its smell floods my head and pops my ears. The creature isn’t crying anymore. And I am rocking, rocking, rocking. Have I killed it? Is it dead? I know the answer. I don’t really wonder about this. My nose nestles into its papery skull, its spider leg fingers clutch my grubby pinkie like a life raft. It’s a strong little fucker. And it’ll have to be.

Because it’s mine.

(The Dumpster's Daughter is available on Amazon.com and LuLu.com).

Thanks for reading!

There's A Girl On The Moon!

Wed, 5 May 2010 13:05:55 -0400

The best review I could give to Lizzy Morrow’s wild and tender ride of a novel, The Girl On The Moon, would be to share excerpts from her tragic and hilarious book.

But I want to entice you without giving too much away - so I will stick to tossing you just a few hints and nibbles of this luscious read.

Now, on the surface, the book would appear to be quite sad. After all, it’s about a thirty year old woman who hates her life, hates herself, and has a mentally ill mother who calls her on a daily basis to share such loving gems of advice as: you have a big head. Don’t lose any more weight, because it will make your head look bigger.

But this is actually a very funny book about a very painful life. "The Girl On The Moon" will embarrass you: it will make you laugh out loud on the bus, in the break room, and in Starbucks. People will stare.

“Dear Diary,

I know it’s in poor taste, but when a schizophrenic woman with a voice three octaves lower than a normal female voice calls your boss a penis wrinkle, it’s hard not to laugh.”

This is the life of Glamour Girl wannabe, Mia. She is beautiful and brilliant, but sees herself as fat, cellulite ridden, and hopelessly lost. (Oh, and with a head shaped like a potato). She is obsessed with self “improvement” but her efforts are completely misguided, because her horrific version of herself has nothing to do with reality. Lizzy studies herself so closely that she can’t really see herself at all.

So what do you do when you’re beautiful and brilliant, but see yourself as a big fat dimpled potato head? (In other words, if you’re like 90% of young women in the US).

You grasp and scramble and fight your way toward solid ground. You make yourself feel useful by caretaking crazy and destructive “friends” and you paint sexy clothes on your body to suck in attention from crazy and destructive men. That’s what you do. And that’s what Mia does.

“I must focus. Focus. I mustn’t give in to the world. It’s trying to break me. I must not be this way…Tomorrow night I will go out with the man I intend to marry and then my life will have meaning and direction.”

(You don't have to read the book to discover how that plan works out.)

Mia also turns to therapy for salvation:

"Dr. Lee thinks I should do something to help boost my ego and my self-esteem.

'And what pills do you recommend for that?' I asked. He laughed. He thought I was just kidding.”

Mia will hook her long painted nails into your heart from the very first page. She will pull you through a labyrinth of broken glass and dead ends. And she will make you gasp with laughter as you stumble along behind her.

Will Mia make it to the center? There are times when it really doesn’t look good. There are times when the center seems just a step away and then a wall comes crashing down, blocking her path and gut-punching her spirit. There are times when the labyrinth of her life seems just too dark and scary to lead anywhere. And yet, Mia continues to touch up her eyeliner, straighten her short tight skirt, and move on forward through the maze, precariously balanced on her high-heeled "fuck me" shoes.

I strongly recommend that you embark on this dark, bright, complex adventure with the magnificent Mia. I promise, you will not emerge from the maze of her life empty handed.

The Girl On The Moon can be purchased at

http://www.amazon.com/Girl-Moon-Diary-Lizzy-Morrow/dp/0595373364/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1273079423&sr=1-1

Is Sex Cost-Effective?

Thu, 15 Apr 2010 12:04:11 -0400

Sometimes I think my heart is a Pandora's Box.

No - not my heart. My, uhm (trying to think of a word that isn't crudely clinical or rudely pornographic) - I know! Yoni! That'll work.

My yoni is a Pandora's Box. And I need to keep a tight lid on it to avoid being a danger to myself and others.

I've been told I exude sexual energy. And not just by people who were trying to sleep with me.

"Your sexual energy is pretty intense," my gay male friend told me.

I think that "intense" sexual energy of mine is a kind of poison. It hurts me and it hurts other people. It tricks them into seeing me as someone I'm not - and it drives their interest away from the responses of my spirit, toward the responses of my lips and skin.

Sex makes me interchangeable.

Okay, you therapists out there - How much of this has to do with my being a father-daughter incest "survivor"?

Daddy's sexy little princess. That was me. Four years old and hot hot hot.

You know when the incest started to hurt the most? When I was twelve and my period started. And Daddy no longer wanted to fuck me. That's when.

"Women's bodies are ugly," he used to say.

I had become a woman and failed. I had lost him.

I've been trying to win him back ever since.

It's amazing how easy it is to have sex, to be sexy, to seduce, to inspire lust.

Why can't love be that easy? Why can't trust be that easy?

I've been trading sex for love since before I can remember. It's a failed policy. But I don't know how to capture a heart - however briefly - in any other way.

When I am lonely, I seduce. And I am too often lonely. That might be an incest thing, too. Living on borrowed time in the hearts of others. Turning tricks for attention, for approval, for adoration and praise.

And when puberty begins, and your sexiness is devoured by the appearance of breasts and curves and pubic hair - what's left to love?

According to Daddy - nothing. Not one thing.

It is so much easier to feel sexy than it is to feel lovable. It is so much easier to turn people on and earn a place in their beds, than to open people up and earn a place in their hearts.

Far too often, a pheromonal fog obscures the path to what could be love, in one form or another, and sends us spinning off the road into a ditch, or off a cliff.

Orgasms are vastly over-rated and far less elusive than intimacy, tenderness, and the growth of genuine friendship.

Very recently, I used my sexuality to deepen a friendship. And may have destroyed it instead.

I am grieving.

Everywhere I look, Sex Sells. Sex sells clothing, food, automobiles, cosmetics, surgical "enhancements", magazines, movies - everything!

But what does sex cost? What does "sexiness" cost?

I've been asking myself that question all of my life.

And today I feel bankrupted. By sex.

Again.

So, for now, there's nothing left to do but to take a deep breath, walk my dog, make breakfast for my daughter, eat Reese's Puffs straight out of the box (yummy), and continue the work of replenishing my heart.

And to remind myself : it is the part of me most worth having.

Let's Hear It For Male Liberation!

Thu, 8 Apr 2010 14:04:27 -0400

The older I get, the more compassion I feel for men.

When I was younger - in my twenties - I was the queen of Victim Feminism. Men were all rapists and vermin and the cause of every evil in the world. I, however, was Good. I was a vegan, for chrissakes. And I recycled.

While I was so busy hating men, I failed to notice that their lives were actually much more restricted than mine.

Men remain locked in a cultural chador that women broke free from years ago. ( I am referring specifically to mainstream American culture, the one in which I live and was raised).

We feminists used to believe Liberation meant "having it all." Presumably, like men. But somehow we forgot to notice that men didn't "have it all." Men have never "had it all." Men, throughout history, have had only what their culture permitted them to have.

Clearly, we women didn't listen closely enough to the lyrics of "Cats In The Cradle," by Harry Chapin (..."there were planes to catch, and bills to pay; he learned to walk while I was away"). Tragically, that song has become as relevant to many mothers today as it was to fathers in the early seventies.

Corporate America needed more women to leave their homes and enter the workplace.

Human America needed more men to leave the workplace and enter their homes.

Guess who won that propaganda war?

Today, men are told they are no longer needed in their old protector-provider roles, but that they are wimps and losers (at best) if they take on nurturing, caregiving "female" roles.

If a heterosexual man were to tell you that his greatest ambition in life was to work in a preschool, what's the first thought that would pop into your mind?

I'm guessing "how sweet" would not be the first thought.

I'm also guessing that "Great! I'd love for you to babysit my kids!" would not be the first sentence out of your mouth.

Men who express an interest in nurturing small children are perceived as perverts. This is not a recipe for easing women's burden of responsibility for childcare.

Men are encouraged (quite AGGRESSIVELY) to suppress their desire to nurture, to be nurtured, to ask for help, and to express fear, pain, loneliness, or uncertainty. And that's tragic.

It's also tragic that men are so limited in their socially acceptable self-expression.

I've heard women complain that female newscasters, politicians - any woman in the public eye - is subject to so much criticism and scrutiny based on the way she dresses or wears her hair.

I think this is a small price to pay for the fact that women (unlike men) have so many choices about how we present ourselves to the world.

Rachel Maddow is a beloved newscaster on MSNBC. She wears her hair very short, wears minimal make-up, and dresses conservatively. As a woman, she has the option of wearing her hair long or short, curled or straight, permed, teased, whatever. She also has the option of wearing eye shadow, eye liner, and pink or red lipstick. She could wear dresses if she wanted to or a range of colorful blouses.But Ms. Maddow's personal style is more subdued than that, and is generally accepted and respected.

Can you imagine what would happen if Keith Olberman showed up on the air wearing pink lipstick and eye shadow? Or a silky pink blouse? And what if he decided to grow his hair long, or wear a dress? Both his sanity and sobriety would be questioned, and he would almost certainly lose his job.

Masculinity is a tightrope that men are forced to walk at the point of a cultural gun. In exchange for infibulating their feminine side, they are granted the illusion of power.

Thankfully, this illusion has been wearing thin for decades. It fails to sustain either life or love, and it is faaaaaaar from cost effective.

Come on Men! Fight for your right to be soft! Flush your Viagra down the toilet! (Your erections do not define you). Fight for your right to be colorful! Burn your ties! Grow your hair! Kick off your army boots, paint your toe nails, and dance like nobody's watching!

You have as much right as your wife does to stay home with your children. You're not a wimp for preferring to be a low-earning secretary with livable hours, rather than a high-earning computer programmer with no time for your kids. You have as much right to choose the Daddy Track as women have to choose the Mommy Track. You're not a loser for caring more about your Love life (in all its forms) than you do about your career.

Women won't be free until Men are free. As the prophet Baha'ullah said (I'm paraphrasing) Humanity is a bird with two wings - male and female - and we need two free wings to fly.

So go ahead and spread that wing boys. It's your turn now.