Compassion for the Shadow and the things unseen

Shadow Self

Not all beings deserve compassion, but the thing is, most people do. Most people aren’t horrible; they’re just humans learning how to be themselves in this world. And they do shitty and sometimes hurtful things along the way.

When I am compassionate, I can work toward forgiveness; and when I forgive, I can let go, and that helps me move more freely and honestly in this world.

I am compassionate; I forgive; I let go.


On being Othered

When I spoke of my things you always gave me that look like my life was trivial and something a little bit cute.

You demonstrated this when you said small words in reaction–

like, “Hmm, yeah.”

And, “I’d like to just live like that.”

As if my life is a fantasy available for you to escape inside of.

I suppose that’s what we do, isn’t it? Voyeur into other people’s lives and imagine living inside a different world. But it’s something else when your life is made smaller and less-than. Like my simple working-class woman life of doing nice things for poor people….

Assessorizing over top of trauma

The pathways in my brain are blocked by teeny tiny triggers

Like men with beards and small eyes and glasses

Like men who play badminton

And the guitar

And tell erroneous stories and use words wrong

Leaving me far too ignitable and excitable

While also malleable and unmoveable

At sudden and unexpected times.

I think of my body as able

I think of my legs, which are run-able

My feet with toes that are extendable

My arms, which are liftable

My hands, which are flexible

My back, which is bendable

My brain and my spine as connectable.

My body looks available

Especially when I’m clad in

Headbands and hats and earrings from 1982.

Last night I wore a red blazer

Over top of a cut-up I heart New York black tank

I tied a neon green head band around my head,

making visible the excess strands of ribbon,

A silk-like crescendo down my chest.

I wore jeans with holes created over time—

None of that mass-markets vintage-like bullshit.

I wore my brown leather shoes I got at a second-hand store.

I painted my nails pink.

I wore this ring.

And let me tell you about this ring

I bought for fifteen dollars

At the campus bookstore—

The shape of it reminds me of tree roots

Extending deeper and deeper into the ground

Connecting with new roots

From other trees,

Sharing water

And nutrition.

I trace my fingers across the ridges of the ring, breathing in and breathing out.

I ask myself, what feeds me?

When I’m frozen with anxiety,

When I’m driving down the road.

He is everywhere in the corner of eyes—

All of the time.

on being an alcoholic

“I was a big drinker at the time. I would drink every day. I would drink alone. I thought the whole concept was so fucking cool. A great deal of what I wrote on Born to Die is about these wilderness years. When I write about the thing that I’ve lost I feel like I’m writing about alcohol because that was the first love of my life. My parents were worried, I was worried. I knew it was a problem when I liked it more than I liked doing anything else. I was like, ‘I’m fucked. I am totally fucked’. Like, at first it’s fine and you think you have a dark side – it’s exciting – and then you realise the dark side wins every time if you decide to indulge in it. It’s also a completely different way of living when you know that… a different species of person. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me” -Lana del Rey