Heartbeat

[ breif but graphic descriptions of miscarriage, reader discretion advised ]

There is a fading heartbeat. 
It is dying. 
You cannot end its suffering. 
You cannot end yours. 
You are septic, you are sick.
You're begging and pleading. 
There was no chance of saving a little heartbeat. 
You never wanted these invasive cells.

But there is a heartbeat. 

So you must suffer. 

You're in the hospital. 

You are on antibiotics. 

You are suffering... 

But still, there is a heartbeat. 

There is a heartbeat, product of conception struggling. 

Your body cannot pass it. 

There, there's a heartbeat. 
There was a heartbeat. 
You have a heartbeat. 
But it is not important. 

You live in the United States, where soon, a safe abortion is no longer an option. 

This would be a simple D and C. 

The cells are already doomed to die, but there is a heartbeat. 

This was not be an abortion. 
You are having a miscarriage. 

These cells have no chance within you. 

But the governor insists you give them a chance. 

So it will kill you, surely as a coathanger would.

You have no safe options.

There's a heartbeat. 

You have a heartbeat. 

But your heartbeat doesn't matter to them. 

You are a woman, you are property again..

You are lower you are beneath them. 

You are second plus to them.

You don't have rights. 

You don't have options. 

You just want to end the suffering of the cells to save yourself... 
But... There's a heartbeat. 

Now your heart is struggling. 

You are feverish 

You are dying

You're delirious. 

You are bleeding, bleeding, pleading...
None of this is right. 

But your rights don't matter. 

What what supposedly matters to the government? 
What matters to them is that dying clump of cells falling from your womb, the umbilical cord still connected, barely recognizable as human.

They swear this life matters to them but they will just as surely damn it to death and poverty, damn it to you fate if it is born with the cursed womb.

It is dangling by a thread. 

It does not matter that there's no chance of saving it. 

No amount of science, no amount of prayer.
It has a heartbeat

Even if it is no longer within your womb and destined to die.

It does not feel pain. 

All the pain is yours to feel because you have no rights here.

You're a criminal if you seek to end it to end this pregnancy. 

That was not a pregnancy, that was an invasion of your rights of your body, of your autonomy.

There's a heartbeat growing weaker. 

It's yours. 

You are dying. 
But there is still a heartbeat in the cells. So your death is irrelevant to them.
There are no heartbeats. 
You have died. 
For what?
Why?
The pro-birth regime; the once merely crooked government is now fully broken, twisted, and corrupted.

Church and state intertwined in a torrid love affair that will burn the bed they lie together in, fucking as the house burns down around them without care.

Church and state fucking atop your rights to your body, the patriarchal hard-on for power and control.

You have a heartbeat, but it was never truly yours in the eyes of the lovers burning the house down.

Your heartbeat, and you yourself, were only seen as nothing more than a broodmare. 
You were never a human to them. 

You were only a vessel for their sons. 

I still have a heartbeat. 

I will scream for those who don't because of these laws.

I will flaunt my tied tubes and scrambled eggs.

I do not want to birth a child into this world for fear they be born to bear the brand of the breast, the womb.

I will scream about my past use of plan B

I will applaud the man who bought it for me

I will shout that it failed me

I cannot afford to be silent about my miscarriage of 2015 because by the bastards that was abortion.

By my third tenant that was my right if you count it so!

"One's body is inviolable, subject to one's will alone."

By science it was not!

By my fifth tenant: 

"Beliefs should conform to our best scientific understanding of the world."

But I was nothing more to this system than a broodmare.

Tubes tied, I am a broken vessel.

What heartbeats really matter to them but their own numbered ones...

I am horrified... but I find solace knowing I will outlive the people who put forth legislation that will cost more lives than they think it will "save". 

If I Die At Pride

If I die at Pride, my name is Andi. 

Do not call me Andrea, I hate the name; but to change it is danger and shame.

If I die at Pride, my pronouns are They/Them, do not call me she; I was not strong enough to bear that title.
If I die at pride... tell my mother I was closer to a son than I ever was a daughter.
If I die at Pride, do not mourn my death, celebrate my life, return me to the earth; for I am a witch.
If I die at Pride, know I died screaming again. Know I've died at the stake before in another time. Know I will always outlive the hate.
If I die at Pride, my paternal grandmother and the aunt on that side are not invited to the service. I disowned them.
If I die at Pride know I curse the folk who are responsible with my dying breath. Know I will haunt them, eternal in my unrest.
If I die at Pride... send locks of my hair to my brother in sweden and my friend in the Netherlands.
If I die at Pride so many voices die with me.
If I die at Pride, know I died doing what I loved; speaking my truth and standing for human rights.
If I die at Pride, tell my boyfriend I loved him with every ounce of love I had, tell his daughter how proud I was to know her dad.
If I die at Pride, comfort my unofficially adopted children, Alex and Chelley.
If I die at Pride, bury me with a notebook and a pen, bury me with copies of my brother McCallum's books, bury me with dice.
If I die at Pride, I die by the fear of an uneducated man.
If I die at Pride, put "Hail Satan" on my gravestone. Put the tenants of the TST on my headstone, remind everyone of the words important to me.
If I die at Pride, lay me down with a rainbow, do not wear black.
If I die at Pride make my funeral the gayest there has ever been. I want a drag queen to read my eulogy, I want rainbows and life and love and everything GAY.
If I die at pride... I die fighting; just the way I lived.

The Yaak House, Part Nine

 Part Nine of The Yaak House is now live on my Darker Thing Blog!

https://andiwritedarker.blogspot.com/2021/01/the-yaak-house-part-nine.html

Physical Thing

 I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired and sick and tired.

Tired of the weight unseen that drags me down and down and down as my mind spirals deeper into the abyss of itself as I learn to accept who I am.

I hate myself; this broken mind that slips and breaks and shatters.

I hate my physical being. 

The soft and aching body; the hips build weird, the feet that point awkwardly in, that don't walk right. I hate my nose, I hate my ears, I hate the gap in my teeth and the shape of my face. 

I hate that thing I do when I laugh, because I went so long faking laughter that I had to relearn the real thing. 

I hate my eyelashes, I hate my fat and stubby fingers, I hate my arms and I hate my thighs. 

I hate the shape of my neck and the shape of my chin. 

I hate my womb, the thing I never wanted.

I hate the sunburn scar on my chest, the thing that beats beneath it. 

I hate my ribs, I hate my rolls, I hate my knees. 

I hate the physical thing that is me. 

I hate my brain because it cannot produce the chemicals.

I hate my eyes because they're haunted and hurting, but people call them beautiful when I cry.  

I hate my arms, I hate my legs, my lips, my voice, and my eyebrows... 

I hate that I can only been seen in this physical shell. I hate that people can't see me... but I guess that's my only blessing... because who wants to see that?

Forgive The Growing Pains

I'm needy, I'm needy, I'm needy...
It's not needy if I need it.
It's not needy if I need it.
I'm weak if I'm needy.
I'm strong if I feed it.
I despise having grown into a social thing this year.
I despise that I have regrown enough trust to be human and weak... to be pathetic.
I outgrew one shell, and now I must suffer growing pains as I adjust to the next.
I cast aside the years of silence and suffering what was familiar...
I cast aside the things that bound me, belts, rings, books, and things... things.
Things.
Yet here I am needy.
Here I am needy and pathetic and weak, because I cannot breathe if I am alone now.
Yet I risk being unable to breathe around others.
I am being destroyed.
My character was pulled apart because March came with thoughts of my  suicide, April came with isolation, May came with defeat, July ripped out my heart, and I haven't even stopped to process 2019.
Forgive me if I am not the one you've known, I've grown.
Forgive me if the year has broken me down.
Forgive me if I am only human and will only take so much.
Forgive me if the broken edges are sharp unless you know how to hold them.
Forgive me if I don't talk to you about my life as much anymore, if I have retreated into my silence... but know I don't do it to spite you.
February came with me seeing myself as a burden, and January I was already seeing the writing for the year. The omen in the tea never lied to me.
August dug into me with anger and strife, September, I didn't even feel like I should celebrate my life. Already October has come and gone with a reminder of July, that smile is gone.
Forgive me if I can't be a human being... I'm tired of feeling defeated and weak.
Forgive me if I've been corrupted, if I snap, attack, and bite.
I've grown into a woman who stands for herself; a bitch. I would prefer though, to simply be called a Witch.
Yes, I have chosen some people over others; sun and moon and stars forbid I choose me.
Skies forbid... that I have the audacity to choose me.
Self care isn't equal and fair, it isn't a color coded checklist, therapy isn't forgive and forget.
No.
Forgive my bitterness for the growing pains...
But this year isn't going to end folks.
This is our reality now.
And yes, praise the optimists, but I would rather not die a Gatsby.
I am uncertain, I am afraid, I ache and shake, my depression?
It causes me physical pain.
And yes, it's in my brain.
My brain is the damn problem. I cannot just grow some serotonin. I cannot trade you for some dopamine.
I can't go vegan and gluten free to take my "gay" away (and fuck you; you know who you are, keep the book, that is a proper "thing"), I can't inject essential oils to chase it away, no amount of reiki or Chakra work, there's not magical crystal I can shove under my skin, no amount of asshole sunning can change the build of my brain because I have a revelation for you!
Depression? Anxiety?
They damage brains over time.
Emotional Abuse? Untreated concussions? They do too.
Some bitter news, I have all of that, my brain is bruised and blue.
It cannot heal. I have to take care of myself. Myself first and foremost.
My neurons are fried.
My nervous system is full of glitches and triggers, I'm sorry I can't always "just get used to them".
I'm sorry I'm not a normal fucking human...
At least it's my best that I am doing...
Maybe it doesn't look, doesn't feel, like yours, but it is mine.
I'm sorry if I've never been enough.

Pain in the Neck

Some deeply personal rambling poetry for an early Halloween... because the scariest thing to be is honest.

"Pain in the Neck"
My mental illness does not define me; but it doesn't leave me be.
Newsflash: I have PTSD from being violently abused. Even if my mind doesn't consciously remember all the time, my body does. And I cannot seperate my actions easily from who I am because I have a broken brain.
So when my neck hurts in white hot pulses of agony from holding enough  tension to pull it out of alignment, let me explain what I go through, rather, where my mind goes to;
I am back in high school, with a loser's hands wrapped around my neck.
My jaw aches too, because I am clenching my jaw to keep from screaming on the exhale as I force myself to do stupid breathing exercises, as useless as they feel, to try and override my own body. To calm myself.
But then that brings back another memory I can't face, hands pulling my hair, my head, thumbs pressing my jaw so I can't bite. I'm choking and gagging in the past and in the present on air.
But I can't bite here because I have to be polite, especially when I don't feel safe, because fear makes you prey. Fear makes you useless.
I have been traumatized time and time again; my brain is broken. My brain cannot be as it was.
Too much, too much, too much, stop, too much...
But the world doesn't give a fuck... that is the task of people. Yet too often, that is a task neglected.
I cannot breathe.
I am in a mask to protect others, I work a job where I serve others, I write to enlighten others, I used to be a leader to others, I used to be a Confidante to others, I am an empath and I have to feel the emotions of others...
I try to live my life low maintenance to please others, so I don't inconvenience others...
I have lived my life for others.
But then my neck hurts and my body remembers.
That is the only thing I can do for me is remember, but only painfully.
I try to forget but I don't feel safe, I can't when the one I cry out to doesn't hear me, but meets my molested eyes.
oh teacher teacher, wretched creature, I called your name and you walked away.
I can't breathe, I can't bite, and I know he's only going to be more aggressive when I try to fight.
Because I can't rely easily on others... I have to rely on me, at some point, everyone leaves.
Then the mask starts to feel like a hand again and it's hands on my neck, hands over my mouth, arms squeezing the life from my chest, hands hands hands crawling over my skin again.
And then my body remembers through the beeping and the screaming, but I'm at work, there's tortillas I should be steaming, but my brain is broken and down my face tears are streaming.
Now I look weak, now I'm broken, a workhorse gone lame or worse, human.
The coils in my neck wind tighter, I can't see through the pain, and I don't feel safe because I'm afraid.
I'm afraid to misstep, I'm afraid to set him off; him in past and him, irritable of the present.
My brain is broken and I cannot seperate now from then because my body remembers and it is afraid.
I cannot seperate my actions easily from who I am, so when I am overwhelmed, I am instantly failure in my eyes.
I am disappointment.
I am, yet again, a let down.
I am, once more, the problem child.
I am a rose and my traumatized brain is the thorn...
I love, with a passion I rarely utter, roses for those very things.
But I cannot love and accept myself because I have only in sad recent time been shown what it is like to feel those things... 2019 brought love, and 2020 brought acceptance.
I have a broken brain because my body holds my emotions too close to my pain.
I am medicated and dedicated to my mental health, but welcome to the modern world where you can't exactly have those things without work or wealth.
I have a broken brain, my illness does not define me... but some days it binds me. Some days I break, I shake, and I can't keep the tears down. Then the tears won't stay down because I cannot easily seperate my actions from who I am.
I never learned how to live for me because I was always ready to die for others... and I did time and time again. And again. And again. And again until I had to step back from being somebody to being nobody again.
So I'm sorry if I'm a pain in the neck...

The Yaak House (Part Eight)

 "The Yaak House" has moved to my dedicated Darker Things Blog! https://andiwritedarker.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Yaak%20House