The teachings – not the teacher – is the rock star

Tags

blood donation, chi, haemoglobin, iron levels, kidney, liver, maya, non-difference, pescatarian, Prayer, PTSD, self-doubt, source, Stress, Suffering, yoga teaching

The yoga class I taught last night was electrified. Not as in struck by lightning, but it was a really, really good class. I can’t explain why exactly, and I don’t think it’s worth trying to break it down. In this case, I think the sum was definitely greater than the parts.

After my recent yoga teacher break up, I seriously questioned myself – what was I even doing teaching yoga? Not that it was ever said in so many words, but I got the very distinct impression that this teacher didn’t think I should be teaching. Which hey – could well be just my own interpretation and insecurities , but then again maybe not.

I know that my own personal practice is far from perfect. There are the poses I’m yet to master and others I’m still regaining my previous level of proficiency in (thanks, long-term annoying shoulder injury!).

The weekend after my YT break up, my body was still a little freaked from the resulting stress reaction. But anyway, I went to give blood (well, plasma actually) on the Saturday only to be told that my haemoglobin levels were too low to donate.

They quizzed me a bit and get this – six or seven years ago my haemoglobin levels were awesome. Back then I was a pescatarian (fish-eating veggie) so I was arguably consuming less iron than I do these days now that I sometimes eat meat. The last few times I’ve donated, my haemoglobin has been quite a bit lower, but still acceptable.

After running through a whole bunch of possible scenarios, one of the nurses asked me about stress.

Me: Stress?

Nurse: Yes, it can affect your iron levels.

*dingdingding* went the lights and bells in my mind.

Of course. I explained that five years ago I developed PTSD and while it’s mostly under control now, this week had been particularly stressful. That’ll do it, apparently.

(I am also six years older than back then, however the difference in my haemoglobin levels is considerable).

Had a great chat on Twitter with Cora Wen about such things, and she reminded me of the blood’s connection to our chi, and that stress affects liver and kidney function (the purifiers of the blood). Of course.

I was stunned in some ways, but now I have a new focus – ramping up my liver and kidney chi.

The very next day however, I woke up sick. Like, got out of bed and whoah, I was in the midst of a nasty dose of the flu. Related? Yeah, probably.

Which meant I missed out on teaching last week’s class. Last night I returned to the studio, just not sure what to expect of myself. For my own personal reflection, I was thinking about what I’ve learned from recent events because I feel like I can only teach from what I know and understand personally.

And it was this: non-difference. None of us are different from each other no matter who we are or what we’ve learned or are doing with our lives. Society teaches us that we are independent, individual, different. But this is part of the veil of maya, and it strongly contributes to our suffering – this idea of differentness and separateness.

I went to set up the mats in my little room and completed my pre-class ritual – a short prayer to the gurus who govern the school where I practice (not my gurus personally, but I think it’s only polite. Also: non-difference, remember?). I pray for the right words, the right actions and the best approach for the upcoming class. And I pray that my ego takes a hike while I teach.

Teaching from this place I feel connected to the Source, y’know? Sure, it might be my from limited-new-yoga-teacher version of the Source, but still… I feel the difference. Or the non-difference.

The class was packed, which is the complete opposite of the last two. I think we managed to squeeze fourteen people into the room and had to turn more away (they went to the intermediate class instead).

Everyone was patient and accepting of the crowdedness. I found myself almost immediately throwing out half of my class plan and included some poses I don’t normally do with this group, just so I could see where they were at.

The all worked well together and I let things flow a bit more than usual, not stopping as much to provide breakdowns of some of the more challenging poses this time. I figure sometimes it’s better to just let people feel it in their body and do what they can rather than aiming for precision.

What else made it a good class? Nothing. Everything. I don’t know. It just was. And there were lots of appreciative noises afterwards.

And I knew. I’m not what makes me a good teacher.

It’s when I kick out all of the hang ups that accompany who I am, and when I’m offering people love, smiles and support to do their best, no matter how accomplished their practice is that I’m a good teacher. When I care about what’s going on in that room with as much attention to detail as I can muster, and when I get out of the damn way of the wisdom in the teachings, that’s when the classes really rock.

The teachings are the rock star, not the teacher.

And here’s another prayer: please Kali-Ma, make sure I never forget that!

~ Svasti

Generating lurvvve – part 1

Tags

ardha chandrasana, bhakti, Cycling, direct realisation, Enter your zip code here, Facebook, Inspiration, kaleidoscopic, kirtan, Krishna Das, kryptonite, Love, neediness, Om Namah Shivaya, Shadow Yoga, Sri Krishna Govinda, Suffering, Yoga, Yoga of Chant

Recently life’s been a little kaleidoscopic. So much going on, it’s kinda hard to work out what I’m actually meant to be focusing on.

Which can be good and not so good. Then when there’s half a moment to calm down, sometimes things settle in a pattern that makes sense of the world a little more.

And that’s good, right?

So, last week I heard this (voice in my head), then wrote it down AND made it my Facebook status:

Do something you love, something from the core of your being. Give over to it entirely. Let your heart open. It makes all the difference…

And today I’d like to add this:

Doing the things you love, generates love.

See, I’ve been thinking a lot about our outward seeking culture recently and how needy we human beings are as a result.

To clarify, there are two broad definitions of need that I’m talking about here:

Need type #1 – fundamentals that help us to live. E.g. oxygen, sunlight, breathing, nutritious food, love (yes, I think love falls into this group). Characterised by things we do not thrive without.

Need type #2 – internal or external objects of desire that we crave. E.g. entertainment, clothes, physical appearance, other people, money, cars, houses, iPods, travel, fame etc. Characterised by a belief they will improve our self-image/confidence etc.

Of course, needs from type #1 can and do cross over into needs from type #2. And we tend to believe strongly that needs type #2 are in fact, needs type #1.

I’ve been wondering about that. Why? Why are we so needy? How do we get these different types of needs so messed up?

And I confess. Most of my life I’ve felt that sense of need, based on what I think I’m missing. How, if only I had a boyfriend who loved me, or more money, or more friends, or if I was prettier, or wasn’t such a dork, or had a home of my own, or children or nicer/better taste in clothes, or if I was taller/shorter/thinner, or if I didn’t have to work for a living or… you get my drift… that I’d be happier.

Maybe other people are smarter than me and have this stuff figured out already? But I’d be willing to bet that most of us, even if it’s only in a very subtle way these days, experience that kind of need. It can make a person feel desperate at times. Or hollow, even.

But generally, we just think less of ourselves because we don’t have what we think we need.

This my friends, is need type #2. The kind of need that creates suffering because it makes us feel incomplete in some way. But actually this is really just the default human condition, until we get sick of it that is, and seek another path.

For me, that path is yoga. And what I’m trying to convey here are some personal realisations combined with everything I’ve studied and learned to date.

So, let me talk a little about my own personal kryptonite: love. Or the lack thereof.

I’ve had such a funny relationship with love in my lifetime. Mostly, I’ve felt like I never had enough love, or enough of the right kind of love. Not accepted. Not wanted.

And if you believe it, and so it will be.

Like many people I grew up believing that we must be loved by someone else in order to have love, and to feel like we are valued. And much of the “evidence” in my life suggested that I was not valued very highly at all!

I have a good idea how these beliefs arose. As far as I can tell they date back at least several generations before I was even born. I grew up saturated in them and so of course, I’ve inhabited those ideas for myself.

At the same time, as I’ve been re-counting, my other life-long goal has been spiritual evolvement, before I even knew what that meant. There’s been this ongoing battle between my extreme neediness and my desire to shed such a limited view of life.

Of course, throw a few traumatic experiences into a person’s life, and watch the neediness factor multiply. Especially if they’ve got screwy ideas about love in the first place.

I’d say this is something that’s plagued my relationships and friendships for most of my life. Even worse, it’s had endless impacts on my relationship with my Self…

A few weeks back I went to something called ‘Yoga of Chant’, conveniently held at a yoga studio just a five minute cycle from my place. It was advertised on a meet up website that I’ve used before, and I was immediately drawn.

First one I didn’t get to as I was at home with a horrible flu. So disappointing! Second one was only two weeks later and I was determined to go! Of course, it had to bucket down rain just as I was leaving. I arrived kind of sodden but it was worth it.

Had to peel off my plastic pants and rain jacket, so the chanting (or kirtan) started before I found a seat. The dude running the group (a yoga teacher) played electric keyboard and sang (gorgeous voice!) while his friend played double bass (it worked really, really well), while we sang extended versions of Sri Krishna Govinda and Om Namah Shivaya mantras (Krishna Das style).

I don’t get too many opportunities for kirtan here in Melbourne (i.e. none) and this one rocked. It was kinda awesome actually and for me, there was real bhakti in the singing – loudly, deeply, from the very center of my heart.

Its not that I have a fantastic voice, but I absolutely ADORE singing kirtan.

Next day I was still buzzing, and had this lovely-warm-gooey-heart-opening sensation most of the day. The sort of feeling I get when I do ardha chandrasana and reeeaaalllly rotate and open through the torso…

…times about a hundred!

Interesting, I thought… and went to the next one (last Saturday actually).

The other thing I did last Saturday was attend a free Shadow Yoga class (more about that in another post). And I came away literally glowing with happiness. I could feel it, and I noticed other people noticing it, too.

Cycling home from the yoga class (before the kirtan), that’s when those words popped into my mind: Do something you love, something from the core of your being. Give over to it entirely. Let your heart open. It makes all the difference…

And I got it. Hey, sometimes it takes me a while to get things!

Ohhhhhhh! By doing things you really, really, REALLY enjoy, you are generating love for yourself and other people? And when you do that, there’s no sense of neediness? No space for miserable, self-defeating thoughts? No feeling bereft, adrift and craving connection with others, because the connection is already generated with yourself, through the LOVE you’ve been pumping out via your own actions?

Ahhhh..!!!

That’s what happens sometimes, when you shake all the pretty pieces of coloured light in your kaleidoscope to reveal a mandala you probably already knew about on some level… but had never experienced for yourself.

Until that moment when you do.

And it changes EVERYTHING.

[Read part 2]

~Svasti

Circles of samsara

Tags

Apologies, Christmas, Friday night, I'm sorry, Love, Misunderstanding, Samsara, Suffering, Trams

Out and about Friday night after a relatively serious drinking session with friends (for me, more than three glasses is serious!)… I waited at the tram stop outside the Arts Centre.

A handful of minutes pass and a young girl approaches, crying. Lost and upset, she doesn’t have a jacket – always a bad idea in Melbourne unless it’s the middle of a heat wave (the saying goes: Melbourne – if you don’t like the weather just wait five minutes).

She wanted to use my mobile to call her boyfriend. I obliged. They had a brief, catty and drunken conversation before she hung up on him.

Eventually, she told me her name and what’d happened. She’d jumped on a tram to find out where it was going – but it took off. And her boyfriend’s crime was that he hadn’t followed her.

So they were separated. He had her phone and money and she was stranded. Also, she didn’t know the way to his house exactly, where she was staying.

She was crying and swearing at her boyfriend, utterly furious with him.

I called him back and asked what I could do to help her. He asked if I could put her in a cab and he’d pay for it at the other end.

Easier said than done at one in the morning this close to Christmas.

But we tried. We went to the side of the road (trams run down the center) and I put my arm around her to keep her warm.

The cab didn’t materialise but a tram arrived going the right way… so we both got on – luckily there was a female tram driver, who helped me figure out where this young thing (just twenty-three) needed to go.

Still really pissed at her boyfriend, she was calling him every name under the sun. But when I questioned her about things, it was clear she was just mad at herself and blamed him. Because she could.

As we talked she finally agreed, several times, that it wasn’t her boyfriend’s fault, what’d happened.

I kept her talking until my stop. The lady tram driver said she’d call a cab for the girl from the terminal to get her the last leg home. Other passengers were also really lovely, looking out for her. I gave her a hug and said goodnight.

A little later her boyfriend called me – she hadn’t arrived at his place yet. He sounded really concerned and upset. I explained where she was and that she was okay.

Funny thing is… they were both so mad at each other over a silly drunken Friday night misunderstanding.

And what did I learn from all of this? Despite the late hour and being rather sozzled… I saw how easy it is to blame people for stuff that isn’t their fault, especially when we’re already hurting in some way. And make them the object of our anger…

One person reacts. The next person reacts to that person’s reaction – or what they’ve understood of it anyway… a snowball begins, picking up speed.

Just another way in which the human malaise of general delusion and madness strikes… and we have a choice every single time:

To let the momentum build, grow larger, and become overblown. And cause pain to another for no damn good reason – potentially damaging that relationship.

Or… stop.

Call a spade, a spade. Laugh at yourself for your own madness. And pull it apart. The whole stupid thing.

With love.

~Svasti

Dear Andre

Tags

Anger, Assault, Letter, Prayers, Revenge, Revenge Girl, Suffering, Violence

Since you were in my life, much has changed. Have you? Do you still hit women when you lose control? Did you ever acknowledge to yourself that you have a problem with your anger? How have you reconciled your actions with the fact that you have children – daughters? Would you hit them? What would you do if someone else hit them?

Are you sorry for what you did? You have no way of knowing, ofcourse, just how far reaching the effects were. Do you even remember what happened or have you conveniently ‘forgotten’?

If I ever saw you again, I’d be split neatly in two.

There’s a part of me that hopes I’d have an iron bar handy. I’d crash it down hard over your head before you had the chance to see me. Then I’d look at you, lying on the ground bleeding and I wouldn’t feel sorry at all. I’d smile, and I’d say – I finally got you back, you complete bastard. I hope you have long term damage that makes you remember this day for the rest of your life. I hope you suffer. I hope it really hurts. Then I’d kick you in the balls and I’d leave.

Down, Revenge Girl, down!

The other part of me would probably avoid you. Stand in the shadows so you couldn’t see me and observe. You’d probably look all happy go-lucky and chilled out. You’d probably be trying to scam charm someone out of something. There would be no signs of the ugly beast I met that night. Because that’s what you look like when you’re out of control and you don’t like anyone to see that… I’d feel weird, perhaps sick. But I’d breathe, I’d scan myself to see how I was feeling and I probably wouldn’t know til much later.

If I was confronted with you face-to-face… I’d want to be all yogic and compassionate and non-reactive. But I don’t know for sure that I could. I’d probably push past you. I wouldn’t want to talk to you. Revenge Girl would still want to hit you with something. Or tell people – hey, this guy beats up women. Just so you’d know that other people know of your shame.

You never knew it, but Revenge Girl had the chance to do a couple of things at the time you hit me.

Your ex-partner and the one before that? They knew what you did because I told them. Your ex put me in touch with the ex before her, too. I spoke to them both and suggested they reconsider access rights to their kids. I don’t know if they did, but at least they know how dangerous you are. Your ex-partner definitely restricted access for a little while, I know that much.

And the job you used to have drumming at the club we met at? If you’re wondering why they never hired you again, it’s because I contacted them. I gave them pictures of my face and my door and the AVO I took out to keep you away from me. It was me – I took that job away from you. I knew it would hurt you financially.

I’m not sorry for doing those things. It doesn’t go anywhere towards healing what I’ve been through but it satisfies a small part of me that wants you to suffer.

If you do ever see me in the street, you probably won’t recognise me. The weight of what happened has altered the way I look. But if you do know it’s me, then just stay away. There’s nothing you could tell me that would make it alright.

I do pray though. For both of us.

I pray that you attain some humility to counter your egoity. I pray that you learn to self-nurture so you don’t feel the need to strike out. I pray that you learn what its like to feel afraid – not so that you suffer, but that you learn what it is to be terrified all day, every day.

Most of all, I pray you never hit anyone ever again. And that your life remains completely separate and apart from mine.

And for myself I pray that one day, your name is no more than a wispy ghostly memory, that night remembered in wisdom and learnings, but not in terror. And your eyes – that I never see them again.

~Svasti

Light on the train

Tags

Assault, AVO, Compassion, Insights, Suffering, Train ride

The story so far (in chronological order):

• Once upon a time
• Ground zero
• Those eyes – or – don’t step in the glass
• Extracting splinters
• A day and a week later

*******************

Friday morning arrived – a whole week after that horrible night. And it was time for action. I needed to finalise the AVO so Andre could never come near me again.

My body still doesn’t feel as though it belongs to me. And I’m terrified, utterly, that Andre will turn up to the court.

For those unfamiliar with the Australian AVO process, it goes something like this. The person making the complaint obtains an emergency AVO with valid reason as decided by a magistrate. The person about whom the complaint is being made doesn’t have to be present at this point, but the emergency AVO is only valid for a week, or until a hearing can be organised at which both parties can be present. However, the other party doesn’t have to turn up – this is simply an opportunity for them to do so.

I have no reason to think he won’t turn up, and I have no idea what I’ll do if he does.

For seven days, I’d lived with broken glass in my front door, and I didn’t want that reminder any longer. So I’d emailed my landlord and asked for contact details of any glaziers they used. And at 7am that Friday he was coming to make that scar invisible, if not forgotten.

Right around that time, my mother was due to turn up at my place. Prepared for war if need be. There are definitely some things my mother is great at, and one of them is playing the avenging mother in times of need!

As if in a dream, we’re walking to my normal go-to-work train station. Except today’s destination is the Melbourne Magistrate’s Court, at the ‘toff’ end of town. Despite the official nature of my trip, the best I manage to dress myself in is jeans and sneakers.

I am clutching print outs of pictures I made my sister take. Pictures of my face all bruised and beaten up. A black eye, an extremely down-trodden look in my eyes. And the front door, with its jagged edges silently whispering of the violence that has been. I have purposely not worn any make up so the marks Andre left on my face are plain to see.

We board the train and I feel like I have a secret – one that all the other people on the train couldn’t guess. And I look around at my fellow commuters. Those I would normally be going to work with.

Being the yogi that I am, I’ve been contemplating the nature of human suffering in my attempt to understand what happened, what’s still happening to me every nano-second.

And then I see it.

I truly notice the faces of everyone on the train. I see them more clearly than ever, as if my own pain has sand-papered away my air of indifference.

Everyone around me – everyone – looks utterly miserable. Or angry. Or upset. Or bored. Or… And I think – wow – is this what they look like every day? Is this what I look like??

Quick as lightning, I realised that when on public transport, everyone is in their own zone. Doing their best to ignore the too-closeness of other people packed tightly around them. And because of this, their thoughts turn inwards. And for many people this is not a happy place. Whether they are thoughts of self-hatred, physical or emotional pain, anger and so on, it is suffering. The human condition of suffering. Right there in front of me, plain as day. Unconcealed.

This was an “ah-ha!” moment – where I first realised that suffering is an every day, moment to moment experience for everyone. Previously, my idea of suffering had been that people suffer over an incident, like being assaulted. But I what I saw made it clear that everyone is suffering all of the time – unless you are enlightened ofcourse! Others may beg to differ, but in my philosophical understanding of the world – it made sense. It still does.

And wow, did that put where I was at into perspective. Despite what I’ve been through, I am no different than anyone else on this train. I felt my heart open up and melt into… I have no idea what! Actually, the sensation is one of expansion, incredible expansion.

My train trip transformed, I was still terrified, but no longer feeling so alone at that moment. It was the first major descent of Grace following the assault.

Luckily for me, Andre didn’t show up – for which I was extremely grateful. However, being in court for two weeks in a row still wasn’t my idea of a good time. I still shook, I still cried and I still had to tell another magistrate I didn’t know what had happened. I had to show my shame and my fear in public to ask for protection, and that sucks. I offered my face up for scrutiny. I showed her the photos, which made me feel both strong and miserably weak. But I got my AVO in place. And finally, finally, I started to feel a tiny bit relieved.

Since that day, I always try to catch people unawares on public transport. I try to read what their faces give away. And yep, it still stands true. It’s not always every single person on the train or the bus. Occasionally there’s a being that looks truly happy, serene and content. But they are the exception rather than the rule.

My response is always the same – to feel my heart opening/expanding, and try to send the energy of love as much as I can to any and all of my fellow transiting folk.

Peace be with you all.

Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti.

~ Svasti

(Next: Quietly Devastated)

Partial application of truth

Tags

Love, Relationships, Suffering, Truth

~ Written January 2008

Oh, la la…

Interesting, isn’t it? Unravelling the stories we create around ourselves, in order to sustain this idea of Self?

I… just this morning I pounced on a new thought, about my shit. About how people in general, deal with their shit.

Us humans, we like to keep things compartmentalised. We assume that sorting out the mysteries and mythologies we like to hold true, can be done piecemeal, each in isolation.

Take something you know to be really true. For me (and I’m not suggesting this is true for anyone else), this is a truth I live by:

Buddhist and Hindu teachings tell us that we all create our own suffering. We maintain a certain set of ideas/ideals around something we think occurred. We do this to stabilise who we think we are. That contributes to forming an idea of ‘self’, which is in fact, a separation from Self.

This is a statement that – when I apply it to myself – contributes towards my spiritual and philosophical development. It’s a good thing.

Except that apparently I haven’t been applying this universally/equally, to all parts of my life. I’ve just realised I was conveniently applying this to parts of my life that it was easy/simple to relate to. Things I wanted to break down, could easily break down.

And that was great. Except… I’ve been haunted of late, by a rather esteemed astrologer’s words – that in order for me to meet my “Mr Right, I need to sort myself out – that I’m “still afflicted”.

Still afflicted… I’ve thought about this quite a lot. And done plenty of contemplation. Plenty of processing. I’d thought it was simply about bringing up issues surrounding my assault. So I’ve been working that stuff. I even had a convenient and recent ‘man issue’ which brought a lot of that crap to the surface again for examination.

Also in recent times, I started a piece of writing about some of the travails of my youth. Which – by the way – was fraught with early sexual activity, mental and physical abuse, date rape etc. Not a pretty tale. As someone who’s recently started writing again, I’d decided to respond to a topical blog requesting submissions. And I noticed, whilst writing, a latent yet still powerful anger in my words. In both the feeling and the memories of that time in my life.

A lusty anger, related to men. How I felt/feel about them in general (although not all men ofcourse!). How I perceive myself in relation to men in general (I think most don’t find me attractive). Quite a lot of anger. Feeling vulnerable. Feeling put down. Feeling abused. Feeling… for all the world, a little helpless in the face of men who I perceive to be manipulative, deceitful and/or malicious.

And then I remembered this universal truth I subscribe to in so many other areas of my life (see the fourth paragraph above). So. If I am responsible for, and create my own suffering, then how can any of this be true? How can someone hurt me, make me feel vulnerable, put down or abused?

This uncovered another layer of the onion to be delicately peeled away. Good lord.

I… have been holding on to a vestige of a story that I’ve used for such a long time to define who I am.

That story is… that from a very young age, I’ve been abused by men in one form or another. Whilst the actions may have happened, it is not those situations or those men that have held me in this place. It’s me.

I created this idea of the ‘victim’ me. The persecuted me. And, it’s where I retreat to, even up til this day. As a young girl, without doubt I went through some horrendous experiences. That they happened is not in doubt, nor does it make what happened okay. But actually, there were not as many horrendous experiences as my memories of those times as I would have myself believe. It’s easy to exaggerate. In my memory, overwhelmingly, my early experiences of men and sex were all bad. But this is not really true.

My first ‘bad male’ experience was my brother, from the time I hit puberty til the time I left home. Yes, he hit me. Hard and frequently. Yes, he verbally abused me and put me down every single day for many years (mental/emotional abuse). He is the main reason I moved interstate at the age of 21. But its how I chose to relate to that experience (abused, ugly and pathetic, victim) that has defined me. And I didn’t have to relate that way.

My second ‘bad male’ experience was my first boyfriend. Okay, bonus points for being the first boyfriend and all. And yes, he stripped me of my virginity whilst I was drunk, and it was emotional and romantic devastation coupled with abandonment. But it’s how I chose to relate to that experience (underage rape, emotional abuse, victim) that has defined me.

And… despite being generally unpopular and not having boys at school being interested in me, I still had boyfriends. But I had no boy problems for a few years. I even had a couple of really nice boyfriends – ones that I threw away, possibly for being too nice to me and not meeting my idea of how men treat me. Even at that time, I’d already allowed those two experiences to define me, to suggest I didn’t deserve a really nice boyfriend. So I dumped them both.

My third ‘bad male’ experience was around the age of 16/17, throwing myself at the brother of a boy I’d had a crush on since I was 12. And things were good for a while, until he dumped me for an ex of his. And, it’s how I chose to relate to that experience (sorry, unattractive, loser, rejected) that has defined me.

The fourth ‘bad male’ experience was date rape – of sorts. Well, it was and it wasn’t. I think I was 19 or 20. I had a huge crush on this hot guy, and I couldn’t believe he wanted to go out with me! But he did, and he handed me a ‘pill’ of some kind to take at the beginning of the night. I was so infatuated, I took it without question. I had no idea what it was although I now suspect it was Rohypnol. The fact that I then ended up drugged off my face, that I had no way to resist the unprotected sex that came next… well, I conveniently sidelined the fact that I’d colluded in my own helplessness. He could have done anything to me, and that I ended up in hospital with an STD and blood poisoning was probably a blessing compared to other potential fates. And, it’s how I chose to relate to that experience (as a victim of date rape, forever scarred) that has defined me.

I could go on with ‘bad male’ experiences, but I won’t. They would fill several more pages, and would only serve to prove my lifelong pattern of self-neglect and self-abuse and placing blame on ‘bad men’. And of allowing others to be abusive in one form or another towards me and making that mean something about me and about my relationship to men.

The point here is – I’ve identified with the idea that I only deserve ‘bad males’ in my life as boyfriends. And, that men who treat me badly are in fact ‘bad men’. Men who may seem normal, responsible, nice even – on the surface… but underneath they’re looking to control, to coerce, to hurt. They are not looking to be friends, and treat women they date as friends, with honour. But they are not necessarily bad men.

In truth, I’ve created and allowed this pattern. All men, all people, behave how they wish – and that has nothing to do with anyone else. Yet, I’ve allowed this pattern to flourish. And that has created a certain reality when it comes to men, in which I’ve lived my life. Huh.

It’s going to take some time I think, but I plan to re-write my history. To look upon all of these incidents in my life, and re-script the prose I’ve used to describe these experiences, how I felt/feel, and what things look like now.

Because it really doesn’t have to be like that. And whilst it seems I had to be punched in the face before I came to this conclusion… I no longer want to relate to men like this any more.

~ Svasti