"Love says 'I am everything'. Wisdom says 'I am nothing'.
Between the two, my life flows..."
- Nisargadatta Maharaj (1973)
"One shot to your heart without breaking your skin
No one has the power to hurt you like your friends
Though it would never change but as time moved on
That ugly duckling grew up to be a swan..."
- India Arie
TW: suicidal ideations and violence
It's like a pattern, after spirals of suicidal ideations, I often have repetitive thoughts or imageries of being helpless/witness to my loved ones dying as part of my sleepless psychosis, or how I describe as either a manic or depressive "paralysis"... I see it as perhaps an exchange prayer, subconsciously hoping that a violent death to myself can prevent and let it be all what the universe takes this season. Yet maybe that only works if someone else takes my life and not myself, as how luxurious this world would be if everyone is meant to both give and take. How loving that should be of us, but we still hurt even when we love - so I feel as though if I can no longer give, then I should take myself out. As if people haven't gotten so tired of me mistaking giving myself away as loving, so they still took in silence anyway. And as if I haven't been saying that if I had my way in current philosophies in translation to politics, I would be practicing violent dictatorship in ways of forcing reparations, empathy, and reciprocity... In truth at times, I really feel used by "Canada", of the ways I found softness to survive yet was a palatable trans immigrant story of resilience, so maybe that's why I was even prompted with a career in public speaking in the first place. Was it really because I had something important to say/be heard, or that I was privileged and educated enough to be listened to, but not enough to really influence change ? Thus I still write as a solitary practice of reflection, to remember all words said and unsaid, as well as the words lost in-between... However, sometimes I also realize that words are just words, because it takes so much more effort for one to believe that they're loved or wanted if their worth still roots from others. And I do blame myself, of always wanting the last word, or perhaps I write too illusive and pretty, too soft so no one would believe in the ugliness I have been trying to confess. I apologize for my stubbornness, for my madness, and for my softness. I love you all so much, and I wish I have the chance to love you better in another timeline.
"The swan song is a metaphorical phrase for a final gesture, effort, or performance given just before death or retirement. The phrase refers to an ancient belief that swans sing a beautiful song just before their death since they have been silent for most of their lifetime..."
I grew to be obsessed with the movie Black Swan (2010) after immigration and landing here as a 12 year old. In this motel room that me and my family stayed in at first, I remember being bullied at school for not having a home address, and white kids asking if I'm a mute because of my language barriers. I remember crying every other day with family snapping at each other daily trying to survive, I remember sitting in front of cable tv repeating after words, trying to cut off my mother tongue and erase all traces of an accent... "COLONIALISM. Definition: turning bodies into cages that no one has the keys for" (Billy-Ray Belcourt)... I wanted to be perfect, I wanted to fit in, I wanted to be worthy of safety and care and belonging. I would and still obsess over every choice I make, staying awake at night to write scripts of possible conversations just to ease my anxieties on how I can navigate with the best version of me, and to understand how I can navigate differently with people's different states or desires. Though no matter how strategic I am with words, many knows that my face usually gives it away. I remember asking to leave ESL (English as Second Language) 1:1 sessions to be back with the classmates. I was tired of the isolation so I promised to work harder, to do whatever it takes, to never be removed or forgotten again, I just wanted to be part of a community... Yet I have failed, again and again, or perhaps "we need not pretend that love was to be found in wastelands like these" (Billy-Ray Belcourt)...
When a friend read my chart and referred to haunting traumas from 7 years ago acting as an identity crisis, it was not just the exploration of gender identity or expressions - though of course that brought fourth a lot of generational traumas generating violent conflicts/confrontations, it was also the combination of isolation from community as well as institutionalization and the start of my medication journey. I think what hurts the most, is how we can't see the way violence flows, how systematic violence happens when we don't actively fight against choices that feel like its all we have. Thus our helplessness feeds into patterns and cycles of punitive isolation, limited or lack of resources, and the collective dispersing into survival of the fittest or self-preservation... After years of being medicated for different things like anxiety, depression, and C-PTSD, I eventually stopped because I felt suffocated by pills after doctors kept suggesting things so I'd stop smoking so much, as well as me starting to consider hormones around 3 years ago. What still hurts is paramedics at my door asking why my roommates and friends say they don't know me anymore. Did anyone really know me before ? Why do I still remember a friend of mine saying that they don't read my blog much because they don't always relate ? All I feel like I have been asking for is the curiosity to understand, and to believe in my autonomy - perhaps not empathize because it's too painful but can we understand ? May we make room for understanding even as we hurt and fear, I pray that we can someday, even if I'm not here anymore... We are not our mental illnesses, but when we don't understand then we might as well only see each other as madness. And when I was on shrooms and spending time with elders who have truly embraced the world's madness, I realized even more that what I need is not to repeat how it happened years ago, I don't want hospitalization or more pills, not that we have enough mutual aid support to get me in consistent therapy or too see a psychiatrist, so here we are. I want the world to still dream without me, to start saying fuck the police and actually mean it, to never forget how hard softness is to practice, to remember me crying, even though I'm not perfect, please remember how much I've at least tried, and that's not to dismiss my faults but just perhaps a drop of compassion so I can rest in peace. I may not find enlightenment like Buddha but hopefully I can be the sacred lotus blossoming from a muddy swamp. Perhaps I would even have the honour of being a bouquet of flowers in a loved one's living room or kitchen.
My name is 蔡禮陽: 蔡 ("Tsai") being our family name, 禮 ("Li") meaning ceremony, gift, or courtesy, and 陽 ("Yang") meaning the Sun. I have been hiding in the shadows of my moon for far too long, I forgot how to live. I'm sorry for failing life, for failing love, for failing my own name and destiny thus community. I sincerely apologize to all living force, and now I only ask for forgiveness as I offer my life. It is only grieve in such peacefulness, when you're no longer included in loved ones' happiness and you feel as though you wilt away in memory. I hope I've given softer enough memories and time spent...
“Feeling is research; feeling is integral to a creative practice”
- Indigenous Knowledge, Turtle Island
“Empathy without boundaries is self-destruction”
- Silvy Khoucasian
“Spend your life loving, not seeking love. Ocean, not need seek water.”
- Jaiya John
I think the irony, of me seeking bodies of water as refuge and remembrance when I have no elements of water in my birth chart. I've always thought of myself as a mermaid drowning, and I still have to stop myself from walking into lakes with stones in my pockets and shoes. Or perhaps I wish to drown so much because of the lack of elemental water in my birth astrology, despite being born on an island... Yet isn't the Earth watered ? Do we witness the water in flow within branches and leaves ? Can we forgive for all that we never felt because we didn't understand ? Can we believe that love never left ?
Men continue to send messages offering warmth and support, saying how they will hit me up when they get paid, as when they read the words "suicidal in a motel and survival sex working", all they understand is "motel sex". My only regret would be to die in the hands of cis men, as meaningless sacrifice to statistics and a name for another trans public speaker to read on trans day of remembrance... Sometimes I don't really think we die, as perhaps we live on through softer memories and lessons learned from each other's essence, as long as we remember. As long as I love you even in absence.
"I don't know where I'm going. Where I came from is disappearing. I am unwelcome. My beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the shame of not belonging, my body is longing. I am the sin of memory and the absence of memory. I watched the news and my mouth turns into sinks of blood. The lines, forms, people at the desks, calling cards, immigration officers, the looks on the street, the cold settling deep into my bones, the English classes at night, the distance I am from home... All these men between my legs, a gun, a promise, a lie, his name, his flag, his language, his manhood in my mouth." - Warsan Shire
Commenti