I can’t define myself–
she’s not rigid,
not any kind of structure.

Several parts.
has been symphonic
& discordant. 

now
I feel like I am coming together.
it’s undefinable.
but not misery.

A breakthrough from misery.
the other side of misery. 

happiness but more than that.
triumph like i walked very far for
very long long.

             ketamine,
and can sit
and drink.
and even fumble.

“ketamine”

Censorship pt 2: Disposability

This is my sixth time being locked out. This is my sixth pop up when I go to log in that says “______” instead of taking me directly to where I need to be. This is the sixth time someone reported me to retaliate against me. And then my email was banned.

My dad died December of 2020 ten days before Christmas. A couple weeks before that he had been given two years to live. two weeks before Christmas I sat in front of our dwindly Christmas tree and cried, begged, pleaded for one more Christmas. Four days later, I got that 9:30 am phone call and you know it’s just a blur after that. The following summer  was when my mom finally agreed to move. The house was in terrible shape but we managed to sell it and that September I went home to help her move.. On the way I was rear ended by a guy going 55 mph while I was dead stopped, totaling my car. After the shock wore off, I got out to check to see if he was ok and the first thing he said to me was:

Could you let me go please? I don’t have license and insurance. 

I gestured to my car and said, look what you did. No. Also, I added are you ok?

FUUUUCK!

That’s what he screamed. He didn’t ask if I was ok or if I needed anything. He didn’t console me. I had rubbed my hand on his arm and told him it was ok. He screamed near my ear and walked away leaving me alone in front of my totaled car. Leaving me completely alone on the Virginia highway to think of what to do, where to go–about an hour and a half away from my mother still. The second thing he said to me, the last thing he said to me, can you move my car?

That’s what it feels like when I get an error logging in. That’s what it feels like when I receive some nebulous excuse as to why I can’t access my email anymore. That’s how it feels whenever they tell me I am no longer welcome on their platform. It feels like a man just hit me and devastated my life screaming fuck in my ear without asking if I am ok. How are you going to get to your mother’s? I am sorry this happened.  I am of no consequence. I am somehow interminably wrong. I have now ruined his day, therefore I am the villain of the story. 

I needed that car to move my mother. We were able to hold my mom’s stuff at my best friend’s house and drove up together. She had to return a week later with her sister to retrieve it. The whole way I lived in sheer panic. Getting in an accident scars you. The body remembers that it can happen at any given moment; the thud, the hit, the damage, the shot forward and had the car in front of me not moved, had the light not just turned green, I could be dead. I suffer from great panic already and now the highway has become an even scarier place. I just think of him. I know if I get hit, I’ll still be the problem. Everytime I am logged out of an account, the same fear takes over. My stomach tenses. I sit straighter. Braced.

It’s the disposability of it. That I am someone who is disposable.For women, safety is an illusion. For sex workers, that safety is removed entirely. It’s not just the accident or being banned, it’s the hundreds of trolls on tik tok that told me what they thought of me. It’s the constant catcalling and street harassment. The punishment in school for wearing a tank top. The backhanded compliments. The carrot dangling. The pushy clients. The actual rape and assault. The what were you wearing? The damsel sidekick I grew up reading in English, forced to read only male authors. Only male athletes being celebrated. Only male artists. Only males. Only males. 

It’s that women are seen as interchangeable orifices. They don’t exist to feel so they don’t need a platform to be seen. They guest star in a fantasy and then our shuffled away once the fantasy is over. We are disposable and silenced. When we speak out, we are silenced. Maybe I should have started with this but I wanted you to read the whole story to get a picture. Everytime I am banned or locked out, it’s because I have stood up for myself. This time I reported someone making phishing attempt after phishing attempt. Mysteriously after I was banned. Seems like they read the email to me and realized Tryst was an escort site, or the man reported me after I told him I report all his emails as phishing. Or they made a grave mistake and lumped me in with a phishing attempt. But every time I am banned, it is after I call someone out for doing something predatory. 
Like being hit with a big truck yelling fuck at you as you ruin his day. Better to hide me away then face it. Let’s face it–what I do is relatively innocuous if not godly–I change men. I break men, I save them. I confront them and teach them consent.  I hand their ass to them. I train them and I give them pleasure. I am relatively innocent but powerful. It is of no surprise that I have been banned six times when I am constantly telling the world the bad things men did. They will always silence the most powerful and they will always make us feel interchangeable so we don’t fight back. It’s the weariness they bank on. They never expect me to keep getting up.

Soporificia: apothecary to the dream world.

Starting a business in the middle of a recession?

great idea!! not but really….

I want everyone to have access to everything that ever helped me heal. That’s why I’m here.  I want everyone to have their moment of silence without all the idyllic white washing we have to perform for the public.  The moment of silence that brings them to a core truth or core resting place where some entropy is necessary. I have written many things about my life across many channels and the thing that shocks most people is I have watched thirteen family members die. I lost both my brother, dad and childhood home by thirty-six. I moved twenty times, including across the country twice. I ran head first into a cement mixer when I was drunk. I spent eight years heavily drunk. Got rear ended by a guy going fifty five while I was dead stopped when sober. Survived the pandemic while being handed stressor after stressor including a lease termination three months into grieving my dad.. Changed jobs like clockwork. Watched friends and clients die too and changed.  All the while changed, changed, changed. Panicked, but changed.

Put a stop to harmful things to pick up new harmful habits.  Found better habits. Found more addiction. Found solution to addiction  and changed. Ad infinitum.

This chaotic carousel  created  anxiety and stress, manifesting as a constant stasis of nervousness and volatility. This transferred into not just  panic attacks, but a feeling of dread. The general malaise of winter. Physical ailments surrounding my stomach and bladder. Food issues. Obsessively sticking my face into a sun lamp. Too much caffeine. Obsessively stimming with straws til my hand hurts. Counting vitamins. Sighing.Walking the block endlessly. T r y i n g so hard to have patience and peace with myself. I don’t take advice from folks who never walked across coals about how to handle the heat. I never ask anyone who wasn’t once poor how to make money. 

 I have been seeking solace my whole life.  The only true solace I receive has always been sleep. When I get it, it is filled with lucid or vivid dreams. And foretelling. I don’t rest much during the day. I need a full eight hours. 

It started with chamomile. Well, it started with studying herbalism for a year after deciding I didn’t want to pursue my Master’s of Social Work afterall. Another incredibly trying time was being a mental health case manager for four years and trying to go to grad school.  Helping  thirty-three people through crisis regularly will knock the literal wind out of you.  So, it started with taking care of myself and leaving that industry. Moreover,  learning about chamomile and how to make infusions. Chamomile is the first herb I played around with: making tincture, infusion, and skin balm. The sedative and nervine effects are manageable and gentle and it is the herb I recommend first. Felt a sense of calm come over me. Began to fall asleep faster. I moved less and less and became content with sitting still. It wasn’t a miracle herb by any means but a slow building one.  I used it more and more. A cup of hot chamomile became an evening ritual. Then I moved to valerian which gave me such intense dreams and such deep sleep. (Forgot to mention I suffered from insomnia for about four years).  I felt a bit groggy in the morning but was able to tamper with that dose to find a better solution. Waking up became easier and my night was restful.  Valerian also showed me my creativity through an active brain at night. My dreams were patently premonitory. Often what I wrote down would happen that same day or shortly thereafter. It felt like each herb was building on where the other left off and taking me deeper into a recess of mind that was allowing me to access deep knowledge. And I’ll devote another blog to my dreams about my dead dad and brother.

Then I used the whole apothecary: marshmallow, slippery elm, St. John’s wort,  lemon balm, holy basil and wormwood to calm myself and aid my stomach; a budding problem starting from years of too much acid including coffee. I started using jasmine and geranium oil to set flowered boundaries. Lots of ylang ylang, black tourmaline, cayenne pepper, charcoal salt, smoky quartz, sigil and mugwort.  Oh, mugwort. My favorite of favs. Connector to gods and thinner of veils. Mugwort and my intro to divining deserves an entire second blog as well. But I became more calm. There were periods of panic that I shared on my website, but I found solutions. Breathwork. Learned how to manage my day. And I am humble nenough to admit I still need work, but I found aids. I took baths nightly. I sprinkled my oil, lit my candles, lined the tub with stones and sipped my chamomile, my nettle mix, my mugwort tincture. Immersed myself in salt, votive, and prayer. I spent an entire winter in the bath once just to feel my body sit. 

I resent the notion that people don’t change. People need change and they do change. They thrive in it. But they need slow incremental changes. We have forgotten the word slow. We judge things based on output–have they received an accolade for their accomplishments? No? Then they didn’t really try or succeed did they? Did it happen in this short year or this short lifetime? Can we touch the new and different body? Change isn’t palpable or measurable all the time. It’s invisible. It spans decades and generations. We change with the help of others cheering us on, feedback from the community, guidance and aides. Optimism. Tools.  I hope to help bring all of that—from tinctures to tarot— to folks struggling with all things that stem from anxiety and trauma. Research has proven that those with childhood trauma are more than 50% likely to develop a sleep disorder, and if someone is able to sleep after a traumatic event, they are more likely to recover faster. “Compared to adults with few or no ACEs, adults with a significant amount of childhood trauma are more than twice as likely19 to have trouble falling asleep and are also twice as likely to feel tired after a full night’s sleep. The effects of ACEs on sleep can last for up to 50 years20, with each ACE experienced in childhood increasing the risk of not getting enough sleep as an adult by 20.” (https://www.sleepfoundation.org/mental-health/trauma-and-sleep)

Insomnia, interrupted sleep, fidgeting, nervousness, digestion issues and a general feeling of tension and muscle aches are all hurdles to quietude and the amity we so desperately deserve to give ourselves. We deserve rest. We deserve a pain free life.  We have all experienced so much in this short life. We survived the pandemic. We survived so many wars, death and political upheaval. I also hope to connect people to their dreams, premonitions and to the spirit world if they so desire. This apothecary’s main focus is helping to regulate a dysregulated system, as well as expand connection to the liminal and beyond. I recommend chamomile to start. Then lemon balm and marshmallow. Then mugwort.

Work with various herbs to find which one works hardest for you. Godspeed, and I am here if you need me.

I carried little pieces of God
everywhere;
whittled pine needle,
robin feathers,
a baby garnet for luck.
besides the
straws, I liked
natural things; Earth

to touch during
sedentary moments
quell the fidget inside.
today, a pint-sized celestite
entertained my skittish fingers.
it was a part of a larger cluster,
but I liked the cyan sparkle
so I broke off a piece.

I am surrounded by repentant men
with wolfish outlines.
my “allies.”
fellow addicts.
I nod when they say
they feel a guilt greater
than their desire. I having
consumed an entire night’s portion
before walking here.
when they want my approval,
they usually begin with things
like
I took advantage of her.

feel a poke in my index finger
and I cross my legs.

I am wearing brown tights, brown
heeled boots and a cream turtleneck
sweater dress.  my hair is
short, uncombed and strange.
I am mostly plain.
save light blush, mascara and
chapstick..
it is important as a woman
to catalog what you were wearing
and how you generally look
in any moment.
also I had gained some weight
before I  rediscovered
starvation.


when you tell the audience the story
they can gauge their reaction better.
were you homely, girl?

I was neither homely nor
exceptional, a frozen
brown blob blending
into the cream walls
and watching the blue chips
of nail polish flake onto
the floor. as he spoke
of his life of
trespassing,
I suddenly found my hands
to be urgent.

and remembering the whisper
of the woman who shushed
the last girl who shared her rape
in a room just like this,
I watched a speck of light blue
crystal join the floor,
saw the red swell and trickle
into a dot capping my finger.
blood      I
watched the tiny celestite break.

“fury”

I blow
when charged.
not always fit for ground.
when standing,
an unbearable pressure.
more reasonable in
flight– even in
vehemence.

I kiss her fingers and
say:
you are a jungle.
I stretch,
yawn
and out falls a
knuckle.

What does love feel like?
she asks.
I turn to
cough
and out falls another.
kiss her flowered mouth
through my tight teeth
and say

like a wet machete
ripping through

the jungle.

“camouflage”

but i’m a martyr for this,
I crave
repercussion;

even self-abnegation
needs an audience
or else it’s just plain masochism
                  lonely and caustic
without the gentle recompense,
the moist poultice,
the final amends:
the touch of her
sadist’s fingertips
after she laid her.

all cathedrals use pain as payment
and my crucifixion,
while self inflicted;
is just as baneful.
my bloodletters will wash
the splashes from my feet,
take their time
with each laceration;

stitch
my gashes
into temples.

“Lilith”

Censorship part 1: defamation, or the little lie that predators tell.

*excuse my gendered language. I am only telling my narrative of my life as a cis woman with mostly cis men* 

As we speak, I am locked out of my account. This is the fifth time this has happened. I posted a screenshot of a man’s email to me; a copy and paste email he has sent to multiple women in the area. This email included no private information and nothing personal. His PUBLIC work email was listed.  I posted this because this man has emailed me FOUR times  asking to work together. Each time I have said no.

File this under my umbrella file: rape culture.

The first time I told him no, we had an extensive drawn-out conversation over email about fetishization and the use of terms to denote my whiteness–snowbunny, BBC, etc. This person denied using any kind of racialized or fetishized content. When I clicked his Many Vids I just saw the tags over and over: “BBC” “Interracial” and “Asian” for the one non-white costar he worked with. “Asian” in the title. “Asian” in the tag, in the description.  This was his exact quote: “Actually if you see my post DONT have labeled remarks such ass: white, BBC, interracial, etc.” Which he had many. He had no content with anyone else but white women. 

File this under my daughter file: gaslighting. 

He sent me THREE MORE EMAILS and I finally replied telling him I said no and to take me off his mailing list. His reply: “I didn’t see your response.” I posted this on my twitter merely to point out that men are highly coercive, rejection sensitive and can’t take no for an answer. He retaliated by reporting the post and my header which caused me to get locked out of my account losing access to my livelihood. AGAIN. 

File this under: targeted harassment.

While he continues to do this as a hobby…. While he continues to do this as a hobby, he pushed my account into darkness–a place where I make my only living. Something I have always done for survival.  I won’t legitimize that comment with a trauma tour through my life but I am doing this for survival. Touring the sex work industry, they are easy to spot:, often RTIng as many women as they can to get their attention. They hope to get their attention, commenting on every post. Hope you’ll retweet their dick pic. Hope you’ll comment back and laugh at their joke and soon it’s fucking and frolicking on and *off* (that’s the key) camera.  Often being able to hold onto one or two good references; someone they didn’t use or manipulate to go on to manipulate dozens. Similarly to photographers, they consume female bodys in an effort to create more and more product neglecting editing in their lust to shoot more content. When contacting references, we hear back “yeah he was a little handsy, just have good boundaries” or “he kept insisting on being nude the entire time and getting overly close to me, just have good boundaries” or “he made me cuddle with him after” “kissed me after the shoot” “harassed me over text following our shoot.”  We are told have good boundaries.  He told me, “I’ll shoot you nude for sex if you dont have money :).” We are told to stand strong. “He kept putting off sending me the content we made. It’s been six months.” We are told we invited it. “After the scene was done he climbed on me and kissed me.” We are told we should be thankful we are not homely. “He asked me to cuddle after. I didn’t know what to say. He was really insistent.” Catalog what we were wearing. “Well it’s a porn shoot, what do you expect?” “Well it’s a nude shoot, what do you expect?” Well, he’s a man, what do you expect? We are told to get over it. 

We are told our Twitters are locked for telling other people about it. 

Any time we try to post about a predatory encounter, we are threatened. Both by the platforms that hold our entire visibility in their massive AI pocket and by the men we are calling out. By the men that simply see it trolling their way through dozens of profiles aimlessly looking to “take down” a woman. By the men that don’t like us and have been waiting. Like little barracudas stumbling upon a slow school. And when they post themselves shirtless in their avatar or header, they are protected. When they DM us, dick pics, they are protected. They can hurl insults in our DMs, post pictures of us without consent (there was a facebook group for a longtime calleds “Girls being sluts in bathrooms” where men uploaded pictures without consent. That Facebook group lasted but saying “Men are trash” will get you  banned”, they can harass you day after day creating new accounts to do so and Twitter will let it stand. All of these experiences I’ve had. I’ve received dick pics over Instagram and they sided with the predator. I’ve reported men for targeted harassment for making an new profile that was clearly targeted at me and they sided with him. I have reported men’s profiles that say “Rape all women” and it has stayed. I’ve reported men’s profiles that do nothing but chastise women and they stay. We have Andr*w T*te. We have what’s-his-face telling folks to report strippers. We have the red pill party. We jhave four-chan, lue links, Reddit and Gamer Gate.

 They can have the words “bang me” in the header and it’s fine. They can post their torso hinting that they are touching their own dicks all day long but I can’t post myself fully covered depending on the material of the dress.  Depending on the pose. No boobs, no sideboobs, no ass. Just the provocation. Just the hint of sex is all it takes. Just the idea that nipples lay below the bra-line somewhere buried. Just turning to a certain angle and they can make out our hip shape and that’s enough to get you banned. But you can still see yourself circulating on the web. It’s a sure bet you’ll have tons of content stolen and leaked on the web. I  have had men make almost minute long previews of our shot. I have had a person post HALF OF THE POLAROIDS (about 7) of me sucking their dick on their TL without any thought to ask me if that was ok. I have had men post my entire pussy on the TL in graphic detail, up close without asking if it was ok.  Because they need the exposure. 

Because they get off on the exposure. Because they don’t need the money the same way. Because they are doing this for status. Because they think this is fun. Because they are entitled to do anything they want with our content (including refusing to give it to me, as one local content creator did). Because leaked images of penises will never be as harmful in society’s eye as leaked images of pussy. Because a male porn star is applauded. Because they want to be applauded. Because they want to be exposed and they want our full attention.

Posting about them, posting about our experience, we are silenced. Reported. Surveilled. We have no recourse but to keep whispering to each other over text, in conversation. Why was the Amber Heard trial publicized? Do you even remember what started it? Amber alluding to abuse without naming a name until Depp dragged her through the mud good and well dead from it all. And i’m not here for this “mutual abuse” talk or to take sides, I am here to point out that when someone tried to share their experience of abuse, they were sued for millions of dollars, forced to stand trial for all of the world to judge them and still could not discuss her abuses publicly in the end. Silence was the punishment. The money was just the piss on the fire. Some facts of the case (https://www.nbcnews.com/pop-culture/pop-culture-news/johnny-depp-amber-heard-defamation-trial-summary-timeline-rcna26136: )

2018

Heard writes the op-ed for The Washington Post at the heart of the defamation lawsuit. In the op-ed, she writes: “I became a public figure representing domestic abuse, and I felt the full force of our culture’s wrath for women who speak out.”

Heard’s article mentions her experience with abuse from her childhood to adulthood. It does not include Depp’s name.

At the crux of the article, Heard asks for support for women experiencing domestic violence.

“We have an opening now to bolster and build institutions protective of women. For starters, Congress can reauthorize and strengthen the Violence Against Women Act,” she writes.

2019

Depp sues Heard for defamation, claiming the Post article was a ruse for Heard to gin up positive press for herself. Depp also claims she is not the victim of domestic violence but instead the perpetrator.

Depp seeks $50 million in damages.

Because they want to villainize us once they can’t consume us anymore.