Surviving the Rise

IMG_1597.jpg

Me, 1968

I don’t want to die without any scars.
Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Only after disaster can we be resurrected. It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything. Nothing is static, everything is evolving, everything is falling apart.
Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Nobody can hurt me without my permission.” – Mahatma Gandhi

There’s a moment in fighting when strength of muscle ain’t everything  because enemy has already given you enough energy to gain the victory.” – Toba Beta

It’s not whether you get knocked down, it’s whether you get up.” – Vince Lombardi

You may have to fight a battle more than once to win it.” – Margaret Thatcher

“We shall heal our wounds, collect our dead and continue fighting.” – Mao Tse-Tung

Yesterday, it was unseasonably warm and bright here.  It tried to offer me hope, but it need not have worried so much.  Thank you, Yesterday, but I am my grandmother’s child.  I cannot help myself.

It would be much easier if I were made of something else, something more sensible and human.  Most of the time, I do not enjoy being here.  There is too much pain and carelessness and self-indulgence and all of it cuts and beats and blocks the sun too often.  But then again, once is too much, isn’t it?  Yes, self pity would be the obvious go-to for my experiences and living.  Did I deserve that childhood?  That abusive husband?  A family who needed for me to be the black sheep?  A child who couldn’t love me?  Poverty/single parenthood?  The loss of a career?

I refuse to answer that question.  Doing so would mean that I would be omnipotent in my judgment.  Maybe so . . . maybe not . . . maybe sometimes . . . maybe never.  This post is not about my suffering.  Others have suffered much more than I could ever know and I am no fool when it comes to grief competition.  No one ever wins.  No, this post is about a horrible flaw/curse/blessing that resides inside of me and will not let me be.  This post is about rising.

When I was in my teens and living on the street, I fought for money.  Sometimes girls, sometimes boys.  I lost only once–not because I was stronger or faster or a Jedi knight, but because of my horrible inability to just stay down.  (I lost to a very large woman who sat on me.  I still say that’s cheating.) I’ve had my jaw broken, my ribs shattered, my lip busted clean through and my dumb ass still grapples for the dirt and pushes back up for more.  I would never be able to scream if someone were actually killing me because I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing my horror.  I have had a few pets like this who just will not die until there is literally no explanation for the simple fact that they are still breathing.  And yet, they will howl against it and try to stand again just to get in my lap.  It’s truly an excruciating thing to watch. (It happened again just a few days ago.  For that, I spent the last of my money on a cremation.  Bless his fierce love.)   That must be how the people in my life feel from time to time, and for that, I am truly sorry.

I remember losing my dad suddenly in his early fifties two days before the end of the semester (grad school).  Dr. X sent a message that I did not, after all, have to show up and present my research with the rest of the class due to my grief.  I did, snot and all, because that’s what I do.  My daughter was in a fierce car wreck during finals.  I wrote the essay at the hospital.  (Not my best work, but there you go.)  I lost my baby girl in the middle of a semester while teaching an eight a.m. English course.  The next day, I sobbed my way through “Why We Write” and kept two office hours with blood soaking my pad.  I stood last year and shook hands with the “official” that tried to take my dignity away whilst breaking my family’s financial security and smiled (and threw up in the bathroom, but still).  Incapable.  I just cannot stay down.

Once, many years ago, I was raped by two men while going for milk in the middle of the night for my sons.  As the first one unzipped his pants, I made a snap decision: I lifted my head and slammed it into the concrete curb of that back alley and knocked myself clean the hell out.  They raped me, hurt me, and I stayed in the hospital for days: but I have no memory of the event.

In my estimation, I won.  We told everyone that I had pneumonia.  And that was that.

I know.  It sounds as if I have no feelings.  You would be stone cold wrong about that.

There’s this “thing” inside of me that will not stay down.  It makes things rough, not easy.  So many smooth roads in my memory to which I’ve thrown up my middle finger.  If I have loved you, you have been told–even as you walk out the door.  If I have found you to be dishonorable, I have railed against it in spite of threats and loss of friendship.  Now, this doesn’t make me more noble than anyone else.  It’s just that “thing” in me that will not stay down.

And I hate it.  So, there’s your moment.  Now, how noble is that?

There have been times, very dark ones, in which I have wished that I had married for money, taught high school, kept my mouth shut and my head down.  Wished it in retrospect, because in the moment: I cannot help it.  There was this beautiful man named James Foley who once said:  “There’s physical courage, but that’s nothing compared to moral courage.”  I’m sure that he did not intend to die for his cause.  Some of us just don’t weigh things the same as others.  It’s a curse.

I had hoped that as I grew older this “thing” would get calmer, but alas: it has almost outgrown my frame.  When it is big enough to crack my skin, my bones will finally just stay down.  Hopefully, the rest of me will still rise.

I know that I am exhausting to anyone who loves me.  RB once told me: “We are not like you.  You cannot expect the rest of us to be like you.”  It taught me to be more patient.  But it did nothing to quell my illogically unconquerable spirit.  I wish it had.  This thing in me is not my personality.  It is not my appearance.  It is not my desire.  I have begun to think that it is a soul.

And I cannot save myself from it.

For those of you who have wondered what happened to that law suit: I can only legally state (according to my attorney) that:  “It was satisfied.”  I cannot answer other questions without bringing my home into jeopardy.  Please understand this.  And remember what I did on that curb that day?  And how I felt after?  Like that.  So be it:  it is done.

I can state, though, that I always get back up.

Still I Rise

I know that I haven’t used my SFW voice yet.  Shall I?

I was four when I slipped and busted my lip on that sidewalk.  I don’t have memory of why, only the sting and salt and copper taste of it and the way I wanted to hit it back.  She stood over me and told me to “get on up, now. That sidewalk don’t care if yor mad.  Stand up!”  And I did.  And I never stopped doing it.  And I reckon that sidewalk never got its druthers.

And it never will.

Next time I blog, let’s talk about gardening.  🙂

Blessed Be,
Seba

About Southern Fried Witch

Deep-fried magic tastes better with ranch dressing.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

14 Responses to Surviving the Rise

  1. I can only hope that “satisfied” equals justice. But mostly, thank you for fighting back. It’s important to this witch and the baby I’m carrying that someone was brave enough to fight for pagan rights.

  2. My dear, dear sister. Tears on my face and in my heart , I can only say I feel your defiance and it inspires me. Love you so very much.

  3. So very glad to hear your voice and feel your energy again. Your writing always gives me chills. Probably because it carries your stubbornness and your courage–the latter of which doesn’t require fearlessness, just that you keep getting up again and again and again.

  4. Carl says:

    I am awed by your ability to put such raw emotion into words, and still maintain its primitive power and edge. I truly feel honored to read your words Seba, thank you for that. You have my love and respect!

    Carl.

  5. Deb Smith says:

    A Similar Curse I behold…perhaps the woman who grew me in her womb, who gave me life, knew more than I would eventually learn on my own…
    All I know how to do is Fight. Not a Damn thing comes without Conflict when I find myself involved. Many Pains, Much Damage along the way. I cannot understand why this Path has been chosen for me- or if I chose it myself? If I am not Fighting, I feel like I am dying, the gash in my soul re-opens, drains, occasionally bleeds, & then it closed up again until the next tragedy.
    MANY Bad Decisions. MANY Mistakes. I am Human & Foulable, even if others REFUSE to understand that.
    I finally have up. YEARS of trying to be “The Perfect Army Wife” and meanwhile, my Husband was seeking out Transgenders to have sex with. How does one Compete? I didn’t. I packed up my Autistic Son and ran like Hell.
    I am HOME. In the Embrace of AZ’s Superstition Mountains- led here by the Whisper of the Red Rocks of Sedona. I found my way back…
    I am Guarded, yet Reverent. I have a Special Someone whom I get the Nervous Butterflies when I think of him. He is not Perfect, but he is My Kind of Perfect…
    We laid in bed, after the most magical moments, he traced my scars on my back (from Lung Biopsies & Drainage back in 1996) with his fingertips- no questions, he just kissed my Tattoo, which is the Gaelic Word for ‘Rebirth’, and told me my scars were “Beautiful.”
    Our Scars tell stories that our Tattoos do not. (Not those of us who have them) They need to be aknowledged *By The Right People* and traced tenderly and told they are BEAUTIFUL…Because they are. 💜

  6. LV says:

    You’re a Goddess, Sister, and you have been missed! Like the writer above, I hope that “satisfied” equaled justice; it sounds from your response as though it did, or came darn close! You’ve lost, or had ppl try to take your voice from you many times, in the past. But with your former employer (and I’m sure in many situations in which it was called for!), you stood up and said NO. Your voice was like a slow rumble that became a roar. The earth cracked open and surprised some folks. They made a costly error in judgment and then your voice ended up jumping up and biting certain people in the booty! I am so proud of you! There aren’t enough words to express that. They cannot hurt you any longer! They may try, but they can’t! You used your voice well!

    You’ve been on my heart for several months now and I’m thrilled that you’re blogging again. I actually checked in here a few days before you asked (publicly) whether you should continue or not. You may need to start slow, blog inconsistently, whatever- I’ll read it! Take your time to find your voice again, in this venue, we’ll be patient, supportive and bear witness. We’re all evolving; this includes you! In trying to move ahead, for a little while, you may need to look backwards for a while. But you know the saying, “You can’t steer a car by looking in the rear view mirror?” (Yes, this assumes you’re trying to drive forward! LOL) Don’t look back for too long. This is a time of recalibration and you’re not alone in that!

    Sister, you’re among friends and family. Pull a chair up to the fire (it’s suddenly winter again in GA and you’re in the state next door, so you *know* you need to get close up to that fire!), speak when you want to. You’ll be heard and loved. And when you’re silent? We’ll hear that too, and love you all the same! Pass the cocoa! (Or the whiskey… Whatevs!)
    ❤ 😉
    -LV

  7. Nancy says:

    Seba, You are truly an “old soul”. You will survive and thrive!

  8. Cyn Hanrahan McCollum says:

    I get when people say we are not like you. A goodly portion of us are not. This does not mean you must change yourself. You are a warrior. There is no deviating from that path the gods gave you in this life. Warrior is not all you are, but it is your spirit, and I admire that in you. I wish I could call up that as part of me. Not my path this time.

    Dark moon is Tuesday, time to plant, time to cast the seed, time to send big magick out knowing it will manifest. For now, a candle studded with cloves in a purple cup on my altar, my Lilith rock, my whole crystalized chunk of pink salt uncrushed, my mammoth tooth fossil, my pink carnelian with the black inclusion that is not a flaw, my athame I keep sharp enough to slice paper, all sprinkled with blue vervain. For you. For me. For all of us.

    I turn three cards every morning, and today they were drawn specifically for you. Ten of Cups reversed, The Chariot, Queen of Wands reversed. Sums up this blog rather well.

    Write, dear warrior witch. And put a paypal tip jar donation link on this page so we can honor your wallet as we are able.

  9. Jam says:

    Please don’t stop. Ever.
    (And if you already have, please start again.)
    There are people like me that sit and silently absorb your every word. We don’t comment and we rarely tell anyone else, but we’re here.
    And we need you.

  10. chefette13 says:

    So glad you see you back. I agree with Jam…I may not comment often but I am here and enjoy what you write. There is a lesson in each posting. Please don’t give up writing for us. With love and hugs. June Va.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s