The endless cycle of love and hate
My mother in law died this week. It was a the best thing for her - 2 1/2 days in the hospital and she was gone. This, of course, has put my spouse into a bit of a spin. And, of course, in her usual way she's been telling me how to act and how I need to not speak about our daughter or about anything really, to her MAGA loving cousins who've decided to attend because 'family is family'.... unless they're queer.
I wrote this to an artist I like who’s going through some painful shit. It’s an analogy I’ve used and find helpful and I wanted to record it.
——————————————————
Hi, Suzi. Grief is a sneaky bitch. Please don’t despair the depth and breadth of your feelings. I had some really hard things hit me all at once in the 2000s and I was overwhelmed with grief. I felt like I was carrying a giant box and I couldn’t see anything but the box. Over time, I was able to make the box smaller and smaller, until it was a small box that I can carry in my hand. I thought to that was the best I could do until I realised carrying the box meant I only had one hand to do the things i wanted to do. It took time, but I was able to put the box down. I know where it is and I can hold it when I need/want to but I don’t carry it everyday. Working on some of your mixed media girls helped me then - helped me feel creative and hopeful. I won’t say I don’t get ambushed by that grief from time to time but I’m able to put the box down more easily now.
All that to say, I see you and I’m sending you so much love. You are strong and resilient, and I know you’ll make it through this.
TERFS and Druidry
Hello, QOBDies, I'm Michelle (aka Greenraven). I'm reaching out for some virtual validation. I'm non-binary; I always have been and it's nice to have language to speak about how I feel in the world. I got smacked with some TERFy garbage around the concept of Crone, and my ability to participate in a group since I 'claim' to be something other than cis gender. I'm not claiming anything; I am me. My assigned female at birth body is aging and I'm entering Elder/Crone times. I know my experience of life and body is/can be different that cis women. I've never really defined myself by my architecture, as I call my body, never defined myself by the roles I took on for other people. I have a non-binary, AFAB spouse and we adopted a child so I was wife and mother adjacent but think of myself as spouse and parent.
I should say that the group is clear that it is for cis women only but I missed that in the description because I was happy to see an opportunity to talk about aging in a spiritual/magickal way. I came here to QOBOD knowing I'm not alone in experiencing the complexity of sexuality and gender.
Thank you for reading and giving me space to be all of me.
_______________________________________________
Written on Saturday, 26 April, 2025
Warning for triggering content.
In December there was a heated debate online and IRL about the 1940s song “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”. 2018 was a year when the Me, Too movement took down many, many abusers and opinions were riled on both sides.
I posted something pointed in early December about a meme that stated “what the fuck did I just say?” about all the pressure to stay.
Here’s my post - I’m not advocating censorship, I’m perfectly able to change channels. I’m tired of people explaining the historical context (which I understand; I’m not stupid) and being unable to hear why as a survivor of that situation, I might not want hear the 50 versions that have been recorded, played multiple times a day for 6 weeks. In 2018, those Wolf and Mouse lyrics sound coercive no matter the context in 1944.
Adding one my comments here, so I’m as clear as I can be about my thoughts on this song.
“I do understand the original intent of the song; she’s empowering herself by accepting an excuse to stay. That doesn’t mean that now, to people like me who’ve been assaulted after saying no, this song doesn’t sound as rapey as fuck. I’m not going to argue about this, I’m not going to explain myself again, but I’m not going to let anyone else make me feel bad for not wanting to hear this fucking song upwards of 10 times a day for the 6 weeks between American Thanksgiving and New Years.”
I was soundly smacked multiple times about “what the song is actually about”, and “it was written in 1944 dontcha know”, and the ubiquitous, “it’s not about rape, for God’s sake, it’s about her trying to stay”.
I know that. I understand that a woman and her husband sang the song at parties. I understand that in the time it was written the woman being coy was cute and provocative. As I said earlier, I’m not stupid; I understand context. But what I’m saying is this - as a sexual assault survivor things sound different to me than they do to you. Someone kept me from leaving their car/apartment/presence and forced me to have sex I DID NOT WANT. You smacking me with your facts feels abusive. I never disputed the facts, I SAID WHAT I HEARD WAS PAINFUL AND I DIDN’T WANT TO HEAR IT ANYMORE.
A radio station played the song on a loop for days as a big fuck you to everyone who dared to say that hearing the damn song was painful and triggering. I never challenged your facts but you stomped all over my feelings. When you challenge my feelings with your “facts” you make me angry. I want to explain to you that YOUR WORDS HURT BECAUSE YOU DON’T HEAR WHAT I AM SAYING. Someone (several people) already made me feel vulnerable and afraid, BUT you don’t deserve to hear my story just so I can try and make you NOT ABUSE ME EMOTIONALLY FOR HAVING BEEN ABUSED PHYSICALLY.
It’s hard to explain without telling you why that whole “what’s in this drink?” line makes me want to throw up. I wasn’t allowed to leave. I was physically assaulted and then sexually assaulted. I was told that it was what I wanted. I was told it was what I deserved. I was outed and then left to defend myself against skinheads. I was almost thrown onto subway tracks. AFTER I TRIED TO LEAVE.
You don’t deserve to hear my story. You’ve proven that. I want to tell you all the horrible, violent, terrifying and graphic details so you’ll take my argument seriously but you’ve proven that my feelings don’t matter to you; only facts matter. I don’t matter to you.
I’m still playing all this over in my head a month later. I’m still thinking about who I can trust and who can’t hear what I’m saying. Listen to the song if you want but hear me when I say your jokes and memes and posts are painful and that that song reminds me of experiences I’d rather never have lived through.
ELDER QUEER STORYTELLING WORKSHOP
19-23 AUGUST 2024
Pirates
I’m an army brat. I don’t have a hometown, an ancestral home. We moved a lot so my home was whatever room I slept in and my own strange, sparkly, anxious brain. I grew up in houses where there was so much talking for how little we actually said. Voices were often loud, angry, overlapping and when I spoke, I wasn’t heard.
I talked a lot, trying to be heard – my Dad used to say I’d been vaccinated with a phonograph needle. My Mom waved my report cards and told me my teachers said I was a good student, but I talked too much. I did talk a lot trying so hard to be heard.
Little curious, dorky, awkward me learned in public school that talking made me a target, of teachers, because my hand was always up, answering a question or asking one, and of other kids because I was a dorky, awkward, fat kid.
My story is like many others; I was a target for bulliesbecause I was different, awkward, fat. The reasons don’t matter - bullies bully and standing up for myself lead to more abuse. Teachers that told me to just avoid the bullies when I told them about any of it. My first month in a new high school, I had my fingers broken in a corner of the gym chasing a volleyball. I never cried or said anything about it. What was the point? I wrote essays and tests with my fingers in splints, and everyone just ignored why that was happening.
I fled that terrible small town. Ran head long into so much more than I could handle. I got accepted to university but didn’t really go (a story for another time) and when student loan money ran out so did my housing.
When you’re homeless you have no voice. You need to ask for what you need and if people hear you, they expect ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and for you to perform the script they give you. I could say what I liked, but I was judged on scorecards I couldn’t see.
In movies the passage of years is shown with calendar pages fluttering off the wall. See 4 years drift away. I found people who heard me, helped me. I’d only been out officially for about 6 months when I started using my voice in peer support groups and phone lines. I found my family, my people and they listened to me. For the first time in a long time, I felt heard and seen, getting support when I needed it, sometimes without even asking.
Watch more calendar pages drift over a montage of marriage, family of choice, jobs, social work school because that was what I was born to do – use my voice to help others see themselves as capable, valuable, worthy of good things.
On a cold, grey winter day in 2004 I am student social workerin a placement with the Toronto District School Board.
I’m doing an anti-homophobia workshop for Grade 9 students.
I speak about my experience of not fitting in, of my struggle to find myself, my place, my voice.
After the presentation I’m packing up and a 14-year-old boy shyly approached me and asked if he could ask me a personal question. I’d just spent an hour giving the class some pretty personal information so I smiled and said yes, of course he could.
He steps very close, leans toward my left ear, and quietly asks, ‘Do you like pirates?’
I blinked, not sure why this was his question, and said, “Yes! I’ve liked pirates since I was little.”
His face breaks into a huge grin and he starts telling me about a pirate RPG that he and his friends write and play. Suddenly I’m surrounded by Grade 9 boys excitedly telling me about their pirate adventures and cosplays. They laughed and talked over each other, showing me their whole hearts. I could only smile. They made me feel the salt air, the wind, and the adventure of the high seas.
A teacher is telling us that we need to finish up so the room can be set up for the next workshop. I look at all their sweet faces, and I say, “I’m going to tell you something. You might roll your eyes now but promise me you’ll never change. Stay enthusiastic and don’t let anyone tell you, you can’t be excited about things, that need to change.” Let that be the thing they remember from the workshop.
As I drove back to work, I wondered what I’d said that made him want to reach out. He might have been questioning his sexuality and wanting to make a connection with a safe, queer adult but….
The more I thought about it, the more I realised that those boys had heard my stories of feeling othered and excluded and they wanted to let me know that they’d heard me. We were others together. They’d heard me, my voice made a difference.
MY VOICE WAS HEARD. And yes, I still like pirates.
Dusting this space off so I can write out some feelings.
Saw Kinds of Kindness yesterday with people from our condo building. 3 people over 70 and Bonnie and I. I’ll start by saying one of the others grinds my last gear most of the time. She’s casually homophobic, casually racist, casually elitist, very common, and kind of stupid. Not stupid, just unable and unwilling to see past herself. Oh, and very vocal in all those aspects.
So, the movie was challenging. Dark, cruel, full of obsession and manipulation. I was uncomfortable with so many things in it. Bonnie left because it triggered her so badly but I was curious so I stayed. In the end I’m not sure the discomfort was worth the length and clunky dialogue but I didn’t think it was the worst thing I’ve ever watched.
So, I endured a lot of comments and ranting about how bad and worthless the movie was to watch All 4 of the others were really unhappy with the experience and Patricia was particularly vitriolic about it. I made my opinion clear, weird, too long, very uncomfortable but there were things I liked.
Today, I ran into Patricia and one of her friends and Patricia ranted on again, just pushing me when I wouldn’t condemn the movie as horrible. The thing is, I can’t talk to Bonnie because she freaks out about the content she saw. I’d like to be able to talk to someone, anyone, who would engage with the material.
There are things I’d love to be able to talk through with someone. Bonnie is easily triggered, flustered, aggravated, angered, and just doesn’t want to talk about things. There’s a new Time Bandits series and there are accusations of abuse on the set. I’d like to watch it but I wanted to know how bad the accusations were. When I started to talk to Bonnie she was concerned about cancel culture and how much I’ve read about various problems and how problematic I am.
I’m lonely in so many ways. I make myself small so I don’t have to fight with people. I want connection. I want to matter as my whole self.
It’s not going to happen but I’d like to try.
Prince Phillip died today at 99 years old. He and Queen Elizabeth have been married for almost 74 years. I am not his biggest fan - he was arrogant, had public affairs because he was frustrated with the role he was required to play, and seems to have tortured Prince Charles to toughen him up. But, all that being said, I don’t agree with mocking people in death. I’ve seen some really tasteless memes and the man died 6 hours ago.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m trying to write every day, even if it’s just a few sentences. Hopefully I’ll be able to be interesting often enough that I won’t bore myself.....
We’re back in lockdown - this is the 4th time since March 2020. I’m tired, tired, tired.
CBC had an article on the effects of isolation on all of. It said that self regulation requires effort and at this point in the pandemic we’re all very tired of regulating our emotions and so people are giving up. So, so, so tired,
Struggling with the idea of doing my photography program mostly online. I really, really, really wanted an opportunity to get outside and meet new people and develop some new skills.
I’m 59 today. I’m now older than my brother Darcy when he died.
I had cake and presents and cards and, a ton of love on Facebook. When I sat down to write this post I felt okay but..... grief is a sneaky bastard. So many people who are out of birthdays and I’ve seen more birthdays than I have left to celebrate.
COVID-19 sucks so much joy from the world. Ontario has fucked around with closures and lockdowns, and stay at home orders, so we’re worse off than other provinces who put rules in place and stuck to them.
I’m hopefulcranky and wishingtired.
Watching Sunday Morning yesterday and one of the segments was titled, ‘Agree to Disagree’. It was about the power of conversation, getting people together to thoughtfully discuss difference and I was frustrated with the Kumbiya vibe. Sometimes it’s not just a difference of opinion, it’s standing up for human rights and challenging hate and bigotry. Denying someone’s humanity isn’t an opinion, it’s hate speech; thinking that people who are different colours, ethnicities, sexualities, genders, are less than you isn’t so et we can agree to disagree on. Bigots need to be challenged and sanctioned when they spew their shit, full stop.
Denying people access to services and jobs because you think they’re less valid than you must stop. Those views must be challenged and smashed. The world can’t move forward until we are all equal.
It’s Easter Sunday and I’m good tired from all the food prep and cooking. I made ham with apricot hoisin sauce and lighter scalloped potatoes with stock instead of milk or cream. Very, very yummy.
I’m grateful that Bonnie does all our shopping and brought home all the ingredients - I just cut and cook.👩🏻🍳
I had hoped to be more interesting in these posts but...... I’m tired and it’s a pandemic 😷.
I’ll keep trying to write every day and I’ll try to have more to say.
I’ve been thinking about how we see and how we’re seen; shadows and light.
Experience influences the lens we use to weigh and measure events and emotions.
There’s more to say here but I’m tired and I’ll have to come back here
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tarot card of the day - Ace of Athames from the Green Witch Tarot
I have thoughts about the Netflix movie Ma Rainey’s Blackbottom. I hadn’t read the synopsis for the movie, really and expected it to be about blues legend Ma Rainey but it was about her very troubled trumpet player. The story was wrapped in a recording session and we saw Ma fighting for her right to be respected but in the end it was a story about a man written by a man.
Viola Davis’ performance was so huge and juicy I really wanted more of her. Chadwick Boseman owned his role as Levy and he was amazing in his intensity but...... it really felt like she was used to serve the story of the men in the movie.
The script implied Ma was bisexual and it referenced Bessie Smith to enforce that, I think, but didn’t tell much of her struggles to forge her own path in music and in life. She made a lot of money and had a huge influence in music but all we get in the movie is how difficult she was for men to work with.
I don’t know, maybe I’m being unduly critical. It was a well-made, well written movie and all the performances were stellar but..... I’m still annoyed by yet another erasure of a woman’s story by men.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tarot card of the day is The World Tree (21) from The Green Witch Tarot - Transition; hope in the face of inevitable change. Ontario is back in a lockdown, not a stay at home order, so things are closed except when they aren’t and people aren’t supposed to gather except when they can/do. I’m so tired of all this.....
Hello, Universe.
Effy Wild is hosting a 30 day blog challenge and here I am.
It’s 2021, the beginning of the second year of lockdown. The past year has contained Zoom calls and Broadway/West End shows on YouTube, Black Lives Matter and Me, Too, tarot study and applying to Algonquin College again.
“There is no time but now, there is no place but here, in the sacred we do stand, in a circle hand in hand.” These are the words I’m going to say to myself this month and we’ll see where I go
