The
further a society drifts from the truth, the more it will hate those who speak
it.
George Orwell
A couple of years ago I got a tattoo. Not one of those tiny hummingbirds on my upper thigh and only seen by my husband and dermatologist. I'm painted with a big splash of feathers across my upper chest that is impossible to ignore—though some do try.
I see those folks, their eyes scuttling from my tattoo back up to my eyes in an up-down motion, furtive and at times ashamed, as though they are looking deep in my undie drawer and have found a red lacy pair inscribed with "spicy". I find these people incredibly interesting. All that horrified-at-themselves and inability-not-to-look agony. It comes to me as self-shaming within a crowd of one.
OMG is that a tattoo?
Who would get such a big tattoo?
Does she think that looks good?
Uh-oh, does she know I'm silently judging her?
Shit. That makes me bad or something, right?
STOP looking at the tattoo.
Can't.
Shit. I am that bad person.
There are others who can't keep from judging out loud, their in-side voices escaping the lips to run amok in the vegetable aisle.
"That's a big tattoo you've got there."
At my "oh-here-we-go" nod, they continue.
"Why'd you get it?"
The face of the person typically scrunches up as though an overripe melon has gone bad and the stink has invaded their airspace. I occasionally feel compelled to toy with this appalled-state they've landed in with one of several snarky replies.
"Why'd I get what?" while dead-stare-daring them in the eyeballs to gesture at my flock of feathers or in a super-mean mood I state with purposeful offhandedness "Was drunk on tequila and held down by witches." or meaner still and naked-to-the-bone "It was something I promised myself to do if I survived my childhood."
The latter, closer to the truth than I want to fully explain in the grocery store, is designed to get the person to skedaddle to the frozen section with freshly "oh-god-why-did-I-ask" slapped cheeks.
Telling the truth is a beautiful act, even if the truth itself is ugly.
Glen Duncan
I've had a few people manage to throttle on past my snark, their in-side voices so disconnected from what is being said that they obtusely toss additional layers of tar, feathers, and tomatoes.
"In my family, we don't believe in tattoos." or "Aren't you afraid of what it will look like when you're old-ER?" or my personal fave "Ever wish you could go back in time and change your mind?"
My name is Taboo.
I have a long list of things people judge me on, my tattoos only one of them.
The way I parent and my beliefs, how deep the leaves get in my yard before I do something about them, the Buddhas without corresponding Jesuses in my office, the color(s) of my hair, size of my ass, and even the curious cluster of bumps on my forehead (Can't you have them removed? No, I can't). There's the incorrigible behavior of my dogs, vibrant hues of my kitchen, "how dare I gleefully wear yoga pants outside of yoga class," and horror-upon-horrors, that I publically admit to seeing a therapist for more than a simple brush-out.
But the most contentious and likely items to elicit discomfited rage that may eventually lead to ostracization are my resistance to forgive abusers without receiving an "I'm sorry," not forcing myself to remain in contact with intolerant family members, and choosing not to shut up about or nice up the realities of living in a world that traumatizes instead of heals.
This lengthy list of why-would-you-do-it-that-ways and taboos doesn't contain the events I haven't yet found the words to speak about. These are the terribly-terribles most people don't want to witness—the kind of damage done in secret by abusers who use silence to get away with it.
Among other, more salacious definers, I've been labeled blabber-mouth, snitch, tattle-tale, liar, bitch, "it," and drama queen. Family members, and in other subversive ways, society, have cordoned me off for choosing not to hide what harm was done to me and sharing the odious, not-pretty, and disturbing lengths it is taking me to recover—if recovery is even possible.
We are living in a time of tipping points.
Our planet is tipping us off it, using ever more violent and uncontrollable means to get us to coexist in a healthy manner. Governments have been tipping into authoritarianism to contain people thinking outside the lines that were drawn in ever-evolving sand. Hatred has tipped the scales of justice and humanity, bringing civil societies to the brink of chaos.
No legacy is so rich as honesty.
William Shakespeare
Every tipping point has a counter-measure, something that could pull humanity back from free-fall, a life-line that might ground us for a sustainable future. The truth is, humans are not only the good parts. We each have very bad parts; traits and experiences that are terribly-terrible. I'm of the opinion our free-fall counter-measure is to learn how to face who we are by no longer dictating what is talked about, to wholly witness our taboos—the bad and the ugly, the scary and the horrendous, along with the hidden and the dangerous aspects of this life for the purpose of our healing.
When symptoms of pain and illness in a body are ignored or covered over, it often ends tragically. Our global tattoos are no longer going to sit quietly beneath clothing and leave us to nice-up the out-side while the in-side shushes and rots.
Truth will ultimately prevail where there is pains to bring it to light.
George Washington
It is time to open-up, listen-up, and heal-up.
George Orwell
A couple of years ago I got a tattoo. Not one of those tiny hummingbirds on my upper thigh and only seen by my husband and dermatologist. I'm painted with a big splash of feathers across my upper chest that is impossible to ignore—though some do try.
I see those folks, their eyes scuttling from my tattoo back up to my eyes in an up-down motion, furtive and at times ashamed, as though they are looking deep in my undie drawer and have found a red lacy pair inscribed with "spicy". I find these people incredibly interesting. All that horrified-at-themselves and inability-not-to-look agony. It comes to me as self-shaming within a crowd of one.
OMG is that a tattoo?
Who would get such a big tattoo?
Does she think that looks good?
Uh-oh, does she know I'm silently judging her?
Shit. That makes me bad or something, right?
STOP looking at the tattoo.
Can't.
Shit. I am that bad person.
There are others who can't keep from judging out loud, their in-side voices escaping the lips to run amok in the vegetable aisle.
"That's a big tattoo you've got there."
At my "oh-here-we-go" nod, they continue.
"Why'd you get it?"
The face of the person typically scrunches up as though an overripe melon has gone bad and the stink has invaded their airspace. I occasionally feel compelled to toy with this appalled-state they've landed in with one of several snarky replies.
"Why'd I get what?" while dead-stare-daring them in the eyeballs to gesture at my flock of feathers or in a super-mean mood I state with purposeful offhandedness "Was drunk on tequila and held down by witches." or meaner still and naked-to-the-bone "It was something I promised myself to do if I survived my childhood."
The latter, closer to the truth than I want to fully explain in the grocery store, is designed to get the person to skedaddle to the frozen section with freshly "oh-god-why-did-I-ask" slapped cheeks.
Telling the truth is a beautiful act, even if the truth itself is ugly.
Glen Duncan
I've had a few people manage to throttle on past my snark, their in-side voices so disconnected from what is being said that they obtusely toss additional layers of tar, feathers, and tomatoes.
"In my family, we don't believe in tattoos." or "Aren't you afraid of what it will look like when you're old-ER?" or my personal fave "Ever wish you could go back in time and change your mind?"
My name is Taboo.
I have a long list of things people judge me on, my tattoos only one of them.
The way I parent and my beliefs, how deep the leaves get in my yard before I do something about them, the Buddhas without corresponding Jesuses in my office, the color(s) of my hair, size of my ass, and even the curious cluster of bumps on my forehead (Can't you have them removed? No, I can't). There's the incorrigible behavior of my dogs, vibrant hues of my kitchen, "how dare I gleefully wear yoga pants outside of yoga class," and horror-upon-horrors, that I publically admit to seeing a therapist for more than a simple brush-out.
But the most contentious and likely items to elicit discomfited rage that may eventually lead to ostracization are my resistance to forgive abusers without receiving an "I'm sorry," not forcing myself to remain in contact with intolerant family members, and choosing not to shut up about or nice up the realities of living in a world that traumatizes instead of heals.
This lengthy list of why-would-you-do-it-that-ways and taboos doesn't contain the events I haven't yet found the words to speak about. These are the terribly-terribles most people don't want to witness—the kind of damage done in secret by abusers who use silence to get away with it.
Among other, more salacious definers, I've been labeled blabber-mouth, snitch, tattle-tale, liar, bitch, "it," and drama queen. Family members, and in other subversive ways, society, have cordoned me off for choosing not to hide what harm was done to me and sharing the odious, not-pretty, and disturbing lengths it is taking me to recover—if recovery is even possible.
We are living in a time of tipping points.
Our planet is tipping us off it, using ever more violent and uncontrollable means to get us to coexist in a healthy manner. Governments have been tipping into authoritarianism to contain people thinking outside the lines that were drawn in ever-evolving sand. Hatred has tipped the scales of justice and humanity, bringing civil societies to the brink of chaos.
No legacy is so rich as honesty.
William Shakespeare
Every tipping point has a counter-measure, something that could pull humanity back from free-fall, a life-line that might ground us for a sustainable future. The truth is, humans are not only the good parts. We each have very bad parts; traits and experiences that are terribly-terrible. I'm of the opinion our free-fall counter-measure is to learn how to face who we are by no longer dictating what is talked about, to wholly witness our taboos—the bad and the ugly, the scary and the horrendous, along with the hidden and the dangerous aspects of this life for the purpose of our healing.
When symptoms of pain and illness in a body are ignored or covered over, it often ends tragically. Our global tattoos are no longer going to sit quietly beneath clothing and leave us to nice-up the out-side while the in-side shushes and rots.
Truth will ultimately prevail where there is pains to bring it to light.
George Washington
It is time to open-up, listen-up, and heal-up.
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