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Fuck. Shit. Damn.

Lately I have been thinking about transformation and creativity in healing. For the first time in a long time, I think I actually stopped walking around the shit pile long enough to survey what was happening. The shit keeps coming. Fucktard is not going to stop trying everything he can to shit all over my life, my humanity, and my dignity. He will take anything I do to make better for myself, stand up for myself, contribute to the life of my children, and do his damnedest to shit all over it. I am certain if I had cancer or some debilitating illness, he would, in his typical “kick-em-while-they’re-down” fashion, smear the worst smelling shit imaginable all over that situation. And there would be no way to clean it off.

So here I am, continually in this situation where I’m totally fucked. I’m scapegoated. I’m punished. It’s not going away. At some point, I thought there might be a resolution. But ex-tard is determined to impoverish me, no matter how it affects the children.

It seems overwhelming. When I look back over these past 5 years, I have had many moments where I’ve felt so overwhelmed I wanted to give up completely. I wanted to give in and be done. I wonder sometimes if I should have given in.  A pile of shit that high is scary. I am scared to death that it will topple over and that I will be completely obliterated by shit…that I will successfully be impoverished and become a burden to society and be left with nothing. I’m not even talking about material things. I’m talking about having things too big to handle. I’m talking about dealing with people who have no conscience. I’m talking about people who ENJOY causing my suffering, and who see absolutely no moral connection between what they are doing and what kind of example it sets for my children. This causes a deep wrestling within me, for this IS the kind of shit you don’t want to hear….that human beings can act so inhuman when given the choice to do the right thing.

There is only one thing to do. Transform. I’m an artist. I make things. I create out of thin air. I simply need to make myself new and see this situation with new eyes and think on my feet for how to step around the shit without slipping on it, how to hold my nose to the stench while I’m balancing things in my other hand, and how to make my spirit even more beautiful.

And that’s the artistic impulse in therapy: bringing chaos into order. My task is to make beauty of this situation, through sheer will, really. I have been slushing through shit by force of will. I’m either crazy or really, really determined. It’s going to happen. There’s a shit show every hour and I might as well find a way to make it count for something.

My entrance into the world of so-called “social problems”
Must be with quiet laughter, or not at all.
The hollow men of anger and bitterness
The bountiful ladies of righteous degradation
All must be left to a bygone age.
And the purpose of history is to provide a receptacle
For all those myths and oddments
Which oddly we have acquired
And from which we would become unburdened
To create a newer world
To translate the future into the past.
We have no need of false revolutions

In a world where categories tend to tyrannize our minds
And hang our wills up on narrow pegs.
It is well at every given moment to seek the limits in our lives.
And once those limits are understood
To understand that limitations no longer exist.
Earth could be fair. And you and I must be free
Not to save the world in a glorious crusade
Not to kill ourselves with a nameless gnawing pain
But to practice with all the skill of our being
The art of making possible.

-Nancy Scheibner

 

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