Why you lust us but don’t love us

“Crazy chicks are better in bed.”

Let’s explore this.

We’re actually more inelligent and more sexually adventurous than “normal” women. Hard statistics. No pun intended.
And guess what? Not all mentally unstable women have a lack of confidence. In fact, my confidence is one of the reasons men don’t like me, and women love me. It’s beyond that.
It’s a fetish of men’s. “Crazy girls are better in bed.” I’ve heard it a thousand times.
Cuz guess what? It’s easier for you to blame us for being hurt by your selfish bullshit because we’re “crazy.”
When you do it to “normal” women, and they get upset, you have to be faced with the reality of what you’ve done.
But we’re “just crazy.” We’re “overly emotional.” We “cause drama.”
Even though you’re often the ones to assume that any reaction we have to your misbehavior is just us being crazy instead of taking accountability for your actions.
So you can just fuck us and move on. Clean conscience.
And if you don’t want drama in your relationship, you don’t want love. Because love isn’t easy, or perfect, or fun all the time. And we mentally unstable women understand that. We’re willing to forgive your nonsense. But you won’t forgive our uncommon sense.
And that’s one of the reasons we are unstable. Because we’ve been hurt. And because we continue to get hurt. Because maybe, since we cry easily, we’re treated like every tear that trickles down our faces is unjustified.
You don’t even care if you’re good for us or not. You just want what you want. And if you make the problem worse, it’s our fault too.
Because we let you stick your dick inside of us.
Because for some reason, all of that abuse we suffered our entire lives has made you no worse than every other man, no more or less than any other man.
You keep us unstable. And you like it that way.
Because then, when you misbehave, you get to blame us.
It’s a nice little “psycho” cycle for you.

Remember her?

“Hey, remember that weird chick we went to high school with? Look at this.”

“Hey, remember that crazy bitch I used to get with? Look at this shit.”

“Oh shit. Remember that queer… thing…we met at that thing? Look at this.”

“Holy shit! Remember that dyke lunatic that got kicked out at that bar where we were kickin it? Look at this.”

“Look at this! Remember her, that bitch who wish she had a dick?

“Oh damn. Holy shit.”

“Oh God. Remember that…damaged…kid I took in? Oh God. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Yeah, why, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Look at this.”

Marginalization–My Experience

Since late August of last year, I’ve been painted into a corner. That corner has become smaller and smaller. Poverty doesn’t help, but I don’t really think that’s the brunt of it. It’s as much a result as it is a cause of my marginalization.

I don’t know if it’s because I so easily used to pass as cis, or if I was so much better at hiding my PTSD, but in a lot of ways–which I’m struggling at times to maintain–I’m the same person I was before I came out about all of this. Yet, in the eyes of others, I am not.
But a “woman” with women’s issues who “acts like a man” with a man’s mentality is not acceptable to the majority. The vast majority.

I can’t hold down a job like waitressing, or customer service and cashiering for a gas station. I’m too easily triggered by harrassment. I’ve lost all patience for it.

So what have I been doing instead? Hustling like crazy to scrape together enough to survive—a few more days, a couple more weeks. Freelance editing, part-time tutoring, odds and ends.

Is that enough? Apparently, it isn’t.

I swallowed my pride. GoFundMe and all that. $682 to help me out. I am so incredibly grateful to the people who donated to my cause. It kept me going for a good stretch.

Family–the family who still considers me as such and who doesn’t blame me for where I stand–did what they could. But they aren’t made of money.

It is often the wealthiest in the family who most easily dismiss the poor as people who made their own beds, dug their own graves. Especially when you don’t turn out how they wanted.

I’m strange. Weird. Queer. Damaged goods. It’s become pretty obvious.

I’m not woman enough for some, not man enough for others. Where does that leave me? On the outside, rejected by the same people who never had a problem with me when they thought I was “just a girl.”

I’m shredded, inside and out. So where do I belong?

In the margins. In the far corners of the pages, in my own, inconspicuously conspicuous category. Not gay, not straight, not a lesbian, not cis, not trans.

And for some reason, even the people on that list who are already on the fringes of society often don’t have it in them to make the conscious decision not to hypocritically follow the same path as their oppressors. They don’t seem able to embrace those who are different from themselves.

Therein lies the way in which the oppressed become yet another extension of the oppressor.

It’s subtle. Rarely said aloud, but deafening in action.

People scratch their heads. Back away, fade away. Dismiss me out of hand. Hands thrown up, hands withdrawn from mine. Stoves turned on high to repel my touch. At some point, it’s more pain than it’s worth to reach out.


The man points and watches
He laughs and slaps me
With a judgment
A sentence without a crime
17 years and counting in
A cold-hot prison
With a filthy, cracked window
Obscuring what illumination could be

The man adjusts himself
Over me with his cheap, dirty
Pokes through
The bars of my cage
Baring his
Teeth in a grimacing grin
Like a bully in front of Teacher

The man points and watches
He scoffs and scorns reproachfully
As his own weight crushes me
Asking why I don’t just get out from underneath him

One more week left
In the safe place I sit
Times are tough all around, and
“It is what it is”

There’s just too much to lift
There’s just too much to beat
All on my own
Will life end in this ditch?

Well-meant advice, thoughts
And prayers
And I’m sorries

Despite great intentions
Ironically empty
From clouded perception
From not enough questions

Say the magic words
“I hope things get better for you”
Do you really
Thank you
Me Too

I should stop here
But I never do

The man loves to believe
That this is my doing
Notice the questions he does not ask
Why so scared
Why are you crying
Why so mired in despair
Why do you wake up screaming in terror
Why are you so mad, almost to madness
Notice what he does not ask

And why is this so
Though he’d die before he’d admit it
He already knows

It’s too hard to face his worst fears
That this isn’t some twisted attempt at the theatre
That the hideous truth resides in my tears
Abiding the loss of more
Year after year
Messed up
By kin, friends, peers

How do I heal
Vultures circling overhead
Wistfully wishing for and awaiting my defeat
No cover for months and for miles
Wouldn’t I be so much prettier if I just smiled
Wouldn’t I?

Kit Rion

What makes up the walls we build from things life throws our way isn’t completely representative of us. It just shows the build of whatever bricks or debris–big or small–we have mortared around ourselves to find comfort. What we were handed, what we decided to do with it, who helped us innovate, who inhibited us, how it held up. And how often do you benefit most from moving?

Some people have few doors built in, and small windows with old, thick glass they inherited from the rubble that was their childhood home. They have, more or less, medieval defense techniques. They seclude themselves from the outside and the outsiders, walking around and around, staring at the wallpaper they chose for the inside. Spiky, repressed, repressive. Lots of carefully poised family portraits line the walls.

Shards from all the shattered remnants of the bombastic past are all but doomed to show up here and there, insidiously hidden, pointing inward and outward. They litter the floor and show up randomly on presumed clean surfaces. It’s almost impossible to remove every booby trap from even the most valiant attempt at a child’s hastily created bomb shelter.

Kids plant weapons like squirrels bury nuts. Little pieces of glass that they know first-hand can be hurtful. Little scraps of shrapnel, like the ones lodged deep under their skin, causing chronic pain and scar tissue that presses against and into them from the inside. Those little scraps cut deeply enough for self-defense–or, if worst comes to worst, self-destruction.

If walls don’t have enough support, they collapse. People sometimes deal with freezing cold or burning hot conditions, depending on whatever gets through from the other side at that moment. Can there be an inside if it is not separated from the outside?

The general result of broken windows and others with no insulation? Maintaining temperance is almost impossible. Thin walls. No privacy. Draft after draft after draft. Bare, exposed, raw materials. No finish. And such a flimsy barrier between the individual and the elements.

As for foundations, who knows. We rarely see far beyond the surface of our own walls, let alone beyond others’. Discovering as much of people’s stories as I do is an invaluable gift.

Unfortunately, there isn’t as much humanity can do to change foundations without their complete demolition and reconstruction. And sometimes, you can’t move. But that foundation…sometimes it crumbles. Sometimes, you started with termites.

Do our walls have to be our walls, or can we move? The answer isn’t always up to us, but we have to think about it–really think hard–before we say we’re always going to have to be where we are right now.