A Work, In Progress...Part 1

By Therisa Godwaldt

© 2014 and 2017 Therisa Godwaldt

All rights Reserved

Stigma Of Survival

The chain
That binds truth
In lies.

Of the horrors
In the name of love
And punishment.

Twisting the light
Into a dark parody
Where reality loses
All meaning
Except for pain.

Molding one's soul
Like clay
On a potter's wheel
With deft hands.

As the banshee wails
The bedroom window
Heralding the death
Of another innocent.

No one hears
Or cares
Until too late.

July 1, 2018
Toronto, Ontario

A sad and bitter sigh escapes, from my raw bitten lips, with this growing level of internal anger. Fighting against, these brutal flashbacks, and childhood memories, of being beaten; physically, verbally, and psychologically; I took, from the other boys and my younger brother; on the schoolyard, and at home. On top, of the chronic psychological abuse, from my mom, destroying, whatever boundaries, I have tried to establish, over the years, growing up. Leaving me, with destructively low levels of self-confidence, self-esteem, and self-worth.

Struggling to keep my bile from rushing forth and flooding my mouth, with the rising tide of nausea, at those hateful words, they spat out, at me, with venom. While the physical bruises and cuts have healed, the mental ones are, still, very toxic to my soul, where I just want the pain to end, regardless, of the method to do so.

It had gotten to the point, I was read, the mental health riot act, by my doctor, after one of my suicide attempts, in November 2013. Warning me, my next attempt would land me, in the psychiatric ward, of Saint Gabriel Hospital, for a period of 72 hours observation. Determining, whether I'm committed, for some type of "treatment", by the attending psychiatrists, there. In the form, of a pharmacological or talk therapy, by the doctors there. Or be released, outright.

Having kept quiet, about another failed attempt, for several days, before telling anyone about it. You see, the clinic, I go to, is one of those satellite offices, operated, by the hospital. Scattered, throughout the downtown core.

Never mind, some members of its psychiatric staff, are blatantly transphobic, as I discovered, during a psychological assessment, which I used to apply, for a disability support program, due to my chronic bouts of depression and suicide attempts. Never realizing, I was struggling with various anxiety disorders, PTSD, and agoraphobia. Ironically, during the assessment, I had one of my suicide attempts, and she writes; I am not clinically depressed. Go figure.

Trust me, when I say, I was royally pissed at the psychiatrist, in the manner, which she handled my assessment. Bleeping b*tch. Throughout the assessment, she tried to trip me up, by constantly, asking her questions, repetitively, hoping to get an angry response, but none come. You would think, after the second hourlong session, of failing to get a response, she would change her tactics, in her assessing me, but no. Grrr! Worse, she never let me, totally explain my experiences to her, and why I had trouble looking her, in the eye. As she constantly cut me off, when I tried to mention my abusive past and violence, I lived through, both verbally and physically.

Wish, I could say, that was my last suicide attempt, but had 2 more attempts, before my last one, on January 2, 2015, having everything lined up, for overdose, in the bathtub. Except, I couldn't follow through on it. Something was stopping me, for acting, upon my intentions, that night.

Before you ask, my earliest memories, of an attempting suicide, is about the age of 9, or thereabouts. Since then, I have lost count of the number of times, I have tried to embrace the void of Death's embrace.Walking away, feeling angry, at myself, for not having the needed drive, to complete this task, of mine. In calling, myself, a fucking coward, for these failed suicide attempts.

I know, we have all heard about the suicide stats, for the trans-community, where 1/3 of us, will attempt suicide, by the age of twenty. Guess, I'm an overachiever, with my head start, at the age of 9. Lucky me.

Oops. Pardon my rudeness, for not introducing myself, to you. My name is or used to be, Timothy Anthony Godwin. As Timothy, being the anglicized version, of my dad's brother Dutch name, Timeon. In honouring my late uncle, who choked to death, before my birth, on a piece of phlegm, during an asthma attack, as his wife, my aunt held him. Think, the Goddess must be laughing, Herself, silly, at the irony of this. Like my deceased uncle, I suffer, from asthma, too.

Nowadays, since my transformation, it's been Therisa Anne Godwin. Yeah, I know my parents "tag"ged, with my birth name. Know, this may sound bizarre, but I was taught, as a child, that family comes first, and my new name is, a way of honouring them. Given they would have named me, Theresa, had I been born female, instead of, male.

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This story is 828 words long.