where fits the Funk

i've given up trying to understand my own, peculiar delena grammar. i used to be such a grammar queen. then i was promoted to "grammar nazi," which was then shortened to "grammazi." all lower j's dotted, all p's and q's minded, capital letters at the beginning of sentences, "for which," and "for whom," where it was proper, and no dangling participles. then i saw maganda.org, created by someone i grew up with, made paper dolls with her and the clothes that went on them, swum in her pool, fell in everlasting love with dried mangoes in her house (mmm, dried mangoes...), and where i learned about somewhere that wasn't the catholic church or mexico-americo: the filipines.

she wrote, back then, in all lower case. since she's always been more creative and intellectual than me by miles and miles, i thought it was just so chic and smart-looking, so i did it, too.

now i resent having to press the SHIFT key. kind of like when i moved to oregon. now i get indignant whenever i'm expected to pay sales tax.

go figure.

wow, what a tangent... what made me think of it was because i wrote this title, where fits the Funk, and had to go back and capitalize the "f" in Funk. Funk's just one of those that has a permanent capital letter here at iGoddess. some capitals come and go, but Funk is Forever.

for all of today and most of yesterday, the Funk has been somewhat un-Funkalicious in me. oh, it's still there, believe me. but my letter of obligation has gotten me seriously thinking. the pain of what i lost in the Summer of Funky Kali Love is like an old injury that flares up now and again. i really want to write that letter. i do. i just don't want them to think the horrible things i know they think about me.

i'm a good person. i am. i feel guilty swatting flies inside the house of dragons' rest. i detest spiders, and i still escort them outside to continue on their merry, eight-legged way. i go out of my way not to offend someone, and will endure years of agony and mental and/or emotional hurt to keep someone else from hurting. all without even really giving it a thought.

i know. most of it was conditioning, programming. as erica jong says in the poem i love so much --the one that inflamed me to be a revolutionary freedom fighter for beauty, truth, and Funk-- years of training are required to be the best slave. in my reading, i'm noticing something that the authors don't mention, but i'm seeing to be true across the board.

and yet, there is something to be said for simply possessing a kind, truly empathic nature.

codependents are not cruel people. most of them don't possess a malicious or conniving bone in their body. they're all highly empathic people who wouldn't dream of hurting anyone, and who were so hurt as children they do naught but live each day trying to protect themselves from ever being hurt like that again. they live in fear so ingrained, it's etched in their bones. they only want to protect themselves from that fear, to ensure they never again feel the overwhelming, out-of-control terror against which they were powerless to protect themselves.

i feel no animosity toward them, no enmity. i feel aught but compassion for them, much as i've been accused of lacking in it. compassion, however, only goes so far when i sense i am once more being placed into the house of oppression and someone is my self-appointed bio-father.

i imagine it must sting painfully, receiving love like i wholly give it, trusting with abandon in the beginning, only to be pushed away and not know why. i used to be very private and somber as a child and teenager, except i was accused of reprehensible things. who calls their twelve year-old daughter a slut, accuses her of being a drug addict? backstabbed, again and again, by family and best friends, all because i kept my own counsel. my own bio-father had taught me trust was poisonous. but after the years of accusations and suddenly losing friends because of something someone else had accused me of --and me lacking any proof other than my word-- i promised my life would be an open book henceforth.

everyone would know everything about me, so no one could sling mud. i aired my family's dirty laundry to our church groups. i flaunted my abusive relationships at school. i was a right hellion at home, butting heads with my bio-father and saying, "fuck you all," right in my bio-mother's face.

i uttered other words, moved in other fashions, but all the same i was screaming at the top of my lungs for someone to get me out of there and help me, because i was sinking fast.

story of my life: no one heard. not for almost thirty years.

i was superbly trained for it, conditioned from a right early age. as soon as i came of age, i began my codependence in earnest...without knowing that's what i was doing. and i didn't know that i didn't know. y'know, in my heart of hearts, i wish i were born in the 1500's where i could have led the life of a courtesan in italy. i've actually studied a lot of the artful subjects they studied back then, and when i'm comfortable, i engage in them. things like debate, art, writing (duh), dance, music, voice, poetry, logic... i thought they would make me desirable as a female. in truth, there are quite a few people who still remember me so powerfully they remain in contact, or try to, anyway. only one, *ws* i've kept as a friend.

where was i going with this? only here: i've tried to be good, but the profession to which i was conditioned was far different from what i would have chosen for myself, had i been taught i was worthy of the power of choice. i've tried to make myself good, and desirable, and approved, even unto educating myself with archaic professions late into the night. i used to be a compulsive liar in high school...a good one. i stopped that habit cold turkey when i realized the truth was far more powerful.

but the fear... the terror and hatred and revulsion, knowing down to my soul that i was so corrupted every breath i took was a crime against nature... all anyone had to do was just look at me with even an ounce of authority, and i knew my place was so far below them. when i felt myself being discounted, disenfranchised, treated carelessly, i did the only thing that was in my meager power: i hid. and those people who hate me now, they accuse me of using people, of creating a pattern of lies, of abusing trust.

an old injury that complains now and again.

all they knew was that, over a long period of time --in some cases two years-- i had pushed them away, little by little, and they did not see it until they were so distantly left out that what they thought i was about did not coincide with events transpiring around them. all they saw were lies, and as my greggo has said, it's easier to blame someone else rather than see fault in your own self. to me, they simply were no longer trustworthy to keep close in my heart, so they had no clue what was going on, how long it had been going on, or how deeply it terrified me.

living in the house of oppression had taught me many things, especially how to keep secrets and a straight poker face, even in the midst of bodily violation. they had no way of knowing i had pulled away. i loved them. they loved me. my distrust of them, while earned, hurt them. i feel remorse for hurting them, and wish to rectify it.

i don't want to leave myself open to further pain, however. and while i know my intent is to deliver my letter of ownership, nothing more, anything other than gladness and willingness to forgive would pain me. the abused child in me is afraid they would use this new strength of mine, find the shadow side --the vulnerability-- and use it as a weapon.

i don't wish forgiveness, honestly. i don't wish for compassion, or friendship, open discourse, or any of it. i only want understanding, as i've grown to understand myself, codependence, and addiction. actually, for my entire life, i could never forgive myself for my life...until i understood it. and myself. for the first time ever, i can forgive myself, and i'm ready to learn what love really means. i wish i could make a double of me, so that i could hold my head in my lap, stroke my hair the way the bio-mom used to do when i was young and ill with flu or bronchitis, and just hold me while i cry.

the past couple weeks, i've felt this sudden, powerful upsurge of tears. it starts somewere in my womb, or maybe even deeper, and shoots like a geyser up my body and thunders against the backside of my face. my throat clenches up so tight i can't breathe, and my vision blurs.

i want to cry so badly, and it's almost there. all those tears i knew were there and wanted to finally get out but never could... through the power of loving my family, my mom and dad's love and patience, my new understanding of codependence, my newfound self-forgiveness, and the Supremely Funky Jive of the Cosmos, the tropical floodgates have opened upon the barren wasteland of my soul. but i still can't cry. i don't know if it's just long-standing habit --for a single tear was punishable by the belt, with generous helpings of shame-- or if i'm just not there yet.

all i know is, i'm left wondering where fits the Funk in all this. the Funk permeates all: our daily lives, our love, our little daily deaths, and our melancholy. aside from a not-so-little death, i don't know yet where to place this in the song of Funk.