Tools of violence

Identity violence

Symbolic violence

Communication violence

Historic violence

Revisionist violence

Repetitive violence

Infantilising violence

Nostalgic violence

Communication violence

Prejudiced violence

Tiring violence

Destructive violence

Sexual violence

Gendered violence

Religious violence

Spiritual violence

Class violence

Linguistic violence

Colourist violence

Male violence

White male violence

Co-opting violence

Toxic violence

Co-opted toxic violence

Ideological violence

Paternalistic violence

Patriarchal violence

Symbolically patriarchal violence

Promotional violence

Just violence

Violence violence

Tiring violence

Too tired coz I’m broken and it’s the result of all the above and more violence

Mental violence

Inferred violence

Implicit violence

Bright-eyed violence

Broken souls violence

The once you had bright eyes but then you got co-opted and are stuck but still need peeps and I get it but don’t you get that I get it, so why you gotta erase the stuff we excavate and stop us entering and flinging open the doors-no revision check, not open the doors break all these fracking symbolic capitalistic colonial walls – so that we can all evolve together and your tired eyes can weep and rejoice in celebration with us all, bold beautiful and brave and bound to the forward March of completing our shared ancestors abolitionist principles and journeys to create a new fair fresh deprogrammed society so we keep being we and us, and you and me, happy and free together… urgh! Gah! For f***! *sigh* but you can’t and that’s violent, violence.

So instead here we stand. Ina pyramid and I keep trying to educate and create and collate and collaborate while we survive and you thrive but I don’t even cry coz I’m proud inside that at least someone who got one part of our ancestral spirit souls good side to the table where it’s all about whose there to dine, and whose outside… not about our fellow people who die and are also pushed towards pipelines to die. Whether quickly or slowly, that’s for us all to see with our eyes.

I’m too tired to speak, so I’ll leave it to that… and sleeps for the night.


No end..

The kind of night that knows no end,

The bitter northern winds howl,

like the devilish hounds that have pushed us to the brink.

unsure of what exists and what is to begin,

where we’ll be be led and what will be got rid,

What will leave and what will be eradicated in this din.

Here’s hoping that no harm comes forth in our midst,

though harsh and selfishly I cry,

At the plight that touches not this,

Allowed to warble self-pityingly about some external, self-absorbent shit.

All the while wishing against wish that I could but hold my love, to kno that I am mine and he his, but that some holy force blesses that union before the world crumbles into mist.

An Eternal Lover’s Rhetorical Questions:

It’s only been a week and I wonder how you sleep,

whether it’s covered in rays of fluorescent light,

lonely like me or within a new lovers huddle?

Whose life is enhanced by your insight?

Whose creativity is a newly welcomed frivolous flight?

Whose lives will be within our muddled history’s puddle?

Will she be your new pillowed cushion?

Will I ever remove ‘I’ from our shared past life?

When will this pained, incessant, destructive side ever be quiet?

Do you have a similar, familiar, agitated side, as alive?

Or did it disappear the day you left,

Leaving me bereft?

My dreams twisted,

My faith clutching for it’s existence,

My eyes searching for missed intentions,

My heart melting without it’s thirst ever quenching,

And my mind telling me to write this internal spiting.

For the world needs to know you left me alone and we can never be, are never to become together once more.
I hope it was worth it all.

What do you think?

What do you know?


Today was a dark day. An oh so weary day.

Without dwelling too much into this, today a huge amount of my past was chucked back into my face. As a sensitive person, who tries to empathise and rationalise (oxymoronic I know), I’m left at the end of this day still processing not just my present and future well-being but, again having to navigate my past (mis)takes.

I have been processing and a functioning depressive personality for the past 10 years, 6 of which were healthy years.


Like most young teenage ‘sensitive cry-babies’ I sought treatment for the mass of hormonal, social and physical illnesses I was going through. Tried to reach out. Was admonished by family and friends.Acted out in a, what even now I would say was a middle-of-the road, way. Then I resorted to unhealthy patterns. Some vices (drinking and smoking) tame 50s expressions of radicalisation, which as an Asian girl, was the equivalent of being part of a gang or working on street corners to my parents.


After being rejected, mistrusted and repeatedly fobbed off by doctors.I did manage to get two therapy sessions, but by this time I had found a safe plateau on this never ending journey. I worry now that you dear reader will think I am making up my illness. But I really urge you to read this comic by Marina Watanabe that appeared on my Facebook feed via Buzzfeed. My lack of a concrete medical diagnosis and help in containing and managing my emotional ‘out-of-wack-ness’ is an on-going issue and fight. One that I chose to take up now and again. But on the whole I am happier to get to know and manage myself healthily. I know my triggers, I know how I can sort my head out once my buttons have been pushed and I can happily re-enter and work on rebuilding my trust and love for my fellows in society.


There’s still a lot of stigma that I see, from my part I have always been an extrovert. A talker, sharer and carer. I am able to understand, to empathise, and I try (no matter how hard it gets or how much I don’t want to) to find a way forward for the collective good. But I guess I’m also one of those people judged and more likely seen when I fall, just for being perceived to be loud all the time? Medical staff and actually fellow familial suffers have by far been the worst perpetrators of ‘It’s a phase’ dialogue. Maybe perhaps because an an eloquent young women (as one doc put it) ‘I’m sensible enough to know how to get over it’. Or as someone seen to be removed from the terrible issues that have affected them, I have (questionably) been seen to enjoy a site of privilege.

BUT one thing I have realised and do want to say is; mental illness is not a conscious consequence. Mental illness cannot be picked up and worn. It doesn’t come and attach itself like the virus it is, when you may have been careless. There IS and SHOULD BE no blame for the countless individuals who feel it everyday.


At it’s worst my mental illness made me doubt my existence. There not enough words in me right now to explain how twisted and sick I got. How I could robotically engage myself, smile like I meant it, get great grades, be fun, but at the same time be an internal mess. To feel like I did not, could not exist. That I had no worth. I had no space. No .. just nothing. Complete and utter loneliness. To welcome hurt and pain. To be willing to embrace death but morally against self-inflicted murder.

It seems like a fuzzy Crimewatch reconstruction thinking back. I don’t know how I got myself out of that despair. How I renegotiated my relationships, renewed them healthily, which I did two years before leaving the site of my unhappiness for good.

Now I’m back and all those past selves are haunting. Past pains. Those clumsy instances of otherings and self-otherings I went through. The knowledge that as a young ethnic woman, my space to exist could only come from fulfilling bonds of expectation and acceptance. No matter how overt or covert those requests, demands and threats I must follow suit in negotiating their invisibility. In creating my own pains invisibility. It’s all back.


Now all that is left is to see what I’m going to do. Even I don’t know. But this was cathartic. So thank you! I do want to say, I know I am never alone. I also know I will get through this. My guiding light, my God Allah, my faith, my love and my trust will keep me true and get me through this. My hope is that I don’t cause any more perceived offence or hurt as I try and re-negotiate my existence.


Mostly, though, at times like these I wish I could pin-point what it was that made me like this. If only so that I could know where to point my future time-travelling machine. ^.^