- Easy and very effective
- Requires nothing but your body
- Includes attack
Please reblog
via the-cinnamon-peelers-wife (originally freeselfdefense)
So much respect for that.
wow this is the fist thing on tumblr that makes me want to tear up
via statesofmate (originally littleunemployedwaif)
An update.
The last several days of my life have been very complicated and very tangled, but I can say with a certain level of pride that I am extremely pleased they happened the way they did, even if it wasn’t the easiest.
The confrontation went about as well as something like that could ever be expected to, and I somehow managed to handle the level of police involvement in a way that allowed for it to be beaten down into much more manageable bites, until I had the whole thing back under my own personal control. I came out on top, as I hoped I would. I had mountains of support the entire way.
Today is my first day back in my little yellow house after being away for over a week (Toronto first, then my hometown), and I felt intense relief walking back through the door to a space I controlled. It was a beautiful, sunny Spring day today, only made better by the fact I got to spend some quiet time with CH before he left for Toronto again, and also by the fact that I received a very special phone call from the CMHA (finally) today - I have an interview next Thursday for position of speaker… my name finally breached and they are interested in calling an event in my name. How incredible is that? An event, at which I am the key speaker, telling of my experiences with mental health over the last decade of my life. Whoa.
Thank you all so much for your patience and support over the last long while. I couldn’t have done it without you.
I have had a rough two weeks.
There is a lot of hurt, resentment, and straight-up rage pumping through my system these days. I am a small part of many layers of humanity that are consistently damaged by other, better-off portions of it. Why do I say that? What do I mean?
I am female.
I am mentally-ill.
I am disabled.
I live on social assistance.
I am a rape and molestation survivor.
I am of First Nations heritage.
I cannot often leave my house on my own. Medication keeps me sane enough to remain free of suicidal ideation. Even the thought of being a sexual being is enough to make me cringe on certain days, though I have thankfully managed to retain the ability to happily kiss my loving, supportive boyfriend when I have the opportunity to see him. I cannot work, or maintain many relationships with ease - if I get to talk to another person out-loud on a given day, it is a sociable day. I read the news and see blatant, venomous racism directed at people I share a heritage with. I use social networking and watch my closest family and friends make jokes and rip into those who live on welfare. I speak up about it and watch as they defend themselves instead of defending me, the person their words are harming.
I have lost friends to suicide, answered the frantic calls of friends whose friends were assaulted, been the confident of three different family members’ rape victim status, and spent days on end in bed because it’s just too much to fathom being awake and alert for more than four hours at a time. I am tired, even though I sleep so much.
The longer I’m awake, the more time is passing during which I could be a useful member of society: someone who changes the things that hurt so that they don’t happen to other people. I want to, very much - I just don’t have the legs for it when I get this bogged down by reminders every last day I choose to open my eyes. I resent it. I am angry. I am more than angry. I am tired.
My rapists and abusers get to go on living their lives with popularity, love, and fun. I get to sit in my little house, trapped and away from other people, now even through the technology that once kept me at arm’s length.
MPs in Parliament get to band together and question my right to bodily autonomy, even though it has been out of debate for years, as recently as less than a week ago.
If I leave my house, I have to carry a knife.
When I feel discomfort when people say hurtful things, I am told to get a thicker skin.
My heritage continues to be questioned for legitimacy by the people who made sure I won’t ever meet my blood relatives thanks to residential school pregnancy and forced adoption. I instead get to watch from a distance as those who share ancestors with me are alternately called lazy money pits, and terrorists, simply for holding peaceful protests that ask why their rights as human beings have been ignored for so long by the country that gave them promises.
“Crazy” is the leading term for undesirable women. The looney bin is where I get my treatment to stay alive. There is no sign on the door saying what department it is, because that would be embarrassing and potentially job-endangering for its patients.
I am all sorts of layers.
I am tired, and I am angry.
