Monday, December 16, 2013

Soul dreams, violent relationships, etc.

Form April 2004, after a year and a half of an unbearable, but extremely sexual relationship with a violent drunkard (who is now no longer a drunkard, but who apparently still beats on their partner), after getting out of that relationship alive (although friends and family always feared that one night they might receive a call from the police telling them that I was dead at their hands), for the first time in a long while I had a rest solely made possible by me being out of Mongolia. A month before that, my then significant other had a jealousy fit and stabbed herself in the gut twice with a small knife over a girl she suspected I was fucking. When I saw the act, I fled. If taking a knife and sticking it in their own guts was so simple, who was to say that I was not going to be next?! I fled for my life. I fled Mongolia a week after that for a conference in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. And then Japan, my Master's studies.

After ten days of being in Japan, I had the most amazing dream: I was in a forest village, but the village was being pillaged by enemies, all the huts ablaze, havoc and screams filled the air. I was terrified, running amok trying to escape all that terror and suddenly there were two horsemen. I clutched at their saddles, right between the two horses - where did all that strength come from? - and on we rode off into the dark forest. We rode for a long time, and I was finally beginning to feel my arms that before didn't feel anything: all my thoughts were about the escape. As I was beginning to feel as if I was about to faint from exhaustion, and the tension of trying to hold onto two saddles of the horsemen who saved me, we finally rode out of the forest and onto the seashore just as the twilight was beginning to thin into a break of dawn. I let go and fell. And so did one of the horses. One of my saviour horses, a white one, lay there snorting heavily. The rider I saw for the first time: he appeared to be a native American-looking man with a stern, deeply etched face, but somehow not unkind in all that severity. He looked on at his dying horse, sorrow filling not just his face, but his whole being. All that while I remember feeling incredibly guilty for had it not been for me, the horse would've still been alive. With the last snort and last breath, the horse died. The horseman lifted his dead white horse as if it was a mere weightless child and carried it into the sea and I folowed them both. He waded into the water, and so did I. The water was tepid, or maybe I was freezing and so the water seemed warm, I don't know, but as I followed them into the sea, he went deeper and then pushed off his horse, saying final words into her/his ear. It was an intimate farewell. I looked up and I saw that the sun was rising, but more than that, I reveled in the feeling of the warm sea. I, too, wanted to be pushed into the water and set afloat. Deeper and deeper I waded. And then I assumed the foetal position because that's all I wanted to do, to be submerged. The water... The luxurious feel of that warm sea is still with me... I don't know how to swim, I knew I had to come up for breath, but I just didn't want to get out of the water. After everything -  the village pillaged, hours or so it seemed of us riding through the dark forest to save our lives, the dead saviour horse - I just wanted to stay in there. And then I took a breath in the water. Instead of water rushing into my lungs, I felt air. I opened my eyes, I was still in the water, but I was breathing! I stayed like that for the longest time in the foetal position, being bounced back and forth by the water... As I became warmer, I relaxed and I floated. Up. I knew I was floating on the surface now. The feel of water, the beautfiful liquid all around me, my safe haven lulling me. After a long time I opened my eyes to see that the pre-dawn greyness gave way to a new morning, with the sun up for a few hours as it was nearly at its zenith. As I lay floating in the water looking up at the sun and the sky, I had this urge to fly. Just to up and soar. And I did. Effortlessly. As I was soaring higher and higher, I looked down and saw that I was laying in the sea where ruby red and dark blue waters met, that I was far from the seashore where I left my saviours. And I continued to soar... And when I woke up, it was with the serenity and happiness I had forgotten. It was mine again. A soul dream. A healing dream. A dream of what was, and what was about to take place.

That relationship was the most violent relationship I had in my life. It was routine, almost, to get strangled. I would faint with that face that I loved so dearly, the last blurry vision... I would come to, see that I was on the floor, my signifcant other sitting on the sofa, not even looking at me. I would scramble to my feet, giant sobs bursting from my chest... Never had I been so violated in my life, and by someone I loved so dearly. Surely it must've destroyed me on some levels. My friends used to tell me that the spark that was uniquely Anaraa was dimming in those one and a half years I spent caged in that violent relationship. Even the so-called feminists I worked with who saw me coming into work with a bruised up neck and face would revert their faces. Especially the one who talks all the talk and never walks the walk. She never asked what was wrong while preaching from podiums about domestic violence as well as any other violence. And I was dying, dying, dying... That relationship nearly broke my wings, but I regained them, and I fly now. I soar every day because I had had that experience of being violated to the core of my being. And the only reason of all that violence was jealousy. My then significant other never trusted me that I wouldn't fuck other people. The truth is, because I was suspected every day, because I had to pacify her every day, because I was sick and tired of her looking at me and noticing me smiling at people and then going home and throwing a rampant violent rage tantrum, I did fuck a girl once. Just to finally fulfill her prophecy. Just to see how it felt to be unfaithful. It was shitful. Never had I before been unfaithful, never was I again, in that relationship or other relationships. Domestic violence is real. And it doesn't matter whether you are in a straight relationship, lesbian or gay relationship. Or even a relationship where one is a trans person. What my ex wife did, her refusal to talk to me about my innermost need to transition, also constituted a violence, although she never admits it now. As my need to transition became stronger, and the more she negated it, I became angrier and angrier. I would fly off at the smallest things, but I never hurt her physically. Verbally, yes. But she, she did hurt me physically, once. And then tried to me hurt twice more, well after we had separated. Just because I said that there was karma, the last one being towards the end of July 2011. Post-transition my life has also not been free of violence: unexpectedly for myself and for anyone, I fell in love with a guy for the first time in my life. He was violent to me on two occasions. Like a fool, I took it. He continued to deny my reality of a transman, called me a woman, a faggot, I took it as a fool. I took it all, swallowed it. But no more.

Violence only begets violence. What happened happened. It can't be undone. And finally, here I am. A transman who had spent his adult life being in relationships half of which were violent, physical or emotional - it's all the same, and I had denounced violence, be it in my intimate relaitonships, or others. I stand for non-violence in everything. No one should be subject to violence. I had to write my story of surviving violence in intimate relationships because of someone. I hope she doesn't repeat my history. I hope no one repeats my history of being violated and taking it as a due, as something that should happen. It is not done. It must not be. I hope she heals. I hope she finds a way out of whatever is ailing her. No one deserves violence.

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