What does true love feel like, fire or home?

I truly have no excuse as to why I haven't blogged for so long other than to say that life has been flaring up. The proverbial "Murphy's Law" and then some.

Nevertheless, due to the content of this post, I felt the need to share it with you all. So, first apologizing for not being around more frequently, and second ... please enjoy.

The other day, after having had a profound conversation with my best friend about love gained and love lost a question occurred to me;

“What does true love feel like, fire or home?”

At that time, she gave me a quick summary of her thoughts on the matter, which then coaxed me to want to put the question out in the ether.

Enter, Facebook.

I created a poll. I even went as far as to add come gifs just to catch the interest of the multiple Facebookers I commune with. It took me a tad bit of work to figure out how that worked so I was a tiny bit upset that people didn’t take the time to even look at the poll.

  Well … what can you do?

At any rate, the question pestered me like a thorn in my side as I really wanted to know what others thought. Mostly, because my opinions might’ve been a bit askew or bias. Being the person that I am—open to other people’s points of view—it would have been great to hear some of them. But, as you have it, only 3 people bothered to take the mini, 2 question poll; a family member, a friend and myself. How pathetic is that?

That incident, of course, led to this blog post. So, hailing my handful of faithful friends, I invited them to give their feedback on said subject.

In come Adonis Mann, Synful Desire, C. Desert Rose and Da’Kharta Rising. However, before they jump in with their thoughts, here are mine ...

Y. Correa:

“I’ve been burned by the fire,” is the term that my mind keeps whispering, culminating in, “And, it hurt.”

The scientist in me claims that love is nothing more than raging hormones—rampant, delirious and delusional—destined to be satiated by the first fool you harness a keen eye for. The proverbial, “I fancy him/her” with the next step being a huge leap off of the closet bridge.

Pain, followed by tears, followed by wallowing in self-pity and concluding in the temporary dormancy of said hormones until such time as the next fool comes around. And then you do it all over again.

Fire.

A fire that burns so deeply, one questions one’s ability to have functioned prior to the existence of one’s flame.

Red, like blood; the blood that runs through their veins which gives you life.

Orange, like the sun, whose warmth keeps you tranquil and happy.

Yellow, like a canary. One who makes you feel as though you too can fly freely through the vastness of the world and never be alone again.

If true love is like fire, it can give life but also exterminate life.

There is no wonder why Hell is described as a pit of unending fire, for it is a place where empty souls go to live all eternity in torment and solitude.

And this makes me think …

If true love is like fire, it can make the cup that is your heart overflow with felicity. But should it ever end, it can also incinerate your pneuma to the point of oblivion.

I have felt that fire before. At the time, I surmised that it was true love. Now, I realize fire is both the beginning and end—the inauguration and corruption of our hearts. Therefore, I surmise that love should be home. Fire is here today and gone tomorrow. Home is constant.

By deduction, if love in the form of fire is wavering, then love in the form of home is forever, hence it is true.

Adonis Mann:

If I have learned anything at all, ‘tis that love is indubitably fire. Of this, I can assure you as I have experienced the warmth and sting of it.

Much like fire, love rises with a spark—a barely noticeable glint. A minute volley of atoms bouncing off one another until, boom, the flame is lit. Once lit, nothing but water or the flame itself can stop it. However, who in their right mind would want to extinguish something so precious, so incomparable, so new, so powerful. No one, to be sure.

We, the lovers, stand in both awe and stupefaction wondering how something so wonderful happened to us.

There is an inexplicable warmth that coats the soul with belonging and plenitude. Due to this, the lover is lost in the whimsical flickering of coral. ‘Tis a dance that hypnotizes the lover in such a way that all he or she can feel is its calefaction and naught a person can tear him or her away from it. The only person who can snuff out the flame is the flame itself. A perplexing conundrum, for how can fire put itself out.

In my experience, easily. When the flame is done … when it no longer wants to offer its heat … by its own volition, it tempers and ends. The sorrowful part, are the embers left smoking inside the heart and mind of the other party.

However, if the flame opts to continue to burn, nothing and no one will ever douse it.

Shamefully and sadly, I’ve had to endure the chill of a dead heat. Nevertheless, love burns like fire, for good or for bad.

Synful Desire:

I am not a person who believes in settling, especially in the arena of love. Love should be as vital as breathing with the amounts and the intensity. It has to be worth living for, fighting for, and dying for. It is not a muted instrument but a symphony which stretches the test of time. Any intangible must possess fire. The person I am with must be one who makes me warm from the inside out where and when ever I see him. If he does not, then it is easy for my interest to wane. If my mate is unwilling to do what it takes to keep my fire burning, then it is up to my heart’s authenticity and salvation to go elsewhere.

C. Desert Rose:

I suppose I will approach this question with another question;

Have I ever felt the fire of love?

Of course I have.

Here is another question;

Did I enjoy it?

For a time, yes. I did.

Last question;

Did it last?

No, it did not.

Therefore, life has taught me that the answer to the proposed question is that love should feel like home. No, as a matter of fact, it MUST be home.

“Why do you say that?” you may be asking.

The answer is simple, really.

I say it because fire is an element—1 of 4, to be exact. Fire, Air, Water and Earth. While they are perpetual in existence, they act like the waves of an ocean. Unstable and unpredictable. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Like the well known old idiom, “Home is where the heart is.” Allow me to explain.

Have you ever went away from home? On a trip, perhaps? To college, maybe, or overseas? I dunno … you pick. At any rate, have you ever left the sole place you call home and upon your voyage discover that you miss home profoundly?

Homesickness, is what it is called.

You find yourself envisioning home. You can practically feel the ambiance, smell the scent of the food cooking, hear the noises you’ve become accustomed to, and suddenly you feel incomplete. Empty. Like something very important is missing. Immediately, sadness consumes you.

THAT, is what love ought to be. EXACTLY THAT.

Love should feel like home. A place like no other. The one place where you can be yourself without apologies, without presumptions, without judgements and without explanations.

The bosom of your spouse/boy or girlfriend, should feel like you’ve belonged there all along. The smell of him/her should fill you with glee. The touch of them should calm your weary soul. The sound of them should appease any angst. It is with them that you should feel like 100% yourself. And, it is in them that you should long to be.

True love is home. It is the dwelling of the heart, the habitat of the soul, the refuge of the spirit.

Why? Because, “Home is where the heart is.”

Da’Kharta Rising:

I don’t think I’m the right person to ask this question to because I am not a believer in the fairy tale, Harlequin type bullshit interpretation of love. In my opinion, too many people speak it and have no concept of what it is about or how to properly use it. The act of love itself is a promise you make: whether said to a family member, a friend, or a loved one. Promises are set up to be impossible and therefore, easy to break. How else can you explain the number of marriages which end up in divorce? What else factors into betrayals that create family and friend sagas that rival reality TV shows for attention? There’s nothing “home like” about love. It’s dangerous, just like fire. It’s erratic, especially when you encounter someone which has you throw all reason to the ground just so you can soar for a few years, months, weeks, days, hours, seconds? I don’t know if it is “true”. All I know is the aftermath: how investing love in the wrong person can alter the way another person conducts business, not just in relationships but in her day to day. It’s a gamble where you don’t want to crap out. Love is all out fire. Enough said.

With so many thoughts on what love feels like, it makes me wonder which is more accurate? Furthermore, it makes me ponder on, “Can they simultaneously exist? Can love be both fire and home?” Perhaps, for some it is. For others, maybe not.

Please, don't hesitate to give me your thoughts. I would love to see what you have to say.

Until Next Time, y'all!

When Your Name Should've Been Yas-MAN

Okay, for those who know me best, what I'm about to say comes as no surprise.

I AM  TOMBOY.

For those of you whom don't necessarily know what a Tom Boy is, here is the meaning:

A girl who behaves in a way that is perceived to be stereotypically boyish or masculine.

What makes me a Tomboy?

Well, my affinity for gadgets/electronics (IE: computers, phones and tablets), my love for boxing, my high regard of science and history, my sometimes "man'ish" mannerisms (IE: burping & farting aloud then rating it, preferring to  fix something myself than hire someone,  not reading instructions when doing handyman tasks)  and my wardrobe.

This presents a problem. Because on top of being a Tomboy, I'm also a Trooper. That is to say that I press forward regardless of the challenge, and I tend to be stronger than the average bear. And by "bear" I mean "man". LOL. :) And by "stronger", I mean "more mentally stable, less prone to drama, incredibly independent and highly tenacious when necessary".

So how does this impact me?

Well, honestly, I want to meet a man that is more of a man than I am. That seems impossible!

I've been trying to find the proverbial "Mr. Right" for well over 8 years. I was divorced 9 years ago. In between those 9 years I was in a serious relationship for a year, which ended in relentless heartbreak. And simply have NOT been able to find what I'm looking for since.

I am not trying to insult anyone, but it gets me thinking ...

Do I live in the wrong country or something?

What am I looking for? Four simple things:

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  A loyal and loving man.

  
  


• 
  

  A smart man.

  
  


• 
  

  An appreciative man.

  
  


• 
  

  A man that is manlier than me.

  
  

Yet, as much as I try, I can't find it. At least not locally.

I have some amazing stories of exactly what I'm talking about. But, I'll share the most recent one with you.

Recently, I met a guy—a kid, really—12 years my junior. However, when I met him I immediately told him clearly that I could and would ONLY be his friend. My mind wouldn't change and he had to accept that.

Yet, somehow/somewhere down the line they kid became smitten with me.  Although, I'd told him time and time again that I was not interested in a relationship with him, he seemed to think that if he could prove himself that I'd change my mind.

In the attempt to gain m favor this kid decided that he wanted to take me out for a birthday dinner. I conceded, telling him that this would be an outing AS FRIENDS and nothing more. Apparently, he didn't get the drift.

What as the outcome? Well, on the day of the outing he was acting like an asinine imbecile; driving like a maniac, drinking too much caffeine and incurring a case of self-imposed Tourette's Syndrome, hitting on the male waiter in the attempt to act as if he was okay with the waiter hitting on me (which he was). And the list goes on and on.

The very next day he contacted me apologizing for being such a fool, and throughout our discussion he admitted that he was sorely affected by his ex-girlfriend's infidelity and had become emotionally unstable. So his insecurities were playing out while we were at dinner.

PFFF!

Well, there it is! Boom! My point exactly! This is what I'm talking about.

I've been heartbroken too! But, it's made me stronger and more determined to keep living. Shouldn't "a man" have a bit more balls than me?

Suffice it to say, that I think my strength works against me because I find that people turn to me for strength. This includes any potential dating material.

Well, with that said, I've come to two conclusions:

1. I should have been named "Yas-MAN"


2. I won't be taking any man seriously until he can prove that he is more manly than I am.

Oh, How We Love Drama!

So, I had this really interesting conversation the other day with my bestie. We were talking about blogging, and we came to a very funny conclusion.

Humanity loves drama!

The conversation went a little something like this ...

Me: I wonder why it is that whenever one puts up an "important blog post" you get very little blog traffic, but when you put up a BS blog post, everyone is interested?

Bestie: Well, the same thing goes with Facebook. You put up a thoughtful status and people ignore it or don't comment. Yet, if you put up a picture or a BS status, or something gossipy, people are all in.

Me: OMG! That's so true! Thoughtful status, scroll, scroll, scroll on by! BS blog post or picture, 1 million likes!

Bestie: Thoughtful blog post, no one reads it. Random food picture, 2,152 likes.

Me: Talk about my book on the blog; ignore, ignore, ignore. Have a vent session and hoop and holler about how angry I am at the world; 150 likes, 75 shares.

Bestie: It just goes to show, people love drama.

So, that got me thinking. If people love drama then why don't they take a look at some of the books I advertise here? Some of those are cover to cover drama. * shrugs * Go figure.

But, that's neither here nor there.

So, I guess what I'm trying to figure out (and not that I'm really concerned with the numbers game) what types of blog posts do people REALLY want to see/read?

The Accuracy of Me

Look at me.

What do you see?

Different people might have different conjectures as to "what I look like" and frankly, I'm sick of it.

When did being black become a bad thing?

Of course, intellectually speaking, I already know the answer to that question and it goes back eons.

But ethnically speaking, particularly within the Hispanic community, being black still seems to be a taboo thing.

If I were to approach any black person from a Spanish speaking country and asked them if they were black, 9 time out of 10 the answer will be, "No, I'm not black, I'm Latino."

Well, guess what, you're wrong.

I've come to encounter, on numerous accounts throughout my life, where people ask me the wrong question and then are surprised when I give an accurate answer.

But, in order to break this down a bit more, I suppose it's important to give a bit of a vocabulary lesson.

Means: The status of belonging to a particular nation, whether by birth or naturalization.

Means: The specification of a starting point in an expression of limits.

Means: A particular form or stage of civilization, as that of a certain nation or period. Mostly regarding arts, letters, manners and scholarly pursuits. The beliefs and practices of a nation.

An group of persons that shares a common and distinctive physical trait, background, allegiance, or association.

These things are important to point out because commonly people misconstrue one for the other. Whether this is done in the attempt to be politically correct, out of pure ignorance, or even hatred, I cannot say. What I can say, however, is that it's time this stops.

Here is a constant dilemma I face.

I am asked, "Hey, where you from?" and the person that asks the question expects me to reply to their question with my ethnicity in the form on my nationality.

Example:

Person: Hey, where you from?

Expected Reply: I'm Puerto Rican.

Well, truth be told, that isn't accurate, is it?

Yet, when I respond in an accurate way, I'm met with a blank stare, or a "Why are you being a smart ass?"

Example:

Person: Hey, where are you from?

Me: Originally, or now?

Person: Both.

Me: Originally, New York. Now, New Jersey.

Person: No, that's not what I mean. I mean, like, "Where are you really from? Your nationality?"

Me: That IS where I'm really from! And my nationality is American.

(Eventually the person gives up.) Person: Why are you being a smart ass?

Me: I'm not. I'm being accurate.

Guess what? I'm not! I'm not being a smart ass at all, I'm just answering your question.

The problem lies in the fact that (A) as far back as I can remember, being of a certain ethnic background is bad. And (B) today's society has everything all mixed up.

Before I go on, it's important to clear some things up.

Thing 1: I AM PROUD OF MY CULTURE! I am, by no means whatsoever, a hater of my own culture or people.

Thing 2: I highly respect and regard my parents nation and nationality because it defines me in many ways.

Thing 3: I have come to terms with my ethnicity and I am proud of what I am.

Sheesh! I feel like I can already hear the masses dubbing me a self-hater. :o

The truth of the matter is that that's far from the truth. The complete opposite is the case. I love myself and everything that encompasses my being. Therefore, I'm proud of every facet of that truth.

Now, back to what I was saying ...

I asked before; look at me, what do you see?

Therein lies the problem.

Far too often I get comments like "You don't LOOK this." or "You don't LOOK that." But that's not the point. The point is that I am who and what I am. Looks have little to do with facts.

Now, what am I, you ask.

Here is goes ...

Just because I SPEAK Spanish, does not make me Spanish because I do not hail from Spain. Neither am I Hispanic, because that's just another word for Spanish.

I COULD, however, be considered Latin-American, because of my "Latin" roots. Of course, this is a very vague term, as all it is really saying is that my parents are originally from a Spanish speaking nation.

Spanish is merely a derivative, and/or evolved form of Latin. Hence, the term "Latin/Latino/Latina".

Now, that that's clear, lets move on.

The truth of the matter is that I AM MIXED, or interracial, whatever you prefer. As are my children, although, upon looking at them many think they are white.

The accuracy of me is as follows:

Nationality: American

Descendant of: Puerto Rican Parents (Which also happens to be my culture and THEIR nationality.)

My father is black, as is his entire family line. It goes back for years and years. As a matter of fact, his ancestors went from Africa to Brazil, to Puerto Rico and didn't interracially marry until his generation.

My mother is both Native Taino—that is to say, native "Indian" (←God, I hate that term!) from the Isle of Borinken—and European. Her mother was from native descent, and her father was from European descent. If I were to go even further; my mother's father's parents were from France (nationally speaking).

What does this make me?

Well, ETHNICALLY SPEAKING, it makes me 50% black, 25% Native, and 25% European.

Misconceptions ruin society. Poor ethnic understanding ruins beauty. Rosa Alicia Clemente, said it best.

So, when a person asks me where I'm from, they must be ready for a complicated answer, for I am much of a lot of things!

Yet, why can't the answer be, "I AM HUMAN, just like you"?

Is It Just Me ...

... Or is Amazon.com being a dickweed?

I  honestly don't know if this is happening to just me, or if it is a widespread thing.

HOW in the fudge & chocolate does Amazon.com know who "your author friends" are?!

I mean, do they have a team of Special Amazon Forces investigating which author is friends with which?

How in the hell do they deduce that you are in cahoots with some other author?

Do they tap your computer somehow to track who you network with?

Come on, Amazon, what's really going on?!

So last week I posted some reviews on both Goodreads & Amazon that I was behind on posting.  These were books that I'd read some time back but was just behind on getting the reviews out.

All of the sudden, I get an email from Amazon saying that my reviews (PLURAL) could not be posted because "I knew" the authors.

How, in the name of cheesy grits, do YOU know that?

And then these sons' of a motherless goat REMOVE my reviews, not letting me post them again.

Now, this is really pissing me off because I work with The Review Board, a professional review team. Do you mean to tell me that the reviews I post on Amazon on behalf of The Review Board are going to be removed too? If that's the case then I'm in a world on shit because authors whom enlist The Review Board are looking to have their books reviewed and the thoughts posted on Amazon.

But that's besides the point.

The main point I'm trying to make is where in the hell does Amazon get their information from? Does that mean if I buy a pair of shoes on Amazon and want to leave a review, that my review will be removed because "I know the buyer"? Get the fuck outta here!

But, do you know what? Now that I really think about it, I've been on both ends of this fence. The books that I have readily available on Amazon don't have all of the reviews they should because the people whom have read them aren't able to post their thoughts.

I've honestly got more reviews on Goodreads than on Amazon. The problem is that most people look at the Amazon reviews and Goodreads is sometimes left as an afterthought.

Things that make you go "hmm".

I mean, honestly, there has to be another way!

Let's be real, though.

It seems like all of these updated policies that Amazon has been implementing are a sort of rally against Indie Authors.

Why do I say this? Well, because VERY RARELY, if EVER, do you see things like this happen to authors from The Big 5 or more notable Publishing Houses.

Is this Amazon's way of "wanting out" of the Indie Book Market?  I ask this because sooner or later indie authors are gonna choose to go a different route or with a different platform because what good would it be to use a merchant that won't allow people to review your book?

Granted, at the moment Amazon is the #1 Indie Book Marketplace, but hey even King Solomon fell from grace.

Journal Entry 11/10/2015

This morning I awoke with a single thought:

The problem with being a transcendent thinker is that your world is painted in a wide array of colors, none of them earthly.

I've encountered this problem most of my life. As of late, it seems to have doubled. I can count on two hands (if I'm lucky) the amount of times that people outside of my closest circle have been able to understand my train of thought. Sometimes, those IN my closest circle fail to grasp their depth.

When I'm told of a situation, of a problem or even a story, my mind immediate analyzes the core of said circumstance then attempts to process the future ramifications.

I find that I have a sort of "Butterfly Effect" mentality.  The Butterfly Effect is a theory which implies that a butterfly flapping it's wings halfway across the world, several weeks earlier, could potentially cause a hurricane in China.

For example:

When some people look at Ancient Egyptian Pyramids, they think of the beauty. Perhaps, how old they are, and even want to go inside them, or climb them.

I, on the other hand, consider the cutler from which they stemmed, the enigma of their history, the otherworldly facets that I believe played a part in their existence.  I think of the people who enjoyed them, and used them. I think of the history and the science, down to a molecular level. My mind reels into places, spaces, colors, aromas, and shapes that many cannot see. All of my senses—the 5 physical ones, and the 1 metaphysical sense—tingle with tangible excitement as my mind probes the possibilities, plausibility, and probabilities. It truly is a supernatural experience. I would go so far as to say, that's it's much like a religious experience.

My mind is highly visual and very hypersensitive to certain factors. Therefore, I think deeply, profoundly and consummately.

I often consider Einstein's thought experiments. I've come to realize that had I had the ability—more so in time than competence—I might be one to embark on such things. I envy that life hasn't offered me the time and space to do so. I regularly feel restrained, as if living in a box from which there is no escaping. It's constricting and suffocating.

But, that's a whole other story for another day.

Today, I was steady thinking about people and how generally I'm unable to have intellectual and philosophical conversations with them. My biggest dilemma is that I've come across many a person whom professes to be on the same mental level as I, yet once they open their mouth, I find that they are not. It's saddening.

You see, I am not claiming to be the most intelligent person on earth. I know that I am not. There are people that are by far more intelligent. What I do know about myself is that I am a ethereal thinker, and a visionary. When you add that to my curiosity, hunger for knowledge and desire of discovery, you find that my mental aptitude is ... well, I don't want to say higher, but I will say, more avant-garde. Unconventional.

I'm reminded of a character that I created for a free short story that I wrote. I find that she is me. I relate to her more than words can say. Her name? Camielle. Her story? Camielle's Lights.

Blurb:

Camielle never quite fit in. Her whole life she’s been nothing but a fly in a glass of milk—never quite coinciding with everyone and everything around her. Until, the unexpected happens. An amazing array of lights covers the New York skies, and the world is taken aback. What were these lights? Where did they come from? The answers evade even the most intelligent of people. However, to Camielle the lights were the least of the problem.

Written in the semblance of Vintage 1960’s Sci-Fi, take a small trip with Camielle as she finds out what the lights really mean.

Camielle, is the prototype of me. She's considered awkward, out of the box. Weird, even. She never really fit in, but that was alright with her. She was content with just being herself.

We first find Camielle looking at people whilst the very same people that she is scrutinizing are gazing at an anomaly in the sky. Humanity is preoccupied with what's going on around them, but Camielle's biggest concern is why they are acting the way that they are. The inner workings of the human mind is what entices Camielle. Not necessarily the mechanics therein, but the fundamental cognition.

Why? Why has always been the question that has plagued Camielle, even at her young age. Then, unwillingly, the why morphs into the what, then how, then when and then who.

Camielle realizes that the human mind is an enigma, yet she also know that it's a labyrinth that most never traverse in a lifetime. That's what makes Camielle so special. Later on she discovers that there's a reason why her brain works differently than other peoples.

Here is an excerpt:

Wispy ringlets danced in the sky in a million different colors—some unrecognizable. Soft blue and majestic puffy cotton-balls filled the space behind it. A backdrop of celestial azure with a rainbow of circles aplenty curtaining atop. A single sphere of bright light swayed to and fro above it. A luminescent orb with a life of its own.

Eyes lucidly followed the orb and gazes became hypnotized by the labyrinthine magic of the lights. What was it? Never in written history did anyone ever witness the likes of this, and never would they in years to come. A once in a lifetime event for those lucky enough to see its splendor.

Camielle wasn't paying much mind to the lights like all the others; her mind was fixed on the multitudes' reactions to the  unknown. While some were amazed and enamored by the lights, the others watched in fear—the uncharted always caused fear. Such an unusual thing, the human mind, Camielle surmised.

For a girl of such a young age—only having just turned eight—these questions and thoughts would be peculiar. Yet for Camielle, it was nothing short of an everyday thought. She never was much like all the rest. Never quite fit in.

As she watched the splendiferous beams lull in the air, Camielle strolled through the crowd in Central Park, occasionally touching a strangers hand just to see if they would react. No one even so much as noticed her. What, she thought, is so curious about lights in the sky? They're just lights. Furthermore, she pondered on the fact that people should be more concerned about what was causing this marvelous aurora of romping colors. That, in her little mind seemed to be of greater concern.

Was it the end of the world? The Armageddon? Was it some sort of military attack? Was it coming from somewhere else entirely?

What a petty thing, she mused. To be awe-stricken at some colors in the sky without any real concern as to where they were coming from.

Camielle was a bit of an odd-looking child—extremely pretty, but odd nonetheless. Her hair was two tones of brown; a lighter shade and a darker shade. It was neither curly, nor wavy, but sat somewhere in between the two textures. Stringy actually.

Her skin was a bit paler than most, if you looked close enough, you could see the semblance of greenish tones. Not like the ever-coveted olive green that some Europeans contained, but a pale green, reminiscent of regurgitation. Thankfully, her Caucasian skin masked the subfusc green well.

Her eyes were enormous and brown—matching her hair. Children at school consistently teased her over it. Cow-eyed Cammy, they'd call her. Yet, Camielle being of such a mature mind, ignored them.

She was thin. Thinner than most of the girls in her class. Her arms were long and wiry, as were her legs. Unfortunately for her, the poor girl was ill-proportioned. These were the reasons that she was always the misfit—the outcast.

Once again, these things did not bother her. She was content with being who she was. The world around her was of little to no consequence. The only thing that mattered to her about the group that surrounded her was their psyche. How could a Species so advanced—especially in comparison to all of the other species on earth—be such Neanderthals?

Camielle finally looked up at the transcendent lights in the sky and the orb that commanded them, like a Conductor of an orchestra. She supposed that they were lovely after all. Truly, she'd never seen anything like them. So, content with her analysis of mankind for the day, she too began to bask in the sublime ensemble. For different reasons than most, but enjoyed them despite the contrary.

After admiring the empyrean heavens for some three minutes or so, Camielle moved forward. It was time to find something else to stimulate her cerebrum. A mind like hers was something of a sponge and a glutton. It absorbed everything and craved more. Nothing kept her attention for too long, as everything obtained her engrossment—if that made any sense.

Like Camielle, I continually feel out of place. I've come to accept that the life of a forward thinker is a lonesome one.

"The Look" of Abuse

Today, I had an unprecedented experience.

But in order to get to that, I must first rewind and tell you a little bit about myself.

It is funny how some things seem to work in synchronization.

Early this month I was wanting to talk a little bit about my past and how I suffered at the hands of Domestic Violence. Mostly because this is Domestic Violence awareness month. The thing was that I wasn't sure what to say or how to say it.

What happened today was the catalyst to my being able to express what I wanted to in the first place.

For 11 years I suffered, in silence, at the hands of Domestic Violence.

I lived with, and eventually married, a man that was abusive; mentally, emotionally and physically. He broke me down to a point where I was no longer able to recognize myself.

This was made worse by the fact that he was an MP (Military Policeman), so even if I wanted to complain to the authorities, I really had nowhere to turn. He had convinced his fellow soldiers that he was the prime example of a loving, caring and giving husband, but in all actuality, he was anything but.

The abuse started off verbally. He'd call me names, tell me how little I was worth, how ugly and fat I was, and how my family sucked too, so he was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

When it got to the point where he thought his words were ineffective, he started playing mental-emotional games with me. He'd tell me things like "So-and-so wants me. She thinks I'm hot and wants to have sex with me. Look at what you'll lose if you don't do what I tell you to do." Not exactly in those words, of course, but along those lines.

Eventually, my best was not enough. If he came home from work and saw so much as one dish in the sink he would flip shit. He'd start throwing things, yelling, pushing me and the kids around, calling us names, until things escalated to hitting me.

I worked a full-time job, had 4 kids (one disabled), 4 pets and kept my home in immaculate condition, mind you. All he did was come home from work and do absolutely nothing but get drunk off his ass.

In time, the abuse had grown to an irreparable level. The culmination of it was a treacherous encounter of a gun being waved in me, my daughter, my son's faces. All while threatening us that he would "kill us if he found out that we were doing him wrong".

It was on that day .... at that very moment, that I fled with my kids, the clothes on our backs and a clunky station wagon that scarcely had her barings.

I! LOST! EVERYTHING!

To add insult to injury, I was NEVER able to get counseling for the trauma I endured. Never. I could not afford it. So, I silently suffered the onslaught of emotions that came from the entire fiasco—and trust me when I tell you that there was a lot! Mostly, because my family simply did not understand, my children needed my support, and I had to press on, move on, no matter how much I was dying inside.

Fast forward 8 years later, and I've recently realized how I am still suffering from the unhealed mental-emotional scars that the abuse left behind. Scars that never got treated, and in some way, have spiritually rotted and grown infectious. Festered from the time spent open and oozing.

Every day I see how I involuntarily react to things very much in the way that untreated survivors of Domestic Violence would react. I promise you that it's not on purpose.

As a matter of fact, most people don't even realize it. Of course, I'm not the type to go around telling everyone my business. I never have been. So, only those who know me intimately well can tell.

Recently, a good friend of mine got out of an abusive relationship. After talking with her about it for hours, together we decided to seek "support" in places that could help us cope or deal with the trauma.

That brings us to today.

After speaking about it, in depth, she and I agreed to go to a place that offered group therapy as well as one on one therapy. I decided that maybe I should do the group therapy and that maybe one on one was best for her. Nevertheless, we decided that whatever we would do, we'd do it together so as to continually support one another.

We arrived at the place, and while she was inside talking to someone, I waited for her in the waiting room as I was too late for group. So there I sat with my son in tow, chatting  and smiling at him.

Suddenly, while I waited, I decided that I wanted to ask a question for future reference. So I walked up to the receptionist and said, "I have a question: I know that you have group therapy, and I'm interested in attending the next one should I make it on time. However, my son is developmentally disabled and I am wondering if you have a child care program catered to that, because if not I'd have to find an alternative."

She looked at me dead in the eyes and said, "Well, we wouldn't be able to help you, because we only help women whom suffer or have suffered of Domestic Violence."

There was such emphasis put on the words "we wouldn't be able to help you". As if to say, "What the heck do you want the help for, with your smiles and the playing with your kid? You need to be broken and beaten for us to help you!"

I couldn't help the words that followed. I looked at her in the eyes and said "What makes you think that I haven't?!" Her eyes damn near fell out of her head. She didn't know what to do with herself. She had no words.

My point ...?

No matter how often it's been said, PEOPLE STILL JUDGE A BOOK BY IT'S COVER!

If I am to go by what the girl said, then "I don't look like I am or have been abused." Since when does abuse have a look, a social status or even an ethnic group? There are a wide array of individuals that have been and/or continue to be abused. And those lucky enough to have gotten out alive, like me, may still be suffering from the ramifications of what trauma was left behind.

Queen of Spades said it best in her article "Testimony of Terror".

I say that to say this ... just because I'm smiling doesn't mean a thing. Clowns smile all the time, even when their pain runs deep.

Think about it.