Battle cry

Or trying not to suffocate

I’m not going to lie to you, I feel extremely overwhelmed. I don’t know what to do with any of this, what I’m supposed to give you next. Would it be silly to post something completely unrelated ? What’s the right move ? Is anything expected of me ? How honest can I be about how triggering this all is ? Do I take you inside another snow globe ?

I dragged my body under the grey sky the other day and tried to find myself inside the songs I was listening to, but they all sounded like battle cries. No matter how far I walked, nothing could put enough distance between me and the fact that what used to be a safe, joyful, wholesome place turned into a chaotic, hostile mess because of… the most anticlimactic drumroll in the world… you guessed it, a certain group of men (but not only, and that’s probably the saddest part).

You’d think I’d be used to it by now. Because no, this isn’t a first for me. It certainly isn’t for many, MANY women. It’s even a fundamental rule for us : never get too comfortable, no matter where you are (A word to the wise : the brain can’t make the difference between what it sees on a screen and what it experiences in real life. The sickness taking over my body doesn’t care where it comes from.)

I’ve been trying to find the right things to say, trying to name what cannot be named, be inspiring even, be worthy of this attention, of your support, but the quest drains me. Why should I be making any effort to cover up the rot with fresh flowers ? Why do I feel so guilty, so afraid to let down the newcomers who found me because of everything that happened ? All I can do is take you on a little journey with me and put my jeweled toned glasses in front of your eyes.

Writing (and publishing my stuff here) usually fuels me. It’s my go-to magic spell, the thread that holds me together, the tool that allows me to turn the incomprehensible experience that is life into something I can truly cling to and hopefully that can help others do the same.

Indeed my words have often betrayed how disconnected I can feel from everything; dissociating helped me survive for a very long time, but I’ve learned the hard way the weapons that protected you often end up hurting you. (Fun fact : before all this, my next piece was going to be called “Ghost girl”. How appropriate.) Most of the time, I barely feel real and I have to 54321 my way out of the fog very regularly (using your senses to focus on the present moment : 5 things you can see, 4 things you can feel, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, 1 thing you can taste).

All I keep thinking is : I just wanted to write. This made me happy (opening this app to catch up on all the notifications was an exciting, lovely thing that often put a smile on my face), and I wouldn’t exaggerate if I said it even saved me, in a way. For the first time in my life, I was actually letting myself take up some space and getting over my discomfort. I’m someone who mostly lives on the inside : “I hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind, people need a key to get to, the only one is mine” as a popular singer would sing. I was finally claiming : I exist, I’m done keeping my voice down, and this is what it sounds like when I’m not hiding, when I’m tired of making myself small, when my rich inner life is allowed to grow wings and escape my brain. In an earlier post (The year I almost faded away) I wrote : “here’s to all of us, beautifully and boldly expressing ourselves here”. How quickly that backfired.

I came here thinking I could only be a fighter, wanting to spread some kind of message without really knowing its exact content. I just knew I had many, many things to say and causes to defend. Standing up for the right things and all that. This felt like a brave thing to do : I was reclaiming the narrative (I think this piece is an attempt at that, some kind of control over myself again, or at least the “me” who exists here), taking back what always should have been mine, putting together the puzzle pieces of the past and the present, and making peace with all of it somehow.

Here’s the thing : certain events shape you into something you were never meant to be. For a while, words like cold, aggressive, harsh and belligerent were often used to describe me and they always felt unfair, like clothes you’re forced to wear because you’ve got nothing else, no other choice. Plus they’re itchy and don’t fit well. I knew this wasn’t my heart. And then some day the clouds parted and someone said “you’re actually incredibly soft and gentle”.

And thus the knight found out she was actually a poet all along. This is what happened when I started to write here too, a natural progression one letter at a time.

But choosing between the two apparently isn’t an option. A sword and a shield are constantly shoved in our hands for existing as anything other than a cis, straight white man, and we can never fully get away from the familiar language of violence and hatred.

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I still wonder how young I was, when I turned into a well-trained pup. I know I stayed inside a cage even after the door was unlocked.

They say “a father is a daughter’s first love”. The love of mine was a knife I had to take from the cutting edge and drag deeper inside my flesh to prove myself. This isn’t much of a secret but “Castle of Dreams” is a story of abuse, more specifically my story inspiring fiction. You see a character, I remember my nineteen year old self. I’m afraid the end of this tale will never see the light of day.

I didn’t just run away from home one night. My flight took years, and every aspect of my life was poisoned by this man. No safe place ever stayed a safe place very long (in real life and online), nothing could be mine anymore, and no one rushed to take any sort of concrete action against him to protect all the people he was hurting, despite how desperate we were for help, but more than that : for real solutions and change (there’s so much bravery in asking for help and pointing out a problem, don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise).

I couldn’t wrap my head around how much freedom he had to just be fucking evil. He was clearly breaking laws, so how could he even get away with the crazy things he did, how could they keep enabling this torture ? But all sorts of nebulous excuses were given to us, obscure terms that didn’t really mean anything. Here you go, a whole bunch of nothing. One particularly telling anecdote I’d like to share is when cops asked me and my family if we could give the poor man a ride home after we had just tried to press charges against him.

It’s veeeeerrrry hard not to make comparisons with the current situation.

Even when things finally change for the better, the past always finds ways (sometimes very surprising ones) to stick to your skin no matter how hard you scrub. There’s baggage you will carry all your life, no matter how much time goes by. My nervous system is still trying to step out of fight or flight, and it feels like I’m always trying to heal from something. It’s an never-ending cycle where you feel more or less “off”, something new constantly being added to the rest, and the end of the tunnel continuously moving further and further away. Make no mistake, I know I’m not the only one who feels that way.

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Why can’t I be the poet ? Why must I always go back to the knight ? Is my peace of mind the cost to pay to be able to brush my fingertips against the passion that sets my soul ablaze ? I want to be a writer, but the world will not let me forget I am a woman first, and that can’t go unpunished.

I am torn between the kind of rage that makes you want to burn things to the ground and the exhaustion of someone a hundred years older than I really am.

Ragebaiting misandrists, are we ? Playing victims ? Snowflakes who want to feel special ?! Do you think we enjoy this ? That we’re having fun ? I just want to write in my little cosy corner with my writer friends, but since that’s too much to ask for, I want to exist in peace here. We all do. Still too much ? People deserve to feel safe and protected. Why is that such a controversial thing ?

Why is acting like a decent human being so straining for some of you ?

Why do we have to fight so fucking hard ?

Honestly, I want this to be over. This train is moving too fast and I don’t know where or when the next stop is. Is there one ? I feel so responsible and I care too much, but … ?

Our spaces can never stay our own, we barely belong to ourselves, and our creativity is going down the drain as we stand in the middle of a shipwreck that is nothing but a footnote to the so-called house of culture. I don’t want to lose what I’ve created here, it would honestly crush me, but I don’t see how I can keep posting the way I used to. I just want to read my friends’ poetry, their beautiful prose, to gently bathe in the beauty of their words and for them to do the same with mine. I simply want people to travel with my little colorful bubbles, but it’s all spoiled now. No perfume is strong enough to drown that stench.

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To be anything other than a cis, straight white man is to be constantly violated and told to take it like a good girl. We’re so resilient, aren’t we ? Entire systems count on our shameful silence, on our ability to keep smiling through the countless humiliations.

Make it look effortless, don’t show all the weight you carry. Wow, no one would know you went through all this, and truth be told no one wants to know. Okay fine, speak but not too loud. Speak, but not like that. Let’s play a game of semantics. What did you mean by that ? This doesn’t sound right.

You like the attention, don’t you you greedy bitch ? Welcome to the real world, it’s hard for everyone. What about this ? And what about that ? Don’t you care about the rest ? You’re so self-centered.

Now roll over. Give me your paw. Grow a thicker skin. When they go low, you go lower. No actually where’s your dignity ? Show some grace. You’re better than this, this isn’t you. This isn’t the right way to tackle this. It’s your job to educate people.

Nothing’s going to change, but here’s what you should change. Let’s sit back and rationalize, let’s put our greasy hands all over experiences we don’t even know how to hold.

Boohoo poor you. Fucking crybaby. Those are problems only privileged people have. I mean, what did you expect ? Respect ? Who do you think you are ?

No, not all men. You and your imagination, you’re so distrustful, downright paranoid. It’s a little creepy honestly. So defensive. Hey don’t forget your pepper spray before going out ! God, so naive.

Mother them, reassure them, coddle them even in your anger, especially then, love them, let them fuck you but most of all let them hate you.

You’re either their daughter, their sister, their wife, their mother, their muse or a nobody. You’re not a person, you don’t have a name. They either put you on a throne made of crystal illusions to turn you into a beautiful and mysterious concept or they bury you deep in the ground and piss on your open grave. Are you a Saint or a whore ?

But they’re so lonely, you must understand. It’s an epidemic.

Stop acting like you’re confused about where we can draw the line. We are way past a grey area. The devil doesn’t need so many advocates. Once again, there is a huge difference between wanting censorship and wanting safety.

If this post sounds like a goodbye, it’s because I’m wondering if it might/should be one. I don’t know yet. I’m not sure there’s any way we can go back to how things used to be, even if by some miracle something changes.

How do I finish this ? Putting my Buy me a coffee here feels wrong somehow, but I’d be a liar if I said your support hasn’t been/will not be appreciated.

Thank you to all the beautiful people who have made this whole ordeal more bearable. Thank you to all the powerful, clever, fierce, inspiring, strong writers I’ve had the honor to stand beside. I hate that we even have to be that strong. Despite everything, I’m proud of us.

I’m usually eager to post, but now my stomach is twisting and I feel nauseous.

I love you all,

Marie 🌹

an open letter to the substack team- a platform slowly turning into a sanctuary for online abuse

SUBSTACK, YOUR SILENCE IS DEAFENING