1 in 2,000

One of the most compelling arguments that gender orientation resides somewhere other than genitalia is in intersexed people.  Because with both sets of genetalia present, there is still a gender orientation self-perceived!  Which proves that gender orientation resides somewhere other than that genetalia.

Just like it does for transgender people…

…just like it does for cis-gender people.

There is no reason to hate, no reason to reject…except for one’s own predilection for fear and ignorance.


Watch: One video explains what it’s really like to be intersex

Transgender Day of Visibility

Originally posted on Dandelion Fuzz:
Today is Transgender Day of Visibility. It is a day to show support for the transgender community. It is a time to help fight transphobia by sharing information. image credit- Trans Student Educational Resources My…

Recognition: A Palm Sunday Psalm

I heard about that bitter little pill
tattooed on our musical skin.
That one pill, recognition.

Recognition of…what?  Of one’s humanity?
Of one’s fragility?  Of one’s impermanence…yeah?
It’s a pill laced with dread and despair.tumblr_ljch2w9OPs1qdm7nno1_1280What does a person swallow that with?
A shot of full consciousness?
A cocktail of imperfection shaken

(not stirred)
with disappointment
and homemade bitters?

I giggle in glee when those comics
called philosophers stand up
and passionately extol absurdity.tumblr_nlbnlqhvMy1r2zs3eo1_1280How could they even stand,
what would they stand on
if absurdity was really a thing?

Tragedy is more like it, and even that
only has meaning as a cloud outlined against
the suns of Triumph!

The songs, the drinks and the stings of each,
fears of failure, sieges of shame and selfishness
alternating with doubt and emptiness,

well please explain to me
what’s so absurd about that?
What does that word even mean?

Absurdity?tumblr_na0sxfgp8T1qczwklo1_1280No, give me a good solid word like Recognition.
Because that word contains confession and hope,
errors committed and errors atoned for.

And it makes a safe place for dread,
so it will curl up comfortable by your fire
and snooze in the glow of Recognition.

By the light of Recognition we just make out
that sacred paradox, that deep numinosity
glowing at the crux of our being.

We see that all that’s wrong descends from all that’s right
and the broken bread and the poured red wine
and remembrance and


The Results of Abandonment

If you leave, please take the memories too.
I don’t want thoughts of you swirling around in my mind.
You see, those beautiful recollections are too dangerous
for my already damaged heart. So if you leave,
please take the source of my pain with you.


Comment on “Going Nova On Palm Sunday”

Constance, while this poem is enjoyable to me in its release of things inside my heart, and there is a joy in simply reading it and letting Poetry’s Mystery Ways wash your soul and give you Things Ineffable, I do want to give you a little nudge which might provide a niggle of slanty insight into Charissa’s convoluted mind and variegated heart.

Palm Sunday was in so many ways such a facade, and no one knew that except 3.
A quick perusal of Google will give some insight into the metaphor of Going Nova.

It is up to you to connect those two things with the writer who is there betwixt them, and in herself embodies them both…and is alive amidst their process.

Do Justice.  Love Mercy.  Walk Humbly.

Going Nova On Palm Sunday

In light of this nova-burst
I want to thank you for silver
I want to thank you for gold
I want to thank you for stardust
I am truly grateful that you would
check on me, earthbound here
and shackled by this self-gravity.tumblr_nkrjw15GwY1s4uwt4o1_500I really feel so awkward all the time
Cus I look for freedom as a voracious reader
of pages, of faces, of hearts
and suns gone nova.

Going Nova…

that explains perfectly how disconnected I feel
in my heart from all that while grasping
in my mind exactly what they are saying
and why they are saying it!

And feeling so goddamned guilty for even being…
always, feeling so goddamned guilty for even being.
Never ever had a choice in that, and untold time and tears
toiling in trying to be other…
tumblr_ndrjw4lnQd1s4e9y0o1_500Going Nova…

I guess that’s a choice I make inside my heart
as I float between me and those shimmery stars
that woo me so…

anyway I am trying to say sorry to you for something
but I don’t even know what it is or how to say it…
sorry…nova…for what I am, who I am?
Charissa, trying to survive this human experience
in a body and brain at constant odds…is that me and what I am?tumblr_nlaqwvGLkO1qllucco1_1280I am a girl and have always been and have no need to prove that I am 
(and couldn’t anyway, even if I did)      God knows
patriarchal fists slam into me trying to beat the woman outta me, 

feminist talons slash my skin trying to tear the woman offa me…
while my own nails I keep razor sharp and always ready to rip that male biology 
right outta such dumb DNA that’s so much less than me.tumblr_nlj2o1V0qC1qllucco1_1280Anything I say can be construed as lack of humility because
I never had a chance at solidarity in biological sisterhood with you
and remaining silent can be the height of arrogance because
it reeks of presumption and I am neither or both or all
(silent, arrogant, presumptuous)

I am Going Nova.

I try my best to be a tender soul, to be a gentle soul and do good
and bring honor to woman and women by how I live, how I draw close
to my God Who has been, is and always will be Mama…
the Wise, the Comforter, My Helper in this time of death
hiding behind Hosannas and Hail Caesars.

Please hear my heart, but if you don’t the fault is mine
in all my dark and clumsy lack, 
so let your eyes
do all the happy work of ears 
and see me in these words…

Going Nova on Palm Sundaytumblr_nkhwgweeQs1qesboko1_1280


Love in Ten Lines

when love broke me
wide open with love
I surrendered my love
to you, my Love.

Your eyes, limpid love
your heart red, Love
your touch, I love
that frisson, love-chills

in my love struck
love torn red heart.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”
Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnetstumblr_nl7a0nykH01u19ezpo1_400


Fly Away Home

Constance…if you have not ever seen this movie, and you have longings for something…beyond?  Something lost?  Something that was meant to be yours and yet somehow missed you?  Something that died and should have lived forever?

If that is you, then you simply must stop what you are doing, track down the movie “Fly Away Home”, and settle in with a box of tissues.  I watch this movie when I am particularly melancholy and aching inside…it provides such release and affirmation of a true and shining core that lays somewhere just beyond what I can touch, and yet strangely affirms the very fact that such a place exists or I wouldn’t know it to miss it, long for it, yearn for it with my very soul.

In the meantime, I post the theme here for you, performed by the inestimable Mary Chapin Carpenter.

Blessings, this night before Palm Sunday…you know that Sunday, right?  When every soul in the area recognized Who was amongst them and waved their palm fronds…oh right, I almost forgot…those fronds from last year made their appearance at the beginning of Lent in the form of ashes…I have written a bit about dust and ashes this season.

But this?  Ah, Constance…this is Beyond Dust and Ashes!

This Peculiar Gleaming Beauty

Events leading up to the cross,
they seem like something of a game
of push and shove or pull and push
in this cult of honor/shame
and I wonder and I ask

Does anything really stand a chance
here in this fatal tug of war?

And what about Him?  Jesus?
Clearly shamed 
and shamed profoundly,
publicly rejected and abandoned,
clothed in stark humiliation,
torn by jaws of victimization…

and willingly choosing
this broken ground

(this broken me).

What kinship does He speak of,
what kingship does He claim 
He dons my crown of thorns

and He takes my purple robe
and He lets Himself be branded

with my fetid Scarlet A?

What shame and ridicule
does He siphon
from our darkling hearts?

We are such a clouded vision
jockeying and jostling
for power and position,
trembling in our lust
for quick liberated feet.

We have occluded vision
caught between the blind that see
and priests and prefects that do not.

And then there is that copper matter
of His blood spilled shamefully and
His death sprawling shamelessly
across the breadth of history,
a kingly shepherd dying here
His life laid down so lovingly,
a risen savior reigning there…

At the intersection
of honor and of shame
can you see?
That Shining Ever Moment?

That Peculiar Gleaming Beauty?

It towers there, quiet, unobtrusive
and starkly interrupting
That Abandoned Empty Cross…

The sight that says it all.tumblr_nlczuq7G441tx7szbo1_1280

Quest or Invitation

A difficult quest.
Or is it invitation?
I guess it depends
on the mood
or the moment.

Deliberate.  Wearisome.tumblr_lynlllXXX21qb38x9o1_500The journey
of a christ with a cross,
and such a crushing burden we bear
when we try to decide if we will wear
it or witness it.

Either way (mood or moment)
we have to decide what we will do
in light of such a spectacle.

And some choose fasting,
and some kiss the dirt
and some just run the other way.

Hell, even that cross-carrier had to choose
which journey and whether
it was mood or moment.

It matters because one
leads to the human heart and one
leads to the heart of God
and each path must be travelled
but in its own good time.

Each day we must decide this,
we choose this, or if not
then we are chosen casually
by mood or moment,
by quest or invitation

and it all comes out
in the wash, if we have
gained our life
or lost it.tumblr_nldhi5rJoU1r7l28fo3_1280


Naked Emperor

When I exploded into myself
from nothing

and knew
there was 


I heard something
wish that me 
would never be.

I didn’t get over it,
but I got used to it.

that wish 
got its way
in my bones
and now it seems
like all I know

and all that I
am known by.

Sounds, scents, storms sent
from that beyond

rail and wash
in curtains 
over me,
scour and scrub me

because maybe,
just maybe

I can one day
be released

from the curse 
“shouldn’t have been”

and see
that self invisible

that everyone else
says is there

but just looks like
a naked emperor 

to me.tumblr_nldhi5rJoU1r7l28fo5_1280


Amazed, Humbled, and Grateful

Please let me say thank you…thank you so very much.  You know who you are, who so generously donated to my transition funds.  I am beyond touched and so humbled by your kind gesture.

Constance, you just cannot measure how great the impartation of encouragement is when some tangible effort, regardless of how small, is made from one human to another.

Thank you.  From the very foundation of my heart.

Much love,  Charissatumblr_nlamvrNhwZ1sooy9go1_1280

Why We Must Honor the Trans Lives We’ve Lost Without Telling the Living They’re Doomed — Everyday Feminism

Why We Must Honor the Trans Lives We’ve Lost Without Telling the Living They’re Doomed — Everyday Feminism.

I am begging you all to read this.

It’s hard to describe what it feels like inside when I, who have never felt more present, more alive, more legitimate, hear that other people say that I have died, or that they consider me dead.

It’s a worse feeling than despair.  It’s repudiation mixed with invalidation and poured over indifference and then shoved into my throat.

It’s at that point that the thoughts of making that statement true begin to assail and assault…like there is this feeling of well okay if that’s what they think then let’s just finally let it happen and in that congruence let them have a real comparison.

People say that suicide is the ultimate selfish act…maybe.  Certainly this is something I have thought about a lot.  But is it the ultimate selfish act?

What about the act of policing someone with the withdrawal of relationship and then acting like they are dead and they “betrayed”?  Is that act selfish?  Ultimate?

It sure feels like it is at least petulant and petty.

But hey, those are the feelings of a dead girl…and since I am considered dead what do they matter…and since I am considered dead why would anyone even notice when I am gone…right?

Yes…I am using absurdity to illustrate the absurd.  But please:  don’t tell me I should stick around and then punch me in the face of my tender hurting heart.

I am pretty sure I have pressed other things similar to this article…in my opinion it should be pressed by every wordpress blogger until it stops.tumblr_ndg1500IZT1qb4hiyo1_1280

“Woody Allen is a genius. Woody Allen is a predator”: Why Mariel Hemingway’s new revelation matters – Salon.com

“Woody Allen is a genius. Woody Allen is a predator”: Why Mariel Hemingway’s new revelation matters – Salon.com.

Constance, this is a powerful read!!  And I am glad to say that I have always seen thru this man, and others of his ilk such as Bill Cosby.

How did I see thru them?  How did I know that the women were telling the truth?  That was easy:  in the vast majority of cases and I mean vast majority, women simply do not make that crap up…and men regularly behave as these slimeballs do.  Use Google-Fu if you doubt me!

I am called too emotional…

“When people try to dismiss those who ask the big public questions as being emotional, it is a strategy to avoid debate. Why should we be scared of being angry? Why should we be scared of our feelings, if they’re based on facts. The whole framework of reason versus passion is ridiculous, because often passion is based on reason. Passion is not always unreasonable. Anger is based on reason. They’re not two different things. I feel it’s very important to defend that.”
— Arundhati Roy, The Checkbook and the Cruise Missile: Conversations with Arundhati Roytumblr_nlfaycl2NU1qz6f9yo1_1280

Gender: As defined by Jaden

reblogging this poem by an amazing and inspiring young man…Jaden, your courage has given strength to me and your words given courage.

Constance, head on over and give Roz a read…she is a cutting edge parent who never even asked for a knife…and yet there she is, loving, thinking, strategizing, and making a way for us all

Call Him Hunter

This post is for my friend, Jaden. His story is not unlike so many others, though his journey is unique. I loved his words and wanted others to be touched by the beauty of his intentions. Thank you, Jaden, for allowing me to share your poem, your words, that are so meaningful to you. I wish you a lifetime of friendship, courage and positivity. xo
jaden p


Often times I’m disregarded as a person,

or a human altogether.

Often times I’m called “it” when I clearly asked you to call me “he”

and Jaden, not Jillian.

But moving on from that,

what the hell does my gender have to affect you in any way


You act like the fact that I have breasts on my chest,

or my voice not being as low as the other guys,

or maybe I’m only 5’1”,

or your religion may not follow it?


View original post 461 more words

Chas | I lost a friend today and I don’t even remember…

Chas | I lost a friend today and I don’t even remember….

No words…

Constance, how is it that others cannot see that these things can be avoided with accessible health care, physical and mental, and the cessation of being called things like demonized and freak, pervert and monster, and then the slurs…

It made me cry so hard, because I often feel like I don’t want to continue beneath the crushing weight of dysphoria and then the added weight of every ignorant creep who thinks they are playing “pile on the transgender person”…and then the thought that I would cause such pain to others when all I want to do is have my own be over and the guilt is huge, for even wanting to, for even thinking about it.

Sometimes I talk about my feelings, and it’s not okay that I feel them about myself, they get corrected or rejected as not true and thus not legitimate that I carry them.

But calling them “not true” doesn’t make them any less real, and it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I can tell you this:  the more I am received as just a regular person the better I feel…and the more I am rejected, the worse I feel, especially when that rejection has the Name of God attached to it.  I am fortunate that I know that God loves me and that I am Acceptable in the Beloved…but many people don’t know this and that extra little oomph just might grease the skids and push them over the edge.

A Bird’s Free Flight and Flower Feet

i am a flower planted deep,
my soul a bird loose in deep skies

i should be free to soar and spin
but i am caught by roots in dirt
my body coarse in clumsy lurch
yearning for freedom’s feathered perch

i am a bird that cannot land
with soul that longs for roots at rest

i should be buried safe in soil
burrowing warm in dark rich nest
but i’ve no harbour, no still rest
no pillow for my aching breasttumblr_nc5t6zrD0V1qej2n5o1_1280

a flower trapped within a bird

a bird caged in a fragile flower

and God above my prison bower

may hear me in my darkened hourtumblr_nlbk0hg9ty1qas1mto1_1280

On Being Friends With Jesus

As I sat in the hard wooden pew, enjoying its solid familiarity and reassuring simplicity, I listened to the preacher talk about the swirl of events that ran unchecked during the last several days before Jesus met death face to face on the backside of the Cross.

I heard him tell of Jesus warning everyone around Him that He was going to the place of the skull, to get a death-grip on suffering and never let go, and then to eat it…all.  I heard him tell of how Jesus warned that anyone who wanted to be His friend had to come with Him, had to see, had to get a belly-ache too…

…and I was off in my thoughts, back, back back to those days and I heard the sounds of cattle and crowds, tasted heat and dust and slid sideways through the slant orange light from a beating throbbing insistent sun.

I was in the house of Martha, her sister Mary, and Lazarus their sickly brother, and Mama was telling me that these were the very best friends of Jesus.

They had chosen Him…they liked Him…as a person.  His humor and tenderness, His wrestle with being called a bastard His entire life when He was more True-Son than any of us, back then anyway.  Now?  Well the Adoption Agency is open for business…but that story is presaged by this one…this story of what it was like being friends with Jesus.

Jesus always was about another story, in everything He did.  Each encounter, each miracle, each glance was full of metaphor and creative import, was a beam or a brick in this House that He began then and is still working on even now.

So He is befriended by these…perhaps parents long lost to death and tragedy…and He has decided that it will be His closest friends that He will entrust His priceless gift to:  the understanding of Resurrection.

You realize, don’t you, that understanding a thing means knowing its front and its back, and it by definition means knowing what that thing is not.  So let’s recall what happened to these, the best friends of the Shepherd.

One of them becomes very sick…Lazarus…who was never that strong anyway.  He had to live with his sisters, one of whom was of a strength so as to make Patton seem like Gomer Pyle, and one of whom was gifted with such sight as to make Joan of Arc seem like Helen Keller.

Formidable…and in that patriarchy, a sick and weak man who had to be cared for by his sisters was held in contempt and thought to be of no consequence…except to Jesus.  To Him, this family was the one that would together take that voyage across the river Styx…and back again.

The sisters immediately send word.  Martha marshals forces and gets the message to Jesus faster than the telegraph that would come along centuries later…and Mary sends word thru the heart currents which brought the knowing immediately to Jesus and added such sorrow to His already increasingly agonizing heart.

And Jesus, knowing the Father was doing a work of instruction, answered to everyone in earshot that they would tarry where they were.  Which shocked everyone, for it was well known that Jesus had a deep affection for the weak and unadmirable Lazarus (which of course made them all even more leery of this odd carpenter!), and everyone figured He would fold space and high tail it up to Bethany to heal His friend.

But He waited.

And everyone wondered if there had been a falling out…in fact Martha was certain that Jesus was angry with her…and Mary was certain that Jesus was disappointed in her…and Lazarus, well, he felt like Jesus’ companionship was good while it lasted but was too good to be true.

But inside Himself, Jesus ached for His Beloved True Friends.  Because He was going to use them to make a bigger point…and it was going to break their Hearts…so they could be healed even stronger.

One day passed by, and He waited (foreshadowing another dark day coming).
The next day came and went (and the second day was prophesied of then).
And on the third day, the sun rose and dawn fell flat on her face in the silent still absurdity of an absent best friend (just to be sure that the coming 3rd day would stand in stark contrast).

Oh there was still hubbub and the frothy surface dwellers all held out hope like icing called dinner…but Jesus was not having any of that either!

“Lazarus is dead.”  He said this…flatly, tonelessly.  Expressionless…like the voice of the grave itself.

And then He started His journey to their house…to face them.  To face their agony, their confusion.  To face their betrayal and let down.  To face the accusations hidden in their bewilderment about His absence.

Constance…I refer you to John 11 when you are done reading this post, for there are a few things He said that are vertical things that stretch from the bottom of beneath eternity to the top of the beyond eternity.  They are worth contemplating for a year or two…but stay with me here…

…because to everyone else around Him it just sounded like Wwah Wwah Wwah and Yadda Yadda Yadda…even to Himself, His human ears, it sounded thus.

He spoke in faith.

And then He had to face Martha Patton…and then Mary Arc…and Mary said to Him, with my voice, your voice, the voice of Rachael in Rama… “Lord, where were You?”.

And He wept.  Bitterly.  Deeply.

Why?  Because His lesson was manifest now…on the fourth day since Lazarus had died…one more day than The Third Day…and the very first day beyond that Third Day which was the first day of a forever separation from their beloved brother for His surviving besties Martha and Mary.

And then He called Lazarus forward from death, back across the river, back to the land of the living and the loving arms of his sisters…and his True Friend as well.

All around Him, people marvelled, rejoiced, and then wept in relief and reunion and resurrection.

But Jesus?  He still wept in sorrow, for He knew the full weight of the pain He had knowingly inflicted on His best friends…He knew the looming agony that was fast falling towards Him, and He knew that He had no shield against it, no weapon to fight it with, only faith in His Father for Whom He had embraced this Mission Impossible, and that promise that Father would bring everything out of death with this Obedient Son.

Jesus wept because He knows that He does His friends dirty because He can trust them to see it thru to the end, past Friday and into Sunday.  It hurts Him that it hurts them…it hurts Him that He does it anyway because it is the Ultimate Good and overarching Impartation of Eternity…thru broken hearts and broken spirits.

I came back to myself, and the sermon was drawing to a close.  I had a fresh perspective on my life, my agonies, and the lessons that have been shown forth.

I think I am going to continue, seeking to be a friend of God.  Because everyone has sorrow and trial, everyone goes thru meaningless suffering and horror…but it seems the friends of God get to have the Presence of God with them midst the fires of pain’s crucible, and the Kingdom is birthed.

Much Love,
Charissa…an aspiring Bestie of Godtumblr_nk38t5CTqL1smw1wso1_r1_500

Little Red Songbird, Red-Tailed Hawk

On the day I saw That One
dancing on waves,
arms thrown towards the sky
and waves surrounded you,
surfer of coming time
waiting to burst and break
onto this world
in this space
in your placetumblr_nl3cbt3oXV1sooy9go1_500that day was sweat and hearts beating hard
and hands and Hand gripping,
expanding, contracting
and on that day I too was born
again, the dead me made alive
in your red song,
in your bright eyes
and in your beauty.

tumblr_nl1n9aaY6B1t3lwvro1_500you were literally the most beautiful child
I have ever seen, and all of you
are very beautiful, now all grown up
but you were born in red song flitting
and beauty hopping hither and yon
and mischievous loving leprechaun laughs.

For so long I thought you were my lil red songbird…
Hah!  How was I to know you were far fiercer
than the Tao or the Quran and make
those bible boys look like pikers in their desert!
How was I to know you were all your own,
Red-Tailed Hawk in full fury and flight and fire
of blood-brown red tail feathers and gleaming beak?

I chuckle ruefully in recall
and then you shriek
and then you fall,
red bolt to earth with talons sharp
extended, reaching, snatching gripping
some unsuspecting sinister snake

and then away with you in triumph
to tear it, revel in its ripping
feeding your fierce fiery hunger
for all things alive and living,
breathing throbbing in the same
fierce love you carry deep inside
the flurry of your beating wings.tumblr_nig59e2oG61soxwgpo1_500I stand in this field
and make mouse noises,
I wriggle and writhe,
and want to catch
your glinting eye
and clear sharp ear,
for piercings from
your talons true
are better than
these empty days of missing you
as just another year has passed
another birthday I have toasted you
wherever you are,
and me here, alone
and in my field…

My Little Red Songbird
My Red-Tailed Hawk.tumblr_nkaisxSFFw1u19ezpo1_1280

Suicide Bonfire: A Deconstruction

Constance, the reaction to my latest poem has been such that I want to provide a few bits of the peek under the blanket for you.  It seems that there is this very conflicted feeling as readers take it in, and it adds confusion and a sense of settled peace all at once.

Ordinarily, I would be overjoyed with this, as it is from this maelstrom that the reader’s own inner conflicts begin to be confronted, engaged, and eventually dealt with.

But this one used a word that is highly charged emotionally and fraught with fear.

I know I fear(ed) the word:  suicide.

So let me lay out a few things.

1.  Consider the presence throughout the entire poem of words, phrases and turns of phrase onto their ear that are stripped straight from our National Anthem, The Star Spangled Banner.  Ask yourself why would the poetess lace those phrases into a poem such as this?  What is it she would mean by applying them in this context.

2.  There is a contrast of paths and trails, their source of origin, foot traffic.  All of these things are highly metaphorical and stacked vertically with fatness.

3.  The poem speaks of departures, and arrivals too.  It speaks of things repudiated and things embraced.  It contrasts death and beauty.  Consider this juxtapositioning of things, and go ahead and assume that the poetess is intentional in this placement.  This will enable you, should you wish, to delve into the deeper layers of the poem, the more vital layers of meaning that all the rest is mise en place for.

4.  Lastly (though by no means exhaustively), regard the title:  is there more than one way to read that title, especially in light of the last stanza, imagery of a mythological creature that is not named (intentionally), double entendres and double backs, side by side realities and states (wait:  a transgender person would write of 2 existential realities simultaneously experienced and the death of one of them?  wooaaaa…).

5.  Reassurance:  those of you who jumped to the conclusion that this poem was an alarm that Charissa is going to kill herself are so appreciated by me, and also so dancing on the surface of the poem in alarm.  Read thru the last couple months of posts, including “The 5 Nevers” and other similar things…and then read the poem again.  This time chew it and consider it.

I think you might find it reassuring and empowering, evidence that the door has and is closing entirely on a long and arduous chapter in the tale of my life, and the beginning of a new one…say, the ending of “Charissa Crosses the Desert” and the beginning of “Charissa Sets Sail At Last”.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your concern.  I won’t lie:  the flame is hot, and persistent, and those haunts are frightening and sinsiter/seductive…but I see their teeth and empty eyes, and I send them away with my incantations…such as Suicide Bonfire.tumblr_mvyigc57Cf1qhsps6o1_1280

Those Who Remember


Those who love you
are not fooled by mistakes you have made
or dark images you hold about yourself.
They remember your beauty when you feel ugly;
your wholeness when you are broken;
your innocence when you feel guilty;
and your purpose when you are confused.
Alan Cohen


Depression in Transgender Youth Eases with Recognition, Treatment | Psych Central News

Depression in Transgender Youth Eases with Recognition, Treatment | Psych Central News.

“But Charissa…isn’t this all in your mind???  Cus demons and stuff??”

A young man has recently befriended me.  He accompanied me out one day, all day…he later reported that he had never been so uncomfortable as he was when he was watching the way that other people stared at me, looked at me…the reactions of disgust, fear, slack-jawed amazement, or derision.  He was flabbergasted that they would be that way…because he knows me.  We have spent hours talking, and he has had the “benefit” of my counsel regarding his relationships with women.  So he knows me to be an astute observer of human nature, a tender hearted intuitive listener, a gentle teller of truth that is at times somewhat hard to swallow, and above all a valuer of his life which is of priceless significance.

So when he saw them looking at me…like that…he knew for real that it was not “all in your mind, Charissa”.

The link is a good read.  Please head over and acquaint yourself with the dynamics of how (surprise!) getting help to someone helps them.

Do Justice.  Love Mercy.  Walk Humbly.
Charissa Grace

Hold Your Fire (To Those Who Would Harm Themselves)

To Charissa

from Charissa via John Pavlovitz

john pavlovitz

This is a message to all the brave, exhausted soldiers out there doing battle.

Those fighting hand to hand, this silent civil war.

Like all wars, the trenches are bloody and brutal, and so very wasteful.

And I’m calling out to you; you who stand on those cruel front lines, pressed up hard against the fight.

I’m reaching out because there is urgency in these moments, because so much damage is being done, because I look around and the violence seems to be winning.

I think you understand that, because it’s gotten the best of you before, too.

You show the scars.

You bear the bruises.

You wear the wounds.

I know that the battle has streaked you scarlet; that it’s ravaged your flesh and left you terribly broken.

It’s drained the hope from your heart and the blood from your veins.

I know that your head is spinning right now, trying to find footing in a ground that shifts and slides beneath your feet.


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Addressed To Everyone Who Knew Me Then:

Dear Constance, Dear Reader:

I make a distinction between you Constance, who found your way here, drawn by my writings…poems, posts, pics…perhaps bloviating, who knows…but you found your way here to me, Charissa.  And you have known my heart, known me for who I am, what I am…

…and then there is you, Reader.  You are from my past.  You knew me “then”.  You knew the role I was in, the part I played, and played even to myself in the midst of the horror and sorrow dysphoria is.  You watched me from afar.  You assessed always, judged by what you saw on the outside.

More often than not you threw me into your scale of judgment with me on one side and yourself on the other and I was found wanting in the balance.

And then there is “Brother of Reader, Sister of Reader”…and you also are from my past.  You come around like people from a small midwestern town go to the travelling freak show:  you slink in under cover of darkness and read.  You gossip to one another in hushed tones, and wag your head in wonder over this person you knew “who finally lost it”.

Well Reader, I did indeed finally lose it, and found me.

But here is the deal:  you broke trust with me…the person.  You broke faith.

I extended kindness over and over again.  I extended love and sacrifice.  I placed your needs above my own, and sought to serve you, give to you freely and without expectation and in hope that you would learn and be transformed by the renewing of your minds and hearts in the washings of the eternal word I sought to live.

I cannot allow you to be around.  Broken trust is too deep a gulf, too broad a breach.  And there are also factors that literally prohibit me from taking any chances with anyone from my past…from that specific past that involved your access to my life, and even deeper, to my heart.

So now I am gone…and the reality of my absence is sinking in…and you miss that steady striving earnest heart.  You miss that gentle person you could yell at or off load on who kept cool under fire and didn’t repay evil with evil, but evil with good.  You think to yourself that maybe there was a different narrative than the one you conspired with in the moment because if felt good and was safer to you than the risk of allying with someone who was going down, and going down for good…

…so you come here, reading, finding the same heart and soul, and more…realizing there were depths and chambers hidden from which treasure came, from which pearls came.  You hope to find expiation.  You imagine that perhaps the traces can be picked up once again and we can pick up where we left off…except that “we” didn’t leave off…

You did.  Leave.  Off.

Let the word be spread:  I cannot risk you in my life.  I will block you as I find out your presence in the various social media I utilize.  Oh don’t get me wrong…I forgive you, and have forgiven from the beginning…I just cannot control what happened to the land when that nuclear bomb went off and radiation blighted that territory.  Half-lives simply must pass and in the meantime nothing will grow.

So spread the word.  I am not responding.  I am not waving.  I am not answering.  I am not hating.  I am not loving.  I am not acknowledging. I have shaken the dust off my feet and moved on, and will never utter another word in your direction…because I am required to, I have to, I must.

I am dead to you…and alive to me, and to Constance.  I am legally transitioned to me, and fully so…the me I always was and almost lost.

I am Charissa Grace…I am beloved of God, by Their Word and Their Blood…I am not yours.tumblr_nc63kfwTM21qdo44uo1_1280

For Three Things…

“For three things I thank God every day of my life: thanks that he has vouchsafed me knowledge of his works; deep thanks that he has set in my darkness the lamp of faith; deep, deepest thanks that I have another life to look forward to—a life joyous with light and flowers and heavenly song.”
— Helen Keller

On Loving One’s Self

Ya know how people say that before you can really be loved you have to love yourself?

Um, yeah no.  No.  I think this is one of those things that sorta sounds right, but is insidiously, horribly imprisoning. Loving yourself is hard, freaking hard.  And I am not talking about selfishness or narcissism, both of which are symptoms of self-loathing.  I mean genuine unconditional positive regard for self.

I will confess here:  I don’t love myself.  That is the truth.  I am taking steps in the right direction to walk in unconditional positive regard for myself.  But mostly no.  I am told I am worthy of love and respect, and I find within myself the desire to be loved, but far too often I find no sense in this notion that I am worthy of anything.

And then, my heart hearkens, back back…back to these words in 1 John:  “we love, because He first Loved”…it is an axiom, found in the Bible and it gives an axiomatic accounting for love, where it came from and why we all want it, and do it too.

I do know that They love me.  They have shown this to me in many specific individual ways, as well as the universal ways we all are shown love (such as beautiful sunsets, the smell of baby’s breath, the sound of the wind in fir trees, the taste of exquisite food, the sweet sorrow of parting with a well-loved friend that you will see again)…and I am working on loving myself…learning how to abandon those who are abandoners.

But I ain’t there yet…and that’s okay