It's Not Funny

WARNING: This post may contain some trauma triggers that are sexual in nature.

After watching this video, a lot of different feelings came up that I forgot I had. When you try to stay aware of the world around you, that happens. One minute you will be fine and the next you open an article or clip and feel like you've been punched in the gut.

So apparently there is this whole world that exists out there where young men do "pranks" on women. These guys tape themselves groping women and exposing themselves. I've always considered myself very hard to offend when it comes to humor but this really bothered me. Similar things have happened to me before without a camera. While sometimes I try to laugh about my experiences, it's not funny.

Having a guy come up to me and expose himself when I was seven while I was just playing with my friend down the park, is not funny. Being in high school and being grabbed is not funny.  Being groped by one of my friends in adulthood is not funny. But in all these examples, most of the people around me found it entertaining but it's not funny.

While my mom called the police when I was little, I was later made fun of because of it. One person in particular would repeat what the man said to me as if it were hilarious. I laughed along to keep from crying. In actuality, my stomach would begin to roll, leaving me nauseous and empty. Forgiving a good friend for utterly insensitive without knowing it is one thing, forgetting it is another. No seven year-old should be exposed to and scared in a way that is so awful. It's disgusting, horrifying, perturbed and embarrassing and it's not funny.

When a kid groped me in high school after I repeatedly told him not to, I kicked him down the stairs. Everyone focused on my reaction but not what was done to me. There is comedy in having a girl kick a boy down a flight of stairs but that's not the point. He triggered such a visceral response. I guess that's why they call them triggers. It hurt that so few people seemed to care including my boyfriend at the time. He even tried to blame me at first while I sobbed into the phone trying to tell him about what happened. He had one of his friends talk to the kid. And friend, if you are reading this thank you for defending me. My dad hated my high school boyfriend after that. He said he was a sad excuse for a young man, that if he could beat the crap out of the kid who hurt me along with my boyfriend he would (an adult assaulting a 17 year old is frowned upon unfortunately)  and insisted I dump him. I didn't but he was very happy when we eventually did break up. My mom and dad were the ones who saw me crying on the couch for hours after school that day. Not him. This is certainly an example of cowardice, invasion and disrespect in so many ways and it's not funny.

When a good friend slapped me so hard on my butt that it hurt, I felt I couldn't make as big a deal because "Oh that's 'so and so'" as if his personality was all the explanation necessary. No one said anything and laughed as I verbally ripped him apart myself. I, too, had excused his behavior when he would hurt others so I felt like a hypocrite letting it bother me. Truth be told, it is bothersome and I have never defended him again. It's masochistic, physically abusive (IT HURT) and again disrespectful and it's not funny.

And so as you watch the above mentioned video and see some women playing along, notice their initial nos, the nervous tone's of their voices and laughter and stiff body language. They clearly feel pressured, don't want to or don't like it and if they do seem to it's because we have all been shown that this behavior is acceptable just like it always has been before YouTube existed. None of it is in no way funny.

While these experiences shouldn't have ever happened, I've learned that I have no problem defending myself. I grabbed my friend and ran away from that scary man, doing exactly what a little kid in that situation should do. I violently kicked the kid who hurt me in high school (going to my guidance counselor may have been a better decision but that's what happens when you're an impulsive and reactive teenager) and I stood up for myself verbally (which was the best I could do, especially with no support from those around me) when I was hurt later in life.

I am stronger because of these events but no one else should have to go through it because IT'S NOT FUNNY

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.

Loss Lines

“How much tragedy has to happen before I split wide open?” 
– Alisa Mullen

I can feel the fault lines trembling and quaking....but I haven't split yet.

Or maybe I have and I'm in denial.  Or delusional.  Or incapable of knowing that I'm broken, haphazardly down the middle.

Edges sharp like blades.  Others frayed like wire.  Some sections dull, void of any threat.

I am exhausted.  

Too tired to blame.  Too unsteady to play host to anger.  Too sad to do anything but shed salty tears.

My little brother is gone.  Lost.  Lifted to his eternal home.

He slipped through our grip....yet my fist is still clenched.  Knuckles still white.  Muscles aching.

Letting go, even after he has gone, feels impossible.

Heroin took him.  It was not the other way around.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Can Buy Me Love

I saw several old friends this weekend and when I mentioned the fact that I'm a yoga nazi many asked if I was going to teach. I gave half-assed responses like, "No, but I would like to." I stopped short at the reason why I'm not doing the teacher training. I simply didn't want to admit I was broke. Pathetic but true.

I have no problem admitting any of my other faults but this one is very hard to reveal to friends, never mind on this blog. But I'm doing so because I know there are others out there who can not do what they truly love because they can't afford to do so. Luckily for the truly disadvantaged (not me at all, I'm broke but have everything and more than I need) have scholarships now. But still, so many are stuck in dead end jobs or don't have one and it all boils down to money, sadly.

I took for granted that my parents were able to pay for my college education but at my age, there is no room for asking them for the $3,000 it costs. I know they would be willing to help me with childcare but I can't ask for anything more than that. Childcare alone is a lot to ask. If I only knew back in 1999 what I know now, I could have saved them a lot of money and me a lot of time.

A friend of mine suggested setting up a Go Fund Me page but I can't bring myself to do it. I feel like those should be reserved for cancer patients and the poor, not us middle of the road people who have issues but not problems. I won't beg for it. Then, there I go, having lower middle class guilt about how much better I have it than other people. It's yet another tight rope I feel I'm walking across right now; balancing the awareness of others struggles while still putting value on my own.

Maybe it's a New England-er thing too. Nothing bothers me more than admitting I need help. I once went to a store and my card wasn't going through so the employee said I could just pay the three dollars the next time I came in. Well, I immediately went to the ATM and got the money out to give him and went back. It was a huge pain in the butt but I couldn't help it. I knew that when I got home I would feel like crap OVER THREE DOLLARS. It's pretty stupid. Most of the people I know are the same way. It's just our mentality.

So when I was cleaning my house with my music pumping through my ear buds, "Can't Buy Me Love" came on and I said to myself, "No The Beatles. You are wrong." Because yoga is what I love and if I want to spread the love, then I need to buy it. I've been practicing off and on since 1996 and would make a pretty bad ass instructor (or guide as I would call myself) so while you can't buy me romantic love, you can definitely buy this kind. Keep your fingers crossed for me that I will remember to buy a lottery ticket (I always forget) and win. Until then I will be singing;

"I care way too much for money, Money can buy me love. Can buy me laa-ove. America tells me so."

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.

Because I Have a Secret

Because I have a secret so awful, I only tell a few.

It is something I was born with, you would hate it too

People only listen to the media and the bullets that flew

Only be sure to tell the ones who care about you

Loneliness is inevitable, even when the sky is blue

And people you thought would understand are the ones you'll lose

Respect will be gone when you thought it tight as glue

Dismay can be constant when you accept that it is true

Emotions are afraid to be felt and you won't know what to do

Pity is rarely given despite what you've been through

Realizing you've been duped by doctors you want to sue

Expect for the worse and you won't have much to lose

Sadness is an understatement and not the right term to use

Security is not a given, what they say is not true

Internalize it all, forget the stones you threw

Obsess on how to get better but there's nothing you can do

Never tell anyone is my advice to you

-Anonymous

The Black Horse Escapes All Notions

On the day when 7 sisters blazed

and their blue tears fell on the grass-less plains

onto which the God king came,

on the 1st of May

with 24 sons and 24 daughters

out from the shadow waters

to find 9 rivers and 3 lakes

and lands they'd stretch and shape,

was the day my soul was born

early in the Beltane morn.

The thirsty spear sleeps in poppy fields

Arianrod spins her silver wheels.

Our dreams,

a footless goblin steals

teasing us with what we feel.

Through the eye of Balor I clearly see our illness

and even this

cold steel fist

cannot brake the silent stillness.

The epidemic of our race,

the sweet but bitter taste.

Clouds rain down blood and fire

on the child whom 2 men sired.

On the floor

a limp, dead whore

who will never meet the minotaur,

the monster that she gave life for

to live alone forever more.

The ancient tree

rooted to the seas

reaching out to you and me.

Teach me what you know times 3

let me be as you are

free.

Sky clad and wild,

crazy as a child,

moonlight excites my beating heart

as I walk the devils mile.

The gods they grin and smile

as I struggle with my trials,

double checking my sun dial

as the days grow dark and vile.

Hounds yelp out from tops of mountains

gods fornicate in crystal fountains.

Kings bathe in war 

and blood soaks the holy shores.

Heroes die from their wounds 

and pass on through the doors,

to lands of plenty and summer

where druid hands hold sacred numbers

and the dragons wings fly you off 

to Tir Ni Nogs sweet slumbers.

Me, I lumber awkwardly

on the outskirts of society.

Everything I've come to be

is spilling from inside of me.

Sins bleed into words,

wolves thin out the herds.

Flowers, prouder than a peacock

dressed in bearskin furs

are blessing our surroundings

and hinting at a cure.

I'm just pushing forward all that I observe

I choose to live with what I know

while others preach what they have heard.

On my hip I carry a double bladed sword

that removes all woes before me

yet always brings me more.

And there beyond the thinning veil

the 7 sisters pray,

while I'm still pondering these riddles

since the 1st of May.

And so on as it goes

this life, it pulls me to and fro

tattoos me head to toe

plants seeds of thought 

within my mind to grow.

A bard in the past,

a scribe in the present,

thus I recon January 2nd

when came the blinding shining son

whose heart forever beckons 

to give him all

to drop my shield and weapon

and pass on all my wisdom

give protection and direction.

Past the griffins cave

to find the oak

that grows from graves.

Look westward toward the isles

and count the 9 white waves.

There beyond them islands lay

where eternal music plays.

The ancient human melody

that moves us with its way.

MAY YOU BE HONORED THERE AS ROYAL

MAY YOUR FRUIT, IT NEVER SPOIL

MAY YOUR CAULDRONS ALWAYS BOIL

AND FERTILE BE YOUR SOIL.

MAY YOUR BELLY FILL WITH PLENTY,

MAY YOUR GLASS BE NEVER EMPTY,

MAY MAIDENS SHARE THEIR JOY,

WITH HANDS THEY USE SO GENTLY.

WHERE CHILDREN LAUGH AND SCREAM,

AND STAND NAKED IN BETWEEN,

THEIR DREAMS AND ALL THE HEAVENS,

AND ALL THAT NOTHING MEANS.

THAT'S WHERE YOU BELONG MY SON, 

FREE FROM ALL THAT WE'VE BECOME.

And now that he is safe and sound

my footprints grace the winter ground

and my flesh i pay with by the pound.

Now I cross the burning lake,

there's knowledge here for me to take.

It burns away the past as I focus on my fate.

2 rainbows cross the sky,

the wind it softly sighs.

I continue on my journey

and the road begins to rise.

My ideals become philosophy

satire and atrocity.

I'm building up velocity

towards things that come to be.

Drudging up the lives I've lived,

all these words I've learned to give.

The way they spill out of my mouth

perhaps I'll wear a bib.

The wars I've seen,

the love's I've lost,

the price I've paid,

at any cost.

I tell the tales to you

and all i ask for in exchange

is that you learn a thing or two.

Then I'm back out on the road,

carrying the load.

Watch it all

again unfold,

as tales untold

are scribed on scrolls,

and barefoot women carry hearts of gold

to the hill of Tara

just past the rambling rose

to meet at circle stones and give their thanks to those

who make the howling wind blow

and the great almighty trees grow.

I do suppose

it's these pleas we need,

to cherish all it means,

to take and give what's already free,

to walk the breeze and ride the seas

and write the rhymes so blessed be.

And blessed be my daughter

bathed in holy water.

Lord let her live in grace

without so much a bother.

Let me hide beyond the tastes

of sage and toad and blotter

until i see the sign of the red southern marauder.

So I might brace myself with shield and spear

put on the helmet

and disappear,

so I might live again,

SO I MIGHT WRITE AGAIN.

Pick my battles now and then.

Share a drink between some friends.

Cast a spell upon my pen,

and tell them how and when

i survived it all

time and time again.

And so as it ends

it starts,

I search for the god of all the arts

who blessed me with a warrior to protect my fragile heart,

and a mother of 9 others who nursed a tongue that stuttered,

thus turned my mouth to daggers atop two legs that staggered

blindly into the next episode,

to chase the fools morning gold.

While I'll always know

that every aspect of my soul

is as smooth and sharp as a diamond,

brilliant and shining,

and never showing all my sides

remaining all the more wise,

I hear the burning souls cry

as they fall out of the sky.

So I search for shortcuts

beyond great Hades eyes,

but its the same old story

time and time again,

the challenges of men

seeing it now as i once saw it then

the cycles continue and it all starts to blend.

One thing's for certain,

I'll never own lace curtains.

My clothes might be shiny

but my pockets are hurtin'.

So I'll stroll through my story

and begin recounting

may it live long as the sea 

the wind

and the mountain.

Mike O'Rourke

Born 1/3/78 in Boston, MA.  Originally from Charlestown, MA., 

Mike lived most of his life in the neighboring city of Somerville (affectionately referred to as "Slumerville").

Mike is an artist - illustrator, writer, musician, philosopher, free thinker.

"I feel that art is not a skill or sharpened technique as much as it is just a part of nature.  
Like gravity, electricity, light, wind, fire, water.  Art is a form of energy.  It's an element.  
It's an extension of the creative consciousness of the Universe that constantly expands and runs through all matter.  Some connect easily with the energy, others are not even aware of it.  Whether you are a chef, tradesman, hairdresser, stay at home parent, farmer, engineer, etc., the creative force is working through you on all levels. 
There is no separation of man and nature.  We think, we create."  — Mike O'Rourke

My Choice: Part II

I remember this day so vividly. I was sitting on the back porch of my apartment on Marshall St., having a smoke. My dad came up and knocked on the window, not knowing I was on the porch. Not anything new, as my parents lived a block and a half away and would bring mail over for me to read since they couldn't read English.  I thought it was just a normal day.

"Your mom has a brain tumor."

I just got a chill typing that. She made me her favorite meal just two days ago. The only symptom she had was numbness on the right side of her cheek. It had to be a pinched nerve, not a tumor.

"She's having surgery in two weeks to remove it. Can you come with us?"

"Yes, of course," I said, still in shock. I still remember the helpless look on my dad's face when he said, "I'm going to need your help with her after the surgery." Without thinking about it, I told him I wouldn't renew my lease in a month and move back in. No need for him to ask, I knew what needed to be done. It was an easy choice. Go and help.

Seven years later, I'm still living with my parents. Caring for them as much as they care for me through my illness. Having to make sure my mom's pill box is filled correctly and trying to change their diets slowly. Keeping an eye on my dads's feet as he has lost six toes to diabetes. Doctors appointments, paperwork for Medicare has to be filled out, etc...with a smile on my face. I know it's odd that a 37 year old, single man is living with his 80 plus year old parents but I wouldn't change my choice for anything.

Unfortunately, I have seen many friends lose a parent or both at a young age. Not me. I get to see them every morning as my dad still goes into his garden, my mom makes way too much food and they sneak hand holding when no one is looking.

I'm blessed to have made this choice.

My brother and sisters have lives that wouldn't be conducive with caring for them. That doesn't make them bad people. They do what they can, when they can. I'm in awe sometimes when I see my sister, Filly, come on her only day off in thirteen days to clean the house, top to bottom. No questions asked, she just shows up and does it. My brother Steven takes the time to help my parents with the paperwork that I don't understand as he goes through his own medical struggles. Never a "no".  Laura comes by with fresh fruits and Maria comes by to check on them in-between cooking for her husband and daughter. Fran drives an hour just to sit with my mom and kibitz about whatever the topic of the day is. All while knowing my oldest brother, Joey, is above watching us all be a family, as it was always him to get the family together before he passed.

See, we make choices and some you get beat down by but some build you back up. Choices turn into life experiences that no one can take from you, ever. I know how it is to hurt, seeing my dad cry over my brother's lifeless body. My dad! A man I had never seen cry until that day. I understand when my mom gets that look on her face because she is anxious. I grab her hand and no words are exchanged. Everything will be o.k., I'm here.

To my mom and dad, I love you more than life itself. Even when you do things like walk around with your walker, Mom, I still love you. I have no choice about the love I have. That's an emotion I can't control but I can make a choice everyday to make sure I show you that I love you with my actions.

So, to all the readers, make a choice today. It may end up badly but it can also turn into seven years you would never give up for anything in the world.

Donny Soares

Donny Soares is a Boston based stand up comic and actor living the dream.  

Caring for his elderly parents during the day and delighting crowds at night. Wouldn't want it any other way.  

A romantic at heart and is not afraid to show his softer side.  

A medical nerd, a lover of all animals, and a connoisseur of mid day naps.

Uneasy Conversations

It's never an easy conversation to have, to let someone know you have a mental illness. I often wonder, do I have a mental illness, am I living with a mental illness or do I suffer from a mental illness? And what will people think of me if I tell them? Or worse, how will they treat me? Will they treat me differently? Will they treat me like I'm CRAZY???

Because, contrary to popular belief, I don't feel that because someone has a mental illness, they are crazy. It's just something, another thing, I have in my life that I have to deal with. I deal with it on an everyday, pretty much every moment, basis.

There may be times when I have stress in my life that I handle it a certain way and immediately, in the back of my mind, I question if I'm getting sick. Maybe it's the way I react to something or if I'm being overly emotional about something. It sucks that I have to second guess my emotions and wonder if I'm getting manic.

Those around you make it difficult too. Either they know nothing about the subject and think you're harmful and don't want to let their kids play with yours or they are your loved ones, who think they can read all the signs and diagnose you as sick when, in reality, you may just be excited about something.

STIGMA. That's a powerful word. And it's so true. I wish I could live in a world where I could just randomly talk about having bipolar disorder and not be judged and to not have people compare me to psychopaths.

Do I sometimes get sick? Yes. But I'm responsible about it. I immediately tell my doctor, tell the people around me or if it comes down to it, go to the hospital. Not everyone with a mental illness is a psychopathic criminal.

I have 4 children who I love with all my heart. I would never, ever harm any of them or anyone else's. Yet, I can't tell other parents about my illness in fear that they won't let my children play with theirs. It also hurts, sometimes, when people think that, because they can't see my physical scars, it's just something you have to work harder to get through or that it's not even a real disease. When you manage it so well your loved ones sometimes forget you have it to begin with, when you speak without thinking or are moody or go from one extreme to the next, they get annoyed with you.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is, it's hard enough to have bipolar disorder and it sucks more having everyone else around you making you feel worse for having it.

-Anonymous

The Power of . . .

For me there is nothing that can spark more emotion, touch the most inner part of my core or enable my mind to wander into a flurry of emotion quite like this.

It can turn the crunchiest granola munching, eco-friendly housewife into a hardened thug and many muscle-bound, mustache toting, double-bagger riding renegades into sobbing little girls.

It can make my skin feel things that can never be felt by any other force.  It can bring me back to a point in my life, down to the millisecond. Whether I want to remember or not…a smell, a friend, a relationship, a vague memory.

I don't know of any other thing that is as powerful.

Its subjectivity alone is mind-blowing.  Its ability to coerce a crowd of thousands, God-like.

For me, it's mine.  Open for my own interpretation.  Ready to lead me in the direction I am meant to go or to bring me back from somewhere I don't want to be.

It's my distraction.  My getaway.  My come down.  My life.

It's my music.

Russell Reich

Russell survived the battle of the demons inflicted by the streets of Somerville, Massachusetts. 

He skipped town with his girlfriend, landed in the Midwest and became a father of two boys.

He has always had a knack for things that inspire. 

Mainly music, but anything that took him away from the bad memories or the hustle & bustle 

of work/home life could evoke him to create just about anything he had the time for.

Trail of Turquoise

My best friend introduced me to the white sands, swaying palm trees and turquoise waters of Florida when I was 13 years old.

It was on a sweltering August day that my plane touched down with a thud.  I unbuckled my seatbelt and thought to myself "I made it!".  It's all I could do not to clap my hands and shout in glee, like the child I was trying so desperately not to be. 

As passengers began to spring to life, I stuffed my camera filled with prized images of clouds (it was my first flight, give a kid a break) into my carry-on and with all the strength my tiny frame and oversized ego could muster, dragged my loot toward the exit.

After being collected by my best friend's family at baggage claim, we made our way outside.  It was within a few steps and one upward glance that I was greeted by two things I had been anticipating for some time: The majestic sight of my very first palm tree and the wall of humidity I thought I might have to scale in order to get to the parking lot.

For that moment, I stood there, giddy with excitement and without doubt, head-over-heels in teenage love.

As my years and story unfolded, my love affair with Florida never faded. There was no doubt that Florida and I were in a long-term, long-distance relationship.  No matter where my wanderlust had taken me, I always found a way to make it back.  My time was split, a weekend here, a week there, always pining for the next visit. Always flirting with the idea of moving there "next". 

The Universe, as always, has an amazing way of working things out because somehow, some way "next" happened.  

Just a few short years ago I found myself in the position I had been eagerly awaiting.  I no longer had to rendezvous with my sweetheart.  It was time to commit.  

As a recovering commitment-phobe, I'm happy to report that I'm still swooning.  I mean, how could I possibly resist the year-round smell of dewy grass in the morning, the pure delight of looking up at the swaying palms as they dance and the overwhelming gratitude I feel while gazing out at the turquoise waters with as much awe and with as much love as when I first saw this place through sparkling teenage eyes?

You might be wondering what the moral of all this is, right?  What's the story?  What's the parting note? Well, that's an easy one...

True love lives and true love lasts, friends.  Don't let anyone tell you differently.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.