Addicted to suffering...
suffering to fulfill the need to feel... and equating real with the feeling of suffering-
to be real... and knowing from a young age how to do that from a suffered place...

My family would tell me stories about the holocaust, how they survived and those who didn't... I learned about it in school, about the same time my family was transitioning in and out of going to temple, and my parents were separating, and it torn at my sister and my bones.

I found these profound sensations then, the suffering ones, and subtly paid more attention to the developing guilt. I explored guilt as I felt more comfortable in my overwhelm of experiencing the suffering of people who I come from -of people on the street crying -of people bound by pain -or spirits lingering in liminal space.-- The lingering thoughts began to create a repeatable reel, "why not me...?" and "why them?" ... It lingered... What I didn't know was that, it probably was me who suffered already, -both in those times and in these... It's in the cellular memory of this body I move around in...

Going in and out of holy buildings and sites, and being so inclined to pray (regardless of the religious affiliation)- to acknowledge the suffering of others. And for me to be here in this reality, in these real feelings,... it seemed the only way to be with the harm and chaos... and I started to really identify with these feelings, and call this experience of myself 'real'. And with all of the other chaos around me, this is where I found stillness and peace, like a pack-rat, in the pieces of my collected suffering... perhaps a collective suffering...

And today, what am i doing here, still holding onto this suffering addiction, this solitary notion of real, holding it in high esteem... this is the place from which the martyr is/was birthed... wow...

Woke up from a dream in which i was disconnected from my/a lover... moving around each other in a large room, seeking refuge behind thick concrete post/beams that held the distance between the ceiling and the floor, and set the scene for the drama to take place... I felt stuck in this dis-empowered place, between the high ceiling, the low floor boards and the filtered light coming through the yellowing class from the late afternoon sun. This is the disempowerement that I have learned to turn around into a silently suffering woman, one who is disempowered in her silence, and so powerful in her strength of pulling through to another side... one who carries her sorrow and pain, like a war hero in a movie, inside- stored until it bursts fourth... but hers won't burst... she is strong... strong enough to carry it all, she is woman... this the place where the martyr in me emerges from... egoically falsely empowered by the state of suffering...

ahhhhhh... (exhale) ... working it through in dream time... high-ho! The power of the un/subconscious...
good morning yall...