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Contents

  1. Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain
  2. My Little Brown Book of Fears, Tears, Et Cetera by Mary Magee | Waterstones
  3. Synonyms and antonyms of cetera in the Malay dictionary of synonyms

The most essential thing, however, is to use that love we all have inside our hearts and uncover the peace in this dark, cruel world. And how was she to explain to him these things? He got her staying up at night Daddy never liked gays Contemplating if her decisions are right. So of course she was scared for somethings But this is what she wants She knows that this is her life. Because she knows where she stands And what if she loses connections with her dad? And these are the things she wanted in life!

She wants to know Wishing one day. So if your family is fractured but you want it to last forever, Then you must work past all the breaks and try to hold it all together. I came from His rib So protecting His heart was my initial home. For law and love they fight against chaos And rarely receive thanks for their efforts to save us. But my heart trained my ears to withstand it. And so I do my best to pass you in the halls and say no words Whilst my loud yet silent protests mistakenly go unheard, I proceed to fight my hardest just to keep my mouth shut, While time erodes my love and my emotions just erupt.

You are a cool breeze on a summer day, you amaze me, So why would having to live my life without you never phase me? I aspired to be as bright as our sunflowers, glistening in the summer sun. You taught to me how to love, by planting my roots deep in our family soil. With water and sunlight I grew from a little seed to a blossoming flower. Through storms and hail from above, my stem became stronger.

You taught me how to live through the uniqueness of my petals. Rest easy my sunflower. Is it you?.. Is it me? Or change a life? Or a whole world even? How a single word could devastate us all? How one word could turn everything you know into a complete and utter lie? How one word could erase light, happiness, laughter? One word that could scare an entire population?

Impossible, people would tell me. But it did happen.

Our word was Geneira This little word threw my entire life into chaos. It spreads.

It travels through water and contracted by touch. It seeps through your skin.

Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain

It swims through your body to your lungs. It eats them from the inside out. I call it death. They tell us that it causes serious migraines while forcing blood out of the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Once they established the genome of the virus the agency gave out strict instructions to stop the. Remove all sources of water from your abode i. All bodies of water are to be restricted from public access. Anyone seen within a 10 mile radius of one will be incarcerated and endure severe consequences.

Morning weather reports are mandatory, if there is a chance of precipitation stay indoors until the all clear is issued. The government will issue 3 gallons of purified water to each house hold. You can collect yours from your neighborhood representative every first of the month. Please be advised when reading this announcement and help us, help you. Then they passed the Cure Center Act. This law established an intricate system of finding the perfect subjects for experimental purposes to cure Geneira.

They called it The Choosing. The Choosing was suppose to help us, yet it made it worse. Our population dropped drastically as The Choosing started gathering their subjects more like victims for experimentation. The program is cruel with no notice to family members until the day they go to retrieve the subject. You may ask why we may not go willingly.

No one has made it out of experimentation alive. Being Chosen is a death sentence. Its sick, if we kill people trying to find a cure, then how are we better than it is. As I walk, I give wary glances to the sky. I forgot to watch the report this morning since I slept in, but my mother assured me it would be fine. I used to never care if it rained or not, but then my friend, Luke, was caught in it one day, and I saw the whole. It was terrible, and gave me nightmares for months. So now, I worry. I worry too much for a teenager to do. I always wondered how people could smile in a time like this.

Darbis chuckles lightly. Him speaking of his wife, Linda, and how her sewing business is going and me cautiously keeping an eye on the sky. I bid my farewell to Mr. No walking three miles to get water. No lying to ourselves about the danger we face every time we walk outside. No wondering when the government will take someone you love away. I shake my head casting away the thoughts. To think like that in a time like this was dangerous.

My Little Brown Book of Fears, Tears, Et Cetera by Mary Magee | Waterstones

I look to the sky to see some clouds coming in from the south. I shudder. As I make my way towards. Not just any siren, like an ambulance or fire truck. No, it is the ear screeching, long-wailing scream that pierces through your body and plunges into the depths of your soul. Without stopping I look hesitantly over my shoulder to confirm my fears. A large black automobile comes rushing down the street. I pick up my pace into a light jog as it passes me eying the bold red lettering on its side: The B.

I break out into a cold sweat fearing where it was headed. The black death vehicle turns and I almost fall to my knees with only one thought going through my mind. My house is the only one on that dirt road. You worked too hard for your moisturizer coils to be dried by their hands. How your yellow is laced with sun, how your brown hugs trees, and that your black blends in with the night. Remind them of the centuries of silence, the separation from our children, the rape of our sisters, and the broken pride of our brothers; you have every right to be angry.

Remind them of versatility.


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That I can reach beyond her pain, beyond her past and present mistakes, past and present life, past and present men and wipe the slate clean on her behalf. I used to teach that women in love with men give up something men can neither comprehend or relate to - I am not sure that it is required to have a love relationship of value. I am x number of years older than when I taught interpersonal communication. I remain single and I can say men live their own perpetual pain and the contemporary emotional charged has yet to accommodate their ability or willingness to express it.

I would that I could say different. I think what I like best about this essay is the length. You stint nothing.

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Every time I thought it might be over, it had more to say. And none of it was wasted, or dross, or repetition except the taglines, "plug it up," etc. I am a post-wounded woman who writes about her pain with distance and presence, alternatingly. I too have disgust for women who wallow, who refuse to get over it and move on to the next pain. Wallowing, however, is not the same as processing, which is what you're doing, and what many artists do.

I think the real dichotomy is not the special pain that women feel vs what others men go through, but the two ways in which people of all genders deal with pain - by reveling in it or by dealing with it. People who revel in pain seem not to be able to feel it all the way- if they did, they would notice that it fucking hurts. They are absurd and risible. People who deal with pain are courageous, and this makes them both fascinating and useful.

I aim to be the latter, while knowing that my post-woundedness often makes me the former. I am still looking for the courage to feel pain, female or no. It is not particularly healthy to keep picking at scabs and it is not particular emotionally healthy to pick at unhealed emtional wounds. This essay does just that. Acknowledge the injury, care for it, clean it out, lance it if you must, get medical attention for it if you must. It it isn't pretty, it isn't beautiful, it shouldn't be glorified. In the end, your scar is just a scar, not a piece of performance art.

I have a chronic pain condition, a headache never goes away, and that sometimes renders me completely incapable of doing anything but screaming and writhing. I've had flashbacks to my attacks as though they were some trauma. I've lost friends because I needed to be in the dark and quiet and they couldn't be bothered to come with me.

Your section about Lucy Grealy really resonated with me - I've always tried to be an upbeat person and find the good in everything, and accepting that I just couldn't see the good part about this pain of mine, that no matter what sort of introspection or life appreciation it had given me, I would trade it all away just to not be aware that it was going to hurt me again any moment It wasn't until I had someone who truly loved me tell me that it was okay not to look on the bright side once in a while that I really felt like I had a handle on my own feelings.

Accepting that I was suffering, that I was wounded, and that there was no way to see it as positive was actually a positive step for me, because that made me accept that sometimes that happens to people, even me, and that my facade didn't have to be that good. Not, at least, while I'm alone with my loved ones who really care for my feelings.

I have often felt the impulse to make art out of it, to take up sculpture so I could put something tangible in the world that would stand for what I felt, so I could look at it and think, that's not so big. But then I remember Frieda Kahlo, and how I could not empathize with her paintings because they were so personal, and I think, I don't want to be like that, where what I leave behind in the world is all images of pain. My personified headache screaming with spikes forcing their way out of its skin - that's grotesque, and I want to create something beautiful.

But that means that my pain will go forever unexpressed. Thank you for writing this. There are so many kinds of suffering. I can't help but think that it's the impulse to express it, rather than the pain itself, that is more feminine. Men must hurt as well. That's being human, isn't it? I also suffer from chronic headaches. I found this page while searching for some much needed perspective on them. I try to look for the bright side in my pain purely because I know others will get sick of me talking about how much it sucks. Tonight I wrote about how I feel when I found out the pain will never go away.

I hope this makes you feel less alone and please know that your words helped me. I hope mine can help you too. Hope that it will end. Instead, I have had the crushing experience of losing that hope more times than I can count. You know the news could have been worse. You could be dying after all. This may be the best thing I've ever read. And the most timely. I feel so very grateful to you, for this framework, for this map, for this account of your journey. You articulate what I am too young to conceptualise in wholeness and reflect on with perspective and compassion.

I am in it and not in it. The veil feels thin, my skin in places translucent or broken, and in others thick enough to prune from time spent too deep, too long. Here I have found an other I can relate to in myriad, and the intelectual feminist, and woman in her many faces, and the mythic, the imaged burned of the woman who is not you or me or anyone we know, the one who is all of us, bones unbound.

This is a really great article that put up front what pain is, and that it is okay to talk about it, or even think about it. Many women are forced to hide their pain because it is shameful, and many people don't take women's pain seriously. This resonated with me quite a bit. Like, I have analogous experiences for pretty much all of this. I happen to be male. Am I just particularly bad at Being A Man, or do you think maybe this could be productively generalized to humans in general rather than only women? The cultural treatment has surface differences but I'm not sure the internal experiences do.

I think that's what she was going for at the end, with the 13th Nude, that when you express pain honestly without glorifying it or being ashamed of it, you make it universal. So lucid. I had such little awareness around this until reading your piece. You have put words to a vague tug of war I have been experiencing forever, but never recognized.

Very validating. The writer reports that the study "The Girl Who Cried Pain" tried to make sense of the fact that women who report pain to their doctors are more likely than men to be given sedatives. I admire the writer's eloquent discussion of the 'emotional' and 'psychogenic' dimension of that pain; but she inadvertently demonstrates the appropriateness of this medication. The study does not reveal a 'disturbing set of assumptions'; it does not mean that women's pain is 'not real', or that women are 'prone to making it up'.

It shows that the physician knows perfectly well that the pain will not respond to analgesics. The physician learns her craft from experience with thousands of patients. The writer's essay has nothing to teach her: she is wearily familiar with this kind of patient, even down to her indignation at the possibility of treatment with sedatives or anti-depressants, while her self-description and her thick file exhibit classic psychiatric symptoms. While of course the reality and complexity of this kind of female pain is hardest on the sufferer, spare a thought for her loved ones, who would literally do anything if it would help their beloved.

Little do they know that her innermost thoughts compare them to Hitler, yet long for the brute to stamp on her face. She is beyond their help. Absent psychotropic drugs, she is a vortex that sucks in and destroys everyone close to her. Perhaps such a person can help herself, but everything her loved ones try to do will be wrong. The only sane course for them is to keep her at a distance, like a heroin addict or an alcoholic, so that her self-destructive madness does not also destroy them. And isn't it fantastic! The pain, the heroic suffering, the rage, the sympathy, the self-importance, the purpose, the power, the shame, the mixture of indignation and longing.

It's a better high than heroin. It is an illness. It is one that will end only when the sufferer decides it must end, and then seeks psychiatric treatment. This isn't about mental health treatments, but I can see how you might not be able to follow her line of thinking and be clear on that. This writer was not expecting analgesic pain medication to be prescribed for mental anguish. And regardless of the answer, what accounts for the differences in the pain treatment they receive, and what can we do to correct this situation? A few months ago, my orthopedist said that it is lately thought that hormones play a part in some types of oversensitivity in ligament pain seen more often in women.

This isn't a psychological health issue, it's neurochemical. Neuropathic pain generally responds best to anticonvulsants and anti-inflammatories, not antipsychotics or analgesics or antidepressants or benzodiazepines. It's not easy to find truly competent doctors. Everyone should take an advocate to any kind of medical appointment. The one time I was unable to accompany my father to an appointment with a new physician, he was given a medication that sent him into congestive heart failure. I then spent a week in the hospital making sure he didn't fall out of bed, because the nursing staff was inadequate.

I wish I could say things like that are atypical where I live, but it's pretty much par for the course. So, it's a nice fairy tale that the doctor always knows what she's doing, but don't bet your life on it. Question everything. I've done the female pain thing. Here is why I would spay myself with my bare hands before I'd even think about going there again:. It didn't make me beautiful, desirable, virtuous or wise; it pretty much broke me.

Almost 20 years later the scars it left are still somewhat obscene to me. Knowing what I now know about the cheapness of a human life means that I can no longer afford to stay wounded - the blind idiot gods might come back to finish me off. Here's what I've picked up of their technique so far: You set aside what the pain does to you in order to fix the underlying problem, or at least to power your way through it. Maybe you can't oust that dictator or cure that disease; maybe your problems make downright unworthy opponents. But at least there's a sense in which you become stronger than the pain itself as you overcome it.

That strength equips you to master what's outside your head as well. Of course "taking it like a man" is stifling, hazardous, and it never quite works as advertised. Still, let me at least strive for that "jaded aftermath" rather than Probably another round of the same old spiral: helplessness invites contempt fuels self-hate becomes helplessness until it's time for another sedative pill. First, may I say that I loved your essay. I was touched by what obviously has been a long road of integration, a journey of integration of what at first seems a static, ancient self-image from adolescence?

I'm not certain that the obsession and self-pity in which you struggle is trite. I certainly don't see it that way. I am a male neurologist. Well, I wouldn't say so. Just true; maybe it has been such a common literary theme because it has been a common phenomenon.

I guess my major point is that, at least for many of the women in cultures past and present, these types of problems are related to childhood sexual abuse. I would hope that this isn't a problem intrinsic to womanhood. Lucy Grealey did not survive as an artist. She could never quite bring off another book. She killed herself with heroin, or at any rate, heroin killed her. I first wrote heroine. Thanks for the powerful and complex essay, and I will be reading it again.

I am many decades older than the "girls" on "Girls. However, that description applies to many of us who experimented then. My father never forgave me. I still write about woundedness, I suppose, but also, of course, about survival, because here I am! No stones in the pockets into the River Ouze or head on an oven door. I resented my heroines for not sticking around to show me how it's done. Survival, that is. I'm an older white male psychologist who's worked in the field of Post-traumatic Stress these past 33 years. I was drawn this area because the suffering of persons who had undergone horrible experiences was so clearly legitimate.

When people have involuntary recurring dreams and flashbacks of awful things and are desparate to get rid of the symptoms, it's difficult to question whether their condition is authentic. After many years and thousands of hours listening and learning to help, I came to understand that the complex adaptations we make to physical and emotional pain stem from basic facts of the human condition.

In particular, we are always vulnerable, always needy, and we feel shame when confronted with our inabilty to prevent bad things from happening to us. It's not anyone's fault but shame drives us to hide, to avoid, to detach, and to deny. Healing is the process of coming to understand and accept ourselves as vulnerable, needy human beings. Our pain is legitimate and expressing it is always a performance in the sense that a musician playing a song with skill and passion is performing.

Jamison's essay is remarkably courageous and honest and it challenges the reader to step up and follow her example. Not everyone can do this and there's no shame in that, either. Is there a denial of racism among black people? They just need to lead their lives. They are going to shut things up and there will be repression. I include myself in that. The book is much more than autobiographical. How many people did you interview in preparation for writing?

It was a loose anthropological exercise [laughter]. I spoke to my friends! About 25 people, black and white.

Synonyms and antonyms of cetera in the Malay dictionary of synonyms

Has Serena Williams read or responded to the piece in Citizen in which you champion her? Well, do you know what has just happened? And, yes, Serena has seen what I wrote about her. I interviewed her for the New York Times in August. I took her willingness to be interviewed as a sign of approval.

When white men are shooting black people, some of it is malice and some an out-of-control image of blackness in their minds. Blackness in the white imagination has nothing to do with black people. Why is it so hard to call out racism? Because making other people uncomfortable is thought worse than racism.

He is non-compliant because he is dead. Yes, I would agree, although black culture is also alive and vibrant. You have a daughter — how do you arm her against racism?