Remember me, dancing, imagining the way the whole world would love me, silly little periwinkle flowers in my eyes reflected by the wonders of my imagination but so afraid to fly, unprepared, unaware. Remember me, so pretty. Cleaning the burgundy trail made from minutes that defined my understanding of love. Bruises branded on a tiny throat. A little voice choked as my innocence woke while I am only witnessed by my baby brown bear burned with bedtime stories you’re not suppose to tell. Remember me, limping from your room the first time your buggery bloody the back of that crinoline dress daddy picked because he loves me best. Sanity happily snapping at this rainbows end and I learn to imagine. I am Doris Day, Sophia Loren Marilyn Monroe breaking the bow in a new beau as if his love could cure the curdled pages of my happily forever after. Remember me sisters. Broken bones building empty homes eyes closed more afraid to cry than hide. The way of it scraping virgin flesh made whorish by knifepoint with words I used to cut myself. Presence foggy and abandoned in the rain. Remember me brothers. A juggernaut boring through powerless pink pyjamas to drink the drama like a bottomless dirty martini. Like you could save me. I can't even hear the poetry whispering as the deafening dream clouds over as I’m pretending I'm OK every time I take off my clothes. The smell of my self loathing perfumed by breakfast kept secret, separate, festering underneath Disney bedsheets. The idea of me out of focus as I numbly chase the dizzying voices of God. Who was that who witnessed that who said that and then that who is that in my mind? The sacred left it in the chamber like so many bullets. I can’t remember when I began this tragic game of roulette. My most delicious dreams sent to me by angles cooing, “patience, patience you are loved”. And though I hate them, I heard them, and memorize the melody they call to me nightly, “Sing. Sing! Sing to me.” Remember me flying past surviving. I Am victorious. The tests of fire bring whole again my puzzle pieces perfected before I was born and then I am showed a new painting. Colours free all across that once retched sky while I shake them awake with my Grimms lullaby. They want to hide from the dark, want to justify the ugly slugging round my belly but I will show them anyway! I’m protected by those ancient poets placing saffron in the moonlight to make fragrant this fight for truth. I am merely collateral light, in case She is gazing at me looking for proof that love can win. We can stare together at the stars and pray for a prize, a clue, a rescue, for the ancient wounds wound around a girl like me.

When I was a kid, the fat, roly-poly, insecure kid in class who was always picked last, I wanted a dancers body. Sleek, lean, strong, proud. But now I can see those women who fought for their dreams of dance, nurturing their broken toes and battered knees, bounded breasts, made to stay skinny. I hear the ache in their bones, unwound, *what could have been?* bursting at the seams of best intentions. When I was 20 there were these flirty, confident girlies, dancing on stages that terrified me. And speaking their experience so deeply, eloquently, that I longed to know their pain just so maybe I'd weight in the same rank as they. I got sick with envy. Then my 30’s noticed these soul sisters, longing to be misters, who came to feel the world in their fingertips and notice every movement like nobody was watching. Telling the Truth a mortal fear but doing it anyway. They had to. I wanted to be different just like them. They might have understood the crazy that boiled inside me. But now I see the struggle, the beatings the political muddle, their fight in the muggle mortal world rejected where I stand so comfortably cis. When I turned 40 I wanted to find myself in the body of a younger girl. I’d give anything in the world for the skin in their prime. Unencombered by time. So much left ahead. The freedom to redefine again and again. The freedom to change their mind. Change the bed they'd made. But now in my 50's I long for the wisdom of my elders. The freedom of those sisters who show me compassion for my angst in the chaos of a wild woman. They know the shadows that show up in the fires of menopause, understanding the hights of the mystic in the knowing of who they are really are. I think my 60s will show me a path of God so bright it could shine through the dark to all the little girls who don’t know their own beautiful, powerful beating heart . Love Mira

I've been studying for my Child and Youth Care Counsellor Certification after 25 years of working in residential and shelter treatment centres for kids. I'm beefing up my application for acceptace into a Masters degree program. Something I read this morning hit me personally. That is to say that I've been reading for over an hour about all the traits and concurrent or co morbid disorders like "mental health & addiction" and the research, unsurprisingly and generally, speaks to the function of healthy consistent and postive relationships being the first line of defense and recovery for survivors. So, there's the thought I took sorta personally. As a survivor myself #metoox11years as well as a mental health worker, I can see that all of my intimate and dare I say even most of my closest friends, all have a history of trauma. Abuse being so very prevalent in a society which believes itself to be informed while perpetuating ignorance combined with my own specific spice and type of abuse history and healing modalities.... Well, I just don't date happy go lucky, trauma free, conscious since birth due to solid family and educational systems, well adapted simply happy shiny people. I like me some broody artisitc deep philosophical slighty damaged friends...because they GET ME. It's a very specific kind of passion and energy and art and conversation when survivors who dedicate themselves to recovery get together. It's an exclusive club of several billion. And yet, even in the health care system there is a stigma about survivors. Our brains and our genes evolved or withered in accordance to the abuse, especially trauma occuring before the age of 4. "We" developed differently. And yet. How do we break this cycle? Not just *me* and *my* family but globally? Why do the kids addictions wilderness camp funding become the first to be cut, again, when we shift governments? What hashtag actually changes systemic toxicity? Why do high school teachers make less than .0008% of those who put a cylander inside a basket for a living? Where is my rainbow parade? Do you know how long it takes to be given addictions and mental health treatment in an average Canadian hospital post suicide attempt? You don't get mental health support once you are medically stabel. They send you home with a referal for some group treatment or other which in Alberta has a waiting list of 3 months to 2 years depending on how valid and functional the treatment. Unless of course you are psychotic or homicidal in which case..lithium and an overworked under paid social worker's telephone number, then they send you home Do you know what education is required to work in a kids crisis line? None. What experience and training is required to get a job as a relief worker for a Youth behavioural treatment or addictions centre? High school - it's generally a minimum wage job. What formal degree is required for someone in Canada to take on and offer treatment to clients with a history of violent sexual trauma of more than a decade? None. The complexities and limitations and separateness of humanity is to blame in my humble, albeit vocal, opinion. We are arrogant and selfish and how I raise my child is none of your f'n business. It does not take a village so piss off with your perspective. We worry more about our social media algorythms and bank statements than we do about the next generation of leaders who are currently hiding in treatment centres for annorexic 11 years olds or drug detox. Oh. Not You of course. Not me. (yes, you and also me) And so what can *I* do other than complain and make a post that ten people will read? I do not know. Keep healing myself and supporting the healing of others. Vote very carefully. Volunteer and donate resources to mental health and social support agencies as best I can. Continue to speak my truth even if unpopular. Keep my own learning, mental health practices and tools sharp. Forgive them for everything. Love with all my heart.  Thank you for listening. Love, Mira Mira Black #mentalhealth #recoveryispossible #survivor #LoveChallenge #traumainformed #trauma #strengthbased #wildwomanrising

OMG. For the last several kms a police car has been following me. I noticed it three cars behind me but as I took my exit Mr policeman took it too placing him right behind me. My mind pulled the fire alarm, “Do I have any weed in my car??!! Oh wait, weed’s legal. And I’m on a cleanse so haven’t bought any for over a month.” I changed lanes. Police car changed lanes. Mind scrambling for the correct answer, “I’m not speeding. Used my turning signal. Seatbelt on. Didn’t cut anyone off. No lights or stop signs to run. Registration is paid. Licence clear. Pretty sure no warrants out for my arrest…” My heart was pounding as I turned off the main road onto a side road which would lead to a gas station. Police car turned onto the same side road and now very close behind me. “Wtf did I do wrong?? Oh God I can’t afford a fine! Please don’t do this to me!” Turning onto the Shell station lot, police car also turned into the gas station and remained on my tail. “I took a deep breath and then another and surrendered, a bit, mentally although my heart was still fighting to leap out of my chest as I parked next to the Shell convenience store. But where was my hounding cop about to send me into some nightmare fate unfolding in my imagination? What if my mother was hurt and needed me and the hospital sent a car to find me? Do they do that? Oh mommy! Okay copper, come and get me. Oh. Seems he needed gas too. Breathe. Good grief Mira Black.#authoriphobia #drama#queen#mindsetiseverything 😳 LoL