Dangerous Compassions

things we’re not supposed to talk about


“Hey, dear.  My asshole feels burning, sort of like I ate a hot chile.  Is that ok?” I asked Ming.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Only I didn’t eat a hot chile.  Maybe it’s from when I had diarrhea, previous night.  Did that ever happen to you?” I asked

“Yeah,” he said.

“Oh, but you always eat a hot chile,” I said, and I kissed him. Spicy food is his favorite and helps him stay awake.  “Do you think I’ll be ok?”

“Yeah,” he said, hugging me.

“I’ll let you know if I’m not ok,” I said.

things we’re not supposed to talk about

I’m cautious about all things digestive because of the stomach ulcer that almost killed me, three and a half years ago.  When I was in the hospital and had an intense experience of Jaguar coming to help me when I almost died, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to talk about it afterward.

I wondered if I should pretend it didn’t happen…?  That was confusion at a confusing time.

How our assholes feel is one of the things we’re not supposed to talk about, right?  Menstruation, a lot of body stuff, detail about sex.  I think secrecy is bad for the world.  Information needs to be shared; people need to know we’re not alone.  Basics about health should be more discussed because we all have bodies.  Who are you trying to protect, with silence?


Sometimes I feel I’ve gone too far by not wearing a bra in public.  Making people uncomfortable is sad.

I’m supposed to pretend breasts don’t jiggle and nipples don’t exist.  Well, breasts often jiggle, and nipples can be wonderful and useful.  The world wants breasts to get off on, masturbate about, and feed small people.  So why am I supposed to contain mine in restrictive, uncomfortable, expensive bra armor?

I used to live in community with a man who wanted to hug me too much and got overly excited one day when I wore a pretty yellow dress.  The attention was very uncomfortable.  After that I was afraid to see him when I had certain clothes on.

His sex drive interfered with my life.  I would avoid the place that he lived, to avoid him–especially when I had clothes on that might make him find me appealing.

Trying not to give him a boner was way too much on my mind.  When grown adults can’t handle their own feelings, it’s too much work trying to accommodate their immaturity.  But that’s partly what bras are–a way to protect people like him, from how beautiful I am.


As a child, I lived in a traumatic environment.  I learned that alcohol, violence, addiction, and neglect are all things we’re not supposed to talk about.  So much I was supposed to keep to myself.

The voices I heard, moods I experienced, and any weird notions I had–similar.  Shut up, act normal, and pretend that everything is ok were a way of life.

Unfortunately, many people are silenced like that, by others and themselves.  And some people are never safe to talk about their actual lives.  My heart breaks for them.


As an adult, I’m safe to say just about anything I want to.  Making zines for 32 years and this blog–I’ve spoken the unspeakable for a long time.  Telling the truth about power, mental health, my own life, bodily reality, and unconditional self-love liberation is my joy.  At least Ming cares, and I care.  My mom cared.  But other people read too.

If I turn people off because I’m fat and happy, queer, a witch, or said something they perceive as negative about them, so be it.  They can look elsewhere for truth, or torture themselves by continuing to agonize over whether I said something about them.  I can’t control that.

Talking about things we’re not supposed to talk about is gold.  My small time on earth, I’m here to promote well-being in the ways that make sense, according to the gifts my ancestors handed to me.  Thanks, ancestors.


I’m not talking about my asshole a lot.  But part of my continual process of growing up is learning it’s ok to say almost anything.  Love to the truth tellers, truth listeners, and to you, dear reader.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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