<![CDATA[MY SITE - Published Submissions]]>

<![CDATA[MY SITE - Published Submissions]]>Wed, 12 Aug 2026 01:41:37 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[On Leaving]]>Thu, 16 Oct 2025 15:12:51 GMThttps://www.theinterventionalists.org/published-submissions/on-leavingBy Laura Bazetta

Be responsible, little one. Don't loom, don't be inescapable, don't be dependent like the ones who haunt you, the ones who can't contain themselves or anyone else. The embarrassing Children. The ones whose neediness is ugly. Whose anger is reckless. Whose sadness is debilitating. Even monstrous at times. You don't want to be like that, do you? You're not like that, I know it.

Be a Big Kid. But also, be small. Become smaller and more manageable, easier, calmer, more digestible. Less of what's wrong -- less of everything, actually, in order to make more room for what's Right. Pack up everything rock-heavy and too meaningful to bear, everything furry-soft or blindingly colorful, everything sickly sweet and candy bright. Anything that you carry around in your two small fists for comfort and any hotness or tension left in your fingers from swallowing all that broccoli, store it away in the basement with other useless things you ought to have outgrown by now.

Oh, don't be sad, don't cry. There's still occasions when you can take the boxes out every once in a while. Put them on display in a glass case in the corner of the basement where a little light from the window peeks through, see? Don't reach past the glass, of course, but remembering is nice. Everyone remembers these things fondly.

For an evening. To be seen in glimpses, to be tolerated in measure, but these things are wholly inappropriate to decorate with on the main floor. At the end of the night, pack them up and put them away again, how lovely but we really have to go now, it's so late. See you in a month, a year? No worries either way, of course. Anytime.

How do you outgrow something you were never allowed to keep?

You leave yourself. You leave yourself behind along with any sense of need, of fear or nervousness, of beauty or intensity, leave yourself in your memories and glimpses and moments, breathless behind the glass on which you ought not leave fingerprints or any other signs of life. And anyone else who shows too much interest in those boxes -- you have to leave them, too.

Those things can't live upstairs, after all, and neither can anyone who won't leave them behind. Even children have to let go of their ratty blankets eventually. Leave them if they can't act tolerably and keep their voice low on the echoing tile of that tasteful and neutral-toned first floor. The only floor that's safe to exist on for longer than an evening. The place you can invite respectable people, respectable things. The place that you can respect yourself for being adult and normal and Okay, where you don't make anyone too uncomfortable to bear. Where the fridge and the heat and the food and the family is, where you are welcome. Where you know what's going to be said or not said, and how you'll feel when it is or isn't (feelings small enough to Stay through). Where the bills get paid and the lights stay on and at least you know what to expect.

Leave them down there with the dust and the mice and the rumpled cardboard that shields everyone's eyes from the cloying vibrancy of everything those boxes contain, along with everything else that's shameful and unacceptable to love. Just visit, every once in a while, and find a way to let that be Enough. It's enough for anyone who isn't reckless and monstrous, isn't it? Anything more would be

So inappropriate.

© 2025 Lauren Bazetta

]]><![CDATA[Symphonic sapphic]]>Thu, 16 Oct 2025 14:58:08 GMThttps://www.theinterventionalists.org/published-submissions/symphonic-sapphicBy Beadle Roeming

Author’s note:
This piece is dedicated to queer women and anyone who has ever felt the pull of sapphic love. I often find there’s a unique kind of loneliness there, a very quiet and painful yearning that shakes you to your soul. I’ve always deeply connected with music; it’s something that immediately strikes the heart, that goes beyond what simple words can describe. So I wanted to incorporate that element here. There’s something fundamentally musical about love, desire, and everything else that makes us human. And despite all the dissonance, this symphony we call life will always find its resolution, its home chord. It’s the moments of tension and movement that make the end voices so satisfying. I hope you enjoy!

Your flirt and Sapphic kind of queer
bore certain sadness I could hear
It struck a chord within my bones
a humble score still stained with tears

You’re on the minor fall, my dear
and one that rings out loud and clear
But listen harder—shifting tones
You’ve never sung this song alone

Harmonic lifts will fill the ears
Voices join and pass the years
Symphonic sapphic strong as stone
your tender heart can only grow.

© 2025 Beadle Roeming ]]><![CDATA[Jalouis’s Journey into an Identity Crisis]]>Sun, 18 May 2025 17:57:29 GMThttps://www.theinterventionalists.org/published-submissions/jalouiss-journey-into-an-identity-crisisWritten by: Jalouis
Email: jalouissnjay@gmail.com

When I think of my childhood, I have this tendency of looking at it with rose colored glasses. Still to this day, I feel like I kid myself into thinking that I should only focus on the good things; the privileges above all else, because if I don’t, I’m simply an ungrateful bitch.

As the youngest of 3 sisters, born into a family of immigrant parents, making me a first generation American, I know and am always made aware of my upper hand. Trust and believe, I choose to lead my life with gratefulness every single day, but as I get older, and can no longer be ignorant to the real world, it’s becoming more difficult to be a generally and genuinely happy person. All this context to say that, I really do love my childhood and have beautiful memories attached to it, which in itself is a pleasure that many will never have, unfortunately. Now obviously, life wasn’t perfect back then either. School became unbearable the older I got. My parents were my greatest source of stress in my teenage years, and that zest and lust for life was slowly but surely disappearing. I s truggled severely with my mental health (bipolar II) in high school, especially an after having been taken to a mental hospital at the age of 16, in February of 2019. With all this being said, I don’t remember even the worst of times back then being this bad, like how life feels right now. That’s why I’m constantly asking myself; what the fuck happened? How did life get this way? It’s what I’m trying to figure out, in this 22 year old brain of mine. Inside of a body that feels 55, but with an under-developed mind that hasn’t aged a day over 17. This is the not so brief story of my life these last couple years.

My father disowned me for the first time in my life at the age of 17, in 2019. We took a summer trip together, just him and I, where I met his new wife for the first time. I won’t lie and say that this entire trip was god awful, because it truly wasn’t. I have some of my favorite moments of life take place from that time, but the hurt and sorrow that came with it stains and overweights everything for me. I try not to think too much about that summer, as it was mentally brutal, and that’s including the fact that I was also being groomed then. The second time being disowned hurt even more. I was 21 years old, in October of 2023. Being told to not speak to this man, although we were living under the same roof, was perplexing at best. This was when I really started isolating myself, hearing awful things being said about me, as if I wasn’t there to hear those same words sting and cut through my skin like bullets. To this day, I repeat those exact same words back to myself. How absolutely cruel. The final nail in the coffin occurred in January of this year, 2025, at the age of 22. This time around though, it’s been set in stone. We haven’t spoken a word in the past 4 months, and he no longer lives with me. I haven’t experienced a heartbreak before; not until this one, and I’m still in the middle of processing everything. I’m having a hard time understanding how I could have loved this very person before, as a child. I’ve put him up on so many pedestals, just to find out later in life that his ideologies, beliefs, and values are all based on bigotry, which I can only see now. Who I am in my most real sense, deep down inside, to my core, is the exact opposite of who he wants me to be, and he despises me for that, precisely because I REFUSE to change for him. This is a heartbreak that will linger for a lifetime. It’s the wound that never heals.

Ever since I can remember, my mom was always older than the moms of all the other kids my age. She had me in her mid forties. Around my mid to late teens, my sisters and I started noticing some concerning behaviors coming from her. She’s always been a hoarder, as many immigrant parents who came from nothing tend to be. The disturbance though, became the amount of things that she was misplacing. Thousands of dollars would go missing at a time. Special documents and letters would be on top of the table one day, and gone the next, with no recollection. Everything bothered her. She would always catastrophize all the minor mishaps of life, living in total extremes. Maybe who I am currently was a result of all this learned behavior? I always have that question floating around in the back of my mind. Living like that was infuriating and scary, to say the least. At this point in life, I don’t recall who my mom was prior to this. As much as I try to remember her when I was little, I just can’t, which is made all the more strange when I can vividly point myself out in childhood. Bizarre, isn’t it? Her condition worsened as she aged, and I later came to find out that she was developing Alzheimers. I know now, things I didn’t know then, and with that, I try to extend myself grace, for my awful behavior towards her in the
past and sometimes even now in the present. As I still live with her, I know that she’s got to be tired of holding and carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, but specifically now, as a woman with a disease that she can’t admit to having, because it hurts her pride. The difference from then to now is that I know she’s hurting. Here’s the thing, the world doesn’t appreciate or compensate caregivers in the way that it should, and mothers above everyone else know this. I’ve learned that the hard way, having been my mom’s primary caregiver the past couple months, with no compensation. Now, please don’t mistaken this statement as me saying that I wouldn’t do this without pay, because I have been and will continue to do so, as her daughter, but it’s frustrating to think that if I was a young man, the world wouldn’t put that responsibility onto me or make me feel guilty for not wanting it. I sometimes blame myself for feeling resentful towards my situation. How many people wouldn’t want to spend more time with their aging parents and loved ones while they still can? It’s another one of those “ungrateful bitch” instances I find myself having.

To conclude, adulthood hit me like a ton of bricks, which is why I’ve been living on escapism ever since. I’m walking the fine line between contradiction and an identity crisis waiting to happen on a daily basis. I bet you couldn’t even tell that my real name isn’t Jalouis. She’s just the coping mechanism I pretend to be. As of right now, I don’t think I know who I am, nor who I want to be. I’ve lost the plot in my life, and it feels like I’m giving up on myself, yet again. Things I thought I knew about myself back then are now uncertain. I blame the accrued trauma for that. All in all, I think I’ll be fine. At this point, I can only hope for that to be true.

Thank you for reading my story thus far.

© 2025 Anonymous

]]><![CDATA[Forever Sapphic]]>Tue, 29 Apr 2025 19:11:26 GMThttps://www.theinterventionalists.org/published-submissions/forever-sapphicWritten by: Ellouise Badger.
Email: ellouisebadger@gmail.com

No, not a boyfriend
Not a he but a she
I hope for a girlfriend
As cute as she can be

No offence to all men out there
You're great I'm sure just not for me
Some very pretty if I'm to be fair
but I love only women you see

I can only desire the fairer sex
I can't change my own nature
No need to consult the tarot decks
I can see what lies in my future

Forever flustered by gay panic!
I am and always will be sapphic.

© 2025 Ellouise Badger

]]><![CDATA[True Love or Limerence?]]>Mon, 24 Feb 2025 00:28:10 GMThttps://www.theinterventionalists.org/published-submissions/true-love-or-limerenceWritten by: Anonymous
Email: meatdress1013@gmail.com

I recently fell in love with one of my best friends. To be honest, throughout the past two years I’ve on and off had feelings for her. Whenever I started to feel romantic feelings towards her, I’d somehow talk myself out of it. Usually that involved shit-talking her either to myself or to other people that don’t know her that well, and blowing things out of proportion to make her seem worse than she is.

A few months ago I finally let myself accept and acknowledge I am in fact in love with her. I really thought it over, journaled about it, made playlists, wrote poetry. Why? Is this just forced proximity? An obsession? Limerence? When I finally got the nerve to open up to another friend about it she said exactly that- you’re just confused you don’t actually love her, it’s just a crush. That just didn’t feel true to me. I have been through a lot with her, and because we are concert buddies we have traveled a lot together and I’ve spent some of the happiest days of my life with her. Sitting across from her at a restaurant, walking along the beach, listening to music with her in the car are also some of my happiest moments. That doesn’t seem like just an obsession. And of course, she is not perfect, I have been friends with her for a long time and know that all too well, and she knows my flaws and setbacks too. I feel bad for lying about what she was like to my other friends for years, just for my own selfish reasons.

I told her on New Years Eve, which we were spending together (alone lmao) that I had feelings for her- well- I didn’t actually. I panicked, and told her I used to have feelings for her and love her as a friend. I tried to make it as digestible as possible, because I couldn’t dare tell her the truth, that I can see a life with her, traveling with her, making memories with her, taking care of her for as long as she would want me to. All she said was, “don’t feel bad,” and we dropped the subject. It felt like a rejection- even though it technically wasnt? But i think if she had any feelings for me, wouldn’t she have maybe said something? We were both very drunk at the time, so it wasn’t the most open or productive conversation. I don’t want to bring it up again, as I feel like I’ve already been rejected. There’s still some hope I hold on to that she will want to be with me in the future. I don’t know why, I wish i didnt feel that way. I love her a lot. As a friend, and as more too. I still am not fully convinced I just have a weird crush on her, or I am crazy, or just a loser lesbian. I don't know. I don't know how to feel, and I don't know what to do. When I have talked to my other friends about it, they laugh at me, tell me I'm ridiculous, or tell me that she is not a good person for me. None of my other friends know her that well, and I am super close with her and don't feel like I can fully trust their outlook on her. I know it's stupid to ask, what do I do? But, what do I do lol.

© 2025 Anonymous

]]><![CDATA[Beyond Binary: Navigating My Gender Identity]]>Sun, 23 Feb 2025 18:23:44 GMThttps://www.theinterventionalists.org/published-submissions/beyond-binary-navigating-my-gender-identityWritten by: A
Email: csatlevania@gmail.com

I've been struggling lately with my gender identity and expression. I'm a lesbian, I identify with the term since I feel like being born a female plays a huge part in the way I'm perceived and these "desires" people expect from me. I have always been gender nonconforming though, I've used plenty of other terms when I was younger (I grew up practically on my phone and I felt as if all these identities and labels were necessary to describe who I was at the time), but now I don't label my gender anymore.

It's a very complex thing, going into it makes my head hurt. I've only dated people online when I was younger, who were also trans or a different identity, and two of them ended up being lesbians after years of self discovery. I've been trying to actually find someone in real life that seems right for me, but I have zero hopes in finding someone where I currently live. When I think of being in a romantic relationship with a woman, I feel more feminine, softer? When I'm by myself or with anyone else, I feel these needs of presenting or acting more masculine/androgynous-like. I don't know where I'm going with this, but your video has put a different perspective in my mind, since lately I have been trying to convince myself I am not trans/GNC and that I'm supposed to be a female, I keep forcing myself to dress in certain ways and to stop voice training, and to try to just be a normal female woman so no one is confused.

I don't know, I guess I'm tired of the constant questioning (questioning myself and leaving others confused as well), and feeling as if everyone fits into boxes that are easy to understand, and I still am struggling to understand myself. I have DID and that also plays a huge part in my identity or identities. I'm just really, really exhausted of the shame that comes with not fitting in. I have been trying to push it all under the rug and play this version of myself I don't feel comfortable with. I am a lesbian because I do experience romantic and sexual attraction towards women and feminine presenting people, mostly androgynous women, but I haven't seen anyone like that apart from, what? Fictional characters? People on Pinterest? I hope it doesn't sound like I'm projecting these high, unrealistic standards onto people because that is not the case at all. I'm just trying to say that everyone seems to fit into these binary boxes, either feminine or masculine, and everything else feels invisible... fictitious. I prefer androgyny, when it comes to attraction and for myself, but lately I have been feeling so invisible and depressed.

That's what's driving me to just suck it up and be the usual female woman everyone is expecting me to be. I used to go by he/him for a good majority of my teen years, since there's not many sets of pronouns that feel right for me, but since last year, I've been convincing myself to get used to she/her or they/them since it's easier for everyone else. I am currently feeling so mixed and... scrambled? when it comes to pronouns. I told my closest friend to use she/her for me (I'm presenting more femininely lately) because deep down I feel guilty for not presenting in a certain way that makes sense.

I'm so sorry if this is too much, I don't know who to go to or if
there's anyone else that feels this way. I have two cisgender friends in real life, and my closest friends online also fit into these binary boxes, and they're all lovely, please don't get me wrong, I just feel like the odd one out sometimes. It makes me feel extremely guilty and ashamed.

A note to the audience would be: can anyone... relate? Is someone
going through something similar? I'm not sure what to do or what to say. I feel lost even though the year is going generally well for me. I just want everything to be right and to feel better.

Thank you so much for reading this, I haven't really spoken to anyone about this before because again, I feel ashamed to share these things with my close circle since I feel as if they won't relate. I don't want to be some sort of "annoying trans person", constantly demanding things or not being able to fit in with the rest, I hope that makes sense. Thanks a million and I hope I can be heard with this.

© 2025 A

]]><![CDATA[Perfectly Imperfect]]>Mon, 10 Feb 2025 19:59:43 GMThttps://www.theinterventionalists.org/published-submissions/perfectly-imperfectWritten by: Naomi Lockhart
Email: whimsicalmimzical@gmail.com

Growing up I always tried my best to do good, be good, and make others happy. My happiness? Meh. Not as important. Validation was all I needed… or so I subconsciously thought. I wasn’t always this aware of it but it was something I sought after in everything I did, every person I interacted with. It’s still the case, but to a much lesser degree, and thank goodness for that.

Perfectionism and people-pleasing are quite literally a deadly combination. The odds were stacked against me from the start. I wasn’t born to come into my own, I was born to conform and bend to the will of others. I wasn’t born to find enjoyment in life and thrive, I was born to serve and survive. Born to be a “proper” subhuman who never complains about anything or anyone and always forces a smile. Everyone else's comfort is first above my well-being. Nothing made this clearer to me than being told by an old man at church to smile. Little did he know I was suicidal. Maybe if he knew, he wouldn’t have said that. But I doubt that one word from him was all that well-intentioned. It’s not like I was having my picture taken, I was just simply walking past him with a facial expression that reflected the day I was having.

There was always someone who had a problem with me. I was either not enough or I was too much. I wasn’t allowed to just exist. I couldn’t just be. I couldn’t just be a kid too, the only option I was given was to grow up fast. Being told how mature I was for my age isn’t the compliment I once thought it was.

I always had to be doing things for others. Doing something solely for myself and my own pleasure was considered a waste of time. I am a woman, a lesbian, half-not-white, neurodivergent, with invisible physical disabilities. I was born lower-class and was once a child who had little sense of autonomy. I’m not meant to have a voice. I’m not meant to be heard. I’m not meant to be believed. I’m not meant to be taken seriously. No one in my personal life said these words explicitly, but they didn’t need to. I still got the message loud and clear. In the eyes of a Western patriarchal capitalistic society, I'm no better than dead if I can’t meet certain expectations and uphold the status quo. I’m disposable so long as I keep calling attention to my rights. My existence challenges the very systems, harmful systems, that some people work too damn hard to keep in place. What did I ever do to deserve such vitriol? I do wonder.

When I finally started to stand up for myself and set much-needed boundaries, that’s when all hell broke loose. Unfortunately, things got so much worse before they got better. The arguments were amplified. They became more frequent. Civility was nowhere to be found. Screaming, yelling, pleading, crying. Why was everyone and everything so loud? How come when they raised their voices at me and while triggered I raised my voice back, their voices turned down and I was now an unruly maniac? Implode. Implode. Implode. Explode! Repeat. I think imploding is such a common thing girls/women do. Suffer in silence until you just can’t take it anymore and unleash the beast inside you- the beast that has been begging to be freed from the trap it found itself in. How could anyone blame the beast for roaring and groaning as it bleeds away in pain? As if it were asking to be prey?… It feels far from good but the anger has to come out somehow. It’s so easy for people to dismiss our anger, however. Once it’s expressed profoundly, we are deemed hysterical and once hysterical always hysterical it seems. The ancient Greek word for uterus is Hystera - many men think that only women can be hysterical but if anything it’s the opposite.

I was often told how selfish I was, that I only cared for myself. This was among the things I feared most and thus one of the last things I wanted to hear. But I wholeheartedly believed in these words, their gut-wrenching words for a while. And hated myself with a passion because of it. I was at my lowest of lows and being told by the people I cared about most of how much of a disappointment I was. Little or big comments they made were like micro or macro stabs to the heart. All I wanted was their love but in turn, they made me believe I was the scum of the earth- because I dare ask for more. How dare I have needs beyond what’s legally required of them to provide. But no, I was supposed to kiss their feet for not letting me die in the streets. Curse me for putting myself first for once in my life. Tragic. But in truth, they were just disappointed they didn’t have constant easy access to me anymore as they’ve only ever appreciated what they could get out of me. I’d go back and forth between giving in and standing my ground even when it hurt. I didn’t have the term for it at the time but reactive abuse I believe is what it’s called. They were good at making me feel like a savage. How could I have turned out like this when, in my earlier years, I was so calm and collected? Sometimes the price you pay for fighting for the right thing is losing your sanity, and your grip on reality until a miracle opportunity comes your way, you set aside your pride and finally rely on someone else for help. That is if such a miracle comes your way. Too many don’t make it to the other side. That hurts to know.

I was no longer the prim, proper, and polished person I thought myself to be. Though I’ve never thought I was perfect, I so seriously thought it was something I could achieve. I thought that once I had achieved perfection then they’d finally love me, of course they would, right? Right? People have achieved the impossible before but this? Now this was truly impossible. Even if I hypothetically were perfect, being loved was never a guarantee. Okay so, perfect was completely out of the question but I still wanted to please. I was now rough around the edges and everyone could see it. How I’m not as docile and sweet. How I’m lagging behind others my age. I tried so hard to hide all my flaws and vulnerabilities and now they were front and center. I felt naked, exposed, and ashamed. I couldn't control what they thought of me anymore- not that I ever really could. My reputation had been permanently tainted. How does one go from a high-achieving student to a dropout? Well, certainly not willingly in my case. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter and yet I was ridiculed for it. I tried my best but I guess it just wasn’t enough. My efforts didn’t matter as I wasn’t pulling in the ideal results. Something must seriously be wrong with me… that or maybe I was never meant to follow a traditional life path. If I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t I might as well do things that genuinely spark joy in me. Otherwise, what’s the point of living my life if I can’t live it for myself? Even just a little bit.

I am not fond of most of my memories. There’s something about standing up for yourself and fighting for your right to be recognized as a full-fledged human being that can be so humiliating. But I am proud that I fought for my personhood in the end. That I stood up for myself when no one else did. I am not without scars but at least I’m still around and have finally gotten a taste of happiness. Not superficial joviality but authentic happiness from slowing down and taking in the small beautiful things that are often taken for granted. Happiness that isn’t as fleeting as it once was. Happiness where I just can’t seem to stop smiling and my face hurts and I’m unashamedly laughing to the point where I start having coughing fits and my chest hurts and even that’s funny! A little concerning yes, but funny! I’m humming all the time too. I don’t have to be so quiet anymore. I didn’t think I’d get this far. I live at my own pace and pursue my passions. I am my own boss now. And how lucky I am for that.

I still struggle with many things but I can better handle what life throws at me. There are people out there who believe I’m less than human or would treat me as such but the good thing is, I don’t have to spend the rest of my life believing it too. For me, it’s easier to be nice to others than to be nice to myself but I see just how important self-love and respect is. When I’m around others and I start to feel inferior, I’m able to notice it sooner and I try to be more gentle with myself. I owe that to myself. And I am not above or below anyone. Some of the "flaws" that certain people think are okay to degrade me over are not even flaws to begin with. I refuse to believe they are. Like my lesbianism. In contemporary Filipino culture, it’s as if you can make up for your homosexuality by becoming rich enough and/or famous and not bringing attention to your sexuality too much. I am not rich or famous but my sexuality? It is a beautiful thing! Love is a beautiful thing in all its forms and I will continue to embrace it for as long as I live for happy is only the soul that loves. As for my real flaws, I am working on them. But I am not a letter, I am not a number, I am not a puppet, I am not a robot, I am not a product. I am not a means, I am an end. I am a person and I don’t need anyone’s permission to be imperfect.

© 2025 Naomi Lockhart

]]><![CDATA[Simplicity]]>Sat, 04 Jan 2025 03:32:58 GMThttps://www.theinterventionalists.org/published-submissions/simplicityWritten by: Meagan Sponseller

All too often we make love out to be something it isn’t. Painful, destructive, disappointing, and altogether frustrating. Complicated. Hard. This is not Love at all. This is not how it should be and we can feel it deep within our souls. Embedded in our consciousness. We know this is not Love. We know there is so much more.

In our times, we have lost simplicity. How simple anything can be if we just let it be without the desire to change it? Without the desire to mold it into what it is not. We wouldn’t approach an artist’s statue and try to change it, why would we try to change the nature of Love? Love is understanding and acceptance. Love is, always has been, and always will be simple.

You see, Love is so much more than grand gestures. It’s more than money spent, agreements or disagreements, or the sharing of space. It has never been what they post about you on social media or how often they text you. If that were the case, people would have never loved before technology advanced. I stress again, Love is simple.

Love is them telling you to sleep because you’re tired. It’s them making sure you’ve made it home. It’s a simple “be safe” before you leave. It’s hand-written letters ranging from a single word to a never ending stream of hellos. It’s showing you their favorite song. It’s questions and answers. It’s shared coffee, shared memories, and shared laughter. It’s wiping away tears. Love is a place, an object, or a photo that reminds them of you. It’s investing in them and their passions, their work, and their dreams. It’s building them up and being their biggest fan. It’s their voice and the way they say your name.

Love is the sharing of knowledge. It’s acknowledging their mistakes without criticizing. It’s them teaching you it’s okay, in fact it’s beneficial, to love yourself.

It’s their patience and understanding of your nature. It’s accepting what society deems as their flaws simply as what they are. Them. It’s simple compliments and intricate shared details of their mind. It’s their eyes and smile. It’s butterflies and blushes. It’s them calling to wake you up because they miss you.

It’s knowing they exist.
It’s the act of caring in all of its fine forms.
It’s inexplicable emotion.
It’s effort.
It’s simplicity at its finest.

Perhaps not so simple in each individual aspect, but still. Love is simple all together.

© 2024 Meagan Sponseller

]]><![CDATA[The Privilege of Loving Me]]>Sat, 04 Jan 2025 03:28:45 GMThttps://www.theinterventionalists.org/published-submissions/the-privilege-of-loving-meWritten by: Meagan Sponseller

When you see my scars, will I still look the same?
Not just the scars on my arms, but the permanent indents left on my psyche.
The scars caused by neglect, abandonment, pain, and abuse.

Does telling you of my past make your abandonment more likely?
When I pull away and have moments I can’t stand to be touched, will I be someone you can no longer use?
How can I be of benefit to you?
Do I have to stand by entirely mute?
Would you like a show where I focus solely on you?
Where I place myself on the back burner like I’m told to do?
Where I dim my light to help yours shine?
No thank you. Not this time.

I had to repair what I didn’t break. My heart, my soul, my mind. The scars etched in my skin and soul are my form of Kintsugi. I did the best I could with what I had at the time. I am not responsible for the damage, just the reparations made.
I’m not sorry if the way I survived doesn’t look how you think it should have. I’m not sorry if the endings I chose don’t align with your ideal life.

And before you say that I’m damaged, know that I’m not. “Damaged” would insinuate that there is a specific way I should be. I’m not made to fit your definition of perfect.

However, if knowing of my past makes you walk away because you think I’m damaged, then perhaps you are far more tarnished than I am. My past made me kinder, patient, understanding, generous, and less judgmental but somehow MY past makes people walk away. I don’t tell people my story to make them carry it, I tell them to give them the opportunity to understand. If my vulnerability and knowing me is such a burden, I’m glad that you won’t accept the privilege of loving me.

© 2024 Meagan Sponseller

]]><![CDATA[The Universe & the Self]]>Tue, 10 Oct 2023 06:24:12 GMThttps://www.theinterventionalists.org/published-submissions/the-universe-the-selfAuthor: Regee Yalyk
Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@RegeeYalyk
Email: regee.yalyk@bellsouth.net if

It was once, not long ago, I found myself staring at my image in
the mirror of my mind. The reflection was a "me" that was not
me. It was the me which found himself separated by a mere
single neuron in the corpus collosum. I was speaking to myself;
my other self.

I found that the active me which was always in
control was actually the left brain - the one which controls the
right side of my body. I could not discount the experience. The
other me speaking back (yes I did have a conversation, one
lasting several days despite my attempts to end it), told me that
I was actually both him and me. I was both of us at the same
time. I managed to cognitively reconcile this by absorbing the
absolute meaning of what a "self" is by defining the two "me" as
a single one "me". But I could not ignore the idea that I was
never at any point the left side of my body - how could I not be?
But then, I was provided what I can only consider to be
undeniable proof - I was given a task to attempt to stabilize my
thumbs. Think of it - just hold my two thumbs together at the
same time facing each other; like two wild dogs having a
staredown and who would budge first. Wouldn't you know it my
right hand moved first. The one I was in control of (according to
this other me) was the one that budged. I was shocked. How
could my own nerves betray me? Let alone the fact that I am
both of my thumbs right? Well, apparently not.
I was given a vision that night, not more than two or three hours
following this experiment. Once I stablized my thumbs
experiment and managed to actually let the right brain control
everything, I sat back and watched a parade of closed eye
visuals stream by - like I was dreaming but not. I was being
shown something that my right brain had been holding back for
years, likely all my life - or at least since I was able to begin
planning and not willfully creating. In my case, the left brain was
the logical and planning agent, while the right brain was and still
is the creative force behind my actions. So what does this mean? I spent three days or so talking with it - absorbing what this me was saying. I learned how each of my various body functions and systems were interconnected. I learned and began applying what the logic side had learned about brain hemispheres and the chakras, and all the who'dv'e-said-it spiritual and other types of new age sciences over the years. None of it had ever connected with me the way that I'd seen it then. The masculine and feminine sides were revealed at the end of the session, with a grandmaster crown chakra eventually being deemed the controlling agent - formed primarily by the forces of the universe; what Carl Sagan might call "star stuff"- what others might call God; yet more what others might call Nirvana or the Universe or the one. I have never been fully engaged in or with any serious devout religions; I consider myself a student of them all and a master of none of them. While I may understand the principles of the Jainist monk who starves themselves and the intentions of yet still others who perform miracles with healing, I've never really 'known' what those are. I can not - but I can understand them in principle. What I've been given in my life, provided my background and the achievements I've made which will follow me to my grave - none of that compares in scale or scope to the rush of perfect existence I experienced that night. It is September 29 2023 as I write this, and that experience was about 5 months ago, back on Apr 28, 2023 - nearly to the day.
Since then, I've had some kind of veil lifted on the world around
me. I've seen how things work in a way that I can only describe
as necessarily urgent to convey to the world. I am of the
understanding that I am not some important figure in the world -
that my ability to actually use and tap into my creative brain
(right) just as easily as I use my left (now) is not a unique or
special feature about me.
But I do think I have some advantage in the way I am able to
grasp on to these concepts and summarize them in a familiar
and tangible way for others to see. I've been called a great
teacher all my life, and I have this strange innate ability to pick
up on others' gaps when I am teaching them things. It can be
work or other - so in that process of training myself to be better
at it I have gained a simple yet powerful ability to "see" when
things will and will not be learned by others. I have figured out
how to tell when someone will eventually understand what
needs to be learned and I can also see very quickly and easily
what references can be said to denote to the person that will
connect the dots for them.
In your case, Niki, I was searching a relatively simple idea on
YouTube about the ethics of choices - basically what is the point
of a choice and how do good and evil lay their marks on them. I
have always been of the belief that choices (aka decisions) are
the morally responsible elements when actions are taken. It's
not the actions per se that are good or bad - just the choice to
do them. In effect, the summary statement is that good and bad
decisions frame and forge the outcomes which we eventually
see in the world. We see bad in the world as a result of bad
decisions - of course the actions are a root cause directly, but it
was actually the choice that propted the action.
In this way, it is not ultimately any actions which are causal but
the thoughts and ideas that perpetuate them. What I see in the
world is a series of poor decisions that lead to bad outcomes. I
was so engaged with your content while it was presented that I
could only hear a voice in my head screaming "yes, this is you!
these are your words!" while at the same time hearing the
divergent arguments about morality and good and evil. Yet still
while this does answer some basic questions about classifying
choices and decisions outright, it does not ultimately lend aid
towards containing decisions in a specific bucket. Is getting a
coffee at a Starbucks to finish writing this a good idea? What if I
finished it without going to the Starbucks? What if I went to the
Starbucks and didn't finish it? The implications and possible
permutations are effectually inifinite - and infinite is something I
understand meaningfully and purposefully well.
I spoke one sentence about something I did which I will take to
my grave, and while I will not now reveal it, I can say that infinity
was a generous portion of it. I know what infinite formations of
fractals look like - how they reverberate through the cosmos
and beyond; how they reveal themselves in the neurons during
special MRI exams; how broccoli and plants look like them; how
people around the world congregate and flush through crowded
spaces; how the swirl of milk in a coffee only ever happens
exactly that way once; how writing a summary statement of my
understanding of the universe and world at large is but a peg in
the cog of a machine designed to produce more of those exact
conditions...
...how the second-person hallucination I experienced was but a
moment in time designed so that I can only ever know it once.
That day changed my life. I use that phrase to emphasize the
meaning it has for me - in reality every day changes my life. But I
digress.
Prior to those days of delusion, I was somehow always
pessimistic and left for naught; I was under the impression that
the greatest thing I'd ever achieve was already done and that my
greatest life's work would never be attributed to me (this was
and still is my wish for it, mind you). I use the word designed
here not to imply that there is some great hand at work - as you
will see this is the 'me' in that scenario which has taken on the
representative role of that 'entity' which designs. It is easiest to
speak on these things by ascribing some human-like attributes;
but the reality of the circumstance is that this is not at all the
case.
I have a bit of conspiratorial insight to share, in that it is possible
my behavior and revelations were somehow manipulated. Like
Descarte, I must consider that I am actually only my thoughts. But as such, even if the mastermind behind the veil of this
universe has tricked me into believing in something more;
something bigger than me; I can only conclude that whether or
not it is true that it is at least a part of me or that I am a part of it
- or that both are one in the same.
And that was my conclusion: it is all the same. Everything is the
same. Carl Sagen's "star stuff" was essentially correct - though
star is a bit limiting. Space and everything in it. The universe and
everything in it. But what about the small things?
How do we fold in the fabric of the atomic world into this
understanding? Surely a particle in two places at once can't
possibly be considered in this conceptual understanding of the
world and reality, right? Well - I would argue completely and
exactly the opposite. A lot of mainstream media and depictions
of science have made jest with the idea that the small is
actually just the big, but small. But I love Occam's Razor for this
one - I mean, think of it: they are the same. It's a beautifully
elegant and simple solution and explanation.
How then do we reconcile this? What if this was already found
and discovered, possibly negated? There are phrases out there:
"As above, so below", and so on. I am partial to these, personally. My reticular activating system is just wired different I guess.

tl;dr : the universe is cool

© 2023 Regee Yalyk.. All Rights Reserved.

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