Anne Champion

​

​

​

​

EMDR Therapy

​

​

Every lone wolf has a chapter in his manifesto on hating women.

 

Some would call this psychology and some would call it prophecy. 

 

The Rorschach is a photo negative depicting the centuries we spent

 

on our backs quiet, dutifully butterflying our thighs against men’s hips, 

 

our number one killer. We burned at stakes, toes to crown, for a power 

 

we didn’t possess. I don’t know what kind of voodoo dolls men use, 

 

but one morning I realized something of mine was missing—

 

something no one would notice stolen but me. Ever since, I’ve been trying

 

to defuse my womanhood before it detonates and maims the innocent. 

 

I once saw an image of the traumatized brain, the whole thing lit up neon 

 

like a red light district. My major symptom is a mushroom cloud 

 

that rises in my head every time I try to calm down. My therapist 

 

says something about reprogramming neural pathways: my brain darts 

 

from bad to bad like a pinball machine. Why do we put gold 

 

on ring fingers when we should be castrating forefingers to make guns impotent?

 

Triggers are the leading cause of death: everybody knows this but nobody says it. 

 

What good does it do to pretend that every ink blot is anything other than the shape 

 

of what you lost rendered in blood spatter? Okay, my therapist says, notice that.

​

​

​

​