The Whisper.

Her enemy had never been tangible. It wasn’t something she could point at, or pick out of a list. It wasn’t a person. It wasn’t memories. It wasn’t something she saw when she looked in the mirror, or a place that scared her. It wasn’t loneliness, or depression, or anxiety. She knew these things pretty damn well, but that was never it. It was something else. It wasn’t just because the world was a scary place, or that people couldn’t be trusted for the most part. It wasn’t that a teacher had put her down in front of the class, or that she felt as invisible at home. It wasn’t any of these things. It wasn’t something she could write on a piece of paper. It wasn’t that she drank a lot, or that she found comfort in only drugs, above anything else. It wasn’t that thing. It was something else.

It was more of a whisper.

One that would creep up the back of her neck. Pulling on the small hairs that gathered there. This kind of thing.

She noticed it most often when she was with other people. Her own internal differences, being exposed to herself, as she watched how the others lived. How they reacted. When she heard their opinions, and felt them express themselves. When she compared. And it was so hard not to compare. Because she did feel so utterly different, when standing next to another. No matter their person, she wasn’t biased. She knew, there was something wrong with her. She could taste it, in each hug. In each hello. In each touch, or look or caring glance. Sometimes she would wonder, if they touched her, did they feel it? and so she would pull her hand back. Or not, fully embrace that hug. The whisper, the tugging of the back hairs, like a ghost. Made her hide, and on every normal day, this made her feel crazy.

Isolated.

Because it was always behind her. This nagging. This yanking of her shoulder. It had been with her since she was just a little one. And every year, every month, and every day, it became even more of a “something”. This berating feeling, this internal and external pull, dragging her away into a confusion about herself. She couldn’t just be. There was no such thing for her. There was always the comparing, the questioning. The self loathing, the insecurities. She wanted nothing more than to breathe, and settle within herself, and yet…the tugging, would not ease. No matter how hard she prayed, or how many psychiatrists she spoke with. The ever-changing bottles of prescription antidepressants. Never the answer, never the relief. Waiting around every corner, without fail, the rush of her own torment. Nameless, and paper-thin, the mocking ghost, of all things left un answered. That she desperately wanted to escape.

28 years.

It would take that long. Twenty eight damn years, before she would find its name. Turning her eyes to see the truth, and find herself, staring in the face of evil, growling a righteous anger. Loud, and fierce, like a lion.

She hadn’t expected it, this answer to come, or understood what it is was to embrace the sheer magnitude of it. Coming softly in a quiet place, to then tear her heart to shreds. Sometimes, the truth really hurts. And, she had gotten used to the whisper, the never-ending interruptions of her soul. Her mind. Even her own body. The voice that stood between her and everything else. Even, and sadly most of all, love. The hard wall she could not break through. Her knuckles worn and scarred from trying. But it came.

Year, after year, the twisting insides finally bursting forth, and making her sick to herself. And in the wake of her own truth, she would be free. Pale faced, nauseous and full of rage, she would crawl towards her restoration. Grasping her hands to pull on the heavens. Her memories turning to vomit, dragging herself to God’s feet. Finding refuge in the war. A peace in the midst of a great fire. And He would save her.

Her enemy had never been something tangible. It wasn’t something she could point at, or write down on a piece of paper.  It wasn’t loneliness, or depression, or anxiety. She knew these things pretty damn well, but that was never it. It was something else.

Her enemy, was a secret.

A bitter adversary of the heart.

Buried deep within her own body, the places she could not touch. What a scary thing.

The shameful word echoing in all the places she knew existed.

Molested.

Tearing it out of her own chest, like a foreign implant.

The abortion of a lie, and her own deep scream that came with it.

Molested.

This rotten and festering thing,  dying in her own hands. Twenty eight years ripping at her own chest, and now the thing was out. The exhaustion taking her over and she would decide to sleep for a little while, because this wasn’t the end. This was the beginning of the truth in her life.

She knew it.

And so, she thanked God for the lion on her heart, that mighty roar he drew up inside her and she let her eyes roll to back of her head. The eyelashes laying still. Her hands limp at his feet, her hair washing over his toes, and she slept. For the very first time, in her entire life, she truly slept. While He stood over her, mighty and glorious. His robe draped upon her like a blanketed child. He whispered words of safety over her as she slumbered, washing the blood and filth from her hands, with his breath.

Taking back His daughter, and for her, it had been a long time coming. He knew that.

Dusting off her feet, and drawing up the light around her, He kissed her face. And watched her sleep.

Just Drive.

I’ve been remembering what it’s like to look through the eyes of a child.

The beautiful ignorance.

The unfailing trust.

The light of joy that literally pierces through their eyes.

The thing I find I’m most often missing, when I look in the mirror.

Tired eyes, a hint of strain.

An adult, and there’s this pressure.

Have I forgotten what I need to remember?

When I was young, maybe four, five years old. My best friend… was my Dad.

I used to ride next to him in his car, music flowing around me, the wind blowing in through the pulled down windows.

A little girl never feels so safe. Then with her Dad at the wheel.

We’d pull into the parking lot of some local home improvement store, and he’d come around the side to unlock my car door.

“Hey bud, you ready?”

Reaching out that big Dad hand, that only little girls know so well.

I think about this.

That simple act of trust…

Of  holding his hand through the parking lot.

The clunky metal vehicles pulling in and out around us.

Remembering how safe I felt.

Not even the notion to watch out for cars, because he was doing it for me.

Not concerned with what we we’re doing, or what it was that we needed.

Just holding his hand, me and Dad.

The warm palm, I was so used too. The black oil mechanic stains on his fingers. Safe.

Mine.

Dad.

I so often forget Father, to take the hand you are reaching out to me.

The scar that bumps over your palm, there is nothing you haven’t done to be with me.

The world teaches me, I’m not to need anybody.

Keep your hands free.

Find your own way.

Never rely on another.

But I don’t want to do that.

I want to hold Your hand Father, just like I held my Daddy’s hand.

I don’t want to look out for cars, because I know…

You are doing it for me.

I don’t want to think about where we’re going…

I just want to go there with You.

The country wind through the pulled down window.

Music flowing around me…

A girl never feels so safe as she does, as when her Dad has the wheel.

Take the wheel Father.

While I close me eyes,  and listen to the tires tread over the black cement road.

The soothing, dull rhythm.

Drive Father….

Just drive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our Hands will Bleed, but Our Hearts will Beat.

It is through the deepest of our pain, that we are asked to stand.

When darkness stalks us, a black oil suffocating… faith.

When our weakness’s mock us, and stare us in the face.

Grim and shameful a thing.

When all strength has left our limbs…sitting fearful at the edge of the cliff.

That the deep breath fills our bodies.

Fill me up, Lord. Fill me up.

The breath, of life.

Called in the night of our dreams, in the weight of our tears.

The whisper tugs at the straps of our souls.

Be of hope, child. Be of hope.

The earth beneath your feet, cracks with uncertainty.

Tree roots lifting, clinging.

White knuckles, grasping.

The dust catching your eyes, that awful burning.

You curse your own flesh, in its weariness.

Our hearts pulling to catch up, when things change…too fast.

The place between your mind, and heart, a criss crossing of wires. Sizzling.

But He calls.

That cool wind, to sooth the burn.

A love ointment, for a mind infection.

An intimate pull of heat, a love that runs deep.

To the very nature of your cells.

The voice upon the waters.

Be of courage, child. Be of courage.

Catching each tear, in His mighty hand.

Storing them up in the Great Heart.

Restoration. Is a promise.

Do not fear, child. Do not fear. I hold the stars in my hands.

Joy comes in the morning my love. It always comes.

A lullaby of Truth.

And even though the world around me, shakes, it crumbles…my hands are bleeding…You Father, ARE BIGGER.

The cool wind to sooth the burn.

The love’s breath to heal the torn.

The All. The Is. The Forever.

Yes, child. Nothing in vain.

Nothing….in vain.

It is when the tidal wave hits, that we are called to stand against the crashing waters.

Hand in hand.

The salt waves whipping our cheeks, matting our hair, stinging our eyes.

A wall of brothers and sisters.

Our hands will bleed, but our hearts will beat.

Oh they will beat, the glory of God.

My hands are ready.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh People of Courage. Stand.

Ever tired of the counterfeit, walking through a world shellacked in lies and fake faces.

Dulled out smiles, practiced reactions and apathy.

Searching for one real glance, some kind of heart recognition.

Something real.

I don’t see on the outside, what I feel on the inside.

These games we all play, I struggle deep.

Rising to shake of the things the world has taught me, the things I hate.

Don’t trust anyone.  Don’t be vulnerable. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

Love, to a point. Give, at a limit. Fight, but only for yourself.

Money. Stuff. Image. Beauty. Popular. Lies. Bullshit.

Almost unable to fight it, because well, this is where I live. This barren wasteland for the heart.

But, I try.

I REFUSE.

To be defined by plastic trinkets,  paper money and some version of a human being society has designed.

Am I the only one…who see’s this.

That the world never follows through on its promises.

A desire to fall to my knees in the busy street and scream..

WAKE UP!!!!!!!!!!!

The people rushing like mice to rotten cheese, through zig-zagged sidewalks.

Tears streaming, wake up dead eyes. Come to life hearts of stone.

Reaching out, hands shaking, to touch their garments.

Pulling and yanking on their jackets.

My knees wet and soaking with the morning rain, as their faces turn away.

I want love to blow through these streets.

I want to see them taken away by it, and fall next to me.

For flowers to grow through these broken street cracks.

Let me cry with you, we don’t have to be alone. Please wake up.

But only the clicking of their rushed heels on damp concrete.

Places to go, places to go, places to hide.

I see you. I’m looking. I’m praying.

Sun, pierce through the sky. Hot, heat bring them to life.

Draw out the glimmer of their eyes. The hope and light they carried with them when they were children.

Remember.

Wind come and tear away their covers. The hardened armor they’ve been forced to wear.

Leave them exposed and raw, knees weak and buckled.

Light come, God calls. Fill them then, with the truth. A hope so deep their hands fall from their faces, and they laugh in the street.

Drawing up the left over drops of rain with their cupped palms and wash that weary fog from their eyes.

Let them wake and rise to the love story, to their destiny. Leave them satisfied with nothing but hearts filled with joy.

Spring trees from barren roots.

Rivers from the drought of their souls.

Rip out fear and burn its marrow.

Am I the only one who see’s?

NO.

It is not just me.

Scattered across the earth, I feel these same prayers.

Stand with me. Stand for them. STAND FOR HIM.

I refuse, to be defined by the rules of the world. By the rules of scarred hearts.

On my knees, soaked by the rain, cold drops of water falling down my eyelashes.

I cry…..

WAKE UP!!!!!! Oh people of courage. Stand.

The Day They Paved The Road.

When I left the house this morning, my eyes were already filling up with tears. Closing the front door, flipping my iPod to Jesus Culture, and making sure my sunglasses were masking my tired, puffy eyes.

It’s been a really hard year, and recovering from it has been… an uphill battle.

Last fall, we lost a baby. That December my Grandmother died of Cancer, and the day after her passing, a close friend of the family was shot three times, sticking the knife of grief even further into our bellies. Two weeks ago, we lost a very close member of Biker’s Church, a husband and father, laying to rest another piece of our family. That same week, my biological mother, “texted” me to tell me she wants nothing to do with me, only days before I would go with her to bury my Grandmother’s ashes. Somewhere in between all this, I had repressed memories of sexual abuse surface, leaving me a mess. Trying to accept that you were molested, is uh…heavy, to say the least.

So, like I said I was already crying when I opened the door this morning. Hoping that a walk alone, would give me enough space to feel something and let go. I did feel something. I felt God. I walked, my music turned up loud enough to drown out the panic of my mind. Have you ever felt trapped in grief? of course you have, you’re human. And if you haven’t yet, you will.We all do, and we all have to learn, to call on hope and power, when there’s nothing but pain and fear. I know that Jesus was walking with me this morning, telling me, He’s here with me. I see Him in my mind, bare feet next to mine. Step by step, walking through life with me. And it’s in those moments, I have to choose to believe Him. And just LET HIM walk next to me. My tears didn’t stop, if anything they flowed harder.Just because God is with you, doesn’t mean the pain goes away. If anything, He draws it out of you, and it’s you’re choice to leave it in His hands, and commit to letting Him work things out for you. The only thing I’m ever called to do is…trust Him. So as I walked, I just listened for His voice. Crying still. Letting Him draw out of me, the anger, the fear, the pain, I had bottled up inside my chest. That thing I do, that happens so fast, I hardly notice it. Until one day, I just break…and everyone’s just kind of staring at me. But I know God sees me, because He kept telling me that this morning. Even if my own Mother doesn’t see me, after all I’ve overcome….trying so hard…to finally be noticed by her…..God sees me.That God notices everything I feel, and understands…always and ever understanding and good, and kind.

The day we lost the baby, it was because I fell. I feel, jogging in the rain. And on my walk this morning, I found myself on that road. When I realized, I was almost at the corner where I fell, my heart started racing. I noticed they were re-paving the road this morning…the spot where I had hit the ground running, smashing my knee into the rough concrete…was covered by black stinky concrete. I cried. If there had been any trace of the blood from my knee, it was gone. The deep cracks in the road, where I had tripped, they were filled. It’s sounds crazy, to cry at this right?! It’s a good thing they fixed it. But I was pissed. To me, this spot, is like a memorial. I felt like someone had stomped on the flowers I had left at her grave. And the rest of the walk home, I remembered that day. How I had limped home bleeding, the cramps radiating through my body. The robotic numbing daze I was in. Because the moment I hit the ground, I knew. She was gone.Maybe next time, I’ll walk another route…or maybe I’ll always go the same way…because the last time I held her inside me, it was at that spot.

Anyway, I don’t know if any of this makes sense, and in all honesty, I just needed to write it out, because for the rest of the day, I will be entertaining my three year old son, and putting a smile across this sad face. I just have to say that, just because I’m sad, doesn’t mean I don’t have hope. For the first time, in a while, I have hope through the tears. I wish my Mom would stop being a selfish and sick woman, but she won’t. I wish that my Grandma was still alive, but she’s home now instead. I wish we had our little girl in our arms, but I will one day in heaven. I wish I hadn’t been molested, but I was. And I’m a powerful and brave person because of it. I wish that I could just hug Jesus every day, but instead, I’ll just have to trust that He’s walking next me in His bare feet with his hands around my heart. I wish that people didn’t have to die, but they do, and one day…I’ll be with each of them for  eternity. So until then, you’ll find me….ever fighting.

Because I promised…I’d never give up.

 

 

 

 

Repressed.

Maybe it was month ago. Maybe less, I don’t care. I was laying on the couch, in intimate prayer with my husband, and all of sudden this darkness, this truth came vomiting out of my body. I felt sick to myself, this feeling I knew all to well. This feeling I had been running from my entire life. Hiding from in dark pits, shaking, and terrified. For the first time, I let it come out. I let it rise up, even though I had never felt anything more evil and sickening. Vomit rising up my throat as it came. And suddenly I knew. I knew it all. The only words I could have ever given it, this thing, was “the kind of evil that shuts the mouths of children.” That’s all I’ve ever been able to say, but because I was in God at this very moment, and for whatever reason the timing was right…out it came. This black evil thing writhing and twisting it’s way out of me. The path out was an ease, but the awareness of it, repulsive.

I had been molested as child. By family I have not seen in over 21 years.

God was so gentle in bringing it up, but the weeks following, have been so very hard. Not only was I trying to accept this awful truth, but I was very very angry. Angry because, I have lived through this filter of abuse my entire life, and I didn’t even realize it. I do now, and for that I’m grateful, but the realization, the utter astounding realization, was a lot to bare. The guilt, the shame, to intense fear. I have lived through these very filters for so long, and they have destroyed my life up until now. Yes, I have made it through, yes it has made me who I am. Bla bla bla. But, honestly, I did not want to hear it. I needed to be angry. I needed to feel, like my life, my actions, THERE WAS A REASON FOR ALL THIS. I wasn’t just some bad kid, I wasn’t damaged and crazy, I was molested. I was molested. I WAS MOLESTED. And now, I CAN move on. Own this, TAKE MYSELF BACK, and say, I had every right to feel how I did, act how I did, and hate as much as I hated. I had a right not trust anybody. I had a right to be so fucked up.

Now that I know that, I don’t have to hate myself anymore. Now that I know this, I can hold my head up, walk tall, and finally just breathe. I don’t have to search, I don’t have to beg. I don’t have to live in the dark anymore.

I am a beautiful survivor….I may feel dirty sometimes, but that’s not my fault, and it’s something God and I will take of together. I may be insecure sometimes, but who isn’t. There is nothing WRONG with me, it’s all valid. It all makes sense, it’s all clear and visible. I won’t let this define me, but I refuse to be ashamed to own it. To say, yes this happened, I’m one of those people who carries this story.

I am a survivor of sexual abuse. I’m proud to be alive, to still have hope in my heart, and to be of grace and compassion despite this. They did not steal my heart, just my mind and body for a time. Of which now belong to me, my husband, and God. Fuck em. I refuse to allow these sick people to pull at my puppet strings any longer, they don’t even deserve to speak my name.

I am free.

I am beautiful.

I am clean.

I am valuable.

I am radiant.

Because my Father says so, because Jesus says so. My enemies are under my feet, and God willing, that’s where they will stay.

And so, this is my admission, I am a survivor in more ways that could have have ever imagined, and I’m really fucking proud of myself, for who I am today. I’M ALIVE, and willing to love. Beat that satan.

 

My Hands Are Still.

By the time we reached the apartment, I had become subdued. Things had gone from acute chaos, to an eery silence in a matter of minutes. Closing the door behind me, and my heart rate began to slow down. The shaking of my hands, to a shameful stillness.
A cold ice water had washed over me, and the not so distant past, was beginning to become a foul memory. A grim nightmare, I just would not admit, I had been a part of.
Isn’t that what we do? pretend it didn’t happen just so we can look ourselves in the mirror again. Trying to suffocate the heavy day dreaming, the imagery of suicide, of blowing your head off, covering your eyes to the flash of drowning guilt, to the crippling self hate. Cutting that piece out you, even though it has nowhere to go. Carrying the rotten flesh in your hands, until it poisons you. This pussing wound of truth. Covering your nose to avoid the stench of your own reality.
The shrill echo of the ambulance was now a dull ache in my ears, and I felt dirty. Even though I wasn’t, I could swear I was covered in his blood. My hands dripping with the red syrup, and all I wanted to do was shower. Curl up into a tiny ball at the bottom of the tub, and never ever wake up again. I deserved to die. I knew that.
“Here Ang, clean this.” Tyler’s deep voice jarring me out of my self loathing pity party. He’s handing me the hatchet. The silver gleam of it catching my eye, the dry crusted blood sending a numbing over my heart. Death in my eyes. I feel nothing. I’ve gone away to some other place and I don’t know where I am. Taking it in my hand, I walk to the bathroom. Flipping on the florescent light and lean over the ceramic sink. All I can hear is my heart beating, a slow and rhythmic pace. Pulling in a deep and painful breath as I turn the faucet, watching the cool water flow out with a quick splash. The hatched is heavy when I pick it up, scraping against the cheap countertop and I realize, yet again, that my hands aren’t shaking. Sixteen years old, washing a stranger’s blood from a weapon, and my hands are still. I hate myself. Any normal person would be at the station right now. Turning themselves in, hands up, with tears running down their face.
Not me.
I’m the piece of shit covering her tracks, a guiltless asshole destroying evidence.

Avoiding the sharpest part of the blade, I run my fingers over the red crust. Rubbing the pads of my fingers over the blood and slimes up slightly as it makes contact with the water. My fingers slipping every so often as I scramble to get it off. I feel like I’m going to vomit, but I don’t. Just stare at the swirls of pink water flowing down the silver drain pipe. A tender piece of a man’s soul washing away into oblivion. The look in his eyes, flashing through my mind, and I consider slashing my wrists open with the very weapon that almost killed him. My eyelids are a movie screen playing the worst of all horror movies. One I can’t escape. Because this isn’t a fucking movie. This is my life. His life. Our lives. Tyler and She are in the bedroom smoking weed, having left me with this cathartic chore.
One, that will leave my fingerprints for the police to dust and collect. Hindsights a bitch, but in my dazed robotic state, it had never occurred to me that wiping the axe down, would have been a good idea.

 

Originally posted on Blurred Clarity:

At first, it’s an arrival on a piece of paper, following its schedule with frightening accuracy. It’s definitely making great time, and you wake up to a distant whistle, so faint, but it’s coming. A yawn, forcing tears out of your eyes, and it’s closer. The next sound piercing, goosebumps leap out of your skin. It’s 80 degrees in the shade and you are freezing in the sun.

The rumble vibrates the tracks, the ground quivers and you see the gravel between ties shake. An hour ahead of schedule, and your bowels break. You rush to the bathroom, but you can’t decide whether to sit or stand hunched over. The faintest smell triggers waves of nausea to roll into shore, high tide a terrible analogy at this point. Diarrhea and vomit battle for bragging rights, and every joint tells you with fiery certainty that you my friend, have made some…

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