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.

 

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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.

 

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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Gnats of the Soul.

Cigarette after cigarette, and I sit here, staring at this lap top screen.
All things, buried, have come to the surface of my own earth, and I can no longer contain any of it.
My memories are setting up little houses on the plains of my flesh, the emotions surrounding them, fueling their little cars, my pain, the water nourishing their tiny gardens. My past has come alive, and encamped upon me.
My anger, the ammunition that drives their drunken parties. These crazed tiny men, crawling out of my pores, eating at my skin. Pulling at my hair. The only eviction notice is the release.
Picking them off one by one with my words, killing them with truth. Squashing the life out of them with my tattooed fingers, swiping them from my limbs, like an avalanche of the hand. My own sweat is poison, flushing them out with the quickening of my own heart beat. Little screams as they waste away, and I smile.
This might sound like some kind of intense and strange metaphor, and maybe it is, but it’s how I feel. As if, the things on my insides, which no longer belong, are now on the outside. Dispersed across myself,  with nowhere to go, only to sit, and settle on the surface. This kind of thing, takes on a life of its own. One you can’t always control. Maybe, one you shouldn’t even try to control. Because you’ve been doing that long enough. Is it dangerous to give freedom to such a thing? to allow this evolution to take place? maybe. Or I can admit, full heartedly, that I welcome it. At least it’s on the outside, and not churning within, making me sick to myself. I can name these little men, because they are so pathetically small now. Shame, guilt, and wreckage. No longer the grim giant, of whom’s foot, I lived under. Now, they only crawl over me. Like gnats of the soul.
So let them come. Let them build their little cities. Their shrines dedicated to my own self loathing, because it’s a city built on sand, and I have my own waves to call on. Big cool waves of truth. God’s own power to wash me clean. There’s no cavern to lead them within, only roads to travel the grounds of my body. Let them travel, because every path leads back to the same place. A mouth to devour them. A flame to burn them.
So let them come. Let them march and cry out their lies. Their ropes cannot contain me, their weapons are like sting’s from a thistle. Irritating, but meaningless.
They unknowingly fuel my own needs, reminding of the things that have passed. Giving me the words I need, the righteous rage to move forth and destroy them. As they build, I build.. and for that, I’m grateful. Because you see, I know what they do not know. The thing that they’re too dumb, deaf and blind to see. That God, uses everything to my greater good. Even if it’s an evil thing. That evil, is still His pawn. And so, it’s also mine.
And so I say again, come gnats. Come and perch on me, run wild upon me and I will use you. Your little mountains of trash and accusations are my stepping stone to an honest freedom.

On The Flip-Side.

It’s been one hell of a month. I couldn’t even write if I wanted too. So I just drew pictures instead. Sitting quietly recreating portraits. Not thinking. Not feeling. Only doing. Smudging graphite into thick white paper. Messy hands, old thinned out joggers and coffee. Cigarette after cigarette. I know now, I was purging, and it’s almost impossible to feel right when you’re purging.

So, I just stopped. Stopped everything.

I said a huge fuck it, to living up to expectations, suffering under imagined pressure and just gave up. I got really sick and tired of people, of burdens, of fighting with my own mind,  of giving everything I had to everyone else, and saving nothing for myself. It was my fault, even though it came from the right place. Sometimes you just have to lay low, say no, and get your shit together. Which is exactly what I’m doing. Coming out on the flip side, it all makes sense. But, not in the beginning, and so this is why I haven’t been writing. I just…had nothing honest to say.

I’m not ready to share, this big revelation I’ve experienced, but I will in due time. Let’s just say for now…without this truth, having been revealed, I would have stayed under ground for a long time. But, that’s not what happened, and I’m so very grateful.

I can say, for the very first time in my life…

I KNOW EXACTLY WHO I AM.

No doubt. Only solid ground. Sturdy shoes on my feet.A strong voice. Full and deep.

I’ll leave it here..and say..I’m back.

Let’s do this thing.