The Phone Call

Don’t do this Ang. It’s stupid. No one’s going to believe you anyways. Satanic ritual abuse? are you fucking kidding me?! That kind of shit doesn’t happen in real life. 

My hands are shaking, so I grab my pack of cigarettes, and pull one out. Filter to lip and drag my thumb across the metal ridge of my black lighter. The flame sparks and I inhale deeply, close my eyes, and turn my face away from the glare radiating from my lap top.

I’ve been jumping back and forth between doubt, and confidence.

Between fear, and courage.

Most importantly, in my opinion, between the chains of shame, and freedom.

It’s tiresome, but I knew something like this would happen.

 You’re making a fool of yourself.  People are talking about you behind your back you know, and they’re saying…you’re just doing this for attention. 

I take a deep breath, and try to be still. Try to be still underneath the weight. Be still as the unease crawls up my throat, and the flutters in my stomach, turn to waves of folding queasiness.

God is on my side. God is on my side. Deep breath.

Fingers to keys.

 

My entire world changed the day the memories surfaced.

I went from being very confused about my emotions,  pain, depression, and life experience to feeling, for the very first time, understood.

For the first time, in my entire existence, I made sense. At least to myself.

And as sickening and terrifying as it was, I was grateful to finally have an answer, to the question that had haunted me for so long.

What is wrong with me?

For the first time, I was able to put a name to face of evil in my life, and for a little while, along with the rage, tears, disgust and hatred, I felt empowered.

But that didn’t last. It washed away piece by piece,  as everything began to sink in and make a home for itself inside me. Tucking itself away in the bleeding parts of my heart. In the saddest places of my soul and I began to slowly shut down.

In the beginning, I was relieved. Relieved to have found the truth, and have the opportunity to expose what had been done to me. But in time, like I said earlier, as it made a home within, I began to panic. Because the reality was, I had no where to put it. I had no idea what to do with these horrifying memories, it was like something out of some sick horror movie and I felt like I was going completely insane. It was very hard for my mind to wrap itself around such evil, let alone, the truth that this evil had touched me in ways that could destroy a person, and I wondered how I had made this long. I wanted to scream it out in the street, smash and break everything in my grasp, and on the same hand, the shame was suffocating me, forcing me down to a tight lipped mannequin version of myself who wouldn’t, couldn’t, speak a word.

I lived like that for a long time, trying to face it alone, and then falling into a bottle of vodka. A two liter of wine. A 12 pack of beer. Sobering up and trying again, only to fall into a pool of booze again. Eight or nine months of this messy fight, and then I got a phone call.

” Angie, I have something to tell you. Are you sitting down?” I’m sober today, and sitting on my back patio. It’s one year ago, and it’s summer time. June.

My heart falls into my stomach, that all too familiar feeling, and my eyes are already filling up with tears.

I’m so fucking tired, I can’t handle anymore. Please. Please God. 

” Angie, I’m so sorry to tell you this but, you’re mom has been diagnosed with cancer. It’s spreading rapidly, and they don’t think she’ll make it through this.”

There’s a pause, I don’t know how long, but I don’t make a sound. My mind is spinning, and at the same time, everything feels so slow, so surreal.

Cancer. You mother fucker. You can’t take my mom. YOU CAN’T TAKE MY MOM. 

But, it did. It did take my mom.

And the one person who could validate my memories more than any other.

 

“Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord”. ~ Romans 12:19

 

 

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The Monster

I could feel it in my sleep.

The pounding heart in my chest.

The tightening of it in my throat.

Gasping for air.  

Breathe Ang, breathe. You gotta wake up. 

I try to yell out His name, but my voice wont make a sound.

Jesus. Jesus, I can’t breathe. 

I’m used to this, it happens all the time. 

I’m asleep, but I’m not. 

My body won’t move, but my mind is totally aware of itself. So much so, that I can talk myself awake, but asleep enough, that I’m still dreaming in this state. 

Ang, wake up. WAKE UP! 

I don’t want it to happen again. I’m terrified. 

I don’t want the monster to come. 

Please God. Please.

Jesus, JESUS! JESUS!!! 

And finally, my eyes start to open, and the thudding of my heart fills my ears. 

I’m dizzy, everything is spinning, and my eyes fill with hot tears.

The room is dark, and my breathe is so fast and so forced, I feel I might just fall over and pass out.

It’s happened before.

But, I’m grateful. Because I got out, before the worst of it came. 

I got out before the darkness enveloped me. 

Before the hands reached under the covers.

Before, they wrapped around my throat.

Before it was too late. 

I turn and grab my phone….3.a.m on the dot.

It’s always the same time. 

Every time. 

“Baby….baby!” My voice is frail and frightened. 

I can hear my husband coming. 

It’s been a long time since we slept in the same bed, and I hate it. 

It would be so much easier, if he was here. But he can’t be, because he has sleep apnea. 

“My love, oh my love…” and he rushes to me, wrapping his arms around my shaking body. 

Sometimes, I can feel his tears on my shoulder, and I hate that I am this way. 

I hate what they have done to me. 

A lot of the time, I hate myself.

If only, I could “Let it go.” or ” Get over it.” But I can’t.

The memories only came back two years ago, and I’m choking on them.

Sometimes, I think they’re going to kill me, and in the darkest of my moments, I wish they had. 

I am a constant reminder of the thing no one wants to talk about. 

I am a survivor of Ritual Sexual Abuse. 

It is violent, it is evil and it is my reality. 

Most days, I refuse to admit this. It’s too sick and twisted to bare. 

But at this point, it is seeping through my very pores and there is no where to escape the truth of it. 

Not anymore. 

My memories start at the age of four, and even saying that, brings vomit up my throat. 

 I am haunted daily.

Chased down in my sleep.

The “triggers” are becoming more frequent, and because of this, I have chosen to face this head on. 

I’m tired of running. Of coping, of white knuckling it at every turn. 

It’s time to face the monster. 

To get the help I need. 

Ritual Sexual Abuse is a dark and evil road. 

It is demonic, and most of the time, unbelievable. 

I ask, and demand, that if you choose to follow my posts, and support me during this time, that you respect my family. 

I will be sharing my truth, as I see it, and nothing else. 

If you choose to join me on this journey, my journey to freedom, you are brave.

And I thank you, for not being afraid, of my nightmare.

And the light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.” ~John 1:5