Little Orange Pills.

I shake the prescription bottle, the little orange pills clang around in the neon yellow plastic holder. The sound of it gives me relief, and even though the feeling leaves me a little embarrassed, I’m actually really glad I found a doctor who is finally listening to me.

The sun is shining through my bedroom window, and it’s pretty because the fall leaves give this burst of color against the blue sky, sometimes with this stark contrast, other times more gentle, and during the sunset there are times the layering of colors are almost seamless and I love it. I think of God when I look at things like that, taking out those quiet moments to pay attention to something with intention, with warmth. I think of God when I look at a lot of things in that way, but along side this gentle rush of joy, my heart is sick and filled with anxiety. Just like it has been every morning, for the last three years.

Back to the neon yellow prescription bottle, still sitting in my hand.If you turn it to the left, the label reads clonazepam.

Klonopin. My new best friend.

How many are left? Twenty or so. A sigh escapes my lips, as I fill the glass with cool water, and drop one of the tablets into my mouth, swallowing it down hard and fast with a deep breath. Leaning up against the bathroom counter, the pill sliding down my throat and landing in the base of my stomach as I stare myself in the eye. Most days, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. She’s pale. Her skin is dry, and the eyes are heavy from the med’s, sleepless nights, and let’s face it, the pain. I’m embarrassed, ashamed and I miss the woman I once was. It’s been over ten years since I took anything for my panic disorder, and if you asked me three years ago, if this is where I’d be, I’d laugh.

I’ve learned to be a little less judgemental since then.

Let me just say, I didn’t wake up this morning thinking to myself, ” I can’t wait to share my weaknesses! yay!” Not at all, I actually hate this right now, my heart is rebellious, I’m angry at my feelings and I want to slam this laptop closed, and go lose myself in my art work, but I made you a promise. I promised I would share it all, and these fragile and unsteady days are the hardest to write. Because it’s not just the fucked up story, this is me, exposing the lies I tell everyday. The little ones, that are so damn big, like… “I’m good, how are you?” or “I’m fine.” The small lies, that eat you up inside, chewing away at your heart, because after a while, that’s all you’re really saying, and in the end no one knows the truth.

This is me, saying, yeah I’m a mess a lot lately, and that’s just not something most people feel very good about admitting. At least not continuously. They may for a moment, to someone they trust, but it’s certainly not looked up upon in our society to admit the wallowing.To recognize, the coming apart at the seams and how after tragedy, it can take years to heal. People just don’t go around talking about it like that, it’s just too unbecoming to be honest about the despair. Society, even our friends, family, television and sadly even the church at times, urge us to hurry up and move on. To find the light of day, be positive and find the strength to rebuild. And as much as I agree with that, I also feel strongly, that before that can truly happen, we all need and deserve the time it takes, and it’s different for each of us, to process. To become aware of oneself, and internally work out what we’ve been through, whatever that may be. But, because it’s not considered attractive in any sense, to lurch around in one’s own suffering, many of us are left alone to do this. For many reasons. And because of these shitty reasons (fear of judgement, shame, crappy morals from a dysfunctional upbringing, religious reasons, anxiety, the fear of appearing weak and the list goes on…) it can take a really long time to reconcile within. It’s like, we’re allowed to stumble, but we’re not allowed to fall. And if we fall, we’re pressured to climb back up, as fast as we can, screaming love in the face of adversity, revived, hopeful and running toward a future that is waiting with open arms. But here’s the thing….

As I lean up against that bathroom counter, taking deep slow breaths and waiting patiently for the medicine to work…I’m still frightened of my future, of what it holds, just as much as I have hope for it. The hope and the fear are equal parts. And even though, I pray often and keep an open communication with God, I still hurt.

I still hurt, and that’s okay.

I guess what I’m saying is, give yourself, and the people you love, the freedom to be in pain, let them hurt. Give yourself, and others the time they need, to process. Of course it’s important to edify, to speak life and to support someone. But, there’s something to be said, about patient silence. Just sitting with someone. If your words are needed, you’ll feel it. Prayer, is prayer for a reason, and one of the beautiful things about it, is if someone isn’t ready to do it WITH you, you can totally do it behind their back. Choose to meet them where they are, and put down your own agenda. We can be SO selfish with our agenda’s can’t we? and they can really hurt those closest to us. Don’t be the kind of person that your friends or family cross of their list, when they’re in crisis. And don’t be territorial with your support in their life, that’s messy, gross and unbecoming. And nothing like a friend, in the way God intended friendship to be. In the way love intended friendship to be. So, with that being said…

I still hurt. I still cry at least once a day, but I laugh too, and I’m not ready to run screaming in the face of adversity yet, I’m tired, and I want to take my little orange pills, talk and write my story, and create things, paint, draw and eat. Rest and sleep. Pray and go for walks. Learn how to live once more, before I get all up in life’s face again.

Ernest Hemingway says beautiful things that I really like, so here’s one that made me smile.

“Forget your personal tragedy.We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously.But when you get the damned hurt, use it-don’t cheat with it.” ~Ernest Hemingway

God bless each of you, on your own personal journeys..brothers and sisters xo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Scream.

I want to scream.

SCREAM. 

I want to bag up all my misery, all those memories tainted and iron sharp, and drag them behind me upwards the steepest hilltop. I want to claw forward in the cold, the cold of all those things I’ve hated for too long now, and push forth, my breath hot with anger, blowing against the metallic chill of this intensity, this rage climb, my heart beat pounding inside the organic warmth of my chest. And when I get there, to the top of that jagged hill, fingers black and blue, hair whipping across my red cheeks, I breathe a deep and full breath. The coolness filling my lungs, as if it were winter, and begin to peer into the darkness of the pit below. The murky deep nothingness, to gather that bag tightly in my hand, wrapping it around my white fingers, and hurl it off the cliffs edge, heavy and strong.

To watch it fall, tangible and helpless. Into the dark. Gone. Lost. Forever.

From the pit of my stomach, with everything I have, I want to scream from that highest point. From that highest point, and deep down into those lowest of depths. Scream until my throat is raw and red, until the words fall out as crippled wisps of breath, tapering off into dead ash, and landing at that bottom of nothingness. I want to scream because….I’m tired of crying, and let’s face it. I’m angry as hell. 

I want to hit, and kick and punch, and tear away at all the hurt. At the pictures in my head, memories made tangible, and blown to pieces. To rip at it, to kill and destroy it with my bare hands, until my knuckles bleed. Until the ghosts are gone. Until I’m too tired to do it anymore, and I fall down, landing perfectly at God’s feet. For it is His love, and only His love that can cure the pain I feel. That can cover my past with a salve so healing, so deep, that not only will the hurt fade away, but the thing that was meant to kill me, will turn into the thing that sets me free.

Under all that anger, under all that pain, that’s what I truly believe.

Even when I’m crawling around in my own gutter, Jesus is there with me, getting his knees dirty.

To Clear Up Some Things…

Hey guys,

Before I write my next post, I would like to clear up some confusions that may be out there, about who it was exactly, in my family, that initiated the kind of abuse I have been writing about. I realize, not everyone has read each and every one of my posts, and because of that, I’d like to set the record straight here for a moment.

My mother was adopted, at the age of four years old, to two people I love very much. My grandmother and grandfather, who in their forties could not conceive on their own, and because of that, looked into adoption. The little girl they fell in love with, was my mother. My mother, who had come from a very cruel and painful upbringing, until she and her other siblings were removed from the home by the child care system. The person responsible for that merciless and heartless experience, is the woman, I’ve been referring to as Granny.

What many people who have been adopted, at some point in their teens or early twenties often do, is choose to search for their blood family, and my mother was no different. So at the age of seventeen, from what I’m told, and perhaps even already pregnant with me, she went searching. And, she found them. And this, this is how I came to be involved with “the Kings”. With Granny, and the people who we’re unfortunate enough to have known her as family. Myself included.

I won’t go into detail, at this time, toward future events, that’s what my blog is for. But, it was very important to me, to make it clear, that the family many of you know me to be from, had nothing to do with this. Not the grandparents that adopted my Mom, Not my Dad, not my step-mother (of whom I call Mom, and that will never change, because she is my Mom and always will be.) Not anyone outside the very tight circle of evil, that lived beyond those walls, and that front door.

And remember, I didn’t know until the memories began to surface, two years ago. Not that, something awful and dark hadn’t haunted me my entire life, because it had, but I couldn’t validate, or verify anything, until those memories came. If you’d like to read the post I wrote about that experience, you can here ~

https://thisbeatingheart.wordpress.com/2012/04/25/repressed/

Anyhow, all this needed to be said. And now I’ve said it. It is very important to me, that my family be respected during this time, as you can imagine how difficult it must be, to not only read these posts, but to be learning about all of it at the same time I am. And doing their best to support me, in the ways they know how. So please, if you must ask questions, ask me. If you feel curious, message me. I am available to respond, and because this has been my choice, and my personal and public journey, I ask that you do.

So, before I move on, to writing my next post, I like to offer another thank you, to all the wonderful people out there praying for me, and supporting me. Your love goes the distance, and each of you, in your own way, are making the difference, I’ve been fighting for. To get the story out of me, and into the world where it belongs. So, God can use it as He see’s fit. From me, to you, and back into His Hands. Piece by piece, in love.

Blessings brother and sisters, and to my Canadian friends, have an absolutely beautiful and gratitude filled Thanksgiving.

All my love,

Angie

 

Meet Granny.

THISBEATINGHEART

“You little bitch. You stupid little bitch. Get the fuck in the house. You know where I want you. You get your lying little ass to the table! And don’t you MOVE until I get there.” The weight of her hand on my shoulder, squeezing so hard I can feel her fake nails digging into my skin through my sweater, and it hurts. “You better get your fucking ass moving.”  The voice was solid and commanding, like a drone reverberating over iron. 

Like a long, cold, hiss… loaded with threat. Sending shivers up my little spine, and my small body would freeze up. 

It was coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop itThe helplessness of a child lost in a hideous and malicious adult playing field. Abandoned. 

I could hear her voice, even before we knocked on the door. That all too familiar shrill…

View original post 1,329 more words

Meet Granny.

“You little bitch. You stupid little bitch. Get the fuck in the house. You know where I want you. You get your lying little ass to the table! And don’t you MOVE until I get there.” The weight of her hand on my shoulder, squeezing so hard I can feel her fake nails digging into my skin through my sweater, and it hurts. “You better get your fucking ass moving.”  The voice was solid and commanding, like a drone reverberating over iron. 

Like a long, cold, hiss… loaded with threat. Sending shivers up my little spine, and my small body would freeze up. 

It was coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop itThe helplessness of a child lost in a hideous and malicious adult playing field. Abandoned. 

I could hear her voice, even before we knocked on the door. That all too familiar shrill, the undertone of her raspy growl, all those  years of smoking pack after pack, of cigarettes. The voice, that I’m embarrassed to admit, still finds me in my sleep, and I wake up crying in a daze of a familiar hell.

           Trigger Warning : In this post I will diving into a very dark part of my past, and begin sharing my experience of satanic ritual abuse. I would like to take a moment and gently remind you that some of things you’ll be reading can be very powerful and deeply disturbing, to some.  Due to the nature of this post, and the ones following it, please be aware that if you yourself, are a survivor of abuse, in any form, reading my story may have the ability to create “triggers” which can lead to“flashbacks”. Flashbacks are defined as “a sudden and disturbing vivid memory of an event in the past, typically as the result of psychological, spiritual or physical trauma.” Flashbacks have a been a part of my life for a long time, and I understand just how debilitating they can be, and so for that reason, I ask that you proceed with caution, if you feel that a trigger is imminent, due to the nature of my story. With that being said, moving on…

Even though I was only four years old, I can still remember the walk up that drive way. The weather’s always damp and cold in my memory, the kind of weather that gets stuck in your bones, that chill you get over the surface of your skin, when it’s been raining all day, and you find yourself shivering for hours, unable to get warm. Maybe, some kind of fore boding added in my kiddo mind, because I know for certain, I visited that house many times and in all the different seasons we’re so blessed to have here in Canada. Anyways, it wasn’t the normal things you’d remember, not the flowers or bushes that I’m sure she had lining the walkway, nor the dog barking or any other normal perspective one would have as they are about to enter one’s house. Especially a family home. A place most people would feel safe. What I remember, is the feeling. The sudden anxiety that I had done something wrong. That heavy feeling, that kids can understand, that you get right before you get in trouble. Except, with Granny, I was never sure what I had done. Only this pit in my stomach, the fear coming in panicked waves, and this uncertainty of myself. This abrupt self-consciousness and harsh self examination. I wasn’t good enough to be here. I wasn’t good enough. My head hung low, the palms of my four year old hands are sweaty as I reach towards my mother’s. Her long red fingernails, and how tall she seemed to me then, all four foot eleven of her.

The knock on the door. My tummy in knots. The little heart beating faster. 

If my Mom was the one dropping me off, Granny made sure to be herself, no holding back. No smile, no nonsense. Right to business. I can’t really remember what she was like with any of my other family. The ones who never knew. She could of been a bouquet of stinking plastic roses for all I know, because I can’t remember one good thing about that woman. Who’s still alive by the way, both her daughters die of cancer before the age of fifty, but not her. After smoking a pack a day all her life, being one evil bitch, and contracting blood poisoning in her 80’s, you’d think the broad would croak already. But no. Go figure. Anyways. 

And so the front door would open, and there she’d be, standing there in her sheer robe, and I mean sheer robe, nipples exposed and everything else you wouldn’t dream of seeing on your Grandmother. Cigarette in hand, a scoff dripping from her tight lipped mouth. Disgusted with us. Her short hair and lanky body, bending to support the hand on her hip, peering at us through the slits of her suspicious eyes.

“Get the fuck in the house.” And immediately, as she walked in with obedience, my Mom would let go of my hand. The vibe changing instantly, and I knew why. And I also knew, I was alone now. Mommy was no longer my Mommy, not here anyways. Everyone belonged to Granny, even her, and that role trumped me, her daughter, every time. And so, I’d take off my little pink rain boots, the blond hair falling over my eyes, those super blunt 80’s bangs. And even in her hate for me, I wanted to hug Granny, and even though I knew better, I had tried a few times before. Only to be met with a rigid body, severe backlash and a hard,

“Don’t fucking touch me, you lying little bitch.”

So, it didn’t take long for me to let go of the hugs I would never receive, unless someone “who didn’t know” was watching. And I got used to the “table” routine. The same talk we had every time I visited. Within five minutes of that front door opening, that’s where I’d be sitting, waiting. Waiting for her to come meet me there, and take the worst verbal beating I’ve experienced. Over and over, and over again. Most of the time, the berating would take so long, I’d have to go pee. Only a couple times, did I ever ask to go. Because she would never let me. She would force me to hold it in, she took pleasure in watching me squirm and fuss, and if I had an accident, it was bad news. But we’ll talk about that another time. And so came the words, and the prays of spit. The yelling, the screaming. Her face lunged into mine, and the hate that came with it. Often, her words would end with her jabbing her fingernail into my shoulder, going something along the lines of this-

“You stupid, finger jab, fucking little bitch.”  Finger jab, then a loud sigh.“You know, if your father knew what a little cunt you were, he’d leave you for good. Finger jab. You’re lucky to have us, you know. Because I bet you spent the last two weeks playing your little lying games, and making everyone believe what a good little girl you are. Finger jab. But I know the truth, we all know the truth about you. You’re just a worthless piece of shit. You mean nothing. Look at you, finger jab, you’re just an ugly, lying little thief. Finger jab. And don’t even get me started on how you manipulate everyone around you, trying to make us think you’ve changed. You’ll never change, finger jab, you’ll always just be the stupid little lying bitch you are. Finger jab. Don’t you ever forget it.” And at four years old, I would sit there silently, soaking up every word, and believing them. Responding internally, with that childlike acceptance every little one has in their heart. To secure the truth in their mind when they hear it. And Grandma’s don’t lie. Daddy’s don’t lie. Mommy’s don’t lie. Right?

And so, she would go on in this way for hours, and sometimes I peed my pants, sometimes I didn’t. And when I didn’t it was a blessing. Running to the bathroom, holding the crotch of my pants and hitting the toilet with a kind of victory that’s hard to explain. This happened to me for years, along with the sexual, ritualistic and satanic abuse.  So, to the one’s who have walked with me throughout my life, for the ones curious about why I’ve been driven to hate myself all these years…

Well…

I was trained to.

 

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places…”~ Ernest Hemmingway

 

 

 

 

There’s Something You Should Know About Me.

Something beautiful happened the night before last.The beauty of it was equal in measure to the roughness of the heart ache it caused, and I cannot write about anything else today.

It might seem like I’m jumping all over the place here, but bare with me, we’ve been through a lot the last few years, and to fully understand my story, there are some bases we need to cover, in love, before moving on. Such is the nature of a tale needed to be told, and I am truthfully grateful for your patience and understanding, as I dig and sort, and express this life, I myself, am often times, overwhelmed by. So, moving on…

Last week, my son, who is a precious five years old, asked me a question.

“Mommy, do I have a brother and sister in heaven?” Just like that, as it so often goes with these strikingly honest children of ours.

We were walking home from school, fall leaves crunching beneath our shoes, that perfectly romantic smell of smoked wood in the air, you know the kind, and the sun was bright that day, as it often is this time of year. His little hand was wrapped in mine with the kind of purity only a parent can understand, and as the words passed over those plump cherub lips of his, they pierced my heart like a frenzy of tiny golden arrows. Enveloped in love, but the sharpness of it, was painful none the less. You see, in the past three years, we have lost two children. Both of them lost to us through miscarriage. The first was early, our daughter I’m convinced she was a girl, and you’ll know why later, and as much as losing her, rocked my world, and shook the foundation I stood on, the second was all together different and has forever changed me. 

As a person, as a mother and as woman.

 We lost our son, Asher, at four and a half months pregnant, my water broke in my living room, in front of my son and husband, I pray still to this day, that my son doesn’t remember that in the same way I do, and that in his little three year old mind, that memory is shaped with much gentler place to land than what I was left with.  I gave birth to Asher right there on my living room floor, still born, and as I write this, even through all the blood, tears, excruciating pain, shock and terrible grief, the one thing I remember above all else, was how beautiful that little boy was. How precious, and tiny, and perfect he looked. Even in death. But, for months and months afterward, in all honesty, I felt I had died right along with him. So, almost two years later, to hear these words fall from the lips of my son, was sort of unexpected for me, but only because I had put it away to survive, and he hadn’t.

And so, I could feel the weight of his curiosity, the thoughts running through the purity of his mind and for a moment, I was frozen in these memories, and had to force myself to speak.

“Yeah baby,” coming forth in a gentle breath, “Yeah you do.”

The second I said it, doubt abruptly slapped my face, and I asked myself, should I have lied? Surely he could remember me having been pregnant. He was almost four years old when we lost Asher. He had once rested his cheek upon my belly, traced his fingers across the roundness of it, and left behind kisses tied along with sweet words of love.  And now, looking down at the sweetness of his face, how his eyes searched my face for answers, I knew, I could not lie. It was time to talk about it, and not for me, but for him. Because he deserved that, and we always promised ourselves, as long as it was appropriate for his little heart, we would never lie to our son. Ever.

And so, I told him the story. Of how Mommy and Daddy had wanted so badly for him to have a sibling, but that Mommy had been sick and hadn’t known it. And the kind of sickness Mommy had, made it hard for her body to carry a baby for our family, and that God let Mommy hold them for just a little while, inside, before taking them back home to heaven, to live with Him there. And you know, this little five year old boy of mine, looked up at me, and was quiet for awhile, as we walked slowly beneath that fall sky, until stopping, and saying,

” I understand Mommy, but I wish they could come back. Because I care Mommy, about that. I care about my brother and sister in heaven.” My heart sank in my chest, this poor little boy had experienced so much death, right along beside us, including the death of my mother and grandmother during those two years as well, and it took everything I had to hide the tears behind my sunglasses, before crouching down in front of him saying,

“Baby, I am so proud of you. For the love you have in your heart. You have been so brave, and so kind. And Mommy is so sorry little one, that your brother and sister are in heaven, instead of here with us. And I am so proud of you, of the kind of big brother you would have been, and are. And know, that they are always watching over you, and know how much you love them.” And I held him there on the sidewalk, and he wrapped his little arms around me. The most precious of gifts.  And we stayed there for a little while, with the wind rustling through our hair, and the birds singing in the trees, on that beautiful fall afternoon.

Now before I continue my story, there is something you should know about me. This is not something I tell people, nor do I advertise this in any way. I don’t use titles, or box myself, but I suppose if I had to choose the best way to explain myself,  would be to say, I am a seer. I dream, dreams that come true. I dream dreams. of things that are happening to other people in real life, some I know, some I don’t. I have visions, in prayer, or out of prayer, they don’t have to go hand in hand. I hear God’s voice, and we converse. I have seen and spoken to Jesus, and have no doubt that I will continue to do so. I sense and see demons, and other dark things across the veil, and have had plenty of run ins with them, and the enemy we call satan. These gifts are God given, and this is my normal, every day life, and will continue to be until I die. I don’t tell you this for any other reason than, to help you understand parts of this story. I doesn’t bother me, if you believe me or not, that’s the least of my concerns, because I didn’t come here to convince you, I came, to tell you a story, and my story is what I’ll tell. So with that all being said,

Later that evening, after we had brushed his teeth, and read him his bedtime story, my husband and I curled up into his bed with him, like we do every night. I’m telling you, this kid goes to bed feeling loved, I can tell you that much. Not a night goes by, that he isn’t held, lifted up and spoken life into, by the both of us. Not a night goes by, without him being told how wonderful, special, talented, kind, and loved he is. We tell our son, every single day, how happy and grateful we are to have him in our lives. And so, as we all curled up together, getting super cozy in the multitude of soft blankets and pillows, our son turns to us and says,

“Mommy, I want to pray tonight. I want to pray for Aryanna, and Asher. My brother and sister in heaven.” My heart broke, hearing the two beautiful names, names we had chosen in full excited hearts. Names, I had chosen from the same place my prayers are born. Names, that now felt memorialized, and as beautiful as they are, it still hurts just as much to hear them, as it  feels good to say them. My children. One here in my arms, and the other two, distant, but so close, just like all the other things seen, but unseen, in the spirit. That any other seer or prophetic child of God would understand.

And so, he prayed. And this is what he said.

“Heavenly Father, and Jesus in heaven. Please take care of Aryanna my sister in heaven. And of my brother in heaven too. Play with them Jesus, and tell Aryanna I want to make a sign for her, of her name in sparkles, just like she likes.”  And I swear, in that very moment, in the spirit, I heard a little girl laugh. I heard Aryanna laughing, and the smile passing over my son’s face as he thought and spoke about her in that moment. The spirit, and the natural weaving together, and I felt, all three of my children, together in his room that night. I felt I might explode in a tidal wave of love, grief and all the things in between. 

I’m not sure if you can imagine what that felt like for me, for our son, or for my husband, because he felt it too. And I held that inside me, with all the strength I had, as I kissed my sons forehead goodnight. Praising his courage, sweetness and faith. His love for them. And I walked to my bedroom, and fell into my husbands lap, weeping. I wept there for a long time, and while I wept, this strength filled the room. And I could feel it from the bottom of my toes, to the top of my head, my heart beating faster. And I knew it was Jesus, because I know how He feels. And as I wept, the visions started coming. Pictures flowing through my minds eye, powerful, but also smooth, and gentle, in a way they hadn’t been before. And as the tears came and came, I saw in the heavens, my babies, and it was the cleanest cry, I have ever wept. The details, of what Jesus showed and showered over me that night, are for my family alone. A gift, of which I am eternally grateful. But I can say this, my children, our children, my sons brother and sister, will live the most beautiful life in heaven, and there is no doubt in my heart, that they watch over us and cheer us on as we rise to walk the path less traveled. That beautifully narrow road.

And to the ladies out there, who relate to the pain of losing a child, and there are many. To the men, the fathers, who have held those ladies, and sat silent in the grief. Know you are not alone and on the nights you feel that grief tugging sharp at the heart, imagine, each of us, around the world, human to human, life to life, breath to breath, united in the great weave of life. Or at least, that’s what I do. With the heart of God intertwined throughout.

I love you Aryanna. I love you Asher. Until we meet again my loves.

“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” ~ Joseph Campbell