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

 

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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…

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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

 

 

 

 

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.

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.

 

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.

His Ghosts Have A Face.

Writing has been hard this week. I find myself pushing through a junk yard of memories, getting lost in the inter twinning of trash and old things that have been pushed aside. Trying to articulate moments, describe circumstances, and all the while, finding myself caught up the emotions of it. Staring off at the ground, as I re-live nightmares, past hurts pushing through like whispers, and I’m involved with an inner conversation. Only realizing, a half hour later, I have yet to type a single word.

I keep re-living the same two nights. Like a black and white movie reel stuck on repeat, pictures flashing across the inside of my skull. A red pounding heart, swelling with each plot climax. Two nights, over and over again. The night we smashed ourselves into committing this obscenely shameful act, and the night I was raped by two boys from a neighbouring high school. My first sexual experience, and I was thirteen years old.

It’s hard to tie them together with the right strings, but they are both defined by one element. Violation. A thief breaking in, tearing open your chest and spitting out the fire, that is your light. Replacing it with his own excrement, and leaving you on the ground, destroyed. The only difference between them, is that on one of these nights I was the one left on the ground, and the next, I was the thief.

I willingly stepped into those shoes, and became the abuser.

All the while, I was validating the robberies by imagining myself as this vigilante rape victim, only to turn into the monster I hated most. That’s some fucked up irony.

And so, this is what haunts me every time I sit down to write. Ricocheting between the two memories, unable to move. Two black boulders planted in my mind, woven into the walls of my brain. Back and forth. This is my BIGGEST shame. This is the thing I cling to in the dark and shove under my pillow. The thing I hide. Ignore. Avoid and run from. The thing that laughs at me. That hisses and mocks me, when the people in my life tell me, I’m good and worthy. When they tell me, I’m honourable for writing these memoirs, and all the while, this voice inside, tells me all I’m doing is letting out a big secret. The secret, that…I’m bad.

I have done to someone else, the very thing that destroyed me.

I didn’t rape him, but I may as well have.

I left this man bleeding in the street. To DIE.

There is a person out there in the world, who has thick scars  running along  his face to remind him of his weakness. To remind him, that he was attacked in the middle of the night, on the street, from behind, and left to bleed to death on the sidewalk. Every morning when he wakes up to shave, or shower, those memories stare back at him. Maybe they laugh at him, like mine do. Or maybe, they fill him with rage, with sadness, with despair. Maybe he can’t stand the sight of his own face anymore. Maybe he’s okay, and well and happy. I wouldn’t know.

So, just as I sit and cry. Just as I’m haunted, so is he. Just as I get hit square in the face with flashbacks, and want to crawl out my own skin, so does he. As my ghosts lurk in the shadows, taunting me, so do his. Except his ghosts have a face…my face. The faces of the girls I was with that night. And so as I sit to continue my story, this is what whips my back. This is what pulls me into staring at the floor as tears fall down my face.

I can’t stop thinking about him.

And even though, most days I don’t feel this way,that I know I’m forgiven, and worthy, and beautiful, even though I know the truth, because I know Jesus, I still have these moments. Where, all of the above pains, are a reality. It may have been over ten years since this happened, but consequences are still being lived out to this day. And it’s during these times I have to remind myself, I’m still here. And if I’m still here, than Jesus is still with me. And if He’s with me, then all this can have a beautiful purpose, and with that, there’s no arguing with God.

I’ll most likely write a new memoir post in the next day or two, I just felt really strongly about getting through this, and sharing with you, all that I have. I couldn’t have kept going, without it.

God bless you, and thank you for taking this journey with me, for accepting me, for lifting me up in all the ways that you do. I couldn’t do it with out you. I’ll always keep going, if you keep with me<3

 

Surrealism At It’s Shittiest.

This is another older post, before I post my most recent memoir entry tomorrow. The original title was ” Alter-Ego” and it depicts the first time we (myself and two other girls) committed a robbery. My mentality surrounding it, and the details that took place that night. Thank you so much for following my story, for reading my entries and for all the amazing support you all provide through your comments and emails. It’s a huge blessing to have so many strong and caring people at my side. God bless you!! And so we move forward together.

Alter-Ego

Cold ice washes over me, as he passes me his wallet. Surrealism at its shittiest. I don’t even look inside, just, shove it into my back pocket.

‘Your keys,’ I say forcefully. He shakes his head.’ Not my car, man, please.’ His hand reaching out and clutching the clanging little mass sticking out from the ignition. Your keys. I say one more time, moving my face closer to his. Eye to eye, the quiet battle of submission. ‘I’m not gonna steal your car buddy, just give me your fucking keys’..he’s holding his breath as he turns the ignition off and drops the keys in my palm. I wipe them off with my hoodie sleeve, paranoid about prints. Lift them up in the air and throw them as far as I can. They land in a row of dying, polluted bushes lining the parking lot. Perfect. It’ll take him a while to find to them, giving us the time we need to take off. She is still holding the axe to his throat as I continue my wipe down. The door handle, the window. Anything in between. The fabric of my sweatshirt squeaking along the exterior.

I tell him, under no circumstances is he to get out of his car until we’re out of view. He shakes his head yes, and after a couple of seconds, after that last grim look, She slowly pulls the cold metal away from his jugular. His hands are still up at his sides as we turn around and bolt. I look back once, and he’s still sitting, frozen, the car door ajar.

Once we’re a few blocks away, I stop to check the wallet. Enough money to rent a cheap motel room, and get something to eat. I pull out the cash, wipe the wallet down, and toss it into a nearby garbage can. I already feel cleaner, and surprisingly, not guilty. Something about having a place to sleep tonight, removes the burden from me completely, and I feel better. This thing inside me has begun to breathe. Something new, and raw and hungry. This kind of, vengeful eating beast. This vigilante ghost. Breathing into my ear, whispering congratulations and toasting me with cheap champagne. Hi Satan. Nice to meet you. Feel free to rummage through my trash and build a place for yourself in this dark and foul monologue. Set up your stinking workshop, pick your characters. Pull your strings. The doors are open.

As we walk to meet Tyler, my mind is building its own getaway place. Changing this into something livable, something I can carry more easily. A lie. One, I’m more willing to accept. Like, I’m not robbing people. I’m avenging myself. I’m taking back my power. I’m a vindictive rape victim, searching the streets for perverted Johns. Retaliating, justified and validated. Some austere character from a Sin City comic. Some kind of crazed alter-ego. My own Tyler Durton. Kicking up a storm with a, who gives a shit. Too bad this isn’t the damn movies kid.

To read the post that follows this one simply press the link as follows~http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/11/21/adjusting-the-scales/

The Kind Of Shoes You Burn.

We had been sitting there, smoking cigarettes. I guess, trying to ease into the thought, that we were going to go back out there again. Catching our bearings in some sort of way. Bracing ourselves. Even if we didn’t want to admit it to each other.

“Can I come with you? I’ve never seen anything like this before. I wanna be there.” Looking over at the little bird standing next to me. Let out a sigh that’s  tarnished with judgement and shake my head. Her curls, well not so much curls, more like frizzy waves of mousey blond hair,  are pulled back in a tight ponytail and her t-shirt is ridiculously oversized. She’s waiting for my answer, looking at me with this half-smile.

” Are you serious?” What kind of person asks to tag along in a robbery. The same kind of person who slits their wrists and decides to slap you in the face, that’s who. I’ve never really liked her, but I’m immediately aware of the hypocrisy held in that thought, and shoot my self down with a kind of personal disgust. ” Yeah, I guess, if you want to.” The whole thing is a sick mess anyways.

When I’m walking down the street a short time later, this disturbing sense will come over me, and I’ll feel like we’re in some kind of sick “show and tell” time. Like you used to have in school, except this isn’t in school. It’s the middle of the night, and you’re  scouring the streets looking for someone to rob. It’s a messed up feeling, walking around in the dark, waiting to cross paths with someone who feels “right” to rob. How does a person pick? Just typing out that question makes my stomach turn, at the same time,  I can’t help but remember what it felt like. It’s a heavy feeling. It’s lonely. Cold and dark. It also, awakens an animal that lives inside you. One that you didn’t even know existed, until you travelled in those shoes. The kind of shoes you burn, when you swear to walk a cleaner road. And so, the question had to be asked, how does one pick?

For me, it was always a man. Always.

It made it easier if he hit on me. If he approached me, in a sexual gesture, it was probably going to happen. Whisky breath and hands. And part of me, could justify it. That was my little green light. This quiet rage would push itself through my chest, and that was it. It was just, easier that way. At least that’s how had been up until now. Tonight, I wouldn’t do the picking. She, would pick. And, the moment  she runs across the street, taking deep strides to catch up behind him, and reaching down into her pants to pull out that frightening silver hatchet, I’ll feel it deep in my gut. This cold ice brick of regret.

You know how people always say, ” When I woke up this morning, I would have never thought his was going to happen.”

Ya, no shit.

Red Vinyl.

Again, another old post to continuing getting all my new readers up to speed with the story! This entry is titled “Garbage and Hamburger Grease”. As I said before, I’m going to be putting up new Memoir posts on Saturdays from now on, so if you are waiting for a new one, it will come out then. Another huge thank you to all the amazing people who have taken the time to keep up with and read my work. God bless each and every one you!!

Garbage and Hamburger Grease.

The city has a sinister feel at night time. Out come the blinking lights and diner signs. The screeching and growling of buses, the bass of heavy hip hop reverberating through the air,escaping from the windows of nearby traffic. The cackling chatter of the public, mixed with gossip, ringing cell phones and drunk passersby. The homeless chants of sparing change. Downtown smells like exhaust fumes and vomit. Liquor and cigarette smoke. Garbage and hamburger grease. The occasional blast of pot smoke, and the aroma of peculating coffee squeezing through the cafe doors, as people bustle in and out in a rush.

As I’m walking, I’m relieved to have a few people at my side. Tyler and one of his boys, and of course, loyal as she was from the get go,She.

She is walking next to me, talking through her constant smile. Story after story. She unknowingly skips when she walks, not a full blown skip, but almost this youthful hyper glide. You imagine her feet to barely touch the spit covered sidewalk, and she reminds you of a ten year old girl who’s just come back from a field trip. It’s almost refreshing, until you remember what’s really happening. You remember, you have no bed to sleep in tonight, or enough money in your pockets for a hotel room. That you’ve left your home, as much as it was evil, and these streets are now your play/battle ground. The boys walking behind you, whispering in fast hushed tones, hustle, hustle hustle.

Red meets up with us a few minutes later, she’s come out to slum it. A break from her sheltered suburban life. I’m deeply aggravated with that, and only shake my head at her for even being here. Fine, tag along sweetheart.

I’ve been disconnected all day, and insultingly quiet. Finding relief in She’s banter. I’m totally aware that something messed up is going to go down tonight, and so are the boys. We’re all thinking, planning and processing. Often, taking a second, to look up at each other and give the stare of settled awareness. The unspoken, yep…this is it. You ready? look. Tyler and I did this all the time, barely ever really needing to ask or explain anything to each other. We had that weird twin thing, reading each others mannerisms and facial expressions. Two peas in a pod. Two sardines in a stinking can. Two master manipulators praying on She’s ignorance and trust. We should have been ashamed of ourselves, we should have made her go home. Instead we all decided to hit an all night diner and do a dine and dash. We planned to have a feast of our favorite meals and figure out the rest later. I had only done one other dine and dash in my life, but at this point who gave a shit. The diner looks like a  1950’s hamburger joint and is open twenty-four hours. It’s packed with late night bar hoppers and a mirage of other downtown hanger outs. The booth we sit in is cushioned with red vinyl and the table looks like something right out of Leave it to Beaver. Music plays loudly in the background as She looks over the menu like a kid in Disneyland. Ordering Milkshakes and desserts. I opt for a coffee and  a light dinner, my stomach isn’t working with me tonight. All I can think about is, what comes next. After we bail on our bill, and the night turns to the early hours of the morning. I think about hours earlier, walking away from the Y for the last time. How the director told me, if I left with Tyler, I wouldn’t be aloud to return, under no circumstances. I tell her, it’s my only option, and she turns her back to me. I’m swirling my spoon in the coffee and staring into the creamy hot liquid. I hate myself. The others at our table, gorging themselves, laughing and acting like a bunch of dumb kids at dinner for a birthday party. Except Tyler. He’s staring at me from across the table. Nudging my foot with his. Watching me stare off into oblivion. He gives me the come sit next to me look, and I sigh, knowing some kinda filthy scheme is about to drop from his lips. He puts his arm around me, leans his forehead on mine, and out it comes. The black, dripping tar hanging from his mouth. The sentence that catapults the disturbing play of my immediate life…

Hey babe..

I stop breathing.

Have you ever jacked someone?

I choke on it, closing my eyes, feeling the warmth of his forehead on mine.

Fuck.

Thirty minutes.

To read the post that follows this one, simply click the link as follows~ This next entry is pretty intense. It was hard for me to write because it was the first time I had committed a robbery…I’m so blessed to have made it through, and to be given the opportunity to change, to grow, and to live. Thank you God, for your forgiveness and grace. http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/11/21/imminent-madness/