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.

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

 

 

 

 

What Granny Said.

“You be a good girl Angie,” her eyes fixed on mine. “You be a good girl for Granny or else Granny won’t let you see Mommy ever again. And you know Granny can do that don’t you?”

I am five years old. She is sitting on the edge of my bed, it’s nighttime and I’m in trouble again. I did everything she asked me too. I put my pajamas on like a good girl and brushed my teeth when she asked. I crawled into bed without a fuss, and did my best to finish all the food on my plate at dinner time. But, she’ s angry with me, like she is most of the time.

She grabs my jaw roughly, it’s invasive and controlling, my little heart beating so fast. She’s digging her fingers into the sides of my cheeks and it hurts. I want to move under the weight of her grip, to pull on her forearms, and twist out from under, but I know better. Yanking on my chin, she pulls her face up close to mine. I am frozen. Her eyes locked onto my eyes, the sharp sting of her nails pressing down on the soft skin.

“You remember what Granny said.” The heat of her breath, mixed with cigarettes and coffee and she just lingers there for moment, her gaze tearing into me, before she whips her hand away in disgust. It is harsh and unrelenting. And with that, the room goes dark and I am left to stare at the crack of light beaming in through the hallway. I had forgotten to breathe and my exhale is shaky and strained. I’m terrified to make a sound, pushing my face into the cotton pillow, the warmth rushing to my cheeks with the release and I can hear my Mom downstairs. I want to tell her what happened, but I’m scared. The fear ran through my body like a current and I wouldn’t, couldn’t move.

I had to stop,  and reach out to my God, two paragraph’s into writing this post.

Jesus, give me the strength I need to see myself through this evil maze of sickness. This torment, Lord.” Repeating verses from the bible, that have held me up during my most fearful of days, through the deepest of shameful nights, those powerful words striking through the fear and lifting me with His golden staph. I am so grateful God is real, and alive and with me. The residue, of these moments in my life, can be crippling. I often find myself, staring off into the ground, my thoughts overlapping each other in a frenzy of anxious shock, and I can’t find my way out. I get lost in this unbelievable reality of my past, and when the child inside me can’t make sense of it anymore, and my adult self is raging with a hate that frightens me, all I have left is God. 

I have a husband, and a son, who think the world of me and this isn’t lost to me most days. I bask in that light with them, and pour as much love into them as I possibly can. But every survivor knows, each in their own way, the loneliness that comes with the mark of abuse. It’s a solitary experience. One that traps you within the confines of your own painful existence, tearing you away from being able to share it with anyone, a place set aside just for you and no amount of explaining or clawing away will ignite an understanding between you and the world. Because the thing is just too evil, and you know that if you were to really expose the truth of it, your comrades would turn away in disgust, tummy’s churning and your tears would turn to dust with the reaction, the regret pushing around in your gut, and so many of us stay silent. As I have for the last two years. Until I chose not too anymore. I believe, that by staying silent, I am allowing her to still have that hold on me. That I am welcoming the harsh grasp of her hand. Letting the fingers dig into my cheeks, her nails gripping my face and falling weak under her weight. 

I can’t let her do this to me anymore. I refuse to lay in that bed any longer, the fear running through me like a current. I think of my five-year old son, the pureness of his heart, the innocence of his soul and I have to stand up for that little girl. 

Right? 

“As my sufferings mounted I soon realized that there were two ways in which I could respond to my situation — either to react with bitterness or seek to transform the suffering into a creative force. I decided to follow the latter course.” ~ Martin Luther King Jr. 

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 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Set It Free.

When I had first decided to start writing a blog, it was so I could share my story. One simple, but complex desire. The need, and the want to put what was inside of me, outside of me. Carrying the newborn hope, that perhaps something I deemed as dark, shameful and useless could one day exist as a tool of love. I wanted so badly for my story to be known, even if I was terrified to tell the truth, because I knew there were people out there, heavy loaded with the same scars I wore, and wear to this day. I had spent years trying to “redeem” myself to my family, friends and even God Himself, and I had become tired. I needed a way out, even if it would take me back in, as all stories do, each in their own way.

I knew that, just like I did, they needed someone with whom they could relate. Someone who would be honest enough to share the truth of things, even when it left them vulnerable to being misunderstood, judged and labeled. I wanted to expose myself. To “un-hide” the parts of myself, so many of us, do our best to keep behind closed doors.

The truths I had denied. The morals I claimed to have held, but would bend, when faced with an easier choice. My battered self-esteem. The tears hidden behind laughter, the grief packaged in new clothes and expensive shoes. The drugs beneath a seemingly sober face. The alcohol in that water bottle. The sleepless nights filled with terrors I knew no one would believe, if I gathered the courage to tell them. The memories, the stories, the passions and the burdens. My story runs deep. It is long, intense and full of a myriad of emotion. I have faced things that would destroy some, and I myself have been on the brink of destruction many a time.

Anyways, I just finished reading this amazing memoir by Cherie Currie. The lead singer of the 1975 band “The Runaways”. Not only was the book one of the best memoirs I have read, but it instilled in me a brand new outlook on telling my story. I am not afraid anymore. It can be very hard, actually fuck hard, it goes deeper than that, the thought of sharing some of the violence and abuse I’ve endured in my life, brought vomit up my throat. And I think I was still terrified of my own memories. But reading Cherie’s words, and experiencing HER reality of abuse, drugs, rock and roll and the shocking insanity she went through on the road, opened up a doorway for me. Even in her filth, in her drug induced delirium, I respected her. After experiencing the kind of abuse that would run your blood cold, I respected her. I even loved her in those moments. And so, it was in this realization, that I decided I was truly ready to start writing my book. On my own terms and in my own way. And that is exactly what I’m doing.

There is still so much to be told, so much no one knows. So, I look forward to the late nights, the binge writing, the power in vulnerability and the fire it ignites in my soul.

“The truth is like a lion, you don’t have to defend it, let it loose, it will defend itself.” ~St. Augustine

 

 

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.

Drunk Cigarette Break.

It is inbred in us that we have to do exceptional things for God: but we have not. We have to be exceptional in the ordinary things, to be holy in mean streets, among mean people, and this is not learned in five minutes”

-Oswald Chambers

By the end of this blog, you’ll understand why I chose to begin with this quote.

So bare with me as I write.

Five years ago, I was attacked downtown while leaving a bar.

I had ran into my ex while having a drunken cigarette break.

The ex, we all have, the one we know we’re not supposed to talk to.

The one, you should run down the street screaming from.

The one, most girls, don’t have the strength to say no to…and in the end, we’re all in the same damn place.

Feeling like a chump, rejected and pathetic.

Even, bloody and broken.

He had even gone so far to tell me, not to be around him, that the guys he was with we’re serious bad news, and if I knew what was good for me, I’d leave.

Of course, being the stubborn lil’ shit I can be, I stayed.

I’d been around hustlers and criminals a million times over, and I wasn’t just going to leave because he said so. As if I didn’t know what the scene was like. I’d known this guy since I was 15 years old, and loved him every day since we’d first kissed. I loved him for being so lost, he’d always been this way, and I wanted to be there despite it all. Like my love could change something. They say guys have this knight in shinning armour hang up, but to be honest, I think women are blinded by this even more then men.

So, I stayed.

We drank.

The whole time I had my eyes on him, watching him hit on other chicks (really Ang?) hoping that at some point we’d get away from this mess, and I’d be with the man I saw in my heart.

WRONG.

As usual.

Instead his friend hit on me all night, buying me roses and drinks.

I accepted ’cause I didn’t want to be rude, and who wouldn’t want free shots…

But the entire time, I had this churning feeling in my gut. I couldn’t place it, and figured because he was with me, I’d be safe. I mean, he loved me right?

My ass.

WRONG.

Leaving the bar, my ex pulled up his car, and yelled at me to get in.

I thought about going, but knew it would be an all night cocaine binge, so I said no.

He yelled at me again, to get in, and this time he was pissed.

Again I said no. My hands shaking.

He told me off, slammed the car door and drove away.

Leaving me there with his friend.

The one who bought me Jagger and roses.

So, buddy offered to walk me to the bus, his french accent kind of appealing.

Within a few minutes he was violently shoving me into a stair well, and pinning me up against the wall.

Tearing at my clothes, forcefully.

I tried to fight back initially, but when he gripped his hands around my throat, and slammed my head against the brick, I froze.

When I looked in his eyes, I saw it. Pure chaos and deep sickness. A predator. Calculating and wrought with oozing sexual deviance.

Details aren’t what I want here, so lets just say, at one point, I was able to push him down the stairs and run. But, it’s important to me, that girls understand, the best of predators hide it very well. Very, very well. Remember that, and if your gut says this ain’t right, like mine did, listen. I don’t care if you have six drinks covering it up. Just leave. Trust yourself.

Once I was out the door, he chased me, and just as I was hopping in a taxi, he banged on the cabby’s window, and out of breath, threw money at the driver, telling him to take me home.

Some kind of twisted apology.

The next morning my best friend told me to read the paper, a man matching his description, with a french accent, had attacked and raped a girl about an hour after I had jumped in that cab. I’ll never forgive myself for not going to the cops that night. I have personal reasons for that, which I’ll be writing about another day. But, I knew it was him. I could feel it. Swiftly running to the bathroom to vomit, the newspaper page still gripped in my hand.

So, why would I tell you all this?

This is an extreme example of why, we need to just trust God, and let go. Let go of a person, a situation, a fantasy, a dream. A conclusion. Of closure.

We are inbred to believe we must do exceptional things for God, when we need not. Holding someones hand through life, and becoming obsessed with fixing them, can lead down dark vicious roads. It can lead to places where all the control you thought you had, is ripped from you. Sometimes you think you’re doing the right thing, when really your just abusing yourself, and in your own prideful way, saying, they can’t make it without me. Maybe, they don’t even want to.

It’s not our job to cling, and love someone to death.

It’s our job to pray for them, and be an example, without becoming attached to their outcome.

Becoming attached to results, can lead us to falling into a blinded pit of pride and despair.

I’m obviously not saying it’s always going to be this bad, I’m just saying, it has been for me.

I’ve put myself in very dangerous situations at the expense of the ones I love.

In the end, it shows me, two things.

They didn’t feel the same way.

and,

I can’t control one’s heart, or future, no matter how hard I try.

This is really hard when your the kind of person who genuinely has a heavy compassion for people.

But, we need to also have compassion for ourselves.

And, trust our Father, no matter how bent our world can be.

I still don’t know if my ex knew his friend was going to hurt me, my gut tells me, yes. He did.

I still haven’t healed from all this yet, and I’m hoping this blog will help.

I’m just glad that, at this point, I’ve learned, and am learning, what my place is. In the lives of the ones I’ve loved, love and will love.

“We have to be exceptional in the ordinary things, to be holy in mean streets, among mean people, and this is not learned in five minutes”

I forgive that man, and will be praying for him after this blog is posted, because that’s what God tells me will bring my healing. I forgive you, ex boyfriend, and despite all this, I wish you a good, whole and happy life. I forgive myself too…because it’s not my fault.

I know that now.

Today.

I love you all, and thank you for listening.