The Phone Call

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

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

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

Between fear, and courage.

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

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

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

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

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

Fingers to keys.


My entire world changed the day the memories surfaced.

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

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

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

What is wrong with me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, it did. It did take my mom.

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


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




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.


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.


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.


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.

Oh People of Courage. Stand.

Ever tired of the counterfeit, walking through a world shellacked in lies and fake faces.

Dulled out smiles, practiced reactions and apathy.

Searching for one real glance, some kind of heart recognition.

Something real.

I don’t see on the outside, what I feel on the inside.

These games we all play, I struggle deep.

Rising to shake of the things the world has taught me, the things I hate.

Don’t trust anyone.  Don’t be vulnerable. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

Love, to a point. Give, at a limit. Fight, but only for yourself.

Money. Stuff. Image. Beauty. Popular. Lies. Bullshit.

Almost unable to fight it, because well, this is where I live. This barren wasteland for the heart.

But, I try.


To be defined by plastic trinkets,  paper money and some version of a human being society has designed.

Am I the only one…who see’s this.

That the world never follows through on its promises.

A desire to fall to my knees in the busy street and scream..

WAKE UP!!!!!!!!!!!

The people rushing like mice to rotten cheese, through zig-zagged sidewalks.

Tears streaming, wake up dead eyes. Come to life hearts of stone.

Reaching out, hands shaking, to touch their garments.

Pulling and yanking on their jackets.

My knees wet and soaking with the morning rain, as their faces turn away.

I want love to blow through these streets.

I want to see them taken away by it, and fall next to me.

For flowers to grow through these broken street cracks.

Let me cry with you, we don’t have to be alone. Please wake up.

But only the clicking of their rushed heels on damp concrete.

Places to go, places to go, places to hide.

I see you. I’m looking. I’m praying.

Sun, pierce through the sky. Hot, heat bring them to life.

Draw out the glimmer of their eyes. The hope and light they carried with them when they were children.


Wind come and tear away their covers. The hardened armor they’ve been forced to wear.

Leave them exposed and raw, knees weak and buckled.

Light come, God calls. Fill them then, with the truth. A hope so deep their hands fall from their faces, and they laugh in the street.

Drawing up the left over drops of rain with their cupped palms and wash that weary fog from their eyes.

Let them wake and rise to the love story, to their destiny. Leave them satisfied with nothing but hearts filled with joy.

Spring trees from barren roots.

Rivers from the drought of their souls.

Rip out fear and burn its marrow.

Am I the only one who see’s?


It is not just me.

Scattered across the earth, I feel these same prayers.

Stand with me. Stand for them. STAND FOR HIM.

I refuse, to be defined by the rules of the world. By the rules of scarred hearts.

On my knees, soaked by the rain, cold drops of water falling down my eyelashes.

I cry…..

WAKE UP!!!!!! Oh people of courage. Stand.

On The Flip-Side.

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

So, I just stopped. Stopped everything.

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

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

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


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

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

Let’s do this thing.




This is a video taken from the I AM SECOND website, through YouTube. An AMAZING testimony by Brian “Head” Welch, the former guitarist of the band Korn. After being called back to God’s heart, he quits using Meth, and drops the lead his life as SECOND TO CHRIST. If you are an addict, or have been down the road to recovery, or are still struggling, this video will hit your heart. God bless each and every brother and sister in Christ who are still living under the chains of addiction..

The Advocate.

This post is written by Therese J. Borchard, through her website Beyond Blue. It was written for anyone who suffers from addiction, who may not feel accepted by God, because of that. It is gentle, beautiful and full of grace. I wanted to share it, because well, if I needed to hear this, someone else out there does too. God bless each and everyone of you, and know, you are not alone. I am not alone, and we’re all in this war together..this war of life.

Dear God,
In John’s Gospel, Jesus says this to your disciples:

If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate to be with you always, the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot accept, because it neither sees nor knows him. But you know him, because he remains with you, and will be in you. I will not leave you orphans. I will come to you (John 14:15-18).

I have always found great comfort in your promise of the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, to remain with us until the end of our days. And I’m beginning to recognize Her in my friendships that feed and sustain my spirit.
I want to keep your commandments, God. Really, I do. So why do I keep on messing up? Why, despite my efforts to lead a healthy lifestyle do I periodically grab for any one of my addictions, and clutch it with a death grip, believing that it alone holds the key to my sanity and peace of mind.
Lord, you know how many times I have been there—grabbing for the thing, giving it up, grabbing it again, letting it go, then taking it back. When I let it go, I feel that brief sense of relief—that I am okay on my own—that I don’t need it to be me. But then the panic, the withdrawal, sets in, and with it the false belief that I will never be whole without it.
I’m weary of the cat and mouse game. I want to be free. Of all my addictions. For good.
I need your Advocate, and I know where to find Her.
She is there, where two or three are gathered in Your name (Matt 18:20). Or, as Martin Buber put it, She is there “when two people relate to each other authentically and humanly.” She is that “electricity that surges between them.”
I felt the peace of Your advocate yesterday, when I had lunch with a good friend who shares the same struggle of my addiction. At one point, as I held her hand, I started to cry, explaining the misguided thoughts going through my brain.
She didn’t judge.
She just squeezed my hand harder. And said, “Therese, it’s not about the object. It never is about the object. It’s about the hole in the soul. Grow the tree—your sense of self, your spirit—and, trust me, the craving will wither. Later, she wrote me an e-mail that ended with this:

Remember, it’s about growing a self. And you do that by discovering what you need, getting those needs met in a way that makes you like yourself, makes intimacy possible with people you trust and love. Bottom line, you are safe, sane, loved, cherished, smart. You just have some work to do. Like everyone else.

As I looked into her beautiful face, and felt the sincerity of her compassion, I knew I was in the presence of your Advocate, God. Just like I have in so many support-group meetings, where I entered the room dying to drink and left an hour later free of craving. Because I filled up my spirit in those rooms.
Why do I always forget that recovery isn’t just about not drinking, or not smoking, or not bingeing, or not taking my own life? It’s about each and every one of those 12 spiritual steps—about admitting the powerlessness of my obsessive-compulsive thoughts and behaviors, about spending time with the Word of God in scripture and prayer, about helping others who struggle to break free of their addictions, and about finding the self-worth in myself, and believing that I am just fine without the object I think I need.
Moreover, you don’t call yourself “sober” when you’ve managed to walk away from the bottle. You’re sober when you no longer fantasize about what a martini would feel like going down. You’re not sober until you’re in the presence of the Advocate, the voices of truth, just as Jesus explain in the Gospel of John. Until that Spirit of truth remains in you even after your lunch is over, and your support group meeting is over. When you She is in you and guiding you always toward health.
The Advocate is first found in communion, in people coming together to seek the Truth. Because just as Jesus said, the world can’t see or know Her. No way. Not in this culture of addiction.
The Advocate reveals herself only to those open hearts wanting to hear the Truth.
I want the Truth, God.

Read more:

You Are Not.


You are NOT your mistakes, your thoughts, or your inner dirt. You are NOT your past, you are NOT the things you are ashamed of, or your self image. You are NOT your ego, or the lies people have pushed you into believing about yourself. You are NOT the abuse you’ve suffered, or the addictions that hold you down. You are NOT too far gone.

You are  VALUABLE.

You are BEAUTIFUL  and POWERFUL in your uniqueness.

You are CLEAN, and HOLY, in the eyes of God.

No matter what has been, or where you’ve gone, or what you’ve done.

You are WORTH it.

And, you ALWAYS will be.





Stop You.

I can’t stop you from walking away from what YOU NEED. Walking away from THE TRUTH, shackling yourself in heavy metal chains of DEATH and LIES. I can’t stop you at all, NOT WITH WORDS, not with my broken heart. Not with MY TEARS. ..not with begging. I can only LOVE YOU, and pray Jesus keeps you safe in this BROKEN WORLD we live in. Pray, THOSE DRUGS you take, don’t KILL YOU like they almost have SO MANY TIMES BEFORE, my beautiful friend.

That one day I’ll see you again, with FREEDOM in your eyes.