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 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 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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.

I REFUSE.

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.

Remember.

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?

NO.

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.