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.

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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

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

Our Hands will Bleed, but Our Hearts will Beat.

It is through the deepest of our pain, that we are asked to stand.

When darkness stalks us, a black oil suffocating… faith.

When our weakness’s mock us, and stare us in the face.

Grim and shameful a thing.

When all strength has left our limbs…sitting fearful at the edge of the cliff.

That the deep breath fills our bodies.

Fill me up, Lord. Fill me up.

The breath, of life.

Called in the night of our dreams, in the weight of our tears.

The whisper tugs at the straps of our souls.

Be of hope, child. Be of hope.

The earth beneath your feet, cracks with uncertainty.

Tree roots lifting, clinging.

White knuckles, grasping.

The dust catching your eyes, that awful burning.

You curse your own flesh, in its weariness.

Our hearts pulling to catch up, when things change…too fast.

The place between your mind, and heart, a criss crossing of wires. Sizzling.

But He calls.

That cool wind, to sooth the burn.

A love ointment, for a mind infection.

An intimate pull of heat, a love that runs deep.

To the very nature of your cells.

The voice upon the waters.

Be of courage, child. Be of courage.

Catching each tear, in His mighty hand.

Storing them up in the Great Heart.

Restoration. Is a promise.

Do not fear, child. Do not fear. I hold the stars in my hands.

Joy comes in the morning my love. It always comes.

A lullaby of Truth.

And even though the world around me, shakes, it crumbles…my hands are bleeding…You Father, ARE BIGGER.

The cool wind to sooth the burn.

The love’s breath to heal the torn.

The All. The Is. The Forever.

Yes, child. Nothing in vain.

Nothing….in vain.

It is when the tidal wave hits, that we are called to stand against the crashing waters.

Hand in hand.

The salt waves whipping our cheeks, matting our hair, stinging our eyes.

A wall of brothers and sisters.

Our hands will bleed, but our hearts will beat.

Oh they will beat, the glory of God.

My hands are ready.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.