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 









Bruised Knees And Torn Up Knuckles.

To read the post previous to this entry click the link as follows..~The Day Brings No Comfort~

Exhausted, worn out, and terrified. Our faces showed it all. Two beautiful girls warped into a ragged homeless mess. Trembling hands and dead eyes. Bruised knees and torn up knuckles.The world had turned into something we would have never imagined, and so had we. We had done terrible things, and it wasn’t over yet. The days just kept coming, as they always do.

It’s hard to explain, the chill of darkness that covers a city, and the people in it, when your immersed in the middle of street life. Nothing is safe, and everyone’s a liar. Everything is cold, and warmth doesn’t exist. The ground you sit on is damp, and your stomach is always a deep void. The hunger that grows inside is a constant, and you are ever frozen, because you hardly exist. There is no comfort. There is no softness. There is no life. Everyone you cross paths with is dead, and you are too. You are expired.There are only smiles when money is made, and food, or shelter is an option. Smiles come, when you know you can take a shower today. There are smiles when, for one moment, you might feel human for a little while. And then, yet again, that feeling is ripped from your hands. Torn from your heart, because it never changes. To feel human, is a trap. You do inhumane things, to survive, because you are an animal. You believe that, you accept that. Because, that’s what makes sense. You behave like a vulture, because you are one. Eating scraps of death, while sitting on some dank downtown curb, in your dirty jeans.

You find yourself day dreaming about doing homework at the kitchen table. About helping your Mom with house work, about vacuuming your room. Taking your dog for a walk. Stupid shit you would argue about until now, because you were a selfish and entitled teenager. And now you’re not, now you’re desperate for something normal. Even if your home life, or in my case, group home life, was less than tolerable, even if you hated it so much that you felt forced to hide in your room listening to music and getting high, you still craved the ordinariness of it. The predictability. The fridge. The laundry. The bathroom. The hugs. Watching shitty movies on Sunday nights. The rules. Even the fighting. Because at least you were there. At least you were a part of something, instead of being a part of nothing. Wasting away in barren alleys. Sleeping in bus stop shelters. Maybe even flirting with the idea to trade sex for shelter, because it’s been over a week since you slept in a bed, and the thought of letting some random guy put his hands all over your body, isn’t sounding as dirty as it once did. Because you are dirty. You’re an animal.

We were closing in on one month. One month out in the corrupt world and living on the street. Time was irrelevant and the days would collide into each other, leaving us with a chaotic mess of memories, evil and trauma. We had been couch surfing with friends for the last few days, and had totally out stayed our welcome. It was understandable, but it left us with some pretty shitty options. Go to the soup kitchen. Stay awake all night, outside, in the city. Or, do the thing, that we had come to learn.

It would be one of the longest nights of my life.

Within twenty-four hours I would be stepping in blood. It would run through cracks in the sidewalk and out onto the street. It would be on my hands. Forever staining my fingers and my mind.

I was about to destroy a person…and I didn’t see it coming. Neither did he.

For the first time, I would label myself as evil. And I meant it.