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

 

 

 

 

Like A Starving Dog.

Another older post for the night readers. This one’s titled “Three Days”, the memoir entry leading up to the first robbery we committed…

Three Days.

I stumble out into the hallway, dry mouthed and dizzy. Good morning hangover. Through the squint of my blurry eyes I can see the blood, finger painted across the hallway walls. Smeared and dragged across the floor, spattered above, decorating the ceiling tiles. Dry, hoarse coughs escaping my throat as I swerve towards the bathroom for some cold water. I’m trying to forget the red messy scene out there as I lower my mouth to the tap, and gulp. Washing away the night’s film from my dreary eyes. Anywhere but here, please. I lower my head as I shuffle back to my room, close the door with a tight lock and hide under my blankets, praying for a long escape of sleep. Where is Tyler when I need him.

I wake up sometime in the evening. Happy to be concealed from the suns spotlight. Tyler’s back and he’s frantic. Pacing back and forth, his face hard and angry. Something’s happened. He tells me he has three days to pack his shit and leave. He’s getting evicted. My stomach ties up into tight coils. I can’t breathe. The panic rising, my heart racing. Faster, faster. I can’t breathe. I can’t stay here, can’t live here without him. I won’t do it. I CAN’T DO IT. I start to cry.

He sits down in front of me. Tells me not to be afraid. Tells me I don’t have to be alone, that I can come with him and I eat it up like a starving dog. We sit there, quietly together, staring at the floor. Digesting the hopeless truth of our situation. Three days. Three days until the darkest dark of my life. Three days…

He holds my hand in his. Looking into my eyes.

“Angie. I’m here with you. Don’t be afraid. We’ll figure it all out. It’s us babe, okay? It’s us.”

I’m doing my best to let him mess with my head. I want to be manipulated. I need to believe him. I need to believe, that I have no other choice. The thought of staying here alone is a threat I cannot fathom. It impregnates me with a sense of dread I cannot contain, or fight against. Eating away at me like a vultcher on a fresh carcass. My options melting away, into one big bullshit lie. I have to stay with Tyler.

The fact that she will be showing up here in a matter of hours, makes my decision carry even more weight, and my fear morphs into displaced abandon. Wilful ignorance. Wilful blindness. A veil of denial creeping over my naive eyes. She gives me the excuse I need. The hand to hold, the look of trust, which fuels the step we’ll be taking next. Three days, until we hit the streets. Three days until I cross over, into the bottom feeders of society, into the black depths of fear and survival, and commit my first violent crime.

Robbery.

Three days.

To read the post that follows this one, just simply click the link as follows http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/11/21/she/

Stand Up, And Start Walking.

Again, this is one of my older posts, as I’m trying to get everyone caught up before I post my most recent Memoir entry tomorrow. This post is titled “And Then There Was Him.” Another hugely genuine thank you on my part, to each and every one of you who take the time to read my entries. God bless.

~And Then There Was Him~

I’m sitting outside, on the wooden bench out front. I’m alone, smoking a king size Du Maurier cigarette. My elbows leaning on my knees, head down, so I don’t meet the eyes of the people coming in and out. I have no business looking at anyone around here,and they have no business looking at me either. I’m a jaded, lonely, sinking girl.

I didn’t notice him at first, when he busted through the front door. Standing alone, looking around for a familiar face. He walks up to me slowly, asks if he can bum a smoke. I say yes, hardly looking up to see him. He sits down next to me on the bench as I hand him my lighter. I’ve seen him around here before, but we’ve never met until now. To this day, I wish it never happened.

He tells me his name, and I get caught in his eyes, as ours meet. It’s not that I think he’s hot, it’s just those eyes. Something different. Hard. Dark. Addictive.

He has this air about him, like his surroundings don’t affect him. Like he knows better. Like he’s carrying a secret. A secret I want, and I immediately felt safer. We’re sitting there, quietly smoking our cigarettes and I begin to breathe again. I feel lighter. His affect me on me is heavy, and I’m a little ashamed of it.  Already, I don’t want him to leave, and we’ve only just met, not even ten minutes ago. Has that ever happened to you? like you’ve been missing a limb, and this person enters your inner world, re-attaches your leg and tells you to walk? and you stand up, and start walking. That’s how I felt next to Tyler. Just one look from him, with those dark, authoritative eyes, and I’d move. Something about him, gave me the courage to get the fuck up and keep fighting. He must have gotten the vibe too, because from that cigarette onward, we we’re always together. He put his arm around me, picked me up off the cold, rough ground, and set me upright. We didn’t even talk about it, not even a whisper. We never had to, it was an internal dialogue, played out by the both of us. He spoke with a kind of guiding supremacy, that plugged into me, a confidence and will I would not have found without him. Like I said earlier, this wasn’t a love thing, neither of us were down for that. It just wasn’t there, but was there, was this heat. This pulsing, live thing, born, and materialized, by our abrupt connection. He created for me, a place to hide away, a warm cocoon nest of denial and fantasy. The truth of my reality, becoming all the more easy to deny, when standing next to him. Tyler made everything feel sugar-coated. Even the most bad of things, becoming more livable through his eyes. Farther away. The cutting pain of my not so far way past, getting lost in the haze of my present place. Holding on to him, like a junkies last, and only fix. Black tar running through the veins. I was hooked. He knew it, I knew it. He did nothing to stop my fall in the end, except keep his mouth shut and go on with his life. He’ll leave me in the dust, when it counts, showing me again, how truly alone I really am. I’ll have a scar in my heart, belonging just to him. He won’t even know it, and we’ll never smile again with each other. I’ll wonder, even now, if he ever actually cared about me. If he was looking too. For that one person. The one person who’ll accept his hook, and willingly, hang from it in ignorance and weakness. Like I was. In my gut I’ll know the truth, and remember her face.

The girl dangling from my hook, while I’m hanging off of Tyler’s.

I’m not innocent.

I’m a puppeteer.

Just as much as he is.

Pulling her strings, will fully ignorant to the damage.

The three of us, tied together by hot, cutting barbed wire.~

To read the post that follows this one, simply click the link as follows, it’ is titled “Downers And A Straight Jacket” http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/11/21/downers-and-a-straight-jacket/

Concrete Staircase.

Again, this is an older post. I’m still doing my best to get the ones who wish to be, caught up before I continue my story on Saturday…enjoy!!!

~On Your Own Kid.~

I’ve always had this unspoken rule. Don’t make friends with people in your apartment building. If you live in a nice building, with condo fees and a manicured lawn, the rule doesn’t apply. Being that most of your neighbours would kindly give you a cup of sugar, and unlikely rob your house. It’s plainly obvious that the Y, was not such a building, far from it. Instead of a lawn, there’s a concrete staircase, littered with smokers and drug dealers, and pan handlers.  Instead of sugar, your neighbour kicks down your door at three in the morning, drunk and high, looking for his girlfriend, and screaming some bullshit about how you stole his cocaine. Just an example.

Like I said, I did try and stay away as much as possible. Even going to N.A meetings a few times a week with a friend. Anything to keep me from sitting in the quiet confines of my room. He would pull up in his car, Wu-Tang blasting out of the speakers, and we would drive over to the community centre down the street. The same community center my Mom would take me too on weekends as a kid. When we would go to her A.A/N.A meetings. Three times a weekend, like clock work. I knew a lot of the people there  because of those weekends. It’s kind of like a family reunion, where you get those strangers who tell you they knew you when you ‘this big’. Except it’s peppered with a kind of awkward shame. “Hi, I’m an addict.” Fiddling with your hands, trying not to look them in the eye. Finding a seat somewhere in the far back.

At the time, I didn’t even know if I was an addict. I just wanted to be somewhere that afforded me the luxury of safety.

The meeting would wrap up, and we would all go out to the coffee shop to sit outside, smoke cigarettes and talk. Honestly, the entire time I was there, at the coffee shop, I dreaded having to leave. I never wanted to go back to that building. Everything scared me. The drug dealers on the front steps. The drunk native man who tried to grab my ankles when I walked by, just trying to get inside the building. Cursing and spitting hate at me. The man overdosing on heroin in the lobby, surrounded by paramedics. The foul smelling elevator that brings me up to the sixth floor. Those hospital like white walls leading me back to my room. The quiet inside of it. Leaving me with nothing but my thoughts, or my fear of them. So, there. I never wanted that time to end, the laughing, the company. The safety of it. The warmth. I wanted that cup of coffee to last hours and my ride home to never come. The drive home was worse then actually leaving. Hiding your tears, and staying strong is hard. Looking out the car window, feeling more lonely than you ever have in your life. Doing everything in your power to push away those tears, the ones about to cascade down your weary face. Wanting more than anything, to turn to the person next to you and just scream. Scream how scared you are, how you don’t want to do this. For someone to take you home to your Mom and Dad and end this damn thing. You can’t. There’s no point, this is where your at, and nothing is going change that. Except of course, yourself. But, you’re sixteen and have nothing left to give. You’ve hurt your parents more than you’ll admit. That, in all reality, they CAN’T have you home, and you know it. And as you close the car door, and give that last hug goodbye… you know it.

And as you walk up those concrete steps, into that lobby…watch the elevator door close, you know it. That knowing, following you down the white hallway and through that blue door, into the small quiet room. That you are left with, just yourself now. The thought frightens you so much, vomit comes pouring from your mouth, and you cry like a five year old girl on her way to kindergarten for the first time. Or worse.

One thing happens, when your intimately lonely..vividly afraid.

I  did what I  knew best, and what I knew best was this.

People.

You have to find someone, who feels like you do, and use them to create a place of safety and support. Everybody does it at some point, or another. Use people in this way.Whether it be a dependency on a best friend, or an abusive partner, we all do it. We all find something to cling to, in our state of desperation. Little did I know, the people I chose, and the people that chose me, would lead us to a place so dark, I would lose my grip on myself completely. It’s a miracle that I’m even sitting here to type you this. Honestly, it truly is. One tiny step farther, and I’d likely still be sitting in jail as of right now. No lie. By, the amazing grace of the Father, I’m not. By no choice of my own, He saved me. Before I finish this entry, I want to say something. I’ve never told this story before in detail, and I’m a little scared. I’m a little shaken at the thought. I need your prayer, if that’s something you do. If you do, I want to say thank you in advance, because, it’s time to have this out. There are so many things that could have been avoided back then, and I can’t change that now. What I can do, is be as honest as I possibly can, in hopes that this gets back to someone who needs it. Using this nightmare as a way to warn the youth out there, that feel they truly have no other options. This is what happened to me, when I fell into that lie, but it doesn’t have to be that way for everyone. There are choices, ALWAYS. Even if they seem thin and invisible. I wish someone had earnestly and openly confronted me with that back then, and you know I’m sure they did, and I was just too blind to see it. If you feel like someone you know could benefit from these entries, share them. I’m not writing all this down, just to get a rise out of you, or just to publish something gritty. It’s because God wanted me to bare my life to others, to gain comfort from it, and to show his glory. Because I don’t want this to only belong to me anymore, I want to build something from it that even I , couldn’t imagine.

So, the story will continue, where fear and desperation take a young girl on her own, and all the while, I’ll be needing your prayers. You are all amazing for supporting me in this journey, and I’m humbly grateful.

To read the post that follows this one, just simply click the link as follows~http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/11/21/one-of-them/

Jail Was an End. Life Before It, A Scary Place.

This is another one of my older posts, for anyone interested in getting caught up with this crazy story I’m trying to tell. It’s called “Run, Baby, Run” and it’s the post that follows “Time’s Up”, the entry I wrote about the first time my Grandmother came to visit me in jail. I thank each and every one of you for taking the time to read and support this intense journey I’m on. God bless each and every one of you, an I pray all of you, in some way or another, can find the time to touch some one else’s heart,  by sharing your life experiences. It’s makes such a huge difference to know we are never alone.

~Run, Baby, Run~

It’s strange, to sit here quietly on my couch, close my eyes and relive a time in my life I’ve always just wanted to push away. That ten years of extreme intensity. The drugs, the crime, the people. Sometimes it feels  like a mirage of something that never existed. Like I’m a fly on the wall in someone else’s story. It’s heavy to realize, over and over again, that this story is my own. I have to be choosy now, with what I share, and when. The hole is getting deeper, and I need to wise up enough, not to let myself get lost in it. These are memories, not a novel I’m making up along the way. It could potentially be dangerous, not to process this all properly, and just type it out in a never-ending frenzy of expression. Which is so like me to do, because, I’m restless.

I’ve been thinking about where to go from here, my mind going right back to cold confines of the jail.  I want to talk about the stage leading up to my arrest. The life choices and circumstances that carried me to this place. I think it’s more important then even being in jail, at all really. I will get back to the rest of my time in prison, but I want to stop and hang out here for a bit.

Jail, was an end. Life before it, was, a scary place.  This very small span of time, a few short months, in between rehab, and incarceration. Yes, I got out of rehab, and within months I was in jail. Classy stuff.

I never graduated the rehab program. I was stubborn as shit. I didn’t like it, it was bullshit, that’s all there was to it. Total tunnel vision. So, after eleven months of pushing back, they finally kicked me out. I was SO happy. All it took was a little scrap with one of the girls to get me there. Had I of known, I probably would have instigated it earlier. I was very mature, if you hadn’t already noticed.

There was only one place that would accept me back, after my spit in the face. My old group home. I think I lasted there a few weeks, before I took off. This being nothing new, since I had over three hundred A.W.O.L’s on my record by the time I was sixteen. Like I said, I’m restless and running away was an addiction stronger than any drug I’ve faced since. The staff even had to go so far, in the past, to lock up all my shoes in the staff office. Always. I don’t know if I mentioned this before, me living in a group home,but I did. I don’t really have much to say about it right now. Let’s just move on from there. I left. With the clothes on my back and a nap sack filled with socks, underwear, and deodorant. Five dollars in my jean pocket, and a heart of pure stone. I just couldn’t stay there. That house, instilled in me a kind of anxiety I just couldn’t fight. Couldn’t before, and certainly couldn’t now.

It had been over a year since I had lived there last, and nothing had changed, except for the new load of way ward teen girls filling the rooms of the house. Apparently, I was so stoked to leave rehab, at the time, I didn’t realize I would be walking right back to the same shit life I had entered rehab from. So, suffice to say, my being able to fight the urge for freedom was short lived. Making the choice to leave took a matter of seconds, like a drug relapse. I called a shelter downtown and just left. I remember sitting on the bus, knowing full well, I had just dug myself a deeper grave, but also knowing, that nothing was going to convince me to turn around and act on the sound advice to stay. Give it a chance. In my mind, no one gave me chances. No one actually gave a shit why I did the things I did. No one understood me. So, I HAD to go.  Nothing and no one could convince me that waiting out my time there was a proactive thing to do. Because I’ve always had severe tunnel vision, my options always seemed slim. There was no grey area with me. All or nothing, and since I couldn’t give my all in that house, with those rotating staff, my only option was to give nothing. Just give up. That’s exactly what I did. I ignored the pleas of the staff I’d known for years, fell victim to anxiety of sitting still, turned my back and walked away.

When I hit the front steps of the shelter, the weight of my choice felt all the more heavy. I don’t know what I was expecting, I mean shelters aren’t the effin’ Four Seasons. I just didn’t expect the smell. Rank, putrid and sticky. Everything about this place felt sinister. Dark. Sad. Hopeless. I knew immediately that yet again, I wouldn’t be able to trust anyone here. It was likely I shouldn’t be trusted either. Can’t blame them, can’t blame me. It’s just the name of the game. I decided right then and there, I would only be staying here for as short a time as possible. Who wouldn’t. That notion sticking in me deeper, as I was taken to my room. It was tiny, and I’d be sharing it with a three hundred pound woman, who did not shower. Good times. I was given a locker for my minimal amount of belongings, with no lock. I’d be carrying my stuff on me, here on in, you’d be surprised at what homeless people will steal, as in everything they can get their hands on. Everyone needs socks and pit stick. The smallest of things become luxury when your out on the street. I’d be learning this lesson, again, very soon. I cried myself to sleep that night, feeling the dread grow in my guts. Knowing I had made a bad choice, but was too stubborn and pissed off to change it. I stayed at the shelter a total of three nights, and was swiftly kicked out for threatening one of the girls, who had slept with a guy I was into. Who knew, a reasonably healthy treat would send me on my way. Zero-tolerance wasn’t a statement I tended to listen to. She had ran right to the director, who had immediately called the police to have me removed. I’d say nothing to the cops, except and kindly screw you and let me go. I would then spend an entire week with nowhere to go, and nowhere to sleep, since I had officially burnt every bridge available to me. Except one. The Y. M.C.A.  That tall brown building, with rows upon rows of glass windows. Housing for a barrage of the down and out. From refugees, to abused women and children, to the elderly.

It was a cess pool of filth, poverty and drug abuse.

A catalyst to my rash crime spree.

To read the post that follows this one, click the link as follows..it’s called “The Room With The Blue Door” and it’s depicts my first time moving into the Y.M.C.A at sixteen years old. Fore shadowing a really dark and lonely time in my life. It would eventually lead to me choosing the street, over the tiny cell like room I rented. http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/11/21/the-room-with-the-blue-door/

Bruised Knees And Torn Up Knuckles.

To read the post previous to this entry click the link as follows..~The Day Brings No Comfort~http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/12/03/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.

Tear Them From The Sky.

I pray for courage … to stand on truth, even when lies envelope my heart.

These black winged birds have stalked me.

Vultures circling inside my mind.

My soul lays sleeping in a desert…my mouth has dined on bullshit. Dry sand, and waste.

I want to open my eyes Father, it’s nothing but a storm. Wind whipping my face. Dust in my eyes.

I’m so tired. This fire tipped arrow shoved through my chest.

Give me the strength to RISE, despite it…weak knees, shaking hands covered in soil.

Some things are too hard to feel, a bleeding heart, replaced by steel.

Send Your fire.

Brand words of hope into my skin. Deep and visible scars to remind me who I am.

I need your air. Clean breath to replace black tar.

I want to fight, even if my skin is soft. Even if my wounds are still red.

Broken human, full of power.

Tear these black winged birds from the sky, and drop them at my feet.

I’ll bury them in the earth with love..

and find my way back to You.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Cried.

All I can do today, is surrender.

I crawled onto my couch today and I cried for you. I handed you over into the arms of Jesus and sobbed like a baby. I prayed until my words were lost in His love, and then I cried some more.

“He will cover you with his feathers, and under His wings you find refuge.”~Psalm 91:4