Little Orange Pills.

I shake the prescription bottle, the little orange pills clang around in the neon yellow plastic holder. The sound of it gives me relief, and even though the feeling leaves me a little embarrassed, I’m actually really glad I found a doctor who is finally listening to me.

The sun is shining through my bedroom window, and it’s pretty because the fall leaves give this burst of color against the blue sky, sometimes with this stark contrast, other times more gentle, and during the sunset there are times the layering of colors are almost seamless and I love it. I think of God when I look at things like that, taking out those quiet moments to pay attention to something with intention, with warmth. I think of God when I look at a lot of things in that way, but along side this gentle rush of joy, my heart is sick and filled with anxiety. Just like it has been every morning, for the last three years.

Back to the neon yellow prescription bottle, still sitting in my hand.If you turn it to the left, the label reads clonazepam.

Klonopin. My new best friend.

How many are left? Twenty or so. A sigh escapes my lips, as I fill the glass with cool water, and drop one of the tablets into my mouth, swallowing it down hard and fast with a deep breath. Leaning up against the bathroom counter, the pill sliding down my throat and landing in the base of my stomach as I stare myself in the eye. Most days, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. She’s pale. Her skin is dry, and the eyes are heavy from the med’s, sleepless nights, and let’s face it, the pain. I’m embarrassed, ashamed and I miss the woman I once was. It’s been over ten years since I took anything for my panic disorder, and if you asked me three years ago, if this is where I’d be, I’d laugh.

I’ve learned to be a little less judgemental since then.

Let me just say, I didn’t wake up this morning thinking to myself, ” I can’t wait to share my weaknesses! yay!” Not at all, I actually hate this right now, my heart is rebellious, I’m angry at my feelings and I want to slam this laptop closed, and go lose myself in my art work, but I made you a promise. I promised I would share it all, and these fragile and unsteady days are the hardest to write. Because it’s not just the fucked up story, this is me, exposing the lies I tell everyday. The little ones, that are so damn big, like… “I’m good, how are you?” or “I’m fine.” The small lies, that eat you up inside, chewing away at your heart, because after a while, that’s all you’re really saying, and in the end no one knows the truth.

This is me, saying, yeah I’m a mess a lot lately, and that’s just not something most people feel very good about admitting. At least not continuously. They may for a moment, to someone they trust, but it’s certainly not looked up upon in our society to admit the wallowing.To recognize, the coming apart at the seams and how after tragedy, it can take years to heal. People just don’t go around talking about it like that, it’s just too unbecoming to be honest about the despair. Society, even our friends, family, television and sadly even the church at times, urge us to hurry up and move on. To find the light of day, be positive and find the strength to rebuild. And as much as I agree with that, I also feel strongly, that before that can truly happen, we all need and deserve the time it takes, and it’s different for each of us, to process. To become aware of oneself, and internally work out what we’ve been through, whatever that may be. But, because it’s not considered attractive in any sense, to lurch around in one’s own suffering, many of us are left alone to do this. For many reasons. And because of these shitty reasons (fear of judgement, shame, crappy morals from a dysfunctional upbringing, religious reasons, anxiety, the fear of appearing weak and the list goes on…) it can take a really long time to reconcile within. It’s like, we’re allowed to stumble, but we’re not allowed to fall. And if we fall, we’re pressured to climb back up, as fast as we can, screaming love in the face of adversity, revived, hopeful and running toward a future that is waiting with open arms. But here’s the thing….

As I lean up against that bathroom counter, taking deep slow breaths and waiting patiently for the medicine to work…I’m still frightened of my future, of what it holds, just as much as I have hope for it. The hope and the fear are equal parts. And even though, I pray often and keep an open communication with God, I still hurt.

I still hurt, and that’s okay.

I guess what I’m saying is, give yourself, and the people you love, the freedom to be in pain, let them hurt. Give yourself, and others the time they need, to process. Of course it’s important to edify, to speak life and to support someone. But, there’s something to be said, about patient silence. Just sitting with someone. If your words are needed, you’ll feel it. Prayer, is prayer for a reason, and one of the beautiful things about it, is if someone isn’t ready to do it WITH you, you can totally do it behind their back. Choose to meet them where they are, and put down your own agenda. We can be SO selfish with our agenda’s can’t we? and they can really hurt those closest to us. Don’t be the kind of person that your friends or family cross of their list, when they’re in crisis. And don’t be territorial with your support in their life, that’s messy, gross and unbecoming. And nothing like a friend, in the way God intended friendship to be. In the way love intended friendship to be. So, with that being said…

I still hurt. I still cry at least once a day, but I laugh too, and I’m not ready to run screaming in the face of adversity yet, I’m tired, and I want to take my little orange pills, talk and write my story, and create things, paint, draw and eat. Rest and sleep. Pray and go for walks. Learn how to live once more, before I get all up in life’s face again.

Ernest Hemingway says beautiful things that I really like, so here’s one that made me smile.

“Forget your personal tragedy.We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously.But when you get the damned hurt, use it-don’t cheat with it.” ~Ernest Hemingway

God bless each of you, on your own personal journeys..brothers and sisters xo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

To Clear Up Some Things…

Hey guys,

Before I write my next post, I would like to clear up some confusions that may be out there, about who it was exactly, in my family, that initiated the kind of abuse I have been writing about. I realize, not everyone has read each and every one of my posts, and because of that, I’d like to set the record straight here for a moment.

My mother was adopted, at the age of four years old, to two people I love very much. My grandmother and grandfather, who in their forties could not conceive on their own, and because of that, looked into adoption. The little girl they fell in love with, was my mother. My mother, who had come from a very cruel and painful upbringing, until she and her other siblings were removed from the home by the child care system. The person responsible for that merciless and heartless experience, is the woman, I’ve been referring to as Granny.

What many people who have been adopted, at some point in their teens or early twenties often do, is choose to search for their blood family, and my mother was no different. So at the age of seventeen, from what I’m told, and perhaps even already pregnant with me, she went searching. And, she found them. And this, this is how I came to be involved with “the Kings”. With Granny, and the people who we’re unfortunate enough to have known her as family. Myself included.

I won’t go into detail, at this time, toward future events, that’s what my blog is for. But, it was very important to me, to make it clear, that the family many of you know me to be from, had nothing to do with this. Not the grandparents that adopted my Mom, Not my Dad, not my step-mother (of whom I call Mom, and that will never change, because she is my Mom and always will be.) Not anyone outside the very tight circle of evil, that lived beyond those walls, and that front door.

And remember, I didn’t know until the memories began to surface, two years ago. Not that, something awful and dark hadn’t haunted me my entire life, because it had, but I couldn’t validate, or verify anything, until those memories came. If you’d like to read the post I wrote about that experience, you can here ~

Repressed.

Anyhow, all this needed to be said. And now I’ve said it. It is very important to me, that my family be respected during this time, as you can imagine how difficult it must be, to not only read these posts, but to be learning about all of it at the same time I am. And doing their best to support me, in the ways they know how. So please, if you must ask questions, ask me. If you feel curious, message me. I am available to respond, and because this has been my choice, and my personal and public journey, I ask that you do.

So, before I move on, to writing my next post, I like to offer another thank you, to all the wonderful people out there praying for me, and supporting me. Your love goes the distance, and each of you, in your own way, are making the difference, I’ve been fighting for. To get the story out of me, and into the world where it belongs. So, God can use it as He see’s fit. From me, to you, and back into His Hands. Piece by piece, in love.

Blessings brother and sisters, and to my Canadian friends, have an absolutely beautiful and gratitude filled Thanksgiving.

All my love,

Angie

 

Meet Granny.

THISBEATINGHEART

“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 it. The 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…

View original post 1,329 more words

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 it. The 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

 

 

 

 

There’s Something You Should Know About Me.

Something beautiful happened the night before last.The beauty of it was equal in measure to the roughness of the heart ache it caused, and I cannot write about anything else today.

It might seem like I’m jumping all over the place here, but bare with me, we’ve been through a lot the last few years, and to fully understand my story, there are some bases we need to cover, in love, before moving on. Such is the nature of a tale needed to be told, and I am truthfully grateful for your patience and understanding, as I dig and sort, and express this life, I myself, am often times, overwhelmed by. So, moving on…

Last week, my son, who is a precious five years old, asked me a question.

“Mommy, do I have a brother and sister in heaven?” Just like that, as it so often goes with these strikingly honest children of ours.

We were walking home from school, fall leaves crunching beneath our shoes, that perfectly romantic smell of smoked wood in the air, you know the kind, and the sun was bright that day, as it often is this time of year. His little hand was wrapped in mine with the kind of purity only a parent can understand, and as the words passed over those plump cherub lips of his, they pierced my heart like a frenzy of tiny golden arrows. Enveloped in love, but the sharpness of it, was painful none the less. You see, in the past three years, we have lost two children. Both of them lost to us through miscarriage. The first was early, our daughter I’m convinced she was a girl, and you’ll know why later, and as much as losing her, rocked my world, and shook the foundation I stood on, the second was all together different and has forever changed me. 

As a person, as a mother and as woman.

 We lost our son, Asher, at four and a half months pregnant, my water broke in my living room, in front of my son and husband, I pray still to this day, that my son doesn’t remember that in the same way I do, and that in his little three year old mind, that memory is shaped with much gentler place to land than what I was left with.  I gave birth to Asher right there on my living room floor, still born, and as I write this, even through all the blood, tears, excruciating pain, shock and terrible grief, the one thing I remember above all else, was how beautiful that little boy was. How precious, and tiny, and perfect he looked. Even in death. But, for months and months afterward, in all honesty, I felt I had died right along with him. So, almost two years later, to hear these words fall from the lips of my son, was sort of unexpected for me, but only because I had put it away to survive, and he hadn’t.

And so, I could feel the weight of his curiosity, the thoughts running through the purity of his mind and for a moment, I was frozen in these memories, and had to force myself to speak.

“Yeah baby,” coming forth in a gentle breath, “Yeah you do.”

The second I said it, doubt abruptly slapped my face, and I asked myself, should I have lied? Surely he could remember me having been pregnant. He was almost four years old when we lost Asher. He had once rested his cheek upon my belly, traced his fingers across the roundness of it, and left behind kisses tied along with sweet words of love.  And now, looking down at the sweetness of his face, how his eyes searched my face for answers, I knew, I could not lie. It was time to talk about it, and not for me, but for him. Because he deserved that, and we always promised ourselves, as long as it was appropriate for his little heart, we would never lie to our son. Ever.

And so, I told him the story. Of how Mommy and Daddy had wanted so badly for him to have a sibling, but that Mommy had been sick and hadn’t known it. And the kind of sickness Mommy had, made it hard for her body to carry a baby for our family, and that God let Mommy hold them for just a little while, inside, before taking them back home to heaven, to live with Him there. And you know, this little five year old boy of mine, looked up at me, and was quiet for awhile, as we walked slowly beneath that fall sky, until stopping, and saying,

” I understand Mommy, but I wish they could come back. Because I care Mommy, about that. I care about my brother and sister in heaven.” My heart sank in my chest, this poor little boy had experienced so much death, right along beside us, including the death of my mother and grandmother during those two years as well, and it took everything I had to hide the tears behind my sunglasses, before crouching down in front of him saying,

“Baby, I am so proud of you. For the love you have in your heart. You have been so brave, and so kind. And Mommy is so sorry little one, that your brother and sister are in heaven, instead of here with us. And I am so proud of you, of the kind of big brother you would have been, and are. And know, that they are always watching over you, and know how much you love them.” And I held him there on the sidewalk, and he wrapped his little arms around me. The most precious of gifts.  And we stayed there for a little while, with the wind rustling through our hair, and the birds singing in the trees, on that beautiful fall afternoon.

Now before I continue my story, there is something you should know about me. This is not something I tell people, nor do I advertise this in any way. I don’t use titles, or box myself, but I suppose if I had to choose the best way to explain myself,  would be to say, I am a seer. I dream, dreams that come true. I dream dreams. of things that are happening to other people in real life, some I know, some I don’t. I have visions, in prayer, or out of prayer, they don’t have to go hand in hand. I hear God’s voice, and we converse. I have seen and spoken to Jesus, and have no doubt that I will continue to do so. I sense and see demons, and other dark things across the veil, and have had plenty of run ins with them, and the enemy we call satan. These gifts are God given, and this is my normal, every day life, and will continue to be until I die. I don’t tell you this for any other reason than, to help you understand parts of this story. I doesn’t bother me, if you believe me or not, that’s the least of my concerns, because I didn’t come here to convince you, I came, to tell you a story, and my story is what I’ll tell. So with that all being said,

Later that evening, after we had brushed his teeth, and read him his bedtime story, my husband and I curled up into his bed with him, like we do every night. I’m telling you, this kid goes to bed feeling loved, I can tell you that much. Not a night goes by, that he isn’t held, lifted up and spoken life into, by the both of us. Not a night goes by, without him being told how wonderful, special, talented, kind, and loved he is. We tell our son, every single day, how happy and grateful we are to have him in our lives. And so, as we all curled up together, getting super cozy in the multitude of soft blankets and pillows, our son turns to us and says,

“Mommy, I want to pray tonight. I want to pray for Aryanna, and Asher. My brother and sister in heaven.” My heart broke, hearing the two beautiful names, names we had chosen in full excited hearts. Names, I had chosen from the same place my prayers are born. Names, that now felt memorialized, and as beautiful as they are, it still hurts just as much to hear them, as it  feels good to say them. My children. One here in my arms, and the other two, distant, but so close, just like all the other things seen, but unseen, in the spirit. That any other seer or prophetic child of God would understand.

And so, he prayed. And this is what he said.

“Heavenly Father, and Jesus in heaven. Please take care of Aryanna my sister in heaven. And of my brother in heaven too. Play with them Jesus, and tell Aryanna I want to make a sign for her, of her name in sparkles, just like she likes.”  And I swear, in that very moment, in the spirit, I heard a little girl laugh. I heard Aryanna laughing, and the smile passing over my son’s face as he thought and spoke about her in that moment. The spirit, and the natural weaving together, and I felt, all three of my children, together in his room that night. I felt I might explode in a tidal wave of love, grief and all the things in between. 

I’m not sure if you can imagine what that felt like for me, for our son, or for my husband, because he felt it too. And I held that inside me, with all the strength I had, as I kissed my sons forehead goodnight. Praising his courage, sweetness and faith. His love for them. And I walked to my bedroom, and fell into my husbands lap, weeping. I wept there for a long time, and while I wept, this strength filled the room. And I could feel it from the bottom of my toes, to the top of my head, my heart beating faster. And I knew it was Jesus, because I know how He feels. And as I wept, the visions started coming. Pictures flowing through my minds eye, powerful, but also smooth, and gentle, in a way they hadn’t been before. And as the tears came and came, I saw in the heavens, my babies, and it was the cleanest cry, I have ever wept. The details, of what Jesus showed and showered over me that night, are for my family alone. A gift, of which I am eternally grateful. But I can say this, my children, our children, my sons brother and sister, will live the most beautiful life in heaven, and there is no doubt in my heart, that they watch over us and cheer us on as we rise to walk the path less traveled. That beautifully narrow road.

And to the ladies out there, who relate to the pain of losing a child, and there are many. To the men, the fathers, who have held those ladies, and sat silent in the grief. Know you are not alone and on the nights you feel that grief tugging sharp at the heart, imagine, each of us, around the world, human to human, life to life, breath to breath, united in the great weave of life. Or at least, that’s what I do. With the heart of God intertwined throughout.

I love you Aryanna. I love you Asher. Until we meet again my loves.

“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” ~ Joseph Campbell

 

 

This Weary Tattooed Body.

I wanted to write something this last week, but I found myself drawing for the first time in over two years, and it felt so good that I just couldn’t take a break to post a new blog. My hands were moving freely, unlike the stiffness I had become so used too. And for four days, I did hardly anything, but play around with my pencils, getting my hands dirty, pushing graphite over stark white paper and spilling my imagination across the torn out page of my sketchbook.

If you draw, paint, or create anything with your hands really, you know what I mean when I say, I had gotten used to stiffness. Where movements that once felt natural, have now become tense and strained. The fingers and wrist are rigid, pushing back against you and leaving little room to create the thing you have swirling around in your mind. It’s frustrating as hell. But, this time, it wasn’t like that, and it felt amazing.  It felt amazing because, in all honesty, my body, mind and heart haven’t allowed for that kind of thing lately. Life’s been harsh and sharp, and some of the most authentic parts of myself had fallen asleep. Laying dormant beneath the ash and rubble of a life once lived, and now only endured.

So when the pencil hit the paper, and things were happening the way I wanted them too, I couldn’t put it down. For the first time, in over two years, I felt a part of myself alive and breathing again. Rubbing my fingers into the grey powder, the metallic smell lingering. Pencil shavings filling my ashtray, smudging line after line, until the shapes began to come to life, impelling the weight to lift from my shoulders, and wander away to the place it belongs. In God’s hands.

It gave me hope. And it validated, that I was still here. That I was alive, and somewhere in this weary tattooed body, I was in there.

So, day after day, in my joggers and baggy t-shirts, one cup of coffee after another, cigarette after cigarette, I created a piece of art that I am proud of. Too some, it may not seem like that big a deal, but to me, it’s everything right now. It’s a piece of tangible evidence that I am not dead. That I’m still rooted in my body and that I can still create something beautiful. That I can DO SOMETHING. That, I still have a loud and passionate soul, willing to expose itself, vulnerable or not, to my fellow-man. To my creator and Father, who shaped these gifts within me.

At the end of the day, it had made it known, that it wasn’t too late for me. As depressing at that sounds, I was tip toeing on that ledge of deep despair, and now I had some hope back in my life. And I think that’s the beauty of creating something, it confirms our authenticity, mirroring our own mystery and showing us a piece of ourselves we may have lost or simply forgotten was there. It is a form of expression that can untangle our own inner web of chaos, simply because of the release that can happen there. Taking down the guard, to liberating something beautiful and unique from within, in turn, maybe even smoothing over those jagged parts that have become so raw. It gives the creator a chance to look at oneself, and perhaps decide, that they still have something to offer, even under the suffocating soot and residue of things past by. Things past by, but at times, and often for myself, relived everyday.

At the end of this post, are a few shots of the piece I was working on all week, if you wanna check it out.

As I said earlier, I needed a break from telling my story. The beginning of the week was rough, and after a few sleepless nights, waking up in tears, I decided I needed help. So, on Tuesday, I found myself sitting in the doctor’s office, mid panic attack, covered in tears, emotional and weak as hell. It took a lot of courage on my part, to expose and vulnerabilize myself to a man I had never met. I’ve never been one to trust doctors, and asking him for anxiety medication was hard. I was embarrassed it had gotten this bad, and I was really nervous about the whole thing. Talking about cancer screening was even worse, and it left a kind of pit in the bottom of my stomach. I’m not looking forward to those appointments, at all. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about my Moms death, that she was a young 48 years old, and I’ve unknowingly taken on a deep fear, that the same thing will happen will to me. I’ve even caught myself counting how many years I’d have left with my son, if I died at the same age. Just like my Mother, and her sister, who also died of cancer before the age of 50. I have to stop myself when my mind goes there, sometimes violently, because in all honesty, I’m terrified. And so, these are the thoughts that wake me in the night, my pillow case drenched in tears. Amongst other terrors from within. The old fears, and the new, swirling around my subconscious, creating a circus act of horror I’d do anything to escape. And so, the doctor’s office and the newness that came with it.

I promised I was going to walk you through each and every detail, the details of a fight to save my own life.

To rise to the place I belong.

The fight to tell the truth about what happened to me.

The reality, that on all scientific counts, I should die of cancer within 20 years, and the way that I have chosen to deal with that.

To not only heal, but to overcome in a way, that the story of my life represents a truth I would die for. The truth that, not only can each of us survive absolutely anything, but that God can take the cruelty and suffering each of us has endured, conquer it in all His strength, and wrap them up into stepping stones towards a life that would baffle the enemy. Stealing away his efforts to destroy us, and instead, building a house of truth over his lies. A house, a life, that represents what trust in God looks like. Free, and beautiful, and overflowing with gardens of abundance. Loved.

I believe God can do that in my life and I believe He already has. Even in the tears, through the panic attacks and the sleepless nights. Through the death, and in the worry. The dark, and back to the light, through prayer, where I always reunite with my authentic self. Because that’s where Jesus is.

And so, tomorrow, I’ll go back to the place I was before, and continue telling my story. Until then, I thank you for being my friend and for reading.

“Although the world is full of suffering, it also full of the overcoming of it.” Helen Keller 

 

 

Getting used to my pencils again.

Coming together.

Hit it with some graphic overlay and editing, and voila!

 

What Granny Said.

“You be a good girl Angie,” her eyes fixed on mine. “You be a good girl for Granny or else Granny won’t let you see Mommy ever again. And you know Granny can do that don’t you?”

I am five years old. She is sitting on the edge of my bed, it’s nighttime and I’m in trouble again. I did everything she asked me too. I put my pajamas on like a good girl and brushed my teeth when she asked. I crawled into bed without a fuss, and did my best to finish all the food on my plate at dinner time. But, she’ s angry with me, like she is most of the time.

She grabs my jaw roughly, it’s invasive and controlling, my little heart beating so fast. She’s digging her fingers into the sides of my cheeks and it hurts. I want to move under the weight of her grip, to pull on her forearms, and twist out from under, but I know better. Yanking on my chin, she pulls her face up close to mine. I am frozen. Her eyes locked onto my eyes, the sharp sting of her nails pressing down on the soft skin.

“You remember what Granny said.” The heat of her breath, mixed with cigarettes and coffee and she just lingers there for moment, her gaze tearing into me, before she whips her hand away in disgust. It is harsh and unrelenting. And with that, the room goes dark and I am left to stare at the crack of light beaming in through the hallway. I had forgotten to breathe and my exhale is shaky and strained. I’m terrified to make a sound, pushing my face into the cotton pillow, the warmth rushing to my cheeks with the release and I can hear my Mom downstairs. I want to tell her what happened, but I’m scared. The fear ran through my body like a current and I wouldn’t, couldn’t move.

I had to stop,  and reach out to my God, two paragraph’s into writing this post.

“Jesus, give me the strength I need to see myself through this evil maze of sickness. This torment, Lord.” Repeating verses from the bible, that have held me up during my most fearful of days, through the deepest of shameful nights, those powerful words striking through the fear and lifting me with His golden staph. I am so grateful God is real, and alive and with me. The residue, of these moments in my life, can be crippling. I often find myself, staring off into the ground, my thoughts overlapping each other in a frenzy of anxious shock, and I can’t find my way out. I get lost in this unbelievable reality of my past, and when the child inside me can’t make sense of it anymore, and my adult self is raging with a hate that frightens me, all I have left is God. 

I have a husband, and a son, who think the world of me and this isn’t lost to me most days. I bask in that light with them, and pour as much love into them as I possibly can. But every survivor knows, each in their own way, the loneliness that comes with the mark of abuse. It’s a solitary experience. One that traps you within the confines of your own painful existence, tearing you away from being able to share it with anyone, a place set aside just for you and no amount of explaining or clawing away will ignite an understanding between you and the world. Because the thing is just too evil, and you know that if you were to really expose the truth of it, your comrades would turn away in disgust, tummy’s churning and your tears would turn to dust with the reaction, the regret pushing around in your gut, and so many of us stay silent. As I have for the last two years. Until I chose not too anymore. I believe, that by staying silent, I am allowing her to still have that hold on me. That I am welcoming the harsh grasp of her hand. Letting the fingers dig into my cheeks, her nails gripping my face and falling weak under her weight. 

I can’t let her do this to me anymore. I refuse to lay in that bed any longer, the fear running through me like a current. I think of my five-year old son, the pureness of his heart, the innocence of his soul and I have to stand up for that little girl. 

Right? 

“As my sufferings mounted I soon realized that there were two ways in which I could respond to my situation — either to react with bitterness or seek to transform the suffering into a creative force. I decided to follow the latter course.” ~ Martin Luther King Jr. 

She Was In There.

I cried all night, the day I published my last post.

It was September first, and one year prior, to that very day, was the day I lost my Mom to cancer. It happened at Elizabeth Bruyere, the palliative care building located in a beautiful area of downtown and  my husband, myself and my son, were the only family left to visit that day.

Somewhere, deep inside my gut, I knew she was going to die that day. I knew, in the same way, I knew it would rain. How you taste that cool breeze in the air, and even though the sky is bright blue and the sun is beaming down on the flesh of your shoulder, that coolness running over your bare skin, tells you the truth. I knew it in the same way as this, and I tried to put it away, but could not. And when my Grandpa left  that afternoon, shuffling away, with those sad, heavy shoulders of his, I knew I would be the one to call later, and have to tell them him truth. That she had died.  And I was right.

She had been in a morphine sleep haze for two days now. The little machine laying at her side, the tubes pumping a never-ending supply into her veins. The tumors in her cervix had grown so large, that she was now unable to relieve herself, and go to the washroom.  They had spent hours trying to insert a catheter two days before, but the tumor was just to big. There was nothing more they could do, and we had nothing to offer her, but the small comfort of our presence.

The doctor informed us that because they could not successfully help her relieve herself, that this would cause the urine to back up into her kidneys, and that she would eventually pass of kidney failure.  It was a peaceful way to die, they said.

“We recommend you say your goodbye’s and do your best to make your peace with this.” The nurses were kind and understanding.

There was so much to say, I didn’t have the words. I still had so many questions, so much anger within. And the contrast between my love for her, and my hate, was almost too much to bear. You see, during the Spring that had just passed, I had come to learn a dark truth. One that, stole away all the seeming  innocence of our relationship and the morsels of trust that had been left. Not that there were many.

She had known what they had done to me, the abuse I suffered. And she had not only turned her back, no, she had not only turned her face away. She had once..

It’s been almost an hour since I typed those last three words. Every time, I  begin to finish that sentence my mind goes blank and I find myself staring at the screen. Repeating it over and over again in my head. She had once….participated. She had once….participated. She had once…participated. I’m stuck here, and it hurts. A lot. I can hardly remember what I began this post with, because just having this thought run through me, is enough to bring me to my knees in tears. I love my mother. And, I hate my mother. It has made my grieving process a terrible and confusing thing, and every single day, my heart wails in pain at how much I wish things could be different. That I could say goodbye to my mom in peace, without the constant tug of war between these two opposing feelings. How my heart contradicts itself equally on both sides, is disconcerting, even though I understand it. 

Moving on. 

She had not only turned her face away, she had once…participated. That memory resurfacing itself just four months before I got the phone call. And so as I sat there at her bedside, with the sound of the beeping machine, of it pushing the drug into her veins, I knew this. The crayons in my son’s hand dragging over the white paper on his lap and the soft weight of my husbands strong hand tracing the lines of my back, I knew.  The smell of food wafting through the halls, the elevator opening and closing again. And as I listened to the sound of my mothers breath, so strained and forceful, I knew what she had done. Cringing internally at the phlegm rising up and down her throat from all those years of smoking and rattling within. That terrible sound. My internal chaos and pain, for the now, and the then, mixed with the soundtrack of this all too painful reality, that my mother was dying.

When my Grandmother was in her final days, the nurses had taught us how to remove the extra phlegm that had spilled into her mouth,

(gross, I know, but I wouldn’t tell you unless I had too)  

…with large kind of que-tips, teaching us to remove the stuff not only because it was needed, but because a person could choke this way.  The thought of my grandmother choking to death scared the shit out of me, but they reassured me how normal this was, and that it happened to almost everyone in those final days. Normal or not, it still scared the shit out of me.

So when my mom began to choke, I knew this was why. It was such a terrible sound. My heart falling to the pit of my stomach, and I ran out into the hallway for a nurse. The attending nurse grabbed this kind of large glass jug, with measuring cup units in red print up along the side of it and followed me into the room. She began to lift my mother’s head in her hands, at the same time asking me,

“Do you want to stay for this?” Breaking me out of my own haze of disbelief and plugging me back into life. I look down at my son, only five years old.

“No, no I won’t stay.” And she gets to work as the three of us head towards the hallway, and into the elevator. It felt like I smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in those fifteen minutes. My hands shaking, my heart screaming, the sound of my mother choking like that. The walk back to the elevator was entirely surreal, the bell ringing as the doors opened on my mother’s floor. The slow walk down the hallway, turning the corner with the thudding of my own heart, and Landon’s little five-year old hand in mine. My husbands strong, warm hand in my other, and I see her. I see the nurse standing in the hallway, and she’s crying. She’s shaking, and she’s crying and she looks up to see me there.

“It was horrible,” she wails, “It was so horrible.”

And all I can do is look at her, because I don’t know what she’s saying to me. And she’s still crying, as she lifts her hand to her mouth, and this look of shock comes over her face. And she says to me,

“Oh my goodness, you’re her daughter! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry. Your mother has just passed away, I couldn’t clear her airway, and she asphyxiated. She could not breathe. I’m so sorry.” And that was it. As I turned my head towards her room, the tears rimming my eyes with heat, she was in there. Still and lifeless, and gone.  I held her hand and played with her hair until her skin started to get cold, and with that, I kissed her forehead and said my last goodbye.

I love you Mom.

“Someday, you’re going to look back on this moment of your life, as such a sweet time of grieving. You’ll see that you were in mourning and your heart was broken, but your life was changing…” ~Elizabeth Gilbert

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