Fueled Flame

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Jan 312019
 

The Realm of the Dead

I beg the world to just let me be numb, to make the pain from yesterday and tomorrow roll off of me. Like a tsunami that pulls the water away the pain always rolls back in, deeper and harder than it had ever been before.

I try and see the good in life. Maybe I’ve gone blind.

What is the point in all of this hurt? What kind of god or deity says that this is okay. That free will is acceptable when it comes to damaging others. The scars in my brain are lesions that can’t be fixed. Not in this world. Probably not in the next.

I am angry. Angry at God, angry at myself for having faith in the greater good when the reality is that there is no good. It is a falsity, a bald-faced lie that we all look to as some sort of guide to having the best life, when none of us really do.

I hate.

I hate the happy people. The rich people. The people who got to die when I can’t. The people who laid there looking like they were sleeping peacefully ready for their grave with their mouths stitched shut to avoid the look of a screaming slack jaw staring up at the mourners. I envy that person. The person in the pine box, preparing for the flame.

All of this life, all of this hurt, this broken-ugly is hell. The good die young because they are too good for this inferno.

And today, like in years before, I watched the sunrise as if it were my first, and then I said goodbye to the light, knowing it was my last.

I cut myself just to feel the pain.

I bleed just to know I am alive.

I am sorry, every single day.

If God was my tourniquet, what will save my soul now that he has abandoned me?

“No” comes from my mouth so loudly in the darkness of the winters night that I wonder how it’s not heard around the world, I wake myself. The rapist’s in my head alive and well. I am the zombie that can’t get them to go away.

Crazy… I was crazy once…

Then, the brutal hit of life stole the wind from my lungs and snuffed out the flame that I had glowing inside.

Perhaps, I am numb, the pain is so bad I can barely recognize it. Is this a part of the show? This evil game where I am the mouse and I can’t tell who the cat is, so I have to trust no one? Don’t inhale the toxic fumes called air, Marisa. Hold your breath until the darkness creeps in and you close your eyes.

And if you don’t love me now…

Well, you probably never did.

Dec 032018
 

It has been a good long time since I have put words to the blinking cursor. I don’t know why exactly I stopped writing, or rather, why the words stopped flowing, but I think it has to do with loss.

I just keep losing in this game called life. I keep feeling the slashing pain of being gutted by the insides that are supposed to hold onto life and grow the future. What will the future hold when it cannot manifest within the womb that is meant to nurture it?

What will stem from a society run by people largely created in labs? Where our mothers and fathers spend their life savings just to get us here. Will it go to our heads? Will the race to become superior start and end with that money saved and raised to ensure our creation?

Where is God in all of this? Am I God? Is the Dr. God? Is God really the currency we pay that decides life and death for us?

How much money does someone hand to the God that has stopped the blade from slicing too deep, who has stopped an infection from setting in and who has stopped the blood from flowing out before it was too late? How much was that worth?

Is the currency for the numbness that allows me to bleed just to know I am alive the pain and torture I have experienced? The chain that held me all those nights has become the ties that bind me to the past and the past to me, forever.

I don’t know what it is I want. Or what it is I actually feel. I just know that most of the time I am in a stoic place and the other times my heart is racing out of my chest and my anxiety is through the roof. There is nothing predictable about how I will respond, psychologically or physically, to the same thing twice.

Tonight, I have peace in knowing I am not God. I am not the one with the control. I am simply a piece of the puzzle. I can find comfort in that.

Jun 072018
 

Faking it can be easy.
It can also be the absolute most draining thing one will ever do.

It’s like being an actress through most of my waking hours. Smiling when I am spoken to, being polite, saying everything is great, flirting and doing life, in general, all while there is this demon inside of me, telling me I’ve got to beware.

Beware of the guy who said hello, he could rape you, you are a stupid girl, don’t you know?

I have the scars, inside and out. On my wrist too many to count. I am the pale girl who has had too much sun in an attempt to appear a little more healthy. My eyes are often glistening bright from the tears I hold back, or dark and soulless as I give up the fight.

The house is trashed, and I mean trashed because my motivation is lacking. I look around and see the piles of stuff, the dust and I know it’s a fast job to do but can’t make myself do it. I write the lists and those do help. Seeing the checked off boxes of things seems to be a decent motivator.

My meds keep me overweight, so it’s more than easy for me to pass on food or forget to eat and no one even notices. There are days where I binge and get 2000-3000 calories (can we say pizza?) and there are far more days where I am down in the few hundred range at best. I don’t worry about my weight, it’s just another thing to do. Cooking drains me a ton. Even the easy things. Thinking about what to make is like doing an algebra exam. I try to remember to have a protein shake every day, so at least my body gets that.

I had a flashback earlier today about the house we were in. The basement had a sump-pump and there was a cement ridge built up around it with wood covering it. It always reminded me of a coffin. This morning the nightmare/flashback was based on that hole, only in this daydream, he threw me in and closed the lid. Laying there I wondered how long it would take for them to raise the lid to find my body.

PTSD is real. I die 1000 different ways every single year, all in my head, all in traumatic ways that feel oh so real. Much of the time, when I am startled out of my head, I wish that I hadn’t fought so hard to be the survivor girl, that I would have been better off if I had just not lived.

I’ve always been one to have extremely vivid nightmares and flashes of things while awake. When I was little I wouldn’t sleep because I could hear and feel planes flying overhead and dropping bombs. I remember looking out the window one day and panicking when I saw Saddam Hussein’s face staring back at me, the war hadn’t even begun and I am in Canada, and more importantly, no one was even there, just the sunshine.

Once I was held and raped and used and sold, all of those things became even worse, more intense. Because then I realized that evil really did exist. That it was alive and well. That I could be a victim, because I was a victim, and the victim still lives inside of me with extreme guilt. With intense fear and with a logic that doesn’t make sense to anyone but me.

I take a half dozen different prescribed meds and they take the edge off, but they don’t make it go away. I spent years in therapy and eventually had to quit going, the anxiety of having to bring the negative thoughts up each week was just as bad as keeping them inside. The last time I went, I left and cut my wrist in the parking lot. And, I had a great therapist whom I loved. I was ashamed.

My reports say that I am a masochist, among other things. I don’t argue with that at all. When you are taken at 15 and enter into an abusive situation with no escape, it is easy for you to become accustomed to being punished. When I feel like I have hurt someone, or I am useless or no good, the masochist comes out big time and demands the pain. I need it in order to know I am alive.

“And I don’t want the world to see me
‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s meant to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive”

~Iris, Goo Goo Dolls

 

Sep 212017
 

My heart rate rises and the vile comes up my throat and into my mouth. I choke it back as the images of her beaten lifeless body fill my screen, I can hear the words in my head, the screams that came from her as she fought for her life as he literally snuffs her light out, letting the smoke rise and the flame flicker in a cat and mouse game before holding the snuffer down and extinguishing her flame forever.

Her family in the next room claiming they didn’t hear a thing, they didn’t know he was abusive despite the broken door and the screamed name calling.

It hasn’t happened yet. But it will. It’s happened thousands of times before. A jealous rage caused by nothingness sending the grim reaper in and stealing a life away far too soon, for no reason.

Oh, I suppose there is always a reason. She hurt his ego, he thought she was cheating. She didn’t get breakfast ready on time. So many ‘good’ reasons to abuse, to kill. Hell, I was thrown down the stairs into the basement while nearly 8 months pregnant because I commented that his socks looked dirty. And to think, I was “lucky”.

So, when I hear this “fantastic” news it makes me sick. This is her future now and its out of my hands. No one can save her, maybe not even herself. Maybe I should stand by and be her friend despite her choice to stay, even though nearly every day for 18 months I have heard of the abuse and she has never made a change. Should I continue to allow my heart to break every single day at her expense when this is what she chooses?

I mean, she has told me “if I die, you know more than anyone else, don’t let him get away with it”.

And yet, she stays.

You can call it lazy or sexist or whatever you want. The fact is, its all the above, but most importantly, it’s abuse. She deserves to be loved. She deserves to be treated like a Princess and revered like a Queen. She deserves to be loved, honoured and cherished, and not in words between abuse, but in action every single day.

A queen.

A princess.

Not a piece of meat, or like my captor used to say, Chattel to be kept or sold as he sees fit -a slave.

I want better for her. For all men and women who are being abused. I want their eyes to open and the doors to freedom to open. It’s 2017. That shouldn’t be too much to ask, but still, it is.

I am #Voiceless

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May 292017
 

The pen and the paper have met many times over the last weeks, but the cursor continues to be cursed, blinking tauntingly at my weathered soul, begging for me to reveal to the world the depths of the holes that penetrate so far and wide that not even light can traverse the jagged mass.

Every breath I take hurts my soul, knowing its breath that I no longer want. My pain in my body can be dulled by the medications, but the pain in my soul has nowhere to go, nothing to take it away. I find myself in doubt. Questioning existence, torture, pain and beg the question why?


I’ve searched psychology books, history books, the Bible and my own faith and all that stands out to me is when Job says, “I have no rest, for trouble comes” because trouble always comes.

Only, now I ask myself, am I the trouble? Am I the cause of the pain? Do I bring this hurt upon myself? Do I beg it into my life instead of goodness and strength? Have I subconsciously killed away the children that once grew in my womb? Washing them out to punish myself… Can the subconscious mind even do that? Can mind really kill matter? Can mind end the life of another, stop the heart from having another beat?

Did I do this to myself? I can’t help but believe I did.

I deserve to be punished. I deserve to hurt. I deserve to choke on the tears of grief that can no longer be swallowed back. “I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel”, and the saddest part is I often don’t.

I am reckless. I am on the edge of a cliff unable to step back from the dangerous edge and begging to be pushed forward into the ending gravitational pull.

No one understands me because I simply don’t understand myself.

Life with depression, anxiety, and feeling like your value is only held in the hands of others is no way to live at all. Some days, I wonder if I am living at all. Most days I know I am not.

Oct 192016
 

This song has been a favorite of mine by Evanescence for years. I love the way they express the pain inside of my brain and that longing to be noticed while craving to go unnoticed all at the same time. PTSD is hard. Wanting to disappear has become a part of who I am. Knowing someone has felt the same, or close enough to have written the words and designed the music helps me to realize that my broken-self isn’t alone.

“Missing”

Please, please forgive me,
But I won’t be home again.
Maybe someday you’ll look up,
And, barely conscious, you’ll say to no one:
“Isn’t something missing?”

You won’t cry for my absence, I know –
You forgot me long ago.
Am I that unimportant…?
Am I so insignificant…?
Isn’t something missing?
Isn’t someone missing me?

[Chorus:]

Even though I’m the sacrifice,
You won’t try for me, not now.
Though I’d die to know you love me,
I’m all alone.
Isn’t someone missing me?

Please, please forgive me,
But I won’t be home again.
I know what you do to yourself,
I breathe deep and cry out,
“Isn’t something missing?
Isn’t someone missing me?”

[Chorus]

And if I bleed, I’ll bleed,
Knowing you don’t care.
And if I sleep just to dream of you
I’ll wake without you there,
Isn’t something missing?
Isn’t something…

[Chorus]

Aug 152016
 

Why I write is definitely linked to my past. As many of you may know from hanging around through my ups and my intense downs I have been through a TON in my short life. Most of which was very traumatic. I suffer greatly from PTSD and a boat load of the side affects it comes with, like depression, severe anxiety, insomnia, suicidal thoughts, panic, and even self harm.

I have seen a dozen doctors/therapists/counsellors and I am on about a dozen different medications, all of which to help calm me down and hopefully help me to prevent the above symptoms, from getting worse than they are on a “normal” day.

However, along the broken-road I started to ask these very people who were set out to help me how they grew up, what their trauma’s are and I was shocked and felt more alone than ever when EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM told me that they have no experience with trauma but they are “trained to help trauma victims.”

One recommended after the loss of a baby that I go be like a “deer” and grieve in the woods for a few hours, literally shake it off and move on because that’s what animals are born to do. Just shake it off.

Unfortunately, I am not a deer, and unfortunately, I have been in a stopped vehicle while watching a gopher panic as it’s dead spouse lay in the middle of our highway, watching him run back and forth not quite sure what to do, trauma and sadness in the gophers eyes. Finally as he realized we weren’t going to hurt him he grabbed up the one he loved and pulled her crushed body off to the side of the road and into the woods. I am guessing he didn’t shake it off, he was too shaken up.

My heart broke for him as I sat there with a stream of tears remembering my own losses pouring down my cheeks.

I started to write. Not because I felt like what I had to say was of any importance, but because keeping it all in was literally killing me. My heart with an irraddic beat and requiring meds, my body shutting down, the blood stained razor adding another scar or two or three almost nightly. I needed to get the thoughts out of my head, whether they made sense or not.

Years later I call this a brain dump. Where I just open up a word document and let the words flow with no rhyme or reason, or I open a page in my journal and do the same. It’s unfortunate that most of my writings and ramblings are inspired or prompted by pain but it’s my hope and my prayer that in sharing my intimate thoughts, fears, frustration and deep love for Christ that someone who is sitting in a similar situation may find hope, or comfort in knowing they aren’t alone.

Their doctor may never have lost a baby or been raped, or experienced a trauma that they are willing to share, but I am, and its sad and scary how many have reached out to me to tell me they have been raped too, so many men have told me they were abused as a child after reading my words, some of whom claim they have never told anyone. I love that my hurt is allowing other people to hand their pain over and share in it and be understood rather than feeling alone and lost.

I believe the statistics are that 1 in 3 women are sexually abused at some point and 1 in 10 men. Of course those numbers aren’t accurate because they are based on what’s reported and I can sadly say that it is more like 9/10 people have been sexually assaulted or abused in some form at some point in their lives, whether it was a full fledged rape, molestation or something that made them feel uncomfortable, the line was crossed and 90% is simply too high.

Yet I am eager to learn and to listen and to offer guidance when the person asks.

So I write not only to cleanse my own brain of the pain that has plagued my soul since I was that 12 year old cold in the snow, but I write for those who have never shared and for those who have never been hurt and want to understand what they can do to support the ones in their lives who have been hurt.

I write because it protects me from myself.

I write because it’s a documentation of where I have been and where I never plan to go again.

I write because it’s my pained poetry, a tortured prayer where I know that God can see my soul through the blackness that often covers my heart and He can and will provide me with peace.


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