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.

Crazy…

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Aug 282017
 

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be a part of anything -big or small. The pain inside seems to stem from nowhere and everywhere all at once and I don’t know how to bear it, or if I want to. The nectar flowing through my veins warms me, puts a crooked smile on my face and belly laughs that hide the fact the tears are real.

Anxiety causes my heart to race and wakes me from the peace of not feeling at all. I wish I could make it stop, but nothing can, and I won’t hold my breath that death will cause it to end either. Crazy thing about eternal life is the eternal damnation.

I am damned.

You can’t punish me more than I punish myself. You can’t make the hurt more painful than it already is. Nothing can.

So, I laugh and I play and I beg God to take me back… but he won’t, because fallen angels never go back. We may earn our wings, but only to carry our own sins. Floating through eternity in air dense as mud.

I would question my sanity, if I had any left.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…
I watched the sunset and stayed to watch it rise, and then I said goodbye to the light- knowing it was my last.

The darkness of the country sky is broken by the blinking coloured light of a plane flying slowly by. Hundreds of miles high, moving faster than the inches from 4 feet below ground can see.

The cat cutting through the earphones as she kills a mouse, or a string or an elastic band. The music playing my own voice -Foolish Games, Hallelujah… Unsteady…

I’m just a little unsteady…

 

 

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.

May 062017
 

The papers have sat blank while my thoughts have raced in ways that make no sense. Ink hovering above the page but never do they meet.

I feel utterly destroyed. Maybe I am destroyed.

The soul-holes making up the mass of who I am, if holes can have mass; they definitely take up space.

My heart beats heavily and with each pump it throbs and bleeds love and loss. Grief can only exist where love has been. To love is to lose.

I wonder if opening up and being vulnerable is worth it at all? Can I afford this pain again? Can I bear its unbearable weight? Even if I could, would I want to?

Would I want to feel the hollow place within me where many hearts have ceased to no longer beat? Where I don’t even know gender or name?

Will my heart be satisfied in its shattered state by trusting that God knew the name? I try to take solace in that, yet have no comfort. And I wonder, maybe there is no comfort to be had.

Holding you in my heart like a hidden treasure that I am unwilling to share.

Goodnight my sweet angels. I’ll see you when I rise…

Apr 022017
 

I love with all that I am, every fibre of my being is devoted to those that I care for, that God has placed in my life, on my heart. And yet, it seems as though, love isn’t what defines me. No, there is so much more, a slut, a teenage mom, damaged, broken, lost.

Why is it that society can look at someone and see her horrible hair, her lack of makeup, the bad outfit she is wearing, but doesn’t look at another woman and think nice things, like she has beautiful features, her skin is flawless, she is radiant. Why is it that people will openly tell me I have gained weight but take no notice when I have lost it? Or tell me my haircut looks lovely or do a backhanded “comment” where they say “you cut your hair, it looks great but I loved it long!”?

We are told all the time that we are not defined by the vessels in which we were gifted by God, and yet our image is the first thing we see, not the Christian under the surface, but the actual vanity of it all. We are all often prejudged before we even have the opportunity to announce our faith.

Perhaps this is what makes internet life so much easier. People come together because of a cause, whether it’s political, a strong belief, justice, faith, being single, being married, having children, we all can find a way to define ourselves and join a group of others who are similar to us before a photo is ever shared. Our modesty or lack of isn’t given the chance to be judged.

I’ve heard people say things about others like “I can’t believe she wore THAT to church” and my thoughts have always been “at least she WENT to church!”

I can’t be defined as a church goer. It’s not something I do, and haven’t felt comfortable with, in about 12 years. Maybe one day I will walk through those doors again, but God hasn’t placed that on my heart. Instead, it has become more important to have intimate time with Him, studying His word, analyzing myself, reflecting, writing, watching, meditating, and of course, praying.

The people can go ahead and define me however they want, confrontational, dumb, intelligent, useless; the fact is, it really doesn’t matter. I can take the insults and pass them to God and know that I am wholly His because of His Holy Name and my faith knows that Christ and Christ alone knows me entirely –inside and out, and it’s ultimately up to Him to decide what I am, and what I am not.

I want to be defined by God. No one else. And, I don’t even want people to define me by my faith, because that’s asking people to judge and the Bible is clear, God was clear, and says “Judge not, lest ye be judged.” Placing someone in a position to judge me, define me, is asking them to do works that the Lord has forbidden.

Do you feel that the world unfairly defines you? How do you react to the negatives? Are you comfortable simply being YOU or do you feel like you have to mask yourself to be accepted?

Mar 182017
 

I sat there at the table in the rec center with a pencil borrowed from my child and the back of my grocery list, jotting down two poems in about 10 minutes while dealing with people inquiring about what we were doing there. I was just the chaperone as this was the kids gig, but I answered questions and handed out free things just the same.

The nausea is still plaguing me whenever it feels like it and the exhaustion and fatigue are definitely assaulting me. Vivid dreams in full colour are sticking with me through the days and laughing until I am crying or crying until I am laughing are also becoming a new normal.

But, today, the words flowed from me in a poetic prose that I had missed. The pain and sadness that lives deep within my soul, was eager to hit the slip of paper and is currently tucked inside my wallet. As I read the words aloud to the child who loves to listen to rap and lyrics full of suffering and pain I heard the words “that’s deep and really good. If I didn’t know you, it would almost be scary, almost.”

You see, I have a dark side, a side riddled with past pains, abuse, rape, physical and emotional neglect and loss. My dark side often finds its way out when its pen on paper, never rehearsed or even edited, just the need to hold a pen to paper and write the words that flow, whatever they may be.

I often wonder to myself, how do people who don’t write deal with their dark side? Surely, I am not the only one who has this. Certainly, I am not the only one with a tumultuous past.

I believe in God. I believe I am redeemed. I believe that Christ has already bore my sins and that I am saved. I believe that my faith is more than sufficient and yet I am human and the darkness still lives within the broken cracks of my once shattered soul. You see, you can glue a mirror back together, no matter how many pieces, but the reflection will never be the same. While Christ is the glue that strengthens me, and has rescued me from the past, it doesn’t mean the past never happened.

I love deeply and wholly with all that I am. I don’t trust easily. I break often. I hide the pain behind a smile. I am content in just ‘being’ and in knowing that the present doesn’t last forever and that what comes tomorrow will be history the following day. I’ve learned that I have to be my own best friend so that I can live the life God would have me lead.

Mar 052017
 

I’m all alone, when the sun, goes down
What I wouldn’t give, to have someone around
The nights are endless, and dreams, are few
But when they come, well they never come true
And so it goes
No one even knows, the pain behind the smile
How all the while I’m cryin’
SAVE ME…..SOMEONE SAVE ME
SAVE ME…..SOMEONE SAVE ME
‘CAUSE I’VE BEEN SAVIN’ MYSELF FOR HER TOO LONG’
IT’S TIME I’M MOVIN’ ON
Won’t you save me?
Too many memories in this, old town
My face turned up to meet the rain..the rain that’s fallin’ down
Let it come
And so it goes
That no one even knows, the pain behind the smile
How all the while I’m dyin’
SAVE ME…..SOMEONE SAVE ME
SAVE ME…..SOMEONE SAVE ME
‘CAUSE I’VE BEEN SAVIN’ MYSELF FOR HER TOO LONG’
IT’S TIME I’M MOVIN’ ON
Won’t you save me?
Are you gonna be the one to make it right, or am I only dreamin’
Baby am I dreamin’?……Am I dreamin’?
No one even knows, the pain behind the smile
Whoooooh…baby, baby, baby, baby-they don’t know
They don’t know…that I’m cryin’ all the while
All the while
Somebody save me….save me
Save me……somebody save me (Mm Mm)
Save me…..save me
Save me…….someone save me
‘Cause I’ve been saving myself for her too long
It’s time I’m movin’ on
Won’t you save me….save me
Can’t you see…..that I’ve been lonely?

 

This weekend was a crazy one, lots of random things happened, and the one I least expected was seeing a message on Facebook saying that a girl I had talked to the night before was in ICU and wasn’t likely to make it, followed quickly by the announcement of her death.

I guess I was one of the last to talk to her as her brother reached out to me, which I am grateful for, unfortunately, I couldn’t tell him she was in a bad state the night before or that she seemed to be depressed or in a frame of mind that would make me think that our conversation was one that would be our last.

We spoke about how we were doing, mentally. She had done some amazing things in the past year, leaving her husband and other toxic relationships, delivering a healthy baby (her third child), getting a job and being the caregiver and breadwinner and even trying to reconnect with family while seemingly getting a hold of her own demons. She lost around 50lbs and looked amazing. Her frown had turned to a smile and her cynicism had for the most part became a sort of comic relief rather than what appeared to be a distress call.

So, what went wrong?

The pain behind the smile.

That’s what went wrong.

We had spoke about how being happy was a frightening thing because when you deal with mental health issues there is often a crash after a bout of happiness. She said “it’s like you’re jinxing yourself”. She was dead about 18 hours later.

After talking to me her posts on Facebook stopped. She was a chronic poster but I thought nothing of it since I don’t use Facebook that often for searching through posts. I only noticed this afterwards.

I have spent the last 30ish hours wondering if our chat was her being happy because she had made the decision to end her life and felt free for the first time. Did she talk to me that night because she was in her own way saying goodbye?

I’ve known far too many people who have committed suicide. I’ve attempted it many times myself, but I have never been among the last to speak to someone before their demise. I can’t honestly say how I feel, shaken is about the only word that comes to mind.

At first, I was worried about her three sweet babies, what will happen to them? Who has them? Did they find her? What did they see? Will the older two remember her?

Then I felt a sadness within myself, not because she was gone, but because I will be missing out on having someone around who often understood the darker side. Who was eager to seek the Lord and often confused by it during times of struggle.

A quote I have on my Facebook talks about how when one commits suicide it is really the first time that they have taken hold of control of their lives. After experiencing suicides through my whole life, I still believe that.

“If I commit suicide, it will not be to destroy myself but to put myself back together again. Suicide will be for me only one means of violently reconquering myself, of brutally invading my being, of anticipating the unpredictable approaches of God. By suicide, I reintroduce my design in nature, I shall for the first time give things the shape of my will. ”
~Antonin Artaud~

Unfortunately, it’s a painful ending to those of us left to figure out the pieces, never mind pick them up. Then again, there never really is a good time to die, whether your 102 or 22… There really, never is “unfinished business.”

Sometimes, our stories become more powerful when we have a powerful departure from this earth into our heavenly realm. I believe that will be the truth for this dear lady. Because, “The dead are not lost to us. They speak to us everyday” -unknown

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