I am overjoyed and filled with hope to see the face and hear the voice of one of my heroines and inspirations over the last 10 years again. Many of you are probably aware that TLC has a new show called “Escaping the Prophet” about the FLDS, where Flora Jessop and Brandon Jeffs are profiled doing what they do best. Helping FLDS captives escape to freedom. Flora has been a fierce warrior against the FLDS abuses (along with many others) for so many years. It brings tears to my eyes to be able to watch this. Thank you Flora for your example to me. Thank you for your strength, for your encouragement, for your words of truth. Thank you for working tirelessly for so many years to expose this, even when people didn’t believe you. I have wanted to be like you “when I grow up” since I met you! And I know that I will be. The world is getting ready to do something REAL to stop all kinds of abuses, and its because of people like you, Flora, who never quit and never give up. No matter what you keep speaking the truth and helping as many as you can. I don’t know if you will ever realize the impact you have had on me over the last ten years, and how you have helped me realize that I too can help free the captives. Flora, you are AMAZING!!! And I am soooo happy that you and Ruby are finally together again. Victory!!!
This is serious- Educate Yourselves!!! January 5, 2014
If you care about me or survivors of ritual abuse and torture, what are you willing to DO about it? Your thoughts, prayers, and good wishes are nice- for you. They make you feel better, but they most definitely don’t help us in any way. Your thoughts don’t change our lives, exemplify love and hope, give a hand up. We are not charity cases. We don’t want your pity. We want a call to arms to end all ritual abuse/mind control/torture/CHILD abuse of any form! Do you care, seriously? Or just for a few minutes. Am I just a charity case to you? Or do you want to be my friend, my sister. I don’t want your pity, I want you to walk alongside me on this journey to free the slaves.
This is a call to arms. Educate yourselves, then others. Care and DO something about it. You have to figure out if you actually care or not. But I will not accept anyone on my team who is half-assed about caring and actually doing something real about these issues. We need warriors. We need empowerment, not charity and pity.
If you want to educate yourself about ritual abuse, start on the website below. And then hopefully you will care enough to take some real action against torture and injustice against children.
If you are reading my blog, it is because you are looking for some kind of information, you have a question, you need understanding. Please, go further. Please DO something. We all need you.
Miracles are Real November 27, 2013
To tell the truth, it is a miracle that I am alive today…. The last few weeks (at least) have been utter hell, with the depression, hopelessness, fear, flashbacks, insomnia and anorexia just out of control. I was planning to kill myself. This is my 101st post on my blog….post number 100 was going to be my “goodbye” letter to the world…. But Creator heard my cries of desperation and stepped in….I have met some people this week who have given me a new hope, something I have never really tried before… I didn’t believe good people existed in the world anymore, but Creator heard my cries for help, for friends, for love, for hope and strength to stay alive. And I am alive. And last night two of my new friends came to see me because I was in need…I couldn’t ask because I feel like a burden to everyone, but she knew I needed someone to come over, and she brought another amazing new friend with her. These people believe in miracles, and they make me believe in miracles… They exemplify love in their actions and words. My heart has been softened and opened up. Creator knew I needed a miracle. I am getting more than just one miracle. I am getting many small miracles of hope every day. I honestly don’t know why I am still alive writing this today…except for a miracle. Of new hope, of something I have never been open to trying before. All I can believe is that Creator has heard my cries and is sending his angels on earth to reach out to me. Thank you so much. Thank you to all of you…. I don’t want to die, I want a happy, free life. Thank you Creator for hearing my cries and keeping me alive. For all these years…. Small miracles, but miracles all the same. I am still here!
Beautiful Words of Comfort for Torture Survivors November 23, 2013
This is an article that I have clung onto for years, and in times of deep depression, despair and hopelessness, has brought me comfort. Thank you K, whoever you are…. Your words have helped me for years.
MERCY (for me and my Best Friend and for every other survivor of torture) By K.
What if you put up your tortured eyelids one more time and brought your full palms towards yourself towards your heart that limps and stutters as if it too barely survived maleficent torment – and it did, the blue crackle scorching its rhythm, the blood seeping out faster than its faithful milkmaid self could churn and replace into the gouged vessel, the oxygen stolen in fistfuls as your head stormed frantically under water two large implacable hands pushing on the back of your neck – and what if the fullness of your palms was mercy?
What if you took your own trembling hand and walked yourself away from the rack and chains and needles and flame and knife and whip and broomstick and penis and cattle prod, walked yourself away from believing that you belong on that cold slab of a table where they once stopped your heart and your child soul wandered the universe terrified by being dead and alone until they brought you back, the table where the blood seeped and stained and ran like money into their greedy hands, what if you heard your own voice telling you that you deserve a warm whole weltless skin, knitted bones, unburnt neurons, muscles healed of swelling and ruptures, blood humming in vessels not pooling under the skin rotting turning purple then yellow, what if you gave the creature of your body kisses and blankets and feathers and bandages and an unstitched mouth?
What if you held your body while it spoke, what if you believed its every word, what if you helped it wash using its tears as soap, what if you watched it dress and promised that this time it would be allowed to keep its clothes? What if you slid a safe hand along your muscles and were kind to the quivering that would come sure as shale and as loud, what if you held your terrified breath in your ears and owned it owned it even as you carefully unwrinkled a memory of hands around your throat rolling up your lungs like an old camping mattress, what if you gentled your timorous feathers with a wise finger and warm air and time like bread-giving yeast, what if you let your body make blood and then hold on to every red ounce?
What if you told your body it was precious, what if you actually believed it, what if you loved its clenched shoulders and compressed lungs during a routine visit to the chiropractor the allergist the hairdresser, what if you listened when it said I don’t want to undress in front of strangers, what if you gave it mangos and nut milk and soft covers and songs and walks in the park and encounters with trees and blueberries and poetry because that’s what made your muscle fibers unfurl from coils tight as anchor ropes and gulp in air, what if you cried with it and stroked its hunched disappointed back when your poverty stripped you of the only means to give it enough nourishment, what if you patiently soothed it into clothes rather than yanking them on with the harshness of manacles, what if you loved it even when it stood before you damaged: scarred twisted hurting weak bruised gasping ill fragile some of its nerves crushed or eaten away and the damage stopped you from doing daily tasks, like a rusted car that wouldn’t go, what if you didn’t shout at and shame your courageous corroded body, what if you told it that it wasn’t useless that it didn’t fail you that you still wanted to live, what if you felt its dog devotion gratitude for your acceptance, pouring in like rainwater and just as jobless, what if you resisted the urge to call it pathetic and push its shaggy head off your feet, what if you just held it through the pain and the tremors and the loss of strength and the numbness like cold sea tide, knowing it might not ever heal? What if you loved your body in/through/with its catastrophic damage because what happened to you was nothing short of catastrophe, because two decades of torture leaves bite marks on your bones and corrosion in your nerves and shreds your muscles, because it’s a fucking wonder you made it and your body was so brave and good and caretaking throughout it all and it needs you now when the stains of damage spread and widen as they must after a cataclysm, when its weakness is not failure but simply inevitability like the kiss of gravity, when its courage is courage no less even when it cannot alter the truth waking in your tissues?
What if you loved your body fiercely and without reservation loved its every hurt fiber, every scar every cracked bone, and what if you decided to love all of you and make no mistake it would be a decision hard and sweaty and gritty like gravel, what if you threw yourself into loving you your soul your heart your mind your all? What if you let the love make you tender and generous and kind and painstaking and forgiving to yourself? What if you gently scooped up memories when they come in ragged shoes and smelly clothes, what if you held them against your warmth till they stopped trembling and settled into you and showed you the details and maggots and bloody gashes and piss of your past, and you still held their gory smelly selves because they’re yours and they brought you your truth had held onto its sharp secret for you all this time? What if through remembering you slowly put your jigsaw self together the gore and stains and smell side by side with the lavender blossom and sparkle and your singing mathematical mind and ticklish feet and pretty bellybutton and lily-shape hips and uneven back and scarred lip and merciful soul and curly hair and bulging discs in your spine? What if you saw that there was enough of you rescued from the rubble, that you had a human shape that you belonged here and now, that you took up space, your space, that you had a presence a voice a motion a shadow? What if – breath in breath out heart squeeze release – you lived?
What if you helped another victim of torture live? What if you started an epidemic of living, what if all those whose tired animal skins were working on giving up, whose mortally bruised hearts spoke only suffering and despair, slowly drew sap into their dying trunks feeling green dizzily chlorophylled hope spread itself ubiquitously like dust to every cell every crevice, what if we released our stranglehold on our own throat and let our eyelids clamber up once more let our heart abandon syncope for a clear steadfast entitled rhythm sweet like bicycle wheels let our mouth talk and kiss and eat and breathe: such a pink-red triumph! What if you lived, what if we all made it, what if you were there lending a hand like a lifejacket, lending words to hold, lending your breath? What if you lived, what if we all made it, what if you living helped us make it, what if your life had meaning, made a difference, was unexpendible?
Comfort in Poetry November 11, 2013
I have no more words of my own…This poem made me feel a little better, for a tiny moment. Trying to find comfort in other’ words and to not feel so alone. Thank you to all the people who have reached out to me. You have no idea how much the “little things” mean to me, when everyday life is such a struggle, living with PTSD. And DID, but….not talking about that now. Anyway, this is a good poem, hope you all like it too.
The Plight of a Powerless Consciousness
I’m far from my peek of consciousness;
I’m just breaking into this game.
But I have some advice for the novices
like me, that are starting to feel the same.
Like there’s an emptiness in your existence,
and a bountiful source of sadness.
You want to fight these emotions through resistance,
but powerlessness and consciousness drive you to madness.
Like breathing seems just a little more futile,
as if pieces of you break off with each exhale.
In your despair you find little worthwhile,
afraid to move, feeling that to move is to fail.
In each of these moments I go back to my center,
that place that enables me to shamelessly feel.
To paint, dance, cry, or sing is my mentor.
All thoughts are stopped. In that moment, I heal.
There, the wills of the cowardly, though strong
cannot disrupt my internal connection,
and in those crucial moments I realize all along,
that when I create I am in my place of protection.
They cannot make me hate myself, or feel alone.
They can only spew hatred and lies about the body I borrow,
Even then, when others believe them and the lies they condone,
I will write. And my freedom will rise from what was once sorrow.
Crystalkay Fairrington, Wake the Public
I just hate that word. It is so violent! I wish we could use neutral language to convey the concept of something in the present stirring up past trauma. But we don’t, and it is descriptive of the process.
So . . . something in the present can bring on a partial flashback, just part of the traumatic memory. It could be a sight, a sound, a smell, or an emotion. I’ll give some examples from my own experience.
In a car, I sometimes think I see a severed arm or leg on the side of the road. It’s really a stone or a trash bag, sometimes a blown tire. Anything brown will do. Sometimes I hear faint words; somebody calling my name or phrases I can’t quite make out. And sometimes I smell things that might or might not be there. This drives me nuts because I often find…
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This week there were several new articles about different trauma crimes. An article explains how rape laws offer little protection worldwide, Michelle Knight was on Dr. Phil discussing her experiences kidnapped by Ariel Castro, new research came out about how the US Military and CIA required doctors to aid torture, Jimmy Savile was connected to the police and Tony Blair, members were selected for Jersey historical abuse inquiry, in Australia information was discussed in the media about the Vic report and the Royal Commission and two were found guilty of a satanic murder in South Africa.
Rape Laws Offer Little Protection
Michelle Knight on Dr. Phil about Ariel Castro
Michelle Knight tells Dr. Phil, ‘I was tied up like a fish’
Michelle Knight wanted to kiss the ground after rescue from Castro ‘hellhole’ By Catherine E. Shoichet, CNN
Wed November 6, 2013
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