Feb. 5, 2014, pencil sketch
Rebirth January 8, 2014
Rebirth, the life that comes
The changes, constant changes
Of my voice, my will, my strength
Struggling to break the barriers
This journey is one of dead ends,
winding roads, twists and turns.
But heartbreak in the search for love
is only a rock on my trail.
For only with the deepest agony
The greatest joy comes.
I find my purpose!
To love and be loved
Sit on the snow-capped mountain
and look down on my life
To realize how far I’ve come.
My footprints have left my trail
I remember where I’ve come from,
And my triumph is my rebirth.
The Pace Memo- Ritual Abuse Within the Mormon Church January 6, 2014
I will let this website link speak for itself, as I am quite emotional about this topic at the moment. All I have to say is, this is what happened to me. It is real. The mormon church has been covering it up for decades. I am sharing this information on my blog because I know that there are other women somewhere out there who are also trying to escape this torture and abuse, and I want them to know they are not alone… I also want people in our world to know that things like this really do happen.
To anyone who doesn’t believe this, that is fine. I am not trying to convince people who are not interested. My purpose is to educate people who ARE interested, and hopefully to reach out to other women who have also been abused as I have.
Here is the link to…
View original post 17 more words
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.
Child of Truth January 2, 2014
To the children born to darkness
To the slaves waiting to be set free
To the ones holding on for dear life
Wondering if there’s hope anywhere at all
To the ones who’ve seen the lies
Since the days you were so small
They smile as they hurt
They tell you not to cry or you’ll be next
The hypocrisy, they put your Creator into your pain
They turn your tormentors into your saviors
Yet you still see the truth
Their world is lies, and you’ve always known
Listen to me, Listen, Child of Truth,
I thought there was no hope for me too
But you are not a slave, I am not a slave
And we are right, the world we were born into
is LIES, all LIES
And you are beautiful
And your Creator smiles
At your questions
The questions that bring you punishment now
Will bring you freedom, Child of Truth
Don’t give up,
I am waiting for you!
There are many of us
Though we feel so alone
We will expose all their secrets
And freedom will be ours
Creator gave us a gift
To see through their lies
To shine light on their secrets
And bring freedom to the slaves
The generations coming after us,
Waiting for us, Waiting for Hope
Waiting for a hand to reach out to them
We have to survive this, Child of Truth
It hurts so bad we want to die, but we won’t
We won’t because Creator gave us a mission
We are going to free the slaves
Slaves, like we once were
We will be free one day, free for good
And we will bring hope to the others
I need you
They need you
Please don’t die
Stay with me
We will expose this together
the kid next door December 18, 2013
confusion grips the mind
dark clouds of fog
voice has been strangled
the evil ones draw near
as we scream silently for help
nobody ever hears
memories more real
than when the body was there
blood on the floor
blood on the wall
blood on the christmas tree
what is reality
cuz this is hell
always in a nightmare
far away but you’re so near
pray, pray, pray the devil away
pray the demons back to hell
but why do they linger
confusion, dark fog
can we sleep
and never wake up
torture is real
happens next door
but the world doesn’t care
about the kids dying
dying in every way
they know a different kind of love
their hope is death
the holidays are survival
as hope fades again
sleep, sleep, sleep,
it will be ok one day
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?