Cherish Freedom

My Healing Journey From Mormon Ritual Abuse To Freedom

This is serious- Educate Yourselves!!! January 5, 2014

Filed under: Ex-Mormon,Ritual Abuse — cherishfreedom @ 3:33 pm
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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.

http://ra-info.org/

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.

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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?

 

Triggers and Flashbacks November 11, 2013

Filed under: Abuse,Healing,PTSD,Ritual Abuse — cherishfreedom @ 3:54 pm
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Ritual Abuse

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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news items – Rape Laws, Michelle Knight, Gov’t Torture, Irish Priest, Savile, Satanic Crime

Filed under: Abuse,Ritual Abuse — cherishfreedom @ 3:53 pm
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Survivorship - for survivors of ritualistic abuse

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
http://www.medpagetoday.com/MeetingCoverage/APHA/42803
http://goo.gl/1DsdJG

Michelle Knight on Dr. Phil about Ariel Castro

Michelle Knight tells Dr. Phil, ‘I was tied up like a fish’
http://www.cnn.com/2013/11/04/justice/michelle-knight-dr-phil-interview/
http://goo.gl/QiMi3T

Michelle Knight wanted to kiss the ground after rescue from Castro ‘hellhole’ By Catherine E. Shoichet, CNN
Wed November 6, 2013
http://www.cnn.com/2013/11/06/justice/michelle-knight-dr-phil/
http://goo.gl/ApOAW6

Ariel Castro’s…

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Cherish Freedom Every Day… November 7, 2013

Its my father’s birthday, but I am free now.

In my mind I am still in bondage in some ways, but my body is free.

And my spirit has always been free.

He can’t hurt me anymore.

None of them can.

I am free today, and I cherish it.

picture044

 

Can’t Keep this in anymore February 16, 2013

Filed under: DID,My Story,Ritual Abuse — cherishfreedom @ 7:31 pm
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I have been forced to keep so so many secrets throughout my entire life, and there is one secret that has been extremely hard for me… and I just can’t keep it anymore. I have always been afraid to talk about this secret because I am scared people won’t believe me, won’t understand, will think I am lying, or will think I am crazy. But this secret is real and it is the truth. And it is coming up so very much in the past little while, I can’t keep it inside any longer. I have to be so careful how and who I talk about it with, but I refuse to be silent about it anymore, and honestly I really can’t be silent about it anymore, I don’t think it is possible…

So here it is…. I have othere “parts” or “alters” inside of me. Those are the terms I like to use the most, which make me feel the most comfortable. Not “pieces” or “personalities” please. I have not been formally diagnosed by a doctor with DID because I haven’t talked to any mental health professionals about it, it hasn’t been safe. But I have been aware of it for years, although it has always been confusing and frustrating to deal with all alone, and I have tried to push it away and pretend its not real. When that never worked I just got quite good at hiding when my alters switched so that most people in my life have never caught on to the fact that this is my reality every day (except when I am too medicated that I am a zombie).

Anyway…. this is the beginning of my secret coming out. I don’t know how much I will be able to share or write about it on my blog because of safety issues, but I have been feeling like I am going to explode with the pressure of keeping this secret inside for so long. I hope you understand…. Please feel free to comment and ask questions if you don’t understand and want to try. Thank you for reading, this has been very empowering to write.

C.F.

 

Happy 51st Birthday dad… November 7, 2012

Filed under: Abuse,My Story,Poetry,PTSD — cherishfreedom @ 9:31 pm
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Happy Birthday dad, as they say…

I’ve been thinking about you all day

How all those years growing up

You said you never wanted a gift

Just love

 

Just love from your little girl

Just love– but you meant

fucking

choking

raping

bleeding

sticky

and me floating on the ceiling…

 

Wait, was that love???

That was my birthday gift

to you, every year dad

I didn’t have a choice

Tried to make you things, buy you things

That you would love…

More than you would love my

little body.

 

But happy birthday dad

You always just wanted love

and you just got your little girl’s

soul.