I M Perfect lady

Category: Another’s view

  • We either hide your sins or own our lives.

    The main belief or what keeps the faith going is this one paragraph that Jim Torola wrote about in his Post, “Why no Movement.”

    “Or the FALC trump card, "it was forgiven in Jesus' Name and Precious Blood, thrown into the bottom of the sea of grace, forgiven and forgotten, and if anyone brings up this again, they will take on that sin."  Jim Torola    http://jimtorola.typepad.com/blog/

    Anyone who has not been raised on this concept may find this strange, but if you have been taught since you were a young girl, that this is true; you will not go diving into the sin lake to retrieve anything.

    Diving into the sin lake, sins will attach to you like suckers in a stagnant pond…and you are ‘bad’ for just wading into the waters, for ‘thinking’ about past sins…let alone going back in and dragging them to surface.

    I am not sure I can impress upon those who are walking the narrow road what it is you all are actually doing.

    You are teaching children that when you tell, nothing will be done for them, but great magical acts will be done for the bad man.  And all matter of shame will be brought upon you for ever speaking of this matter again.

    As Pete Torola so succinctly put it, “What is your motive for telling?”

    Why little girl are you going back to the sea of Grace and dragging out Ray’s sins? 

    “Oh yea of little faith, don’t you believe it has been blessed away?”  To what end do you want to drag this dirty filthy deed to surface???  Don’t you know its bad to do this?

    What is so utterly mind blowing is that the adults never doubted the girls recounting, but instead did insane things with this information.

    If you only knew what that does for a child who has been abused, to be heard, but then no action to arrest, stop or curtail these activities.

    We tell the adults and the adults do nothing.

    Oh wait, they do do something, they take our pain, suffering, fear and anguish and toss it away, paying no attention to how we feel.  It is more important to bless the bad man and put his ‘acts’ away, and then threaten us if we bring it up…again.

    For they want to get to Heaven…and the way to heaven is to bless, bless, bless, repeatedly, forever, and NEVER speak of it again. 

    The way to Heaven is to make the bad men whiter than snow…and the way is littered with the souls of little children.

    I can’t know what you all feel as you sit your bottoms down on the benches, but I am here to tell you what your techniques of dealing with sins do for an abused child.

    It gives the abuse child nowhere to go, no one to hear, and no one to see them.  They become invisible and discarded, useless, worthless…trash, the litter along your path to heaven.

    I recall writing and actually giving a narrative of what it felt like…even without memories, I had a distinct recollection of not being able to get out of the hellhole.

    What is a hellhole many may ask? 

    You know what the hellhole looks like; it is the bottom of the Sea of Grace.

    Pedophiles swim down there and drag little girls there repeatedly…while you all ‘believe’ that they disappeared.

    A hellhole is a place where you have no power, no choice, no way out. You are left alone in your mind without adult supervision while your father does the unspeakable, you can speak, but you can’t be heard.  They can see, but turn away…you are too little and they are sooo big. You are living in an alternate universe from the adults around you. They speak of loving kindness, you feel utter helplessness and fear.

    I was lost in the sea of Grace and no one cared…

    In order to survive the sea of Grace you have to kill your spirit, drug your feelings, check out and live in the pretend place the adults live.  Where a pedophile is a dad…

    I know why kids do drugs, kill themselves; they can’t take the sea of Grace no more.

    While you all are blessing him, you are making us Live in the Sea of Grace…or what it really is The Lake of Sins.

    I lived and swam and finally got used to living in the Lake of Sins.  Its twisted mess became my normal.  Silently you swim around, not speaking of what you see, how you feel…you are disconnected like debris…unattached drifting amidst the other despicable things.  You fit in there, you feel as one with all the disgusting things, you are unworthy and useless, for the caring adults didn’t care.

    It is incredible to me, that when you don’t see our wounds we become them…you don’t have to bless us, we naturally are attracted to the sins you tossed away…

    When you don’t see us as innocent, we no longer feel it.

    Funny, in a tragic way…you always seen and made sure that Ray stayed innocent…

    He stays clean and I get dirtier…I have to keep this a secret so the adults stay clean. 

    I have broken the silence, the gig is up, it is over.  I came to shore, I left the Lake of Sin, and I am talking about it, writing about it, and hoping against hope, there is one little girl out there in her own hell hole who will hear me calling her name.

    I see you.

    I hear you.

    I know you are there.

    I am here to tell you, you are not alone.

    The only way out is to stop holding the secret.

    The threat of sins is simply that a threat.

    There is no sea of Grace, but a lake of sin.

    You live there and you can walk free.

    Get out.  Speak out. Stop holding on to sins of others.  We all carry our own…the sea or lake lives within us.  We either hide your sins or own our lives.

     133
    What we feel like before we were abused…

    Smug mug pics 1428 
    and how we feel after… This is the Sea of Grace in the FALC where

    the abused children are made to live, for the 'dad' is clean and we are not.

  • “Only folks with something to hide, hide something”

    I was over at http://extoots.blogspot.com/ blog and reading the 38 comments on the post that mentioned my blog, and was struck by the anonymous comments.  And in fact commented, misspelling the word, anonymous. 

    But it got me to thinking about how we use the word and why.

    If someone won’t use their name, can we trust what they say?

    Do you think people speak more truthfully when under an assumed name, or is the content more believable when you use your real name?

    I know that many of the stories in the tabloids are quoted with an anonymous source…and do reputable magazines use anonymous sources to get their info? 

    Why is there comfort or protection in the word anonymous?

    In my opinion, it seems most not only want to remain anonymous, but they also want our abuse to do the same.

    There is a weird twist going on here that seems unclear and confusing.

    So, you either have to change your name and speak the truth or you have to change the truth and use your name…. 

    But to use your name and speak the truth that is just unacceptable and is seen as vindictive… that doesn't make any sense.

    The only conclusion I can possibly come to is that not all are comfortable with their own stories and they want them to remain anonymous, our speaking out threatens their anonymous status.

    For truly, I am not threatened in the least by anyone saying their truth, but I do feel I am being jerked around and used when they speak anonymously.

    The conversation is unfair, it is tilted, and they are jabbing at me while hiding behind a curtain.  I don’t have their full stories, their names, where they live, how they live etc, I just get words without supporting evidence.

    Anonymous allows you to hide who you are, why?

    Why hide?

    What do you have to hide? 

    What do you not want us to know?

    “Only folks with something to hide, hide something” Dr. Phil

     

  • We go to the outside.

    On facebook a blog was shared, and I went and had a look.  http://extoots.blogspot.com/  I browsed a few posts and came upon an article that was referred to on a posted dated, April 30th. 

    http://www.hs.fi/english/article/Shedding+light+on+child+abuse+among+the+Laestadians/1135265532861

    While reading that article, it seems it matters not whether you are in Finland or in the USA, if you are asking for abuse to be recognized within the church, you will be bypassed.

    This article has tons of great information and insight, however this is one section that caught my eye.

    Have the leaders put pressure on you?
          “I wouldn’t say that my treatment involved pressure, because putting pressure is something that is active. But I have felt that I have been bypassed.”

    Boy do I get that.  They don’t pressure you or threaten; they simply bypass what you are saying. There is literally NO reaction or action taken when you bring up sexual abuse in the church.

    Anyone that is pondering, how in the hell, sexual abuse and pedophiles has been able to play within the confines of this religion, need to read this article. 

    However, by her speaking out and others like her we can air out this issue, bring light and awareness, open the closet and see what is hanging there.

    This inspires me and makes me feel that my treatment wasn’t personal, it is simply the way it has been dealt for over a 100 years. But due to the fact that she has written an article in their newspaper, perhaps we too can do the same.

    When bypassed inside the religion, we go to the outside.

     

     

     

  • Right or True

    A new young friend of mine wrote about Normal in her blog (http://www.erinstales.blogspot.com/) and it led me to the point of just because it is normal doesn’t mean it is right.

     

    Somehow we believe that normal equates right, just because most are doing it.

     

    We somehow have fallen into compliance with the majority and forget to have independent thoughts and even worse separate actions, we tend to find comfort in moving in huge numbers and then call it normal.

     

    No matter what the swarm is doing.

     

    Fitting in seems to be the way of it instead of fitting out.

     

    Even if fitting in means you must do something wrong or go against your inner compass.

     

    I love that normal only means the majority…okay, here is the definition from her blog.

     

    nor-mal
    adjective
    1. conforming to the standard or common type; usual; not abnormal; regular; natural,
    2. serving to establish a standard.

     

    What is standard for cult like religions? What is standard or common for dysfunctional families?  It is this that is their normal, but it doesn’t make it right or healthy or anything.

     

    Somehow normalcy has slipped by us as a character of being good, when in fact it simply means a repetitive behavior, but not the content of it.

     

    When my life was turned upside down and I went in search of normal, it was illusive.  I didn’t know who I was nor could I find a template of normal anywhere, nor perfection. 

     

    Normal changed for each person and in each situation and again, ruled by the majority.

     

    What I had thought were ‘standards’ of my old religion, were just behaviors all succumbed to…but they were lacking of content…or when put to practice fell apart.  Their only strength came from the number of people believing in them, not in the actual belief itself.

     

    I am certain this is true for most things.

    My father is being held up by the volume of people who call him father, but not by his own content.

     

    I am very wary now of what is called normal…for it could be a lens that changes what lies behind.

     

    I am also very happy to say, I am not a ‘normal’ member of my family of origin.

     

    Normal doesn’t make anything right or true.

     

     

  • I didn’t stick together, I fell apart.

    Everything always comes down to feelings or maybe the absence of feeling a feeling.

     

    It is hard to explain, but I feel the absence of feeling a part of a family.

     

    And by tossing in ‘a family’ the feeling wouldn’t be satisfied, not just any ole family will do.

     

    When you think of family, do you have any idea of how much space of memory it takes up in your world, how much of your world consists of family?

     

    Unexpectedly a feeling of being an orphan ripples through, a feeling of being alone, floating unattached, no firm strings of feeling holding you secure and protected, that you are out in front, alone.

     

    Each year the ‘feeling’ of being outside of a family lessens, but there are moments when I am moved to revisit the loss.

     

    Families carry a feeling, families carry you when you can’t carry yourself, families carry your confidence until you find your own, families protect and nurture you, families have certain connections that those on the outside can’t see, families.

     

    Families create their own little circle of protection against the world.

     

    Without family vulnerability comes in along with an absent sense of who you are.

     

    I can catch a little glimpse of being adopted, how you are still not connected to your birth parents, one step removed, good, but not good enough.

     

    It almost seems worse to have had birth parents, but absent the makings of a family, minus the correct feeling from family. 

     

    Our birth parents didn’t form a protective circle around us; instead we lived unprotected from them, vulnerable within the circle of family.

     

    Within the circle of family you are hurt and abused. 

     

    Wouldn’t that be like the wolf living inside with the chickens?

     

    Here is a clip my mother put in her Grandma Journal, in December 2001.

     

    The stick-together families are happier by far.

    Than the brothers and the sisters who take separate highways are.

    The gladdest people living are the wholesome folks who make

     A circle at the fireside that no power but death can break.

    And the finest of conventions ever held beneath the sun are the little family gatherings when the busy day is done.

     

    There are rich folk, there are poor folk, who imagine they are wise, and they’re very quick to shatter the little family ties.

    Each goes searching after pleasure in his own selected way,

    Each with strangers likes to wander, and with strangers likes to play.

    But it’s bitterness they harvest, and it’s empty joy they find, For the children that are wisest are the stick-together kind.

     

    There are some who seem to fancy that for gladness they must roam,

    That for smiles that are the brightest they must wander far from home.

    That the stranger friend is the true friend, and they travel far astray

    And waste their lives in striving for a joy that’s far away,

    But the gladdest sort of people, when the busy day is done,

    Are the brothers and the sisters who together share their fun.

     

    It’s the stick-together family that wins the joy of earth,

    That hears the sweetest music and that finds the finest mirth;

    It’s the old home roof that shelters all the charm that life can give;

    There you find the gladdest play-ground, there the happiest spot to live.

    And, o weary, wandering brother, if contentment  you would win, Come back unto the fireside and be comrade with your kin.

            By Edgar A. Guest

     

    Isn’t it amazing and profound that she feels sticking together is the utmost importance, even ahead of what you are sticking to.

     

    The stick-together family and she tried valiantly to save that family at all costs. 

     

    At all costs.

     

    She spared nothing to see to that.

     

    She also wrote of her two sisters, one is 25 years older than her, “and very seldom came to family gatherings.  She was very self centered and she missed out on fun and love.” 

     

    Another sister was 8 years older “she went her separate way. She never took time for family unless she needed something.  She died in California at the age of 39 of ovarian cancer.”

     

    She goes on to write, “What I am trying to say to you is always take time to call, write and visit each other. Be there for each other, even if your own plans need changing be there.  You will never regret it.” 

     

    Her perceptions still amaze me even if I have lived the consequences of all of them.

     

    Putting family first.

     

    Love, where is love in this?  All I feel is responsibility to hold it all together, to keep sticking it back together no matter what!

     

    The guilt at not being a stick-together family girl overwhelms me at times, the comrade that fled, abandoned them in their darkest hours.

     

    I didn’t stick together, I fell apart.

     

  • There she was……

    She didn’t know, as she twirled on the tire swing, her hair grabbed by the breeze and taken prisoner, the tree creaked above, the sound mingling with her carefree laughter, her white sandals scuffed by the moist soil below, the smell of charcoal and barbecue filled the air, the other children ran in the yard, chasing each other and staining their clothes with the deep green grass, her bright eyes gazed up to the tree, the branches covered with leaves, down, down, down, they fell spiraling to the ground, she spun around on the old tire swing, her surroundings blurred and she closed her eyes until the tire stood still, she opened her eyes and looked innocently at him, unknowing, that he would be the one to hurt her.   

     

    Written by my daughter.

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