I M Perfect lady

Tag: secrets

  • 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.

  • Dark Space of Unknowing.

    Deepak Chopra writes in The Book of Secrets about the caterpillar changing into a butterfly.

    “Outside my window in winter I can usually spy at least one chrysalis dangling from a branch.  Inside it a caterpillar has turned into a pupa that will emerge in the spring as a butterfly. We are all familiar with this metamorphosis, having witnessed it as children (or by reading Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar).  But what goes on invisibly inside the chrysalis remains deeply mysterious. The caterpillar’s organs and tissues dissolve into an amorphous, soup like state, only to reconstitute in to a structure of a butterfly’s body that bears no resemblance to a caterpillar at all.”

    “Science has no idea why metamorphosis evolved.  It is almost impossible to imagine that insects hit on it by chance – the chemical complexity of turning into a butterfly is incredible; thousands of steps are minutely interconnected.  (It’s as if you dropped off a bicycle at the shop to be repaired, and when you came back the parts had become a Gulfstream Jet.)”

    “But we do have some idea about how this delicate chain of events is linked. Two hormones, one called juvenile hormone, and the other ecdysone, regulate the process, which looks to the naked eye like the caterpillar is dissolving into soup.  These two hormones make sure the cells moving from the larva to the butterfly know where they are going and how they are to change. Some cells are told to die; others digest themselves, while others turn into eyes, antennae, and wings. This implies a fragile (and miraculous) rhythm that must remain in precise balance between creation and destruction. That rhythm, it turns out, depends on day length, which in turn depends on the earth’s rotation around the sun. Therefore, a cosmic rhythm has been intimately connected to the birth of butterflies for millions of years.”  Deepak

     

    It came to me today, that blogging the way I do with total transparency is not going to need the same things as those who blog from the cocoon.

    Writing from a cocoon hides what is going on and this is not something I am familiar with.  So I can’t be the one to say what is best for anonymous bloggers.

    But I can speak from transparency. 

    When I began writing I did so with full disclosure, it wasn’t to hide stuff, it was to shed light and to enlighten me, to find answers to who I was, as well as to leave a path for anyone who wanted to know about me.

    I wrote about the dark corners within me that I didn’t know. 

    I asked questions of the white paper and it seemed answers came if I wrote long enough.

    I never felt I had the right to have a voice and writing opened up a space for me to let it out.

    Once I got the knack of it, it seemed that the only way for me to know me was to write it out. 

    The more I wrote the more I knew and the more I knew the more I wanted to know. And slowly I began to really really know me and what I began to learn about me, I didn’t want to cover up nor did I feel the need. 

    Whether it be my mixed up mind, my flipped around thoughts and beliefs or the multiple things I did incorrectly with my backwards mind, all of it became extremely exhilarating for it all was growing a new me.  I wasn’t ashamed of who I was nor who I was becoming to be.

    It was like I was the caterpillar and I was changing and I would grieve the caterpillar parts that were dying and had to grow comfortable with the new butterfly pieces that came in their place. 

    I left my old caterpillar ways…and had to learn how to maneuver life as a butterfly. 

    What I know for sure, for me, is that I need to see me in my past, see me in my present, see what inside of me needs transformation and what needs to totally die. 

    I couldn't hide and build a butterfly me.  I had to see. 

    I would have liked there to be an etiquette book on how to navigate the rough waters of exiting a dysfunctional family and knowing how it feels and what would happen as you go from the inside of a family to the outskirts.

    How to leave abuse, is how to leave a family…

    It isn’t comfortable and there is no cocoon.  You are in the open and vulnerable for pot shots that many aim at you trying to shut you up and protect the family’s dark legacy. 

    And even more importantly, I wanted proof or evidence of my sanity.  I wanted there to be a blueprint of undoing the affects of being abused.  With so many turning away or not agreeing with me, it was a place for me to have my say.  I didn’t keep parts hidden away; I shared all of me, for there wasn’t a part of me that was too dirty or shameful for me not to see.

    It is my humble belief, if you can’t bear to see your self, you will want to remain hidden from others. But, if you have the courage to really really look at yourself and all the cracks and crevices you will find a very interesting and intriguing life. 

    You will see how you took that path or formed that opinion or learned to believe this or that.  You will discover a life that you will never ever want to cover up again and go back to live in a small dark space of unknowing. 

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • One Person to say his name.

    Julia Cameron asks at the end of last chapter, “Did you do your artist date this week?  Did you use it to take any risks? What did you do?  How did it feel?”

    So, I thought what do I fear the most…what do I feel is a risk?

    And what came was looking into the File of My father’s at the Houghton County Courthouse.

    I had pictured this file filled with evidence, victim’s stories, horrific re-counting of their interactions with my father.  A box filled with the demons of his life, an ugly box heaped with things I truly didn’t want to know, his secret life was tucked inside…all the dirt the detective had dug up.  How he traveled from Texas to here, the he said, she said type stuff. 

    I thought I would come face to face with secrets finally brought to the open by my little friends…I would read about, my sisters and their friends, and the truth would be laid bare for me.

    I had to take the risk that I was strong enough.

    This morning when I read that sentence, I decided after work, I would go…stepping through my fear and open that file/box and sort through and face the demons of my childhood.

    I called ahead, so it would be waiting for me.   A file for one. 

    As I parked in front and walked up the steps, I held the railing I knew my father held as he walked down a free man …one of the last things he touched in his hometown before he left for Texas in May of 2005.

    I shook my head to keep me in the present…and kept following my moving feet, bringing me closer to what I had feared these last six years…all the stories of the little girls who suffered because of this one man, my father.

    I entered a room with two smiling normal looking ladies… and asked to see my father’s file. 

    There on the table sat this bright yellow file folder, thin, wimpy, absent of all horrific stories, folder.  It held legal documents and signatures, formalities that had odd titles.

    The paper my brother signed when he paid his bail, the check for most of it being refunded back…he didn't lose too much.

    I asked is this it? 

    And they asked, “what are you looking for?”

    I told them, six years ago when he was being tried, our stories, the victim’s stories were being passed around. The defense attorney had them, the prosecutor had them, and my brother had them, my mother had them…and now I wanted to see them. 

    I explained, at the time, I was too weak to take them in, but now I am feeling braver and want to see what they all read and knew about us victims. Where is the evidence, the story about why he was in court,  and that these papers didn't say too much? It was the glossy version.

    The kind ladies tried to show me the pertinent documents, what he was convicted on, what the plea bargain was, etc. 

     I said this file doesn’t hold the evidence… just the papers for the court.

    As I was leaving, feeling like I had gotten to just read the footnotes of his story, I bumped into the secretary of the prosecutor…a girl I know. 

    She said that perhaps the next time she is in the attic, she would look and see if there is more to his story in their files…but it was a long time ago.  Not that long I said, only six years.  To me it could have been yesterday.  She too was kind and seemed like she wanted to help…but didn't have what I was looking for. 

    She also suggested I go next door to the sheriff’s office and see the detective, perhaps he can find the file with the victims stories…the evidence. 

    So, I made the short walk and asked to see the detective.   He was out on the road, so I could leave my name and number and the reason I needed to see him.

    I told the sheriff, I wanted to see my father’s file, the evidence of his pedophile ways, to read about what they found in order to bring him to trial.  He too asked, why?

    I said I wanted to read the stories that were passed around like a newspapers back then, but I had been too afraid to read, that I was braver today.

    He smiled.  What none of them know, is that in the 'evidence' is a story of my rape, recounted by my childhood friend.  A memory, that I failed to record…that I was feeling brave enough to read about. 

    It was my victim story I wanted to see…Now that I am brave enough, made the trip, walked up the steps, opened the door…maybe I will not ever get to see that story, but what I did was face my ultimate fear. 

    We chatted, about how the system is so backwards, how families are able to sentence the pedophiles, and how their charges are reduced due to parents not wanting their children on the stand facing the man who hurt them….  We both agreed that it is so backwards that a child has to be the strong one, to stand against not only the one who hurt them, but the folks who all are connected to him.

    I stood on one side of the counter and him on the other, both of us on the same side of this issue, neither one of us able to make a difference. 

    I said I would like to talk to the detective, to give him names that I have heard, of other guys like my father, but that I didn’t have much more than that, just names that keep coming up, folks keep talking about them, but nothing seems to happen. 

    I said I wanted to give him them names so I didn’t have to carry them.

    I said to leave lots of time, for I am long winded when it comes to talks of this nature.

    He seemed kind and listened and took my name.  I will see if the detective will be willing to talk to one of the girls whose letter is in the illusive evidence file…

    I feel I could work with them and shed light from this side of the counter, the family side…the little girl side, the victim side.

    I faced my fears, I took a risk and I feel that I am stronger because of it.

    It wasn’t a usual Artist Date, but one that brought me confidence and empowerment.

    It opened the doorway to a full circle moment.  I can be the ‘stranger’ that reported ‘something’ isn’t right in that family….  I can be the one who spoke up, who brought it to the attention of the authorities…to allow some one like me who is waiting for someone to notice, someone to care enough, to be brave and step out and take a risk, point a finger at the source of so many rumors. 

    I can’t know if my speaking will begin to shake the family tree, but I can know that my silence will keep their secrets secret.

    What I don’t want to have happen is for me to be one of the folks who knew and did nothing. 

    I have had these names of the guys, but I thought I needed the names of a child who is appearing to act like they have suffered abuse. But now I know, you can report the names of guys/girls who you have heard part take in abusive behavior, you don’t need a child to start the ball rolling, a child is waiting for you to push it down the hill…

    I also believe a child will intuitively feel that real help has arrived, that they are safe to share their story.

    But, we…the adults in the world have to brave enough to speak their names out loud and to the authorities.

    If you have names, but are not brave enough, share them with me, I will take the names from you so you too no longer have to carry them.

    Carrying their names is carrying their secret.

    And while carrying their secret a child suffers alone waiting. 

    Waiting for some one to notice.

    Someone to see the monster they have experienced. 

    All it takes is one…one person to say his name.

     

     

  • My Body, My mind and My Spirit.

    Something magical happens when you are forced, as in my case, to stand without secrets, to be bare unto the world, to have nothing hidden out of sight, when your worst fears and beyond are realized, you are exposed and free.

    I didn’t seem to have a choice, my incest was uncovered the same time that my father was exposed as a pedophile, and yet in the moment of time, while it seemed as if I would die in shame, I sprung forth with a new resolve to live openly and decided I would carry no more secrets in my pocket.

    I would instead own this legacy of abuse and I would live my life fully aware of where I came from and how it formed me into who I was today. I understood all my idiosyncrasies and me perfectly, they were all birthed in abuse.

    Once I accepted that all the mess was from where I grew, I could then begin to grow in ways that were different.

    While you are holding on to secrets, the secrets are holding on to you and you are not free to heal and move beyond them, but once you agree that it is time for you to accept the truth of your roots, you begin changing out of abuse.

    How tragically sad that we can’t share with the world our deepest wounds that unlike cancer it is a shameful disease and while we keep it hidden in the deep pockets of our bodies, our bodies are not free our spirits are not free and we are in a prison of silence.

    Yet we hold the key that unlocks the door of shame. We have to be brave enough to align ourselves with our past’s reality. We have to have the courage to look upon the secrets that our families carry, our legacy that few will speak of but all know.

    The truth is what sets you free…and the willingness to lose all you are, to become someone you have never met, the person you were prior to abuse.

    My body and I have an agreement, we will no longer hide truths, we will speak our feelings always, regardless of the consequences, we have a bond now, a sacred bond, we are one…my body, my mind and my spirit.

  • The Shame Lives when we hide it…bravery is born when we don’t!

    We can’t know the obstacle courses another person is navigating in their lives, what sorts of soul wrenching choices they are making, what tricky waters they are navigating by how they present themselves daily, for most often we are taught to ‘put our best face forward’ and not share the nitty and the gritty, the sad and devastating and we have all become masks of covering up.

    How did it become more natural to pretend than to walk in authenticity, like we get points for being the most put together and champions of keeping our ‘messes’ well hidden?

    So that now it seems that a person who speaks their truth and walks it is a phenomena instead of the norm.

    What is it about human nature that we want sunshine and blue skies, peace, love and joy and push back and away from feelings and emotions of great tragedy, yet live it anyway?

    The behind the scenes drama would be better served in front and out loud. To simply present to the world your selves dressed in your dirty laundry and wear it with flare.

    To be as disheveled on the outside as the raging confusion and overwhelming emotions of pain on the inside and for it all to match, instead of primping and struggling to remain perfectly coiffed while totally unraveling.

    It seems we want perfect looking lives whether we live them or not and we will struggle to pull it off, and feel victorious if we can walk around in public hiding our broken insides.

    Imagine the world and how much more relaxed it would be if our insides would appear as accessories, if we were allowed to wear our confusion outside, what great advice would pour our way and how comforting it would be to see that you were not alone.

    And, the greatest news is that the secrets would die for it would be unfashionable to not have colorful deeply intriguing soulful items displayed on your chest.

    Imagine the white blankness of indifference compared to the wildly attractive colors of wrestling with overcoming abuse?

    How nice it would be to get rid of the social presentation and just be our selves…

    What happens with these social masks and if they are good actors, is that you never get to know the real person, just the nice set of clothes that walk around.

    In walking and talking about my ‘dirty’ laundry or my truth, I have had the greatest privilege to hear others real life…they relax and be them selves where the social outside disappears and underneath is this wildly exciting alive soul living life, going through huge lessons of growth and inner knowing.

    Life is lived underneath the perfect faces and put together clothing and if you dare wear your dirty laundry in public you will find others who are eager to do so too.

    My dirtiest of the dirt is that I have a pedophile for a father and once I openly displayed this, owned it, spoke it, I have been free to display other shades of dysfunction as well, and little by little my whole self is allowed to come forth.

    I have become comfortable in my own skin and wear my abuse as a badge of courage not of shame; it’s one of the last diseases that need to be socially acceptable.

    Human nature when its abused creates this, it isn’t a bug, it is spread from family member to family member and I truly believe that the more we talk about this and the more we openly display our abuse, the less power it will have and its insidious spreading will recede.

    Incest is hidden behind nice looking clothes and demeanors, and family’s monsters are protected and made normal so as not to stand out and look odd…and we need to undress this normalcy and own it.

    When we own it we begin treating the root cause…we find the line and the path of destruction and can one by one bring them in the open and see how their abuse affected them.

    Are they still being victims or have they taken over and become what abused them? And we have to recognize that they are acting out perfectly for being abused.

    “Hurt people hurt people.” They are not natural monsters; they became this way coming from whence they came.

    While we can see the wolf in sheep’s clothing, we never treat the wolf we just pet the lamb.

    Petting the monster will not stop the abuse; it is only facing the monster within that we can begin to affect the root cause.

    Undressing and exposing the monster is a step in the right direction.

    Isn’t it funny, but we all know we are petting a lamb with the volatile wolf underneath…yet we are too afraid to know it and speak it and do something about it. It is much easier to pretend it is a lamb the whole way through, even though the wolf fangs are showing and we have bites to prove it…

    I know the cost of not disrobing the wolf…of pretending that he is only a lamb.

    Our children need to know from us adults in the room, that a monster is sitting in their presence and if we treat him like a lamb, so will they.

    It is time we call a spade a spade, a monster a monster and a molested child a molested child. It is time for us to wear our wounds on the outside with courage.

    The shame lives when we hide it…bravery is born when we don’t!

  • By each Choice we Make.

    Did you know that brainwashing is when you no longer have the option of choice?

    I witnessed my daughter lose her power of choice.

    She didn’t even know she gave up her choices while she attended only one option.

    The one option became the most important, she was willing to lie to protect that option, she was willing to give up her self for that one option, she lost her self by focusing on one choice.

    It soon had control of her and not her of choice.

    This secret life, the clandestine meetings, the specialness of feeling that only the two of them knew, created the one option.

    This one option wasn’t to be shared.

    It was separated from the world.

    It was ‘special’.

    She lost her other choices for none of them were allowed in the ‘special’ spot.

    The special spot and the man who occupied this site began changing her to fit his spot.

    She had to change to play there.

    She couldn’t bring him into her life; she could only go to his.

    This ‘special man’ didn’t fit into her old life; she had to create a new self to fit in his.

    In doing so, she lost the options.

    She lost the freedom, the flowing back and forth between two lives unchanged.

    She had to become different in both worlds.

    In his world, they had to be quiet, keep it secret, don’t let anyone know what it was they were doing, it was the key that turned the lock.

    This twisted sense of special steals away the person you are and you leave your old life and self behind to fit into this new picture, unknowingly.

    You leave yourself bit by bit by bit, until you are fashioned into this new self and the path back to your old self goes dark.

    What my husband and I had to do was let her make choices, to unlock the frozen part in her brain.

    While his key is secret, our key is freedom.

    He had taken away the choices we gave them all back.

    We had to do the opposite of what had led her down this road.

    She gets to make choices.

    We won’t tell her what to do.

    We open up the space for freedom.

    I share my views.

    I show her how I see things.

    I allow her to see them her way.

    What I love is that we remain our selves and that alone will lead her back to her self.

    She left us to play in a secret land we did not leave her.

    So she gets to decide, does she want to play in the secret land or play in our land.

    Does she want to be the person she needs to be to be ‘special’ with him or does she want to be her old self.

    The freedom we allowed was the key that set her free to begin to once again make choices.

    Choices, they seem so obvious so simple so easy, and yet that is what the perpetrator seizes first.

    You are not given an option to do it any other way.

    Their option is the only one that will keep this relationship going.

    You have no choice but to go along.

    And sadly, usually by this time you have become friends, you have given trusts and faith and love to the individual, and in order to maintain this ‘special’ relationship, IT depends upon your silence.

    Your silence and his creates a cocoon that separates you from your self and the world around you.

    You live in this upside down and backwards ‘other’ land.

    You have to change to fit in there and the changes are so noticeable in your old life.

    You have to lie to leave your old life to go to his.

    You have to lie to your self and overlook how it makes you feel in your old life.

    You come alive in his and die in your own.

    What a tragedy.

    The greatest thing we did was to give her back her choices.
    To allow her to choose what path she wants to strengthen and which one she wants to weaken.

    Her brainwashing was in a very short time and she didn’t play in the secret land too long.

    The longer you are there, the more ingrained the false self gets and the further away the road that leads you back.

    But as far as I can tell, by my experience, is that when I gave myself the option of choice, I was free.

    Free to begin, choice-by-choice, bit-by-bit to recapture life for me.

    The freedom in allowing all in our home to be free is the key that makes this a non-brainwashing home.

    A home of choices, you get to decide which ones you want to make, but make no mistake, each and every choice comes with a consequence, and it is up to you which consequence you choose.

    We create a life and self by each choice we make.

  • Supporting only what exists.

    Yesterday I was left with the line, “believing in something that doesn’t exist,” and it showed me the other person in the lie.

    We tend to blame the liars, but fail to point out the person who is holding it up, who is believing it, and in doing so denying the truth as well.

    I can now see the liar and the lie holder and the lie.

    It takes more than one to lie.

    The lie is a cover-up to a truth that came in that will shatter the relationship.

    Usually the one bringing in the lie is the one that has damaged the relationship.

    The one holding up the lie wants the relationship more than the truth so she will willingly carry what ever needs to be carried in order to save a relationship.

    Isn’t it funny how we become lie carriers, how we carry the lie further for the sake of a relationship.

    She is the disaster team coming in and saving the day. Little does she know all she is saving is the lie.

    All her work from that day forward is to maintain the lie.

    Her main focus is to keep the lie alive, hence believing in something that doesn’t exist.

    I can see how my mother began this game and then eventually include us, how we too learned it was more important to have relationships than seeing truth in behaviors.

    We too believed in something that didn’t exist.

    What is so tragic to me is that we can live a lifetime lost in lies.

    That we will deny our feelings, what our bodies are saying, how we are feeling all to keep a lie alive.

    Six years ago I felt that my pretend to pretend button broke, that I lost the ability to go along with the lies, that something changed, I could not knowingly support lies.

    What is so odd is that when you are born into a family of pretenders, pretending is a way of life, we rarely if ever speak our truth or we have to do so on the side and in hiding.

    Speaking about them behind their backs, saying the truths secretly.

    I am not sure where social niceties begin and lying starts, but the lines get kind of fuzzy.

    I heard Oprah speak to a man on stage stating, “go ahead speak your truth it will open the door for others to do the same.”

    Isn’t it odd that we rarely see someone stand exposing their truths, but rather we live outwardly pretending a life based on lies?

    This double life is what screws with people’s heads and the cause of much disease.

    My body feels so at peace now and when it isn’t I look at what I am lying about.

    What am I pretending?

    Where am I outside of reality?

    Am I the liar or am I believing in a lie.

    Getting my life back from the pretend world hasn’t been easy, I lost a lot of pretend relationships that I loved and supported, but in doing so I began a new relationship with myself.

    Supporting only what exists.