I M Perfect lady

Tag: sexual

  • Voted off.

    I am perplexed about the unnatural reaction to being told of a pedophile in your midst…and the lack of natural responses or reflexes.

    I just wonder if the same message was given, but I said it was in the local school, what then would be the response?

    Would they immediately defend the school?  Or would they ask and want to know who this individual was?

    It is hard for me to wrap my mind around the fact, that not one person was curious as to which congregation housed the sexual predators and where did he/she live?  Not one. Silence.  Well, not really silence, but defense of an institution.

    Is this because they already know where they are?

    Or do they not want to know the truth?

    I can’t figure this one out.

    It feels like those of us who are alerting congregants of this behavior are pegged as the ones tearing down the stairway to heaven.  That if you believe us, you will not make the climb heavenward.

    So you stick to the end game, keep your eyes on the goal of heaven and disregard messages that could pop holes in your faith.

    It seems you have great faith in a vehicle that will get you to heaven, while I am telling you there is not enough gas, the tires are bald and there is a klunk in the engine…and it isn’t looking well for you…it is starting to look like a gamble and not the sure shot you were told to believe in.

    I did not wreck the car, but noticed the damage. I did not design this car or make you the promise that it had magic powers to erase all sins.  This is not something I neither created nor is it mine to fix.  I am just reporting

    But I am telling you how it stalled and died on me.

    How the magic button didn’t erase the pedophilia from my father…he kept going and going and going.

    How the eraser didn’t erase his sickness at all.

    I am telling you that there are other sick people that your forgiveness of sins will not correct or halt or stop in anyway.

    They sit and sing with you…and you never even asked who.

    The infection is spreading while you use words to eradicate behavior that years and years of therapy and the desire to do so can only stop.

    Truly, do you really believe that a few words spoken to a man who has a sexual disease, that those words, will cure him?

    It is in the cells and in the DNA, it will take efforts of Herculean strength to face and deal and heal. 

    What I can sense and I am sure he/she can sense is that this religion is not even interested or caring who is within the confines of its membership.

    If the lack of questions is any indicator, there is nothing there that shows him/her there are boundaries and standards within the mission statement.

    All are welcome here. 

    Well, not all…those who speak the truth are voted off.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • What I can verify.

     

    My brother wrote a post on his blog, www.messyguru.typepad.com called, Rumor Has It.

     

    I looked up the definition of Rumor and it said, “Unverified report.” 

    I wonder how much of each of our lives gets by us unverified?

    What we mostly don’t verify is where we came from, is this normal, and is it true.

    We rarely verify our beliefs or our definitions of love or abuse, or the validity of the rules of our religion.

    We don’t verify them, but we don’t call them rumors. 

    We don’t verify them, but we believe them to be our truths.

    We don’t say, “it is a rumor that wearing red nail polish will keep me from heaven.”  Without verifying this report, we believe it and call it truth.

    Or, “It is a rumor that if I take control of my body and decide how many kids I have, I will go to hell.”  How can you possibly verify that?  Yet it is believed as true.

    And we don’t say, “It is a rumor that no sin is too great to forgive or that all sin is of equal value.”  Has this been verified?  Can a cuss word and a man raping a child be the same worth? Is that what we believe to be true?

    Doesn’t it make you wonder what we call rumors and what we call truth.

    What is verified and what is Unverified.

    Somehow the FALC has this all upside down and backwards.

    If what they believe in is unverified, than is it possible that what they don’t believe in is verifiable.

    Is it possible that when they hear a ‘rumor’ about so and so being a pedophile, or being creepy, they are actually spreading the truth and believing it?

    Do they even know what is truth and what is fiction? 

    This is how I found myself when who I had called dad was actually a pedophile. The people that I loved actually abused me and didn’t love me. I was completely upside down and backwards in most of my definitions and what I believed in.

    The churches ideology actually fit perfect into my backwards home life, it matched perfectly.

    My rumors were my truths and my truths were rumors.

    It is horrifying and shocking what folks in the FALC are believing in and what they are spreading as rumors.  I am here to tell you it is completely backwards.

    The rumors floating around in victim circles are facts and verifiable by the results of their lives. By the trails and trials of their journeys. 

    The suicides and attempts, depression and addictions, the mental disorders, and casual sex, the married girls using their bodies like puppy mills, generations of pedophiles, etc…are all signposts and can be verified by their lives.  These are not rumors.

    And these are not accidents or freaks of nature; they are actually perfect results of living in a home of abuse and believing in the way of the FALC.  It is a one two punch and the results are again, verifiable by the lives they live in reality.

    The victims lives are not rumors…and what you call ‘rumors’ about their perpetrators are verifiable…so they cannot be called rumor, for rumor is an unverified report.

    The wounded children are the verification as they live their lives upside down and backwards, out of control and believing they are certifiably nuts, crazy and insane.

    What they fail to appreciate is that they are perfect and the world they came from is insane.  And it is only when they continue to try and make the insane sane is when they go nuts.

    Where they come from is so insane, that they believe and die for rumors and disregard the truth as it walks talks and breathes in front of them.

    It is my humble opinion from my experience of coming out of the FALC and being raised in a family where the head of the house was a pedophile, where the mother supported him and her religion without question or verification to the contrary, that both are steeped in rumors and where truth is kicked to the curb.

    I should know, I am sitting on the curb for demanding and investigating and Verifying rumors…rumors within my family of origin and the religion I was born into.

    For forty-six years I lived an unverified life.  I believed what I was told to believe and disregarded the rest…now, I sit with rumors and look around reality to see what I can verify. 

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • I blame you too.

    In the past two weeks, I have been trying to glean the attention of the Detective in order to pass on suspicious names, names we keep hearing repeatedly from different circles all having to do with criminal sexual abuse with children. Names being spoken in three states, and ‘rumors’ that have been passed around within the inner circles of the FALC, but haven’t made it to the outside.

    I am on the outside and willing to share what I have been hearing and would like to encourage others to join my voice.

    What keeps these pedophile machines working is our silence.

    If you have memories or odd memories or have feelings that directly oppose the image being presented, that is a flag. 

    We fail to understand that we don’t have to have a succinct blow-by-blow account of an abuse interaction, but instead we each add our portion of evidence to build the case.

    My evidence against my father was the fear and terror that cursed through me in his presence, as well as no memories of my childhood, or just the odd ones. 

    My father did nothing, unless it included little girls.  He wasn’t taking my brothers on ‘special car’ rides.  He who did nothing in the house to help out, began wanting to make Sunday dinners, when granddaughter’s were born….  He who never went to church or even acted within the confines of their rules, Used the Forgiveness of sins to keep erasing his ‘sins’ of abuse. 

    All those things had a theme and makes sense for a pedophile, but goes against his otherwise behavior.  He never was a family man, making plans, being involved, nor did he take my mother on dates, but little girls…he paid attention to.

    That is a Huge Flag. 

    The Greek Definition of Pedophile is Child Friendship. 

    If you see an adult man or woman who is having exclusive, or almost exclusive and exhaustive efforts for one particular sex or age group, your antennas should be rising.

    We fail to look for the grooming process, the charismatic and excited engagement with children as well as seeing the changes in the child.

    Mostly, I thought you needed child’s behavior to be suspicious, but the authorities can work this backwards as well, by being alerted to odd behaviors in adults.

    What I also came to find out is that my mother’s friends were married to pedophiles as well.  It truly does seem that birds of a feather flock together.  

    Here is another thing, I did not hear of other pedophiles, for I was the one of the ones they were talking about.  I was clueless to the signs for I was the sign. 

    I was the walking billboard.  I had all the earmarks needed to show what a child who has been abused looks like, acts like and is.

    There seems to be two drastically different behaviors exhibited; one that you are a people pleaser, a self less person, you are the co-dependents dream come true…you can’t make a decision unless others agree, you live for them or for approval outside you never have an opinion outside of the group. I have said, “I was a whore for love and peace…” their love and their peace, no matter the cost to my self.

    And the other is promiscuous behavior.  Willing to be self less as well, but with your body in sexual ways.  Having zero boundaries or respect for your own self.  Casual sex…sex without loving committed friendship and honor.

    I was a member of the FALC, I was born into the religion, my mother is a devote member and I presumed since my father wasn’t one (unless he needed to get blessed and get the the anger to dialed back..), we were an oddity.  Our family was a rare one within the church.

    However, I am now finding out even if our bloodlines and lineage is has no history within the FALC, we were not the exception as much as the rule.

    I suppose there are a few folks in there, who have never heard of any abuse within, but in my experience, I haven’t met one yet. Although, to be fair, I haven’t talked to them all, but the lineage of abuse is appalling.

    And here is what I know for sure. The only way this can continue is with the silence of many. 

    The greatest threat to pedophiles is for our voices to unite, for our stories to join together to form piles of evidence that will equal the volumes of wounded children.

    If you can’t speak from personal experience, you can speak of what you heard about someone.

    In my case, the detective couldn’t believe the amount of people who knew. Yet only one had the courage to speak. And that one voice alerted us all to a pedophile in our midst.

    I am asking for you to reveal suspicious behavior…not just a blow by blow account.  I am asking you to stop playing in the rumor mill, but be the one to take the information out and bring it to the authorities.

    Here is the addresses where your letters can be written for people in the Copper Country.  You will notice the fact that I am skipping the State Police, for the detective there is a member of the FALC.  It is my personal opinion and choice to leave it out.  I also left off the Keweenaw County Sheriff for he too is a member of the FALC.

    Houghton County Prosecutor

    Michael Makinen – Phone # 906-482-3211

    401 East Houghton Ave.

    Houghton, MI 49931

     

    Houghton County Sheriff  Brian McLean   

    Detective Tom Rosemurgy – Phone # 906-482-0055 (for both)

    403 East Houghton Ave.

    Houghton, MI 49931

     

    FBI – Detroit Field Office

    Phone # 313-965-2323

    477 Michigan Ave. 26th Floor

    Detroit MI, 48226

     

    It is my hope, that our generation will be the one that speaks out and breaks the chain.  It is beyond what the mind can hold, that a religion is shielding criminal sexual abuse.  And it will not stop due to our “not” talking out about it.  Believe me, I only wished it was just my family, that we were the exception not the rule, but also believe me people, it is running unchecked into this generation of little ones…they are us, they are taking the first footsteps in abuse, and we are the adults now to end it.

    I have heard from families who were told, “not to go near my house/father”….that was they way they dealt, just stay away. 

    Well, them staying away, the good people staying away, gave my father unlimited and unfettered access to all the little girls.  Adults too afraid to speak up to afraid to do anything left the little girls to deal with my father…and they did, they gave their little spirits and souls to a man who ate them up. 

    No adult took what they knew to the authorities.

    Many want to just blame my father, but if you knew, I blame you too.

     

     

     

  • 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.

     

     

     

  • Wearing a Tag, “Family”.

    My daughter waved her hand above her head in a crazy type way in explanation to who I am… Nuts.

    Yep, nuts…over zealous about abuse, that I will give up family for it, that I will sever relationships for it.  I am WAAAY out there… 

    Yep, that’s me.

    I felt she had me pegged completely; there was no argument there.

    While perhaps I would not categorize myself as insane, when it comes to dealing ‘rationally’ with abuse, I guess I am nuts.

    I will not tolerate it at all.  No matter from whom and especially when it comes to my kids.  I am overboard certifiably nuts.

    I tried to explain to her my viewpoint, but it is near impossible to explain, it is the old adage, you had to be there. 

    While I do believe we had a reasonable conversation, I felt she tried to come over to my side… it was impossible for her, and I am grateful.

    In order to see abuse like I see abuse, you would have to have been abused like me…she never tasted abuse like I have…her abuse was delivered to her by me.

    I told her the only abuse she has ever had came from me.

    I was irrational, unreasonable, and way more nuts when they were young compared to how I am today. 

    She said I am okay now, unless it comes to abuse, then I go nuts.  So, I have changed.

    In the past I was okay with abuse and went Nuts in the normal day-to-day living.  I love this.

    Do you get it?  I am seen as being nuts for going insane about abuse, by talking of it, warning others of it, writing my way free of it, seeing it when it appears, I am focused and relentless when it comes to abuse. 

    She said, you go way out there and am unreasonable about abuse, and I smiled and said, “yes that is me, I do do that!”

    I tried to explain to her that her grandmother was ‘reasonable’ with abuse. She didn’t want to lose her family so she was kind and ‘rational’ with abuse. 

    That I am okay being nuts when it comes to abuse. 

    I truly don’t mind the name calling and the finger pointing, the shunning and anger that is directed toward me as I staunchly remain unreasonable with abuse.

    I told her it matters not how they see me. What matters the most is that my children see a mother who will not sit down and be friendly with abuse.  I want them to see how to treat abuse by watching me.

    Abuse is not my friend.  

    I will lose relationships to step away from abuse.  I will not put ‘family’ above it.

    Meaning that just because my father was family, I should over look his abuse. Just because my mother is family, I should overlook the years she overlooked abuse.  Just because my brother is family, I should overlook his supporting abuse.

    To see family first …is what abuse is relying on.

    For if you see the family first, abuse slips by unnoticed.

    I am nuts about this, I refuse to let abuse slip by even wearing a tag “Family”.

     

  • 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.

     

     

  • The soul that lies beneath.

    Julia Cameron writes in The Artist’s Way…

     

    ”Conditioned as we are to accept other people’s definition of us, this emerging individuality can seem to us like a self-will run riot.  It is not. The snowflake pattern of your soul is emerging. Each of us is a unique, creative individual. But we often blur that uniqueness with sugar, alcohol, drugs, overwork, underplay, bad relations, toxic sex, underexercise, over-TV, undersleep – many and varied forms of junk food for the soul…”

     

    I have never thought of overeating or any of the above as being junk food for the soul. That most of the things that are bad for the body is also bad for our souls.

     

    They blur our uniqueness, keep us living in with a fuzzy image of who we are, what we want, what we feel and where we heading, and above all, make it hard for the soul to shine through.

     

    In fact all the bad habits keep the soul from shining through and yet we believe we need these habits, we literally crave them, and what they are is a black out curtain for the soul.

     

    It is odd to me that we crave what keeps us from being our whole soulful self, and that we want the stuff that darkens who we are.

     

    Perhaps we want to darken our reality.

     

    We want to shut the shades on what is in order to survive…instead of taking actions to remove ourselves from situations in real life, we drape a curtain so we don’t have to see.

     

    It is amazing to me that we become so accustomed to living a life with a darkened drape, that we have no idea how to live a life without them.

     

    Julia Cameron is gently telling us what stands in the way from being you. What items we do to not be alive, aware and unique.

     

    By removing the junk food from our lives we can see what they were covering up.  The more we crave and hold on to things that are not good for our souls, the more chances there is big stuff we are not wanting to see, feel or respond to.

     

    For me, my big mess was revealed first.  I saw a whole life that I had no clue was going on underneath my dark curtain of denial, of self-numbing or fuzzy blurring of reality, and I then had to start eliminating things that contributed to the blanket of dysfunction.

     

    This blanket of dysfunction lived my life for 46 years, a thick layer of stuff that my soul was unable to shine forth through.

     

    It is surprising the difference between living as the dark curtain or the soul that lies beneath. 

    Smug mug pics 1003 
    This is one of my first quilts after the revealation of my big mess….and you can see the sliver of gold, which is the soul trying to emerge.  I called this the Soul Lost.  I now have a better understanding of this quilt 6 years or more later!

  • Art

    The contrasts in life are incredible and their depths unimaginable, the reach between them are so they do not touch nor do they brush up against each other, two drastically different worlds, yet on the same planet living and breathing in the same time frame.

     

    I had a short Artist Date followed by a conversation reporting more abuse in the FALC’s congregation; more horror of insidious acts perpetrated against children by highly regarded church members.  Tales whose reflection echoes my parents…and a friend’s suicide explained 25 years after it happened.  Swinging from Art to Horror within minutes.

     

    The Artist within me, just moments before had feasted upon colors and fabulously soft textures, from the curly silken softness of alpaca wool to real silk spun by a worm and then dyed by Artist’s hands…my spirit was alive and alert to new things dreaming of how they can be used in an upcoming project…visions of color and me.  I then was plunged into the harsh stark reality of abuse and its long term affects, my Artist disappears and my abused self arises, listening to the details of evil.

     

    The contrast of embracing and working with my Artist self while healing from sexual abuse as well as unhinging myself from a brainwashed mind is equally on the far ends of the spectrum, yet closely related.

     

    It almost seems like my artist self was hijacked by abuse and that religion; so in order to become my most artful self, I have to fully understand from whence I came.

     

    The horror stories of childhood abuse, and how it affected the life afterwards is horrific, but equally is the ‘normal’ presentation of the perpetrators and their warm reception by the folks of the church, it seems more profound.

     

    I told my brother I had more respect for the Klu Klux Klan folks for their agenda was front and center.

     

    Whereas the hierarchy of the church sells an agenda of high morals and values, setting limits on the evils of the world and how their congregations are made to adhere to rules forbidding pretty harmless sins.

     

    Watching of Television, to watching a movie, to nail polish, hair coloring, yet while the circles of abuse grow ever widening, while more and more children are born into the centers of crime, this seems violently insane.

     

    Sexual predators sit on the board and behind the pulpit, and false evils are handed out, while behind the scenes, children face the repressed darkness, alone.

     

    The singing in the pews can never be loud enough or sweet enough to heal the children who have been raped repeatedly, whose brainwashed state leaves them helpless for alternatives, who some find release in suicide or drugs and alcohol.

     

    The face of the church that is presented to the public is like the white sheet the Klu Klux Klan hid behind…  We are all fooled that the sheet is the man/woman instead of what lies behind.

     

    What lies behind is the pile of sins, the unhealed wounds of their own childhood, the eroded brain from too much washing, the unreality of life…who needs the trappings of the church in order to hide.

     

    I have often wondered of the deep-rooted fear that many struggle with about leaving the church, and I may have figured it out.  It isn’t the fear of going to Hell that keeps them there, but the covering of the sheet.

     

    They are too afraid to stand alone outside of the pews of the church.

     

    They need the covering of religion offers.

     

    They need the pretty faces of singing voices.

     

    They need it all to cover up what lies beneath.

     

    And what lies beneath un-addressed is the monster that continues to rape children and do extremely horrific deeds.  And this sheet, they believe, has the magic to bless it all away, that they can literally hid behind its whiteness.

     

    Sadly, it is true.

     

    For no one speaks of the filth underneath, nor do they address it, and haul it into the court of the land.  There are a few lonely voices trying to speak of above the hymns they sing so loudly as to not hear the cries…

     

    I do not know what it will take before their sheets fall once and for all, when the children unite and yank them off, when this vicious insanity will stop. 

     

    I get so incensed with the idea that this is called a ‘church’.

     

    It is the devils playground where children’s lives are sacrificed, where pedophiles reign supreme, and the brainwashed walk their narrow path, unquestioning, unchallenging, and unseeing to their final destination Heaven, to afraid of Hell to stop.  Yet no one tells them they are in Hell.

     

    The swing from Art to the harsh reality of sexual abuse hidden behind the white church…shows the distance I traveled, the valley of death that I traversed to be able to stand and ponder, Art.

     

     

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    Art is the complete opposite of that Hell.
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    The soul recognizes its worth in the wonder of Art.

     

  • Island of Love, Peace and Joy.

    Today while writing my Morning Pages, I wrote that I am feeling more like a self I recognize. A self who feels normal being estranged from her family, that I no longer feel so odd to myself, this new me feels like me now.

    That it is normal for me when it is Father’s Day to have no obligations or sentiments to deliver, nor do I feel the sinking feeling of sorrow…in its place is vast openness.

    No reservoirs of wishing and hoping, just space where a father used to live…there is acceptance of what is, minus the agony of it being so different than what I want.

    I am okay now.

    I am amazed at the journey out of denial or blindness to his truths and mine.

    In the first years of our estrangement I was riddled with grief and peace, hope and hopelessness, sorrow and fear and worry and wonder and angst of being a daughter with a living dad and not engaging with him in any way…I felt inadequate.

    I no longer feel less than… for his life.

    I no longer feel responsible for being a daughter with nothing to do on Father’s Day.

    I read on facebook some daughters feeling the loss of their dad; of missing him and wishing he was here. I feel none of that. Nor, am I one who is praising and send him accolades.

    I cannot relate to either of these kinds of daughters.

    The space I stand in is one of peace and I stand alone…okay and fine.

    It is not a land in between, but one of its own.

    This spot isn’t a place most would dream about and crave to be in, but a place that we land in order to heal from sexual abuse, child abuse or neglect, it’s the place we come to feel safe from our abusive parents, like an orphanage, but one where we are not looking to be adopted.

    Separation is key to our wellness and it is odd for others to phantom this concept, when it is their desire to remain close.

    We crave space, we desire no contact, we thrive in our silent relationship…this no relationship brings us peace. We are more alive in the absence of interactions, more authentic and feel our sense of who we were born to be come alive.

    This isn’t a purgatory state, or forgotten land, but rather a wonderful island of love, peace and joy.

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  • Her Shore.

    com·pas·sion (k m-p sh n)
    n.
    Deep awareness of the suffering of another coupled with the wish to relieve it.

    I didn’t realize that the depth of compassion equals the height of awareness, yet this confirms the way my mother responded to my abuse.

    Who knew that in order to be compassionate, you have to have a higher level of awareness and that you have to be able to see and hear and understand what happened?

    Without this awareness you simply can’t respond in kind…instead you appear indifferent, for you can’t reach the level needed for the scope of pain present.

    And it definitely feels you are uncaring and unkind and unresponsive to our pain, that it simply doesn’t matter enough…all we feel is your lack of awareness.

    I sat in my mother’s home and felt the drastic space between what I was aware of and where she was, the bleeding wound I was drowning in and how she seemed to be resting on the shore…how was it possible to witness my pain in such an unmoving way?

    Her awareness didn’t allow her to wade into the waters and she didn’t hear me from the shore, the distance was too great.

    It is my belief, that if you haven’t gone deep enough into your own pain, if you haven’t gotten your toes wet, it is really hard to have compassion. Or perhaps your level of compassion equals the level of your awareness.

    All I wanted from my mother was her eye to see me drowning, her ear to hear my cries or a hand reaching toward me, and in her unawareness…all she seen was a peaceful water scene, gentle waves and children frolicking in life, filled with love and peace…When in reality the seas were angry, the waves fearful and menacing, we struggled to keep our breath.

    As we looked upon her, she showed no signs of our distress nor made a move to rescue us.

    We were left to fight the ocean of abuse alone…the sea monsters, the brutal crushing waves, the bottomless sea…not able to make it to her shore.