Black is Never White, Up is Never Down

My malignant narcissistic sociopathic mother had ways of doing things to get to you. To teach you, not to do what was right, but to teach you to cater to her needs and moods. Somehow, I was supposed to have a mind connection to her so I would intuitively know what she felt, thought, and needed. If I didn’t, the punishment was swift and severe. Before she died, we had a conversation. She said she wanted to help me deal with my childhood issues. LOL! That should have been a red flag! But I took the bait. I bit in the insane hope that this time she meant it. That this time, she would be honest. That this time we would understand, and heal. How incredibly foolish of me. I was still dancing at the end of the marionette stings she was pulling.

“Mom, do you remember when I was nine, and you made me sit on the chair, with the threat of death if I got off it, and made me watch you die. You know, when you took all those pills?”

                “Yes, I do.”

“Mom, did you stop and wonder what that would do to my 9 year old mind? You made it my fault for some silly infraction I no longer remember. Maybe because I didn’t sweep the floor proper, or I didn’t properly make my bed, or forgot to comb my hair. You told me, that because I disobeyed you, you no longer wanted to live. You told me that if  I loved you, I would have followed your rules. Since I did not follow the rules, that meant I did not love you, and if I did not love you, you did not want to live any longer, and since it was my fault you did not want to live, I could watch you die.”
               
                “Yes, I do. You know what you did.”

“Mom. I was 9. What did I do that was so horrible that I had to go through that? What? Not brushing my teeth? Not picking up my dolls? What merited that kind of punishment?”

“Well, you need to understand what I was going through at that time. You never once stopped to think what I was going through, did you? You never stopped to thing about me once. It was all about you. You didn’t care that my marriage was falling apart, did you. No, you didn’t!!”

“Mom. I was 9. I’m supposed to be playing with my dolls and not worrying about my parents martial problems.”

“Well, then that’s the problem. If you only put yourself in my position then you would know and understand.”

_____

My mom’s marital problems at the time were of her own doing. She was having affairs and my father had left. He later sued for divorce and cited adultery with multiple men. He was granted the divorce AND custody of his children.  I have his divorce papers. My mother insisted the papers were fake. She claims the Catholic Church granted her an annulment due to my father’s desertion. This is after she had 4 children by him. Of course, it is not true.

Another time, I had really annoyed her. She was getting more and more violent, crazy, and impossible to please. The rages were frequent. She claimed that I was incorrigible and had proof that I was taking drugs and was promiscuous and asked for a commitment to a mental hospital. It was granted. I was 17. There are no words to describe the horror of being committed to a mental institution when there was nothing wrong with you. That the truth was you were being abused, mistreated, bullied, humiliated, tortured, shamed, and living in absolute fear!! Well, after all the assessments I was declared sane and a motion was made to make me a ward of the court due to the “psychopathic nature of the mother”. My mother fought it. She claimed the doctors were biased against her and demanded new doctors. The court granted her wishes so I was reassessed by more doctors. Their findings were the same. She fought again, and again. It took seven months before I was legally allowed to be released into a foster home. The court ruling was she had 7 days to comply with signing her parental rights over to the court of be committed herself. She signed. I was legally free of her, but I have never been free emotionally. She is there constantly, denying my reality. She visits my dreams and I wake up screaming. I dream that I am in a court, or in front of accusers showing proof of what she has done. I show pictures, documents, and testimonies and she and they laugh and deny it. Call me delusional. Call me evil. Call me wicked. Say I have a vivid imagination. Say I live in a fantasy world. That black is white. That truth is fiction.

While I was there. Committed against my will as a minor, my mother added shame and humiliation. She told my grandma, aunts and uncles, cousins, and schools that I had been committed due to drug use because I had destroyed my mind with them and was basically a vegetable. She told them that I was not allowed visitors. So, she cut me off from everyone. Imagine my surprise when I found out what she had done. I called my aunt up one day and she said "I am so glad that you are out of the hospital and doing so well now. Your mom said you were even unable to communicate. You aren't going to do drugs again, are you honey?" I was like "What?" I never did drugs. Not ever.

My adrenal glands produce too much adrenaline. It happens in some cases of PTSD. Some cases the adrenaline just spikes in certain situations. Mine stays up constantly. It is damaging my body organs. My doctor says it will take my life eventually unless I find a way to reduce it with meditation or reprogramming. My psychiatrists have said mine is among the worst of abuses they have seen and in cases like mine, it is very difficult, if not impossible to turn off the flow of adrenaline.

My mom made me promise before she died that I would tell our story. She did not want me to tell it while she lived and I wouldn’t have dared to speak a word of it. I lived in fear of her anger. She told me, that after she died, she wouldn’t care and just maybe, she said; it might help someone. That was the first time that I heard my mom consider somebody other than herself. A little glimmer of the possibility that there was a heart in her. That there was a little tiny bit of compassion and made a little understanding. I don’t know. I never could figure out her mind or what her needs were and if I did, the way I addressed them was always wrong.

I spent the last two years of her life being there for her. I bought her things, visited her, stayed with her. I encouraged her, forgave her, loved her. I cooked for her. And just about every time I was there, she would ask about my sister, about my brother, why they wouldn’t come, why they didn’t phone, why, why, why. Not “I’m so glad you are here.” Always, where are they. I was never good enough for her, even at the end when I was the one who was there. She wanted my other siblings. The ones who made her shine for a moment with their fame and talent. She longed for the spotlight to return. I couldn’t give her the fame so I was inconvenient.

I am glad that I worship and follow a God that accepts me.
“Therefore, accept each other in the same way that Christ accepted you. He did this to bring glory to God” (Romans 15:7)

I am also so extremely grateful that I have a God that allowed me to forgive my mom, and that he too forgives my mom. I don’t believe she ever asked for forgiveness because she does not think she did anything wrong, but have prayed and asked God to forgive her. I believe he answers prayer.

Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours. (Mark 11:24)

I believe I will see my mom in Heaven. I believe that all the things that happened here in this fallen world will fall away and we will we see each other as God intended. With Love.

Scattered Leaves

I have so much more to write, but the memories and events have come so fast that they blow around in my mind like the winds of fall that scatter the leaves. You run after them to catch them, thinking you are crafty and quick, but they are smarter and dance off in a different direction. Just like life. Just when you think you have it figured out and it goes a different way. One you never imagined or one you never wanted. But it is. And it gets dealt with in a clumsy, inexperienced and bumbling sort of way and we live to face the next dance. With a narcissist, there a many dances. The dances even change mid song. You can never learn the steps.

I saw a psychologist this week and she asked me why I still see my mother or even wish to. What was I hoping to get out of it. I told her I really had no idea. That maybe it was simply what people do. How cruel to let someone die alone. I said maybe I was trying to get a glimpse of who my mother really was. To see behind the mirror. My answers were as empty as our relationship.

They psychologist looked at me and said, "You won't find her. She is gone; if she ever even existed. Abuse done to the extent that causes one to become like my mother completely destroys the person and erases from the mind who they were. She was gone the moment this event took place. You can't find her. The best thing is to let go and walk away.".

I don't know how to do that. I want my mother. I want to make it okay for her. I want her to know that someone loves her despite what has happened. But she is apparently incapable of understanding love. I don't get it. Love can move mountains. Can it not heal a broken mind? A mother's mind? My mother's mind?

This journey veered off course and has left me lonely, and empty.  I am hollow. A mother sized hole in my psyche, my body. I did not expect his.

Rejected Again

Rejected Again

My mother is dying. She has been dying for as long as I remember, but now; she is really dying. A dying malignant narcissist sociopath is said to be one of the most dangerous kinds of people that exist. To that I reply, “Then you never met my mother.”

Dying narcissistic sociopaths go on a rampage when they are dying. They are envious of your talents, your health, your age, your everything; and they want to take it from you. It belongs to them and you can’t have it because they deserve. How dare you rob them of the very things they desire. They will take your life given a half-second of opportunity. My mother again, came close to succeeding.

A few weeks ago I ended up in the psychiatric ward of a local hospital suffering from emotional exhaustion. I just couldn’t stop crying. The badgering from my MNPD mother tossed me to and fro and around and around. Spinning head? That hardly begins to describe what was going on in my head. The force of an F5 tornado may be close. I spent 7 days there with my mom throwing fits and demanding to talk to my doctors, my nurses and anyone with which she could play the concerned and worried victim mother.

I get out of the hospital to go into the storm and spend 3 days with my mom. I prepared myself. I was armed with God. The last day of my stay we went to the Cancer clinic together. My MNPD mother was in so much pain having the bone biopsy done. She had to lay flat on her back on an ice pack for 40 minutes to allow the puncture in her spine to close up. She was tossing around unable to stay still. I climbed on the stretcher and place my one leg over hers and cradled her head in my arms and stroked her hair to help her with her pain. We both fell asleep. Being with my mom IS exhausting. The nurse came and woke us up 40 minutes later. She said it was the sweetest thing she saw and that we must love each other very much. My mom said, “Well, she IS my daughter, of course I love her. With all my heart.” I, in the meantime am thinking “if you only knew”.

That moment. That 40 minutes is one on the most precious 40 minutes I spent with my mother in my 60.5 years of life. That cannot be deleted from my mind. I will treasure that until I greet my maker. Forty minutes that I would not give up for anything.

The next day she in the hospital with a heart attack, pneumonia, and a urinary tract infection. The following day I go to see her with a photo she wanted, and a rosary from my sister. She refused to see me. No reason. Just no. Then the nurse said she didn’t want my gifts. That I could take them home. Not wanted. Me, or gifts. Rejected. Crushed. Like a bug. Nothing.

My mom used to tell me to go kill myself. Then she said if I didn’t that she would. I learned to want to die without her saying the words. I wanted to die. Again. All over again. And again. Insanity.

For some reason my MNPD mother wishes me dead. If I take my own life then it is murder by proxy. She has successfully navigated the walls of my defenses and has convinced me that there is no other way. The pain becomes so great that I can no longer live with it. I don’t want to die, but merely to have the pain cease. Logic is gone from my brain. You cannot discuss anything logically with a sociopath. It will become so twisted that you will never find your way out. The tangled mess of the trail will tighten around your neck until you stop breathing. I felt like dying yesterday but I did not harm myself as has been my practice. I had the thought but no intent as I did when I wrote the following poem in 2013.

Living to Die

Today is the day I live to die
Waiting for Morpheus as I close my eyes
Hoping to shut them for one last time
Peace at last, quietly divine.

But day breaks in and I open my eyes,
Today again I live to die,
The trail of my tears evaporated
Veins on my arms lacerated.

Today  is the day I live to die.
Empty eyes turned to the sky
Arms outstretched above my head
“Take me now for I’m already dead!

My shattered heart beats the lie
Today again I live to die.
There is no tomorrow left in me
Just today when I cease to be.

Today again I live to die
Scream out loud with a primal cry
And tug at the chains that shackle me.
They keep the victory of death from me.

Is my eternal rest nearby?
When every day I live to die?
My blood has dried, my tears are dry
Your aim was true, I’m dead inside.

Today again I live to die,
To look for the light on the other side.
To take this darkness away from me
The shell of who I used to be.

Katie “Vinjette” Kristoffer 2013

I don’t need to die for my mother. Jesus has already been the sacrifice for her and for me. What she wants me to believe is the lies. Only Jesus can save me and he already paid the price. My death will not make my mom happy for she will look for her next victim. Only Jesus can save her and he already paid the price.

Romans 5:8

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

I have made many mistakes along the way. I get them pointed out quite often, but the end of the stick is not so sharp any longer and doesn’t hurt as much as it once did. The point doesn’t pierce me as it pierced my Lord who was nailed on the cross. He paid the price for all my mistakes. All my sins. Everything. I don’t owe my mother, my children, my spouse, my friends, or anyone; anything. It’s all been paid. In full. I thank my Jesus for his wonderful gift which I accept fully. My mom rejected my gift but I will not reject the gift Jesus offers. I too, hope my mother accepts his gift of amazing love.

1 Timothy 1:12-17

I am grateful to Christ Jesus our Lord, who has strengthened me, because he judged me faithful and appointed me to his service, even though I was formerly a blasphemer, a persecutor, and a man of violence. But I received mercy because I had acted ignorantly in unbelief, and the grace of our Lord overflowed for me with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus.

The saying is sure and worthy of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners - of whom I am the foremost. But for that very reason I received mercy, so that in me, as the foremost, Jesus Christ might display the utmost patience, making me an example to those who would come to believe in him for eternal life. To the King of the ages, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever. Amen. -NSRV

The Deafening Silence

I guess 25 years of silence was non enough for my mom including 40 years of almost no contract. She has now embarked on the the silent treatment which is starting the 3rd week. She is angry because I did not stay with her when hubby went away so I am being punished. People with my mother's disorder will invoke the silent treatment upon their victim for days, weeks, and even longer, often with no explanation, as a way to control and demoralize their victim. These disordered people are fond of using the Silent Treatment as a cruel (but not unusual) punishment for doing nothing wrong at all and, from experience, I can tell you that the affect of this method of control is sheer torture. At time same time I relish the peace,but stress at the potential call which may come soon. It is likely to hateful, spiteful, venomous, and full of rage and reasons why it is all my fault. It is no wonder sleep escapes me and anxiety levels are climbing. She says if my God was as good as I claim that he would have fixed me already, and her too, so what good is he?

It is exhausting being with her, thinking about her, staying one step ahead of her, avoiding the traps, the pitfalls, and the web she is constantly weaving to ensnare you. Sometimes I have to stop writing and to stop thinking. I have to forget she exists in order to remain sane, but she will not beat me. She will not win because I have love on my side. Love always wins.

My heart beats love
tiny beads of love that burst
into big balloons that fill the sky.

There are so many
that hate can't find it's way
to fill my heart like it did yesterday.

Just great giant balloons
pressing together the pieces
of my broken and beating heart.

God turns my hate into love, my pain into beauty. She cannot destroy what God has spoken into being.

Dissociation, a side effect of Malignant Narcissist Psychopaths and other Abusers

Dissociation is a psychological term used to describe people who disconnect from their surroundings. I can be akin to daydreaming while watching TV or reading a book to more severe forms such as amnesia and multiple personality disorders.  It is often brought about by severe childhood trauma such as physical, psychological, and sexual abuse. These children have experienced severe abuse and violence.

I dissociate and I have amnesia. Along with the descriptions of dissociative disorders I experience depersonalization, and psychological numbing. Traumatic abuse which brings about these disorders/symptoms also appear in conjunction with anxiety, PTSD, low self-esteem, somatization, depression, chronic pain, interpersonal dysfunction, substance abuse, self-mutilation and suicidal ideation or actions (Wikipedia).  I have or continue to experience the items in bold.

I dissociate. What does that mean? How did/does it happen? When did it happen? Do I know when it happens? How often does it happen? Am I crazy? So many questions. The mind is very mysterious in the ways it tries to protect itself and preserve the life of the person in who’s body it resides. Yet the way it tries to protect the person also ends up harming them. Strange, isn’t it?

Dissociation is a defense mechanism where people are being severely abused. It often goes undiagnosed, as it did in my case. My problem was I was abused as a child, or had depression, or drank too much, or was unhappy in my job or in my marriage. I went to doctors and counselors and not a single one was able to differentiate between abuse and sever abuse. There was agreement that I had PTSD but no one had any solutions or even seemed to be concerned about it. Get therapy was sometimes the only answer I got. So I got therapy. It never addressed the issues I had. What were the issues? The issues were the damage done to my mind by the relentless evil done by a malignant narcissist psychopath mother. They therapists talked about the abuse, how it was not my fault, about trying to forgive, but never about what it had done to me. How my brain was now wired incorrectly, how my thinking had been altered, that I had anxiety because I lived in a constant state of fear and the radar was running constantly. That I had obsessive thoughts because of the fear. That fear manifested in anxiety and made me sound angry. That I have no self-esteem whatsoever, that I was having anxiety attacks. That I lived a life of co-dependent behaviors that denied my needs. My children might disagree with that statement because I know it appeared different to them. It is much more complicated than appearances. They never told me that my suicide attempts, self-harm, and insomnia were all part of the abuse and gave me pills for depression. They did not clue in to my stomach, heart, and bowel problems that they were related to the abuse. I had to wait until I was almost 60 years old to find the connections and it makes me angry.

Dissociation. Defense. Interesting. What am I defending when I do nothing physically? I am there passively, and not doing anything to defend myself. Well, I guess the mind goes to battle for you by creating ways for you to not be there mentally, or to numb you emotionally from what is happening, and in worse case scenarios it wipes it from your mind or even creates another persona who lives the memory for you. It sounds really crazy, but you have done it yourself when you have been driving, and sort of zone out and then wonder how you got to where you are.

I was beaten physically and emotionally every single day. I was physically beaten with a 4 – 5 inch wide piece of conveyor belt. Bare bottom, over the knee. A predetermined amount of strikes would be decided and if I moved or put my hands over my bottom, the count would start over. The highest number at one time that I can remember was 30. By the time the 30 were given all at once I was hit many times that number. At a point you become exhausted, you cannot feel anymore, you have no more tears. You have nothing. Nothing. Absolute emptiness. It was during one of these times that I dissociated. I left me and went up into the corner of the room and it was like I was watching myself on a movie screen. I wasn’t there. It happened many times after that. It is a strange experience. I don’t know if I really wasn’t there, or just sort of numbed the experience, because I still felt the blows; but it was like it wasn’t happening to me. I was disconnected and like two people.

When I am very afraid or anxious today I still look in the direction of the corner and can still go there. These repressed emotions come manifest in fear and anxiety and can result in self-harming and suicidal thoughts and attempts. I didn't know I dissociated until it was pointed out by my therapist. He raised his voice and two fingers and pointed to his eyes and said, “Stay here! Look here! Focus your eyes on mine.” I tried to relay what I had been saying to him while looking him in the eye, and I was overwhelmed with emotions. Pain. Grief. Sadness. Anger. Rage. I cried. Emotions I had blocked by dissociating had begun to come to the surface. I told him I couldn't talk about it anymore. I’m not so sure that I’m liking this a whole lot. It feels like I don’t connect with my emotions for a reason, but at the same time I’m feeling lighter. Happier and angrier, peaceful and agitated, mad and glad. A seesaw going up and down. Like a boat tossed in the ocean being tossed here and there. A literal roller coaster of gut wrenching emotions that feel that the are simultaneously setting me free and tearing me apart at the same time.

I know I have amnesia over certain events as I can only remember parts of them. Just recently I have discovered that I have amnesia over even more. After a bad time with my MNM I started to see and hear shadowy figures in my mind. They are telling me something but I can’t hear them. I don’t know who there are because I only see dark shadows. It’s important. I feel that. I sense that. They scare me, but I am assured by my professionals that I needn’t be afraid.

I want to know why my MNM wanted to kill me that one particular day. I want to know why she stopped. I need to know. When I try to remember or talk about it hysteria and bile rises up in my throat and such panic and fear rises and I’m on the verge of losing my mind screaming in my head, my insides, out loud, “I can’t remember! I can’t remember, I DON”T REMEMBER!” I am absolutely frozen in terror and I want to know what it is that I can’t remember.

I depersonalize. Sometimes I feel that I’m watching myself like in a movie. I feel disconnected and unable to connect. To people. To myself. To my surroundings. At times I feel invisible. I don’t exist. It’s an alternate reality that I don’t like and I don’t belong there. I want to be connected with the world. It is like there is an invisible wall that prevents me from connecting. I feel numb and I find it difficult to be completely present. I hide in my mind. I close the doors. I zone out. I lose hours and hours of time in my head. I may write more on this later.

The damage from these evil people is so deep that it sometimes cannot be undone. I am so angry. How could I know? People ask me “How could you?” when they look at some of the mistakes I have made in my life. My children ask, “How could you?” when I was angry, or when I tried to commit suicide. My counselors ask me, “How could you not?” People asked me why I drank and my counselor asks, “How could you not.” My family wants to know why I didn’t do better at life than what I did and my counselors ask, “How could you?” I tear at my arms and people ask "How could you?" and the professionals say "Why wouldn't you?" Finally, I thank God that finally, someone gets it. They know what it is like to be me. My God I cry, they get it!

As I learn of the damage done to me I am learning to forgive me. I used to wonder all the time, “How could you?” The voice of my evil, critical MNPM asking me over and over “How could you? You have yourself to thank for this!” and she would swing the strap at me. Many times in the humiliating position of pants down and over her knee, or my stepfathers. Many times, totally naked as she had ripped the clothes off of me. In front of my stepfather who molested me.  In front of my brothers, my sister. “HOW COULD YOU? YOU USELESS PIECE OF S***! YOU’D BE BETTER OFF DEAD! I SHOULD KILL YOU! WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THAT? NOTHING! OF COURSE NOT, BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN SAY. YOU ARE USELESS. YOU DESERVE THIS. YOU ASKED FOR THIS. I HATE YOU. YOU ARE LUCKY YOU ARE STILL ALIVE! NOW BEND DOWN!”

Shame, guilt, humiliation, and tears were the clothes I wore. How could you? How dare you ask me that. Indeed, how could I have been anything other than what I was. I feel sad for that girl, for that mom, and for me. I tried really hard to be everything that my MNM wasn’t. I was nothing like her, but I still failed. I forgive myself  for not being perfect. I’m told I had to. I was deceived and deeply damaged. The majority of people in the same situation end up dead, or drug addicts, homeless, in jail, living on the street. They are unable to have long term relationships, keep their children, and many end up in psychiatric hospitals and unable to function with any normalcy in society. Looking at the statistics, I did well. If God can forgive me, I can forgive me.

I long for my day of maturity when I will no longer be tossed about by my emotions and I hold tightly to God’s promise:

Ephesians 4:14 Then we will no longer be infants, tossed back and forth by the waves, and blown here and there by every wind of teaching and by the cunning and craftiness of people in their deceitful scheming.

My clothing of shame and guilt have been traded in and my God dresses me as he pleases for His glory.

Isaiah 61: 10 I will rejoice greatly in the LORD, My soul will exult in my God; For He has clothed me with garments of salvation, He has wrapped me with a robe of righteousness, …

The Narcissist Ballet

The narcissist always has a force of flying monkeys at her disposal. They are always ready to do her bidding. Many are willing victims and others are deceived and have no idea the role they play in the narcissist's life. I am dismayed at the knowledge that even I have been a flying monkey. They are artfully and skillfully manipulated by the Narcissist.

If I were a dancer I would create a ballet about this delicate dance of doom. I wanted to dance when I was young. I brought home ballet books and when my MNM was not around I would practice the difficult foot positions and imagine myself dancing for crowds of adoring fans. There was something so pretty and beautiful in this dance. It was the stuff of fairy tales for me. My mother said she sent me to tap dance lessons and I cried and had no talent so she never sent me again. She said if I had wanted to dance I would have danced when I had the opportunity to do so. I guess it never occurred to her that maybe at four year of age I may not have been ready. My sister was the one who got the dancing lessons and she suffered horribly as the favoured daughter. I would not have wanted to dance in her shoes.

My ballet would have me, as the heroine; dressed in white. I would be on the stage, a wisp of being, very ethereal and delicate. I would be running hither and thither trying to escape the flying monkeys and my evil mother. The monkeys would be a dark grey and would have green faces. They would have big scary wings that they would flap at me and I would be scared and run and jump away from them. I would hide my face with my arm to protect myself from their onslaughts. I would look over my shoulder in fear.

My MNM would have a mask. One side would be beautiful and it would be the side that she would show to the flying monkeys. They would love her, pity her, help her, believe her, and adore her. What a beautiful woman she is, and that is how the narcissist gets her victims. I would see the ugly, green, jealous, envious, evil side of her face. The true face. The scapegoat child, me; always sees the truth and becomes the truth teller if they survive. She turns to me in her macabre dance and you can see her mouth moving to spew out words of hate and destruction. Her fingers are pointed in bony accusations towards me. Her dress black and tattered with decay.

She then spins and pirouttes towards her monkeys and swoops with and adoring arms wide open welcome. They dance a celebratory dance in their mutual admiration for one another. I run all over the stage looking for escape as I watch in mute silence, knowing what will happen.

The flying monkeys and my MNM nod and laugh in agreement and move in on my. I am tossed like a ship in the sea, and I flounder trying to get away. My evil MNM is directing them, arms waving madly in the arm, swooping her and there, commanding her army. The monkeys spin faster and faster. Their arms stretched out they knock me from side to side. Their legs come up as they pirouette faster and faster, arms and legs flying.

I dance faster and faster. The fear is in my face and I know my fate. I am caught by the leg of one of the monkeys and fall crashing to the ground still and silent. Crumpled, broken, and dead.

Soul murder. You can only withstand the onslaught of such evil for so long. When you are attacked from all sides and there is no way to escape you will fall. When you are so ripped apart and you have nothing with which to compare the truth, you believe the lies.

"You deserve to die."
"You don't deserve to live."
"Why don't you kill yourself."
"You'd be better off dead."
"You useless piece of s***. You'd be better off if you were out of all our miseries."
"Tell me why I should let you live."
"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you."
"You're a coward and suicide is the cowards way out. Why don't you try it?"
"It would be better that you killed yourself before I do it for you."
"Why do you want to live? You aren't good for anything."
"Do you know how much I hate you and want you dead?"

The first time I can recall trying to take my life I was about 12 years old. I ended up in the hospital for about 2 weeks. I drank almost an entire gallon jug of vinegar. It said pure alcohol on the side and I heard my mother talking about people dying from drinking alcohol. It didn't work. I gave myself a case of pancreatitis which puzzled the doctors. I was too young. I didn't dare tell them why.

When I was about 13 I tried to hang myself. It didn't work. I told my stepfather and he told me not to do that again. No help from the flying monkey. Not even a bit of concern.

When I was thirteen I drove a big rusty nail through my hand hoping to get tetanus and die. We took it in health and I learned about it. I didn't die. Didn't even get infected.

Stupid things. Desperate things. I made more attempts, the most serious when I was 17, and the last one when I was 39. I fight suicidal thoughts all the time.

I will dance a new dance now to my God. The old dance is no longer who I am.

Psalm 30:11  You turned my wailing into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
12 that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent.
Lord my God, I will praise you forever.

I am thankful that I now know my worth as well. This is what the Bible tells me I am worth:

Matthew 10:29-31 Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.
But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.
Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.

Isaiah 13:12 I will make a man more precious than fine gold; even a man than the golden wedge of Ophir.

I Don't Like the Dark

Evil grows in the dark
Where the sun it never shines
Evil grows in cracks and holes
And lives in people's minds
-Poppy Family

I don’t like the dark. I don’t think I am afraid of the dark, I just don’t like the dark. Bad things happen in the dark. My mother’s mind is dark. It is shrowded and covered in the mystery that is her, and nothing will penetrate that darkness. Not even love that conquer even the hardest hearts. She keeps who she is closely guarded and will not let anyone in to see who she is besides evil. She tells this person this much, and that person that much, and much of the much is lies. Dark is evil.

My MNM did bad things in the dark. When I was about 6 years old we moved into a house that had a cellar. A dark, damp, decaying, that smelled like decay and damp earth. I think it would smell like that if you were buried alive. There were big spiders under the stairs and in the corners. There were some wet spots where water dripped and they held salamanders. One little light with a pull chain barely lit this dark place.

Somehow or other, in my MNM’s brain, she decided this was a good way to punish me. To place me in the cellar and drop the trap door on my head and fingers as I tried to claw my way out. I could scream as loud as I could, until I had no more voice; and no one would hear me. I would cry until I had no more tears and no more voice. I even fell asleep sometimes. I don’t know how long I spent down there. Then one day I realized I could turn on the light. I would hear the footsteps across the floor and know when she was coming and turn it off again.  What a small relief! At least I could see where the spiders and salamanders were and keep my eyes on them. It was no less frightening.

One day I was tricked. I guess perhaps I hadn’t been screaming or crying enough so she tiptoed to the cellar door and pulled it open and caught me red-handed. That day the light bulb was removed. I hated the cellar, I hated the dark, I hated the person who put me there, I hated myself for being unlovable, and I hated God for making me. Yet I prayed to him to make me loveable and to make me good.

On this same property we had some outbuildings. One was a coal shed where the coal for our stove was delivered. If you have never experienced coal, well; it is very dusty and it is very black. Dark. The dust is everywhere and the smallest breeze stirs it up. One of my MNM’s gleeful punishments was to place me in the coal shed and tell me to stand there. It was always in the summer and I only remember it being done when I had my white socks and black patent shoes on. Prairie summers can be oppressive and in a coal shed with one closed window, it was sweltering. I would be told to stand there and not get dirty, that if there was any coal on my socks I would be in so much trouble. I would stand there for what felt to be an eternity. I don’t know sometimes if it was 5 minutes or five hours. Little kids fidget. Gosh, adults even fidget if they are hot and have to stand in place. But I couldn’t even shift my feet because of the dust that would come up. Black, dark, dust. I hate coal and the blackness, and the dark.

Bedtimes. Again the dark. I slept in a bed with two brothers. I’d be sent to bed and be told not to make a sound and go to sleep. She’s always hear something. Sometimes she really did, but many times she imagined it. Those times were really hard for my punishment wasn’t justified. I really disliked bedtimes for a number of reasons. This one was plain crazy. I’d have to sleep on the chair. If I didn’t want to sleep in bed I’d have to sleep on the chair. That was the reasoning. You see, if I wanted to sleep in bed, I would have gone to sleep and not talked, therefore I didn’t want to sleep in bed. I would get so cold on the chair as the coal in the stove would burn down. I would itch. Sometimes I fell asleep and then sometimes I fell off when I fell asleep. I’d cry and only get yelled at. “Maybe next time when I say go to sleep you’ll listen. You have yourself to thank for this!” I don’t know how many times my head cracked the floor and it really hurt. I learned not to cry because then she tied me into the chair with a large tea towel. That was horrible because I could move around, or fidget to well, or scratch places that itched. The nights were so very long, and dark. I really don’t like the dark.

So much more happened in the dark and many things happened that we were told to keep in the dark. Don’t talk, don’t tell, don’t remember, don’t bring me shame, don’t embarrass me, don’t make me beat you…..just don’t. Don’ t live, don’t think, don’t care, don’t feel, don’t love, don’t hate….why don’t you just stop existing.

I know that it wasn’t me now, and yet that doesn’t make the damage to my mind and my body go away. I understand, I get it; but it doesn’t make me better. I am angry and I want to cry and cry and cry. I spin in circles and don’t know which way to go or what to do. I want to hurt my MNM and I want to help her. I want her to suffer and I want to save her. I am double minded and tortured. I want to rage, but at who? My MNM doesn’t even get that she has done anything wrong and will make me the crazy person. God? What does he have to do with this except to hold me close to his heart. My life is my gold that God will use to help others. If I let him. Of course I am. Something good must come out of this because I do not want my entire life to be nothing but sadness.

My MNM wants to keep her secrets and she wants me to keep her secrets and others don’t want me to tell my story, but God is compelling me tell it. I heard him very clearly one day tell me that I had buried my gold and I must dig it up and use it. My life is my gold and God and I, with his help; will use it for good.

Genesis 50:20 You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.