Forensic Analysis –

“If suffering like hers had any use, she reasoned, it was not to the sufferer. The only way that an individual’s pain gained meaning was through its communication to others.”  ― Diane Wood Middlebrook, Anne Sexton: A Biography 

floweerheaad

 

I reach through the fodder of my mental plane wreck, grasping, trying to make sense of it. Like a forensic crash analyst, I picked up pieces of my shattered self and held them up to the light, turning them over and over looking for reasons of the devastation. Is it operator error? Did the machine break? Was it an act of God? Did someone fail to address issues that led to this? These questions are valid even when looking at my human psyche, and to that end I believe that all apply. I made mistakes, very big mistakes, and even if I were normal and my mind healthy, mistakes would still happen. Yes, the machine is broken, it’s totally fucking obvious to anyone who knows me for any length of time that I’m fucked up in the head, that shit ain’t right with this guy. People contributed to this trashing of my soul: abuse, neglect, rape, bullied, rejected, abandoned, violent brutal attacks on my body and mind, yep, all done by others. The sad thing’s not that these happened, ’cause shit happens to everyone, but that, like in movies when they dunk the guy underwater then before he can take a breath he is shoved underwater again, it’s the frequency of the shit that keeps hitting my fan. I’ll barely have a hold on my PTSD and I’ll be attacked violently, or someone will violate my space by stealing from me, betraying me, or whatever. It happens over and over again. What in the hell is God trying to show me? What fucking possible good can there come of my constant devastation? I’ve held on this long because I’m so concerned about taking the next breath that I can barely see beyond right now, in fact, dreams of the future are gone, if they ever were there. I only remember one dream, that of being a veterinarian. It was shot to hell very quickly as I got bullied and fucked with, even by teachers and adults. So that’s it, I was given one dream, it’s gone, so fuck me, all I have to look forward to is catching my breath the next time life pulls my head out from under the water. OK, wait, some self righteous asshole from the back says, “You carry yourself like a victim, that’s why you keep getting attacked.” Oh, fuck me, is that the answer? It’s my fault? Hell, well now I’m all better, thanks. This is not a whining rant where I want people to feel sorry for me, its mainly a way of examining the evidence and helping me toward recovery from all this shit. I don’t want advice, I just want to fucking yell at the trees and mountains ’til I’ve exhausted all my homicidal and suicidal screams, ’til I’ve cried all my tears and I can’t cry anymore, scream and scream until I break down and stop fighting against life. I’ve survived what would have killed most people, I’m still holding on to shreds of sanity and empathy that many would have lost by now. I’ll be OK, and perhaps somehow, I’ll find out how to piece this shit back together, but I seriously doubt it will ever fly again.

Also published in Broowaha

Also published in Opinionsofeye.com

 

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Spiritual Guidance –

“She’s not showing any interest in me and she looks like she doesn’t want to be here. Should I take off her handcuffs? I thought kidnap victims were supposed to fall in love with their captors?
” ― Jarod Kintz
 

horrorchic87

Help me! I can’t see and my eye is swollen and throbbing, my lips cracked and parched, and I taste blood. He has me bound and my breathing’s painful from what I think are my broken ribs. I cough up blood and spit it out on my dress, why did I think he’d take care of me, protect me and guide me? That innocent dream’s gone as I hear the sound of his breathing in the next room. Does anyone know I’m here? Does anyone care? I should’ve made different choices, followed advice, and been more careful. This is my fault isn’t it? I begged for this he said, because I dressed the way I did. My walk was the lure, because my hips swayed a little too much, because I was confident and had long hair that fueled his desire. I struggled against the stiffness settling in on my body and mind, perhaps the shock’s wearing off. God I hope someone is praying for me. I feel around trying to find something that will help me out of here. As I fumbled around I bumped the door and it budged! Peering out of the small crack I see evidence of him all over, liquor bottles and clutter. Opening the door a little farther and I notice that he’s passed out on the chair with drug shit all over the table in front of him. Seeing my chance , I struggled to stand and barely made it up before falling with a thud on the floor. A shudder of stifled terror filled my panicked breaths believing that the fall would wake him. With my head on the floor I saw a knife just at the edge of the couch. With great effort I managed to get my hands on it, and began cutting the leather belt that held my hands. Damn the movies make this look easy, but it takes for fucking ever to do it and I manage to give myself quite a few slices before I’m actually am free. My adrenaline is kicking in hard but it beats back the haze that’s growing over my thoughts and making me dizzy when I stand. I hold the knife firmly, thinking that as I work my way past him I would drive it right through his eye, but I didn’t, I just wanted out of here and a chance to live. I didn’t think I wanted to live and I’m ashamed now knowing how bad I just want out of this and to be alive. I opened the door and ran through the street grabbing a cab that happened to be dropping off his passenger. I should go to the cops, but I don’t, I just go back to my apartment. He knows me and he’ll be back, after all, every pastor should know where the ladies in his congregation live.

Also published in Opinionsofeye.com

The Wannabe Predator

Left with what you gave me. Now I must go on, and everyone looks at me, asking how, when, why? Their curiosity is violating more than your rape. They want to live vicariously through you, look at what you did, voyeurs. They act innocent, but hungrily they gather up the details of your crime against me. How many armchair rapists are there out in the world? Just like a game they imagine the details of their called shots and by the popular “hits” they measure their satisfaction. Damn you all, I was captive, a sex slave, and all that want to see my story are freaks! You drool at the story, thinking you wish you had me, and what you would DO! I tell my story and you hungrily lick it up, thankful it wasn’t you who got caught, but your imaginations betray your feigned innocence. It happened to me, yes, but why do you pretend to care? Your jealous that it wasn’t you who commanded my sex for years. Fuck you all! Of the thousands of “likes” of my story, most are perverted “wannabe’s” you don’t have the fucking courage to do what he did to me. Your worse then he is, you pretend innocence more than he! Yes I was a captive, made a sexual slave, but do you have to lust after his experience? Fuck you! I see you, I know you, your internet anonymity is a farce because I know and see you! Stop lusting after my story you fucking perverts!

Victim of love?

 “…and so will the world end, I think, a victim of love rather than hate. For love’s ever been the more destructive weapon, sure.” – Stephen King, The Dark Tower

deppography

Speak to me of love’s glories and I’ll show you the teeth of this wild thing. Love is used as a lever to control people and deliver them to the slaughter. I think of the lonely woman, in love with her man. He beats her, cusses her, rapes her, and demeans her at every turn, yet, because of love, she stays with him. I think of mean and nefarious men who hold a woman captive and force her compliance by threatening her family. Her love for her family is the means by which they control her. Men are not exempt from this cruel trick of nature. I’ve seen a man destroy his family, his career, and ultimately his life because he fell in “love” with another woman. I’ve seen the drug addicted lead many down the road to ruin by courting their love and then using them till they are reduced to only a crust of bread for dinner. I’ve seen children, holding their parents hostage by the same love shown them. When will it end? When will I see that love is evil in this way. It constrains me to act in harmful and completely unreasonable courses of action. It forces me to make choices that are in the end, all the worse things that could be done.

Here is the mistake – Love is not the holy stamp of approval on my dealings with humanity. Love does not guarantee the success or validity of a relationship. I see the reality and necessity of love, but only as a by-product of a healthy relationship, not as the final goal. The relationship should not be ruled by this love, but give birth to it, then raise it in subjection. How should I act when faced with my “love”? Love needs a system of checks and balances. A spiritual check can help control my direction, whether this is a good choice or bad. A logic check is important as well. Seriously, can my love for an abuser, child molester, or addict be expressed best by exposing myself and my family to his/her aberrations? Love will choose the death of the loved one for the best of the whole. If I am held hostage, my wife being raped, my belongings pilfered, all under the threat of killing my children, I say, “Be damned! I’ll not let them ravage my life using that lever of love. If I give in and allow the pillaging of my life, what will be left for the children, or woman, or whoever is the object used to force my compliance? What is left is a broken and shattered form, unable to provide for the family in any way. This is what is left for love when it is used to violate: brokenness, shattered dreams, and an inability to provide. Let us, my friends, be careful to not let love lead us down these treacherous paths and check ourselves lest we be found as victims of love.

Victim of love?

 “…and so will the world end, I think, a victim of love rather than hate. For love’s ever been the more destructive weapon, sure.” – Stephen King, The Dark Tower

deppography

Speak to me of love’s glories and I’ll show you the teeth of this wild thing. Love is used as a lever to control people and deliver them to the slaughter. I think of the lonely woman, in love with her man. He beats her, cusses her, rapes her, and demeans her at every turn, yet, because of love, she stays with him. I think of mean and nefarious men who hold a woman captive and force her compliance by threatening her family. Her love for her family is the means by which they control her. Men are not exempt from this cruel trick of nature. I’ve seen a man destroy his family, his career, and ultimately his life because he fell in “love” with another woman. I’ve seen the drug addicted lead many down the road to ruin by courting their love and then using them till they are reduced to only a crust of bread for dinner. I’ve seen children, holding their parents hostage by the same love shown them. When will it end? When will I see that love is evil in this way. It constrains me to act in harmful and completely unreasonable courses of action. It forces me to make choices that are in the end, all the worse things that could be done.

Here is the mistake – Love is not the holy stamp of approval on my dealings with humanity. Love does not guarantee the success or validity of a relationship. I see the reality and necessity of love, but only as a by-product of a healthy relationship, not as the final goal. The relationship should not be ruled by this love, but give birth to it, then raise it in subjection. How should I act when faced with my “love”? Love needs a system of checks and balances. A spiritual check can help control my direction, whether this is a good choice or bad. A logic check is important as well. Seriously, can my love for an abuser, child molester, or addict be expressed best by exposing myself and my family to his/her aberrations? Love will choose the death of the loved one for the best of the whole. If I am held hostage, my wife being raped, my belongings pilfered, all under the threat of killing my children, I say, “Be damned! I’ll not let them ravage my life using that lever of love. If I give in and allow the pillaging of my life, what will be left for the children, or woman, or whoever is the object used to force my compliance? What is left is a broken and shattered form, unable to provide for the family in any way. This is what is left for love when it is used to violate: brokenness, shattered dreams, and an inability to provide. Let us, my friends, be careful to not let love lead us down these treacherous paths and check ourselves lest we be found as victims of love.

Stray Dog

“There is nothing like wounded affection for giving poignancy to anger.”
― Elizabeth Gaskell, Wives and Daughters 

 

“On the lips of my lover, lies a betrayal so near

Hearing words of hate, her lips rape my ear

If it came from my enemy, this trouble I could bear

I would understand, my mind made aware

But the kiss that offends, with violence brings a tear

Comes on the lips of my lover, our love a lethal snare”

– DMW

It was you, my closest friend. All my secrets I held out for you to know, believing your promise of fidelity, but, you have betrayed me. Quickly love turns to anger, the jump is not that far. Passion that today ignites my soul with pleasure indescribable, tomorrow burns me to the ground with anger that refuses satisfaction. Using my love as a means to extract from me the duty of provision, now, you bring destruction with your kiss. I had a stray dog that I couldn’t keep. I threw stones at it with tears in my eyes. The dog didn’t understand my stones were of love, we couldn’t be together, so I had to make it leave or we both would suffer. I hurling these stones again at one who I loved so deep. Watching her leave, with tears in my eyes, why doesn‘t she understand it was her errant Judas kiss that birthed this painful moment.

The Meat Grinder – Making it through the abuse

“[Referring to rape] It already is bigger than everything else. It lives in front of me, behind me, next to me, inside me every single day. My schedule is dictated by it, my habits by it, my music by it.” – Daisy Whitney, The Mockingbirds 

The following is a graphic and personal account of rape. It is not for the faint of heart nor is it written for editorial criticism. It is written to help people that have fallen victim to rape to be encouraged and to seek help. I know, I understand, don’t give up your fight to live life happy again.

Innocent. Walking home from school after getting in trouble, I saw him, my skin crawled, I knew already, something was wrong. He grabbed me by the neck and whispered, “Let’s go see a bird’s nest little boy, it’s over here in the woods.” A small path leading the way through the corner of the forest from the school to another road, became my gateway to hell. I knew he was dangerous, but how, that I wasn’t aware of, yet. Fear gripped me, for years I fought the people in my neighborhood and school, I thought this time they got me. The memories blur at this point but in a few words without any embellishment, I was raped. During the rape, I only feared for my life, I didn’t care what he did, only what he might do, what he said he was going to do. A kind of shock set in, a surreal reality, where pain seemed distant but terror omnipresent. The damage to my body was of small consequence compared to the ravaging of my mind. His words echoed, “If you move, I will kill you.” I heard him scurry off through the woods.

I was still bent over, holding on to a log for support. I managed to find a few leaves to wipe what was left of him off of me. I was to young to really know what it was that I was wiping off, but the knowledge was coming together in a maelstrom of feelings in my mind. It was agony, not the pain of my body, but, deciding to move. I knew he was serious about killing me, and the thought held me stationary for a long while, how long I don’t remember. The shock was merciful, a strange numbness surrounded my body and mind, the only thing I could feel was fear.

I had to decide to move, that meant that I, at 10 years old, made a life or death decision. I had to move, I don’t care if he kills me. That was the beginning of a long mental degradation of my love of life. I stood up, and crept out of the woods, every twig crack and leaf crunch making the most unbearable noise, driving the spike of terror straight through my mind, through my soul, and deep into my heart. I made it out of the woods, but into a long journey of recovery from pain that would take me through untold nightmares and fears. Fear was now my closest friend, my enemy, and my lover. My mind now my worst enemy. Only a few can know the pain of facing death and terror, walking through that gauntlet with numb courage, pressing on to live whatever of life is left for the broken and wounded.

Without going through all the gruesome facts, what happened to me left me broken in way I could never imagine, the worst being an incredible fear that he was out there still, waiting to kill me. Constant paranoia now pursued my little mind, evil forebodings, a foreshortened future, I will not live to see tomorrow, my will to live a flash in the pan. I had nightmares and flashbacks now, to escort me on my journey. I would be constantly on high alert, looking not just for him, but for others that would hurt me as well. It seemed that everyone was out to get me, and to this day, I struggle with trust, knowing how quickly my peace and security, or what shreds of it were left, can be taken. It’s hard to keep living knowing how quickly someone else can ruin your life, at times I think myself better off dead. 

I press on though, with a passion to live and fight against the evil that would destroy me, whether a physical embodiment of it, or a mental shadow. Homicidal fantasies now run rampant through my mind, I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun a few times, finger on the trigger, thoughts racing. He shot me, wounding me far beyond physical pain, I now wanted to kill him, to eradicate his vile semen from the world of the living. He never was caught, still roaming about I imagine, destroying other lives.

Within a few years, I found a misguided and passionate faith, that although I practiced it wrong, gave me hope to press forward. Whenever the tears blinded my eyes, the way blurry and painful, I began to feel a power greater than me, greater than my fear, pressing me onward and upward. I will not succumb to the destructive vices that call for my attention. I talked to counselors innumerable, psychiatrists by the handful, and doctors by the dozen, trying to find a way through the vast wilderness of brokenness. Addictions formed rapidly toward anything that gave me pleasure, anything to take me away from the constant and pressing pain and awkwardness of being me, a scared little boy, trying just to survive. I write these things to give you hope. You may have never told anyone what happened to you. Or, you could, like me, have admitted it but quickly moved on thinking that nothing is wrong, ignoring the warnings that you are critically injured inside. Pray to your God, that he would give you grace to overcome that moment and its repercussions. Talk to someone professionally, a pastor or counselor. 

Do not ignore the bleeding that is happening in your soul. It’s not your fault, you were wounded by another’s vice and selfish pursuit. I know this one thing, and listen to me my dear friends and strangers to my life, you can live and be happy after falling prey to an attacker(s). After losing your innocence and trust, you can recover and be a strength to others that like us, have gone through the meat grinder of rape, and have our revenge in a life well lived as a victor and not a victim.

The Meat Grinder – Making it through the abuse

“[Referring to rape] It already is bigger than everything else. It lives in front of me, behind me, next to me, inside me every single day. My schedule is dictated by it, my habits by it, my music by it.” – Daisy Whitney, The Mockingbirds 

The following is a graphic and personal account of rape. It is not for the faint of heart nor is it written for editorial criticism. It is written to help people that have fallen victim to rape to be encouraged and to seek help. I know, I understand, don’t give up your fight to live life happy again.

Innocent. Walking home from school after getting in trouble, I saw him, my skin crawled, I knew already, something was wrong. He grabbed me by the neck and whispered, “Let’s go see a bird’s nest little boy, it’s over here in the woods.” A small path leading the way through the corner of the forest from the school to another road, became my gateway to hell. I knew he was dangerous, but how, that I wasn’t aware of, yet. Fear gripped me, for years I fought the people in my neighborhood and school, I thought this time they got me. The memories blur at this point but in a few words without any embellishment, I was raped. During the rape, I only feared for my life, I didn’t care what he did, only what he might do, what he said he was going to do. A kind of shock set in, a surreal reality, where pain seemed distant but terror omnipresent. The damage to my body was of small consequence compared to the ravaging of my mind. His words echoed, “If you move, I will kill you.” I heard him scurry off through the woods.

I was still bent over, holding on to a log for support. I managed to find a few leaves to wipe what was left of him off of me. I was to young to really know what it was that I was wiping off, but the knowledge was coming together in a maelstrom of feelings in my mind. It was agony, not the pain of my body, but, deciding to move. I knew he was serious about killing me, and the thought held me stationary for a long while, how long I don’t remember. The shock was merciful, a strange numbness surrounded my body and mind, the only thing I could feel was fear.

I had to decide to move, that meant that I, at 10 years old, made a life or death decision. I had to move, I don’t care if he kills me. That was the beginning of a long mental degradation of my love of life. I stood up, and crept out of the woods, every twig crack and leaf crunch making the most unbearable noise, driving the spike of terror straight through my mind, through my soul, and deep into my heart. I made it out of the woods, but into a long journey of recovery from pain that would take me through untold nightmares and fears. Fear was now my closest friend, my enemy, and my lover. My mind now my worst enemy. Only a few can know the pain of facing death and terror, walking through that gauntlet with numb courage, pressing on to live whatever of life is left for the broken and wounded.

Without going through all the gruesome facts, what happened to me left me broken in way I could never imagine, the worst being an incredible fear that he was out there still, waiting to kill me. Constant paranoia now pursued my little mind, evil forebodings, a foreshortened future, I will not live to see tomorrow, my will to live a flash in the pan. I had nightmares and flashbacks now, to escort me on my journey. I would be constantly on high alert, looking not just for him, but for others that would hurt me as well. It seemed that everyone was out to get me, and to this day, I struggle with trust, knowing how quickly my peace and security, or what shreds of it were left, can be taken. It’s hard to keep living knowing how quickly someone else can ruin your life, at times I think myself better off dead. 

I press on though, with a passion to live and fight against the evil that would destroy me, whether a physical embodiment of it, or a mental shadow. Homicidal fantasies now run rampant through my mind, I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun a few times, finger on the trigger, thoughts racing. He shot me, wounding me far beyond physical pain, I now wanted to kill him, to eradicate his vile semen from the world of the living. He never was caught, still roaming about I imagine, destroying other lives.

Within a few years, I found a misguided and passionate faith, that although I practiced it wrong, gave me hope to press forward. Whenever the tears blinded my eyes, the way blurry and painful, I began to feel a power greater than me, greater than my fear, pressing me onward and upward. I will not succumb to the destructive vices that call for my attention. I talked to counselors innumerable, psychiatrists by the handful, and doctors by the dozen, trying to find a way through the vast wilderness of brokenness. Addictions formed rapidly toward anything that gave me pleasure, anything to take me away from the constant and pressing pain and awkwardness of being me, a scared little boy, trying just to survive. I write these things to give you hope. You may have never told anyone what happened to you. Or, you could, like me, have admitted it but quickly moved on thinking that nothing is wrong, ignoring the warnings that you are critically injured inside. Pray to your God, that he would give you grace to overcome that moment and its repercussions. Talk to someone professionally, a pastor or counselor. 

Do not ignore the bleeding that is happening in your soul. It’s not your fault, you were wounded by another’s vice and selfish pursuit. I know this one thing, and listen to me my dear friends and strangers to my life, you can live and be happy after falling prey to an attacker(s). After losing your innocence and trust, you can recover and be a strength to others that like us, have gone through the meat grinder of rape, and have our revenge in a life well lived as a victor and not a victim.