Sep 19, 2019
In the Beginning
I’ve been by her side from the moment she was conceived.
It was I who whispered to her whilst still in the womb.
She has never confirmed my presence though I have longed, time and time again, to reveal myself.
Instead, I take to the shadows — the voyeur looking through the window of her soul; the narrator of her life.
Although she has never “seen” me, she does often sense me near.
I’ve seen her suddenly hug herself as though she felt a chill — looking around to see if anyone else seemed to take notice.
The way her gaze will shift from far, far away to seeking and searching the faces in the crowd; like somehow, she could catch me — even if for a brief moment suspended in time.
I often wonder how she will feel when she is finally able validate my presence — the ending of this game — this charade of cat and mouse.
I think she may first blush and then turn red with rage [holy and righteous anger and indignation — seething with contempt — maybe even shame] that I can hear her each and every thought.
What she doesn’t realize is that her mind — that beautiful, brilliant mind — and that heart — her heart — holds no borders and beats with the pure pulse of the land — is nothing she should ever be ashamed of.
I have found redemption amidst the shadows of her soul. I have cherished this walk beside her and have clung to each and every memory; each moment.
Though parts may be lost in a haze of fog, dusting the riverbanks and valleys below, so much of it remains etched in my mind like words carved on a tombstone.
She is an anomaly — comprised of the elements; made from the ether of the spirit realms, stardust, and dreams.
Her life is a continual cosmic dance with The Norns and Moirai; weaving and reweaving her fate.
All life is drawn to her like the pull of the tide to the moon.
While the gate to her heart swings to wide open spaces, it seems a spell was placed on the threshold many moons ago: “Enter if ye dare…”
I will never forget the day she was born.
From her first breath, it was known that she would have a fluidity to move between worlds; void and vengeance all her own.
She, like an asteroid, would have the power to destroy and from that destruction, resurrect new life once more.
She is made of moon dust and the residual of a billion dying stars.
She always held an entire galaxy in her fixed stare.
She was a small papoose when her mother walked out of her life. She had an old soul about her, this one.
Riveting gaze, telling of things see that others have gone entire lifetimes without.
She kept her eyes on the horizon for surely there would be better days.
As time marched on, she grew from a child into a maiden.
The transition was difficult to say the least.
Her world held an occasional dandelion where darkness seemed to abound.
She had a life she was both terrified and ashamed to confess.
Soon, dandelions were replaced with dead roses and cacti.
Under threat, she learned to let her mind wander.
She still dreamed of better tomorrows but her clarity was growing shrouded amidst the dark fog of her mind.
She clung to hope; treating it like a mighty flower growing and expanding inside her breast — a sunflower searching for the light.
Somehow this made it easier to endure the abuse: the beatings, verbal slurs, the dinner consisting of canned dog food, vomit, saliva, and other bodily fluids that delighted the dark, evil queen.
She found comfort in a pretend world all her own.
She created a secret garden, safe and secure within her mind.
Here she went when forced to don costume changes, the suckling of an adult’s breast, and a photo-shoot to delight the mad.
The abuse she endured was the things nightmares are made of.
The day finally came when all light left the land.
She found herself trapped in the dark confines of her mind.
The water fountain that flowed so vibrant in her dreams — now dried up.
The plaster cracked from overgrown roots.
The grand castle she once erected had now crumbled and all that stood was a remnant of once was — great columns overgrown with ivy and moss.
Her secret garden, now a serpent’s den, was no longer a safe place to play.
Where she was once able to see the horizon — she now only saw thick fog rolling through a dense, dark forest. Cockroaches and nicotine stained walls.
Where she once heard laughter, she now heard a million bats in flight.
Holding herself tight, she realized she was alone in this cold, empty, dark world.
The day came when she plucked this flower from her breast, this thing she once called hope.
She cried rivers of tears as she realized hope was bullshit and surely God must hate her. She had read her bible since she was but two. She grew to realize that she was a mistake composed of God’s wrath and surely no one would (or could) ever love her in a way that made her feel safe.
Without hesitation, she emptied a bottle of sleeping pills and swallowed them without regret.
This was a desperate act, but she was tired. Oh, so very tired.
She was done stumbling in the dark without a light switch in sight. She was tired of being bruised. She needed a life jacket to cling to, but in the swells of life, she slowly followed the tide and let it pull her under.
Twenty Years Later.
I heard her heart beat in an animal like panic.
I couldn’t escape.
The candle’s flame seemed to glow brighter — its shadow dancing in anticipation of what was yet to come.
Out of the darkness, her eyes resonated within me — perpetuating rage and darting with fear. I could smell her sweat.
A feral wild thing about to escape.
That which began as a whimper quickly became a guttural scream of madness — raw and familiar — an exorcism of sorts.
The hair on my arms stood on end. My head went light as my heart started to race.
In one swift movement, everything came crashing around me.
In agony, I realized I was bleeding — my wrists cut, gauzy flesh exposed.
Looking at my reflection, I realized I was alone.
I had shattered the mirror and found an odd sort of comfort in the distorted image of myself. For I had always been a mosaic — formed by broken glass.
She was I and I was her. We were one.
“Right now, I want a word that describes the feeling we get — a cold, sick feeling deep down inside — when we know something is happening that will change us — we don’t want it to — but we can’t stop it. And we know, for the first time, that there will now be a before and an after, a once was and a will be. And that we will never again be quite the same person we once were.
I imagine it’s the feeling Eve had as she bit into the apple, or Hamlet when he saw his father’s ghost, or Jesus, as a boy, right after someone sat him down and told him his pa wasn’t a carpenter after all.” — Jennifer Donnelly, A Gathering Light
For me, this was that moment.
As I gazed at my shattered reflection and homicidal hooded stare, I knew with clarity that there would now be a before and an after, a was and a will be.
I have always trudged the line in murky water, but this was an all-consuming darkness.
I was caught in a landslide — my own downward spiral. I had become the cracked mirror of my own broken dreams…
Insights.
This was the first of many attempts I made in trying to wrestle, wrangle, capture, conquer, and make sense of my childhood and my life.
This was the first time I tried to use words to describe the observer and narrator that has always lived inside my head, my heart, and my soul. I have come to know him (this ever present voice of wisdom) as Annunatuk, my Spirit Guide, who has shown me the atlas mapped in constellations across my being — my heart, the internal compass of my soul. It is he who found me wandering the desert thirsting for life while begging for death.
This story was also the first time I attempted to describe the fear, the depression, and the ongoing crippling anxiety I held inside. This was my first attempt at using nouns, adjectives, and adverbs to describe a diagnosis like Complex PTSD.
Like a wounded animal, I named my pain. I named my abuser. I named my hurt.
I named her Suicide. She said her name was Life Eternal.
She handed me a cigarette and told me I needed to catch up. She poured a glass of wine, stained my lips with a kiss, and asked me to get comfortable by the fire.
For the next thing I would need to name, in order to become whole, was something that seemed, to me, elusive.
For her name was to become…
Forgiveness.
