The Hauntings of My Soul

Fear terror eye
Fear terror eye (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

How do you forgive something so real, wrong, and vivid that it brings tremors to your body every time it even flashes in your mind? How do you relieve yourself of so much fear that trails about from what happened, when his voice alone causes mental anguish and shutdown? How do you get your child to sit down and relive the same dirty and twisted circumstances that you went through, when you can’t even bring yourself to have the thoughts and memories… let alone allow forgiveness? All the things that were said and all the things that were done with the constant fear that lay inside me… I still can’t bring myself to admit “I’m still afraid”. I read the pages of my book and try to remember what was said and done as if it happened yesterday, to bring myself to a point of forgiveness to move on. Masters of Deception only depicts slights pictures of the sexual and mental torture that my heart, mind, and body went through for so long. The evil that existed in that man should have been apparent immediately, but the alcohol and self impairment that existed from the abuse of my mother was suffocating any reality that may have existed outside of any mental escape.

Things are so different in circumstance than they are later after the fact. The depth of emotion that exists in your mind and heart get so clouded when faced with hard realities that your eyes don’t exactly see. Everyone always asks, “Why didn’t you leave?” or “How could you stay with him?” and all that responds are sighs of complete stupidity. You just don’t know what happened if you weren’t there. You don’t know the self-torture that existed that day or month or year. You find ways to avoid any visual compliance that’s expected of you by whoever is doing you wrong. If I pretend I’m sleeping… it won’t be so bad! If I stay at work… he won’t follow me! My child’s personal deception was, “If I leave… my daddy will cry” or “If I tell… I’ll break my promise”. Sometimes both of us just “closed our eyes” when things happened and prayed for a God to exist that would stop THE BAD MAN from hurting us. My heart beats a million times faster when his name is mentioned. My eyes search for the surveillance that my life was use to when I see his picture once again. My child shakes in fear of being found and taken when anything is spoken of.

How can he live on past this bad past of his with a man who not only destroyed his innocence but laid the land of his insanity? How can we expect a relationship to begin when the last one never really started? How can I be the strength for my son, when I’m the weakness for myself? My son is special in so many ways! He’s got a different way of thinking just like me. He’s got his own walk and talk just like me. He’s got his own reasons for being unique just like me. Now he’s got the same mental struggle… just like me. I don’t wish on my worst enemy what happened to me and I wonder every day that passes what details entail about what happened to him. They say his final truth will come one day when he’s older and when he’s actually able to allow himself to relive and handle the moments. I fear for him that day or month or year that he gathers his ability and maturity in a sense of reality that reliving is an understatement for what he’ll be going through.

We all have some type of bad past, abuse, skeletons in our closet, or what have you. We all chose in our own manner how to release the emotions that are built up over these things. I have chosen my writing, but my boy still has his voices that tend to him. His stuffed animals all have names like family and his shirts with skulls have meaning like protectors. His rock collection brings him peace in the way a music lover has music. His card games releases anxieties of everyday life when no one wants to be near him or thinks he’s weird for that day. He found the music of Native American’s beautiful drum beat and sounding voice as comfort when he set himself free on that field for the Great Spirit to hear his soul speak. Yet, with all these great and positive things… he’s tortured with the hidden memories of his past and what the bad man did.

We have so much strength for others when they are faced with challenges, but when it comes to ourselves weakness tends to prevail. When it’s a stranger there’s bit of courage that creeps from within and the consciousness screams knowledge of what to do. When it’s a bloodline that rains down abuse, negative energy, and other evils… our bodies freeze for hope of some little voice or hidden hand to come and bring a rescue. Our internal courage and strength empties as if the mouth of a beautiful lake opens to a desert. Whatever belief you had when you were real for one moment with that person is now replaced by every fear and doubt of what you witnessed. When you are a child of any age and you are taught lessons to remember or people to trust, there is no room for questioning no matter the maturity or intelligence.

In my own hell, things trace my mind of all the men who have done me wrong. When I see these people or hear their name, hatred reveals itself in a putrid way. I was raised in the dark and thrown into the light. God was at the bottom of a beer can and mirrors were our best friends. Church was my escape from all the evil that took place. I sang in church bands and karaoke bars to improve my mental well-being that someone did care. If you aren’t in their eyes by color or trend, God doesn’t exist. It didn’t matter if you prayed or read the bible or just believed. The cloak of color that has to be put over your head has no place in an open mind or open heart. The more they drank and cheered, the more Shania Twain’s words no longer mattered. The more I had to scream to turn heads, the more my little heart was shattered.

I love you came from the beer, whiskey, vodka, or Mad Dog. I miss you came from the guilt ridden blood-shot eyes that followed an emotional hangover. A hug was unheard of and a kiss was always missed. She looked me in the eyes with blurred vision and spoke words that didn’t make any sense. Finding Me in Michigan was supposed to be so much better. I was meant to believe the terrors were now gone. I was meant to speak of nothing of the past. I was a liar of anything uncomfortable that was said. I must have blown it all out of proportion. I’m sure I did! Why else would those quivery words be followed with tears and “I don’t know what I did”? I sit and wonder what saying anything will do. I sit and wonder if forgiveness needs to be real and true. Every child has a beginning they leads to their lessons and puts them to bed. Mine wasn’t the fear of the “Boogie Man” like most children. My fears consisted of the next smack to the head or graceful touch on the ass. When you are drunk, you can’t protect.

I relive my childhood many times throughout the year. More and more things pop up of what happened each year. I’ve come to the point of confusion these days.

I live in my own special hell and so does he. Both of us talk of forgiveness but know we may never see. Everyone has a story to tell of their own special hell. A tortured soul carries many things… including memories of those we wish didn’t exist. I really thought everyone lived this way. I really thought all children and wives were to go through this to be a part of something real. Boy did I learn a lesson when I got older!!! Now to help my children learn to feel….

The stuff of nightmares
The stuff of nightmares (Photo credit: jpstanley)