If the Sight be to know
Then what can it tell
Of the life of the living
And the living of hell
READER DISCRETION RECOMMENDED: This entry deals with mature subject matter. It is violent and graphic in nature. If you are a sensitive reader, I suggest reading this with someone comforting, or forgo this entry altogether. If you decide to read and need to stop, do so and leave this entry behind. I Thank You any which way.
One of my earliest memories is visiting my mother in the hospital. I was three. My father had thrown her down the stairs. She still bears the scars of that injury by way of a dislocated collar bone and a fractured spine.
In the darkness there are horrors.
In the darkness there are monsters.
In the darkness there was an ugly comfort in how it obscured my father’s features as he pushed his face between my legs and went down on me, or slid behind me in my twin bed and put his cock, fleshy, warm, up against me, in between my legs.
What kind of peace is Peace, when it comes in the form of relief that he’s chosen another’s bed instead of mine, another victim, instead of me? Overcome by sleep, I’d let it be, it wasn’t me tonight; I’d roll over as he’d play out his perverse ways with another child. Maybe he’d join me as I slept and didn’t realize, I don’t know. I was seven.
At family gatherings he would collect me onto his lap and hold me down positioning himself so he can grind into me, or hold me down on his hard cock. Sometimes, I stood up and pulled away while others spoke directly to him, knowing they would notice if he struggled to pull me back.
I remember one time vividly. I went into the garage and he was there. He told me not to go. Took my hand and held it as he had me unzip him and pull out his cock, sometimes he’d do this himself. He’d often have me jerk him off. This one time though, I said no. I turned, left and walked away. I wondered what would happen. I was beaten regularly, would he beat me now?
Nothing happened. It was my moment of Power. It’s taken me a long time to deal with the guilt surrounding this pinnacle moment. My guilt has to do with me ‘allowing’ myself to be abused thereafter. In my mind I wasn’t seven. In my mind I was older, stronger, and now held the power to stop it – simple refusal. Although I’ve forgiven myself for this betrayal of Self, I continue to work through the feeling that I had whored my Power. The very truth is I was a child. I said no once, so what? It couldn’t change Goliath. He was bigger, stronger and meaner.
The sexual abuse went on for approximately two years. The physical abuse continued a few years more.
What is evil? This is evil.
What is Power? It’s not this. This is theft. This is the rape of Power and Innocence. This is weakness. It is a million things evil, but it is not Power. It is fear.
Power is beautiful, magical; it is the breath and prayer behind a miracle. It is neutral, you and I are not.
What my father took from me was almost everything. All of it, Mine. It was not given, it was taken. That Power belongs to Me.
I realized a while back, for me, a man can’t heal me of this pain. No man can return to me what I’ve never had to give him; what he clearly doesn’t have on his own, he most certainly could never give back. For me, healing is in the form of a woman. Not any woman, the right woman. It must be given, not served. It must be beautiful, not ugly. It must be loving, not hateful. It must be surrender, not control.
Traditional Tantric practices regard healing as surrendering my pain, trusting man enough to allow him into me. While this may work for some, I feel an essential component is still missing; the original feminine. No…it is not about him…it is about Me. It is my Power to decide. It is my Power to choose what Healing I need. To this, I answer to no one.
Continued on Thursday July 7th 2011
Until then, I remain yours,
Lesley
Hallelujah Heartist
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