INTRO: PSYCHOTIC BITCH

 
If you read, you'll judge. SO FUCK OFF.
 
 
22/2/09
 
Incessant, consistent bordering temperamental, unpredictable A BLUR:
If I have to choose a collection of adjectives to describe the onset of this year, those would be my chosen few.
 
CHAOS.
 
Regardless of the rollercoaster worthy joy start + my chin is well above the ground and my heart is still beating heavily. 
 
I DEFY ALL SCIENCE.  
I SHOULDN'T BE ALIVE.
 
If I rewound the tick-tock clock and set it to playback the events of the past seven months, plus add a vile and disruptive little monster who cunningly asks the -7 month ago me whether she'd picture her circumstance to be drawn the way it is at current, I would of honestly told that rude and intrusive little monster that I would be a world away from here. 
 
DEAD. 
 
Regardless, I'm glad of the insipid destination which I've landed in. 
 
I spent the first 44 days of this year off my head on drugs.
 
EMPLOYED TO SELF-DESTRUCT AT ANY AND ALL COSTS. Even while I study and work. 
 
You want to know the truth though?
 
I feel like I've been reborn. 
 
Despite my "oh-so-obvious" junkie quota being fulfilled, I am more mentally stable than I've been in a very long time. 
 
Lie out my tarot cards and offer me a million dollars to reveal my future and I'll still tell you to fuck off. Fate isn't real. Nothing can be predetermined. 
 
Time is interchangeable and a flexible masterpiece. 
 
Anything is possible, this rollercoaster ride is becoming more wild by the macro-second.
 
The tunnel we're lurching through is poisoned with pitch black inevitability. 
 
I am my own god, don't try and bring me down with a kingdom of deceit.
 
This isn't real
This isn't real
This isn't REAL
This isn't REAL.
 
ASHAMED.
 
Time goes to waste

Ashamed is something that I've scrunched up and thrown away into the past.

****

accidental recovery arose from this period of intentional self annihilation. 

The impact of ritual abuse

The quality of life of ritual abuse survivors is undermined every day by flashbacks, hypervigilance, insomnia, eating disturbances and chronic physical and psychosomatic pain as a result of torture. The psychological condition of survivors is at the most extreme end of the post-traumatic scale.

Memories of ritual abuse are lodestones of degradation and shame that can persist in the consciousness of a survivor for decades. When these memories surface, they do so repetitively and with visceral force. A few evocative words can be enough to trigger flashbacks in which every sensation of childhood rape and torture is relived over and over again. The shame and bodily agony associated with memories of ritual abuse may incapacitate an adult survivor and leave them unable to work or care for their loved ones.

For captive adults still being abused, their memories constitute a prison without walls. Perpetrators can punish disobedience from afar using the phone or email. A few well-placed words can trigger new memories, new flashbacks, and a new source of terror and pain for the victim. Many captive adults would rather endure another ordeal of rape and torture, where dissociation leaves them blessedly numb and amnestic, than be forced to relive the atrocities of their childhood.

some of the diagnostic criteria for ‘complex’ types of PTSD are particularly relevant to ritual abuse, including:

- Sense of complete difference from others

- Belief that the self is not human

- Preoccupation with relationship with perpetrator

- Attribution of total power to perpetrator

- Idealisation of perpetrator, gratitude to perpetrator

- Belief in a supernatural/special relationship with a perpetrator

-Acceptance of belief system or rationalisations of perpetrator

- Repeated failures of self-protection

- Sense of hopelessness and despair

Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD)

BPD is a common diagnosis for survivors of severe sexual abuse (Herman, Perry et al. 1989). It describes survivors’ difficulties in interpersonal relationships, and in regulating their emotional states. It is sometimes a ‘catch-all’ category for difficult clients, and some clinicians have called BPD a veiled insult, implying little capacity for recovery and ignoring the history of sadistic victimisation disclosed by many sufferers of BPD (Shaw and Proctor 2005).

Nevertheless, some of the treatments for BPD can be very effective for the ritual abuse survivor – particularly treatments such as Dialectic Behavioural Therapy which focuses on emotional skills and builds the capacity of the survivor to manage their day-to-day life and social interactions.

Why do perpetrators use ritual ?

Ritual is an important aspect of cultures and subcultures. In ritual abuse, it is a way of expressing and transmitting the beliefs, practices and worldviews of a perpetrator group. The rape and torture of children and adults is structured around ‘metaphysical’ symbols and actions that differ between groups. However, a common foundation underlies all acts of ritual abuse: the ‘celebration’ of the power of the perpetrator at the expense of the body and soul of the victim.

One Australian woman who cared for her ritually abused grandchildren noted that ‘cults do everything in reverse’. Positive principles and attachments are inverted, with the intention of justifying the child’s abuse. Research into ritual abuse by Scott (2001) was undertaken in Britain but found much the same phenomenon:

Involvement in ritual abuse seemed to mean inhabiting a world in which ‘moral precepts do not hold’ but where a justificatory ideology was provided that went way beyond the 'cognitive distortions’ of 'ordinary’ sex offenders.

An occult belief system deals with the problem of cognitive dissonance not by redefining sexual abuse as harmless or desired by the victim, but by reversing 'good’ and 'evil’. From this Sadeian perspective, cruelty and violence are 'natural’ to man and denials of this essential truth are mere hypocrisy.

— Scott (2001)

In the context of organised sexual exploitation, rituals are not only the expressions of a perverse ideology, but mechanisms for power and control. In the infamous Belgium paedophile scandal, survivor Regina Louf noted the function of the perpetrator’s ‘satanic’ performances:

When they received new victims into their network, it was extremely important that they shouldn’t speak to anyone about what had happened to them. That’s why they organised ‘ceremonies’… The only aim of these rituals was to totally disorient the victims.

— Regina Louf (Bulte and de Conick, 1998)

A likely hypothesis is that the ultimate function of ritual abuse is that of camouflage. In Australia and overseas, constructive efforts on behalf of tortured and trafficked children have often been derailed by disbelief and scepticism generated by the bizarre ritualistic practices of the perpetrators.

Herman (1992: 8) notes: ‘Secrecy and silence are the perpetrator’s first line of defence. If secrecy fails, the perpetrator attacks the credibility of his victim. If he cannot silence her absolutely, he tries to make sure that no one listens.’ Ritual abuse has effectively achieved all three goals.

Borderline to Babalon

 “There are days I wake up, the weight of the world resting on my shoulders. 
I can never remember the carefree bliss of childhood. 
Innocence was not a companion of mine. 
Instead, I was bound by the lacerations of rage, trauma, suffering and mental anguish. 
I would be lying if I said that I didn’t still seethe inside because I am not one of those pure and pristine girls with the perfect straight hair and the flawless and unblemished facade.”
—
Borderline to Babalon

Flashbacks

As a child I would wish for the shadows shrouded by darkness to swallow my corpse.

I hoped if I lay still enough 
For long enough 
I would disappear 
Or cease 
Slip away into the void 
Vanish
Simply cease existence 
Fade into darkness. 

No hay Banda, silencio.

Devoured by the cloaked rhythm and silent whispers of nocturnal prowess. 

Lights ruptured the panic attacks and dissassocation attacks I would endure at night as I grew older.

Light solidified the demons circling my mind and made them real.

Proving this wasn’t all in my head, this was in fact a very real experience. But I was determined to flee my body at all costs. 

If I was caught up in an episode, pacing beneath moonlight as a war waged inside my mind, dread and fear and an array of complete panic and raw anxiety throbbing through my soul. The light would bring my awareness back into semilucidity.

But the truth was always too hard to stomach.
The constast and switch to abrubt light would bring me back to reality. 

Dazed. In a stupor. In a trance. Sleepwalking. But awake. Disassociating, often I would wander the streets in my pajamas barefoot, and be seen by neighbours who called my parents who were oblivious to my nightly roadside adventures. This started when I was around ten years old.

Light transports me to being split open and having my insides pried apart. Since I was unable to form words. The lightbulb has haunted me.

My legs spread. 

The lightbulb. 

That unrelenting flash bestowed by the lightbulb? 

If you stare at the lightbulb long enough it will make an imprint in your vision, and then if you blink really quickly you can make the lightbulb move around the room.

The light was blinding. It stained and stung my vision. But It resonated. 
That flashing halo was a welcome distraction to the unrelenting prying between legs spread, painstaking and through examination and violation of a toddlers genitalia is not exactly a normal practice little girls should endure. But I thought I was evil for feeling a perverse sense of pleasure from those silent and bewildering examinations. I liked the attention. Maybe. But in my heart and beyond it made my soul feel filthy and sticky. It was a chunky maggot of sick and guilt to swallow but I couldn’t resist because the pleasure was immense. It felt good and I was too young to know it was wrong so I complied. Maybe I wanted to. Or Maybe I didn’t know better. In retrospect the subsequent degradation following a ruptured hymen and the abuse of sexual pleasure by a trusted adult almost a decade before the onset of puberty was a violation of a basic human right. 

Such a minor violation of my orifice has fucked me up profoundly into my adult life. 

But how does a child know any better ? The child is trusting. Gullible. And susceptible to predatory adults who want to fondle the genitals of the cute, pure and untainted, innocent, sexually oblivious toddler. The toddler is confused because obviously this can feel pleasurable. But the toddler knows instinctively there is something full of revulsion and fear beneath these transient moments of pleasure. It made the bile burn the back of my throat. Sick with perversion and pleasure and pain..It felt so good but so wrong. It hurt. It felt pleasant. It was confusing. But now I see I was exploited. Used. By a trusted adult who was delegated by my parents to protect me. Not fondle me.

Why *anyone* can find pleasure in such a predatory and demoralizing act is beyond my comprehension. This question will plague my psyche for the remainder of days.

To take advantage of an innocent creature. 
To corrupt it into a world of sex and violence long before puberty hits? Why? It’s illogical. How selfish must one be to even begin to entertain such nauseating notions, let alone to actually inflict them. 
Child sex offenders and paedophiles are the epitome of damaged and defunct humans. The gene must be eradicated. 
Child sexual abuse is truly an evil deed for one human to commit upon another. To exploit a biologically immature and unprepared minor is horrific. How can you? How could you?

I could never bring myself to inflict an unwanted sex act on another adult. Let alone a child who is curious but vulnerable and ultimately INNOCENT. How do these people think? How does it even get to the stage of occupying a sexual urge for something that is not sexually mature? It makes no sense scientifically. Children exploring sexuality with other children of their own age is one thing. When an adult uses a child for sexual gratification, this is truly an atrocious act of exploitation and a hideous abuse of power. 

It hurt to use the bathroom for many years, the stinging of urinating was akin to a nefarious tentacle wound from a venomous sea creature. Bath time and shower time became dreaded events bestowed by fear of undressing. 

I thought it was normal for a four year old to never let herself be seen without clothes. For a seven year old to lock the door when she showered and scream and sob loudly and hysterically if anyone accidentally opened the door as I showered. Or even tried. 

I guess it was normal for me. My genitals always hurt. They itched. They burnt. I would cry in agony from the pain. Trying to hide it. Nauseous and sick and full of self hate and regret. Never reminding myself of its origin. I was long gone by this time.

Instead of using a toilet normally I would hold on and avoid using the toilet for days and days. I would tell myself intricate stories to urinate. 
The pain of urinating was too immense for full awareness. I’d rather my bladder burst. Or die. 

When it was dark it went away. Sometimes. Sometimes it just made the sick secret carried like a stone in my stomach easier to swallow. 

When it was dark, at least we could fabricate a comfortable illusion. Fantasize, imagine another world desperate to avoid the painful and confusing truth instilled by sexual abuse. 

Thus the inclination towards darkness. My love of night and shadows.

Soul shaking suicidal ideation & survival of it through spiritual mindfulness

 Sometimes I am in so much emotional pain I contemplate throwing myself off a bridge, or under a train, but I don’t because reincarnation. And suicide would let everyone who has hurt me win. They would roll their eyes and let an exasperated sigh: “it’s about time she gave in, it was bound to happen sooner or later”. 

I don’t want to start over at level 0. I don’t want to endure the confusing torment of childhood again. The amount of agony I have endured in this lifetime would render any ‘normal’ person obsolete. I am sure of it. 

There are days where it all accumulates, and I am unable to stop the unrelenting sobs of hysteria from bubbling forth, so I give in and I succumb to the ache. I let the pain swallow me whole, and subsequently a lifetime of repressed hurt and memories spew forth. It is amazing how much pain one person can harbour within the cavity of their chest. It still astounds me how much trauma I can endure without giving up. All I bear is a wound so insurmountable it would be unfathomable to the average mind to even comprehend. It is immeasurable and irrexpressible. 

No action nor word can convey this unrelenting ache permeating my soul. I have searched the depths of this despair for meaning, swum to the surface seeking resolution within this raw agony. Nothing. I have swallowed a concoction of mind altering elixirs to render me whole, or comatose. Still no solution. Only further into this void I was drowned..

All I found was a path to unrelenting passion and purpose, which forces me to persist despite all adversity the universe throws at me. All this opposition I have endured has only moulded my determination, and sharpened my willpower- now I am driven to succeed at any cost, failure is not an option. It is do or die. 

At moments like these I know exactly why the suicide rate for this illness is so high,sometimes it feels like there is no place in this world for me, that I am destined to be an outsider living on the fringes of society for the remainder of my life,that I will endure this haunting isolation until the universe implodes on itself. 

I am so intensely sensitive and fragile that the tiniest trigger will render me immobilized by my own worst fears manifesting before me. In these dark moments, I honestly believe that death would be the only resolution for my pain. But it is within this suicidal agony that I find hope,because I hold onto the hope that I am not alone in this battle,I know there are others on this planet who share the same pain. I know I am not isolated in this experience. That same will to die, burdened by this acute hypersensitivity, perpetual feeling of solitude and misunderstanding. 

Why must we all fight this never-ending battle alone any longer? I seek to commune the souls of those who suffer like I do, and transform their agony into purpose. 

In this moment I resolve to live, to pave the way for survival for my kind of soul. I will reinvent the archetype of this disorder,and transmutate us from helpless victims into powerful warriors. My will is to help other sensitive souls thrive in a world carved by mechanical soulnessness and malicious superficiality. A world that is invalidating to the very essence of our core. My will is to help those who suffer. I know the depths of this pain so well, these angst is familiar to me, and that familiarity induces a nauseating climax within my chest. Reminding me that it has spanned across lifetimes. But I endure it all and traverse shards of glistening malice, for the hope of reaching out and helping someone else who feels just as alone, sitting on the edge of death in times of despair. No one should ever have to feel this way, no one. This is a pain so intense it surpasses depression, it pales against anxiety and it makes solitude seem warm and comfortable in comparison. I know it, oh so well. I will outlive it, to help you.

One day it will be worth it, saving a life that was otherwise engulfed by the angst of existence, providing companionship to someone on the precipice of life and death. Giving hope to someone who has lost all will to live. 

These moments where I can extend my limitless empathy and utilize it, because I have the capacity to feel the pain I see in others,to show them how to find meaning within the ache, will be the day I have succeeded in adhering to my will. For we are all carved with a unique configuration that aligns us on a path in this life, and those who feel devoid of purpose only need the guiding hand of another to validate their experience and lead them towards refining their true potential and essence. I seek to quench their suffering in anyway I can. I seek to be for others what has always been absent from my life. I seek to validate, to build up and to reassure those who feel like aliens in this world; the sensitive souls,the wounded empaths, the battered and broken beings with too much love to give, who were born into this three dimensional prison of devoid of soul. 

I love you all, and I am here for you. I ride out another night of soul shaking sobs and existential despair for you. I stay alive one more day to slay this mechanical matrix for you. To override the control system. To reprogram this reality that seeks to annihilate our authenticity. I stay here for you, to recreate the paradigm that would rather render us obsolete. I have a will and I will die adhering to it. For if I give up, and succumb to death,then I am not only letting myself down, but I am letting down thousands of likeminded souls who I could of assisted.

Do what thou wilt thou shall be whole of the law, thou has no law but to do thy will. Love is the law, love under will.

Left Hand Path & My Trauma Past

My past is a school yard massacre or an overgrown, desolate graveyard. 

When people claim to know light, or purity I am unable to relate. I never have. I never will. I have been tarnished most of my life. Growing up in a religious school, and being told by my teachers “I was going to hell” because I was snide and outspoken regarding Christianity and dared question the validity of the holy trinity. Being told I would be going to hell excited me. It gave me purpose. I am forged by darkness. 

Darkness is inherent within me. 

They first tried to teach me about jesus, god and salvation at six during a religion class at school, and I could only fathom ‘god’ as being like a whispy white cloud, just like the floating fragmented spirits who dwelled with me on the ceiling when I dissociated while being sexually abused by the pumpkin eater. If this ‘god’ really did see everything, I speculated, then he had of seen that, and if he had seen that he would hate me. 

On learning this ‘god’ was the reason behind creation, and all seeing; i blamed him for everything. In my mind, ‘god’ was responsible for this. 

because if god saw this happen, why didn’t he fucking do anything to stop it ? My mind uable to fathom gods logic, shattered. This ensured I quickly concluded I was a bad person unworthy of gods love. I prayed for salvation a few times late at night when my mind cycled endlessly. Often the choice between vomiting and being sexually abused would be presented as an ultimatum. My two biggest fears. This choice devestated me, as I was a child intensely phobic of vomiting, funnily enough as an adult I have linked this phobia back to anxiety associated to the sexual abuse. I was maybe 7 or 8 when one late night, I bargained with my unrelenting thoughts and I chose vomiting as the one thing I would rather endure again, it was late and I needed sleep and the only way to sleep was to agree to one choice bred from this ultimatum. A few weeks later I vomited. I later prayed that next time would god “please let me be abused again if it meant I could avoid vomiting”. 

Lived on trembling in fear in anticipation of the next incident, developing severe ocd traits. 

This was the regular momentum my thoughts endured as a child. 

Around this point, I had enough and climbed inside a capsule of imagination. I stopped praying to an invisible con artist, and started creating made up worlds using pen and paper. I would design towns, houses, schools and entire citities of inhabitants. I would spend hours drawing the architectural layouts of extravagant houses, and grandiose towns that were filled with inhabitants who posessed desirable traits. 

I would draw families and schools I wished I could be apart of, I would imagine being in these makeup worlds instead, with a different name, a different family and a different face. 

In fact the only way I could ever use the toilet as a child, was to imagine myself in one of these stories. 

I was finally aware of what it would be like to be god. 

I was so ashamed of this secret world I fabricated, I would destroy my creations and fear my mother uncovering them ever. 

Sometimes I would slip, and draw pictures of dungeons with naked girls chained to the walls while they bled profusely. 

This was bad.

This terrified me. I wondered if the othet little girls did this ? Did they have dark secrets to conceal and dirty habits to overcome? 

Did they fake a facade just like I did?

No they didn’t. There was no one else like me, I was isolated and alone, and the other girls who were, would always move around, never staying here for more than a year or two of my life. 

I could never relate to my same sex peers, in all their pristine and well maintained brilliance. They had no dirty secrets to hide. I was the only girl in my grade with the messy hair, the dirty fingernails and the dirty secrets. I was always getting in trouble. I climbed trees and played outside games with the boys, hid in the library reading books, or wandered around talking to myself, and because of that, I was an outsider. They played with dolls, ponies and skipping ropes.

For me, darkness was apart of my being from a very early age. I always looked on death with intrigue and fascination, rather than with fear and revulsion.

Darkness is inherent in my being. I am a demoness in the flesh, livid with rage for being denied the ability to experience wholeness or bliss. Bound to this earth by an eternity of reincarnations, there is little of this planets sordid, malevolent history that my soul has not witnessed. I have never known light. Connection. Fulfilment. My life is void of light. Nothing ever renders me whole. Aside from the spark within me. god is a concept, which I can only comprehend in the form of pantheism: with the organism that encapsulates the complex biospheres that shroud this earth being akin to ‘god’. Humanity is the DNA molecule observing itself. The inherent intelligence that aligns matter, embodied in the human form. God is dead. All my psychedelics trips reconfirm the notion of only the earth as god, a cruel and menacing god. But powerful and never missing a moment. There is no collective higher realm endowed by bliss or perfection, there are only the realms of my own creation, and then reseivours of unending darkness. The first time I took LSD, I secretley hoped god would reveal himself to me. The allknowing deity he was, I expected a voice booming from the sky revealing himself to me. He did. He never came, and simultaneously I realised the earth was a heaven or a hell: whatever you could make it. I was aquainted with earth aligning to the hellish realm, however. But I could experience momentary bursts of pleasure. As for an almighty force, or an endless source of illumination though, my mind struggles to grasp this concept. I am the illumination in a world of barren desolation. An all knowing, all seeing deity? No. I ate the poison apple, and I pay the price with the darkness of knowledge. I often wondered whether I was self aware before this incarnation, or whether I have known all along? I am the only form of ‘god’ I can ever fathom. The only illumination comes within. And if humans are the universe embodying itself, technically humans are also therefore god. God made himself, but can god undo himself? I am forged by filth and darkness. I know no other way. My allegiance is in darkness. Yet I am more empathetic and compassionate than most people who correlate themselves to light. This is why the left hand path corresponds and resonates in such a profound manner with my being. I have traversed and battled with the abyss all my life.

An ode to Emily / Innocence lost

 My soul hemorrhaged. The final shatter into oblivion. Dichotomous melodies of split contusions; roam across a shattering of molecular infusions. 

The delicate shards of diabolic triads, lacerating core, annihilate. 

an impartial wasteland of causal regret, 

the interwoven, multilayered fabric of reality has been driven into my being across the totality of my earthly incarnation. 

Molested. I fucking despise that word with every cell in my body, 

but the sexual abuse I endured shattered this toddlers soul. 

Result? Fragmented soul.

Traumatic interludes,raw passion, pure pain. Ache, magnet to rape and danger. 

Chaos. Chaos. Hell. Pain. Ache, inescapable rot of soul. 

My solution? 

Alchemical vandalism, 

to plunge into the abyss without hesitation, to traverse the perimeter since birth, and to finally drown in the plunge, which induces an elaborate clusterfuck within.

Never stopping. 

I have been overboard, and now, here upon the surface, megapixled ephiphays can be evoked amongst serene metaphors, disguised as life lessons. 

My mind never stops. 

It never stops thinking. 

My heart trembles, subjugated by the lair of restless internal roaming. 

The eternal ache. 

No medication. 

Hello reality. I am home. 

No anti depressant. Not since early last week. 

This is me unmedicated. 

I am not depressed, merely unstable. Impulsive. 

Or is this who I am without the chemical lobotomy. 

My brain is on fire. 

I don’t see a doctor until tomorrow morning, and I am determined to get through it with willpower alone. 

Death is not an option. 

Not anymore. Reassemble the fragments. Into a whole. 

Save me. 
Inner me. 

The pain is interwoven in the crevices of my genetic blueprint. I am diluted with a volatile sensitivity. 

I am embodied with the burden of a bleeding heart. Complexity envelopes my soul, who I am is this multifaceted, ultra dynamic chameleon, who am I ? 

A masquerade laments. 

Childhood induced.

The memories must cease, or be endured, red brick bile scathing shame. 

Mechanisms embedded in dollhouses of succulent lust, maggots of corrupted purity splitting through sacred flesh. 

A childs purity. 

Annihilated. 

I will save myself. 

To death with spindles of crinkle cut fingers sliding up virgin thighs. 

Crawling, 

I feel him crawling like a plague of venomous locusts, swarming inside me.

 A lifetime of ruin. One mans hands.

Flashbacks on the south coast

 I just awoke from one of the most savage flashbacks to occur yet. My stomach is twisting and turning with the most malicious nausea. I am fighting with every bone in my body not to gag and retch my guts, blood and most sacred secrets all over the place. It began with being situated in the childhood neighborhood where I lived from the ages of 3 until 8. (Oddly enough the abuse occurred from about 3 until I was 7). I was trapped here for the majority of the dream, I saw my cat being tortured by my old neighbors, I entered my childhood home… Oh it has been awhile since I have entered this realm, the realm of the forbidden, the foreboding, the ferocious and the downright frightening. An ancient palace laced with macabre meaning and cryptic clues. In the dream we were at some kind of religious festival. ( which I interpret as being a family gathering), songs were being sung and everyone was high on blissful transcendence. To them I was invisible, yet I was his ultimate conquest. The entire time he kept whispering dirty , snide comments into my ear. My goal was to get away from his sodomizing embrace, yet through all the meddled names and faces he would prevail with his filth laden comments and long, spiny greed fueled fingers. He was dressed in priest attire. “I want to pop your tight little pussy” were the words he regurgitated violently in my ears, he bent me over, pulled down my pants, penetrating me relentlessly, death moving inside of me, burning my innocence alive, I bled my chastity and naivety all over the floor. I didn’t fucking know any better. The next time we were at a family event down at Kiama, he was there, there was a teepee tent set up for the kids. He pursued me inside and forced my mouth upon his manhood until I was gagging, choking and retching. Then it flashed to my youngest brothers christening which took place at my childhood home, I was watching myself from afar through some kind of video I was being forced to perform in. Everything else was clear: i haven’t been able to access the inside of that house since we moved out in 1999, but here it was as vivid and clear as day. I cannot even bring myself to divulge the sickening details that occurred at this point in time, it is honestly too graphic for my mind to process right now. I am shaking senselessly, my heart is palpitating violently. I need to go and shower to cleanse myself of his sly touch lingering on my skin. I need to eliminate the filth he clogged my young mind, body and soul with. It is chasing me, pursuing me relentlessly through the night, and I must stand here and submit to it, alone. My demons are here, screaming my name and beckoning me to confrontation.

Fuck. I am legitimately frightened. I cannot come to terms with this bullshit, fuck this shit.