Add.'1
I bet that since not one person has done anything to stop the molestation of children as we enter adulthood and our body memories whelp to every action of our shoulders that men have to use Viagra to make their wood work is a direct result of every thought of every child that has been sodomized. Tam, why don't you admit that you rolled-over in your bed while Ed sodomized me in my bed using the sheets to hide his crime? Why don't you admit to the local Police Station that you are a witness of such a horrific crime? Is that related to the horrible abuse that you have done too?
This is the direct relation to what is autism. Autism is the result of sexual molestation before words and in the wake it shows with only the stain. The yelling of disappointment all at the age of potty trained is the direct dial to that call of failure as the person whom is doing the training? No, it is direct communication that there is a perpetrator in the home.
Men can continue to call their lack of luster to the unknown however I know that I stopped my brother from fucking me between my bed-sheets by saying "I know where the knives are and now I know you sleep too" in a dead cold shout. The immediate jump of by older brother made his eyes memory and upon his return in October of this year 2018 he told me I would need a gun, I said "I don't need a gun I have canned goods". These responses at the time I admit did not immediately connect to the action of what would be done however making that stick unable to work was defining as that is where my brain connected.
To say that Viagra is a drug is to understand that should that in-addition go with the rise of Autism than the imagine shouts to Mankind in the United States of America that you have no residence. Enough thought and staved look to the balls of man than their stick would lop and those ears between their head may provide a good listen instead of the 'Wham Bam thank you mam' method of operation that has left all of us youngs to the abusive natures of siblings, step-parents and subsequently for others, babysitters from not only the U.S.A. but also from all over the world. Please compare kindly and not with hatred of simply the identification of what would happen when not one adult goes to the nines to stop the abuse. Tamara is my older sister and is witness, she also cannot sleep as an adult without the television going as the point of listen can be drowned out now, what would have taken thought to conviction? Consequence or reality that delivered Tamara the facts that she was so much older and could have done something as soon as she turned 18 years old. Instead she took-off to New York and then complained and dropped-out. Tam, why do you laugh with such a hideous criminal base as you brag of sticking diaper pins through my waist? What bravo's that illness in your adulthood? Could it as shown easily in physics be the fact that you in addition add the chopping response that I was your real-live-baby-doll? By the way, I have been told what girls do to their baby-dolls and it's bad.
Now increase the parameter. The world at-large, people from around the world hate Americans and the best way to destroy a country is to emasculate it by making all men eunuchs. What goes along with such inaction is fighting and the destruction of the family structure.
Physics the 'String theory' as two times the power-of equals sodomy at the level of molested at the floor-of a basement review to equal the bedroom between the sheets of type written!! All by the finish that parallel lines make a perpendicular angle to the right obtuse to box it as the very first Rubik's cube, as what is Alzheimer's Disease? The fact that the old forgets, or, is it the fact that the Old have not had the words as in revelations is it not all about the seed? Or, is Alzheimer's Disease adult Autism? As the autistic-spectrum again relies on the measurement, the measure of abuse does make ready the prison of silence as that is the Fiorinal (furanol) price(d).
2 x P(b,f,b) = S ><M + FB(r) = B.s x T.w > Sol.(solved.01)
For your measure, information is not just memory its pictured:
All these things begin to add up, it's called math.
December 7, 2018 is the date of today, I am caught in a dark stare, the white sheet, a type-written task as text has no-words, it is. At time of before I had words to say that sheets were even white I mind the horror as sodomy, this is the cause, the cause of autism is that time in mourning, stuck in the stare of your own mind as the brain is unable to computerize the shit, for what is defecation? The adults shift to another complex tire as the evening cleared the sheets to white and yet there it is, the poo, the worms, the words. A day passes and the school said note to microphone, the Principle makes the call, the parents say upon the visit to her office at Frank McCoppin, nightmares plague the child, words. Home straddles the Master Bedroom at 815, in each corner the adults stand-off with my older siblings, words.
My eyes now know 'dirty girl', 'Poo', 'bedding', nightmares. Words come to the basement storage of my mind as my brain begins to connect the synapse to dot, an etch a sketch makes more, lines. Each Spiral paper for the game of Warner Bros. draw, lines, geometry, pastel, papers. The crayons are not pastels it is the colored pen, painting, poo, drawn. Before the age of forget memory forms for the two feet and swallowing, breathing and needing. The glass of forget is reality, words. In the beginning the word is not for the frost of ice cream or the bowl of spoons that make eating more than poo, what is that white? The sheets blank nothing as the cold felt is that pressure, the suffocation, sodomy is a word that is not known, poo is.
Sodomy is not the easily found sexual abuse that is seen with anything other that you are not potty trained, you had a nightmare, you have a brain, toilets, flush. The words know worms, wriggling I state as today is December 7th, 2018, sodomy causes autism. A type-written paper that is blank as words are the film of my blinking mind braining for the first time since my birth on this subject of: We are not strong, resilient and creative survivors with unique needs that must be met with knowledgeable responses or specialized responses, or are we?
1.
8.
War or Battle is a card game typically played by two players. It uses a standard playing card deck in decreasing order is: A K Q J 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2. Due to its simplicity, it is played most often by children. Wikipedia
Play: Clockwise
Card rank (highest first): A J K Q J 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Players: 2
Random chance: Complete
Card: 52
10.
Go
Fish or Fish is a card game usually played by two to five players,
although it can be played with up to 10 players. It can be played in
about 5 to 15 minutes. Wikipedia
12.
Card: 52
Deck: Anglo–American–French
Play: Variable sequence
Players: 2–10
Age range: 4+
Skills required: Decision making, memory
11.
Posted 1 day ago by Karen Placek
Monday, June 27, 2011
Wounded Mind, Fractured Brain
What did you say?
Don't take it personally.
Hhmm, I thought to myself for a moment in silence. I started to say something but I stopped myself. I felt like it would be a moot point because I had already taken in personally, I just did not want to explain any further.
I just cannot take all the yelling. I was yelled and screamed at as a kid, so its difficult for me.
Just scream back!
I stared for a longer amount of time. I am not comfortable yelling at anyone, let alone a complete stranger. I said that I had to go, got on my bike, turned my Sony music player on and road off. I just could not handle it a minute longer. My head was throbbing and my nerves were shot. Even being on my bike didn't seem to calm me down.
When I got back home I curled up in bed and closed my eyes. I had taken one of my pills because I could not take my brain, it was in so much pain. Flashbacks were not even flashbacks. It was ribbons of film ripping out of the reels and cutting itself on my brain matter. As I could here it go, "Click, click, click," like an old movie house when the film needs to be changed and it has run completely out of the projector.
I laid there until I fell asleep and dreamt of the nightmare of my life. I woke in a panic, gasping for air and thinking I was still where I had just been. Thank god I wasn't, I was at home again. I had made it back to the house without blacking out.
I have blacked out twice in the past two months. This is an experience that is not a pleasant one. I don't know if you are knowledgeable on what happens, but it is just miserable as an adult. You literally do not remember a thing. Both times I woke up throwing-up.
My mind has been so badly wounded but yesterday my brain fractured. It is like falling off a bicycle and re-breaking your leg. It broke in a weird way, pulled the brain tissue out and splat the memories poured out into the rest of my mind.
I began to think about the fact that people who have had knee replacement, hip replacement or just broke a bone in their arm or leg are treated so much more humanely than those of us with broken brains. I mean, if you are limping and somebody asks whats wrong and you reply,
Oh, I broke my leg last year and it is really bothering me today.
I'm sorry, that must have been so painful, how did you do it?
I was riding my bike and a car hit me when they ran a red light on Divisadero and O'Farrel Streets.
Oh my God! That is awful. Did you have to have surgery?
No, it was a compound fracture.
No wonder you are in so much pain, there is a storm coming in off, I heard it is going to rain.
Yea, it seems to get worse when the storms hit.
I read its the rain that really cause breaks to hurt.
Maybe your right, because after the rain finally comes it seem to get better, maybe its when the barometer drops.
Probably, I hope you feel better.
Thanks, I'm sure I will.
Whats your name?
James
My name is Annie.
It is nice to meet you.
I'm sure we will talk soon, especially since we seem to be in the same Chef's Class.
Yea, your right, talk to you soon.
A friendship begins all because somebody noticed someone limping in from outside into a classroom. Which is pretty cool, it was a conversation starter, a way to meet someone new that you did not know and in all reality might develop a friendship with or more. In our case, our minds have been fractured or at the very least, very badly wounded. Sometimes we look sad or despondent, we might look relatively normal, even be smiling but the pain inside is always there for us because we cannot seem to get through it. It just hurts, sometimes it hurts really bad and sometimes it just there but either way we have a fracture of the mind. It doesn't mean that we have split personality, we just are wounded people that nobody ever seems to see. We don't limp, we cry, we don't complain, we are silent, we don't look for sympathy, we would rather forget and even with all of that we still get accused of looking for pity or for someone just to say, "I'm sorry for your life."
The thing is our injury is no different than a broken bone. When the rain comes it usually has a different name, in my case, it is when the night comes. As the afternoon wanes and night approaches the same thing that happened to James with his broken leg happens to me, I am in pain. I limp differently, I get quiet and begin to stare off in the distance. My mind goes to places that are not in my control. I start night dreaming and I am not asleep yet. I begin to become anxious about the fact I will have to go to sleep soon, I start pacing and getting up and down. It is very obvious something is wrong, it seems to be written all over my face.
In the past people have asked me what is wrong,
Are you O.k.
Yes, I'm fine.
You don't look O.k. you are kind of white, do you need a drink of water? Whats going on?
Oh, its nothing really, I had a troublesome childhood and I get a little nervous as the sun goes down.
Hhmm, Oh, I better find a seat.
I am making this scenario up and just presenting a theory of why it is so difficult for us to get better. I am not sure what experience you have had with other people but mine has been the moment somebody finds out that I have had a troublesome youth I am told,
"Well there are people with worse lives, I'm sure."
And that happens before they even know what has happened to me. Or, my other favorite,
"Well you should think about today and the fact you are not a child anymore." "Where does your family live?"
Regardless we all know that nobody wants to know if you have had a problem with your childhood. But like a broken bone, we too need some healing and are healing should involve meeting strangers that can be sympathetic without being obnoxious with pity which most of us really don't want anyway. We don't want your pity it just makes us feel worse for even mentioning the reason that we have turned this lovely ashen color. Just like you pull muscles and ligaments with a break, we pull the same things in our brain when we are injured with your words.
Don't take it personally, its just the way he is.
I hate that saying because I do take it personally and why are we the ones that should be quiet and not the ones that others say, "Don't take it personally, they rage, its just the way they are." No, in our case we must be the perfect host and hostess for society, at all costs, which is always the toll that we pay for ourselves. We shouldn't have to pay for you too. I think that yesterday a person fractured and old break in my mind with his words, (Imagining it is like a break in your arm, a hairline fracture) the way he walked, all the screaming, with the yelling and with the lack of empathy towards a very badly hurt human being. He broke open what had healed shut so long ago. The memories are now the reality with all of the pieces back in place in my mind of a very particular time in my life. I have never been able to figure it out. It just broke and as my mind began to see what it was with such clarity, I began to realize that people don't want us to get better and get through the trauma, they just want us to get over it, forgetting what has happened to us. A big difference, don't you think? Why would people, strangers if you will want such a thing from us? Are we really that much work to be around? Normally we, as a collective are extremely hard workers and in general very quiet, so that can't be it. What is it? Are they afraid that they will have to get real in there life and hear a real story of abuse? Not just one on T.V. that you can donate to a foundation and make yourself feel better, almost as if you had done something for somebody?
Are we just a story or are we just material for the next horror movie or next weeks T.V. news brief on abuse and torture as a child? How do you survive the pain? Are we only an hour long Dr Phil or Oprah Show. Are we the movie "The Exorcism of Emily Rose." based on a real person that you never meet because she is dead? Are we the news caption on NBC next weeks morning show. Are we the mini-series that ABC is promoting for bigger ratings to sell more time share on the station. Are we just the example of what is never real and you only see on the television or the big screen? Are we nothing in comparison to you? Can we not be alive? Or are we only good enough to be gossiped about and feel sorry for if we happen to be dead at the point our story is told?
Wounded mind, fractured brain, that is me today. Keep saying the things that you are saying and my clarity will deepen within the confines of my mind, making the memories the reality that you will have to read.
The tragedy is that its all good for you if there is a screen between us. I make great dinner conversation, I make a great movie as long as I die in the end, I am fantastic gossip for those that love to spread the news of a troubled life, I make a great good-will story for somebody donating money to prevent suicide, I make Cocktail Parties more interesting when my mother attends, I make a great everything as long as I remain unseen or dead. But the reality of having to look at one us makes you feel uncomfortable because you are embarrassed about us in person, we evoke that reaction. So, the one thing that I really wanted in my life, which was to not be embarrassed all the time by what has happened to me, will never come to be. All because you cannot bare to see the tragic life of a person that is still alive and fighting like hell to get through this all with you. We bother you that much, but you bother me more, I'm not capable of being anyone but myself and I seem to bring you the horror of the reality that some kids live through the drownings, the beatings, the drugs given to them in their bottles, some kids make it, we survive to watch the trials of mothers like Casey Anthony, live on CNN. Just think, if her kid had made it, just like me, you wouldn't being having a trial with her mother, you would be turning your back and saying, "Some people have worse lives than you do, just get over it."
Some of us have those worse lives, some of us are me. I wrote this two years ago, when I first began to express on paper my pain, my wounded mind had begun to fracture. Breaking away the walls that kept this all so neat tidy for you, not for me. So that I could walk freely amongst you in society while never disturbing your mind, your brain or your life. How apropo this poem ends up to be today.
Prepare
Prepared for this since I was Five.
See not my face, my eyes don't lie.
In time, through grace, in space, in sine.
Know where, know place, I do not waste.
Don't help, don't stare, don't scream, don't share!
Despair of mine is no disgrace.
Just a time, in such thin space.
Hello, it's Me
I'm in my Head,
but I'm not dead.
What comes instead may cause you dread.
Move on, move out, don't run about.
The stream of words you bleed are out.
Not red, not green, not blue, know doubt,
It's not the money when I shout.
Hello, it's ME
It's ME,
You see?
The sky goes dark when you remark,
the hatred must! hit its mark.
No eyes you need, I bring you Heed!
Go blind, go hate, but don't be late.
For I am here and very near.
the fear that comes into my feet,
will carry me across, it's neat.
The cost is high,
so please, don't sigh.
Hello, It's me,
it's me,
do you see?
K.A.P.
4/28/2009
(Wouldn't it just be a funny kind of revenge if every poem I have written on this blog works into something I am writing presently and can be better understood than when the poem is standing alone. Just like the last three have shown to be. Strangely odd don't you think?)
Know Noise, Silence Speaks with Volumes
Pictures Talk,
play your own music.
It's been seven years since my children and I were together, seven years ago.........
.........................my Family of Origin or FOO. FOO is the more
commonly known verbiage to Daughters of Malignant Narcissists.
Anyway.............I couldn't believe my older sister just left me with
her Lover in a R.V. Park in Dallas,
TX!....................................................!
"Ahhh..."(as I stumbled for my words) "I guess you can stay with me and
I'll drive you back to the Airport?" (I was nervously spouting at her
Lover)
He said: ......................."Are you O.K.?"
I said: "............................................"
How do I tell my story? It keeps coming out in this stupid poetic
verse. I wonder what would happen if I just did the same thing, don't
think just write?
Uhmm??????????
I was
brought up in a closed knit society. It
was dark and filled with negativity. The
adults were part of a church that was run out of the next door neighbor’s house
at 811 Balboa Street. My family lived at
815 Balboa Street in San Francisco, California.
The severe abuse and neglect began in this home.
My mother is
actually a cult leader not a minister, as she has had no formal training. My grandparents were pastors and attended the
school of ministry for their official training. I want to say that it was for
the 7th Day Adventists, but I may be wrong.
Taking up where my grandparents never left
off, my mother decided the demonization of her church would simple, inter-denominational.
This allowed her to know no greater authority than herself. Although she would refer to her parents as
the senior pastors in her church, they never knew the true facts on how the
actual meetings went. When they visited
from Oregon the church services had been so rehearsed it was almost
ridiculous. To see so many people sober
up so fast makes me know that they, being the congregation was aware and lucid
of the fact the church was not normal.
When my grandparents or strangers were not present in the church on
O’Farrell and Divisadero, the sermons that my mother would give lasted six to
seven hours long. Just like Jim Jones
did (I met him once), they sounded a lot like that guy on cable t.v. that pays
for his spots and just sits and talks forever about nothing. I am sure you all
must know who I am talking about, he has been on t.v. for as long as I can
remember. I used to think he must have
been related to my mother, only difference was he is to lazy to stand and give
his 1000 minute message. My mother would
stand for hours, jumping around and preaching, about what I have no idea. I could not tell you anything, it was all not
in any way understandable to anyone.
Unless you were well versed in what was not being said, if that was the
case then you would know that every message was and had only on intent, to
brainwash the listener into giving everything he or she owned. Oh yea, I know more about sexual orgasms than
I know any story in the bible. In fact I
cannot even tell you the books of the bible, I know very little about anything
biblical. Other than stories about Noah, Abraham and Sarah, Adam and Eve and
what I know is, don’t be a kid to people like Abraham and Sarah because they
will kill you so that god knows they listen, or something like that, needless
to say death was made very real to me with that story, my mother made sure of
it because I am meant to be the sacrificial lamb. Told to me every Easter of every year I can
remember. The Adam and Eve taught me all about sex and an apple, to explain how
when women eat a red apple they are thinking about making a man think about
their vagina. I never did get that story
quite right. But I am sure you get the
point.
It was odd when my Grandparents visited
because the sermons were actually something I could follow. Oh course we are all going to die when the
heavens rain down fire and brimstone on our heads and we translate back to
Heaven. Basically you will die and that
is that. But what really bugged when my
grandparents visited was the entire congregation, a whopping 16 people in a
place that could hold 175, was that my mother insisted they call them Papa and
Nana. I would fume over this, I used to
get so angry, I still am pissed-off that it happened. It’s bad enough growing up with people that
demand your mother’s attention as if she is their mother, let alone, now they
steal your grandparents too.
Nobody ever
thinks about the children of a cult leader, you go unnoticed, until
there is a
cry to arms by the leader to bring drama, excitement and pure
unadulterated sin
to the table. This is when you have the attention that you
never wanted. You become the whipping
child, and sure enough those new members whipped away on my brother and
me. One particular painful moment
happened when my brother tried to get up and leave the dining room
table. My mother screamed, “Hold him down, and do
not let him out.” Several of the
parishioners’, conveniently on hand for dinner, not really they were
standing
like armed guards, jumped to her call and pinned him in his chair. I
was across the table from my brother. Then my mother said, “Light a
fire under his
bottom.” My step-father leaps to the
occasion with matches already in hand.
He strikes the match and the flame burns hot, as he puts between the
ladders on the ladder back chair he was sitting in. I had made it to
that side of the table by
then and blew it out. He shoved me out
of the way so hard I was thrown into the wall.
My step-father strikes another match and I made back up again to blow it
out. By this time the order comes flying
through the air, “grab her, stop her, light that fire or he will never
learn to
be obedient at this table.” A big man
grabbed my arms from the back and held me off the ground. As the next
match struck
the back of the match case for the third time a match came to life with
the
flame burning bright. I watched in
horror, struggling, screaming, yelling, kicking, spitting, and trying
desperately to get back over to my brother so that his pants would not
catch on
fire. They did. That was that, I failed, they won,
again. I can’t remember what happened
after that, I just know he was on fire.
We have never discussed these things, he and I, why bother, we were in
Hell and still are living the existence we never asked to live from
anyone. We were not recruits, we did not
join, we were not manipulated into some stupid mind-set, and we were
just the
slave children of a Sociopath mother and a sadomasochistic step-father
from
England. All we did was survive that which is meant to be not
survivable, so
the professionals say.
The next time
that my brother tried to leave the house was the last time I remember
living
under the same roof as him. He made a mad
dash for the back door; they had him between two sets of men, in the
kitchen at
815 Balboa Street in San Francisco, California where police do nothing
for the
ones that are truly in trouble. On the
stove there was a pot of boiling water.
As he lunged for the door, my mother grabbed the pot and through it at
him. All the parishioners at the time,
again conveniently located at the house, were standing conveniently out
of the
way of the now pot of boiling water that is being thrown at my brother.
I had been eating at the kitchen table on the
very far side of it, near the back wall of the kitchen. Generally
speaking this was a safer place to
be. I was always faced to the room which prevented somebody walking up
behind
you and doing something you cannot see coming.
As my brother was being corralled, I was trying to act relatively
normally
so I would not be caught up in the
tangle of men. I sat calmly to try to
figure out who was now the next target of entertainment for my mother.
Picking
the victim to excite her parishioners with that day, was always a big
decision
I guess. We were known as the defiant
ones, my brother and I. We were not
cooperative with our new step-father and our new found family members in
this
new found cult of my mothers. I felt
like it was a prelude to how she was going to introduce the same type of
behavior that those people would eventually practice on their children
and or
spouses. It proved to be correct. Regardless, for now it was my
brother and I
firing up the emotions of this cult that she was bringing together. Did
you know that this is how they do it? You must have the supply or
merchandise,
ready to die, in order to plant the seed and have something over a
stranger. We were the seed, that became
the plant and nobody cared if we lived or died because we refused to
pray to
God. That was our collective sin. As I
saw once again my brother being attacked I crawled down under the table
to get
out of the way. The now flying chairs and the table that was being
shoved
across the room and up against what stopped it, the wall where I had
just been
sitting.
I looked up
from the underneath of the table that I have now in the next room. I tried to see the next fist coming or set of
hands getting ready to grab me, jerking me out into the open. I remember seeing my brothers eyes and
watching as he shook his head vigorously at me. He was afraid I was coming out to fight his
battle for him again. This time instead
of moving I stayed still not realizing that all the adults in the room did not
even know that I was present. The
boiling water reached him, soaking his shirt and pants instantly. As soon as it did, the scurrying slowed as
they seem to watch the reaction of such a horrid act. My mother whom I could see in plain sight had
a look of delight on her face, I’ll never forget it. She was wearing a silky, long night gown, one
that I could l use a match to light on fire and she would go up in flames. As my brother screamed and I stared, the
moment stopped time for me. It is as if
my brother new my thoughts about my mother, screaming, “don’t come out, don’t
do it, stay down, stay safe, don’t fight.”
He kept moving towards the back door, it was slow motion in strange time.
Everyone had moved out of the way so that the boiling water did get them. This left an aisle straight out to the back
yard. As he kept on, he looked at me one
more time to see if I was looking at Mom or him. Out the door he went, so quick, crashing down
the back stairs, you could hear him pounding the wall for balance. On his tail were all the men in the kitchen
and dining room. I thought to myself,
“go, run, don’t come back, never come back, I’ll remember, I’ll never forget, I
will get them back, I will survive with the memories intact.” It was the last time I remember seeing my
brother at all normally. He never
returned to the house. I have seen him
off and on through the years but he was never the same. Distant, broken, sad and just plain
different, he never has looked at me the same.
Almost like his mind cracked that day, split in two. Surviving was too much for him, yet he still
is doing it, he lives on the streets of
San Francisco. Now this is becoming to much for me. Forty-years later, I am
tired and worn out with no place to go for safety, for peace, for happiness or
for a roof over my head, but until now I have followed my brothers last request
of me.
You see when
it is your mother and her partner, the sadomasochistic freak that perverts your
life into madness, you have not reprieve, no home, so safety in case of danger
from life’s afflictions. My parents are
currently millionaires, living in the Sea Cliff area of San Francisco. The house was purchased after the building
for the church was purchased. The house
they currently now own, with only them on title, was originally bought as a
place where the ministers live while preaching at the church. I forget what it’s called, but it is a common
thing that happens to pastors or preachers.
You don’t make that much money doing this type of service, so you often
are furnished with a home to reside in as you are the leaders of the
church.
The man that
bought the church building at O’Farrell and Divisadero in San Francisco,
California, committed suicide in the early nineties. He had bought the building using funds from
his family trust. There was a home in
the Sea Cliff area that was purchased for my mother. Four people went in on this property. They
also moved in with us to our new home.
What a nightmare that became in my life.
I did get my own room. I was better off than my older two siblings. They were pushed out of this home that was
nearly 10,000 square feet, supposedly there was no room. This all took place in the early to mid-
seventies. Over the years I watched as each person that had invested their
personal trusts in the purchase of properties (there were a few more) was edged
out and then removed from the titles of the property. One at time, quietly, behind the backs of the
other. By the time it was your turn to
be taken off the title you realized that
it was my mother and step-father only against you. They used all that you did over the years to
blackmail you into signing the property over to them. So now on the title of this very large home
is my mother and step-father, it looks as normal as normal could be these days.
No history, no evidence of anything,
anymore, there is only one original investor left and she is living at my
grandparents’ home in Roseburg, Oregon. They sold the building some years back,
oh wait, that was exact to the time they came after me again, five years to
date I think. My mother listed herself
as president and my step-father listed himself as secretary. They turned right
around and bought a duplex directly down the street from their home in the
avenues. They purchased it with the
money from the non-profit church that the building had supposedly housed for
the past thirty-five years or so. They
bought this new property with my younger half-sister and half-brother, and
themselves listed as the purchasers. At
this point I had had enough. My brother
who had been through telling times such as I, lives on the street and has for a
very long time. Never had a home since
that day, I know for fact. So in my
disgust that the two golden children of my stepfather were being bought a
million dollar home so they could each have a private flat, busted me
open.
All they had
to do was get a tri-plex and maybe I would have kept my mouth shut. But the blatant
fuck-you was just too much after all the horrors that we both survived. Before this happened I never intended to
write at all.
Well it went too far, to have my step-fathers
children gain from the people that had practiced on us before turning on their
own families was over the top. Greed
pushed the envelope and now they had to be very quick with me to shut me up in
case I remembered anything of the past. So all they were doing is tying up all
the loose ends, and I am the biggest loose end they had left. I had a good job, owned my own house and
car, had great kids in spite of two nasty divorces, I had really moved on in
life. You see they did not know if I
remembered anything as a child and they had to know since one of the biggest
wills was about to hit and they had just sold the building bought by Jim
Mosley, the one who jumped off the bridge.
Oh yea, about Jim, two weeks before he jumped off the bridge my mother told
him, “your family would be better if you were dead.” I
guess it put him over the edge, because he jumped and died. My brother and I confronted our mother saying
pretty much the same thing. Why didn't you just take a gun and shoot him in the head. We both told her she was guilty
of murder. Just because nobody can prove it
doesn’t mean we don't know it to be true. I told you live or die, they do not
care, and they just do not want to get caught for all the terrors and horrific
acts of terror that they have committed together. Let alone all the money they have conned out
of people.
So now..............
I am
headed to the street next week. I had a severe injury to my back at
PetSmart, I
was the Store Director at a 40 thousand square foot store in Sacramento,
California. The workers compensation case has not settled
but I do not receive any monies. I had
my L4/L5 discs fused, 360 degrees; it was successful because I can walk
again. However it has left me unable to
work full-time. I was released to work 27 hours a week. The company let
me go,
due to the fact I could not do my job in that amount of time. So here I
am, finally broke enough to file
for Disability and with no way to support myself for the time it takes
to be approved.
You are meant to be able to have someone to stay with during the three
to four
month period of time it takes for the approval process. That is what
they suggested to me. Well, I do
not. I won’t break my will and get down
on my knees and pray to my mother, step-father, half-sister and
half-brother,
so they said I deserve to be on the street with my brother. Since I
will not abide by their demand they
are celebrating the fact I will be homeless soon............
Saturday, July 2, 2011
I go the game! You want to play? It will take your breath away if you loose.
I sometimes find it difficult to speak on certain subjects in my life. I have these haunting moments that happen in my life when I see particular people. As I am now all alone, I understand that some people are meant to walk a path that is without the company of others. I never really fought this idea in myself because it all started on a sunny day long ago.
The house was relatively quiet on this Saturday morning, but while I laid in bed I knew that it was just a matter of time before things would erupt. I laid in my little bed, I had the smallest room in the house. My headboard was up against the far wall from the door and it faced my tiny, little closet. I had a small window off to the right of me that I liked to leave open at night. I loved the cool air as it rushed in with the wind moving through my room at night, it made me feel alive. As I was laying there I thought to myself about how alone I always was in my life. Not lonely, just by myself. I had an older brother who's room was adjacent to mine and my older sisters room was on the other side of the stairs. They always seemed to be partnered together in everything. Even to this day they are solid in there togetherness when in person. I never remember them fighting about anything, just rushing about with their friends. For the most part they seemed very happy.
The odd moments always came eventually, one of those strange times came when my mother would tell my father that they needed to be spanked. This would happen when he came home from work. Everyone was immediately sent to there rooms while my mother confessed the dirty deeds of the day. It all seemed so pointless though, because he would go into each of their rooms and tell them to yell or scream as he would hit the bed. This was all so my mother would think that they had received their licking. In preparation of all of this, while being sent to our rooms they did put on layers upon layers of underwear, I guess that was a "Just in case plan."
On this morning, being it was Saturday again, I moved my feet under the covers as I was wondering if I should retreat to my closet. As I stared at the closet door I thought how cute it was, the half door, about a foot or so off the floor. I loved climbing inside of it. It often took the top choice for my days hiding place. I wondered why nobody ever bothered to look for me in there. The temperature of the day in the emotional outburst yet to come this morning, would determine whether or not hiding was prudent or not. I had not yet heard the Master Bedroom door handle jiggle, so I was still safe in my bed. I thought, "I wonder if getting under my bed today would be better than my little homemade house in the closet."
I could not stand the yelling and screaming from the people down the hall, while in the closet it seemed to help shut the noise out. And it did look better if it happened to be a day where we were going to spend it as a family, as oppose to what seemed more regular fare, at odds with one another. Everyone, being my brother, my sister and I would be grounded to our rooms for a day like that one. I never minded it much, it saved me from having to protect myself from my siblings latest hooray. They of course, would sneak in and out of there rooms all day, or at least until there friends came over. It would come to light later that they had been sneaking downstairs to use the phone to get there friends to have their parents call and come visit for the afternoon. That was the only way we would be released from the house arrest of our prison rooms. I never did like that much and most times would remain hiding inside of my room and hopefully remain undetected by all it I was lucky.
It is so odd to look back and think that I layed in bed pondering which would be a better place to spend my day. In the closet hidden away in the comfort of the darkness or under my bed where I could stretch all the way out with my pillow and blanket for friends. I opted for under my bed if I had time to scramble that fast on that day. I would draw pictures on the hard wood floor with my finger. I loved the breeze as it would blow through the window and I tended to enjoy the natural sunlight. My closet was getting a little small for me these days, I had to hold my knees up to fit properly, especially if anyone had taken up residence with me.
The sun was filtering into my room and I heard the morning voices warming up at the end of the hall to begin the dreaded weekend with everyone at home and ready for the next big fight. If I can just make it through the next two days, then I will have five days off from my siblings and the wrath of these two people that refer to themselves as the parents. I laughed to myself on that morning because my father had installed a pay phone in a closet under the stair well. Just like the Harry Potter closet actually. My mother had made so many long distance calls that the bill came in and it was for hundreds of dollars, that was a fight to remember. Anyhow you had to have money in hand to make any calls out of the house these days which proved to be an inconvenience for my siblings but a blessing in disguise for me. So my brother and sister on that particular Saturday were in a pickle, they tried to borrow some money from me, at this point I could still scream and be heard which would be devastating to their plan. So they did not come into my room, a small pleasure that I was able to experience. With them halted at my doorway, I sat in my bed and nodded my head no and they stormed away. Eventually they scrounged around and found some coins to complete their mission anyway.
Now all they had to do was successfully make it downstairs to the phone and back up to their room before they were reported missing in action by my mother. She would deflect the impending anger from my father onto them for not listening to their father and staying in there room when they had been told to do so. Of course this seems to take place before anyone has actually made downstairs for breakfast. All of this would happen while behind closed doors, first thing in the morning while they supposedly were planning our day. Half the time I thought my mother was in on it with my siblings. It seemed my father wanted no visitors for the day and she would argue that people were already planning to come by. It almost seemed like that was the part of the screaming argument that my brother and sister would use as the Que to call their friends. This is all because the success rate was always pretty high, at least it seemed that my mother got her way more than my father had his way in the matter.
I hated the weekends, it was always dangerous for me. I was the lone kid that seemed to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time, being tortured by my siblings. This morning I would come up with a better plan. I would wait through all of this running back and forth, leaving myself in plain site. Then right before everyone put on their happy faces for whomever was ringing the doorbell for a visit, I would roll over and out of my bed, grab my pillow and my blanket heading straight for the spot directly underneath where I was now laying. I would keep the window ajar for the day and I would make sure that I had the proper stuff (shoes, clothes, toys) that made adequate noise when moved about, it worked as an early alarm system for anyone searching under the bed to find me (I often fell asleep). As I had to plan, I had decide whether or not to climb over or move these objects out of the way for my hurried trip into hiding. Hhmm, maybe I should gain entry to my safety spot using the foot of the bed. Or should I pull all the stuff out and climb under pulling everything back as I shimmy over close to the wall. I sat up and leaned over to check my collection of things that I had put there the night before in preparation for my Saturday hide out. It all looked good, "That is what I'll do," I thought to myself. It looks less planned and more like I cleaned my room in a hurry, shoving everything under my bed to hide the mess. Then they will think that I am some where else, leaving me in peace. As I sat in my bed I looked at my closet one more time and thought, "I sure do miss sitting up during the day, but its getting scary and I don't want to be found today."
My timing had to be impeccable or my siblings would not think that I had taken off to hide someplace else in the house. So while I waited and watched as they ran back and forth, up and down the stairs periodically checking to see if I was still in my room, I thought to myself, "Somewhere out there, there is a boy that will be my knight in shining armor and someday I will meet him." The strength for caring on that day was had by me, all in that one stupid thought. I had seen Cinderella and I just knew that that was me in my little room. Someday I would go to the ball and there he'd be, to save me from this family that is not mine. I smiled, and laughed to myself. Just then I heard the door and I was gone. Out of sight, out of mind! I was safe to dream about a day that never came.
There are no soul mates, or twin souls in this world. I grew-up to find out that the Cinderella story that I had held so close, is a lie. I hate that I did to myself something that is so hard to undo today. I still cry because I thought that it was true, the pain of the hurt deep inside still festers. I thought that every person, had a person, that they would meet as an adult and then they could say, "I dreamed of you as a little girl, I stayed safe because I wanted to meet you someday, thanks for being here with me. You take the fear away of being killed today." I did grow-up to know not to say the second sentence to anyone should I have been lucky enough to meet him.
So on this Saturday, today, the 2nd of July, 2011, which is so far from then, I say to you that dreams of children are really just ways to get through the nightmare of the lives they are stuck in. I had someone tell me not to long ago that I must have been a terrible person in my before this life. That I am obviously paying a tremendous karmic debt. I said, "Yea, you're right, I am sure I deserved this life that I am living." It is what happens I guess or at least that is what the majority of the world believes to happen when you have been a monster in a life before this one. I believe that we are innocent when we are born and we come to learn lessons about past lives. I like this theory because it fits my life. It means that these people who claim to be my parents are not mine. For I belong to another time and I have been separated from that time so that I could come here to learn of evil. I like that about having a past life belief structure. The end all for me is I am not related to any of these people that call themselves family. So, I trade my Cinderella Story as a little girl in on today's wish, dream or belief, whichever you feel fits this story best.
As I sit typing away on my computer I hold the faith that I am here to learn of evil and to become solidly independent of other human beings, learning to walk alone, always. I laugh to myself as I get up to get a cup of coffee and I think, "I still like climbing in the closet, I have my little single bed that fits perfectly all set-up for this afternoons retreat to safety." Some habits die hard and some evolve with our intelligence to know we can have our cake and eat it too. A closet in an apartment that fits my bed perfectly. So I have a double bed for appearances that I love to sleep in, but as I sat up this morning, I looked across my room and into my closet where my safety net lies, I laugh at myself when I should probably cry. A dream come true from when I was a kid. The comfort of my bed and the safety of my closet, hidden from view, hidden from all of you, hidden from the uncertainty of every day that I have lived.
Good morning, its Saturday, I cannot play, I am busy hiding myself away in the dark yet again. I am 46 years old and I still hide from them. I do what makes me feel safe inside. I am still alive and I have not committed suicide so I guess what I am doing works to keep you alive, yet another day in this nightmare life. Life does go on, with or without you.
To all the people that laugh at human beings with PTSD, shame on you. It never goes away, hopefully one day it gets better, it seems the further you get from the incident the better your chances for recovery seem to be. But some of us were the incident and we are never safe. I don't think that I am a coward for hiding, I think that I am afraid inside of myself and I cannot get well when I know that nobody will understand my fears. They are real and the proof is certain for all to know, they just need to take the time to meet the players. There is only one thing you can count on in this life, Death. It comes for us all eventually, but mine came for me when I was very young and I am still afraid because a human being brought it. You live with that fear today and tomorrow maybe you can understand why it is so difficult for me to move sometimes and why I stay hidden away. I don't do it all the time, but the fact that I keep a closet set-up for me to climb into should be testimony enough for you to know that I need no proof of the abuse I suffered, its all right out in front of you for you to judge my life yet again.
I go the game, Play?
My half-sister, the daughter of my step-father, the second golden child, to the first golden child Tamara who is my eldest sister. She, Sarah, said to me the following two and a half three years ago now.
"You should take a gun and blow your head-off. It would be the best thing for the family." These words directly out of her mouth, as she came at me from across the dining table, with rage and eyes that spoke a familiar language to me.
I have told a few people, counselors and laymen alike since then, what she said to me because it impacted me so strongly. The people, who, I will give you, were few, all said the same thing, "Oh, she didn't mean it." Maybe now they can know that she did, it runs in families you see, family's like mine. I saw her eyes as she tore across the room at me. She had to be stopped physically because she was going to attack me. I looked up at her and our eyes met as I was moving to get out of her way. Its in there eyes Ladies and Gentleman. You never forget it once you have seen it. When a person comes to extinguish your life, they look the part, they are in a psychosis or a state of mind that is so troubling to me that I can barely breath as I write. To add insult to injury, since then, believe it or not, I think of what she said while I am and have been in a personal battle not to commit what has been on my mind since I was eight years old. It has taken this long to even begin to get what she said and the scenario she rattled off in such rage off of my mind as a potential relief from this life. Monsters are real in my life, its a shame that nobody takes what I say seriously when I say it. But maybe now, today you can realize the fear that I wake in and the horror that I go to sleep with each night. These are not just memories as a child. It is my life and it is mired with tragedy that nobody can even begin to comprehend, let alone understand, so I hide because I can't forget, how are you meant to "GET OVER IT," if they still want me dead.
Maybe now you know that you should feel the heat of shame on your face for telling me, a person that has been through Hell here on Earth, that I don't know when somebody wants you dead. She meant it, and its wrong to say to anyone at anytime regardless. My best friend committed suicide, death is real in my life and my family is aware of the two suicides out of the church my mother ran, so my sister is very well-aware of how suggestive words or statements can be. For Christs sake, my mother told the man that jumped off the bridge two weeks before he did it, "Your family would be better off if you were dead." A quote from an ex-church member today.
Death come to everyone differently, but in my life it comes at the hands of real live people who call themselves my family.
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TranslateA Pagan Record Of More
The Danger, the Fright, the Fear,
inhabits not Me,
but what is near.
Positive Outcomes,
for any given Scenario,
seem unclear,
almost a Hoax.
A Dangerous Ground,
to rely upon,
or Stand when,
Reporting is Lacking Integrity,
of "What has Been."
A Collective Repair,
non-existent in society.
As Hatred Bleeds,
our need to Rage,
"Becomes You."
Pulled-OUT-of School,
Wisdom Challenged,
by 'Whom?'
Graduates Past,
declare and I paste:
*The Outcome of American Christian Education - Katherine Dang, Philomath Foundation
Every philosophy or view of education has its own peculiar set of
consequences which are eventually revealed in the lives, character, and
conscience of its pupils.In an education with an emphasis on Biblical reasoning, i.e. American Christian education, individual self education begins to occur around the ages of ten through twelve. With adequate guidance the pupil develops a growing capacity to read, reason, write, and research on his own. Herein is the necessity for self-teaching texts and guides. When the Biblical foundations are laid in the childhood years, the path of reasoning and the inspiration for learning is established for individual self teaching. As children are taught to walk on their own, to eat their meals on their own, to dress themselves on their own, and to work on their own, why are we not expectant that they be taught to learn on their own? Is it not reasonable to expect that self-teaching be an outcome of one’s education?
An invaluable consequence of American Christian Education is the pupil’s acquiring the art of self-government or the skill of Biblical reasoning. When children are regularly exercised in their own ability to read and reason, to deduce principles from ideas, to draw inferences and correct conclusions, and then to articulate and write them, this then is the essence of original scholarship.
In truth, one’s own education is his first individual enterprise, the first step towards his pursuit of happiness or his own vocation and livelihood. From God is mankind given a title to his own happiness, his own enjoyment of the fruits of his own labor. Parents and teachers owe the pupil only the rudiments, the first fundamental principles or foundations of life and learning. The pupil owes it to himself to build upon these foundations to reach maturity and adulthood. His years of youth are his years of building and engaging in the self-enterprise of pursuing his own happiness or livelihood.
American Christian Education is a new deal when one considers the conventional aim, content, and approach to education of today. While America is awash with socialism, American Christian Education is the antidote for modern socialism. American Christian Education creates cutting-edge generations, generations not socialized, trained, and accustomed to thinking and acting only as a part of some group. Individuals knowing how to be independently dependent upon the absolute principles of all of life and living will begin the undoing of socialism in America.
Raped of my own education,
my Family Supports,
this Avid Idea,
Practiced on Me.
Left to my own devices,
Evolution took Pity,
made me learn nothing more than,
Turn Away,
from this Ignorance of the Day.
I State,
I Am and You will be Due,
for
My ERUPT,
upon Humanity.
~
Sincerely Yours,
A Seer, A Sage, A Genius Savant, A Prodigy & Probably More,
not the OUT-COME of a christian Take,
but the
Natural Gifts Bestowed upon MY Life by Creation Herself at Birth,
not here,
but in the Bosom of Her Heir.
With More Than Pride,
I State,
~
The Continue
~
A PAGAN RECORD
~
A Very Personal Roar!!
~
If the teacher is driven to teach, then does he not become a virtual taskmaster of his students; and they become burdened with heavy, unreasonable loads to bear? The injustice is so much the greater offense when the novice is but a child.
Biblical education by definition is easy and light. Scripture tells us how children are taught: "For precept must be upon precept, precept upon precept; line upon line, line upon line; here a little, and there a little." Isaiah 28:10. When one is taught the principles by which to reason in a given subject, and then consistently exercised in reasoning from principles, then he becomes free from, and independent of, rote learning.
American Christian education affords the training of individual reasoning in which one may come to his own correct conclusions in any given subject. Below are what may be identifiable characteristics of American Christian education:
1. Liberty for the individual to reflect, believe, and follow principles -- as opposed to enslavement to the strict letter of imposed, formulated, standardized answers.
2. Lessons are suited to one’s capacity; given an easy yoke to bear; one is not being given more than he can bear -- as opposed to straining under a heavy burden of unreasonable compliance to an arbitrarily standardized load of work.
3. Simple, uncomplicated principles and ideas to master -- as opposed to having to master by rote an overwhelming amount of minute facts and information.
* Katherine Dang of the Philomath Foundation
(copy & paste the following address into a browser for more information)
http://philomathfoundation.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=blogcategory&id=14&Itemid=37&limitstart=44
(copy & paste the following address into a browser for more information)
http://philomathfoundation.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=blogcategory&id=14&Itemid=37&limitstart=44
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