Corruption.


My eyes gaze upon him. The way he moves his body entices me. His arms swirling in strong, dizzying circles, beckoning me. His hips gyrating, begging me closer. Then his face. His face is empty, but still calls me to him. All that is left there is perfect, hard skin and a curvy smirk. Prideful, malignant smirk. He makes the skin on my hands sting with delight, as if I was already touching him. His smirk seems to soften, but only to begin a hypnotic hum. The chords deep, a slight off key sound. Just enough for me to keep listening, waiting patiently for it to become perfectly in tune. Small moments, single notes of teasing clarity keep me wanting. I remain for those moments as Corruption fools me. Lying to me. Letting me think that clarity only comes from this type of patience. From watching him, adorningly.

Corruption's long finger rises and curls to me, pulling me instantly closer. My body responds. I gasp as I move without my distinction. My eyes fearful, trying to look away. Long, bony, enticing hands of his wrap around my face, melding my eyes with his. Creating that instant, connecting hold. Imitating the most elegant seduction. Wrapping his arms around me fully, he latches to me. The scent of him, intoxicating. His touch leaving the most intense addiction. My own arms slowly circle his slender waist, as I grip onto him for his offered false security. His smirk returning to his twisted face. That prideful, malignant smirk.



Truth.

I finally notice his presence, just standing, waiting for my eyes to find his. His obvious care encouraging a small, safe smile from me. His arms open, not wanting, but instead knowing. Knowing I belong there. His appearance something I only now see, but it feels as if I have always known. His confident stance catching me off guard, making my body twitch away from Corruption slightly. Corruption responds, holding me tighter and sneering in Truth's direction. As Corruption attempts to claim the territory he found in me, Truth steps closer, arms still open, reaching for me. Watching this unselfish notion brings tears to my eyes, making my cheeks wet and shiny. Corruption wipes them, soothing what doesn't need to be soothed.

Truth gets close enough to touch me. All he does, is touch my hand. All of the feelings, the hot, seducing feelings that Corruption causes inside me by wrapping his arms around me, Truth makes me feel the same amount in just one touch of his hand. But instead these feelings are constant. Instead of false hope and lust, it is trust and joy. It overwhelms me.

Corruption speaks finally, whispering in my ear to stay. Whispering things that make my knees weak with hunger for his speech. The whispers begin, but then they always end. The saftey of them fickle.

I force my body to be able to turn towards Truth, as his touch... Is constant. The allure of Corruption still tempting me to return to his arms. Truth takes my doubts and fears, and instead of feeding them, tames them. With one touch he calms my tension down. Unable to remove Corruption from around myself, Truth pulls him off, one finger at a time. Using his strength to help me, protect me. All the time being patient with me for not being able to perform this function on my own.

When Corruption is finally removed from me, I enter Truth's arms. And finally... I know just like he does. I know where I belong.

I should be alone.

My body, all of who I am, and sometimes I fear even my soul, is plagued. I know this isn't by my own doing or by my own hand, but by a forced one. That still doesn't change what it makes me. A person who gains an illness from another still has the illness. And if they don't seperate themselves, they will pass on the pain and the hurt, even without trying.

I don't want to hurt people, and I would never hurt someone like my father did, but I can still hurt people through my selfish actions. My selfish, greedy need to spare myself pain by latching onto others for relief. The moment I release that foul story from my lips, I spread the poison. I knowlingly, greedily, and selfishly pass it on to them. Those thoughts, my stain. I am selfish. It makes me feel a little bit better, lighter. But in the process I bring each person down. I become a villian.

I become the thing that my father and my bad dreams are to me. I become the villian in all of their "safe rooms" within themselves. I am the one lurking in the dark, spitting out curses and tales of hurt and filth.

If I would just be alone, it would solve all of this. I could take all the pain myself, like I should. If only I could get my greedy hands off of other people's hope.

I wonder what it would feel like to not be so sure of something so horrible. Something so devasting to my heart. People say it's not true, but I feel as if even the best evidence couldn't ever be enough proof. How can you dissovlve the truth in something that is as constant as the ripples in the ocean or the flow of air in the skies? How can you even let yourself form doubt that something like this isn't true, when you know beyond every doubt and with absolute complete, and utterly crippling certainty that it is true?

I should be alone.

My 25 Things

Recently, on another social website that I am on, everyone has been posting these "25 Things". These "Things" are supposed to be random funny, serious, silly, or general things about yourself. I want to post one of these, but all my "25 Things" must be kept secret. Just like me and my problems must be kept secret. So, I am posting my "25 Things" on here so I don't scare anyone.

1. As you can probably tell by my posts, I was sexually abused by my father from the ages of 3 to 13. It began as touching and watching, and turned into everything.

2. I feel gross pretty much all of the time. I can feel his hands crawling all over my body at pretty much every moment. This is why I can't usually let boys touch me. The only times I don't feel like this is when someone shows me that I'm not gross.

3. I am ashamed of my life. I should be better by now.

4. I feel like I am a person that people have to "take time away from". I am so stressful to people that I am someone they try to get away from.

5. My grandfather on my mother's side only yelled at me once in my life. Only once, and it was because I accidently sprayed him with water from the hose. He is the kindest man I know, although he is getting a bit grumpy as he ages.

6. Whenever I start to work on getting better, this problem pretty much infects my life. It covers me with this dark, rancid liquid that effects everything I do and say. I think this is why people should want to stay away from me. I weigh everyone down with this liquid. I have to just take it on myself.

7. I used to play my little ponies. I had about a million of the little ponies and carried them around my block in a basket. I loved those things.

8. I want a dog. It has to be either a Pug, Chug, or Puggle. It has to be a girl and I am going to name it Ruby. I am waiting for Ruby to enter my life.

9. When I was four years old I can remember my mother walking into my bedroom that my sister and I shared. I was alone and doing something bad to myself. She told me to stop and I wondered why it was wrong. I have ALWAYS remembered this memory even before I remembered the rest of what my dad did to me. I have ALWAYS wondered what it meant, but now I know.

10. I feel like if someone would touch me or touch my skin, they would feel his hands on me too.

11. I feel like every post that I put up, every bit of honesty, every time I tell someone I need them, or let people know that I am depressed that I am doing something wrong. Every time I do this I feel like I am pushing them away. I feel like I am just adding to the pile of stress and eventually they will see that they don't want me in their life. Usually I am depressed for weeks at a time. If I let people know this, I feel like I want to throw up on myself.

12. When I was little all of us that lived on this block used to play the lion king. We ran out of names from the movie because there was so many of us that we made up names of new characters. I was "'Sparkle Eyes". We even wrote all of our names on my fence.

13. If I could do anything, I would be a writer of fiction stories, an actress, a singer, a movie critic, a food critic, a counselor, and one of those people who films those travel shows so I can get paid to go on vacations.

14. I almost cut last night. I had the scissors in my hands. It was to my skin. I even searched for a box cutter at work. Those work best. It feels too weird to use a knife and scissors are harder to use. You have to press a lot harder to make it cut. Every time I see a box cutter I get the urge.

15. I often misspell my middle name when I have to write it. Actually most of the time I do.

16. If someone needed me or needed my help, I would drop everything and forget my life to help them. Even though I want to hurt myself, I don't want anyone else to feel that way.

17. I feel worthless most of the time. I feel like all I do for people is stress them out. I sucked it up at school and now am going to have to settle for less. I am worried that I will never do anything important with my life.

18. I have never called anyone and asked them to come over when I need help. They usually have plans, like most people do. I would feel too guilty taking them away from those plans. I am just not worth giving up a happy night for.

19. Sometimes I wish that I would be raped again. This way I could have enough evidence to put someone in jail. This way I wouldn't have to keep my feelings a secret. I could just say that I feel all these things because of what that person did.

20. One of the things I do like about myself is that I like my style in my room and how I dress. I know how to pick clothes that fit me and I love showing my personality through what I have in my room or house.

21. I caught my sister lighting matches and watching the fire burn when we were little kids. She looked like she was going to burn herself so I told on her.

22. I hardly ever paint my fingernails. I think my fingernails look weird with paint on them.

23. Right now, I hate myself. I am not okay. I need someones help.

24. I want someone to prove some of these "25 Things" wrong. I want someone to prove to me that I am not some of these things. I am scared that I will always feel like I am these things.

25. I don't blame God at all for any of this. I blame my father and myself.

I am sorry if these make you feel bad or make you want to turn away. I am sorry if these make you mad. I'm sorry. Maybe I'll post some other ones that are basically happy on the other site, but for all of you who see this... These are my real "25 Things".

To Be Touchable

I usually only post one thing in a day, if I post at all, but today I am full of thoughts. I can't stop thinking, thus the second post. Things I have been hiding from and not wanting to deal with are slowly surfacing. My counselor has said that is what happens when you open yourself up to dealing with abuse. I am either closed off to it, or completely open.

I hate being completely open. It usually doesn't last that long, because it gets too hard and I close up again. I feel like I am too much. When people look at me I fear that they are seeing the word "deathtrap" printed in harsh letters all over my face and up and down my arms. This feeling extends even to the point that I ask people permission to open up to them and ask for help. I feel like I need permission to make their lives a living hell. Why should others have to experience what I have experienced? I am making them live through it by them having to answer my questions and listen to me yammer on about myself day in and day out.

I hate thinking that I am a whiner. That's what I feel I am when I continually talk about what happened to me and the feelings I feel because of it. Shouldn't I be over it? Shouldn't I be okay already? Maybe I would be if I wouldn't stop closing the floodgates all of the time. This feeling fills my heart so much and I feel so guilty for "whining" all the time to my friends that I close up, and nothing is worked out.

The easiest way to get past things is dealing with them right? Even if it takes up a lot of your time, and other's time? Well that is what I'm told. So I am going to start writing. I will write out these deep feelings that I have and work through them. I have to admit things. I have to get it out, otherwise they become "words" that haunt me. I'm tired of being haunted.

One must be warned, though, that when working through things I run out of strength very quickly. The more I post, write, or talk about things the more I want to cut. The more I want to take scissors or a box cutter and slice it across my skin for relief. Then I wait for the moment that blood starts to appear and a thin red line appears on my skin. Soon the blood stops and the thin red line stays. A deep breath escapes from my mouth and the process towards cutting starts all over again.

But I can't cut. It is like a drug and it slows the process more.

There is still one other complication with telling truths about myself. I do it not only to get through my problems, but also as a way to prove to people that I am the words I think I am. The more I let someone know about myself, the more I expect them to cringe and me and tell me its too much. This is something that I want in a way, because if they cringed and walked away from me, it would give me permission. Permission to cut. This alone is a truth about myself that I needed to share.

So, to start out the process I will write something here that I have been struggling with. Part of me, again, is waiting for someone to read it and agree with the pain I am feeling and that I deserve it, but the other part is hoping that getting these thoughts out will take me down the road to healing. Here goes...

My family was not much much for physical intimacy. Well, except for the abuse from my father. That was all he wanted, but I wouldn't call it intimacy. My big sister was fiery and angry most of the time. My father kept us both on our toes, and she wouldn't take it like I did. She fought back openly.

Up to this day, I've probably only hugged her five times in my life. Most of them jokes. That's the closest I have ever gotten to my sister. When you tell her you love her, she doesn't respond. She has never said those words to me, but once. She has never written those words to me. All I have is her protecting me as evidence. And most of the time, that is enough.

My mother is an hard person to define. She hugs me and tells me she loves me. The next moment she is calling me my father's name and wanting money. She never read to me as a child. Sometimes she would brush my hair and hum a little song she would make up, but that is about it. It was never really comfortable to be close to her in that way. I never really cuddled up next to her on the couch or fallen asleep on her. She would just get uncomfortable or upset.

I remember sneaking into my father's room after my parents got divorced to look through our family pictures that he had up in closet. In them I found a letter from my mother. She wrote how they were never intimate. I cringed at the words and shoved everything back in the box.

My extended family and grandparents are the same way, even on my mother's side. It has always been awkward with each of them. I never sat on my grandparents lap or anything. "Touch" was just... weird for all of us. It was uncomfortable.

This leaves me with so many questions. How many people knew about what was happening to me? Did my mother know and that was why she had a hard time talking to me or touching me? Did it happen to my sister too and that is why she is so afraid of touch or exclamations of love? Did even my grandparents know, and because they knew it was gross to touch me?


When a boy touches me all I can feel are hands and arms that want me. Sometimes this is a good thing. Other times, these hands and his eyes and face scare me. Even in the most innocent of touches or when we are just cuddling during a movie I can feel it in his hands or see it in his eyes. It is always there, that he wants me. I can't run from it. I can't make it stop. So I don't want him to touch me. It makes me angry that a man wants me like that. Makes me feel gross or like I should just lay down flat and let him take what he wants because I am worth no more than that. All these colliding feelings cause me to slide away and never want him to touch me.

So what does it mean to be held? What does it mean to be held and not "wanted"? And what does it feel like to be held and "wanted" and have that be okay? I am left feeling like I have never been just simply held and comforted because there is something wrong with me. I am scared that if someone holds me or if I lay my head in their lap while they play with my hair that they will touch something that makes them cringe back. If they run their hands through my hair will they stumble through a knot in my hair and remember that I am used? If they run their hand down my arm or back will they only think of how my own father touched me? If I lay on them will they that mean that they want me and I have to give in? What does it mean to be held like my mom should have?

Am I touchable? Am I holdable? What does it mean to just be held? NOT WANTED. Just held?

Now that I wrote this all out, I feel gross about it. I feel like I am gross to wonder about it. But I am going to post it anyways. That is how this works right? Just be honest, right? Well.... Okay.

When Everything Changes

The colors surrounding are vibrant. Reds, oranges, bronze, black, and deep blue. The circular walls are beautiful. Each color swirls together just right. The exact moment one needs to end, the next seeps in just so.

All of its wonder is like a delicate food that fills your stomach and lulls you to sleep when you’re full. Warmth seeps from all of its sides, a soft glow of gold as evidence. The sun seems to warm the room just so. Just enough to feel like its rays are humming you to sleep.

She exhales. Her sigh is of comfort and ease. The safety here in the center causes her to feel light as a happy giggle escapes from her mouth. A small hand reaches up to cover her smiling mouth, but a slightly louder laugh comes instead and she presses her hands around her cheeks to feel the heat grow in her face.

Warm water begins to seep at her ankles. Its heat makes this place feel even safer. The waves rise just enough so it reaches a little above her waist. Completely trusting, she leans back and lets the blue blanket catch her and hold her up. The fingers of the waves tickle the cheeks of her face as the water floats her small body on top of the water. Stretching out her arms beside her and above her head, she wades to hold herself there. No fear of herself falling under. She is safe in the water’s hands.

Just as she is warm enough and wants to say farewell to water’s arms, it slowly drains itself away and places her feet on the ground. Her short brown curls and soft clothing still carry remains of the water. Brushing a few drops off of the skin of her face, she smiles to thank the warmth she was just given. No place is happier. Life here in this circular room is perfect.

Bending her knees she kneels on the ground and sits back, crossing her legs and holding herself up with her hands. Leaning her head back, she opens her wispy lashes to look at the stars covering the ceiling. The sky is a dark black with a tinge of purple. Small speckles of light shine every once and a while and glow down at her.

The hum of the sky quiets her mind, but then an awkward sound appears. Footsteps. She never hears footsteps. This is her safe place. Leaning her head back down she opens her eyes just a crack. She takes in a worried breath as she sees not one, but at least ten pairs of shoes stepping towards her. Each pair of shoes, different sizes and colors, form a circle around her and close in.

Opening her eyes fully, she sees the faces of her intruders. These people she knows, they all share her blood. Next she sees hands, their hands stretching out to her. Hands big, some old, but all not offering help, but claws. This has never happened before. Usually it is just one pair of hands, one pair of claws. There has never been this many before.

Their jagged claws are close enough to touch her, in arms reach. Looking down from her feat, she moves a step away from the center. A small whimper escapes her mouth as she feels the loss of its safety. The hands lunge at her and she swerves to avoid each one.

As she runs from one pair of hands threatening her, she runs towards another. A small sense of hope appears when she gets away from the last pair, but is instantly crushed each time she reaches the next set and they grab for her just the same. It is only luck that she has avoided each hand every time.

But luck runs out. One of the hands finds her and pulls down her clothing that covers her lower half. She is partly bare before them, and embarrassed. Her face runs and hot and cold, and embarrassment and fear collide with each other. Dizziness fights at her as the colors on the wall start to swirl together fast and blend until the wall is an ugly shade.

She opens her mouth, “Stop!” She is hoping for this word to remind them of their intrusion, but instead each of their mouths laughs at her. There laughter gets louder and louder. It echoes in her ears and the soft hum from before is gone. As she runs by another hand in the circle, it tears off her top and the laughter grows louder.

And then there she is. Naked. All she can hear is laughter and footsteps growing closer. All she can see is the ugly, unrecognizable color of the walls. Her last bit of hope leaves as the kind, safe circular walls start to shift and turn. The wall bends back and quiver until she recognizes the shape they form. The fight in her ends as her safe circular world just turned into four harsh corners of a square.

I guess.

I hate you.
Do you hear that?
I hate you.
You take advantage of my weaknesses, using my instability.
You use me to cover for your own failures, coating your faults with my fears.
You duck behind me so you don’t have to face the biggest small part of you.
There are things you take pride in, but those are the parts of you that people hate.
You destroy, that’s your mission. Take is all you do, until we all grow accustomed.
And just give in.

You are dirty.
I look at you and cringe.
What you see as beauty, I close my eyes to for cover.
I look at you and feel sick. I look at you and die.
But your actions are worse, who you are stains.
You ruin. You ruin. You ruin.

You should have left more traces.
Of yourself on me.
You left only just enough for you to still be free.
All you destroyed appears invisible, but I know it all too well.
I daily wish for proof, so I can show everyone that I live in hell.

You destroy, there’s nothing else you know.
But now all this hatred I feel, just reminds me of you.
And I’m not. I’m not you.
So I guess I must forgive.
You don’t apologize, but I will still give in.
I wish you well, but I still wish you hell.
That’s the best I can do.

Whispers in the dark

In a war like the one I’m in, it seems like you are constantly fighting yourself. For about the last three months I have been putting a lot of my energy into things that are the exact opposite of who I am. If you asked me why I did it, I would have to honestly tell you, that at the time I didn’t know the reason. All there was to me was my pain, my numbness, my shame, and the darkness’s whispers. I began on a path that helped “in the moment” but also led me to a place where I hated myself more and more, where my mind was more confused, and I felt more alone than ever before.

It’s ironic because through everything I have been through I always thought that I couldn’t feel any lonelier, sadder, or shameful than what I had felt then. Every time the devil proves me wrong. He stretches the limits of my sanity. He stretches me until one by one my fingers let go of the ledge. Each thing he convinces me will make me happy fails to do so, and as it does, what I am holding on to so tightly is slippery and I lose grip. I get more lost. My mind, body, and soul hurt more. To the point that I just want to rest. I’m tired. And I wonder if the pain will end and a life of beauty will ever begin.

Looking back at my choices, I realize that the reason why it was so easy to give in to these things was because I didn’t know why I was so tempted by them. I couldn’t see the reason for me wanting to do these things. My sight was blurry and the only thing that came in clear was the path to this place. It was like I never saw where the path led to, just that one clear step in front of me. Seeing that one clear spot was enough for me in that moment, and I never second guessed if it was the right path. And step by step I was led to a place where I lost myself.

From where I sit now, I understand completely why I did those things. There are so many reasons. One is because none of those things were “me”. I hated “me”. “Me” was disgusting, shameful and dirty. But everyone around me told me otherwise. They told me I was pure and beautiful. So I set out to prove them wrong. Why would I do such a thing? Why wouldn’t I just follow the path that those people were leading me on? Because that path was hard. The people who saw me as pure and beautiful could see the way ever so clearly, but that way I was walking blind. If I took the other path, the path that I could at least see my steps, it was easier. And I didn’t have much strength left in me to walk by faith. So constantly instead of fighting uphill towards the light that others could see that I just needed to have faith was there, I took the easy way out. Over and over the easy way out. But this easy way out only led deeper. Deeper to a place that wasn’t me.

NOW that I am at a point where I have turned around and am heading the right way, I couldn’t see why my friend didn’t hate me. I kept these things from her for so long, that I didn’t understand how she couldn’t see what I saw in me. I was ashamed. I felt like the darkness I had followed had left traces of itself all over my body. I was scared that she would see these choices, these traces, as something that was defining who I was because I thought she saw what I saw – that I was all covered in black.

So the past couple days I sat in wonder at why she still wanted to be my best friend and why she wanted me as her best friend. Why would someone pick someone with all this dark spots as their best friend? Why would she not feel uncomfortable around me because of what I had done?

But as I look at myself in the mirror I finally see what she sees. am not this dirty, shameful, ruined person like the darkness has been trying to convince me that I am. Yes, I do have these dark spots. But they are ON me not IN me. She knows that the things I have done are not WHO I am, they are just mistakes. The things I have done weren’t done because I was trying to discover some truth about myself. They were done because I wanted a quick bandage for my pain. I wanted this hurt to be over. So I followed those deadly whispers to a place that I wasn’t even looking for. That’s the big difference. It wasn’t something I was LOOKING for; it was something I was LEAD to by the darkness.

Is this what she sees? Does she see the bright light in me? Is she one of those people who can see the light even though I am blind to it? Yes. I know she is. She is my sister in Christ. IN CHRIST. Christ shines through her to bring me to Him. He is the only way.

She asked me today that if I had already given up why she shouldn’t give up on me. She didn’t say this as a signal that she was giving up on me, but instead as a challenge. I thank God that she asked me this because it led me to this conclusion I just shared with you.

Also today I found out that my sister had lost her baby. I was in a store with this friend and a couple others. I broke down. My friend said that I reacted in such a way that she thought someone I was really close to like my mom or my sister had died. Someone else in my position wouldn’t have reacted as strongly as I did. I sat back after and wondered why it had hurt so much. Why had the loss of my sister’s unborn baby impacted me so deeply?

I remembered when her first daughter was born. That little baby, that little girl gave me so much hope. This little child was blameless and untouched by this hurtful world. I loved this baby so much because of this. Because this baby was my family. The only member of my family that hadn’t hurt me or wasn’t broken like I was. I felt stronger knowing this baby was in my life. It gave me hope for the future. Because I wanted to show this baby the future. I wanted to love this baby. I wanted to be to this baby what I wished my family was to me.

So when my sister was pregnant again, I thanked God for this additional hope and family. I felt as if things must be getting better. When I learned of this loss, I was so hurt because I hadn’t met that baby, but I loved it more than myself already. The same way I had loved my first niece. My niece, in a way, had helped teach me the real meaning of love when the definition of it was distorted by how I was raised.

But I realize now that losing the baby won’t change how I love it. Life just goes down that path sometimes.

So… after all of this… I am tired. I am hurting. Please pray for me. And if you can, please share with me hope and love in any way you can. I could really use some.