Hope is the only thing stronger than fear.
blood runs cold
it’s happening again!
eyes shut tight
paralyzed with terror.
please not here, not now.
400 miles up
on this tight rope
can hear me scream
don’t say a word
in and out.
open your eyes
touch the ground
it’s not happening.
Ghosts look so very real.
Hard to discern
no imminent harm
in pursuit of me.
After all these years,
they still besiege me,
I stand there before You,
aching for Your
i can’t believe after all this time,
never looked at me.
in my pig tails and patent leather
standing in the doorway
wistful and willing.
but You cannot see me.
for i am hiding behind the wallpaper
little girls hide,
the ones who survived.
layers upon layers cover me
yet i remain forever unchanged.
frozen in time
beneath this woman
waiting and hoping,
will you take me home?
It’s still the same I suppose. Every spring as Easter approaches. I drive past the various Churches, with their steeples acting like beacons, sending their Celestial signal up towards the heavens. I pass there aching to go inside.
The ache rises in my chest as I pass, and then my heart sinks as I sit glued in my seat. My blood runs cold as I nervously think that ‘maybe I am unforgivable’. How dirty I feel. Less than. Not quite good enough to stand next to any of the people donning their Sunday best.
I ache for closeness with Him like I once had. The only One who ever deserved my whole heart, who ever deserved my obedience and love. He was the only One who would never betray me.
I can’t remember when I had stopped talking to Him. Some call it praying. But it was more than that to me. It wasn’t rattling off a bunch of rote prayers, though that was how I had begun. We were close back then. It was like a friend that was sitting at the foot of my bed, just as real as you are reading this now. I’d talk about everything. Then listen. Oh yes, He would answer. He spoke through my intuition, I believe. Sometimes I would ask for a sign. Sometimes He would give me one: a gentle cool breeze on a hot night or a small butterfly dancing at my window just as I would ask.
I had stopped going to church. No one particular reason really and not in anger either. Then a few years later I had stopped praying. Other things had seemed to take precedence. It was like one day He was just gone. You see, it wasn’t an event, rather it was more of a process. Like most good things in life that slip away.
When I tried praying again? it felt empty and perfunctory like I was running through mathematical computations. Something was severed. And I knew it hadn’t been severed by Him. That pain of knowing what I lost has been unbearable. The emptiness, nothing thus far can fill.
A thousand miles I have strayed off that chosen path on which I should have tread, maybe more. It is easy to get lost out there in the darkness. Still easier to stay lost.
I don’t know how I will get back to Him. I’m so far off course and a compass rose made only of hope in my grip. I hope that He finds it in His heart, to forgive me. Hope that this prodigal daughter can come home. Hope that lost Faith will be found.
Not long after he shared his fantasy of his torture chamber with me. I was in my home and received a call from him. He told me, “you should really check the unsolved homicides from 1995-1997 in Boston.
So indeed I logged onto the Massachusetts State police website and told him, “I see X amt. of victims here. They are both male and female. They have a wide range in age and ethnicity. The manner of death varies as does both the manner and means in which their bodies were disposed.”
I continued, “I’m not seeing any identifiable pattern of behavior that would tie any of these victims together.”
He replied, ” No, that’s right you don’t.”
So I questioned, “why did you have me go check on these specific unsolved homicides from these 2 years?“
“Did you have anything to do with these?”
Then, “goodnight Lexi.”
Then the phone hung up.
The following day I phoned the Massachusetts State Police and asked to speak to a detective. I ended up talking to one and told my entire story. Highlighting his sexual sadism and impulsive violence, the photographs I saw of the pummeled, black and blue woman, on through to the animal killing story, to the sexual fantasy of wanting to abduct a teen.
Sadly, the detective thought that my claim was outrageous, my credibility nill , and he consequently dismissed me as a crackpot. He told me he would “ keep a report on file.” This I knew to be a lie. I felt like this sexual sadist was above the law. I was pretty sure he believed he was above the law too.
I felt hopeless that day, but things were about to change and a Higher law would set things right.
Ever since I can remember, I have had this ache in my heart.
A yearning to be loved.
It never goes away.
Like the speaker on a stereo system, sometimes the volume is more quiet and sometimes it is blaring at me.
But it never goes away.
Sometimes the ache to be loved hurts so bad it brings me to tears, it’s like I am bleeding from the inside out.
I was twelve when I smoked my first joint because my brother grew it and distributed it. I took my first shot of Smirnoff at the same age. I realized it it numbed me out, it blotted out the pain in my heart some and turned down that volume of my heartache.
Love…..love is better than pot, better than booze, it was like popping powerful opiates but better.
It makes me feel like every thing in the world is safe and going to be okay.
Love makes me feel like I am coming home again.
But money can’t buy you love.
I wish I could annihilate this yearning inside me. I wish there was a switch I could shut off, or get rid of this gaping hole in my heart.
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti,
et vobis fratres,
quia peccavi nimis
pere et omissione:
mea culpa, mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa.
Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem,
omnes angelos et Sanctos,
et vobis fratres,
orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
I confess to almighty God,
and to you, my brothers and sisters,
that I have sinned, through my own fault,
in my thoughts and in my words,
in what I have done and in what I have failed to do,
and I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,
all the Angels and Saints,
and you, my brothers and sisters,
to pray for me to the Lord our God.
I don’t like change.
I’ve said this for the last 30 years. So long now I can say this in my sleep. Next week the Church is going to fuck with this prayer and change the words to make it “new” version of the Roman Missal. Where was the voting process? Pfffft. Yeah right. There wasn’t one. I think this is bullshit. I’m not sure what I”m going to do. I think I’m going to still utter the old prayers and responses while everyone else babbles on with the other shit.
This particular prayer has special meaning for me right now.
I am feeling particularly large amounts of shame and failure in my life.
So this prayer just can’t be fucked with. It needs to remain intact.
I’ve been sleeping with my Rosary Beads at night. They were my grandmother’s. She prayed on them every morning. They are almost 80 years old. She even has a relic on there of Saint Padre Pio of Pietrelcina . He is a canonized Saint who had suffered stigmata. They bring me comfort. Knowing that her hands touched them, she was the most holy person I ever knew. Never said a swear her whole life. Went to Mass every day. She was a good, good person. Always had a smile for everyone.
My soul is in great turmoil.
At a friend’s suggestion, I am going to try take a trip for a 90 days. I need a hiatus. A sabbatical.
I’m nervous about this trip. I’m going to travel light. I will bring my Bible, I need to start reading that again. It has been years since I have read it. My heart has become hardened. Stubbornly refusing to go God’s way and instead going my own willful way. Repentance is on the forefront of my mind. To turn away from sin, change my mind, change my direction, turn towards God…..
I left out the “”About You” section about me here blank. It feels too much like a personal ad, and that triggers me too much.
The last time I put a personal ad out online it was a fucking disaster. I ended up with a reply from one man who referred to me in the third person. “I need me a female between the age of 19 and 25 and require it to be 5′ 5″ and 120 pounds.”
Oh I’m sorry. Did you just say “it” you sick son-of-fa-bitch? Because I’m going to wager that the last time you saw a ‘female’ was the storm of 78′. Yeah remember? as you dragged her dead corpse behind your oversized-duel exhaust jacked-up truck with that long metal chain after you chloroformed her and clunked her about her head with a crow bar? back to your rural farm of horrors for a night of good ol’ Square dancing and necrophilia fun.
Mmmmmm, yeah….does that ring a bell now?
Men who refer to women as “it” and “female” as if they are specimens scare me. There is a level of objectification that is just downright frightening.
Almost as scary was the reply I got from a man living in his mom’s basement. No, he was in his 40’s and wasn’t down on his luck, he had never left…..like ever. Very Norman Bates-esque. Any man who feels comfortable banging his date while his mom listens to her squeal like a pig…..well, the cogs just aren’t firing right upstairs. Just saying. A little too close to home I’m thinkin, in a cousins with dozens sort of way. (shivers).
I always thought the perfect man was Fred Rogers. He was my hero. You know Mr. Rogers Neighborhood? I go to an Al-anon meeting with a woman who knew him and she said he was just as nice in person as he was on the show. When I was small he was a bright spot on my otherwise sometimes dark childhood. I felt as if he truly cared, for me.
I cried for a long time when he died.
*Raises glass to Mr.Rogers*