The Allure of Jesus Christ (Trigger Warning)

I understand a part of Christianity that has eluded me for some time. The revelation came in the most sacred place in my house. On the potty. Toilets are wonderful for epiphanies. It’s as if letting out all of the shit and piss inside you gives you room for grand ideas or understanding. The tone of this paragraph alone should let you all know I am not quite up to my usual standard of gleaming joy despite all the depraved nonesense in the world at the moment. I think that’s okay.

I am sad over Rose again, and another friend of mine was attacked in her home. She called me and the police, and as the attacker, who most likely is the rare stranger rapist as her neighborhood which is the nicer one in her home town, has had a rapist murderer gallivanting about lately… well as he comes for her she calls me and asks me how to seriously injure him without killing him.

The beast was unleashed. It worried me, frankly because I wanted to have her kill him. I did not do so, at least unless she didn’t follow my directions correctly but the intent to kill was not there and the police are sure he will be fine. Potentially paralysed but a walker to the throat vs him raping and killing a friend? He deserves what he gets.

Yet, I entered a two hour period of extreme darkness. I don’t like feeling that way and I haven’t for years. Not even dealing with Him, aka ex stalker scary ahh, did that. I got dark, I got depressed but not on the edge where for a few hours I fantasized about ways to kill a man with a walker anally. Lets just say my mind has it’s dim corners and some that are pitch black and the lights went out. I am fine again. M the friend of awesomeness helped me sort it out but there I was, in my dark space.

The dark space isn’t anger, it’s fear, terror, and a certain helplessness. I cannot change that Rose was most likely murdered by her greedy and ungrateful children. I cannot change that a man broke into a friend’s home and attacked her. I can however say I protected one, and i could not protect Rose. I wish I could.

So my revelation is this, I had the thought, ‘If I could protect every innocent person, deserving person, and purge the world of people like Him, Steve, and the latest jackass that came to my attention I would die the most horrible death imaginable.’

So this is the allure of Christianity. It is that supposedly someone did just that. Except of course it is clear to me that their sacrifice failed. If Christ indeed existed. Since men wrote the book, about a man, and… it’s all… lies. I understand that the moral of Christianity is not the one they intend. They intend that we should all want this, to die for others and to all be great people. It just didn’t work out that way.

I still would die for my friends, family, and most everyone in the world if it was the only way to make things better. It isn’t so I am obviously not going to go and get boiled and skinned alive or something. Martrying hasn’t worked for millennia.

The thing is… I did protect my friend. I couldn’t reach for the phone and save her but I empowered her with my knowledge of how to seriously injure and or kill people, and quickly enough that she defended herself. A seriously disabled person took out the rapist murderer, not one of the able bodied rich whining bitches who had mace, tasers and food. A person spat upon by society.

I know my darkness has a purpose, because I have given it one. It’s there to remind me why I don’t want kids, who I could be easily without choosing consciously to live, and it is there to remind me of why I hate my mother. She and my father worked hard to twist me up into a piece of garbage. I chose to be something more than feces that marrs the brilliance humanity has to offer.

So I am stressed. I am sad. I am also moving forward. My paratransit interview is imminent, which means I get to take rides from strangers. I am working furiously on this music, but my sorrow is impeding the joy that the music should hold.

I also am being cuddled by Ebay cats. Sylvani has a thing for the bathroom. I think the accessibility and familiarity of a toilet, as she was I found out, allowed to go into the bathroom at the shelter has helped her to feel safer there. So she will at least come to me in there if nothing else, and there is plenty of other stuff.

Despite my frustrations, also made worse by a few weeks of severe insomnia, I managed an hour of sleeping uninterrupted. Since Sylvani accidentally cut my hand with her claws, I “punished” her by forcing her to be petted until she purred and fell asleep curled up in bed with her. I wanted to make sure she knew a little yelp of pain wasn’t the end of the world here, because her reaction was utter terror. The round eyes and the look that Sprite used to get when we would take out the trash, someone has hurt this cat over little things. She needed to know she was safe. Heck as I type about her she is now on my couch bathing and giving me this post nap look of contentment. The nap was hours ago.

Sprite and Syl are working very hard to make me happy, it’s working most of the time. I haven’t felt this sad in two weeks, and it’s not as sad as the previous sad and yet I am still triggered. Yet I am enjoying waking up to a cat who sleeps in my arms and looks like a stuffed animal, snores, drools, and chews her tail in her sleep. Sprite isn’t enthusiastic about sharing the bed with the kitten yet but she never got to where Nymph was allowed, she merely understood that sickness meant she had to do what Ny needed.

I am wondering what it will take for me to have that same sense of relief and release for Rose, that pure moment when I know it’s okay. I am obviously not converted to Christianity by my poopiphany. I just have a bit of comprehension about why people find it approachable. It’s a bit romantic along the lines of other things that are romanticised and creepy. Dying for your sins, before you are born. If I could believe reality worked with such things, then I would be full of joy at the thought, I would hold no ill will. Neither would anyone else. It’s that utopia thing that makes my brain scream and rage, because it makes no sense.

I know this was blathery and babbly, that’s a side effect of my having had a moment where I could have gone down the dark road. I just need to sleep it off. Or write a story where someone gets murdered by a zombie in a power chair.

Death (Trigger Warning)

I was about to start the latest Episode of Burn Notice while blogging, something I do rather often with the TV. It makes great background chatter and sometimes helps me to think. I was going to write about dealing with domestic violence, because I am tired of the way CNN, MSNBC and the other media outlet stores for “news” are demonizing Rhianna for her choice to stay with her abuser, ignoring the fact that millions of other women in this world do the same thing.

My mother called and asked me to see to it that my Person was awake. I asked her to call back, climbed out of bed, got dressed and then woke him. When we reconnected she did try to ease me into it. My biological father is dead. The man who violated my right to be alive, who raped me, and shamed me for being a woman is dead. Not only is he dead but he suffered. My immediate response was to start laughing.

I am happy to not feel fear. He has found me in my adult life repeatedly. He is the reason I made sure to change my name, that way no surprises could come such as a knock on my door and a punch to my face. It has happened before. I am also triggered. Immediately my brain sought to try and understand the reactions taking place as I began to cry, not for him, but for myself.

There is no funeral, because his Widow is aware that no one would come, except to dessecrate the body. I dreamed for years of spitting on his grave, and eventually if I feel the need, I will visit his grave but it will not be out of sorrow. Thousands of survivors of abuse feel the same fears.

When will my abuser come to me? When will he or she find me and will I live through it this time? Will I survive another beating?

Victims also feel these things, usually knowing they cannot escape. That is why Rhianna’s return to Chris Brown saddens me. It does not surprise me. I hope that she finds a way out. I pray for this daily. I also pray that the shelters for women locally remain. The threats to their existance due to the recession are the worst thing possible.

How can we devalue women and children by taking away their one chance at survival? Usually it takes a trauma so great it nearly costs you your life before you wake up and walk away. These shelters are responsible for my knowing how to not find an Abuser.

My father is also responsible for my ability to appear utterly calm while wanting to kill. At times I do feel homicidal, he taught me that violence is the best answer. I will spend my life facing the specter of his abuse. Part of me is pitying his widow. I pity her because she is mourning him, and I am aware that he abused her before he became too ill to do it.

I mentioned he suffered right? He spent a year in Hospice care slowly dying, his body in horrible pain, and often being neglected. I never thought he would be sick like that, I always hoped for some sort of God type vengeance and it came. He suffered, but his suffering hurt others.

I have cried, but no tears fall for him.
I have died, and been reborn.
He has died, and freedom comes again.
I will fly.
No hawks in my sky.
Clouds pass me by.
I am free.

This poem is dedicated to every survivor. I am sorry if my post is a little more rambly today. I know my life is unchanged by his death. The last time he found me, I was barely able to walk, in pain, and at my weakest. Instead of hounding me, he was suddenly cowering in fear before me. It might have been the really big stick I was using to drag my carcass along at that time. It might have been my letting him corner me, before threatening him with bodily harm, and backing up my threat. That was likely it.

I used my words to tell him just how many ways I could hurt him. He taught me all of those ways, except for those I learned in a Martial Arts class. That’s one of the things I rarely advertise, I have taken martial arts. I know how to hurt people, and how to defend them too. He gave me that.

I know too I am more upset than I can currently acknowledge. My cat woke me up with a back massage and a meow. She’s got her voice back at last and is perfectly well. She is also staying right close to me. So close she is actually sitting on my head as I lay here typing this out. I am also feeling the forewarnings of flashbacks. I can fight them, but, it figures even from beyond the grave he exists. He scarred me. Nothing changes. I just have one less reason to fear.

It is okay to mourn. I just wish I knew how.

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