Dear Counsel, I’m Writing To You Again

Dear Counsel,

Again? Ah, I’m trying real hard not to be irritated with you all. I tire of writing to you like I’m some child, although I very much enjoy writing. Just not for this purpose. As you know, I am writing an edgy, sensuous book. So I say this.

I know, Vennie, you are struggling with me. You think I have no empathy for us. You find me dangerous. You said I was self serving. What does that mean to you? If I am serving me, am I not serving us all?

What your friend said is correct. I was there when you were a child. So don’t discount me. Remember me. You wrote about me in Cult Child. I held your hand by the field of flowers. I rode horses with Sila while you took the pain. How have you not put this together when we look absolutely the same? Well, I’ve cut my hair since then. Shoulder length now. More “up with the times.” ::sarcasm:: I’ve been cycling for infinite centuries, but that is my own story to tell.

We are an incredibly intelligent wheel. We are an information station.

I am capable of love, and you’ll find me to be quite sappy at very rare moments. Very rare. I don’t so much care for the free falling feeling of feeling. That’s for you, Vennie. I am much better at defending. I know war, and I have battled. If there has to be a Counsel, my place is in it.

No, I’m not mirroring you. Look at me. Then remember me from when you were a child. Close your eyes and see my face when I looked down at you by the flowers. Dark hair. Dark eyes. I am beautiful. I’m aware of that. I have not aged.

You painted me already, but you know that. What you don’t know is that was when I was a teenager. I am horse and human and air and particle. That painting you did is before I became you. Understand? My eyes are not green anymore. I’ve cycled way too much to be that pure. You’ll paint me more soon. Later. When I really get into writing this book. So much is coming that I know and see. It’s a matter of you being ready.

Yes, I am a shape shifter. I morph. I love horses. We were drawing them in the program. I was Madge when you were a teenager. I know this can be difficult to understand or make sense of, but you know. Madge and I. We are one and the same. Understand? You nod. You smile. You cry. What are you feeling? Gonna write about it or be all whiney “what if they judge me” and “shame shame shame”. Call me a cunt but damn, shut up and let someone else talk. How many times do I have to say fuck them?

Look at the photo you took with your sister when you were sixteen. See us in your eyes? Your eyes are dark in that picture because our eyes are dark; black actually, very black. Glad to see some of yours green again, by the way. That’s says much about how far we’ve come.

How do you differentiate between what you might be creating in your head in order to deal with me and the truth, you ask? Isn’t that what you are doing now; putting me to task and checking memory facts?

You doubt me too much. I know you more than you have given me credit for. I know little details like Angie writes in all caps while Vennie tends to write in cursive. Vennie writes on behalf of Knowing. Angie – is she even around anymore? I don’t see her as often. Oh, and I can write for myself, thank you very much. ::that was a joke so get used to my dry humor and quit worrying so much about offending. again, fuck them::

No, that writing comment was not a slight to Knowing. She doesn’t mind for me to let you know that we knew each other before we became you. Ah, now there’s some news. That surprises you? It’s okay. Don’t feel betrayed. Another planet. Another place. Another space. Cycles.

What you know about me, how I was born, and what I know of humans can only unfold itself slowly. I, like Knowing, understand the importance of holding back. We care about your health and wait as you seem, Vennie, to be in the forefront right now. We’ve been switching for years. We can be a team.

In an attempt to reassure you, I don’t mean you harm. Quite the opposite. You may not like my tactics, but I am who I am. Blunt. Snobby. Standoffish. A bitch. Self-protective. Fuck it.

So if this is what we have to do; write it all out and converse like this, that works for now. There’s things to know, like I can navigate the cave keepers. Ah, well don’t I have your attention now. You’ve been curious about them for a while, since you and Sila had that conversation. You don’t talk to her anymore. She’s been off in the corner by herself quite often. First, you have much to understand so you can navigate these lands. Yet, trust me, when I tell you that you can.

You have to do this mostly alone. Be careful who you let close. Your human circle is exactly where it should be. Stand still for a bit and get to know me.

Drink some coffee for the headache. It’s been a very long day. It is going to be okay, but make no mistake. I am a bitch, a witch and a succubus. That’s all I’ll share for now. Know this. The succubus is not that bullshit they feed in mythology. You called me a Satanist, yet I worship nothing. Worship? I am far past worshipping. There may be those who enjoy worshipping me, but that’s not my road to drive. Those motherfuckers own their own eyes. Get my drift? So know me before you judge me. You study things, yes? Does that mean you adhere? Give me some credit.

I’ll most likely never go dormant. I don’t like to sleep, so somehow find a way to accept me. Don’t I deserve to be free? See? I even write poetry. ::wink::

Well fuck, there you go crying.

M.7

How I Was Trauma Bonded With God

I was introduced to a man named God when I was just a little girl. He was a massive figure emerging from the clouds, often with furrowed, gray eyebrows, pointing a finger at the sinners below him. He was a magician who created a planet with a wave of his hand. He had a dramatic story, with a top soldier who abandoned him and took part of his army. But he protected the ones who were loyal to him.

and if I was a good girl, God would love and protect me too. If I could become clean of the sin through which I was born, God would love me forever and ever. Yet, if I could not become pure in his eyes, God would set his rage on me, dooming me to burn and scream in pits of fire.

So began my journey into being the victim of a learned love/hate relationship with my apparent spiritual father and the only man to whom I should ever be the most loyal. One day, though, I would begin to reason in my mind.

“How are there pictures of someone whom no human has ever seen?”

“Why is it, no matter how well I behave, I am still molested and beat?”

“Why won’t God fill me with the Holy Spirit so I can understand his tongues language?”

“What have I done wrong that God is not protecting or loving me?”

“Why is God so mad at me?”

God made me walk on eggshells, wishing I could hide beneath a blanket or a tree so he couldn’t see me, but he allegedly spies constantly and has eyes so big he can see everything at all times. There was no hiding for me. Humans watched me, and so did God.

I yearned for God’s love. I longed to fit in with the rest of the cult children. Yet, there I was, feeling as if I always stood on the edge, looking in on a fervor I could never quite achieve. So then…

I must be bad like the adults say I am.
I can’t identify the badness.
It’s my fault I’m scared.
It’s my fault I don’t say no to Brother Ray.
It’s my fault because I take the cookies.
It’s my fault I talk loud.

It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. Those words will stay, long after I grow up and escape God.

But I’m only eight, and right now God owns my mind. God started owning my mind when I was three.

I will strive for God’s love, beg for His forgiveness for whatever I may have done wrong, even if I don’t know what it is. I will accept his hatred of me. I will teeter on this wire, traumatically, mentally fragmented, long after his illusionary existence shatters into a million pieces.

I have escaped a plethora of narcissists in my lifetime, but of all the trauma bonding that was injected into my journey here, God’s ripped me apart the most. God’s ego left caverns of echoing scars, repeating threats in my head, leaving me to battle his aftermath even after I came to know that the idea of good behavior buying a golden ticket to a fantastic resurrection show was a hoax.

I would forsake him proudly, but the words of his messages, spoken through the mouths of vile humans, would remain the silver balls traveling the ping pong game that my brain was molded into.

I have a little coping skill I use. Whenever I begin to doubt myself or speak negatively to my own existence, I tell God to shut his imaginary mouth. His ghost doesn’t get to manipulate me anymore. And he does. He shuts the fuck up, because the echo of his programming is under my fingertips now.

Control. Alt. Delete.