Human Obsession With History

The obsession with history has become a hindrance to humans.   You may ask how this can be. Isn’t where we come from important information to have in order to understand ourselves?  What does this question mean?  “Where do we come from?”

You have been told that history will reveal to you, who you are and where you are going.  We say this may not be the full truth.  Your televisions have History channels and public networks telling you to stay focused on the history of your planet.

Could this be another mind control tactic intended to keep you distracted from working on your own inner spirit journey?

If powerful humans can keep humans they perceive less powerful focused in on confusing history stories, arguments of origins, who is right, who is wrong, with such a fervor that it causes a frenzy worldwide, where in this search are you connecting with you?   You aren’t because they have succeeded in distracting you.

Ask yourself if part of this, the real intent, of media focus on history is merely an intricately woven veil used to cover your eyes, keep you mesmerized and caught up so as not to face the one human who matters most to you.  You.

If every human faced themselves, released all belief systems existing outside of their own being and embraced their ability to love, what would be the outcome?

Consider that humans have been programmed and conditioned with the need for ritual and worship.

What does ritual do for you?  Does it make you feel a part of something greater than you?  What could possibly be greater than your existence?  Think of that sentence.  Why are you always looking for something greater than you?

Why can you never find it?

You don’t find it in religions because they do not eliminate your pain.  You do not find it because you forget to look at yourself.  So why is this such a difficult concept to accept; that you are the greatness you seek?  The truth of you is as simple as you rejecting what you have been forced to believe and listening to your own DNA, which is always attempting to speak with you.

You have been conditioned for centuries to believe that you must be a part of societies and that you must worship deities.  If you do not, you are shunned, labeled as weird, psychotic and an outcast of their group.  So instead of standing alone and feeling strength within that space belonging solely to you, you find your worth inside of groups where you will be viewed as normal.

This is the most abnormal way that a being can live.   Imagine a life where you, harming none, live the happiest you can, embracing a deep understanding that you have full control over yourself.

If only you just accept it.

~K~

Born Crazy: A Video Poem

You’re crazy.”

How often have you heard this phrase thrown around, either flippantly, in jest or to victim blame someone who has overcome or is recovering from abuse?

I heard this often as a post-cult teenager and well into my adult years. While I was actually dealing with the behavioral aftermath of being an extremely abused child, instead of receiving support, caring and nurturing I was told that I was crazy. When a child is told enough times that they’re mind is insane, we begin to believe it.

This poetry piece is from my spoken word album, Dusted Shelves, which is available on Amazon in paperback and c.d. Written in 2013, it is a representation of a life by which I was conditioned to believe that I was crazy.

Some abuse survivor work is considered to be dark and oddly psychotic. This piece would fall under that theme.

**Trigger Warning for those who are sensitive to these themes**

Born Crazy

Why “Push Through” Can Be An Illusion

A few months ago my twenty-one year old son and his friends invited me to go hiking.

“Oh, hell yes!” I responded with excitment.

Nature is one of my many loves. I rubbed my hands together gleefully. How cool these youngsters want an oldie but goodie like me along.

“Now, mom,” my son advised, “this is no ordinary hike. I mean, you gotta cross some streams and shit. Like it’s uphill.”

“I’ve hiked before.” I retorted defensively. “I grew up in Alaska learning survival skills. HELLO! Ya’ll should HOPE to have me along.”

We laughed together as we packed our backpacks with carbs and protein snacks, water bottles and extra clothing.

What a beautiful drive to the mountain base. It was to be a mere four mile hike up to where a world opened to more beauty. There, we would have a majestic view of a lake and vast valleys. My adrenaline pumped as I thought about getting up to the plateau and the photo I would get to capture.

The first two miles I cruised along, soaking in the crisp clean air, waving to tree friends, smiling at rock faces, enjoying the streams and waterfalls.

Mile three the struggle began. The trail became steeper. We’re halfway there, my mind told me. I had this hike in the bag. My son paced me, walking ahead of me a bit, then cheering for me as I huffed and puffed my way to him where we would rest a minute and go at it again again.

Halfway into mile four my legs began to shake. My mind said, fuck you, there’s only a half mile left and then you will be sitting, having lunch, absorbing the best view and resting for a while.

But my legs wouldn’t move. My mind spun with thoughts.

“Get your ass moving.”
“You’re gonna let all these people down and be totally embarrassing!”
“Quit being a wimp. You’re stronger than you think.”
“Just rest for a second then push through!”

Still my legs wouldn’t move. The muscles in my thighs were shaking. My body was not complying. I couldn’t take another step up the rocks. In seconds I was crying; angry and frustrated. I had underestimated my body. Here I was, almost all the way up, with only a half mile of this goddamn hike left. This couldn’t be happening to me. I felt on the verge of physical collapse, but my mind did not agree.

I sat on a rock with my head in my hands, warring with my body as the group gathered around me, calling encouragement.

“It’s okay!”
“Wow, look how far you’ve made it!”
“Save your strength. You will need it for the three mile trek back down.”
“You didn’t let us down! This trail will alway be here!”
“We can come back!”
“Next time we’ll do a different, easier trail!”
“We are so proud of you!”
“We love you.”

Not one time did anyone say:

“Get your ass up and Push through!”

This concept of pushing through is over-rated and over used. Quit saying it for everything. Sometimes people need to rest. Sometimes they need to be congratulated for their hard work. Sometimes you need to acknowledge this. Sometimes you need to praise them for how far they’ve come, then help them back down the mountain so they can rest before they try again. Pushing through is not always the answer. Remember that.

Rest Without Getting Depressed

During my childhood living in the cult we children were required to always be kept busy to the point we were often in sleep deprivation mode.  It was so ingrained into my head that now, in adulthood, I have struggled with being okay with just simply resting.  My inner talk would begin, saying things like “You’re being lazy.” or “You should be doing SOMETHING.”

This conditioning of always having to be working as a child has followed me deeply into my adulthood.   At the same time, exhaustion sets in when one has worked since such a young age.  Where typically I should have a zest for working at this current point in my life, I often find myself feeling an aversion towards it, become exhausted even at the thought of having to keep a regular schedule without knowing how my body/mind/spirit will feel.

I dealt with a trigger toward the end of the week and found myself exhausting very quickly, body wanting to sleep, and I listened to it, getting hours of rest.   I had some thoughts I wanted to share afterwards about the difference between sleeping off a trigger, resting the body and letting it heal as opposed to being depressed.  For me, at least, there is a difference, and I’ve had to learn how to differentiate between the two.   I talk more about this in the below video.

The Kidnapped Baby

I am at a house. Rocco is here with my sister.  They seem to be a couple.  There is some kind of reunion happening somewhere in another state, and we are all preparing to fly there. I have been put in charge of transporting another couple’s small baby to that city.  I seemed to have agreed to this, and I am participating willingly in the plans.

There is a luggage set packed and ready to go. The larger piece has all of my belongings in it, and the smaller one is for the baby. It is filled with diapers and formula, clothes and bottles. I will carry the smaller one on the plane with me so that I have the things I need to care for the baby.

Now we are at the airport, and I am at the ticket counter with the baby in the stroller. The baby might be six or seven months old, very tiny, strapped into the small, easy to fold up stroller.  It is a boy with very little hair, fair skin and blue eyes. The ticket counter people sit very high above me so I have to strain my neck back to look up towards them. Suddenly I realize two things have gone horribly wrong. One. I left my purse in the backseat of Rocco’s car, so I do not have my identification to get my ticket and check in for the flight. Problem two makes me panic harder. They have accidentally checked the smaller suitcase, and I now have no formula, clothers, diapers or anything to care for the baby during the trip. I begin to cry and panic, not knowing what to do first. I feel confused because I am always organized and on top of things.  How could all of this have gone wrong?

I glance at the clock. I only have an hour. I see that we are close to the gate we need to go to. I don’t like being late.  An airline attendant comes around from the side of the counter. She has a sweet smile, kind eyes, dark curly hair that reaches her shoulders and is dressed like the rest of the workers in khaki pants and a dark blue polo shirt with the airline insignia on it. It is wings, like the wings they give out to kids when they fly by themselves.

I’ll tell you what.” She says sweetly to me. “I’ll watch the baby while you run get the check in bag and call your friends to bring your purse. Meanwhile we will hold the flight until you return so you won’t miss it.

Seriously?” I exclaim, overwhelmed by this kindness. “You would do that for me? Thank YOU!”

I breathe a sigh of relief. The baby will be safe. I will be able to handle business more quickly, and we’ll be on our way. I head down the walkway.

I am back at the ticket counter now. I have retrieved the smaller bag from the check in, but realize that I have no way to call Rocco because my phone is in my purse which I have left in the car. Shit, what will I do now?  I’ll have to catch a cab and run over to Rocco’s for my purse.  I wonder if they’ll still watch the baby and hold the flight while I do this? I look around to the side of the counter.

But the woman who is caring for the baby is gone. I look around at the seating thinking she might have just gone somewhere to relax, but she is not there.  The more I look, the more I realize that the baby has been kidnapped. She was not an airline attendant nor was the uniform she was wearing authentic.  She had stolen it and put it on, purposely tracking me to steal the baby.  I freak out and immediately get everyone involved. Suddenly there are police and airline workers gathered around me. They have locked down all of the airport exits and put out an immediate alert for the baby.

But I know it is too late. My intuition tells me that the woman is gone from the airport with the baby. She had plenty of time to get out while I was gone.  Fuck.  What the hell was I thinking to trust her?  I mean, she had on the same uniform as the rest of the employees, so why wouldn’t I trust her?  My eye notices a magazine stand.  I instinctively grab a newspaper knowing it will give me a clue of where the woman has taken the baby. I flip directly to the wanted ads.

There its is, an ad that says:

Open Heart Church

Bring your children to our wonderful Sunday school!

They will play and get good meals while mom and dad relax.

The advertisement goes on to list the address, inviting families to freely attend their open house sessions and stop in any time. I am filled with sickness inside.  I see everything they are doing, killing parents, taking children, controlling people inside of the building, and I know immediately that this is where the baby is. They are taking children. They are spending time plotting, stalking and kidnapping children by luring in families with happy go lucky advertisements.  I explain everything that I see and know to the police.

This place right here. This is where the baby is.” I point to the advertisement.

They look at me skeptically asking me how I know. I cannot explain to them how I know. I have no facts to back me up.

I just know. I am telling you! The baby is there.”  I say it matter of fact and firmly. “Please, just believe me.  Just go check there. Please just check.”

I am begging for them to not rule out the possibility because I know if they just go, they will find the baby without a doubt.  I believe they will find more children there also.

Now I am suddenly back at Rocco’s to grab my purse. I feel there is a police car that has taken me there, pulled up in the driveway behind Rocco’s car.  Rocco and my sister have come outside of the house.  I hurriedly tell them the baby is missing and a brief summary of what happened. My purse is in the back seat of Rocco’s car. He has left the windows down, and a flash flood of rain has made everything in the car soaking wet. Including my purse. I grab it and realize that because it is leather, everything inside of it is dry. I am elated that my identification, cards and other belongings inside the purse are safe.  I sling it over my body knowing that the leather will dry over the next few hours.

Now I am suddenly in front of a street in an average subdivision. There is a huge sprawling house in front of me with a makeshift sign on plywood that has the name of the church on it.  It is the church from the newspaper advertisement.  Police are everywhere around me. They are asking me am I sure the baby is inside. I assure them that I know the baby is in there. We stand together, as they strategically discuss how to enter the home undetected.

Panic is filling my chest. What if the kidnappers kill the baby? What if they hide the baby since the house is so large it appears to have many rooms? What if they escape with the baby? How am I going to tell the parents that I have lost their precious infant? I am filled with despair, worry and sadness for the situation. Everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong, and I will have to be the one to explain it.

Now I am suddenly standing inside the front door of the home where the baby and his parents live. There is a hallway directly to my right.  There is a piece of paper upon which there is a note written from Rocco and my sister. It has fallen, face down on the floor of the hallway. I realize that the parents did not even see it or read it because it fell when they walked in the house.

It says “Angie took the baby on with her so you two don’t have to worry about it. See you there!

I look into the living room. There is a love seat. I can sense there is a woman sitting on it to my left, but I can’t quite see her because the doorway into the living room doesn’t allow my eyesight to see that far in. All I see is the man sitting directly in front of me on the other end of the love seat. He is talking to the woman.

I am dumbfounded.

It’s O.J. Simpson. But he is old, quite old. What the hell is O.J. Simpson doing here, I am thinking to myself. I am questioning if it is really him.  Yet, I know, that’s fucking O.J. Simpson.  I am standing there thinking “this is the most bizarre shit that I’ve ever experienced.” He is talking to the woman and has not noticed me yet.

I’m not all of those things that they say I am.” He is saying gently to her. “I am really not a bad person inside of myself. I’m a good man. A lot of that is lies.”

Then he leans towards her as if he is going to kiss her, and she seemingly must have pulled back because then he says,

Oh, so you don’t want to kiss me, huh?”

I sense his mood change to irritation, and I wake up.

The Sadists Come Like Lightening Bolts

The sadists come like lightening bolts, Sila!” Madge exclaims, a warning glistening from her eyes.

Shut the fuck up, Madge.” Maude orders. “Leave her alone.”

But Sila knows. They are like lightening bolts, and they will flood her with their electricity, then leave her depleted. They will strip her skin, extract her emotions and bottle her love. She is open prey for the wild no matter where she is.

It’s Angie.” Vennie says. “She attracts them like a moth to light. They become friend, then foe, lover, then liar, laughter then leaving. And we are ALL here to clean up the aftermath.”

the blame

Angie’s fragments
Sila a curled up caterpillar
Madge taunting
Maude doing damage control
Vennie writing it out
Knowing quietly observing

silence

long, long silence

Sometimes,” Knowing says softly, “lightening strikes and splits open things that could never be split open if not for the power of the electricity. Sometimes what’s inside the open spaces revealed, is a treasure that would have been hidden forever. Thank the lightening when it strikes.  It is opening your caves.

And so we do. We thank those who have become our lightening bolts, striking us, devious, mischievous, and as the smoke rises from our skin, it hurts yet through the process of healing the burns, we learn.

“Victim Speaks Out, While Cult Leader Awaits Trial”

“Told in a restrained but highly effective style, reminiscent of Kazuo Ishiguro’s brilliantly understated bestseller “Never Let Me Go”, “Cult Child” provides frightening insights into the methods and after-effects of religious coercion. Her fortress is no bigger than the space between her ears; but through quiet internal resistance, Sila halts her opponents and outlasts their ten year siege.”

Read more:
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/nolongerquivering/2014/10/victim-speaks-out-while-cult-leader-awaits-trial/

M. Dolon Hickmon is a freelance columnist for The Freethinker and OnFaith. He explores the intersections of religion and child abuse in essays published around the web, as well as in the pages of his critically acclaimed novel, 13:24 – A Story of Faith and Obsession. You can follow his writing on Twitter @TVOS1324.