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In this post, we will explore how writing can help cult survivors reclaim their voice and identity.
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How does it effect us when things that remind us of our childhood are thrown away?
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It whispers the ugliest words, echoes of those who hurt the tenderness in us.
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Imitation is not the best form of flattery. It is the worst form of unoriginality.
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The photons call out in desperation, for the body to pay attention.
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Running my fingers over the scars, I close my eyes.
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They will become entombed within the ancient earth and the wildflowers.
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This passage from my memoir “Cult Child” discusses a near-death experience I had when I was five years old.
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Don’t store the detritus in your body. It will mire down your feet.
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Where is nowhere? On the edge of sanity, where all the color and magic resides?
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