Chaotic Absolute And A Beautiful Torment

Chaotic Absolute And A Beautiful Torment

That perfect absolute moment when I realized that I was more insanely more terrified of losing my son than of the simplicity of death itself, and that I loved him more than anyone I have had ever loved before, or ever will. I love him more than I could ever love myself, it’s a scary, calm, beautiful, easy love. I could stare death in the eye and ask him to please hurry along, but the simplest thought of losing my son, the soul that helped save me just by making his way into this world, who’s laugh made everything in me feel pure and right, who’s perfect happiness puts a smile on my face, and absolutely nothing on heaven or earth could compare to. My one right was the most perfect version of himself without ever trying or needing.

I have, at times, lost my faith in the whole idea of there being anything up there, anything higher than I, more powerful than me, For the purpose of this story we shall call whatever you believe higher than you ”jester” because I have no religious preference. we are all right in our own ways. I belived that here was nothingness after this horrid life. Nothing was watching over us or protecting us, and if there was then why and where you at? I have an amazingly blessed life, beautifully blessed. I have a roof over me, I don’t know what it is to be truly hungry, and I can’t remember having to do without as a child My parents graciously provided these material things for me when I was young, and when older, they provided when I couldn’t or I simply had no one else to help me tin any way. I have often told people who know me and my past this and they look as if I have gone mad, completely and utterly psychotic. I know there are people in this world who have been hungry, cold, and had no place to lay their heads at night, no warmth exists in their reality. Jester is supposed to be our father, a holy parent, the best protector, A being who could with the slightest thought save his children from all the bad things, chase all the monsters away, make it ok, all of it. A perfect being who holds the power to Stop our hurt, doubt, fear, anxiety, and misery. I ask the simplest of questions where he is hiding, and why is there misery in this realm. it is a fairy tale, Easter bunny made into perfection.

I promised my son the day he was born that I would never let anyone hurt him, and I left a man whom, although evil enough that the devil, if he exists, would move out of his path when he saw this man, I loved him deeply and with my whole damn heart, and ever atom of my being. He provided for us, and he gave me the gift of being able to watch my son grow and to stay at home with him when he was young. I had to work when my child was itty bitty, but he worked his way into a salary that afforded me the luxury of being a stay home mother. I was given the precious gift of watching him discover new things, to watch with amazement as my little baby boy grow into a young man. He, man not son, was a violent individual, he liked to hit people to prove his point or just for kicks. He was a ravishing alcoholic, and he cheated and lied to us simply because he could. I didn’t care if he hit me, I married him, I lay with him, I choose him. The boy, my son, his son, did not, and I would not allow him to be hit, yelled at, or abused in any way. He was angry more than not, and before my son I was his outlet. He had attempted several times to “punish” mine and his son, I had always stepped in front of whatever weapon he was using; fist, belt, fear, whatever. It’s what any mother would do. He managed to catch my son on his upper thighs with the wrong end of the belt once before I could cover him. Not again, not my boy. Not while air still entered and left me.

My husband was in the process of moving us to Wyoming from Texas. We were to stay in Texas while he got things ready in Wyoming. When I was sure that he was far away and we could, we left safely, and as quickly as we could. We brought a bag of clothing each. No toys, photos, momentous, everything I had, and my child was left. We did manage to get our dog into the truck with us before dashing off. We left everything else there and moved to Kentucky. Life is more important than stuff. I guess that was the right thing to do. My son isn’t beaten, he isn’t afraid to talk, and he’s no anxiety. He laughs so very much, more than most children dare to imagine laughing.

I say I think it was the right thing to do because I will not pretend to know the exact right or wrong thing to do. I think the right thing to do was keep him from harm, I failed in this area because I stayed to long, I should of left him the first time he even bluffed at harming him in any way, I should of ran the moment I knew I carried life within me.. I think that the wrong thing to do would have been to not step in front of him, stay with the man and let him continued abuse and harm him any way he wanted to. If I had let it go on, I know he would of punished my son and the boy would of suffered great trauma, or him and I both would have been a sad story on the local news..

If I had Let the man live his happiness, madness, or whatever the hell it was, simply take care of it after the fact when I could have prevented the abolishment of innocence and my mind. I’m a horrible mon, but I refuse to let any child, or adult for that matter to suffer if I can prevent it. His life comes before mine, and I will protect him with everything single bit of my body. If I must suffer, hurt or even die so that he’s able to smile it is worth the worst of the worst, the devil couldn’t make me say uncle. He is a precious, amazing beacon of light in the darkness of times, when even the sun is too happy to show even a speck of itself, my son is there to brighten everyone he touches, as does so without trying to or knowing how he does. His laughter is contagious, his smile genuine, and his love pure without excuse.

If I, being the damaged, weird, broken thing that everyone seems to think that I am, then how come I could understand that instead of punishment later while the pain continues to damage the child in any way, you simply remove the child from the situation and protect him from harm so he is not broken nor flawed. Don’t let the tormenter groom the boy to follow in his footsteps. I think one of the best quotes that I have ever heard is “It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men” (Frederick Douglass). I have never heard such lovely words as those. I once considered myself broken (I even tattooed the word broken onto my leg) simply because the people picked to protect me on this planet failed to do so. When jester or whomever saw this and if he is what he is supposed to be, he would have known the instant it happened if not before. Why didn’t he prevent the damage, why did he allow me, along with so many of the other children that he is supposed to love and protect to be raped, beaten, humiliated, starved. Let broken, shattered, and tormented by every unspeakable evil? Well I guess he was busy in that instant; he could just do it later. Then there is the loophole or repentance. If the man said sorry, then he was not to be punished at all. Sorry I raped your daughter or son. Sorry I killed your child while in the rage of beating them for simply existing. Sorry I saw pure innocence and joy and had to defeat it. Sorry I broke the child in whatever way so that they will always feel like a stranger in their own skin and never feel safe in their own body. Sorry I damaged your little darling so that he will never know true happiness or pure peace, I have arranged for the rest of their life to be lived simply existing and always in fear.

This great thing in the sky, although a great scare tactic, was falser than the biggest lies whispered from the mouth of the damned monsters who breed destruction. It is a fairy tale I thought, made up to teach moral lessons, just as the Easter bunny, Santa clause, and tooth fairy were made up to teach you a lesson, and to lessen fear. He wasn’t real, he was a character of fiction not of reality. Some great imagination or schizophrenic mind had illuminated his existence in their mind and spread it as truth. He couldn’t be him, all that he was supposed to be, all that I had been taught as a child and adult. Something that is supposed to love me so much that he killed his flesh for me, something so true was in fact, I had deduced, false. He could not be and allow such bad things happen to the truly innocent, not if he loved them as he claimed. If he was all that he was, perfection and untouchable, his love should make mine look like a goofy reminiscent of nothing. Not if he watched and did nothing. I was damn sure of not simply believing but knowing with all truth that he was a character of imagination or insanity. My son changed my mind, he didn’t try, he didn’t even know I had absolutely no faith in Jester, myself, or anything for that matter.

My stepfather decided when I was very young that I was to be his sexual toy. He raped and touched me form about the age of 6 to around 14. I told several people. I will not name them here, but I will say that one was a policeman. No one stopped him when I told, any when you get your hands slapped every time you reach into the Cooke jar you learn to fear cookies and the sweet disgusting taste. I stopped telling. The last time he put his hands on me was the night before Halloween. It wasn’t his hands in the most sacred part of my body, or his parts in mine, he said something so vile to me that I will his tone, cadence, smell, all of him till the moment after I die.. No, I won’t write them here, their pain and ugliness belong to me.

The next day in school I went to someone who had to tell, her job was telling and helping, I told my school guidance counselor. When I went into her office the first time, she was out (stupid cookies). It was enough to a make me give up and take it until he grew tired of me or died. But some lady, a secretary I think, made me tell her my name, and later I was called into her office, I did go tell after sitting in silence for what seemed an eternity., She did save me from further damage, like a magical queen, she rescued me from my dungeon, and freed what she could of me. She was, is and will always be a saint to me.

My stepmother beat me starting a short time after the 5th grade and continued until I married. My son’s father and the evil within him, I have already told you about. This was my story, my broken. This may be the weirdest and most honest thing I have ever put on paper, when I was young I would prefer to go to my stepdad, because it would only happen once a day, the beating could last the entirety of the day. My “father” should of and could have stopped it with a simple thought. I would have known happiness and peace. I would be able to feel safe in my skin. I would have not known the meaning of fear. But he didn’t, and what a glorious mess I turned out to be.

When my son and I left Texas, I was at first numb and detached from myself. When I somehow finally managed my way through that I began to miss my husband so horribly that I would have preferred that either him or I had died. The pain was amazingly exquisite. It was beautiful in its breaking of the shell of me. I don’t know how I wandered my way through it, but I did. I lived and my heart was amazingly still working I do know my son was there holding his mothers’ hand, my hand, the entire time.

I used to always tell my son that he deserved a much better mom than I. I was damaged beyond repair, always depressed, anxious and always expected the worst out of life. I would not know happiness in this life, without expecting pain. Since there was no after, no higher than I, I thought, no afterlife for me to experience it. I was to only know worry and fear. I did not want to be me, but if given the chance I would have not given my trauma, my thoughts, my me to anybody else. I refused to let somebody else must go through it, I had survived with a little of my sanity intact at least. I didn’t want someone else completely mad not because I was stronger, but because I was able to escape it in my wonderfully vivid imagination. I simply choose to go elsewhere in my mind with my teddy bear. I also believed it was horribly mean to give it someone else, I thought that would be as bad as the people who had caused the pain to start with. Then one Mother’s Day I figured out how to be happy and to keep it. I choose to die.

I didn’t want and just could not do it anymore. I didn’t want to leave, but I could no longer bear to stay. I wanted to not hurt, think, or feel what I was for a single moment. Smile through tears and fear. Telling everyone that everything was great when I was nearly dead inside. I had no joy in life, I didn’t know what my real laugh sounded like, and I was afraid all the time. I took enough pills to kill me several times over, with the help of a “good person” and on the weird chance that someone found me before the reaper was out the door with me, I would be left mentally Retarded. It seems like the universe had other plans or the reaper had a prior engagement. I failed in my supposed last act.

I won’t bore you with the how. The sheriff ended up at my back door. He asked to see my wrists which I had also slashed. He told me that he could not make me go to the hospital because he didn’t know for an absolute fact the I had cut my wrists, and he only had word of mouth about the pills. He had brought an ambulance with him and I allowed him to look at me. I told him I didn’t want to go to the hospital because I didn’t what to lose my son, he then said that where I would be , dead, was a guarantee that my son would never see me again, the grave doesn’t have visiting hours. He promised that if I went with him that he would give me his soul and that my son would not be taken from me, so I went. I didn’t want to leave my son, but I didn’t want to live any longer. This is one of the times that his happiness meant more than my misery.

`I was in intensive care for 6 days. I survived with no damage to my organs and no brain damage. When I got out of the hospitals, I told my son that I was the perfect mother for him. There wasn’t anything that could get thrown at us, except sex slavery and escaping a serial killer, that I haven’t been through. I can’t say for sure about the serial killer, I wouldn’t know he was a murdered, would I? I have been through hell, both on the scenic route and the business way. I kept walking, sometimes with my eyes closed or head down, but I got through. I could stand beside my son in any battle, against anything and help I’m fight, and with the light and darkness in me, I would damn sure win, for him. I could stare his demons in the face and hold their gaze, laugh at them for their tawdry weakness, never flinching. I was his protector and I had been trained well by mine. I was ready for any battle or war battle that came his way.

I then realized the why of it all. It was simple really. I had been tested by fire, water, all things and had come through gloriously. I had been picked up by life thrown down and stomped on, but as Maya Angelou said, “Still I rise”. Higher than I, (yes, I believed he was up there now) had actually been looking out for me all along, teaching me to protect and giving me valuable life lessons from the ones who tried to teach me loathing or fear. . He hadn’t let anything happen to me. He gave it to me because I needed to be prepared to protect this wonderful, perfect, innocent child that I have been given. I understood with perfect clarity. I have gained a firm faith in the lord. My son has taught me thru his innocent outlook on life blissful happiness, and it’s real. I may have given birth to him, but he gave me life.

I am perfectly broken to make sure my son is normally perfect. I am at this moment in a slightly scary moment in my life. Last night the enormity of the correct outcome of the situation lies on me and me alone. I have a beautiful fear that I will step off the correct path and lose everything, including my son. The fear is beautiful on how it makes everything feel 10 times its normal struggle. I worry, even when I sleep. I know this too shall pass, and I’ll have my ward and my protector walking along side me. Still, my life is beautiful.

I learned how to appreciate beauty and innocence from the man who stole my innocence. I loved trust from the beatings of my stepmother, and from the father of my son, I learned how to love. He hated so violently that I could learn nothing but love. It takes more passion to hate than to love and I would rather be happy in the shedding ang giving of my emotions.

I will say this in closing, light has an irritating, amazing, terrifying beautiful way of finding its way into the smallest and most obscure cervices and places. Light is always trying to defect the darkness. So please always remember that when you are at your lowest, darkest, most blinding place in your life, that brilliant light is still trying to reach you, and with the amazing power it contains, I promise it will find you, it shines on me.