I Am Afraid To Get Online
That is a good thing, I suppose, I have been doing my exercises in the morning to delay the time when I need to get online. I hope I continue that practice.
It hurts to see the trauma and chaos.
As an empath, I am crushed by the challenges I see being revealed.
It pulls me back to my school days in southern California.
Good old Bell Gardens and Long Beach.
I know that turf.
It is not “as smooth as a baby’s bottom” like the good old rural Midwest, where people raise families, grow old, and die in the homes they were born in.
Pedophiles and traffic dealers on nearly every corner, even forty-some years ago.
Racial tension was the norm.
I have a love/cringe relationship with Mr. Iglasias on Netflix. Gabriel (Fluffy) Gabe Iglasias is one of my favorite people! As IF I could have such a thing! Sorry Gabe. I have a special witness and feeling for everyone, but I really do admire what he is doing with that show! (I went to David Starr Jordan High School many moons ago.)
I remember the group of beautiful Latinas that were going to beat the tar out of me after school. What was my offense? I had blonde hair and freckles.
I guess that I did not count as a person of color, even with these dots that had caused me such embarrassment as a child when in public settings.
After mentioning this to a teacher, the situation never did manifest, but it scared the tar out of me anyway.
Another place that told me that the world was not a loving place.
Stirred up, are a lifetime of experiences, by the challenges I see in the world.
I was in the shower today when I had a thought that was new to me.
I realized that I had been my baby (half) sister’s n_.
It never had occurred to me before. Oh, I knew we had issues, but I never put it quite in that context before.
Her mother had lived with my dad for two years by the time she was born, a “premie”, she slept in a dresser drawer once she was able to come home.
The protocol of my relationship with her had been established.
I recall being forced to call her “mom” before I was ready to integrate what meaning that word had to me over to this woman when I was four years old.
Yep, I thought that deep at that age, and while we may look like we“bounce back” as a child, it does not mean that what goes in our world does not affect us deeply.
The name was to be used, but in no other way was she to recognize me as a daughter.
“I was his daughter”, enough said.
My baby sister’s pouty looks when my brother and I were sent away or she got to do something that we did not seemed to say, “I am so sorry that I am welcome here and you are not.”
Her bottom lip puffed out so cute.
I did not see that look for years, but when I did again, I knew that I was done.
No longer did I see the cute little girl I adored, I only knew the feeling I had in the pit of my stomach that said she had value in her mind, and my brother and I did not and she was glad to be on her side of “privilege”.
This is what I felt. I am not in her skin so I cannot be sure, but many situations have stated it may be so, and I am not messing with it anymore.
I do not blame her today, to tell the truth, with how she was raised. But I will not let her psychologically “spit” at me again. Even though she remains a part of my prayers.
We had lived through dad’s beatings of mom and her mom’s willingness to watch his outrageous behavior toward my brother and me.
He did not dare touch my baby sister, because he knew that her mother would not tolerate it.
We made it through my brother’s time in the foster home, and subsequent adoption by his foster parent’s just a couple months after he and I had gone to spend time with our birth mother. As well as my return when I was about twelve.
But I was a traitor by then, even though I had only been gone thirty days.
“I had abandoned my baby sister and left her without a buffer; what, I now understand, to be a “whipping boy” to take the weight out of dad’s frustration at trying to make his way in the world.” This was the attitude and teaching of her mother to my six year old baby sister.
Jackie was the “whipping boy”, while I became the “masturbation release” as my father used me for that purpose. Dad never hurt me physically that I recall in his sexual misconduct, but emotionally and psychologically he sent me into a whirlwind that helped show me this world was not one that embraced love.
If only I could take back the words “I will show you sometime, how babies are made.” What was I, ten, then?
Dad had the audacity to bend me over the area by the bottom of the stairs in the basement where my brother lived like an unwanted pet.
Dad’s member had touched a part of me that responded to touch in that particular position (the only time I remember having this happen in the two years he used me) and after he had left my brother stood by the stairs to see if I was okay. He had a look of concern.
When I said what I did a grin spread over his eight-year-old face and he nodded his head. I quickly turned and ran up the stairs.
What the hell could I say? :’(
Crunch! Another mountain of crap on my soul that told me this world does not run on love.
Thankfully, he was off to a foster home soon thereafter. By all appearances, it was a good one. I can only hope so. These are some of the last memories I have of him, but he stays in my prayers.
I never once approached my children in any sexual manner, but, do not think I have not been afraid of it. I have watched for other abusive behavior as well, and did very well, from my perspective. Though hardly from other people’s, especially the ones who discovered the traction in empathy and support they could get by embellishing situations that did occur, and maybe even ones that didn’t.
Not keeping these kinds, well, not exactly these memories, but memories about the abuse I came from did nothing in society, but give adults, and rebellious individuals, tools to use to distance themselves from me, and just consider me crazy and not capable of taking on the tasks that I had in this world.
Little do they understand how the Lord works.
If I cannot use these experiences and memories to pour some good into the world today, I fear I will have gone through them for nothing and wasted the “gold coins” that I have been given.
Bouncing around in life is “old school” to me.
Even in my later years, in my chosen place of self-isolation; I find myself being emotionally bounced around by the upheaval in the world.
I do not want to live in a “colored” world. :’( :’( :’( :’(
I want to live in a humane world.
One where people know they have value and that those around them do as well.
I have been blessed to know that this thing we call life is not real.
Many have found places of comfort where they can rest awhile, and feel somehow protected and not in the midst of the fight with the monster, whose name is Separation.
They think that if others are experiencing the trauma it must be their fault and if nothing else, it does mean that the monster will not find them and their loved ones.
After all, Sacrifice is the way of the world, is it not?
“Let the monster have this one, or that one, to chew up for humanity’s faults; at least it will give him some appeasement and distract him from my shortcomings.”
Have we come out of the dark ages?
Evidence does not seem to suggest that this is the case.
There is hope and light, but not in this world of division.
And a world directed by just a few who know what is best for the rest of us is not right either.
We have to hear the words of Jesus through new ears. I believe he waits for us to let him lead us out of this.
Believe it or not, we are going in the right direction.
Debi, Debra Yvonne Simmons aka Christa-Ann Faith Godsdaughter
I have been given a unique perspective on a lot of things. Mama’s Christmas Carol, You Got the Power, Mom!
Want to know how I view the world today? Check out The At-One-Meant Is In Place, The Only Question Is; When Will We Receive It?