Monthly Archives: February 2019

Confronting Evil By Talking About It

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If I ascend into heaven, You are there; If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there. ~ Psalm 139:8, NKJV.

When I was a teenager I was forced into having two abortions by the cult I was being abused in. Well, first they raped me to get me pregnant, and then they aborted the babies that were the product of the two rapes.

The first one happened when I was about thirteen, and the pregnancy was terminated in an abortion at about three months, before the baby was viable outside the womb. It was a boy, whom I named David Adam Christopher.

The second one, when I was about fifteen, was terminated somewhere between four and five months, at a point when they knew the baby would be viable long enough for me to be able to bond with her before she was killed. And yes, it was a girl. I named her Emily Margaret Rose. For both babies I tried to pick the most beautiful names I could think of, names that were not only beautiful, but were also at least partly biblical with good meanings.

In the abortion that killed David Adam Christopher, I have a very clear picture in my mind of a machine that I’m assuming was an abortion machine. It was a large blue rectangular box with a clear plastic dome on top, and as they were sucking the baby from my body I can see his tiny body parts mixed with blood swirling in the dome as the machine is running.

With Emily Margaret Rose it was even worse. I was the one who had to kill, murder her actually. I had no choice; they forced me.

After she was born they let me hold her, and they had me nurse her. At the time I didn’t understand exactly what they had planned, and I didn’t know why they let me bond with her, but I was glad for it. Then they took her away and put her on a table, which turned out to be an altar. She was naked, and they made me take off my clothes as well, something I always hated doing.

Then they made me go to the altar and they put a dagger in my hand. The dagger was a special kind of double-bladed knife that had an electrical cable coming out of the handle. The cable was hooked up to a machine that generated electrical current, and as long as the machine was on, current flowed into the knife. As long as current flowed into the knife I couldn’t let go of it because my muscles couldn’t stop contracting. The only way they would allow me to drop the dagger was if I stabbed Emily until she was dead. I had no choice. Not physically, nor emotionally or mentally or spiritually.

I can see very clearly in my mind’s eye the images of having to do this to my tiny, beautiful baby girl. And I can distinctly hear her shrieks of agony as I plunged the dagger into her little body.

I take great comfort in Psalm 139:8 when I contemplate this horrific memory, because I believe what it says, that I was not alone in that Hell-on-earth, that God didn’t abandon me even there. I also believe I will one day meet both my beautiful babies when I get to Heaven. I hope they can forgive me for what I was forced to do. I’ve often felt that I should have been willing to die myself rather than allow them to be aborted and murdered like that.

I feel so many things as I relive this event. Fortunately I don’t go back to it very often, and  I didn’t expect to do so today, but it came out as I was talking to McT about other things in therapy. And once I start talking about it, it doesn’t take much to put me right back in the scene again. I don’t know if that means I haven’t truly put it behind me or what. I’ve repented before God to the best of my ability, and asked His forgiveness for every aspect of it. I know, at least in my mind, that I had no control over what happened, that I was forced into it, but I’m not sure if I know that deep down inside.

I say that because whenever I think of it my feelings get all jumbled up and chaotic inside. They kind of flit and fly all over the place and I have a hard time catching them so I can look at them. It’s like they’re trying to escape detection so I don’t have to deal with the underlying issues.

The problem is, I want to deal with those issues. I need to deal with them.

I don’t feel a great deal of guilt or shame about what happened, but I do feel a huge amount of sorrow, grief, and distress about it ~ sorrow and grief at what might have been for those two babies had they survived and escaped the cult, and distress at what I put them through in the process of aborting (David), and killing them (Emily).

Of course there’s absolutely no guarantee that they would have been able to escape. Given that they were created by the cult for child sacrifice ~ the reason they raped me in the first place was to get me pregnant so they could use the baby that was the product of both rapes in rituals, with the ultimate goal of sacrificing the baby’s life ~ something expressly forbidden by God in the Bible,

They have built high places to Baal on which to burn their children in the fire as burnt offerings to Baal, something I have never commanded or mentioned; I never entertained the thought. ~ Jeremiah 19:5, CSB.

They have built the high places of Baal in Ben Hinnom Valley to sacrifice their sons and daughters in the fire to Molech ​— ​something I had not commanded them. I had never entertained the thought that they do this detestable act causing Judah to sin! ~ Jeremiah 32:35, CSB.

What the Christian Standard Bible (aka CSB) calls a detestable act the King James Version calls an abomination, which the dictionary defines as an atrocity, a horror, an obscenity, an evil, a crime, an outrage, and a monstrosity. In Hebrew this word means a morally disgusting thing, ethically wicked, and an abhorrence.

It’s good to know that God finds what happened to my two babies as morally repugnant as I do. I just wish I hadn’t been forced to participate in it.

I guess what I’m getting at with all of this is that, even though I’ve made a lot of progress, it’s obvious that I still have a whole lot of work to do. Thankfully God is able and He’s still on the throne of my life. He’s been doing miracles in my life from the beginning on, and I don’t expect He’ll stop now.

Everything And Nothing All At The Same Time…

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This will probably be a hodgepodge of everything and nothing all at the same time. I’m having a terrible time with hitting myself, and I’m trying not to, but failing miserably.

Kim suggested a new web browser, called Brave, that promises ultra-secure browsing on the internet, plus freedom from ads, and I’ve tried it. I like it, but it’s SOOO ultra-secure that I can’t use any of the websites I usually use, because Brave blocks JavaScript, whatever that is, from being enabled, and if JavaScript isn’t enabled then the website won’t load, and you can’t do anything with it. And that includes this blog. So until I figure out the ins and outs and the technicalities of Brave, I’m going to be stuck using Safari.

And for now, I’ll have to post this as is, because I have to write about something that’s much more pressing, but I don’t want to just toss this out and forget about it. I can come back later and add more to it as the Spirit leads, and as I feel like it.

An Interesting Yet Painful Paradox

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I just realized an interesting paradox, that I’m able to accept the fact that I’m flawed and imperfect, yet while recognizing that fact, I still expect myself to be perfect.

My pursuit of perfection has led to thousands of incidents of self-abuse over the years, yet if I acknowledge that I’m imperfect ~ as is every single member of the whole human race ~ then such a quest is a fruitless endeavor, and will always be one.

Then why do I continue to pursue it?

I don’t know.

Maybe I can figure it out, with a little Spirit-led assistance.

For one thing, it may be rooted in the cult and its rituals, which seemed to be never-ending. For instance, there was the one that they started doing to me when I was as young as two years old, where they had me in a room with a high ceiling, and a huge bonfire in the middle of it.

There was a metal table suspended from the ceiling by pulleys and a big timeclock on the wall, and there was a naked man tied down to the table. They would ask me questions, questions which had no answer, but they would expect me to come up with the right answer, and when I couldn’t the pulleys would lower the table closer to the bonfire. And the timeclock gave me a certain amount of time before it dinged. Once it dinged it was too late for me to answer that unanswerable question, and the pulleys were triggered to lower the table.

Because the table was metal it was like a frying pan, so as it got closer and closer to the fire the man’s skin began to burn, and the man started screaming in agony. He begged me to make the table stop moving towards the flames, and pleaded with me to answer the questions correctly. But given that the questions were unanswerable, and that I was only two or three years old, that was an impossibility. So all his screaming and pleas did was confuse me and make me panic-stricken and frantic.

That was the kind of perfection that was expected, even demanded, of me throughout my childhood. Nothing I did was ever good enough, no matter what I tried, and if I made a mistake, my mother made like I’d done it on purpose if I didn’t act remorseful enough. I remember spilling a glass of milk at dinner a few times when I was a kid, and if I didn’t act abjectly apologetic, she accused me of doing it on purpose.

Like, who knocks over a glass of milk on purpose, especially if doing so is going to result in a beating and/or getting raped, considering that Harry used rape as punishment for anything and everything.

I’ve wondered if having to feel that kind of abject remorse for a simple mistake is the seed that was the genesis for the self-abuse. It makes sense to me that it was, but even knowing that doesn’t seem to make any difference in being able to stop doing it, and that is extremely frustrating to me. Sometimes I feel desperate in my desire to not do it anymore. Lately I’ve taken to asking God to take me Home ~ that’s Home to Heaven ~ just so I don’t have to go through it anymore.

It’s just so painful, and I hate doing it!! It can’t be pleasing to God! It just can’t!!

The first incident of self-abuse I remember was while I was a student at Ripon College, and it was during my junior year. I was taking pipe-organ lessons (Ripon had a small, two-manual pipe organ), and one day during a practice session that wasn’t going at all well, I got so frustrated that I completely lost it, and I scratched my forehead so badly that I drew blood. I ended up having to find a Kleenex to staunch the blood-flow so it wouldn’t ooze down my face and make a mess. I also ended up ripping the pages of the music, so I had to figure out how to mend them so they were still readable.

The other early incident of self-abuse that I remember was when I was visiting Priscilla and Malcolm in Colorado, and they asked me to macramé a plant hanger for Bernice (Malcolm’s mother). They paid for all the supplies, and everything, but I only had a week to complete it, and somewhere in the middle of it I figured out I’d done a whole series of knots wrong and had to rip out a huge section of work and do it over, so I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to finish by the deadline Priscilla had given me. As a result I scratched my forehead and my arms, making an enormous bloody mess of myself.

They didn’t ask me how I got the scratches on my face, but I’m sure they knew, and I was too embarrassed to mention them.

I was able to get it finished on time, even a few hours early, though I ended up having to stay up all night to do so. I was so sure Bernice wouldn’t like it that I couldn’t be in the same room with her when they gave it to her. I had to hide in the other room. That’s how afraid of her criticism I was.

Fortunately, all my fears were for naught, because she loved it, and it remained hanging in her house until the day she died, several years ago. In fact, from what Katharine says, it’s still there.

So that’s my story, my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, perfectionistic, and painful story. I feel a desperate craving to be free of it. If I could open up my skull, and find the part of my brain that contains the self-abusive perfectionism, I would rip it out so I wouldn’t have to struggle with it anymore.

But I can’t, so I won’t. I guess I’ll have to trust God to do that part.

Rats!

I’m Perverting God’s Word. Moi? But Yes!

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It occurred to me recently that I’m twisting God’s Word. It says in the Book of Hebrews,

And without faith it is impossible to please Him, for whoever would draw near to God must believe that He exists and that He rewards those who diligently seek him. ~ Hebrews 11:6.

But I leave half that verse off all the time, because I’m terrified that I’m not pleasing God. This is the Book of Hebrews according to Sarah,

It’s impossible for me to please God no matter hard I diligently seek Him ~ Hebrews 11:6, Sarah’s Word.

That’s a hard truth to accept about myself, but there it is. Something I never want to be guilty of doing is adding to or subtracting from God’s Word! I love the Bible, more than any other book I’ve ever read or known of.

The Bible has some severe things to say about people who pervert God’s Word. Like, if you add to it then God will add all the curses listed therein to your life, and there are a LOT of curses in the the Bible. And if you take any words away from the Bible then God will take your name out of the Lamb’s Book of Life.

REALLY don’t want that to happen! I like being in the Lamb’s Book of Life a LOT!!

Of course my version of Hebrews 11:6 assumes that I have no faith, which would be why God can’t be pleased with me, according to the real version of the verse, as quoted above. Also, I realize that I’m basing that perception of God on the fact that it was forever and always absolutely and completely impossible to please Harry, and it also felt like it was futile to try and please my stepdad as well.

An example of that futility was one time after I had graduated from a program in medical assisting. I got the highest overall score that anyone had ever gotten at that school ~ a 99.25%, and when I told my stepdad about my amazing score, all he could say about it was, “Why didn’t you get 100%?”

I felt SOOO ANGRY when he said that!!

I had worked so hard to get that score, slaving night after night memorizing volumes of material that I didn’t think I’d ever use.

And all he could say was why didn’t I get a 100?!?

DAMN!!

I think he thought he was encouraging me, but he wasn’t. What he said cut me deeply. It made me feel like nothing I did was good enough.

I had to forgive him. I didn’t want to but I had to. It wasn’t for his good, but rather mine, so I did.

This is a hard thing for me. It’s so difficult for me to differentiate between God and my father, to separate them and put them in unrelated categories. I have to detach, disengage, and disentangle God from my father in my mind, will, and emotions so that God no longer comes to mind when I think of my father. So that the only reason my father might come to mind when I think of God is because I want to pray for him.

That’s my goal, and I know it’s doable.