For some parts in me not much seem to have changed since I was 4 or 8 years old. I don’t open my mouth without thinking that what I am saying is wrong and will get me into trouble. I don’t make one step forward or backwards without thinking I should shrink or defy this scary dark sky that is going to fall on my head because I am bad.  I don’t have one interaction that doesn’t die on me almost right away because what ever comes out of my mouth, I m thinking, says one thing but underneath communicates “fuck off, stay away from me, don’t get close unless you want me to get hurt.” I tend to find and connect best with people on my path who will hear and execute this order.  I am still alone, isolated, no one likes what I am presenting to this world. The pain, the suffering, the fear, that some of my inner little kids have accumulated and identify with in silence for years, in order to survive and be loyal to their only life line they know and think they have, they parents, and that is all that matters. The rest, the happy sharing, the delightful moments we could talk about, the peaceful thoughts, the gentle progress,  the joyful achievements, my little kids have become blind and deaf to. Instead they will tell anyone who sees them to ignore, to walk pass them to not absolutely not look at them and give them the slightest attention because things will get worse for them. Left in that orphanage, told how lucky they were for having  as the only person who ran that cold heartless place, their own biological father, to raise them, some kids don’t have that apparently and it s worse for them. The routine of my every six month realignment by some drowning with the shower head, left to pick ourselves up after passing out from being terrorized in the bath tub, then when that method of torture almost killed both my brother and I, the bitting with his shoe size 13 or a metal bar that he used to exercise with. The hours spent kneeling on the stick part of a broom with the hands on the top of the head. His hands that would hurt and stain a read mark on this fragile and soft baby skin. The days for years to tip toes to the bathroom afraid our would scream and punish us for creating a mouse sound. The coughs we had to hold so he would hear and punish us, The abuse that those kids can not find words to describe, still to this is drawn, written, marked all over me. Some of my little girls have not been  able to shake it all out and move on and find God and be that happy person everyone demand them to be because no one can sit with their in her pain. Sitting with the pain while holding someone’s hand who will not feel disgusted or terrified by that is all that little parts need. Telling her “your pain doesn’t exist” or you are responsible for your own dream” is like telling she is guilty for being her own terrorist on herself and this is not helping. She can not believe that this is in the past and the past doesn’t exist anymore. These little girls are frozen in time and waiting to be  rescued, and avoid denying the what she experienced is like turning my back on her and walking away hoping that this part in me that can not really be left behind will vanish into thin air.

That internal part frozen in time who begs for my deliverance needs a internal connection and healing. No one outside our system can and will heal that part who has been left behind. The world could only trained this part to present something else of herself that would be a little more attractive and that would mask the bruises and the emotional scares and broken nerves and bones that looked ugly and unbearable to the world. My dad had painted a picture of the world to me that was so dark so painful and as a loyal child to him I have learned to become a figure in that picture. I demonstrated the pain and suffering of the world my dad saw and showed me and everyone runs away and turn their back to that why wouldn’t they. So to give a different external appearance, an appearance that is acceptable on the surface is all that the world can offer me. This being said the second someone gets a little too cozy around that appearance I copied and pasted on myself, an invisible protector jumps out of me and whispers in that someone’s ear “stay away we don’t need you, if you stay around we will get into so much trouble so bugger off”.

The very being of this part who caries guilt as a burden in our system. The part who once was a sweet and funny little girl everyone wanted to hold and kiss and play with, until that one event occurred, can now be internally held and given the space to be seen and heard finally. The one event that created  the beginning of a cut off from the world and brought a new threatening vision to her of everyone,  that day was not just terrified of dad, was also terrified of what could happen to her, how dad would punish her what torture would he use this time, if or when she interacted with the world if or when she asked for the slightest attention. That day one of the heaviest burden to cary was passed on to that little girl and because she was made to believe she had done something terribly wrong she willingly toke it on, guilt. A new function was assigned to her, a family heritage no one wanted to cary. A  little girl died in me that day she froze in the corridors of time, left there to think she was a demon. My dad helped and trained me well in being  a grade A student at polishing protecting and never parting from guilt. Should I thank him for doing his job so perfectly?  A part in me wish we could erase that occurrence, that I had never happen accepted to take part in carrying  this burden but what would have happen if I didn’t? What is I had pretended to take it on? Even from that angle today I can see that taking it on has saved my life I don’t think I would be alive today if I had not taken it on. My dad would have killed me. Guilt saved my life. That part probably new that one day I would come and free her up  emprisoned with the belief that I am defected and wrong, that I am a waste of time and space was only going to be momentarily.  This killing me slowly, lonely thought that I am unlovable that all is left for anyone to do with me if I don’t go there way is punishment was not going to last. Something in me told me to take on that burden temporarily to save my life. Could it be Self. Did Self make a pact with that little girl and told her firmly I will get you out I promise.

Today Part of me knows that Self kept her promise, a connection was definitely made between Self and the little girl who was left with an impression that she was unloveable and she would live the rest of her life feeling disappointed, hurt, sad because all who ever loved her, played with her, reassured her, brought her laughters and warmth disappeared from one day to the next.

An other part in me sees it otherwise and here is what she s to say. “Self you betrayed me, I was hurt so bad, that the pain is still with me today. I was not removed from this nightmare like I was told by Jesus, without learning to be comforted by it. That all I know that s what saved life and continues to do so. Yes I am sad and alone and I continue being loyal to my only master the one who gave me a purpose and a reason to exist. Who would I be without him without his messages without the burden I cary. Do I have to start all over again before all this ever happen?How can I ever trust you? You don’t distract me when I hurt you want me to sit with the pain and I don’t want to do that. How can I walk away from this past that was hell. How can believe that what dad said was a lie. When someone tells me I am not unique or I m not a victim or limited or I m dreaming or I m not real or what I believe in is all an illusion I still give this the meaning it has for me the believe that dad engraved in me I still hear only that.  And anyone who says to me that my painful experience I s not real reinforces this idea of “I am bad”. You are not unique translated in the language I learned to speak with my dad means I am bad and I deserve to be punished. Self now what?