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I Couldn’t Find Him

I dreamt last night of Gregory.

I was searching for him for I had questions.

But I couldn’t find him.

I called to him but he didn’t answer because he was gone.

I called to him but he was silent and I missed him.

I missed the strength of his presence,

the reliability of his knowledge,

the solidity of his person,

the steadiness of his gaze,

and the sound of his voice.

I called again, and slowly, in his own time, in his own way, far away, invisible, he answered.

Yes, Greg said. What is it? 

His voice answered.

Where have you gone? I asked. I need you.

Are you sure? He answered.

Yes, I said. I have questions for you. 

Greg you, the hope and the despair, 

the right and the wrong,

the light and the dark, 

the question and the answer. 

What do I do?

You carry on, Greg said.

How? 

You keep asking the questions. 

But, what is the answer? I asked.

I’ve shown you the answer:

The hope, the despair, the right, the wrong, the light, and the dark. 

All of it. The answer is My Love. 

In Memory of: Greggory

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Blog Posts, Memoir, Personal Post

The Story of Me: Part Two

Trapped in the rip current, eyeing aimed at fact. Joy had spent years inside the dark. Her journey into healing came with seven months away, and an expectation of doing business with God.

Seven months with no computer, disconnected with the digital world. Connected to people, and rediscovering herself. “You don’t have to understand it all to receive it all.”

Some of her prayers were flat out cursing God, screaming in tongues at herself and at her thoughts. All contracts with the dark were severed.

It was a time full of light, and amusement. It was also a period of extreme dark, of punishing anguish.

In the years that followed the healing would be seen as self-evident. Others needed curing as well, and that would take time.

Joy was willing and really had no other choice but to allow those that loved her and were injured by her to see what had transformed.

Many apologies were offered, and those around accepted them.

Some people would hurt Joy, and this is when she kissed social media goodbye.

It’s been about a year and six months without Facebook, twitter, and the like.

Joy got rid of her itouch, erased her forum accounts, and made an effort to stop taking the advice of those nameless faceless online unknowns; And start listening to God’s words about her, His truths, His Ways and His life.

Life sense then Joy has attempted to find work, and right from the start it wasn’t to be. She hopes that a current job might come through.

She is tired of taking SSI, she tires of waiting.

Joy has decided to undergo a gastric sleeve surgery. She must stay in the 250’s range with a BMI of 40 so that insurance will cover the operation.

Others tell her ‘she looks fine’ or ‘why do you want to go through with that?’ she’s had time to think long and hard, and working out four times a week but more often than she’d like to admit binging at night the efforts really don’t count.

When Joy was away healing from cutting, she only got down into the 230’s with no food at night and exercise five times a week.

Joy is tired of being over 200 pounds, she tires of being drained after each workout. It’d be nice to feel ‘energized’ as many say they are after their aerobics.

More than this, she desires to be fit in order to live a longer richer life to be there for those that Joy loves.

At this point in the narrative, Joy is now 32 years of age and is ready and quite excited to launch into the rest of her lifetime.

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Blog Posts, Memoir, Personal Post

The Story of Me : Part One

Slight girl bold of the realm around her. Discoveries of meaning in the minor things. In the way leaves will went, mended and twisted in the gale. Her hands followed the breeze, her feet crossed the knees. As a youth Joy was full of life, but often thought ‘odd.’ It didn’t matter much to Joy, she’d shrug and carry on.

Preschool wasn’t kind, nor were the girls that made fun. Not so much because she looked different, but because Joy would make contacts with the physically handicapped children, and ‘normal’ children as well if they didn’t mind the company of her other friends.

Elementary school was much the same, smashed in a ‘pod like’ classroom conceived in the mind of some person who thought it’d be a ‘good idea.’

(Now Joy thinks the person was on some sort of LSD or was just an air head academic, all book sense but no life sense.)

She’d been chastised for not ‘changing stations’ as a kindergartener, and in Transitional 1st grade she’d figured out a nap time how to masturbate, though all Joy knew was it made her feel less stressed out.

First through fourth grade were struggles of not just memorizing words, but also reading then excelling. The other administrators took credit for the ‘progress they made’ when it was Joy’s hours of tears, trials, fluid, and effort that had made the difference.

Joy’s mother had a huge role to play in her success, Joy looked up to her mom because she would be the continuing role model of ‘advising.’

Middle school was when Joy learned that something was socially ‘off’ with her. She accepted the fact that she was different, and when told she was weird would respond with: ‘so what else is new?’

High school was a major turning point. Here, Joy would express her voice more than she ever had. I forgot to mention, Joy was an avid singer. Music was (and still is) the one thing that gave her solace.

Ninth grade she was told she was ‘fat’ by way of a note binged off her head. Joy joined weight watchers for all the wrong reasons. She stopped counting points, and started counting calories. Turning against who she was stealing diet pills from her father.

In the darkness, in the early 2000’s, in the early hours on the weekend, Joy found an online world that fed her sickness. She spoke an inaction to conger up the ‘goddess of anorexia’ not thinking twice about the fallout but desperately wanting to be accepted by her peers at any cost.

Falling into a deep depression in her later high school years, the memories of choir events and classes bled out of a need to be hugged. Too many apples, very little of anything. Plain oatmeal, ketchup and pretzels, air popped popcorn, pickles and little else.

Mornings before school were spent working out either by video in the morning, or by a 4 am jog.

Lunch time was spent in the bathroom eating just 4 crackers and one tuna fish packet. She’d hide away from people during lunch, their eyes, and their judgments.

She was by the end ‘popular’ of sorts, but it never worked out. All of two months during her twelfth grade year with horrible dances and bones protruding at prom.

Diet pills became common, speeding legally along with hardly any food equaled disaster.

Porn also became common, she thought she was the only 17 year old girl that loved to see raw sex.

Eyes violated on a frequent basis; be it with the web community encouraging one another to become sicker, or tapping her shoulder frame again.

Away to college-and away with all reason.

Freshman year dove into studies, maintained a high C average and still was self-abusing in all the ways before.

Something broke around thanksgiving time. She had received a D on a term paper, while trying to work out the logistics of ‘proper form’ of a collage paper.

Joy was at her desk, her roommate was out at the time; across from her were scissors.

The thought struck her as something so vulgar, and yet so brilliant.

Sinful spirit spoken word that leaked onto the floor.

Euphoria in the recipe of plasma, transported ahead of term paper; watercolor an attractive shade of ruby.

Self-mutilation no longer excusable but rather the poison of choice; and what a lilac it was!

Such a disfiguring amusement.

Such a hypnotizing impulse.

Such a wonderful dependence.

Joy figured others had their ‘habits’ and at the time she didn’t know of any other girls of guys who cut their arms and body to hell.

Others had PTSD, or were addicted to pills, drugs, drank etc.

For a long ten years Joy would fall into the abyss of cutting.

She was forced to leave collage, upset and hurt. Joy attempted to take her life in 2005 on the driveway of her grandmothers.

‘God help!’

It would be years and years of pain inflicted not only upon herself, but on her loved ones.

Feeding the pain with depressing music, art, or anything that could validate.

Soon she forgot what the agony was for, and beyond routine she carried on.

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