Reblog – Part 2 – Tweetstorm – #27th January 2012 – HOW TO!! #Freegary #Richardo (The perfect Storm)

Posted in Uncategorized on January 25, 2012 by TouchedbyS

( This is a reblog from @cliffsull’s blog)

Whats it all about ?

If you are not familiar with the idea of a #Tweetstorm – then please read the 1st post by Clicking here

But why a Tweetstorm ?

We want to make the 27th of January 2012 the day of the Perfect Storm and we need your help.

Our target , the Uk Home (wreckers) Office – who are playing God with peoples lives, and its their own Citizens whom they are targetting.

We NEED YOU! We need your assistance to let them know what you think about their aiding and abetting the US Prosecutors to inflict mental torture, to threaten UK citizens with Extradition and Jail Sentences for non Crimes and misdemeanours.

If you don’t know the background to the Extradition Act 2003 then visit http://freegary.org.uk where you will find reams of information about how the Act was brought into play and how it has affected one UK Family.

In essence, the Act was ‘secretly’ and ‘hurriedly’ passed into law directly after the attacks on the Twin Towers on 9-11.

Tony Blair used the Queens prerogative to rush the Law through the House of Lords and said his motives were to make it easier for ‘Terrorists’ to be extradited to the USA.
(At the same time many were angry at the U.S. Policy of ‘Rendition – where anyone, in any country could be picked up by American Snatch squads, thrown on a plane without any due process or legal case being brought for extradition – to be taken to Guantanamo where they were ‘questioned’ and as has emerged, tortured via waterboarding and stress positions).

What the Extradition Act 2003 appears to have done was open the door for wholesale ‘legal renditions’ of UK citizens, and unbelievably the US do NOT HAVE TO PROVIDE EVIDENCE of any crime.

Two cases in particular are of note:

Gary Mckinnon and Richard O’Dwyer.

Gary has Aspergers syndrome (I hate the term ‘he suffers from).

Gary is also a manic depressive and is currently living in abject fear, which non-sufferers could not comprehend fully. I also have manic depression/bipolar disorder and can sympathise as I have been on the verge of suicide many times.

Gary was arrested in the UK ten years ago and (without a lawyer present) admitted gaining access to US computer networks in search of UFO evidence and ‘alternative Energy’s’ which he believed the US suppressed.

The DPP said Gary had no case to answer, meaning what Gary did was NOT A CRIME in the UK. (The warrant was for Computer Misuse and if he had been charged here in the UK would have earned him a suspended sentence). However, shortly AFTER the Extradition Act 2003 the US made their move – using the new Act to apply for Extradition retrospectively. Gary has been fighting this for a decade.

The UK HOME OFFICE is complicit in the mental torture of Gary and his family.

The Home Secretary is due to rule on Gary’s medical Report soon. However, and this is the most recent of many medical Reports, the Home Office have insisted that the Expert employed by Gary’s legal team – ‘ be guided’ by one of their own experts’ which (as Garys mother told me last night, has her very scared once again.

The Home Office once again seems intent on destroying another UK families lives by rubber stamping the Extradition of a young man from Sheffield who hosted a site known as the T.V. Shack.

The Director of Public Prosecutions has written to the mother of Richard O’Dwyer and stated they found that Richard had commited no serious crime – yet London Police in conjunction with U.S. Prosecutors have obtained permission to Extradite him to the USA where he faces up to 5 years in prison.

Get the full story on that here – http://juliasblog-the-fight-of-our-lives.blogspot.com/
The reach of US Authorities has now come into UK Citizens homes …and neither of the aforementioned are Terrorists, for whom this biased Extradition Act was intended.

Requirements :

  • A self Hosted WordPress Blog
  • or
  • A server at Home on which you have running or can install WordPress
  • or
  • Sign in at one of the Tweetstorm Blog Sites

    As well as one of the above – you will also need a copy of the ‘Tweet Old Post’ plugin which you can download and upload to your plugin folder or which you can install directly from the PLUGIN settings page of your WordPress site.

    A twitter account (obviously)

    NOTE: While you could create an account just for the Tweetstorm – it would be preferable if it were an existing account because new accounts are most likely to be flagged as Spam accounts from my own experience.

    Finally you will need to import a file which was created by @rt4freegary consisting of 1,000 (140 character) posts. A link to this file will be posted on Wednesday , by which time those taking part will have a WordPress blog set up and a twitter account which they can use to Post automatically to Twitter.
    These ’140 character’ posts contain the tweets which will be sent on the 27th to the Home Office in Protest against the unfair Extradition Act 2003 – under which they are trying to extradite UK Citizens to the U.S. for minor offences here in the UK.
    In order to avoid hitting the twitter ‘Limit’ imposed hourly – the file containing the tweets is organised into ‘scheduled’ posts – and will equate to around 45 tweets per hour.
    You can expect that on occasion you will receive error messages saying you have hit the limit – and some tweets may not appear.
    WE WILL NOT BE SPAMMING !

    IT IS IMPORTANT YOU LET YOUR FOLLOWERS KNOW BEFOREHAND THAT YOUR TIMELINE ON THE #27TH IS BEING USED FOR THE #TWEETSTORM 
    Do not expect to get many personal tweets in between the scheduled tweets either ….
    Of course some people out there have MULTIPLE twitter accounts and we do not encourage their use …but, we do not mind either.
    The Goal here is 1,000,000 tweets which we can count and verify – we do this by the ‘posts’ on the word-press sites through which the tweets will be sent.

    @cliffsull

I Wanna Go Back

Posted in Uncategorized on November 20, 2011 by TouchedbyS

13

Curled up on the sofa, sleeping, or rather pretending to be, father will be in from the pub soon. I’m content, my kitten is curled up with me –  something of my own to love in my infantile state and a supplanter for the lost sibling I’m still suppressing I’m grieving over at all.

Conditioned, feeling the chains of the designated little wife and mother role that has been thrust upon me. I’ve tried so much to kick fathers backside on this one – all I want him to do is go out and meet someone, stop making me the one felt obligated to fulfil his partner roles.

I refuse to stay in, go out as much as possible, try matchmaking him with friends mothers, just anything to get him, and his reliance on me, off my back, gone.

There is now some blind, unspoken game goes on. I’m on the sofa, just have to be THERE, dont have to be awake, nor talk, having shut down his verbal games long ago. Now I just play dead, sleeping and he will sit and ramble at me.

I’m set for another night of it.

But no, much to my joy, he does not come in – alone.

He thought he was threatening me,”If you dont stay in, I will have to go out to the pub, meet someone else.”
Warped ideals, my whole heart ached – please DO!

I hear two voices come in the door, am smiling, curl my head deeper into the blankets and give no response to his checks to see if  I’m awake or sleeping.

The one thing I’m picking up about who he has brought in with him, is they are tender, caring, not bad. She is quiet, gently spoken, not arrogant, pushy or salacious.

Not once does she come near me, touch me, pawn over me, try to use me to enamour my father for her own gain. All her talk is honest, upright. The one time she makes a break to come near me is when my father leaves the room.

Any sick whore would already be using the ‘sleeping’ child to in road and impress the man, it is being noted in my vigilant mind, she does not.

Father leaves the room, she comes over after a minute, I sense her close, at the side of sofa. She reaches out her hand, brushes the hair back off my face. Her hands on me?  Something I have never felt before – the loving touch of a woman, mother. I’ve been pawed, clawed, abused, smacked to death by the female gender, but never – touched by love from female hands.

She tenderly tucks the covers round me, runs her hand over my face, again, and goes back to her seat before my father returns.

I fall to sleep, for once in my life – comforted, secure.

I don’t have no rain check on scurried or elicit feet running upstairs at a later hour, the vigilance is calmed,

She is there in the morning, she is back the next day and night. I like her, she is loving. But as facts transpire – I know she has to go.

My want for a mother, an actual mother,  is not big enough to want to see children deprived of their mother.

Truth rolls out.  She is the mother of several children from a town down the road. She has left them, run away, due to domestic violence and is now living with her mother in the next street up.

Soon as I hear this, it can’t be, her own children need her.

If she has had to run, what are these children left with?

She MUST go home!

A selfish, childish, part of me wants to keep this woman around forever. This part is well over ridden, overcome, with knowing the pain of losing a ‘mother’ and knowing the anguish those children would be prey to both through the tears of experiencing the loss of a mother, and the abuse they are left unto via her abandonment. She has to go back.

She is a good woman, it is not much longer before she goes back home to her children.

I’m happy, her children need her.

I don’t know what came of her situation. I’d hope she got out, her children out, and her next step was not another run, leaving children again, but I just do not know what became of her, her children, their situation at all.

All I know is I’d wish them all well from the heart. Hope they are safe and happy.

I’m grateful too, because as much as I know her hands on me probably meant nothing about me, were compulsive. she came over because me laying there reminded of her own children, alone, without her, children she missed, but for one brief second in my life, I felt the hands of a mother.

Also, on knowing her circumstances, saw that she avoided using me on arrival, as a tool, where many others would, because the pain, when reminded of who she had left behind would be too much, when combined with the guilt of where she was stood with my Father and not her children.

I was convenient and most inconvenient, by proxy – evidence.

Given, I was unaware of her situation at that moment she touched me, but then came to know, any loving hands on me of hers were hands stolen for seconds,  from children who much needed their mother. On knowing full situation, I felt guilt and empathy, Who was I to be having those loving hands on me, when these children would be wracked, anguished with loss of just those hands.

She touched my life. She would have touched it less if she had not gone back for her children.

Betty, lovely woman, no matter what she is doing in life now, I hope it is good.

I’ve learnt the life lesson well. We are nothing until comfortable outside of the womb. She was something for me in my dark hours of being discomfortable, feeling , never, had been within.

God bless her. So glad she went back  x

Right, video, is one i wanted for this blog entry, but absolute credit for finding song, cos i could not, goes to twit bud @pennyessex. TY XX

Red, red wine

Posted in Uncategorized on November 17, 2011 by TouchedbyS

16

Factory fodder, between whirring machines, keep hearing about – Michael. I’m almost laughing, I am a very dense 16yo but to all accounts he is a 14yo, almost 15, everybody, wants.

Don’t get it, my head resides with the older man, not younger.

Several Saturday nights later, I’m ensconced in the locale night life of these idiots making the constant noise re – Michael.

New drinking ground for me. I’m sat against a wall when he comes in, but there is no mistaking he has arrived.

Idiocy, female frenzy, now I can begin to see why the fuss, 15 almost he might be, but he is handling all of this with a coolness that is way beyond his years. Not interested. Not perturbed. Deep. I’m sitting back watching, already knowing, we are two of a kind. He is used to it – too.

Ok, game over, feel empathy for him. If only these crazy people could understand, being ‘clawed’ at, obsessed over like this, is not pleasant. I get up, smile at him and walk out, wait for him at the door, he is right behind me.

There are mutual smiles and off we go walking, away from, the madness.

We stand in a shop doorway, nothing needs said, nothing needs done, the only thing needed is we are in the same space. Peace.

Neither has touched the other, we just are, and on it will go.

By Monday, factory is nuts, these next town girls proclaiming S is dating M. No such thing.

If asked back then what  was going on with M and I, response would be no idea, and if asked now, the answer would be the same…

No idea.

That is an unusual answer for me cos normally I know all, but no, this was just an affinity, unspoken understanding of each other, no rhyme, no reason, but this is going to have dire outcomes. .

At work, im already losing friends from his locale, he doesn’t date people, much as they have all tried and I can see why, but im not dating him either. They fail to see that.

Weeks go by, Saturday nights, we’d leave the pub scene, go outside and just sit, talking or go walking. Innocence all of it.

For sure, I’d feel, see want in him at times, natural, but not what we were ever about, and I have despite thickness an inbuilt barometer, older men okay for sex, younger men, not.

All I know is this time stuck together away from the noise and the alcohol is something – good.

Is always on his turf, not mines, he would not even know where I lived, until directed.

In my bedroom, I hear the door knock downstairs.

Father answers, muffled voices. I’m sure I  just heard Michael, not here surely?

I’m hearing the door close, am already up, moving, Father meets me on the stairs..

Some guy Michael? Asking for you? Don’t worry he has already left  in a  car, he fires.

I want to run to the door, but I know it is already too late now.

In a car? My head is on overdrive. In what car would M ever be arriving at my door when he does not even know where my door is, far less does he have capacity to be ‘globe-trotting’? I already know something is not right.

Next night, sat eating dinner in a takeaway, the news station bleats out, ‘ Boy found dead in upturned stolen car’.

Michael is my instant thought, I know it is Him.

I down food, denying, start a slow walk home.

As soon as I cross living room floor, his name has been released.

Cruella, my stepmother, says, just been on the TV, Michael, found dead, he was here last night wasn’t he?

I look at my father and say, yes, his head hangs.

His head will hang for a long time on this one, rightfully cos if only he had answered the question at the door right, the boy would never have died! Instead his jealous, possession saw a kid, killed.

Life becomes a hurtful blur. Everyone wants Truth suppressed. Cop investigation; he has injuries not fitting with car accident, unexplained injuries, but non the less, left in an overturned car, hanging by a seat belt – to die.
Despite evidence of other injuries, cop investigation, halts.

I’m already reading the story backwards and is later clarified. My ‘want to be’ gang rapists from years before are the ones that picked him up, are  the ones that brought M to my door. Gang rape attempt 3 is order of day, their plan.

They are the ones that beat shit out of him once he left my door empty handed of me, they are the ones that left him hanging in a seat belt, still breathing.

If I’d have known he was there with them, I’d have dragged him out of that car! Instead, he was met with a lie at my door, told, I was not in.

I don’t know how the fuck people can do this, the gang rape attempts were years before, and, to this point, im aware of this mobs continual presence. but pretty much in oblivion to fact these bastards are still watching my life so intently, they can do this to M.

He is gone. I have mass feelings of responsible for, wont be the first time.

The news pours out, his family stuff. I feel so separated, so far away from one there is deepest bond with. I must remain – silent. He has many older brothers, all big characters, why he is so confident, yet so humble. He was never like them, they were all wise guys, yet wanted M the innocent angel for themselves.  Well they had it, was his trust, innocence, wound him up – dead!

The news bleats on, the more I hear, the more I ache cos is not him they are describing.

He is being banged down as some criminal kid killed in a stolen car. I know other, he has never been in any trouble. He would never get in a car if he knew it was stolen. Just not in Him. He got in the car, conned by these guys, pretending to be nice and offering to give him a lift to my house. When my father shut that door, M had no option but to get back in that car, stuck in another town, no way back. These vile guys wanted me in that car, round 3, did not happen, would never have happened either.

I spend days lost, his funeral commencing, I cant go, how can I, his family might ask who the fuck are you, why are you here and there are things that closeted families don’t want to know.

He is Michael, their angel, who will have no relationships whatsoever, how does that hinge with, well actually, my name is S and we spend every Saturdy night together, doing nothing bad, but, hey your son died cos criminal bastards conned him into a car to come to my house?

I love this guy with purity, but can be nowhere near the grieving process I need to be going through

Weeks later, woolworths steps, an old friend, julie with her new boyfriend. He, is not one of the ex gang rape mob, but was in that car, that night with some of them…
I can’t believe what im hearing, but I know it is all aimed for my ears! They are actually bragging, boasting, laughing about beating the shit out of M and leaving him for dead.

Pain, vengeance, is racking my being. Ok, they have got what they want –  or dont. I explode with pained anger.

Pouncing, I grab this piece of shit and slam his head on the floor, he is not getting up for a long time, I will keep this piece of shits head bounced of the floor till he begs for stop.  If the cops wont act, and the fuckers are  goading baiting re what they have done to Michael – then, I will act. He is in one very sorry state now is this evil mouth piece, and needs to be.

I still ache re injustice for Michael, but know God has in arms.

He never put a foot wrong and that is what in mature years concerns me now…

What if his family belief cops and media – that he was a criminal that nicked a car and died during? I’d hate with all my heart they ever thought that cos he’d never do this.

I so wanted to be at Michaels funeral but could not be, I need to go lay flowers there…

This song came out a while after he died, reminded me of Him, still, does…

On The Radio…

Posted in Uncategorized on November 14, 2011 by TouchedbyS

16

On the CB radio…tucked up in my bedroom, is late, very. Am in my domain, escape from control part of the building, or trying to. Wires, cables, machines, books, books and more books line the walls. Home is somewhere I’m not often to be found, joint of misery, when I am there. Never giving up or in though, my machines keep me out with the walls from the inside.

Talking to my friends –and associates.

My bedroom door opens. Father.

He stands making conversation that is not conversation but an excuse to cross the door. I’ve already turned the machines to silent and giving whatever answers I’m expected to be giving.

He hates the machines, they threaten his control, as if my ways do not enough, already.

His eyes keep glancing to the plethora of equipment still laid across my bed. I can sense the rage building. Am used to it, and him coming out with some ensuing paranoid lie and losing the plot to try to exert control.

Bang!

“Don’t you fucking dare to talk on that fucking thing when you are talking to me!” he spits.

Feelings of desperate, broken, confusion encircle me – again.

I have not spoken a word to anyone. I’m silent. The machines are silent. He has had my full and undivided, if not welcome or invited, attention.

There is no point of protest, or attempt to stop him. He is off on one.

Madman, grabbing every machine, every bit of equipment, throwing it on the floor and stamping it all to smithereens.

Happy, when he thinks there is nothing left, he snarls, whilst smiling, ‘You will talk to
nobody but me, when I am in here’.

In here? My bedroom? There is a healthy father, not…?

Not that I had spoken to anyone whilst he was in the room anyway, but now – I will!

A bit more broken inside, but determined, I reach under my bed.  His own control has left me one last outlet. He keeps stealing my handheld CB so he can wig my convos from his bed. I’d taken it back, yet again, from th eside of his bed, earlier in the night. He doesn’t know that, yet. He thinks he has trashed the lot.

Back on the airwaves. Answering the influx, his voice speaks. Where did you go S?

So, I tell him what has just happened –  rampant asshole Father, trashed machines, control.

I’ll be parked behind your house, next street up in 5 says he.

Essential, the street behind, a car outside my house, the control freak will hear, one behind my house, he will not.

Not that there is an issue w/ cars picking me up, there are lines of them, day and night, but Father is not dense, and knows the others are my drivers, chauffers and there is nothing going on. What he fears is where there IS something going on…

Opening my room door, I creep down stairs, open the living room window, take shoes off, throw them out the window, noise reduction for me landing on the ground outside, im right below  fathers  bedroom window and a pin could be heard at this hour. I climb out the window,  silent landing, pick up my shoes – and run.

It’s been minutes, but He is there, true to word, we are only streets apart, and well he is rather like S, decisive,where S is concerned.

Hours on a beach, in places I don’t really want to be, but do. He has nipped my head, daily from I was 13 years old and I’ve walked on by, until a control freak uncle, wrongly accused me of stuff going on with him, that never
was. Hung for a sheep or a lamb?

This, the beach, him, screwing myself over? It is out of there, it is away from them, but it is also, far, away from – me.

He stops the car, Let me come in with you S? Is the second time he has asked this. The answer is the same – No. Don’t go, he says, come back with me. The answer is the same – No. I’m as good at No as I am at Yes.
From first he managed to get S, he has wanted to decap my Father, but I wont have it, done for me.

Climbing back in the window, same order, shoes off, absolute silence, one stair at a time,
back to bed. The higher I get, the more the dawning. I’m dead. Several stairs from top, can see, my bedroom door is open, the light is on, I did not leave it that way.

Dread. Shame. Dread.

Too late. There he is, unleashed, like never before, smashing out of the darkened landing, madman.

Where have you been he is screaming! Plot lost completely.

Normally any mention of mother or at mothers or anything like it would ensue an absolute rage attack but this time instinct tells me the Truth would be far worse and he does not want to hear it.

In terror, to reduce the impact of what is going to come, I lie and say, I was off to live with my mother! Bullshit, total, and I’m whacked anyway, but I know lesser whacked for THAT evil idea.

Crunch, my head slams against the wall, there is no fight back. Doesn’t matter how many heads I’ve caved to protect him, I am powerless to do nil but take all he throws. He kicks, he punches, no resistance. Over and over he picks me up, slams my head against the wall, again, again, and each time I fall, he kicks punches more –
and repeats, picks me back up and smashes my head some more. If all say S is like a doll, cos they want me to be, well now it is being broken…they all want S as the doll to be dollkeepers.

He has never really hit me before, is what might be the surprising. He was easy, hit me once, begged and goaded to by my mother, but any other time, no, he’d threaten to, and I’d run to the bathroom, look the door, and say,  not coming out till you say you are not going to hit me? And he’d agree, and I’d walk out and that was that.

But I knew, threatened by another man, he is going to go to town, bigstyle. I am his possession. The lie re going to my mothers house was for his solace, as much as mines, whilst stuck back in that madness – and of course he believed me,that this is where I’d been out to and headed,  but only because he wanted to, deep down, he knew the Truth – and now, he was exacting his vengeance of it, with my head all over the wall.

Blood drips from my head, my face, is all over the floor, the walls. Something very dumb about me back then,or something very courageous,  i would not stay on the floor, the more he kicked, the more he thrashed, the more my head banged off wall, instead of just ok, enough, lay down, i kept getting back up for more.

Clumps of  my own hair are on the floor, picked up, down, like a ragdoll, to be slapped about some more, blood is pouring, bruises are growing. I will not give in – he does.

Happy, with the mess in front of him, he says, If ever you leave, I will cut your throat.

There will be a ‘throat cut’ but it will not be – mines..

Absolute Beginners

Posted in Uncategorized on November 11, 2011 by TouchedbyS

17

After the game, there is no desire to go home, is early still, I’d normally still be working, preparing for clubbing later – the long established dance floor queen role.

Leaving the ground, the buzz, heading to town. Everything has a surreal feel. A place an hour ago was so alive, now is more dead than ever. Is a dead beat town at best of times, now, is not even night time and is worse than ever, empty streets, closed doors, until I get into town.

Walking up the High Street, I look up, out of the world of my own am walking in and see Him, Irony, I’d met  another ‘Him’ four years earlier, the same way. Me in middle of high street, them at end of, only difference was last one was at bottom of street, this time, the top.

I’m too far away too even see him clearly yet, but one thing is for sure, there is an eye-lock, he is staring down the street – and I am now staring, right back.

What I am not too far away to see is the composure, physique, stance, good looks, that are screaming out, intense and brute masculinity. Drawn…

He already has a fan club stuck in woolworths doorway. A gaggle of locals trying to exhort convo with him. Ironically, Elaine and Susan re prior blog are two of them, but I no longer talk or walk with them and they are kind of lost in the mix here too given there are a whole lot more trying to engage this guy in convo.

The closer I get, the more I’m taking this in, is like madness, everyone vying at him, but he is not entertaining

We are already, lost…

Reaching level, despite my elephant like memory, I can’t remember first words spoken. Remember, humour and him saying, he was a boxer, and retort, with a nose like that, don’t think so.. and retort, ok hockey boxer, he was already box aiming…

Too many second prizes too. He is absolutely gorgeous. Flawless, the epitome of visible, fleshlike, masculine. Darkened hair, perfectly spiked, perfected features, darkest deepest eyes, longest lashes, a mouth that bleeds – sex.

Legs bursting with muscle, a chest that screams ravish and ravished. A scar running up one side of his cheek, and another across his forehead. He makes Al Pacino look like a very sour breakfast.

But that is all a sideshow compared to the depth, intensity that is pouring out…

The chatter goes on, from an instant we get on like a house on fire. Strong dynamics.

I’m flavour of the month again, not, from the girls in the doorway, long used to it now.
Can almost hear it, ‘Of all the fucking streets S had to walk up tonight – it had to be this one – again’.

A bus roll in, For the first time I leave the convo with Him and  acknowledge the plethora.

‘There is your bus girls!” I say.
They grimace and get on it.

It is actually my bus too, but I’m not getting on it…

House of Cards

Posted in Uncategorized on November 9, 2011 by TouchedbyS

1999

My ‘M.E’ me disease has reached the point, unnatural life in the warped land of mortgaged beyond hilt, stuck amidst rat race want to have ‘class’ lunatics, living the lie, is no longer sustainable.

Every bit of my being is screaming inside, No, as to what is happening. The car is being loaded, stuff for me, stuff for the kids.

It does not matter how much I protest, vaguely, minumum energy left, that mother’s is the last place I need to be and the worst place possibly could be for recovery, wheels are moving, car is moving.

There is not much of an option. I’m now too sick to do everything and there is no help where we are, or from the driver.

Driven down the coast, looking out over the North sea, familiar coastlines, waters known so well, cliffs I’ve climbed, pools I’ve played in, the waters where my thoughts where always cast to. Survival.

The words, ‘Coming home to die’ flash through my mind, over and over. Instinct.

The dumping ground. Timing. Mothers is a 2 bedroom house, as fast as S and 3 kids have landed, so has my stepbrother and his wife – he’s home from the army and they are now homeless – too. This is going to be fun.

I’ve already taken up residence, where I always do in there, the floor, front of fire. The place is doing my head in, instant. The noise, the nagging, the clutter, the bickering, I’m exhausted and all I’m trying to do is keep enough
energy to keep kids happy and sort the tiny babe here too.

I know before arriving, there will be no assistance for us in this house, anything but, didn’t bank on stepbrother arriving out of blue at same time either…

Not even sure I’m fully conscious anymore, But am driven to keep going for kids, half way through tenderly sorting baby on the mat, my stepbrother gets up, lifts him, and sorts, .

The flash of anger across mothers face is unmistakeable.

The last thing she wants is me – assisted.

Food, am starving.

She fires dinner out for all, S last of course, and my girls, children, have been given more than I have.

It doesn’t matter, this time, I’m now too tired to eat and manage a bite of a chicken nugget and am drifting out of it, done in to a worse state than ever now I’m back there. Fork held waving in front of my own face, by my own hand, no longer even have energy to eat and crash on the floor.

Zonk!

My next step is to bed, one mother never wants me to get out off again…

You Only Hear the Music When Your Heart Begins To Break

Posted in Uncategorized on November 3, 2011 by TouchedbyS

2000 Apocalypse

The beginning of the end of my life of the lie. I will destroy and trash everything in my life that is not of Truth, and most of all, myself. I’m about to bleed to death. The beginning of True Joy, freedom. It is going to be a long, excruciating and tough road to real sanity. And without the God, I am still to recognise was always walking with me, I’d never have made it through.

May 1st.

The denial walls of
what I can no longer tolerate  have crashed the night before. Vodka pours down my throat like water. Painkiller. Little effect, accustomed.

Some conversation goes on, truth is not forthcoming. Had enough, kids are out, no more games, I’m dying inside.

I get up, walk out, and head for the beach. There is nothing left of me. I need water, I need Truth.

Blackened beach, my legs are no longer carrying me, I collapse on knees amidst the sand and my heart begins to break.

I can’t even cry,not. yet, but I want to. The tears that are to come are the hardest of all, the death of the Self.

Sand pours through my fingers, like fragments of time,moments, accumulating, grain by grain. Tears begin to flow, unimaginable pain courses my being – and this is only the beginning.

He is there , behind me now. Pleading, what is it you want, I don’t know what to say or do.

The answer is simple, Truth.

He has brought the car behind me to the beach. I step in it. He drives first to a car park, not home. Gone shopping has he, but shopping time is over, comfort blankets are over and only one thing will suffice and that is Truth, and he is not about Truth.

Uncoated of his attempt to ‘buy’ time he doesn’t have left. The engine starts.

Silence, he doesn’t head for home this time either. But out of town.

Wheels headed into the night, a new born silence, never known.

Every bit of his obsession, control and now desperation, shame, covering, is visible as he drives this car with a steeled silence further and further away from home. I can feel and see the determined, desperate, cogs ticking in his head

There is one thing paramount in my mind – get this one wrong and I will never see my children again.

One or both are going home, and if it is one, it is me. Whatever it takes, for my children, I’m going home.

 

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