“The Raping of My Soul; While Screaming for My Freedom”

Originally written on Jan 1, 2016 By Niki

“The Raping of My Soul; While Screaming for My FreedomThe Raping of My Soul; While Screaming for My Freedom has occurred from the moment I was born. Oh! How my weary soul wishes it could rest in soft sunflower fields upon the clouds fallen onto earth to gently brush my cheek as I hit rock bottom. On my knees, begging for mercy that will not come or shield me. Falling into and through the clouds…waiting…for that deep black hole that continues to suction me in…a vacuum of hopelessness. Every moment, from birth, confronting my pain while living in such depth of sexual deviation.
American Journal of Psychiatry describes paraphilia as “recurrent, intense sexually arousing fantasies, sexual urges, or behaviors generally involving:

  1. Non-human objects
  2. The suffering or humiliation of oneself or one’s partner.
  3. Children
  4. Non-consenting persons.

Where was the boat missed on this one? Who was the villain? Answer: Too many. Why? Too many reasons & variables.

How is my trauma so synchronized that I can even begin to delve into such a topic that people can only speak about, but many more who have not lived it. If we allow a child to be hung from an 10 foot ceiling with whatever object by their skin; the child either survives or learns to cope with such pain. “The Raping of My Soul; While Screaming for My Freedom”, it definitely is not a book title…yet. It is literally the raping of my soul, whether: physically, verbally, emotionally, financially, psychologically,& sexually; with no recourse for myself and no punishment for the villains.

In addition, where there is no end; & in all of these 30 plus years I have been screaming for my freedom everyday of my life. The journey for my freedom began in the reflection of the second floor glass window at California State University Stanislaus Library. I was five years old at the time, already split in half every hour of the day. Bottoms Up! The joke was always on me. So much so, that everyday I walked from 3600 Crowell Road in Turlock, California to that library. My song, my determination until I left the town of Turlock, CA at age 17 was this: “I have walked these steps a million times. How many more times will I walk these steps?” My determination at some point made me walk from Parkwood Apartments to the steps of the CSUS library in a different way.

My jagged edges, I made straight, my sharp turns made me veer right or left. There was a tree no matter my age that kept me safe. Many nights I slept there undisturbed. The song rooted me & I became the tree’s song. The reflection at age five from the glass window, saved my life. It was there I learned as I looked out the big glass window that I could see my life unfold and reveal it’s truth right before my very eyes. Oh, and all those books. Yes, an academic library that did not have my story. They only had books that had examples of sexual violence and trauma. But, no book in that library had a little girls story. No book had the full length of a woman’s story. Everyday I went to the library, I proclaimed, “When I grow up… I will” I had so much to do. Five years old, and the library was my small break from all the villains in the village.

Everyone in the home, everyone outside the home was a villain. I was never comfortable in my own skin. There was so much dirt, ugliness, and nastiness. The fight didn’t begin there nor on the day I was born. I know when it began, my secret for now. It was years earlier & lifetimes ago. Yes, I remember years earlier. I remember my pain meant nothing to no one. People can have suspicions and suspect something, but chose to do nothing. Even if so, the system could not save me… ever. I knew at five years old I would have to suffer many years more. I knew & knowing is what kept my breath alive. My life was dead, but my breath was a smooth oiled living machine. If one of those villains, I had no thought of this, while I try to sleep could not snatch my breath while kissing hurt into me; then I have won! I am still breathing. Oh, but they always came again in multiples.

The beatings, the hangers, the yelling, the begging I would do, not just then; but for my entire life… begging for my life. The glass window, for that moment of a break, shielded me, protected me, and made me reflect. “Where would you like to be as you dance upon these books of redemption?” My subconscious would ask; in other words, my voice of truth. “You must save yourself even if you do not know how. You must read! You must look at the back of your apartment house #161, it’s balcony, and into the rooms where they take you, into the living room where stories you should not hear are told, into the bedrooms where you should not ever be allowed to enter again, into that closet, into the bathroom, and onto the beds that did not exist for you. The bed where you did not sleep. You have never slept nor will you. You don’t deserve a bed.” Those maggots were there for many years as I was forced to be…and to believe this was the only way for me. Oh, that voice speaks to me. Interwoven so much that it’s the template of my heart. My memories’ impressions seared at moments that are amazingly vivid and retract me back to that moment(s).

And now, the trauma of past and current, like the tide rising to evolvement in the ocean only to be swept away by that deep dark hole, doesn’t allow me to remember. Instead, I am forced by my souls intention to continue to live such a life that I have fought so hard to free myself from. I sleep upright on a stool, a couch, anything really, like a soldier without a chance, ready for war. I’m always ready at the front line of the battlefield… alone. I wouldn’t want it any other way because no one is my story nor has anyone lived my life. I’m tired of the comparisons, there are none. Each individual story is unique and different and no pain should be compared- society must know it’s detrimental.

Death to our voice (s)! Allow me this grace, my voice. Oh, such willow ways as my heart skips to the moon, an orchestra plays in my mind. Sweet music uplift me as it is suddenly cut off. “No!” my mind screams, “here they come again. Not again, and again, and again. Please no more. I can’t take it anymore”. I screamed these words at two years old, five years old, 15 years old, 21 years old, 25 years old, and now just yesterday, then today. Every fiber, every cell in my body screaming for my freedom!

© January 2016. Niki. All Rights Reserved.
Note: The image is current because change did not ever happen.

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