Reality

There is a reality which is more powerful than all other realities, which has more authority to heal, more authority to remedy, more authority to resolve, than any other reality in all of them put together. I respect each and every author, who ever reads these pages, to possess a sacred portion of that reality. I challenge every author here, to press forward toward a goal that is sacred, that we all do our darnedest to write with courage and conviction – and don’t stop writing for a lifetime.

I have every confidence that each one of us has the ability to carry forth the message of our own sacred reality, in whatever way we see fit. Each one of us has our own version of what is the most diverse conglomerate of reality available to mankind. What I’m saying is that we all have a sacred responsibility to tell our own version of reality to the world. This is not idle chatter. I’m dead serious here. There is one great reality, and each one of us writes our own version of it every time we sit down at our writing table, to do the most sacred thing any human being has ever been able to do – to create. This is not something we do haphazardly, or by accident. We have each been compelled to do this sacred thing our entire lives. How old were you when you started writing?

This occurred to me quite by accident, when having a rather serious conversation with one of the other Indie writer’s on Facebook earlier this evening. Whatever our talent is, whatever our unique ability is, happens to be the creation of a series of our own understandings of the ultimate reality inherent in all things. This is a collective concept. Each and every one of us participates in this process every time we write. This revelation exists between the covers of every book ever written – and we, the authors, are creating these realities because we inexorably feel the need to do so. I’m so turned on by this idea, so late at night, that I doubt I’ll get any sleep tonight.

What’s more is that I don’t care about sleep, in a situation like this one. I can sleep anytime.

My personal circumstances have freed me up to do exactly as I please, regardless of the time of day or night. I have the option to simply get into this wild idea I have fallen into, to write like this tonight. I think I’ll just go ahead and do it, as if someone else’s life depends on it, because that’s sort of what it looked like a little while back on the author’s pages on FB. There was a person reaching out to me, while she was in so much pain she was almost planning to inflict bodily harm on herself.

I pray this does not happen. It would be a violation of every sacred responsibility.

There was a person who was writing in such a way, that it sounded like she needed Divine intervention desperately, and my response is this prayer of thanksgiving, that she chose me to reach out to in this night. The idea that I have done so, is that I have a need to write out everything that’s important to me, regardless of how personal, or how private it happens to be, as a response to another person’s need. There’s enough need in the reaction of this wonderful person, for this kind of action to be warranted. I’ve done enough talking to strangers on a crisis hot line for too many years for anything I might have to say to be considered anything like private anymore.

My whole life is an open book for anyone who wants to read me, and I’m going to fight for every life of every adult abused child who reveals themselves to me. Regardless of what your memory tells you, regardless of how you feel about whatever abuse you suffered, you have the sacred responsibility to perpetuate your life to the nth degree, until your Maker calls you Home to Him in His sweet time, just as the rest of us do. What you’re going thru is a test of character, and the one keeping score is Almighty God.

There happens to be an adult abused child in our midst, who is suffering at the moment. The instinctive response to that suffering, I know all to well. It is an impulse to do everything to self-destruct that one can positively imagine. This reaction is a false reaction, which will not achieve any of the results the sufferer has been hoping for. Behaving like this only brings on more complications. If a person actually succeeds in taking their own life, what happens is anything but getting whatever the person hoped to achieve in the first place. It only puts an abrupt and permanent end to that person.

I am assured of this certainty by the Highest Authority, Himself.

What I’ve been trying to do here, ever since my speech and my writing abilities have come back to me, after a prolonged period of aphasia brought on by another serious illness I’ve suffered from in recent times, where I could neither speak nor write for months, is to address every issue I’m faced with, which seems like it’s my kind of issue to take on. I don’t know how many of you other writers are crusaders, but I know I am. I feel compelled to write about the idea of happening to feel suicidal, because one suffers from post traumatic stress disorder. I understand how one gets post traumatic stress disorder without going to a combat zone. If anyone expected you to behave like an adult when you were only a child – sexually – you most likely suffer from ptsd.

Well, if you’re thinking you’re going to destroy yourself, that issue is a pretty common excuse.

But it’s still the coward’s way out. The mature way to handle the malady of post traumatic stress, is to write down every detail of the trauma you suffered, like I did, one of the several times I’ve done it, in my most recent, confessional story called Belief, now live on Amazon for Kindle download at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00959YFQW.

You need to write it all out more than once, until you feel cleansed of the whole vile experience which makes you feel like you want to do something that is so vile, so vulgar, as to hurt your own, precious self, over the impossible idea that someone else has done the unspeakable crime of daring to abuse you at a time when you were uniquely vulnerable.

It doesn’t much matter who you share the writing with, except I think it matters that you share it with at least one other human being. That’s what the fifth step of the Program of Alcoholics Anonymous recommends. I will continue to write whatever my psyche tells me I need to write, until I’ve remedied whatever ptsd I’ve struggled with in my entire lifetime, without a shadow of a doubt remaining in my very active mind, that I have succeeded in facing all of the ghosts of my past.

I cannot accuse my attackers directly, all this time later. For one thing, I’m not certain there might be a statute of limitations against the likes of their crimes, but that’s not the point. I never knew who the majority of my attackers happened to be, at the time of one of my most significant sexual assaults I was ever expected to endure.

Also, I did not have any inclination whatsoever to broach the subject with anybody whomsoever, until I was well into my fifties. The trauma happened to me when I was only 13. At the time that unspeakable trauma surfaced in my memory, I needed emergency psychiatric help to get myself to overcome the emotional strain I went thru at the time. I cried for a week. The time comes when the time comes. I had a lot of help from a lot of kind and caring medical people, in a psychiatric environment I knew and trusted very well.

One of my stories reads like it’s only one more of my autobiographical writings, when in fact, it is a matter of sending myself home, in an act of creating some really serious fiction, involving my memory of going to a very safe place I had found in my life, before I found it necessary to move away to my new home in Southern Virginia. When I was writing the story, I was already well installed in my new home down by the beach. I was homesick, and treated myself into going home in a very special way. I treated myself to being taken care of once more by my favorite doctors and patients, in one of my most favorite places near where I lived for a significant time in my adult life.

What’s more is that I’ve begun to piece together some of the things my mother told me when I had become a sober adult, before she slipped in to a degenerative dementia, in her last days. She told me the story of my ultimate child abuse, when my father scared my mother half to death, and me along with her, when I was still a fetus in my mother’s womb.

My Higher Power has done all sorts of things to help me feel better about life, and about who He is, since then, in the aftermath of that particular, overwhelming trauma. I refuse to surrender to the idea that I’m not worthy of God’s blessings and God’s love. I’m a valid, worthwhile individual, regardless, or even because of, the abuses I’ve survived with flying colors. I’ve had a doctor diagnose me with cirrhosis of the liver, only to find out that the condition of my liver is really not all that bad, that my physiology is a lot more wholesome than that one doctor gave me credit for.

That one abuse seems to have been only the warm up session for a whole host of abuses I suffered throughout my childhood, as well as for a long time during what should have been my maturity in my adulthood. One of the most wonderful realities of my advancing adulthood, is that I finally live in a safe environment, which provides all of my needs, and plenty of all the things I want and need, so that my comfort may be full, in the latter years of my life.

My psychotherapist of twenty years tells me that it’s a wonder I did not become a serial killer and a serial rapist. I’ve certainly had enough provocation to have developed those tendencies. But the fact of the matter is that I consider every form of life a sacred entity. I reverence each and every individual, with the most sacred reverence I can muster. I carry that conviction with reverence and awe of the One Who Presides Over Us All.

I grew up in a constant terror of my father, who tried to be a Methodist Minister until the time I was 11 yrs old, when the Methodist Church in SW Pennsylvania fired the man from the ministry, for reasons I can only guess. I’ve lived with the most pompous poppycock you could possibly imagine, enforced with the most irrational violence you can never imagine. I write about my own impressions of my own father, after the man is dead and gone, and I don’t want to shut up about it.

His ideas were so irrational, along with his erratic and nonsensical behavior, but somehow, I got the message that all living things, and especially people, are something special, ordained by God Himself to be loved and respected beyond everything any of us can adequately muster. My mind keeps going back to that one principal. I can’t get away from it. I don’t want to get away from it. I do my best to treat everyone with as I would like to be treated myself.

My sacred principals have seen me through things like long term hospitalizations in state mental asylums in the states of North Carolina and Maryland, without being physically abusive of others, to a very large extent. There was one guy in one of the private hospitals that I gave a hard time to, but I never actually physically abused the man. It’s not that I can’t be physically violent, it’s that I don’t want to be. I’ve even gotten to the point, in my maturity, where I’d rather not give any of the ladies any action, the way I used to do when I was younger, because I don’t trust my instincts to interpret the signals the ladies give me. My abstinence from sexual interplay has become a part of my passivity toward women altogether.

The Holy Bible says the truth will make you free.

What I’ve been trying to do all my life, is make every truth about who I am and what I’ve done be a truth that does, in fact, make me free. If I’d gone around breaking the law and hurting people all my life, the facts of the matter would certainly have ensnared me into a prison of my own making a long time ago. God offered to kill me when I was 32 yrs old. I almost took Him up on it, until I figured out that He would have destroyed me for all time, if I would have submitted to that death at that time. From then on, I’ve done everything humanly possible to make every act of mine count, because my survival of that wake up call is one of the most significant things that ever happened to me.

 

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About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at Amazon.com.
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