Eight Steps In One Direction

Written here are the True events of my life. I should be dead, there is no question, but I am here, I survived it all. I am Joan and I survived on Angels wings so I could write this for You. Blessings, Joan

Wild things caught and trapped in cages will scream, claw, bite; they will do anything to escape the bars that hold them. They will allow blinding terror to take them over and the fear stops their hearts from beating; they die. Tame things caged take much longer to die, also their version of death is very different. You see, they’ll die with their hearts still beating, it’s a death of the spirit. I know these things, rest assured I’m an expert on this topic.

I spent three winters in a barn within the bars of a cage, and before that I was locked in a basement for six summers. I counted the years by the seasons. Dates have no meaning in a cage but time means everything. Nine years of my life was spent imprisoned by a psychopath named pigman. I know what it feels like to be trapped, to be caged. I know how it feels to scream and know that no one will ever hear you. I know how it feels to be discarded like trash by a mother I so desperately wanted to love. I know what giving up is; I know the face of hopeless, we’ve been the worst of friends.

I’ll do my best to describe the basement and the room where pigman kept me. I must do this part without much emotion because disassociating is the only way I can get through this bit and it’s important that you know these things. Maybe as the words flow that will change but I won’t be able to spell check or edit this part, my apologies… Angels lift me up and give me courage…This is a place I never wanted to revisit but you must know, so lets just get through it.

The basement had block walls and a dirt floor. There was a washing machine, dryer and furnace on a cement slab in one corner. In the middle of the basement there was a wooden door with a padlock. That door led down a dark narrow hallway and at the end was a metal door that opened to a small room where I lived for six summers. On rare occasions I was able to leave the basement, but I’ll save that for another post, this is hard enough. The size of the room was small, about the size of a typical bathroom if I had to compare it to something for you. It was eight steps one direction by six steps the other way. I was little so I’m not sure how long my steps were but as I got older it took fewer strides each direction. That sounds confusing, but hopefully that gives you an idea. There was a small window that was two hands up by three hands long in size and had bars on the outside. I know my method of measuring is odd but it’s how I remember it. The walls and ceiling were cement blocks covered by a thick coating of that foam insulation stuff. Maybe you’ve seen it, its that yellow stuff that puffs out and turns hard to keep drafts out, or in my case it was to keep sounds in. There was one small vent at the top of one wall but the window did not open. The door was an industrial metal type that is used for walk-in freezers. There was a toilet in the corner but I was not allowed to flush it, pigman didn’t want anyone to hear the water, I made that mistake once, only once. Also pigman wanted to see everything that came out of me, this included my shit. There was a bare lightbulb with a pull string but I couldn’t reach it. So if pigman turned it on then it stayed on and if was off well then, it was dark, he controlled everything. There was a bed and a small table. My bed was a metal cot, you know the kind you use for camping, they fold in half, I hate those. I had a disney princess sleeping bag, it had Cinderella on it. The table was six bricks, the heavy block type stacked on top of each other with a table cloth over it. The table cloth was pink with little red hearts printed on it. There were two heavy doors with locks, one lead out to the hall, that door went to freedom and the other door opened to another enclosed room called the ‘fun house’. I’m not ready to describe that room yet, this is hard enough. The walls in my room were covered with pink sheets, he had nailed the sheets into the wall. I guess this was to cover the ugly insulation on the brick walls. He didn’t do this for me, it was because pigman liked pink.

I didn’t have many things but they were very precious to me, it’s all I had. When you’re locked away like that, the smallest things become the most important, they become your world. Everything that meant anything to me was in the disney suitcase my mother had packed and I kept it under the cot. I had two t-shirts, one was pink with a glitter teddy bear on it and the other was pink with glitter hearts on it. I had two pair of pants, both were pink. I didn’t like pink very much, my favorite color was purple. The clothes were all too big for me, my mother had bought them 4 sizes too big but after a while I grew into them so it was okay. Also I had the princess dress I’d picked out but it had a rip in it now, it was still pretty though. I kept the price tag to prove it had been new, I kept that in the zipper pocket of my suitcase so it wouldn’t get creased. I had one pair of shoes, they were pink leather, I grew out of them but I didn’t really need them, nowhere to go anyway. I kept them in the corner because I liked to look at them.

Besides clothes I had a few other little things and they were very special to me. I had three stickers on a sheet of paper, they were scratch-n-sniff, one was a banana, one was a strawberry and one was an orange. I tried not to scratch them too much because I was worried they’d loose their scent, they never did though. I also had 4 crayons they were pink, blue, yellow and red, those went with a ‘My Little Pony’ coloring book. Those were all very nice things but my most treasured possession was a pin, like one you’d pin on your blouse. I had found it in the dirt field behind my mother’s house. I had kept that hidden always, my mother didn’t know I had it or that I had packed it. It was a beautiful dragonfly pin with shiny purple stones all along the body and delicate glass wings, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever had and I guarded it carefully. I kept it pined to the bottom of my cot, I could feel the ridge of the pin from the other side where I slept. I use to run my finger over it to reassure myself that it was still there.

I know it doesn’t sound like much and it wasn’t but they were my little treasures, silly as it sounds. The window was at ground level to the outside but it faced the back of the property. I used to stand on top of the table and stretch up on my tiptoes to look out. I could barely do that at first, my fingertips would just barely reach and I couldn’t lift my chin up high enough. But after three summers it was a lot easier to see out of. I used to stare at the moon at night, I loved the moon, you can’t turn off the moon with a pull string, she always comes back. I imagined myself high up in space sitting on a star and talking to her. The moon was my friend, we shared everything. She knew where I was, she saw that I mattered and I could measure the days by her fullness. I imagined myself high up in space sitting on a star and talking to her. From the light of the moon I used to look at my little treasures and pretend I was any place but in that basement.

Love, Joan

Descend to pigmans Basement

Written here are the True events of my life. I should be dead, there is no question, but I am here, I survived it all. I am Joan and I survived on Angels wings so I could write this for You. Blessings, Joan

When I was 6 years old my mother gave me to a psychopath who I’ve named pigman. This was the first of two times that she would discard me to him like trash. That sentence alone is bad, real bad, but true to form my mother had to up the ante. Simply putting me in the truck and dropping me off wasn’t enough for her, no that would have lacked the level of sadistic cruelty she craved. Instead my mother told me we were going to Disneyland and foolishly my 6 year old self believed her. She took me to Mervyn’s and I was allowed to pick out one new outfit and a pink princess suitcase for the magical adventure at Disneyland. I remember being so excited and overwhelmed by the pretty dresses, I’d never owned anything new much less pretty. I remember pushing my face into the clothes rack, I wanted to know what ‘new’ smelled like. Up until this point I had worn dirty clothes that had holes, I was lucky to get a meal and almost always had lice, disgusting I know. I loved the price tags on the dresses and how it meant you were special or worthy; I felt rich, like a princess. I picked a dress that I thought a princess would wear, pink satin ruffles with glitter and pink patent leather shoes to match.

I could hardly sleep the night before and I must have asked my mother a million questions about Cinderella’s castle. I remember my mother washing my hair with strawberry scented shampoo and tucking me in to sleep. She described the teacups and It’s A Small World, I remember she sang the song to me and I giggled with excitement. I remember how soft she felt and how her arms wrapped around me tight when she hugged me goodnight. This particular memory of my mother is the only one I have where she was actually kind to me, I felt loved by her. I didn’t know it then but I would replay that memory over and over in my mind for the six years I’d live with pigman.

The next morning my mother put me in the pickup for our drive to Disneyland, I’m certain I talked the entire way, I remember being very excited, you know the kind of excitement that makes you shout and dance with joy? Yeah it was like that, a happiness explosion. When your 6, you’ve got no clue where Disneyland is much less how long it should take to get there. When your 6 you just want to go around the corner and get on the Teacups, bring on Mickey Mouse, ya know? But when my mother turned off the main road and onto a dirt drive something in me knew it was wrong. My mother began to shift in her seat and tap at her cigarette. I asked her how much longer and her eyes shifted then changed dark. Her face had been soft and loving but not now, this woman next to me was vacant in her eyes, empty and hard. I knew this woman, she was familiar, I knew to stare at my lap and be quiet.

We pulled up to pigmans house and he came out to talk to my mother. I stayed in the truck, I wasn’t moving, this was not Disneyland, it’s a simple mistake, she must just need directions. I saw pigman gave my mother some green paper and a bag of white powder. My adult mind thinks this was money and likely cocaine but I’m not certain. I was just 6 years old, so it was green paper and white powder. He opened the door to the truck and leaned in to look at me. I remember his eyes, they terrified me. He laughed at me and smelled my hair. I hated the feel of him in my face, close like that with his finger lifting the front of my dress. The way he cleared his throat and licked his lips, he terrified me and I wanted to bite him.

Now I don’t remember every detail of what happened, my memories are mixed together like alphabet soup, it’s hard to make sense of it all. I know some of these details are from older ages too. I’m doing my best to make sure it’s accurate but I wanted you to know that. Memories are like that. You’ll catch the tail of something only to find it’s sewn to the head of another. But, I do remember crying and begging my mother not to leave me, screaming that I love her. I remember clutching my princess suitcase so hard that my knuckles were red. I remember the sting of my mothers hand as she slapped my face hard and told me to shut up. I remember running after her truck as my throat filled with dirt from her tires. I remember falling as I chased the tail lights and ripping my dress. I remember pigmans large hands on my shoulder crushing me down hard and the long scary walk down the basement stairs. I was locked in that dirt floor basement for six summers. I have to measure it in seasons because it’s the only way I can think to get specific.

There is much to say here, years of memories to share with you but I’ve reached a point where the fear in my throat is starting to choke me and the shadows are closing in. I’m in a lot of pain as well, I have cancer and these writings wear me out tremendously. I want to make sure this story is told with care so that the Angels are honored with it. I’ll visit with you again very soon. I need to rest my mind and body. Hugs from Carmella and a cup of warm tea are in order. Thank you for your loving support, I am humbled by your outpour of support, it truly amazes me. I honestly had no idea that even one person would care about this story much less hundreds. God bless you all and please know that You are Angels too.

Love, Joan

P.S. – I updated the ‘About’ page, if you have a moment please take a look. Love, light and blessings be yours. xoxo J

The Kingdom of Parts

I know of a place where lost parts are kept. No one knows how to find it but everyone’s wept.

Lost shelves hold shoelaces, knee caps and doll-faces. Trunks keep souls without keys. They are the taken. The abductees.

It’s painfully clear, pigman is the master of arts.. but there’s Angel-doll faces in the Kingdom of Parts.

Frozen metal slab with sharp bars, to hold it all in. It’s frightening to think, I don’t know where I’ve been.

The parts that are stolen keep the Kingdom together, it’s like the glue on the soles of my pink patent leather.

Protect all your fingers and tuck back your nose, for the games are with darts in the Kingdom of Parts.

Love, Joan

Purple Crocodiles

A Letter to My 6 year old self……
……..You are beauty and love made of Angels pure light

Sweet little one, the Great Spirit is inside you, she’ll keep you safe from the storm. You are surrounded by an army and their waiting to be formed. Each one is an Angel with strong hearts to bare the pain.

Your mind is your power, it’s the one thing he can’t break. I’ll help you with this, now take my hand and I’ll show you. I know about a place we can go; Its a bedroom in the sea, made by the Angels and me. They have dragon ships that soar on cotton candy clouds. There’s fluffy pillows stitched by caterpillars toes; the cute little fellas, they work fast with their feet! The blankets are soft as a lamb and warm as the tea. This all comes from your mind, he can’t take it you see? There’s oceans of water to drink, you’re safe there, he can’t touch you. We have gate keepers on staff; there’s no way he can scratch you. Hold onto your mind and listen to me, purple crocodiles protect you in the drinkable sea.

Sweet darling, one thing I must tell you please listen. He’ll ask you to play a game, but it’s one you can’t beat. The Great Spirit is inside you, she’ll keep you safe from the storm. Hold onto your mind and listen to me, purple crocodiles protect you in the drinkable sea. Keep your mind focused and bright; you are beauty and love made of Angels pure light.

Love, Joan

Into The Storm

Written here are the True events of my life. I should be dead, there is no question, but I am here, I survived it all. I am Joan and I survived on Angels wings so I could write this for You. Blessings, Joan

The cracks in this foundation are starting to shake my mind into a storm and it’s a hurricane. This process is dissecting the self, inspecting the scars, reopening wounds and cleansing the infected parts. Words, thoughts, they fall like raindrops and then disappear into something I can’t separate. Maybe this is what madness feels like.

Silence has always been a thing I desire, a need, a craving. I’ve always enjoyed the solitude of a moment. My world is very loud most days, Angels whispering voices, hearing their cries, demands, requests for help. I left that barn years ago yet it comes at me constantly like a static I can’t turn off. What I find odd is that I can only write to you if I have music blasting in my face. I’ve tried to sort out why this is because it’s so out of character for me. I’ve discovered that it’s fear. I’m terrified that the secrets I’m typing will somehow sneak up behind me like demons and grab me. It’s irrational I know but somehow the music blasting feels like protection. Oh and It’s Lady Gaga if you’re curious.

I’m very afraid nearly all the time, they have names for it like post traumatic stress disorder, but I just call it fear. So I blast the music to keep the demons at bay. Because if I don’t the fear chokes me and I’m in that barn again, locked in that cage. I’m afraid of pigman, I see his face and hear him telling me it’s my turn to choose, my turn to play his game. I’m also terrified to feel the full magnitude of these words. I’m protecting myself from that the most. Angels please lift me up, hold my heart safe so that I have the courage to say what must be said.

These words flow but they do not come easy. I do know this, shame will kill you, it will eat at your spirit like cancer and guilt is much the same. I think the layer just above shame is anger. People will fight to the death to prevent feeling shame yet they will die to hold onto it. Maybe that’s why I’m doing this, I don’t want to fight anymore and I’m afraid to die. My body is consumed with shame at times. I’m ashamed of the things I’ve had to do to stay alive; I’ll get to the details, but it’s hard to write about shame. I don’t know why I do this, why I choose the hardest things to share with you.

Have you ever forced your face into the storm and let the rain hit your cheeks hard? it feels like that. I am standing bare in a field of wheat, my body is bloody, beaten and tears stain my face. I lift my chin to the sky, raindrops sting against my eyelids, I breathe in deep. I love the smell of wet earth, it feels clean to me. I’m out of my body, disoriented and uncertain. Angels please lift me up, hold my heart safe so that I have the courage to say what must be said.

I’m ashamed of myself for what he made me do; That the Angels died and I lived, God I wish it had been me. I hate myself for being the one who played pigmans games of horror. It was game pieces with Angels hearts, I was set up to lose.

Have you ever felt so overwhelmed with guilt that your legs collapse under you? Yet even through the shame you need to wrap your arms around that missing piece of your heart. I feel that way about the Angels. Their presence in my life brings comfort but it’s a sadness that I can’t move past. Not yet. Angels are my comfort but they are also my reminder of the evilness in me. The comfort is mixed with a terrible grief. I see their beautiful faces and I am reminded that I chose the game piece to play and guilt overwhelms me. Guilt for the breath I take from them. Angels please lift me up, hold my heart safe so that I have the courage to say what must be said.

Love, Joan

The Face I Cannot Change

Written here are the True events of my life. I should be dead, there is no question, but I am here, I survived it all. I am Joan and I survived on Angels wings so I could write this for You. Blessings, Joan

A Letter to My Mother……
……..I’ve made myself from all the love you threw away.

I’m tightrope walking past the crowd that ignores my slipping grip. I’m barely holding on yet you refuse to see. I am invisible to you; look past, ignore what you see, that is how you justify your existence. I am here and you are there. I do Not matter to you. I am a memory, a distant memory that you can’t bring to focus. I am the rotten meat in your freezer. I am words on a tombstone, I am forgotten and unseen. Your love is kept within that tomb, a shroud of your convictions held so closely that you cannot breathe to see me stand before you. I am begging for your love, what have I done to deserve your disdain? Was it that I came into the world with her eyes? Measured you did, every step I took was measured against her. Never good enough for you. You hated my heart that beats, you hated my curls of gold that looked exactly as her. My twin, my blood, my arm ripped from my body, she meant everything to me, she was the only one who loved me. After her death I became the garbage you threw away. I reminded you too much of that pain, you couldn’t see it, not face it. My sister of cotton candy cheeks; my twin, the beat of my heart, you crushed it that the day you chose to drive drunk through that intersection. She was beautiful with curls of gold, sweet baby girl of 4 years. Thrown through the windshield, tumbled into space on hard pavement. Lights flashing, sirens screaming in my ears. I clutched to you in desperation, fear, confusion, terror. Blood pooled, her angel face destroyed at your hand. She was taken from this world because of you. You can’t admit it to yourself, you drink yourself to sleep and blame me in the morning. You wish I had died, measured against the evil in you. I survived that day, I walked away with only a small scratch but the wounds that followed have killed me slowly, painfully. You have killed me over and over with your fists, your words, your rejection. I was an angel baby face once too, can’t you see that. We were identical and you loved her, yet you hate me for the face I cannot change. I’ve made myself from all the love you threw away.

Love, Joan

Paralyzed to Breathe

Written here are the True events of my life. I should be dead, there is no question, but I am here, I survived it all. I am Joan and I survived on Angels wings so I could write this for You. Blessings, Joan

These cobwebs in my mind get stuck together and twisted so that I’ve forgotten where I started and where I was headed. A thought, a memory, a secret; it becomes too painful and so I leave it and become lost to the spinning blur of madness that are my thoughts. There are so many things to tell you and such a short span of time to do it, well that’s what I’ve been told. Doctors say my time is limited, but then again who knows. I want to put it into order so it makes sense to you, that thought alone seems overwhelming if not impossible.

My life has been a series of frightful, tragic events. I make that statement from fact not just feeling. I don’t want you to think I feel sorry for myself, pity is not my nature. I am proud to be within the strength of my spirit; to know that I am all that I need. That I alone carry myself through the world. Well, I do have help, blessings be to my Angels; you’ll learn of them soon enough. As strong as I feel most days, I do have breakdown moments too. Feelings overwhelm me and hit me like a tidal wave. In those moments I feel lost at sea, frozen within the self, paralyzed to breathe. It is in those moments when we feel most frightened that it is essential to breathe and not forget our center. In those moments when you feel the world has torn you down, lift up your chin, straighten your spine and breathe deeply; try it next time, you’ll notice a difference.

Alright, it’s time to tell you one of my memories, my secrets; this is hard, I warned you. I’m not ready to talk about the slaughter, the Angels or the pigman, dear God calm my heart, its hard to type those words. I’ll get there, please be patient, I’m doing my best. I spoke of breathing, I’ll tell you of a time it saved my life.

Not all women are meant to be mothers, the act of giving birth does not change this fact. My mother hated my every breath, most days she wished I was dead or would just go away and she never let me forget it. I remember the stench of her; sweaty, filthy smell of alcohol and cigarets. They way she used to scratch at her crotch and cuss at the TV in her dirty nightgown, she was disgusting to me. I hated her but at the same time I desperately wanted her to love me. My mother was an alcoholic, a drug addict and a prostitute. These aren’t exactly attributes you brag about in school but I didn’t have to worry about that because I was ‘home schooled’. My mother pulled me out of school when Child Protective Services was called about “suspicious” bruises on my back.

I remember a hot summer day, I was 12 I think. The sun was blazing and we had no air conditioning, my mother had ‘forgot’ to pay the bill. I was sitting on the front porch eating a pushup pop, do you remember those? Man they were good, I’d scrape together every penny I could to pay the ice cream man for one; I loved the orange ones especially. I’m enjoying this treat in a rare moment of childhood bliss when my mother screeching voice calls me to her bedroom. In the darkness of her bedroom I could see her sitting on her bed, a thin mattress on the floor, screaming as her toothless gums spit that rancid breath everywhere. She was drunk and high on something, my heart went cold and my legs felt numb. She’s screamed at me to “come closer and show some goddamned respect!” I obeyed, walked over to my mother and held my breath. Somehow I thought if I didn’t breathe the same air she did, then I wouldn’t catch whatever disease had caused her teeth to fall out. I also thought that it separated me from her some how, it was a protection from her filth. She grabbed me by the back of my hair and pushed my face towards a candle she had burning. Spitting and cussing through those toothless gums she preached that I was the “spawn of Satan” and would “die of eternal damnation.” I’d heard that many times, I knew exactly what she thought of me but this time she was especially enraged. She grabbed the gun she kept hidden under her bed and put it to my head. My face shoved close to the white candle, the flickering flame just inches from my face and the barrel of the gun pressed hard against my temple. I locked eyes with her and tried to hear her words over the pulse beating in my ears. I remember this part as if it was slow motion but I know it was just seconds that passed. I looked her in the eyes, took a deep breath in and said ‘I love you’ as I exhaled. That breath blew out the candle and my words stunned her; she dropped the gun and began to laugh. Then she saw I had wet myself and shoved me down the hall and locked me in the bathroom. I was an “unclean, filthy whore” she said and I would “stay in that bathroom until I was pure enough to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior.” That was just fine by me.
Breath, the simple act of it gives us focus and strength. When your world is spinning, lift up your chin, straighten your spine and breathe deeply. That simple act can refocus your intentions and possibly save your life.
Love, Joan

A Fragile Baby Bird

Written here are the True events of my life. I should be dead, there is no question, but I am here, I survived it all. I am Joan and I survived on Angels wings so I could write this for You. Blessings, Joan

I find it difficult to write at night. Shadows frighten me and memories take over my dreams at times. One moment I’m sailing on a pirate ship of cotton candy and the next I’m back in that barn, back in that cage, I’m small, frail and praying the pigman won’t see me cry…Mornings are safer you see because the Sun swallowed all the Shadows and took the secrets with her. In the sunlight I am safe and I can see it all from far away like an astronaut. I can separate myself, split off and view it from the Moon.

I’ve had a love affair with the Moon since I was little. She was my comfort in the Shadows with her beams of light meant just for me. From the corner of my cage in that cold barn, I could see a window and through the filthy bars, there she was; full and bright, shining down for me, my Moon nightlight. I imagined her beams sending warmth down to me as I lay on that cold metal floor. There is much to say here but it is night and the Shadows frighten me so I will save it for the Sun.

I do love mornings, the newness and possibilities of the day bring happiness to my heart. I dearly love to be wakened by Carmella. She is sweetly cute in the mornings. She knows that, although I do love mornings, I’m a bit difficult to get started with the day. She knows I’ve battled demons in the night and that my body is hurting. So, she inches over very close, and pretends to sleep. She’s watching me sleep and saying her -I love you’s- without words. She’ll begin to sigh softly and inch ever so slightly closer, just to test me out and see if I’ll take the bait..I will of course, she is my Angel. She wants to see my smile, she wants a little kiss and of course her coffee, my Carmella loves coffee. I get real close and call her sleeping bluff, nose to nose, just barely touching, I whisper I love you and try to move.

My body aches, my bones are stiff, it feels as if they’re breaking. I’m sick you see, my body is dying, or so the doctors say and well, that process hurts. I wake up stiff, sore and painful. We’re all dying of course, that begins the moment of our birth. I’m just going at it a bit more quickly than others I suppose. I have cancer. There are no creative or lovely words to cover the ugliness of cancer. Thats it. I thought you should know before we become more acquainted with each other. I wanted you to know what you’re getting into here, it’s only fair. I’m writing these secrets for you so there is record of my life. So that there is proof I existed and that I mattered, if only in words.

I’ll do my best to visit with you often but these secrets won’t release me easy. Please be patient with me, for the bars of this cage hold me tightly. I promise not to string you along and I’ll always tell you the absolute truth. These posts will be the traumatic memories of my life; there are many, they are real, they are ugly. I can’t promise that you won’t feel disgusted or repulsed, my hope is that the Angels sing through me so you’ll see the complete picture of it all and not just the horror of events.

It won’t be easy for me, I think you’ve gathered that already. I’ve lived my life as guardian of these secrets. Protectively, I’ve tucked them away into neat boxes with shiny wrappings. I’ve shoved them deep into dark, frightful places. These secrets are killing me just as cancer invades my cells. I can no longer hold this burden. So I will swallow the fear, reveal the truth, unwrap each memory and tell the world. It’s terrifying to be laid so bare and ripped apart by the self, yet try to grasp sanity in the palm, like a fragile baby bird. I don’t know how I’ll do it; those answers aren’t felt to me yet but even in fear, I must push through the eye of this storm and tell you how the Angels of Secrets came to be.

Love, Joan

Her Eyes Hold The Moon

My heart is in the snow, between the cracks of ice. I gave it to the cold and left it to the night. Slip and you might find it.

My heart is in the ocean, buried deep within the sand. I gave it to the fish. I left it, understand. Hold your breath and you might hear it.

People fish swim without notice. Invisible. Lost. Forgotten. The rhythm of the tides flows fear out and returns to me a numbness. Reach out and you might feel it.

Angels hold me up, please keep my blood a pumping. Send to me a Savior. Pull me from the pain. Great Spirit show me how to breathe. Teach me how to feel again.

Silently she worked without me even knowing. Delicate fingers held softly the sharp edges of my heart.

Kicking, screaming, biting, clawing. It held its icy grip. I’m Invisible. Lost. Forgotten. For I gave it to the cold, I left it to the night. It’s buried deep within the sand. I gave it to the fish. I left it, understand?

She answered with a softness. Her love planted strong long roots. She wrapped them round the earth and back to me again.

Her eyes hold the moon, her love controls the tides. Silently she worked without me even knowing.

Love turned ice to tears and filled the ocean full.

My love, my heart, my life, my breath. My Carmella. She gave it back to me again.

Love, Joan

On Angels Wings

Written here are the True events of my life. I should be dead, there is no question, but I am here, I survived it all. I am Joan and I survived on Angels wings so I could write this for You. Blessings, Joan

I should be dead, there is no question, but I am here, I survived it all. I am the only survivor of the slaughter. Words. Letters. Simple vowels and consonants, shaped and molded together to formulate the structure of fears that are my memories. It seems easy, open mouth and speak but my voice gets lost in my heart and silence fills the spaces.

There is such a loneliness in silence yet I find peace within it. The spaces between words are my comfort. The voices around me mumble thoughts, wishes or dreams. Traces of light spin and swirl so fast in my world. My thoughts become scrambled eggs, runny until thinking turns them burnt and black.

How did I come to be, what brought me to this place? Why does rage swallow my heart and incase it deep below the sea? Well, it seems logical to start at the beginning of my creation when I was a simple beam of light. Energy in motion, cells and atoms multiplying to create my beingness. We all began that way, even evil was once beautiful. I don’t remember that far back but I suppose even I was beautiful once.

Angels have carried me and kept me alive, they hold my secrets. Angels know of the slaughter that day, they were there. I could have been an Angel of Secrets; unknown, slaughtered, silenced, but I survived. I am the undead. The Angels hold my memories safe. Why do this, why go back and tell it all…What do I hope to find? Why am I shoved forward to face it, to open my burning eyes and unbury my heart? Thrusted, thrown into the center of the storm, propelled by Angels wings, through energy and space without control. What could be gained by seeing it all again, why unbury the dead? Perhaps forgiveness is what I long for, forgiveness for the self. Forgiveness for each breath I take, forgiveness to allow my heart to beat. The dead walk with me as Angels of Secrets, I am reminded at every turn. I am the only survivor of the slaughter. I am Joan and I survived on Angels wings so I could write this for you.

Love, Joan