healingthroughwriting

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The fake Eden: Covered in red, buried in bloom

On a bright day, hand in hand with my possible savior, or the very start of my demise.

I see structures and symbols coming from the ground, majestic and beautiful, the sun shining through in all its might, but the further we go, the more peaceful and serene it seems.

Water flowing through a creek, gardens blossoming everywhere the eye can see.

My guests have no face, no body, merely presence as they lead me through, teaching me things, learning as I investigate my surroundings.

Deeper down I realize there’s a cemetery, no gravestones but there are people buried among the beauty of nature.

It’s when I hear the words whisper of a murder, my head pointed towards a direction of bushes that were red in color, growing over the identifying marks of the naked body, posed in such a form her modesty is barely maintained, the garden cradling her.

“She was murdered here, left alone amongst the land.”

Her skin cold, pale gray, almost the color of stone. It’s as if a hand reaches out to bring me closer to see, to investigate but I pull back and leave, disappearing into my next dream.

When I wake I research and write, ask the questions I feel I know the answers to already.

The dove and the serpent, crossing paths, waiting to see what I would choose.

What if that woman was me?

What if I peeled back the brush, the flowers and vines only to reveal my face, that child that was left behind, the woman that never got a chance to be.

What if it’s a trap?

What if I’m there to take her place?

To be killed and stuck in a vulnerable position, unable to speak any longer, unable to fight, unable to ponder.

I am left with a choice now that I am awake, now that I can think about it.

I can choose the path of the woman, lie on the ground and let the garden grow over me or be gentle as the dove, the lamb, putting my story and my faith out there.

‘Those who have ears let them hear.’

She will be silent no longer.

A warrior formed at the youngest of ages, realizing that her potentials been buried beneath that garden all along.

I have the faith, his strength, the heart of a lion but I walk amongst you a lamb, learning HIS ways.

Riding the camel back to ‘Egypt’ with my life before playing in front of me.

I will not bury this talent, I will not hide this mite. The story I have inside of me matters and it will be heard- I will make it on God’s good word.

#dreamstory #symbolism #fakeeden #Garden #womaninred #doveorserpent #holdtheswordproudly #hide #warrior #cancersurvivorstories #ADHD #CPTSD #scared #healingthroughwriting #cancersurvivorstories #Thoughts #personal

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The line we carry

What is a pack? A hierarchy of the same group of animals. One in charge above all.

What is a family? A line of the same sort. There’s always one in charge while the others follow around.

What happens when a wounded pup is found? An abandoned animal? Neglect, passing by, nature shows us a multitude of things.

Typically it’s the mothering type that bring them in, clean them off, nurture and love them.

How often is it the father?

What it becomes in theory is a ‘family’.

A pack.

Big and little.

A family by all accounts, something positive and good. Strong in faith and loyalty, ties.

What becomes of the unit when it’s fractured though?

Pieces displaced by history and time.

The family I speak of, the family I remember, it started all with a little Mexican woman with a cooler of beers in the kitchen, dancing at the stove with whoever was in her reach. Her fingers twisted at awkward angles but if you took the spatula from her, god help you.

Through this woman the love passed on in her line, even to the stray pup that was brought inside.

Somewhere along the years of memories and grief, it broke. The new speaker tried to over rule who was who; get rid of the memories of the pup all together.

With his pups along side him.

The three who mourned her passing too.

And the line? Oh, an ode to the line- he may be yours but by law and justice, in the eyes of God almighty we belong to him too.

In a world so cruel and harsh it would push out a child, deny him, starve him, neglect him- to be placed directly in the path of the alpha, hand delivered by God himself.

/Remember his word. You’re not here because of spirituality, HE called you here./

How could you be so cruel to ostracize him while the man who brought him in, ordered by God, is lying in a hospital stuck in the state he is.

’Like arrows in the hand of the warrior are the children of one’s youth. Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them.’

He may be yours by blood but he is our by teaching, by love, and the legacy of sacrifice.

Years before our own pack was formed, before he added the ones currently in his life-

’Little’ was the first one there.

‘Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me and whoever receives me, receives not me but he who sent me.’

I don’t deny your lineage.

I don’t deny the history that was built between you- them- him.

So don’t deny our lives.

One of the reasons we’re here today.

He gave him that piece first.

He gave him your last name.

That pup, now grown, an alpha on his own, he passed it to us.

He is just as much ours as he is yours.

I see you praying in the hallway.

I hear you praying over him.

Bile rises in my throat at the waves of hypocrisy that roll off of you.

We are here today because of God and the decisions, the choices he laid directly in the path of the son who’s mother had the crooked hands.

I mean no disrespect towards the line but whether YOU like it or not, we’re apart of it.

I want to remind you, STAR, it started with them. It started with us. I may not be given the official title but I hold it proudly in my heart.

The first grandchild.

My name given to me by my parents, my middle name inspired by him.

Maria, forever tying me to my Mexican roots.

I don’t know what’s going to happen, only God does.

His eyes may open, he could turn us away, but too many visitors we were NOT.

“The evil tongue is a flattering tongue that will speak fair to one’s face but will defame- ‘He that hateth dissembleth with his lips.’

You can say what you want but his name is on that paper, his hand signed it. That can’t be undone.

History and pain aside, the stories, you can’t change any of it.

The foundation of our family was laid on the god given words woven into their lives which in turn, attached our square to yours.

‘Big’

‘Little’

You can’t erase it.

No matter what is said, what is done, that’s what they’re known by.

Loyalty isn’t just standing at his side and praying to the God that brought us here, the one you’re willing to ignore.

Loyalty is being there through it all and standing by his side praying, the nails of their monsters having grown over their shoulders, asking for him to come back and open his eyes to say

“I love you” just one last time.

#Family #Familydrama #Faith #healingthroughwriting #lettertotheline #loyalty #Love #hegaveushisname

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How writing can help you heal

Samantha was sexually assaulted in 2003 and she kept it a secret until 2014. For years, Samantha struggled with her mental health. She became depressed, suicidal, and hated herself. She was always a writer but stopped writing after she was assaulted. She completely lost herself.

In 2014, Samantha moved to Canada. She realized that this was an opportunity to start over. This was her chance to heal. Samantha began writing a blog to process her sexual assault. Her writing took her on a journey of self-love and healing. Her assault no longer controlled her or her life.

How writing can help you heal - AccordingtoDes

#SexualAssault #SexualAssaultSurvivor #rapesurvivor #MentalHealthAwareness #MentalHealth #healingthroughwriting #Selflove #selflovejourney #Healing #healingjourney

How writing can help you heal - AccordingtoDes

Samantha Laycock is a 37 year old woman living in Calgary, Alberta. She’s originally from Oakfield, Wisconsin. Samantha has been married for 16 years and is the mother of 3 children. Samantha was sexually assaulted in 2003 and kept it a secret until 2014 when she decided to share it by starting her first blog […]
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Connect with your childlike wonder - healing through words

www.elephantjournal.com/2019/06/how-long-has-this-voice-had-...

Before trauma happens, we children greet the world fearlessly. Here is my adult realization, that hardness of life prevents us from seeing the world through our lense of curiosity. I hope to be of benefit through sharing my journey.

#Depression #healingthroughwriting #Healing #personalitydisorder #Innercritic #creativity #curiosity #Trauma #BipolarDisorder