Christianity Oasis Forum


This forum is for those souls 18 years and older who are dealing with some type of addictive behavior whether it be from alcohol, drugs, overeating, fear, worry, sex, etc. Only with help and guidance from God can we ever hope to overcome these addictions. What is impossible for us to do IS POSSIBLE with God. Friends and family of those stricken with addictions are welcome to share as this problem affects more than just the soul entangled in its web.

My History

Postby dema » Fri Jul 04, 2014 8:07 am

I am posting this for a number of reasons.

1. I've found that hurting people, sheep, often expect others to rescue. To know what to say. But we are all hurting people and we are all sheep. And we don't know what to say. Keep in mind that you probably put up a pretty good front yourself. So, when you finish reading this, if I was still hurting from it, what would you say?

2. In this story, I was mostly the observer. But this story totally shaped my life. You ARE allowed to get help for whatever hurt you. I surely needed to remember parts of this I had suppressed in order to get free.

When I was five, Mrs. (I'll just call her Mrs) picked me up from kindergarten and took me and her children to a nice restaurant for lunch. She gave me a menu. But I was five. She ordered me tomato soup. I didn't eat anything tomato at five, not even catsup. One of her sons ate my soup. When I got home, my mother asked me if had eaten. I said no. Then Mrs called and said that she had fed me. And my mother started spanking me. And she asked me again if I had eaten. And I said no. And she got the switch. And she kept on and on until finally I said yes. And my legs were bleeding and scabby for a week. And she asked me why I had lied. And I said because I was hungry. So she fed me.

My mother says she only seriously had to punish me twice in my life. The other time was when I was two and I don't remember that. But I didn't lie. I hadn't eaten.

My mother was a very involved mother. She read to me and played games with me and snuggled and talked to me like a person. I adored my mother. So, I hated Mrs.

This was in the sixties. We lived in a safe neighborhood with a big fence around and there were neighbors on the street where we could just go. And in those days the moms kinda kicked the kids out of the house several times a day. My mother thought that I went to Mrs house. And my sister did. But I hated Mrs. So I went to another house. The Pentecostal man's house. This is no reflection on what religion he was. He could have been any "devout" religion. But he spouted verses and beat the crap out of his wife and G. They had three children. The girl was in the middle and she was perfect in every way. Long sausage curls that never got mussed, fancy dresses with petticoats every day that never got dirty, and she had read the Bible clear through three times by the age of eight. I didn't like her much. I liked G. Who got beat all the time. And the mother had black eyes and wouldn't look at people or come out of the house. Anyway, they had a younger son T who was horrible. He was just mean, mean, mean all the time. Except he rescued some kittens his dad was trying to drown.

(Aside, do you see how I start talking like a child when I write this stuff? You can listen to when you start talking like a child and that will tell you you are getting close to something you need to handle.)

Anyway, when I was 9, I was walking down the sidewalk and T threw big sharp rocks at G, and then T ran out of the fence and across the street. G followed. Then T waited for an old green truck to go by and didn't look back the other way. And G hollered to him to not go, T don't go. But T laughed and looked back over his shoulder and the car killed him. The old woman in the car had just had hip surgery. She was devastated. T was killed instantly. His head was bashed in. I ran and saw him in the ditch. He was so little when he couldn't be mean. Someone put a dish towel over him. And I remember bosoms and apron strings and the policeman's hips and gun and his clipboard. And the mother wailing on the porch. But she still didn't leave the house. Not even for her baby. She was keening. You can look up the word. I had just read it in a story and been confused by the definition. But after hearing her I knew what it meant. And crying her baby, her baby and she had her apron over her head. And I felt so bad for G. I kept trying to tell everybody I saw and he didn't do anything wrong.

What did this do to me?

1. I was afraid of men who could quote scriptures. Unless they were preachers. I thought about marrying a preacher but that seemed a bit much. And of course as I grew up I heard all sorts of preacher scandals.
2. I grew up wanting to save everybody.

Now, about you - what would you say? What can you say about such a story?

When people see you, with all your protective gear on, and then you reveal something about yourself, they don't KNOW what to say.

Who have I told this story to? Very few people. Because I know that people would squirm, look uncomfortable, and want to get away. That's what people do. My counselor has found it fascinating as I remember. I always remembered most of it. But some things I'd changed. It was in black and white. I remembered the bashed in head and the hands putting a towel down. But I had the cars going the wrong way on the street - that way I couldn't see it happen. And I believed I hadn't actually seen it happen. Then, I remembered that I did see it. And I started seeing the bosoms and apron strings and the policeman's hips. And poor G. And then the color started coming back. And I remembered the green truck. And then the flowers on the bush on the fence came in color.

My counselor says this is exactly the way it is supposed to work. She finds it fascinating.

I think that might be useful for some of you too - those who really don't believe your horrible memories are real.

It is liberating to let them out. And to share with someone who can handle it. It helps a lot.

*hug5*
Hugs,
Dema
Shame and blame are the devil's tools. With God ALL things are possible.
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Re: My History

Postby newbie » Sun Aug 31, 2014 5:47 pm

Hi Dema I am new here & you are correct, there is little I can say about that but I will keep you in my prayers for sure. I can't say that I have been there because I was not. Many times I wished there was someone there for me to hug to make things all better & it just did not happen. I understand the message you are trying to get accross tho :)
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Re: My History

Postby faithfulladybug » Fri Sep 19, 2014 1:55 pm

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Re: My History

Postby dema » Fri Sep 19, 2014 5:21 pm

Thank you both. I'm doing well. And the experience has had a positive influence on me too in that I want to help. Seeing it as it is, with grown-up eyes, is very liberating. Knowing it shaped me in positive ways and being able to let go of the negative ones is liberating too.
Hugs,
Dema
Shame and blame are the devil's tools. With God ALL things are possible.
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Re: My History

Postby faithfulladybug » Sun Sep 21, 2014 10:34 pm

Yeay! It's always great to see positive come out of negative! Blessed be His Holy, Precious Name! God is GOOD!!!
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Re: My History

Postby ciny » Thu Apr 28, 2016 5:58 pm

Hi Dema thank you for stepping out and sharing your story with us very helpful i wish in the past that i had some one i could trust to talk to about the abuse that happned in my past to it was very hurt ful and scary time i do know this we can grow and heal from our hurts and help others to heal as well !
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Re: My History

Postby dema » Mon May 02, 2016 8:03 am

Do you still need to talk? PM me if you would like to talk. *hug5*
Hugs,
Dema
Shame and blame are the devil's tools. With God ALL things are possible.
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