Cry for Redemption

…there was nothing…but to keep chasing the high, reality became too painful…married you so…you could not testify against him?…

I’ve been busy trying to find some balance. It has been a difficult issue all my life. I can be impetuous and impatient, wanting things to happen yesterday. In the past I hated discipline, and yet needed it desperately. I rebelled against everything, and prided myself on living outside the lines.

But I yearned to have the life I saw others living. I was always on the outside looking in-at families sitting round a dinner table, or gathered in front of a fireplace. Friends having lunch in a deli, or laughing at a movie. I was standing just outside, in three feet of snow, higher than a kite…and crying. Wishing I were in that house, sitting down to a hot meal, my heart full of love and surrounded by kindness. Full of joy. Full of hope.

After certain traumatic events I thought I could never be in the presence of ‘normal’ people again. Or in the company of ‘nice girls’. These feelings are common to those of us who have been forced to walk on the dark side…and that is exactly what kept me stuck on the outside looking in. As someone who had been sexually abused it was easy to believe that no one could understand me, I was different, warped somehow, out of line and irreparably broken.

These lines of reasoning are what kept me stoned, drunk and living on the street. A perverted sense of pride kept me “out there”; I was terminally unique and no one could understand me.

(I shut my eyes and drift back to those dark days when my husband and I were getting close to the end, an end that I knew was not going to have me walking out alive…)

The world I had immersed myself in was squeezing me dry. No true happiness, just oblivion. Once the money and the dope were gone, so was the glamor. Now there was nothing for it but to keep chasing the high, reality became to painful. To realize the person you left your family for never really loved you at all? That he married you so that you could not testify against him? Wait..what? What?

The collect calls home, just to hear Mom’s voice, ” Are you alright, Susan? Do you have enough to eat? “

“Sure, Mom, no problem…we have work now, good work…Cement Plant shutdown…lots of money. Come up and see us sometime…”

They better never come visit. See me with black eyes, track marks. Find out we are living in a tent. Holidays coming round again, and I’m too strung out to visit. Oh, the bitter tears I cried that year, and the one after, and the one after that….endless rivers from red, swollen eyelids, dripping off the end of a snotty nose, wiped on dirty sleeves. Sleeves that roll up to purple scars on blue veins, sitting in a gray cement bathroom holding a syringe between tobacco stained teeth, ready to ride that white pony into blue, blue blue blue blue blu

bluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu

Hold it Right THERE!!!!

That is not the way this story ended. It could have soooooo easily, except for one thing. One thing that I never would have believed if you had told it to me then. During those last few dangerous days of my marriage, days when he would get so high he would wire all the doors in the trailer shut from the inside, while creeping around with a hammer…days when I was so afraid of what he would do that I would hide in the bathtub hoping he wouldn’t find me… days when he beat me unconscious…when he shot wildly in a drunken stupor, missing me by inches…when he flushed a half ounce of coke down the toilet then dug up the septic tank and pulled the package out…days when he would OD and I brought him back to life, pounding on his chest and screaming, “Don’t die you #@$!%*!”…Then on our 7th anniversary he went to work at the naval shipyard, I made his favorite dinner and waited eagerly for him to come home, ready to forgive him one more time. Waited and waited, as the hours passed…losing hope I broke down, and prayed, not knowing what had happened but sensing something was wrong.

I remember lying in the dark , begging God for forgiveness as memories moved thru my mind, memories of all the hatred in my life, the drugs, the violence, all the pain I had caused, and abuse I had endured. I poured myself out to God, like I had not done in nearly 20 years. I really felt at that time that I was doomed, doomed to never get out of this situation alive. The violence and depravity were so overwhelming, and he had made sure to impress upon me, in no uncertain terms that if I were to ever try to leave, it would be my family who would pay for my error. And pay dearly. After pouring out my heart to God, I slept, drained of tears and exhausted .

It was a strange dream , and many years have passed, so I won’t attempt to relate it now. I was then awakened by a pounding on the door. My heart sank… Was this the police telling me some terrible news?

It was Jim, my husbands coworker, they rode to work together. He was beside himself… ” Sue, I have some bad news, really bad… I don’t know what happened but there was a SWAT team! The FBI, my god, it was terrible! They had their Guns drawn, told us all to get out of the van, get on the ground!”

Jim! (I heard myself yelling) Jim! Where is Marty? Is he ok? IS HE DEAD?

“what? Oh, no,no, he’s not dead, but they took him away, they cuffed us all, we were freaking out, questioned us all, but let us all go, except him!”

Oh, thank God, I remember feeling so relieved. He wasn’t dead on the highway, or shot by police… But what was he arrested for?

” Sue, it’s really bad, they were asking about guns, said we were stealing guns or something? They charged him with something to do with weapons, I don’t know…”

We talked on thru the night, and I was all wrapped up in how to deal with this new reality… So wrapped up that it did not dawn on me till years later that God answered my prayer that night, and he answered it in a BIG way. I survived my marriage to that man, I survived the addiction to cocaine and got clean, survived all the beatings, survived the alcoholism, the pain, the sadness, the insanity… Thanks to God.

I prayed for help and He heard my prayer… I am so very, very grateful to Jehovah, for his Son, Jesus, and for all His wonderful Wisdom , Power, Justice and Love. He is the Sovereign of the Universe and the Right to Rule belongs to Him, and to those whom he chooses to give it.

The Kingdom is in place, let it come!

Life is so good today. I am isolated, but I am never alone. I feel sad sometimes, but I am not without hope. There is nothing anyone can do to me that my God cannot undo. I do not need to cower in fear, because “there are more who are with us than those there are with them”(2 Kings 6:16b) I hope that you find some comfort knowing that God is the hearer of prayer, and the He wants us to talk to him, and share our feelings with him.

“For I well know the thoughts I am thinking toward you,” declares Jehovah, ” thoughts of peace, and not of calamity, to give you a future, and a hope. And you will call me, and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you.” Jeremiah 29:11,12

“You will call, and Jehovah will answer; you will cry for help and he will say ,”Here I am!” Isaiah 58:9″

“Jehovah is close to the broken-hearted; He saves those who are crushed in spirit” Psalms34:18

PARTY GIRL!

“PARTY GIRL”, A Brand New, Fresh off the Easel, 12″x 12″ on Canvas Painting by Susan T. Martin. Ready to be Purchased and hung with pride in your home!

The SLOG of Joy

Grumble. Growl. Grunt.

.   Swear. Sweat. Stomp.

. Punch. Pound. Pant.

.  Breathe. Binge. Boss.

.  Shout. Scream, Smear.

.  Fall in a heap, exhausted. Then get up, clean up, and do it all over again.

.  There is joy in this. This “living” we do. No matter how sweaty, or dirty, or ugly, this “living” is a beautiful thing.

.   There is no ‘give up’ here, no ‘quit’ , no ‘over it, no ‘packing it in’.

This is where every. breath. matters.

.    DO YOU HEAR ME?

EVERY BREATH MATTERS.

Right now, in my little trailer in the middle of down, down, way down and out USA, I am deciding to care. I am deciding that my sufferings will amount to something, that all this silence and fear and worry  in my heart will be done away with, that with this breath of life my Creator blessed me with will be used to help someone else live, too.

.  I know I’m a rag-tag mess. I can’t think straight most of the time, and there are days I can’t leave my house. I am oppressed by an illness that tells me I don’t have it, and that feeling like I’m sick is a sin. I’m not exhausted, it tells me, I’m lazy. I’m not in excruciating pain, I’m a dope seeker. I was not abused, assaulted and raped, I was promiscuous.

.  I am here, I am now, and with my God’s help, I will reach out to someone else. And with my God’s help, I will not believe the lies. Instead I believe the Bible, God’s own letter to me, and to all his children. I want to live.

Many Days Since

I am here again, on lock down of my own making. Wanting the isolation while longing for company. I feel unsure, unsteady, and oh, so tired. The dialogue inside my head has slowed, and the gist of it is dire, down and miserable. I hate myself like this, and that adds to my misery because I know self loathing feeds the beast.

I was SO high, So amped up about the Chicago show, the heady whirlwind of celebrities and dazzling attention. I counselled myself about letting my ego run wild, but that didn’t stop my stream of self promotion, so now I feel the embarrassment of mediocrity . It is just so tiring, this circle of negative emotions, this seemingly endless stream of feeling worthless.

I had a feeling that I was riding too high, and that my joyful blasting energy stream was going to fizzle into a mega-void. And my therapist at SunCoast had cut me down to not seeing her every couple weeks, rather to just making appointments if I need to…So this has translated into feelings of rejection, and is keeping me immobolized from calling her for an appointment. I must hold on to the fact that this will pass… this darkness is only temporary… I have to believe this fact and own this fact, and believe that all my efforts to push thru this depression will, in the end, succeed!

This is the emotional space that can kill, when we Bipolar’s can give up and feel so powerless and alone that we embrace the darkness , in the futile hope that the fall into non existence will stop the pain. I must not go that far down the rabbit hole, because that reasoning is from the Father of the Lie, Satan. While suicide may stop the mental anguish that we ourselves are feeling, the unimaginable pain and suffering that our loved ones will feel must stay our hands. I must never believe the lie that I am worthless.

God does not think we are worthless. He loves me, and cherishes me. I have to hold that thought, and believe in God’s love with every fiber of my being. Hold on to Him with both hands and with all my strength. He won’t let us suffer endlessly. He knows our pain, and soon the relief will come.

WIN_20170828_23_38_19_Pro (3)
“The Sentinel’s Prayer”, acrylic on canvas, Susan T. Martin2017

Just a note

it’s really late again. Each night I seem to stay up later, always listening to hear if Dad gets up in the night. I don’t want him to leave or anything. I went ahead last year and purchased an alarm system, thinking I could set it at night, and it would alert me if he opened a door. Well, I tried it last night and leapt 5 feet in the air when the alarm went off at 5 am. He got up to let the cat out. I could just squeeze that cat.
Tommorrow is the beginning of a new week. maybe the Cardiologist’s office will call with the heart catheterization set up. I hope it’s a mistake, and that I don’t have a blocked artery and need a stent. I didn’t find any of this out until I was sent for surgical clearance for my neck and back surgery, and I had a bad EKG, and then my Nuclear Stress Test didn’t turn out right either. I have been having chest pressure, but I figured that was from all the stress I go through taking care of dad. It’s how I used to feel when I would have panic attacks.
Ever since falling at that Resturant last year, I have had so many hurdles to…hurdle. Ha, ha, ha. I used to compete on the Flamingo Tour here in Florida, playing 9 ball. I used to dream of makng it pro before I got too old, but the accident totally destroyed my neck and shoulder. I came in 16th in 2012, and 12th the year before. I had just purchased my tour card for 2013 when I fell in that hole. And my life is changed forever. Again.
You know what they say: You gotta roll with the punches. I sure am tired of these punches. talk to you tomorrow…

Whirlwind Wednesday

I enjoy alliteration, as you can see in much of my writing. Using words that all start with the same letter: Misty mountain’s mystical majesty, alone, alive, above the silver sea…  That is an excerpt of a poem I wrote in 7th grade. It was lost in the move from the northeast to Florida, an entire box of all my journals, poetry and artwork up to that year, 1983.

I stopped searching for it long before the call came from the moving company, asking if we had lost a box after that trip. Of course we had lost a box, but Father took the call, oblivious to the missing silver ware, a wooden carved hippo from Africa, and a plaster bust of a beautiful male negro, as well as the cardboard box of all my writing.

Writng poetry, drawing, journaling became an outlet for my isolation. I reached out with pencil and pen to an imaginary person who was always present for me- not waving me away, or shushing me because her favorite program was on. The recipient of my artistic efforts loved me, would never laugh, and especially would not compare my art to their own that they had done when they were my age.(And done better, of course…) No, my friend was so trustworthy, I could let my fancies fly out of me onto page after page. No subject too shocking for her to read, and only love in return. The person I imagined really saw me.

I think that she (my reader) is probably kind of like another personality, or something. When the greatest traumas in my life have occured, the healing comes from my written words -blood spilling onto paper, tears saturating the pages. I used to always write in my bed, falling asleep on the notebook, waking with writing instruments imprinted in my flesh like sheet wrinkles. I have not been able to see where I end ( and where “reader” begins) a couple of times in the past years-  since my mother’s death. I used to think my “reader” was her, but she is not.

There were times over the years that my poems are prayers, my journal trying to plead unto the face of God. Maybe He would see my pain, see the real me inside who did not commit crimes, did not like to hurt people. In my journal there are entrys that end with an Amen. Now, years after I began writing I believe He not only reads my diary, but also my heart. My blue heart. Tired of the fight at times (like now),  late at night when the wet overcoat of pain slips on.

Then there are times when my voice calls out to Dear Reader to soar with me- to a paradise of hopes, color, light and strength. To fly over oceans of deep velvet blue, the stars reflecting as if candles were glowing under the water. I see these things in my mind, these  places I’ve been.  Once I was stolen away in a boxcar from Tuscon to Yuma, with the wild mountain brush flying  by as I watched: The canyons, deep clefts and crags in the rock, where all my gunfighters hid out in my dreams. I was one, I was that free spirit, and with my pen and paper I will always be.

Come fly with me!!Dream Of Freedom, c.1986S.T.martin