Blood-Words: My Valentine

A theme of my life

It’s dark motif—

I’ll unravel, step in

My mind’s Chateau d’If

Maybe you’ll see

As I tear off my skin,

The burned, masticated

Flesh I’ve lived in

Don’t be alarmed

As I unveil what’s inside

My cloak was thick

--My pain somaticized:

Panic, hysteria

Drowning depression

Deluged in a famine

From non-expression

Suffocating, sweltering

Enveloping humidity

Bloated, choking

Tumid in timidity

I’ll slice off a callus

My soul’s pussing sores

It’s like Pandora’s box

--There are ten other doors

Issue after issue

The years I was dead

Is this progress?

Or hacking Hydra’s Head?

Congesting, curdling

By foiled felicity

Latent lucence--

Suppressed eccentricity

A monstrous muzzle

On every filtered facet 

A paralyzed puppet

In terrible tacit

As a child I learned

To protect myself

I find, 20 years later,

My voice still on the shelf

Because, heaven for bid

My opinion intercedes

So I bite my tongue

Until it bleeds

Fetid, foul feeding

Now blood-words as clots 

Gagging glass shards

As my esophagus rots

Mutilated MUTE-ation

Every second. Minute. Day.

I came to believe

I have to nothing to say.

Percolating poison:

My mind, insipid, inane.

Void of thought, emotion

A fear-dumbed brain

Trepid to speak

An idea that is mine

 My goblet of goblins,

Gargling gall-wine

This unwanted wonted,

Taught, taut tension

Bereaving, non-conceiving

Oh--Did I mention?

BOYS. Romance,

Oh my heart!  

My walls are so thick

I don’t know where to start

 “Just be yourself”

But I never have been!

--Shawled in shame

In a desolate den

That explains

Though I don’t understand

The narcotic nervousness

Alone with a man

I don’t need to expound

Those demons I won’t exhume:

The sadness of remote loving

From my chamber of gassed doom…

Unspoken, unexpressed

Self-manipulated, surviving

In a craven-cradled corner

Shadows thrilling, thriving

My broken life. My broken heart.

Torrid tears I weep alone

Accepting the possibility

That I may never be known

Crying ,acrid acid

Seep steep, calcify, FREEZE.

Rachael..

YOU CAN LEARN WORDS

To combat this disease.

The lie

That I must remain

Harrowed, hagged

Warped, One-dimentional

Hiding, fear-gagged

A silent serf to a

Metastasizing malady

Stripped of my voice,

Worth, individuality

That the hauntings of my youth

In my innocent, child-perception

Immured in a realm of

Destructive, self-deception

Don’t have to dictate

Who and all I can be

I am a Daughter of God

THAT IS MY IDENTITY

And the screams that my

Personality like a scab’s congealed

Must be hidden, hampered

Conformed, concealed

Those shilling shrieks:

That I’m not allowed

Depth, feeling

My true self avowed

 Are dunked in the ocean

As my reflection I stare

Inhaling salt, sunshine

And suddenly I’m aware

Of

Fishies in the sea

Darting all abubble

Sugared, brumal flakes—

Never a double

The lemon sun

In dancing diesel

The burrowing, spastic

Bloodthirsty weasel

Dazzling guts

Of a crystal geode

A frigid, forbidding

Arctic abode

Stout, jade cacti

In prickly annoyance

Giddy, swimming dolphins

In silver chatoyance

The fatal-feigning faculty

Of a putrid possum

The sunrise blush

Of each cherry blossom

Vital volcanoes

Blubbering lava, spitting smoke

Propitious hills sashed

In a dandelion cloak

Flocculent clouds

Their arsenals of thunder

Pondering God, His creations,

Make me wonder

That my Father

Whose power He pensions

The Designer of all—

Has bounded dimension??

From scrap to scope

Beyond grain, gorge, and galaxy

My Perennial Parent

Then of course there is more to me!

 I audaciously believed

That a child of this Genius, Glory

ME!! was inept, powerless

To write my own story

SETTING:

God’s spiritual offspring

Caged in a world

Offering counterfeit wings—

That I’m not divine

Give in to the animal in me

That power comes from

Money, appearance, sexuality

Bow to my appetites

Bid my conscience adieu

…And be a slave to my body?

--No thank you. 

That this corruptible receptacle  

Elements from the dust

With capped capability

Selfish, proud, yawed to lust

Has more potential, power

Than who dwells within??

My Spirit—sacred, divine

The Infinite Creator’s kin.

And these lurid lies

From a skulking fraud

That this brazen race offers more

Than the Almighty God

Who I choose as my Master

And trust His love heals

As I give Him my heart

To me, His He reveals

It’s broken.

Each person—the world’s

Past, present, aching tomorrows

--He holds it.  Jesus:

Our Man of Sorrows

We are carved on His hands

Though hand Him null, unpermitted

 He is neglected, abused

--Love unrequited

He is rarely obeyed

Rather intellectualized, confined

When He is more intelligent

Than all God’s children combined

The earth—

Her beauty and breadth

Can be a primary index

To His nature and depth

Generous, gentle, fierce,

Deeper than ocean’s plot

A man with such character

Would occupy my every thought

So why not Him?

When others cards,

Bouquets, chocolates tower

I think of my Special Someone

Who created the flower

When I am tempted or pulled

I think of my Valentine

Scars in His palm, pleading,

“Rachael, be mine.”

When feeling numb, worthless

To my King I confess

He wore a crown of thorns

Yet inspirits, “Princess”

His mercy so personal

On my path of healing, hurting

My favorite smells--spring lilac

He sends, like He’s flirting.

Or when I catch cold raindrops

Liquid pearls adorn my wrist

I’m smothered from kisses

Of dawn’s first dewy mist

Roving through forest thicket

Tickled by aspens and pine

My own hand-made truffles:

Fresh berries from the vine

When the nightingale and sparrows

Sonorously sing

It’s not on my finger—

But I know that ring

When joyful sunbeams

Tango through the leaves

And warmly hug my heart

“Never let go, please.”

So holy, these impressions,

And places I roam

And the clarity: He who created

Would be He who atoned

That eve—His friends deny,

Run, sleep, loyalty closes

Blue twilight, an olive tree,

A bed of white roses

In the Sacred Garden, Gethsemane 

Terror, darkness imbues.

Carrying my burdens, sadness

So I don’t have to.

The Heavens mourn:

Tarring earth’s vaulted vase.

For the Creator, Jesus Christ,

Is redeeming the human race.

The roses are now stained red

The sky is no longer blue.

His blood-words drip:

“Rachael, I love you” 

Te Kā, Take-ah Hike.

        I can hear my computer buzz. Its sounds vaguely, faintly like crickets. I like crickets. One time I ate one. It was covered in chocolate. I won a $5 gift card at Coldstone because I agreed to have it mashed up in my banana ice-cream. It tasted like a crunch bar with a zingy aftertaste. I can still taste it. I can still taste the water I drank ten minutes ago. I can still hear Moana’s theme song “It’s calling me” dancing in my head. I see the silhouettes of her ancestors. I still feel how my heart ached—I felt it ache, like someone was wringing it as a wet rag to make all the feeling, sadness and compassion drip out. “Be patient,” I hear. Patient with myself when I can speak and share the messages of truth and love that are inside of me. I wonder how long it will be. I have so much to share. So much that I hear and feel and know. Not arithmetic knowledge or history knowledge, school stuff like that. But knowledge that comes from faith and fighting with faith for a long time. And not sure how to even begin speaking. I still find myself filtering everything I say. I don’t want to. I just don’t know how not to. I don’t know how to not be what I have always been. Or at least for ten…fifteen years. I don’t know how to say and speak what someone might disagree with. It’s a disease. An addiction. Of agreeing. Of protecting myself. But I don’t care. I don’t want to care. That is not true Rachael. I know who I am. I know I am a leader. And a speaker. I know I can love from a place that is more pure than this world. I know where that love comes from: God. The Father of us all.  It’s just tricky is all. Unlearning. Or learning what is healthy. After all the unlearning that is unhealthy. Sometimes it is exhausting: being trapped inside. And waiting until she, me, is free. 

            I liked Moana. I am babysitting. (Which, I hear little voices peaking out from upstairs when said little voices should be zzzzzz-ing. Hmm…). It was my first time watching it. I liked the end. When the shell of the lava monster came off and we realize it is the beautiful goddess. The molten crusted-rock falls once her heart is placed back in her. That is how I see people. That is how Christ sees people. (And any clear vision on my part is because of Him). What makes me sad is that many might watch that and feel a real sense of love, peace, and divine beauty but quickly discard that as a myth. That “the world is an ugly place,” or “you are what you see and there is nothing else.” When that divinity really does live inside each person. It’s hard to believe in such a noisy world where the visual stimulus is so oppressive. But that spiritual element—a more true identity than anything seen with the eyes—is absolutely real. I have come to know that for myself. I have hope that the love that people are dying to feel will be recognized as the never-ending love of God. I know that Love heals. I have felt it.

            There is one lady who comes into one of my Harris Teeter stores. She is not well. Her body is disfigured. I see her bones pushing through her skin. Her baggy size 0 jeans are held up by a belt; her femurs and tendons with minute flesh are swimming inside.  Her body looks like a scarecrow and the skin on her thin face is stretched like Saran wrap. Though her lips move I see the clear wrap tighten around her throat and mouth like she is being strangled by a vacuum sealed bag of her own perceived worthless-ness. When she smiles though…I would give all I have to see her smile. I would give all I have so her reality isn’t one of abuse and horror. How she is, has been treated, and how she treats herself now (because of her experiences) is written on her body. She asked me, after I hugged her (I don’t know if she gets many hugs from anybody), “do you have memories that, if you remember, they will destroy you?” That was a heavy question. I wondered how long she had been carrying it. I replied I did. I told her though of Jesus Christ. Of His love. And how He has helped me forget. That as I spend time with Him, and how preciously He treats me, I change. Am ennobled. Become more beautiful. More intelligent. More confident. More peaceful. He has put my heart back into me, free from hate, bitterness, and pain.  I told her how much He loves her. And suffers when she suffers, AS she suffers, and can hold her through it. That there is hope. I saw light come into her eyes as we spoke. That is when she smiled. We hugged again.

            Then I went into the bathroom and cried for her.  

            Here I am two weeks later, at a random lady’s house, crying as I type the memory. I think of the lyrics of a Josh Groban song, he is quoting the Lord, Jesus Christ, from Isaiah. “I have heard my people cry. I have set a feast for them. Who will I send? –Here am I, Lord.” I imagine myself saying that. Raising my hand real tall, Dory-style, “send me!! Send me to help! I want to help so bad.”

            I know Jesus is with us. God hears the cries of His people. And pleads with us to turn to Him. So He can send us. Send you. Send me. To recognize and love those who are dying inside. And bring them to Christ. Our Healer, Master, and Friend.  

            And, just like in Moana, person’s scabbed, callused, molten shell will fall away and reveal someone truly divine.

           

            My friend from the grocery store, her smile…I wish you could have seen it.

What Happened to you, Ethan Craft?

A spiky haired man wearing VERY yellow pants just hugged me.  The lemon-scented cleaning spray, yellow. Jose’, Pedro. I can’t remember his name. He works for the apartment complex. 72% of the time I’m not a huge fan of his vibes. I can tell he is good on the inside but I have to look really hard sometimes.

            We chatted cordially, “It really got cold, these past two days.”

            “Yeah. Brrr. .. yessiree. Cold. “

            “Did you have a nice Christmas?”

            “Yep…yep….you?”

            “Yes.”

             “Ooooohkay…well…happy new year!”

            *hug*

            He iniciated it. I didn’t want to hug him. I don’t get slimy, scumbag vibes from him, I just didn’t want to hug him. But I did. Ick. Dangit. Why did I do that? Why didn’t I just reach out my hand for a handshake? That would have been OBVIOUS the hug rejection, but that ‘s okay!! YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING YOU DON’T WANT TO RACHAEL OR SAY ANYTHING YOU DON’T WANT TO. EVER. Yes, that is true. Thank you, Blog-Rachael-version-of-me for the wise words. It is difficult though (I reply to my blog version self) to break the patter of pleasing others because it has been apart of me for so long.

            There was another man today at Harris Teeter. I was restocking bacon. He was maybe late thirties to early forties. He had dark skin; it was an olivey-smoky copper-light brown. He was dressed poorly. But I didn’t notice that at first. Were they jeans or sweatpants? A soiled hoodie with a once-creamy-white, wool hood. Picture a Derice Bannock -Ethan Craft hybrid who aged 20 years and now lives under a bridge. What other grubby clothes was he wearing? Hmm. Can’t recall. I looked up from my bacon and smiled at him. He smiled back. He had the best, well, the top three, best smiles I’ve ever seen from a man. Ever.

             I was literally thinking in my head “You sir, have an amazing smile.”

            Then HE SAID TO ME, “Great smile.”

            I stammered, bashfully, “ Thank you.” And he, WHILE STILL SMILING HIS AMAZING SMILE said, “No, thank you.”

            The crazy thing is, he was totally sincere. I felt it. I know when someone is not, and he was genuine. Meek, even.  It wasn’t fake charm, it was two comfortable sentences exchanged in passing.

            I glanced up, real subtle, of course, a few seconds later, and he was standing next to his daughter (I assume). He wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked totally different. Tired. That is when I noticed he was dressed in worn close. He reminded me of my older brother. Maybe why I loved him. SHINING, BEAUITUFL SPIRIT AND SMILE then it was like, wait…you’re a regular human being beat-up by the world and covered in dirt.

           

            And I think… which is the mirage? Which is the illusion?

            His radiating light and genuine goodness was more real than what my eyes saw following: grubby, poor, and baggy. Even now I have to work really hard to recall how his appearance looked when his smile feels imprinted on my brain. Kinda like after I watch a firework explode and I close my eyes and its silhouette is sketched in vapor on my black lids. I’m not speaking of romantic love. Just love.

            I met a woman named Mary today. She was maybe 65 years old with gray hair and some less gray hair that would soon be gray hair. It was cut shortly like my mom’s. She was thin like my mom. But had such a sweet presence. She told me her name. I told her I love that name so much because it reminds me of Mary who was the mother of Jesus. We smiled at each other. I felt my throat get tight when I mentioned the Savior. I was feeling really tense minutes before. In my whole body. My skin felt tight, like the chocolate syrup that gets poured over ice-cream and immediately turns into a hard shell. That was my skin: concrete. Some women were talking about things I didn’t want to hear and I felt painfully uncomfortable. I felt sad because I didn’t know how to act. I love those women. They know that. I bet if I just asked if we could change the topic they would have understood and it wouldn’t have been a big deal.

            I felt fear. Fear to speak. I didn’t want them to laugh at me…or my innocence.  I wondered if I would always feel this timid forever. It’s not who I am. But when I met Mary, and saw my mom in her sweet eyes, and told her why I love her name, and said the Savior’s name reverently, I felt all the fear go away. I felt so much love. I felt that I would and could be the woman who is inside of me. That I don’t need to be ashamed. That I don’t need to live in fear anymore. Fear to just be myself. Kind of a funny fear, huh? It’s not one that pops up with 8 legs on my bathroom ceiling, though not a fan. (Haha…I didn’t mean to make a pun. Fan wings can be called legs, right?). It’s not one that hovers and looms and promises imminent death if pushed over/off a tall height. This one just stays. A cold shadow. A chilling umbra, tomb. Historically, it has been especially bad if I have a crush on a boy. But remember, I’m not ready to talk about that subject yet. :)    

            And that is why I am writing. A half an hour of, perhaps, nonsensical thoughts. Me just being me. I trace back my fears and anxieties, BIIIIGGGGG ones, and it all comes back to that fear: that somewhere, somehow, I learned, or misunderstood that I, me, just me, is not enough or worth loving. That if I act my true self, all my thoughts, emotion, and dimension. I cannot be loved. Isn’t that sad? It is a lie, OBVIOUSLY. A big one. I believed it for a long time. My whole life, really. So I hid. And still find myself hiding. I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want it to be just God and me anymore. That’s how it has been for so long. And I am sooo grateful He has been there for me and always will be! But I think loving, Heavenly Father wants more for His precious daughter. Lots more.

            I think so too.  So I am fighting. By writing. Until I can speak. And be, without fear, filter, or shame. And the woman I am—really am, in all of my power, expression and beauty—can be free.

           

A Late Breakfast

Abate

Meliorate

Mitigate (I already knew that one)

Palliate

            The words I studied while watching “A White Christmas” today—the first movie I have watched in months. Which was incredibly long and boring and un-captivating but I told my friend, who loves it, that I liked it very much. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. But I find myself doing that ALL THE TIME. Protecting people’s feelings (or what I suppose would hurt them).  Hmmm…I wonder why I feel conflict in myself or get insane nervousness about developing close relationships. (Duh). I have manipulated myself for so long. How can I have healthy connection/intimacy if I am not comfortable with me? That was learned—emotional self-mutilation/manipulation—I understand that. I have compassion on myself. My little girl self who didn’t know any better but just wanted to keep herself safe. I get it. I’m still unlearning though. And Healing. Obviously. That’s why I am writing. I wonder if I’ll get back to watching movies and doing normal stuff. Maybe. I know for now though that escaping of any kind isn’t healthy for me. So I write. And hope. I just smiled.  It reached my eyes. “Hope.” I love that word.

            Its’ eight o’clock right now. At night. Yep. Darkness has fallen. And yet here I am writing on my laptop. I told myself I would only keep to pen and paper after dark. Screens and writing on screens into the night make me feel crazy. So like any normal, crazy person not wanting to feel crazy, I have taken a fast from night computer writing. But now, I guess, it’s break fast time. Breakfast time. At night? Hmm. Where are the pancakes? Blast. I should probably learn how to make those. I should probably learn how to do a lot of things. I’ve been unlearning for so long. My learning time has come!—its dawn anyway. And it’s exciting! Really. It is. My favorite thing I am learning: words. I think to myself:  “If I have words maybe I won’t feel like I am choking all the time.” Or the invisible, weird, goblin thing that has its demonic little fingers around my throat will be burst into a gazillion pieces and I will be able to express what I think and feel and have no shame. There are still feelings of guilt and shame in me, just for being me. Which stinks. But it’s okay. Only when I am around other people (not all people) those feelings surface. When I am alone in my apartment I speak. And dance. And am safe. Often I close my eyes and pretend Jesus is my partner. Some may laugh at that. But I don’t care. For a long time He was the only One who listened. Who I actually talked to. So I love Him best. And I never feel bad being me around Him. And He’s the most beautiful of all! So I consider myself pretty lucky to spend so much time with Him. My emptiness, silence, and pain has brought me to Him.

            I recognize how empty I felt tonight. Wanting to find something exciting or secular to make me feel happy. Find some semblance of the Spirit of Christ—the source of all peace and happiness. Why? When I have access to the real thing? That I can literally switch my thoughts to Christ and all my sadness, angst, feelings that I need to explode and implode, or gasp for air because I’m suffocating and scream because the emotion and EVERYTHING trying to escape, all of that gets swallowed up in His love. I can turn my thoughts to Him, His words, His life…Him in the Garden of Gethsemane feeling what I’m feeling “NO NO, I’M SO SORRY TO MAKE YOU FEEL THIS WAY. It’s terrible that me, just one person has to feel this way, I don’t want Thee to feel it as well. But I do want Thee to suffer. Please suffer. So I don’t have to suffer alone. So I have hope. Please, I’m so sorry to make Thee die, but please die. So I have hope. So I don’t have to feel dead. Thank Thee. I love Thee. I love Thee...Stay with me. Please.” A prayer something like what I just typed. That was what I just said to Him. Then I feel better. Now I feel better. Lighter. 1,000 pounds lighter. Then I think of all the people with no hope. Who live swimming in numbing distraction so they don’t even feel that there is anything wrong. Or a need for a Savior or healing.

            Is something wrong with me? Am I the only one? Surely not. But I do feel awful alone in my faith sometimes. When I say to myself so fiercely so it carries to Heaven so I KNOW THAT HE KNOWS THAT I KNOW I trust Him, “I have faith that God can heal me emotionally. I have faith that God can heal me socially. I have faith that He can take away my panic and my fear.” Fear about one certain department I really struggle with that I will choose not to mention right now but BOY oh BOY (crap, the emphasis on BOY might have just given it away…) when I start writing about it….watch out. THERELL BE A LOT. Note: Therell is the conjunction between there and will. There is no apostrophe because it takes from the dramatic effect when the letters are all in caps.

            I feel peace now. And lookie! It only took 23 minutes! Wow! Ladies and gents look at the wonders of writing!! Less than a half hour ago I felt in a total funk, bursting and itching and sad and slipping under the ground I stood. And now, peace. Presense. Heart. Rachael. Refocused. Now I care. About myself. Life. The people around me. The Savior (gosh, I love Him). I care. Maybe I should break fast more. Breakfast more. Bacon.

Yum.

From Dead to Living? Write.

            

            So I have some issues. Big deal. As my freshman algebra teacher said, “You’ve got issues, we’ve got tissues.” I’m out of tissues though. Annoying. Sometimes I’ll blow snot in my hair though. Easy, accessible (though not name-brand) tissue. That’s only when I’m praying and talking to God. I don’t want to interrupt the conversation and grab Kleenex to wipe my nose. He wouldn’t mind, I’m sure, but I want to stay present and not lose that special connection once my heart opens and my words and emotions flow freely. Which is often. To be honest, God is the only one I feel I can open completely to. Which is good, but difficult. Good because the most wonderful, powerful, love-filled Being who knows and loves me perfectly is on my side, in my mind, and heart. Bad because then I feel I am only known to Him, by Him. And no one else. Maybe this is my own fault. Maybe I learned fear early on, to protect myself early on. From people. From men. From speaking. From showing anyone who I really am. From trusting. Yes, yes that is probably the case. But its time now to be okay being me. Its time to not be ashamed anymore. Or care what others think anymore. I’ve lived that way for too long. It’s bondage. Bondage. There is no other word.

            According to my experience, there are two types of hell living in this world. The first, and I’m not sure which category more people fall—the former or latter—not having any idea who I am. Seeing through my physical eyes, watching TV, absorbed on social media, music loud so I tune out the numbness inside me. Disconnected with others (though I may laugh loudly), disconnected with myself. To believe that this—what I see—is all there is. My body. My face. His body. His face. Her body. Her face. The screens. The noise. Cold concrete. Weights. Trophies that rust. Acceptance and praise from man (who will one day die). Garish headlights that block the stars. The next episode of the next show. The next outfit so I feel really sexy. The next meal. The next funny post. Mindless mundane, where’s-my-next-fix-to-feel-alive routine. To eat and never be full. To sleep and always tire. And to fully, fully accept that that is all there is. That is hell.

            The second hell. (Gosh, acknowledging and reliving this suffuses my body with ice) to live and see and breathe like the group above BUT KNOW and FEEL that who I am being is not who I am. To feel so intensely that I am more. And there is more. That there is power and beauty beyond description that dwells inside of me but I am trapped. Trapped. I don’t know how to access it…her…ME. That conflict, dissonance, of who I see and what I see is not who I know and feel lives inside of me. How do I get there? How does this box covered in locks which daily mocks the divinity that shines inside of me, be crushed? Broken down like the frail cardboard I collapse with my bare hands at work and bail like the garbage it is. How? How do I do it? There is life in me. But why do I feel dead? Sometimes I see her. There are moments that how could I NOT?? She is sooo splendid and glorious and radiant! I see her clearly when I am in the temple—the temples of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I see her clearly when I am helping someone. I see her when I am talking to my friends that I dearly love. I see her clearly when I give and when I hug. I see her when I don’t look in the mirror but in the sky. The beauty of nature. When I am brave. I see her. 

            This is why I am writing. That I may hear my own voice in my head. That I may read my own words. And know I am known by myself. Not just by God. To be so grounded in Jesus Christ—who already has saved me from the unspeakable—and to be so grounded in ME. So *I* know I have words to say. And ideas to share. Testimony to bear. Life that lives within me that gives life. Christ is the Life and Light of the world. If His light is inside of me then that is how, to whom I must turn, if I wish to be truly, wholly, alive. It is hard. The world is dark. But I am not afraid. I know what I must do. Write. Write.

Right.

Rachael, Speak

Rachael-in-a-box.

“Pop goes the weasel.”

Blaring, cranking, painted.

My face on an easel.

Strokes of 

“Nice, Mormon girl,

Docile, sheltered, naïve."

Labels well-intended

But they’re not me. 

Assumptions 

Not incorrect per say,

Yes, I am virginal

In a way

Never experienced

Sex, alcohol, coffee, or pot

But when it comes to spirit and emotion

--I’ve experienced a lot. 

But who would guess?

At some point I chose to believe

That love was conditional

So to protect myself,

I became one-dimensional

And I ask: when?

When was silence learned?

 Effetely agreeable, bovine.

This is not who I am—

A mirroring mime.

When was hiding learned?

That I can’t be fabulous ME? 

This is not who I am—

An ashamed apology. 

When was suppression learned?

That I’m “not allowed” emotional immensity?

This is not who I am—

Coy, callow coquetry

When was fear learned?

The desire to fit in?

This is not who I am—

A mimicking mannequin

And yet….

The blessed irony:

The more I fear…GOD

The more I feel free. 

Free from appetite of body

--Her selfish dominion

Free from fear of man

--Myopic opinion

Free from the demons 

Shrieking in my brain:

“You’re stupid, you’re worthless

YOU’RE COMPLETELY INSANE.”

And to those lies

I chose to listen.

So? Here’s to emancipation

By my own volition.

Emancipation? From what else? 

Okay. I’ll do my best to ascertain

My experience

With emotional pain:

Rivulets of hate 

Like poison replace

Blood in my body

Sweat on my face

Chaos clouds

Complexions etiolate

Veiled venoms 

Swirl, inspissate

And the anger and pain

Inhumed within

Rises

And excoriates my skin.

Then the noose falls.

Skeins of words I maunder

Powerless to speak my mind

Suffocating, I wander.

If someone were to ask me:

“You can have anything 

Anything of your choice.” 

Without hesitation:

“I JUST WANT MY VOICE.”

But year after year,

Safe with God

Words I find,

“Please, Lord,

Unlock my mind.” 

Do I really dare?

Ask to be free? 

What happened the last time

I felt really “me”? 

Now, I’m sharing this,

Probs to my chagrin…

I WAS CARRIED IN AN AMBULANCE 

AND LOCKED IN THE LOONY BIN

For two weeks!!

True story.

But that was like, five years ago.

Don’t worry. 

But how do I explain 

That my mind feels closed?

Slugs, webs, clouds,

In its holes. 

How do I explain 

That the body I was born into 

Came with scars?

Not a whole receptacle

But a shattered mason jar. 

How do I explain…

When I’m around a boy I like

I can’t breathe because of fear?

Seething, leeching words

Under my flesh have been seared:

“Not worth loving.”

The biggest lie of all

Cloned on every single cell 

My own cancerous wall.  

Then my world of color 

Is benighted black

Effusions of noise

Like I’m under attack

Voices so loud for so long

I thought they were true!

“NO GOOD MAN 

COULD EVER LOVE YOU.” 

Then, 

The impending doom:

My insides collapse

Into her cocoon.

For protection

Thought and emotion flee

Then all I am to offer…

Is a lifeless body.

But the Holy Ghost 

Has kept me safe

Knowing that I don’t want to sin

And stayed with me the years

I locked myself in.

From relationships of substance

All men in my midst

When I couldn’t explain

The terror that exists.

So for me

The season of love

Has been winter’s frore

Parapets of frozen pain

Crushing its allure. 

Most people who know this hell

Have experienced trauma of varying degree

But a miracle of Jesus Christ

Is He can heal our memory

And that’s why I share 

These sad, sad things

Because I want to talk 

About the HOPE Christ brings!  

When I was a young girl

Before the assiduous panic sowed

I had a dream,

Many years ago.

I’m with a boy!!!

And there is so much light

We walk and talk

And it feels so…right.

We’re not holding hands

We don’t even kiss.

But my heart is full of 

SOOO MUCH HAPPINESS.

For ten years

I have envisioned that scene

And recalled the joy I feel

When pleasures promised passion

“More real.”

It is my faith that through Jesus Christ

My dreams can come true! 

By obeying His laws

And cherishing virtue. 

I can become the breathtaking woman

That has been trapped inside

Fearless, powerful, EXPRESSIVE

With kindness in her stride.

 Courage 

Like Queen Esther!

In her husband’s den

“Kill the Jews!”

--“I’m one of them.” 

Like Joseph of Egypt!

Against a rapacious wife’s prod

“Our secret…”

--“And sin against God??”

Like the meek Moses!

Against the great Pharaoh

One voice:

“Let my people go.”

Like the young Joseph Smith

A boy of fourteen.

Against scholar, theologian

“Deny what you’ve seen!”

--“I can’t. I won’t

I have seen God the Father and Christ the Lord.

A marvelous work is to come to pass

The fullness restored.” 

That kind of courage 

Even if I stand alone.

To bear my testimony of Jesus Christ

And the truths that are now known.

Families can be together forever!

God has called prophets again!

Our birth was not our beginning

And our death will not be our end.

Tools of knowledge 

That we are all offspring of God 

Frees, guides

Through the world’s ubiquitous fog.

And to share my witness

That the years in my mind’s catacombs

Loving Father in Heaven 

Never left me alone.

“I want to show you,”

My thoughts, His voice would rent,

“The power 

Of my Son’s Atonement.”

There’s a cure for all the world’s ills.

Many: “I’ll find it I can!”

But it’s already found!

…In the blood of the Lamb.

I’m still learning.

And even though I’m weak. 

It’s time. I’m ready.

Speak, Rachael. Speak. 

CHRISTUS INVICTUS

In the racing, screaming
Silent cell
Weak, whimpering
In my body's hell

Eyes look upward
Sobs turn sweet
Warm arms embrace:
Father, daughter meet

Loved, unburdened
Floods of mercy flow
Peace, identity
All my life to owe

Though amazed,
Not ignorant of the cause
The "why" I kneel
In humble awes

A price was paid
For this communion sweet
A Life laid down
At justice's feet

An atonement made
For all mankind,
A way, The Way
To reunite with The Divine

An Endless Sacrifice
Why this must be
Required of the Innocent One?
I ask in humility

His sincere reply
In visions unfold:
Matchless love
Anguish untold

Just for me

That I may understand
That Jesus of Nazareth
Was more than
"Just a man"

Eyes opening
To His celestial rank
The horrors endured
With little thanks

The injustice, the pain
A projector in my mind
Seeing, feeling,
His unyielding love divine

Keep His commandments?
Is that all He asks?
Shouldn't there be more?
To repay such a task?

I'll do it all!
Words, songs, thoughts of praise
Revere, worship
All my days

I will thank

The God I know
In heartfelt extols
For the gift of His Son's
Unconquerable soul

----

The Wine Press of Grief
Forget? Never! I vow,
The Garden, His body bloodied
Reverently, I bow

In abject spirits
When I can't brook more
I think of The Kind One
Blood from every pore

When wronged by friend or foe
Anger seething my skin
I think of The Meek One
In hours most dim:

Nails pound through His bone
Still He chooses to live
Hung on a cross of hate
Speaks, "Father, forgive."

 For little brother, sister
Divine determination
Spat on, whipped, rejected
By man, His own creation

That Light descended
To the blackest pit of all
So the most base, vile being
Can reach upward if he calls

Because He understands

The grotesque of sin
The hysteria of shame
The dungeon of "alone"
The emaciated, maimed
The addict's tomb
The hold of secret chains
The abuser, the abused
The muted, the mundane
The exhaustion of the world
The bedlam of "insane"
The burning greed of body
The full spate of the brain

And mercifully, God,

--Inestimable memory
Superlative, intelligent
Forgets my wrongs
...When I repent

Truly

The Genesis of grace
The Exodus of gloom
Obviating danger
My own bright future blooms

So yes,

Alone--broken, dead,
Unequipped, I may be
A waltzing automaton
In trite mimicry

But under His tutelage
Conforming to The Son
I find happy, wacky, Rachael
My dark nights--all done

With The Family everlasting
Priesthood again on earth
Death and Hell mastered
The Finisher in berth

The orb of time shattered
The world laid out in scrolls
Christ conquered His fate
With blood, He bought our souls


CHRISTUS INVICTUS