Tuesday, April 19, 2011

To Gain Your Own Independence

To gain your own independence is easier said than done.  You often believe what is told to you no matter your age.  I grew up with a mother who told me that when I went out into the world, the world would use me and I would never find peace.  She said I had bad genes and that I was the product of a rape.  She would tell me I was full of demons and I was saddled with the "Demon of Silence".  Many more times than not, she would come into my room in the middle of the night and begin casting my demons out of me.

I remember sitting up and moving to the edge of my bed.  I was thinking about how long this would last.  Normally it went on for an hour or so, or until she and whomever had joined her at the time ran out of energy leaving my room.  My mother lives in a fairly large home.  It was bought by one of the parishioners in 1976.  Grant it, even in its hay day the total number in the congregation was under fifteen members.

It is kind of funny when you look back and realize that your mother was the cause of so much sadness.  When you are the daughter of the person that runs a cult I don't think happiness can ever be readily at hand.  She would tout herself as an evangelical minister, but she never went to any kind of school with any given association to the evangelical belief.  She was self-proclaimed. She looks at herself as holier than thou. She believes, along with my step-father that they have the authority to cast out demons and perform exorcisms.  As of today they feel the same way and I believe that this is how it all started for me.  At odds again!!

"Call the Police", my mother shouted from the breakfast room as my step-father was following me through the dining room.  "Call the Police" she shouted again.  I walked back to the breakfast room and asked "Why?". "Because you will not get on your knees and pray" she screamed.  I said, "its your home and I have done everything you asked of me" I proclaimed.  I went on to say that I felt like a prisoner in my own room.  She screams at the top of her lungs,  "Go back to it", I did.

Nine or so hours later a knock on the door made me scramble for balance.  I scramble in fear worrying it was them, saying, "just a moment".  I opened the door and to my surprise there was a line of police men.  They escorted me down the hall to the front of the house stopping in the front hall.  This would prove to be the first time I blacked out since I was a kid in the same house, in the same place, the front hall.  All I really do remember is the officers asking me, "who are these people".  I could not respond, I just sat and shook with fear putting my hands up to rest my head.  This took place on March 5, 2009.

Not to many hours later the flashbacks began.  There I was at 850 Bryant Street, a police station downtown.  I was surrounded by people yelling and screaming.  I was handcuffed and having my picture taken.  They asked me where I lived and I told them that I had just been arrested out of my mothers home where I had been residing for the past six weeks.  This was to be the beginning of a six-week stay at the city jail in the worst pod you could be assigned. I ended up being released and all charges dismissed.

How is it possible to achieve your own independence while put into a predicament like this one.  Well, first you go slow, very slow and do not panic, if at all possible, don't panic.  I asked myself, "what makes you happy and what makes you sad?".  I took a deep breath and thought about it for a while.  I reminded myself that I am no longer four years old, (that is a plus), and, that I have a voice.  Lastly, going from first to last seemed to make so much sense, I took the time to say to myself in silence, "I believe in myself and I know my story is true!"  This is what I did and it is what I have been doing every day since.

When the flashbacks began I was both horrified and terrified.  I felt like my mind was on a split screen television and was running movie reels in my brain.  It did not matter which way I turned, whether my eyes were open or shut, the tickering of the movie projector continued.  I felt as if I were in a surreal world of make believe, being both there, in the past and here, in the present.  It was nightmarish.

There I was, 2 years old being raped, by whom, I could not see.  How was this happening?  I did not know.  I was physically choking in the very live moment, while in my mind something was being rammed down my throat.  I looked around me and I was standing in the middle of my jail pod with a deputy yelling at me.  "Whats wrong with you", the screaming echoed.  "Can't you here me call your name?"  I snapped out of it and became lucid again.  This how it has been since.  I am getting better but apparently it will never end, its strange to honest with yourself this way.

I would like to be angry, but, how can I be?  It's me.  I have had horror after horror and yet if it had not happened I would not be the person I am today.  I may be screwed-up, definitely in need of many things, but I love me.  I have survived something that apparently should not be survived and I am present in the moment.  That in itself is a miracle.  I was baptized in the church of Satan, raped and molested, spiritually abused, abandoned, beaten before and after school to keep me from talking and I am still here.  Fighting for my life is an everyday affair for me.

I often tell myself, "I did not survive this for nothing".  Then I ask myself, "what did I survive it for".  Interesting question if you ask me.  Apparently, survivors, survive, it is just what we do.  Regardless of the situation or circumstance it is our nature and we are professionals at it.  It is like a job of sorts, I, am actually very passionate about my survival, I am still here.  I believe I am here to "right the wrongs", but in all truth I don't think I know exactly what that means.  However, it is what has pulled me through very difficult times.

I do still spend a lot of time asking myself and thinking about "why am I here".  I am sure you ask yourself the very same question and that it is not unique to me.  I do believe that making a difference is paramount and to do this is extremely important.  How you choose to do this can be a priceless gift of love.  My gift to you is my story, my perseverance, my truth, myself and my peace of mind. 

It's All About You!!

I exist, I have a name.
I am not seen, I can be mean.
I want for you freedom, Life!
I see for you to much strife.

My name is short!
My fame is small.
I do not show my pain for you.
I talk to you in vocal sound.
I want for you, to be found.

I close my eyes and pray each night,
the weekends come, I hold on tight.
My lovely way seems tucked away,
small is my heart when pain doth stay.

I take a breath to ease the sorrow,
I hope for you a lovely tomorrow,
but, deeper still, does my heart wane.
When all I see is one in three.

Each does come, a smile I bare.
My eyes will shine, with tears behind,
I don't see much, I see it all.
Be strong, be fast, and stand up tall.

I'm not a tree, I am just me.
My roots are inside of me,
I wish for you a depth, a well,
that fills with joy and not a smell.

My names been told, but, just in case,
I do not want to put on face.
Call me simple, call me love,
just don't call me back from above.

Peace, Namaste!!

Please don't cry,
I do not lie,
the truth within,
is without sin.

Your strength and love,
for all of you to see, is simply,
just a fact you plea.

Your heart is with me,
my medallion is with you,
thank you for all time.

There is no end,
I wrote for you,
a simple mend.
You've been for me,
and now I see,
inside of you,
your hearts so big,
just a fact and that's, that.

Life is beautiful.

Karen A. Placek

Energy = Positive + Negative

My mother had a church that she founded in the early seventies.  My mother has a diagnoses, some type of a narcissistic disorder.  My mother was an evangelical minister that never received an education in the World of Ministry.  My mother believes that she has the power and the authority to cast demons out of people.  My mother believes that she can perform exorcisms.  My mother had two people commit suicide out of her church.  My mother manipulates people in such a way that they have literally changed their Wills and left her and the church as the benefactor.  My mother lives in a home that was purchased by one of the church members that not only committed suicide, but, also had an adult circumcision.  She forced the issue until its completion.  My mother spoke to my best friend two weeks before his suicide.  My mother married a man fourteen years her junior, ordaining him into the church as a Pastor, giving him the authority over Satan.  My mother used to replace her name in the bible where it said "God" with her name.  My mother runs a non-profit today.  This makes and keeps a profit for herself and nobody cares to do anything about it.  No one will investigate the charity.  My mother is a manipulator.  My mother is a spiritual abuser.  My mother knows I was kidnapped and sexually abused when I was a child.  My mother told me she was raped and she then became pregnant with me, this is how I was born.  My mother said I had "bad genes" and that the "spirit of silence" was the demonic possession inside of me.  My mother has been abusing me since my birth.  My mother baptized me in the Church of Satan when I was three.  My mother allowed my step-father and brother abuse me.  My mother allowed the church members into our lives.  My mother demanded them to be sub-servant to her.  My mother found only criticism to flow from her mouth, body, soul, spirit and mind.

My mother birthed me and left me to others to be raised.  However, I never left her side until I was eighteen.  She raised me inside of a bubble, away from anyone or anything that would or could identify me as being abused.

My mother continues today in her same manners.  Supported by my step-father and my four siblings.  My mother hates me.  My half-sister told me I should take a gun and blow my head off because it would be the best thing for the family.  My mother does not want me to talk, nor does she want me to write this book.  My mother broke the straw that broke the camels back, literally.  My back collapsed and so did I.

My mother is a narcissist.  I am her daughter and this is the narcissistic view of a child.  Listen carefully, walk softly because you could have been anyone of these people; loosing your life, your savings, your trust fund or your child to this church.  Or is it a cult?  It has since dispersed for the most part.  All of the people are either dead or surviving this horror someplace in the world today.  My mother sold the church building which had been purchased by the same man that purchased the home where she currently resides as a parish.  Upon the sale of the church building she was listed as the President and my step-father was listed as the secretary.  Listing the front of the building as a LLC and the side address as another separate LLC.  Paying off the home where she resides in total.

With the church being dissolved and whatever members are left seem to be full of so much fear they are terrified to speak, I am the only voice in this time.  This is wrong, underhanded and should be against the law.  However, nobody knows I guess or is it that nobody cares.

I am an adult survivor of these horrors.  I began to talk about it and it did not go well for me at all.  Stirring memories became flashbacks.  This caused on-going nightmares to become day-mares.  I have been diagnosed with  C-PTSD.  This is an actual injury to the brain.  There is no magic pill to help it go away.  It is the result of years of abuse, manipulation, sexual assault and silence.  They say that there is hope to ease my raging mind, if I can begin to run my memories through.  Allowing them to run so I can experience some sort of completion in my thought.  This is instead of me burying them down each and every day of my life.  I thought this would all go away one day.  If I could only master the art of the burial of the horrific memories.  Turns out this is an impossibility.  The professionals say that one time or another no matter how good you are at disguising the truth, that it will eventually rear its ugly head.  My worries are my own, but my reactions are not.  What I do and say affects every fiber of every being near me.  If I chooses to be negative in my communications then negative energy will flow.  If I choose to be positive that positive energy will flow all about me. 

0-2 Years

Surrounded by the feeling of a thick round machine.  Sometimes limp and lobbed, other times hard and painful.  Goo all around my nose and eyes.  When I take a breath, I am choked with a thick gum-like substance.  I struggle to breath.  When I breath through my nose this thick residue fills my nostrils.  As I try to breath in and out, I scream.

I try sucking the tip of something.  It is skin-like and oozes a goo-like substance.  When I suck it in to drink it, it chokes the back of my throat.  It is a terrifying account of what my nightmares are made of in my mind.  My body wriggles around trying to get away.

I don't know what I'm seeing, but, I can imagine the crime.  I worry.  I cry inside.  The moving pictures are "still frames", I'm scared.

A Curse

The Man I live with, lies to cover.
He never stands for others relief,
he only catches his own desire,
in his third eye, Require!

He back tracks, he is not mine.
I barf at the thought of closeness.
He tells or thinks we're other,
behind all that he covers.

On every high he searches PORN!
Produces adds to advertise,
"Free from Commitment",
"Free from Lives",
falsehood Rules!

His life, He's long in tooth.
A friend I started off to be,
I must need to exist, its Three.
After this I quit, my sneer.

Each one proclaims, a wealth not there.
Not Mind, Nor Soul, Not Heart.
No Find!!
A grievous mining FEE!

Charge each loss, best friends we're not.
He says the words, I puke!!
Witness nigh or you'll cry too.
Forever lists this evening.

A Curse.

Karen Placek


 I close my eyes and cry inside.
I often wonder why?

I where the sadness like disguise,
inside is where I sigh.

I wish that people left alone,
the one who screams in agony.

The razor zips through flesh it seems.
Leaving only blood and jeans.

I ask for people to STOP attack,
it seems I am only....Charge!

The feeling of pain overwhelms,
I scream, to ease the tease.

Please give me room,
ease the weight.

It throws the balance off,
back away, watch your words, STOP!

Why they speak, the lies do drool,
from the corners of their mouth.

Stand Proud! 
'They' do,
the prowess of their attack.

Repeat the process, down the lines,
a script of ill-repute.

Nothing more than "Whore for Hire"
I'm honest with my truth.

Karen A. Placek

No Reap

Never loved causes a problem from above.
The things you are taught,
missed me as a lot.

No body showed me how to be,
morals and principles escape my being.
Born a natural, not a factual.

No book was given.
No instructions to listen.
How do you?  It's non-fiction.

Responsibility, is on all of thee.
Walking by a little one,
who knows bars from below.

Learned more from BDSM Men
then from Family close.
Not right, not wrong, just Book.

Razors, knives, hold my blue,
first suicide held so true!
was eight first time; Hate!

Stayed alive, punishment, tear.
Better, Longer, over the year.
My Life, Their Life, No Decide!!

Held belief deep,  Inside no REAP!
Don't believe in ending Life.
Even though it causes strife.

Karen A. Placek

My Wreath

It's difficult to speak of these moments of timber.
It is as if a burning ember glows from beneath the bog.
A city, a young life, all that differs?
Not one from the other; the lights shall prove,
the wicked alley's, the dirty back doors.

Passages and Tunnels always stay.

Clearing weight, heaviness and doom.
Shoulders bury the six foot stooge.
Guns pointed, bullets flew,
not mine, I saw straight threw.

Kindly, wisely, he spoke to you.
Remembering differences shining through.
A man, no home, no identity.
My mind, my soul, my disheartened grief.

No! I shant not, no cardboard relief.

Death is too real, it comes from beneath.
His eyes, I don't wander.
Stay close, hold your feet.

Painful, Sorrowful, 
moments need a name,
not a number, 666,
I'm the Beast!!

As per my mother,
my families,
My Wreath.

Karen A. Placek