I am not supposed to be here. This isn't supposed to be my life. I should be dead; my soul doomed to spend eternity with The Enemy. I am not an angel. I am an addict. I have abused painkillers, sedatives and sleeping pills. I have been cutting myself for over 30 years. Sometimes, that urge to cut is so strong, the pull is so alluring, that I can taste it. I want it that bad. There has been so much pathology, so much dysfunction in my family life when I was growing up. The very first man in my life, my father left when I was 14 or 15. My mother and I have, at best, a cordial relationship. I've never felt close to her. Or at least, not as close as I should be. There have been times when our estrangement has caused us not to have contact for many months. And I was fine with that. I AM fine with that.
From the time I was 2 or 3 years old, I always felt a presence of something ominous. When I was about 3 or 4, I told my mother that, "somebody is telling me to put a fork in the socket.' My mother, gave little credence to that; she would blithely reply, "You betta not!" I could never associate the voice with being male or female, but this presence has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.
This book was so hard to write. It has caused weak bridges in my family to tumble and fall. I had to tell my sons all of the things I had done, and all of the things I had done to me. My sons are a blessing, always supportive. But I feel the judgement and scorn of others in my family.
Regardless, I know I was supposed to write and release this book. Maybe it'll help someone else, so they won't suffer the atrocities that I did. If this is what it takes, then I will deal with whatever Satan throws at me. Because at my weakest, I have my Lord and my savior. He is all I need to get by.
