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This area is reserved for the tidbits I know hope will be of interest to my readers. Check back often for regular updates. 


Check out this article about the Fifty Shades of Grey phenomena, including a list of organizations which strongly oppose this sick trend, and have implemented various means of helping women who have been sexually victimized.


Were you raised by a narcissist? Chances are you were if you suffered any form of childhood abuse. The Little Red Survivor website is filled with excellent articles examining the many faces of narcissism.


It's been a long time coming---7 years to be exact---but finally email notifications for new BD posts is available. Sign up today and never again miss another post. You know you want to!













Kate Is Rising has an excellent Survivors Resources page which directs you to numerous websites dealing with issues of abuse, healing and recovery. Please bear in mind that the information on these pages may be triggering.



There's lots of good stuff at the Dissociation Blog Showcase, including a list of 180 blogs dealing with some aspect of this disorder. 



On the Overcoming Sexual Abuse site there's an article entitled, "It's Not About You Mom" which I could have written myself. I bet many of my readers could say the same!








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Strawberry Fields Forever

Strawberry picking is a miserable means of earning money to supplement my meager allowance—but it gets me out of the house a good portion of the day. Bent over the rows like a hunchback, I suffer first from the cold (for though it’s summer, mornings take a while to warm up to the day), and then from the unrelenting sun focusing all its attention on my fair scalp, finding its way down my shirt and up my nostrils so that I feel faint, in danger of suffocation.

My hands ache and some days, in a fit of retaliation at wasting my summer in such a stupid, hard pastime, I eat as many berries as I pick.

The new radio I got for Christmas, a bigger version of the transistor I listen to in bed at night, helps me stave off boredom. My across-the-street best friend Bec and I, sing loudly (off key) to the top 40. When that gets old I amuse her with my bad imitation of Klink from Hogan’s Heroes: call her dumbkoff! and goose step down the long row, turning about-face abruptly and clicking my heels together, while smartly tucking a ratty old walking stick under my armpit. When we are chastised for goofing off by Mrs. J, our bus driver, I whisper in broken German to her receding form, “I see nothink! Nothink!”

Normally too shy to stray beyond the shady trees surrounding the outskirts of the woods, one day during my 12th summer a spirit of boldness overtakes me, propelling me deep into the cool woods, where I know the older kids hang out during lunch break.

“Hey! Where’re you going?” Bec calls after me. I throw her a look over my shoulder, take note of her puzzled expression, and shrug.

“C’mon, man,” she cries. I don’t understand the pleading tone to her voice.

Off to my left, a boy yells, “Hey, better not come any closer unless you wanna get raped!”

This is followed by guffaws and much snickering all around me, and hearty agreement from the others lurking invisibly in the woods. I stop in my tracks, sensing danger.

“What’s ‘rape’ mean?” I holler out, much to their delight.

Suddenly I am propelled backwards by the scruff of my neck, and Bec is hissing at me to shut up.

I twirl around so fast to break free of her grasp that we stumble into one another, and nearly bump heads like 2 stooges.

“What!” I am so furious with her for embarrassing me like that in front of these kids that I want to smack her for the first time in our friendship.

“Don’t be stupid.” Her eyes, unaccountably, fill with tears.

What,” I repeat. “Why did you drag me away like that?”

She averts her gaze, staring off into the distance. “Because of what those boys wanted to do to you,” she says in a quiet voice.

To a background of inane cat calls fueled by my aborted trek into the woods, Bec explains the definition of the word ‘rape.’

Oh. The one 4 letter word my step-dad never taught me.


Losing My Religion, Part 1

There isn’t time enough in this world to tell the whole story of what was stolen from me, what was lost, and what I held onto fiercely in spite of the batterings my body took during the era known as My Childhood.

I’ve been contemplating a lot of things lately. The other day while listening to Rock of Ages I was flooded with memories of that other me. That me who existed before the abuse. That innocent child who fell in love first with her daddy, and then with her daddy’s God. I’ve a memory of riding in the car with my father on the way to the Green Stamp redemption center. Back then (in the 60’s) in this part of the country, you received a certain amount of Green Stamps every time you bought gas. Dad saved them for me and told me that when I had enough books of stamps saved up, he’d take me to redeem them.

What delicious anticipation to be riding alone in the car with the person I loved most, on my way to getting what I wanted more than anything in the world: a grownup sized white Bible. For months I’d pored over the Green Stamps Catalog, savoring the thought of choosing anything at all. We were poor, so the toys were definitely a temptation. But once my eyes lit on the white Bible, that was it, decision made. I’d only seen a few white Bibles before and they seemed to me to shine with purity and goodness. The white leather gleamed like the first snow of winter, or granulated sugar sparkling in the sun.

Dad boomed Rock of Ages and other favorite hymns while we sped along alone in our own little universe. My feet couldn’t keep still; they kept time with his singing all the while my thoughts raced urgently: hurryhurryhurry! I was half-convinced that all the white Bibles would be taken before I could turn in my books of stamps. I imagined that everyone in the world was drooling over them, longing to smell that unique new Bible smell while caressing them with fevered, awed hands.

When we finally arrived at our destination I burst through the door like a drunk staggering into a tavern desperately in need of that first drink of the day. The decrepit old man behind the counter flashed a yellowed tooth smile at us, and tried to direct me toward the toy counter. But I wouldn’t budge. That Bible lay nestled behind glass amongst mundane items, seemingly winking at me.

“The toys are this way,” he said, turning to the next glass counter. Dad grinned at him and told him that I wasn’t interested in toys.

“She wants the white Bible,” he said, clearly pleased with my choice. There was no mistaking the surprise in the old man’s expression as he raised his brows and gave Dad a considering look.

“A Bible?” he echoed. “We don’t carry any children’s Bibles,” he continued, his voice edged with doubt at this whole puzzling scenario.

“I want the grown-up one,” I piped up. “The white one.”

With an exaggerated shrug of his bony shoulders, and a heavy sigh, he unlocked the glass case with a tiny key, and in what seemed to me like slow motion removed the Bible (the only one, I noted) and handed it to me.

“Well,” he said slowly, scratching an ear, “I hope you . . . enjoy it.”

The joy on my face should have told him there was no way I wouldn’t.

I don’t remember the ride home except that I kept removing the lid from the cardboard box and running my hands over the soft leather. My fortune had just improved and boy was I rich now!

I treasure the memory of that longing for some tangible evidence of God’s love, something I could hold in my hands and caress. To the very core of me I believed that I belonged to Him, perhaps even in some mystifying way on a deeper level than I belonged to my dad whose eyes I could look into, whose skin I could touch and whose laughter comforted and pleased me.

When I was five, probably half a year before acquiring my Bible, I’d responded to an altar call at a camp meeting service. There under that big tent I went forward with a dozen or so others, and knelt in the sawdust to commit the most sacred act of my life: betrothing myself to God. I was the youngest penitent there and as I knelt with eyes shut, I felt the kiss of God. Not literally, of course. Somewhere within my little soul there was such a profound exchange of affection that, when the preacher placed his big hands on my skull and prayed over my life, I experienced something which can only be described as an electrical current surging all the way up my spine to the top of my head, which tingled. When I rose to my feet there was no doubt that I’d been blessed, and blessed good.

But who was this God I’d welcomed into my heart? What was His nature? Was He a good God, a bad God, or perhaps just indifferent? Oh, but if He was at all like my father, there must be nothing but laughter and contentment in His presence, for how could it be otherwise?

Life had much to teach me. I was too young at the time of that altar call to know that loving God and knowing God were not one and the same. That asking Him into my heart and life did not in any way exempt me from the tribulations of this sin-racked world. That loving Him was not meant to be a passive thing, or something which revolved solely around my comfort, my preferences or even my happiness. I had ahead of me a lifetime journey of learning what it meant to truly love Him, and what His love meant to my life.

The pilgrim begins his pilgrimage shod with what he supposes is ample protection against life’s storms. Indeed, he hardly believes there will be storms, so strong is his love for the One who called him to the first step of his journey. Ah, and there’s the rub. For in his zeal and mighty enthusiasms, he’s overlooked or forgotten–or perhaps never realized–that he is but at the beginning of a continuous journey. The first step is not the entire race, it is nothing but a first step. A decision made. An internal YES to the eternal. A covenant entered into, sealed with a handshake (a gentleman’s agreement) or a bowed head or violent tears or a barely audible whispered prayer of self-loathing. A marriage of sorts. The covenant makes possible the marriage, but the marriage must still be worked out and lived one step and day at a time through various trials and boredoms and heartache and fears.

At that tender age I knew none of this. I knew of one thing only and that was love responding to Love. My heart could not have understood what was about to transpire in my little universe, and so my ignorance of the true nature of my spiritual transaction was a necessary, preordained kindness.



(I responded to the Prince’s endearments.)


(Click here for Part 2 of Losing My Religion)

6 Responses to “Losing My Religion, Part One”

  1. I was in the 6th grade, laying in bed when the thought occurred to me, I God’s Kingdom will come with or without me. I want to be with it. I think I’ve felt very close to him ever since that night. I know what you mean when you say there is a moment in time when you realize that there is something so much more pure and loving than what we have now and that He will make things all right again.
    Sometimes I wondered what I’d done to make him hate me so much that he would allow the things he allowed to happen to me. I questioned and questioned but then it finally occurred to me that before I was even born he made a way out for all mankind who would want it. The ransom sacrifice of Jesus Christ would make sure that if I was trying to do the right thing then I’d make it to that Kingdom and I’d never hurt again. The way out was made before I was even born and that to me was a great relief. He didn’t plan for my family to abuse me but there was still that ransom sacrifice to help little ol me so that my own sins could be forgiven and I could live one day without fear. He hadn’t left me at all, as a matter of fact he arrived before I did. That is when I stopped asking questions like, where were you and why did you let this happen. my questions turned to thank you because you know what? Even though I’m not an abuser I am a major, major sinner and I’m gonna need the blood of Christ to lean on and to look to his example so that I do not make the same criminal acts my family did. As unsettling at it sounded, my abusers, if they were to be repentant they too would fall under the protection of the ransom sacrifice. To me, that is a loving thing because you know he knows more than us. Maybe he knows that there is something that had it been different my mother would be a different person. Maybe he knows something that makes all the difference between me hating her and him forgiving her. I don’t know but the thought that he would forgive even her if she wanted it was a good thought. And the assurance that he wouldn’t allow anyone harmful in his Kingdom was even greater than the happiness I felt at the thought of maybe, just maybe I could start all over again with my mother in God’s Kingdom. That is a wonderful hope I do mean to tell you.

    I’m going to need that sacrifice to lean on so that I can actually see a better life. I keep in mind that he hadn’t left me at all, he actually made a way for me to live and see that there is so much more to life than this.
    Austin of Sundrip Journals

  2. one thinks of someone leaving God, and all thoughts of Him, behind when one hears the phrase ‘losing my religion’. but reading your story puts a completely different connotation on it. i think it was summed up excellently with the phrase “loving God and knowing God are not one and the same”.
    with your permission i would like to use the same title, on my other site, to name an entry i have been wanting to write, and now feel i have some direction for. i may not need your permission, but i would rather have it.
    i have never been very religious, but i have loved God for many years, and sought to know Him as He knows me. as He knows Himself. yet i have faced the push and pull of religious people, and their persecutions and attempts to control. i want to write about it, and your title would fit my post. has even given me the ‘how’ to get started.

  3. I look forward to seeing other installments of your experiences with religious transitions. You once told me this is a big part of you and to leave it out of your journal would be to cheat yourself. I’m happy to see you writing about your spirituality.
    I gotta get some sleep. here it is 11:30AM and I’ve not been to bed yet. Possum didn’t even come over today and Smarny took me out to dinner. What is the world coming to? ;-)

  4. Hi Kirstin,
    By all means, use my title–after all, I stole if from R.E.M! It so perfectly sums up the direction my spiritual questings have taken, for I certainly had to lose my twisted religious concepts of God (which were the result of childhood abuse), before I could begin to know Him in any true sense. I’m very content writing about all this, and I’m happy for you that writing this post has given you the impetus you need to write one of your own. Can’t wait to read it!

  5. thank you for this insight into your relationship with God. we ourselves have some inside who continuosly prayed to God, some who could not understand why he hated us others yet who were convinced we were evil…why else would these things be allowed to happen to us? we have journeyed to and fro back and forth searching for what God is to us and we still aren’t sure.

    peace and blessings


  6. will write my entry this week sometime… look for it on my other site,
    here is a link to it on my site called ‘my den’.
    thanks :)