December 30, 2012

Christmas lights, Christmas nights.

Before we broke off I said to my therapist that I wanted to continue giving a brief overview of my teen years but I think we will be going back to talk about the eighties.

Its not images and sensations connected to the sexual abuse by my Scottish dad that flood every time I feel even remotely connected to my own sexuality.  Its all about Savile now.  I came round and remembered various times through out the years. Every time I would notice how much older his body was and how closely I had seen it age, how much my body knew him, it felt like big chunks of me had been cleaved of.

He was one of those that it didn't matter how much I did or didn't fight, who I did or didn't tell I would still myself being raped by them and them with the same void in their eyes.  The flashbacks from previous traumas would be so common and so intense sometimes I didn't know when I was remembering something that happened when I was little, something more recent or if it was happening now.  Men, cheap porn producers and vicious teenage girls would swap intel on how to manipulate this and when my tougher multiples that they couldn't get near were more likely to be around.  It didn't matter where I went, someone was likely to try and get drugs into me.  Public places, in the homes of friends and family, police stations, in anything I left in the fridge.  Any cash was liable to be taken of me.

The sheer quantity of it all is starting to dawn. The regulars when I was younger, he played a big part in it all.  He was big on the psychological stuff and causing pain.  Possible baths with an uncle, regular vists to 'wooden house' with a bloke who was a lot more yonnger and better looking than many.  It think Jimmy told me was a musician or something.  Beautiful house lots of carved wooden furniture, kind of open plan downstairs. A smaller room upstairs on a matters or futton or something close to the floor, against the wall, slanted roof above, I think there was cladding or something on some of the walls.  I was taken to the same place to make porn.  The guy would make choose between objects of long curvy carved wood.  Sometimes he would talk to me lots and touch me gently and try make me like him but then he would always use the worst one.  It was his favorite he always and he would used it until I screamed.  He said it was better if I felt good with him for a while before but it always made me scream worse.  Sometimes he used my throat with the carved wood to.

Woke up chewing on my own very swollen sore tongue on Boxing day.  My ailing mother who has been on antibiotics and steroids piped in 'oh I've had that too, its maybe oral thrush'.

Its all a bit familiar, nasty, horrible soul rot that is thrush, Christmas my mother and Savile on the brain.  I had thrush in various places a lot growing up. I think I had it few months if not longer because it was in my face, my mouth I barely felt it for ages.  I was very conditioned not go investigating any pain and discomfort in my wet places, it was always better not to know.

Like when the first thought when waking is about realising I was about to feel the full physical force of the rape and it was too late to hide somewhere.  I hated that.  I hate thrush too.

There must of been other Christmases though, ones far from Scotland and big draughty houses, endless infections and coldness.  Being the bottom of the heap.  Someone has looked after me, properly not like how I'm 'looked after' here.  Maybe its something I invented by looking in John Lewis's window in December whilst thinking about the stories I made whenever I smelt Italian food - The Faraway land of the top the big wooden table where all the good stuff and never anything sore comes from.  

I was generally always very conscious of how the word 'Gangster' had two very conflicting and opposing set of connotations for me.  The best life and the worst.  Love, safety, excellent health care, sunshine, fantastic diet on one hand and being raped all the time on the other.  Torture, exploitation, slavery, murder, being kept, hunger, pain, feeling run down, traumatised, drugged, the eating of body parts, shit, kept starved and tortured with food, parents appeasing abusers in the promise of medical attention for their kids.  Constant bastard thrush and catching every fucking cold, flu, stomach bug and viral infection that was going around.

I guess there is one set of connotations that bridges the heaven and hell though and that's all the blood and the screaming.  Calling December Demember sometime in my teens and laughing, crying, telling others about it. Then heading into town to shit stir the stressed, emotional, pissed up normal folk.

Having Christmas here was pretty awesome, even if I did spend a fair bit of the evening hiding in my room because my good lass turns into a lecherous ugly young farmer after 2 sherries and I was experiencing an allergic reaction to sons my voice.

Natural yogurt, Dakatarin, plenty lovely clean water, booze, a Audrey Hepburn moose mat and coaster, a lump of ghetto hash, vitamins and a lovely wee house to allllll to myself for a few days.  There is also no one thrusting themselves into said thrushy hot spots or otherwise irritating it and intentionally making recovery impossible.  Torture by thrush. Think on that.. What would you do for Daktarin and clean lukewarm water?

What's that?  Maybe we should open the Morgans?  Well the wine doesn't need seem to be helping the mouth fungus situation and its best to make the most of well stocked me time :)

I'm a big fan of a big Winter Festival.  As a time of indulgence and taking a step back to appreciate and make the most of what ever you have.  The lights help put off the S.A.D symptoms during the darkest time of the year as does the fine food and drink.  As for the 'Christ' stuff, its all lovely too if you interpret it outside of organised religion.  A bloody good story about a baby in a far away land that would bring about the end of social injustice   Its inspired some pretty bitchin tunes and art over the centuries   It just feels to me that its the only thing in my cultural history that has been around forever, the justifications for it all may of changed but at the heart its about accepting and embracing the human condition and its place in something much bigger.  Gotta do your best to organise a good winter festival for yourself, no one can do it for you and if you fuck it up your heading to longer winter months and wet spring already running on empty.

And Santa? Well if a couple of decades of high end Satanism didn't put me off than idiots forcing their tiny tots onto the knees of strange men in funny disguises in the name of consumerism isn't going to either.  Besides some of that sentimental Victorian art is beautiful.


December 09, 2012


I cant say much, cant remember much but when Radio 1s Dream Team told me they were getting involved with Clifford sometime in the mid nineties I knew I wouldn't be getting away from them anytime soon.  The gang rape, Spooney and his spoons; the control he had over my life, the pregnancies, their fascination for embryos, fetuses, their skills at manipulating my dissociated states and multiples, shit eating and writing symbols on my body would continue as would the cover ups.   Most of it happened in my bedroom but when Timmy wanted money for his own company I was taken out of the house to clubs and whore houses to be pimped.   

December 02, 2012

Fuck Knows..

The McCans?

I never felt traumatised when Lord Leveson started to appear on the telly. I didnt want to look too close and still don't want to. Usually don't have too dig deep to know that there is something very wrong going on.  I always put off remembering for as long as possible.  It will always be there though, near the top of the 'Shit that is really difficult and will have to be dealt with but not today or tomorrow pile.'

The constant themes that were the only grounding I had. The aspects and senses of it that were never forgotten.  Savile. Cyril Smith Mr T and the music industry in general; the BBC, big business, celebrities and conspiracy theories. Some bloke from coronation street and what the fuck does Maggie know about all this?  The basic gut level barriers that keep us all animals.

'I was a victim of incest.'
'I think pedophiles should be strung up by their balls.'
'Yea me to.  But that's my mum and my dad you talking about there.  And the bloke who took me to the beach and gave me ice cream   The guy that took me to safe comfortable plush hotels rooms with high security and left me alone.  For a whole night. With everything I need.. By myself, alone, safe for a whole night?

November 27, 2012

Sexual Abuse & History Repeating.

I feel that people need to take a step back from the whole black and white thing when it comes to Satanic & Ritual Abuse.  What we are trying to expose here involves activities so evil that it happened beyond the scope of human memory processing abilities and so insidious that is corrupts everything and everyone it came across.  Feel the anger, express it. Please do not believe that 'justice' can be resolved with quick fixes or long term investigations that bring very little in the way of real consequences for those who gained the most or improved opportunities  for victims to find safety and healing. After all what we are taking about here is people being routinely and expertly forced to do things that were totally against their conscience and everything they held true.  Then to do these under order or suggestion and then out of preference.

I am not saying all pedophiles are victims to, or that there is any circumstances when it is justified.  I just want  people to be more aware of what actual Satanism, as experienced by me and many others involves.  Abuse your own or someone else's, rape or kill, you do it or we will and we will never stop.  Things did not just happen. People were held against their will for hours, days, weeks at a time, drugged, terrified, injured, starved, tortured and traumatised in an unbelievable variety of ways and by people who were very skilled in what they were doing.  The 'abusers' had always (as far as I could tell) been through exactly what they put you through, that's what makes them (us?) so good at it.  You knew they would be back and everything you had done in the mean time would be scrutinised, judged and punished.

There needs to be some separation between the rage and any ideas about how any of this can be put right.  We need to know what we are dealing with and think clearly.  Otherwise we are just behaving exactly as we are intended to.  We are not dealing with something on the fringes of society here, this went to the heart of every powerful institution; cultural and economic not just in the UK but across developed economies.  As for developing, indigenous or hunting and gathering populations were affected by it I'm not so sure.  But I think there might be some clues in my genocide dreams.

I understand why people give up on the police but we have to keep trying whenever it is safe.  Take as long as you need but keep talking to them until you find either find someone in the police who will listen or someone who will make the police listen for you.  There are police out there who have heard of similar things from witnesses they considered reliable but have also seen what attempting to investigate it has done to their colleagues careers.  They have to listen to us, we have to make them take us seriously if we are to be taken seriously in the courts.  Police, social workers (dare I say!) judges are people to.  They have families that may have been threatened or hurt.  They have orifices, essential organs, nervous systems and survival modes just like everyone else.

And as for compensation.  Its not their money its just 'the' money. These institutions are capitalist the only way they can be hurt is financially   In the unlikely event, whenever it is possible take them and everyone they know for as much as you can get.  Give it to charities  research, refuges, whatever if you dont want it or cant keep it.  Money is power, the rich can only treat the vulnerable like that because they rich and well connected and the vulnerable are not.  Our bodies, our skills, our intellects were used against us for the pleasure and profits of others, recognise your value and take the money back. 

November 19, 2012

Give us time.

'Give us time.' The policewoman had said. I'd been talking about Savile when he was still alive.  We knew nothing would could happen when he was still alive and that I was too ill to give them much in the way of details that can be investigated, that the nature of his offenses and the cover up goes much further than groping girls and people turning a blind eye.  'I've got Savile's porn', Ferris had said in that bar.  I almost spilled my pint.  I guess I should be grateful and amazed that I still respond emotionally to anything and not hate myself for still believing what people say.  During it all, I had to cling to anything resembling hope even if I knew it was bullshit because I needed it to get through, the next day, the next minute, the next year.  Can't seem to turn it of now even though I have a safe home and an child that is with me and isn't being raped.  Where did the belief that deep down most people want to do the right thing come from? It certainly wasn't what I experienced, another part of the programming I guess.

The support over the net has been so good, the comments, the DMs, the tweets but feeling like part of the human race, part of a community has its downside after so much brutalization.   The past starts to become real, events start to matter again and not just as the sort of shit that happens to people like me.  Keep thinking about Henry, he was mine, that's what the look in eyes said; 'Mum'.  He wasn't the only one of my boys sent to Wales.  There was another one, an older one, our eyes met when I was part of a squad sent down to silence them.  The betrayal, the not surprised but still disgusted at what I was part of, of what I had been turned into, in total contrast to his brother but just as devastating.

I half see baby hands, I half cry, I half hear their voices on the phone talking about their lives in those homes, that home. I don't know what happened to the older one and as for the Henry, I can finally mourn him and feel that bond.  The bond between an abused teenager and the life made by me, to finally look into innocent eyes and know love is real to.

Watching the goddam press preview on Sky I saw myself strangling McAlpine with a cord or something with great determination.  I'm not convinced it was just a fantasy.  I don't generally have this much hate and disgust for someone whose politics I disagree with.  The cults, the rings usually involved families not just individuals with a shared interest.  I read something somewhere about an art collection, that rang a bell, 2001?.  I suspect that if he is involved he is no bit player.  Don't know, maybe he is just a victim to although he isnt acting like one.

Today, tomorrow, the next while isn't about him though, its about the boy who was happy to see me as I killed him and his brother who saw his only source of hope turn out to be just like everyone else.

November 16, 2012

Old Notes

Looking through notes from 2004 trying to find the names of some of the people I talked to when in refuge.  I knew it was unlikely I would find any, I'm far too well trained to remember or write down peoples' names.  Did find one, written at the back followed by 'CPU' will mention it to the police when I speak to them.  There was a mention of a policeman who 'was good with ritual abuse victims' hmmm.

Also found this poem, I guess it should be called 'All in my mind'

There's a dead baby over there
It might be me
I sing to her and she sings back
But it could all be in my head.
There's a big heavy cross on my back
Everyone's shouting things at me,
In a while I will be lifting that cross above my head
I'm in a lot of pain
But it might be all in my mind.
Their placing bets on who will win
The murdered or the rapist
Neither of us wants to be here
But its probably all in my mind.
I know you,
You've comforted me, I've cuddled you
You saw what people do
But its probably all in my head.
My dads in my bed again
He might send my sisters in afterwards
I'm in a lot of pain
But it's probably all in my mind,
There's a dead baby over there.
I woke up on the phone again
I don't know what I'm saying
My brains all fuzzy
There's voices and footsteps outside my door
I never know what happens next.
They're trying to convince me my dads dead again,
I wish.  He'll get up and go to work tomorrow
Like he always does
So it must all be in my head.

November 09, 2012

Due Process


Haut de la Garenne on the telly again, not for Bergerac
though this time.  On my knees in front of the BBC,
new carpet but and a crawling drooly infant.

I felt my hand still gripped rock hard until I opened it
and saw those bloody broken roots in my small palm,
dark dampness and a violent face.

They didn’t dig up much, just words scrawled in cellar,
a concrete bath, ashes in an improvised fireplace
and lots of teeth. Your not a bad boy.

But you left more in the damp earth, concrete pits, lakes
and spreadsheets we screamed in. Something still burning
when those that ate the evidence are getting promoted

and buying bigger houses. Something permanent
and recoverable in the meticulously crafted torture tools, tarpaulins
and fallacies of ritual abuse: the dark energy of the human sciences.

Definitions: exclude human foot soup or marinating foetuses
minorities and neighbours crushed under crosses
and put through the mincer.

November 07, 2012

One reason why there are not enough witnesses.

One of those big spinney kicks I think people call them round house.  I came back just as my foot is about to connect. I'm in my 'normal' Scotland clothes; jeans, a Tshirts and the boots that I wore to school.  The men in suits and rich clothes siting around the edges of the room are laughing.  They know I have come round.  They know I was aware, that I had seen what I had just done.  The kid was already injured, bloodied.  I don't know if it was me that did that.  I have the echo of one of their instructive voices in my head but I don't what he said.  The knowledge came like it was supposed to, input processed, assessment reached; fractured skull, broken neck.  This four year cute blond boy wasn't going to scream in agony or have his hopes purposely raised to be destroyed again.  He was nobodies' toy now. 

It was his face that helped a lot to keep me floored during the months and years after.  I just couldn't get passed it. He wasn't scared.  Like he was glad to be with me even though I was about to kill him.  A look of respect almost like he was surprised I had it in me. It might of been a kid I used to call Henry. Some said they were glad it was me who was going to kill them.  Some said they rather that than anyone else, some really seemed to believe they were privileged because I was 'special'.  One or two more were a bit more down to earth about it all said it didn't make any difference and they didn't care.

 It came back again after watching the North Wales stuff on the news. Another big old oppressive building that I cant look at for very long. I think a group of us were sent there as enforcers during the mid 90's.  To give the inmates a scare so they wouldn't talk.  I beat them but others went further.

Thinking about it today.  Its his eyes I'm desperate to see but can't.  Where they dark? Like mine, like wee man's, like Petey's.  Was he mine? I was definitely around my mid teens when it happened so its possible.

Have I told you this before?


November 03, 2012

Hard Evidence

Pretty hard to prove historic sex abuse, pretty hard to prove sexual abuse that happened 20 minutes ago.  Your word against theirs and abusers have a sixth sense for the vulnerable.  They know people don't want to know, don't want to believe, would rather accept things 'the way they are'.

There was plenty witnesses to many things that happened in Partick from November 2004 to March 2005.  Most of them have criminal records and already have complex relationships with the police.  My mate kept calling me a Brit coz he saw me talking to Blair.  This pissed me off considerably as he had also seen me talking to IRA members.  Not that I think blowing up civilians achieves fuck all but I've spent my live trying to escape the clutches of British institutions. 

There was stuff in the press about me around then I think, I could never see it.  Definitely a few occasions where there was heaps of journos outside the bar.  Couple of locals told them I was a prostitute I said I didn't have any comment about that. We were damaged, drunk, drugged by others and by ourselves to try and make it through the night, we all betrayed each other for 5 minutes of not being the victim.  We are multiples, disassociated, been betrayed by everyone we know and programed to act against our own best interests with no idea where we have been or where we come from.  There is no who, when, where, for how long and what with.  Just severe depression punctuated with patches of pure hell.  The same faces that are on the telly talking civility and equality standing a few feet away giving it 'Hail Satan' over some bairn, some prostitute, some criminal, some poof, some mangled pile of blood, shit and bones.  Cant be true.

The police? Well at best they cry for you and your evidence has they bin it.  At worst they will have a go as well and hand you over to their mates.  A cute PC asked my name, I spelled out 'Trouble'.

'Hard evidence' - its such a received phrase, defined by those in power, those with the money and contacts.  Those with the loudest voices, who are rarely asked to prove anything.

First I was told no one would listen, then I was told whoever I talked would be hurt and they would hurt me, then they said there was no evidence, then they said it was out of their control.  I talked to a lot of people, I don't believe they can silence us all.

 Our existence is proof and things are not quite like they used to be.

Think I need to talk about St Andrews but there is no rush.


October 28, 2012

Arresting Gadd? I'm sure the Met are just giving the Grandmasters a false sense of security...


Tried not to get too down hearted about it.  He's such an easy target.  The sort of common or garden paedophile that took up the lower levels.  They were looked down on by most ranks.  This meant they were exploited, bullied, blackmailed, humiliated and abused to an extent I found it hard not to feel sorry for them.  I argued about it with a friend in the mid eighties, she hated them all equally.  I felt that at least the ones that had sex with kids because they found it irresistible tended to talk to you more and were more likely to be a bit nicer to you.  The other ones, people with more clean cut, family man, respectable type public roles had to take drugs, watch films and be raped themselves to have sex with a child.  It was a means to an end.  Many rings had ideologies built on some sort of belief that by going against every social and humanistic instincts a human had brought about liberation and would eventually make the whole society free.  They had a lust for an absolute power over people and learnt to get off on sexual abuse, humiliation, physical trauma and murder.  Their faces plastered all over the media causes me a lot more problems than bloody Gary Glitter and Freddy Starr.  Their sort was never seen as having much occult powers.

Savile, at times anyway seemed to straddle the lot of them.  I was some sort of favourite of his, the sort of domination that is designed to last a life time.  I'm having a sense that there was one before me who was murdered.  I was taken all over with him and for him and introduced of loads of people he knew. I witnessed him rape adults too when no one else was around.  That didn't come as easy to him outside the cult he had to get into some sort of zone before hand.  It was always part of a plan to reinforce his power and influence with the Masonic cults, to silence someone or influence the direction of the rituals.  He talked some scary shit.   

Nightmare dreaming last night.  Related to the memory from just after the move to the Glen, that makes me about four.  We were in the kitchen, the stove was lit and it was warm.  My parents were happy, they had either just started or were about to start university and were glowing with it.  They are the first of their families to go.  We were all happy and were excited and hopeful about rural life.  Savile strides in.  At least I think it was him.  It was a face from the telly anyway who was exuberant, loud and drew attention to himself, he was talking about what a powerful man he was.  He had about 7/8 other men with him, mostly in suits I think.  Smartly dressed while the main man was brightly dressed, like a telly star.  For a split second I was thrilled because a shiny famous person was in the house.  Then I remembered who he was, how I knew him.  Memory stops there but it was a long time before we felt so happy together again, if at all.

One of the images from the dream I'm really left with is of opening a letter from the Criminal Injuries Compensation people.  I pretty sure I wrote Savile down as a rapist when I applied.  The letter had a photo and a written request asking me what I knew about the objects in a photograph.  The picture was of things that looked a bit like ball gags.  Four or two long thin straps but the objects where the ball would be were different.  They were coloured and shaped, kind of funking looking I guess.  I didn't look long, they seemed child seized.

October 25, 2012

Operation Yew Tree and Me - Part I

I started by emailing the NSPCC.  The media was saying people should contact with them or their local police.  I didn't want to call the local police although I do have the name of someone I talked to when I first moved here and a social worker who I also discussed things with.  I was told it was being investigated but they were very busy I have hear nothing since.  My therapist that is destructive for me.  They forwarded what I sent to the Met.  Felt great when I saw .met in my inbox, from an actual police person, with their own email address and a direct dial to Operation Yew Tree.  I sent of my details and waited.

Last Thursday I was riddled with it all and anxious about the transvaginal the following day so I phoned and asked for the some officer.  Half an hour later I got the call back.  I repeated much of the stuff I have said to Woman's Aid workers and whoever Woman's Aid workers had wanted me to repeat it to.  She was very sympathetic and friendly but I'm pretty limited into how much I can go into at first contact.  Especially when wee man came in needing help getting back into his grim reaper Halloween custom.  The usual suspects and Savile as a ring leader.  Aberdeen police refusal to admit any knowledge of me despite countless statement, arrests and working as an informer.  She said someone would come up and take a statement.

After Panorama, the helplessness over the chronic pain despite and apparently 'completly normal' pelvic area becoming more manageable and I had to update them.  Memories have been clearing because of all the press coverage because I'm talking and writing.  I'm certain I was taken to every building they showed.  Merion's words about Duncroft; celebs, vulnerable young women in big old buildings caused not so much a bell to ring but a massive ever reverberating clang.  I wrote about the murder parties that happened after the paedo sex ring parties and how I used to wonder why they bothered to put a life jacket on me every time we crossed water.  Wrote of the girl who had hair like my friend and how she seemed so happy when we knew she was next to die.  I think Savile may have referred to her as Rachael but I'm not certain.

I'm scared to try and focus on the faces that were a feature throughout all of the years in case I can put names to them.  One thing I do know is that the very sound, the shape, the pattern of the initials 'BBC' has made me feel as if surrounded in tar and being sucked downward for as long as I can remember.  Making the Houses of Parliament look like fun house.  There were times when I knew why I felt that way and walked the streets in comfy, perfectly fitting boots, wearing warm, soft layers with a mind sharpened into sharp, cutting focus.  

October 22, 2012

We can do this.

Not all at once of course.  I need to figure out as much as I can as part of the mourning process, to figure out who I am, to figure out where I want to go.  Talking about Savile, Jersey, ritual abuse and all the rest is me looking after myself and those I love.  It will not take over my life though I will take my time put my health first.  I cant keep hiding from the names and faces that lurk behind my eyes, forcing them into the pitch black, no words zone.  I will say whatever I say and write whatever I write.  Stop thinking so much and be more. 

Getting back in touch with the truth isn't something I only do when there is some shit in the media it is a constant long term process.  I will hope that others come forward and accept it when I feel like I need them but remember the reason I remember, the reason I talk is for me.  I have nothing to prove to anyone but I would like to be part of something which exposes the violence and curroption that can flourish at the very highest level in Western democracies.

People, remember what you promised yourself as a child, in agony, heartbroken and with no safe place to go.  Remember what they made you promise.  Remember who and what was taken.  It's time to wake up now.  It's okay now and if it isnt we have the resources to make it okay.  No one could possibly say everything they saw but you can have a couple of conversations, give the met a name, a location or two.

Much love.

October 14, 2012

Turn the page (freewriting)

Turn the page
And it's covered up with a white sheet.
Dont read between the lines that exist but are never represented
that are seen but never documented.  Lines like scars
that trace the boundaries between what we will and will not remember.
I want to draw a curvy landscape and a rectangular city
but I trace my little foot and the line from the bus stop
to my therapist's office.

Over the rainbow isn't that much different.
They just don't pretend as much and leave their corpses
out to rot in the sun instead of deep in the bracken.

I told my therapist when I was 22.  It was ongoing.  I took the bus buzzing with pain and hope.  He would tell the police.  I would be listened to, I would be cared for.  He called me delusional.

I told a man at the hospital he wasn't involved in all that so much I thought he might be a good man.  He told me there was nothing he could do, that trying to stop it would makes things worse for me.  He said he helped a lot of people and asked why I would want to threaten that.


October 08, 2012

One week in recovery from the Illumanti

There has been some rain this week drenching the outside of my windows as watched TV under a blanket or was wrapped in cotton in bed in the dark.  The light has bee tremedous.  Something in its angle or nature that goes right through people and wakes something primitive and positive, something cosmic.  Alexander McColl Smith, watching the search for a lost girl.  Whats the point of dredging rivers if there is any chance the kid is still alive, shouldn't they be knocking on and kicking down doors, pressing the snouts

On Monday I had an appointment with my GP.  Stronger painkillers prescribed, a brief discussion about the vaginal scan I put off because of pain and fear.  The flu jab, I mentioned pulling my medical records.  The records of a fictional character, the legal front to a life undocumentable. 

Tuesday is dramatherapy day, every session getting more emotional.  Making body sculpts for the last week.  I place someone as me, sitting armed wrapped around tummy, head down, writing as someone stands over evaluating I called it 'ATOS'.  Someone else makes a lawyer and positions themselves somewhere else, half cowering half straining to watch the lawyer.

Wednesday its over to a prettier side of town to see a woman my private therapist to start providing her with my trauma history.  At last.  We start at the beginning years 0-4, using old notes and everything pressing I let it go.  Shes writes the odd note, asks nothing offensive and takes the highly possible to the extremely unlikely without reacting. 

Thursday, I have no appointments.  I take the painkillers after getting back from the school and watch the news.  Missing girl, Jimmy Saville, Syria screaming.  A hopeful sounding drop in the basket the post gets into.  Seconds later I am unwrapping a reasonable sized slice of mediocre hash and am over joyed.  That night there is family phone calls, sister back off the wagon, mother woken up from night shift by the school saying the spidermonkey is still sitting there waiting.  I find out from my dad my mum unwilling to tell me in case I phone Social Services.  A few phone calls later and my nephew is on the road with the kids' dad.  Whatever can be said about this family they are definitely better than they used to be.

By Friday I'm not sure I can do it.  I need more hash, I need someone to pick up junior and take him somewhere fun.  I want to be alone, I can't face cooking and I don't want to go to the asthma nurse.   He's tired and grumpy when I pick him up but cheers up on the walk.  The nurse ups the dosage in my steroid inhalers and we pick up fish and chips on the way home.  Friday night thinking.

Now its Saturday, dishes are no longer mounting because there isn't anymore to dirty, but they have been scraped.   

September 25, 2012

Their not going in without with out a general..


I have given this some balanced consideration and am considering cancelling the appointment.  I have voluntary attended numerous examinations in this region in order to find out why I hurt all the fucking time.  I found exactly why on numerous occassions.  People where torturing me.  Down there and in there and sometimes down my throat.  Have you ever been raped with a transvaginal scanner when you were already in constant burning twisting agony?  At doesn't matter how many disassociated states you have some things are just so painful they get though to you in ways you never forgot.  'Life Defining'

Your the NHS your supposed to take months to get round to stuff..


Can I reschedule?  

September 23, 2012

Sexualy Enlightened by 'Sex in the City.'

While my neighbours are digging into Fifty Shades of Grey (its about deviant sex - my shrink told me) I am recently discovered the joy of back to back sex in the city episodes.  I always loved the frank discussions, the women and their relationships/careers etc pretty watchable but had to turn over during the dirty bits or risk blackouts and vomiting.  I've found so of it mildly and comfortably titillating.  Expect most of what Samantha gets up to of course, watching her in some positions makes me hurt but the thought that a woman might enjoy performing oral sex on a man no longer makes me want to firebomb everything everywhere. 

The openness of their communication with each other, their lack of inhibitions and lack of guilt over inhibitions inspired a long hard think about a particular highly attractive ex.  'I finished' as Carrie and the girls say.  The last episode I watched tonight was the one where the ginger one's mum dies and Samantha loses her orgasms.  Its probably my favourite, its quite cathartic watching the big blond tart from Police Academy weeping on the posh birds shoulder.  Portrayal of strong, emotionally intimate relationships between woman on TV has made me cry before and probably will again.  It would be amazing to have a safety net like that and would save a shit load on shrinks.  I hate all that women competing over men crap, coz the men in question are usually tools and the woman are too disadvantaged to see how varied their opportunities could be without being bloke dependant, if they were able to support instead of undermined each other.

So I start providing Nunushrink (henceforth referred to as Nunu) with a trauma history.  Not something I feel at all able to put any timescale on at the moment.  Got appointment for pelvic scan, what a fun day that will be.  Need to do it though, really struggling to take pill again there has been quite a few days when I thought pain started after taking it.  Need to make sure it really is the only/best option.  Run out last Friday, by Tuesday all I could think was 'this is like being gang raped when heavily pregnant and/or in labour.  Not nice, makes me a bit irritable, tearful and stuff.  Dishes are needin done.

Kids sex education book came through today.  It looks really cool, funny cute wee cartoons and family friendly text.  Looked at back of book and saw they did Lets Talk about bodies and family one as well would of got it first if I'd seen it.  It was more basic anatomy I was looking for him, his existing body book has an androgynous humanoid shape to show where pee leaves the body that bugs me.  He frets when he gets and an erection, comes running through to me saying he can't get his tinkle to go back down.  I tell him not to worry, its perfectly natural and will probably go away if he stops fiddling with it, whilst trying not to look too uncomfortable or stare.  The book says its for 10 - 14 year olds which I think is a bit late.  How much porn has the average 14 year old boy looked at, searched or been shown by friend.  Whats he taught by mainstream culture, page 3, Hollywood and all those bastard music videos.   At 10 most girls are already been sexualised, traumatised by social attitudes towards their bodies and the roles they are pressured into.  I read on amazon when I was researching something I would be comfortable for him to dip into over the years when read something that really pissed me of.  Someone complained about one book that it wasn't necessary to teach 5 year olds about homosexuality. As if telling a kid that some women and men prefer to be close to people of the same sex is akin to mentioning fisting, vibrators, bondage and S&M.  Surely is better to give them some basics well before the prepubescent hormones and peer pressure start kicking in.

September 12, 2012


When we first spoke on the phone I thought her accent suggested she might be too posh but she's not.  The psychiatrist was cheery, down to earth and had read my notes.  Read my fucking notes!  That is rare thing.  Now all I need is a cheery, down to earth gynaecologist and it will be full clip.  G has been and gone.  We went for walk after therapy and had lunch overlooking the water, it sunny, it was warm and the food was worth the money.

So Diagnosises then.  He drew a Venn diagram to try and sketch out where he wanted to go in regards to my psychiatric conditions.  I appreciated the way he worked and the fact that he does work.  'I will do a bit of research'.  From a psychiatrist, a fucking NHS psychiatrist!!  Bless 'im.

Gotta mention Liverpool though.  And not mention 9/11.

'hang themselves in shame' - Classic. 

September 03, 2012

Until I can tell my own story..

All quotes from Breaking Ritual Silence: An Anthology of Ritual Abuse Survivivors' Stories eds., Jeanne Marie Lorenze & Paula Levy (1998)

'When you are born to satanist
parents, you drink paradox with
your mother's milk.' (Jane Solay, p.132)

'And I will write it someday; I will tell. I will tell in words that people will not be able to look away from..' (g & c, p.7)

'By age fifteen, I had been raped thousands of times, witnessed scores of murders, and killed..' (Joy, p.25)

'Killing just seemed natural and matter-of-fact for us. (Morgana, p.61)

'They taught me that everything has life and everything is sacred, then they turned around and forced me to abuse an animal or use one of the elements in an abusive way.' (Two Bears Running, p.41)

'I was an interrogator and an assassin.' Morgana (p.62)


September 02, 2012

tenner a gram

Can't put a price on feeling positive and inspired.


No one has contacted social services about my sister yet.  Well not as far as I know anyway.  After her last binge mum agreed again to give her one last chance, as long as she went to her sessions, took some drug that might help cravings and stayed sober.  Mother also offered to pay for Alkysis's to have private therapy.  This had me spitting a few feathers at the time.  Alkysis has never shown much interest in therapy whenever she has been offered it in the past.  Legend has it that she went to one AA meeting and turned up gutter and was asked to leave.  She made out she was still going for weeks taking my mums and money and hitting the pub, or the bus shelter toilet with a bottle of rum or whatever it is she does.   Whereas I have a sense of 'therapy' being one of my first conscious words along with 'no', 'lawyer' and 'sore'.  'Police' came a bit later.  She has never offered to pay for my therapy and I would of asked, at least once or twice, maybe more and worked with NHS on and off since I was 13 to this day.  Its been a few days since I have talked to either of them and have had excellent drama and talking sessions since then and don't really give a fuck about it anymore.

I'm gonna write some note for the shinny nu shrink that lives a half hour bus journey away in nicer part of town.  Shes discussed her supervision, studying ritual abuse, networking with people who work and study in that field and so far has answered most of my questions before I needed to ask them.  I hate calling it a all 'field' its just to accurate to be academic and by that I mean it triggers like fuck.  I have been feeling really awful a lot for a while now.  I have noticed before that when that happens I am likely to idolise anyone who starts to have any kind of a positive effect on my life.  I have a real chance at a long term therapeutic relationships here though and that is fucking ace.

Might write soon. Dx



August 12, 2012

Nothing wrong with the Markies' vodka by the way..

...mixed with water and some of the kids apple and blackcurrant in fact its delicious.  Can't be very fine if you down it neat in bathrooms though.  Anyway.  Tia has been on my mind a lot.  I'm sure I'm far from being the only one who finds themselves watching girls and cute boys trying to memorise what there wearing, the time and anyone they may talk to.

On a much happier note.  There is pollen in my possession and in mother's to probably by now.  It's a massive trigger seeing my sister drunk with or without her kids.  Seeing my mum seriously stressed out and not copying is as well.  The kids are all fine though except for mine who has picked up the cold and is sprawled on the sofa with a hot water bottle and Ben 10. He's excepting calpol, he must be feeling really crappy.  Ate a good bit of macaroni pie with extra cheese, peas, sweetcorn, prawn crackers and fruit though.  I decided to see how the other two's dad does before I start filling out housing forms though.  Mike has been speaking more sense, a bit and doing alright with the kids.  I keep thinking of that film where Richard E Grant has a kid with a woman who dies.  His mother and the dead woman's mother break into his house and leave the baby on his bed as he his sleeping after he said he wanted nothing to do with it.  Just left the kid on the bed.  No clothes, no nappies, no food, nothing.  Brilliant.  But then he takes the baby into a cafe and the young beautiful waitress who works there looks after the bloke and baby for ever after.  Didn't like that bit so much.  

As for me I have stopped eating so much at even at all sometimes.  Except for last night when Mike (who had a different sort of cheese) paid for a Chinese, there was cake too.  It was also from Markies (check us out we are lower middle class dysfunctional oh la la) Irish Cream and chocolate cheese cake.  I eat approximately half of it at around three this morning along with two of the doc prescribed sleepers and sleep well and dreamless after that.  Glad the school is only two sleeps away. We have the rest of today to take it easy and tomorrow to sort the house out and look at him in his uniform for the first time.  There may be a wee weak vodka, water, apple and blackcurrant then too.  Bless 'im.

NuShrink by the way.  Haven't met her yet.  Talked on the phone though.  I'm pretty hopeful. She rattles off a lot of the initials that make my ears prick.  She's done some serious work.  Forthy quid an hour, and two buses away.  Its an area I like.  I'm so up for this.. not to the point of starving myself or the wee man though of course..  Stupid GP.  I'm starting to doubt her bedside manner.  If I was able to except that the misery I experience is 'just part of being me' then I would be under media execs and organised criminals right now, in a lot more pain and with a lot less options, or still on 'Set'.  I'm not.  Dog Days sure enough but its Dog Days post Florence and the Machine.  Natural deaths and the memories that arrive because you are safe and sound.  I've said I will take the kids if needed, anytime and said I would make phone calls but I've been saying that for a long time.  Pretty sure I still have a social workers number. 

I've also said I don't want to see Alkysis for a while.  I think she should go into a hostel. Leave the rest of us to look after the kids for a while before the suits get involved.  We will never let her hit the rock bottom she is so determined hit.  I used to respect her for it sometimes.  It was such an obvious fuck you to all the 'everything is fine, we are all family who love each other, no one has any serious problems' bullshit that my mum has pushed so hard for so long.  I can't let it put me into some sort of post trauma state of shock any more though.   

I've replaced my dead Gran's old gold curtains with lovely purpely ones.  Okay so the new ones are from my dad's pub but strangely familiar small possible blood stains or patterns that make you feel drugged if you stare at for to long are irrelevant, if they are lined and someone paid several hundreds of pounds for them at some point. 

G has sent me txt in which she mentions my breasts and little else.  I have not responded.  


Alcoholism in family members: the really, really, really long goodbye.

'I'm an alcoholic.'  Her wobbly face seemed puffy but its hard to tell because the hell in her eyes makes it difficult to look closely.  'What do you want me to do?'  Her centre of non focus shifted from my direction to the vague direction of Mike the kids' father and then our dad.  Mike asked her if she had any money and if she did to give to dad or her adult son up in Aberdoom.  He's twenty, just left another broken family with two wee ones, he's usually fine but gets aggressive when drunk or angry sometimes.  He is also best friends the last person who assaulted me (just a slap and a push) and boasted about sexually abusing my son.   I wonder how far the aggression from my sister's son towards her drinking is a factor sometimes.  I remember a shared abuser, you see, between me and the nephew.  He was our downstairs neighbour when we first moved to town before my sister got pregnant.  He visited when we moved up the road, sometimes often then it tapered out.  He taught my nephew to call me a whore when he was three and groomed him into having sex with him and raping women.  In particular me and his mum.  I don't know about anyone else.  I had problems figuring out how he fitted into all the hierarchies and groups of ritual and organised crime.  I think I still do.  When things get too close to home I stop seeing it, sometimes literally.

Mike told her she had to start being honest she nods makes noises in agreement.  Before my dad took her back up the road I heard her crying in the kitchen.  When they've left Mike shows me an empty bottle of lucozade that stinks of brandy.  That sickening sweet smell that hangs to her, you can smell it in the room or in the car after she has left.  Later on I speak to my mum she has come of the phone to my sister, they had long chat by the sounds of it.  My sister had told her she hadn't touched a drop that day.  It broke my mum, briefly.  There is a quarter bottle of Marks and Spencer's vodka that was found in her bag that she left here.  I couldn't help thinking that leaving her bag with all her money and drink was her unconscious, something in her try to help herself.  It's in my cupboard and I'm glad about this..


July 29, 2012

Just a wee paragraph before I completly forget what I was saying..

Theres a holiday/Westcoastaphile piece that I've started but isn't ready quite to go back to yet.  I loved it but on benefits and with no car it wouldn't be possible to live there.  I'm giving serious thoughts to phoning child protection before the next crisis.  Wee man is going to be 5 soon.  The memories are still coming, they are becoming more detailed, more of a sense of how I felt.  I've also remembered a husband and got in touch with some of my sexuality.  I know his name and but haven't googled it yet.  The 'married with 2 children' bit always hits me hard.  I don't know how this is going to effect the relationship between us and my family.  It takes a lot out of me being with them.  I know parts of me has wanted to spend time and space with them as a way of staying in touch with whatever I lost at there hards.  Parts of me that chose to be hurt by familiar predictable people than have hope and have it smashed so irrevocably.  Now there are parts of me that have the safe space and love I need.  Parts of me that are highly educated and insightful that ain't dedicated to surviving a brutal nasty existence.  The air turns to cotton wool when I'm with them sometimes, the floor to fine wind blown sand. 

And what about tomorrow.  Work focused interview in afternoon but lots of time before that.  Free school meals to start sorting out and maybe some investigations into child protection in my sisters area, then assembling wee man's 1st bike in the evening.  Buying food, bike assembly and not feeling stressed out will be the priorities.  Deeply dysfunctional families are a fucking nightmare.  At least I'll have backup on the day though and quite probably a lift home.  I can see why people get into having friends they really are essential for your mental health if you come from a family of alcoholilic, denial ridden former sex cult members.  Why don't I get away?  Because it takes so much out of me that I wont have enough strength to fight to build a brand new life from scratch after the fight to get myself to a respectable distance from them.  There really was an awful lot of sexual torture and humilation from a lot of people.  What the fuck was all that about then? 

July 04, 2012


the more I think about what I want to write the more I realise the story is already known, its the story of me that I write to separate myself from the past. 

Drama therapist poned today and asked about wee man's safety.  Difficult questions to answer but I'm always glad that someone other than me is asking.  I've already talked for hours.  My mother's hands are full of arthritis and she was always running on empty anyway.  Alkysis is either drunk or shaking and often blind because she is always breaking or losing her glasses.  The little ones, well granted they can strop for Britain and have given some nasty from behind hug tackles but I think its a while before I need to worry about them pimping me out.  Better the devil you know and devils that are old, tired and struggling with desises are the best.   

West Coast trip planned soon.  Increasingly becoming a bit of a thought.  I wonder what memories I'm chasing now.  Now doubt I'll find them by the bucket load.  I've working my Wii fit and the baby weights a bit over the oast few days.  The plan is to be outside with my son lots.  In air that  preferably isn't freezing cold, soaking wet or beastie infested..  Either way I want to walk about in it, under the sky, sniffing the nature and all that. Boy + beach = :) Really glad there will be other 'adults' there theres no way I'd been volunteering to herd three kids in large open spaces for a week and think it was a good idea.  Were taking a fair amount of baggage out there and hopefully taking it all back again too as long as the weather doesn't get so awful my mother decides its to have a launch some sort of intervention on my sister while quaffing vino.  All the while I'm contemplating have much clever I am than them as cough and hack my way through endless roll ups.  Family life is great, its what our great nations are built on. 

They were trained to do it then they were trained to stop.  I think I might try saying that next time.  And how do you know? The brave ones might answer.  Because I was involved in the research, planning and execution of said training. 

June 29, 2012

It's all pretty good for me today

Citraliprams at 40, there is a load of light outside and inside my flat, my weed works and I have a 4 year old and a wii fit.  It's all pretty ace.  There's also loads of people unhappy about the corruption in the banks, government, press and police too.  Its barely scratching the surface of course but still the arrogance that people in power have is being challenged and their decisions scrutinised.  It makes me feel a bit more comfortable.  It feels a very long time since hope was watching the light grow above the hills or through my bedroom window wondering if daybreak would bring and end to that nights activities.  Wondering if it would be worth looking at then figuring out who my assailants were and if they were likely to leave at dawn or not.  Preparing for whatever was going to happen next could make a lot of difference but mistakes were disastrous.  I came round once, back to my flesh, my room, my life and found that evening's gentleman caller was still there, waiting for me. 

That's nursery finished for the young man, he's had his first short back and sides and he has just started, with some bribery and lots of encouragement, to put is pjs on and take them off again by himself.  He's so big and with the short hair I have flinched a couple of times at his blatant boyishness.  Especially when he wants 18 night night kisses.  We've been getting on really well but hes had a couple of nightmares.  All the talk of death and going to school I imagine.  Every parent worries I guess but with me and him its his utter and total lack of wariness around any kind of people.  Amazing as it is that a child of mine could be so oblivious of stranger dangers I'm scared he'll wont know how to deal with bullies.  A couple of times I've seen him have a strange attraction to kids that were acting up, putting himself repeatedly in the firing line.  There was one kid at his other nursery he talked about for ages, the little turd pushed my wee man around.  I didn't like it.  I've worried that wee dude acting funny around bad boys had something to do with whatever did or didn't happen that New Year with my nephew's mate.  I guess all I can do is keep an eye on it and chat about him avoiding the naughty kids and that if they hurt him to be careful because they could do it again.  He is a big clever lad with a mum who loves and supports him, I'm sure he'll be fine.

Been writing.  Central character, plot twists, perspective that sort of stuff.  Quite excited.  Back into the hinterland tomorrow though, to see how my sister's drinking, mum's neurosis and Gran's first weeks without her husband of 64 years is all getting along.  What fun.  Football on Sunday though, pizza and rioja.  Should help.

June 25, 2012

A good lass.

And she is but it feels like part of me dies whenever she asks for a hug.  I'm sure it would help if I told her this but I'm too busy dissociating.

But as a friend once said 'A friend with weed is better'.  Luscious addictive black x.  I just wish we could just relax and go with it but were both all rigid with PTSD and self consciousness.  Add sexual tension and I start to feel pretty fucking overwhelmed by the old feelings of trying to act normal with someone directly after they had raped and/or tortured me.  Grim.

The deaths in the family have made me feel much more secure that's things have changed enough.  Its great to have a place to say that.  My mum and Gran said they are crying all the time.  Alkysis is still drinking.  The whole going to watch her dad die and then come home to a messed up house, two hungry preschoolers and a drunken daughter makes it hard to hate my mother with the same semi repressed gusto.  I'm glad I'm not her.  Not too likly I will spending much time at side of my dad's death bed.  Quick 'See ya' will do me. 


June 20, 2012

Lazy Day

Goodnight Grandad,

I have have no idea of the sort of man you really were.  After the initial glimpses and sense of journeys with you I have questioned again my assumption of you as a cult member.  You used to talk about my Gran in a sad way.  There was things you wanted to do but couldn't because she wouldn't allow it.  You wanted me to not have to worry about getting my dress dirty, you ignored the signs and my rigid following of signs by swinging high in the play park.  I was terrified when a women calm walking.  I thought she might be undercover police, she was a friend of yours u chatted for a while.  You seemed really happy that day.  You hated my laziness but I was so drained the older I got and couldn't sleep well even when left alone.  Your role in it all?  You've got me there I have no idea.  There a fantasy, there always is.  A need of mine being accepted over the phone, the right words at the right time.  My oldest sister teaching me how to replace hell with something less unpleasant.
'Just imagine what you would need to feel better and pretend that its happening.  But I watched and told her after she told me that what she wanted right was her Grandad to phone and tell her everything was going to be okay that it wasn't just a dream.  She had put her head down to flicker the phone had rung and she had definitely answered it and spoken to someone she called 'Grandad'.  It didn't work as well when I tried.  He didn't sound anything like Grandad who it was very hard to have a conversation with anyway because he was so quiet.  Even if it was Grandad and he wasn't a sicko, things were definitely not going to be okay.  She said that if someone so good could love us that much then none of it matter.  I doubted that very much but it was natural for me not to be very family minded.  I was being told they weren't my real family, I still hope there is no DNA match.  That the same blood that ran in people veins was said to be so important when it was treated so carelessly;  Splashed, spilt and thrown around, poisoned and contaminated confused me.  The day after your funeral I used your old shears to tidy up the hedge around your daughter's garden until my hands shook and ached.

And ***

31 years of Scottish eating and drinking habits caught up with you suddenly when you pushed your weakened heart into marathon training.  Take change slowly when possible, I would of told you this if we still talked.  Your love for me took you again and again to places you were not built to manage like I was.  You have a family that got involved with you, knew you.  But we were teenagers surrounded by extreme sexual disinhibtiion and torture.  It was bound to happen sometime.  Afterwards I hated you like all the other rapists and you loved me as wonderful husband would.  The tears, the hitting out and the shame passed when we toasted our Gran's liberation from mental and physical decay.  Your sister smiled at me and I hugged her after cremating you much like we did then.  I remember helping your dad to garden and talking to him, his hug during the line up was the realist thing I have felt in a long time.

My green lanky bairn and half of her sister,

My love.  You make music like music and living and art.  Our bond is maternal.

June 05, 2012

Mortality, healing and the difficulties for RA survivors to find a good shrink.

Saw my grandad twice over the long weekend.  He said something about someone called Alan and 'I couldnae stand up to them'.  I couldnae help wondering if related to the sense I've started having about going on trips with my Grandad when I was very little, 2ish say, a good bit before we moved to Glen.  There was arguments about it. Incest glimpses, my legs are bended up towards my face, he is on top.  My dad was an obvious bastard but Grandad not so.  I have the usual sense of disbelief when the images and feelings are not ones I have already become accustomed to.

My cousin's funeral on Monday.  The doctors have been saying my grandad doesn't have long for years.  I never believed it before but today I lent over his devastatingly frail and angular frame and tried to lift him up against his pillows I knew something big had changed.  Thankfully a nurse saw this and they sorted him out.  Outside in the corner a woman kept crying and arguing with the nurses because they didn't want her to go back to bed.  My gran was heartbroken, of course but she was distracted by lusting over the cake that the staff were eating as they walked past the side room door.  There was bunting and a table all set out all bonnie in the day room for the jubilee, I could hear the singing from a telly.  God Save The Queen sung with gusto by thousands in the background as my gran talked in support of voluntary euthanasia; They wouldn't let a dog lie like this'.  His eye opened briefly in a smile and he turned his head when my wee man announced his arrival.  I gave my gran a hug when we dropped her of home, she looked glad I was around.

Back from the beach and the chipper I felt lost, like crying but without any tears, sobbing or noise.  Thankfully though, wee man's digestive system made the decision to stop playing the computer after days of too much crisps and ice cream was made for him as was my ambivalence I had about showering him.  Moisturiser, hair brushed, two stories, 12 kisses and 12 hugs.  He was asleep by half past six.  Under the duvet, with his head on a pillow, at the right end of the bed.  I'm beginning get comfortable with loving him.  The other day he made me smile in a way that made me feel like I was using a cheek muscle that had not be used in a long time.  I'm getting more comfortable with lots of things.

Shame about the shrink though.  We agreed I needed something more regular.  We can't get into relaxation or regression every now and again.  I need something every week, something during school hours. When we shook hands goodbye I squeezed his hand.  He refused to take all the money and gave me a tenner back, told me to go buy some summer reading.  On the way out I told him he worked too much, he agreed.  Before the second hand bookshop I had a pint in the chairs and table outside the nearby Irish themed bar on a busy street.   Smiling for a while, lapping up big city people watching with the Guinness.  I knew by the time I'd gotten off the bus that this was going to be the last time I did this and relished every second of it all.  Books bought I headed down the road to the old 'ood.  Wandering into all the posh food shops that I usually felt too inferior to even glance into when I lived there.  I was looking for a panini.

Eventually I got a tuna and salad roll from a wee ice cream place that had pictures of bikers and motorbikes lining the street outside an the wall.  It was fresh, overfilled and pretty fine once I picked out most of the white onion.  Washing it down  with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon that cost the same as what I usually spent on a bottle. It was sunny.  I raised my face to the sun, drank more wine, chatted; familiar Lis Mor crowd of cool adults and male letches than often owned or had owed something nearby.  I read some Number 1 Ladies Detective Agency.  Had a Morgans and Lemonade, much cheaper.  The was shining still all the bus ride home through tree lined roads and bunting strewn Dunfermline.  By the time I got back to my mum and sister's with chips and barbecue sauce the kids where all sleeping and the wine was open.

It takes a lot from all that family stuff but at least now it gives something worthwhile back.  It is worth it, surviving.   Espically when you grow your own.

May 28, 2012

Growing: Part Two.

Every time I arrive somewhere or fought to leave a location, it has been through the hope that I could find somewhere where I felt I had never been before but in agonuy, drugged, terrisfied or just not me.  Hoping that I could find somewhere without that crippyling oppressive atmosphere.  It gave me a sense of worth.  It was a horrible feeling that hit me everywhere I am sometimes.  A strange painful sense that I've been here before even if the images, flashes of body memories and the like seemed to be about something positive.  It couldn't of been me because I couldn't laugh like that.  Mostly though pains where sharp and the memories increasingly sequencial.  I never knew if I was reacting to the place where I was, the place I had been or the places I was going. 

There was a group when I lived in Aberdeenshire ran mainly by young Scottish men and women in their early twenties and thirties from families who were known to have criminal connections.  The aim seemed to be to worship Satan by following every and any calender because causing hell was always going to give power to whoever was inflicting the tortures and humiliations, psychological abuse or whatever. Lots of ritualistic rape timed around women's ovulation dates. Power struggles over me when my eggs and flesh was popular. Lots of unritual 'straight' rape outside of rituals and group settings.  In the home, the workplace or school when the group alters had been put to sleep.  leaving mindset that thought nothing bad had really happen.  Those rapes hurt so much.  The rituals involved lots of semen and anything else they could think of and as many ways as the time allowed.  The biological father was the Master of Ceremonies of the products of the pregnancy and whatever happened to me as long as the foetus was part of me and immediately after birth. It gave them power, encouraged competition between men and physical stamina and mental vulnerability and social exclusion for women.

I am remembering more.  One of the scariest things is knowing that no matter how effects me I will be hell bent on knowing more.  It worries me than one day it will take on too much momentum and I will loose control.  Again.

Why are you in here reading this when you could be out in the sunshine.  It's later than you think.

We are beautiful.  Scary but also beautiful..

May 17, 2012

Broken Jigsaw

Wish my psychiatrist knew a bit more about Ritualic and Satanic Abuse. I was talking about nightmares and how May the 1st was an important day in the calender and she asked me if I was a practising Satanist (because people have the right to practise whatever they choose).  The look on my face answered her question.  I started talking about how I have heard there is 'satanists' who aren't into killing babies and eating shit but I trailed of and said I believed in healing and would like to get more into  meditation.  I said that I didn't know what my parents believed during the abuse in terms of their alters/drugged up/disassociated states or whatever but outside of it they're both staunch atheists.  I've always found it a bit stifling.  Sure a share a healthy disrespect for organised religions but to rule out all spiritualism, all sense of being part of something bigger, of a connection and wonder in regards to everything and everyone, not for me.  I remember when I was pregnant with wee man a friend of my mothers came round, I had decorated my room and was showing her around.  She spotted a stone I had bought and said it was beautiful and that I had definitely cleansed it.  Later on my mum was pretty cynical about it and expected me to join in.  She went well quiet and was maybe even a bit shocked when I said her friend was right, I had cleansed it.

Pretty sore right now and know I will find it difficult to go back on the pill in a few days time, or go and try the injections.  I want to talk to my body instead of just taking pills in the hope that problems will go away.  Saying that I've upped the dose on the antidepressants and don't feel bad about it.  I need to get my brain out of misery mode and as I am short of friends, money, faith, opportunities and ideas about what is 'fun' the pills will have to do for now.

Keep seeing things in the darkness when I close my eyes.  Bubble bath, water kind of pink some sort of objects at the bottom.  I didn't see long enough to know what they objects were but I'm assuming they were for sexual torture.  The water was pink from blood and it was probably around October, 2001 definitely in the flat I had back then.  I saw thighs and pubic hair, peoples' faces and other things that terrify me before I make out what they are.  I get complacent about how much I know, I even said to Nushrink that I didn't think there were many surprises left for me to remember.  No surprises maybe, but there is obviously a lot that isn't processed.  I think its to do with abuse that by people who were well trained in how to stop people from disassociating or bringing up alters.  Seeing the person who the alters were created to protect being hurt so badly killed some of them  Such stuff I would forget soon after the sick fucks had left.  I see a pretty young female, possibly from a girl band/model/actress.  She wasn't alone of course.  They were familiar, especially in 2001.

Been thinking about how much I remember from before we moved to the Glen and how memories after then are harder to think and talk about, even apparently mundane stuff.  Like I lost some sort of support when we left Fife.  I have a sense of being told (not by my parents) a lot that a the ritualistic stuff was 'just pretend' and occasionally that it was real, depending on the group, the ritual.  I was warned before hand, taken through step by step what was going to happen.  That's why I was so surprised when those young men broke into that orgy and took a machete to the cross I was tied to, so close to my arm.  Closer than the man had meant to by the look in his eyes.  I hadn't been expecting it and that's why I remember it.  I dawned on me how out of control everything was and how unsafe I was.  When we moved to the Glen though things must of changed, if I was told what was going to happen it was by the people who were going to do it, not different people who had some compassion for me.  I was three or four when we left Fife I had a sense of being special, of being a bit protected from the hell around me but that ended in the Glen.

Psychiatrist told me to try Nytol for the sleeping problems, gentle exercise and a hot water bottle for the cramps.  She's alright really but I am herby renaming her as 'blonde psychiatrist' because she is and nothing to do with any sexist stereotype..

May 09, 2012


Cleaned the kitchen today and the hall, did a puzzle with wee man.  Starting to think about how much I could enjoy living in a clean prettier house, buy flowers, lavender oil for my burner with the cute witch and her pussy cat.  Chill out in my room reading and writing in the evenings instead of curled up under a blanket in front of rolling news, eating too much, chain smoking and feeling used and abandoned.  Starting to not feel guilty about DLA, I know its stupid but that feeling that just because working makes me ill doesn't mean I don't have to is difficult to shift.  So used to being forced, to my interests, needs, health being of no consequence.  Goddam Cameron and his working = 'doing the right thing' doesn't help, why to I even hear it?  Partly because I made the conscious decision to go against all the wrongness of Satanism and State corruption and criminality to respect people and society.  Which is fine but respecting everyone else is pretty tricky when you were never taught how to respect yourself.

Been reading Overcoming Childhood Trauma by Helen Kennerley on and off for a while now, think I really like it.  There is lots of encouragement to read whatever you want and come back to exercises when your ready.  It's simple, gentle and teaches you how to challenge the negative thinking that abuse leaves so many people with.  I know a lot of it already but I haven't yet felt like I'm wasting my time by reading it again, like I'm actually internalising it this time.  There is a lot of emphasis in setting goals but cutting them down to smaller steps and focusing on the positive, its helping me to believe I can do the things I want to do, like writing some sort of story of my life.  I have ideas about where to start and can see myself doing it.  My god I would feel so proud if I could get someone to publish it but it would take a long time, maybe a very long time.  Maybe it would come a lot quicker than I think..

It took years for Old Shrink to realise how just letting things be wasn't an option to me, that couldn't just accept.  I wonder how long it will take Nushrink.  When I first saw him he asked if I had any questions, I didn't but I do know.  Does he have a therapist of his own, for starters.  Wish moving to place where there was more therapists for people for me was an option.  Maybe in the furture.


What do you do with a drunken sister?

She's wasn't guttered this morning, but she was high, singing, and being a bit vague.  It's driving my mum mental, coming home from seeing her dad dieing in hospital to a drunken daughter and a messy house.  The wee ones free to roam about.  Mum kept making little digs, about money, about broken specs.  She doesn't know what to do, me neither.  When mum was at the hospital I didn't try and talk any sense into Alkysis or anything, just listened.  It's pointless, she was talking about not moving with my mum, how she was going to sort the landlord out.  How she loved looking after my son with her own two.  She hadn't told my mum about not moving with her of course.  She seems very deeply in denial about everything, I don't think giving her my abuse books will help.  I can't see her managing well on her own, in fact it scares the shit out of me.  We've been there before, traumatised kids, Psychosis phoned her once and wee spider monkey answered, said she couldn't wake her mum up. 

If she had asked for help years ago, maybe she would get better support from us but everyone is so tired of it now.  She was getting a bit more honest about it for a while, but not trying to get help.  She seems so far away, nothing she says makes much sense.  I think mum is starting to hate her a bit for it, the way she takes her for granted.  I wonder if helping my mum wash and dress my grandad before he went into hospital has triggered something.  If it has its totally unlikely that shes aware and even less likely that she would talk about it.  Its like she's totally cut off from her self, her own feelings, her own life.  She said she wasn't looking forward to spider monkey going to school and the wee lad going to nursery.  If that isn't a sign of total insanity then I don't know what is...

And me?  Well, I've got ma Sonshine, ma telly, and ma baby plants.  The depression does seem to be shifting slighting, sometimes.  G disclosed a bit of her own horror to me and I really felt for her.  Stopped eating quite so much, still spending though.  Should be better when new books arrive.  Ordered a new bra, bought time to, still trying to force myself into bras I was wearing when I was 8-9 stone when I'm 11-12 now.  Daftie.

No Nushrink this week, won't leave him with Alkysis.  No fucking way.  I think it might be time to take a massive gamble and hope for a semi decent social worker.


May 01, 2012

For the dead.

I light a candle (never white), pour more wine, roll another ciggy. Pray to my plants, tune in to an old friend/lover/pimp/abuser/Savior coz he's familiar and plays soul.  Ask a text friend for a hug, and shudder when a flesh one reaches for me, shes not to be trusted.  It's getting dark.  I wonder about more food, more drink, some drugs, but I'd never leave my sleeping son, I'm not really hungry and my supplier doesn't supply anymore.  The dreams were easier last night, I went to sleep thinking I could start a time line, not today, there is never a good day to remember, to exercise, to eat less, to stop smoking.  Certainly not today, maybe its an excuse.  Like my sisters.  My mum came home from the hospital after two hours sleep waiting for her father to die to hungry infants and a mess.  But at least I talk, at least I have the balls to remember some of it, to prance and curl in drama, and pay and pay to travel across this anal country to say very little to man with a Scottish accent, who has never raised an eyebrow or called me delusional and has read the Greenbaum Speech.

But I left the mess on the floor, its all clothes, bags, and the entrails from a cupboard evicted for a personal choice, for a medicinal risk.  Anyway, wee man is sleeping, this is our place and his body is his body.  I talked about his genitalia with him tonight, telling him to keep his foreskin clean, that his tinkle was also called a penis and bits below was his testicles wrapped in his scrotum and that I didn't know all that much about his parts because I didn't have them.  I told him I have a clitoris, a labia, a vagina, a uterus, ovaries and little tubes.  Thankfully he didn't ask what the labia is because I'm not sure.  He asked me if I laid eggs and said he wanted me to have a baby growing me.  I said I needed a man for that and I that I didn't want one, he said he was a man and could make a baby.  I told him that we couldn't with me because that would be yucky and the baby would have two heads and that he wouldn't be a man until he had hair EVERYWHERE.  The bottle was unopened at this point.  Maybe I have got beyond the fear of his unmodest boy parts.  Hope I haven't disturbed him, maybe the bit about the baby with two heads wasn't a good idea...  Private parts aren't dirty parts, that was my intention !?

Anyway, unnecessary food is on its way.  Hey if I had a social life I'm sure I would spend a lot more.. And by the way, anyone who reads this and feels anything for me, anything but hate, voyeurism and disgust that is, thank you.

I haven't kept the promise about leaving my family yet, I haven't got the money back, or killed them all, I can't remember most of your names, but believe me when I said I love you and traced a heart on your palm, chest or head, I am with you.

April 29, 2012

April is the cruelest month..

When I mentioned to Nushrink that my sleep was being disturbed by vivid oppressive dreams and nightmares every night he asked if there was anything significant about the time of year.  I said something about it being spring and how I often have sleep problems at this time of year but couldn't say much more.  I think he wants me to go further with him, give more details but he will have to be patient.  He also wants me to be very careful what memory work I do on my own but I never get never far and never try very hard.

I looked up the calender part in Epstein, Schwarthz and Schwartz's Ritual Abuse and Mind Control the 19th of April marks the 'the first day of the thirteen-day Satanic ritual relating to fire ... This day is a major human sacrifice day, demanding fire sacrifice with an emphasis on children' (p.26 - 27).  I see charred skin and remember the off hand way in which a young man threw a newborn into a bonfire after an older girl in the Glen had given birth, just picking it up by a leg and swinging it in with an indifferent chuckle, in mid conversation with one of his mates. 

Part of me wants to see more to see everything part of me knows I can't handle it and probably never will.  I see a bonfire by the river in another part of the Glen near the pond.  There was lots of people there some of the kids there are now high profile.  I can't see anything else but there is maybe a sense of excitment, a pride at being dressed up.

I rock and mumble a song to a blackened charred infant, older now, maybe.

The weeks before May day never any fun; 'the Greatest Sabbat' where 'Seminal fluid is mixed with dirt and insects and inserted into the vagina of a virgin (p.27).  A virgin? Where do you get one of them from?  I think I was chosen for that at least once.  There was lots of rape from a specific man before or after to ensure I conceived to convince a 'religous' Satanist group who would then look favourably on a recreation group for possessing a girl that could conceive through such rituals.  Sometimes married woman would get pregnant at a similar time to girls used for breeding.  The child they had would be killed and the breeders child would be brought up by the higher ranking couple to be trained in abusing the biological mother, to be a tool against her.  Boys were best for this so they could rape her when old enough and impregnate her.  They do love their products of incest.

I used to be obsessed with DNA tests, its a shame I wasn't sure I could ever trust the lab or whoever delivered the results, can't remember any of the results anyway.      

Tired but not sleepy

Changed my twitter to profile to just say 'survivor' but I haven't really been feeling it lately.  'Victim' fits better.  I know that's not strictly true of course, I'm not being forced into anything anymore but I find it so hard to really imagine a better life.  There is so much damage, so many abusive relationships for as long as I can remember.  One of the books talks about a silver lining, someone who made you feel human, cared for and loved.  I'm not sure I had one.  I don't have the strength to get beyond it all.  Everything I have gets used up on the day to day, the viruses, the single parent hood, the living with it all.

NuShrink said I seemed to be opening up but I know I don't talk coherently much.  Things just evaporate when I start to talk or write and I'm left feeling dumb.  He says I could just do nothing and continue as I am.  I have a long way to go with him.  If I thought like that I would be dead, a drug addict and a prostitute, a Satanist. 

Tonight I remembered car journeys with my dad when I was about two/three and deciding just to go sleep, being told to go to sleep.  I tried to talk about my parents friends when with lived in Fife but I didn't get very far.  The ones who cried when we left, I think they told me I was good, I think I saw one of their penises the other night.  One of them took me to a pond with trees around it.  I was attacked by a goose.  It hurt and I was terrified.  He really consoled me, talked and held me until I had calmed down in a way my father never could.  I didn't want to leave him.  Did he say 'it' wasn't going to happen anymore not with him, that it was very wrong? Did I say I didn't mind when it was him?  What I do know was that he gave me a teddy and it was my favourite.  When we moved houses in the Glen it fell of the back of the trailer, I remember seeing it on the mud in the rain outside the farm as we passed.  I begged my mum to go back for it, it wasn't far from our new house.  She left but didn't come back with it.  Maybe the farmer's son took it.  I don't know.

Anyway, I find it hard to think of sex of something that anyone who loves me would want to do to me.  People that love me do it any cry and say sorry after.  Then the hold me, properly, nicely.  I think in my teens my dad would weep after sometimes but I wasn't there.

April 24, 2012

Type 3

Shakey from the Ventolin, stirred up by the news, dead spy suspicious circumstances, forget about the truth, press/police/politicians corruption: likewise.  And wee man has been ill and grumpy.  Mild four year violence pretty regularly, I hate it, don't want to be scared of my own son but I am.  Naughty step/thinking space employed several times today.  He's stopped listening to the word 'No', I can't look at him as just someone else that ignores me when I say No.  Been too lax on him recently, too wrapped up in my own tiredness and struggles.  He got his appetite back today though and tomorrow is another day, he's well enough for nursery, I'm well enough to clean.

The goddam dreams.  Intense, vivid, often violent and impossible to decipher.  Family turns bad again, so I take wee man out in search of safety but the locations keep changing, Glasgow, London, Aberdeen I tell myself.  Later he's a girl, Henrietta, until a yellow car runs deliberately over us and shes scared into a cat I carry around over my shoulder.  A pub once used by Shakespeare, called something Type Trio.  It goes round and round in my head.  Type 3, Type 3, I'm Type 3 but I give nothing up.

Fun at the Fair.  I'd of loved to of been one of those girls that hung around fair grounds, snogging the boys from the waltzers.  Wee man just like me when I was little, just wanted to go in the fun houses.  They have such cool fantasy fronts. Fairytales made real.

Next time with NuShrink I'm going talk about my dad and how I cant get past him when it comes to sex.    

April 22, 2012

Happy Earth Day.

Very happy to say that my own little patch of earth is doing well, the twins have settled in fine.  Its great.  Not that I'm entirely comfortable with it, of course.  What with it being illegal and all.  But I can't deny all the myriad of positive feelings I have about it.  Daft hippy shit like having a relationship with growing things.  Nurturing something that can never be violent towards me.  I saw a book on Amazon about the benefits of marijuana and it brought to mind the good stuff.  The sudden sensations of being in my body, how its aching from tension and needs stretching, exercise and care.  That mental motivation to get shit done.  To tackle mess bit by bit, taking lots of breaks and deal with it.  That feeling of being able to know myself and love me. 

Of course, there is always going to be a part of me that disapproves.  The 'drugs are bad' part, that wishes I didn't want it, didn't need it, to remember, to think, to feel, to create.  The part that wants to be like the other mums I meet, with social lives, sexual partners and a greater tolerance for part time work.  The part of me that wants to be a 'good girl' and thinks that means doing what authorites tell me to do but I can't let others dictate what is good for me.  It's not like 'authorites' have ever kept me safe.  The exact opposite, memories of abuse by men in suits, outside in the Glen.  Sometimes the sight of an expensive car can still ruin my day.  Straighting their ties and talking tech.  I don't want that feeling of being locked out of myself, of the world or hating people (and myself) for not giving me what I need.  It's my life.  I have found something that I think is a beautiful, beautiful thing.  Something that I don't have to associate with the criminal classes to access..

Goddam criminal classes, not very happy at all about the over dub girl joining my drama therapy.  I hope she'll prove me wrong but I don't think she's open minded enough for it.  Her constant anxieties are not something that will do me any good to be around and she's too rough with her dog..   

What a snob I am.  It is pretty universal though, anyone who seems to represent any social class makes me uncomfortable, pissed off and alienated.

Watched One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest, what a fucking masterpiece it is.  Last time I turned of just before the electroshock treatment part.  Watched it all again this time.  I was so in love with the Chief in my teens.  Still am a bit.

April 14, 2012

Living and Growing

So the twins are in. A bit late they were literally like beansprouts by the time I got back from my mum's. I'm having the whole infinity with it again. Feeling for them. Not sure about the led though but only time well tell. This is Scotland remember, not much of acceptance of medicinal benefits of banned substances. I feel writes growing in my mind. Little capillaries linked what I was, what I am and the kind of life I used to dream about. Maybe that's why I dream about the Glen so much. Getting so close to the contours of pine forests, the hit from rhododendrons. Something happen in my when I spent a lot of time outside an moving around out there. I feel in love with the rural landscape and it made me feel like a poet.

Still want to punch middle sis if I see her for more than a day and a night. She keep repeating in her usual style when drunk, that she 'loves' her nursing work. I'm glad she is getting on better with her two. She still turns into my dad verbally after she's had a drink. That same selfish lifestyle that sapped away everyone else's resources. The same verbal dramatics and constant resorting to cynical attempts at wit. Wit that can make both of them great company when they are not all twisted up in denial and depression. The same psychotic repetition.

Mum said she wanted out of nursing, like she's had enough of it. Caring for Grandad has maybe got to her. I'm glad something has. I don't think he's quite ready to go yet.

Things stop spinning for a little while. I see myself as more than commodity. I start moving things around so it all works better. Feeling pretty good.