Warning: The following story may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Dancing with Death
My heart has only known darkness,
A shadow, looming over my soul.
It’s a dungeon, ever widening,
From an evil I cannot control.
The pain is suffocating,
Hovering – swaying in a dance of death,
Smothering my existence,
As I fight for my last breath.
Searching for a haven,
A harbor for my pain.
My tear drops I am choking on,
My emotions bound in chains.
I struggle to move forward,
Falling further and further behind.
Haunted by the demons,
Plagued by memories etched in my mind.
Stumbling in the darkness,
A facade of armor,
Confident and strong.
Is this my destination? Is this where I belong?
Fighting through the chaos,
Weeping wounds along the way.
Choking on the bloodshed,
Scars left by those who have betrayed.
Praying for an angel,
Begging at deaths door,
Confusion is my mindset,
I suffer even more.
My home – a torture chamber,
The walls a distorted shape.
Hell is my only playground,
Living this childhood of rape.
Dancing with Death
From the personal journal of Kerri Bishop Reece
Healing Kerri – written June 18, 1987
If you are reading this and were molested as a child, raped, sexually assaulted, etc. I’m sure that you can relate.
When I was growing up, I felt very alone in the world. I knew that what was being done to me was wrong but I felt that it was my own fault because no one that I knew talked about this kind of stuff. My mother, the one person who was supposed to protect me, supposed to love me and keep me safe, she blamed me – she hated me – she made me feel worthless, ashamed and improper so I was too afraid to tell anyone else for fear of losing their love and respect. If my own mother felt that way about me, wouldn’t others feel that way about me too? If they knew, wouldn’t they dislike me and shame me too? I didn’t want anyone to dislike me or to shame me anymore than I already disliked and shamed myself.
I prayed daily, I prayed for the abuse to stop but it went on year after year and as the time passed, my prayers turned to questions. I questioned God – asking him why I was put on this earth. I wanted to know if this was my purpose in the world. Did he bring me into this world to be tormented or were there other reasons. I questioned Him a lot. I wanted to know what I had done to deserve the life that I had. I blamed him. I didn’t need a reason to hate God because I felt that I’d had plenty of them.
I felt that most people don’t understand how that abuse dominated my life. I feared it. It was constantly on my mind. I worried every second of every day. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I barely got by in school, I smoked cigarettes and abused drugs and alcohol to the point that I overdosed as a teenager, landing myself in the hospital with doctors forcing lethal doses of drugs out of my system.
When it was over and I was free, it continued by haunting me. I’m still haunted by the memories of each time I was touched. I’m still haunted by my mother’s words, in my head, repeatedly telling me that it’s my fault, my shame and I am even sometimes haunted by the seething anger and the need for revenge that runs through my veins. As a young adult, the reality of my world was harsh. Physically I was no longer being abused but emotionally I was often raped over and over again.
Today, I still pray about it.