Defective Child

Defective Child shackled to the dungeon wall
Convinced she belonged in this dark ugly place
Had she dared to look at the "proof" of her fall
The ugliness of her soul reflected in the face.

No life, no love, no hope......this child remained hidden.
Believed alone, noticed but unnoticed by those others inside
Rejected and alone, unworthy and unforgiven,
Broken and unfixable, she could only be despised.

Yet her feelings, her fears permeated the system.
All protecting, all believing....... all everything related to her.
Formed early for the sole purpose of internal mayhem
Guaranteed silence, stifled reason, broken soul forever.

That dark ugliness at the core, believed to be always,
Kept everything under the thumb of oppression.
There was no hope as long as her secret was hidden
Yet, the belief was about fault, hers the lesson.

When the system began to challenge the beliefs
Maybe, just maybe, the child was not defective after all.
That particular child still saw no light, she heard no relief
Too broken and torn to see anything but her fall.

As each layer was peeled, her presence remained hidden
The only clue, pain so intense it couldn't be tolerated.
The secret, Never! Death was better than being unforgiven.
The answer wouldn't come easy, healing was over rated.

The Defective Child couldn't feel damaged or wounded
She knew better than anyone why she was so scorned.
If she remained invisible, living death, or life hounded
By the image of the devil......he understood those thorns.

Risking the light of day...... nothing but a booby trap
To be detonated in alone time where pain would break forth
Stored up for decades, Uncontrolled filthy heinous crap
Suffocated this Defective Child with what she stood for.

Pain so intense the entire system couldn't withstand it.
Walls tumbling out of control, safeguards totally destroyed
Still, in all the chaos, no one knew this one Defective Child existed.
The secret so carefully hidden, the child the devil employed.

Was that why she was defective instead of wounded?
Was she of the devil....... or did the devil do it............Was this the key?
No one knew...........NO ONE KNEW.....even though the pain resounded?
Not one single part had even a hint of this child or her story.

The only clue that deep deep emptiness, that black hole
That wouldn't be filled, and an echoing silence that deafened
Death resonated more loudly than any secret could hold
This Defective Child trapped in an isolation and deception.

She knew, she knew it all........but she wouldn't tell, never tell
Too ashamed, too horrified, too defective to a fault and more
This child swallowed up in her pain couldn't, wouldn't speak to tell
Lost in the blackness of depression taking all in the system. For......

That was the plan! Yes! That was the plan after all!
Pain so intense, better death that feeling anymore pain
And Defective Child so laden with pain because of her fall
No one, nothing, not even God could make her whole again!

Yes, that was the plan! That was the purpose of her creation!
Relying on her innocence, her genuine heart. The trick
Had been easily played all those years before. Her isolation
Guaranteed the belief that even God would see her as sick.

This Defective Child was caught not knowing she was wounded
Not believing there was any hope. Did it matter what her fall was?
Only to her. It was the enormity of her feelings that sounded
Throughout the system taking us down with a vengeful rush!

One shred of sanity managed to hold off the out of control spin
Putting a plan in place to open the ulcerating sore, confront this evil.
Facing our darkest fears easier than letting the ugliness win
Not knowing what to expect but sure, so sure it must be the devil.....

No matter what the secret! Despite the seemingly insurmountable pain
The belief of one, just one, in the process and that Defective Child saved
The day, the rest of the system. Cornered her in a way alone, dark again,
Yet protected. Feeling unsafe but safe......Blocking the devil's road paved.

Defective Child so set up didn't know she wasn't living her legacy
But still didn't speak. Exposed only mere thought. The artist easily shared
Gave away the secret. Exposed the trick. Disarmed the suicidal tendency.
This Defective Child wasn't really defective......Wounded beyond compare.

****************

As I prepared the post about this Defective Child, I was again reminded of the importance of role of this part in my entrapment and in my healing. I guess it was in thinking about that the urge to write this poem emerged. So while the things described here happened many many years ago, the telling in poetic form was begun a couple days ago and finished today. I'm sure this is not the last "new" material I will write about this child.

Thoughts about Dark Entries

As I said in I Found It! some of my journal entries are very dark.......maybe most of them are. Dark not necessarily meaning the content of the memories, but rather the emotions they evoked. I had wondered about posting anything so black but I have come to a decision about that.

It would be presumptuous of me to think I am the only person who has ever felt such overwhelming emotion. Actually, even more than presumptuous, I think it would indicate some kind of grandiose thinking on my part. I have long since given up anything like that. I know others struggle with the same intensity that I did and that is at the root of my decision.

I understand when a person is in the throws of dark depression, the feelings are so isolating that the isolation itself can be crippling, let alone the depression. That thought motivates me to share those dark times so maybe others will recognize their dark hole isn't as unique as they think. Just understanding someone else has been in that place and come back out can be a life line. I know that from personal experience.

So I am going to post some of those dark brooding journal entries in the hopes they will be helpful to someone, somewhere. If not in the realization that they are not alone, then maybe in the process that freed me.

I did put myself through a trial trying to come up with answers.........forever answers. Heck, I'm still always seeking answers but it's interesting to me to look back at that dark place and see how I challenged it. And while I can sense in some way that old heaviness, it no longer has me by the throat. The feelings are only those of a bad memory.

I'm also hoping that just maybe someone caught in such a place might see that it really is possible to get free. Depression does not have to be a way of life..........no matter how dark or how black, it can be overcome. Of that I am living proof.

The Process Begins............

I have begun the process of going through that box that turned out to be a drawer in a file cabinet. There are a least a dozen books in various sizes, a bunch of clippings, some literature and even newsletters for an organization for survivors of Satanic ritual abuse.

As I begin rummaging through all of this stuff, it seems a bit overwhelming. I wasn't even quite sure where to start. I settled on putting things in chronological order. That's pretty much were I left off. Having made the decision of how to proceed........I stopped cold in my tracks.

I have a few things rolling around in my head suggesting just why I might be doing this but I'm not going to let it stop me. I have decided that some of the information I thought was real those many years ago is in actuality nothing more than cult tricks.

I'm pretty sure that this process is going to expose more of those things that I don't want to know. I am committed to getting through this so I've started up again.

Putting the "stuff" into order by age has turned out to be a bit difficult since some things I had not dated. Luckily, there's enough marked to figure out the rest, or at least get me close. The other thing that will help is I had requested a re-cap of my treatment file from my therapist. It will help me with much of this.......although not all.

Mostly I've just been trying to figure out what goes where in the sequence. I have read an entry or two in my very first journal and found that while I have been "big" on saying what I feel, I've been not so big at saying what might have triggered these feelings in the first place.

I was hoping that my journal entries would be "self explanatory." Now I'm finding that may not be the case. However, from what I can tell that seems to apply mostly to the first part of my therapy. It looks like I got more detailed as the old memories began to surface.

I guess my point is I was hoping I could just skim through my journals like notes and recreate this process fairly easily. Now it's pretty clear I'm going to have to read through every passage if I ever hope to match the poems and pictures up with the feelings. Some will be self explanatory............others...........not so much.

This poem, Old Poetry,
is a good example. I can easily see what it is about but what triggered me writing it........that would only be a guess at this point. I'm not sure if it has to do with people in general or if my husband did something specific......there could be lots of scenarios that would trigger this response.....but it clearly speaks to being multiple and having littles.

While I'm getting this all figured out, I'm going to post miscellaneous things along the way that "strike" me as the thing to post. Who knows what will decide that but just like this you can bet there will be some driving force behind it whether I understand it or not....... just like in this poem.

As I mentioned in that post, it probably had to do with the subject matter of being "real." Since I've already done a couple of posts on the subject Being Real....What Does That Mean? And So It Goes.................... I guess it makes sense that I would gravitate towards this poem. However, what I didn't mention in that post is I didn't go searching for this poem. It seemed to find me.

Other things that have seemed to find me are things that seem to support those "truths" I don't want to face. I have an entire filing drawer FULL of stuff and the dozen or so specific things I have "seen" just seem to "fit" into my mindset right now. Funny how that happens.

Old Poetry..........

Who am I?
I am a child ~
A puzzle of a child ~
In an adult's body.

I am four years old
maybe more - - maybe less
But mostly around four ~
You expect me to be forty-three.

I am afraid
of the dark, of people
Of being discovered
You expect me to be "real."

I am real
I am a child
A puzzle of a child of four
In an adult body of forty-three.

I am not what you meant
When you said "real."
You meant real -- big,
Grown, well mannered, adult.

I am real
Real hurt
Real abandoned
Real rejected!

I am definitely "real"
A child of four
In a body of forty-three
Real and alone..........

Note: This poem was written March 21, 1990. As I begin sorting through all this stuff from my therapy process, I will be posting some of what I find. I don't know if there is a rhyme or reason to what I'm chosing to post. It just seemed to strike me that I wanted to post this........so here it is. Maybe after my recent post on "REAL" this just seemed to fit as another dimension in what is real for someone like me with Multiple Personality Disorder (Dissociative Identity Disorder).

Where to Start.........

Looking at all the stuff from my therapy journey, I can't help but wonder if I really want to get into this or not. Writing the book at this point means digging up things that have been long since buried. Do I really want to do this?

I guess I must because I haven't put the stuff away. The notebook with the first chapter sits right next to the chair where I sit in the evening to relax. Right there where I can't miss it, I'm sure there's a reason for that. There always is.

That's not the only thing that makes me think I have decided although I keep telling myself I haven't. I have a new to me desk that I've just moved into the house. Despite several efforts to do something with that desk, it just sits there bare waiting for the right project. Could that project be my book?

Since it looks like I've made my mind up, I have to figure out where to start. Do I want to just charge right in and write or do I go through the stuff, mull it around and maybe share some of those memories here before I begin to write?

There is some fear about going through this old stuff again.....and maybe some dread. When I try to get started I find myself procrastinating. What do I do? What do I do............?

Yet, last night when I went to bed, the words flowed through my head. The beginnings of a chapter longing to be written were so vivid and clear I thought I would never forget. However, I should have gotten out of bed and begun because, obviously, I did forget or I wouldn't be mentioning it here. Those words were so dramatic I was sure they were etched in my memory........etched like those images of long ago. Yet here I am.....wondering what those words were........to no avail.

Also I'm trying to decide is what to do about my paintings. They are such an important part of my story I think it would be helpful for some to see........but only if they want. The pictures are graphic........very graphic. I'm thinking I don't want to post them here but instead make up a private blog for them. Anyone wanting to see them will have to contact me. That way I won't have to worry about some perv misusing them. What do you think?

Thoughts as I Rummage through My Stuff

Today, I was digging through my journals, notebooks and stuff trying to get them in chronological order and refresh my memory a bit. During this process, I not only found a notebook full of poetry but the first hand- written chapter of my book.

As I read through the manuscript, I was struck by the amount of detail in those early memories. I guess with the passage of time I'd forgotten how vivid those memories actually where. Yet, that vividness is actually one of the reasons I knew this must be real.

The other thing that struck me was all the clues to me being a multiple. I certainly was not diagnosed until much later in my process. Even though I knew before the therapists had it figured out, I had no idea at the time these memories first began to surface. Yet looking back at these writings, the signs are definitely there.

Thoughts of False Memory Syndrome also went through my mind as I read my first chapter. It is the classic defense against Satanic Ritual Abuse. The main contention is that the memories have been planted by therapists. Yet reading over this surfacing of my first cult connected, what struck me was how opposite my realization happened from what those claiming FMS portray.

My first memories (and many others) didn't surface in a therapist's office at all. I didn't even go to her until a couple of months after I began triggering off things around me. Bit and pieces came up over that time in all kinds of different ways. I shared parts hysterically with my husband in the middle of the night. Other parts were triggered a friend's house. It was only after that I even told my therapist anything at all.

There's another thing that struck me about some of my writing. Parts of it seem to be disjointed. My training as a writer tells me those parts are not well written. Yet to me, they too are part of the clues that lead to me process. I'm debating between fixing them.........and leaving them as they are.

One thing is clear as I work getting things in order. I have really put this behind me. I do feel a sadness as I read over my journals and poetry but those feelings that comsumed me during this process are gone. For that I am grateful.

The Balance of the Introduction

Beginning of the Introduction

An excerpt from the following day in my journal read:

October 18, 1985

“My fear is that I will let my guard down and expose who I really am and the world will run from me in horror. That I will stand there naked and unprotected only to find that my heart was right after all. No one will want to be near me. I will have no friends. I will never know love!

With all of my defenses gone, how will I survive? The prospect terrifies me. How can I continue to reveal the secrets of my soul? I can handle the pain; it is the uncertainty that is killing me! If I cannot get through to my own mother, how can I expect to be loved by strangers? WHO am I, after all?

I know the child I was died way too soon. Where did that death leave me? Will I ever quit mourning? Will I ever be whole? Will I ever learn to trust myself? Will there ever be a day when I am not frightened by me?”


I had no idea how prophetic these passages were. There were many unnoticed clues of what lay ahead. I was dealing with incest and it was all I allowed myself to see. Looking back, those first months were relatively easy, compared to the other survivors I saw. I worked through the incest in six months, maybe less and I was amazed. I almost felt like I could fly!
My night terrors stopped. I confronted my molestor brother. I found new confidence. I even managed the courage to confront my mother for tying and gagging my son when he was two. She was no longer speaking to me but I found a sense of safety in that. I could actually live without her approval. I would have been on top of the world but I knew I was not finished.

Hidden deep inside of me there was this part that I can only describe as being like a wounded cornered animal. I had seen it emerge only a couple of times, however, somehow it seemed very familiar to me. The intensity of its defensiveness was frightening and the extent I would go to protect myself was horrifying to me. I knew I would never be healthy as long as the beast was hidden away inside the confines of my mind.

This was to be the final leg of my journey. I was committed to finding the answers to the origin of this creature. I began asking myself all kinds of questions searching for any clues leading to the origin and history of this thing. I began probing the blank spots in my memory sure they must hold clues.

I used to have a friend who always said, “You are only as sick as your secrets!” I totally understood this concept and I was determined that my secrets would no longer rule my life.

Little did I know this course would plunge me into the depths of the abyss; that every essences and fiber within my being would be challenged. All of the wellness I had attained in dealing with the incest memories would be tested to its ultimate endurance. I had only begun laying the groundwork for the battle of my life.

I was harboring a fear that would rather see me dead than tell my secrets. That fear and I would do battle many times and I was never completely sure who would win. I was led by blind faith in some force in me I had never before experienced. Yet, I wasn’t eve sure I had any faith at all! I only knew that I was DRIVEN to be “GOOD!”


*******************
In the context of this project, this is what I have written so far. Other than an outline that includes a brief snyopsis on each chapter and a "Final Chapter" that was written as imagery for the children.

Looking at those chapters I realize with the perspective of time that I left out some important parts. I worked those parts in my process but I think I chose not to expose them to the review of someone who might reject the project, or worse yet, someone who might be able to identify the significance of my position and training.

For me that means I'll be refreshing my memories of this process before I begin on the manuscript again. Along the way, I will post more of my journal entries if my readers think that information will be helpful to them.

I know some of you are involved in your own journeys and others of you are trying to learn more about the ramifications of the abuse of children and still others are trying to help those victims recovering from ritual abuse. If you have questions along the way, I am always open to them.

I'd also like to remind my readers that these entries are where I was emotionally twenty some odd years ago. I REALLY have healed from this devestation. It REALLY is possible to be free.

The Beginning of the Introduction

I got an emptiness deep inside,
and I tried -- but it won't let me go.
And I'm not a man who likes to swear
but I never cared for the sound of bein' alone.

My only shred of hope lay in these words to Neil Diamond's song. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape that feeling. "But others felt it too!" whispered in the back of my mind, "others felt it too!" Somewhere there must be an answer.

My search to fill that emptiness led me to therapy. I struggled for ten long years trying to tear down the walls that protected me from my secrets. I learned many valuable skills. I was responsible for my feelings. It was not fair for me to expect others to know how I was feeling or what I needed. It was my responsibility to tell them. I could say “No.” The list went on and on. But the more I learned, the more I realized how depressed I really was. That emptiness inside me was beginning to look more like an abyss whose blackness was swallowing me up. My secrets were still well protected but the walls holding my feelings in were beginning to topple. I wasn’t prepared for the intensity or the self-hatred of those feelings. What was this about? After all, I had come from a typical, average American home, hadn’t I?

In 1984 Something about Amelia aired on ABC-TV. At 2:00 AM in the morning I hysterically disclosed to my husband what my older brother had done to me so many years ago. Two weeks later, again in the middle of the night and again hysterical, I disclosed that I had “killed” my father when I was twelve. (He died from cancer of the liver.) Little did I know that these were only the first tiny pieces to my puzzle.

Within a year and a half of these disclosures, I began looking for an agency that specialized in treating sexual abuse. I started group therapy and soon after bean individual appointments with the therapist from group. Together we embarked on the next stage of my journey.

I bought my first journal. It was covered in a Victorian looking print with pink hearts. On the front was a picture of a cat studying a butterfly. My first journal entry, dated October 17, 1985 reads:

“The cover of this book reflects not where I have been but where I hope to go. The contents will most likely be recollections of those persons and incidents that have influenced who I am. If the cover were to reflect the contents, it would be black but somehow complicated and intertwined……..maybe a seething mass of snakes, a picture of the soul I thought was mine. I’m slowly learning it is not my soul at all but indeed the tangled combined souls of persons in my past. Them, I will learn to forgive, myself – I never could.

Now I must discover a view of myself I can live with. A perception not distorted by the bleakness I have lived. A perception based on reality and free of the judgements of the wounded child that has ruled me. That child was a victim. What does that make me?“

Sacrificial Lamb ***** Triggers

Black robed figures dictated fear
On those dark and heady nights.
Even before they slithered out of the shadows
The doom was already evident - -
Suffocating...........paralyzing!
The altar grew in the moonlight,
A symbol of heinous acts
Festering in the minds of those believers,
Their focus always the perfect sacrifice.

A small child - - trembling, naked –
Lost in the horrendous pain of her reality.
Supposedly hypnotic chants don’t ease the terror.
She is trapped - - the unfortunate victim
Of their sadistic appetites.
They prey on her fear – revel in it!
Nothing is sacred to these worshippers
Of defilement, destruction and sacrilege.
Her value lies in the depths of her humiliation!

So they descend upon this lamb of God's
With all the hate their master has for hers!
Driven to destroy her innocence,
Her self, her humanity, her mind!
Obsessed with humiliating her to the soul
In an attempt to appease their fallen prince.
Consumed, like the fires of Hell, by the quest
For the ultimate evil – They take this child!

They chained her to the sacrificial altar
And plunged her to the depths of despair.
They assaulted her being with their evil
And left her not a shred of hope.
They gave her to Satan – THIS CHILD!
And then gloried in her torment and pain.
The loss of her blood and her virginity
Gave them the very power they sought.

And so the sacrifice is done - -
The child lays broken and torn.
Lost in the abyss that they have chosen
She feels no light, no love, no joy!
She is consumed by self-loathing and hate.
They have accomplished what they wanted - -
The child within is dead –
A broken shell walks in her place.

How many children will they sacrifice
How many times must the story be told
Before the world will see what they do,
These black robed thieves of innocence?
As long as society denies their existence,
We give them free reign - - We give them our children.
Turning our heads to avoid our own discomfort
We leave helpless victims to deal with out shame!

written by MiKael Jane Smith
© June 21, 1988

I Found It!

Well, not really, I didn't find "the box" I have been looking for. The one that had all my journals and drawings in it. It turns out I'd taken those things along with the beginnings of my book out of that box several years ago and placed them, yet another place, for safe keeping. I discovered that location today!

Along with that discovery and my writings, I found a familiar heaviness. I had forgotten how intense that period in my life was. It only takes a glance at my writings to remember. I feel a little dread.

At that same time I somehow feel proud that I produced this volume of work with such raw emotion. I didn't know I had it in me.

As I read through what I intended to be the beginnings of this book, an exerp from a poem I wrote, followed by an introduction, I can't help but wonder if the world is ready to see this project. It is a dark black journey into an abyss. Can readers struggle through the horror to find the hope? I wonder..........