I avoid talking to strangers. I'm never comfortable in unfamiliar company. Wary of half the world; it seems.
There is one stranger who just won’t let me be; one who I am especially afraid of! This particular stranger has shadowed me for as long as I can remember, yet she remains to this day a stranger to me.
She says that someone will hurt me or mine; puts bad-guys in crowds, bombs on trains... knives in many pockets.
She's taunts me with death; My death. And has done since I was a child. I can't remember a day-night that didn't have death-dead-dying in it!
She tells me I'm capable of terrible things; I pray to GOD I’m not.
She hints that I have hurt people in the past; I have no memory of doing so.
She imagines that I will hurt someone in the future; I find this inconceivable.
She suggests that I am capable of hurting my children; I would rather DIE!
The stranger has suggested to me, on more than one occasion, that whilst I’m brushing my daughter’s hair I will become a monster mum. You know. One of THOSE MOTHERS!
A mother who lost in the depths of mental illness, perhaps a product of an abusive or disruptive childhood herself, screams and shouts, and in moments of blind rage lashes out; hurting her child, mentally and physically. Instilling fear and distrust into childhood years, and causing irreversible damage. A mother who (without meaning to) takes her desperation and inability to cope out on her child. A mother I have first hand experience of!
The stranger I speak of is extremely well informed, after a life time of shadowing me she has acquired a great deal of knowledge into my inner fears and vulnerabilities. She has long since mastered the art of intrusion, she is a gifted impersonator, a powerful oppressor, a terrifying intimidating presence; hard to ignore, and exhausting to challenge! She is a creative script writer, inspired and empowered by my reactions to her demented story lines.
The virtual realities she creates for my eyes only, appal and frighten me. Locked deep inside my own skin, frozen in front of a built in screen, I am forced to watch as the graphic day mare unfolds! My mind violated by the context of each scene, afraid and oppressed in the strangers company, I pray urgently to GOD that I be released from her grasp,
I see the brush slam down onto the back of my beloved child's head. I hear her desperate screams as the brush comes crashing down again and again! I see myself standing over her, a stranger masking my face; the mask vaguely familiar and yet at the same time completely unrecognizable. I see my child confused, hysterical and consumed with fear beneath me. I repel with every fiber of my being against the illusory images; my heart breaks!
An inner coldness crawls slowly down each side of my face; a strange trickling sensation. Making its way down my neck, through my shoulders and into my arms. A prickly numbness dulls sensation in my lips and fingers, until struggling to maintain a normal breathing pattern I experience a heavy, unnerving pain across my chest into my shoulder and down into my left arm.
Preoccupied by my inner turmoil and carrying out secret compulsions I continue to brush my precious girl’s hair, by my trembling hand her favourite hairbrush glides slowly through her long, wavy mane; with careful, gentle strokes. I lovingly tease the knots from this wonderful crowning glory, then after nervously guiding a comb through the hair on the back of her head to form a parting, my tingling fingers twist and turn through shiny strands to form two perfect, pretty braids.
I am consumed with emotion, filled with a powerful feeling of fierce protectiveness. I experience feelings of overwhelming hate and anger directed at the monster that dares to suggest that I would allow any child, let alone one of my own, endure such anguish. I will punish the monster later when I get her on her own!
Through all of this; through the reality and the virtual I have described, I count. Urgently I count! Mentally drained, tears frozen solid in my throat, no longer able to suppress facial and body tics, still gently tending my beautiful child and somehow responding periodically through the haze to her eager chattering; I count!
Four-eight-twelve-sixteen, on and on, the more horrifying the images, the more complex my count. Until finally, hoping that outwardly I appear relatively normal, I am able to close my mind to the horror.
Until the next time!
Lord help me to trust; that intrusive thoughts (no matter how appalling) are a symptom of OCD and not a reflection of who I am. Amen.
My kids are happy, I must be doing something right. I will always be 'Mum'; which makes every day worth fighting for!
Thank you for allowing me to share
GOD bless you and all those you love
Kimmie x Copyright©2012kimmie All Rights Reserved