Maybe this small book can help me find my life! My story of a broken childhood — your friend in Jesus forever. Bless you. Larry Dean
For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.
These things either draw us toward God...or embitter us and we wonder away from Him! Let us pray together...and Call upon the Name of the Lord!
I have lain in the dark, snuggled deep within the quilt of unfathomable doubts. Pondered my existence and the whys and what’s. Felt Darkness stroke my hair and with a silent temptation — gesture me to drink.
“Do it my son.” He whispers, this invisible ugly old thing, which stalks my semi conscious states, pointing with his bony hands. “Drink and release yourself!”
In my dreams when the horrors come nightly, I pray for Archangel Michael and Jesus.
Do not feel sorry for me, God is carrying me within soft hands – leading me back into the Light, to that huge table where we can speak once again — forever when it’s my time.
Love will come for me when she’s ready. A beautiful woman to hold my hand in the darkness of night, someone to hold me tight as I cry myself to sleep, someone to stroke my hair and love me like my mother never could. Someone to replace the pain with happiness: someone for me to love.
It all started when I was four, the relentless beatings by a drunken father. “Stand on that fucking table! Then whoosh smashed off it with fists of fury. Then again — “Stand on that fucking table!” It usually went on for an hour until my redden face and tiny body could no longer find the strength to climb that big chair then on to the table of pain.
Some prominent psychologists have theorised, that photographic memory can be created by traumatising an individual at a very young age, through pain and high levels of violence, which can result in the child creating another personality to cope with the trauma being inflicted, or they can endure it and develop a type of photographic memory whilst maintaining the core personality.
I fall into enduring category – thankfully, my spirit never broke as so many of my unfortunate brethren, who through cruelty and vicious acts, lost a piece of their soul they might never regain totally – I know I haven’t yet.
The rages grew in intensity and with the sound of the fridge opening, I knew at an early age the concept of pain. The cruelty a child should never have to endure.
Through a sense of self detachment, I watched that big black leather belt land time after time across my puny arms and back as he screamed, that little boy standing on the table. The red welts crossing me like a sort of long red scarf. Watching the froth and spit spew into the night’s air and onto table as he ranted and raged. Was this my father — a beast who beat me viciously every night?
The beating went on for years, my mum violently fighting him to stop but she too had to run, run away from that monster that swore and placed curses of vengeance upon her if she returned. I have always forgiven her.
I was alone with the beast, silently now enduring the beatings, pain now just an old friend who visited with the sound of the fridge. I was now school age.
School was harder still, poor clothes, poor shoes, unkempt and haggard – I was an obvious target for the bullies.
My clothes may have been cheap and secondhand, shoes dirty and poor but inside me, always shining like a beacon in the darkness, was Hope. Each night after the now ritual of standing on that table, I used to clamber under my bed and pray. Pray in the silence of thoughts safely hidden under my unwashed bedding. Eyes closed in the darkness and asking someone to answer, “Answer me, why I was chosen to endure this. This hell of never ending pain, abuse at home, abuse at school. Why?”
Crying myself to sleep — it became a nightly ritual to match the beatings.
Maybe this small book can help me find my life!
My story of a broken childhood — your friend in Jesus forever.