What?

What is it you would have me do, Eileen?

Deny the truth.

I am good at that.

That is what I have done best

To the pint of amnesia

Ok Pandora’s box never opened, and

Hope was not at the bottom

I never met Her

I was never all that

Never more

Never more than all the Michael’s in the world.

Pandora’s box is a myth.

Ok Eileen Pandora’s box never opened

Happy?

Your angry words were never spoken

They never cut me like a knife

I never suggested help for you.

O, Eileen

All better

One thing remains though

You still are obsessed with no one’s feelings but your own.

Copyright 2013 Fred Celio

Angry Words

They are just Angry words

But they cut like a knife into the spirit and soul

I mean, mean vicious untrue, misleading, misunderstanding, obscene, cutting … words

Have you ever cut yourself accidently on the flesh

And then spent time wondering what it would be like to be stabbed to have a deep wound serious

Not accidental

I mean With paper or a razor or knife

Don’t get me wrong not someone else’s your own

This is what angry words are like

Your own throat slit from side to side not the aftermath but the feel of the sharpe  blade sharpe as a scalpel

What the slit feels like

Like finger nails on a chalk board you ponder it too long, why would you

And then transfer that same feeling to say the gut area

The abdomen

A knife launched in anger and

It cut your flesh like that searing feeling of an accidental cut like your throat being slit but only in the gut the abdomen

Then well, it must start out like that and go deeper as the knife continues on its path this I cannot feel I cannot imagine

Sharp like a scalpel that searing kind of feeling

Hardly noticeable when it is inflicted and completely unoticable as it goes deeper and moves through its path

Like paper cut

Surgical

Slit throat

Abdomen

But you look down and realize it is deeper

Serious

You feel the initial slit but the rest you don’t feel

As the blood flows from the thin and slender line that begins to

Opens up into a wound

And thin line of blood becomes a flow of blood

And it can actually gush it is that serious

And then that thin searing pain becomes deeper and broader

And yet hardly noticible against the backdrop of pain that it seems like has always been there

Serious pain

Not From the cut but from the wound it inflicted

And then you don’t worry about the blood anymore

As messy as it is as it flows you see it

But then the shock of the sight is dismissed in favor of the pain

The deep pain physical from a serious wound

And you bend over too holding on to a gaping hole that you are not trying to cover up so much as to hold in

Hold the pain in

Not the blood and guts

But the pain

Bent over with both hands covering the initial thin line

Inflicted by the cut of a knife or scalpel or whatever

That has now grow into a gaping hole

But you are not trying to cover up this wound at all though it has that effect

As much as you are trying to stop to sooth the pain by holding holding it in

Then the pain peaks and subsides as you continue to hold the wound

It is as if you can sooth or

Mitigate this deep pain by holding it in

If you hold it in … the pain … then there was no event

there was no wound

and the pain goes away and you remove your hands

There, it will stay in by itself now

No I mean the pain has gone away it is gone it was never there

And you are safe,

If you hold in the pain

And you tell no one

No one knows except you and the inflictor the

Well

The perpetrator

disassociation  is the answer to all my problems

Problems being pain emotional pain

Disassociation no pain,  no pain here, what pain,

 I have just gotten over it

See it doesn’t even seem trite in this context

So no stabbing no wound no pain

If the pain is gone then the was no incident no stabling no wound

E I E I O

And so I look inside and here are these scars

So many

And so, some are long and jiggered

Some are small and barely noticeable

But upon reflection I can remember each one

This is when she pulled the knife out and stabbed and cut

Angry vicious words a tirade of anger

Just like a scalpel surgically applied and accepted

Have you ever been on the receiving end  of something like these

And I remember each one the events the angry words lost in a tirade of of anger for she has become anger has become the scalpel

Yes and some applied in front of witnesses

This is the second one

Barely noticble a very small scar really that has healed over

Oh well maybe a bit longer and certainly deeper

Applied in front of a witness

Who covered her eyes and mouth in aghast as she

A bystander witnessed the knife or scalpel go into to the spirit the soul and cut and cut angry vicious words that like a knife are

Outside of me and have nothing to do with me they are mostly lies and half truths

And a misunderstanding misinterpretation of the facts

They are anger directed at me

As a knife or scalpel they cut and cut

They jab and cut

And I hold them in hold in the pain really

As I accept each jab

And the witness sees me

Sooth her

I fall to my knees because of the unseen unfelt pain of the attack

I sit I remove her shoe’s

I kiss her feet

The bystander walks away

Mumbling something about I can’t watch this

I kiss her feet at her feet

I hold in my pain by soothing her’s

For anger is an expression of the angry persons pain the pain of the perpetrator

Expressed as a screen play and action an angry expression of words artfully applied to

Well really the receiver who is not angry

Does not even appear hurt

For they are only words

So I kiss and rub I caress her feet at her feet after the attack on me

Which wasn’t really about me at all

But something in her that needed to be expressed

 so I accept the wound to my soul and spirit

Accept, receive, deny dissociate

E I E I O

Not in the spirit in which it was inflicted but as one

Who epitomizes the very concept of acceptance

I say nothing as I hold in this emotional pain and I sooth her

At her feet I caress her feet

But there after all these years is the scar

I have the scar meant for someone else who?

I do not know

I remember the pain and the accumulated pain of all the remaining attacks down through the years

For this was only the second knifing of me I hold in the pain and all the scars are there

they remain

As the years go by and the relationship grows and develops

Sometimes punctuated by angry gestures obscenities and words that are nonsensical

And always the jabbing the knife jabs and cuts

Like a knife or scalpel in my spirit my soul

It goes in with a jab comes out another jab  in

Then moving the knife/scalpel as when still in flesh

It is sticking in the spirit the soul and she moves the knife the scalpel and it cuts through the soul and spirit

As it moves and leaves a thin line

That bleeds a thin line of blood

And then opens up the soul the spirit and there is a wound

But down go my hands

Not to stop the bleeding or hold in my guts my very soul’s stuff some of my spirit is trying to leak out to the air and get outside of me

Some of who I am leaks out through these wounds like blood and guts

So I hold in the pain and my soul and my spirit as she attempts to break it with her vicious angry mean words cruel words cutting untruths half truths misunderstandings name calling

On and on it goes and I show no signs of having hung in

Yet the scars remain

And the memory of each wound and me holding in holding on to the pain

And her anger falls like rain and then

The sun

And no anger just nice

And she says I love you

I know she does for she said it

And I accept that too

Accept the I love yous for that is what my soul craves

After the knifings the I love yous

I live for these

I love you

She bats her eyes and says I love you

Mom told me some day I will meet a girl who will bat her eyes at me

And you will be gone

Thanks Mom

Slipping away

But not quite gone yet

You were right

I hold in the pain and I accept the joy of hearing those three words

And I ignore the knifings and the scars left as their reminders for I have

I love yous

The three words I seek and for which I will accept a million surgically applied knifings night and day and gladly

For those three words

as a bit of my soul my spirit slips away

Whether I can see the attack coming or whether it is a sneak attack

A bit of my soul my spirit a bit of me slips away

And then I am nothing but scars

I warned her I told her the third time

Yes she did it again even after the caressing of feet at her feet

I really thought this would stop the knifings but it did not

So the third time sitting in the car

Alone holding the wound that was bleeding holding in the pain

Calmly and serenely for I was practicing acceptance the answer to all my problems

I tell her calmly as I hold the bleeding wound to  ease the pain but has the ancillary effect of stopping the bleeding and hold my guts in that part of my soul my spirit that’s under attack the very me of me I hold in to stop the pain

And I turn and calmly tell her as I bleed and hold the wound I say

“You know, this is going to take a toll.”

And years go by more knifings

More holding in me … the me of me

the pain she has inflicted by angry vicious cruel mean word tirades  name calling obscenities actions as knifings surgically applied to my spirit and soul

She has left down the state yet still with silence not answering  the phone and then angry angry words mean viscous hateful untruths misunderstandings half truths and misinterpretations name calling stabbing and slashing at me soul. 

Until I bleed out me.

And all these scars from previous attacks have accumulated and there they are and I remember each one that I have accepted

And so years go by

And I write still years from now

I write these words

Just as calmly for now the anger has degenerated into the written word emails and instant messages the knifes or scalpel of technology surgically butchering my spirit my soul until more of me bleeds out and I  hold in the pain to keep me from bleeding out and losing myself to the ground and losing myself as I bleed out with the pain.  I hold it in I hold it in to stop the pain and the blood the very me of me is held in.

The written word emails and instant messages

Have become her weapons so she can strike from a far

They cut just as deeply as if she were standing right there and maybe even more so … because she is not standing right there

And I know my I love yous which I will get if I hang in and accept these knifings I know my I love yours  will not be in person But still I hang holding in the pain and the blood of me the very me of me for these I love yours which are fewer and far between the knifings which come at anytime for any reason

Cut upon cut scar upon scar and I hold in the pain.  I can do nothing but devote myself to these miserable knifings and continue to love you.

And so after more knifings I write too

If you keep treating me like this there will come a time when there will be nothing you can do there will be nothing you can say. 

And still you continue. Knife and blame knife and blame.

As more of me bleeds out of me

As more scars are formed you knife and blame me

Words of anger of hate name calling obscenities and then one I love you again.

How much of me has bled out how many scars from holding in the pain?

Till I can no longer disscociate and finally the end as the relationship becomes the knifings and I love yous mean nothing  I have held in the pain and held onto me

I have survived another relationship.

Sometimes it seems that I am nothing but scars there are so many

Old scars new scars

I do not sit and contemplate them all; they are just there

I do not remember each and every one

They are a testament to me

I have held in the pain and the blood that runs from my spirit and soul the blood

The very me of me

I have held in the pain the blood and saved me the very me of me remains intact to this day

I am not the scars or the pain I am underneath

I am here.

Copyright 2013 Fred Celio

The Daily Prayer That Never Fails

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Survive Childhood Sexual Abuse

scandals

1 At *that hour the disciples came to Jesus, saying: Who, thinkest thou, is the greater in the kingdom of heaven?

2 *And Jesus calling unto him a little child, set him in the midst of them,

3 And said: Amen I say unto you, *unless you be converted, and become as little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.

4 Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, he is the greater in the kingdom of heaven.

5 And he that shall receive one such little child in my name, receiveth me.

6 *But he that shall scandalize one of these little ones that believe in me, it were better for him that a mill-stone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.

7 Wo to the world because of scandals. For it must needs be that scandals come: but nevertheless wo to that man by whom the scandal cometh.

8 *And if thy hand or thy foot scandalize thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee. It is better for thee to enter into life maimed or lame, than having two hands or two feet, to be cast into everlasting fire.

9 And if thy eye scandalize thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee. It is better for thee with one eye to enter into life, than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire.

10 Take heed that you despise not one of these little ones: for I say to you, *that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father who is in heaven.

11 *For the Son of man is come to save that which was lost.

I awakened this morning to the television news, protests at the archdiocese of Los Angeles.  The spokespeople were angry and appeared to be mostly lead by attorneys. I have nothing against attorneys, they are very useful, as long as they are the instrument and not the hand that manipulates the instrument.  This is a general statement and not specific to the event of which I have no opinion. I am for any justice that is driven by survivors. Sometimes I see justice driven by those who are not survivors and it concerns me that they are doing more harm than good to the survivor.   Any motive not from the survivor I am against and has the potential to do harm, and in fact, already harms the survivor by discounting them.

In being abused we have been discounted and the consequences resulting from the abuse have further discounted and sometimes objectify us again.  We have been discounted and objectified enough.  Thus, any “justice” not driven by survivors is abusive. Again, this is a general statement and not specific.

I know that the Church will continually be attacked around the world whether or not the attacks are founded in truth    This is the nature of God's kingdom on earth. I further know that the archdiocese in Los Angeles has admitted the harm done and made amends to survivors through paying for counseling and paying the survivors directly to the tune of billions of dollars.  I now that the Church has implemented what can only be considered a state of the art program not only to insure that abuse does not occur wherever children are within the church -- and that is everywhere -- but that their programs go further by educating people to identify potential abuse survivors who have been abused outside the church and how to effectively help them.  Every single person associated with the church in this archdiocese at any level from janitor to cardinal has to be certified in this program.  Thus the church has taken scandal and then taken a leadership role on the issue of CSA. I am certified in this program.

I also feel compelled to speak of my personal story.  I survived abuse from four family members.  Three of which sexually abused me.  These were not clergy; they were the adults closest to me.  My mother, my grandfather (my mother's step father), and my grandmother.  My father was verbally emotionally and physically abusive but not sexually, except in the sense that he did nothing to stop the sexual abuse that I endured, whether he knew about it or not is irrelevant, as my father his job was to protect me from such things, as a child he was supposed to protect me period.

The sexual abuse occurred between the ages of 4 and 9.  It is unimaginable to be discounted and objectified by the very people who were supposed to love protect and put me first and give me my subjectivity. UNIMAGINABLE literally and figuratively.

At the age of 9 my hero appeared.  My pastor, my principal, a Catholic priest. A kindly man with an Irish brogue Monsignor O'Brien from Our Lady of Perpetual Help Parish in Clovis California. Monsignor O'Brien met with me privately on more than one occasion bringing me to the rectory and speaking with me.  But more than that he put a stop to the abuse. By making phone calls and meeting with the perpetrators, he, one might say, put the fear of God in them. While this did nothing to help me overcome the defense mechanisms and issues that resulted from the abuse -- there was no counseling etc. it did put a stop to the abuse. For that I am forever grateful for this Catholic priest, and I think of him often, did the right thing regardless of the consequences.

His actions in no way diminishe my own courage for telling him the truth regardless of the consequences and there were consequences not only in the past by being suffocated by my grandmother to the point of death when at 4 I told her what grandpa had done, I was also, after Monsignor O'Brien  started talking, I was picked up by my Grandmother’s uncles and nephews and laid down on the floor in the back of the car, my neck over the hump with one of my grandmother's nephew’s, a man I had previously looked up to, with his foot on my neck body on one side of the hump head on the other foot on my neck as he told me to stop talking to monsignor O'Brien. This is my family. Hideous criminals.

Monsignor O'Brien died shortly after that.  He will always have a warm place in my heart.  A genuine hero of the faith.

Love Survivor - Love Perpetrator

You say you miss me

Yet you leave me in the park

Like so much litter

Not even worth bending over to pick up

I am much, much more valuable than that

You say you love me

Yet you use abusive words

Angry words

Hateful words

You say:

“ Fuck you you’re demonic”

Thus you cast your spell

When invited to overcome this

You say no … no not … it’s not … and

Blame me

I am much, much more astute than that.

You and I spend hours together

I speak the truth

I tell you exactly what is going on with me

As far as I can know … at that given point                                                  

Immediate with my thoughts, feelings, and perceptions

You seek others’ opinions about me

They don’t even know me

Have not spent even 5 minutes with me

You rely on their words

You interact with me based on their perceptions

I am much, much more authentic than that

You say you are this and

You are that

Yet I see blond  wigs

Boudoirs photos

Your cousin … the beard

Moncia’s brother

Laura’s date  …

Which was discreetly confided to me on Valentine’s day

Red coat … green coat

I am much much more perceptive than that

You say you love me

I guess you did not know

I have been writing poetry since my teens

Even been published

Yet, I am

Much

Much more

Than that

I lack empathy

I almost didn’t write this.

Copyright 2013 Fred Celio

He who dies with the most time wins

A young boy was in the basement drinking beer only

Ten I think now

His parents found him there with a six pack

One down and one begun

They scolded him and sent him to a meeting

Midtown in the sky I think

They gave him a card so the secretary could sign it for each meeting he attended

He went everyday

30 sixty 90 in 90

Each day the card was signed and each week he showed it to Mom and Dad

Have you learned you lesson?

Very good they said you are doing very good

And by and by he got a year

And the group he had come to love for their stories of how they used to drink and the trouble they got into and do not have to deal with anymore and how sobriety is more important than love than his parents than school than work is the most important thing for without it he would have nothing

He clutched his card each day and dutifully had it signed they called him newcomer and treated him like a boy

And by and by he got a year and they gave him a chip with a candle and sang happy birthday and told him to keep coming back … and he did

He got a sponsor who told him he could be too smart but not too dumb so he played dumb and blew out the candle as they sang Happy birthday

The years went by and more chips

And he became sponsor and gave out chips with candles and sang and told others even older in age than him older in belly-button time than he. He told them to sit down shut up and listen and he gave them candles and then he got a 76 year chip and then he died

And his funereal was a big meeting as he was in that big meeting the sky. They read chapter 5 and each person came up and did not say goodbye but spoke of a God which they understood and they know he went to be with a God that he understood.

And he had had throughout his whole life one and 1/2 beers and yet with 76 year chip he died.  But he had hit bottom as surely as the rest of them.  He lived in the meetings.

He was the winner.

He got IT.

That is that.