Learning the Art of Writing

Archive for October, 2009

Exile from Intimacy into the Shame of Keeping Secrets.


The Secret is a book that lights many thousands of people’s eyes up, but its  not that secret but the Secret  that only serves one person ~  that’s the  one who  wants it keeping. They want it kept because it is something they should not be doing and do not want other people  finding out. The pressure to kept the secret quiet, creates a deep level of anxiety for both people, the one who is keeping and the one maintaining it. Deeper, somehow for the one who is being made to keep it I think.

A secret could be that someone is being abused and are being cohered into keeping the secret and then once the secret is kept the abuser assumes a new power and it is your power of free speach they have used against you. This leads to you feeling lonelyness and creates echos of non relationships and very rarely  through out your life would you have ever  expeirenced the real you.

So “Unless the victim can find some permission and power to share the secret and unless there is the possibility of an engaging, non-punitive response to disclosure, the child is likely to spend a lifetime in what comes to be a self-imposed exile from intimacy, trust and self-validation.” Roland C. Summit, M.D.

And so the story goes, sitting here this morning reading through the research that goes way back to research done in the 1970.

I was reading some of the processes people go through to get validation and that was a concern of mine at the beginning but just having that one person made all the difference.

That was then and this is now but I still wondered why it it still so hard for people to believe the child when they tell you they have been abused  and also when it is obvious that they are telling the truth.

Its not hard for me to believe them for I have told my dirty little secret many times and when I did for the first time  I was believed by one person who mattered and would not use it against me and which in those days I found  miraculous. Not so  the other members of the family who sort me out and  spate in my face and because I know the fall out of not being believed is devastatingly and the feelings  of shame are over whelming. So we don’t tell and we don’t tell for a long time.

Its like the man who was asked about the green house effect and what did he think and he said “It doesn’t effect me I haven’t got a greenhouse” So we learn to lie deny and hide away from the truth.

“Shadows from the past throws a shadow across today’s sun. How long have you been a child of shame hiding your secret behind the mask.”Ralph Blum The Book of Runes 1982.

When will you tell and how if you got an opportunity to have the perfect scenario how would it work?

Who would you tell first, is this creating knots in your stomach and you feel an aversion to even thinking  about it but if you don’t you take away your get out clause. You really need to over come the pain of it by imagination and Visualization, so you can get doing what you are really meant to be doing,

Finding lost bits of You and Healing.



Number 32 NG18 …


The pain goes deep into the ribs.

It irritates more than truly hurts.

Always in denial, as nothing ever hurts now.

She waits in limbo numb with the fear that has taken over.

No gear! No gear! NON

Doors bang constantly, which echo the voice and frame the footsteps.

The voices whisper in the doorway

We need more pain, We need to inject the latest poison into our veins”

Kill life Kill life Kill

The smell of grim lives on the stairs, pathways to hell.

Murky Strangers linger while the dragon courses through their wiry frames.

Down stairs, the entrance to this hell the main doors buzz,

Sticky finger marks the only reminder of these abusers these users.

She the owner of these sites has little, small, four feet nine inches.

It had been said that good things come in little packages.

It must have been used up quickly, because the tracks in her body showing where life used to be for that is all that is left.

The bags by the door full and smelly, the bags under her eyes

black and empty, and face death everyday.

No hope for Hungry Ghosts…..

My first steps to freedom


The first time I told someone it felt strange, something I had kept so close to my chest for all those years just exploded out of me. I was 21, I am now 54, but I remember it has if it was yesterday, its the feelings really I remember more than anything.

Although I did bury my feelings deep inside my soul there was always a little showing, a little lace along the seam has Joni Mitchell would sing and I always knew just what she meant for me.

Early morning and the pressure in my chest began to mount, words just single words banged against my head and I saw myself sitting him down and explaining without any fear or hurt the pure facts. During the developing morning the fear would take over and I would rehearse the words now forming a disorderly cue to get out, suddenly the eruption of hurt made my eyes sting with hot tears that shook my shoulders and made my lips crumble.

I held myself in check, the memories flashed on the screen of my mind, flash backs are just that. It is so strange… in the outer world the television has a morning decorating programme showing , and the telephone rings but I am stuck somewhere being five and sitting on a unfamiliar bed looking at my blue shoes and my urine stained five year old legs, knowing the world that has been part of all of my life has gone and there is no-one there to hold me.

The echoes in the hallway comes as a very strong memory, the sounds of loud voices whispering and shuffling around the door of the dormitory, would come in my dreams has I grew older.

The clock in the living room crept up to the appointed time and his hand on the front door, began a reaction in my brain. I had to keep cool or I would say too much too quickly and frighten him away. He needed to know just what it was like for me without the emotion, just what without the numbers being tattooed on my wrist Bel-son my Bel-son was like.

Men liked the facts, my face was flushed, I made an excuse to go to the loo and splashed water on my face.

I drank deeply the breathing space it gave me. he settled down on the settee with his cup of tea and his smile, I looked at him with my steely eyes, “I must tell you something” I said. I maneuvered myself into the chair opposite him a quizzical expression on his face had replaced the smile.

His eyes were always kind, and this day I felt he sensed something that he had not been able to put his finger on was about to come to light.

The words dropped like stones and lay on the floor and his eyes followed them, his shoulders hunched as if to protect him from the bitter, jagged edges of the syllables. Tears rolled on to his cheek and he did nothing to stop them.

Many hours later when I could talk no more, he held me, he loved me there was no shame or guilt, or black echoing hallways where loud voices whispered “poor cow”just a warm accepting that my experience although terrible was just different to his.

Sexual abuse has coloured my world, and it has been a murky gray most of my life, the flash backs and abuse has taken me in and out of the black hole so many times even in the bluest times I remember that day like a bright gold dream where I was held and believed, validated and I achieved my first steps to freedom and a rainbow held the bright blue sky.

My Pictures

He is a Star

He is a Star



These are the people who are important in my life

Me and the girls my lovely's

Me and the girls my lovely's

Paddy Steve Sue and me

Paddy Steve Sue and me

My sister and others

My sister and others

Memories of Bluebell Wood

Early morning

Early morning

I can just see over the grass, the scent of blue bells fill my senses and I lay in fields of long grass until the sun hides its face in the earth. Feeling safe.

Today is so good.

I have had my fourth birthday and it is not for the presents I received for there was none, but for the special day when we all walked together in Bluebell Wood. My Father too, visits the sacred wood in the heart of Sherwood, he longs for the green of Limerick and sighs, he smiles at me and I know somehow of his loss.

My small Irish woman who we call “Mammy” has remembered to make it special,and we sang at the top of our voices such harmony, all four of us as we meander back to the tower made of stone. It is a large forbidding building with rubble littering the pathways. I could not call it home, for we move, like the wheat in the fields. Some nights I have gone to sleep in one place and woke somewhere else. Itinerants, they call us and look down their noses. I will never care they will never hurt me; I am happy playing in the muddy lanes and being hungry.

I can hear her humming “Oh what a beautiful morning” absentmindedly and I watch her steely brown eyes follow me as I dance feeling warm in the chilly autumn air. I am wearing a red dress a little to small and I have blue shoes with buckles, unusual very really do I wear shoes. My hair is thick,black, long with a blue ribbon in it. I look different today because she dressed me this morning and I know she has tried and I feel loved.

Mainly she is tired and empty, so many children in such a short time.

The glass jar Sit empty she fills with water and then she places the blue flowers that the younger ones have picked, in the water. There are small sponge cakes and meat paste sandwiches. A small parcel with my name written on the brown wrapping paper ‘Katie’ in large letters waiting is for me. I had just learned to recognize my name and I become excited jumping and shaking my hands. I can not ever remember getting any other present before. She makes me wait, sitting the others down to the small banquet , they start to sing “Happy Birthday” I can only hear her voice; strong and melodic,the others are too young to know it completely.

She smiles at me “open it then” she says in the strong Irish lilt that she uses when she is pleased. It is my first book, too large for my hands and she steadies it. I look at the pictures there are horses, pigs and ducks. I understand the pictures but can not read the words. She reads as we go to bed and talks and tells us stories. It has been a bright sunny day, with blue flowers, food and happy voices. No clouds, or raised voices nor tears, not today. A remarkable day. Father was here. He was sober and smiling.

As I write these memories I hear the voice and the story of a child who’s reality and understanding beyond her years are standing at the side of her like Guardian Angels.

In one so small, much sensing and instinctively using experiences to survive the dramas of how things are in her own world daily. “Who’s in control “ I hear the echoes of grief and sound of tears stretching down the years. So much fear.

These situations appear repeatedly and she learns to gain control not really helped by the people closest to her. Mainly her parents, those who lives took them in to a place not made for her and who had forgot she is only four years old.

She panics and frets, these wayward parents are her world, finding them on some days proved very hard. Good at disappearing and reappearing worst for wear as she walks the country lanes to get out of the way. She experiences the outdated map, the cultural trap.

As my memories moves on, I think anyone with any problem solving skills could see the thing was never going to work without some kind of stability.

It’s the road less traveled “ and see it spanning for the next millennium. The cycle of neglect. I begin to wonder how this child survived and a sneaky idea of some thing else came into view, another way of thinking so handy for four-year-old’s.

Find a love object, and transfer a “little love” and as these things come naturally, it is easy and there he is youngest son a golden child, small and vulnerable and loveable she pours her attention on to him and they are saved. Two intertwined souls.

Memories of this remarkable time play in her mind for she knows they will stay forever, adding and subtracting has the day moved on. Times when those few short hours were hers and the family she never knew. Of the walks in the Forest, dew, spiders webs, the mists and silences of the dense wood haunted her. The sounds of laughing voices, excitement and exultation.

She remembered the smell of woodsmoke hot red-hot fires burning to keep warm, and was central to the camp. And later ached to be there again.

There is something about the open air that gives life a different feel.

The feel of the air and birds, always birds, she loved them there was something magical about them. She knew their freedom.

I love listening to this small voice and as these memories unfolded they touch me deeply. The highs and lows of dysfunctional families are created out of joy and grief. For now I am just glad to listen and know that the small child’s voice is still as strong “They didn’t subdue her passions and the sweet voice that echo’s so many sounds of childhood and innocence”.



Practice in the presence of the Goddess in all ways

Both in your coming in and you’re going out..

In your prayers, invoke the Goddess Presence

In your aspirations, stay mindful of the Presence

In your meditations, breathe in the Presence

Above all, let the Presence be reflected in your attitude.

For surely then the Goddess will sing in your thoughts

Speak in your voice and shine through your acts

Let the presence of the Goddess be the medicine

To heal your life, life your heart and renew your spirit.

Practice the Presence of the Goddess in all ways,

Both in your coming in and you’re going out.

RalphH. Blum