Today I Saw You, My Escape

Mi did really wah tump him inna him face. For real. Dead serious. This person You  made,  that disrespects me and whomever else he chooses. This person I’m called to love. This person that, even when he rubs me wrong, I’m suppose to love him and look like You even then. Nah aah, mi just did wah grab di bwoy and beat him to a pulp. I just wanted so bad to tell him some colourful tasteless things and end maybe with some spit in his face. Anything grandiose and awful enough to reflect what I felt happening on my natural insides. I wanted so badly to look like him, look like them, look like the filth they expect us to accept.

But here was this stronger will that kept calling me to hold my peace, hold my sin inclined tongue. Walk away. Hush up.  Don’t say that. That doesn’t look like me.

You know that angry or frustrated level you get to that makes you cry because you just want to explode? I was from zero to there. I screamed, I got as close to his face as my grievance against this stronger will within me restricted me to, against my own forceful fighting natural will. I wanted to pop him in the mouth.

Then I wanted to go Home. I wanted to get away, I remembered I’d been tired, I remembered I felt overwhelmed, all of a sudden I remembered I couldn’t do this. Believe me I cried, but not just cried, I cried out to God. I pleaded for help to take the escape He promised me by His words that bound Him to His truth.

I cried, I sobbed actually. I thanked Him in the in betweens for giving me new words and for diffusing the ones engaged for fire. I got to calling somebody to get me from my house. I got voicemails. I sobbed even more and I prayed even harder, God get me outta here, I just need a minute Lord, just somewhere else for a minute, please. Believe me at least one number I had no business calling came to mind. I’d taken that broad road before. I thank Jesus for the strength He stood in, in me, to withstand mostly myself and my own desires that were ever so tempting and easy and familiar.

I got someone but she was far away. It’s ok. And I hung up with more tears in my eyes. My phone rings and it’s her, for some reason she’s now heading pass my house. What’s going on? You need to get away? For the night, for a little while, how long? I just needed a minute. I couldn’t have just walked it off, I couldn’t go be stuck in those feelings justifying my own responses I had in the arsenal of my natural mind.

Well, she came and got me. I got in the car and the Word spoke to me. “Brush the dust off your sandals…” You know that part in scripture where when you enter a home you should pronounce peace and it should return to you. And if it doesn’t you brush the very dust off your sandals? Well, I’d gotten a different perspective the night before in bible study. That you leave the junk where it is. Don’t take it from there to the next. Leave it there. So I was determined to leave those ill feelings and negative emotions right where they were. Dust my feet off and thank God for the escape.

My witness (that reflection of Christ that I am to be) was preserved and protected by that escape. I’d already screamed, I’d already gotten upset but I did not sin. I was angry and I did not sin, well atleast not on the outside. I repented for the things I thought of saying. I brought them to God saying well I know you saw them and I am sorry they didn’t reflect you, again, but thank you for forgiving me again and pouring into me again and remaking me again and for cleaning me up some more and continuing to shape me into You.

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I was so happy I looked like Him in so many ways. I heard His words, saw His escape and took it. Who am I? Lol. I mean, that’s not my natural response. In case you forgot what I would usually look like, go back to the beginning –  scroll back to the top. I walked away, victorious. This boy was maaaad rude and rather than let the offense fester or dictate my response, I, by the POWER of the Holy Spirit, loved him instead and walked away. I acknowledged that I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I became humble. Who am I? Ha! Thank you Jesus! I’m beginning to look more and more like You!

Today You were my escape that You empowered me to accept. Today I walked away and weakened self’s will to rule. Thank You for showing up. For foreseeing it. For providing an escape and for sending You’re word.

My feet have been brushed off. The dust of the offense shaken off. I am love. I am free from myself, free from people, free from offense. I am gracious. I am merciful. I am compassionate. I am quick to forgive.

This is a new moment and in this moment I have forgiven, repented and moved forward in love, having left the dusts of a filthy occurrence where it occurred.

We are free. My words are life. My words are for freedom.

God My Escape. I thank You.

Rae Sonson,
May 26, 2016,
22:30p.m.

I Was Depressed Too

I heard my cousin say she wanted to write a blog on depression. Said she wanted some way of helping others, or sharing her story, something to that effect but anonymously. But here I was laying listening to music, rereading my posts, then the thought hit me “you’ve suffered from depression too”.

Hmm, I guess I’d forgotten. More like, it got buried beneath the “harder” “bigger” issues of my days. I remember the darkness my granddad would come home to and how he always seemed to be asking me to draw my curtains. To let the light in. I think I had an allergic reaction to light back then. I kid you not. The light came in, my eyes hurt, my mind hurt, my heart hurt. The darkness was a grim pleasantry.

I binge watched sad movies. Sad series. Just about anything that involved hurting people, abused people, people that were fictional but borrowed from pieces of my broken life. At some point my granddad had requested that I refrain from watching things that reminded me of what I’d been through. I clearly didn’t listen.

I cried everyday it seemed. I was sad with the biggest smile it seemed. I was one of those involved depressed people. I actively participated in life but at days end I would choose to wear my cloak of dark sadness. In as dark a space as I could create. It didn’t help that I didn’t speak. I didn’t share my struggle with anyone. I faced it alone. I felt like I would be burdening others if I said anything.

But I couldn’t get out if no one knew. I couldn’t become the Phoenix I could certainly be, without first acknowledging the issue I had, asking for help and accepting the help. Then committing to abandon the dark clouds.

I think I tried some different form of escape just about everyday. I wondered how my granddad hadn’t noticed how terribly wrinkled my sheets were, all of a sudden. For more than a day I kept tying them in the door way by the bathroom (it had that space above the door jam that you find in older Jamaican houses) and climbed up, put my neck in the noose I made, kicked away the thing I was standing on, become devastated by the thoughts of my granddad coming home to my lifeless hanging body, reached my legs back into the bathroom and stood on the side of the shower and loosed myself and climbed down.

There was this day I downed one too many pills I found in his room. I ended up with a stomach ache and a bad taste in my mouth all day. I failed again. I’ve layed in a full bath of water, in my bathing suit (I had this thing about being found naked) with my stereo on my belly and every time I got ready to lower myself the stereo shorted out.

The list goes on. I’m only now realizing I always had support. I always had options. I always had love. Maybe not from the places or people I wanted it from. But I always had all I needed in places I hadn’t realized because I was so busy being overwhelmed. I was so busy overestimating what I didn’t have. Understimating what I did have. Silently dying alone.

I was depressed too for sure. But I’m ever so happy God always had greater plans for the life I wanted so badly to lose.

Being alive I’ve been able to hug others that needed a hug. I have been able to give a listening ear. Share my life and encourage. Love better than the broken versions of love I had received. I have been able to live.

I WAS depressed too. Now I live lost in Christ’s embrace. My life is no longer mine but a daily moment by moment gift from God I’m privileged to be in acceptance of. I’m WHOLE now. He undid my brokenness and made me complete. He is my binding agent, he holds me together and keeps me from falling apart.

Now I’m forever grateful. I live from a whole new perspective. That’s what he gave me, new eyes, new perspective.

I’m incapable of being depressed ever again with these new eyes, this new perspective.

Rae Sonson,
May 24, 2016,
22:49 p.m.

Unfamiliar Sounds

Today my voice spoke before I got done getting ready. It spoke before I was bold enough to open my mouth. It spoke before the brave I was feeling for deep down in my pockets surfaced and was visible in my shaking hands. Today my voice spoke.

It was an unusual occurrence. I’ve never heard it so audibly before. I’ve always heard it through muffled whispers. I’ve always seen it hide. As a matter of fact, I have heard it speak, but only it was thrown into tear filled pillows and palms. It was heard behind closed doors recounting the times it had arrived just a little too late.

I have heard it speak. But it hadn’t been like the one I heard today. All the times I’ve heard it speak, it’s words were lined with betrayal. Yes, that’s what I remember it to be. My voice that often betrayed me. My voice that, when I had walked through the doors of bravery, stood in the back, hid between my legs, shuddered in the corners of rooms and left me hanging by the threads of sympathy in the eyes of the listening ears.

Today my voice was a new sound. An unfamiliar but rather soothing tone. My voice was bold. My voice was truthful. My voice spoke in all honesty. My voice was not afraid. My voice was strong.

My voice had left me. It believed the truth for me that I was courageous, that I was confident, that perfect love casted out fear. My voice trusted more than my quaking body would. My voice walked into difficult conversation and stood strong. It stood tall. Shoulders back, chest out, chin up, eye to eye, then departed unscathed.

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My voice has found its victory. My voice has received that I am King. My voice is finally no longer mine.

Fleeting timidity, seized by the intrepid sovereignty.

©iamakingsonson

Rae Sonson,
May 24, 2016,
20:02p.m.

You are My Silencer

I woke up today testifying in church again. In my mind, duh, lol.  And I was again recounting the time You became known as The Lord my Silencer.

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Grade 12. The loudness inside my head. Before that day there was only one other time there was this much noise. I was outside church, after failing to get myself drunk, I was standing outside the doors, in a corner trying to let my voice out of my caged wrists. Trying to let the noise out through my veins. I remember standing there with all the worst feelings and the voice that had all the worst things to say, angrily screaming instructions, demanding that I run the blade a little deeper and a little harder across my arms and just stop being such a burden on the world. Stop being such an ugly, stupid, unloved, unwanted, fat burdensome weight on the people I was suppose to have loved or who were suppose to have loved me. I tried to open my veins and let the noise out but I failed. The voice wasn’t pleased and I could feel it’s disgust and anger towards me. I couldn’t even please what I now know was the enemy. Even the enemy made me feel useless. But that was his goal wasn’t it. By this point I was wailing. Whoever got to me first came out and consoled me and of course saw the bloody hands I tried to hide.  They prayed. It was quiet for what seemed to be only a moment.

Grade 12. I felt like I had lost my filter. That part of you that makes the world and all in it somewhat palatable, that, I’d broken it somehow. The news was too much. Little girl raped and killed, little girl committed suicide, little boy found dead…possible suicide, soldier kills common law wife and children and suicide, violence, broken people, dark world, it was all too dark, all too grim. I was overwhelmed. I was terrified of failure so school was overwhelming. Examination periods must have been my worst times. I had more thoughts of suicide during testing times. I was afraid. I was TIRED. I felt like my brain had no more vacancies yet things were still coming in for rooms.

I was in a Sociology class I believe. I remember the teacher, she was kind and caring and very understanding. Ms. C. Campbell. I wrote a note. Very short. All it had if I remember well was my grandfather’s cell number and “if I don’t come back call Daddy”. I called my granddad Daddy. Something to that effect was all I had written before I had  asked to be excused to go to the bathroom.  I walked down that long passage into she grade 12 bathroom. Yes, each grade level had a bathroom assigned to it. We, sixth formers (grade 12 &13) had rights to use any bathroom but no one else was permitted to use ours. It came with the jacket lol. (We wore skirts and jackets in sixth form, the others wore tunics.)

I made it. Boom! Cue the voices, or rather, the voice that had nothing good to say all at once. It was as though the moment I had gotten into that bathroom stall a switch went off and the noise was louder than I’d ever heard it before, preventing me from airing my own voice. I couldn’t hear myself think. I couldn’t talk myself down, I’d been locked out of the session taking place in my mind. This voice hated me, that much I could always tell. It hated me from the depths of its soul. I hated me too. I could feel the anger towards me. I could feel my anger towards myself. It was like a relay. It felt the feeling, spoke the word and I felt the feeling and felt the word. Then I spoke the words inside my head until I screamed the hate back towards myself.

You’re ugly, you’re fat, you’re stupid, you’re a waste of their time and emotions, you’re not good enough, you’re worthless, you’re a burden on them, you don’t deserve their love, you remember that that and that, it was all your fault, yes it was your fault, so was that that and that, just do it, just cut the vein, CUT IT, do it deeper, you can’t die unless you go deeper, just die, just die,just die……!!!!!

I could barely see through my tears. I barely felt what I was doing. My hand was just moving to the sound of hate. I felt so unloved and unwanted and undeserving of any good thing. I felt like nothing. An empty nothing full of everything no one wanted around. I kept going. And it was as though I blinked harder than all the other times. Maybe I was shutting my eyes real tight so I couldn’t witness the self inflicted massacre. But I blinked and all of a sudden I could see my hand in front of me. A gaping hole down into my wrist. I was looking at my pulse. I had cleared away all the baggage, the skin, fat and flesh had all been sliced away. I was looking directly at my vein. Pulsating. The voice had another go at creating noise but the sound kept growing dim. Do it! Do it! Try it! One more cut! You can end it! You can fix everything! Just do it! You can make the noise stop if you just do it! But I couldn’t. You’re so stupid and worthless! Kill yourself! Do it! I couldn’t take that last glide across my wrist. I wept.

Here comes Melissa W. singing into the bathroom. Hope. Maybe I can survive this I thought. Maybe I can get help. Maybe I could live. I knew her voice so I called her blindly by name. And she answered. I asked her to get the nurse. She could have said no, she could have asked why, but she didn’t , she just went. Blindly. Without an explanation. The nurse walked in and called a name that wasn’t mine. I guessed that she had had another student see her prior to my beckoning that she thought now needed her help. Well, I opened the door to the stall I was in. She was a high coloured woman so her emotions were seen across her skin. She was  turning red. Her eyes welled up with tears. She sent Melissa W. to get whatever teacher was in the lab next door. Ms. Rhone walked in. She was a pleasant teacher I had in lower school (grade 7-9), geography. She had this look on her face. She almost looked like she could feel my sorrows. Like she’d walked in and found herself bleeding from her wrists. But with this overwhelming sense of calm. Melissa W. got sent for a stool from the lab, or maybe it was already in the bathroom. I started forgetting the moment at that stage. I remember sitting, I remember the sink, I remember the mirror, I remember the nurse, “Racene I’m going to need you to stay awake for me ok? I need you to talk to me, stay awake, I know you’re tired but you can’t go to sleep now, ok? Look at me, talk to me, Racene…” If she’d slapped me a few times I can’t say I remember but I do remember her hand on my face. She was also terrified, she was afraid for me. In the sense of, why would you want to end your life? What makes you feel so overwhelmed?

I was up. Barely. She needed to get me to the nursing station. I volunteered to walk. Alone. My premise was, if you walk holding onto me, everyone will think something is wrong. They’ll notice. I walked alone. They all walked with me. Close by. Class was over now, so I caught the gaze of a friend and she immediately knew and I could tell my silence had hurt her as she saw me walking by, hand against my body, trying my very best to hide my attempt to escape. Then there was another friend, she’d taken my bag and all from the classroom, she shook her head in something I can just call disappointment. Like, you were strong, so why? Or, you could have used our shoulders but you cried alone, why? You would have left us without saying goodbye, were we not worth a wave?

I finally got to lay down. My hands in bandage. Well, my hand, I don’t think anyone noticed I had wounds on both arms because the gaping hole on the left was too vile to look away from. I woke up to Daddy and a loving teacher friend from the school he worked at, Ms. Brammer, she loved me too. His eyes were wet and sad. He didn’t understand why I was running. He had some ideas but those were but a few. My coach came. She was also a MD. She volunteered to take me to the hospital. I was glad to go alone, with her. Away from the sad faces. They looked like reflections of my own sadness. I wanted not to be sad. She wasn’t sad though, she was angry. Her daughter and I were good friends. Her daughter was away. So the idea of her child coming home to news of a dead good friend was fuel to the flames of her anger. She looked like how I figured that first gaze I’d caught must have felt. Like, how could you betray us, how could you betray me, you had lied to our faces with a smile full of joy and hid your tears and chased death so swiftly. How could you?

She asked for all the razors, I surrendered them all. She asked, were there more? No. I kept them all with me. She asked what I wanted to do. Surviving the voice really started giving me a voice in what happened TO me. She explained that going to the hospital meant I’d be checked into a psyche ward. Not just for the open wounds but also for the history of scars continuing up both arms. She didn’t know there were more and worse scars tucked away. Because I knew, I took the second option. She’d stitch me up. She offered no anesthesia. I told you she was angry right? Lol. She said if I could be that cruel to myself I shouldn’t mind being stitched drug free. After examining the wounds. They, her and the nurse at her office, settled on sutures. Pulled my skin together, forcefully pushed the spewing parts back into my arms and stuck them together. Then the gauze and bandages.

I was a billboard for failure to commit suicide. I got back to school I don’t remember how soon, and Meisha-gay M. asked, “you couldn’t keep your hand over the toilet…?….there was sooo much blood,…everywhere…”, but it was in a comical tone so I wasn’t further broken. Some students were scared of how fragile I seemed. Especially on a day when the healing itched and I’d scratched it and ripped the sutures and started a fresh flow of red across my wrist. Jamaica is hot, so imagine the free flow of blood.

Of course I had counselling, of course I had some persons fearful I’d hurt myself if they were honest, etc. So at this point I still felt like I faced that experience alone.

It took me this many years to recognize my Silencer. The voice had died down. I could see clearly not to take the last swipe at my arm because the noise had quieted down. The Word of God says, my sheep know my voice. I knew that voice wasn’t my Shepherd. But I know the Silence was Him. For Him to have silenced the adversary and spoke through that silence into that stall with no words, just quiet. That makes my heart joyfully overwhelmed. He silenced that torturing voice. Gave me peace so that I could see clearly. I could recognize love. I could recognize I was worth more than a bathroom stall death. He thought I was TO DIE FOR!!! He laid down His life FOR me.

If for no other attribute, I give Him great bouts of praise for His role as My Lord the SILENCER. To have a clear space inside my head to think and to hear from Him is something I am forever grateful for. Something no one can take away because He gave it to me. So I make it my duty to dedicate/commit that very space to Him. My SILENCER has a home in my mind. My ears are inclined to His voice. My mind is guided by His thoughts.

I am grateful my Silencer walked into that stall and without a word, just His quiet, breathed freedom into my mind.

Rae Sonson,
May 23,2016,
12:26.

My Faded High

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It really did feel good to be high.

I loved that mellow vibe a good high brought about. That airy flow. That low eye slow thoughts everything is funny and profoundly beautiful and full of enlightenment type of high.

It felt sooo amazing to be high. Once I found it it’s as though it was just made for my life. It made everything tolerable. It made everything feel good. Everything felt better high. Every experience was more amazing high. Add that high to a good cocktail of liquor and believe me, the party is within you. Where ever you are, where ever you go. I can safely say I loved to smoke. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Even the times I choked and felt like I’d die and had to skip a few puffs and just pass it. It was an amazing love of mine.

I smoked a lot. I came down from my highs a lot. So I smoked a lot. I came down, I rolled another, I went up, I came down, it wasn’t enough, it just kept fading. And I’m not trying to sound cliché but it just really wasn’t enough. I’ve smoked and misused medication, mine or not, just to extend it, just to intensify it. But it always faded. It faded and reality was always still there waiting by the door. Just sitting impatiently waiting on your solace to escape you and get back to all its bickering and expectations.

I hated being sober. Really, hated it. Everything demanded to be felt and somedays I really hated having the ability to feel. My highs gave me the ability to be numb. Gave me invisibility. Gave me acceptance. Gave me attention. Gave anything and everything I wanted. Because high me had no real boundaries nor limitations. I was pretty much a fearless me when high. So I was also a danger to myself. A danger to my virtue and my God given purpose and identity.

Somehow God became my comfort. He swapped out that desire and somehow filled that need.

I wasn’t one of those miraculous over night deliverances. I was one of those that had a good bible study and got home to a good spliff and a nice drink and had a nice high sleep. Wake up feeling like, ‘man was that a good high’. Then I was convicted. His spirit in me refused to accept it. Refused to be silent on the topic. He was relentless and I had a crutch I loved walking around with. I decided I needed it to survive my life as it was. I needed to be high to quiet my mind. I just had to stay high. I needed it to ignore God. I needed it to turn my face away from the open arms of my Saviour. I needed it to quench His spirit in me. I couldn’t hear Him so clearly through my clouds.

Believe me when I tell you that I hated getting high but I loved being high. I hated misrepresenting God but I loved having company to smoke with. And I had lots of company. High.

When I was so convicted that I cleaned my space out, believe me I spent a long time searching for even the dust of something to light and smoke. I’ve left God in church or in prayer and just went on a search for this feeling, this pseudo calm, this pseudo peace, this pseudo voice of ‘I’m ok, your ok, breathe’. But I wasn’t ok. I was just high. I was just pacified. There was no milk coming out.

But by His strength (His alone), I denied the feeling long and hard enough and rested and relied on His strength long and hard enough till my body stopped asking for it. It began to know and understand that the answer would always be no. But it wasn’t like having the rug pulled out from under me. It was more like being lead from a spot marked X beneath a crashing anvil, into a better, safer space. Once in that place I could recognize and accept Him giving me all I needed to not hop on a bus and head back in that direction. This space is just so much better.

I can see a nice fat Marley (lol) and deny myself. I can love Him more than that desire. I used to love smoking so understand that I didn’t replace smoking with God but I denied myself smoking to gain God. To inherit what He created for me. To receive all of heaven. To soak up all of His love and without fear or reservation, share that love. To share His love with a clear mind from a pure place.

I’ve had some real good highs but believe me that I haven’t missed a day of it, being in love with God. Having Jesus. Having someone love me beyond reason. Love me without reward. Love me freely. Love me wholly. Love me eternally. Sometimes I really do think that God is crazy. But He is just who He is. Love.

My faded high.

Rae Sonson,
May 23, 2016,
16:41p.m.

Minora Oh Minora

I saw you and I remembered how weak you used to make me.

How you used to call out to me, scream my name.

Crawl under my skin.

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I saw you looking at me. I remembered the times you kept me together by tearing me apart.

I remembered how weak you used to make me.

I felt the weight of your past duty. To make me beautiful, to make me smart, to make me fit in, to make me stand out, to make me invisible and even to make me win.

You were important to my success and you were there to remind me over and over of my failures and my undeniable  flaws.

I hated you and the feeling was mutual. But I needed you to survive.

You fit all the gaps where my filter was broken.

I remembered how weak you used to make me.

Then I walked away again. I left you standing there with your deadly kind of love.

I left you calling out with your hollow promises.

You can’t piece me together by tearing me apart.

You would have been the death of me. But one more stroke. I saw my heart cry out through my open wrist.

Silence. He took my pieces from your hands and silence.

Silence sutured your gashes. Silence stole your voice and restored mine.

Silence gave me Him and annihilated you.

You no longer make me weak.

I remembered how weak you used to make me.

I see how strong I now am.

©iamakingsonson

Rae Sonson,
May 20, 2016,
22:31p.m.

 

Purple Touched In My Safe Place

He was kind,
He was gentle,
He hugged soo tight, so lovingly,
He smiled,
He prayed.

He was in the water when I went under.

Old man died buried and crucified with Christ. Came up a new man. Came up to be tainted.

He loved me,
He loved me,
He lusted me.

Then he touched.

He reached out his words and they entangled me. He dispatched his words and they took me captive.

They undressed my nude innocence. They painted over what was already red, painted it black, filled in the preexisting graves and dug a well.

A deep deep dark sinking, yet waters rising, well.

Then he touched.

He bought me gifts.

Gifts that I purchased with acceptance. More like a barter and I had failed to ask, what am I trading you for?

I rejected them. He saw me rejecting him.

Forced love with forced gifts I wanted never to afford.

I ran to my escape but he stole it.

Then he touched.

Lips recall the invasion. Watery troops stampeding my face. Disgusted. This holy rod extended filth.

The things that made me woman,  descended into the well.

He continued to touch.

This holy mountain casted deadly shadows. This holy water stained my robe.

I came up clean to be tainted. Seal broken and forced to remain shut.

His touch instilled fear.

My caring heart barricaded my voice. His wife was fragile. His children were my friends. I denied my self freedom. I denied my self justice. My silence refused me a fair trial.

I stood before the jury, found guilty of unforgiveness. My voice had been tardy.

This jury had a name more worth preserving than restoring my treasures.

I ran to my escape but they stole it.

My safe place was now the den of thieves. Stained with my innocence. Marred by the waters of my broken well.

I found freedom but was arrested during worship, put in shackles during fellowship.
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He touched. He stained. He tainted. He unearthed my safe place. He stole my Jesus.

I couldn’t love Him after he asked me to love him after he loved me in all the wrong ways.

I found life but the darkness claimed me and dragged my peace across many open fires.

But He loved me. He comforted me. He recovered my looted pieces. He made me love.

I became love.
I became forgiveness.
I became my freedom.

I became, after He undid me.
I became even though he undid me.

I was purple touched in my safe place but there I found him to be REAL.

I became forgiveness.

©iamakingsonson

Rae Sonson,
May 20, 2016,
17:11p.m.

I Was Loving You Wrong All Along

I finally told her I’ve loved her the wrong way all along…
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…and believe me, I loved her. I loved her like I’d loved no one else in all my life. I loved her so intensely it felt like she was what made me breathe, so much so that I felt low on air when she wasn’t around.

I remember the night I was called upon to make use of the power God had placed within me. I remember after I’d prayed, cried and worshiped, I remember being on the altar with even more tears, torn. Torn because my heart lusted after her but it loved and longed for God. I knew the only option I had was to let her go. But I loved her.

I had always hated the idea of letting anyone go. I don’t know that anyone enjoys it but I truly hated it. Not so much for me but more for them. I dreaded the idea of hurting anyone in that manner- breaking anyone’s heart, especially hers. I had begun to live to protect her heart, to cherish it, to strive to make it happy, connect with it more daily and to keep it always smiling. I couldn’t shatter it out of LOVE.

I couldn’t LOVE her enough to break what was wrong for what was right. It couldn’t make sense in our reality, to let her go in order to love her correctly. I’d lose her for sure. She would hate my guts. So, I reasoned it out in the natural. I can’t see God’s breaking heart but I can see hers and her tears. I reasoned and I reasoned. I still knew the pro eternal life choice was to let go…cue some very slowww eye rolling and end on a huge sigh.

It took 3 times to finally love her the right way. The third time being the final one. I did the first time and it ended with me deciding to leave God instead. I didn’t know how to change. I woke up and the routine was to tell her good morning before I even started my own day. So now I wake up and do what exactly. Cry? Yep, I woke up day after day and wept. For 22 days it lasted. That’s how long I fixed my mind on the pain of letting her go instead of on getting closer to God or learning how to love him or be faithful to him. I prayed I cried. I stood in worship I wept. She was in all my thoughts. So I deleted her pictures, I tried not to talk about her, she stopped talking to me after a few tries because my attempt to be Christ like made all our conversations uncomfortable. Now I could see the filth in our conversations, the godlessness in our interactions. It’s as though I turned on a magnifier. That shone ever too brightly on this thing I loved and needed not to hold on to. I lost my friend, because we were also friends. A lot about our friendship and then relationship drove many wedges between my mother and I so I officially had no one to talk to. No one I could be honest about my thoughts and emotions with on the level I could with either of them. So I wept, bitterly.

I broke. I cracked actually. I called her through tears, at her job- I still knew where she’d be on any given day because we had had a code, to check in, so I knew, we knew where either of us would be- and I heard her crack once she recognized my voice. Then I begged. I begged her not to hang up but to agree to a proposal I’d thought up, in the madness of the moment. She agreed to my proposal. I was sadly elated. I was choosing to pursue someone other than the lover of my soul and that hurt my heart but I did it anyway.

She agreed to give me 22 days to win her back. That’s a day for every day that we had been apart. I would over the next few days write her an email a day reminding her why we loved each other. Sent her pictures of “remember when..” and “this day..” and reminded her of things she confided in me about that she wouldn’t have told anyone else. And soon I was allowed to call. I had access to her voice again, even if she didn’t say much. I was winning her trust and heart afresh. I had my love back. My friend and my love. Oh the bittersweet joy I experienced!

We never went back to normal, we were better than normal, we were almost one. As one as we could have been.

The second time was more of an agreement than me trying to love her the right way. The background information is this, we both had boyfriends when we crossed the lines we did. So this time I was taking a step back so we could be solely friends and she could focus on being a better girlfriend to this man she said she loved because he was a good man. I had broken up with the gentleman I was blessed with, I feared I’d ruin him. He was saved too and I saw the road I was choosing and I knew my sins would soon affect him. So, for the sake of his soul I exited the relationship.

In this hiatus from our relationship I met someone else during an international tournament. We fell for the story of the red thread, this comma was put here because I stopped to smile and kinda chuckle at how many lengths I took to rob myself of my own true identity. This story of the red thread is a Japanese folklore I believe, it spoke to two persons meeting and it didn’t matter what point they were in life, that it was fate they would meet and fall for each other as though they knew each other all along. And it sure felt like I knew her before we started out. Note that my “girlfriend” and I had agreed to step back, she’d also been aware I liked this new girl. I talked about her ever so often. Then one day she decided she didn’t agree on me being in a relationship with another person….and she listed all the reasons it made no sense and now she was again hurt. I just had a knack for messing things up. But I had no reason to break up with this girl. Other than the fact that I only chose her because my “girlfriend” wasn’t an option and I felt I ‘had to share my life with someone‘. Yes, I was a Anne Lister fan too.

So now I was in this fast sinking ship of two breaking hearts, one I wanted to spend my life with and one I loved to a lesser extent but I could have spent my life with had the other person not once again become available. I would have never openly expressed my feelings to the second had things not gone how they had with the first. I loved the second with tears in my already torn heart because I didn’t want to learn to love another person I wanted who I was stepping back from. And she (second) saw it and it became an issue. Remember my “girlfriend” and I were still friends, that became an issue once we were in the same place. The person I was to now be with had her reservations about me and my “ex” (I hated that phrase) being in the same place, she feared we would revert to life as we knew it. She wasn’t wrong to feel how she felt but I was determined to brush it off and just allow her to think “crazy” things and be fearful of “nothing”. Why? Of course my “girlfriend”/ friend and I would still be passionately in love with each other. It hadn’t been that long. Of course if she made an advance I wouldn’t resist. I still loved her and loved her intimately at that. Boy I made that girl angry with my blunt honesty (second ie). I remember I told her that very sentiment, that should my “ex” make an advance chances are, I wouldn’t resist. Ha!

It’s as if the moment this woman I started out trying to love the right way decided she was ok with me loving her the wrong way, for forever, said those words (of course not like that though) I started to see every flaw more and more in this other woman I had just started out with. It hurt me to my core to let her go but I had to. I tried to love them both but she wanted all of me until none of me was available. When we finally broke up she (second) decided that she understood how I could love two people at once and was ok with the idea. It was no longer an option though. In all honesty I believed she loved me mostly because of intimacy. She loved having sex with me, and not necessarily everything else about me as much as we got along and had good conversations. I think sex was different and unusual and exciting. I was black and Jamaican haha, of course it was. We are still friends. She told me about her new puppy and her new job and her new partner.

They say the third time is the charm. This time it weighed heavily on my heart. I felt the pull towards God but “my sins were ever before me.”
I begged God to show me how to live this time. How to love him. How to serve him. Not only that. I asked him to take me through it as my strength because I knew I’d fail in my own strength. She and I had numerous conversations and she’d always hint at something being off about us. That we used to know what the other was saying without words, that we understood each other. Now we struggled. I was happy. I was being disconnected. I was well aware of that. I tried to comfort her as I was being separated and I’d always make sure to ask God for the words by the strength of his Holy Spirit in me.

So we got into an argument. One of many we’d grown accustomed to, over nothing mostly but this time it was different. We grew in anger but I could hear the word sounding loudly, audibly in my mind…love is patient, love is kind…love does not keep a record of wrongs…love bears all things…

This wasn’t LOVE. And as we fussed, I broke into prayerful tears begging the love of my heart to keep my heart true to him. I begged him to help me let go and to hold me in him as I did, so that I wouldn’t go running back.

As the words left my lips and entered her ears this quietness erupted. She stopped talking. I heard that familiar hurt and she poured out everything left in her. How I could never come back this time. How I’ve cost her the most hurt in her days. How I’ve been the closest to her and how it made it that much more painful what I was doing, again. She left me messages all night and into the morning. And believe me I prayed while I mourned, all night and morning long.

I held onto the feet of Jesus with this desperation I had never expressed before. I needed him more than I wanted her. I wanted my life to reflect that desperation and love. That I love him more than life itself and I wanted to be reset and repurposed. Where he was the centre of my life and joy.

I prayed without ceasing. I thanked Him for keeping me in him through it because it was not easy. He taught me how to hunger and thirst after him. And this peace came. I missed her but I loved him more in each of those moments. I would tell him how much I loved that he chose me when I thought of how much I loved her. I tell him how much I admire his beauty when I find myself wanting to remember even her smile. I thank him for his embraces through tearful nights when I find myself missing things like her company.

Then a very odd thing happened while I was praying for her soul.

She called me. It’s out of her character to call me after saying she’s done. She called and asked that we start over. The right way. Because she cherished our friendship. If you haven’t noticed by now, I cry a lot and so I cried and I thanked God. When I prayed, I hadn’t asked to be used to help her know his love but he wrote it that way. I still pray over every conversation because my natural will can fall into routines it had grown accustomed to. Like I love you’s with a touch of inappropriateness.

God has preserved our friendship even though we had tainted it. He cleaned it up and blessed it and returned it to us on his terms. We don’t talk as much as we use to but when we do I don’t leave feeling weighed down or like I lost her. I leave mostly thanking God for showing her his love, mercy, grace and favour. She’s asked me how to meet my Jesus. Something else that is out of her character. She’s always said she wasn’t “religious”.

Thing is, God has never called us to religion. But rather to relationship. A love relationship with him. Where we make our selves wholly available to him and he makes himself and the universe available to us. How could I have continued to refuse such a great love? Especially knowing that the rejection of such a great love has an equally great consequence. Hell.

I didn’t choose God to avoid hell. That’s a good perk but no. I did because my heart longed for him. He makes my life make sense with all its jumbled pieces. He gives my life meaning like nothing and no one else ever has. He gives me identity. It gave me peace to love him. As a matter of fact, he chose me.

So I finally love my friend purely. I finally love her with an unconditional free love. She doesn’t have to do anything inclusive of loving me in return, anymore. I just love her. He made me like him. He is love. I am love. Therefore I love.

I used to have this desire to spend my life with someone personally and intimately. He met that need. I have him for eternity and though somedays I feel like I could use a physical body next to mine, I take those moments as opportunities to thank him for being all I need and for his plans for my life that are perfect.

I hope to see her again in person some day soon. Yes, we now live in different climates again. But in Gods time. I pray for her soul and for the soul of every other person I had joined myself to. I pray for my friendships that lacked His touch and I pray for the salvation of every person I’ve ever come in contact with. That we all will know the love of God and meet him in all his glory and embark on the greatest relationship we will ever know. Built on his love and his sacrifice. That we all accept his free gifts of salvation and repentance because he truly does make all things possible.

He makes all things well.

Rae Sonson,
May 14, 2016,
23:52 p.m.

The Traffic Jam without Mom (A Dead, Dead Man Walking)

…I was in need of a mother. I had no other saved person at home. I was beginning to remember all the bad stuff…

imageI met my mother April, 25, 2013. I was excited, I was nervous, I was many things…what if she doesn’t like me?

I had dreamt up many scenarios that were our first meeting. The slow run through vast fields of daisies. High pitched screaming and the ‘take down’ hug. I even envisioned tears, lots and lots of tears. After all, I was meeting my mother for the first time again. She left Jamaica when I was 3. I was 22 this day.

Ok. I’ve found my way out of customs. It’s cold here. I don’t see them. I don’t see her. Oh no no I’ll go back inside and wait, it’s way too cold here. Oh my geez I’m gonna see my mommy…

I turned around and there she was. The mystery of her face unraveling down the escalators. It really is the lady from the pictures; they didn’t lie. Let’s see if the voice from the phone calls match.

Her face is bright, her eyes light up, her cheeks now rosey, her smile is manificently white and very wide… all because she sees me?

I greet Shevonne, I know Shevonne. She’s crying, why is my mother crying? Because of me?
imageWell, hmmm. It’s the strangest thing ever. I’m feeling nothing. Zilch. Nada. Nope, nothing. I thought this would have been spectacular. I thought seeing her would have caused a more emotional reaction. I’m hugging her and it feels regular. Oooo I’m hugging my mother. 

imageIt was nice to finally touch her. Raven cut her eyes at me the first time we met lol. Madison hugged me very shyly. I love my Maddy girl. I love my sister-babies, as they became affectionately known. People thought Raven especially was mine.

But anyways, it was fun while it lasted. I mean, we stayed up late and talked like we did on the phone. She cried over spilt milk. For example, she looked at the scars on my legs and cried, it’s my fault, maybe if I hadn’t left you…

It was fun while it lasted. My sisters cried everytime I tried to get even a hug from my mother. So, I couldn’t touch her, couldn’t sit beside her, couldn’t lay on her, couldn’t lay next to her, I came all this way and I can’t even get pass these 2 little kids monopolizing all my mommy and me time. It was doing something to me emotionally. So I stopped trying. I guess we’ll have our time once they fall asleep.  They’re kids, I can’t be mad at kids. I can’t fight my sisters for my mother’s affection and attention. They’re babies. I can’t resent them. We can talk and I can snuggle up to, my mother, when they’re asleep. 

I didn’t blame my mother for anything. I had never thought of the fact that almost all the struggles I faced could have been avoided had I been with her, not till she said it. And I go back into that traffic jam I’d been faced with and I realize I had only gotten stuck a few times because I refused to take heed to the signals of crossing guards that were not her. I didn’t even talk to them. I’ll wait to tell my mother. 

Thing is, she didn’t call that often. So I didn’t tell anyone anything. My first period (sorry again Mr Men) I called my neighbour and she invited me over and showed me what to do. She told my granddad and he told my mother whenever he got through to her.

I was never angry with my mother for missing out on my life. My grandfather was a great mom. He was a great parent. I was only hurt. I felt like she hated me. She didn’t even call me for my birthday, she must really hate me. Even my father sent his love. She hates me for sure. 

I started high school. An all girls high school at that. Perfect. All the parent teacher days she won’t be at, all the functions I’ll get to be jealous of everyone else’s beautiful, perfect and present mom’s at. Oh joy!

I just needed her to be even a phone call away more often than she was, that’s all. Even if she wasn’t physically around. She had 3 more children. I guess it’s over for me now. She’ll be too busy with her kids to take notice of me all the way here. She won’t have time or money enough for me. I guess it’s really just me and my gran daddy.

I never hated my mother for any reason until I met her. Until she asked me to be everything but myself. I guess who I was made her uncomfortable and who I kept changing into for her acceptance was always fraudulent and lacking. She broke my heart, that I feel even writing this. She broke my heart. We didn’t understand each other too well but she only kept asking me to adjust to suit her needs. I just was of the opinion that parents do stuff. Meet their kids more than halfway, solved problems and still loved when they didn’t get their own way. You know, stuff.

She’s never been around  for any of my difficult seasons so this wasn’t the time to have an identity crisis. She tore me apart. I didn’t look like what I was working so hard at, so she labeled me fake. I was falling into old destructive habits, so she labeled me a great pretender. She denied any knowledge of who I was in those moments. She’d never known me to struggle in this way, she didn’t know of me being anything but Christian. She hated me through my mess and boy did I have a lot of mess. I soon returned the sentiments, I closed my heart to her. I wasn’t even the slightest bit understanding.

She couldn’t see that I was drowning. She added weight.

I’ve needed my mother to rub my belly. To nurse my wounds. To kiss my booboos. To chase the monsters away. To love pain away. To hug confidence into my being. I guess 3 kids makes you too busy for a first mistake.

Oh, I didn’t tell you she was 14 when she had me. She said she loved me but I’ve never quite believed that. Today I still struggle to believe it. Let’s put it this way. I told her this once, “I know you love me, but you don’t like me”. 

However, what I didn’t say was, “I know you love me because I’m your child but for no other reason, you love me because that’s what’s expected but not what you feel. And you don’t actually like me.”

She didn’t deny that there was truth in my statement. She simply chuckled under her breath and let it go by, barely acknowledged. That’s pretty much how the rest of our “relationship” was, I was always barely acknowledged.

I think I was better off in that traffic jam without a mom. I would have at least had my dreams of her to hold on to.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother but I’m not yet certain if she loves me in truth. She has done plenty for me. She gave me my sisters. I’m just not sure how she truly feels about me.

I’ve had plenty mother figures in my days. I’ve had plenty “aunties” to fill some gaps. I’ve also had a good few strong females in my life to demonstrate womanhood. So I haven’t completely lost out being without her. As a matter of fact, having had contact with her is what partially helped me embrace my femininity.

What I know for certain is this, I traveled all of 4 hours to be as far away from her as I could have ever been. There’s a Jamaican saying that goes “see mi an come live wid mi a 2 different tings”. She has taught me that lesson well.

In closing, mostly because I saw that word count number say 1000 something lol. I’m never going to stop loving my mother. God opened my heart to do that. He opened up something that I would have never been able to open on my own. Forgiveness and unconditional love. I love her with the love of Christ. With tears in my heart, I truly do.

One day…

 

Rae Sonson,
May 14, 2016,
12:29 p.m.