“Tell me about your dream last night,” Martha gently stated.
How could she have known that I had a terribly disturbing nightmare that was haunting me hours later ?
Looking down from the ceiling I see a writhing naked child lying face up bound by ropes to the four corners of an old wooden table in a dimly lit room. Black-hooded demons surround her chanting words she can’t understand. Horror permeates every cell, her skin is burning.
SHE is me !
I am terrified, trapped inside this painful body ! Why are they hurting me ? Help me, Jesus !
SHE is 5. SHE has no thought, no name, no life except to be used by THEM.
Now I see from the vantage point of the table that something alive hanging from the ceiling is dripping on me. Bloody tail, bloody pee. Poor sweet kitty. She is good. THEY are bad, very very bad !
I am crouching against the sofa sobbing on Martha’s office floor. This couldn’t be true ! I am crazy, shaking with fear, I am imagining things; terrible, scary things.
Martha’s eyes are sweetly sad and comforting but not what I can receive.
“This couldn’t have been me,” I cried.
Martha nods her head.
Thus begins the first of many horrifying memories of abuse at the hands of my father’s mother, a hateful old woman who orchestrated and inflicted pain and dread beyond words . . .