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Sometime soon after we moved to SoCal (probably right before I met Pam, but again… I’m not one hundred percent sure of the timeline), Mother and Tom took me on a little trip to a place near the ocean on the coast of California.
My brother was not with us.
I was probably around 6 or possibly 7, but as usual, I can’t be completely certain of the exact timeline.
I have no recollection of the drive to this city, nor am I absolutely certain of which city it was (I have an idea, as described in a moment, but I’m not sure), but I remember being there and walking down the sidewalk between my mother and Tom, holding onto one hand from each of them so I wouldn’t get lost or run off.
Like most young children, I didn’t like having my hands held in such a manner. My hands were getting sweaty and were slipping from their grasps. As a result, Tom was on one side, holding on too tightly, hurting my right hand; and Mother was on the other side, grabbing my other hand too tightly, scolding me for not holding onto her hand properly. I felt yanked back and forth between the two of them, unable to make either one happy, so I complained about the sweaty and complained about how it was hurting my hands, but got the usual “we don’t want you to die” speech that some parents give children in those situations.
Well… I believe it was worded more like, “We don’t want you to get run over by a car,” but in my mind, the message translated as “we don’t want you to die” and this was what I believed Mother was really trying to say, and it didn’t make sense to me. After all, as long as the cars stayed on the road and I stayed on the sidewalk, how could the cars run over me?
Such is the logic of children, I suppose.
But I continued to complain and squirm my hands, trying to get a more comfortable grip, and got the “stop making this into an unpleasant trip” speech from my mother, complete with a full stop in the middle of the sidewalk, a firm and painful shake of my chin, and a swat on my bottom that was more embarrassing than painful, particularly since I didn’t see where I had done anything wrong.
My hands were sweaty and I couldn’t keep a grip, and any efforts to adjust the grip were just making things painful. Why couldn’t they understand this?
But I apologized anyway, taking advantage of the stop by drying my sweaty hands on my skirt, then we continued walking. And since wiping the sweat off my hands had thankfully solved the problem, I stopped complaining.
Aside from the unnecessary conflict, however, I found the new place very interesting. From my recollection, the streets around me were slightly sloped, so that led me, as a child, to believe that the city (or at least that section of it) was built on a hillside, or close to a hillside. As an adult, however, I don’t see how this is possible, though, considering where I think we were, but I haven’t been there since that day. So it’s possible that the exact spot where we were 30 plus years ago had a view of the ocean that made me think we were on a small hillside.
I’m sure the view has changed considerably since then, given new construction, however, so I’m just not sure how to currently interpret my perception then as a child.
But I do remember the place being very pretty and a little bit windy, with palm trees lining the street at various intervals, red brick cobblestone here and there, and bright red flowers. I can see the scene in my mind like a photo, but through the eyes of a six-year-old, and those were the things that stood out to me, aside from the ocean and the boats and the tall buildings.
Tom pointed out the water just a short distance from us, to my left, and it was the first time I remember seeing the ocean so close. I could see lots and lots of tall cranes and boats in the distance, further down the coast: big boats, small boats, just boats everywhere, dotting the seascape. Tom mentioned a port, but I don’t recall what name he used. But I do remember he and my mother having a conversation about the Queen Mary and the Spruce Goose. Tom loved all things military (particularly all things aviation), and the Spruce Goose being a hybrid, of sorts, of both boat and plane, seemed to fascinate him. So based off this memory, and based off research I’ve done since then, we must have been somewhere near the Port of Long Beach.
However, it’s just as likely that I am remembering a conversation that was had at a different time, and we were at a completely different part of the California coast that day.
We stopped at what looked like a regular storefront from the outside, at least in my six-year-old mind, but inside it was obviously used as some type of church building, because the inside looked like a chapel to me. I was a little nervous to go in because it looked and felt “Catholic” to me, although I have no way of knowing if it was, in fact, a Catholic church. And since I had always been taught that other churches were bad (but especially the Catholic Church), I was a little nervous to be going into what looked to be a “bad” church.
(This statement is not meant to be offensive, but I’m merely sharing my thinking at that time as a child because of what I had been taught.)
We entered into a small foyer that was closed off from the rest of the building by a locked glass door. There was a small push-button doorbell that was attached to the wall right beside the door, and Tom pushed the button and we waited.
Mother took a spot on the cushioned bench that was against one wall, and I started looking around, noticing a black bulletin board with white push-pin letters, spelling out a list of days and times, as well as some sort of price list.
(Yes, I could read very well by that age. I had started teaching myself to read at two, and by the time I was four, I was already reading well.)
Beneath the board was a small glassed-in cabinet case with some paraphernalia locked in the display (at this time, I don’t recall what items were being exhibited), and several colorful, glossy brochures were fanned out on top of the case. It gave the whole place a sort-of museum feel, almost, and I remember being confused at that point as to whether the place was a church or a museum. I thought if it was a museum, then I would be okay with visiting, even if it was a church museum. But if it were simply a church, then I wasn’t so sure I felt comfortable. Museums were okay to go into; other churches that were not my church were not okay.
After a short while, either Mother or Tom made mention about all the glass and the mess I was making with fingerprints (glass and small children are not the best combination!), and my mother made me sit on the small bench beside her. It seemed unfair to me, but what was I to do? So I sat down, pouting, which was pretty much ignored except for a smack (on the leg, I think), and a command to “straighten up.”
So I sat up as straight as I comfortably could and pretended to not be upset.
It wasn’t too much longer before a short, thin man opened the door and came inside the small foyer from the inside of the church. He took one look at me and shook his head, wagging his finger. “No children allowed,” he said. “Sorry. We are not open today, anyway. Come back later.”
I looked back and forth between Mother and Tom, starting to feel uneasy at the growing frustration in the room that was simmering just beneath the surface. Mother walked over to stand beside Tom, and they and the man spoke briefly; then the man left, promising to be back in a moment.
Mother was agitated and restless, and I remember her grumbling about wasting a trip, or something to that effect.
The minutes seemed to drag on for me because I was so bored having nothing more to look at, and I wasn’t allowed to get up and read the brochures (presumably because of fingerprints), which seemed unreasonable and unfair to me at the time, but begging Mother for permission to go read the brochures only annoyed her. Which didn’t make things pleasant for me, either.
But the man came back after just a short while, his demeanor changed considerably. He seemed more friendly and even smiled at me as he held the door open for us to enter the rest of the building.
He did, however, give precise instructions to my mother and stepfather: “The child is to touch nothing.”
Mother looked at me and repeated the instruction. “Don’t touch anything. Do you understand?”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
We walked in with me holding my mother’s hand. I looked at the toes of my shoes as we walked, and had an absurd thought. How I was going to walk across the floor and sit on the benches if I weren’t allowed to touch anything? I imagined myself flying across the room and hovering several inches above the floor, so as to not touch anything. I giggled quietly to myself, wondering if touching the air counted for anything.
I looked around as we walked to the front of the room, trying very hard to take in everything at once. There was a lot of ornate wood paneling along the walls of the church — museum, whatever it was — simple but attractive wooden pews, what appeared to be a few stained glass windows along at least one wall that I noticed, and at the front of the sanctuary (at that point, I was pretty sure we were in some sort of church), there was a boxed-in platformed area. I’m not sure how to describe what I saw as a child, except that it looked like a large wooden box, of sorts, with keyboards inside, and a bald-headed man with dark clothes was inside that box, playing them with much flair and emotion.
I found out later that he was a prominent, self-proclaimed satanist.
(And yes, I know his name, but for reasons that I will explain later, I will refer to him only as “Baldy.”)
My mother and stepfather led me to the front of the chapel, and we sat down and listened to the bald man as he completed his composition. He finished with a flair, boyishly grinning as we clapped loudly for him.
Mother, a decent enough musician herself, wanted very badly to have a turn, so Baldy allowed her to go into the box and play the keyboards for a bit. Then, we clapped for her, too.
Afterwards, Mother and Baldy chatted for a brief moment about music: some chit chat about how religious backgrounds influences styles, and about how interesting it was that some of Christians’ favorite hymns were were inspired by “honky-tonk” music, as Mother called it. I was only half listening because I had already heard my mother have a similar conversation before, and I already knew what she thought about it.
Then I was formally introduced to this man, and he took my hand and held it briefly. It was a very solemn-feeling moment. He was a nice-looking man, in my opinion, and very cordial, but there was something about his eyes that troubled me and scared me just a little bit. They looked dark and black. Like snake’s eyes.
We met a woman who came into the chapel from across the room, and I assumed at the time that she was the man’s wife, although I realize now I could have been wrong. She was very voluptuous, and practically slunk across the room, oozing sexual charm in a nearly predatory way. I remember being fascinated by her red lips, but embarrassed by her cleavage that was hanging halfway out of the top of her dress. I remembered Mother reminding me, however, on the walk there, that this was a church different than the church we went to, and not everyone dressed the same as us. So I think I was able to keep my shock hidden at least a little.
At least, I tried to hide my shock.
(Which probably means my mouth was hanging open as I stared with wide eyes…. 😀 )
The adults sat on a bench to discuss some other matter, and I was told to “go over there,” which I knew meant that I wasn’t allowed to listen to the conversation. So I wandered off a few feet to study one of the pictures of stained glass. I started to touch one, then thought better of it, remembering I had been told to not touch anything.
It was probably just a couple of minutes later when my mother came and pulled me away. “Don’t look at those. Come sit back down.”
The other woman left the room, and we ended up following Baldy into a small office that was right off a hallway. Mother and Tom sat down in the plush chairs on one side of the large desk and I sat on my mother’s lap, while Baldy sat on the other side of the desk.
He made some small talk as he rummaged around the desk. “Now where did I see that pen?” He rifled through a couple of drawers. “Ah! there it is.” He smiled and closed the drawer. “Excuse the disorganization. I’m not sure where everything is. I don’t use this office very often.”
He grabbed an ink pen that was nearby, gathered some papers together, and lay them between himself and my mother, indicating where she was to sign.
Mother signed, and if I’m not mistaken, Tom followed suit.
Then Mother grabbed my right arm and stretched my hand on the desk, palm up. I resisted, not sure what was going on, but certain that something fishy was taking place. Baldy pulled a small device from one of the desk drawers that, at first glance, looked nearly like a short pen. He moved to grab my hand and I pulled away. I wasn’t sure what was going on or why, but it seemed strange to me, and even though I didn’t understand why, I suddenly felt scared.
Mother grabbed my hand again and forced it on the desk. “Stop wiggling,” she ordered sharply.
I yanked my hand away again and shook my head. “I don’t wanna.” I could see the tip of that little short pen barely poking out, and it was sharp. I knew they wanted to poke my fingers with that pen, and since it looked like a needle, only shorter and thicker, almost like a teeny-tiny razor blade, I didn’t want to have anything to do with it at all.
Mother’s anger with me was growing. “Stop it! Put your hand here. Now!” She tried to grab my hand again, but I squirmed away from her and hid my hand underneath my armpit.
“I don’t wanna!”
There was a moment of tense silence as I ignored my mother’s furious glare. But the bald man seemed to be amused. He smiled at me and made as if he were going to put the papers back away in one of the desk drawers. “If she doesn’t want to, then that’s okay.” He raised his hands in surrender.
This didn’t make my mother happy. “Oh, don’t be a baby! You’re a big girl!” she said to me, her voice suddenly changing from angry and frustrated to a false brightness. But she wasn’t fooling me. In spite of her sudden attempt to pretend otherwise, I knew she was still angry, but I wasn’t going to allow that man to poke my finger with a sharp needle.
“Look!” Mother insisted in her pretend-cheery voice. “It doesn’t hurt. I’ll show you.” She placed her own hand on the desk and looked at the bald man. “Go ahead and prick my finger.” She looked back at me as Baldy pricked her finger with the tiny sharp razor-pen. “It doesn’t hurt, see?”
She didn’t even flinch — I was looking closely for a reaction.
She held up her finger for me to see. “The little pin is so tiny, you can’t even feel it! Look!”
I peered closely, seeing a drop of blood well and begin to drip down her finger. I pulled back, repulsed. I looked up at Mother with her forced “I’m trying to be nice in front of these people so do what I say now” smile, then back to the bald man with his “I don’t care one way or the other but decide what you’re going to do because I have other things to do with my day” smile.
So in spite of my misgivings, I acquiesced and lay my hand down on the desk, yelping in surprise and pain when my finger was pricked. It did hurt, and tears filled my eyes.
I looked at my mother.
“There, now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Mother said, pressing my head to her chest while the man gripped my finger.
I squeezed my eyes closed and shook my head in protest, burying my face in my mother’s breast while the man used my finger.
There are a few other things that happened next, including a sort-of “prayer” that Baldy chanted, words that I was commanded to repeat, and a supernatural manifestation that I’m not sure if anyone else saw but me. But since I’m still vague on some of the details (for instance, I have no idea what words he spoke nor what I was told to say), I won’t share more than that.
At any rate, it wasn’t long before the man was done using my finger, and I yanked my hand away and stuck my finger in my mouth, glaring at my mother. “It did hurt!” I was very angry that she had lied to me.
The adults laughed indulgently.
“Oh, it doesn’t hurt that much,” Mother replied.
The man handed my mother a tissue paper, and she wrapped it around my finger. “Hold it tight, and it’ll stop bleeding in a little bit.”
The man grabbed a glass jar on the desk and opened the lid, holding it out to me. “Would you like a candy? Candy always makes little girls feel better.”
I thought about shaking my head “no,” but stopped myself. Candy sounded nice. I lifted my head from my mother’s breast and looked inside the candy jar that was full of Jolly Ranchers. I felt like I was being rushed, and I didn’t have time to notice that the flavor I picked that I had thought was cherry, was actually watermelon, which I didn’t like.
Baldy stood to his feet, my mother pushed me off her lap, and we stood and walked out of the office, me tightly holding to my throbbing, tissue-wrapped finger, and sucking on my watermelon candy, not sure if I was more peeved over having been tricked into having my finger pricked, or more peeved over not being given a cherry Jolly Rancher for all that trouble.
And that was how it came about at around the age of 6 that I was forced to enter into a blood contract that dedicated my life to Satan.
Processing the Trauma
I have memories of a very traumatic event that I believe may have taken place immediately after I signed this contract. But at this time, I’m not entirely sure of the timing nor of the place. What I mean is, the repulsive “party” I remember being at, might have been held that afternoon in that chapel, or it might have been later, either at that chapel or in a completely different location. But since I’m not sure of details, I won’t say anything more right now.
At any rate, regardless of what happened afterwards, the actual signing of the contract in the office with Baldy wasn’t necessarily physically traumatic, and aside from the brief spiritual manifestation at the end, it certainly wasn’t very sensational. So on one hand, the phrase “signing a blood contract” sounds awfully dramatic, I think, and I feel a little silly describing it that way.
On the other hand, however… well, that is what happened, and I’m not trying to either embellish my experiences or downplay them. There was a contract “signed” with my blood; a ritual that was a “dedication,” of sorts, to the work of Satan; and, since my right hand was used to “sign” the contract, I was dedicated for what occultists refer to as the “right hand path,” which is considered the “Luciferian” or “light” side.
(Just a side note: in case you don’t know, the “right hand path” and the “left hand path” are but two sides of the same road that leads to destruction.)
So, just because the signing and the bloodletting wasn’t as traumatic as I’m sure it has probably been for other children who have been forced into doing such a thing, it doesn’t mean it wasn’t a contract. It doesn’t mean that it wasn’t a serious matter.
But while the event itself wasn’t very physically traumatic all those years ago (I’ve lived through much worse abuses than having my finger pricked), processing it has been very painful. Traumatic, even, in an emotional, psychological, and spiritual way.
This trauma centers around the central, most defining, and most influential figure throughout my life (up until a few years ago, at any rate): my mother.
This is not to let Tom off the hook by any stretch. But I’m more angry that my mother allowed it to happen — made sure it happened and even participated — than I am that Tom did.
Is this unfair of me?
Maybe it has to do with the fact that Tom wasn’t blood related to me…? Or, maybe it has to do with the fact that I can’t relate to being a man nor a father.
But I can relate to being a woman and a mother, however, and there’s something savagely and fundamentally wrong with a woman who not only refuses to protect her young, but to also abuse them herself. A mother is supposed to be one who mothers — to not only create and produce young, but to also nourish and protect them — but what happens when she has no visceral, primal urge to do so? What happens when she instead hurts and batters them and leaves them out for the wolves to savage? Or, as how my mother did, makes a deal with the wolves, so that the child can be brutally savaged and she can play the part of the innocent?
It was bad enough that my mother was abusive herself! But to throw me to the wolves to be abused by others, as well?!
The betrayal— my God, the betrayal!
How could she have allowed this to happen?
How could she have done this to me?!
Denying, Deflecting, Lying, and Accusing
But to pile insult upon insult, what’s even worse, now that the initial traumas of my past are over, is her ever present denial!
The cold harsh fact is that were my mother to realize that I remember this event (and the others), she’d either offer some sort of what she believed to be a “reasonable” explanation; or more likely, she’d call me a liar, crazy, delusional, a schizophrenic, etc. She’s accused me of it all at one point or another throughout my life, so I have no reason to believe the next time will be any different.
And it hurts.
Through the years, I’ve heard all of the excuses that I now recognize as part of gaslighting, and every single one of them boil down to this: “you are too stupid to remember anything properly…”
read: the way I want you to remember it
“…so let me cherry-pick through your thoughts and tell you which parts are an acceptable memory that you are allowed to talk about, and which parts are just your evil imagination or your misunderstanding that I can then correct with my version of events.”
This happened all the time, from the small and unimportant things, to the big and monumental things.
Here’s an example of what I mean.
Years ago, in my early 30’s, when I was trying to make sense of my past, I made mention to my mother that I’d like to write the story of my life.
Which was laughable back then, really, because at that point, I was still so shut off from truth, that I barely had any recollection of my childhood at all. I was so dissociated from my life and my own self-being, and I was so used to relying on other people, mainly my mother, to tell me what was real and what was not real, that I didn’t even feel safe enough to recognize my own thoughts of my past as actually being memories!
How messed up is that?!
But in all honesty, wanting to write about my life was simply my way of trying to get to the truth. It could have been thought of like a journaling project, as I’ve since done on my own, to figure out the puzzle of my life.
what did happen? I know important and awful things happened that changed me, but why can’t I remember? why am I depressed and suicidal all the time? why do I have awful intrusive thoughts [those memories that I didn’t recognize as actually being memories] about bad things that happened to a little girl? did it really happen and was it really that bad? what was “the fat-skinny” and why does it get stuck in my head sometimes and bring such horrible, evil thoughts? why did we go up the mountain, what happened there, I know it was important, but why can’t I remember? why can’t I get these horrible thoughts out of my head about cages and dogs? about men in military uniforms and electric sticks? about rituals and demonic creatures? am I crazy? what do these thoughts mean? what happened?!
At any rate, I told my mother that I wanted to write my life down, and I showed her a chapter that I had written about some of the sexual abuse I suffered under Tom.
Her reaction was odd, to say the least, although at that time in my life, I didn’t recognize it as being odd. It was just “Mother being Mother.”
She read the short chapter and she didn’t react at all for a moment. She smoothed her face into a blank stare, placed the papers back on the counter top, and resumed her previous task (baking or something… I can’t remember what it was). But although her face was a steel mask, I could practically see the wheels in her head turning — the wheels that were just behind eyes that watched everything and missed nothing — as she thought over her next response. I didn’t understand why I felt the tension in the room, or why, in spite of her mask, she seemed… angry, almost.
She finally asked in a nonchalant tone, “Is this a true story?”
For all the emotion she showed, she could have been asking, “Is it still raining outside?”
I was a little shocked. She knew it had happened! Why was she pretending otherwise?
I responded, “Well, of course!”
Mother didn’t say anything and I started second guessing myself, feeling guilty, and I didn’t know why. What was there to feel guilty over? I couldn’t put my finger on it, and I started to feel a panic settle into my chest. “Well,” I admitted, “I took parts of different events and sort of squished them together into a single chapter. So… I don’t know… I guess that still counts for being true, doesn’t it? It did happen, though. He did molest me, and I told you that already, when I was young. You asked me, right before we went to that appointment with the lady who worked at child protective services, and I told you! I didn’t tell you everything, no, because I was scared, but I did tell you that he was touching me and making me touch him and getting into the tub with me and I didn’t like it. And I told the lady at child protective services, too, and that’s why we left Tom for a while and stayed at Julia’s house, until he came back around and you went on a date with him and we moved back in with him.”
She didn’t even look at me but kept on with her activity, and although I can’t give an exact “I said then she said” account, the ensuing conversation (one we had had several times before) centered around her insisting that I never told her, and me insisting that I did, even giving details of exactly what was said and how it came about all those many years ago.
As we talked, each of us refusing to budge from our position, I started feeling shaky and I could feel anger rising in me. I was trying to give her the benefit of the doubt — trying to excuse the inexcusable — but I was still waiting, after all those years, for her to express her sympathy. Or regret. Or… something! Some sort of reasonable emotion. Anger, maybe, that her ex-husband had done those things to me…?
But instead, as per usual, her cool, controlled anger was directed towards me…? And she was defensive and wanted to argue the same tired lie that I had never told her…?
First, what did it matter whether I did or did not tell her when I was a child? It happened, she knew now, and that’s what should have mattered!
But second, she knew I had told her — had even admitted it once, by accident of course, in a similar argument years ago when I was a teen! Yet she was still keeping up the same, tired lie?
I was feeling furious, yet my anger felt out of place, so I swallowed it, feeling it flutter in my chest and settle like a heavy rock in my stomach.
why am I angry at her? why would she lie? maybe I’m wrong.
no! I’m not wrong! she did know! she does know! I did tell her and she remembers it but is continuing to lie about it!
but that’s silly. why would she lie?
why does she lie about anything at all? I don’t know why she’s lying, but she’s lying!
Then her face suddenly switched from looking steely and dark, to animated and light. She gave a little bounce on her heels and said something to the effect of: “Well, anyway, I think we should write the book together! Wouldn’t that be neat? You could write one chapter, and then I could write the next chapter, explaining everything from my point of view. Wouldn’t that be neat? Our own little mother-daughter project. Your point of view and then mine!” And she smiled a frozen smile, staring at me, nearly motionless. But I could tell by the twitch of her shoulder and the set of her jaw and the glint in her eyes that she wasn’t smiling. Her mouth was smiling at me, but she wasn’t.
So many emotions and thoughts were churning inside of me, and I didn’t know how to react, except for how she had trained me. I nodded and smiled woodenly, looking away. “Yeah. We’ll see,” I managed weakly, and then I dropped the subject and didn’t bring it up to her again.
Inside, however, I felt a sort-of hollow disappointment in the depth of my heart that I couldn’t understand at that moment. It felt as if Mother had just placed a birdcage over my person, and I could feel her twisting the key and locking me inside. I felt desperate to get away, to fly away home, but there was no home except the cage, and I felt like a bird trapped, and the all-familiar despair began to take over.
no one believes you no one will ever believe you this is your life you will never be able to get away from it
Although I never brought up the subject of the book again, Mother brought the subject up a few times afterwards, however, asking me, “When are we going to start writing?” and I would try to find a way to change the subject.
Once, however, we ended up arguing again, and I reminded her
that when I was young, I told her that Tom was molesting me.
I even reminded her
of the conversation we had when I was a teen where she (accidentally) admitted that she had known.
And she just looked at me with a controlled, puzzled look on her face and insisted that I did not tell her that Tom was molesting me. She even said, “If it means that much to you…”
what did that even mean “if it means so much to me”? why wouldn’t it mean so much to me?
“… I’ll get hold of that lady at the child protective office and get the records to prove that you never told anyone!”
I was doubtful that the same lady worked there; I was doubtful that if she did, she would remember; and I was doubtful that the documents from that long-ago appointment still existed. And even if they did, so what?
Even assuming that Mother was correct and the documents would not show any record of what I told the lady at child protective services, the only thing that would prove was that the woman didn’t report what I had told her! Because Tom still sexually assaulted me, I still told my mother, and I still told the state worker! It still happened! I’m not stupid now and I wasn’t stupid as a child. I remember!
But I said nothing more just then. What was there left to say except the same thing that she would continue to deny and, in so many words, accuse me of lying about? There was no satisfactory resolution, so I fell silent. I was exhausted, feeling like I was on the same hamster wheel of “illogic”:
maybe I’m wrong after all… but I know I’m not wrong, Mother’s lying… but why would she lie, so maybe I am wrong… but I can’t be wrong because I know what happened… but why would Mother lie?
Point being: my mother has always tried to control the narrative. To correct the narrative into the version she wants others to think is true, because she refuses to acknowledge what happened. She’s never acknowledged The Truth; instead, she’s defended “her truth.” She’s never defended me in regards to the abuses I suffered under Tom; instead, she’s defended herself. Instead of caring about the abuse I suffered, she’s consistently deflected by turning the entire affair into the lie that “you never told me!”
Why would I think that when it comes to signing a blood contract with a Satanist that she would act any differently than she has with anything else?
Deny, deflect, lie, and accuse.
Acceptance and Forgiveness
So this is the trauma that I have had to work through (and still have to work through, some days) from that day so long ago: knowing that even while my mother betrayed me in the most horrible ways, she has consistently through the years refused to acknowledge the truth, and would rather see me thrown to the wolves than repent and admit (confess) that she did something wrong.
Not simply a hollow apology to garner sympathy (I’ve received a handful of those fake apologies over the years…) but a true repentance. A repentance that is evident by its fruit! (see Matthew 3:8 or Luke 3:8 or Acts 26:20)
But, it’s obvious that she’d rather protect her image than protect her children. She’d rather keep playing her mind games than admit what happened and show positive change.
It blows my mind. It really does.
But in learning to heal and move on, I have to accept the fact that it is what it is. It happened, she will likely never admit or repent of it (for the sake of her eternal salvation, I pray she does, however), and that’s just how it is.
But in spite of this, for my own sake, I’ve forgiven her.
This doesn’t mean I will have a relationship with her. A relationship must be built upon trust, respect, and truth; and since every bit of that is absent with her, there can be no relationship between the two of us.
But, yes, I forgive her.
Some days — on the bad days when the pain of the betrayal hits me like a kick to the stomach and a brick to the head — I have to forgive her again. But I forgive her, over and over again, and I will continue to forgive her for the rest of my life.
Contrary to the beliefs of some people, forgiving doesn’t mean that I can forget (dissociate).
how can a lifetime be forgotten and why should it?
Forgiveness doesn’t mean reconciliation.
how can I be reconciled to those who refuse to admit the evil they have wrought and who continue to work evil?
Forgiveness doesn’t mean that I will stay quiet about what happened.
why should I?
Forgiveness doesn’t mean that I won’t continue to write about my life.
why should I be barred from talking about things that have happened to me?
And just to be clear: I don’t write these things to shame her. This is the main reason why I will not mention her name, because I’m not trying to shame her. She has already brought shame upon herself.
I don’t write these things to somehow punish her, because what punishment could possibly make up for my lost childhood? Can it give me back my innocence and youth? Can it go back in time and change anything? So… no, I don’t write to punish. She brings punishment upon her own head by her refusal to love the truth.
I don’t write these things for anyone else except for me. I need to process all of these things. I need to tell the truth. I don’t want the truth to be swept up and thrown away, burned by the inevitable passage of time and lost forever.
And… well, now that I’m thinking about it, it’s true that I also write for my brother. On the off-chance he should ever come across this, I want him to know the truth, and I pray it sets him free.
I also pray that my mother will come to love the truth and be set free as well. Because she knows the truth. She has just chosen to reject it.
I pray for her, especially on those days where I feel such pain and such anger towards her (those days when, once again, I am brought to forgiveness). I pray that she will accept the truth before it’s too late. That the Spirit of God will move upon her heart. That she will turn back to the Father with a heart of repentance, come to salvation through Jesus Christ, and enter into eternal life.
Maybe then, everything I have been through will have been worth it.
Breaking the Contract
Before I finish this chapter, I have some thoughts about breaking the demonic contract that I was forced to make.
A few years ago, through a series of conversations with several people I had met online, Dan Duval of Bride Ministries was brought to my attention as a “Christian man” who had made himself available to supposedly “counsel” people who had been through satanic ritual abuse and had issues with dissociation. I was introduced to him, of sorts, via Facebook messenger. Subsequently, at his invitation, I had a telephone conversation with him. Over the course of several months, and after emailing back and forth several times with him (
and maybe one more phone conversation, although I’m not sure about that)
(UPDATE: since writing this, I have reread through my journals I penned during that time, and I realize that I had a total of three telephone conversations with Duval before I eventually hired him as my “DID coach.”)
I came to the incorrect belief that since my problems were more problematic than most, I needed a “more powerful” answer to solve my “more complicated” problems.
At the time, it made sense to me.
After all, I had already come to the belief that I was too messed up; that I was beyond redemption; that I was hopeless and helpless; that God either couldn’t or wouldn’t help me. And to hear Duval offer his “more powerful solution” — well, it made sense to me! Since I already felt as if I had “more complicated problems” than everyone else, it was only logical that I needed a solution — Duval’s solution — that was supposed to be “more powerful” than other “regular” solutions.
So, I took him up on his offer to “counsel” me.
It ended up being the worst thing I had ever purposefully and consciously put myself through as an adult, but most of that has been documented already, largely on the website I share with my friend Carolyn, so I’m not going to rehash everything. But for those of you who don’t know, what ended up happening was that because of Duval’s so-called “counseling,” and through the doctrines of demons he was teaching and implementing in his ridiculous “counseling” sessions, I got even deeper into witchcraft.
And my problems got worse, not better.
All the complications — all of what I had been taught to believe were the “more powerful” prayers and the “more powerful solutions” — were witchcraft! They were based on the same Luciferian (satanic) doctrines that I had been trying to find freedom from!
Once I finally separated myself, two years later, from all the complications and all the witchcraft that I had been involved in with Duval, the Spirit of God started showing me some very important and foundational Biblical principles that I had previously rejected as being “the milk and not the meat.”
First, I had a heart realization that the Father’s plan of salvation and deliverance is because of and through Jesus Christ; not through mankind. You see, I had been looking to mankind for help — for deliverance, for “more powerful prayers” — to deal with my “more complicated problems.” But all along, the answer to my problems had been waiting for me in the Word of God that explains that salvation and deliverance has already been made possible by the Father through Jesus Christ! But I just didn’t understand how it was applicable to me, because I had never been taught the basics of true Biblical doctrine.
And second, I came to a heart understanding that this salvation (not only my eternal salvation, but also an ongoing deliverance) is found by following not the standards of mankind, but of God, the concepts of which have already been laid out very simply in His written Word!
And this is where my healing and deliverance and freedom has been found, even deliverance from satanic contracts, and it’s where I continue to find it: in following simple Biblical doctrine that is found in the written Word of God.
The Biblical Solution
(Part of the following is adapted from the article I wrote, “Dissociation, Fragmentation, and Spiritual Prisons.”)
You see, whatever your problem is — even a blood contract that dedicates you to the work of Satan — you don’t need more witchcraft, like what I got caught up in with Duval, to break the contract. You don’t need to go to a “courtroom of heaven” to find deliverance. You don’t need a complicated, “formula” prayer written by or spoken over you by someone you believe to be a “more powerful Christian.” You don’t need to purchase a special book or attend a special seminar to teach you how to “pray effectively.” You don’t need to obtain a reading from a “christian occultist” to find healing or peace or direction for your life.
You don’t need man’s solutions.
You need God’s solution!
I’ve already written a ton about this, so please follow the links at the end of this chapter to read about the simplicity of the Heavenly Father’s plan to deliver us and to enable us to live in freedom.
But for the purposes of this chapter in my bio, here’s an overview.
Please consider these very simple Biblical concepts:
3. Submission to God
4. Making your requests known to God
5. Walking by faith and in obedience to His Word
6. Living humbly
7. Focusing on God
So… how do you break a blood contract with Satan?
First and foremost, freedom and deliverance from anything centers around a relationship with the Heavenly Father, and this is made possible only through salvation through Jesus Christ!
Salvation begins with the first step outlined above: confession, and it can’t be accomplished without first believing (having faith) in your heart. When you believe that Jesus Christ is the ultimate, final, and only acceptable propitiation for your sin…
… then you confess this, and because of His grace, the Father covers you with His salvation that has been made possible because of and through Jesus Christ.
(And if you have trouble with believing, then ask the Father to help you see the truth so that you might believe. It might seem silly to ask God to give you something that you either don’t believe exists, or that you don’t believe He’ll give to you. But if you are reading this, then it means that it’s not too late for the eyes of your understanding to be open. So ask Him anyway! 🙂 )
As you walk in this new life and begin to focus on your relationship with the Father, His Spirit begins to transform you into His image, bringing you a deep spiritual healing. The steps I outlined above are speaking to this process of focusing on and building your relationship with the Heavenly Father.
Here are the steps again:
3. Submission to God
4. Making your requests known to God
5. Walking by faith and in obedience to His Word
6. Living humbly
7. Focusing on God
→ It doesn’t matter if you were a child when you were forced or tricked into signing a satanic contract. What happened was wrong, what you were forced to do was wrong, so just confess it. It doesn’t have to be complicated. You can just say something like: “Heavenly Father, I confess the sin of entering into a contract to work for Satan.”
→ Again, it doesn’t matter if you were a child when you were forced or tricked into signing a satanic contract. What happened was wrong, what you were forced to do was wrong, and just repent of it! Turn away from it, in other words. It doesn’t have to be complicated. You can just say something like: “Heavenly Father, I repent of signing a contract to work for Satan.”
3. Submit to the Father
→ As I explain in the book I wrote with Carolyn, submission to the Father is very much related to renunciation: you renounce your will and submit to the will of the Father. So, just say it! It really isn’t complicated. Say something like, “I renounce the works of Satan, I renounce the contract I made with Satan, and I submit myself and every part of myself to the Heavenly Father.”
4. Make your request known to the Father.
→ In other words, ask! Simply ask the Father to break the contract. It does not have to be complicated! Just say something like what I did: “Father, please break the contract.”
It really is this simple!
And what comes afterwards is just as important! If you read the articles I linked to above, and if you read the book I authored with Carolyn, you will hopefully begin to understand that deliverance is not a one-time deal and you are done. But deliverance is lived out every single day of your life as you live a lifestyle of picking up your cross every day and following Jesus Christ, walking in submission to the will of the Father and in obedience to His will.
Read that again, please:
Deliverance is lived out every single day of your life as you live a lifestyle of picking up your cross every day and following Jesus Christ, walking in submission to the will of the Father, and walking in obedience to His will!
With this in mind, you continue to do the following:
5. Walk by faith and in obedience to God’s Word
→ In other words, have faith that God has delivered you from a contract with Satan, and that He is taking care of all the details in His own time and in accordance with His will.
This faith is hard to have if you have no trust in Him. So while you should ask God to give you faith (and this is a good thing to do!), one way you build your trust in God is by stepping out and following Jesus Christ anyway, in spite of what your emotions are telling you. With time, as you follow the example of Jesus Christ and walk in obedience to the the Father and to His Word, this faith that often starts off as “blind faith,” will turn into strong conviction as He teaches you to trust Him.
And part of walking in obedience to His Word means that if you are doing things that are against God, then listen to the urging of His Spirit and stop doing those things!
Sometimes — probably most times — this “walking in obedience” is a process that takes place over time, because surrendering your own will and accepting the will of the Father is not an easy thing to do. So if you are like me, you’ll have to go to the very first step, and work through this process over and over again: confess your sin, repent of it, submit to God, ask Him to help you, and then walk by faith, believing that He will help you in accordance to His will and in His own time.
(Are you starting to see how this thing works…? 🙂 )
But continue in this process, and the Spirit of God will work His healing inside of you.
6. Live humbly
→ Why is this important? Because if you ever come to a place where you think you’ve got this whole thing called “life” down pat, or you’ve got this thing called “healing” or “deliverance” well under control, then your ego takes over and pride begins to rule in your heart. Your pride and the Spirit of God are two things that won’t mix. God gives grace to the humble, but opposes (sets Himself against, resists) the proud.
So don’t depend upon yourself, but depend upon the Father!
7. And finally, continue to focus on the Solution (the Heavenly Father) rather than the problem.
→ Don’t think that this “confession, repentance, submission, et cetera” is a one-time thing and you are done. This condition of being human means that you need to remain focused on God, confessing and repenting and submitting and relying on Him to supply your every need. As you continue to do these things, your relationship with the Father will strengthen, and your faith and trust in Him will grow.
Will you have backlash, as the demonic try to either lure you back into working for them or punish you for leaving? Or maybe backlash from family members or friends? Or maybe, if you are dissociative, backlash from your internal system?
While it’s possible that you will not experience this, you probably will experience backlash. I can’t say how bad it’ll be for you, but you probably will.
So then, what is the solution to the backlash?
→ Continue following the standards of God as laid out in His Word!
→ Continue to live a lifestyle of confession, repentance, and submission.
→ Continue to ask Him to protect you and deliver you from the backlash, and to give you the patience and strength to endure.
→ Continue to walk by faith and in obedience to His Word, regardless of backlash.
→ Continue to live humbly.
→ Continue to focus on your relationship with the Father.
These are the basics, and it’s not that complicated!
Oh, it can be difficult, for sure! Even without backlash from the demonic, it’s not easy to follow Jesus Christ; to live a lifestyle of renouncing your will and submitting to the will of the Father; to walk by faith in spite of difficulties and attacks and setbacks; to walk in obedience to His Word; to live humbly; to not worry about your problems but to instead to focus on your relationship with the Father!
These things aren’t easy.
But it’s not complicated!
You do not need a complicated solution in breaking a contract with Satan! Healing and freedom even from contracts with Satan comes from the Father, according to His will and according to His plan that is laid out very plainly and simply in Scripture.
I pray that you, too, find and continue to walk in salvation and deliverance and peace and healing, as you build your relationship with the Father, learning to walk in obedience to His Word and in submission to His will.
Get back to the basics. Get back to the simple truths found in the Word of God.
Satan complicates; God simplifies.
You don’t need a complicated solution.
You need God’s solution.
Links for further study:
If the material on this page has brought up issues for you that you would like to talk to someone about, please follow this link to find the appropriate hotline: https://www.sidran.org/hotlines/.
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