Category: Toxic Love Story

(Disclaimer: Some names have been changed to protect their privacy. Some information may be disturbing for some readers. Reader discretion is advised. 18+)

I have no idea what I am doing at this present moment in time. All I do know is I know my ego well enough to know how I got here. I am a fifty one year old woman living on a mattress, on hard concrete, in a basement, in Canada.

I have the flexibility to move around this tiny halve sized, two bedroom, basement apartment. I’m not confined to one room. With that said, I am doing my best to minimize my needs here. Three adults, two small children, and a dog, all cozied up together. Inside a little two bedroom apartment is cozy.

That’s a bright side of life way of putting it. I never would have thought in my life that I would grow to become a fifty one year old being taken care of by her own daughter, or by anyone for that matter. I am supposed to be in the prime of my life, aren’t I? I am supposed to take care of myself by now, right?

I know my twenty-nine year old daughter deserves to enjoy her own family without having to take on my burdens as well. It’s embarrassing, humbling, and it takes a hell of a lot of mental strength not to lose my mind, or to follow through with some life ending thoughts that have crept into my mind over these past few weeks. I don’t like to swear much but, fuck me.

I love my family. I also desire my own place to call home. It’s been eight years since I have lived in my own space, within my own comfort, alone. It’s been over nine years since I have been able to entertain a man who pretends to love me, within the safe parameters of my own home. I am starting to forget what it’s like to be in a friendship, let alone have true love and my own place to call home. I prefer to assume being accustomed to responsibilities associated with a committed relationship and my own place would be like getting back on a bike that I once knew how to ride. I may be wobbly at first on my feet. I can do it, so I’ve been told.

What have I done to myself this time? and, where do I go from here? These are excellent questions, if I do say so myself. I may be currently depressed, with that said, at least I have an inquisitive mind still. That’s a good thing. It has to be.

This ride is a new one for me. No possible bike ride lesson could prepare me for this leg or my journey. Rebuild myself from the ground up? At fifty? It seems so.

This time, I am laying down new brick work and a solid foundation. No one is going to huff and puff to shake my world anymore. With that said, damn this is hard to do. Tear down to rebuild with hold and new material. Inside your own mind takes some serious dedication and effort. There is no magic pill for this journey. Cold hard truths and love for yourself is a foreign concept for most people, including myself. I wish there was a magic pill. Nope, currently, there is only pain.

I am doing my damndest to build public awareness about spirituality, metaphysics, and intuitive development, since 2006, with little to no tangible return on my investment. The idea of equal reciprocity is a myth for most people in my world. I give much and have received far less.

I’m, tired if not completely exhausted. It’s not so much physically tired. It’s more the deep soul’s longing to go home because this is too much, kind of tired. Living in faith and affirming the best possible outcome for myself, during years upon years of struggle, with no real material change, has taken its toll on me. I am not one to give up, until I got to the point of wanting to give up. This is the point where I am at. Ready to give up and accept my fated decision.

I reflect on a question. If my body died tomorrow, would I be at peace with myself as it relates to my character and the way I have given back to this world? So far, each day, I have answered yes. If there was a slight no, I self reflected and made changes, wherever, and whenever possible, so that I could ultimately end the day with a yes.

I have extremely low funds, and have so since 2013. My ex-husband Bill did not have to pay me a dime when we had separated, nor after our final divorce in 2017. I have had to visit food banks, second hand clothing and toy stores, and I have accepted hand-me-downs over the years. I have been extremely humbled this way. This way of living is no fun for anyone.

I make a positive difference within my family and within my quest to make a name for myself. I know that too. They may all think I am weird and have a mind filled with wishful dreams. My girls believe in my ability to fantasize about a healthy and abundant life for myself, not in the achievement of said lifestyle. My girls have witnessed, and been a part of my struggles for their entire life. It would be quite the feat to believe in a miracle for their mum or for themselves at this stage. My girls are twenty-nine and twenty-eight years old. They are grown women who know struggle, not luxury, nor recognition. I can respect that, and it’s okay. I would still be at peace with myself. Regardless of any resources I may or may not have, and regardless of me leaving a “she was a weirdo” legacy.

“Your mum was psycho, not a psychic”. It’s kind of funny to be honest. I can hear this. Both my girls had to correct their classmates back in the day. My girls would say, “my mum is a psychic, not a psycho!”.

With all that being said, would I be at peace with the amount of loving adventures I have been on in this lifetime? No. Definitely not. They have been extremely limited, if not entirely absent from my life.

I have been blessed with being acquainted with the “afterlife” though. I am familiar with the way travel and communication works between realms. Love and adventures also exist in the astral realm. If I were to die tomorrow, I would choose to explore my heaven and have wonderful adventures; once orientation with my data file in the Akashic records was complete and accepted by me that is.

I am aware that hindsight is a gift of knowledge shared in both realms of existence. It’s for this reason, I check in with myself by asking the question, “If I die tomorrow would I be at peace with myself?”

I do my best to take advantage of hindsight in this lifetime. I make time to reflect on my day, each night, before I sleep. I reflect and ask my God many questions whilst on my walks in nature. Especially when I am close to water. Water is my safe haven. I choose that time as my quiet moment to bond with my spiritual side of life.

It is not like me to entertain thoughts of being the one who creates my final day on earth. I have a few times during my fifty-one years. When I do have a deep longing to go back home to spirit inside of me, I remind myself that I would have to come back to this earth to repeat some experiences. That’s if I left early, and I still desired further evolutionary awareness. My option would likely be to reincarnate in the physical realm once again. Physical earth can be hellish.

When you reincarnate, you enter a frequency in the 3D dimension from where you previously left. Meaning, if you left with a tortured mind, you start again in that same energy frequency  in your next life. Can a person graduate earth without going through all the grade levels? Perhaps? I know I couldn’t.

If your frequency is low when you pass over, you reenter at a lower frequency to match your awareness. If your frequency was higher, your next physical incarnation may be elevated. In either instance, there is risk within every incarnation. The risk is the functions in your frequency which are created by dense and light energy you work with. You manipulate this energy with your mind. Your thoughts are your elixirs. Your free will is your spoon. Your action is your alchemy. Your results are from your intentions. Your intentions are created with a stew of mixed messages and information that may or may not be healthy. You have to select ingredients carefully. Otherwise you can inadvertently poison yourself. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Only the strongest of souls tend to come to physical earth to learn at such a rapid pace. In my perspective, you and I are in a doctorate program with many tiered levels to get to completion. You, my welcomed reader, are far more powerful, far more courageous, far more loving, and far more impactful than you may truly realize? You being here on this planet tells me, you are a special soul indeed. Physical earth is “one hell of a school”.

My goal is to continue to evolve within my awareness and of course, inside all that is. Once I leave my beautiful body I am using permanently, I have no plans to reincarnate again. My ultimate career goal for myself isn’t here on earth. My goal is to become an Ascended Master in spirit. Yep. I am a weirdo. I know it. Proud of it too. My weirdness has been what has kept me alive this long.

I am a far cry from being an Ascended Master today. My thoughts tell me so. It is for this reason I have chosen to write out my thoughts then publish them for you to read. Placing my thoughts out there on the world wide web for anyone to read, tells me I best remain committed to my own mental health. If I say I am going to do something, I will do it. I am a stubborn one after all. I also know it is wise to walk the walk before you talk the talk.

I am going down some deep and excruciatingly painful rabbit holes. I suspect I am not the only one who has difficult thoughts, so, I welcome you to join me. You may discover a hidden gem inside my journal for yourself too?

We may be different. We are also governed by the same cosmic laws. You must have some similar experiences as myself? You simply have your own way of going about things within the grand design. It’s up to you to join me of course. Reading takes a bit of effort on your part. Especially since my grammar and spelling are rudely elementary, nowadays.

Welcome to the world inside my mind. Join knowing you may be triggered. Triggers are the key that unlocks a hidden passage. They are necessary for growth.

This is the beginning of my life story. Everything you come to read is based on facts which I have come to understand for myself. They are my facts and honest understanding only. Anyone else who is mentioned in my writing would have to speak for themselves. Their facts and truth when with me are equally respected by me and may be different than mine.

Without further adieu.

I have only ever thought about taking my own life maybe a handful of times over fifty-two years. My first attempt at “kicking-the-bucket” was at age fifteen. I walked out in front of an oncoming truck.

It was a late summer night in 1989. A group of my brother’s friends got together to party at an abandoned barn on the outskirts of Kanata, Ontario, in Canada. Kanata was a small town back in the day. The area hosted mostly farmlands and small residential communities. I was at the barn party because I was friendly with some of my brother’s friends. My brother’s friends consisted of several guys and two or three girls around the ages of sixteen to nineteen. I was about fifteen, I think?

There were about eight to ten of us teens all hanging out. We sat on the hoods or backs of our vehicles. Drinking a mix of beer and rum coolers. Whilst we hauled off of each other’s cigarettes. We were a self destructive bunch of teens with alcohol and cigarettes. We weren’t an outward nuisance in society. We stayed under the radar with the police. Police were a different gang’s cup of tea.

My brother Craig is two years older than me. I was the tag along. My parents weren’t with us. They left my brother and I behind until closing day on the sale of the house we were in. My parents were in our new home in Ajax, Ontario, a few hours highway’s drive away from where Craig and I were. My brother Craig and I were partying in Kanata whilst my parents were unaware in Ajax.

I can’t seem to remember how my brother and I got there? I was too young for a driver’s license. My brother didn’t get his until he was twenty-one or twenty-two years old. I know he didn’t drive us. Details of that timeline are a bit foggy to be honest. The details of what specifically happened are etched into my brain though.

I can still see many details of that night clearly and vividly. It doesn’t affect me nearly like it use to. Today I can talk about it in a soft and matter of fact way without feeling the urge to cry or cower in a corner of a room somewhere in private. 

During that fateful night of the barn party, one of the boys, named Mick, tried to make out with me. I said no. He wouldn’t stop his sexual advances towards me. Mick grabbed my ass and forced himself onto me. I was triggered in a big way, and admittedly, I had been heavily drinking, so my reaction to his advances were exacerbated by a couple of bottles of rum based coolers.

I couldn’t think straight. I was trapped inside my head. I was experiencing flashback after flashback of different men who had hurt me over the years. I had developed complex post traumatic stress disorder by this stage of my life. I didn’t know that. Looking back today, it is clearly evident.

I was lost in grief inside the confines of my emotional, frightened, and incredibly tormented mind. I must have reacted horribly because two of the girls decided to gang up on me. They yelled profanities, and threw punches, kicks, and false accusations my way. They believed I had been leading Mick on for some reason.

All three of my aggressors, Mick, Shannon, and some other girl I didn’t know, were under the impression that because Mick gave me a roof to sleep under after my mother had kicked me out, he earned his right to get into my pants. He held no right in my mind. No matter how much I had physically and had mentally tortured myself. I stood on principle, even when drunk. Fun times. 

My brother didn’t stop the fight between the two girls and I. That was the second time two girls ganged up on me whilst my brother watched. The first time it happened, two girls got me in a headlock with my hands tied behind My back. They choked me to the point of almost black out. I had to lie to the girl who had headlocked me whilst facing her. I told her I was about to throw up. She let me go. It was at that point the other girl lost control of my arms. I broke free. Smashed one of the girl’s heads onto the concrete ground then I took off for home. Without my brother. The girls ganged up on me because I spoke on one of the girl’s father’s wayward hands.

My brother, in my young mind, seemed to have gotten a kick out of seeing me in pain. Both public beatings were rough moments in my life, that’s for sure.

In my distress, I headed for the main road several yards away through tall grass. Perhaps it was wheat?, or corn? I can’t seem to remember. I ran for a good few minutes. Someone chased me down and called my name to get me to stop running. I don’t remember who it was. It may have been my brother? I didn’t look back. I just kept on running until I couldn’t run anymore. I had eventually come to a stop on the gravel at the side of the road. I stared, dead eyed, like a zombie, into space, and waited. I didn’t feel any physical pain from being hit by those girls. I was pretty numb from feeling anything at all at that point.

I waited for the first vehicle to approach. Then walked out in front of it the moment I saw its headlights closing in on me through my peripheral vision. I had a plan without knowing I had a plan. I was trapped inside my mind whilst taking unconscious-conscious action. I walked in front of a massive semi truck, or Mack truck I like to call it. The driver of the semi was on his game that night. He obviously missed me or you would be reading a ghost’s blog. Well you still could be I suppose. If you were reading this after I was dead and gone many moons from now.

I wasn’t in a good state that night in any sense of way. The driver of the truck that I had walked out in front of called the police. Rightfully so. The truck driver, whomever the other teenager was that was with me, and myself, all stayed on the side of the highway to wait for the police to arrive. I didn’t say much. I may have muttered a word here and there. That’s about it. The other teenager did most, if not all of the talking, in order to smooth things over.

When the police arrived, they were briefed by the truck driver before they directed myself and my young “friend?” to get into the back of their cruiser. They asked questions, to which I didn’t pay attention to, nor had any interest in answering. Whilst the police were driving us back to our vacant house, I stared out the car window aimlessly into the starry night. I prayed to God to be anywhere but there. I was desperately wanting to be left alone.

My teenage escort and I kept the party and it’s location a secret from the police. It wasn’t that hard. The barn we were at was situated in an area where there was no lighting to see for several yards. The barn was two stories tall with grey weathered wood. One side of the barn was open. Exposing its inside to the elements. The barn’s two massive doors were missing from their rightful spot. It was good that way. It made it easier to park some of the cars inside the barn. With all our headlights off, the area remained perfectly dark.

Surrounding the barn were fields of tall grass, corn, or wheat. I’m not entirely sure. The barn was far enough back from the road that the cops didn’t suspect a thing.

As I had mentioned, I can’t remember the friend who was in the police car with me. It may have been my brother, Craig? I do know I did have someone I knew in the police car with me. The sexual advancements and the beating had overshadowed any other important details of that night. That’s likely the reason the rest of the details are foggy. That, and like I mentioned, I had drank enough alcohol to be more than a wee bit tipsy.

The second time in my life when I thought of leaving my body, I wasn’t necessarily interested in ending my life. My thoughts were more towards a very strong ponder.

I was standing at the edge of a cliff. I would estimate the height of the cliff to the ground and water below to be about four stories tall. I was off the beaten path from people. I didn’t want anyone to see me standing there contemplating life. I had just turned eighteen years old a few months prior. I was on my own. Reflecting on my boyfriend’s affair that I had just learned about.

I also learned around that time that my parents had plans to move two provinces away for my dad’s work.

(Albert, my then boyfriend had eventually come to be my first husband. He is the biological father of both my children. I moved in with Albert because I didn’t want to move with my parents to New Brunswick. I saw a window of opportunity to get out from under my parents ruling. I had decided to move in with Albert, a cheater, purposefully, and out of fear of abandonment. This choice became a repeat pattern over my lifetime).

I stood at the edge of this cliff with rugged rocks and small crashing waves below, feeling rejected by life. I was feeling sorry for myself. I was around eighteen years old and in the last year of high school. It was 1992. I had exams, a cheating boyfriend, and parents leaving for some time after their house sold, waiting on me to decide if I was choosing to go with them or not. Plus I had a rush of old traumatic memories smacking me right left and center. It was a wee bit stressful back then.

The third time I contemplated ending my journey here on this physical earth, it was after having a horrible experience with the last man I was in a romantic relationship with. That relationship, or should I say, situation ship, was the hardest, most gut wrenching experience of my life. Even after several sexual assaults and physical beatings. A large portion of my writing to come in these blog entries will be concerning my experiences being with him. Him being Rosie. 

Recently, I started to imagine different ways I could end my life again. A long rope and a full grown tree with a strong branch? Nope. I have no rope and little physical strength to climb a tree, situate the rope, and take the last few minutes to think about my loved ones before I took the plunge to pull that off. Walk in front of a bus? No. That would traumatize people. Walk deep into the woods and get lost so that the Canadian winter could get me? No. That would be, at the very least excruciatingly painful. Pain free preferably please. I have had enough pain in one lifetime. Hence these bloody thoughts in the first place.

A pharmaceutical cocktail maybe? That didn’t work when I attempted that before. When I mentally crashed from being with my then boyfriend, Rosie. Would I know how much to take and what? Nope. That solution is also a weak one at best.

With no real answers, I had decided it best I start writing my journey here. My goal is to conquer these thoughts and continue to make a positive difference in my little part of this world. I am unable to use a pen for long periods, so a blog it is. I don’t have a clue if I am doing this correctly or not to be honest. Am I writing a blog? A memoir? A book based upon a toxic love story? Time will tell. What I do know in this present moment is, I love myself and my babies enough to remain resilient in my faith. I choose to believe that all works out better than I could have ever even imagined. I am here to stay. I can do this.

How the fuck did I get here?

To answer that question I would have to take you back in time to when I came to learn I was a child with a moniker. I was called “It”. The child called “It” in my world had created tumultuous and toxic love for many years. The birth of “It” then given birth to a painful existence.

My mother gave me the name “It” before we immigrated to Canada. I was two years old, or thereabouts. She also told anyone who would listen that I deserved to be drowned. “Take it out and drown it!”

It all ties in with the reasons I currently live on a mattress with no income and unhealthy conditions at fifty-one years of age. It’s an excellent place to start.