Constellations

If I drew a map for you across my body, one made entirely of stars marking all of the places ever violated by human hands, my bones would be wrapped in a galaxy made of flesh.

A pink protostar would mark the spot where my innocence was once sacred and pure; and those tiny flecks of stardust due north would represent the seeds of my womb that never got to bloom. The black hole covering my mouth would portray the silent screams and pleas for help that were written all over my face, yet no one heard. And the supernova adorning my chest would depict the moment that my heart exploded into millions of pieces because no one would save me.

I’d draw the blue supergiant, Rigel, and its star cluster family to represent the bruises left across my throat by those who hoped to silence me. And if the stars didn’t paint the picture vividly enough, I would sketch a grid around my head to show you the way the fabric of time seems to fold in on itself and repeat in infinite loops of pain.

You see, this is the map leading to the little girl who lost her sense of direction once upon a time in the Milky Way. So if I showed you the way to my soul, would you love me enough to trace my constellations, or would you simply look the other way?

🖤 – Dena M. Daigle  2018

Silly Girl

Silly girl, look at you! How weak can you possibly be? Screaming in silence while the world dances on around you. You let them kill your light; just rolled on over and watched the darkness swallow you up without even putting up a fight. You had the entire world right there at your fingertips and were too afraid to grasp it. Far too concerned with labels – the ones sewn on your clothes and shoes, and the ones branded upon your skin; too blind to see that none of it even mattered.

Stupid girl, look at you! Parading around town, displaying your flesh upon the alters of ungodly men; worshiping them while down on your knees bathing in lustful sin. You became everything they said you were, as if you had a point to prove.

Scared girl, look at you! Still stuck on Chapter 16 of a book that your tormented soul may never get to complete; too afraid to turn the page; too fearful of your fate sealed within the epilogue.  When are you going to realize that you are the one who holds the pen? Only you get to decide how your story will end.

Sulky girl, look at you! So much to be grateful for yet you dwell on the pain; afraid to smile; unsure how to hide your misty eyes without the safety of the rain. It is time to feel the warmth of the sun. Bask in its rays; let those tears nourish your roots and bloom beautiful soul! Have mercy on your heart for once sweet girl.

I know I never told you this, but I think it is time for you to know that I forgive you; and you are worth so much more than that which you failed to realize before. Baby girl it is time for you to spread those wings and soar!

Love always,

Your Future Self

Surviving the Void – A Tribute to the Healing of the Womb

I love every aspect of my life and those I share it with, let’s get that straight, but there is still a gut-wrenching ache in the depths of my soul and it just won’t seem to loosen its grip on me. Although every other chamber of my heart is overflowing with love, there is still a chasmic black hole in my heart that all the stars in the universe could not fill. It should be infused with light through self-love, the love reciprocated by those I care for and inner-peace and happiness, yet for some reason I cannot seem to tame the envious beast lurking within. Perhaps because, like most childless women who yearn to cradle precious life within them, I come face to face on a daily basis with subtle reminders of the one ability I lack – in every family photo taken, every school bus stop, playground, grocery store, television screen, doctor’s office and inevitably, every other conversation that seems to flow around me. I am 35 years old, unwed (but engaged) and childless (of my own womb) living in a male dominant society that propagates marriage and children before the age of 40, while subliminally implying that infertile women are somehow inferior… but I digress.

It is every woman’s sacred birthright to bear the fruit of her womb, but sometimes in life things happen that prevent us from doing so. That does not make us any less of a woman, or any less knowledgeable about how to raise children. Allow me to reiterate this to those who say “You don’t have kids, so you don’t understand.” – That does not make us any less of a woman, or any less knowledgeable about how to raise children! (Seriously people, there is nothing comparable to telling an infertile woman those words that could ever make her feel more disconnected from womanhood than she already does. So, please don’t say that.) Motherly instincts come naturally to the human species just as they do in the wild (even though we may want to argue that point after witnessing certain behaviors of some women towards their children). Certainly some of us may choose not to have children, and I’m equally supportive of those women as well, but it is a decision that they have made nonetheless. Then there are those of us childless women who have been physically coerced to forego the idea of bearing children by our bodies who have decided that fate for us. We were stripped of the right and/or ability to choose for ourselves, forcing us to swallow the toxic tincture of emotions that followed, which we then had to learn to digest somehow.

I, like many women, have endured severe sexual trauma, both pre- and post-pubescence, and it has affected me immensely in every way – mind, body and spirit. While navigating the muddy waters of self-healing, I sought shelter in connections with other females who have experienced similar hardships. Despite their experiences or reasons for not having children, there is one common factor linking us together – the wisdom gained by enduring the pain of living without that which our hearts desire most. Because of these goddesses, I now see the intrinsic value of the womb, the captivating beauty of the divine feminine spirit and the essence of all life itself.

The womb is a not just a sexual organ residing within the reproductive system of the female body. It is the sacred seat of power that links all of humanity to The Great Mother. It is the source of infinite abundance embodying the life-force energy that gives birth to the entire universe.

“When we speak of the womb, we are referring to more than a physical organ within a female body – although this sacred site is brimming with creative magic. We refer also in a greater sense to an energetic, multidimensional portal, a bridge between worlds, that lives within us whether we have a physical womb or not.

For women who have had a hysterectomy, the energetic power and blueprint of the womb remains within; for those in menopause, your energetic wise blood still flows in harmony with the cycles of the moon. Women in their crone phase are the spiritual grandmothers of the tribe, the wise wombs. Men also have a spiritual or energetic womb, which we call the hara.”

Womb of Light, Mary Rogers and Anjali Devi.

In my quest for closure, I have learned the importance of healing, not only mentally, but physically and spiritually as well. That may sound somewhat strange because well, obviously, those old wounds have healed externally, but internally there is still a mess of unhealed damage that has gone untreated for many decades which requires my attention. You see, our wombs are where the majority of our pain, including the pain that we have inherited from our ancestors, resides. We entomb that toxicity within our bodies and it grows like a cancer attacking otherwise healthy organs and causing all kinds of issues. Additionally, when we harbor that pain within by suppressing our rage and tears, we actually inhibit our growth in all facets of life. Although the process of healing past trauma can be utterly painful, it is vital to our well-being to awaken that slumbering beast, accept the lessons it has taught us, and to then permanently evict and prohibit it from returning to cause any further damage. I know that now.

“Through awakening of the womb we are able to travel back into those places that have disconnected us from our power of gnosis and grounded living. The places that are frozen through trauma of painful experiences can now begin to thaw into rivers of ancient grief. Irrigating our lives with [the] birthright of pleasure, innocent wildness, juiciness, magic and a deeper self-love than any we have ever known.

Self-love is a fertile, pregnant doorway into manifesting true love on the physical realms through relationships. Through our womb imprints we inherit our mother line gifts as well as our pain. When we are cutoff from this power center we cannot access our gifts and instead can stay in loops and replay of generational trauma.”

– Anabel Vizcarra

This process is how we honor our hearts and the blossoming lotus that is the awakened womb. In learning of the power carried within the sacred space of the womb, my purpose has become abundantly clear. I now realize that, while I may not be able to bring forth life in physical form from my womb, I can bring forth life in other ways, equally as beautiful. I carry within me the spiritual strength and creative energy needed to share the life-changing tools I have discovered with my kindred sisters so that I may help them to restore the balance, vitality and essence of life within themselves. I inherited the sacred energy of The Great Mother, and I am a guardian of light protecting the innocence of the children that I love as if they were my own. So I will continue walking gracefully along the path of healing carrying within me the divine torch of light and love. – Dena M. Daigle, Phoenix Ascended

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Sources:
Photo: Pinterest, Artist Unknown.
Mary Rogers – Lotus Gypsy Soul
Anjali Devi – Anjali Devi, Psychic Medium
Anabel Vizcarra

#MeToo – A Series to Raise Awareness of Sexual Abuse

#MeToo –

Any sexual/intimate act should only happen if you agree to it.

If all the people who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote “Me too” as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.

I was 4 years old when my innocence was stripped from my soul right along with my red-ruffled “Day of the Week” panties that were stripped from my naked toddler body. The teenaged son of my parents’ friend, along with his raging hormones, was supposed to watch over me until my mother returned from work that evening. The things that occurred in that dark, cold house could not be accurately processed by my still-developing mind, but I knew that they were very wrong.  And I also knew, or was manipulated into believing rather, that if I were to speak a word about what happened, I would be in a lot of trouble. I was forced to believe that I would somehow be “in trouble” for having my body desecrated by the hands of a monster. That is a lot to process for a four year old, and even more to keep buried deep within.  The toxicity I entombed by remaining silent ate away at the remaining bits of my soul, long into my teenage years and even into adulthood, as I have now come to realize. This single event, along with other traumatic experiences in my adolescence, led me spiraling down a path of self-torture.

Fast forward to high school years and my self-abuse was now being accompanied by drug use and promiscuity.  Each slice of the razor blade upon my flesh, and each hand that I allowed to touch my delicate skin, was an attempt to feel something more than what I had been feeling for years.  Those self-inflicted wounds were silent cries for help from a mouth that had been sewn shut for far too long. They were not ploys for attention from a spoiled child as they were believed to be.  I just wanted to feel loved, and at the same time, I just wanted to numb the heartache that I could never speak of.  The mind of a victim is quite the paradox.

I was around 16 when I experienced my second sexual trauma. As I mentioned previously, I was making some very poor choices, which included going out to parties with much older crowds (of some pretty sketchy people, might I add), drinking, selling and taking drugs, etc.   I was asked by my friend to accompany two men (who were friends of hers at the party) to the store to pick up some more alcohol.  I guess I was security that they would return to the party and not run off with the money they were given to make the purchase. While they did, in fact, end up running off with the money, they also ran off with my blood on their hands, and with the little bit of dignity that remained within me.

While I will spare you the gruesome details, I will simply say that I was brutally raped by those two men that night after being given some type of “date-rape drug” that rendered me partially unconscious and unable to move or cry for help.  As I began regaining consciousness, I was punched in the head so hard that I was knocked out again. While my body was still fighting to come to, I was pushed out of a truck on side of the road a block away from the party and left there like a pile of rotting garbage. A friend saw me lying there and, I would imagine, assumed that I was just intoxicated and that I fell, causing injury to myself. Although they could see the knot that had formed on my head, and a few cuts, scrapes and bruises, they could not see the other damage inflicted upon me.  In fact, no one ever would.  I kept it all a secret in fear that no one would believe me anyway, as that had been my experience when I attempted to break the silence about my childhood trauma.

I thought my life couldn’t get much worse, but I was mistaken.  This pain that I kept hidden was eating me alive and the drugs were no longer helping to numb it.  The choice to remain silent forced me into a deep depression and I spiraled completely out of control.  The winding staircase to my own personal hell led to the birth of a heroin addict, but also to the rebirth of a warrior.

In a society where “rape culture” is still very much alive, it is imperative that we teach our youth the importance of speaking out against their abusers.  And as adults, it is equally vital for parents and other influential persons in a child’s life, to understand and recognize the signs of a child who is silently pleading for help.

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