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Sara Atman

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Member Since: Jul, 2007

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Featured Book
Growing Up, by Dr Audrey Coatesworth
by Audrey Coatesworth

Dr Audrey Coatesworth's poetry book,Growing Up, is for children aged 7-12years. Written by a psychiatrist, and, in metaphorical and rhyming verse to encourage the values..  
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Excerpt from Soul Murder God Priest and Me
by Sara Atman   
Rated "G" by the Author.
Last edited: Monday, July 23, 2007
Posted: Friday, July 20, 2007

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God Conversations run through Soul Murder ... so that the victim can make sense of the abuse and enable catharsis. Excerpt from Chapter 1.

1. Betrayal

Damn you, God! You murdered my soul. You destroyed my reason for living.
Your wisdom surely failed when you chose a pervert to father me. And then you deceived me into thinking that help was on its way. I was grateful to one of your priests, to be cared for by a blessed and holy man. My father defiled me and I firmly believed that the only way to be made whole again, the only way to remedy my past was with the help and guidance of someone pure in heart. A priest or minister was a good example; Fr Middleman was the perfect fit! He would be able to cleanse, re-affirm me, and restore my self-esteem and dignity. That is what I hoped for – until it was too late to turn back.
I had placed my trust in another pervert.
I thought you were well pleased with my obedience to the Reverend Father, I thought that you were pleased with my progress. Fr Middleman said that if I did not learn obedience, I could not learn humility. If I did not learn how to trust him, I would never trust you. If I did not fear him, then your love would be removed. Those were the rules. Or were they threats? That was the way of obedience. Or was it manipulation?
I did not know that I was being further corrupted. Who would suspect any harm being done by a holy man, a priest - qualified by his dog collar, always brilliant white and starched? He was one of your special people – chosen, graced and gifted with a vocation from on high. Then, it was inconceivable for me to imagine that priests were anything but good, less than perfect – and sacrilegious to class them as perverts.
We all have our breaking point, and this was mine. Not my first, for you have continuously tried to break me. Since the very beginning there were no let-ups. You rarely gave me time to recover from one fall when you threw me to the ground once more. Everything about you is perverse. How many thrills you get out of watching me suffer! God you are a voyeuristic sadist! You kept trapping me, and each time, I fell for it. You tempted me with your sweet offerings, your graces and delicacies and then once I had sensed the sweet aroma – BANG! – You threw a pile of shit over me. You are not a God of love; you are a God of pain.
Did you need to strike me down so vehemently? Did my tears bring you laughter? Am I such an evil person? Was it really my fault that I had been abused from an early age? Had I offended against some law of my pre-existence, in utero as it were? I wanted many things from you. I wanted you to give me back what had been stolen from me – truth, innocence and goodness. I expected you to be kind but I was wrong, obviously. You are a cruel father, just like my own. You have no idea of what fatherhood means.
Go find someone else who is not wise enough to even see, never mind understand your con! Move on to the next vulnerable person whom you can deceive and win with your empty promises and charms. I have washed my hands of you.
God, do you really think I care about a place in heaven? Save it for the masochistic brainwashed fools. Save it for those in this life whose sufferings are insupportable – yet still, they welcome more. Save it for those whose belief in you is unconnected to reality, your followers whose faith has remained static since childhood – as immature now, as controlled by fear, as when they first believed.
Save it for your churchgoers, your regulars who have no time for the lonely, the poor and the oppressed. The faithful, who suffer loss and bereavement, but put on a brave face and never dare to question why? They never dare show their pain and anger, but instead, humbly bear it like your priests of old – hair shirts under their garments. And as their bodies bleed, as they chastise themselves, they genuinely believe that they are being purified. The more pain they bear, the closer they are to you! Such is the folly of your followers with their twisted minds and their broken bodies.
And I am supposed to praise you, God – for what? For having the misfortune to know three fathers in my life: God, my Dad and one of your priests? Together they have successfully managed to wreck my life. But I hold you responsible for destroying me, for crucifying me. I blame you because you are omniscient and you drew up the plan. You had a unique purpose in mind for me alone. I blame you God for that. And I blame you for your omnipotence, which you failed to exert. You never intervened. I blame you for your omnipresence. There were no signs of your presence! You did not ease my burden, or help me bring your incomprehensible plans to fruition.
You never showed me any kindness or mercy. I should have killed myself years ago; a quick death would have been kinder than this prolonged living death - one without pleasure, without pain. You have no idea what it is like to rise each morning and impatiently look forward to the night-time. When sleep brings respite from the struggle; when losing consciousness is appealing and far more attractive than the ongoing pretence. We try to give meaning to our lives as we crawl through the grey mornings and the black nights, which slowly wear us out. And then, exhausted, we retreat from life – or is it death? – to our dream world.
God! Do you hear me? Let me sleep forever but should I wake, let it be without memory. Wipe out the past thirty years of my life – just give me a chance. I’m not asking for too much. Wipe the slate clean that is the only way I can start again. As long as my memory remains, I will keep paying.
No God! Enough! I was only dreaming. I have no desires, no hopes, and no wishes. I can even laugh about life’s cruelty. I can laugh at myself. I have no complaints, not really. I have no complaints except for the theme that you chose for the drama of my childhood: betrayal. I have no complaints, not really, except for the revitalisation of that theme in my adulthood.
As a youngster, I could not see the funny side of things until I familiarised myself with a particular pattern, your black humour, which I then appropriated. Each course you served up, I devoured as quickly as I could because my needs were so great, because my hunger for care and love was insatiable. But then I discovered that you were not my source of spiritual nourishment - you kept feeding me poison. You were not testing me, God; you were trying to kill me.
How did I manage to find out that I was being tainted again? There was a dreadful stench in and around me. Contaminating! Its decay was sickening. I could not bear that foul smell. I could not face myself. Evil was my nourishment and it gnawed at my insides, eating away at my soul, until I was too weak to save myself, until I was defeated completely.
You are still there, picking at my soul, sapping me and draining me of my life force.
Why is your presence always so cold that I am kept awake at nights? If you are beside me, why don’t you hear my cries? God, answer me! And, if you have heard them, then why am I deaf to the responses? How long do I have to wait before you free me from the torture chamber? Or are you immune to my pain?
Dear God, you obviously did not want to heal me. For a time I accepted that you had sole authority to do with people what you wished. After all, it’s your world. You



















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