Painted Faces - the masks people wear

Choices to make...

     "Father why have you forsaken me?" Have you ever thought about the pure anguish behind these words?

    Jesus, one with the Father, was cast aside. Too covered in our sin for His father to look upon. He had to withdraw, and Jesus felt it. That's where we would be without Jesus and the sacrifice, He made for us that day. By accepting His sacrifice and joining with Him in His suffering, we become cloaked by the victory He gained also. Now our father can look upon us and no longer see our sin, but rather the cloak of Jesus' victory which doesn't just hide our sin, but wipes it clean away.

Ask and we are forgiven.

    Jesus experienced all that pain for you and me. He allowed himself to be separated from His father in order that we might re-gain access with Him.

     In hurtful times it can feel exactly like that cry – why have you forsaken me? Why are you so quiet, so far away? Why can't I hear you, why won't you take this pain from me? Why? I don't know the answer to that except to say that He is never as far away as He sometimes feels.

I am in my box. There are a lot of voices tonight. Loud, crude, invasive, probably drunk. I lie very still, trying to be as small as I can, hoping, praying, that they've forgotten they put me here. Suddenly laughter gets louder, and the box begins to move. What's happening? Why are they lifting it (and me) up? We (my box and I) lurch to one side amid curses and a yell. Then I feel the seasickness of a swaying boat as they carry me – where? Winding round corners, suddenly we're dropped and every bone in my body is jarred. I've been here before, but not in the box. Outside, in a hole. Now I hear loud thuds and smell damp earth through the holes above me. Earth. I'm being buried. Buried alive! How can this be happening; why is this happening? I panic, scream, try to push at the lid of my box. As I thought, it's too heavy, I'm trapped. No-one will know where I am, what's happened to me, when I don't go home. Will I die here tonight? Silence, as I cry tears of disbelief, hopeless tears of grief. Robby, please don't let them do this! I thought you wanted to help me! Am I really worth so little? I try to calm myself; I will run out of air soon enough; I must give him time. I am out of my body, up high looking down. There's a rough mound of earth where the hole was, no sign of me or my box. Only a few are left, drinking, laughing. They mean to let me stay. It's as if I ceased to exist for them this afternoon. I can see myself inside, lying perfectly still, silent tears pouring down my pale cheeks. Why don't I fight? But I did, you see. My hands are bloody, I see scratches on the inside of the lid. I have lost hope, but not in God. I just want to be with Him now and for this to be over. He will look after me now as no-one here could or wanted to. I have failed – my parents, teachers, everyone. And now I will pay.

There's scraping, thuds, then fresh air floods back in; it feels so long but in reality, is only maybe 15 minutes. Robby pulls me out and gruffly announces "I couldn't let them leave you here. Managed to persuade them you were still fun." Am I supposed to be grateful?

   Memories torment my waking hours, haunt my dreams at night. It was such a relief to get them out of my head in sessions with my counsellor. Often while talking with him new memories would surface too.

    Then the flashbacks begin, and the past is again too real, too invasive, I can see it all happening before me, I am there again. I react to them, talk, move, run to my corner, and try to hide. Or I am made to stand against the wall again as they tie my wrists in place. I'm so tired, I can't stand much longer. My face is to the wall and unspeakable things are done to my body as I am held there. Then I can take no more and collapse.

    I'm told this is a polyvagal response. A physical reaction to extreme trauma, where I wake to find myself on the floor but unable to move. I will attempt a description of what I experienced and how it happened technically. My counsellor believed I would have suffered these reactions while in that room, and certainly for as long as I can remember I have dissociated or "zoned out". This is backed up by photographs and other peoples' observations of me since my teenage years.