God Is Strength #lorijean #God #story
God Is Strength by Lori Jean Finnila
I feel the weight of you pulling away. My chain, my responsibility to you, that I owe you, or have to be there. I know something bad will happen, but that is what I have to do.
I'm drowning in your life. Your ways, your wishes. Your stories, or mine, that sometimes seem so clear and other times don't make sense. The kids that were treated so well, yours were not meant to be so worried about. The cloud of aura had to stand well with you, or else, I assume in my mind.
The tall tree that I couldn't climb that I was blamed for left scars on my neck from the raw tree when I was asked to climb, or ordered rather. Made no sense for its size of its importance to such a small child. There weren't many limbs to hold me up. All I can see now is a mouth yelling and moving in somewhat of slow motion to the order. My ears can't believe as I look up so high to the oak. I was good at climbing. I was good at everything.
The orders not to go to gymnastics after school was a thought of love after all. It had to be to my protection knowing the burdens of parents. I was one to be good at basketball, softball, tumbling, and dance. I was graceful. Sought out to it. Could do back flips on the uneven bars. That's why I was asked to stay after school. I could hold myself up the longest on the high bars to my weight. I thought there was something wrong to this. I passed the fastest girl at school on race days and thought to slow down and let her pass telling her it was wrong of me.
I ended up ignoring the negative and focusing on the positive of me in the mirror, the beautiful things I felt inside. I never heard the bad.
My hair being stroked to TV had to mean love. My clean clothes and food must have been. Yet I can't figure out the standing on the stairs with a door closed to me barely walking at youth with the lights turned out on me and told to stand to reach it in the dark at the top of the stairs.
I can handle the pass on to grandma for money from the government for somehow I was loud or brash, not being coherent to this.
I always tried to please and smile at school. Was so loved when the teacher would look my way. I knew this. Sometimes a teacher I wouldn't feel this as much. But there would be neighbors and friends. Boyfriends at times that would give me the same love. Sometimes not as much and it seemed like a push. These times were confusing and I think hard on the younger ones.
I want to believe that I'm not crazy for feeling my head shoved under the headboard of my bed. The constant bandages to my neck that left lifelong scars that I can hardly see now. My bent and molded ears from torment, that sometime I'm told are ugly.
The times I cried not to take medicine that made me sick when I wasn't. The shelves that were stocked from the store made me drowsy at school. Teachers would question my fears at times. The spoon shoved into my mouth when half asleep telling me “you don't need this” to make sure I knew. It had to be for a reason. She must have been so scared for me. It was a plan, a charade to keep me safe.
Page two
There must have been such bad men that this charade had to be played out. Just as the yummy-orange
baby aspiring that I enjoyed too well, it had to be played out to the whole bottle, which I couldn't
muster up to, I only took half. The dancing horses in the stairs as I swayed didn't seem to tell the doctor
it wasn't me that decided to this.
The broken eardrum from a supposed pencil that I could never fit in came in to play. It's a wonder with
all the other things.
My stomach growls yet sometimes gets sick from too much oil from the same tuna fish sandwich everyday for years. I can't get my eyes to look at it and my brain to accept it. The oils are getting harder to digest in all the other foods. Fortunately I'm omitted from many of them at the table. My doctor prescribes this.
My hands are so small but my attitude catches up. I fight for no spankings yet I still have to hide under
the bed. Brown liquid is poured on my little legs to cover them up. My ears are jerked, yet they are ugly
I'm told, while lice is cut from my hair. My fault I assume. The cut is much shorter than needed I'm told
from others. I'm in a military camp I figure.
I hide in the flowers that talk to me. The huge butterfly is my friend. I can catch the flies and trap them
to stay there as long as I want to stay with me. I have to see them in the morning. I have control over
my love. Yet it dies so I can't understand. I will save the forest from the wild animals yet they all die.
The universe speaks to me when I walk through it. I'm special. I'll go to the tree house. I'm smart now.
My home will await in there, yet if she stops me it can't be good. It doesn't make sense. Maybe she knows how smart I am. I can wait till I'm 18.
I know the love she pushes on me won't give me what I need. Yet I can't fight. I know her strength.
I'm told to hold tight to the pillow if I want to survive. I choose to do this that I'm a strong child.
I remember playing peek a boo under the sheets on the chairs made on the floor feeling safe and
special. Other children would come and I wouldn't feel this so much. I felt the pang of pane from the abnormality of this.
I would continue with security from the adult that entered the room. A small child would cry and I would have to watch at times. There were no other adults around but this one. I wondered to this. Was I in charge?
Dogs would die but I felt it was wrong. I felt it couldn't be there fault. They weren't the ones in charge.
Perhaps they got angry but maybe they needed to. They seemed quiet enough.
It's laugh time again. All the best foods are around and there are parties. It's great. Life is good. I must have misunderstood.
Oh gosh, it begins again. My questions, mostly at night, or when I'm alone with only one other about.
My hair seemed golden and wheat, yet it seems to darken at times with my appointed shampoo. I can't take long showers or eat food as others, I must be different.
I'm asked if I'm from the mailman. We joke Santa Claus must be. I feel special and different than those
Page three
around me so close, but why. Has a special angel been sent to me to protect me?
The clothes hung on my chord by the socket makes a great closet for my metal baby hangers mom tells me. I know this as I'm forced to question this from others.
Go play in the closet my favorite place I'm told with the door closed. Continue to enjoy under the cellar stairs and tie myself up this time. I'm getting bigger, I should understand enjoyment. It must be right there are many around.
I was chosen. It has to be safe. The looks don't look drastic to others in here.
I'm a spectacle when eating at others homes. I'm starving.
My arms are so thin a woman cries on Memorial Day. It's my favorite suit. I don't understand.
I'm taught to eat egg sandwiches before I go to bed.
Half a glass of orange juice once a week and sometimes two pieces of fruit is good for me. A treat of 1 to two ice creams is an added plus. I try to harvest on the bigger meals not realizing in fear to not catch my trace at times when it's not there. I can go up and down in weight drastically.
I'm told to wear diapers at eight but I don't need them. I only pee at night when I dream I am. I look into her eyes and ask do I act like a baby? Is this what she wants?
Others are getting tired of these games. I ignore it all. It can't be so bad. I'm growing up. I'm tired of the changes in clubs and houses of worship outside of church. They all start to ask questions. Am I still that thin?
I babysit and wear different clothes. I'm told what size to buy. They seem so smart on me. Grownups don't come over as much. The world seems to come in towards me a lot now. Life can't be so bad.
The boys love me. I wonder why? I can be so demanding. I don't know where I get it from. They seem to try so hard to please me. I push more.
I'm told I'm so beautiful. The only way I will get away is to use it. I don't know how.
My savior from the farm that wasn't so funny felt important to this.
I could have had a new family many times but didn't. I wondered at times when at the worst why it would be better for me to stay. Life is hard out there. There are no guarantees.
Will I be a good parent I worry. Others help me to this. I listen with open ears and want to learn the new way. I'm so grateful for smart people. How do they make them? Is this magic?
The whole field awaits me as the tall sunflowers greet me and talk to me each day. The sun as the dandelions blow through the wind making my life into wishes that come true is made for me.
The birds sing to me in the morning. I hear them tell me to get up and be happy. All the other sounds are commands to my actions. I run and play and listen to them all day.
I feel the weight of you pulling away. My chain, my responsibility to you, that I owe you, or have to be there. I know something bad will happen, but that is what I have to do.
I'm drowning in your life. Your ways, your wishes. Your stories, or mine, that sometimes seem so clear and other times don't make sense. The kids that were treated so well, yours were not meant to be so worried about. The cloud of aura had to stand well with you, or else, I assume in my mind.
The tall tree that I couldn't climb that I was blamed for left scars on my neck from the raw tree when I was asked to climb, or ordered rather. Made no sense for its size of its importance to such a small child. There weren't many limbs to hold me up. All I can see now is a mouth yelling and moving in somewhat of slow motion to the order. My ears can't believe as I look up so high to the oak. I was good at climbing. I was good at everything.
The orders not to go to gymnastics after school was a thought of love after all. It had to be to my protection knowing the burdens of parents. I was one to be good at basketball, softball, tumbling, and dance. I was graceful. Sought out to it. Could do back flips on the uneven bars. That's why I was asked to stay after school. I could hold myself up the longest on the high bars to my weight. I thought there was something wrong to this. I passed the fastest girl at school on race days and thought to slow down and let her pass telling her it was wrong of me.
I ended up ignoring the negative and focusing on the positive of me in the mirror, the beautiful things I felt inside. I never heard the bad.
My hair being stroked to TV had to mean love. My clean clothes and food must have been. Yet I can't figure out the standing on the stairs with a door closed to me barely walking at youth with the lights turned out on me and told to stand to reach it in the dark at the top of the stairs.
I can handle the pass on to grandma for money from the government for somehow I was loud or brash, not being coherent to this.
I always tried to please and smile at school. Was so loved when the teacher would look my way. I knew this. Sometimes a teacher I wouldn't feel this as much. But there would be neighbors and friends. Boyfriends at times that would give me the same love. Sometimes not as much and it seemed like a push. These times were confusing and I think hard on the younger ones.
I want to believe that I'm not crazy for feeling my head shoved under the headboard of my bed. The constant bandages to my neck that left lifelong scars that I can hardly see now. My bent and molded ears from torment, that sometime I'm told are ugly.
The times I cried not to take medicine that made me sick when I wasn't. The shelves that were stocked from the store made me drowsy at school. Teachers would question my fears at times. The spoon shoved into my mouth when half asleep telling me “you don't need this” to make sure I knew. It had to be for a reason. She must have been so scared for me. It was a plan, a charade to keep me safe.
Page two
There must have been such bad men that this charade had to be played out. Just as the yummy-orange
baby aspiring that I enjoyed too well, it had to be played out to the whole bottle, which I couldn't
muster up to, I only took half. The dancing horses in the stairs as I swayed didn't seem to tell the doctor
it wasn't me that decided to this.
The broken eardrum from a supposed pencil that I could never fit in came in to play. It's a wonder with
all the other things.
My stomach growls yet sometimes gets sick from too much oil from the same tuna fish sandwich everyday for years. I can't get my eyes to look at it and my brain to accept it. The oils are getting harder to digest in all the other foods. Fortunately I'm omitted from many of them at the table. My doctor prescribes this.
My hands are so small but my attitude catches up. I fight for no spankings yet I still have to hide under
the bed. Brown liquid is poured on my little legs to cover them up. My ears are jerked, yet they are ugly
I'm told, while lice is cut from my hair. My fault I assume. The cut is much shorter than needed I'm told
from others. I'm in a military camp I figure.
I hide in the flowers that talk to me. The huge butterfly is my friend. I can catch the flies and trap them
to stay there as long as I want to stay with me. I have to see them in the morning. I have control over
my love. Yet it dies so I can't understand. I will save the forest from the wild animals yet they all die.
The universe speaks to me when I walk through it. I'm special. I'll go to the tree house. I'm smart now.
My home will await in there, yet if she stops me it can't be good. It doesn't make sense. Maybe she knows how smart I am. I can wait till I'm 18.
I know the love she pushes on me won't give me what I need. Yet I can't fight. I know her strength.
I'm told to hold tight to the pillow if I want to survive. I choose to do this that I'm a strong child.
I remember playing peek a boo under the sheets on the chairs made on the floor feeling safe and
special. Other children would come and I wouldn't feel this so much. I felt the pang of pane from the abnormality of this.
I would continue with security from the adult that entered the room. A small child would cry and I would have to watch at times. There were no other adults around but this one. I wondered to this. Was I in charge?
Dogs would die but I felt it was wrong. I felt it couldn't be there fault. They weren't the ones in charge.
Perhaps they got angry but maybe they needed to. They seemed quiet enough.
It's laugh time again. All the best foods are around and there are parties. It's great. Life is good. I must have misunderstood.
Oh gosh, it begins again. My questions, mostly at night, or when I'm alone with only one other about.
My hair seemed golden and wheat, yet it seems to darken at times with my appointed shampoo. I can't take long showers or eat food as others, I must be different.
I'm asked if I'm from the mailman. We joke Santa Claus must be. I feel special and different than those
Page three
around me so close, but why. Has a special angel been sent to me to protect me?
The clothes hung on my chord by the socket makes a great closet for my metal baby hangers mom tells me. I know this as I'm forced to question this from others.
Go play in the closet my favorite place I'm told with the door closed. Continue to enjoy under the cellar stairs and tie myself up this time. I'm getting bigger, I should understand enjoyment. It must be right there are many around.
I was chosen. It has to be safe. The looks don't look drastic to others in here.
I'm a spectacle when eating at others homes. I'm starving.
My arms are so thin a woman cries on Memorial Day. It's my favorite suit. I don't understand.
I'm taught to eat egg sandwiches before I go to bed.
Half a glass of orange juice once a week and sometimes two pieces of fruit is good for me. A treat of 1 to two ice creams is an added plus. I try to harvest on the bigger meals not realizing in fear to not catch my trace at times when it's not there. I can go up and down in weight drastically.
I'm told to wear diapers at eight but I don't need them. I only pee at night when I dream I am. I look into her eyes and ask do I act like a baby? Is this what she wants?
Others are getting tired of these games. I ignore it all. It can't be so bad. I'm growing up. I'm tired of the changes in clubs and houses of worship outside of church. They all start to ask questions. Am I still that thin?
I babysit and wear different clothes. I'm told what size to buy. They seem so smart on me. Grownups don't come over as much. The world seems to come in towards me a lot now. Life can't be so bad.
The boys love me. I wonder why? I can be so demanding. I don't know where I get it from. They seem to try so hard to please me. I push more.
I'm told I'm so beautiful. The only way I will get away is to use it. I don't know how.
My savior from the farm that wasn't so funny felt important to this.
I could have had a new family many times but didn't. I wondered at times when at the worst why it would be better for me to stay. Life is hard out there. There are no guarantees.
Will I be a good parent I worry. Others help me to this. I listen with open ears and want to learn the new way. I'm so grateful for smart people. How do they make them? Is this magic?
The whole field awaits me as the tall sunflowers greet me and talk to me each day. The sun as the dandelions blow through the wind making my life into wishes that come true is made for me.
The birds sing to me in the morning. I hear them tell me to get up and be happy. All the other sounds are commands to my actions. I run and play and listen to them all day.
Page four
I make my perfect house in the rocks, in the cellar, in my room if I can find a corner, that's safe and quiet. I get by.
My barbie isn't perfect or even a barbie. It's important for me not to have the brand. Others do around me that are close. I'm to not feel like an adult or growing up. How do I get around this? I'm desperate to feel the same. I'm struggling.
She is cute besides. Her freckles constitute a light child. Perhaps that is good. Is that my out in this? Take my differences that are supposedly better and use them?
I push my heart from my imperfect doll and find another outlet for love. I'll once again turn to my baby dolls. I'm a bit older but it suffices me. It drinks love into my body. I find a secret hidden spot for love that heals me.
No one can hear that I hide by the heater for warmth of affection I get no more. I must be too big. My body can fit the whole heater as I wrap myself around it. I'm yelled at to not get found or show I need this. I found a place under my bed for this but feel ashamed. I hold the covers tight instead and find a comfortable place in feathers in my pillow. I must be lucky to have feathers. I have pretty colors in my blankets above me. Some are pink with green that I see outside. I must be special. I've seen some adult picture to flowers of similar stance. This is a good aim toward adulthood . I must be being given some of this.
There is intelligence in everything that a person does. I always find it. The best things nurture you and heal you to who your are. If not God is always there. He always saves you. He flies up so high so you will always be happy and safe.
I know because I saw him in the pictures of the perfect place, in the church, where love is full and the priest reaches out to me with love. I am safe here. I know.
So many people in pain on the wall. Why? I have to think. So this doesn't happen to me I feel. I'm here guarded from it. I'm glad the priest doesn't speak of it, but my mind and ears close when he does.
I see and feel circles around me as the adults party to new occasions. I'm not here that much again, but I'm safe and okay. My world is good.
I think grandma loves me but she pushes me away. She is my only meaning to this salvation. The wave almost sweeps me away as she lets me go out of her arms, I can drown. I wondered where I will go now?
The other is offered pay to take me in. Grandpa does not know what to do with me when he's drunk. Why am I such a bother, when I've found my own place.
Dad doesn't look at me much. He used to. He never put me down. I demanded to it. He drinks and yells horribly at times. Throws my mom and comes at me. He's very unhappy. I wonder why.
My mom seems scared to have him kiss me or be alone with him. I defy to this. He says it's okay. He'd rather. He doesn't love me? I'm getting too big.
I make my perfect house in the rocks, in the cellar, in my room if I can find a corner, that's safe and quiet. I get by.
My barbie isn't perfect or even a barbie. It's important for me not to have the brand. Others do around me that are close. I'm to not feel like an adult or growing up. How do I get around this? I'm desperate to feel the same. I'm struggling.
She is cute besides. Her freckles constitute a light child. Perhaps that is good. Is that my out in this? Take my differences that are supposedly better and use them?
I push my heart from my imperfect doll and find another outlet for love. I'll once again turn to my baby dolls. I'm a bit older but it suffices me. It drinks love into my body. I find a secret hidden spot for love that heals me.
No one can hear that I hide by the heater for warmth of affection I get no more. I must be too big. My body can fit the whole heater as I wrap myself around it. I'm yelled at to not get found or show I need this. I found a place under my bed for this but feel ashamed. I hold the covers tight instead and find a comfortable place in feathers in my pillow. I must be lucky to have feathers. I have pretty colors in my blankets above me. Some are pink with green that I see outside. I must be special. I've seen some adult picture to flowers of similar stance. This is a good aim toward adulthood . I must be being given some of this.
There is intelligence in everything that a person does. I always find it. The best things nurture you and heal you to who your are. If not God is always there. He always saves you. He flies up so high so you will always be happy and safe.
I know because I saw him in the pictures of the perfect place, in the church, where love is full and the priest reaches out to me with love. I am safe here. I know.
So many people in pain on the wall. Why? I have to think. So this doesn't happen to me I feel. I'm here guarded from it. I'm glad the priest doesn't speak of it, but my mind and ears close when he does.
I see and feel circles around me as the adults party to new occasions. I'm not here that much again, but I'm safe and okay. My world is good.
I think grandma loves me but she pushes me away. She is my only meaning to this salvation. The wave almost sweeps me away as she lets me go out of her arms, I can drown. I wondered where I will go now?
The other is offered pay to take me in. Grandpa does not know what to do with me when he's drunk. Why am I such a bother, when I've found my own place.
Dad doesn't look at me much. He used to. He never put me down. I demanded to it. He drinks and yells horribly at times. Throws my mom and comes at me. He's very unhappy. I wonder why.
My mom seems scared to have him kiss me or be alone with him. I defy to this. He says it's okay. He'd rather. He doesn't love me? I'm getting too big.
Page five
I ask to die while I'm still pretty. The ugly ones won't be loved in heaven. My dad says I'm crazy.
I dream for a statue for me because I'm great and grow to this. He says I'm crazy.
I see the big white house on the hill that I know is mine. I feel it. He says I'm crazy.
He makes me food that makes me sick when I'm older that he know has grease that I never could handle. He smiles as my face and body reject it.
My sister makes me protein with a vegetable after a coma that doesn't give me starch to drink up what I can't. She smiles as by body suffers.
My baby lays quietly in her house as she wants to take it. I know not to leave it.
She cries so insistently to this. I know this isn't true. I can feel it.
I'm driven to one house that is the only one for a boyfriend that hasn't been fought to. My best friend who knows me well can't come. She is pushed away from my life. This boy hurts me and takes away my baby. I seem to have been drugged by him like my sister to cover it all up. They're all friends now, my adult family and sister, even though I've left him.
I still when not being tortured by them can look beautiful. If they knew the extent to it they would kill me.
They start out all over again and again. The small movements, notions, motions, and ways that they get into my life. I start to get sick all over again. I don't think I'll make this one.
I feel God more and more on my side now. He is everywhere. Nothing to think about now. How wonderful power is in this human life.
I ask to die while I'm still pretty. The ugly ones won't be loved in heaven. My dad says I'm crazy.
I dream for a statue for me because I'm great and grow to this. He says I'm crazy.
I see the big white house on the hill that I know is mine. I feel it. He says I'm crazy.
He makes me food that makes me sick when I'm older that he know has grease that I never could handle. He smiles as my face and body reject it.
My sister makes me protein with a vegetable after a coma that doesn't give me starch to drink up what I can't. She smiles as by body suffers.
My baby lays quietly in her house as she wants to take it. I know not to leave it.
She cries so insistently to this. I know this isn't true. I can feel it.
I'm driven to one house that is the only one for a boyfriend that hasn't been fought to. My best friend who knows me well can't come. She is pushed away from my life. This boy hurts me and takes away my baby. I seem to have been drugged by him like my sister to cover it all up. They're all friends now, my adult family and sister, even though I've left him.
I still when not being tortured by them can look beautiful. If they knew the extent to it they would kill me.
They start out all over again and again. The small movements, notions, motions, and ways that they get into my life. I start to get sick all over again. I don't think I'll make this one.
I feel God more and more on my side now. He is everywhere. Nothing to think about now. How wonderful power is in this human life.
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