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A deep, dark, damp cellar exists beyond your reach.

In the middle of this deep, dark. damp cellar sits an old rough wooden high-backed chair.

On the chair, bound and gagged, sits a small frightened boy.  He is cold and shivering, naked, and blindfolded.

In the deep, damp, all-consuming darkness he sees nothing and yet all too well he knows those piercing bloody eyes look upon him and within him.

All around him sinister voices call out to him.  Voices that call out to him with jeers and accusations.  Call out to him with lies and humiliations.  Call out to him with hatred and degradation. Voices that cut into his very soul like shards of glass.

Too afraid to call back, too tired to struggle, too lost to reason, he sits there frightened, cold, shivering and naked.

His skin scarred by the cuts he places upon himself in order to feel.  His heart scarred by the cuts of the sinister voices that shatter the silence of his solitude.

This was a true story.  This was my story.  Or should I more honestly say this IS a true story. this is my story.

You see in reality, at least the reality that you and I share, I am no longer that small frightened boy for I have grown now.  Now I am a father and a man.

And yet what of the reality that you and I do NOT share?  What of the reality that is my mental illness?

The cellar – that deep, dark, damp cellar – is my mind.

The darkness – that deep, damp, all-consuming darkness – is my mental illness.

The small boy – that small, naked, cold, frightened, shivering, boy – is the me who never truly had the freedom to grow as he was meant to be.

The eyes – those sinister, bloody piercing eyes, – are the eyes of those who hurt and damaged and misunderstood, mislabeled, mistreated, and rejected the child I was.

The voices – those jeering, accusing, lying, humiliating, hating and degrading voices of glass that cut deep into me – my paranoid schizophrenia.

The scars – those deep, aching, searing, reminding, punishing, and yet releasing scars – on the canvas that is my skin well they come and they go, they fade and are renewed, but on my heart they burn relentless.

No this may not be a reality that you and I share, or even one you could possibly begin to understand or comprehend, unless I dare to let you see it sometimes, but it is still a reality, my reality.

No, I am no longer that small frightened boy for yes I have grown now.  Now I am a father and a man.  But do not presume that this reality that you and I do not share no longer exists.  For exist it does within my nightmares and my fears and yes even within the places I go to when that darkness finds me in my days, consuming me drawing me back to that place where I never should have been and never want to go.

And yet a place that I so desperately need to understand if I am ever going to conquer and escape it for ever.

This blog – this place of desired openness and freedom – is but a journal written in the reality you and I share of the journey that I hope to make in conquering the reality that you and I can never truly share.

And what of Christ?

Doe He truly belong in this reality that you and I share can He even enter the reality that you and I can never truly share?

Yes He does and yes He can and yes He did.  For without Him that reality would be dead, dead like the small child it grew within.  And I am convinced that without him there will be no conquering, no light and no freedom.

Ransom Note

Ransom Note

So there you have it.  An introduction into my reality and an introduction to why this blog and what I hope to achieve from it.

You are welcome to come along for the ride, part of it or indeed all of it, well that which I am willing or able to share with you.  You are even welcome to contribute and comment.

All I ask is that you take care in your participation.  Care not only for me, and indeed that small boy whom you have already met at least in part, but also for yourself.  I will value your contributions if I am able to receive them as loving, caring, constructive, comments and contributions and will publish them.  If however I am not able to receive them as such, I will not publish or share them and they will simply be rejected – probably only finding their voice within the darkness we have already spoken of.

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