The other part of the night was spent wrestling with my anger. I found myself [dressed a certain way], standing on a cliff overlooking an agitated sea. In my left hand, the rosary of Mary’s covenant was tightly gripped. In my right hand, the shenanigans rosary was loosely wrapped.
And I was screaming.
Looking up into the sky above the frothing waters, I was trying to [claim certain promises], but my anger kept getting in the way. The memory of all the years I was abused in the name of a certain god kept twisting my tongue. All the resentment of being led into emotional slavery and physical abuse and never being rescued from it by those that should have seen with open eyes but assumed I deserved it because of bullshit reasons.
I wanted revenge. I wanted vindication. I wanted to pull the promises out of the sky the same way my former loyalties were extracted out of me.
I wanted to stab that wound with salt and vinegar until more than water and blood flowed.
And I knew… if I did… what I received of the promises would be twisted and corrupted. I would get what I wanted, but the price of receiving it would be worse than anything I have endured already. (And that’s a fucking lot.)
So all I could do was sink to my knees, shaking from the maelstrom of the emotions of blind rage and unanswered betrayal, frothing at the mouth myself while squeezing the only words I could form that weren’t expletives or self-damning curses.
“You promised me. I had faith unto death for you and in return, you promised me. Give me what is mine.”
I knew I had to get the anger out of the way. That what happened in the past was not entirely this god’s fault. That I wasn’t even sure if this god had anything to do with the bullshit. It could have been just the fuckery of corrupt humans in power. Gods know, we do enough to ourselves without external assistance.
I had to reconcile the same god that I was beaten for, was also the child cradled by Mary. How can she… she of the calm waters and the soothing peace… how can she be connected to him? For all the heresies I use to reconcile this, at this moment, they were useless. To accept her influence is to accept that his influences will return.
I can’t have the promises without what fuels them.
I can’t face him without demanding an accounting.
The two rosaries bound my hands. Hers was soft and gentle, resting loosely but securely. Just as a mother’s grip should. The shenanigans rosary bit into my right hand. The beads grinding painfully over the knuckles and digging deep into the palm. To accept one is to accept the other.
I’m not ready to face this resentment. I’m not ready to let go of being the thrownaway victim. I want justice, or is that revenge. I want someone, something, to pay for what I went through. I’m not ready to place these emotions aside.
But if I’m going to stand, I know I have to.
The dream ends with the sea crashing into the cliffs far below, as a dark storm creeps over the land. My cries are indistinguishable from thunder.