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Author Topic: Sexual Healing For A Little Boy  (Read 817 times)
« on: January 16, 2011, 11:30:08 AM »

When I was 4 years old, my mother divorced my father. This catapulted me into the dark years of my childhood; she married an alcoholic man ten years younger than her. Almost immediately, the beatings began, the tearing apart the house, the shattering glass, and the shouted accusations of infidelity.

My mother was indeed promiscuous. To see her now, crippled by major strokes (though living independent with minimal assistance) would give anyone inspiration to the determination of the human spirit, and foster compassionate forgiveness for a woman who now lives with the memory of past mistakes. I fly ‘cross country about every 3 months to visit, fix things around the house, and administer hugs whenever possible. The issue isn’t about forgiving her; it’s about forgiving me.

In early kindergarten, one day we were assigned to play house, and I was matched with a Japanese girl named ‘Susan’. As the play went on, I didn’t know what to do. One of the other children said “Do what you see at home”. I hesitated, then pushed Susan over the stacked crates that were the pretend walls of the house. I began shouting the obscenities I had heard nightly at home, including accusations that she had f----- him.

It’s a hazy memory after that, but I know I was sent to the principals’ office. Shortly thereafter, every Monday morning, the classroom intercom would beep twice. My teacher would dutifully pull down the intercom switch, and say “Yes?” Invariably a woman’s voice announced: “Send Roy Stokes to the office, please.”

This went on for a few years. In fact, the class began chiming in with the announcement. Classmates asked me what happened when I left to go to the principals’ office. I said I played fun games with Mrs. Hopkins. It wasn’t until years later I was told she was the school psychiatrist. My outburst had made clear to the school what the conditions were at home, and they were trying to help.

I arrived home from school one day to witness yet another drunken beating, which ended with my step-father dragging my mother upstairs to rape her. At 6 years old, I was helpless to do anything.

This exposure to unhealthy sexual behavior became compounded when I was molested at 9 years old by the neighborhood homosexual. All these events and experiences forged my outlook on sex, and those sexual energies would dictate much of my behavior well into my 50th year. It was then I began to try to sort out the spiritual from the human, the healthy from the unacceptable.

I was prompted to write this because of a walk I just took. In the woods, I pondered some old ghosts from my past, wincing at the memory of my kindergarten outburst. My Guide Spirits told me something very loving, and I wanted to share it with you:

“You’re not responsible for those days or actions.”

And I’m not. I have accepted responsibility for volumes of things I did and said, particularly during the 30 years of my own alcoholic follies. I went into Alcoholics Anonymous when I finally realized I was becoming that abusive step-father, and it was a matter of time before I began reenacting those horrible episodes with Janice…the first true love I have experienced this life time. I approach three years sober.

My heart asks the ages to send my feelings of apology across the days to Susan, and all the others over the years, and I am confident those messages get through. I am now asking Roy to PLEASE let go of that which was never my fault.

In the current Earth ascension, as these impacted energies are rising up to all of us, it is not a sad task, and I embrace it for the universal healing it offers. It feels a lot like the look Bette Davis gives the old man at the end of “Hush, Hush, Sweet Charolette”. All this time, in the back of my mind, I convinced myself I was somehow to blame. Now I am convincingly informed, by kindness, that I didn’t create those distant flickers of ghosts.

I only harbored their whispers.
« Reply #1 on: January 16, 2011, 12:54:20 PM »

From another forum:

I can only offer love. Healing love.

Thanks, marinik. In a metaphysical way, I retrieve my little boy...I've been doing this for years...and send along your care to him. Interestingly enough, when I ran away from home, I had a sort of visitor who conveyed just such messages. It always kept me going. Who's to say, therefore, that your kindness has not transcended the ages and helped!?

The abuses went on for years, and what I've shared is only the tip of the iceberg. My mother kept taking this guy back in, and did so until I was 13. This is why I just don't understand when I read other posters talking about being abused, then taking the guy back in. They aren't going to change the fellow, and if he makes no significant steps to rehabilitate himself, he's a parasite. I assure you, without this element, the abuses will only escalate. I can't count how many times I lay in bed, wondering if my mother would be alive the next morning. It's remarkable the physical abuses the human body can take.

« Reply #2 on: January 16, 2011, 03:19:46 PM »

“This can’t happen in America!” some might profess. After all, this was happening while Ozzie and Harriet were nightly contending with the zany antics of those two rascally teenage boys…isn’t EVERYONE like that? (All members of that family died pretty nasty deaths. While they portrayed an unsustainable ideal, they ultimately experienced real life). And Theodore Cleaver…weren’t you just like him?

No. Nobody I’ve ever known was remotely like them. It is appalling how common it is, world wide, that fathers molest their own daughters. COMMON, I said. I trace the roots of these dysfunctions to the State mentality. The State mentality that forced American Indians into classrooms to learn the White tongue, forbidding their culture. The same was done in Ireland and elsewhere. The dividing of family and community in a forced exchange for “modern” convenience and “knowledge“ (just two of the baits) was the erosion of the human spirit. The conditioning process to obey the state…by means of “patriotism”…is instilled in the very kindergarten class I fell from grace in, and it continues through all institutions the rest of your life. Like the preacher on Sunday, you are required to not question any of the intent or motive, but instead salute a swath of fabric or bow to some “savior”. The conditioning process instills guilt if you don’t. In the worst-case-scenario, harsh force is executed if you don’t. That isn’t some “land of the free”, it’s a fascist oligarchy that force-feeds ‘1984’ double-think. All the while, the State never stands accountable. “Corrections facilities” is a private enterprise, supported by corporations, which in turn finance the oligarchy. A murderous oligarchy, but exposing that gets you murdered.

Stronger-willed individuals manage to climb out of the wreckage and at least silently plod on with their own truths, even going so far as to successfully connect with the greater universe. But the loss of Earth-bound community and alienation for being “outside the box” is a hard price to pay for that which is, by nature, our right: to grow with loving guidance from our own roots. To possess a sense of our ancient culture, whatever it might be. One thing is for certain: rape, beatings, incest and forced servitude are not what God created us for. Yet one of the heads of the Corporate oligarchy, Hollywood, presents sympathetically shrugging shoulders and makes a profit off of portraying it as just the way life is. There are ancient civilizations that have never been poisoned by this mentality, and they still thrive. They respect the earth, and the life on it. They don’t reject their own, they would never THINK to put their fellows in cages, and they are connected to that part of nature Hollywood makes us afraid of.
« Reply #3 on: January 16, 2011, 03:33:42 PM »

Afraid of our own home? Afraid of our own neighbor? How was innocence lost?

It wasn’t; it was sacrificed by those who just couldn’t take the torture any more. It was beaten into submission. It was forced to build the very factory that processes and spits out the flesh of God’s handiwork. It does this for profit, and it doesn’t care about a little boy cowering in a corner because there’s nowhere else to go. It makes movies about the tears of the little girl hiding in the basement because her step-father is drunk again. It offers placebos of hope at the shelters, which are financed by the squandered sweat of broken people. Broken people are its stock-and-trade. Without a broken human spirit…slavery proves this…the machinery cannot churn. And so it has been for many centuries.

The spiritual upheaval we’re experiencing, right now, is exactly the same as the rising of the American Indian spirit, snuffed down to a small glowing cinder, and left for dead. But it didn’t die. It has slowly been rekindled, and the warmth of that fire was shared freely: everything that System is, we choose to be not. Every lie that system fed us shows us clearly the truth. What’s more, all of us combined are certain that the Earth, Herself, is nurturing us precisely to help Her recover from the rapes and plunder She has endured.

She will prevail.

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My work is in the public domain; you are welcome to copy and share freely.

Rush- Tom SawyerDQ
« Last Edit: January 16, 2011, 04:56:35 PM by Royster » Logged
« Reply #4 on: January 17, 2011, 01:28:32 PM »


When my family was intact, I had off-world visitors in a variety of experiences. One such visitor was a Japanese-looking boy who insisted he was a Martian. His ability to pop in and out of areas was stunning, and we had interesting exchanges. My family was not interested in my reports about him, and casually explained the sightings away with “there’s no such thing as Martians”. The same phrase expressed their feelings about ghosts.

Paranormal activity was abundant in the wee hours of morning, none of it explainable by conventional terms, and all of it dismissed with 1959 thinking. Forty-some-odd years later I began to understand the type of soul I am, and from a Divine Intervention in 1977, I have come to understand that I have never really been far from the Indigo roots I came from. Recent metaphysical/spiritual information on fairly reliable websites state clearly there are a population of souls from Mars, long since destroyed by war, hence the reputation “The War Planet”. The spectrum of ancient souls trying every possible way to contact earth people is now becoming harder to explain away in order to retain our comfortable numbness. Earth, Herself, is being recognized as speaking to us in terms we cannot deny. Some still do.

Some still dismiss Indigoes, some still get drunk and beat their partners. A whole culture is built on lies they came to clasp to their chests and refuse to relinquish, fighting tooth-and-nail to preserve their comforts. Calling themselves “Christian” because it seems an indestructible identity, their actions are perfectly opposite of what Christ taught. They’re the first ones to march into my space, bibles in hand, and spew rhetoric from the tape recorder of their mind. Beliefs they never questioned…because they were instructed not to…from a book whose tampering they can’t comprehend. The scope of their history is only a few days in comparison to what has actually happened since the blobs of magma ejected from the sun and became planets.

They told us DDT was safe. Asbestos was a miracle fabric. There’s no water on the moon. Earth is the only place you’ll find water, in fact. They put lead into gasoline, considering automobiles’ existence more important than a human life.

They said there’d be snow for Christmas/ they said there’d be peace on earth.

They show us the latest cars zipping in and around race tracks, praising the modern advancements engineered into the vehicle. I majored in auto mechanics in high school, and I know that the only difference between a Model T Ford and an Infinity is that the tin has been replaced by plastic. Explosions still force pistons to push a crankshaft. You have to fuel them. They all, eventually, leak oil on the ground.

An ideal environment for an Indigo Child to be born into doesn’t exist in such a society. It speaks volumes for the Indigo Spirit to have volunteered to come to this planet, prompted by compassion, to help correct the wrongs perpetuated by the for-profit kingdom of comfort. And we’re tough customers, but not tough enough to not be beaten down by the sheer brutality that constitutes being “A Man”, expected to live up to impossible and spiritually foolish ideals. We’re not only thwarted at every turn, there is a conscious agenda to kill us off, and many from my tribe haven’t made the journey. Very few, over the years, have been able to clutch that tiny ember to our hearts, trying to keep it alive. Shivering under a packing quilt in thick bushes in front of the high school, my run-away hiding place, somehow positive spirits came to me when I was 6 and seven. You can read about Dick Greggory’s struggle, fueled by baloney sandwiches because it was all they could afford. If condescending character assassination didn’t work, total poverty might do the trick. If you get too smart, George H.W. Bush’s CIA might have a remedy. If you demand changes against the Agenda, don’t drive past The Grassy Knoll.

If you take another look at my childhood picture, notice the shirt I had to wear for school picture day.

What’s the matter, here?

« Reply #5 on: January 17, 2011, 01:33:30 PM »

The original plan for the Indigo spirit was to unstructure the dysfunctional system, plowing the spiritual ground for the next wave of Crystal souls to be born. They would usher in the new era of Christed awareness. Something has gone dreadfully wrong, because it is being reported that Crystals are dying at or before birth; the toxicity of the planet is too much for them. The campaign to kill off ANY Christed spirit is succeeding, and for deeper reasons than the mainstream mind can comprehend. Besides, it’s uncomfortable for them to even think. Period. Much less imagine there is something more intelligent than their pragmatic scientists and molded preachers. They are, in a word, doomed.

And so it is coming about that reliance is being placed on what Indigoes have managed to survive, to ascend them to Octarian; a quantum leap, but still a good move. In order to do this, we have to move into a hyper-drive mentality, cram for our exams, and hope there are enough of us to do the job. Part of that ascension is to disperse our impacted energies, amassed not only this lifetime, but from previous lives, as well. It ain’t a pretty picture, and it’s a grueling process that doesn’t let up. We’ve been bombarded non-stop with every dysfunctional energy known to the Dark side, and sexual is one of the most successful. If the mental contamination doesn’t get you, A.I.D.S. will. I know: I spent a lot of time in the gay community, watching them drop like flies. My own lover slowly withered away from the “Sheep Brain Rot” strain of AIDS. There are 9,000 to-the-tenth power strains of AIDS, a fraction of the light-dispersing frequency of 380 nm. Speak this information to most, and standard-issue “kook” gets laid on your name tag. Just another arrow in our heart.

But I resolve to address these energies. I insist on accepting the sacredness of sex, and dedicate myself to KNOWING what those energies and actions are. I refuse to participate in actions that pollute me and destroy me. I have to be the Indigo Warrior I was born. It is at this junction I make my decision, and I don’t look back at the disbelief the Doomed convey to me; as a matter of survival and commitment, I can no longer even listen to them. I listen almost purely to Spirit, and Its tribes.

In “1984”, Winston Smith was certain the hope and salvation lay in the “Proles”…proletariat, the working class. He wasn’t far off.

How fragile
In the Balance stands
The sound a whisper makes.

How agile
Is the Dolphin’s Dance
When he’s bound to no mistakes.

Bound not to silence;
Bound not to hate…

The waves, the tide
Of the species’ survival.

How fragile in the setting sun
Are the silhouettes of trees -
The masts of public living
In the neon breeze~

The Dolphin swims
To cop a view
Of the sunset’s hue
That he sees.

He sympathizes.
He sympathizes.

Oh how fragile.

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