Why Now?

There will never be a better time than the present… So they say.

It has taken me years and I mean years to get out of my own head, forget about what other people will say or think, and to do what scares me the most. The winter is over and the new spring season has encouraged me to do things differently.

I know without an inch of doubt that I am not alone when it comes to those awkward social moments when you have to put aside who you truly are to show and prove that you are truly "one of the girls".  The Nodding and smiling while “peers” gossip and back-bite others that trust them.  Choking down what appears as food, but you can sense what it is in the spirit;  getting the chilly stares from those that secretly want to erase you, but want to keep me around just in case.  Inwardly recoiling from their hugs, and hollow words, while pretending I can't discern their deception.  

The sharp words slipping through grins as a ‘joke’, side-talking me to let me know I shouldn't think of myself as special, while I watch them attempt to absorb specific attributes of my life in exchange for their own.

What I consider a basic standard for living is considered an "uppity n*gger", “bougie b*tch”, someone with an attitude problem, stand-offish, arrogant, with need to check myself.  Sitting with my legs crossed and my back straight is an offense to the rest of the room. I  must believe I'm above others.  Eating in restaurants with more than burgers, fries, and shrimp alfredo on the menu is too much.  The unmitigated gall of me to attend a foreign film, or a gallery showing where there's live Jazz played and wine is served is “Doing too much”. 

Here's the key to their lock,  I refuse to apologize for how I am designed.  If my back is not bent and my eyes to the ground, complaining about the ilks of life without solutions, I'm not “being real".   They have yet to show me the Law of the LORD that says that poverty is a flex, or enjoying a day or evening with like-minded people sharing a bottle of good wine (without drunkenness) is a first-class ticket to hell.  

I cannot and will not sit on my hands, waiting on the LORD until He returns when He said to occupy (Luke 19:13) and have life abundantly (John 10:10).  As long as I am not in violation of His laws and statues, loving my neighbor as I love myself, NEVER to blaspheme His Holy Spirit that leads me and guides me unto all truth AND seals me until that final day of redemption, what exactly is their quiver with me?

However, I will admit it is my fault having the audacity to reach into the barrel only to be bitten.  I made the mistake of believing my own would love me that much more if I wanted and did a little better than where we all came from. I hoped that they would encourage my endeavors while embarking on their own.

What I got was worse than lemon juice on a paper cut.  What was once my circle, wanted me to climb down from my high horse, get rid of my champagne standards and face the reality of my beer budget existence like the rest of them.  One lost soul said to me but pretended as though she was talking about someone else, that, "God don't like ugly and He ain't too crazy about cute either" or something foolish like that. 

It was clear that night that whatever was stuck in her craw concerning my presence, did not get her vote. The best she could conjure was to  talk out of the side of her mouth and  hope it'll go unnoticed by me.  

What I will never understand is if she had a personal problem with me, she had the perfect opportunity right then and there to state her case.  It was just her and I walking home that night and we could have reasoned together, handled it woman to woman, but she had to make the first move. Unfortunately, she chose a lower road and tried to pull me down to where she was that night to make me feel the way she did.

I didn't respond. I shook my head and went on into my apartment building. I knew at that moment that I must  keep my distance.  It's never a good day when you discover the souls you just can't trust and that night was my turn. Misery truly loves company but I can't be its willing companion.

Some just don't want change and they will lose their marbles when others do. It requires a good long look in the mirror, some therapy, forgiveness of yourself and others, and hard work that will be painful at times.  It's too easy to conform to living from hand to mouth, at the mercy of entities, governments, organizations and the like that profit mightily from our dysfunctions.

I lived that same way to keep the peace with my fellow man for the better part of my adult life.  I wanted their friendship and validation.  I hated being accused of “forgetting where I came from”, or the one I hated most, “Acting White” 

Since when does wanting better for me and mine “acting white'? Why do I have to live the life of a beggar or a meaningless hump under an invisible thumb to prove my solidarity to my people? I'd rather swim in an unflushed toilet.

This crooked thinking caused me to split right down the middle of my being trying to maintain what I didn't want. I was torn between doing what everyone else wanted me to do, craving what was on the other side. It made me physically sick.  I robbed myself of much-needed peace by ignoring the repeated echo I heard day in and day out, "Come out from among them and be ye separate."  

The Bible says, “The fear of man will prove to be a snare” (Proverbs 29:25) I'd be a fool and would deserve whatever consequence waited for me if I continued to ignore what I knew to be right because I wanted to be liked. Sis, Leave 'em where you found ‘em. You can't force better on those who don't want it. 

CHEERS!!

Defiler

Defile: To make foul, dirty, or unclean: pollute; taint, debase

Testimony of T.S Fredericks

Chapter 1

“In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men, Fear came upon me and trembling, Which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine eyes, there was silence, and I heard a voice saying, shall mortal man be more just than God? Shall a man be more pure than his maker?”

Job 4:13-17

Someone made a deal with them and because of that, I have been monitored and followed since birth. They sometimes travel in packs, much like wolves, with the main purpose of causing me harm and to destroy whatever I put my hands to me, all without me knowing it. Like family members in the past, when they are bored with me, they will murder me. They have succeeded almost with little to no resistance with other family members that came before me. Now that they are all gone, I was next in line.

I call this “Running On Empty”

We blindly attributed their deaths to "hard living” The deaths occurred in the same pattern: extreme poverty and hardship no matter how hard they worked, addiction, broken relationships, and illnesses with no or little medical explanation. Lastly, they experienced odd spiritual beliefs, encounters, superstitions, and mental breakdowns. Their deaths were abrupt and sudden after making a vow to improve their lives.

During the 2020 Global Pandemic, more than 20 million people were unemployed, and those numbers were increasing. Because my family were a part of these number, peace of mind was not an option. The future was full of uncertainty. It is frightening to think of the threat of being homelessness and hungry because the world stopped. Due to the MTA's decision to not renew their contract with my husband's para-transit company, his job was terminated just before the quarantine.

He found work quickly, but they too closed their doors permanently less than four months later due to the Pandemic. He was not happy to say the least. Our youngest son was considered "Essential," so all wasn't completely lost. His weekly salary and my husband's unemployed kept afloat. We had no idea what to do next so we remained still and sheltered in place. Inwardly, my PTSD was triggered and the alarms in my body went off constantly like a hive of angry bees in my spine.

I was being haunted by the side-swiping years of chronic homelessness and poverty beginning at the age of 18. Flashbacks of sleeping in hospital waiting areas, on NYC subway trains, going days without eating, despite having a job all resurfaced. I won't lie and say that I took the punches to the face and "rode it out" or that my faith kept me strong and held on through it all. Not even close. I wanted to give up with each passing day, but I was afraid to see what life would look like if I had.

This particular morning, I needed to do something to keep my mind out of the past. So, I decided to clean out the box under my bed. Most of the contents no longer served a purpose except for the old journals that I had kept over the years. They contained the usual memories and experiences that I could never share with another soul. They shrouded areas of my life that I needed to keep hidden.

While I was scanning through my journals, many of them flipped between two voices. There are many arguments with God in the margins, as well as His responses from His Word. It often pushed me to the ground and snapped me back to reality. There's nothing in His Word that could not be applied to every aspect of my life. The clashes I've had with His Word when I saw myself in a not-so-great- light were painful and yet necessary. It opens my eyes to the fact that I have an enemy and many times it was me.

I tread lightly when it comes to the Word of God. I have no idea how to “preach” the Gospel. I only know how to tell what I know to be true. The Bible is not just a book to me and I respect the power it holds and it's danger when mishandled. If I had not made the decision to taste and see that the LORD is good, I know that I would be dead or roaming to earth completely out of my mind and of no use to anyone; aimless, fruitless, and falling in line with the rest of my bloodline ending in an untimely death and no one would know why not even me.

Things quickly changed when my daughter revealed to me the very day through tears, that 'something' had touched her. I understood exactly what she meant. For a moment, I could only stare at her. I don't ask much of the cruel world, but one thing I will never budge on and that's to never touch my children. I had a decision to make. The buck has to stop with me.

This story is not meant to glorify darkness, but to reveal the well-oiled machine that it is and its ability to torment and make it all appear as though it's all in my head.

These wolves did not care that I was “spiritual”. In fact, they used my spirituality as the primary weapon against me.

My prayer is that the eyes that will read my testimony, will not see a fault-finder, or a glorified victim, projecting her flaws on others to cover up her villainy. My goal is to reach the one soul who is suffering in silence because of the shame, fear, embarrassment, and rejection the experiences like my own could bring. In this Country, the churches rarely teach on demonic oppression, only how to manage it with pills and mental professionals that often do not believe in God; let alone the kingdom of darkness and often dismiss the claims of those tormented by it. The body is subdued with medications, while the mind and soul continues to be tortured with no help and no end in sight. It's unfortunate that Hollywood discusses the demonic, but only to glorify it and portray God as powerless against it.

I pray the reader's courage will propel them to step forward to seek deliverance through Christ Jesus, and His shed Blood for them and their family.

“Fire Burst”

Chapter 2

“They were driven forth from among men, (They cried after them as after a thief:) To dwell in the cliffs of the valleys in caves of the earth, and in the rocks. Among the bushes they brayed; under the nettle they were gathered together. They were children of fools, yea, children of base men: they were viler than the earth.”

Job 30: 5-8

My first memory was of my mother's sister, Murlene. She died in her late teens early 20's. Something made her go crazy. No one knows where it came from or why it chose her. She would have these violent outbursts with insane levels of strength and no one could subdue her. My mother told me once, that during a disagreement with Murlene, she hit her with such force she fell hitting her head on a radiator and blacked out. She said she never argued with her again. A few years later, Murlene died mysteriously at home. Nearly 60 years later and no one knows the cause of her death.... Or, at least no one dared to discuss it.

My mother was a 17 year old mother and infatuated with horror movies. She had strange rituals like sweeping the floor with “Luck Leaves” while reciting the Lord's prayer every New Year's Day. She had odd superstitions about how to get money; like leaving pennies on the floor if it landed face down, burning candles she picked up at the local bodega which never worked. They kinda worked, they made the issues of our home worse. What I hated most was she glorified anything that scared the snot out of you like that terrible game, Bloody Mary. The soiled icing on the cake was that my mother shared her life with a person who abused her, stole her money and refused to work and only got a job if someone gave him the “hook up”.

My first encounter with him, I was maybe three to four years old at the time, and we were living in Brooklyn on Vernon ave. My mother and he were dating and he visited our apartment one late evening. Although I can't recall why I woke up, I went to find my mother.

They were in her bedroom, all the lights were off and the only light was the light of the television. He was naked, sitting at the foot of the bed facing the television and my mother was kneeling behind him with her arms loosely wrapped around his neck. I walked in and stood in front of him. He was holding on to his penis when I asked, "What's that?' He asked me, "You wanna kiss it?" My mother did say, "Don't do that" and he replied, "No, let her see..." She tried to intervene and kiss his penis herself, but he pushed her away.

“A Rose among thorns”

I was close enough to his knees that I stepped in. Like any child, you follow the example of your parents. I leaned in to put my mouth his penis, and my gag reflexes were activated. I threw up on his lap. Both of them were furious at me. I can't recall what happened next.

When I was a little older maybe six or seven years of age, I had another distressing brush with him. This time, everyone was still asleep. He had corned me in the bathroom one morning after I had bathed. He asked me, "Did you wash up well?" I said, "yes". He asked, "Are you sure? You betta not be lying to me."

He asked me to take off my underwear to "check" if I had washed properly. He bent down in front of me, opened my genitals with his left thumb, and began to smell me. I knew what he was doing was wrong, but he was a very violent man and often beat up my mother. I just stood there as stiff as I could until it was over.

As I got older, the encounters with him were less sexual but more verbally and physically abusive.

If he wasn't insulting my looks, my hygiene, then he mocked my clothing and my intelligence, or threatening to knock the sh*t out of me. It had gotten so bad that I physically shuttered if I was ever home alone with him. It was his playtime to torment me.

My mother was out one day and my stepfather was left to watch after my siblings and me. He was laughing and wrestling with my brother in our room. My brother was 6 or 7 years old at the time and it was no effort for my stepfather to lift him up over his head. Each time he lifted my brother over his head, he would drop him down onto his bed. My brother loved it and would jump up and tackle my stepfather so he'd drop him on the bed again.

I was sitting there smiling and watching them. I wanted him to pick me up and show the same affection for me as he did for my brother. I got up from my bed, tackled my stepfather around the waist. He did pick me up, but when he lifted me over his head, he didn't drop me back unto my bed. He dropped me straight down onto the floor. I chalk it up to it being an accident. The second time I tackled him, He said, “Get the f*ck off of me!” He picked me up over his head again and dropped me to the floor harder than the first. I landed on my right knee and the pain sent a sharp pain from my leg through to the top of my skull. I was so afraid, I refused to look at him or cry. I sat back down on my bed, taking my cue to not touch him again. I was 8 years old. After his death, I realized that my stepfather was an agent or at least a point of contact of these dark beings and was proud of it.

Going back a little bit, something came to cause me serious harm. I was five years old or so. We were in our 6th-floor apartment in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. The windows were being replaced this day in our bedroom. My mother was in the kitchen as usual with her friends and I was in the room alone with no windows.

I was playing House on the floor with my doll when like an involuntary reflex, I got up and walked to the window. I then threw my doll out of the window. It lay there for a while in a pool of water on the corner of a roof about four stories down from our apartment. My right ear heard "It's not so far. It's possible to reach it." It sounded almost like a man's voice. "Hang on to the window and jump down. You will land on your feet.”

I believed the friendly voice and obeyed it. I climbed out of the window and hung from the ledge. Hanging there, the doll looked further away than it did when my feet were safely planted on my bedroom floor. I was frozen with fear when I realized I couldn't reach it. I don't know why I didn't yell for help. I just wanted to get my doll back before my mother came to check on me and I'd be in trouble for playing by the window.

I knew enough that if I tried to pull myself up, I would lose my grip and fall. I heard another voice. “How did you get out here?” It also sounded like a man's voice but different. It was softer, spoke with authority, and nice to me. There was a long white fog or mist next to me and as the voice was speaking to me, I was suddenly back in my bedroom. The doll was still in the dirty water and thank God, I didn't join her. I never told my mother what happened and oddly, she never asked where the doll was.

A few years later, well after 10p.m. one night in the same Brooklyn apartment, we were all in bed at the time. I shared a bedroom with my younger brother and sister and both were sound asleep in their beds. As I was drifting off, I heard what sounded almost like a bunch of people speaking simultaneously. I tried to settle down, so I pulled the covers to my chin and laid on my back. I was ready to cover my face completely if anything happened. Between me pulling the covers up to my neck, there were approximately 50-60 of the most horrid creatures I've ever seen, stacked on top of each other.

They were short in stature, shaped like chimpanzees, but their skins were green and scaly. Their teeth were yellow, long, and appeared to be insanely sharp at the tips. The leader squatted down on my chest and began to choke me. He snickered as his grip got tighter and the weight of his body didn't allow me to take a breath or try to free myself. I tried to pry my small fingers between its hands and my neck, but the more I tried the tighter its grip. Somehow in some way, I got free enough to scream at the top of my lungs.

My mother and her boyfriend ran in frantic, wide-eyed. "What is the matter?"

"Something was choking me!" I screamed back at her. She just looked at me. I think she was trying to comprehend what I was saying when my stepfather chimed in. He sucked his teeth and said, "Ain't nothing choking you that was probably your covers." He fanned his hand at me and muttered while walking away, "Always looking for attention..." My brother and sister just looked at me dazed and confused. What could they possibly say at the ages five and ten years old?

I wanted to disappear into my chest. I was so ashamed and embarrassed. Why didn't they believe me? Why would I make up such a thing in the middle of the night?

The demon-like monkeys didn't return after the lights were off, but something was different. The house was quiet, but I remained awake as long I could until I eventually fell asleep from exhaustion. The next morning, they let me have it.

I was laughed at and mocked that I referred to my sheets as something choking me. I know what I saw, I know what I heard, and I know what I felt. I kept all future encounters to myself.

The tall fog or mist appeared again a few months later. Everyone in the house was asleep, but I was awake and just lying there. The hallway was so dark and my bedroom door was open, which terrified me. As I lay there trying to fall asleep, I noticed a white light slowly moving from one side of my bedroom's door frame to the other. The tall light measured at least seven feet high from the top of my door frame to the floor. Its form became more apparent the more I watched it. To avoid seeing a face that would scare me, I kept my eyes on the floor. The mist began to take on the form of legs walking back and forth from the floor upward. Its body was a thin, straight line with no other defining features. I was interested in what it could be to change like that. I knew that if I shouted this time, I would get into serious trouble. I watched it continue to walk back and forth outside my bedroom's threshold until it slowly disappeared. I said nothing the next day, keeping my word to myself.

I do believe that this first encounter was the introduction to what and who would become the ship wrecker of my life for the next 25 years.

Entering in: The spirit of Fear, self loathing, abuse, and “don't touch me' spirit