(Note: I’d like to dedicate this essay to everyone who, throughout the years, always saw the “true me!”)
I didn’t find the Great Queen. She found me.
And now I know-she’s been with me since I was a small child.
Let me start out by telling this story. When I was about three or four years old, a raven got into our house. That’s right, a raven got into our house. My parents were freaked. They were running in circles around the house with boxes, panicked, trying to capture the bird and get it outside.
Who was the only calm one? My three or four year old self.
“Open the window and it’ll fly out,” I said, matter of fact. My dad gave me a weird look, but obliged. Even at that age, I could be commanding! He opened the window-and swiftly, the bird flew out.
That was one of my first memories, the raven flying into our house. I mean, what are the odds of that happening? What are the odds of a raven flying into someone’s house? It had to have simply been a strange event…or was it something more? Was that when I was “marked” by Morrigan?
As I said, I was an incredibly strong-willed, aggressive child. Even battling sensory processing disorder, which made much of life incredibly difficult for me, I was a complete alpha-even as a small girl. I was not easy for my parents or my teachers!
This changed at the age of six, when my first true abuser came onto the scene.
There was something seriously wrong with this woman. She was a sick, evil individual. Don’t take my word-my parents would tell you the same thing. And she was my first grade teacher.
“Leave quietly, and nothing will go on your records,” the school finally ordered her. But it was too late for me. The damage was already done. Although she traumatized the entire class-half the kids were pulled out by their parents-it just so happened that I was the one she singled out the most.
“Kerry’s bad. Don’t be like Kerry. Don’t talk to Kerry,” the class was told on a daily basis. She forced another student to write my name on the board twice-for drawing a small picture instead of a big one; she grabbed me and forcefully threw me into the corner, and turned me around so that I was facing the wall. “No one wants to see you!” she screamed.
She was finally ordered to leave the school-but that strong-willed, aggressive child was gone. Gone for many years. She had become a fearful, submissive shell of what she once was. We finally ended up with a wonderful, kind lady as our teacher for the last two months of school-but she couldn’t undo the damage. That alpha girl was gone.
I stayed at home for many years after that. I was homeschooled, because I was too traumatized to return to public school. And I finally disassociated. I withdrew into a fantasy world in my head, involving horses-I collected model horses and in my head they were “real.” In my head I lived on a “real” horse ranch-with some fantasy elements (likely owing to my other love at the time, Harry Potter) thrown in there as well. This was the world where I could feel the acceptance and understanding that I couldn’t feel from the outside world. And the only time that I could leave the house was once a week, for visits to a psychologist who seemed alright at first-but as time went by, he showed his true colors.
“Have you ever heard of mental hospitals? That’s where people like you end up,” he told me one day.
“I’ll say a prayer that God makes you normal-because it’s going to take a miracle for you to come into the real world,” he told me another day.
I didn’t think it was possible for me to be traumatized even more-but he did it.
Fast forward about a year or so later. My parents finally found a newly opened school-that after much cajoling, I agreed to attend. This was to be my first foray back into school after my trauma. I was very fearful of it-but still agreed to give it a try. After hearing my situation, the school even agreed to let me attend for simply one hour at the end of the day for the first semester. And their hearts were in the right place. However, the school was newly opened and poorly structured. Our work was supposed to be online-half of the time the system didn’t even work. Our physical “teachers” were not true “teachers,” but more like classroom monitors. Few were actually licensed teachers. And most were NOT equipped at all to be in such a position. And let me tell you now, few had any backbone. And few were trained to recognize me for what I truly was-a victim of severe abuse and trauma, who wanted to please. It was obviously assumed by most that I was just a naturally timid, sweet person.
But even then, even buried deep down inside, there was the tiniest bit of that natural warrior spirit that I had always had. The child of Morrigan. And there always was.
I didn’t participate in their horseback riding program, not because I was afraid to, but because that teacher back in first grade would deny me participation in fun class activities. I didn’t think I deserved to join in. I would always refuse to eat during pizza parties-not because I was afraid to go into the common area where the pizza was, but because that teacher would always take my lunch away from me and force me to go hungry. I thought that I didn’t deserve to eat with the rest of the class. My name became “Giggles”…because you know what they say, if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.
As the time went by, I also experienced severe emotional and physical abuse…this time for being a girl. That’s right, being a girl. I was emotionally and verbally abused, as well as physically hit and punched by male students, for the crime of being a “sissy cowardly girl”…with staff members sitting right there, seeing and hearing it with their own eyes and ears. Nothing was done. And again, however, I thought I deserved the abuse. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to rip out your liver in front of your parents”-with teachers sitting right there.
No one knew my true dream for when I got out of school. Ironically, this “sissy girl” wanted to join the Army or the Marines…and try to be one of the first women in a combat role. I then planned to go into the fire service once I was out.
“But I can’t,” I told myself. “I’m too weak. I’m too much of a sissy. I’m too much of a coward. And anyway, I don’t deserve to live my dreams.” So when people would ask me what I wanted to do for a career, I’d say softly…”Um…I don’t know…maybe work with animals?” Why? Because I thought that’s what I was expected to say.
There were, however, indeed a few trained, licensed individuals at that school who did see me for what I truly was.
“She’s not what she seems to be at all. She could be very courageous and strong deep down inside,” a speech teacher insisted.
I’m not going to describe my last few months at that school. Let’s just say that that courageous, strong, individual was trying to come back…and let’s just say that I will not go into details of what was going on, let’s just say that had I had access to a gun, I WOULD have brought it to school.
I said my “last few months” because we had found a newly opened wilderness boarding school in North Carolina, which I had signed up for. And let me say, that that was without a doubt, one of the best experiences of my life. It’s what got me to realize that I love backpacking and climbing-and I’m now today involved in wildland firefighting and search and rescue. But I digress. Although I was starting to snap, it still wasn’t obvious to most yet. I was still extremely mild and compliant-not the true me at all, but still.
Hiding in the reading corner one day, I happened to glance over, a book catching my eye. “The Hounds of the Morrigan…?” I reached out and picked it up. “About a warrior goddess…from Ireland?”
I had always known that my great-grandparents had come to the United States from Ireland as teens. And, in the past year or so, I had brought up my Irish heritage whenever I could. I made sure that people were aware of it. Why? Because I thought that if people associated me with that country, they’d think I could fight back easily…and would leave me alone because of that.
But again, I digress. Back to seeing that book. Who is Morrigan? Why do I feel as though I know her?
That was the first experience that I had had with her in years…but she reminded me that she had always been with me. Even in the fearful “Giggles” days, I was still her alannah. I have always been a warrior, a fighter. (“She’s an Indigo child!” a family friend insisted after being around me for a brief period…in the Giggles days, no less.) Timid and submissive has never been the true me at all. And I was starting to realize it.
And a year later, after leaving the school in North Carolina. I finally did snap. Hard.
I cussed out and threatened whoever I could. I lashed out violently at everyone I knew. I went goth. After a while I started cutting myself-I have pictures of my arm in bloody shreds. I began drinking heavily. And I’d sit in my car and cry for hours on end.
“Why did all this shit have to happen to me? Why did I let everyone beat me up and take advantage of me?” Flashbacks of my trauma, my memories of my abuse for being a “sissy girl” ran rampant. There was no bright light in my life-this was a very, very dark time.
“You’re bad! The other kids don’t want to see you!”
“A girl as sissy as you doesn’t deserve to live!”
“I’m weak. I’m a coward. I’m a failure…a failure…”
I still wanted to go into the Army or the Marines-and now I wanted even more to fight tooth and nail for a combat role. Let’s look at that “sissy girl” now! But I knew, deep down inside, there’s no way they would take me.
Finally, it happened. I cried out to Her. “Morrigan, if I’m meant to be here…say something,” I cried one night. I was honestly almost about to throw everything in. I knew that if I didn’t hear anything…my knife was sharp and ready. It would be quick.
But, somehow being able to quiet my mind for a moment…I heard it.
A strong, yet gentle, Irish voice. “You are a warrior…and you must never let anyone tell you otherwise.”
And it was very brief, but the image flashed into my head: a beautiful woman with pale skin, piercing green eyes, and long black hair, wearing a long green gown.
And I knew. This was Her. This is who was always watching over me-and had never forsaken me.
I was a warrior. That’s what She said. And I was my own person-not anyone else’s to kick around and abuse. I WAS AND AM A FIGHTER.
After this experience, slowly but surely, my confidence re-asserted itself. And my true, natural courage, strength, and warrior spirit finally began, after all these years, to re-emerge.
All these combinations of circumstances had held me back for all these years. My extreme trauma and abuse throughout the years-and the consequent C-PTSD and hebephrenia that resulted. My rage, my cutting, my alcoholism. My guess is, had circumstances not turned around when they did, I truly would have at least attempted suicide-or quite possibly turned to drugs. But as of last year, I was able to graduate our local community college-with my AAS in Criminal Justice, none the less. I hope to use it to help reform many aspects of the system, capital punishment in particular.
I didn’t get to realize my true dream-to pave the way for women in combat roles. I would have LOVED to. But instead, I’m paving another path-to show what individuals can do when they’re believed in and given a chance. I am now a state guard, and as I said, I’m also involved in firefighting and search and rescue. I also hope to become involved in both autism and LGBT advocacy.
And a lot of this I believe I truly owe to my experience with Her that dark night, when I had pretty much given up all hope. After that night, very little by little, my life started to turn around…
She doesn’t want to be worshiped-simply honored and respected. And I stand next to Her as Her equal-not as her submissive. She appears to me as an ordinary Gaelic woman-long black hair, pale skin, green eyes. Sometimes She’s dressed in Gaelic battle attire. Sometimes She’s dressed in a long green or purple gown. And sometimes She’s even wearing modern street clothes!
Yes, I still have C-PTSD-and likely always will. I still do at times cut myself. And the trauma will likely never truly go away. I like to think of myself as damaged-but not broken.
“Kerry’s our angel” teachers would say in the Giggles days, seeing a temporary, fleeting side of me. I am no longer an angel-I am a goddess. A Warrior Goddess, no less. Just like She who has always been there for me.
I am not just a child of Morrigan- I am an Indigo. I know the world isn’t all sweetness and light. I know you’ve got to have a dark side to get through this world. And I say, bring it.
I still like to dress goth quite a bit. I enjoy writing dark and gothic stories and poetry. I adore darkwave and gothic metal-music that used to TERRIFY me in the Giggles days. Now it gives me comfort. I enjoy the darkness.
And there are times when I do slip up and break down. There are times I still do cut. But I don’t beat myself up for it. I’ve trusted in Morrigan-and She’s made me the fierce individual I always have been. Everywhere I go, I see and hear ravens-the animal sacred to Her-and the memory of the raven somehow getting into our house when I was small will never escape me.
Lately I made a surprising discovery. The “sacred cave” of Morrigan is located in County Roscommon, Ireland…ironically not far from the birthplace of my great-grandmother!
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