Holy Spirit inspired writings by Tommye Allen. Narrated by Julianna Rowe

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"Blessed While Doing Gods Works"

Holy Spirit inspired writings by Tommye Allen: narrated by Julianna Rowe

"Blessed by Doing Greater Things"  written by Tommye Allen, inspired by the Holy Spirit.  Narrated by Julianna Rowe
 

The Horrors That Hide by Julianna Rowe. Chapter Eight: The Waverly Mental Aslym

 

Chapter Eight:  The Waverly Mental Asylum

 

I figured Adam and John were not losing any time filling in the tunnel from the West Wing to John’s garage, and repairs to the hole I fell through to my supposed death. Although Hell wasn’t over yet considering my new living quarters.

On Sundays, Adam would visit me at The Waverly Mental Hospital. I had begged and pleaded with Dr. Regents to not allow him to see me. I told anyone who would listen, my story, but no one believed me, rather they thought I had lost my mind. I would sit and stare when Adam visited. I was afraid he might be recording me, so the less said I felt was the best way to handle this. Adam would laugh at me trying to break my silence. He knew if I got angry or emotional, the orderlies would tie me down again. He would say horrible things to me like how ugly I was, how his family was so happy I had been put away forever. Every visit was the same unkind rhetoric, but I continued to stare. When I returned to my room, I would write down everything I could remember Adam said to me.

Adam had also gone to medical meetings telling the doctors, nurses, and staff how I fabricated stories to gain attention. How I would claim I fell into a dungeon under our home, then crawled through a tunnel that came out a block away. How I thought he was trying to kill me. How I badgered him daily, never cooked for him, nor kept myself clean. That I would let our dog, Finn, outside with the gate open just to upset him. He told his family if anything happened to him, they should investigate me as the number one suspect. The list continued with how I believed Finn was my dad reincarnated, and how I talked and had sex with dead people. He told them I wrote notes to him saying I wanted him to die. That he had kept this all a secret for years, but since it had gotten so much worse, he had to get his wife, Jayne, help. 

Dr. Regents asked him why he never sought aid from their local General Practitioner. Adam wormed his way out of that one by saying it would upset his business, and her episodes were almost nonexistent before. Dr. Regents inquired as to what Adam might think triggered the severity of this last episode. 

Adam relayed that I had gotten worse due to my going through the “change of life.” Dr. Regents folded his arms over his fat belly, pursed out his bottom lip with a grunt, and a mere, “Ah, I see.” Like that solved the entire twenty-five hundred my life puzzle. Dr. Regents shared most everything with me Adam told him. He was one of those believers in total transparency. After several sessions with good old Dr. Mel Regents, I came to realize he fitted the description of a conservative male who if he could elect himself judge and jury smiling secretly as he sentenced every woman he came across to hard labor under his rule. 

During our so-called talks, he slipped up a few times, letting it leak out of his noble arrogant brain that his mother was a very cruel woman. I caught his fat eye tweaking and twitching each time he spoke of her. If I ever got out of this place, I would write the book about the crazies that tended to me in the crazy house at Waverly. It was all about money, and those that worked there were not evolved human beings at all. They were strategically placed there to maintain the system put in place to earn the owners their magnificent lifestyle. 

Adam fitted right into the groove of people they used to make it all work smoothly. I had to find a way to break this hellhole wide open. I had to become the therapist, not the patient. The kingdom cop, not the needy little woman. I would stand up alone and pull this ghastly brick Auschwitz out of its pit in Hell. 

As my adrenaline high left the building, my Mariska Hargitay, Law and Order delirious mental script left with it, and I sank back into depression. I lay there asking myself who did I think I was anyway? My mind answered swiftly, why I was little Jayne, the housewife who fell through the floor into her husband’s self-made dungeon of death. Why? Years of taking care of him, loving him, dusting his damn furniture, washing his dirty underwear, laying out his clothes for church where he obviously didn’t listen, smelling his stinking breath every morning, doing the dishes he ate off, cleaning the toilet he excreted his bodily waste into and for what? To end up in a dark dungeon with no food. It wasn’t just murder, he wanted me to suffer from no food or water, until my body withered up like a wasp caught between the window and the screen, no way out. Buzzing up and down and back and forth in the frantic motion to find an escape, but there was none, so it finally gave up and settled down in the bottom corner of the window and allowed itself to die. It had exhausted all its earthly physical efforts to save itself.

Was that where I was, at the bottom of life in a corner waiting to die? I sat directly up from the undesirable lumpy mattress of my new home, looked at the discolored paint chips each hanging in a different direction, almost causing them to appear to speak to me if stared at long enough. They hung from the ceiling as though someone or thing were perched there, waiting for me to speak. And so, I did.

“God, or Buddha, or my dead Cousin Jake, I need guidance. I am not dead or even close to it. I am a loving, kind, strong woman who has been greatly deceived on this earth. I am in a position where I cannot find my way out. Every road has a dead-end from where I sit. I see no earthly escape. I am asking for spiritual help from every avenue available. I am asking the Universe to open the gates of mental awareness, to grant me the spirit of Mariska Hargitay to crack this mental institution, and watch it burn to the ground. I am asking and believing I will receive. Amen.” 

And then just before I fell asleep, my mind went to Finn. Anxiety set in and tears flowed silently.

 

Writings by Tommye Allen, inspired by the Holy Spirit, audio by Julianna Rowe

                                                     

                                        Find more writings at http://www.dearonelovegod.blogspot.com

TThe Horrors That Hide by Julianna Rowe: Chapter Seven: Transferred

 

Chapter Seven:  Transferred

 

Surely, I was dreaming? I woke up on a thin mattress in a strange grey room on a metal bed alone. No bars like I had in the jail. Where was Lisa? Maybe this was a hotel room where they were hiding me. Maybe this was something to do with victim protection for me. I didn’t dare move. Terror coursed through every vein in my body. My mouth was so dry, and I felt as though I could feel my blood moving around inside me. My heart could be seen moving through the dirty white hospital garb I had on. Why did I have one of those awful garments on? My confusion was debilitating. I could see Todd and his lover or wife caressing, I saw Lisa smiling at me with hope in her eyes, I saw the jail, and then I saw Adam’s face, the dirt tunnel, and the note he left me saying he was murdering me. That was when I began screaming for what seemed like forever.

Unannounced to me, two men unlocked the door to my new prison, locked it behind them, and proceeded to yank me up from my sweet little nasty bed. The bigger one was bald and looked like he was right out of the movies as a bouncer. He held me up in the air and told me to, “Shut the hell up!” I hung helpless as his eyes glared into me and his hands dug into my armpits with pungency. The other man was holding something that appeared to be a cloth sheet. He came toward me with the sheet and told me to hold still if I wanted to remain intact physically.

I spoke. “Where is Lisa?”

Again, the big man told me to shut up. I started to cry, asking over and over, Where am I?” The smaller man put a hood over my head, and pulled a drawstring that tightened around my neck. I tried to stop crying, but fear had taken over my entire being body, mind, and spirit.

The big man yanked my arm into a sleeve, and then the other arm into the other sleeve. I was trembling beyond control as I wet myself. That was when one of them yanked my arms into a pattern that appeared as though I were holding myself, and tied it securely in the back. Jesus God almighty I was in a straitjacket, but why? Where was I? The big man directly threw me back onto the nasty little bed where I whimpered and pulled myself into a fetal position as I lay in my soiled attire. I was afraid to move, to cry, to do anything but try to breathe through that horrible hood that had been secured around my head. I had to be in hell.

No one came to check on me until the following day. I heard the door to my new living space click as in unlocking. I started to weep with fear the men were coming back to finish me off this time, but instead, I heard the gentle voice of a man asking his nurse who the hell left that hood on this woman, and why hasn’t she been cleaned up?

The nurse insisted she wasn’t aware the woman had been brought in. Officer Adrian did not call and let them know anyone was coming, nor did the orderlies write her in on the overnight chart.

The Doctor interrupted her, “Well never mind, just remove that dastardly thing at once.”

The nurse did as directed. When the bag came off my head, I gasped the rancid, urine-smelling air several times as though it were a fresh mountain breeze coming off the morning sea. It momentarily calmed me as I spoke timidly.

“Why am I here sir? Officer Lisa told me she would be right back, and I would be released, but she never came, then I was drugged by Officer Adrian, and that is the last thing I remember until I woke up scared, then two men came into the room and viciously placed me in a secure situation. Please help me.”

“Madam Jayne, I am Dr. Regents and you have been committed to the Waverly Mental Institution by your husband.”

I started to sob uncontrollably while trying to speak my story. Dr. Regents told me to calm down, or they wouldn’t be able to remove the constraint, or better known as the straitjacket. I was near hyperventilating when I recalled how to hold my breath to stop from passing out. If I didn’t stop, they were liable to leave me in my distress another day. I was hungry and had to use the bathroom as well.

Dr. Regents instructed his nurse to remove the binding and get me cleaned up. He would be back after his rounds.

Adam had signed the committal papers and left the building. That was of course after lengthy talks with Dr. Regents about his wife’s mental distress and other wild lies to protect himself.

I calmed myself internally saying to my brain that after I told Dr. Regents the truth, he would help me. He would sign me out of the godforsaken place. But, go where? I suddenly thought. I have no money for a cab. I have no home and no vehicle. I was told Lisa no longer worked at the Third Street Police Station, but why so suddenly? And if Adam had the authority to have me committed, who would be able to undo that?

I began trembling, realizing the gravity of my already serious situation. I couldn’t stop shaking when the next fear surfaced. If I didn’t gain control, what would they do to me next? I had heard horror stories about these places. I had already been tortured by those two smelly thugs. Tears began to pierce my cheeks like hot irons. Why did my tears feel so hot? Just then the door opened, and another man walked toward me with a tray of food. He sat it down, all the while never taking his eyes off me to the place of a creeper.

He turned to leave, then turned back to me, and mumbled, “What’s wrong? Why are you shaking like that? Are you sick?

I shook my head as the tears fell like a speeding train with no sound.

“You will be fine lady. Just relax and give it time. You’ll get used to it here. They all do.”

I muttered my name to him as I clutched my gown in front of me, fists tight and arms crossed. He in turn told me his name was Arthur, and if I needed anything to let him know. I asked how I would do that, and he responded he worked almost every day and would be checking in on me as often as time allowed him to. I thanked him as I continued shaking.

A while later a nurse came into my room. I hadn’t been sure any women worked there until then. She took my temperature and upon viewing the thermometer she made a curious sound. I asked what? She didn’t answer. I was still shaking and asked if I could have another blanket as she left the room. Arthur returned with two white pills and a blanket. I was afraid to take them until he assured me, they were aspirin to take my fever down.

Arthur left as I sat huddled in my blanket staring at the food tray. A small glass of milk and a bowl of cold oatmeal with the consistency of glue. I thought it was what my grandmother used to call porridge, or was that in the song we sang as kids?

“Pea’s porridge hot, peas porridge cold. Some like it in the pot nine days old.”   

That is what this was. Awful thick and probably leftover. A piece of white bread spread with something. It didn’t appear to be butter, rather I believe it was lard. Yellow lard. I began swallowing over and over to stop the vomit from erupting from the depths of my mind. The mind that was connected to my stomach wanted to regurgitate the entire past three days, and then I passed out after some delirious talking, sobbing, and screaming. The orderlies came running in, but I was out cold thanking God, because they would have bound me again had I not been.  

The nurse waved something horrible under my nose that brought me back to the reality of the black hole my life had turned into. She told me to turn on my side, and without any warning, she pulled up the ugly wrinkled gown to expose my derriere to the thugs, and now Arthur as well while she shot a needle directly and without ease into me. Dear God, what are they doing to me now?

I begged, “Please don’t touch me anymore. Please leave me alone.”

My terrified mind brought a memory to me of Nurse Ratchet from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” God, I didn’t need that memory, or did I? She didn’t like anyone telling her what to do, much less a patient. Holy Mother Mary was I Jack Nicholson? That nasty nurse ran her psychiatric ward with an iron fist, using abuse, medication, and sessions of electroconvulsive therapy. The battle of wills I didn’t want to ever get into with her, but I had already unknowingly started it. I was in deeper than when I fell through the floor into Adam’s murderous hellhole trap beneath our home, or jail. How could this get any worse? But it did.

 

Holy Spirit inspired writings by Tommye Allen, audio by Julianna Rowe

(Test)

The Burning Barrel.......by Julianna Rowe

 The Burning Barrel     by Julianna Rowe  

  I was standing in the kitchen working on making potato salad with my eyes closed because I am dealing with COVID or Omicron FATIGUE.  It is real!  I can hardly stay awake.  This is day 19 and from what I have heard it may take a couple more weeks for me to be awake again.  I am a very energetic person who in my entire life has never felt such fatigue and I can only pray, love, hope, it goes away without attaching its ugly head to me like a bad tic. I can also only pray, love, hope, Mr. Right doesn’t come to the door like Javier Bardem, I mean Felipe on his moped asking for my love for life because I would go.  Yes, I would go and fall off the moped from COVID fatigue and lose the most beautiful man on the planet.  Damn.

  This feeling is the same as before surgery when the anesthesiologist instructs you to begin counting backwards from 100.  Hell! You only get to 98 and you’re out.  This is 99 from the time you wake up until you go back down in the nighttime. You forget when to feed the cats, or feed yourself because you can’t taste it much anyway, when to shower, when to eat, take your couple of pills, and try not to think about when it might go away and if you will ever find Felipe again. 

That led me to begin thinking about if I should die tomorrow.  Not today, or tonight, but tomorrow.  I have no idea why not sooner than later.  Blame it on COVID, idk.  But I did think it.  As I was peeling the organic eggs with my eyes shut due to COVID fatigue and the need to eat at some point, I wondered if I cared.  I have been here a long time. Maybe I am tired of here.  I wondered who would really care?  I have tried to rid my life of not all unnecessary things but some.  I detest the thought of kids coming in and throwing my life into black garage bags with no forethought.   Would they miss the love letters from a couple of my Felipe’s?  Would they publish the books I have written and left in cyberspace?  Would they notice that the second drawer of my dresser on the right side has messages from God?  Do they even know I can hear from the spirit world?  I began imagining the golden words inside blackness being picked up by a “garbage’ truck and taken to a land fill and dumped like rotten food.  Yet it isn’t rotten food, it is manna from heaven and I bet the ground it is dumped upon would be blessed for the generations to come because those words are alive just as when God said, “Let there be light!”  Yet there is a little part of me that wanted some recognition from my people.  They always thought I was lessor a person due to some serious life mistakes. Oh, I didn’t go to prison, although my son did.  I wanted them to be proud of me.  I wanted my friends to value my loyalty, my humbleness, my ability to let them be who they are without judgment.  To appreciate my giving nature. And to understand why I chose partners who misused me.  Whom I allowed to because I thought I was helping them find their way in this difficult world.  I think I sacrificed myself thinking it would benefit me spiritually like Jesus did.  But I was wrong.  I should have been more obedient to myself for each sacrifice was a form or earthly quick sand that sucked me farther into the abyss of life.  Am I stupid?  Nawh.  I am too caring. How does one stop being too caring?   They say I should love myself more than others.  Jesus loved others like I do.  But then he died a horrible death while asking God to forgive those that hung him with nails on a cross.  Jesus Christ!!  Is that my fate because I care too much?  I don’t want to care that much.  I want to have some sort of good on this earth versus survival.  Or “simply” be appreciated and understood like I understand when others mess up. 

I know many believe me to be vain because I post nice photos of myself on Facebook or my blog.  Yes, I do.  Because I am trying to love myself more not only spiritually but tangible.  My mother chose to burn all my lifelong photos in a burning barrel.   She murdered me in a sense due to her anger and inability to see past here own needs. That was when I was in my 2^nd decade of life and I still tried to make her love me.  I don’t anymore.  But that took 7 decades and wasted time.  Do I sound like a victim?  I was.  I am no longer. I fear my mother is now. Poor woman.

Sure, wish Felipe would come along for one last ride!  I deserve it.  Or a sweet vacation cabin where I can listen to the birds and hear from my guide, oh, and the sound of Felipe riding up on his Italian moped of course. Or on a horse, in a car, or on foot….. LOL

I will post the next Chapter of The Horrors that Hide tomorrow.. I took a necessary detour today!!