As a small child, you learn to accept whatever treatment is dished out to you. You never really know until later in life — when you begin to question the facts presented around you, analysing constantly — whether what you had experienced was at all correct and what a family is supposed to be. The propulsion of birth as you're crushingly pushed from the loving embrace of the soft, warm womb, imagining that, in reality, should not this be the worst of the pain you have to endure from this life in this family as the contraction of life squeezes you out into the cold new world? Your tiny body is held in the hands of others, and you are slapped into this world; the screams of realization to life spring forth. You have no control over any decisions that will be made, for your physical well-being is now held cradled in the arms of another.

My first real, significant dream was one of breathless terror. My sleeping moments were tormented nightly with visions of nil escape as the vivid images danced in my mind and stayed there for some twenty-five years — a life sentence of sorts. The same images played over and over, only slightly changing as the years went on. This was one of just three significant dreams that made up my existence and gave my life a structural scaffold to rebuild. What is the meaning of life and did my being born have a significant role in anything in this world? Or was I just a mistake, a cruel joke of such, meant to be tormented and left with little or no answers? I felt left isolated to endure the behaviour being dished out on a continuous basis. Was that all my life was going to be, a constant barrage of shitty episodes that would somehow sum up my life? Or was this a little different? Was I different? I was to discover the constant small images that made my nights difficult were the beginning of a journey of a thousand steps, all of which led to this one spot on which I now stand. I was about to embark on the final steps to this situation I found I was born into, but I was never really privy to the true family secrets held in this family vault.

I am staring into a society that says, "Do something," but even if we do something, will anything ever really change? Or is that just meant to keep us happy and held in suspension so we do not totally get out of hand? I now question the accountability of everyone as my journey of a thousand steps is coming to an end. I stand here with the realization that this world in which I live seldom holds anyone to any true accountability. No one truly makes amends, and we are just fodder to keep someone in a job. The whole thing that is life continues like nothing really matters in the whole goddam mess. The fingers of those social justice keepers are forever stuck in the proverbial dyke of mirrored, disillusioned bullshit we call life because we don't really wish to fix this mess and deal with anything. Is it that hard to fix the mess, or are we just all cowards refusing to look into the deep- seated heart of truth?

A span of fifty years of life — and really, what did it amount to? A life of struggle. Or was this a test to see if I would have the sheer guts and determination to place my life into the hands of the universe and see what was in store for me if I allowed the universe to mould my life? I have spent most of my life being on my own — truly on my own — even though people around me were saying they love me; but in my case, they never did; still I was left physically feeling alone. So alone is a funny word, considering we are surrounded by people. But really people like us; we are totally on our own in all this shit? This shitty existence of sorts begins with the question of why I was born at all, if all I got was nothing but a horrible feeling that there was something very wrong with me. This happened slowly at first — the not really talking to me and the separation away from the whole conglomerate that was family. Cruelness that comes from being subjected to punishment for a crime you will never commit but which you are held responsible for persecuted for the rest of your life. Physically, the response of such carefully manoeuvred behaviour is of such slightness that over the years, one conclusion was reached that seemed logical: there must be something really wrong with me!

The setting of your foundational generational pillar stones that you will stand on for life takes place before you are even aware that you have a body, and the tiny fingers are set on a course of destruction that takes years to escape. The family — as I was encouraged to believe I belonged to — was the only thing that really mattered. As the years passed, the attitudinal differences would become more and more prominently brought to my attention as my attitude being so very wrong. A comment here and there, with no real comprehension, goes unnoticed, but as the years of deliberate layering of false accusatory mud sticks and the rusty decay sabotages the foundation on which you stand, the years start to take their toll. The digging, my relentless search for answers in this foundational quicksand, would eventually bring this crumbling house to ruin. The realization of the corrupting hand for which I was born to rest in that day of my birth would be made oh so very real. The cleverly crafted words and the deliberately withheld affection would all be held under a magnifying glass of analysing until the final piece to my life's puzzle would be placed in the cavernous erosion in my heart and the whole picture of my life could be looked upon. The meaning of life ... What does it means to be treated so mean?

The small blank canvas of my body was unblemished at birth. The supposed loving hands of the artists who are your parents begin to sculpt the essence that will comprise your self-esteem. Through your mind's eye, you now hold this image of yourself, the guiding light of whether you're held special, true, and deserved within the boundaries of this family. The caressing of the body in the arms of loved ones fills the heart and helps to develop the first chakra foundational point in this person whole life as they hold in their hands the ground you stand on.

The holding of a baby is of special significance, as it's here that the moulding of the person and his or her significance in this world begins. Are babies special enough to behold love and be shown real, tender heart care? Or has this one unblemished small child been assigned another fate? Experts say a child will die if he or she is not shown affection or held in loving arms. This comes to mind now regarding the way I was programmed. I was constantly told of an experiment done by scientist's years ago. Was I also being experimented on by my family for a similar purpose? Was this a way to self-discriminate as having no real accountability for the path they had set for me? Was this the reason I was not cherished as a sacred member of this family?

Physical love for children is important. It gives them a sense of boundaries regarding what is right and wrong. It shows that their tiny bodies belong to them, and it shows how others should behave and treat them as they're taught and developing the boundary proximities that others should respect. They are developing a sense that they are special enough to warrant some protection under the cloak that is this family. The strong bonds of protection are created and instilled upon children while...