25 years ago almost to the day… I pressed charges against a pedophile who was a family member.
27 years ago, I killed myself.
So as not to return to my hometown to murder the mother who’d activated the pedophile that molested me with her consent from the age of three until seven, then enabled that pedophile to rape and/or orchestrate the sexual assault of every sibling and cousin I had that she could get her hands on until she was relocated. Male and female.
35 years ago I broke a glass underwater in the sink and slashed open my hand to make me drop the knife I was going to walk into the tv room and stab my mother to death with as she gloated on the phone about the suicide of the son of one of her supposed best friends. The sweet, quiet boy of a spoiled, middle class woman as selfishly fucked in the buppie head as my mother.
Today, {instead of in hell or jail} I am the author of a series of dark revenge fantasy books that…make use of those elements, written with the intent to let other survivors of SA who still rightfully have it on their hearts to murder their abusers…to taste the rainbow that comes with riding that wave without giving up the lives they came here to lead ..that the abuse wanted to snuff out their ability to access or construct.
I didn’t survive my suicide.
I was sent back. Reborn.
Because killing myself to stop me from killing the adults who had failed us was not the answer.
I was given the option three years after that rebirth to make the other choice, when I went to press those charges. I was going to press the charges and then pick them off, two by two. With the outfitting assistance of a friend who hoarded guns due to the fucked shit in her own coming of age tale.
Eutaxis wasn’t a fantasy.
It was what I was going to do since killing myself hadn’t worked.
My grandmother was trying to die …to get out of dodge…because she knew what my returning home meant. Her blood stopped when I touched down in nyc.
But…after telling her to decide if she was ready to go or not…if she was leaving them there…to me…or not…she was sent home to die. Nursing her back to health so she could see it all go down end of summer, weaning her off of the drugs they’d flooded her with trying to get her blood to flow again…watching her watch me nurse her back to health so she could watch me kill her daughter that she’d ruined…were some of the strangest days of my life.
Watching the fear coalesce in her as her blood began to fitfully gurgle up and flood back into her limbs, her realize she’d be lucid, present…prescient…that death was not the thing for her to fear, but instead…Life…was what opened the door for God to alter the course of all of this.
Killing them was also not the answer. No matter how good it’d feel. In that moment and for many, many moons thereafter. No. the answer was letting them live.
There were soul contracts that were broken.
In a bloodline of demons that is as bad as treason.
The outrage couldn’t be contained once they realized they would not be flooding into the hereafter by my -agreed to before birth, bloodied hands. My father mockingly screaming “She’s got a gun!” in my face the day I decided to let them live, then unable to shield the shocked, panicked look in his eyes when I smiled, wilfully defaulting in his face from cutting him down…was the third to last time that man ever looked me in the eye.
It took a long time for me to understand that…the request to see beyond the myopic resolution of my bloodline’s folly to the sprawling generational decimation afoot – that I accepted at face value- had a bigger, more intimate meaning for me too.
For the longest time I’d figured I’d nail the vision God had given me eyes to see, pull it out into the world….and circle back. Wiping the scourge of them off the face of the earth if no sense of introspective interiority had tackled them in the interim of the series completing itself. A deferment instead of a default. And I lived loosely, sans root rather absently due to this inner understanding.
I’d already died and seen hell.
Been returned, cognizant. Coated with what I had been allowed to see that awaits suicides who churn down the chute from this particular harmed caste.
I, of all people, had all the time in the world.
I wasn’t even a christian yet.
When God had asked.
Me to write.
He’d even used an advocate named Kris Kristian to get my demonically sired ass to agree to the terms of other paths in the first place. But following him was never contigent to the plans or the request. He’d asked And I’d agreed…as a free angelic agent. Vibrationally carte blanc in any direction I felt compelled to go to achieve said request.
God banked on my insolent rage at looking around , horrified over all the kids souls I saw in those fields being enough to fuel me to the breaking point that’d be used as an entryway so he could begin that later adoptive press of his in earnest.
That I became a christian along the path is one of the feathers god and all of eternity is most proud of, no cap. Because the offspring of demons- who are the same spiritual caste and mother culture as angels- rarely find the road home.
But the more intimate meaning embedded in all my agreeing to find the road beyond wholesale slaughter was not the gift of time. My comprehension of time has already transcended what humans are caged by due to the return post- suicide.
The gift…was what turned out to be one of the greatest weapons for these kids felled in this war, inner and outer.
The gift was LIFE. One lived…without being marred by what rape as a child jealously tried to snuff out of you having the capacity to fully experience.
Those who harm kids …see the light on those innocents and want it snuffed out…because they see no light in themselves when they look down. It will never not come down to being rooted in envy, whether it be being jealous of something they’ve been convinced they can never capture or have even possibly never had. They see the light in the kids…and they are never more reminded of their consumptive, perpetual, castigating starvation. So even knowing they will never be satisfied…they do everything they can…to consume it.
I can write my ass off.
My reading comprehension in those tests they forced on even us honors kids clocked in at straight nines for the entire duration of my twelve year incarceration in the earthly penal system labeled education.
Over the years, the cries of those arrogantly balking that I didn’t understand the craft of writing books because the adult abusers and enablers in grievechronic are mercilessly slaughtered by the end of book one of an intended Ten part series has been absently tolerated. All in the know crowing about how the fact that there was none of the ride-along rubber-necking at the crashes of adults who were set up as kids to fail at life leveraged in the grievechronic tale, nor the psychological gawking of trauma porn addicts getting off on abuse and enabling being encouraged was dismissed.
A book on child abuse had to be embedded with titillating yet dispassionate explorations of the already ravaged psyches of those broken by the abuser arriving at that vengeance to be “commercially viable” to most who got the grift.
The abuse victims were to be fodder, abused again for the delight of the onlooker…according to those who thought they understood the game.
Even if the survivor was the protagonist, the American dream de facto publishing success story to chase after was to be positioned as quietly in defense of those who abused.
Those who were wired to more likely be enactors of abuse instead of safe havens from it have said my grievechronic books were from the pit of Hell itself. For years. Because Grievechronic doesn’t center them in any way people like them have been routinely and comfortably centered in this culture.
The series starts off with the kids killing their abusers and finding their way in the “heavens” cast by the monsters that made sexual assault of children a commodity in their society… to reset the eyes of those tuning in… to the No contest claims being made by the inner children on trial for upending the status quo over what has happened to them.
Grievechronic is not written for child abusers. Grievechronic is not written for the enablers of child abuse.
Grievechronic was written because even if you rage out and kill the abusive , enabling motherfuckers who deserve To die and rot in hell… wherever you go, there you[still] are.
Killing them is not going to heal you.
Facing what happened to you… and all that played out…just might.
But even beyond that…Killing them …robs you of a life lived without the shadow of their shit just as much as if you’d stayed inurred in their abuse upon reaching adulthood. It centers them.
God has …to my utter surprise…snuck in 27 years of a wildly shapeshifting, chock full LIFE that has been utterly and thoroughly Enjoyed… into my walking out honoring His request for me to write grievechronic to help set free all the Others… inner children of adults and current kids trapped in hell or limbo getting the loosh drained out of them in this perverse system.
A life they’ve had nothing to do with.
They can lay no claim to the incandescent light that has emanated from me as I have happily streaked buck-naked across the sky.
If I had given them the massacre contractually agreed to prior to entering the simulation, to the points that are usually typified in such matters… that life… these last 27 years in which I have been having a present, chaotic, motherfucking ball with, and in… would have instead rolled out behind bars I would have been fine with due to the psychological hot-wiring that child abuse entails that intends to keep you skin tagged to those who’ve victimized you to spiritually continue to feed them.
If you have lived through child abuse, be it sexual, psychological, mental or physical and you are reading this today, with your inner child in the air alongside of you somewhat dazed over how you’ve even made it this far… if you get nothing else from reading this far… even if you are not ever compelled to pick up one of grievechronic’s crazy-assed super fast to read books… understand this:
You deserve a real LIFE. Keyed to the true you.
Not ruled by reactions to the dissonance felt nipping at your heels in the here and now due to the shit you fucking literally survived then to even be reading this now.
& until you really look at the shit you had to roar through…see it for what it was… and give your inner child, your heart, your soul, your mind and your literal, physical body the space…and the right… to be fucking enraged, outraged and rightfully fucking angry over what you had no choice But to soldier through… and finally fucking fully grieve the kid you that had to shift its spirit to figure his or her way out through it… including all the choices that kid made doing the best they could with what they fucking had… and accept them…the “life” you live will always whisper to you on dark days that it is still nothing more…than the aftermath of the intentions of the narcissists who targeted devouring your light all those years ago.
You deserve more.
So… maybe you’re here… reading this for a slew of other reasons, possibly not good ones, even connected to the broken shit in you that undergirds the current fucked up relationships you’re in being able to keep you strung up.
Maybe your eyes have even fallen here to mock or josh, or gawk…
Understand that I didn’t write grievechronic giving a fuck about you if the call makes no sense to you. I never will, either. Ever.
This is not about teams or sides, fights , revolutions or factions. Grievechronic isn’t for anybody content with their trap, nor anyone justifying all the fucked up shit they do to other people. If you are hooked into those kind of calls…grievechronic is designed not to help you at all.
Grievechronic starts with something that is seen as the antithesis of good behavior in this day and age. It starts with those categorized as victims not only fighting back, but destroying those who defiled them as kids. It climaxes in you realizing your hand has been held as you figure out what you have been fighting for.
And in the end, even that tale…
you must -and I promise you that you can…and will… Transcend.
IF ANY OF THIS HAS PIQUED YOUR INTEREST OR STRUMMED THE SEAT OF YOUR SOUL…
IF YOUR INNERKID IS TUGGING ON YOU TO GO CHECK THE GRIEVECHRONIC SERIES OUT for reasons you owe no one else any explanation of… your transcendence can begin today, over at https://grievechronic.com . Click on the image below to #entertheREDmoon where you can access an up to 33% off deal on the first eight books of the series for a limited time only.
…you don’t have to explain what the call is to you. You just have to decide to answer it.
-AB
©AngelBrynner,
November 2025.
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