I was almost beaten to death with a  "2 x 4"

by a mentally disturbed cousin

of my husband's


"I Seeking a  peaceful solution to end telephone harassment

of my family by Joyce


My womanizing husband was a living example of just such a man, and until he went through the process of changing his thinking about what it means for him to be a man, I knew as a God that he would be condemn to living the same harmful and hurtful life that he had been living for most of his life. His involvement with one of his cousin’s teenage daughter had ended over a year ago. But the pain of what he had done, and the repercussions of his cheating and disrespectful behavior was still continuing to haunt me. It was also disrupting my family’s life, even though we had moved miles away from our old residence.


Joyce was still harassing my family.  But now she was using the telephone to harass my family even more than before. Over the past number of months in the summer of 1986, she had been calling our phone number many times during the day, and also at different hours of the night while my family was resting. We did not have an answering machine as yet, and so we were not able to screen have any calls coming into our home, nor were we able to control the number of times the phone rang.


So every time she called, we had no choice but to let the phone keep ringing, which can become very annoying after awhile – especially if the caller does not hang up. We had to answer our phone. But each time my husband or myself picked up the phone and said hello, there would be a silent pause and then the person would hang up. As a God I did not need to have a call display feature, which came out over a decade later, to know that the person who was calling and harassing my family – day and night – was Joyce.



Not only could I see her aura at the other end of the telephone line, as she hung up the telephone, but I could see her with the super-normal lenses of my third (or inner) eye just as clearly as if she was standing next to me while she was making her “prank” calls. She would just stand there, or just sit there, inside her apartment, with that vengeful and devilish look on her face, while she listened to the phone as it kept ringing. And when one of us answered it, she would get this twisted smile on her ugly face before she quietly hung up the phone, after she heard one of us had answered it. This ritual went on for days, for weeks, and for months.


This was not a normal behaviour, and I sensed psychically that Joyce was being driven by some force that was even more ruthless, and even more vengeful than even she had become as an adult. I understood that she might have still been very angry, and very bitter towards me, and my family. After all, we had offered shelter to her distraught and rebellious teenage daughter – and her only child – and she had even ended up staying in a group home for a while. As a mother, and a woman, I could understand how hurt and angry and disappointed she must have felt about what had happened. As a God, though I could not accept the bitterness, the vengefulness, and the harassment that she was now venting on my family.


In fact, as a God I still cannot accept that human beings would develop this kind of harmful and destructive energy. I knew too well how the use of the Cosmic Energy of life could be used in a twisted and deformed manner by anyone, to damage and destroy the lives of the person to whom it is sent. I knew that that type of poisoning of the Cosmic Energy always eats away and eventually destroys the very soul – the very core – of that being from whom it was sent.


So I was concerned as a wife, and a mother, about my family being harassed relentlessly through the “anonymous” telephone prank calls that Joyce was making for over the past three months. As a God, I was also concerned about this troubled, and troublesome, being destroying her own soul; and damaging and poisoning the lives of her own daughter, or anyone else who came in close and regular contact with her.


So one day, I decided that it was time to finally take action, and confront Joyce inside her own home. In this way, I would be in her territory, where she could feel more at home, and let me know what was causing her to behave with such hostility towards my family. The evening that I drove by myself to her apartment building to see her, I went there with the intention of only speaking to her. I had no intention, or any desire to get involved in any kind of physical confrontation with Joyce, or her daughter. They were my cousin in laws, and I had come to see Diane as a younger sister. As well, using my fist to argue a point, or to solve a problem, was not something that I had ever done, except for that time I was a child in grade school.


So when I knocked on the door of Joyce’s apartment that afternoon. I did not intend, nor did I expect to do anything else than to talk to her. It was my hope that she would invite me inside so that she and I could speak frankly, and get everything that was on her mind out in the open, so that we can at least talk about them. And even if we disagreed, and even if we ended up arguing about some of those issues, at least she would know that I took the time, and cared enough, to come all the way to her home to listen to whatever was causing her so much anger, so much hurt, and so much pain.


I did not expect anything like what happened to have happened, not in a million years. At first when I knocked on her door, there was no answer, so I knocked again, and again, and then spoke once I saw that Joyce was standing behind the door looking at me through the peephole of her apartment door:


“Joyce, its Galextra. I need to speak to you.

Can you open the door and let me in so that we can talk?”


 Finally, I heard Joyce’s voice speaking from the other side of her locked door. She said something about how she and I had nothing to speak about. But I knew that we did. I also knew that if I walked away from in front of her apartment door, without getting the opportunity to go inside and speak to her about the problems I had come there to address, that those problems would not go away. Joyce would still continue to harass my family; and she would also continue to twist and tangle her own spirit with the bitterness, and the hate that she was feeding on.


So I continued to ask her to let me in so that we can talk.  Finally, I heard her unlatching the chain from the door, and I waited with anticipation as she opened her door partially. But instead of opening it all the way as I expected and hope that she was going to, she kept it slightly ajar, and opened long enough to let me know that we have nothing to talk about.


Then she was about to close her door again, to keep me outside. I was not going to allow her to close me out, by allowing her to close her door, and locked it, leaving me standing there. It was true that she had a right as an adult to deny anyone from entering her apartment that she did not wish to enter. Every homeowner, or apartment dweller has that right. And I respected her right to do so. Under any other circumstances, I would not have challenged her decision to close her door on me, or to refuse to allow me to enter her apartment.


But though she had the lawful right to refuse me entrance into her home, she did not have the moral right to harass my family as she had been doing for a number of months.  She did not have the moral right to wake us up in the middle of the night with her prank calls, or to cause us frustration and aggravation by doing so during the daytime. I knew that she was the person who had been committing this kind of mental and emotional abuse on my family, through those anonymous phone calls at all hours of the day and night. She did not have the moral right to continue to do so, without me getting the opportunity to speak to her about her harassing my family.



I knew that i did not have the right to push my way into her apartment to speak to her. In doing, so I would be breaking trespassing laws of the Society we live in. I probably could have reported the anonymous phone calls to the police, instead of to the telephone company, and the police might have offered me some legal way to solve, or learn to live with this problem. But as a God, I had no confidence in the intention, or the will, of the authorities period, to try to solve any problem I was having in my personal life. In fact, after years of enduring abuse after abuse at the hands of different people in different areas and levels of authority, I had developed a definite mistrust towards them.


Also, I was from a country, and a West Indian culture, where people had a healthy mistrust of the police especially, because of how corrupt and abusive police forces were generally reputed to be in the Caribbean Islands, including the one that I was raised on. Still, even if I did not have those feelings of mistrust about turning to the police for help with a problem I was having, there was still the problem of not being able to prove to anyone, than to myself, that Joyce was the person who was making those harassing phone call to my family.


So I went with the flow, and acted spontaneously as I always did, and still do, even though I would never take any action unless I felt pushed, or pulled, by the force of my “personal will”  - which is a branch of living energy that shoots out from the pit of everyone’s belly as a tentacle of cosmic light. I pushed against the door to keep Joyce from closing it, and locking me out. Legally I was wrong, but morally I had every right to do so.  And I managed to push my way into her apartment. Once I was inside, however, and Joyce saw that she had not managed to keep me outside, she turned away from the closed door and headed quickly to her kitchen, and left me standing there while I wondered what had caused her to leave in such a hurry.



Within a few moments, I would discover the motive behind Joyce’s sudden and strange behaviour, as I stood inside the front of her apartment waiting for her to come back so that I could finally speak to her. Suddenly, and unexpectedly I saw Joyce rushing towards me with a piece of wood in her right hand. It was a two by four and about three feet in length. Before I even managed to ask her what she was planning on doing with that wood, she pounced upon me, and slammed that piece of wood across the side of my head. The force of that blow stunned me, and I crumbled to the floor.



 Then I heard Joyce screaming: “Diane! Come and hold her down, so I can beat her.” Before I even had time to clear my head, Diane appeared from I don’t know where, and grabbed both my arms, as I lay on that floor stunned, and helpless. Then Joyce continued to hit me over my head with that thick piece of wood. I knew that I had to find a way to clear my head and get to my feet as soon as I could, otherwise Joyce was going to kill me as I laid there while her daughter held me down.


A surge of energy from somewhere inside me shot through the center of my body, where the will, or the personal power point, of all mortal beings is located, and I yanked one of my hands free out of Diane’s grip. Then I force my body to stand up quickly at the same time. At this point, I had the choice of using my free right hand to hurt this teenager with a punch to the head, the face, the gut, or even to kick her in her stomach and really hurt her.


My life was on the line, and my body had marshaled its energy quickly to pump me with the adrenalin I needed to either fight or take flight. I had no intention of fighting, and I did not go there to fight with Joyce or anyone else. I wanted to flee, and get out of there, as quickly as I could, but Joyce was not going to allow me to leave her apartment alive, and her distraught daughter was helping her to keep me there, so that her mother could continue to smash that piece of two by four across my head.


Though I was still stunned, I had enough presence of mind to know that I was bleeding, and that my blood was pouring from my injured head. I was also painfully aware of the fact that I had to find a way out of that apartment, so that I can escape from the blows that Joyce continued to hit me with across my already badly wounded head. I knew that if I lost consciousness in that apartment, I would wake up on the other side of the veil, with me watching my dead body being taken to a morgue by ambulance attendants.


Joyce was possessed with a force that made her look like someone who did not resemble herself. She had a distant, empty, cold, and hateful expression on her angry face, and I saw psychically in those moments that I looked at her, as she bashed me on my head with that weapon, that she was possessed by the same demonic being who had confronted me the day she, and her friends, had chanted for about half hour in front of my door. Joyce, or rather, the demonic presence in her, was using her as an instrument to try to finally kill my mortal body – violently, and brutally, with as much force as it could.


It was true that Joyce had enough hate, bitterness, and anger in her heart for me, and that those vengeful, and wrathful feelings alone, would have been strong enough to consume her mind with the desire to hurt me, or even to injure me badly. However, left on her own, without the influence of other forces using her as an instrument, I know that she would not have tried to intentionally kill me, especially if she was in her right mind.


Even if she felt like killing me, I knew that she would not have tried to deliberately take my mortal life. In fact, the awful irony about the tragedy that I was now the victim of, as I looked at Diane, while her mother continued to hit me over my head with that weapon, was that I felt pain and compassion for this angry, hurt, and violent woman who was trying to beat me to death with that piece of thick wood. She was a mother with an only child who had spent a lot of time and energy on her daughter, by growing and grooming her hair, and dressing her up in pretty clothes, so that the neighbours would praise her about how much attention, money, and care she lavished on her only child.


She was not a beautiful woman to look at, if one just paid attention to only her physical appearance. Standing nearly six feet tall, with a fairly skinny body, that was marked by a pair of huge bosom, and a wig planted on top of her long mule like face, with a set of dentures framing her huge mouth, Joyce was not the picture of a woman who was considered beautiful to look at, or even physically attractive, in the minds of most of the material minded, and superficial thinking males, who saw her.



 She was also someone whose true beauty did not shine from inside her spirit. She had a mannish look, and a manly way about her as well; and it was easy to see that she had been used, and abused, over and over by men throughout her life. Now, in her late forties, she was a woman who has had her self esteem stripped from her, and also a woman who was left with a lot of feelings of hurt and pain and resentment and bitterness towards others – such as myself, who appeared to her, and other women, as if I was living a rosy and happy life. Not only did she resent me, because of how I looked, and the way I conducted myself, and the fact that I had a husband, but she also resented me for her not being able to sleep with my husband.



Part Two:

The struggle to save my mortal life from being taken that day


 Joyce was an unhappy woman who did not see herself as having much of a future beyond just being able to raise her daughter. The fact that she did not finish grade school, as I did not do, meant that she would face a lifetime of trying to gain acceptance from people in Society, or fighting with them because of their constant rejection of her. She did not have any job skill to speak of, so she also faced a hard future of looking for whatever work she could find to provide for herself and her family. It did not escape my mind, that Diane had complained to me weeks earlier, that her mother had a habit of having a particular man drop in their home on a regular basis – just to stay long enough to sleep with Joyce and then leave the same evening.


I remember what George, the proud teenage whore, had told me about how he went throughout both of those two buildings sleeping with every woman that he had set his horny eyes on. This man was the same kind of two-legged dog, who was using, and being used, by Joyce just for sex for that one night.



 So I knew that this sad, and enraged woman, who was now being used as an instrument of hate and bitterness, did not want to lose what she had spent most of her long and difficult life trying to do: to get others to pay attention to her; and later, to praise her for being such a doting and generous mother. Now that I was standing back on my feet, with my adrenalin rushing through every pore in my body, I had a choice to make, in order to save my life.


Do I attack and hurt the teenage girl who was still hanging on to my left hand, so that she would let go of my hand? And when I did, do I turn and face Joyce head on, and stop her from using that piece of wood as a battering ram to make more holes in my head, by grabbing the wood from her hand and whacking her over her head, so that she would have to retreat, and then create the opportunity for me to slip quickly out of that apartment? Well, I did not want to hurt either Joyce or her daughter. But I also did not intend to allow her to just continue to use my head as a baseball, until she beat me into unconsciousness.


So I did what any God would do when faced with the real prospect of losing their mortal life, in that same situation. I reached over with my right and yanked hard on a piece of furniture that Joyce had standing near the entrance inside her apartment – and I pulled it over so that it tumbled to the floor; and all the items that she had placed on it as decorations, crashed noisily to the floor.


Her things meant the world to her, and when I did that she became distracted momentarily, and stopped hitting me as she watched in horror as her precious little trinkets smashed and scattered into pieces all over her living room floor. Once I saw that she had shifted her attention away from clubbing me, to her damaged furniture, and her decorations, I yanked my other arm out of the clutches of her daughter’s hands, and quickly turned the lock and slipped out of her apartment.



My ordeal was far from being over, however. Joyce had lunged at me as I threw myself forward in order to avoid her hitting me again, and also to escape from remaining trapped inside her apartment, into the hallway. To my surprise, and my dismay, she followed me into the hall of that building, and whacked me again on my already battered and bleeding head.  When she did that, I looked at her with my hands opened wide and I remember saying to her: “Joyce, I don’t want to fight with you.  I only came here to talk to you. Why are you trying to kill me?”


Joyce still did not look like herself. I knew even in that moment that she did not want to kill me, but that she was being used as an instrument by other forces to try to end my mortal life. I was an Avatar who came to Earth to bring all beings together. These unholy beings were part of the same forces that were supernatural, as well as mortal, who had been stalking me since I was an infant, looking for any opportunity to end my life. But every trap that they had set to snare me, so that they could finally end my mortal life - and send me back to where I came from - had failed to achieve the end they wanted. They had used different adults throughout my life as instruments to injure, and even maim me, so that I would be weakened enough for them to finally finish me off and kill my weakened body.


But I am a God, and I had a job to finish, and I was not ready to give up my mortal body as yet.  I was not ready to die as a mortal being – or even to have my mortal body remain dead as yet. There was still too much work to do. I had been through too much pain and misery already. It taught me to appreciate why it was so important that the injustices and inequalities be brought to an end for humanity, and for all races of beings living on Earth. My children, my husband, my family needed me; the race of beings whose lives I had come here to restore and resurrect needed me to stay alive; and the members of life who were not humans also needed me to finish my work.



 Joyce continued to club me on my head with that piece of hard wood, and I continued to try to speak to her calmly and softly to try to bring her to her senses so that she would stop trying to kill me. At the same time, she continued yelling and shouting words at me, just as she had done when she had me trapped inside her apartment. I don’t remember what she was saying to me, because I was not paying any attention to what she was saying - but only to what she was doing.


Her yelling had created a commotion, and people from different apartments on that floor had come outside into the hall to see what was going on. Some of them had walked over to within about ten yards of where Joyce and I were. But none of those people lifted a single finger to try to stop Joyce from clubbing me over my bleeding and injured head.


No one even called out to Joyce to stop clobbering me over my head with that piece of two by four. Everyone in that hallway just stood there, and watched while one of their neighbours was beating one of their former tenants to death. I still could not believe that no one tried to help. As far as these people were concerned, Joyce could beat me to death, and they would be content to just stand there and watch.


About a week earlier, my husband shared a dream that he had with me. In it, he saw one of his family members in a coffin, and other relatives who had gathered around to view the body of that deceased relative. He did not say whether I was with him at the funeral parlor setting, and I did not even bother to ask him.


What he did say, though, was that he was unable to see the face of the person whose body was lying in that coffin. He pointed out that the features of that person’s face were cloudy as if he was not suppose to know their actual identity, or as if the person who had died had not yet finally died but was in a situation where they faced the real danger of dying. At the time, I made a mental note of his dreams, and we briefly spoke about what it meant for us in our own lives. I had come to respect my husband’s dreams, especially when it involved the death, or near death, of someone in his dream.


But I did not see any connection with this dream and the lives of any of my immediate family members. What I did though, as well, as my husband, was that I made a note to be more vigilant and more careful over the next short period of time, and to keep a sharper eye out for any kind of danger that was heading my family’s way. Though I have had perfect psychic sight since I was a child, and had been able to guide myself, and other relatives safely, through dangers in our lives, I did not see the mortal danger that was waiting for me a week later in apartment #801 of 710 Trethewey Drive.


Apartment 801 was about two doors from one of the exit doors, and by this point in this attack, I saw that I was very close to that exit door. I also realized, finally, that for me to escape from being kill by this possessed and enraged woman - that I would have to strike her in some way, long enough to stun her for me to get away from her. That was precisely what I did.


As Joyce was getting ready to move in for the kill, I reached down and snatched my high heel shoe off my right foot, while lifting that foot up off the ground for me to pull it off quickly, and then I lunged toward Joyce and whacked her hard in the middle of her forehead. That blow landed right on her third eye, and it stunned her, and caused her to stagger backwards. As she was doing, this I quickly slipped off my other shoes, pushed that exit door hard, and ran down the stairway all the way to the first floor – through one of the exit doors of that building.


I had just barely managed to escape with my mortal life. Shaken, battered, bleeding, stunned, and feeling like I had just been swarmed by a gang of thugs and beaten silly, I started to head toward where I had parked my car in the parking lot. However, I discovered that I did not have my car keys with me. Then I remembered that they had dropped out of my hand while I was being attacked by Joyce in her apartment. I had no money and no way to get back home. So I turned around and headed right back up those stairs towards Joyce’s apartment.


On the way, I ran into one of the people who I knew in that building, and who had also found out about what had just happened. I informed him that I did not want to have any more confrontation with Joyce, and asked him if he can go and get my keys back for me. And I stood in the same exit door where I had fled from earlier, and listened as he asked for my keys.


Joyce did not want to give them back to me, but Diane slipped them into the hands of this Samaritan, and I was in my car within a few minutes. As I was heading out of that parking lot, from just outside the front entrance of 710 Trethewey Drive, I saw a police car driving onto the property. At the time I did not think that they were coming there for the incident that I was just involved in, and I was even wondering why they had showed up. I guess I had become so accustomed to people turning their backs on me, when I most needed them, that it did not even dawn on me that someone who saw what had taken place had actually called the police to come and help.