Sometimes visual is scary, sometimes it is more than I like. Sometimes it alone brings the tears, sometimes I drown in them.
Bulls-eye kind of drown, as they hit the very nerve of the happening, pierce the shell of me and drive themselves deep. I look upon my self to see them thee, wound upon wound upon wound. Arrow after arrow having hit its mark. If I move, each will only embed itself deeper, pain to emanate out and out and out as the hurt burrows and settles with the bone. to grab hold in an attempt to take them out awakens my voice, silent screams of agony. To sit with these arrows is pain, yes, yet to remove them is more than I know how.
This is my past vision of me, a child who was a target, always. Arrows of many kinds to fly at me, always tipped in poison, that they cause the most damage as possible. Arrows that where let fly at me purposely, aiming always for me heart.
My heart, me.
Arrowed me.
I feel lost this day in this vision, all of the pain of those fiery darts of anger, words hurled in hate, hands in grabbing and eyes upon eyes upon eyes piercing.
I find myself this day remembering darts of then, of my abuse. Arrows of now the bearers of these.
I think this is how my Jesus must have felt upon the Calvary Tree. How He too was a target, hands to literally drive the first ones home in the nails they heartlessly used to secure Him there. The laughter and jeers, the spitting and cruelest of all arrows. directed at Him. Hands upon His form, letters the feathers finely crafted that the words fly true, He hanging there, bloodied, beaten, wounded beyond endurance, His physical form used up.
Yes, He knows just how I feel, I feel how He felt.
Thus I cry more, here and now as well as then and past.
So many darts found their way into my Jesus too. I must focus on this, that He has been here as well, that He hung upon that cross, stayed the course of Calvary that I know He understands. He bore the darts so I can let them fall from me. He carried this pain I feel oh so piercingly when they the spear entered His side. He, He, He.
Who am I to look upon my suffering and self and allow it to lose me? His so much greater, yet… He stayed Himself, for me, with all of Heaven at His call. He endured unto death unto life.
I have endured, now it is time I die to that, time I embrace the life of now.
Come down off my cross, lay it at the foot of His.
Arrows still shall fly all around me, but my Lord is more, His sacrifice has freed me that I can move. My hands no longer bound that I can use them to defend self and my hearts words set free to command them to drop before they ever find their mark.
I look to my Savior just now, tears falling from a fresh wound, an arrow having somehow found its way deep just yesterday. I feel that I cannot move, But my Jesus is showing me otherwise…
“He is upon my cross, behind me. His arms spread wide too. I look down where my heart should be, so sure that I shall find naught but an empty hole to see a radiance glow. His Imacculate Heart sending arrows of love instead, they piercing lights of love instead. A balm of Gilead. I do not need to see behind me to know the expression upon His countenance, I feel the understanding His eyes carry as He brings His arms forward, mine freed now as well, wraps them with mine across my chest and holds me tight. We are no longer upon my cross, He stands with me and promises we can stay this way awhile. I can rest in this embrace as I bring home to Him all of the parts that need seeing.
His arms are strong and sure, safe and secure, they open, hold and love every lost and lonely, bruised, beaten, used up and forgotten me.
Nothing that has been is more than Him, no abuse greater than this my Great Physician knows how to heal. 
I see these arrows now for what they are.
Pinpoints of memories that Satan desires I feel as the arrows of then. They are not. I will not be Satan’s target anymore, I am not the helpless child I was then no matter haw many arrows he sends to convince me otherwise.
In Christ, I am more.
Yes, I will fail, yes some may find their target, but that doesn’t make me them or them me.
No.
I can pull them from me, nothing but a bothersome prick of a needle, and look up with the biggest smile as I drop them,
“Take that Satan! You tried, you even hit the target…
But…
my Jesus deflected it, so really…
you missed!” 
elsewherebygrace 