Sunday Funnies - Nov. 30, 2008

flashback to picture day:


Breakfast conversation is always hilarious:

Elijah: How's my smile?
Mack: Fine.
Elijah: I don't want it going all the way up to my eyes. How's it now?
Mack: Fine.

Hair combed, kids almost out the door, where is Elijah?

Finding him in the dog kennel, for Baxter's last morning love; his hair is array, his smile is huge. Hair or smiles, I have to decide!


and then....

Elijah (age 7) brought home his school pictures today. After all we went through on Picture day to look practically perfect [not counting the dog kennel incident], now this:

"Mom, I don't like my smile. I don't think that Olivia C. will draw a heart around my face in the yearbook. Can I have redoos?"

Redoos sound great. Can I have life redoos?

honest scrap AWARD!

THANK YOU BUTTERFLY KISSES, FOR THE AWARD!

...with this award i have to post 10 HONEST things about myself.

FYI: i posted this on my family blog too, some of you might have seen it there. it is important for me to keep this journal private, but i also felt that the HONEST SCRAP was best suited HERE. so, as i shared both places, please keep my identity here for here.
THANK you my friends.

here goes:

1. i really am not good at keeping up with my house. i save EVERYTHING. i want to de-clutter but don't have the courage to do it. IT DRIVES ME CRAZY. I have a hard time having people over. I never used to be like this. A year ago I had my idea of PERFECTION.

Somewhere I crash and burned, and we are all suffering for it. My kids are on board to organize, they have the energy so it will get done.

2. Instead of food storage, we have toys and chocolate. I stress that we don't have enough to provide in time of necessity. This goes along with number one. De-clutter, and get food storage in order. And with number three, as you get the feeling that I am making a list: TO DO

3. I make crazy lists. I write everything down that I need to do everyday. Without the list I can't seem to function. I spend more time making the list than it would take to do have the things on the list. I reorganize my list; for efficiency, which requires rewriting them. I live by the list. I also make my kids live by a LIST. A checklist: home from school, wash hands, check, snack, check, pet care, check, chore, check, practice piano/guitar, check, homework, check, help with dinner chores, check, dinner, check, scriptures, check, journal, check, brush teeth, check, pajamas, check, prayers, check, 30 minutes reading, check. [compulsive behaviour passed along to the kids, another need for therapy when they get older.]

4. I can eat a half a gallon of ice cream during one movie.

5. I am writing a healing journal to try to break free from the pain of abuse and abandonment in my childhood. [that was a hard one to write, and not embelish or minimize, just honest] I wont ramble about this one.

6. I blog in layers. One for family, private, one for cyber friends [now i am being too honest], and one to spill my guts, my healing, very private.

7. I blog too much. (ouch, that was hard to admit.)

8. I know that there are some people reading this that will talk about me behind my back. I know who they are and it does hurt my feelings. Hey, you know who you are. This was not easy for me to be honest about. How about we just try to be nice?

9. I love serving in my church. I may be a broken mess about my gospel, but I believe in it with all my heart. I love the Savior, he is my friend, my partner in healing, my guide. I am thankful.

10. My kids are my delight, they are my everything. When I am with them, and with my husband, all is well; laughter is present, sometimes tears,

we may not have it all together, but together we have it all.

Amen to all these honest revelations about me. It is more than I wanted to know, so I can imagine how you feel. I just have to remind myself that this exercise is good for me, and that it is for ME. So there I have it. And what have I learned, oh, the growing pains of being honest about yourself.

I NOW AWARD:

Prayer Girl

AlkySeltzer

Atiyanna

Lulabelle

Gabrielle Moonlight

Psych Client

Amysplash

strong and determined

shadow

broken child

quiet rage

one tough cookie: Kim

April Optimist

survivors can thrive

If you don't want to do this, don't feel any pressure.

This is my honest sCRAP.

Actually, this is the same thing that I posted on my family blog. This will be the first thing that I blend about myself; who I am, in both places [besides my Sunday Funnies! Which are all real; honest! ☺]. This is HONESTLY me. #8 doesn't have anything to do with YOU all here. You are my support, I appreciate you. So this is more like a SHOUT OUT.

THanks aGAin. for your support. ♥

communion

poem that i found visiting my grandfather this week. it is one that was written in my grandmothers handwriting from many years ago. i found it interesting that my grandmother would find peace in these words, that she needed them at one time in her life, and that, so timely, i would come across them.

i am small tonight,
and heaven is far,
only God and I,
and the evening star --
the perfumed breath,
from the heart of a rose,
whispers to me;
"He cares! He Knows!"

hope, love, peace in the path and comments: YOU

as i commented to a few of you who read me i realized that this is where i am finding my healing. through the web of friendship and support. my comment to steveroni was so profound to my healing and i really wanted to remind myself by posting this, that i am healing. (i hope it is okay for me to share, hope, wow - to think that is the name steveroni gave me.)

me, hope, to steveroni and prayer girl, who are there every step with prayers and thoughts:

Hey, i am back. I wanted to say thanks for the prayers and the love, i love my new name(s). hope and loive. so sweet.

thank you for being so kind. i am doing better than i thought, the holiday. even surrounded by the pain, we felt it together, as a family yesterday....and NOOO drinking. I couldn't believe it. I was such a pessimist, lost in the past.

We had the best holiday as a family, ever. Even with feeling the sadness of 20 years.

today i learned my uncle passed away last night. It was time for him. I am sad, but don't feel devistated. that is good.

I posted some awful stuff. i actually scheduled it to be posted, while I was out. Seeing it today hurt a lot. But not as much as I thought it would. I feel bad that it is there, for everyone to read, but the pain for me isn't as bad as in the past. i think that is healing. thanks for giving me a place to ramble on about my feelings today. and for the friendship via the web.

and thanks for the prayers at Mile 191. that was so thoughtful. I usually hold my breath as I pass them. to think that you, a stranger, would pray for me. and that you would think of me. means the world. thanks.

i didn't think that our holiday would go very well, with all the pain that comes from losing my foster mom 20 years ago. the day was better than i could have imagined. it started with my older sister calling me, crying, hurting about the loss of our mom. i told her how proud i was that she would express her pain, pain that has been stifled this long. i told her she wasn't alone, i would be there.

we cried, we talked, then we laughed, we danced, we ate, we played. it was amazing.

it showed me that by talking, by writing, by opening up about the hurt, the devistation, YOU CAN HEAL.

yesterday was good, no fighting. both my sisters, my brother, my dad, all the grandkids; we had an amazing day together. i am not trying to sound cheesy, but when you are used to painful, bad holidays, this was really a better day.

and the talking we did....which brings me to writing. as bad as my writing gets, the painful memories. I do have HOPE that it will heal me to no keep so much in my closet.

NEXT:

to patty after writing Thanksgiving Blues, which shows such strength with all she has been through.

me to her:

this is an amazing post. i especially love the quote about when it gets dark 
enough you can see the stars.

my posting is in the darkest point. and yet, as i am writing the stars i see are 
those of you who let me know that you are there and that i am not alone.

that is what i have felt, but now, after reading your post, i also feel more 
heavenly about it.

we are not alone. as hard as it is for me to write what i do, i am so thankful 
that i can, i can give it to God in a sense, and i can give it to those who God 
sent here to be my angels.

quote from her post [thanks for letting me borrow it]:
"When it gets dark enough, you can see the stars" Charles A. Beard

"If I so chose, I can regard everything that happens in my life as a gift from
which I can learn and grow. Today I will find something positive hidden within a
difficult situation and allow myself to be grateful. I may be surprised at how
much a little gratitude can help."

i have much to be thankful for.

FINALLY:

to amy, who gave me an award today. an award that made me realize that i can turn Mile, into Smile.

turning my mile, my hope, my healing into SMILE.
thanks, you gave me more than an award.

i will keep writing my story, but my hope for healing will come with more of a smile. thanks for you. little things that make you think, ponder, reflect and heal. those little things that you do become the really big things in my life that are helping me to heal. love ♥

comments are love through the lines. and as today i have found peace in the path that i am part of i appreciate your amazing words, and that i can be a part of your journeys as well.

here's to all of you, and a final thought from prayer girl, thanks:

God has the power to heal even the most horrific of experiences. It will take patience, persistence, and time on your part. I believe you have all of these. You do your part and GOD will do the rest.

the rape - trigger warning

We are playing cards, I am losing, I am drinking a lot. She is drinking too. Man are we bad at poker. I have lost all my clothes. That’s okay, take another drink. Him: "Why don’t we go downstairs?" Oh no. We hear the door open. It is my sister. " Wouldn’t you like to go to the mall, here is some money", he says. My friend and I are in the top bunk of my brothers beds. She is laughing, he is such a great kisser. I know, I say, I have been doing this for years. Wow, finally what I have been doing is cool. This is so great. Then he is back, touching us, kissing us. Fondling me and her and we are touching him. Then he is raping both of us. It is no longer fun, the game, passionate. We can't get away. He is hurting me. He has never done it like this. So violent. So forced. So malicious. Suddenly i feel faint. I am feeling the alcohol, this is making me feel sick. I just want to stop, but he pulls me back. He is ripping at my body. Plunging and ripping, pulling, bruising my body and my soul. I am crying, that just makes him angry. You did this, he tells me. This is what you wanted. You have always been a whore. And now look, your friend. You have made her one too. He wants her and then me and then her and finally me and he finishes. I pass out I guess, he takes her back to school and comes back for me. He does it over and over and tells me I made his fantasy come true. "Isn’t this great. This is the way it can always be. Didn’t I tell you it would be wonderful. I can’t wait until your older and we can move away together. We can do this all the time. You can bring home your friends and we can do this forever." Then I was throwing up. My body wrenching. I feel the bruises forming, and I can't move well. I feel like everything is broken. Pieces of me are scattered all over the basement. The darkness settles in my mind. The darkness that will never go away. The darkness that will suffocate anything good that could happen ever again.

We had to go downtown to get mom from work. I was so sick. I threw up everywhere. My mom was angry, "she must have the flu." I get over it the next morening and am back to school the next day. I am waiting to tell my friend that she can’t tell anyone about this ever. She comes into the seminary building with another friend. Someone for support. Support for her. "I told my parents," she says, "they called the police. He is going to be arrested." Oh no, I think, I am going to be in so much trouble. The police ask me about it. I lie, I tell them nothing happened. She is lying I say. He is a good daddy. He didn’t do anything to us. I was so good at lying. I never went back to that school. I was transferred after a month of isolation. A month of his torture every day. A month of darkness. A month of pieces of me stolen that I can never get back. Black, evil, dark memories that I will never drudge up, divulge. my terror, what i will have to live with, alone. The police and others would come talk to me, but he was always there. It seemed as though I was never alone again. He made sure I said all the right things.

And at home, when no one was around, I had become his. I was now his to have anytime he wanted. He was obsessed. Then I wasn’t having my period. My mom said, check her, to see if she is a virgin. He checked. "Yes she still is," he says. Take a bath honey, you will feel better. Then he came in and did things. Things to clean me out, he said. Things to make it go away. So my mother would not find out. When he was satisfied with my bleeding and he left me there, in the tub. Watching it all go down the drain. Feeling as though I was dying along side this problem. The problem, that is how he spoke of IT. Your problem is gone now. You don't have to worry. You’ll feel better now. It will all be okay. We will be more careful. You wont have another problem.

probems. we spend our whole life working them out. this one will never work out. this problem haunts me. it stays with my entire soul. the sadness of his torture to release this problem from me. the wounds that he left are permanent. to this day i can't say what the problem was. i can't even type it. i feel so controlled by him, the situation is in my night terrors. the pain following, when it was safe, and we didn't have to worry about another problem. the pain of him trying to rape me, and me bleeding all the time. again and again. i never thought that i would be free from this torture. he was a monster, suddenly, so obsessed with having what he wanted.

i became pale, faint, almost like the ghost that he had taken from me, taking over me.

the day that changed my childhood

During my ninth grade year we moved back to my home state. I hated it. I had to make new friends again. I didn’t fit it anywhere. I was really tired of starting over so often only to be back in the same boat over and over. New schools, teachers, leaders, neighbors, all kind and good intentions and then the bomb would drop.

Lost jobs, fighting, daily torment, and again on the move.

We moved from one town, to another within a year and I started tenth grade.

This was really a happy time for me.


I seemed to fit in finally, with the boys in school.
I was really good at flirtatious behavior and never took it too far with anyone.
I
was
just
having
fun.

After summer and the beginning of a new school year I thought that I was off and running.

I had a friend, a best friend for the first time ever. We did everything together. We hung out and laughed a lot. We caused some trouble, but mostly at our own expense.

We started the new year by sluffing a lot of our classes in the name of fun.

We drank a lot, and smoked behind the seminary building. We even smoked in the seminary building. We were having the time of our high school life.
We were pretty much on the path of loser.

and that was fine, i had been told that i wouldn't amount to anything. i wouldn't be anything more than someones whore. i was a failure and already being a failure there wasn't much room to grow. i fit the path that i had been emotionally abused to believe that i was to trod.

Then came the day. The day everything changed for us both. The day we sluffed at my house.

My stepfather was home: "Wouldn’t it be fun to play strip poker."

"Wouldn’t it be fun to get drunk....and naked?"

Why not, we were young, we had our whole lives a head of us.
Or so it would seem.

How could we both have known it would be the last day of our innocence, the first day of nightmares for both of us for the rest of your life.

How could we have ever known that that one day would change the rest of our lives?

thanks ....then giving

my friends who read me:

this award is for all of you, from me.
please copy it and put it on your blog!
as well as the star commenter award below.
and thanks!

hope that this finds you having
something to give thanks for,

....then find a way to be giving.

even if it is just giving a comment
to someone out here in cyber world
who needs to know you are there.

that they are not alone.
i really believe we can make a difference.

i know you have in mine.

so find 11 people today (i like odd numbers),
11 bloggers who are hurting or lonely, trying to heal.

comment in a way that you can cheerfully say i care.
the way you do for me.


thanks, and let the giving be the best part of your thanksgiving.


today i am thankful for.....YOU!

thanks for being here for me.

for amy

I know how much courage it took for you to write about the abuse you suffered.

we care. you are amazing.

you are always so sweet to me.
friend, i am here. we are here.
please take care.

and this [below] is because
you like things that glitter.

right click, copy to your pictures, and then post
as a picture in your layout options.

luv ya dear..


and you lovely readers who comment and are so kind.
above (Nov. 27th) is a post that says THANKS.
my thanks gifting!
i thank you for being here to hear me.
you take the award there.
ALL of you deserve recognition
for being my super cyber friends.

thanksgiving

this time of year brings so much up for me. i know i have written about this before which made me not want to write about it again, for the sake of anyone who would think, she said that already.

then i realized that i have the kindest people reading my healing journal. and if anyone did say that i could do what AlkySeltzer said and just "reject" the comments.

I think that in itself gave me power. and got me thinking.

no one can hurt me that i don't allow to anymore.
it is up to me.

if someone wanted to leave a nasty comment,... who knows, maybe my family would find this and being upset they would want to comment something irrational to me but justified to them,
or Bob, my abuser, my step-dad, who knows, he could even find it.

What would i do with that? hummmm.

but to know that i can say no, i can reject anything that is not positive and helpful to my healing...thank you for that.



and, i write for me to heal, and i thank YOU for reading me. You all are my person. i appreciate you so much



saying no. my baby sister and i were talking today about how hard it is to say no. when you are raised in such a dominant environment, where the lashings come quickly, and the abuse is so abusive. you don't learn that you have a choice; in anything.

even whether or not you want to go somewhere for thanksgiving. people beg, plead, manipulate you into a corner and then you give in. and then you beat your own self up about not saying no, and sticking to it, and even though tomorrow hasn't come and you could just not go,

you know you will go because you have been bullied.

have i told you before how badly i hate bully's.

i told my sister she ought to call and say the answer was no every time that you asked, but you had to molest my answer and push me into saying yes. i am uncomfortable with you thinking that you can bully me into coming to a family dinner.

NO IS NO. and then just don't go.

easy for me to say, hard for me to do.

tomorrow i will be having thanksgiving with my adopted (foster) family.
I usually have an orphan thanksgiving at my own home.
it has been easier for me to do the dinner,
be in charge, and be in charge of who I invite.
rather than being at the mercy of the events of these family holidays.

this year i feel strong enough and i am going to go.

behind this strength i do feel a bit vulnerable.
not that my pain is what will be hard to deal with, but the pain of my family.

this is the time of year when my adopted mom died.
i have written about it as I explained why i write mile 191.

i talked to my foster sister yesterday. she is really depressed and not sure how she is really dealing with the events of thanksgiving, and the holidays in general.
her mom, my mom, was always in St. Benedict's, or jail, or passed out at the holidays.

she, my sister, told me that she is having a harder time than usual this year.


my adopted moms birthday is the 29th, saturday.
it is also the day that she died, although the coroner put her death date on the 28th, so we didn't feel so bad. how that helps i still don't know.

today, the 26th is the day that she left.

it was thanksgiving. she had too many drugs, again. there was a fight.

i was so confused. this family had been taking care of me.

they had been loving me, security, a haven from all that i had been through.

and now, this haven, was crumbling around me

when she left,

she took the family that i knew them to be with her.

she left on thanksgiving. she died on her birthday. we buried her on december 3rd,

it was a brisk, beautiful, cold day.

but the pain is still there, there is no burying the pain and destruction that has been left behind.

and thanksgiving will bring many of those pains to surface again. for my sisters, for my dad, for my brother, for me.

thanksgiving should be about gratitude.
i want to be able to focus on the things that i am thankful for.
i have, in my world of pretending.
of maintaining my good person persona.
i am happy, i express gratitude, i help others.


then i come to my closet,

and i fall apart,
broken,
bleeding all my emotion,
the pain.
the suffocation of darkness,
and no where to hide.

terror awaits, as night comes again.
and tomorrow, i will face new light, the day, what will it bring.
more memories, writing about my dreams, my secrets.

no one can hurt me unless i allow them to.

i have the courage to choose healing.

i will see tomorrow with a fresh perspective, focus on gratitude, and write, as Amy does...

Today, I am thankful for... YOU. ♥

something to work on

i decided that before i get into any more of the trash
that i seem to be writing so much about
that i needed to seriously listen to the advice that i have been given.

it seems easier for me to write the story, those are just facts.





the hard part is how i feel about the story.
this next part has to be me doing something with the something to work on:

Have you abandoned yourself in the same way your mother abandoned you? Find some genuine examples of such self-abandonment.

Are you neglecting yourself the same way both your mother and father neglected you?

Again, find some genuine examples of such self-neglect. By reliving your memories of the abuse over and over in your mind, can you understand that your unhealthy thoughts are in a sense sexually abusing you each and every day, in spite of the fact that you are no longer physically experiencing that abuse?

here goes:

Yes, i think that i HAD abandoned myself. in so many ways. i don't think that i could really be honest with anyone, because i felt that to be honest i had to fully disclose myself, and not being able to do that i just abandoned who i am and took on a psuedo, pretending to be happy, faking it through life routine. i was making it, house in order, doing the mom and wife thing, but inside falling apart. and then distancing me from anyone who wanted to really love me because i felt that they don't really know me how can they love me.

i think that as i am trying to heal that i am picking up that little broken child from the depths of hell, brushing off the burns, bandaging the bruises, and really trying to mesh together the person that i have been with the person that i want to be, without abandoning all the things about me that i personally don't like. those things are a part of who i am and have to be a part of who i will be.

ignoring the parts of me means that the sum doesn't add up to much.

this is all i can do right now. i dont think my thoughts are together too much. i feel like i am forcing myself to even think and write something, so in that regard i shut down and don't feel anything. i am really good at faking, and this feels like i am faking my healing now.

i don't know. maybe i just need to leave it alone for a bit.

and try again later. same questions, different day.

stolen innocence

My mother worked a lot of hours, so we were home alone or with my stepfather a lot.

It was a typical afternoon for me to spend time in his bedroom. I think this is when I first noticed that he was also spending time with my sister. When I asked him about it he would say he was helping her with homework, that he didn’t love her at all like he did me and that she was not his type.

Yeah right. Any underage girl was of his liking.

I remember the summers there were so hot. We were all required to run around the block for exercise. We had chores to do and always something was not done right, we paid a heavy price.

We lived by a Seven Eleven and often it was our job to go get them Big Gulps. We would have to walk there and back in very hot temperatures. Sometimes not being allowed to have a drink of water until we returned with their drinks. And if we dared to have a sip of their drink there would be hell to pay for it.I remember one particularly hot day when my sister and I went for drinks. I passed out on the way home from the 7-11. My sister caught my fall, but they did not believe us when we told them. Only that it really wasn’t that hot. We did learn to outsmart them a little. We would drink from the rim before we put the lids on.

It felt really good to be bad once in a while.


By now I was getting exposed to alcohol.  He would give me alcohol so he could do things to me.  At first he would put it in drinks and I thought it had a funny taste.  I was just a kid - I didn't really get what or why he was doing these things.  He was the adult and I was suppose to trust adults.  Besides, if I questioned him there was heck to pay.  It was never good heck.

He would put stuff in my drinks and then make me give him oral sex. 

I remember all the double standards taught. Do what I say not as I do. Hypocritical bull crap.  I would have been beat if I had done any of these things outside of his abusing me.

He would buy candy and clothing and I could earn it if I did him really good. There was always something he could hold from me until he got what he wanted.

My moods changed constantly and then I would be in even more trouble with my mother.

I remember one time he paid me five dollars for something and then my mother said someone stole it. She made us all sit on the couch while they searched our rooms. When he found the money, she started to scream at me, pull my hair and dragged me down the street screaming to the neighbors that I was a thief and a liar.

I wasn’t the thief or the liar in our home. He was the only one who took things. The things he took from me I can never have back. What he stole daily was my innocence.

What he stole was my childhood. And my mom allowed it to happen to her children, her daughters, and then pretended, LIED, that we were this happy "normal" family.

[my disclaimer]

[my disclaimer] -why i feel i have to disclaim is something i hope to soon understand about myself:
The following passages may be difficult for some to read, and may contain graphic information regarding abuse, neglect, and human indifference.
I do not mean to slaughter those in my life who abandoned the effects of compassion,
or those who should have protected us as children from the grasps of literal hell.
Only that I might share our story, empowering others to do so,
and for those who have not had to experience such acts of degradation
to, maybe, know what it is to have these as childhood memories.-

there are kind people out there

We moved again. This time to a home. It was wonderful. I really made some friends.

I loved my leaders in my church group.
They loved their children so much.

I remember one of my girlfriends mothers was our leader. I remember her telling me that if there was ever a war she would gather her children together and protect them. That they would die together if need be, but that they would not be alone.

I will never forget thinking I want to be a mother like that.

After a while the home was too much money and we moved into a nice apartment. My mom worked at the K-Mart around the corner. I would go in to see her. There was another woman there who took a liking to me. Her kindness will never be forgotten. She once bought me a wardrobe of clothing for the next school year. She said she never saw a child look so sad, and so worn out. The clothing couldn't fix how i looked, but she wanted me to have something. What she gave me was my first clothing that weren’t hand me downs. What she gave me I didn't understand then; it was hope in humanity. I never knew someone could be so kind.



i couldn't put any more of my story with this post. it needs to just be about the kind people that i knew as a child.

i didn't have much interaction with extended family. i didn't see my dad more than a couple of times growing up.

i met a few people who were nice. coming from my home, most people i knew were nice, nice compared to what i knew.

but what i am talking about is KIND. kind is different than nice. kind is looking into someones eyes and knowing more than you see on the surface. kind is doing something for nothing.

when you are a child and you have to do awful things to have the essentials of even food and water, you are taken by surprise when someone does something for no reason.

i don't know what to do with kind. i always think that people are trying to manipulate me, or that they have an agenda, that i will be locked into something awful if i accept their kindness.

it is so hard to be so locked, like someone said: locked away so tight and there is no key to fixing or opening me up.

but these two women, they were genuinely kind. my leaders kindness was short known. short, but i remember her. short because we never lived anywhere for too long.

with beatings, and neglect, your neighbors figure you out, you have to run a lot.

the second women, the one who provided my first own clothing; she is still being kind. she is my bunny. that's what i call her. i miss her. she was warm, and kind. she knew i needed someone, and she did what little she could. but the little she could was the biggest thing in my life.

when we moved i kept writing her. she always wanted to know where i was, like keeping me safe; in a situation she could do nothing about. she felt that if she knew where i was i was safe.

she is the first person i opened up to about the abuse, through letters, after my mom abandoned me. she never shied away from caring about me. i will love her forever for being so kind.

i got a letter from her this last Christmas. she must be getting old. i hope to get to tell her one more time how much she meant to me.

the kindness of a stranger; they will never know how their actions, their words can change the life of a little girl. she didn't change my circumstances, but she did change my life. because i knew someone cared. thanks bunny.

why mile 191?

this is a hard post for me. explaining mile 191.

i feel that i should write a bit about it now. with thanksgiving coming up, it is this time of year that gets me thinking so much about my past. my story. my pain.

i am writing my story in bits. my mile 191.

i haven't gotten to much that will explain where i was and why this particular mile means so much to me. this will tell.

why mile 191?

when my mother abandoned me i was 16 years old. i had told her about the abuse, blown the whistle per say. my little sister was 9 years old. from the time she was about 4 years old i had been teaching her that her body was hers. that she was NEVER to let anyone touch her or look at her under her clothes. i guess you could say that i knew enough, even when i was a 10 year old girl, to know that no one should be doing those things to a little girl. he had started on me at 9, and so, when she turned 9 i guess he started looking in her direction.

it happened once. he touched her. she said no. and she came to me. that was the beginning and the end of my sisters experience with sexual abuse.

my baby sister. who i love as dearly as i love my own children, even today. she went through so much. not the sexual abuse, but other things, things that have poisoned her mind and soul, and destroyed a part of her heart. she is the most amazing being. she is a wonderful mother today. she is able to provide for her family, she paints, decorates, she has a million abilities, and i love to see her and delight in who she has become. these other things she went through cause her to weep, bring me to weep, and ache for some semblance of anything that is normal.

i will never regret the amount of abuse i suffered to know that he left her alone. the one time it happened was more that it should have been.

i had always told him to leave her alone. come to me but leave her alone. why couldn't he have just left her alone.

so i went to my mom. the mom who didn't love me as a child, who neglected me as a young woman. the mother who was absent from me as if she had abandoned me at birth.

i sometimes wish she had.

i went to her. a girl should be able to go to her mom.

i told her about the abuse. about what he did. about him raping me. about him raping my friend. i told her that he had touched my sister.

she looked at me with a cold blank look. told me that whatever happened was my fault. i had somehow brought it on. that i was to go to bed and she would talk to me in the morning.

my step father had left the house. i had told him i was going to tell, and he better not be there when i got home. he never came back.

i had a friend walk me to my house. i know that had she not he would have killed me. he chased my friend all the way home. she got into her door and he slammed his body against the door.

to this day she doesn't know how she locked the door, or how she ran home so fast.



the following morning my mom woke me up. she told me that everyone was angry that i had made daddy leave, that i needed to pack a few things and stay with a friend until they were not so angry.

i left. when i went home the following weekend, the entire house was empty, except for the belongings in my room. it was her way of making me not exist in her life anymore. i was left behind, and there was no looking back.

i became a ward of the state. my friend took me into her home. her parents adopted me because my own father wouldn't take me.

her mom and dad were so kind. yes, again kind. they loved me, they were protective. they listened, and they were so patient with all that i was going through and had been through. they really were so amazing.

i went back to school, my senior year. i quit drinking. i hung out with kids my own age. this life felt really blessed.

i missed my family, my sister, my brothers. i ached every day to know if they were okay. i wouldn't find them for 6 years.

my adopted mom had some addictions. she was addicted to pain killers. i could see in her eyes a reflection of the pain that i felt. i always knew in my heart that she loved me so much because she understood pain. i began to realize that my new family had it's own dynamics. drama and sadness is everywhere.

we are human beings, we experience life, and some of it hurts really bad.

my new sisters were amazing. they loved me and took me as if i had always been there. i had a new brother as well. he was funny and nice to me. i felt like i had a family.

then, as thanksgiving approached, there was a family fight. i will never understand as the events unfolded, what it was all about. but this was to be the turning point in my new chapter.

with the family argument my adopted mom left. she ran away.

i understand running away, i always feel the urgency. i have slept in my car so many times. i have sat out side of the rape crisis center. i understand wanting to run from it all.

this time running would have severe consequences and change the course of all the lives that she touched. her daughters, her husband, her son, me.

my mom, that is what i felt she was; in three months she loved me more than my own mother ever did. i, to this day, know and feel that she loves me. she understands me. and when i am quiet, pondering, reflective, i feel as if she is there, telling me to hang on. help is coming, stay strong. she is our guardian angel. i feel her. if you are hurting she is the kind of angel that i know will come to watch over you too. so be still, ponder, and allow your self to feel that you are not alone. for she is there.


i say this 'she is there' because the turning point, the bend in the road of my journey was the end of hers.

she died, at mile 191.

she parked her car, walked up to a place that she found peace, and there she found her life's end. she was taken to a better place, a place where the pain should end, i am sure she thought.

i believe that when people take their own life they can not undo the damage that it causes those of us left behind. we needed her, we needed her here. the lives of those who loved her, those she loved, would never be the same. i don't believe her pain ended. i think she hurts more, for now she can not be with the ones that she loves, the ones that she surly misses.

she reached her breaking point. the point we are all going to reach in this life. with pain and trials, and pure intense despair. she chose to end her life, at mile 191.

this becomes so significant to me many years later.

as we often drive the canyon, past this mile 191. i think of her. i think of what pain she experienced. she didn't live long enough for me to ask her why she hurt. she died before i had the chance.

i think of her as i drive past mile 191, i have stopped many times, now stopping with my own children. the place where grandma died.

i say to them, no you don't know this grandma, you never met her. she was gone long ago. she was wonderful to me.

the pain i feel that my kids will never know what it is like to have such an amazing grandma, they will never know her, how wonderful she was.

she made that choice.

and here i am, in my life, suffocated my by pain. what will i do?

What choice do i make when i reach mile 191?

what will i do with my journey. every day, as i see the mile markers on the highways, the interstates, i think to myself as the miles pass:

what am i doing, and what will I do with my mile 191?

it is up to me.

the week commemorates for me the 20th year grieving the loss of my new mom.

20 years since she made her mile 191 choice. 20 years of wondering how different the lives of my adopted father, the man who walked me down the isle at my wedding, how different would his life be, with his sweetheart. how would my brothers life be altered. my sisters, would they be happier, of course. we miss her. we can't get her back, or the years, the pain is here to stay.

so i say to you, anyone who will read this:

please I beg you. think about what you will do when you get to mile 191.
what are you doing on the way there? choose to heal. don't run away. be strong enough to live. and don't do it alone.

we need each other, as we all travel the well worn road of survivor.

choose to make your journey, and your mile 191, something that you can personally find strength, hope, peace and life, and maybe a little friendship and love. don't do something that you might regret, don't give up, don't run away.

slow down maybe, as mile 191 approaches. take care of the pains, the anguish, and then drive by, knowing that the road ahead has much more to offer then the miles in the past have. courage, it is up to you.

comment ranting

does anyone else do this, rant frustrations on others posts while commenting. i am just wondering if i am the only one who does this; rant commenting on a fellow bloggers post (see below).

me, all me: (responding to her post and to being judged as a parent for how we parent, which by the way is certainly different when you have an abusive past)

oh my. many times [i have been judged]. i usually end of hurting my kids because i feel like i have something to prove. i hate that feeling, being judged. then later i get angry and i am sure that hurts my kids too, because the thing that i wanted most was to pull them in, cuddle, snuggle, listen and protect them.

boy, have i been there, actually this weekend. i am letting my daughter read the twilight book, my daughter is 11. yes, she is young, but she loves reading. and i feel that she is reading it with an 11 year old mind. not the mind of an adult woman, who will put more life experience into the reading.

my best friend immediately calls me upon hearing the news and rips me one about my parenting choice. i felt so beaten up. worse, she did it in front of my daughter who was with her. then she said i should reconsider and take the book away from her.

i have never been one to like book burners.

so i sit here, stunned. i can't believe that she has done this to me with my daughter right there.

she says, well if you are going to let her i better not hear about her talking about the book with my daughter.

okay. so i was suppose to have a girls night out Saturday, with her. i obviously don't want to go now, and hear about it all night.

twenty seconds later, i am not kidding you. her friend calls me to tell me that she is not letting her daughter read it and that i shouldn't be either. this friend was also part of the girls night out group.

so i stayed home.

this morning as my niece is dropped off i hear her and my daughter talking about twilight.

i get mad at my daughter. and telling her not to talk about it with her cousin. i know the shit will hit the fan with my sister, my best friend (adopted sister).

my daughter is puzzled at my anger. mommy, I wasn't talking to her about it. she was talking to me...

SHE SAW THE MOVIE SATURDAY NIGHT, when i was suppose to go girls night out. my sisters kid saw the MOVIE, after ripping me about letting my daughter read the book.

i want to cuss and blame it on my personality disorder, turretts, whatever.

i am so&%^%#%#%%&*((##@* ....calm down.... what i am is hurt.

what is wrong with me?

sorry for the rambling. i guess i could have just posted. but thanks for being there. so i could vent my frustration.

take care. sorry things arent going great. i am here.


yes, thanks blog friends, for being there and being real. i am here.

something to work on - help from out there

thank you to Darlene for what she is doing. i don't know that she will ever see this, but i am posting it because she has given me hope, something to work on. these questions will be my journey for the next little while. maybe it will help someone else, or maybe you can share your secret with her, and she will help you, like she helped me. now it is up to me.

her response to my confession, my secret:

Some questions to consider for yourself... by: Darlene Barriere - Webmaster

Sal, it WASN'T your fault; it DID happen; you WEREN't—AREN'T— a liar. Your mother had serious problems that you bore the brunt of. Her emotional abandonment must have been devastating. You endured emotional abuse and neglect by your mother, and every form of abuse there is by a child molester.Your mother also physically abandoned you (and so did your father). Allow me to pose this question: If your mother had not turned her back on you physically, if you had been able to stay with her, would you have been better off? Consider the ways that you were better off: she was indifferent to you even before the abuse at the hands of that twisted excuse for a man; the abuse was going on for years, yet she supposedly did not know that something untoward was happening to her beautiful and previous daughter; she didn't believe you when you finally felt safe enough to disclose the molestation. I'm sure you can come up with even more examples.On a purely logical level you know that you can't change what happened to you in your past; yet on an emotional level you continue to relive your past over and over in your mind. Memories are thoughts, Sal. People don't let go of thoughts; thoughts let go of them, but only when those unhealthy thoughts are questioned and reversed.Reliving the abusive events and reliving the effects of these events, manifests in your role as a wife and mother, but it also manifests within you. Consider these questions, Sal: Have you abandoned yourself in the same way your mother abandoned you? Find some genuine examples of such self-abandonment. Are you neglecting yourself the same way both your mother and father neglected you? Again, find some genuine examples of such self-neglect. By reliving your memories of the abuse over and over in your mind, can you understand that your unhealthy thoughts are in a sense sexually abusing you each and every day, in spite of the fact that you are no longer physically experiencing that abuse? These above questions are a way to reverse your thoughts, Sal. Only by questioning and then reversing your unhealthy thoughts, can you hope to have those thoughts let go of you.You were powerless as a child. As an adult, you CAN make choices for yourself that will help move you forward. The fact that you are aware of what is happening to you is a HUGE plus. But now you must act on that knowledge. I cannot be strong enough in my urgings for you to seek out some form of counseling for yourself. For your personal sanity, it's time to stop "pretending", and instead to start "professing". A professional can help you with that. You're worth that kind of help, Sal, you really are.
Thank you for sharing your story with my visitors and me.

night terrors - waking up dead

i know that night terrors are generally reserved for children; being that i am a child broken inside i think that it is fitting to tell of one of my many dreams that drives me mad, and is my realization that i am not doing okay.

i also want to say that i really appreciate the world of blogger, for the friends that i feel i have made to help me to heal, who care about me.

amysplash thanks for coming and reading me often, i feel that you are there every day, from the beginning of this journey to heal.

psych client: you have so many kind things to say, and you are sharing your story, it is hard for you, i know, but thanks.

other commenter's: marj aka thriver, lulubelle, strong and determined, kim-one tough cookie, Hi there=), trying to stay calm, cassandra, and andrea.

you here, are my friends. you know the worst things about me, and yet you keep coming back.

I do laugh. I live, and I love. to some degree we all have to. but dealing with what is going on inside is critical. especially when you get to the point i am. feeling hopeless and helpless, feeling that if i don't stop faking my life i will wake up someday dead.

so here goes. thank you psych client, for your post, for bringing out this dream.
i read you and really thought thankful thoughts,
to not be alone in my nightmare, my pain anymore.


this is something that i need to write about,
reading yesterday made me restless,
until i get it out i fear no sleep, only more night terror in sight.

my recurring dream

i am going about my life, taking care of my four kids, being a wife. going to school, sweeping, dishes, vacuuming, volunteering, smiling at family parties. you know, what we do when we are faking that we are okay.

i keep having this dream, the one that is like when i was a child, my mom has abandoned me again, in the hospital. i keep reliving the pain of being left behind at 16. the abuse now stops, i should be happy to be left behind, but i can't stop worrying about my baby sister. i want to be with them, even if i have to keep dealing with the abuse.

it is so suffocating.

i am trying to be a good mother. i love my kids, i think, do i really know what love is?

this dream i am going through the motions, doing all that is expected of me.

then it happens. an earthquake.

this dream is so real.

i can feel the shaking, the trembling. the horror. my kids are scared. i feel to protect them from their fear, the possible pain, the suffering. i gather them. i think going to the porch will be the safest. come on, we will be okay. i pull them into my arms.

the trembling gets worse, the shaking, the noise, the chaos.

i hold them, i protect them. i bring them in closer.

and then i tell them, not much longer. it's almost over, i say.

the blackness comes. we have died. the end is in site.

or is it.

in my dream, i wake up. in a hospital.

the room is stark white. am i dead, i wonder.

i begin to feel abandoned.

then i realize, no, i am in a psych ward. i have been institutionalized.

i didn't experience an earthquake at all.

i am the earthquake.

the kids come in, my husband tells them,

"it's okay, just for a moment.
mommy will be fine. just come love her."

they come in, i see the fear in their eyes.

they don't want to see me.

i don't blame them. i fell apart. i quit. i broke, i gave up.

i abandoned them. i am my mother.


this is my recurring dream. the dream that sent me back to therapy.

only to be told that i didn't need medication. i was strong. i was doing fine.
for someone that had been through all that i had i was doing fine.

who the fuck are they to tell me that i am fine?

they don't know me. ask my husband, ask my kids. this system is so screwed up.

then i go to another therapist to be told that he can't handle my shit.

isn't that what he went to school for.

no, he spent time with girls locked up in a psych ward, he knows what messed up is, but he can't handle my story. my mile 191, my ramblings, he has to take a break, he says. he is physically and emotionally sick at the words that i have imposed upon him.

well, no wonder i am so messed up. even my therapist abandons me.

where am i suppose to turn.

can't get meds for depression.

can't get therapy.

i am not willing to start drinking.

i have turned to you. cyber world, for my healing, i have turned to you nice people out there, you who are suffering, who have suffered. thank you for reading me, and for letting me know that you are there. i appreciate you more than you know.

my confession - trigger warning

i posted a secret of my, not brave enough to say it here, or anywhere.
it published last week. imagine my surprise when i read my story so publicly.
yes, i know, the whole world didn't see it. but someone did, and i am still alive, i am here to see that i could live through it.

i have decided to pay particular attention to the advice that i was given by Darlene Barriere

my secret:
Sexual Abuse Story From My Closet: Today I want to rid myself of a part of my story that I don't feel brave enough to share anywhere else. I can't take it anymore. I don't sleep. I find myself causing suffering for anyone around me because I am so angry all the time. I am faking being a wife and a mother. Parts of it I enjoy, but until I heal the craters of pain, I am much like a dormant volcano; when it erupts it will be chaos and destruction for all who are trying to love me.At about 6 years old, maybe, a cousin decided to fondle his curiosity, me. Then maybe a couple of years later, an adopted uncle (only a few years my senior) did the same. I think this was practice, or maybe like a toe in the water, for what I would face just a year later.A man came into my mother's life who would destroy my world. He started as a worker in our home. He spent his mornings feeling me, literally. His hand would find its way into my underwear and then inside me. I would pretend to be asleep. It never worked. Pretty soon he was telling me that if he had to take my mom along he would to be with me. It was unreal. I didn't understand it.But then again, for the first time in my life someone was paying attention to me. My mom had always treated me with indifference. This attention was new.It went on to become severe sexual, emotional, physical and mental abuse. At 16 I had been raped and used daily for 7 straight years. When I told my mom, she abandoned me. It was my fault, it didn't happen, I was lying. My dad couldn't take me, so I was a foster care child. I went into the next part of my life, pretending that I was okay; and that is where I am today. Still pretending.

DID YOU KNOW?

You can pop out a music player,

like mine at the bottom,

and listen to the music continuously

as you browse the web, as you write, as you do the dishes, cry, as you create.

Try it. Pop it out. click the pop out player,

bottom center,

and play all day if you want.

see if some of my music moves you in anyway.

Have a happy day, and take care! i am here, you are not alone.

Sunday Funnies

So serious, since I use this for my healing I though that maybe part of what I write could be taken from my own lighter side.

I am trying to heal, and most of what I write sucks.
The Sunday Funnies are going to be my funnies.
Things that make me smile. I hope they make you smile a little too.

I always liked reading the funny pages growing up. I can't believe I have withheld that pleasure from my own kids by not getting the Sunday paper. Note to self: buy the Sunday paper, for the funnies♥

Here is my entry:

Picking kids up from school can be a pleasure. They talk, they listen, a little (they act like their listening, nodding their head appropriately to my ramblings, until I notice the little white cords in their ears. They are plugged into their own world, and politely smiling as if they hear everything. Why do we buy them I-tunes/pods; whatever.)

This is probably my funniest moment EVER, in picking up Henry.

I get to his school. He is hanging with a group of boys, the girls near by giggling. I am always thinking I wish that I could come in disguise and just watch, it is so cute. But I drive the MAV, four wheelin, sleek mommy vehicle.

Henry crosses the street.

[details will be important here]

he smiles, nods a bit of an acknowledgment in the direction of his peers.

stay cool, dude.

He gets into the car. From his smile I can tell he was enjoying whatever banter he happened to be engaged in only moments ago.

Still floating, he looks at me, suddenly the smile disappears. I wonder if I have spinach on my teeth, or something....has to be out of place.

He is looking at me like I really have a problem.

"What Henry?" I say.

"Nothing."

Me: How was your day?

[I start my drive South, toward the younger kids school.]


Him: pretty good.

And then the freaking out begins.

Him: AAAAUUUUUGGGGGG, I have dog poop on my shoe.

You would think a swarm of bees was attacking him.

Me, starting to laugh, and helping him to move backpack and coat away from the scene of the crime, while continuing to drive.

The SMELL, it is becoming unbearable.

BUT, Henry is still aware of his peers. I start to pull over. He is yelling at me, "NOT HERE MOM".

I immediately know why. The girls are just behind us, opposite side of the street.

"Henry, I HAVE to pull over, the smell is awful!"

"MOOOOOMMMMMM, please."

I pull over. He gets out, begins to wipe the poop off his shoe doing some kind of jig I have never seen. Wiping, gagging, [me laughing, rolling the windows down].

He is really having a horrible time. His shoes have tiny crevices.

I tell him to use some leafs. He is dancing, grabs some crunchy leaves.

DOESNT WORK, I tell him, "not those, use the green ones."

"MOM YOU SHOULD BE DOING THIS"

"HENRY, I DIDN"T STEP IN IT."

Rolling down more windows. "Mom, not yours."
Oh, I see, hide me from the girls, who are now horizontal to the car.

Henry is still trying to wipe it on the grass. I can just see him falling in the poop that he has gotten off, so I slowly begin to drive forward. JUST A BIT, and really for his benefit. RIGHT, except I am laughing so hard because he is hopping to keep up with me, all while trying to hide this situation from the girl group.

He wants to know if I have any water. NO.

He wants to know if I have any baby wipes. again NO

I give him a straw, he starts to clean out each crevice.

Please mom, a rag, a napkin.

Not being fast food people I have no "extra" napkins in the car.

So he gets busy with the straw. WHERE IS MY CAMERA?

The Elementary kids begin to walk past, staring.

I say to him when a little guy comes past, "there's a shirt!" (Totally kidding, and actually if he had said it he would have been reprimanded, "be nice to the little kids.")

But me, I can't seem to help myself. Uncontrollable laughing, another kid comes by, "Hey Hen. Another shirt coming..."

Henry looks at me, looks at the kid, looks at his straw, which is now ready for (spit wad war just doesn't sound very nice, but pretty much that describes it.)

If I weren't laughing I would responsibly say, knock it off. But laughing doesn't help to enforce my wisdom and maturity as I try to say, don't, not cool buddy. He brings the straw up to his mouth. I just know what he is going to do as he eyes the little kid.

Instead of blowing, because he is desperately trying to survive this incident, he nearly sucks on the straw, yes the dog excrement weapon. His new weapon of choice, except that he forgot to blow. The look on his face is priceless.

Oh my, that was so close.
He is laughing, I am laughing, except that my floor mat is still stinking up my car.

After Henry gets control of the situation, himself, and the clean up, he plops in the car.
I give him the M and M bag to cover his shoe, seal it shut.

He looks at me and says. "I thought it was you."

WHAT???

"The smell." He says, "I thought it was you. I thought you farted."

Oh my little big Henry. Thank you.



Second to this, the M and M's that I poured out to bag up his shoe. He begins to throw them out the window. Yellow ones give you cancer, he says, plopping a blue on in his mouth.
"Henry, you remember that you just used those hands to clean up dog poop."

He smells them, plopps another blue one in, "Yep."

So, How was your day?

step in anything today?

courage

A Warrior's Journey

The fragility of your bearings

were perched on the wind

standing on the ledge of the heavens.

God held you tightly

infusing your veins with his nectar

his sweetness over powered the bitter.

You feared the darkness and the light

yet our prayer's vibrated your soul

lifting you into the spirit of the sky.

You sprouted wings today

as your body begins its renewal

bathed in healing promises.

You can give up the anxiety of endings

and share in the joy of letting go

for today is your new beginning.

God bless you!

being his whore, trigger warning

We moved during the night to Las Vegas with Bob and his three boys. How I loved the little boys and how they missed their mother. I remember when she found them and came to get them I prayed she would just keep driving and never bring them back. I loved them and will always miss them. But they were saved. Why weren’t we?

We lived in a dozen different homes, apartments, and trailers during our time in Las Vegas. I remember some better than others.

When we first arrived our home faced east. I remember seeing the sunsets from the backyard. That was one of the good parts; the sun always set.

But it would rise again on a new day; a day of more abuse.

My older brother was beat a lot then. My mom and Bob would fight a lot. My big sister would run away with us. We tried to survive.

I was in the fifth grade. I remember the kids teasing me, but I will never understand why. I was not really different from them. Not in any way that they would understand anyways. I never spoke a word that whole year.

I did write a paper for class about my father coming to save us and how I hated this new daddy. My mother found it. That was the first time I think that I got a beating. I was to be silent and suffer, alone.

It was not easy to suffer alone, but I learned how to be silent.

The next year I was in a sixth grade center. I remember flirting a lot with my teacher and him telling me that I would have to be careful with men or I would get myself in trouble. Little did he know.
I began to develop breasts at this time. Part of the fun was having my mother show my stepfather the budding womanhood. She had to have known by now that she was not his only lover.

Convenient for him that we were both under the same roof. By now he was expecting daily gratification from me; his nearly twelve year old stepdaughter. He taught me to make a man feel pleasures and expected it whenever he wanted. By now my mother was partial breadwinner in our home. He had plenty of opportunities to have me during the daytime, and her at night.

I remember my merry miss daddy daughter date. We dressed as Burt Reynolds and Dolly Parton from Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. Who knew? I was really his whore. My leaders must have wondered about that, who dresses their daughter the way he did. But then it wasn’t long until we moved again.

At that time we were living in the trailer park. By now I had been drinking and smoking his pipe for a while. We only had two bedrooms, six children, and two adults. My brother slept in the closet. Most the time my stepdad had me fall asleep in his and my mothers bedroom, while they were watching pornography in the front room. He had positioned the television so that I could see it from the bed. He would come in the room and make sure that I was watching, something I could learn and we could try later. He would wink. I was the love of his life. He just had to be married to my mother to get to me. By now he was telling me someday we could be together all the time.

THANKS ... trying to stay calm ♥♥♥

Someone reads me.

And not just the me who writes all the pleasantries.
THANKS. It means a lot.

This award is for you....i think it might be one you don't have yet. But if not, it means a lot to me to give it to you....so... (right click/copy, and know I give it with hope to heal, and thankfulness for someone reading me, even if it might not be so pleasant.)
Now I get to pass along an award, or few....

I pass awards to the following people.

Amysplash - because she always checks on me and every time I check there is something new to inspire me to keep healing. Thank you. Here's to you:

To Marj aka thriver , thanks for the comments, i hope you continue to heal:
To psych client, thanks for the comments, to me and to others. It really helps to read such kindness:
To Lulabelle, for the inspiration and laughs, and for teaching me there is beauty in the breaking. love your blogging:

To strong and determined , first for surviving incest, for talking about it, breaking the silence, and for introducing me to a song that I have fallen to pieces to one minute, and written myself up off the floor the next, thanks:
this award goes to one tough cookie, i like you just the way you are:

and to Janet, Hi there =), for telling me that I am not alone:
TO ALL OF YOU:

Thanks for being there!
To take your award, right click on it, copy to your pictures, and then upload through your blog as a photo. Enjoy. You all mean a lot to me right now.

i want to die - trigger warning

Now as I am coming to a new horizon, I wonder if looking back is really important in the process of healing.
By horizon, I mean that I have forgiven, or have I?
I know that there is something to the forgetting part.
But how can I forget until I have shared, and helped someone by these experiences.

Silence is usually the medicine we take for abuse. Not me, not anymore.

When my mother decided that her first marriage was over, I must have thought cool...two Christmas’s, two birthday cakes...


But I was no longer a little girl. You see, he had already begun to abuse me. I remember waking up in my makeshift bedroom to this man, this construction worker, fondling me. His rough hands were inside my panties.
I don’t remember how I felt, only that it happened all the time. I tried to tell my mother once, how she responded was so nonchalant that it must be okay.

I mostly remember missing my daddy. He used to tickle my back until I would fall asleep, or he would fall asleep. He would tell me I was his favorite, something I am sure he told all five of us. We would work on the farm together, me mostly playing but he didn’t care. We had rabbits and kittys, fish and dogs. It was really a magical time, living on the farm. Then the flood. Our basement filled with water and we hired the workers. They came everyday. And when the work was done, my mom found new jobs for him. His name is Bob.

I remember building the clubhouse with him. We couldn’t wait to show dad. My dad must of been hurt. Who was this man spending time with his wife and children?
But he was too busy to worry much. He had work and callings in the church.
He would worry about it later.

Then it was too late. My mother decided to move to an apartment.

By then the divorce was in the making, and the abuse was in full swing. Our new daddy would tuck us in extra tight, he must have liked me best for he saved me for last and spent extra time touching and playing with me as he tucked me in. I began to really hate him touching me. I hated every part of this new life we had begun.

It was then that I wrote a suicide note. I was ten now.

Dear Mom,
I hate Bob. I hate him and I want him to leave us alone.
I am going to take all my heart medicine and die
because I don’t want him to touch me ever again.
me