Yelling At My Mom

It’s a reoccurring dream I have.  It’s always a quick flash but leave a brutal impact on my brain.  In my dream, I unleash verbally on my Mom for probably less than a minute.  But it is a full-on flash of rage.  I am screaming, yelling, swearing and often standing over her in a threatening manner.  This time, I was pointing at her face and moving towards her aggressively swearing and said “you want to know, you want to know fine I’ll tell you every disgusting detail” and this time she fell to the floor and crumbled into a ball crying as she replied “what do want me to say? I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!”

I know that I have anger at my Mom.  I have worked very hard to get rid of it.  I have tried to see things from her view and her life.  I still know deep inside that the child is enraged with her.  I know why.  I choose to walk a different path.  I choose to spare my Mother my rage.  She has not earned it.  Not all of it.  And if that can gets opened, I still do not trust myself not to unleash on her.  These dreams are a constant reminder of that.

This dream and the others are nightly reminders that I survived a fucked up childhood and upbringing.  And that PTSD remains alive and active in my broken brain.  I hate it.  I hate dreaming of being chased, trying to escape a burning building or being raped.  I would give almost anything to make the nightmares stop.

I buried it.

be strong be bad assI buried it.  And along with it the very last of him.  The last man I loved.  The last man I allowed to abuse me.  The last man I tried to save.  I will never forget how simple and yet how powerful the journey to finding the shovel in my hand slamming into the dirt has been.  I am changed.  Deep inside I know I am free.  I know that I will never allow another to abuse me.

Childhood abuse can create a pattern that a child accepts and does not realize is doing so.  A child’s mind is being formed.  We are not born understanding how the world works.  How we are brought up, the conditions, the way we are treated and so on have a direct effect on what becomes “normal” to a child.  Childhood sexual abuse often leads to promiscuity and the need to replace the abuser in one’s life.  This was one of the hardest  realizations I faced in therapy.  I refused to acknowledge that I sought out, chased down and fell madly in love with men who abused me in some manner.  When shit got real in 2013 and I reentered therapy no subject was off limits.

There it was right in front of me.  I was no longer able to deny that I had allowed males to abuse me since I had been raped at age 13yrs old.  Slowly I saw how my choices had grown progressively worse as I got older.  I saw how I valued myself less and took scarier risks with each man I loved.  I allowed myself to embrace the truth that I had been replacing the abuser in my life because I didn’t know how to live without the abuse and I didnt know how to live without a fucked up male I was afraid of and trying to fix.  That day I sobbed and sobbed in my therapist office.  Years of therapy were in front of me.

In 2015 my Partner and I moved into a beautiful home together.  As I packed my condo I found it.  The very last item he had tried to win me back with.  It was a silver engraved pocket watch in a black box lined in silk.  I tossed it into a box.  A few months later I spoke to a Shaman regarding the watch.  I told a brief history and asked how I should cleanse myself of it.  She advised that I should spend time sending him love and peace every time I thought of him and that I should then bury it.  I asked how long I should do so and where I should bury it.  Her reply was “you will know.”  The box sat in the back of a cabinet for three years.  I did as I was told.  Every time I went to the lake or hiking I wondered why I had not remembered to grab the box.

Last week my Partner and I attended a womens festival in the woods.  That is all you get to know about that 😉  While I was packing I saw the box.  It was near the front of the cabinet.  I was thrilled and tossed it into my bag without opening it.  We shared with our Sisters for four days.  We danced,  We laughed.  We sang.  We wept.  We made art.  It was glorious.  I never thought of the box.  I had a spiritual reading and she told me I had something to leave on the land and not to forget.  I still did not remember the box.  I searched my heart and came up empty.  On the last morning as I was packing things into my bag I put my hand on the box in the bottom of my bag.  I immediately knew what I had to do.  I explained it to my Partner and campmates and took off in search of the Matirach on the land.

The land I was standing on is sacred land.  I knew better than to commit an offense by burying it alone.  I found our beloved M and gave her a brief description of my journey to this point.  She smiled and said “Yes you are ready, let’s go and do this now.”  We walked together to the shed and retrieved a shovel and a pair of large garden clippers.  She led me to a spot and she cut away the thorny bushes, creating a small cave at the bottom.  “You dig and it has to be deep.  Very deep.”  I immediately began to slam the end of the shovel into the ground.  I picked up shovels of dirt and tossed them into pile.  Behind me I could hear M praying and shielding the land and the women from any harm.  When she finished she set the box down and said “you finish, this is for you just make sure it is deep and no one can tell we were here.  I’ll come back and check on you.”  I replied “yes ma’am” and kept digging.  The women I had shared the past four days with were gathering around the fire pit to sing and say goodbye.  I could hear their laughter but they could not see me.  I kept digging.  Make it deeper I kept thinking.  I realized I was filling with joy.  I was unimaginably free and happy standing alone in a thorny bush shoveling dirt in my sandals and shorts.  Soon I had to begin to cut through roots with the end of the shovel.  I slammed the metal into the ground hard, slicing through roots and thorny branches reaching out to cut me.  I caught one on the arm and slapped it back with the shovel as if to say “don’t fuck with me.”  I wasn’t angry.  I wasn’t sad.  I was fired up.  I was digging my way to the last bit of freedom.  The women’s voices grew louder as the crowd gathered.  I wanted to be with them but I wanted to be free more.  I kept digging.  I found evidence of humans before me.  I unearthed trash and put it in a pile.  When I reached what I  guessed to be three feet or more down I stopped.  I picked up the box.  I held in flat in my left palm and held high to the sky.  With the sun shining on my face I said out loud “I wish you love and peace.  I forgive you.  I forgive me.  I grant myself love and peace.”  The very moment the words left my mouth the women gathered around the fire sang out.  Their voices echoed through the forest as if they knew.  But they didn’t.  Only I knew.  They stopped, I lowered my arm and I tossed the box into the hole I had dug.  It landed upside down and I tried to flip it over but it threatened to fall open and reveal its contents.  Having still not looked inside for so many years I didn’t want to risk it.  I buried it.  Alone.  I suffered the abuse alone.  I went to therapy alone.  I buried that son of a bitch alone.  In my way.  I was free and I knew it.

I set the shovel down and walked to the circle around the fire with silent tears running down my face.  I made eye contact with M and she smiled.  I sat down and listened to the closing remarks.  I walked back to the spot and picked up the shovel.  I used it to grab and pull the thorny bushes back down over the place I had just covered in dirt.  The thorns never bit me again.  Only the once.   I threw away the trash I had unearthed, put away the tools and walked back to my camp.  It was so pure and so simple but ultimately freeing.

I will never be abused again.

The most disgusting nightmare yet




This one is going to get ugly.  I am triggering hard.  Last night’s nightmares have shaken me.  They started the night before.  Me running from him.  Last night the theme and feeling of the dream changed.  I need to vomit and then try to get this out.  I’m also making an apmnt to see my therapist.

If you have read my story you know that there are two men I have regular nightmares around.  My older brother who molested, hit, mentally & emotionally tortured and raped me and my Xman whom I did drugs with and would have surely lost my life to when the PTSD had control.  They look very similar physically and they have the same narcissistic sociopathic tendencies.  Last night, it was both of them.

It is one of the most insane and disturbing dreams I have had post therapy.  Are we really ever truly “post” therapy.  I don’t think so.  I think I will always be going back when I need help with PTSD.  Why be miserable?  I digress….

Back to the dream.  I was an adult.  I flashed between two scenes like a TV shows does to keep you up on both stories.  Sometimes I was at my Parents home in Oregon (the one they had when I was young) and other times I was renting a house with other Burners.  In both instances, I was not safe.  The feeling of needing to escape is my reoccurring nightmare theme.  It’s dark.  I know “the bad man” is coming and I need to escape.  Sometimes I start frantically packing things because I know I am never coming back.  Other times I begin to run and open secret doors that lead to more rooms and more secret doors.  Sometimes I make it outside but am then somehow too afraid to run into the dark.  I often take a car and then suddenly I am in the back seat and no one is driving or there are no brakes.  It’s sheer emotional terror.

This time when my brother appeared naked, erect and wanting to fuck me, I was wanting to do it as well.  I knew we had to hide.  We were moving around the basement silently trying to find a place where no one would see us.  I was intensely aroused and close to orgasm.  I would flash over to the other dream and it would be my Xman.  He would also be erect and wanting to have sex.  I was also trying to hide him and to fuck him.  Back and forth ~ back and forth.  Me as a grown adult.  Knowing it was wrong and yet so filled with lust and that all I wanted to do was have sex.  At one point in the dream, I am laying in a bed in my Mothers home.  I am waking up from the dream I just described.  I reached for a vibrator and was going to attempt to masturbate because I was so aroused.  I still knew it was disgusting but was so sexually aroused I did it anyway.

I awoke this morning in full trigger mode.  The room was spinning.  I had to fight to come fully awake.  I was screaming for help in my own head.  I felt someone sit down on the bed next to me and I was frozen stiff.  I could not get my eye’s all the way open and my vision was completely blurred when I did.  I felt myself start to panic.  My heart was pounding.  I had to first convince myself I was alone and safe.  I felt (feel) terrified, disgusted and relieved (that it was a dream and not real).  I stood up quick and had to balance myself.  I had a desire to be out of the bedroom and into the light.  As soon as I opened the curtain that separates our bedroom from the living room I began to come down.  I started talking to myself out loud and reached inside for my PTSD battle tools.  “It was a dream.  I am safe.  It was just a dream of a PTSD ridden mind.  It does not mean that’s what you want.  It does not have to have meaning at all.  It was just a dream.  It’s just the PTSD.  It’s just the PTSD.  It’s just the…..”

So yeah, there’s a new fucking shitty ass trigger in there.  Wow.  I mean I know I have been replacing the abuser.  I know that Xman looked eerily like my brother.  I know why I was with him and why I let him abuse me.  I know why I abused him back.  I understand and have released shame for the choices I made when the PTSD controlled me.  But fucking shit I did not need that fucking dream.  I am so deeply grossed out.  I went straight to the toilet.  Handled that.  Reached for my weed and went outside.  I knew standing there on our deck knowing that the most important thing for me to do right now would be to come in here and tell you here on this blog ~ my truth.

I have a lump in my throat.  I have images of my brothers erect cock coming at me.  I have images of myself wanting it…..  WTF  AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT???  I don’t want to think about that.  I don’t want to see it.  I am so deeply and horribly disgusted by that dream.

PTSD feeds on shame and fear.  It holds you down and tells you that you are disgusting and you should never ever tell anyone your ugly truth.  It kicks you and beats when you are down and it can reach up and bitch slap you when you are up too.  I did nothing to deserve my childhood.  I did nothing to deserve PTSD.  I have no shame over a dream that is the result of PTSD.  It doesn’t mean shit.  It was just a dream.  I wanted to share that with you.  I wanted to take away it’s power by showing it to you.  And I hope that if you have the same sick dreams you will know that it is just the PTSD and you are not disgusting.

I want to go for a walk in the rising sun with my dog.  I want to scream and cry and vomit.

Standing Up For ME

Every time I stood up for myself as a girl I was chastised and punished.  I am 48yrs old and just learning to stand up for myself every time.  Sometimes, I still allow people to walk over me.  I would say I am somewhere around 60 /40.  That number needs to change.

Standing up for me does not feel natural.   I have had to learn how to do so with the proper amount of tone and inflection.  I can’t let that shit build up inside me.  For my sake and for those I love.  Learning to stand my ground and speak my boundaries in a sane and appropriate manner has been difficult.  I find myself checking myself, choosing my words and tone wisely and then moving on.  I owe no one an explanation for my boundaries.  Not even myself.

I was spoken down to and belittled for so long that I have zero patience for it now.  I can be told that I wrong, need to be redirected and whatever other super hippy way you want to say it.  I can take direction.  I can not take being spoken down to.  Being spoken to with a tone that says you are stupid for not knowing this.  My StepFather chastised my Mother and me by asking us rhetorical questions in a shitty “you are so fucking stupid” tone of voice.   I would usually stand there blinking searching my mind for what to say to this giant man whom I feared every day.  You didn’t ever want to set him off.  I’ve spoken of it before.  His and Mother’s claim to fame is that he never touched me.  He didn’t need to.  She was just as afraid of him.  I have tapes of her fear in my head.

I find standing up to men to still be a more difficult challenge.  They use that tone I begin to crumble.  It usually takes everything I have got for me to retain my dignity and stand my ground.  The happier I become the easier it gets.  A bright shining happy person is easier to hear “no thank you” from then a raging freaking out angry bitch.  Just say’n.

be someone


But I am the “freak” of the family and it always is made clear.

I should not be surprised.  I woke up at 5AM in a foul mood, in physical pain and the fucking internet was out.  I went to bed dreading today and ohh look it started out shitty.  I’m like a ticking time bomb inside waiting to unleash my BOOM.

In two hours I will be leaving to make the drive to Portland for my Step Grandfather’s memorial service.  He was a very good man.  He was always kind to me.  Other members of my Step Mom’s family not so much.  There is added tension between my brother and I that I can’t speak of.  So today promises to suck dirty sweaty haven’t been washed for months hippy balls.  Well at least a few hours of it this afternoon.

What I would like to do is rise above the BS and shine like a ray of light.  I picked a sleeveless dress as it is what we consider “hot” in the NW today.  I also packed black pants with two sleeveless top options.  I have thousands of dollars worth of art on my arms and I am not hiding them for anyone.  I wont be the only tattooed person there.  But I am the “freak” of the family and it always is made clear.  So how can I be me and not let them know how much I hate being there?  How good have I become at tolerating the glances, the stares and those fucking whispers?  How I hate the whispers most of all.

It’s so bizzare how the don’t know me.  They don’t know that the world I live in holds me as one of it’s trusted and dedicated leaders.  Even after my two years of grief and the PTSD being triggered.  When I came out of my cave and said “hey I’m OK now” they came running to embrace and continue to trust me.  These people who stand in judgement over me have no idea the countless hours I have put into serving and helping the homeless, building art festivals for the public or helping local urban farms improve the grounds to feed hundreds of people for years to come.  They don’t know me.  Yet they sit and stare and judge.  Inside I will be flipping them off with both hands.  Outside I will be shining like the sun.  I am fucking determined.

Here’s an example of how I am seen.  I was a teen and had come for visitation with my Dad.  We went to a “family gathering” at my Step Mom’s parents house.  The house is filled with people.  I am quietly standing in one corner of the kitchen watching my Step Mom laugh, chat and prepare food with her Sister and a couple other ladies.  My Step Mom asked me to open the cupboard behind me and hand her a mixing bowl.  I hesitated, verified what cupboard I was to open and then reached up to do so.  One of the Aunts came walking in the kitchen just as I did so.  She forcibly shut the cupboard I had barely opened and snapped at me “NO!  What are you doing?”  My Step Mom quickly said that she had asked me to help and the Aunt said something under her breath and walked out.  That was the day it was clear to me that I was not a part of the family and that my mental health issues had been a topic of conversation.  And for some reason she thought I was either snooping or stealing.  I have dreaded and hated seeing these people ever since.  I have felt unwelcome and unwanted since that day but have gone when asked by my Step Mom or Father out of respect.  I’m 45yrs old and could throw up right now……

Why am I going?  Because I love my Step Mother, I love my Father and I was invited to come and honor a man who deserves my energy.

I choose to be present.  I choose to accept where I am and be peaceful in the moment.  I will not allow the behavior of others to steal my peace.  Even when the others are hypocritical judgemental shallow cunts.

Ohhh and I bought a vape pen with a lovely Sativa blend.  I can walk outside and get ripped with no one being able to tell.  No bloodshot eyes and no smell.  I will sit quietly stoned judging them for judging me.  Yeah thats the plan 😉

The craziness of a teenager

We arrived in Stockton, CA in 1984.  I was 15yrs old.  My StepFather had been transferred again.  I was to start a new life.  The conflicts began almost immediately.  California was like a new world to a weird NW girl.  We stayed at The Hilton hotel for a couple of weeks until we could find a house.  I was bored.  I don’t remember the excuse I used to get out or the time of day it was as I roamed the halls of the grand hotel just wasting time.  I saw a man and went from zero to a complete fantasy of him falling madly in love with me in my brain.  Looking back, I know now that he was the first “bad guy” I was attracted to.  I changed into my swim suit and headed for the pool hoping to see him.  I did.  He told me his room number and invited me to come up.  I don’t know what I was thinking would happen.  Honestly, it was before I knew what it meant when a man invites you to his hotel room.  I walked in thinking I would finally be having adult conversation and be a grown up.  Maybe he would marry me.  I hope my StepFather would like him…..

I was in his room for only a few mins when he came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel.  At first I thought he had his swim trunks on under it.  I asked if he was ready for the pool.  He said the pool was fun but he wanted to get to know me first.  I was still clueless.  I was thinking he was paying attention to me and this is must be what adults do.  He laid down on the bed and through the towel back.  I was 15yrs old alone in a hotel room with an adult (I’m guessing 30’s) male who had just exposed himself and was laying on a bed.  I moved like a flash towards the door.  He didn’t move.  I opened the door, yelled something about seeing women as a piece of meat and ran down the hall.  I ran and ran without looking back.  I told no one.  The next day I was in the kids play area playing with some younger kids who were also staying at the hotel.  I looked up to the floors above and saw him standing at a rail, pointing down to me and talking to another man.  I again took off running.  I stayed in our room unless my Mom or Stepfather was with me for the rest of our stay.  Every time we left the room I was terrified I would see him and he would tell my parents what a bad slutty little girl I had been.  I immediately blamed myself and feared I would be in trouble.  Again, it never occurred to me that he was in the wrong and could have gone to jail.

A few weeks later we moved into a duplex in the nicer neighborhood of Stockton.  The distinction is important because what I was about to find out is that California gangs are far more real and serious than anything we had ever seen in Portland, OR.  My Mother took me to tour the school that our home had recently been reassigned to.  We drove south and I was walked through the halls of a high school that felt like I was being walked straight into hell.  We drove away and I told my Mother if she enrolled me in that school I would not go.  She told me it would never happen.  The city had just voted to start trying a “busing” program to try to integrate the students.  Basically they were busing kids from both side of the tracks to the side they did not live on.  I realize how it sounds now.  But at the time I was truly terrified.

My Mom found and enrolled me into a private Christian school.  The school required that we attend church.  This is when I heard things like “Jesus, Atheist and sinner” for the first time.  I showed up in my treasured black leather biker jacket with my Ozzy pins and my black eye liner thickly in place.  I was immediately advised of the dress code and many other rules.  The next five years were a nightmare.  Now I had it in my head that I was evil and going to hell for my sins.  Back and forth.  Up and down I went.  I would pray and pray and pray.  I went to 6AM prayer meetings, attended church three days a week, read the bible until I had it almost memorized and sang my heart out to the beautiful songs of worship I learned.  Then I would “rebel” as we called it in our youth group.  Rebelling was when we would go party and act like normal teens.  I became a master at hiding my rebellion and sins.  My friends and I would drink, smoke weed and party like teens do.  Then go to church or school and act like the perfect Christians.  We had it down to a science.  We had codes and always backed each other up when questioned by adults.  We had changes of clothes, condoms, cigarettes and more stashed in the trunks of our cars.  We knew exactly where we could change and still make it to our boyfriends and back on our lunch hour or after school.  By my Senior year I was dating a guy who played the same game but was a year ahead of me.  He went to a public high school but lived close to me.  I met him while working after school at Burger King.  He graduated and went to San Jose State on a full basketball scholarship.  He was a talk gorgeous dark black drink of delicious and the first “player” I gave my teenage heart to.  He was young and so was I.  He never hit me, never treated me like anything less than a queen when I was with him.  It was just that I had no idea what a player was and how much he played lol lol.  I have no anger for him.  He probably spared me a great deal by being my “boyfriend.”  I sat at home waiting for him and writing him letters a lot.  I drove to San Jose to see him twice and my parents never knew.  I thought I was in love.  I was just a seventeen year old very confused and desperate for love young lady.

I know that I was a difficult teen.  I had a lot of emotional problems due to the molestation and rape.  But I have to be honest and tell you that my StepFather also contributed greatly to my PTSD.  Had I not been molested and raped his constant teasing and putting my Mom and I down for being women may not have had such an effect on me.  But my reality is that I can still hear him telling me I am fat, ugly, stupid and that someday he will have to pay someone to marry me because no one will ever want me.  So while I remember trying to disappear and be quiet, my Mom remembers constant battles.  I agree that I was always in trouble. I just don’t agree that I deserved it.  The night before I graduated from high school my Mother told me I had to leave her home because I was ruining her marriage.  I was standing in the guest room ironing the silk gown / robe thing that goes over your clothes.  She just walked into the room and said “you have 30 days to be out of my home because you are destroying my marriage” and walked out.  I knew she was serious because when I was about ten years old and was in trouble for something she had told at me not to ever make her choose between me and her husband because she would choose him.  A sentence she has stood by and I would like to slap her for.  I looked at my son years later at ten years old and shook my head remembering that day unable to fathom laying some shit like that on him.

I tried to find a job and a friend who would let me move in with them.  Three days before my deadline my Father drove down from Oregon with a friend to retrieve me and my possessions.  My Mother did nothing to help me.  She didn’t help me pack, teach me how to pack anything or offer any guidance.  Every night I was quietly as possible putting my clothes and most prized possessions in boxes I got from grocery stores or garbage bags.  As my Father and his friend loaded my things into his truck I was excited.  I was leaving Cali and going back to Oregon to live with my Father.  I was 18 and had a high school diploma.  My Mother sat in the living room and watched TV.  She had to be hurting but she choose to express it in anger.  When we I told her we were done she looked at my Father and said “Well I guess I wont tell you all her problems, I’ll just let you discover for yourself.”  Later as we drove down the road I asked my Father what she meant by that.  He said he didn’t know and asked what I thought she meant.  I remember saying that I didn’t think I was that bad and that I didn’t think it was nice of her to say that.  I had been at my Fathers home for a week when he came to me and told me that the therapist he and my StepMom had been seeing had recommended one for me to see.  I agreed to go.

“Something really really really bad happened to me when I was little….”  This was the way I started the answer to the request from my new therapist to tell him my life story up to this point.  I then proceeding to tell him about what a horrible person I was and how I had been so bad to have sex in high school and so on.  I told him about the church and how now there were demons after me because I was a sinner.  I finished my story just before the hour was over.  “What was the really really really bad thing that happened when you were little?” he asked.  I told him I was raped but that I was sure I had already given that to God and it was not a problem anymore.  He suggested we start there to be sure and I agreed because he was the doctor and frankly I was on an upswing from having finally moved into my Dads home.

Two months later the therapy he started with me would trigger a flood gate of memories and I would experience my first flashbacks.  I began to unravel and became suicidal.  I look back and wonder if I really wanted to die or if I was trying to express the level of pain that was inside me.  Either way, my Father, StepMother and I made the decision that I needed more intense therapy and at the prompting of my therapist I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital.  I remained there for two months.  I have gone back and forth regarding the treatment I received.  If you watch the movie “Girl Interrupted” you will see almost exactly what it was like except it was the late 80’s rather than the 60’s.  That movie was spot on.  I had a completely enmeshed and inappropriate relationship with a fellow female patient.  Not sexual at all.  I wanted to protect her from being further abused.  She lied and manipulated me.  I was older.  I was blamed for everything.

When I left the hospital I think I might have been somewhat worse off mentally but I was alive and that was a good thing.  I just still didn’t fully believe it myself.  I was 18 and all I wanted was to be left alone.  I wanted a man, a job and to be loved.  I wanted the fantasy all American life.  I wanted to just be normal.

It’s time 

“When you protect the past you loose your future.”

It’s a line from American Horror Story.  And a lesson I learned over the weekend.  I’m still processing.  I found something ….. A freedom.  And the universe confirmed it immediately.

It’s time to move on and just be happy. 

Telling My Parents

Yesterday I spoke with my Mom and I told her I was blogging.  I told her I was sharing my entire life story and had already written and publicly published the beginning of the molestation and rape.  I asked her not to read it if she ever came across it and I told her why, explaining that it is graphic.  She agreed with me.  This weekend I will visit my Father and tell him the same.  He may ask to read it.  I don’t know…… I don’t think a parents needs to read the graphic details of their child telling their story of abuse even if they are now aware that it happened.  Just seems really painful and triggering.

I confess to having some strange feelings after I published those stories.  There is a part of me that still fears him.  But the greater part of me would like to confront him.  If you read back on my blog you will find an entry where I talk about needing to ask my Dad to allow me to have him banned from my Fathers funeral, when he passes.  I’m going to have that talk this wknd too.  I’m going to tie it all together.

I’m finding peace as I tell you.  I suppose I’m just ready.  When the shame finally leaves you either replace it with more reasons to be ashamed or you tell your story with your head held up high.  I have taken my power back.  I’m using it for good now.   I fucking loathe and hate the man who abused me.  I refuse to let him have any power in my life.  Honestly, I would take the shot given the chance to legally kill him.  No doubt in my mind.  I’m not psycho and I’m not going looking for him.  But if he ever came after me, like he swore he would, I would not lay there quietly and take it.  I would fucking kill him.  Or wound him horridly and have his ass sent to prison to be tortured for the rest of his pathetic life.  It’s really difficult to know that the monster I have feared for so long is quietly still holding a place in my family.  Not for long.  Not if I can help it.

My Father, my StepMom and I in October the day we moved me into my new condo.