Bled.

I will kneel at the feet of the man or the beast,
depending on which one has his teeth sunk into me…
and when the lips peel back upwards,
to bear the double edged,
dripping red, set of razor teeth…
only then, can be determined,
which one I’m currently worshiping.
I can blend myself in with the white or red skin,
belonging to either clan through a split blood relation…
and when the day has ended,
to become the grey-scaled,
chain-mailed, cell of my own prison…
the only way that I’m able to stay,
shine light on what’s mine once again.
I can keep up still, alongside the fin or the gill,
towing my heaviest anchor and its affected blood-trail…
and when the buoy’s been rounded,
to become blinded once again,
the line of vision, breaths get exhaled…
the single-handed curse:
my belovedly bled best friend.

The Trigger (Cut-Throat Club).


PLEASE BE ADVISED THAT THIS MAY BE DISTURBING FOR  SOME READERS; CONTINUE ACCORDINGLY.

FOREWORD:

Recently, several people who have only been reading or following my blog since the opening of Beasts of Articulation and/or Kindred Words opened up (almost a year ago, now…wow), have sent me private messages inquiring about my “story”. I realize that as a writer, I am all over the fucking place with my posts; and that the content of my blog is generally confusing as fuck to someone who just happens upon it, as a result. I know many of you do not care to read my “story” again, and I apologize to those of you who don’t. I am posting The Trigger once again in attempt at killing a bunch of birds with the one stone, because I am lazy. Anyway, for anyone who is reading this for the first time, THIS is the story of my final injury at the hands of my ex-husband (a now, deceased psychopathic murderer who fathered my only child); and it marks the beginning of my own re-birth and reconstruction, a process that I am continuing to wade through, even now – over a decade later. I have had 29 major surgeries, spent far too much time stuck in-hospital for chunks of mine and my daughter’s lives (collectively, about 4 solid years), and was scarred just as much on the inside as I am on the outside, if not more lastingly. I do not post this for sympathy or pity from anyone who reads it; simply as an explanation to the many pieces of my blog that come across as incomprehensible to someone who is not aware of my own experience thus far in Life.

As my story goes, I am an animal lover, and strive to make any animal as happy as it has the capacity to be; I am a die-hard advocate for domestic violence aid and for the many, many victims of marital terrorism; I am a die-hard advocate for the rights of children in such situations, as well. Sadly, we each know someone who is in a situation very similar, if not the same, as my former circumstance became by the time it reached its tragic ending; I am unbelievably lucky that I am not a long-dead statistic of domestic violence, and my hope is that by sharing my own history, I will help at least one other human being. Thank you, in advance, for your understanding.

 

In some ways, the triggering event was as horrifying as it might have been if she had discovered the lifeless body of one of her own children in that garage – HIS garage – during the earliest hours of the morning on the day of her near-death.

In other ways, it was somehow much, much worse.

The day before had been a bad one – a nasty beating and the brain fog that always accompanied them; there had been a lot of ugliness spat in her direction several times before dinner, and during the meal that she had begrudgingly cooked for him (her appetite had become non-existent and he made sure that she was perpetually dope-sick), she had sat across the table from him with her eyes on the floor, in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable explosion that she had come to sense brewing and building beneath her husband’s skin.

By this stage of her “captivity”, the woman was allowed individual companionship with five living souls: The Ripper, Boo, and the woman’s three dogs – Sarah, Ozzy, and Vegas. This night, as the tension grew thicker by the bite of food stuffed into her husband’s mouth, it was Sarah, a chow-pit-bull mix that had come into this tragic situation alongside of a once-braver, stronger and more capable version of her caretaker: as an innocent – who lied loyally at the feet the woman’s defeated body, beneath the table on high alert. The dogs were each honed well to the man’s moods also; acting as canine tools that had undoubtedly helped the woman survive in the past.

Directly following his dinner, her giant husband went outside momentarily; and during this brief period, the woman got down on the floor to scratch some neck and belly – a luxury that, outside of him, the monster of a man she had married allowed her ONLY to share with these ever-faithful beasts.

It had at that time that her husband came back in through the back door, and she could tell from the sound of his steps that he was coming for her; she never knew why. Everything had happened so quickly: his boot to her belly, then head – repeatedly; any sense of true consciousness became likened to a strange swirling sensation that drifted drunkenly up and down with the motion of smoke trying to suspend itself in air…she notably forced herself to stay with the pain – to stay awake in defiance, to NOT let him knock her out unconscious again (a gamble of the outcome to a circumstance in which she lost consciousness was not one that typically landed the odds in her favor).

She dazedly heard yelling, clicking and cusswords; growling, snapping and cracking sounds.

It wasn’t until a much later time (years later) that the woman would recall the image of her terroristic spouse exploding at Sarah as well, for vainly trying to protect her. Sarah was a beautiful creature, one that died for her unwavering loyalty to the woman.

BUT, THAT EVENT HAD BEEN YESTERDAY…

It was after she finished cleaning up the bloodied back of her head under the tap in HIS garage, and turned to leave, that she saw Sarah’s body on the dirt floor – semi-covered by a canvas tarp – beaten to death. THIS had been the event that changed everything very quickly, as the guilt and sheer self-loathing that followed this discovery consumed the woman within a nano-second; she went insane from all of it: the beatings, the betrayal and violation, the death that she wished would be granted more swiftly, the death that he gave poor Sarah…and reason she was now dead.

She bolted from the garage and screamed at the top of her lungs for him to come outside and face her: a challenge she knew he would undoubtedly accept as pure entertainment (the thought fueled her disgust and anger, self-hatred and guilt to the point of no return). It was then, that her inner-most warrior at last made an appearance; and the woman let this sensation have control completely.

She had felt no fear when she saw him come to the window the next time, his composed face looking warped with shock and disbelief at her sudden demands. She was screaming a plea for a duel with a man nearly two-and-a-half times her weight. She did not experience the typical fear when he began to pound angrily on the glass from inside the window, hollering things that she could not hear, but knew would be the most venomous death threats he’d ever made. She did not see much of anything besides a deepening blackness and the void of sharp edges; her thoughts huddled, unprocessed in a corner somewhere being protected by her own mind like a child’s.

Her battle cries continued until he finally came to the front door;  at approximately the same time a police cruiser pulled up two driveways down; she began to run towards the chain-link fence in that direction. She wasn’t running to freedom; she was running to tell the police that he was a murderer, to show them what he had done to Sarah – to make them understand why her heart could not go on any further in this living Hell. She was beyond any point of caring about her own safety or future by that time.

He bee-lined for her in the yard as she shuffled like a derelict in haste towards them, demanding that she first passed  his position on the front porch; her mouth sputtering, her lungs afire from yelling for so long and loud. Her long-disrepaired jaw had gradually become an un-healed injury that rendered her barely able to move it. She fell over her own frozen, numb feet, and, feeling certain she had finally met her end, looked directly towards the gathered crowd on the other side of the front yard’s fence; her huge, lumbering and loping husband closed in on her. She verbally managed to convey the message to the nearest police officer that she “was finally about to be killed…” before the final envelopment of her weakened, sinewy figure. A lot of blood and gore ensued. The police and paramedics on stand-by acted without hesitation upon his quickly executed attack, focusing every molecule of energy present in the environment on her simple continuity of LIFE.

 

PHYSICAL INJURIES SUSTAINED:

Severe vascular injury/ies (with particular attention to the internal carotid and jugular) from forcibly displaced mandible fracture and blunt lacerations;

Multiple Maxillofacial traumas requiring numerous surgeries necessary for her jaw to eventually function properly.

For months, she would remain too incoherent to be aware of any of the events that took place that day, or the fact that her husband had escaped the scene, despite so many people being physical there, right nearby, saving her life from his deathly grips at last. She would spend the next year with the burn unit patients in a hospital to physically work right again; and then they would start to try and reconstruct her face. It would be over a decade until any detail of that day (and the days leading up to it) would return to her mind with any true vividness; like any other memory she keeps; the entire element of Sarah having somehow been washed away with her painful, daily skin debriding in those early days – until only about six months ago, while she was writing a section for this blog.

And so, it had been finding Sarah’s battered and bloody body in HIS garage that turned me seemingly insane with guilt and self-loathing…I essentially begged him to come outside and kill me…and he did in some ways.

But, not in the ways that matter most.

 

PLEASE NOTE:

Ozfest and Vegas were unharmed during this incident.

Black on Blue.

If you had a clue how it hurts when you cut in,

with your blade ever-sharp, like a spade to my heart, within;

if you felt the fear that I feel when the torture begins –

if you really loved this person I am,

under this roughed up and broken skin,

I doubt you’d ever be able to hurt me, again.

When you say you’ve changed your evil ways,

when you promise that I can believe what you say;

and my face is smeared and bleeding the very next day –

when you would sooner beat me than to let me get away,

for just a moment, from the constant hurt and pain,

you’d rather violate me in every imaginable way.

Once you broke my body, my mind fell next in line,

you broke me down and ground me out through the course of time;

once you knew I’d still love you, even when you were unkind –

once you recognized the kind by which my spirit is defined,

it then became a simple matter of the gradual pass of time,

before it explodes, and you lose your damned mind.

If you could bleed the blood I’ve bled,

at the hands of your very own beloved,

if your days were so bad, that you wished you were dead –

if you spent your every night being pinned beneath dread,

and your days cleaning wounds all over your swimming head,

I can guarantee that you would have killed me, instead.

When your painful marks cover all of my visible parts,

and you still can’t fight the despicable urge to tear the rest apart;

when the light shines onto what you’ve done to me in the dark –

when you recognize my terror, so you’re sure to make it smart,

and you have brutality down to a medieval dungeon art,

it’s no wonder my blood runs so miserably slow and dark.

Dear Dead Man.

I must confess,
this note’s addressed,
to you, most evil man,
my own attempted murderer
my, once, beloved husband,
I wanted to confess to you,
the way that you continue to,
assert your unearned place
haunting me via Déjà vu,
black and blued right onto
your own daughter’s face,
I feel obliged to tell you ,
since you don’t have to see,
her eyes like a raccoon’s;
as her dead former “Father”,
free of the burden or bother ,
of any knowledge or attachment to,
what she’s managed to survive through,
yes, you still fucking linger,
a horrid and grotesque harbinger,
well-hidden,
unbidden…
somehow, forgiven through,
a darkly executed ruse,
she’s grown up somehow,
to be just like you,
you’re a Dead Man now,
no sweat on that trouble-free brow,
you must take this lying down;
you’re gonna have to know it,
hear it all, through and through,
it’s only fitting,
I wish you were living,
can you believe that I’d say so?
alive just long enough,
to walk in big and tough,
you always liked to think,
there’s nothing that can make,
those lying eyes of yours blink
but if you had to see,
if your eyes had to perceive,
such ruin and atrocity,
the fulfillment of your prophecy
as our own full-grown legacy,
glowing in your luminosity,
broken and battered,
just like you battered me…
the sight would make you blink.

Display.

Image from we<3it.

This is what happens,
or, moreover: what can;
when a woman is broken,
by the hands of a man;

these are the facets,
that the light reflects through;
our many faces of torture,
that somehow still smile on queue;

we sit on display in a window,
it’s all that we know how to be;
like a sideshow in a circus,
to glimpse tells a million stories.

A scale that is constantly sliding
from and to either of its ends;
A timepiece of nature’s abiding,
until it balances us out once again.

You’ve got the innocent, young, and the most naïve,
next to the masochist who can’t get up from her knees;
you’ll see the ancient and calm; the kamikaze love-bomb,
the wise, archetypal matriarch and the shivering fawn.

We are each so different, while exactly the same
our memories are connected by torturous pain;
we’ve accepted and together we stand once again,
against the demons that left us with scars in our skin.

Memaphor.

 

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

I shouted into the pitched darkness, somehow expectant of an answer from its emptied core. The lack of response was killing me; I had been having this one-sided yelling match for the entire night long, to no avail. The low rumbling of thunder began then, and my heart-rate quickened at the sound of its tumbling crashes getting louder – the ground beneath me rumbling ever-so-slightly from its force.
It’s then that my thoughts begin to pirate my mind in rapid succession:
Systematically, I think about the last time that this happened, about the brain-blindingly loud thunder and the chaotically destructive lightning; about the unworldly things that my body was forced to endure during the last storm like this one; I think about the endless possibilities of damages that the impending storm might bring with its wrath; I think about death…I wish for death, a quicker one than the one I am currently playing out.
My mind regains its control over the rest of me just then; and I sit up and wipe my face to regain some composure. I am jolted awake with realization. I scream again with the dwindling wind left in my stinging lungs, affecting a strip of sandpaper ripping itself upwards from my belly’s darkest depths.

“I don’t need to stay here!”

I become infused by adrenaline throughout my bloodstream and serotonin pumping through my glands as I holler the defiant statement into the blackness beyond me – surrounding me – enveloping me;

“I don’t have to do this again…I won’t let you do this anymore!”

I spring to my broken feet in spite of the searing pain shooting up each ankle through my shin bones, lower jaw jutting out in sheer bullheadedness; I have chosen. I am so high off of my own rebellion that I fail to notice the momentum growing in the rumbling and cracking of thunderous bolts around me in the darkened space. At that instant, I can feel the warfare in my esophagus, its bile-like foam rising in my tightened throat; its taste instantly sets off an alarm in my brain and my mind gets weakened by the surprise – I fall.
The cracks of forceful, thunderous power bite at my face and body like wet sheets twisted into vines to whip me to a miserable death. The bellowing rolls of strength and control wash over the entirety of the scene with noise so deafening, that I am no longer able to tell up from down – dark from light; the pain brought about through these forces is felt through and through…standing every nerve on its end, leaving a pain-infused retinal image singed into the insides of my eyelids. I do not want to open my eyes ever again after that point, as I know that HE has returned to hurt me. I wait like a wounded hunter’s prize in the silent darkness, straining to hear it. It’s a voice that is so terrifying to my betrayed, blood-filled ears, that its dripping teeth are nearly tangible to me through the void around me, it says:

“Do you not by now realize, fragile one, that you hold no power here?”

My heart sinks lowly at the sound of HIS voice; its affected terror on me perseveres blindly past my strongest points. I crumble, too weakened by shame and defeat to cry, even. A huge hand, large enough to scoop up my entire body, picks me up into its bloodied palm and begins to squeeze me so tightly that I watch my own eyeballs turn red from the inside.

simple_beauty_by_velvetredbullet-d3cqn4d

The Struggle.

All that is happening now does, indeed, go back to the incident in Arizona. The surgeries that she has already undergone and recovered from have each been in attempt to separate scar tissue that has grown around Boo’s trachea from being cinched by a belt for nearly two days; also – her inability to speak has finally been de-mystified as well. The same thing is happening at the base of her vocal chords, as a result of scar tissue build-up, only the vocal cords have been permanently affected by residues left from the chemicals that Boo had been forced to drink during her captivity. The doctors have done what they can without sending her to a specialist for what is considered as “delicate surgery”; the next step to come.
Within the month, she will be going to Stanford for such things…and I have little doubt behind her strength or ability to deal with it. She remains in care still – a milestone in and of itself; she is bored beyond description, covered in bed sores, and must be feeling pretty low…yet, she hasn’t left again. Her little boyfriend (the one who do not necessarily like so much but cannot deny his humanity in comparison to the other men she has surrounded herself with in the past) comes to visit her now; I know that makes her feel like the world isn’t ending, after all. Anything that helps her to stay put and ride out the road ahead through her physical recovery – I am on board with it.
She has grown up so much…in such a short time…she is so jaded and darkened by her own experiences, that I watch her struggle with simply being cared for by another human being…it’s rough. But she’s letting it happen – as hard as it may be on her.

20150904_140004-1

Incremental Death.

“It is said that a frog will jump out of a pot of boiling water; however, if one places it in a pot and turns the water up a little at a time, the frog will stay until it is boiled to death…We frogs understand this.”      ~ Deb Caletti

WebThis quote is a painfully true statement in my personal case; and, has always stuck with me since I first read the words on a fellow speaker’s pamphlet at a DV seminar that I was speaking at. She had such a powerful message that we became instant allies in the fight against Domestic Violence and Child Abuse. The “boiling point” comparison has always hit right at home with me because I used to be burned with scalding water regularly during my captivity/marriage; and the metaphor is dead on because the effect of this one of two things:

  1. it shocks you in totality
  2. it creates physical numbness

My dear sister survivor Avalanche once wrote about the “boiling point” also – nailing it to perfectly described element of the truths surrounding domestic violence and captivity. We frogs do, indeed, understand this all too well.

The Slow Drink.

One element of the strained relationship that I have never written about before on this blog is that which makes up the dynamic between myself and my parents (my mother and step-father) and Boo; the reasons behind this were self-serving, as the depth of detail that would be involved in trying to write down this dynamic is daunting to consider. In order to write about the current status of things now, however, I must do a summary of that dynamic first:
• Upon my return from a long-time in-patient stay at the hospital, she had changed (this much, I HAVE written about in the past on this blog) – changed in the sense of her overall characteristics, personality and functioning behaviors – she had become “spoiled” in the classic sense as a result of residing with her doting grandparents for too long without any real ground rules.
• It didn’t surprise me as much as it hurt me to quickly learn that when given a choice in the matter, Boo would unfailingly and repeatedly choose to be with her grandparents (instead of me) – as she could control the situation to a disturbing degree when she was with them, as opposed to when she was with me.
• A wedge was built between all of us.
• Boo’s “splitting” set the stage for the years to come.

By the time I had come to terms with Boo’s preference of my parents over me, it was because I was unable to uphold the rules and culture of my home when she was at home; her disregard and disrespect for my expectations as well as my consistency when it came to cause and effect, and any attached repercussions that she might have at a given time. She never had consequences with my parents: they let her run all over them and always found reasons to excuse her behaviors – to the point of sheer enablement. It had become so bad that even prior to Boo’s being put into a “residential treatment facility”, our family was at constant odds in regard to what to do with her. They always accused me of being too hard on her; and I still stand firm that they were detrimentally lenient with an unruly child.
I hate to say this, but everything that has become…everything that our so-called family has disintegrated away to…I had flashes of it years ago; I saw it coming – or at least the very clearly represented possibility of such an un-solvable puzzle as that in which we now reside. As time wore on, Boo began to steal from them; by the time she was eight years old, she had already broken into my step-dad’s safe and stolen close to $1,000.00 over the gradual period of about a year or so. When I learned of this, I exploded and went into a rage, admittedly; I was disgusted and ashamed of Boo for such despicable things. It was within the following few months that she was remanded to the place where she became a child victim of sexual assault – and things obviously tail-spun from there to a much deeper and darker type of despair for our family. However, my explosive reaction to Boo stealing from my parents had started another period of time in which I was once again: cast out and collectively shunned by my mother’s closest family. Things were in such a state when Boo went away, and I did not start to speak to my parents again until several years later – when Boo was almost killed for the first time by a grown man while she was on the lam. None of us had seen nor heard from her in over a month and our fear drew us together at the hospital.
Since then, we have been pretty solid…
I believe the healing that seems to have been happening within my relationships with my parents (together and individually) is due to Boo’s worsening behaviors and lessening concern with how those behaviors affect the people who love her i.e. my parents and I. These days, it’s during the times when Boo has showed her ass and stabbed one or both of them in the back with painful blatancy somehow, that they tend to want me around for comfort. I am happy to be around them for this purpose and always have been, so in turn, is created a circumstance to which I am only bound by the negative and destructive displays put forth by my daughter. Upon my return from the last visit I had with Boo on her 18th birthday in May, I have only been re-affirmed through her own actions of her complete inability to live an honest life, in pretty much any context. She has since that visit, been kidnapped, tortured and maimed, literally nearly killed, had surgery, been hospitalized, and eventually returned to my her home county as a judicially procedural result; she has come back to her hometown – where I live.
She did not come back with any changed sense of appreciation for Life or how close she was to losing hers, unfortunately, either. No, Boo was flown back by her trusty and ever-disappointing “case worker” with nowhere to go besides yet another joke of a Sober Living Environment Safe house that only allowed her in because of some professional future perk the county offered in desperate return for an open bed. Boo lasted all of two whole days there (never calling or apprising any of us to the developing situation surrounding her living status or whereabouts – because she doesn’t have to now that she is an adult). As soon as she finished her course of antibiotic and needed no further assistance to shower etc. due to her numerous and severe recovering flesh wounds that are dispersed quite evenly from her head to toe – she was gone again.
She showed up at my parents apparently; and next, somehow managed to talk my dad into buying her a fucking top of the line i-phone and adding her to his phone plan (he still uses an ancient flip-phone w/out a camera); she promised all kinds of shit and then took a shower, ransacked my mother’s bedroom and jewelry, put on some hooker shoes, and left once again.
• She stole heirloom jewelry from my mother
• She came to the house with ONLY the plan of exploiting my dad’s fondness of her
• She has not returned since
She has, however, had the fucking audacity to call and ask for more cash!!! Not only from my dad, but also me and my mother also!!! My mom has finally been forced to water and I’m helping her to drink as slowly as possible, because it hurts like Hell to be stabbed in the back by a grown child of your own line that you helped raise up, I know…I know. But my dad…well, he would likely GIVE HER MORE CASH if he had the opportunity to do it without me and my mom finding out, I just know it deep down…and I don’t like it.

HATE.

“You get justice in the next world; in this one you have the law.”
~ William Gaddis

I’m not angry at her; it’s hardly her fault at all – what she has become. I am angry at myself, at her monster of a sperm donor, and at the failed juvenile courts system of the United States of America. I am angry at the useless social workers who weren’t paying any attention to what I told them when I reached out for help with her so long ago; I am angry at the many handfuls of children’s services that miserably disappointed her needs back then; I am angry at the laughable façade called the JUSTICE that remains only through legend and lore.
I am angry at the judge who has sat back for over six years now and watched with a wretched smile as my only child has been spiritually battered to death under her “care”; I am angry at the court-appointed legal representative that gets paid to protect my daughter’s rights as a clueless child in the midst of a heinously constructed legal process; I am angry that my community doesn’t give a shit about my daughter’s demise; I am angry at the various grown men (at least one of them, an employee of above mentioned failed court system) who saw it fitting to have sex with my underage child, beginning when she was only eleven years old.
I am angry at the case worker who claims to love my daughter and truly care for her…she is undoubtedly the BIGGEST piece of shit breathing air at present – the one who could and should have stopped many things many times, but didn’t. I HATE HER. And, I hate nobody else in the Universe.

Mama.

“Are you okay, Jake?”

(My mother’s nickname for me is Jake)

Hmmmmm…I don’t know, Mama…

let’s review, shall we? How shall I respond to such a painfully dense query? …

Maybe by throwing myself beneath oncoming freeway traffic…

Or peeling the fucking skin from my face with a smile…

Would spontaneous combustion count as a reply to your stupid-ass question?

crying-woman‘Am I okay?’…

fuck no, I’m not okay…come here and I’ll show you.

floki nooooooDear Mama,

I’ve NEVER been okay, and, as my blood-mother – has it ever occurred to you that you should know these things better than anyone? It hurts me so deeply that you take such little interest in knowing me – never have much cared about WHO I AM.
The irony here Mom, is that I am everything I am because of you, essentially, despite your ongoing carelessness and cruelty throughout my entire life. You will never understand me because you don’t care to; you will never hear me because you don’t listen to my words, and never could be still long enough to…do you know how much that hurts me? Even now after all this time I’ve had to accept who you are, it still just doesn’t sit well with me to know that your only daughter is wasted on you, and always was. You’re ignorance has always wounded me deeply, Mom.
Please keep trying, I will too.

Papa always told me that if you are crossing a bridge and become tired, you have only two options:

1) To sit down in the middle of the crossing and die;

2) To go back or forward until you get to one side or the other…

but you don’t just sit down and die, you keep going.

“The Other”.

I guess in all fairness, she lived here long before I did; this was her vessel for even longer than it has belonged to me (I pirated this shell a little over a decade ago now), she functioned within this skin for over two decades prior to my arrival. She primed the solid physique that I carry today, fed the body meals, and somehow managed to get it to where I came into the picture alive…well, barely alive – but alive all the same.

She was a weakling; a cowed and youthfully blind creature, a dreamer, a believer in good, a hopeful and ever-willing dumbass, a self-detrimental junkie and a self-absorbed human being…she was “the other”.

women killed…and she nearly got me killed that decade or so ago…because of the miserable and unbelievable situation she had found herself in in place far from home, friends or family. She went on ahead and had a baby with the man (her husband) who was beating her to a pulp regularly; a man whom she had come to be learn first hand: suffered from increasingly unpredictable physically/sexually violent tendencies towards her. This is an element of domestic abuse that becomes quite the double edged dagger later down the road; but in the beginning of such a notion, the draw is undoubtedly that of human closeness, tenderness and fondness for the DV victim…”the other” was eventually alienated beyond words. The baby linked “the other” to the real world just enough to keep her on head on somewhat forward-facing; the baby also created an entirely new element of fear within her day to day life. She began to care less and less about herself as a result, her safety became irrelevant in her own mind.1072960“The other” got her throat opened in her front yard one day at the hands of that same man; yes, the one who she had married and had children with – the one who she knew she had to get away from before such a thing took place…the one who’s sickness continues to rot away at my existence through the offspring we share. I don’t relate to her choices, that young girl who was slashed that day; I never have…

Since the moment that I picked up her nearly dead carcass and breathed my own air into its essence, she has remained an enigma of sorts to me with her pathways taken and where they led her. I pity her. I dislike her. I cry sometimes for her when I’m alone.

crying_woman_liquid_tears_crying_weeping_wallpaper-t2

Dear Dead Man.

Dear dead terrorist man,
AKA: my ex-husband,
I wanted to confess to you,
your continued presence in my space,
a circumstance of Déjà vu,
black and blued our daughter’s face,
I thought you should hear it,
since you’re not here to have to,
look in her face,
with her eyes like a raccoon’s;
it’s only fair,
that you be,
burdened,
and bothered…
to learn,
what she’s again been through,
you still fucking linger,
in the carbon atom,
and well-hidden,
unbidden…
forgiven in an innocently executed ruse,
she has your eyes,
impossibly long lashes,
to bat away told lies,
you’re a Dead Man now,
no sweat left for your brow,
you’re gonna have to handle the truth;
you’re gonna have to know it,
hear it all, through and through…
I wish you were living,
can you believe I’d say so?
Just long enough,
to walk in all tough,
you like to think,
nobody,
can make your eyes blink,
but if you had to see,
if your eyes,
had to perceive,
such atrocity,
as our own,
smiling baby,
all full-grown,
and battered,
just like you battered me…
you’d die again.

Boo Who?

“…she really almost died, was closer than not to death…because they had no qualms over torturing her to death…”
(a statement made by a detective to me over the phone this morning about Boo…)

It was times such these that prompted the creation of my blog to begin with…because I have ZERO support in the harsh real-time of everyday Real Life and was at my wit’s well tattered end, and desperate to relate to somebody (ANYBODY!) in regard to my tragic experiences in motherhood. So…with that being out of the way and written, I am once again: thrown abruptly into that very desperation for support.
My daughter has been hospitalized in Arizona; with injuries and occurrences that proved newsworthy (see previously posted article here). She had surgery this morning on her arm (broken in two places) and remains in the ICU at the hospital at present. The most heartbreaking part about her current status of “safety” is that it is as good as wasted on her; she will disappear once more from trauma recovery in the hospital – she ALWAYS does…it will not be long before she finds herself in a newly created but eerily similar situation – it NEVER is when she is left to her own devices, whatever those may consist of, anyway.
For ME – a surviving victim of a near-death throat slashing that ended years of sadistic torture and domestic captivity, intentionally CHOOSING to return to an environment that even holds the slightest possibility for the unfolding of oppressive or violent events is unfathomable and incomprehensible. When removed from the role of her fierce and worried mother, the lack of any lessons learned from handfuls of horrible circumstances Boo has miraculously survived so far becomes haunting. My inability to relate to her thinking or motivations grows by the day and, in turn, so does my dislike for the character she owns. I was almost murdered by her father – I came very close to being murdered successfully by his own hand…but, this was the crux of many unspeakable physical injuries and sexual assaults that I had endured throughout our marriage – it was my own boiling point that is inevitable for any “battered woman” who is hostage to a violent sadist. I saw it coming. I knew it had been looming overhead when it was. I had various emotional attachment elements that I allowed to narrow my thinking and ability…Boo knew her most recent abuser just a few days…
And again, here I am right back at that loss for any figment or thread of understanding…my chest feels hollowed out anew…my struggles feel so in vain…my only child defines a testimonial mockery of my own survival and ongoing recovery from torturous violence and evil (who so happened to be Boo’s father). The contrast between Boo and I in the presence of any self-preservative behaviors is so starkly sharpened that I wait for it bleed me dry.

Mindfuq.

Well, I’ve been trying to find out exactly how to put into words what I’ve been experiencing since my return from seeing my daughter (possibly for the last time ever).
On the day after her eighteenth birthday, she disappeared and left me to swallow the reality that she could truly care less about our extremely strained relationship ever getting better. I spent the next day and a half alone and in tears, until it was time to catch my flight back home. I knew it would only be a matter of time before she burned the bridges (as rickety as they were to begin with) between she and her “girlfriend’s” family and people; before she found herself excluded from whatever setting she had been so compelled to ditch me for.
Of course, I was right. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done to actually leave that place by my own will, seeing as how I truly feel as if I’ve walked slowly away from the arena in which she will be tortured and killed eventually. The years of her teenaged life have been spent with her running away – running away – running away…and now that she’s an “adult”, there’s no chasing her anymore. And, that’s what it all comes down to for me I guess, is the fact that I’ve spent so many years in having to “force” my way into her life, if I wanted to be there at all…which is anything but a good feeling when it comes to one’s only child.
Boo has found her way, once again, to right where she undeniably wants to be: a place where she is regularly treated like an animal by grown men who buy her for a few hours at a time to use as they like, before tossing her aside (if she’s lucky). The lies that she spent our time together in telling me only make my blood boil in retrospect:
“You never have to be on the street, Boo; you know as long as I have a roof over my head, so do you…”

“I’m done with that lifestyle Mom…I know that I deserve better than that…”
Her father was the master of telling me what I wanted to hear in order to get me to fall in line with his bullshit…and the older she gets – the more she makes his ways seem so feeble and small. I haven’t heard from her since that day…May 14th 2015; and now I am once again living in that mindfuq place where I am afraid to answer my phone again. I am back to waiting for that call in which I am told that she has been found dead somewhere in a garbage pile. It hurts. Bad.

Cupid’s Misfire II.

He just had to own this girl;

had to find a way to tap into,

to get her to submit to him –

and his inclination to subdue…

 –

his fingers yearned to touch her,

such fair and young, unbroken skin,

his mind was attached to the image –

of her face: full of disgrace and chagrin…

 –

everything else blinked out of existence,

his sights set on lock-tight, and reeling tight,

a matter of time until he dropped the hammer,

and happily violated her every last right…

 –

She was just right to fall for his rouse,

she bit right into the bored, disinterested yawn,

never saw through the showy façade,

until it was too late, and her freedom was gone.

Cupid’s Misfire – I.

There was something about her:
the drag of her left leg as she strode by,
a pocket of heat in the breeze of her passing wake,

he just had to break her,
wanting to steal the twinkle from her eye,
badly desiring to watch her body writhe and shake,

he had no question in mind,
she carried a warrior’s aura that simply defied,
an stubborn, angry innocence that he became driven to take,

she was the one that he’d been waiting on,
the woman he’d been waiting to ruin his whole life,
nothing would please him more than see her body and spirit break.

Kicking.

If you could somehow –
only get a look at me now,
alive, with a surprise kick –
to my birthday number thirty-six;
bet you’d been sure you’d outlast –
the years of mine still slipping passed,
who could’ve known how it’d look –
at the final chapter of your big, bad book;
I don’t mean to convey this fact maliciously –
but, after all, you tried to steal the life from me,
so, you’ll excuse me – for recognizing the irony –
of one more birthday under this belt on me;
so many days filled with bad memories –
nights too afraid to close my eyes to sleep,
at last now, slowly but surely-you’re fading away –
while I trudge through towards next year’s birthday;
I’m not always happy by how my existence is defined –
but I never forget getting a second chance to be alive,
despite the trivial bullshit that keeps me up at night –
life is love – love is truth – and truth burns eternally bright.

Bleeding Machine.

Dear Machine of Destruction and Pain:

I hope this finds you burned to the grass;

I hope your data has been wiped away,

and a ribbon’s been fixed to your ass;

I cursed the very ground you stand on:

that the foundation beneath you will give,

that the crumbled pile of beams and boards,

will become the home in which you live;

I have offered the Gods – my sacrifices:

I have sworn an oath, and signed in blood;

be there none who rise from the ashes,

let the drones suffer in death’s slow-flowing mud;

Dear Heinous Failure of my Forefathers’ Children:

You each should’ve taken heed to past demands;

you should’ve placed much more importance upon,

the job destined to be done by these very hands;

I lay down in the blood of your comical occupation,

I scream out in fear borne of systematic nightmares;

I’ve been forced to break the chain of my command,

and be part of this sickening puppet show for years;

but I spun around on my tiptoes and surprised you:

with a slash of my blade as I flashed by your face,

cut the wires that hook the machine to your pulse;

and every last puppet bled out right there – on stage.

But it’s no victory to celebrate, you see:

no deed can bring back:

what’s been taken from me;

no buildings burned down,

will give me the healing that I seek –

ten thousand bodies underground,

still leaves me hollow and empty;

Dear Machine of Systematic Failure and Human Misery:

I hope this lets you somehow glimpse –

the monster you have made of me;

I hope this emphasizes to you,

and your robots, concisely:

how the driving forces

stampede through me

like panicked horses –

spooked inconsolably;

and there’s nothing left to frighten me –

when it comes to the falling shrapnel,

from the burning shell of the machine.

M4000

“Mommy Has Train Tracks”.

Boo used to say that all of the time about my scarring (post-injury), while she was on my lap, admiring me the way kids do to their’ folk.

So…something occurred to me this morning, as I was drying off after my shower: I still find new scars on my body often.
By “new”, I mean scars that I had not seen before; not scars that are actually freshly appeared.
In the hospital (almost a solid year’s time), I NEVER once gave my body/face a second glance at any time, as the times that it happened by accident left me horrified beyond belief. Boo was very observant – always; so when I came home from the hospital, she immediately began to point out staple-lines and track stitches across my skin with her tiny fingers regularly; she was only four then, so I just kinda went with it and never actually paid much attention to it.
After Boo was gone, during a period of time when I hit a very low point again, I began to notice many scars and marks all over my body that I hadn’t before seen. By then, I had already began regularly inspecting my face and neck in front of the mirror; my purpose for this had not been to look for scars, but to re-familiarize myself with my own face and appearance. The face took front burner for quite some time in my mind, as I was extremely self-conscious and unstable when it came to facing the world. In turn, looking back in hindsight, I totally forgot that there was the rest of my body, too. And, in reality, despite the horrific injuries to my neck and face that swallowed up most of the immediate medical necessity back then – my body most certainly bore the brunt of my overall injuries sustained for the duration of my captivity/marriage.
It just wasn’t so immediate to focus on during the “reconstruction” period, I guess…for any of us involved. I was even of the opinion that as long as I could put clothes on every day and did not have to get naked for anyone, my body and I could agree:
I leave it alone, it leaves me alone. Simple.
This worked well forever, too…until I was faced with too much alone time on my hands after Boo was gone; and it was nearly as if I was slowly undressing somebody else’s body for the first time.
UGLY.
UNREAL.
UNFAIR.
UNFORGIVABLE.
UNDENIABLE.

I started to dread bathing, as I would have to accept it all over again; the PTSD really got bad at that point in regard to flashbacks and resurfaced memories – looking at my own skin created this. I lived in a paradox place where my newborn, obsessive/compulsive need to be clean was constantly at odds with my disgust with my own body. I cried a lot. I cursed at the Gods daily. I thought about digging a hole in the backyard and just climbing into it. Eventually, I met a guy who was cool and I relaxed about my body with time – with his help no doubt. He was a total pothead skater and really didn’t ever seem to even notice the shit that I was certain would make him scream and run away. He was super mellow and laid back – simple, really. That helped.
It really doesn’t affect me at all like it used to – finding scars and marks that I don’t recall ever seeing before. I have already come through the stage in which these things trigger physically responsive reactions from me, that no longer happens; as I have recalled what must be an accounting for the better majority of my scars and battle wounds by now. Also, I try not to allow my thoughts to hijack my mind on the topic of HOW I got them…that helps tremendously. I know they are there, I know they represent pain and torture. I know how I got each one. I do not need to think any further beyond these basic elements any more, for the most part – and I don’t – but I can if I choose to, without freaking the fuck out. Which, to me – says something…

T is for TRUTH.

The room was becoming smoke filled somehow as the discussion wore on in the background of my conscious awareness.

“…we understand that you’re traumatized, you know that we do…”

I’m encircled by the nodding faces of friends that I know definitely care about me; yet, I am becoming transfixed on the shrub well beyond the furthest face – I am teetering at the ‘Check Out’.

“I guess it’s just hard to understand the time involved in your healing process, Danielle got beat up by her first husband…she was dating someone else within a week and a half of her divorce from the creep…”

“Yeah, well Danielle could get the Pope to smack her in the mouth if she talked long enough…”
I didn’t say it out loud, just thought it.

More affected whispers of agreement from all around me – I don’t even know which one of them was speaking at that point of the conversation; I was beginning to feel my cheeks burn slightly, and I recall sitting forward on the low couch in Darcy’s family room and letting out a big sigh of tension. None of my “click” is empathic by nature; although a few have honed the art of pretending to be well enough to fake their way through an afternoon at a funeral. Lisa is the one out of the group that I am closest to, our kids having gone through grade school together. She must have noticed my state of being because she immediately hushed the rest of our girlfriends at once.

“Enough everyone…she obviously doesn’t want to talk about it…let it go…”

Lisa’s head is swiveling back and forth with bulged eyeballs to emphasize her point to them;

“…Leave it alone…”

T is for TWO THINGS:
TERRORISM and TORTURE

The terror that a terrorist instills in the recesses of his victim’s brain is a key element to the very process, even on a micro-scale, of terrorism. Without the dread, fear, anxiety and negative anticipation of an event, there is no terror involved. There can be fear and/or pain without terror, there can be gore and blood and horror also – without terror. Terror is the piece of a trauma that was foreseen by the traumatized in some sense. When you add terror to a situation, everything changes. As I have written about before, terror changes the way that a human being responds to a tragic event as it plays out; and the same goes for those in domestic captivity from one day to the next.
For a long time, I was even baffled by my affected behaviors; and couldn’t really explain to my girlfriends when we would touch on the topic of my “recovery process” – the terror that I still carried with me everywhere I went – even a decade after the near-death event that ended my own captivity/marriage.

When the man that you have married and have children with tortures your body and terrorizes your mind – and you repeatedly see him enjoying each and every scream you let out in pain and suffering under his hand – the world seems a little less inviting afterward, should you survive.
People can’t grasp the notion that I am well-educated and decent looking yet remain recluse and isolated from social interaction for the most part; granted I am fucked up and anti-social to say the least, but even during my Up Swings with my anxiety, I still continue to struggle with finding any TRUE motivation behind entangling myself with others – especially men. People here on my blog often comment on how long it’s been since I was with the Ripper, or even the fact that he is now dead…why can’t I just move on already and be happy with someone new? Why am I still here groveling about my tragic past and the effect it still has on me?
Well, a good starting point to answer this would be: ME.
I survived a highly bloodthirsty and violent sexual dominant who was also a psychopathic murderer and a torturous sadist – my husband. I became his live-in victim day and night; I was kept alive many times not as a result of anything cunning or savvy on my own part, but because my husband new that someone needed to look after our baby – and it wasn’t going to be him. There were many, many times that I barely survived though, and I remember each and every injury inflicted upon my body at the hand wearing a wedding band that matched my own…the betrayal and degradation attached to those years of my life remain immense, even now.
There is, in actuality, a difference between being smacked around by a genetic retard that had too much to drink – and being ritualistically tortured by the man whose last name you have taken. Neither circumstance is right, but one will undoubtedly be much easier to move forward from. I likely NEVER will trust a man like I had the potential to do prior to such an experience…and that’s just reality for me.

Display.

Image from we<3it.

This is what happens.
Or, moreover: what can;
when a woman is broken,
by the hands of a man;

these are the facets
that the light reflects through;
our many faces of torture,
that somehow still smile on que;

we sit on display in a window
it’s all that we know how to be;
like a sideshow in a traveling circus,
to glimpse us tells a million stories.

It’s a scale that is constantly sliding
tipping from and to either end;
unsure of which side that our weight will land,
until it balances itself out once again.

You’ve got the face of the innocent, young and naïve
aside of the broken down masochist, who can’t get up from her knees;
you’ll see the ancient and calm – next to the kamikaze lovebomb,
we have every archetypical matriarch and fawn, here for you to see.

We are each so different, yet exactly the same
our memories are singed with torturous pain;
yet we’ve accepted that we are each as much to blame,
as the demons that left us with scars in our skin.

Memaphor.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

I shouted into the pitched darkness, somehow expectant of an answer from its emptied core. The lack of response was killing me; I had been having this one-sided yelling match for the entire night long, to no avail. The low rumbling of thunder began then, and my heart-rate quickened at the sound of its tumbling crashes getting louder – the ground beneath me rumbling ever-so-slightly from its force.
It’s then that my thoughts begin to pirate my mind in rapid succession:
Systematically, I think about the last time that this happened, about the brain-bendingly loud thunder and the chaotically destructive lightning; about the unworldly things that my body was forced to endure during the last storm like this one; I think about the endless possibilities of damages that the impending storm might bring with its wrath; I think about death…I wish for death, a quicker one than the one I am currently playing out.
My mind regains its control over the rest of me just then; and I sit up and wipe my face to regain some composure. I am jolted awake with realization. I scream again with the dwindling wind left in my stinging lungs, affecting a strip of sandpaper ripping itself upwards from my belly’s darkest depths.

“I don’t need to stay here!”

I become infused by adrenaline throughout my bloodstream and serotonin pumping through my glands as I holler the defiant statement into the blackness beyond me – surrounding me – enveloping me;

“I don’t have to do this again…I won’t let you do this anymore!”

I spring to my broken feet in spite of the searing pain shooting up each ankle through my shin bones, lower jaw jutting out in sheer bull-headedness; I have chosen. I am so high off of my own rebellion that I fail to notice the momentum growing in the rumbling and cracking of thunderous bolts around me in the darkened space. At that instant, I can feel the warfare in my esophagus, its bile-like foam rising in my tightened throat; its taste instantly sets off an alarm in my brain and my mind gets weakened by the surprise – I fall.
The cracks of forceful, thunderous power bite at my face and body like wet sheets twisted into vines to whip me to a miserable death. The bellowing rolls of strength and control wash over the entirety of the scene with noise so deafening, that I am no longer able to tell up from down – dark from light; the pain brought about through these forces is felt through and through…standing every nerve on its end, leaving a pain-infused retinal image singed into the insides of my eyelids. I do not want to open my eyes ever again after that point, as I know that HE has returned to hurt me. I wait like a wounded hunter’s prize in the silent darkness, straining to hear it. It’s a voice that is so terrifying to my betrayed, blood-filled ears, that its dripping teeth are nearly tangible to me through the void around me, it says:

“Do you not by now realize, fragile one, that you hold no power here?”

My heart sinks lowly at the sound of HIS voice; its affected terror on me perseveres blindly past my strongest points. I crumble, too weakened by shame and defeat to cry, even. A huge hand, large enough to scoop up my entire body, picks me up into its bloodied palm and begins to squeeze me so tightly that I watch my own eyeballs turn red from the inside.

Thoughts on ‘Detachment from Reality’.

Face It.

Face It.

The human species has the baffling propensity to become manic with enough fear of the ‘terroristic’ kind. I tend to flash onto the scene from the early 80’s movie I saw as a super young child in which the hostage, desperate with fear and doom and gloom (from being terrorized), finally can’t stand it anymore – and runs off the side of the building’s 125th flight rooftop – as opposed to remaining any longer in the grips of the terror. Same example can be attached to 9/11, and the many terrified souls that we watched leap from the burning buildings – in desperation and terror, on some level, obviously, innately aware that the end-result would be the same – DEATH. These realities are indeed, tragic as Hell; however, perfect examples of how the human species tend to respond during circumstances defined by terror.

We all have the capacity to detach and dissociate when it becomes a necessary element to our own livelihood; we have honed this psychological mechanism to a truly universal skill in our time here on Earth so far, so well, that many of us perceive this type of dissociation as something other than what it is: a coping mechanism in its rawest and purest of forms. It is one that everyone has used already before in his or her own experiences with Life and Death; it is a ‘skill’ that we will each use again before we die, also. It has become part of the human nature that spans across the globe. There is no question about that.

My question then, based on the implications surrounding this truth about dissociation and detachment from reality as a means of human survival, would be:

“If we all execute the use of its affect, and we do, why are we not, as a species, focusing much more on the “channeling” (for lack of a better word) its presence in a more positive direction?”

 

         To me, it doesn’t seem to be brain surgery, to conclude that we have been, and will continue to evolve psychologically, just as we have physiologically – throughout history. Evolution is an unmapped process, despite the ways that it is in our genetic nature to do so, given environmental changes and the presence and/or appearance of variables that have such effects on us, as an Apex Species. To me, this streak of “instability” in certain individuals who display dissociative behaviors stands out as strength greater than any physical one that our collective species can stake any claim to. It represents the will of the mind to bend the body’s ability to endure great physical feats of survival in many different contexts, and sometimes in very young human beings.

I am totally honest when I say that each and every human individual that I personally know who suffers from traumas so horrific, the presence of this thing called ‘dissociation’ has become permanent – is also someone who has strength so powerful and unique to only him/her. These are always the MOST human of human beings. These are all people who I would depend on, have depended on in times of need, with success and a supportive outcome. These are all people who were robbed of something crucial to them early on in their young lives, every last one of them was. They are each hard-working, loving, passionate, deeply spirited individuals also, with very uniquely burning fires that can’t be distinguished by anyone or anything – outside of themselves. And too often, this is what happens, because of the complete lack of support and understanding put forth by the rest of us. It is the understanding of the child inside of these people, one that was robbed deeply during childhood and never moved on. How can we be angry at a child for being “unstable”?

Damages.

gandhi_just causeThey have already officially tried to block me from the courthouse today; they are using the ol’ “she does not cooperate under the code of the law” bullshit…which is true, I do not cooperate with their destructive plan to ruin Boo’s life, and never will. Despite the fact that there is not a shred of evidence that would back the pathetic social worker’s attempt at keeping me out, there have already been red flags raised up over my presumed parking spot, downtown, across from the courthouse where Boo is as I type this.
I will go anyway, and I will park there anyway, and I will get out by myself and walk into the courthouse like it’s my job, because it is.
They cannot keep me from a public courthouse or courtroom unless I am held in contempt; which hasn’t even come close to happening yet…
All of my friends and cyber family:
TODAY is a BIG BIG DAY for Americana and Boo, please send us your good energies and/or prayers. WE NEED THEM.
Here goes nothin’….

Denominator.

I guess I just have it in my blood to trust the wrong people throughout my time on Earth amongst other human beings –or whatever you’d call those carbon-based, sets of bones with a thin layer of skin stretched tightly (or loosely) around each one, with seemingly emptied out, bobbling heads attached – I sure as Hell hate to call those things “people”.
I have mastered the unrewarding, often self-masochistic, pseudo-“art” of choosing the most shallow and self-absorbed individuals on whom to place importance and on whom to martyr my dwindling ability to trust. At some point in my life, I got to where I can no longer blame the vernacular beasts that I choose to surround myself with for such miserable incompatibility; sooner or later, I had to swallow the realities that I find consistently staring back at me through the eyes of my own reflection.
I eventually began to accept the fact that if I am incompatible with so “very, very many” of my own species, the likelihood of that incompatibility being born of the “shortcomings” of that group of “very many people” is low, if even in existence. I have truly realized and began to accept that I am the faulty common denominator in the countless equations of social arithmetic that I pathetically fail to wrap my thick head around – the continual negative sum in the mathematics of human behaviors and relationships – worthy or otherwise, I am the common denominator. PERIOD.

1421876244430-1Naturally, the majority of “relationships” that I can stake any claim to throughout my scarce and, undoubtedly warped experiences within the realm of human intimacy have each been notably unhealthy in at least one major aspect. I do not know what it looks or feels like to be in a healthy relationship with anyone in a romantic context. In spite of the insatiable hunger and longstanding desire I remember always harboring to have this elusive, healthy thing. At the end of the day when all’s said and done – I wouldn’t recognize a healthy relationship if it came up and bit me in the face…how could I recognize something I’ve never seen before? I have only misidentified the chances that I might have had in the past at healthiness in a committed relationship with someone; I have only mistreated the good standings I’ve had with men who may have been exceptional if I had given them a fighting chance. I just can’t trust the words that people choose to waste on me anymore, at all – not women, not men – not anyone – ever, in any circumstance. My issues behind the inability to foster commitment run so deeply entrenched at this stage of “the game” that I have truly started to question whether or not any amount of therapy, strenuous physical exercise, or exhausting mental stimulation by the opposite sex could ever actually change my perceptions back to what I think that they once must have been.
I do not know if I find this revelation a good one or a horribly life-altering one, either. I have been behaving so ambiguously the past few years in general, in all honesty. It’s been very strange to feel so indifferently over everything – another HUGE shift from the person that I used always like to think I was; Life’s formerly Technicolor scenery has been replaced by a drabber, grey-scale version of it. The white noise of my existence resembles the constant, bellowing rolls of thunder that accompany the bolts of constant lightning that crack like live wires of energy gone awry: a chaotic soundtrack that perfectly mirrors my psyche and syncs naturally with my soul. During nighttime the soundtrack only shifts into the noise of a low-volume baseball game’s announcers and noise.
I have not lived a perfect life by any means; I don’t claim to have, and I am also much too self-aware to dare try. I know that I have let many people down along the way to where I stand now in life, and death. I know that my combative spirit is NOT the ONLY reason why I have survived as long as I have; I realize that I hold no special title to the world’s shallow, robotic inhabitants, nor would I like to if given the chance to hold one:
…a bunch of fuck-heads…
People disgust me with their’ all-consuming need to rise in rank – to “ever-aim-higher” – to continuously yearn for what ISN’T in a given existence…bigger, stronger, faster – better and worth more money…
Me: I don’t have this parasitic social handicap I suppose; because I could honestly care less about having bullshit possessions that I can carry around and flaunt – to show off to my heartless “friends”. I do not count the monetary value of my possessions against my own cha-cha in the Universe; I don’t ever let my head fill entirely up with the environmentally poisonous, bullshit hot air.

MMMM MMMMM MMMMM.

MMMM MMMMM MMMMM.

I’d trade anything I own in a nano-second in exchange for some sort of true comfort that Boo could eternally call hers – that nobody and nothing could ever steal from her. The rest of the world and the bullshit happening in it just seem so insignificant and muted to me – while my daughter spirals downward into what should have been her future. Her eighteenth birthday quickly approaches now – in May…and I carry so much fear and dread as well as excitement and relief over her coming of age and being set free. I’ve only recently opened my fucking eyes and seen the striking similarities between Boo and I in regard to commitment issues, somehow…not sure what the fuck I have been paying attention to, but it’s like a metric fuck-ton of bricks from the top of the Empire Reality Building have crumbled and landed on my head, in terms of Boo’s shiftiness.
Basically, somehow I have managed to totally overlook the FACT that despite my painstaking efforts when she was a baby and her father and I were together still – to protect her from seeing things that he’d done to me, in a wide and creative array of ways, trust me – she still KNEW. She always knew. Even before she knew that she knew, or what it was that she knew – she knew. I’ve always known this deep down in my heart, for obvious reasons…but as with my former drug addiction during the same era of her life, there’s nothing I can do un-do any of it, so other than to simply try and persevere onward and upward from those past mistakes of mine – there’s little I’ve ever been able to process surrounding any of it. Of course, she and I have always had issues over her father’s sudden and permanent absence from her toddler-hood; she remembers him being there always and then one day just not ever being there again. In her perceptions however, she does not recollect the FACT that I also disappeared from her life at the same exact time as he did – only temporarily. All these years later as a full grown woman, I see the unacknowledged trauma that must have created for Boo, in itself. She doesn’t deal with it properly because she has somehow warped her perceptions into something other than what they actually were. She would tell you that her father “just up and left me and my mom one day…”, which anyone who knows anything about our story knows wasn’t even close to how shit went down. She hardly ever even talks about my absence/injury/hospitalization period at all – never has.
These thoughts of mine have me wondering things about why it seems to be so much more difficult to really get through to her about ANYTHING. I’m realizing that her entire perception of all things shared between our life experiences, together or separately, is contrasting to my own.

math_friends…which brings me back to my original point with this:

Who then, in these instances between Boo and me, is the common denominator?

Justice is Burned.

IMG_4423

“I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.”   – John Keats

 

I cannot blog about my current state of ‘scarcely kicking’ as of yet – because of legal constraints – but let’s just say that a trial is FINALLY underway now, and Boo is to be on a plane to fly home for six hours to testify on behalf of not only herself, but for the rest of his victims, also. This is because Boo is officially documented as “Janey Doe #1” – his first legally acknowledged victim in a long string of them who came after she tried to tell everyone about what he is. I am surprised as Hell that they haven’t found a way to disallow her testimony because of the horrid implications that her truth screams behind the broken ass child welfare system.

Boo didn’t ask to be sexually preyed upon by a man who was her “counselor” at the “treatment facility” to which she was court ordered to reside; she never asked to be steamrolled and labeled as a liar for telling on him – way back in 2009; Boo didn’t look to become the cynical, dissociated, unruly and self-loathing creature that she has been molded into because of these very things, either…so, Boo definitely struggles with the notion of her burden to testify now, after all this time and all the lies and bullshit that she has been force-fed in the time between then and now. Boo comes and goes as she pleases – physically and mentally. THAT is how she has evolved herself in order to SURVIVE.

Each time it comes up (which is often, and always has been), she shrugs it off and says stuff like, “I don’t even want to think about it after all this time, let them [by ‘them’, she means the subsequent line of girls younger than she, who fell victim to her abuser as well, after she tried to tell everyone what he’d done to her] deal with it.” We have gone round and round about this element of the bigger picture…a debate that I argue passionately from either side – depending on either one of our mind states at the time.

On the one hand, I feel it is intrinsically necessary that Boo testify in summation and on behalf of ALL of his victims; she is ferociously honest and raw when it comes to shock value, she enjoys triggering people – she feeds off of the collective stunned reactions, it’s the only form of reaffirmation that she’s ever been able to scrape up off the fucking floor from these despicable “professionals” charged with her “care”. I am of the opinion that with Boo on the stand, his justice will be served much more unanimously and without further delay (for lack of a better description, as there is no such thing as justice in this circumstance at all).

On the other hand, I agree with Boo when she says, (verbatim):

“Mom…it’s been like five years…I just want to forget about all that already, he’s not even my biggest problem anymore…”

And she means that – she has grown up quickly since she was preyed upon by the man on trial now…she has been involved in much more dangerous and lastingly traumatic situations since age thirteen, She is currently also a “star witness” in TWO additional court cases as well…one of which is EXTREMELY HIGH PROFILE and has caused me to start sleeping with a loaded pistol nearby because she witnessed a fucking murder/robbery and the men in question are out on bail with my contact information – thanks to the courts. Boo has bigger fish to fry…which is a sad thing in itself. Tick tick tick….next week shall be the climatic catch to the cliffhanger in regard to Boo’s decision to testify or not.

And, if she flies out here to testify, she will likely take off afterward and be missing again…thing is: as much as Boo hurts me and as much as I brood over her well-being and safety when she disappears, it’s not very different from the ways I worry when she is locked away to rot in a different state without her Mommy, she’s being fucked up either way…I keep hoping one of these days, instead of running away to the cesspools again to hide and feel safe, she’ll just come home and let me hide her instead. Yeah, I might end up in jail again, so what? I’d do it. I’d do it to send a message to Boo, that she’s safe with me despite her lack of ability to feel safe anywhere. Criminal charges added to my file for protecting my own kid…done it before, I’ll do it over and over again. That’s what a Mom is for.

Feelin’ Good.

it is over

“Fish in the sea, you know how I feel…?

river running free, you know how I feel…?

blossom on the tree, you know how I feel….?

its a new dawn, its a new day –

it’s a new life for me…

and I’m feelin’ good.

Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don’t ya know?…

Butterflies all havin’ fun, you know what I mean…?

Sleep in peace when day is done, that’s what I mean…

and this old world is a new world –

and a bold world for me…

and I’m feelin’ good.”

Black Days.

If you knew how it feels when you cut in,

with a blade to the core of my heart, within;

if you felt what I feel when the torture begins –

if you really loved this loveable person

under this bloody and broken skin…

I don’t think you’d be able to hurt me again.

When you say you’ve changed your evil ways,

when you promise me that I can believe what you say;

and my face is smeared and bleeding the very next day –

when you refuse to let me get away

            from the constant hurt and pain…

How can you even spit the words “I love you”, at me, anyway?

Once you broke my body, my mind fell next in line,

you battered it into something no longer reminiscent of mine;

once you knew that I’d still love you, even when you were unkind –

once you saw the ways by which my spirit is defined

            only a matter of mattered time…

before the Universe levels out, and the planets re-aligned.

If you could bleed the blood I’ve bled’

at the hands of your very own, singularly beloved;

if your heart stabbed so bad, that you wished you were dead –

if you spent every moment of your nights underneath dread

and your days cleaning up the wounds on your head…

I’m sure you would have already killed me, instead.

When your marks cover all of my visible parts,

yet, you can’t fight your despicable urges to tear me apart;

when the light shines onto what you’ve done again in the dark –

when you recognize the terror, so you’re sure to make it smart

            and you capitalize on my body, down to a medieval dungeon art…

it’s no wonder then, that my blood runs so burgundy from your heart.

This is a poem that recently found scribbled by hand into an old notebook I used to keep during my marriage/captivity. This is something that I wrote right around the very first time that I tried to leave my The Ripper, when I was eighteen years old and six months pregnant with Boo.

The important thing I would like anyone who reads this to keep in mind is…

I WENT BACK.

Postcards From Freedom! *A Population Study*

POPULATION:     Not Enough.

POPULATION:
Not Enough.

Dirt Naps in the Desert – Part 2

vow of total silenceShe slept, dreamless, for an unknown time in front of the window on the plaid, overstuffed Ethan Allen couch that always felt like it could swallow whoever sat down; the approaching headlights even failed to wake her when the yellow-white canisters of light finally danced across the pane of glass that she existed on the inside of. What finally woke her was the violent shaking and lack of air in her lungs; her ‘bad ear’ had betrayed once again. Despite her every effort not to do so, her eyes shot open reflexively in response to the growing sensation off suffocation.
She was lying on her back, looking up at the monster above her, his hands wrapped tightly around her disrepaired neck – thumbs overlapping one another at her trachea, pushing down so hard that the edges of her vision immediately began to fade.
‘Just let him kill you, already……..’
One thing she had quickly learned as the victim of a highly sadistic domestic captor is that the cycle is fueled by fear – her fear. When she appeared unafraid, he would lose interest in assaulting her and belittling her much faster than he did when she allowed him to see how terrified she was of him and his sickness. When she fought back and refused to lie down or pass out unconscious, it had the same effect. If she tried to roll into a ball and just ‘take it’, he became so enraged and antagonized by it, that he once kicked her in the face and head until she was literally knocked out cold. Her rebellious nature and history was likely the only thing that had kept her alive so far; abusive men such as her husband grow quickly tired and bored with women who don’t ‘fight back’.
“Who the fuck is driving back and forth out front, trying to get your attention?”
His grip loosened slightly as he spit the confusing question down at her, as if he expected her to actually answer such an absurd query. Her thoughts raced; she had no clue who was driving around outside, if there was even anyone out there at all – who knew?
“You better go out there and tell ‘em to get lost or your ol’ man’s liable to commence an ass whooping’, bitch…”
She always wondered where he had learned those two specific ‘big boy’ words: liable and commence; it’s not as if he ever set foot into a classroom of any kind during his time alive. With that, he shoved her head backwards into the frame of ‘her window’ with so much force that the wood split right in half.
“Go! Go tell them to scram and to stay the fuck away from you and your husband’s house or I’ll kill all of you…Go!”
She scrambled to her feet without question, the confused numbness being the only familiar sensation her; choking on the fresh intake of air allowed her, she instinctively felt the back of her head for the dampness of blood and then began rubbing her throat to get the feeling back where he had his grip only seconds before. The reality was: that if there was actually somebody driving around outside, it was most likely going to be one of HIS friends – ready to run her down with a vehicle or something along those lines. Yet, somehow the idea of that seemed much more inviting than the situation inside with Mr. Americano.
She bolted out the front door without thinking much about it; the pre-dawn air outside was crisp and cool, a breeze gently swaying the trees and shrubs in the yard with a quiet whisper of air. There was nobody out there; no cars or trucks or horse drawn carriages for that matter. She dazedly swept her line of vision back and forth several times before turning to walk back into her own Living Hell once more.
Maybe he will be calmed down now…
The front door was locked when she tried to turn the knob and enter; the thought of him locking her out did not register at first, and she tried repeatedly to turn it before realizing his game. Despite knowing that he would have already covered the back door and the windows already, she made her rounds about the house – trying in vain to get back inside. It was too cold to be outside in one thin layer of clothing, but he knew that. A few hours passed before she groggily recognized the fact that the back of her head had been oozing blood since she came outside, and in the few moments before sunrise, and out of sheer necessity, she tended to the wound with the garden hose and some old napkins from the detached garage (HIS garage).

Once in a while, she would see him wander a window and look for her, always seemingly satisfied with what he saw before returning to whatever it was he was doing inside the warm house alone. She tried not to think about that though; his betrayal and mockery broke her spirit more than any physical harm he could do.
I will NOT beg to get back inside this time…

Anni

It never goes very long without a reminder; a bottle to the forehead…a wake-up refresher course in “Domestic Captivity”; there are too many of us out there for it to ever stop being revisited, even by Survivors like me, who hasn’t felt a physical blow for a decade now. Today, I want to introduce my readers to someone “new” to my crew…although to call her “new” at this would be a lie – she is a front line soldier of 13 years in the War on Domestic Violence and Captivity. My new friend is, unfortunately, a veteran at receiving cruelty at the hands of the man she once trusted loved and married – in a blinded state of being. Anni, who has some strikingly similar history to mine, however, the thing is – Anni’s isn’t history as of yet…she still resides in Domestic Captivity from one day to the next – walking on egg shells from one step to the next – surviving on the most basic of things: HOPE.
When I see her appear in my comment s section, I am always washed over by relief that she has returned again, alive and engaged, to seek what little support for her grueling circumstances that she can get – no matter how minimal it may be from the blogosphere. I am always shaken to tear after reading her frank and totally honest posts about her life with her own Monster, just like The Ripper…eerily like The Ripper. These are the details surrounding Anni that terrify me for her ongoing survival – she remains in the grips of a man who I imagine as having The Ripper’s face – based on his characteristic traits and behaviors toward her. The patterns she describes are so identical to his leading up to the day he cut my throat, that it’s truly difficult for me to NOT take action of my own in this particular situation, as I genuinely fear he will eventually kill her, or at least try his damndest to. Anni and I are kindred souls, also…having been cosmically connected from day one, in addition to our similarities in experience; we are born of the same stock of Survivor, obviously. I don’t know her in real life…I have never seen her face or nursed her wounds…I have never stood in between her and her monster to protect her from being hurt anymore…but I would gladly do any of the above, if given the opportunity. I mean that.
I suppose the point behind my writing this post is because it is important for EVERYONE to know how REAL and ALIVE the Monsters are to those of us who are held captive by their grip over our very livelihood…from day to day. I feel that as a human being, a survivor of a sadistic and inhumane Terrorist Husband, but most importantly: as someone who gives a fuck about her outcome, it’s important for ALL OF US to help her keep her HOPE alive until she is safely away and doesn’t need it anymore. It could mean all the difference between whether she continues to get back up or stays on the floor, and that’s truth. Someone like Anni needs all of the support she can get right now…Just like Tee did before she finally got out and away to lasting safety. Tee says that she never could have made it a reality without her crew here as a means of support, and I believe her. Things may have gone much more smoothly for me had blogs been a thing back when I was in captivity…I think about this often.

TO MY AMAZINGLY SUPPORTIVE READERS:
MEET ANNI, go say hello to her and offer her whatever you have to offer her as a means of getting her through, if you’d be so kind…what goes around comes around…and she deserves to find some real support.

http://anni6290.wordpress.com/

Postcards from Freedom #6 – From Persia, With Love.

With Love, Bitches!

With Love, Bitches!

Postcards from Freedom #5 – Mommy’s Little Maximus.

He'll NEVER turn out like YOU.

He’ll NEVER turn out like YOU.

This postcard is one of a two part series – Persia will be sending her own out soon. The importance behind this particular postcard should be obvious – Persia has ensured her son Max’s freedom as well as her own. He will never grow up to be like his scary father. Much love from Freedom!!!

The Trigger.

In some ways, the triggering event was as horrifying as it might have been if she had discovered the lifeless body of one of her own children in that garage – HIS garage – during the earliest hours of the morning on the day of her near-death.

In other ways, it was somehow worse.

Sarah

Sarah

The day before had been a bad one – a nasty beating and the brain fog that always accompanied them; there had been a lot of ugliness spat in her direction several times before dinner, and during the meal that she had begrudgingly cooked for him (her appetite had become non-existent and he made sure that she was perpetually dope-sick), she had sat across the table from him with her eyes on the floor, in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable explosion that she had come to sense brewing and building beneath her husband’s skin.

By this stage of her “captivity”, the woman was allowed individual companionship with five living souls: The Ripper, Boo, and the woman’s three dogs – Sarah, Ozzy, and Vegas. This night, as the tension grew thicker by the bite of food stuffed into her husband’s mouth, it was Sarah, a chow-pit-bull mix that had come into this tragic situation alongside of a once-braver, stronger and more capable version of her caretaker: as an innocent – who lied loyally at the feet the woman’s defeated body, beneath the table on high alert. The dogs were each honed well to the man’s moods also; acting as canine tools that had undoubtedly helped the woman survive in the past.

Directly following his meal, her giant husband went outside momentarily; and during this brief period, the woman got down on the floor to scratch some neck and belly – a luxury that, outside of him, the monster of a man she had married allowed her to share ONLY with these furry, ever-loving creatures.

It had been then that her husband came back in through the back door, and she could tell from the sound of his steps that he was coming for her; she never knew why. Everything had happened so quickly: his boot to her belly, then head – repeatedly; any sense of true consciousness became likened to a strange swirling sensation that drifted drunkenly up and down with the motion of smoke trying to suspend itself in air…she notably forced herself to stay with the pain – to stay awake in defiance, to NOT let him knock her out unconscious again (the gamble of the outcome of a circumstance in which she lost consciousness was not one that typically landed the odds in her favor).

Yelling and clicking and cusswords.

Growling and snapping and cracking.

It wasn’t until a much later time (years later) that the woman would recall the image of her husband booting Sarah as well for trying to protect her. Sarah was a beautiful creature who died for her protective loyalty to the woman.

THAT EVENT HAD BEEN YESTERDAY…

It was after she finished cleaning up the bloodied back of her head under the tap in HIS garage, and turned to leave, that she saw Sarah’s body on the dirt floor – semi-covered by a canvas tarp – beaten to death. THIS had been the event that changed everything very quickly, as the guilt and sheer self-loathing that followed this discovery consumed the woman within a nano-second; she went insane from all of it: the beatings, the betrayal and violation, the death that she wished would be granted more swiftly, the death that he gave Sarah…and the reason why. She bolted from the garage and screamed at the top of her innermost warrior’s lungs for him to come outside and face her: a challenge she knew he would undoubtedly accept as pure entertainment (a thought that fueled her disgust and anger, self-hatred and guilt to the point of no return).

She had felt no fear when she saw him come to the window the next time; his composed face looking warped by shock and disbelief at her sudden demand for a duel with a man nearly three times her weight. She did not experience the “usual” fear when he started to pound on the glass from the inside and holler things she could not hear, but still knew would be the most venomous death threats he’d ever made to her. She did not see much of anything besides blackness and void of light; her thoughts unprocessed in a corner somewhere being protected by her own mind like a child’s. Her battle crying continued until he did finally come to the front door; the same time a police cruiser pulled up two driveways down and she began to run towards the chain-link fence in that direction.

She wasn’t running to her own freedom – she was running to tell the police that he was a murderer, to show them what he had done to Sarah – to make them understand why she’d lost her mind this way. She was beyond any point of caring about her own safety or freedom by that time. He bee-lined for her in the yard as she shuffled her battered frame in haste towards his position in the front door, her mouth sputtering blood, her lungs afire from yelling for so long and loud. Her busted and long-disrepaired jaw barely opened as it was, and she was beaten badly again the day before – hence, the lack of any notice of Sarah’s absence to begin with. She fell over her own numbed feet, and, feeling certain she had met her end, looked directly towards the gathered crowd on the other side of her front yard’s chain-link fence as her huge, loping husband closed in on her. She verbally managed to convey the message to the nearest police officer that she “was finally about to be killed, too…” before his final envelopment of her weakened, sinewy figure against the Thule Fog backdrop. The police and paramedics on stand-by acted without hesitation upon his quickly executed attack, focusing every molecule of energy present in the environment on her simple continuity of LIFE. PHYSICAL INJURIES SUSTAINED:

  • Severe vascular injury/ies (with particular attention to the internal carotid and jugular) from forcibly displaced mandible fracture and blunt lacerations.
  • Multiple Maxillofacial traumas requiring numerous surgeries necessary for her jaw to work properly again.

For months, the woman would remain too incoherent to be aware of any of the events that took place that day, or the fact that her husband had escaped the scene, despite so many people being physical there, right nearby, saving her life from his deathly grips at last. She would spend the next year with the burn unit patients in a hospital to physically work right again; and then they would start to try and reconstruct her face. It would be over a decade until any detail of that day (and the days leading up to it) would return to her mind with any true vividness; like any other memory she keeps; the entire element of Sarah having somehow been washed away with her painful, daily skin debriding in those early days – until only about six months ago, while she was writing a section for this blog.

And so, it had been finding Sarah’s battered and bloody body in HIS garage that turned me seemingly insane with guilt and self-loathing…I essentially begged him to come outside and kill me…and he did in some ways.

But, not in the ways that matter most.

Ozzy and Sarah    Circa 2000

Ozzy and Sarah
Circa 2000

NOTE: Thankfully, Oz and Vegas were unharmed during this incident.

About (the former) Me: A Prelude to the End.

About ME IN CAPTIVITY:

americano

I’m prefacing the final post in this section with this truthful and quite chopped description of myself as the Hostage to my ex-husband “The Ripper” AKA “Mr. Americano”; I am doing this as a means of prefacing the final event, in which I admittedly behaved in An antagonistic and depraved manner, resultant of the triggering event (also found in the final post of this section). I do not intend to try and justify any of my own actions or behaviors, nor downplay my own part in the chaotic lifestyle that led to my traumatic and violent attack; I simply want my readers to better understand my own state of mind and being during the events of my account.

I was a good wife; and, in all the days leading up to getting married to a Monster – I was a good girlfriend to him, hands down. I never strayed; I never acted like a drama queen or behaved jealously. I was submissive, by nature, when he got hold of me and reeled me tightly in on his line through the deceit of his “nice face”. I was happy with being “loved” by the man that I loved. And, boy did I love that Monster of a “man” for a chunk of time out of my life, prior to allowing myself to accept his irreparable and dangerous shortcomings as a human being. Even after handfuls of severe and bone-breaking beatings, I longed to understand him – to somehow heal him from his own horrid past. True story. I felt for him the same as I for everyone around me, for anyone who I love: TOTALLY AND UNDYINGLY. I would be lying if I claimed to hate this man, even now, when he is dead and gone and I should give “Good Riddance” and spit on his grave; I don’t. I can’t. I loved him once; I bore his child. Sacred things don’t dissipate, they just can’t.

My heart was as broken as my face when I actually began to swallow that pill – the reality of my situation and the man who held control over it all; it was a long and harrowing process for me to actually process the information on a conscious level, same as I believe it must be for any Domestic Hostage of a once adored and trusted, now lethally explosive husband. The proverbial Egg Shell description doesn’t even begin to describe the lifestyle of this embodiment of a “flash-frozen”, captive wife/girlfriend, etc…it took me over a year to actually see him for what he was: a Monster with no remorse or capacity for love or compassion; a Sadist and a vicious sexual dominant; the worst mistake that I ever made. The truly unspeakable things he did to me physically became paled in comparison to the ways that he violated and betrayed my heart until it seemed to have disappeared altogether.

I NEVER called the police. NOT ONE TIME.

I can’t explain myself on this matter besides to say: “See? I was afraid.”

Oddly enough, when the event happened and the police had come out because of a neighbor’s call – it made no difference anyway, he cut my throat in front of all of them…and ran away into the trees (just like that creepy fucker Elijah Woods portrays from Sin City).

And well, that was what I wanted to share in advance prior to posting the final piece of the section describing the traumatic and near-death end of my marriage to The Ripper, Boo’s father.

 

Postcards from Freedom #2 – We Be In The Tropics, Fuckhead.

We Be in the Tropics, Fuckhead.

We Be in the Tropics, Fuckhead.

Dirt Naps in the Desert: I’m TRYING.

When I began (for the very first time on my own) writing the actual events leading up to the moment “The Ripper” cut my throat in our front yard fifteen years ago – with an audience of law enforcement, emergency response teams, and neighbors watching in disbelief, something very uncomfortable happened. The triggering event that eventually had the Police called out to our home in the wee morning hours had been something that I managed to block completely out of my existence, somehow – which is absolutely dumbfounding to me, in retrospect. When I began writing about it (Dirt Naps in the Desert) and had a conversation with someone who was there when it all went down (Jackson: the EMT who actually rode in the ambulance with me that day – who literally breathed his own life into me to keep me alive when I stopped breathing for myself, and who has become closer than I believe my Father and I could’ve ever been – due to our strange way of initially becoming somewhat “intimately” with each other), the recollection hit me like tanker from a blindside…it was intense and raw…and it hurt like a Son of a Bitch to start chewing around.

The pain from this re-recollection is immense and even caused me to stop with my written account completely, because I was just as appalled all over again by this memory of the thing that set me into an outdoor display of truly psychotic rage:

Screaming and crying and breaking everything I saw, yelling at the top of my lungs that my husband was “a MURDERER!!!”

I was not giving a fuck during this vague time in my memory, I was in despair and I was shocked beyond description and heartbroken and full of self-hatred; so much fucking guilt and regret and sadness, remorse…

I was screaming, “I’m sorry Sarah!!!” and throwing dirt into the air.

It was 5:00am and freezing cold outside, I’ve been told – – – but I never noticed either element at the time. I will keep writing…it’s just really, really hard to think on for too long at a time, I guess…not healthy for me yet…unable to process it thoroughly at present…but I will keep trying with it, I promise.