Abuse has many realities. I have been writing a book on my past and it is heartbreaking to see all the abuse I have endured over the years laid out in black and white. Abuse is something that no one talks about, it is something that has gone on forever but when someone sees it in their life they think, “Oh my why is this happening in my neighborhood no less!” Yet, most of the time their will to do anything to prevent it is almost non-existent. The mere definition of abuse, I have learned, is subjected to what the abused themselves have been through.

I grew up in a household where abuse was a daily thing. As I got older and left home I met someone that had been abused way worse than I ever thought possible and for a time I thought “well what I went through isn’t abuse because it was not nearly as bad. However, it must be the old, with age brings wisdom kind of thing because I now know no matter what I called it, it was still abuse. I have been through so much that most of my life I have spent fighting. First fighting to survive, in a household that clearly didn’t want me. Then fighting to survive the horrible choices I made in my life, and now I find myself fighting the sheer demons from my past, that continue to haunt me, daily.

I have been told over the past several years to let the past go. I hate that. When someone says “Oh let the past go” either didn’t have a rough life or refuse to face the past and I speaking from experience know running from it never bodes well. I refuse to be the ostrich with my head in the sand ignoring the past and how it has defined me as if it never happened. Isn’t the first step in any program acceptance. I accept those horrible things have happened to me in my past. Hell, we all have a past, and for someone who has been through it. Well, it astonishes me. I mean I don’t dwell on the past or anything but I have finally come to terms with the fact that it did happen and I somehow survived it.

Like I said, in the beginning, there are multiple forms of abuse. I looked up the definition on google and this is what it came up with.


1. use something to bad effect or for a bad purpose; misuse.

2. treat (a person or animal) with cruelty or violence, especially regularly or repeatedly.

3. speak in an insulting and offensive way to or about (someone.)

   These were the three definitions of abuse. Now just one of these is horrendous but two or God forbid all three, makes for a pretty awful existence. To go through this day after day after day. I almost laugh at the whole idea of other’s idea of being offended by everything nowadays These people have truly led lives of fantasy. If you are able to somehow turn something as stupid as a store selling cotton in a jar into a race thing or are just now after hundreds of years getting offended over a civil war statue well, it just boggles my mind over the stuff people take offense to these days. Try being the only daughter of a woman who never truly saw you. Or even cared to know you. She just thought you were the little stray dog she could kick around or watched and laughed as she did everything in her power to clip your wings so you could never fly. Try having someone that was supposed to be the only person in this entire world to protect you from the monsters and turns out she was the monster you should have been protected from. Or try having her tell you every single day of your life that you were never going to make anything of yourself and be a fat lazy bum all your life. 

I take offense to that. I take offense that at the tender age of five I learned who the real monsters were. My mother and stepfather. I take offense that what childhood I did have was fraught with abuse and neglect. I take offense that in my later years. I found out that other family members knew of the abuse and did nothing.

The worst thing you can do after witnessing abuse is nothing. Or becoming an abuser yourself. Abuse happens daily it is just not something that is talked about. There are not enough of us standing up for what is right in this world. No child should ever be abused. The stander by becomes just as guilty by not doing anything. With today’s technology, there are so many ways to report abuse. There are no excuses. Report abuse now! Don’t let someone else be a statistic and in turn become one yourself.




The year was 2017. The day October 23rd. It was the day I had my very first on the job accident. It was also the day I received my very first set of stitches ever! I accidentally let the tape gun slip five minutes before I was leaving work as I was taping up the last box of the day when it slipped and cut the top of my dominant hand (the left one). It didn’t even hurt but as I looked down two seconds later there was blood everywhere. It refused to clot and as I raced around town trying to find a place to get it stitched up I really thought I may bleed out before I actually got help. It became a huge ordeal and as I was in the middle of my five-hour wait at the emergency room at the hospital. I realized I had never had stitches before.

I was suddenly hit with this thought and immediately afterward with the thought of, why not?  Sadness gripped me as past memories began to flood my mind of the times I should have gotten stitches but my cruel mother just slapped a band-aid on it and called it good, and in some cases not even a band-aid. Back in previous blogs, I talked about how my mother was so crafty at her abuse that it was always superficial wounds. They could be covered up with a little make-up easily.  However sitting there in that crowded waiting room the painful memories that came flooding back were not so superficial. I had either repressed them or not really thought about those few times as significant considering the damage she had done as a whole. Either way, I was taken aback and thought how ironic it is. Here I sat waiting to get real stitches for the first time in my life at 41 and the metaphorical stitches I had placed on my soul so long ago began to open back up. I also find it ironic that as I sit here writing about all the scapes and bruises she covered up with make-up. I was never allowed to wear it lest I become a whore. Just another “fun fact” in the odyssey that is my life.

Memories I forgot I had come to the surface. One distinctly comes to mind of me playing on an old tractor attachment that had huge dull blades on it. I was told by mother to stop playing on it and for once I didn’t listen. She told me if she caught me playing on it again I would get spanked. I rebelled, one of the few times in my life and I got punished for it two-fold. I ripped my upper thigh down deep. My skin was flayed open and as I run screaming to my mother true to her word she just ripped a limb off a tree and began beating my ass. Never mind that I was bleeding profusely or maybe needed medical attention. She punished me for daring to disobey. Which I get to an extent, but when your daughter’s leg is flayed open and blood is pouring out of it. Maybe that should take priority. At least you would think so. I still have the 4-inch scar across my upper thigh to remind me of the consequences of disobeying my mother.

I never got to go to the doctor for anything growing up. I always assumed it was because we were so poor. However, I am poor now but know enough to take my kid to the er when he is injured.  No matter the cost. Maybe it was something she didn’t want questions asked about the other bruises on my body. Maybe. This continued to bug me clear up until the moment I was finally called back to the room and was being stitched up with 5 stitches. In this moment while my husband held my hand and whispered calming words to me I realized my old stitches were gone. Yes, it is sad to think someone had the kind of childhood that their parents didn’t even care enough to get them the appropriate care when they needed it, but that girl is no longer me.

I have had a very trying year what with my past coming back and all and I have had to face some pretty tough stuff. Stuff that I thought I would never have to face again. Just like the memories that came flooding back with a simple twist of fate. Just when you think it’s safe to have a normal life. Bam! Memories you thought lost to you come rushing back reminding you that maybe you aren’t as far removed from the past as you think you are. Yet, once my hand was closed up and the sharp pain became a dull ache. I knew in that moment I was well and truly over the past. I may not forget it, hell I may even get a jolt to my heart every now and then but the sharp pain that I used to feel everytime the past came flooding back has been reduced to nothing more than a dull ache once in a while. I have learned over time that the stitches we receive on our damaged soul. Can be mended over time much like the stitches we get in life. Just remember once the thread is pulled away we may not be exactly how we once were, but the scar left behind will remind us that, we survived it.




I am an addict! I shake uncontrollably. As I wait for my next fix. Nothing matters now but my next high. My job, family, and friends have all gone away. As I sit here alone waiting for what comes next. There is nothing I can’t snort, shoot, or swallow and as I take my sweet candy. I can taste that ambrosia on my tongue. I swallow it down savoring the slow trek it makes down my throat and into my system. A release of endorphins floods me as they join together in a joyous chorus of pure ecstasy. My last thoughts before the high take over completely are “is this the high that gets me to the sweet release of death?”

I am a killer! I revel in the sweet stench of death! I bide my time, wait for the perfect moment, then move in for the kill! As crimson waves pour out of her skin changing its color from a lush pink to a waxing grey a giggle escapes me. I watch with bated breath as the light fades from her eyes. I can almost feel the moment they become two lifeless orbs. Permanently fixed in death. My thirst for death abated for the time being. I dispose of her the best way I know how. I go on about my life as if nothing happened. No one ever knowing my dark secret only I share with the voices in my head. I mingle among, the rest of you, waiting for that hunger, that, need, that thirst to rise again.

I am a sexual deviant! I wait until the witching hour. Then I make my way down to the seediest part of town and that club. That club everyone knows but no one ever talks about. The place where whips and chains decorate the walls. Where a handy means more than one thing and I can just relax and be my own perverted self because I am finally home. With the scent of blood and other things mingled in the air. I breathe in the depravity with a sense of peace and calm. This is my happy place.

I am an animal! The night is mine! The world is my oyster! Iv’e  been moon-kissed and as he shines his light down upon me the wildness takes hold. I lift my head and scent the wind with my big snout. I catch the scent of my prey I have been stalking for well over an hour. I tick off the time in my head One… Two… Three then I pounce.  I capture the rodent in my heavy jowls. I can hear his bones breaking with the gnashing of my teeth. I can feel his heartbeat slow to nothingness. With his blood dripping off my chin I swallow him whole. With a satisfied growl, I chase the moonbeams silhouetted in the open field. I romp and play and howl at the moon. Until dawn breaks out over the horizon. Where I curl up to dream until night comes again.

I am a writer! I am all of these things and much much more! Yet, I am none of them all at the same time. My pen is my sword which I bring to life with a tiny flick of my wrist. My imagination is limitless. I walk a thin line between fiction and reality. Between the possible and the impossible. Everything I touch turns to words. Step into my mind won’t you? Let’s take a walk in someone else’s shoes.  All you have to do to enter my world is,  simply, turn the page.


I met someone at my new job that talks about GOD all the time. He is one of those rare souls that was given the oppurtunity to see the underside of hell and come out of it a changed man. God has shown him that things are not always as it appears to be. He has witnessed for himself the true demons that walk among us the true power God holds he is a rarity among the living. Yet, until today everytime he would talk about God and his miracles. I would tend to roll my eyes and think ” not this guy again!” Even though I believe with every part of me he speaks the truth. Why is that?

   I still can’t fathom why, is it embarrassment I feel, talking about such a sensitive subject within a diverse group of people, considering how the world is today. Who knows, but as I was talking to two new young guys their eyes lit up and as we began a rather intense conversation about where we come from and all that I began to feel as I always do when speaking of things about our history I know in my heart to be true. I felt revived, alive and happy to be so. I saw the look on their faces and I had to share more of the knowledge that I had. They were thirsting for the word of God and I was glad I was able to help quench that thirst. If only for a little while. As that hunger, that thirst to know God is always present. 

   Later in the day, as I ran into the man that started it all the friend that talks about God all the time, I began to smile. You see everytime I haven’ talked about God in a while, everytime I feel depressed or alone in this world. He reminds me that he is always there. It wasn’t about me thinking “oh this guy again!” It was about me not feeling as if God was there for me. Yet, once again he reminded me he never left me. I had just stopped paying attention to him.

   It is an amazing feeling to know no matter how low you get. There is always someone there in your corner. So thank you friend for reminding me. That God is always watching!


When did it become fall? I mean I know what date the actual season began but usually I begin to notice the leaves changing which is my favorite thing about fall. Yet, as I was on my way home from work the other day. I witnessed a leave falling off a tree. I watched saddened, as it slowly traversed its way down to the rapidly cool earth to its inevitable resting place.

   That’s when it hit me. When did it become fall? I have been so busy with kids, work, home that I somehow missed the change from the heat of summer to the perfect cool nights of fall. This was the moment I finally stopped to just look  at the beauty before me. I revel in the moment. It reminds me of a simplar time when I raked the leaves and just rolled around in them. Their scent covering me. As I escaped my reality. 

   If u haven’t noticed before take time today to smell the leaves.


At one of my last open mike nights, someone read a poem that they had written as a child. Now I can’t remember for the life of me what the name of the poem was called or even the poem itself. However, there were key lines that stuck out like a sore thumb and created a great visual.

It said “sunlight dribbled down my chin, clouds stuck to my fingers, and there were rainbows on my tongue.

I can actually picture the sunshine being devoured and it dripping down her chin as well as the clouds sticking to her fingers like cotton candy, and oh, the rainbows like skittles right?

I love stuff like this. It makes me happy just reading it. I challenge anyone to post something that stimulated them as well.