The Things That Stop You Dreaming


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After every bad thing. After you’ve been through what you are sure is the worst thing you could’ve possibly ever been through, something else happens that sends you plummeting towards that place. That place came from somewhere, I think. I believe I was hardwired for depression/anxiety but for me that place is deep, dark and scarier than any horror film could ever be. It wasn’t there before my childhood abuses but once it was in place it never went away. You like to think once you’re raped or abused that it won’t happen again or that nothing will ever hurt you that way again but that just simply isn’t true. Because when that happened (for me, over and over for ten years) it created that place. It’s a void where there are no feelings, emotions, no love, no warmth, no love, there is nothing. All you want to do is curl up and go away, usually for me that meant I wanted to die. I’m sure it might be a different place for everyone but I think it is all just a horrible place to be regardless.

So you grow up and you learn to cope with how this event or these events will make you feel for the rest of your life but you just don’t think anything like that can happen again. Then you do things that you never thought you’d do. You’re flying high on the fact that you overcame something you never saw yourself getting out of and here you are making a life and being awesome. Then you get a chance to do something that anyone would pay a lot of money for. I mean this is something that doesn’t come along for everyone and you get to be the one who gets that opportunity so of course you take it! Who wouldn’t?! And it involves people that you admire and look up to. People who have inspired you to do a lot of what you are doing in your life. This is perfect.

But it isn’t. You get there and start doing this stuff and meeting great people, becoming a part of a circle and doing all of the amazing stuff you wanted to do but still there are bad people among them. People who will mistreat you, abuse you and yes, assault you. When you get the nerve to finally leave you go and you exhale because you can get back to being happy with yourself again but that isn’t so easy. All of those same feelings from your childhood come rushing back and you become overwhelmed and confused and you feel like you’re 8 years old again. How could you let this happen? That is what you start asking yourself. As if it is your fault that some people don’t know how to behave. Like it’s your fault they backed you into a corner because they knew just what you had or didn’t have.

But you do get away and that makes some people angry. You were a part of something huge and a lot of people liked it that way, including you for a little while. It was great! Then you leave and you can’t tell everyone why because it’s personal and painful and really it isn’t something you wear on a tshirt. Some people understand, they get it but then there are those who have no idea and they become hateful and bitter as if you just up and abandoned them or, and this is the most likely part, they never cared that you were there in the first place, you were just another link to where they wanted to be and now you’ve broken that. So now you’re worthless to them and now they can be angry and say things, untrue things, mean things, horrible things. They set out to destroy anything you’re trying to do to build yourself back up or even hang onto any slight inkling of who you were. It’s a vicious cycle because no one will believe anything bad about the very person or people that you once provided them a link to. No, not them, they are perfect and could never hurt anyone and they would never be friends with people who can hurt someone. No way!

So now not only do you have to get through all of the feelings and nightmares and fears and the experiences that caused you to leave and sink to that same low you were in after the first time you were abused, but it has all just tripled. You have been destroyed publicly and now you have to hide. You have to dismantle everything you built up that meant anything to you and go away in order to get through it. These people who did everything they could to destroy you succeeded, for a while at least. At least until you could get up and start over. AGAIN!

So you come back, you’re feeling better about yourself and your life after a lot recovery time. You tiptoe back for fear they will find you. You actually change your name and move but the Internet doesn’t care about that so every so often you get a message or something from someone who still wants to hurl that hate at you for whatever reason but mostly because they have no life or feel powerless in some way but now you can handle it. At least better than before. But…it’s all still out there thanks to technology, computers, the Internet. Nothing goes away so every so often when you’re in a good mood or feeling particularly free something shows up. A picture, a song, a phrase, a person’s name…and boom, it’s back. That sick pit in your stomach and the 8 year old is there in the back of your mind trying to claw her way to the front but now you’re smarter, wiser to this thing.

Shut the fuck up!

And she does. Not always. You’re not a rock, you have feelings and emotions, maybe too much but you have low moments but you are so much better for the experiences because now you’ve learned even more how to see yourself as better than all what has happened to you. You take from each experience, each disappointment, hurt and destruction and you learn and you move forward and smile for having had the good parts. And there were good parts to your experiences in life even though bad things did happen but you still had good times and now you can look back at those with less anger and hatred and bitterness and smile because you did cool shit and you survived the dark side too.

Because you’re awesome. You are fucking amazing. You are stronger than any of that shit they throw at you. Dreams can come true and they can also fall apart and turn into nightmares but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep dreaming.

Illigetimi non carborundum

Don’t let the bastards grind you down.


Tack för kaffet jag är glad att vara här


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Translation: Thanks for the coffee, I am happy to be here


I remember the first time I wondered what the word ‘virgin’ meant. It was on a school bus, I was 12 and a girl approached me (and I think I’ve mentioned her previously). She was the one who was also raped by my stepfather only her mother was also involved and actually gave her to him to do that. After going on about how she knows he does this to me blah blah blah and her rant about “do you like it?”; the whole thing making me sick, of course. At one point she said, “I bet you’re still or a virgin, or you were.” I remember crying, a lot. Being confused, upset and embarrassed. I remember all day wanting to go home and I can’t recall if maybe I did find a way to get out of school that day. Generally home was safe for me in the daytime because he wasn’t home.

At home that night I was in my room, which is where I spent most of my time growing up, it hit me that she said this word ‘virgin’. All I could think of was the Virgin Mary and then I thought that was just her name. I never really understood why it was her name. I did not want to ask my mum. I assumed it was something I shouldn’t talk to her about because that girl mentioned it. I didn’t tell her about the girl because I was upset and embarrassed. So I know I asked friends and they told me “It’s someone who never had sex.” I’m pretty sure I blushed and didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Then came more confusion. Was I a virgin? What made me one? Did it have to be sex that I wanted. It was pathetic that I knew about sex from the age of 7 anyway but at 12 I was getting even more confused now. Did what was happening to me mean I wasn’t a virgin? And what does that make me then? The girl kept saying I was a ‘slut’ now which was another word I didn’t know and really didn’t want to know. But I kept thinking that if I’m not a virgin anymore does that mean I’m a slut, whatever that meant?

My whole life since that point has had me wondering why being a virgin is such a bad thing? If it meant having sex when you wanted to then that meant I was one until I was 18 but if it meant otherwise, well then I was a bad person according to the way the world seemed around me. I didn’t understand why it was bad. It took me so many years, many years to realize it isn’t a bad thing. No matter what age you are. And it can mean whatever you want it to mean but if you aren’t one it definitely does not mean you are a bad person. That took me even longer to realize. Not that I haven’t made my fair share of virgin jokes in my life. We do shit like that. We’re so jaded to how the world around us acts, reacts and expects.

The slut thing though? Here is something fucked up that I am sure is why I was so confused about that word. My stepfather’s mother had subscriptions to just about every single rag mag that existed. I never could figure out why. Still can’t. But I would go through them when we went to her house. Scrawled over every woman in those magazines was the word SLUT, underlined, capital letters. I would see this and think, “My god this is horrible. I don’t want to be whatever this is.” As I got older I figured out what this was and I also realized that my stepfather’s mother was just fucked up in the head from whatever life she had and by things like that, I figured it was a pretty shitty life. I still find it disturbing that she did that to the the magazines when she got them in the mail. I mean did she subscribe just so she could label all of these actresses and more importantly, women, sluts? What a scary person. I chalk it up to, yes her shitty upbringing that I know she probably undoubtedly had, but also Catholicism. She was hardcore and well we all know how creepy certain Catholics and religious freaks can be. Horrorshow creepy. She was like that. I could tell you so many other stories about her Catholic horror but that isn’t really relevant to anything other than it showed me how much I never wanted to be Catholic.

I don’t know what I think I was or when…was I a virgin, a slut or both? Was it possible to be both somehow? Didn’t matter, I was just happy to live through it all and come out knowing that these words were both not important in relation to me or anyone I knew. I didn’t care who was a virgin or a slut and it still doesn’t matter. I make my sarcastic remarks, yes, I’ll admit, but when it came to me I gave up on those words. Fuck it. I was just happy I managed to stay alive. Everything else was secondary.

Unapologetic Apathy

It took me up to the age of 34 maybe, to really feel like I could do anything, even though I had already done so much. When you grow up, from the age of 7 years old,  being told you’re fat, ugly, stupid and no one will ever love you and all you’re worth is as a hole for a guy and that is all you will ever be? Those words stay in your head, they repeat themselves over and over and over every single time you try to accomplish something. And for years they always knocked me back down.

For some reason a few years back I got this overwhelming feeling that I could do anything. It came after a depression, a bad one. One where I couldn’t get out of bed and really wanted to die. I think at that time I started to look at what I had accomplished even up to that point and somehow it clicked, I’ve always done what I wanted, I’ve accomplished a lot. These recordings from the past that loop through my brain have clouded my vision. They still do and always will but somehow I just went full steam ahead at that point, travelled, did work I wanted to be doing, loved loved loved the work I was doing but it was all short lived. All it took was one person I was working with, one sexist, ignorant, rude and insensitive person to trigger a total spiral. Not only did I spiral mentally but also socially. He has spent the better part of a month calling me names, making comments that were so similar to what my stepfather used that emotionally it became too much. The point where I knew I had to get out was when one day I had forgotten to do something or maybe I did something the wrong way (keeping in mind that up to this point I had been doing EVERYTHING on my own in that office because he was drunk or high from the time he woke up until very very late at night) and he looked at me and laughed and said, “You’d be worthless if you didn’t have a vagina.”

THIS man worked with young girls. I was there to work with them but he had constant contact with them, was constantly engaged in activities with them but when he wasn’t in front of them or their parents this is who he was. He told me behind the scenes that he didn’t care about the little “dykes” and that he just wanted their money. I couldn’t stay there. I felt horrible to bail on these kids but emotionally I was falling apart hearing someone talk like that. So I got out. But then things spiraled socially because so much of my life and work was online and with these kids and teens that they felt abandoned, even though I had had countless discussions with them about why I had to leave. These (a lot of them) kids took me down. Tore apart my name, my website where I promoted bands, artists, etc and did interviews, I was ruined in terms of ever doing my writing again. At least under that moniker. This whole thing caused me to have a nervous breakdown, take everything I had off of the Internet and withdraw completely. It took me a few years to be able to even think I could do much of anything again. At least anything I wanted to do.

I got brave again and ended up doing some work for some horror film activities that a director was starting up. It was great, the people were great and it was fun but emotionally I started to feel bad again as if I was anticipating some sort of disaster. I didn’t trust anyone because I assumed they were about to call me something or tell me I’m useless. And this time, like before, I suddenly had friends I never knew I had. (They just wanted to be near whatever or whoever I was working with) Once again that made me anxious because I waited for these people to go out and try to ruin my name because I assume that is what people will do to me. I ended up quitting because I couldn’t take the pressure I was putting on myself.

And again I find myself in a position where the situation is very different yet similar in terms of social media. There are people out there with no boundaries or emotions whose sole purpose is to destroy or watch others fall apart. I can’t go through it again. I think that maybe after coming from what I’ve come from and having a moment where I let my guard down and it fell apart I should just not bother to put myself out there. I can trace all of this back and know exactly why my brain immediately tells me “don’t do it” but my heart always tells me I can handle it this time but me…I’m nice to everyone even when they aren’t nice to me. In the end they always win. He wins, he wins, they win…the bad guy always wins in my story. I go hide and they get to go on being what they are.

When someone is raped, abused, tortured, physically, mentally, etc it never goes away. All of it, it’s still there for the rest of their lives. Sometimes they can overcome little things here and there and depending on the person maybe manage to get beyond the residual torment enough to really get out there but for some of us, we just feel like we’re better off hiding because we can’t trust anyone. Ever.

Lately I’ve been feeling like I don’t belong


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My past experiences at home were really just a starting point, tipping off a depression that I assume was meant to be anyway. Obviously it made it worse, which is just what you need when you are wired for depression, right?

My depression and anxiety show up in many ways. I might have months where I am moody and spend a lot of time hiding from people and I honestly feel like I am not a part of the human race, as if I am completely outside of everything, in a place where I don’t belong. Then sometimes it is the opposite, it is when I need to be around people the most. Everyone who suffers depression has it in their own way, shaped by their own experiences and therefore needs to work to plan out a way to cope with it, whether it is meds and therapy or just learning coping techniques and finding ways to avoid the triggers. Personally I think it all works together, for me at least.

When I was diagnosed it was never what I expected because, if you have depression you know just how crazy it makes you feel. You expect the docs to just walk in and say, “Well you are certified lunatic, you gotta be locked up and you’ll never be ‘normal’ again!” I am pretty sure there is no such thing as “normal” so there is that, but also the docs usually come in and tell you less than what you expected. I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder w/ suicidality (which as far as I can tell isn’t a word but what do I know?) and Generalized Anxiety. It sounds a little scary with that “s” word in there but what that means is that I think about suicide a lot. Almost daily. Not about committing suicide but just that it, to me, is always an option, I’m never stuck. There is always a way out for me, in my mind. Does that make me more prone to suicide attempts? I doubt it considering how many people I know who have attempted successfully and unsuccessfully. I think it just means that I don’t believe suicide is not an option so everyday when I’m faced with my depression or struggle, I might think to myself “I really think being dead would be easier.” I also tend to have a slight obsession with stories of suicide and I am fascinated with the psychology around it. That said, I’m not always trying to kill myself, in fact I haven’t done that for an extremely long time. I’ve also struggled with a slight (can it be slight?) pill addiction which didn’t really feel like an addiction to me but I guess when you’re an addict it doesn’t. So here’s the thing, when I get sad and depressed (not bummed out..honestly depressed for those of you who like to say “cheer up!”) and/or anxious I firstly think, “If I had some percs right about now I could handle this.” After that I think, “God, I wish I had the guts to kill myself.” And then usually after that I think, “No, I’m pretty sure I can handle this some other way even if it means sitting somewhere and crying for an hour. It all helps.”

Does this mean I’m a horrible person to be around? No fucking way. I am pretty upbeat most of the time, silly, joking a lot, teasing, flirting, I like fun as much as anyone else does and I tend to be really optimistic. It’s what we depressed folks do best. We hide behind smiles. I like to think though that my upbeat side is honest and not fake. I genuinely love to help people that I see good in and sometimes those who might really need some extra love. I’ve been told I am too nice. I don’t know, I guess I can be nice to the point of jeopardizing myself but that is something I don’t know how to turn off.

I’ve always done everything I wanted to do despite the depression. I am, by default, a very passionate person, so when I want to do something, I can focus and make it happen and usually to my own surprise really because many times these are things that I would normally find impossible. I’m not good enough or I’m not anyone who should be doing such and such, but I’ve done nearly everything I’ve honestly, truly set out to do. I say face the fear and do it anyway even if your hands are shaking, which most times, they are.

In the process of facing my fears and doing it anyway, I have found that I have been able to do things I want to do only to wind up in a situation that turns completely sour. Now, I could freak out and let it trigger me to want to hurt myself or decide I’m a total failure or I can learn from it and realize there are no regrets. I’ve chosen the latter. That doesn’t mean I haven’t been traumatized by any of these situations because I really have, but I still don’t regret them. They might take years for me to finally be fully rid of negative feelings or bitterness, but I get through it. So in that aspect I’ve been through some fucked up shit all at my own choice to not run away from an opportunity.

Not self pitying myself but just facing the fact that yes, I have been through some horrible things that I would never want anyone else to go through (although I know they do everyday) and I have also been through some shit that I put myself into. I am terrible at being defeated by bullshit though so I have always come out fighting and that is what is important to me.

And Burning Flag

When we find out about the childhood of a serial killer, like Jeffrey  Dahmer and learn that he did things like kill small animals we always say, “Why don’t we pay attention to those red flags in children?” Maybe not exactly that way but we do say things about how we could’ve prevented certain murders if we had done something about these people in the first place. And it does make sense. So much of what happens in this world is preventable if only our society and system would care for people who showed signs of certain mental illnesses and we took preventative care more seriously than always dealing with the aftermath.

Thing is, I have never thought about this when it came to pedophiles. I think I get so wrapped up in the anger and hate that I am blinded by any rational thought or idea that these are human beings who might actually  not want to be what they are. Just typing that much made me twitch. It’s really hard to get past my own personal feelings for the person who abused me.  I watched a documentary recently and that is what it was about, helping non-offending pedophiles so that they don’t become child sex offenders. One of the points they made was that we tend to interchange the term “pedophile” with “sex offender” and they aren’t the same thing. A pedophile is a person who is sexually attracted to children…sex offenders are people who actually act on those impulses.

So now there is a lot of talk out there about helping pedophiles to come out and get help before they might act on their urges. They have compared it to an illness just like any other. I want to feel okay with this. I suffer from depression, anxiety, suicidality…I know what it is like to have an illness that people can’t see and therefore don’t take seriously. Or they have assumptions about what a person with mental illness is like. We are all crazy and psychos or some other such ignorance. Pedophilia is an illness. It isn’t hard for me to believe. I mean I already believe it. They are sick. It is just so hard to separate a non-offender from the image I have in my mind of the offenders or my knowledge of them. I want to be a decent human being and I believe that I am. I am a very understanding person, I care about humans, but they are right when they say, “You don’t know unless it happens to you.” You just don’t know how you’re going to feel or the confusion it will cause and how it will shape your thoughts and ideas for years to come.

Do I agree with helping them? I suppose I do, how can’t I? They are human beings after all and they are sick and need help. The hardest part for me is trying to separate my feelings and to stop seeing this as pity on the sex offenders, especially since they aren’t sex offenders. Pedophiles. I need to keep these terms separate.

Break in my usual blog to discuss the Stanford rape victim


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WARNING: This may contain triggers.

I will not say his name. I will not give him more fame and media support than he has already had. I will not make him famous. But I will say SHAME ON JUDGE PERSKY.

This pathetic excuse for a human being raped a woman. An unconscious, non-consenting woman. His excuses are invalid. YOUR excuses are invalid. HE ruined his image and his little career as a swimmer. He did it. He also ruined a woman’s life. A woman who will have to live with this forever. It never goes away. She will have to learn how to live with it for the rest of her life. She will have to rebuild what this disgusting animal tore down. Her self esteem, her feelings of self worth, her self image, her sense of security, her sleepless nights, her nightmares, her flashbacks, her inability to trust and it can go on forever. How does this compare to a goddamn swimming career?

This WHITE boy (and yes he is a boy, because a real man would not cower from his responsibility for his actions) is getting away with murder. The murder of a young woman’s sense of self and all of the above which I stated in the previous paragraph. I would put money, a lot of it, I would bet that if this were a black man he would be dragged through the mud, his mugshot would be everywhere and his sentence extreme. This judge or Judge with the inability to carry out proper justice, Judge Persky has only helped to perpetuate the fact that :

Few reports of sexual assault ever lead to prosecution. National estimates suggest that for every 100 rapes, only five rapists go to prison.

This is the very reason women as well as other victims of rape do not report it. Why should they when this is how they are treated?

Yes, this kid makes me sick but Judge Persky, you make me even more sick to support such a pathetic, disgusting and lacking person, such as this perpetrator.

I am angry. Not just because I’ve read the articles, seen the news reports or read all of the statistics on rape cases, reported and unreported but because I have seen this first hand. My perpetrator was never tried for my 10 years of rape and torture. But years later he did the same thing again to a little girl, a 12 year old girl and this time he was tried and he received 3 years of probation and a stint on the Megan’s Law website for 10 years. No prison. No time served even though he had been doing this not just to me, but to about 20 other women and girls over a 30 year period but no one wanted to report him. He was violent, he was scary and we had all seen how it was handled. It wasn’t. It was more of a punishment to the victims that to the rapist. You can read my perp’s story here:

Minersville Man Sentenced for Assault on Girl 

Which reminds me, there are so many issues here, rape being the big one but why when a white male does this does the media use terms like “sexual assault”, “sex crimes”, “sexual contact with young girl” but when black men commit the same act, they are rapists?

There is something seriously, seriously wrong with this system. There is something that has to be done to this system. There needs to be more justice and better judges. Judges who actually see the crime for what it is and hand down proper sentencing. And the victims should receive proper compensation in terms of help, therapy, etc after all of this, better treatment by hospitals and other people and especially the media.

This system is flawed in a big way. In a sick, sick way. People carrying weed in their pockets get harsher sentences than these sick criminals. That is how important this systems sees rape and sexual assault victims. We aren’t even as important as a couple ounces of a fucking plant that your system has deemed “dangerous”. Nevermind these dangerous males who go around raping people. (I am not saying there are not women who commit sexual crimes, there are, but males are the majority and in this case it is a male) Not they aren’t as dangerous as a plant that you think is just not good for anyone. Well neither is a rapist. They aren’t good for anyone, not just the victims but the families of both sides, other survivors like myself out here who have to day in and day out witness this sort of injustice and for the future of this society.

So shame on JUDGE PERSKY. You should be removed from your seat and a real judge should replace you and this sick boy should be retried properly and accordingly (the jury claimed him guilty unanimously) not based on ignorance and lack of compassion.

Blue Silken Sky


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TRIGGER WARNING: Child sexual abuse, animal abuse, language

I’ve always been an animal lover. My whole life. I can’t remember a time that I didn’t love animals. For a while there I considered myself and animal rights activist and I guess I still am in some way.

My perpetrator knew this and he used it against me many times. But first, the thing that always got to me was how if a pet died, he’d bawl. He’d cry like a fucking baby as if he just loved animals so much and as if he had a goddamn heart. That is where the crazy stepped in, his ability to change from one person to the next. And not just the way some people do when they hang out with different people but the way a person with a serious mental illness can go from saying “I love you” to saying “I will kill you”.

We had a cat, Bootsy. I loved that cat. I remember getting him as a kitten, picking him out of the box of kittens at someone’s house. From day one, though, he would use that cat to threaten me. If he wanted me to do something or if I wasn’t doing things around the house the way he approved of or even if I was just actually having fun (which he hated to see) he would say things like, “I’ll step on that fucking kitten right now!” or “I’ll throw that kitten down the goddamn stairs!” And he did. I can’t count the number of times I have heard that cat yelp or cry when he kicked it down the basement stairs. He would throw him, kick him, hit him with things.

One time, after some big fight in the house that probably had something to do with how I was not tolerating him calling me names, or trying to shove his hands down my pants or whatever and he blew up at me. You know? Good girls would let their stepfathers do that according to him. But this one time, he was mad and he took Bootsy outside, put him in a fishnet, hung him from an engine hoist and spun him around and hit him with a stick. I just cried. I’m crying now. I think the things he did to animals, to Bootsy, hurt me more sometimes than anything he did to me. That cat cried and screamed and when he finally put him down he laughed because the cat couldn’t walk straight for being dizzy.

He made me watch these things. He’d laugh at the cat. He’d laugh at me crying and call me a “crybaby” and a “little cunt”. Anyone who can do those things to an animal, a child any person shouldn’t be on the street. We don’t have a system that cares about that though and they smack them on the hand and put their pictures up on a website and say, “Don’t do that again!” But they do. They always will. And I can see his fucking ugly fat face smirking and thinking he got away with it all. He didn’t. I am alive, I have done and will always do amazing things with my life and he is just going to rot until he dies. Lonely, fucked up and pitiful. I don’t just push forward for me, I do it for my mum, for Bootsy, for ever single person he has hurt like this and for every single person who has been through anything like this because in the end what matters is you. You matter. Not them. Not that piece of shit person who has no sense of self esteem or ability to control their sick minds. You do great things and you win. I won and I’m still winning and I will always win.

True Colors Fly in Blue and Black


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TRIGGER WARNING: This blog post may contain terms, situations, etc dealing with childhood sexual abuse and rape. Take care when reading and do not read if you feel it might upset you. Love and Light.

Funny that this post ends up being called ‘True Colors Fly in Blue and Black’ because I have always thought that I wished I was beaten sometimes so the bruises could disappear (not that physical abuse is any less than other abuse) but I often think of my mind and spirit as bruised but not healing completely. Pardon my use of words, but it always seems as if there is a scab that just won’t fall off and if I pick it, it just bruises it more.

So I’ve mentioned being sexually assaulted and psychologically tortured by my stepfather, if you’ve read this entire blog, you know that. I never mentioned the other two guys who also assaulted me.

One was when I was about 5 or 6. I slept over a friends house and woke up to find her brother trying to put his hand up my pajama bottoms. I froze, I remember, not understanding what was happening. I didn’t even know how to stop him. I was a little kid and he was an older teenager, bigger than me and my friend’s brother. So I guess that was the first time I was honestly sexually assaulted although for years I didn’t think about it because I was preoccupied with trying to stay alive while living with my abusive stepfather.

Again, right after graduation from high school, I was dating and totally in love with one of my closest friends from high school. It was like a dream relationship. I mean head over heals in love with this guy. One night another friend of mine from school, a male, asked if I wanted to hang out. He and I had written a few songs together and his band had played them and he said we could go get ice cream and talk about them. I was excited because I always wanted to be taken seriously as a writer and as a songwriter, that was just awesome to me. So I went with him. We had so much fun. Talked about our songs, laughed about school and how graduation came so fast and finally we decided to go home. He was driving me home and he drove past my house. I said, “My house is back there.” He said, “I know, I just thought we could go park in the parking lot at the mini golf place and talk more.” I feel stupid now because I said, “Okay, that sounds fun!” We got along so well that I figured it was just fun and I liked talking and hanging out with him. We did talk a lot then he started to massage my shoulders. I asked him, “What are you doing?” He said, just rubbing your shoulders. I thought it was weird but couldn’t bring myself to say that. Before I knew it he was on top of me with his hand down my skirt and tights. I froze. I couldn’t say anything. I just lay there trying to remove myself from the situation in my mind. I was thinking about my boyfriend and how I wished I was with him and I wasn’t where I was. He managed to get my tights and panties down and as he was opening his own jeans he stopped and said, “You really aren’t acting like you’re into this.” I didn’t even look at him. He got a bit annoyed and asked, “What did you think, that we were just going to sit here and talk?” I mumbled, “Yes.” He said, “Fix yourself, I’ll take you home.” And he did. Silently and I got out of the car and started crying and took three showers and cried myself to sleep. I didn’t want to face my boyfriend and I think I never told him, not that I can recall.

I am only recently recalling these events because I think for years my main goal was to get rid of all of the negativity that came with my years of rape and torture. I took a class on being a Survivor Support person on the campus where I work and it just brought it up and reminded me and suddenly I’m remembering these events and it’s like I’m only now dealing with them emotionally. I keep telling myself, “Well, three’s a charm, right?” thinking maybe that means it will never happen again. There is no guarantee of that but it’s the only way I can keep myself from living terrified daily.

I don’t want to hate men and I don’t. I don’t want to fear men, I do.  But yes, I have dated, I’ve slept with boyfriends but I don’t think I’ve ever really done any of that without still being somewhat afraid that they would turn on me.

I really don’t want to fear all men.

If you’d ask, then maybe they’d tell you what I would say

I’ve mentioned before that the U2 song Bad played a huge part in my life growing up in order for me to cope and believe in myself. Bono himself was a huge influence and I don’t care what anyone says about him, everything he did is a huge part of why I’m still alive today.

I constantly talk about what it was like during my abuse and what my home life was like and how I felt all of the trauma but I don’t really discuss what my life was like before the hell that I lived through. When it was just my mother and me, we didn’t have much. We lived with my great-grandmother, then my grandmother and had a tiny apartment for a short while then lived in the projects. The point is, it was just us, poor as all hell but happy and it didn’t matter because I was a child and allowed to be a child and I was enjoying being a child.

Music always played a huge part in my life through good and bad. This was mostly because I come from quite a musical family between bands, instrumentalists and just my mother’s sheer interest in music. There was always music. Every so often (as it is with all little kids) a song would get my attention and I was fascinated by it. One of them for me was Sunshine (On My Shoulders) by John Denver (or as I called him, Don Jenver). I believe it was from a movie then a short lived TV series but it was about a little girl and her dad. Not having a dad in my life I frequently found father/daughter relationships fascinating as a child.

This morning while I was working on some things in my office, this song came on and I just stopped and listened to it because it reminded me of happier times, feeling loved, feeling carefree, smiling, laughing, being a child, and just being the me I was born as. So here is the song, just wanted to share it because it makes me smile (actually cry a little) and maybe some of you will remember it.



Wide Awake, I’m Wide Awake


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TRIGGER WARNING: Physical abuse, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, torture, violence

I’m not the only one. It really means a lot to know that but at the same time it makes me angry to think that it has always been happening and it is still happening. I don’t like to think sometimes that I’m not alone. I’d like to think sometimes that it ended with me and it can’t happen again but I know that isn’t the truth.

Just like a survivor has a responsibility to survive, a perpetrator has a responsibility for his own actions. I always heard about how sad it was that my stepfather was so abused when he was younger. That’s so sad, it is but…he made his decisions when he decided to abuse others himself. He could have decided to do something good for himself, help himself but no, he chose to hurt others.

This happens in households every day. Not just sexual abuse, but psychological abuse, spousal abuse and every day women (and men) are punished for defending themselves against their perpetrators. Something isn’t right with a system that punishes the victim and our system does.

This documentary, which was aired on HBO, is a raw example of what it is like in this country for victims of abuse. This is an example of a monster and what happens when you try to defend yourself against this monster. Please watch with care because this is very triggering. For me it was many of the descriptions of what this monster said that reminded me so much of my stepfather. Just be careful and be warned, this can be very upsetting, infuriating and just plain depressing.

Every Fucking Day of My Life (documentary)

This is my offender, this is my monster:

The monster who made me who I am

He got into trouble, not for the more than 10 or so girls he’d raped, molested, etc and for the 30 years of assault he had committed and for the women he abused, but for what he did to one little girl, one brave little girl with a brave mother who actually did something about it. This is one of the articles about him:


Indecent Assault. He got three years probation for Indecent Assault. He raped, molested and abused women and children for 30 years or more and he got 3 years of probation for indecent assault. My case with him didn’t matter anymore. Statute of limitations. So according to the law, my rape and torture never happened. This has to change.