Discomforting Reality

WIN_20200104_22_03_58_Pro (4)_LIKnow the why.

(do I have to?)

If you Hurt, then you must.


So that the pain can be dealt with.

(I like the pain)


(it’s known.)

Hmmmm…So then, does she know the why? No. She knows the pain. So, the why is that it is familiar. Is it comfortable? No, it’s pain.

(I don’t want the pain anymore, but I choose it. Why?)

You said because it is what you know. Did you ever know another state of being?

(It was so long ago, I can barely see the outlines of it.)img_20171228_231819_838

I mean, did you ever know another way of Feeling?

(I can’t remember, but I know I must have been happy sometime, because everyone has, haven’t they?)

Do you remember joy? Laughter? love?

(wait…yes, i remember, love when Mom would hug and hold me.  Laughter, Love and Joy when Dad held me up in the air on his feet.  Joy when my brother, Eric, would play Legos with me. Love too, scattered about like golden leaves in the warm sunlight, blowing thru my childhood. Too quickly , blowing away.)x



FLASHBACK:Soon, too soon, came sexual abuse by a trusted adult at a horse ranch where my best friend and I rode in the summers. We were both groomed by the sick old man and his wife, who watched him molest us from the farmhouse, using binoculars. My best friend didn’t want me to tell, but after months of the increasingly bold abuse, I had to tell my Mom. She freaked, my Dad freaked, my BF’s family freaked and eventually a trail was held. This was back in the day when the offenders were given light sentences, and little abused girls had to tell a judge and courtroom ever detail of the abuse out loud.

.  These crimes scarred me so badly, not because of the acts so much as my families response to them, They all changed. No more hugs, no more cuddles. Told by my Grandma that little girls never should talk about these things. Ever.

. We were even blamed, like an 8 year old Child would encourage such assaults on themselves.

I think this was about the age that I had an experience where I felt like the real me was being removed and an imposter put in my body, and that no one would ever know I was gone, or how to find me. After that I couldn’t hear myself anymore and it seemed like I just lost my conscience. I started stealing, fighting, drinking and doing drugs.


(replaced with a feeling of sickly dread, in the pit of my stomach. Like the sky is falling in the Chicken Little story. I feel it right now, thinking back. I’m seven, my parents yelling behind closed doors. I’m afraid in school, that no one likes me. I’m afraid when Dad yells at Eric, I want him not to hit him, or make Mommy cry. He yells when I spill my milk. So , I am more afraid.

(Flashback: It’s just me and Mom, I’m about 2 and I’m crying. She puts me down and leaves, says she won’t come back till I’m done crying. I cry more, but she’s gone, she won’t come back. I cry, cry …cry…cry……cry. Sleep .)

I’m in my neighborhood m walking home. It’s dark, the walk was long. I’m a teenager, kind of hurrying, like I might be late. I’m thinking about my family, looking forward to the safety of home, seeing them, hugging them. I get there and go up to the door, ready for the warm air to hit when the door opens, and it does. But it’s not my Mom. It’s not my family, they won’t let me in. They won’t tell me where my people are. In fact, I don’t think the speak at all.C7750B46-1C20-4048-8ED3-BA908EC183A3311CA070-D7D4-4274-8B45-8F5E63604F8Enew logo

( And it’s cold, so cold out…)

I wake up sobbing. This happens over and over, this dream. Now that they are dead I live this dream.


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