It’s Just For Now

Sleepless night.
Can’t sleep.
The gentle humming of the air conditioner is the only sound.
I gaze fondly at my sleeping child lying next to me in bed.
He will only be spending another two nights here with me before he goes, so I had better soak him up now.
Breathe him in.
Give him warm snuggles.
Because who knows how long it’s gonna be until we really get a chance to be with each other again.

It’s best this way. For both of us.
A tear threatens to fill my eye.
He understands why too.
Separation for now, just for now.
Until mommy isn’t sick anymore.

Two more days.
I just want to capture time and preserve it so I can relive these two days when I’m missing him.


I love you booger bear ūüôā


Racist Pig

Growing up in Utah had many downsides.
The first time in my life I saw an African American person was at 17, in high school. He moved to town and everyone stared…

We were fast friends and went to our senior homecoming dance together.

I just uncovered a bit more to this story that has me a bit steamed.

After talking with him, I found out that my dad thwarted his attempts to date me. Taking shots below the belt and in one private conversation my dad had with him, he made unmistakeable racist comments about it not looking good in the community for him to date a white girl.

This adds an infuriating piece to my puzzle about why he has never recognized my child as family. All this time I thought it must be because I chose to leave his religion.
The knowledge that he was so openly racist, turns my attention to the fact that my child is a mixed race.

I need something to punch right now….

Secrets Buried In San Antonio-3

Dishonorably Discharged!

Those words still echo in my mind today.

I may have played dumb, but I know what I heard!

This is what cost me my 14th birthday. 

This is why I had to grow up so fast at 2-3 years old.

Those words will be forever etched in my brain.

“A sex addiction” she said. “He exposed himself in parking lots and…”

YUCK!!! Did guys actually do that?!

It started with porn, and¬†then harder porn, then video’s, then going to movies…The behavior of a sick person.

Her actions, from the way she forgave him, stood by him, to the pity on her face said it all. He is the victim. It’s not his fault. “He’s been dealing with this illness your whole life” she told me. “He’s worked very hard to get better.”

She had caught him on my birthday looking at porn. 

This is what ruined my birthday. His dick. Her insecurity. Their inability to put it aside for three hours for their child.

Apparently this was some symptom of a bigger problem. I would later find out what. 

But at this moment, her pity for my dad bled onto me. I did as my mother did. I felt sorry for him. I was fooled. I believed he would get better. I kept his special secret. 

I knew all about special secrets. 

In San Antonio he was ordered to participate in a highly regarded sex offenders rehab program. Apparently a requirement of the terms of his release. No benefits, I would later find out as I  filled out financial aid applications for college.

It has also crossed my mind that, due to laws in place at that time, and the way military matters are handled, he is not required to register as a sex offender, leaving me with some rather valid and troubling concerns…


Puzzle pieces fell into place. This would explain the Tuesday night sitter we had for years, after our move back to Utah.

I remember one such night being my 5th birthday. And I also have fond memories of crushing on the New Kids On The Block along with the sitter, Wendy, and competing to see who collected the most NKOTB memorabilia. (Suggesting I was old enough to be into such a group)

This tells me Tuesday night sitters went on for way longer than the 2 years my parents say they attended, leaving a few questions as to why they would not be completely honest about this, and what else they had been dishonest about.

Another puzzle piece fell into place. My moms hypersensitivity to naked Barbie dolls lying around the house. Her home-made basket of cloth fruit she kept just to throw at the TV during kissing scenes. And the “Amish-like” smothering attitude toward keeping the girls bodies covered up all the time. Forcing us to be unattractive, and plain.¬†

Perhaps she compensated for this humiliation by being the “pregnant wife”, explaining why she was ALWAYS pregnant, yet never really interested in the baby she just had.¬†

I see desperation and co-dependency in her actions. Always seeking the attention of her man. Seeking attention period. Being the wife of a sick man, or mother of sick children got her plenty of that. 

But the night they broke this news to me, she spoke bitterly of her experience at the  sex offenders treatment program. The wives of other offenders encouraged her to leave the relationship.

She got angry.

Unable to gain sympathy from them, her attention seeking, I sometimes wonder, may have turned darker…

The River

I couldn’t have described the lost feeling all those years better myself! Love this! For all of you out there looking for support, a shoulder, or to know you are not alone in your inner struggle, there is a community of individuals here, all in various stages of recovery.
There is great power in liberation in finding that you are not alone.
Check out this blog, and others like it!

They are real people, going through real experiences, fighting the good fight every single day.

We are all brothers and sisters, joined in tragedy. But we are not alone!


The fog that hovers over the river this morning is impressive. All around, the sun’s rays touch the earth, but the river, it does not see the sun. I can not see the sun. I picture myself on that river. Walking over its frozen surface. Lost in the fog, unsure of where I am going. Like the fog, this to shall pass, but for now I lay under its thick blanket, waiting to see the sun again.

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Secrets Buried In San Antonio-2

Dysfunctional Communication


As the puzzle pieces fell into place that summer, a current crisis ensued. Triggering uncontrollable flashbacks,  (some for the first time) body memories, and nightmares.

A long dormant eating disorder began to rear its ugly head as my only familiar coping mechanism. I thought I had conquered this old foe nearly a decade earlier.

Caught completely off guard, and unprepared for what I was experiencing, I fell helplessly into my past.



Memories of that august evening, days after my 14th birthday, are as vivid as if they happened yesterday. 

Perched atop the cluttered bed, adorned with a pink heirloom quilt my great-grandmother had made when I was born. It had squares of tulips scattered throughout its body and was tied together with pieces of multi-colored yarn.

I rubbed two pieces of yellow yarn between my forefinger and thumb, waiting for my parents to shut the bedroom door. 

Both of them were serious. 

Dad’s nose had huge pores and always had sweat on it.¬†

I concentrated on the yarn I was twirling, to keep from being nervous. I could tell this was a big deal.

The words couldn’t come fast enough for me, I just wanted them to be out with it already…ugh!

My mom spoke baby talk.

It made me feel very uncomfortable.

Now she’s crying.

Just SHUT UP! Anything to get her to shut up!


I HATE when she cries! Not a “I feel bad when she cries” kind of thing. I want to drop kick her face when she cries! I want to hit her upside the head and tell her to STOP IT!!!¬†

It feels like nails on a chalk board. My ass can’t stay in one place and all I can hear is her whimpering. It makes me so uncomfortable that I think I would do anything to shut her up.¬†

When she cries, it feels like a lie.

I feel guilty for thinking these kinds of things about my own mother. A child should not have these feelings. Something must be really wrong with me. I bury this deep down, and wrestle with it on a deep level…


What did she just say?


The Eternal Misfit- Let us Commence (Originally published Feb. 17, 2014)


“You need to write a book” is her only shocked response,
 as I sip my coffee, staring out the blinds at yet another colourful character moving into the apartment across from me.
I take a deep breath in
¬†“I don’t think there’s any way I can fit ¬†it all into one book,” I sigh, taking another sip.¬†
“besides, the bigger problem is telling my life story in such a way that people believe it actually happened.¬†
I mean seriously the¬†Lifetime Movie Network¬†would have a heyday with my story!”
I stare at the cream swirls in my mug…deep in thought.
She inquisitively nods her head my way and asks “You go back to those days in your head a lot, don’t you?” Of course she already knows the answer.¬†
I only slightly make a gesture in the affirmative. 
She then starts “How many times have you been told that you should write a book?”
She knows the answer here too. 
But I chuckle “A hell of a lot,”
“but every time I sat down and started writing in the past, another catastrophe would tear my world apart!” In exasperation I throw my head back and groan “I sometimes feel like the universe just keeps taking a giant shit on my head! Why God?! Aaargh!”¬†
Letting out a nervous laugh, I half way moan “If I don’t learn to laugh at it, I’ll just cry.”
She smiles, looking down at her hands and shaking her head in what I can only assume is amazement. Her reaction to my story feels liberating. 
I’d just explained a horrifying experience. One that people only write novels about. Yet this had beed my everyday life.¬†
I have had many experiences. 
I’ve walked through the fires of hell.¬†
Yet somehow,
By some miracle, 
I’m not drooling on myself in a state mental hospital.
(Although I do have experience in one and will share)
I’ve hurt myself (cutting, eating disorder),
Been beaten (domestic violence, childhood abuse),
Done drugs and gotten clean on my own (13 years clean),¬†Lost children (miscarriage, adoption), been victim to vicious criminals (rape, childhood sex crimes), run for my life and the life of my child, been homeless, on the streets, in shelters, gave birth in one, experienced paranormal attacks, and even underwent an identity change. I’m a single mom battling serious health issues including a brain tumor, and more.¬†
I’ve given up,
Fallen down,
Gotten back up,
Lost my will,
Lost my strength,
I’m still here.
I believe that at the end of the day, 
There’s a reason for everything.
Always the peculiar one,
The odd one,
Like a cockroach, I can take an insane beating,
But I just don’t die.

The Misfit (Originally posted Feb. 4, 2014)

Samsung galaxy s3 021
I am a Misfit.
I grew up knowing something was eternally and permanantly wrong with me. I didn’t know exactly what that was, but I knew that it was no small thing. Otherwise, why would my parents treat me so badly? and why would the neighbors and kids at school look at me like I grossed them out and they all avoided me like I carried some illness?
I must have done something wrong, or there must be something wrong with me. I had no friends, and the teachers weren’t very nice to me either.¬†
It was a lonely childhood, but it was normal to me. 
I hit the 3rd grade, and I became more aware of my surroundings. I developed more of a desire to do something about my situation. Bullying became a problem and I wanted to make some friends. I saw other girls my age getting into grooming, pretty hair clips and accessories and nail polish. I felt a longing for those things too. I wanted to be pretty. To feel pretty like that. 
My parents bathed us at home once every other week, maybe once a week. So I began to take showers every day. 
I started to try doing my own hair for the first time.
I remember going to school with my first, self-done hair style. I showed up, crooked pony tails hanging off the side of my straggly head and hand-me-down clothes that were worn at the knees.
I got teased and made fun of pretty bad that day. 
Nobody noticed that I had showered, and smelled good.  
But it made me go home, and sit in front of the mirror for hours until I could do my hair better, and better every day. Soon I was a pro at it!! 
The clothes were more difficult. I had to be more selective with the stuff I chose when a neighbor donated something. My parents never took us clothes shopping in my younger years, and I don’t remember wearing a stitch of brand new clothing. To be honest, they really didn’t put much consideration into what we wore at all.¬†
So with me being the only person making the decisions on what I would be wearing, I had to be mature about it. 
My wardrobe was small, but I chose quality things that would last, and that fit.  
However, the reputation my family had developed, followed me everywhere I went.
 I would never be able to live it down. 
I would NEVER be a “cool kid”.
¬†I’d always be that awkward outcast.¬†
I’d never quite be able to shake the underlying feeling that something was inherently wrong with me.

¬†But at least I’d eliminated the crazy looks and the tendency to clear the room every time I walked in…¬†
I know what it feels like to be the misfit. The one nobody understands or relates to…
and at the end of the day, the misfits are left alone. 
Which leads me to my next entry…


Circadian Rhythm Disorder (Originally Published Jan. 21, 2014)

It’s so damned painful to wake my sorry ass up in the morning!!!¬†
I set the alarms the night before miticulousely. Three alarms.
“Is this going to be enough?” I think to myself?
Paranoid questions run through my head so fast that I don’t even realize the self inflicted torture I put myself through…

“Okay…first alarm, double checked, it’s on and ready to go, no chance that it can malfunction for any reason.It’s plugged in, plenty of electricity, it’s set for AM and not PM (I’ve made that mistake before too many painful times)…

is there ANY other reason why this thing would NOT go off in the morning?
is it going to be loud enough?” (okay okay deep breath)


then I move on to the next two alarms in the same method…painfully aware of all the times I have done this and yet for some unexplainable reason the damned things did not seem to go off……but lately I have come to face the reality that perhaps I have actually slept through them. All of them…Hit snooze, or turned them off in my sleep and had absolutely ZERO recall of doing any of it.¬†

Is it possible? 
Worse yet, I feel like sleep is controlling me, my life, and everything in it. 
My routine is all backwards.I have lived a nocturnal existence for years, and it depresses me to no end.I believe without a shadow of a doubt, that this is a symptom of the brain tumor. Here is a link I found that supports my theory. This is exactly the same type of tumor I have.

This patient had circadian rhythm disorder for three years. My complaint has lasted for longer than that.

I have gone years being called LAZY, and feeling this way. Asking myself why I can’t seem to get on the same schedule as everyone else.

Why was it so hard for me?

I must be really lazy and a really bad person to not be able to complete the simplest tasks in a day.
Waking up just to get my son to school is physically painful for me.There are harder days than others. I worry about the kind of lessons and discipline I am teaching him, especially as his single example to look up to in this world. 

Is there anyone out there who experiences what I go through? 

The Looking Glass (Originally Posted Jan. 12, 2014)

I’ve debated with myself for quite sometime on whether to include for you just how desperate life as a single mom got, while dealing with severe health problems related to the brain tumor.

Without parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents or anyone significant in our lives to help us deal with this crisis, it made my already difficult life, now impossible. 
Never mind the financial ramifications of losing job after job for taking too many sick days, and not even being able to attend school,
But imagine what that does to ones self esteem? How it felt to face my friends, who were all graduating college and marrying successful men and starting families on a comfortable living. 
Oooh how I longed for that life. I watched with envy, feeling like Alice staring in from the other side of the looking glass where I lived in an ever darkening world that was closing in around me…
And this was just as I began to fall down the rabbit hole, before the diagnosis. 
I was sick far too much, Catching every bug that went around and my weakened immune system did not seem to fight it off before the next bug hit. 
Doctors wanted to blame it on depression, quickly prescribing yet one more SSRI to mess with the brain chemistry going on. 
Why is it that a doctor needs all this “proof” to justify certain testing, yet no evidence whatsoever to make a hasty diagnosis of depression, and then treat it with a drug that he does not know will work?
I’d like to take this moment to declare that if I was not depressed before, this was enough to drive me to it. ūüôā¬†
Today’s logic (shaking head)¬†
This was the beginning of the road to despair, and wound up with me wearing pink underwear and black and white stripes in the not-so-sought after Miracopa County Jail run by Sherrif Joe Arpaio himself. .. An experience I involuntarily relive at night when the world sleeps.