Dark waters

I’ve been floating in dark waters for a while.
Restricting. Listening to my own voice.
I have my own routine where every action equals a result. I learned how to get my desired results in the way I wanted, uninterrupted.

I don’t like being interrupted.
I stay away from things or people who interrupt my balance.
But it gets harder to maintain for a longer period of time.
So things got more rigid.
I have a lot of rules.
But I made a promise a long time ago to attend an event this weekend.

It seriously unraveled weeks of work for me!

In 2 days!

I’m in despair! I’m reeling! I’m skreeching! I’m aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

I am paralyzed!

I don’t want to see the light of day for weeks!

I picked up a pen tonight and the image of jamming it into my neck flashed through my mind. It made me want to laugh and marvel!

I want to hide in my bed and not look at another skale until I see bone.

I found myself biting into something without even realizing it, barely able to regain composure before I ravaged my pantry. Next thing I’ll be eating in my sleep !!!

I want to strait jacket myself, lock me in a room til I’ve attoned for my follies today and yesterday.

My heart is heavy and the dark waters are stormy.


Sucker Punched!


Contains material regarding childhood sexual abuse, morbid material,

 Deep rooted extreme emotional trauma, suggested mutilation, Multiple types of Abuse. Please Read with caution.)


I have had very minimal contact with some of my extended family recently on Facebook. In some twisted hope that perhaps someday…maybe…I don’t know.

Anyway, I received a friend request from a cousin maybe a week ago, if that.
Then a few days ago, out of the blue she asked me some very personal questions about past abuse with my father, and if it was true.

I was honest with her, and warned her, as any half decent person would do.

I noticed the next day, that she had blocked me.

Out of all the times I have spoken my truth, and made my story known to warn the extended family about my monster asshole dad…I have not gotten ANYTHING but doubt and criticism!!!

I am the laughing stalk of all my blood relatives!!!


NEWS FLASH!!! Monsters are real!!!

They are called Child Molesters, Rapists, Murderers, ETC!!!

And unfortunately, they always have a family, and sadly their family ends up hurt!!!

And the famous last words are ALWAYS “We NEVER saw the signs!” and “How could we have been so stupid?” or “How did we miss something like this?” or maybe even “Well we knew he may have had his issues, but nobody’s perfect.”

All I have to say to you is Good riddance, DUHHHH, and Deuces!!!

I fuckin tried man.

I really did.

Like I said before, I’m done trying to save victims that don’t want to be saved.

I’m no savior…


So I don’t even wanna hear that shit when your lives come tumbling down,

or you face charges for being an accessory or whatever.

Funny part is, I won’t even need to have anything to do with it.

Karma is a Bitch!!!


I’ve been pretty upset over this incident and I’ve been reeling ever since.

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It’s almost like I’m several different people all wrapped up into one.
But one person has surfaced a FUCKIN LOT lately:



The little girl inside me screams.


She’s trapped in a soundless room filled with everyone she should, and desperately needs to trust.
But they will never hear.
Her skin is porcelain, and she appears untouched.

She is only a baby on the outside.

Who, pray, has deflowered and bent this child?

Eyebrows permanently furrowed. Acid teardrops scar her cheeks.


Her shoulders bear a guilt-load that scrapes at her heart.

Her whimpers are scrutinized, and turned inside-out.


A dark figure with scary eyes lurks in the shadows.


It knows just where to stay hidden.

There are nails, barbed wire, chainsaws, hammers,  zippers, and knives.
There is blood.

Her fear is twisted and used up by the dark figure, making it stronger.

female genital mutilation toolsimagesmutilation

Her screams echo.

With their painted on smiles, she is patted on her head and told:

Big girls don’t cry.
Big girls don’t cry.
Big girls don’t cry.

Confusion swirling around in her head.
She crumples to the ground.

They sway like marionettes, and turn their backs.

…IT swoops in.

She is offered up.

Again and again.

Sometimes she cries, but then she gets better.

It has no weakness.

It has no feelings.

Like a robot.

It eats fear.

It eats acid-tears.

It’s whispers reach her bones, licking her core.

Telling her she is bad.

She was born like this.


These insidious words are a cleverly implanted time-bomb,planted caressingly through the well rehearsed compassion and deceptively slipped into the part of her heart she should keep most guarded.

The bomb is designed to go off randomly, its debris intertwining it’s darkness into her insides, repeating it’s slimy whispers incessantly throughout her entire, little body.

She is oblivious.


It loves her, but she made it be this way. She must try harder.

She forgives.

They love her…right?

Love is a confusing thing.

She must bleed more and talk less.

Let us paint you a smile, they say.


“Screaming is bad, talking is bad. I must pretend.


Big girls don’t cry”

In the silent room with their pasted on grins…

bloody knife

they bless the blood.

She doesn’t die, yet she cannot live.
They never hear, they choose not to.


The dark figure thrives on in the daylight now.
Only she can see it.

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She is the crazy one.

I love you, I’ll Kill you.

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(Extremely triggering material, read with caution)

When I sit down to write, I normally have some idea of what I am going to write about, something that has been bothering me lately.
Everything has been bothering me SO much lately, that I can’t put my finger on it.
I haven’t been myself.
I do know that for almost 2 years I have been struggling with a relapse of a long dormant eating disorder, but thought I had kept it just barely at bay.
I identified the trigger, and am still coming to terms with it.
I had to delete something I just wrote.
I protect my secret.
I wish I could just spit it out. I’m able to talk openly about everything else, why is this soooo hard?
My dear friends, some of you really do understand where I’m slipping away to, and that I want it.
The ones who don’t, I am so sorry.

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Years ago, while in recovery, I lost a very close friend to Bulimia.
Her mom and most others, who knew her, did not know her like I did.
And they blamed me for her death.
At one time, we were sick together.
We discovered our common trait while at a sleepover one night.
She had her mom order pizza, and a tub of ice cream.
Like children without a care in the world, we pigged out, watching movies and did each others hair.

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I quietly excused myself to the bathroom to take care of things.
When I opened the door, there she stood with her mega-watt smile and said “It’s my turn”.
We never actually spoke directly, or shared secrets. But I was filled with this euphoria that we shared a special bond that nobody could take. We would compete with each other’s ED.
As time went on, I began to address things in therapy, while she remained sick.
I saw her less and less at the rink. (We were both figure skaters)
I heard of numerous hospitalizations, but she always turned it into a joke, like it was no big deal.
Until the last one, where she apparently went into liver failure, and her heart flat lined.
I heard about it because I had been hospitalized at the same hospital, at the same time.
She was lucky to be brought back, and taken upstairs and treated but her mom still didn’t realize she needed more serious treatment.
I remember our talk.
I was genuinely scared for her. I was doing much better in treatment. It was the first, and last time I would get the opportunity to speak directly to her about her problem.
It was Monday, July 24th, 2002, a holiday in Utah. I had the day off work, and was hoping to hang out. She couldn’t. She was getting ready to go to girl’s camp the next day. We bull-shitted and joked for a while, and then I finally broached the subject.
She denied for a while, but after letting her know she couldn’t lie about it to me, and telling her about my own feelings…she broke down. We cried together. She admitted she was afraid to die, and tired of being sick. She told me about her diary, and some of the feelings she can only write about.

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I encouraged her to get some help. She agreed she would, first thing Friday, when she got back.
I told her I would come pick her up, and we could do it together.
Our conversation must have lasted 5 or 6 hours.
Friday came and went. No call. I figured she was avoiding.
Weeks went by before I called.
Her mom answered.
“Is Chelsea there?”
Looong pause….
“Who is this?”
I identified myself…
“Chelsea’s dead”
“What happened?”
“Her bulimia killed her”
“I have to go”
This had to be some cruel joke!!! Noooo WAY!
I looked up her obituary.
Oh god!!!
Chelsea died the morning of July 25, 2002, in the van on the way to girl’s camp!!!
The funeral had been that Thursday. I hadn’t expected her back until Friday!!! She was already in the ground by the time we had agreed to get her help!!!
She was 15 years old. An Honor student, she was already looking at a future with an Ivy League school.

I stood at her grave site, apologizing for not helping sooner.
The most beautiful photo embedded in her grave stone. It depicted her sitting beneath a tree without a care in the world.
I can still picture her face. Those bright blue eyes and a Goldie Hawn smile.
If only her mother knew I had tried. What she had agreed to the night before her death. Maybe it would bring some comfort. But as it stands, everyone got to say goodbye, but me.

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