There is a place you can go emotionally that is lower than self harm and even suicide.

It is a place of a melancholy that is created by so-called professionals- mental health professionals- Who are put in place to “help” those of us who can’t help themselves.

But this dark place of helplessness is created when you “professionals” refuse to look at us in the eye.


When you pass us by but don’t really see the need.

When you ignore our pain

When you go out of your way to ignore it

But you’re quick to claim the credit of helping out


When you leave work early and enjoy your nights and weekends

When we count every minute every dark second tell there’s help again- only to be bullshitted through another week!


This dark place has no escape!

It has been skillfully crafted by broken systems for broken people!!!

But who’s going to be there when we snap?


Tennis Shoes


(written November 2014, while in a treatment center for Eating disorders)

One sentence I heard years ago in a cheap movie theater holds lifetimes of meaning.

A WHITE FEATHER floats whistfully through the air.

Every time I see a park bench, I think of it.


I own a closet full of shoes now, but none will EVER measure up to my  original pair.


It is a sad feeling to look around me and see such ignorance.

I am bathed in it daily…


…my nostrils saturated with a new dew point of insanity that reaches and claws it’s way further into me with every opportunity  it is given.

This is the way of things.




Standing on a street corner, clothes tattered, thunder rumbling, and every last possession of mine stuffed hastily into a torn bathroom trash bag.

Arms wrapped protectively around my bundle,

contents semi-spilling from the torn side I had attempted to tie back together earlier that day…


…”Thank God I’m pregnant,” I tell myself sarcastically, “or this would be REALLY difficult.” as I hoist my luggage back onto my baby bump.


Lightening cracks across the sky, immediately followed by the deep rumble of thunder releasing rain in an instant downpour.

I am soaked to the core in 3.2 seconds, and barely notice.

My sneakers are swimming in the flowing river that was, moments ago, a dried up gutter.


Craning my neck to see my feet over the side of my now slick baggage, I wiggle my toes underneath the split-mouthed puppet-looking sneakers smiling widely back at me. My frayed laces whipping around in the current.

They have seen better days.


“If those shoes could talk” I think to myself- cars honk and a brand new Escalade tears around the corner spraying an array of mud, grit, grime, rain gutter sludge, and wealthy smut in my face.


I wipe the crud out of my face, de-composed and abrazoned, thunder rumbling under my shoes, reflecting perfectly the shock waves of emotion cursing through me.


Dark, angry rain clouds gather above, moving slow but intentionally as if reacting to my imbalanced situation.

“How,” I ask myself “can someone with more than enough in this life, NOT SEE the desperate need in this world? Why does this greed continue?”


I have been thrown in with, and categorized as a “Dope Head” and a “hooker”.


The reality?

I am sick. Battered. Litterally running for my life.

imagesso sad

“There was no room in the inn” takes on a personal meaning.

What did her shoes look like?


My gaze moves up-


People sipping happily on warm latte’s. Smiling. Cozy.


They all have warm beds tonight. They all have families who care. They would be dearly missed if they disappear.images4432

They would be remembered.

My rain soaked hair hangs in my face.


___________Memories stil echo__________

I stand in the serving line today.

The look in their eyes brings me back and I’ll never forget.


His shoes look like mine, the ones I walked so far in. The ones I bled in.

I know that look.

images14 imageshis gaze

I still have my shoes, in the back of my closet.

As those words infamously said:

“You can tell an awful lot about where a man has been, by his shoes.”



“She’s just a hobo. She’s just a streetwalker. They’ll do anything for a fix. Don’t make eye contact, just keep on walking.”


But people!!! I have a story!!!

I have a life!!


And…come to find out…They ALL do!!!

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Guess what? EVEN the streetwalkers,

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and the addicts,

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and the quote, un-quote “low-lives” too!!!

Their stories tend to be the MOST understandable,

but the MOST ignored too.

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Societies Throw-aways!


Bus stops and corners become their passing grounds, desperately in need of disability but born without a chance.


The SYSTEM’S pit against them, designed by educated, slimy, greed & vanity obsessed politicians,

so far removed from the need and reality of poverty the system’s intended to serve…


We become a simple business decision made for financial gain, on outdated data and statistics.


Needs are never considered,

This is how suffering is perpetuated.


“She’s a curse cuz she’s pregnant, just one more mouth to feed.


Another drain on our hard earned tax dollars.

It’s people like her we don’t like around, who can’t keep their legs closed

 and get themselves knocked-up for the welfare money.”




Their voices still echo, as I stand in the serving line.

Memories of shelters like this one flash through my mind.

I’ll never forget the cots where we slept,


Identical cubicles containing a persons whole life.


I’ve walked in their shoes

I recognized that expression

“Thank ya, ma’am” he says, full of genuine gratitude and pain.


His shoes look like mine and I can already tell an awful, awful lot about where this man’s been…

by his shoes.


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“Pack up and go, you’ve got til tonight”

They think I called my abuser cuz he showed up at 8.


Belligerent, threats, and stories…they should have seen right through.

But the judgmental aspect of the human mind runs true.


Standing in the gutter in the rain I turn to my right,

my fellow bag lady huddled there alone.


A bag of crooked bones, wrinkles, and sun-baked flesh and moles.

She grins her bitter beer face grin, peering at me from under her hand stitched umbrella.

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Striking as hard as the lightening bolt behind her, those old eyes squinted through a thin sliver of leather eyelids.

But I’ll never forget her soul…sparkling back at me.


A kindred spirit.

One who had been baptized in the horrors left unspoken,

carrying labels long since pasted on.


She knows.

There are NO WORDS.

…but she knows.


I notice her shoes.

The frayed NIKE symbol, sun-bleached and peeling from the side, no socks, rubber bands for laces, and the soles worn completely off with duct tape creatively holding them together.



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Those memories still echo, as I stand in that line.

Their worn, dirty hands send me back to that time.

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I’ve WALKED in those shoes!

We’ve carried the same cross!

I recognize his pained gaze.


My old pair of sneakers sit on a shelf in my closet.

I remember the words:

“You can tell an awful lot about where a man’s been by his shoes.”



Night falls as I wait at the bus stop,

My drenched belongings in a heap next to me.

I feel a kick and look down.

And there, as clear as day, I see a tiny footprint formed on the side of my belly.


Fear forms in a riptide, beginning in the gallows of my gut and crashing into the walls that threaten to stop holding me together.

“How will I do this? how can I possibly parent this child when I don’t even know where my next meal is coming from?!!!”

Like so many times before this, I’m brought to my knees by the guiltload that hangs from my shoulder blades.


“I’m carrying the spawn of the devil! It hates me!”

Terror rips at the ribcage that cradles my child.

Keep it?


I feel like someone else’s baby factory!

How I wish…

But will I be able to protect us both?


As I pull my hair back, a rough looking character pulls up in a red truck and solicits me for sex.


This is the third time today!

At least he offers me 50, the last one only offered 20.


Is this the going rate for a sweet girl with all her hair and teeth?

That’s all I’m worth?

God that money could pay for food, maybe a hotel room…

a cup of that delicious hot coffee across the street that all those oblivious important happy people are drinking.

Homeless boy holds biscuits that he received as alms as he takes shelter from rain in Mumbai

It’s several meals if I make it stretch.

It’s a new pair of tennis shoes!

Turning him down, he peels off yelling some classy remark kicking up dust and dirt with his rear wheels, making the baby jump – triggering a large contraction just as the bus pulls up…

…and then keeps on going!!!!

In a momentary bout of insanity, I forget I’m this pregnant, and spring into a full sprint determined to STOP the BUS!!!

Arms flailing in the air, yelling and running at my very hardest.


The driver see’s me alright!

I’m close enough to almost be able to TOUCH the bus!

Oh, he see’s me- I see him!

He’s just an ass, and won’t stop!

I chase that forsaken bus an entire city block…and BAM!!!

A stab of searing pain runs through my hips, reminding me of my nearly full-term pregnancy

…and that I just did a major NO NO!!!



Crumpling to the ground, Hard contractions combined with searing pain made it clear that at 29 weeks pregnant…

I was now in labor!

He Freaking saw me!!!



The emotions still echo, serving food in that line.

Each mans tattered and worn clothes brings me strait back to the memories still so fresh.


Each pair of shoes tells a tale of their own,

of real life,

of compassion,

of the human condition.


Don’t judge them by their status-

For to truly understand a man’s experience-



I keep my pair in my closet.

I’m observant, and I listen.

For my hat’s off to all those with shoes like the pair I still keep.

Cuz I’ll ALWAYS remember that simple sentence,

words spoken so plain and profound.


The WHITE FEATHER a symbol,


yet followed with purpose and unbridled composure.

Dancing in the wind,

A traveler wild and free.

It’s adventures right there in plain sight to be witnessed…


Did you notice where it chose to take it’s nest?


I’ll leave it be.

Cuz the human mind is AMAZING!


Once opened-

It’s INSPIRING the possibilities!



On my BIRTHDAY?!!!


I let you in

I called you freind

I felt sorrow for you

I CRIED for you!

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You haven’t got a clue how much I hurt for you

I might be gullible, but at least I’m still able to care about something other than ME!

To you this must just be a game,

a ploy for attention.

But for me, this is life!


I worried for you

Lost sleep over you!!!

But in the end, I was just the idiot who believed you…



I think you enjoy watching people get hurt by what you do.

No matter,

I’m through!




Fiona Apple

imagesgrow up

‘Member when we argued on the concept of regret?
You were an expert even then but not me, not yet
Now all you gotta do’s remind me that we met
And there you got me, that’s how you got me, taught me to regret


‘Member how I asked you why are you so mean?
You didn’t know how to yet to bein’ seen
I tried to be your friend, you made me seem so ?
And there you got me, that’s how you got me, you taught me to be mean


I ran out of white dove feathers
To soak up the hot piss that comes through your mouth
Every time you address me


‘Member when I was so sick and you didn’t believe me?
Then you got sick too and guess who took care of you?
You hated that, didn’t you? Didn’t you?

Now when you look at me, you’re condemned to see
The monster your mother made you to be
And there you got me, that’s how you got free,
you got rid of me


Leave me alone
Leave me alone, leave me alone
Leave me alone, leave me alone

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Daddy’s Girl


Every year Fathers Day has been a day of pain and bitterness for me.

I’d go to great lengths to “skip” that day.

On this holiday I knew that my dad would be patting himself on the back in a congratulatory manner for the years of abuse I had endured at his hands. I found it so offensive.

And my sons father wasn’t much better.

As far as I was concerned, fathers were a big disappointment.


Occasionally I would hear a song by another woman dedicated to her father, or a man dedicated to his daughter and they nearly always brought tears to my eyes.

Tears of grief and loss, knowing I would never have that or be able to sing a song like it.

Once, in an attempt to have something that was not there, I made a recording of the song “Butterfly Kisses” for my dad on a cassette tape and gave it to him. It was like pulling teeth just to get him to listen to it.


I woke up at the crack of dawn for a week, without any particular reason or special occasion, to cook him a good breakfast before he left for work so that maybe he’d spend some quality time talking with me for breakfast and wouldn’t be in such a rush to get out the door.

He barely ate, didn’t sit down, and still left in a rush.

I don’t remember what happened to the tape, but I do remember feeling brushed off.

I daydreamed about a dad who would cheer me on at ballet recitals and be my support through persuing my acting/singing dream. I even wished for a father who would take some interest in the guys I dated and the dances I wanted to go to and who I had a crush on. I especially needed some guidance and a push when I was graduating high school and should have been applying for colleges.

I needed a dad!!!


I would have been so close to my dad, given half a chance!

I maintain that I always should have been a daddy’s girl, Just not with the one I had.

This Fathers Day, however, brings a ray of hope!!

As I eliminate the toxic relationships from my life, it has made room for new healthy ones.

A friendship has formed and developed into a very special bond.

The empty space in my heart that once ached for a father I find being filled more and more every day.


The songs that used to bring so much pain and sadness before, now spark a sense of new found joy and excitement from deep within.

He has become my friend and mentor, and in many ways, the father I never had.

Though he never taught me to ride a bike, or sat with me to do homework, I already know he would have.


He has shown me that there are good people still in this world, and how to trust again. There was absolutely no reason for him to stick around, and every reason for him to walk away, yet he stayed.

He showed me the meaning of loyalty.

He showed me what honor and kindness is.

He showed me that a man can be compassionate, gentle, nurturing, and loving without bad motives.

He showed me what a real man is.

He showed me what real love is.


He has been there through my ups and downs.

He’s seen me through some really hard times.

He’s been there while I’ve been very sick, and he’s seen me grieve.

He’s never once judged me or made me feel bad for being me.


He’s seen me at my absolute worst, and still finds reason’s to make me smile.


He makes me want to be my absolute best!!

I want to be just like him!

My eyes fill with tears and my heart swells with emotion as I write this because I never in a million years thought I’d see the day when I could put my all in and say from the bottom of my heart




you know who you are 😉

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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