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.

Samsung galaxy s3 1139
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.

Samsung galaxy s3 1058
She is the crazy one.

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…

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?


Secrets Buried in San Antonio



I finally put the puzzle pieces together in the summer of 2012. 

 The horrid truth revealed it’s self to me in all it’s glory, each piece fit perfectly.
There was no denying it.
In disbelief, I was overwhelmed with a sickened feeling. 
Some part of me had known this all along.
I had most of this information for years.
Why had I not connected the dots until now? 
I hadn’t even honestly asked myself the question!
I mean, every time a therapist or someone asked, I just laughed it off as a ridiculous (and uncomfortable) question.
Some of these “puzzle pieces” are blatant red flags!
It’s Textbook!
I couldn’t believe I had never suspected it before!
All the signs were there.
I come from a very religious home in a small town in Utah Valley, Utah. 
I’m the oldest of 9 children.
When I was 2 or 3, my father was temporarily stationed in a San Antonio Air Force Base. 
I have very few memories from that time. But the memories I do have are solemn. 
I remember my mom crying a lot.
She was withdrawn. 
I remember a lot of police. 
I remember being alone. 
My earliest memories are overshadowed by a feeling that I’d  done something wrong.
I felt I needed to take care of my mom, to protect her.
I was afraid the police would take her too. 
I felt I had to fix my mistake ???
That I had been bad, and that I was just bad by nature. 
A deep rooted fear of heavy footsteps torments me to this day. 
I have memories of my father coming home or his footsteps approaching my room, and my little heart nearly pounding out of my chest.
My breath caught in my throat. 
That man has, on many occasions, been known to make dogs roll over and cower and piss all over themselves by the mere sound of his voice. 
I have no memories of ever being cuddled or loved on by either parent. My father was always this looming shadow to be feared, with the eyes of a demon and only self serving motives.
I always say I should have been a daddy’s girl, because for the majority of my childhood I tried tirelessly to make my father proud of me. To crack that shell. 
I took violin lessons for 8 years, from 5 years old until I was 13. 
My teacher,
convinced I was the next child prodigy,
had planned tours at Disney World for me. 
No reaction from Dad.
I overheard him once, talking about how impressed he was with this young actress in Jurassic Park, and what a wonderful career she had ahead of her.
(He’s never impressed with anything!)
Severely jealous, I set out on my own pursuit of an acting career!
I’d surely be betterthan her-and finally win his approval!
Among my accomplishments, I auditioned for a major theatre production shortly after this Jurassic Park incident, and landed the lead role of Alice, for Alice in Wonderland. 
He actually acted slightly annoyed.
I had no trouble landing the lead in other productions,
building a reputation for myself as a an actress, but my new aspirations seemed to cause tension at home. 
I never made the connection, but stayed determined.
Each rejection made me more hungry for my daddy’s approval.
To hear those coveted words:
I’m proud of you.
My talent finally caught the eye of an acting and film agency and I was signed on as a talent. 
Surely this would make him proud.
I came home beaming!
Still ZERO reaction from Dad.
by this point I’m 14 years old…
It’s my birthday party.
Nothing big, small party at home, with a few friends over. 
Strawberry Pie instead of a cake.
(I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drum)
My friends have arrived, and we have been waiting way too long for my parents to come out of their room to start my party. 
We are impatient.
Then, right in front of my friends, my dad comes walking down the stairs as fast as he can with my mom tailing behind,
yelling the whole way.
She has obviously been crying.
Doors slam.
They storm out the front door,
into the car and squeal out the driveway and down the street. 
Me and my best friend are left on the front porch in a daze,
wondering what just happened.
My mom NEVER talks to my dad like that. 
Something must be really wrong!
Maybe an hour or two later, the sun is setting and my friends are leaving.
I’m crying. 
My party is ruined. 
My head in my hands, my best friend and I sit on my front porch and my stomach twists into knots.
I don’t know what I would have done back then without my best friend.
We went through some unspeakable things together. 
I really don’t know how much time passed before my parents finally showed up.
My mom, silently locked herself in her bedroom again.
My dad stayed and pretended nothing was wrong, and robotically went through the motions of the birthday party with only one friend there. 
To be honest, I would have rather have cancelled the party at that point,
because that was a painfully awkward experience for everyone. 
My parents refused to explain what happened for days afterward. 
I stayed upset.
Finally my parents called me into their room. 
My ears began to ring as their words took me back to my infancy. 
Back to San Antonio…