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?




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

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‘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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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.

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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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A Clean Break


“I just have to make it to my car without crying” I thought to myself, as I waved one final goodbye to the jovial receptionist in the front lobby area. The front doors closed behind me, every cell in my body screaming to turn back around and say I had changed my mind.

It was all I could do to force myself to keep walking, tears flooding my eyes. I fumbled with my keys, trying to see what I was doing through my tears. ‘click’, unlocked. Once inside, the wave of emotion overtook me and everything came flooding out.

A memory of his smile at the park flashed through my mind.

“I did it.

It’s come to this.

I’ve gotten too sick to take care of my own child.

I am lucky to have found a place like this, a spiritual community filled with love and all the needs and values I can’t provide for my child.

His whole life, he’s had a sick mom. It’s time he’s free to play and be a normal kid. My best is not good enough anymore. If child protective services got involved, I don’t want to think of what may have happened. This was needed.”


I remember the drive home vividly.  I was not prepared for the feeling that had come over me.

I had just signed power of attorney over and placed my child in someone elses care for an undetermined amount of time. This has been a mentally and emotionally consuming issue for me over the month leading up to last Friday.

I’m definitely in a state of Grief, with more of a motive to be healed than ever.

The peace of mind knowing he is okay, and enjoying his life, instead of waiting on me to get better, helps me relax enough to just focus on me now. It turns out it’s what we both needed.

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 🙂

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. 🙂 
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. 

I hope someday you have a child just like you (originally posted Jan. 2, 2014)

I have been blessed with a child that is remarkably like the child that I was!
I take this as a positive challenge because I can relate to him better than anyone when, as a child I felt alienated and alone.
I look forward to twenty years from now when I can evaluate how I did as a parent.
I’m excited to see how things turn out.
So for everyone who ever told me as a child that they hoped I ended up with a kid just like me someday,
I’m super thrilled that I did,
this way I can show you how easy it is to show a child the unconditional love that each and every one of them deserves,
and how much that comment to me was an excuse to shift the blame for your inadequacy as an adult onto an innocent child.