Most People Don’t Find Out They Have Siblings on Social Media – I Never Did Get My Day on Maury Povich

I, on the other hand do.  It was way back in the archaic days when the popularity battle was still strong between MySpace and Facebook. Yes, there was a thing called MySpace -true story.macintosh-2619617__480

Growing up my Mother would be busy hitting the bottle and on a good day, she’d talk about my siblings.  These illusive beings that she would let me know that my Father wanted unlike me, because I was not only the reason she drank, but also the reason he left her.

I was little and without doing the math of age and dates, I was sitting there with the TV on.  The news had a report of a firefighter who had died.  I only remember the town and fragments of it, not the details surrounding the fire, person or cause of death.

In my kid brain it was as she planted in my head.  That was my Grandfather and he died in a fire.  As an adult, I did learn the more accurate side of it, but the story line is, for the most part, accurate.  It was my Grandfather, he did die and there was a fire.

That was my Dads Father.

Growing up the only time information of my Father was given, came on the coat tails of an angry drunken spell.  I would grab on to any fragment she spat out because I wanted to be like everyone else who got to have a ‘Dad’.

Even the kids who didn’t have a Dad live with them, they still had a Dad.  I didn’t. I literally didn’t.

I had (have) a birth certificate from the City of Boston with a blank line – no Father.

Quantifiable proof.

nodaddybcI grew up first wanting Dad, somewhere in that my “Uncle Joe” was met by my Mom during one of her many court ordered stints in Longwood Rehab.  “Uncle Joe” took a parental place holder in life during my pre-teen, teen and adult years.  He was a drunk, stereotypical Southie kind of drunk.  With an often times over the top violent temper but also a heart so big, real and genuine.

Uncle Joe drank himself to death too 😊 Not before he put himself in wheelchair and lost use of both of his legs after drinking and driving and wrapping his truck around a tree. It wasn’t enough to stop drinking and if you’re wondering if any cause and effect lesson was learned about not drinking and driving…it wasn’t.  I miss my Uncle Joe. (He wasn’t really my uncle but he shacked up with my mom’s sister for years, she is also on the list of persons I loved who drank themselves to death, you should know that in case you’re keeping a spread sheet of them)

Fast forward, I’m a mom of 3 kids myself, all who not only know their dad but have that bonus of having his name listed on their birth certificates. Go me!

However,  I’m still sporting the no Dad, everyone is dead or almost dead in my family and the lingering notion that I just may or may not have siblings that exist per my intoxicated (now dead) Mother.

My dreams of being on Maury where still strong at this point, living in rural PA does that to you.  I spent my life ‘looking’ for my Father, looking for some tangible confirmation that the pieces of me that were not of my mother, came from some real person.

That happened one day years ago when I was ‘searching’, only knowing I had 3 siblings puzzle-2500333_1280out in the world.  My Mother told me I had 2 sisters and 1 brother, so I looked for them, often.

Social media, science and timing came together one morning as I was drinking my coffee, my young children playing downstairs – aka making massive messes or killing each other.  😉

A search on MySpace revealed this woman, with the last name of my Father, in a profile picture, I sat there looking at with awe because I saw me in her.   The more digging of her profile I did, the more the pieces of the story my Mother gave me, feel into place.

There were 3 of them, though it was 3 ‘sisters’ and no brother.  They were from where my Mother said they were and the impetus to act on contacting them came when I saw the picture of my ‘maybe’ sister.  She was the middle of the 3 of them, and looking at her…it was so much of me that it was scary. kk.jpg

They didn’t know they had an older sister, a role I rather do enjoy.  They saw it too, and I love hearing their stories of what it was like when I reached out to them and we met.

My ‘maybe’ sister I found on MySpace agreed to a DNA test.  I was so close to having that blank line of who my Father was, finally having a real answer.   You could just look at us and see we were related but there was that lingering bit of doubt that when the DNA test came back, the resemblance was more of something I desperately needed to see in them.

If it the DNA came back they were not my sisters, I would lose the false, but at least comforting feeling of having some story to chase in hopes of getting to know who my Father was. sisters

I had nothing but the story my now dead Mother gave me, if it came back a non-match.  I would never get another chance to get that answer.   I had nothing else to go on.

The envelope came back.  I got that answer.

I got a shit ton more than that answer as well.  I’d have made Maury proud 😊

The story really is cool, the beginning of “knowing” who my Father was, wasn’t the end it could have been.  It became a story I couldn’t have foreseen and a story I never thought I wanted, maybe I was too afraid to want anything else other than to just know who my Dad was. 

Many years later I’m still working on how to embrace a life I was folded into.  When you go from being an only child with most of your family dead or almost dead… well..

It was my birthday when I “officially” met my sisters.  Since that day, they have put me in their life as though I had always been there.  They treat me like I’m their sister, like they treat each other. 

I was looking for an answer and what I got, years later is still surreal.  I not only have real legit sisters, but I have nieces and aunts, uncles, cousins…tdayfam.jpg

But I have the best sisters in the world.  I really do.  They took me in as their own, they owed me nothing.   Their Mother took me in as hers and loves me and my offspring too.

What makes them and their Mom who raised these amazing women so fucking past awesome…these woman are my children’s aunts and their Nana.

My children only know them as their Auntie, M, K, & S, my sisters love them.  They love them so bigkidwedand real as though I was always there and didn’t show up from some social media search.

There isn’t a divide that could be there when some lady sends you a message on social media saying “hey, I think you’re my sister”.  There isn’t a distinction of my children and the children of my sisters.  There is an equality of being a family member, of being part of a family that doesn’t have to be there, but it is.

I love my sisters, more than they know, more than I know how to express or I’ve ever been able to show them.  But I want to world to know how much I love them.

And how that I have the best fucking sisters in the world.




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Tomorrow – Some Meh, Some Good…Empty Souls Not Welcome

Tomorrow brings some stuff, some of it I’m excited to get done because it’s one more step forward.  Some is meh, and I’m not jumping for joy but there will be relief its done and I will get answers.

I am nervous for tomorrow, I’m emotionally attempting to ‘avoid’ being nervous.  I’m struggling with the intrusive thoughts that come on the heels of an emotionally abusive marriage.

I’m almost angry at myself for having them.  I almost want to be filled with well-deserved anger at the piece of shit he is.  Both are non-productive and will help me avoid processing through the real feelings.

Recognizing this is good.  I owe myself a Starbucks for this (ok, I can always find an excuse to buy overpriced coffee but we won’t go there)

The Meh:

Tomorrow I go for my biopsy and that’s were my nervousness is focused.  The not yet hospital-1802679__480healed from the shit storm of him part of me wonders how I am so worthless and nothing that the one person who should be there or should want to be there for that has made it so clear he could care less.  That seeps in and what runs through my head is his hard on for taking someone who “needed” him on a $6k trip.

I must really be the horrible things he’s said to me…

I’m not.  To put words to the feelings gives me more control over self than internalizing them and believing what he says must be true.   Look at his life and look at mine, common sense dictates here. 😉

I do still struggle with those thoughts and feelings but the intensiveness of them, the length they take hold and impact me are less and less.  This is healing and it doesn’t happen overnight, but it does happen.

He’s a ghost of who he was and all the synthetic marijuana he did very well could have rotted and permanently fucked up normal cognition.  I really want to believe he wasn’t this much of a selfish, narcissistic douche bag.

Says me, the victim of his abuse!  Always defending the downtrodden.

The Good:

I’ve got a bunch of papers from my attorney that I have signed and will drop off tomorrow so he can bring the motions forward. I feel very empowered having the document-428330__480courage to hand something off that a year ago I was so ashamed of.

Every act that puts more distance between what a fuck up he turned out to be.  The better off I will be in the long run.

I’m not going to have that deep seething anger for him today, he’s not worth it.   He is not right in the head.  I should care about that as much as he cares about, say, me 😉

Ya, I hear crickets too…



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“I have both power and voice, and I am only beginning to just use them…”

Saturday morning I dragged my achy self out of bed, 12 hours lying down and my side was still reminding me just how sore it is.

Grabbed my coffee and was doing the obligatory scroll through of Facebook, pondering my own stupidity of the week, where I’ve been, where I’m at now and where I’m going.  Hurry up my beloved caffeine…

In my news feed are the pictures of this week’s meet where my girls trained and fond memories of when it would have been me posting pictures of my gymnasts on the podium or perhaps a proud video when one or both stayed on beam.


Beam, lol.  Gym moms get that!

At one time I had two competitive gymnasts, one was a compulsory and the other an optional.  We lived at the gym, some of my very most favorite humans in this world are from the years my girls were “gym rats”.   When you are there 6 days a week, with a gymnast training 20+ hours, it really does become their second home.

You do put trust and faith in the coaches, the wellbeing of your child- or in my case, children…you trust they will protect their mind and body.  Often these are the humans who will see your kids more hours in a week than you will.

I’ve found a voice and a modality to use it.  I’m only one voice but together, one voice becomes part of voices that will be heard.  I’ve learned and keep learning acceptance, successes, failures and fuck-ups.  It took over a year to be “ok” with being both a ‘victim’ of an assault with the path that followed it – to seeing there is another side that just might look nothing like I could have fathomed, and that I will be ‘ok’, voice and all.

I resented the word ‘victim’, it made me feel weak and as though I failed.  I could have empathy for any other kind of victim but none for myself.  Another victim wasn’t weak in my eyes – but I didn’t give that to myself.

I’m over that.

Finishing my life line of coffee and Facebook feed before I drop the boy child off at work, I see the speech pop up that Aly Reisman made in court yesterday.

I know her as a gymnast and I was aware of the going ons in that world, I have a daughter who was sexually assaulted… so I opened it up and I watched.

I didn’t see her as a gymnast or a victim, I listened to a fucking powerful women use her voice. 

“Imagine feeling like you have no power and no voice. Well, you know what, Larry? I have both power and voice, and I am only beginning to just use them. All these brave women have power, and we will use our voices to make sure you get what you deserve.” -Aly Raisman

That is power.

Use your voice, even if you are just beginning. 




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I Need Crayons…Really, I Do.

A nice big box actually, like the big box of Crayola crayons that have the sharpener in it. That way if I dare to pull a color out and actually use it to broaden my otherwise go to of black and white hues of my chaotic life and wondrously fun childhood.  What if I could go all out and risk breaking a crayon because I tried too hard.  I can sharpen it and try yet again.

Yup, I need a box of bright crayons with a vast array of colors to choose from. color-767166__480

I’m a pretty classic text book example with traits and behavior patterns of an ACOA. I live them and I embody them.  Un-fucking my childhood will be a lifelong process, it was accept this or be consumed by it. I’m not going down without a fight, I’ve known this since I was a child.

Alcoholism impacts lives and not just the life of the alcoholic.  Its impact comes with a substantial emotional costs to those who are at highest risk – the highest cost is quietly paid by children who live in it, often living it in the shadows by the very insidiousness of the cycle.

Our childhood is the accumulation of every interaction between caregiver and self.  When the caregiver is splayed out on the front lawn because she was too drunk to make it into the house… It doesn’t exactly help develop a healthy sense of expectations of functioning.  It results in the interruption of normal, healthy psychological and neurological growth and development.  Life is chaotic and the big old world a child will one day grow to live in, that shit doesn’t make sense.

Void of a consistently rational (aka sober), safe, and secure parent who provides and duck-1536482__480models skills of emotional regulation (aka not drinking, breaking down and crying endlessly for the mother who died in her own childhood – almost every.single.time.she.was.shit.faced.) and appropriate self-soothing (aka a hike in nature to process feelings vs. downing a pint of straight vodka and setting the house on fire because mom passed out) the capacity to assess and understand what is happening – it ends up being an inaccurate representation of how to navigate adult relationships.

Plainly put, it fucks with our wiring.

The experiences and relationships that were modeled – or really not modeled are an immensely powerful component of who we will grow up to be and how we see, live, and function in adulthood.  It’s the core of who we become.  As with every label someone creates… probably for some insurance billing purpose – We all need a label and some kind of diagnosis it seems.

There are some “common” characteristics that can be seen in adult children of alcoholics.

  • Depression & Anxiety – shocking I know.
  • Numbness – One of my favorite self-preservation angles, I’m really cornering the market on this one.  Why feel when shutting down is a defense against what would otherwise be overwhelming pain you have no base line for dealing with in a healthy sense!
  • Hyper-Vigilance – Another classic trait I’m rather fond of. It is a subconscious yet constant scan of environment, people and relationships for signs of potential danger or crisis.
  • Easily Triggered & Hyper-Reactive – Oh those beloved associations of trauma… yelling, loud noises, criticism, a smell, touch or even a subtle look can trigger those black and white reactions. Shut down or the other end of the spectrum, a very intense emotional reaction. Like losing your shit kind of intense emotional reaction. I may have lost my shit once or twice in life…just saying.
  • Rigid Psychological Defenses – That shut down could be part of dissociation, denial, repressed memories, minimization of how something impacted you.  Walls put so high that none will ever be able to breach them.

By far my favorite – like neon pink crayon favorite – is intellectualization. As my therapist so gently put it “I know all I need to know”… he mumbled some shit about ‘feeling’ it.  But that circles right back to my old school buddy of numbing.  Why fuck with it if it’s working…car-2039180__480

  • Self-Regulation Problem –  How about those crayons now…the deregulated limbic system we end up toting into adult life can manifest with some slight problems with regulating many things like thinking, feeling and behavior.  That saying “0 to 10” or the flip of 10 to 0 without intermediate stages that ‘normal’ folks have.   Ya, we totally have that shit down pat. Black and white thinking, feeling and behavior, and no recognition of shades of gray – check.
  • Learned Helplessness – I’m ok on this one, my defiant streak – also seen as that fuck yourself and die side may help a wee little bit here.
  • Distorted Reasoning-  Convoluted attempts to make sense of  chaotic, confusing, frightening shit and really not the best experiences of good parenting.
  • Ability to Accept Care or Support – Well there’s that inherent numbness, shutdown, fears of trusting and being let down all over again… I have absolutely no idea why an ACOA would struggle here… I don’t need anyone’s help!
  • High Risk Behaviors – For me, I think this manifests more in high risk relationships.  I try to stay alive and whole because of being a mom gig to dependent humans I’m supposed to raise to be contributing members of society.
  • Desire to Self-Medicate– I will never give up my vice of coffee, never.
  • Survival Guilt-  Having survived or “getting out” of an unhealthy family, nope.  I earned getting out of it.  Well that and everyone pretty much drank themselves to death anyway.  I think I have one family member on my mom’s side that is actually alive and breathing.
  • Cycles of Reenactment & Relationship Issues-  Grabbing my crayons and going to color now…still-2609318__480




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Protection From Abuse Order = Silence

I wish that I could understand why some things just feel like a punch to the gut?  They shouldn’t but they just do.

Keep filling myself with the bullshit notion that it’s a process.  Each step gets easier and easier and there is a grief as I pass through them.

He was served his PFA yesterday and from a practicality standpoint, I feel a little safer.  Emotionally I will be honest, I have mixed feelings.  Those pesky emotions like to give you a reach around and not in a good way.

I am not going to pretend the sadness doesn’t exist and that these moves are not done with a heavy heart.  They are.  I still believe he could pull out of it, people do pull out of the drudges of addiction… Families do heal.


He didn’t want that and I don’t want to be one drug use away from dead, so those pesky emotions of caring and love need to be forgotten – even if forgetting is sad, scary and You.Just.Don’t.Want.To.

A stupid PFA will only give an illusion of being a little bit safer.  The emotional benefit though holds a lot of weight as to why it’s imperative it stay in place.

The only time he ever wanted anything to do with me was if he could get something out of it, the past 15 months I’ve been a puppet for him so that he could skirt any consequences of this, pretend he was never married and live happy every after.  Meanwhile I was ripped apart, my heart was broken and I have been forever changed by that day and this year.

He didn’t waste a second and got himself an online dating profile, how long fuckfacehas that been going on?  I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised – I’ve been nothing but a pawn to him for a very long time, one word. Disney.  Classy touch using a picture I took of him.  Gross.

I could have cancer… oh, you tell me you love me.  I see, I didn’t know love meant online dating, vacations with other woman, letting me know I’m a cunt, refusing therapy…. Oh, but I need to do what he wants or I get stonewalled.  That isn’t love, that’s abuse.

Having a PFA will keep him from being able to continue the mindfucking he’s refined down to a science.  I have to hold that thought and keep that in the front.  I do know that it will be easier to reconcile the flip side of the PFA.  The flip side is also one sided and really is my issue.

Of course, it’s my own self-created delusional issues – I own that.  The grief is there will be no more phone calls where I hear his voice, no more I love you (ya, I know they were lies anyway…but still, it was nice to hear because it reminded me of what was or more sadly what was lost), no more texts.


That means, no more of me holding on (even when I knew it was bad, knew I didn’t want to hold on) to the thread of something changing for good.  That’s my weakness and my soft spot, it’s the space I would let him in and he would ravage my sanity with manipulation and mindfucks – no lube.

It’s my scarlet letter that I am a child of an alcoholic.  My calling card.  The fucked up thing, that I know will be resolved without him being able to influence me…  popcorn-707364__480I’d still drop that PFA for therapy and clear, safe boundaries.  Come sit beside me my bane of existence of which is codependent traits, we can have popcorn made the real way, hot pot and olive oil.  Yum.

I can feel that, but the more space I have between me and him, the easier each tough hurdle becomes.  I am not wanted by him, I am not a loss from substance abuse… yes, pretty normal addict behavior but it still does suck to be the least wanted person when he’s the love of your life.

Sucks to be me. Please pass the popcorn.

Who’s the idiot though, he has an online dating profile, which is just gross.  Oh well.  I’m still holding on to my wedding ring.  It’s one of those lines that once I cross, it’s a done deal.

He has an attorney on record for the divorce and that was a hard thing to see, an emotionally brutal hit. It’s real.  This is real. It’s really happeing.  Go away pesky emotions.

He can’t pressure me anymore, he can’t use me to make it easy, he can’t manipulate me. I will ask the court to grant the order for 3 years.  I cannot tell you how hard that is going to be on me.  It will devastate me, this is my husband that I love.  He is not the man I knew or married anymore though… and I’m not going to get the magic phone call that he will met me on things that I need to feel safe.

Why?  Because he doesn’t give a shit about me.  I’m his scapegoat, his victim and nothing more to him.  He makes sure I have the seared into every fiber of my being.

woman-2320581_1280Who will I be in three years?  I’ve arrived at needing the wrap up and live past this cluster fuck of fun.  I have to go back to Oct 19th and make my peace with it. Some of that will hurt him, but it so isn’t’ about him or hurting him.  He will never understand that, he would have to have given a fuck and if you look at what he’s done and not done the past year….  I’m the tool bag!

It is my fault ultimately my marriage failed. I wasn’t strong enough or healthy enough and I caved from the pressures he and his lunatic mother put on me.  I was lied to that day, used, and they played on my emotions and love.  When I was reeling with the most profound loss of my life.  I got to do that alone and also hold my shit together enough because life didn’t stop and I had children who I wouldn’t let pay any more of a price than they had to in this.

I agreed to a bail mod that I never should have.  I didn’t push for stronger charges that I should have because I was afraid of his anger if I did.  And, I shamefully I admit, I was afraid he would leave me and worse, hate me.

In some ways, I set the stage and I paid a price.  My biggest regret was agreeing to the bail mod because that changed the course and that took me out of the equations.  Apparently, that’s where I was always destined to end up any way.

The week was big, today will be big.  He can’t persuade me to change course now, not any more.  It’s time to do the things I should have done that day.  I fear his anger about it… fuck that, fear last time didn’t do me any favors anyway and doing what he wanted was only about him and him getting a get out of jail free card.  He paid no mind to any collateral damage in that.

The criminal charges will be dropped off and how poetic that it will be to the very same judge that married us.  He’s a judge that we both hold dear and who has been fair, firm and always rooted for us.  He had tears in his eyes when he married us.

I will be ashamed when I drop the papers off.  There are stages to pass though and I will feel shame for somehow in all the fucked up it became, I failed my marriage.  Seeing he has an attorney on record this morning was so very very hard.  I still struggle wrapping my head around not being his wife.  Sentiments and emotions – fuck off.

Even still, life keeps going as it should.

My oldest was accepted into the GAPP program at her school, I started a go fund me for 20170806_082612the little brat.  I’m doing something right in the parenting realm 😊

( Feel free to share or donate lol!)

I have a ring that meant something and now is supposed to mean nothing.  It’s something I have held so close to my heart and I haven’t been ready to part with it.  I still had hope.

What right to I have to hold the hope that a ring signifies when my baby girl has a chance to stand as the strong and beautiful woman she has become… I how can I selfishly hold on to a ring that in reality means nothing to him and only a shred of hope in me.

The ring – the piece of my heart that has no home anymore, the only person that ring means anything to is me.  My child has a chance to be an exchange student.

theendIt’s time to part with it.  This one will be really hard and I will cry.  My husband put that on my finger and now, it’s nothing but part of the past that will never right itself.  Tucked away in a Fedex bag to be shipped off and sold.  Cold and businesses like.


It will be a deposit in my bank, money from it I don’t want but money is money and that money and that piece of my heart will go straight to paying off her exchange trip.

Keep living, one moment at a time.



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Did You Know an ACOA Can Be A Kick Ass Parent? How ’bout Them Apples…

My childhood is that of a child of an alcoholic, it wasn’t pretty and my memories don’t bring out my jump for joy side.  They are dark and now that I am a mother myself, they are memories I never wanted my children to have.

They don’t.  Parenting was on the ‘learn as you go plan’ and try not to raise fucked up human beings.

I did ok.  Giving them a childhood is one of my most proud accomplishments in life.  I did my parenting job with fierce confidence I was doing the right shit.

I’m as defiant as they come, mouthy, crude and at times overly opinionated.  My life has been an endless determination to prove to those that said I would end up just like mommy dearest – go fuck yourself.

I am nothing like her.  I parented nothing like she did. devprom

My babies are not little anymore, they are on the cusp of adulthood and I really am proud of the humans they have become.  They themselves hold their own fierce independence, passions… they love and hate each other as I assume “normal” siblings would.  I am guessing at that one though 😉

I raised good people and I started out with nothing but this little human in my arms that felt as perfect as anything could.

At times they were rotten little beings – rock on kids.  I bucked the status quo when it came to raising the spawn.  I guess in some ways, it did show a deep lack of overall trust that I didn’t have in anything.

Sigh… I followed my instinct.  Now a grown woman in my 40’s with a house full of teens and knowing more of my own self.  I bet 3 lives on my instincts… Which could have turned out poorly.  Lucky them I have good instincts.  Just sayin.

I wanted them to play and for their childhood space to foster that play.  As a young mother I found my place for them in a small town that had the school I wanted them to go to.  Waldorf Education aligned with most of my instinctual parenting of their early childhood days.

Now they are public school kids and doing well by those national educational standards we’ve all grown to fucking…..hate…err.. LOVE.   But the fucking shit they pass off as “food” in school, I can’t die on that hill today but really, that shit is nasty.

I was one of those “crunchy” moms, I home birthed, nursed them all, did the taboo co-sleeping, I wore my babies in a sling…organic, homeopathic fan gal I am.

The toys of their early child were magical and beautiful and I have the honor of being a small piece of bringing those types of toys to the next generation of moms coming out of the gate with babies in tow. woodlandfriends

I must say, these waldorf inspired toys are beautiful…


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Quotes vs. Reality – The Unspoken

Ok, well part of the quote anyway.

“I’m all glued back together now. I make no apologies for how I chose to repair what you broke”-Greys Anatomy

I’m far from all glued back together, all shiny and rosy.  But hell you piece of shit, I’m getting there and I’m gonna be damned if I don’t put every ounce of who I am into being whole again.  Thanks for that.

Because and I quote from the soon to be ex “This has nothing to do with safety”.  Oh no, it has absolutely everything to do with safety.  Every bit of shit that’s been thrown at me over these past 15 or so months has had its core in safety.

Safety isn’t just a state of physical being and it isn’t the only safety that can be stripped away and leave someone grasping for air.

“This has nothing to do with safety”.  As though any and all of what has been this past year when I came home from work that day to a strung out husband. I sure did feel “safe” that day, said no one…  He could have killed me and I believe that day, he was fully capable of following his threats through.  It was by luck I believe I escaped his hold on my neck that made the difference of me breathing and me not so much.

Ya, nothing to do with safety.

Safety isn’t a practicality, it’s pretty damn complex actually.  His statement to me could be interpreted a few different ways…from emotionally abusive to victim shaming….all the way to plain old ignorance surrounding the dynamic of being a victim of an assault.

It doesn’t matter, it isn’t my job, place or responsibility to decipher what the impetus behind that statement was.  Stupid gross fuck.

I don’t need him to believe my truth.  I am finding the power in believing my own truth.  Right now, it’s about me and only me in what is true and what isn’t.

It does, however, create a talking point to counter the minimization that surrounds being a victim of a violent crime.

Victims of violence experience trauma.  I concur.  The physical wounds heal and fade but the reactions to those physical and emotional wounds can last for days, weeks or even years.  When I tell you we wish those emotional wounds would go the fuck away, that is absolute truth.  We want that more than anything because that’s what has us in the grip and being here, it isn’t a box of cupcakes.

Emotional trauma.  The wounds that aren’t seen and don’t fade like a bruise from your body being slammed on a window jamb.  Intense stress reactions can and do vary from person to person and from day to day.

Emotional trauma can take on many masks, it can hide and lurk and present itself to being seen by the world in a way in which may not be seen for exactly what it is.  It almost becomes a double hit for those of us trying to find the other side.

Guess what bitches?

(You are not alone in what you feel, even when it feels like you are the most alone person in the world)

Feelings of Shock and feeling ‘frozen’ as though you are cut off from your own emotions. “Victims may not be able to make decision or conduct their lives as they did before the crime”.  The truth in that statement is bone chilling true and even now I don’t have the words to accurately articulate what it was like in the days, weeks and months that followed.

Denial…oh my dear friend denial.  Forever doing its best to keep us from the pain and otherwise unbearable memories by holding them just under the surface.  “Denial my invoke anger and a desire to get even with the offender”.  You have no idea.

Anger often gets a bad rap and I can tell ya, that anger that come full circle from being at the hands of to wanting to be the hand of… it can scare people.  They look at you funny when you show them crazy eyes.  Anger is also very empowering and when you really tear it down and aren’t afraid to acknowledge it exists and serves a purpose…  Those of us that have been hurt can have some pretty dark thoughts fueled by anger that we would love nothing more than to have our hands make that fucking shit even… maybe even have the upper hand.

Don’t fear that, it gives the abuser more power.  Own it.  Your power comes from knowing those feelings are there, knowing they may even have validity and knowing your own moral compass keeps you from actually acting on it.  Unlike the person who did act on it, and left wounds deeper than a bruise.

Let us not forget the bastard step child of an assault, acute stress.  That is the one that stays and seeps in when you think maybe this time you’ve got enough footing to have something solid.  Fucker won’t quit.

It’s hard, it’s really really hard but it does pass.

Don’t trust me when I say it will pass, wait until you trust yourself to know – it will pass 😊


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