I have to prepare myself.

It isn’t as easy as 1-2-3.

It isn’t as easy as flicking a switch on or off.

It takes time.

It takes patience, which I have very little of.

And it feels like each and every time a part of me is ripped open. After taking so many years to heal.

Fleshy. Raw. Each and every time my mind wanders over and over the material.

Only it’s not material.

These aren’t stories.

These are facts.

Bits and pieces of my life. Worded together to form a post.

Only each and every time I arrange a sentence the letters that compile words peel another layer of skin and I am exposed.

The most painful scars get re-opened every other weekend.

They are now 14 and almost 12.

They live with their father.

Because I was too fucked up to care for them and wanted an abusive man to love me more than I wanted to be a mother. Even though that was years ago. It haunts me.

I am a disgrace.

And each and EVERY time I try to put more of my story out there those two facts. 14 and almost 12, race to the surface begging to be released.

To test me.

To test my faith.

To see if I am worthy to be forgiven.

Sometimes I wish he had killed me. That I never regained consciousness. Then I wouldn’t have to live with the fact that I made such horrific choices.

If I wasn’t so damn blind. I would have 14 and almost 12, here, now, with me everyday.

Instead I share them with their father and another woman, they now call Mom.

Just forcing my hands to type the letters forming the word Mom, tears another layer and blood pools at the surface.

Pick. Pick. Pick. Word after ugly word.

Blood drips.

Spilling out of every pore.

Will it ever feel less painful?!


Dark Cloak

The last few days have been dark, despite the blue sky and the brilliant sunlight sparkling just outside the windows of my home. It feels like there is a cloak shrouded over me and I hover between here and there.

There’s a little one, who beacons me, and I am forced to crawl out of bed and face the day.

I feel every bone, muscle fiber, and inch of my skin. My appetite, usually a hearty one, has waned. I sleepily walk to the coffee pot like a robot on autopilot and get my fix.

What exactly is my problem? I just got my menstrual cycle so I know I am not pregnant. PMS has passed so my unusual sensitivity is questionable.

Last night my husband came home late and I had already put the little one down and was edgy, short-tempered, and frustrated. He works long days and is home late most nights. I adore him, but hate his job. As he sat down on the bed next to me, I began declaring just how done I was, how tired, how ready I was to move from the albatross of a house (it’s currently up for sale~AGAIN!) and start a new life away from the one he had with his previous wife. I barely squeaked out the words and began sobbing.

I thought this would be good for me. I thought I would just come over here, start an anonymous blog, purge myself of the evil craziness, and then go about my day living my happy little life.

I have been yanked backwards by my freshly colored hair that is sporting a permanent pony tail these days, revisiting things I have buried, tucked away, and tried desperately to forget.

I looked at my husband after he tried tenderly to feed me words of encouragement, love, and support and I whimpered, “I had no idea how difficult this would be. Telling my story, via the blog, is a lot harder than I would’ve imagined!”

He says, “You don’t have to write about it if it’s too painful.”

I look at him again, wiping away my tears, taking a deep long inhale and then exhaling I say, “Yes, I do!”

Comes The Dawn

Comes The Dawn 

Author: Veronica A. Shoffstall.

This poem was written in a letter that was sent to me in 1994, by my favorite Aunt. I used to read it everyday, at the time I was just out of high school, filled with promise, hope, and desire. I grew up in a family with strong woman. My first unhealthy relationship was when I was in HS. For whatever reason I was drawn to a guy who was controlling, verbally & physically abusive and older than me. It’s hard to fathom I would have allowed myself to be treated in those ways. I still struggle with understanding why. Sharing this poem is important to me. In the darkest, loneliest, most desperate times it has helped me find my way back. It has forced me to become honest with myself & my choices.

My debut post received so much kindness, support, and encouragement. My head is still reeling from it all. I wrote most of that piece after I took a flight from one state to another escaping my abuser for the final time. Sadly, that incident happened years prior one night in our apartment by the sea. While salt air flowed through opened windows & the ocean roared in the distance. Such promise in that place two blocks from the beach, my favorite place on earth. Those promises, like so many before were not kept and I failed , once again to get the courage to leave. This incident is by far the one that sticks with me the most. For two reasons, make that three reasons, but the third is far more shameful and difficult to admit, but I will attempt to do my best at writing what I can.

Reason #1: At the time he was nine. brown haired, olive skinned & green eyed just like me. Precocious. Strong-willed. Clever and oh, so feisty. My first born. Eager to please, but quick to anger.

Reason #2: At the time he was seven. Blonde haired, fair skinned, big blue-eyes just like my ex-husband. Mama’s baby boy. Silly. Creative. Shy. Affectionate. Still pretty immature for his age. Easy going and always happy.

While my memory blacked-out and I struggled to recall what happened to me those two precious boys slept down the hall on the living room floor. I often wonder about what could have been. If I hadn’t survived. If consciousness wasn’t regained. It makes my heart ache, a lump forms in my throat, and even as I type this my shoulders grow tense and creep up into my ears. I drop my head. Breathe. It’s over. It didn’t happen. They slept soundly and woke the next day with eagerness and smiling faces.

Nine starts with a hundred and one questions about the days events, “What time will we be headed to the giant sandbox with the big blue waves and sun-filled sky? Will mommy build dolphin sculptures again and is He coming?”

Aggravation strikes. Sleep deprived and saddened because I had just unsuccessful scrambled to find excuses as to why I deserved my newest shame. He didn’t buy it and I was the one who wound up apologizing and He went out for the day leaving me with a tear stained face and doubting why I stay for the thousandth time.

Reason #3: Nine had made me mad for reasons to this day I cannot recall. I tried several attempts at diffusing the situation, but his strong-will prevailed once again.

My will weak. My resolve lost.

Putting Nine in a brief time out should’ve fixed things. From across the room as he sat I spotted a piece of paper he scribbled upon i hate my mom, i hate my mom, i hate my mom, I HATE MY MOM!

I charged at him. As my hand met his cheek you could hear the slap echo through the barely furnished room. He screamed. Clutching his eye he rolled around on the floor and crawled away from me.


I rushed to hold him. He recoiled and the fear in his eyes cut right through me. I still remember that look.

There is seldom a time that re-living this doesn’t make me feel just like the monster He was. I knew better. I had never hit my kids. I am not making excuses for my behavior, but in that moment I realized the trickling effect of abuse. People who get hit most likely wind up hitting.

My son and I have a happy, healthy, violent free wonderful relationship today. He is now 14 years old and told me one day, “Mom I forgive you, that is apart of the past and we need to leave it there. Move on.”

It has taken me a long, long, time to forgive myself and there are still days when I feel the shame of what I did, but I am learning to move on.