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?!



I am in my body yet it’s as if I am being controlled from the outside.

I feel numb. Not a pins and needles kind-of-numb, but like an alcohol induced buzz kinda numb. I move, talk, and function as if I am human, but I feel far less than real. My chest rises and falls. Breathing is involuntary or I am not sure it would happen. My brain is foggy. Filling with information I have yet to fully process. By all accounts I feel dead, yet I continue to take in oxygen and that buzzed feeling begins to lift as I try to focus.

I am flat on my back. My cheek stings. I sense a presence near me and I barely make out a shadowy figure above me. I struggle to recall the moments before my mind was erased like a slate chalk board.

Where Am I?

My head aches like a train just entered through one ear and exited the other. Time floats above me and is no longer tangible. Am I dreaming? I try to move, but my body and head feel cemented to the rug beneath me. Another involuntary breath and I am made aware of the pain in my throat. A voice in my head asks, “Am I drunk?” I don’t recall drinking too much, but thats the first question that fills my head. Perhaps I blacked out.

The dark figure above me speaks.

I am immediately thrown into a vortex of reality as my brain begins to allow me access to the truth. Slowly I struggle to sit up, but am cautious of how I move. Fear washes over my rag doll body. I sense danger in the room but deny it’s as close to me as it really is. I refuse the truth flying like a banner legible enough to read from a hundred miles away. I squeeze my eyes shut. It hurts to swallow. My stomach feels like it may grow arms & legs and take the journey up through my esophagus to my larynx and out my mouth vomiting the truth. I swallow it back down because I am ashamed to see it.

There is a stranger in the room, but perhaps this person is someone I’ve met before I cannot put a finger on it. Tears come and the stinging hot pain on my face returns as they begin to roll down my cheek. The stranger hasn’t stopped speaking, but his words remain coated in a tunnel of steel and move in slow motion. It is barely audible.

I pull my knees close to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I rock back and forth trying to sooth the little girl inside that wishes her daddy would come rescue her from the darkness and the monsters that linger there. Shame, guilt, and remorse at some point attach themselves to my sides and help keep me company as I begin to process the minutes that produced the one I am now living in.

Words fill the cavity we call the brain. I hear them repeatedly like a CD that is stuck in a scratch where the laser cannot move across it’s surface.

What are you doing? What did you do? These questions repeatedly play. I question my sanity as if it was knocked loose on impact.


That’s IT!!! There was some sort of impact, only I do not recall what it was.