How Did We Get Here?

Posted by Anonymous.

I honestly don't know how it came to this, but deep down inside I always knew this day would come. When I first met you, I couldn't stand you after seeing you every day and I broke it off. A month later I remember driving down the freeway from my friend's house and passing the exit to get off for your work. I called you, and because your such a sweetheart you called me back and agreed to meet.

The minute I saw you that Thursday, February 2nd I then understood how they described love at first sight, but in this case, I had already seen you. But the notion of love at first sight still applied at that point. I remember you took me out to my favorite deli, and we sat in the back of my car and I was in tears because I knew I loved you, and it took some convincing but you agreed to give me that one chance. We spent the rest of the afternoon and night in the back of your mother's jeep (you had crashed and totaled your car) sharing the most passionate kisses I've ever experienced. I wasted no time in hinting I wanted you for mine, and you asked me, and I said yes.

But yet we've grown so much since then in the 2 and a half years (exactly yesterday) we've been together. We've loved and fought , moved out together and through hard times you had to move in with my parents and me . I can't help but feel responsible for the pain and rejection they give you...but I've always loved you for doing it for me, just so that I can survive in this hell hole. All the memories you've given me, I couldn't have asked for such a turn around in my life the minute I said yes to your question. You've supported me ever since I've been financially unstable. You've comforted me in the worst of times in the worst of my depression spells. You stand up for me even though I never gave you enough credit when you did, and even when i always got mad at you for not doing it enough. You fit me like the piece of the puzzle that has always been missing.

I am bipolar. I was molested for many years in my life by my real father, and my brain dealt with the trauma by blocking it out, so I only figured out why I'm so damaged by the time I was 16, and a year later I met you . I'm sorry I'm so damaged, I'm socially awkward, I have manic episodes and depression spells, and like I mentioned earlier, I knew eventually your patience and kindness would wear out, and it did. We've fought so hard and sometimes every day for a week or two , but this is different. When you left me that letter on the screen of my laptop last night, I flew outside and by that time you were gone, and I felt empty, like this time might be THE time it's over.

I've always been of the opinion that once you hit rock bottom there's only one way out, and that's up. Every time it gets bad it gets longer before it gets like that again. I was silly to believe anyone could bear the fighting and still come out kicking to save "us". I've always told you I'd fight until I was dead to make things right, and when I was driving you home after you agreed to come back to talk, I told you I wouldn't be able to sleep at all because after a fight I need to lay in your arms while you kiss my forehead and we soak up each other's forgiveness and apologies. You told me to wait in the car when we got to your grandma's house, and I waited for 10 min while you brought all your stuff from my house into your old room. You came out and got me and brought me into your room, and turned the lights off. You lay me down, and said " well you did tell me that you like me to hold you after a fight..." and I almost burst into tears that that was some sort of sign that you might just still want to make it work.

I am 20 years old now. I've been with you for 2 and a half years and yesterday was the day it was exactly that much time. But what did we do? We got into the biggest fight we've been in, in over a year. We didn't even realize what day it was. How did we get here? How can we both have tried so hard yet it came to this? Last year we made plans to get married, we even went to the department to get a marriage license, but you forgot your wallet. We were going to go back, but I would lose my insurance if I tied the knot with you, so we decided to wait. Would you have given me more chances if we had married? Sometimes I wonder about that, wonder about how a relationship is so incredible but while the light of the candle is dying, some people just decide to put it out. I decide to dig into the wax to make a longer wick for the fire to burn more brightly.

I love you .

YOUR BRAINWASHING HAS FAILED

Posted by Anonymous.

Its 11:23 p.m. I've spent all day, and most of the evening preparing for my son's birthday. You joined me at the store only because you seen I had done my hair. God forbid anyone hit on me, right? It's been five years, and I hate you. I utterly detest you. In fact, I hardly doubt I ever had any feelings other than resentment towards you.

You moved into my life swiftly those five years ago: pretending to be some knight in shining armor. You have amounted to nothing more than demonic. I care not for your "mental" problems, your upbringing, or your addictions. Everything that has gone wrong in your life has been someone else's fault- but mainly, mine- even at times where I couldn't have possibly been there and had any saying in your life- the fault has still yet... been mine.

You tell everyone I'm crazy, disturbed, and have various mental problems. You even tell this to my kids. Contrary to your pathetic words, it is YOU that is disturbed and crazy. You stripped me of the polite, kind and caring human being I was once. There is not one part of my life you haven't touched upon and made fun of; even straight down to my personality. It is you, that is crazy.

You live your life pretending you are something more than you really are. The words "mundane and ordinary" cannot and will not describe you. You announced that your coworkers declared you a Saint. It is you, that is crazy.

You spend every ounce of your free time retarding yourself with video games. I used to argue for your attentions. What for? It is you, that is crazy.

I fought a good fight against you, but I surrender. I have no strength left in me to fight your madness. It is you, that is crazy.

I smile, laugh inside even- knowing that in the end, you will be stripped of every ounce of control you have over me. For it is me that is smarter.

You work. You play video games. You insult, you rant, you rave and you unleash hell through this house. It is YOU that is crazy.

And while you're busy doing that, I'm getting set to go- leave the confines you have shackled me in. And it will be YOU that does in fact, go crazy.

You haven't brainwashed me, but I can let you believe you have. Besides, doing so puts a smile on that face of yours I have grown to hate.

I can bite my tongue and stagger away from your unbelievable words. You? You can't. YOU are pathetic and weak, not me.

You believe yourself a non abuser because you have never hit me. The narcissist in you prides yourself on that.

I get to go on- and live my life. You? You get to wallow in your self pity being alone with yourself- trying to find anyone that will play your game.

Your supply has run short. Your cycles bring on adult tantrums. And still yet, I privately laugh at you.

By the time I am done firing back at you, you narcissistic abuser- the house will be empty.

All that will be heard is nothing. You.. you go live with that. I won't have to.

Questions For My Mom

Posted by Anonymous.

It’s been over six years now since you left this world. I think about you every day. I wonder what you would think about the grandchildren you left behind and the grandchildren who’ve come along since you left us. You definitely loved your grandchildren no doubt. I used to watch in wonderment at the interaction between you and the grandchildren and wonder why you never felt that way about me. It’s amazing how a grandmother’s love can be so different from a mother’s love. It’s also amazing how you as a mother could show your love between your children so differently.

I came to know and love you better as an adult. I could actually understand your actions better after you finally disclosed your sexual abuse as a child by your relatives.

What I don’t understand is why you chose me as your target when I was a kid. Why was I called names and insulted, slapped in the face so often?

Why did people allow you to call me “fat, lazy heifer” instead of my name for weeks on end? Why did the school allow you to send me to school with just a cold hamburger patty and an orange in my lunch box for weeks on end because you thought I was too fat? I look at the pictures of me when I was 8 yrs old and I see a normal sized child. Why were you frequently over feeding me and then either making fun of me or denying food to me? Why didn’t you care that I was humiliated by you every day? Do you think your name calling and insults could have something to do with me being 75 lbs over weight today?

Why were you so violent? Did you enjoy seeing me cry? What about the welts and bruises?

Weren’t you embarrassed for people to see me? I was told that when I learned how to act right, you wouldn’t have to do that to me anymore. Why would a mother ever NEED to make her child bleed or bruise? You could try to make me believe that I deserved whatever punishment you dished out, but when other adults questioned me about who left the marks I knew that it wasn’t right. I knew other kids’ mothers called them by their names and not insulting, hurtful names.
Why did you have to degrade me when I started my period? Why was every new aspect of puberty an excuse to belittle or embarrass me? Why was it my fault when an uncle tried to molest me? I never said I enjoyed being “manhandled” as you accused me. I was 12 years old! Couldn’t you remember when you were molested as a child and no one helped you?

Why did you upturn my room and empty my closet and drawers out onto the bed every time I left the house for years? What were you hoping to find? I was too scared of you to ever drink or do drugs! You would have killed me if you’d ever found anything.

Why would you leave me for days on end with the people who abused you? Did you want me to be abused, too?

Why did you love my sisters and not me? What was wrong with me? Did you have me too soon after the first baby? 20 months apart was just too much for a 22 yr old, I know. But it wasn’t my fault! Why did you have more kids if you didn’t have enough emotional capacity to love them all equally?

Why did the other kids get to take piano lessons and have friends spend the night? Why was it ok for them to go to camp? Why was I ALWAYS on restriction? I remember, my grades! When I got behind in school, did it ever occur to you to help me? You were a college grad, you could have helped a 3rd grader with math homework before it got so bad that I got so discouraged that I could never recover. But, no, your solution was to put me on 3 months TV restriction, until the next report card. Did you honestly think that would help me understand multiplication and fractions?

When high school came around, why did you discourage me from going to college? Why did you refuse to help with filling out financial aid and application forms? When I told someone my dream of being a physician’s assistant, why did you laugh and tell everyone, “She’ll never make it”? Why did you make it easy for my sisters to go to college and refuse to help me?

What was so different or unlovable about me? Why was I your target? I think I could have peace in my life if I just understood your reasons and motivations. Unfortunately it’s too late now. I’ll never understand or get the answers I crave. I do try to look ahead and be the best mother to my children that I can be.

Disappearing

Posted by Anonymous.

Sometimes I feel like if I don’t write, my head will explode. I don’t even have any privacy for that anymore. He checks my phone, my internet history, everything is suspect the moment I want a little privacy. I don’t have a blog either. No place to put all the words in my head, so they just circle the drain, maddeningly slowly, until they are gone.

The feelings that inspired them just pile up. They never go anywhere even when the words are no longer there.

I am so sad lately. Angry too. But the anger is at myself. I’m 39 years old. I should have known better than to find myself here, again. Why did I ever marry a man who doesn’t like me? Only a few months ago, in fact. And now I can see, he doesn’t like anything about me, nothing I do is good enough….certainly he certainly isn’t in love with me…. I have come to realize I simply can’t please him. He is never happy and always looking for something to criticize. No effort I ever make is good enough.

I myself, I have come to realize, am not good enough for this man. I can’t remember the last time he really smiled at me or made eye contact that wasn’t an angry glare. We never make love, seldom even “have sex” and when we do, it’s fast and rough and there’s no joy in it….I miss that loving touch and the beauty of that so much I can taste tears in my throat just thinking about it. No one but my kids ever touches me
anymore, no one really ever smiles at me. No one ever talks to me in a kind and concerned voice, to the point I teared up hearing a compassionate and caring tone from my doctor last week.

I feel so stupid. I knew this was what I was getting into…I knew I wasn’t going to be cherished, treasured, respected, prioritized, adored. I suspected he was using me and marrying me as a means to an end in his custody battleway to get more time with his kids. He didn’t propose, he just told me the kids were “ready” for us to get married. I feel so stupid and so, so ashamed. I can’t even pretend to be surprised, I knew all of it. He never urged me to do anything for myself, even buy a nice
dress for the wedding instead of the cheapest one. My dress was $13… his suit was $500….did I mention I paid for it all, and put the last of my savings on a downpayment for his new truck, while I drive a real clunker? There was , and has been, no mention of a honeymoon, nothing. Not even a wedding night somewhere special. Didn’t I think I deserved more?

All we have done since then is fight. He is sure there is, or has been, another man. Every day he turns something into “proof” of that and accuses me of all manner of nastiness. If I defend myself, he self-righteously claims that’s “proof” too. I want to take a lie detector test but he refuses to participate because his ego can’t handle the idea anyone would find out the lengths I’d have to go to get him to believe me. Also because (I secretly think) once I passed it, he wouldn’t be able to stay mad at me, and he enjoys that too. Because if I am tripping all over myself
defending his accusations against wrong numbers and texts to girlfriends and why I was 5 minutes late, he still has the upper hand, and I am not an equal.

We are in counseling. Already. We had homework, about my feelings. They are still sitting on my dresser three weeks later. He won’t ask to see it or talk about it. It will sit there until I get so embarrassed and hurt that I pretend it’s lost just so I don’t have to deal with it anymore.

The Dr. is running tests in a few weeks to see if I have something seriously wrong….maybe cancer even. It’s not likely, but even so. I just wanted him to hold me. To act upset that something might take me from him. To seem concerned in any
way. Instead he just told me I was probably in menopause and nitpicked me for not staying at the office and having the tests run right then., with my mother there (oh hell no.) There was no kiss, no stroking me, no kindness, no concern. I fell asleep
and dreamed he got upset and said he couldn’t stand the idea of anything happening to me. But it didn’t happen. , really. It won’t. Yesterday he got up and stormed out because I didn’t say “bless you” when he sneezed. But I guess I don’t deserve
his concern and comfort when I’m really scared.

Here it is the next day and all we have done is fight some more. He made a nice dinner and gave me a card, and now he’s insisting I haven’t “tried”. I have tried so hard and nothing’s ever been enough. I am tired of failing with every effort. I “try”
every day. It’s all I think about- how NOT to make him mad. I just want to hear something nice. Something kind and loving. Instead I hear how disrespectful and callous I am for being 5 minutes “late” home from the store or I get ridiculed at a
family gathering for how I am so stupid for flushing a tampon.

I used to be pretty, and smart and a good mom. I had nice things, I drove a nice car and wore pretty clothes. My house was clean. My kids got good grades. I used to have friends and people had nice things to say about me. I liked myself. I believed in myself and I had dreams. I wish sometimes I hadn’t. Maybe if I had never had that I wouldn’t have such a hard time with this, being no one.

Every day is a struggle, nothing I do is ever good enough to matter. I work harder than I ever have, and its not enough to make anyone happy. I am invisible and unappreciated. I literally cannot remember the last time I felt whole. I think
about ending my life all the time, I don’t see any way that this will get better. I can hardly bear the idea of another 20 years of days like these- working and working and working with no one to hold me or love me or appreciate me. No one to ever smile
at me or laugh with me; no one to ever tell me I am special or smart or worthwhile. Just an endless stream of accusations and criticism and cold rejection….right now the only thing that keeps me here is a promise I made my grandfather- and
the thought of someone telling my baby girl that I left her on purpose. So I just go through the motions and I wait and see. I can’t put my kids through another divorce. No one wants to hear that you are in ANOTHER bad marriage. My family knows something’s wrong but they cant handle it and so they are turning a blind eye. I can’t leave. But I don’t know what happens to me if I stay. I am disappearing a little bit every day. At least sometimes in my dreams, he still loves me and I
am still good enough.

A Letter To Me

Posted by Connie.

To Me, present and future...

I've been trying to figure out the best way to write this blog, but I can't figure it out, so if it sounds more like a rant and less like a well-composed intelligent thought, thats why.

In my life, I have always had a problem. What is that problem you ask? Well, to put it simply, I give people too many chances. I always lived my life believing that no matter what, people had GOOD somewhere in them, and that everyone deserved the opportunity to show that. So, when someone hurt me, I would let them go for a little while, only to let them back in the minute they came back around. I always thought that I was doing a good thing, but in reality, I was only hurting myself more. It was like I was telling myself that I didn't deserve to be treated right the first time, and that it was OK for me to accept only second best. In the last year, I have made alot of changes in that department. I have let go of alot of people who really just weren't good for me. It was hard, but I did it, knowing that the people that I still have care enough about me to make up for that absence. I have done this successfully with one exception: my mother. As (more than one person) pointed out to me, it's like I am a drug addict. No matter how crappy she makes me feel about myself, my life, and the people who love me, I keep going back for that "momentary high" that I get when she gives me even an ounce of praise. The problem I have come to realize is that its all an illusion. That praise is given with strings attached; with conditions. If I don't fulfill those conditions, it comes back ten-fold in the form of insults, hatred, and just plain meanness. No matter what, though, I always went back. Not only did this hurt me, this hurt the people around me who were finally starting to trust and care about me. This ONE relationship was tearing down all of my other ones. Not anymore.

The purpose of this blog is mostly for me. In the case that I couldnt get a hold of someone like J, M, or K in a weak moment, I can read this to remind myself why I left in the first place. Some of you might wonder "Is it really that bad?" The answer is yes, and so much worse. It would take a lifetime to detail the 22 years of hurt that has been laid upon me; for now, I will use this blog to remind myself of the ones that stick out the most.

When I was 8 years old, my mom took me and my brother to a 60s dance at the elementary school. Back then, I had a "boyfriend" named chris; he was my "boyfriend" because we were 8 and we sat next to each other in school for 3 years, LOL, and he invited me to his birthday party and told his mom I was his girlfriend. Anyway, at the dance, my mom was being a spoilsport, I remember, and I started dancing with Chris' mom. Apparently, this made my mother feel very jealous, and at the end of the night she told me that everyone probably thought that Chris' mom was really my mom because we were both so fat.

I have never been a skinny person. I have always been overweight. Don't worry though, because I never forgot that either. My mother made sure of that. She can say that it was "because she cared" all she wants to, but there is caring, and then there is purposely making someone feel bad about themselves. When I was 10 years old, I couldnt find an outfit to wear to church with my friend. I was upset about this, I remember, and instead of comforting me, my mother told me that "If I wasn't such a damn whale, I would be able to find something to wear". Thats hurtful at any age; imagine what it does when you are 10.

All throughout middle school and high school, I was terrified of getting bad grades. My mother actually thinks this is a good thing, like well at least you would never bring a bad grade home, but I on the other hand, know differently. Yes, I liked to get good grades, and yes I was a good student, but anytime I even brought home a bad progress report or report card (and when I say bad, I mean I got one C out of an entire semester), my mother would lay into me in her passive aggressive way. "Oh sure, a C is fine. A C means average, so as long as you are OK with being AVERAGE than thats great."

While I was living at home with my mother, after highschool and during college, I was working part time, sometimes full time, and going to school full time, commuting even, so my days were long and I never really had a break. I will admit it, when I got home, I was exhausted, completely, and all I really wanted to do was be able to enjoy what little time I did have open by spending it with my friends and, when the time came, my boyfriend. My mom got mad at me because I didnt help to clean up around the house enough. I wouldnt vacuum, I wouldnt do the dishes, trust me if u asked her the list would go on and on. I am not denying that I didnt do much housework, I didnt. It was not because I was lazy, however, it was because I was SO DAMN BUSY. At that point, my mother wasnt even working. SO basically, she stayed home all day and never did anything except play on her computer, yet when Kayla got home from school, I got home, or Marty got home, all from very long days, WE were supposed to do all of the work. Once in a while is fine, ALWAYS is just ridiculous. My mother had the nerve to tell me that having me in the house was like living with an extremely rude roommate. Why? Because I didn't clean up a mess that I didnt make? I barely ate at home, barely spent my time there, and when I was there she was also making me feel like crap. This went on for years and years and that feeling that she made me feel, that I was basically garbage, will never go away.

This one is a sensitive topic, but one of the BEST ways to remind myself just why its best for me to stay away. When I FINALLY confessed to my mother that my brother had molested me for 9 years, she barely batted an eyelash. She gave the standard "oh really, im sorry" blah blah excuse, but she NEVER wanted to talk about it. Talking about it is what I really needed, and she just wouldnt. Even worse, after I told her this, she was still going out of her way to communicate with him, making sure he was ok wherever he was at, not making stupid decisions, worried when he started acting crazy, etc etc. And she would ask me about him and if I had heard from him, no matter how many times I told her I didnt want to hear about him at all. I remember crying on the phone with my friend while I was at work after my mom had called me and freaked out about Bobby. I was so upset that she just didnt seem to care about what I was feeling. I understand that Bobby is her kid and she will always worry. What I didn't understand was why she had to act like she was SO concerned with him, so worried about him, when she never acted that way towards me. I felt like no matter what, I would always just not be good enough for her.

And finally, the most recent BIG THING I guess, even though there are thousands of others. In February, I had to have emergency surgery to remove my gallbladder. And by emergency, I mean ambulanced out of work during a 3 foot snow storm emergency. James drove from Fairfax to Woodbridge in his truck with horrible traction, in the snow, to be by my side. He was there with me for 9 hrs, and drove me to CVS after, got my prescriptions, drove me home, etc etc. He was there taking care of me and making sure I was ok the WHOLE time. The next day, I called my mom. I was upset because I did not have insurance, and the surgeons deposit was going to cost me 1500. I didnt have this; I wasnt using my credit cards and I didnt have any in savings. I didnt want to, but I asked my mother for help. Yes, she helped me out and for that I am very thankful, but it didnt come without cost. First, she told me that this was all my fault; that it was from the way I lived my life. Then, when I told her that I might need her to drive me to the hospital on the day of my surgery because James wasn't sure he would be able to get the day off, she insulted him and made me feel bad at the same time. She said, and I quote "What good is it to have a boyfriend who lives near you if he can't take care of you?". Im sorry, but what a horrible fucking thing to say to your daughter. My boyfriend had spent the last 9 hrs in the ER with me, by my side, holding my hand, etc. SHE didnt even come to the ER. (And by the way, James took off work and took me to the surgery, my mother never even came.) Jean, (the lady I live with) drove me to the pre-op appt. So yes, my mother gave me her money. I guess that meant she didnt have to give her time.

Like I said, this probably didn't sound like the most put together thing in the whole world, but I felt the need to get it out of me, to put it in writing so that I would be able to come back to it. There are people in my life that care about me; people who are GOOD for me. Its unfortunate that my mother isnt one of them, but at this point, it doesnt even matter. I just need to remember to call them first.

Ce La Vie

So Mom Is Dying And You Are Not

Posted by Anonymous.

My mother is dying. Slowly, but perceptibly. Fading out, like a blurry xerox, her features sinking inward and melting toward one another. And for the 9 months this has been happening, I have wished it were you, Daddy.

Because Daddy, she showed up. She was there for every lost tooth, every prom, every school play, every nightmare, every spilled juice, every outgrown shoe. It wasn't pretty. She yelled. She was so tired she fell into bed every night. She wasn't good at comforting me. But she was always there, like a rock, a tired, jagged, sometimes cold, but always firmly and absolutely present rock. And you? You missed it all. You were drinking, and then trying not to drink, and then piecing together the ravages of a self from what was left after you stopped drinking, and then you floated off into some kind of oblivion I still don't understand. I played the part you needed me to play: loving and uncomprehending little girl, forgiving adult. But when the diagnosis came in, when they told us what it was and we realized what it meant, all I could do was hate that it wasn't you. Because when she is gone, I will be an orphan. Only you won't know it, and I will have to go through the motions of comforting you about the fact that there's really nothing you can do for me anymore, make up things for you to do so you can feel like a dad after missing it all in the first place.

Mom and I, we had plans. She had bought a house. She was going to move near me, be a grandma, see my kid grow up, be there for her. For the lost teeth and the outgrown shoes and the school plays. That's all gone up in -- not a a puff of smoke, but a steady stream of twisted cells multiplying silently. So she'll go, and my kid won't remember her, and we'll have a photo or two of you, the grandpa she's hardly met, and at some point I will say to her, it's OK, honey, I hardly met him either. But your grandma? She loved you to pieces. She was there when you were born and she held you and rocked you and did your laundry and laughed with me about how stupid cloth diapers were, and she bought you your first clothes and your swim lessons and all your shoes till she died, and she put money away for college. She loved you. She was there for you. She hated not being able to see you grow up more than anything.

And Daddy, you'll never know any of us.

A Good Mother

Posted by Anonymous.

I thought I was a good mother, I recently found out that the very thing I did to protect my child put her in harms way.

Princess Petunia is the much wanted, long awaited, only child of parents who endured several pregnancy losses, were told they would never have a biological child, went through IVF, and against all odds, were blessed with this tiny, perfect proof that miracles happen on an ordinary day.

When we finally learned we were to be parents we were thrilled, our families were thrilled. We spent our days protecting her. I worked nights and her Dad worked days so we didn't have to put her in daycare until she went to school, then only before and after school. She was safe, she was loved, she was the sun we revolved around.

In the past three years this beautiful, sweet princess became bitter, moody, even mean at times. I chalked it up to teenage angst, only child syndrome, her parents were divorced, after all, she wasn't really a bad kid, just moody. About three months ago she asked to go to a counselor. I got her the first available appointment, what my baby needs, my baby gets.

Yesterday she confided to me something that she had already told her counselor and her dad: when she was six the driver for the daycare bus molested her.

My mind flashed back to the time she came home from daycare with a toy we hadn't bought for her, when I asked her where she had gotten it, she told me the bus driver gave it to her because she was such a good girl on the bus, never cried or screamed.

I marched right into the daycare director's office and demanded to know what was going on, making it clear this was not acceptable. The daycare informed me that "he" was a great guy, a dad himself, coached all the kids sports teams, everyone just loved him, besides, if would make me feel better he was going to be coaching full time and would not be driving the bus anymore, and "you know, Mrs. X, Petunia is a wonderful, well behaved child, I'm sure he was just rewarding her."

I left feeling like I had taken care of this, and besides, the Princess really is a great kid. Little did I know, the damage had already been done. You see, about a month or so earlier the day care had sent a letter home to all the parents explaining that due to the shortage of buses and drivers, sometimes it would be necessary for them to drop the children off up to an hour before school started, with no adult supervision. It was basically a permission slip asking me if they could not do what I was paying them to do. I told the director that they could not drop my six year old off at school to be unsupervised for an hour, if I did that it would be child neglect, I wasn't going to let them do it either. Princess Petunia was to stay on the bus until she could be supervised.

The conversation with my baby, who is now almost 17, started yesterday with: "Mommy, remember when I had to stay on the bus...?"

Now I feel like not only did I fail to protect her but I basically handed her to the pedophile that hurt her. I don't know what to think, what to feel. I think I'm still in denial. How did someone hurt my baby and I was completely unaware? How do I sleep at night knowing that I gave this... I can't call him a man... access to my daughter so her he could hurt her?

And how do I ever begin to make the world a safe place for her again. The saddest part is that she tried to protect me. She told her counselor and her father but she didn't want to tell me because, in her words " Mommy, I knew you would think it was your fault, and there was nothing you could do to stop it."

I used to think I was a good mother, now I think I have no clue what a good mother does to protect her babies.

Bridging The Gap Between Us

Posted by Anonymous.

Everyone asks, "Aren't you afraid?"

I want to tell them that I am. But not for the reasons they think. I'm not afraid of being a young mom, of giving up the "best years of my life." It's not that, or delivery, or how my husband will handle school, work and his new son. I am afraid because I am doing the hardest thing I have ever done in my life: I am letting you back into my heart.

I thought about you every day when I was a little girl. I wondered if we had the same nose or if my hands would ever be the same shape as yours. I heard my mother cry all alone in the bathroom because she had been shamed and now had to struggle alone. It would be years before she told me about the other women, the drinking, the time you'd broken her back. At that time, I thought maybe I had asked for too much simply by asking about you. I thought she must be regretting something awful that caused you to leave her. She never said a single bad word about you. I thought you must have been the most perfect person in the world.

It's funny how even when I found out that you were nothing like the picture my mother painted, I always wanted to protect you. It didn't matter how many times the counselor at school pulled me aside and asked about my busted lip [or my broken ankle, or the bruises on my arms, or my black eye, or the cuts that later appeared on my arms...] I always had a plausible excuse. Because I loved you, and I loved that we had the same nose and the same shaped hands. My mother left me with you hoping that you had changed, thinking it was the best chance for me to grow up in a house and not in a series of apartments with her new boyfriends. I came to you hoping that you could be everything I'd dreamed a father could be. "You were a mistake," you said instead. "Just do something useful; get those dishes. Don't forget to iron my work clothes." Those were things I'd never done before, but I learned how just to make you happy. To cook, to clean, to make the best grades, to hide my tears and physical pains with a cheerful smile.

Eight years later, when they pulled you out in handcuffs, I cried. The officers asked, "Weren't you afraid?" I shook my head because I couldn't speak. Of course I wasn't afraid- you hadn't meant to shoot at me. You'd missed on purpose. You'd just been drinking again, and I didn't want you to go away. "It's okay. Put him to bed and he'll be okay tomorrow!" Oh, I pleaded. Even knowing that tomorrow you might find out that I had been hiding my pregnancy and miscarriage from you. You told me all about that boy and what he wanted, you tried to save me by banning him from our home. And when you were right, you had to make sure that I remembered for a long, long time. "Please. I don't want you to take my daddy away!" I'd take it all back- wishing you would disappear. All the self-doubts and suicide attempts. The resentment. The regret for all of those feelings. being so confused about whether I hated you so much I loved you or loving you so much I hated you. I'd swallow it back up and we could just forget it all.

They didn't listen. They placed me back with my mother, who cried and cried when she saw my arms and face. When she the bullet holes in the wall for herself. When she realized in full the chance that she gave me. I saw you in court and you sat next to me. "Sweetie," you said. "My God, what did I do? What have I done? Can you forgive me? Can we just forget all of this happened?" I wanted to say, "Yes, yes, let's forget and go home. I haven't even done the laundry yet and I know you need your work clothes for tonight." But my mother's lawyer screeched at you from across the room- "get AWAY From her!" My mother couldn't understand why I mourned the loss of you again. I'd lived my whole life wanting to please you and now I'd ruined my chances forever.

Five years later, when I wobbled up to your doorstep before my grandmother's funeral, I held my husband's hand so hard that he had to ask me to let go entirely. "I'm so sorry that I'm afraid" I told him, wondering what you would do. Would you scream at me? Would you throw your fists at me? Would you blame me? Or worse, would you pretend not to see me? It felt like the years of therapy had melted all away. I felt sixteen all over again, watching them shove you into the back of the police car. You answered the door and you hugged me. "I knew you'd come back, Honey. I just knew you'd forgive me." You held my hand, the one that was now not just the same shape, but the same size as yours. You blinked back tears, you talked to me for hours. You gave me Grandmother's fur coats, her handwritten recipes, money to help us get home. You begged me to keep in touch so that you could make amends. I asked my husband what he thought as we were driving home. He simply said, "Your father looks like a sad old man that can't hurt you anymore." I realized then that you'd turned 50 this past year. And indeed, perhaps you couldn't hurt me anymore.

I called you two months ago to tell you that I had made your dreams come true- I was finally able to give you the grandson you'd always wanted. A little boy after so many daughters and granddaughters. I was so scared to pick up the phone and dial those old numbers. Afraid you'd pick up and say, "I was lying all along. I can't change. I'll find you, I'll make you pay for disappointing me!" Instead, you laughed and cried and asked me all about my son. You asked if you could come to be with me when I gave birth. You asked for pictures and constant updates. I hesitantly gave you my phone number then and you even called me the other day. You scolded me so lightly for making you worry about our little family. I felt my heart seize up before you said it was only because you want everything to go perfectly. You got serious. You said, "If I could take it back, I would, you know? I did a lot of things that I'm ashamed of, and I wish I could make it up to you. The best I can say is that I am sorry; I know you don't want excuses. You don't have to trust me- but I'm glad you do. It's the best gift anyone has given me."

I hesitated last night before putting the envelope containing Jackson's ultrasounds into the mailbox. Just for a minute. And then I thought, "Why am I so afraid?" [Forget that voice that kept asking me if I would do the same things to my son, if I'd pass on my anxiety just by him being within me, if I could even do this, if you would come back into my life and hurt me so deeply again.] I pushed the letter in the box and pulled up the flag. I walked inside and I didn't dare look back. If I did, I might have run back out and snatched my son away from you. I see now what my mother was hoping for. I see now what she tried to do. And as I try to do the same thing almost two decades later, I pray for the best just like she must have done.

So, Daddy, we can still have the relationship we were supposed to. Please don't disappoint me this time. Keep your word. Make it up to me by loving my son the way you should have loved me.

Out From Under The Table

Posted by Anonymous.

Many years ago I used to build forts under the kitchen table. It was my safe spot in a home life that was hell. My mother was in an abusive relationship. He was an angry mean drunk. He started abusing me when I was 10. At first the abuse was just physical and then it turned worse. I was dragged from under the table one night and raped. I would be raped again and again for some time until my mother finally got the courage to leave him when I was 13.

This past week my mom went back to that street, that house where her daughter was raped to see it. When I asked why she would want to do that I was met with don't you remember the good memories and from my sister you should concentrate on the good times we had growing up.

My memories of childhood are of a fleeting number of good times but most lets just say I could write a best selling horror novel based on my tween years. After leaving the drunk my mom got involved with men who ran drugs and my mom was a mule into the prison system, what is worse she took me and my sister with her. She never got caught. I have few good memories and those I do have are not of times with her or that house but when my father would come and take us away from it all for a fleeting moment.

I don't think I am crazy when I say why in the hell would you want to visit a place where you almost died and where your child had their childhood stolen from them! I think visiting that place brings back nothing but bad memories at least for me even hearing of her visit I was brought back to that moment when I was dragged from under the table and raped.

Then when I blogged about being a childhood rape survivor my mother and sister got after me and said some things should remain private. Some things should not be talked about. My mother dared to say to me, "What kind of mother will people think I was?" You see, even at her old age she is in a new relationship unfettered by past choices. She doesn't want to acknowledge the hell we lived through and survived. My sister wanted to just bury it.

Me --the survivor-- needs to talk about it and share because maybe just maybe I can help someone else. I did survive and there is life out from the under the table and it needs to be shared and cherished but with that said the past needs to be remembered or it will be repeated and I will not let that happen as long as I have a voice.

Stolen

Posted by Anonymous.

When I was 16, I was anally date raped. Before this, I had only kissed one boy. I was naive to the ways of the sexual world. I still had my innocence. That innocence was stolen from me from a man who used vaseline to force himself into me.

That thievery led to my becoming involved with abusive men, not to mention the toll it took on me mentally, including suicide attempts. Eventually it led to my marrying a man in another state, at age 22, whom I met online and barely knew. He was into S&M he raped me both vaginally and anally. He was a good guy, until he got sexual. He even told me how his two previous relationships, along with other women whom he was just dating, ended because of the same reason, - his sexual deviancy.

He was in the military. When he deployed to Iraq, I found myself again. I was happy. I was the owner of my body once again. Dr. Phil once said "The only thing worse then being in a bad marriage for seven years, is being in a bad marriage for seven years and one day." That was my motto that helped me stay strong and I left him when he arrived back home 15 months later. But while he was gone I lived free and happy and spent his money. I didn't work, I simply had fun discovering ME. What made ME happy. What MY personality truly was.

I became pregnant soon after dating a new man. He was wonderful and sweet and kind and he turned into an asshole and I said I'll be damned if I suffered through bad relationships and a horrid marriage just to end up in another. I left him when I was 7 months pregnant. The scariest and hardest thing I've ever had to do, but the best decision for myself and my unborn child. I would not raise a child in an environment where a man thinks he can treat a woman anyway he wants.

I am now 32. I have a better sense of self and am constantly trying to improve my life, and learn more about me. I'm striving to make up for the years I lost for myself and for my daughter. I deserve happiness.

Roman Polanski is a criminal and needs to be punished for stealing a child's innocence and for stealing the life she would have had.

Nanna's Hell

Posted by Anonymous.

My grandmother is an abused woman.

At 65 years old, she has never been shopping alone. She is given an ‘allowance’ of twenty dollars per week, which she almost always uses to supplement the seventy-ish dollars per week she is given to purchase groceries for my grandfathers, herself, and my cousin (the lazy, unemployed 20-something mooch, though this is a rant for another day). My grandmother is treated like a child, and has been since the day she was married at 19 years old. My grandfather treats her so poorly, that his sister has actually gone as far as to suggest that my grandmother may be mentally handicapped. Nanna is belittled daily, criticised for her every action. "You dress like a slob, you dress too well, you’re a pig, the house isn’t clean enough (do it again!), you’re stupid, you’re worthless, you are nothing without me . . ." etc. My father has vivid memories of his mother being punched through walls, pushed down stairs, and being kicked until she simply would not get up. He remember her being forced to eat off of the floor because she failed to feed the grandfather’s dog in a ‘timely’ manner. I have a half dozen illegitimate aunts and uncles fathered by my grandfather to other women, over the years. The youngest is only a few years older than I am. He is an undeniably cruel, insensitive husband, and she is too far gone to see this.

That being said, 8 months ago, she finally worked up the courage to leave him after she caught him cheating on her in their bed.

Nanna packed her bags, and moved into my father’s house. Immediately, despite the restrictions put on us by the economic issues swirling about, my father began working on an addition to the house so that she would have her own space in our home, and so that she could feel like she wasn’t intruding on anyone else’s space. For the first time, she went grocery shopping alone, with her own money, and loved it. She went out in her own car, and got her dog groomed for the first time in over a year, and was so thrilled that she could do so without being belittled for spending money on ‘that damned mongrel’. She went to a counsellor, and hashed out all of the feelings she had been battling with for decades. Her friends and extended family called and told her how proud they were that she finally grew some courage. She was happy, blissfully so, and she had every damned right to be.

Yet some of my family didn’t see it this way.

Her other son and daughter began calling and emailing her daily, harassing her about leaving their father. They claimed she was being selfish, accused her of trying to tear the family apart. The grandfather’s sister called and condemned Nanna to hell, saying in no uncertain terms, that the only reason a woman would ever leave her husband was to be unfaithful, and that God would see her burn for what she had done. The grandfather himself called my father, and insisted he was only helping Nanna do ‘this’ because he was after his money. The grandfather claimed that my father ‘didn’t understand’ what it was like to crave sex so badly, and to have a wife who was ‘too busy cleaning’ to help him out (cleaning at his demand/ ‘or else’ threats might I point out).
Yet the rest of us stood by her. We reassured her, we continued to help her do the things she wanted to. She continued to see her counsellor. My aunt, furious that her attempts at guilting her mother were failing, began threatening to take away her children. She promised Nanna would never see them again.

Even so, Nanna persevered. I quickly became her confidante. She told me horrible things about my grandfather which will never let me look at him the same again. She told stories about my cousins, aunt and uncle which were unforgivable, and filled with cruelty. She cried about how hard it was to stay strong, knowing how many people were angry with her, but claimed that she could do it if she just had enough support.

The final straw however, came when the grandfather’s brother, the pastor, came into the picture. He assured Nanna that she would go to hell unless she reconciled with the man that treated her so poorly. He had the nerve to look her in the eye, and say the words ‘God will surely award you in Heaven for all the suffering you have been, and will go through.’

Two days after that conversation, she went home. And as selfish as it may sound, I was truly devastated.

Everyone who had supported her in leaving, were in uproar when she went back. She called the day after she’d gone home, and tried to act as if everything was normal. She wanted to pretend that the nine and a half weeks she had escaped him were some sort of terrible dream, and not reality. The grandfather shared this view obviously.

Which brings me to the reason for writing this. I am furious. I am so angry with both of them that I haven’t been able to articulate it before now. He is a lying, cheating bastard, who has committed terrible atrocities against someone so defenseless, and he makes me sick. She has destroyed any respect I have ever had for my entire extended family on my father’s side. She took every image I had of elders I adored, and cousins who were my friends, and ran them so far into the ground that I will never be able to feel any sort of bond with them ever again. And now, she wants me to pretend none of that ever happened, and to go on living like nothing ever happened. Bullshit!

I have not spoken to either of them since her delusional phone call all those months ago; I don’t trust myself to do so without saying things I know I will regret. I am hurt, I am angry, and I am just so disappointed in both of them. They are supposed to be people I can love and admire. They are supposed to be a soft place for me to land, people who I can go to for advice or comfort. Instead they are a walking freak show that is so self involved that they cannot see how fucked up they truly are.

I overheard a phone call between she and my father a few weeks ago, where she asked about me. He told her that I was hurt and angry, and said he didn’t think I would want to talk to her. Her response? ‘She’s young, she’ll forget soon enough, and then we can get back to being a family again.’ I am 22 years old, and a grown woman God damn it! I am not going to forget what happened, and I sure as hell see no way that we can ever ‘get back to’ being a family ever again. I will not be sucked into their dysfunctional spiral, I will not put on my nice face and pretend everything is okay when it definitely isn’t. I won’t enable the grandfather’s abuse by turning a blind eye.

Even as I write this, I know how childish it must sound. Maybe I am overreacting. But how can I forgive the man who is slowly but surely killing my grandmother? How can I interact with people who are so happily abusing an elderly woman? How can I laugh with relatives who are so self involved that they harass an emotionally traumatized woman into returning to the abuse? And how can I sit and discuss the weather with Nanna, now that I know all of the deepest, darkest, most intimate details of her own personal hell? Am I being too self-centred? I just want all of it to feel right again, but I don’t know how it can.

Like It Never Happened

Posted by Kate.


OK, ladies, grab a drink and clear out some time, this is gonna take a while - it's a long story, even by my standards.

Right up front, I was raped when I was 12. It was a violent thing, nasty, and I ended up with rather severe PTSD. Part of the messed-up-ness was because he told me the standard, "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you and your family," which I believed wholeheartedly. So my parents didn't find out for three years, and then it was during a fight that I kind of threw it at them. They were shocked and upset, as you can imagine. I didn't fully grasp it then, but now with children of my own, I have an idea of how completely devastating that would be to hear.

At my mother's insistence, I went to two therapists, once each. The first was a family therapist, who first met with me alone and told me, "OK, when your parents come in the room, I want you to tell them why you kept that secret for three years." I was a pissed-off 15-year-old, totally not ready to work with her or get healthy, so needless to say, I clammed up and refused to go again. The next one sat knee-to-knee with me and said, in that stereotypical overtherapisty sicky-sweet kind of way, "Tell me everything that happened." She was literally in my face, and her eyes looked like ET's eyes. Again, I clammed up and wouldn't go back. After that, my mother stopped trying to get me to see anyone, and she never, ever mentioned anything about it.

And that's how it continued for the next 17 years. Once in a while I would make a vague reference to it, she would become visibly uncomfortable, and one of us would change the subject. Fine, I can't blame her there, that Mom-guilt has got to kick in, blah blah. I did get therapy - two full years with the same woman, when I was 21-22. And took medication then, and generally worked harder than I've ever worked in my life and turned a lot of things around. I got healthy, basically. Eventually. It just so happens that this June will mark 20 years since the attack, and I am grateful for just how good my life is, even when it's hard.

Anyway, fast-forward to last weekend. When we were visiting her house, I took the kids to the zoo and left Willem at my mom's house doing schoolwork. He and my mom were alone in the house, and when he took his lunch break, she kind of cornered him. It started appropriately enough: "I'm really concerned about Kate, I hope she's getting treatment, I want you to know that I'm always here, if you or she needs a place to get away for a while..." A little pushy, in spots, but not unreasonably so, coming from a mom.

Then she brought up my blog, which she does not read, has never read, refuses to read despite my assurances that it is public and written with the knowledge that anyone might visit. But because of two factors, I've been much more forthcoming and descriptive about the rape in recent months. One, I've reached a stage in my life where I feel a need to stop treating it as a secret, shameful thing, and can share the details because it might resonate with somebody, might even help someone, somehow. And two, because I've been so depressed, I have been way much in touch with my unhappy memories. Whenever you're feeling something of a certain intensity, it's going to remind you of other times in your life when you've felt similarly.

So, my sisters read my blog once in a while - not every day, but when they have time and interest. Which is fine, I don't mind them stopping by and I don't expect them to be daily readers. They read one of the more graphic posts, maybe in January or so, and Sarah (my 22-year-old sister) was upset about it. She's very empathic by nature, so it makes sense that it would have hit her hard. She went to my mother with it, because she was afraid it would hurt me more (this is before I was even on an antidepressant, much less having it start to work).

So (GAWD this is a long lead-up, but I can't figure out how to explain it differently), my mother mentioned that all to Willem, about how intense the post was and how it upset the girls, and how "they never visit the blog anymore now" - which is untrue, I haven't noticed any change in their frequency of comments. And then.

She said to him, my husband of 8 1/2 years and most trusted confidante, who has seen me go through the worst of the PTSD and come out on the other side... she said, "You know, the longer Kate goes on believing that this happened, the harder it's going to be on her. It never happened." And she repeated, "It never happened."

Willem told me the next day - he didn't want to mess up the weekend, and rightly so. Because it has really, really messed me up. (Again, thank God for Zoloft, if it hadn't kicked in I would be a blithering, sobbing puddle.)

And, to make it all MORE fun, I called her on Monday to talk to her about it - I'd have called her when I found out, but we were in the car with the kids and didn't get home until 11:00. I just don't believe in letting things fester too long, and I knew this was something that wouldn't just ease up if I gave it some time - it was going to eat away at me until I talked to her about it. She denied ever saying that. She says that she told Willem, "I don't know the details of what happened, because I wasn't there, and nobody except Kate knows those details." But I've known Willem a long time, and conversed (and argued!) with him over a lot of years. I know that he very rarely can remember the specific words that someone used, he gets the broad idea but can't quote (I can, neener neener) but when he does remember, he is always right and very firm about it.

Which means my mother is lying about her words, and apparently she either believes that I am lying about the rape, or that I am delusional. I know this, not just think it, because later in the week I talked to Sarah about it - I wanted to let her know that I knew about the weirdness with Mom and that she could always come to me with any questions she might have, just to get both sides of the story. She jumped at the chance to ask a few questions (mostly, "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" to which the answer is, I wasn't ready to share earlier, plus you haven't been an adult for all that long.) And then she said that Mom told her the exact same thing in January, before I could tell her about the Willem-interaction..

I have confronted my mother with it, and it just went nowhere. She is so completely defended against this, she has all of her lines and reasons all figured out already. And I have no idea who else she has told.

I can't wrap my head around this. I can't understand why she feels the need to share her disbelief with others. What bothers me isn't that she disbelieves me - I can't control that, obviously. There's no way I could "prove" it to her, and I would never force her to listen or read all about it. What bothers me is that she has chosen to seek out other loved ones and tell them about her thoughts. Now I have three of the closest people in my world involved, with Willem and Sarah telling the same story (and without having talked to each other about it) and no motivation to lie about it, and my mother denying it completely... both the initial act and her subsequent statements.

I'm someone who copes best with situations if I have some idea of why it happened... I don't need to agree with the why, I just need to understand it. But I don't understand hers. My best guess is that she believes something like, "If something like that happened to my 12-year-old child, I would have noticed something wrong." My parents always labeled me as overdramatic, and apparently she is now forgetting the hypersexuality, the panic attacks, the refusal to sleep in my own room because there was only one door to escape from, and so on. So it has become a measure of her own parenthood - if I truly was raped, then that means she didn't do everything right, at least in the follow-up, and she can't live with that. Or something.

I imagine that it's just too painful for her to imagine that she missed that. I have long since taken responsibility for my own actions - and my own bad choices, like chronic lying and hiding the experience for many years - and have had to let go of any resentment I might have had that she wasn't psychic or perfect. I know she did the best she could at the time.

Sigh. If you've made it this far, thanks for hanging in there. It's a lot, isn't it?

I wish I could just let it lie, smooth it over... because apart from this, our relationship has really grown strong in the past few years. But it has really been gnawing at me. And I just can't see how it would be healthy for me to ignore the sense of betrayal and hurt I'm feeling right now.

So, what do I do now?? Given that I've already had two very long, unsuccessful, unpleasant phone calls with her about it and have gotten precisely nowhere.

And how do I understand this better? Because she's denying so much that I'm not getting any sort of guidance from her, about why it serves her better to disbelieve and tell others than to believe, or to disbelieve and keep it to herself.

She has been very hurtful through those calls, critical of me (ohbytheway, she also doesn't believe that I ever went through any sort of therapy for this), comparing me to her emotionally abusive coworker, talking about how "Now I can't just relax and be myself around anyone because I'm afraid I'll be misunderstood and punished for it" (an excellent attempt at a guilt trip, I have to admit).

My mom is a lot like me in a lot of ways - she can come across as almost too assertive, intimidatingly confident, very self-assured, even when she's not feeling at all like that inside. She Does Not like to be caught or accused of making a mistake or doing something hurtful (not like any of us do, but she's especially defensive about it), even if it's something small like being chronically late or confusing the day's plans.

Anyway. Enough. Sorry this was so endless, but it feels better to vent and organize it a little... I can't blog it. I don't want my sisters feeling any more in-the-middle than they already do, and I just don't feel the need to preemptively defend myself there - but I really could use some insight.

PS: As an update, after writing the above, I decided to wait until I had something to say before calling my mother again. A month went by, and I finally called her on Mother's Day, mostly to let the kids talk to her. I kept my side of the conversation quick and light, no more than polite. Apparently this signaled to my mother that everything is A-OK now, all smoothed over, like it never happened. She calls me a few times a week "just to chat" and hasn't even obliquely referred to any of this. I've continued to be polite, to call if there's something I need to know (she's hosting my sister's high school graduation in a few weeks), and to wonder what this is really all about. I'm not angry, or even overtly upset anymore, mostly just disappointed and baffled. And I still don't know what to do.

Cool Or Cruel?

Posted by Anonymous.

By the night of my 8^th grade dance at the end of the school year, which marked the elusive transition from middle to high school, I was already experimenting with drugs and alcohol.

Nothing major really, just drinking a few hard lemonades at a friend’s house while hoping I looked cool smoking that cigarette. My cousin and I had snuck out while we were camping with the family to sit by the river at night. We happened to encounter two gothic girls smoking pot out of a socket while listening to Marilyn Manson. We both smoked it, got a little buzzed and giggled in the dark as we walked back to our tents hoping we wouldn’t get caught stepping on stick or rustling some leaves.

Nothing major really. But the night of our dance I wanted to “have fun” and I thought all the older kids probably party on prom night and damn it, I wanted to party too. After all, I had always associated being “mature” with partying. So I ingested about 12 pills of a cough suppressant in hopes of “tripping” while at the dance. I soon found myself vomiting in the bathroom, covered in sweat and gaining attention from other girls in the bathroom. “Are you okay?” asked a blurry dark haired figure. “Must have ate some bad chicken” I told her the best I could in between heaves while I tried not to look at the little red dots floating in the toilet water and stomach bile. The assistant principle soon stood outside the door of the stall. She wanted to take me into the office where I could “lie down and sit in the A/C.” I couldn’t even walk to the office by myself and I don’t even know who helped me slump my way over there. They called my parents, (well .. my mom and step-father,) who soon picked me up. They told my parents they thought I was on ecstacy and that they might want to take me to the hospital to be sure. My step-dad slung me over his shoulder and carried me to the car. He fiercely interrogated me, asking me what I took, who gave it to me, saying he was going to kick their ass, etc. They didn’t take me to the hospital though. After being carried to my room, I laid down in my dress and asked him if I was going to die. He laughed a little and said no, I was probably just going to sleep for a while.

We talked about it the next day but I was never in trouble. They expressed their concerns, and admitted to some experimentation of their own. OK, not really experimentation. Usage. My own parents told me if there was a drug I wanted to try, to please let them know and they will get it for me. I mean, after all, they used to be big “rock stars” and all.

They didn’t want me to get hurt, or get ripped off, or buy something laced and be in a safe environment. I actually thought it was cool at the time. Can you really blame me? At 13 I was allowed to drink in my own house, as long as I didn’t leave and it was a widely known fact that I smoked pot in my room sometimes with friends. My stepdad and I even smoked together on occasion. That following Christmas I told them I wanted to try cocaine. I was 14 and it just so happened that they had some. I did one line and we laid on the bed and talked about the high and how “cocaine was an evil drug and isn’t really that much fun anymore…not like it used to be. But that the real high comes from ecstacy.” Naturally, I wanted to try it. We made plans and my younger siblings stayed at friend’s houses and me and my mom and my stepdad did ecsctacy together. I ate a bean and soon felt the “ecstacy” of ecstacy. We listened to music and sang and dance and snorted more beans throughout the night. We didn’t go to bed until daylight. I was barely 15. In total we did ecstacy together at least 6 or 7 times before I went back to live with my dad who has no idea anything like this ever went on. It just feels like such a weight now that I am older, a whole 21 years of age. It doesn’t seem cool anymore. It seems FUCKED UP. And I’m not saying that I had a bad time when we actually partied, it's just weird now. And I don’t think just on my end. Whenever I go home to visit there is always this weird awkward moment when I am introduced to one of their new friends in a party setting and they bust out a mound of cocaine or crushed up beans and snort a line right. In. Front. Of. Me.

And why shouldn’t they? I have done it with them. I just wish that I could have the balls to tell them that I feel ….not right ..about what happened. Part of me wants to forgive them and say it was a mistake and part of me wants to let myself sob and ask them how they could put me in harm’s way like that? How they could voluntarily retire from being a parent and try to become a cohort? I have been in denial about the fact that this is an unusual and somewhat sad situation of a parent/child relationship. When my friends would bring it up in conversation, I would defend and protect them because I didn’t want anyone to think badly of them. They were trying to be cool and understanding, but really it warped my outlook on life from a young age. So now here I sit at 21 years of age resenting the fact my parents tried to let me experiment while so many people resent their parents for the exact opposite.

Dear Mom

Posted by Anonymous.

Mom,

I’m sorry to have hurt you like this. I just really needed to take a step back away from all of the drama that surrounds you and my sister. At times it feels like it’s engulfing me and putting my family in pain.

I’m tired of the family always asking me if I’ve seen or talked to you. I’m tired of being told I should make the effort even if you aren’t. It’s not fair to me to be the only one trying. I do not appreciate you telling my aunt that you call regularly and leave messages but I don’t call you back. If you leave me a message I always call you back. You rarely call me; you didn’t even bother to call me on Christmas. Every other year I called you. I’m tired of putting all the effort in. I have a very busy life of my own to worry about. It aggravates me to no end that you tell everyone how much you miss my boys but you’ve never once bothered to pick up the phone to specifically talk to them. Not once mom, no matter what you like to tell everyone.

That’s another thing. Your lies are out of control. Sometimes I don’t know if you know what the truth is anymore. I have caught you in lies about stupid stuff that doesn’t even matter. You lie about why you need money. You called me and told me drug dealers wanted $5000 from you or they were going to kill you. Seriously mom, how stupid do you think I am? My sister has called me numerous times because you’ve wanted her to get money from people she knows. You ask for thousands of dollars at a time. It would be one thing if you got into a jam once or twice for a few hundred, but you have many times over asked for thousands of dollars. What are you doing with your money? Normally I would say it’s none of my business but you’re the one that came to me needing money so you made it my business. I am really worried about you. Money isn’t the only thing you lie about though. I’m tired of lies, lies and more lies. You and my sister both are bad about that.

My sister is another thing. No matter what you say or want to think. She always came first in your life. If she did something the boys were blamed. When they moved out I got blamed. My brother’s wife didn’t tell you the truth about the type of parent you were to the boys because she isn’t the type of person to hurt someone else. The boys walked away from you because everything was always their fault, never my sister’s.

When I had my sister arrested because I was finally fed up with getting hit you told the police I should be arrested. You told them I started the fight, even though my sister did. You let me move out onto the streets when I was 16 with nowhere to go instead of kicking her out even though she was 26 and old enough to be on her own. When she busted a blood vessel in my eye (I was 12) you said I must have done something to deserve it. She hit me plenty of times and you never once stopped it. You’ve never protected me. You made me feel like I was unlovable and unworthy of love. Do you know how screwed up it is to tell your child her father wanted an abortion? He told me you wanted one after I told him you said that. I can remember plenty of times you slapping the shit out of me because I would fight back when my sister would start fights with me. I know I wasn’t a perfect kid, but I was pretty damn good. I was respectful, I stayed out of trouble, made good grades while I worked full time. I didn’t go out partying, I was the sober one to make sure my friends would be safe. Nothing I did was ever good enough to get your attention. You were so focused on my sister and niece. I was your minor child. I should have been your focus. I should have been killed in that car accident and I couldn’t even find you to bring me home from the hospital. You were out getting drunk. I remember calling hospitals because you didn’t come home all night. I woke up at 7 and when I noticed you still weren’t home I was scared you were killed in a drunk driving accident.

After my sister finally moved out you spent more time in a bar then you did at home. You were so worried about chasing men that it didn’t register you still had a kid to raise. Thank god I did a decent job of raising myself. Yeah you were there while I bowled and was in Job’s daughters, but you weren’t involved in it. I felt like you were there because it made you look good because I was good at both of them. I can remember you yelling at me plenty of times while bowling because I wasn’t doing a good enough job.
While growing up I pushed the hurt you caused me out of my heart. I figured I couldn’t make you love me; I couldn’t make you think I was as good as my sister so why get upset about it. After I had my own children all that pain came back. I look at my babies and I actually interact and play with them. I enjoy them so much. I am involved with every facet of their life. I look at them and wonder why wasn’t I good enough for you to want that with me? Why wasn’t I good enough to play with? Why wasn’t I good enough to talk to? Why wasn’t I as good to you as my sister is? You can keep telling yourself you were equal to me and my sister, you can keep telling yourself and everyone you love us the same, but I was there. There was no equality in that house. My sister was the light of your life. Two of my brothers both agree that my sister was it for you.

You told the family way before my husband and I ever had problems that he was cheating on me. You say my niece told you he was. What about asking me first before spreading it around? My life is my life; it’s not gossip material for you to spread. You keep talking how my husband’s family treats me like shit. They used to, but not anymore. How they treated me was my fault too. It’s been instilled in me that I do not deserve to be loved so I figured there was no way they would love me. I took everything as a slight because I was taught to be the victim. Now that I’ve finally let them into my heart and realize that they do love me, things are much better with them. I have a happy life here. I don’t miss the drama that I dealt with up there. I’m tired of you asking me when I’m going to visit “home” again but in all the time I’ve been gone you haven’t made the effort to visit me. 9 years is long enough to save the money to come visit. Last time I checked the road goes both ways. Quit telling people how much you miss us when you don’t bother to call or even attempt to visit.

I’m not ready to have a relationship with you right now. I don’t know if or when I will ever be. It’s too hard to love my kids as much as I do and have my heartbreak knowing you never once made me feel that way. When they wake up scared or sick at night, I go to them willingly with no anger. When I was 12 I cried out for you because I was sick and you yelled at me. I realized then, you wouldn’t be protecting me; you weren’t there to make things better. I was 12 when I first started thinking about suicide. I felt so alone and unloved. I thought my own mom doesn’t love me; my dad was wrapped into himself because of grief. If they couldn’t be there for me I would be better off dead. I wanted the pain to stop. Thankfully I realized I didn’t want to go to hell so I stopped myself. I prayed every single night for God to let me die. I was so angry with God because I thought he was tormenting me by making me go through life unloved. I thought I was a bad person because I was so unlovable. I thought God was punishing me for being so bad. I prayed and prayed to die. I prayed until I met my husband and finally found someone willing to give me his heart. Do you have any idea how hard it is to spend that much time waiting for God to let you die so you won’t hurt anymore?

I wish I could forget, and let it go. But there are so many things I remember, so much hurt I felt, it just stays at the surface. This hurt, this pain, this anger, it’s enough to make me scream. I can remember you threatening not to sign the financial aid paperwork for college because you were mad at me. You said you wouldn’t help me with school. When I told you all you had to do was to sign the papers, you told me you wouldn’t. What kind of mom says that to her kid?

I don’t know if or when I’ll be ready to talk to you. I’ve got things to work out in my heart before I can deal with this drama. I’m tired of lies, especially the lies that are easily found out. I’m not a stupid person, when you lie to me I will uncover the truth. When you tell crazy out there lies, I know it’s a lie. I can tell by the tone of your voice when you’re telling lies or stretching the truth. We can’t have a relationship until you figure out how to stop with the lies. Relationships can only be built on the truth.

Your not good enough daughter

Broken

Posted By Anonymous

**A warning before you continue reading. This might get graphic, it might not make sense, it might go from one thought to the next, and it’s not well written, but I’ve got to get this out.**

I’m twenty-one and I have a secret that I’ve kept my entire life. I just recently told my therapist this secret (more like she flat out asked me saying that she just had a hunch). You see, I hate my father. I hate him with all that I am. It’s not your typical type of hate, but I am filled with a hatred that goes through every part of my body and soul. It is this secret that I keep, that keeps this hatred strong. My mother divorced him when I was around five because he came home so drunk one night that he hit her instead of coming for me.

I was sexually abused. How I hate typing those words. But they have been in my mind forever, swirling around, hiding at times, but it’s always there. Since freaking out and tearfully saying yes to my therapist, it’s been on my mind constantly. I’m constantly terrified. I can’t sleep, I either don’t eat or eat too much, I can’t take showers unless I’m wearing a bathing suit, and I sleep in jeans, sweatshirts, and sneakers. I have panic attacks throughout the day and I can never relax.

I can’t stand people to touch me. I don’t like people getting close to me. Even family members that touch me, cause me to coil in fear. The only people that have ever touched me and don’t make me feel sick are children. They seem to be the only innocent things that exist. I can’t explain to my mom that when she touches me on the shoulder why I jerk away. She won’t understand. As it is now, she yells at me for being inconsiderate of her feelings when I ask her to please don’t touch me. She doesn’t give me a chance to say why, instead she reminds me of how selfish I’m being. How I must hate her because I don’t want her to touch me. That’s the same thing he used to tell me.

Almost every night he would come into my room, smelling of alcohol and cheap cologne. That smell still makes me sick to this day. I can’t remember the first time, and I don’t remember every time. For that I’m thankful. He would wait till the early hours of the morning and sit on the edge of my bed. It started off with only his hands roaming over my body, then it changed. Apparently that wasn’t enough for him and he started having sex with me. I went away in my head, and that’s always worked for me until now. Since admitting my secret, I haven’t been able to just go away in my mind. Hours aren’t passing as quickly and that scares me because it means that the memories and feelings are always there.

I feel like it’s my fault. I didn’t do enough to stop it- I blame myself. I didn’t tell anyone, so does that mean that I wanted it? Did I subconsciously not tell anyone so it would continue? Did I want it? Did I ask for it? Is it my fault for tempting him? I not only hate him, I hate myself. I hate myself for letting it happen, I hate myself for keeping a secret, I hate myself for telling my secret.

I hate that because I am his only child, I have to take care of him. He’s sick. He has heart problems, lung problems, he still drinks and smokes, and he’s in and out of hospitals. I’m next of kin and power of attorney. Everyone expects me to be the adult and take care of him. I also am next of kind and power of attorney for him mother and brother (both who are in nursing homes- Parkinson’s and stroke respectively). I hate having to see him, and each time I spend days trying to feel ok again. I never feel safe. I never feel relaxed, and rarely do I feel ok.

I don’t want people to feel sorry for me, but I want to be a kid. I never got to be a kid. From the time I was little, I was a part of his adult fantasy, and now I go to school full time, I work two jobs, and I take care of him, my grandmother, and my uncle. I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of having to be the perfect daughter. But most of all, I’m tired of hating myself.

I’m tired of this secret, but I fear that if I say anything about it now, then no one will believe me. After all, I’ve kept it this long. I’m scared and really all I want is someone safe to hold me and tell me it’s ok. I want someone to tell me that it’s ok to feel like this, that it’s ok to be scared, but also that I will be ok, and that they will protect me.

You

Posted by Anonymous.

I hate what I become when I am around you. I become a bitch. And with good reason, but it stays with me. For days. It gives you too much power. Way too much power over me. And I hate that.

You. You who was addicted to crack, benzos, pain killers. Hard core. $1400 in a week and half hard core. You who did it while your kid, my nephew, was in the house. You, who I entrusted with my kid when you were first starting using without my knowledge. You, who I discovered later, drove my kid in your car while you were high. You. Because of you, I am a bad mother. For not knowing, for not realizing sooner. Once I found out you were using, my kids have not come close to you alone. While you were in rehab, I put two and two together. You. You stupid bitch. And me.... stupid for EVER having trust you in the first place.

You. I went with you to that meeting. I told you my concerns. I held my tongue about my kids, when I should have punched and spit in your face. You. I was supportive. I told you I did not want you to rush back to that guy. The guy that you had only spent a month "together" with, but have known "forever". The guy that you did all these drugs with... with your kid and my kid in the house. The guy whose brother held a knife to my throat years before (who you were dating at the time. then you changed his name and continued to see him after he held a knife to my throat and slammed me against the wall). I thought you had changed, truly. I just wanted you to get better, dear sister. Wanted you to give it time. I was cautious, but was doing all I could to help you on your path to recovery, including letting the past lie while you were going through this delicate stage in regaining sobriety. I was doing it for you.... for your son.

You. You had the nerve to tell me I wasn't being supportive enough. That I wasn't telling you enough that I was proud of you for quitting, even though I had. Fuck you, bitch. I was giving you all I had considering what you had done. I was on the phone with a counselor for two hours trying to find you a specialist when certain old memories surfaced. I shared caring for your kid while you were in rehab. I told you that I was proud of the changes I was seeing. It wasn't enough for you? Fuck that. I should have walked away from you, never utter a word to you again. You have stabbed me in the back one to many times. And its personal.

You went anyway. You went to that man. In fact, you left your kid crying on the doorstep as you left. Are you a heartless bitch? You say that he is better. You say that he is a good man. He is on parole. How do we know what he is on parole for? How do we know anything about him? How is this formerly codependant relationship going to work? What about your son?

I wrote you. Telling you how pissed I was. You did not respond. You. You wanted me to take sexy pictures in lingere of you. I refused. I don't know where they are going. I will not pay part to your sorid affairs. You went again this weekend, assuming mom would be there no matter what. Not caring you thwarted her plans. You had to leave. You had to leave at a time that you couldn't even attend a function at your son's school for 40 minutes. It crimps your style right. Got to get on the road. You.

They say to you in rehab you have to be "selfish" to get better. While I agree, I don't think that this is what they mean. They mean taking time when you need time. Taking a step back when you need to take a step back. But you still need to own up to your responsibilties. You can't have it both ways. You can't have it so that mom deals with your son, talking to his teacher, feeding him, disciplining him, and just leaving him whenever you want, and then be angry when she is doing that. Kids don't raise themselves you know. You aren't stepping up. She is. You want to do something? You want to have a say in how your son is being raised. Step up. Be there. She is, afterall, letting you stay there while you recover, and you are miserable to her.

You get mad. You get mad because everyone is miserable. No one is mean to you, even if we should be. Yes. We are miserable. Because you continue to make bad decisions, even if you are not using. You do things that worry us. You throw them in our faces. It is "your decision" and the rest of us don't matter, us giving you good advice or no. we have to trust you. Trust that you are clean. Like you have EVER told the truth about that this whole time....secretive and hiding. And it doesn't matter that you essentially abandon your son in the process (even if he is living with grandmom....you are still the mom..... and you technically still have custody) And we are supposed to be what, happy? Not get cranky when, after calmly investing so much time into this, our advice, kind words, support is thrown away? Damn straight, we are cranky. And yet, you. You think it is all about you. That we are to give and give and give until you get better. Well, you know what, it doesn't work that way. You can reguratate all that you want from your meetings and call it recovery. I call it being a parrot. And while that might be semi-helping you get through each day, you are missing so much of the point.

You have NO RIGHT to get indignant with me, with mom. Or to con anyone else in the process.

You. I have supported you. You. You could have killed my daughter. You. My naive lack of awareness to YOUR issue in the beginning has made me question myself as a mother so much more than you will ever know. It is a job I take VERY VERY seriously. You. You fucked it all up. You. You essentially gave up your son for drugs, for a man. And you want him back, but maybe not enough to really do what needs to be done to get him back, not enough to do right by him. Not enough that his second grade teacher know who you are. Not enough to take him to a school function. Not enough to not leave when he is crying for you not to go.

You. My reaction each time I see you lasts for days. You. I am done with you, recovery or no. You may be clean, but your overall actions aren't speaking to me. I have been burned too many times by you. We are done, sister. But the real sucky thing is that we love your son. He is my daughter's best friend, and he loves her too. It is UNFAIR to him to punish him for your fucked up actions. I will continue to be a force in his life, and he is welcome always here. You, however, I cannot be a force in yours any longer. It is toxic. I rid myself of you.

Audience, what would you do about my nephew? How would you handle that situation (we are not letting him back with her unsupervised). I mean, how would you handle the friendship that my daughter and him have and me wanting to be a positive force in his life... without having to deal with her?

Enough

Posted by Anonymous.

I am not sure how to start this but to say that I have had enough. Enough of your verbal abuse and enough of your selfeshness. We have been together 15 years and I should have left you 14 years ago. It started with you belittling me. Not in front of others but just when you and I were around. Calling me stupid, dumb ass. Later, your abuse came in front of others. We went on a vacation with your friends. You became enraged at me when we were fighting, turned the car around and told me to get the fuck out. Out of your car, life and out of your house. You told me to pack my shit and get the hell out. Left me at the garage where your brother was working. He was kind enough to let me use his car to get home. I did pack my stuff and move back in with my parents.After you left me at the roadside, you got back in your car and went on that vacation with your friends for 3 days. Didn't call or see if I moved out. You said that you were sorry and wanted me back. I moved back in with you. You were nice for a while. Then the belittling began again. The cleaning wasn't good enough and I just did not do things right for you. I thought that things would change. We went to counseling and things got a little better. We had a child and got married because of that child.

Then the partying began. Once we had a baby you couldn't get enough of the partying. Anything to get away. You began spending more and more time with friends. Pretty much every weekend you would be out at the bars with friends or out with friends brewing beer. I really don't know who exactly you were out with but it doesn't matter any more. I was always at home taking care of things and the kids.This went on with all 3 children.The worst time was when I called the cops because of the abuse. Once again, you became enraged at me. Called me every nasty name in the book.Told me to go fuck myself, packed your things and left. Left me with no job money and alone with the kids. I was so fearful of you that I called the police. The officers suggested that I go to a battered womans shelter and they went out looking for you. Even called your employer. I dropped the charges against you, you came back and apologized The kids know us as hated enemies and that makes me so sad. I am afraid this will scar them for life. 3 years ago we moved out to a rural area at your insistence. You had to have this house. It has been nothing but a personal and financial headache. Sometimes I think that you wanted to come out here to continue your abuse.

The final straw for me was when you told our son what a fucking bitch I was on our vacation this year, the vacation that I paid for.This is not the first time that you have done this with him. You like to pull him aside and tell him what an asshole I am, how stupid I am, etc. Unfortunately for you, he tells me everything that you say about me.I am so ashamed that I have let this go on this long. No one knows how bad this has become. Now, 15 years and 3 kids later all we do is fight. I am working, going to school and providing for myself. I have saved enough money to file for divorce, put money down on an apartment and finally leave your sorry ass. I am not going to tell you when it will happen either. It will be a surprise By the time I am done I will take half of everything that is yours including equity in the house, 401 K , etc.

The Monster

Posted by Anonymous

I'm going to warn you now that this post might enrage you as it does me. Mostly because I cannot help the situation. I cry a lot over it.

I have a friend - let's call her Sarah - with three kids. Two boys are her oldest and youngest and her little girl is the middle child. These kids are kind, sweet, adorable, polite...everything their mother is and more. Sarah is one of my best friends.

About 3.5 years ago, Sarah left her husband of 15 years. She left him because she finally had enough of his abusive ways. She beat her, belittled her, broke her down repeatedly, often in front of the kids. He was a peeping tom and caught several times by wives of friends in
their old town. He has a very strong desire for teenage porn and has told Sarah many times that he can't wait for their daughter to have sleepovers.

He was not an involved father, drank to excess frequently, spent money they did not have, was unable to hold a job for longer than a few months and made them live on his income. Sarah was not allowed to work. She filled her time raising those three beautiful children who are all less then 12 years old now, so they were all less than 8 years old when Sarah finally stood up to him and left with her kids.

She told me in the car one day on the way to the gym that she was leaving him. I was shocked. Not only had my friend gone through hell those 15 years, she had hid it well from every single person she knew.

As Sarah went through a very trying time of securing a place to live, finding employment and resources to help her keep her family above water, the Ex played mind games, one after the other to intimidate her. He showed up at her new home without calling, he called her
repeatedly - sometimes 100's of times a night, he barged into her new place and stuck his hand down her pants to feel her, then accused her of still loving him because she was wet (aren't all vaginas naturally wet? Pervert.) He told the children to never bathe or shower with their mother because she was a slut now, sleeping around. (She hadn't dated anyone - she was too busy taking her children to therapy, family court, children's services, on top of school and 'normal' commitments.) Further to that, Sarah has been in 3 car accidents in the last 8 years - 2 of them the Ex was driving, the 3rd she was rear-ended. She deals with chronic pain and physiotherapy. She doesn't have an easy life as it is.

The mindgames escalated when Sarah used her grandmother's inheritance to buy her little family a used car. Ex showed up in the middle of the night, on 4 separate occasions, to deflate her tires, key her car, and other little things - but only on days where she had to be somewhere like children's services at 9 a.m. The Ex also claimed his income was $12K/year and got away with paying a mere $27/month/child. He never paid that meager amount anyway.

He called over 100 times while I was at her house one day. Finally I took the cordless phone outside and answered it myself. I asked him if he was drinking. I told him he was upsetting the children. He didn't like that I wouldn't put Sarah or the kids on the phone. I advised him that if he continued to harass Sarah, I would call the police. He kept calling and we called the police, who went to his home and got him to knock it off.

Within a week, he tried to hit my car with his. My kids were in the car too. Once again, the police were involved (I called immediately). He denied it and the matter was dropped.

Despite all of this craziness, Sarah, with the help of a lot of therapy and us as her friends, did a complete 180 on her personality and went from being this meek woman to someone who was very proud of herself, very aware of who she was and a woman who knew what she wanted. She remained a caring, sweet person, but now she had an unbreakable spine.

Nearly 2 years passed and Sarah began dating a lovely man, a guy my husband and I really liked. He was thrilled to have this instant family, this wonderful woman and her beautiful kids. But there was the Ex to contend with and make no mistake, he really made things
difficult.

The man was not put off by Ex's attempts - in fact, it only made it easier to love Sarah and the kids because the man felt the need to protect this new family.

And so he has. Through thick and thin - though times of bonecrushing stress, this man has stood because Sarah as she has navigated the court system to try and secure the best possible situation for her kids. He even bought a house in a small town for them all to live in.
They truly are a happy couple and the kids love him.

The court has sent those kids back to their father for visitation despite:

- the kids crying and screaming not to go to his house
- the youngest (age 7) wetting the bed
- the two youngest having repeated yeast infections
- the Ex not administering prescription medicine for ear infections
with 2 of the kids
- the Ex drinking and driving
- the Ex having kids in the front seat while driving (it's not safe
because he can't turn his airbag off and none of the kids are old
enough to be in the front seat yet)
- the Ex drinking and phoning Sarah to verbally abuse her while the
kids are in his presence
- the Ex telling the oldest son that he has a big penis and that girls
will really like that someday
- the Ex getting on MSN messenger to chat with the oldest and having a
picture of his 'girlfriend' in a bathrobe, legs spread eagle, as his
profile picture
- the Ex telling the oldest that 'mommy plays with herself in the shower'
- the Ex explaining sexual positions to the oldest
- the Ex telling the daughter that mommy is getting fat and to be
careful she doesn't end up like mom (Sarah is nowhere near fat)
- the Ex doing absolutely everything for the daughter, rendering her
an indecisive mess by the end of every visit (she comes home unable to
make decisions or do anything for herself - Sarah is very concerned
about what he is doing to her daughter)
- the Ex yelling and swearing at the kids, both in person and on the phone
- the Ex not feeding the kids, returning them starving after nearly 24
hours with no food in their bellies
- the Ex threatening the children if they say anything about him to
Children's Services
- the Ex not returning the kids at his designated time (this has
happened at least 10 times)

The list goes on and on.

This man is not a man. He is not a father. He is a monster.

Sarah has documented everything and submitted everything to Children's Services and the courts. The police have been involved so many times it's ridiculous. These kids really need to be protected from their father.

I hope today is the very last straw. Sarah called to tell me that Ex had told the kids to walk home after their visitation.

IT'S A 90 MINUTE DRIVE. ON A SUNDAY NIGHT. IN THE DARK.

The police picked the kids up on a road as they walked. Children's services is involved again.

Sarah has toed the line until now. She has obeyed the court's wishes to the letter.

She has sent her children back to their father for the very last time.

Her words to me today chilled me to the bone: "What more has to happen? Does he have to kill them?"

I'm so terrified for them. For her. Because I'm afraid that is exactly what he will do, and I don't know if it will be an accident from drinking, or something else - but he doesn't care about those
kids in the least. All he wants is to hurt her.

Let's hope this final straw will be the kick in the ass Children's Services needs to finally say no more to the Ex.

Postscript: He got access back. No, I don't understand why.