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  1. When we still lived in the city I broke my foot. Well, actually, what happened was I pushed my sister off of my dad's lap. He was sitting on a chair in the living room. As punishment he threw me across the room and I hit the wall. I landed and my left foot felt like it was on fire. Mom told me that I needed to stop crying cuz I wasn't a baby. I couldn't stand up. I missed dinner because my mom said "I'm not going to put your plate on the floor like a dog." I remember I couldn't walk on it. I crawled. They thought I was faking it. It took them two days to decide to finally bring me in to have a
  2. My whole life there has been a safety net underneath me put there by mostly well-intentioned people. The thing is that my whole life the safety net has had some major flaws in it. Holes big enough for me to fall through. One of the tenants of good touch/bad touch education is to empower kids to not keep the secret of csa to themselves. A major problem with this is that some "bad touch" was ok. How do you explain in a clear way that an exam by a doctor is different than the "tickling secret" you have with your creepy uncle? Again, we are back to spanking-yes, Rubbing-no. How do you empower
  3. When I was little, I think about first or second grade, I came home from school and asked my mom and Gram what an ox was. Gram said "it's like a cow, but bigger." Hmmmm... Mom asked "where did you hear that?" "At school. There was a play." "Was it Little House on the Prairie?" "No, they're saying about good touch and bad touch and don't let nobody touch your privates and stuff like that." "What does that have to do with an ox?" "They said your privates is what's covered by your swimsuit. So they said to tell somebody if someone touches your privates or your
  4. Ok so I posted a tiny bit and I didn't die. So far. My anxiety has been high, so my body definitely thinks it's going to die, but it's a false alarm. I haven't been sleeping well at all. Even with an as needed anxiety med, and a sleeping pill, and some bedtime tea, and some CBD oil. Don't worry, I didn't overdo it. Just one of each. I just want to pass the fuck out and turn my brain off for a while. Writing what I did made me remember a few things, like the glass pudding dishes. Like how I knew the taste of my mother's fury when I was so very little. It tasted like a penny in my mouth. Th
  5. So, before I jump into this I should ask you, the reader, if you'd like to respond, to please just sit next to me. I'm actively afraid of sharing my story and being belittled or pitied. Please remember that I survived. My earliest memory is lying next to my dad in bed. I am three years old We are in our apartment in the city. My little sister is in a room we share down the hall. I'm pretty sure that my mom is heavily pregnant at this point with my soon to be little brother. She is in bed too, sleeping, I think, on the other side of him. I am curious about my dad's body. He sleeps nak
  6. I had never experienced a complete lack of appetite like this before. At first my stomach burned, but after a week the sharp empty pain in my belly let up. I knew I needed to eat, I wasn't trying to die, but I didn't feel hungry for anything. I forced myself to eat once a day. No biggie, I thought to myself. It's not like I don't have belly jiggle to lose. Who cares if I lose a little bodyfat? That's not what happened though. The ache in my belly was replaced by a burning in my legs. My thigh muscles felt like they were on fire. My calf muscles have shrunk. A pair of thick knee-high grey and r
  7. First of all I should say that I feel like I'm going to puke right now. Maybe I just won't send this. Yea, maybe. I'll right it and read it and just delete it. No one's pushing me to tell this now, just my head feels so full of constantly analysing and going over and over everything. Can I delete it if I don't like it? Later, I mean. Can I come back and erase it if I feel like I've just gutted myself in front of you all? Everyone just gathered around with a disgusted look on their face, pinching their noses and looking down at the gross wiggly slime covered things I've been carrying aroun
  8. All these years I thought I was strong. I thought I was able to handle anything life threw at me, if I was just strong enough. So I played the role. And I believed it. I believed I was okay because the only other option was too hard to deal with. The truth is, I don't think I was strong enough to process everything I had gone through. So I threw it away. I got rid of my past and I made myself into someone else. The only problem was that I didn't know who I was. I still don't. I didn't forget my past, not entirely. I just choose not to remember it. Everytime I recount my history to someon
  9. I don’t expect anyone to read this. About two years ago I realized I didn’t make it up. The feeling can all at once and it was overwhelming. Terrifying. Horrifying. I was filthy, dirty, disgusting, used goods and completely ALONE. I couldn’t cope so I pushed it back down, but I couldn’t make it stop. It was always there. Dull-fever pain. You can live with it, but it makes your life miserable. Back and forth. It resurges and I push it down. I get triggered and I ignore it, or I trigger myself and sit with the pain for hours. I had a box in my mind. A maybe-rape box. A box that
  10. All last night I had the same dream, over and over. The man who abused me as a child suddenly got charged (by another one of his victims) and was going to trial and I was called to testify before an entire room full of people. One of the jury memebers was someone I knew. The judge kept asking me for details. The whole room was silent, listening to me and I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even look up. I was so ashamed. I didn’t know how to tell them I had no evidence//that I couldn’t even remember. The judge wanted to know what he did and for how long. I knew what he did and somet
  11. It's been a rough, ROUGH few weeks. I'm not really wanting to rehash on things and put too many details here, but I did want to let everyone know that things have been stressful and difficult as of late. I'm still around, though, no worries!!! It seems that no matter what's happening in my life, this remains my safe space, the place where I feel most comfortable, and where I 'escape.' I know I've been extremely neglectful to my blog, my and to my kitchen sink, among other things. I've managed to autopilot through, though, and am starting to see some semblance of normalcy; it's been
  12. Everyone says not my fault she is gone but they do not have my mountain of evidence. Exhibit a, I let my mom gaslight that she was overemotional, flighty, not sick. Exhibit b, I believe I was entrusting her to a capable father, I assumed he had the capacity to help her, I let my fantasy that he was a Prince fool me into believing he could take care of her, which he did not, Exhibit c, I let my jealousy get in the way of seeing her pain, of seeing her traumas. Exhibit d, I believed when she told me she wasn't drinking that much, that she was eating because of my brokenness because it was easie
  13. This post contains very graphic references to sexual abuse. I ask that you would not read ahead if you are not in the mind to do so. Please proceed with caution. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Poppy, this isn’t a Friday! Speaking of Friday, where the heck were you this week?’ My apologies to everyone that keeps up with my blog entries weekly or those of you that were looking forward to a post from me. I was taking a small break from AS after some events that transpired and caused me quite a bit of emotional and mental pain. I don’t feel that I really have the liberty to
  14. teleah

    Goodbyes

    My daughter is moving out soon, as in a week to live with her boyfriend, this has triggered so many memories of goodbyes. My first goodbye I can remember was my safe grandpa passing, I was not allowed to say goodbye because it was my job to make sure mom was ok while my dad played the role of concerned dad taking us to a park and telling not to cry or we would get it later, so I smiled and played with my brother all day. The second goodbye was my dad walking out the last time, before that he had stormed out but the final time was when I split into one of me, TW, the last time he walked out, he
  15. Also posted in Share Your Story: Installment One: The Formative Years I was born on a snowy winter morning in 1978. Originally, I wasn’t planning to reveal my age – but felt there was some importance in divulging the time frame. I DO believe that there is FAR more awareness now than there was back then. Maybe, just maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe it would have set off an entirely different chain of events. Maybe I wouldn’t be writing this, now. As life is full of too many maybes and not enough definites, I’ve decided to chuck the what-ifs into the (digital)
  16. As promised, the update on yesterday's family gathering - dual birthday party for my nephew (5) and my niece (1). I meant to update earlier but a status update seemed more appropriate - admittedly, I was a ball of nerves, and my mother wasn't helping matters any. There was much to say, much swirling around in my already-busy brain, but I figured, lemme get through the day, first - let me recuperate (with or without Lucy's 5-cent therapy) and THEN I'd write on this. To backtrack, my sister decided to invite my mother's brother to a birthday celebration for her kids - he is a person who,
  17. Well, would ya look at that...TWO blog entries in two weeks - a good start to my promise to do some more writing/mental uploading! This entry can mostly be attributed to Oompa's prompt and not-a-moment-too-soon departure on Thursday morning - she and my stepfather were here for two nights. My father (to many: 'Lord Capulet') and his wife were ALSO in town, and since Monday, I've spend every day with one or both of my parents and their spouses - 'the steps.' Yesterday afternoon was the first time we were ALL together, and I sat at the kitchen table with my four parents, having a cup of c
  18. It would appear that I have two sides. Two faces. There are currently two versions of me - and while it’s been suggested/confirmed that I do/have suffer(ed) from a personality disorder involving multiple other versions, these additional ‘parts’ have become silent and have grown otherwise dormant at the very least. Now I am currently faced with just two opposing sides of myself that are currently attempting to form a coherent connection. Or rather, to integrate, if that description even fits better. Furthermore, I am wondering if it's more of a one-sided effort on the part of the adul
  19. (tw to myself: graphic memory details of child on child sexual abuse, don't read unless you're in a good place) . . . . . . . . When my brother and I were young, we used to play with Barbies and makeup. I also used to cover my entire waist with a towel when stepping out of the shower and would pretend to be a princess when playing with this one kid, Tyler. One day, we were playing a game, and Tyler made me do things that I had repressed. The only thing I could remember for the longest time was him holding me down while spi
  20. oakprs

    detailed story

    So the blog is a pretty cool idea, I honestly just noticed this was a feature. I think it might serve me well of just being able to write things mostly for the sake of having to get it out and others may read at will or not. I guess I'll start just by telling my story and whatnot. I've told it a few times before, but it does help just to get it out. Plus the image keeps running through my head so I might as well give it a place to land for a while. ***TW*** I'm not holding back on details!! I was SA by my babysitter's son from the ages of 6-9 (approximate ages base
  21. Dasi

    More Aftermath

    About a year and a half ago there was an event in my life that re-triggered those old suicidal feelings for me. I found a good therapist in my area to re-explore this old crap. Hehehe! We got a lot of excellent work done which lead me to a point where I wanted to arrange to see my perpetrator (dad) again. I had cut off communication with him twenty years ago and the freedom from ever seeing him again was heavenly. I had heard through my dysfunctional family "grapevine" that dad had been having mini strokes. I knew that if I were to finally have closure on my issues that I needed to see him bef
  22. This Christmas 2015, with a beautiful full moon and quiet consuming victory, will be burned into my memory for eternity. My healing goals include fulfilling my family karma and ending the inherent chain of abuse. To successfully achieve this goal I must slay multiple demons that thrive upon sucking my soul into their fiery bellies only to regurgitate sabotage and betrayal. This week alone I have slayed multitudes of the blood thirsty beasts crouched in venomous fury awaiting my next breath and calculated action. The demons I speak of dwell in the hearts of my poor family. Their device is to ke
  23. These memories will not leave me alone. I just want to break down and cry. Honestly, I want to die right now. I don’t think I can handle this. I keep remembering and it doesn’t stop.. Round and round in m head, I’m on a carousal and I’m not allowed off. I keep seeing my uncle. It’s summer and Tyler is baby-sitting me again. I keep wishing they would stop letting him watch me. It’s night time and still no one is home. I am starting to believe they will never come home. Tyler comes into the room and I know one of his games are about to start and even if I pretend to be asleep he won’t stop. Ther
  24. So its been 16 months since i was last attacked. And honestly i cant get use to being safe. It scares me so much to be this way. Im so use to living every day wondering "will this be the day my mother kills me" or " will my uncle finally finish me off so i cant tell again". See my entire life has been one bad thing or another. My earliest memory is of my father sodomizing me. Then i have a mother who is not mentally stable and that's when shes sober. Which most of the time she was sober but she would have a week or two where she was a constant drunk. Being drunk and bipolar is not a good comb
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