The Horror Of Death

Until today I have always just wanted to get it over with, I just wanted the death thing to just be successful so that I would never have to do it again and I could go on with my life. I mean, its terrifying to have to suffer through repeated times of the same thing, your family wanting you dead. You definitely begin to understand that you are not wanted, that you are very much alone in this fight for life. The message could not have been any clearer as child. I have felt the panic of death for years. I finally in the past few days have said for the second time in my life that my brother and father tried to kill me when I was little. I finally am coming to terms with the fact that what is really bothering me so much is that I was murdered as a kid and I am still alive. It has truly been puzzling at times. I have been troubled about this since it happened and last night I looked up the troubled because I felt that I use the word correctly but that nobody seems to get it, when I say it. I will often say something if I have an odd reaction in front someone, just like turning a funny color or looking like I am going to puke, all with no apparent reason to them but to me triggers into my past are at every corner of my life. So I will say, "I have had a troubled past, my childhood was difficult," this is all to put them at ease over whatever just happened in front of them.


I have always felt that using the word or phrase "a troubled youth," was a good description of what has happened, without going into any detail. But it seems these days that people don't use the English language the way that I use it. The word trouble means, to disturb the mental calm and contentment of; worry; distress; agitate. Which is really how I have felt since I was small. I just couldn't understand what was really happening to me all the of time. I cannot stand the fact that I will have to go through this whole entire process again. Death is difficult, it is not short by any means, its terrifying actually. I said a few years back in passing to my mother and step-father, "I am beginning to wonder if I can die," my step-father quickly replied, "Oh yes you can, there is no doubt in my mind." I don't know about you but the sarcasm that filled his words as they came pouring out of his mouth, felt like murder as he spoke. As if he was saying, "If I had had the chance to have done it, it would been done properly the first time." Maybe I read to much into things, but it is how I stayed one step ahead of the people hurting me when I was a child. It is just occurring to me today that he was the one with my mother when they were called to the Elementary School the first time I spoke of my brother trying to kill me because he had fucked me. I feel like an idiot, that was 1st grade. I totally forgot that they had known this entire time that my father and brother tried to kill me and had molested me. No wonder I am so paranoid all the time. I am beginning to believe that this is what they, being my family, fears that I will remember and write some book about. The fact that I have never spoken about this as an adult came from the beating I received as a child after the Principle from Frank McCoppin Elementary school called them in to speak about what I had told her that day.

Does anyone realize that I don't give a shit about a book, about the supposed money that I would make, which I believe is a fallacy anyway. Can anyone hear the cry from my words that I write that I am still just terrified of dying again. Do you realize how many times I ended up on the outside of myself, staring back at my dead body? These times are burned into my memory and they are in every cell of my body. It was enough times that I knew to stand around and wait because I probably wasn't all the way dead. Do you know that I have never spoken on it like this before because this really sounds so stupid and by sounding so ridiculous I knew that people would just pass it off and mock me. It is that disbelief that I knew that I would suffer from with anyone I told that has kept me silent all these years. It is bad enough that all these things have happened in my life. Almost as if my family and whomever helped them at the time, cultivated more disasters in my life just to add the element of doubt when I did ever try to tell my story. I knew long ago that it was nearly impossible to communicate the amount of things happened to me in my life and that in trying to do so people would be cavalier, dismissing me by saying, "There is no way that all of that can happen to one person." Which in a lot a ways I agree with, it seems like so much, yet I really have lived through it, amazingly enough. But when you think about it at all, if my family was trying to cover up a crime, attempted murder, than you would do what they did. Keep the insanity constantly going, gas-lighting, beating, interrogating, removing me from school, not educating, taking my kids from me, because in reality they just never stop and its quite impossible for me to explain any one thing and sound half way sane myself. Everybody is so fast to judge any one act, that you never have the opportunity to give the history of what has happened to lead to that one act. If people could know the entire history, which sadly is my entire life, then I would venture to say that they may come up with a different judgement of the situation and certainly a different idea of me. Its hard when its, "You against them." Especially when you cannot even say that one thing without a counselor saying, "Well who is them?" And why is it always, "they or them?" I said to Ulla at the Petaluma Health Facility, "Because, they are them and that would be my family and the church congregants." It turns out, according to her at least that it is some sort of cult identifier of being brainwashed and feeling ganged up on. Sadly, in some cases it is real and because of people having Repressed Memory Syndrome, which is not the same as Suppressed Memory, but regardless they pressed charges against their members only to re-cant 10 years later, saying, "My therapist planted the ideas of abuse." Cases such as these made it so that a case such as mine gets judged by idiots like her who don't seem to recognize that some of us are really damaged and just don't talk about it at all because we are so uncomfortable with the truth.

Do you know how scary it is to have someone try to kill you! and then do it repeatedly? Saying, "If you talk I will kill you." Do you know that you go through this death process each and every time it happens? Do you know how terrifying it is at the moment where you can no longer breath and you are experiencing what death is truly about? I have been so paranoid for years, I mean, death comes to us all eventually, I just wanted to get it over with, so I could live my life in peace. Pretty stupid thing to say because you would be dead, but it is my reality about my life. And then today, somebody heard me, heard what I was saying, heard me explaining that I was a kid thinking about reasons to live. They looked at me and said, "Karen, the likelihood of you being suffocated to death again is not likely at all." I just stopped in mid fluster.

You're right! I had never thought about a different way to die. I have been so stupid and stuck in this mire of fright since I was a child. I won't have to experience running as fast as I can, getting caught, or grabbed! I won't have a bag put over my head! I won't be flipped around with some one's hands around my neck! I won't have been thrown to the ground and sat upon, while fighting like a mad dog! I won't have to walk into a room and look at the closed closet door wondering if that is where they are hiding! I won't have to know every inch of the house, so that I know where the attacks on my life are most likely to take place! I won't have to walk into a room and take notice of the size and dimensional make-up to ensure that there is or is not enough room to man handle me to the ground, breaking my neck in the process! I won't have to worry about the threats, Oh! Wait! Hhmm............still have to consider that one, don't I?

Today I spoke of the horror of death. The point at which the air that breathe is cut off and you are screaming in your head for help, to no avail. I have lived a terrified life. I never thought about the fact that I may die differently until someone said to me today those very words that I wrote. The thing is less than three years ago my step-father put his arm around my neck and through to the ground in the dining room of the home I grew-up in. So when exactly do you end the madness? He tried to snap my neck and had he been successful, it would have been documented as an accident, just a fluke fall. How many flukes can one person have before they say that it is pre-meditated murder to cover up all of their crimes with Wills, Trust Funds and with the things I have yet to mention.

How do you continue to live a life like this one that I have been given? I really don't anymore, all I know is that I cannot get better unless people choose to allow me to just be myself. I am very well aware that my life is beyond sad, that it is a tragedy and the horrors of this reality are haunting. But it is my life and I have been living it, not you. I like my life and don't want to just "Get over it." I have worked so hard to get to where I am today mentally. There have been good times for me and maybe in comparison they don't look that way to you, but to me it's like hearing just dump everything that has made you who you are today and move on or start again. You cannot do that, its impossible, who you are today is the person that has survived what most did not. I am not a bad person, I have found strength in moments that others died. I am the result of what has happened to me for my entire life. Don't discount who I am because you cannot handle how I became this way. I don't tell you to never talk about your past and to move on, forgetting who you are in life and what molded you to be that person. You are unique, just as I am also. I just want justice in this world. I want to be able to exist without being terrified and embarrassed constantly around absolutely everyone. If you don't think that this is embarrassing, you are insane. If you believe that I am writing all of this on my Google Blog for attention, you are madmen. Nobody in their right mind would tell these things to anyone to just get some attention in their life, that is madness and the accusation that is made by people who don't know that worse lives exist and mine is one of them.

I just want to have a voice and be heard, so maybe I can not shake as much everyday. Maybe I can tuck myself away and heal alone, with the support of myself. If I get it off my chest then at least I have finally spoken and I am told that you must speak or you will never even have a chance to heal. That is all I am doing here, I am trying to heal myself of the most horrific acts that mankind can commit on another human life, murder.

I go the game! You want to play? It will take your breath away if you loose.

I sometimes find it difficult to speak on certain subjects in my life.  I have these haunting moments that happen in my life when I see particular people.  As I am now all alone, I understand that some people are meant to walk a path that is without the company of others.  I never really fought this idea in myself because it all started on a sunny day long ago.

The house was relatively quiet on this Saturday morning, but while I laid in bed I knew that it was just a matter of time before things would erupt.  I laid in my little bed, I had the smallest room in the house.  My headboard was up against the far wall from the door and it faced my tiny, little closet.  I had a small window off to the right of me that I liked to leave open at night.  I loved the cool air as it rushed in with the wind moving through my room at night, it made me feel alive.  As I was laying there I thought to myself about how alone I always was in my life.  Not lonely, just by myself.  I had an older brother who's room was adjacent to mine and my older sisters room was on the other side of the stairs.  They always seemed to be partnered together in everything. Even to this day they are solid in there togetherness when in person.  I never remember them fighting about anything, just rushing about with their friends.  For the most part they seemed very happy. 

The odd moments always came eventually, one of those strange times came when my mother would tell my father that they needed to be spanked.  This would happen when he came home from work.  Everyone was immediately sent to there rooms while my mother confessed the dirty deeds of the day.  It all seemed so pointless though, because he would go into each of their rooms and tell them to yell or scream as he would hit the bed.  This was all so my mother would think that they had received their licking.  In preparation of all of this, while being sent to our rooms they did put on layers upon layers of underwear, I guess that was a "Just in case plan." 

On this morning, being it was Saturday again, I moved my feet under the covers as I was wondering if I should retreat to my closet.  As I stared at the closet door I thought how cute it was, the half door, about a foot or so off the floor.  I loved climbing inside of it. It often took the top choice for my days hiding place.  I wondered why nobody ever bothered to look for me in there.  The temperature of the day in the emotional outburst yet to come this morning, would determine whether or not hiding was prudent or not.  I had not yet heard the Master Bedroom door handle jiggle, so I was still safe in my bed.  I thought, "I wonder if getting under my bed today would be better than my little homemade house in the closet." 

I could not stand the yelling and screaming from the people down the hall, while in the closet it seemed to help shut the noise out.  And it did look better if it happened to be a day where we were going to spend it as a family, as oppose to what seemed more regular fare, at odds with one another.  Everyone, being my brother, my sister and I would be grounded to our rooms for a day like that one.  I never minded it much, it saved me from having to protect myself from my siblings latest hooray.  They of course, would sneak in and out of there rooms all day, or at least until there friends came over.  It would come to light later that they had been sneaking downstairs to use the phone to get there friends to have their parents call and come visit for the afternoon.  That was the only way we would be released from the house arrest of our prison rooms.  I never did like that much and most times would remain hiding inside of my room and hopefully remain undetected by all it I was lucky.

It is so odd to look back and think that I layed in bed pondering which would be a better place to spend my day. In the closet hidden away in the comfort of the darkness or under my bed where I could stretch all the way out with my pillow and blanket for friends.  I opted for under my bed if I had time to scramble that fast on that day. I would draw pictures on the hard wood floor with my finger. I loved the breeze as it would blow through the window and I tended to enjoy the natural sunlight.  My closet was getting a little small for me these days, I had to hold my knees up to fit properly, especially if anyone had taken up residence with me. 

The sun was filtering into my room and I heard the morning voices warming up at the end of the hall to begin the dreaded weekend with everyone at home and ready for the next big fight.  If I can just make it through the next two days,  then I will have five days off from my siblings and the wrath of these two people that refer to themselves as the parents.  I laughed to myself on that morning because my father had installed a pay phone in a closet under the stair well.  Just like the Harry Potter closet actually.  My mother had made so many long distance calls that the bill came in and it was for hundreds of dollars, that was a fight to remember.  Anyhow you had to have money in hand to make any calls out of the house these days which proved to be an inconvenience for my siblings but a blessing in disguise for me.  So my brother and sister on that particular Saturday were in a pickle, they tried to borrow some money from me, at this point I could still scream and be heard which would be devastating to their plan. So they did not come into my room,  a small pleasure that I was able to experience. With them halted at my doorway, I sat in my bed and nodded my head no and they stormed away.  Eventually they scrounged around and found some coins to complete their mission anyway.

Now all they had to do was successfully make it downstairs to the phone and back up to their room before they were reported missing in action by my mother.  She would deflect the impending anger from my father onto them for not listening to their father and staying in there room when they had been told to do so.  Of course this seems to take place before anyone has actually made downstairs for breakfast.  All of this would happen while behind closed doors, first thing in the morning while they supposedly were planning our day.  Half the time I thought my mother was in on it with my siblings.  It seemed my father wanted no visitors for the day and she would argue that people were already planning to come by.  It almost seemed like that was the part of the screaming argument that my brother and sister would use as the Que to call their friends.  This is all because the success rate was always pretty high, at least it seemed that my mother got her way more than my father had his way in the matter.

I hated the weekends, it was always dangerous for me.  I was the lone kid that seemed to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time, being tortured by my siblings.  This morning I would come up with a better plan.  I would wait through all of this running back and forth, leaving myself in plain site.  Then right before everyone put on their happy faces for whomever was ringing the doorbell for a visit, I would roll over and out of my bed, grab my pillow and my blanket heading straight for the spot directly underneath where I was now laying.  I would keep the window ajar for the day and I would make sure that I had the proper stuff (shoes, clothes, toys) that made adequate noise when moved about, it worked as an early alarm system for anyone searching under the bed to find me (I often fell asleep).  As I had to plan, I had decide whether or not to climb over or move these objects out of the way for my hurried trip into hiding.  Hhmm, maybe I should gain entry to my safety spot using the foot of the bed.  Or should I pull all the stuff out and climb under pulling everything back as I shimmy over close to the wall.  I sat up and leaned over to check my collection of things that I had put there the night before in preparation for my Saturday hide out.  It all looked good, "That is what I'll do," I thought to myself.  It looks less planned and more like I cleaned my room in a hurry, shoving everything under my bed to hide the mess.  Then they will think that I am some where else, leaving me in peace.  As I sat in my bed I  looked at my closet one more time and thought, "I sure do miss sitting up during the day, but its getting scary and I don't want to be found today." 

My timing had to be impeccable or my siblings would not think that I had taken off to hide someplace else in the house. So while I waited and watched as they ran back and forth, up and down the stairs periodically checking to see if I was still in my room, I thought to myself, "Somewhere out there, there is a boy that will be my knight in shining armor and someday I will meet him."  The strength for caring on that day was had by me, all in that one stupid thought. I had seen Cinderella and I just knew that that was me in my little room.  Someday I would go to the ball and there he'd be, to save me from this family that is not mine.  I smiled, and laughed to myself. Just then I heard the door and I was gone.  Out of sight, out of mind! I was safe to dream about a day that never came.

There are no soul mates, or twin souls in this world.  I grew-up to find out that the Cinderella story that I had held so close, is a lie.  I hate that I did to myself something that is so hard to undo today. I still cry because I thought that it was true, the pain of the hurt deep inside still festers.  I thought that every person, had a person, that they would meet as an adult and then they could say, "I dreamed of you as a little girl, I stayed safe because I wanted to meet you someday, thanks for being here with me. You take the fear away of being killed today." I did grow-up to know not to say the second sentence to anyone should I have been lucky enough to meet him.

So on this Saturday, today, the 2nd of July, 2011, which is so far from then, I say to you that dreams of children are really just ways to get through the nightmare of the lives they are stuck in.  I had someone tell me not to long ago that I must have been a terrible person in my before this life. That I am obviously paying a tremendous karmic debt.  I said, "Yea, you're right, I am sure I deserved this life that I am living."  It is what happens I guess or at least that is what the majority of the world believes to happen when you have been a monster in a life before this one.  I believe that we are innocent when we are born and we come to learn lessons about past lives.  I like this theory because it fits my life.  It means that these people who claim to be my parents are not mine. For I belong to another time and I have been separated from that time so that I could come here to learn of evil.  I like that about having a past life belief structure. The end all for me is I am not related to any of these people that call themselves family.  So, I trade my Cinderella Story as a little girl in on today's wish, dream or belief, whichever you feel fits this story best.

As I sit typing away on my computer I hold the faith that I am here to learn of evil and to become solidly independent of other human beings, learning to walk alone, always.  I laugh to myself as I get up to get a cup of coffee and I think, "I still like climbing in the closet, I have my little single bed that fits perfectly all set-up for this afternoons retreat to safety."  Some habits die hard and some evolve with our intelligence to know we can have our cake and eat it too.  A closet in an apartment that fits my bed perfectly.  So I have a double bed for appearances that I love to sleep in, but as I sat up this morning, I looked across my room and into my closet where my safety net lies, I laugh at myself when I should probably cry. A dream come true from when I was a kid.  The comfort of my bed and the safety of my closet, hidden from view, hidden from all of you, hidden from the uncertainty of every day that I have lived.

Good morning, its Saturday, I cannot play, I am busy hiding myself away in the dark yet again.  I am 46 years old and I still hide from them.  I do what makes me feel safe inside.  I am still alive and I have not committed suicide so I guess what I am doing works to keep you alive, yet another day in this nightmare life. Life does go on, with or without you.

To all the people that laugh at human beings with PTSD, shame on you.  It never goes away, hopefully one day it gets better, it seems the further you get from the incident the better your chances for recovery seem to be. But some of us were the incident and we are never safe.  I don't think that I am a coward for hiding, I think that I am afraid inside of myself and I cannot get well when I know that nobody will understand my fears.  They are real and the proof is certain for all to know, they just need to take the time to meet the players.  There is only one thing you can count on in this life, Death.  It comes for us all eventually, but mine came for me when I was very young and I am still afraid because a human being brought it. You live with that fear today and tomorrow maybe you can understand why it is so difficult for me to move sometimes and why I stay hidden away. I don't do it all the time, but the fact that I keep a closet set-up for me to climb into should be testimony enough for you to know that I need no proof of the abuse I suffered, its all right out in front of you for you to judge my life yet again.

I go the game, Play?

My half-sister, the daughter of my step-father, the second golden child, to the first golden child Tamara who is my eldest sister. She, Sarah, said to me the following two and a half three years ago now.

"You should take a gun and blow your head-off. It would be the best thing for the family." These words directly out of her mouth, as she came at me from across the dining table, with rage and eyes that spoke a familiar language to me.

I have told a few people, counselors and laymen alike since then, what she said to me because it impacted me so strongly. The people, who, I will give you, were few, all said the same thing, "Oh, she didn't mean it." Maybe now they can know that she did, it runs in families you see, family's like mine. I saw her eyes as she tore across the room at me. She had to be stopped physically because she was going to attack me. I looked up at her and our eyes met as I was moving to get out of her way. Its in there eyes Ladies and Gentleman. You never forget it once you have seen it. When a person comes to extinguish your life, they look the part, they are in a psychosis or a state of mind that is so troubling to me that I can barely breath as I write. To add insult to injury, since then, believe it or not, I think of what she said while I am and have been in a personal battle not to commit what has been on my mind since I was eight years old. It has taken this long to even begin to get what she said and the scenario she rattled off in such rage off of my mind as a potential relief from this life. Monsters are real in my life, its a shame that nobody takes what I say seriously when I say it. But maybe now, today you can realize the fear that I wake in and the horror that I go to sleep with each night. These are not just memories as a child. It is my life and it is mired with tragedy that nobody can even begin to comprehend, let alone understand, so I hide because I can't forget, how are you meant to "GET OVER IT," if they still want me dead.


Maybe now you know that you should feel the heat of shame on your face for telling me, a person that has been through Hell here on Earth, that I don't know when somebody wants you dead. She meant it, and its wrong to say to anyone at anytime regardless. My best friend committed suicide, death is real in my life and my family is aware of the two suicides out of the church my mother ran, so my sister is very well-aware of how suggestive words or statements can be. For Christs sake, my mother told the man that jumped off the bridge two weeks before he did it, "Your family would be better off if you were dead." A quote from an ex-church member today.

Death come to everyone differently, but in my life it comes at the hands of real live people who call themselves my family.

Tulips, Tulips, We All Fall Down

Yesterday I gave my blog on "Wounded Mind, Fractured Brain," to  my shrink to read.  As he read it in silence, I sat and just pondered my life and the dreaded thoughts of what I keep pushing to the back corners of my brain.  After he had read the first few pages he looked up at me and said, "I am sorry for your life."  I became instantly choked up.  Kindly he kept reading in quiet, as I was trying to hold back all of my tears and that is when  I realized something.  Nobody had ever said those words to me in person before.  The very words that actually make such a difference when you hear them from a real human being, I had just had a dream come true.  Of course, he said it after reading what I had written and so I guess in reality it was prompted, but what I did not ever expect was my reaction to it being said straight to me, face to face.

My eyes filled with tears that I could not seem to stop or control the overwhelming feeling inside of me.  For the first in my life I wasn't embarrassed by what has happened to me.  I felt the hurt but it was not the same, it was what I had imagined it may be when someone truly takes the time to say to you, "I am sorry you had to live through this nightmare."  To hear his words without the judgement of, "Well, you have to prove it first, before I have any feelings on the matter," was so different, I must admit it was the dream that I had thought of when I wrote about "Wounded Mind" the other day.

It is so impossible to communicate my pain to anyone these days but somehow I did.  I wrote a piece that made the difference in my life today. I felt something yesterday that I had never felt before in my entire life.  Someone said out loud to me the most simple of words and it impacted me so much that tears came from this girl that were so different I can hardly share with you the experience of joy.  I never imagined that you, as a human being could shed tears of any other kind than the kind that comes from pain and agony inside of your body.  I don't know what those tears that I shed yesterday were for or where they came from.  I would like to say it was relief but it was not what I felt.  I, Karen Placek could tell you today that for the first time in my life, someone actually saw me sitting in front them. He acknowledged to me in an open venue with an audible voice the belief that I existed and was worth feeling the sorrow for the life I have lived.  It was not pity, it was not hurt, it was just sadness from one human being to another.

Flip, Flopping

My step-father would tell me as I was growing-up that repressed memory syndrome would not hold up in court.  This went on until I cut off all contact with them a few years ago.  I never said anything at all during my life.   When he said this to me  I would take pause and think to myself, why?  Why does he insist on doing this to me?  Why must we have these dreaded encounters that only include the grilling questions of what I remember as a child?  What do they continue to cover up that has them this obsessed with my life?  In actuality when did I ever have the opportunity to forget and even get repressed memory whatever its called? Simultaneously as the grilling questions of the countless encounters I would be slammed to the ground for the sake of impact? And to be told repeatedly that with nothing that I  remember would hold up in a court of law and anything that I remember is a down right lie about my mother and him anyway.   Where do they think that this would eventually leave me?

I would love to tell you that this ended at 18 when I ran away, but no, from the advice of all the normal people in the world, I was told that I should not hold my parents accountable but should readily forgive them of any indiscretions that may have happened growing-up.  So I have stayed in touch with them never spilling the beans for years. In fact, I never said anything, I mean why bother, suppressed memory syndrome will not hold up in court and anything I do say would be just a lie anyway.  Did I say that already? I seemed to have been able to get that one down very well.  Do you know that I cannot tell you how many times he said that to me during my life.  Do you know how hard I have tried to let it all go because of how lopsided it all has been.  There are more of them then me.  All of society encourages you to "let it go," "get over it," "don't talk about it," "its depressing, I don't want to know," "nobody cares it was years ago, so what, you got raped, get a grip," these are the things that I have been told in the past two years.  Trust me on this one simple fact, I DON'T WANT TO REMEMBER or DEAL WITH ANY OF THIS EITHER !  But nobody in my life will let it go, so here I am, telling you my story because I need to find peace of mind.  I no longer care about what anybody else thinks, believe me or don't believe me, it makes no difference to me because it never did cross my mind that I would not be believed.  All you have to do is meet these people and the proof is in the pudding.  I never did talk about it because I am horribly embarrassed by my family and there lack of sexual control.  Hiding your actions is so important, I mean God forbid someone found out that you married a woman 14 years older so you could rape her three children, that had already been raped by the deserting father, or so it seemed.  My step-father to this day is undoing all the things he has ever done to me.  He told me two and a half years ago over a civilized lunch, you know where we "let it all go and get over things," the advice you hear given to anyone who stands against incest, rape, molestation, suffocation, being snuffed, beatings, shall I go on?  Back to the civilized lunch, that my step-father still feels compelled to tell me that he never beat me, nor did he ever lay a hand on me, which that part was true, it was usually his arm around my neck choking me, not his hand around my throat.  I think that may have been my brother.  My step-father always used his belt, never his hand to hit me. I think they called it a spanking not a beating. Spare the rod, spoil the child, if I remember correctly.  I would venture to go out on a limb and say that 30-40 licks with a belt might qualify as a beating.  Welts that took weeks to go down seemed a little more like what one would refer to as a beating not a spanking.  Oh, and lets not forget where he lost control and the buckle drove itself into my skin. 

So what do you say when people just don't understand that you are compelled to bring justice into your life?  Do you say, "shut the fuck up, I am doing this for myself and my own peace of mind because I am sick of the bombardment on my life from these same people today."  Do you say, "Gosh, my kids are there and I cannot do anything about it because I was so stupid so long ago and took all the advice I was given about forgiveness and now my children are suffering at the hands of these monsters?"  Oh wait, they will come up with, "You could go to court and do something if its that bad and if its true?"  I would say to them they are so completely right but the problem is that I never dealt with the trauma myself and I ran out of money trying to uphold the visitation agreement with my ex-husband, it was then he started to take them to be with my mother.  The same mother that will tell you, confession by my second daughter, that she can say that her Grandmother my mother, still to this day or I guess it was a few years now, but just the same, that my says that I am full of demons, that I am possessed and that I am the spawn of Satan, all per my second daughters experience at my mothers home a few years back.  Do you think that that is a healthy environment?  Of course, since nobody would talk or tell you if they were put under scrutiny that this was happening, there is no way to prove it so there for its not happening and I made it up.  All accept for the fact that my two oldest daughters must be interviewed also and then you would find out that they have nothing to do with my mother or family for these reasons.  So now I have to deal with the horror, the fear, the fright, the flashbacks and the reality that I ran as fast as could to get away from what was causing me so much pain and agony at eighteen years old.  Its like playing catch-up, I can't wage a war unless I am fit to war.

I know what my life's calling is. I have been aware of it since I was young, yet nobody supports a life that calls you into the limelight to tell on others. For those of you that are unaware of the ramafications of such actions, you become a traitor to the family.  Not a good thing to do usually, especially when so much is at stake.  You see abuse runs in families, family's like mine. But my mother had a church, that was a cult, so does it not come to light that it would run in the congregation too?  You have incest, molestation, pedophilia, religious abuse, neglect of a severe nature and you have all that I have written up to now on this blog to guide your way through to here. It is a lot of stuff, to much for most to even bother themselves to acknowledge that there is a problem anywhere, let alone right here in front of them.  Most turn their backs because the reality of bringing to light such a case is embarrassing for everyone around, so its better to bury it. The burial has been going for as long as I can remember.  Some people that were directly involved have run off to different corners of the world and believe that if they live there life from there on forward differently, than they will  never get caught for there involvement in such horrific acts.  The upper class don't want to dirty there hands in it because they donated money to the non-profit that my family runs.  Such dismissal on there part is nothing more than killing the story before it can be told.  It is sad to think that all of this runs in the blood of the children that grow up to repeat the entire process of neglect and sexual abuse again.  This just runs from generation to generation, just like it did with my father and then my brother.  For some reason my step-father believes he cannot be held accountable for anything.  As long as he has plausible deniability than not a court in the land can prosecute him. He is correct.  For all of these years and for all the pain-staking hours that I have spent under their scrutiny to see if I remember and to say that they did nothing is all to there benefit.  Not a court in the land will find them guilty of anything, for they have done nothing wrong as far as they are concerned.  They never manipulated or fornicated with church members or with children, they are free and clear, because they said that they are not guilty and cannot ever be held accountable based on repressed memory syndrome.  Aren't you pleased?  Don't you now find that you can breathe easier knowing that they cannot be held accountable by any court of law?  I know that I find great relief in knowing that they were stupid enough to have said this to me so many times that I can now tell you, there is no way in Hell I could have forgotten anything.  I was never given the opportunity to have suppressed memories when all they did was remind me every day that nobody would ever believe me.

I have spent years trying to decide if I should follow my life and the direction of which it calls me.  I have puzzled through many times trying to decide if it would be worth it to stand independently and alone against these monsters.  I have spent hours in quiet solitude trying to rationalize my silence as I watched them continue there abuse on my life.  I agonized over telling anyone the truth of the horrors which I just happen to have survived.  I silenced myself when I decided that the world was not interested in child abuse, neglect, incest or molestation in the eighties when I came of age.  I decided if the world could not raise an eyebrow to this, then how on earth would I tell anyone of what was worse, trying to survive your own death?  Certainly nobody would believe me, let alone be interested as to why I had to fight so hard just to live.  It all makes sense when you put it all together.  You see they were trying to kill me because they had fucked me and I was a baby, the youngest in the household, I was a child, I had no defenses, oh yea, and I made them feel guilty when they looked at me, like I don't know that or I have never been aware.  They hate me, I don't know a different way to put it, other than to tell you that I don't remember my family not hating me. How then could I ever grow-up to inform anyone of such abuse without having to tell the horrors of my survival of having a plastic bag put over my head to have my life taken from me.  Who would believe me? Who could I tell?  I had tried to tell an Elementary School Principle once. They immediately called my parents and had a good laugh about me making things up and confusing real life with nightmares.  Of course, my wonderful and caring parents failed to mention to the principle at the time that I had been taken to a shrink at three years old because I stopped talking to anyone at all.  Do you think that would have made the difference for me?  Do you know how badly beaten I was by my step-father for talking?  So, badly that I never spoke again, until now and I still shake with fear of reprisal.  Have you ever feared anything that has caused you to silence yourself for forty some years?  Are you so out of touch with what I am saying that all you can do is to read and double click away, saying, "That can't have happened."  Or do you feel compelled to tell me to "Get over it?"  I am curious, because today my truth is your nightmare.

Abuse runs a course in a family. It is perpetuated by the silence of the abused and the abusers for obvious reasons.  Unless people begin to realize that it is a voice like mine with an incredible and unbelievable story that can be proved just by introducing yourself to my family members and coming to your own conclusions.  You need to go and say hello to my mother, to my step-father, to my siblings, to my father, ask the tough questions, watch there faces and listen to there reactions.  Know that it is in your court, not mine, I volley and say to you, I would not go to a court of law for justice in this matter if you payed me to attend.  Justice in my life comes from the truth that I write to you.  You see, you are in danger, not I .  I have survived the abuse, neglect and torture but the perpetrators are still active and remember this all runs its course by the abused becoming abusers.  Now you can be scared and wonder, "Do they live next door to me?"  That is the question you need to ask yourself today.  I cannot stop them, nobody will listen to me, but I bet today you will.  I am not on the line anymore.  I have no desire to sue these people for the rampage they have done to my life.  They believe that its all about money for me, its not, it is about the truth being told and holding accountable the liars that have stolen so much from so many people in my life. The only reason I am doing this is to finally tell the truth about my fears, my anxieties, my nightmares and to ensure that in my family, with my children that this ugliness of abusive neglect and sexual promiscuity does not perpetuate itself.  The buck stops here with this one.  I stand in defense of no one, but I stand in the honor of myself to say to you  and to the world that I am not an abuser but I come from abusers that nobody is interested in stopping, all because I have to prove it.   I don't need to prove that two people committed suicide, that trust funds have been lost, that wills have been changed, the proof is not needed by me, I experienced it all live.  I am telling you in all honesty and with fervor, I have to prove nothing because I wear the pain and agony of what they have done to my life everyday.  I live the nightmare, it is my life, regardless of how sad you may find to be, I know no other way.  I was born into this life, I fight for what I believe is right.  It is wrong to do what they have done to me but that is for me to deal with and live through each day, not you.

I do not need a scape-goat, nor do I need to find blame for any of this that has happened.  The blame lies in the laps of the people that have done these things to me.  No proof is needed, it is as easy to see as it is to see the hurt and devastation on me.  But this is not mine to carry anymore, I testify to my own life and my endeavor to follow my calling in continuing to hold a vigil for myself, my survival and my truth to help the fallen.

Door Knobs

I was always hiding or running from someone in the house on Balboa Street.  On this one day my older brother and sister were away at school, the church that my mother had started seemed to be in full swing and now I had no good place to hide.  I heard the crowd of women come in the front door, I jumped down from  my chair and was trying to get out of the kitchen and up to my room.  Of course time was of the essence.  I dodged through the women and made my way to the front of the house where the stairs would lead me to freedom.  I got to the bottom of the stairs and fright hit me really hard for the first time.  I didn't know what to do. It was different than usual, no man to run to for protection from the hated (Women).  

I started upstairs in a scramble of nerves and trying to think about where I would be safe from this growing crowd.  As I topped the staircase I turned left to run down the hall into my mothers bedroom.  I ran over to the right and choose the second closet, which was my mothers and was deeper than the first closet.  I opened the door and the horror that these women were closing in on me began to make me shake.  Crawling over the dirty pile of clothes and up into the back of the closet, I began to freak out because the high heeled shoes were scraping on the wood floor making to much noise.  I was terrified I would get caught.  The major problem I was having as I was running from this crowd of women, was that they were gaining ground and seemed to be headed for me. 

Pushing the shoes aside and pulling the clothes back up to create a taller pile, I forgot any sort of pillow or blanket for my own comfort, as I never knew how long these sessions would last.  I didn't have time to go back to my room because as I opened the door just enough to peer through the crack where the hinges attach to the wall, the room had begun to fill.  I quickly moved the shoes and settled into a sitting position with my arms wrapped around my knees tightly.  I closed my eyes and hoped that somebody would close the closet door so that I didn't have to see what was coming next. 

As the door shut, it was the wrong one.  It was the bedroom door to the hall, the closet door was still ajar, but thankfully they did not notice it moving when I was checking to see if I had enough time to get a pillow and blanket from my room.  The floor was made of wood and it was so hard, my butt bones were digging into it.  I very slowly tried to change position but the high heeled shoes made the loudest screeching noise, I was sure they could here me.  I looked through the crack once again, thinking that I had been found out for certain and would be receiving a beating for hiding.  But to my horror and to my dismay, I had chosen the wrong hiding place on that day.

As I pinched my eyes shut even tighter I tried to imagine anything other than what I had just seen.  I curled up even tighter and gently rolled onto my side, pulling some of the dirty clothes up for a pillow.  What I had seen was so disturbing to me that I held my breath and found that I could do nothing for myself.  The image was burned into my brain.  The room filled with naked women on the bed, on the floor, standing near the wall was more than I could take.  Once again I was trapped by the sexual prowess of my mother.  That was day I loved men, regardless of what my father had done to me. I would love strangers only. Strange men only!  I wrote this poem about what will be shocking to you, but I would choose it over what I had just seen and had to listen too for hours upon hours.

I apologize in advance for not having the ability to accept Lesbian Women, but I am still traumatized and sitting in that closet. I am still trying not to get caught while my mother is having an Orgy in her bedroom with her new church members.  I cannot stand women in general, I have a tough time with most of them.  If I had been caught by one of those women that are very much alive and well today, I cannot imagine what would have happened to me, I don't want too.

I had already suffered through my father and my brother suffocating me because of the sexual abuse on their part.  What would have happened to me if the taboo sexual actions of these women had been caught by a little girl.  I still try not to think about it, but today its a good day to tell you about what is haunting me.

Good Girl

A bar of the darkest fare.

I felt the bondage in the air!

The dominating rule of thumb,

would make the best of them go dumb.

Sadistic arms held strength at bay,

a masochistic stay.

Paradise or was it play?

The ropes seemed to hang that way.
The shiny studs, the spurs and chains

dangled in my way.

The Bull Whip, it was blood red wet,

dripping on display,

often finding metal,

sometimes fades away.

The slanted tables, rings set free,

the Cross was on my back.

This was a total, absolute,

simple, point-of-fact.

Hands were cuffed, mouths were gagged,

silence the demand.

Four each man, there was no band

just punishment and jeer.

I was so small, I used to crawl,

to try to get away from here.

So much to take, it's on my plate

and full I'm not at all.

A good girl knows win to sin

and when to "no" at "all".

K.A.P.
5/3/2009

On that day I knew that my mothers sexual desires were beyond anything that I would ever be able to understand or sympathize with.  She had no control but I chose for myself the downtown men and what we had done before these woman showed up in our  life.  I chose the downtown excursions leading us into the darkest and deepest places that you could only try and imagine what had happened while we were there.  These were the places that grown men did things that I did not always understand but grew to appreciate later in life.  I was never hurt by the men of BDSM.  On the day that the orgy's had begun we never went back downtown, that part of my life was over.  I would grow to be sadden by my mothers behaviour.  As you cannot imagine I am nearly sure of that fact, but on that day my preference for my own sexual desires would be set for life. I was not more than four years old.  I just ask you to imagine a bunch of women trying to get away with having sex with one another all day and as soon as the men came home from work they would play it all off as never have happened.  That is how long I sat in the closet, waiting for them to be done.  I hate women so much for the deceitful way I saw them touch and behave towards one another.  It is all of the words, the moans, the groans that gross me out so much.

What topped the charts for me were the lies that they told in front of me about what they had done with their day.  Until this moment they (All of these women) had no idea that I was hiding in my mothers closet in the Master Bedroom at 815 Balboa Street, San Francisco, CA.

I wrote this next piece of poetry purposefully as oppose to the earlier piece that was just a release of what was on my mind, torturing me with the memories of what my mother had done with me in tow.  I wrote a poem about what bothered me so much about the women on that day.  I wrote it for the men in their defense.  They were the only ones that showed me anything in life.  It is sad to me now to share this story with you because I know that people judge so harshly the BDSM life style.  But let me ask you, if you were me and you had experienced nothing but hurt, pain, agony, incest, rape, beatings and hours upon hours of severe neglect, which by the way means you don't get anything to eat or drink, at all.   What would you have done or chosen as the hope that there is something different, where men don't hurt you and women are the ones that are beaten.  All this family was interested in doing is Fucking. Nobody thought of anything else until they see you and had to make sure that you had not seen them.  I suffered at the hands of my father and my brother because I was their object of abuse.  The rest just assumed through questioning and ease-dropping on my life that I had never seen them.

This is for you ladies, SEXUAL CONDUCT, you have none. I still shake today as I write these words down on my Google Blog, that is how afraid I still am in my body of you and what I know I saw you all do while I was trying to hide in the closet so I wouldn't get beaten. I should have taken the beating because the memories of your naked bodies as they rolled across one another, moaning and panting, is burned into my mind and is bothering me more these days.  Like a motion picture at the movie theater that plays a daily matinee, my mind presses rewind every day at noon. I never wanted to see what I saw, but I will never forget or forgive the disgusting acts of women when they know that there are no men around. It would blow your mind, it blew mine for quite sometime. I checked-out for a long time after this happened to me.  I hate that this has happened, I hate that I have to deal with what is not mine to have to deal with at all.  The sixties don't lie when they tout, "Free love and tiedie."

Sexual Conduct


A narcissists flair, comes from their secrecy.
the lack thereof, comes from their pride.
Sex in the brain comes from their roll plays,
my life comes from surviving the entire mire, oh my!
Oh! are they bitter, Oh! are they pissed, Oh! are they measured inside all of this.
A treasured proclaim! I must persist!!

I used to go to the bars down under,
deep in the town where the dark lights flicker.
Seemingly night but the broad day shone,
inside the places where grown men roamed.
The bars were called not dungeons or lairs.
Black leather coats and boots were in there,
spying was not in any of the heir,
I was just hanging, waiting for fair.
For nothing much more than a rub out to share.

Not so funny when you know more of honey,
the snuff did not go well I forgot, didn't fell.
Jumping from the fright of a suffocating sight,
throws even the biggest men on a really tough night.
Oh well, I thought, its not like you know me,
stop they said, don't move or we may get the bell.

Why in a place where sexual conduct is bent.
Why would you find what men really meant.
Why would they want to protect you from them.
Why would they offer nothing more than a mint.
Why would they be the ones to say BDSM.

Questions lingered in the air of that lair.
The black coats were leather and boots were entrenched.
No staring eyes, no ripping intent,
just a gentle goodbye and a kiss or some flint.
First time I wasn't ripped from those night terrors of mine.
Made sense to me and the men didn't mind.
My tears always wet me and I shook with such fear.

Now I can't know what it is you've kicked out,
made it a show it is not I did shout.
Confusion did lather this kid that can say,
thanks to the ones that could show me the way.

Its different, its louder, its mysterious too.
But, mostly its missing the advancement of you.
Protected forever, until it should stand.
Go Dominatrix, I think its a plan.
'cause woman just falter when their is a call,
I need a Master, A dominator, a shawl.
I think sex has become the conduct of all.

My number is easy, my number is rye,
my number works for you and even for I.
My mother assigned me saying again and again,
you are possessed and 666 please begin.
The demon of silence is laden within.

I'm printed on one side and beat on the other,
no master, no father, not even a collar.
Put down like a dog and fed what was odd,
which way do you turn when your at the bottom of the bog.
How often is it?
Is it always my turn?

I stand with my truth,
I stand with my dare,
I doubt I was ever hurt over there.
Only at home, with family declared,
the scariest moments to ever have weared.

Good night my dear Master,
good night to my rights,
to be free of disaster and live without fright.
To the faith of the few,
and the memory of you,
sexual conduct and rules of the true.


Which would you have chosen?  What would you have done all these years? Run? Try to forget? Try to stay out of the lives that you had accidentally fallen into?  Try to erase the memories?  How?  When all my mother ever talked about was sex, in church, at home, at dinner, at parties, it never, ever had any boundaries nor was she ever discreet. It is what it is, sickening, unbelievable and just exhausting to have to keep a secret for so long. 

The View, Distorted

I was watching the television show called "The View" and I saw Ashley Judds mother and older sister on it.  Ashley Judd had written a "Tell all" book about the family and The View was allowing (I love the allowing part) the mother and older sister an opportunity for repeal.  The mother reminded me a lot of my mother and the older sister was just enormously present.  I have never tuned into this show before, so it was complete happenstance that I was even on that station.

The only reason I stopped my channel surfing was I saw Ashley Judds mother with her daughter, the singer.  I could have sworn that the mother was dead or at least was meant to die several years ago.  I thought that the mother  had given up show business due to some terrible ailment that was not able to be treated.  I remember they did some big goodbye show, lots of tears and the such.  I am not sure why I even followed this story but I was fascinated that somebody looked so good and yet had some debilitating disease as they were claiming.  I remember thinking that it was just a publicity stunt, odd.  Anyhow, I had also seen Ashley Judd on the today show promoting her new book about her family and the abuse that she survived as a child.

I was so angry at the time I was watching this stupid show because here these four women were giving, yet again, a voice to the abuser and not to the abused.  And to have her rather large sister there defending the mother just added fuel to the fire.  I turned it off and thought, no wonder we never talk about anything as a child, we still don't have a voice that makes people believe what happened or let alone that it was barely survivable.  In some cases like Casey Anthony's daughter it is not survivable.  It just seems that people are part of the abuse by continuing to allow the abusers to speak.  I know that everybody should be allowed to defend their honor so to speak, but this seemed so lopsided.  I mean it was her mother and her sister against Ashley Judd why was her sister part of the picture? It is like she was being ganged up on. I know in my case, I have four siblings that join my mothers show.  It is annoying to me when they add their two cents in.  It is a repeat performance of when I was a child and they would do the same thing and since they were the golden children and I was the scapegoat child, we all know where that ended up, I got beat.

Do people in general not realize that by showing the abusers attention and sympathy that they deflate the very thing we are trying so hard to defend, our lives?  I know that if I had been Ashley Judd I would have rather not have written the book, than to have seen it backfire the way it seemed to be doing.  I felt  that after Ashley Judds appearance on the Today Show, her mother and sister got more attention than the reality of what Ashley Judd had taken the time to write about.  Her mother and sister got a live T.V. show about how it affected their life. They seemed almost cheerful in acting as if they were destroyed.  In reality did they not make or do they not make a tremendous amount of money off a show like that? I loved it when her mother fainted on the promo commercial stating, "What has Ashley done now?"  I think that is what she said. I have not seen that show so I am quoting off the top of my head right now.  But who cares.  All  people seem to care about is the affect some book had on her mother who I thought was meant to be dead. What a miraculous recovery!  Attention heals the most amazing diseases, I had no idea.  Not really, my mother is instantly well if there is any attention to be derived. My siblings are the same way.  Otherwise they are all the laziest people I have ever met, I wonder if its the same in Ashley Judds family.

Anyway back to my strange story. The other day I was watching, not on purpose, this movie starring Ashley Judd.  It was oddly like the story she had been telling on the today show, sad.   But what was odd was the company I was keeping at the time.  I said to the man in the room, "Isn't she a pretty person?", he said that her mother and her oldest sister used to live in Marin and that his brother knew them before they were famous.  He went on to tell me that his brother and the group of friends told the guy to kick them out because they were screwing up the bachelor thing they had going on. Having a needy Mom and her daughter or daughters was not the image they wanted to portray, so he gave them the boot. I thought to myself, what a small world we live in. So close and yet so far, to the very same type of family dynamic as mine.  So Ashley Judds mother was the needy girlfriend looking for her way to be paid.  Oddly the story I was told made me realize that this woman was real not some strange icon on the television.  There was something personal about that realization. Oddly the stories matched-up which means that she is still acting, looking for attention and doing whatever it takes to keep it all about her. That was the way the it came across to me. The man went on to say that it was all about her and nobody else.  Funny, cause I thought it showed so little growth in her as a person.  Once a leach, always a leach, just a different venue on a different day and a different year. It has been said that as long as the spell your name correctly that it doesn't matter what they are talking about.  It matters to me.  Ashley Judd has a real story and other than the fact that I know she wrote a book, I don't know anything more than she ruined the life of her mother and sister.  And I am pretty sure that the book was not about ruining the lives of two very successful, what ever they are, performers? How apropos.

 Maybe we just ruin their lives by trying to live our own life.  Part of living is telling our story.  How did we get to where we are today. Its interesting as long as we don't offend anyone along the way.  So to the people that are on The View, try giving the voice back to the ones that have been destroyed, instead of giving the attention to the destroyers.  I am a survivor and sadly like Ashley Judds story, people are more interested in my mothers appeal of how she is being destroyed by me than in the truth of what the destruction may have actually been. I wish that I had been luckier but I am not alone.  However in some strange twist we are both alone and fighting for a voice, a venue, an opportunity to tell you that monsters are real and they are everywhere. Theses monsters are still telling their lies and you are still listening intently to each and every word as they spill their guts all over you. Do you even stop to think that maybe they are great actresses and that they are lying to you? It is unbelievable that you are so enveloped in their story but our story must be proved and is never taken at face value like you take the story of our mothers.

We are afforded a wonderful opportunity with this event that took place on The View.  We can press rewind and watch it again.  One day maybe if I ever get to be a bigger voice than I am, I would like to re-play Ashley Judds appearance on the Today Show and then re-play her mother and her sister on The View. We will invite some film critic and ask who's performance seems rehearsed and who's seems genuine. I love the fact that her mother was stupid enough to go on national television to plead the case for her older daughter and herself.  It just enhances my opportunity to point out to the interested audience that I do not have, how fake my mother can be on command.  Put her in front of an audience and she would rival Ashley Judds mother, my mother would win hands down.  She is just that much better.

So, don't feel bad Ashley, your mother and your sister were as easy to read as the morning paper and we all know what to do with old newspaper. We put it down and use it to potty train our new puppy or just burn it up in the fireplace as it helps to catch those logs on fire.  I happen to live in a forest fire too.  It is written all over your mothers and sisters face. The abuse and the neglect that you suffered at the hands of both of them is palpable to me.  If I can see it and know that they are lying, then other people can see it too. Those people are just denying the truth which makes them guilty by proxy in my mind. They will not like that review.

I wrote a piece yesterday called Wounded Mind, Fractured Brain. It tells the story of why its so difficult to get well.  Our plight is not heard because we cause people to feel the pain and the hurt of our journey just by showing up in the room. Sadly they turn their backs on the wrong ones.  The attention is always given to the Casey Anthony's of the world.  Your pain I see on the big screen (Ashley Judd).

You have helped me in the past few days understand what the public at large sees when they look at me.  I watched your movie and saw the girl on the today show.  No matter how much make-up you put on yourself it doesn't matter the pain, the agony of the neglect and the abuse shows through.  Now I know what I look like too. I have been told that as a teenager I looked a very certain way, now I understand what they meant.  They said it looked like I kept secrets.  You look like you are in so much pain, I'm sorry that I can't give you a hug and say to you, "I understand," and then we could go out and have blast, flirting with gorgeous men, water skiing, traveling and just down right living our lives free from those monsters called "Our Family Members."  I didn't know that it was so obvious to others, I didn't know that we showed so clearly our journey and we show the raw and brutal truth we suffered while under our mothers watch. Its on our faces, it cannot be hidden.

Thank you for being brave enough to write your book and to promote your book on national t.v.  I am in the game too, as are others that blog similar stories on google.  I am telling my story and I hope that one day stories like ours will be heard and not just shelved so that they can film the dramatics of our mothers.  But until then, take solace that your mother is on film, right beside your sister. Siskel and Ebert do great reviews and I believe that your mother and your sister would have received two thumbs down for their performance on that day.

Holding the vigil, a friend, a warrior, a fighter, a survivor, a human being, me.

Wounded Mind, Fractured Brain

What did you say?

Don't take it personally.

Hhmm, I thought to myself for a moment in silence.  I started to say something but I stopped myself.  I felt like it would be a moot point because I had already taken in personally, I just did not want to explain any further.

I just cannot take all the yelling.  I was yelled and screamed at as a kid, so its difficult for me.

Just scream back!

I stared for a longer amount of time.  I am not comfortable yelling at  anyone, let alone a complete stranger.  I said that I had to go, got on my bike, turned my Sony music player on and road off.  I just could not handle it a minute longer.  My head was throbbing and my nerves were shot. Even being on my bike didn't seem to calm me down.

When I got back home I curled up in bed and closed my eyes.  I had taken one of my pills because I could not take my brain, it was in so much pain.  Flashbacks were not even flashbacks. It was ribbons of film ripping out of the reels and cutting itself on my brain matter.  As I could here it go, "Click, click, click," like an old movie house when the film needs to be changed and it has run completely out of the projector. 

I laid there until I fell asleep and dreamt of the nightmare of my life.  I woke in a panic, gasping for air and thinking I was still where I had just been.  Thank god I wasn't, I was at home again.  I had made it back to the house without blacking out. 

I have blacked out twice in the past two months.  This is an experience that is not a pleasant one.  I don't know if you are knowledgeable on what happens, but it is just miserable as an adult.  You literally do not remember a thing.  Both times I woke up throwing-up. 

My mind has been so badly wounded but yesterday my brain fractured.  It is like falling off a bicycle and re-breaking your leg.  It broke in a weird way, pulled the brain tissue out and splat the memories poured out into the rest of my mind. 

I began to think about the fact that people who have had knee replacement, hip replacement or just broke a bone in their arm or leg are treated so much more humanely than those of us with broken brains.  I mean, if you are limping and somebody asks whats wrong and you reply,

Oh, I broke my leg last year and it is really bothering me today.

I'm sorry, that must have been so painful, how did you do it?

I was riding my bike and a car hit me when they ran a red light on Divisadero and O'Farrel Streets.

Oh my God! That is awful.  Did you have to have surgery?

No, it was a compound fracture.

No wonder you are in so much pain, there is a storm coming in off, I heard it is going to rain.

Yea, it seems to get worse when the storms hit.

I read its the rain that really cause breaks to hurt.

Maybe your right, because after the rain finally comes it seem to  get better, maybe its when the barometer drops.

Probably, I hope you feel better.

Thanks,  I'm sure I will.

Whats your name?

James

My name is Annie.
It is nice to meet you.

I'm sure we will talk soon, especially since we seem to be in the same Chef's Class.

Yea, your right, talk to you soon.

A friendship begins all because somebody noticed someone limping in from outside into a classroom.  Which is pretty cool, it was a conversation starter, a way to meet someone new that you did not know and in all reality might develop a friendship with or more.  In our case, our minds have been fractured or at the very least, very badly wounded.  Sometimes we look sad or despondent, we might look relatively normal, even be smiling but the pain inside is always there for us because we cannot seem to get through it.  It just hurts, sometimes it hurts really bad and sometimes it just there but either way we have a fracture of the mind.  It doesn't mean that we have split personality, we just are wounded people that nobody ever seems to see.  We don't limp, we cry, we don't complain, we are silent, we don't look for sympathy, we would rather forget and even with all of that we still get accused of looking for pity or for someone just to say, "I'm sorry for your life."

The thing is our injury is no different than a broken bone.  When the rain comes it usually has a different name, in my case, it is when the night comes.  As the afternoon wanes and night approaches the same thing that happened to James with his broken leg happens to me, I am in pain. I limp differently, I get quiet and begin to stare off in the distance.  My mind goes to places that are not in my control.  I start night dreaming and I am not asleep yet.  I begin to become anxious about the fact I will have to go to sleep soon, I start pacing and getting up and down.  It is very obvious something is wrong, it seems to be written all over my face.

In the past people have asked me what is wrong,

Are you O.k.

Yes, I'm fine.

You don't look O.k. you are kind of white, do you need a drink of water? Whats going on?

Oh, its nothing really, I had a troublesome childhood and I get a little nervous as the sun goes down.

Hhmm, Oh, I better find a seat.

I am making this scenario up and just presenting a theory of why it is so difficult for us to get better.  I am not sure what experience you have had with other people but mine has been the moment somebody finds out that I have had a troublesome youth I am told,

"Well there are people with worse lives, I'm sure." 

And that happens before they even know what has happened to me.  Or, my other favorite,

"Well you should think about today and the fact you are not a child anymore." "Where does your family live?"

Regardless we all know that nobody wants to know if you have had a problem with your childhood.  But like a broken bone, we too need some healing and are healing should involve meeting strangers that can be sympathetic without being obnoxious  with pity which most of us really don't want anyway. We don't want your pity it just makes us feel worse for even mentioning the reason that we have turned this lovely ashen color.  Just like you pull muscles and ligaments with a break, we pull the same things in our brain when we are injured with your words.

Don't take it personally, its just the way he is.

I hate that saying because I do take it personally and why are we the ones that should be quiet and not the ones that others say, "Don't take it personally, they rage, its just the way they are."  No, in our case we must be the perfect host and hostess for society, at all costs, which is always the toll that we pay for ourselves. We shouldn't have to pay for you too. I think that yesterday a person fractured and old break in my mind with his words, (Imagining it is like a break in your arm, a hairline fracture) the way he walked, all the screaming, with the yelling and with the lack of empathy towards a very badly hurt human being.  He broke open what had healed shut so long ago. The memories are now the reality with all of the pieces back in place in my mind of a very particular time in my life.  I have never been able to figure it out.  It just broke and as my mind began to see what it was with such clarity, I began to realize that people don't want us to get better and get through the trauma, they just want us to get over it, forgetting what has happened to us.  A big difference, don't you think?  Why would people, strangers if you will want such a thing from us?  Are we really that much work to be around?  Normally we, as a collective are extremely hard workers and in general very quiet, so that can't be it.  What is it?  Are they afraid that they will have to get real in there life and hear a real story of abuse?  Not just one on T.V. that you can donate to a foundation and make yourself feel better, almost as if you had done something for somebody?

Are we just a story or are we just material for the next horror movie or next weeks T.V. news brief on abuse and torture as a child? How do you survive the pain?  Are we only an hour long Dr Phil or Oprah Show. Are we the movie "The Exorcism of Emily Rose." based on a real person that you never meet because she is dead?  Are we the news caption on NBC next weeks morning show. Are we the mini-series that ABC is promoting for bigger ratings to sell more time share on the station.  Are we just the example of what is never real and you only see on the television or the big screen?  Are we nothing in comparison to you? Can we not be alive? Or are we only good enough to be gossiped about and feel sorry for if we happen to be dead at the point our story is told?

Wounded mind, fractured brain, that is me today.  Keep saying the things that you are saying and my clarity will deepen within the confines of my mind, making the memories the reality that you will have to read.

The tragedy is that its all good for you if there is a screen between us.  I make great dinner conversation,  I make a great movie as long as I die in the end, I am fantastic gossip for those that love to spread the news of a troubled life, I make a great good-will story for somebody donating money to prevent suicide, I make Cocktail Parties more interesting when my mother attends, I make a great everything as long as I remain unseen or dead.  But the reality of having to look at one us makes you feel uncomfortable because you are embarrassed about us in person, we evoke that reaction.  So, the one thing that I really wanted in my life, which was to not be embarrassed all the time by what has happened to me, will never come to be.  All because you cannot bare to see the tragic life of a person that is still alive and fighting like hell to get through this all with you.  We bother you that much, but you bother me more, I'm not capable of being anyone but myself and I seem to bring you the horror of the reality that some kids live through the drownings, the beatings, the drugs given to them in their bottles, some kids make it, we survive to watch the trials of mothers like Casey Anthony, live on CNN.  Just think, if her kid had made it, just like me, you wouldn't being having a trial with her mother, you would be turning your back and saying, "Some people have worse lives than you do, just get over it."

Some of us have those worse lives, some of us are me. I wrote this two years ago, when I first began to express on paper my pain, my wounded mind had begun to fracture.  Breaking away the walls that kept this all so neat tidy for you, not for me.  So that I could walk freely amongst you in society while never disturbing your mind, your brain or your life.  How apropo this poem ends up to be today.

Prepare

Prepared for this since I was Five.
See not my face, my eyes don't lie.
In time, through grace, in space, in sine.
Know where, know place, I do not waste.
Don't help, don't stare, don't scream, don't share!
Despair of mine is no disgrace.
Just a time, in such thin space.


Hello, it's Me


I'm in my Head,
but I'm not dead.
What comes instead may cause you dread.
Move on, move out, don't run about.
The stream of words you bleed are out.
Not red, not green, not blue, know doubt,
It's not the money when I shout.


Hello, it's ME
It's ME,
You see?


The sky goes dark when you remark,
the hatred must! hit its mark.
No eyes you need, I bring you Heed!
Go blind, go hate, but don't be late.
For I am here and very near.
the fear that comes into my feet,
will carry me across, it's neat.
The cost is high,
so please, don't sigh.


Hello, It's me,
it's me,
do you see?




K.A.P.

4/28/2009




(Wouldn't it just be a funny kind of revenge if every poem I have written on this blog works into something I am writing presently and can be better understood than when the poem is standing alone. Just like the last three have shown to be.  Strangely odd don't you think?)

Boiled Onions

Another day in the insane asylum called home. I was given the opportunity to live yet one more day, hooray.  I had been playing in my room when I had to go number two, do you remember when we used refer to going to the bathroom that way?  We were still living at 815 Balboa Street in San Francisco, California and the man who is meant to be my father but apparently is not was still living there too.  He is actually a very cruel kind of guy.  He never passed up an opportunity to do what he considered to be "oh so funny" to him.  It is as if he had a sick radar working overtime in his brain.  He thinks that he is so clever that no one ever gets the inside joke that he is constantly playing on everyone all of the time.  Sadly, some of us in life were deemed to never miss that lane of traffic with him.  I seemed to actually be the inside joke.

I had just gone into the small room that only has a toilet in it, later to be called the "water closet."  I got myself up onto the pot and began what most of us usually do, started pushing with all my might.  I had to have been around the age of three because this was still quiet the feat for me and he was still living in the house.  Going to the bathroom at this point  was just like trying to open the refrigerator downstairs. No matter how hard I tried to open it to get something to eat, I couldn't.  I would pull and pull, the door just wouldn't budge. 

Anyhow, I was upstairs and you here this, "Karen, Karen come quickly its Santa Claus."  I was so excited, I pushed and pushed and I was not getting even close to being done.  He (The Father guy) says, "Ho, Ho, Ho, How are you, Mr. Placek, have you been a good boy this year?", all in a Santa voice of course and very believable to a girl my age.  He answered in his regular voice and then proceeded to tell him (Santa Claus) that there was a little girl upstairs that would love to see him.  The exchange went back and forth at the front door and the conversation went as you probably can imagine it did.  I was so convinced that it was Santa and so excited because I was going to finally get to meet him, just like I had been promised.

I finally finished up on the toilet and once I got myself all cleaned up, panties pulled up tight, I ran down stairs as fast as I could.  Just as I made the corner of the stairs the front door was closing and then "thunk" went the final slam.  I said, "I'm here, I'm here," my father turned and said to me "Oh, I'm sorry but Santa is very busy and he had to go, but we talked and talked forever, he is everything you imagined. Why didn't you come down (he knew I was on the pot) you should have come sooner, you missed the entire thing. He is never coming back."  I was devastated for a fraction of a second then ...  I just stared at this man that was meant to be father and the hate I felt for him as he laughed about me missing Santa Claus because I was on the pot, boiled me over top. I stared even harder and said to myself, "This man is not my Dad. I don't have a Dad."  I have never looked at much of anything the same since that day. So much came to me so quickly it was an over load. It was almost like concrete as it began to set-up in my brain.  The laughter was the concrete still in the concrete bag, the words were the water you add to make the mix.  The body language was the shovel that you stir it all up in the wheel barrel with and the flagrant disregard for human life was the pour that you make a sidewalk with that lead to the next dissappointment you would experience with this man.  He just finished for the last time the torture of my life by making me remember something dreadful, cruel and extremely damaging to my mind on that day. It was all how he drove off from a National Park in Marin County leaving me all alone as night began to fall.  He had his head thrown back, his hands on the wheel, sitting in the drivers seat, and he was laughing so loudly it could be heard very clearly, almost echoing through this empty, abandoned parking lot. Just as the station wagon pulled up the hill and was turning towards the left he gave a big huge laugh that could be heard oh so clearly, as the window was rolled down and his elbow was resting on the door itself.  He had driven away from the parking spot that I had just make it back too.  I was running as fast as I could so that I would not be left again. I sobbed in the silence of myself, devastated, it was my birthday that day and I said so quietly,  "Please don't leave me behind."   He did it anyway thinking that it was so funny to do to me, all just to see what I would do. 

It is happening again, he is doing this to me again, it's him, I know that it's him....

I was stopped on the staircase staring at him thinking, "He is lying to me."  Santa never came to the front door. Its not even Christmas anymore. I thought for a moment more and as he turned away from me laughing, he threw his head back yet again and this very loud, audible chortle rose from his belly and erupted out of his mouth.  I stood and watched in horror.

It's him, it's him doing this to me..........he's...

I realized for the very first time, just as the puzzle pieces were all falling into place in my mind. 

It's him, I know its him doing this to me.


"He is the one that is putting the pillow over my face at night when I take a nap during the day under my bed."

Wait! He's doing this when I am in my bed, trying to sleep. He is suffocating me just like my brother does at night.  I quaked within my little girl self, thinking that's why I can't see him coming, I hear the laughter but I never see the person until its to late to move out of the way. To get under my bed and hide, so it looks like I'm not there because he doesn't see either.  He is just heading for bed where my head is meant to be. Thats why sometimes I can get away and other times I can't.  He is doing this to me with the pillow up in front of his face the entire time, he is blind and doesn't know where I have gone and when he abruptly puts that pillow down where my head was he misses me, that's when he gets angry. And it struck right then and there, he is bringing a pillow from somewhere else, holding in front of his face as he enters my room and moves towards me.  I am either just opening my eyes because of that chortle I hear or I don't even have a chance because the pillow now has me flattened on the bed.  I struggle and kick and scream and kick and then it all stops again. I'm standing at the door of my room, looking back at my bed and there am again, just lying there with a pillow over my head. This a nightmare, this is my life, this is my family. Why?

Oh my god, this is what has been happening to me this entire time, I have finally figured it out. No wonder I am terrified all the time. Oh my God! It's really them, they really did try and try to eliminate my life.  Oh my god, its happened upstairs too. I couldn't figure that out.  How was down in the basement and up in my room.  Those bastards ended up making my nightmare everywhere.

It's him, it is in the laugh I have never forgotten. A victim? A victim of what? Who? A victim of Infanticide, what's that? I asked.

Wait, Stop!! Oh my god, I'm the victim.  I wrote this poem back in 2009, it makes more sense today.  It may explain a little better than me just saying O.M.G.,

Victim

I am a victim of extreme violence.

I am a victim of sexual abuse.

I am a victim of manipulation.

I am a victim of spiritual abuse.

I am a victim of my birth,

I was Two, the first full time threw.

How old were You?

I am a good person.

I am a conscientious human being.

I am a vibrant woman.

I have freedom to choose.

I can remember who is who.

Do You?

Conviction of Mind will often find,

memories spare the simple kind.

Stood up too and walked onto,

A Bridge of Life,

with you.

He held me up, when I fell in,

a pity trip! It won't begin.

I am a victim.

That's just it.

6/2009

If you are a victim, then how are you a survivor?  It almost seems contridictory to one another.  I am so frustrated that I belong to this family.  They have been so cruel, I'm a victim of that too.