Promiscuity, The Symptom of Approval.

If you met me a few years ago, you might have called me a slut, whore, skank, easy, or loose.  I say I had a disease.  Most wouldn’t understand what I mean by that unless you have been through what I have been through.  I will never fully understand my childhood, but I what I do know is promiscuity is only a symptom.

Since I had sex for my first time at the age of 11, I have slept with 150 people, maybe 200.  I lost count years ago, and many of them I don’t remember.  The first time I had sex was not really my choice.  First off I hadn’t even hit puberty, I had no idea what I was doing.  All I know is that I was hated at school, unattractive, and lonely.  I met this boy at the neighborhood pool.  He was 15 and had dark tan skin with chocolate brown hair.  He was very attractive, outgoing and tall.  I was in shock that somebody, a boy at that, was interested in me.  I fell for him hard and thought he was just “so charming”.  What the hell did I know about charm?  I was just excited that someone was paying attention to me.  So I soaked it up.  He would meet me behind the trees outside the pool fence and flirt with me, telling me little sweet lies.  He had finally convinced me to sneak out one night and meet him at the park nearby.

So, like any gullible little girl I did.

I snuck out for my first time.  It was exhilarating and scary at the same time.  My heart pounding, my hands sweating as I try to quietly take the screen off my window.  I couldn’t even make it out the window before I felt a rush of goosebumps and a sudden urge to defecate.  That’s what stress does to me, causes a release of bodily functions.  Finally I get out, I quietly crawl up out of the basement window.  I pause.  I listen for any sign that my mother heard me.  Her room was right above mine, but I didn’t see any movement.  I was free.  I ran so fast that you would think I was being chased by a pack of wild dogs.  It was a complete rush as the adrenaline flooded my body. Free, free at last. Free from the loneliness, the abuse, the hurt.  The night air filled my nose, it was moist and earthy.  I could hear crickets all around me, a single car would slowly drive by as an air conditioner hummed softly into the thick summer night.  It felt so good. So peaceful.  A light dew covered my skin, perspiration from my escape to freedom.

I made it to the park.  I don’t remember much talking.  He had brought with him some honey and had me lay down on a park bench.  He touched me.  He kissed my body softly. He let the honey drip onto my pale and bony chest.  He was gentle and slow as he licked it up.  I had never had this kind of attention.  Everyone hated me.  Boys ran from me, they teased me, they laughed at me.  But he wanted me.  He liked me. He approved of me.  He asked if I wanted to come over to his house and play some video games.  I said yes.  I didn’t care as long as he gave me more attention, as long as he approved of me.

We went down to his dark unfinished basement, there were sheets hanging up, creating four spaces. In one space we sat in the dark playing video games, the light flickering against our faces.  He kept on smiling at me and flirting with me, keeping me baited.  Then he stood up.  Behind one of the curtains was his bed.  He held out his hand and I took it.  He laid me on the bed and slowly took off my shorts as he reached down and unzipped his pants.  I remember saying no, that I wasn’t ready, that I was afraid it wouldn’t feel good.  He told me it was ok, that I would like it. He promised. 

I didn’t like it.  I begged him to stop.  It hurt so bad.  All I felt was a burning sensation and just wanted it to be over.  I was scared.  He didn’t finish, he couldn’t.  I was too tense, to scared, I wasn’t aroused.  All the way home it hurt.  It was no longer exciting, I just wanted to be home, safe in my bed.  I shook as I crawled down into my window, relieved I hadn’t been caught.

For a year after that I was petrified of boys.  I didn’t want to be touched, I didn’t want the attention.  Even when I met my first boyfriend, I wouldn’t let him touch me.  He was rarely even allowed to hold my hand.  One night I snuck over to his house, but I couldn’t sleep in his bed.  Instead, I curled up in his closet, guarding my body from him.  I was afraid.  Afraid to be hurt again. 

I continued to satisfy my growing sexual urges on my own, in private.  My desires grew strong, insistant, nagging, controlling.  I had to masturbate constantly to keep the obsessive need at bay.  I had so many thoughts, so many dirty disgusting thoughts.  I started drawing them out, drawing images that haunted my head.  I drew pictures of people having sex, touching, kissing,approving.  For some reason I kept them in my school binder, probably to keep them from my mother.  One day I was sitting at the edge of the basketball court at the school.  It was a warm and windy day.  It was lunch break so there was a scattering of kids hanging out and eating.  Just as I was digging through my book bag, a gust of wind blew open my binder, scattering all my loose,dirtydrawings.  I was petrified.  It was almost like the movies, it was deafeningly quiet.  Each second lasted forever as I watched kids stopping to look over my papers.  As this kid bent down to pick up one of the papers, his face went from a sneer to a look of disgust.  Shouts and gasps broke out all around me.  I don’t remember what they said, but I knew it was mean.  I snatched them out of everyone’s hands, they were too shocked to react.

All hell broke loose from there.

I discovered the power of the Internet.  It was there whenever you needed it, thousands of lonely, horny men, waiting to talk to someone just like me.  They liked me, they desired me, they approved.  They told me I was funny and listened to anything I had to say.  They said I was mature and intelligent. They said i was sexy.  I liked being sexy.  Sexiness was what grown women had.  Fun, flirty, smart, popular women were sexy.  I loved cyber sex, it was there in the middle of the night when I had insomnia, it was a change from the unfeeling relationship I had with myself.  It gave me chills, goosebumps, butterflies.  They say that men who look at porn eventually start looking for a stronger sexual high, slowly leading to more intense, grotesque, or illegal acts.  This was the case with me.  Pretending wasn’t enough so I looked at porn, which turned into talking to a live person, which wasn’t good enough, so I tried animals which didn’t satisfy, which led me to men…

I had been exposed to so many images, so many different acts, so many taboo conversations, that when I was finally sexually active with a real live person, I didn’t have any boundaries.  Everything to me was normal as far as I knew.  I started having sex with anyone and everyone.  I didn’t have a type, as long as they approved.  I was sneaking out constantly to meet people from the internet.  If I didn’t have someone ahead of time I would walk downtown till I met someone.  Sometimes I would hitchhike, just so someone would take advantage of me.  It was a high, an addiction.  At this time I was about 13, still a tiny girl, very skinny with freckles and a naive look about me.  I was an easy target, but I didn’t care.  I welcomed the “affection”, the abuse.  I never made love, I never felt anything emotionally.  It was only to satisfy a hunger pang, a hole.  A dark, rotting, infectious hole.  The more I fed it, the bigger it grew. 

I was not an attractive girl, but surprisingly enough, I had many partners.  I was the girl no one told their friends about.  I was the girl the older man lived out his sick desires with.  I was the girl that boy took his anger out on.  I was the girl who made it easy to rape.  Sometimes I feel as if I asked for all of the abuse.  I feel like I sought it out, like I wanted it, craved it.  Even when there were times I said no, I would force myself to become aroused, to like it.  Afterwards I would feel the same. Disgusted, guilty, angry, scared.  The memories to this day flash in and out of daily life, I relive the pain constantly.  Certain things, places, or events will trigger the flood of images, causing me to flop in and out of depression.

Sometimes I can barely remember.  Sometimes I wonder if the memories are even real.  I just cant believe that people are so horrible, so sick.  I’ve met so many men, from young to as old as my dad, all types, all kinds of shapes, all different ethnicities.  They all had a sickness, they all wanted to inflict pain, they all wanted to use me.  But I let them.  I couldn’t stop them.  I couldn’t stop my own disease.

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

-Maya Angelou

"Just Run."

I will have to say the world is messed up beyond belief.  Each post I read makes me want to cry.  All these broken people, hurting, suicidal and depressed.  It makes me sad.

Sad doesn’t even describe the feeling.

Hurt, pained, disgusted, hopeless, panicked, hate, distraught, bewildered, LOVE.

I just want to take everyone into my arms and LOVE them.  I just want to hold them till they can’t cry any longer.  I want to tell them everything will be alright.

But it’s not.

I always hated when someone would tell me it would be ok, or that it can only go up from here.  It didn’t.  Just when I thought I couldn’t go any lower, I plummeted into disaster.  I wish someone would have told me the truth.  Told me life isn’t fair, life sucks and is full of hurtful people and pain.  You are made to believe there are happy endings, but you always wonder, “Where’s mine?”  The truth is, life can get better, it can go up, but you have to make it.

Now this may sound harsh but its real…

Stop being the victim, be a survivor.  Get out. Make a change. Leave. Run.

As long as you have a defeatist attitude, you will always be walked on and treated bad.  You have a choice.

Do you have legs?

Do you have a will?

Do you have any fight left in you?

Then run.

There is no reason to live in hell.  There is no reason to let someone hurt you over and over.  Pain doesn’t lie, it’s telling you something is wrong.  Stop taking the abuse.  Stop being a massochist, a martry, a victim, a rug, self destructive and weak.

YOU have the power to change your life.  YOU are in control of your future.  YOU are a capable human being. YOU are worth it.  YOU are not a bad person.

Run. There are shelters, there are friends, there are churches, and homes, halfway houses, foster care, jobs, apartments, organizations, groups, therapy, there is HOPE.

Speak out. Tell the world. Write about it. Tell the police.  Call CPS. Tell a counselor. Tell everyone. Your friiends, your relatives, a stranger.  Someone can help you.  What is the worst thats going to happen if you do?  You’ll be embarassed? Scared? Beat again? Kicked out? Lose everything?

Is it worse than loosing your soul? Loosing yourself? Loosing your life?  Because to me, that is worse.

Run run run… 

Yeah life sucks. What are you going to do about it?  There isn’t a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, there isn’t a prince on a white horse, there isn’t a fairytale ending.  I wish someone would have warned me about life, but I also wish they would have given me a solution.

I have compassion because I have been through similar hells.  We all go through a different one, but hell hurts all the same.  I know what it feels like to have lost all hope, to hate yourself, to hate everyone, to feel sick and disgusted.  I know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when someone you love betrays you.  I know what it feels like to check out and not care.

But I know that it wont always be that way…. You just have to want it bad enough.

What is your freedom worth to you?

Do you like the pain?  The guilt? The suffering? The dispair?  Do you like being insulted? Do you like being violated? Do you like living in hell?

No one in their right mind would say yes.

So run.

Stop making excuses, stop being helpless, stop thinking of all the reasons why you can’t leave.

Run.

There will always be trials and pain in your life, but how much is up to you. To what degree?  You can never be completely happy, it’s not human.  The world is full of sinners, therefore there will be suffering. You decide how happy you want to be.  To be content is reasonable, to be filled with joy is obtainable, to be loved is possible, to be treasured is unavoidable.

There is someone out there that would love to help you, to guide you, to appreciate you.  There is someone who will like you for you and see how amazing you are.  Control and force can be a thing of the past, but only if you want it.

The question is, “Do you want to hurt now or later?”  Because no matter how long you avoid running, the pain only becomes greater.  You will eventually come to an end and have to hurt. Or you’ll end up dead.  So what do you want?  Do you want to keep wasting days, months, years on resentment, pain, and tears?  You have a life to live, now live it for Christ’s sake! 

You must run.

Run like you have never ran before.

Run as if it is a matter of life or death.

Because it is.

"Perfectly Perfect"

Perfectly Perfect.

I have always aspired to be something, to be famous and well liked.  I want to impress people and travel.  I want to prove to the world I am not a loser.  My main drive in life has been acceptance, approval.  I think secretly I am always trying to make my mother proud.  Even though I hate her, I just want her to finally say that I did a good job.  She has always criticized everything I have done.  Sometimes she would say something positive, but then throw a little jab in with it.  I hated that.  A while ago I painted a big painting of a black sillouetted tree branch, winding against a lightly brushed rust background.  It looked like a windy fall evening, it was simple and calming.  My mother came over and all she had to say with a look of dissappointment was, “That’s it?  It’s kind of boring…”  That really hurt.  I thought it was different from my usual detailed and realistic paintings.  It was fresh and uncomplicated.  Funny thing is, it has bothered me since then, staring at me from over the couch, sneering at me, repeating what my mother said.  So a month ago, I painted it again.  I added colors and swirls, emphasizing the feeling of motion and wind.  To be honest, It looks better.

Part of me wonders if she was right.  Who knows.  I would say that her constant disappointment and criticsim has pushed me to become a perfectionist.  I am never satisfied, it’s never good enough.  She’s always sitting on my shoulder analyzing and disapproving of what I am doing.  Everything is wrong, every choice I make is not what she wants.  It is a major downfall for me.  I wish I could leave things be, stop obsessing over small details and minor flaws.  Sometimes my perfectionism comes in handy, but usually it is just a hinderence.  The worst side effect of being a perfectionist is low self esteem.  You are never as good as the next guy, never as pretty as the girl that just walked by, never as smart as your coworker, never good enough for your spouse. 

Every day I look at myself in the mirror and feel resentment and anger.  Why can’t I look like the girls in the magazines?  Why can’t I just control my eating habits?  Why don’t I have the motivation of the girl jogging in the rain?  Why can’t I have been born with different features?  I stand there and pick apart every unsatisfactory feature, sucking in, pulling back, and posing so that I look different.  It is really sad.  I used to cover my mirrors with paper because I would spend hours there despising myself.  Sometimes I would get so angry that I would throw things or cry.  I work very hard to look the way that I do.  If you saw pictures of me when I was 18, you would never recognize me.  Throughout my younger years, I was never seen as atttractive or desirable.  Kids would actually tease me and beat me up for being so dorky.  They would shout out insults, calling me Alicia “Dykeson” or make fun of me for looking like a little boy.  I never had friends and always envied the pretty and popular girls.  I went through a phase where I had a F it all attitude and I refused to shower or wear nice clothes.  I would pose as a grunge or a goth, to push people a way, to defy all conformity.  Eventually, I just wanted to have people like me, I wanted to fit in.  I figured if I couldn’t beat them, I would join them.

I made it my lifelong goal to be the prettiest, most desireable girl in the room…  I started tanning and dying my hair.  I wore makeup and put on tight fitting clothes.  I got a couple of tattoos, a couple peircings.  I studied magazines and copied what was “in” what was considered sexy.  I have made a major transformation.  I went from this wimpy, pale skinned, freckled, blonde haired dork with a bowl cut, to a curvy, dark haired, sex pot…  Guys who would never talk to me would now be nervously trying to flirt with me.  I got jobs, I got friends, and I got approval.  I was now becoming popular, people wanted to hang out with me, girls wanted to talk to me, and guys wanted to have sex with me… 

It all came with a price.

Those people never liked me when I was that frail looking dork.  thise guys never found me interesting when I was a nerdy bookworm.  I didn’t even like me when I was me.  I have now lost who I was.  I forgot what I was all about.  I forgot how to be genuine and vulnerable.  I forgot how to be me.  I look at myself now and wonder what has happend, where I became lost.  I wanted approval, but at what cost?  The cost of being just another conformist, another fake drone?  But I can’t change now.  It’s an addiction. Approval is a drug, and it’s my drug of choice.  Approval has driven my every action.  I never even do things for myself anymore unless someone is there to tell me good job.  Kind of silly huh? 

Perfectionism, oh how you have become a thorn in my side.

My family has taught me that life is about impressing people with your status and how you look.  They have taught me to be shallow and fake.  I didn’t grow up learning real values like the importance of being earnest or doing things to make yourself happy.  What’s funny is that no matter how selfish I can be, I always put my happiness last.  If I could just learn to let go of the reins a little and relax, maybe I could find true peace and the real meaning of a life worth living.

Allow Me to Introduce Myself...

So you are probably wondering, Who is this crazy girl spilling her guts out for everyone to see? 

Or you may not care at all.

I am going to tell you anyways, whether you like it or not…

My name is Alicia. I was born in Alaska and have lived in six states.  I used to consider myself a gypsy of sorts, which is a creative way of saying I ran from myself.  We all know that when you run from your problems, they follow, and the reason being is you are the problem.  I am 26 years old and I feel like I’m fifty.  I have a son named Cameron who is 7 months old and a five year old daughter named Aubrey who lives with her dad in Kansas.  I have a wonderful and completely uncompatible fiancee named BJ (His real name is James).  We have been together for three or four years, we met at a bar, had sex the second night, I moved in a month later, and then became an “item” a month after that.  Our whole relationship has been backwards and very chaotic.  All the same, I love him.  He’s the only one crazy enough to stick around after all I have put him through and the enormous amount of baggage I lug around.

I am a writer, an artist, and a poet.  This is funny to me because I am very ridgid and concrete.  I think in definites and absolutes.  Actually I am quite the contradiction, and a bit of a hypocrite.  I would like to say that my most important value is honesty, but lets be truthful, we all lie.  I try very hard not to, but we are all human.  I confuse myself alot, the reason is that I believe that everything is in black and white, but what’s hard for me to grasp is that I don’t fit into a label or a compartment.  I figure I should be one way or another, but I’m not, I can’t be.  I have many different personalities, and they are all opposites.  I think they frustrate eachother constantly, trying to tell me which is better, but I believe they all have their purpose for the right time and situation.

I used to be a fun and carefree little girl, I had dreams and hopes, I was silly and loving.  I like to hope that there’s that little girl I used to know underneath all the layers of hurt and distrust, but it is very hard to be vulnerable.  I like to have control, I like to plan out and make lists, everything in order, in it’s right and perfect place.  I like to know everything, to be involved and aware.  I have many isms and tendencys, all of which have a working purpose.  Sometimes Bj just shakes his head at me wondering what the hell I am doing and why I can be so tedious with my ways.  It all goes back to order and control.  Even the way I eat Lucky Charms has rhyme and reason; I must take equal marshmallows to each cereal bite, only after I have eaten every boring cereal peice out possible.  Everything must be equal.  I can walk into a room and notice what has been touched because I have a specific way of organizing things.  Some people would call this OCD, I call it harmless.  If having OCD means my house is clean and my clothes are organized by type and color making it easier to find an outfit, then I think I will be ok. 

I thought I was a fun person, but I find myself being more of a serious person these past couple years.  I think life has taken away some of my spirit, but I hope someday I can find it again.  I have a strange sense of humor, kind of gross, kind of dark.  Bj gets me, which is nice.  I love to talk though, I could talk all day if you wanted to listen.  Sometimes I talk too much, and sometimes I like to put my foot in my mouth.  I’m known for my akward moments and inappropriate comments.  Sometimes it’s because I am nervous and I can’t stop, and sometimes I just have forgotton that not everyone thinks its funny.  I find myself walking away from encounters with every day people going, “What the hell is your problem?  Why can’t you just shut up?”.  I have a problem with telling everyone everything, I know sometimes honesty is not the best policy, but I think I make a worse liar.  Even if I am not lying I feel guilty.  If I got interrogated by the FBI I would admit to anything, even if it wasn’t my fault.  I do that because my mother would always question me and nag me even if I was telling the truth till the point where I would get nervous and wonder if I really was wrong.

Many people used to say I came off rude and bitchy.  I don’t think that’s the case anymore, but then again, I’m not really around anyone lately.  I think part of it is that my face never matched my thoughts.  I just always looked angry.  Actually, I was usually just deep in thought, confused or analyzing things.  I have made it a point to smile and make small talk, even though I think it is a waste of time.  Why talk about small things?  Why not start the conversation out with big stuff?  Get to the point, stop wasting time!  But I know that is not how the social world works and is definitely not the way to make friends.

I have come to belive people like facades and near truths.  The truth is ugly and hard, it’s scary and unknown.  We like what’s comfortable, what’s safe.  The truth is, I don’t even like the truth.  I have to force myself to look at reality and not live in denial.  My brain tries very hard to hide things from me and make things easier on me, it knows the truth is hard.  But there is something freeing about honesty, and especially being honest with yourself.  One thing I do know, is that you can’t begin to change until you are willing to look at what is really there.

Mommy Dearest...

You see that photo below?  That’s my mother. She looks like a happy, nice, kind person right? Wrong.  Quite the opposite.  That is a picture of the mother I longed for, wished for, the mother I saw very seldom.  Now, if you met my mother you might even say she seems very funny and a blast to be around, she’dconvince you she was absolutely normal, but behind closed doors it was very different.  Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t always awful, or maybe I didn’t realize it till I got older.  You see, when you are young, you are naive, and you would never believe anyone, especially you mother could do anything wrong. 

My mother was the world to me.

She and I were like peas in a pod.  We spent alot of time together because it was just she and I until I was about 8.  We would always read the bible and I would act out words, putting on a little play as she read.  She taught me so much about God and always took me to church.  Whenever I was sick, my mom would always buy me a carnation and a coloring book.  That always meant alot to me.  I don’t remember anything too painful or eventful for most of my childhood. Around the time I was 4 or 5, I remember going away to my aunt Terrie’s for a while.  I guess my mother had been struggling with severe head aches for a while and went to the hospital because it finally became disabling.

My mother had finally gotten diagnosed with a temporal lobe brain tumor at the age of about 26.  I didn’t see her for a while, and when I did, she was a little off.  I guess my mother had to relearn to do everything.  How to talk, walk, write, spell, and so on.  At this point you might say, “How can you talk so badly about your mother when she has a disability?”  Trust me, I wonder that too.  You know,  I have heard she’s always been this way, the tumor just compounded already present issues.  I guess you could be a devils advocate and say that she was that way because she too was abused, she had a brain tumor, and was under alot of stress as a single mom…  I did feel bad for her most of my life, but I am just human like the rest of us and I eventually resented her.

My mother was a saint to me, the most knowledgeable, wise person around.  And then it all started slowly crumbling away. She decided after a while that she wanted to settle down, take a rest.  When I was about 8, she met John.  He was a good looking, athletic man from the Air Force.  She said that when she met him, she wanted me to have a dad, but I belive she was looking for a free ride.  She always told me that it isnt about love, it’s about being financially stable and having things provided for me.  Besides, I really don’t think she knows what love is anyways.

From there it took a dive.  My world was falling out form under me.  No longer was I the object of her affection, she was too busy giving it to him behind closed doors.  They got engaged only after a couple of months.  John and I didn’t really have a connection, everything just moved so fast that I didn’t really have time to get to know him.  Anyways, I’m not really sure that he wanted to as it is.  Soon, after they got married, I found out I had a brother on the way.  At that time I was hitting puberty and things were getting rough.  Now, this would have been just another hormonal teen acting out, but I was different…

What I didn’t mention, is that when I was about three, my mother had a boyfriend, and this boyfriend liked me just a little bit more.  His name was Al.  I have only two memories of him.  He always liked to keep cotton candy under the bed and to me that seems like he was baiting me.  To this day, i have a weird addiction for cotton candy and I will eat a whole jumbo bag till I’m sick.  And the other memory is of a time he was holding me, it was weird and uncomfortable.  I see my self from a third person view, holding on to him as he grasps me strangely with his hand.  And that’s it.  I used to have reoccurring nightmares of being in a car that was out of control as it sped away from his apartment.  Finally, I thought to just open the door and jump out, any pain was worth not having to relive this one more night. 

And then they stopped. 

So, this sets the stage for a very difficult time as I start to discover myself and my raging hormones.  I had actually cried out for help very early on, my mother just didn’t know how to listen.  I had the typical signs of sexual abuse; ADHD, not being able to focus, acting out, getting into fights, being clingy, struggling with relationships… They were all clues, I think that maybe part of her just didn’t want to acknowledge it ever happened. I get it, I really do.  Who wants to admit they put their child in harms way? Who wants to admit that their boyfriend found their daughter more attractive?  I know it had to be hard.  I have told her in the past it was her fault I got molested, but to tell the truth, I know it wasn’t.  It was her fault she didn’t get me help or the love I needed to fix it.

My cries for help went unnoticed.  I had a very strange sexual drive at a very young age.  My mother would catch me many times masturbating, or acting out events with my stuffed animals. Whenever she caught me she told me it was bad and that I would go to hell.  At about eight it became a bit obsessive.  I even slept with my hand in my pants, and whenever she would check on me at night she would move my hand.  It should have been a sign that I still peed the bed at eleven, but she thought I was just being lazy.  I masturbated with anything and everything.  Some things I am not ready to admit to, but I will tell you this, stationary objects just weren’t enough.  There is a reason I do not like dogs.  They say that whenever you feel guilty about something, you direct your anger towards it.  To this day I have to work very hard on being kind to dogs, but I can say that I have made major progress.  I spent alot of time in my room, fantasizing about events, and creating a sick sexual world.  Where normal children were playing make believe in a castle or pretending to be a cowboy, I was reliving scenes of molestation and domination.  My favorite theme was being helpless or getting attacked by something unsavory like a beast or a gross animal.  I guess that’s what you do when you can’t cope with abuse. 

As a parent, when your child starts to act out what do you do?  Think about it, what would your reaction be?  Would you discipline them?  Ground them? Sit down and ask them what’s going on?  Well, this is the part that ties my whole story together.  My mother couldn’t or didn’t want to understand, so she started “disciplining” me even more.  She likes to say often when I try to tell her she was abusive, “Spare the rod or spoil the child.”  I agree to an extent, but I believe that under no circumstances is it right to leave welts or draw blood.  I remember the first time she actually beat me.  I was about 10 and she had asked me to do the dishes.  I did them the best I could, but before I could leave she noticed there were a few spots on them.  She told me to redo all of them, I thought that was a bit unfair, and being an adolescent, I whined about it.  It turned into an argument and out of nowhere my mother grabs a fistful of my hair and slams my face into the cupboards a couple times.  I ran into the bathroom crying, and as I was sitting in the bathtub, handfuls of hair was falling out.  I was horrified.  I remember saving it so I had proof of what she had done to me, but as I would soon find out, no one really cares or believes you.

I loved my mother so much, but how could someone who gave birth to you, who loved you and took care of you, hurt you over and over without remorse?  I just wanted her affection, her understanding, I just wanted her to care.

Dear Daddy...

Lately I have wondered what it would be like to have a dad.  I used to say I didn’t care, and that at least I got to choose to not have another horrible man in my life, but I do.  I wonder if things would have been different. If I knew him, would he have taken me in when my mom kicked me out? Would he have listened when I was depressed and struggling with life’s meaning? Would he have shown me what real love was and how a man should treat you? Would he have all together prevented the abuse and trauma I went through? Or, would he have been just another looser who didn’t care, someone who took me for granted and broke my trust.  Would he have been another person I grew to hate and resent?

I often wonder.

I do know, or at least I think I do, is that it is one of two men.  Now let me tell you, my mother is a compulsive liar and you never know what is real and what isn’t, so sometimes I wonder if it could be a multitude of men, I wouldn’t be surprised.  There is Randy Hester and Christopher Barden ( I’m not sure I spelled Chris’s last name right).  Randy is or was and alcoholic.  I met him once and spent the day with him.  We picked him up at the Salvation Army from rehab.  He had said he was gonna change for good this time. We spent the day together going to a family get together.  He was very artistic and liked to do that ink dot kind of work, very detailed and very tedious.  He was kind and gentle spirited.  Randy has dark black hair, a kind of square face, olive skin and blue eyes.  I liked his big thick mustache, I always felt comfort in older men with mustaches and beards, I don’t know why, it just seems safe.  I met him one other time, he was in a small studio apartment, very tiny, maybe even just a room.  It was depressing and dark.  I guess he had gone back to drinking and that is the last I saw of him.  I just don’t think I was ready to handle anther let down in my life.  Another problem to add to my many. Another person to try to rescue and care about, just to have them break your heart.

My mother told me he was my father.  But she also said Chris was.  She told me that when he went to do the DNA test, his girlfriend at the time was working in that same lab and fudged the test.  Part of me believes this for two reasons.  Who would want to be stuck to this nasty, mean, crazy woman for the next 18 years, and maybe he just wasn’t ready for the complications or responsibility.

Now Chris, I liked Chris.  I remember boarding a plane from wherever my mother lived to go see him, all by myself.  I had to be like five or six.  Whenever I would go see him we would go to this restaurant and have Belgian waffles with whipped cream, and still to this day, I love them.  He always got me things like those jelly sandals that had sparkles in them, or the Little Mermaid Barbie, or a fashion designer set.  It was always something I really wanted, not some thoughtless toy or gift.  He would take me to the lake where I would catch minnows and put about fifteen of them in a big jar and then wonder why half were dead the next day.  He also had a wonderful knack of burning my tv dinners, but I appreciated them all the same.  I have always had fond memories of him, but the memories of my mom and him were different.

I remember when him and my mother got into a wrestling match in the living room.  I was eating a Popsicle while I just watched them struggle and yell at each other.  They ended up eventually smashing me between them and the couch.  My memory cuts out there.  My past is very difficult to remember sometimes.  My brain finds it easier to erase hurtful memories so I don’t recall exactly what went on.  My therapist says it is avoidance and helps me to better cope with life’s trauma.  Scientifically they say that when you have PTSD or prolonged stress, your hippocampus which is responsible for memory, shrinks over time.  Even now that I am out of the bad experiences and in a safe stable environment, my brain has lost the ability to recall events and has trouble with everyday memory of words or how to get somewhere I have been a billion times.

Now the other memory I don’t quite understand.  I remember chaos and crying, I had to be about seven.  It seems that he was driving around the neighborhood looking for me or my mother, or chasing her down.  The latter could just be from my mother’s side of the story.  Either way, I was at my Grandmother’s house and I was distraught.  I don’t know if I was sad, scared, or angry.  All I know is that he came to my grandmother’s door and she answered it.  She was angry with him.  She told him I wasn’t there or I didn’t want to see him.  But the question is, ” Did I?”.  Did my mother forbid him to see me and I was sad?  Or was I scared of him because he did something?  Or was I angry because my mother likes to create confusion and lies so you hate the person that really cares about you?

I wish now things would have been different.  I wish I would have called him over and over. I wished I would have asked questions right then and there.  But I didn’t.  I was too wrapped up in my own crap at that time and didn’t think twice.  I think that Chris is my father.  Why would someone take the time to let a little girl cramp their single lifestyle if they didn’t love them? And why would he love me  if he and my mother weren’t together and he knew I wasn’t his?  Besides, He has dirty strawberry blonde hair and green eyes, his furrowed brows and face shape are just like mine.  He’s stocky and freckly just like me.  I know that even with two black haired parents you can get a red head, but I just feel it in the pit of my stomach that he’s my dad.

I could be just nuts, making up this fantasy to feel better about my childhood, to make everything a pleasant conclusion, to not accept that my other parent could be a dud.  Who knows. I have tried looking for him, but he is nowhere to be found in Alaska.  I don’t even know how to spell his last name.  I could ask my mother, but I really dislike her right now and I don’t ever want to speak to her again.  I may never find out, but maybe, just maybe, we will run into each other again

I'd like to start by saying...

I have no idea where to start.  The only time I heard about blogging was when someone was making fun of another person for being a lonely dork.  I finally decided to give into the popular technology because my therapist and everyone else keeps on telling me to journal.  Well I would journal but there is two things wrong with that.  First off why would I write about what I think if I am the only person who is going to read it.  I already know how I feel, I Would rather the world know, I think that is way more helpful.  Second, whenever I did journal, it got taken from me and used against me.  Well now that I am a grown adult the worst that’s going to happen is someone is going to judge me, and honestly, that’s definitely not the worst.

I don’t even know how long I am allowed to type on this thing.  If I really wrote what went through my head in a day, it would take months to sort it all out. Its kind of like your intestines, all cramped up inside a persons body, but when stretched out reveals over 25 feet of digesting power.  (I like to share small interesting facts that are useless by the way).  I would almost say that I have a very fast adhd train of thought.  Darting from subject to subject, picking apart and analyzing everything and everyone around me.  I always say the most annoying person I have ever met is myself.  I wish I would just shut up.  If I was really standing next to me, I would punch me for talking too much.

I have insomnia at night.  I’m tired of it.  Its life’s big joke. Says my brain to my body….”Scuse me, I know your tired but I have 10 million petty things I want to discuss with you over and over again before you go to sleep, and while I’m doing this do you mind if I play the most annoying catchy tune to you repeatedly?…”  This is how it goes every night.  I would say that is why I used to drink myself into a blackout almost every night- that and to make it easy to sleep with that not so attractive guy with the warm body.

Alot of long nights spent awake, you can find me stalking facebook. I kind of get depressed when I am on it. I don’t know why.  It’s just this uneasy feeling like I’m waiting for something, watching, but nothing happens.  It’s a world of fake friends and tally marks.  Sometimes I just want to throw my computer out of anger, feeling like I’m getting robbed of real life, and this is what I am reduced to is spying on other people as they have jobs and relationships.

I spend most of my time alone.  Its funny because I have become somewhat of a recluse.  i hated being alone and avoided it at all costs.  I would spend most of my time hanging out with anyone and everyone for the sake of company.  Bar hopping till I couldn’t hop anymore, picking a person out for the night that looked like they had friends so I could continue my codependency far into the morning hours.  Sometimes I would make a desperate attempt to fabricate a connection with some guy as long as i didn’t have to go home to an empty bed.  Its funny after all that, I have ended up lonely and alone. 

They are two different things you know…

-Being lonely is being surrounded by people and still feeling like youre in a glass cage in the middle of times square, watching as everyone rushes around you, living their lives being busy, unaware of small, inconspicuous you.

-And being alone is when there’s no one around to hear you whine about it.

I belive that what people fear the most will challenge them all their life.  I know that the devil has it out for everyone.  Think about it, there are so many famous people that get stricken with an illness or die, having their talents cut short or made difficult. 

-Ferrah Fawcett got cancer and ended up loosing her hair, what she was famous for

-Beethvoen lost his hearing and has constant tinnitus (ringing in his ears)

-Ebert has battled with cancer in his salivary gland making it so he cannot speak

-Stephen Hawking, a great English theoretical physicist and cosmologist became paralyzed and lost his ability to speak due to a motor neurone disease

-Ray Charles lost his sight at an early age

-Andrea Boccelli, an amazing classical artist, lost his sight due to a football accident (he also shares my birthday)

-Mohammed Ali who ”floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee” got Parkinson’s Disease

-Johann Sebastian Bach, became blind

-Michael J. Fox, Parkinson’s disease

-Billy Grahm, motivational speaker, Parkinson’s disease

-Majic Johnson, AIDS

-Mozart, Tourettes

-Isacc Newton was “Bipolar” or mentally ill

-Abrahm Lincoln who saved many men from slavery and death was perpetually depressed and suicidal

-Christopher Reeve, Superman himself, no longer to fly with a spinal cord injury

Anyways, I could go on forever, but the conclusion I am making here is that whatever you are meant to do in life, whatever you are are supposed to become, whatever talent you may have, will be attacked from the very beginning of the day you were born.  Which brings me to my next subject- ME

I know I am supposed to do something great in my life.  There has been a battle from day one.  I almost died at birth and from then on was thrown in harms way every waking moment of my life.  I am lucky to have survived it all, or should I say an angel was watching over me.  Added to that, I have the hardest time functioning as a human being.  I have been labeled with several mental disorders, none of which I am willing to admit to.  It’s as my title says; I’m not crazy, you are.  I truly believe that.  How can I be the insane one?  I think I am intelligent, creative, witty, and i think I perceive the world through a different lens. I have been in and out of mental institutions, lock downs, halfway homes and therapists.  Out I came with a myriad of diagnosis.  ADHD, Tourettes, Bipolar, Manic Depression, Clinical Depression, Anxiety Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and OCD.  I think that because I am different, like we should be, that I am labeled and handed a bottle of pills so I will shut up and not disturb the sick monotony of human existence.

Well, I am not going to be quiet anymore.