JOY COMES WITH THE MOURNING

     Raw emotions clawed at my heart, holding it momentarily captive. “In your anger, do not sin,” (Ephesians 4:26) kept ringing through my head, along with the message from Romans 12:19 “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord” (simplified version). He is not worth it, I reminded myself. Let the anger go. I called my husband, my best friend into the room and told him what I’d just read. Burning, angry tears flooded my eyes as I opened up the desk drawer, pulled out a picture of me at two years old, and shoved it in my husband’s direction, yelling “I was this age! This was me at the time that monster did all this to me! I was so little! Barely younger than our son now! How could he? How dare he? What kind of evil does this to someone so little and innocent?” I demanded answers I knew he could never give. My husband is a good man. He has never hit anyone. He loves his family almost as much as he loves Jesus. I collapsed into his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed, and I sat in a chair at the computer. Emotionally spent, all I could do was continue to cry. The court papers said it all. My stepdad lied.

            Last week, I went on a journey to find out the truth, once and for all. I wanted to see the official court records of my stepdad’s conviction. I wanted to understand his piddly jail sentence for almost ten years of severe sexual abuse and rape. It took me less than 32 hours from the time I inquired about the court papers until the moment I opened the email from the county court. 27 pages in all, only the first few blew my mind. On them, my stepdad confessed to three counts of sexual abuse, 1^st degree, and three counts of harassment of a minor under the age of 14. Six counts in total, with fictitious dates as to when the abuse happened. Now, looking back, everything makes so much sense. He always had a smug look on his face. Adults close to me kept saying “it’s not that bad, sweetie.” The short jail sentence even makes sense now. Six counts. What a pack of lies! It was more like six times a week. How dare he? It takes all my strength, all of the strength lent to me by my Christian brethren, and all the strength of Jesus within me not to lose my mind and sin right now. Six counts. That’s all he was convicted of. It truly was his word against mine, a terrified nine-year-old girl. Shame on our justice system and shame on him (stepdad) for knowing the truth and blatantly lying to try to save himself. May God have mercy on his soul.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. – 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

    I am trusting in God to hold me and carry me through this week as I process this information, mourn the life I might have had, had he not stolen my innocence, and dig deep into God’s Word so that I may not sin or cause others to stumble while I am in so much raw pain. I thank God for my Church family – friends far and near who are lifting me up in prayer. This pain will not define me. It will not break my spirit.

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” – Isaiah 41:10

    God will never let me go. To me, the greatest truth about God is that He is absolute. God is the only being that we can absolutely trust in to never or always. He will never leave us, nor forsake us (Joshua 1:5) and He will always be with us, even unto the end of the age (Matthew 28:20). There is no one else who can make and keep these promises. God is absolute. We all need someone in our corner like that, don’t we? I am so grateful He is with me now. Tears burn my cheeks as I picture each of you, dear readers, discovering this information and picturing your own heartaches, remembering them with clarity as they pierce your hearts. I want you to know – you are never alone. God is with you.

The pain you’re feeling today can’t compare to the joy that is coming. Romans 8:18 (paraphrased).

He pleads guilty to six counts. Just six.

“…we also glory in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.  And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.” Romans 5:3b-5

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline Hours: Available 24 hours. Languages: English, Spanish. https://988lifeline.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

AN ARRESTING PERSPECTIVE

   When you’re little, everything seems so much bigger and louder than it is. I remember driving past one of my childhood homes a few years ago and I was shocked by how small the house and property were. We moved from there when I was five years old, and at the time, the house felt like a mansion, the backyard a city park. In reality, I could fit that entire property twice over on my current, modest property of a quarter acre. Perspective is a strange thing, isn’t it? 

This next statement is going to upset a lot of people, and that’s okay. I hate cops. When I see one, I become physically upset. My temperature rises, my jaw clenches and it takes every ounce of my being to remember that I should not flip them off or yell obscenities at them. Often, I will pray for God to grant me a love for cops and heal my anger towards them. I am not even sure anger is the right word. I feel rage and hatred for them. When I was very young, I was touched inappropriately by a cop in uniform that answered a domestic dispute call at my house. He touched me just after several of my stepdad’s drunken friends did. The image is burned deep into my mind of his sinister smile and his challenge for me to “tell someone about it” and see if they believe me, a “snot-nosed kid”. Over the years, the local police would continue to treat me as lower than dirt. As a teenager, I was routinely stalked and harassed by another local cop in high standing. He would eventually go on to become the Lieutenant of the police force. He was instrumental in creating and maintaining a file on my “activities” which included truancy, mental health crises, and information regarding both of my fathers – notorious felons in my home county. What an amazing abuse of power. 

When I was very young, my parents would often host game nights with other families at our home. Sometimes we would go to this awful man’s home up the river. He had a wife and several children. This awful man kept his daughter in a closet in his bedroom. He and his wife both routinely abused her. I suspect her oldest brother did as well. He was a bully and disgusting. I hated being around him. He was always trying to touch me. His father didn’t even disguise the fact that he found little girls appealing. I remember him visiting my stepdad one winter day and I was asked to bring them both a beer from the fridge. When I proudly returned with the beers, they exchanged stories in front of me about how “good” their daughters were, and how we did everything they asked us to. They were power-hungry and evil beyond measure. I wasn’t more than five years old at the time of this event, yet it is burned into my memory. 

During the game nights and parties my parents through, alcohol flowed freely. All of us kids were directed to play in the back of the house in one of the bedrooms. I wonder if any of the moms knew that when the men took turns going to the bathroom, they also took turns exposing themselves to us kids and sexually assaulting us. All the men. Every time. Welcome to the world of pedophilia rings. It really is happening across America, in small towns, in Christian homes, and probably in your very neighborhood. When I tried to tell a cop about my experience with being abused by multiple men, he demanded that I show him what they did. With his pants down. He never took a report. 

In elementary school, there are many opportunities for teachers to talk about personal safety. We used to have the D.A.R.E. program in my hometown before Student Resource Officers became a thing. During the classes, we would be reminded that when someone touches us inappropriately, we should tell an adult and keep telling adults until they act on the information. There was always a male cop running the class – until I was in the fourth grade. One glorious day in the fourth grade, the local police sent a female cop into my classroom to teach the D.A.R.E. class. At the end of the class, I couldn’t get up from my seat fast enough. I ran to her and blurted out “Someone’s hurting me!” She ushered me outside. My whole class had heard, but I was beyond caring at that point. This adult was going to listen to me and I wasn’t going to shut up until she did something about it. Thank God for that female cop. I don’t remember her name, but I do remember that she listened and acted upon what I was saying. My entire world changed that day in 1993 thanks to her. My heart is softened toward female cops. (Male cops have continued to let me down over the years, but that is a story for another time and another place.)

It took me over six years of telling my story for someone to listen to me and take action. Many, many adults in my life let me down over the years. They knew the truth and they turned a blind eye to the situation. I’m sure heated conversations took place behind closed doors, but it was never enough. The abuse did not stop until I made sure I told the right person who had the power to make it stop. 

If you suspect that someone you love is being abused, don’t simply ask them and take them at their word. You need to look for signs. Here are some signs you should be on the lookout for:

• Problems walking or sitting

• Frequent complaints of sore throat, stomach, head, or bottom

• Will not change for gym or partake in physical activities

• Negative change in appearance

• Recurrent urinary or yeast infections unexplained by medical condition or treatment

• Runs away from home

• Changes in behavior or school performance

• Talks/draws/sings about genitalia, sexual intercourse, or sexual activities frequently.

• Problems with authority figures

Here are some more resources for you to look into:

RAINN - (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) 

Help Guide - Signs of Abuse and Neglect 

Child Welfare Government PDF 

Exercise helps me to take back my power and
focus my energy on what matters - healing.

"Heal me, Lord, and I will be healed; save me and I will be saved, for you are the one I praise." - Jeremiah 17:14

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

WALKING THE HALLWAY AGAIN

    Releasing myself from any guilt surrounding the sexual abuse that I endured as a child was not easy. Abusers are so good at turning things around and making the entire situation seem like your fault. I’ll bet you’re nodding your head in agreement, aren’t you? Can you pinpoint the moment when you first realized that what was happening wasn’t right? I can. I was about three years old and I was running down the hall to get cleaned up after an abuse session. My stepdad was standing in the hall, waiting for me, leather belt in hand. He looked larger than normal and very sinister. In my young mind, I knew I was in trouble for something. He was going to beat me with that belt. But why? Hadn’t I done everything he’d asked me to? No, no I hadn’t.

            The night prior, at dinner, I had announced that “daddy showed me his penis and made me touch it today!” I announced it in the same way a preschool student would talk about making a finger painting in class earlier that day. It was a major event in my young life, and I was merely sharing the news with my family at the dinner table. My Mom made a funny sound, stepdad’s face turned white and then the denial began. “No, I didn’t. She walked in on me using the restroom and I told her to get out. It wasn’t appropriate,” he lied. My mother, placated, continued to serve the dinner to us all. Strange looks passed between them during dinner until finally, my mom seemed to relax and realize he was right. I was just a curious little kid who opened the door at the wrong time. Except he was the liar, and I was the truth-teller. This same scenario would play out many, many times in many locations over the years until I finally realized that sometimes Mommies just don’t care, and the bad guy will always win.

            Back to the hallway scene. He snarled at me, like a rabid dog, ready to attack. “If you ever tell your mother what we did today, I will beat you with this belt, you little sh*t. Do you understand me? She will never love you again. She barely loves you now.” My lower lip puckered, tears burned my eyes and my cheeks turned bright red. “Yes, daddy. I understand.” 

This is a secret I must keep. You are scary and you hurt me. Why did you enjoy it so much when I didn’t? I hate you. I will learn to hate you more until one day I just stop caring whether you live or die, and I find immense inner peace in telling people you’re already dead.

            Is it hard to recall those hallway moments when he threatened to beat me? Yes and no. There were so many of them that they come easily to my mind as if reciting the alphabet. It is hard to look back at that time in my life, as a mother who now has four precious children, and understand how anyone can be so cruel to such a young, vulnerable child. What kind of demons must have taken over his existence for him to do something so horrific? When I lose my cool and yell at my kids, I have a hard time reconciling that with myself. I must go immediately to God in prayer and beg Him for forgiveness and the skills I need to rectify the situation so that I can be the mother my kids need me to be. Did stepdad ever regret his decision to abuse me? I have a hard time believing he ever felt an ounce of remorse as it was happening for nearly ten years. Remember, he is still – as of three months ago- a narcissistic, emotionally abusive alcoholic. His brain does not distinguish between young children and adults. He speaks to all ages the same way – as beneath him.

            What no one told me truthfully is that my mother was incapable of loving anyone because she didn’t even respect herself. The memories surrounding the hallway moments have helped to shape me as a mother. When I recall the intense fear I felt then, I remind myself in the here and now to be gentle and patient with my kids when they make a mistake. Their brains are still developing, and they need time, guidance, and training to name and accept their emotions. They need help navigating the world and understanding why rules are put into place. They need compassion. I need to remain a safe place for them. “My kids are safe in this place.” “I am a safe person for them.” “God is with us all.” “Today is….” I have to take it one day at a time and accept that there are days when I will fail. I'm human. Back to God, I go...

I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. Philippians 4:13

L-R from top to bottom: Grandma Verla, Mom, Stepdad,
Me (age 2), my sister Melissa (age 8)

 

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

 

 

           

           

BODY TRIGGERS

     I was standing in the middle of the department store, holding on to too many items when the urge to pee hit. The store was packed with shoppers and my mom was nowhere to be found. I hadn’t grabbed a cart and I suddenly wasn’t sure where anyone I knew was. The more I walked around looking for a familiar face, the more panicked I became. I felt claustrophobic. My heart started beating faster, I couldn’t breathe properly, and I began to hyperventilate. No one around me noticed anything was wrong and I felt alone, abandoned, and terrified. My mind began playing tricks on me and suddenly I was mentally transported back to my parent’s living room, seven years earlier, sitting on my stepdad’s lap being sexually assaulted while watching Mickey on Ice on the television. I collapsed to the ground and peed my pants in the local Fred Meyer store. Everything I’d been holding in my hands fell to the ground, scattering around me. Suddenly, I was alone. At least on that aisle. Only the security cameras caught that incident. I picked myself up, made sure the pee didn’t show (thank you ugly skorts of the 90s!), and kept walking around the store until I found my mom. I lied and said yes when she asked if I was okay. What else was I supposed to say? I couldn’t explain what just happened, especially not in public.

Fear of using the bathroom in public still plagues me. Until I had kids, I couldn’t use the bathroom in my own home for the longest time without intense fear. When I was very young, I would make the family dog go into the bathroom with me to guard me. Sometimes I would open the drawers in the bathroom to block the door from being opened because I was so afraid that my stepdad would come in and assault me while my pants were down. This is not an irrational fear, as he used to come in and watch my siblings and me take a bath all the time. He would always make inappropriate comments and stare at us for way too long. On those nights, I knew I would need to bury myself deep under the covers in bed or he would be making a visit to my room, too.

Hiding my body at all times became a chore for me, but it was also a necessity. If he didn’t see me naked, he wouldn’t think about me naked, right? And then, I’d be safe. This thought process consumed me, even into my adult years. I wore the baggiest clothes I could, dressed as masculine as I could, and tried to avoid even appearing attractive in his eyes. I was like a mouse, trying to navigate the farmhouse without the farmer noticing, but it was unavoidable that he would notice me. And the abuse continued.

The flashbacks continue to this day, though they are not as frequent. Someone asked me once what my triggers are. I started naming them and couldn’t stop. There are many. My brain rewired itself during the many years of trauma. That’s what happens when adults abuse kids from infancy to puberty. I am not “normal”, and I never will be. I’ve been through over 20 years of therapy, and I still find myself needing reminders to “just breathe” through a random panic attack.

My last trigger was needing to use the restroom while waiting for my son’s school bus which was over 20 minutes late in picking him up for school. I had multiple flashbacks to the times when my mom would forget about me somewhere and I would be forlornly waiting for her to pick me up. I had another flashback to that incident in the local Fred Meyer. And another, where I was about seven years old, getting ready for school and my stepdad grabbed my breasts in the hallway while no one was looking. It all came to mind so fast and there was nothing I could do about it except just work through it. To the outside world, I was upset about the bussing system. Internally, I couldn’t figure out the decade, the current location, or whether I was safe. My mind was a tornado of thoughts – the greatest of those was “make sure my son is safe.” But I didn’t know how to do that. I wasn’t in control of the bus. Fortunately, my husband was able to step in and make sure he got to school safely. Then, he sat with me and calmed me down. That wasn’t the first time, and it surely won’t be the last. My husband is a saint. I have no idea how he puts up with me.

Control is a very big issue for me, seeing as how I had so little of it growing up. There was never a safe place for me, except for Sunday mornings when my grandma would take me to church. That was always my favorite place to be. Jesus is there and all the people are nice. When you’re a cute little kid, they’re even nicer and more accommodating. They hold the heavy hymnals for you, smile at you when you finally become brave enough to sing, and look out for you to make sure that no one messes with you while you figure out the faith stuff. I will always be grateful to the handful of men and women who kept me safe and protected every Sunday morning during my formative years. They were the ones who truly loved me and gave me a safe place to be. Plus, it was never scary to use the bathroom at church. The bathroom door had a lock, was single use and I could use it alone for as long as I needed to. There was no rushing, no fear. Until the church was over and it was time to go home again.

View from the choir loft. My first church.

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

I HATE VICTORIA'S SECRET

    Ever since I can remember, I have been obsessed with the beauty of underwear and swimsuit models. How do they get such a flat tummy? Why are their boobs contained to just the front of their bodies, and not the sides, too? Why don’t their thighs rub together? Why wasn’t my butt ever as cute and pert as theirs? Granted, I was about five years old when I first remember thinking that, but that thought has always dominated my brain space. Why can’t I look like the models in the magazines? And if I did, would I be as happy as they are? The thought of obtaining that same body type both delighted and terrified me. After all, those bodies are what men want to touch, right? Those are the women who have sex for fun because they want to. Not because someone else told them at seven years old that they had to. Right?

                I learned early on from listening to my male cousins, my stepdad, and his drunken friends that “fat chicks” were not what men wanted to touch. Did that mean that if I got really fat, men would stop touching me without my consent? I’ve spent over 30 years testing that theory, and I can tell you honestly that it doesn’t work that way. Some men are just absolute pigs and they will touch anything that breathes, whether he/she/they can give consent or not. I sure wish I had learned this lesson sooner. Being fat is physically and mentally painful.

                Throughout my school years, I was teased mercilessly for my weight. When I went home, I was abused simply because I was there. I escaped a lot into fantasy worlds – namely Hollywood drama. Who was dating who? Which popstar was at the top of the charts this week? Who had the biggest house, fastest car, and deepest secrets? I ate it up almost as fast as the rag mags hit the newsstands. MTV was my best friend, and don’t even get me started on the amazing teenage rom-coms that the 90s had to offer us. I was convinced that if Lance Bass wouldn’t marry me, Freddie Prinze Jr surely would. After all, he killed it as Zack Siler in She’s All That.

                So many of my peers were also insecure about their weight, height, and looks. I see it now, as I look back over many interactions in the hallway, classrooms, and the girls’ locker room. I wasn’t the only girl who changed for Phys Ed in the bathroom stall. I wasn’t the only girl convinced that the newest shade of blue eye shadow and a sparkly scrunchy would solve all my problems and get “that guy” to notice me in between classes. We were all in an awkward stage of uncertainty. Some of us had deeper traumas behind it all, and some of us were merely coming into our own at the absolute strangest point in our lives. Puberty.

                Magazines geared towards the female gender have always had a way of making us feel more insecure about ourselves three pages in. Right there, past the table of contents is always this gorgeous-looking woman with zero flaws (because photoshop exists) and she has the biggest, loveliest, most uninhibited smile on her face. This woman has it made. At least, that’s what we’re meant to believe. If we buy whatever product she is representing, we too will have it made. As we peruse the magazine, we read about women and girls who have found the secret to remaining beautiful and confident all day long. Usually, it involves an expensive brand of mascara, a colorful brand of shoes, or a Wonderbra that perks up our tits enough to grab and hold the attention of the opposite sex. There it is again. Sexualizing our bodies to garner attention. It starts so early, doesn’t it? I was twelve years old when my Mom brought me my first issue of Seventeen magazine. She said that she hoped it would help me to figure some things out. Yep, it sure did. I spent the next twenty-seven years chasing unobtainable beauty standards and beating myself up whenever it didn’t work out for me.

                Sex is not the end-all-be-all I thought it would be. Sure, it is wonderful. With my husband. It’s traumatizing when I’m under the tender age of ten and being told to just be quiet because it will all be over soon. No amount of makeup will ever make a man love me more – or less. No amount of fat will ever protect me from sexual predators. No magazine geared towards women ever features even one woman who has her life all together all the time. That kind of woman doesn’t exist.

We are all human, we all have our flaws, and we’re all balancing life as it comes at us each day. Some days, we look like we have it all together, and we may even fool ourselves into thinking we do. But then…a bad day happens and we feel down on ourselves. We feel like failures. That couldn’t be further from the truth! We are amazing simply because we are. Those who seek to hurt us in any way do so because they are hurting inside and aren’t strong enough to ask for help. They’re the weak ones. They’re the problem. Maybe we should start putting them in charge of paying for our therapy as we work through all our issues and come to terms with the fact that we are amazing just as we are and no one has the right to touch us or hurt us. EVER.

A portion of my poetry from June 2005.
Read it as many times as you need to
until it sinks in. YOU ARE LOVED!

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

GENERATIONAL CURSES ARE SO LAST YEAR

Hi. My name is Mandy and I am the survivor of multiple generational curses. You see, my biological father was an absolute international drug-running, abusive, alcoholic nightmare, and my stepdad? Well, he was a straight-up narcissistic pedophiliac monster. I guess you could say my Mom has really bad taste in men, but that would be putting it mildly. Also, I have CPTSD, a dead sister, a younger brother who hates me, and an older brother being held hostage by his narcissistic second wife. Did I mention we're also all Christians? Wow. What a tangled web we weave, eh?

Let's go back to the beginning and then speed through the facts as fast as possible, shall we? My mom was abused as a kid by an Episcopal priest. No one believed her. She never got justice. She married her high school sweetheart who enlisted in the US Navy right out of high school. She found out he was cheating on her when he brought home his Filipino wife after a deployment. Mom was kicked to the curb. Not long after, she gave birth to my sister. No one but God and my mother know who her father was. My sister was born extremely disabled, physically, developmentally, and mentally. She did not even crawl until she was six years old and never did speak more than about six or seven understandable words in her lifetime. She died in 2003 of natural causes with a brain maturity of a two-year-old child. She was 25 years old.

When Mom met my biological father, everyone warned her he was bad news. She didn't care. She went with him anyway. I was born in 1983. Mom's pregnancy was hell. Bio-dad admitted to trying to beat me out of her and testing his drugs on her while I was in utero. He hated me from the moment I was conceived. Jokes on him. He's dead and I'm still alive.

Mom escaped from the clutches of Bio-Dad when I was six months old. She returned to the bar where she met my Bio-Dad and guess what? She met and married another loser. Enter the narcissistic pedophiliac monster. When I was three, they had a baby together - my little brother who hates me. He's a Satanist now, and I proclaim the love of Jesus to the masses. Guess why he hates me? Anyway, in 1993, I had enough of the sexual abuse from Step-Dad and told a female police officer what was happening. I guess nine years of severe sexual abuse against a minor isn't a big deal where I am from because my Step-Dad got 120 days in the county jail with work release so he could continue to financially provide for my family. Mom just could not bear to stop fornicating with him or to leave him, so she abandoned my siblings and me with her Mom every chance she got so she could solidify her marriage with the monster. When I was 14, he moved back into the house. I guess he was sorry because he stopped sexually abusing me and started mentally and emotionally abusing me instead. At least he stopped binge drinking, right?

Anyway, I met my husband in 1996 when we were 13 and 14 years old, in the eighth grade. We met in the most boring class on earth - Social Studies. We also had math class together, but some chick named Kimberly annoyed me so much in that class that I hardly even knew anyone else was there. Freshman year Spanish class is where our romance began. We were on again, and off again for two more years before he moved to Tucson, AZ. Five years apart helped us grow into the people we thought we needed to be to marry each other. One week after we reconnected, we got engaged. Don't believe the doofus if he ever tries to tell you he proposed. I did! I am progressive like that.

Fast forward to today. We have been married for over 16 years, have four living children, several born to heaven, five cats, two dogs, and an insane mortgage on a 100-year-old house on the outskirts of Nowheresville, USA. We have been through six years of US Navy life, a whole lot of depression, poverty, family drama like you wouldn't believe, and have moved umpteen times - usually while I was pregnant. I sure hope this house is our last stop for a while. And now, you're probably wondering what the point of this blog is all about. Well, I'll tell you. Finally.

I cut my family out of my life, said "NO MORE" to family drama, and finally became the unapologetic black sheep of my family. Yes, I stopped apologizing for setting healthy boundaries, stopped calling everyone else out on their crimes, and just moved along to the "Happily Ever After" portion of the story. I haven't spoken to any of my family in months and I never plan to again. I told everyone they died, because, to me, they did. They're dead to me. (Side note: my sister really is dead and buried.) I decided that since my Mom kept triggering me every time I talked to her, she was dead to me. Since my Step-Dad can't stop emotionally and verbally abusing everyone, including my kids, he is also dead to me. And my little brother? I think I mentioned he's a Satanist who conjures up demons to party with them and his methamphetamine-cooking friends who started a ridiculous gang in our hometown. By day, he's a highly beloved cashier at a nationally known grocery store. But I digress. He's dead. To me.

Generational curses are so last year in this household. My husband and I have decided we're not following the paths of our parents. (His Dad is crazy, too! But that's his story to tell, not mine.) We decided we were going to focus on our family and doing what God asks us to do to raise functional kids who love God, love their neighbors, and serve their community well - outside of jail. (That last part was a little dig at my fathers, who both had to complete mandatory community service over the years as part of their debt to society.) So to sum this all up, my family is a mess, but God is really good. If we just focus on Him, then we don't have to continue living in a groundhog day type existence, suffering from the effects of generational curses. I know some of my readers will eventually be fundamental Christians who are rolling their eyes and nervously looking around to make lighting doesn't strike them just for reading this accounting of my life, but hey - you know what? There is something you should probably know right now. I don't live to please man. I don't live to put God in a box, and I certainly don't live my life in a way that places me or my family in harm's way anymore. It's okay to step away from people who hurt you. It's called setting safe boundaries. Try it sometime.

The point of this blog is to inform, encourage and inspire others to identify abuse including gaslighting, sexual abuse, sodomy, childhood rape, pedophilia, narcissism, and verbal and emotional abuse. Then, once you identify it, I want you to run like mad in the other direction and never look back. Oh yeah, and I hope to piss off some abusers in the meantime. Why? Because I want to take your victims and help them become survivors who won't give y'all the time of day anymore. That's the stuff that makes life worth living!

RUN! As fast as you can away from abuse.
YOU'RE WORTHY OF LOVE THAT
DOES NOT HURT

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week starting. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.