Damaged Lives (Trigger Warning)

After the end of this paragraph is an unedited account of my Death. This post contains a Trigger Warning even for those without PTSD. There are graphic descriptions of rape, violent abuse, and I am sharing the day that has yet to be topped (and hopefully never will be) as my worst day. Comments for this post are closed, due to the difficulty in even writing this out. I also am going to take a small break before posting again. This will likely just mean a single day, so check back on Tuesday.   One final note. This is the set of memories that when remembered caused my first experience with being devalued and victim blamed.

This last addendum belongs before the break in my opinion so, here it goes! The DA when the report was filed admitted to me and my guardians that due to the legal wording the Statute of limitations was in effect, and he could arrest and prosecute my father but because I had a history of PTSD he didn’t believe it was worth his time to try and that I was worthy of justice. The Worthy of Justice bit is his. It was my fault for being traumatized. I took this to mean I deserved the abuse. His choice to devalue me as a person and a victim nearly killed me. What was the point of living in this world if there was no justice? It had been hard enough to say something about this to a man, to admit that I was a dirty slut as I saw myself, then to be told my attempt to do what everyone says is the right thing, all the TV adds, all of the adults around me, and even  he himself pushing into my head that I had to tell when someone hurt me… to do their right thing and be told I was not worthy of the actual right thing damaged me just as much.

I have nightmares of that choice too. Even writing about it I feel the emptiness and pain of rejection. The only reason I did not give up? My roommate in the facility told me she would kill my father for me if she ever had the chance. We made a secret pact to kill our abusers.                                       

This is a post I have avoided writing since the events transpired. I never journaled about it, I suppressed the memories for years, and I doubt I can make myself go in deep. I need to try. I am facing the concequences of that day every time I eat, every time I think about grocery shopping. I am never going to escape it. I still will try.

Thanksgiving. I was eight, I just turned eight and faced the responsibility as I saw it of making sure my father was not going to be sad or alone for a Holiday. The pressure came from both parents. My older siblings were free to choose to not visit, but he whispered in my ear the last time I saw him that he would die if he was alone for the next Holiday. I packed my bag and my mother dropped me off at the apartment. It was wet outside, the sky was gray, but I felt happy. My father needed me. He needed me and loved me.

Now I pause to breathe, even getting that far I feel constriction in my throat and sheer panic. What is coming is so frightening that I am already crying. Not sobbing, but the tears are slipping out the corners of my eyes and there is nothing to stop them. It is like a form of torture, of death, yet I must write this to try and heal.

It took me over two hours to resume writing, though I feel relief. I spent time focusing on the here and now. I must delve back into this open wound, this wound has been festering since it was created. I think on the cause daily and this is being written to heal. The tears tingle in my eyes again but now I must go on.

It started an hour after I had gotten to the apartment. He opened the refridgerator door and pointed out all of the ingriedients for dinner. “In the morning you cook that.” I nodded and said the only words he ever wanted out of a woman. “Yes sir.” He nodded then fondled my budding breasts a bit. It felt dirty, but I never said a word. I just stared at my feet or the cieling wanting him to stop. It hurt. He pinched and pulled, and I never liked the smell of him. I remember the stench of rot, dirty flesh, and sweat that was stale and old. I remember how his breath felt on my neck, and I remember wanting my Mommy. He stopped because one of his TV shows was going to be on, MASH reruns or MacGuyver. I am not sure which. I just went into the bathroom and hid. I changed my clothes because if I didn’t he would beat me and waited for permission to put the couch cushions on the floor. He denied me, “You need to toughen up. You cry too much.” I hadn’t cried infront of him or in his house but nodded. I was trying to be numb. He was acting as he did before when he would beat us or when he would touch us, but there was an edge to him. I was afraid. I was alone.

I did not sleep. My fears kept me awake, my body ached on the hard floor and it was cold. I had no bedding and spent the night staring out at the cloudy sky. I wanted to sing but if he heard me he’d hurt me so instead I kept the music inside. I watched the neighbor’s cat through the screen. She couldn’t sleep either. I told myself a story about how she was as lonely and afraid as I was, but she had escaped, scampering away and freeing herself. I just wanted to be that cat so badly. When the sun rose I started to cook. First I made him breakfast. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, and toast with whipped butter. I burned the toast because I had to pee. I remade that and then ate the burned food for my breakfast. I can still feel the grittiness in my mouth. I can still smell the carbon in the air. I can still feel the heat on my tongue and the tension in the air.

I can hear his moans as he forced his overweight frame up. I had already started on the turkey. I didn’t know exactly how to cook it but I was doing my best. I preheated the oven to 300 and did what I could remember. I would later learn I had done most of the lay out right, I had pulled the guts in their plastic out, I had cut the legs free and hefted it into the oven. It was ten pounds, my shoulders ached from the weight of it. The stuffing made the pan heavier. For that there were directions. Then, I made a mistake.

I dropped a cup of water. It broke. Everything fades to black. I didn’t lose much time. Just his initial rage remains out of reach. I can hear the echoes of it behind that blackness, as it returns. He is sitting on me, my shoulder is dislocated and my face is on the floor. He calls me names. I am worth less to him than a cup. I have to breathe again. I have to taste reality. I look at my word and am staring at my pills, morphine. Morphine fixes the physical pain but my heart is broken. Nothing can mend my heart but time and purging the emotional puss. I look to William Shakespurr, and watch his ears twitch as he watches his cartoons. I look too at all that I have. It’s enough to let me press on, though I can feel a nerve in my neck twitching. My entire body is rigid. This is the best I can do.

He took the glass, back in the past and turned my head hard. Without the Ehlers-Danlos it would’ve broken. “This is your punishment. Whenever you make a mistake you are to cut yourself. I don’t care where.” I can’t repeat the cursewords. the message is clear without making myself feel dirtier. He pushed the sharp point into my right cheek and ran the cut down. I screamed but didn’t open my mouth. I was afraid he’d cut my tongue out. I didn’t close my eyes. I stared into his. They were black, there was no light there and he was smiling as my blood dripped onto the tile. He watched me bleed then hit me as hard as he could. He cursed at me, he reduced me to trash. “How dare you defile my kitchen!” The beating lasted for a long while. Everything fades in and out. He smashes me about. He cuts me more. My face, my breasts. My clothing is in tatters. I am nude. I didn’t fight him.

I must fight myself. I want to curse myself for not fighting him. I used to. I don’t know how to not, part of me always does. The best I can do is correct myself. I have value. By not fighting I was only choosing life. I fought after this, and I fight every day. I fought to stay alive, it took effort to not scream. It took effort to follow the rules of a Psychopath. My pain was his joy, he lived for it. Now I live for my joy. He is dead. He can’t hurt me. I can cry. I am allowed to cry. I am crying but I still can’t make sound.

I know why the sound can’t come out. My person is just a room away. He’d hear. My secret fear is that he would hate me for it. He has only heard me cry once. He will hear it again even if i do not want it. He would cry with me. I can write this because he is just a room away, this is the scream of my soul. I can see myself in a white place, it is not a room it is just a place of emptiness. I am screaming, I am not a child in this place anymore.

My person comes to the door. I have to use words. “I’m writing, I’ll talk to you in a moment.” He nods and waits for me. Just a room away. I made no sound but he knew. Maybe it was a hiccuping breath, maybe it is just our connection. My fear subsides. The room is no longer empty. The room is full of love. My body is relaxing. I can continue to face this fear. I can continue to show the world that this happens. This is the memory that I often see as my biggest secret. This is the memory I fear. This is the shame that I hold back. My father is dead. He can’t find me. He can’t rape me again.

I was nude, beaten, and then he raped me. He’d done it before but this time it was different. I remember trying to stay awake. Everything was fading out, my head hurt, my nose was bleeding and so were my ears. I wanted to throw up but he’d been choking me. I am not sure when. There was darkness before this point. It comes after things that I cannot remember. I have bruises forming on my ribs. I can barely inhale. “On your knees.” I can’t move. He punches me in the back of the head. I fizz out. When I wake he has tied me spread eagle on the floor, he is nude now and is pouring water on my face, “Wake up. I want you awake for this.” He’s so very angry with me for passing out. I am afraid. I have never felt fear like this since. I am going to die.

I am deleting and retyping, rephrasing things here. How much do I say now? How much do I let out? Do I talk about every thrust? Do I talk about the scents and smells? I think the questions are enough. I was bleeding out of my mouth, my vagina, my anus, my ears, my eyes, my nose and where ever he had torn my flesh. I could barely see, I could barely breathe. I couldn’t smell it but the Turkey was burning. He untied me, slapped me and told me, “Go clean yourself up.” I took a shower, and there I cried. The water could hide my tears. I couldn’t feel clean and it burned but I dressed myself and dragged my body out.

Something about being past this point in writing has let me breathe. I feel like I normally do when writing sensitive things, I am upset but I am not broken. I feel relieved. It is as if a tumor has been cut out of my heart. Antidote to the poison left in my soul. I actually can smile. Why the momentary smile? I have never made it this far before, when trying to even think this out, I have never made it this far in pondering sharing this. Yes, the death of my abuser has helped, but, I am also an adult. Fourteen years have passed. I am no longer a little girl. I know now how to fight back, and I know that writing this could help someone even if it is just me. I am a person. I am worth the risks, I am worth the release.

The turkey had burned during the first half of the assault. All of the effort I had put into the meal to make him happy was ruined. I pause in thought to consider what would have happened if my siblings had been there too. For years I told myself they would have made a difference, that he wouldn’t have hurt them. I am done lying. They would’ve been raped, beaten, and destroyed too. They would have shared my pain. I never wished that on them, and truth dictates they would have made it worse trying to protect me and each other. We all took turns bearing the burdens and we never should have had to.

“How dare you waste food!” There was more cussing. He sat me at the table, in the same chair he’d used as one of his tying spots. The rope dangling from it still. I want to cry. He grabs my chin and stares into my eyes. “This is your last meal.” Oh god, I am going to die. I am going to die! “If you ever eat again, I will kill your mother. Not only will she die but so will the new baby. Then I will be with you all alone forever, until I decide you can die.” Worth for word. He smiled when he said it. I remember staring at his teeth, dessicated and rotting. Like the way I imagine his soul to be. “Why?” I hadn’t spoken that I know of, since it started. My voice was soft, barely audible and my throat was so swollen it felt as if I would choke on the word. “Because I can.” He paused, his face shifting into that mask he wore at church, the mask he usually wore when touching me, hurting me. “Because if I do not punish you, God will kill your mommy and send her to hell. You’re evil.”

He said it so often, and yet this time I didn’t believe him. For the first time in my life I didn’t believe I was evil. I did believe he would kill my mother. I saw it in his eyes, and I knew he would. I knew too I had to eat. “You are going to eat everything on this table. You puke and you will eat that too.” This was the moment when food became my enemy. I still loathe turkey. The grainy texture of the white meat, the smell of it. I started eating. It hurt my throat. My throat and I kept choking. He put milk down and I sipped it. My last meal. I puked four times, and I never managed to finish it before he went to bed. I threw it out, taking the food trash to the dumpster, then I washed the dishes, cleaned up after “my mess”. I swept up the broken glass, I scrubbed my blood out of the carpet. I took another shower, then I went outside and slept on the balcony. The neighbor’s cat came over and kept me warm.

I slept too late, he woke up and his meal wasn’t ready. I woke up to the sound of the cat’s death cry. It screamed as he snapped it in half. I can still hear the crunch of bone, and my own tears echo those I shed. I screamed at him one word. “No!” It seems I only was allowed one word. Silence was all I knew. It was hard. I had so much I wanted to say. Silence could let me live. He grabbed my hair. Time skips, a seamless edit to my head under water, blood making it pink and his hands around my throat. There was broken glass in the water, and he was raping me again. I’d lost six hours. I could see the clock when he’d let me up for air, just enough to gasp for one breath then I was under again. I woke up, no fade to black just a sudden skip, and I was nude, face down in his bed. “Your mother used to like this.” I am not sure what he was doing but it hurt.

I had to pause again. I am explaining my pauses because I think the process for being able to write this out is important. I was having a body memory. Somatization might be the right word. My mouth was burning, I could feel his hands on my throat as if they were solid and my back hurts so much. It is the memories. This is a form of PTSD. Your body can feel things that are no longer real. Some doctors write this off, saying it is not serious. Having experienced it, I offer support to anyone else who is or has. It really is real. It may be in your head but it is not your fault, and this form of chronic pain is just as agonizing.

My throat was so swollen I was wheezing, with the next set of memories. It wasn’t much later but he was asleep. I considered killing him. The God who excused his behavior stopped me. I wish I had. I am glad I didn’t. I wish I had so I could be free, but if I had I would not be me, I would be someone else. I stood there watching him sleep, a butcher knife in my hand and visualized his blood running out of him. I was afraid I was him then. I put the knife away and considered running away. I had before, he always found me. I just waited. I made him dinner. Chicken, salad, and beer. I think it was bear. The memory flashes between a can and a bottle, different brands flicking over. I guess there’s damage to my hard drive.

When he woke up he seemed calm. He ate his dinner. He didn’t hit me so I knew it was good. Then he ordered me to undress. “You don’t put clothes on when you visit me alone anymore.” I said another word, I was so afraid and I could barely walk. “No!” He punched me in the gut, his hands lifted and he started choking me. I bit him. This is new. I never remembered this before. I am sharing with you something new. My tears are hot on my face, mirroring the past. My TV just turned itself on, someone is being shot and I am pulled away for a moment while I turn it back to what is acceptable for this process. I am dizzy, I am fighting a full flashback. The need to type is helping. I can’t see realtiy clearly.

It is foggy. I will have to edit typos after this. I am going in deeper, I am letting go of sight, watching this for the first time. I bit him hard, I can taste his blood and I can feel his muscles tensing. He shoves his arm into my throat, My jaw dislocates. He slaps me and it slams back in. My ears start ringing too. Everything is so slow. I can’t move but it feels as if it is taking forever. I come back out. My ears still ring. I can breathe, so I know I am okay.

My muscles are so tense that I can’t keep my vertebrae in place. I had to manually relocate them. The mournful cry of Cold Case’s opening theme echoes through the walls. I resume dying. My blood makes the text now. It’s a visual hallucenation, more PTSD. I feel sick. I can smell my blood. I can taste it. Deep breath and i press on.

My raw flesh burns, I had just bit him, and as soon as he was free I bolted like a rabbit, diving into his room and shutting the door. This is the one door that locks. I am not fast enough. My damaged hands, swollen and purple, refuse to grip the lock. I shatter. All hope is lost. I am about to die. I feel the pang of terror, and now we are back into what I know. He slams the door open, I go flying into the wall. I grab the lamp, holding it like a bat. He laughs at me. “Do you really think you can hurt me?” I nod. I am afraid to talk. Words make him hurt me. “You can. I can hurt you more.” He lunges for me. I never remembered the next bit. I smashed the lamp on his head before he took me down. He was angry. I smell more blood. His blood. I am too afraid to smile. He jerks my arms out of their sockets. I stop fighting. I lost. He takes the glass and cuts me more. “When your mother asks about these cuts, if I let you live, you tell her you fell down the stairs, or that you got into a fight with the neighbor boy.” There was no neighbor boy. I just nod. I let him tear off my flesh. I let him? No. I am a victim. He was sitting on my legs, my arms were unable to move and my body was weak. I was just a child. He maimed me.

He smirked at me, as I bled. “You are beautiful.” He got up, grabbed a mirror and let me see myself. My face is covered in blood, my eyes are barely open and they are bloodshot. My nose is crusted with blood and my neck is purple. I look like a murder victim. I can’t cry anymore. I am numb. I can see a chalk outline. I imagined one then. That’s how they showed the dead on TV when I was eight. A bit of orangey blood and a chalk outline. The screams of a mother in the other room draw me. A fictional girl is dying as I relive my murder. Not the death of innocence, but the murder of the spirit, of hope, of identity. This is the day I became lost, the day I became as dark as I could in order to survive. This is the day that I have no words to express how I feel about. There aren’t enough. There are no words vile enough to express this. What you see here is a fragment.

He licked my face clean of blood. More disembodied voices talking about dying children. This feels right. My heart feels empty, the hole in my chest where my heart is aches. I am running into a wall of blackness. I know what goes here but my brain is trying to protect me. It doesn’t want to replay the VHS of my death. I am hitting play. My brain is wrong. I need to let this out. He licked my face, then he raped me again. He then took me to the living room handing me a sheet. This is new too. I was wrong, I am touching on new darkness. “Put the sheet down then lay on it.” I do. I take my time smoothing it out before laying down, staring up at the roof. Anywhere but at him. “Daddy?” There’s a bright flash of light. He’s taking pictures. I have no idea why, or what happened with that. My face burns where the cuts were. I am going to look in the mirror. The burning stops when I see my face as it is now. I run my fingers over the scars that no one else seems to notice. I healed well. Maybe the other times I lost flesh on my face balanced it out. Most of my face has been scarred. No one ever can tell. What he didn’t do, what others didn’t do, what the sun didn’t do? I did. Replaying what happened, trying to remember, trying to be tough enough that no one would love me. Love meant pain to me then. Before my Person. Before M. Before the good men. Before the strong women. I have never told my person about this.

The only people I ever told treated me like I was either broken or dangerous after. My therapist when I first began to remember decided I must have Multipe Personality Disorder. She was certain no one could be strong enough to remember, survive and not become a fragmented mind. I didn’t become a person with alters. I do not know why. Sometimes I wonder if I would be healthier if I had. I doubt it. I am certain that despite the confusion and the things I learned when I was misdiagnosed are not true. I am whole, even if I have painful memories. My mother when I tried to tell her, she cried and made a fuss. She didn’t help me. She blamed me, She blamed herself. She what ifed. She transposed my experience over hers. She was not strong enough. I do blame her. Not for the death, but for the ways I was treated after.

I blame her for the people trying to help me. I blame her for loving me enough to stop me from trying to kill myself. I tried. She always knew. She may have burdened her children in many ways, but when it was life and death, and often when it wasn’t she was a saving grace. She loved me even when she woke up and found me standing over her bed while she slept with a knife. I do believe that happened but I have no memory of it. I was probably having a flash back.

He put the camera away. Then he knelt and whispered, “I am going to kill you now. The devil is gone, and if i kill you now you can go to heaven.” I didn’t move. I am not sure I could. He sat me up, his hands caressed my throat. This is the closest to loving I had ever seen him. He had broken my glasses earlier, I remember it after but he did it before this. He put his hands on my head. He kissed my forehead. Then he snapped my neck as hard as he could. I remember the pain. It hurt. It hurts. I can feel it again. It is the asame pain in my back. I peed myself. Everything went black. My last though was a want of air. The last thing I heard was him cursing me for peeing, telling me I was going to hell because I peed.

My doctors have noted that I had broken bones in my neck. This was discovered during an MRI to try and diagnose the extend of damage to my body and the potential for further breakage. Thankfully my neck healed well enough. I have memories between waking, they shape my religious beliefs. I am not ready to write about those yet, those are mine alone.

When I woke up, my head hurt. My neck hurt, and I wanted to cry. I couldn’t move my body at all. I just laid there. It was dark outside. I could hear the TV in his bedroom. I could hear him laughing at some comedy show. I wondered if I was still dead. Part of the memories between waking and the death, I remember being very dead. My chest burned. I had to get up or suffocate. I couldn’t feel my legs. I could wiggle my toes. I couldn’t move my arms. I used the force of my pelvis to roll, my left arm snapped into the socket and I felt the burn of nerves coming back to life. I made no sound. I tried to call for him. My throat was too sore. I rolled to the right, my other arm in place. Using them to pull myself up, the same way I do when I fall now, I made it to my feet. I crawled into his room, stumbling. Shambling. I pushed the door open. He screamed. I am not sure if I remember the words right, things are disjointed, fragmented, and the sound even fades in and out. “You’re not dead!” or “You’re dead!” He showed fear. I fell over. He got up, and he began to hit me again.

I took the beating. Even when he lifted me up and slammed my back over his knee, trying to snap my spine. He’d done that during most of my childhood. My back is broken now, partly because he weakened the bones and muscles. There were times it broke when he did smash me about, but it healed all except the last time, when I saved the children. I hear my Person playing music in the other room. I am soothed. He has great talent, and he brings me joy. So much joy.

The rest of time fizzles. All I know now is that I have delueded myself for years about how much my three day long beating showed. I always told myself no one noticed the cuts, and the bruises weren’t bad. The truth is I wore long sleeves, pants, and let my hair hide my face. My mother told me that I was quiet on the ride home. I told her my favorite dress was stained so my father was washing it. I didn’t tell her he’d torn it off of me. She told me I went and sat at the kitchen table in our house, put my head down and cried.

I don’t eat dinner at the table often. I have trouble with it. Tables and dinner are always associated with family and him. I have few positive table dining experiences. I have few positive dining experiences. What brought this all on? My need to share? I developed Bulimia Nervosa. I had some PTSD symptoms well before this attack, but this was the change between a normal girl, with some issues into a seriously troubled person. I became dangerous. I became violent. I did my best to keep my violence a secret but, the need to hurt people before they hurt me still exists. I am gentle as can be, but it takes work. It shouldn’t. I am strong enough to be gentle even when afraid now. It’s hard.

Tonight when it came time to mak dinner my Person and I discovered we really need to buy groceries. There’s not much to eat. He went out and bought food for the cats and for us, but it triggered a huge upset. I have food issues and always will. I have recovered my control over food. I haven’t purged in five years, I haven’t binged in almost one and the binging that I still fall into is often stopped before I hurt myself. Now a binge is usually stopped after I buy the food. I also haven’t binged since moving out of the abusive house I lived in, even financially. This means that the ability to buy safe food contributes to my mental health.

I still have to fight to let myself eat and often panic if there is no food I can eat. It is about balance, yet that balance is difficult to find. My Person understands as best he can but, in trying to explain to M why I was so upset I had to explain some of this.

When I stopped eating it took my mother three days to say something. I was weak with hunger, I stared at my food as if I wanted it but then claimed to not be hungry. Finally she told me, “It hurts me when you do not eat.” A guilt trip. A mother’s concern. I still didn’t eat. I knew what would happen if I did. She’d die. He would come out and he would hurt me worse than he had during those days. I wanted to eat. We were learning about Greek Mtyhology in school, and I had read about Persephone. She too had to hunger. I wanted something like her pomegranite. I wanted absolution. My mother cornered me with her own threats. It took another week before she finally said, “I’ll die if you don’t eat.”

My brain snapped. I am not sure of my exact process but I decided if I did not swallow it was alright. Then I had to address actually swallowing. I became like Persephone, as best I could. I’d begun to vomit to survive. I had already had trouble stomaching my food anyway, and my stomach felt better without food in it often. This was the addition of a physical illness to my mental health disaster. I was eight years old, and I knew if I was thin enough my father would love me. Somewhere in my memories of that day are these words. “You’re fat and ugly. If you are thin and beautiful like a Barbie doll I will love you. Then you will be worthy and someone will marry you. You can be just like your Mother should’ve been.” I am not sure when. The words are surrounded by a blackness. There is no sensation physically, just the emotional sensation of being hated. I was healthy until that day. I had a chance until that day to be a normal kid, I’d need some therapy but the journey back would’ve been faster.

I might even still be myself. More silent screams. I want to cry loudly. I just do not remember how. I used to have nosebleeds whenever I would even think about crying. At least now I can shed tears without bleeding. I may never full recover from my murder. I struggle daily with the consequences. I think about this daily. My body can’t forget. My mind can’t remember.

By writing this I have the ability to tell my Person why the inconsistencies in the house being cleaned, in our food, and other things really bothers me. I couldn’t get the words out until I lamented to M, seeking to find emotional balance, to understand why I was so angry over something that really was small. The words that opened up my understanding? “Were you ever beaten, raped, and cut then told that? Did you ever believe them both with every fiber of your being?” Concise, minimalistic.

That’s the sad thing. All that I wrote now? This is less than a tenth of my reality. This is all that I can handle, all that I can remember at once. I remember other things but I can’t open my mind to them. The strain of it is too big, and I am already at risk for night terrors tonight. I have faith in my choice, and even if I do, even if I cannot handle being touched right now, I am safe. I haven’t felt this safe before. Each day I feel safer and more secure.

I even have goals and dreams again. The Zillas, as I dubbed the women I most recently lived with often triggered things connected with this day. Once it was discovered they could hurt me with food, it occured daily. My upset springs from this being unaddressed. From the wound in my soul being agitated. My Person will understand, he is waiting patiently for me to tell him what is wrong. He loves me. He trusts me. I am not skinny enough for my father. I have a love greater than he could ever imagine. I have a love that is rare and pure. I have not one, not two, but at least three men who are the antithesis to who and what my father was. My Person, M, and my new business partner.

I believe I am strong enough to even begin to reach out to other Victims and Survivors in order to help them. This day is why I demand accessible rape kits. My father escaped earthly justice, If you wish to comment on this article, I am sorry but I am not going to allow comments. This is far too personal. I have trust in you all to be supportive, and to understand that fact. I am also not editing this. I normally fix my spelling errors, reread, rephrase and polish what I write. I am not strong enough to face these words a second time. I am using my last bit of strength to write an introduction, add a transition to protect myself and others who might be triggered by the post, and to publish it.

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1 Comment

  1. […] this life, I am far different. I feel old, I feel tired. I feel like dying. I came very close. November is always difficult for me.  That post has a trigger warning. It triggers me to live through Thanksgiving day. I cannot eat turkey […]


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