What if I had… (trigger warning)

I passed a link on Facebook and the way I said something caused an enlightening conversation with someone. I’ve just begun to get to know a group of people via the route of Pendant Audio, and each time I say something I am afraid I will be rejected. Each time instead, I am accepted. If correction is needed it is given and that’s that. There is no devaluing, there is just this general sense of acecptance. This does not mean any group is without flaws but, I don’t feel like I am on the outside of something. I don’t feel that desperation inside me “Please don’t let me screw this up, please let me have said this right, please let me fit, please let me be good enough”. I have spent my life with that as my constant social companion. fear and terror. Doubt. Pendant Audio also has given me something constructive to do. In giving up my existing hobbies and existing structure, I entered a land of torture.

I need structure. I am afraid that I don’t deviate well from plans, and this can cause a melt down. I have given up everything familiar in my life so that I can be safe. I have given up the things that make me happy, so I can be safe. I cannot be happy if I am dead. The less I do the things I love the more pent up I feel. This is made worse by the lack of wheels. I want to go out, see do. I know when I do I risk over stimulation but I still deserve the freedom to go see do.

In talking with one of the Pendulums, as the members of Pendant Audio are called, I found out that their offspring happens to be Autistic. There was no mention of function levels (which I dislike because they feel so wrong and dehumanizing) just the question of, what do you do to raise your child well? I asked the question about a cure, because of course I want to know.

This child has amazing parents. They learned what they needed to feed their child to make them healthy, they adapted to the child’s needs. I feel jealous. The list of things that they have given their child in order to allow independence if so wanted and a life that is free of barriers and false social constructs amazes me. I am jealous.

I am verbal, I am independent, I am an adult. I live alone, successfully. I have only had barriers thrown at my feet, via psychitrization, medicalization, and a life long dehumanization. I still hear the scolding words “Listen to me, stop being lazy,” and all my worth as it funnelled down the drain, I can see this. The side effect of thinking in pictures is, I can see my parents, siblings, and the faces of everyone who ever shamed me for not being able to do it their way every time. It reenforces that pain.

There is a struggle involved in parenting, good or bad. The bad, the parent works against the child, punishes them for existing. It is a struggle between the child and the parent. The child always loses. You cannot defeat an opponent that controls the resources of your life. With good parenting, something I am still learning about, the struggle is against the world. The parent or parents work with the child and teach them how to navigate. They accept their child, and yes the days are not all golden paradise but there is love.

What if good parenting didn’t side line my brain every time I encountered it? It’s so foreign to me. It hurts. I know my mother may read this, and a part of me does care. She is on my facebook, and there are things I want to say, and do say to which I almost want to add (sorry mom) afterwards because it may hurt her. Sorry mom, for not thinking you did a good job with me, feels wrong too. It isn’t a true sorrow but a wish to avoid confrontation.

I am grasping at this idea. What if I had had proper diagnosises as a child, and my parents had cared and … what if I had what was needed in order to have a standard good childhood, (standard meaning proper food, safety, no violent horrible people, and perhaps accomodation). I probably would be named Mary Sue Who or something, I wouldn’t know me. I would not exist.

A part of me still longs for it. I know neither of my parents were equipped to raise children at all much less a child who has needs outside of what they could understand. Yes my mother has changed and grown a lot. She is raising my sister in an entirely different way. I am jealous of that too. I am jealous that Beth won’t have the memories of hunger, the memories of being shamed for not being able. Her life is still flawed, there is still room to be a better parent.

What if I had had loving parents? Good parents? Parents that were not disabled by their own lack of vision? Lack of acceptance? I don’t want to say my mother was a bad mother, but I cannot say she was a good mother. I know if my parents had known what I am, who I am, I would’ve been killed and buried in the back yard. I don’t think anything would be different for the better. I guess what I am asking is… What if I had another life as someone else. The same body, the same needs, the same mind, but with the needs fulfilled?

I cannot even imagine that. I try, but instead of an answer it’s a bit of missing things, the subtraction of my pain, for example. That’s all I can fathom. What if I had had a chance?


I decided Sprite deserves an honor, as she always goes above and beyond what is expected of her. She has thusly been nominated for the life time service award (Screw the cat award, she has given a life time of service) with the ASPCA. In my lifetime of trials, the last five years have been better because of her presence. I would be very literally dead without her so many times over. Feel free to nominate her over and over if you want, or some other fantastic animal in your life!

Flame On! (Trigger and Mushiness warning)

Last night I had a meltdown. I haven’t lost control of my emotions or had no logical response in a very long time. A decade? Maybe more. Last night, my nightmares came true. This happens rather often, I presume it is because my fears are actually reasonable. The place I live had a fire. My home was on fire. I am still shaking as a result, but my mind is clear.

A man i had never seen before came to my home, pounded on the door, and told me there was fire and to get out. I turned and grabbed Sprite, and we went outside. My panic was instant. Where do I go? Is it close enough I can go? How far can I make it? Where is the fire? I had no answers, and no shoes. Sprite had no harness or leash and nestled on my shoulders to balance me. This is how I get things done in the house, so this wasn’t out of the norm.

I moved for the office, while calling the apartment manager. I could hear the fire engines coming, someone else had called in. I did consider it but, I had to work on the presumption that my being notified to get out meant they were coming. It was the lat bit of logic I had for a while. I made it rather far, I used the fence and held myself up creeping along. I was the only one outside when the fire went from small to OH MAH FRIGGING GODS THERE IS A GIANT FIRE OH GOD.

I saw it, in a washing machine in the laundry room. There are apartments all around this room, of course. The door was closed, the fire department had to smash it to get into it. They weren’t there yet though, and as the flames went Fwoosh and started eating the building, not just the laundry, I began to cry. The tears were wet, and painful because of my allergy to water. My reaction ranges from full body pain (minimal( to blisters. It was just pain. I back tracked away from the flames and was stuck. I couldn’t be sure home was safe, a sensation that made my panic worse, and I couldn’t get people to answer. I stopped calling folks because I was having trouble breathing. Athsma + Smoke * tears= Cough cough cough.

This is when things get interesting. My neighbors all respect me, every time there is a need they perceive this is shown. There is a strong sense of community with in the hallowed complex. There is also a fear of outsiders, but if you pay rent you are automatically accepted. As people arrived, I did my best to retain the little shred of calm that I thought I had, it was not there. I still suggested that they wake up the manager, it was about eight at night. A lot of people go to bed around then.

The fire department stayed near the fire, and I stayed on the fence. Literally. I watched as they quickly contained the fire, then got it out. The flames were no longer visible by the time we got the manager up. The fire department was more than efficient. In movies and TV they are never that quick and to the point. I know that is to play out the drama but, it really doesn’t credit the fire fighters.

Sprite only tried to escape once, and it was the moment I wanted to. It’s natural to go away from fire. When the fire doubled in size in that split second, she started to bolt. Started. She stopped herself. I want to give her an award, a medal, a treat, and a golden kitty bed that she would never ever use because she was quiet, composed, and she did her job when the other service animals in the complex could not.

A part of my melt down was the pain level I was facing. Standing for more than thirty seconds has me on the edge of my pain tolerance. Past that and we’re entering territory where my systems stop functioning bodily. Circulation cuts down enough that I was blue again. My hands are still a bit oddly colored, it will take time for my body to catch up to itself. The second issue is breathing. The injury to my back spasms and it can paralyze my diaphragm. This is scary when I am not facing fire.

A secondary part was the sounds. Fire is loud, the fire department HAS to be loud. Sirens alone make me want to scream and cry. Even the far away ones. There was banging, hissing, shattering, smashing wooshing sounds. There was also a high level of fear, and fear can be contagious.

My neighbors supported me, for a few moments literally, and then once we could go inside I had help so that if I fell it wasn’t as bad. Then, for the next few hours until the fire department went away, I was checked on by every single person who could do so. Further more, the person alerting people to fire was making certain to tell the people who would be slowest to get out first. It was an act that put him in potential danger and was unselfish even if my not knowing him scared me.

There are rumors of arson today, but I am hoping for either an electrical cause or a cigarette butt left smouldering. a lot of people smoke here, and an electrical issue means that no one purposefully set the building on fire. I don’t want to suspect my neighbors of wickedness, when every single one of them is wonderful. I like them all. Not everyone here gets along with one another but I can talk to every single one of them.

Everyone in my complex has a form of disability, from mobility on to cognitive challenges. Everyone has a different way of speaking and yet everyone here is supportive. I know if I need help, I can ask. I can just scream out for it really, and they will come to my aid. I am left to think on the times when danger came hunting me, and danger did not find me because of my neighbors.

I am safe here, the fire is out and it’s ashes are quickly being covered in snow. I admit I want to see the destruction. I admit my fear of fire is not less but a bit greater. I did not have dreams last night. I was so tired, as I hadn’t slept for a day, that it was beyond me. I am aware that Sprite has not left my side since. She even held it until I was upright this morning, then bolted for the litterbox only to check and see I was following. The cut on my hand (I think it is from the fence, and so did the police) is a little infected but with my immune system that’s fairly normal. If it didn’t get a little pussy I’d worry. It’s not as bad as I expected and my costco gallon of peroxide (it was two bucks!) will get plenty of use.

Sprite and I are fine, no one was hurt. No one lost their shelter or home. I faced my horrid nightmares in reality. Facing fear sucks.

On Bended Knee (Trigger Warning)

Something that I think most able bodied people take for granted is motion. After all they may get sore muscles the next day but, a little sleep and they have this thing called energy (huh? What’s that?) and their sore usually goes away. They may also need a massage or just secretly want an excuse for one.My body is not made for movement. From a professional dancer/ Model this seems a bit funny to say.

It sounds vain as hell but I was VERY good at the dancing I did. I also had to work at it twice as hard as those around me and started dancing tired. I thought this was normal. Being raised to never question the whys of things, I had just begun. After all if you ask why and are going to be forced into prostitution or homelessness or both? It’s just not worth it to question things. I remember my first audition. I am not a formally trained dancer. I watched people and mimicked. The person who watched us commented on my stiffness. I had to learn to relax my body and flow.

I never actually did this. I learned how to create the illusion of relaxation. For as long as I can remember relaxing causes intensive pain. I remember trying to not cry out, because tears meant my father would come and beat us until we couldn’t cry. The first memory that comes to mind is last night, my mental chronology is working backwards. So the last one is when I was three. I have my most clear childhood memories at three. Three predates the “worst” abuses and post dates a lot of trying to learn mobility and the basic survival skills of living with someone who wanted to murder you for existing.

I had been carrying something heavy, something no one else seemed to ache with when they did. The thought memories are vague pictures of milk jugs and boxes. I was so tired that the sun was still up and I could hear my siblings playing but I just needed to lay down. I crawled under the bed with my dog friend Muttlee and tried to get comfortable.

Why under the bed? If I was caught sleeping then I would be hurt worse. I remember the dog friend shifting and making room for my small body. She licked my face and I squeaked at her, as I still squeak at Sprite when I lay down on my bed and she wants attention or wants to help me feel better but I am in that realm of suffocating pain. They both back down and don’t leave me.

I take a deep breath, and it hurts. I lay flat, and stare at the underside of my mattress, the dimmed light of my small space comforting. I hadn’t been tortured with the wool blankets in summer in the closet yet. Small spaces were my friend because HE couldn’t find me. What strikes me most about this memory is I start trying to relax. I even remember why. My Aunt Nan had been talking to my mother about how important this Relax thing was and how it was a letting go.

I started at my toes and let the muscles go. By the time I got to my knees I was in tears. I didn’t stop. I relaxed all my muscles consciously. The little pains (okay really horrible bad pains) that I have felt my entire life upon laying down? This beat them. I screamed. The dog growled and bit me in fear. Even the dog knew to not make sounds. A part of me always believed she was taking the fall for me. My muscles unlaxed and I climbed out from under the bed bleeding, afraid, and aware that there was a precipice of pain that even my father could not inflict.

This lead to my first time running away, while toting a boulder. This lead to my ability to survive in some ways. Most of the memories I  have of torture, such as my punishment for screaming itself I remember thinking “This hurts and I want to cry but you can’t hurt me as badly as I can.” I didn’t know what it meant for a long time. The pain in the relaxation memory was so bad that it was pushed away. My subconscious never let it go and I didn’t try to relax again until I was a dancer and hurt so badly after working that I went for a massage.

I know torture first hand. A lot of the time people make jokes about torture, not necessarily in the Guantanimo Bay sort of way, but often yes. I have been waterboarded. Usually if the toilet wasn’t flushed my father would waterboard his own children. He was the one who didn’t flush it. One of us would eventually take credit, and there would be blood. Now a toilet that is not pristine can send me into panic where I feel like I am drowning.

I have had my toenails torn out. Flat nose pliers work better than needle nose for that. I may someday take a picture of my feet. My toes, if I am not standing, curl inward because of the years of infection and damage to the muscles. The pain  in my feet from dancing? It wasn’t real pain as far as I knew. Real pain was what daddy did.

Most of the scars I should have don’t show now that I avoid things that inflame or damage my skin. You can’t see the stab wounds. Most people when they see the strange little round scars don’t know those are bullet holes in my skin. When people joke about gangrene (I am not sure how that idea is funny) I usually tell them, “Uh that’s not funny. I’ve had gangrene four times.” The modern era of medicine saved my feet.

Oh I know pain. Right now the cold snow on this supposedly Spring day, or at least I think it is supposed to be Spring with a capitol S… the pain matches the moments when I pulled out my own toenails. You see, I thought that trimming my toenails was the same thing my father did.

This post is actually about motion however. All of these things have effected my ability to move. Disease, Disorder, Syndrome, Torture, Abuse, and mostly Pain. My pain is omnipresent. I have been in pain since birth. My pain effected my friendships, Schoolwork, and has effected every social interaction. In fact, my ability to walk would be greater if there wasn’t a pain issue.

The wheelchair assessment opened some cans of worms medically and mentally. The idea that I would use my feet when I can is no longer welcomed. I knew it was painful but the pain means don’t apparently. I have never really bent my knees except when dancing. In all my memories good and bad my knees don’t bend. My sister did and hers dislocated. My body is so much more flexible that in order to walk I tightened all my muscles and I heave my body forward pitching to one side.

Totter may be a word. I think of an object that is off balance on a table or something, it goes side to side before it either falls over or steadies itself again. It moves when it rocks. This is how I have walked for my entire life. The pain in my hips and their chronic dislocations has an answer. Walking. If you don’t use the joints properly they will be damaged.

I have little flicker memories, pictures with emotional impressions really, of learning to walk. Most of them come with terror. Anger. Rage. Pain. There it is again. Pain. I can hear my mother’s voice as she cries. “Come on, you can do it. Please walk? If you don’t walk soon he’ll hurt you.” This ignores that he already had hurt us both for years. Those same words can be put on many memories, my ability to talk was born out of terror, my ability to read chapter books like little women came at gun point. Basic milestones that I would probably have been more delayed on, I did them to survive.

I am left to wonder how any doctor could see me walk for my lifetime and not comment on it. Yes, when I was younger it was worse, then when I tried to blend in and during my time of Sports until the end of the Dancing phase I faked it  better, but if you only bend your knees when sitting or in bed because you are in the fetal position crying as you fold up like a rag doll… shouldn’t they notice?

I have been institutionalized, hospitalized, psychiatrized, and called the patient for so much of my life that sometimes that is the name I hear in my head. Why then is it a quest for a doctor to be attentive enough to take note that there is some greater wrong? Medicine cannot be something you treat like a retail job! Medicine must be treated like it is something where every moment can save a life.

I don’t hold my shoulders “right” either. I actually didn’t stand once for this physical therapy evaluation. I moved my legs while sitting and that was enough to startled this woman. Apparently people with my level of flexibility almost never learn to walk. My life time of shoes that even when the doctor’s cronies measure them they do not fit, my life time of aches that I thought everyone had until it was too late, my life time of falls, wobbling tiredness, and sheer frustration that I couldn’t be as fast as everyone else has answers.

Still, when every child I ever knew noticed I moved funny and I had nicknames from “The Robot” on to “Stiff Whore” on to “The Crunchbacked Hunchback”… when I was stigmatized and tormented until the moment of my first self awareness as Woman and often… so very often… after? Why the hell can a doctor not notice that I do not even bend my knees on their stupid tables. I have spent my life running, jumping, plieing, twisting, turning, walking, and shifting but never bending my knees without falling.

It actually takes a conscious thought to bend my knee even sitting. A part of this is life long and some is exaggerated by my spinal cord injury. It takes more than one try usually for the signals to get from my brain to my legs. Then it takes several tries for my body to make the movement happen. It’s a process. It has always taken more time for me to get my leg to go forward. I have to consciously imagine it.

The first time I made snow angels that I can recall, not the actual first time as there are flickers and age disparities in the collage of memory but the first time I think I wanted to do so was also the first time my body was good for something because of the stiffness. I had to walk to school in the snow. It was a snow delay, and I actually never made it there. Another random moment with a random stranger who by the standards of my family I guess I should have feared?

I had sat down on a rock outside some house and was crying because I hurt and had fallen. The trashman stopped. I wish I remembered his name. I asked, I didn’t call him the trashman but the memory is buried under so much rubble. This was the first time I was allowed out alone after my first time in an institution and I was screwing it up. I told him so. He didn’t react like I was a monster. My own mother has just begun to treat me as a person.

This man was a mexican. From Mexico. He and I talked about how his father and mother had brought him illegally across the border when he was a small child. He had legally applied for citizenship as an adult was was proud of it. His first winter, they had made snow angels to celebrate. They were too poor for anything else. He asked if I could make one and I burst into tears again, “I always screw them up.”

He asked how. I couldn’t make a snow angel without smudging the wings or body or leaving foot prints. He laughed, not at me but the laugh of an adult who cares. I don’t know why he cared. “See that big pile of snow? Go make a snow angel, I will help you get up without ruining it. At first I was crying while making the snow angel. The snow made it’s crunching sound, I made mine. He made a face when I did. My knees crunched, my hips popped, my shoulders ground. It didn’t hurt, it was just the sounds of motion. He asked if I was okay each time. I thought he was insane.

When my angel was satisfactorily angel like he said, “Bend your knees.” I did, then he said get up. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead of yelling at me, as I already expected he pondered the situation and said, “You know the problem with your angel is … where are her feet? Angels have feet and legs right?”So I put my legs out and rolled up until I had my feet. He helped me balance. I hopped away from the angel and my angel was perfect in my eyes. “For you, the perfect angel is going to always be the most unique.”

He had to get back to work, and I spent the rest of the day making snow angels. I have thought of that moment often, usually when winter induces pain levels that make me squeak and cry with every movement of my arms and hands. I am squeaking a lot right now. It stands out as one of those memories where adaptation occurred or I was treated as a person. Those were so very rare until I was 21. At the age of 21 I began to pursue what I wanted.

My dancing career was short. A year at most. I remember always worrying about making it through the next audition. Would I be strong enough? I remember throwing up from pain. I remember too just how cut throat the world of Dance can be. I don’t dance in my wheelchair. I can, I think, but I no longer need to dance. I need to simply allow my body the stillness it requires.

I will think about every time I have bent my knees, I have them bent right now, because this keeps me from falling off of my chair. I will think on every footstep and the pain. A part of me is angry at my mother over this. That part of me needs to heal. A part of me is afraid. A part of me rages at a dead man. Mostly however, I feel relief. I am never going to have to do the basic things that my ability level has never matched. I don’t know how I blended as a dancer, and perhaps it was my unique style that let me work. I am never going to be able to walk normally and it turns out, it was unlikely I ever could walk from the moment of birth. My disability has always been here, now I just need to learn to respect my body and what it needs.

Coming Out: a Year of Autism

With the coming of Autism awareness month, it has been a year since I came out as a woman with Autism as a label. It was not a moment planned, it just.. was right. I have known for about two years, maybe three? For me, one of the side effects of my Autism and my PTSD combined is a sort of floating time. It slows, it speeds, it fades, it flares. My sense of time is not very accurate.

I was giving a speech to a small group, and the speaker who spoke before me mentioned something about Autism, and how it was a shame no one with Autism could speak for themselves. This was done before we went on. I rolled up in my scooter and gave a speech about disability. I added the words, “I am Autistic.” I had never admitted it to myself before. The room fell utterly silent, the few whispers froze. All eyes were on me. Faces reflecting what I interpreted as disbelief, some shock, some fear, and one knowing smile. I continued, after a few moments to let this speak in.

My speech altered in that moment, I added more of how my Autism is an attribute. Afterwards that first speaker left without a word to me, they never made eye contact with me again, or really spoke much. It was awkward for them. I suspect shame but I do not care. I didn’t want to hear how my brain is diseased. That was what lead to me meeting up with the wonderful people at Here Be Dragons. (Rawr!) I do post there periodically. I had just begun to read Womanist Musings, and I began to learn that I was not alone in the fight for Nuerodiversity that a burst of temper threw me into.

I won’t forget how I felt like a cartoon, my knees if i had been standing would be at an awkward angle, the light far too bright… The glaring world suddenly foreign, an alien landscape of unknown. For me, being diagnosed with Autism had been merely another label. It had been just another “thing” that built me into a physically fragile, creative and supposedly charming woman. It was just another thing people may hate me for.

Boy do they ever. Jenny McCarthy wants to mind wipe me like some sort of not so supervillain. Autism Speaks wants to cut my tongue out because I disagree with them. I am also proof that they are wrong about the vaccine thing too. All their supposed cures are wrong and full of failings. I never was vaccinated as a child. I showed signs of Autism from birth. I had measels and Rubella. I am left to wonder how much of my health ramifications could be misdiagnosed side effects of these things.

In this last year I spent so much of this time fighting. When I wrote this post I wanted to show a picture of me on my new wheels, my hair back to it’s red, my body back to it’s health. This post is one of the things I tantalized myself with. Where would I be in a year if I lived? Through this blog, which is actually over a year old, I found friends, support, and life. This goes beyond Autism, though my Autism has come to dominate some of what I write about, as I have begun to see that the other advocates for other isms can handle what is going on but Autism needs more help in being fended for.

A year ago my brother was murdered, my then husband had imprisoned me, I was lying and hiding it in terror. A year ago I was starving. A year ago, I thought that my blog may hold my last words. This blog was not originally meant to be so personal either. Through the last year part of my need to survive left me shedding a good deal of anonymity. Renee of Womanist Musings and Kowalski of Here there be dragons both had the largest impact too.

Renee helped me to learn that I can speak out again. I had stopped out of my terror, and she helped me to get that back. I have no issue telling someone they are being racist, ableist, and can stop their derailing most of the time. Renee is a great educator and a great friend.

Kowalski helped me to accept some of my vulnerability. I know I can email either of them if I need to just talk. If there is a moment where nothing else can get me to keep going. Kowalski taught me that it is important to not let my voice be silenced, because with some of my labels it may be permanent. Kowalski also taught me something else. To love me. How? The writings of Kowalski are often a mirror to what I need to face to heal.

I have survived great violence against my identity and person. My right to take up space was violated. I was raped, starved, threatened, and almost murdered. I was worn beyond the brass tacks of my soul. You my readers and friends (there is overlap there) gave me the ability to fix my wheels the first time they broke. Now you get to read about my forcing a new wheelchair out of the insurance. You gave me the freedom and means to LIVE.

I have begun to cry when I write this, and most of it is joy, yet there is mourning. I look at my broken scooter and I think of all the things I did with that freedom, and I think of how closely I came so many times to death. This ignores the fact that I am still fighting suicide. I will win. My scooter even helped William find his new home. He is happy now, I called his new owner and William, who scared me badly towards the end is seen as the best behaved and most angelic feline in the entire world.

I would write even if no one read it. I have blog posts that are hidden away on my hard drive that no one will see, at least at this point. To everyone who has written me using the contact form that sits somewhere on the blog saying I helped you… you helped me too.

As I sit here knowing I cannot ever return to some of my most beloved activities, and in some ways certain types of activism even after I get my mobility back, I mourn and move on. I create new hobbies, new goals, and new dreams. It is no longer life ending to admit that for my own life I must not do the very things that I thought made me who I am. It is no longer the end of my world.

Thank you. I could name more names, but even so there are some names that should remain private. Some people whose names I do not even know who helped me. I hope that the next year my writing continues to help people, including myself. I plan to write more and more. I am still working on getting up to “it” enough to write for the Womanist Musings blog. I may even try art again, new ways new methods. I even plan to find a photographer and set up a photoshoot for who I am, so that the pictures of who I was no longer are the only ones that exist.

Some stats for the last year:

The main page of this blog has had 3,765 individual page views not counting my own

The most clicked on post from around the net is Amazonfail

This is followed by Vanity

My About page is also one of the most popular pages nearly matching the home page stats.

The busiest day for my blog with 591 views came in on Monday, April 13th, 2009

April also was my top month for visits with 3000! However my average monthly page views EXCLUDING April is 1500.

Some search terms used to find me, most popular to least:

The Oblongs

Beth Oblong

Textual Fury

Tracey Ullman

Short Girl Cartoon


Kateryna Fury

Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome

“Autism Speaks”

Rules for service dogs

tumor artoon

Albuquerque NM Ehlers-Danlos Groups

Trigger Warning

Carl Joseph (This refers to Carl Joseph Rove, a young man who died as a result of hate)

Murder Kit


Autistic “Abusive House”

Tracey Ullman Blackface

Hidradenitis Supprativa


“Disability” romance novels

signs of textual abuse


how to kill yourself

tired in pain

whatever happened to baby jane

anger cliches

There are way more, I just found these the most interesting or ooooh there’s mah name!

So for the last year and then some… thank you.

Rape, Molestation, and Trigger Warnings (Trigger Warning)

I am sitting here in a moment of pain and anguish that has my body and brain fighting for supremacy. If my body has it’s way I will rest in bed and sleep. My brain is however screaming to be heard. My heart is broken. A judge has decreed that, with allegations of abuse that the judge believed, two small children are to be left alone with their SEXUAL PREDATOR OF A FATHER. This link has a trigger warning on it. I know most of my posts come with one. My life is triggering for me and I know can trigger others.

I am triggered back to Thanksgiving. I was in the same place, with adults knowing. I could have been saved. I am a very angry woman at times because of this. When the judge who sentenced me to rape, as this judge has these girls, at the same age as the youngest… when that man died? I was so very happy. He couldn’t hurt anyone else. This judge needs to have his ability to be a judge removed. This needs to be appealed.

Their mother needs to deny him his “legal right”. No man or woman who is a predator has the right to their children. This is why the foster care system exists. The system is abused, I know that, but if neither parent is capable that is the core ideal. The mother is not referenced much and I am presuming she is capable. It’s called Sole Custody with limited visitation or NO VISITATION. It’s called respecting that when he gets into the room with those girls and rapes them, and breaks them, you Judge are as guilty of that rape.

I feel the hands on me again. I feel that terror. I feel like puking. Molestation is a “pretty” word used often to hide the depths of sexual abuse in reporting. The fact is, that this man will rape his children. That is why they have to lock the door. I can see them sitting as I once did. The dark room, if there is a window you sit beside it. The bed covers are pulled over you, you wear your pants so that it’s harder.

My step mother was there sometimes when he did rape me. She condoned it actually, because it kept him out of her bed. An adult cannot protect them. Their lives are now on a dangerous precipice. I pray that they are strong. The betrayal of the system does not shock me, it cannot because my betrayal wasn’t news worthy. Perhaps public outcry will help these girls.

Perhaps in a few years when they start to look to healing, they find this post or one like it and know they aren’t alone.

I was eight years old. It’s been almost twenty years. Almost TWENTY YEARS. I am not over it. I never will be over it.

I hope that this judge is punished and his sentence, for these girls have been SENTENCED AND PUNISHED BY HIM is overturned.


I am a woman. I have never had doubts that I was female… or have I? There is a period in my life I do not talk about often, when I wanted to be a boy. I tried to cut off my breasts, I shaved my head, I desperately wanted to stop being female. I do identify as a female but, it was terrifying because the world hates women. This was one of the steps that lead me to know that persons who are born transgendered, inter-gender, or even without a gender (links to Norrie and Clair Lewis) are born that way.

This period helped me to deal with my struggle when I realized I am bisexual. I actually have a stronger preference for women than men. I often joke that this is because women taste better, to lighten the mood if I am outed. I live mostly in the closet, because my community is in accessible and I am fearful. Also, because of my mother’s reaction the first time I told her. She told me I was instantly a whore. I was slut shamed, I was told I was a liar, and I went with it because I had no recourse.

I admire anyone who lives with their sexual identity and gender identity in the open when it does not match up with the lie of Gender Binary. I have many friends who are between the two pegs that privilege reigns with in. I admire the strenght it takes just to be yourself when there is little to no protection for you in this world and your gender or lack there of makes you a target. That must be beyond terrifying.

I just did my census form, and there were only two check boxes. I secretly hope that those who do not identify as female or male make their own box. This of course may cause issues later but, the fact is, if you don’t fit in the little box then make your own!

This post is in honor of the 11th Annual Transgendered Remembrance day. This link is to a blog called Deeply Problematic, a blog with a series of other links about today and this issue and this link is to the memorial.

I find it striking how many of our brothers and sisters did not have a photo. Something about that strikes me. The lack of photo mirrors a lack of acceptance.

I light a candle and the candle is for each loss we know of, and the many we do not. I light a candle so that no one forgets your murder.

  • Polls

  • Ye Olde Archives of Fury

  • Top Rated

  • Top Clicks

    • None