I Write

Too much coffee

Too much weed

Whatever can keep me from thinking of you

Coming to the end of the sugar from our home

Nights and days, they're all the same

No longer on that bench,

just another couch

Someone pushed my shoulders up the other night

Asked me what I was reaching for

So I'm going to write something

something about you

maybe one day it will be a song

my stage and lights up bright

for you

thank you

thank you

thank you

allowed to be free is now my choice to see

all of that anarchy

gave me glory

love got me sober enough

gave me a story

got me back, to here and there

back to you again

I rip up the pictures, walk to the next home

thank you

thank you

thank you

allowed to be free is now my choice to see

you never would have loved her

you never loved me

free, free, free

love got me sober

never about you

it was me

thank you

thank you

thank you

no need for your permission

now my choice to see

that I was always free

He taught me that it was me.

Not everything is about me.

My roommate has been off these last few days, and I've been in panic. Has my leaving of rinsed dishes in the kitchen sink pissed her off. I've been super depressed, and I communicated that to her. We tried to communicate everything we could before moving in together. Our boundaries and needs. Some shit to expect. I fucked up. I fucked up. She is pissed at me. She hates me. I fucking suck. My cat has been annoying too! I spiraled.

So today I talked to her. I asked her if there was anything she needed to talk about. I asked if she was upset with me. She said she's going through shit. I know she has anxiety and suffers with depression. I know she lost a friend to suicide right around this time of year. I know she is seeing family for the holidays. I know she is discovering herself right now. She has her own shit. 

I don't know why I think it's about me. Everything in my life, when someone is upset: It's because of me. Am I self-centered? Is that why I blog? Do I write because I love to write or because I want to feel tall? Am I a Narcissist? Am I a Narcissist who is attracted to Narcissists? Who did my dad make me? Who have I let myself become?

Am I bad like him?

I'm o-fucking-kay.

    I have been having issues with my car. I have cried because it was the shit icing on a shit cake. I have felt disappointed in my luck. I have chain smoked about it. What I haven't been though, is furious. I haven't been alone. And what a fucking difference that has made. See, I believed that I was a shitty girlfriend because I handled stressful situations badly. Yet, all of those situations were me doing it alone. I had to beg for any effort shown from my ex. Labor on top of labor; that sums up my time with him. So yes, I yelled and screamed and threw things. I was taking care of me, I was taking care of us, I was taking care of our home, I made sure the bills were paid on time, I took the car to the mechanic, I made sure the parts we needed were purchased, I took care of keeping our cupboards filled, and I was taking care of him; all while he treated me like shit. I didn't know he was treating me like shit at first, then I knew but shoved it down because I loved him and I just knew he was a good person deep down. Then I knew he wouldn't change but I couldn't leave, every time I tried it felt like I had cut out a piece of myself. It was worse than withdrawal from cocaine and booze. I was addicted to him, and he had made sure of that early on. 

Sometimes I wonder if his "wingwoman" isn't also an awful human being. Did she help him plan it? She gave me Molly and encouraged me to text him after a break-up to a dirtbag. She left us alone even though she usually hung out late. She gave us comfy clothes and said we could listen to music. Music. I had always thought we had bonded over music. We had sung karaoke together when we were co-workers. I thought he loved the same bands as me. So imagine my surprise when all of a sudden, he didn't love karaoke and never wanted to do it. And he stopped listening to music with me. He started shit talking what I listened to. I started not listening to music as much because we were always together and I didn't want to hear him say mean things and honestly, I was scared to let him know what I liked because he would make me feel stupid about it. I stopped writing because he said poetry wasn't talent and I never showed him what I wrote from before I stopped writing. So imagine my fucking surprise when a survivor of his wrath informed me that one of the things, he told her was that he wrote and loved writing. I didn't see him write a damn thing for the entirety of knowing him. Even cards he gave me were quotes from movies or TV shows I loved. Looking back, I know it was all filthy lies. Everything he does is a lie. He has played so many characters that I don't even know if he knows who Zackary (Zachary) Andrew Couch is.

What a sad existence that must be.

I however had car issues today. I said to my supervisor "It's gonna be okay. I'll figure it out tomorrow." It had been a long, hectic night at work and still I felt acceptance that I couldn't do a damn thing about it. Even now I feel a sort of calm. I'm poor, depressed, anxious, and struggling with my sobriety. Yet I am still doing better than I ever was following him around.

It’s going to be okay.

Charlie St. Cloud (10/23/2022)

 I needed to cry. I keep having these blocks. Like I get stuck. I can't proceed forward, and I can't necessarily look back. I fixate on one moment, shut down, don't feel anything and do not move forward. I don't want to feel and then I detonate. I relapse. I cry, but I don't fully feel it. It's survivable. It's a pain I am familiar with. Then I start again, trying to take on more pain this next time around. How many relapses do I have left in me? I cannot answer that. I just know I am getting closer to the edge. I'm growing familiar with the idea of my death. I roll it around and ask a new question each time. Getting the same answer: I don't want to go on anymore.

Then I get these glimpses of moments. Moments that I am smiling about. I should feel completely happy. Something isn't there. I am prepared to watch it fall. Nothing real feels that swell. Anytime I've let myself go; I've been wrong. Happiness isn't a guarantee. It's an option that I know nothing about.

So they used drugs. They controlled my emotions and latched onto my traumas. They made me their mommy, their daughter, their maid, the step-mother to their children, the wallet, the pocket pussy, the moldable plaything, and their "best friend". They wanted to play on the deepest most dangerous emotion: devotion. An emotion I've come to see as love, just like my daddy trained me.


DAMN. I found that tonight and that is rough to read. Sometimes we forget these moments. That's why my therapist told me to write when she found out I'd stopped. She told me to start writing again and when I started writing again, I finally got out. Our thoughts are poison. Our trauma will kill us if we don't get it out. And if we don't talk to anyone then abusers will abuse us for as long as they can. We get killed or we fade away until we become hollow. We can even end our own lives due to the pain forced upon us by men.

And I found this months ago. So the colder months have always been harder. I am so glad I have things to go back over. When I can finally afford therapy again this is going to be really important. I am seeing patterns in myself. I am hoping this will help me better understand what leads me to relapse and the suicidal ideation.

October 13th, 2019-October 13th, 2022

    The day before I prepared to leave from California, I told my therapist that I was fucking scared. I told her I was scared to come back here. I was scared I was going to fuck up. I told her my biggest fear was that I would relapse. I told her I couldn't relapse because of Zackary. He wasn't worth all of that time I'd gathered. She told me that I could do it. She said she believed in me. She said a relapse would never mean she didn't believe I could do it.

I didn't relapse because of Zackary. No, it was after getting punched in the face while protecting a child, after losing my best friend, and after finding out my "dad" had died and that my mother had found him in their closet. Then going to a funeral for a person I never got the chance to talk to about the impact he had on my life. I lost my path to forgiveness. Not for him, but for myself. Then after realizing that still, to this day, nobody truly cares about what he did to me. I have to forgive my family. It's heavy. It's fucking hard. And yes, Zackary, but he didn't cause me to relapse. He just gave me a reason to cry once I did.

Today was a really fucking hard day. I should have made it 3 years. Today I wanted to drink. That's how fucking devastating alcoholism+trauma is. It's why I don't know if I'll ever be okay. Too much has happened. Too many people have entered my body without permission. I've been torn from for too long. I wish I could say something helpful to whomever could one day come across this.

I just don't know if there is anything to say.

-D

It Started with Nick...

October 13th, 2022; what was supposed to be three years without alcohol and my drug of choice. To understand today, I need to understand what led up to October 12th, 2019.

So I'm starting with him. Before him, sure I had dealt with boys wanting to have sex with me. My second "boyfriend" cheated on me because he knew I wasn't ready to have sex. So did my third "boyfriend".  Nick though, he was my first relationship. He discovered me when I was 15, quite close to being aged like a rotting egg. He saw me before I ever saw him. It was before my sophomore year had even started. Me and my best friend at the time had shown up to find our lockers and get our schedules. We were so excited and definitely goofing off. I remember us laughing. That's what caught his attention. The senior boy across the lawn was drawn to my innocence and my fun. So he waited.

In my first few weeks of school, he'd stand outside the band room. The same place where he first saw me. He'd watch me. I noticed this but didn't think much of it. I was busy with my friends. I was enjoying what little time I had with them before I'd be required to arrive home. I was free, but it never could last. My "dad" kept track of when I got home from school.

The day he first came over he ignored me and talked to my best friend. He later told me he was trying to make me jealous. It didn't work. So jokes on him, he had to work harder. He used MySpace to do just that. We began to send messages back and forth. It was his playground. His personal obsession (whom we shall call Nicole) became my obsession. He constantly told me why I could never be her. She was also younger than me. This went on for all of my sophomore year and into my junior year. The back and forth. He liked me, but I was his fourth choice in his ranking system. Yet, I stuck around waiting for his breadcrumbs. I can't explain to you what that poor part of myself was allowing or why. It doesn't make sense to me even now. He'd never date me, just absorbed my affection. So I started talking to other boys, and he didn't like it. When "my virginity" was coerced from me in the back of another older boy's car, he decided to make sure I knew that I was a slut and not pure enough for him. He would send me this dude's picture randomly via Instant Messenger. He knew I was having a hard time processing what had happened to me. He didn't care about that. He only cared that it wasn't him. He resented me for something that I never wanted in the first place.

He went away to college, failed out, moved back to Utah County, and then all of a sudden: he wanted to date me. I was finally chosen. And I had to make up for the fact that I was "not a virgin". Him dating me was a gift and it was made very clear that he was better than me. I believed him.

I believed him for a very, very long time. Years after, I would still think: If I could have just been enough. If I could have just figured out how to be better.

That’s all for tonight… fuck.

Almost 32

More and more 

people who party 

are moving 

into the apartment complex.

This is going to be another test. 

Can I sit through loneliness? Can I one day be by myself without the constant fear of never being happy, and okay? I tell myself that "drug friends" can never be real friends, but I've met some pretty amazing people. I think we always ended up talking because we were there for some of the same reasons. We just didn't want to be alone, because it hurt too much.

Am I able to pass up the excitement of meeting a stranger and having a magical moment? I don't know if Disney movies fucked me up. You hear people talk about that shit. No, I think all of the Romantic Comedies prepared me for my idea of "Love". If a boy is mean he likes you. The bad boy always reforms and falls head-over-heels-in-love with the wallflower. There are meet-cutes, and they never lead to anything truly awful, outside of hilarious drama. And in the case of Enough (my favorite movie when I was a young girl) you end up like J-lo and you kick the abuser's ass. You beat them at their game.

Do I wish I could go over there and make friends, if only for my nights off? Sure. That's an old part of me that I must dig out. The fact that I'd rather escape than deal with what sits inside of me, it's a hard spot. Every time, (which is often) that someone in AA talks about how they drank for fun and shirking off their kids, families, commitments; I think: Geeze, that must be nice. I drank to escape myself. I stopped feeling comfortable in my body at such a young age, I was never allotted boundaries, and the trauma kept piling on. 

I don't know if I will ever be okay. Which is all the more reason I should get used to being with myself. I don't ever want to be the monster in someone else's story. I don't want to see my father. I don't want to belong to Nick. I don't want to be Camron. I don't want to think like Parker. I don't want to be as broken as Zack/Zach/Zackary.

And quite frankly, I don't want to be anything like most of the people I have dated. That's fucking sad.

I’ve often been alone.

30 Days

People expect me to move on, I'm sure. I don't know how much longer I can talk about Z before everyone gets sick of it and I become isolated all over again. Going public with his name and my experiences has just led to more people coming out about things he has done. It hasn't stopped. For most it's a sign of solidarity but that solidarity will only last for as long as a FB status stays visible. For me, it never goes away. Every damn time someone comes forward about something else he has done I feel stupid, pathetic, and either devasted or filled with rage. I feel sick. My brain is decaying. I can barely hold on to information and I always forget what the fuck I was about to do. I stopped crying. I know I need to cry but once again something has shifted inside of me.

I know this means he is getting everything he ever wanted. He feeds off of destruction. It doesn't matter that I know this. It does not matter that I am far away from him. It doesn't matter that he will never touch me again. I still feel him on me. I feel him inside of me.

I can't peacefully exist knowing he is harming someone else. How am I supposed to move on? How has he gotten away with this for so long? A part of me already knows that answer. It's because of people like me. We believe him. We fall for whichever character he decides to play. He finds people who want to be loved and he gives just enough, but not too much. Z hates to give anything. It was the hidden violence that gave him life.

He used to take my arm and twist it behind my back and push it up until my shoulder would almost pop out. Afterwards, whenever the pain showed up, I would say it must be from sleeping on the couch or from wearing a bra. That's how fucking broken I was. It's a gift I carry with me today, the pain that won't go away. When I'm stressed or I've been lifting something "too heavy" I am reminded of how I couldn't fucking understand then, but I do now.

One day I noticed he wasn't paying attention and I grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back and pulled up, just hard enough that he couldn't move. He was so angry and annoyed that I had the control. I didn't even hurt him. He was just stuck. Under my grip. For less than 10 seconds, and those are the seconds that help me hold on. When you come at him head on, you see him for who he really is. He is weak. He is familiar with his darkness, and he is okay with that. He's okay with empty promises because he is empty. I don't know if he was born that way or if he was made that way.

All I know is I won't ever completely understand why, and I have to be okay with that.

I made it 30 days.

Believe Womxn

I belong in this space.
You belong in this space.
Trauma is not a competition.

PTSD #1

PTSD pops in when you expect it, for sure. The worst moments, however, are when you do not expect to be blasted from inside your chest. PTSD, isn't just about loud bangs, although those sure fuck you up too. PTSD changes the way in which you walk, act, listen, and speak. PTSD makes you more aware of the changes in voice patterns of others and notice when a pace becomes a trot. Victims are able to latch on to any sense of danger. Survivors learn to work through it and panic attacks happen less often. Do they ever go completely away? I can't tell you.

I heard that I suffered from PTSD from the therapist I saw after being robbed. I heard it from the therapist I found when I was trying to reassemble a relationship, I truly believed I was destroying. I heard it from Kathy.

When I walked into Kathy's office for the first session, I didn't waste any fucking time. I got to the point. I said, "I'm fucking crazy, or my boyfriend is a Narcissist. I am losing my mind." Then it all came out: my father, Zackary, my substance abuse issues, the robbery, my time in Mormon Corp., and again my father. I told her of how I could get angry. Sometimes I just wanted to fucking end it all. I said fucked up things that I didn't ever want to feel inside. I cried, she asked questions, I cried some more. I didn't want to be a bad girlfriend. I needed help so that I could be better. I didn't want to have anything in common with my father. I didn't want to be cruel. ** Did you know that "trauma dumping" is a sign of trauma? Well, the more you know. ** She knew I was obviously a mess and I figured she would tell me to check myself into the loony bin and warn Zackary to run. Instead, she asked me if I was saving any money.

Kathy helped me save myself. It was something I was completely unable to do up until that point. She asked me questions. I could talk to someone. When she told me I had PTSD, I didn't just hear it, I felt it.

That seems like so long ago, and ironically, I cannot say now if I feel worse or better off as I type this out. I think that truly shows how fucked up my brain is. It's why I can't go back out there. I don't trust me. I don't trust men. I have no motivation to.

The reason I started writing this out is because I heard a man screaming with nothing but rage outside my bedroom window. I shut my laptop mid-episode and stopped breathing. I waited. Then I got up, ran to my back door, threw it open and got ready to beat the shit out of any man that was harming one of my neighbors. By then it was quiet. Too late though, because Mr. PTSD had arrived.

This is why I sleep with a baseball bat right by my side.

You can't have us.

Wanderer

    There is a difference between wanting to have someone and wanting to be with them. As I've reflected back on my relationships of all sorts, I see a pattern. There was a lot of me wanting to be with someone. I gave my time and asked questions. I tried to talk, even if we were just fucking; I wanted to know something about them, really anything. Isn't humanity based on connection?

Many of them though only wanted to own me. For a night, a week, a few months, a year and a half, or maybe even 3 fucking years. I was never truly living with those that claimed to like me the most and for always. Much of my time they locked up inside; controlling what I wore, doing something to ruin my mood if I was about to go out without them, shit-talking my friends, then shit-talking me. This was acceptable to me over and over and over again. I accepted the love I'd always observed and was told I deserved.

My father set me up for failure. Zackary was always going to come into my life. It could have been Nicolaas, Camron, Parker, Britt.... all of them breaking me down. I was being prepared for The One of Many Names. Nobody believes they are capable of falling madly-in-love with a monster. However, the normalization of predatory behavior, drunken abuse, love-bombing, and drug use are exactly how Zackary and I came to be. My bar was so low that he entered my body after just a shrug of his shoulders.

I was so much more. I am so much more. It's how I'm here now: alive. I grew and shifted; chose to open up to those scary parts within myself. I stared at who I'd become. Who I was still becoming.

I stood up. I fucking got out.

The Three of Us

I didn't know when I reached out to C, that M would join us in this hard, messed up, sad, devastating journey. Fuck, I didn't know there would be a journey. I didn't know if I'd be doing more harm than good. I lost balance on those fears. I thought of every scenario, different starts and middles, but always the same end: Z harms again.

So I reached out, and C reached out, and WE stood up together.

Since then, 3 have become 5.

Nobody wants to find out that someone they are dating has taken advantage of....

Nobody should be harming us.

So I had a break down. I've been having a lot of those. The number of predators in my life..... has had an impactful effect. And yeah, Z (at the age of 24, sexually assaulted/raped an 18-year-old). He moved on to the next target and she learned to live post-Z. It's a new normal. When I think back to how many nights with him, I remember vs. how many nights I do not, I get shivers. He dated me, so what about the girls he only took advantage of once. How evil has he been? I never thought I'd be hearing from someone who was only 18 when Z garishly entered her life. I never allowed myself to think it.

Every day, I get further and further away from myself. How could I have been in love with him?

I am not sleeping well.

Motion Sickness

 

I Forgot About Nae

I did it again. I got caught up in my head. I was so busy putting everyone else first that I started riding on fumes. The light was flashing and I just kept cruisin'. Last night choked me harder than Zack could have ever: people are awful.

Right now, though, let's talk about men, baby. They tell us we suck because we are too loud, too sexy, too ugly, too dumb, too pretentious; basically, we are too much of something -anything- that they feel like spotlighting at any given moment.

Some men figure it out. They realize that they need to do a little better. They read some shit and get into deep, meaningful conversations with Feminists. Give them a boundary, and you'll figure out how much respect they actually have for you. Oh, how quickly the mighty become simple and predictable.

My father had a black book of names. The men I've dated and truly cared for had their own lists to make them feel important. Nick was blatant and screamed Predator, girls were ranked and showcased as trophies. He had a type: young. The next a list of adventures; Parker wanted everyone to think he was brave and had seen the world while carrying so very little. He was a trust fund baby. He never actually experienced a single-fucking-moment-in-time, he just expected and collected. Then there was Zackary, my perfect imperfection. He was a mix of them, but we also shared the trauma of a horrible childhood. I had to love him. While he loved to destroy women and then add us to his list of "Crazy Cunts".

The guys that were old enough to be my father though; they taught me the most about men and those broken parts of myself. I feel as if I definitely need to point out that trauma gifted from the first man a daughter is to love and learn from then being coined "Daddy Issues" kind of solidifies how fucking warped the world truly is.

Red is my color. Rage is my pain.

Relapse & Recovery

I relapsed again last night. I both want it to remain my dirty little secret and for it to be shouted from the rooftop. I guess a blog is that unhappy middle.

In a meeting the other day the topic was recovery vs. recovered, and how those words make us feel. When I spoke, I mentioned that I no longer felt I could be comfortable in my recovery from substances, until I have recovered from my childhood. I said it's all too hard.

Last night I pictured myself jumping from the balcony. I felt that real feeling of the fall. I scared myself. My fear of heights isn't just imagined, it is known. I allowed myself to consider it so deeply that I had to get out of the apartment. I had to get out of myself.

When living in Nevada everyone used the dump to throw out shit. It was an "activity" for some. Small towns are weird. When we had driven out that day, I remember being very cautious of the drop, but intrigued by it. When he came from behind and grabbed me, I felt pure terror. As he hung me upside down over that plummet, I just remember thinking: He could do it. He could drop me. My mom begged him to just bring me back over and put me down. Her fear caused me more fear. He loved it. He was laughing and that's when he decided to let go of my legs for just a split second. I dropped a few inches and screamed. My mom pleaded for me back. Then he got angry and said she was making him the bad guy and he was just joking. I clung into my mother the whole drive home.

I know the fall. I know that darkness that comes into my mind. I am very familiar with it. Keep your friends close but....

So when I heard all of those people talking about what a good person my dad was. Laughing about his little black book of women's names, written as conquests. Saying that he had decided my mother was perfect. As if his thoughts are what validated how much pain she must be in, sitting there beside me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to burn that place down with all of his enablers within it. Instead, I held my mom's hand and cried. I cried for my mother. I cried for my brothers. I cried for my sister. I cried for all that he had taken from us. That funeral was a final nail in the imaginary coffin of a Narcissistic Prick from Ohio.

Only now, I have his little black book. I know my father a little bit more than before. His darkness knows no bounds. I know with certainty; the world is a better place without this man. I had to put it away. I was obsessing over his codes and what the numbers meant. He crossed some off, circled dates, kept track of the masses of lives he'd walked in and out of. He hates women. We are something to own, and not someone. What can I do with this pain?

It's all too hard.

Waves

K.E.C.

When I went to clean out his office, I wasn't really sure if I was ready. I hadn't talked to him in years. I could only imagine what his co-workers would think of me or what he had told them. I arrived tattooed, pierced, and sad. I was there for my mom, at least that is what I kept repeating. I think I knew then, and I definitely know now, I needed to do it for me. He had put up quotes and hopeful messages everywhere. I even found something he had written, placed upon his computer; a quote from Jimi Hendrix. I laughed a bit inside. I was noticing so many signs of a lighter man.

He had this before I came into the picture. I grew up seeing it and reading it. Eventually I ignored it. It was just in the background. I felt no particular way about it. When I asked my mom if I could keep it I was worried she would say no and I'd have to smile and say, "That's okay." Inside the pain would have stabbed me. It's mine now. I may not believe in a God or man presiding over me, I do believe in something bigger. I hope that my dad has a deeper understanding of pain and love. I wish for him to finally see things clearly and to grasp his impactful life; both positive and negative.

Mr. Conley was my dad and my principal during my early years of schooling. These last few days I've been reading what people are writing about him and to him. While in his office, we kept finding drawers and drawers of notes and cards from kids and teachers. He had kept everything he had received over his years of giving his whole soul to his job. Maybe he felt more love in his office, I can't be sure. I couldn't understand why he had gone into work with children if he hated us so much. That's what I had spent years thinking. I think he loved us as best as he could. He did fucked up shit, no doubt. He also had these moments of being the best dad ever. We were so lucky to have seen those pieces of him. I know how hard it is to heal and grow. I understand how scary it can be to work through the pain caused by the adults in your life. Topping on the expectations placed on young boys who are to become men, I guess that's something else I understand. My father was in pain. He was a little boy who had been told he wasn't good enough. He was physically, mentally, and emotionally abused. Passing from home to home while protecting his younger siblings. He chose a career that he knew wouldn't bring in the highest income. He worked to pay his way through college. That is where he met my mother. She came from wealth and prestige, yet they fell in love. He sought acceptance from those that looked down on him. She gave him hers right away. He worked his ass off constantly. It didn't help with his health.

So many people loved my dad. I found one of my dad's many notebooks. He had written "I don't want to be forgotten." It was one of the last things he had written, and he won't be forgotten. We can't change what has come to pass, we can only do better.

-Brooko

 **EDIT** I feel this is important to keep up because it shows how close I came to falling for his bullshit again; even in death. This was before I found his little black book and photos of women he had kept hidden under his desk.

Holes In Time

The deepest misunderstanding of time is that we have plenty of it. We don't.

I've watched a man run into fire and burn. I've lost an old friend in a head on collision, and too many people to drugs, alcohol, and depression. I found our family dog hanging from the fence in our backyard. I have had a gun pointed to my head and thought "This is it; my end is now."

Nobody wants to believe that hate, resentment, and disappointment will cloud their mind after learning that a parent is dead. Either we wish to feel nothing, or we wish for the sadness to be overshadowed by the comfort of good memories and the support of those that share your blood. I have very few good memories and I find myself once again sitting alone. I am but a girl with her cat. I'm in a storm of what I can only assume is a form of insanity. I guess I should laugh, maybe some of my exes were right: I am crazy.

Only someone crazy could love the people I have loved. My "father" drove me mad with his give-and-take love. The normalization of daily activities and interactions prepared me for every moment in my nearly 32 years on this planet. He helped mold me during my most early, informative existence. He made me angry. He devoured my self-esteem. He treated my mother like property, so I became property to another and another and another. My soul was yelling and raging. So how did I end up here?

How did I find myself to be sad about the death of a man who made my journey extra treacherous, harmful, and scary? Indeed, I am sad about the death of a man I decided to no longer call "dad", only a few short weeks ago. My therapist told me that seeing my family again should happen when I was ready, and on my own terms.

Life is what happens while you're busy making plans. I thought I had time to reassemble my pieces and then speak my truth. Maybe a small part of me thought he would fucking apologize. That's never going to happen now, and probably never was. The word probably will haunt me. It shall extravagantly stride whilst holding hands with all of the maybes from my daydreams of a better life.

"If only, if only," the woodpecker sighs, "The bark on the tree was just a little bit softer." While the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely, He cries to the moon, "If only, if only."

Today,

    my dad died.

November 9th, 2021

 

Stay

 

We don't have money like you, Danae.

    I started saving up money before I even knew I was leaving Z. We had talked of a future that included SLC but he talked about a lot of futures. I saved and saved. Every time a package arrived with his name blazed across, or he came up with some new, big idea or purchase that he needed, I just saved a little more. So when my therapist asked if I had any money saved up, although alarming, my answer was quick. I had money. I didn't have much anything else, but that I did have. She told me going No-Contact would be the best route and that it would be when I was ready not when everyone else told me so.

Then I sold my home. I sold my car. Those things should have been "ours", but he couldn't drive and everything adorning that 5th Wheel which made it a home had come from me. Once I packed up his shit, it was my home. I miss that 5th Wheel every fucking day. I used to think I hated it, but what I hated resided inside. So deeply engrained into my being that I couldn't see or think straight. I didn't hate the 5th Wheel, I despised him. To say my dedication to that incubus was twisted within his toxic grip would be the understatement of the century.

Love isn't harmful, and he loved to harm.

I remember asking myself and jotting down "If you don't like this person right here, right now? Why are you dating them?" I didn't get out for another year.

I went on to give my attention to someone that didn't believe I would, nor could leave Z. That didn't stop him from trying to gain me as another follower. Then someone who left a chewed-up piece of gum on my comforter. Then a guy who truly thinks he is better than me because he has more. Through those lessons I discovered something about myself. I haven't loved me enough. Maybe I did when I was a little girl, I can't be sure. What I can tell you is that my inner child is currently wrecked. I haven't had a moment to come up for air. I need a home.

One of the quietest places I have found was a little AA circle built amongst a gym for those in recovery. It's the first Agnostic AA Meeting I've found since leaving Portland. They had these pebbles where you could write a message, then exchange it for a message someone else had left. I found this little gem:

I have lacked belief in myself so much that I've been repeating "I Can't" all day, every fucking day. I'm lying to myself. My inner dialogue is wrong. I can. I did. I will. I'm going to be okay. First you get sober from booze, and then you get sober from men.... and then maybe booze again. Healing isn't linear and well, the Supreme Court done fucked me up all sorts of every which way. I relapsed. I made it through a pandemic. I made it through isolation. I made it out of a 3-year-long chokehold. I moved. I moved again. I got punched in the face. I moved again. I signed papers to rid myself of Z forever; only to find out he hadn't signed his half. He never did anything worthwhile. So when on top of all that, I was alerted of the movement of war over my body and my choice, I gave up. It was only for half a day, but it was enough. I blurred my reality for just a moment. Then I came back. It wasn't worth it. I still have fight in me yet. No man, no government, will ever destroy me.

I am womxn; hear my roar.

I am enough. You are enough.

What The Shit

    Getting out of an abusive relationship and then digging through your most inner parts to make sure you never go there again is quite the workload. It's hard, sad, exhausting, and leads to a lot of disassociation and breakdowns. Adding on to that, watching your best friend make the same mistakes you are trying so desperately to never make again, can be very triggering. Knowing their worth is being stomped on and dimmed makes you want to fucking light shit on fire. Let's be honest, everything is making me want to light shit on fire right now. So what do you do when someone you love won't leave the piece of shit that they are dating?

I took to Google to find out. It's been full of frustration and familiarity. Nobody could convince me to leave Z. I had to leave on my own. It is something I haven't allowed myself to receive credit for until now. I did it. I left. I got out. It was me who took care of the finances, physical labor, mental overload; just as I did in that dreadfully one-sided relationship. I had to sit in hell (Sacramento) for 2 years before I figured all of that shit out. 

So I will have to stand back (but still nearby) and watch my friend fumble around in her own -less than ideal- surroundings. I must find a patience I have never known and the unconditional love I've only seen in movies and read about in books. I cannot make someone be someone they are not ready to be. Keeping that in mind, those pesky boundaries must stay put. I did not agree to be in any form of a relationship with another Narcissist. I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing right now.

HELP.

I am going to AA meetings again.

By Now

 

Chasing The High

sirens of loneliness tear through my flesh

i begin to indulge in the carnage and mess

this big hole can't get enough

i must consume

i seek closure in not feeling 

comfort in the panic

panting and sobbing

chasing and charging

my account's overdrawn

they say when you love someone 

darkness becomes dawn

a distorted mock-up

tic tac lies

double down

while you flash those pretty eyes

i'm very familiar with my own demise

i must confess

partake of the dust

fuck, lie, then distrust 

every fragmented part

why don't you choke

solid carbon dioxide bloke

a worldwide craft

devouring nightly

a pact with my heart

when you stand right by me, 

you play your part

are you ready to decline

hardly recognize 

you and i

am i monster or something else

a triad of mischief

baggage and false pre-

tends, shit's tense

I'll fake it til i'm gone

baby....

i won't give a fuck

baby, i won't give a fuck

i don't give a fuck

Eu não dou a mínima.

Roe vs. Wade

I will no longer be having sex with men.

I feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders and out of my life. You wanna treat me like a second class citizen? A baby factory? A servant? A pocket pussy? Do you enable abuse then laugh off the pain and fear of womxn everywhere? Are you still friends with the Brock's, Zackary's, Scott's, Nick's, Britt's and Tory's of the world? Well, then you can choke on your semen.

Ladies, we do not need men. We're already discovering new and improved ways to make babies (Pro-Choice) without the ejaculation of a manly, man. When that day comes.......... I scream for justice. May we rid Mother Earth of the disease that is defined by 'masculinity'.

Bounds and Bounds

    Setting boundaries in a world that wishes you to have none is rather hard. Misogyny makes it ever harder; it feels like a layer of our skin is being pulled off. While we beg for it to stop, we get looks of confusion, sometimes a punch; too many of us end up dead.

Before my last two weeks in Sacramento, I believed that when I came to Utah I would be coming to speak with my mother and siblings. It was part of the plan. Life is what happens when you are busy making plans. I started to reach another layer of anxiety. I was crying and feeling resentful. In my last therapy session with my therapist, I begged for her advice. I needed to know if I was an awful person for not wanting to reach out right away. What if I never wanted to? She asked me, "Who is making you see your family?" I announced I was just, ya know, feeling pressure and some drowning sense of obligation. She told me something very important:

"You don't need to see your family until you want to. You are already healing from a lot right now. You don't have to see anyone until you are ready to."

I realized I didn't want to see my mom. I'm still torn and confused, sometimes apathetic, in regards to my siblings. So that's more shit to work through. I have to set boundaries or I will never be allotted the space to heal. I must only allow good people into my life. It is the only way I am going to make it through this alive and sober.

Today is a day.

-D

forgive Him bishop, for She has sinned

    I broke his toothbrush on the same day that I first uttered the words, "Fuck You." The target was my mother. I don't know if this was before or after he'd looked at my body. I know it was in the same house in that same time period. I was getting angrier and angrier. Everyone made sure to let me know how disappointing that was. I'd hear, "where's that sweet little girl we used to know"? I think they should have asked that question while staring in their fucking mirrors.

I used to be well-behaved, sweet, quiet, and a good care-taker of my siblings. What they said I'd become was angry, bitter at such a young age, rebellious, and troubled. I realized at around 11-12 years young that I did not agree with what I was being taught at Mormon Corp. I tried to understand. I wanted to understand. They had no answers. I was ordered to pray and do what the big boys wanted.

I grew up with a very unhealthy outlook on my body. I was told to cover it, and frankly I had very little reason to stray from that order. I believed I was ugly. I wished daily that I could get in a car accident so that my face could be fixed. Beauty standards are twisted already, but then top it with Cult-Frosting and you've got yourself a Mental Health Crisis.

Imagine the confusion of hating your body while finding out your father wants to see and control that body. I was his daughter and his property. He knew he could do whatever he wanted to do, and he'd face no repercussions. He was right. He told Bishop Denboer. He was told to repent. Bishop Denboer never even talked to me.

To this day I can't tell you what repentance is. In my mind it's a right to abuse womxn and children and then have it covered up by a higher up. So all of this confusion with complete and utter turmoil started to come out in anger. I broke that fucking bamboo toothbrush. I would do it again. Once I'd heard myself say "fuck" I rolled it around in my soul. It felt good to take my voice and scream vulgarity. It wasn't allowed. I did it anyway. What were they going to do? Cut out my tongue? Cut off my middle finger? They would have if they could have. There are versions of Handmaid's Tale already occurring. They have been there all along. Just ask all of the womxn who don't look like Utah's warped reality of beings.

I am well-behaved in the name of ethics and common sense. I can be quiet and sweet. I can also be loud and inquisitive. I am great at taking care of kids. I just don't fucking want to do it. I love that I can say I got here without healthy love. I feel like shit right now, but I must be fucking strong to have not yet put a bullet through my brain.

Fuck The Patriarchy.

-D

I Get Sad

 

the new fuzzy sweater

those purple shoes & my teal truck

friendship

I get sad, but I also laugh more than I ever did in those bars, those bedrooms, and the home I surely thought we'd built. I listen to music with people who want to listen to music with me. We talk about so many things; the big, the bad, the ugly. We go deep and still try to grasp hope. Today though, I am sad. I am sad for the woman who accepted so little, for so long. He pulled me down so that I would never be able to see how completely and masterfully beneath me he really was. It's sad.

Today is a day.

Purge The Poison

 

Mystical Bitches Rule d00d <3

Kung Fu Panda

You could have been here watching this movie

If you had just chosen to do better

But why would you be here laughing with us

When you could be choking on self-hatred and lust

You collect women

Rate us in your top 8

The lil boy never left MySpace

Wish I had countered the charms

Clearly seen the poster child for shitty art

Felt it in your lackluster touch

Held my hand just to capture my heart

Staging your hair this way and that

But for how long

Til you're no longer smooth and impressive

unadorned, unembellished 

After all what's a peacock 

without a pretty presence

Should have known I was warmer

Should have known we were different

Should have known when we fucked

When I wanted it to stop;

should've known

You could have been here watching this movie

If you had just chosen to be better

But why would you be here laughing with us

You only hurt the ones you love

A Cautionary Tale

 I see red flags

I see them everywhere

Financial Instability

Non-Existent Flexibility

No tranquility

 

Teaching me about myself,

with their own unclaimed mess

Jumping into a relationship                                  is a red flag

I will to you                                                               a red flag

I have become my own                                               red flag

I've found my superpower

I shall learn through my every flaw

Pick apart my inside parts

Come out the other side on top

The whole world shall burn red

Then I’ll see you,

My favorite purplish hue

I'll quit this nicotine,

just like I quit Old Town.

I'll have no regrets

No man will ever have to tell me to smile

I won't be an obstacle to jump

A bag of bones to collect

Me and my new eyes

Seeing freedom in all of the city lights

Windows flash by

Glass that's never known the reflection

of my Narcissistic boy with an innocent child's toy

I drive as a whole in the front seat of my truck

Breathing it all in

My hand clutches my own heart

His parts are scraped hither

Just more gutter litter

Waiting for the next storm

To dearly depart

I'm Still Learning

    You learn a lot about men throughout your daily existence as a womxn. Personally, I take most of my lessons from when (to their dismay) I've had no interest in having their existence enter my bubble and when I have had their penis inside of me whether I wanted it or not. However, the greatest lessons come from those that you once had sex with but no longer entertain. How the treatment changes when the chances of getting sucked off dissipate. You're no longer a good buddy, and arguably never were.

During my relationship with Z, I started to wonder if I was perhaps Asexual. That's how blurred my reality had become. I believed it had to be about me and not about how I was being touched or the fact that I'd had maybe a handful of orgasms during our violent and toxic sex life.

As I sit here pissed off and on the brink of yet another attack of tears and fears, I question the sanity in myself and all of the other womxn who continue to have sex with cisgender heterosexual men. I have never been pleased by a man in any way that outshines my own grit and smooth vibrating toy. The world makes us mad. I can't name one reason I'd need a man in my life. I can only repeat back what I've heard since I was a child. Who will open that jar? Who will reach the top shelf? Who will protect you? What about true love?! Twin Flame & Soul Mate! You'll find your missing puzzle piece, one day. I call bullshit. I am a 10,000-piece puzzle all on my own. There are no missing pieces and there never have been. Some assholes have just tried to shake up any progress I've made. I can open my own jars... or not. I have a chair and I can buy a ladder. There are no soul mates and twin flames.

I was born into an abusive home, raised in a cult, and proceeded to be emotionally, mentally, physically, and sexually abused so many times that I have to remind myself that it's not acceptable and not to be normalized. Men do not protect us. I've seen this in who my peers have chosen to associate with. I've seen it in the men appointed by "God". I've seen it within the eyes of the man pointing a gun at my head. I felt the full weight of this burden, as I held a crying child behind my body while I screamed for help. Too many men walked by that day, a security guard with a taser even ignored my pleas for help. I heard a lot of: "If I had been there, I would have *grumble grumble grumble*". Well, I was there, and I did do something. Proving once again, that men do not protect; men destroy, they claim things then stride around the biggest thing they've tried to grab hold of: Earth. They are so far convinced that they are "The Knight" in armor just waiting for their time to shine. They believe they are nice guys.

I shouldn't have to apologize for harming the ego of a man when I write, "men are trash". That man should maybe just shut the fuck up and figure out what he needs to fix about himself. This isn't our responsibility. Men kill womxn and children. They start wars to prove they've got the biggest balls. We are raped and assaulted, then put in a place where we have to convince everyone that it happened; some of us stay silent because it is far easier to wage a war within our very being than it is to simply talk. Men recover in their careers, as we become smaller.

We become unwilling side-characters in the tales of crazy, spiteful bitches, while they ride in on a tank disguised as a chariot. So I'm digging trenches and covering them with Mother Nature. Their tanks will fall and they will never make it up to my fortress again. I am prepared to get myself off in multiples, buy what I want, watch what I want, wear what I want, and to never again hear someone make fun of my love for music. I will live for myself. No man shall take that from me again and then get away with it. Maybe it's time we do instigate something. May we gather around our cauldrons. Let us unite and set fire to every organization, group, and person that enables and willingly participates in the damage we are hit with every time we leave the house. Oh fuck, the monsters even come into our homes.

I end with this question: "How many men are actually a friend to womxn?" I look around and I can't see a single thing that makes me confident in any cisgender heterosexual man I meet and know. That's on them.

I'm done.

Bad Habits, Naughty Boys

     He was a habit and a key component to my cycle. I seek out the familiar, relate to pain, strive to fix and paint lies a rosy hue. It's what I've always known, and the unknown is scarier. There is no hope. When you are broken you can't see the future including anything healthy or safe. So he got away with touching me as he did and I stayed. The only question I can't seem to answer is how I seemed to have fallen so deeply in love with such a cutthroat Narcissist. I'm sure every boy/man leading up to him, trickle down the breadcrumbs I definitely need to escape from this vast forest.

Women are poked, prodded, and molded the moment they take their first breath. We learn early on that "boys will be boys" and that we should shrink and fit into the boxes placed before us. How often did we hear "Awwwww! If he's picking on you that means he likes you"? Boys were essentially raised with a different outlook on cruelty. Entitlement sets in early on, and we see the repercussions as we walk through this dangerous world. Cat-calling is supposed to be a compliment. I was 11 years old the first time I was cat-called. A drink at the bar is payment towards attention and the desire to make our body theirs; all for $8. In the same breath men shit-talk sex workers. We can't escape the vortex of Toxic Masculinity. It swarms around us; harming our fellow womxn every day.... no, every second.

So we love men. We pretend that they will be different. We settle, make excuses every time we have to mother them, and take on the role of educator who gives them blow jobs. Every time we hear them gag on a toothbrush, resentment builds. Every time we have to walk around, or even more vile, step on a pile of their snot and spit; the resentment is back. Pounding against every fiber of our being. This is their world.

The Patriarchy is so deeply ingrained in all we see. On May 11th, 2022, I became a victim (one day survivor) of yet another violent crime. Since then, me and my friends have been running in circles trying to gain protection. The cops obviously did nothing. The Victim Advocate we were connected to through the lovely Salt Lake City Police Department did nothing. We keep hearing "It's just the system." If this were a drinking game we'd surely be drunk.

So I reached out to The Lauren McCluskey Foundation. If anything, I just needed our story to be heard by someone who cares, and they promise to listen and believe you when you are feeling threatened. I reached out to Get Gephardt from the local news station. I have yet to hear back, which is not surprising. I have found a Victim Advocate through the District Attorney. She actually seems to care, and even went so far as to say "he is scary" which is more validating than anything else we've heard from those working within our government. 

I came back to Utah with the intention of healing from all of the abuse and violence I've formerly endured. I came to grow. I came to learn how to sit with myself and be content with what I was feeling. I was punched in the face by a man while protecting a child not even 10 minutes after we'd finished moving into our new apartment at The Kensington. He told us he'd get out, he'd come back and it would be worse. We discovered violent priors all the way back to 1994; harming women, ignoring a protective order, a gun charge, assault; that's just the tip of the iceberg. He started watching us, right across the street. We begged the police (ACAB) to do anything at all because we were desperate and had no where else to turn. We are pretty sure he was following us one night when we walked around the block; but no one cared. We begged for a protection order/stalker injunction during our journey through the court house, nobody seemed worried or bothered each and every time we had to repeat our trauma.

So we had to leave our apartment. We had to mourn the loss of yet another future stolen from us by a man and "the system". We are not living there but we are still paying rent because The Kensington refuses to release us from our lease even though they knew a violent criminal lived in the building. They knew he was beating his wife and step-kids. They just didn't care. The Kensington doesn't care even today.

So I am not healing from anything right now. I'd be lying if I said there weren't days I've almost relapsed. To be a womxn is to be an unwilling soldier in a world war we didn't start. So to the assholes that claim womxn who want to be equal should also be required to be drafted into their battles: We were born into your ravenous fray of rape, chaos, and death.

YOU instigate shit every day.

WE are expected to step aside and stay quiet.

I scream "NO".

“You will not fucking touch her.”

Let him...

“Let him be kept 

from paper, pen, and ink;

so he may cease to write 

and learn to think.”

April 20, 1999 / May 24, 2022

     On the day of April 20, 1999, I was being watched by a family friend. I remember eating a pack of Scooby Doo fruit snacks. I didn't understand what was going on exactly, but I knew it was bad. Students were running away while cops were standing around. A body lay on a sidewalk and another across a grassy field. Eventually someone climbed through a broken window and there was blood. I was impacted by that day, as just a child. That is the day I learned that going to school was not as safe as I'd once believed.

The family friend who was watching me didn't approve of the TV show Rugrats. She brought it up to my mom on multiple occasions due to the fact that my little brother and I quite enjoyed the show and often watched it together. Yet there I was, watching death and chaos unfold right in front of me. My parents were in Utah at that time. I remember being so scared they were hurt. She had to explain to me that Littleton, Colorado and Springville, Utah were not as close to each other as I was certain they were. 

Rugrats v. Columbine; priorities of Conservatives never make sense.

I haven't even begun to process yet another loss of young lives. A preventable tragedy in a country that can't seem to put life before ego. Violence brought upon the world most often by men, although we are told that isn't the case. The violence is downplayed and excuses are made. Both of which result in the never ending cycle of loss in the form of murder, abuse and rape. We hear and read people bellowing about abortion harming life yet *motions around* here we are.

It's hard to feel hope in a world, and more specifically a country, that is detrimentally hopeless. As a woman or living, breathing child, it has become quite clear: we don't matter.

Johnny and Marilyn

Johnny Depp and Marilyn Manson are friends. complete sentence

There should be no follow up to that. We shouldn't have to explain what that means. We shouldn't have to prove it. Yet here we are, judging Amber Heard; just as we've judged the women from before. (Leave Evan Rachel Wood alone.) I used to think I'd never be "the kind of woman" who ends up in an abusive relationship and that I could never possibly be my mom. Yet, it happened on multiple occasions. In fact, those that abused me most harshly, I loved. I was in love with their darkest parts and made them my own. I wrapped their issues around and felt the warmth of certain destruction; my familiar. I came from an abusive childhood. My father hurt me in every way. At a very young age I lost sight of healthy love. So I ran to those that mirrored what I'd always seen; sometimes I'd try to fix them and on the unlucky days they'd try to take me down with them. Addiction, abuse, a roller-coaster of emotions that started to lead to only one exit: Anger. I began to lash out, right on back. Then I'd carry the weight of believing that I was truly the monster in any scenario. Further and further I fell, until I almost didn't return. Sobriety was supposed to be my savior (laughable) but instead it became just a stepping stone, to the realization that I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't accept this treatment, because it was and is wrong. We cannot keep normalizing "crazy women" and we certainly cannot continue to judge the women who are speaking out. She could be you. She is me. I recognize so much of myself in Amber Heard. I've thrown things. I have verbally abused. I have finally hit back. Back, being the key word here. Between the mental health issues, trauma, and being surrounded by drug use; I became what I saw around me: I was chaos, and I was surrounded by harm.

When we speak out we question ourselves. When we try to leave we get pulled back in. A small part of me still questions that night he told me I had eaten a cereal that I had never had before. Had I actually eaten that cereal before?

The answer is no.

The answer no evades you over time. What's the point in saying no? They won't listen. By losing your ability to say no you are losing your ability to exist as your true self. So you become a shell of a human. Their thoughts must be right because you can't remember, and they definitely will change, you have to make it work. You love them. You need them. It's crazy how much you can remember once you're out. You start to realize that maybe your memory isn't so bad after all. You realize that you can do a lot of things without them. It becomes so blatantly clear that things are actually easier without them.

Then you have to decide what to do when you leave. Do you stay silent and move on? All the while knowing that there is a new target. Or do you speak? In the case of Amber Heard, she was never going to be allowed to release herself from his grip. So she had to face the world; lay out her trauma on a silver platter. Then the world picked up that platter and clonked her on the head with it.

Sure, maybe she's crazy. I've been called crazy many times. I too have carried the title of "slut", "skank", "prude", "bitch", "gold-digger". Even with all of those labels there are some things you can't change: I was abused.

2 Rooms

    You know when you can sit alone in a room and know that it is exactly where you're supposed to be? Yeah, that feeling, it is beautiful. I treasure these nights, because I know how easily they can flip. I've had so much directed at and around me since leaving Sacramento. It was supposed to be a time of healing, and sadly, now my best friend is along for this astronomically fucked-up ride. It sucks. How can I be capable of helping her when I can barely help myself right now? I want to maniacally scream "Let us grab my bat and go Brooke Hulk on these pieces of shit!" No. That can't be it. So I will sit here, and I will write; knowing my best friend is close by. Knowing that we are both so much more than "crazy", "moody", and unworthy of love and respect. We have been wronged for the last time.

The other night Cassandra told me that I have my shit together and my impulse was to laugh, then I realized that the reaction had been programmed into me. It became a joke, because so many people thought I couldn't do it, or even worse: they didn't want me to. It's not a joke; never has been. I'm gathering all of my shit and getting it together.

Nobody puts baby in the corner.

xo
-D

BACK AGAIN

She was going up

As he was going down

So he came to her

He came on her

Made her his

Always beneath,

But never above

She started going down

Pleasured him just the same

His love wrapped ‘round her throat;

Reality seen through a rosy stain

Passion driven to worship

All of the flags now a bloody resentment

Passages littered with bruises

Esteem desiccated; cracked

She needed the pills to conquer those hills

Then stumbled upon a Sunset

A profound new day welcomed her

Belief beget clarity

Knives out, he's always been the man

Cut, clip, nick, gash

His rage will never grip her again

What once was devotion, now a lesson

Know your significance;

Believe in that worth

Always bet on you first

Better By Myself

…and I could finally breathe again…