I Have a Right To Tell My Story and to Use any Material that Reinforces the Veracity of My Story

Life, goes by with little markers that seem almost unnoticed. I quit smoking 5 years ago and the day went buy with a mention. In the beginning one day was a huge deal. A week, monumental! A month, well that could be worth a steak dinner. Your children pass their landmarks with cakes, candles, photos, and gifts. We pass the year marking the seasons and special days like birthdays, Easter, Christmas, Holidays, doctor’s visits, another year of life after my husband had his device implanted. Day after day march by in perfect formation and timing.

Another marker went by yesterday that I wish had not. The last time I self-harmed was November. I made close to a year. I made it 9 months. I fought it for 2 days and the succumbed. The emotional pain became like the steam escaping from a pressure cooker. It had to be released by the self-harming or I might have done worse. For me it is a non-event and brings about enormous relief, but does leave me with shame and self-loathing. I don’t hide it anymore but show someone. This time my husband who just put his harms around me and hugged me tight. No blame, condemnation, or accusations. But he can’t understand. How can he when I don’t.

There was a dialogue on a local FB site and they were asking about the use of cursing. I do not believe in cursing, escpecially the F-bomb as they call it. I said as much and attached an article from a Christian book about Profanity and the moral decay of society. I was flamed. Harshly. Told that if I practiced love I would be better. I was told to “get a grip lady”, and other things. It wounded my soul as I know I am a very loving, caring, and extremely compassionate woman. Too much so at times. I started to unravel. Why did I post it?

Well it talks about welfare and people not caring. We lived in small towns where many lived in welfare. I have many cousins whose parents were on welfare. Husbands were drunks. Mothers drank. Their existence was horrible. Many of their homes were hovels. Why would they care? 6 kids in a two room shack with no plumbing. 4 kids in a two room shack. Coal and wood stove. My mother was cruel. Others were cruel too. Some didn’t care and let their kids roam day and night. We were taught to steal. Anything was fair game. Anything you had and we didn’t have was fair game.

Men came day and night, and parties. We saw our mother and aunts in the act of sex. The husband or boyfriend came home and took it where he wanted it. Even if she said no. Even if all the kids where there. A drunken father would bring the bar home and sell his daughters to the drunks that wanted them. Would ask his boys if they wanted a try. Many were sexually active before 12 and married before 16. We saw men jumping out of the windows of my mom’s house and my aunt’s and cousins houses. In my own family there are six kids with the potential of 4 different fathers. I saw aborted babies pulled out of the toilet

Most of the girls were sexually abused by the time they were six years old. They were abused by brothers, sisters, fathers, grandfathers, and strangers. To escape the horror they would get pregnant, run away, take drugs, get drunk, get married. And the cycle would start again, but it would be worse. So much worse. It breaks my heart to know how worse.

And words. It’s a lie that words will never hurt you. It is such a lie. When the F word was said it was always connected to harm and danger. Strangers having sex with woman saying “I’ll F*** you if I want to you f*ing b****!” My mother swinging the conveyor belt and scaring my body with bloody welts say “If you weren’t f****** guilty you wouldn’t be f****** crying .” Only when I quite crying out of exhaustion or because I was at the verge of dying, would she stop. Belt buckles wrapped around the neck and teeth knocked out “You f***** asked for it”.  Always harm. Always anger. Never safe. Never funny. Never just a word.

This article mentions this. It goes on to mention disobedience of god’s laws resulting in crime, murders, car jacking, rapes, theft, homosexuality…..OOPS!  God and sexuality in one sentence. What a religious bigoted hater I am. Sad. I have two brothers who are homosexual. Scott Peck, MD writes in Children of the Lie he writes that the scapegoat son of Malignant Narcissist Psychopath mothers are frequently unable to have relationships with women. When I asked my brother he said he “F***** hates women”.

Hatred? Bigotry? Inability to Love? Are you kidding me? I don’t hate the people who did this to my family. I am not a bigot, I love everyone including the impossible ones. Oh course you must be kidding. I love my brothers with everything I have to love. He knows what happened. I know what happened. My brothers, sisters, cousins, all know what happened. The poor kids in my neighborhood and my mom’s neighborhood know what happened. Gosh, some of the kids took part in the wife swapping parties.

Someone is outraged because I posted hate? You need to be outraged because it is truth and it goes on far more than you know. That is the outrage. Not the mention of God or homosexuality, or the behavior and moral decline. I have looked into the eyes of men and women who have just given up and have no hope. You leave them a bag of oranges and they neither look left nor right nor at you to acknowledge you. Why? Because they know it doesn’t matter. Tomorrow they will be gone, and then what. So many nights I went to be hungry. Many nights a mead was macaroni with just margarine. If we were luck we had macaroni with ketchup.

I escaped. So many don’t but don’t get angry when I speak my truth. It might not be pretty, but I lived it and I have as much right to tell my story as anyone else. Much more right.The words written blamed and accused me for being something I was not. They caused me to panic. In my mind I feel the beatings. I feel the fear. I feel the hatred. I panicked and took down my posting and then was accused that I had done it because I knew they were right. My mother would say that when I stopped crying because I couldn’t cry anymore. I reached out to everyone I knew how encourage me. Then in the middle of the night my mother’s voice came to me “You now, you’d be better off dead. Everyone hates you anyway, and it would be better for you to do it than for me. You will be sorry if I have to do you F**** waste of space.” In the morning I slashed myself. I don’t know how many time. I have a road map to my pain.

My God weeps for the poor and calls me help them.

Psalm 10:14

“But you, O God, do see trouble and grief; you consider it to take it in hand. The victim commits himself to you; you are the helper of the fatherless.”

Psalm 12:5

“‘Because of the oppression of the weak and the groaning of the needy, I will now arise,’ says the LORD. I will protect them from those who malign them.”

Psalm 140:12

“I know that the LORD secures justice for the poor and upholds the cause of the needy.”

I hate this, I want it to stop, I don't want to remember, but I have to. I need to get better. I thank God for the people who "get it". The people who create fear in my, well I thank you too. It shows me where I still need to work on myself.