Poetry: Oh to be a man

Oh to be a man

To walk with those heavy boots

Stomping down the hall

With a booming voice

That makes everyone in its way fall

And feel


Oh to be a man

With a heavy leather belt

And the strength to make it be felt

That man given welt

Those rippled muscles

Ancient genes

Swinging bats and swords

Taking all in their path to their knees

Oh to be a man

To have that strength

To have that power

To not be afraid

To be secure

Not looking over their shoulder.

Oh to be a man

To demand

While others submit

Just to have that


The choice to stay

Or leave

Oh to be a man

With such presence

That can create silence

Oh to be THAT man

It would be easy

With the testosterone


But oh to be a man

who can possess gentleness

Oh to be a man

Who teaches and speaks

in soft kindness

And doesn’t view humble as weak.

And sees a woman in terms of equality

Oh to be a man

Who can rise above

Those men

And purely


SoCS:stream of consciousness Saturday

I don’t know if what I have done this past week is uncommon or common.

I’ve had a muscle disease diagnosis for over 11 years now. I’ve worked my way up to driving a few miles at most and that has taken me over a year. I typically stay on the prairie and down the dirt roads behind our house. Once I drove my daughter 7 miles to a Doctor’s appointment because my husband was out of town and it was an emergency. It only took 10 minutes and one traffic light to get there.

This past week while on the prairie the car that I can drive broke down. It sputtered and puttered home. I had it towed to the mechanic. THEN the other car which I cannot drive had the AC broken. As the one car was being towed I thought I would just boycott alltogether the limitations on this muscle disease and drive the car I cannot drive. The reason I can’t drive it is that it causes extreme pain. It takes extra effort to push the brake and turn the steering wheel. This causes me to then have days of excruciating pain and sleeplessness. So in truth, I can drive it, I just choose not to put myself through that pain when I know the other car is MUCH less painful to drive and there is only about an hour of recovery time.

Both cars needed to be fixed. My husband had JUST taken both cars in a few weeks earlier for other issues.

I decided to do this on my own.

I got in the car and drove to the mechanic. 10.3 miles. 17 minutes. I made it there. Muscle disease out the window. I got into the shop to wait to get the AC fixed and did not have the forethought of not having my scooter when I got there, being around tons of men, cologne, chemical smells, PTSD…nothing. I panicked. I thought I was going to have a seizure. Too many men. Too much cologne. Inability to get up and move. Frozen. All things very common for PTSD. I felt very exposed. Fortunately, the mechanic knows I have PTSD. He came over, sat with me, explained what happened to the AC, walked me out to the car, made sure I was ok, and then even came and checked on me again as I was alcohol wiping off the car. I also didn’t realize I’d then have to drive home! After all of that. I made it home and made it to the shower and made it to my bed. My body had succeeded and then the pain set in. Despite multiple pain meds, relaxants, and pain patches the pain was unbearable. YET I still did it. I fixed the car by myself. I had no cheering squad waiting for me to celebrate my 20 mile victory but I celebrated in my mind.

Denial is just a funny thing and I have thought about it multiple times since that trip.

I could deny having a muscle disease. I could even accept the pain that would go along with the denial. There is no denying the physical pain I am feeling right now as I type this. Even my fingers and toes hurt. But I can still push through the pain and do this, type this, get up and put in laundry. The weakness that happens because of this muscle disease I cannot push through or deny. If I can’t move, then I can’t move. My right shoulder is atrophied and my left leg is atrophied. I know those weaknesses and limitations and I can work around them denial or not.

So, I don’t know how many others with physical illnesses find it a common thing to just do what I did and say screw it I’m doing this regardless of the consequences.

I liked the fact that I had the ability to deny the disease and push through it even though I could not deny the later pain.

What I could not deny is what was in my brain.

I wish I could pretend I did not have PTSD. I wish I could just deny it, push through it, and act like it isn’t there. I wish I could deal with the pain, deny anything that happened that has caused the pain and just DO IT. Do ANYTHING.

Some may think well I did. I sat in that mechanic office and I DID deal with the PTSD. I didn’t. There was no dealing with it. There was no pushing through it. It was just as excruciating as the pain in my body but I couldn’t push through it in a way that made me feel invincible and strong like I did with pushing through the muscle disease. PTSD made me feel small. It made me feel angry. It made me feel defeated, hopeless, powerless, and as if life were just meaningless.

Yesterday, my other car was fixed so I had my husband take me there to pick up the car and drive it home. After countless uber experiences with clothes that had to be thrown away due to cologne and smells I thought, why not do this again! This car I could drive with no pain, the mechanic office was closed. I just had to get there, wipe the car down of cologne smells, and make it home. Denying again my muscle disease.

So I did it.

I made it home.

The pain last night from all of this was a cumulative affect. I started to cry. I never cry. I hate to cry. But I did.

I can deny or try to deny all of this in my life as much as I want to. It’s probably pretty common for most people do try to deny the bad things. But in the end we have to face the truth of it all. Last night I faced the truth of the pain in the PTSD and in my muscles. How difficult it was to do such a seemingly simple thing to most people. It was not simple to me. And I know it never will be. Common or uncommon, denial is a normal stage to go through to cope. I wish I could live in it like most people around me do. Just deny everything and pretend. My mind and body won’t let me do that. The truth truly does hurt. It hurts my physical body and my mind. I wish I could turn it all off. Turn the switch. Turn off at least a few switches to lessen some of this. I can’t. So I’m resting and writing hoping to find some peace and calm for body and mind. If that doesn’t work I will have to get out my camera. I feel tears coming again though at the realization of my life. I wish there were a switch for that too.

This post written for Linda’s prompt using the letters “mon” which I used as the word common and uncommon


Poetry: stream of consciousness

Free flowing stream of consciousness poetry TW

I hate the “you,see…”

In a poem or short story

As if the writer has brought you to this

Great epiphany

“You see, the girl was me.”

“You see, it was all meant to be.”

“You see, it wasn’t real.It was a fantasy.”

As if the reader had no clue

Through the entire story

That this grand finale

Would be in all it’s glory.

It’s just a line

Over used

Especially in stories of abuse.


You’ve not shocked them with

Some reveal of truth.

Why not start “I was raped”

And shout that from the roof!

First line


Not last sentence as some sort of



I mean really

It’s pathetic “You see…”

Nobody reading will really SEE ME

This isn’t a screen play

You aren’t an actor in a movie.

No one will call:


So lets stop the play on words

And leaving the big splash

For the last.

I am no character in your book.

Lost in the dark wood

No little red riding hood.

“You see…” grandma is really the wolf.

What I’m saying here is

Let’s not wait

Until it is too late

To teach a lesson

To validate

Make a statement in your first words

For all of our voices that went unheard

Tell all of the little boys and little girls

There really are monsters in this world

Don’t make them wait till the end

Give them a fighting chance

You see…?


Let’s begin.


Let’s try again.


It’s been 3 years. How did so many years pass? I was angry for 2 years. I’ve been actively choosing to be mindful and find joy and beauty on this earth for 1 year. The problem is that after the seizures I forgot the 2 years of anger. I forgot the 1 year of mindful. I can remember the last few months of mindfulness since my husband bought me my camera. I’ve been looking through the pictures and some of my memories are more clear now. I had 1 year of therapy that I can barely recall. 2 years of anger that I processed and worked through apparently. If you can’t remember all of the epiphanies and revelations and steps forward, does that mean they didn’t happen?

People tell me things like “Yeah I look for my phone while talking on it,” to try and console me and make me feel like I’m not the only one that is “absent minded” or “confused” or “dissociated” or “lost.” I understand why people say what they do but rarely does someone just say, “That must be so frustrating! I’m so sorry!” Most of the time that’s all I really need to hear. Because, yeah, we all look for a hair tie while there is one on our wrist or look for our keys when they are in our hands because we are all stressed and overwhelmed.

Yesterday, I took my wedding bands off and tried to put them in my ears while looking at my song list on my ipad and could not figure out why the music was not playing. Yeah, that would be because my earbuds were sitting next to me while I was trying to listen to music through my wedding band!!!!!! I’m sorry but that just does not compare to looking for your phone while you are on it. But this isn’t a comparison. It is about empathy and understanding. The seizures really caused damage that is not as simple as one may think.

Sometimes, we, I, just need to hear, “ WOW! That must be awful!”

It’s been 11 years since my muscle disease diagnosis. It’s been 4 years since my daughter got sick. It’s been 3 years since any of my family has spoken to me. It has been 6 months since the grandmal seizures caused memory loss. It is as if my brain has been struck by lightening and is misfiring. It has no clue what to feel, what to do, what to say, how to react, or where to go next.

All I know is that it’s been 3 years TOO long since my family has spoken to me. It has been 11 years TOO long since having this muscle disease. It has been 4 years WAY too long since my daughter has been ill.

It will be 35 years since I was first abused.

Next week I will be 46.



I wish I fully could remember the full year that I have moved forward.

Yesterday, I called my mom’s number because I forgot that she doesn’t speak to me. Today, I realized it has been THREE years since they all made that choice.

I look at these words as I write them and I feel all of the anger that I apparently processed but I must not have completely resolved.

To go through an entire childhood being molested, only to then get a disease, only to then have seizures, only to then have your child become ill, only to then have your entire family choose NOT me, is just…beyond anything I will ever comprehend.

I know there are many many more who have been through so much worse than I have. But like I said, it isn’t a comparison. Sometimes, I think it would be nice to hear, “Wow, that’s awful. I’m so so sorry.” Today, it would be nice to hear, “I’m so sorry all of that has happened to you.”

I mean if someone wanted to toss in, “ Your family are all a bunch of narcissist assholes,” well that would be ok too. If someone wanted to toss in, “ I cannot believe anyone would leave such a kind hearted sweet girl who had been through so much in her life and never done anything to hurt anyone,” well that would be ok too.

My heart is pained because I do the absolute best I can for MY family(husband and daughter) and even my friends, and I was discarded like trash by those that were supposed to love me.

With my memory loss I truly had no idea it had been 3 years!

Without my memory loss I truly had no idea that it had been 35 years since I was abused as a child.

Time does not heal all wounds.

Time gives us the opportunity to love and live with no regrets. I can say that I have loved. I have lived with no regrets. I have not healed.

I told my husband today that apologies don’t make me feel better. They don’t take away the pain or the memories. He said they would if they were meant! I wonder. I wonder if I will ever get a real apology from someone that means it after all of these years of my suffering.

My mother, my father, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins…discarded me during my suffering. I wonder what kind of healing would occur if there were a true apology for that. Would time heal wounds if during that time came remorse? I may never know.

I don’t know what time will bring me next. Healing physically? An answer to this muscle disease? Calming of the PTSD triggers?

Time? If you are listening…I’m ready for the good! I’m ready for the better! I actively try to move forward, do better, love more. I’m ready for time to give me some mercy. It’s time.

Dark poetry: The Aqua Door. Based on my nightmare last night

The black door has bolts

Behind it is the red door with levers

And the green door with hinges

And the aqua door with padlocks

I hate the aqua door.

The aqua door I know I cannot get through

I turn back to my room

Inside this place

There are no doors

There are no choices

Human no more

Each shell of a person

Each gender

Each morsel of food


Chosen for you

One bite of this

Enjoy it

You must

Or you’ll be covered in oil

And burned at dusk

Unless you are taken

Strapped to a table

One limb at a time

It won’t matter

If you fight or cry

What happens there I do not know

But the last girl screamed and kicked

All the way to that door

Which was soundproof

As soon as it was closed

There is no will here

Just torture

And roles



And one man

Who is control

No one revolts

They are robots

Doing as they are told

They’ve learned

Given up

Given in

To never going home

All religions

All ethnicity

All gender here

It’s a lab

We’re the rats

I stomach that fear

How is there a God

Who allows this violence

He is not above one man’s voice?

He sits on his hands

At the destruction

The inhumanity

This will of choice?

He knows the plans

He knows the path

Yet he cannot interfere?

But do not worry

They’ll tell you

It will all be ok when

You get to heaven here

But I’m there in that place

With God by my side

Watching that march

Watching the power of the pride.

So try to make your mark

If you can

Have your revolutions

And politics

And race

And religion


Of man

While he watches

And blames



The fall of man


The Devil


The Sin


Generational curses

Of Uncle Sam

Sip your wine

And drive your waxed car

Paid for by your

Fraudulent taxes

Scoffing as the homeless

“Just left another bar”

When really he has fought

In your fucking war

To stop what you type behind your screen

That you abhor

But you discard


Your door is wide open

To the privileges of your lies

So you quote Hippocrates

Or some bullshit philosophy

You tell me of the cross

As you move your hand

Over your heart

With your bless us sign

To a God that watches me

Torn into little parts.

You put your ear buds in

Your blue tooth

Ha ha ha

To your bearing false witness friends

You have no humility

As you boast of your worth

You act as a victim

Oh a terrible crime

If someone has scratched your

Prized possession

With your own

Stolen dime

As I

Cry out

Knowing no one will rescue me

Knowing men like you will just rise

Mentally ill?


Cast aside.



They’ll survive.


I’m locked behind that aqua door

No one chooses to see.

But I’m told

Have solace

That at least

God is with me.

Which I am sure is true

And yes it soothes

This reality

I just ask this

If Rosa Parks

Could do

What SHE did

With her free choice

And her free will

How can you sit

On that house on the hill

Doing nothing of righteous

Just along for the free ride



As those fall around you

The earth crumbles down

You stealing rations

Robbing still now

I’m with the others

Behind the aqua door

You’ve sacrificed me

And you’ll sacrifice more

For science

For the Lord

My life means nothing

In your corrupt



A window!

I see a white flowers

In a blue sky

Perhaps there is more

To my existence.

Than meets the eye.

Maybe one day



*photo taken by my daughter

The mirror betrays

Look at that hair out of place

Those wrinkles on an aging face

That body, such a disgrace

The mirror lies

Look at those cellulite thighs

Those boring, common eyes

Put on blush and make those cheek bones high

The mirror is not a true reflection

The mirror is not a true introspection

The mirror is a misguided perception

Where wounds are exposed with no protection

The mirror does not teach

It only misleads

Down a path

Of a self deprecating speech

The mirror cannot see

The real me

Just a distorted


Of imprinted


*photo taken of me by me

The cow that saw me and my PTSD

My blog title has two purposes. 1. Abuse is not my secret to carry 2. The shame put on me by abusers is not mine to carry either.

I have been brutally honest about the things that have happened to me, that were done to me, the things I did after as a robot going through life mindlessly with PTSD. I have shared the secrets that were put upon me. I have shared the shame that I did carry but that I let go.

I have moved through many areas of recovery from abuse from anorexia to attempted suicide to therapy, then more therapy, then more therapy, medications, hypnosis, etc. A year ago I embarked on a new phase in my recovery which was seeking out joy and beauty to balance the bad memories and flashbacks.

I’ve shared triggers, reactions, coping. I’ve shared my mindfulnesss pictures. I’ve shared my fears, vulnerabilities, abandonment, and more.

Last night something happened.

I experienced a triggering memory that did something.

I encourage and ask anyone who has experienced this to please share in the comments.

As I am currently feeling extremely alone.

I remembered an event.

As I remembered it I heard I high pitched noise in my ears. Then it was like there was a suction in my ears and I went completely deaf. I could see. I could see my daughter. I could see my room. I knew exactly where I was but I could not hear anything. I have no idea how long it lasted. I last looked at the clock at 4am. I still could not hear.

This morning the residue of last night slapped me right in the face. I could hear. I felt the weight of so much though. Almost as if I am in shock. I tried to shake it off. I went to visit the animals on the prairie. I watched the sunset. I played music. I was completely dissociated though.

It was not until I saw a cow. She reminded me of my sweet Jess who passed away a year or so ago of cancer, my dog. Something about this cow’s eyes and the way when I talked to her, she pinned one ear back. I immediately showed my husband when he got home and asked him who she reminded him of. He said Jess.

Jess always made me feel seen.

He alerted me to seizures but was far more than that. He was my constant companion for 14 years NEVER leaving my side.

Seeing this cow look into my eyes made me feel seen. I became present again. I blew her a kiss. I don’t know that I’ve ever blown a cow a kiss but I did.

I came home and the residue slowly seeped over me like this thick tar or sludge smothering me.

I’ve always told THE secrets of abuse. I’ve always talked about the secrets of my life. I want to share this memory.

I can’t.

Not because of shame.

I am just mortified at the additional memory that my body went through. I thought the first time I experienced PTSD or dissociation was much later. This memory took me to a mirror where I was looking at myself. I’ve seen myself looking in this mirror before but never knew why until last night.

I didn’t tell my husband other than that I lost my hearing. He thought perhaps it was my brain that wanted to stop input, protecting me.

It’s just so odd. I have come so far with removing the layers and layers of hands that were on me that I did not want. Layers of men. Layers of abuse. Layers of years and years I have removed. Then one memory has made me feel worthless. Useless. Pointless. Dirty. Disgusting. Unsaveable. Uncleanable. I wish I could cut off my own breasts so that I never knew what it felt like to have them touched again. I wish I could remove all female attributes especially my vagina that has been penetrated so many times unwillingly that I wish it no longer existed. I wish it was not even part of me.

I am logically aware that it would not erase the feeling my body has or the memory that is stored.

This memory though, it makes me think there is really no hope for me.

No hope for true recovery. There was just too much in my life. Too much done.

Here I sit knowing I can never utter these words.

Here I sit in my bed alone wondering if anyone ever went deaf with a high pitch ringing at a memory.

I sit here wondering how I will survive the past that won’t leave me.

While dealing with my fingers painfully typing since this lyme disease flare up.

While dealing with this muscle disease that has had me almost paralyzed for days.

I just don’t know how I can do it.

I still have to get up and fix my daughter food somehow.

I still should check on so and so and so and so as I know they are suffering and need someone.

I sit here feeling like I’ve been raped all over again.

Thinking no one would understand.

Feeling no one understands.

Feeling incredibly alone.

I wish I had that cow…think I will just look at her for awhile…it’s really all I have right now.