I Need To Hear It

Awareness, Domestic Violence, Family, fuck you, home, Journal, no trust, Personal, Poetry

I know how I feel, but their words drown out my voice.
I know what has happened, but they say I’m making it up.
I know what I have seen, I know it and I will never shut up.

It’s just sensory overload
You’re just displacing your fear
This is a simple case of, “_____”

maybe “it’s Just” what I’m telling you it is.
perhaps I know what I’m experiencing

“The social worker thinks it’d be a good idea to get you into counseling”
Have I not been saying that for three years?

Listen to me.

Just fucking listen to me.

I know how I feel, I know what I’ve seen, stop doubting me.
I’ve come to terms that you don’t listen, my words are like wind to you,
they pass quickly and you don’t notice them.
my words are like the sound of a subway passing,
quick and you’ll soon forget them.

I swear to god, some strangers notice my suffering more than you have,
and don’t tell me that this is my fault.
I didn’t bring this on. I didn’t call CPS.

Please someone, tell me this isn’t normal.
Please tell me that being yelled at, accused,
isn’t normal.
please tell me I’m not just too sensitive.
I need reassurance that I’m not just a weak kid who
doesn’t understand the world.

I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy.
I need someone to reassure me that this is not regular.

That having Child Protection Services at your house is irregular.
That being screamed at and blamed is unusual.

I need to know I’m not just exaggerating,
I need to know that I will be okay,
I need to know that this isn’t all me..

I Don’t Want To Be a Victim

Awareness, Blame, Domestic Violence, feminism, fuck you, home, Humanist, Journal, Personal

An issue that poses itself after having been a “victim” of domestic violence is that if it happens to someone more than once, which is statistically quite likely, people can assume that you’re not very credible or don’t know what abuse is, or simply favor playing the victim.

I want to state, for the record, that I have never wanted to be a victim.

I want to be happy, healthy, and safe.

You’d think that if a kid came to you and said they were being bullied on the playground, you’d listen.

And if that same kid came back and said another kid was bullying them, you might think (unless you’re a piece of shit) that there’s an issue with bullying at this kids school.

Well my playground is home, and my bullies happen to be the men my mom bring into my life. They are people that I share a bathroom with, that sleep not even seven feet away from me, they are people who I am not related to by blood or marriage – and who do not pursue any kid of healthy relationship with me. He’s here to fuck my mom and use her for weed money.

But these same people, or Person really, feels entitled to discipline me in his own fashion.

He disciplines me in ways that the scientific method has not proven effective in any conclusive way that promotes one’s mental health.

He uses fear tactics – physical threats, screaming, breaking things to invoke fear. He has never beat me, but has grabbed me while angry. Which brings me to my next point, my mom had a rule that she taught my sister and I when we were younger – to never lay a finger on someone when you were angry.

There were no exceptions.

Laying a finger on someone when you were mad, or worse yet, physically hurting them when you were angry, never led to anything positive.

I have listened to her, I haven’t hit anyone or gotten in fights. But when it comes to this man, who I will not call her boyfriend, because at this point he is an abuser – when it comes to him, these same rules that she has set for us do not apply to him.

He can grab my wrists when angry, he can scream at the top of his lungs and point a finger in my face, he can bruise my little sister’s back for bringing milk upstairs – he can cause damage to our belongings by throwing them and damage to my mother’s daughters by physically hitting us and using what is clearly verbal abuse.

When I brought my opinions to my mom, carefully laid out, I stated that I simply couldn’t see how she can ignore the signs of abuse, to which she responded that she couldn’t possibly see how I did.

Two days ago, I posted this image on facebook:

Spanking.jpg

And I will admit, 1) it’s obviously incredibly biased, and 2) it is the kind of post that when I see someone who I disagree with posting it, I roll my eyes and internally scream something along the lines of “MY GOD YOU NEED SCIENCE” – but it said what I was thinking. So I posted it.

The topic reminded me of how my dad would whip me with a belt and leave bruises on my ass. It reminds me of when he would hit me so hard repeatedly that I would be sore for days.

I consider that abuse – even though it wasn’t the only abusive thing he did to me or my family. I feel the need to say that. I feel the need to qualify my abuse. To make it seem serious, because not nearly enough people see abuse as it is.

But even though I didn’t post this with the man my mom brought into my home in mind, he commented on it taking a defense.

He knows very well how guilty he is. He knows what he has done is wrong.

Yet he had the audacity to tell my oldest sister that she was projecting her anger on to him, being childish, and playing the victim.

My mom jumped to his aide as well, and used the same example she has every time we’ve argued about spanking – about the kid who runs into the street and puts them-self in danger.

Which apparently merits hitting your child. Because, hey! They survived! Let’s give them a beating so they wish they hadn’t!

But honestly, let’s break this down.

So it’s okay to discipline your child with a firm spanking, when they are putting them-self or others in danger. Alright, I can acknowledge that this isn’t devoid of logic. No one wants their kid to cause harm – but what about those other times this form of discipline has been exerted? And what is there to be said about using this method regularly? Because if the purpose truly is to strike fear and create a memory about what not to do, then this should not be overused. That is simply psychology – if physical discipline is used repeatedly and often, the child will grow to not fear or learn from the experience (I’ll likely write another post about whether or not it is ethical to use fear tactics while raising a person, because I don’t exactly agree with that).

The aforementioned milk incident, when my young sister brought a cup of milk upstairs? (which had a lid on it, I might mention. It was a sippy cup) Did that require a spanking? How about the time she was crying in the corner because she was exhausted, as four year old’s get, and he aggressively made his way down the stairs to spank her repeatedly (not even aiming at her hind anymore, but instead hitting any surface of her body which was available) and leaving bruises on her back, and welts where his hand had been? Sure. It shut her up. Sure, she isn’t crying and he was able to go back to his room and smoke some pot and go back to his jobless life of mooching off my mom’s income, like he has been doing for the last two and a half years.

Did the milk merit a beating of such caliber? Did the sad toddler in the corner, who felt isolated and unwanted, who expressed this through tears, did she deserve to be beat? Was that a worthy enough cause for him? Is that justifiable?

If it is, shame on him.

This child has gone through enough, she has to visit her depressed father every other weekend who doesn’t even properly bathe her. She has to watch him be an emotional mess – he cries in front of her.

There’s a fine line between discipline and abuse, but to me, violence will always be violent. Hitting will always be hitting. I don’t care if it’s on my ass or across my face, this is my body, my autonomy, my life and mental health you had in your hands and you fucking obliterated it.

To caregivers, parents, or siblings out there – it is your responsibility that these young people are okay. You are responsible for the mental health of these people. You are responsible for their well-being. Their perspective on life. You are everything they have. You are their consistency, their world. Make their world as great as you can, give them every possible opportunity you can. Their worlds depend on you.

I am not a victim of my circumstances. I am not Bryan’s victim, or my dad’s. I am no one’s victim, no one’s abuse toy, I am an independent individual who doesn’t rely on an abuser to give herself an identity. I am not your victim. My sister is not your victim. We are fucking strong, we hate you and your actions with a writhing passion, and I don’t care what delusions my mom has about you and what you have done, but I am no fool. I see your bullshit. I see your phony grandeur. You are nothing more than a sack of flesh who abuses children who are not even your own. You left your daughter in Australia and had to take a moment to remember her name, you use my mother for pot money and haven’t even applied for a job since moving here, you sit in your chair that my mom bought for you, smoke weed that she bought for you, you sit under a roof she pays for, use a computer she funded, and internet which she bought for you.

Get a life. Stop abusing those who are bridled into living in close proximity to you. You are a fucking loser.

The Beginning and The End

Beauty, dads, Domestic Violence, Family, fathers, feminism, forgotten, fuck you, Future, home, Hope, Humanist, Journal, Loving Life, Memories, Personal

My life as I know it today started like this:

My mom was painting our living room, furniture was covered in plastic, windows were open to air the house out.Cross-legged on a desk, I sat nearby as my mom lathered the wall in a neutral base. The dynamic in our house had been different recently, I couldn’t pinpoint it then but I knew something was off.. At that moment, my mom broke some news to me. She told me something that would alter the course of my life, she told me something that I now know would change me in a multitude of ways. She told me we were going to be leaving my dad.

I sat there, at first worried, then I realized all the possibilities leaving him would offer me. I could finally be myself. I remember sitting there on top of my desk and thinking “I can finally be an atheist, I can finally watch glee, I can finally enjoy the things I like without feeling guilty”. I recall anticipating my parent’s divorce, and when I told my eldest sister this, she agreed, saying she felt the same way. We were excited for them to split, neither of us had ever been satisfied with the life we led when they were together. Little did I know, it would start the next chapter of my life – one of difficulties, of neglect, where I could discover who I was.

At The End of The Day

Blame, Domestic Violence, Family, fathers, feminism, forgotten, fuck you, Future, home, Hope, Humanist, Journal, no trust, Personal

Who does Bryan think he is? To come downstairs and start raising his voice at me in my house, on the one day I have off from school and other activities.

Sure, our house wasn’t clean, but I was going to clean it. I made a To Do list and cleaning the whole house was on there..

But instead of rationally discussing the fact that there was a dirty pan on the stove and the floor could stand to be swept, he yelled at me. He threw something across the room and saying “go ahead and run away” as I packed up my things so I could do my homework in peace.

On that note, I shouldn’t have to fucking worry about being able to do my homework on a saturday when it’s just me there with my moms boyfriend. I shouldn’t have to think twice about having to come home when it will just be him and I there. He can’t control his temper, he has anger outbursts. He spanks kendra out of anger when Riley and I have expressed our discomfort with it, when we have talked to our mom and told her how we feel.

I shouldn’t have to feel like my mom won’t listen to me because she will automatically take sides with Bryan. She doesn’t hear what I have to say, or she does but she doesn’t care that her boyfriend makes my life uncomfortable. That he makes me uncomfortable in my own home.

I am valid in feeling like my mother’s boyfriend should not raise his voice at me when I am alone with him. I am valid in feeling that my mom does not care about my emotions when she sides with him. Just because my mom does not agree with me, just because my mom does not hear me, just because my mom is choosing to stay with a man who has hurt all of her children, does not make my opinions, feelings, or ideas invalid.

At the end of the day, I am just a sixteen year old who wants her mother to care about her.

At the end of the day, I am just a sixteen year old who could really use a parent with good judgement.

At the end of the day, I just want to feel like someone has my best interest at heart.

My Perfect Partner

Athiest, beautiful, Beauty, bisexual, Domestic Violence, equality, Family, feminism, Future, Hope, Humanist, Jealousy, Journal, Love, Loving Life, Memories, Partner, Peace, Perfect, Personal, Religion, Small Things, Smiling

My perfect partner.. They would be assertive, taller than me, about a year older than me, pretty fit or small, kiss really well, their occupation would be in a field of science, they would be a mathematical person with soft emotions, we would share the same taste in music and humor, they would be atheist or buddhist. Preferably would have brown or dark hair, would wear leather shoes (probably oxfords or sandals). They would play chess, read for leisure, cook occasionally. High libido, masculine but not necessarily male. They would love theatre like Shakespeare and have wanderlust. They would aspire to know everything they could, never stop learning. They would love foggy weather, as well as the rainy days. They would share my nerdy side, loving Lord of the Rings and Sherlock as much as me. They would understand that I have many emotional issues, including but not limited to PTSD, depression, anxiety, and binge eating. They would understand that sometimes I really just need to be left alone or have things that are just mine and don’t share. They would let me go through everything I need to – like dying/cutting my hair, losing or gaining weight, that sometimes I get jealous and I can’t help it. They wouldn’t mind me spam texting them when I feel like it, that I can over analyze things because of my past. They wouldn’t mind that I can overreact to things, that sometimes I need weeks or months to just cry. Sometimes I can’t sleep. They would understand that I have a really difficult time loving people, that I have a really difficult time trusting something that isn’t fantasy or an animal. They would understand that I am a person who fluctuates in everything: emotions, weight, ideas. I’m constantly changing and don’t like settling. They would understand that I have a very hard time trusting men specifically, that I have a lot of triggers, that when I love I love fully and will commit like nothing else in the entire world because they are mine and they understand me. They would need to be passionate and caring, interesting but not a douche, kind but not delusionally so. They would never leave me. They would be really sexual, enjoy the mystery of large cities and live in one with me. Their last name wouldn’t start with an S because I don’t want my initials to be ASS (which sucks because I have a tendency to attract and be attracted to people with surnames that begin with S). They would be down for adventure at any hour. They wouldn’t let me get stuck in my ruts where I forget what I love..

Most importantly, I want to be attracted to them in the way that I fall in love instantly. The kind that makes me crazy, the kind that I can’t sleep over. Where I yearn to know everything about them and once I know that, I want to learn more.

They would be feminist, an ally or part of the LGBTQ community, they wouldn’t support anything anti-LGBT, they would understand the importance of spreading the knowledge of domestic violence. They would love me as much as I love them and I wouldn’t doubt it. They would like small dogs and cats, enjoy poetry and a cup of tea. They would own professional clothing – as a male they would wear a navy suit, as a woman a pencil skirt and blazer.. They would hold my hand when we were shopping, they would hug me often.. I would never doubt them.

This person makes me believe in love. They make me warm and happy inside.

Ronnie

beautiful, Beauty, Blame, Domestic Violence, Family, feminism, fuck you, Her, Hope, Journal, Love, Memories, Peace, Personal, Small Things, Smiling

There are two things wrong today.. I’ll start with the one that won’t matter in the distant future, and follow with the one that is more important.

I got a bad haircut. Well.. actually. There’s more to it than just that. I cut my own hair and wildy missed the mark. I fucked up bad. So I went to a local salon and they fixed it. The problem is – I hate what they did. I liked it when I left the salon. It was new. It was short. It was sassy and I was channeling my inner Khloe Kardashian. But then I got home and I showered, and I got out of the tub and looked in the mirror. It was different. The buzz I’d gotten was gone and I was left with a huge mistake that won’t grow back for a good two years probably. It’s fuzzy and huge, I can’t keep it down. I can’t curl it. I can’t straighten it. I can’t even take good selfies with it… I honestly want to get a pixie cut and forget this ever happened. I want to cry. It all happened because today has been the worst, though. Today was my last full day with my dog, Ronnie.

So, now we come to the real issue. My companion, best friend, guide, loyal pet, one true love, and my self-proclaimed bae who has been with me through all my struggles is getting a new home tomorrow. We’re driving to the Central Valley for my Grandpa’s 89th birthday party at his retirement home, and afterward we’re leaving Ronnie at my grandparents house so they can take her to her new home. It kills me. I don’t want to give her up and I really don’t want to leave her at my grandparents where they treated her so poorly.

She’s going to live with people she’s never met..

I wish I could tell them everything about her.. How she whines about everything, how she will paw at my toes when she’s bored, how she plays with my toes under the blankets when she’s playful, she climbs into bathtubs frequently even though she knows she’s too small to get out on her own, she begs constantly, she ignores her commands even though she had an amazing german trainer, she was abused by many men and now doesn’t trust any of them (especially the ones with facial hair or that wear hats), she snuggles me when I  tell her I love her, how she shoves her tiny wet nose into my knee cap when I blow into her ears because she knows it annoys me. How she peed on my floor the first time I met her and we still kept her because she so frickin adorable that you can’t say no to her little brown eyes and wagging tail (that has been renamed her “Happy Meter”). The way she wails when we put her in her kennel and how it killed us so much, we had to renamed it to her “transporter” for our own piece of mind (it was an ongoing joke that we never let go of). She endured two tweens dressing her up in build-a-bear clothes for four years, the constant changing of her name because it never stopped evolving (Ribbon, Freda, Reesta Skeet Doxin, Pooch, Ribs, Squirt, Reenie, Bibbon, Ronnie, Ronald, Ron, and countless others I’m failing to remember), She was a pop star, a whore, a model and a thousand unimaginable things that two tweens shouldn’t have been make-believing. She had a Dogster page, a youtube channel, a facebook page, a language, many friends (including: Connie, Ginger, Shady, Brendel, Tig, Nala, Dakota, and others), and particularly loved my friend Katie for some reason.

My sister and I got her for Christmas of ’08, she had a big red ribbon around her neck and we spent the rest of the day lounging by the fire with her in a little tan doggie bed. From that day on, she was my baby. She slept in my bed, I bathed her, I fed her scraps secretly, didn’t mind when her breath smelled or when she whimpered, she was mine. I loved her dearly. I remember when we got her name tag, it felt so official having her. I never thought that there would be a day where I would have to give her away, I figured we would have her until she passed away.. But things don’t work out as planned, and now we are having to give her to people who are practically strangers.

I love Ronnie with every fiber of my being, I love every annoying habit she has, I love our relationship and the trust between us. She is my fur baby and I feel like I’m giving away my child.. I’ve had her for eight years and I never thought it would end this way.

Bryan, the Abusive Coward

Blame, Domestic Violence, Family, fuck you, Journal, Love, no trust, Personal

I can’t seem to get away from abusive and anger.. About an hour ago, Bryan kicked my dog.. Remember the one?

ronpup

The sweet, innocent, little daschund? How can this keep happening to us? To her ? The worst part is that my mom is getting rid of her.. Between the fees, her shitting on the carpet, and now this… We can’t afford another lawsuit.. But I love this dog more than I love anything else and getting rid of her is killing me.. I am really hurt by the fact that my mom is making excuses for another man. Another angry, substance addicted man. I will not forgive Bryan. I will never forgive this. I will never trust him or accept him, and I will make life miserable for that man. He will not be welcome here anymore.

I don’t know when we’re going to be taking her to the farm, but no matter when it is.. I will not be okay with it.

When he kicked her, I pushed him and he held my arms. Tightly.

Earlier this afternoon, he stormed out and went for a drive.. I talked to my mom about how I disapproved of his violent nature.. This only confirms what I said, and she must know that.

But she is making excuses again, and that disturbs me. Will she make excuses for every man who comes her way and hurts her family?

Life Update: Soul Sucking Life

Blame, Domestic Violence, Family, fathers, fuck you, Future, Jealousy, Journal, Memories, Personal, school, Uncategorized

It’s really unfair, we live in a world where people don’t get invited to parties, where old friends forget you, and other people have it a whole lot better.

I figure I must come off as such an angry and jealous person, which I am.. But I see my friends and cousins, acquaintances too, who have parents that are still together, who have lawyers for fathers and BMW’s.. They have their own rooms, and more rooms in their houses than people living in them..

I’ve had that lifestyle before, which is one of the reasons it makes me so angry. I’ve had that. I’ve been able to live and not worry about the household income, where I didn’t have to think twice about every item in our shopping cart because of the price and worrying if we’ll have enough until the next paycheck.

I systematically turn off lights and other electricity-eating things because no one else bothers to and I’m worried that one month we won’t have enough money to pay everything.

Then there are those months where unexpected fees and bills pop up, and this time I’m really worried we won’t have enough for the month. We got an unexpected fee for $750 attached to our rent, which amounted to $2,000 when it was all said and done.

It must be nice to not worry about those things.. It must be nice to live in a loving family. To not have an assload of mental illnesses. To not worry about bills or prices.. To be able to hang out with friends and seamlessly enjoy time with other people.

My mom is quitting her job.. She can’t support all of us, even with a manager’s salary, and they just added a new person to her showroom floor, which means that she’ll be getting paid less. There’s this job that will be more stable, she’ll get a steady $30,000 a year.

On top of all this, I see my friends from my hometown posting pictures of their summer parties and I’m 141 miles away, my life not any better than when I was there. I’m not even doing drivers ed because it’s too expensive.

I feel like I’m asking the world of the people in my life if I ask for even the smallest thing, but I keep their secrets and I cry myself to sleep. I try to keep to myself so I don’t burden them. But now Riley is considering backpacking through Europe with her boyfriend indefinitely and then I’ll be the oldest kid in the house and I won’t have her as my support or as a friend anymore and she is literally my only friend over here. Then I think about the next two years for me.. I’ll be home schooled..  No opportunities to make friends.. I’m going to spend my last years as an adolescent cooped up in a small condo with a toddler unless I make a change.

Happy Father’s Day: Whores and Addiction

dads, Domestic Violence, Family, fathers, fuck you, Journal, Memories, no trust, Personal, sexual harassment

This Father’s Day I will quietly, but unashamedly, denounce Father’s Day because my father was no father to me.

For years, I would listen to the sound of his voice echo throughout our house as my family would try to sleep. His drunken, loud, angry voice yelling at my mom about things she could not control. The same man who threw my sweet, innocent puppy into our concrete patio,breaking some of her ribs…

ronpup

(This could be her as a puppy, the resemblance is uncanny)

The man who slept with prostitutes when working out of town – and didn’t tell my mom before sleeping with her again. Who drank profusely and stared at his twelve year-old daughters breasts that puberty had spit upon her chest. He wasn’t a graceful man, he wasn’t a nice man, he wasn’t even kind. As the naive and uneducated kid that I was, I loved him. He made my life. I was Daddy’s Girl.

As much as I wish I could still accept him, I know things that tore apart any love or sentiment I had for him. He did things that can’t be reversed with an apology, or with a fatherly kiss on the forehead. Even those kisses he planted on my forehead when he left for work have been tarnished because of reckless actions he didn’t have to take. He let his addiction come before his family, he let his love for whores come before his daughters, he let his lust for breasts taint the way I will see him for the rest of my life.

We lived in fear of what he would do next and we sure made hell seem happy – in our nicely furnished home, with our name brand clothing and smiles plastered to our faces. Mom gently reminding us “Don’t air your dirty laundry“, because she knew exactly what would happen if people found out what happened behind our closed doors.  We did such a good job hiding it, when we finally came out and proclaimed the truth, no one believed us.

So, no. I am not celebrating father’s day. I understand that some people have nice fathers, however foreign that may seem to me right now. Some people love their dads, they might even have good relationships with them.. But to me, father’s day may as well be what Hanukkah is to an Atheist: absolutely meaningless.

Deep Wounds From Cupid.

dads, Domestic Violence, Family, fathers, forgotten, fuck you, Future, Hope, Humanist, Jealousy, Journal, Love, Memories, no trust, Personal, Uncategorized

This is a letter to myself – where I am pure me. Where I get personal, real, and talk about things that I would never consider telling the truth about.

978 people on OkCupid liked my profile – I’m almost to 1,000 and I’m already one of the hottest people on the app. They sent me this email and IDK, maybe they send it to people who have gotten a certain number of messages, but they said I was one of their “hottest” users and that since I got to that point, they would only show me to people who were equally as hot.

I average forty messages a day from new people, I’ve had a ton of guys confess their feelings to me in person.. So why do I have this voice in the back of my head telling me I’m ugly, worthless, and useless?

I’ve had Dustyn, Eli, Caleb, Ruben, Samuel, Michael, Matt, Garrett, Sam, Cadence and so many other people confess their feelings for me. Why is it that I think no one likes me?

I mean, if we’re gonna get super deep, maybe it’s because of my dad. He used to tell me things like that over and over again, he had me so well trained, I would do it to myself at night “I’m worthless, I’m worthless, I’m worthless.” I would say it over and over again to myself before bed, I needed to make myself think it, because if my dad believed it, well.. It had to be true. I had to be worthless, lazy, and scared to work because dad said so.

Is that what this is all about? Is my insecurity my fault, my father’s, or no one’s? Am I broken and feel like I can’t be loved because my home growing up was broken and had no love? Is that what’s going on? Is this why I feel it’s so important to be independent? Because I can’t stand to let myself have another person waltz into my life and abuse me until I’m so fucked up that I can’t love someone, then drop me like a glass dish on concrete to go fuck an old horse lady?

Also, I’m angry-jealous at my little sister because she’s spent more time with my dad than I ever have. He spends time with her and does things like go to the zoo with her… I’ve NEVER been to the zoo with my dad. Why does he care about her but not me? Did he not care about me the same way he cares about Kendra? Am I just unloveable?

I guess all the reasons above are the underlying issues about my insecurities. Why I have a hard time letting myself care about another person deeply. Why I haven’t cared about someone thinking it would be long term… ever.

Every time I like someone, I like to set an expiration date. With Sam, it was the end of the school year before I went to Ashland, Oregon. With Cadence, it was when I moved. I knew I needed to cut things off before they got too serious. I knew I couldn’t let them stay with me for a long time.. When our future would come up in conversation, I would laugh it off or change the subject. The idea of a future terrified me. I don’t want to stay with one person, I don’t want to make myself vulnerable to anyone like that again. Being vulnerable to my father got me the deepest wound I’ve got. PTSD, anxiety attacks, and insecurities.