You are the poison vine
Slowly, patiently unfurling
your grappling tentacles
and climbing my bed rails

You are the darkness in my closet
Licking your lips
groping your pathetic
Excuse of manhood
traps set

You are the back alley stench
The rancid spoilt garbage
The dark shadow
Even the moon cannot light

You are that shiver
That warning adrenaline
rocketing through my veins
the red light flashing
something horrid is near
Too close
A step away
A breath away

You are the noise I hear
That lifts the hair on my neck
You are the seed of doubt in my
Logical brain
Trying to discern if you are real
Cowering somewhere nearby
or if it’s my imagination
jaded by the conjuring of you

You are the retched squeak in
my floorboard
And the pain in my feet
from tip-toeing out from your
Peripheral vision

So I can run for my life

You are the venom
paralyzing my limbs with fear
Collapsing my lungs
Stealing my breath
Punching my gut

And you live in my world
I look for you everywhere
Even when I’m laughing
Even when I’m fucking
Even when I’m surrounded
By love and light

You are always there

Midnite Blue – Part 1 and Part 2



I wrote these a for the brave and powerful site RAWrWords and remain thankful for a landing strip which provides those of us who write from our gut about life events no one should ever have to experience, a home for our words.

It’s the holidays, I know, time for Santa, stockings and Mistletoe but it’s also a time for hard-core partying, excess everything and a perfect stage set for disaster with depression running rampant for myriad reasons.  All I ask my friends, is to think, use some common sense and don’t rely on ‘the kindness of strangers’ or you may find yourself in deep trouble.

Our words aren’t for everyone so proceed with caution, at least on Part 1. Thank you RAWrWords, I am grateful.


Midnite Blue Part 1

Midnite Blue – Part 2

The Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. I ask that you read this piece written by a friend of mine brave enough to share her story. Be aware, be compassionate, be a friend. If you’ve never experienced a fist against your face or to your gut, I’m glad, I truly and sincerely am. However, it may make you wonder “Why don’t these people just get up and leave when this starts to happen?” It’s not an easy thing to do. It isn’t just physical abuse, it’s mental, emotional and spiritual abuse as well, a brain-washing in a way and abusers pick their prey carefully.

Here’s a brutal, raw and eye-opening story, an inside look at how this can happen. Don’t judge what you don’t know, just as you wouldn’t want people judging you. We don’t know each other’s stories until we are brave enough, as my friend is, to share them.

The Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing

Even Warriors Have To Sit

I’m too tired to stand anymore. Normally, I don’t even notice the weight of the armor; I’ve worn it all my life, it’s just a part of me, but today, it’s heavy and painful and I have to take it off. And sit.

I want to sit with Colin Kaepernick in silent protest because black lives do matter. I want to sit with a mother who was just told her black son was shot and killed for no good reason so I can offer her a shoulder to cry on because I surely can’t offer her a reason or an explanation. I want to sit with police officers who risk their lives every day, every second they’re on the job so that people like Colin can sit down. I want them to know I believe in them, what they do and that the power-crazed officers that shoot to kill for no reason are not the sum of their whole. I want to sit down with the rapist Brock Turner until I can make him understand that what he did, raping an unconscious girl was a horrific thing to do. I want him to understand she’s forever broken now. I want to break him, make him feel the weight of what he’s done, make him feel the weight of the armor she’ll now be forced to wear forever. I want to sit with the rape victim and stroke her hair while she’s violated once again enduring a rape kit collection and a trial that will shame her and blame her for what happened. I want to sit and hold the hand of the young girl having an abortion and tell her it’s ok and that her God, if she believes in one, will understand and she shouldn’t listen to those calling her a murderer. I want to sit with the homeless man and eat some pizza with him, it’s all I can do for him right now; I can listen and probably make him laugh a little. I want to sit with the veteran who believes no one will love him with only one leg. I want him to know he’s a fucking warrior too and will find someone proud to be with him. I want to sit with the mother whose lost her baby to cancer and just hold her til she can breathe again. I want to sit with the little girl until she’s strong enough to share her secret that she’s sure she is a boy inside and let her know I believe her and there are others out there just like her and that she will be able to live her true life without judgment. I want to sit with the animals who are tortured because some humans can’t contain their own pain and anger. I want to sit there until they trust me enough to curl up in my lap and lick the hand no longer raised to strike them but is instead offered to heal, soothe and comfort them.

Like so many, I’ve fought all my life. I’m tired of the sweeter-tasting politically correct terminology now used so violence and injustice are more tasteful for juries, friends and family who can’t stomach the visuals our stories conjure in their minds and the rancid taste it leaves on their palettes. Those of us who live the nightmares again and again, who live with the taste of blood in our mouths, have to watch as others get to swallow down a more palatable smoothie so they might be able to experience just a tiny little taste of what we’ve endured. Yet still justice is hard to come by.

Aside from the rapes by my father I had to physically and emotionally survive, I’ve also attempted suicide thrice, endured an illegal and terrifying back alley abortion at 13, a rape, two kidney transplants, a very close brush with death after losing the first kidney and I have a “it’s probably benign” tumor that’s slowly growing inside my brain.

I’m 61. I have no retirement, no home and little money. I live in a basement and am getting ready to move yet again. The woman I live with chain smokes and I remain in my cave of a room unable to enjoy the rest of the house due to the thick layer of smoke and nicotine that coats everything. With the help of my son, I’m moving my things back into my storage unit. I have 30 days to get out. Truth be told, I’d rather live in my storage unit than breathe in what must be several packs of cigarettes a day. I have a kidney to protect and although I knew she smoked when I moved in, I had no idea how much. So, I’m moving on. Again. I never thought I’d be a nomad in the later years of my life. But things always work out and I’ll find a place in time.

Looking back, my husband and I did all the right things. We had life insurance, built equity in our home, went to work, raised our kids, planned to grow old together. He was diagnosed with Hepatitis C back when insurance didn’t cover it yet. I went into renal failure. We broke; we couldn’t withstand the financial burden of two catastrophic illnesses. Our love broke, too, so we divorced. We lost everything.

In 2009, the kids and I helped him for several months as he died a slow death from cirrhosis. He was a hateful, bitter man at the end. Thankfully, he left some money to our sons but the lion’s share went to his daughter, his favorite. He left nothing to me. I thought at this age, I’d be happily retired bouncing grandchildren on me knee. Not yet.

I live on Social Security and Disability. A meager monthly stipend which is not nearly enough for me to afford an apartment, even a shitty one. I can’t work or I lose my Disability and Social Security. I am fortunate in that renal failure is the one chronic illness in which you are granted Social Security no matter what your age and Disability is usually granted before you’ve had your third dialysis treatment. If I work, I lose both and cannot afford the incredibly expensive medicine I need so I don’t reject my kidney. I can earn a pittance each year without being taken off my Disability so that helps.

My children can’t help me financially in this fucked up world where 1 percent of the population controls the world’s wealth while the rest of us, like my kids, struggle to make ends meet in their own lives. They hate seeing their mom with nothing. They want me to rest. They know all my stories and want to make my world a happy one. That’s not their job. That’s what I want them to know. But they grieve for me and that makes me sad. It’s seeing our children happy that makes us content as parents, no matter what hardships our lives may entail. That’s what I am teaching them, not to pity me but to help fight for those who cannot fight for themselves.

I’m fucking exhausted. I. will. sit.

I fight my battles with words. I can write. Hell, I can have you on your knees sobbing in less than 800 words but the pay sucks. A good story might earn me 200 bucks if it’s accepted from sometimes thousands of submissions. But I don’t care much about material things or money. That helps.

Most of what I write are personal essays about my life and lessons learned but since my life is not a happy, fairy-tale story, lots of people scroll on by. That’s ok, I get it. It’s depressing reading my life. I wrote a humor piece for a huge mommy blog that was shared tens of thousands of times. I write about my hard-fought battles and I might get a few shares and usually only by my virtual tribe of warrior women (and some fantastic men) who have suffered as I have, some much more. But we don’t write for the shares, we write for ourselves and we write to give voice to those who have been silenced by fear.

I won’t shut up about any of it and I won’t be politically correct so it tastes better going down because every once in a while, someone reaches out to tell me my story saved them in some way, gave them strength to carry on and as long as I can reach that one person, I’m not shutting up.

Other than my one real life friend, my deepest connections are with my virtual tribe. I had a handful of real life friends but recently had to cut them from my life. I’d known them 45 years. They decided I wasn’t worthy. One spearheaded a campaign against me and the others joined in without a second thought. I wasn’t interested in defending myself. I’m tired of trying to make the doubters understand. I didn’t do a fucking thing wrong and finally realized after 60 years I had nothing to defend.

I’m a solitary creature. I have been all my life so friendships are hard to maintain anyway. There’s so much pretending to be like other people to fit in. My life story isn’t fun, it has an ugly taste that’s easier for them to spit out. When they began spitting ON me, that was it. I am fucking worthy. I don’t tolerate anything less than fierce loyalty and respect because that’s what I give and what I deserve in return. In their world that translates into: she’s crazy, she’s got anger issues, she’s always been difficult to deal with.

Fuck you.

I went out alone last night as I usually do, walking in the town I live near. It was a beautiful evening and I went to hear some music. The streets were bustling with young kids, older couples strolling hand in hand, lovers sitting outside at little tables soaking in the night air and each other while sipping wine from stemmed glasses. It’s like watching a movie that I’m not in. That’s how my life is. It’s a movie I was never cast in. But I’ve become a damn good director.

I’m going to sit the fuck down.

Mostly, I want to sit with who I believe my God to be so I can understand why, why all this happens in a world full of people whose hearts beat inside their bodies so they can love instead of hate, help instead of harm and show compassion instead of judgment.

I know when I’m ready, my tribe, my virtual family who fight the same battles I do, will stand vigil until I’m restored. It is they who will lift me up again, help me gather strength, adjust my armor, hand me my sword and welcome me back onto the battlefield to continue the fight. That’s what we do.

Until that time, I will sit.

Two Lost Children

She wouldn’t let him see her cry but broke the minute she stepped through the dingy glass door. By the time the elevator doors opened, she was sobbing so that she could barely see the numbers to press on the panel. She stood outside the suite, composed her shaking body and rattled mind and turned the doorknob to enter.

Read full post on BLUNTmoms: Two Lost Children


“In retrospect, it’s obvious he chose me. He adopted the lone wolf persona, one he knew girls like me would find alluring. ‘Girls like me’ – the beautifully jaded, cynical Catholic outcasts who wore sexual naïvety as recklessly as our Midnite Blue mascara, foolishly Indulging the notion we controlled any and all affects our tight little bodies in our tight little skirts had over men.”

Read more:





If you find the pieces of the mosaic that is me too bold, too bright, and too brash – put on your rose-colored glasses and do us both a favor and just walk away. Don’t come close to me if you cannot handle what each piece of me reflects back at you. There isn’t one piece of that mosaic that isn’t in its proper place. It took a lifetime of raw emotion, endurance and determination to assemble and I’m not rearranging the pieces for anyone.

If you knew me well, you would know that the most beautiful part of the mosaic is not the multi-colored stones but the dusky, gritty grout that holds all the pieces together and makes me unbreakable. I love all the broken pieces of me and how strong and beautiful they are all mixed together – sharp edges, soft curves, rough surfaces, smooth stones – beautifully imperfect.

I owe you nothing.  If you believe my truth to be a lie, why would you want me as a friend?  I have found in life that the weak are people who usually perceive themselves as strong. They will methodically chip away at your armor in an effort to weaken your resolve.  Sometimes they break through.

They derive pleasure seeing one of your wounds temporarily open and bleeding. They circle like vultures under the banners of love, kindness and worst of all, religion. They revel in your times of sorrow, your slips back into the abyss and happily exploit the exposed vulnerability you mistakenly entrusted them with.

I’m done with the judgement. I’m done explaining my past. I’m done with the questions. I’m done with the doubt. I’m done with the narrow-minded attitude that I made up my history of abuse to garner attention.

I will share with you something only a survivor can tell you truthfully. Nothing you could ever conjure up could properly convey something so horrific, so life-changing, so evil, so dark, and so debilitating.

I have never understood what anyone would gain from making up stories of abuse. If I were going to make up a story for attention, I could think of far better tales to tell that would certainly land me in a better position to win sympathy. So why, pray tell, would I or anyone make up or embellish any form of abuse?

Easy answer. We don’t.

I am happy and grateful. I am kind. I believe in helping others even if it means sacrifice on my part. I will lend a helping hand to anyone. Bite that hand once, you’ll never get the chance to do it again.

Never forget I am a survivor.

Survivors are a different breed. You don’t survive by being kind to those with a hidden agenda. They have a very distinct scent about them and are usually easy to flush out.  You don’t survive by handing trust out like a business card to those that want to hurt you.  You survive by protecting yourself.

Make no mistake, I protect myself.

If you insist on challenging me, come prepared.  I don’t lose, surrender, submit or retreat. If you find that threatening or “angry” perhaps it would be best for us to part company now before someone, and by someone I mean you, gets hurt.

Why do people insist on testing my resolve?  Why do some people like to torment innocent animals? They do it to feel powerful, in control and they do it because they derive pleasure in how it makes them feel to see the animal bend and bleed at their mercy. Of course restraints are used to keep the animal from instinctively defending itself. It’s never a fair fight.

We may be friends from long ago or just newly acquainted. Don’t presume you know me well. I will never let you close enough to slap physical, verbal or emotional restraints on me.

Try and I assure you it will be a fair fight but it isn’t one I recommend. Some just insist on it with their insinuations that you have anger issues or wear your abuse like a badge of glory. They are secretly hoping to incite your defense mechanisms so they can exclaim, “See! I told you she had anger issues, look how mad she is!” Wisely, these cowards run knowing full well they deserve a proper response.  They are the ones I have mistakenly let a little too close. I granted them an undeserved level of comfort because I relaxed my guard. I know better. It never ends well.

Survivors aren’t herd animals. We try and sometimes even convince ourselves we can do it but it isn’t long before the rattle of chains or the sound of a steel trap jangling somewhere close by brings us back to our reality and our need for isolation. Trust was taken from us and we are, after all, animals. We are capable of forgiveness but we don’t forget. Ever.

Forgetting can be deadly.

I live in love. I live in gratitude. I have so much to be thankful for, so much. I want peace and happiness in my life and I have it – at least as much as I can ever know of it. Survivors never recover these feelings and emotions at least not in the way we once knew them, if we ever did know them. We only know our perception of them which is greatly distorted compared to ‘normal’ people. How could we know?

We only knew the reality of those emotions until that first fist rammed our gut or that sweaty hand clenched our throat or covered our mouths to silence us. In that very moment, that very second when the adrenaline pumps through our body at the speed of light telling us to do whatever we must to survive, we are forever changed. There is no more childhood. There is no more happily-ever-after. There is no more trust.  Not in the way others know it.

Once we escape our abuser’s chains, we are reborn. We don’t realize it but we start the process of our rebirth during the days/years of abuse. We were already learning to survive. We were already survivors.

Our wounds close and scar over, our instincts heighten and our senses elevate. We don’t hunt but know we are hunted, not always by another abuser but by another equally perverse predator – the doubter, the judge, the intolerant, the sadist, the politician, the zealot and myriad others we know to be a threat. We stand vigilant. We have no choice.

We’ve been to therapy, we’ve taken anti-depressants, we’ve toughed it out on our own and probably everything else you think would help us ‘through it’. The truth is, there is no getting through it. There is a no magic tunnel we can walk through and come out unscathed on the other side now free of the torment we endured. We are simply a different person.

We still retain much of our former selves although I am never sure how real this is.

We use the disguise of our former selves as a survival skill to walk through the herd when we need to.  Husbands, wives, siblings, friends, parties, reunions, work and even our own children rarely see through the veil. We’re that good.

We can co-exist, we can project ourselves as one of the herd when we have to but in reality, our real selves trust only solitude. It is there we replenish ourselves, continue to heal ourselves, recharge our spirit and build our strength to venture back out and walk within the herd again, hopefully undiscovered and unprovoked.

We know each other right away. It’s easy with the skills we’ve honed. It can be a look, a posture, a vibe, a touch, a heartbeat, a scent but we know our own kind. We can take some comfort within each other’s company.

There is a reverence and communion in the presence of other survivors. An unspoken language, a respect already earned, an acknowledgement of strength and skill that can only be given and received by our own. While we know we can never truly bond with anyone other than our children, for me, this is the strongest connection.

All parents are instinctively protective of their young, particularly mothers but it is something much more with us. There is an added level of vehemence and my children were always somehow aware of it.

Survivors know the pain we must protect our children from. Their survival is crucial, as necessary as our own, perhaps more so, which presents its own set of unique challenges.

Our conundrum lies in that we cannot isolate our children from the herd and yet don’t want them being part of it. We don’t want to frighten them, we don’t want to burden them with the heavy weight of isolation; we want them to thrive as a herd member and therein lies the conundrum.

How do you let your child be part of what you fear most without instilling that same fear in them? Somehow we manage, some better than others. We all handle it in different ways but like everything involving our children, we put them first and do what is necessary to ensure their happiness and safety. This always goes against every instinct we now possess.

Our minds are never quiet; we constantly play out dangerous scenarios and how we would defend against them. We rarely sleep soundly, it’s a luxury we can’t afford.  We know what lurks in the darkness. We rest with one eye open and one ear perked and a maintenance dose of adrenaline pumps through our veins even at rest.

We are always prepared for battle – it is part of who we are now. There is no flight or fight. We stand and fight. We were taught early on by our abuser that flight was never an option. Always the restraints, invisible or otherwise.

I’m aware some people will find this post offensive, provocative and perhaps presumptuous. But I can tell you, without a doubt, this post will be a call in the wild heard loudly by those like me. There is no mistaking it. I hear it often.

To my fellow survivors struggling at this moment I say this: Whatever stage you are in right now, whether you are suffering abuse, have just escaped your abuser’s shackles or have been free of your abuser’s clutches for a long time,  know that just because we live in isolation doesn’t mean you are alone.

You aren’t.  We see you, feel you, know you and if you reach out we will take your hand. We may even be the one offering a hand to you. Reach out and grab it.  It’s your lifeline.

We may not be herd animals but we are a group and we walk amongst each other every day. You’ll be able to pick us out in a crowd and feel the bond that connects us. We are all here for each other when support and understanding is needed. If you find yourself in trouble, look around. We’ll be the one’s stepping quietly toward you to extend that hand for you to grab on to once again.

Don’t let what you have read here confuse you. You will be happy. You will thrive. You can and will be strong again, stronger than you ever knew you could be.  You will own yourself again. You will be a caretaker and advocate and walk with a confidence only this hard fought battle can grant you.

You are a work in progress and your mosaic is a lifelong project. Each memory, each victory is a beautiful stone you put in precisely the right place. Your strength, resolve and forgiveness are the ingredients needed for the dusky grout that will make you unbreakable.

To those of you rolling your eyes or shaking your head, know I couldn’t be happier. It means you have no clue of what I speak and for that I am grateful. You should be too.

To those of you who doubt, know your dubiety does not entitle you to be cruel.  Voicing your doubt in a demeaning or hateful way is its own form of abuse and stings as badly as the first slap across the face. Know too that it is often met with a fury you do not want to unleash. Acknowledge their pain and leave it at that. “I’m so sorry for your pain”, works well and in no way declares you a believer.

Remember, we know and protect our own. The one you choose to stalk may not be strong enough yet to stand alone but we are there.  You won’t know us, you can’t feel us like we feel each other.

We were that weak person once. We still feel that, it opens a wound and once the scent of blood is in the air you may want to be mindful of who has quietly moved closer to you.

This might be the time to take off those rose-colored glasses.

Sounds crazy right? Reads like a bad vampire novel, I know.

I also know every word I have written to be true.

Just Doubt Me One More Time  (poem)

I published this poem once before. I didn’t know then why I wrote it.  The truth behind our words sometimes reveals itself to us at a later time, allowing us the answer as to why it was written. I publish it now with full awareness.

Don’t Believe Everything You Think

Oh, I’m so sorry, am I ruining your Easter by being “depressing”?  Well, I’m not sorry. I want you to wake up and take a good look around yourself.  If you are celebrating the resurrection of Christ, think about what he taught, what he REALLY taught, love, compassion, helping one another.

If you are not Christian and celebrating in another way or not celebrating anything in particular, take time to look around you and the people you love and more importantly, the people you may not know that well but you know you saw something in them that made you uncomfortable, transported you back to somewhere you don’t want to be anymore.

DON’T look away.  Help that person.  They may say they are ok, they may look like they are ok but you know, don’t you?  You know they aren’t but you don’t want to “intrude” or make that person “uncomforable” or maybe you’ll wait and do it tomorrow when you have more time.  The time is now!  You know, that person who is alone?  That person who never comes to family gatherings?  Call them!  Just. Call. Them.

Content Warning:  Contains disturbing content; abuse; depression

I can’t do this anymore.  This is a prison and I need to get out of here.  You have got to help me now.  I cannot keep this a secret for you, it’s not my job!  You are older than I am, the weight of it is literally crushing me.  I feel my bones breaking.  I know you hear me.  You pretend that you don’t but we both know you do.  You cannot keep ignoring me.  The stress is killing us both. 

Look, you need to stop pestering me.  All your childish tantrums, whining, screaming, non-stop, 24/7 badgering has seriously got to end.  I have kids, a husband, a full time job and real life shit to deal with!  I can’t focus with your endless rants about the past!  It’s done, it’s over with, get over it and move on for God’s sake.  I can’t save you! You need to save yourself!

You left me!  You left me here in this hell alone!  I’m only a child!  You are an adult and have to be the one to figure this out.  How could you leave me here alone, abandon me, knowing what you know, what I know?  I live in a world of chaos and fear with no one to talk to, no one to help me except you and you refuse.  You push me down whenever I try to grab on to you and climb out. I get to the top of the abyss and just when my fingers feel the level surface of sanity, you come over and pry them up, stand there and watch me catapult down the ravine knowing the pain I endure, the suffering, bleeding and bruising.  You have to get your shit together!

You need to grow up!  Do you have any idea what it takes for me to keep up this façade?  Nice home, nice family, talking to neighbors I don’t even like, forcing the smiles, cooking, cleaning, trying to keep the kids and my husband happy AND work a full time job!!  It’s a wonder I haven’t lost my shit completely!  There is no one to tell, what is the matter with you?  No one will believe it, it was so long ago.  I risk everything!  I risk losing my family, my home, my job and my fucking sanity!!  No, no way. You need to crawl back in that hole, shut the fuck up and stay there!

I can’t.  You know it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault. We did nothing wrong. We have nothing to be ashamed of.  It was him!  He did this to us.  He is the evil one and when you realize that, you can tell!  Find someone to talk to!  There is help out there for us! You just don’t want to deal with it.  You don’t want to face it head on because you know how fucking hard it will be to carry the weight of it like I do!  It’s time.  NOW, now is the time.  I am losing it here.  I can’t cope, I don’t have the skills.  I am not a grown up. You are.

Yeah, he did do it.  We both know that. We agree on that one.  He tortured us, he raped us, he humiliated us but that’s over and he’s dead.  Hear me? Dad is DEAD!  I buried that shit with him when they put him in his grave and I am NOT digging it back up now, not at this point in my life with so much at stake.  You just have no clue! You’re right, I am not going to tell because I am not willing to deal with sideways glances and hushed whispers when I walk into a PTA meeting or a party the neighbor is having.  No fucking way.

Ok then, I’m through.  I’m just going to let it go and when I do, that weight is going to crush the life out of us both.  I can barely breathe as it is. I’d rather be dead than live like this any longer. I mean it this time.  You better listen up. Yeah, grab those pills and try and drown my voice out!  That’s what you do.  Grab your vodka, grab your pills, play the mommy and wife game while you feel me slowly fade away with each sip you take and each pill you swallow.  You know I’ll be there when you wake up. Not this time, I won’t be waiting for you.  I am done saving you from yourself. You are talking about death and graves and I want to die. Maybe for once we are on the same fucking page.

SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP!!! God, I can’t listen to you anymore!!!  You suck the life right out of me.  I KNOW I left you, I KNOW you are alone and I AM SORRY!  I am so fucking sorry but it is the way it has to be.  You don’t think I know that churning in the pit of my stomach and the constant pounding in my head is you trying to fight your way out of that abyss??  Of course I know.  You are just a baby girl, a child and I left you there stranded and suffering.  You never got a first kiss, a first dance, a kind touch or even a moment of joy or happiness but without you holding it together, we would have both died, don’t you see that?

I have always seen it.  It is you who are just now admitting it.  Now you are feeling the weight of it.  Now you are breaking into a million pieces.  This is it. This is the confluence of two raging rivers and it’s sink or swim time.  I’m floundering, weakening and the shore is getting further and further from my reach. I’ve already let go.  And you? You’re reaching for what you have always thought was your life line, your sedation, your tourniquet to stop the flow of memories, that little brown bottle with all the answers in it.  Go ahead.  Grab it!  Take them all.  Wash them down with your cheap vodka and do us both a fucking favor.  All the times you accuse me of pulling you down?  See now?  I wasn’t trying to pull you down, you soulless bitch, I was trying to pull myself up to help you!

You know? Yeah, yeah, I get it now.  You’re right.  You really are. Why did it take me so long to hear you?  It will be a relief for us both to finally just let go of it all.  Feel it?  There it is, the free fall, the calming, the stress level dropping and sweet sedation reaching into every vessel quieting your voice.  I have always loved you for being the strong one.  I was always the coward, running everywhere but toward you, toward the truth. You are such a sweet, sweet child, I should have let you spill your guts about what that bastard did to us. Thank you for being the strong one, always the strong one.  I am drifting, floating away, I feel nothing anymore.  Do you really feel it, too? Man, it’s nice to just lay here and stop running.  It was fucking exhausting. 

I feel it, I always feel it even when I don’t want to you force it on me, your temporary escape and silence of me. I’m not fighting through it this time.  I won’t be on the other side waiting to help you keep your shit together.  I’m just laying back for once, giving in and enjoying this sedation of yours.  It is just lulling me to sleep, like a wave washing over me, washing all the pain away.  I love you but you should have saved me. You should have saved us both and you just wouldn’t ask for a fucking helping hand.  I see you now, coming down the fork of this river wild. I’m waiting. I’m sad. I never knew the world or anything in it and now it’s all going to be gone. The pain will be gone, too. It is a relief to finally just shut my eyes and drift away.

I see you, too, baby girl.  Wait for me.  I’m coming to you this time. Just wait and I’ll be there.  Here, take my hand as I float by, the water has calmed now, no more raging.  Put your hand out…GOTCHA!! Come closer to me.  Let me take care of you for once. 

Here we go, you and me. Finally together, as one.  I see the waterfall ahead, do you?  Are you scared? Are you ready? It’s too late to change your mind, my mind, we’re both drifting now, there’s no coming back.  There’s no time for rescue now.  It’s finally over. 

Yeah, I’m scared, so sleepy, baby girl. You still sound like the adult, asking me how I feel, taking care of me.  Here, lay your weary head on my shoulder and let me rock you one time, love you one time, feel you one time…don’t be scared, I’ve got you, I always did, I just didn’t know it and now it’s too late.  Will you be there on the other side? Please tell me you will be there like you always were before. Tell me, tell me NOW!!  For once I want to hear your words, tell me!!!

I’ll be there, I’ve always been there, and I will always be there.  Just let it all go now.

Just. Let. Go.

Time of death:  11:32 am.

Cause of death:  Suicide. Overdose Hydromorphone/alcohol

If you or anyone you know is suffering from PTSD, depression, domestic violence, sexual abuse, addiction or mental illness of any kind, reach out, REACH OUT!!!  There is a hand waiting to grab yours, someone to listen without judgement, someone who cares… deserve to have your voice heard. You deserve to be loved. You deserve life.