Haters gonna hate

“I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”

― Mahatma Gandhi

“Even the most enlightened ones still judge. No one is without fault.”

– Me

I have been fighting a lost cause to explain why I should not be considered a heathen or amoral for not being a believer in Christ or any God. To use them to help lead my life.
I’ve never been able to count on anyone in my life except for myself. Only I can pull myself up by the bootstraps and get on with it. Until someone learns mind control or can reprogram the brain, you are not going to convince me that having “FAITH IN GOD” will change my life.

Let me put it this way, I was simply not born with or chosen to have the ability to “believe” or have “faith” in a deity. What I do have is faith in my fellow man. Darkness and light, ying and yang. For every good person there is someone equally as bad. I can’t change mankind. I can bitch about it just like everyone else, but in the end, we are only here for a short time and life is what you make of it. This is my take on it.

I am not angry that I wasn’t given a proper education into religion growing up. Nobody is born believing in anything. It is taught, just like language. There was never going to be anyone who would teach me how to believe as a child. There wasn’t any home that I lived in that practiced anything remotely resembling Christian like behavior. It was my step-grandparents, who were given the dubious task of introducing God into my life. What a bigger set of hypocrites I’ve never met. I was forced, quite literally, against my will to go to church on Sunday morning. What I called “big church”. Sitting in the big house on a hard pew, listening to a man preach his take on the word of GOD. I sat through endless classes of Sunday school in a Southern Baptist church being expected to learn all about the stories and character’s in a book called the “Bible”. I attended day care and my summers in the church sanctuary. I went to vacation bible school every summer as well. But I didn’t find any correlation as to how all this religious teaching was supposed to fit into my life. So I paid little mind and resented my time there.
I never saw my mother or father set foot anywhere near a church, not even once. The closest to religion I ever experienced with my mother, was a brief time when she would turn on the television so she could watch some crooked televangelist drone on endlessly. I think she was trying, in vain, to become born-again Christian. If she was ever truly one to begin with. I never saw anything positive come from it. My father was baptized as an Episcopalian as a child. I don’t know what his views or beliefs were or are to this day on the subject. He never once spoke to me about God. His religion was music and he made sure I was well indoctrinated in the church of music.
The only real belief I held in childhood was that I was deserving of pain and abuse. I wasn’t deserving of love. I didn’t believe in love. I was not properly loved as a child. It was beaten into me almost daily that I was a burden. Unwanted. Stupid. That was my religion.
I bear the emotional scars still, but they only flicker instead of burn anymore. The psychological scars are far more debilitating at times. They have a real hold on my life to this day. I do I what I must to make sure I don’t succumb to the lies I was taught. I compartmentalize my life to make it manageable.
I do not trust easily therefore I cannot believe what cannot be proven to me.

Over the course of growing into a relatively mature adult, I have openly allowed others around me, unsuccessfully, to try to influence the way I ought to perceive the world of Christianity. I went to Lenten services weekly in the Methodist church for years with a co-worker. It was a nice time, but I was there for fellowship not worship. I then attended Catholic Mass routinely with a friend for years but never partook in the communion. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be comfortable with taking something believed as the consecration of Christ into my body and not feel disrespectful to the truly faithful. I always felt so ill at ease afterwards that I stopped going. I haven’t stepped foot into a church in over 9 years now. I have a great deal of curiosity into the theology and dogma available. At my own leisure I explore these things, try to learn what it all means, and see if or what I can apply to my own life.

I’ve never tried to influence my son in anyway against forming his own beliefs or ideas about organized religion. His father, stepmother and grandmother all go to church regularly. My son is agnostic, his words. He chooses not to attend church if given the option. He doesn’t want someone else telling him how he should believe. He makes informed decisions based on his own explorations into this realm.

In my own way, I constantly re-evaluate how I chose to live my life. I’ve applied the lessons of my past and studied how they’ve affected me.
Always as a child and into adulthood, I knew I never wanted to be a parent. Fate chose otherwise. I’ve been a proud parent for 17 years and counting to a wonderful son. His life was given to me to protect and nurture. Given to me so that he would help heal my bruised and battered soul. His very existence is my reward for surviving my childhood. I’ve been given the opportunity to be the role model I never had. To give someone my love unconditionally and wholly. To know that the love I receive in return is just as whole and unconditional. To experience childhood again. This time through his eyes. A childhood that isn’t riddled with emotional and physical scars.

When I knew I was going to become a parent, I didn’t pray for guidance or help. I just hoped against hope that I would know what to do. I had to fight my demons tooth and nail in those early years. I didn’t always get the best of the bastards either. Postpartum depression took its toll on my sanity and devastated my marriage. I didn’t know what I should be doing, but I tried to give it my best. When it became obvious that my best wasn’t damn near good enough, I had to call time on both. I couldn’t handle being a full-time mother and being a wife. I’m not proud of who I was back then or how I behaved. I took a road that garnered not only criticism and crippling rejection from my remaining family but also the scorn of friends and peers. I’ve done my atonement for what I did, as best as I know how.

I make no apologies to anyone for my values or beliefs. I do not belittle or mock you for your values and beliefs. I am able to live a moral life and co-exist peacefully with anyone who doesn’t pose a threat to me.

This is my current life and it is far from perfect, but I own it.



I am neither here nor there.
I am meek, I am wild.
I want slow, I want fast.
I want your touch, get the fuck away from me.
I care too much, I don’t care at all.
I’m scared, I am a fighter.
You’ve hurt me. I’ve healed me.
I hate you. I love you.
I become obsessed. I am apathetic.
Broken and scarred. Alive and aware.

push, pull, flee, fight, cry, scream, ache, grieve, laugh, touch, pain, rage, die, drown, burn, awaken.
Noise, lights, sound, feel, taste, perceive, wish, dream, reality
It’s all too much and not enough.
It’ all real, it’s all fake.

Do I need or want these labels? Do they make up the sum of me?
What do I want?
What do I need?

Can you be what I need? Can you be what I want?
What am I to you?

the day the earth stood still…part 2

Here’s the rest of the story. To read part one –

Recounting the timeline after the whole family meltdown is impossible. Being able to somehow compartmentalize my feelings, thoughts, experiences, whatnot has always been easy for me since early childhood. A sort of self-preservation capability that apparently children are very apt to possess. So now I find my memories are buried into the back and beyond of my mind. Maybe regressive therapy would work. Do I really need to go there again and relive every painful moment? FUCK NO!

Here’s a bit of what I do recall. There is no time-frame to reference back to. Once my mother was discharged from the hospital, she and I did go to the courthouse to obtain a restraining order against my stepfather. There were many trips to the lawyers, family counselors, and the police station. I was never allowed to contact my father or grandparents during this time that I recall. At some point, possibly days after everything started settling down, the dumb bitch that was mother disregarded the restraining order and allowed the piece of shit back into the house. This was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back for me. I really don’t know for how long I plotted a way to finally leave. At some point I was finally able to go back to seeing my father on his visitation schedule. I begged him to find a way for me to be able legally come live with him. I never in my life told him the truth about anything that went on in that house. As far as he was concerned my mother was just too strict and crazy to live with.
He got into contact with some lawyer who told him that the only way to legally allow me to leave the custody of my mother’s home was for me to sign an emancipation proclamation since I was 15. We took the that road and I went home and told my mother I was moving to live with my father.
She went off the deep end over that. She ranted and raved and eventually held me hostage in the house. All my personal belongings were loaded up into the family station wagon and locked up. The only thing I was allowed were the clothes on my back & a toothbrush. I was watched 24/7 for over a week.

My chance to escape finally came one day when my mother & stepfather had to leave the house one afternoon for a job keeping lawns. I was left alone with my step-sister. I immediately had her go get our bikes to ride the neighborhood. I stopped at a friend’s house behind ours and convinced her to let me call my dad long distance. I told him he had less than 30 minutes to come pick me up. He had a 30 mile drive easily ahead of him. The man had made it in under 20 minutes, I imagine some major speeding laws were broken. I sent my stepsister to ride around the block after explaining that I was never coming back. No details were given so that she wouldn’t be lying when questioned later. My father pulled up and I jumped in his car, we hauled ass. Back at the house, I had left a letter telling my mother I was gone to a friend’s home and that she wouldn’t ever hear from me again.

When I got to my father’s house we waited to see if my mother would call him looking for me. Eventually she did call, he played it off that I was staying at a friend’s house. She wasn’t buying it. He asked her if she really cared that I ran away. I was listening on the spare phone with the mute on. Her eventual response to my dad was that she was relieved I was gone and that now there was one less mouth to feed.
I had been reduced to nothing more than a nuisance to her.

It was over. She was done. I was free. I was so freaked out I didn’t leave my room for a week after that.

There’s much more to tell about life after that…stay tuned.

ghosts of pleasure past

I have been enjoying the anonymity that this blog has given me. It’s a nice way to express myself so I don’t have to do that with people. Maybe I enjoy my solitude a little too much sometimes. I haven’t been very active writing recently. A few posts have been started but I can’t find the desire to finish them. My general overall health has been in the crapper due to female issues. My attitude is shit.
All this down time causes me to have the tendency to getting carried away in my head with subjects that make no sense. Like singing the same 2 verses to a song over and over for days (FUCKING JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE!).
Other times I start thinking about people I’ve known but haven’t had contact with in ages…and “POOF”!
Out of nowhere they somehow manage to track me down again.
One such person is an old friend/lover. Many years ago, roughly 12 or so, I met a man named “Peter”. He was extremely sexy and had the ability to turn my insides to mush with a single kiss. He was a booty call, someone to have decent, no strings sex with. I think maybe in the beginning I thought there was a chance that we might end up as more.
But we were NEVER going to end up together other than the occasional romp in the sheets. But my oh my, did I ever fantasize about it. There was a definite attraction and volatile chemistry. I’m fairly sure he caught on to my fanciful thoughts because he up and left the state within a few months after we met. He made it more than clear there was nothing and no one keeping him from leaving. Yeah, that stung a wee bit.
We did manage to stay in touch after his move. At some point he made a return back to my neck of the woods, and for the duration we met for more sex. But his living arrangements didn’t work out and he up and moved away. This time for good.
It never lessened our friendship, because we had become friends. We would text, send a few naughty pics but when he would ask I couldn’t bring myself to video chat. I’ve never had a positive body image and the thought of streaming my looks online scared the ever-loving shit out of me.
Even when he lived in my state, he always had a semi-permanent “lady friend”. I was the extra bit on the side, I don’t think he saw it as wrong.
I’m morally ambiguous about cheating after having been cheated on during my marriage, I’ll have sex with you, I don’t care about your relationship status. Just don’t drag me into it.
Peter was a man who never seemed to be in a hurry to put down roots or commit 100% to anyone because of what I call the “Peter Pan” effect. He didn’t want to grow up. He was a grown man with teenage boy tendencies. He’d never married, never even come close. He once told me if he couldn’t have what his parents had then he wouldn’t commit. Maybe I’m too tough on the guy?
Anyhow, I decided to drop out of his universe more than year ago after reading his timeline on Facebook one day. He’d done a complete 180 in his lifestyle and was rapidly progressing into a rabid “born again” religious stance. I’m not a fan simply because I don’t want to be preached to. I’m an atheist and I’m sticking to it. I don’t associate myself with overtly religious people because I tend to find myself having to argue my position.
It’s a lost cause.
More than anything I’ve disassociated myself with him because I have felt guilty about having been less than honest with him over the years about my life. I have tried to keep him as far away out of life as possible without completely kicking him to the curb. I’d honestly lost the feelings I’d once had for friendship and no longer felt like being just a dirty distraction whenever he remembered me. It was enough to put me off him for good.
He’s reached out to me again and I’m feeling more than ambivalent about accepting him back into my tiny world. He lives so far away and we haven’t seen each other in may, many years. I don’t think we’d have that connection again and I’m not sure he isn’t just wanting a cheap thrill. Should I feel guilty about never letting him hear from me again? Or just leave him as a ghost of pleasure’s past?

the day the earth stood still….part 1

Once upon a time I had a mother. You know that person who gave birth to you? Shouldn’t she have been that person who devoted themselves whole-heartedly to caring and nurturing you? Well, she is and will always be the person who birthed me. But she was never a proper mother. I’ve decided to start at the end of that relationship. I literally ran away from home one day, forever when I was 15. Every horrible thing that happened due to her willful negligence and abuse over the years culminated into a surreal nightmare one night.

To preface this story you should know that I had lived primarily with my mother and her boyfriend turned husband starting at the roughly the age of 5. The monster(bf & husband) that my mother allowed into our lives had sexually, physically, and mentally assaulted me from the very beginning. I was never brave enough or strong enough to stop the abuse until I ran away.

Sadly I never had the guts to say or do anything legally to him to stop from continuing the horrors he was also perpetrating against his own children. I can only say that I assume someone did something because I know he has a conviction against him for child molestation and is on the national registry.

My step-father was a very sick-minded individual. If he ever understood what he was doing was wrong or if he’s ever felt any remorse for ruining my childhood or that of his other children from his first marriage who knows.

I can’t remember with too much clarity the details of the night when I was 15 that began my journey into liberation from my living nightmare. Bit and pieces from afterwards that were told to me and what little I do remember started with a car ride, alone, with my step-father. I know he attempted to sexually assault me and that he never managed to completely rape me that night. When we got home, much later that was acceptable, my mother realized something was terribly wrong. She forced me into the bathroom to scream and rant at me. I refused to tell her all the details of where we had been and what we had been doing. She forced me to present myself to her for a full body inspection. From that point on it’s very sketchy.

It did escalate into unimaginable violence very quickly. There was screaming, cursing, punching, kicking, pain and then police and emergency personnel.

My mother was taken to the hospital, my stepfather to jail, my stepbrother was sent to a children’s mental hospital and my step-sister and myself were sent to her paternal grandparents house.

This entire ordeal was never reported to my father or my father’s parents who could have taken control that night and saved me from further abuse. It’s because of the fear I lived with. The absolute horrific shame and guilt I felt could not be overcome at that point. It had gone on too long and I didn’t deserve to burden anyone else. I feared the retribution would be a million fold worse than what I was already suffering through. Back when I was about 10 years old, the realization came to me that I had to sacrifice myself in order to save others(my father & grandparents) from having to live with the horrors that had befallen on me because I knew I was too weak to make it stop.

part 2 to follow

I need a massage and to stop whining


Want some cheese with that whine?


I really, really, really need a massage today. I have a huge ball of tension at the base of my neck radiating down into my left scapular space.
I feel very twitchy and stabby because of it.
Having an aversion to strangers touching me so intimately raises my hackles and I can’t relax to get much needed relief.
Is there some sort of pressure point that can a massage therapist can push on that would knock my ass out so I could the massage without losing my ever-loving shit?
I wish there were an emergency hot tub I soak my aching limbs within.
It is not to be but a dream or a wish.

I need a massage, money and to the remember the following daily.

“What you’re supposed to do when you don’t like a thing is change it. If you can’t change it, change the way you think about it. Don’t complain.”
― Maya Angelou

God Save the Queen, Charles, William, & George

Once upon a time, way back in 1980, I became enthralled with Lady Diana Spencer. She would soon become known and loved as Princess Diana of Wales. As a nine-year old I found the whole “fairy tale” to be better than anything in the world. I remember watching every minute of the wedding that fateful July day in 1981. I inhaled everything I could get my hands on about her and her boys. It would forever cement my love of all things English.
When I was less than 3 weeks away from giving birth on August 31st, 1997, I came home to the news of Princess Diana’s death. I cried the entire week leading up to her funeral. I mourned her loss as if I knew her personally. She had become so woven into my life by the news and glossies.
I became an anglophile in such a way that I wanted to become a British citizen and develop a lovely British accent. Instead, some 33 yrs later I’m still an American. No closer to my dream life in the United Kingdom, but I will make it a reality somehow, some way, some day, sigh.
Lord, I almost want to break out into song. Or not.
I still follow the lives of the British Royalty daily. I subscribe to many different blogs about them. I just can’t get enough.
I have read countless books about British Royalty and the history of Britain. I read the Daily Mail UK and Hello, both UK & Canadian versions every single day. Some of my favorite Britcoms are shown on Netflix now, I love catching up or finding new ones. And one can never go wrong with the newest version of Sherlock. Both my son & I are truly “Sherlocked”. I’d love to marry Benedict Cumberbatch and just have him read to me all day in that ridiculously lovely, posh voice of his.
I suppose as any true self-confessed anglophile I must concede to being an Austenite, except I don’t wish to dress in Regency costume or belong to a book club. I definitely have my own Mr. Darcy fantasies (Colin Firth, yes please, and dear Matthew Macfayden, I swoon too).  My favorite Jane Austen book strangely enough is Persuasion, followed closely by Mansfield Park.
Since I’ve yet to cross the pond and immerse myself in the British culture, I’ll stick to shopping at World Market for my English foods. I love your chocolates, crisps, biscuits, beans, and my own version your treacle tart.
I hope to someday to see the following sites:
Big Ben
The Gherkin
Parliament House
Buckingham Palace
Windsor Castle
Hyde park
The London Eye
The Tower of London
The Millenium & London Bridge’s
The Tate Modern and about 100 other places eventually.
I guess you can call this my guilty pleasure in life. Very few people I personally know would understand my fascination. It’s about as far outside my perceived personality as you can get.

There you have it, I’ve come out of the closet as a true lover of most things English, except hot tea. And spotted dick pudding.