Category: Sexual abuse

That day

That day.

I remember exactly where I was standing. 

The time of day, the lighting in the house. 

It was evening, so, the sun was lowering in the sky casting shadows in that kitchen. 

I stood by the enormous stainless Steel fridge. 

I was wiping the microwave when I asked her, “so you saw it?” 

She shook her head “yes”.

 I said, “ewww… Gross! That must have been scarring! Those things are ugly!” (Referring to her oldest brothers penis). 

Right then I knew I had to ask the next question, even though I didn’t want to know the answer. 

“So, did he try to stick it in? In you?” 

Her eyes never looked up at me, as she said, “yeah, I told him to stop because it hurt but he said he was ‘almost there’. ”

I know my facial expressions changed. 

I now had information that could put my son away in prison for years.

I am in shock. 

She still isn’t making eye contact with me, but she trusted me enough to tell me the truth. I couldn’t let her down.  I didn’t.

I asked her where and when and got more details. 

One thing is for sure, I will never forget that day. The place, the time nor the time of year. 

That day. The beginning of many that would send me and my family down an emotional roller coaster of a journey. 

That day. That knowledge. We will never forget.

That day.

Agelast

Sitting in a 10×10 room. There are 7 of us. 4 chairs and a table with 2 magazines.
Everyone around me is giggling and laughing tying to make light of a very heavy situation.
I’m sitting on the floor. I feel as though I’m just a fly on the wall. Their antics are not funny to me. Their mirth just irritates me.
I have tunnel vision. It’s as if they are just a fog surrounding me.
My son has just confessed to every crime he has been accused of.
I am numb. I can barely breathe much less smile. The defense attorneys summon me outside the 10×10 box.
They ask me, “would you like an opportunity to talk to your son? You do understand he will be going away for a very long time”.
Emotionless I gaze into their eyes and answer, “yes. Please.”
They lead me into a room where I see my son sobbing on the other side of the glass. His head in his arms.
I place my hand on the glass hoping he would reach out. I sit and watch him cry, tears streaming down my face. He looks up and repeatedly says, “I’m sorry Mom, I’m sorry Mom, I’m sorry mom…” And puts his head back down. I said, “son. Look at me.”
My hand still on the glass. He looks up.
I said, “son, I forgive you.”
He shakes his head as more tears stream down his face.
Then his hand rests on the glass against where mine is.
We keep our hands there in an attempt to feel a hug. This is our goodbye.
I reminded him that I love him, as I walk out of the room sobbing through my tunnel that I can barely see a few feet in front of me. Back into the room of mirth where I sit quietly, agelast.
Agelast – Forget your faith

I hope

As I sit upon the witness chair
At the judge I’m supposed to stare
Give my story, my heart I’ll bare
Beg for a sentence long and fair

Explain how hard it’s been to cope
May confess how I’ve turned to dope
Through words of emotion I will grope
Hold myself together, is my hope

I’ll tell of memories I hold dear
Then tell of what I now most fear
All his charges I dread to hear
When it’s over I’ll seek a beer.

I walk in numbness, dread and pain
The thought of seeing him again
Is nothing more than a mental strain
My love for him I need to explain

I just want to hold him one last time
Regardless of the type of his crime
My soul and heart aches and pines
knowing he may be away for a lifetime

Will they let me see him?
I hope
Will they let me hug him?
I hope.
Will he want to see me?
I hope.
I hope.
I hope.

Are you ok?

“No, quite honestly, I’m not.”

No, I’m not ‘ok’, I feel like I’m packing for a funeral. Each day draws me closer to the sobering reality of the crushing heart wrenching soul agony I’ve been living in for the past 6 months. Saturday I will drive 10 hours. 10 hours to see my oldest child who I haven’t seen in over 6 months. Who I haven’t spoken to in over 6 months. On Monday I get the awesome joy (sarcasm intended) of witnessing the Court Martial of my first born child. On another day next week I have the grueling opportunity to listen to my daughter as she tells prosecutors and the judge everything he did to her. I never wanted to hear the details. She’s growing into a beautiful young lady. It kills me to know he took her innocence.  She knows what’s it’s like to be with a man. She already knows how to where a tampon for Gawds sake! She shouldn’t even be comfortable with wearing one!!!! 

Oh my gawd! I hold my chest, it aches. It pounds. It hurts. Tears (as usual) stream down my face.

I’m packing for a funeral. The veiwing of the body, then the burial of my own soul, as I listen to the details then the sentencing.

No. I’m not ok at all.

A living hell

“Youre making my life a living hell!” He said as he turned to walk up the stairs.Two weeks ago I petitioned for a court ordered family intervention, in an attempt for him to get clean and go back to therapy. He now has to succumb to random drug testing and pass before he can get his drivers license.

Yesterday I sold his brothers Camry that has sat in our driveway for 2 years. TWO YEARS! Flat tires, dead battery, and in desperate need of brake work. So he was angry for that also. Mad that it wasn’t given to him. He said a few other things then told me I was obligated to buy him alcohol and if I didnt he would drink mine.
“I make YOUR life a living hell??” “You call THIS hell? I provide you with food, a nice bed and bedroom to sleep in, I take you wherever you want to go whenever you want to go there. You call this hell?”
I tell you what a “living hell” is! Living hell is having a son who is a child molestor. Living hell is being subpoenaed to watch his trial and sentencing. Living hell is wondering what will be the next thing to set you, YOU, child of complaints, off. Will you try to kill yourself again to escape “your living hell”? Living hell is wondering if you will have the initiative to graduate from high school. Do you want me to continue? I can. I have other complaints, other hells. Living hell is remembering the day my ex husband held my 22yr old son up against the wall by the throat and screamed in His face, “I hate you!! NEVER call me dad again!!” because he wasn’t his biological father even though he raised him from 6mths old. Living hell is my life every time I have a memory…. It’s like reliving it all over again. 

So, son, go ahead and explain to me HOW your life is a living hell. 

  

I have decided…

I have decided that I will just go ahead and have cry-baby break down.. In the court room. I know when I see my son I’m going to want to cry and weep and wail and even scream but instead I’ll just let the depression and the sadness and the months of darkness take over. I’ll let them have their way… I will let the tears flow. I will cry and not hold back. So this is my official, mental note to myself,  to buy some fucking Kleenex … because I am going to need it.

  

My Rights

I have the right to remain sane. Anything I say or do, can and probably will be used against me at any given time. I have the right to my own opinion. If you do not like or accept my opinion another one will be presented to you. Do you understand these writes as they’ve been given to you?

I am “the Write to sanity”. Pleased to meet you.

  

QOTD

There are people who want to make men’s lives more difficult for no other reason than the chance it provides them afterwards to offer their prescription for alleviating life; their Christianity, for instance.
Friedrich Nietzsche

As The Day Approaches 

The time is soon approaching.
The court Martial and sentencing of my son.
I remember our last conversation…
He called me to tell me he had been arrested, but didn’t understand why.
I told him that his sister told me everything.

That was 6 months ago. He has not called me again since he found out that I know the truth.

I have been an emotional wreck. I’m having to be strong for my daughter, yet this is my son… My other older children ask me if I’ll ever contact him…
This is my response: “he is my son. I will always love him, but his crimes have forever changed our relationship.”
As the day approaches I envision seeing him in that court room…with his head hung low…no eye contact made…
I have no idea if I’ll be able to stay strong. No idea if I’ll start sobbing as if it were a death – Gawd knows that’s what this feels like – no idea his reaction or my reaction.
I just want it to be behind me.
But
As the day draws closer… I want to write him a letter… Just to remind him that I still love him.

  

Backside of the storm

Have you ever noticed how beautiful the BACK side of a storm is? The clouds are completely breath taking.

I’ve lived over 20 years in the region of the U.S. Considered “tornado alley”, and it’s always amazed me when I see the back side of a storm system. 

The more beautiful the clouds, the more severe the storm. 

There is a common phrase, “you are either entering a storm, in a storm or leaving a storm” (storms of life).

Not long after my divorce  I entered into one of the worst storms I have ever faced. It’s the kind that tears families apart. Destroys people and their emotional system …and more. We are still in the middle of this storm. Each day presents a different challenge, but at least I have the hope that  on the back side of THIS storm, it’s going to be BEAUTIFUL!