My Stuttering Heart


I wrote a post last week about how hard a local teenager’s suicide hit me, what I didn’t expect was how my world would fall apart just a few days later.

There are no names to be shared, only a story of my heart racing and my inability to cope as a child’s world was so painful, that after her friend’s viewing, she felt that the only way to cope with it was an attempt on her own life.

Her mother is probably one of the strongest people that I know right now, because I would never be able to get back up and keep moving forward like she has.  

The whole thing got me thinking…  I was, at one time, a teenager that contemplated suicide.  I don’t even really remember why I decided not to.  All I know is that choosing to live has brought me a wonderful life.

It took time.  I had a shitty Ex who beat me, cheated on me, and threatened to destroy my world.

I had a crappy job and couldn’t always make ends meet.

I have had shit happen.  I have never gone back to that suicidal frame of mind.

I wish I could remember what in the world I did, or what influenced my decision to keep on moving, but all I can say, is that I am so glad I did.

I have a husband that loves me, and loves to annoy me, and then kiss me until I am no longer ready to throttle him.

I have two boys who have to have every ounce of my attention every minute of every day.  Two boys who require hugs every time they see me, just because they want them.  Two boys who have dreams bigger than the world and the ambition to get themselves there.

My world is hard.  I don’t always like it, but I still love where it has brought me.


How Do You Hold Onto Your Words?

My words flutter around inside my brain, beating their wings against my mind’s walls, like thousands of butterflies fighting to get out.

I used to use these words in speech.  I would tell clever stories, make witty quips, and scathing remarks.  The words would march out of my mouth, like dutiful ants, returning to their queen.  Structures perfect, reaching their goal head-on.


Lately the words do not obey me like they used to.  I frequently ask my children  to “Put the dirty dishes in the oven” or to “Put the leftovers away in the dishwasher.”

My children like to tell me that I am just creating a secret language that is unique to our family, our own secret code.

Some days it’s a fun idea, but other days it leaves me unsettled.

I don’t want these confused words trapped inside the iron cage, chewing away at the linings of my focus.  


I want them set free.  Free to again float away.  Free to comfort.  Free to inspire.  Yes, even free to annoy.  

Free to land, wherever they may roam.

Why My Heart Hurts Tonight

I posted this post on my Facebook page.  It is about how the internet, twitter in particular has turned War Machine’s ex girlfriend Christy Mack from a victim of a horrific act of violence into a less-than-person, who deserved to be put into the hospital.

I had a friend remark that  “In the article, she said something to the effect of, “He’s beaten me before, but never this bad.” Makes me very, very sad to know that she kept this psycho in her life after the first beating. She knew what he was capable of, and yet she stayed.”

I said the only thing I could think of in response.

People who are abused can’t or won’t always leave.

With my Father, I was conditioned to believe I deserved every hurtful word, and that the bruises were just the horribleness inside me being shown to the world.

I felt that I deserved to be hit, because I was such a source of stress that he couldn’t help but to lash out at me.


With my Ex-Husband, I was afraid.

I had kids.

I had no money.

I had a Mc job.

He has parents who are both well off enough that he COULD have taken those kids from me. In a heartbeat.

He always threatened to.

My current Husband (such a wonderful man) even tells me now that it took a long time after we got together and MARRIED to realize that I didn’t deserve the treatment I was given.

I still have bad days and relapse.

There are days when I feel frustrated, and tongue tied, and I just can’t think straight.

Days when my Husband will hold me, and kiss me, and try to help me calm down.

Some days it works.

Other days he has to deal with a total meltdown because I still don’t always understand that it is ok for him to love me even when I screw up constantly.

When I break a glass and then get cut cleaning it up, I deserve to go get a bandaid.  

I do not have to sit on the floor and pick up the glass, piece by piece, and then take time to clean up the blood, so that it doesn’t stain the floor.

That is no longer my life.


When my fingers stopped flying across my keyboard, I could feel my heart stuttering in my chest.  I could feel the fear that I used to feel when I was a young girl, listening to my father screaming my name in slurs, a sound that always preceded an accusation of some assumed slight that I could never rectify fast enough to please him.

The slap would come fast and hard, and not always by itself, the sting settling into a burning that I would pretend to not feel.  

I am almost 33 years old.  The abuse stopped by the time that I was 21, from almost all fronts.  There is still the occasional intimidation from my Ex-Husband, but my current Husband ALWAYS has my back, and if I can’t handle the bullshit, he will carry my load.

Admitting this to the public makes me feel raw and wrong.  I still almost feel like it’s my fault.  My father, my own personal hell, drank himself into the ground years ago.  Somedays I can recognize that I was well fed, well clothed, and never wanted for physical comforts.  Some days, I can still manage to love him.  But most days…

Most days, he is still the monster in my head, and he doesn’t want to leave.


The last image came from Dakotaa on Deviant Art.  Please go check out Their Gallery.  They have such wonderful work.