Wednesday, December 21, 2011

I see you

You stand next to me but yet it is as though you are not there. You hug me and it feels as if your arms are  ribbons of air that surround me but never touch me. I am desperate to feel anything, but I am void. You are there, I see you, yet I am so lonely. The darkness licks at my weaknesses like wounds that a dog tends to after a fight he has lost to a better opponent. The darkness is trying to protect me, but doesn’t realize it is devouring my moments of happiness with its’ mission to destroying the moments of pain. You look at me with such devotion, yet there is a barrier preventing me from feeling it, soaking it in, I am trapped by my body trying to protect me from feeling pain yet it prevents me from feeling joy, I am screaming to get out, yet you do not hear me, all that I try to do to escape the darkness that pulls me in like a bad tug of war over quicksand fails, repeats, limiting escape. Such despair such agony. I want to reach out to you, yet my hand will not move, I want to whisper the words of eternal love and thankfulness, yet my mouth won’t open.
I sit in a glass jar with a lid screwed on so tight by the hand of darkness, I am able to see the world around me, yet unable to truly touch it, see it, feel it, enjoy it. How do I break this glass and escape a body that is trying so hard to help me forget, to protect me from my actions, to protect me from the past pain, but yet does not know when to stop. It is a runaway car. They call it depression, I call it a trap. At one time in my life I embraced it,  allowing it to limit my memories, emotions, and preventing me from feeling. But now, I want it to go away and leave me alone. It is like a darkness that comes from behind like a desperate shadow trying to match its form to the right person. Sneaking up on you when you least expect it. Lurking.
            I was asked once what does it feel like, depression. I know now that many don’t understand this sickness. It feels like you have been kidnapped, blindfolded, and placed in a room of darkness. You are afraid to move because you are not aware of where you are or what is in the room with you. Echoes, voices, whispers fill your brain, flashes of light, visions of horror scenes scattered across the walls, but not of a fictitious nature but of your past moments of pain. You are shoved to the ground by a bullying darkness and feel a heavy weight residing on your chest, suffocating you, then water filling your nostrils, torturing your lungs, then it stops, but only for a moment. You hear a bell - ding ding - round two, this time it feels like demons are grabbing at you with fingers of razors cutting into your flesh, loud cackles, pinching you so hard breaking blood vessels in your delicate skin, pulling your hair and slinging you around, hitting you in the head with knuckles of steal.  You fight to break free.
Then it stops, you find your way to your feet searching for the wall that moments before held visions of torture, through the sheets of darkness, then the darkness kicks you in the back so hard your breathe expels from your tiny body. With the help of the darkness, you have found the wall with some blunt force trauma, only to find it is hot to the touch and coated in nails stabbing your hands and burning your soft flesh. You banter with yourself that this is hell, almost giggling in denial that is could get any worse. The voices get louder almost screaming, you grab your head, cover your ears and kneel down, and you begin to scream too. You scream so long your throat is hoarse and your vocal cords are challenged to continue, your head feels like it has been split in half with a guillotine and your tears come so fast spilling over like a tumultuous sea breaking free from a perfect storm, you feel sick, nauseous. Then at the final moment you seek death to provide a source of comfort, a bright light breaks through the wall, blinding you, how long have you been in here? Only the sane will know. The light, well the light is one of two things. Medication firing the nervous system, that went on an impromptu vacation, into action. Or, the love of a very strong person who has given themselves to help you get better, devoting their strength to your weakness. It is your soul mate.
I see you, I feel lonely. Is the darkness coming back? Be strong for me, you are my medication. I will be back. I seek freedom. I will remember you, your love will be my hope that keeps my soul alive in the dark room. I love you.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

The Power of Thought

From the thoughts in my mind that imprison my soul, suffocating the spirit that wants to swaddle my body in life’s hopes and dreams, I resist the dungeon of dread and fight to stiffen my thoughts to break the chains that bind. I will walk free into the light, free, allowing my spirit to cleanse me of the wrong and fill me with the right. The right to know, do, and want better for myself and all others who struggle with the darkness that looms waiting to pounce on the weakness and drain the innocence.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Nocturnal Dread

It is not about abandonment or abuse, it is about the scars that reside on my internal wounds, ones that cannot be taken away by medicine or therapy. The scars that never get treated or caressed. I think I would rather feel the shot of a slow moving bullet ripping through my skin and tearing at the nocturnal dread that looms over the life that remains.  You have it wrong as I am not bitter, I do not seek vengeance, I seek fair dealing that this pain was for not, that this pain will help someone else, that this pain will eventually go away – yes this may be naive of me, but hope is all that remains. Pain that runs deeper than a cavern filled with poisonous snakes. I must slay each one to find peace, happiness, and life. It will be a long battle, but I am ready.
Like a spider that creeps up on you, biting you, because you have invaded the space it calls home. It was not intentional, the spider cannot be blamed for retaliation, it was doing only what was in its’ nature.  A healing human must do what is in their nature – when the tongue becomes sharp and cuts into your soul, for it is not personal it is healing.  There are no excuses for a survivor to create a victim, so the best way to avoid it is to allow yourself to mourn the life that you know will never happen. Live the life that can and is happening. Enjoy the treasures that you have been given whether they are small or large. Face the eternal fact that you will never know what it feels like to wake up and not be a survivor of abuse – when all else leaves – it will remain haunting you in the silence of your thoughts, in your time alone, in happy moments waiting to rip at the threads and unravel all that you have built. It will seek you out, it will smell your weakness, it will sense your inability to deal. It will break you.
There are those that will not listen to the words that escape my lips, they will ignore the story, brush it off into someone else’s lap, choose to believe that these things do not happen. There is a reality and a lesson to be learned. Depend upon yourself, believe in yourself, do for yourself.  Yourself.  Even the person that comes to you in a vision of friendship can have a dark side covered by a thick slab of lies with alternative motives.  Trust is key, it should be cherished; do not give it away like a foolish girl who pawns her virtues for one moment of happiness.  Do not feel for one minute you have been abandoned by those that do not believe or do not want to hear it, because you can only be abandoned if you give up on yourself and choose to feel abandoned.  You have it wrong if you think this is where it ends for me, I have a long life to live, and I plan on doing.
Stand up, step out, speak up. There are people waiting for you.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Third person named in Boom Boom Room child sex investigation

Florida cracks down! Willie David Rice, 45, James "Red" Mozie, 34, of Lauderhill and his girlfriend, Laschell "Shelly" Harris, 37, of Oakland Park were formally charged with conspiracy to commit sex trafficking of a minor. Investigators say that four girls, ages 14 to 17, were sold to men for sex at the house.

Third person named in Boom Boom Room child sex investigation

Thursday, April 21, 2011

In My Words...: The Verdict Is In...

In My Words...: The Verdict Is In...: "Another day in favor of the villain, why do they always seem to win...the villain in this case is a child rapist (repeat offender)! I hate t..."

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

The Verdict Is In...

Another day in favor of the villain, why do they always seem to win...the villain in this case is a child rapist (repeat offender)! I hate the justice system!  It may not be the ending to my story I had hoped, but at least now I know I did all I could and my story has an ending.
 The State Attorney says....
"There are many complex issues involved in this case.  In the end, the consensus was there is not enough evidence to move forward.  We were hoping for something from the interview with your father but that yielded nothing helpful."
So wait my statement describing in detail events of abuse was not enough?  No one is supporting my statement and no one supported his, but yet he gets off and I get no trial?  I knew I should have saved those bed sheets when I was 7!  Silly me, why didn’t I think to do that?
Oh I am sorry, how many child rapist jump up and say they did it?  What do I have to gain by coming forward and admitting this?  Are there a lot of people who come forward stating their father raped them for 7 years?
Why is this ending so common? If you don’t think a case is winnable then no you won’t win it...I showed up to the ballgame too bad those who defend the law didn’t. Why do people who work in an office and have no connection to any crime they make laws for get to dictate when victims come forward?
Know the facts...too bad I didn't live in the bottom 6 on the list - but then again wouldn't a rapist who wanted to do what he does know this and avoid such states?

Statute of Limitations Fact Sheet
32 states have crimes for which there is no criminal statute of limitation, meaning that a criminal prosecution can be brought at any time regardless of how much time has passed since the crime occurred, including:
 7 states that have no statute of limitation on any felony
Kentucky, Maryland, North Carolina, South Carolina, West Virginia, Wyoming, and Virginia
 8 states that have no statute of limitation on the most serious felonies
·         Alabama crimes involving use or threat of violence
·         California crimes punishable by death or life imprisonment
·         Louisiana crimes punishable by death or life imprisonment
·         Tennessee crimes punishable by death or life imprisonment
·         New York Class A felonies
·         New Mexico Class A felonies
·         Indiana Class A felonies
·         South Dakota Class A or B or Class 1 felonies
 11 states with no statute of limitation on specific sex offenses
·         Alaska sexual abuse class A or B felony
·         Arizona violent sexual assault
·         Connecticut Class A felony sexual assault
·         Delaware any sex offense
·          Florida 1st or 2nd degree sexual battery (if reported to police within 72 hours)
·         Nevada sexual assault (if reported within 4 years)
·         New Jersey sexual assault or aggravated sexual assault
·         Oklahoma certain sex crimes (if reported within 12 years, and DNA evidence applies)
·         Texas sexual assault (with DNA evidence)
·         Vermont aggravated sexual assault
·         Wisconsin 1st degree sexual assault
5 states with no statute of limitation on child sex abuse
·         Colorado any sex offense against a child
·         Idaho sexual abuse of a child
·         Maine unlawful sexual contact with a minor
·         Mississippi various sex offenses against a child
·         Rhode Island 1st or 2nd degree child molestation
Additionally, 6 states allow prosecutions of child sex abuse for at least 20 years after the victim’s 18th birthday.
·         Connecticut 30 years
·         Illinois 20 years
·         Louisiana 30 years
·         Missouri 20 years
·         New Hampshire 22 years
·         Wisconsin 27 years

Friday, April 15, 2011

Life is Like Paper

Life is like a piece of notebook paper, the lines help guide you, the color represents all things start out innocent, and the weight of it signifies freedom of burdens.  Often times we take for granted that piece of paper, much like our lives.  We spill things on it, screw it up, and write outside the lines.  How often do we keep it secure and safe from wet counters and dirty hands?  Think how often you have taken a risk that did not need to be taken.  Did you walk in a dark parking lot at night alone? Have you slept with your doors unlocked or windows open? 
I get tired of hearing how the world isn’t like it was in the 1960s. Fact is, the 1960’s and 70’s had bad people too; serial killers, rapist, murders, mobsters – the world has not changed only evolved and with it so have criminals. These are not new phenomena; they are ancient evils that have surpassed efforts to stop them.  But people are people and we will always struggle with mental stability and victimization. Just like the notebook paper our life is fragile, here this moment gone the next. So why do we take so many chances with it? Do we not feel it is laudable of protecting? Do we treat it with a pill and call it a day? Can evil be rehabilitated? So many questions so many ignorant answers.
I am not sure I totally understand the ability of the human brain, but I am sure I understand that evil lurks all around us. Waiting so patiently and preying so methodically on “the one.”  The one could be you.  I often have pondered if I have encountered a rapist, murderer, or child predator in my everyday errands – touched their hand, provided a hello, or a simple smile.  It makes me sick because it was not deserved and their victim(s) deserved better.  But I know it happens for my father is a child sex predator – I know he has had conversations with unsuspecting people, maybe even touch a child to give her a piece of candy, or opened the door for a woman whom he had thoughts of doing bad things to.  I think about how he conducts his everyday life smiling and laughing with those he meets along life’s journey – he is so undeserving for what he has done in his life – but yet has not paid his dues.  I feel bad for the women who saw good in him at one time – enough good to marry him.  They became his victims too. They did not deserve it.
I am not comforted to think that a serial killer could have been in a parking lot watching for his next victim and may have passed me over for another.  I am thankful that I think this way.  I think it keeps me grounded in the real world and a tad bit paranoid. That is it, we have all become less paranoid than we should be, less vigilant than we should be, and less tuned in to the evil.  In a way, we have grown to accept it.  It is not normal, it should not be something we watch on the news and say, “how horrible” then go take a bubble bath with the doors unlocked!
The piece of paper, if only for a moment, will fly and take on a different shape once grasped by the hands of the wind.  For a moment it will twist, turn, swirl about like a rodent being wrapped up by a snake, like a victim fighting back as their life depends on it. The paper had no choice in what it became.  But for many of us that are capable, we do have a choice.  Don’t let your life become the twisted piece of paper that drowns in the coffee spill or becomes destroyed by the sole of the shoe that ignores its presence on the ground.  Your life is worth something now even if you felt it didn’t a time ago.  Even if someone else didn’t think it meant anything a time ago.  It does. You do.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011


Passion is what the heart cannot keep enclosed, and what the mind cannot fully wrap around. It finds a way to seep from the soul on a desperate mission to seek out those in need by someone who wants to help them.  It can be a process that is slow or one that erupts like a volcano.  Not everyone can handle the power of passion – but have the conviction that you can.  We will walk this journey together and when the road begins to divide, do not be afraid to walk your journey alone as you will be not far from me in thought.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Reject or Rejected

Rejection is a conscious decision. The rejecter knows that when they reject you it is the most devastating action they can do to you. More hurtful than abuse - verbal, mental, or physical.  A history of rejection.  The one being rejected seems it is the end of the world because it is all they have known – it is the greatest pain – the biggest hurt. Does the rejecter do it because it is a cry for help, for a fight, or maybe for affirmation that they mean anything to you?  The pain is at times unbearable.  Family is supposed to be what supports you when you fall, cheers you when you succeed, and surrounds you in all the other times.  When does the insanity stop? I would rather have not known a family than to be rejected by one.  I lived my life for so long in solitude – happy, peaceful. Creating my own moments – without family, then creating my own family along the way.
 Just like a mushroom that pops up overnight, I received an email from a family member almost 7 years ago.  The one person I have loved and will always love unconditionally.  Now I have family members reaching out to me all the time.  It can be overwhelming.  You never know why they want to know you – self-doubt and questions surround your thoughts about their motivations. No one loved me as a child so why now? Anger sets in, why didn’t anyone help me?  I was an innocent child, I deserved a chance. So many victims in his path – the silence is the common thread among them all, this created more victims.
But I remember a time when I reached out. I reached out to my biological mom’s family. At first they said no, no, no.  But then I remember a few years later I tried again to find out some information – they received me with open arms, but I felt it was a lot of upkeep, I often did not return calls or letters – they wanted a relationship with me, one that at the time I was incapable of giving, selfish maybe.  When I was ready, I reached back only to have my hand and my face slapped – they turned their backs on me – then told me that my grandmother had passed and that she went to her grave feeling rejected by me and that I broke her heart.  Stating, “no, we gave you your one and only chance”. Followed by, “don’t ever call her again”. Just one chance? I am sorry now that I didn’t reached back sooner or in a time frame that fit their lives. I did not know any better. How can you place that on the shoulders of someone who carried a tormented world already? Simple, they did not know, my silence prevented them from knowing.
Being rejected is part of life, we all go through it at one time – the loss of a boyfriend or a girlfriend, or someone close. But no one should have to feel rejected by a parent, much less both parents. Now by a family member that reached out to me, the one family member I leaned on as a child – someone I looked up to, and who tried his best to look after me.
Learning to accept and love family has been a hard road for me. I lost my mom because my dad beat her, cheated on her, and sexually abused her.  I lost my dad because he beat on me, cheated me out of my childhood, and sexual abused me. Now because I have chosen to do something about the abuse for all the victims who are afraid, I lose this family member too. How does that make sense? Does that make me a reject or rejected? I think there is a difference, one describes an act of another the other describes the inner emotion one feels – a feeling summed up by one word - defective.
I just don’t understand.  I made a personal decision, no matter if he was in it or not I would still be seeking justice.  My heart aches, and NO time does not make it better, in fact it makes it worse.
I would not change anything about what I am doing, but while I encourage other victims to find their voice, by whatever means it takes, be aware that it could cost you family, friends, and a small bit of peace that comes along with those two groups. It will feel like no other feeling. It will break you into pieces and being prepared for that is one of the things I did not do, but hope to share this story to help others.
You will run through every emotion being rejected, there is no certain order they will come. At the end of the day though, you find comfort in knowing you made it this far and that you DO control your happiness and while this may dull your shine, you can’t allow it to take your power. Life must go on and there is nothing you can do to change it. This is their choice – sometimes you have to lay it to rest and move past it. Put your faith and energy into those that do support you – the family and support system that you have created.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Made Whole

There is always the beginning. A time without defects, without flaws, synergy. Then something happens, life happens – fair or not.  A mirror shattered by the blunt edge of a hammer held by an empty soul touched by sadness and warped from anger. The broken pieces grab hold of my spirit, unable to take back what is captive.  Known to be an intimate friend of darkness, my psyche surrenders to a chaotic, near death experience comparable to being held in a wooden box nailed shut, suffocating, inescapable. The tragedy of a broken life seeking out a new place to reside, but is unable to avoid the perils along the wayside.
The broken pieces project outward like a migraine-provoking 3D movie, slicing through the moral degradation, bleeding it out, like a drug addict overdosing - feeding an addiction, unaware of how good life can be if given 5 minutes to feel sobriety.  Gaining the pounds of sanity, shedding the pounds of insanity, and starving the relentless edge to get even.  The light is dimming, the room is collapsing, and the memories are fading - no wait I am the one changing, growing, distancing.
Peace would be like a song,  written for me, playing softly, filling my ears, soothing my inner skin. Comforting. It is a nice reprieve from the thought that beneath my skin, my bones are covered by a cheap, dirty carpet that has met years of use.  The carpet rubs the inside of my body raw.  Offering no harmony, afraid that at any moment it will put a tear in my skin, enabling  my insides to splatter on the floor. Swoosh. I collapse, tumbling into the hell that I can’t seem to shake to death.  The nightmare exists not only in my mind, but also in my inability to resist giving it what “It” needs to remain alive.
Glue. Glue is the answer to putting the mirror back together – the image will always remain distorted but it can be whole again. But what about the pieces that are too small to see, lost, wedged into the fibers of the carpet. I exhale, loudly. Accepting there are many kinds of mirrors, some never see an image, some are made distorted, some are shattered and remain that way, some get defected along the way, while others get broken but yet go on to become a reflection of hope and change. Like a body that can do without some organs, a mirror - my mirror -  can do without some of its pieces. It is my life.
I hear my song playing, I must pause it, no time to rest now; there will be plenty of that once I am truly, really, dead.

Friday, January 21, 2011


The feeling of love. The admiration of strength. The courage of overcoming. The brilliance of light. The drenching heat of the sun. The smell of baked cookies. The taste of success. The touch of laughter. The boldness of voices. The healing of a scorned soul. The drive of determination. The sound of triumph. The look of security. The joy of running free.  The cleansing of rain. The comfort of thunder. The shock of cold water. The serenity of peace. The tranquility of nature. The warmth of a fleece blanket. The mystery of night. The appeal of temptation. The finality of overcoming tragedy. The endless end of life. The rampage of memories. The roar of thriving. The scare of success. The freedom of choice. The love of a great man. The fullness of motherhood.

The moment you know you have made it – priceless.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Forgotten Not Invisible - A Fictional Short Story

There she stood beneath the ripped awning of the abandoned building that provided very little shelter from the elements. The temperature had dropped 17 degrees since sunset.  The rain had been relentless for two days.  One leg extended in front and the other bent at the knee with her tiny size seven-foot resting against the brick wall.  Her toes extending beyond her shoes from the pressure of her body resisting the 6-inch heels.  Her legs were bare and her skirt was so short and tight as if she had been poured into it – painting a canvas that showed a certain lack of nourishment.  Her shirt was clingy and revealed her modest breasts and sunken shoulders.  Although she had a plump smile, her eyes were tired and sad. She was beautiful, in spite of the drooping face that tells a story of a girl who has aged faster than the years. She worked hard to keep the smile on her face. Almost like a plaster statue, never changing.  Attracting only one type of being.  Supplying the service of a demand that would prove overwhelming at times, but a way of life.  Many walked by with a judgmental grimace and glaring eyes, but she stood steadfast. She seemed unparsed by those that treated her as if she were no better than bubble gum scrapped off their expensive shoes on the sidewalk.
She knew she was not invisible, but the reality that wore heavy on her soul was she had been forgotten. No family, no friends, no allies, no hope. Well that is if you do not count the sleaze ball who on most nights would take almost all of the money she worked so hard to earn. She managed to barter enough to buy some artisan bread and a pint of milk from the nearby bakery.  Each day the streets would fill with the freshly baked smell of goodness, an aroma she looked forward to each day.  Something many would take for granted, but provided her with a small bit of comfort and a chance to feel the good in the world. She had visited the bakery every day, well every day since arriving in this city, she had been just 13 on her first visit.  That was three years, 2 months, and 12 days ago.
But tomorrow, she would not visit the bakery.  Little did she know, in a few hours  her voice, her soul, and her life would be taken. Cut short of a deserving childhood filled with laughter.  He drove a nice car, he said all the right words, even pulled from his pocket the prize she had become all too dependent upon.  He stopped the car, got out, walked to her side, and opened the door like the perfect gentleman. She was impressed, no one had done that before.  She was intoxicated from the blasting heat coming from the vents, permeating her skin, sinking right to the bone.  She looked around his car, noticing the disturbing cleanliness of the dark, leather interior. He walked around to the driver’s side and slipped behind the wheel, pausing for moment to look over at her, satisfied with his choice.  He gave her a soft smile and began to drive away.
At 6 a.m. like every day before, the bakery owner turned on his lights and opened up his business.  Waiting for the girl he had only know by her first name, Shelly, to come for her daily bread and milk. She did not come that day or any other day thereafter.  Shelly left this world with the last thought of being forgotten, visible only to those with bad intentions.
Two weeks later, they found Shelly’s naked body in a wooded area along an empty stretch of highway just outside of town. That same day the bakery owner would recognize Shelly’s photo from the back of an expired milk carton in his store refrigerator. Her pimp would grow weary at the thought of her absence and his lost profit.   
From beyond the darkness, Shelly looks upon the world, unforgiving.  However, she takes a small bit of comfort on this day, the day she would not be forgotten or invisible, even though her life meant more dead than alive.


A rainbow. It appears as light as the air we breathe leaving a trail across the sky for the imagination to run free. Wondering what is at the end.  The colors are vivid. I am drawn to it, yet the closer I get the farther away it is – almost moving to avoid my touch. I would love to touch a rainbow. I think it would be warm and soft and wrap around me like a ribbon stretching to hold my encroaching frame.  It would be the brightest in the center, sparkling like tiny, shiny bath bubbles, popping as my exhilarating exhale makes contact. I think it would taste like sweet, summer strawberries dipped in a bowl of love and serenity.  It would be like floating with no gravity weighing down the aging parts of my body. I would try to reach the end of the rainbow to see if in fact there is a pot of gold. Or is the gold a metaphor for  something else? The eyes see the pot of gold, but the mind understands the pot of gold really means having lived life and finding the treasures of life along the way.  The rough nuggets of shiny metal symbolizes the bumps that one endures through the journey – never perfect, never round.  Strong and solid, yet malleable like emotions – changing with each moment that passes.
Yet there is only one time to see a rainbow and it is after the showers cleanse the earth.  It appears almost out of nowhere, without a prompt.  I have not always liked rainbows, however. As a little girl I compared rainbows to bruises left on my skin that could be conveniently covered by cotton and nylon. See a bruise varies in all the colors as it appears and disappears, just like a rainbow, with red, blues, purples, yellows, greens. It has taken time, but I have grown to admire rainbows in spite of the monster that marked the skin of my former self – a child who grew to know that one cannot be compared to the other as one is made of innocence and purity and the other is of mayhem and cruelty.
                I hope I see a rainbow soon, for in that moment I am reminded of my resilience and all that is in my pot of gold.