I've been spending the last few days, dealing with some emotional fallout, also dealing with some relationship issues, as well as physical/hormonal issues. I'm doing a lot better today.
Arrested Development became available on Netflix a day ago, so I watched a couple of episodes today with the boyfriend while we ate pizza. Then I got a shower, and now we're watching a show about Mermaids. Real Mermaids.
It seems pretty unbelievable, but they have lots of evidence to support their finds. There were also lots of Ancient Aliens types of artwork uncovered that pretty much looks like we've had dealings with these mer-people since around the time we were making our first cave drawings. Pretty cool, huh? I don't think we were friends.
Anyway, I just wanted to touch base with everyone and let you all know I'm fine. I haven't felt much like writing, or doing anything really. I don't think I'm depressed now. I'm just feeling very exhausted, and not wanting to think too much.
Once I've recharged my batteries, and have something to say, I'll be in here chattering away. Leaving you for now with lots of love, and well wishes. Be sure to comment, if you like, ask questions...anything. :D I'm always open to share more when probed. haha
Hugs n CandyKisses
xxoo
Monday, May 27, 2013
Friday, May 24, 2013
A History of Sex and Violence Part 3
I'm tired of all this. It's been a challenge to get this far in the story of my innocence lost. I want it to be over and done with. My stepfather may enter my thoughts in the future when retelling specific stories about other people, or situations in my life, but this will be the final focus on him and the part he played in my story.
When telling the part of the tale where he and I were sequestered in the bedroom of my 8 year old self, playing that ridiculous combination of Strip Poker, Heads or Tails, and Truth or Dare, I remember something he said to me at a crucial moment. When I began losing the game, I had to remove my nightgown. When I was bare-chested in front of him, I got shy, and covered myself. It gets really blurry and uncomfortable here. I just remember the words, "It's ok. We're family now. This is what families do when they love each other." I'm sorry, but it's really cloudy and frustrating. The next memories are of me sitting across the room from him, naked on the floor, crying. I remember those emotions, continuing to feel self-conscious, and not good enough, or pretty enough. Feeling like he didn't want me, and then when he left the room, how I felt so defeated and worthless. It was very confusing.
Life after that became a blur. I don't remember very much at all. I imagine nothing much was different from day to day. He'd make his lewd comments here and there, tease, and half-heartedly flirt about inappropriate subjects. Mama was completely indifferent. I didn't feel very close to her at that time in my life. Then before I know it, it was Christmas and my grandparents had come down to celebrate at home, and then we'd 3 go back to the rental house in Shreveport where granddaddy was working. I'd start at my new school after New Years.
I was 9 years old now. I was also a sexual being, and was developing rapidly into a young woman. I wasn't very fond of the new school, but I'd made a few friends. One of them was the girl who lived across the street. I remember I had sort of a friend/crush on her. We were inseparable at home, but she was in a higher grade than me. She was 10. She played the piano, the violin, and lived with her grandparents like me. She also visited with her mom on the weekends. We were besties. I'll tell her story at a later date. She never hurt me, but I hurt her, and it's something I'm sorry for.
I have to finish with my stepfather's portion of the story. There isn't very much to tell now. When the folks and me were in Shreveport, there was only one event that stands out in my memory. Something the neighbors verified. At some point, during one of the really heated arguments that went on in that house while we were gone, one night the man carried the television outside on the front lawn and shot it with a shotgun. BOOM! I have no idea what they were fighting over, but it was over right there. I don't know what the fallout from that was, but I don't remember being aware of it until I was grown, and hearing stories.
When we moved back to Gonzales, LA. That's a small town just South of Baton Rouge, I was 10 years old, and starting the school year in the 5th grade. I was growing up. I re-entered the same school I'd been in most of my life. We moved twice while we lived in Louisiana, once to West Virginia for a year, and to Shreveport, the other.
My mom and stepdad had moved into a trailer together. Both his parents, and my grandparents went in together to buy them the property that it was on. It was really nice, and had some land that also had trails into the woods that I liked to walk on when I visited. I enjoyed my times there. It was in the same trailer park as that little house was in. It was like a subdivision, but had trailers, houses, and modified trailer houses. Haha The neighborhood was called Trailer Land.
I had good times there, even with him. He had a weight bench out back, and he taught me how to use it. I wanted to be strong. I spent a lot of time out there, building strength in my arms and legs. I worked out a lot then. I was around 200 lbs when I was 14, fairly solid. I had wide hips and thick thighs, a round little tummy, broad shoulders, and a booty to die for. I had nice boobs too. I like to show my cleavage, wear the tightest jeans ever, docs, and flannel over tank tops, or tube tops. I liked to wear my granddaddy's overcoats sometimes, or an old Army jacket I swiped from my mom. It had a rusty bullet hole in it, and I thought it was the coolest shit ever.
My stepfather grew the best weed. People came over all the time when I visited my mom. The step dad was real proud of his stash. He even showed me where he stored it after a harvest one time. It was probably about 10 plants worth. It looked like a LOT. I remember being around weed as I was growing up. My grandparents were boozers.
Randy, I'll just say it now cause I'm tired of the "stepdaddy" bit, was a mean, scary drunk. He held his shit together really good. He just got verbally abusive. He was smart too, so when he'd say stuff, he somehow knew just what to say to make you feel uncomfortable. He was actually endearing in other ways, and would make you love him. His intelligence and wit were easy, and you'd laugh even if you didn't think you should. I loved him, and I'm as sorry for him as I am for me, that this whole situation ever occurred between us. I know it fucked with him for years afterward. I'll never know how he felt about it though, as I never got to have that adult conversation with him before he was gone.
One day, when I was 14, my mom was working or something, and I was home alone with Randy. I was wearing my usual tight fitting clothes, a good bra. I looked hot. I can't blame him for getting worked up. We were watching an R rated movie, and there were boobs on the screen, giving him every opportunity to say something rude. We were sitting together on the couch, cuddling, father daughter style. It was nice, and I didn't think it was gross or anything. Then damn it if that fucker didn't have to go and fuck it up, and grab my boob. He gave it a squeeze, and I shoved him off, cussed him out, and stormed off. No fucking way.
After that event, he got a lot meaner, and more direct with some of the comments he'd make. He said something about a blow job one day, and mama told him something about it. He said I probably gave plenty of them already. I was technically still a virgin. I'd never been with a man, nor seen a penis up close and personal yet. I did know how to give a blow job, as I'd read plenty about them, and even practiced some. I would never have told him though.
I was in a frenzy after that. All I thought about was sex, and I was gonna get laid or die trying. After I did the deed, another story, things changed a lot for me. I started going with whoever wanted to. After I had the first guy I dated seriously visit at mom's trailer, Randy started leaving me alone, more and more. I guess the fact that I was sexually active now was too much for him to handle. He was still a nasty bastard. I didn't even like to bring my girlfriends over, cause he was embarrassing sometimes. I still did though, because it was cool over there. Mom even let us have beer on special occasions.
Sometime in this year span, or the next, they get married. It was a small ceremony with a Justice of the Peace, and a few witnesses. I was there, and there was a party after. A few years after that, I guess shit went South between them two, and she's splitsville after draining half of the joint checking account. He was in Africa at the time, working. He had a career change, from Construction work, to Engineering, and was doing something over in Kenya. He'd been there nearly a year making really good money. Mama was making decent money at Waffle House. She loved that job. She'd had many careers over the years, in the Construction field as well, Medical, Corrections, but she loved being a Bartender, or Waitress the best. I guess she preferred the type of people you meet in those jobs, vs the others. lol
I think I was 16 when mama moved away. I was a mess by then. I'd spent a few months in a mental hospital when I was 15. I guess I'd had a nice little breakdown just after I became a "real" woman. I had such notions. It probably had to do with all the misogynistic, controlling men in my life, and my Nanny's meek and mild way of compliance, maybe my mama's way of taking a hit, and running back. I don't know. It's no wonder I've followed similar paths in my life, and fallen into the same traps. Or why I've set traps for myself in life, and fallen right into them. I'm in a self-imposed prison right now, and I have to really think hard, and make extensive life changes before I can realistically imagine releasing myself from it as well. It's fucking booby trapped all over the place too. Cryptic message is cryptic.
So he comes back from Africa and I have no contact with him at all. We're finished as stepfather and stepdaughter. I don't even hear anything from my little step sister. I don't hear from either of them until my mother's funeral many years later. It was Feb, 1994. My grandmother was just buried the month before, and my mother had an aneurysm explode during the stressful time afterward. She was trying to move back home from the Virgin Islands where she'd been living. She didn't make it. I lost both my mother, and grandmother in the beginning of 1994.
That was some pretty brutal shit right there. I hadn't had much contact with my mom over the years since she left Randy. She came back briefly after I got married at 18 to that ex-convict. She'd taken up with a fella, and they moved to St. Croix together for a job he had, after a few months of living together. She was planning on going back to Randy though. In November of 1993, she came up to visit for Thanksgiving. The week after, her and him went to Mexico together for a few days, and had a real nice time. I guess when she came back to help me take care of my granddaddy, she was planning on a reconciliation.
After the funeral, he lost his shit. He supposedly got drunk and took a bunch of pills. Then he went back to the trailer he shared with her, and set it on fire. He took off for a few days, and then went back and burned it to the ground. A few days after that, his truck was found at the Atlanta International Airport, where people discovered he'd gone back to Africa. He taught me what Hakuna Matata meant way before The Lion King did. They called him a big mazungo over there. I'd like to think he went back over there to start a new life, but I doubt that's what happened to him. His family sent private investigators to look for him. Nobody ever found him, not even a piece. He effectively disappeared off the face of the earth at that point. They even had him declared dead a few years later. That was the end of that.
I'd spent some of that time in the mental health hospital at 15 years old, getting out some of the emotions I felt about what had happened to me at the hands of my stepfather. I didn't get it all out though. I never got to the bottom of why I couldn't get past it. I blamed myself. I judged myself. I hated myself for my part in it. If I wouldn't have been a naughty girl, maybe it never would have happened. Maybe if I would have been good enough, or worthy of his "love", he wouldn't have rejected me. I was so wrong to hate myself for these things. I release myself from these negative self-loathing thoughts. I release myself from responsibility. I was a child. I should never have been in the situation to begin with. I forgive myself. I forgive myself for everything to do with any of this. I am ready to move on with my life.
That's exactly what I'm doing. Moving on now. I may take a break for a few more days now. I hope the next thing that crosses my mind is something easier to share, and more positive. Even if its sexual, potentially underage and inappropriate, at least I can hope it will be a happy event, instead of something so painful. Haha
I have to talk matter-of-factly about these topics. I have to look at them as clinically as possible. I want to analyze my feelings about my feelings here, and really get to the bottom of things. I will continue to release the negative emotions, taking back the pieces of me that I feel I have lost, and I will do it non-judgmentally, and as safely, and sanely as possible. I will forgive, and I will forget.
Thanks for reading, and sharing these difficult events with me. I appreciate it so much. If anyone has anything to share, or a question, or comment, please feel free. I'm an open book, and a good listener.
Love to all and many CandyKisses
<3
xoxo
When telling the part of the tale where he and I were sequestered in the bedroom of my 8 year old self, playing that ridiculous combination of Strip Poker, Heads or Tails, and Truth or Dare, I remember something he said to me at a crucial moment. When I began losing the game, I had to remove my nightgown. When I was bare-chested in front of him, I got shy, and covered myself. It gets really blurry and uncomfortable here. I just remember the words, "It's ok. We're family now. This is what families do when they love each other." I'm sorry, but it's really cloudy and frustrating. The next memories are of me sitting across the room from him, naked on the floor, crying. I remember those emotions, continuing to feel self-conscious, and not good enough, or pretty enough. Feeling like he didn't want me, and then when he left the room, how I felt so defeated and worthless. It was very confusing.
Life after that became a blur. I don't remember very much at all. I imagine nothing much was different from day to day. He'd make his lewd comments here and there, tease, and half-heartedly flirt about inappropriate subjects. Mama was completely indifferent. I didn't feel very close to her at that time in my life. Then before I know it, it was Christmas and my grandparents had come down to celebrate at home, and then we'd 3 go back to the rental house in Shreveport where granddaddy was working. I'd start at my new school after New Years.
I was 9 years old now. I was also a sexual being, and was developing rapidly into a young woman. I wasn't very fond of the new school, but I'd made a few friends. One of them was the girl who lived across the street. I remember I had sort of a friend/crush on her. We were inseparable at home, but she was in a higher grade than me. She was 10. She played the piano, the violin, and lived with her grandparents like me. She also visited with her mom on the weekends. We were besties. I'll tell her story at a later date. She never hurt me, but I hurt her, and it's something I'm sorry for.
I have to finish with my stepfather's portion of the story. There isn't very much to tell now. When the folks and me were in Shreveport, there was only one event that stands out in my memory. Something the neighbors verified. At some point, during one of the really heated arguments that went on in that house while we were gone, one night the man carried the television outside on the front lawn and shot it with a shotgun. BOOM! I have no idea what they were fighting over, but it was over right there. I don't know what the fallout from that was, but I don't remember being aware of it until I was grown, and hearing stories.
When we moved back to Gonzales, LA. That's a small town just South of Baton Rouge, I was 10 years old, and starting the school year in the 5th grade. I was growing up. I re-entered the same school I'd been in most of my life. We moved twice while we lived in Louisiana, once to West Virginia for a year, and to Shreveport, the other.
My mom and stepdad had moved into a trailer together. Both his parents, and my grandparents went in together to buy them the property that it was on. It was really nice, and had some land that also had trails into the woods that I liked to walk on when I visited. I enjoyed my times there. It was in the same trailer park as that little house was in. It was like a subdivision, but had trailers, houses, and modified trailer houses. Haha The neighborhood was called Trailer Land.
I had good times there, even with him. He had a weight bench out back, and he taught me how to use it. I wanted to be strong. I spent a lot of time out there, building strength in my arms and legs. I worked out a lot then. I was around 200 lbs when I was 14, fairly solid. I had wide hips and thick thighs, a round little tummy, broad shoulders, and a booty to die for. I had nice boobs too. I like to show my cleavage, wear the tightest jeans ever, docs, and flannel over tank tops, or tube tops. I liked to wear my granddaddy's overcoats sometimes, or an old Army jacket I swiped from my mom. It had a rusty bullet hole in it, and I thought it was the coolest shit ever.
My stepfather grew the best weed. People came over all the time when I visited my mom. The step dad was real proud of his stash. He even showed me where he stored it after a harvest one time. It was probably about 10 plants worth. It looked like a LOT. I remember being around weed as I was growing up. My grandparents were boozers.
Randy, I'll just say it now cause I'm tired of the "stepdaddy" bit, was a mean, scary drunk. He held his shit together really good. He just got verbally abusive. He was smart too, so when he'd say stuff, he somehow knew just what to say to make you feel uncomfortable. He was actually endearing in other ways, and would make you love him. His intelligence and wit were easy, and you'd laugh even if you didn't think you should. I loved him, and I'm as sorry for him as I am for me, that this whole situation ever occurred between us. I know it fucked with him for years afterward. I'll never know how he felt about it though, as I never got to have that adult conversation with him before he was gone.
One day, when I was 14, my mom was working or something, and I was home alone with Randy. I was wearing my usual tight fitting clothes, a good bra. I looked hot. I can't blame him for getting worked up. We were watching an R rated movie, and there were boobs on the screen, giving him every opportunity to say something rude. We were sitting together on the couch, cuddling, father daughter style. It was nice, and I didn't think it was gross or anything. Then damn it if that fucker didn't have to go and fuck it up, and grab my boob. He gave it a squeeze, and I shoved him off, cussed him out, and stormed off. No fucking way.
After that event, he got a lot meaner, and more direct with some of the comments he'd make. He said something about a blow job one day, and mama told him something about it. He said I probably gave plenty of them already. I was technically still a virgin. I'd never been with a man, nor seen a penis up close and personal yet. I did know how to give a blow job, as I'd read plenty about them, and even practiced some. I would never have told him though.
I was in a frenzy after that. All I thought about was sex, and I was gonna get laid or die trying. After I did the deed, another story, things changed a lot for me. I started going with whoever wanted to. After I had the first guy I dated seriously visit at mom's trailer, Randy started leaving me alone, more and more. I guess the fact that I was sexually active now was too much for him to handle. He was still a nasty bastard. I didn't even like to bring my girlfriends over, cause he was embarrassing sometimes. I still did though, because it was cool over there. Mom even let us have beer on special occasions.
Sometime in this year span, or the next, they get married. It was a small ceremony with a Justice of the Peace, and a few witnesses. I was there, and there was a party after. A few years after that, I guess shit went South between them two, and she's splitsville after draining half of the joint checking account. He was in Africa at the time, working. He had a career change, from Construction work, to Engineering, and was doing something over in Kenya. He'd been there nearly a year making really good money. Mama was making decent money at Waffle House. She loved that job. She'd had many careers over the years, in the Construction field as well, Medical, Corrections, but she loved being a Bartender, or Waitress the best. I guess she preferred the type of people you meet in those jobs, vs the others. lol
I think I was 16 when mama moved away. I was a mess by then. I'd spent a few months in a mental hospital when I was 15. I guess I'd had a nice little breakdown just after I became a "real" woman. I had such notions. It probably had to do with all the misogynistic, controlling men in my life, and my Nanny's meek and mild way of compliance, maybe my mama's way of taking a hit, and running back. I don't know. It's no wonder I've followed similar paths in my life, and fallen into the same traps. Or why I've set traps for myself in life, and fallen right into them. I'm in a self-imposed prison right now, and I have to really think hard, and make extensive life changes before I can realistically imagine releasing myself from it as well. It's fucking booby trapped all over the place too. Cryptic message is cryptic.
So he comes back from Africa and I have no contact with him at all. We're finished as stepfather and stepdaughter. I don't even hear anything from my little step sister. I don't hear from either of them until my mother's funeral many years later. It was Feb, 1994. My grandmother was just buried the month before, and my mother had an aneurysm explode during the stressful time afterward. She was trying to move back home from the Virgin Islands where she'd been living. She didn't make it. I lost both my mother, and grandmother in the beginning of 1994.
That was some pretty brutal shit right there. I hadn't had much contact with my mom over the years since she left Randy. She came back briefly after I got married at 18 to that ex-convict. She'd taken up with a fella, and they moved to St. Croix together for a job he had, after a few months of living together. She was planning on going back to Randy though. In November of 1993, she came up to visit for Thanksgiving. The week after, her and him went to Mexico together for a few days, and had a real nice time. I guess when she came back to help me take care of my granddaddy, she was planning on a reconciliation.
After the funeral, he lost his shit. He supposedly got drunk and took a bunch of pills. Then he went back to the trailer he shared with her, and set it on fire. He took off for a few days, and then went back and burned it to the ground. A few days after that, his truck was found at the Atlanta International Airport, where people discovered he'd gone back to Africa. He taught me what Hakuna Matata meant way before The Lion King did. They called him a big mazungo over there. I'd like to think he went back over there to start a new life, but I doubt that's what happened to him. His family sent private investigators to look for him. Nobody ever found him, not even a piece. He effectively disappeared off the face of the earth at that point. They even had him declared dead a few years later. That was the end of that.
I'd spent some of that time in the mental health hospital at 15 years old, getting out some of the emotions I felt about what had happened to me at the hands of my stepfather. I didn't get it all out though. I never got to the bottom of why I couldn't get past it. I blamed myself. I judged myself. I hated myself for my part in it. If I wouldn't have been a naughty girl, maybe it never would have happened. Maybe if I would have been good enough, or worthy of his "love", he wouldn't have rejected me. I was so wrong to hate myself for these things. I release myself from these negative self-loathing thoughts. I release myself from responsibility. I was a child. I should never have been in the situation to begin with. I forgive myself. I forgive myself for everything to do with any of this. I am ready to move on with my life.
That's exactly what I'm doing. Moving on now. I may take a break for a few more days now. I hope the next thing that crosses my mind is something easier to share, and more positive. Even if its sexual, potentially underage and inappropriate, at least I can hope it will be a happy event, instead of something so painful. Haha
I have to talk matter-of-factly about these topics. I have to look at them as clinically as possible. I want to analyze my feelings about my feelings here, and really get to the bottom of things. I will continue to release the negative emotions, taking back the pieces of me that I feel I have lost, and I will do it non-judgmentally, and as safely, and sanely as possible. I will forgive, and I will forget.
Thanks for reading, and sharing these difficult events with me. I appreciate it so much. If anyone has anything to share, or a question, or comment, please feel free. I'm an open book, and a good listener.
Love to all and many CandyKisses
<3
xoxo
Not anymore.
Rest and Recovery
The previous blog took a lot out of me. So I've been taking a couple of days to myself, for rest and recovery. I will continue as soon as possible.
I've spent the last couple of days, catching up with my gaming. I've been playing a great MMO called Eve Online. I get to pilot a spaceship, all around the universe. There are so many options in the game, fighting, mining, manufacturing. I'm enjoying the versatility of it very much. I've taken up mining, going the industrial route. I think I'm doing pretty well with it.
I've also spent some time on Netflix, watching Star Trek: The Original Series, with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. Oh my word, I love that show. It's campy, because of the time period it was filmed, but I think it's wonderful. It's very interesting to see some of the technology in the show, and how it correlates to modern items. The communicator they use, looks suspiciously like some of the flip
cellphones of the 90's. Hilarious.
All in all, I'm enjoying this break. I've got plenty of time to get back into those heavy subjects. The rest isn't going to be so difficult. It's just having the energy to start. Once I do, it will just come to me. I shouldn't stress on it so much. I just wanted to update my followers because I did promise to post every day. I've slipped into a 2 day hiatus here. lol
Thanks for reading, and following along with my story. It's been good for me I think. I don't know how much value it has for anyone else, but it is what it is, and I'm glad it's out there.
Lots of love for everyone!
xxoo
CandyKisses <3
I've spent the last couple of days, catching up with my gaming. I've been playing a great MMO called Eve Online. I get to pilot a spaceship, all around the universe. There are so many options in the game, fighting, mining, manufacturing. I'm enjoying the versatility of it very much. I've taken up mining, going the industrial route. I think I'm doing pretty well with it.
I've also spent some time on Netflix, watching Star Trek: The Original Series, with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. Oh my word, I love that show. It's campy, because of the time period it was filmed, but I think it's wonderful. It's very interesting to see some of the technology in the show, and how it correlates to modern items. The communicator they use, looks suspiciously like some of the flip
cellphones of the 90's. Hilarious.
All in all, I'm enjoying this break. I've got plenty of time to get back into those heavy subjects. The rest isn't going to be so difficult. It's just having the energy to start. Once I do, it will just come to me. I shouldn't stress on it so much. I just wanted to update my followers because I did promise to post every day. I've slipped into a 2 day hiatus here. lol
Thanks for reading, and following along with my story. It's been good for me I think. I don't know how much value it has for anyone else, but it is what it is, and I'm glad it's out there.
Lots of love for everyone!
xxoo
CandyKisses <3
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
A History of Sex and Violence Part 2 of 3
Today is the day that I break through the wall. I will finally get out this "dirty secret" that has been eating at me for the better part of my life. I began picking at this scab when I was a suicidal, self-loathing, promiscuous teen ager of 15 years, and I'm still picking at it. I'm laying it out there now, exposing myself, opening myself up to scrutiny by the public. I'm ready to "release the Kraken", as a friend told me to do recently. haha
The story I'm working on, involves a game my stepfather and I played one night when I was 8 years old, and staying with him and my mother in my grandparents house. The grandparents were in Shreveport, LA., while my grandfather was working. I'm really struggling with the timing of this. So please bear with me if I get a little repetitive.
I remember still being in school while I was with my mom and stepdad. I don't remember a whole lot about that time. It's really foggy now. There were a couple of events that stand out besides this one. Friends of my mother's, a few parties, being babysat by the sister of a boy I liked, who's mom was one of my mom's friends. I vaguely remember my mom and stepdad fighting.
I'd seen it all before. My mom had a big mouth like me, and she could sling an insult with razor sharp accuracy. Things get heated quickly when highly intelligent, violent people mince words. Especially when grain alcohol and pharmaceuticals are involved.
I'd witnessed plenty of fighting between those two. I think I'd just block it out, most of the time. Like I said, I'd seen it all before. Years ago, between my grandfather and mother. He'd call her a whore. She'd say something equally rotten, and then the slap, or punch, or whatever happened. I was probably 4 or 5 when I first remember witnessing my grandfather's violence.
He never even spanked me, my grandfather. He never raised a hand to me at all until I became a vicious, juvenile delinquent who really needed some strong discipline. Unfortunately I was too large for a simple spanking by that time, and required a choking or two instead. How do I even put all of this stuff into words? The stories are bigger than one event or even two, and they're so intertwined with each other. I really need help cataloging it all, and all the connections between people, who I do not want to name for reasons. I want to write this all out in book form, and it's such a blur sometimes.
*sigh* moving on...
I was told later, by my stepfather, how my own daddy would beat my mom all the time. I heard stories of his violence. How when he and my mom were dating, that at least once when they were pulled over by the cops, my daddy said to my mom, "Deb, start walking." Then another 2 cop cars showed up to arrest him, because he wasn't "going easy". He put men in the hospital.
Early in the 70's, I don't know which year, he was the Golden Gloves Boxing Champion, somewhere in Tennessee where we lived at the time. My Daddy was good at it, but a natural fuck up with everything else in life. Granddaddy said he was slow, and a Southpaw, but if he landed a punch, you was going down. It's all hearsay. I have no proof of any of these stories about my daddy.
I talked to him once in my life, and he was a nasty mouthed asshat, who had nothing at all nice to say about my "bitch of a mother". I refused to go visit him after that conversation, and never got the chance to change my mind before he died with a needle in his arm, from a heroin overdose, at 46. I talked to his mama a lot on the phone though, and mailed back and forth with her. I wanted to, but I never visited her either. They're all dead now, like my mama's family, and my mama. I lost her when she was 42. I'm 40, btw. I have a few cousins out there, an aunt or two, and a half-sister I never knew. I'm as lost to them, as they are to me, and life goes on. *shrugs*
I'm fortunate I have at least a couple of cousins that I'm close to, from my mama's side. I feel blessed to know them.
I think I only witnessed my stepfather slapping my mom once, after she called him a cock sucker during a heated argument. It was wrong. I knew it was wrong, but being as enamoured with him as I was at the time, even I felt like she had it coming. Violence was an accepted part of life for me. I didn't see it very often, thankfully, but when I did I understood it. When it was directed at me, from anyone, I understood why. Where had I crossed that line?
I don't accept it now, from anybody. I dare someone to raise a hand to me. I'm actually, and honestly, the most violent person I know. I have had horrible impulse control, and a horrible habit of breaking things, smashing, throwing, screaming at the top of my lungs, and completely raging out. It's fucking not cool man. I loathe being that angry, and having my buttons pushed until I get that angry.
I've developed a practice recently of verbalizing my discomfort with certain topics, and really letting someone know that I'm on the verge of losing my shit. I don't want to hurt anybody, or myself. I don't want to damage my own property, or anybody else's. I hate conflict, period. I will warn someone, multiple times before I fuck shit up. The only people who have ever, ever seen me that angry and seething with rage, have been my two life partners, and my family. My ex-husband, by default my children and in-laws as witnesses, and my present boyfriend/fiance.
I'm fortunate that my current relationship is as solid as it is. We've grown a lot together as a couple, and we can communicate much better now. Sometimes we still get extreme, and we yell, and I'll start losing it. I'll warn him, and he'll back off. It's fucked up, cause we're both so damaged and dealing with our own bullshit. We love each other though, and we're willing to work on it. We keep progressing together. We argue less and less, the more we figure out our own shortcomings, and the things that trigger our personal psychosis. So, at least there's that.
Anyway, I'm 8 years old again. It's the end of the school year, and my grandparents won't be coming to get me until Christmas. That's how I remember the timeline, after much consideration. It has to be. We're a regular family now. A mom, and a "dad". We have Dinner together, and people come over. I sleep in my own room, and of course I still have plenty of privacy, and access to all the dirty books, and magazines I can read. I read them, almost as much as I stared at the pictures. Those salacious, tingle inducing images. I especially liked the "bizarre" ads in the backs of the magazines. The freakier the better. I desensitized myself pretty quickly.
I honestly wish there would have been some sort of formal sexual education at that time, without shame, or judgement. For young children, or at least a nurse or someone with authority and training, to answer questions that parents wouldn't. Or to even initiate a conversation about it, and make themselves available for questioning about the body, the changes we experience during prepubescence. Growing pains are real shit. Maybe I wouldn't have done some of the things I did to myself then. I may have known what virginity meant, and why I shouldn't stick things in my vagina. I don't regret my explorations now. I only feel a little denied that my first time with a real cock wasn't as I'd imagined it to be. Fortunately for me, that was a happy experience nonetheless, and I'll be happy to share it when the time comes.
So, I'm overstimulated with sexual data, in a masturbation induced frenzy to have real sex, and I have this mad crush on my mother's future husband. I didn't know what to do with all of this information, or how to process what I was feeling. At some point, during this vacation from my real life, in this dream life with a mommy and daddy, shit got so twisted for me. I thought my mom was cold. I thought I was so grown up, that I could take her man. Lolita. I was a plump little cutie, finally getting to grow out my hair, and play in makeup. My clothes were always tight fitting because I was "hefty" and I was getting "little titties" too, and already had to wear a training bra.
My mom was jealous. She'd joke about my boobs, cause she didn't have any. She was a wide hipped, big legged woman. She had meaty upper-arms too, but not much belly at all, and a little waist. It's interesting how my shape differs. I got my shape from my daddy's side of the family. I'm "big all over, more than anywhere else", my granddaddy used to say.
It was around this time, that the stepfather was trying to get me to call him dad, even though he and my mom weren't married. I may have once or twice, but it never felt right to me. I called him by his first name, and I don't want to use it here. I tried writing it out just now, and I almost threw up.
My mom worked odd hours, and was tired a lot. He worked a regular schedule so when he was off he liked to sit up and watch television. On this particular night, I was laying with him on the sofa, and mom was in one of the big reclining chairs. She was real tired, and was dozing off.
I was laying between his legs. He had big muscular thighs, with sparse golden fur. It was nice there, and I felt loved and safe. At some point, I moved and may have brushed up against him inappropriately, and I felt his cock stir near the back of my head, and my whole body tensed, alive with tingles.
We'd had a good relationship up until that point. We were very friendly. I'd mentioned rivaling my mother for his attentions, and recent to this event, there was probably a different kind of tension between us. I knew things, and I understood some of the things he was saying to me. He thought he was being slick, and cute. I guess he was, to the point where my mother never thought a thing about it. If she did, she wasn't about to stop it, or she didn't. Maybe she knew what was going on. I never did until it was happening.
Our flirting was mutual, as much as I wanted him to be my daddy, I wanted him to stick his cock in me. I wanted his hands all over my body. I wanted his mouth on me. I wanted him, in every adult way possible. Should I be ashamed that thinking about it still makes me wet?
Mama was tired, and I don't think they'd been getting along the last few days. Lots of fighting, him staying up more and more, getting drunk on whiskey and coca cola. I loved the smell of whiskey on his breath when he'd get close to me. I loved to fix his drinks and sit on his lap. He liked it half and half. He'd pinch a titty, or goose me in the ass when I'd get up to go get him a fresh one. I'd laugh. It was inappropriate and wrong, but I thought it was funny. I liked it when he teased me.
She went to bed, and I was laying with my head, meer inches from her man's hardening cock. I must have been gushing. After she was gone, we laid there for a long time. He was stroking my hair and it felt so good. I wanted to feel his chest so I looked up and asked for a hug. He smiled and slid me up his body and hugged me. I felt him move under me that time. He sat up and hugged me close, kissing my head.
We sat like that for a while. I don't remember exactly how the next moments played out but he asked me if we could go to my room and he'd teach me a game. Or he asked me if I wanted to play a game. I agreed. I wanted to be alone with him some more. I feel angry about it right now, and angry at myself. I feel like I was such stupid kid. I would have never believed that this could be such a horrible decision. Alone in my room with a horny grown man. Who more than likely, can tell I'm horny for him too, as wrong as it is. I don't hate him for this. I think I forgave him a long time ago. I don't hate me for it either. I went with what I was feeling. I only suffer from the following events, because I haven't given myself permission yet to move on. I haven't forgiven myself. I was wrong. He was wrong. He was with my mother.
How could I be so selfish, and such a horrible person to try to steal my mother's lover? Have I have been punishing myself for all these years, for being a whore. There is nothing wrong with the word whore in my opinion either. So no panties in a bunch over it. If I behave whorishly, then I'm a whore, or slut, or cad, or a philanderer, or fornicator. I like sex, and there is nothing wrong with it. It's natural. If a married, or otherwise engaged man, falls into my pussy, it's on him. If he hasn't got the constitution to be in a monogamous relationship, then he shouldn't pretend to be. So when I call myself a whore, it's a term of endearment now. I just feel the way I feel about it. Yes it was wrong, but it's time to forgive myself and let it go.
Once we were alone in the room, with the door locked, just in case. He told me about a game, that was kind of like a strip poker game, just to give me a reference. But, it was played with coins. You had to guess heads or tails, and if you got it right, you could tell the other person to remove an article of clothing, or do something, like in a Truth or Dare game. Yippee! I was dying to see where this went. I hoped I'd win.
The game started out very tame. We were both nervous. He ended up in his shorts as the game progressed, and I ended up completely naked in front of him. I don't think I was ever truly self-conscious up until this exact moment. I felt so vulnerable. I got scared that when he saw me, he wouldn't want me. I started crying. He must have wanted to hug me, but I was also naked. The situation was too much for him to handle. Then he got scared. I never even got to see his cock. He apologized to me, and ran out of the room. He misunderstood. I was scared that my body was ugly and wouldn't please him, and I cried. He thought I was scared about what he wanted to do with me, what I wanted, and he left me there, rejected. I wonder which scar would have been deeper? If he would have calmed me down, and taken me, or what actually happened? He chickened out, and I'm left thinking it was because I was fat, and not because he just realized he was attempting to fuck an 8 year old little girl. I believe he did the right thing for both of us at that point, but nothing was ever right for me again after that.
There it is, the worst of it. I don't even know if I need a part 3, but I feel like I can't go on after this point, and I will have to recover from it in a 3rd post. A lot of things happened between me and him after this event. Him and my mother stayed together for a long time, and even got married when I was about 14. I will detail the progression of our relationship, he and my mother's relationship, and how these events helped shape my self-image, body-image, and the eventual downfall of my desire to live or do anything normal ever again. I'm 40 years old and still struggling with self-worth, and other insecurities.
I am learning not to judge myself so harshly. I wouldn't judge other people for similar things, and I shouldn't be so hard on me either. I was a child, facing things a child should never face. It's a hard education, but I'm thankful it was only as hard as it was. I could have had it much worse. I am in the process of healing, and letting go of the past. I will continue to love me. I am thankful for all of my experiences, both positive and negative, because I love the person I've become, and all the progress I've made. I am the healing. I am the love. I am free.
Love and light to all, please if you need to ask questions, or make comments about my experiences or your own, feel free to share. I am an open book, as well as a fair listener. <3
As always,
Candykisses
xxoo
The story I'm working on, involves a game my stepfather and I played one night when I was 8 years old, and staying with him and my mother in my grandparents house. The grandparents were in Shreveport, LA., while my grandfather was working. I'm really struggling with the timing of this. So please bear with me if I get a little repetitive.
I remember still being in school while I was with my mom and stepdad. I don't remember a whole lot about that time. It's really foggy now. There were a couple of events that stand out besides this one. Friends of my mother's, a few parties, being babysat by the sister of a boy I liked, who's mom was one of my mom's friends. I vaguely remember my mom and stepdad fighting.
I'd seen it all before. My mom had a big mouth like me, and she could sling an insult with razor sharp accuracy. Things get heated quickly when highly intelligent, violent people mince words. Especially when grain alcohol and pharmaceuticals are involved.
I'd witnessed plenty of fighting between those two. I think I'd just block it out, most of the time. Like I said, I'd seen it all before. Years ago, between my grandfather and mother. He'd call her a whore. She'd say something equally rotten, and then the slap, or punch, or whatever happened. I was probably 4 or 5 when I first remember witnessing my grandfather's violence.
He never even spanked me, my grandfather. He never raised a hand to me at all until I became a vicious, juvenile delinquent who really needed some strong discipline. Unfortunately I was too large for a simple spanking by that time, and required a choking or two instead. How do I even put all of this stuff into words? The stories are bigger than one event or even two, and they're so intertwined with each other. I really need help cataloging it all, and all the connections between people, who I do not want to name for reasons. I want to write this all out in book form, and it's such a blur sometimes.
*sigh* moving on...
I was told later, by my stepfather, how my own daddy would beat my mom all the time. I heard stories of his violence. How when he and my mom were dating, that at least once when they were pulled over by the cops, my daddy said to my mom, "Deb, start walking." Then another 2 cop cars showed up to arrest him, because he wasn't "going easy". He put men in the hospital.
Early in the 70's, I don't know which year, he was the Golden Gloves Boxing Champion, somewhere in Tennessee where we lived at the time. My Daddy was good at it, but a natural fuck up with everything else in life. Granddaddy said he was slow, and a Southpaw, but if he landed a punch, you was going down. It's all hearsay. I have no proof of any of these stories about my daddy.
I talked to him once in my life, and he was a nasty mouthed asshat, who had nothing at all nice to say about my "bitch of a mother". I refused to go visit him after that conversation, and never got the chance to change my mind before he died with a needle in his arm, from a heroin overdose, at 46. I talked to his mama a lot on the phone though, and mailed back and forth with her. I wanted to, but I never visited her either. They're all dead now, like my mama's family, and my mama. I lost her when she was 42. I'm 40, btw. I have a few cousins out there, an aunt or two, and a half-sister I never knew. I'm as lost to them, as they are to me, and life goes on. *shrugs*
I'm fortunate I have at least a couple of cousins that I'm close to, from my mama's side. I feel blessed to know them.
I think I only witnessed my stepfather slapping my mom once, after she called him a cock sucker during a heated argument. It was wrong. I knew it was wrong, but being as enamoured with him as I was at the time, even I felt like she had it coming. Violence was an accepted part of life for me. I didn't see it very often, thankfully, but when I did I understood it. When it was directed at me, from anyone, I understood why. Where had I crossed that line?
I don't accept it now, from anybody. I dare someone to raise a hand to me. I'm actually, and honestly, the most violent person I know. I have had horrible impulse control, and a horrible habit of breaking things, smashing, throwing, screaming at the top of my lungs, and completely raging out. It's fucking not cool man. I loathe being that angry, and having my buttons pushed until I get that angry.
I've developed a practice recently of verbalizing my discomfort with certain topics, and really letting someone know that I'm on the verge of losing my shit. I don't want to hurt anybody, or myself. I don't want to damage my own property, or anybody else's. I hate conflict, period. I will warn someone, multiple times before I fuck shit up. The only people who have ever, ever seen me that angry and seething with rage, have been my two life partners, and my family. My ex-husband, by default my children and in-laws as witnesses, and my present boyfriend/fiance.
I'm fortunate that my current relationship is as solid as it is. We've grown a lot together as a couple, and we can communicate much better now. Sometimes we still get extreme, and we yell, and I'll start losing it. I'll warn him, and he'll back off. It's fucked up, cause we're both so damaged and dealing with our own bullshit. We love each other though, and we're willing to work on it. We keep progressing together. We argue less and less, the more we figure out our own shortcomings, and the things that trigger our personal psychosis. So, at least there's that.
Anyway, I'm 8 years old again. It's the end of the school year, and my grandparents won't be coming to get me until Christmas. That's how I remember the timeline, after much consideration. It has to be. We're a regular family now. A mom, and a "dad". We have Dinner together, and people come over. I sleep in my own room, and of course I still have plenty of privacy, and access to all the dirty books, and magazines I can read. I read them, almost as much as I stared at the pictures. Those salacious, tingle inducing images. I especially liked the "bizarre" ads in the backs of the magazines. The freakier the better. I desensitized myself pretty quickly.
I honestly wish there would have been some sort of formal sexual education at that time, without shame, or judgement. For young children, or at least a nurse or someone with authority and training, to answer questions that parents wouldn't. Or to even initiate a conversation about it, and make themselves available for questioning about the body, the changes we experience during prepubescence. Growing pains are real shit. Maybe I wouldn't have done some of the things I did to myself then. I may have known what virginity meant, and why I shouldn't stick things in my vagina. I don't regret my explorations now. I only feel a little denied that my first time with a real cock wasn't as I'd imagined it to be. Fortunately for me, that was a happy experience nonetheless, and I'll be happy to share it when the time comes.
So, I'm overstimulated with sexual data, in a masturbation induced frenzy to have real sex, and I have this mad crush on my mother's future husband. I didn't know what to do with all of this information, or how to process what I was feeling. At some point, during this vacation from my real life, in this dream life with a mommy and daddy, shit got so twisted for me. I thought my mom was cold. I thought I was so grown up, that I could take her man. Lolita. I was a plump little cutie, finally getting to grow out my hair, and play in makeup. My clothes were always tight fitting because I was "hefty" and I was getting "little titties" too, and already had to wear a training bra.
My mom was jealous. She'd joke about my boobs, cause she didn't have any. She was a wide hipped, big legged woman. She had meaty upper-arms too, but not much belly at all, and a little waist. It's interesting how my shape differs. I got my shape from my daddy's side of the family. I'm "big all over, more than anywhere else", my granddaddy used to say.
It was around this time, that the stepfather was trying to get me to call him dad, even though he and my mom weren't married. I may have once or twice, but it never felt right to me. I called him by his first name, and I don't want to use it here. I tried writing it out just now, and I almost threw up.
My mom worked odd hours, and was tired a lot. He worked a regular schedule so when he was off he liked to sit up and watch television. On this particular night, I was laying with him on the sofa, and mom was in one of the big reclining chairs. She was real tired, and was dozing off.
I was laying between his legs. He had big muscular thighs, with sparse golden fur. It was nice there, and I felt loved and safe. At some point, I moved and may have brushed up against him inappropriately, and I felt his cock stir near the back of my head, and my whole body tensed, alive with tingles.
We'd had a good relationship up until that point. We were very friendly. I'd mentioned rivaling my mother for his attentions, and recent to this event, there was probably a different kind of tension between us. I knew things, and I understood some of the things he was saying to me. He thought he was being slick, and cute. I guess he was, to the point where my mother never thought a thing about it. If she did, she wasn't about to stop it, or she didn't. Maybe she knew what was going on. I never did until it was happening.
Our flirting was mutual, as much as I wanted him to be my daddy, I wanted him to stick his cock in me. I wanted his hands all over my body. I wanted his mouth on me. I wanted him, in every adult way possible. Should I be ashamed that thinking about it still makes me wet?
Mama was tired, and I don't think they'd been getting along the last few days. Lots of fighting, him staying up more and more, getting drunk on whiskey and coca cola. I loved the smell of whiskey on his breath when he'd get close to me. I loved to fix his drinks and sit on his lap. He liked it half and half. He'd pinch a titty, or goose me in the ass when I'd get up to go get him a fresh one. I'd laugh. It was inappropriate and wrong, but I thought it was funny. I liked it when he teased me.
She went to bed, and I was laying with my head, meer inches from her man's hardening cock. I must have been gushing. After she was gone, we laid there for a long time. He was stroking my hair and it felt so good. I wanted to feel his chest so I looked up and asked for a hug. He smiled and slid me up his body and hugged me. I felt him move under me that time. He sat up and hugged me close, kissing my head.
We sat like that for a while. I don't remember exactly how the next moments played out but he asked me if we could go to my room and he'd teach me a game. Or he asked me if I wanted to play a game. I agreed. I wanted to be alone with him some more. I feel angry about it right now, and angry at myself. I feel like I was such stupid kid. I would have never believed that this could be such a horrible decision. Alone in my room with a horny grown man. Who more than likely, can tell I'm horny for him too, as wrong as it is. I don't hate him for this. I think I forgave him a long time ago. I don't hate me for it either. I went with what I was feeling. I only suffer from the following events, because I haven't given myself permission yet to move on. I haven't forgiven myself. I was wrong. He was wrong. He was with my mother.
How could I be so selfish, and such a horrible person to try to steal my mother's lover? Have I have been punishing myself for all these years, for being a whore. There is nothing wrong with the word whore in my opinion either. So no panties in a bunch over it. If I behave whorishly, then I'm a whore, or slut, or cad, or a philanderer, or fornicator. I like sex, and there is nothing wrong with it. It's natural. If a married, or otherwise engaged man, falls into my pussy, it's on him. If he hasn't got the constitution to be in a monogamous relationship, then he shouldn't pretend to be. So when I call myself a whore, it's a term of endearment now. I just feel the way I feel about it. Yes it was wrong, but it's time to forgive myself and let it go.
Once we were alone in the room, with the door locked, just in case. He told me about a game, that was kind of like a strip poker game, just to give me a reference. But, it was played with coins. You had to guess heads or tails, and if you got it right, you could tell the other person to remove an article of clothing, or do something, like in a Truth or Dare game. Yippee! I was dying to see where this went. I hoped I'd win.
The game started out very tame. We were both nervous. He ended up in his shorts as the game progressed, and I ended up completely naked in front of him. I don't think I was ever truly self-conscious up until this exact moment. I felt so vulnerable. I got scared that when he saw me, he wouldn't want me. I started crying. He must have wanted to hug me, but I was also naked. The situation was too much for him to handle. Then he got scared. I never even got to see his cock. He apologized to me, and ran out of the room. He misunderstood. I was scared that my body was ugly and wouldn't please him, and I cried. He thought I was scared about what he wanted to do with me, what I wanted, and he left me there, rejected. I wonder which scar would have been deeper? If he would have calmed me down, and taken me, or what actually happened? He chickened out, and I'm left thinking it was because I was fat, and not because he just realized he was attempting to fuck an 8 year old little girl. I believe he did the right thing for both of us at that point, but nothing was ever right for me again after that.
There it is, the worst of it. I don't even know if I need a part 3, but I feel like I can't go on after this point, and I will have to recover from it in a 3rd post. A lot of things happened between me and him after this event. Him and my mother stayed together for a long time, and even got married when I was about 14. I will detail the progression of our relationship, he and my mother's relationship, and how these events helped shape my self-image, body-image, and the eventual downfall of my desire to live or do anything normal ever again. I'm 40 years old and still struggling with self-worth, and other insecurities.
I am learning not to judge myself so harshly. I wouldn't judge other people for similar things, and I shouldn't be so hard on me either. I was a child, facing things a child should never face. It's a hard education, but I'm thankful it was only as hard as it was. I could have had it much worse. I am in the process of healing, and letting go of the past. I will continue to love me. I am thankful for all of my experiences, both positive and negative, because I love the person I've become, and all the progress I've made. I am the healing. I am the love. I am free.
Love and light to all, please if you need to ask questions, or make comments about my experiences or your own, feel free to share. I am an open book, as well as a fair listener. <3
As always,
Candykisses
xxoo
Monday, May 20, 2013
Gathering Storm
I'm taking a moment for myself today. It's something I'm good at. Taking a minute. Uno Momento. The situation is getting uncomfortable for me. The plan was to continue my story today. The one detailing the inappropriate game that was played between myself and my stepfather when I was 8 years old. It's a difficult story to remember, much less, graphically describe to others.
The emotions surrounding this event were life changing.
I feel like I have a lump in my throat. I want to just spit it out, but I can't just yet today. I'm not ready, but the pressure is on, and building.
I will finish it. I can do this. I have to pull myself together, batten down the hatches for the gathering storm. My heart is an ocean. It's tumultuous and the tempest is rising. The beast is awakening, and there's no turning back now. I'm going to have to fight it with all I have, and I must prepare myself.
k.
"What an excellent day for an exorcism." ~ The Exorcist 1973
The emotions surrounding this event were life changing.
I feel like I have a lump in my throat. I want to just spit it out, but I can't just yet today. I'm not ready, but the pressure is on, and building.
I will finish it. I can do this. I have to pull myself together, batten down the hatches for the gathering storm. My heart is an ocean. It's tumultuous and the tempest is rising. The beast is awakening, and there's no turning back now. I'm going to have to fight it with all I have, and I must prepare myself.
k.
"What an excellent day for an exorcism." ~ The Exorcist 1973
Sunday, May 19, 2013
A History of Sex and Violence Part 1 of 3
I really don't want to do this right now. It feels like I'm trying to punish myself by going at this blog so hard. I can't say that I have a choice in the matter, though. I am compelled to share my experiences here, while re-living them and taking my power back. I have to release the guilt, and shame. I have to forgive, and allow myself to move beyond the emotions. It's like my body is shoving out all the bad stuff, through my mind, and fingers. It's time to let it out. I want peace of mind.
I've been here before, on this quest. When I was 15 there was a purge. I spent a few months in a mental hospital trying to get to the bottom of why I was such a sad kitty. I was filled with self-loathing, guilt, and shame at that time. I didn't feel like I belonged in the world. That I was so broken, and useless, that I shouldn't continue trying. I felt like a failure at life, before life had really gotten started. I was hopeless. I attempted to commit suicide, and thankfully failed miserably at it. I had a second chance at life then, and one of the first things I chose to deal with, were my feelings about what my stepfather did or didn't do to me when I was 8 years old.
Being a child at the time, and having many memories still locked in my mind, I see my stepfather in flashes of time. Like my grandfather, he was a larger than life character. I had many positive feelings about him, and some strange wonder. This was the man who was fucking my mother. He's not my real father. Before he entered my life, I didn't know what fucking was. I knew about sex, sort of. I'd played sexy games with other children, exploring, and testing our bodies, but it was never anything extreme, or invasive.
I believe everyone is born with a moral compass. We each, through experience and education develop that compass to aim to the right or left. The right supposedly being the side of good, the left, evil. If I wanted to gauge my own, I would have to put myself, somewhat left of center, for various reasons. The story I'm about to share with you now, is one of the ways in which I can make that calculation.
I mentioned in a previous blog, that I had a crush on my stepfather, and that I would sometimes rival my mother for his attention. I had no idea the game I was playing in my underdeveloped, over-sexed brain. I was not prepared for the things I stirred up in this man. Who was obviously flawed, and as fucked up as anybody.
I don't lay blame completely on him for the situation that we were in, but I can't blame myself completely either, as I was a child. I've thought about it a lot, and if I were to imagine him to be a more sinister person, as was the ghoulish being who'd thrown an axe at my head previously, then I would have thought he'd left the adult magazines laying around for me on purpose. He wanted my creative little brain to have to process the appearance of a grown man's throbbing cock, entering a grown woman's dripping vagina, tongues on nipples, the clitoris, the educational stories typed out instructing me on how to manipulate my own private parts into quivering, dripping, orgasms. I was 7 years old when this adult game began being played between us, and I was developing the insatiable desire of a full grown woman. It was fucking horrible, and magical. I'm both ashamed, and thankful.
He couldn't have planned it better. I was ripe for the picking when he finally made the move. It was a long time coming. I was staying with him and my mother full time, in my grandparents house. They were house sitting, and babysitting me. I was going to school still. It probably happened sometime after Christmas and New Years Eve. I wouldn't be joining my grandparents until Summer vacation started.
In writing this, I remember another time in which we were close, almost cuddly together. Previously I'd mentioned sort of how the back yard was at their little house in the trailer park, trees and a fenced yard. There was a hammock between two of the bigger trees. One of them being the one I'd been roped to not so long ago. I remember we were laying in the hammock together, talking. It hadn't occurred to me at the time, but I'd felt a certain stirring in his groin region at some point that day too. That's what it was, that caused him to want to play another little game with me one night, late at night, after my mom had gone to bed.
We were friends, he and I. I admired him, and sought to please him when I was around. I had mentioned something about wanting to be a good daughter, so he would keep us, and be my "real" daddy. So we had lots of times we'd hug, or lay together and talk, like father and daughter. I hugged my granddaddy all the time, sat on his lap, and laid down with him. I swear, I found an excuse to sleep in my grandfather's bed until I was almost 12 years old. I always had nightmares, and never wanted to be alone in the dark. With my grandfather, I always felt safe and loved. I felt that way with my stepfather too, but this time was different. He was different.
I have to stop. I need some time to process. He wasn't the only one who was different that night, and it kills me to imagine how young I actually was when I felt those feelings.
...to be continued in 2 parts
__________________________________
I've been here before, on this quest. When I was 15 there was a purge. I spent a few months in a mental hospital trying to get to the bottom of why I was such a sad kitty. I was filled with self-loathing, guilt, and shame at that time. I didn't feel like I belonged in the world. That I was so broken, and useless, that I shouldn't continue trying. I felt like a failure at life, before life had really gotten started. I was hopeless. I attempted to commit suicide, and thankfully failed miserably at it. I had a second chance at life then, and one of the first things I chose to deal with, were my feelings about what my stepfather did or didn't do to me when I was 8 years old.
Being a child at the time, and having many memories still locked in my mind, I see my stepfather in flashes of time. Like my grandfather, he was a larger than life character. I had many positive feelings about him, and some strange wonder. This was the man who was fucking my mother. He's not my real father. Before he entered my life, I didn't know what fucking was. I knew about sex, sort of. I'd played sexy games with other children, exploring, and testing our bodies, but it was never anything extreme, or invasive.
I believe everyone is born with a moral compass. We each, through experience and education develop that compass to aim to the right or left. The right supposedly being the side of good, the left, evil. If I wanted to gauge my own, I would have to put myself, somewhat left of center, for various reasons. The story I'm about to share with you now, is one of the ways in which I can make that calculation.
I mentioned in a previous blog, that I had a crush on my stepfather, and that I would sometimes rival my mother for his attention. I had no idea the game I was playing in my underdeveloped, over-sexed brain. I was not prepared for the things I stirred up in this man. Who was obviously flawed, and as fucked up as anybody.
I don't lay blame completely on him for the situation that we were in, but I can't blame myself completely either, as I was a child. I've thought about it a lot, and if I were to imagine him to be a more sinister person, as was the ghoulish being who'd thrown an axe at my head previously, then I would have thought he'd left the adult magazines laying around for me on purpose. He wanted my creative little brain to have to process the appearance of a grown man's throbbing cock, entering a grown woman's dripping vagina, tongues on nipples, the clitoris, the educational stories typed out instructing me on how to manipulate my own private parts into quivering, dripping, orgasms. I was 7 years old when this adult game began being played between us, and I was developing the insatiable desire of a full grown woman. It was fucking horrible, and magical. I'm both ashamed, and thankful.
He couldn't have planned it better. I was ripe for the picking when he finally made the move. It was a long time coming. I was staying with him and my mother full time, in my grandparents house. They were house sitting, and babysitting me. I was going to school still. It probably happened sometime after Christmas and New Years Eve. I wouldn't be joining my grandparents until Summer vacation started.
In writing this, I remember another time in which we were close, almost cuddly together. Previously I'd mentioned sort of how the back yard was at their little house in the trailer park, trees and a fenced yard. There was a hammock between two of the bigger trees. One of them being the one I'd been roped to not so long ago. I remember we were laying in the hammock together, talking. It hadn't occurred to me at the time, but I'd felt a certain stirring in his groin region at some point that day too. That's what it was, that caused him to want to play another little game with me one night, late at night, after my mom had gone to bed.
We were friends, he and I. I admired him, and sought to please him when I was around. I had mentioned something about wanting to be a good daughter, so he would keep us, and be my "real" daddy. So we had lots of times we'd hug, or lay together and talk, like father and daughter. I hugged my granddaddy all the time, sat on his lap, and laid down with him. I swear, I found an excuse to sleep in my grandfather's bed until I was almost 12 years old. I always had nightmares, and never wanted to be alone in the dark. With my grandfather, I always felt safe and loved. I felt that way with my stepfather too, but this time was different. He was different.
I have to stop. I need some time to process. He wasn't the only one who was different that night, and it kills me to imagine how young I actually was when I felt those feelings.
...to be continued in 2 parts
__________________________________
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Whatcha Doin' With That Axe Pa?
People often wonder what events trigger certain behaviors, or proclivities. Upon some very deep, personal scrutinization, I've come to understand a couple of mine. I have a thing for bondage, and moderate pain. I don't express these needs very often, because they're not actually fetishes for me, but when included in sexual activity, they add a certain something special lets just say. I've enjoyed a myriad of different things so far, and I'm sure I will enjoy more if the opportunities present themselves to explore.
I haven't really delved deeply at all into what my BDSM limits or hard limits might be either, or even all the possibilities. I just know I enjoy the idea of it, and have enjoyed what little "play" I've experienced in my life.
I think relinquishing a certain amount of control is good for me, because I am one who "needs" control, almost always. I need the final word. I need things to go my way, or I feel "out of control". I really hate that. I don't believe I could ever be a submissive outside of the bedroom either.
My fantasy life kind of borders on the extreme, and I truly don't believe that some of the things that get me off in my mind would translate well to real life. Some things are better left in my head, where they're safe for me and other people. haha I have extreme sadistic proclivities, just as well as masochistic. I'll leave all that for another day.
Not being familiar with terminology, or much of anything involving BDSM other than a few basic principles, I can't say that my experiences actually qualify as good BDSM, or safe. Perhaps someday I'll know better. I'd like to.
For now, I need to revisit a time when I was an impressionable, young girl. I had already suffered certain atrocities in life but they hadn't yet scarred the innocence out of me. I was still curious, and enthusiastic. If I grew up today, I would have likely been diagnosed as ADHD, but back in the 70's, when I was in Kindergarten, people might have called it being high-strung, or excitable.
I wonder how fondly everyone else remembers Kindergarten? There were all the toys, snacks, story time, nap time, crafts, and other lessons to learn, things like that. It was also the first coming together of children socially, if they hadn't been to daycare facilities, or preschool. I was 4 years old when I started going. I was right on the cusp. They usually only took 5 year old children and I would be 5 in a couple of months. I guess I was special. I already knew how to read a lot of words, tie my own shoes, and some basic math. Little miss smarty pants, I was. I was also, very, very "spirited".
My teacher must have had issues with controlling my behavior for a long time before the actual incident occurred, as I remember her being quite flustered. I remember flashes of things from earlier that year and how difficult it all seemed for her.
I remember two black boys in my class that the other kids, and myself, called Chocolate and Vanilla for complexion reasons. They acted like they didn't mind, but now I feel like it was racist or something. These little fellas cussed a lot and made overtly sexual gestures and comments. I don't think I understood what any of it meant at the time. They were the baddest kids in class, and they got into plenty of trouble for it too.
There are so many politically correct lines that I'm unaware of or unsure of. I never want to offend anyone, and I hope if I do or say anything that does, that someone will tell me with love and understanding of how I was raised. I really want to overcome that. The school I went to was in a predominately black area. The school was well mixed with kids of all races, and nationalities. Thing is, even the black kids knew which areas of "town" they were welcomed, and us white kids did too. It's so sad to think about it now. I had black friends that I couldn't invite home, for reasons. I was never invited to their houses either for the exact same reasons. Our folks were all racist, even if they didn't think they were, and were still seriously self-segregating. It was just that way back then. Hopefully that area has progressed more, but I honestly doubt it. The fuckin' South, man.
There was a little boy in my class, who was so tiny, and skinny, that I called him Peanut, and he was potentially brutalized on a daily basis by me. I'd drag him around like a rag doll. I'm sure he felt like a cat in the clutches of an evil child, struggling to get away, but he was too small and weak. He probably developed a few of his own fetishes from this maltreatment. I feel horrible about it now. I was just a little girl though, and didn't understand how wrong it was to mistreat people smaller than me. I didn't think I was bullying him, as I liked him alot.
There was a little boy who lived near me too. We played together at home, and also at school. We played a game the kids called Kiss and Chase. He must have let me win, cause I was a chunky little monkey, and I know I couldn't outrun him. He was my first childhood crush. I had a girlfriend in that class with me too, that I am still friends with. We are even on each other's Facebook pages. We've been through alot together but are still friends after all these years. She's one of the few people who check up on me from time to time. I'll get a text from her, or phone call seeing how I'm doing. We share stories and a few laughs. I'll always love that girl.
Back to the situation with the teacher, she must have had her hands full with me, as well as everyone else. Everything was an adventure with me, and I was always so excited. I couldn't sit still to save my life. There were naptimes that I wouldn't even attempt to close my eyes, and I would try my best to get close enough to the toys so that I could sneak and play. In some sort of craft lesson I was acting up, and even cut a little girl's finger with the safety scissors we were using. I am still sad and sorry about that. My bad behavior hurt someone else. I still don't think I deserved what I got, and I don't know if it happened at that time, or another time when I was being naughty, but I still feel badly about it.
Basically, the teacher, being frustrated with me being talkative and not sitting still one day in class, taped me down, and taped my mouth shut. I was bound, helpless, and humiliated in front of the entire class, with whom I would be attending school with for many years to come. I truly think she could have handled it differently. Even pulling me into the hall and having a talk with me would have calmed me down immensely. I didn't even remember that this happened to me until recently. I remember it pretty damn clearly now, and I'm angry about it. I don't know if this had anything to do with some of my sexual quirks, but it sure didn't damper my proclivity for liking how it feels to be tied up tightly.
Bad teacher, bad. She was a pretty lady too. She had a nice face, she seemed tall, and athletic. She wore kind of baggy clothing but you could tell she had a nice shape. She had the prettiest long brown hair. It was sort of dirty blonde, or light brown I guess. I liked her. I don't think I like her so much now. I don't remember how long I was kept bound up, or what happened after that event, but I know it affected me in ways I probably won't understand without years of psychotherapy.
Enough about her, I bet y'all are just dying to read about that axe wielding, maniac stepfather.
He was actually a pretty cool guy, for the most part. I never didn't like him. I think there were times when I loved him. He was funny, handsome, and an interesting character. He rode a motorcycle. He had nice tanned muscles, and wavy golden blonde hair. He was smart too. I honestly had a crush on him, and rivaled my mother for his attention when I would visit on the weekends. I think I was 7 years old when they first started dating, and subsequently moved in together.
My mama was like me, in that she didn't waste anytime going deep into the love spiral. He had a baby daughter of his own from a previous marriage, and was in the middle of a divorce and custody suit at the time. He was 25, and I think my mom was around 30 when they met. They were fairly inseparable from the moment they met though.
My mom sunk the hooks in deeply in the first few months of dating. She had that man whipped. haha They both worked construction, her daddy was THE Boss, as always. lol When they first started dating, I remember my visits weren't to her house anymore, but to his trailer. They would stay up front, talking, or whatever, and I was banished to the back room, where there were boxes of stuff, as well as a couple of boxes chock full of dirty magazines. This was where my mind was blown.
As the relationship progressed, they got a place together. I'd spend a lot of time in the bathroom, looking at adult mags like Hustler, Penthouse, Playboy, Club, and some other bizarre titles. There were also Easy Riders, and High Times. So I had an abundance of "notsafeforchildren" goodness to absorb. Later on when my teenage years set in, I spent less time looking at the magazines, and more time practicing in my mom's makeup, and hair stash. Good stuff man.
Those early years were about the time I discovered my clitoris...whoah! I spent lots of time in the bathtub too, scooched right up under the faucet giving my little love button the waterfall treatment. Awe I used to miss being a smaller chick sometimes, just for that sensation..and then I remembered they make shower massages now. Whoop whoop!
My mama never treated me like a child, even as a child. She never had to discipline me either. I always did as I was told. I kept my room clean. I cleaned the dishes, after helping to cook. I was always trying to please her, cause I didn't see her so regularly. It wasn't even every weekend. Sometimes she had too much stuff going on, and yeah...
When I was there, I was free to pretty much do what I wanted. If they needed to get in the bathroom, they'd shoo me out. I had privacy, and I could read baby. I could read. I read all the good stuff, all day long. There were also times I ended up having to stay in the back room there. Friends would be over, partying on various kinds of drugs, getting drunk. It was great when I was allowed to "be seen and not heard". I was a good girl. I think my mom's friends liked having me around sometimes. I was amusing, but not in a goofy little kid sort of way. I was "wise beyond my years". There were a few unfortunate events where I ended up eating a "hash brownie", or a quarter of a Quaalude that I wasn't supposed to. So there was that.
All this time, the new father figure is great. Some weekends we'd have his little girl over to visit too. She was pretty much a baby at this time, so we couldn't really play or anything. It was still nice to visit with her though. The only thing that makes me uncomfortable around the stepdad, is that he's very inappropriate. He's one of those people who makes the lude comments, and overtly sexual gestures. He'd talk about blow jobs, whores, and I heard the word cock sucker a lot.
People like that make me very uncomfortable to this day. They're usually charismatic and hypnotic personalities too, and tend to get away with that sort of sexual harassment. To the point where they can take it too far, into the realm of bad touch. Ass grabbing, nipple pinching, and things like that, when saying something that would make a nun cringe. It got progressively worse over the years too.
One day, my mom was at work while I was over for the weekend. He was home watching me. I forget what led up to the funny little game we started playing, but it got a bit intense at the end. We'd been listening to country music, and having a good time. He loved Hank Jr. and the song, A Country Boy Can Survive. I liked it too. We had things in common, and I was really starting to like him. He also made my body feel funny sometimes.
He liked to tease me, and fuck with my head. He'd trick me into saying things I didn't mean and agreeing to things I didn't understand. I think I liked that as well, the mind games. I wanted to play with him. When I felt like I was figuring something out, I felt more grown up. I wanted his attention. I loved my granddaddy. He was everything to me, but he wasn't my daddy. Even when he adopted me, I could never think of him as my dad. I wanted MY dad, but I couldn't have him, the boyfriend of my mother seemed like the next best thing to my young mind. I think a part of me wanted to be the perfect daughter for him. So that he'd want to keep us, and I played along with whatever, no questions.
The game that day was something like Cowboys and Indians. I wanted to be the cowboy, even though I would have identified more as an "injun", because of my native blood. We were running around the yard, and I had the rope. I was trying to lasso the "injun", and that's when shit started to get real.
Before I knew it, the dang "injun" had the rope, and my sorry cowboy ass was tied up to a tree. I couldn't move, or do anything. Parts of this is still a blur. I believe in my heart that it all started out as good "clean" fun, but when I was tied up, it got scary really quickly. His face changed. It seemed to turn ominous, and frightening. He had me where he wanted me, and I was about to get scalped or something even more awful. He said things to me to make me feel this way. I don't remember the words, I just remember his face very close to mine. His hand was gripping my plump little chin tightly, and I knew I was about to die.
Then he left me there. I don't know how long. It felt like forever. I guess because I was such an active and hyper child, being forced to remain completely still for more than a few minutes must have been torture. I couldn't speak, because he'd shoved a handkerchief in my mouth. Remember, I'm a seven year old little girl here, and I'm tied to a tree in the fenced-in backyard, of a trailer park-style subdivision, with a handkerchief in my mouth. I know you're picturing this. I was terrified.
When he came back, he was carrying an axe. He came closer and closer, with this look on his face that was nothing short of ghoulish. At about 10 yards away from me, he stops. He says another something I can't remember, or I was too frightened to comprehend, but I see he's holding the axe up, and waving it at me while he speaks. He's holding over his head now. It's moving behind his head, and he's taking aim. He launches that fucking axe right at me, and it sticks into the tree a few feet above my head...fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Tears are streaming down my face. I'm twitching, and out of my mind with fear, and he's laughing his ass off at me.
Now he seems to realize that I don't understand that this is just a game and he gets worried. He starts talking to me calmly, and unties me, comforting me, and making me feel safe again. He removes the handkerchief from my mouth and apologizes, hugging me. Before long, we're sharing food, and it's all water under the bridge. It never even comes up when mama comes home. We're friends again, and he never would ever try to hurt me for realz.
I didn't recall this event until recently as well, amongst other gems from that time in my life. My grandparents end up moving to Shreveport the following year. Both mama, and the stepfather, house sit/babysit me, for about 6 months while I finish the end of that school year, and the folks can get things settled. If you're wondering how living with this man and my mother full time for 6 months went, tune in tomorrow.
Whew, this stuff takes a lot out of you. I believe it's also giving back. Being able to recall how that felt, to be that helpless, and at someone's mercy is a real eye opener. I was only truly frightened because I didn't know if I could trust him. I'm ...almost positive the stepfather would never have thrown that axe if he thought he would have hurt me. He COULD have, and accidents happen, but still. It never should have happened.
I don't believe I'd ever want my Dominant person to threaten me with an axe, per se, but I think something called "edge play" might be up my alley. I guess I'd have to believe myself in real danger, or I don't think I would get off on it. A part of me would be too afraid to give up that kind of control though. So that would probably qualify as one of those things best left in the old noggin. It's all very confusing, the range of emotions I feel when considering this. Bound, gagged, helpless, fearing for my life, torture even....unf. Then the sexual aspect of it, orgasm denial, endless teasing, and final release. Come on...
So yeah, I get it twisted from time to time. I'm fucking clueless as to just how kinky I could be. Vanilla, or mostly vanilla, has been satisfactory all these years. I like a lick it and stick it kind of guy just fine, but someday I'd really enjoy getting a little neapolitan with my bad self. Or...whatever you want to call it. lol I'd like to test these theories. I can imagine myself at both ends of the spectrum as well. It's a lot to think about. I'm lucky I don't obsess over things long. Thoughts come and go. Tomorrow I finish up with the step father's relevance to my story, and from there on, we'll be dealing with a lot of the other unsavory people that have passed through my life.
Till next time, thank you for sharing my journey. I'm sending you my love. I am the healing. I am becoming a better person daily. I am improving and growing. I thank you all for your love, and I appreciate all of your support. Feel free to comment, add anything personal as well, or ask me anything. I will respond to all. <3
CandyKisses Always,
xxoo
I haven't really delved deeply at all into what my BDSM limits or hard limits might be either, or even all the possibilities. I just know I enjoy the idea of it, and have enjoyed what little "play" I've experienced in my life.
I think relinquishing a certain amount of control is good for me, because I am one who "needs" control, almost always. I need the final word. I need things to go my way, or I feel "out of control". I really hate that. I don't believe I could ever be a submissive outside of the bedroom either.
My fantasy life kind of borders on the extreme, and I truly don't believe that some of the things that get me off in my mind would translate well to real life. Some things are better left in my head, where they're safe for me and other people. haha I have extreme sadistic proclivities, just as well as masochistic. I'll leave all that for another day.
Not being familiar with terminology, or much of anything involving BDSM other than a few basic principles, I can't say that my experiences actually qualify as good BDSM, or safe. Perhaps someday I'll know better. I'd like to.
For now, I need to revisit a time when I was an impressionable, young girl. I had already suffered certain atrocities in life but they hadn't yet scarred the innocence out of me. I was still curious, and enthusiastic. If I grew up today, I would have likely been diagnosed as ADHD, but back in the 70's, when I was in Kindergarten, people might have called it being high-strung, or excitable.
I wonder how fondly everyone else remembers Kindergarten? There were all the toys, snacks, story time, nap time, crafts, and other lessons to learn, things like that. It was also the first coming together of children socially, if they hadn't been to daycare facilities, or preschool. I was 4 years old when I started going. I was right on the cusp. They usually only took 5 year old children and I would be 5 in a couple of months. I guess I was special. I already knew how to read a lot of words, tie my own shoes, and some basic math. Little miss smarty pants, I was. I was also, very, very "spirited".
My teacher must have had issues with controlling my behavior for a long time before the actual incident occurred, as I remember her being quite flustered. I remember flashes of things from earlier that year and how difficult it all seemed for her.
I remember two black boys in my class that the other kids, and myself, called Chocolate and Vanilla for complexion reasons. They acted like they didn't mind, but now I feel like it was racist or something. These little fellas cussed a lot and made overtly sexual gestures and comments. I don't think I understood what any of it meant at the time. They were the baddest kids in class, and they got into plenty of trouble for it too.
There are so many politically correct lines that I'm unaware of or unsure of. I never want to offend anyone, and I hope if I do or say anything that does, that someone will tell me with love and understanding of how I was raised. I really want to overcome that. The school I went to was in a predominately black area. The school was well mixed with kids of all races, and nationalities. Thing is, even the black kids knew which areas of "town" they were welcomed, and us white kids did too. It's so sad to think about it now. I had black friends that I couldn't invite home, for reasons. I was never invited to their houses either for the exact same reasons. Our folks were all racist, even if they didn't think they were, and were still seriously self-segregating. It was just that way back then. Hopefully that area has progressed more, but I honestly doubt it. The fuckin' South, man.
There was a little boy in my class, who was so tiny, and skinny, that I called him Peanut, and he was potentially brutalized on a daily basis by me. I'd drag him around like a rag doll. I'm sure he felt like a cat in the clutches of an evil child, struggling to get away, but he was too small and weak. He probably developed a few of his own fetishes from this maltreatment. I feel horrible about it now. I was just a little girl though, and didn't understand how wrong it was to mistreat people smaller than me. I didn't think I was bullying him, as I liked him alot.
There was a little boy who lived near me too. We played together at home, and also at school. We played a game the kids called Kiss and Chase. He must have let me win, cause I was a chunky little monkey, and I know I couldn't outrun him. He was my first childhood crush. I had a girlfriend in that class with me too, that I am still friends with. We are even on each other's Facebook pages. We've been through alot together but are still friends after all these years. She's one of the few people who check up on me from time to time. I'll get a text from her, or phone call seeing how I'm doing. We share stories and a few laughs. I'll always love that girl.
Back to the situation with the teacher, she must have had her hands full with me, as well as everyone else. Everything was an adventure with me, and I was always so excited. I couldn't sit still to save my life. There were naptimes that I wouldn't even attempt to close my eyes, and I would try my best to get close enough to the toys so that I could sneak and play. In some sort of craft lesson I was acting up, and even cut a little girl's finger with the safety scissors we were using. I am still sad and sorry about that. My bad behavior hurt someone else. I still don't think I deserved what I got, and I don't know if it happened at that time, or another time when I was being naughty, but I still feel badly about it.
Basically, the teacher, being frustrated with me being talkative and not sitting still one day in class, taped me down, and taped my mouth shut. I was bound, helpless, and humiliated in front of the entire class, with whom I would be attending school with for many years to come. I truly think she could have handled it differently. Even pulling me into the hall and having a talk with me would have calmed me down immensely. I didn't even remember that this happened to me until recently. I remember it pretty damn clearly now, and I'm angry about it. I don't know if this had anything to do with some of my sexual quirks, but it sure didn't damper my proclivity for liking how it feels to be tied up tightly.
Bad teacher, bad. She was a pretty lady too. She had a nice face, she seemed tall, and athletic. She wore kind of baggy clothing but you could tell she had a nice shape. She had the prettiest long brown hair. It was sort of dirty blonde, or light brown I guess. I liked her. I don't think I like her so much now. I don't remember how long I was kept bound up, or what happened after that event, but I know it affected me in ways I probably won't understand without years of psychotherapy.
Enough about her, I bet y'all are just dying to read about that axe wielding, maniac stepfather.
He was actually a pretty cool guy, for the most part. I never didn't like him. I think there were times when I loved him. He was funny, handsome, and an interesting character. He rode a motorcycle. He had nice tanned muscles, and wavy golden blonde hair. He was smart too. I honestly had a crush on him, and rivaled my mother for his attention when I would visit on the weekends. I think I was 7 years old when they first started dating, and subsequently moved in together.
My mama was like me, in that she didn't waste anytime going deep into the love spiral. He had a baby daughter of his own from a previous marriage, and was in the middle of a divorce and custody suit at the time. He was 25, and I think my mom was around 30 when they met. They were fairly inseparable from the moment they met though.
My mom sunk the hooks in deeply in the first few months of dating. She had that man whipped. haha They both worked construction, her daddy was THE Boss, as always. lol When they first started dating, I remember my visits weren't to her house anymore, but to his trailer. They would stay up front, talking, or whatever, and I was banished to the back room, where there were boxes of stuff, as well as a couple of boxes chock full of dirty magazines. This was where my mind was blown.
As the relationship progressed, they got a place together. I'd spend a lot of time in the bathroom, looking at adult mags like Hustler, Penthouse, Playboy, Club, and some other bizarre titles. There were also Easy Riders, and High Times. So I had an abundance of "notsafeforchildren" goodness to absorb. Later on when my teenage years set in, I spent less time looking at the magazines, and more time practicing in my mom's makeup, and hair stash. Good stuff man.
Those early years were about the time I discovered my clitoris...whoah! I spent lots of time in the bathtub too, scooched right up under the faucet giving my little love button the waterfall treatment. Awe I used to miss being a smaller chick sometimes, just for that sensation..and then I remembered they make shower massages now. Whoop whoop!
My mama never treated me like a child, even as a child. She never had to discipline me either. I always did as I was told. I kept my room clean. I cleaned the dishes, after helping to cook. I was always trying to please her, cause I didn't see her so regularly. It wasn't even every weekend. Sometimes she had too much stuff going on, and yeah...
When I was there, I was free to pretty much do what I wanted. If they needed to get in the bathroom, they'd shoo me out. I had privacy, and I could read baby. I could read. I read all the good stuff, all day long. There were also times I ended up having to stay in the back room there. Friends would be over, partying on various kinds of drugs, getting drunk. It was great when I was allowed to "be seen and not heard". I was a good girl. I think my mom's friends liked having me around sometimes. I was amusing, but not in a goofy little kid sort of way. I was "wise beyond my years". There were a few unfortunate events where I ended up eating a "hash brownie", or a quarter of a Quaalude that I wasn't supposed to. So there was that.
All this time, the new father figure is great. Some weekends we'd have his little girl over to visit too. She was pretty much a baby at this time, so we couldn't really play or anything. It was still nice to visit with her though. The only thing that makes me uncomfortable around the stepdad, is that he's very inappropriate. He's one of those people who makes the lude comments, and overtly sexual gestures. He'd talk about blow jobs, whores, and I heard the word cock sucker a lot.
People like that make me very uncomfortable to this day. They're usually charismatic and hypnotic personalities too, and tend to get away with that sort of sexual harassment. To the point where they can take it too far, into the realm of bad touch. Ass grabbing, nipple pinching, and things like that, when saying something that would make a nun cringe. It got progressively worse over the years too.
One day, my mom was at work while I was over for the weekend. He was home watching me. I forget what led up to the funny little game we started playing, but it got a bit intense at the end. We'd been listening to country music, and having a good time. He loved Hank Jr. and the song, A Country Boy Can Survive. I liked it too. We had things in common, and I was really starting to like him. He also made my body feel funny sometimes.
He liked to tease me, and fuck with my head. He'd trick me into saying things I didn't mean and agreeing to things I didn't understand. I think I liked that as well, the mind games. I wanted to play with him. When I felt like I was figuring something out, I felt more grown up. I wanted his attention. I loved my granddaddy. He was everything to me, but he wasn't my daddy. Even when he adopted me, I could never think of him as my dad. I wanted MY dad, but I couldn't have him, the boyfriend of my mother seemed like the next best thing to my young mind. I think a part of me wanted to be the perfect daughter for him. So that he'd want to keep us, and I played along with whatever, no questions.
The game that day was something like Cowboys and Indians. I wanted to be the cowboy, even though I would have identified more as an "injun", because of my native blood. We were running around the yard, and I had the rope. I was trying to lasso the "injun", and that's when shit started to get real.
Before I knew it, the dang "injun" had the rope, and my sorry cowboy ass was tied up to a tree. I couldn't move, or do anything. Parts of this is still a blur. I believe in my heart that it all started out as good "clean" fun, but when I was tied up, it got scary really quickly. His face changed. It seemed to turn ominous, and frightening. He had me where he wanted me, and I was about to get scalped or something even more awful. He said things to me to make me feel this way. I don't remember the words, I just remember his face very close to mine. His hand was gripping my plump little chin tightly, and I knew I was about to die.
Then he left me there. I don't know how long. It felt like forever. I guess because I was such an active and hyper child, being forced to remain completely still for more than a few minutes must have been torture. I couldn't speak, because he'd shoved a handkerchief in my mouth. Remember, I'm a seven year old little girl here, and I'm tied to a tree in the fenced-in backyard, of a trailer park-style subdivision, with a handkerchief in my mouth. I know you're picturing this. I was terrified.
When he came back, he was carrying an axe. He came closer and closer, with this look on his face that was nothing short of ghoulish. At about 10 yards away from me, he stops. He says another something I can't remember, or I was too frightened to comprehend, but I see he's holding the axe up, and waving it at me while he speaks. He's holding over his head now. It's moving behind his head, and he's taking aim. He launches that fucking axe right at me, and it sticks into the tree a few feet above my head...fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Tears are streaming down my face. I'm twitching, and out of my mind with fear, and he's laughing his ass off at me.
Now he seems to realize that I don't understand that this is just a game and he gets worried. He starts talking to me calmly, and unties me, comforting me, and making me feel safe again. He removes the handkerchief from my mouth and apologizes, hugging me. Before long, we're sharing food, and it's all water under the bridge. It never even comes up when mama comes home. We're friends again, and he never would ever try to hurt me for realz.
I didn't recall this event until recently as well, amongst other gems from that time in my life. My grandparents end up moving to Shreveport the following year. Both mama, and the stepfather, house sit/babysit me, for about 6 months while I finish the end of that school year, and the folks can get things settled. If you're wondering how living with this man and my mother full time for 6 months went, tune in tomorrow.
Whew, this stuff takes a lot out of you. I believe it's also giving back. Being able to recall how that felt, to be that helpless, and at someone's mercy is a real eye opener. I was only truly frightened because I didn't know if I could trust him. I'm ...almost positive the stepfather would never have thrown that axe if he thought he would have hurt me. He COULD have, and accidents happen, but still. It never should have happened.
I don't believe I'd ever want my Dominant person to threaten me with an axe, per se, but I think something called "edge play" might be up my alley. I guess I'd have to believe myself in real danger, or I don't think I would get off on it. A part of me would be too afraid to give up that kind of control though. So that would probably qualify as one of those things best left in the old noggin. It's all very confusing, the range of emotions I feel when considering this. Bound, gagged, helpless, fearing for my life, torture even....unf. Then the sexual aspect of it, orgasm denial, endless teasing, and final release. Come on...
So yeah, I get it twisted from time to time. I'm fucking clueless as to just how kinky I could be. Vanilla, or mostly vanilla, has been satisfactory all these years. I like a lick it and stick it kind of guy just fine, but someday I'd really enjoy getting a little neapolitan with my bad self. Or...whatever you want to call it. lol I'd like to test these theories. I can imagine myself at both ends of the spectrum as well. It's a lot to think about. I'm lucky I don't obsess over things long. Thoughts come and go. Tomorrow I finish up with the step father's relevance to my story, and from there on, we'll be dealing with a lot of the other unsavory people that have passed through my life.
Till next time, thank you for sharing my journey. I'm sending you my love. I am the healing. I am becoming a better person daily. I am improving and growing. I thank you all for your love, and I appreciate all of your support. Feel free to comment, add anything personal as well, or ask me anything. I will respond to all. <3
CandyKisses Always,
xxoo
Friday, May 17, 2013
Running The Gamut
I don't feel very much like writing today. I have a lot of thoughts racing around in my mind, but nothing stays for long. I'm not focusing, and I won't force it.
This afternoon, I had thoughts and a range of emotions about my size issues, and the health issues that are compounding the feelings of anger, and helplessness. The fact that I'm utterly dependent on another person for my safety and well being is also fucking with me pretty hard right now. I can't stand feeling out of control, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Even if I were in a different situation, I'd still be helpless, and dependent, on friends, or nurses. It's very frustrating, and I'm angry at myself for not taking better care of me, and not being disciplined enough to prevent becoming this, albeit sexy, beast.
My mental health issues, and dredging up past traumas isn't going to do me any favors either. My intuition is telling me that it's something I have to do. So I am. I thought about my step father, and how I don't hate him for the things he did to me. I forgave him a long time ago, but I still need to remember it, all of it down to the last detail. I have to remember my Kindergarten teacher, and what she did to me. I have to remember the men who I allowed to use my body, and the ones who took it. I have to remember the family members who abandoned me, abused me, and controlled me with violence, or manipulation. I have to remember my sins, for lack of a better word, for things I've done to other people, that I wouldn't have wanted done to me.
All of these things, running the gamut in my mind. I know I shouldn't judge myself, for my failures, nor my shortcomings. I shouldn't tell myself how to feel. I shouldn't blame it all on me either, but I can't blame anybody else. I'm the one who made the choices. I led me here. I am happy with who I am now. I would like to continue getting better, healthier, more disciplined, stronger, richer in spirit, and in pocket. lol I'm making those baby steps. I'm thankful that I have someone in my life who wants to do better too. He's got his own battles, but we're fighting them all together, and individually. We're doing our best not to let our personal battles fuck with our relationship. It has, recently even. We have lots in common, but not everything, and it gets hard sometimes. When you live in such close quarters with another person for so long, you tend to grind each other's nerves. lol That's been on my mind a lot too, and how to better deal with that issue.
I feel very loved, and appreciated. I've gotten a lot of support from friends, and loved ones, concerning my recent plan to blog more, and get more of my feelings out there. I am very blessed and I know it. I've had some hard battles, and have been down the depression river quite a lot over the last several years, my whole life really, and the show of support from friends always lifts my spirits.
I love all of the people in my life. I really do. If we are connected, even through a social media, blogs, anything online, or in real life, then I love you. When I see your posts, or hear from you, I feel our connection as divine. We share a soul, all of you that read this. Your spirit is reaching out to me, as mine is to you, in greeting, and comradery. We are one and I consider you a part of my soul community. So when I give you hugs, or say I love you, I mean it. I don't take the emotion of love, lightly, or with indifference to it's weight. I don't take the word for granted. I love you as we are cosmic sisters and brothers, and I thank you for sharing my journey.
I feel sorry that I haven't done more in my life. I have done what pleases me. I think that isn't a bad thing, but I do realize that it's had it's cost. If you always reach for what pleases you, then you will certainly suffer.
"Whatcha gonna do when the well runs dry, honey? Whatcha gonna do when the well runs dry, babe? Whatcha do when the well runs dry? Sit in the corner and cry, cry, cry, honey, baby mine.", sang Granddaddy. He wasn't kidding, not a bit. You can burn through some money really fast if you're not careful. You can burn through your life if you're not careful too. It all wears out eventually. Life moves on, and we leave so much of ourselves behind. Little pieces of me, are strewn all over the internet, all over the world. But, pieces of my soul are scattered through time and space. I am on a quest to retrieve it. I will dig much deeper into my psyche tomorrow. I have a few theories on why I have an attraction to the BDSM lifestyle, that is probably more sinister, and twisted than the norm. Which is why I'd never be satisfied in a typical power exchange relationship. My fantasy life isn't humanly possible.
Ok, for not knowing where to go, I sure went everywhere. I properly titled this sumbitch. Anyway, that's all I can stand today. I may post another later if I get a bee in my bonnet over something. I'm thinking about my family as well today, and saying prayers for a beloved family pet. Also sending love out to friends in need, hurting, sick, or in trouble. <3
I'm about to have to sink my head in the dirt for a while, and play a game or browse Tumblr food blogs till I have to eat lunch. I won't feed myself until I'm starving and hangry. But if I saturate myself in food tv or food pictures, it might motivate me to get up off my big arse and go get something. I'm making myself get up more when I'm hungry. I go in the kitchen fix it myself as often as I can. I was getting so dependent on him to do it, I'd get mad when he wouldn't do it right. lol He doesn't deserve that kind of treatment. If I want something my way, I have to do it. I promised myself I'd stop treating him like a servant. If I really need him for something, I ask, but if I can just roll my ass out of bed and waddle to the kitchen, fuck yeah do it.
I'm moving more, and eating some better food, not as much take out either. I'm proud of myself. I want to be stronger and healthier. I'm not dieting. I'm just changing my diet and changing me. I was once a person who could walk around everywhere without getting winded. I could run a little. I climbed stairs. I will be that healthy again. I'm strengthening my joints, and taking better care of my lungs too. Moving forward, getting better, body, mind, and spirit. I'm not patting myself on the back yet, but I'm hopeful.
Thanks for sharing with me today. You all are welcome to comment, or share a feeling of your own. Are you going through any personal stuff that you want to vent? I'm all ears. Also, questions are welcome. I'm an open book too.
Sending you all love and Candykisses!! xxoo
Thursday, May 16, 2013
No Regrets... feels like a lie.
Sometimes finding the words to express the turmoil that goes on inside my head, is my greatest challenge. Many battles have been fought because I tend to "speak in riddles", making no sense to the layman. I don't believe that to be the case in reality. I don't possess such skills that would allow me to benefit from being an actual writer, but I am well read. I am long winded, self-centered, and my run on sentences go on forever. My punctuation is quite off as well, but I don't feel like my words are an enigma. I feel like what I have to say, rings true in others as well, from time to time. I don't speak in riddles. Prose perhaps.
My writing is artistic, and it allows me the release of emotion, so it's something I have to train myself to do again. Once upon a time, I took full advantage of the skill. Now, I call upon my muse to please allow me that gift again, and let me share what I can today with my friends.
I woke up this afternoon, and felt the pressure I'd placed upon myself. I don't suppose it should feel like that, but it did. I say "this afternoon", because I usually spend nights awake thinking about everything, and nothing. I spend a lot of time, tuning out, actually. I purposely bury my head in the sand, so I don't have to think about anything but the things that are eating at me.
When I felt that pressure, my mind started racing. I thought of at least 3 events in succession. I revisited those 3 days in that trailer, in Walker, Louisiana, with a boy named Ted, his Dad, and friend. I revisited my first public humiliation by a teacher, and also, at least one of my step father terrorizing me as a child with an axe. I think I could write until my fingers bled, and I still would only have scratched the surface. So many 'events' that altered my life, in so many ways.
I'll start out with the most obvious story. The one hinted at more than once here. I'll let out the evil. When I've finished you'll understand why I felt so ashamed.
One night, near midnight, there was a knock on my window. A cute boy was there, long blonde hair, blue eyes, dreamy body, and I couldn't help myself. I went outside to meet him, snuck right out the door with no regard to my own safety whatsoever.
I knew him from before. He'd dated a friend of mine, and we'd hung out together with friends. We'd shared adventures as a group. For example, we all drove to New Orleans, a bunch of teenagers, and partied on Bourbon St. till about 3 AM. Then we all decided it would be a hoot to drive to Biloxi, MS, and watch the sun come up on the beach. We had a real fuck the World kind of attitude, and did as we pleased. We broke the law plenty that season, can't go into details, but graffiti was involved, and perhaps a good bit of shoplifting.
Anyway, I felt safe enough with this fellow, to get in the car with him, and drive down the street to a little bar I used to go to once in awhile. There were two bars on my street, at either end, and this one was the quieter of the two, as it had just reopened. There were a lot of bars in this location, that had tried and failed, so it never got the business the other down the street did.
When we got there, I was a little worried about being underage. He was too. His dad had been playing guitar there that night, and there was a dinner. We had some gumbo, and a few beers. People were having fun at the end of the night, and it was almost last call before we knew it. I was enjoying my time with the cute boy. I was starting to see what my friend had seen in him. They only broke up because she'd started seeing his cousin, and ended up pregnant by him instead of the blonde hottie. So I believed him fair game, and I wanted him.
I let my libido cloud my better judgement. When I was asked if I wanted to head to some of the dad's friends house to continue the party, I agreed enthusiastically. We rode over there, and me and the boy hung out in the car while the dad went in to continue drinking and I can only assume, trying to hook up with someone. We had a nice conversation, and even began to get intimate by the time the dad came back out.
At that point, nobody asked me if I wanted to go home, or if I wanted to go with. A friend of the dad got into the passenger seat, while the boy and I sat in the back holding hands..aww how cute. The dad, drunk, and obviously frustrated, drove us several towns over to a remote location in Walker, LA. A trailer in the woods. I was intimidated by the situation, but the promise of sex with the cute boy was more than I could resist, and thwarted all logic.
Me and these three men, sat in the living room of this funky old trailer and talked for a while. I was amused by them, and we were all laughing and having a good time. The boy gets up, and motions for me to follow him down the hall. He had something to show me. I went, and we ended up in a dimly lit bedroom, basically 4 walls and a waterbed.
We made out, and it was easy with him. I'd never done it in a waterbed before. We started fucking, and it was nice. He was a pretty good lay. I'd had him turn the lights off, as I wasn't confident in my body at all. I wasn't even that big, maybe 200 lbs. I felt huge though.
If the lights were on, maybe I could have seen what was coming. Maybe I wouldn't have felt so helpless, and maybe I could have prevented it from even happening. Maybe if I wouldn't have always put my ass in a crack, it wouldn't have gotten raped repeatedly by men who should have never have even had the pleasure of being in my presence. So many maybes, and shoulda, woulda, nor coulda never changed the past.
I had wicked low self-esteem. I was promiscuous, always needing to feel wanted, and desired. Somehow it never registered that if someone wanted to have sex with me, that I was beautiful and desirable to them, and it wasn't always because I was an easy target.
There is a shuffling sound in the darkness. I was on top at the time, and looked over my shoulder, seeing nothing, but knowing somebody else was in the room. I felt hands on me, and a voice telling the boy to move his ass. The boy complies, leaving me to fend for myself. He hides in a corner of the room, sniveling. He's fucking crying while his dad attempts to rape me in that fucking waterbed.
I fight with every ounce of strength I have. He will not penetrate me. I can't get up, efficiently trapped, by my fat unathletic body, and this slobbering drunk, pushing himself into me. I'm kicking him in the face, the ribs, the balls, anywhere. I'm punching, scratching, and giving it all I had to protect my not-so-innocent vagina from this offense.
I won the battle, but I felt like I'd lost the war when he jizzed on my leg. He got up, and started to walk away, then his friend entered the room. I saw the light of the hallway then, and the two men giggling at each other, but I was up then, and threatening. I told the friend that if he came near me, I'd kill him. That I was up, and that I would die before I'd be touched again. The friend thought better of it, and left the room.
Alone in the room with a crying, useless teenage boy. Fuck my life. I comforted him the rest of the night, after I'd been violated. I don't think I felt like a victim at the time. I don't know what I was thinking. I was miles away from home, vulnerable, and alone with 3 men who had either raped me, or witnessed it. I managed to sleep, and when I woke up the next morning, the reality of my situation dawned on me. The night before...dad and friend were drunk. They won't be drunk now.
In the morning, the boy was still pretty useless. He acted like nothing happened. Like it was all the most normal, natural thing in the World. We were just good buddies. Everybody acted liked nothing happened, and I didn't think I had any choice but to act like it didn't either. What if they had weapons there? In the light of day the place appeared to be a hunting camp or fishing camp, something like that. Deliverance comes to mind, or The Hills Have Eyes.
I went into survival mode. I'd been in situations like this before, not knowing what to expect. I just played along with whatever. Later in the day we went out cruising around and met up with another of the boy's "girlfriends". I had been effectively passed on to dad at that point. The friend was just hanging around too. I guess hoping for a scrap of something. The boy and girlfriend retire to that same room I'd been assaulted in, and later on that night, dad takes me to bed ... willingly. Some people say hookers have dead eyes. They've seen too much, experienced too much. I can only imagine the look on my face when this 50 something year old man climbed on top of me, and victoriously finished inside me.
The next day, things progress. We visit other people and I just smile my fake smile, and pretend that everything is ok. I just want to go home. I keep getting told that they don't have time to take me just yet, and to be patient. Another night goes by, and it doesn't even feel like rape anymore. I felt dead inside. I'd given up. I go through the motions, hoping to be released. I was sorry I'd gone out that night. I was even more sorry that I'd been cheating on my boyfriend at the time, to do so.
When I finally made it back home. I was dropped off down the street, and around the corner from my house. I was barely missed, because it wasn't the first time I'd gone missing for days. I had a bad habit of running off in the middle of the night with strange men, and getting into all sorts of trouble. The person that missed me was my boyfriend. It wasn't like me to not check in. He gone around asking people that I knew if they'd seen me, and of course they hadn't. The person I'd run away with wasn't from my town. He lived in Baton Rouge, LA with his grandmother. I guess his dad lived in Walker, or that was just a camp. I'll never know.
After it all settled down, I told the boyfriend what had happened, and that I felt like I wasn't good enough for him. I was an awful person. I felt like I deserved what happened to me. I'd put myself in the situation, and instant karma got me good. I don't believe that now. I believe that I was adventurous, and trusting. I was naive, and easily seduced by a pretty face. I was also afraid for my life. I submitted out of fear. I did the right thing at the time.
I guess what really bothers me about the event now, is that you never really know what an enemy's agenda is. What if they didn't want the sex at all? What if their motives were more sinister? I could have been skinned alive. I could have been chopped up into little bits and fed to the alligators. Anything could have happened. This creates worlds of fear within me.
How can I prevent this sort of thing from happening to me in the future? Never trust a pretty face? Never talk to strangers? I was always my own worst enemy. I said the stupidest things, like, "I don't even know the meaning of the word, No.", or, "Don't dare Candy if you don't want it done." What the actual fuck was wrong with me?
I never deserved what I got, but I you'd think I'd have learned my lesson after the first time something rotten happened to me. LOL This particular event happened near the end of my "dating season". I married the next man I became involved with, an ex-convict, who was fresh out of prison, after knowing him for 2 weeks. Fucking Einstein. At least I was safe from the boogey men, and my own poor judgement in potential dates. I was locked down tight, and I didn't wander. I was faithful for nearly 11 years before moving on to my next keeper. I'm seriously like an animal who can't be trusted to care for herself. When I'm out there in the World I'm so vulnerable. It's not anybody's responsibility to keep me safe, so the Devil I know is safer than what's out there.
So that's that story, to the best of my memory. I feel shame because I not only put myself in that fucked up situation, but I submitted to it. If I would have run, things could have gotten much worse. The men there who seemed mostly harmless, could have turned into real monsters if I had threatened their freedom by involving other people, cops, or whatever. When I made it out, and safely back home, I chose to bury the memories. I told the boyfriend, as I broke up with him, but nobody else. I never even told my ex-husband. Tommy knows, he knows all my secrets, all the horrible shit I've been through. He accepts me. He's no savior though, and has his own demons to battle, so he's no real help. He also likes to play devil's advocate, and the last thing I need is someone defending my captors.
Sure, if I hadn't of made it easy for them, they might not have done what they did. Or maybe, this was a weekly thing for them, having the kid seduce girls into their lair, for them to do whatever with. I feel guilty for not bringing the police back to their trailer, and maybe saving another victim from feeling so alone, and used up. I wish I would have handled things differently. I wish I would have handled a lot of things differently. When people say "no regrets", I wish I could say that too.
Honestly though, things that I experienced, both good and bad, have shaped me into the amazing person that I am now. I forgive those men for what they did to me, or what I felt like they did to me. I release the shame, the guilt, the pain, and the disgust. I won't let this bother me anymore. I accept that I made the poor choices that led to this happening, and I forgive myself too. I shouldn't have any regrets at all, because I am a good person, and all of this is a part of me. I love me, above all else. I love you too. If you've made it this far thank you for allowing me to vent.
I am the healing. I am letting go. I am moving forward. I am free.
My writing is artistic, and it allows me the release of emotion, so it's something I have to train myself to do again. Once upon a time, I took full advantage of the skill. Now, I call upon my muse to please allow me that gift again, and let me share what I can today with my friends.
I woke up this afternoon, and felt the pressure I'd placed upon myself. I don't suppose it should feel like that, but it did. I say "this afternoon", because I usually spend nights awake thinking about everything, and nothing. I spend a lot of time, tuning out, actually. I purposely bury my head in the sand, so I don't have to think about anything but the things that are eating at me.
When I felt that pressure, my mind started racing. I thought of at least 3 events in succession. I revisited those 3 days in that trailer, in Walker, Louisiana, with a boy named Ted, his Dad, and friend. I revisited my first public humiliation by a teacher, and also, at least one of my step father terrorizing me as a child with an axe. I think I could write until my fingers bled, and I still would only have scratched the surface. So many 'events' that altered my life, in so many ways.
I'll start out with the most obvious story. The one hinted at more than once here. I'll let out the evil. When I've finished you'll understand why I felt so ashamed.
One night, near midnight, there was a knock on my window. A cute boy was there, long blonde hair, blue eyes, dreamy body, and I couldn't help myself. I went outside to meet him, snuck right out the door with no regard to my own safety whatsoever.
I knew him from before. He'd dated a friend of mine, and we'd hung out together with friends. We'd shared adventures as a group. For example, we all drove to New Orleans, a bunch of teenagers, and partied on Bourbon St. till about 3 AM. Then we all decided it would be a hoot to drive to Biloxi, MS, and watch the sun come up on the beach. We had a real fuck the World kind of attitude, and did as we pleased. We broke the law plenty that season, can't go into details, but graffiti was involved, and perhaps a good bit of shoplifting.
Anyway, I felt safe enough with this fellow, to get in the car with him, and drive down the street to a little bar I used to go to once in awhile. There were two bars on my street, at either end, and this one was the quieter of the two, as it had just reopened. There were a lot of bars in this location, that had tried and failed, so it never got the business the other down the street did.
When we got there, I was a little worried about being underage. He was too. His dad had been playing guitar there that night, and there was a dinner. We had some gumbo, and a few beers. People were having fun at the end of the night, and it was almost last call before we knew it. I was enjoying my time with the cute boy. I was starting to see what my friend had seen in him. They only broke up because she'd started seeing his cousin, and ended up pregnant by him instead of the blonde hottie. So I believed him fair game, and I wanted him.
I let my libido cloud my better judgement. When I was asked if I wanted to head to some of the dad's friends house to continue the party, I agreed enthusiastically. We rode over there, and me and the boy hung out in the car while the dad went in to continue drinking and I can only assume, trying to hook up with someone. We had a nice conversation, and even began to get intimate by the time the dad came back out.
At that point, nobody asked me if I wanted to go home, or if I wanted to go with. A friend of the dad got into the passenger seat, while the boy and I sat in the back holding hands..aww how cute. The dad, drunk, and obviously frustrated, drove us several towns over to a remote location in Walker, LA. A trailer in the woods. I was intimidated by the situation, but the promise of sex with the cute boy was more than I could resist, and thwarted all logic.
Me and these three men, sat in the living room of this funky old trailer and talked for a while. I was amused by them, and we were all laughing and having a good time. The boy gets up, and motions for me to follow him down the hall. He had something to show me. I went, and we ended up in a dimly lit bedroom, basically 4 walls and a waterbed.
We made out, and it was easy with him. I'd never done it in a waterbed before. We started fucking, and it was nice. He was a pretty good lay. I'd had him turn the lights off, as I wasn't confident in my body at all. I wasn't even that big, maybe 200 lbs. I felt huge though.
If the lights were on, maybe I could have seen what was coming. Maybe I wouldn't have felt so helpless, and maybe I could have prevented it from even happening. Maybe if I wouldn't have always put my ass in a crack, it wouldn't have gotten raped repeatedly by men who should have never have even had the pleasure of being in my presence. So many maybes, and shoulda, woulda, nor coulda never changed the past.
I had wicked low self-esteem. I was promiscuous, always needing to feel wanted, and desired. Somehow it never registered that if someone wanted to have sex with me, that I was beautiful and desirable to them, and it wasn't always because I was an easy target.
There is a shuffling sound in the darkness. I was on top at the time, and looked over my shoulder, seeing nothing, but knowing somebody else was in the room. I felt hands on me, and a voice telling the boy to move his ass. The boy complies, leaving me to fend for myself. He hides in a corner of the room, sniveling. He's fucking crying while his dad attempts to rape me in that fucking waterbed.
I fight with every ounce of strength I have. He will not penetrate me. I can't get up, efficiently trapped, by my fat unathletic body, and this slobbering drunk, pushing himself into me. I'm kicking him in the face, the ribs, the balls, anywhere. I'm punching, scratching, and giving it all I had to protect my not-so-innocent vagina from this offense.
I won the battle, but I felt like I'd lost the war when he jizzed on my leg. He got up, and started to walk away, then his friend entered the room. I saw the light of the hallway then, and the two men giggling at each other, but I was up then, and threatening. I told the friend that if he came near me, I'd kill him. That I was up, and that I would die before I'd be touched again. The friend thought better of it, and left the room.
Alone in the room with a crying, useless teenage boy. Fuck my life. I comforted him the rest of the night, after I'd been violated. I don't think I felt like a victim at the time. I don't know what I was thinking. I was miles away from home, vulnerable, and alone with 3 men who had either raped me, or witnessed it. I managed to sleep, and when I woke up the next morning, the reality of my situation dawned on me. The night before...dad and friend were drunk. They won't be drunk now.
In the morning, the boy was still pretty useless. He acted like nothing happened. Like it was all the most normal, natural thing in the World. We were just good buddies. Everybody acted liked nothing happened, and I didn't think I had any choice but to act like it didn't either. What if they had weapons there? In the light of day the place appeared to be a hunting camp or fishing camp, something like that. Deliverance comes to mind, or The Hills Have Eyes.
I went into survival mode. I'd been in situations like this before, not knowing what to expect. I just played along with whatever. Later in the day we went out cruising around and met up with another of the boy's "girlfriends". I had been effectively passed on to dad at that point. The friend was just hanging around too. I guess hoping for a scrap of something. The boy and girlfriend retire to that same room I'd been assaulted in, and later on that night, dad takes me to bed ... willingly. Some people say hookers have dead eyes. They've seen too much, experienced too much. I can only imagine the look on my face when this 50 something year old man climbed on top of me, and victoriously finished inside me.
The next day, things progress. We visit other people and I just smile my fake smile, and pretend that everything is ok. I just want to go home. I keep getting told that they don't have time to take me just yet, and to be patient. Another night goes by, and it doesn't even feel like rape anymore. I felt dead inside. I'd given up. I go through the motions, hoping to be released. I was sorry I'd gone out that night. I was even more sorry that I'd been cheating on my boyfriend at the time, to do so.
When I finally made it back home. I was dropped off down the street, and around the corner from my house. I was barely missed, because it wasn't the first time I'd gone missing for days. I had a bad habit of running off in the middle of the night with strange men, and getting into all sorts of trouble. The person that missed me was my boyfriend. It wasn't like me to not check in. He gone around asking people that I knew if they'd seen me, and of course they hadn't. The person I'd run away with wasn't from my town. He lived in Baton Rouge, LA with his grandmother. I guess his dad lived in Walker, or that was just a camp. I'll never know.
After it all settled down, I told the boyfriend what had happened, and that I felt like I wasn't good enough for him. I was an awful person. I felt like I deserved what happened to me. I'd put myself in the situation, and instant karma got me good. I don't believe that now. I believe that I was adventurous, and trusting. I was naive, and easily seduced by a pretty face. I was also afraid for my life. I submitted out of fear. I did the right thing at the time.
I guess what really bothers me about the event now, is that you never really know what an enemy's agenda is. What if they didn't want the sex at all? What if their motives were more sinister? I could have been skinned alive. I could have been chopped up into little bits and fed to the alligators. Anything could have happened. This creates worlds of fear within me.
How can I prevent this sort of thing from happening to me in the future? Never trust a pretty face? Never talk to strangers? I was always my own worst enemy. I said the stupidest things, like, "I don't even know the meaning of the word, No.", or, "Don't dare Candy if you don't want it done." What the actual fuck was wrong with me?
I never deserved what I got, but I you'd think I'd have learned my lesson after the first time something rotten happened to me. LOL This particular event happened near the end of my "dating season". I married the next man I became involved with, an ex-convict, who was fresh out of prison, after knowing him for 2 weeks. Fucking Einstein. At least I was safe from the boogey men, and my own poor judgement in potential dates. I was locked down tight, and I didn't wander. I was faithful for nearly 11 years before moving on to my next keeper. I'm seriously like an animal who can't be trusted to care for herself. When I'm out there in the World I'm so vulnerable. It's not anybody's responsibility to keep me safe, so the Devil I know is safer than what's out there.
So that's that story, to the best of my memory. I feel shame because I not only put myself in that fucked up situation, but I submitted to it. If I would have run, things could have gotten much worse. The men there who seemed mostly harmless, could have turned into real monsters if I had threatened their freedom by involving other people, cops, or whatever. When I made it out, and safely back home, I chose to bury the memories. I told the boyfriend, as I broke up with him, but nobody else. I never even told my ex-husband. Tommy knows, he knows all my secrets, all the horrible shit I've been through. He accepts me. He's no savior though, and has his own demons to battle, so he's no real help. He also likes to play devil's advocate, and the last thing I need is someone defending my captors.
Sure, if I hadn't of made it easy for them, they might not have done what they did. Or maybe, this was a weekly thing for them, having the kid seduce girls into their lair, for them to do whatever with. I feel guilty for not bringing the police back to their trailer, and maybe saving another victim from feeling so alone, and used up. I wish I would have handled things differently. I wish I would have handled a lot of things differently. When people say "no regrets", I wish I could say that too.
Honestly though, things that I experienced, both good and bad, have shaped me into the amazing person that I am now. I forgive those men for what they did to me, or what I felt like they did to me. I release the shame, the guilt, the pain, and the disgust. I won't let this bother me anymore. I accept that I made the poor choices that led to this happening, and I forgive myself too. I shouldn't have any regrets at all, because I am a good person, and all of this is a part of me. I love me, above all else. I love you too. If you've made it this far thank you for allowing me to vent.
I am the healing. I am letting go. I am moving forward. I am free.
When I Was A Teenage Whore...
There once was a teenage whore, who was held captive by 3 twisted fucks in a trailer, and raped for 3 days....and hardly anybody ever knew about it, until just now. This and more exciting tales of terror coming up in future episodes of .... my fucked up life story. I have friends here, that I grew up with, that never knew about things like this that happened to me. I guess I was taught early how to keep secrets, and how to lie if I had to, to protect myself from the harsh eye of judgement. I judged myself. I felt like I deserved everything I got because I was a bad little girl. I snuck out that night, and got in a car with 3 men to go to that trailer, trusting that I would be safe with a "boy". I was never safe from my own poor decision making and naivety. This blog doesn't share the story of this particular event. It was just on my mind at the moment, eating away at me. I'll post more blogs in the future. You're welcome to peep if you like. If you want a deeper understanding of me as a flawed human being, this would be the place to poke around in the future. I haven't posted there often. I'm notoriously bad at blogging, but I really want to change that. There is so much I want to get out. I need to bleed it all out of me. I keep getting little bits out at a time, and then I have to keep revisiting events because it's all connected, and I don't feel as if I'll be free of it, until its ALL out. So, that's it. My memoirs will house my joy, and my pain. It will archive my folly, and my faith. For every horrible thing that's happened to me, something good has occurred as well. So it's not all bad, maybe bittersweet in places, but blissful in others. I really hope I am as open about things that make me happy, as I am the things that have hurt me. If I can remain coherent and concise, I will also do my best to always give the reader insight into how I felt, and how I feel about things now.
I think I will start a blogging project. I have to write something, every single day, anything. It's what the damned blog is for, right?
Once a day shouldn't be too hard. It will be cathartic.
I think I will start a blogging project. I have to write something, every single day, anything. It's what the damned blog is for, right?
Once a day shouldn't be too hard. It will be cathartic.
Breaking the Chains
There are magical places in the Earth. They're not apparent, emitting a subtle vibration. I've experienced it firsthand. These places call to me, for one reason or another, and I am compelled to obey their pull.
I remember being an almost feral child, who would run wild in the wilderness areas near my family's two homesteads. Wild and free, alone for most of my days, exploring all the dark places. The secret spots that animals hid to sleep or play, and places ordinary human children would fear to tread.
My curiosity drove me ever deeper into the solitude. I hiked the trails daily, from the time I left the house in the morning, till twilight. If I was close, I'd hear the whistles. If not, the fog horn cried out for me to return home when darkness fell. These days were my happiest of times.
I found so much joy out there, alone. I felt like Peter Pan, in my own Neverland, but I was the only lost boy. I don't believe for a minute that I was ever really alone. The forest is a living, breathing thing. The trees, the damp, the undergrowth, the creatures, the rot. It's intoxicating. I loved every minute I spent out there.
I don't remember when, or how it happened. If I grew out of it, or if I got scared. I knew no fear, and then I grew up, and realized how fragile life can be. I got caught up in the drama of life as a teenager. I had to learn the hard way how cruel life could be. I quit going to the dark and lonely places of the world.
I couldn't allow myself to continue putting myself in harms way, by evil men who whisper, "Hey, little girl.." from the shadows waving their filthy appendages at me, or other awful things that go bump in the night. Innocence lost. It's always the saddest story, before the real horror begins.
I was never overly cautious as a teenager, being a bit naive, and promiscuous with daddy issues, I endangered my life on so many occasions that each time I survived unscathed but with a bad taste in my mouth, I'd become more and more concerned for my well-being. I had a death-wish to be quite honest. Tying myself to another person, by getting married at 18, was apparently the solution to my obvious self-destructive behavior. This of course beget other self-destructive behaviors, and the vicious circle continues. Now, I'm afraid of everything, and still take way too many risks with my health, happiness, and sanity. It is what it is though.
I've lived a life less ordinary, a life well lived. I've learned hard lessons, and lost many of the people that I loved, to death, distance, and time. Healing has been difficult for me. The guilt and shame, for things that I've done, and things done to me, weighs me down immensely. I'm burdened with the constant memories of my childhood, like there's some Easter Egg that never got found, lost somewhere in my mind. It's rotten beneath that brightly colored shell, of course. It's like my facade of a smile that hides how I really feel about my life. When I finally find it, whatever it is, I can exorcise the demon, and let all this madness go. I just can't stop picking at it till then..ya know.
Even with all the ways I'm uplifting myself, there are still chains on me, holding me down.
There was so much beauty in my life. There still is. There still can be. I have to find my way back to myself, one way or another. Nothing I've done so far has worked. Years of therapy might, maybe, or maybe I write, and keep writing. I'll keep writing till I get all the stories out. All the wonderful, and horrible stories. I'll post them here. It's high time I change some things about myself, and I've gotta start somewhere. Letting out things that are bothering me could help me get to the bottom of it, but I'm always holding back, to save my pride or something ridiculous like that. Who better to share things with than friends, right? I have to stop caring what other people think, and follow my instincts. I'm not putting my life in danger by sharing my tainted, fuzzy memories.
I also want to reconnect with nature on every level, and find a way to release that feral little girl from the chains that I bound her with. I want to let her out to play in the forests of my youth again. I deserve to feel that free, and at peace in my life. It's been a long time coming. I feel like 25 years in captivity is long enough, and there ain't nobody gonna save me but me. I think I did what I had to do then, to save me from myself, but I'm a different person now. I'm wiser, and not so naive. I don't have to worry about the same dangers that feral child did, or the damaged teenage whore she became.
I've worn so many masks, and I'm tired of wearing them. I'm tired of hiding from life, because somebody might judge me. I get judged every day for being fat. Why should I care what people think about my childhood traumas? It never stopped me from oversharing before. I keep doing it. Maybe, just maybe, the tellings of some of the things that I went through might help someone going through something worse. Because I am a survivor, I've lived to tell the tale. How can I not share it? How can I bury the memories, like bones in the backyard? I won't do it anymore. I won't feel that shame anymore.
The healing begins again.
I've worn so many masks, and I'm tired of wearing them. I'm tired of hiding from life, because somebody might judge me. I get judged every day for being fat. Why should I care what people think about my childhood traumas? It never stopped me from oversharing before. I keep doing it. Maybe, just maybe, the tellings of some of the things that I went through might help someone going through something worse. Because I am a survivor, I've lived to tell the tale. How can I not share it? How can I bury the memories, like bones in the backyard? I won't do it anymore. I won't feel that shame anymore.
The healing begins again.
Here and now, by the light of the waxing moon I break and throw off my chains. I make a solemn oath to myself, that I will find the deepest, darkest, most primal forest that I can find, and I will sleep, close to the moist earth until I can feel her crawling up through my feet, and taking root in my bones. I will pay homage to The Gods, and I will call out to the forest folk, asking for their forgiveness. I've wandered too far from home. I will tell my tales, as often as I may and I will honor my journey with love.
I am freeing myself from the burden of my memories, and I am living life to the fullest. I am the healing. I am the Universe expressing Itself. I am me.
Forevermore.
I am freeing myself from the burden of my memories, and I am living life to the fullest. I am the healing. I am the Universe expressing Itself. I am me.
Forevermore.
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