The stone is silent, not mute. It was buried deep within my being, awaiting it´s truth to be heard and seen. I am ROCK solid. The one some cast away at sea or try to hide. I carry Truth. Truth that is gritty makes some turn away. Are you strong enough to stay?
I was 18 and living in a perfect town, one where just by opening my front door the sprit of the day greeted me. It was an escape route unplanned, a time when I learned with each passing day that my father was not the kind of person I saw on those childhood visits while growing up in Tennessee. He had been my idol, my perfection, my first love just as many girls experience. He would fly into town and take me and my friends to dinner, shopping in the best stores with no limitations, tell exciting stories to my cousins and I and although I sensed some animosity toward him from my Aunt, his only siblling, I never once heard my mother say anything unkind about him but I would learn plenty later. I mention this as for her this must have taken great strength for she had every reason to keep me from him and sometimes I wish she had. In time I would have enough stories to fill wells of dark, undrinkable water, pitless and forever repenishing wells with new watered down tales. The reasons I left my mother to live with him were many and at the time he seemed the most viable option. This part of my life I shall weave in and out of as we go along, yet now I am not wanting to remember the why’s and how’s of my beautiful Mother. I have spun the reel a bit forward to my father’s third marriage; he had married one of the most kind persons I would ever know to this day. They had met when I was about nine and I will call her Elle. Elle had a love of art, fashion and a quieted worldliness giving way to a warm earthiness in our daily life; she was a charm with a brilliant smile and sensitivity toward everyone. She made my visits fun and in some way, exhibited to my father how to behave toward me. She would become pivotal in the forever change of how I saw myself and my father. I don’t doubt he cared for her and that they had good times, however she also came with perks as she was a flight attendant, meaning he could fly anywhere he wanted for next to nothing. We traveIed around the Caribbean, out to California sunshine and down to Florida often. She treated me as her own, blessed me with a little sister and it was a huge surprise for her. My father had told her, as he did many women that he was sterile. Why he did this is could be as simple as he didn’t want to wear a condemn or that impregnating women was a psychological complexity leading him to feel they would need him and not leave him. I think it is the later. My sister was often hiding when my friends came over and quite shy; she would become my main reason to continue a very unhealthy relationship with my father after his world built on straw, fell to the ground. Mind you, not once did his world fall, but repeatedly as he would continue to break the rules of decency and the moral codes that most of us try to follow. I would catch him in the midst of the most heinous of crimes in my eyes, that being disloyalty to our family, over and over again. I was fully aware that he had treated others so wretchedly when he no longer needed them and as aforementioned he was often too drunk to behave around me, leading to my eventual realization he was using me to have access to other women. I was the perfect alibi. As shared earlier I had studied his character changes from early childhood and knew when he was scamming and or love bombing others for some deeper purpose. It took years to see I was also just as used as the California woman, the New York banker, the teenage bride, my mother and all the in between´s. He became quite an embarrassment in town as he often skipped payments to carpenters and hire on’s, some friends of mine he’d met through my boyfriend. While he tried to earn fast money with televised sporting events to creating production companies with no education or experience, it was Elle who paid the bills and believed in his whimsical ideas, it was Elle who figured out finances andhow to save our lovely historical home. I knew he shafted others but I would never believe he was shafting me, or that he could or ever would. I truly believed I was granted immunity and still I find it impossible to comprehend. Kid are just that, kids. We need parents, we want security and we hold on to what we have because we don’t now what else to do. My paternal grandmother said, just months before she died, “he’s nothing but a con man, always has been and always will be.” Learning that being his daughters and the abandoned baby with the teen mom made no difference to him whatsoever would eventually wake me up, crush me and leave me on the stairwell in the dark for years. The details of daily life with BaD DaD are so many and deter from this one special door I reopened recently. I now will share something that he did which in retrospect was typical, the kind of regularity about this soon shared truth is still a wound unhealed. He hurt Elle often and because I knew her tears were frequent and that he barked at her with a cold disdain, I feared telling my stepmother the things he did. I didn’t want her to hurt more. I was a scared, deeply troubled and confused teenager.
BaD DaD had a favorite type physically in women, I could scan a crowd and always find the one or two women he would go for. Dark hair, preferably cut very short and thin. He also liked women who had anything he could benefit from and always kept a few possibilities to fall back on if things weren’t well at home. This would never be about Elle, my mother, the French enabler, or the number of turnstyle clickers of others he always needed to feel safe. Narcissists are always looking out for number one, themselves. This is not about just me either. It’s about women and what we have seen, lived with and through in either shame, emabrrassement, fear of not being heard or believed and taking care of each other. This is very much about how to be a woman’s woman, a friend, a truth seeker and protectress of our tribe.
“Little Me” is making it harder and ridiculously longer to heal than ROCK thought. “Little Me” sits and stares on the same step for days at small doors with memories that belong not just to her but to other women. She is drenched in guilt and pain for not knowing how to save them.
A hotel notepad reads, “A New View to Rediscover You”. Different sheets on the same beds, day after day, unattached to the lives or futures of those that lie upon them. Restocked mini bars and little bottles of organic shampoos and soap; everything fresh for the next one to lay down for another purpose . Some make love and reconnect and say “I Love You” and mean it. Some disconnect, hold their calls and block texts to forget. Travelers without spouses or responsibility carry out with no regret deeds that satisfy their egos. The bar is full of people willing to spend a few nights being someone else more fabulous than who they really are. Fathers, parents, lovers. All just a few flights or hours away from their families or official commitments. No new story here.
But “Little Me” strips down the glued on layers and peels at the walls until her fingers bleed, seeking old remnants from others and scraps of mysteries unsolved. All these pieces of shame, with ourselves or from others are stuffed in tattered shoeboxes, tucked away on forgotten shelves. “Little Me” doesn’t stop searching. Truth is so simple if it is innocent. Truth is also told in so many ways by so many people, all believing their version the correct tale. In the end, there is ONE Truth. It is divine and merciless and anyone who tries to change it for their own glory, to save their ass and break the laws of Love are not given redemption. That is what we have been sold. By the Church, the books of Faith and Religion from page to page, from birth to death. Tell me how many unjust sentences are punctuated with doubt. Who is innocent suffers because the “karma” is not living up to it’s reputation. Our gig on this planet is not going to be better if WE are BETTER. Loved ones do and will damn us, break us, leave us alone and we can only peel back our own layers of time, rediscover our own truths and hope that there is a place for us to gather in the end.
From Rejecting This One Word Started My Tectonic Mental Health Shift: SURVIVOR PRO TIP: Don’t deal with anyone who doesn’t always treat you with respect or kindness. The first time you catch somebody being rude you may mute them in your brain. Get them out of your life. Do it with zeal and quickness. You […]As Your Healing Grows Your Self Respect Deepens
The above is from a resilient blogger who has helpful guidelines for coping strategies for better mental health.
Anguish has it’s own disguise, buried deep behind old lies; I know it’s in me, I feel it’s heat burning in an endless heap. No matter how I try to slip away, it beckons me back everyday;
Tarred and feathered, scalded skin falls from me again and again. I’ve felt this way for so very long it’s embers are like a favorite song; lyrics I can n’er forget sung in a whisper under my breath.
An old love from another time, a flame from the past, that’s softly mine. My eyes are glassy as I stare at the fire, not from it’s heat but my past which Hate devours;
A moment of me or perhaps an hour, slowly my spirit bows to it’s unwanted power. The fight began fast as I entered this world, through the canal of a woman who’d never been heard. Oh, Hurt how much can you take, from a child or a mother, who’s next at stake?
I am not alone with you I’m sure of that. I see in the eyes of strangers, a deep lost stare, where are they really, is it you in there? Oh, Hurt why do you live in a hungry baby’s cry, taking from a milkless breast, why oh why? Must you bury so deep a nest?
If I could do just one thing, it would be to eradicate everything. All that you create, your determined drive to exist in the souls of all who’ve survived. I am a warrior, you my beast, I won’t let you steal my love and feast.
You may burn and cut me from your darkened well, but I will fight you and make your hell a place that screams when I knock you down, backwards and over until you will drown.
If you try to rise again, I will recognize you over again. An endless loop of hide and seek, I’ll beat you until you can not speak. Hurt, you take away so many lives, you shorten days and cause mournful cries. You do not try to redeem yourself, you take, take, take and live on wealth.
You dictate the hearts of madmen and fool’s, no one’s too good, for you have no rules. Each scar you leave peels slowly away at the heart of humanity day by day. Oh, Hurt. It’s not just me. I am not alone with you I see.
I feel the new wind, the autumnal change and know I need to rise again. You are not my master, or keeper more. I am one step ahead, my feet on the floor. Oh, Hurt how you deceive, and take us back to memories, the ones that swell and take our hope, the ones that we run from, you envelope.
Today I see you so clear, and my tears do fall but not in fear of you at all. You stole my childhood so you thought yet I have my own trunks of good times locked. See, Hurt you are not the King, I have treasures you haven’t seen. I see laughter in places you can not go, Love all around, and you aren’t in the show. Hurt, I can not save all it’s true, the lonely starved victims you´ve kept for you, I can only rise up each day, push you down and go my way. Hurt, you are not my almighty guest, now leave as I bow to resist.
I am no Goddess nor magician, I have only my intuition. You are here to make us see, that Love will always conquer thee. So though I lay my sword down to rest, never think you’ve won this test. I may cry and sometimes falter, yet I always will stand up again at Love’s alter.
I fill my head with noise, or I lose all control and stare quietly at the dark night sky without listening to myself or anyone near me. I empty my memories into little crystal well-hidden jars with tight corks. I hoard my salty burning hot tears one by one which pour from my heart. I have always kept them under a stone so heavy that noone could open them even if they did find them. Miniature memories were burnt like a branded steer into my heart and inside are cracked pitiful baby pieces of “Little Me”. I don’t know how to walk away like an old cowboy, blowing the smoke from his gun and twirl it like a baton, all the while staring at his worst enemy with a stern glaze. I am my own enemy, I am the gun, I am the smoke and all the leftovers of a deserted, dusty, vacated town. I don’t have a horse or a good pair of shoes and my bones are brittle and I am so damn tired. I feel like laying against a strong tree, letting the sun melt away my skin, watching coyotes circling, nearing me and I welcome them. I look deeply at each one straight into their hungry eyes, well knowing I could shoot them, but I don’t. I want them to ravish me and to be their best meal so I could just stop everything right here and let go of this disastrous shell of a life. My dreams are not fair. They give the scoundrels who used me and abused me the power to hurt me over and over again. I pray to that black sky, that painful scorching sun, that deep, icy cold lake to make my dreams go away. I can’t get enough of “Little Me” out. I am like a bulimic, bulging with sour chunks of pain and try desperately to rid myself of BaD DaD. I see a photo flash across the television, a father, an actor, an ideal man for the job. I want to hire a Dad to be mine. To say, I will save you no matter what. I will catch you; I won’t leave you and say ugly nasty things and scare you. I won’t get us kicked out of restaurants and throw wine bottles at the staff and mostly, I will never try to kiss you with my smelly stinky tongue drenched in alcohol. Go away you stupid memory bank. Can I have a piece of me removed to end this? What the hell does this world want from this little girl who only wanted to save the world and maybe, just maybe a bit of herself. What do I know about blogging? Nothing. What do I know about me? Everything. And that everything will be regurgitated before I get too old to die alone with it all. I will pull my self out of this lonely drifting soul and I will not stop until I can say to “ROCK”, thank you and goodbye.
Yet, I Loved Him; Shadows of a Father
Why do we love our abusers? We love them because that is all we know until we grow up and start to see who they are as people. My mother was not perfect, but one thing she did was to let me find out on my own who he was. She knew I would eventually however “Little Me” was quiet, cautious and never shared stories about father that might make her upset or intervene in my seeing him. She was practical, sensible, chatty and had begun to work in the music industry. She became so BIG in my eyes, so intense and I was truly both in awe and fear of her. Why am I speaking of her? I am certain she is to be credited for not saying then what I know now. “Every check your father sends us bounces.” Or, “He lied to your Aunt and grandmother and said he bought your Brownie uniform when I paid your dues!” The lies were always there. Before me, before her and would continue after us.
I was in second grade and I could walk across my baby sitters backyard, jump a brook and climb a grassy field to school. Mother and I still lived in the small brick house he left us in and BaD DaD had moved to Philadelphia. I remember my teacher, Mrs. Jones. She was very sick and we always had substitutes. I loved school but I hated the smell of my tin lunchbox, the gray horrid bathrooms, and was afraid of the playground where kids were rough and swinging clackers around until eventually they were banned. I was an extremely sensitive little human. Mother was beautiful and had our clothes sewn to match often. I received a lot of attention from the teachers in my school as I was always well dressed, had a mother in the music business and a larger than life, adventurous father who I talked about all the time. This memory is from the first day he had ever come to my school; it was autumn and soon Halloween.
My mother left my olive green suitcase just inside the classroom door and had a conversation with the teacher. Today, for the very first time my father would come to pick me up in school and we’d fly to Philadelphia for the only Halloween I remember with BaD DaD. I was beyond thrilled and again, he was my idol, my whole heart jumped and cheered for him. “Little Me” pushed all bad things into the dark stairwell and locked them away. This memory was the first time that I cried on Halloween and the last time. I would grow up and see him being a fake Good DaD to half-siblings and feel sad when he had no memory of “Little Me”. He never remembers because he was usually very, very drunk and lies can’t be remembered when sober. That’s why TRUTH pushed me down the steps, slammed the door and locked it. TRUTH would later become the reason I still remain the proverbial “Black Sheep” and am shunned by his younger than me wife from France. I was a ticking bomb ready to tell all and he knew I would do it. He often said as if I were his confidant, ” SHE” doesn’t know about this or that so don’t bring it up. And she would hate me and grow to barely tolerate me because he groomed her to adore him and believe him and convince her I was a horrible person. My idol whose shadow I lived in for 50 years would throw me away because I grew into an ethical, kind and genuine woman. This shadow of me, in this memory is so painful that I hate “Little Me” for remembering it all together.
I recall watching the clock pensively. When the big hand was on twelve and the little hand on two my idol would arrive for all my classmates to see. Mother had packed my halloween costume and all of my neccessaries neatly and I was wearing a winter white courderoy dress, warm tights and my floral embroidered knee high brown boots. Other kids did not dress like me. One thing my parents had in common was style. Alas, the time came and there in the doorway he stood; eyes full of happy tears I ran into his arms and he picked me up, swung me high and kept me there. I looked back and down at my classroom as if they were a theater audience and felt such pride. I thought, SEE, I DO have a father! The teacher was not Mrs. Jones; she was sick again so the substitute and two more who knew my mother came out into the hallway to meet him. He was dressed in the coolest brown leather coat and a beige turtleneck with wool tweed pants. He was so very tall and I could see they all were in awe of his handsome, mesmerizing ways. God only knows what he told them he was doing as far as his latest brilliant idea for quick money. I would later come home to mother very sad. Mother said I always was seemingly depressed when I came home to after a visit and she thought it was from my missing him. I didn’t talk. I was well groomed by BaD DaD.
I as always will help “Little Me” tell you what happened. She wasn’t missing him; she was disappointed.
ROCK is firm that she can only tell one bad story at a time or she will never get out of the cold stairwell. She is on a step that has wet fall leaves, huge ones; they are from a magnolia tree. Darkness envelopes her and an empty plastic pumpkin with a black plastic handle she stares at.
“Little Me” is in Media, Pennsylvania. “Daddy, this is gong to be the best Halloween ever; I am going to be a roaring lion!” Up we go onto a trolley car. “Hold on to the pole and I will lift your suitcase up and down and all around when people get on and off”. “Little Me” remembers the excitement of her first trolley car ride through Philly, the colors of all kinds of people, the big, brown brick buildings and watching the doors open and shut repeatedly. So many colors greeting her with a perfect autumn bright sun setting as she neared BaD DaD’s building. She doesn’t remember with whom but she remembers they were in a small car, and a woman with short dark hair drove, (his type). BaD DaD’s building was not brown, it was white stone and had a big yard full of the biggest leaves I’d ever seen. We had to climb up, up, up to the very tippy top to get to his apartment. There were no curtains and the light was everywhere. Along one wall was a small table, some hard chairs and the rest was beautiful long windows, the kind that are in old films. BaD DaD had a mattress on the floor in another room on brown hardwood floors and the bathroom had teeny tiny tiles, not linolium like at home. It felt empty and I only had brought my doll I slept with, a clown actually named BoBo. In fact, I would name lots of pets and dolls the same name with a slight variation for years to come. BaD DaD sat my suitcase on the floor and took me down to an apartment to meet a woman. She is a school teacher (he said) and very pale with black hair. She gives me old dolls made of porceline to play with and comes up to us for dinner every night. Who was she? BaD DaD spent a lot of time on the telephone or in her apartment and I watched black and white television on the mattres on the very hard floor. FOCUS! ROCK wants “Little Me” to not be so detailed, to get on with it to heal. It’s not that easy; never tell someone who has lived through much trauma to get on with it. So, bored and lonely I wander around the nearly empty big room. The sun was shining even though it was cold outside and I opened one of the long windows to look down. I held two dolls and they take turns walking across the window sill, looking over and I speak for them. Their heads are wobbly and like eggshells. I hear BaD DaD open the door to the apartment and I am relieved as I was a bit scared in another new place and he often left me for a long period of time. I was startled and as I turned to run to him one of the pale egg head dolls fell out the window. BaD DaD stopped smiling and didn’t hug me. He yelled at me then hit me hard. He had never hit me that I could recall, and it was in and of itself not so tragic. It was not on purpose the doll fell so I cried. He made me tell the woman I was sorry and give her the doll that wasn’t broken back and go pick up the pieces of the cracked egg head doll ithat was scattered amongst the thick, damp magnolia tree leaves. Each day was long, lonely and boring with BoBo now ,the television, the mattress on the floor and boxes of saltines, or chips, cracker jacks, and root beer. He would leave me for what seemed whole days. At last it was Halloween and I was beyond excited. I had imagined for weeks how he would hold my tiny hand, see my costume and it was to be more special than any other day in my entire seven year old life. This night would make up for all the time I was sad, missing mother and alone. That night the woman from downstairs came up for dinner again. I remember eating french fries and studying a green glass bottle with wax built up in different shades along the side; a candle was lit and I gazed at the blue and yellow flame. It was cosy, but BaD DaD would change into his new hard face again. I was dipping my fries into ketchup with my fingers and he said in an ugly voice, ” Don’t you know how to use a fork?” I was embarrassed and the woman whose pale egg doll I broke by accident stared at me. I pleaded to be excused and to get ready for trick or treating as it was becoming very dark. They sat at the table and NOW I know they were drunk. Bottles were full of red, smelly liqued that looked like the same one the candle was burning in. I went into the room with the mattress and opened my suitcase and put on my costume; I was a paper lion. ROAR! Grrrrrr! I had a hard time sitting and waiting and the television rolled and rolled and the screen was fuzzy. I laid flat on my back holding my plastic pumpkin with BoBo and fell asleep. I woke with a jolt to really loud music and a weird smell. I went out to BaD DaD and the woman; they are laughing and smoking white cigarettes, playing records and dancing by drippy wax candlelight. I begged again and finally he said ina new voice, a kind of silly messy voice, “Okay!” At last! Down the steps we went, BaD DaD jumping them two at a time and being really funny then he put his hand around mine just as I had imagined it would feel. When he opened the door it was pitch black outside. We walked on a sidewalk to houses that had heavy metal knockers but I did not see any trick or treaters anywhere. I did not see pumpkins lit up or hear laughter. BaD Dad insists I go up to a scary dark door alone but has to help me when I can’t reach the knocker. A porch light comes on and a woman opens the big door and looks at my father towering over me from behind. I say “trick or treat” and growl. I will never ever, ever forget this moment. The lady is grumpy and is scolding my father. ” t’s eleven o’clock! Why are you out so late?” She had no candy left and told him I should be asleep. We leave and walk some more and finally see a house with lights on. BaD DaD stands on the street and sends me up and I can see it is a party with lots of big people; they laugh and give me extra candy and wave at my father and slam the door. We walked back home, BaD DaD was smelly like the bottles he and the woman drank with the red stink. When we climb the stairs he makes me knock on the pale egg doll woman’s door and show her my candy. She gives me some cookies and follows us up to BaD DaD’s apartment. He is laughing and they are drinking more from the red stink candle bottles and he tells me to go to bed. I have trouble getting out of my costume and rip it. I was a terrible lion; no one noticed at all. I looked in my olive green suitcase and found a little bag. It was a note from my mother that said, “Boo!” and it had bubblegum, the hard pink kind that takes hours to chew and a Hershey’s bar. I ate the Hershey bar and hid the wrapper and so missed my beautiful mother. She always made me take a bath, brush my teeth and helped me into my soft pajamas; she always read me stories and tucked me in. I fell asleep with BoBo, the gray light from the television and BaD DaD and the woman laughing and dancing with a Jim Croce album on.
Yet, I loved Him.
I am a wife, a loyal one and a second one. I am a ridiculously annoying overprotective mother. I’ve listened to things I didn’t want to hear my entire life because that’s what I needed as a child. Uncensored communication. My only child I adopted, not at all a surprise since I had this need and sense of responsibility to save everyone and everything from a young age. I was born into a harsh world, one that did not stop to understand extreme empaths. Everything I do comes from an inner drive to please. All of my past I summonsed to come forward because in my attempt to heal it felt as if I were drowning. “Little Me”, I love you.
ROCK will narrate before she speaks to catch you up. Despite BaD DaD’s behavior which almost led him to being incarcerated for statutory rape ( sex with a minor), her mother let her see him eventually. A great Uncle and “little me’s” paternal grandmother came up with an outrageous plan to convince the livid father of the aforementioned minor that BaD DaD was truly in love with the minor and was slipping into severe mental decline from being seperated from her. It all started when he was working as a “gopher” for a political campaign for John Jay Hooker, whose slogan was, “He’s Our Man”. Her parents were married and some campaign parties were held at the tiny rented house in Nashville. One of the guys he met would eventually be called “Uncle Stu” by “Little Me”; he was the older brother of the teen her father was having an affair with. The girl’s father was a very influential and wealthy man and determined to send BaD DaD to prison when he found out about this activity. How he found out, I do not know and doesn’t matter. The plan was BaD DaD (and BaD HUSBAND, SON, BROTHER, PERSON) would feign insanity to the point of being admitted to a mental hospital. He did so and was truly convincing. In all of this true craziness both “Little me’s” hard working mother and the minor girl’s father began to go visit him. Here is where Sgt. Bilko comes in. Apparently BaD DaD would stare and call for “Sgt. Bilko” while wandering in circles around his room. Sgt. Bilko who was a comic strip character in the Tennessean newspaper drew quite a lot of attention. BaD DaD was quite the showman and succeeded in winning the minor’s father’s affection. The father even came to see him while BaD DaD’s wife was leaving off clean underwear and clothes. She was literally standing in the same room watching her husband, her high school sweetheart, her rapist and her daughter’s father perform; she was fully aware of BaD DaD’s thespian talent as the minor’s father and mother brought him flowers and a gift. Holy McFuck BaD MaN! He was amazing (OSCAR!) in this role of pretending that he was going to die without this girl. Eventually “Little me’s” mother had to sign him out as his guardian and further humilate herself. He actually went back to the little house for awhile. Meawhile, the minor girl was not at all interested in pursuing marriage or a relationship with him but BaD DaD had to play out the game to keep his ass out of trouble. Again, no one matters to a #narcissist and #sociopath but themselves. A sociopath knows full well what they are doing is wrong, they just don’t care. They are out to make their world a better place, not yours. If you cross them and they need you as a frontliner they will do whatever it takes to convince you that YOU are what they need. They will cry, lie and continue to try to keep you in their closest circle. They will convince you that YOU are the ONLY PERSON who understands them and you will believe them. Yet what they need you for are money, sex, constant attention, total control and much more; they are excellent at roleplaying their way through life and all relationships. As soon as the divorce papers were filed by “Little me’s” mother and cleared he drove the minor to some courthouse with her father’s consent to marry. The poor girl was forced by her father and Sgt. Bilko to marry. She didn’t want it; she even tried to escape by grabbing his car wheel and forcing him to pull over so she could get out. That’s when it became clear, he was in charge and she was stuck. The father had an apartment above his estate’s garage where they would stay until they moved into a small apartment when minor, NOW a Major in Bilko’s bunkers got pregnant. I don’t care about all the details. I care about the Truth. I am the Truth. I am ROCK.
The #emotionalabuse and the continual #inappropriatesexualconduct which would haunt not just “little me” but without exaggeration, hundreds of other women for life, I care about. The women, the boys and girls, the abused and used, the hurt Bilko caused for so many friends, family and total strangers. My main role though is to guard forever, “Little me”.
Uncle Stu, despite not being the most scrupulous of characters would eventually come to “little me’s” rescue. Ironically despite his only goals for years were to cover for Bilko by assisting him in putting the “con” in eCONomy and creating whacked up fraudulant business plans, he mainly just hung around and smoked weed, scored cocaine and basically chauffeured “little me” around looking like a chunky version of Charles Manson. Somewhere underneath all of his long, curly hair, dark unkempt beard was one line he didn’t cross that would later benefit “Little me.”
NOW “Little me” is yanking on my pants leg wanting to speak so I will step aside and let her tell you in her own little voice a disturbing memory. I will help her as she can become very scared still. It’s called, “triggered” or “triggering” in #CPTSD, that is Complex post traumatic stress disorder.
“Little Me” is very, very upset. “Little me” is crying and has been slipping further into her dark room. This is not good. She needs to crawl out of this dank space.
“I was sleeping in a big bed alone while BaD DaD was not in the room; he was with the new blonde lady. I woke up because a flash of light was in my eyes!”; (indeed it was a flashlight), “and the bed was moving. There was giggling and I looked under the blankets and saw BaD DaD and the blonde lady naked and BaD DaD was on top of her.” “Little me” screamed and cried out, “STOP, STOP!” (yet they kept laughing.) “Little me” is blank. I am sorry “Little Me”.
She said she wanted her mother. She was very young, maybe four and had flown all by herself on an airplane to the other city to see him. When she returned home she told her mother and she remembers that she was very afraid, perhaps she might get in trouble for what she saw. This is when she first realizes she had a good Dad and a BaD DaD and begins to study and slowly discern between them. She didn’t know her mother called and asked BaD DaD what happened; later when she was very grown up she would ask her mother about it and find out that BaD DaD had lied to her mother, again. “Little me” also remembers shower time with BaD DaD and much, much later she would worry about a future half-sibling who was told to shower with BaD DaD, too.
“Little Me” must rest and I must take care of her. Outside it is raining in the NOW world, it is dark, cold and gray. This is how “Little Me” feels. ROCK will cover for her; ROCK never let’s her down.