Lullabye Baby

On the last night I sat with you in an old rocker somewhere new, you told me I was all you had, how much I meant and you were sad. Your tears fell and you held me tight, I cried too on that last night. Parting was always tough, knowing that was enough. I never told how you behaved because your tears of sorrow were so engraved, in my heart and in my mind I returned to mother without a sign. I never knew how to handle you, how to make you happy and cease your blues. I was a child, you were my guide not a toy to carry by your side. Like a spell was cast, I followed your lead, I was a sprout and you were the seed.

Rockabye baby fell for your song, thinking I was so special and our bond so strong. I grew up and now I see you were not trying to comfort me. In that old rocker, in some place new I believed I belonged to you. I was a manifestation of lover’s guilt, not a blanket or handsewn quilt. I did all I could to be in your life, but your need for me faded wife after wife. I am a reminder of what you are not, I am the Truth which you wanted stopped. Lullaby lies, lyrics so sweet I carried your song and was thrown on the street. You told me no one could take my place yet turned from me to save your face. You are no longer number one, yelling at me that I was no one. “You are not part of this family” the words stung and broke our old melody. To be part of your present I had to close my eyes while you made more children and told them more lies.

The song is finished, I long to weep for your love for me was never deep. Oh Father, how could you grow so cold when year after year I never told. You made me to look like I was the cause of all the chaos and you got applause. I looked back at you and your younger wife and you made it clear I was not part of your life. It’s been eighteen years and three months since you kicked my heart without a wince. The lullaby memories, the lullaby years all an illusion with lullaby tears.

Scraps of Little Me

“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.

As Your Healing Grows Your Self Respect Deepens

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.

Shadows Of a Father

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.

NOW;My Need to Save the World.

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.

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

AngryEyes; a Fraudulent Kind of Love.

After staying two or so nights with the sunny California strong woman, she tells me she is moving into a colleague’s room as my french male friend had now arrived to meet my BaD DaD. I will refer to this person as “AngryEyes”. AngryEyes was indeed very angry at himself, his THEN, his PAST and deep sexuality conflicts; AngryEyes was full of hate and love toward me and even said why, I was not a gay man, ( he came out to me after I slept with him in Paris after a Laurie Anderson performance). He was in love with me and hated me for it. He was even angrier at the dysfunctional sad world from which he came. Raised by his father, a bigoted, stammering alcoholic who was unable to love him or his mother and sisters, he had never fully shined. None of his childhood friends knew he was gay nor did his family. His mother was an overworked, red cheeked, Catholic who sought no way out of their farming village which was about an hour outside of Nantes. She wore dowdy dresses over her short and stout build and everyday, wearily clad in handsewn aprons, she did chores sun up to sun down. The washing machine was outside under a wobbly semi tin roof that covered the open aired space and only could wash with cold water. She’d hang her muttering husband’s navy blue work jumpsuits out on a rope strung line near the peach trees. With wooden pegged pins she neatly hung rows of men’s checkered boxers, her own large white cotton under garments and lots of black socks. She wore one of two proper dresses to mass twice weekly, came home and dutifully rinsed out her knee high nylons by hand and hung them over a metal towel rung in the tiny bathroom. She would hang carefully her church clothes beside a pea green wool coat covered in plastic. In her closet were two pair of shoes, brown leather flats that tied just at the bend of her forefoot and ankle and a slippery, shiny, white pair of slip ons. The laundry told a story in it’s simplicity. It fluttered in the wind and the neighbors could see, she may be poor and married to a nasty man, but she was God fearing and clean. There were no frilly blouses or pretty colors, just the plain daily wear of plain lonely people. No one came by her doorway to visit very often except a young woman who was going back to school to be a nurse. I knew her as Gigi. She confided that once she finished her studies she would leave her husband who only thought of football and spent most nights drinking beer in the village pub. I saw mutual desperation in each of their eyes yet nothing more was spoken about. I liked Gigi who’d grown up with AngryEyes and along with other farming family friends from this idyllic countryside. We’d sit with wine, make fires and gather to share nonsense mostly. Gigi had a much loved black dog, a hapless breed that followed her everywhere. Across from her lived Madame Vinget who was the matron of this portion of the village. Madame Vinget lost her husband when young and never had children. She did have a dachsund she called Chou-pete but when she had had a little too much of her homemade pear or peach liquer she called him inside with a slur that sounded like “Tu-petes” which means in english, “You fart”. Madame Vignet called me in more than once to taste her strong liquer and always pointed out that she had indeed been many places other than the village, Le Bois Jahan. One night after a ridiculous game of hide and seek in complete darkness AngryEyes and I jumped a fence and heard some loud snorts; we were near some large angry bulls. We warned Gigi not to come for us as we were knee deep in cow dung and decided to bolt for the lone asphalt road that led to the church and town center. Gigi’s dog barked and chased alongside the fence seperating us from them and just as we came to the road we saw headlights flash, the sound of a horn and then a painful cry from Gigi. Her sweet dog had been hit by a car and she began screaming in that deep, remourseful way that some people do when they lose someone they love suddenly. Without much thought I scooped the bloody critter into my arms and we rushed to AngryEyes parent’s teeny stone house. I laid the loyal canine on the freshly mopped floor and gave him first aid by covering both his nose and his mug with my mouth. He began to breathe and opened his eyes and Gigi cried happily for just under three minutes as she held him close. Her joyful tears turned to those of grief once more as he coughed up blood and died in her arms. She ran to her husband who never hung around any of us and he blamed her for being a stupid bitch; what did she expect to happen if running along the road in complete darkness? AngryEyes could also show tremendous sensitivity; while the husband slammed the door in his wife’s face, AngryEyes went for a shovel then returned to the unhappy couple’s backyard and dug a hole. The husband never came out or ever acknowledged any of it. With newspaper wrapped around Gigi’s dog AngryEyes gently took the dog and placed him in his grave. There was love in the village after all and an understanding that most people were rarely happy.

Outside AngryEyes parent’s little white stone house chickens ran amuck and wild cats begged for food. The once smiling bride with warm dark hair milked cows, sheared sheep, and more than once I saw her grab a chicken by the neck and swing it around fiercely only to casually drop it by the kitchen door to be plucked later. Cats would be scared off by the stomping of her feet inside black rubber boots. The fowl’s feathers would blow about the grassless, meek courtyard signaling to others what their next meal would be. In time she worked her way back to the stone house doorway where she often would sit with coffee or in this case, to pluck the unlucky Clucker. Perhaps this would be her only rest of the day. I eyed her taking a pause now and then and she’d hold her face up into the sunlight, eyes closed and seemed somewhat peaceful. The stone doorway led directly into the tiny sparce kitchen. A wooden oblong table sat in the middle of the perhaps 50 square meter room. A gas stove, white porcelain sink and a  small mustard colored refrigerator were lined up against the back wall. There was a small sideboard for her to chop and knead and pummel out meal after meal. Her hands were plump and chafed, her brown eyes gentle and subservient, rarely caught mine. She spoke in a whisper and at each meal she placed a large decanter of red wine in the middle of the table and a pitcher of water. The other staples, a baguette or two with strong cheeses and butter, endive salad with blood red vinegar and olive oil, and potatoes boiled in their skin were carefully arranged. The chicken was butchered into smaller pieces and sat in the same pan it was baked in, at the exact same place where the main course would always be, that is, directly in front of her husband’s plate. Meals were interchanged with hearty portions such as pork cutlets, an unknown large fish with the head still on, a pot of stew with undetectable ingredients or a souffle. She then did all the washing up and swept the bread crumbs in one swift move of her hand onto the kitchen floor where she would then sweep briskly and then wet mop every night. Her husband left immediatly after every meal to stand by the barn in one of his blue jumpsuits, in black clogs and a dirty gray wool hat with a small rim to smoke hand rolled cigarettes and drink until bedtime. Once, when AngryEyes and I were poking around in his father’s corner of the barn we found on top of a tall cupboard stacks of magazines with naked women spreading their legs wide apart and AngryEyes shouted, “Putain” and continued to rummage through each one surprised by his belligerent father’s stash. I was not at all surprised; my own BaD DaD had heaps of porn he never bothered to hide from me; “He” kept stacks of Hustler and Playboy sitting on the back of his and my former and beloved stepmother’s toilet tank. (Yes, in time we will get to those days says “little me”). Somewhere between my life with BaD DaD and AngryEyes haunting solemn stare he held while he sat across from his drunken father, we understood each other’s pain and the dark memories of our youth that were yet to be explored. In time these memories would envelope us.

Go on! Tell Them!

NOW. Swirls of emotions and pain blur my senses; I tell “little me” to shut up, for the love of GOD, shut up! “Little me” persists as always and shows me vivid memories; “little me” is flipping through a trashy magazine like she was at a seven-eleven with no intention of buying it. We have both a gift and a curse, an ability to remember and see good and bad experiences, sometimes down to the smallest of details. She’s pushy; I am retreating down a few steps slowly, edging away from the crack of light gleaming from underneath the stairwell door. My heart wants to be happy and block it all out again; ROCK takes over me. Check Mate! “Little me” moves a pawn. Shut the hell up “little me” or ROCK will crush you. You aren’t friends; ROCK is your own stone cold stare, your unwanted protector and ROCK will go to all extremes to keep you quiet. “Little me” has a tear; she knows that the one who hurt her the most deserves to be smothered in Truth. Truth that makes one ignite inside and burn slowly; “He” doesn’t suffer and maybe never will. Narcissists hold tight to their flock, that is their Feeders. They slip behind them and they become the frontline of the battle between Truth and Lies. I was once on the frontline, a Hider and a Feeder. When “He” did BaD DaD things I studied him and held his secrets; I knew when he was using others, charming new people with his routine of lies and making them feel like the most wonderful being ever to cross his path. That’s “grooming”. One is so enamoured by BaD DaD’s gloating over them that before they can blink twice they are pulled onto the frontline.

I am beginning to see more notes. I choose one ripped from a hotel room notepad. I decide to read just one, but only one.

ROCK frowns at “little me”; “Now look what you have done; it’s all your fault you stupid child! If you could just let her be for one godforsaken day. “Little me” puts the note in my hand and says, “open it; hurry”. This step is angry, hot, like putting a finger into the path of a steaming kettle. It’s from a woman, a woman who “He” treated like the filth on your boots after walking through swamps of grayish muck that “He” had forced her to tread through. It reads, ” No one in my life has ever talked to me like this. EVER!” I am in my early twenties, I know the ropes here. I comfort her. How many crying women have come to me since my early years? I am an expert on “BaD DaD”. I keep looking away from everything because I can not grow up and deal with Truth at the same time. The woman and I are sitting in her hotel room in Cannes. Yes, that Cannes. “He” decides in one of his manic episodes he is a famous film maker. “He” is doing his “ConMan McFuckery”. I had gone to France on my own, an escapist move, a “run or fry” move. I saved money, sold my car that beautiful lady, Mother, had bought me. That did not make her happy; I am sorry Mother. “He” just wanted me to go away so he could bring home and try out woman after woman and so I did. He told me I should go when I asked him what he thought. Yes, I actually asked his opinions; they were always in his best interest. I had no sense of self, no desire to know “little me” and I drank a lot of alcohol to hide from myself. A lot. I went to France where I remet a young guy who I had helped out when he was touring the US; I didn’t have a plan. He was very bad. I didn’t care. ROCK always took over. I let this broken young man do horrible things to me and it all was familiar; all the boyfriends who I was drawn to were bad to me. I deserved it; I was a pig and a whore and unworthy of goodness. BaD DaD taught me that over the years. ROCK is causing me to bleed again; ROCK is shaving away a layer of my thick skin. “Little me” keeps my hand clasped around the note. ROCK is hurting me. “READ IT!” shouts “little me!”

The woman was beautiful and sunny with cute, short, reddish blonde hair; she was from California. She was at the Cannes film festival looking for children’s films and new young adult series. Her name has faded but not her face or her glow. She encountered him. They had drinks and dinner and laughs and BaD DaD introduced us. “He” was using her, but I did not know how. “He” stayed at the Grand Hotel; the most expensive in Cannes. “He” had called me from where I was staying in Nantes and bought me a train ticket down to see him. He asked me to bring my french abuser; he would be necessary as a frontliner to over hear conversations in french and to repeat them back to BaD DaD. Yet, first he wanted me to come alone. I went as summonsed. Once there I walked along the avenue and into the Grand Hotel; I was dressed in all black with heavy black eyeliner and frosted tips on my spiky short hair. It was “little me” hiding behind the Punk and Drunk poet wannabe. “He” saw me; he was sittting with a famous senator. He briefly introduced us and then stuck a wad of cash in my hand and said for me to go buy new clothes and then go to his room and shower and change. I bought all blue. A blue long-sleeved shirt that was way to large on me; tight light blue jeans and then I went to get drunk. I didn’t know why I was there. What was my purpose, my assignment this time? Beautiful daughter attracts powerful men. Beautiful daughter has beautiful friends. Beautiful daughter was groomed to be of service, to Feed, to scout, to never speak or question. Beautiful daughter was flat lining through each moment.

The sunny, California lady and BaD DaD take me with them up into the hills of Antibes. We eat at a tiny restaurant and a very handsome young man sees me. This young man drives a very expensive car, has perfect teeth and is from Nice, he said he was part Italian and French. This young man joins us and my BaD DaD buys bottle after bottle of expensive wines and lies and jokes and the whole teeny restaurant has eyes on him; on us. He was doing his manic famous wealthy American thing. I didn’t care; I just laid my head on the sunny California lady’s shoulder and smiled. The young man asks for permission to take us out that night dancing. Cannes never stops. People just do more cocaine and keep going. Maybe there are a few real people there, but BaD DaD only uses them to get closer to his goals; all of his aims are to conquer. “He” gets what he wants. We all go, the disco lights are spinning, the dark floor and walls reflect the mirage of colors onto them and the beat is “boom, boom, boom”, repeat. I get dizzy and the Nice, polite guy walks me back to the Grand Hotel. He says goodnight and asks if I can have dinner with him the next night. I say yes.

“He” never comes back to the room. I assume he is with sunny, California at her hotel. I wake and shower and go down to get strong coffee in all blue and walk across the street to the beach. I sit and wait. I begin to wander inside. I feel a stir of sadness, a push to cry out. ROCK saves me and we go to the hotel bar. I sit alone on a large sofa overlooking the meditteranean and drink copious amounts of red wine. The stir inside quells. Finally, BaD Dad shows up. I tell him to remember we are to meet the Nice, polite guy. The nice, Nice guy. The wealthy prospect in pursuit of me. “He” says I should go to California lady’s hotel and get ready and he will meet us later.

I do. She waits with me and kindly does my make-up. She is a smart and a fun woman and I like her. She is real. A real woman working in the real world in children’s films. She tells me we will be late if “He”, the ManicMan, the EgoAsshole, the LunicLiar, the NastyNarc, the ConCrazedFucker doesn’t show up soon. She has slept with him; she thinks he is dating her seriously and that she is special. I always hate this part. I have seen it, inhaled this type of scenario so many times I am numb. Sunny California woman calls BaD DaD. He screams at her, (I can hear him, too. He is so loud and ugly she pulls the telephone away from her ear). The note reminds me what she said, “Oh my God! No one has ever spoken to me like this in my life.” He told her to never contact him again, to fuck off and leave him alone. He called her a stupid cunt and more. She cried and I stare at her. I am this sick man’s daughter. I awkwardly try to hug her and she reaches out to me. She asks me what she had done. I still stare. She opens a bottle of good white wine and we drink it fast. Then, because she was real, STRONG and Truth was her light she took my hand and said, ” I will chaperone you; I will take you on your date”. What? She knew who she was. She saw herself. Would I ever be that strong? Would I ever be able to say, “STOP!”? So, with the nice, Nice, young man, we went to dinner in the teeny restaraunt and he paid for us both. After, she said I could sleep in her room after I called and called my BaD Dad’s room, left message after message with the concierge and “He” never replied. I was now unneccesary. At least for that one night.

I’ve put the note down. There is more but ROCK is very clear now. I will have to move away from this step and sit in my safe space. The walls are going up like chrome lined windows, ROCK has hold of the handle. I imagine I am in an old mercedes. ROCK locks all the doors. I can still see out but for now ROCK must stop my Truth; ROCK glares angrily at “little me” who can only sit and wait. Just before the lights are dimmed I see “little me” with tears whelping up in her innocent eyes. She wants me to love her.

Climb, don’t stop!

Once outside of the wall within I had to continue. Climb little me, find little me, cry little me, love little me, fight for little me.

“He” can not hurt me more. I made it to the top and am breaking free. “He” who was to shape my world safely, be tender and truthful; “He” was to be a good man, a responsible adult and father. “He” was not.

ROCK

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?

ROCK Smashes SCISSORS

So the beautiful girl with a reputation of kindness and generosity was entering a classroom in a below ground level stairway located outside the entrance. No one was around. Maybe she was tardy. Regardless, there appeared the boy, whom she had said no to many times and he grabbed her arm and said, “come with me”. She said no, that she had a class and he persisted. She was not one to make a scene and was afraid. He pulled her across an empty lot to the public housing where he lived. His mother was at work and his little sister in school. The beautiful girl struggled and yelled NO and STOP loud enough that a neighbor heard her and looked out and saw him forcing her into his mother’s apartment. The girl was forced to have sex. She didn’t want to and the boy said, “,Now no one will ever want you. You are ruined. You are mine”. Then the boy and girl heard the door open downstairs, it was his mother. He dressed quickly and ran downstairs. His mother said the neighbor called her at work. She asked if it was the beautiful girl who had broken up with him and he said no. He said it was nobody special, he said she was embarrassed and if his mother stepped outside she would go out the back door. The mother obliged but was not happy. The girl crying, dressed and ran back to school never telling anyone anything. She felt dirty, bad, ugly, worthless and no longer like she could have a better life.

The boy possessed her, he lied and made up tales so big that she soon stopped trying to care. She wanted to go to college and had a partial scholarship. His plans decided her fate always. He convinced her to marry him and they drove to a state that would hitch them up. She tried to convince herself it would get better, he promised the world to her and then she got pregnant.