#OneVoice and the spiral of abuse

Once upon a time in the land of Twitter, a feisty crusader for domestic violence rallied tweeps to create a project to act as a counterpoint to the overwhelming popularity of incognito abuse novel, Fifty Shades of Grey. The project would have fifty chapters from as many people, each sharing their own story of abuse at the hands of a loved one.

Project was assembled and made available via Amazon's self-publishing option.

Now here's where things get weird:

For whatever reasons (and there are many; all of them legitimate) various contributors have asked the author to remove their chapters; some wanted out for personal safety reasons, others wanted out because the author's increasingly irrational behavior puts the work in a very negative light; others are concerned about the validity of the foundation associated with project.

Frankly, the whys don't matter. Fact of the matter is, if contributors asked for their chapters to be removed, then unless under contract, the author is obligated to do so.

This has not happened.


Per an Amazon employee who I know, this is what she said to do if you are a contributor who wants your chapter pulled:

At THIS LINK, select "Would you like to report this content as inappropriate?" fill out the form; be specific-- if you are being bullied/harassed online by the author or her followers, let them know. Let them know you didn't sign a waiver or contract to protect your interests. Let them know you've asked the author to remedy the situation and that instead, her followers have hounded you to leave the poor author alone.  Fill them in on all the details. Then submit.

The more reports received for that item, the more urgently it will be addressed.


I want to make clear, that I think support for Domestic Awareness does need to be raised; but it doesn't need to be a bully tactic by someone who cannot take constructive criticism of their work. That's unprofessional. Thanking minions for intimidating others, that's not okay, either. That just makes one Queen of the Bully League.



Here are more links about this situation:

http://tezmilleroz.wordpress.com/2013/05/23/why-a-one-star-review-should-not-be-a-matter-for-the-police
http://jennytrout.blogspot.com/2013/06/abb-warning-eve-thomas-and-onevoice.html
http://everydayvictimblaming.com/submissions/onevoice-how-helping-survivors-must-mean-listening/
http://50shadesisdomesticabuse.m.webs.com/site/classic?url=http://50shadesisdomesticabuse.webs.com/apps/blog/show/28610141-eve-thomas-statement&back=http%3A%2F%2F50shadesisdomesticabuse.m.webs.com%2Fsite%2Fmobile%3Furl%3Dhttp%3A%2F%2F50shadesisdomesticabuse.webs.com%2Fapps%2Fblog%2Fshow%2F28610141-eve-thomas-statement

The insidious nature of rape culture.

This video will enrage. It will anger. It will incite Hulk Smash to release the feels because all those in power within that courtroom are fucking pieces of shit. Judge included. Thank you judge, for turning a blind eye and supporting rape culture.

My rant/story/vent:

The year I started caregiving for my grandmother, a cousin of mine was stationed overseas while serving in the Army. I was never close to this cousin as a kid.  Christmas time rolls around and he's stateside for R&R. 

Christmas day, he arrives with my aunt and uncle. While in the garage, he let me know "we aren't really related" as if I wasn't already aware that my uncle adopted my cousin and his brother when he married my aunt.

So, there was that awkward moment of when my cousin informed me that I'm game to be hit on.

Then there was the much more awkward moment of my mom and I sitting at the table, and on the pretense of walking by and noticing my shirt's tag was hanging out, he fucking stuck his hand down my back, between my bra and my skin. And left it there. He did not remove it when I told him to. I had to fucking elbow him in the junk for him to get his fucking hand out of my fucking shirt. 

I hate being touched when I don't invite it. I like to keep people I'm not comfortable around out of my little bubble of space. He invaded my space and invited attack. So he went to go hang out with people who enjoy his presence, like those of the Male sex.

Here's the fucking clincher. After a while, he came back and teasingly put me in a head lock. I got pissed, because again, another invasion of my space. He brushed it off, brushed off my anger and proceeded to tell me if he really wanted to choke me, he would have wrapped his hands around my neck, and proceeded to show me with a quick demonstration of technique which was not invited. He didn't hurt me, but he was trying to show that he could overpower me if he so choose.

And I believe it. The man got kicked out of the Marines. Medical discharge for the Air Force. Now he's in the Army... that's three different bootcamps on survival and killing he's gone through. That is not a comforting thought for someone who doesn't miss those kinds of details.

When we went home, my mom said that he has always been creepy, and now he's gotten creepier. And although I truly have mixed feelings about the subject, I couldn't wait for him to get his ass shipped back overseas and into a war zone.

A year later, my oldest cousin died. Cirrhosis of the liver is a horrible way to go. Since he and his family lived out of state, my auntie hosted a Celebration of Life in our home town. My creepy cousin was on R&R again. And still fucking creepy. When I was alone, he sidled up to me and put his head on my shoulder to murmer, "I love you, Cuz" which is now the most skin-crawling thing I can think of at the moment. It was that goddamn tone he used. Fucking greasy in a non-bacon way. Blech.

He spent a good part of my cousin's memorial to offer me his wife's clove cigarettes (I love cloves but quit. I was smoking a cigar, hoping the stink would keep people (him) away. Didn't work. Instead it was a constant, "Want them? I'll go grab them for you. You sure?" for at least three hours. 

I mean, really.

"No" means GODDAMMIT I SAID NO ALREADY AND I AM NOT BEING COY.

No one ever should have to cope with a creeper, especially one that is considered family. But you know what? As he so eloquently told me that Christmas day, he and I aren't really related. Huzzah, I'm not really related to the creeper! 

And since I had a chip on my shoulder the size of a sleezy creeper, I reported him to his station in the midwest.

He's no longer in the Army. I won't say I got him kicked out, but at least now he's not being inflicted on women overseas.

Creeper is back in the midwest, trying to work things out with his wife. I hope that any women he's preyed upon will report him. 

Start a paper trail if you're ever accosted. I hate saying that, meaning one would have to get accosted, but it's a sad fact of modern times; people in power will abuse it.

Especially creepers looking to get their jollies.

The Fat Girl's Bible to Feeling Awesome, The Old Testment

If I didn't know so many miserable fat girls, I wouldn't write this. I was a miserable fat girl for way too long, so these are the words of wisdom I have to share because honestly, I think its worth sharing (me and my delusions of grandeur, don't ya know)... Normally I'd do the "suck it up, no one really gives a shit" thing and the things I've learned would go unsaid. But fuck that.

 Fat girls, skinny girls, all grrls, gurls and girlie girls are fucking awesome. Don't you forget it.

Mr. Freddie Mercury will provide the tunes.

CHILDHOOD AND IMPRESSIONABLE YEARS

I am a fat girl. I've been fat since I was 6ish. Wasn't always fat, I've got proof.

When I was three and firmly in the TrollBait stage of my development.

 Around 4th grade, I really began to chunk up.

At my best friend's 8th birthday.  Chipmunk cheeks!

 By 8th grade, I was a 14 juniors and sporting a fat roll.

Besties ForEVER!!! 3rd grade and ever since.

This was about when I was put on the first of several diets. None worked. My (undiagnosed) health issue couldn't be resolved by dieting! Silly parents, diets are for adults! What should have happened, was my mom take me to the doctor to address the issue, and maybe my PCOS and insulin resistance would have been nipped in the bud.


Freshman in high school, I was an 18.

The dangles on the ceiling fan are porcelain faucet handles, Hot (lights) and Cold (ceiling fan).
The year 1995, when stripes and Elmo were hot shit.

My junior year prom was interesting. My mom made me a dress in the most awesome shade of Mallard Teal. Couldn't find anything in our local area that was snazzy and in my size to get off the rack.

I love that color. So much feels.

College, well, college was an experience for someone admittedly bookish and antisocial. My best friend called my roommate to tell me to get my "ass out to a party and live". There was talk of a cast iron fry pan as a physical means of peer pressure... I was more social and tolerated in college, but I did not have a boyfriend and most of the guys I knew were friendly enough; my roommate was the eye candy and I was the side of humor. I was great to hang out with, but anything else? Nah, bro.

Until I got married, I was somewhere between 22/24. After my divorce, I shot up to a 28 and stayed there for about 7 years before I went paleo diet and sooo much exercise. Got to a 20-- which for me, was epic. Felt so accomplished for shedding almost 80 pounds. Know what I consider my dream size? a 16. That'd be just perfect for me. If I were to get skinny, a 16 is as far as I'd want to go. I'm not greedy. I still want to be "full figured". A part of that, I think, is due to being fat most of my life. To a point, it has defined who I am and how people view me. All the jests about Baby Beluga and Oh shit! Look at those tectonic plates shift! Thunderthighs! ... those have left an indelible mark.

Tyrion Lannister is right. Wear your weakness as an armor and it can't be used against you. I'll be the first to crack a fat joke about myself in order to steal the bully's thunder. I'll take that power away, twirl it like a baton, then use the same tactic to comment about them. They don't like it when the tables are turned. Bullies never do.

I used to hide behind my fat. It took a huge revelation (which I call the Tea Theory) for me to finally embrace who I was, and even then, it took some adjusting from 27+ years of conditioning resulting in "Fat is bad, fat is ugly, fat can never be attractive."

To some, perhaps.
But not all.

One of the hardest thing for many people to grasp is acceptance of self. It's easier to accept other people with flaws than it is to accept one's own quirks or perceived shortcomings. There's a set ideal of what we are supposed to be, which is fed in part by the media, and in part by those around us. I could put on make up and look great... but I'd still be the pig wearing makeup, according to some. Things like that can stick to someone, far longer than they'd care to admit. I speak from experience.

Whether one is thin or chubby, skinny or super-sized, perfect strangers do not have a right to tell you to gain or lose weight. It's rude, and odds are, the person already knows what they look like and don't need a verbal mirror on the wall talking back-- our chubtasitc minds already take care of that for us, okay?

My daughter is six. I don't want her feeling as though she needs to diet to make others happy when she's older. I want her to be happy with herself. If I can get that nailed when she's young, then she'll have it with her for life from the get-go and won't have to learn the hard way like I did. She is so much more than something to look "pretty"-- why is pretty so damn important? It causes trouble. Helen of Troy, anyone? Pretty is not what its all cracked up to be. Pretty can get one only so far in life. Pretty is for moments, because life tends to get down and dirty.

If there is one thing that we must teach our daughters, it is to cherish how special they are without appearances coming into play. Appearances are fleeting, evolving. Accepting oneself, I think, is much more important than anything else.


_________________________________________________________________________-
Tea Theory

People are like tea. There are many kinds of tea, and not all teas are pleasing. I can't expect to be everybody's cup of tea because not everyone is my cup of tea. Doesn't mean one tea is better than the other; both are equally pleasing to those who prefer said teas.

Finding Happiness in a Pile of Shit

ETA: Update on the situation HERE


Jenny Trout and DRock did an episode of Roadhouse about getting over bad days, and it touched a chord within me. So much, that I've paused the vid to write this insane rant/vent of frustration.

I am a divorced mother of two, one of which has severe ADHD, and medication/therapy/diet change hasn't nailed it down to being utterly manageable at this point. It's touch and go. On bad days, he's utterly destructive. Good days, he's helpful and friendly. More days are toward the middle, with a touch of bad.

I also live with, and caregive for my grandmother. She has Alzheimer's. I've been here for two and a half years, those years I will never get back, nor make up to my children for putting them in this situation.

-  -

One evening in late October 2010, my mother called me. At the time, I lived in a city, in a shitty apartment in a drug-riddled and violent neighborhood, that my ex-husband chose to move to, before walking out on me (pregnant) and our eldest. He didn't tell me we were moving from the townhouse in the quiet part of town, it just happened. I HATED the new place ever since I first laid eyes on it. There were a couple awesome folks who lived there, but the vast majority of tenants were not the type of people I wanted near my kids. Hardcore drug users, brawlers, gang members.

So when Mom asked if I'd consider relocating back to our rural small town to stay with my grandmother, since my uncle had gotten arrested for selling meth, instead of you know, taking care of gramma, I gave it thought. What would it entail? Cook, clean, give her medication, I'd get the weekends off to do what I want and that was that. Ok, fine. So I agreed.

First month wasn't bad, except for a couple incidents. Gramma was excited I was staying with her, being that I was the one granddaughter who would come over to bake all the pies for holidays since I was 12, and that stopped when I was 20 and moved 100 miles away. Got married, moved again. Been a long time since we'd seen each other.

My birthday is Nov 5. My bbf (since 3rd grade, because we're that awesome) and I hung out on the back patio, lit with tube lights. We drank beer, smoked ciggies and discussed our novels and lives. She left, and no more than five minutes later, two police officers open up the back gate and start asking me who I am, who all is in the house, what am I doing here and where is my Uncle McTweaky?

Uh, he's in jail. Shouldn't they know that? This is a small town, less than 9 thousand people, and people with a criminal history, like Uncle McTweaky, are always on the police radar.

They told me that they thought the tweaker was conducting business, having a party, because of the tube lights. That he was here. After assuring them who all was in the house, giving them my name and vitals, they left.

On Nov 15, at approx 9:30 pm, someone opened a window, calling my tweaker uncle's name, hoping to do a drug deal. I freaked the fuck out and screamed I was calling the cops. Wish I had a shotgun or burly dog-- I intensely dislike home invasion. Having anxiety issues does not help in that regard, either.

Uncle McTweaky got sent to prison, 18 months.

- - -

My mother is one of eight kids; 5 girls, 3 boys. One of my uncles is dead. The other two, well, one's been in and out of prison the majority of his adult life and the other doesn't like being around his mother, as she is now.

My mother's youngest sister lives in town, but she's a blazing alcoholic, like my deceased grandfather. The other sisters live out of state. Two in Oregon (one has Down's Syndrome and lives with her older sister. Prior to that, she lived with gramma) and one in Colorado. The out of town sisters help support Gramma financially, as does my mom and an uncle.  It was agreed upon when I took this job, that I'd get my weekends off because Aunt Alkie and Uncle Flake would cover for me. That lasted almost a year. And I had to call them to arrange it, rather than it being "scheduled" like I thought. Then it came to the point where I'd call to arrange my day off (usually a day ahead of time, just to be courteous) and I'd get excuses. Major fucking excuses. Constant fucking excuses.

Ends up, my aunt and uncle disliked gramma asking if they knew where their father was and would he be home for dinner? (Grampa died in 1983. I have one memory of him, sitting in a chair next to a huge ashtray on a stand)... This became much more common as the days passed. No, and these two don't even call their mother.

I slept on the couch for the first seven months of this odyssey. Once Uncle McTweaky had his court date and got sentenced, my uncle and his son helped move out Uncle McTweaky's stuff from his room so I could have my own space. They moved the boxes and left the furniture-- so the furniture I had needed to say in the garage (and later be bitched about).

On more than one occasion, gramma would get up at 3 or 4 am, wander to the kitchen and turn on burners of the gas stove. Only one burner lit. So, she's tried blowing the house up. Me sleeping on the couch and waking up to the creak of gramma's walker, that's what kept the house from filling with gas and catching fire.

She's also tried eating dishwasher detergent tablets as candy, because it was wrapped in plastic.

Sundowning is a bitch. Don't know if you ever experienced sundowning, but it is a psychological/neurelogical thing where the person thinks it's much later than it really is. 6pm? Feels like 10:30pm. So trying to convince one that it's a bit early to head off to bed becomes a daily thing. The novelty wears off fairly quickly. I thank my training in the Glenn County Theater Company during my formative years helping me master inflection so I don't sound bitchy when I'm very frustrated. And I get frustrated with little sleep. And no, Virginia, 2am IS NOT the time to be getting up and waking everybody to start the day. That is a near-daily occurrence.

My grandmother's little sister, would come by once or twice a week to visit. Nov 17, 2012, my grandmother's youngest and last living sibling passed away from cancer. Gramma doesn't remember and still tries calling her number to get a hold of her. My great-aunt was the one touchstone my grandmother had of her own generation. Pretty much all her cousins and have passed away. My mother visits everyday after work, and on the weekends, so I can go run errands and do random things. My dad and brother cover me, too, for when I have to run to the store. My out of town aunts call a couple times a week. The In Town siblings... they don't call, they don't visit regularly. Holidays and Gramma's birthday, they put in 15 minutes. I'm serious about that time span, because they don't want to be around her, answering her questions, listening to her ramble on about a story that didn't happen the way she explains.

The first year of this, I did for free. Didn't get paid, shit, it's my grandmother! Family, ya know?

Then my aunts from out of town came for a visit, arranged for a social worker to assess gramma for assistance and voila-- found my self a paid caregiver after the background checks and whatnot.

I am not paid for the 24 hours I'm here, giving "Protective Custody" of gramma. I'm paid a bit above minimum wage for less than 8 hours a day. So I give over 16 hours "free" care to gramma on a near daily basis. That's saving my grandmother's children something to the tune of $4000 a month. Yay, me! Right?

I don't get healthcare from my employer.Because I work more than 40 hours a week, I don't qualify for medical coverage through the county assistance program-- neither do my kids, unless I want to pony up $849/month. Um, no. Most of my income goes to the household and prescriptions/medical appointments for my son. I do not qualify for the therapy sessions, that when I was working for free, I could get. I can't afford the psychiatrist that went hand-in-hand with therapy. But that's kind of a moot point, since I stopped taking antidepressants when they triggered a suicidal urge (which thankfully has diminished) I wanted to unleash.

The last assessment the social worker made, I started telling her how gramma has been. I didn't even really get into it before she said that it's time for a skilled nursing facility.

I told her that once gramma is placed, I was told that I had to be out of the house lickity-split. The social worker laughed! She asked if it was one of my aunts who said that? Yep. This is where things get way cooler. The family would have to go through the process of eviction. Since I have lived here for more than 2 weeks, it's considered my legal residence. So I don't have to worry about getting kicked out (although I have no real desire to stay here. Its just convenient for the time being.) by family wanting to sell the house right off the bat. And by family,  I mean my uncle's wife, the nurse, who wanted to drug gramma with Ativan, and brought over the pills to do so. Same woman who has every gift appraised (not for insurance reasons), the same woman who told her son he's moving in here whenever he wants because HER name is on the deed... yeah. It was also this woman's plan to move my Tweaker Uncle back in to watch gramma. This would be the third or fourth time-- I don't remember how many. I just know it ends with him getting arrested for selling meth.

I'm leaving lots of stuff out (mostly family drama, relating to those who don't see gramma and have no idea how bad she has gotten, because telling someone is one thing. Experienceing it, is another thing altogether.)

My sarcasm has been reprimanded on facebook (I feel special, that finally, random bullshit!)... I will share this, because while it was written right before this last Christmas, it still applies.

Quote:

Dear Santa, All I would like for Christmas is some tranq darts and a ball gag. I need some quiet. Please, Santa. Please. And a full nights' sleep would be pretty sweet, too. Thankyoumuchandstuff, Me P.s. I will up the ante and provide cake instead of cookies. Like · BUDDY OF MINE Damn... I don't know if they will let me return the cat and nine tails... Wait... wait... hmmm I think we can make this work *evil grin* Yesterday at 11:56am · Like ME You have it all wrong, Buddy. Ball gag is for my gramma. Yesterday at 11:57am · Like AUNT IN OREGON Sounds like it's time for you to retire from elder care. You're obviously not up for it. Caring for family is more challenging than someone you don't know and it's apparent this is too personal for you. It's highly unprofessional, since you're paid to be there, to be speaking about your "clients" this way and extremely insulting to our family and degrading to yourself to speak about your own Grandmother in such a public forum. Shame on you!!! about an hour ago · Like ME You are so absolutely right, I get paid to be here. Since I'm only paid for less than 8 hours a day out of the 24 hours I am here, are you and my mother's siblings going to make up the remainder owed for the 16 hours for each of day of the past two years I'v on duty, considering I also pay rent? Shame on me, shame on you for accusing my mom of trying to kill my grandmother by putting her in a home where SHIFTS of people could give her skilled care. You are making a shut-in of her, and now that Aunt Betty has died, who visits gramma on a regular basis? No one but my mother. NO ONE. Think your local siblings stop by to say hey? No. Last time was on grandma's birthday, and then when gramma went out to Uncle Bob's for Thanksgiving. They never visit or call. At least in a home, grandma would get more social interaction from her age group, or does Grandma's mental health in that regard not matter to you? In regards to my christmas wishlist, you don't have to try and convice gramma she's at her own house. Not up in Elk Creek, or Sacramento or Delevan, but at her own house. Every day. All day long. Or when she's up at 2 a.m. looking for the staircase to go downstairs. You do not have to deal with bearing the brunt of her anger of being denied her wants. You don't have to cope with her picking on your children-- and you know how nasty she can be. Yes, I would love for gramma to be quiet, just for a while, accepting that yes, she is home, I am family and yes, everyone knows where she is. That would be awesome, for her to be that lucid. Won't happen, though. So, I listen to her go on and on about how those cars are driving on the canal and maybe I can flag one down so they can take her home. And when I don't she gets mad. Cycle repeats. ALL DAY LONG. You are removed from the situation and have no concept of what it is like. So go ahead and make ignorant judgments and statements from afar. Here's a question for you: What's the point of keeping grandma at home when she can't recognize she's already here?  Too personal? Says the one who couldn't hang two months staying with gramma, let alone two years while raising kids. Which leads me to when you and Aunt Barb came around my birthday, when mom and I were in the car, ready to go to the casino and blow off steam when you amble out and tell me I need to take my kids with us because you guys didn't want to watch them both and grandma. Right there is proof positive you can't do what I have to do, and that I am a paid servant in your eyes. Right there. Best birthday ever, aside from the case of beer I couldn't drink because of my meds. That's a well-thought-out process, don't ya think? So, yes, get mad, get angry at my vent. We both know you won't take grandma. You can't stand being around her, daffy as she has gotten. And if I can't vent online, to those I consider friends/family of my frustrations of full-time caregiving, then maybe you'd prefer I blow up at your mother? No? Didn't think so.  Oh, and on this parting note, I relayed what you told me (when gramma goes in a home, I have to be out of here) to gramma's social worker. She laughed and informed me of my rights. So, thanks for the empty threat. You'll have to evict me, but that's a moot point. As soon as I can, I'm out of here for good. I would have never returned to this town if I wasn't asked.  You guys can figure out what you want to do with gramma. My mom and I have shouldered this far too long. It's your guy's turn. Enjoy.

That's me and my family. They won't and can't do what I've done for the past two and a half years. I've been threatened, harassed, had the police called on me, and can't even take a crap without being paged because I'm out of earshot. FOR REALS. If I want to take a shower, I have to make sure Gramma is asleep. She doesn't sleep worth shit most days.... every day is a day I have to play by ear. Now, 9 times out of 10, my grandmother doesn't know who I am. And when I identify myself, she calls me liar. She's told my aunts that I'm a whore, sleeping around with "all the guys," (you know what, if I were getting laid, I bet I'd be a hell of a lot chipper than I am now. Just sayin'.) running off and drinking, and that I am most assuredly NOT her granddaughter, I am no way related to her.


I have not been "related" to her for the better part of two years. Especially when we were stuck in a motel room, my kids, gramma and I, for almost 8 weeks, while mold abatement and rebuilding took over her house. That sucked major balls. She never knew where the bathroom was, even though her bed was right next to the door. She never wore Depends, either.

All of gramma's failings have been laid at my feet by various family members outside of my immediate family. The only ones who have any idea of what I contend with on a daily basis are my parents and brother. For that, I am extremely thankful they are there to help me get through the hardest of days.

- - - -

For me, to stay sane, it takes three things (plus gardening in the backyard when gramma dozes off for naps).

1) Writing. I've been writing since grade school. I didn't realize it until much later, but writing is my outlet. It is  how I cope with the big, nasty world. A dear friend bought me a Valentine's Day gift of a feather pen and I use the fuck out of it.

When I work on my novel, its usually in the morning, before kids and gramma are up. It's slow goings, but no matter how little, it still counts as progress.

2) Tie Dye. When I feel blah, chemicals of a colorful nature brighten my world. I make and sell custom tie dye shirts and dresses. I don't do it for the money (because if I'm buddies with someone, I do it for cost), but because it's chemistry and art, mixed with with a little science. Mad Scientist Gloves and Goggle kind of awesome.

3) Silk paint.
I went to art school, but I was the only one there with a strictly-photographic portfolio. I loved photography because I can't draw well. Dropped out a year later, but learned enough to be okay-- as in, one can identify the subject. Discovered silk painting. It's zen. I love doing it, because it takes concentration and practice. I see some silkpaintings others have done and I am in awe for the photo-realistic rendering they have accomplished.

When I do draw, it looks something like this:

that's a sword hilt, she's holding, btw.

Being creative and gardening. That's what keeps me sane. Can't say -happy- as I believe happiness counts as moments, whereas all the rest of the times, people have a baseline rate. High peaks are good times, low peaks, bad times. Goal is to keep things toward the middle. If things are happy all the time, that becomes static. One needs the bad times to even out the good, so people can appreciate the good things that happen.

I highly suggest the PBS documentary, This Emotional Life.




My name is Amanda, and I am a depressive with Borderline Personality Disorder. I have self-harmed before, contemplated suicide, I currently sleep in the same room I was molested in as a child, and yet, I'm still kicking and alive.

I may not be happy all the time, but I have my life.

My creativity is my security blanket. As long as I have that, I'm going to be okay.

__________________________________

Please consider making a living will, so that your loved ones can follow your wishes if you should ever be in a state where you cannot advocate for yourself. Don't leave them in the dark and don't put off the inevitable.

My kids know that if I should get forgetful like Gramma-Great, then they need to put me in a home. I do not wish this sort of hell upon anyone.

Line in the sand.

So if you're not on Twitter, you probably missed it-- EL James calling people who see their abuse in the 50 Shades trilogy "Witches and Trolls" for pointing it out. Doesn't help that James also blocks anyone who does not have a good word for her writing/subject matter.

People who have seen their abuse in the pages of James' work do not deserve to be called names. 

My answer:

Nothing is sacred. I take pot shots at EL James, Twilight, James' tendency to reuse the same words as many times as she can when she writes a run-on sentence, Zombies/Vampires and pretty much anything that comes to mind.

I'm aiming for pumping 1 chapter a day, give or take. Got kids and a gramma to manage. SO there, survivors-- you have a snarkfest to embrace because the Inner Bitch Goddess saves the day.