To My Friend ~ Suicide Is NOT The Answer *Profanity*…

To My Friend ~ Suicide Is NOT The Answer *Profanity*…

There IS a way out of that mindset and I’m going to tell you about it but first you must place your hand over your heart, can you feel it? That is called purpose. You’re alive for a reason so don’t ever give up.


Which one do YOU choose?  Because I won’t lie, suicide is probably easier. Find a method, implement it, go to sleep ~ and die. No more battles, no more bullshit from therapists that overbook and overcharge. No more being a guinea pig for every new treatment modality Big Pharma cranks out. No more failed attempts to make your family understand that you’re in pain, your head is fucked up and you could use some support. No more angst because an employer denied your right under the ADA of 1990 and dumped you from a 17 year job. No more frustration from trying to get an idiotic bimbo at a government office to listen to you, do her fucking job and help you obtain justice for having your rights violated instead of taking the easy way out by convincing you it would be a long hard fight blah blah. Yep been there, done that. Collect your paycheck worthless clerk and get out of my face.

Because that’s what it often is ~ a lonely battle where no one seems to “get” it. Family doesn’t have time or energy for you when you’re in distress but oh boy! Don’t answer the phone when they call one day and they act as if you’ve drained their bank account and crashed their car. They just ooze the love. But ~ I don’t think it’s that they don’t love us but rather, they don’t understand. They expect us to be like them which we can’t do. The irony is, if they lived inside our head for a few days, they’d run and never look back.


Yes killing ones self is probably akin to taking life’s low road. Do you know the road I speak of? The one that winds through dark tunnels and dense forests,  deprived of  light and warmth? It’s cold because of the lack of sun so you miss dew on a blade of grass, springs’ first crocus, a rabbit scampering away as he hears you approach. You miss all the moments both good and not so good of watching your child become their own person. One day your frustration at their attitude or laziness gives way and you see them almost as if for the first time; a productive adult that YOU molded. And though at times their apathy is annoying, they truly do love you. If you kill yourself you create a ripple effect that will remain with them for the rest of their lives. 

Because if you kill yourself, you’re also going to kill the people who love you. You’re going to kill the passion which drives you to do what you do so damn well. You’re going to allow the darkness to win and you’re stronger and braver than that.  If you kill yourself you’ll be giving in to the monsters of the dark who live to drag us into their world of darkness. We’ve both been there yet clawed our way out, sometimes by just a ragged nail or two. That says something ~ it says fuck you! I’m better and I’m more powerful than you. You might knock me down but I WILL get back up. Because I have a life and today is NOT your day to claim it.

In Sylvia Plath’s Unabridged Journal she wrote “I act and react, and suddenly I wonder, ‘Where is the girl that I was last year? Two years ago? What would she think of me now?”

We aren’t the same as we were last year or the year before. We’ve changed, taken steps both forward and backward. Some of the changes were society driven while others were by-products of mental health. Then there is the change because our employers tossed us aside like an old worn out sweater, to be replaced with a newer albeit less expensive one. And that my friend becomes you’re defining moment….do I let these steps, these changes, drag me to a place from which I can never return? Never open my eyes after a nights sleep? Never finish a project I’ve put my very essence into? Never see my child marry? Hold my first grandchild? Never make the difference and be the change I wanted to see happen?  

You are braver than you believe and you are stronger than you realize;  never, ever forget that. And know that although it may seem it now, you are NOT alone. Many of us have been sucked into the abyss, many have attempted suicide but thankfully were saved. Then many like my dear friend last April weren’t as fortunate and those of us who loved them will never fully  recover from their tragic deaths.

Yes there are choices but you must choose the right one. For to do otherwise would deny not only your loved ones (who like all families are  often a PIA) of sharing your life but it would deprive the world of the contributions you have to offer and the continuance of the good work you’ve started.


My Seasons Of Loving You…

My Seasons Of Loving You…

Will Never End…

My favorite Bible verses is Ecclesiastes 3:1–8:

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.


PTSD and Sudden Triggers…

PTSD and Sudden Triggers…

I guess I should write about this as it’s affected deeply me for weeks. I was sailing along doing well as far as my PTSD. The severe flooding I experienced in 2012 after being fired from my job for reporting workplace violations seemed to have resolved. It was a good thing because I still haven’t found a new therapist. I had one and hit it off well but my insurance won’t cover her. Something about she has the wrong type of accreditation; she’s an LCPC as opposed to a LCSW. In the Western Mountains of Maine there aren’t many choices unless one wants to drive an hour to see a therapist. I’ve found my insurance company reasonable in the past so intend to ask them for a reconsideration. I was just so busy between getting my German Shepherd’s blog up (BTW that’s not her picture up there), traveling for her weekly treatments and grad school beginning at the end of July with a required (10) day stay at one of their campuses.

Then out of the blue an email crossed my path about mid August. The story was so horrific that I was triggered immediately.  I mean, I could literally feel it  spread through my body ~ both cold and warm at the same time. The abuse this 4 year old girl suffered was very similar to what I had endured. Although I never thought my name was Idiot, I had been called it many times. In the past if I was triggered that intensely I withdrew for a while until I could get my emotions in check. However because of my dog’s medical issues I had veterinarian appointments so hiding out at home wasn’t an option. Dogs are very important to me as I never really knew unconditional love, no make that love in any form, until I emancipated myself and adopted my first shelter dog. It’s been a dog that’s gotten me through some of the worst times of my life so not keeping her appointments wasn’t  an option. Then in the past when I’ve been emotionally fragile due to triggers I’ve found solace in the Catholic church but this summer I’ve taken, for lack of a better word, a sabbatical from it  for several reasons. It’s a small parish where everyone knows your name (like Cheers ) yet they are mean, spiteful and unkind. So much so that the previous priest asked to be reassigned. He was replaced with a granola priest who I’m convinced will have the parishioners out there planting a church garden next spring. Plus he stares at the ceiling and speaks in a dull monotone (he’s only 40). Yet the parishioners fawn over him like  high schoolers at a prom. I was in the departing line one time and heard the couple in front of me telling him how wonderful it was to have a priest that, “Is one of us”. They were referring to him being a native of Maine whereas the previous priest was, God forbid, a transplant (like me). Then next up our diocese settled a sexual abuse case from many years ago and it came out that they would have settled earlier but  wanted the victims to sign a confidentiality agreement to never discuss the abuse which the now adult victims vehemently refused to do. If anyone has read some of my past posts, then you know I had a similar situation where I wouldn’t sign that type of agreement. I was flabbergasted as it was my understanding that the church was no longer “covering” up sexual abuse by priests. Guess I was wrong and it left me very unsettled.  So seeking comfort in the church wasn’t an option either.

Instead I’ve thrown myself into writing Sasha’s blog, sometimes for 8 hours straight.  It had originally been a Facebook page where she had over 200 followers but Facebook is simply not the venue for me so I deactivated my account. Since Sasha’s medical journey began in March 2016 that’s where I started the blog. Yet, when I’m not taking her to the vet I ignore people and stay home. I don’t have a lot of friends. Strike that. I have one good friend and some acquaintances. I haven’t talked to my good friend since I read about this abused child. I just don’t feel like engaging in banal conversation. Perhaps that makes me sound terrible but I’m trying to focus on what’s best for me for once instead of doing what other people expect of me. I never liked making small talk anyway but especially when I’m upset.

I don’t know if anyone has read the article about this poor child but here’s a link  to the horror she was subjected to.

Anyway, that’s where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. I still haven’t figured out how to put a share widget on this page for my dog’s blog but when WordPress Live Chat comes to life again on September 26 I’ll try and remember to initiate a chat before 7pm ET. I usually forget about it till long after that. Or, maybe I’ll just order one of these books. Seriously I’m a fan of the “Dummy” books.

I am going out on a no-dog related adventure next week. My iPhone 5S must have known Apple was launching a new one because it died ~ as in deader than a doornail. I’m a visual person so want to see the size difference between the iPhone 7 and 7 Plus. The only thing I DO know is that if you opt for monthly payments through Apple you get Apple Care free. Verizon has a similar deal. Whereas if you buy it outright you get nothing, nada, zilch.


No significance to this cat picture other than I like it so much I used it as my screensaver at most of my jobs.


Holding Onto Anger Is Like Drinking Poison…

Holding Onto Anger Is Like Drinking Poison…

Happy Birthday Daddy

My mind is scattered of late, trying to stay atop a myriad of appointments, medical needs and life in general. I didn’t realize until late last night that today is July 13th ~ your birthday. I’m amazed that you were born 106 years ago. I’m even more amazed that I don’t hate you and in all honesty, probably never have. As I became old enough to understand, I marveled how you, as a young boy, travelled alone to the United States from Poland on a ship. Then that you returned to Europe a year later only to make the trip back to the US once again. All before the age of 15! At the time I remember thinking how brave you were. When I asked why you only had two fingers on one hand, you told me about the accident in the silk mill where you worked; how the machine malfunctioned and grabbed your hand. I remember being horrified and sitting on my own hands as you talked. You said the company paid the medical bills and saved the job for you. You said they were “Good to do that”. As a child I thought that you were lucky. What did I know? You were in your 20’s when you lost your fingers, long before employers took responsibility for accidents and definitely before OSHA. I would listen at the door as you and friends who’d also immigrated talked of life back in your homeland. I remember being fascinated by the stories of war-torn Poland, trying to picture it in my mind. Always marveling at your strength for traveling four times on a ship alone, your intelligence for being able to find a job at the silk mill while still very young and your strength for what you’d endured. You never knew I listened in but it gave me a glimpse into your life. You were normally very quiet at home, sitting at the kitchen table for hours playing solitaire – a habit I not only picked up from you but passed on to one of my daughters. I yearned to feel as if I was a part of your life but you weren’t demonstrative or talkative unless you were drinking. When you first began drinking with your friends you seemed happy because you laughed, something you rarely did. You would talk and play polka music. But the more you drank the different you became. It was if you were consumed by an intense anger and despite lashing out, couldn’t slay the invisible enemy. I feared you when you were “drunk” because all it took were a few words from Mommy and you would beat me. I can remember you dragging me by the hair along the floor so that you could beat me in front of her as she insisted on witnessing it. I thought pulling me by the hair would “scalp” me much like the Indians scalped people in the television you sometimes watched. I always tried to speak of my innocence but you were so enraged I doubt you heard me. Like the time she told you I had stolen your razor from the medicine cabinet. I kept crying and pleading with you to listen to me ~ that I was too short to ever get to that cabinet and besides “Mommy keeps that door locked”. Yet you never once listened to me did you? Whatever that paranoid schizophrenic said you did. If you were sober you obeyed her meekly. If intoxicated you obeyed in rage. Looking back, the one time I thought you would beat me because I deserved it you shocked me by being kind. We had returned from the grocery store and I asked if I could carry the watermelon into the house; you said yes. I was almost to the kitchen table when I lost my grip and dropped it causing it to break. I ran into the living room and hid behind a chair for I was sure I would be beaten. Instead you found me and told me it was ok because it was an accident. I realize now that I was probably only spared because you hadn’t been drinking but nonetheless I cherish that day. I screwed up and wasn’t punished; an event forever etched in my mind.
I could go on and on but somehow it doesn’t seem right to excoriate your name on your birthday. Instead I need to tell you that I forgive you and have no hate in my heart for you. For many years I was conflicted about how I felt about you. Then came the day in 1998 when that idiotic surgeon gave me a wrong diagnosis and the first thought to enter my head? “Well I’ll see Daddy again.” My conflict was suddenly resolved and I had the answer.

I believe you were the product of a different culture and generation, where parents used beatings to enforce rules or punish those who dared break them. I don’t think you were ever “really happy” but rather, you existed. You were submissive with Mommy despite the role she projected as helpless victim. Whatever she said, no matter how implausible or insane (strangers coming into the house and substituting identical but inferior quality clothing for her expensive things comes to mind) you agreed with her. It was as if you wanted to be left alone but when she insisted you acquiesced to avoid conflict. Hence you drank, to escape whatever demons haunted you. Like most drunks, you became different. For you it was being bolder, meaner and violent. Because we both know how capable of inflicting REAL harm you were. I am often tormented by what happened in the parking lot of the bar the summer before I began kindergarten. Nope ~ I’m not going there. Instead I’m going to think of you today as the happier, kinder person you became following her death. I will always cherish the time we spent together and the impact you had on my family. I was truly happy that my children were able to experience having a grandfather because its important that we have a sense of family, a sense of identity. It was something I longed for my entire life but never felt until the birth of my first child. Yet strangely enough immediately after your death I felt like an orphan. I walked around saying “No one will ever call me Bunny again”. My husband thought he could help me so started calling me Bunny. Gotta tell you Daddy it didn’t work and I nipped it in the bud. Bunny was the child, she was a long time ago. You were the last link to that child, the last person who knew her before she became an adult, graduated college, married and started a family. And now you were gone. I’m just terribly sorry that my young daughter was the one to discover you sitting lifeless on the sofa. No child should have to be in that situation. I take comfort however in knowing that your death was swift as your nebulizer was still running. I’m also comforted in knowing that you really enjoyed what was to be your final outing, your grandsons wedding. I’m happy that my father was there to see my son get married. I love you and always will.

Until we meet again…6 7/8

3 cute2

Taking The Plunge…

Taking The Plunge…

I started this blog to chronicle my AT hike which I realize now was just an attempt to escape PTSD ~ something I had under control until 2012. I’ve made a few posts about my abusive childhood but like so many of us, life got in the way. The death of my “heart” dog Callie Ann, a beloved friend’s suicide and the multiple medical problems of my beautiful German Shepherd Sasha. In the process I found it necessary to end a somewhat long relationship with my therapist, a LCSW. I found another one I liked only to learn my insurance won’t cover her fees because she’s a Licensed Clinical Professional Counselor (LCPC) as opposed to a Licensed Clinical Social Worker. Insurance companies and even states vary I’ve learned so in my downtime I might write an appeal to my health insurance company. Until then, I’m just going to dive in; get it out of my head. For me words are a catharsis. I use words to give shape to my experiences. Words help me “see” who I am, what I’ve done, where I’ve been, where I’m going. Words help me understand. They are a coping mechanism of sorts, a means of expression through which I can separate the good in my life from the not so good.

Initially I thought it best to blog in chronological order but upon reflection have reconsidered. It would be intensely painful and some days my stress management ability is in overdrive and other days ~ not so much. Instead I’m going to write random entries; if a memory comes to mind I’ll write about it and see where it leads.

Just going to plunge in  because essentially I’ve had:



I know, I know ~ not related but its a German Shepherd!




Let’s Talk About Boots ~ Dog Boots That Is..

Let’s Talk About Boots ~ Dog Boots That Is..

*As usual, written in the middle of the night during a bout of insomnia.*

My heart is heavy tonight. Sasha seems depressed. Before you laugh, I truly believe dogs are sentient beings thus capable of feelings. She has been through so much that I think it’s wearing on her. I also think she’s grown weary of multiple pills three times a day, of which six are rather big. I’m going to see if I can get some of her medications in a liquid form from a compounding pharmacy, flavored with bacon or something palatable. I’m also going to try to rig a boot to stay on so that she can go swimming in her beloved river, something my resident water baby hasn’t done at all this summer.

Sasha August 2015

Sasha “knuckles” which means when she walks she sometimes turns her toes under. This not only makes a dog  lose their balance but it causes abrasions to the top of their foot. Dogs that knuckle have had such severe scrapes that they’ve lost a toenail. Because she knuckles frequently when walking, I’ve avoided the river this year because the rocky bed will surely damage her foot when she’s playing AND knuckling. I’ve purchased so many different boots for her but none of them seem to stay on despite measuring her foot. I recently learned of a woman whose dog knuckled the way Sasha does only sadly Rufi had Degenerative Myelopathy, the canine version of ALS and soon progressed to a wheelchair. Sasha’s knuckling  as I’ve previously written is a residual effect of a neurological event in 2011 called a FCE (spinal stroke). The owner bought a pair of Ruffwear boots and took them to a shoemaker to be customized. With a customized boot, there is the bottom boot as well as a wrap around top that goes just above their hock. A strap is attached by a clip to the boot and to the top wrap. This is called a “knuckling strap”. It’s adjustable in case it needs to be made looser or tighter. The purpose of the knuckling strap is to keep the foot straight and in a normal position and not allow the toes to turn under. Here’s the original Rufi boot:

Ruffi Boot 2
The original Rufi boot ~ named after a great dog!
Ruffi Boot 3
This gives a better idea of how the knuckling strap works

The stars and planets must have been in alignment because just two weeks ago I saw an article in the local paper about a shoemaker from a distant town being at our local Farmer’s Market on Saturday mornings. There’s not a shoemaker around here and you have to drive 50 miles one way to find one so this was great news. I reached out to him immediately via email, gave a brief synopsis of what I needed and asked if it was a project he could do. He responded within an hour that he could so I took Sasha and met him at the market last Saturday. We decided instead of using the Ultra Paws brand boots that I have (try 4 pairs!), he’s going to make Sasha a custom pair of boots. Complete with Vibram soles, sheepskin to line the upper strap as well as other areas. It’s $130 for the pair and I’m fine with that because to buy her the Ruffwear boots alone (recommended over Ultra Paws) would be $80. He’s also taking one pair of the Ultra Paws boots (that I bought too big), stitching up the sides a bit and making a strap for the top along with the “knuckling strap” connector, just no Vibram sole. These will be her “water shoes” for river days.The strap connectors will be a hard plastic on the water shoes to prevent rust but metal on her other ones. Sasha needs water shoes because swimming in the river is a major part of her life PLUS it gives her exercise for her legs, targeting muscles that need it. There isn’t an animal rehabilitation facility here so I’d have to make a 5 hour round trip for hydrotherapy. I was a little surprised that he wanted to construct a custom pair but once I did the math, to take the Ultra Paws boots and customize them to fit her, add leather etc. it would have been more  money.  His suggestion is actually better because they’re going to be customized for her feet with a soft inner lining. The lining component is particularly good because Sasha now has toe arthritis in  her affected rear foot because of the knuckling. If you look to the right of this photo, you can see the awkward way Sasha is extending her left rear leg (the proverbial problem child):

Inga & Sasha August 2015

He took all her measurements and I’m quite excited. I was really impressed by him as well as the products I saw displayed and the finished work he was giving customers who came for pick ups. My late brother-in-law was an Italian cobbler and people from all over NYC used to come to him because he did such good work. Talking to this young man was like talking to Angelo ~ minus the accent. He told me that he does work for people from other states; many send him their Frye, Bass or LL Bean shoes/boots for repair. Sasha has been pretty fortunate in that she never had serious abrasions from knuckling because we live in a grassy area ~ until Saturday. I pulled up and stopped the car in front of his booth but just from walking a few feet on the asphalt parking lot she got several abrasions on her foot, one surrounding  her toenail. These are definitely the worst ones she’s had and I’m cleaning them daily followed by antibiotic ointment. Initially I used a gauze wrap but quickly learned bandaging was an effort in futility. The downside is the custom boots will take three weeks. I think once her abrasions are healed I’m going to try to rig one of her many boots and hope it’ll stay on so that she can go swimming as I believe it will cheer her. I just have to be sure her foot is 200% healed to eliminate any chance of infection from the river water.  Sasha’s foot from the asphalt on Saturday:

The worst she’s ever had!

As of today she won’t take her favorite snacks and instead of lying in the room with her family, she remains alone in another room. She won’t eat her favorite snacks including her #1 ~ vanilla yogurt.  I’m really quite sad and if necessary, will make changes in her treatment plan. I want to improve her medical issues but not to the point that it impairs her quality of life. 

My Sweet Sasha ~ as always a true work in progress and so very loved.

And So I begin. Up First? Pancake Makeup…

And So I begin. Up First? Pancake Makeup…

In addition to being a mother & “Gammy”, I’m a nurse. I need to establish that because it figures prominently in the next parts of my journey; a journey I don’t want to make because it terrifies me to the innermost core. Unfortunately my back is in a corner and I have no other choice. In addition to the heart wrenching grief following the April 21 suicide of my dear friend, I’m plagued with anxiety and nightmares over the upcoming trial. The only time I’m not a wreck is when I first wake however within five minutes my internal clock reminds me that this new day brings me one day closer to trial and I usually  begin jaw clenching within the hour.

In six weeks I’ll be sitting in a courtroom because I dared blow the whistle on an employer. In hindsight if they had simply corrected the issue of patient rights being violated, none of this would have happened. Instead, when I went to them following the proverbial chain of command, they waited a few weeks then suspended me for theft. Not just a random run of the mill theft but of (4) anti-nausea pills; a medication so benign that it will probably be over the counter in a few years. What they didn’t know was that just the mention of that word threw me into a complete state of panic; intense emotional flooding so severe that it caused physical pain. To this day, nearly four years later, I don’t know how I drove the 16 miles home nor do I remember the drive. All I remember is being called a thief, which for me is an absolute recipe for disaster. Violent memories which had been safely under control came flying out and surrounded me like a swarm of bees, each sting worse than the previous. Memories that had taken me years to seal deep within individual compartments in my mind were now loose and running rampant. I was a child again and I was branded a thief. The one thing I DO remember is that I couldn’t stop shaking. It was so violent that I was banging my teeth together. How does one get up in the morning, happy with life, at peace with themselves, and in the blink of an eye hear one word, ONE LOUSEY WORD, that has the power to turn their life upside down in ways they never thought possible? I’ve been triggered before. Actually many times. None however had this type of effect on me. No triggers had ever reduced me to being a complete and utter emotional cripple.

I was called a thief by my “mother” from the time she entered my life when I was about 3 years old. I was adopted at age 2 by a man and his wife, both in their 40’s. While the wife had grown daughters from a previous marriage (she was widowed), this was her husbands’ first marriage. Sadly she was diagnosed with bone cancer shortly after the private adoption and was dead within a year. Her husband, now my father, had no idea what to do with a 3-year-old so he found me a new mother ~ in a bar. They married in Atlantic City and voila! Instant family. Of course I didn’t learn all these details till many years later so as a young child thought they were my “Mommy & Daddy”. I thought beatings and being alone all day were what people did. I guess to my child’s mind, my life was normal.

My father worked all day and I was home alone with Mommy. I never remember her engaging in any type of game, physical contact or conversation with me. The rule was that I would stay in my playroom for most of the day until my father came home from work. I was not allowed to go back into my bedroom nor in other parts of our rather large house. I don’t know what she did while I played in the toy room because I never recall her having any friends, only a widowed sister (a lunatic named Viola). My mother rarely watched television and I’d never seen her read a book. Looking back, I believe she had a little world going on in her head so had no need for outside stimulation.
She saw herself as a victim which played prominently in my childhood. She would appear in the playroom and tell me to come with her. She’d take me to her closet and show me one of her “cocktail dresses” as she referred to them. She’d say “Look at this Bunny.” as she pulled out a navy blue dress. “This looks like my cocktail dress but it isn’t. My dress was expensive. This dress is cheap. See that pancake makeup on the shoulder? You know I don’t wear makeup. I don’t need it because I’m Daddy’s child bride. Somebody took my dress and replaced it with one just like it but I’m smarter than them because I saw the pancake makeup. They thought they could fool me but they can’t”. I remember looking at the dress, thinking that it looked like hers. I also knew she used something for her face that she called pancake makeup. She had two tubes, one black and the other white, which she would occasionally remove from her purse and apply. Yet I stood silently while she rambled on. This happened frequently and was usually centered on her clothing being replaced with an identical item but of inferior quality. In my child’s mind I “thought” the items she would drag me out to see looked like hers but she was Mommy so I believed her. So began my introduction to years of fear, fear that the nameless, faceless people would come to steal from us when we were home. What would they do to us? Would they shoot us like on the movies my father watched on weekends? Would we die like the soldiers in those movies?

I’m not sure when the exact transition began but Mommy stopped accusing strangers of stealing her clothing. Instead, she began to target me. She would accuse me of stealing her makeup (the same pancake makeup that she denied using because she was a “child bride”), my fathers razor, just about everything. I remember crying and telling her I didn’t steal anything; that maybe the people did it. It fell on deaf ears as she reiterated that I was the thief and that she would tell my father when he got home from work which always ending with “and you know what that means”.

I knew exactly what that meant. I was going to be beat, the severity dependent on whether he had stopped at a bar for a few drinks. Drunk Daddy was ruthless when he was mad and when he finished pummeling me, would kick me while I was on the floor crying. I would try to reason with him, pointing out that his razor was up high in the bathroom medicine cabinet and that I was too small to reach it but my words fell on deaf ears. In time I began to realize that Mommy enjoyed this almost as if it was a game because I’d often catch a glimpse of her standing nearby with an ever so slight grin on her lips. Shortly after my father left for work in the morning she would appear at the door of the playroom to announce the latest item I’d “stolen”. She’d smile and say “You just wait till your father gets home. Daddy knows how to handle bad girls’”. I think it gave her a perverse sense of pleasure knowing that I was going to have the hell beat out of me. In time, I learned exactly what this psychotic woman was capable of. The beatings were only the tip of the iceberg.


Her “pancake makeup”was identicle to the two tubes on the left