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This area is reserved for the tidbits I know hope will be of interest to my readers. Check back often for regular updates. 


Check out this article about the Fifty Shades of Grey phenomena, including a list of organizations which strongly oppose this sick trend, and have implemented various means of helping women who have been sexually victimized.


Were you raised by a narcissist? Chances are you were if you suffered any form of childhood abuse. The Little Red Survivor website is filled with excellent articles examining the many faces of narcissism.


It's been a long time coming---7 years to be exact---but finally email notifications for new BD posts is available. Sign up today and never again miss another post. You know you want to!













Kate Is Rising has an excellent Survivors Resources page which directs you to numerous websites dealing with issues of abuse, healing and recovery. Please bear in mind that the information on these pages may be triggering.



There's lots of good stuff at the Dissociation Blog Showcase, including a list of 180 blogs dealing with some aspect of this disorder. 



On the Overcoming Sexual Abuse site there's an article entitled, "It's Not About You Mom" which I could have written myself. I bet many of my readers could say the same!








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Entries in Childhood abuse (56)


It All Comes Back to Me Now

This photo of me and Sissyface 1077204-1200891-thumbnail.jpg
My Twiggy stage.
must have been taken about a year before I left home for good. I came across it just now while going through all my files on her computer, preparatory to moving.

Something clenched inside of me, oh something that's been clenched like a fist for decades, threatens to give way to a sorrow so pure that the slightest bit of it surfacing is enough to floor me. I want to cry hysterically for all that this photo says to me.

I think of days and nights of enduring the unimaginable in that dreary home, that alleged Christian home, and the shame of it jolts me like a punch to my solar plexus. See how little Sissyface is in this photo, see my smiling face, faking for the camera. What a typical suburban photo--nothing out of place, certainly no raw emotions unfit for a family photo album.

I couldn't protect her. This is the thought which sears my brain as I study this old photo. Not only couldn't I, I didn't even try. It never occurred to me that The King of the Mountain's perverted lusts would filter down to the younger members of our home. I thought I'd been hand picked to bear the shame and humiliation of his abuses, I thought it some form of punishment for not being of his own flesh and blood. I don't remember having the slightest concern for my younger siblings because of this misunderstanding of the nature of pedophilia.

I know, I know:  I was too young and in too much pain to be able to process anything clearly. I couldn't know that pedophiles never have just one victim, and that many of them have no problem abusing their own flesh and blood. Maybe believing that it was happening only to me was a misconception I clung to for dear life. Imagine if I'd realized the extent of my stepdad's sickness! As it was it was all I could do to maintain any semblance of normality on a daily basis, and that was accomplished because of the many personalities I had to create in order to be able to function at all. I should be out of my mind, a raving lunatic locked up and forgotten for life. Because I was able to dissociate, that didn't happen. What did happen is that I barely squeaked by with my sanity and, in the process, I just couldn't comprehend the depth to which my abuser had sunk: the molesting of his own daughters.

And now here is another 1077204-1200901-thumbnail.jpg
I wanted to live here!
photo I'd forgotten about, a photo of my childhood best friend's house. Becky and I were inseparable for about 6 years. We never got to say a proper goodbye when I fled for my life, never got any closure. Could I have made it through those bleak, heartbroken years without Bec at my side? I've wondered this many times. I don't think so.

Oh, the hours upon hours spent in Bec's cool garage in the summertime, playing Barbie and Ken, or putting on a variety show for the little kids on the block who attended out of pure greed: we promised them kool-aid and cookies if they'd sit quietly and watch our little show. My home was pretty much off-limits for playing, for either the stepdad was sleeping or he was too irritated to have extra kids hanging around. Not that I wanted to bring my friends over. I seldom did, for something about our family embarrassed me deeply. Perhaps it was knowing (as outsiders didn't) that the whole All-American family thing was a sham, a farce, and I an imposter pretending a normalcy I neither knew firsthand nor understood when I saw it lived out in other homes.

My heart aches for the sisters in this first photo, for their individual destinies, for all I know it cost the two of us to grow up under the dictatorship of a pedophile. Running across this picture was bad enough; finding the one of Bec's house was a double whammy. I had to stare at both photos to really absorb them, to convince myself that those old dog-eared memories of shame and incest and terror really did take place.

It all comes back to me now, as it does randomly in dribs and drabs. I made it out of there, out of that House of Incest, far from that neighborhood which witnessed my shame, the shame of being me.

Some day I will mourn for all that was lost to me which made my flight at the age of 15 a matter of life and death. And some day I will mourn who and what I had to leave behind in order to save myself.






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