Stating the Obvious

So I went to the dentist on Tuesday, because I was having lightning type pain in my face from last week and I waited five days to see him chewing on cloves and hoping I wouldn’t die. I swear to god my mouth has gone to shit and i went there expecting a root canal or a talking to, and yeah, i got all of the above.

After a panoramic X-ray, i was told I needed two more root canals and a surgery on my jaw for a bone infection gone wrong at the hands of another dentist, not entirely shocking but my current dentist told me his current recommendation had nothing to do with the pain I was still feeling on the right side of my mouth.

After yet another stimulating jaw massage, he informed me I was just over stressed again and need muscle relaxers, and did I have any? Like i’m some mother fucking pharmacy because NO, DO I LOOK LIKE I GET MUSCLE RELAXERS ON THE REGULAR? So I was prescribed some, told I’d be spending my entire November with him to fix my face and I was relieved to know I would not have to carve my own teeth out with a spoon to fix the pain I was feeling at bedtime.

Before I left his chair, I paused and thought to ask, hey wait, I’m feeling kind of bad about the lack of enamel on the back on my front teeth.

What are you talking about?, he asked, thinking I’m crazy again.

Well, I carried on, I feel like the back of my front teeth feel rough and I think it’s because i bred two kids in the past 3 years, that’s what I was told, right, that teeth go crazy in pregnancy and I feel like it’s weirdly rough so can you look and tell me what toothpaste to use?

He looked at my teeth and then looked at me and said, Do you drink a lot of orange juice in the morning and then brush your teeth directly after? 

No, I said, Is that a thing? Because I drink coffee only in the morning and do not do that and did not know that was a thing in life.

Do you have an abnormal amount of reflux, then? Are you acid-y?, he asked, curiously.

No, no acid, I countered.

And then, thoughtfully, he gave me the once over, looked me up and down and said, and I quote, said flatly, “Well, you’re not anorexic.”

And that was the end of my appointment.  My dentist, the one I pay 200 euro an hour to torture me, gave me the once over and reminded me that I have an inner tube tummy and mermaid legs, and that I am, and have never been, anorexic.

So there’s that.  It’s going to be a long week.

The unforgotten notion of consent

While the response to my recent posts, first the one where I reacted to a recent rape of a community member, and then where I got belligerent about Donald Trump and Billy Bush promoting rape culture and the sexual assault of women, for the most part were outrageously supportive, but I did receive the sad and expected responses from men who thought my words and experience gave them the right to make fun of women, stand behind their decision to support the most vile Presidential candidate in American history, and not shockingly, question me as a woman and my own sexuality.


I’m only going to make this political to point out a few political and moronic reactions that were left on my page, but then I’m going to leave out Trump for the most part because my post wasn’t just political the other night, it wasn’t about me not voting for Trump and why I think you shouldn’t.  It was about sexual assault and rape culture and how the recent actions of a powerful man who wants to rule the world thinks it’s ok to treat me and everyone else with a pussy like a sex object for the taking.  But, I’ll try to ignore that for today to make a new point.


To be clear, what I’m not going to do is to continue to stand for mocking women, especially me, about the mistreatment of women, harassment and sexual assault, my sexual assault, and I’m definitely not going to let anyone, male or otherwise, suggest that my sexual assault, or the treatment of me and women in general, is something that can be based on what I choose to do in the bedroom, how I dress, what I look like, or what my perceived behavior may be.

I think we need to take a minute to define a few things.


Sexual assault: illegal sexual contact that usually involves force upon a person without consent or is inflicted upon a person who is incapable of giving consent (as because of age or physical or mental incapacity) or who places the assailant (as a doctor) in a position of trust or authority

Sexual harassment: uninvited and unwelcome verbal or physical behavior of a sexual nature especially by a person in authority toward a subordinate


Slut: a promiscuous woman (which for the record, I’m blaming Websters for generalizing this to women only)


Now that we’re straight on a few of the recent buzz phrases being tossed around the internet and the news, I’d like to go over two disheartening responses I received to my recent writing, because this will set the stage for what I’m about to get into.


First, here is a screen shot of someone who thought the best response to me putting my story out for the public to read, was “I’m voting for Trump,” which is a really interesting and pointed response to why I sat down and wrote Saturday night.

“I’m voting for Trump” is a mindless and negative response to an emotional post and honestly, this person missed the point.  The point was that men like Trump don’t care about our women, or me, or the abuses women face every day.  “I’m voting for Trump,” as a response to a women’s story means you don’t believe what happened to me matters, you don’t believe it’s dangerous to make someone like Trump President of the United States, a job whose duty it is to protect ALL people under them, and I know it’s hard to fathom, but women are people, too.

That response to my blog, that was from my step-brother.  If he doesn’t care about my wellbeing or that of women like me, I find it hard to believe some of the male population I don’t know cares.  Does it bother me that he wrote that? No, it doesn’t.  It doesn’t because I don’t need people with his priorities and (lack of) morals to care about me.  Plenty of others do, and will continue to.

The next response I received a few times was to connect my outrage regarding sexual assault to my lack of outrage, the lack of female outrage, to the book and movie Fifty Shades of Grey.  That’s a whole lot of bullshit, first.  And while I’m sure it took one minute out of this person’s day to post this on my page, I’d like to say it took me a few hours to find the words to discuss my personal story, and a whole lot of courage to put myself in front of a general public to speak about something I know many people care about.


First of all, that book and movie are terribly written and cast for money.  That’s the extent of what I feel about Fifty Shades, nothing more, nothing less.  Second, any women’s support of the book or movie are not a reflection of their desire to be mistreated, it’s of personal choosing to like books that focus on sexuality and domination.  It’s about sexual fetish, now control and lack of control, make a woman feel.  It’s about entertainment, about the bedroom, about personal sexual preference, and supporting Fifty Shades and expecting to live a life as a femal without harassment, sexual assault and the potential to get your pussy grabbed for sport are two different things entirely.


So spend your time posting these idiotic memes to my page, because I’m sure the minute it took a few of you to do that made you feel better at the end of the day looking at your wives and daughters and thinking of your mother, thinking you showed me, an outspoken and belligerent female, who is boss by attaching an image you didn’t even create, to make a point.  I applaud you for your bravery and for your well and thought out rebuttal.  You are really just making this too easy.


So let’s talk about my sexuality.  Let’s do this.  Let’s talk about just me, and my preferences and my history, because I’ve got quite the past, and I know a lot of women just like me, and a lot of women very different from me, but I do know that none of us think what we do in the bedroom or what we like to watch or what we like to read, has anything to do with whether or not I deserve to be attacked, to have men try to rape me, to have men try to take away a part of me that is mine alone.


By male standards, I know where I stand, especially in light of the many comments, emails and posts I received in the past day.  I’m a bitch, a cunt, an outspoken libtard,a slut who deserves it, a lesbian (really?), and the worst, the absolute worst one can be: a feminist, which let’s go back to definitions, a feminist is one who believes in the equality of women.  Yeah, you’re right.  I’m a feminist.


Here’s what I want to share about myself.  I like sex.  I like sex and I like men and I have a past that will send me to the grave with no regrets.  I like rough sex.  I like porn.  I’ve slept with a lot of men. I have fantasies that would get me kicked off Facebook for posting about them. I like to drink a lot.  I walk home from bars tipsy, hammered, even.  I leave my drink unaccounted for at my seat so I can use the bathroom.  I smile and make random conversation with men, and women, and I’d like to think that makes me a social person, not a woman giving an open pass for someone grabbing my crotch or telling me I owe them something because I spent five minutes entertaining a conversation I would have rather passed on in the first place.   I like to wear shirts to show off my cleavage.  I like red lipstick. I wear fishnets on weekends. I use sex toys.  I’ve been choked in bed, and I’ve asked for it.  I like to dominate in bed, and I like to be submissive. I’ve taken a free drink from someone who offered.  I’ve accepted a walk home from a bar or party and thought it was just a walk home.


Here’s a little word we’re forgetting when you judge me on my sexual assault, or you choose to continue to judge me on what I just shared above.  You forgot about consent.  CONSENT: to give assent or approval.  Consent. The ability for me to choose what I want done to me, for me, by someone else, and what is unacceptable on my terms.  CONSENT.  It’s a very easy concept.


But, there are some who will take what I’ve just written and run with it, and I’ll hear slut again many times over before I put my kids to bed tonight.  I want to ask, though, does what I consent to, do any of the things I have done or will continue to do in my spare time, do any of these things make it ok to harass me, beat me, sexually assault me? No, they don’t.  Do any of those things scream that it’s ok to talk down to me, call me sweetie, honey, a slut, or tell me I deserve what I have coming, or that I shouldn’t be a prude because I was attentive but then I said no, or is it acceptable to call me a tease because my supposed mixed signals caused a massive set of blue balls and you’d rather violate me than go jerk off and leave me the fuck alone.  Is it ok to tell me I’ll get what I have coming because I said the words, NO, I don’t want that, STOP.  Do any of those things make me a woman unworthy of protection, respect or kindness? No, they don’t.


You know what I don’t like? I don’t like the notion that I have to have permission from men to like what men like.  I don’t like that I have to fall into a box of what makes a woman acceptable from a male’s perspective, and what makes it ok to make me an object, a lesser human being, someone to discard and mock and treat poorly.


My sexual preferences and my sexual history have nothing to do with the fact that two men tried to rape me, beat me, and leave me on a street bleeding and crying to empower them, to entertain them, to teach me a lesson.  My sexual preferences and my sexuality are MY CHOICE, my choice alone, and I don’t owe anyone a fucking apology for what I choose to do behind closed doors, no woman owes anyone an apology.


I’ll leave you with this: if all I do in life before the day I die, is stand for what’s right, and stand up for my women, some who are warriors and some who are the quiet heros, the ones who can’t speak for themselves, and can’t stand up to the men who continue to try to shame them into thinking they are less than equal, if all I do is raise boys into men who treat women with respect, and who protect their women, who love them, raise them up and fight for them, well, that’s enough.

Because at the end of the day, no one remembers you for the memes you post to FB, no one cares about the comments you leave from the shadows degrading and insulting your own.

We are all merely remembered for how you treat people, how you try to change your community, and how, easy or difficult, you stand for what is good, decent, and right.

Part two: Enough of sexual assault

I was going to give it some time before I wrote something serious about sexual assault and rape culture again, because I know it’s tough for us all to deal with, but jesus fucking Christ.  Trump.  Fucking Trump.  He makes it too fucking easy.  So.  In light of the recent Trump video, the commentary resulting, the trolls, and more personally, with the outpouring of support for me and women in general recently after I posted last week’s blog post and photo–it was incredible, very humbling and your words make me feel like I have some sort of permission to keep on talking.  Because remember, if you don’t talk, you don’t inspire change, and we all have no chance in this big, bad world of fucking weird we’re facing.

So.  Obviously, I’m pissed again. I’m pissed because I woke up to watching Trump and Billy Bush talk about how ok it is to grab pussy and kiss people without permission, especially if you’re a magnet, which I assure you, Donald Trump is not a fucking magnet of sexuality that anyone wants to attach to, willingly (doubtful) and most certainly not unwillingly. He’s nothing more than that creepy friend of your other weird family member who says he’s your “Uncle” and then grabs your ass on the way through the Thanksgiving buffet and winks and thinks he’s cute, which he’s not, he’s vile, and he should be put down.

Seriously, though, that’s Trump, really.  Nothing more, nothing less.  Look at the backlash he’s facing.  His own people can’t stand behind him now, and I’m insanely confused about his puppet wife and seemingly braindead daughters.  TRUMP EX WIVES WHERE ARE YOU?  LADIES, UNITE! NOW IS YOUR TIME!  GET YOURS! MARLAAAAAAAA, PLEEEEASE!

Seriously.  He’s the scum of the earth, a man who feels that women are objects to be touched, used, violated and used recreationally for entertainment, harassment and sport.  He does not need us, want us, care about us, value us, and most certainly, does not consider us his fucking equal.  I mean, seriously, the man’s apology was that of a child who bit someone: So I’m sorry if what I did was bad, maybe I was bad, or so I’m told, am I bad? if you think I’m bad, but I was bad a decade ago, and I’m not bad now, and I love women, really, I do, look at all my women, I’m a man of women, look, I’m sorry I said some things about women, but Hillary is a woman and she is a bad woman and Benghazi and cheating husband and weakness via pneumonia and bad, bad women. Women are bad.  But I love women, nothing like a woman, I say.  AND I SAY, nothing like someone in the wrong who deflects like a mother fucker because well, they’re again, the fucking scum of the earth.

Remember when Obama was in this position, getting ready for his second debate?  Do you want me to remind you what the opposing party was ripping him for?  His sometimes obsession with ripping a menthol butt in privacy in his spare time.  A menthol cigarette.  The end of the fucking earth, really, mixing tobacco and menthol and putting it in the mouth of an educated, thoughtful, inspirational, FUCKING RATIONAL AND NOT VILE family man.  I mean, how could he, how could he want tobacco of the minty nature? I mean, if we were to go to war, can you fucking imagine if before pressing the red button he sat down thoughtfully, considered his options brought to him by an entire cabinet of educated people, sat back and took the time to say, hey, wait, I need to think about something, and then lit a cigarette so he could get a bit of the calm before he was forced to make the decision to engage with any other country we maybe don’t quite understand, can you just imagine if he sat down on a bench and smoked a cigarette?  I can’t.  I cannot.  I cannot imagine how wrong of a man that made him, considering I will smoke anything in arms reach if my blood pressure rises two points above sedated just so I don’t fucking RUIN SOMEONE.

And now, we have this assbag, who essentially hates anything a real woman stands for, and WE ARE ACTUALLY ENTERTAINING HIS APOLOGY?

WHO THE FUCK HAVE WE BECOME?  I’m sorry, I don’t care, anyone who still stands with him after noon today in any time zone in the world, is a fucking TWAT. A self destructive, insensitive, masochistic, vile, scum bag.  I’m never, ever going to change my mind on this.  And spare me the, Isn’t it great we all get to live in a country where differences of opinion are welcome and I can love Trump and you can love common sense and decency and reason but we can be friends and all get along?

No.  No we can’t.  No, I can’t.  You support Trump from today until the end of the election and I honestly, swear to God, I can’t have anything to do with you.  Nothing.  I can’t.  I don’t need your bullshit, I don’t want my children to know you, I’m embarrassed for you, and consider this our breakup.  Again, I’m not even supporting Hillary.  I’m only supportive of not being a low life, discriminatory, judgmental, elitist supporting, democracy jeopardizing, country ruining, immoral, sexist, deceitful, boldface FEAR INCITING, troll; someone the Founding Fathers, the revolutionaries from all sides of the aisle in this country, the real people who strove to make this country great, those people, the ones who deserve to have used the tag line, MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, those people would never support this man or what he stands for.

Now back to my original rant, because dear god, I am more a candidate for blood pressure medicine tonight than I ever was when the Sox were in the playoffs in 2004.
First, Trump, you small and lowly coward, HOW FUCKING DARE YOU.  HOW FUCKING DARE YOU give us an apology so bullshit, with your stupid sprayed orange duck face.  How dare you sit in front of a camera and try to hide behind your, I’d just grab a pussy and then they’d like it, bullshit?  Grab a pussy? You’d just grab a pussy?  Because you’re famous? That’s a pussy grabbing thing?  Pussies be grabbed if you’re famous, disregarding the fact that you legit look like a squinty eyed, low life trust fund bitch, hanging outside Smith Point Georgetown, eye brows unkept like a bunch of mother fucking garden weeds, hair thinned and combed over like you’re too poor to get plugs or a good fucking grown man hair cut, duck face worse than any 13 year old on Insta, orange substance bleeding from your face onto your tacky suits. And by the way, tacking an American flag to your shirt doesn’t make you classy or more American, it just means someone on your team was smart enough to try to pin you with something respectable that might distract middle America watching from your smug and despicable face, so they could all the next day be like, Did ya see that bitch didn’t wear tha goddamned American flag? That bitch doesn’t even like the flag, I like flags, did you see his flag? That means he’s a real American. FLAGS MOTHERFUCKER. AMERICAN FLAG PINS! FUCK YEA! WHERE IS WALMART I BET THEY HAVE A PIN FLAG FOR ME.

Fuck off.  No flag pin makes you any more American than jamming hot dogs and keg beer down your throat while you alternate between holding a microphone you swear doesn’t work on purpose and a swinging around a mother fucking sparkler in the other.  Dick.

Today is a sad day for women, when we actually have to listen to the other candidate for President talk about how ok it is to grab our pussies with no permission, to kiss us if you’re magnetic, because I mean, we’ll probably want it right after we get sexually assaulted.

Which brings me really back to the point I wanted to make.

I wrote last week about two men who tried to rape me.  Two men who saw me walk past them while they were drunk on a Saturday  night, and I bet they thought, look at her, that girl paying no attention to us in her frumpy mom wear, that one, I bet she wants her pussy grabbed.

Because I’m sure my jeans and hoodie wearing, lack of eye contact, straight walking path to my house shouted, COME ONE, COME ALL, I’VE GOT A VAGINA AND I WANT MY PUSSY GRABBED.

Because you know what? Those two men behaved no better than Trump detailed.  When I walked past them, I ignored their sidewalk beer drinking social.  I kept my head down in my hoodie, my purse close to me, my eyes focused on the pavement, just wanting to go home and go to bed.

But something about me, something from the hair pulled tight in a bun inside my baggy sweatshirt, something in the way I wore those jeans that just fit my body, something about my 7 year old sneakers or my studious glasses I wear to just fucking see, something must have just screamed, THIS BITCH WANTS TO BE FUCKED.

I mean, because that’s what happened.  I passed them and didn’t acknowledge them.  I kept walking when they got up to walk fast behind me.  I kept trying to walk as they yanked my purse back. I tried to run when they shoved me to the ground on my face, one pushing me down until my glasses smashed and my face burst with blood.  I tried to scream as one put his foot hard on my back and stomped, while the other covered my mouth.  Something about the way I kicked and screamed and tried to bite and wriggle out from under two grown men who outweighed me by 200 pounds and who thought it was hysterical that I couldn’t fight my way out, these awful men I’ve never met in my life, with the morals of fucking lowlifes, it seriously must have come across as, SHE IS HERE FOR THE TAKING, GRAB HER PUSSY.

Because they tried.  They both tried to rip my pants off, one holding me down and the other pulling, and then taking turns.  I laid there stunned, and then helpless, and then lucky for me, fucking angry, angry because I am more fight than I am flight and NO ONE is going to ruin me without a fucking fight.  So then, like the Dick Wolf fan I am, I channeled every last episode of Law and Order I ever watched in the last two decades and went fucking Olivia Benson batshit.  I screamed, I kicked, I bit and then a light came on.  A light came on and they shoved my face in the ground and kicked me and ran.  And I got up, and ran into the darkness towards my house faster than I’ve ever run in my life.  I ran so fast that when I made it to my stairs, my hands were shaking so badly in trying to get my keys, and my sobs were so hard and uncontrollable that I tripped and I fell on my face again, into my stairs, and I just laid there because it was ok, because I was home.

I crawled into bed that night alone on the couch, because I didn’t want my husband or family to see me, and I didn’t know what to do.  And I slept alone until they found me, and then I relived it again the next day, and the next ten days I called out of work, and the rest of the days, every day I have to hear about this type of bullshit about why it’s ok for women to be treated poorly by a man, any man, but in this case, a man so dangerous, and in such a position of power, that I refuse to shut up until 9  November when this fucking nightmare is hopefully fucking over.

Tell me we’re friends, that you care about me, care about any woman who has ever been violated, hurt, abused, harassed, treated poorly in ANY FUCKING WAY, then look at this picture again, because I AM NOT ASHAMED, and tell me to my face why you support Trump.  Tell me he will protect, and fight, and be the champion for our women.



And for anyone who thinks my personal story has nothing to do with Donald Trump, presidential candidate of the United States of America, you are fucking wrong.  He is rape culture.  He is what makes it ok.  He is what will ruin us.

Don’t be someone who lets him perpetuate the demise of our women.  If nothing else, respect your women, at any cost, this November.





Injuries and other reasons I’m a terrible adult

One day my children are going to wake up and understand the internet and google my name and hopefully find me and not the porn star that shares the same name.  Well, that’s the only part to be hopeful about.  My husband eye rolls every time someone new discovers my bullshit (like his two coworkers recently, which I think is fantastic because someone should fuck with him at the office when I can’t) and he for one is going to be PISSED when the boys find out what Mommy is really like.  And then they will be pissed when they realize they ever listened to me, especially since I spent their young years still behaving like a moron but acting like I should have an influence over their future and well-being.  Ahhh, parenthood.  A journey full of smoke, mirrors, tricks and lies.  I love it.

So last Friday I went to a brand new chiropractor for the first time in ten years because I think I fucked up my back somehow and there are times where I’m more comfortable walking around at a 45 degree angle like a fucking protractor and it’s got me deathly afraid that I am going to be that old woman who walks around looking like a candy cane.  For decades. So I go to this place, knowing he is American, which has me very excited that for once in 7 years I’ll deal with a doctor that isn’t a complete dick by nature and actual expresses some concern and doesn’t tell me flat out that I’m fat or lazy or impossible to deal with, or at the very least he’ll lie about those things.

Well first of all, I must have walked in to the best looking damned chiropractor office on earth.  My doctor is easy on the eyes and the physiotherapist on the floor below who discusses your x-rays with you? Florian?  He’s so fucking easy on the eyes that I just wanted to ask if I could lay on a couch in his office and stare at him for the rest of the day.  I know that is creepy and I don’t care.  This man is delicious and I’ll go to that office every day for the rest of my life or until Florian quits.  I told the Mr. this when I got home and he just shook his head and was like, you’re an idiot, but if I could trade one of my celebrity passes for a German Florian pass, I fucking would.

Anyway, I’m telling the new chiropractor friend why I’m there and I quickly point out all the things I know I do wrong to contribute to my poor posture and body issues, which is basically everything in his THINGS NOT TO DO TO YOUR BODY book, which I’m sure is what he was pulling from during our conversation.  Then he’s massaging me and cracking my back, doing a few moves where it would appear he’s wrestling me on a table, twisting me around like a pretzel and basically details my problems are sleeping on my stomach, poor posture, being generally lazy, lacking muscles of any kind, something I think about standing and walking funny which I already knew, and just did a lot of nodding at me and eye squinting, I think because in his head he was trying to figure out whether or not to take me seriously.

Near the end of the session I put my shirt back on and said something that made sense to me but I guess not to him, “So it was when I was in Paris and the break dancer tried to align my back that I knew I had to come to one of you because it instantly made me feel like magic.”

He looked at me like, no, I absolutely don’t have to take her seriously now.  “What break dancer in Paris did something to your back?”

I carried on like he gets a lot of these stories, forgetting that I have to stop doing shit like this when I meet someone for the first time.

“So I took my friend’s daughter to Paris and she’s 15 but I thought it was a good idea to take her somewhere worldy and then I thought it would be nice to take her down by the river to get drinks and let her try drinks because that’s how nice of a person I am. (in very little consumption for anyone judging me, thanks)  So we’re there having a gin by the water when this break dancer approaches us about something (being pretty, which might have worked on her but at this stage of my life, coming at me with, do you want me to buy you french fries is an easier get me in bed tactic than you are beautiful) and tells us he’s in a break dancing troop or whatever they go by.  He shows us a FB page to back his qualifications because I was staring at him and probably said NO YOU AREN’T because it’s been a life long dream of mine to be friends with a break dancer who will teach me The Freeze or how to pop and lock but no one is ever willing and so I’m judging him because I don’t need some stranger to go get my fucking hopes up and then break my heart all in five minutes.  So she’s convinced but I’m not until he says, the group dances down by the river every night, want to go?  So of course I fucking want to go, I LIVE TO FUCKING GO, and I ignore the fact that its me, my friend’s daughter and a random Parisian break dancer who wants to bring us to water, under a covered bridge in the shadows of Notre Dame.

So we get down there and shocking, there are no other dancers.  But, true to his promise, he does all of the moves i Love the most in life and I’m beyond Christmas excited and I’m flailing around and clapping and so happy that I am wearing my new Parisian hammer pants which are suited for break dancing and he’s giving me a lesson that involves letting me try to put my weight on my hands and he’s holding my legs over my head, letting me pretend I’m doing The Freeze.  Now I know I lack coordination, muscle tone and sobriety but he seems to think I’m just not understanding that “if you put your weight on the right parts of your hands, your legs will go up and stay easy.” Listen, fancy French accented dancer, it doesn’t matter where I try to drop 140 pounds of ALL WOMAN on my tiny hands, these little tree trunk legs of mine aren’t going up or staying unless there’s fucking magic involved.

“Maybe you need work on your back”, he says, and my friend with me is now Snapchatting this whole incident so I feel happy that we’ll have evidence of my success as a break dancer or our murder by the river.  He tells me to sit between his legs and he starts massaging me and cracking me in a way that reduced me to the wordless, drooling state I get in when my girl Olga washes my hair at the salon.  He’s informing me that he can tell I don’t drink any water and that I don’t stand up straight and then with no permission outside of the drunken sexual noises I was probably making, he took both cheeks and cracked my neck in the manner that makes you fearful of paralysis but then super happy and relaxed when you released you indeed did not become paralyzed and you are just not fucking sore anymore.  It was truly magical, honestly, and I’ve considered going back to find him and ask if I can bring him home to live in our spare room as our nanny doctor for Mommy.  Anyway.

Then he made me try break dancing again which was not one ounce more successful now that my back was cracked.  Now, I was even more relaxed and so I fell on my head more easily and finally he was just like, ok, no more trying for today, you were great.”

I took a breath.

“So that’s how I knew I had to start coming to get regular treatment.”

He surely thought I was insane.

Then this weekend, I went to Oktoberfest in Munich and drank 16 beers and came in and out of slow face about 63 times and decided around 11pm after a solid 12 hours of drinking would be the appropriate time to ride the fastest rides ever.  Well you know what you forget when you’re drunk on rides after 12 hours of drinking?  Neck control.  You forget to hold your fucking neck up, which is why my head was like a bobble head on that octopus looking ride that whips you back and forth doing like 60mph on a fair ground, making you fear death every two seconds.  So my head is just flopping in the wind, slamming against the ride and then I got to my hotel at 3am and drunk slept on it and then woke up thinking I was paralyzed and spent the next two days unable to walk, lift my head or generally function in life.  So I email the new chiropractor friend and explain to him what has happened and then he informs me I gave myself whiplash, a normal outcome of Fest for a mother of two who is nearing 40 years of age, and that yes, he will see me because he’s positive I need help in life.

And so I saw him again, and to thank him for seeing me twice in one week about two completely unrelated self-induced personal injuries, I told him the story about my German landlord getting the strange from someone that resulted in two kids and a divorce from his wife, which then resulted in him telling me I need to get out of his house.

But that’s a whole other story.


I was an almost rape victim

It’s with heavy heart that I feel like posting this tonight, but I need an outlet that will make a change.   I received a call from a friend asking for me to help—there was a girl we know who was attacked and raped tonight and she thinks, even from the moment it happened, that it’s her fault.  I don’t ask for your sympathy and neither does she, but all things standing, I need to say something.

Rape is not a choice.  Rape is not ok.  Rape is not a qualifier of existence.  Rape is nothing but one human violating another.

I’m going to get personal.

This is what I try to look like daily.  In all honesty, this was a very good hair day for me.
This photo reflects what I make you think I look like even though i have two kids, two dogs and a husband that I swear works against me on a daily basis. I promise you, this is good filter Heather. It’s not wake up in the morning, Heather.
And this photo, is what I looked like during the last week of May. This.  No makeup, face swollen and pale from crying for days.  Beat up, bleeding and upsetting.
This is a picture I’ve sent to this many people: my mother, my sister, and a few best friends.  Until now, it’s gone no where else, except the police, because I didn’t want people to think of me like this.  Beaten, broken, rock bottom.  I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.

I’ve changed my mind.

Look at me.  Look hard.  Don’t stop looking.
I was assaulted.
Two men tried to rape me.
I made it home ok.
I am still alive.
And that’s what you need to know.
I live my every day to entertain.  I tell you stories about my kids ruining me.  I tell you stories about my husband testing my every belief in the world. I tell you about  missing my father, about suicide, about dependency, about loss, about love, and I hope I tell you about optimism and finding your way.  I tell you about hating my job, loving my job.  I tell you about gross things, sad things, happy things, all of the things.
But.  On the quiet days, I am all of you.  I am all of the things that maybe you never thought about me. I am things so vulnerable that I don’t want to speak because I want and need your love.  I am broken, I am violated, I am scared and I am a god damned train wreck.
But what I am  not?  I am not a woman that will stand for violence.  I am not a woman that that will accept apologies for reducing me to something I don’t believe in.  I am a woman who deserves and commands respect, love, friendship and I will fight for the same for any woman who cannot do so for herself.
So this is the last rape I’ll hear of in my community.  This is the last one that I won’t help avoid and fight against. I have all the time in the world and all the fight in the world to stop this shit from happening.  I will not tolerate the abuse and mistreatment of women, not my women, not my village, not on my watch.  Not ever again.
It happened to me.  I will not let it keep happening to women around me.

The end of Suicide Prevention and Awareness Week

Today is the last day of Suicide Prevention and Awareness Week.  I think the cause deserves a whole lot more than 7 days, but it will expire today for most, and the rest of us will continue to live in this week for the rest of our lives.

I’ve received a number of emails in the past week since I posted some personal stuff, stories of survivors, emails thanking me for giving them something to relate to, people asking for more writing to give them something to read, to understand, to feel better about.  I have more writing, some published on the blog, and some personal, but when pulling from the archives in the past days, I thought to myself, why keep them on my computer? Why not just give a family another side to my story?

I think I wrote about this 7 years ago but can’t find it, and so I’ll share something.  The year after my father killed himself, I was rock bottom.  I was depressed.  I was drinking heavily and blaming him, finding myself lying on cold floors crying, sitting on floors staring through walls, screaming in pillows, fighting fights against no one but myself.  It was a very scary and rough time for me, but I survived.  Somehow, through the support of others and through a voice in the back of my head that whispered, just keep going, I was able to get up off the floor and find a purpose, and find a way to survive a tragedy I never anticipated would diminish my spirit and bring me to a low so crushing that sometimes it hurts today, just as it did in the moment I knew my life had changed.

I went to a shrink in the years after my father’s suicide attempt and his death.  I went on medicine, Zoloft for depression, and something I can’t remember for anxiety to curb my panic.  I sat in sessions twice a week to detail the enormous pain and guilt and regret and relief I felt in my father dying.  I said things that normal people would not comprehend.  I felt alone.  I felt angry.  I wanted to give up and succumb to a situation I didn’t fucking ask for.

And then I threw myself into a community of people just like me.  I made friends who had worse stories to face every day–people who saw suicide first hand, in front of them.  People who didn’t have strong relationships, people who didn’t have support.  People who wanted to die themselves.  I will be honest, I’m a train wreck still some days.  I don’t think, at 9 years in, I’ll ever be able to rectify this situation.  I don’t think I’ll ever be ok, and I’m fine with that.  I’m on medicine still, and I’m not ashamed to admit that.  I  need to see a therapist, because if I don’t, I will literally choke someone most days–the disclaimer here is that I am just a loose cannon, not so much a pained child missing her father.  I am broken, I am incredibly defeated some days, I am an emotional mess, but I am here.  And I am alive and happy. Not always, but usually.  It’s ok to be a bit of both, and if anyone tells you something different, you have 100% authority to tell them to fuck the fuck off.

And so, this is important:  I decided one day, after a string of a million bad days this–

My father killed himself.  He did not kill me.

I will never let his decision or pain kill me.  And I hope, truly hope, it will never kill someone else.  So on the last day of Suicide Prevention and Awareness Week, here is one last bit of writing……


The First Time

February, 2003

It could have been that two hours or twenty that had passed and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

I had never before let my body falter and crumple so completely that I slid slowly, back against the wall until I landed on the cold, dirty linoleum floor. I’m sure I slammed the door, but never heard it. I don’t think I heard anything as I stared through the wall that day, the one that temporarily blocked me from the rest of the world.

I was severely in shock, and if I knew shock were a luxury, or how quickly it would pass, I would’ve closed my eyes and wished harder that this paralysis would stick. I pounded the back of my head on the door, to the beat of the insane pounding in my head, until I snapped back to a voice telling me my mother was on the phone again. I think that might have been the point I decided to give alcoholism the true shot it deserved. I did not want to talk to my mother again, and I didn’t have the energy or desire to come up with words for eyes filled with pity that began to watch me. I wanted a drink, and I wanted another one ready.

I coped the way anyone would have, drinking bottomless three dollar white wine and smoking a disgusting amount of cigarettes effortlessly. I almost ate the cigarettes as I stared straight through the ghost in front of me I knew would not leave.

As I set the empty bottle on the table, I added hollow to the list of emotions that were new to me. Hollow and fuzzy, due to the excessive wine consumed so quickly. I was thoroughly drunk and I was content because at that point I think the only thing I knew for certain, as I blacked out on my couch, is that love and hate are the only two emotions that can make someone feel the exact amount of pain simultaneously.

I ruined an hour of completely productive unconsciousness by coming out of my wine induced fog. On the line was my father’s shrink with no answers. His lack of concern annoyed me. I was sure this was somehow his fault. It had been a day of exceptionally horrible phone calls, and phone calls are exactly how this story began.

I answered the voice mail my father had left on my work phone, expecting story, a request, and update. I never predicted the blow that is deserving of the now second worst moment of my life. I had never heard the voice on the other end, one with such decisive insanity.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to go home and take care of this, take a vacation from the world. This isn’t your fault. I’m so proud of you. Take care of your sister. You’ll be ok.”

I began to plead, childlike, a child begging for more time in front of the tv, with a toy, I pleaded with such desperation that I, like a toddler, began to sob. I negotiated. I offered to drop everything and come home to help take care of problems I didn’t realize existed. I shouted, I foamed at the mouth, I fought for breath, I fought unsuccessfully to buy time; the only think I thought could be on my side. I fought for life, I fought against death. Words shot out of my mouth only on autopilot.

“Please don’t do this. I love you. I need you.” How selfish we are a the face of death.

And as I frantically pounded the wall next to me, pounded with such force that made my knuckles hurt, I made no progress, I was needing for someone to help me, needing for someone to believe in me, believe in humanity and he told me, “You’ll be fine. You don’t need me anymore. Take care of yourself. I’m sorry. I love you.”

And then, unable to stop him, my father hung up the phone. I looked up, realizing I was kneeling on the floor in the middle of our cubicle filled office. Papers were thrown everywhere, my chair knocked over, phone off the hook. I looked up to find five horrified faces staring back at me, unable to process any of what just happened, not knowing I had screamed over and over again for help. Catching a glimpse of myself as I stood up, I realized my life was crumbling before me, I would never be able to face these people in front of me again, not in the same way.  I was broken. Makeup bled from my eyes to my chin. My hair matted to my face, entwining itself with the spit and helplessness I had expelled sometime during the phone call. I was ruined, truly fucking ruined, and I had no idea the road I would follow in years to come.

I called back, non-compliant to his requests, hysterical, and sure I could fix this. But I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me try, and again I heard the dial tone.  The silence pierced my ears.

My roommate dragged me to her car, my lifeless body slug over her arms, and she tossed me to the back seat unwillingly, I wanted to go somewhere, but nowhere, but had no choice, as I had to go home, I had to face the music. I sobbed and fought for air erratically. I smoked four cigarettes in twelve minutes. I don’t remember making it into my apartment. Behind closed doors, left with nothing but the racing of my thoughts and worst fears, I tossed a picture at the wall, screamed violently into my pillow, clawing and ripping at the feather stuffing, and then, not knowing what else to do, I locked myself in the bathroom.

I suppose before the story continues, I should be straight about a few interesting traits my father possessed. He was bipolar, a recovering alcoholic, an occasional drug addict, a pill head, a hothead, and aside from all that, an older, sadder me, and one of my most favorite people in the world.

I was well into college, cynical and jaded, by the time he was finally diagnosed bipolar and depressed. There were hundreds of times his undiagnosed behavior enraged, confused, upset me. There are only a handful of times it ripped me apart and branded me for life.

The times when he punished my mother, no saint herself, or when he never came to get Katie and me for our Wednesday night stay, those instances all hurt the same. And sure, I remember the happy Wednesday night sleepovers, but they seem so fictional sometimes, so far gone.

I would wait, alone, in my driveway, with my glove, my rag doll Lolly, or my newly graded homework assignment. My stumpy legs would wander up and down the driveway, not yet recognizing the effectiveness of pacing. I would check the flowers, or the grass, the mailbox, the wood on the side of the house. I would wait, insisting, often silently willing him to come, as I counted the cars pass me on our desolate back road in the country. Sometimes my mother would look out the window and smile, and I’d smile back and wave, refusing to see her disappointment, or accept defeat to mine. He’d come. I wasn’t going back inside. But darkness would come, seventy-three cars had passed, the grass never grew an inch, and he never came. I was seven and it hurt then as much as it still hurts now.

Over a decade later I was twenty-one and in college, but still not nearly far enough away from home. My mother announced one day in her, I’m pretending to give you options as adults, voice that she was off to California for three months, to accompany my stepfather while he fixed submarines thousands of miles away. Accompany, you should know, was her attempt to work on her marriage, something I was violently angry about, because as a child, you do not understand the different between leaving to fix marriage and leaving and just leaving. I never understood this until later in life, when I found through my own struggles, that marriage as a concept was ridiculous, so hard, and like a second job in itself, a constant struggle to redetermine the values and goals and personalities of people who once so easily loved each other with passion on a scale that made Romeo and Juliet seem like novices.

And off she went.

My sister and and I took care of the house that summer. I was carefree and unconcerned with parental affairs, and focused more on the summer’s newly found potential. My sister quickly retreated into her comfortable mode of abandonment, and filled quickly with resentment, pity, and hatred. She was rage personified. We did manage perfectly that summer, though, with the exception of one colorful instance, of course caused by my undiagnosed, bipolar father.

I chose to take a boyfriend on a vacation California, to visit my mother and stepfather. He flipped out, my father, in his perfectly psychotic fashion that was, to the day he died, his signature move. He berated me, tore me apart effortlessly, accusing me of abandoning my duty as substitute mother of my sister. I am, and proudly so, my sister’s protector, and always will be, but never her parent. He lived fifteen miles away, but so easily passed such an undesirable torch my way. And I refused.

My refusal, as always, ignited the flame that was my hell. I suddenly became the money sucking leach, slut, just like my mother. I was irresponsible, and a disgrace to our name—which by the way, fell near the bottom of things I cared about in life. I was instantly hated, disowned for the millionth time, banned from the lives of my father and his wife, the one that stayed out of our family drag out sessions. But I went anyway, happily, because fuck him. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, soaking in the sun and drinking the margaritas of Tijuana. Tequila is a great fuck you when you need it.

I paid for that decision for four or five months. I don’t remember how long, but I know more time has passed now, in this silence from this latest debacle. He tried to kill himself, I tried to save him and I was being punished with his silence.

Years may pass, surroundings may change, but never patterns, and certainly never people.



August, 2007

Chris, my boyfriend at the time (now the Mr.), showed up at Beck, the fabulous new Belgian bar in DC, to pull me outside to tell me something. I wanted him to just come in and have a beer. It was delicious Belgian beer, with too high of an alcohol content, but even that wasn’t convincing enough. He wouldn’t take my beer and when I saw my car parked outside, working and waiting for me, I got distracted and excited because that damned car never worked and how did it get here? I ignored his pretend dislike for beer and got in the car, wondering how he got the night off from his second job.

He said he had something to tell me and he used the tone that’s only reserved for cheating and death, but he looked sad, and when my stomach dropped, all I could muster was a flat, What. And then he said the words I knew would come one day.  He said the words I had never been able to prepare myself for.

“Judy called me Heather, and I’m sorry, your dad is dead.”  The word dead lingered in the air.

I shook my head violently, making a face of disgust and disbelief when I countered, “No. No he’s not. I just talked to him and he called and I didn’t call him back. No, he’s not dead.”

I was pleading with Chris and myself and I suppose God, who I was sure either doesn’t exist or hated me and either way, I didn’t care.

He just stared at me and let it sink in, and when I lost my mind one minute later, he tried to grab me and apologize and explain that Judy had called him so that he could tell me and I would not be alone when I hear the news.  I wanted to be alone.  I wanted him to shut up. I wanted her to be a liar.  I wanted to go back in the bar and pretend no one but me ever existed again, for all of time.

I was alone the minute the words escaped his lips.  Companionship would never change that.  I am still alone, and it’s been nine years.

Three weeks later I finally sat down and tried to tell my father how I felt. I refused to speak words to him so a letter was all I could muster.

Dear Dad,

I know it’s taken me weeks to write a letter to you but you know how I am, lazy and self-absorbed. I’m sorry I didn’t write you sooner. It’s been a long three weeks and there’s a lot to tell you.

I’ve done my best in taking care of Katie and Judy. I know you expect me to keep everyone strong and let them know that everything is going to be okay. I’ve tried. I really have. I just wish you had told me how, because I’m having trouble figuring everything out at once.

Judy told me when I was with Chris. Well, Chris told me first. He said, “Heather, I’m so sorry but your Dad died today.” I didn’t believe him. I told him no, absolutely not. I had just talked to you, and no, you were not dead. Not fucking dead.

I knew he wasn’t lying, so I called Judy I asked to speak to you.  I needed to talk to you and I need to hear you so you could tell me yourself that you were alive and just sitting on your end of the couch, reading the paper and waiting for dinner.  But she said you weren’t there to answer the phone.  “So he’s dead,” I stated, because I know you didn’t get hit by a car or die of natural causes, I knew.  “How did he do it?” I asked, because the pain I felt was unbearable.  The moment that Chris said he was so sorry but it was true, you were dead, an emptiness consumed me.  An emptiness you created.

I waited three weeks to write to you because part of me refuses to believe you left me without saying goodbye. I came home from being in Maine a week to help take care of things, to watch over Katie and Judy, to find clues as to why you’d do this to me.  And I was convinced.  You must have sent a letter to me instead.  You could not have left a note that didn’t include one word about me.  That would be cruel and horrible and all I wanted was for someone to tell me was that you left something for me that said, I will miss you.  I loved you.  Goodbye.  I’m sorry was all I wanted to hear.  I was certain that there must be something waiting for me in my mailbox back home.  I raced there as soon as the taxi brought me to my door.  I left my suitcases outside, sat alone on the floor and I opened all the mail.  Every piece.  I threw them all on the floor.  I looked at every one of them again.  I was shaking and begging the bills and advertisements to magically turn into a letter from you, and they didn’t.  They fucking didn’t.  You hadn’t written to me.  You left me in silence.  You left me to deal with more than any normal person could even begin to comprehend.  I didn’t even know where to start.

I just don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t accept the fact that the closest I’ll ever be to you again is when I go to your house, to sit in your sports room to look at the velvet bag. You’re in that bag, Dad. You’re in that goddamned bag in an urn that wasn’t meant for you yet and I don’t know if I can do it. It’s crazy because I want to take you out and shake you. I want to dump you in a big mess on the floor and I want to sit there and say all the things I never got a chance to. I’ll tell you every funny story I have. I’ll tell you all the family gossip and my craziest life goals. Remember when I told you I wanted to be an Olympic diver? I can find something like that again. I’ll talk until you come back. I want to shake you and let you out so you can please come back. Please, come fucking back. It’s a sick, insane, horrible thought, I know, but I don’t know how to bring you back and I’m really trying to be strong but I don’t know if I can do it.

You weren’t supposed to be gone yet. I’m only twenty-seven. I need you so much. I’m trying so hard to be strong and move forward like you’d want me to but my head hurts, Dad. I’m scared and sad and confused and shit.  I just…I just need you. Please, PLEASE tell me how to do it without you.

You know, Chris drove me twelve hours through the night so I could be the one to tell Katie. I know she’s my responsibility but Jesus Christ, Dad. How could you leave without telling her you love her, telling her you weren’t mad, giving her peace in knowing her father really didn’t just kill himself without saying goodbye?  I hate you for doing that to her. It makes me despise you.  It makes me so violently angry that saying something like, I’d kill you myself if you hadn’t already done it, sounds rational to me, but would surely horrify others, so I keep that sort of inner monologue to myself.

I can take this Dad. I will get by. But her? She hadn’t talked to you in years. YOU DID THAT TO HER.  YOU FUCKING DID THAT TO HER AND THEN YOU LEFT HER, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.  I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for making me tell her the worst news of her life. It was the saddest things I’ve ever seen and it fucking killed me to watch her crumble at my feet.

She saw us out the window when we pulled up. I knew she’d see us. You know she’s like a spy, Dad. Always watching out her window like you did. You’re both bizarre and paranoid. Chris drove me twelve hours, you asshole, twelve fucking hours I sat in the passenger seat thinking of how to tell her you were dead a day ago.  I hate you, I hate you for that.  I will always fucking hate you for that.

I arrived just as the sun rose that morning.  I smelled of booze and cigarettes and fucking shattered dreams.  I pulled into her driveway mere hours before she was to go on a vacation she saved and planned for, a vacation I was not part of.

She saw me the minute I pulled in.  She flew out the back door, like a flash from the window to the stairs, and she bolted down the stairs with an excitement I was there to ruin, you had made me ruin. She didn’t even bother to put anything on over her pajamas and she ran so fast you could tell she was excited and surprised and she thought now, because I was there, that I might be going with her.

Do you know how long I had to sit and comprehend and dwell and come up with the words I was supposed to say to her? Do you? Let me remind you.  Twelve hours, Dad. Twelve fucking hours of sitting in my car, refusing the sedatives my therapist though my husband should give me.  Twelve hours of silence and darkness on 95 that will forever make me hate driving that highway.  It made me sick. It was a million times worse having to tell her and ruin her life than it was even having heard it myself.

She knew before I even said a word. She stopped fast when she saw my face. I didn’t cry and I tried to smile. But I couldn’t. I just stared at her, trying to take a mental snapshot of her face.  It would be the last time I’d see that glimmer in her eyes.

She already knew and she went from blank to hysterical instantly. She held up her hand and said firmly, “No. Please tell me you’re not here about Dad. Please tell me nothing happened to Dad.”

Goddamn you. I couldn’t fucking tell her no. I just stood there. I grabbed her hard and held her tightly while she tried to squirm away and said softly, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Dad killed himself yesterday. Dad’s dead.”  And then I held my breath.

She dropped to the ground, out of my arms, and clawed and slammed at the wet grass, barely able to wheeze familiar words of regret.  “No. Noooo,” she wailed. “I never got to talk to him. He called me and I didn’t call him back. I didn’t call him back.” She was shrieking and pleading with herself that this wasn’t her fault and I hate you for making her feel like that.

We’ve all had weeks now to convince ourselves against the fact that it’s not our fault, because someone didn’t do their job, and one of us could have made it better. I don’t know whose fault it is anymore, Dad. I don’t even know if it’s your fucking fault.  I want to hate you and blame you and not myself but I’m just so sad. My chest hurts and I can’t swallow and nothing seems exciting and I wait all day long just so I can find a way to sit by myself at night to cry. I didn’t know I could ever feel so, so empty.

And that was week three as a suicide survivor.

That was all I could muster on paper to say to him.  I wasn’t ready for anything else.

I had the rest of my life for the rest of the story to unfold.  And it started to, eventually, slowly, and painfully.  What was still undetermined was whether or not I would survive it all myself.

***Please email me at The Heather Chronicles,, if you need to talk, if you have a similar story to share, or if you’re broken.  I am always, always here, to help another someone survive this tragedy we face as suicide. ***




A story of surviving loss by suicide

As a follow-up to yesterday’s blog, I wanted to post the speech I gave at a mental health awareness conference in Washington, DC, in 2008.  I had only survived 9 months since losing my father to suicide, and I spoke from the survivor perspective with the hopes that sharing my story would make a difference in the life of one family struggling with the same issues.

Here is my initial story, something I’ve only shared with immediate family in the past.  Even they haven’t seen it in 7 years, and after I watched the video this morning, I was left with a sadness and emptiness that all other survivors will understand.  This video is about 20 minutes long, and I thank you in advance for watching it, for taking the time to understand a cause so important to me, and for sharing it on your pages with the hope that it may touch someone who needs some hope.

Losing my father, a personal look at loss by suicide

It takes only a conversation to give someone the hope they need to keep going in life.  Take the chance and start a conversation that may change the path of the life of someone you love.  I promise you, you will not regret it.

As always, I can be reached at and I look forward to hearing from you.