Scariest Post Published


I started my blog because I NEEDED to write. I thought I needed to write short stories and feature pieces and sappy poems, but as it turns out, I needed to release some dark memories. Putting those painful experiences on “paper” turned out to be a frightening task though. However, it was a therapeutic task that helped me move forward.

The scariest post I made was about abuse. It was a one-time physical encounter but it is something I am reminded of every day that I look in a mirror. And the day that I wrote it, the words flew out fast and furious, just like I was there. I could feel the pain, the confusion. I had a sense of danger and fear. It was almost like reliving the event in some ways, and when I hit “publish” I wondered, was this too much to share…

We cheered and ranted on at the baseball game. It was a blast. We laughed and kissed. It was a perfect day. Then, it became the worst day, and I wished I had stay home.

We left the game and went to this bar, a bar where he was a bouncer. I tried to pretend I was comfortable there, but I wasn’t. Not at all. I looked at every pretty girl and wondered, was it her he stayed out with? Was it her he flirted with? I tried to wash away my insecurities with a drink and some careless dancing. I flung myself around the dance floor, just feeling the music and…probably looking a bit foolish. I didn’t care though. I just wanted to be happy. I wanted to believe my guy was not flirting right there in front of me. So I danced. I laughed. I had the best time I could appear to have. Then I looked over and saw it.

Continue to the original post.

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For the Daily Post ~ The Scariest Post I Ever Published.

Hoodwinked by “Love”


I have always been a fool for love. I was the little girl who watched Cinderella, the teen who married her high school sweetheart and the woman who believed all men meant what they said. Each and every time, I thought it was true, everlasting love. Unfortunately though, I was wrong every time. It wasn’t love. Some of it was friendship, attraction and mutual desire. However, other times it was just plain and simple abuse that I willingly accepted, and at times, even asked for more.

Like most girls, I watched all the fairytales. I believed in princes and romance and a life full of passion. I didn’t really witness this kind of magical love while growing up, but yet, I thought it was still out there. I wished for it. I prayed for it. I wrote about it.

At times, I think I had sprinkles of love, or at least some heavy puppy love. I had some romance and passion and fun. There were words of endearment, claims of unending love and dreams of a life of grandeur. Men had promised to love me, stand by my side and never leave me. But more often than not, their words did not reflect their actions.

I was told I was perfectly beautiful, but that I should dress up more and wear my hair differently. I was told that I was exciting, fun and full of passion, but then left because I was ‘too hard to keep up with.’ I was told that I was funny and witty, but was punched in the face because that same mouth stated the unwanted truth. I was told that I was desired so much and that I shouldn’t be scared, but he didn’t notice or care that I was crying. I was told that I was so easy to talk to, a perfect friend who he could tell all his troubles to, but when it came time to meet, he couldn’t remember the fact that he was actually still married. (Thank God we never actually met.) I was told that I was a good mother, but was berated for not answering texts fast enough when I was spending time with my teenager. I was told that I should spend time with my family, but was broken up with over the phone while at my mother’s funeral because he was ‘tired of begging for my attention.’ I was told that I was loved so deeply and so truly, but I was cheated on multiple times.

This was the love I learned over the last 30+ years. Needless to say, this was not the love I envisioned or wanted. No, not at all. I don’t ever remember Prince Charming breaking his soulmate’s teeth with his fist. Nor was there a chapter where he made her feel bad about spending time with her children or honoring her dead mother. The princes I was choosing were of a different breed. However, I can’t blame everything on my suitors. I wholeheartedly believe a relationship takes two to work. There were times, I was not the best girlfriend or wife. I played my part at times. I had harsh words in response to hurt. I lowered myself to a revenge cheat when I discovered the first painful betrayal. I could be overwhelming at times with things I wanted to do or places I wanted to go, knowing finances were a concern.

So I could have done some things better. Maybe if I had, certain relationships could have been different. I don’t believe any of my actions caused the abuse though, at least not anymore. At the time, I thought it was my fault though. I should not have led him on if I didn’t want to do more…but I was just a teenager, it wasn’t my fault. I should not have accused him of cheating and then he would not have punched me….but it was true, he was cheating and he had no right to hit me. I should not have started talking to a married man and got close…but he told me he was separated and I believed him, it all made sense.

With each of these relationships, I learned. I learned that love was not what I thought it was. It was hard. It was unstable. It was insecure. It was mean. And it was painful at times. I started to think it was fiction. There was no damn Prince Charming! And maybe it was crazy for women to expect men to perform at that level. I mean that is a lot of pressure and effort. Maybe I was just expecting too much and believing in fairytales. So I started to give up on love, the whole idea. I started to throw in the towel  and resign myself to a social life of outdoor activities I tried alone. I thought, I can be quite happy in life alone. I don’t need a man to make me happy.

This was all going fine…and then, I went on a blind date. Now, I want to believe love is possible. I hope that my battered heart can heal. I pray that this prince is different. I dream that a relationship without abuse is not fiction. I crave that I can be seen for who I am, fun and passionate, and be enough, and yet, not too much. I wish that disagreements can be settled without the desire and respect diminishing. I think all of these things as I look into the eyes of my new prince, my new boyfriend. It is almost terrifying to try another hand at love, but hey, I have always been a fool.

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For the Daily Post ~ Brilliant Disguise. 

It Was My Fault He Punched Me


We cheered and ranted on at the baseball game. It was a blast. We laughed and kissed. It was a perfect day. Then, it became the worst day, and I wished I had stay home.

We left the game and went to this bar, a bar where he was a bouncer. I tried to pretend I was comfortable there, but I wasn’t. Not at all. I looked at every pretty girl and wondered, was it her he stayed out with? Was it her he flirted with? I tried to wash away my insecurities with a drink and some careless dancing. I flung myself around the dance floor, just feeling the music and…probably looking a bit foolish. I didn’t care though. I just wanted to be happy. I wanted to believe my guy was not flirting right there in front of me. So I danced. I laughed. I had the best time I could appear to have. Then I looked over and saw it.

He was kneeling before a seated girl. He was holding her hands and laughing. The way he looked into her eyes cut my heart. I had seen that look before, but that is another story. No. This was not happening again. I started to panic. “Stop. Don’t freak out. This is not then. It is not happening again. You are just being dramatic,” I told myself as I stood on the dance floor.

Finally, I willed my feet to move into the direction of the couple. My man and this pretty girl. As I approached, I thought to look cool and casual, so I kind of danced my way over to the table and approached with a big playful greeting. Their reply was not as welcoming, but merely a look of irritation. In my head I screamed and panicked, but outwardly, I managed to exchange some pleasantries. The unwelcome feeling was overwhelming though, so I made a quick exit back to the dance floor.

I couldn’t breath. I needed to leave. So, I forced a smile on my face and continued to dance for minute. And then, I literally danced and smiled out of the club. I found our car and threw myself onto the ground in the grass by the tree where the car parked. He had the key, so I couldn’t leave. I laid there, with my feet on the car and cried. It was exactly as I feared. He was cheating…again. This couldn’t get worse. Yet, it did and it did quickly.

Somewhere in the tears, I fell asleep. I guess my body just shut down between the alcohol, the hour and the stress. I woke up with him towering over me, glaring at me with such hatred. “What the fuck, Michelle! You embarrassed me.”

“Huh? How did I embarrass you? You were the one flirting! I was only dancing.”

“You made a scene and stormed out!”

“No! No, I didn’t. I danced out of the club. How the hell is that a storm? I danced out. Danced!”

“I brought you to where I work and you acted like a bitch and made scene. Get in the fucking car!”

“I am not going anywhere with you! And who is making the fucking scene now?” I screamed.

Angry words continued for a few minutes and I eventually got in the car because I always did what he said. I always gave in.

He sped off like someone who should not be driving. He made the scene he was embarrassed of. I said something to that extent. He called me names. I screamed in frustration. He called me more names. Then, I said something horrible. I don’t know what it was, but it must have been so horrible it required him to punch me in the face. Not a slap or a hit, but a full-fist punch. A punch so hard I bled. Instantly, I tasted the blood in my mouth. I felt a bit of something in my mouth—bits of my broken teeth.

He slammed the brakes on the car. I flew into the window, crying. He immediately started to apologize. He never wanted to be like his father. He was sorry. Oh my God, he was sorry. My life started to move in slow motion and I saw what I had become and I couldn’t stop it. Words started to flow from my bloody mouth. Words that were not true but yet, I felt compelled to say.

“No, it is my fault. I shouldn’t have said that. You would not have hit me if I didn’t say that. It’s OK. It is my fault.” What the fuck was I saying? Did I really just say that it was my fault that he punched me in the face because I said some words? Yep. I did. And I said them over and over again. I consoled HIM and wiped away HIS tears as I bled.

He got out of the car and told me to go home. He needed to be alone. I sat there for some amount of time. I didn’t want to leave him on the road. THAT would be wrong, wouldn’t it? Eventually though, I did leave. I drove home and did what any other girl who had just been punched in the face would do. I called my sister. She was out with her husband though on a rare late night. So I left a late night/early morning message that had to be somewhat both hysterical and scary to hear.

In between sobbing and gasping, I managed to say, “I just called…to say, hi…and I love you. Don’t worry….I …am…OK….Sorry….to call…so late.” And then tried to make it all better with a twisted laughing goodbye at the end.

I made that call while I was curled up on the floor of my laundry room, next to the cat litter. Yeah, that was the level of my mental status at the time. I was as good as the cat litter.

At one point, I woke up in bed. I don’t remember getting there. Nor do I recall the man that had a wet towel on my forehead. I knew him to be a friend of my man, but can’t place his name or face. He was kind though. He spoke to me gently and said he was sorry. The man who I cannot even remember said HE was sorry. HE held my hand and let me cry. HE spoke to my sister on the phone and told her I was OK. HE would ensure nothing else happened. And then, I drifted back to sleep.

That awful night was the beginning of the end. The end of a relationship that had started out so wonderful. Though there was not an escalation of more physical abuse, there was emotional and verbal. And nearly every time, I had an excuse for it. I let it happen. I contributed. I didn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop it. Or maybe, I didn’t want to stop it as it was becoming all I knew.

Years later and out of that relationship, I still cannot really understand my thoughts back then. And yet, every time I look in the mirror I am reminded of that night. All I have to do is look at the broken teeth in my mouth, and I am there. I am saying I am sorry. I am responsible for someone’s fist being thrown into my face. I can hear myself take the blame over and over, and I can only come up with one reason.

It was the only way to stop it. Clearly, fighting back had only enraged him so much that he hit me. Like an animal lying down to submit in a fight, I threw myself at his mercy. I pleaded for a truce. I promised to be good. I said I was sorry. I took the blame.

It is the only explanation that makes sense to me now. And I wonder, how many other women out there have had their best day turned into their worst…and think it is there fault?