"Psycho Analyze This"

"You're only as sick as your secrets"
~Author Unknown

"Psycho Analyze This"

My aversion of psychiatrist’s, psychologists, counselors, etc., started when I was about five years old. A court ordered psychiatrist had sexually molested me and threatened and to reveal a terrible secret and send my mommy to jail if I told (I still loved my mother at that time, so I kept my mouth shut); there were others who loved to “over medicate” me; some locked me up and tried their "new and innovated torture " therapy procedures on me (with my mothers signed consent of course) and many felt shock therapy was the panacea for all insanity and even hemorrhoids.

Unfortunately, the psychiatrist’s I have encountered over the years were not very “helpful” (to put it mildly). In fact, most psychiatrists I have seen couldn’t even help me across a street.

Of course I know that not all psychiatrists are bad; that is like saying “All fire trucks are red; therefore all red trucks must be fire trucks”. Despite being a mild schizophrenic passed on genetically from my mother and a complete heterodox I am a extraordinarily logical person.

I was in my late teens, early 20’s when I started to try to get help. The nightmares were worse, I had insomnia and I was becoming a danger to people I judged as “bad”. The problem is that I wouldn’t just confront them, I would beat them and hop they died.

Unfortunately, the psychiatrist’s I have encountered over the years were not very “helpful” (to put it mildly). In fact, most psychiatrists I have seen couldn’t even help me across a street.

Some kept me hanging on, claiming that they could help me; but it would take some time. I was desperate so I still came to the sessions. But, I finally found out why they kept seeing me as one of them broke down and confessed (amidst their crying and sobbing) that I had have actually been helping them deal with their own issues.

I was actually elated that someone as “screwed up” as me could make a difference and help someone; but my life was getting crazier every day and I was doing things that would eventually end me up in an asylum doped of on Thorazine. I was paying them to help me, not give out counseling sessions. I was being taken advantage of (which was normal) and it pissed me off.

I showed up to my next appointment and told the receptionist that I was no longer to be charged for my visits. Confused, she went to get the Psychiatrist who asked me “what was going on”. I simply told her she would be receiving my bill in the mail for my counseling services and walked out. I never did send her a bill and she never contacted me again.

As I got older (mid-twenties), between the drugs, alcohol and self destructive behavior I found some momentary lapses of insanity and at least made another attempt to get better. I was walking a thin line and I knew it would break, but I wasn’t quite sure if I was ready for it, especially now that I had a young step daughter to take care of. Money was tight, so I tried the free family counseling clinic, but they told me I was beyond their expertise and then they handed me a sheet with referral names of psychologists.

I was sick of “mental health” professionals and maybe I should just except that I am crazy and “get over it”. A few days later, around 3:00 am, I sat in the dark downing Vicodin and Vodka, but it was no longer numbing the pain, I needed help. I found the paper the counseling office had given me in the back seat of my car and picked the most German/Austrian name I could find (I had a thing for Sigmund Freud) and called about 9:00am to make an appointment. I had to answer a list of “screening” questions by the receptionist before I could see this lady and I guess my phone interview went well enough that I got an appointment later that afternoon.

I walked into her austere looking office, that was on Mid-Wilshire and she studied me through her tiny round gold rimmed glasses, I started to speak, but she quickly raised her hand with neatly clipped nails to shush me; her gesture was Nazi-like. I almost blurted out “Ya vol, mein Führer!” in obedience; I kept quiet and sat down in a chair across from her too neat looking desk.

She was a bit scary looking, in fact everything about her looked like the “Reich would rise again!”(It’s actually really funny if you say it out loud with a Southern accent). I fully expected to find a swastika flag hidden behind one of the boring prints of Weiner dogs that hung on her office wall or a signed picture of Hitler in her desk drawer.

Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun which matched her thin and hollow cheeked face. As I scrutinized as she was me, I noticed that she did not have lips, there was just a long slit across her face for a mouth.

I have had guns put to my head that made me feel less uncomfortable than I did sitting in front of her. I nervously shifted my position in the uncomfortable chair and a disturbing noise came from it (the chair, not me). Her expression changed slightly. I purposely changed positions several times more just to prove that it was the chair fating and not me. I was successfully able to recreate the noise. If she had real leather chairs instead of this “leatherette shit” I am sure it would have not been so “flatulent”.

“You are German!” she suddenly spoke and it was more of a accusation than a question. I nearly jumped out of my seat at her forceful tone.

“Nien” I answered her in German.

Her expression changed from stern and stoic, “You must be German, I am never wrong about these things” she announced arrogantly.

“Well Frau (what ever her name was)” I am afraid you are wrong, no one in my family is German” I replied. She has wasted fifteen minutes trying to “racial profile” me at $150.00 dollars an hour.

“Austrian!” she said proudly like she had just guessed the million dollar question.

*That is Aus-tri-an not Aus-tra-li-an, two different countries on the opposite side of the world; just a little geographical history for people who confuse the two, especially George Bush.

“Nien” I replied again.

She continued insisting that I had to have come from Germanic stock because I was a natural blonde with blue eyes and very tall (In other words I looked “Aryan”). Actually, my eyes were not exactly blue and if she was a real doctor she would have noticed that I have Heterochromia (eyes of different colors).

This was another waste of my time and I only had fifteen minutes left to tell “Hitler” about my problems. Screw it! I was out of here! As I started to gather my purse she must sensed my annoyance and blurted out the “Tell me about your childhood” cliché’ to salvage the moment.

What the hell? She had my money up front so I decided to tell her the more gruesome acts of abuse against me that I have rarely told anyone. As I spoke and told her of the torture that I suffered that could easily be compared to some of her motherland’s Nazi camp tactics, she started turning whiter (I half expected Frau Hitler to enjoy what I was saying), then a shade of green. She looked sick to her stomach and I knew she tried to interrupt to stop me. But, I wasn’t done, she need one last horror story.

I told her of how at the age of 10 I tried to cauterize my vagina shut with a hot curling iron so the skin would heal closed up and I couldn’t be raped by my step-father.

Her mouth moved, but nothing came out. So she just sat there with a look of horror on her face and said nothing.

“And that isn’t even the worse thing that has happened to me” I said flatly. “Be careful what you ask your patients to reveal; it may come back to haunt you” I smiled sweetly and started to get up.

I could see the relief on her face that I was finally leaving, but I looked at my watched and I had about 2 minutes left, so I decided to sit back down and tell her a joke; lighten the mood a bit.

“How do you tell the difference between Austrians and a Germans at a party?”

“What?” her voice was shaky and her eyes kept darting toward the door to signal me to leave or maybe she was planning her own escape?

I asked the question again “How do you tell the difference between Austrians and a Germans at a party?”

She finally shook her head indicating she didn’t know.

Snickering, I answered “After getting drunk, German’s are still sitting straight up like they have a poker up their ass and the Austrians are passed out all over the place” I laughed hysterically; even the chair was “farting” in appreciation of my joke.

Most people wouldn’t get the joke, you would have had to been around a lot of Austrians and Germans to understand it especially in a cocktail/diplomatic setting. But she was German and I though she would at least crack a smile. But, I guess there was no emotion left in her (or none to begin with).

My time was up and I stood up from the “farting” chair and said “that fart was me; I do hope it doesn’t leave a skid mark”. I was feeling quite crude and wanted her to remember me.

“This was good for me Herr Doctor, was it good for you too?” I purposefully glanced over at her “diplomas” on the wall. I already knew she wasn’t a doctor’ but wanted to taunt her.

“My bad, I forgot you didn’t go to medical school. Next week, same time?” I said cheerfully.

She started to speak but I interrupted her “We’ll leave it open, I’ll have my people call yours” and I walked toward the door.

Just as I was closing it behind me, I popped my head back in; just to put the “last nail in the coffin”.

“By the way, I’m Jewish” (not really, but it was worth the look of shock on her face).

"Life in a nutshell is not possible"

If you can summarize your life up in a "nutshell" then you have not "lived".

I was told by an "author" "friend" (I use both those terms loosely) that I have to conform to make it as an author.

I am a non conformist and that is not going to change. But, I did write this "Query Letter" thing like he told me to. So if anyone is out there listening, take away from what I write what you will, criticize me, call me a liar, or just say nothing.

I may not be a "real writer", but I have lived through a hundred lifetimes and there is a story in each one of them.

This my first "query letter" draft (I know it needs work) Suggestions are welcome.

QUERY LETTER


If you are expecting the “average” victim/survivor memoir this is not it!

Augusten Burroughs’ “Running with Scissors” would be as close as I can compare my memoir to, only more sick and twisted with criminal elements and a more perverse sense of humor.

I am a convicted felon (for a crime I did not commit) hiding from my abusive mother, her child molesting husband and incestuous child raping grandfather. On top of that, my ex-husband (who has two warrants) and ex mother in-law have tried to kill me and were trying to take my children away from me..

Did I mention that my mother and grandfather got me arrested and had my bail amount of $1,000,000 dollars (they got a corrupt judge and former neighbor to set the bail; it was later overturned due to constitutional violations). Not even rapists and murderers get that high of a bail and I did none of those things. The only offense I was guilty of was saving a family member from neglect and filing molestation charges against them (I guess it really pissed them off).

As I said at the beginning there I nothing “average” about my story and not digress, but I am probably the only person earth who had got to torture, torment, humiliate, antagonize, shame, abuse, slap, beat the shit out of one of the world’s most nefarious 9/11 terrorists! I was working as a dominatrix when he came to see me and I can guarantee what I did to him was way more painful than dying in a plane crash. (By the way, if you are interested, ask me about the late David Carradine sometime).

It gets even better…one of the many unusual things abut me is that I look more like a “movie star” than a convicted felon who at one time In fact, in the country we are now living in, most people assume that I am some famous actress from America just taking a break from all the fame. They love to take pictures of me and ask for my autograph; and I if they new the real truth of why I was in their country I would probably really become a hero. As I am sure you know people can’t get enough of the dark side of someone’s past.

It has been almost six years since we left America on March 17th, 2004 (Saint Patrick’s Day) and never set looked back. Some people may find me a coward for running and that I should have stayed and taken the consequences and gone to jail; lose my children who would have been given to my perverted ex-mother in law (who was sexually abusing them) and my husband (who is a Vietnam veteran) goes insane and kills everyone involved. “Staying was not an option and I wasn’t running from my responsibilities, I was running to them! We have finally found some peace and happiness and it is close as one can ever get a chance to have a “do over” in life.

My memoir is called Momentary Lapses of Insanity; it pretty much starts at the beginning of my wretched life with a father who bailed on me before I was born. When I met him for the first time (at age 18) he confessed that he knew I was being abused. The asshole he knew and just left me there? I didn’t know whether to kick him in the nuts or cut them off; I finally just mumbled “thanks a lot asshole” and never saw him again.

My mother’s insanity got worse as time went on, especially after she remarried and gave birth to my brother. I was about four when my mother forced me to accuse her new husband of sexual abuse (he never touched me) she coached what to say the whole way through. She became so wrapped up in her lies that she started believing them and stabbed my step-father in the back (somehow she got away with it). I felt so guilty and still do; but life got its revenge on me; the court appointed psychiatrist who was supposed to help me cope turned out to be a pedophile who loved little girls,

After the divorce to husband number two, my mother’s methods of abuse became more bizarre (she made Dr. Mangele look like a saint) she would do things like hit my brothers penis with a belt; beat my vagina until it was raw and bleeding, put hot sauce in our eyes and as I got older; she forced me to douche with bleach just in case a fugitive sperm found its way inside me,.

By the time I am age 8 or so, she disappears for a couple of weeks and marries the “quintessential devil’’ himself. Not only did I have to endure my mother’s cruel insanity; I was a being raped and sexually molested by new my step father; and later by his friend’s and even law enforcement officials.

At age eleven I decided that they had to die; it was the only way to stop them. I stood at the foot of the bed when my mother and step father slept, I aimed my mother’s .22 gun at him first and squeezed the trigger nothing happened, I kept pulling the trigger but no bullets came out. They should have died that night, but something saved them, or maybe it was saving me from becoming a murderer.

Life continued to get weirder as I finally got away from my family. At the age of 18 I was already stealing cars, running guns and drugs across the border of Mexico; working for loan sharks; you name it I did it (except murder and prostitution). At some point I was sure I would be caught and I planned to go out in a blaze of glory; “suicide by cop”. It seems that DEA agents were just too stupid or could never imagine a girl that looks like me could ever be capable of those kinds of crimes.

I kept fucking up, and in classic “text book” fashion I married into a sick and twisted family. But this time it was worth the pain because I got two children out of it that I worship and love; they gave me purpose to stop my self destructive life and become human again. I now had something that I had to protect with my life. A messy divorce followed, attempts on my life and court battles continued to try throw its worst at me, but I kept fighting.

Finally I get a break and marry a man who is a war hero and loves me and my children and will do anything to protect us. It looked like the worst was over, but life was done with me yet, which brings us back to me and my family living incognito in a country far, far away.

This is just the tip of the iceberg and I would love could go on into detail of the horrific torture, the hilarious moments (like stealing a politicians car), the unusual jobs (can you believe that I was actually a certified paramedic?), getting thrown out of towns and asking the police to bring me some toilet paper as I urinated in someone bushes, the list goes on and on.

Thank you and "may the force be with you"

D. Elysee “Elle” Johnson (part pseudonym)
elysee.johnson@gmail.com

*By the way, I do have a “free get out of jail card in my back pocket” but it involves giving up my American citizenship and I am trying to keep from doing that, for now.

"Grandma's Love their Grandchildren" (don't they?)

“There would be no passion in this world if we never had to fight for what we love.”

-Susie Switzer

Early one morning my teenage daughter and I sat out on our balcony that overlooked the city and watched the morning sun rise across the metropolis. My husband and teenage son were still asleep; so it was just the two of us. We watched street vendors pushing their food carts down the road and enjoyed the aromas that wafted up to us. The sidewalk was being swept by an old lady with a broom made from twigs and a stick for a handle. Cars went by as the working people headed into the rush hour traffic. You could hear car horns blowing from impatient motorists.

Most people would consider it a typical morning in a big city; the same routine over and over again. But, to me there it was nothing typical or mundane about it. Fortunately or unfortunately, however you want to look at it; I have had some “unique experiences” that has given me a heightened awareness to never take anything for granted and treat each day expecting the unknown.

My daughter and I were talking about nothing in particular; the weather, people passing by, etc. everything was good. Suddenly my daughter’s attitude changed; she had a grave look on her face and I asked her what was wrong. She then told me that she had a bad dream about “them” last night that was bothering her. “Them” is how we all refer to my ex-husband (my children’s biological father) and in-laws. She told me in her dream they had taken her and her brother from us and hid them. There were tears in her eyes as she continued; she could hear my voice outside where they were locked up and was pounding on the walls and screaming, but I didn’t hear her.

I consoled her and told her that it was normal to still have dreams about “them” and they will fade more and more with time. As I thought about her dream something bothered me, I felt like she wanted to tell me something about “them”. I have had a feeling for the past couple of months that she has been keeping a secret from me for a while. I decided that now was the time to ask her the question I really didn’t want to know the answer to; but I had no other choice.

A few years ago I had asked her the same question and I waited with dread in my heart of what her answer would be. I knew that I couldn’t have been wrong all those years; I would have felt it. But still I asked the question; her reply was “No”. I made her swear on my life, her brothers, her dads and all that was dear to her. She swore and I knew that she would not lie if she swore on the lives of her loved ones.

But, something still didn’t feel right about her answer.

As we talked about the past, I summoned up the courage to ask her again. I needed to know that what we had done was the right thing to protect our family. Even though I knew it was, there was still that question that I needed closure to.

Sometimes we all want to forget about something in our past and as time goes on hopefully you can cope with it and push back into the recesses of your mind. I did not want to bring up anything painful from the past with my daughter, but she had been saying things to me that didn’t make sense. Finally, they did make sense; because at one time I had I had said the same things.

But she swore! She would never take a chance with swearing on lives if it was not true. It was time to ask once more.

“Do you remember when I asked you if Michael (her biological father) had ever touched you inappropriately? “ I asked her in a very calm monotone voice.

She nodded “yes”.

“You swore, so you were telling me the truth right?” I was trembling at this point.

She shook her head “yes” again.

I started to shake and was screaming silently to my self “NO! NO! NO!” This can’t be right! How did I not see or feel what had happened. I had radar for that kind of thing, how did I not pick it up!

“If he didn’t touch you……” I paused trying to keep the bile down that was rising in my throat “It was her?” I finally spat it out incredulously.

She sat there and looked at me with pain in her eyes, but did not answer.

“It was her?” I whispered.

“I don’t want to hurt you mom” she finally spoke with tears falling down her cheek.

“I need to know that everything that dad and I have done to keep this family from being torn apart and to keep you and your brother safe was the right thing to do!” I yelled at her. “Did ‘Kevin’ (her paternal grandmother; yes, she is a woman) ever touch you inappropriately?!”

“Yes” She whimpered, then quickly said “but don’t tell dad (her adopted father) it will be too much for him to handle” she begged.

I grabbed her and pulled her onto my lap and held her tight as she told me what her grandmother had done to her. It was a horrible secret to keep to herself and I could tell that she was relieved to finally get it out. I asked her if Kevin had touched her brother (who is 16 months younger than her) and she swore that to her knowledge he wasn’t.

She said the reason that she didn’t tell, was not because nobody would believe her, it was that she was afraid dad and I would have gone insane and killed Kevin. Then dad or I would have gone to jail and she didn’t want to lose us. She remembered when she lost me for about 3 months and said she couldn’t take it again. Unfortunately, she was correct; I would have killed Kevin; if my husband didn’t get to her first.

At first the guilt was overwhelming; I had turned white as a sheet and was trembling so violently that my vision was blurring. I told her over and over again that “mommy is so sorry” and “I will never let anyone hurt you like that again”.

It is inconceivable how a grandmother could be that sick and twisted to sexually abuse her own granddaughter. A grandmother would be the last person you would suspect of being a child molester and if you told someone they couldn’t believe it was true.

Any iota of doubt that either my husband or myself may have had has been completely obliterated by what our daughter had finally revealed about her grandmother. We had made the right decision.

For the first time since making the decision to leave our home, country and life behind there was no doubt not even a tiny minuscule of hesitation that it was one thousand percent the right thing to do.

All I can say right now is that that bitch (my children’s own paternal grandmother) got lucky I left before I found out what she did to my children, because what I would have done to her would have probably put me on death row.

"Hunger Makes a Thief of Any Child"

Hunger makes a thief of any man. ~Pearl S. Buck


The first crime I can recall committing was when I was about 6 years old. At the time I was too young to comprehend what I had done was actually a crime.

The “real” crime was actually committed by my mother; she was the one who put me in this situation; I only did what I had to do.

It was really early in the morning and I guess I should feel lucky that my mother even bothered to wake me and my brother up to tell us she was leaving.
“Where are you going?” I asked still half asleep.

She babbled on about going on a sleep over with a “friend” (a man) and that she arranged for a babysitter; who had yet to show up.

“Where is she? I have to go” my mother said to herself while rushing around the house looking for her purse.

“What are we supposed to do?” I asked her while holding my little brothers hand.
Ignoring me, she finally found her purse and then went over to the mirror hanging by the front door and fiddled with her hair. She pulled out a vial of perfume from her purse that smelled like geraniums and daubed it on her wrists and behind her ears.

“Mommy” I tried to get her attention, and she finally looked at us “What are we supposed to do?”

“The sitter said she would be here so just wait for her to show up and let her in” she replied exasperatedly. “Now how do I look?” She smiled sweetly at me.

“You look gorgeous mommy” I replied without enthusiasm.

A horn sounded outside and my mother looked out the window, the cab was here to pick her up. She was on her way to the airport to meet her “friend”. I didn’t even know where she was going.

“I’ll ring you tonight and will be back late tomorrow” she called out over her shoulder and walked out of the house.

“Wait!” I yelled after her, “What if the babysitter doesn’t come?”

Nana and Granddad were on a trip to Tahiti or something at the time so there would be nobody to take care of us and I didn’t want a complete stranger babysitting us.
My mother either didn’t hear me or ignored me, most likely the latter. I just stood outside on the porch hopelessly watching the taxi drive off. She didn’t even turn around to wave goodbye.

I felt a tugging at my bathroom sleeve “I’m hungry” my brother complained.
He was always hungry; Nana would nastily call him a “guts” because he ate so much. I didn’t think he ate too much, he was always so skinny.

“I’ll make you some cereal; go watch some cartoons” I muttered and went into the kitchen.

I couldn’t reach the cupboard that the cereal was in so I started dragging a big leather stool from the kitchen to get to it. The stool weighed more than I did, but I managed to get it to the cupboard and climbed up onto to it.
“What cereal do you want D?” I called out to my brother.

“I don’t know” he replied back.

There were only two boxes so I grabbed them both and got down. Neither of the boxes of cereal had much in them.

I poured the cereal in some bowls and used up one of the boxes and the other had enough left for one more serving. Opening the refrigerator I got the milk out, there was not enough for both of us to have cereal, so I gave it to my brother and I ate dry cereal.

It had been a while since my mother had left and I kept checking out the window every time I heard a car coming down the street I would look to see if it was the baby sitter. It was now after lunch time and she was still not here. It was obvious, she wasn’t coming. I still wonder to this day if my mother even called a sitter.

My brother was hungry again and so was I. There was some cottage cheese, a few pieces of bread and some green olives. Since Nana and Granddad had gone on vacation a few days ago my mother had not gone grocery shopping so there was no food in the house. I tried to make a meal out of what I could find, but by the time dinner rolled around there was virtually nothing to eat. There was some canned food stuff, but I couldn’t get the electric can opener to work and there wasn’t any other opener to use.

Normally my mother and grandparents would leave phone numbers of where they could be reached. I searched around the phone, there were no emergency phones numbers to call, no hotel numbers of where any of them were. We were all alone and I knew better than to go to the neighbors for help or call the police; this would embarrass my family and I was never to do that under any circumstances. Besides, if I had gone to the neighbors, they wouldn’t have believed me. My mother had told the neighbors that my brother and I were problem children and we tend to lie to get attention and ignoring us would help us get better.

My brother had fell asleep in front of the TV and I covered him with a blanket. It was late at night, way past my bedtime, but I was too scared to go to sleep. I went through the house making sure that every door and window was locked and closed all the curtains. I kept hearing noises and was afraid that someone was trying to break in, but it was only my mind playing tricks on me.

At some point I had fell asleep because my brother was shaking me awake. “I’m hungry” he said holding his stomach.

We had to get some food. I looked through all the drawers in the house for some money, but I could only find some loose change that would maybe buy us a few pieces of candy. Suddenly I had an idea.

“I’m going to walk to the store and you need to stay here” I told my brother sternly. “Do not open the door for anyone but me okay?” He nodded his head.

“I’ll get us some food and I will be back as fast as I can” I hugged him.
“What if you don’t?” he whimpered.

I knew what he meant “I will come back; you know that I wouldn’t leave you”.
He nodded again. I walked out of the house and locked the door behind me and hoped that my plan would work.

I didn’t want anyone from the neighborhood to see me so I ran the whole way to the store which was about a mile away. The grocery store was in an upscale a strip mall, there was a bank, liquor store, florist etc. It was around lunch time and the parking lot was full as I weaved in and out of the parked cars looking for what I needed.

Found one! I picked up a piece of paper lying on the ground; it was a grocery receipt. I looked on the list for some things that we could eat.

There were a couple of times that I had remembered that my mother had left a bag of groceries or a couple of items were not in the grocery bag when she got home, at the store. She would go back to the store, show them the receipt and they would give her the items. I knew if I could find some receipts lying around the parking lot I could do the same thing and just tell them my mother sent me.

My family lived in a very affluent area and the grocery store patrons were mainly wealthy people. Nobody took much notice of a six year old little girl wandering around the parking lot picking up bits of paper; it was as though I was almost invisible. A few snobby old biddies gave me a look of disgust as they got into their fancy Cadillacs or Mercedes. I am sure they were thinking that I was some impoverished child from the “wrong side of the tracks” invading their upper class sanctum.

After finding several more receipts I choose one that had milk, cereal, bread and some other stuff that we could eat and I walked into the store. I had been in there many times with my Nana and Mother, so quite a few of the clerks knew me. I saw a man that I knew and walked up to him.

“Excuse me” I said politely to him.

Turning around he looked down and immediately recognized me and gave me a big smile “Where’s your mother or grandmother sweetie? Did you lose them?” he chuckled.
“No, my mom’s waiting in the car” I lied “She was here earlier this morning and when she got home she was missing some things from the grocery bag” I tried to keep my voice steady “so she sent me in here to get them for her” I hoped he would believe me.

“What items is she missing?” he said and took the receipt from me.
I kept the list small, just a few items to feed us until my mother came home tonight. Without question, he walked through the aisles and got me the food and put it into a bag.

“Please tell your mother I am sorry for the inconvenience” he smiled and handed me the bag.

“Thank you, I will” I pasted on a fake smile and skipped out the door.
Keeping to the sidewalk I checked to make sure that no one was going to grab me for doing this and then started running. I was shaking so badly that I thought I was going to pass out as I waited for the light to change so to get across the busy avenue. I leaned against the light pole at the crosswalk trying to catch my breath. The light changed and I forced myself to move, as I stepped down from the curb I fell, and some of the groceries fell out of the bag.

I looked up and saw that a couple of drivers had seen me, but no one got out to help. I collected the groceries and stood up, I had skinned my knee and blood was dripping down my leg. I closed my eyes for a moment and wished that someone, anyone would rescue me.

Suddenly I heard a voice call out to me from a car! My wish was granted! Somebody was going to help me!

“Hey girl!” a woman yelled out her window at me.

I looked at her with gratefulness and before I could reply she spoke again.

“Hey you! She snapped at me “move or you’re going to block traffic!”

The mean look on her face terrified me; ignoring the pain and blood I ran across the road as fast as I could to get away from her. I didn’t stop running until I turned down my street that ended in a cul-de-sac. Finally I made it up to the front door and rang the door bell.

“Open the door. It’s me!” I called out to my brother.

The front door had a window that was covered by a curtain, I saw it move and my brother peeked out and quickly opened the door.

He hugged me tight “I was scared you were gone” he said through tears.

“I told you I would come back. It’s okay now, I got us some food” I said and opened the grocery bag to show him.

“I’m hungry” he whined

“I will make you something to eat” I said as I walked into the kitchen. I stopped as I saw that there was a mess in the middle of the floor. It looked like blood!
I started to panic, but then saw a ketchup bottle on the counter.

“You were eating plain ketchup?” I questioned him.

“I was hungry” he said sheepishly.

“It’s okay. I’ll clean it up after we eat.”

“You’re bleeding!” my brother yelled out at me in terror.

I had forgotten about the pain and blood. It was just a scrape and the blood was already dried.

I told my brother I fell, but it didn’t hurt and quickly took a towel and wet it to wipe away the blood.

“See?” I said cheerfully “all better”.

I quickly made us big bowls of cereal with milk and some toast with some marmalade jam that was in the fridge. Ravenous, we shoveled the food in our mouths as fast as we could.

We waited for my mother to come home as she said she would, but she didn’t. I tucked my brother into bed and crawl in next to him. As I lay there unable to sleep I came to a realization that nobody is going to help me and I would be right about that for a very long time.

The next morning I awoke to the phone ringing and answered it. It was my mother.
“Hi moppet! Let mommy talk to the babysitter” she happily chirped at me.

“She isn’t here” I answered coldly.

“Where is she? Did she leave you alone this morning?” my mother sounded mad.

“She never showed up” I said flatly.

“What do you mean?” my mother snapped at me.

“She never showed up” I shrieked at her and slammed down the phone.

I hated my mother and I didn’t love her. I knew there is something wrong with me because everybody loves their mother, but I didn’t.

There were times I “liked” her and showed her affection that could be mistaken for love. Strangely enough I didn’t feel guilty about not loving her because I knew the feeling was mutual. My mother was incapable of love and one day I would find out why.

After I hung up on her I didn’t answer the phone as I knew it was her trying to call me back. The ringing finally stopped and I figured she gave up. I knew that she would beat the shit out of me for hanging up on her, but I welcomed the beating because it would briefly numb the mental pain which was much worse than the physical.

My mother showed up later that evening and immediately began physically and verbally assaulting me from the moment she walked in the door. First she said I was a liar and that the babysitter had been here, then she accused me of not letting the sitter in when she came. My mother went on and on hurtling crazy accusations at as to why it was my fault that we were left alone. The final thing she said to me before walking away was not to tell nana and granddad and threatened to send away my brother if I did.

She knew that threat would work; my lips were sealed.

Throughout the years as I got older, there were many time that she left us alone and as I got older I smarter.

I used the grocery receipt trick and would boldly walk through the store putting the items in the bag; if anyone stopped me I had a receipt. Sometimes I would just shoplift food, but only enough just to feed us. I never stole anything that was not a necessity to live when I was younger.

But, that would change one day soon.

END CHAPTER

"Justice is not blind"

(It just favors the beast over the beauty)


One had better die fighting against injustice than die like a dog or a rat in a trap.
~Ida B. Wells

What would you do to protect you children?

Would you jump in front of a speeding car?

Take a bullet for them?

Give your life in exchange for theirs?

What if you had ex husband and in-laws that you knew were abusing them? What would you do then?

Let’s say you are a mother who found out her children had been abuse and immediately went to the police to make out a report and demand they be arrested, The only thing the police do is tell you to get a restraining order.

So, you go to court to get a restraining order and the first thing they do is drag you and your children through long hours of court ordered psych evaluations.

Finally, at the hearing you get to read the psych evaluation report and find it is all in favor of you and the children. It showed that the children are being abused by the ex family. The court appointed evaluators said that there is proof that the children are in danger and should NOT be around the ex in-laws. They fully supported a temporary restraining order until a full investigation could be made into the allegation of the children.

You would be thrilled! You have done everything the legal way and you had finally won the battle to keep your children safe. All that is left is to stand in front of the judge, let them read the recommendation and walk out with a piece of paper that would at least keep your children away from people that only wanted to hurt them.

Finally you appear in court and your case number is called, you and your ex husband stand up and walk up to the tables before the judge.

The judge was a woman in her mid fifties who had a permanent scowl etched into her features. The clerk hands her the file with the recommendations from the court psych evaluators, but she doesn’t read them, in fact does not even glance down. She was too busy looking back and forth at you and your ex-husband (Who were completely mismatched).

You are a six foot tall, drop dead beautiful blond that looks like a model. You have made every attempt to “look like the typical mother" by playing down your looks. You dress in a very conservative pants suit and keep your make-up minimal and your hair in an understated bun.

Your ex-husband is an average, unexceptional looking guy, dressed in a pair of rust color corduroy pants, a dingy faded polo type shirt, his hair was graying and he weighed at least 300lbs. He beats you hands down by looking like a victim.

Now we enter the mind of the judge; an older woman, plainly not attractive and a nasty glare on her face pointed directly at you.

You could see the wheels turning in her head and know exactly what she was thinking; she was feeling sorry for the poor unattractive ex-husband and hatred toward his ex-wife who was probably cheating on him through the whole marriage and was only trying to make this poor innocent man miserable.

“Case dismissed!” she said with a smirk on her face directed at you.

You stand there in shock and then turn a look at your fiancee who is sitting behind you for moral support; he is in a state of shock. You look at the judge who was no longer paying any attention to either of you. You turn you attention toward the court her clerk and even the bailiff and see that they were just as surprised by the judge’s ruling.

But, you still refuse to give up and spoke up “You’re honor; I respectfully ask that you read the recommendation given by the court appointed psychiatric evaluators that have spoken with my children.” You are practically begging. “It clearly says that they suggest a temporary restraining order….”

She cuts you off before you can finish your sentence. “Are you trying to tell me how to run my court room” she asked with a threatening tine in her voice.

You start to lose it and snap back “No your honor I am not trying tell you how to run your court room, I am telling you to just do your job”

Fury turns the judge’s face red and she practically screams at you “I have made my ruling and get out of my court room before I have you put in contempt and do not even think about accusing anyone of sexual abuse or I will take your children away from you and give them to your ex”

You never would accuse anyone of false sexual abuse; it was not the way you were wired and you knew that

your ex may be a lot of things, but he was not a child molester.

You feel you a hand grabbing you and trying to pull you away, it is your fiancee'. He whispers “It’s not over, keep it together”.

The whole time this was going on your sick ex-husband is smirking and making faces at you like a fucking idiot.

You start gathering your paper work and the bailiff approaches you and hands you some other papers and then leans forward to whisper “Re-file the paper work and keep fighting until you get a judge that will take this seriously”. He gives your hand a quick squeeze and a wink “I will keep your ex-husband here for a moment to give you time to leave”.

You mouth “thank you “and walk out the courtroom with your fiancee holding your hand to keep you from collapsing to your knees.

You make it to the parking garage barely saying a word and fighting back the tears, you could see your fiancee was pissed off at the judge; he has been taking care of the children for the past few years. They were his children now and I knew that he wanted to kill somebody.

As you near the car you finally let out a primal scream; fuck anybody who heard. You rage against the justice system, it never saved you from the abuse you suffered so why would it be any different. It should be called the “injustice system”.

Fuck the judge, you wish you could get a hold of her now so she could tell your daughter and son why she felt that they had to be abused, (then you find out many years later that they were being sexually abused ..... by their own paternal grandmother!) What would the judge have to say to your children, sorry?

The Judge is just as guilty as those her abused them. Actually she is guiltier because she could have stopped it but chose to hurt you for being the “Beauty” instead of the “Beast”.

You never give up and you never will, nothing but death could stop you from fighting to protect your children from suffering and abuse. They will not suffer the same fate as you did when you were a child.

The odds were not in your favor and even though you would win a few minor battles you never felt true victory or enjoyed the moment, because you knew that these “monsters” were going to keep coming at you.

In a momentary lapse of insanity, you finally realize that no matter what "legal" avenue you take there was no way you would ever win the war this way, it was time to change strategies.

That’s when you forget about the justice system that has failed you from day one and take matters into your own hands. If you were ready to die to protect your loved ones then you have an “immortal strength” inside of you that will conquer anything or anybody that gets in your way and you will be victorious.

By the way, if you haven’t figured it out by now this is actually a true.