TRIGGER WARNING: This post contains content about depression, anxiety, PTSD, rape, sexual abuse, and other triggering material. Please take care while reading.


Normally, I think about what my audience would like to hear…I take that into consideration, and also think about what I myself would find entertaining before I start to put words on the page.

This is NOT that. What I am about to write, I write because I need to, because it is fucking eating me up inside, and I need to get it out.

I write it so that someone else suffering knows that they’re not alone. I write it so that selfishly, I can feel less alone…I write it to help you understand, and to help me heal.

Before I dive into this post, I would like to recount for you a text that I sent to my Daddy this morning. I think it will help you understand the frame of mind I am coming from:

“Look, my days are already shit. I don’t want to have to be constantly fighting with my brain and rationalizing with myself that half the thoughts I have are irrational and crazy. But I HAVE to do that. But I don’t want the added stress of teaching you the ABC’s of depression & anxiety, and trying to explain something to You that I barely fucking understand. I am literally fighting with my brain. Its all I can do. What would be helpful is if You cared enough to research it on Your own rather than forcing me to have the additional stress of explaining something I only half understand to You. And I did feel like You yelled at me this morning. I’m sorry that my body is my fucking enemy too, and I can’t get wet for You. I’m sorry that my body and my fucking brain are working against me, so that I don’t feel safe anywhere or with anyone, not even myself, and especially not myself. I’m sorry that I can’t take criticism right now because my thoughts are filled with messages of worthlessness and guilt already. I’m sorry that the only thing I can think is that everyone would be better off without me. I’m sorry that my mental illness has been passed on to my daughter. I’m sorry that she had a panic attack last night and I didn’t know. I’m sorry she tried to come to my room, but froze in fear because she hallucinated there was a man with a knife there in the shadows. I’m sorry I copulated with douche bags who also have mental illness issues and that she started out at a disadvantage. But most of all I am sorry that I don’t know what to tell You when You ask how to help BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA. I am doing good to get out of bed and make it through the day. So please stop asking. The fact that I have no fucking clue only makes me feel that much more hopeless.”

Last night I let Daddy in. He’s the first person I have EVER let in this far. God bless Him for trying, but He was clueless. “What triggered this?” He asked….”A chemical imbalance in my brain” I say. “How long have you been dealing with this?” He asks, concern in his voice….”As long as I can remember….” I respond. Then He asks “Why didn’t you ever tell anyone, maybe they could have helped?”

This is where things get real. This is where the fucked-upedness began. Why? Because I wasn’t safe as a child, that was why. My mother was an alcoholic. Sure, she was great at keeping secrets about me going to raves or taking drugs….but to trust her with anything REAL? Nope. No thanks. I’ll lock that shit up tight and forever, thank ya very much. One time she asked if my Dad had ever touched me….and she was grateful when I said no…

and no, he NEVER did, but the look of relief on her face that she didn’t have to deal with that made me decide to not tell her that my neighbor had molested me. That I was a sweet eight year old girl who was spending the night with my best friend and bragging to her step-dad about how much I knew about sex because I watched The Ricky Lake show…and later woke up to him fingering me. I didn’t tell her about the other neighbor that forced me to do sexual things, and it was this pattern that started my negative self-image.

My dad? Why didn’t I tell him? I was deathly scared of him. He was a cop, and tall, and fucking mean. He screamed at me, and NEVER praised me. He beat me, and told me corporal punishment was legal. He DARED me to call the cops. He told me what a fuck up I was, and I believed him. He said the only way I would listen was if he got an inch away from my face and screamed. I walked on egg-shells constantly, and learned what a worthless piece of shit I really was.

I lost my virginity to spite him. A culmination of being used sexually at a young age, and being taught that I was good for nothing, and could do nothing right. Sex would be my secret revenge. I was 15, and I hardly knew him…I said I was walking the dog on Christmas Eve, and he picked me up in his car and took me to his house. Insane Clown Posse was in his CD player. I lost my virginity to a song called ‘Super Balls’ –and if that weren’t bad enough, it skipped the entire time; my romantic foray into womanhood set to “Ain’t no bitch too fat…..ain’t no bitch too fat…ain’t no bitch too fat…”

It was after that that I learned to use sex to make myself feel better. Finally, I had something of value, something that others wanted from me. It was also around this time that I jumped into heavy drugs. I won’t be specific here, but let’s just say, as long as it didn’t involve a needle, I did it. And let’s be clear…I wasn’t afraid of needles. I just knew that if I took that step, I would never recover.

I grew up, got thrown out of my house by my loving father, and ended up marrying a man that I can only describe as having the worst traits of my parents combined: A verbally and physically abusive alcoholic. I went into the military to save myself from the drugs—I knew I could detox during basic training, and that’s exactly what I did. You see, while there is a ton of tragedy in this story, let us not lose the moral along the way: I AM STILL HERE, GOD DAMN IT!

I got pregnant at my first duty station. I was in a male-dominated job that some asshole recruiter had lied to get me into, and I loathed it. The douche-bag husband left. I was alone. I was in a new place with no safety net, or support system. The depression and anxiety were awful. I started having auditory hallucinations. I was referred to a psychiatrist. I took the MMPI twice, and scored sooooo fucked up both times that my tests were deemed unusable. The douche-bag came back intermittently. He was there to reassure me what an awful person I was…and that I was a worthless whore.

Desperate for love, I started having an affair with my boss. Then one night, a couple of my co-workers came over…one thing led to another and I got raped. No big deal, right? Sadly, I was pretty used to being treated like this…and I was totally good with burying it all the way down, because that seemed to work for me. But my boss convinced me to report it, and swore he would stand by my side. SURPRISE! He didn’t. He left me high and dry, to be humiliated, victim blamed, and stripped of my dignity. During the time-line that the trial was taking place, I went further down the rabbit hole. Alcohol was my everything. I needed it to function. It eventually led to me making decisions so incompetent they took my child..my baby…my only reason for living, and placed her in foster care. That was both the worst, and the best day of my life. I remember it so vividly, if I close my eyes, it’s like I’m re-living it. They decided it was best to institutionalize me. They gas-lighted me, and told me I asked to be kept in the room with the padded walls. I DID NOT. My mother, who wasn’t in the greatest of health at this time (see above, re: alcoholic), had surgery, during which she bled out. I requested to see her before she died, but was denied. My dad even called the mayor of the town he lived in, and called put in a red-cross call…..but those ass-hats still said no. So my mother died, with my abusive narcissistic father by her side. They finally let me out, and shortly after, I separated from the military on a medical discharge, primarily: PTSD. PTSD from what, you ask? The rape. The rape that my rapist got off scot-free from? One in the same. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the same military that determined I had suffered PTSD from the rape I endured also determined there wasn’t enough evidence to convict said rapist. Bravo!

Skip ahead a few shitty years, and I’ve gotten my act together enough to reclaim the love of my life: my daughter. I met Douche bag numero dos around this time, and became pregnant with my second love about a year later. About two years after that, I couldn’t put up with the cheating, lying, and drug use anymore, so I made him leave….

I’m skipping something important though, because just before he gets kicked to the curb, I meet Daddy. I’m not going to go into the story about how I met Daddy, because if you’ve read my previous blog about my collaring, then you know a lot of it already.



All of this occurred before I turned 30. And obviously, this is only the condensed version. My point is, that I overcame all of this. I am a college graduate. I have two beautiful kids, who are smart, talented, gracious, kind, and a blessing to me every single fucking day. I have overcome several addictions, and more than once might I add…..so the next time you may feel tempted to wonder where it all started, this is it. Some know most, but none know all.


My life now is cake compared to what it was then. I know I “shouldn’t” be depressed. I realize my life is good. I’m tired of being asked what triggered it. IF I FUCKING KNEW, DON’T YOU THINK I WOULD BE TRYING TO FIX IT? DID YOU EVER CONSIDER MY BRAIN IS JUST FUCKED AND OCCASIONALLY MALFUNCTIONS BECAUSE OF ALL THE ABUSE IT HAS SUFFERED OVER THE YEARS? I mean fuck, not only from my abusers, but also from all the toxins I have dumped in it. Why does everyone keep asking me WHY? Why does everyone say I need medication? I have been on medication, legal and illegal. Why do I have to be responsible for something I’m not in control of? Why does everyone keep asking me questions I don’t have the answers to? Why won’t anyone just fucking hold me? I don’t want your advice. I want to be reassured that you love me even if I’m broken. I need to know that even on the days that I am glued to my bed because the demons in my head are holding me hostage that you still care, that you know I am a human being, and I deserve love? I can’t speak to anyone else’s situation who has anxiety/PTSD/depression, etc. but for me, THIS is what I want. Because my illness lies to me, and it tells me that I’m not worthy. It doesn’t matter if I know rationally that they are lies, it’s my brain, and it knows me better than anyone, and it knows exactly what to say to make me think that you’re out to get me…and that I’m incompetent for not knowing my triggers, and that if I was really worthy of your love, that you would reassure me rather than grill me.


Mostly, if you’re reading this, and you don’t me that well, I want you to understand that looks can be deceiving. I’m pretty. I know this because I’ve been told it enough times. But behind my smiles could be genuine happiness, or they could be a mask for the pain. Sometimes you’ll know which is which, and sometimes you’ll only think you do. This is true for all humans…so think before you judge.


If I let you in…if I give you the privilege of knowing which is which, for God’s sake,  tread lightly. Give me love. Don’t victim blame. Understand I don’t have all the answers…but I don’t expect you to have them either. If I let you in, it’s because I want you to know that I’m hurting….I want you to know that I’m human. I want you to know that while all I may show you is the strong, capable, badass version of myself….that there is a scared, tortured, uncertain little girl underneath, who just wants to know she is worthy of love.

I am strong and independent and unbreakable.

I am weak and needy and fragile.

I am Wonder Woman.

I am nothing.