WELCOME

Is it stamped across my forehead?

better off in the cold

After years of abuse; verbal and emotional, we’d had enough, it was time to go. Brian and I made the decision that living in the cold late fall of Maine was better than the drunken hell that we lived in. I was 16 years old and Brian was 14. Our mother was in such an alcoholic fog that she didn’t see exactly what we were going through. I lived it so I know how I felt at the time, but being an adult now I see it from a new perspective. It’s not something I think about all the time, I even forget about it for long stretches of time, life is busy and looking backward doesn’t usually fit into my schedule. For two children to leave behind their school, friends, mother, warm bed, guaranteed meals just to face the coming winter homeless and penniless, things were far worse than simply being an angry or rebellious teenager. Mom went to the local police multiple times, and we were picked up by the police and released back into her care. We knew nothing had changed, we would be going back to the same hell we left, so in the short distance between the police station exit and moms car, we walked away from her again. We knew we were hurting her by doing this, we could hear her crying, but we couldn’t go back there. We were hungry and cold and scared, but we were stronger every day. No one was ever going to push us around like that again. In the seven years in that house, we learned to drink beer, smoke cigarettes and even tried marijuana. We also learned that we were stupid, ugly and a waste of space. It took many years to unlearn those things, and even now, on bad days, those words still echo in my head. Between the Barbie dolls and that miserable excuse for a man, I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll never think I’m good enough… that statement at first sounds negative, but it’s not really.. I am good enough; damnit, I’m GREAT! You see, in the acceptance that I’ll never be perfect, I have been released from trying to be something I’m not. I don’t feel the need, since age 21, to cake my face with makeup, change the color of my hair or wear clothes that aren’t comfortable to me. I’m not saying I’m perfectly happy with myself; I’m not one of those people who love their stretch marks, graying hair or monthly breakouts. I’m simply not overly concerned with what other people think of my personality, appearance or attitude.

bits and pieces.. Barbie

I’d like to slap the creator of the Barbie Doll, I mean really. Did this person wake up one day and say to themselves, “gee, I think I’ll create the ‘perfect’ woman, forever destined to wear heels. And that little fake blond haired, blue eyed woman will be loved by young impressionable girls everywhere. Who will someday grow up to be subconsciously damaged because they’ll never be as perfect as this little plastic toy.” maybe it wasn’t intentional, maybe it was.. And I know that not all girls will be forever damaged by this toy, but jeez. When my daughter wanted to play with barbie dolls, she was just a little peanut, but I sat with her and explained that real women don’t look like that. I told her that some women look very similar, some women try to look like that on purpose. But after years of bringing it up, she now understands that most women don’t look like that, everyone is different, and no one is perfect.