This time, it was my beloved dog…who I’ve raised from a pup…she’s like a daughter to me.  I finally get out and on my own, finally come out of my shell, I meet my roommate and find out she’s awesome, and I finally start thinking that college is just going to be great.  But now I don’t want it to be.  Because, once again, being happy has severely hurt someone I dearly love.  She has heart worms…something it’s quite easy to die from…and the treatment would be ongoing and take years…and there’s no guarantee it will work.  If college is great, who knows what will happen.  Maybe that will just be another blow and she’ll die.  Maybe something else will happen, or both.  And what if I DO finish the last six chapters of my book and publish it?  What will happen then?  What will happen to my closest friends and family, the ones who have been there for me forever?  Will they die?  Become deathly ill?  Lose someone dear to them?  Who knows.  But I am so bloody close at the moment to just ending it.  Obviously, I just can’t be happy…I would love to be, but not at the cost of those I love.  The choice seems pretty clear right now.  Maybe I should just give up on love, on happiness, mark it as something that cannot be without great cost.  Or maybe I should just end it right here and move on.  Though a lot of good that would do…obviously I’ve done something ridiculously awful in a past life to be marked like this.  I just…don’t see the point anymore.  What’s the point of living if you don’t get to love and be happy?  And what’s the point of dying if you just keep coming back and paying for some damn mistake that you don’t even remember?

Hurricanes have no lovers, no friends, they just sweep through, destroy everything in their path, and then move on, shedding tears as they pass.  But where do they go?  And will they ever have a purpose other than destruction?

And to those who think like all of these hunting article writers, wolves only attack people when either starving or threatened. Your livestock is no more OWNED by you than your spouse or partner is, and thus you can stand a loss here or there. If you feel you really can’t, there are other proven ways to keep wolves away from your livestock. You don’t have to pass laws that all sports hunters of all people to go out and kill wolves, especially because they do this simply because they ENJOY IT. All you have to do is look up wolf aerial hunting and you’ll see just how much pleasure they get out of killing something they don’t even plan to eat.

Anyways, to help with the on-going fight, if anyone wants to, they can go here to make a secure donation to the cause: https://secure.defenders.org/site/Donation?ACTION=SHOW_DONATION_OPTIONS&CAMPAIGN_ID=6201&s_src=WJY08WDWF&s_subsrc=WJY08WDWF_web

Until next time
–Liri

It is now half past ten and I have been awake for an hour, thus giving me roughly six hours of sleep–despite the fact that I’ve recently taken to having at least ten hours.  But after my dream…I just couldn’t close my eyes again.

You see, for so many years I was abused.  It started young, younger than I can fully remember.  What kind of abuse?  Mental, physical, sexual; I’ve had it all, though I’m sure I haven’t had it the worst.  No matter how bad the experience was compared to others, though, it was devastating to me.

The first time I couldn’t even remember, but my aunt told me, because at that time, she and my newly adoptive dad nearly had me taken away from my mother.  A man with facial hair, my mother’s boyfriend at the time, “tickled mean” down there.  My mother denies this; she became angry and mentioned my aunt when I brought it up; but apparently I stated this to a room full of people at the time, and when they looked I was all red down there.  This is not an area that either my aunt or my newly adoptive father would lie about, especially since, at the time, my newly adoptive father had a beard and I wouldn’t let him near me until he shaved it off.  At the time, my mother said it wasn’t possible, that she would have woken up if he left the bed at night.  One problem with this, my mother sleeps like the dead, I practically had to assault her whenever I’d get her up in the mornings.  This denial kept on until they threatened to have me taken away, then she got rid of the guy.

It continued with my sister’s father, but we’ll get back to this later.  After him it was my sister’s cousin, when I was about 13.  I remember “playing doctor” with him when we were younger, and apparently he remembered to; it was something I’d actually wanted to forget.  But he brought it up years later when I guess suddenly he decided it was time to play again.  He’d asked to feel my breast when everyone was over and we were both down in the basement.  I said “fuck no,” he told me to be quiet or they’d come down there…I was quiet and stood still like a good little girl.  Later in his room, he shoved my hand down his pants and made me hold him; my mother came to the door, so I had an excuse to pull my hand away, but she didn’t come in.  At the time, I hated her so much for not knowing, for not coming in and beating that little snot’s brains in.  Later, he was angry, saying I had to do it again because my mother had interrupted.  Sometime after that, I went over to his house because he offered to let me play on the computer; I went–for some reason I still kind of idolized him.  We were alone; I was staying next door at his grandmother’s at the time, his parents were gone and his brother was at his grandmother’s playing with my sister.  While I was messing around on the computer, he slid into the chair behind me; I thought he just wanted to sit.  He pulled me back several times, my rear flush with his crotch and I squirmed forward, until finally he pulled me back and held me.  He undid my belt, and I pulled into myself, as I’d learned to do when I was frightened; and next thing I knew he was messing around in there, grinding into me from behind.  I waited for it to be over, because I hated myself so much, for not being able to stop him and because my body still responded despite my fear.  When he finished, I ran to the bathroom; I wanted to clean myself so bad, but I wanted to escape even more.  I almost climbed out the bathroom window, but then I realized how foolish I was; there was nowhere for me to go but back to his grandmother’s and she wouldn’t believe me.  So, I left through the front door, after he stopped me to make sure I wouldn’t tell.  I promised him I wouldn’t, but then later I burst into tears and let it out when my mother tried to make me go back there again.  When she confronted the family, they called me a liar and disowned me completely.  And, of course, his main excuse was “we’re not really cousins,” so I was never really a part of that family anyways.  He’s married now, imagine that.

Shortly after this, an older guy on the school bus did it; except this time he didn’t have to hold me down, I just sat there and took it.  By this time I’d it was pointless, so I just drew into myself.  I stared straight forward and didn’t react, hoping he’d just go away; but I think the guy in the seat across from us knew what was going on and thought I was willing…I felt so filthy.

But the longest and most traumatizing experience was definitely with my sister’s father.  He is, perhaps, why I drew into myself and didn’t fight; and he is the reason for a lot of my problems.
He lived with us for roughly 11 years; 11 years of torment.  I guess, in a way, he had his reason: I wasn’t his daughter.  It started before my sister; I know because, in that apartment full of little black crickets, there was no sibling, and I actually had my own room.  They say this was probably when I was around 3-4 years old.  I remember falling out of bed countless times, tangled in my sheets and screaming from nightmares.  I remember his friend bringing in a puppy that licked my face to wake me up and then defecated beneath my little kid table–which I got in trouble for.  I remember eating a whole round of watermelon by simply plopping my face into it and getting in trouble for that.  I remember eating King Vitamin cereal in the hallway while I watched him scream at my mother–something about cleaning the house–and getting screamed at myself when I spilled it; but I simply continued to eat it off the floor and watch until he left, slamming the door, and my mother broke down crying.  I remember them saying I was acting like a baby, so I was going to be treated like one, though I don’t remember what I’d done.  He and my mother held me down and put a burp cloth on my like a diaper, pinning it in place.  I wasn’t to take it off for the rest of the day, and it was to be my bathroom.  I think I simply held it in, because I don’t remember soiling myself, and I only kicked it off at night because I was afraid the pin would stick me–my mother got after me for that in the morning. 
But the thing I most remember about that time was this…  I don’t remember where my mother was, but we were alone in their room, both naked.  He had me watch some sort of sex tape, it looked like an instructional video.  And then he made me “kiss” it until he was ready–he called it his buddy–and then asked where I wanted the aftermath.  When he was done he said, and this is the nicest I ever remember him being, “now go get some wipes and wipe daddy off.”
I kept that to myself for so many years, until my mother, for some odd reason, asked me if he’d ever done anything to me and told me that if I told her she could keep him away.  I’ve always wondered how she knew to ask, but I told her.  She got after me for not telling her, but then later when she decided to let him come back–when he was supposed to be gone for good and us three girls were doing so well on our own–she said that she’d told him and that he was really sorry that it had happened but it wasn’t him.  She said this must have been when she was off on flood duty (army) and that he’d had a friend over at the time that looked almost exactly like him.  I hated her so much for this excuse.  I hated her for wanting sex so much that she’d put her children and herself at risk again.  I simply hated her, but I hated her even more later when she told me that I probably just dreamed it up.  But then, I’d been steadily growing to hate her over the years, each time she let him come back.  He’d hit her, he’d hit me, he watched porn on the couch with my little sister, grew pot, cooked the dangerous stuff, and got us kicked out of our homes so often; yet all she seemed to care about was having a man around for sex.  And one wonders why I hated the very thought of sex for so long.
He punished me a lot; most of the time I hadn’t even done anything.  He gave me a rasberry once, when his friend was over, and laughed; I thought it was funny, so I did it back at him; he rose in a sudden fury, screaming at me; I ran down to the basement and hid behind my mother, but she just let him pull me out from behind her and watched as he tanned my hide even harder for running.  Then there was a time I got grounded; I wasn’t even allowed to go to the bathroom.  He said that if I had to go I was to stick my rear out my window–right beside the road–and go.  Later that night I woke up, emptied my underwear drawer, and went on the pile I’d made.  I even got in trouble for being sick once with the stomach flu–as I was often for that space of time–because he said I was faking because I wanted attention.  The punishments were countless, and most of the time my mother just stood there nearby in a state of denial, pretending nothing was happening, just as she pretended nothing had happened when he hit her with a two-by-four or tried to choke her and take me and my sister away.  Sometimes I think I could almost completely forgive her if she would just admit that she was there and ignored or took part in it, but she won’t, so I guess there is no reason for me to forgive.
As you can imagine, I didn’t have the best relationship with my sister because of this.  He treated her like a princess, while I was both a slave and a “whipping girl.”  She talked about how beautiful she was, and how she was going to be so smart, while I was ugly and was often punished for reading so much.  I had to clean up her messes, take her punishments.  And she was born I barely got to see her; he didn’t want me anywhere near her or my mother when she was holding her.  Thus, for a while I hated her for being his spawn and for being treated so well.  We’ve gotten over this, now that I’ve been adopted and am living elsewhere, but I still regret hating her for so long.
But anyways, after she threw my sister’s father out for the final time, she told us “from now on, I’ll ask you girls before I let a man in my life.”  Or something to that affect.  Another promise broken.  After a month of chatting online with this new guy, she makes us move down to southern West Virginia so she could marry him.  I told her I didn’t like the guy, after all, he’d let me borrow some of his clothes to sleep in and then said “you look sexy in my clothes.”  What kind of sick pig says that to a 13 year old?  He also hit on one of my friends online.  But she wouldn’t listen; I think she called me paranoid.  And now she’s in another mess because she doesn’t believe in divorce and doesn’t have the money to move away.  My sister is miserable back there, whether she’ll admit it or not, and I’m afraid she’ll end up on the road that I was on for so long.  Crying herself to sleep at night; feeling hurt, betrayed, and hated all the time; and sometimes just wanting to kill herself to escape it all.  Even if I trusted that pig around her, the area itself isn’t good for her, not with the way people raise their children, especially their sons, there.  I want to help her, but it’s a neverending situation that seems to have no solution at the moment.

Anyways, why am I writing this?  Why didn’t I get any sleep?  Because I had another nightmare last night.  I was back with my mother and she’d let Greg come back.  He’d made her leave me out in the country with no way to find them, and then somehow I was with them again later.  He was after us with a gun; he’d managed to trick the first police officer into leaving; but then a female officer came.  Somehow we ended up in the room of a house.  My mother wasn’t there, just me, my sister, and the officer.  I was trying to hold the door shut and he was trying to break in, yelling angrily at me from the other side.  He kept stretching the bottom of the door somehow, to push things in.  He pushed a guitar through and told my sister to come with him.  She said she was going him, and it hurt so much; I felt so betrayed.  But I started yelling at her about all the things he’d done to me and she changed her mind and stayed.  He pushed a pig under the door and kept screaming at me, telling me to open the door.  I yelled back, insulting him and telling him what a filthy, sick, loser he was, among other things.  And my sister kept chanting, “that’s what we are.”  He pushed another pig through the door, and while it was open wide enough, began to squeeze through himself.  I tried to push him back, clawing at his neck, and I could feel his skin beneath my fingers, sweaty and slick.  I was screaming for the officer to shoot him–she had his gun–but he was pushed back before she could.  Then he burst in and lunged at me; she shot him once, hitting him in the heart, and he fell bleeding.  She dropped the gun and walked away with my sister, but I picked the gun up, afraid he might get up.  I screamed at him to admit what he did and apologize, pointing the gun at him.  But he just said “No…You liked it.”  And I started screaming at him, asking how I could possibly like all those things he did to me.  I wanted to shoot the hell out of him, make him hurt, but no matter how angry I was, I couldn’t do it.  I dropped the gun and started crying; and then I woke up.

This is the most I’ve ever been able to fight back, even in a dream, but it was still a nightmare nonetheless.  Since him, I’ve had several relationships; but they were always short because I was always treated like a sex object.  None of the guys ever asked my permission; they didn’t notice I was scared; they never took the hint when I’d squeeze my legs together; and then they’d wonder why I broke up with them after only a week.  My experiences taught me not to trust anyone, and when these males would treat me just like the ones who hurt me in the first place, there was no way I was going to keep them in my life.

I’m so sick of men thinking that all girls want sex.  I’m sick of them thinking they don’t have to ask because we want it and it’ll feel good, so that makes it ok.  They don’t consider the fact that some of us have been hurt and really need a more gentle approach.  And even if we haven’t been hurt, what right do they have to do anything with our bodies without our permission?  Watch for the signs, you can tell if we’re scared, and ask us in the first place.
My last relationship taught me that not all guys are like that.  He asked me before doing anything, afraid that he’d hurt or scare me; he didn’t want to do anything unless he was sure I was fine with it.  I’ll thank him everyday for that, even if he never comes back to me, because he helped me get over so much of my fear.  I think so many men could learn from him.

And no, I’m not saying that all men are bad; women can be just as bad.  So, to everyone out there who touches a child in anything more than parental affection; to everyone who beats their child or partner; you’re filthy, you’re scum, there’s no excuse for you, and the rest of the world is pretty much sick of you.

And to the people who haven’t quite made it to that point, but don’t stop to consider their partner(s) feelings…just…try to have some consideration please.  We’re not all willing right away, treat us with love, with respect; don’t just walk on us like we’re dirt, because someday you might just be put in our place.

And finally, to all of the mothers out there in denial…your children really need you to put them first…and to admit your wrongs and repent.  Becoming a mother means giving up selfishness in order to do everything possible to raise and protect the next generation; and if you’re not willing to do that, then you never should have had kids.

Sorry if it died down toward the end…but I can’t really bring myself to say much more on the subject at this time.

Until next time…

–Liri

Most everything you read in this blog will be random, as–for the most part–I am myself quite random.  My mind flits about constantly from thought to thought.  One thing leads to another and another and another.  Thus, contemplations on the shape of the world may somehow end in “and why do girls wear thongs?”  Sometimes it doesn’t even start with a particular thought, but a situation which prompts a long speech that repeats itself in my head over and over until I deposit it somewhere.  That is where this one is coming from.

You see, when the idea for this blog came to be I was sitting here in a towel because I generally refuse to get dressed right away.  I’m not the only one who does this either, I hear, so I feel quite justified in this.  Anyways, I was sitting here in my towel, and as usually happens when I get bored I started examining my current state in reality…which just so happened to be sitting naked in a towel in front of an open window.  This led to thoughts of why I should have to get dressed at all, and eventually culminated in why anyone should have to get dressed and otherwise alter themselves in order to face the world.  So, now that I’ve explained myself, here it is.

First off, I don’t believe anyone who doesn’t want to be dressed should be.  I believe it is a personal choice, especially in the household.  Why wasn’t I dressed?  Well, for one, sometimes I really would rather see myself naked than clothed.  Then of course there’s the fact that clothing will rarely be 100% comfortable.  It itches, it catches, it scratches, it pinches, it pulls, and occasionally it tries to violate you all together.  I would rather not be subjected to rape by jeans.  Another reason, it’s summer, it’s hot, why should I have to submit myself to further temperature torture by applying more layers?  And finally…we haven’t done laundry since I arrived at this place (I’m staying with a family friend.).  I am currently staring at a mountainous pile of clothing.  And believe me, this does make a difference in my being dressed.  I will fully confess that, though I am dressed now, I did not have any underwear (though commando is quite comfortable) and I am currently wearing my last bra.  Why don’t you just do the laundry?  She has no washer and dryer and cannot afford a laundromat…we have to go to another place entirely…possibly tomorrow or later.  Thus, sometimes getting dressed is just to complicated.  So why should someone have to if they don’t want to?

The answer is: Current society has made people want to hide their true selves.

You might say, “Oh, they just want you to hide your nakedness.”  But if you look at some of today’s fashions, that can’t be true.  Yes, men have always and probably will always wear a fair amount of clothing, especially compared to women.  But, for the sake of argument, let’s look at the Woman’s World in this department, since this seems to be where the major problem lies.

Yes, clothing is getting skimpier and skimpier.  Women now have to get full-body tans if they want no visible tan-lines in public.  They have to completely wax in order to wear smaller and smaller pieces of cloth that daring people still venture to call shorts.  Backs show, midriffs show, sometimes even everything but the nipple.  It’s almost to the point that all we are hiding is our reproductive nature, and how is that a thing to be ashamed of?

But, right there is the key word: shame.  People don’t wear clothing because it’s bad to be naked, they wear it because, deep down, there is something about their bodies they are ashamed of.  (Again, we’re talking about the woman’s world, I wouldn’t claim to know a man’s point of view on this.)  Clothes are now tailored to take care of this.  What’s your problem?  We can fix it.  I’m unhappy with my weight.  Well, if you wear this design, it will have a slimming effect.  My butt sags.  If you wear this top with this bottom, you can take attention away from that saggy butt.  My thighs are disgusting.  Cover them up.  I have a turkey neck.  Wear a turtle neck.  My breasts are too small to be noticed.  Wear a push-up bra.  My breasts are so big they cause eclipses.  Wear a sports bra.  It goes on and on and on.

Your body is nothing to be ashamed of, people.  If you’re unhappy with something about yourself, most of these problems can be taken care of with simple diet changes and an increase in focused exercise.  Anything that can’t be changed?  Well, just remember, everyone is different and unique; and it is that that makes us uniquely beautiful.  So what if you don’t look like one of those anorexic models, chances are, you’re a lot happier than they are and will be less sickly later in life.  So what if that pig down the street talks about how disgusting your thighs or your gut or your butt or whatever looks.  That just shows what a loser he is; believe me, he’ll never get far relationship-wise.  Anyone worth being in a relationship with will love you no matter what you look like.  You shouldn’t have to get double D breasts, a butt lift, and a tummy tuck to satisfy him.

I’m not saying, in order to be happy with yourself you have to run around naked.  It’s a personal choice; some people just don’t want to run around with the wind whistling through every orifice of their body.  But I am saying that most attire these days is made specifically to hide, enhance, or alter some part of your body that you are unhappy with.  You should learn to be happy with your body without this aid.  Sure, go right ahead and keep wearing that kind of clothing, but in the end all you’re doing is hiding your true self from the world and setting yourself up for disappointment when you catch a guy who later runs as soon as he realizes you’re not perfect.  If nothing else, try to stand naked in front of the mirror everyday and tell yourself that you’re beautiful in your own way.  Men are much happier to be with women who are happy with themselves (unless they’re the sick jerks that thrive of low self-esteems and love to put their women down).

This goes for make-up too.  It serves the same function as clothing.  Hide, enhance, alter.  Yes, it looks nice.  Decorate yourself however you want.  But don’t pile it on until you’re unrecognizable without it.  And at least try to be happy with how you look without it.  Blemishes are natural, everyone gets them; anyone who picks at you for it is forgetting that they’ve experienced the same thing, and karma-wise will have a big zit waiting for them in the future.  Scars happen, they’re another thing that make you unique, and they’re also like markers for the events of your life.  Lipstick, ugh, a curse on all lipstick.  Personally, I don’t see how anyone wears it.  It feels awful, and I’ve met quite a few men who don’t want to be kissed and women who don’t want to kiss when lipstick is in the equation.  So what’s the point?  Who the hell has naturally blood-red lips?  Wouldn’t you laugh at someone who did?  So why do you purposefully make your lips this way?  Eye make-up.  I actually like eye make-up.  But a lot of women seem to put so much on their eyelids that they droop all day and make them look tired, and even more of them are now putting eyeliner on the inside of their eyelid; which makes their eyes water and their liner smudge.  Then of course, the eyeshadow doesn’t always stay how it’s supposed to be, the mascara cakes, and the liner fades; so you have to constantly keep up maintenance on your face througout the day.  What’s the point?  Why use up so much valuable time doing this?

Once again, I think it’s because you’re ashamed.  And I will state, once and for all, that not all of this shame stems from yourself.  Society seems to enjoy making people feel ashamed, simply to increase sales on this or that.  Not just advertisements either.  I once talked to a girl after putting on make-up for the first time, and the FIRST thing out of her mouth was “Wow, you look SO much better with make-up.”  So, right there, comments like that; instant self-esteem drop.  My advice, ignore them; they’re drones that watch all of the make-up and fashion shows and follow their words like a scripture.

Again, I’m not saying don’t wear make-up, don’t wear clothes; it’s a personal choice.  But think about why you’re wearing these things, and before you put them on try to be happy with how you look au naturale.  If you’re happy with yourself as you are, you’ll be even more pleased by the outcome whenever you put your next “costume” on.  And please don’t hide yourself.  Enhance, drape, by all means; but don’t make it so no one can see the real you.  Because who knows, maybe there’s that special guy out there, looking for someone who looks just like you; he just can’t see you under all of that glam.

That’s all for now.  See you at the next thought process.

–Liri