The days when it hits me fresh, as though I’ve been sleeping and just woke up to discover he is gone.
And gone forever.
I wonder at times if I’m crazy. How can it possibly, still – after five long years – still knock me to my knees when I realize for the gazillionth time, it’s forever. Gone forever.
He’s not golfing. He’s not at work. He’s not on vacation or visiting friends out of state. He won’t be home in an hour, later tonight, in a week or 100 years.
He won’t be blowing my phone up later. he won’t be taking me to lunch tomorrow.
He. Is. Gone. Forever.
Just like my daughters, except my daughters live…live to be gone from me.
I didn’t just learn this and I’m not stupid. He wasn’t my husband or my child or a dear childhood friend. He was my father. People lose parents! For God’s sake, that’s just a normal part of life. How can it still sting and ache and tear to suddenly think, oh my God, he is really never, ever coming back…? How? What the hell is wrong with me? How in the fuck does it still seem so, so so very impossible? That, it can’t fucking possibly be forever?
I’m not in absolute denial. My mind does know and understands. I imagine on some deeply subconscious level, I’m constantly telling myself that, as for all my life, he’ll be home any minute now. He will walk through that door, smelling of fresh air and golf greens, grinning that beaming whole-face smile, and tell me how his golf game was.
Any minute now, right? Because only so many unacceptable things can happen to one person, right??
Any god damned minute now…
Darlene (mother) made his funeral a big fucking joke! I can’t let myself be angry. Senseless to burn with fury over that now, just like it’s senseless to rant and rave about what my “family” did to me during and since. Wasted energy to wish so hard that I’d been less in a dazed state of shock and been more aware of what they were all doing.
My dad was fucking dead for Christ’s sake! DEAD!!!!
I waited after the “Darlene show” of a funeral to have a few last minutes alone with him. I wanted a last few minutes alone my DAD, my best friend, my only parent, my only cheerleader, my only compassionate, helpful encouraging soul. Waiting til the people had cleared out, I went to him – peaceful in his casket – looking so much like him, yet somehow not at all like my dad…
I touched his face. I kissed his cool, firm, rubbery-like embalmed cheek. I placed my hand gently on top of his and remembered only a few weeks ago we’d sat in his car and I’d touched that same warm, loving, age-spotted right hand as it rested on his gear shift and said, Daddy, your hands look so dry! They need lotion. And I silently wished I hadn’t taken the trial sized lotion out of my handbag the week earlier. Looking at them, so old and so dry – almost (dare I say?) frail like?
NO. They could not be frail! Not my dad’s hands. Not my superhero. Not the only person in the world who really did only hurt me when he wanted to help or better guide me. Not this strong, can-do anything, never stopping, ceaselessly giving and doing man with the invisible superhero cape I’d always pictured on him as a child. NOT. FRAIL! Not he! Not those hands! Nuh uh!
I just wanted to put lotion on his hands for him, this amazing man who’d done more for my life, my spirit, my kids, and my heart than anyone one human being deserves… God, how I wanted to put lotion on those hands that day! I have a thing about hands… How had I not noticed before today that his hands had somehow become dry, older, so different from MY dad’s hands? HOW HAD I NOT SEEN THIS BEFORE TODAY?
…and WHY HAD I TAKEN MY LOTION OUT OF MY PURSE? WHY??
…so I wanted those last precious moments with him after the people cleared out of the funeral room. After all, it had been just he and I for most of the past 20 years. Seemed fitting the last final moments with him should be shared quietly between he and I, alone… on our own, like Darlene had expressly seen to it both our lives were?
I touched that hand again, thinking of that conversation and REALLY wishing more than ever I’d had that damned lotion in my bag that day so that the last time we had together I’d done something special and thoughtful just for him – just because I loved and cherished and appreciated him.
I put my head on his chest and I let the tears come out. Not shrieking and wailing tears for show like Darlene had done in the middle of the funeral, just quiet tears. I held in the sobs and shrieks I actually felt welling inside me. I lay my head there, imagining the countless times I’d put my head there all my life. My safe haven – right there. My comfort when I was scared. The place my tears often fell as a child and adult alike.
Within moments, my egg donor, Darlene, comes back in to, of course, pull me away. GOD FUCKING KNOWS SHE HAD TO INTERRUPT EVEN THIS LAST FUCKING MOMENT ALONE WITH MY DAD.
I should have told her to fuck off. I should have said, This is my last time with my dad, could you please just step away? COULD I JUST HAVE THIS? JUST THIS???!?
Get your fake fucking hand off my shoulder and shut your filling-my-kids-heads-with- ridiculous-bullshit-while-we’re-grieving-our-loss filthy, evil, lying mouth! No, I will NOT do as you tell me today… NOT TODAY!
Being the dutiful child she trained me to be(and swears to the world I wasn’t), of course I did not. I just did what she told me.
…And let her interrupt and steal EVEN THAT.
I can’t be angry. Anger wastes my spirit and there’s just not much left of that to throw away on narcissistic vile evil pigs like she.
Anger would be so wasteful. My dad never wasted time angry.
And I am my father’s daughter.
Listen to a narcissist react to a narcissistic injury. What’s the injury? Any path or description that is contrary to the narcissist’s desires or image. You will be able to swiftly see a narcissist’s agenda in how they STRONGLY REACT to your self-expression. Speak up for yourself; act as if you have THE RIGHT to […]
I am a naive, ignorant woman. I’m at the end and it’s my choice yet a teeny tiny piece of me still can’t comprehend this as reality. As though this is some movie where the happy ending comes at the last minute. Where my children call and say “OMG Momma!! I’m so sorry…the truth matters so much. I’m sorry what you’ve endured.. I love you.”
I wanted to make it perfect. A spotless house, pretty pajamas, the perfect letter saying all the right things….
But I think those were ignorant thoughts begging for a righteous, happy, lovely little pat ending to this nightmare. Some delightful made for TV movie where good wins in the end.
Me though? I’m watching Criminal Minds. Kinda in honor of how much Savannah loved this show… And in great irony, the last three episodes I’ve watched were about sexual criminals with a predilection for teenage girls.
Here’s my world : I’m “disgusting ” because I had sex in my bedroom with my boyfriend while my children were sleeping.
What’s *not* disgusting is having a sexual obsession with teenage girls…
I’m disgusting because I drank to numb my pain at helplessly watching my children hurt sometimes after our home was stolen by their father.
What’s “not” disgusting is stealing your ex’s home in an attempt to leave her and your children homeless … all “for their own good”. Because it’s okay to steal what’s not yours as long as you tell the people it was “for their own good”.
I stole a lip gloss once when I was 14. I still feel ashamed.
I’ve never once raised my hand in anger, but my ex has abused animals, women, and children, I’m sure “for their own good” though.
I peed in a parking lot once and I’m the worst mother ever.
Welcome to a tiny glimpse of my world.
She opened the blinds to let the sunshine in the way her father had every day all his years.
She can’t feel sunshine anymore but somehow it’s important to open them because he never failed to.
She limped to her car. Not entirely sure which part of the limp was paralysis versus the recently acquired broken bones.
One socked gimp-like broken foot and a sandal on the other. She’d given up trying to be beautiful a long time ago.
It’s the second time in her memory in which she’s been grateful for the ability to walk again. This time, far less dramatic than the first, but the depth of gratitude is strikingly similar.
She could never have asked someone to pick this up at the store for her; that seemed inherently wrong.
It’s sunny today as she drives to the little local store. She takes a moment to be grateful to have a car. She can’t feel the sun, but she’s grateful it’s out today.
In the store, she knows right where to go as she’s cased out this necessary item which is last on her list.
She offers an empty gestured smile and waits for the older lady standing where she needs to go to finish. Not wanting to appear impatient or rude, she pretends to browse the aspirins and cold medicines as she waits.
She calculates on her phone the math required , double checks, and takes a moment to be grateful there is plenty in stock and enough remaining on the shelf left for any who may need it.
She’s never been comfortable taking the last of anything.
She limps to the register, stopping briefly to look at new chap sticks she’s not seen before. Her lip balm addiction is severe. She ponders, then decides she has plenty of lip balm already.
She passes the wine selection and wonders if she deserves wine. Hmmm…
No, she does not.
Wine belongs to lively people, hopeful hearts, gatherings of friends, and good mothers. She doesn’t fit it any of those categories now.
She doesn’t even try to fit in them anymore.
Once home, with all the curtains opened as they should be, she gathers the ingredients and puts them all stacked neatly on the mantle.
It’s now the only thing neat and orderly in her house so she takes care and pride in their orderly presentation.
She doesn’t know when. Maybe Mother’s Day would be appropriate as the thought of yet another of those passing by fills her last teeny tiny empty crevices with dread.
She feels there’s something profound to be said but she no longer has access to profundity. She has become a “see spot run” version of her former mind; a flat, used up crayon of her former creativity. The edges aren’t sharp enough to comprehend corners and intricacies and staying inside the lines is impossible.
The other half is almost here.
I track it like a mad woman. Every time I have the senseless urge to reach out to cry on someone’s shoulder, or to just talk begging to be heard, or maybe to just listen begging for human sound, instead I just track the package.
Today, it’s reached a 45 mile radius. I cried in gratitude. I wanted to jump in my car and drive to it…now. Right now. Those wild horses are nearly within my grasp…
I can’t though. I must wait just a little bit longer.
And there’s no one to talk to anyway. I can still listen, but the horrible truth is I no longer can listen with the sincere interest I once had. The agony is too loud. I listen with hopes that my words, too, might matter if I do. They won’t though. I know that.
My pain, my fury, the cuts of so many betrayals – a literal lifetime of betrayals- of all those who should have stood up for me. Those who should have helped, but stood by and did nothing… all the while saying, “I love you”. God, how I fucking hate those words now. I love you. The very words I once ached for. They hurt my ears and stab cruelly into my soul now. I’ll never believe in those words again – not from anyone.
Ever since I was a very little girl, I’d pray for someone to help me, rescue me, or just stand up for me.
No one ever did. Ever. Not even once.
This is why I advocated so adamantly for the defenseless ones when I got big enough to convince myself I could be the one…the one to show up and not be silent. To speak up even if my voice shook and my knees were weak. Not just sit by shrugging my shoulders saying, Oh that’s too bad. Oh, well that’s not really my business. Oh life’s just not fair. Sorry that’s happening to you.. blah blah blah… empty words with even emptier sentiments. It’s just bullshit people say when they know they should give a fuck, but they don’t.
I’ve never in my life asked or expected anyone to fight my battles. But just to fucking stand up next to me, or for me, and say, THIS IS WRONG and SHE’S NOT ALONE DAMNIT. It’s so much easier for attackers when they know someone’s alone and no one is brave enough or cares enough to stand with them.
Easy target. I’ve always been the easiest target of them all. At least dogs will bite. I was trained not to bite or fight or resist at all – no matter what was being done to me.
I was trained to accept abuse.
I’m dead weight. The long trail of pain, betrayal, and abuse, are too heavy for anyone to even think to lift a finger to help now.
Not that they did before either.
I don’t even want help now. I accept my fate. I won’t burden anyone by reaching out to make me screams heard ever again.
It’s almost here! It’s almost over!
This is a confession.
An apology, 1 year, 8 months, and 25 days too late.
634 days that scream It’s never too late is a truly stupid phrase.
Yes, sometimes it is indeed too late. And now is one of those times.
Dear Kelly Jo,
You left this as your last address, although you had moved from my daddy’s house 3 years ago. You received a registered mail notice today. As soon as I saw your name on the tiny little peach rectangle, I felt guilty because I still owe you money from 3 years ago. I went to your Facebook to message you that I could finally pay you back! Your Facebook was gone.
I texted you, then googled you… And found out today that I’m too late. You’re gone. Neither of us knew when we met that “too late” is my life motto. You couldn’t have possibly known. I, on the other hand, should have understood that by the time our paths crossed. I’m sorry I couldn’t see it then.
I’m listening to the words of your soul in your music as I write this to you. I feel I owe you that. Your Youtube playlist consists of only 6 songs and that brevity speaks volumes to me of your lack of fussiness. Unlike me, you didn’t spend hours adding songs to playlists in desperation to define, express, and convey the screams of your soul to the world, begging to matter or pleading to be heard.
Your playlist, Kelly’s playlist, had no followers until today, but I follow you now.
- 1. ♫My head’s under water
But I’m breathing fine
You’re crazy and I’m out of my mind♫
~All of Me by John Legend
I’m listening now, Kelly. Right now.
Today is too late. I’m too late, but I’m following you now. I’m listening.
2. ♫Staring at the bottom of your glass
Hoping one day you’ll make a dream last
But dreams come slow and they go so fast♫
~I Let Her Go by Passenger
I make no excuses. We both have travelled a hard road and that’s no excuse. Timing is such a perfect imperfection. When I came back from Atlanta, we spoke so many times on the phone about you being a tenant in my daddy’s house while I was away. You were suffering. You were struggling. You needed me. I needed you. We should have developed a deeper and more active friendship. So much of our lives were paralleled and we understood each other’s pain from so many miles away talking and texting on the phone – you, struggling here in my dad’s house – me, lost in Atlanta out on the break patio at my work.
3. ♫I feel the love and I feel it burn
Down this river, every turn
Hope is our four-letter word
Make that money, watch it burn
Old, but I’m not that old
Young, but I’m not that bold
And I don’t think the world is sold
On just doing what we’re told
I feel something so wrong
Doing the right thing
I could lie, could lie, could lie
Everything that drowns me makes me wanna fly♫ ♫Lately, I’ve been, I’ve been losing sleep
Dreaming about the things that we could be
But baby, I’ve been, I’ve been praying hard
Said no more counting dollars
We’ll be counting stars♫
~Counting Stars by One Republic
When you were in crisis and turned to me, right before I was returned to my dad’s house, I was so happy to be able to be there for you, even just on the phone. I was so happy I could listen, albeit helplessly. I heard your pain, I felt your suffering, I understood your struggle. I didn’t share much of my own journey or struggle because I felt you needed someone more to listen and be there rather than talk, but I was happy the timing was that I’d be returning and I could be your friend, real and up close, rather than a voice or texts typed over the phone.
I am sorry I wasn’t more, though. Sometimes when you called, I couldn’t understand you very well because your words were slurred and occasionally hysterical… So, I didn’t answer the phone the times when my patience was being tried and stretched in my own life. I never wanted to speak to you from my frustrations. I sensed you’d been treated as small and burdensome in your past fighting through your pain and suffering and I never wanted you to hear my patience being stretched trying to understand your slurred and mixed up words over a cell phone. I never ever wanted you to feel you were a burden or trouble to me, so when my patience was too thin (from my own struggles), I didn’t answer your calls, but never was it because I felt impatient, judgmental, or burdened by you reaching out to me. Not even once.
4. ♫And I am feeling so small
It was over my head
I know nothing at all♫
~Say Something by A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera
I was excited that when you told me you were arrested in August of 2014 and really needed a friend the most, that I would be soon back here and sharing a home with you, where I could physically hold your hand and slurred, jumbled words and simplified texts would not interfere in my understanding.
5. ♫Curtain’s call
Is the last of all
When the lights fade out
All the sinners crawlSo they dug your grave
And the masquerade
Will come calling out
At the mess you’ve made♫~Demons by Imagine Dragons
You moved the week before I returned though because you didn’t want to “screw me over not able to pay rent if you went to jail”. So we never shared the same house.
But I still owed you money! You were entitled to get your deposit back. You never screwed me over like so many have with renting my dad’s house from miles away since he passed.
We still could have been friends. You only moved a few miles away. Due to the chaotic circumstances of tenants I’ve experienced, I didn’t have your deposit to refund you then, though. And I felt like a piece of shit because you’d been so careful not to screw me over and I knew you were struggling financially every bit as much as I was. You not only needed that deposit back, you deserved to have it back. I owed you that. I distanced myself only because I was ashamed and guilty that I owed you money and I didn’t want to face that until I could pay you what I owed you…
I always intended to pay you back, though. I thought of it every time I paid my bills…crossing my fingers that there’d be enough left over this month to call you, check on you, offer my friendship, and pay you what I owed you, what you were more than entitled to for being an honest, compassionate, considerate person.
6. ♫These labels that they give you
just ’cause they don’t understand
If you look past this moment
You’ll see you’ve got a friend
Waving a flag for who you are
And all you’re gonna do
Yeah, so here’s to you
And here’s to anyone who’s ever felt invisible
Yeah, and you’re not invisible
Hear me out,
There’s so much more to life than what you’re feeling now
And someday you’ll look back on all these days
And all this pain is gonna be invisible
It’ll be invisible♫
~Invisible by Hunter Hayes
Kelly, I’m sorry if you felt invisible. I feel invisible and forgotten too and it’s the worst pain of all.
Being forgotten (or invisible) is worse than death.
I did not forget you though. You were not invisible to me. I’m too late to tell you that in person. You’re gone now – at the young and unfair age of only 43. And I’m too late.
I’ll be forever too late to tell you now – or to pay you what I owed you; that ridiculous tiny senseless thing which kept me too ashamed to maintain active friendship with you when you needed me…and I needed you, too.
I don’t know where we go after we die. I don’t know where you are, but I hope with everything inside me that you can hear me now, that you feel no pain and know that you’re not now and never were invisible.
I envy you. I’m so ready and eager to join you. Now…now that it’s too late to call or text or pay you back. I hope wherever you are now that I’ll join you soon and some how pay you back then. You deserve that. I never forgot. I promise you, I never forgot.
Kelly Jo, I am sorry. I love your heart.
And thank you for saying you loved mine too.
I’ll never forget the first time a therapist suggested to me that I wasn’t realistic about my “dad’s part” in my childhood abuse. I was furiously defensive. My daddy had never abused me!! Dr. Patty caught me off guard though when she said, Don’t you feel some anger at him for not protecting you from your mother, though?
Um, NO! My dad loved me and that’s all I ever wanted from a parent. It’s not that my dad never punished me, he did when I deserved punished. It’s not that he “didn’t protect me”, it never once occurred to me that anyone would be brave enough to take on Darlene! Meanwhile, I realize now the game she played with our fear of her. She just filled my head full of awful things he’d done to hurt her (none of which ever rang true to me even at just 4 years old) and then she’d tell my dad horrible things about me. This part never occurred to me though because as a child I couldn’t imagine my own mother would tell lies about me to anyone, much less my dad.
But she did. And I never corrected them because I had no clue my dad didn’t know the truth of whatever latest ordeal she’d put me through. And I assumed he knew the truth and that he would spend our brief, precious moments together showing me love and laughing together so I could get the strength to return to mother and better try not to upset her.
He didn’t know what was really happening though. He only knew her lies and in my childhood trusting innocence, I never told my version of events; never even fathomed that mother would just change the story so I’d look worse than I was and she’d look far better than she was.
It’s like when I was molested at school, it never occurred to me to complain to an adult. After all, an adult did it so he couldn’t be wrong, I had to be wrong. I had to have deserved it. I had no right to dispute any adults choices! Darlene effectively enforced that so thoroughly that I was too spineless to ever feel I had any rights to protest other people’s actions against me.
Because of this, I never blamed my dad for not protecting me. And it’s obvious that my entire life, I was an easy victim to the world because I had no sense of having and right to even be here, much less rights as a human being for respect or dignity. Probably why I was an easy target for rape and abusive men. Spineless creatures with zero sense of self worth are the easiest to prey upon and mold to accept the abuse.
My daddy loved her more. I’ve been aware of that for many years, but he loved her more only because he never knew the truths of her and he knew all my truths, good and bad.
Only once did I think he started to get a clue of her truth. His pastor preached on abusive parents. And after the sermon, daddy bought me a book called Toxic Parents and brought it to my house, as though something had happened and he saw a glimmer of truth in my life struggles stemming from the abuse. He didn’t say he understood or believed and I didn’t ask any questions because my dad’s loyalty was fierce and I never wanted him torn in the middle. I knew he had blinders she’d carefully sewn on his eyes and he was most comfortable with those blinders. I never had the urge to rip those off completely. I loved him too much and as hurtful as his devotion to her in spite of it all was to the little girl in me, I understood it better than most and I adored him for that quality of unconditional love. I had no real interest in changing that or hurting him by destroying his carefully plotted necessary false idea of her.
As my daddy was getting older toward the end, he’d become not quite senile, he was still cognizant and clear mostly, but his fears for and about me became irrational and confused. In hindsight I see that he knew his time was coming and he wasn’t scared about anything at all… except for me and my children.
I didn’t realize it at the time of course, I thought he was just being irrational and controlling. I wish so much I could have understood why before he passed away, but I did not. And one of our final talks was him apologizing to me for his irrationality and saying to me, I’m sorry baby, but I promise you I’ll do it differently. You tell the girls that “they’re gonna see a BIG change in papa. I won’t do this to y’all again.”
And of course I had been very angry with his recent irrational actions but I could never stay mad at my daddy who always owned his mistakes and apologized immediately for them. So I knew he recognized his mistakes and I was relieved and grateful for his apology.
I could never stay mad at my daddy. He was too genuine and good down to his soul to ever hold any mistakes he made against him.
Darlene attempted to take that apology after he died and make that her story with my dad. And amidst a huge amount of bizarre and random discrepancies surrounding my dad’s death related directly to my mother and my sister, I know she’s lying with dramatic poetic license. She makes stories up all the time because she needs to be seen as the victim she made me into. She must be seen as the sparkling angelic “victim” of her actual victims.
There will never be recompense or exposed truth of her lies. She’s told them so long to do many people now that I know even she believes they’re truths now.
I read an article that made sense of my specific experience with parental alienation. My children were turned against me at 13 and 15 and while quite vulnerable due to the recent sudden loss of their beloved Papa. I know the level of pathological narcissistic qualities my mother and their father have. I realized while pregnant with my first child that I had indeed gotten into a relationship with the male version of my mother. They are cunning and confusingly efficient narcissists.
I grew up in desperate fear of turning into my mother or of sharing any similar traits as she. For many years I vowed not to even have children when I grew up because the fear inside me of being a mother like she had been was not worth the risk. I would rather die than treat any child the way I had been treated! For many years, I wanted to be a nun, thinking if I devoted my life to serving God, I could never hurt anyone like I’d been destroyed by her.
I’ve pondered so often if sociopathy is genetic. How much of narcissistic personality disorder is narure versus nurture. When I become unexpectedly pregnant and realized my baby’s father was pathological like my mother, I really worried. I worried that I would have a narcissistic child. I vowed daily that I would love and protect my child at all cost; that my child would know joy and understanding, fun, compassion, kindness, security, self esteem, encouragement, and love, love, LOVE.
So although the sequence of events was more horrific and painful than I have words to describe even, I have never once blamed my children for their cruelty and lies intent on destroying, demeaning, and tearing every single thing about me to shreds. I know the evil that was pulling them to do such things. I know it personally and I know it well.
I also know my children after raising them alone for 13 and 15 years. I know their hearts and their souls, their struggles and their loves. Or so I thought…
After the extent to which they have gone to assist in crucifying me, my character, my parenting, my career, and even my own childhood, I’ve had terrible moments when I wondered if I created monsters. Had I loved them too much?!? Was that even possible?!?? No. I just can’t believe you can love a child too much. You can’t possibly give children too much understanding or compassion. They’re children! Perfect, innocent, loving, amazing children whom are entitled to all the love, compassion, and understanding in the world!
Maybe the vicious streak was severe parental alienation and narcissistic brainwashing? Maybe it was genetically predisposed for them to be cruel and discompassionate? Maybe all the love in the world wouldn’t have been able to soften their souls when they got old enough to think like their father and grandmother that kindness and emotion are nothing but weaknesses to prey upon? Mere vulnerabilities of “weaker” people who are to be destroyed if possible and perhaps for no other reason than that you can destroy them because if they’re foolish enough to trust and weak enough to love another more than they love themselves, then they get what they deserve when you stomp on them and laugh in their face as they cry in pain?
That’s how narcissists certainly think. I’ve researched a great deal on nature versus nurture with narcissistic personality disorder, but I’ve come to no definitive answer. I only know my children weren’t abused or ever shown anything but love and compassion and accepting their actions against me has been the bitterest pill I could have fathomed ever having to choke down. I’ve rather believed it was brainwashing and survival mechanisms for them. That they were victims of this abuse exactly as I and maybe worse.
It’s hard to fully accept that when I see that my oldest is possibly a pathological liar with a vicious streak of cruelty that I’ve only seen in her dad and my mother before in my life. A hateful, punishing, extremely selfish nature combined with a quick and easy willingness to lie to get whatever she wants.
It’s painful to realize the level of this. And it’s been much easier to blame the narcissists that abused me in my past for her ugly behaviors than it is to blame her and allow myself to wonder if she is a sociopath as well.
I’m just not so sure anymore though. She has embraced cruelty and manipulation and lying at a rapid and efficient rate as to actually be frightening and deeply unsettling to my soul and wrenching in my heart when I picture her the first 15 years of her life… so precious, so kind, so sweet and loving, so easy going and sweet natured that I literally thought of her many times as an actual angel on earth and I couldn’t believe after so much abuse and terror and heartbreak all my life that God had deemed me fit to raise a child so perfect and precious and angelic like this one. And then one day a few weeks after burying my daddy, she was my abuser.
This beautiful, amazing sweet child of grace and love like I’d never known in my entire life, lies without conscience for no purpose other than to hurt and smear me as a human being, as a mother, and as a daughter. She is cruel and vicious and literally laughs at my pain. She seems to actually think watching me suffer loss as a mother is funny. She has crucified me like Jesus and burned me at the stake like a witch in Salem without a trial or even honest accusations. The more I hurt it’s almost like the more it feeds her fury and cruelty!! I’ve known two people like that in my life… two sociopaths… her father and my mother.
Then I read this article and suddenly it all became painfully clear.