A Fairy Tale Year

One year ago today, Magic Man entered my little world – causing me to question my life and fear of taking risks to live.  Not just exist.. but really, truly live, and risk love in my heart.  For an abuse survivor, it’s a difficult choice sometimes between living life and safety.

I cannot say this past year has been easy.  Living a perfect fairytale life is fictitious, to say the least.  Real fairy tales have death, true love and dark magic.  We are living a Grimm’s Fairy Tale life, the deluxe edition.  It’s pushed my health and PTSD to nearly unbearable moments, for the world outside is such a scary place and the monsters lurk in the shadows.

Every day, we battle the monsters, the sadness and tragedies.   At night, we curl around each other until the sweetness of sleep slips through our veins.  We are battle-weary warriors in love.  He is my armor, I am his strength, and together, our voices the sword of truth.

Our fairy tale story might not close in the usual fictitious way.. for no one truly lives happily ever after.  It might read instead, “And they truly lived from this day forward.”

Running away, with love

Running away means survival so you don’t get hit or pushed around or subdued.  It has nothing to do with love.  It’s about fear, nursing wounds, living to fight another day.  Self-preservation.

But this year has opened my mind further than I ever thought possible.  I’ve nearly crossed the threshold from survivor to thriver.  I’m starting to fight back wisely, more clear-headed, and the happiest I’ve ever been.

As our first anniversary was approaching, Magic Man took us on a long journey across the miles, over the river and through the woods to meet our parents.  The further we drove the lighter our emotional suitcases became, until we were lighthearted with the relief.  Escaping with a purposeful goal was just what the doctor ordered.

We did not care what anyone thought.  We were all giddy children in a Caddy having the time of our lives.  Being in love is magic in itself.  Running away, with love, blew my mind.   It was such a new concept to me and took some getting used to.  But I did it, and I loved every second of it.

The Quiet Adventure

destiny wayEmbarking on a new adventure in life comes with its own risks, pitfalls and exhilaration.  Sometimes the adventure is front-page news..  other times, done quietly.

My writing is my life and I truly believe to my core that without it, I’d still be grasping to make sense of myself.  This blog has run for two years now, quietly and happily.  I grew tremendously with every post I published.  It enabled me to have the first healthy love relationship.  I’m happy, sexually and emotionally.  The PTSD is always there, waiting, but at least it is not killing the moments.

Lately I’ve been silent and introspective.  I’ve been standing at the crossroad, wondering which way to go.  Between the health issues and matters I will discuss in my own good time, there were times I nearly shut the book on myself.

Some people write only one genre.  I love all of it, especially writing erotica.  It is a part of my recovery from domestic violence and rape.  It’s my quiet adventure.   But not everyone’s into it and I must respect that.

So the crossroads… Do I quit or press on… fight or flight..  and the biggest question of all,

How much do I want the quiet adventure?

The answer is, very much.  I want it.  I may not be the best writer, but I have the guts to do it, and I can.

Right now I’m working on my quiet adventure in a private blog by invitation only.  It’s a manuscript blog.  All of my followers can  join if they choose.   For those of you that just visit but don’t follow, post a comment requesting an invitation.


Cosmic Wedgies

When I was a young girl, my mother’s favorite method of discipline in public was to very slyly slip her hand around our waist and whisper in our ear quite gently that we’d better knock it off… as her index finger just as slyly caught the waistband of our undies, giving it a not-as-gentle tug upward.

Forget spankings, or yelling, or threatening.  A public wedgie was the most effective way to shut us up when we were harassing her for a bucket of ice cream or the latest big-label attire she couldn’t afford- and it was her way of diffusing her frustration too.

She’d start to chuckle as she watched us try to continue whining for what we wanted, with our delicates practically pulled up to our ears.  My mother was a domestic violence survivor, but she was gentle and lived to laugh.   She found humor in the smallest things when life was at its worst.   Sarcasm was her middle name, homemade parody ditties her hallmark.

Not surprisingly, being clever kids, one of us refused to wear underpants from thereon out.   I still laugh with the memory of seeing my mother’s jaw drop as my young sister sailed by us in a cartwheel – bare legs, wearing nothing under her short skirt, and nothing to be disciplined with.

I do believe my mother is my guardian angel, so when she hauls a big tug deeply inside of me (usually publicly, because that’s when wedgies have their best effect) I know there is something wrong in my life I need to address.

Today I visited an ill friend in one of the hospitals my mother was admitted into before her final ascent.  I held his hand and listened as I remembered being here for what felt like such a long time ago.

Honestly, I didn’t want to be here.  Memories were distracting.  The hall’s faint whiff of disinfected death was overwhelming.  And my heart hurt, missing her.  But I’ve been stronger lately and I held out for several hours, thinking to myself, “This is such a wedgie moment.”

I don’t know if guardian angels can be loaned out but I asked for it.  Hopefully my voice was heard, and my friend will be saved with her cosmic wedgie – and my underpants can take a break.

Magic Man

My Soulmate on Aisle 7  laughs, plays, and smiles, and loves.  We talk and talk and talk.  I never tire of the softness of his words.  Lately I’ve nicknamed him the Magic Man.  We are nearing the ninth month of a relationship.  That in itself is magic at work.

He believes in Heaven, loves rainbows, sees triple digits, and gives generous amounts of care to the intricacy of growth flowering in his garden.  He is a gatherer, a gardener, and a lover of unparalleled comparisons.  He is absent of triggers.  That has blown my mind.

I’ve seen my little anxious child transform into a somewhat less fearful soul.  She takes small risks now, and does not mind if she gets a little dirty having fun.  He taught her to climb a tree and ride her bike.  A year ago, she would have an anxiety attack on her training wheels.   Magic Man waved his wand, and suddenly she is not afraid as much.  She is not as afraid to sleep on her own now.  Her counselor is so pleased.

My doctor chuckles when Magic Man accompanies me, for his funny bone pokes out into others ribs until they can’t help laughing a little.   I go to the doctor often now, much more than I used to have to do.  Stress is a killer.  I wrote recently about the mind-body connection  of PTSD and how it harms a person.  I’ll be in a nephrologist’s care in two weeks.

Magic Man wears his heart on his sleeve, even when it means it might get torn to shreds by those hurting.  He offers all he has, open-handed.  It’s the trait of one who’s done the Work and the Steps, being sober for nine years.  Empathy is a natural evolving process in sobriety.

Well, I just read what I wrote, and I’m shaking my head.  Clearly, I’m under a spell, a love potion, and in love with Magic.


Two years of Recovery Writing today


Well, shucks!  Break out the Scooby snacks.  WordPress sent me a Congratulations on Two Years just now.

I laughed a little when I got the message.   I’ve not posted much lately, but have a ton of half-written drafts awaiting publish.

My voice inside has been unusually calm and not because I haven’t had anything useful to say.  Most of my energy lately has been consumed by precocious third-graders.  I’ve really enjoyed volunteering in a reading group, watching them grow in phases.   Helping children learn seemed to foster a sense of recovery my own methods of recovery fell short of.   Recovery writing can turn (me) into a hermit crab.  It was hard to get out of my PTSD shell, but I did it, and it felt great.

And now it’s over (until next year), but I truly enjoyed this year’s teacher, who was such an inspirational woman and glued me back together on my birthday with such care.  I haven’t posted about that, yet.

For anyone who noticed.. yes, my archives only go back to October of 2012, here.  I’ve been a WordPress member since June of 2012 and ran an anonymous blog about the daily life of me.  It was blunt, and raw,  a documentation journal, and probably the second most terrifying and liberating experience I’ve ever had.

“The Fourth Anniversary” a writing exercise

phone pics 574We all have dark days we mark on our mental calendars.  Anniversaries aren’t meant to be only celebrations.  Sometimes they’re observed as the days of tragedy.

Tomorrow marks the fourth anniversary I sat in a courtroom with a domestic violence advocate and a police officer at my side.

Ironically, it was my birthday that day.  I had just turned 40.  In a strange way, it felt as if it were a death day.  I haven’t celebrated my birthday since 2010 the way others would want to celebrate.  It was ominous and dreadful to me.  An anniversary of a dark time.  A remembrance of plague.

This year I tried it differently.  I celebrated my birthday a few days early.  The intent was to redirect my mind and be joyous that I’m alive.  We had a relaxed party with a handful of close friends and relatives, cake, Easter egg painting and a roaring fire.

I can’t say the joy was as sweet as I wanted it to be, for my child took her mads out on her bicycle as a guest arrived-  leaving bits of basket scattered, and banging her dancer’s ankle to bluish.  She was so angry, but couldn’t figure out what she was angry about.  She blamed it on the bicycle and so proceeded to kick and scream at it until it fell over despite the training wheels.  She hid behind a tree, sobbing.  She didn’t know what was wrong.  She just knew something was.

I never really asked the guest how he perceived the incident, for one minute she was smiling and riding near his car, the next minute she was gone and there was an angry child.  I never asked him how much he saw of the pink bicycle being beaten up.   I never asked him if he saw me drop everything and run to where she stopped.   I never asked if he saw me approach her slowly with outstretched hands, or saw me get down on one knee several feet from her.

I knew better than to grab her.  That escalates her and she runs.   She taught me the hard way to give her time to make sense of what’s happening.

She was lividly rigid, unable to speak coherently, cheeks pink, nostrils flaring.  This is the child others rarely see.   I wish I could say I was completely calm.  Maybe on the outside I seemed to be, but inside I was frightened.

Once the rage calmed and she came back to center, she clung to me for a long time, and I held her with love.  I carried her into the safe house.  She was crying, so frightened of how she’d behaved and if her bicycle would ever forgive her.

She hadn’t quite forgiven herself- but bound and determined, she jumped back on that bike later after we collected the broken parts and she rode it the rest of the evening.

I suspect for her this time is a dark anniversary, when everything she thought she knew turned upside down.  We seem to go through our cycles together around this time of year.

I was hoping maybe things would be different for her if it were different for me.   We collectively share the dark anniversaries, yet we are unique in our ways of handling our feelings.  As old as I feel, sometimes it seems like I should have tenure to control how she feels or what she thinks.

But, as young as she is, her feelings are valid.  As young as she is, she has the right to express her feelings- however dark and angry.  I have no control over her feelings, perceptions, or her thoughts.  I have no control over what happened.

But I won’t lie.  I wish I could snap my fingers and whisk away the pain she doesn’t understand.