Going on a ride

We watched three children; two boys and a girl walk toward the white van. It is one of those big white ones with all the windows tinted dark gray private agencies use, that taxpayers’ pay for.

 They are happy to be together again. All the children know is they are off on a new adventure, what they do not realize is this adventure they are on is the last one they will ever have together as siblings. As they wave goodbye to their grandma’s standing outside who is blowing them kisses and waving back. Telling them goodbye with big smiles on their faces, everyone, I mean everyone has smiles on their faces.

 As the big white van drives away and the babies cannot see us anymore, we bust down and cry, cry, cry, from the depths of our Souls. They have taken our babies from us knowing we will never see them, will never hold them, and we can never play with them, we can never make them pancakes again. I lost part of my heart that day. It has never been the same.

Since that day grandma Jean died two months after the children's mother died, and I grandma Denise am trying to document all my memories of a family destroyed by a pedophile.

Months after the children taken from us by the state of Michigan, just before Christmas, December 17th to be exact I got to speak with Beylen for the last time he was 8 years old. He is telling me that he would be living with his birth father eventually, but in the meantime; he would go stay with his grandma, on his father's side. The caseworker had informed me that his father had refused to let me see him again or to have anything to do with him. Beylen was then separated from his siblings; they were put up for adoption to another family. They had same mother different fathers.

While, talking to my grandson I stayed encouraging and supportive. Oh, what a wonderful Christmas present to be able to live with your grandma. Hugs, kisses, and a ton of I love you exchanged. Bye Beylen, I Love you. Love you too Grandma.

After I hung up, this horrendous sound came from the depths of my soul I had never heard before, it came exploding out of me. I could not stop it. I do not know where it came from, but it just comes screaming out of my mouth then the sobbing and the tears and more sobbing, but my baby Beylen never knew his grandma lost another piece of her heart that day. It was his last time to talk to me for ten years.

 

Shove it where the sun doesn't shine

I went to jail for protecting myself from my husband one-time; he used to beat me daily. This particular time he had given me a black eye, bloody nose, and swollen lip after he threw a knife at me that stuck in the wall instead of me.

I had left him a month before and moved to another town miles away. Found a job, rented a room over an old storefront building it was small, cheap, and I felt safe.. The room was quaint with plaster walls, a light hung from the center of ten foot high ceiling with only bare wires with no shade. The wooden floors clean and shiny but needed refinishing. A twin bed snug against the wall, with a small end table next to it, and a window with lace curtains in the center of the wall of the narrow room. I shared a bathroom down the hall with other people who rented similar rooms. It was mine, all mine.

 I was in the middle of preparing breakfast food for the restaurants line cooks. Baking old fashion buttermilk biscuits, frying bacon and sausage, coffee was brewing, the smell was deliciously hanging throughout the kitchen. Country music was playing on the radio, we were happy and laughing. I was feeling almost like my old self, full of confidence and anything was possible for the future.  Little did I know what was lurking outside for me. He found out where I worked. 

After he came in the back door of the restaurant he grabbed me. He was dragging me out the back door when I grabbed the door jamb on both side of the opening. I'm screaming for him to let go of me, my boss grab me under my arm pits but she and I couldn't break his grip. He got me outside into the car and drove off.  The police had been called but they didn't get there in time. He drove us back to the one bedroom trailer we had rented from a church pastor and his wife. 

The police showed up and took us both to jail.

He got out of jail on his own recognize that same day because he was from KY.

I am from Michigan.  Because of that the judge thought I was a flight risk. Ya think so?  I ended up spending 30 days because the judge wouldn't give me back my $100 bail money. So, I told the judge to shove it where the sun doesn't shine. Was not one of my better reactions to an authority figure. Needless to say, the judge didn't find my response humorous.
This happened in London KY. 

Poem to survivor of sexual assault

I searched for words to tell you what not to feel

I searched for words to tell you how to feel

I searched and searched then realized I could tell you a million words

But I did not experience your time and place

I did have my own, so I do know the place

But there are no words to express some experiences

In the end, results are always the same

Violated, hard to trust, anger that comes from know where

In time it will get easier the fear will subside

A day will come, and you will feel at peace again.

I am safer alone

She sits at the kitchen table listening to the water drip, drip, drip. Her memory goes back to a time in life when she remembers how vulnerable she could be. He controlled everything, she feared to make choices, trained from childhood to be obedient. Sexual abuse started when she was 3.

Now at 44, the dripping from the faucet reminds her of a time long ago when he put his hand through the window. They are fighting over his infidelity.

He knocks her down then sits with his knees on her forearms. She can't move, terror red is all she sees. The blood he is dripping on her forehead is running into her eyes.

He says, "In Viet Nam, we use to terrorize our captives this way. It can get worse".

Crying, begging, rocking her head back and forth desperate to keep the blood from running into her eyes. It's causing her to see everything through a red haze. Blood dripped, splattered, ran down the walls. He left after that never to come back.

Crying, sobbing from the aftermath of abuse. She doesn't know what to clean first.

Drenched in blood my vision blurred, I remember it well. Rinsed my eyes out than wiped my face. Didn't figure I should change my clothes.

By the time I washed the blood from walls, ceiling, furniture, and the floor my clothes drenched with his diluted blood, I took off my clothes and threw them away. Standing in the shower sobbing until the water ran clear and cold. I got out of the shower a new woman.

Until the next time, I meet the new one to bring terror in my life.

Now at 62, I stay alone. After 3 relationships that brought me to the brink of death, I'm safer alone.

#MeToo #iamwriting #amwriting

#MeToo

What it is like for me to write about anything relating to my life experiences is overwhelming.  With what is going on in the news has made it even worst for the angst, I fight off with medications.

Feeling imprisoned by my emotions. Feeling so much anger towards people's beliefs that any kind of abuse, controlling human rights, verbal abuse, sexual assault, emotional abuse is excepted in any form.

I have news for you it's not excepted. When I heard a woman yesterday say it depends on the severity of the allegations. Who makes that decision? Society, the person causing the unwanted advances? It's obvious it's not working, it must be changed.

#survivor #abused #accountability #changelaws must be more to life for victims. The narcissist attitude of men and women believing it's their human rights to do anything they want.

Survivor of assault lives with it the rest of their life.

Poor me day LOL

She has been trying so hard and getting nowhere.
Tired can't even begin to describe her life.
Denise and her pets surviving the winter until her paintings and prints sell. She is working very hard to get the word out about her paintings.

Sincerely love and blessings,
Matilda and Teddy

Many shade's of abuse

Abuse doesn't have a color, religion, gender, age, or financial amount of income.

The little blond, blue eyed child is always happy in school. Yet on the way home, this child becomes solemn and slower in the child's step towards home.

The brown hair, brown eye child is always getting into fights. Why? Could it be that at home someone is always picking on this child?

Two or more children are playing sex games and showing their private parts to others? This is a sign they are being taught this at home or somewhere? Could be church, neighbor, sibling, childrens club, and on and on.

You see these children in the store and their eyes have this pleding or blank stare. The signs are there, you just have to look. It is better to be wrong than say nothing at all, instead in the news later on you hear of a child missing or dead. 

We need more awareness of child abuse

Children have the smallest voices, some have no voice at all to protect themselves. Us survivors must make agencies that are supposed to be protecting them do their jobs.  Untie the hands of those who can help. I would rather be wrong than not say anything at all. I spoke out and nothing was done to the perpetrators of my three grandchildren.  Now they have to live with memories of horrific abuse. And so do I because I did not scream and carry on, if I had they would have locked me up. But at least my grandchildren would have had a chance to a normal life. Maybe.
I  ask all of you who read this share my blog. It isn't much but maybe we can save a few children in the next hour from abuse or death.

April is Child Abuse Awareness Month this link is from legacy.9news.com/

In 2013, there were 679,000 victims of child abuse and neglect throughout the United States.

1. That would be 56,583 per month.
2. That would be 155 children abused or neglected a day.
3. That would be 6.46 children an hour Everyday in The United States of America.

American Human Organization
Here is a paragraph from The American Human Organization website.

The tragedy of child abuse- and neglect-related fatalities has been brought into our homes with increasing frequency by recent media reports. There was two-month-old Tanner Dowler, who died of physical abuse at the hands of his young parents despite efforts by his grandparents to alert and prompt authorities to intervene even before he was born. And there was 14-month-old Demitri Robledo, who was tortured and starved by his male babysitter. Equally disturbing was the story of five-year-old Zachary Bennett who was fatally beaten after being returned to his father despite the fact that his father had a criminal record of domestic violence and drug abuse. And there was six-year-old Elisa Izquierdo who died at the hands of her mother in New York. Born addicted to crack cocaine, Elisa suffered a lifetime of her mother’s abuse.