Thursday, March 30, 2006

Confessions

Being a psycho I tend to sometimes do some really crazy things, and later I wonder why. I know why I first began stealing, because I was accused by a school principal for stealing candy out of a candy machine, but I honestly didn’t steal anything. Still, I couldn’t prove that I didn’t and received a spanking so severe that the bruises never went away. I was only 10 years old when I began my crime spree of stealing from those of authority. Somehow it gave me satisfaction in knowing that I had taken something from them and made them feel the way I felt when I received an unjust spanking.

After that it was just a chain reaction…I committed crime after crime when I realized how easy it was to get away with doing the things I did. I could easily get all the things my parents didn’t get for me. Simple things such as make-up, new underwear, and my first bra. Which I stole because my Mom said I refused to wear one because I said it hurt when I had it on. What she failed to say is she had bought me one that was 3 sizes to small, so of course I wasn’t going to wear it. After that she never bought me another bra until I stole one from the store and she saw me trying it on. I figured out early on, if there was any that I truly needed I would have to get it myself.

As a teenager my stealing became out of control because of this way of thinking. Eventually I was stealing because I enjoyed the rush I received from strolling out the door without being caught.

This is getting long enough, so I’m going to stop here and post a few confessions, feel free to post your own if you’ve got enough balls. Right now I’m not going to explain what’s behind the post; I’ll try and explain some of that another time. Scream out loud now.

Confessions


I steal…no big surprise there.
I like cutting on myself. I also hate cutting on myself.
I once broke into a police officers house and stole his guns and badge.
I killed a dog before by poisoning it.
I have books from the library that I’ve never returned.
I’ve grown marijuana plants in my house.
I sometimes think about killing people.
I made an explosive device one day when I was bored.
I’m a drug addict.
While in prison I did heroin with a correctional officer.
I wrote things on a public bathroom wall threatening the police.
I stole something today.
I once saw a UFO.
I had sex with different officers when I was a teenager to get out of being arrested.
I gave people Christmas gifts that were stolen.
I put too much toilet paper in a toilet before just to clog it up.
I have broken into 3 liquor stores with different people.
I have stolen many cars.
I gave counterfeit money to a drug dealer.
Sometimes I take too many pills.
I’ve committed mail fraud.
I have set things on fire.
I got arrested on purpose before.
I sometimes steal for no reason.
I cheated at playing cards.
I ate a whole cake once and then I made myself throw-up.
I’ve stolen several guns and resold them.
I spit in someone’s drink.
Voices sometimes tell me to kidnap people so I can torture them.
I have a notebook where I write down everything I’ve every stolen.
I know someone who works with explosives.
I like to lick just the cheese off of chips.
I have watched some really weird porn.
I set a field on fire.
I huffed gasoline before.
I have had sex with a complete stranger.
I have stalked several police officers just for fun.
I am afraid.

The Escape..Leaving home

I graduated from high school in May of 1984. I was only 17 years old and wouldn’t turn 18 until November, so my father believed he still had control over me until then. That summer everything was okay, until the summer school break was over, and everyone went back to work or school, except me.

Midway through August, Mom, Dustin and Suzy started back to school. Mom had started working at the school as a dishwasher, so she could be at the school to help Dustin whenever he needed her. Richard began working a part-time job that was more like helping a friend do a few things. He got paid very little and was gone most of the time, leaving me at home most days alone with my father. I tried to avoid him as much as possible by getting up early and going swimming at the pond or laying on the big rocks at my secret place.

Early one morning I could hear my father in the kitchen when I got up, so I decided to skip breakfast, headed straight outside, and disappeared into the woods. I walked up the stream that was almost completely dry, then on up to the pond. The weather was very hot and the pond water had become very low. The water was muddy where the cattle had been there earlier and moss was beginning to grow heavily in one corner. I stood on the pond bank looking at the water. As hot as it was, the water just looked too nasty for me to get in, so I decided to head towards the house. I walked in and it was 12:34 pm. I was hungry and headed towards the kitchen. I went past my father's bedroom and saw him laying naked on his bed. I walked straight to the kitchen and got something to eat to take with me. I walked back through the living room to leave and saw him sitting in his recliner, naked, rubbing himself. I quickly went to walk past him and he reached out and grabbed my arm.

"Come here", he said squeezing my arm and pulling me towards him. He grabbed my hand and put it on his penis, but I pulled away. He sat up and looked at me.
"Where you been?"
"Out walking by the creek", was all I managed to say.
"I don't want you down there by yourself".
"Why!" I said rather loudly but still with some caution in my voice.
He stood and slapped me hard across the face, "as long as you live under my roof you'll do as I say".

As I back away, he pushed me down on the couch. He walked over near me and put his penis near my mouth, holding it out in his hand.

I spit on him, rolled off the couch and ran outside. Seconds later, he came running out with a gun in his hands. When I saw it, I turned to walk away, but he quickly grabbed my hair and pulled me down to the ground. He put the gun in my face, "I ought to blow your fucking head off, you ungrateful bitch, but you're not worth the price of the bullet."

I was so scared, thinking he was going to do what he promised to do several years ago. Then suddenly I realized I didn’t care if I lived or died. I became okay with death.

"Just fucking do it you son-of-bitch. I'm so sick of your shit!” I shouted with unbelievable rage.
"You get your things and get out. You come back and I'll kill you and dump your body where no one will ever find it. You understand me!!?” he shouted loudly as he held the gun against my face.

I nodded my head up and down, and then he turned and walked away as I laid there for a moment shaking.

A few minutes later, he got in his truck and left. I had to make a plan right then and there; it was time for me to leave. I didn’t know where I was going or how I was going to get there, but I knew I had to go now or someone was going to die. I quickly went in the house and packed a few of my things. I was afraid I might run into him while walking up the driveway to the highway, so instead I cut across the backfields up to the highway. I still had no idea where I was going, but I knew I wasn't staying there another moment. I wasn’t going to let him take away any more of my breaths. I would just walk so far away, that I would become lost, I told myself.

During the walk, Mom had made it back home and was told that I was leaving home. I had made it a few miles down the highway when she pulled up behind me.

"Get in Tayla. Let's go back to the house", Mom shouted out of the window of the car.
"NO! I'm not going back to that house ever again".
"Where are you going then?"
I quickly thought and said, "To Uncle Jack's house in Nowata".
"Okay. Get in and we'll go back to the house so I can get a spare tire, I don't have one".
"No!” I yelled, "I'm not going back to that house."
"I don't have a spare Tayla Ann!” she shouted back at me.
"Go get it and come back, but I'm not going back."
"Alright. Get in and I'll take you to your Uncle's", she finally agreed.

On the way, we spoke very little. I mainly looked out my window, watching the tree's go by, and thinking. I wanted to tell her why Dad and I argued so much; why I hated him with all my heart, why I wanted to take his life and then my own. But I couldn't tell because I was afraid of what might happen. I knew it would mean he would go to jail, but not for long. My father had told me on different occasions, "If I go to jail, I'll get out and when I do, I'm going to kill you, your mom, brothers and sister". He would then quickly change his tone, "besides we're a family, you don't want to break up our family, do you? You'll never see them ever again. They'll take you and put you with strangers. Is that what you want?" He would then squeeze my arm until I said no. It made me feel like it would be my fault. I couldn't be the one who caused the division of my family. It would be another secret for me alone to keep. I just told her I couldn't take the yelling anymore and left it at that.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into my Uncle's driveway. Mom stood outside and talked with Uncle Jack while I went inside and put my things in the extra bedroom. It had a full size bed and a dresser, with a small walk in closet in one corner and a door that opened to the bathroom. The house hadn't changed much, except it had gotten older. Inside it smelled strong of cigarette smoke from my Uncles years of smoking without opening the windows and letting the house air out. The kitchen and bathroom were in really bad shape, but nothing I couldn't take care of I told myself. I sat my things down on the bed, and then went to say good-bye to Mom.

"If you need anything just call me at the school."
"I will."
"I love you Tayla. Take care."
I told her goodbye and she walked sadly away.

Uncle Jack and I talked for a little while as we sat down on the sofa in the living room. He said it was fine if I stayed, but I would have to buy all my own food and other things that I needed. He said he would be gone most of the time staying with some friends across the street, so if I needed anything I could find him over there and he walked out the front door. I walked into 'my bedroom’, smiled and took a deep breath. I felt free.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

My younger brother is shot by a 22 rifle.

The following summer on August 1, 1979, just two years after my older brother was shot at the pond, my younger brother Dustin's life would also change forever.

Everyone had gotten up early that morning. My father had left for work in the oil fields and Mom was busy cleaning house. Richard who was 14 and Dustin who was nine had decided they wanted to go shooting at turtles and snakes at the pond, then go swimming afterwards. It was my little Suzy's and my turn to do the dishes before we would be allowed to go. We changed into our swimsuits, and then continued doing the dishes. Richard and Dustin headed off to the pond with Richard's 22 that he had gotten for his birthday.

We were finishing the dishes when Richard came running into the house shouting, "Dustin's been shot!"

The same look of horror came across my Mom's face that I had seen before. Tears were streaming down Richard's face. We all looked at each other and knew it was serious. Mom raced outside and jumped into the camper truck we had at the time. She turned over the engine, but it wouldn't start because the battery was dead. Thinking quickly, Richard and Mom raced to find another battery that would start the truck. Using the battery charger, they finally managed to get the truck going 10 minutes later. Richard was drained, physically and mentality, so he stayed behind with Suzy, as Mom and I raced wildly through the pasture towards the pond. We were there within a few minutes. Mom quickly jumped from the truck, leaving it running and ran up over the steep pond bank. I was half-way up when I heard Mom let out a loud ear-piercing, heart-pounding scream. It caused my heart to beat so wildly, it hurt. I couldn't see him yet, so my first vision was of him floating dead in the water. My adrenaline flowed as I forced myself quickly up over the steep pond bank. I topped the bank to see Mom dropping down to her knee's near the water's edge. As I got closer, I was shock to see he was naked, but moving. I had expected him to be dead.

"What happened?” Mom asked him hysterically. I could see the panic in her eyes, as she began checking him over.

"Can you stand?” Mom asked.

He moaned out a low "No".

“How are we going to get him to the truck?” Mom asked as she began looking around at a way to get him to the truck as close as possible.

“You could pull up on the pond bank and drive up here real close to him.” I said pointing to the way I had seen our father do it before.
Mom began shaking her head no, “It just doesn’t look safe.”
“It’s easy, Dad has done it many times before”.
“No! I don’t think it’s safe.”
“Well what do you want to do?”
With a terrified look on Mom’s face, she finally shouted, "Tayla, just grab him under the arm and let's carry him to the truck."

“Okay,” I said then I grabbed him first up under his left arm and pulled him upwards. He let out a loud moan of pain and I started to lay him back down, but Mom had grabbed a hold of him under his right arm and we began dragging him towards the truck. As I drugged him up away from the waters edge and down the other side of the pond bank towards the truck, I could smell the blood and the pond water on him, which made me feel ill to my stomach. Blood drained from his back and chest, as we drug him down the pond bank, which caused me to almost lose my grip on him several times. Mom and I were exhausted by the time we got him to the truck. I was just 2 1/2 years older than he was and I wasn't that much bigger than him, but I managed to pick him up and put him in the truck as Mom went around on the other side and helped pull him in. Mom laid him down in the front seat, as I jumped into the back of the camper truck alone. As I looked down all the blood that had been on him, was now all over my swimming clothes and hands.

When we got back to the house, Mom ran inside and grabbed her purse. She told Richard to wait for our father to get home and tell him what happened. I washed my hands and grabbed a shirt to throw on over my swimsuit. I wanted to change but Mom said no, just get in the back of the truck with Suzy. Mom drove to the hospital in Nowata faster than she had ever driven before. Suzy and I were thrown around in the back of the camper truck as she took corners wildly. When she got there, she raced inside and quickly brought a nurse outside. Dustin was then quickly placed on a stretcher and taken inside.

The bullet had entered through his chest and exited in his back, near his spinal cord. Within minutes, arrangements were made to transport him to a larger hospital in Tulsa. Suzy and I stood in the hallway as they discussed what to do. I heard them talking saying that he was paralyzed from the waist down because he was moved.

"Who moved him?” I heard one of them say. The nurse pointed toward me, as they loaded him into the back of the ambulance, then she shook her head. I wondered if it was my fault. Was it because of me that he would never walk again?

Mom told Suzy and me to walk to our Uncle Jack's house and stay there until she got back. They were going to rush Dustin to trauma in Tulsa because there was no way they could handle it there. They loaded Dustin into the back of an ambulance and quickly took off for the 50 plus mile trip to Tulsa’s nearest trauma center. Normally it would be approximately an hour drive, but they said they could make it in twenty minutes. I watched as the ambulance drove off in the direction of Tulsa, I wondered if I would ever see him alive again.

It was almost a mile to Uncle Jack's house and by the time we got there, the blood on my swimsuit had completely dried. I quickly explained to my Uncle what had happened, then headed straight for the bathroom. The more I tried to wash the blood out, the more smeared it became. It wasn't much, but enough that it made me cringe when I looked at it.

Several hours later, the ambulance drivers stopped by my Uncles place to make sure we had made it safely and to let us know Dustin would be okay. They told us Mom wanted us to stay at our Uncles house for the night and she would come by as soon as she could. We continued staying with my Uncle for a few days, while Mom stayed at the hospital with Dustin. When she returned, she explained that Dustin would be in the hospital for a long time. He couldn't feel anything from the waist down and would probably never walk again. For the remaining days of summer, Richard was allowed to stay home by himself, while Mom was at the hospital and Dad was at work. At times, we would go with Mom to the Children's Medical Center in Tulsa. We weren't allowed in his room, so we spent the time wondering around the halls in the waiting area. Dustin spent the next year in the hospital, only coming home for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Suzy and I began staying with whoever my parents could find to watch us. I hated being moved around from place to place, but I had no choice. On week-ends, holidays, or anytime school wasn't in, I was moved around from house to house; not really knowing the person I was staying with. That was when I first began to believe that Mom knew what was going on, but she didn't say anything. Maybe she just wasn't sure, and maybe she did know and that's why she tired not to leave us alone with dad. That entire year that Dustin was in the hospital my father always took it as a chance to do something private and alone with me. Inside I felt like I was falling apart.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

I want to alarm, inform and even outrage the reader.

I received my first response back from a publisher, and I was turned down. For the first few days after I received what I sent them back in the mail, I’ve felt like damn, this is another thing that I’ve failed at. I begin hearing this voice inside telling me I’m not a writer and probably never will be, but then I remember something my English teacher in high school had said to me: ‘If you hear a voice within you saying, "You are not a writer", then by all means write...and that voice will silenced.’ So I guess that’s where I’m at now, I’m not a good writer, but I want that voice inside of me to be silent.

I was told I had a good story; it just wasn’t ready for publication yet. Hell, I don’t know anything about how to edit or put a book together acceptable enough to be published. I’ve thought about going back to school and learn journalism or something equivalent, so at least I could finish my story, but at my age I’m not sure that’s an option. So for now I just put aside what I’ve wrote, and who knows maybe one day I’ll figure out how to put my story together enough for everyone to understand.

When I write I want others to feel my pain, to flinch their eyes and look away in sadness. I want others to understand what pedophiles and child molesters can do to children. It destroys their lives. We no longer feel normal. We go through life feeling as if something is missing or out of place. And no matter how hard we try, we never feel okay. There is one thing I have learned: Everything is always okay in the end, if it's not, then it's not the end.

Saturday, March 18, 2006

Friday, March 17, 2006

Lost

I began feeling as if something was wrong with me. I would lay awake night after night, wondering if he was watching me. He words echoed through my head over and over again. Not telling anyone. I kept it a secret. Secrets...SEcreTs...seCrEts..."You’re my special big girl and I love you very much." Unsure of what to think."It's our secret...You can't tell anyone...It would mean breaking up our family. We would have no place to live. I could go to jail. Then who would take care of you and your momma. A good girl is a quiet girl. I’ll give you money anytime you need it. It's our secret. No one will believe you." The words rang through my head over and over again as I saw the images from the woods. I felt this was my family. If I tell, it all falls apart. There would no longer be a family to belong too. Everyone would hate me for breaking up the family. As messed up as we were, I still belonged to something. I felt I couldn't tell. For me, the problem would always be denied.

My older brother gets shot by my half-brother.

It was a very humid summer day in July, 1977. Richard and Wally were checking out their new bow and arrows that Dad had recently brought for them. They decided to go to the pond to swim and practice shooting. Richard wasn’t doing very well because 2 days before he had been stung by a bumblebee just above his right eye. It was swollen shut and his left eye was open just enough for him to see where he was going. My sister's and younger brother Dustin stayed home doing chores, playing, and watching TV. . They had been gone for a little over an hour, when suddenly Wally came running into the house, falling down onto the floor he shouted, “Richard’s hurt at the pond".

A look of terror came across Mom's face, "what happened? What's wrong?” she said grabbing him.

"I shot Richard in the side with an arrow".
"Oh God, where is he at?”
"At the pond."
"Okay, show me where," Mom said, and then she quickly ran out the front door.

We had no phone to call for help, because Dad had refused to let Mom get one, so it was up to mom to get him to the hospital in Nowata County. Mom drove madly through the fields until she made it to the pond bank. They managed to get him in the truck and into town within an hour. From there he was taken to a hospital in Bartlesville where he could get better care.

I found out later Richard and Wally had been shooting arrows back and forth across the pond. Wally shot one and Richard looked up, but couldn't see it because of the bee sting and the sun in his eyes. He had lifted his left arm up to block out the sun, and when he did, the arrow that was a straight tip, went deep into his side, puncturing his left lung. He stayed in the hospital for 2 week's. Mom stayed several night's at the hospital, leaving us alone with dad.

It made me feel uneasy, because all that day Dad had been sitting around naked in his recliner. He often did this, even when Mom was around. After getting home from work, he would strip totally naked in the living room, sit back in his recliner and begin rubbing his genitals, not caring if anyone saw him or not. One day 2 women from the church stopped by unexpectedly, instead of making a mad dash to get dressed, he refused to get dressed and answered the door naked. It made them feel as uncomfortable as I was feeling that night. Unsure of what to think.

Exhibitionism
It was late and my sister's were already asleep in their beds. I could hear him in the bathroom and I could tell he was peeking at us through the crack in the door. I was scared thinking he would come and get me, so I hid my head under the cover and laid very still. I could hear the cracking of the floor as he stepped lightly into our bedroom. My heart was racing and I started to sweat. I laid there motionless, afraid to even breathe. When I heard the creaking of the bathroom door shutting, I eased the blanket down from my eyes just enough to take a peek around. I let out a sigh of relief when I didn't see him there. I then looked over at my sister's beds, my little sister Suzy was sound asleep, but my half-sister April was gone. He had taken her into his bedroom. I covered my head and tried to sleep not wanting to think about what might be happening.

Richard got out of hospital and life went on as usual. Nothing was ever brought up about what happened that night. April never said a word. After that, I figured that was just the way it was suppose to be. You could do ‘things’, but you couldn't tell anyone about it. Little did I know, but it would just be another thing that I couldn't tell; it was another bad summer.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Impact of Child Sexual Abuse

It is estimated that there are 60 million survivors of childhood sexual abuse in America today.

Approximately 31% of women in prison state that they had been abused as children.
Source: United States Department of Justice, 1991.

Approximately 95% of teenage prostitutes have been sexually abused.
Source: CCPCA, 1992.

It is estimated that children with disabilities are 4 to 10 times more vulnerable to sexual abuse than their non-disabled peers.
Source: National Resource Center on Child Sexual Abuse, 1992.

Long term effects of child abuse include fear, anxiety, depression, anger, hostility, inappropriate sexual behavior, poor self esteem, tendency toward substance abuse and difficulty with close relationships.
Source: Browne & Finkelhor, 1986.

Clinical findings of adult victims of sexual abuse include problems in interpersonal relationships associated with an underlying mistrust. Generally, adult victims of incest have a severely strained relationship with their parents that is marked by feelings of mistrust, fear, ambivalence, hatred, and betrayal. These feelings may extend to all family members.
Source: Tsai and Wagner, 1978.

Guilt is universally experienced by almost all victims. Courtois and Watts described the "sexual guilt" as "guilt derived from sexual pleasure"
Source: Tsai and Wagner, l978.

Sexuality is regarded not simply as a part of the self limited to genitals, discrete behaviors, or biological aspects of reproduction, but is more properly understood as one component of the total personality that affects one's concept of personal identity and self-esteem.
Source: Whitlock & Gillman, 1989.

Sexual victimization may profoundly interfere with and alter the development of attitudes toward self, sexuality, and trusting relationships during the critical early years of development.
Source: Tsai & Wagner, 1984.

If the child victim does not resolve the trauma, sexuality may become an area of adult conflict.
Source: Courtois & Watts, 1982; Tsai & Wagner, 1984.

There is the clinical assumption that children who feel compelled to keep sexual abuse a secret suffer greater psychic distress than victims who disclose the secret and receive assistance and support.
Source: Finkelhor & Browne, 1986.

Early identification of sexual abuse victims appears to be crucial to the reduction of suffering of abused youth and to the establishment of support systems for assistance in pursuing appropriate psychological development and healthier adult functioning . As long as disclosure continues to be a problem for young victims, then fear, suffering, and psychological distress will, like the secret, remain with the victim.
Sources: Bagley, 1992; Bagley, 1991; Finkelhor et al. 1990; Whitlock & Gillman, 1989.

Adolescents with a history of sexual abuse are significantly more likely than their counterparts to engage in sexual behavior that puts them at risk for HIV infection, according to Dr. Larry K. Brown and associates, from Rhode Island Hospital, in Providence.

Adolescents with a history of sexual abuse are significantly more likely than their counterparts to engage in sexual behavior that puts them at risk for HIV infection, according to Dr. Larry K. Brown and associates, from Rhode Island Hospital, in Providence.

Inconsistent condom use was three times more likely among youths who had been sexually abused than among the 55 who had not. A history of sexual abuse was also significantly associated with less impulse control and higher rates of sexually transmitted diseases.

According to Dr. Brown, "These results suggest two things. Abused kids need adequate counseling around abuse issues. A lot of these kids keep re-experiencing the anxiety and trauma for years."

The second issue, he said, is that "most therapy does not address current sexual behavior" and the anxieties that sexually abused adolescents experience.Source: Larry K. Brown, M.D., et al, American Journal of Psychiatry 2000;157:1413-1415.

Young girls who are forced to have sex are three times more likely to develop psychiatric disorders or abuse alcohol and drugs in adulthood, than girls who are not sexually abused. Sexual abuse was also more strongly linked with substance abuse than with psychiatric disorders. It was also suggested that sexual abuse may lead some girls to become sexually active at an earlier age and seek out older boyfriends who might, in turn, introduce them to drugs.

Psychiatric disorders were from 2.6 to 3.3 times more common among women whose CSA included intercourse, and the risk of substance abuse was increased more than fourfold, according to the results.

Family factors -- parental education, parenting behavior, family financial status, church attendance -- had little impact on the prevalence of psychiatric or substance abuse disorders among these women, the investigators observe.

Similarly, parental psychopathology did not predict the association between CSA and later psychopathology.Source: Kenneth S. Kendler, M.D., et al, Medical College of Virginia Commonwealth University, Archives of General Psychiatry 2000;57:953-959.

Among both adolescent girls and boys, a history of sexual or physical abuse appears to increase the risk of disordered eating behaviors, such as self-induced vomiting or use of laxatives to avoid gaining weight. Among those at increased risk for disordered eating were respondents who had experienced sexual or physical abuse and those who gave low ratings to family communication, parental caring and parental expectations.

In light of these findings, the researchers conclude that "strong familial relationships may decrease the risk for disordered eating among youth reporting abuse experiences."
Source: Dr. Dianne Neumark-Sztainer, et al, University of Minneapolis, International Journal of Eating Disorders 2000;28:249-258.

Young girls who are sexually abused are more likely to develop eating disorders as adolescents. The findings also add to a growing body of research suggesting that trauma in childhood increases the risk of developing an eating disorder. Abused girls were more dissatisfied with their weight and more likely to diet and purge their food by vomiting or using laxatives and diuretics. Abused girls were also more likely to restrict their eating when they were bored or emotionally upset. Wonderlich suggests that abused girls might experience higher levels of emotional distress, possibly linked to their abuse, and have trouble coping. Food restriction and perhaps other eating disorder behaviors may (reflect) efforts to cope with such experiences.

The report also indicates that while girls who were abused were less likely to exhibit perfectionist tendencies (such as making extreme efforts to avoid disappointing others and a need to be 'the best'), they tended to want thinner bodies than girls who had not been abused.
Source: Stephen A. Wonderlich, M.D., et al, University of North Dakota School of Medicine and Health Sciences in Fargo, Journal of the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry 2000;391277-1283.

US Healthcare system missing most mentally ill children and adolescents. More than 7 out of 10 American adolescents with mental health problems are getting no care, according to data released today at the Surgeon General's Conference on Children's Mental Health.

I remain a hurt child.

People sometimes ask me how others around me didn’t know what was going on. Well, it was because my father was smart enough to know better. He was manipulative and cunning. To everyone around him he was trustworthy and respectable, popular with everyone. They didn’t see his true inner self. At one moment he could be the most loving and devoted father of the year, but then there was this little look and smile, that when I saw it I became ill. He once told me I was his best friend. The next day…

'I'll give you something to cry about.' 'Wipe that look off your face, or I'll wipe it for you.'
I don’t think my father viewed what he was doing as wrong. To him it was okay and completely natural. Doing what he did was his way of showing me he loved me. He made me feel like he really loved me and was only doing the things he did because he truly loved me for who I was. He told me it didn’t make him any difference if I was big. He would sometimes buy me things that my brothers and sisters didn’t get, and then afterwards he would tell me just to make sure I didn’t let them see what I had.

It had been our secret.

I felt pleasure when being fondled and kissed, but at the same time I felt guilty, confused and shame. When he was done he always convinced me not to say anything to anybody, it had to be our secret or I wouldn’t get any more prizes or money from him. Even worse, something really bad might accidentally happen to someone in my family.

My father made a big deal of making sure he knew when I was on my period. I didn’t understand why he always keep track until years later. He made me put a calendar on my bedroom wall near the bathroom door and mark the days on the calendar when my period started and stopped. Mom told me it was a good idea so I would know when to expect my period. However on the day that I marked my period had stopped my father always had sex with me that night outside. I was in a stage that I was enjoying the times when my father would sneak me out into the field somewhere where we could have sex. When it got close to the middle of the month if we had sex, he never cam inside of me. He knew it would lead to pregnancy so he avoided me during those times, often not looking or even talking to me. He believed he was teaching me the facts about life.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

I know about suicide.

How is it that I know everything there is to know about suicide, but yet I still feel the need to go through with some sort of plan? I've just got to figure out one that will work. I hate thinking about it everyday, but I do, and I can't stop.

Last night after writing about wanting to end my life by overdosing on heroin, I went to bed early (2:00am…early for me anymore), and I just laid there for hours thinking about things. I wondered about what others around me would think…(I'm surprised she hadn't done before now; it was only a matter of time; Not really a surprise at all; etc.) Then I began thinking about what it would be like to O.D. on heroin. Would it really be quiet, and painless? Or would it just fry my brain, leaving me alive suffering forever in my mind? I didn't know for sure, and I hate not knowing something so important, so I did the only logical thing I could do. I got up out of bed and researched it online. After reading a couple of pages at different sites, I decided maybe it would work, if I wanted it to work.

So I walked into my bathroom at the back of the house and sat down on the toilet and prepared a fully loaded needle. Would 500mg heroin be enough? According to the website most people O.D. on that or less, as long as they are not addicted already and have a high tolerance built up. I hadn't used heroin since I was 20, so I felt it should be enough. But what if? There was this small percent that said some people just lose the function of part of their brain and still continue to live. Damn! I couldn't do it because my luck and karma in life says I would be in the 10% chance of surviving an overdose, but then have to live even more fucked up than I am now.

FLUUUSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! $50.00 gone just like that.

I have to find another way. I'm still thinking about it, I just have to find the perfect way.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Suicide: I'm six feet from the edge.

If I commit suicide, it will not be to destroy myself, but to put myself back together again.


Today I decided on my suicide plan. I’ve never really thought about one before, and I’m not fully sure why I feel the need to have one now, but I can’t put it out of my mind.

I somehow hope that by writing it down and posting it will help me free my mind. Anyway that’s what different therapists have told me over the years, but damn I didn’t even want to talk about the things that happened in my past, let alone write them down and let people from around the world read how fucked up my life was/is. But shit if I don’t get this stuff out of my head I think I’m going to explode.

I’ve been thinking about the past too much over the past 2 years, trying to get everything out of system so that I can supposedly recover from all my unwanted feelings. Writing about things that happened to me in my past sometimes, no most of the time, made me ill to my stomach. And after writing about something really difficult, I barely slept that night, but I somehow managed to write it all down. I’m not sure if I feel free yet, but now I don’t think about the things that were done to me every moment of my day. I’ve let some of it go.

Every time I injured myself in some way in the past, I was usually reacting on the spur of the moment because of some stressful situation that I was facing. I guess that’s where I’m at again, trying to look for the light through the pouring rain. I feel like a failure, and at 40 I’m not sure if change will ever be possible. Sometimes you dig to deep of a hole, you can’t crawl out anymore. Dirt is starting to cave in around my head. I’m tried of fighting, I’ve been fighting depression for years, and I don’t have any fight left.

Now back to my plan. I purchased a large quantity of heroin. I can’t believe how much that shit cost for what little bit you get now days, but I guess it has been almost 20 years since I’ve done any. I almost wasn’t sure it was heroin at first, but after studying it more closely I know it will do the job I want done. The time is not now, so I’m just holding onto it, studying it, wondering. Hell, who knows maybe I’ll just flush it down the toilet, or maybe one morning I just won’t wake up. I think as long as no one tries to force my hand, I’ll be okay. I just want to be left completely alone for a little while.

Monday, March 06, 2006

I'm down to one last breath.

It may be that my sole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to others.

We had just moved to a new house located deep in the forgotten woods near Verdigris Creek only the day before. The old 1930’s house was located 40 miles from any town and over 10 miles to the nearest neighbor. When you left the house you had to drive up a mile long old bumping dirt road just to reach the large metal gate that was there to keep the land private. After driving through the gate you had to drive down several more dirt roads for several miles before you finally found concrete to drive on. It gave you a feeling of total isolation from the rest of the world. All you could hear was silence when you stood outside and listened; it was nothing like the noises you hear in the city. There were no sounds of cars driving by, horns honking, tries screeching, no planes flying overhead. All you could hear if you listened closely was the wind blowing, and various types of birds chirping and singing out their warning calls to each other. At night the mating calls of different bugs could be heard at a loud echoing pitch until the sun appeared the next morning.

I shared a small bedroom that had no windows with my younger sister, who was only one year old at the time. In another bigger room towards the back of the house was my two brother’s bedroom that they shared. And of course up front in the best part of the house was my parent’s bedroom. In between the kids bedrooms and my parents bedroom there was a very small bathroom that only had a rusty old tub and toilet, next to the barely standing sink.

It was late the first night we moved in, so we weren’t able to take baths before going to bed. By the following night Mom said we were so dirty that she didn’t think there was enough water in the world to get us clean. The small hot water tank that was located in the pantry didn’t work, so water had to be heated in large pots then carried to the bathroom and dumped into the tub. My Mom gave my younger sister a bath first then my two brothers took a bath together. By the time they were done the water was so dirty and cold that I had to wait until more water on the stove began to boil. Mom finished dressing my younger sister for bed and then helped my two brothers get into bed. I shouted at Mom that the water on the stove was boiling and then I quickly went to hide out of the way.

I hated the sound of my parents carrying the large boiling pot of water to the bathroom. You could hear the sound of their feet pounding hard against the floor as they quickly carried the rather awkward heavy pot into the bathroom. Then you heard the water splash hard as boiling water was dumped into the tub that already had some cold water waiting to cool it down. The sound was always frightening when my father did it, because he would scream so loud for everyone to move the fuck out of his way, which caused your heart to rush and feel complete terror at the possibility that he might ‘accidentally’ dump it directly on top of you if you weren’t completely out of his site.

I saw my brothers were in bed already asleep when I hid part way in their room to make sure I was completely out of my father’s way as his feet pounded against the hardwood floors.
Splashhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

“Tayla! Get your butt in here and get your bath over with, so I can take a bath.” My father shouted at me through my bedroom door.

I walked into the bathroom and tested the water before I added a little more cold water. My father yelled at me and told me not to put any more cold water in because he wanted to use the water too, “and it had better not be too damn cold”.

I got undressed and slowly slid down into the water that was almost hot enough to burn my skin. But I didn’t want to make him mad, I just wanted to please him, so I did as I was told. After only 5 minutes my father began banging on the bathroom door from his side that led into his bedroom. I tried to quickly wash my hair and then dump more water over my head to rinse, but the water was still so hot it hurt. I turned on the cold water and started to add more when my father stepped into the bathroom and got really mad at me for using more water.

“I told you not to add any more water!”
“It’s too hot”, I said wanting to get out right then and there.
He put his hand into the water and swished it around. “That water is not that hot. Now hurry it up!”
“What is the problem?” My Mom said stepping into the bathroom.
“The water is too hot”, I said complaining again.
“Well, here just add a little more cold water”, she said turning on the faucet.
I could see the look of hate in my father’s eyes as he turned and walked away.
“I’m going to finish doing some unpacking, so hurry up and finished, then get in bed.”
“Okay.”

Five minutes later I was finish and standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom trying to brush out my hair. It was getting so long that it tangled easy and made it hard for my 5 year old hands to undo.

My father got mad again because I was still taking so long, that he walked into the bathroom naked and sat down in the water to take a bath. I walked into my bedroom as I continued to try and comb out my hair. I was still at it when my father had finished his bath and left the bathroom. I walked into the kitchen and asked if Mom could help me out, but she told me she was too busy unpacking and to let Dad help me out. My father heard what Mom said and he called for me to come into the front room. He was sitting in his recliner, still partly wet and completely naked.

“Sit down and let me see your brush.”
I sat down on his lap as he began trying to brush out my hair that hadn’t been brushed since the day before we moved. He pulled my hair hard a couple of times and I cried out.
“Just hold your butt still and it won’t hurt”, my father screamed at me as he tried brushing out the back of my hair.

I sat still as I could as he pulled my hair until it felt like I had no hair remaining on one side of my head.

“Good girl”, my father said I sat there without moving, barely breathing. Suddenly I felt his hand between my legs as he cupped his hand over my tiny vagina. At first I kept quiet as he continued to untangle my hair slowly. His hand then pulled my panties to one side and he tried to slide one of his fingers inside of me. It hurt really bad and I screamed out. Mom heard me scream and stepped into the front room to see what was wrong. When she saw Dad was still combing out my hair she thought I was just complaining and told me I needed to be quiet.
“Just sit still and let your daddy finish. If you hold still and it won’t hurt. And I don’t want to hear any more screaming. You’re going to wake your brothers and sister up, so be quiet! Sit there and let your dad finish what he’s doing.”

Mom then walked back into the kitchen where I could hear her putting things away in the cabinets as if she was angry at me. I closed my eyes tightly and let my father continue.
He began combing my hair with one of his hands while his other hand went back to where it had been between my legs. This time when his finger went inside of me again, I kept quiet.

I convinced myself it was all normal.

We are nothing, if not the product of our childhoods. Incomplete and somehow broken, struggling to find the pieces, and put them back together. Like a jigsaw puzzle, that’s not all there.
Well behaved women rarely make history.
Everything is always okay in the end, if it's not, then it's not the end.

Friday, March 03, 2006

Free My Mind


I was at the tender age of nine at the time. It had been almost a year since the last time my father touched me in any way. Mostly that was due to the fact that I hadn’t allowed myself to be alone with HIM. Most of the time I feared him like my brothers and sisters did, but every now and then the other side of him would appear. At those times, he was so nice it was almost sicken.

I was out walking by myself early one summer morning, when I stayed gone a little longer than I had planned. By the time I got back to the house everyone was gone to town to do shopping, and since I wasn’t there when it was time to go, I was left behind. At first I didn’t mind being alone because I was able to listen to the type of music that my father forbid us to listen to in HIS house when he was around. I should have known better and at least paid attention in case someone returned, but it was my first time playing the music louder than we were aloud to, so I didn’t hear my father’s truck when he returned.

I was immediately met with a hand to the back of my head, which knocked me down to the floor because it had caught me off guard.

“What in the hell are you doing playing the stereo so loud? I told you kids I don’t want you playing with the stereo when I’m not here.”
“I’m sorry”, I said trying to get up off the floor.
“Well, I warned you once, now you’re going to get a spanking.”

Of course tears immediately began falling as I begged not to get spanked, but he pulled me hard by my arm into his bedroom where he always took us when we got a spanking. He sat down on the corner of his bed and then told me to pull down my pants. I began begging and pleading for him to not give me the spanking as tears soaked my face. He finally just grabbed me, pulled down my pants and then he threw me across his lap. After a few seconds when I realize I couldn’t get away from his grasp, I just closed my eyes tightly and waited for the pain to begin. Suddenly he sat me up and gave me a big hug.

“I’m sorry I don’t want to spank you. It hurts me more than it hurts you. I think your problem is you’re not getting enough of my attention. Is that the problem?”

“I don’t know.” I said somewhat confused, but glad for once I wasn’t getting a spanking.
“Well, since you’re my special girl, I’m going to show you what else we can do, and I promise you will like this. Lay back on the bed and spread your legs apart.”
I did what I was told in spite of the fact that it made me feel ill. He tried to put his finger inside me but I pulled away when it hurt.
“I don’t like doing that.”
“Okay we will only do what you like?”
“What do you like?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know your sister and I do this same thing.”
“You do?”
“Yes, we do sometimes. So remember its okay to do this, but just don’t tell anyone, they might get mad because you get to do it and they don’t…okay?”
“Okay.” I thought to myself I didn’t know he was doing these things to my sister, because she never said anything. But I believed him.
“It’s just like your momma and me, we do these things all the time, so it’s okay. Do you ever hear your Momma talking about what we do? No you don’t, because you don’t talk about these things…okay?”
“Okay.”
“Let me know if you like this. I bet it will feel good.” He then began licking me for a long time as I laid there not moving.
“Do you like that?” When I didn’t answer he reached up with one hand and squeezed one of my nipples real hard, then he stuck his finger inside of me with force. When I tried to pull away he grabbed me and began licking on me again.
“You like that don’t you?” when again I didn’t answer he began to reach up towards my chest and I felt his fingers starting to enter me. I didn’t want to feel the pain again so I answered.
“Yes, daddy it feels good.”
“Good. We will only do what you like.”

Thursday, March 02, 2006

McDeath



I went to McDonald's today, armed with an assault rifle and intending to kill 30 or 40 people. You didn't see me, because I look just like you.Why didn't I do it? Why didn't I explode through that room in a frenzy of McDeath, pop-pop-popping moms and dads and hot cherry pies?
Not because the man at the gun store sold me a clip that would hold only nine bullets. Reloading after nine people is as easy as after 30. For a person in my state of mind, who's really counting anyhow?And not because I caught a sudden glimpse of humanity, seeing all the mommies having lunch with their little darlings. Huh-uh. Not a chance.
I'll tell you why I turned around and went home, the rifle still wrapped in plastic bags in my trunk. I really will. In just a bit.First, let me take a minute to explain myself. Let me tell who I am, and what it took to turn from an Ordinary Person into a monster willing -- wanting even -- to kill other Ordinary Person.
Lots of 'em.
All the berserk killers who went wild one day, the postal workers, the unemployed laborers, the Viet Nam vets, the courtroom murderers, the restaurant homicidal maniacs -- were just Ordinary People one day.
Then they -- like me -- turned into Something Else.There was a time, you know, when we really were ordinary. We picked up the newspaper, saw a horrible story about a mass shooting and shook our heads. But that was before. Since then, look at all that has happened:We've been put down, shouted down, jilted, deprived, ratted on, denied and set aside. The money's gone. The dog's gone. There is no happiness left.
We just want to do away with ourselves.
So we stare at the bottom of an empty mug, and ponder life, and fate, and our own humanity. And we find that we have achieved nothing of note, no immortality, no deeds worthy even of the granite slab that will cover our last remains.Whimpering, sniveling, we determine to go out with a bang.
For 15 minutes, we will be Very Important.
In the time it takes to empty two or three clips, we will have impacted more people than we ever did in our entire miserable lives.
Grown men will fear us, women will faint, neighbors will give interviews to TV cameras. We are cleansed of our weakness.And for a little time, police radios and sirens and red lights will look just like on TV.
So I went to McDonald's today, armed with an assault rifle, wanting to kill people. I saw you there. Yes you, who now sit there smugly in front of your computer and don't care about me.
I opened the trunk, pulled back the plastic, and looked at the cold black steel and hollow-pointed death. From the pit of my stomach I wanted to kill everyone I could, all those grandma types with the blue hair and the wretched kids who whined because they didn't get the right toy in their Happy Meal.
I looked around, and no one cared.
This had all been so easy.
If they cared, I probably could not have purchased this gun, these bullets.
We had grown accustomed to mass shootings, I saw. It was accepted, acceptable, a small price to pay for a freedom.
I knew already what would happen if I went through with it. Somewhere in California a third-page story would cite a statistic, and in Texas a commentator would be angry, and in Florida it wouldn't even make the news.
And so even pop-pop-popping at McDonald's didn't matter anymore.I guess, for the time being, I did something people did care about.
I went home.
I cared -- momentarily.
But, even while you read this, sipping your drink and peering casually at this screen, somebody else is out there buying a gun -- and planning on taking you with them when they go.