Just Breathe

The other night I sat alone at one of the parks and watched the local pd as I debated on laying open my flesh. As I held the blade tightly between my fingers, I flashed back to what it was like the last time a had to have stitches in my arm. I have cut since then, but only small rips at my skin that needed little or no attention. These wounds are minor compared to the normal 7 stitches that it takes to close one of my usual ‘accidents’.

I knew the officers that were on duty, and of course they all know me, so I really didn’t want to get caught doing something that is believed to only occur in teenagers, not to women over 40. After all these years of cutting, I still sometimes can not stop myself from inflicting pain to my body, but if I put myself in the right position, I will write instead. That was what I decided to do this time, write about what it was like the last time I cut myself deep.

This story mixes a little reality, with a bit of fiction.

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I’m standing outside a heavy steel metal door, with only a small thick glass window that looks into a tiny five foot by twelve foot room. I focus in on a dimly lit image standing towards the back of the room near a metal toilet with a sink attached on the back. I press my face closer and open my eyes wide trying to make the image more defined. I can tell that it is a person, and I think I recognize them, but I can’t seem to remember.

She is tall and a rather large woman with dirty blonde hair, and she is wearing a blue tee-shirt. She has her back to me, but I can make out that she is doing something with her arm.

I wipe a tear from my eye, blinking several times until I’m able to focus more clearly.

The woman is standing near the toilet with her arm leaning over a metal sink. She holds something shiny in her right hand. Something sharp. I wonder what she is doing? As she turns partly sideways I can see her left arm covered in fresh red blood. It is dropping steadily into the sink, splashing the sides until the blood flows down like spilled paint. Blood covers the razor sharp cutting edge of the blade that she holds tightly in her shaking right hand.

As the blood slows, she makes another slice deeper into the wound, filling it with fresh blood. It begins to drain down her arm, making a big mess, splattering onto the floor. She uses toilet paper from the back of the sink to wipe up the large droplets of blood from the floor. She uses more to slow the heavy flow of blood dripping down to her elbow.

I stand there, mesmerized by her actions, when without warning an almost familiar force grabs me around my throat and like a tornado, it sucks my dead mind through the tiny window. I now stand side by side the woman with the blood soaked arm, watching her lean over the sink to avoid making a mess for others to clean. In her eyes, I see the shame and disgust at what she has done.

I reach out to grab her arm, to let her know she doesn’t have to continue cutting. The wound is deep enough. As our eyes meet, I see the deep pain, I understand, but now we have to get help. Our hands touch and slowly mix together, until we become one.

I am now her. I am in control. I look down at the bloody blade that she held so tightly in her right hand, and my eyes open wide as I look at the open oozing new wound. My eyes stare widely at the steadily dripping blood, and I realize it is my arm that is bleeding heavily into the cold steel metal sink.

“Oh shit!” my voice trembles and my right hand shakes with the bloody blade. My whole body flushes with a surge of adrenaline and I begin to awaken. “Fuck! Who cut my damn arm? Why? Why do you do this?”

A voice from far away whispers, ‘She did it. She’s always the one who cuts.’ I hear the voice of the others arguing, fighting. They are the voices that feel like they don’t belong to me.

I cautiously sit the sharp blade on the back of the sink as a rush of sadness consumes my brain, squeezing it until tears swell from my eyes. It blurs my vision until I squeeze my eyes tightly and let the tears cascade down my cheeks. I quickly wipe them away, and then use the remaining toilet paper to wipe up the blood that has once again dripped onto the floor.

I think maybe I can hide the wound, but it won’t stop bleeding. I need more tissue. The weeping voice inside me is hurt. The others fight about who’s fault it really is, and why one of them doesn’t step forward before she cuts.

With a sudden tear-jerking jolting shock, I realize where I am, and that I’ve got to stop the bleeding. I turn on the water and wash the blood from the open wound, letting the water stain a light rose color. The bleeding only becomes worse as the cool water stings the open wound. I carefully inspect the laceration that shows the fatty tissue underneath. There is no pain, just a slight stinging sensation, but the blood continues to pour from the wound.

I realize I will have to go to the emergency room, but I hate going to the ER. It’s always embarrassing trying to explain that I ‘accidentally’ cut myself, but this time others will be with me. I can not use that excuse. Along with all the stares, there is always at least one person who will make me feel even less of a human than I already do. They know what happened, but they don’t want to do all the paperwork that comes with committing someone for cutting themselves, so they won't say anything.

Maybe I should just cut a little deeper, and then lay down and go to sleep. A part of me struggles with what to do.

“Fuck!” I shout loud enough to vibrate off the walls. Nobody has this many accidents on their arm. Nobody. My arm is a battlefield, and each scar tells a separate story, many of which I would rather forget. Worse my mind questions, how do I explain this to those closest around me? How am I once again going to hide the wound?

Blood drains down my arm to the floor. A voice inside me is urging with me to get someone’s attention. ‘You need help’ a tiny voice whispers from somewhere far away. I shake my head in shame, and ponder how does one ask for help when they are locked up alone behind a solid steel door? Sadness gathers deep in my chest and I try to swallow.

I hear heavy footsteps coming. A voice steps forward, she’s the one who always has to have everything neat and tidy. She just wants more tissue so there won’t be a mess. A young man looks though the small thick glass window and sees what she has done.

I sit down on the small cot and take a deep breath. I know within only a few moments others will come. Later I will feel the familiar calmness that overtakes my entire body after I cut. It is that calmness that we seek. Afterwards we will sleep long and hard. Our mind will rest peacefully. But even as I do sleep soundly, one of us knows it hasn’t been a good day.

They know the hard part will come later, when I have to hide the latest cut from those I don’t want to know. I question myself if it was worth the few hours of feeling euphoric while I sat next to the officer baby sitting me as the they put seven stitches into my left arm to close the deep laceration. Maybe the next day will be a better day. This I know, she will not have to cut again for a few months.

When you hold onto the shame and guilt, you forget who you are.

I’ve been thinking for the past couple of days about no longer posting on this blog, since it is being watched by law enforcement. A friend suggested that I get rid of everything posted on here, but I’m fairly sure if there is anything on here that law enforcement want, they have already got it by now. For now, I’ve decided that I will continued to post on this blog and the other blogs that I have. This blog will continue to be for my psycho thoughts, whenever they occur and I feel the need to release to the world my demon thoughts, I will post them. Feel free to leave your opinions, but I will remove the post if I consider it trash talking.


If you want to read about good news, rainbows, butterflies, lollipops, little children smiling, jokes or anything else that makes you smile, you can go to this blog

http://grabmyteddybear.blogspot.com/



A short part of my life story...


I was 18 at the time and continued to sleep in my Uncles garage. At night, I would go walking up town looking for someone or something that would make things seem better.

I walked into Roy’s Wreck center and saw Sammy sitting there talking to someone. I hadn't seen her in a few months and quickly went to see what she was up to. She said she was living in town now and wanted to know if I wanted to go riding around with her and the guy she was staying with. Eager to do something I quickly said yes.

His name was Larry and drove a red convertible car. I got in the back and we drove around through town acting like fools, yelling, drinking and just cutting up. After several hours of driving around drinking, we made a stop back at Roy's for a quick bathroom break. Sammy finished first and headed back to the car. When I finished and walked out a fireman who knew my name, stopped me and ask who the girl was I was with.

"Oh, that’s was just Sammy. She’s a friend of mine."

“Boy, she sure is fine. Those long legs of hers I would love to wrap around them", he said smiling big.

At first, I was surprised he was talking to me, but when he talked about Sammy, I understood why. Sammy was very pretty, skinny, long legs, long blonde hair, most men fantasized about her.

Laughing a little, I said, "I'll let her know."

"Oh no, don't say anything to her", he said with a boyish grin.

I smiled again and said I would see him later. Then I walked outside to meet with Sammy. Larry had bought a bottle from the liquor store and handed it to Sammy. She quickly opened it and took a big drink, then handed it to me and I did the same. After a couple hours, Larry was ready to go home, but Sammy and I weren't, so we had him drop us off up town. We walked through town several times, drinking and talking.

Around midnight we were stopped by a police officer that I knew. I could tell he liked Sammy by the way he talked to her. I didn't look at them in that way, but Sammy did. The only thing was she said she was a little frightened of them, so I agree to stay with her when she talked to them. I tried not to pay to much attention to what they were saying, and I couldn’t look him in the eyes. If I did for even a second I felt like I wanted to vomit, but Sammy was a good friend and I did it because I wanted to please her.

He wasn't the only one, over the next few weeks I was going with Sammy to their houses. At first I was having a hard time being so close to them, but Sammy was drawn to them as much as they were to her, so I began being able to tolerate them.

On different nights, we would go out drinking with whatever officer we had met earlier in the day. At first, I didn't want to go and let them know up front that they could go out by themselves. But Sammy always insisted that I go with her and of course the officer would invite me along, just so he could get a chance at being with her. I knew this and I didn't let it bother me. Still, I always felt out of place, but I went along because Sammy was my best friend.

The first officer Sammy dated came to picked us up after he had gotten from work. Sammy and I had already been drinking when he picked us up and planned on drinking even more. He stopped off and picked up a case of beer then we headed to Double Creek. We parked near the boat ramp and he got out and walked to the back of his truck. He took out a black suitcase that had several types of drugs inside. He took a few pills from a bottle and gave Sammy and me 2 each of the pills.

We talked and drank some more before heading back to his place. By the time we got there, my speech was slurred and on top of what I had already drunk I was feeling pretty good. Still at his place, we had a few more beers. It was really late and I was ready to lay down. Not really wanting to stay but, Sammy liked him and asked me to please stay. He said it was okay if I slept on the couch. I finally agreed and laid down while him and Sammy continued talking.

Even being drunk, it takes me forever to fall asleep. I silently lay there with my eyes closed for a least an hour every time I try to go to sleep. I can remember being this way since around the age of eight. I would always lay there, thinking, wondering, listening, being scared. Once I did get asleep, I would quickly wake back up in a short amount of time and it would then sometimes take me hours to go back to sleep. If that didn't happen and I stayed asleep, then I would awake very early in the morning at any sound that I heard.

This made me feel very jumpy all the time. I feel like jumping out of my skin if I'm confronted with anything that even remotely resembles a threat. I try to steer far clear from that type of danger or anything that reminded me of it. I was always told this was nature's way of teaching us a painful but important lesson, but my reactions sometimes would get out of hand.

This time I laid there on the officers couch, until I heard them go into his bedroom. A short time later I could hear them having sex. At first, I tried to blow it off and let them have their fun; after all, it was their business. For some reason, after a few minutes it began to really bother me. I opened my eyes and saw his picture on the wall in his uniform, and I began feeling uneasy and anxiety took over. I took several deep breaths repeatedly trying to calm myself, but I just couldn't relax.

I quickly and quietly put back on my shoes and walked outside heading back uptown. I stopped by a Quik-Mart and bought a single beer and a pack of cigarette's then headed towards my Uncles garage. I was almost there, when Sammy and him came driving up in his truck. Sammy rolled down the window and asked where I was going.

"Home."

"Why?” Sammy asked puzzled.

I thought to myself for a moment then said, "Why? Because, you got what you wanted, so I wanted to go home. I didn't want to stick around. Just leave me alone, alright."

I really wasn't making a lot of sense. All I knew was I was done for the night and wanted to go home, away from him. Away from the way I was feeling. I felt I couldn't tell them the noise bother me, they would think I was nuts. Which as I walked on home, I thought maybe I was. Inside, I felt like I was falling apart.

Sammy stopped by the next morning and tried to convince me nothing had happened between him and her. I thought it was great that she was with him, it was just I couldn't be there. I still recalled vividly, the bad memories from around 9 months before, of my experience with the first LEO(law enforcement officer) I ever met face to face. The memories still haunted me.

I let her know we were still friends and I didn't care if that’s what she wanted to do, it was her own business. She said she was sorry but police officers turned her on, because they were hot looking, strong and fun to be around. I laughed and told her I was just having a hard time seeing them that way. She tried repeatedly to convince me that they were normal people, just like us. I wasn't seeing it yet, and I wasn't sure if I ever would.

Cry on...No answer yet.

I was through crying.

It was just around the corner to where the search for answers to my past would come to an end, all I had to do was force myself beyond the thoughts and do what needed to be done years ago. It was one step in my journey that was just beyond a barbed wire fence, then down in a ravine.


A fence had been put up a few years after we moved out when the property was divided and sold to different people. I wasn’t sure who had purchased the property, but I had already came this far, and was determined to find out what if anything was still laying in the woods undiscovered.

The fence was new and stung tight enough that I couldn’t spread the wire fence apart in the middle. The only way to get to the other side was to go under the fence. I dropped to my knees then laid flat on the ground and rolled underneath. Once on the other side I stood and shook the grass from my pants and hands, and then looked towards the direction I had remembered. My heart began to race so fast that it hurt. I stood there for several minutes taking in deep breaths over and over again. I was shaking, on the verge of wanting to vomit. I had the feeling.

I knew the answer to one of my own questions was just beyond a few trees and tall brush. Was it real? What really happened? Was she still there? All I had to do was go and look . Just 50 more yards... “Do it now! You are so fucking ignorant! You fat ass bitch! You’ll never be anybody! Keep you fucking mouth shut!” I heard the voices of all the hurtful people who had said things to me throughout my life. The voices screamed loud. “Waste of sperm. She’s disturbed! It’s our secret. Ugly ass. Laughing. She’s not normal and probably never will be. You’ll always need some type of therapy. Keep you mouth shut! A good girl is a quiet girl! Just touch me here. 1234!”


My palms were sweaty, and sweat was dripping down from my forehead, the sounds of birds echoed loudly in my head. I could hear the rustling of my feet in the leaves as if the sound was being amplified a hundred times. I began to feel dizzy, then everything went black.


I awoke some time later, close to dark. I was cold and the grass had become damp. I wasn’t going into those woods after dark, was the excuse I gave myself. It would have to wait until another day. I hurriedly made it back to the car, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. I made it just as the sun went completely down. I quickly back out, locked my car doors and then fired my last joint.

It wasn’t meant to be then.

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.

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.

My life growing up.

A cool breeze of air rushed across my face and sent chills over my entire body. Winter was coming soon. I had hated winters at that house. At times, it was unbearable. I awoke many mornings able to see my breath in the air. The older the house got, the colder it got inside. We only paid $25.00 a month for rent, so the landlord never made any repairs. If there were any repairs to be made, my father would make a whole-hearted attempt, but it was often lacking in completeness. He had attempted several times to repair the roof over two added on bedrooms that had been built on before we moved in. The one that was mine began leaking so severe that eventually my father gave up and let it leak.

My bed and things were moved up onto the original bedrooms flooring, near my sister's bed. My father bought four large pieces of plywood and nailed it to several 2'x8's that separated the two bedrooms. As the rain continued to fall inside the room, it rotted away the floor, causing it to sag in the middle. One night during a heavy downpour, it finally gave way and came crashing down.

When it did, my sister and I felt the floor in our part of the room drop a little near where it was blocked off. The next heavy rain it began dripping water near the foot of my sister's bed. We placed a bowl under the leak to catch most of the water. Within a year, the bowl had been replaced with buckets, pans and anything else we could find that held water.

When the buckets neared the top, day or night we were to empty them down the toilet or into the bathtub. My sister couldn't lift the bigger buckets, so it was left up to me to empty them; which at times needed emptied 2 or 3 times during a bad storm. We had to re-arrange our beds several times to stay dry as new leaks started. It finally got to a point where we were moved as far away as possible, but water would still splash onto the corners of our beds. At first we made a good effort at trying to keep the floor dry, but year after year, it became more and more of a losing battle. The floor beneath the leaking began rotting and sagged heavily when walking in the area. When I complained about it, I was told I needed to empty the buckets more and not let them overflow.

At the age of 13 and on the 3rd day of steady rain and being completely exhausted from empting the buckets of water all day and night, I gave up and let the rain pour in. I covered my head to block out the noise and to stay dry. When the buckets began to overflow, I ignored them and tried to sleep, but I was quickly awaken by the shouts of my father telling me to get up and empty the big bucket that was under the main leak. As I stumbled out of bed, over to the bucket, my left foot stepped in the middle of the floor where it sagged. It was an area I had avoided stepping in; now I knew why. My left foot went through the floor up to my knee and the bucket of water splashed across the floor. My father, watching, shouted at my sister to get up and help clean up the mess I had made, and then he walked off and went back to his dry, warm bed. After pulling several splinters from my leg, I helped my sister clean up the water as more was steadily coming in. We put the bucket under another big leak and just let the rain run through the hole my foot had made. I didn’t blame my parents, I blamed myself. I felt it was my fault that things were the way they were.

Year after year, the rain continued to make the holes bigger and bigger. In the winter, I could feel the brisk air coming in and blowing across my nose as I would attempt to sleep. With the holes in the floor, roof, and only plywood as walls, it was near impossible to sleep. Many mornings I awoke to see my breath hanging heavily in the air. My sister would often be asleep on the bathroom floor near the small stove that heated the bathroom trying to stay warm. My father would begin whipping her and shouting at her not to do it because she was going to catch herself on fire. As cold as I got, I stayed in my own bed, freezing and wet, to avoid being hit or getting yelled at.