Thank You For Leaving Me For Her

Dear A,

Thank you for leaving me for her. Thank you for setting me free from your abuse and constant mindfuckery. Thank you for making me a stronger woman than I ever dreamed of being. Because of you, I am the warrior queen that I am. Strong, beautiful, sensitive, passionate, and full of love.

Thank you for giving me the gift of motherhood. Because of you, I have the three most incredible sons and granddaughter that a woman could ask for.

Thank you for teaching me. Because of your hatred of me, I have learned how to love deeper than I ever dreamed possible. Because of your constant mindfuckery and coldness, I have learned how to be strong and independent. Because of the way you treated me and our children, you have shown me the kind of person that I NEVER want to be; bitter, hateful, cold, distant, unloving, and cruel.

Because of you constantly telling me that I’m disgusting I have learned that I can lose weight, workout, and have a better body. But external beauty rarely lasts. Because of your constant cruelty, I have a soft heart. A heart that loves and forgives.

Because you left me for her, I have learned just how committed I am to my marriage and family. I would have held on until the pain of holding onto you killed me. Thank you for leaving me for her and setting me free.

Because you literally replaced your wife and children with a new woman and children, I have learned the truth about just how sick and fucked up you really are. It’s only a matter of time that you will do the same to them as you did to me and the boys. If only they knew the kind of monster you really are.

Middle School Was Hell

My mother never cared about what I wore to school. If I liked the clothes I saw when shopping, she bought it. Even if it was too provocative for a teenage girl to wear.

I remember that in middle school I had a reputation as a slut. Even though I was a virgin. I was sexually harassed by the boys and body shamed by the girls. I had a very mature body for my age and I dressed quite provocatively. The boys were paying attention to me and not them. So naturally, they hated me.

I remember being spit on, having my hair pulled, being tripped, and pushed into the lockers just about every day.

Seventh grade. In comes Starr, the nightmare from hell. I remember in choir class Starr’s step-sister gave me a dirty look. So I returned the favor and shot her one right back. After class, just as I walked out the door, Starr shoved me into the brick wall and began punching me over and over in the face and chest. The principal came and broke up the fight. Starr was suspended and was supposed to leave. She didn’t. After school, my friend Kara was walking with me to the bus stop, Behind us was a mob of hundreds of students. And Starr was their leader.

When Kara saw them, she ran for help. Starr threw me into a telephone pole and began punching me repeatedly in the face and chest. Luckily my mother made me carry military tear gas, so I reached into my pocket, grabbed the can and sprayed Starr in the face, and ran. I ran to the only open door which happened to be my sixth-grade homeroom teacher.

However, I didn’t make it without being sprayed in the face with mace. Byt the time I got to Mrs. Cooney’s classroom, the principal was there waiting for me. I was taken to the office and my mother was called. She didn’t want to come to pick me up from school, so she sent the next-door neighbor. As I waited for her to come and get me I could hear dozens of students in the hall shouting, “Kill her! Kill that bitch! I’m gonna kill that fucking bitch! I’m gonna’ kill that fucking slut!”

After that day, the bullying only got worse and worse with each day. The death threats continued. I was constantly being hit, spit on, tripped and shoved into the lockers. It went on for months. I was becoming depressed and afraid to go to school. I was afraid to go to the bus stop alone. So I began cutting class and walking home. I can’t remember how far it was, but it was about a three hour walk.

One day, my mother was supposed to come to the school with me to talk with the principal about the bullying. We got on the bus and sat down. Then Starr and some of the other bullies got on the bus. My mother got off the bus and left me to the den of rabid wolves.

Eventually, Star was expelled. But the bullying never stopped. By the time I reached the eighth grade, I had stopped eating except for maybe a few bites of food each day. I was depressed and cutting daily. Each day I felt so sick and weak, I just couldn’t get up to go to school. Life was unbearable. My mother was becoming increasingly abusive, girls at school wanted me dead and the boys wanted nothing more than to torment me and beg for me to fuck them. I was hopeless that life would get any better. Everyone hated me and I wanted to die. Thoughts of suicide began to flood my mind.

That was when I met A. When I found out that I was pregnant, I was terrified to go to school. I was terrified that if I continued to go to school I would lose my baby. My baby was my only reason to live. I begged my mother to let me homeschool and she agreed. Finishing the eighth grade at home was the best decision we could have made.

Starting Over for the 100th Time

My weight and relationship with food has been a problem for as long as I can remember. As a child, I can remember being normal-sized until around the third grade. That’s when I started gaining weight. By the time I reached the fifth grade, I was wearing a women’s size 14.

I remember the summer before entering the sixth grade. I was so preoccupied with my weight. I told my mother that I wanted to go on a diet. I remember telling her that I was afraid that the boys wouldn’t like me or think I was pretty because I was fat.

My mother didn’t know the first thing about dieting. She never cared for her body, and she never taught me to care for my own. But she did her best to help me in my dilemma. She bought some SlimFast, and that is when I started dieting for the first time. I stuck to the habit of replacing meals or just not eating throughout my middle school years. I remember my mother being concerned about anorexia and took me to the doctor. Standing at five feet, eight inches tall, and weighing only 115 pounds, I was diagnosed as anorexic.

Becoming a teenage mom may have saved my life, but it was also the beginning of a cycle that would remain with me for the rest of my life. During my pregnancy with my first son at the age of 14, I gained 90 pounds. After my baby was born, it took me nine months to lose the weight. Then I got pregnant with my second son and gained another 90 pounds. This time it took me two years to lose the weight. I was eating pretty healthy and working out every day. I was fit and strong. Then at 18, I became pregnant with my third son. This pregnancy was difficult. I stopped working out and eating healthy. We ate at Burger King nearly every day. This caused me to gain a massive 120 pounds during my pregnancy.

This time, losing the weight wasn’t so easy. And my relationship with A was becoming even more toxic and abusive. He was constantly making hurtful comments about my body. I became depressed and started turning to food and candy for comfort. But the more A body shamed me, the more desperate I became to lose weight. So I began dieting with pills and meal replacements again. I would do well for a short time, but when I could no longer afford to pay the outrages prices for the products, all of the weight came piling back, plus some more.

I was doing pretty good for a short while, a couple years ago. But then my life really started to crumble and fall apart. My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and A wanted a divorce. After my mother died and A left me for another woman, I went numb. I completely gave up on myself. This caused me to gain a ton of weight.

Let me tell you something. I am absolutely fucking DONE living like this! I’m sick and tired of feeling so ashamed and disgusted with myself. It’s time for me to take back my life and my health. I need to be held accountable this time. That is why I have decided to document my body transformation journey. And hopefully, my journey will inspire someone else on theirs.

I have been blessed to meet a lovely woman through Facebook. She is taking me under her wing and coaching me. She’s creating a program for me to follow, and keeping me accountable. She’s pushing me and motivating me to change my relationship with food and my body. From working on my mindset to working on building and awesome ass, she’s become my coach, my friend and my guardian angel.

Sleeping with the enemy

***TRIGGER WARNING!!! EXPLICIT DETAILS OF SEXUAL ABUSE AND DOMESTIC VIOLENCE***

Absolutely NOTHING about the relationship with my ex was normal. It was toxic and abusive from the very beginning.

I was just fourteen-years-old when I fell in love with the boy next door. Looking back, I believe the reason I fell into this relationship is that I was desperately searching for a hero to save me from my miserable, fucked-up life. All of the abuse I had already endured. More abuse at home. And I was being bullied constantly at school. I was depressed and suicidal. I was desperate to be loved. I was desperate to be saved.

If only I had known the hell that awaited me.

In the beginning, all of the signs were there. Red flag after red flag. Yet, somehow I just didn’t see them. In a previous post, I explained how A would compare me to his ex-girlfriend while having sex. I explained a toxic pattern of him breaking up with me, and coming home drunk or high on cocaine begging me to take him back. I always did. I took him back EVERY time.

A had a problem with pornography. He also had a fetish for using toys, banana’s, and cucumbers on me during sex. I hated it, but he just didn’t care. If I didn’t comply, he would get angry and ignore me for days.

The first time A used a toy on me, I had no idea what it was. All I knew is that it wasn’t him. A had gone to the adult store without even bothering to consult me and bought a dildo. In his sick, twisted and demented mind, he reasoned within himself that I wanted it and I would like it. He became angry with me when I got upset.

For years, A would force me to watch porn with him during sex. A would demand that I look at porn, (often lesbians or threesomes) while he was at work. When he came home, he expected me to have something for him to watch just so he could be turned on enough to fuck me. He would constantly compare me to the women in the videos, making me feel ugly, disgusting, and completely worthless. This pattern of porn, toys, and items from the produce aisle continued throughout our entire relationship. A would often beg me for threesomes, but I refused. I just couldn’t bring myself to do such a thing. Of course, A became angry and threw a tantrum whenever I refused. He would always act as if was my duty and obligation to give him whatever he wanted sexually. He never once cared about how I felt. I was just an object to him.

It often seemed that the only time’s A ever wanted to have sex with me, was while I was either asleep, sick, or recovering from surgery. He would often rape me as I slept, or force me to have sex with him when I was sick or in pain. I was never allowed to refuse him. If I did, he would punish me with the silent treatment and withholding affection for days and sometimes even weeks on end. I asked him once why he did this. He answered, “I like to feel in control.”

He liked to feel in control. My feelings didn’t matter. I was just an object to be used. Not a human. Not even a woman. Just a rag doll used over and over and tossed aside.

I Fell in love with the boy next door

It was a crisp fall day. My best friend and I were sitting out on the basketball court watching my new next-door neighbors play a little one-on-one. That is when I noticed him. I mean REALLY noticed him. I turned to my friend and declared, “I’m going to marry that guy someday.” She looked and me and retorted, “What if he wants me instead?” I fired back, “What would he want a flat-chested little bitch like you for when he can have me?”

To this day, I still have no idea what it was about him that I was so drawn to. But somehow I just knew I was going to marry that guy.

When I was thirteen, my mom and I would babysit my younger cousins. Our new next-door neighbors would bring over clothes that their kids had outgrown for my cousins.

One day when I was sitting at the bus stop on my way to school when A approached me and introduced himself. Then he left for his English class. It was a game of cat and mouse over the next few months until my fourteenth birthday. I was standing outside in the freezing cold with my new pet iguana perched on my chest. I was waiting for my mother to come home. Just then, A was coming home. He stopped to talk to me for a minute before going inside. He was interested in my new pet, and a little shocked to see that green lizard perched so contently on my chest.

It was Christmas day when I decided I wanted to be nice and thank A and his cousins for the clothes they gave my little cousins. So I bought a card in Spanish and a single yellow rose. I tucked it carefully into A’s newspaper box, knocked on the door, and ran inside.

Later that night A came and knocked on my door. I stepped out into the cold December night, and he handed me a letter along with an amethyst necklace with a little man hugging the stone. Then he left and went to a party.

I went inside and read the letter. It read:

“Dearest Clara, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

On that letter, A had drawn a picture of God’s hands putting a broken heart back together. On the bottom of the page was a rose with a scroll. Inside the scroll, it read, “I love you.”

Enamored by A’s declaration of love for me, I waited up for him to come home. When he did, I could hardly speak. So I handed him a little pink teddy bear holding a heart that said, “I love you.” He kissed me, then went inside.

The next day we were outside talking. A kept asking me to come to his room. When I told him “no”, he got angry and told me he was going to Lollipops, which was an under-age strip club. That was the first red-flag that I didn’t see.

Over the next several months, A would repeatedly break up with me, just to come back drunk or high on cocaine and beg me to take him back. Like a naïve and foolish little girl, I did. That was the second red-flag that I just didn’t see.

Over the next couple of weeks, A continued pressuring me for sex until I broke and gave in.

One time while having sex, A had the audacity to tell me that he was imagining me as his ex. The one who gave him blow jobs. The one he wanted to marry. I was crushed. Yet, I did nothing. I stuffed the hurt deep down inside and ignored yet another burning red flag.

Fast forward to our first Valentine’s day together. A wanted to spend the night with me. ALONE. He and my mother agreed that he would pay her $100 to let him spend the night with me, ALONE. One more flaming red flag that I stuffed down and ignored.

The pattern of break-up-and-make-up continued throughout our entire twisted relationship.

Born to Be Used and Abused

***TRIGGER WARNING!!! EXPLICIT DETAIL OF CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE***
Is it fair that at fourty years old, all I can really tell you about my life is that my earliest memories are of being sexually and physically abused? Pretty fucked-up, don’t ya’ think? My entire life has been plagued by the memories of heinous and insidious acts of sexual abuse, as well as physical and emotional abuse and neglect. (CPTSD really fucking sucks!)

I was just two-years-old the first time it happened. I was an innocent and helpless baby girl, still in diapers. His name was Daniel. And he was a monster. I think he was my mother’s boyfriend at the time. I remember sitting naked in the bathtub with him. He was naked, too. I remember he was masturbating. He ejaculated into his hand. He told me it was candy and he forced me to drink the hot semen from his filthy hand. Then he proceeded to sodomize me. He told me that he would kill me and my mother if I ever told anyone what he did.

At just five years old, I was sexually abused multiple times, by multiple people.
There was Steven, my mother’s boyfriend. I have vague memories of being in bed with him and my mother one night. I remember him rubbing his penis all over me. That’s all I really remember about that incident.

There was Tammy. She was the daughter of a family friend. She was just a teenager. But she was sick, twisted and certainly not a normal teenage girl. I remember she was babysitting me one night. She wanted to “play doctor”. Her demented idea of “playing doctor” with a five-year-old little girl was laying me naked on a table. I remember her spanking my vagina with a tennis-racket-shaped coffee coaster and inserting a bulb syringe into my vagina and rectum. That’s all remember.

Then there was Samuel. He was about five or six years older than me. He was the son of mom’s drinking buddy and lover, Rosalie. Sam abused me several times. I remember one time I was staying with Sam and Rosalie. Sam and I were in his room. We were both naked. He kept running into me ramming his penis into my vagina. Another time, I remember mom and I were staying on the ranch with Sam and Rosalie. Mom and Rosalie were drinking in the trailer. I remember them giving me whisky mixed with eggnog so I would pass out. They made me sleep in the back of the truck with Sam that night. Everything went black after that. I don’t remember what he did to me. But I know he abused me that night.

Then there was Norman. Satan in the flesh. Norman was evil to the core. He was a convicted child molester and a drug addict. Mom knew that, but she let him move in with us anyway. I remember the night he raped me like it was yesterday. I was only eight. Mom was passed out drunk in the bedroom. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of the T.V. I went out to the living room and saw Norman on the couch naked and pretending to be asleep. I turned off the T.V. and went back to bed. A few minutes later, Norman started calling to me, “I want a hug, Clara, I want a hug.” So back to the living room I went. This time, Norman was masturbating. I did everything an eight-year-old girl could do to try to avoid what this demon wanted to do to me. I told him, “NO”, he retorted with, “Aren’t you going to do what your “daddy” says?” “I’ll tell your mom and she’ll be mad.” I tried bringing out every single one of my stuffed animals to introduce to him, to no avail. I told him that my legs and stomach hurt. He told me my panties were too tight and demanded that I take them off. He was getting angry and I was scared. I had no choice but to obey. I took off my panties. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted my nightgown off too. Then he started demanding that I sit on his lap. I didn’t want to. I tried so hard to stop him. Just as he was lowering me onto himself and starting to penetrate me, my mother woke up and came out to the living room. She yelled at me, “What the hell are you doing out here? Get your ass back to bed!” Then she took Norman to her bedroom and they had sex. Yes, you read that right. My mother fucked the monster who had just raped her little girl.

Ahhhh… my mother. She had an issue with pornography. I remember her watching R-rated movies with nudity and sex scenes that she would pause and rewind over and over, right there with me in the room all the time. I remember a few occasions where she sat me on her lap and showed me her Playgirl magazines and tried kissing me on the lips. It’s a far cry from normal for a mother to do that to her little girl!

This is what I remember from my childhood. My innocence was stolen right along side my entire childhood because my selfish mother chose to exploit me. I have no doubts that my mother knew what was going on long before I ever told her. But she chose to do nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

Despite my mother doing absolutely nothing about what these monsters did to me, I know that one-day justice will be served. Every one of these monsters will have to stand before God and face judgment for their sins. And because of that, I can have peace of heart and mind about what was done to me.

Because I’m Fucking Worth It!

I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Asking myself questions; like, “Why do I feel so damn numb and paralyzed?” “Why am I so damn tired all the time?” “Why can’t I find the energy to work out and walk my dog?”

And then I realized, I’m still in survival mode.

After losing my mother to cancer, and my ex leaving me for another woman, I completely gave up on myself. I just stopped caring. I then realized that I have spent the better part of the last two years dissociated and numb to everyone and everything around me.

I’ve been in survival mode and operating on autopilot. All of my energy has been focused on working and paying rent for this shitty motel room.

We may hate it here, but we are blessed nonetheless. We are safe and warm with a roof over our heads. We are out of A’s house in Mexico. And my son and his girlfriend aren’t sleeping in their car.

That has been my only focus.

But as I continue to find my way back to myself, I realize that although I’m doing pretty damn good, I’m not happy with myself or where I’m at. I need a change.

I’ve been doing a little soul searching and trying to remember what motivated me to work out and walk my dogs the way that I used to. I really had to dig deep inside myself to find the answer to this.

When I was in the seventh grade, I was being bullied by several girls. And don’t even get me started on the boys! The sexual harrassment I endured had me wishing I could just disappear. P.E was absolute HELL! When I wasn’t getting pushed around and beaten up in the locker room, I was getting it in the gym. It got to the point that I stopped dressing down, stopped participating in class, and just sat on the bleachers. I was failing the easiest damn class to pass!

Thankfully the gym teacher saw what was happening and cared enough to work out a deal with me. He let me hop up on the stage and use the universal gym during class. That was my first taste of weight lifting, and I loved it.

But why?

I had to dig a little deeper, but I realized that when I was doing an INSANE 400 pounds on the leg press, that was the ONLY time I felt stronger than my bullies and abusers. At that time, lifting heavy wasn’t about having an “awesome ass”. It was the only thing that made me feel untouchable. My mother couldn’t touch me. Her lovers couldn’t touch me. The kids at school couldn’t touch me. For one hour a day, I was strong, powerful, confident, and completely untouchable.

And I want that feeling back!

Looking back I remember how I used to love walking and hiking for miles with my Boxers, Jackie and Rrusso. I remember feeling that it was the only time I felt free from the torture and abuse I endured at home. I had an amazing and unbreakable bond with my dogs. They were the only creatures I could trust. I could tell them anything and they never judged me. I also remember spending a lot of time in prayer and feeling closer to God while hiking through the forest trails.

The more I think about it, the more I realize how much I miss that. I have a new dog now. A beautiful Pit Bull, Kratos. He’s an amazing dog. Loyal, protective, affectionate. Our bond is unbreakable. This beautiful creature deserves the best of me. He deserves to enjoy going on long hikes through the forest trails with me. He deserves to enjoy a long, happy, healthy and active life.

I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past few weeks.

I looked deep enough inside myself to realize my “why”. I also realized that my “why” can’t be superficial. I have to look beyond wanting a hot body. Although that would be really awesome!

I want to feel strong and confident. Which is the opposite of what I have felt for so many years, which is weak and insecure. I also want to be a better doggie momma for Kratos. I want to be healthier and be around for my kids and grandkids. And I really want to be the kind of woman that my future husband deserves.

Now for the hard part.

I need more than just motivation. I know that there will be days when the motivation to practice self care, and doing things like walking my dog and working out just won’t be there.

I need discipline. I need accountability. I need routine and consistency. Most importantly, I need to start loving myself enough to really make some healthy changes in my life. This concept of self-love is foreign to me. It won’t be easy. But that’s okay. I don’t need easy. I just need possible.

How do I do this?

Baby steps. That’s the only way. Set small goals that are attainable. Simple things like walking my dog for 30 minutes every morning and eating salad for lunch instead of pizza. Lose 25 pounds.

It’s been proven that incentives really do help us reach our goals. I’ve been thinking about some simple ways to reward myself for staying on track and reaching my goals. Such as ordering an item from my Amazon wish list, like a piece of jewelry I’ve been wanting or a new outfit to show off my new curves.

Creating new healthy habits, practicing self-discipline and rewarding myself for reaching my goals is a great place to start.

But above all, I need to wake up each morning and remind myself that I am absolutely fucking worth it! And no one will ever make me feel less than worthy again!

Coming Out of the Fog

I’ve been in such a fog for what seems like forever. Operating on autopilot. Completely numb to the world outside me.

Between losing my mother to the most brutal battle with cancer I have ever seen, my nightmare marriage imploding, and trying to navigate this crazy life on my own for the first time ever; I shut down completely. I’ve been so numb, that I could hardly even cry. This for me is strange. Normally, I cry all the time over everything and even nothing. This is due to my raging emotions — courtesy of CPTSD, Bipolar disorder and Borderline personality disorder.

But the emotions that come with the death of everything that has tortured me and left me damaged, I just cannot bear. I don’t know when it happened, but I left my body behind to deal with this shit on its own.

DISSOCIATION

It’s the only coping mechanism I have. I’ve been doing it all my life. For this reason, I have HUGE missing chunks of my life. It’s all completely black. As if I never existed at all. This is the brains way of protecting itself from trauma. And this is the state I have been operating in for the last two years.

It’s like walking through fog so thick you can hardly see your own hand in front of your face. It’s like the world around you is moving, but you’re not. You feel paralyzed. Unable to feel. Unable to move. But yet you are. You’re in survival mode. Operating on autopilot.

The last few weeks I’ve been feeling that I’m slowly coming back to myself. I’ve been crying more these last few weeks than I have in the last two years. I’ve been feeling depressed and anxious. Although these feelings are uncomfortable and often debilitating, they are welcomed like long lost friends. My only duty now is to sit with them and get reacquainted.

My appetite and desire for food seem to be regulating this week. This is GOLDEN!

My desire to be active and outdoors is returning. Maybe I’ll start walking with Kratos tomorrow? This will be good for the both of us! I’ve been thinking about joining the gym and getting back into weight lifting too. I miss feeling strong, sexy and confident.

But baby steps. I don’t want to risk overwhelming myself. Coming back into myself after being dissociated for so long must be done with care. My goal is to become fully integrated in myself and not dissociate again. To find my way out of the fog.

Dear Momma — An Open Letter to My Mother

Dear Momma,

It’s been two long years since you left the pain and agony of this world behind. And I often wonder, are you watching over me from heaven above?

I think of you all the time mother. I spend my days missing you and grieving you. Always wondering, did you know that I was there? Did you know how much I love you? Did you know that I forgave you for all the things you put me through? Did you know that I forgave you for letting those men and women hurt me?

Me and Momma when I was a baby.

I wonder if you knew how tightly I held you, how hard I cried when you died in my arms. I wonder if you knew that at that moment I wanted to die with you?

It’s almost Christmas. And I find myself missing you more with each passing moment.

Nightmares of your departure from this world still rob me of sleep. Flashbacks plague my mind and steal away my peace. I will never understand why you had to suffer the way that you did. Oh how I wished that I could take away your pain and comfort you in those final moments of your precious life.

This pain feels too much to bear. Did you know how much I cared? Did you know that I did what I had to do by placing you in that nursing home? I had no choice mother. I did it only out of love for you. To ensure that you would be cared for during your last days. Not to hurt you. Not to leave you there alone to die. Not to forget about you.

Me and my Momma just weeks before she died.

Did you know that I couldn’t bear to see you sleeping in your wheelchair? I couldn’t stand seeing you unable to care for yourself. Did you know how much it hurt me that I couldn’t take care of you myself? I tried Momma! I tried so hard! But you were just too sick.

As much as it still hurts, I trust that you found the peace and joy you longed for your entire life, when you stepped through heavens gate. I trust that you have completely forgotten about your pain and suffering because where you are, pain and suffering do not exist. I trust that you finally found the love that you so desperately craved in the arms of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

I trust that although we couldn’t be close in this life, we will be in the next. So until we meet again Momma, watch over me. Forgive me for doing what I had to do to take care of you. Know in your heart Momma, that my love for you will live on. I miss you more than mere words can express Momma. Know that I will keep your memory tucked away in my heart until I see you again.

Love always and forever,

Your daughter,

Clara

The Courage to Change

I lost my insurance when I left my last job. So that means that finding a therapist to help me with my eating disorder is out of the question for now.

So, I guess that means that I am on my own as usual.

That’s okay though. I got this. Not because I am strong enough or have the willpower and discipline. But because I believe with all my heart that Christ will be my strength in this battle. I can do ALL THINGS through Him who gives me strength. And that includes conquering disordered eating!

First, I must learn my triggers and what causes me to lose control and binge. Then I need to learn to listen to my body and discover what she needs. It’s not always food or comfort.

I must pray every day for the courage and strength I need to change my habits and life. I must learn to be disciplined and self-controlled.

I need to get over my fear of being out in public and get active again. Start taking my poor dog for walks. I used to love walking my dogs. I want that back. I really do! I used to love and enjoy being outdoors. Now I’m terrified. I know that this is due to severe and complex PTSD. And recovery takes time.

I need to start loving myself and telling myself that I do infact deserve a healthy relationship with food. I do deserve a healthy and fit body. And most importantly, I need to believe it!

Above all, I need to remember that my body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, and that my body is sacred. This above all is the key.

I may not be able to afford therapy or meds to treat this eating disorder, but the God who lives inside of me is the Great Physician. With His help, His love, His grace and guidance I can do this. One step at a time. One breath at a time.

My Lifelong Battle With Disordered Eating

I’ve never had a healthy relationship with food. And I have my mother and ex husband to thank for that.

As a child I recall my mother sending me to bed as punishment for any perceived misbehavior. And on the contrary, she rewarded me with sweets and fast food as a reward for good behavior. Another thing that I recall is the vast amount of freezer bags filled with chocolate bars she kept near by.

My mother was an alcoholic. And when she wasn’t downing a bottle of NyQuil, she was stuffing her face with copious amounts of chocolate. This was the lesson she taught me. Whenever I cannot cope with my life or emotions, to just numb myself with chocolate and sweets.

Growing up my mother was more concerned with filling the fridge with cigarettes than food. We basically survived on Hamburger Helper. Whatever fruits and vegetables we had were canned. Fresh apples and oranges were considered a treat that I found in my stocking on Christmas morning. Since we were on Welfare, I ate breakfast and lunch at school. Breakfast was usually a doughnut and chocolate milk. Lunch was pizza or burgers and fries with more chocolate milk. By the end of the third grade, I was about 140 pounds and wearing a size 14 in women’s clothes.

Fast forward to my middle school years. I was becoming increasingly aware of my weight and I was concerned that boys would not find me attractive. This is when I began dieting. Slim fast shakes eventually got old, and as I became increasingly depressed and suicidal, I just stopped eating. Standing at 5’8″ and weighing only 115 pounds, I was diagnosed by my pediatrician as anorexic.

At fourteen years old, I became pregnant with my first child. My ex was working as a dishwasher in a hotel and brought food and decadent desserts home every night. When I didn’t want to eat, he force-fed me. Eventually I began eating everything in sight, thus gaining a massive amount of weight. After having my son, I immediately began dieting again because my weight and unattractive body was now a problem for my ex. This pattern continued with all three of my pregnancies — only gaining more weight.

As my ex continued to complain about my weight and body, he became more and more distant and increasingly abusive, constantly comparing me to porn stars. I was so desperate! So I continued unhealthy patterns of dieting — spending thousands on shakes and pills, starving myself for days on end, and bingeing on sweets and junk food in private to numb my pain.

Now, at 42 years old, I find myself trapped in a vicious cycle of bingeing and eating my feelings, and then having absolutely no appetite or desire for food for days. Needless to say, those are my better days. The days when I feel in control. And then I’m not.

I have to be truthful. I’m absolutely terrified. My weight continues to climb. My thyroid has gone to shit. My blood pressure and cholesterol are elevated. Cancer and diabetes run in my family. I can’t keep going like this. I’ve been in a downward spiral for so long now. It’s high time for a change. I’ve been looking for a therapist that specializes in eating disorders. I know that I need to do this. But I need help. I can’t do this on my own.

Why Did She Have to Go Out Like That?

It’s not fair! She suffered her whole damn life! Why did she have to go out like that?

It’s been two years since my mother passed away from metastatic lung cancer. But I remember each and every detail of her death as if it were yesterday.

It was the most horrific and brutal battle I had ever seen. Why did she have to go out like that?

It was mid August when I received the dreaded phone call. It was my mother. She was hysterical. She could barely mutter the words… “I have cancer”. My heart broke into a million pieces as I began to sob unconsolably.

I had to go to her. I was all she had. And she needed me to be by her side.

It was then, that A decided he wanted a divorce. He flew me out to Cleveland to be with her.

My mother was in pretty bad shape when I got there. She unknowingly already suffered from a fractured hip and collarbone due to the aggressive and rapidly metastasizing cancer. She had been sleeping in her wheelchair because she could not get into her bed and had no help.

She was suffering incurable pneumonia due to the cancer in her lungs. She had multiple trips to the ER before she was finally hospitalized. I had to fly back to Tijuana because I just couldn’t handle seeing her so sick.

But she was declining rapidly. The hospital called me and recommended placing her in a nursing home.

It was the one thing that my mother made me promise I would never do. And now my hand was being forced. Home care was not enough. And I couldn’t care for her by myself. I felt so powerless. And mother felt betrayed and abandoned by her only child.

Just a few short weeks later, the hospital called me again. “You’re mother is very sick. She doesn’t have much time. You need to get out here as soon as you can.

So A flew me back out to Cleveland. Not to be with my dying mother, but with the expectancy that I would not be coming back.

I stayed in an Airbnb about an hour away. I took an Uber to her every day for three days.

I can still see her…in unfathomable pain… restless… afraid…

She had suffered a fall from her wheelchair just days before I got there. Her gown somehow got stuck in the wheels, pulling her out of her chair. She hit her head pretty hard. I remember the two larges bumps on her head and how angry I was.

I can still hear her crying out in absolute terror… “I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!

But what haunts me is the way she died. I remember talking with the chaplain and holding mom’s hand. She began choking and gurgling. Somehow I knew that this was it. I told the chaplain to get the nurse. I held my mother close to me. Dark green fluid began pouring from her mouth and nose.

I sobbed and wailed as the nurse pronounced my mother dead.

I was stuck in Cleveland with no money and nowhere to go. No way to get back home. Needless to say, I was drunk by the time my aunt got there.

After the nurse pronounced my mother dead, I asked to be alone with her while we waited for hospice and the coroner. The dark green fluid continued pouring from her nose and mouth as I cleaned her and prepared her now lifeless body to be transported.

In all my years as a CNA working in hospice, never had I witnessed such a horrific and brutal death. Why did she have to go out like that? It’s just not fair!

Despite all that she put me through, I am so grateful that she died in my arms, knowing that I loved her deeply and forgave her for the past.

Today, two years after my mother’s death, I remember the time I had with her, repairing a very broken relationship. Today, I remember God calling my mother home to Him so that she could finally experience the healing, love, joy and peace she had longed for ever so desperately her entire life.

Livin’ La Vida Loca

It may seem that I have been MIA, but the reality is that I have been insanely busy with work. On my days off, I sleep to recharge and prepare myself for another long week. I just haven’t had the chance to post an update in quite a while.

Although it has been a struggle, and it’s been hella crazy, life has been pretty good.

Work has been extremely stressful, but I’m content with it. I gained new skills and experience while working in subacute. However, my coworkers in that unit are petty and pitiful. For whatever reason, they decided they don’t like me and had me transferred to another unit. Well, I don’t think they were expecting me to get a $5/hr raise as a reward for their pettiness! I was transferred to the COVID unit. And that raise will help me reach certain goals just a little faster.

Soon my divorce will be final. It’s bittersweet, really. Twenty-seven years. That’s a long time to devote yourself to someone. A long time to put up with lies, cheating and abuse. I’m grateful for my freedom and my new life. I’m happier now than I ever thought I could be. But, it’s still painful to see the father of my children taking care of someone else’s children. It makes me sick to think that someone else and her children could be living the life that I and MY children — OUR CHILDREN should have had. It breaks my heart to know just how easy it was for him to replace us.

Yes, I still have healing to do. A LOT of healing. But I have to say, I am so proud of how far I have come.  I was once terrified that I could never do life on my own. But here I am. Hustling and and grinding every single day.. Busting my ass. Sacrificing precious sleep, so I can change my situation.

I’ve set a few goals for myself.

By the end of this year I plan to:

  1. finalize my divorce,
  2. get caught up on my car payments,
  3. and buy a house.

Seems like a lot, yes. But I can do this! I WILL DO THIS!!!

Dating Scams, Identity Theft and Escaping From My Prison

The last few weeks have wiped me out. I’m emotionally drained and physically exhausted.

My entire life and world has been turned completely upside down. It all happened so fast. And it left me in quite a daze.

The guy that I had spent the last seven months talking to; the one I was lead to believe was in the military and deployed; the one who preyed on my emotions and situation; that guy. He was a con artist.

I could hardly believe it when I came to the cold, hard realization that I had become a victim of dating scam.

Seven months of my life wasted on a fraud. Seven months of my life that I will never get back. Seven months of being toyed with, preyed on and manipulated. I feel stupid and disgusted with myself for allowing myself to be played like a badly tuned violin.

On the flip side , I finally moved out of the house in Tijuana that my ex left me trapped in. The house that he promised me we would live in for the rest of our lives. The house that I never wanted. The house that he asked me to come back to after he cheated on me when my mother died. The house that he left me in with absolutely nothing and no means to take care of myself. The house that he trapped me in when he left me for the other woman.

Yes , that house. I am finally free. I just moved out with my stuff, my dog, and my cat.

I will never, ever look back. I am working hard towards building a brand new life.

I’m terrified. Failing is not an option! I must protect my freedom with my life.

Side note: The divorce is not moving as quickly as I would like. But it’s moving. Soon it will be over. And I will be completely free.

Family for a Day

Today was my granddaughters fourth birthday. And for her birthday, she really wanted to see her grandpa. He hadn’t seen her since her second birthday and she really missed him.

Since my ex has no means of transportation my son asked me to give him a ride. As much as I wanted to say “no”, I of course gave him a ride. My love for my granddaughter, and my desire to see her happy on her special day far outweighs the fact that being in my ex’s presence makes me physically ill.

Today we did our best to just get along and be civil and respectful of each other. Today, we did our best to just be a family. Even if we are broken.

We enjoyed eating slice after slice of pizza, cake, cookies and brownies. We enjoyed watching our beautiful grandchildren breaking their piñatas. We watched in delight as our beautiful baby girl opened each gift. We smiled every time she got excited over her presents.

We each took turns consoling our baby girl when she just didn’t want to share her unicorn piñata with her older brother.

Despite our painful past and all of the brokenness in our family, it was so good just to be reminded that we are still a family. Even if it was just for a day.

Raining Blessings

Let me see if I can actually put into words just how good God has been to me.

It’s raining blessings!

Although I have been struggling, I am blessed beyond imagination.

I’ve changed jobs several times. But now, I have a job with an agency that is paying me more than I have ever made. I’m working in a facility that I really like. And I enjoy being there. The workload is very lite compared to other facilities I’ve worked in.

I got a puppy a couple weeks ago. He’s a four-month old pit bull/mastiff mix. He’s such a sweet and gentle boy. He’s naturally protective and a great guard dog. It was love at first sight with this handsome boy! I’ll be registering him as my ESA, ( Emotional Support Animal) as well.

My love will be coming home from deployment in a couple weeks. I’m so excited and completely terrified to finally be meeting face to face! We’ve been talking a lot about getting married once my divorce is final. And we’re about to try to buy a beautiful cabin nestled in ten luscious acres of forest. I’m a little uneasy about the idea of moving so far away from my kids and grandkids. But, I’m ready to write the next chapter of my life.

Although I am still struggling to make sense of my crazy life and get up on my own two feet, I am so blessed. I am grateful to God in heaven above for loving me and showering me in blessings.

My Life After Abuse

Olivia Lucie Blake

Musings of a Millennial. Life, The World and Everything In Between.

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Recovering from a lifetime of narcissistic abuse and reclaiming my mind, body, and spirit

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Healing from a broken person's broken ''love''

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