Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Satanic Smm Smm Cards Announcement

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!


Hi all,

I am excited to bring you all to awareness that I have a new set of dark, Satanic, unholy creatures for anyone who is interested to adopt. They are called Smm Smm cards. They are all possessed with very dark, wicked, unholy powers that can do just about anything for whom they are adopted by. And, the Braille on which they have been marked with, isn't nearly as innocent as it looks either as you will soon find out. That is, if you are brave and wicked enough to invite them warmly into your homes, everyday activities shamelessly and proudly, even when and if you are confronted by family members or extra paranoid/superstitious friends or acquaintances that are in your life, and praise Smm Smm, on which the cards are embossed with in Braille, at least Smm Smm Smm Smm times a day.

Such powerful, evil  features of the Smm Smm cards include, but are not limited to, delivering curses to your enemies or anyone who has bothered you, chase away holy angels from the light who are intending to thwart you and convert you to Christianity that an annoying, persistent Christian has ordered to chase and follow you, perhaps sent by pushy family members or friends, who state that they are concerned for your well-being and who have taken comfort in consulting at least one Christian, until you convert, and deliver long-awaited revenges on those who have carved deep, painful wounds into your soul that are sure to leave behind scars until the day you die in the form of intrusive thoughts and memories.

Adopting them is easy. All you need to do is donate twenty dollars to the Blind Satanist and, as soon as you do that, my own, personal set of Smm Smm cards will alert me to the fact that adoptive parents are interested in the cards and who are eager to give Smm Smm Smm Smm of my card collection, who are all waiting to find homes, evil, worthy, wicked homes where they can live out their lives committing as many evil deeds as their evil parents wish for them to carry out.

There is no screening or interviewing process for the adoptions, nor annoying piles of paperwork to fill out before an adoption can take place like most places require. Certainly there are no necessary home visits, either. However, before making the final decision to provide loving, caring homes for these cards, you may want to first ask yourself a series of questions, specifically Smm Smm Smm Smm of them, to insure that you are, indeed, a suitable person for such powerful cards. For, once you adopt them, there is no going back. The Blind Satanist does not give refunds, nor does she take them back. They are yours forever. And, if you try to get rid of them, just remember, their spirits live on and they will find you and demand why you have so cowardly decided to dessert them despite all that they have done for you.

Here are the set of questions you should be prepared to ask yourself before making the final click of the mouse, indicating that you wish to proceed with the adoption process at once.

One: Do I love Satan the Devil with my whole heart, my whole soul, my whole flesh, my whole mind, and my whole body?

Two: Do I wish to seek revenge and or curse an enemy of mine with every fiber of my being?

Three: Will I be able to keep the cards busy enough for the remainder of their lifetime?

Four: Do I have enough evil intent in my blood, heart, and soul, to keep all Smm Smm Smm Smm of them happy, content, and satisfied with various, daily jobs for them to complete, while praising Smm Smm all the while, Smm Smm Smm Smm times each and every day until death do us  part?

If you have answered yes to at least Smm Smm of the questions, then, congratulations, you are a suitable owner of such terrific, powerful cards, according to Smm Smm's standards.  All you need to do, next, is hit the donate button, put in an amount of twenty dollars for the cards, which you can't miss on the front page of my blog, unless you are incredibly stupid, and you will promptly be sent out a set of Smm Smm Smm Smm (four) Smm Smm cards to aid you in your evil endeavors as you diligently serve our Dark, Unholy Lord Satan the Devil and Smm Smm, the demon who sits at the left hand side of Satan's dark, unbelievably wicked throne, and whom Satan favors above all else who serve him in the land of the demons.

If you weren't able to answer yes to any of these questions, you may still adopt a set of the cards. However, you must be warned that you must up your standards of living ninefold with evilness and darkness or you will have a very difficult, unsatisfactory life once you receive these beautiful, glorious cards, as the Smm Smm cards do not take to being bored and jobless for even a thimbleful amount of time very well. And, as I have said, once you adopt them, there is NO GOING BACK!!!!

Once you have received Smm Smm cards, I would gladly love people to comment on how they are putting them to use, where they will be published on the blog for all to see if the Blind Satanist finds them wicked and funny enough. You may also send pictures of evil deeds that the cards are in the process of doing to ashlee@blindsatanist.com, where they will be admired by the demons of the Blind Satanist while they describe them out loud, and if she thinks that they are worthy enough to be published with the comments, she'll promptly publish them according to how wicked they appear to be.

Pictures of the cards hard at work are available for all potential adopters to browse while coming to a final decision of whether they are able and willing to commit to taking in Smm Smm Smm Smm very energetic cards, full of dark magic, for their entire lifetimes, which vary according to how well cared for they are as well as how interesting their lives are and what jobs are set out for them to achieve while they are alive.

And, if you donate more than twenty dollars, you might, just might, find yourself receiving an additional Satanic surprise accompanying the Smm Smm cards. 

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!


Wednesday, August 24, 2016

The Second Mistake, Part One

V-vvv-vvv v-vvvvv-vvvvvvv-vvvvvvtttttttt-vvvv-vvvvvvvttttttt-shssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhh ccccccrrrrrrrrr-vvvvvvvvvv-ssssshhhhhcccccccrrrrrrr-ssssssskkkkkkk-ssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

Dear Dad,

You know the sound by now! The rockets bearing all five of my demons are here with me now, right in my bedroom, where, once again, I sit, being as lazy and empty-minded as I possibly can. Rocket time equals more juice. Juice, as you might suspect, on my mom and grandmother.

"Let's get right to business," Bryan says smugly as he climbs down from his rocket, which hisses, belches, and then collapses onto the floor, panting with exhaustion, black smoke curling all around it as it gasps for breath.

"Chrissie, why aren't you yelling?" I ask her, a little perplexed.

"Well, the fight wasn't as massive," she admits, a little sulkily.

"But it was still worth the trip."

"Okay, here goes," Nevaeh says and, once again, she perches onto my shoulder, and the five demons begin splitting up the tale of what they witnessed while they were spying on my crazy relatives once again.

It has been some time since Jennifer's and Giovanna's big row at Giovanna's gloomy, dreary basement condo in Poulsbo. When, oh when, will that be-damned place SELL?

Bryan, Chrissie, and Mary Meyers are stationed at Jennifer's house, perched up on the back deck's railings, soaking up the warm, summery, cheery sunshine, watching her every move through the large, wide windows and the open sliding glass door of her obnoxious, towering, tacky house, who's birthday was on August 21st, a mere three days ago! He, meaning the house, has turned twelve years old. He is in tiptop shape on the outside, as well as his roomy, spacious, heavily wooded yard and two decks, one in the front yard, and one in the backyard, what with Jennifer's constant fussing, prodding, scrubbing, and poking 24/7. On the inside of his head, not his physical insides, which are equally spotless and equally fussed upon 24/7, 365 days a year, however, he is gloomy and constantly bored. Jennifer doesn't let him rough house with his buddies much because she is afraid for the well-being of her fancy china and other belongings that reside within the house's innards. No less than five times a day, the house often finds himself toying with the idea of what it would be like if Jennifer finally sold him and a new family moved in. Would there be children? Young, vivacious children who loved to romp and play and who's mother and father didn't care whether they tracked mud and dirt in when they came back from playing? Would they, perhaps, have a rowdy, fun-loving dog who would chase the house and his tail for hours on end, whiling away the morning and afternoon hours, which, much to the house's dislike, were too quiet and uneventful much of the time, given the fact that he was built and forced to reside in such a small, boring town, full of old people and vacationers, who only came for part of the year and who left when the weather got too cold and rainy. The house is too young to remember who really owns him, which is Giovanna, not Jennifer. He always forgets because it is Jennifer who constantly occupies him and has done so for the past twelve years, with the exception of the one year when she tried living with her boyfriend Coalie in his house in Gig Harbor. The house's name, by the way, is Enoch. My mom wanted him to have a biblical name and so promptly named him that the day of his birth, twelve years ago.

It is yet another sunny day and Jennifer has just gotten home from work, much to the delight of the workies and Nita, the uppy of the house. The silents, however, groan with hopelessness and displeasure as they watch the old, beater car pull into the driveway, announcing her fateful return, because they know that Jennifer will soon put them all to work and that any hope of getting to watch a juicy, action-packed, long movie while eating cakes, cookies, pies, etc, are completely out of the question now that she is back. I'll explain about those strange creatures in another letter to you, Dad, or perhaps in a story that doesn't address you directly. We'll see. She immediately begins watering the indoor plants, whistling as she works. She has ordered the silents to water the garden outside, much to their displeasure, and she has ordered the uppy, Nita, to eat all the dust particles out of the air, which is the main job of an uppy. Unlike the silents, who glide slowly through the windows and doors of Enoch, is delighted at the prospect of being given an order, for it means that she will be given much praise, soon, and, quite possibly, a long session of pure upping, as uppies often call it, as Jennifer would no doubt want to vacuum the entire house once all the indoor plants were watered, wash her dirty, smelly work uniform, etc, and all of that would involve her standing up and walking around the house, a pure treasure for an uppy. All that coming home from work stuff, as she and Grandmamma often call it. The silents, though, would not be so lucky. Jennifer didn't think very highly of silents. She considered silents to be lazy, gluttonous creatures who didn't serve much of a purpose in life, or so she thought. To her, she gained no benefit from the silents, but she did see herself as receiving plenty of benefit from her friends, the uppies and workies, because uppies often encouraged people to get up and move about, which gave her an excuse to exercise and obsessively clean her already spotless and highly polished house. The workies, on the other hand, were a great way to stay motivated and to keep your mind and body active, in her mind. So, she proceeded to get to work right away, moving quickly and purposefully around her giant house, a house, which she found, was all to herself at the moment, save the family dog, Rocky, the new cat that Coalie had adopted from the Humane Society about a month ago, and possibly a gecko in Conner's room and maybe a cricket or two. One never quite knew for certain what, exactly, was hidden inside the room of a curious, active, young boy.

An elderly gentleman workie is following her wherever she goes, feasting joyfully on fudge brownie ice cream. The ice cream is all chocolate and the brownies in it are soft, mushy, and very sweet. The workie hardly has any teeth, due to his age, but he doesn't seem to notice much, as he is eating something very soft, so teeth aren't really an absolute MUST for this particular yummy meal.

"Oh my goodness, has that boy not watered you at all while I was gone?" Jennifer asks her plants dispiritedly as she stares morosely at a few dead spots on them.

"I'll have to have a talk with him. I told him to water you guys while I was gone and yet he still continues to disregard me. That little BRAT! OOOOOOHHHH, how his father is going to scream at him when he hears of this!"

And, with that gleeful thought to comfort her, she continues her boring business of watering the plants, obsessively scrubbing the already spotless kitchen counter, then vacuuming an already dirt free carpet and wood floor. The workie continues stuffing his face, glad that he got to Jennifer before the others came a-coming and beginning their usual brawl over who would get to be the one who got to be with her, the one who got the treat while she worked, for a workie can only be given one person at a time, unless special circumstances arise. And, although each silent is given a workie to tend to, and so, therefore is Nita, the workies all favor Jennifer because she, unlike the silents, actually relishes the prospect of having a job, so the quality of their desserts are much richer and much more satisfying than the desserts of the workies who have the misfortune of getting the silents, who absolutely hate working and can often be found trying to find ways to get out of performing such tasks. Nita's workie, a blonde middle-aged woman workie, isn't having much luck, either. Though Nita was more than happy to be given a job to do, there just isn't much work to be done. The house is absolutely immaculate so there are very few dust bunnies floating around in the air to eat or uninvited downies roaming around in the house to chase away before they can start breeding with the downies that do reside in Enoch or eating dirt and grime from the windows because there just isn't any to eat. And, the flowers aren't pollinating as vigorously as usual right now, so there isn't any pollen to gulp down before it reaches Jennifer's nose to make her sneeze, so, as a result of this lack of work, the woman workie with Nita has only managed to scrounge a tiny, half slice of chocolate pie with only a thimble sized squirt of whipped cream on top and no cherry in sight.

Smm Smm and Nevaeh, meanwhile, are stationed at Giovanna's condo. They, too, are watching her from her back deck, but it is more difficult to spy on her because the condo is so dark and she isn't really doing much of anything inside the house, though Smm Smm is sure that she is home.

"Oh, fuck this shit," Nevaeh hisses as yet another hornet whizzes past her right ear.

"Let's just go into the house already! It's not like she can SEE us. Damn!" She shrieks as a monstrous hornet flies straight at her head, stinger a-quivering eagerly, angry as can be, eager for a victim. It just misses her because she manages, just barely, to dive out of the way into a potted plant that looks like it has died months ago. All of the leaves on it are shriveled and brown and it doesn't move one stem as Nevaeh invades its home to get away from her attacker, even when she accidently pokes it in the eye with her tiny hand as she frantically tries to seek cover in the depths of the pot, among very dry, murky soil.

"These hornets are bigger than me! No wonder she never opens the sliding glass door!"

"Yeah, she's allergic to them," says Smm Smm casually, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Smm Smm blows a huge jet of fire, immediately scattering the hornets. Most insects are afraid of fire and hornets are among them.

"There, that's better," he says calmly as Nevaeh peaks out from one of the droopy, dead leaves of the plant.

"You can come out now."

Nevaeh leaps out and dives under the sliding glass door. Smm Smm simply walks right through it, unaffected in the slightest by the hornets.

Giovanna is found ten seconds later. She is in her bathroom, staring at her mirror, which is completely covered in notes. From what Nevaeh and Smm Smm can tell, they are a bunch of mantras and reminders, but they have absolutely no substance or meaning. They are just a bunch of gibberish.

"I don't know how," Giovanna says, speaking very slowly and deliberately to her mirror, "But what I do know is that I am happy and fulfilled and that I am thankful for my life."

"I don't know how," she says again in the same slow, methodic tone to her mirror, "But what I do know is that I am happy and fulfilled and that I am thankful for my life."

"It's a chant or something," whispers Nevaeh as Giovanna continues to say this speech over and over again.

Ten times she does this, and then she moves on to another chant.

"I don't know how, but what I do know is that I have a lot of money and have been blessed with a rich man for eternity to get me what I want and that I am happy, fulfilled, and thankful for my life."

Nine more times she says this exact thing and then she moves on to yet another chant.

"I don't know how, but I am completely healthy, free of illness and disease, and so are my family. I only know that I do know this and that I am happy, fulfilled, and grateful for my life."

Nine more times this goes on and then, finally, she reaches a mantra at the bottom right hand corner of her mirror, which stands there, looking completely bored and unfazed by this odd behavior. Apparently this is something that has been going on for quite a while now and has therefore lost its entertaining and surprising appeal to the mirror, but it isn't so new for me. My grandma never used to say these kinds of things, let alone chant them again and again to Satan knows who or what.

"I don't know how," she says, plastering a smile onto her pale, worn-out looking face.

"But I know that my family are all going to be united and that we will all stick together always and forever. I only know that it is true, that I am happy, fulfilled, and that I am grateful for my life."

"It must be that weird Theta thing she's into now," breathes Smm Smm as Giovanna slowly backs away from the mirror and says quietly, "Thank you, Creator of all that is from the seventh plane, for my life. The Creator of all that is from the seventh plane loves me."

Suddenly, a huge, black and white husky comes bounding into the hallway from out of the bedroom. His tail is wagging as he looks up hopefully for a bite to eat. He hasn't eaten since the last fight Giovanna and Jennifer had had, and the amount that he had managed to scrounge up had been very meager indeed.

"How did you get out of there?" demands Giovanna, glowering down at her dog.

"The closet door's shut tight for the very purpose of keeping you in there."

The dog whimpers and then nudges Giovanna's legs, then looks up into her dull looking eyes, meaningfully.

Giovanna stares back into the doleful, sad eyes of her imaginary dog for a moment, then says, "Mmmmmmm, I see. Oh well, all right then, Rocky, thanks for letting me know. Now get back into that closet. NOW!"

A pitiful whine escapes Rocky's lips. He is so skinny that all of his ribs can be counted just by looking at them. He is more like a walking skeleton than a healthy dog.

"No, you don't get anything to eat, I have to go!" snaps Giovanna as she gives him a good, hard kick in the neck.

"Now, you do as I say or it'll be Christmas before you leave that closet, do you hear me?"

Slowly and very defeatedly, the dog trudges back into the bedroom, his tail hanging limply at his back legs.

Once Giovanna has been satisfied that Rocky will obey her, she flounces out of the bathroom, forgetting to turn the light off, and heads straight for the kitchen, Smm Smm and Nevaeh close in pursuit. She picks up her cell phone and rapidly sifts through her contacts. When she finds the one she wants, she punches the send button, then yells at the top of her lungs at the poor, tiny, fragile smart phone that she is holding tightly in her left hand, "HURRY UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPP AND DIAL THE NUMBER ALREADYYYYYYYYYY!!!!"

The phone flinches and then immediately starts to dial up the number. Once Giovanna hears the sound of it ringing the number she desires to call, she puts it on speaker phone, then throws the phone carelessly down onto the hard, cold kitchen counter and stands there, staring at it, as if daring it to drop the call.

Smm Smm and Nevaeh don't even need to guess who she is calling. They already know exactly who Giovanna so eagerly wants to talk to.

"Hi, you've reached Jennifer," begins Jennifer's voice mail.

"Darn it," Giovanna hisses, snatching the terrified phone up off the counter and punching the end button.

"I hate that. When is she going to fix her phone already? This has been going on for MONTHS now!"

Nevaeh laughs out loud and so does Smm Smm. What Giovanna is so angry about is the fact that Jennifer's phone is malfunctioning. Whenever anyone places a call to Jennifer, they usually have to do it twice because, the first time anyone calls her, the phone rings twice, quickly, then sends the call to her voice mail without ringing on Jennifer's end, so she is unaware that she is receiving a call unless they either hang up right away and call again or leave a message. She sometimes gets calls on the first attempt, when she is using her phone already, like if she is checking her email or texts or the ever changing stock market. Or, they can text or email her, too, but I usually opt for calling her twice, especially when I need money and need to butter her up for it. When you call Jennifer's number the second time, though, it actually rings so that Jennifer can hear it and actually answer the call if she so chooses instead of just sending it to voice mail right away.

"Call her again!" shouts Giovanna to her trembling phone.

"And, she'd better answer!"

The phone bows its tiny head, apparently praying for her to answer, for Giovanna's phone, though smart as it is, cannot control whether Jennifer will pick up her phone or not. Neither can it control whether Jennifer's phone chooses to be lazy or to actually do its job and ring when people call the number that it has been assigned to maintain.

"Hi Mom," Jennifer answers after five rings. Giovanna's phone sighs visibly with relief and, no doubt, hopes that the call will last a long time so that Giovanna's attention will be taken off of it. Even just for a little while would make much difference to the phone and would be highly appreciated by the poor phone as well.

"Hi Jennifer, how are you?" Giovanna asks in her phony, polite voice, though, Nevaeh and Smm Smm, being that they are at her house, can see her face and they know that she is feeling anything but polite and friendly at the moment.

"Oh, I'm okay," Jennifer says, stifling a yawn.

"I'm tired, though. Just got back from a four day stretch at work and have come home to find the house in total ruins, thanks to that little brat of a son Coalie's still got to deal with."

Coalie, in actuality, has three children, but they mysteriously decided to move out of his house to their mom's house once he got together with my mother about four years ago. Only one child stayed, and that was the youngest, Conner. His other children, one girl and another boy, are grown now, but they were still minors when Coalie first got together with Jennifer, and it didn't take long before they went packing for their mom's house. Micaila went first, shortly followed by Caleb. Conner, for what reason, I can't even begin to fathom, stayed behind. He must be a total masochist, that's the only reason I can think of for why he would stay in Poop Ludlow with my mean mom and his equally, if not meaner and stricter father, Coalie. Yep, Poop Ludlow, not Port Ludlow. That's what I'm calling the town from now on. I've called it that secretly in my mind ever since I was about nine, so why not come out of the closet and call it that for everyone to hear? It's not like Jennifer can do a single thing about it now, even if she wanted to, which I'm sure she does. But now, back to the conversation.

"Mmmmm, that's too bad," Giovanna says absently, combing her fingers through her thin, almost colorless from decaying, curly hair, quite obviously not really listening to what Jennifer is saying at all.

"Hey, I'm really sorry about the fight we had. I really do love you Jennifer, do you know that?"

"Yes, Mom, I do know that, and I love you, too. I'm also sorry for having fought so horribly with you. Can we call a truce then?"

"Yes we can," Giovanna says, though the words never touch her eyes because she doesn't really mean what she said just now.

"Good, I'm really glad to hear that," Jennifer says. In the background, you can hear plopping sounds.

"What are you doing?" Giovanna asks, apparently catching on to the noise at last.

"Oh, trying to unclog the downstairs toilet with a plunger in the guest bathroom," sighs Jennifer irritably.

"It's sounding funny when you flush it, like it's on the verge of overflowing any minute now. I'm afraid that the next flush will set it over the edge."

I laugh at loud when Mary Meyers says this piece of information because, Jennifer, too, is failing to bother really listening to the conversation that is going on between her and her mother.

"Oh yes," Mary Meyers says, joining me in the laughter.

"Like mother, like daughter."

Then, with a scathing growl from me, she hastily adds, "Well, there are exceptions sometimes. You, for instance, are one of the few exceptions."

Truth be told, Dad, I am like Jennifer in a lot of ways, though I absolutely hate admitting it. That's one of the reasons why I have decided to resurrect the Blind Satanist after so many months of being dormant with it. I'm hoping to understand the way my mother thinks and acts and behaves more so that I can try and understand why I do some of the things I do that is undesirable to me and the people who are the closest to me and change my ways as best as I can. Admittedly, I'd rather just run away from it all and not look back because I don't really want to understand it. Well, a big part of me doesn't want to, anyway. But a small part of me, the strong, flourishing part, the part that wants to get free of her toxicity at last, does want to understand it better. Or as good as I can, anyway. It won't be fun, but it might shed some light on why I am such a freak sometimes. A freak…

Should I say it…

Okay fine, here goes!


A freak like Jennifer who can't be the mother that I want to be because I don't understand everything pertaining to why I am the way I am. Does that make sense?

Well, fine, whatever, I don't care if you don't understand it, I'm not even sure I quite understand what I just wrote either. But whatever. On with the story, shall we?

"Well, do you want me to come over and help?" Giovanna asks eagerly.

"Oh no, Mom," yawns Jennifer, this time making an effort to exaggerate the yawn rather than hold back, a sure sign that she does not want any visitors right now, particularly her mother.

"Why?" Giovanna asks tersely, all trace of fake friendliness gone now.

"Because I'm TIRED!" yells Jennifer, all pretense gone from her voice also.

"Didn't I just say I just got off from a four day shift and--"

"Yeah, well, I want to see you," interrupts her mother angrily.

"I thought we had reached a truce."

"Well, we have, but I'm too tired for a visit right now. I want to finish cleaning up and then I want to take a nap."

"Well, you can take a nap later," says Giovanna determinedly, a greedy smile on her face now.

"I'm coming over and I'll help you clean. It'll be fun, not to mention, it will go a lot faster than if you were doing it alone. Conner's with his mom this week, isn't he?"

"Yes," Jennifer says shortly.

"Coalie just dropped him off this morning before he left for work."

It is obvious that she is bursting at the seams to take control of the situation and tell her mother off, but she doesn't do it. Is it a lack of guts? Or does she really just not think highly enough of herself to say no and take care of herself and do what she needs to do to heal from such a long couple of days?

"Well, good then," Giovanna says brightly, now positively beaming down at her phone, who has finally started to relax a bit now that it appears that it is out of danger land. At least for the moment, anyway. In that house, and in Jennifer's house, for that matter, you really have to enjoy and savor every minute… No, every SECOND of peace you can manage to suck up, because, more often than not, it will be suddenly jerked away from you, without a hope of returning for a very long time. And, that doesn't just ring true for humans that have the misfortune of being in their company for extended periods of time. It also rings true for the technologies that they own, the appliances in their homes, and the very houses themselves! That is how dark and powerful, and not in a Satanic way like mine, these people truly are!

"I'll be over there in about half an hour to help you clean and fix that pesky toilet. After all," she says, giggling a little as she hops up and down on the balls of her feet, "Four hands are better than two!"

Okay, time for an intermission here. Sorry, Dad, but I need to have some gooey, hot brownies and some ice, cold milk, yes, drunk right out of the carton. I'm sure you did that at least a couple of times in your life, did you not?

Anyway, to be continued. I love you Dad and hope that you are well, wherever you are. Even if you are in a deep pit of nothingness like many people believe that's what happens when you die, I hope it's peaceful and pleasant and that you are hurting no longer. Someday, I will join you. But, for right now, I've got to tell the world about my crazy family and, maybe, just maybe, get recognized and rich and, in the meantime, shame my grandma and mother to hell and back.

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!


Tuesday, August 23, 2016


Dear Dad,

"Fight! Fight! FIGHT!!!!!"

"Chr-iiiiiiiiiii-ssssssssssss-ieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! What is it? I'm trying to rrite my dad a letter here! And, you've just scared the living be-jesus out of me!"

"How 'bout the living be-Satan out of you?" Says Chrissie, making me smile, despite myself, because she didn't say the whole word about, she cut it off one letter. If my mom could have heard that, it would have put her in a dither for sure.

"Chrissie, go away! I'm trying to write here."

"You just wrote to him," she retorts, shaking her finger vigorously in front of my face. At one point I can feel the air as her finger just misses poking my right eye.

"Chrissie, what do you WANT?!!!!!!"

"I want to tell you about the Fight! Fight! F-F-F-I-I-I-I-I-I-T-T-T-T-T-T!!!!"

"What fight?"

"THE FIGHT! You know, the one that your mom and grandma were bound to have once they saw your new story posted on your blog! Well, it's happened! Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight!!!!!!"


That is the sound of four rockets zooming into my bedroom through the heating vent in my new apartment., announcing the arrival of Nevaeh, Bryan, Mary Meyers, and Smm Smm.

"Why didn't your rocket make a sound, Chrissie?", I ask, curious.

"It DID! You were not paying attention," she answers me defiantly.

"Hey Mommy, we've just witnessed one of the most epic fights that we think your mom and grandma have had in a very long time," announces Mary Meyers as she leaps from her rocket and lands gracefully onto my bed on the balls of her feet.

"Oh yeah? What happened?"

Sorry, Dad, but my attention is completely onto my imaginary demons now. Hope it's okay. You can take a listen, too, if you'd like. It's all going on the record anyway, so you might as well sit back, pour yourself a nice shot of Vodka, and sit tight for the entertainment, wherever you are and if vodka, or any other kind of booze, is readily available to you.

"Well, your mom saw the story first, naturally," says Smm Smm, who is busy opening a nice, cold can of Doctor Pepper that I saved for him in the refrigerator with a sticky note on the lid so that no other demons or minions would be tempted to drink it and ultimately face the wrath of his fiery nostrils or his deadly, burning hot chocolate.

"Yeah, your mom saw it about three hours ago. She decided to check out your blog because she suspects that you might be mad at her. You haven't been talking as mushy gushy to her lately, so that's why and how she got the suspicion, "pipes up Nevaeh. She leaps from the windowsill and lands on my shoulder. She is so tiny that I can barely feel her land.

"So, what happened next?" I press on impatiently, rocking back and forth vigorously, sitting on the edge of my worn-out, dirty sheeted foam mattress that I call bed.

"Well, she, of course, flies off the handle, big surprise there, right?", says Bryan, who stands tall and proud in the entrance of my bedroom, with his head stooped somewhat to avoid having unwanted contact with the low ceiling.

"So, I take it she calls Grandmama to tattle about the blog post, right?"

"Well, yes and no," Bryan says.

"She ends up getting herself so worked up into a frenzy that she actually takes it upon herself to get into her car and drive all the way over to Poulsbo to give her a personal visit. Rocky, the American Bulldog, begged to go but she yelled at him to get out of the way and threatened to lock him outside in the heat inside of his kennel if he didn't get out, so he did, his tail tucked between his legs, poor old soul. Then she flung her body into her old, beat-up Honda Civic, and peeled out of the driveway, screeching the tires as she drove recklessly on."

"Yeah, it was horrible," Smm Smm breathes as he takes a large swig of Doctor Pepper, almost completely draining the entire can.

"The poor old car yelped in pain so loudly that other houses and vehicles around the block looked up to see what all the ruckus was about."

"I'm not surprised," I tell them.

"She has always treated her things like shit, among other things, like her own daughter, for instance. Carry on then."

"Well, it was bloody amazing that she didn't get pulled over and given a ticket, what with the way she was driving," Mary Meyers continues the story, dancing excitedly on the fringes of my bed as she speaks animatedly.

"She ended up getting there, to your grandma's condo, and she parked all crooked and everything. She took up two whole parking spaces because she was in such a hurry."

"Yeah, and she didn't even bother to lock the car up before she left," says Nevaeh, who is affectionately untangling deep knots in my hair that only her tiny, magical fingers can coax into submission.

"She stomps purposefully to her mother's door and your grandmother promptly lets her in," says Smm Smm, opening up a packet full of Kit Kat bars now.

"Hi Jennifer, won't you please come in?" Giovanna asks, opening her arms wide in welcome, hoping that her daughter will accept the invitation and will embrace her mother.

Jennifer, however, does no such thing. Pushing past her mother, she says, "Close the door and lets sit down. We need to have a little chat."

"All right," Giovanna says, a perplexed expression playing upon her face as she obediently closes the door behind her and locks it on both bolts. She is much thinner, paler, and generally unhealthier looking than ever before. Quite a few suspect that she has a terminal illness that she is not willing to admit to having, but that is another story for another time. We are now focusing on the fight that is unfolding right before our very ears.

Jennifer strides angrily into the living room, but, for some unknown reason, changes her mind and marches, instead, into the dining room. Perhaps it is because the dining room is somewhat less dreary than her mother's living room, though to me, her entire condo is the most dreadfully dark and gloomy condo I've ever seen before in my life.

"Would you like some tea or wine?"

"No," snaps Jennifer immediately.

Jennifer yanks a chair from away from the dark dining room table and slams her body onto it. The chair groans in distress but Jennifer, being too furious to notice, instead stares, unblinkingly, into her mother's eyes. Giovanna, meanwhile, pulls out another chair, more slowly and carefully, across from Jennifer, and sits down, a wine glass half full in her left hand.

"My, you seem very angry still. I've told you, Jennifer, you can't let the actions of your daughter upset you like this. You must remember, she is sick, mentally sick! You must remember not to take it personal, the things she writes and says about you right now. She is obviously not taking her medication again."

"Yes, I am afraid that is the case," Jennifer says with a great sigh, but she is glaring dangerously at her mother and is biting her lower lip with such ferocity that it is in danger of bleeding at any moment.

"Don't look at me like that, Jennifer!" Giovanna says, firing up at once. Her cheeks are flushed, both from the alcohol but also with rising anger. It is a known fact to everybody that has ever had the displeasure of knowing Giovanna that she gets angrier even quicker than usual when she has been drinking.

"You're looking at me like it's MY fault that she has started writing on that stupid, cursed blog of hers again. What do you think, I called her and encouraged her to start posting smack about us again?"

"You might as well have," Jennifer snarls, firing up as well. Her face is also a deep, blood red color, but hers is from pure anger, not partly because of the influence of booze like her equally foul mother.

"And, what the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?!!!!"

"If you hadn't sent Ashlee that horrid article on domestic violence and abuse, she wouldn't have started posting shit again!" bellows Jennifer.

Jennifer has always been one who is eager to get right to the point of the matter. She has never wasted any time in it. Unless, of course, it involves her getting caught in some lie of hers and, then, of course, she slows her roll way, way down.

"Oh, come on!! That article is something that she needed to read! That "BOYFRIEND" of hers is a pure monster! He's EVIL!!!! It is so horribly obvious what he has done to her! He has put a binding curse on her so that she will never leave his side! He has turned her into his SLAVE!! Why can't you SEE that?!!!!! He has made it so that she will remain loyal to him forever, no matter how much shit he puts her through! So, don't go blaming it all on me, Jennifer! If you want to place the blame on someone, why don't you track him down and give him your two cents!"

"Binding curse," sneers Jennifer.

"You are losing it, seriously! The shit that you come up with these days, what with that Theta cult you have joined! It's a wonder to me how you still have managed to keep yourself out of the mental institution thus far!"

"Speaking of the mental institution," Giovanna says, pouring herself more wine in the trembling glass before her and slopping a great deal of wine onto the dining room table, because her hands are trembling slightly with anger and because the glass in question is also trembling slightly, "Chris is the reason why Ashlee wound up in the mental ward in the first place! If it wasn't for him…"

"Oh, save it!! Mom, don't try to change the subject!", howls Jennifer.

"We were getting along just fine until you emailed her that article. Now Ashlee is under the impression that you are trying to break up her family, Chris and Amira to her, and she is taking her anger out on all of us as a result of your negligence. Because of her deluded mind, she is under the impression that we are ALL trying to break up her family, and it's ALL YOUR FAULT!!!! How many times have I told you to LEAVE HER THE FUCK ALONE?!!!!!! Why can't you just let it be, let there be peace, for once?"

At this point, the poor wine glass gives a terrified whimper. It is shaking so much that some of the wine inside of it is spilling from it and Giovanna picks it up and quickly takes a couple of swigs, then gets up, goes over to the kitchen sink to grab a paper towel, comes back, and begins mopping up the flood of red wine before it can seep into the fancy wood of her expensive table and ruin it. After all, it is an item that is listed for sale on Craig's List! What a catastrophe it would be if she wasn't able to sell that prized table of hers, all because a little wine got spilled on it and seeped into the wood of its delicate, fancy body!

The table seems equally distressed. Although it is not trembling in fright like the glass, its head is down so low that its long, wooden, pointed nose is touching the wood floor underneath it and it is breathing very deeply, trying to sink into a daydream, anything to get rid of all the shouting that is invading its eardrums, shattering its thoughts, making all the wooden chips on the back of its neck stand up and prickle with unease. Undoubtedly, it is trying to sink into a daydream about what its new family will be like and hoping beyond hope that, wherever it is taken, it is far, far away from Giovanna and her whacked out, psychotic offspring!

"I absolutely refuse to take the blame for Ashlee's actions, especially when, it is YOU, my dear daughter, who is the one who actually has played a vital role in angering her, according to a well-known source of mine, NOT ME!!!," screams her mother, wadding up the paper towel and throwing it into the garbage can that is standing, quite stiffly, nearby the table. When it sees Giovanna cock her arm, ready for the throw, it leaps into action, determined to catch it and, maybe, just maybe, receive some praise for its hard work.

But, nope, sorry dear garbage can. You live with a narcissist. And, right now, the narcissist is far too angry to notice anything as dull and mundane as a mere garbage can. I mean, come on, what do you expect? Are you, perhaps up for sale, too? I sure do hope so.

Both of Jennifer's hands ball up into tight, furious fists, which she poises over the table. It tenses, preparing for the blows, which inevitably do come.
















The table leaps on to its hind legs, screaming in agony and rage. The vase of flowers that Giovanna had sitting on top of the table, along with piles of various paperwork, all come crashing to the floor. The papers immediately scatter around the floor, diving out of the way of all the spilled wine, since the wine glass also reached its demise, right along with the vase and all the flowers that were resting inside of it. Or, rather, trying to rest.

"Just LOOK at THIS!!!!" Roared her mother, leaping to her feet.


For a large shard of glass, undoubtedly from the vase, had found its way into the heel of her right foot and now was eagerly working on embedding itself into the tender flesh of her old, dying, wrinkled, discolored and slightly swollen feet.

Jennifer also leaps up, but I suspect, as do my demons, that it is because of fear that the spilled wine might stain her fancy clothing, more than the desire to aid her mother in such trying times.

"So, there is a great scrambling as they clean up the mess," Nevaeh tells me as she slips off of my shoulder and walks over to the glass of water that I have sitting on the floor and takes a drink. Her mouth is quite dry from all the talking. The other demons line up behind her, waiting for their turn to drink. Well, they all do except Smm Smm. Smm Smm is content enough with his pop.

Once all mouths have been moistened once more, I say eagerly, "So then what happens? You have all seriously left off on the best part! I can't handle this suspense anymore! Please do continue on with the story."

"Well," Giovanna answers, with much malice in her voice,

"I have just heard from Rocky, my imaginary friend, just before you came over, what YOU did to Ashlee today."

Rocky, mom's real, living dog that everybody can see, ironically shares the name of my grandmother's imaginary dog friend, though the dogs are different breeds. Unlike the living Rocky, the imaginary Rocky is a Husky dog, black and white and much bigger and stronger than the real Rocky. And, unlike my imaginary friends, Rocky is very badly mistreated by Giovanna. When she doesn't have a use for him, she locks him up in her cluttered bedroom closet and forces him to wear a muzzle on his poor nose to prevent him from barking. She only allows him to eat meager table scraps that slip off her plate and land on the floor when she eats, and she only allows him outside to potty once a day. That is, only IF she remembers to do it.

"Oh, not that again," sneers Jennifer as she lifts her fists again above the table. But, at a warning growl that emits from it, she wisely changes her mind and, slowly and reluctantly, she lowers her angry, still balled up hands and sits there, glowering at her mother, who is rubbing her painful foot with a pained expression on her face, mixed with an angry one. Jennifer's fists, meanwhile, are tinged red from the wine and they look like they are in pain, though Jennifer surely does seem eager to use them again if the time is right for it. That is, if she can find a weaker victim, a victim that is not expecting her vicious attack on it. But she clearly doesn't stand a chance of that happening. All the furnishings inside the house all have their eyes warily set upon Jennifer, at the ready to defend themselves if necessary.

"I think that it'd do you some good to spend a few days in the loony bin," spats Jennifer mercilessly as she continues to glower at her mother.

"I think that you might very well be just as crazy as Ashlee is."

"You're just trying to avoid hearing what you did to exacerbate the situation," retorts Giovanna angrily.

"Okay, fire away," hisses Jennifer, an evil, malevolent expression on her face.

"Go ahead and tell me what your friend that nobody else can see or hear told you today before I showed up."

"Well, he told me that you provoked Ashlee today before we left for the airport to fly home from Ohio. He told me how you forced Ashlee to be put on speaker phone when she called you so that she would be forced to talk to Baba. You knew that Baba would ask Ashlee what was wrong with her, and that's exactly what she did. According to Rocky, it's the very first thing that came out of Baba's mouth the second that she was made aware that she was on speaker phone."

"Oh boy, what a crime," laughed Jennifer, though the laugh was humorless and full of resentment.

"What a crime it is to put my daughter on speaker phone so that she could say hi to her great-grandmother. Her DYING great-grandmother, I must add."

Then, in a much higher voice, she added, rather frantically, "How the hell was I to know that the first thing that Baba would ask her was "What is wrong with you?"

"Oh, don't play innocent with me, Jennifer! You knew EXACTLY what you were doing and what she would say. I mean, how else was Baba supposed to act when speaking to Ashlee? I mean, she was under the impression that Ashlee was coming up with us to visit her and the rest of the family and, big surprise," she added distastefully, "She didn't come. So, once again, your grandmother's hopes were shot right down to the bottom of the drain. Of course you knew that she would react angrily when she spoke to Ashlee right off the bat. I'm not stupid, Jennifer, and I know that you aren't, either."

Giovanna hadn't meant the last sentence as a compliment, I knew. She was merely emphasizing that she knew, as well as Jennifer, that Jennifer knew exactly what she was doing, that by putting me on speaker phone with the crazy old bat of a woman, that a fight would surely break out between us, which it most certainly did, though not as serious of one as those two had today.

"And, for your information, just as you said, it is NOT A CRIME to send Ashlee articles that I find interesting and helpful, just like it isn't a crime for you to put Ashlee on speaker to say hi to her baba. So there, what are you gonna say now my honey bunches?"

Jennifer was stunned into silence. For a whole minute, the two bitter women stared with much hatred in their eyes at one another. Then, lowering her voice tremendously, Jennifer said, "Baba must have told you what happened."

"Nope, she didn't. Your baba doesn't like me, in case you forgot. We hardly spoke three words to each other while we were in Ohio visiting, Jennifer."

Still quieter still, Jennifer said, staring at her mother with the utmost amount of hatred that she could muster, "Well, it's still your fault that Ashlee was molested. And it's all your fault that all of this madness is happening."

"No, it's not," Giovanna said simply, giggling evilly as she stared into her daughter's dark, brown eyes.

"Ashlee is in charge of her own actions. Can't you see, Jennifer, this is merely a ploy of Chris's, a part of the curse! A curse that he has carefully plotted and manifested to break up the entire family."

While Jennifer had recognized some defeat, or, at least, she was speaking much more calmly than she had been a couple of minutes ago, Giovanna, on the other hand, seemed just as wound up as before, if not, more so.

"Whatever Mom," Jennifer said, standing up abruptly and reaching into her pocket for the keys of her poor, neglected, dying car, who was catching a nap down below on the lower lot of the property, far removed from the fight and thankfully so, for the car didn't like to be around drama and noise. In her mind, she was simply too old for all that bullshit.

"I'm leaving. You can just go right ahead and simper right back into loonyland. And," she said, turning back to her mother once she reached the door and had her hand on the knob, "Don't call me, I'll call you. In other words, you can go fuck yourself."

"Right back atcha!" shouted Giovanna, leaping to her feet and rushing at her daughter, her disconcertingly white teeth gleaming ominously in the candlelight.

"Get out and don't let the door hit you on the way!"

There was a terrific, building quaking slam as she shut the door on her daughter, then hurried over to her two candles, which were standing on the kitchen counter, and blew them, with much force, out.

"Nice work, you lot," she spat reproachfully at the candles as the bright flames became nothing more than dark bits of burnt wick and melting wax in the candle holders.

"You are supposed to be protecting Ashlee and Amira from this craziness, and keeping our family whole and united, not destroying everything in your wake. GET OUT OF MY FACE!!!!"

With frightened little squeaks, the candle holders ran for dear life and promptly hid themselves behind a tall stack of papers, that had originally been inhabiting the dining room table but that were now safely standing guard on the counter, so that they would not be seen by Giovanna's roving, mad eyes as she swept from the room and dove onto her bed and promptly began sobbing her harsh, hateful, bitter heart out.

Well, Dad, if you don't call that entertainment, I don't know what is. I am filled with so much pride and joy and glee, I can't even express it.

Now, after such an enlightening story, I am off to have some bedtime ice cream! Yes, right out of the carton, the way you taught me from five years old and possibly younger, was the very best way to eat ice cream, no matter what anyone else said.

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!


Sunday, August 21, 2016

Why I must Keep the Blind Satanist Alive

Dear Dad,

Man alive, it's been forever since I have written a letter to you. If there is an afterlife and you are watching me from wherever, I hope that you aren't mad at me or got your feelings hurt. I've just been going through so much stuff right now, so much stuff and so many changes. Some of which are pleasant and, others, well, not so much.

Today is a supremely gorgeous sunny August day. It is a day that you would have loved. If you were still here, it would have been yet another Indianola beach day. We would have brought along a nice, spacious raft and we would have had a picnic on it. I would have eaten a Costco hot dog that they sell at the Indianola Corner Store with, perhaps, a Nutty Buddy, your word for a drumstick ice cream cone with nuts on top, or maybe a Midnight Milky Way bar. Or a Twix or a Reese's Peanut Butter cup in a packet with Smm Smm of them inside.

We would have sprayed each other with clams, me screeching with delight as the clam juice squirted up my bare legs and you, laughing hysterically as I stomped around madly, trying to get you back. Then we might have gone to the Indianola Church for some swinging time and, at the end of our visit at the church, you would have given me ten pushes to mark the end of our visit, the last of the pushes being the strongest, the greatest, and the most memorable. The push that would, inevitably, send me sailing over the little fence that separated the church from the playground. The push that would have me scared beyond reason that my feet might just smash right through the church window. After all, it was bound to happen one of these days. Either that or the swing would break.

But, the facts remain as dismal as my mood today. You aren't here to enjoy the day with me, you aren't here to take me to the beach, and you aren't here for any of it. Not in a form that I can see or hear anyway. And I am missing you more than ever.

Some days, the weights of despair, grief, and depression that are attached around my ankles, unwelcome and unwanted, are light. Well, light enough to manage, anyway. Light enough in the sense that they allow me to swim with little hardships. Other days, they are heavier and I find my progress slow and awkward, though I am still managing to stay afloat. Still, other days I am barely staying afloat. The water is up to my nose and I am holding my head as high as I can, craning my neck to the point of pain, to avoid drowning in the river of utmost despair.

And, other days, like today, I am defeated. The weights have won. I am completely underwater now, holding my breath, hoping and praying to my Dark, Unholy Lord Satan, that he will send a demon to rescue me. Or maybe that a passersby will notice the close-to-drowning form underwater and will pull me to shore, or, at least, to the surface again. But, so far, my unholy prayers are not being answered and nobody has passed me by. The water is too murky and black to see through, even if I could open my eyes without having them become invaded with dark, silty water.

My lungs are starting to burn now. At first, the pain is tolerable. But, as time goes on, I begin to feel lightheaded, faint, on the very edge of life, about to plummet into the unknown depths of death. Down, down, down, through the endless, bottomless pit of darkness. Where you are Dad. Or are you?

My spirit has been held captive for quite some time now, over a year to be exact. Who, or what, has been holding it captive, you may be wondering? Well, I'll tell you. It is fear. Yes, the enemy of so many people in the world, Dad, the invisible thing that causes many to be imprisoned in their own selves. Some find a loophole to escape it. Still, others do not. I think I've found my loophole, though I am still not very certain. The fear is still lashing at me, trying to pull me back underneath the surface of the dark, dismal water, but I am fighting with all my might against the weights that are tied to my ankles, with the hopes that the fear will soon release its hold on me and go find some other prey to launch its vicious and unexpected attacks on. Or, do I dare hope that the weights around my ankles might just break, splintering into a thousand pieces, and let me be free? Do I dare hope? Or would that just be setting myself up for more failure, more pain, more despair, which would ultimately serve as an advantage for the vicious weights, when they will surely be back for yet another attack on me, perhaps, this attack being worst than the last.

Dad, I have been afraid to write for so long because of my mother. I hate to say this but we have been in contact yet again, for a little over a year now. I sort of went through a mental breakdown last summer, went to the psych ward twice in one year, Chris and I no longer live together, and, the worst part of all, I called upon my mom to help me through the scariest parts of my breakdown and, jumping on the opportunity to weasel her way back into my life, she accepted my first call at midnight last July and we have talked ever since.

For the last year now, I have been receiving money from her. She gives me roughly 200 dollars a month, sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on how generous or, not so generous, she is feeling. As you well know, that changes quite often.

Not knowing how to support my daughter and Chris, my partner, I have been taking advantage of the money that she has given me because I don't want to get a boring job working in some cubicle somewhere and Chris has decided that he wants to stay home and raise the baby full-time, which I fully respect and admire. After all, I certainly wouldn't want to be with a toddler 24/7. You have to possess a certain quality of patience and love that I, for one reason or another, just don't have.

I've wanted to write but felt trapped by my greed for my mother's money and, consequently, have not wanted to anger or upset her too much for fear that she would stop depositing money into my account once a week.

The last time that I went home to see her, which was in December 2015, the weekend after your birthday, in fact, she droned on and on about how horrible my blog is and that she strongly feels that I should take it down.

"I am not taking my site down," I said firmly as we sat around her living room talking.

I had felt proud, then, that I had managed to stand up to her, though her boyfriend was in the living room with us, so she probably didn't think it in her best interest to hit or emotionally abuse me too much with a witness present.

"Anyway, what would I tell all of my followers if I DID decide to shut down my site?", I asked, before the terrible thought of "What followers? You have abandoned them so why the hell do you think you still have any?", invaded my already shot and nerve wracked brain.

"Well, you don't have to just shut it down without an explanation," Jennifer said.

"You could leave behind a note that says something like I have decided to shut down this blog because I am a new and changed person now, after the birth of my beautiful daughter. I have chosen to be a good, example for her and I don't believe that keeping this site up is showing her a good example in life. I have chosen to walk in the light, rather than the dark, so I, hereby, give you all my farewell and hope that you, too, someday decide to follow in my footsteps and walk in the light as well with my daughter and I. Thank you."

I can't remember whether I laughed or not. I do remember, though, thinking how utterly stupid that would sound to people, how utterly stupid it sounded to me. That is SO not the kind of thing I would say to my followers, even if I did decide to say the hell with it and shut off my blog forever. And, once again, if I did happen to have any followers left anymore. And, how did she know that I HAD, in fact, decided to walk in the light? The notion that she still was under the impression, even after all those years of me not having spoken or seen her, that she still knew everything about me and everything in general, throttled me with fury.

I'm not taking down my site," I repeated fervently, and my mom, seeing defeat, dropped the matter, though I could tell that she still held the hope in her mind that the Blind Satanist would, someday, see its ultimate demise.

Even after I told my mom that the site would remain up, I continued not to write for months and months, until now, actually, because the fear of making her mad still clung to me like sticky sap, or pitch from a pine cone. What would I do, I fretted to myself, if she finally did decide to stop giving me money? How would I continue to support my daughter?

Well, I still don't have an answer to that question. All I know is, I am tired of being a prisoner of my own mind, my own gripping, biting, ferocious fear. I am tired of being a prisoner of her, yet again. I have no clue how I am going to support my daughter if she stops giving me money, which she will most likely do, once she sees this new post on my blog. What I do know is, I am not going to be a hostage to her, or my own stupid fear, anymore. I simply REFUSE!!

I have been consulting my demons about why I ought to keep this blog running, and they, along with my supportive partner, Chris, and one of my faraway fans SpiderLover, have persuaded me to start writing again. All along, my demons and partner have been begging me to write. And, although I knew in my heart that it was what I must do, what I really wanted to do, I kept myself obediently silent, once again, at Jennifer's mercy. Once again, I allowed her to hold power over me and I shall not allow it anymore!

Dad, I feel that I must write because it is forbidden. It angers many people, not just my family, but many people, worldwide, to hear what I have to say. Our sick society has forced so many people, and continues forcing so many people, to not be themselves, to do what SOCIETY says is acceptable. Not many people approve of Satan, so what I am doing, therefore, is unacceptable and unwelcome to many members of society, as well as my relatives.

Another reason why I feel I must write is for my own freedom. I'm not sure what happens after death, but if it really is true that we only have one life to live, then I surely don't want to spend it held captive by our over-controlling, overbearing society and my equally overbearing, over-controlling family. I want to live it proudly and shamelessly proclaiming the great news about Satan. I want to live it shamelessly and proudly being myself. I want to live it knowing that I am a free woman and that, no matter how hard people try, that is one thing that nobody can take away from me. People can take away my home, my things, even this computer that I am writing this story on right now. But nobody at all, not even Jennifer and her cronies, my grandmother, her boyfriend, his poor stepson, and other relatives and friends, can take away my thoughts and imaginative spirit, what many call creativity. Sure, I may succumb to fear from time to time, but I always seem to snap out of it after a while. And you can, too, if you are willing to make the effort and fight for your right to freedom and self power!

Breaking the silence of my past is also important to me. While I know that by me doing so really embarrasses my family, it is something that I hold high value to, something that is really important to me. Many people can be found stewing in their own silent misery and anger, but I don't want to be one of those imprisoned people. I want to be free! After all, this is a free country, is it not? So why not take advantage of that freedom and speak our minds?

And, Dad, I've really just missed writing to you. I have thought of you so often lately that it was almost like you were pulling me to write again. And, since this is really the only way that I know how to communicate with you and you know it, too, that I find myself writing again. I miss our talks, you and I crammed in your little trailer, me spilling my guts to you, confiding in you, while you listened contently, offering comforting words of encouragement as I spoke when necessary, which was always at the right time.

Amira is also a great inspiration to me. My mom has been making little comments like, "Amira is going to wonder why she hasn't gotten to meet me when she gets older. She is going to be pissed off at you and Chris for holding her back, for keeping her, unreasonably, from our loving, warm family."

That may be so. I can't predict the future in that sense. All I know is that, when Amira is old enough, she can make her own decisions about what she wants in life. And, she will have these stories in my blog to consult when she wonders why I have failed to introduce her to her grandmother and great-grandmother, Jennifer's mom, the one thing that I am truly proud of doing since I've written last. I have, once again, fallen weak to my mother's stronghold over me, but, even through it all, I have still managed to keep innocent Amira away from such abusive people. Even through my own trials and weaknesses, though the pressure for visitations was great and, admittedly, I did almost crack a couple of times.

You know, Dad, I actually do feel a bit better now that I wrote to you finally. Not feeling so lonely and suicidal anymore like I found myself drowning in feelings of this morning.

Anyway, please keep me inspired. Please come to me in times of weakness. I want to keep this blog alive and well. I MUST keep it alive and well. And, so I will, with your support and, of course, the support of my little imaginary demons, who would not leave me alone or let me out of the house today, into the sweltering summer heat of Western Washington, until I wrote a hello letter to you.

Well, until we meet again then. I love you Dad. With these last words of parting, I must venture out into the bright sunny day and figure out how I want to spend my last seventeen dollars that I have to my name until September second, which is the day that I will receive yet another check from the government, thanks to you and my ferocious love and loyalty to practicing laziness in every aspect of my life possible.

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!


Sunday, August 23, 2015

Amazing Grace, Part 1

"Okay, here we are," the gentleman driving the ambulance says as we pull into a large, packed to the brim parking lot.

"Just hang tight. I'll get you unstrapped in just a minute."

The ambulance is a long, noisy van. I am strapped down to a long, cushioned seat. The ambulance, to me, looks like my dad's first travel trailer, the one with all the good memories, long, narrow, and packed to the brim with whatever supplies the paramedics need to keep people alive while they are rushed to the hospital.

As far as I can tell, the seat goes from one end of the van to the other. And it isn't really a seat. It's more like a long, thin bed or couch.

I hate being all strapped in. I also feel nauseous from the ride. It had only been five minutes or less from St. Peters Hospital's emergency room to the Evaluation and Treatment Center up at BHR's headquarters but I had to sit backwards in the van and watching the world whizz past going backwards made me feel a little queasy and dizzy.

I feel like a caged animal. I've felt like one for twelve hours, maybe even longer. Time has escaped me. There is no way to tell time when you are locked away in a windowless room for twelve hours. In fact, I was so out of it that when the ambulance came to get me, I was rather shocked to see that the sun was still shining brightly and that the birds were singing their chorus of happy, carefree song as the day continued to unfold. I had thought it was much later. Before the stretcher had wheeled me outside, I had thought that I would be met with a black sky and some shining, playful stars and maybe even a little sliver of the moon, or maybe even a full moon. I had not been expecting to find a full-fledged day, still in bloom.

"Okay," the man says to me.

"I'm going to come around and unstrap you. Hang tight."

He walks slowly to my side of the van and unstraps the stretcher. It lurches to a steady speed as he pulls it out of the van. Still moving backwards. With a sigh, I squeeze my eyes shut and hope I manage to keep the microscopic bit of food that I have left in my stomach.

The sun is bright. Too bright. I'm glad that my eyes are closed and that the intrusive glare can't reach me. I want to kill the sun, would kill it without hesitation if I only knew how. I would blot it out of the sky forever and ever. So what if the world dies because the sun is gone. I don't care! I wish that it was nighttime. Nighttime is the best. The sun is gone, my eyes don't get poked and prodded by too bright of daylight, and all is finally quiet and peaceful in the world. I heave a sigh of relief when the sun glare suddenly disappears as the stretcher rolls noisily through a set of tall, heavy, unbreakable doors.


Stuck inside!

Trapped again!

Not getting out anytime soon!


The doors lock. And away slips my freedom along with every ounce of dignity that I still have left. How did they manage to get out, I wonder?

The stretcher stops and the buckles are taken off of me.

"You are in good hands," the ambulance driver tells me.

"Thank you for cooperating. You were one of the easiest passengers I've had to deal with all day."

"You're welcome," I say. I'd like to thank him for the ride, thank him for not turning on the ugly, ear-shattering sirens on our way to the nuthouse because it would have totally done me in, the sound, you know, but right then, a gripping fear overcomes me and I find myself unable to say anything more.

Oh Chrissie, where are you?

Oh Nevaeh, where are you?

Oh Smm Smm, where are you?

Oh Bryan, where are you? I need you more than ever and quite possibly more than the rest of them. Where, oh where, are you?

Oh dear Satan, Mary Meyers, where are you?

Where have you all gone?

Oh, dear Satan, my wicked, unholy father, where are you? Why have you forsaken me?

"I'm here,"

Minnie May sneers at me from a corner of the room. Her voice is sweet like honey and it sounds like my mother. I shiver.

"Go away!" I yell.

"Not a chance," Minnie May says and twitches her little whiskers gleefully.

Oh, how could they have let her escape? HOW?!!!!! And to think that she managed to get out from a tiny hole in the wall behind her TV, a hole that nobody even knew she could fit through. The hole was for the TV so that it could get better reception and reach all of the surrounding satellites. But how on Earth did she manage to escape? And why wasn't anyone watching?

She has only been out for 19 hours and my world has come crumbling down, just like the World Trade Centers on 911.

"It's okay."

Firm, strong hands clasp my arms, which are swinging rapidly, trying to keep the ever present Minnie May at bay.

"I won't hurt you."

It's the security guard. Swiftly he begins to lead me down a long, narrow hallway. He is in a hurry to get me through the next set of doors because he just witnessed me yelling at an unseen being to go away.

Only it isn't an unseen being. Just a minute ago, it was right in front of my face, mocking me, taunting me, hoping to twist the last screw in my head loose so that I would really lose it and have to be put in restraints. The only problem is, I am the only one who can see her. And that's because the bunny wants ME! I am her target and she will stop at nothing to get what she wants, my ultimate demise.

We walk to another set of doors. They are open and we are greeted by another man.

"Come right in," he says, a very thick accent to his voice.

"There you go," the security guard says and gives me a shove, not unkindly but just enough of a shove to keep me moving, towards the man and the impenetrable doors.

The man grabs my hand and we walk through the doors.


The doors slowly but purposefully close in on us.



There is definitely no escape now. If I thought I was trapped before, I know for certain that I am now.

"Are you hungry?" the man with the thick accent asks me.

"Um, I guess so," I say, though the last thing I am feeling right now is hungry. But I should be hungry. I haven't eaten since early, early this morning and, just minutes before the ambulance took me, my stomach had been growling in protest, demanding that food be put into it at once. So yeah, I MUST be hungry, right?

"You need to be evaluated first and then you will be fed," the man says. His voice is gentle and kind. The fear loosens its death grip on my chest, making it possible to take in a deeper breath.

The evaluation takes forever. I'm glad for it, though, because, before too long the gut wrenching, heart thumping fear quickly turns to irritation and then fury as the questions keep coming at me in twos, fours, sixes, and eights. Question after question after question assaults me. I want to reach over and strangle the little bitch who's interrogating me. I want to squeeze, squeeze, SQUEEZE until every ounce of air has left her body and she is nothing more than a black and blue corpse, ready to be taken down to the morgue where she will be burned for her utter audacity to insult my pride and dignity and turned into nothing more than dust mites and ashes and then forgotten about by society and eventually even her own family. That is, if she even has a family who gives a rip about her.

Oh wait, that's right! My dignity is outside, enjoying the picturesque view of the hospital parking lot. What was I thinking?

I laugh out loud.

"Is there something funny Miss Levcun?" the interrogator asks me.

"No, nothing really," I tell her. But I think to myself You're lucky to still be sitting calmly in front of me talking. I could have your head on a platter in seconds if I wished.

When the evaluation is finally over, I am excused. I walk out into a long, practically furnitureless hallway where tons of commotion is going on. It hurts my ears and my head. It makes me murderously angry. Good thing they took away all of my sharp stuff or this place, these PEOPLE making all this goddamn mother fucking noise, would be massacred in seconds!

The room is so loud because there is no carpeting whatsoever to flush out some of the noise. And the lack of furniture surely doesn't help.

"Come on Ashlee," the man with the accent calls to me.

"Come on here to the kitchen. It's time for you to eat something."

"Where are you?" I ask him. I have been robbed of my cane. Supposedly it is being held hostage in some locker inside the hospital but who really knows. Will I ever see it again? Who knows.

"I'm over here," he calls

"She is blind," another staff person, a woman tells him.

"You're going to have to come over to her and guide her."

"Oh, okay," he says and slowly, he ambles over to me.

"Can you see me at all?" the man asks.

"Yes," I say, feeling grateful that I have some useful vision in my left eye to track him. If I didn't, I'd totally be screwed in this hellhole of a place where recovery and wellness is supposedly possible to obtain.

The man starts walking and I follow him. I'm pretty certain that there aren't any stairs in this building but, just to make sure, I slide my feet across the smooth, linoleum floor. And that's where I find the hump.

"Whoa!" I say and slow way the hell down.

"Are you okay?" the man says, looking behind him to see whether or not I'm still following behind.

"Yeah, it's just the floor. It's uneven here. Are there any more humps here?"

"Just a little bit more," he says.

"The linoleum's coming up in places here. They're supposed to fix it soon."

Still sliding my feet, I make my way to the kitchen. Eventually, the floor levels out again and I take more confident strides, trying to catch up to the fast walking gentleman ahead of me. Making up for lost time! My stomach growls and I know I'm doing the right thing.

A hot, plastic TV dinner tray is handed to me. I explore it curiously with my hands and discover that the top of the tray is covered with plastic that must be peeled off in order to get to the good stuff inside. As my hands travel over the plastic, I wonder whether I'll be privileged enough to get some silverware tonight. After all, I haven't really done anything to misbehave tonight. Don't I get a reward for that? Rewards are small and very few a part in this place, that I can see right off the bat, but being able to use some damn silverware would definitely brighten up my night and overall outlook on life.

"Here is a fork," the accented man tells me as he slides a plastic fork over the counter towards me.

"What would you like to drink?"

"Just some water, please," I tell him. My voice is quiet. I still feel very afraid. There is still way too much noise going on in the main room and it's making me both nervous and absolutely outraged all at the same time. Thank Satan I managed to sneak my earplugs in here!

It wasn't really all that hard really. When I went into the emergency room, one of the nurses, a friendly nurse, told me to take off everything but my underwear.

"It's for privacy, you know," she told me.

And that's where I got the idea. I can hide the earplugs in my underwear! They'll never know they're in there and that's ONE thing they can't and WON'T take away from me.

So, once the nurse had left the room, I carefully took the earplugs out of my socks, which I knew would be taken from me once I changed into the ugly, slippery hospital socks, and slid them behind my butt cheeks inside my underwear. And, sure enough, they never found out.

Carefully, I pick up my TV dinner, my plastic fork, and the plastic cup of water and walk slowly to the tables in the room, sliding my feet in case I run into more uneven ground.

"Are you having trouble walking?" one of the staff members asks me as I struggle to spot a table.

"No," I tell her.

"Oh, okay," she says, sounding relieved.

"It's just that you look like you're limping."

"No, I'm not limping," I say, feeling irritated all over again.

"I'm just sliding my feet so that I don't trip over all this uneven ground. And, I also have scoliosis, which makes my step a little uneven."

She is satisfied with this explanation and, thankfully, she moves on to hassle another patient. Sighing heavily, I find an empty table, the farthest I possibly can get from all the noise, sit down with a very heavy feeling inside and begin to peel the plastic off the tray, revealing the food for the evening. So far, it looks to be some kind of macaroni casserole with beef in it and warm, soggy apples. Not very appealing but, at this point, I'll eat just about anything. Except for those disgusting, mushy warm apples on the top corner of my measly little tray.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

What I Want for My Daughter and Her Nose

I need to hold back the urge to die, to beat back the urge to just let go once and for all of the ones I love. Of everything and everyone. Of light, sound, taste, breath, of life itself! I need to beat back the wild urge because I need them just as much as they need me. In fact, I might need them more than I even realize right now. It is so hard, so very hard right now, to see anything past the black, murky rabbit hole of my dark, disturbed thoughts.

"But it's easy," the bunny tortures me with her words.

"It's so easy to let go. All you have to do is DO it!"

But I know it won't be easy at all. The bunny is lying. It won't be easy on Amira, my friends, and certainly not on Chris.

"Who cares about them?" the bunny asks, gentle, fake sincerity oozing from her round little mouth.

"What about you? Who cares about you? Nobody does. That's why you need to let go. You are living for them but it's not what you want at all Ashlee! Stop living a lie and just let goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! You won't have to be sick anymore!"

"Mommy, what would become of us?" Chrissie's words ring out, sudden and frantic, almost pleading. I jump and turn unfocused eyes on her. Her body is stiff and tight like cardboard.

"If you die, so do all of us."

"But it won't be your problem anymore," retorts the bunny, its tail twitching wickedly back and forth as it basks in the humid, hot, torturous afternoon blaring sun, cackling gleefully as its words sink into my mind, tempting me to say goodbye and fade into the darkness once and for all, no looking back.

"Once you let go, you will feel nothing anymore. You will be free at last! Isn't that what you've been wanting all this time? To be free at last?"

It is what I want. It has been what I wanted for so long. But I just don't know how to get it.

"You get it by letting go," Minnie May, the bunny says.

"Don't be afraid! Come with me! Don't fear the reaper. Don't you want to see your dad again? You don't want to be sick anymore, do you? If you let go, you won't be. You'll be set free forever."

"By letting go," chirps the bunny again, its tail twitching faster as excitement swells ugly and monstrous in its evil heart.

Sometimes, the urge is just a faint tickle in my mind, like a tickle in someone's nose when they feel like they might sneeze but that it might just also pass on and the person might not sneeze after all. Other times, it comes at me like a monsoon, eager to drag me underneath, down, down, down, to its black, murky ground where letting go is possible but returning to the ones you love is not, to breaking through to the surface is just an illusion rather than actual reality

"Amira needs her mom!" Chrissie shouts at me, trying desperately to drown out the ever present voice of the bunny, the demon who tortures me nonstop when I am feeling the most fragile and vulnerable. Like my imaginary friends, the bunny is also a demon. The only difference is that the bunny is out to hurt me. The bunny is out to destroy me, and it won't stop until the deed has been done and my imaginary friends and I are nothing but a memory in this ever changing world. Just a memory in Chris's head, hardly a blur of a memory in Amira's head, a memory that will get smaller and smaller until it shrinks altogether and then what? Nothing! Nothing but victory for the bunny.

My imaginary friends, who are also demons that possess my soul, are good demons. They are here to help. They want to survive, to thrive, and, most of all, they want to cause trouble and mayhem wherever they can and whenever they can. As long as all of us, including me, are happy. That is what they live for. To make sure I can cause enough trouble that I want and that I have enough excitement in my life to keep it worth living.

"Have you ever really thought of what you want for Amira?" Chris asks gently as we lay together in my bed.

"No, not really," I finally admit after a couple minutes of silence have passed. It's not really an easy thing to admit but it's true. I haven't really given it much, if any, thought at all.

"Not to be mean or anything," I start to say, my voice low and unsure about whether I should really keep talking.

"It's just that I don't really think of Amira as a person yet. I mean, all she does is cry, scream, screech, and do everything that you DON'T want her to do or get into. To be honest, I think of her more like an unruly puppy that needs constant care and attention. I try to think of her as a person but it's just too hard. I haven't been able to get myself to think of Amira thirteen years from now, eighteen years from now and in college, or even thirty years from now. I just take one day at a time and hope I can manage to hide my sheer frustration with her so that she won't think I dislike her like I thought My mom did when I was a child."

"Well, maybe we should talk about it," Chris encourages as he wraps his arms around me.

"Okay," I say my ear close to his nose so that I can hear it whistle every time he inhales. It's one of my favorite sounds in the whole, entire world, hearing that long, wide, pointy, strong nose whistle its high-pitched tone, announcing the arrival of yet another breath. Letting me know that Chris, the one I love the most in the whole wide world, is still alive and with me.

"I want Amira to grow up feeling appreciated and loved," Chris told me.

"I want her to know that she can count on both of us when she needs us or wants to be supported or to talk."

"Me, too," I say, wishing that I could contribute more to the conversation but feeling oddly disconnected with his words. I can hear them and my mind is processing what he is saying, but there is no feeling associated with his words. Not yet anyway. I do continue to find comfort in the whistling of his nose, though, and find myself wishing that my nose would make the same sound.

CONCENTRATE!!!!! I yell at myself silently.

I'm supposed to be the kind, caring, loving, involved parent here! How can Amira feel that she can count on me if I can't even focus on a conversation about what I want for her when she's just a year old? Can she feel how disconnected I feel from the world right now? Oh, Satan help us all, I sure hope she can't feel that. I don't want her to know what that's like! Hell, does she think she can count on me now? Does she think I love her? Those questions scare me and the urge comes back, punching me in the gut, knocking the breath out of me, almost making me surrender to its invitation.

But then I am jerked into the present again by Chris's words. His words always bring me back. They remind me that I can't go, I can't leave them. I love them too much. I can't leave.

"I want Amira to be surrounded by creative, intelligent people," Chris continues talking.

"And, most of all, I want Amira to be encouraged to be creative, not discouraged from it like I was. I want Amira to see exciting, new places where creative things are going on all around. I want her to have excitement in her life and I want her to know that she can do whatever she wants so long as she makes connections with other people and doesn't close doors that could lead to something big because she doesn't have any support from family. That's what happened to me. I think that if I had more support and encouragement from my family I would have gotten somewhere with my art. People would have seen it. Who knows, maybe I would even be famous for some of my works of art."

"I really want that for her, too," I say and, for the first time all during this conversation, I really start to feel sincere about it.

"I was discouraged a lot for being creative, too, and it was very frustrating."

Chris then went on to tell me about an aunt that he had who encouraged him to be creative and took him to exciting places whenever he spent the night with her.

"She was poor just like we are but I had a great time whenever I was over there," Chris tells me.

"I had a better time hanging out with a poor person than I did hanging out with my middle class parents. I always looked forward to going to my aunt's house but I never, EVER looked forward to going back to our big, boring house when the visit was over."

"It would be nice for Amira to have creativity around her all the time," I say.

"Not just sometimes, which it sounds like happened with you and your aunt. She was in and out of your life and it wasn't a consistent, positive thing that you could look forward to all the time."

"Yeah," Chris tells me.

"Seeing her was a luxury. It was a treat. But I want Amira to be around it all the time. She'll have a better start in life and a better life than we had."

"My dad was pretty creative," I tell Chris.

"He played the guitar very well. He was a true musical artist. I didn't get to see him all the time, either, and it made me sad. I'd like Amira to have consistency in her family. I want us all to live together so she feels like her family unit is strong, and unbreakable."

"It's too much work to have that happen! What you want is impossible!"

The bunny continues to hiss evil into my ear.

"MMMMMM-MMMMMMMMM," Chrissie yells at it. It is her way of telling the bunny to shut up without actually saying shut up. None of us want Amira to learn bad words for as long as we can help it. Blissful silence surrounds me as the bunny backs off, sad and defeated and super furious about the conversation that Chris and I are having. Chrissie always knows how to get the bad voices to shut up. All of them do. And, when they have trouble, there's always the mallet.

"I want Amira's nose to always feel loved," Mary Meyers breaks the silence suddenly.

"I always want to make sure that it is happy. When Amira gets a cold, or even the beginnings of one, I am going to cheer Nevaeh on as she goes inside of her nose to get all the gunk out before it turns into a major cold that lasts for a week or longer."

"I want Amira to feel like she has patient parents she can come to," I say.

"I don't really know if she can count on me for that, though. I have no patience at all! The more I am around Amira the more I realize just how much like my mother I truly am and that TERRIFIES me! That's why I spend so much time away from her. I can't stand it when she shows me just how much like my mom I am. I don't want to be cruel to her like my mom was to me. I don't want to ruin her life, to screw her up and break her until she has fallen, broken and bleeding, onto the cold, hard, relentless, merciless concrete. That's what happened to me. You have healed me a lot, Chris, and so have all of you guys", I point to my imaginary friends. "But I am still broken. I haven't been able to find all the lost pieces of my broken heart and put them where they belong in the puzzle. I don't know if I am good for Amira to be around. I don't want to fuck her up. I don't want to be like Jennifer."

"You don't have to," Chris told me.

"Your friends will help you learn how to cope when you are frustrated with her. Who's going to help you when you are frustrated with the baby?"

"All of us!" Chrissie shouted.

"See, they want to help you!" Chris says as he sits up.

"You don't have to be like your mom. And you don't have to stay away from the baby to not be like her. That will just make things worse. Do you think that's what your mom did? Stayed away from you and went on the fishing boats for months at a time because she realized how unsuitable she was to be a mother? Why she spent so many days a week on the road at her new job as a flight attendant when fishing got to be too much for her to handle?"

"Maybe it is," I say.

"I don't know. All I know is that I always threw a big party inside my head when she went away and even while I watched her pack all her stuff into her suitcase. The best memories I have during my childhood are when she's not present."

"Yes, I know," Chris says, flopping back down beside me.

"But she might have been a better mother if she had stayed and learned how to cope with being frustrated. You might have had a better experience with her, a positive experience, growing up with her if she had stayed."

"Maybe," I say.

"It's too late to know."

"It's too late for your mom," Chris tells me, resting his hand on my tummy.

"But it's not too late for you."

"Yeah Mommy!" Chrissie shouts, jumping all around the bed on her trampoline that moves around the room whenever you jump on it.

"You're going to be a much better mother than your mother was. She didn't have imaginary friends to consult when times got rough. But you do, Mommy! You've got us! And we'll never let you down, okay?"

"Okay," I say, suddenly feeling a little more optimistic.

"I'm going to spend more time thinking about what I want for Amira now. I really should do that."

So, over the last few days, here is what my demons and I have come up with.

Chrissie: I want her to be happy!

Mary Meyers: I want her to know that she is loved.

Nevaeh: I want her to know that she can count on us to cheer her on when she accomplishes something big or small. If she's proud of it, so are we.

Me: I want Amira to feel that she can talk to me about anything. I might not be happy with some of the things she tells me but I want her to feel like I am a safe person to spill the beans to.

Me: I want her to know that I will never hurt her physically or emotionally like my mother did to me. Sure, we all say hurtful things to one another so yes, I probably will hurt her feelings just like she'll most likely hurt mine, but I will never do anything intentionally to abuse her. I don't think everything my mother did to me was intentional in the ways that she hurt me but I do believe that a lot of it was. And, if it wasn't intentional and she knew she had hurt me, which I know she knew she did, she should have let me stay with more positive people in my life, like my grandpa or my dad when he could care for me, until she felt she could talk maturely to me and not use violence to get her way and make me afraid of her in the so many ways that she did.

Nevaeh: I want Amira to know that I will always go inside of her nose if she gets clogged up down there.

Chrissie: No, it's UP the nose, not DOWN the nose! That's why I say Smm Smm Face Up the Nose, not Smm Smm Face Down the Nose! IT'S UP THE NOSE!!!!!!!!!!!!

Smm Smm: I want her to have an imagination and to never let anybody try to stamp it out of her the way your family did Mom.

Me: I want her to know that I will never make her do something against her will that she feels strongly about not doing. For example, once when I was eight or nine, Mom, Tim, and I went to Hawaii for a vacation. We were on a beach and Mom wanted me to wade in the water with her. I had learned after spending a couple of days there that some of the waves that roll in can be dangerous and very powerful so, after a certain point of wading, like when I was up to my knees or so, I halted and told Mom I didn't want to go in any further.

"Oh, don't be such a big baby," she taunted me, and yanked my right arm, forcing me to move further into the ocean.

"Stop, STOP!" I cried but she was merciless, taking no heed of my obvious and very valid fear.

I slowed down and tried to stop but she pulled harder on my arm until it hurt.

"Don't be a chicken," she said and made "Bock Bock" chicken sounds at me.

All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, a huge, thunderous wave came speeding towards us, fully intending to grab us in its salty, wet ridges and bring us down and out into the deep ocean where rescue was impossible and death was immenent.

I screamed shrilly and a huge burst of saltwater invaded my wide open mouth. In hindsight, I should have kept my mouth closed and held my breath in case we were going to go underwater, but I was too scared and young to think rationally then.

Mom managed to grab me and hold me tight to her but we both did sink as the wave came up over our heads and it took me several minutes to be able to breathe normally, as my mouth and nose had both been taken over by the wild, tropical waters of Hawaii.

I don't remember if my mother ever apologized to me for leading me straight into danger or what happened next. All I know is that, after that incident, I trusted her less and would continue to trust her less as the years went on.

Mary Meyers: I want Amira to have a good education so that she has many options of creative ways to express herself when she grows up.

Chrissie: I want Amira to know that she is free to have feelings, like you were forbidden to do Mommy, and that she is free to express them in constructive, creative outlets to help her deal with them.

Me: I want her to grow up in a calm, peaceful environment where there is no screaming at each other and fighting. I want her to learn that, when people run into disagreements that we sit down or take a walk and talk about them, not yell, scream, use violence, get weapons involved, and have the cops called almost every time one little disagreement happens like it did in my home.

Bryan: I want her to know that it is okay to be lazy when the time calls for it. I don't want her to feel ashamed of being lazy like you were Mommy, nor do I want her to struggle on a project or with certain people when it is apparent that it isn't working and the only thing to do is be lazy and wait until something does work.

Me: I want her to feel like she can totally be herself. I want her to be proud of her decisions and I want her to feel like she has a say in what goes on in her life. Just because it didn't happen in my childhood doesn't mean it can't happen for Amira. And, after all, it is her life we're talking about here. It would be crazy NOT to let her be able to make her own decisions and feel like she can care for herself and think for herself. It will build her self esteem and will hopefully give her a good, strong self image that she is proud of.

Smm Smm: I want her to know that we all love her.

Me: Me, too. Sometimes I find there is no love in my heart for her when I am super frustrated and that scares me. I wonder if she can pick up on that and if it scares her. I wonder if she wonders whether I love her as much as her father does.

Smm Smm: Do you?

Me: I'd like to say that I do but… sometimes, I just don't know. She is a very needy, demanding child. All children her age are like this. It's normal but it's very difficult to love a screaming, screeching, biting monster who pushes your face away when you try to hug her or sticks her fingers up your nose and gouges the inside of your nose or who pokes your eyes and then laughs about it when you say "OW!".

Nevaeh: I think you're afraid to love her Mommy. You are afraid to love her because loving her means that you need to work hard on not becoming like your mother. And, you are also afraid of losing her just as you are afraid of losing Chris because you lost your father when you were so young and at such a vulnerable, fragile age. Sixteen is a very difficult year for any kid who's got a good life and both sets of parents looking out for the kid. But, when a kid's got a ranting, abusive whore for a mother and a father who died from drug and alcohol use and because he was a diabetic, it just makes it all the more difficult to live with. When you needed your father the most, he was savagely taken away from you and that's why you are afraid to love your baby. You are afraid to love anyone. You are even afraid to love yourself.

Me: I guess its true. I don't really know what to do about it. I don't know what to do about a lot of things.

Minnie may: You see, it's IMPOSSIBLE! It's not worth it! They're not worth it! Just LET GO!


As I write this story, I know that there is way more that I want for Amira than what you can see in here now. This story might have more parts to it later. I know I should think about Amira more often, but, when I do, it scares me. She scares me! And, the horrible part is, I don't really even know why.

Love, in general, is scary. It can be right in front of your face, bright and lively and warm and fuzzy, making you feel so happy you could die. Then, just as quickly as it came, it can up and leave you with nothing but tall, thorny weeds and a sense of loss, emptiness, and longing. Longing for what you once had, for what you lost, not by any fault of your own, but because the treasure, your beloved treasure, was taken from you to a place where it cannot be retrieved or seen ever again. The world can be a very cruel place sometimes, and sometimes I am scared to death to find out what other nasty surprises it has in store for me, ready to show me its neatly wrapped disguised package that looks interesting and fun, but, when you get a closer look and see the thing for what it really is, its too late, and before you know it, your life can take a turn for the worst.

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!