This is the first of a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping my find my voice....this first post is from a new friend Stuart Nager.....Please show Stuart the love and encouragement you have to me.....
THE LONG CALLING
One O’Clock in the morning, and racing up the NYS Thruway to get home, hoping all was all right. Thirty plus miles of worrying and fear. Nothing was going to be OK for a long time.
I woke my friends up, all around the country, to cry, scream, beg..and no one, of course, could do anything. We were, at best, hours and hours away from each other. The entire night consisted of my going around the apartment, looking to see what was missing, heading into the kids room and sitting on my son’s bed and crying. Then heading to the phone again and again. Up all night.
Got a call early in the morning. One of her friends called to tell me the children were fine, etc. She had been taking money from our account (which is why checks bounced, phone calls kept coming in, etc) and had an apt. No, she would not tell me where. She hung up, not talking, just talking at me.
So..no way could I go to work. I was truly in the grips of depression and despair. Things snowballed from there. I really was a walking Zombie for well over a month: I could not tell you now a thing that happened during that period. Our marriage was over, I did see the kids, etc..but, more than that? Nada.
She got re-married two months after our divorce was finalized. Found out that she not only cheated on me with the guy she married, but had at least one affair before that with someone else. The person who told me this said she gloated about it, how oblivious I was.
It took me many years to get over trust issues with women, and I’m still fighting some of my fears of being so hurt and devastated.
What helped?
My friends, my support group. Who let me rant and repeat my rants again and again, until I was exhausted from them, and was able to bit by bit move on. Going on a lot of casual dates helped in one way, but I was sabotaging them with my self-pity and moaning. It was good to know I could “get” a date, but I suffered for the aftermath of still not connecting.
So, here’s a story that’s sad and true, about a divorced dad whose name is Stu..
his wife fooled around and left him one day…
but his life is better off that way….
Hey...check out Stuarts writing at these awesome sites......
www.bornstoryteller.wordpress.com/ <-----artist in education blog
www.stuartnager.wordpress.com/ <------ writing blog
www.bornstoryteller.com <---- website
This is the second in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....This post is from a beautiful lady..who shares her heart through her writing and poetry...her poetry has touched me deep in my soul.....and she's here in this place to touch me again...
Please show Louise Hastings the love and encouragement you have to me.....
GOING AWAY
I want to give thanks to my very special friend for letting me guest post on her blog today. I have known Bonnie for a while now, and understand well the struggles and suffering she has been going through.I too, have been on a journey of self discovery this last year or so, although I don't have DID, I have recently recovered from having therapy for depersonalization/DNOS, another form of dissociation disorder.
I guess I developed it through high stress and anxiety levels, and I learned how to 'go away' as a very young child.
My upbringing was traumatic and disheveled at best, with a mother suffering from bipolar disorder (manic depression), and a depressive, controlling father. When I was four, mum had a nervous breakdown –
of the hallucinating, screaming abuse, being sectioned variety. I can still smell the fear I had when she was throwing the crockery at the wall. Not long after that, I developed a burst appendix and was rushed into hospital.
I survived, got through it all, but the damage was done, I had learned how to dissociate. My parents are not monsters, but they had no idea of how to bring up a child. I can always remember just wanting to leave as soon as I could. When I reached sixteen, I got out. I look back now on that sixteen year old child I was, and wonder how on earth they could of let me go. I knew nothing of the world really, or of how to look after myself.
I suppose I survived because I had to, did what I did because I felt I had no other choice. I managed to get jobs, somewhere to live, even traveled for a while. But I lived precariously, always on the edge of catastrophe. I shudder when I look back on my narrow escapes, my occasional homelessness. But I was lucky, there was always something or someone to help me out. I truly believe God was looking out for me during those times.
something I did unconsciously when things got too tough for me to handle emotionally. It numbed everything, and I 'enjoyed', that spacey feeling I got in my head.
I didn't DO reality, I just disappeared into a dream world. It's not surprising that I got into scrapes, my emotions were all over the place. But through talking, medication and writing I got through those bad days.
I am very glad to know Bonnie, she was the first person I had 'met' who understood anything about this disorder. I wish her all the best in her healing, and I know that all the lovely comments she receives means a great deal to her.
Please keep going BB.
http://poeticdelusions.blogspot.com/#axzz1KyB35Qm0 <--------Check out where Louise writes...
http://poeticdelusions.wordpress.com/ <------- Her poetry ....
This is the third in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....This is an awesome woman who writes real and raw..so honest ..you can't help to go deep inside with her..
Please show Chrystal Mahan the love and encouragement you have to me.....
SO AFRAID
Afraid of life, afraid of death, and even afraid of my fears.
I am a survivor of sexual abuse, rape, physical abuse and mental abuse.
Me.
That in itself is scary.
I have no idea how old I was when it started.
I have no memories before the age 6 that are linked to the abuse.
My thoughts are pretty clear.
Blocked.
The thoughts I have about those times are random, and I can only think of two.
After the age of 6, it is hit or miss.
There is always one memory that comes to the surface.
One memory I can’t get rid of no matter how hard I try.
The year is not clear. I could have been 7, 8, or even 9 years of age.
Not that age matters.
There was this human being that I called dad.
Dad no longer seems fitting.
Dad no longer exists to me.
He did then.
That was the year we got our very own swimming pool.
Privacy fence.
Mom was successful in real estate.
Dad was successful in being laid-off.
Summer time.
Swimming.
Hot.
Dark.
Cold.
Wet.
Naked.
Dark.
Wet.
Can’t breathe.
Under water.
Bent backwards, head under water.
Body under water.
Wet.
Dark.
What…
What is that?
Why am I being pushed down?
Hands.
Fingers.
Trying to come up for air.
Closing eyes.
Fading away.
Numb.
Memory gone.
Memory comes back to bedroom.
Naked.
No words spoken.
Only grunts.
Scared.
Alone.
Confused.
Fear.
Where is my mother, won’t she be home soon?
Check out where Chrystal writes....
Check out where Chrystal writes....
In Darkness : thesewordsmylife.com
and in Light: selfemployedwriter.com
I'm here on Bongo Is Me as Bonnie, Bongo or as I call her BB asked me to, so as to give her a break, a rest or to rue the day she ever asked me to.
I was initially asked because BB thought I could bring some light onto a dark site. I was hesitant as I am not what some may think me to be. So I asked myself...Do I have a dark place?
That aside I shall tell you about me or more to the point my reasons I am the way I am.
Firstly I do have a Blog concerning my attempts at bringing up a girl, the site is Raising Amelie. I do this blog not so much for recognition, praise, followers or awards. I do it for the love of it and in my own way leaving something that will be forever floating out in the ether for my child to visit and revisit again and again. From the way I write this Blog some may think me to be a single dad. I am far from it. I am a stay home dad. I am a stay home dad because of choice no other reason just as the choice for my partner to work is… mine. hehe.
From my writings some may think all is wonderful in Oz. Far from it. Living on one income has its challenges regarding payment of bills, petrol, groceries and rent. Yes… we are renting and in the last 4 years we have lived in 3 different domiciles as the owners had decided to sell. For a little girl just turning 3 it's a big deal and a big hassle. The renting? Not our Choice. Circumstances that I won't go into have brought us to where we are.
Some may be saying now, well go out and get a job 'you lazy bum!' My response… I am 42 and have for the very first time become a Father a Dad a Papa. And it's my choice to be a part of her upbringing and I want to cherish every moment whilst Amelie is still young and not attending school. So later maybe I shall look for work. maybe if I wasn't such a 'lazy bum'.
We live week to week by the skin of our teeth, searching for pennies when there is no more milk left, saving on things where we can. I have moments of utter despair and I enter my dark place and ponder or is it regret as to what we have chosen to do. I tend to lock myself away at times so as to feel again the freedom of solitude, where I can just be, with just me. Many times in this dark place I also end up with others on the www and on Facebook.
Some may say I'm humorous where others find my comments insulting. Those are purely your own choice on how you see me. Yet when I'm 'out there' visiting other blogs or interacting on FB I then forget or brush aside my own concerns as I see far worse. My present is from my own choices. Whereas for others it was thrust upon them through no choice of their own.
I am usually "out there' to be helpful or uplifting to others so they may find their beach. As I do find mine when I feel I have brought a smile to someones face. Yes BB I am talking about you!
To be very honest when I first visited Bongo Is Me I didn't want to look! I didn't want to be brought down further.
Yet by visiting this Blog I have come to realize that Bongo Is Me is not just Bonnie... it is all of us at some point in time.
Bongo Is Me should read "Bongo Is Us!!!"
Thank you Bonnie. I'll always be here as long as I have the breath or should I say the fingers to give you or anyone my worldly advice such as…
Remember to Flush after every meal! Or is that Brush?
Cheers
Alejandro
Written by by my friend (A) Alejandro Guzman
Thank you A for always encouraging me..
You are an amazing person...an inspiration...and yes you
put a smile on my face XOXOXO
Bonnie, recently asked for guest bloggers to share a time in their lives when life was scary or difficult. Maybe a tale of survival. I know she’s in the midst of challenging life events so I wanted to help out but I didn’t know where to begin (yes, hard to believe. . .me, speechless).
This led me to think some more and ponder and dwell (you get the picture). For the privacy of the two most important people in my life, I cannot go into details.
I love them too much.
But I have been through some very dark, jet black nights that stretched into weeks that turned into months that became years. I know what it’s like to struggle to breathe (literally). To experience intense, burning pain that has felt like lighter fluid is being poured all over your skeleton, then a match is lit, flicked, and whamo!
Engulfed!
To not have answers (at least not good ones). To be left alone, abandoned, discarded. To believe for years that I had a poured, concrete sub floor beneath my feet that would last even though it was slightly chipped and worn only to be made brutally aware there was . .
. nothing . . .
nothing but empty space.
My world imploded with a silent, deadly stillness. There were casualties. There are casualties. That ending, while horrific, became entangled with beginnings. Resurrection and death all wrapped up together in the white linen.
Hmmm. . .sound familiar?
Some days, I’m still in the tomb. Others, I am outside with the sun streaming down upon my face and basking in warmth. It’s weird, isn’t it? How beginnings and endings can be like that?
The line between them so blurred like a charcoal sketch that has been smudged into existence. I still feel alone but despair, while he flirts, has been hanging around less and less.
I was fortunate (after the detonation) to experience love, an all- encompassing love. A love I was not yet ready for but am grateful to have known. My heart has been in the process of being stitched back together since that first nuclear bomb but, thank God, I can feel (like that tingling when you shake an arm or leg back into alertness).
I am alive. Even pain makes us acutely aware of it just as shadows help us to recognize light. I am not in a beginning or an end. I just am . . .
while in motion (like being swept along by a current).
If we have hope (just a teeny, tiny bit), we will never be completely alone (even when we feel like it).
We are promised this..
I am exactly where I need to be at this moment and I clutch tightly to a deep empathy for others who are hurting.
Don’t give up.
We might not be able to climb out when we’d like but we can still gather around us some joy, some happiness, some love as quilts to blanket us, to embrace us.
With much love,
Pamela
http://pamanner.wordpress.com/ <------- Pam writes here ...check her out .......
When I first saw Mk I had just returned from Florida, where I had spent about 6 months as a bar-tender. I had shared an apartment with another male friend from my hometown to save on funds until we both got on our feet. Or at least that was the deal at first. I was 18 yrs old and really wasn’t ‘feeling’ college just yet.
One night a bunch of friends from work asked me to go to the beach with them. They were going to have a party. I wasn’t much into drugs or drinking, but I went along to ‘be in with the crowd’. I didn’t have a car then, so I had to make arrangements with someone for a ride home. I was single and wasn’t looking for any relationships so my safest ride home was a gay guy that I worked with.
The party was great! I met a lot of new people and it was a night to remember for me. Moreso than I ever imagined. At around 3am, my friend said he was ready to leave. We jumped in the car and he headed towards my apartment. We had the music on, talking about everything from A-Z. This guy was great, so easy to be around, so easy to talk to. We pulled into the parking lot of my apartment and I bid him good night.
As I unlocked my door and entered into the dark kitchen area of my apartment, I felt an unbelievable pain in my back as something hit me. I fell to the floor, crawling along trying to get back up. Oh, my back was on fire! What in the hell?
You can follow Anna here: THE OTHER SIDE OF ANNA
I am 10, well actually I’m 36 but I remember this moment like it was yesterday and I relieve it far too many times, more than I actually care for.
The rain was hitting the window pane hard, I remember watching the drops as they hit and fall, hit and fall and down they would go. My mum and I used to race raindrops – I remember this as one of those childhood treasures, only my mum and I shared. It was our game.
I remember that it had rained all day and my mum was impatient, she was pacing nervously. Dinner had been ready for some time and my stomach grumbled but we couldn’t eat until my Dad came home.
When he returned, he was mad. I have no idea why but he didn’t want to be here and that was obvious. He stormed his way through the hallway up the stairs to his computer room. I peered round the door and said “Dad, can I see” he seemed preoccupied and as I stood lingering in the door way, he glanced my way, said “Hey Princess” and then beckoned me forward. I walked in and he picked me up, I loved being with my Dad but he just wasn’t around much these days, he sat me on his lap and he continued to type. I didn’t understand what was on the screen but something made him stop.
I think it was my mum calling, he practically threw me on to the floor as he rushed out the door and after picking myself up, I followed like a lost puppy not understanding what was happening. There was shouting and Mum was crying, Dad was yelling, then there was a sharp vivid spine cutting scream that was not human. I don’t remember what happened there, there was so much movement, and so much happening, I stood there as everything moved around me. There was a thud, a loud incomprehensible thud and the silence. I don’t know where Dad went but mum was on the phone, she was crying. I walked hesitantly down the stairs and my dog was laying there eyes half glazed over, slow laboured breathing and my mum slammed the phone down and then there was water. I turned confused to watch my mum soaking towels and her eye was red. Red like blood.
The dog was not breathing, I knelt beside him, His breathing labored, and mum was washing him, nursing him, I didn’t know then but she was fighting for his life. The life my dad sacrificed when he kicked him across the hallway. Why? Because he was my mum’s dog and he was protecting her. Mum was crying and her eye was red. Red like blood. She turned her head away from me to hide and I moved my hand to touch her face but she moved out of my reach, ashamed.
She was bleeding, she cried as Pongo took his last breath and she buried her head into his fur, her desperate cries rang through my head and I reached my hand to her, I was crying. Not really understanding why but feeling the emotionally charged air I just needed to touch her. Touch her to feel safe, as her hand reached from mine I was wrenched from where I knelt.
I was moved so fast, I was swept up the stairs and I called for my mum. I wanted my mum but I was then locked in my room. I bang the door, I beat my fists on the door and I hear my mothers screams but I have no power. The screams are growing louder, so loud I can’t stand them. The tears rip through me and feel afraid. I want my mum!
I hide in the corner of my room; I shut my eyes and cover my ears. The sound is muffled but the pain increases and I sink further into the corner of my room.
Then there is silence and darkness I sit in the corner of my room and at some point I drift into more darkness.
I am woken by my mum, her face is purple but her eye is red.
Red like blood.
Woo, this was hard, but here it is. I so admire what you do with your blog. You are an inspiration.
*****************
I’m telling you right now that this post may seem like it’s all over the place, because that is how I feel.
Undone.
I promised this guest post to Bonnie a couple of weeks ago. This post is supposed to be about fear. Bonnie says she is fearful yet I often marvel at how fearless she is in writing her truths.
This is a fitting time for me to write about fear as it has been gripping me especially hard these past few months. But really, it’s just a matter of degrees.
I take fear for granted. I live in fear every day. It’s what motivates me, it makes me tick.
Anxiety, insecurity, these are nothing but fear, fear of the unknown, fear of not being accepted; taking it to its logical conclusion, fear of death.
To keep myself alive, I fight fear constantly, in one way or another. I could be wrong but this is what survival is to me. I absolutely see life as having to fight the odds to stay in control.
I soldier on, step by step, beating back fear.
If I’m doing a good job I forget about the fear once in a while.
Sometimes I’m fooled into thinking I’ve conquered it when actually it is white noise in the background, lulling me.
Today, fear is a buzzsaw in my face.
Some weeks ago I left my husband of 26 years, moved to a new city. I’m doing my thing, taking care of business, haven’t really skipped a beat. Everybody is telling me how great I look. So why is it I have never been more terrified and exhausted?
I spent a lifetime fearing I would end up divorced like my parents--who were the poster children for miserable divorced couples. I was so afraid that my children would be the victims of their parents’ divorce, like I thought myself to be, I neglected my own needs.
Worse than fear is the self loathing, the feeling of how did I get here, why wasn’t I smart enough to see this coming?
I have good days and bad days. I’ve fought through enough fears to know that I will be ok, I will be fine. I have lots of things to do, lots of things to say and ultimately, this setback is not going to stop me. It’s going to motivate me.
But this post was not written on a good day.
This is a pity party I usually would not invite anyone to, but here you are.
Dear Bonnie,
There are many things that have happened to me over the years. Some were done to me and, some I have done to others. Some were bad and some were good. Overcoming the bad things, sometimes it is the hardest thing to do. The first twenty-one years, I did not think much of myself, I felt I was ugly, stupid, disliked, I felt that I was not a good person.
You asked for some help with posting on you blog. I have read a lot of the things that you've written about. The things that I read tear the heart out of me that anyone has gone through the hell and mistreatment that you have. You ask how can a person have a normal life or live happily with all that has happened to you. How do you move on? Here are the things that helped me move beyond the fears and pain of my past. You may post this if you want and maybe it will help.
I was twenty four and just had my first child, a daughter.
I was trying to make a living by building houses.
Work was hard to find and I wrote some bad checks lied to my wife and family, borrowed money from my grandmother to cover the bad checks.
Told everybody I was doing great and making a lot of money.
When it came time to show that I had the money, I ran away leaving all behind, got drunk tried to kill myself by driving as fast as I could drunk and out of control.
I found myself in Las Vegas in a bar looking for food and more drink.
I met a man there who was a drunk .
He gave me a place to stay and some money to get something to eat.
We became good friends.
I told him that my wife and daughter had been killed in a car accident.
After a few days and a lot of whiskey I told him the truth.
I told him that there was over a thousand dollars in outstanding checks, and I was wanted by the law, and that nothing had happened to my wife and child.
I went over everything I had done and the things that had been done to me.
We were both drunk and getting drunker.
I was crying and wanted to die.
Bob was his name, he said this to me : “That don’t make you all bad”. he told me how he had robbed a bank he had raped a fourteen year old girl, and many more things that I would not of thought of doing. He had been in prison. And he said : “That don’t make you all bad” .
We drank till I was sober, he helped me find a job and start putting my life back together.
This was a turning point for me.
I guess confession is good for the soul,
He told me that I could be somebody, some body that was liked, somebody better than anybody, he told me that nobody could make me happy, he also told me that I could not think for anybody else ;
he told me I could be ME.
I went back home and found my wife and daughter; she had filed for a divorce.
I had been gone for six months, but she took me back.
I went to the police and turned myself in.
I found that there was no warrant out for me.
So I loaded up my wife and daughter and moved to Vegas.
I found the way to pay off the bad checks, and start living my life “That don’t make me all bad”.
Some years later I was living in California.
We had just bought our first home.
There were a lot of curious kids from the neighborhood watching us move in, some offered to help unload the U-Haul truck.
We made friends with them and their parents. The place was the largest property in the area. The backyard was nine tenths of an acre. The weeds and grass were knee high. On a Saturday I enlisted the help of the kids to clean up the yard.
I promised them a party if they would help.
Things were going well when a little girl who had just come from a bible study class joined the work detail.
She was preaching to the other kids about Jesus and God. The older kids including her brothers were teasing her about the things she was saying. She came to me to make them stop and asked me if there was a God and to tell the others that God was not dead. She was crying. I called the kids together. And began to tell them they were wrong for what they doing and saying. The little girl was tapping my leg with a stick that we had been throwing for my dog.
I took the stick and told them if just one of them could believe that god was alive and love them for one second this stick would grow, and with that I put the stick in a crack in the parched ground.
We got back to work and cleaned up the yard.
Later that evening I thought back at what I had said and started watching for the kids parents to come and give me a piece of their mind or a phone call.
A week went by and not a word was said. I was looking out the window when I saw the girl and another child going into my back yard.
I got up and went out to tell them my daughter was asleep.
Then I saw what they were doing.
The girl was showing the others that the stick was growing.
I had a hard time believing my eyes but it was growing it had green leaves spouting from it.
I moved away from there many years ago.
I have been back there several times and now there is a tree.
You can still see the teeth marks on the trunk from my dog.
How this happened I don’t know but I do believe that there is a God, I don’t think I have a choice.
When I said what I said I did not know or believe what I was doing or saying.
From all of this I have found that what happens to a person or what a person does, does not make you all bad.
You can read Roy here at an AWESOME kind of garage sale : Roy’s Garage Sale and Auction Well, it is a garage sale and auction It is a philosophical and intellectual debate forum, too enlighten, educate, have fun, and a laugh or two. the garage is what is in my mind,what I have learned from life, sale is to exchange ideas, auction, bid by giving your opinion on a subject: ROYS GARAGE SALE BLOG
Read more: http://bongoisme.blogspot.com/#ixzz1QRlxXdRS
The Day I Will Never Forget
It felt like a nightmare when I awoke screaming in excruciating pain, my insides hurt. It was a nightmare, I remember now…
It was March 28th, 2000; my husband and I got into another huge fight. He was so good at making me feel so worthless. I don’t even remember what was said to throw me over the edge, all I remember is feeling so adamant that my life was of no use to this family or this world.
I waited until everyone was asleep and I made my way into the kitchen, my mind was gone! I had been possessed by evil and there was no one that could stop me, including myself. I rummaged around for pills; finally finding a full bottle of Advil, a half a bottle of prescription pain medicine and a bottle of Brandy.
I made my way into the bathroom and ran the bathwater, stripping down to nothing, shut off the light and I got in the tub. I couldn’t feel anything…only pain, years and years of pain flowing through my body and destroying my brain. All common sense was gone by this point, I was nothing more than a zombie; looking for a way to end the pain of being dead in a world full of living.
I grabbed the bottle of Brandy and began drinking it, gulp after gulp; I tasted nothing. Finally I grabbed one bottle of pills and swallowed them, the other bottle following shortly thereafter. A few more gulps of Brandy before I finally laid back in the tub and waited. My eyes got heavy and my body went numb, “it won’t be long now,” I thought.
“Jenni… JENNI!!!” The light was so bright and I could hear God’s voice low at first then loud. “Why is God yelling my name,” I wondered. My eyes finally adjusted to the bright light and I saw a man; it wasn’t God…it was my husband. I was still alive; in my bathroom in freezing cold water. He helped me out of the tub and wrapped me in a towel; he said nothing as he picked up the empty pill bottles and Brandy.
I didn’t look at him, I just walked past him and went to get dressed, and then laid on the couch waiting for my children to wake up. My husband left for work and when he bent down to kiss me I noticed his face. His eyes were red and puffy and you could still see the tear stains down his cheeks. “Good” I thought, he can cry for a change.
My brother, the kids, and I got back on a bus to go back to his house. We got to our stop and got off the bus; he helped me get my son in the stroller, I put my daughter down and as I stood up I noticed something… my shorts were soaked with blood. We walked to the grocery store and tried to call my husband…no answer, his friend’s house… he wasn’t there, my mom…not home. Finally I had no choice but, to call my grandma.
While waiting for her to come get us I made it into the grocery store’s restroom. There was so much blood!!! I tried to clean up all I could but, I had no change of clothes or any feminine products. My period was always weird; it was nothing for me to go 10 months and never have one, which is how it always was since I was 17 years old and had my first one. I stood up and right before I flushed I noticed a clot…
“Oh my God!!!” I exclaimed and began crying. “What have I done???”
At some point my grandfather was in the room with me and next thing I know he is yelling at the doctor. One of the pills they had given me was to clean out my uterus and the doctor had said I wasn’t pregnant. My grandfather blew up, “WHY are you giving her something to clean her out if she is having a regular period?” The doctor had no answer so grandpa continued… “You gave her that because she miscarried didn’t you.” They finally walked out into the hallway and closed the door. My grandfather came back in the room, kissed me on my forehead, and told me it will all be ok and I could go home soon.
My husband never showed up, in fact he had no idea what happened until he finally got home late that evening. I had been forced to go through that with my family and no husband. 25 years old and the guilt of killing my own child when all I wanted to do was end my own life…how would I ever be able to forgive myself? March 29, 2000...
The day I will never forget!
--
I Love you Mary Hudak-Collins
http://allergiesandceliac.blogspot.com/
The Internet....
another world.
You
are given an option to play a free version or you can purchase a
membership. After everyone has gone to sleep, I quietly make my way to
my computer to check out the website. ‘A Medieval game’ I think to
myself, wondering why she would be interested in something like this.
This was different for my daughter’s tastes, but I continue to go
through the site. It has on line chat in all the different game
sections. It looked harmless enough, but I am not a gamer so I go back
to my son the next day and question a little deeper. Again, he tells me
it is safe and that she can friend the kids from school and at least
have a little bit of a social life.
It was difficult for her as she was home bound in school and had lost contact with most of her friends. We tried to get her out in the public doing activities, but she was more of a ‘home-body’ and didn’t have much interest in going out.
Two
days go by, and she has been constantly reminding me that she needs an
answer. “Mom, have you decided yet? Are you going to let me join?”
and all the time I am secretly wishing I could get her mind off this
game and on to something else. It is important to note here, that my
daughter and computers seem to go hand in hand. She can maneuver
through the internet at a young age better than some adults can.
Let
me skip ahead several months… I hear her talking on her cell phone to
someone, relatively early in the morning. “He is a friend from my
game”. I ask her “where does he live?” She answers “he goes to my
school and is in my grade”. So, I ask her “if he is from your school,
why is he home today?” “He is sick today” she replies. She was able to
give me his name, age, his teacher’s name, etc.
The
next evening, my husband and I had been out and came home early. Upon
entering, I saw a light on in our downstairs spare bedroom. Trying to
remember if I had been in that room earlier and left the light on, which
for the life of me, couldn’t. As I entered the room, I saw my daughter
standing there naked, covering the front of her with a pillow. The bed
was messed up as if she had slept in it. I asked her what she was
doing down here, scanning the room. “It was so hot upstairs and I
couldn’t sleep so I came down here”. I asked her why she didn’t have
clothes on and she told me “I said I was hot, Mommy!” She crawls back
into bed, pulls a sheet up over herself and says goodnight.
I
just froze. I didn’t know what to do. I cried. She cried. I just
held her. I tried to explain to her what type of person this was. She
just didn’t understand. She couldn’t comprehend how someone could be
her friend and not be who they said they were. She still envisioned a
’13 yr old boy from school’ in her mind.
It
has been two years now since this has occurred. We have survived. We
are stronger now. I am on top of any internet use by my daughter. I
still have the words of the FBI agent ringing through my head on a daily
basis ‘She did not create this. It is not her fault, she is a victim here’.
So for all the parents of young children, especially children that are
delayed but possess extraordinary computer skills, be careful. Don’t
let what happened to my daughter happen to your child. Be diligent and
don’t just assume because your child is a little older that they are
aware of what is happening in their internet world. This experience
left me feeling like I was the worst parent in the world. I
continuously asked myself “How could you let this happen???” As the FBI
agent pointed out to me, it is more common than most people even realize.
If my story can prevent even one child from being taken advantage of by an internet predator, than it has been worth every word.
Read more: http://bongoisme.blogspot.com/2011/08/childs-internet-nightmarereal-life.html#ixzz1ZlOcQhQL
Jamie is an author, healer, speaker, and reverend..She has an awesome uplifting website:
I belonged to a small group of writers. We met once a week. It was meaningful, uplifting, a source of growth. We met for over a year. My joy was the most it had ever been. I was writing!
At that moment, I wrote the following:
This is the fourth in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....This is an awesome Aussie who can make me laugh and cry in the same minute.
Please show Alejandro Guzman the friend I call (A)...... the love and encouragement you have to me.....
I'm here on Bongo Is Me as Bonnie, Bongo or as I call her BB asked me to, so as to give her a break, a rest or to rue the day she ever asked me to. I was initially asked because BB thought I could bring some light onto a dark site. I was hesitant as I am not what some may think me to be. So I asked myself...Do I have a dark place?
There are two sides to me and my life. I don't know how I come across to others on the www. Some may say I'm humorous, some say I'm naive, others just ignore me or regard me as somewhat of an idiot. All good!
That aside I shall tell you about me or more to the point my reasons I am the way I am.
 |
| http://www.raisingamelie.com/ |
From my writings some may think all is wonderful in Oz. Far from it. Living on one income has its challenges regarding payment of bills, petrol, groceries and rent. Yes… we are renting and in the last 4 years we have lived in 3 different domiciles as the owners had decided to sell. For a little girl just turning 3 it's a big deal and a big hassle. The renting? Not our Choice. Circumstances that I won't go into have brought us to where we are.
Some may be saying now, well go out and get a job 'you lazy bum!' My response… I am 42 and have for the very first time become a Father a Dad a Papa. And it's my choice to be a part of her upbringing and I want to cherish every moment whilst Amelie is still young and not attending school. So later maybe I shall look for work. maybe if I wasn't such a 'lazy bum'.
We live week to week by the skin of our teeth, searching for pennies when there is no more milk left, saving on things where we can. I have moments of utter despair and I enter my dark place and ponder or is it regret as to what we have chosen to do. I tend to lock myself away at times so as to feel again the freedom of solitude, where I can just be, with just me. Many times in this dark place I also end up with others on the www and on Facebook.
Some may say I'm humorous where others find my comments insulting. Those are purely your own choice on how you see me. Yet when I'm 'out there' visiting other blogs or interacting on FB I then forget or brush aside my own concerns as I see far worse. My present is from my own choices. Whereas for others it was thrust upon them through no choice of their own.
I am usually "out there' to be helpful or uplifting to others so they may find their beach. As I do find mine when I feel I have brought a smile to someones face. Yes BB I am talking about you!To be very honest when I first visited Bongo Is Me I didn't want to look! I didn't want to be brought down further.
Yet by visiting this Blog I have come to realize that Bongo Is Me is not just Bonnie... it is all of us at some point in time.
Bongo Is Me should read "Bongo Is Us!!!"
Thank you Bonnie. I'll always be here as long as I have the breath or should I say the fingers to give you or anyone my worldly advice such as…
Remember to Flush after every meal! Or is that Brush?
Cheers
Alejandro
Written by by my friend (A) Alejandro Guzman
Thank you A for always encouraging me..
You are an amazing person...an inspiration...and yes you
put a smile on my face XOXOXO
This is the fifth in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....This is an awesome Lady that can rock your heart....she can make you laugh and make you cry in the same breath .....
Please show Pamela Rossow My friend .... the love and encouragement you have to me.....
THE CLIMB
Bonnie, recently asked for guest bloggers to share a time in their lives when life was scary or difficult. Maybe a tale of survival. I know she’s in the midst of challenging life events so I wanted to help out but I didn’t know where to begin (yes, hard to believe. . .me, speechless).
This led me to think some more and ponder and dwell (you get the picture). For the privacy of the two most important people in my life, I cannot go into details.
I love them too much.
But I have been through some very dark, jet black nights that stretched into weeks that turned into months that became years. I know what it’s like to struggle to breathe (literally). To experience intense, burning pain that has felt like lighter fluid is being poured all over your skeleton, then a match is lit, flicked, and whamo!
Engulfed!
To not have answers (at least not good ones). To be left alone, abandoned, discarded. To believe for years that I had a poured, concrete sub floor beneath my feet that would last even though it was slightly chipped and worn only to be made brutally aware there was . .
. nothing . . .
nothing but empty space.
My world imploded with a silent, deadly stillness. There were casualties. There are casualties. That ending, while horrific, became entangled with beginnings. Resurrection and death all wrapped up together in the white linen.
Hmmm. . .sound familiar?
Some days, I’m still in the tomb. Others, I am outside with the sun streaming down upon my face and basking in warmth. It’s weird, isn’t it? How beginnings and endings can be like that?
The line between them so blurred like a charcoal sketch that has been smudged into existence. I still feel alone but despair, while he flirts, has been hanging around less and less.
I was fortunate (after the detonation) to experience love, an all- encompassing love. A love I was not yet ready for but am grateful to have known. My heart has been in the process of being stitched back together since that first nuclear bomb but, thank God, I can feel (like that tingling when you shake an arm or leg back into alertness).
I am alive. Even pain makes us acutely aware of it just as shadows help us to recognize light. I am not in a beginning or an end. I just am . . .
while in motion (like being swept along by a current).
If we have hope (just a teeny, tiny bit), we will never be completely alone (even when we feel like it).
We are promised this..
I am exactly where I need to be at this moment and I clutch tightly to a deep empathy for others who are hurting.Don’t give up.
We might not be able to climb out when we’d like but we can still gather around us some joy, some happiness, some love as quilts to blanket us, to embrace us.
With much love,
Pamela
http://pamanner.wordpress.com/ <------- Pam writes here ...check her out .......
This is the sixth in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....This is an awesome Lady that can rock your heart....she can make you laugh and make you cry in the same breath .....She is new to the blogging world and I am honored to have her here..
Please show ANNA SIDES My friend .... the love and encouragement you have to me.....
One night a bunch of friends from work asked me to go to the beach with them. They were going to have a party. I wasn’t much into drugs or drinking, but I went along to ‘be in with the crowd’. I didn’t have a car then, so I had to make arrangements with someone for a ride home. I was single and wasn’t looking for any relationships so my safest ride home was a gay guy that I worked with.
The party was great! I met a lot of new people and it was a night to remember for me. Moreso than I ever imagined. At around 3am, my friend said he was ready to leave. We jumped in the car and he headed towards my apartment. We had the music on, talking about everything from A-Z. This guy was great, so easy to be around, so easy to talk to. We pulled into the parking lot of my apartment and I bid him good night.
As I unlocked my door and entered into the dark kitchen area of my apartment, I felt an unbelievable pain in my back as something hit me. I fell to the floor, crawling along trying to get back up. Oh, my back was on fire! What in the hell?
I pulled myself to my feet, getting to the light switch. As I turned around I caught it again. This time it was across my face, but not before I saw who was delivering the blows. It was my room mate! My friend? What? Why? I fell into the bathroom entrance. Pulling myself up by the door handle I asked him what he was doing. I could feel my lip swelling and my speech was already distorted. He was drunk. I saw the empty bottle of Bicardi Rum on the counter. He called me a ‘Slut. Hore. Bitch.’ Totally confused with this, I couldn’t understand where all of this was coming from. He hits me again, pushing me back into the toilet. I feel more pain in my back as I am cut on the toilet lid or handle, not sure what.
This was the first time I visited the ‘safe place’ in my mind. I’m not exactly sure what happened after that. I found myself in the parking lot with the police. They told me I needed to file a report. I was still trying to process what had happened, why it had happened. Please someone, just give me the answers. I didn’t feel the pain in my back any longer. It needed tending to, which the ambulance drivers took care of for me, suggesting that I see a doctor to follow up with.
I have no where to go. I call my gay friend. He comes and picks me up and takes me to a friend’s house until I figure out what my next move would be. I called my father. He says “M, come home”. I did.
***********************************************
I had been asked to meet some girl friends at a bowling alley. This is where I first saw Mk.
Everyone seemed to be hanging around him and he seemed popular. I was just now starting to get out after my Florida experience and didn’t have much trust for anyone. I was attending college but needed to start getting out more. Mk was easy on the eyes and charming. He was friendly and we had so much in common. The more we talked, the more I let my guard down. We got involved and he swore he would never hurt me like I had been hurt. Well, I guess he didn’t, not physically. Now it was my turn for the emotional and mental abuse? I only remember one time that he physically abused me. He was more into the mind games.
Fourteen years is a long time, too long. We lived together, never getting married. While I finished nursing school, we lived in our hometown. After graduation, we lived in Georgia. Everything seemed perfect. We were the perfect couple. I had forgiven him for the time I walked into his father’s bar and found him on the pool table with another woman. He had told me ‘he was helping her’. I should have left then. But he promised it wouldn’t happen again. I was young and naïve. I believed him. This was the first time I had been cheated on and it took awhile to get past that. I found myself visiting my ‘safe place’ in my mind to stop the pain, the heartache. For months, things were good. He was the Mk I remembered meeting, the handsome, charming man I fell in love with. But, this was short lived.
It was shortly after Christmas. I had given my best friend a gold necklace with a heart pendant that year. I worked 11pm-7am in the hospital, and I can’t even remember what went racing through my mind when I found ‘that’ pendant hanging from the lamp switch in our bedroom that morning.
This continued on a monthly basis for the fourteen years. Always someone different. Some women I knew, some I didn’t. I found myself spending more and more time in my ‘safe place’. Mk had me convinced that ‘this is how all men are’, that I ‘would never get anyone better than him’, and if I didn’t stay with him I would grow into an ‘old, lonely lady’ because ‘who was going to want a woman who had lived with a man this long’.
Feeling totally alone, I put all my time into my horses. I would be at the barn before and after work. I spent very little time at home, or I should say ‘the house’ as I didn’t feel it was ‘my’ home anymore. I attended horse shows and events every opportunity I had. I tried to get involved with another social circle and was successful.
This is where I met J.
I really didn’t care for him at first, but he is kind of someone who grows on you after a bit. All in all, J taught me to love myself. He showed me that not all men are like Mk. He showed me that I was important and made me feel special.
I left Mk and headed back to my hometown. Years later, I moved to where I live now, meeting back up with J. We were friends for several years before becoming involved in a relationship and are now married for 18 yrs. It is a happy and healthy relationship.
There is nothing in my life that I would change. Although, it has been painful past belief, I wouldn’t be who I am today or be where I am if I had not lived my past.
My experiences make me ‘ME’.
This was the first time I visited the ‘safe place’ in my mind. I’m not exactly sure what happened after that. I found myself in the parking lot with the police. They told me I needed to file a report. I was still trying to process what had happened, why it had happened. Please someone, just give me the answers. I didn’t feel the pain in my back any longer. It needed tending to, which the ambulance drivers took care of for me, suggesting that I see a doctor to follow up with.I have no where to go. I call my gay friend. He comes and picks me up and takes me to a friend’s house until I figure out what my next move would be. I called my father. He says “M, come home”. I did.
***********************************************
I had been asked to meet some girl friends at a bowling alley. This is where I first saw Mk.
Everyone seemed to be hanging around him and he seemed popular. I was just now starting to get out after my Florida experience and didn’t have much trust for anyone. I was attending college but needed to start getting out more. Mk was easy on the eyes and charming. He was friendly and we had so much in common. The more we talked, the more I let my guard down. We got involved and he swore he would never hurt me like I had been hurt. Well, I guess he didn’t, not physically. Now it was my turn for the emotional and mental abuse? I only remember one time that he physically abused me. He was more into the mind games.
Fourteen years is a long time, too long. We lived together, never getting married. While I finished nursing school, we lived in our hometown. After graduation, we lived in Georgia. Everything seemed perfect. We were the perfect couple. I had forgiven him for the time I walked into his father’s bar and found him on the pool table with another woman. He had told me ‘he was helping her’. I should have left then. But he promised it wouldn’t happen again. I was young and naïve. I believed him. This was the first time I had been cheated on and it took awhile to get past that. I found myself visiting my ‘safe place’ in my mind to stop the pain, the heartache. For months, things were good. He was the Mk I remembered meeting, the handsome, charming man I fell in love with. But, this was short lived.
It was shortly after Christmas. I had given my best friend a gold necklace with a heart pendant that year. I worked 11pm-7am in the hospital, and I can’t even remember what went racing through my mind when I found ‘that’ pendant hanging from the lamp switch in our bedroom that morning.
This continued on a monthly basis for the fourteen years. Always someone different. Some women I knew, some I didn’t. I found myself spending more and more time in my ‘safe place’. Mk had me convinced that ‘this is how all men are’, that I ‘would never get anyone better than him’, and if I didn’t stay with him I would grow into an ‘old, lonely lady’ because ‘who was going to want a woman who had lived with a man this long’.
Feeling totally alone, I put all my time into my horses. I would be at the barn before and after work. I spent very little time at home, or I should say ‘the house’ as I didn’t feel it was ‘my’ home anymore. I attended horse shows and events every opportunity I had. I tried to get involved with another social circle and was successful.
This is where I met J.
I really didn’t care for him at first, but he is kind of someone who grows on you after a bit. All in all, J taught me to love myself. He showed me that not all men are like Mk. He showed me that I was important and made me feel special.
I left Mk and headed back to my hometown. Years later, I moved to where I live now, meeting back up with J. We were friends for several years before becoming involved in a relationship and are now married for 18 yrs. It is a happy and healthy relationship.There is nothing in my life that I would change. Although, it has been painful past belief, I wouldn’t be who I am today or be where I am if I had not lived my past.
My experiences make me ‘ME’.
You can follow Anna here: THE OTHER SIDE OF ANNA
This is the seventh in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....This is an awesome Lady that can melt your heart....she can make you laugh and make you cry in the same breath .....She is a lady i call soul mate....she's in my heart.... I am honored to have her here..
Please show My friend Sarah-Jane Klemis..I know her as SJ ...Please show her the love and encouragement you have to me....
KNOWING EYES
I am 10, well actually I’m 36 but I remember this moment like it was yesterday and I relieve it far too many times, more than I actually care for. The rain was hitting the window pane hard, I remember watching the drops as they hit and fall, hit and fall and down they would go. My mum and I used to race raindrops – I remember this as one of those childhood treasures, only my mum and I shared. It was our game.
I remember that it had rained all day and my mum was impatient, she was pacing nervously. Dinner had been ready for some time and my stomach grumbled but we couldn’t eat until my Dad came home.
Mum handed me a piece of bread and beckoned me over to the stove. The pot was bubbling “I Can’t Mum” I felt naughty and I knew what we were doing was going to cause problems if ‘he’ found out but my mum made me feel safe, if she said it was OK then it was, I trusted her. We giggled as we dunked our bread in the stew cooking on the stove and I remember the warm beefy taste on my lips and I took the chance and dunked again but not before looking over my shoulder just in case. Mum wiped my face with a towel and sent me on my way with a loving pat. I looked at her as I skipped away, her face etched with pain that I would not understand at that age but now see with all knowing eyes.
When he returned, he was mad. I have no idea why but he didn’t want to be here and that was obvious. He stormed his way through the hallway up the stairs to his computer room. I peered round the door and said “Dad, can I see” he seemed preoccupied and as I stood lingering in the door way, he glanced my way, said “Hey Princess” and then beckoned me forward. I walked in and he picked me up, I loved being with my Dad but he just wasn’t around much these days, he sat me on his lap and he continued to type. I didn’t understand what was on the screen but something made him stop.
I think it was my mum calling, he practically threw me on to the floor as he rushed out the door and after picking myself up, I followed like a lost puppy not understanding what was happening. There was shouting and Mum was crying, Dad was yelling, then there was a sharp vivid spine cutting scream that was not human. I don’t remember what happened there, there was so much movement, and so much happening, I stood there as everything moved around me. There was a thud, a loud incomprehensible thud and the silence. I don’t know where Dad went but mum was on the phone, she was crying. I walked hesitantly down the stairs and my dog was laying there eyes half glazed over, slow laboured breathing and my mum slammed the phone down and then there was water. I turned confused to watch my mum soaking towels and her eye was red. Red like blood.She was bleeding, she cried as Pongo took his last breath and she buried her head into his fur, her desperate cries rang through my head and I reached my hand to her, I was crying. Not really understanding why but feeling the emotionally charged air I just needed to touch her. Touch her to feel safe, as her hand reached from mine I was wrenched from where I knelt.
I hide in the corner of my room; I shut my eyes and cover my ears. The sound is muffled but the pain increases and I sink further into the corner of my room.
I am woken by my mum, her face is purple but her eye is red.
Red like blood.
This is the eighth in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....This is an awesome Lady that can swoon you with her poetry....A very private lady .....She is a lady I call friend....SWEEPY JEAN has taken a big step writing a guest post here today.... I am honored to have her here..Please show Sweepy the love and encouragement you have to me...
Woo, this was hard, but here it is. I so admire what you do with your blog. You are an inspiration.*****************
I’m telling you right now that this post may seem like it’s all over the place, because that is how I feel.
Undone.
I promised this guest post to Bonnie a couple of weeks ago. This post is supposed to be about fear. Bonnie says she is fearful yet I often marvel at how fearless she is in writing her truths.
This is a fitting time for me to write about fear as it has been gripping me especially hard these past few months. But really, it’s just a matter of degrees.
I take fear for granted. I live in fear every day. It’s what motivates me, it makes me tick.
Anxiety, insecurity, these are nothing but fear, fear of the unknown, fear of not being accepted; taking it to its logical conclusion, fear of death.
To keep myself alive, I fight fear constantly, in one way or another. I could be wrong but this is what survival is to me. I absolutely see life as having to fight the odds to stay in control.
I soldier on, step by step, beating back fear.
If I’m doing a good job I forget about the fear once in a while.
Sometimes I’m fooled into thinking I’ve conquered it when actually it is white noise in the background, lulling me.
Today, fear is a buzzsaw in my face.
Some weeks ago I left my husband of 26 years, moved to a new city. I’m doing my thing, taking care of business, haven’t really skipped a beat. Everybody is telling me how great I look. So why is it I have never been more terrified and exhausted?I spent a lifetime fearing I would end up divorced like my parents--who were the poster children for miserable divorced couples. I was so afraid that my children would be the victims of their parents’ divorce, like I thought myself to be, I neglected my own needs.
I have good days and bad days. I’ve fought through enough fears to know that I will be ok, I will be fine. I have lots of things to do, lots of things to say and ultimately, this setback is not going to stop me. It’s going to motivate me.
But this post was not written on a good day.
This is a pity party I usually would not invite anyone to, but here you are.
This is the ninth in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....
This man Doug Stephens writes humor, serious and informative all in one blog....his cartoons are absolutely AWESOME....Doug has even made a cartoon especially for this post...
I am honored to have him here..Please show Doug Stephens the love and encouragement you have to me...
I Hate Pain
My challenge –
self-imposed in the hopes of being published here –
is to write about real life pain and how I deal with it.
After all, a guest post on a blog about life’s miseries needs to be about…
life’s miseries.
This writing challenge is a little tougher for me than most.
You see, I’m not a big fan of dealing with pain.
Pain is bad. It hurts.
It doesn’t need to be in the forefront of my mind, begging to be dealt with; it needs to be buried.
Deeply buried, so far in the recesses of my mind that it can never be recovered.
Then it needs to be covered in happy crap.
An amusement park of merriment and joy should be erected over every painful memory.
Except we all know that doesn’t work.
The pain is still there, biding its time, waiting to emerge. Building the Most Wonderful Place Ever over evil spirits doesn’t appease the spirits, it just makes them more vengeful and dangerous when they finally burst from their burial ground.
The Ghosts of Traumatic Past cannot be ignored
Do so at your peril.
They flourish in the dank mildewy pits of Inattention. And once focused on you, they never let you free. But don’t despair, while the Ghosts can never be banished completely, they can be dealt with and even neutralized.
How do I do it?
Well, for me it’s not so much a science as it is an art. Or a work in progress.
When I was younger I had a hard time dealing with not only loss and the hurt caused by others, but any of life’s little disappointments. I didn’t know how to express negative or unpleasant emotions in a socially-acceptable way and just tended to bury them.
All of them.
Then, like clockwork, every six months or so I would explode in a ball of furious righteousness. Wrecking relationships. Ruining careers. Taking myself off the path I had planned for my life. I was an innocent-seeming Jekyll with the Hyde-Monster barely skin deep, just looking for an opportunity to escape.
At that point in my life I had no release valve. My marriage was a disaster, my family was estranged, my friends were wither long-gone or they were her friends, and all my time was spent either at the series of jobs I hated or dealing with the stresses of my home life.
I had no one to talk to.
No harmless hobbies to burn off restless thoughts.
That part of my life was not a happy time, and it did not end well.
While Past Doug was not a happy person, he gave Present Doug the lessons he needed to learn.
He taught me that I cannot handle all my troubles on my own.
If something is too much for me to handle, it is not unmanly to talk to someone about it.
That I need to make sure I have a support system of people who care about me, and I should swallow my pride and find them.
And since I am often uncomfortable talking about my feelings, that it was a good idea to find another outlet to express myself.
For me, that outlet is blogging.
When I am writing and drawing for my blog I can be silly, angry, pensive, and even worried or scared.
I’ve found that I often don’t even need to directly address the concerns in my life, be they everyday work stress, living through the loss of a loved one and realizing my own mortality, or the alienation I feel from my kids living with my ex-wife – as long as I am able let the world know something about what Doug is thinking, I am better able to face my own demons.
Blogging is not, by itself, enough for me to deal with pain and disappointment.
However, together with seeking out people who will listen to me and my problems, it is a tremendous release valve.
Of course it is not perfect.
I still throw temper tantrums sometimes.
I still have days where I feel depressed and unhappy with myself and my lot in life.
But now I know how to work through those days.
And if working through it means drawing a few stick figures, then so be it......
You can read more of Doug Stephens here: I LIKE CHEESE
This is the Tenth in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....
This man Roy Durham also writes humor,GOD, serious and informative all in one blog........
I am honored to have him here..Please show Roy the love and encouragement you have to me...
Dear Bonnie,
There are many things that have happened to me over the years. Some were done to me and, some I have done to others. Some were bad and some were good. Overcoming the bad things, sometimes it is the hardest thing to do. The first twenty-one years, I did not think much of myself, I felt I was ugly, stupid, disliked, I felt that I was not a good person.
You asked for some help with posting on you blog. I have read a lot of the things that you've written about. The things that I read tear the heart out of me that anyone has gone through the hell and mistreatment that you have. You ask how can a person have a normal life or live happily with all that has happened to you. How do you move on? Here are the things that helped me move beyond the fears and pain of my past. You may post this if you want and maybe it will help.
That Don’t Make You All Bad
I was trying to make a living by building houses.
Work was hard to find and I wrote some bad checks lied to my wife and family, borrowed money from my grandmother to cover the bad checks.
Told everybody I was doing great and making a lot of money.
When it came time to show that I had the money, I ran away leaving all behind, got drunk tried to kill myself by driving as fast as I could drunk and out of control.
I found myself in Las Vegas in a bar looking for food and more drink.
I met a man there who was a drunk .
He gave me a place to stay and some money to get something to eat.
We became good friends.
I told him that my wife and daughter had been killed in a car accident.
I told him that there was over a thousand dollars in outstanding checks, and I was wanted by the law, and that nothing had happened to my wife and child.
I went over everything I had done and the things that had been done to me.
We were both drunk and getting drunker.
I was crying and wanted to die.
Bob was his name, he said this to me : “That don’t make you all bad”. he told me how he had robbed a bank he had raped a fourteen year old girl, and many more things that I would not of thought of doing. He had been in prison. And he said : “That don’t make you all bad” .
We drank till I was sober, he helped me find a job and start putting my life back together.
This was a turning point for me.
I guess confession is good for the soul,
He told me that I could be somebody, some body that was liked, somebody better than anybody, he told me that nobody could make me happy, he also told me that I could not think for anybody else ;
I went back home and found my wife and daughter; she had filed for a divorce.
I had been gone for six months, but she took me back.
I went to the police and turned myself in.
I found that there was no warrant out for me.
So I loaded up my wife and daughter and moved to Vegas.
I found the way to pay off the bad checks, and start living my life “That don’t make me all bad”.
Some years later I was living in California.
We had just bought our first home.
There were a lot of curious kids from the neighborhood watching us move in, some offered to help unload the U-Haul truck.
We made friends with them and their parents. The place was the largest property in the area. The backyard was nine tenths of an acre. The weeds and grass were knee high. On a Saturday I enlisted the help of the kids to clean up the yard.
I promised them a party if they would help.
Things were going well when a little girl who had just come from a bible study class joined the work detail.
I took the stick and told them if just one of them could believe that god was alive and love them for one second this stick would grow, and with that I put the stick in a crack in the parched ground.
We got back to work and cleaned up the yard.
Later that evening I thought back at what I had said and started watching for the kids parents to come and give me a piece of their mind or a phone call.
A week went by and not a word was said. I was looking out the window when I saw the girl and another child going into my back yard.
I got up and went out to tell them my daughter was asleep.
Then I saw what they were doing.
The girl was showing the others that the stick was growing.
I moved away from there many years ago.
I have been back there several times and now there is a tree.
You can still see the teeth marks on the trunk from my dog.
How this happened I don’t know but I do believe that there is a God, I don’t think I have a choice.
When I said what I said I did not know or believe what I was doing or saying.
From all of this I have found that what happens to a person or what a person does, does not make you all bad.
Thank you and God bless
You can read Roy here at an AWESOME kind of garage sale : Roy’s Garage Sale and Auction Well, it is a garage sale and auction It is a philosophical and intellectual debate forum, too enlighten, educate, have fun, and a laugh or two. the garage is what is in my mind,what I have learned from life, sale is to exchange ideas, auction, bid by giving your opinion on a subject: ROYS GARAGE SALE BLOG
TRIGGER WARNING/INCEST/REAL LIFE SERIES
This is the Eleventh in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....
This woman Patricia Singleton
Writes an amazing blog about her journey about incest and how she survives today.She shares her courageous story here.
I am honored to have her here..Please show Patricia the love and encouragement you have to me...
A Story Of Incest And Healing
 I am an incest survivor and this is my story. These are just a few of the memories that I have from my childhood. At three years old, sitting in an Assembly of God church, I labeled myself as an adulteress. How many three-year-olds do you know who know what sex and adultery are about? I have no memories of the incest happening this early. I just have this one memory. 
A day later, I was told that I was going home with my uncle for a week's visit with my grandmother. My uncle lived with my grandmother because her age and health didn't allow for her to live alone.
My uncle lied and told my mother than my grandmother would be at home when we got there. She wasn't. She was visiting a friend for the weekend and didn't come home until Monday afternoon.  I lived through a weekend of physical torture as my little girl body was raped over and over again throughout that weekend. I was so sore from the first time and every time after that. Nothing was done to lessen my pain. He didn't care how I felt. He was a 52-year-old man and I was an 11-year-old who hadn't started to develop into a woman yet. My periods had not even started at that time. I didn't have pubic hair yet and my breasts were months away from starting to develop. I was still a little girl. Skip forward a few more weeks. My mother and daddy worked twice a day at a dairy milking cows. They did this for about 2 or 3 years. My dad decided that my mom needed a break on weekends. They milked and fed the cows twice a day around 5:00 a.m. and again at 5:00 p.m. every day. This usually took several hours each time. My mom washed out all of the milking equipment in a big vat of hot soapy water after my dad finished the milking. He decided that, at 11, I was big enough to do mom's job on weekends. 
The first day that I took my mom's place at the dairy barn was on a Saturday. Things went smoothly that first morning.
After finishing the milking and cleaning up that first Saturday night, my dad and I went out to the hay barn. Our only light was from his flashlight. My dad climbed the ladder to the hayloft and told me to climb up after him. He shined his flashlight around to make sure that there were no snakes, rats or raccoons in the loft with us. Then he turned off his flashlight and laid it down. He took off his shirt and laid it out across a hay bale. He told me to take off my jeans and panties and to lie back across the hay bale. I remember thinking to myself, "Not again.  Not Daddy too."I remember feeling disgusted with him. I felt disgust, betrayal and disappointment mixed in together. I remember enduring the pain with both my uncle and with my dad by closing my eyes and going somewhere deep inside of my mind.
I couldn't stop the pain, but I didn't have to see it too.
They couldn't make me.  I disconnected with my body from my neck down. I couldn't close off my ears. They were attuned to any and all surrounding sounds. I was so terrified of someone catching us. A few times over the years it was close since most of the times the sex with my dad took place in his truck on some isolated country road or someone's field that he could park in. I would get an upset stomach before and again afterwards. I wouldn't vomit. I just felt like I wanted to.  We lived out in the country so errands always meant a drive to the nearest town. 
My feelings were never important. How I felt physically or emotionally never mattered. The only thing that mattered was how my dad felt and what he needed. My mother never once questioned why I was the child that always got picked to go with him on his errands. I was the oldest but I also had a younger brother who was totally ignored by my dad during our childhood.
I thought that by leaving home at 19 that I would be leaving the incest and all of its effects upon my life behind. For years I told myself that if I was living at home any more that the incest couldn't still be affecting me. I lived in denial for many years. I cut myself off from my dad's family of origin in my efforts to forget him and what he did to me. For 10 years, I didn't see any of his family.
 
Patricia Singleton
Spiritual Journey Of A Lightworker
http://patriciasingleton.blogspot.com
link to Patricia's blog linking to her guest post here :) http://patriciasingleton.blogspot.com/2011/06/story-of-incest-and-healing-guest-post.html |
Read more: http://bongoisme.blogspot.com/#ixzz1QRlxXdRS
This is the Twelfth in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....
This woman Jenni De La Torre
Writes an amazing blog about her journey You laugh..you cry..you get angry.....every emotion is spilled out in her blog For Jens Sake
Writes an amazing blog about her journey You laugh..you cry..you get angry.....every emotion is spilled out in her blog For Jens Sake
I am honored to have her here..Please show Jenni the love and encouragement you have to me...
The Day I Will Never Forget
It felt like a nightmare when I awoke screaming in excruciating pain, my insides hurt. It was a nightmare, I remember now…
Knowing I needed to get out of the house I got my toddlers dressed, grabbed the stroller and got on a bus to go across town to my mother’s house. I got there and my brother and I decided what to do…”I want a tattoo” I told him. So we got back on another bus and went half away across town again. Despite the night I had I felt fine, my head was still racing but, being with my brother and children reminded me of what I had in my life. It had been another failure of many in my life.
My brother watched the kids while I got a tattoo on my chest. I wanted to remember what my husband did to me for the rest of my life so they inked “Coverty” my husband’s nickname. Now before I ever allowed him to push me past my breaking point again, I would have a permanent reminder to not give in.
While waiting for her to come get us I made it into the grocery store’s restroom. There was so much blood!!! I tried to clean up all I could but, I had no change of clothes or any feminine products. My period was always weird; it was nothing for me to go 10 months and never have one, which is how it always was since I was 17 years old and had my first one. I stood up and right before I flushed I noticed a clot…
“Oh my God!!!” I exclaimed and began crying. “What have I done???”
My grandma finally arrived and drove me straight to the Hospital; she watched my kids for me as I went in and was rushed to a room. By this time I was in so much pain, the two bottles of pills had finally worn off and I was doubling over from it. The doctor’s gave me more pills; I didn’t hear a word they said.
My husband never showed up, in fact he had no idea what happened until he finally got home late that evening. I had been forced to go through that with my family and no husband. 25 years old and the guilt of killing my own child when all I wanted to do was end my own life…how would I ever be able to forgive myself? March 29, 2000... The day I will never forget!
--
"Parting is such an arduous pain
I shall grieve thine essence ‘til we meet again."
Enlighten Up For Jens Sake
Lauren S Barr
Lauren S. Barr is an author, poet and journalist. She lives in Clark, NJ with her husband JH Barr and their two children Ainsley and Leah.
Lauren regularly covers the Westfield Town Council for The Westfield Leader and The Scotch Plains-Fanwood Times.
Her poetry book Little Girl Lost: poems is currently available...please find links below this post ..
I am honored to have Lauren here...Please show her the love and encouragement you have to me
I don't really talk about my DID experience, partly because of the stigma attached to it. I write this as a story of healing and choice, in hopes that it helps others. At the time I went through my experience, there wasn't a lot of material or personal experiences out there for me - I hope that you are served well by my sharing. ~Lauren S Barr
Out of Many, One
At first I thought I was nuts. And I don't mean the kind of nuts where people think you are just a little quirky. I mean the kind of nuts where you end up in a padded room for the rest of your life. I was absolutely certain that at the age of 21 I would be diagnosed schizophrenic because I could hear voices - distinct, different voices, in my own head. I would lose time, sometimes days, sometimes hours.
I made a decision to basically put my life on hold. There was work and there was therapy, and that was pretty much it. I devoted the time to my self. I was also blessed to have an awesome friend who devoted all her free time to me.
Sleep was nearly impossible between panic attacks, flash backs and nightmares. I remembered the rapes, the beatings, the terror so vividly - I might as well have been going through it all again. Sometimes I felt like I had to relive it all again in order to accept them as my own memories and not those of the alters.
It took me a long time to accept that what had happened was not my fault, that there was no flaw in me that had caused all of this. That, in fact, DID saved my life - it preserved the essence of who I was, to keep it from my abusers. It was DID that kept ME safe.
I chose to say goodbye to the last two alters, and became a whole person. But it was my choice. I knew I had come to a point where I could stand on my own two feet and I was ready to let go of the past (as much as humanly possible) and move forward with my life.
I met a wonderful man, I got married and we have two children together. I still suffer bad dreams, and an occasional flash back, but they are all less and less as time goes on. I remember every day, I am a survivor; and I feel blessed to be alive and whole. I share some of my experience in my poetry book Little Girl Lost: poems. I'm still a work in progress, but progress is good, and a life free from abuse is phenomenal.
This is the sixteenth in a series of posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice...
I was 13...Kathy was my best friend....
we did everything together......
I was in the bathroom at school.....
it was after school....she came in and pushed me against the wall....
she started kissing me and playing with my breasts...........
then she took her hand between my thighs and put her hand in my private.......
it hurt but I didn't cry.......
then she pushed me down to the ground i hit my head on the floor...
I still didn't cry,,,,,
then she went between my legs and was kissing my private parts....
it felt good but I wanted to throw up.......
then as I lay there she got the plunger and shoved it up my rear. ........
I felt the pain rush through me ...
I still didn't cry ...
I never did cry ...
till Liz Beth told me today,,,,
Liz Beth is a 13 year old alter and now we have met and I have felt her pain. but i didn't cry till today..
and I'm stuck with it
didn't cry till ..........till today...
As always........
Read more: http://bongoisme.blogspot.com/#ixzz1VuBAWlBr
There comes a time in our lives when we often feel lost and it’s like we don’t know where we are going in our lives.
Just lately I haven’t been able to make them go away; I haven’t been able to feel whole. I feel a fraction of the person I am. I am shattered into a million pieces, each fragment a piece of me starring up into the distance searching for something, anything that makes me feel that I am still here. I became invisible all over again and I am nothing.
How do you start to bring yourself out of the fathoms of the deep seated distant parallel that we live in? I don’t really know, I never have the answers but what I do know is that when I get to the lowest of the low, when I am crawling in the gutters of my own desperation and the tightness that grabs a hold of my heart and tears me into a thousand other pieces it ignites something and I become more determined. I am so determined that I start to piece together the things that make sense.
Surprisingly these things are not the things that most people think about, I don’t think about family or people less fortunate than myself. I don’t think about those that I love or the damage that I would do if I wasn’t here. I think about my purpose, the single thing that actually drags me down and holds me there, to a point where I cannot breathe, I suffocate in my own sadness. I focus on that, I focus on the void and I tell myself that there is a reason. I can’t see it now but its here because I shatter, if it wasn’t I would dissolve into nothing. I shatter because I can’t cope with the factors that tear me apart, those factors are the hurdles I have to overcome and then the challenge comes.
I’ve always been good at jigsaw puzzles and now here is my time to piece together the most complicated jigsaw I’ve ever had in my life.
So here it is, in my minds eye the jigsaw of my life, the tattered shards and fragments that I don’t want to put together because the purpose of being here failed me. But those fragments make me who I am and without them I am not me, I am nothing, I am a ghost of my own existence.
I will piece them together and I will break through a stronger embodiment of me.
I will not survive I will live!
Why because I can and when I do, I truly live, I love, I laugh, I cry, I shout, I scream and throughout it all I have those people in my life good or bad that trigger those emotions that make me whole and for those of you that trigger every emotion whether it be good or bad….
Read more: http://bongoisme.blogspot.com/#ixzz1VuBWzlVY
I shall grieve thine essence ‘til we meet again."
Enlighten Up For Jens Sake
~Jenni De La Torre
Find me online:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/InJensMind/178186558859615
A very dear friend of mine has asked me to write a guest post for her. Bonnie Panter Gayadeen is the one who has honored me with this request. She is doing a series of guest posts called REAL LIFE SERIES. I am not a true writer, bearing that in mind I will write as if were I telling the saga to Bonnie herself.
The vile language that my abuser used on me was enough abuse, the things he did following the words were more than I could bear. My dad and I would go fishing grampa would come along. I'm talking ocean fishing, miles out to sea. My mother went sometimes but mostly it was "us three". Dad drove the boat and fished, he was always preoccupied. Grampa would touch me, silently warn me to shut up, he pressed my hand into his groin and squeezed my hand. Sometimes so tightly I could not hold the fishing pole afterwards. He threatened to throw me in the ocean, breathing heavily into my ear and whispering the threat. I knew he would. I can not express the evil this man evoked, it was as if Satan himself was talking.
My folks had moved 2000 miles to get away from him and my grandmother, to no avail. They moved too. Gramma could not get a license in Oregon so they moved to southern California. I thought I was safe. Keep in mind I was a very small child at this point. On our trip out which was several months long, I had night terrors so severe my folks had know idea what to do. I would be sleeping peacefully and suddenly I would start screaming and crying in terror. They would take me for a ride for an hour or so, I didn't wake up, if I did I wouldn't sleep for the rest of the night.
Every Christmas break, Spring break, and Summer break my grandparents would come to my home town. They had a travel trailer that they stayed in, in our back yard. They went camping with us everywhere we went there they were. Grampa abused me at every chance. I was cornered in the back yard, in our laundry room. in dad's workshop. On the boat either the big one or the little one. In they water, on the beach, driving down the road. I was safe no where. I cannot tell you exactly what happened, or rather I could but let's just say use your imagination it happened. until I was 14 yrs old.
The physical was damaging, to this day I have physical problems because of it. What has damaged my entire life are the things he said to me. He told me that my parents hated me, wouldn't help me, if they did he would kill them and gramma didn't care so don't even bother. I was a slut, a whore should been thrown away with the trash. No one will ever love me because I was fat ugly and disgusting. he never yelled; always used the most threatening and evil whisper I have ever heard to this day. His physical strength was overwhelming, I watched him out power my father when they were working together. How could I not be afraid. When it all came out after my gramma's death, (my mother caught him.), my father in complete denial continued the rhetoric I had heard all my life. You are a liar, I was a filthy whore and slut, no man would ever want me, I was damaged goods, all boys just wanted to fuck me. I was not worth loving, never could be.
Well from there I found many men, to "love" me, most abusive, I found booze and loved it. I smoked a lot of pot and had sex with anyone that would stand still long enough. I hated myself, I let myself down, no one cared anyway so I may as well do what I was told I was doing. As a result of my fear and believing what I was told, I picked men that would continue the cycle. I had my jaw broken in three places, many bruises and black eyes, I was continually mentally abused. I gained weight making myself less attractive,(at least that is what the psychiatrist said.)
I have tried to end the pain countless times, Suicide seemed the only answer.
I have been a terrible friend, insecure, comparing my grief and pain to that of others thinking no one could have possibly suffered as I had.
I was a terrible mother much of the time, but I did stop part of the cycle.I was jealous of others beauty, of their intelligence, of their confidence , of a successful career, of a good relationship. I manipulated and lied, as horrible as the man who taught me.
I am much different now I do love with clean pure love and trust. People who say; pray it will be gone, let God have your pain, these things have not helped. What has helped are the friends I have found here in a place that people know exactly what I feel and fear. One of the things they know is that it will never be gone, it always is there, comes up and slaps you down at the most unexpected moment, to quote a friend. Thank you all for being there. <3
TRIGGER WARNING/JAN'S STORY
This is the Thirteenth in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....
This woman
JAN NEEL
Writes an amazing blog about her journey You laugh..you cry..you get angry.....every emotion is spilled out in her blog ....You feel like you are part of her family feeling all the pain and joy with her.....She has many stories to tell..she has honored Bongo Is Me with just one of those pieces of her life...Weathering The Storm
JAN NEEL
Writes an amazing blog about her journey You laugh..you cry..you get angry.....every emotion is spilled out in her blog ....You feel like you are part of her family feeling all the pain and joy with her.....She has many stories to tell..she has honored Bongo Is Me with just one of those pieces of her life...Weathering The Storm
I am honored to have her here..Please show JAN the love and encouragement you have to me...
JAN's STORY
A very dear friend of mine has asked me to write a guest post for her. Bonnie Panter Gayadeen is the one who has honored me with this request. She is doing a series of guest posts called REAL LIFE SERIES. I am not a true writer, bearing that in mind I will write as if were I telling the saga to Bonnie herself.
What I remember of my abuse becomes clearer and clearer as I heal. It was not just the sexual abuse I suffered at the hands of my grandfather, it was also the abuse of my father and his denial of what had happened and his blame.
The vile language that my abuser used on me was enough abuse, the things he did following the words were more than I could bear. My dad and I would go fishing grampa would come along. I'm talking ocean fishing, miles out to sea. My mother went sometimes but mostly it was "us three". Dad drove the boat and fished, he was always preoccupied. Grampa would touch me, silently warn me to shut up, he pressed my hand into his groin and squeezed my hand. Sometimes so tightly I could not hold the fishing pole afterwards. He threatened to throw me in the ocean, breathing heavily into my ear and whispering the threat. I knew he would. I can not express the evil this man evoked, it was as if Satan himself was talking. I have been a terrible friend, insecure, comparing my grief and pain to that of others thinking no one could have possibly suffered as I had.
I was a terrible mother much of the time, but I did stop part of the cycle.I was jealous of others beauty, of their intelligence, of their confidence , of a successful career, of a good relationship. I manipulated and lied, as horrible as the man who taught me.
This is the fourteenth in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice....
Lauren S. Barr is an author, poet and journalist. She lives in Clark, NJ with her husband JH Barr and their two children Ainsley and Leah.
Lauren regularly covers the Westfield Town Council for The Westfield Leader and The Scotch Plains-Fanwood Times.
Her poetry book Little Girl Lost: poems is currently available...please find links below this post ..
I am honored to have Lauren here...Please show her the love and encouragement you have to me
Out of Many, One
I was lucky - I had a therapist who, while she and I didn't mesh, referred me to a great psychiatrist, who, after several full days of working with me gently told me all about DID. It was almost a relief. I went out and found all of the books I could (which wasn't much), and began my very long and painful search for a therapist with experience in the field.
Dealing with my alters and the physical, mental and sexual abuse that we had all suffered, was a horrible and harrowing road. I would leave therapy and throw up in the car from being so upset. I lived in fear of switching, of losing time, and that those alters still aligned with my abusers would return to them out of loyalty. I thought I would never have a normal life, that everything I wanted for myself would never be mine. Not only did I feel broken, but I was broken. My abusers had actually shattered me into over 20 different pieces.
It took a lot of work, and trust. One by one, we convinced the alters that they were no longer needed (quite frankly some of them were just unwanted).
And then there were two.
I had become dependent on them. It was my way of escaping when things got too hard, a safety net. I didn't trust my self to make good choices without my "Voice of Reason" and I was terrified of not having them to rely on.
I chose to say goodbye to the last two alters, and became a whole person. But it was my choice. I knew I had come to a point where I could stand on my own two feet and I was ready to let go of the past (as much as humanly possible) and move forward with my life.
http://www.authorhouse.com/Bookstore/Boo...
http://twitter.com/LaurenSBarr
http://www.amazon.com/Little-Girl-Lost-p...
I was born in the 70′s I have always called it the “hippie days” era of sex, drugs and rock n roll. I could be wrong but doesn’t matter because my parents were stuck in that era until I was about 13 yrs old. My earliest remembrance was probably when I was about 5. Now that I think about it how could a parent submit their children to such things.
This is part 1 of my story.
I later remember hating myself for being excited about my tooth, hating myself for running home, and hating myself for not knocking on the door first. I mean I live there, it was my home! How was I supposed to know what was going on behind closed doors? Why wasn’t my mom in her normal spot watching soaps, when I barged in the front door?
Yes those are things a 6-7 year old later thinks after she barges into her parents bedroom, especially after catching her mother in bed with the guy across the street. I don’t remember the look on their face, I don’t remember them ever talking to me about it.
I do remember having the feeling that I had to find my sister, I remember thinking that I had to protect her from all this. Another vivid memory was walking into my room frantically saying my sisters name over and over, and there she was sitting there on my bed playing with my favorite barbie doll. I used to get furious when I’d come home and find her playing with my barbies, on my bed. But not that day, hugging her and telling her she could play with my barbies all day if she promised to stay in our room while I was at school.
Many other things that happened during that year, more drugs, more partying and I saw more sex than an average 6-7 year old should see. My parents were alcoholics, druggies and they had sex with other couples, all while my sister and I were in the next room.
I continued helping them clean the pot and weight it etc. They continued to offer it to me and blow in my face, I remember not feeling well while they were partying. My mother said something to the group while holding up this white pill she took from the table. Exact words I don’t remember, but I remember them breaking it in half and giving it to me with water. I was 6 for jumping jelly beans!! I later found out it was a Quaalude a popular drug in the 70′s.
More little bits of info:
The group Foreigner – Waiting for a Girl Like You makes me sick. There are other groups and songs, I’ve somehow related to those childhood memories that I can’t listen too. Well I know why I’ve related them to those memories, I just think that it’s maddening that after 30 something years that they still bother me. This is the start of my story, which starts out at the age of 6 and continues until I am 14.
I will continue to share pieces with you as long as you would like to read, the different parts will be shared here on Bongo Is Me site.
Thanks for allowing me to share this on your site Bongo, and thank you everyone that listened.
http://www.scatteredmusings.net/
http://twitter.com/LaurenSBarr
http://www.amazon.com/Little-Girl-Lost-p...
This is the fifteenth in a series of guest posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice...
This woman
Deborah Scatteredmusings
Can make you laugh, get angry and cry in the same minute...right now I am enjoying my friendship with her and the laughter we share...I am honeored to have her here at BONGO IS ME ....
Please support and encourage her the same way you have done for me
http://www.scatteredmusings.net/
Pick Your Posion Little Girl ~ Part 1
I was born in the 70′s I have always called it the “hippie days” era of sex, drugs and rock n roll. I could be wrong but doesn’t matter because my parents were stuck in that era until I was about 13 yrs old. My earliest remembrance was probably when I was about 5. Now that I think about it how could a parent submit their children to such things.
This is part 1 of my story.
Yes those are things a 6-7 year old later thinks after she barges into her parents bedroom, especially after catching her mother in bed with the guy across the street. I don’t remember the look on their face, I don’t remember them ever talking to me about it.
I do remember having the feeling that I had to find my sister, I remember thinking that I had to protect her from all this. Another vivid memory was walking into my room frantically saying my sisters name over and over, and there she was sitting there on my bed playing with my favorite barbie doll. I used to get furious when I’d come home and find her playing with my barbies, on my bed. But not that day, hugging her and telling her she could play with my barbies all day if she promised to stay in our room while I was at school.
Many other things that happened during that year, more drugs, more partying and I saw more sex than an average 6-7 year old should see. My parents were alcoholics, druggies and they had sex with other couples, all while my sister and I were in the next room.
I continued helping them clean the pot and weight it etc. They continued to offer it to me and blow in my face, I remember not feeling well while they were partying. My mother said something to the group while holding up this white pill she took from the table. Exact words I don’t remember, but I remember them breaking it in half and giving it to me with water. I was 6 for jumping jelly beans!! I later found out it was a Quaalude a popular drug in the 70′s.
More little bits of info:
I will continue to share pieces with you as long as you would like to read, the different parts will be shared here on Bongo Is Me site.
Thanks for allowing me to share this on your site Bongo, and thank you everyone that listened.
http://www.scatteredmusings.net/
TRIGGER WARNING/ TEEN RAPE/REAL LIFE SERIES
This is the sixteenth in a series of posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice...
I was 13...Kathy was my best friend....
we did everything together......
I was in the bathroom at school.....
it was after school....she came in and pushed me against the wall....she started kissing me and playing with my breasts...........
then she took her hand between my thighs and put her hand in my private.......
it hurt but I didn't cry.......
then she pushed me down to the ground i hit my head on the floor...
I still didn't cry,,,,,
then she went between my legs and was kissing my private parts....
it felt good but I wanted to throw up.......
then as I lay there she got the plunger and shoved it up my rear. ........
I still didn't cry ...
I never did cry ...
till Liz Beth told me today,,,,
Liz Beth is a 13 year old alter and now we have met and I have felt her pain. but i didn't cry till today..
and I'm stuck with it
didn't cry till ..........till today...
As always........
Read more: http://bongoisme.blogspot.com/#ixzz1VuBAWlBr
I WILL NOT SURVIVE/REAL LIFE SERIES
This is the seventeenth in a series of posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice...
This lady is very special ..she is and always will remain inside my heart ...
THANK YOU SJ......I LOVE YOU XOXOXO
http://almostthere.biz/
THANK YOU SJ......I LOVE YOU XOXOXO
http://almostthere.biz/
There are often moments when we don’t understand the purpose, we don’t understand what the point is! What is the point, really do you see it?
Because right now I can’t see it, I see nothing. I look and I search but there’s a hole, a void, and it’s growing inside eating up every part of my eternal soul and the person that I am.
I can feel these moments coming, I can see them so very often and there are certain things that I can do to make these feelings go away, to make me feel whole again.
Without my friends I am nothing but sometimes with them I am nothing. People in my life are the biggest influence be it good or bad. I have been in places where there has been no light and somehow I have managed to find something, a voice in the distance that will kick me into reality and give me just the slightest piece of realism, a glimmer into the person I vaguely recognize as me.
So how do you find it?
I’ve always been good at jigsaw puzzles and now here is my time to piece together the most complicated jigsaw I’ve ever had in my life.
I will piece them together and I will break through a stronger embodiment of me.
I will not survive I will live!
I thank you x
For BB I love you, you are an inspiration, a muse, a true heart and a person I treasure. Someone that even though the miles separate us I could not see my life without you in it.
Read more: http://bongoisme.blogspot.com/#ixzz1VuBWzlVY
A CHILDS INTERNET NIGHTMARE/REAL LIFE SERIES
This
is the eighteenth in a series of posts ......it's about real
struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the
other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my
voice...
This
lady is very special .....we recently met and spent much time laughing
so hard we cried..She is a very courageous woman to share this story
here...and I am honored she chose BONGO IS ME
I Love you Mary Hudak-Collins
http://allergiesandceliac.blogspot.com/
another world.
Another dimension.
A wonderful, powerful resource available to most, any hour of the day, any day of the week.
But it can also be a source of heartache and sadness, leaving one with a feeling of helplessness.
This is a story about my daughter.
She was
only 12 yrs in age at the time that this happened, but with her
developmental delays, her mind was functioning more as a 10 yr old girl.
It’s a beautiful, sunny, spring day.
“But
mom! Everyone in school plays this game” my daughter cries. I calmly
explain to her that I have to ‘check it out’. Later in the evening, I
talk with my son, who also plays this game. It’s called Runescape. He
assures me that everyone in school IS a member and plays it usually in the evenings and weekends.
It was difficult for her as she was home bound in school and had lost contact with most of her friends. We tried to get her out in the public doing activities, but she was more of a ‘home-body’ and didn’t have much interest in going out.
After
about a week of pestering, I allow her to play without a membership and
with strict restrictions. I sat down with her and explained that she
can’t spend all of her free time playing a game on the computer and we
needed to set time and friending limits. Once that was done, she was on
her way. Months go by and everything is going fine. She has stuck to
the restrictions without flaw, or so I thought at that time. She comes
to me one day and asks me if she can buy a 30 day membership.
What a membership does is it allows her to access more gaming options and power. I agree to this and told her we would see how the first 30 days go.
What a membership does is it allows her to access more gaming options and power. I agree to this and told her we would see how the first 30 days go.
Weeks
go by and she talks with this boy often. She shares with us what is
going on in his life. School is getting ready to end and all the kids
are getting ready for graduation from elementary school into middle
school. Being home bound means that teachers come from the school to
our house to do her lessons with her. This meant that she would be
participating in her graduation with the rest of her class. This is
where our nightmare began.
The
next three days all sort of blur together in my mind. I remember
sharing with her that it will be nice to meet her friend and his
parents. To this day, I still do not know if she truly knew that he
wasn’t a student in her school.
I
can’t tell you how the rest came about. I know that I did a lot of
screaming and crying. I beat myself up, questioning my mothering
skills. Our daughter had not been ‘too hot to sleep upstairs’. She had
been taking naked pictures of herself and texting images to this so
called ‘friend from school’. I didn’t know what to do first. I took
her phone. I closed off any internet connection to her. I wanted to
take her and shake her!
I kept asking “Why???”
“Why would you do something like that?”
Then I got my answer.
I kept asking “Why???”
“Why would you do something like that?”
Then I got my answer.
“He
told me he wouldn’t love me anymore. He said if I didn’t send him
pictures he wouldn’t be my friend anymore and he wouldn’t talk to me.”
Meantime,
my son was doing his own research. He had seen this member in his
account and found him on Facebook. We Google searched him, found out
the city and state that he lived in, and also found out he was in his
30’s.
I vaguely remember contacting the FBI. We talked a long time. Every
bit of information that I could muster, I freely gave. I had no idea
what they were going to do to this man, but I knew that I wanted him out
of my daughter’s life ( I won’t disclose the thoughts that went
through my mind on how I would have taken care of him). The FBI
instructed me that they would handle this case and that it may take 8
months or longer to resolve it. I assumed they would pose as a young
girl in Runescape and see if they could get him interested and asking
for photos. They told me they wouldn’t contact me, to just rest assured
that it would be taken care of. ‘Rest assured’?? Much easier said
than done.
If my story can prevent even one child from being taken advantage of by an internet predator, than it has been worth every word.
Read more: http://bongoisme.blogspot.com/2011/08/childs-internet-nightmarereal-life.html#ixzz1ZlOcQhQL
This is the twenty-first in a series of posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice...
Today I am honored to share a post by: Rev. Jamie L. Saloff
Jamie is an author, healer, speaker, and reverend..She has an awesome uplifting website:
Shedding My Skin
Then something happened. Something unexpected. Something that blindsided me and took me down. It no longer matters who did what or why or whether it was true. What matters is that I got the call, the call that said not to come back. Me, the "good little Christian girl" who was shy as a stone--OUT.
I fell in to a deep, dark depression. For the next forty-five days, I did not write, not even a grocery list. Except for necessary errands, I did not leave the house. I spent every day sitting in the living room reading, listening to music, and praying.
What happened to me during those days sounds awfully melodramatic now—even to me. Only those who’ve faced a depression will truly understand that it doesn’t matter how good or bad life is because it’s not just a mental problem. There’s a physical heaviness that goes with it. On some days it’s like walking through thick, wet sand on a foggy day. Nothing matters. Not even life itself.
I survived by doing meaningless, benign things, as they offered the easiest means of existence. I’d go through the motions of living, following my routine, avoiding anything too strenuous or social, doing as little as possible to escape having to feel because feeling anything simply hurt too much.
Then, just when I thought I could go no further, when I had done all I thought possible to suppress the pain—without success—I gave up. I stopped fighting. I quit resisting the pain and let it hit me full force.
What happened next was both incredible and scary. Incredible, because of how it changed my life and lifted me up to a place where I not only felt better about myself but also became inspired to help others. Scary, because it led me through paths I would not have chosen on my own. Scary, because it caused me to believe things I could not have believed possible. Scary, because in order to go forward, I had to let go of what I’d believed in the past.
The ground shook,
The air filled with smoke,
Fire rained down from the sky.
When the walls around me had finished crumbling,
When the air cleared,
I was still standing.
From amid the rubble,
I found one brick,
One brick which I could use to start again.
Then I searched and found another,
The second, charred, to be sure,
But still strong.
Thus I began rebuilding,
Blessed that though I had faced destruction,
Destruction had not destroyed me.
It's been 20 years since I wrote that. Who knew that my life would take such a dramatic turn from that point? Who could have told me about all the fabulous wonderful things that would transpire in following years? No one. I could not have heard them. I would not have believed them.
What I faced at that time was as if I had my skin peeled off, a process necessary so that I could move forward into the next phase of my life. Only those who have been there will understand. To those in the midst, I say, hang on. Do what I did. Each day I woke and I said, "I will wait one more day." That seem to be enough to get me through that day and to today.
To learn more about Rev. Jamie L. Saloff and her transformation, visit her website at http://www.iAMaSwan.com Jamie is also the author of Transformational Healing; Prayer Superchargers; and The Wisdom of Emotional Healing.
A few days later we got into another argument when his mother only sent my Christmas gifts. I opened them right away because it didn’t matter; Christmas didn’t matter.
Selecting a few T-Shirts, I threw the rest of the gifts in a bag and brought them to the church. I know that his mom went to all the trouble of picking out gifts for me, even after the divorce was taking place, but the objects seemed empty. They held no
Christmas is a day of family, a day of sharing gifts; a day of joy.
We went to Mesa to see the duplex. Exiting the freeway, I glanced at the neighborhood. Low Rent/Free Utilities signs hung from modest apartment buildings, dilapidated houses with barred windows lined the street on both sides. Well, this is directly off the freeway, I thought. It has to get better. Then I saw my street. I was in the heart of poverty. There was a pawn shop on one side of the street and an AT&T building on the other. Thankfully my duplex was behind the AT&T building.
“Do you think they have other places you could check out while you are here?” Mom asked. I could tell she was biting her tongue on other comments she wanted to make.
“This is all she has in my price range. I don’t have a choice if I want to keep my dogs.”
I honestly think she was worried for me living there, but knew as well as I did, I couldn’t do better at the present time and silenced her unease.
We headed back to Scottsdale and decided to eat. I sat fuming. Why does he get my beautiful house and live in a good neighborhood while I have to live in that place?
When the waiter came by, I ordered a Daiquiri with twice the alcohol and a bowl of soup.
My mom just looked at me. “That isn’t going to solve your problems.”
The next day we were able to see inside the rental. My mood didn’t improve. The tile throughout the rooms was new and a pretty Tuscan brown color. Walls were freshly painted a soft cream, and three tall, rounded windows accented the living room. The charm, however, stopped there. The kitchen and bathroom did have the updated countertops the realtor said they were installing, and they were nice, but the cupboards were original 1980’s laminated wood festooned with caked on grime, grease and a mystery dirt. A damp, musty scent permeated from under the sinks, and water damage was evident.
If anything needed replaced, it was the shower doors. Green stick-on snowflakes were a permanent decoration to the ancient doors that didn’t slide easily and stuck before closing all the way. The kitchen stove, also dated, was missing the oven temperature knob. Although I was delighted to hear there were laundry hookups, the laundry room was located outside in the back of the duplex. Walking down the narrow side yard, I was greeted with an ornamental orange tree and a tiny dirt yard.
New Year’s Eve I sat with my mom and Michael in an empty hotel bar watching a movie play softly in the background and munched on stale chips. Now, that was an exciting way to ring in the New Year!
For a few days I explored Scottsdale and Mesa,
This is a series of posts ......it's about real struggle..real life...real pain...and getting through to the other side....thank you to all my guests for helping me find my voice...
I am honored That ANGELA CHASE chose BONGO IS ME to share her story....
Thank you ANGELA CHASE.......
A Solitary Christmas
I had kicked the wall in anger with my slippered foot. Steve picked me up and threw me into the Christmas tree. Never in our years together had he been physically violent with me. What made him hate me so much? We had been arguing over his infidelity.
Abhorrence for him held back my tears. I wanted to strike him, but I knew God saw the incident, and He would take care of it for me.
A few days later we got into another argument when his mother only sent my Christmas gifts. I opened them right away because it didn’t matter; Christmas didn’t matter.
Selecting a few T-Shirts, I threw the rest of the gifts in a bag and brought them to the church. I know that his mom went to all the trouble of picking out gifts for me, even after the divorce was taking place, but the objects seemed empty. They held no
meaning.
For once, my material items that I treasured above all other things, including people, seemed like a pile of junk. I decided to give them away to the church for other people who didn’t receive gifts.
The meaning of Christmas was lost in my heart as I slouched in Mass. Jovial parishioners filed out. Christmas blessings were exchanged. I was not a part of the world as I stood in the shadows concealing my bruises and scratches.
Christmas is a day of family, a day of sharing gifts; a day of joy.
I was alone. My tree lay empty.
My heart was broken.
Deep under the covers I cried myself to sleep.
I had never experienced a Christmas alone. My heart bled for all those people who were just as alone. Now I understood how difficult the holidays were for those who had no one to share them with. I finally understood what Christmas was really about and found myself dreaming of Christmas past and longed to walk through the portal of time.
Mom was heading to Phoenix to work on consolidating an office. A few days after Christmas, she picked me up so I could spend time with her and Michael, her new husband, and preview the area. I decided that I was going to move to Phoenix. It held the most opportunity for starting a new life. I even picked out a rental.
We went to Mesa to see the duplex. Exiting the freeway, I glanced at the neighborhood. Low Rent/Free Utilities signs hung from modest apartment buildings, dilapidated houses with barred windows lined the street on both sides. Well, this is directly off the freeway, I thought. It has to get better. Then I saw my street. I was in the heart of poverty. There was a pawn shop on one side of the street and an AT&T building on the other. Thankfully my duplex was behind the AT&T building.
The duplex faced two apartment complexes. One looked like gangs ran the place, the other seemed quiet. The rest of the neighborhood was full of older homes in a variety of conditions and a house that was a burned out shell.
What disturbed me more was the police car sitting in front of the “gang central” apartments and the helicopter circling overhead.
Unable to catch the maintenance worker who was putting in my new countertops, I could only look at the back yard.
So far, I wasn’t impressed, especially for the rent I was paying.
“Do you think they have other places you could check out while you are here?” Mom asked. I could tell she was biting her tongue on other comments she wanted to make.
“No.” It was almost a sob.
“This is all she has in my price range. I don’t have a choice if I want to keep my dogs.”
“Well, maybe it’s not so bad —”
“You live here then!”
“We’ll call the realtor and express our concerns. Maybe she knows the neighborhood, and we just came on a bad day.”
I honestly think she was worried for me living there, but knew as well as I did, I couldn’t do better at the present time and silenced her unease.
When she mentioned I could give the dogs back to Steve and rent an apartment in a better part of town, I told her that wasn’t an option.
We headed back to Scottsdale and decided to eat. I sat fuming. Why does he get my beautiful house and live in a good neighborhood while I have to live in that place?
God, this isn’t fair!
When the waiter came by, I ordered a Daiquiri with twice the alcohol and a bowl of soup.
This was the one time in my life I wanted to be in a haze.
My mom just looked at me. “That isn’t going to solve your problems.”
“No, but for a few hours I’ll feel better.”
Nothing further was said.
The next day we were able to see inside the rental. My mood didn’t improve. The tile throughout the rooms was new and a pretty Tuscan brown color. Walls were freshly painted a soft cream, and three tall, rounded windows accented the living room. The charm, however, stopped there. The kitchen and bathroom did have the updated countertops the realtor said they were installing, and they were nice, but the cupboards were original 1980’s laminated wood festooned with caked on grime, grease and a mystery dirt. A damp, musty scent permeated from under the sinks, and water damage was evident.
If anything needed replaced, it was the shower doors. Green stick-on snowflakes were a permanent decoration to the ancient doors that didn’t slide easily and stuck before closing all the way. The kitchen stove, also dated, was missing the oven temperature knob. Although I was delighted to hear there were laundry hookups, the laundry room was located outside in the back of the duplex. Walking down the narrow side yard, I was greeted with an ornamental orange tree and a tiny dirt yard.
I had no choice but to rent this place, but I made it clear to God that this wasn’t my new home; this was temporary. I would make it livable, nothing more. I signed the papers and secured the duplex with my deposit and rent check.
New Year’s Eve I sat with my mom and Michael in an empty hotel bar watching a movie play softly in the background and munched on stale chips. Now, that was an exciting way to ring in the New Year!
I was in bed before midnight, but found no sleep between my racing mind and the obnoxious, drunken pool party below our window.
For a few days I explored Scottsdale and Mesa,
then it was time to go back to my cold, lonely home.
Read more of ANGELA CHASE HERE:
