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The acknowledgement

I’m trying to be gentle with myself, but what if I never believe my body when it tells me what happened?

To the fathers who do not abuse their daughters

On my street I am witness to the young men who carry the pink-flowered backpacks of little girls, who stoop to listen to their newsy plotless...

Revenge of the soul thief

You murdered my son, Abuser. Though breath still trickles out closed lips, he does not live. The twelve years since his disappearance drag by like a sea anchor pulled...

A legacy of abuse: Telling on my brother

A deathbed confession, 1997 Mom unburdens herself only weeks before she dies. She tells me about Mike’s abuse against his children. Her revelations confirm...

When Mom stood by

Detecting abusers is a complex problem. Who is the real villain in the story? As a survivor of childhood sexual, physical, and emotional abuse,...

Poem for my father

Did you enjoy hitting? My mother, your woman? Did you love shouting? That you never wanted us and to my mother Shut your cake-hole, you mental bitch? As though...

What needs to be said

What needs to be said that you haven’t yet talked about?” the woman from hospice looked at me. I suspected I knew but remained...

An old woman survivor: my story

I reached far back under the bed and pulled the orange out into the light of the small bedroom. The mold had grown since...

Sporco

You stood there, surrounded.             Sporco.  Sporco.  Sporco. They towered above you. You (a five-year-old child) stood there, surrounded.             Sporco. Sporco.  Sporco. They (adults) towered above you, laughing. You...

Essays in search of identity after cult, abuse

Part memoir, part essay collection, Leaving Isn’t the Hardest Thing is a fearless book.

Recommended Reading

The acknowledgement

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I’m trying to be gentle with myself, but what if I never believe my body when it tells me what happened?

Have the time of your life!*

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*Common side effects may include but are not limited to: harassment, stalking, getting drugged, passing out in...

To the fathers who do not abuse their daughters

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On my street I am witness to the young men who carry the pink-flowered backpacks of little girls, who...