I love it when people call me and say, “Hey, we’re all going out, you wanna to come?” I so needed this phone call today. After this week (and many like it) I could use a dance floor. It’s not like this tired old body will be up there dancing all night but I intend to have a blast. Just to see what Beauty’s attraction is I might try video poker 
If I lose I’ll just collect my losses from Beauty. I will lose cause I’m the girl that never wins at Go Fish. Expect my phone call Beauty. Anyway, so the gang will be heading to the regular spot this evening which means I have to get myself super cute. I have some jeans with a lace strip down the side and I have my cowboy hat. Hmm…what to do, what to do? We have to plan on who will be allowed out. Destiny? Hell no!! Yeah, like we’re going to be able to keep her inside while we’re out dancing. Rigggghhht.
Like so many people do we use a fake name when we go out. Like so many people should do we’ll let someone else know where we’re going and we’ll have cab money with us in case something should go crazy wrong. We aren’t drinkers, my friends and I, so the problem won’t be us but it could be someone that is living proof that alcohol makes the stupid even stupider. So, while I have fun I still need a safety plan. You know, it’s kind of crazy all the safety stuff a person has to put in place before they leave the house these days. Watch my excessively priced Cola like a hawk. Make sure I have a twenty tucked some place, let someone know the location of where I’m going to be, let them know what I’m wearing, blah, blah, blah. Lord, when does a girl get to just relax and have fun without worrying that someone is going to try and take advantage of her? Well, despite these critical points that must be tended to we do manage to have fun. I suppose that’s part of life, keep your eyes open when having fun. It makes the fun, well, more fun because your chances of getting hurt are less. I suppose if you look at it that way (I have safer fun when paying attention) you won’t get so depressed by the realization that the world is just not safe. So anyway, I’ll be dancing for maybe 30 min then I’ll sit and watch people who can’t dance but still try. I’ll watch the drunk drag queens…nothing funnier than that…I suppose there is but I haven’t found it yet. Then I’ll come home and sleep like a log.
Gotta run, gotta get cute-er
Ta ta,
Austin
Ta Ta Off To The Ten-Saturday, May 31, 2008-6:05PM EST
We spoke up. We told and now what? We wait for the other shoe to fall. We figure people are going to read what we’ve said and see just how much we don’t deserve to be heard or believed. We worry they’ll examine our words and find some small inconsistency and bring it to everyone’s attention, calling us a liar and a fake. Now we have to be on our toes so that everything lines up perfectly. How? How on earth do we do that? Make it all line up and make sense to others when it hardly makes sense to us? What was consistent about the abuse other than that we were regularly abused? But we think others will look for inconsistencies so we begin to fret. We doubt ourselves, our writing and suddenly it all becomes clear. I’ve got to shut up. I need to stop writing or someone will find out who I really am. They’ll find out how broken I am, how I’m making more of this than I should. It all sounds so stupid when I write it anyway. All of this goes through my mind when I write an entry detailing abuse. Why on earth would someone read this blog or believe half of what’s in it and why do I care so much? Why do I put myself out here with such great vulnerability?
I have so many times written an entry and thought to myself, no one is coming back for sure after this one. People came back. I wrote more. No one is coming back for sure now. They came back. It surprises me that they do. I figure it’s a matter of time and I’ll get so intense on this blog that no one at all is going to read it. Why is it so important that they read? I can’t stand the silence anymore. I can’t stand people not knowing why I’m this way. So yeah, I speak, I tell things I’d rather not so people get it, so they understand I wasn’t created fragmented and broken. Someone worked very hard to make me this way. Continue reading ‘I Blog Because’
This dream twisted and turned so many times it would be impossible to write it all down in chronological order. There were two strip bars, me marrying the mother from Little House on the Prairie; Pa married his daughter once I took his wife. My sister went to a strip bar looking to get laid. We went back and forth from Indy to Florida in that stupid Winnebago. Found two family members which do not exist, threw colours in the air, grasped at straws, fought with dogs, stole my grandmother’s car to get the kidnapped family member back to where she should be and visited an old restaurant that my mother ran into the ground when I was a kid. Boy do I hate, and never again want to revisit MCL Cafeteria.
One non-existent family member was kidnapped by other family members traveling from Indy to Florida in the grandmother’s Winnebago. They said they wanted to visit with her and would return her whenever they were ready to send her home. The young girl, about 14 years old, was an angry girl who yelled at her grandmother for having Alzheimer’s. It was clear the grandmother was trying to remember things but the young girl was overly angry at her. She was an unreasonable girl. Several family members and I watched her yell and scream then leave the grandmother standing with strangers, unable to get herself home. I went and got the grandmother and brought her back to the Winnebago. At the caravan the grandmother began throwing things. I don’t remember why. Continue reading ‘The High Price of Unrest- Revised’
I’d have a harder time with a little girl moving in here than I will with an 8 year old boy moving in. Dr. D and I discussed how nearly fearful I am of little girls but comfortable w/ boys to a certain degree. When I see a little girl I see nothing at all. I see an empty shell with curls and clothes. I see a doll, like a porcelain doll posed and manipulated to sit or stand as told. I have a really hard time seeing them as anything other than that. It’s hard to see them as real, living, breathing human beings. If I dropped one of the many porcelain dolls that I collect it would shatter on the floor and expose an empty inside. There would be nothing but broken pieces inside three layers of lace under a perfect little dress. I can’t see little girls as real. I can’t see me as a little girl. I see them as dolls, figures manipulated into doing whatever, whenever. She has no control, no choices, nothing about her that’s just hers. A long time ago I wrote the poem called My Own. Part of it says:
To each his own
His own talent, star quality, exemplary field of excellence
Drawn from given abilities with no explanation come
Hatters, tailors, leather workers and toy makers
But some are given over to toys
For never a moment distinct or defining outside the imagination of wistful, pony tailed little girls.
Held tightly then tossed at the blowing of the wind
Only coddled when she feels like it
When she wills it, always a toy and nothing more
Until he snatches from stolen places the breath of life
And leaps to his feet where sweet freedom abounds
Will he be his own.
I meant that the other way around. Little girls get tossed about, always nothing more than a play thing and at the mercy of others. It has got to sound horrible, I know, to say such things about little girls. Continue reading ‘Little Girls’
Looking up from the TV program Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood , Barney says to me: Where are you going?
Austin: …. Um, to therapy….
Barney: All of my daughters have to ask if they can leave the house. They can’t just walk out.
Austin: Papa can I go to psychotherapy today?
Papa Barney: Yes but who will you be with? Do you have a way home?
Austin: (aka daughter 3 of 3): Bye!!!!!
Papa Fife isn’t here right now so I can’t ask him if it’s okay to leave again for therapy. I wonder if I should call his cell phone and ask for permission.
I wonder why Papa Barney doesn’t just come out and tell daughter number 2 of 3 aka Princess Fife that she can’t move in here with her husband and child.
This coming Friday Barney Fife (aka the roommate and Papa Barney) was going to go on vacation to Florida with girlfriend 2 of 4. They have timeshare down there and were going to spend a week together. Don’t you know Princess Fife (daughter 2 of 3) invited herself, her husband and child to go along on Barney’s vacation?!!!! I figure if they’re soooooo broke they have to move in with Papa Fife that they’re too broke to take off a week of work and go to Florida. With gas at $4 per gallon one would spend a fortune alone driving from Indy to Florida and back. But nope, she wanted to go so she invited herself. Papa Fife didn’t tell her no. As a matter of fact, girlfriend 2 of 4 simply canceled the vacation all together. Nobody is going to Florida.
To sum all this up: Two of three is moving in here with her clan, 2 of 4 is mad and 3 of 3 (that would be me) sits stunned that Papa Fife and 2 of 4 can’t simply tell 2 of 3 to get a grip and stop mooching off of others.
Basic Info: Barney says he’s adopted me. He has three daughters now. The first born (1), the second born (2) and then me (3). He also has a son Fife Junior. He has 4 girlfriends, Girlfriend Fife 1 thru 4, all numbered according to how much he likes them. He swears he likes girlfriend 1 more but he spends more time with girlfriend 2 than any of them at all. Daughter number 2 has no boundaries and is a moocher. Girlfriend number two nor Papa Fife can seem to tell daughter 2 to keep her ass at home so they canceled the vacation all together. Seems like everyone has come up with zero.
Since I’m now in the family I have to wonder, am I in the will?
Austin (3 of 3)
Two of Three and Two of Four-Wednesday, May 28, 2008-12:13PM EST
This entry is a little more specific in a sexual nature than usual. It’s also rather open about sexual issues as a survivor.
Of course having her here was a disaster. I’m trying not to rock back and forth and I have the shakes.
I kept most of my word this week end. I made her eat her own food. She did not do any laundry. We slept in separate beds but I did end up sleeping with her. At the end she said, “Oh my god, that was amazing. You could have been a really high paid whore.” I got up, put my clothes on and took a walk. When I got back she was crying saying she didn’t mean it that way, blah, blah, blah. She then went outside on the porch and stayed for awhile, dropped some more tears.
You know why that’s my fault? Because I knew better than to sleep with her. I should NOT have slept with that woman. I know the hazards and did it anyway. So please do not leave a comment about how that is not my fault. If you touch a live wire, expect to get shocked. I got shocked. Continue reading ‘What Do I?’
Dear Sister,
I have to leave you alone now. This letter will be jumbled because I’m not use to feeling what I feel when I think of you. I’m use to singing your praises. I’m use to telling others I couldn’t stand the way you screamed but never have I felt so angry and so hurt when I think of you. I use to just be sad and long for you but in the last few months when I think of you all I want to do is bend over and cry.
When we were kids, though I didn’t understand you at all, I figured we had something big in common and that gave us a secure bond. I thought the abuse was enough to bring us close together so we could out wit the mother, stay one step ahead of her together, be each others confidant. I thought we could be friends. I saw you in nothing but light. Despite being disgusted by your reactions it never changed how I felt about you. I was disgusted by your reaction, not you. That issue is my own and I know why and I’m trying to deal with that. But I want you to know it never made me think you were anything other than the source that hung the moon. Continue reading ‘She Hangs The Moon’
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