My life was interrupted.

By 15 years old, I had lost my sister Dianne. That picture – up there, is me at 15 years old. I was a sophomore in high school. My mom, my freshman year of high school went into a coma and 6 months later, into a vegetative state.

That girl was sexually attractive to grown men. My first sexual and emotional relationship was with someone who was 25 years old. I had sex before that point, this guy lived in Marquette. In his own apartment. I went to him, he never came to me.

That girl was raped for the first time – a year after this picture was taken. She had previously lost her house. The only one she’d ever known. And some people thought and gossiped that they thought it was my fault. Falling asleep with a lit cigarette or something. That hurt.

That girl was so torn from everything that had happened. The increasing absence of love from the people that mattered. And the rest? I don’t know how to quantify. I’m still that girl up there. Sure. I look different. I have wrinkles and I’ve gained a significant amount of weight. The weight – caused by lack of self esteem, self discipline, self control, and desire to look good. This girl, I swear, is still screaming inside my head. She’s getting tired. She just desperately wants to be noticed in the ways that count. To be honored for being the person she is. To be given the credit and the proper feeling of connection. For being something other than a passing ship in the night.

That girl wanted nothing more than to be viewed by people as deserving. So, instead, she did the best thing she could to get what she thought she needed. And only coming to find out – no one gave a shit. They wanted what they wanted. I was going to give them all of me. So I absorbed them and their essence rather than embracing my natural “gifts”. My handwriting (not rushed) is pretty dope. I like things that I think are – likeable. At some point, that young girl watched a Unsolved Mysteries with Robert Stack and found the concept of handwriting analysis REALLY fucking awesome. Wondering about psychology and the meaning behind actions. What is really up there, in our brains. Who can we assure is doing what? And why? Motive? Do we really mean what we say? Can we really tell that a person is lying? What about a psycho/sociopath? Am I in danger? What is safe? Will I lose everything I have? Will I fall asleep and die in the night? Do I really have to go to work tomorrow and pretend that everything’s great!

Everything isn’t great. The world is burning, my mental process is dwindling. I want so much to help people, yet this girl – that girl, me…. she’s trapped reliving horrors day after day. Not like on a horror movie. The need to be the best so no one can say otherwise. To always give your best. you suck if you give anything less. It’s all on you kid. The health and well being of your partner is your life’s goal. You have nothing to give short of your everything to him. And I’m not saying my husband is controlling or demanding – or anything. He’s doing everything he can to keep going. And we’re at that point.

I want to remember who I am. Who I was. The person that never really got a chance to grow. That 15 year old girl above. She was tragic. And this person on this page cannot see herself and her value now.

This person is 34 years older than that first photo. This person is me. And I am terrified. Every day. Because I was emotionally neglected. I was abused. I was judged. The players change, but the situations feel very similar or the same. So the rules be the rules.