I recently watched your new music video, Nothing In This World on YouTube. I cannot believe that the part of the boy, was apparently about 14. He looked younger than that, by the way. Now I’m no prude. I know boys dream about stars, especially in their teen years. I get the point there.
What I don’t get is why, in this music video, you are all over his bed, IN YOUR UNDERWEAR, stroking his cheek, and later grinding up against him IN YOUR UNDERWEAR. Pedophilia is already a huge problem around the world, and for you to glamourize it like it’s some kind of new hot thing is irresponsible and wrong.
Sure, most pedophiles are men. I’ve seen the statistics. But the Mary Kay Letourneau dancing on your desk moves? Sick. Sick. Sick. You’re 25 years old Paris. Smarten up.
“Nothing in this world can stop us tonight????” In the words of Perverted Justice, “It’s wrong to try to fuck little kids.” I hope the Moms and Dads of this world stop you cold in your tracks.
My mother would often say how she wished she could trade me for any of her grandchildren - they were worth more, she said, being progeny of my sister - the ever golden middle child. Mother preferred middle children (she herself was one). So my sister reveled in her fortune - she’d watched how the rest of us were treated, and thank her lucky stars it wasn’t her. I was the youngest - by an entire generation. It meant I was raised separately from my siblings - they were grown and married before I was even in school. Christmas (or indeed any other normally celebratory event) usually brought out the very worst in my family. I would have to endure a veritable assault on my senses - trust me when I say growing up in the company of madmen is hardly conducive to the structure of a stable personality. My mothers rambling diatribes became almost legendary in their viciousness and ferocity. Know what? The worst part wasn’t having to listen to the litany of how little I was valued - the worst part was having to protect what surrounded me and more often than not failing - animals, personal possessions, friends (precious few of those, I’m afraid). Having the life of other creatures in your hands at 7 years of age is a responsibility that eats away at the mind - especially if you are unable to protect that which you love. I reproached myself for years - felt I should have been stronger, braver. It wasn’t until a good friend brought his 2 year-old daughter over to visit one weekend that I realized how irrational it was for me to continue to shoulder the blame for the actions of adults. The rotted heart of it all centered in and around my mother. Her whims and fancies controlled everything from when (or if) we ate - to how hot or cold the thermostat could be set at. I mastered basic survival tactics before even learning to read. Though more often than not I’d be caught while trying to outwit my mother (I’ve never been very good at dissembling, you see) - I would still give it a go. Hoarding food (one of a long list of prohibitions) often carried the most severe consequences. My mother didn’t believe in eating, you see - so it wasn’t unusual for her to declare week long lemon juice and water fasts. She was severely anorexic (at 5′ 2″ she weighed anywhere between 78 and 92 lbs. on any given month). I got the idea of hiding food from her. She would squirrel away everything from bread (found months later - a moldy mess) to marshmallows (hard as rocks after who knows how long behind the plastic bags). Still - were the discovered food clearly identified as mine - all would be taken away - and I do mean all. She would actually count slices of bread, and measure the width of beef roasts to ensure my compliance. Were one centimeter missing, I’d be publicly humiliated and harassed till I near exploded with stress. The unending mantra of “You’re fat, ugly and stupid” rattled around my brain like a pinball. It changed after the usual 5th grade IQ testing - morphing into “You’re fat, ugly and too smart to be that stupid.” It wasn’t any wonder I was diagnosed with ulcers at age16. Anyway - my dad would usually eat at work, so if I wanted anything, I’d end up having to scrounge food either at school, or from a neighbor. It was rough. I was lucky in that several of my neighbors were gardeners. I would raid their vegetable patches and fruit trees. Some turned a blind eye - others either didn’t realize what was going on or didn’t care - kicking up all kinds of fuss. The old man with the fig trees would often chase me away with a stick. Nonnie next door, however - kept a little ladder for me to use so I wouldn’t fall while climbing her trees. I still have a love of pomegranates, thanks to that kindly woman - and I always think of her whenever I treat myself to one. If it was the weekend, oh boy - mom unconscious on the couch from too much Valium, my father passed out in his own vomit in the hall. Not conducive to having friends over. Not conducive to much of anything except severe brooding and depression. So - by the time I was 10, I had already attempted suicide twice (once by running in front of a car, another by swallowing an entire bottle of aspirin), had watched my brother and one of his friends beat a man to death and been psychoanalyzed in an attempt to identify the source of my crippling migraines. News flash - I knew why my head hurt; it was the same reason my heart and soul hurt as well. Nuts - they were all stone fucking nuts. And my brother! The worst of the worst. Over the years, my brother has made several attempts on my life - the first when I was 2 or 3. He’s a dangerous psychopath - anyone who’d hold a gun to the head of a 2 year old child and play Russian roulette needs to be locked up with the key residing in the depths of Jonah’s locker. It often got so bad; I’d actually fantasize about my funeral. If I were dead (I reasoned) my family would then realize that they had loved me all along. I would write my own obituary in my head those long nights lying awake, afraid - always afraid. All that fantasy finally disappeared the day of my grandmother’s funeral along with my front row seat on the unreasoning nature of hatred and how it played in my family. You see, my mother had been targeted by her own mother due to her birth order. For some insane reason - middle children in superstitious Irish households were considered disposable - same thing if you were left-handed. Batty as shit, I know - but there you are. As the middle child (and ambidextourous to boot), my mother was forced to play servant for the rest of her own severely dysfunctional family - she even had to wash her older sister’s feet with hot water every night. Any refusal was dealt with severely. My mother bore scars on her back from whippings with willow wands. My grandmother behaved as if she were a queen - she expected everyone to cater to her and wait on her hand and foot. My mother hated her - and I mean hated her. So did I. That old woman had a habit of twisting my flesh between her fingers and holding it until it turned purple. I always thought that’s why she got along with my aunts husband so well (that sadistic older sister of my mothers). His penchant was for pulling children’s hair until they literally cried ‘uncle’ (I won’t get into where he put his hands). If you didn’t shed tears, he’d pull until tufts of hair actually came out in his hand. I remember once he and my grandmother laughing together after torturing one of his own grandchildren (a little girl exactly my age). I have to say I was just glad it wasn’t me at the time. The nasty bitch finally died I was 12, within months of our families giant exodus to Ireland. Evidently my grandmother’s last words were to blame my mother for any and all unhappiness grandmamma may have suffered during her life (one of the many reasons I refused to be present for my own mother’s death). My mother made me go right up to the coffin with her and listen as she poured out all her pain and hatred. She practically had to drag me - I didn’t want to go. I can still feel her hand crushing mine, her nails dug into my palm - digging so deep she actually drew blood. From out her mouth poured invective after invective - decades of hatred and blame all crystallized into this one moment. All those things she wanted to say while the old harridan was yet breathing but hadn’t - things I then thought about her - though she didn’t know it. A roaring filled my ears - like I stood in the middle of a train depot. I found myself retreating inside my head until, after a while, all I saw were my mother’s lips moving and the flecks of spittle that fell unnoticed onto her chin. My grandmother was a horrible woman. I think, if she could, my mother would have stabbed her lifeless body then and there, stopping only when exhaustion stayed her hand. You know - there is a kind of terror that attaches itself to a childhood filled with uncertainty and fear. That terror goes bone deep. It affects every facet of life. You cannot enjoy the simplest thing because you live in mortal fear it will be taken from you. That walking terror stalked my every move. I have no memories of safety - no feelings of protection. I lived feral - one day to the next - too frightened to even run away. I feared what would happen to me were I caught and forced back. So I would sit and listen to Simon & Garfunkels ‘Sounds of Silence’ and imagine they were writing about me. I would try day in and day out to be that rock, that island; but something always interfered. My love of animals, for one. My mother knew that was the one surefire way to control me. Threaten an animal. It didn’t even have to be mine. It didn’t even have to be real. I remember her coming back from a drive once after she and I had had a confrontation. It was one of the few times I tried to stand up to her - to do more than curl up on the bed like a pill bug and just wait for it all to end. She had that crocodile smile she got whenever she knew she had won. “There was a kitten on the road”. The statement hung in the air - heavy, swollen. My gut seized up and started spasming. I tried to keep silent - I should have kept silent - but my fears got the better of me. “Where is it? Is it hurt? Did you hurt it?” I was practically hysterical - exactly what she wanted me to be. “It’s dead.” I thought my heart was going to explode. Why was it dead? What had she done? Her smile grew bigger. “I was so angry at you - and your father was so disappointed - he just ran over it. I looked back and it was crushed flat.” Here’s where she moved in for the kill. “It would still be alive if you hadn’t upset your father and I like that. See what you did? You’re an evil child. What a pity you were ever born. That little creature’s blood is on your hands.” And with that she went into her bedroom. I collapsed sobbing on the floor, a migraine ripping through my head. My father - who hadn’t said a single word throughout - retreated to his garage sanctuary, diving headlong into a bottle - his coping tool of choice. To this day I don’t know if the incident ever really happened - or if it was a construct from out my mother’s twisted imagination. Just another day in the hell that marked my childhood. They were almost all like that. You see - my mother was mentally ill. She needed serious medical intervention - not the Valium all of her doctors shoved at her as if it were the perfect panacea. I have memories of mommy sleeping with Prince Valium; passed out on the couch for days at a clip. I looked forward to that, actually. I’d be granted some peace. So why am I reliving all this? Why drag those memories out instead of considering them long dead and buried? Well - it’s not about saying, ‘oh, poor me’; but rather tracking an evolution of personality - a chronicle of survival, if you will. Sifting through these old memories is important. It’s also quite therapeutic. What I used to do as an actor, I now do with my (metaphorical) pen. Turn over the rock, and see what crawls out. Bright light disinfects, you know. It exposes. You cannot ignore that which hangs in front of your nose. We must not ever repeat our past. To do so is more than a signpost for insanity - it marks the person doing it. There is no cleanser strong enough to wash away the stink of cruelty; which is why I do not understand those who choose to visit their own demons upon others. It is the one sin for which I can never absolve my mother. I can truthfully say that I have never purposefully hurt any living creature - physically or emotionally. Not ever. You can put that on my gravestone. If anything, I came out of my formative years overly empathetic; a sensitive. I feel other people’s pain with a severity that often requires me to shut down. That is why every time I hear the ‘abuse excuse’ being raised to account for someone’s horrific actions - I almost explode with anger. It is not a given that the child will turn out like the parent. Violence is a choice - not a genetic imperative. I understand it’s related to fear, and that fear drives hatred. I both hated and feared my mother for years. No longer. Her death freed me in a way. My gut no longer ties itself in knots whenever she’s brought to mind. There’s freedom in that. And though I do not forgive - I do understand. Her ghost no longer haunts my nightmares. And I am no longer afraid.
Hi! I’m Fireman Fred. Asha of Parent Hacks emailed Karen this morning and told her about this lady, Edmay Mayers, a member of the U. S. Army Corps of Engineers who is currently stationed in Iraq. Edmay has a suggestion as to where to donate old toys:
Please, please, please I know where you can give all the stuffed animals and toys away I am presently stationed (deployed) in Iraq. The children here love the stuffed toys I can hardly keep up with the cost of them I am continuously ordering more and more from Oriental Trading Company and candy for the young ones too. If there is any way at all please have any and all sent to me at the address listed below and I will ensure that the children in Iraq receive all that is sent.
Her name was Doris Ann, but no one in our family called her that, except my father. To everyone else, she was Sissy, or Sis for short.
She had brown hair that had darkened from auburn as she got older and brown eyes that always held a spark of happiness, even when she was sick. She was funny in a goofy, self deprecating way that made you laugh both at her and with her at the same time.
She was a devoutly religious woman who found true comfort in her faith and spirituality without being a hypocrite. I know that her beliefs gave her peace. She wasn’t perfect, I can accept that. But I feel that knowing and acknowledging her imperfections is a way of honoring her memory more truly than canonizing her would be.
My mother died seventeen years ago today. She was six years older than I am at this moment. These anniversaries of her death and her birth sometimes come and go now without me paying tribute. Some years I feel it keenly a week before the date, suffering insomnia, malaise, sadness. Others, I wake up three days after the date has passed and realize that I let it go by.
I have always believed that to be a good thing, but this year feels different. It is inconceivable to me that she has been gone the same amount of time that she was in my life. Time and memory can play tricks on your perception, but even after seventeen years, I still know what her voice sounds like and how her eyes looked when she smiled.
The day before she died, I visited her in the hospital. We spent the entire day together, just the two of us. I brought takeout pizza with all her favorite toppings and we sat on her hospital bed eating and talking. We walked down the hall to get soft serve ice cream cones, looked at old photo albums and talked about everything under the sun, except her illness.
She was terminal at that point, and she knew it. Because my parents mistakenly wanted to shield their children, my sisters and I were never prepared for the eventuality of her death. I never had a chance to talk to her about it and that is my biggest regret.
The only time that we even came close was on that day. She took off her engagement ring and gave it to me. I told her I didn’t want it because she was going to need it. I know she must have been frightened, but she never showed it.
Although I didn’t know it would be my last day with her, I wouldn’t change a thing about how it unfolded. It was perfect. I don’t remember how I said goodbye to her when I left that evening. I wish that I could.
The following morning, I had just clocked in at work when I was called to the front over the loudspeaker. The manager handed me the phone. It was someone from the hospital. My mom had slipped into a coma over night and could I come right away?
I arrived to find her unconscious, her breathing labored, no trace of the laughing, peaceful woman I had left 12 hours earlier. I stayed in her room for the next 13 hours, sometimes holding her hand as people came and went - my father, the hospice worker who had been helping drive her to radiation appointments, friends from church.
Halfway through that day, I spoke the last genuine prayer I have ever said. I asked God to take my mother and end her suffering. I was angry, furious, that she had been so faithful and this pain and indignity was her reward.
Late in the evening, the bustle of constant visitors had slowed. My father had gone to the cafeteria and I was alone in the room with my mother. I sat by her bed and whispered softly to her to go. I told her it was okay and we would be all right if she didn’t stay. She never woke from the coma, but somehow I know that she was aware of my presence.
An hour or two later, I was relieved when her labored breathing seemed to slow and calm and the only sound in the room was the respirator quietly, steadily pumping. A nurse came and asked me to slide out of the way so she could check vital signs. I was angry and asked if they couldn’t just leave her be since she seemed to finally be resting comfortably
I lay her hand on the bed and the nurse took her wrist to check her pulse. It didn’t become clear to me that she had already slipped quietly away until the nurse, not finding a heartbeat, called the doctors to her room. It seemed surreal and anticlimactic as the doctor checked for a heartbeat, looked up at the clock on the wall and said 12:02.
I don’t know what I had been expecting. Was I looking for a sign that she had gone? I had been waiting for a sonic boom, a voice from God and what happened instead was that she died calmly and peacefully, while I was holding her hand. And I never knew.
I hold the gift of that day as one of my greatest treasures. I feel privileged to have been there, to have had her hand in mine. It seems fitting that she ushered me into this world, and I got to help her as she left it. We were physically connected at both moments, seventeen years apart. We are still connected in a different way, seventeen years later.
She was a gentle, kind spirit. She was a strong, independent woman. She was a sister, a friend, a daughter, a mother. I am here because she was.
I have some sort of lung thing going on, which has rendered me so useless, I did not do anything this weekend but shop at 25 different stores, spreading my germs as all good citizens of Ontario do during this time of year, in search of a chocolate brown shelf and matching mirror for the bathroom which Daren and I are renovating. And by Daren and I, I mean I locked the kids in the rec room and had Baby Einstein on replay for hours while I tried to sweat out the infection by demolishing the bathroom, as Daren went to (grunt grunt) Home Depot for all the supplies (before he did the rest of the work).
Sassy has worked her magic once again and if you scroll to the bottom of the pre-mades page at Troll Baby Graphics you’ll see plenty more. Don’t forget to click each one to see them at actual size. Layout is completely up to you! Email trollbabygraphics AT gmail DOT com for inquiries.
Hat tip to Amanda for Weird Al’s New Video. I love Weird Al and he doesn’t disappoint here either.
Eventually I stopped visiting her when she was in the hospital. I couldn’t take it any longer. Not knowing what state of mind she would be in when I got there took a toll on me, depressing me for days and affecting my ability to be a good wife and mother. Sometimes she was angry, sometimes she was childish, and sometimes she was sad and withdrawn. She would walk me around and introduce me to her friends as if we were at a party, “This is Susie, she thinks the government has put something in her head so they can spy on her and this is Mary, she can’t stop cutting herself.” Some of them would stroke my hair or touch my clothes like I was a prized possession. I never stayed long despite my mom’s pleas. I couldn’t get to my car fast enough. I would sit in my car and cry and cry and cry then wipe my face, go home and pretend that I was fine even though I was screaming inside.
It was taking a toll on my dad too. He was softening as he got older, no longer a wife beater. I’m sure he feels some responsibility for what was happening to her. The more he felt sorry for her the more he enabled her. It was a known fact that my mom abused pills, that they were hidden all over the house. I tried to get my dad to take ownership of her meds and to dispense them to her so he could monitor that she was taking them correctly. He never did it. It wasn’t worth fighting with her about it so he chooses to live in the wonderful world of denial until the next time she lost touch with reality because she was abusing pills or charged thousands of dollars on his credit card.
The worst thing my mom did during these four years was attempt to drive a wedge between me and my sister. For awhile she was successful. She would convince us that the other was jealous or saying bad things. It really played with our heads. Even though my sister seemed loving and supportive, my mom s words echoed in my mind. My mom had me convinced that my sister’s husband was physically abusing her and when she visited my sister after the birth of her first baby she had us convinced that my sister and her husband were abusing her. I was snowed because my mom was doing a wonderful job of keeping it together around me because she knew losing access to my kids was at stake. I was snowed because the woman that visited my sister was crazy and manipulative. My sister explains that my mom would be having a good time and then as soon as one of us called she changed into the victim, telling us how bad she was being treated. My sister remembers her acting stoned, slurring her words, and having erratic sleep patterns. She threw temper tantrums, told lies, put my sister down every chance she got, had fits of jealousy, and disturbing behavior towards the baby. I found all this out much later because my mom painted a different story to us who were several states away. In fact I ended up in a huge fight with my sister and did not speak to her for seven weeks. Seven weeks that she needed me, a depressed first time mom, struggling with breastfeeding and needing my support. When we made up we realized how our mom was manipulating us and vowed to no longer fall for it. We became closer than ever. Our dad and brother became even more entangled in her web and she became their prisoner.
My mom manipulated them with her poor me act. She hated to be alone and often called them at work threatening to kill herself so they would come home and rescue her. The sad thing is she hardly got out of the house because she didn’t have a car. My brother broke her car and for years promised to get it fixed. My dad got to the point where he never let her go anywhere unless he was with her. Now she hardly leaves the house. She’s selling the accumulation of junk from her impulsive shopping sprees over the years on Ebay, making a connection with people through feedback.
I cut all ties with them last December, two weeks before the birth of my fourth baby. She became increasingly hostile in the weeks leading up to the birth because she was already feeling jealous about sharing the baby with my aunt and my in-laws. The defining moment was the night my then five year old found some sleeping pills stashed in a purse in a closet at my parent’s house. She fed the pill to her four year old brother. Long story short, my son was fine just slept really hard and really long and my dad was pissed. Not at my mom but at me. He blamed it on my kids because if they weren’t always getting into things then it wouldn’t have happened. He scared the piss out of my mom that I was going to report them to the police. He was completely irrational. I was angry that it had happened because I had repeatedly told my parents to be sure pills were kept out of reach but once I knew my son was okay I just wanted to chalk it up to a learning lesson. My mom couldn’t let it go, needing to keep talking about it and needing my reassurance that I wasn’t mad. I finally told her I no longer wanted to talk about it which sent her into a rant and ending the conversation with her threatening to kill herself which sent me into a panic attack. I found myself actually hoping she would kill herself and put us all out of our misery. Once I calmed down I sent my dad an email asking him to put his anger aside and still go to the concert the next day that my oldest was singing in. I didn’t want them punishing her like they did me. No surprise that they didn’t show up and I came home to an email from my dad calling me a cold hearted bitch and asking me to prove to him that I have love in my heart. My brother then followed up with the most hateful words for me. A sick and twisted letter filled with so much hate that it was disturbing. Poor kid, he’s been brainwashed by my father, taught to be even more hateful and bigoted than his teacher. This was the baby I took care of, the little boy that I cried for when my dad mistreated him, the young man I felt sorry for having to be my mom’s rescuer. He was a little boy when I moved out and I guess my dad convinced him I was the “cancer” of the family. I hope my dad is proud, that he can sleep better at night knowing that one of his children thinks he’s father of the year. The email was copied to my dad. I can’t help but to wonder if they celebrated over a beer. I hope they feel like big men for putting me in my place. My mom claims she doesn’t know about the hate letters because she knows their fate sealed the deal for her, taking her daughter and grandchildren away from her. She apologized for and defended them all in the same breath. I can’t blame her though, they are her lifeline. Saddens me to think my brother will continue the cycle of abuse and my mom will never get the help she needs, heading down a road to nowhere.
My sister also cut ties a few months later and I will save her story for another time. I’m too exhausted. This has taken me four days to write and has left me feeling icky. This is the first time I have written about my life although my sister and I have discussed collaborating on a book to hopefully help others heal and stop the legacy of abuse.? It may seem like I have written about every aspect of my life with my parents but this is the condensed version. There is so much more, so many things I can t even form into words.
I m not even sure if I love them. I just wanted them to love me unconditionally, to be proud of me, and want the best for me. Unfortunately they are incapable to do this so I must move on. Reading my story makes me realize that I haven t healed as well as I thought. The effects of abuse run deep. Reliving my past has solidified for me that cutting ties with my parents is a good choice. If I could do it over I would have left at eighteen and never looked back. I ve given them so many second chances and had begged them for family counseling. I wish it didn’t have to be this way but I need to put my family first, protect myself so I can focus on being a good mom rather than a good daughter and protect my children from the cycle of abuse.
Every once in a great while, we are blessed with people in our lives that make us feel appreciated. I find the longer I’m on the Great Big Internet, the “every once in a while” turns into alot more often.
Everyone who reads Ninjapoodles, loves Belinda. Well I have to say, this woman is amazing. In so many ways. There really are no words to describe her loveliness, her friendship and just well, Belinda. Beautiful person. Belinda posted a challenge tonight for all her readers to snap a pic of their TiVos, and another pic of their fridge.
I still haven’t quit smoking. Despite the promises I’ve made to my family, I still smoke and it’s really pissing off Daren and Dylan. Dylan is telling me all the time that I’m going to die a horrible death and it’s upsetting to hear him say that, but I cannot kick this filthy habit. Yuck. I suck.
Friday night, Daren and I had a date and went to the Western Fair by ourselves. It was a stealth mission, since Dylan would freak out if he knew we had gone, even though the plan was to take the kids to the fair on Sunday, which we did.
While we were there, we held hands, make fun of the dental floss most of the teenage girls had up their butts and played alot of games. Then I spotted a game where we could win Crazy Frog. Much to my chagrin, Dylan LOVES Crazy Frog, and so I HAD to win it for him. Unfortunately, it was a shooting game and though as a kid, I loved to shoot tin cans behind the cottage with my Papa, I wasn’t about to weild a cork gun now. So Daren (grunt grunt grunt) had to be the man and step up the plate.
The man running the game was huge, scruffy looking and had a twinkle in his eye that told me he had a heart the size of his gut. I asked him how many wins it would take to acquire the medium-sized Crazy Frog and he replied, “16.”
Daren, being all about the kitchen math, calculated that at 4 coupons a pop, he was clearly looking at about $40 if we were to win that stupid thing. He looked at me and mouthed, “Forty Bucks!”
I looked at the man and said, “Is there any other way you could be persuaded to perhaps help us win it?” I flashed him a smile and a twoonie. He laughed.
“Depends how sneaky you are.”
Daren begin shooting and I threw down the 2 mini stuffed animals that we had won at other kiosks. I snuck the twoonie under one of them, and Daren stopped shooting to pull a $5 bill from his pocket and whispered, “Give him that.”
The man kept loading Daren’s gun and after about 10 more shots, he reached up, grabbed Crazy Frog and presented it to us, all the while swooping up our money and mini stuffed animals as a trade.
We got home early enough to find Dylan still awake in bed and presented him with his new toy. He was thrilled and assumed we had bought it for him.
The next night, I was tucking Dylan into bed and I mentioned that we had been thinking of him when we won that frog.
“You won it?” He looked surprised and I knew I’d been caught. Me and big mouth.
“Um….yes, but I don’t want to tell you how we won it.”
“Why?” He asked.
“Because you’ll be mad at me.” I winced, wondering how I would explain this one.
He scowled, furrowing his brows and snarled, “Why? Did you win it in a cigarette smoking contest?”
Hi! I’m Fireman Fred. 
