The path isn’t a straight line; it’s a spiral. You continually come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.
-Barry H. Gillespie
Tag Archives: beginnings
The Home on the Corner Lot
When is a house truly a home?
Once upon a time there was a house…
(No, not that house.)
This house was lovely, and beautiful to the young girl. Many thought it was a bit run down. Her father thought that it was too large for a mother and two small children. He said it would be expensive to heat and keep cool.
It was on a corner lot and had the biggest yard on the block. The play area/jungle gym in the backyard seemed tiny in such a big yard, but the girl loved it. It was neat that a park was at the end of her block, but that didn’t compare to one in her own yard. Plus, there was a park right next to her father’s house. Old news.
She got to pick her room. She picked the one that had two huge windows overlooking the front street. She could keep an eye on the comings and goings of everyone.
There was an alley in the back, with a carport. The alley was the part that gave her the most pause. It reminded her of the bad parts of the previous house. It reminded her that people could sneak in. People could take her to a secret place behind the garage (but it was a garage- not a shed) and tell her not to make any noise or bad-bad-bad things would happen to her. To her mother. To her baby brother.
But no one ever came through the alley. The girl shied away from it for weeks. She met the neighbors. There was a girl two doors down her own age. That had never happened before. The neighbor’s name was Brittany (“that’s Brittany with an a-n, not an n-e” she would say).
Brittany was fearless. She roamed the streets of that neighborhood without a care. And soon, the girl went with her. They went to the park. They went by the church that had a huge empty parking lot (good for skating in). They went down the alley.
And the girl learned that the alley wasn’t a monster that bit; breath stinking, eyes sparking, teeth sharply glinting. That monster had been left far behind.
This new house was wonderful.
She got to watch Grey grow from grinning baby into a timid, sensitive toddler. She held her birthday there for two years in a row (father was miffed). She told the walls her secrets, fed the carpet her tears. But the roof also got the echo of her laughter and the stairs happily took her excited, pounding feet.
She grew up there.
Sure, there were other places. There was Father’s two houses (the walls got whispers and the carpets were dry- no yelling or crying in his presence). There were piles of schools. There were friends and relatives houses. But they hardly mattered. They didn’t course through her veins like a sweet melody. The trees there didn’t welcome her with bowing branches, waving leaves.
She watched her mother find someone new. She watched her tentatively move into his house. She noticed how her mother did not move many belongings. Next to no furniture. She noticed how her home on the corner lot was kept. Guarded. Hoarded.
As it should be.
Her home on the corner lot was there for her when the locks were changed at her father’s house. Her father did not want her. It was high school graduation day and the girl thought she would have no where to go.
The home sang it’s reprise and she remembered. The walls expanded. She no longer had a simple corner bedroom. The rooms were her’s. She reveled in it.
But not for long.
Then the shadow that was Katherine injected her poison into the very foundation. The girl had to work. Go to school. She was not there a lot. Katherine claimed to want to take care of the house.
It was a lie.
The house suffered. And it broke the girl’s heart. She frantically tried to keep her imprint on the big, old, beautiful structure. She wasn’t strong enough. And Katherine smelled it, repulsed.
The house still loved her unconditionally. When she curled into it’s tattered recesses, broken-hearted, the house swept her in softly. Carefully. It tucked her into it’s soul.
She thought that might not be the worse way to go. A home always there for her. It was better than all the things and people that were not.
When she took the pills the first time, the walls seemed to sing and bend and whisper sweet nothings.
She merely slept after the concert put on for her though. She was never good at understanding pills and dosage and 6 or 7 seemed like a lot.
The second time the walls and ceiling hummed mournfully. They did not sing. The windows gaped and shattered in her mind. The doors spit fire. She ran down to the deep, dark bottom of the house. The dank basement. It was silent there. It was cool. She painted lines of red onto her arms and chest with the sharp black paintbrush (knife) while her heart skittered, scattered, then debated on beating with slow, languid pulses.
It was the house that called to that sober part of her. It was the house that sang softly that this was not the way to go. The home on the corner lot was flattered by the love showed with this ultimate sacrifice, but it knew there would be other houses. It knew there would be those that could heal her. It knew there would be those that would miss her. Those that could not shoulder the pain of her loss.
The home on the corner lot could.
The house was lost to foreclosure (she did not blame her mother- she couldn’t have saved it either).
She still dreams of the corner bedroom. The spacious kitchen. The sparkling sunroom. The enormous backyard. Many of her dreams take place in that house, even though she hasn’t set foot in it in years. She dreams of Zoe running up and down the stairs, though her canine lifeguard has never laid eyes upon the property.
Her first lifeguard.
Someday, perhaps, she might be able to give her heart and soul to another house. Make another home.
For now she is content with her semi-gypsy life and constant moving.
Plus, she needs a place that sings.
Spark of Inspiration
I dreamed last night.
It was a simple clip of a scene (a man, a woman, a secret), but it wiggled it’s way into my head and now a seed of a story is struggling to grow.
I’m excited. I haven’t had that in a long time.
And I wanted to tell you lovely readers a secret…
The plot involves DID.
I’m sure that doesn’t come as a huge surprise- writers write what they know. But I’m taking this in an unusual direction I think.
I don’t want to reveal too much when it’s still just a little spark- not yet a flame.
I am so excited.
When I’m in creative writing mode, it tends to heal us.
I can only hope it will this time.
I think I want to share this story with you readers a bit as it develops. That feels right.
But perhaps that will be silly and boring to you?
The Root of the Problem- Mistrust in therapists
The first time I saw a therapist it was under duress.
I was seventeen years old and a senior in high school.
I ate an average of maybe four times a week. Sometimes less. My grades slipped whole letters, going from the normal A’s to C’s and even a D (unheard of for me).
This all followed on the tail of Uniballer dumping me for Texas mere weeks before. Part of it was the stupid emo-teenage loss of a boy.
The other part was the loss of a best friend.
And even bigger: no one gave a shit. No one noticed me falling apart. Not my parents, my teachers, not even my other best friend, Germany.
It was Katherine who brought it to the attention of my mother. Mom took a mental step back and realized just how much weight I’d lost. She called my favorite teacher (the subject was German) and asked how I was doing.
It looked bad.
She tried to talk to my father about the idea of me talking to a professional. He balked, as he doesn’t “believe in psychology” and said I just needed to suck it up. In a rare moment, my mom put her foot down.
The therapist’s name was Joy. I rolled my eyes when she told me. I didn’t want to talk at first. The voices (I wasn’t aware of what the DID was at this point) told me not to trust anyone with feelings or secrets.
Slowly she got me to open up a bit. I told her about the betrayal of my ex and friends. Joy was the first person I confided in about my attraction to Katherine, which terrified me as I was so sure I was straight. Being seventeen, I still blindly thought love had to be firmly defined.
Then we got on an even bigger subject. My father. I went on about his emotional distance, his firm rules, his apathy. I talked about how he reminded me constantly that I had to move out and go to college.
“This is all because he loves you. He loves you so much. I think you’re just having trouble seeing it.”
The internal whiplash was physically painful. The voices swirled and buzzed in anger.
I stopped seeing her pretty soon after that (I had turned eighteen, so it was my choice).
It was Katherine who got me to start eating more regularly.
And it was a long time before I tried to trust a therapist again.
Integration is basically a four letter word to me. It terrifies, destroys, triggers, and corrupts my system.
However, over the past couple weeks, we’ve come to be more co-conscious than we’ve ever been. It was probably a bit noticeable on this blog (especially in hindsight) with a lot of the recent entries being more generalized and categorized under “Multiple Alters”.
To mark this occasional, we decided I need a new name to be known as when we’re more co-conscious. On the blog, that is. Obviously in day to day life, I go by the body’s legal name, which is becoming a bit more comfortable to us lately (Army helps immensely with the sweet way he’s been saying it lately).
In a rare unanimous decision, we decided upon “Pen”.
It is not short for anything. It comes out of the first part of this blog’s name, yes, but also because most of us enjoy some sort of hobby or activity with a pen- whether it be blogging, writing, composing music, doodling, or taking notes.
It’s been nice to have the co-consciousness. I now know what some of my DID friends have been talking about. It isn’t integration at all. We’re all still here, still separate. But there can be this beautiful unity.
It’s not entirely perfect yet- Victoria and Daria have yet to join in, and Rika does tend to keep herself slightly free/loose in order to observe the world more closely in her paranoid way.
But things are more balanced.
And the self-harm is at an all-time low. Part of this is a pact we made with Army to be better about this and truly reach out for help if we need it. But part of it is this unity.
I hope it can continue.
A shudder and a whisper
why did she show us the paper she filled out?
why did we zoom in on a previous address she put down. the third one down. has Mother only lived in 2 places since that place?
we never knew the name of the street it all started on.
hide and seek. hide and seek.
oak grove lane.
a tree? but trees are safe. i like trees. i like to climb them and hide. He doesn’t climb.
i learned that fast.
why why why why did it have to be a safe name for that street? that street wasn’t safe. it should have been…
highway to hell road
full of demons drive
childhood lost forever avenue
i didn’t wanna know. none of us wanted to know. it needs to be erased.
at least it’s now a mcdonald’s. the house doesn’t exist.
but the house was never the badpart.
hide and seek is an outside game.
So I realized that I’ve talked about Daddy, I’ve talked about Grey, and I think I’ve even mentioned my youngest brother once or twice (still can’t think of a good nickname….).
But besides a comment here or there, I’ve never really talked about my mother.
That’s not remotely fair. She is an incredible woman.
It’s funny, the evolution of my relationship with my mom.
I remember a closeness right after my parents divorced, when we lived in that horrible house off Needmore. Two females against the world. I remember part of why I never mentioned the abuse (besides the fear He instilled in me to never ever ever talk about it) was because I knew it would break my mother’s heart. She worked two jobs at that time, in addition to having baby Grey. I did everything I could to help.
Then unfortunately mostly apathy during my pre-teens years. I think this is due a lot to the whole disassociation and constant splitting we dealt with.
During the teenage years, I know I was unfair. Especially with my fear of my dad’s anger; it was so much safer to be mad and rage at Mom. I knew- I know she would love me, even after all the things I’d say and do. Rika didn’t fear upsetting her like she did Daddy. Mom still did special things for me. Drove me and my friends around. Helped me when the goings got tough with Daddy- and boys.
Then after Daddy kicked me out on graduation day, she selflessly let me stay in her second house- her home. For almost 5 years. I paid rent on and off- a terrible tenant I’m sure. I did pay the scary-high utilities and that sucked a lot of my meager budget.
When disaster struck the year Katherine left and I landed in the hospital- it was with no hesitation that she was the first person I called. She fought for me tooth and nail- my Mama Bear, to get out of that hellhole.
And I finally confided in her about my abuse and childhood. I was right- it broke her heart. But she expressed how much it meant that I told her. That I trusted her. And I do- to a degree. I don’t know if I could ever tell her about the DID/MPD stuff. I just think that would hurt her further. And I don’t want to do that.
I love the relationship I have with her now. Getting through all the hard times has given me the best reward:
A mother who is my friend, my champion, my shoulder to cry on.
There is no sweeter victory.
I can only hope I can someday repay her. Or be even half the mother she is- if we could ever have the strength to try that again.
Learning to Ride a Bike (Claire scribble)
My parents didn’t teach me to ride a bike without training wheels.
Daddy tried to.
We lived next to a park at the time, and one day after school when we were about 7 or 8, he had this momentarily flash of parenting. He insisted I get my bike out, he’d take the training wheels off, and then we’d go to the park and he’d teach me how to ride it.
His parenting urge and patience only lasted so long.
The second time I fell down, he heaved a big sigh.
“Maybe you’re just not able to ride a bike right now. I guess we can try again some other time.” He stared at me a moment, then turned to walk back to the house. He didn’t look back.
To be fair, our house was a mere 100 yards or so from the open grassy area of the park where we’d attempted this.
But I still remained on the ground, my knees skinned and bruised, trying not to cry. Daddy hates when I cry. Crying makes you worthless.
I pull away from myself as someone steps forward to handle the skinned knees for me. Mute does not have emotions, so it does not have to worry about the possibility of crying. Mute heaves to it’s feet, pulls the bike firmly upright, and trails after Daddy silently.
We make sure the bike is safely stowed in the garage before entering the house, carefully removing our shoes before stepping on the carpet. Daddy is nowhere to be seen. He must be in his room. We go the opposite direction, to the kitchen and Mute calmly gets a glass of water to drink.
“You need to clean those cuts.” says a cool voice behind us. Mute is gone and Rika swings around defensively. Daddy is looking at our knees, a strangely regretful expression on his face. “Come on.” He leads us to the bathroom, where Middi pops out to handle the sting of the alcohol and carefully applies the band-aids herself (Daddy does not like to touch us).
The next afternoon, the training wheels are back on our bike.
He doesn’t offer to teach us again.
We don’t have a bike at Mom’s house, so there’s nothing for her to teach us on. Plus, over there she and Roms are too busy looking after Grey. He is a feisty toddler.
Daddy moves to a big house in a nice neighborhood. It is down the street from the high school and only a little further from the local middle school I start attending. I have to walk. I’ve never walked to school before and at first, it’s a liberating experience. However, it takes awhile to get there and I don’t like how early I have to get up.
I see other kids riding to school on their bikes and it occurs to me that this mode of transportation would be much faster than walking. My old bike is in the garage and I pull it out one day after school.
Daddy isn’t home- the new job that caused the move has him working late.
With a bit of help from Rika (she’s surprisingly tool-savvy), I manage to get the training wheels off myself. I wheel it into the driveway and start attempting to ride it.
It goes horribly. I am frustrated and puzzled. It seems so easy for all the other kids at school. What on earth is wrong with me?
The next day, a contractor arrives to start working on Daddy’s upstairs room. He has the whole second floor and is converting it into one huge bedroom with a walk-in closet. We are never to go up there. Ever.
I watch the contractor and his helpers when I get off school. I am a bit wary, as they are men, but most are older than even Daddy, and that is a relief.
I’m only truly edgy around one of the helpers who is in his late teens, though I’m not sure why. When I try to think about it, I hit a brick wall in my head. Angry whispers tell me to leave well-enough alone.
The lead contractor, Terry, goes out of his way to talk to me, in a uncle/grandfatherly sort of way. I finally get comfortable enough to stop just sitting silently on the porch or in the living room and go about my business.
Which includes struggling to ride that bike. I haven’t given up. I know it has to be accomplished at some point.
Terry comes out to get something out of his truck one afternoon a couple days later and sees me. He stops and tilts his head at me, calculating something. I freeze in embarrassment, both for my age (too old to not know how to ride a two-wheeler), and that I’m still not able to smoothly handle it. He lets out a soft chuckle.
“Well now, no wonder you’re having trouble. Your tires are almost flat.” He goes to his truck purposefully and pulls out a black box with a wand and hose attached. He motions to me. “Come here, I’ll pump ’em up for you.”
I glance down at the white tires of my femininely pink and purple bike. I study it for a moment, but can’t determine how he’d come to that conclusion. However, I slide off the seat and bring it over to him.
He fits the wand into a part of the tire and flips a switch on the box. There is a roaring noise and I jump. He glances at me.
“It’s okay, just the noise the air pump makes. Loud, ain’t it?” He laughs, then looks back at the tire and pulls out the wand, “They aren’t all the way flat, just enough to hinder you.”
“I-I-I know I’m sort of old to be…” I trail off nervously. He gives me a soft smile.
“I learned late too. Just didn’t have a reason to ride a bike for a long time. Better late than never.” He fits the wand into the back tire for a brief minute, and then pulls it out and pushes the handles of the bike towards me. “There ya go. Should be a lot easier now. Go ahead.” He stands and waits, watching. I hesitate. I don’t like being watched. But he had nicely filled the tires and he wasn’t judging me for being in middle school without having learned to ride two-wheeler.
I clamber onto the seat, settle myself for a moment, then push the pedals firmly.
The bike flies smoothly forward, perfectly balanced and I don’t wobble a bit. A grin slips onto my face as I make multiple loops around the driveway. Terry cheers.
It’s amazing how a little air in the tires makes all the difference.
Boy with the Purple Socks
“Sometimes you have to lie. But to yourself you must always tell the truth.”
-Ole Golly in “Harriet the Spy” by Louise Fitzhugh
Today on my drive to work, I saw a young man driving around downtown on a chic, slick moped. He was dressed in a business suit and I wondered about the wind blowing dirt onto his suit jacket.
He was smiling.
And when I glanced down towards his feet I saw that above his black shiny professional loafers, he wore bright purple socks.
I loved “Harriet the Spy” when it first came out. I loved the idea of being able to hide and watch what everyone else did without them seeing.
Spying seemed like the perfect survival tool.
I started my own notebooks, it was completely goofy I know. I was jealous of Harriet’s other tools; the vintage binoculars, the rotating flashlight, that yellow rain slicker.
But it was the boy in the purple socks that always had me fascinated. Who was this boy? Why did he never talk? Why did he wear purple socks? In the movie, it’s never really revealed, although in the book he explains that his mother wanted him to dress in all purple to stand out, but he talked her down to just the socks.
And yet he stands out anyway. To me at least.
Before I read the book (one of the few book-to-movie renditions where I saw the movie first) I used to theorized all sorts of things about the boy in purple socks.
Sometimes I wondered if he was like me. He didn’t really want any attention, but he didn’t want to be invisible. So he compromised. No talking, but wear purple socks. I wondered how else he could be like me.
And today I wondered about a businessman who would drive a moped and wear purple socks. It seemed exactly what the boy would grow up and do.
The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly
(I adore “Fistful of Dollars” much more than “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly”, but it made sense for this post)
This post was really hard to write, but it needed to be done. We need to work through some of this and cleanse it from our mind and psyche.
His poetry was terrible. Looking at it a second time, Kit started to crumple the paper before she hesitated. No one ever wrote poetry about her. And he did talk endlessly about her eyes in person too. She smiled and stuck it in her locker. She couldn’t take it home where her father could see it.
“Ready to go?” He asked. She turned and shrugged.
“I don’t really want to go home. Dad’s been even worse lately.”
“Well…” He winked at her, “I do have a car. It is capable of going places besides your house.”
“Really?” She answered with teasing skepticism. He laughed and grabbed her hand.
He took her to Lincoln Park to walk around the pond and through the trees. It was beautiful and she forgot all about her father.
That night he convinced her to sneak out after Daddy came home and lay on the hood of his car, staring at the stars.
Sometimes he could be romantic.
Kit saw every time he stared at Texas extra long. She knew he was driving Texas home while she volunteered at the library.
But she said nothing.
It came as no surprise we he said he was dumping her to be with Texas.
Though it didn’t hurt any less to be unwanted.
There were the days he refused to give rides to any of their friends and just took Kit straight to her house.
Her dad didn’t come home until after 6:00, which gave him almost a full three hours.
It always started on the couch.
It always ended on the bed.
He always found ways to scar deep into her mind as well as her skin, despite her being adamant about not doing “it“.
There were so many things that weren’t it.
Maybe it would have been better to just do it.
Their anniversary was Valentine’s Day. It was always a big deal.
There was the year Kit planned an elaborate two day event where they shut themselves in their house with plenty of food, drink, and snacks and watch the entire first season of “Gargoyles”.
The last year Katherine planned a beautiful night in a hotel room for the two of them.
It was a surprise and Kit was blindfolded on the drive over. The surprise floored her. Romantic actions always did, even though Katherine was frequently romantic. Kit was always unsure whether she deserved that. They cuddled and watched plenty of “Dexter”.
[Kit tried to force herself to have the sex that was expected, but the dreams and flashbacks had been dark and Charlotte was far away those days.]
Katherine’s employment was always an issue. Sometimes she was employed for long hours and treated in such horrible ways that had her upset or depressed a lot of the time.
There was a long chunk of time where she was unemployed and Kit had to bite back anger and frustration at having to pay all the bills and still do most of the chores.
But the hardest was when Katherine had a job that had her working third shift and Kit had to sleep alone. She hated that. The dreams were dark and the bed cold.
Being woken with a kiss only just made up for it.
Being dumped broke her heart.
But her heart broke even further when Katherine took their dog to a completely different state.
The dog that had gotten her through those first few horrible months of loneliness. The first dog to save her from suicide. She almost refused to let the policeman in her house when Kally’s bark sent his hand to his gun holster on the porch. She begged him not to even think about shooting Kally, tears streaming down her face, before she unlocked the door.
She dreamed about her sweet dog constantly and in those moments between asleep and awake, it always felt like the lab-chow mix was curled up at her feet.
She never was.
He is always good in a crisis. Always.
From the first semi-medical situation he offered to help with (a horrible allergic reaction after going to see 4th of July fireworks and both of Kit’s legs broke out in huge rashes that had her sobbing when they brushed against anything) up until the migraine medicine shot he gave us a couple weeks ago (this entry).
When we miscarried, he was upset that we wouldn’t tell him which hospital we were at. He didn’t force us to come home when we first took refuge at Daddy’s empty house (who was in Las Vegas) until we’d been there for two days and when he checked on us we were drunk as a skunk and playing with the notion of downing our bottle of prescription narcotics. Then he dragged us to his car and drove us home.
He easily let us come back to the apartment after we were hospitalized and said he would happily shoot Stalker if he came looking for us there (despite Stalker being a military cop).
And he has always been so sweet to Zoe, from day one.
She really didn’t want to tell him. But she knew she had to. She started with a cowardly text.
“Want to get a late lunch today? Missed you last week.”
He agreed to meet at her place within the hour. She rocked back and forth on the couch. Then she quickly made sure the front door was open so he could just walk in. She didn’t trust herself to open it when he knocked.
He walked in to see Kit white-faced, chewing her bottom lip nervously. He tilted his head and let out a chuckle.
“Did I catch you playing with yourself?” He joked. Kit barely heard, but both Rika and Charlotte rolled their eyes internally. Kit mutely shook her head. Army stopped and looked at her carefully.
“What is it?”
“I have to tell you something.” She whispered. He paused.
“Well, as long as you aren’t pregnant.” He joked. She didn’t answer. It was his turn for his face to go white. “Are you?” He demanded.
“Yes.” She whispered.
He sat on the floor, hard. “Fuck.”
She curled more tightly into herself and tried to go back into the head, but none of the other alters were having that. She was shoved back out. She hugged her knees.
Suddenly he got up and walked out the front door.
She gaped after him.
She guessed she probably should have expected that. He made such a huge deal about not ever wanting children the one or two times that topic of conversation casually came up.
She was crying when he walked back in and closed the front door behind him. She stared, then wiped at her face, trying to compose herself.
“I-I thought you were j-just leaving.” She stuttered out. He frowned.
“Wow. You really think I’m an asshole. No, I left the car running for us to go to lunch. Because it’s so hot out. But I’m way too nauseous to eat now. Plus we should talk.”
She thought it was sort of weird that he said he was nauseous. That’s what had tipped her off to the whole possibility in the first place a week ago.
They didn’t talk. They sat there in her living room for over an hour. Occasionally a sentence was said.
“So you’ve actually seen a doctor?” He would ask.
“Yes.” She would softly reply.
Or he would just repeat cuss words over and over.
She wondered if she truly was that repulsive. After an hour passed, she figured she should make sure he understood where she stood.
“You don’t…have to like, stay with me. I can just…handle this. If you want to just go find some other casual kind of relationship.”
He stared at her like she was an alien.
“I mean…obviously I must be…completely unsexy now. It’s fine. I get that.” She continued. His frown came back and he scooted closer to the couch and her. He awkwardly reached for her foot and stroked up her thigh.
“No. I’m not going to run. You aren’t automatically unsexy. I mean, I have to follow something like this through. Do the responsible thing. Even if it sucks.”
Fantastic. Now she’s a responsibility.
Mere weeks after she miscarried, he got a vasectomy. He didn’t even tell her about it in advance. The only reason she knew the day of the surgery was because his sister-in-law texted about it, assuming Kit knew.
It wasn’t that she wanted (living) children with this man. She knew she didn’t. She had found out over the past 5 months how much he didn’t want them and it made her think of her own father too much. She didn’t wish that on any possible child of her’s.
But she was still grieving. And she certainly didn’t have the mental capability to take care of him after a surgical procedure. She was still not back to work full-time due to her lack of full health.
And the fact that he didn’t even mention it to her felt like a slap in the face. She thought they were at least attempting to be a couple.
When she tried to explain to him, he did get it at all.
And that’s when she fully realized what kind of man he was.
And the depression clawed at her further. They hadn’t even had sex in weeks. Was he trying to be “prepared” for someone else? Why else schedule it so quickly? He scheduled not only within weeks of her miscarriage, but within weeks of them not having sex. For the first time ever. Maybe he just couldn’t go that long without sex and found someone else. Someone better.
The suicidal thoughts raced around her head. She toyed with the Vicodin, Tylenol, and Codeine she had.
There were multiple nights Army came into her room because he “heard strange breathing” and then he would yell at her for what seemed like hours for taking a handful of pills. He called her stupid and silly.
Of course she was.
That’s why she wanted to die.
It wasn’t until she was given a tiny fluff-ball of fur by a friend that she realized she had to pull it together. This tiny 6 week old puppy needed her.
And we named her Zoe.
She’s gotten so big since then!!