Tuesday, January 16, 2018

New voicemail from Blind Satanist at 6:11 PM

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Mountain View CA 94043 USA

New voicemail from Blind Satanist at 6:08 PM

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Monday, January 15, 2018

New voicemail from Blind Satanist at 8:48 AM

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Pandimonium In Paradise: Part Noses

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!

HAIL SMM SMM!!!!

Monday, January Eighth

Dear Daddy,

"HA HA! HA HA!!!!"

Chrissie is very, very excited. Right after our Hershey chocolate and
milk indulgences, she ran right into the bedroom and began looking up
stuff about defamation of character on a borrowed computer. Riley,
her long-time friend, let her borrow it, forcing her to promise to
take good care of it and give it back the moment she was finished with
it.

"I will, I will!" Chrissie shouted at him.

"Shake!" demanded Riley, holding out his hand for her to take into his
own beanie hand and roughly shake, forever sealing their little deal.

"No!" screamed Chrissie.

"Noses!"

Riley knew exactly what she meant. He had known all of us long enough
to know just how much significance noses have in our lives. Ever
since Amira Brigit was born, noses have been very, very special. And,
oh, how I DO love to touch her little nose.

So, jamming his beanie hands in his pockets, he leaned over and, very
roughly, rubbed noses with Chrissie, to seal the deal instead of
shaking hands.

I'm sure Riley would have preferred to lightly rub noses with
Chrissie, but Chrissie always insists on doing everything quite
passionately. Noses are definitely NOT exempt; if anything, Chrissie
is even MORE passionate about noses than certain other things.

I wasn't sure, exactly, what she had in mind to look up online.
Whenever I tried to ask her, she just kept shouting ha ha. Finally,
in a state of great exasperation, I left her to do her thing while I
sat and listened to oldies music, not really thinking about anything
in particular. Just enjoying the peacefulness and quiet of the night,
as I often do, since I greatly prefer night over day.

It only took about twenty minutes of very focused research before the
ha ha's really began to shake the paint off the walls of my bedroom.

"Chrissie," I said, rather irritably. My head still hurts from the
flu, even though I'm mostly over it, and Chrissie's shouts were
aggravating the pain in my head that seems quite endless, at the
moment. Oh, how I DESPISE headaches.

"What are you YELLING about?"

"It's okay that you used your grandmother's last name tonight," she
told me, jumping up and down, Riley's expensive laptop in her hands.

"She can't sue you for defamation of character and expect to get
anything because, everything you wrote about her and Jennifer is all
true. If she ever WAS to try and deny that the Christmas brawl ever
happened, all we would need to do is have our great lawyer, Franc, ask
Verizon for the phone records, and that, automatically, would dismiss
her claim. We could also have Franc subpoena Misty and Giselle if it
ever went to court, and, unless they were willing to lie under oath,
which I don't think they would, for they know how severely they could
be punished by the courts if it was found out that their statements
were deceptive, Giovanna would come out the ultimate liar in the end
for denying that phone calls to Giselle and Misty were made. Can you
imagine just how embarrassed she would be? Imagine how embarrassed she
would be for putting even more of a bad mark on the family than they
already have put on themselves over the years by all the cruel,
cold-hearted things they have done to upset other people. Giselle is
too selfish to jeopardize anything that could ruin her happy life with
her new husband, and I'm quite sure Misty is, too. In order for her
to prove defamation, she would have to prove Smm Smm Smm Smm things,
one of which are that, whatever you wrote on the blog is false, which
none of it is. Everything on that blog is true, EVERYTHING! That's
why Jennifer and Giovanna hate it so much."

I have to admit, I did feel rather relieved when Chrissie shared this
newfound information with me. I was starting to have second thoughts
about that particular post. I was starting to wonder if, maybe, I
ought to figure out how to go back and edit the post to take her last
name out of the story to avoid jail time.

"You can't go to jail for defamation," assured Chrissie.

"Defamation is not a crime, it's civil in nature. At least in the
U.S. It is civil. But, you didn't defame her character anyway."

Pondering Chrissie's enthusiastic words, I smiled, feeling more at
ease with my decision for total honesty.

"What if she tries to get the blog taken down?" I finally asked her.

"She's already tried that. So has Jennifer. It didn't work then, and
it won't now. The worst thing that she could possibly accomplish
would be to get a judge to order you to delete that particular post,
or, at the very least, edit out her last name. But, you know she's
strapped for cash. Nobody wants to employ her. She's jobless, nearly
penniless, and sick, to boot."

Nodding, I smiled and took Chrissie into my arms, taking the laptop
out of hers in the process, because it seemed like it was becoming
quite motion sick from all her leapings, rocking, and running about
the apartment like a total lunatic.

"Even if she ever DID manage to get your blog taken down, it's not
like you can't simply create a new one," Chrissie continued, reaching
over for another slab of the rich Hersheys chocolate. Apparently, Smm
Smm Smm Smm squares hadn't QUITE been enough to satisfy her hearty
appetite.

"Free speech is VERY important in the U.S. No lawyer would want to
take on such a case anyway, because libel and defamation are so
difficult to prove in America, even if it is written. Not only that,
but no reasonable lawyer would want to take on her case after he or
she realized that she doesn't even have an occupation. Why, she can't
even buy a house in the situation she's gotten herself into. Don't
worry, Mommy. I don't think she'll even go for the restraining order
like she did last time and won. She didn't get anything out of it,
which she found out much, much too late. If anything, it hurt her and
the rest of the family because now, because of HER actions to take you
to court, as well as Jennifer's actions, they haven't met their
grandchildren."

"It's more than the whole court thing that is keeping me from allowing
them to meet the girls," I told her.

"Yes, but Chris said that he would have at least CONSIDERED allowing
them to have some agency visitations if your mother and grandmother
hadn't been so impulsive and taken you to court. Remember when he
said that?"

I nodded. Yes, he HAD said that, on numerous occasions. I wonder if
Jennifer and Giovanna ever knew that. Have I ever told them during
one of our many conversations about the girls and how much they both
long to meet them? I can't remember. I guess they'll know now!

Yes, Chrissie is right. Giovanna did get a restraining order against
me years ago, but she has never been able to get me for slander,
defamation, libel, whatever you want to call it. And, she can't.
Everything I write is factual, not gossip. And, when it's heard
secondhand, I always take special care to note that.

So, yeah, I feel pretty good about my part Smm Smm Smm Smm post about
my seemingly forever pandemonium in paradise life. I'm not going to
take it down, nor will I allow Giovanna, a worthless, toxic,
drama-hungry beast, to ruin my day, to scare me into silence.
Jennifer and her have already put me through that bullshit all my
childhood life. Now, the silence shall break. And, breaking it is.

"Oh, and if the phone records from Verizon show no calls were made to
Misty or Giselle on Christmas day, which is when the fight supposedly
occurred, all it would prove is that it was JENNIFER who lied about
what happened, about calling everyone to have them confront Giovanna
for, what she felt, were hateful statements. So, either way, you're
covered. You had no way to know whether she really called Misty or
Giselle, because, thankfully, none of us were there. We had a very
peaceful Christmas in comparison to them, didn't we, Mommy?"

Yes, Chrissie," I said, gently touching her nose.

"Yes, we did. Rather a quiet, lonely one, but at least it was
peaceful and childless."

Chris has been right the whole time about Giovanna being ill. I was
starting to have second thoughts about her really being sick because
she wasn't fucking dying already. But, just a week ago, Jennifer
broke the news.

"Your grandmother told me she has an auto-immune disorder."

I waited with baited breath, hoping for more juice. Hoping that,
finally, I would hear the fabulous news that she would be leaving this
existence behind soon.

But, no.

"I don't know what, exactly, she has," Jennifer continued.

"I think maybe lupus or something. There are all kinds of auto-immune
disorders out there."

Hopefully, she has aids. She certainly might have it if she's begun
using drugs again. And, I believe that, once a junky, you'll always
be a junky. In many cases, anyway. Because, that's what you did,
Dad. That's what a lot of junkies do. And, she has been acting very
strange lately. Like, maybe, she really HAS picked up drugs again.

Let's hope so. Even though I'm sure I won't be inheriting anything
from her, (not that I want or need any of her junk) I'll still be glad
that at least one more mean, selfish, hateful, abusive person has left
this world behind, making room for another person who will, hopefully,
make much more of a healthy, happy impact on the world and on the
people who live in it.

Thursday, January Eleventh

Dear Daddy,

Amira did bring me some joy yesterday. As usual, she was OVERJOYED to
see me, as though I am the absolute greatest person in her life. How
can she feel that way about me? How could she EVER feel that way about
me?

I met them at the transit center yesterday morning. We were going to
Costco and Wal-Mart for some groceries and diapers. I needed milk and
more snacks for my apartment, and, going grocery shopping with Chris
is often easier than going on my own.

Chris was already on the bus when I arrived at the transit center.
Slowly, I walked around, hoping I would find the right bus. Then,
suddenly, I heard the scream of delight as Amira came barreling toward
me, as usual, acting like it had been a year since she had seen me
rather than a day.

"Mama!" she exclaimed, running right to me. I bent down to hug her,
feeling genuinely glad to see her happy self, to hear her overjoyed
cries and laughter.

"Hi Nose," I said to her.

"How are you?"

She didn't answer. Amira isn't very good at answering people when
they ask her something, but, all in good time. She's only three,
after all. At least she's over the stage of only being able to cry
for communication. That was a HORRIBLE stage.

"Where's Daddy?" I asked her, hoping she would answer THIS question.
Either that or that he'd come and get us.

"He's on the bus," she said excitedly, then took my big hand, eagerly,
in her little one and began leading (more like dragging) me in, what I
hoped was the direction, of the bus that her dad and little sister
were on.

It was. Yesterday is the first time I remember her leading me to the
bus where her father had already gotten on without becoming distracted
by something else and randomly changing direction, forgetting that she
was leading her blind mother to wherever Chris had asked her to take
me. This made me feel very proud of her. I could tell that Amira
felt quite proud of herself, too, as she should.

"Good job, Amira!" I praised her when I was certain we were on the
correct bus, once I heard Chris's soft, gentle voice.

"That was very, VERY helpful of you to take Mommy to Daddy. I think I
might have accidentally gotten on the wrong bus if it hadn't been for
you."

And, I meant it. There are just so many buses at the transit center,
that it's easy, even for the sighted, to get on the wrong bus.

Overall, Amira wasn't too annoying on the outing. Sure, she was
somewhat annoying, but all children are! I have come to expect to be
annoyed by Amira at least once during an outing, no matter how long or
short it is. But, she wasn't bad enough to make me wish death on her
or myself. I think that was partially because I was feeling so
easygoing yesterday, not to mention, I REALLY wanted some more milk
and snacks. The only way to get those things would be to tolerate
Amira, no matter how well (or not) she behaved.

This time, it was Chris who made me angry. More than anger, though, I
felt sadness.

We were at Costco when the drama started. I was eating a chocolate
frozen yogurt with my imaginary friends. Even Smm Smm partook in the
feast, and he isn't very fond of frozen yogurt. According to him, it
doesn't taste much like ice cream.

"Too sour for ice cream," he told me once when I asked him how it
didn't taste like ice cream, for I always thought it did.

Until Smm Smm had brought it to my attention, I hadn't noticed that
frozen yogurt had a somewhat sour taste to it. But, upon Smm Smm's
urgings to pay very close attention to the taste of it as I ate, it
soon came to me. Very, very light, but there, nonetheless.

Suddenly, Amira came running to my table. Her father and her had
finished with the shopping, and, although the affair had only gone on
for twenty minutes, it had, apparently, been long enough for her to
start missing me again.

"Ha ha! Ha ha!"

"What are you ha ha-ing about, Chrissie?" Ai asked her, wondering if
it might be the fact that she could eat all the chocolate frozen
yogurt she wanted, whereas, Amira could not, thanks to the many rules
her father decided to impliment.

"I'm ha ha-ing because I just had a FABULOUS idea! Why don't you leave
a voice message for your daddy on the blog?!"

"I've left him about eight of them already today, Chrissie," I protested.

"I don't think he wants to hear any more. Besides, I'm still eating.
And, you know how much I hate talking on the phone while eating."

"Yeah, I DO know!" she cried.

"But, you haven't EVER left a message to your daddy before with Amira
talking, too. You know how fascinated with phones that little girl
is. Why don't you see if she wants to leave a message, too, and yell
"HAIL SATAN?!" Oh, just imagine how your fan, Spider, would laugh,
and, oh, how angry Jennifer will be to hear that message. She says
that she isn't going to read your blog anymore, but you don't actually
BELIEVE her, do you?"

"No," I said, pondering her idea.

It WOULD be cute to have Amira say Hail Satan for the whole world to
hear. She sounds so adorable when she says it, so innocent, so pure,
yet saying something that so many think is wicked, that so many would
disapprove of. I also thought it sounded neat to call you from Costco
and pretend that you would get my message, very clearly able to hear
that my mouth was full of yummy chocolate frozen yogurt, and wishing
that you could be with me, eating right alongside me at our long,
roomy table. Life is so much better, so much more fun, when I'm in a
make-believe world rather than the real world. It is make-believe,
alone, that helps me go on in this life.

So, it was to be done. Taking my phone out of my right coat pocket, I
began dialing.

If you haven't heard the message already, Daddy, you really SHOULD
give it a listen. Not only did Amira yell "HAIL SATAN!" as
passionately as though she were making love to the words, she also
yelled "Nose!" and even said good-bye to you at the end of the
message. Amira didn't even try to snatch my cell phone from my hand,
which is something she often does when I'm trying to make a call, much
to my great annoyance. She had a great time doing it, and so did I.
It was one of the very few bonding moments we have shared together in
her three and a half years of life, a moment that was only intended to
bring us closer together, not further apart.

While we had been doing this, Chris had been waiting in the deli line
of Costco, eager to buy a hot dog for himself and Amira to share.
Yet, our table, the one underneath an umbrella, (Amira always insists
we sit at an umbrella table because she enjoys looking up at its
colorful underbelly and twirling the umbrella by spinning its pole)
wasn't far from the line, so he overheard our good time, and decided
to ruin it.

For long moments, he said nothing to me when he returned to the table.
Finally, worried that he might be feeling ill again since he was still
recovering from the flu that had pretty much gotten to all of us over
the course of the week, Rachel being the only exception, I said, "Are
you okay, Smm Smm?"

He paused for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully, I thought.
Either that or his mouth was full of hot dog, which Amira was now
refusing to eat, even though she had whined and begged for a hot dog
all the way to Costco on the bus and had seemed quite excited at the
prospect of getting one.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, Chris said, "I wasn't really
okay with you having Amira leave a message on your blog. You didn't
come to me about it first."

Immediately, the warm, peaceful lake of water that was inside my
heart, turned to ice.

Ten Minutes Later

Oh, christ, Daddy, the FIRE Alarm went off in the whole apartment
complex just now. And, it's only about five in the morning!

Of course, I had earplugs on hand, but the noise of the alarm drove me
outside, nevertheless. I was fairly certain there was no fire; if
there had been, surely the sprinklers would have gone off, right? But,
doubt kept nagging me as I stood under the cover of one of the many
tall city buildings as the rain pelted down outside.

Can you believe this, Daddy? While I was standing there waiting to see
whether or not I would have an apartment to come back to, this crazy
dude, who REEKED of alcohol, came over to me and said, "Did you see
this coming?"

I just stood there, staring at him. What the hell kind of question was that?

Immediately, no doubt seeing the irritation flit across my face, he
said, very apologetically, "Well... I didn't mean SEE, per say..."

His voice trailed off as he, undoubtedly, stared at the long, white
cane I held tightly in my left hand, wondering just how he could
salvage the conversation and, somehow, not come out looking like a
total douche bag.

"Sensed," I decided to save him.

"You want to know whether I SENSED this would happen."

"Yeah," he said quickly, grateful that I understood and seemed to be
taking his ignorant statement well.

"Well, the answer is no," I responded, hardening my voice. I wasn't
going to let this man off easy, for I have no patience for ignorant
people who shoot off at the mouth just because they can.

Ignorance is not an excuse. It just makes you look like a retard.

"How could I have sensed that the fire alarm would go off? I was
simply minding my own business, journaling, when it happened."

AND, why in the sam HELL am I explaining myself to this guy? I owe him NOTHING!

"Well... it's just that you came out of your apartment so quickly,
like you, somehow, knew this would happen."

IS this his way of ACCUSING me of pulling the alarm, I wondered to myself?

Or, is he REALLY this retarded?

I didn't answer him this time. Instead, I quickly dismissed him by
turning my back on him, hoping that he would feel like a complete jack
ass, but also knowing that the probability of him even remembering
what had happened between us five minutes from now was very low. But,
you bet your ass I made sure to tell some of the neighbors what "some
guy" had asked me in a loud voice, hoping he would overhear me and
feel humiliated.

Anyway... back to the saga of Chris, casting a dark cloud over my
sunshine of a bonding moment with Amira yesterday at Costco.

"I didn't know I needed to ask your PERMISSION," I said, my voice as
cold as ice, hoping he would be able to hear the anger in my voice, as
well as see it in my face.

"I just would have liked to have discussed it first," Chris told me.

"What did you two say in the message?"

"If you want to know, you can listen for yourself," I replied snappishly.

"And, you have all the info you need to get inside of my blog. So, go
ahead! Take down the message. I don't care. I was only trying to
have fun with Amira, to make her a part of something that I enjoy."

Chris is always saying how I never include Amira in on things I enjoy,
so I finally did. And, now he was reprimanding me for it! As if he
had the right.

"I don't want you having Amira leave messages on your blog just to
make your mom mad. I don't want you using Amira as a weapon or tool
against your mom."

"That wasn't what I was doing," I said shortly, and I was telling the truth.

Sure, the knowledge that it would, indeed, make Jennifer's blood boil
with rage upon hearing, what she thinks is her sweet, pure, innocent
granddaughter, saying hail Satan, certainly did come to my mind,
bringing me great satisfaction. But, I also wanted to have my fans
hear Amira saying it, too. Chris, supposedly, doesn't judge me for
being a Satanist. In fact, he got me started on this whole thing to
begin with. Yet, he's upset when I try to include Amira in something
that brings me great enjoyment and pride.

"I also don't understand how, one moment, you could write such
terrible things about her, then, the next minute, you want her to be a
part of your project. It's confusing to me, so I can only imagine how
confusing it is to Amira to be, one second, loved and enjoyed, then
the next second, you don't want anything to do with her. She can
tell, you know. Children can sense a great deal about how we feel
about them. And, while we're still on this topic, I also didn't agree
to you publishing their full names on the blog."

As though Chris ever asks how I feel before HE does things with the
children. Not that I really care what he does with them, but still...

Maybe, I would feel closer, more bonded to them, if he made me feel
like they were just as much MINE as they are his. I'm not really sure
I would, but I might.
At that very moment, I felt so angry, I felt like shouting. I could
have SPIT on Chris and not felt a thread of guilt.

When Amira was a newborn, only a couple days old, CPS was called on us
by the hospital because they thought we were unfit parents. And,
although they didn't directly say it aloud, by we, they meant me. So,
CPS was called, and a huge fucking crisis began.

During that awful time, Chris posted what was happening publicly. He
posted the saga on his face book page, as well as on my blog's face
book page, I think. He might have even posted something on this blog,
long before I ever figured out how to publish my own content,
independently of his assistance.

I cannot recall all the places he posted our story, but I do recall my
mother being angry because Chris posted it under my name, with my
picture, so yeah, he DID, in fact, post it on The Blind Satanist's
facebook page.

Jennifer had been upset that Chris hadn't posted the drama on his own
blog. I'm not sure if he ever did post about it on his Satanic
Missionary Society web site.

Wherever he posted the story, though, the point is, he used Amira's
full name without having asked MY permission. Yet, I had not objected
to him doing so.

Thinking about this, I stared down at the table, becoming angrier and
angrier by the second. How in the hell was it okay for HIM to post
Amira's full name online for HIS purposes, which was to defame St.
Peter's Hospital, yet, in his deluded mind, it isn't okay for me to
post Amira's full name when I have something on MY mind that I want to
publicly discuss that involves her.

It would have been one thing if Chris had never published her full
name online. Then, I could have, somewhat, understood his annoyance.
But, for him to go around giving me the what-for for posting her name
online when HE did the EXACT, same thing three-and a-half years ago,
absolutely drives me up the wall with insane fury.

I once googled Amira's full name just to see what came up in the
search engine, and, sure enough, the story about our hell in the
hospital came up immediately, without any digging at all. Yet, my
permission for him to do that was never asked for. My approval never
was given, nor did I even know he posted her full name until it had
already been posted for the world to see.

Daddy, fuck that! We NEVER agreed to keep the kids' names out of
public knowledge. Yes, I admit, my writing about Amira is raw, and I
understand it makes him very uncomfortable to read such rotten
material. But, if he didn't want me to publish her or Rachel's names,
he should have thought about it before publishing Amira's name when
the CPS ordeal happened.

I am so sick of Chris always getting his way, yet always bursting my
happy balloon when I do something HE doesn't find becoming of me.
It's just what Jennifer always did to me, and I'll have none of it. I
tolerated that bullshit all my life; I'm not tolerating it anymore,
because I don't have to. I did as a helpless child, just trying to
grow up and survive, but I'm not that helpless little girl anymore.
So, all bets are off when it comes tolerating that sort of BS.

I didn't voice these raging thoughts to Chris. I just sat there,
trying to remain calm and keep my wits about me. I certainly didn't
want to cause a ruckus in the eating section of Costco. The last
thing I EVER want, when I'm feeling crappy, is to have unwanted
attention sprung on me; hell, I don't usually want ANY attention when
I'm feeling bad. Usually, I just want to be left to my own devices,
until the storm passes, and I can breathe again once my sunshine comes
back out.

"Take the blog down, then," I snapped, really not caring about anything anymore.

"I don't want to do that. That's YOUR project. I just wish you would
discuss things with me first before you act when it involves the
children."

Forever using the children to get his way. It's not the first time,
and it won't be the last. Unless, I leave them for good, which I do
consider more often these days.

"Do you want some chicken?" Chris asked me.

Before he had bought the chicken, before this crisis had occurred, I
felt STARVING for it. But, all the sudden tension that came between
Chris and I, made my stomach feel heavy and full of anxious knots,
that didn't seem like they would loosen any time in the near future.
Still, I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I wasn't going to
let him make me lose my appetite all because HE didn't agree to a
minor thing I did with what is supposed to be OUR daughter. Not just
his... OURS!

"Yes," I told him.

"I want lots of chicken."

"Do you want the drumsticks?"

"No," I told him.

Normally, I eat both drumsticks off the chicken, but, on that day, I
just wanted to eat chicken that wasn't on a bone. It wasn't Chris's
doing that made me feel this way; it was laziness, through and
through.

"You don't?"

Chris sounded very surprised.

"Do your friends want them?"

"No!" yelled Chrissie.

She sounded angry, and I believe she was, but, like me, once my anger
had subsided a little, more than anything, she felt sad and defeated.

Just when I was beginning to think that things couldn't get any worse,
that my stomach could get any tighter, it did get worse and my poor
stomach DID get tighter. Just as Chris was about to serve me some
chicken and strawberries, I felt a soft hand on my left arm.

"Hi," a gentle woman's voice said in my left ear.

I didn't even turn my head to look her way, nor did I lift my chin.
Out of the corner of my left eye, it looked to me like she had on a
very dark, possibly, dark blue, shirt or coat of some kind.

"How are you doing today?" she asked.

"Fine," I replied curtly.

Her touching me was making me quite uncomfortable. If I hadn't felt
so down, I probably would have had the nerve to tell her to quit
touching me, to keep her damn hands to her damn self. But, I didn't.
I just kept my head down, hoping she would take the hint and go away
soon.

"May I pray for you, dear?"

Oh, Satan. So, she was one of THOSE people. GREAT!

Finally, finding some semblance of bravado, I said, still without
facing her, "I'm really not in the mood for that right now. Maybe
later."

"Okay, good," she said, and, mercifully took her hand off of my arm.

"Well, have a good day then. May god bless you and your family."

I said nothing. I wished I had the energy to mess with her, to start
shouting to her about the great news, the utter JOY of Satan the
Devil, but I just couldn't. I felt too weak and forlorn to do so.
Like I had been hit by a dump truck and left on the street to lay down
and die.

Chris, of course, didn't do or say anything to come to my defense, but
then again, I didn't expect he would. He just sat there, probably
looking and feeling as uncomfortable as I felt, hoping that I wouldn't
cause a scene in the store, screaming about Satan, embarrassing him.

Before we had children, me talking about Satan didn't embarrass him.
Or, it didn't ever SEEM to.
But now, things are very, very different. Chris becomes disturbed by
more and more of the things I do and say, and, apparently, by the
things I write now. He most CERTAINLY is not the same man I fell in
love with five years ago. The kids took his mischievous ways from
him, just like they have robbed him of his energy and creativity and
everything else that attracted me to him, that drew him to me like a
magnet.

I hate how so many people think that they have the right, that they
are entitled, to put their disgusting, filthy hands on me just because
I'm blind. I DESPISE how so many ignorant people think that, because
I have a disability, I am fragile and am in need of constant looking
after and care. Or, that I am psychic, like that drunk guy that I had
the misfortune of meeting when the fire alarm went off, who think I
have a sixth sense, so to speak, just because I am blind.

Why can't people just leave me alone? Why can't our stupid American
society just mind their own fucking business and leave me to fend for
myself? Even though I have a sight impairment, I am QUITE capable.
More capable then a lot of other folks with NO disability to hold them
back, or, to try to, anyway.

I wasn't angry at the woman right away; I had too much on my mind at
the time. The anger came later, when I'd had time to ponder
everything that had happened between Chris and me.

I had thought the woman had disappeared once I had let her know I
didn't want her praying for me. But, Chris told me she hadn't left.
Instead, she had sat at the table, right next to ours, and continued
to stare at us (or, maybe just at me), and pray.

"Why didn't you say something?" I asked Chris, rather astonished that he hadn't.

"We could have moved to another table. Or, better yet, we could have
told an employee what happened. People aren't supposed to proselytize
here, are they?"

"No," replied Chris.

"But that doesn't stop pushy christians from doing it anyway. And, it
would have been a pain to move all our stuff to another table."

So, he had just sat on and on, taking it. I highly doubt he would
have done that if he was himself, the man I had fallen in love with
before Amira and her sister tainted him.

The chicken was a good one. It was juicy and inviting, and the
strawberries that Chris bought to eat with the chicken were very
sweet. Yet, the anxious fullness and tightness in my stomach
prevented me from enjoying it nearly as much as I would have if Chris
hadn't spoiled the morning, and if that crazy christian fuckhead
hadn't randomly approached me, feeling that I was in desperate need of
prayer.

Still, I wasn't surprised about my morning having been ruined. If
it's not Amira, set out to ruin my days, it's Rachel and her constant
wailing. And, when it's not the kids, it's Chris.

Later, as we waited for the bus back home, Amira asked sweetly, "Mama,
are you coming to our house?"

"No, Amira," I said, trying to keep my voice calm and friendly, for it
wasn't Amira who had brought me great sadness... it was her father.
She didn't deserve harsh words or a harsh tone. So, i was going to
try and do right by her so she wouldn't feel I was upset with her.

When I am upset with her, I want her to know. But, when I'm upset at
someone else, I certainly don't want her taking on the fault as her
own.

Jennifer did that to me WAY too many times. Even when I was the
innocent one, she would still lash out at me, even if I hadn't been
the one to upset her because I was the closest target, her scape goat.
I know I make many mistakes with my children. But I will certainly do
everything in my power to try not to make THAT same mistake that
Jennifer had made with me.

"Why aren't you coming to my house?" Amira asked, her voice sounding
crestfallen.

"Because Daddy's mad at me and because I'm tired. I'm going snoozing soon."

"Why is Daddy mad at you?"

I didn't quite know how to answer this question. I probably shouldn't
have told her that Daddy was mad at me, but I just couldn't help it.
I wanted Chris to know that I wasn't going to shelter Amira from my
feelings. I also wanted him to know that I wasn't going to allow
Amira to think I was upset with her when it was HIM I was upset with.

"Mommy didn't discuss whether it was all right with me to have you
leave that message earlier with her today," Chris finally explained
when I failed to come up with an answer that I thought she could
understand.

"Ooooooohhhhh!" Amira said, something she does when she is
disappointed about something not going the way she wants it to go.

"Don't worry," I said, trying to make my voice full of cheer, though
cheerfulness was the last thing I felt at the moment.

"Maybe we will do something tomorrow after I finish snoozing.
Besides, your daddy and you aren't going to stay at the house for very
long. You guys are going to drop off the groceries and diapers at the
house, then leave again to do something fun."

Seeming satisfied, Amira began running around in circles outside of
the bus shelter.

"Why are your friends mad at me?" Chris asked when Amira was occupied
with her circles.

"They're not mad at you," I said wearily, my whole body sagging with
sudden exhaustion.

"They SOUNDED angry," persisted Chris.

"When I asked whether they wanted the drumsticks, they shouted "NO!"
They sounded quite mad to me."

"That was Chrissie who shouted," I explained, still with that weary
tone in my voice.

"And, you know how she is. She can never answer a question without
yelling. More than anything, I think she felt sad."

"Don't undermine how I feel!" Chrissie shouted in my ear.

"You're making it sound like my feelings aren't a big deal when, in
fact, they ARE! You're doing to me just what Jennifer often did to you
as a child when you were upset. Undermining my emotions instead of
validating them, which is what you SHOULD be doing!"

"Oh, Chrissie," I said to her, growing more and more tired with every
passing minute.

"I'm very tired and feeling quite sad myself. Please, don't be mad at
me. Don't go against me, too. For, I couldn't BEAR it if you did."

Chris didn't hear this conversation between us. It was a silent one,
one that took place inside our minds.

"I didn't mean to make her sad," Chris said, but his words meant
nothing to me anymore. I just wanted to go home and bury myself in a
book and forget the world.

By this point, all of the anger I had felt, had been replaced by
intense sadness. I felt the exact same way then, waiting for the bus
that would take me to my happy place, my house, that I felt on the day
I upset you. You were stone drunk, as usual, and had become upset
with me because I simply REFUSED to try your cottage cheese covered
canned chilly.

"Eat it," you had coaxed me, slurring your words.

"It's spaghetti and meatballs."

It only took me one, quick sniff to know that you were full of shit,
but I didn't confront you or call you a liar, though you had, indeed,
lied to me. And, over something so incredibly stupid that, under any
other circumstance, I would have laughed at you for lying to me about
something as dumb as canned food.

"Come on!" you urged, pushing the bowl closer to me, nearly knocking
it off the table, where the disgusting contents would surely have
spilled, hot and unwanted, into my lap.

"It's good! It won't hurt you! It's just food!"

"No," I had told you, then pushed the bowl back over to your side of the table.

"I don't want to try it."

"JESUS CHRIST, ASHLEE!" you had thundered, and, for a scary moment, I
feared you might jump to your feet and strike me with your drunken,
careless hands.

Not that you had ever done so before, but you were acting very oddly
that day. Not characteristic of you at all. So, as far as I was
concerned, anything could happen at any time. Instinctively, I found
myself in survival mode, hurtled into a decision about whether I
should flee from your trailer or stand my ground and see what was to
happen between us.

"TRY IT, GOD DAMMIT!"

"NO!" I bellowed, more in fear than in anger.

"Get out of here!" you fired at me, sounding so hateful, so mean, that
I quickly backed toward the door.

"Go to your room."

Quickly, I obeyed, glad for a reason not to be near you. I didn't
have a CLUE as to what was making you so angry toward me, but I didn't
want to find out. I was scared, very, very scared. Scared enough to
consider calling Jennifer to come and get me. Or, perhaps, Grandmama,
since Jennifer probably wouldn't answer my calls. Rarely was she EVER
available to me when I needed her most.

Once in the relative safety of the tiny bedroom in your trailer that
we shared, I flung myself on my small bed and wept, taking great pains
to cry as quietly as possible so as not to attract any unwanted
attention from drunken you.

At last, after what seemed an eternity of me weeping with fear and a
sense of great sorrow, you finally spoke. I jumped the moment I heard
your voice, for I had hoped that you would pass out and soon forget
this whole fiasco ever happened. Certainly, I was quite anxious to
forget and move on.

"If you want to go to Derry Queen, you'd better get your ass up," you
said, your voice still as sharp as a knife slash, still as hard and as
cold as marble.

Before you had gotten yourself wasted, you had promised to take me to
Derry Queen. We were going to ride the bus into Poulsbo because you
didn't have a car or a driver's license.

I had been VERY much looking forward to going there with you for a
father daughter ice cream date. Now, the thought of going with you in
the state you were in, terrified me. What if you passed out on the
bus? What if you passed out on the street before we even got to the
bus stop, and I suddenly found myself lost and afraid? What if someone
saw the inebriated state you were in while with a young child, and
called the police? I wasn't that young then; twelve or thirteen years
old, but I looked much, much younger due to my skinny size and
young-looking face.

Surely, Jennifer would find out and, upon doing so, wouldn't let me
see my daddy for a very long time. Perhaps forever!

And, even MORE frightening, what if you forgot we were going to Derry
Queen and took the bus to the casino instead, then left me to figure
out what to do with myself? You HAD left me alone in a strange hotel
before, when I was only eleven, to get drunk. You had told me you
would be right back, but you weren't. Hours had gone by before you
came back, intoxicated to the point of falling down on me and passing
out for a very long time.

I never did tell Jennifer about that fateful cottage cheese crisis,
nor have I ever told her about you having left me in that strange,
loveless, scary hotel. I've never told anyone, except, maybe, Chris.
Oh, and, Herbert, your stepfather, during a night when I was in such
depths of despair, that the horrible truth had blurted out before I
could stop it.

I do remember, now, that Herbert confronted you about having left me
in that scary hotel for hours, but you and I never did talk about that
fateful night. You were eager to put it behind you, and so was I.
Though, in spite of my great efforts to try and forget, I never have.
Nor have I forgotten about the cottage cheese incident, an incident
I'm POSITIVE I never told a soul about, not even Chris.

Well, now, the whole world's going to know! What do you think about that, Daddy?

Mom knows about the time you left me home alone when I was only three
or four years old, but there is so much she never knew because I
feared that telling her would mean my visits to you would cease
forever. And, oh, I just couldn't BEAR the thought of that, not even
for a second.

After you spoke, I continued to lay there in bed, on my stomach. I
didn't answer you, just laid there, hoping you would pass out already
and let me cry alone. Why I was crying so much was beyond me, though,
for, wasn't I used to being yelled at and disciplined for stupid,
trivial matters by Jennifer? Wasn't this just another ordinary day of
making someone unhappy with me?... AGAIN?

You got heavily to your feet and stumbled into the bedroom to find me.
My heart felt like it had jumped into my throat. Or, like, maybe, it
might even quit beating.

"Ashlee. ASHLEE!" you said more loudly, when I failed to raise my
head or acknowledge you in any way.

I felt scared, but also ashamed. I didn't want you to see me crying.
I have always hated it when people see me crying, but I ESPECIALLY
didn't want YOU to see my moments of weakness. All over some fucking
cottage cheese and chilly.

Staggering over to the bed, you knelt down (or, attempted to), but
ended up falling right on top of me in a drunken stupor.

I stayed stock still, afraid to move. All your weight was on me, but
it didn't hurt. Still, it was difficult to breathe. I wondered just
when you would get off of me...

Or, would you?

Would you pass out instead, unable to remember what had brought you
into the bedroom? I shuddered at the thought, then sniffled loudly,
unable to hide the fact that I had secome to weakness any longer, for
I couldn't BREATHE with all of your weight upon my tiny, fragile body
like that.

"Ashlee, what's wrong?" you said, your voice still slurry, but
crestfallen, all the same. Slowly, you struggled to roll off of me.
Once you achieved that task, you sat up on the bed, and began stroking
my long, thick, brown hair.

I didn't answer you. Just kept my head buried in the pillow,
desperately relieved that you had found the sense and the strength to
get off of me. I also felt greatly embarrassed that you now knew how
emotional I had become.

STUPID, I thought angrily to myself as I continued to lay as still as
a statue in the bed.

STUPID just how weak and pathetic I am! Stupid how all this got
started in the first place.

"Do you still want to go to Derry Queen?" you asked, your voice now
gentle and kind.

"No," I said, still refusing to raise my head and look at you.

"Why not? You were so excited about it earlier."

THAT was before you decided to get blasted and ruin the day, I thought
bitterly to myself, while you continued gently stroking my head.

"Go away. I don't want to go anymore."

My voice sounded pathetic. It was totally obvious that I had been
crying. My nose was all stuffed up and red, my voice sounded weepy
and frail.

"Are you having one of those teenage emotional days?" you asked, real
concern in your voice.

"No!" I said, sounding much stronger this time.

"Now go away and leave me alone."

I forgot what was said after that. I only remember you holding me
close while I continued to cry, though, for why, I still don't know.

Thinking of that awful time at the bus stop made me feel even heavier
inside. Then, just when I was CERTAIN that my thoughts couldn't get
any darker, a fresh assault plagued my mind in the form of a thought.
This time, it wasn't a thought from my sad and lonely childhood. It
was born from a scene in a book I had finished reading not long ago.

The book was called Heaven. The author of that book is V.C. Andrews.
Heaven is the first book in the Casteel Family series, and is a great
read, although very, very sad at times. Sad enough to actually bring
tears to my eyes. I would highly recommend V.C. Andrew's books; they
are very captivating and mysterious.

The scene that came to my mind was when Luke Casteel decided to sell
off his children to rich people. He said it was so they wouldn't
starve to death, but Heaven, the eldest child, believed that he sold
his own children out of greed and selfishness.

Well, as the children were being sold, and while Heaven watched in
great horror (she was the last to be sold), she turned to her
grandfather, hoping that he would do something, say something, that
would change his son, Luke Casteel's mind, about what he was doing.
But, he didn't.

This was the sentence that came to my mind. The sentence that made me
even sadder than I already felt. I don't have it memorized, but it
went something like this:

I turned to Grandfather, hoping he would do or say something,
ANYTHING, to stop this madness, but he simply sat on and on in his
rocker, whittling, as though nothing out of the ordinary were
happening on this terrible Christmas day.

I don't know why that scene in the book came to me then, but it did,
and, oh, how I wanted to cry right then and there. I no longer cared
who saw me, what they thought. I wanted to sink right to the floor,
bury my face in my lap, and weep. Weep for Heaven and her younger
siblings for the horrible thing that had happened to them, even though
it was only a story, weep for Chris and the strong, wonderful,
blossoming love we once had for each other, weep for Amira and Rachel
and all the uncertainty that continually surrounds us all, and,
hardest but more pressing of all, weep for myself and for all that I'd
lost and am continuing to lose right before my eyes.

"The bus is here," Chris suddenly announced, bringing me out of my dark reverie.

When we climbed aboard the bus, Amira wanted to sit by me. She wanted
me to sing "Inside of the nose" to her, a song I often sing to her
just to be silly.

It goes like this:

INSIDE of the nose,

INSIDE of the nose.

That's all it says. Only, it's sung to the rhythm of the oldies song that goes:

And California dreamin',

Is becomin' a reality.

I think the song is by the band called The Mamas and the Papas, but
I'm not entirely sure.

Anyway, trying to shove my deep sorrow and sadness away until I got
home and could express it without the watchful eyes of my family and
of strangers, I took a deep breath, swallowed down the lump in my
throat, and began to sing in a weak, quiet voice:

"Inside of the nose,

Inside of the Nose."

Only, the lump was too large to swallow, and the smile that I tried to
force into existence, didn't come.
My voice shook with the effort not to cry, making my voice sound
trembly and weak.

Amira sang with me, but I was sure she sensed how sad I felt.
Thankfully, she didn't ask me about it, for, once I had established
that singing was not possible for me right then, I tickled her, trying
to distract both her and myself by the huge, looming cloud that was
trying to overtake me and nearly succeeding.

Perhaps, somehow, I felt like Heaven Casteel at that moment, helpless
and betrayed. I guess there was some significance in that scene that
I could relate to, but I still don't quite understand how I can relate
to it. Not yet.

Why couldn't Chris have figured out that I had only been intending to
pretend that you were alive when I had Amira leave that message with
me? Why couldn't he understand that, often times for me, living in
fantasy is way more doable than living in reality? Why couldn't he
understand that, right then, I was missing you so much that, in order
to keep my wits about me, to beat back the pain that was threatening
to engulf me in its powerful, all-encompassing flames, I needed to
pretend that you were close at hand, needed to pretend that you would
hear that wonderful message and smile, your smile becoming so wide,
it hurt your lips, once you heard Amira's sweet, innocent voice, a
voice that sounds so much like mine did when I was little.

Doesn't ANYBODY understand that reality is just too painful to live in
for me? Why can't more people be open to the land of make-believe, the
land of fantasy? Why is living in reality so important? And, why is it
so taboo to NOT live in reality? To live in a land where everything is
happy and everyone loves each other and conflicts don't exist
anywhere, not even in the often very complex minds of the human race.

Why was the one and only conclusion that Chris automatically jumped to
that I was only seeking revenge upon Jennifer, the only thing that
came to him and so quickly? Why couldn't he tell I was merely
pretending I still had a daddy I could call and talk about eating ice
cream to, just like before, when you really WERE still alive, when I
really COULD still call you?

He knows how important fantasies are to me, how important make-believe
has always been for my survival. If I lived in the present,
constantly, with no imaginary friends or fantasies or stories to tell
myself, I would surely be dead by now, having taken my own life
because reality has, in truth, been far too cruel to me than I ever
deserved. Why am I always the bad one, the one in the wrong?

It didn't used to be like that for him. Chris used to like my
make-believe worlds, my fantasies. I guess he might still like them
okay, or, at least accept them, but, certainly, he made one message
loud and clear to me that day. That, no matter what, I am NEVER to
include Amira or Rachel in them, especially the ones where you are
still alive and we are leaving you a message to try and include you in
our good times.

Knowing this brings me much sadness, but what can I do? Seems that, no
matter how hard I try to make things right, I always manage to fail,
always, always, ALWAYS. Makes me understand why and how some people
stop trying after a while. Why they simply give up and, even, in some
instances, end their miserable existences, forever.

Needless to say, I was very glad to get home and to see them go. I
didn't even bother touching Chris's long, pointy beloved nose before
they left. I just didn't have the heart for it. I did the good-bye
rituals with Amira that we often do, but only to prevent her from
having one of her many screaming and crying outbursts, that would only
succeed in making them stay longer. Which was definitely something I
needed and wanted to avoid. The sooner they left, the sooner I could
return to my peaceful alone time and forget all about Amira's whiny,
pathetic ways, Rachel's constant tummy ailments, and Chris's long,
heavy silence of disapproval.

I was truly tired and wanted to be alone. I tried listening to my
current audio book called GATES OF PARADISE, by V.C. Andrews, but the
heavy veil of sadness kept me from being able to concentrate and fully
enjoy the book. So, finally, after an hour had gone by and still the
book wasn't holding my attention, I gave up and went to bed, not
bothering to leave Chris a night night message before I turned my
phone off like I used to do every time I went to bed.

I wasn't trying to punish him by doing this. I simply had nothing to
say, no strength left inside of me. Vaguely, as I impatiently waited
for sleep to scoop me up in its warm, safe, loving embrace, I wondered
what was going through Chris's mind right then, what emotions he was
experiencing. Then, I drifted, mercifully, away.

Ten Minutes Later

Jesus h christ, would you believe it, Daddy? The fire alarm went off
AGAIN! I considered just staying inside this time, for there couldn't
possibly be a fire. Probably the alarm was faulty. Perhaps it, too,
had caught the flu. Material things can get sick, too. Why do you
think stuff quits working sometimes?

"Well, maybe there really IS a fire," cautioned Nevaeh, as I stood
there in the living room, trying to make up my mind, which I was
finding very hard to do because of the incessant screams of the fire
alarm.

"Maybe, someone intends to commit arson. The first time around, they
expected us all to go outside. But, this time around, people will,
most likely, stay inside, not wanting to go back into the rain again.
This time, there might actually be a fire. Maybe, there is some crazy
joe out there who's out to kill us all, just for the sport of killin.
Or, maybe someone's setting off the alarm so they can rob people's
apartments while they are outside, waiting for the fire department to
come and shut the fire alarm off. That does happen, you know. And,
surely, they would have a pretty good chance of getting away with it,
too, since people would be madly rushing around, trying to escape the
possible fire and the wretched noise of the alarm. Maybe, they
haven't finished ransacking all of the apartments and are pushing
their luck by setting the alarm off a second time. You know how greed
can alter people's minds, make people push their luck, even when they
really shouldn't. So, lock your door, too, Mommy. You don't own
much, I know, but everything that you DO own has a purpose. And,
surely, you would be heartbroken if all your expensive technology,
including your computer, got stolen, wouldn't you? How would you find
the money to replace all of it? HOW?!"

Nevaeh did have a point. Lately, people seem more and more kill
happy, though for what reason or reasons, I do not know.

I was also sure that Nevaeh was right about a great number of people
deciding to stay inside this time, not wishing to be dooped a second
time. She was right. Better to play it safe than to be sorry.
Burning to death doesn't sound at all appealing to me, even when I am
at my most suicidal peak.

So, I went outside for the second time on such an early, wet morning,
making sure to lock my apartment door to keep what few belongings I DO
own out of harm's way, before doing so, once again, finding myself
walking out into the rain. This time, I didn't come in contact with
Mr. Ignoramus, thank Satan. He was probably passed out by this time,
too intoxicated to know what was going on.

This time, the crowd outside the complex was thinner. So, Nevaeh HAD
been right about the majority of people deciding to stay inside where
they would be warm and dry. Apparently, they weren't as sensitive to
the constant screams of the fire alarm, warning for us all to get out
to safety, no matter the elements outside.

Bryan, who had decided to stay outside after the first false fire
alarm attack, waved at me from across the street.

"What a morning," he commented jollily, as he took a huge, honking
bite of cookie dough blizzard rain, with chocolate ice cream rather
than vanilla.

"What on Earth do you think is the matter with that pesky, old fire alarm?"

"Why, Bryan, dear, I do not know. But it sure is annoyin' as hell,
don't you agree?"

"Yep, sure is. Want to walk over to the park where it's less noisy?"
he asked. By now, he was right beside me, extending his branches in
my direction invitingly.

"Sure," I said, then reached out to grab one of his many flourishing,
strong branches so that he could lead the way, getting me safely
across the street.

"Thank Satan for earplugs," I told him, as the rain beat down with
much gusto onto my head.

"I just could not BELIEVE my ears when it went off again. I was in my
bedroom, describing to Daddy what went down between Chris and I
yesterday, when it began a-shrillin' all over again. "Oh, come on!" I
had shouted, before leaping to my feet, in awe of what was happening.
Also, feeling quite glad I wasn't trying to sleep, that I had awakened
so early this morning."

Nobody knows what is wrong with the fire alarm. Maintenance was
called by the fire department to come and check it out."

"They'll fix it soon," Bryan said comfortingly, and I grinned up at him.

I gave Chrissie the third degree to see if she had any part of it. I
do quite suspect her, for every time I ask her anything about it, she
just laughs wickedly and says, "Oh, you'd have me no other way, Mommy!
Ha ha! Ha ha! HA HA!!!!"

"Well, if it IS you who is wreaking havoc on this place, KNOCK IT Off!
You know just how much I hate loud noises. And, I'm trying to write,
here. How can I write when I am constantly being interrupted by YOUR
petty pranks?"

That silenced her. I think she will find something else to do to
cause trouble. I can only hope.

I'm not quite sure how I feel about the incident between Chris and I.
On the one hand, I want Chris to feel like he can tell me what's
bothering him, even if it has to do with me. I don't take to
criticism well, but I love him enough to where I feel I could handle
what criticism he has to dole out from time to time.

On the other hand, I hate always feeling like I have to ask his
permission for this and that. It's okay for him to do just about
anything he wants without so much as a disapproving nod from me, even
if I wasn't brought to awares of what he was about to do beforehand.
I don't feel that I make him think he needs to always ask for my
approval before doing something. So, I shouldn't have to feel like I
need to ask for HIS approval before doing things, too, especially when
they are harmless, meant for fun, like leaving you a message.
Clearly, Amira had enjoyed doing it. You can just hear the laughter
and excitement in her voice when she speaks in the message. Yet,
Chris will REFUSE to hear that joy, that excitement, because he
doesn't want to.

I don't really know why his disapproval made me feel so sad and
dejected. One man shouldn't have that sort of power over me. I
shouldn't allow it, nor did I mean to. It just happened!

I also can't stop thinking about what Chris said about not agreeing to
using the children's full names in my blog. Maybe, he's right about
that. I don't want to put a bad mark on their names before they even
have a chance to grow up and make a life for themselves. I wasn't
trying to purposely mar their names, their reputations. Yet, I am so
TIRED of censoring myself. So tired of people's disapproval, which
seems almost constant in my pathetic and sad life.

Most of all, I hate Chris's disapproval. Jennifer's, I'm used to; she
will NEVER accept me for who I am, even if I wasn't blind she still
wouldn't accept me. Nor did she accept me when I still considered
myself a god-fearing, god-loving christian.

But, Chris has no right to disapprove of me and what I do with my own
Satan project. He's the very one who started this whole thing in the
first place, encouraging me to create a blog and share, with the whole
world, everything that I needed and wanted to. I try not to let him
get under my skin, but it greatly angers me how he's okay with me
writing truths about my childhood life with Jennifer and all the abuse
I suffered under her care. Yet, if I write anything true about Chris
and the girls that he doesn't feel comfortable with, I'm doing the
wrong thing and he's going to sulk about it until he gets his way and
I apologize.

Still, I will not take this blog down. Even if I ever figured out how
to, I wouldn't. Nor am I going to take the kids' names out of my
stories. Yes, what they will certainly read in the future about them
on my blog, will hurt. They might even become angry and violent with
me. But, I don't care. I'll call the cops on them, then, when the
cops arrive, I will press charges for assault. I will try my very
best to explain to them how important it is for me not to sensor my
thoughts, and, hopefully, they will understand enough to calm down and
not let my words hurt them so much.

If they don't understand me, if they can't get past it, then, too bad.
If they turn their backs on me and leave, that's fine. I rather enjoy
being alone with myself and my imaginary friends. In fact, I prefer
it to human company most of the time. So, if they choose to leave me
after they read what I've written, then, so long to them. I will go
about my life, very much the way I do now. The only difference will
be that I am finally free.

The thought of losing my family frightens me. Yet, it also brings me
a sense of great relief. Much of me doesn't want to drive them all
away, but a part of me does.

Chris tells me that if I keep showing so much jealousy, so much hatred
toward the girls, that I will, inevitably, drive everyone away.
Gravely, I fear that he is right. But, I don't know what to do. I
can't just dismiss my feelings the way I used to. Nor, can I forget
them.

I don't know what to do, Daddy. I have no one to talk to about this,
nowhere to turn. For, Jennifer thinks it a sin to hate your own
children, and, I guess, I can't blame her for that, though, often I
find myself wondering if she ever had times in her life, both when I
was a child and now that I am grown, where she has hated me. I mean,
really, truly HATED me with all her might like I have with Amira.

Of course, Jennifer will never admit such a thing to me. She probably
wouldn't even admit it to herself. But, I wonder, do ALL parents
truly and unconditionally love their children every step of the way?
Am I truly all alone with these terrible, nasty feelings for my very
own children?

I don't want anything to do with these feelings. I would do just
about anything to get rid of them. Yet, here they are, deep, fat,
ugly, and bruised, just WAITING to demolish the last remnants of
family I have, family that I still do care about, when I'm not all
tied up with knots of pure wrath and jealousy.

I wonder if anyone reading this post will relate to me, even in a very
small way. Does anyone even read my letters to you anymore? Or, have
they been too raw for even the most hard of hearts to take in, to
digest? Is Spider still a fan of mine? Or, have my letters to you
caused her respect and admiration for me to vanish into thin air? Why
do I care so much anyway?

Has Jennifer really kept her word of not reading my blog anymore? Has
she seen the email that she sent to me up on my blog yet, followed by
the brief commentary I made concerning her words of disapproval and
trying to sound like the "real" victim in the situation, as she always
does? Will she take me to court again, with high hopes of, this time,
succeeding in having my blog taken down? Will she call CPS? Has she
heard Amira's little message to you yet?

All these questions, yet no answers. Oh well. I've got chocolate
waiting in the kitchen. Better go and bury my feelings in it before
they take over and completely ruin my day, as they managed to do
yesterday.

Sunday, January Fourteenth

Dear Daddy,

I can't help but wonder if that crazy christian woman at costco had
felt so inclined to come to me, wanting to pray for me, because she
saw the look of pure despair on my face. Could she feel all the pain
and sorrow I was feeling just by merely GLANCING at me? Was I being
THAT obvious?

Many times, I think I hide my emotions very well, only to discover,
later, that I really don't; that people can see right through me like
I am a mirror. They can usually read my feelings, my thoughts, like
an open book.

I hate this, of course, especially when I try so hard to hide my dark
feelings from Chris, only for him to tell me later, that he has known
all along, just how I felt. It feels like such a waste of energy and
time to try and hide my emotions, only to find out later that he has
been able to read them the whole time.

Did the woman feel sorry for me? Had she actually known I was blind? I
don't see how she could have, for I had folded up my cane and had set
it on my lap when we got to the table and I had sat down. Maybe she
had been watching me for some time, had seen me walking up to the
umbrella table holding it. Maybe, she had witnessed everything that
had transpired and then, on a whim, decided to come to me and offer up
a prayer to god to give me some sort of comfort. Or, maybe the fact
that I was wearing sunglasses, indoors, had given me away. But, my
eyes are SO sensitive to light, and the table was facing the outside.
It was just too bright NOT to wear them, to shade my eyes.

It hadn't been a very sunny day; Washington's mood was a total mirror
of my own dismal, forlorn one, but, still, the sky looked bright...
too bright for me, and too daunting. I rather like hiding behind
sunglasses, because, not only do they shield my sensitive, tender eyes
from the harsh light of the great outdoors, they also help me feel
less exposed by the probing eyes of both family and strangers.

Wearing thick, dark sunglasses, even in the middle of winter, on a day
where the rain is pouring down in torrents, gives me a sense of
security and protection that I cannot feel unless they are shielding
my eyes from the harsh and unwanted stares of others.

Sometimes, total strangers give Chris money when they see all of us
together. What sorts of things are going through THEIR minds when
they offer us five, ten, even twenty dollar bills? Can they see the
sadness on my face, the anxiety that seems to be forever constant in
my mind? Can they read everything that goes on in my life, in ALL of
our lives, just by looking at my constantly worried expression? Can
they see all the uncertainty, all the fear and hardship and poverty,
that surrounds us on even the brightest, warmest days of summer?

I don't mind when strangers give us money. But, I do wonder what
moves them to do such a kind thing for total strangers. Often, I
wonder whether the lot of us look homeless, and I suppose we do.

Chris always smells of BO and he probably looks dirty and unshaven
because he only takes showers every few days. I don't often change my
clothing because it's so difficult to find anyone to help me do my
laundry, so I can only IMAGINE just how unkempt and untidy I must
look. Unlike Chris, I wear deodorant, when I remember to, but I'm
sure I can get quite smelly at times, too, for I don't shower every
day, either. It just seems like a waste of resources and time to do
so. Not only that but I'm too depressed and unmotivated to bathe half
the time.

Amira's hair is always greasy and unbrushed. Like me, she hates
having her hair brushed. She also hates baths, because Chris never
got her used to bathing as a baby. So, she, too, looks unkempt and
dirty, especially when Chris has failed to cut out all the many
tangles in her hair for a week or two.

No wonder so many pity us. I don't want their pity, nor do I seek it,
but it sure can be a relief at times, when they do take pity on us,
and give Chris money. I especially find great relief in the mercy of
strangers, when I am broke, myself, and am wondering where I will eat
next, what I will be lucky enough to find that is edible, and the
biggest question of all...

WHEN I will eat again.

Chris is very good at making sure I don't go hungry, but there are so
many times that I have run out of food but don't have the heart to
tell him because he seems so exhausted. I feel ROTTEN creating more
work for him than he already has to do. So, I just keep silent,
hoping that Denise will pay up or that another odd job will find me to
ease some of my hunger pangs. Either that or Jennifer will give me
money, will somehow be able to FEEL the desperation of the situation
without me telling her, and will have mercy on me and help.

Jennifer gave me some money a few days ago. I desperately needed it,
though I didn't tell her. My pride got in the way, and I just
couldn't face the embarrassment of having to ask her, yet again, for
help. I also didn't want to hear the sound of self-satisfaction in
her voice that I knew I would hear, especially if I happened to ask
her on a day when she was feeling particularly mean and nasty toward
me.

I did thank her for the money, and I meant it. Often times, I wonder
why she continues to help me, even when I write about her. Yes, all
that I write about her is true, but nonetheless, I know she hates it.
Yet, she still continues to show me mercy when I need it the most.

WHY?

Oh, Daddy, life is so confusing. Life is so tiresome and cruel. I
truly feel I do not belong here. I feel I've NEVER belonged here.

Have you ever felt that way? Is that what drove you to drink and to
heavily use drugs? Anything to escape the horrible feeling of not
truly belonging anywhere and to anyone in particular, no matter how
hard you tried.

Sometimes, I wish that I could self-medicate, just as you had done.
But, drugs and alcohol don't get along with me. Booze just makes me
throw up constantly; it is like taking a drink of the flu. As for
drugs... they make me feel extra paranoid and anxious, which, if you
have been paying ANY attention to my letters, would make you
understand just why I don't do drugs. I don't need any help with
anxiety and paranoia; the very reason I ever tried drinking and using
drugs was to escape the rotten feelings. When drugs and alcohol did
nothing but worsen the very feelings I was desperately trying to
escape from, I thought, WHAT the hell am I DOING?

And, I quit experimenting with them and haven't touched any of that
shit for at least Smm Smm Smm Smm years.

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!

HAIL SMM SMM!!!!