May I start now? May I begin to put some things out there so they will quit taking up space in my head? All I really want is to say some things that are too grotesque, morbid, humiliating, or revolting to say to my loved ones. Not because they wouldn't listen or care, but because I don't want them to see me that way. Know what I mean?

My father was a bad stereotype. Alcoholic, drug-addicted Vietnam vet from a violent family. He had ptsd, I'm sure. But he also fits the DSM-IV diagnostic for anti-social personality disorder. You know, the serial killer disease. He went to war so he wouldn't have to go to prison for murder. They did that back then, if you can believe it. Serve time in jail, or go to Asia. Anyway, he was ****ed up BEFORE he left, but the special forces training he got in the army sure didn't help. While he was stationed in Germany, the German police informed her that they would have to do something about his beating me (a newborn) and that could be an issue since he was military personnel. So she came back to the States, waited for him, and when he hadn't changed by the time he got home- she divorced him and came to live with her father. I was less than two years old. I never saw him. I never heard from him. My mother never spoke of him. Nothing for years. Then, one day she called his brother and he answered the phone. They talked. All of a sudden there were letters and a strange man's voice on the phone. They decided he would come for a visit. That visit started my stay in Hell and didn't end until he died at the age of 38 from alcoholism. It is truly miraculous that I am alive today.

Wow- this is harder than I thought. I can't do anymore tonight because I can already feel my heart racing and my mouth drying up just thinking about where to begin. More soon to explain my title. red

You are doing great job, Red. Purge it all from your head, put it on the computer. Get it all out. I had a father like that too. Difference was, my mother stayed with him because he made her feel like she had no other choice. Talking about our abuse is healing.

Thanks, 2Quilt. I'm sure my mother felt she didn't have a choice, either. Problem is she INVITED him. She already knew what kind of man he was- the kind who will beat up women, beat up an infant, and drink/drug himself into oblivion- and she asked him to come anyway. He made nicey-nice for about three to six months. Then things started to change. No money for lunch at school, the pervasive reek of bourbon, yelling for no reason, random punishments. Before long we were evicted from our nice apartment and had to move into what I refer to as "the Pit". By that time, my mother had been demoted at work, my father didn't work at all, my mother's credit was ruined from my father writing bad checks; we couldn't afford a phone or a tv or food, but , by God, we could afford Evan Williams Black Label- a gallon of it every three days. Not including expenditures for weed and trips to the sleaziest bar he could find. A charming shotgun bar that existed only to serve hardcore drinkers. Absolutely no tourists. He used to take me with him and leave me alone in the bar while he went out back for a toke or ten. It was incredibly creepy. I was only 12- I didn't have the skills for a place like that. But I learned. He taught me to throw darts and would bet on me against other guys in the bar for money or the next round. And somebody's god should've helped me when I lost... Eventually, though, people caught on and wouldn't bet against me. My mother, a grown woman, would send me in there to fetch him out because she was afraid to go in. But I guess sending your 12/13 year old instead is better. I can still smell that place in my mind. Ground in cigarette smoke, faint hint of pot, the sweat of alcoholics- distilled into this indescribable stench. Rotten wood and cheap paint. Piss and puke always lingering around the bathrooms. Old blood. My personal favorite thing about this bar- and my stopping place for tonight- was its name. Ready? It was called Camelot. red

GREAT start! that is heavy stuff. the role your mother played in knowingly re-exposing you to him is hideous. my wifes brother is a narcissist, sociopath alcoholic by diagnosis and dealing with him is brutal. may peace replace the pain in your head!

Thanks for the encouragement, void. I hope to replace my pain with peace. But as the immortal John Lennon said, "It's a long row to hoe." And my arms are tired.

I thought I knew where I wanted to start tonight, but I don't. I feel sick and sorrowful. Angry and crazy. Restless in my mind. All the ghosts are afoot and moving around so I can't sleep. What will I see tonight in my dreams? Flayed animals that are still alive and screaming? Blood black in the moonlight? Those atrocious 70's blue daisy sheets covered in the shreds of innocent blood and terrified sweat? The creepiest thing about rape is that it doesn't kill you. It forever changed the way I see the world; it made me the most careful student of human behavior so I could avoid the really bad ones; it taught me to be predatory in my own right; but it didn't kill me. No matter how many times he did it, I just kept living through it. And going to school where I made perfect grades, because who knows what else he might have done if I DIDN'T make perfect grades? I think I had had every sexual act possible done to me before I was... 14? 15 maybe. And my mother knew. I never told her, but she knew. Who, in their right mind, would allow a grown man- father or not- to spend 45 minutes "tucking in" a 13 year old girl? Nobody. Or allow a 12 year old daughter to sit beside Daddy while he's in the tub? My job was to roll joints and read porn. I don't think I learned another name for a woman's genitalia besides "c*nt" for years. And as I read, he called me a whore. Dear gods, but this makes me tired down to my bones. That's it for me tonight. Tune in again for more exciting tales from Triskell Hell. red