My last hidden thing.

This’ll be heavy. strap in or fuck off.

I don’t divulge my childhood and when people press too hard, I just make something up.

The truth about my childhood sits in the basment of my heart. I visualise it as a great gray mass I have tucked away, living in fear someone with find out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Some of the following might be unsettling to some readers because of themes of animal cruelty and child abuse. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Places are unnamed to protect my privacy from those who don’t know me.

This is my story of how fundamentalist Christianity and home schooling can be used to support and hide abuse in america. I’m one of many, many people who’ve gone through this. I am not an Isolated incident.

this is an american problem

I’m the same age my mother was when I left home. I think about that a lot. It’s young.

I want to say that maybe in the begining , my mother and the boy she married were good people. Okay people. Crazy, but ok. That’s likely untrue.

One day my mother(a woman I knew only as a white-snakeesque miniskirt and the smell of chow-mein) showed up at my grandmother and grandfather’s beautiful comfortable home and took me to an apartment/trailer. My mother had had me at 15 and her mother raised me.(this is the story. I have doubts) My mother was the only person in our family to have gotten knocked up in high-school and I’m sure her parents were thrilled. Way to break that record,gurl.

My grandmother begged, I screamed and cried, and I guess my mother made threats that Gramma’d never see me again if she didn’t go along with it.

I don’t know what month the day was in, but I know my mom married this guy she’d just met a few week later in the summer. I still remember the photo, taken by I believe my moms’ friend. A Polaroid of a short, thin blonde woman in a white dress with an ice Cream cone from a street-vendor and a blond boy, in salmon pink trousers. (I’d later scratch his eyes out of the picture in rage, but that was years later also, I don’t remember doing it, but I was blamed and beaten for it ) M pinched me HARD on the thigh the first day we met. My mother said I had to obey him, this man I’d never met. He drove a small, loud car in an obnoxious red. He had a poodle named “beu” that shit all over and snapped at me.My grandfather hated him and the car, and insisted he sell it and take one of theirs. I only know this through my grandfather’s tendency to relay loudly what a tit he was. At this point, I should have been in preschool. I was not. I’d learned to read by around three, according to my grandparents. I WANTED to be in school so bad I could feel it. I went a few days and I was told I bit someone and This was the last time I was in a classroom until I was 12. ( waait. I tested in a classroom once a year.)

I remember sitting next to PeVe amps in loud bars as my mom and her band played . A guy named Brad (I think he died and for a long time, I thought he was my father) took care of me, and gave me a stuffed bear I named, obviously “brad” . I have foggy memories of physical pain at night, and I start seeing things in my closet, dead people, .. things. I started wetting the bed, and being spanked every day for it. This didn’t stop for literally years, although I did stop with the bed. I still see things In the shadows.

One night my mom and M came to pick me up from my grandparents home,teary and loud saying they’d been “saved. They stop dressing like normal 21 year old kids and more like ..they’re in a cult. This begins the end of normal. I remember being baptised in some lake sometime after this, I bit the pastor and mom hit me for the first time. I really don’t know why these two people took me to live with them, looking back. what was the point? Why raise a kid you don’t want? In “89, my halfbrother showed up, my half sister a little bit later. Here’s where shit gets weird. The Parents join some fundamentalist church with no instruments and women and men set separate, the women are all covered and dower. I guess they take it all to heart, because the church is all about “breaking your kid’s will”. They get obsessed with James Dobson and John R Rice.

The spanking turns to beating. Beating for being slow. For being rebellious. messy. not “honoring my father”. Lying. being a sinner I don’t remember playing with toys, being hugged by them, there was nothing positive. I do chores, read the bible. I wash diapers in a toilet. cloth diapers in a toilet. Fuck, like.. why tho? My mother hits me constantly . She’s fat in a way that looks like over-risen dough, if that dough had pendulous tits.

At 4:30 every day, the angel of depression sets in, and while she’s always worse at 4:30(I call it my witching hour) she never left. She’s my oldest friend, i guess, If i can be fucking dark for a minute.

I have memories of good days, trees and runnning. I swing for hours , feeling the wind and I remember praying to anyone who wasnt my parents god to save me. my grandparents take me often enough to keep me safe and normal.There’s so much I could pack in, but I’m trying to give you the basics.

I’m being home schooled in all this chaos.No one is teaching me, so I read and do what I’m supposed to do because, I don’t even remember, because it made me happy? They used Rod and Staff. check that shit out f you wanna see the shittiest creationism dumbed up watery tripe ever. I had grandparents making sure this didn’t stick, thank god. I spent all my early childhood, till maybe 12, alone. I’m social, so that was a hell alone.

I wake up to beatings for made-up mistakes. My Mothers husband beats me when she’s done. The other things that happen leave me with constant UTI’s and I start to break apart inside, into hard, sharp bits of hate. When my mom’s church friends ask if I’m okay, my mother tells them I’m “wicked.” I’m stubborn. No one in the church ever asks about the bruises. I wanted to die.

I know this is when I started to crack. At nine I took a whole bottle of Aspirin, hoping to die. I didn’t. on finding out, my mother pulls both siblings into see how”wicked” I am. she doesn’t take me to the hospital., but instead drags me along with “her Kids” to get them a movie. I remember that it was 2 pm and Rush Limbaugh was on. I remember the pain of knowing she didn’t care, and how confusing it was. I wasn’t set up to succeed. I brought tiny gifts, brushed her hair, bought little things from the bodega. I cleaned more. At one point the skin flaked off my hands from bleach. She ALWAYS punished me violently no matter what I did. Years go by like this. I’ve been sneeking out at night, doing what I want, going where I please. Cities can save your life.I started running away, and I always get dragged back.

My mother could convince anyone anyone that she was charming.she’d be sweet to me in public, when the three of us were all out.When people on the street once complemented my freckles and curly hair (to my great shock) my mother said, Oh That one??? She liked to tell people her little blonde kids were hers, and I was “watching them”. I was terrified of that face she wore like wolfs teeth.

My parents bounce from church to church because my mother’s husband thinks they’re all too “liberal.” I once went to some sort of fundy rally all the way in Gary Indiana.One massive colossem filled with shaved white men,riled up over a man talking, then erupting in that straight arm gesture we all know sure as fuck doesnt mean “hi”. I was terrified to go to the bathroom alone. years go by like this.

At home on good days I did all the chores. dishes. sweep. clean diapers. if I finished my work I had to “report to her!” this involved getting on my knees like I was bowing. she prided herself on the punishment instrumnets she broke over me, all in the name of God.Here’s the thing. She knew it nothing to do with god. you know when someone’s beating you for enjoyment. I’m angry writing this. When I think of her, I see that decaying chair with some god shit and a “punishment item”stuffed in the cushions.

Day after day after day. work. My mother just sat. all day. sat. drank. read far-right literature.I start to rebel for real at this point. I KNOW from being around normal people that that is is INSANE . Still to this day, I work fast, expecting that timer to ding.

I became very difficult, truly. they beat me, I ran away, stole shit. I started trouble hoping to attract cps.

As an adult, it’s all too easy to look back and see that they were fanatics. I think my stepfather craved control, and believed it was ” the End Times” . My mother suffered from schizophrenia. They were both cruel, and believed they were doing “gods” will.

Through all this, I’m taught at home so no one can see me. Thank god, there’s state testing and I’m actually really fucking smart, because I managed to learn in utter chaos. I’ve been told that complaining about “gods punishment’ is a sin. it’s at this point I start to believe to myself that this is no god, and while I can fake believing to survive,I know no god does this. I had no childhood, except when I was at my grandparents who kept me in programmes, dance, took me to anything they could. I couldn’t make friends because I was too angry, to weird.

My grandparents are my only salvation, because they saw bruises and somehow force themselves into my mom’s house over and over, calling CPS, begging someone to check. Cps is pointless, because they put me upstairs and the the kids were basically fine.

Horrible things happened when someone intervened. People don’t think about what happens to those kids when cps gets called But “doesn’t find anything”.By the time I was 11, I had boils all over my butt from infected sores. My legs were bruised from being beaten, from my legs down to my butt. I was malnourished. I’d had mumps because my mother didn’t vaccinate. Between my schoolwork and all her housework, I barely slept. I took to dialling 911 constantly, almost compulsively, hoping they’d show up. It’s worth noting that “Their kids” were fine. I adored my brother and put myself in between him and everything. My sister, the undeniable favourite, went out of her way to get me in trouble then watch. I hated her. Dance is saving my life at this point. I beat my feel against the floor too hard and tried to imagine my life I’d have when I grew up.

These idiots start hording for Y2K. Guns. Rice. dried meat. It’s an obsession because they are the kind of fundies obsessed with politics and the end times. Theres horded food and rats everywhere. There’s books so high in my little room that My Grandfather grabs my father by the collar and throws him, asking if they’re trying to kill me.

I started bleeding through my tights after dance,when My grandmother picked me up.She made me tell her everything while my grandfather went to my moms husbands place and, I guess, tried to kill him. Grandpa suffered a heart attack, and in 1995 the left to live in Texas. I later found out that grandfather offered them several grand to let me go with them. it didn’t work. I lost a lot of time after that. I ran away a lot. I thought of killing my stepfather. I planned to run away. I planned . My grandparents filed to adopt me. they lost. My stepfather started to use cruelty to animals as a way to inspire me to obey. Beating me did nothing, I just let myself drift away, or I laughed. I’ve seen so many animals killed in cruel ways and I’ll never get it out of my head. Don’t know what was wrong with him, where this all came from. The same year, a pastor of a shitty little church my stepdad wanted to be a deacon in grabbed my little girl tit. He pretended it was an accident. I set a fire in his trashcan. I vandalized a few things. I don’t regret it. I’m Thirteen now. I’m in school because of a number of complex, boring things. I’ve planned my way out. I’m Rage. Rage in black jeans learning I’m queer. I start cutting. I go out into the night and scream when I’m in the hills of my grandparents place. The sneaking out is great, I guess the hate made me edgey,and cool people took me to shows and raves, and I was really safe among the weirdos.

I’m leaving out so much background noise, the stuff of life. writing this in a park , I almost delete this.Why Tell? because I’m freeing myself this way, as humiliated as I feel.

As my mother slipped more into mental illness, she stared to believe I was possessed. I belive I genuinely scared my mother, partially because I wouldn’t break, and also because I was strong and those nightmares never stopped, I never stopped seeing things.Today, I’ve embraced what I see, and I assure you, It’s notthe devil in me I can honestly say I’ve”had the devil cast out of me multiple times, because I was Rebelling. In the eyes of my family, I was everything the church warned against. a Pastor told me that in the bible times, I’d have been stoned”.My folks bounced from church to church, picking up crazy Ideas from every one of them. My mom got fat, got in bed, and basically never got out. she’d leave forever, see things and make up crazy shit. I don’t know where her Husband went half the time. my memory gets spotty. Walking throught my stepdads’s room one night, I find mine and my brothers baby books. Remember those? snapshots of potato looking babies and “babies first” whatever. Mine was days marked with “rebelious” “doesn’t listen” “not as sick as expected”. All the pages. All of them were hate.

When I look back at this, it feels surreal. My 14th ,year My mother and Her dude were off their rockers.I think the mess they’d created was catastrophic and they couldn’t deal.

Floundering. hording. they became Y2K horders with horder friends. Around 1999, they started to fall apart. The room filled with Y2k supplies filled with rats and They bought an old school bus for The End Of Days.They’d started talking about marrying me off when I was 13, and by this time , they’d lost me. My mother ends up hospitalised for schitzophrenia. in all this madness, I slip away.I left, built a few lives.

That’s my childhood. Religion as a weapon, constant attempts to break me down,horrible things no one needs to read. No love.

I didn’t come out of this right. I survived, and had to slowly crall towards fine.

to this day, I hate messes. Hording scares me. I jump when timers go off. I lve with constant anxiety and sudden, overwhelming sadness. I am Rebellious. the skin on my butt and back of my legs is scarred and tinged purple. I lived, though. plenty don’t. A word on Fundamentalism: This is a weapon of control. There’s no loving god in the doctrin.

This form of christianity renders women powerless. Governed.

“Let a woman learn in silence with all submissiveness I permit no woman to teach or have authority over a man; rather, she is to remain silent.”1 Timothy 2: 11-“

It’s a new day, Timothy, and I’ve come to tell you to fuck yourself.


There are two instances where I believe it’s totally acceptable to create or experience your own reality: one is your spiritual life, and the other is anytime you’re under the influence of hallucinogenic *medicines.

At all other points in time, Reality is the truth. Truth is based on facts.

We’re living in a world of our own creation, where facts are being twisted it is something utterly ridiculous, and a lot of times, I think we just go along believing them because we like the rhetoric. This is bullshit, friends.

Get the facts. Know them, remember the truth and hold the truth inside your soul.

Y’know.. Don’t believe the hype, to quote Public Enemy.

Right now the American government is attempting to create its own reality. It’s attempting to dictate the news. There’s a laundry list of things happening right now, and I’m not going to go into them, because that’s not my point right now.

We must continue to live in reality.


Be rational.

Act with our hearts open and our eyes clear.

I personally believe it’s my job to be the candle burning in the window and the light in a dark place. I’m still figuring out what that means in the middle of all this mess.

I love you, whoever you are, Wherever You Are.

Happy solstice. Remember to turn your face to the sun like a flower perhaps literally, but definitely figuratively.

* you’re not going to catch me referring to psychedelics or marijuana as drugs at any point in this blog.

I see a lot of legs shaved only to the point at which clothes usually begin or end from my vantage point here on the floor. Smooth ankles that end right at a French-cropped Jean that end on the lower half of calves, fuzzy backs of thighs. I’m propped up against one of those trash can that’s split into two Parts because we ran out of chairs and mostly out of floor space at gate 12b of Charles De Gaulle Airport. A number of women are sleeping on the floor, propped up on piles of bags. From the amount of people and agitation in here, you’d think we’d been here several days, not several hours. People have formed sub-groups.

There’s folks with kids, suburban #winemom types, schoolteacher types . Hermes bags and Italian men in another grouping with plastic-surgery grandmas. Another group seems to be students around 19, who’ve just finished a life-changing trip for the first time. Another stand out are People Probably In Bands. I ended up there because I have M&Ms and I share. Likely also because of tattoos featuring Greenery. Feral children roam the burgundy-carpeted wasteland.

My ass is asleep and A’s gonna be in Stockholm before I’m even on the plane. I’ve realized I missed a ring of hair surrounding one anklebone. Oh well. I’m in good company.



Sitting on a park bench in front of Gambrinus, a little blonde boy tosses a tiny Yorkie in my direction and in doing so pulls my eyes away from a little bird , presumably shitting in the grass. The little boy seems to have done so in an effort to get a bit of attention and a laugh out of me. He gets both.

I’ve been all over the city centre of Pilzen the past few days, and I’ve just consumed my first vegan meal since being here: I’m a , but I lean heavily vegan. A dearth of vegetables is hard on my ethical sensibilities as well as my digestive system. The food servings here are large, even by American Standards, the food all lovely and warm and mostly meat and potatoes, artfully arranged.

We’ll be here until Friday morning’s check out, then headed to Prague. I’d love to sit and write more about the general experience and I will, but right now I’m watching.

I learn more from sitting around in squares and observing and walking around watching people than I do from most other things, and this has been genuinely fantastic observation.

If you’re interested in photos of random travel things, follow me on Insta @blacksquirrelwytch


Somewhere over Greenland.

The soul of humanity lies in quiet shadows of sadness in old mens eyes, so easily brighted by acknowledging what hides behind them. There’s softer thoughts than you’d expect, tucked away.

It lives in silent knowledge of other’s wounds.

It takes me by surprise on long flights, when everyone else sleeps and I stare at our shared moment, contained by a (possibly) decade-old metal tube somewhere over Greenland.

I’d like to think there is a great web of deities, all of different viewpoints preserving us, ever so slightly. My greatest fear is that we only have ourselves.

Humanity’s soul lives, planted in us all.

It thrives in kindness.

Please, let it thrive.


I’m doing something I never do.

The  sun cuts through half-open blinds, and the not-yet setting light rays hits my seedlings,(or whatever you call plants that aren’t just sprouted , but too.. wobbly to really be plants) and  my bike,out on the patio. The torn-off fronts of craft coffee bags are tossed around me, and I’m trying to think of how to decoupage them onto the coffee table I’ve been covering for over a year. It’s nearly finished. Mr. Robot is on; I Remember  hearing  Pop Culture happy hour talk about it while I worked out at my old Gym in San Jose. I think that means this show came out in 2015?  It’s good so far. IMG_20180509_182340.jpg

I never watch anything new alone, because it almost feels meaningless to do so, somehow. I’d rather re-watch, but then I end up with pop-culture FOMO. I don’t sit on our couch at 7 pm and drink coffee and watch TV shows I haven’t watched before ,alone, as the light streams in through hanging blinds. I don’t do crafts instead of running errands, reading, or going to the gym, or any number of other things that keep my body and brain moving. I’m trying to slow down and be present.

I don’t think there’s even going to be enough time, somehow. I look at my husband and the sun and all the other brightest things I know, and think that.  I tell My husband this sometimes, Never enough. It’s possible he thinks I’m being morbid, but I hope he knows it’s just how deep down the love goes, how much deeper  I  go. Never enough time.

Maybe I’ll spend more time gluing hipster coffee bags to my coffee table.

Bruised fruit

Throughout my life,bruises have stood as shrines to the things I have loved that have hurt me.

I used to tear the skin off of my little kid shins while running through fence rows filled with blackberry vines, and then go home sticky with blood and joy, purple with juice and bruises.

I’ve had collections of Chartreuse and black bruises from falling down skateboarding, bruises from dancing, bruises from people who loved me, from people who hated me, uncomplicated bruises from sex that left me happy in the pit of myself  when I saw them. I’ve had several people’s share of the bruises from nights that are devoid of memories, nights when I’ve drunk so much I can’t remember details. Some of the things that have bruised me have almost destroyed my life.

The ones below are from trees. I’ve never been able to climb a tree and not be bruised like an apple. I will move my body ,coiling along the limbs and bruising my inner thighs, and slam my shins against the branches until they turn purple. I don’t know that it’s ever been comfortable to climb a tree, but it is joyful and invigorating and wild in a way often forgotten as an adult. So enjoy my bruises, because they will always be here, visible and vulgar.

Beware the ides of march and weeping MDs.

On march 23rd, I’m taking myself to be sterilized: I literally couldn’t be more excited about this, but I’m also bloody terrified because like most invasive surgeries, it means I’ll be put under. That fear is a small price to pay for not being made bat-shit nuts by hormonal birth control. It feels liberating to make that choice with minimal interference. Yesterday, I had an appointment with my GP to follow-up on blood work: It’s clear that I’d been previously misdiagnosed, which can happen when you have no insurance for all of your twenties and move all the time, leaving you with a broken chain of sporadic doctor visits for separate but inter-connected issues. That’s a clear perk of the American medical system, friendos. When I get to the office, She, a woman in her mid-to-late forties with a beautiful and grainy russian voice not trimmed by her 20 years in the US, (I know this because she gave me way more information about her than I wanted) tells my I don’t have RA, and long story short, have fibromyalgia. I have an MRI scheduled to rule out fractures in my spine, a possible result of my less-than-idyllic childhood. Here’s where think start to feel heavy and uncomfortable. She asks why No-one has done imaging of my spine. I tell her that I’ve spent ten years with no insurance. She asks why I had back pain as a child, and I briefly explain it was very abusive. I do this with my face made of stone, my tone the tone of someone who is used to this conversation and begging to have this over with. She begins to blubber. I know doctors have feelings, but this isn’t the first one who’s cried, and I am uncomfortable being put in a position to think about comforting someone whom I am paying for the time of. That horrible phase of my life, my childhood,has long passed. I left home more than 15 years ago. I rarely cried then, and I don’t often now. I don’t have the time. After what feels like 30 minutes of stilted convo about how badly women are treated and the #metoo movement, we move on to talking about my upcoming Tubal Ligation. She begs my rapidly angry-growing self to “think about it”. What if I realize I’ve mad a mistake after? Is this because of my childhood? I assure her that I have never wanted children. My life-plan involves travel and unencumbered fucking of the man I married for as long as possible without the risk of accidental procreation. She prescribes drugs. the conversation ends.


It wasn’t until 3 hours later , sitting in my car after running a million errands and realizing how little goddamn time I have in a day, that I began crying out of frustration. Frustration at the American Medical System, at misdiagnosed illness, at the diagnosis itself, and most of all, another persons patronising gall . Frustration at how little time we have for life as adults, and how doctors visits eat up that precious time.

I have “thought about it”. I’m looking forward to not thinking about it. So, on march 23rd, I’m looking forward to starting the first day of the rest of my life unencumbered by the idea of childbirth and pregnancy. So save your tears, Doctor What’syerface, do your job, take my money, and STFU.


I listen to spoken word while I cycle, not music: I feed Podcasts and NPR and books by people who I find too dry or too frivolous to read on paper,into my eardrums. I do this not because I don’t enjoy music, because I prefer spoken-word, but because music tears at my heart in a primordial way. I might tell you I don’t listen to Muse because they were only good for 10 seconds in 2010, or that I hate all music that got radio play between the years of 2006 to 2011, or that there’s a time and place for Major Lazer and it’s not in my ears on my bike, on a hill.

Those are partial truths.

Music hurts. It throbs in my heart. I feel it in my calves and toes.

All of it. It rings through my past and present and spoken word, mostly, doesn’t.

It’s not depression or sadness that causes this, but something else bigger inside of my soul,and while it forces me to create barriers, I wouldn’t change it for any quantity of books.