A Polygamist…A Prophet…A Pedophile

And, here I thought my tri-fecta of fuckedupness took the cake…

eba67fc130c38c49777d30f23444c89eI’m not a Mormon nor do I claim to even know 10% of that religion. All I’ve ever heard is they have their sealed marriage ceremonies, their secret handshakes and passwords. Sealed together for all time and eternity. Sounds bizarre to me. The closest I ever got to reading The Book of Mormon was when my crazy friend, Letty, “stole” the Book of Mormon from our Vail hotel room and stuck it in my suitcase. Found it unpacking when I got back to Dallas. Bitch. I’ll get her back. Read More

Orgasms…there’s a time and a place for them…

IMG_3098I’m a sexual woman…no…a sexual being. I’m in touch (pun intended) with myself. Not just my sexual self. But my emotional self. My mental self. My physical self. I know my body. I know how to express myself in many ways. I’m not one to hold back with my words nor am I one to hold back with my sexual self. I take care of my personal sexual needs. I enjoy it. There is absolutely nothing wrong it. And I’m not afraid to talk about it. It’s so important to know how your body reacts to certain stimuli and NOT be afraid to explore it. I’m pretty sure I give new meaning to the term “wet spot”. And, yes. I just went there.

They say the more orgasms you have, the longer the life you will live. It’s all about the blood flow. Getting that heart rate up! It’s good for the soul. The heart. The body. And the mind. Both the emotional and wise mind. I have no issue exercising my right as a woman. As a human being. To thoroughly enjoy yourself in a sexual way. Either alone or with the right partner. Being sexual is NORMAL and highly encouraged in the proper situation. If you don’t have a vibrator, get one. And don’t be afraid to use it. Sex is NOT dirty. And shouldn’t be. Even though I was introduced to it at such a young age, I don’t let that moment in time define me. I’m not afraid to be the woman I want to be in a sexual way. And I will not feel guilt nor shame because I simply enjoy sex.

However…

I can’t be this sexually crazed woman when my children are near. When I say near, I mean in the house with me at the same time. I’m just not going to go there. When my children are with me, I’m in mom mode which means crazy sexual Wanda does not exist. Some things just DON’T co-exist. Like sex and children. EVER!

This is what disturbs me. Tremendously. Fucking pedophiles. The lines are so blurred. They are constantly crossed. I simply don’t get it and I lived it. Wish it was one great big blur. But it isn’t. Luckily, I can separate the two. Sex and children. But others simply can’t. Or won’t.

This blog is about my journey as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and the role hypocritical Christians played in it. I know all about my abuse and, yet, I can still have a healthy sex life. THANK GOD!

This blog isn’t about the journey of others. I haven’t walked in their shoes. I haven’t lived in their heads. I’m not their maker nor their judge but this whole Josh Duggar situation has me all up in arms! My feelings are all over the map. I don’t know all the facts but I saw where he admitted to the sexual abuse of his sisters. GROSS. And, when they were little girls. He was a teenager. He owned up only AFTER some magazine recently found the police report from 2002. How convenient. His parents said he made a mistake that caused a tremendous pain for the family. Paulo Coehlo, author of “The Alchemist,” said, “Mistakes made more than once are decisions.” The least his parents could do was admit to them being decisions on his part. But, hey, this whole thing brought the family closer to God.

I have news for you.

God may have walked on water but he CANNOT cure pedophilia. I hope his sisters are able to get help. Real help. There is no fucking way I would let my children around him. It’s our job as parents to protect our children from pedophiles. ESPECIALLY known pedophiles. Or, hell, just sweep it under the rug and hope it goes away. Pedophilia doesn’t go away. Many women don’t really ever get over the abuse. They go on for years unable to have a healthy sex life. Unhealthy relationships. Some are just downright scared to be with a partner.

But some women do get over the abuse. They are able to move on. They are able to realize that sex with the right partner or simply alone is ok.

Like me. As long as my kids aren’t around. There’s a time and a place.

I want freedom (of speech)…but with a safety net

IMG_3098

April 19, 2015

Freedom.  Who doesn’t want it?  Freedom with a safety net?  Or freedom with boundaries.  Boundaries…we all need them.  We crave them.  We can’t live without them.  You.  Me.  My kids.  Your kids.  Boundaries make us feel safe.

But I’m always pushing my boundaries.  I go to the edge.  I look over and I wonder.  What if?  What if I jump?  Do I go head first or feet first?  What will catch me at the bottom?  I want to jump to feel the exhilaration of it.  But not at the risk of losing my life.  Thus the safety net.  Is it down there at the bottom for me?  Waiting to catch me after I impulsively jump?  Yep.  You guessed it.  I tend to be impulsive.  Not even thinking of the consequences.  Luckily, I’ve always had a safety net to catch me.  The safety net catches the brunt of the fall.  Like my ex husband.  He caught the brunt of many of my falls.  I suppose, in a way, he still does.  My impulsivity is still there but not nearly as often as it used to be.

Last year, my daughter accused another 5th grader of stealing a necklace.  The mother called my ex and chewed him out.  Rightfully so, perhaps.  We, in turn, chewed out our 5th grader for accusing a child of doing something that wasn’t done.  Tough lesson learned.  Well…the mother wasn’t done.  She then texted my daughter and told her she was wrong and “why would you do that to a good Christian girl?”  Oh God.  Another one of them.  You know…where good and Christian somehow needs to be reinforced.  I was dumbfounded.  The nerve!  I couldn’t pick this woman out of a crowd of 2.  And she is texting my daughter.  It gets better.  She then goes on to text me to tell me how I needed to punish my daughter.  Ok.  Let me be very clear with you.  My kids screw up.  I call them out.  I make them own it.  (I am NOT that mother that says “my child would never do that.”  Those parents drive me crazy.  Another parent in denial about their perfect child.  NOT ME!)  So….after  she texted me, I had had enough.  Don’t tell me how to punish my child.  Already did that.  My daughter royally screwed up.  She called the child and apologized.  They made up.  Done.  If only…Of course, me and  my mouth intervened.   My mouth…you know the one.  The free falling, impulsive idiot–however, net is ready to catch me.  I told the mother she needed to do herself a favor and get laid.  (Perhaps that would calm her nerves).   She then threatened to call the police.  Great!  But I don’t think they are in the business of fucking lonely HP housewives.  Still haven’t seen her.  To this day.

But the bigger question is, what would possess me to say such a thing to a woman I’ve never even met?  Why be so impulsive?  Why be an asshole?  I guess my safety net was in place.  My ex.  He took the brunt of that blow.  Again.  Every time this mouth opens, he gets a phone call.  You can stop being my safety net.  But thank you for being that net for so many years….

I need to be my own safety net.  I need to be less impulsive.  I need to think before I jump.  But I want freedom.  But I need boundaries.  I need to feel safe.  How do you jump without a net?  How do you ever feel free?  With a net?  Without one?

Content vs context….

IMG_3098When I started this blog last month, the hate, the disdain, and the utter pity of my mother fueled a fire so out of control that I couldn’t stop writing. I’ve had so many comments. So much feedback. So many fucking opinions. Unlike some humans, I don’t think in complete sentences. I simply think. So my unedited writings come full of run on sentences, one word sentences and sentences without commas. Sorry. I did make straight A’s with a couple of B’s sprinkled in; therefore, I do know how to write a correct and proper sentence. But this isn’t for a grade. So deal with it, J. Love you but, “NO,” you cannot edit my blog nor my thoughts nor my unfiltered mouth. How many times did everyone (especially my ex say, “WANDA?????”)? The sheer tone said it all!

It’s not about the context but more the CONTENT!

As I was dropping “F” bombs the last day I engaged with my mother (you remember, the red magnet story?–Day 1 of this blog), she was horrified at “such language”. “Could you please not use that language in my house?” Context. Never mind the content that I’m delivering in between my “F” bombs was merely about her husband molesting me and my mother keeping him around all those years knowing full well what he did to me. I really want to know what she thought every time she kissed him. Woke up next to him. Sat across the dinner table from him. Can the human mind block something so horribly wrong and simply not ever go back there?

A friend of mine who was abused by her brother has the same mother. She simply refuses to acknowledge it ever happened. Her brother raped her for years. The mother is my age. I swear I thought I was from the generation that talks about it. Guess I was wrong. How does a mother forsake one child over the other?

At what point do mothers wake up and learn to listen to the content and not just hear the context?

Keeping secrets and hair cuts…

February 5, 2015

According to my adult friends, I’m not very good at keeping secrets.  I had my first and only extra marital affair in my 15th year or marriage and apparently needed to tell all my friends.   Was I proud of the affair?  Why couldn’t I keep this to myself?  I guess I was in love (not really) and needed to shout it from the rooftops? Seriously, you idiot?  Infidelity 101….Shut the fuck up!  So I failed at cheating and I failed at keeping a secret.  But why?  Why wasn’t I so ashamed?  Clearly, I am able to keep secrets at I told no one of my childhood indiscretion (ummm…I mean….his indiscretion–sorry– tasteless joke…).  I didn’t realize how I kept that deep inside me from all my childhood friends until this blog came out.  So many of them emailed and texted and wanted to come to my rescue.  Had they known.   Wonder what could have been had they known?

Do you know what it’s like to be somebody’s dirty little secret?  Why do I continue to pick men who are ashamed to tell their loved ones that I’m the woman in their life?   Oh the stories I have of the  men I have picked.  Epically failed at  picking the wrong ones.  Sneaking in at all hours for a sexual encounter.   Shhhh….Be quiet…We don’t want anyone to hear.  All I can say is at least, I’m consistent.  Oh God…what a mess…

Let me digress for a moment.  I’m an amazing woman.  I have accomplished a lot in my 45 years.  I have raised over 7 figures for my children’s public elementary school.  Yes, I have children.  4 of them.  All well adjusted, athletic, funny, gregarious, smart little human beings with a sense of humor that keeps us all wondering, “Where did that come from?”.  I have built tens of millions in houses and condos.  I play ice hockey every week and I do yoga several times a week.  I have given food and blankets to hundreds of homeless people.  I have volunteered coach in the YMCA for the past 10 years.  You name it.  I have coached and sometimes two at the same time.  My girls are a year apart and what I did for one, I did for the other.  Volleyball.  Check.  Basketball.  Check.  Softball.  Check.  Track. Check.  Soccer.  Check.  Even if it took all of my energy.  I have given countless hours of my time to many people.

I’m not some druggie on the streets barely making it.  I live well.  But I am messed up.  I am weak emotionally.  I am angry.  I am confused.  I’m always wondering why is that such a smart, capable woman is so fucked up.  When will this change?  When will I change?

I’ve had many turning points in my life.  At one point, Jesus won, and I actually went to church.  Baptized all my children there.  Even let the molester come to the first one.  My mother wasn’t leaving him and I wanted him to have a grandmother for my children so I acquiesced.   My husband and I were up in her part of town and decided to stop by when my first was 8 months old.  I was pleasant to him but that was it during those times.  THIS IS WHEN IT ALL STOPPED.  A TON OF BRICKS HIT ME ON THE HEAD THIS DAY.  My son had his first haircut and the molester’s comment to me and my husband was, “His haircut is sexy.”  I’m sorry.  What did you just say?  Did you call my 8 month old son’s hair cut sexy?  I must be confused.  WHAT THE FUCK IS SEXY ABOUT AN 8  MONTH OLD.  NOTHING.  LET ME REPEAT.  NOTHING IS SEXY ABOUT AN 8 MONTH OLD.  That was it for me.  I vowed from that day forward that man would NEVER and I mean NEVER touch any of my children.  He never met my girls nor my 4th.  I went a few years without even talking to my mother after that.  I still can’t believe that I even tried to have any sort of relationship with her after that incident.  But part of me wanted my girls to have a maternal grandmother.  I have no idea where any sort of compassion comes from me because I certainly didn’t learn it at home.

All I learned at home was how to keep a really good secret…well…sort of….

Tomorrow, I’ll tell of the 3 year separation from the first time I told my mother to the second time….When she was forced to believe me….