Monday, June 16, 2008

Today's snippet:

It's not fiction, but it's writing. I still feel the fire in my belly from it. It's true, as far as I know. I feel that this message needs to be spread as much as possible.

There is a woman, on babycenter, who is suffering from an abusive marriage. I don't know her; I've only known of her existence for a matter of days, not even weeks. But my heart breaks for her, breaks for her children, and my blood boils at the thought of the slithering snake of a man who has torn this woman down to almost nothing.

She thinks it's her fault. Everything she writes about him is "he says". He controls her every thought, he belittles her, he hurts her, and he has her convinced that she's the one at fault for being a NAG!

Get that. A nag. It makes me want to bite something.

And now, presumably because he has been reading her posts and supportive comments from her friends here, he has presented her with a "separation agreement" that grants him full custody of their children.

No one has heard anything from her since. And it makes me want to find his ass, and rip his spine out of his anus.

Maybe it's the dragon in me.

What sort of person sets that kind of example? What sort of person tears a mother down so that she will endure that kind of abuse out of some misguided attempt to provide better than she had? What has he done with her that she has so little self esteem left as to believe that she actually deserves it for having a "bad temper", a temper that even she admits he deliberately provokes!

I hate people. I've never been so worried for someone I don't know in my life.

Honey, if in some off chance, some wild, crazy moment, you manage to read this, please listen to me. Listen to me as a total stranger, peering in the window of your house, watching this man flog you with his tongue while your children watch and learn that this is normal.

For their sakes, get the hell out. Get a lawyer, don't sign anything, and get the hell OUT. Your children deserve a father who respects their mother. Your children will learn that this is normal, and when they grow up, they will think this is what is right. Do you want your son to hurt someone like this? Do you want your daughter to take that kind of abuse?

You've got the same fire in your belly I do. You're a mother, like me. LET IT OUT. Stop listening to his lies and manipulations, and show him your fangs. Show him he can't control you anymore, and save your children. Because no one else will.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Long time no see

Well, after an entirely too long hiatus, I've decided to come back. I was inspired by my friend Danielle, whose 63-consecutive day blogging streak continues unbroken. And it makes me feel like poo.

So I'm going to start back writing, and break my dry spell... I haven't written a word of fiction since November 30, 2007. Not good.

So. Now I'm gonna write. And I'm gonna write here. - Here's where I'll start to get back into the groove.


It's dark in here. Why does it always have to be dark? I mean, I've always thought of myself as a good spoon. I do my job. I put up with other people's crap. Would it kill you to brush your teeth before dinner? Just because I don't have a nose doesn't mean I can't smell that halitosis.

I like it when I'm set out. The dining room is gorgeous. Love the drapes, by the way. They really offset the gold in the chandelier. Well. I guess you can call it a chandelier. You must have paid at LEAST twenty bucks for that thing, right?

So now I'm chilling out, here in the dark, wondering when someone's going to bother to flip the damn switch. That lasagna has been on my back for days. There's something crawling around below me, and honey, I KNOW there's no way in but that front door, so please do something. This stinks. I'd rather have three day old cake splashed on my face than have to smell this.

I hear you out there. Laughing. Talking. Ignoring me.

I work hard for you. I sit in that dusty drawer day after day, I deal with your foul breath, and I take food to your disgustingly unclean mouth. Granted, whoever does your cooking really knows their stuff, but that's no excuse.

Just. Turn. On. The. Dishwasher.