Screwed Up: My Story

For those unfamiliar with my story, Screwed Up: My Life, please start at the beginning here. The purpose of me writing this intimate account of surviving a difficult childhood is explained here. This story in its entirety can be found at Blurb.com and is available for purchase for $12.95 plus shipping and handling.

This is the final installment of an almost year-long journey to tell my story of overcoming a difficult and painful childhood. It is my hope, and always has been, that through me sharing my story that others who have gone through similar situations may find the hope and courage to overcome and be strong despite their past. Each person's story is unique--you may feel that you had it harder or that you didn't have it as hard, but the one thing we can all do is lean upon each other and find solace in Something Greater than ourselves.

Do you know someone that may find courage and hope through my story? Are you that certain someone? Then I encourage you to direct them to this blog where they can read my story in its entirety, or if you feel so inclined purchase my book, Screwed Up: My Life. A portion of the proceeds will go to a charity of my choice.

My college years would be filled with many ups and downs as I attempted to figure out life for the first time on my own. I had lost a great deal of my childhood and would find myself often wishing to have it back and yet also knowing I could never go back in time. Oftentimes, I contemplated my future life and what I wanted to do with the rest of my days on Earth. I knew my life would get better from this point on.

I knew God was with me and I knew He loved me also, even if I couldn’t always feel His presence. My spirit had been beaten and trodden upon for so much of my life, and yet I had also witnessed God’s all encompassing love and knew He had been there with me all along. I would be shown the generosity and unconditional love of others and I would make lifetime friends while living in Idaho. I would share pieces of my life story with these friends, but would not tell everything to them until years later.

At times, I look back upon my life and wonder how it would have been different if I had been born into a loving and stable family. Other times, I wonder if I would have stayed with one particular family or another, if my life today would be the same. I wonder if I would have finished college, if I would be living in my current state, or if I would have married my husband and had my three precious children that I have born into this world.

I can't go back in time. There is no magic machine that will turn my teenage years around. All I can do is make my life better for myself, my husband, and most importantly my children. All I can do is inspire others to live a good life and not make the same mistakes that I made and that my parents made. All I can say to those that feel like ending their life is that I too have been there. That even if it seems no one in this world loves you, God does love you and He does care about you. You will be missed—it is hard to see who loves you when you are in the depths of despair. Please, get help. Tell someone. There is no need to cut your life short.

I miss my sisters Donna and Shelly. Each of their lives was cut tragically short. I never met Donna as she committed suicide when she was nineteen and I was barely a year old. She didn’t feel that anyone loved her and she had lived a harder life than most. Her husband committed suicide just a couple months before she did and no one was there to comfort her and make her feel wanted and loved. I’ve read her letters where she desperately asked her parents to visit her and love her. According to her, they never return her letters. So, on a winter’s night in 1982, she ended her life. Oh how I wish I could have met my oldest sister! The love and sisterly bond we should have shared would never be.

In 2008, I lost my sister, Shelly. Her death was unexpected and needless. I’ve always felt a special connection to her. I didn’t meet my older sisters until I was eleven years old, the result of adult bitterness. I wish I could have spent more time with this dear sister. I wish I could have grown up with her. I’m glad I did get to share my life and heart with her the last three years of her life. I hope I showed her how much I loved her went I tried to helped her a month before she passed away. She was my rock and my support. She was my sister.
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If you can take anything from my life story, I want you to remember to show those you love that they are special and wanted. I want you to affirm and reaffirm your love to them a thousand times over. If you see someone who has a hard life, do not be quick to judge them. Love them and accept them for who they are. Show them you love them and tell them you love them. It is nice to hear it and to feel it.

Go on—do not be ashamed to proclaim your love to those you care about.

Screwed Up: Graduation

2009-11-15T08:32:00.000-08:00

For those unfamiliar with my story, Screwed Up: My Life, please start at the beginning here. The purpose of me writing this intimate account of surviving a difficult childhood is explained here. This story in its entirety can be found at Blurb.com and is available for purchase for $12.95 plus shipping and handling.

A month before, I had been accepted into Ricks College in Idaho and I was happy to be moving far away from Texas and starting life new and refreshed and on my own. I would have no one telling me what I could and couldn’t do with my life. I would no longer be at the mercy of other adults who got to choose when they wanted me and when they wanted to get rid of me. I would at last be free.

I would be graduating from high school in a few short weeks and then within a week taking a Greyhound to Rexburg, Idaho from Dallas, Texas to make way for college. But first I had to move in with my stepdad and his wife. I was angry and couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. All I could think was that again, I was being thrown out. The entire proposition made me furious.

The day came for me to leave and I moved in with my stepdad and his wife. I felt like they didn’t want me there. I felt like I got in their way. I had to sleep in the sunroom on a mattress on the floor. I stopped writing in my journal the day I found out I had to move. I didn’t want to write how I felt because I knew it would all be negative and I didn’t want to fill my journal with negative thoughts. I kept telling myself: Only three more weeks, Allie—just three more weeks. Only think good thoughts and good thoughts only.

My high school prom came and went. My date was with a guy in my church ward. I bought a white dress on clearance hoping I could reuse it when I got married. I was hoping I’d get married while in college so I could have my own family. For the next two years, my mind would be preoccupied with just one thing—marriage. I wanted to get married to a man that loved me and I wanted children that would love me. I promised myself I would be a better mother to my children than my mother ever was to me.

My graduation date neared and I decided I wanted to make it a special day. I decided to put away all my misgivings for one day and give my mother the chance to see me graduate. So, I mustered up all the courage I could find inside my heart and asked my mother if she’d attend my graduation ceremony. She told me she would and I was elated that perhaps I could show some resemblance of a normal family to others, even if it was a facade.

The morning of my graduation, the telephone rang as I was dressing and primping for the grand day. My stepdad answered and it was my mother on the other end. There could only be one reason she’d call the morning of my graduation and I knew it was not to wish me well. She called to let me know she would not be attending since her ex-husband and his wife would be there. I almost cried, but decided not to. Crying is weakness. Crying is shameful. I hated her for once again putting her emotions ahead of mine. However, I had to take the advice of someone from my past that I respected and move on. I didn’t have to have them in my life if I didn’t want to.

Later that day, I received my high school diploma. I was glad to finally be out of school and to be moving far away. I was happy to at last be my own person. Graduating high school was an important accomplishment in my life and it was a mental marker to me that I had accomplished something wonderful and could now move on and no longer be subject to other adults.

I was proud of myself and no one could take that away from me.

Screwed Up: An Answered Prayer

2009-10-21T08:24:00.000-07:00

For those unfamiliar with my story, Screwed Up: My Life, please start at the beginning here. The purpose of me writing this intimate account of surviving a difficult childhood is explained here. This story in its entirety can be found at Blurb.com and is available for purchase for $12.95 plus shipping and handling.

I heard a man’s voice, “Allie, are you awake?”

“Yes,” I responded, wondering what he wanted.

“We’ve been holding a family meeting and we want you to tell you something,”

“Okay…” I answered, not really sure what to make of his presence as I lifted the covers and got up out of bed. I was wide awake—awake from pleading to God and awake from being a nervous wreck the last two weeks.

The family’s dad led me through the house to the other side where he and his wife’s bedroom was located. He led me into his room and had me sit on the corner of the bed where his other daughters were sitting. I looked at them with a puzzled look on my face. I had no idea what to make of this meeting. I just sat there dismayed, my stomach in my guts.

“Allie,” their dad began, “we’ve been talking and holding this family meeting and we have decided that we’d like for you to finish your senior year of high school with us.” There, they said it and God had answered my prayers! In one moment, my prayers had been answered and I knew I had been tested by my Heavenly Father to see if I would continue to have faith in Him even when it seemed there was no hope.

That is when I gained a testimony that God was my only Hope in life.

I spent a good Christmas with this family that year. I also celebrated my birthday with them where I received a new journal to record my thoughts and feelings. I was doing well for the first time in my high school career and making straight As. This was a surprise and gift to me as I had struggled all my other years at school barely passing classes and failing at least one. The last semester of school I focused on sending in my one application to college—mostly thinking I would not be accepted—and filling out financial aid applications. I also obtained a new job working inside the mall and saved as much money as I could to pay for college expenses as I would not have any outside help from family or friends.

I also found myself that second semester becoming envious of their children that moved in with them while I lived there. Their children that came home from college or were starting a family. I can’t explain it even now, but I would become withdrawn as a way of acting out when they would visit or come over. I felt like their kids were getting more attention than me and I felt dejected when their mom and dad showed them love. So, there I was yearning for a family, living with one, and yet also not really being a member of their family. It pained me.

Then one day I came home from school and before I could make it to my bedroom, the dad stopped me and told me that I was going to have to move out. I heard him and kept walking to my room. I put my books down on my bed. He called me back to his room and asked me if I knew why I had to move. All I could think of to say was, “Because y’all don’t want me anymore.” It was the only thing that made sense to me.

He explained to me that the real reason was because they were having more of their family move in with them and they didn’t have room for me any longer. I just wasn’t important enough to others to keep around. No one really loved me. My answer was how I really felt and I didn’t know why anyone didn’t want me.

I packed my belongings inside of cardboard boxes and stacked them in the living room. Each time I glanced at the boxes was a reminder that I had no control over my own life. Moreover, I couldn’t believe where I was going. The news wasn’t music to my ears—it was death to my mind. I was moving in with my stepdad and his wife to finish out my last month of high school before I graduated. So there I was, eighteen, and I still did not get to choose where I lived.

Screwed Up: Hour of Need

2009-10-20T11:23:00.000-07:00

Screwed Up: The Break In

2009-09-29T09:17:00.000-07:00

For those unfamiliar with my story, Screwed Up: My Life, please start at the beginning here. The purpose of me writing this intimate account of surviving a difficult childhood is explained here. This story in its entirety can be found at Blurb.com and is available for purchase for $12.95 plus shipping and handling.

In some ways, knowing that I was only going to live with this family for a few months was a good thing. It allowed me to mentally and emotionally not get too close to them from the beginning. The thing that hurt the most about living with the families in Indiana was that I had allowed myself to become close to them right from the start. Being close to them emotionally, even if I didn’t show it, made it extremely painful when it came time for me to leave. I felt torn because I loved them and yet I also knew they no longer wanted me.

So, here I was living with a new family in Texas, in my old ward in Irving, and I knew I would soon have to move somewhere else when the end of the first semester of my senior year of high school was over. I would not have Christmas with them and I would not celebrate my birthday with them either. I didn’t know who I’d do those things with and I didn’t know where I’d be when those events took place. It hurt just thinking about where my life take me in a few months and I felt angry knowing that most of my friends would never have to deal with this—ever. I had no one who truly understood my life.

While living with this new family, I did not make my main focus be on making friends. I had a few friends at school, but no one I was really close to. I didn’t want to be close to anyone as I didn’t know if I’d still be attending that school come the end of the year. Generally speaking, I was happy living with this new family and I did my best to be upbeat about living there. Of course, I still struggled mentally with the idea of not belonging to a normal functioning family. However, what could I do? I really had no where else to turn. As someone once told me—beggars can’t be choosers. I was a beggar.

Daily, I observed how this family interacted with each other. I longed for the relationships that their children had with their parents and I envied them immensely. Occasionally, I would become angry when I saw their mom talking with her daughters or their dad showing fatherly affection to his daughters. I wanted to scream my emotions to them, but I did not. I felt that I had to be strong. I had to act tough and doing so made me feel less feminine. That toughness came off to others stubbornness. I pretended acting that way didn’t bother me that first semester I live with this family.

I got out of school early each day to go to work. Since I had enough credits at high school, I was granted Early Release as my last “class.” It really wasn’t a class, but a reason to get out of school early to go home or go to work. I usually went to work. Each day I got out early, I took the DART bus home, grabbed a snack and then went to work. I had met a nice guy while riding the bus and we quickly became unlikely friends often discussing religion, school, and our plans for the future. It was strictly a platonic relationship and we were never anything more than friends.

One day, I arrived home as usual and attempted to unlock the door. I fitted the key into the doorknob and turned it. Then I grabbed the doorknob and tried to let myself in and realized I could not open it. I tried to push and jiggle the doorknob several more times. I opened the door about six inches and then the door quickly pushed shut once again. I couldn’t figure it out. I could hear the family’s dog on the other side of door and so I pushed the door open again. This time to front door opened four inches and saw their dog on the other side looking at me and then the door slammed shut again.

I was getting annoyed and anxious as I had to use the restroom. I just couldn’t figure out why the door would not open. Just when I thought I was going to make it to the restroom if I couldn’t open the door, the door easily opened completely. I ran to the nearest bathroom. I kept thinking to myself, Thank God and I am so glad I made it! When I finished, I walked to my bedroom and threw my backpack on the floor in front of the window. That’s when I got the ominous feeling that something was not quite right. I hated that feeling. I walked out of my bedroom and into the den, dismissing the open planner with missing credit cards. Instead, my eyes locked on the back door which was standing wide open with the door jam partly broken off. Suddenly, it hit me—I had just interrupted a home burglary.

Sudden fear and anxiety immediately consumed me and I ran into the back yard as fast as my legs would carry me and leaped over the six foot fence with strength I had never possessed. I ran through the parking lot behind my house and straight into my place of employment at the theatre. I told my boss everything that had just happened and he dialed 911 and had me speak to the operator.

After that day, I was scared to enter my bedroom. I didn’t tell anyone immediately, but I had nightmares for weeks. I dreamed I was in bed and a burglar would break through the large window in my room and see me in my bed. Then, he would try to hurt me. I wanted the family to think I was brave and so I didn’t tell them about how I was scared. One night, after one of these nightmares, I went to their daughter’s room, and slept on the empty bed in her room. Before she awoke the next morning, I snuck out and got back into my bed. I hated these false fronts I felt I had to put on for others.

Too soon, came December and I had to find somewhere else to live.

Randi's Reality: One Woman's Perspective from Behind Bars

2009-09-23T07:27:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd take a break from posting my own personal story of recovery from an abusive childhood and introduce you to Randi, a woman about the same age as me who is the sister of a friend of mine. Randi was arrested and charged with Distribution of Methamphetamine in July 2008. Randi is serving a sentence of 5-20 years in federal prison.

Randi comes from a strong family. As her sister, Shauna, writes, "Randi is funny, witty, smart – oh yeah, and in jail. Randi and I grew up in the Dallas area. She may not be what you always pictured a drug-dealer to be. She was a cheerleader in high school. We grew up in the Church of Christ (a Bible based Christian church) – she attended summer after summer of church camp. We are part of a loving family – our parents are still married after over 27 years of marriage. I hope Randi's story is convicting to you. Drugs can infiltrate the strongest of families – we have to get informed and proactive to fight this growing epidemic." (italicized words my own)

I ask you to read Randi's story today. Randi's sister, Shauna, has set up a website where she updates Randi's story, letters from Randi and other incarcerated women, and supports her sister with unconditional love through Randi's trials. The purpose of Randi's Reality is to educate others on the consequences of drugs and ultimately to give others hope and love who have dealt with this very subject as either a victim of drugs or a bystander.

Randi's story has certainly given me a new perspective on family and life.

Screwed Up: Moving

2009-09-10T19:29:00.000-07:00

For those unfamiliar with my story, Screwed Up: My Life, please start at the beginning here. The purpose of me writing this intimate account of surviving a difficult childhood is explained here. This story in its entirety can be found at Blurb.com and is available for purchase for $12.95 plus shipping and handling.

I tossed and turned all night. I was exhausted, yet I was too stressed to sleep. I tried to stay positive about everything that had just happened that day. I tried to have faith in Heavenly Father and I prayed for hours that night. I pleaded and begged that I wouldn’t have to live with my stepdad and his wife for very long and that I could find someone else to live with. My stepdad and his wife had already betrayed me enough times and I didn’t want to be tricked again.

We got up the next morning and went to the mall in Tulsa and went shopping at the Old Navy. I picked out a pair of khakis and their daughters picked out some pants as well. I think that shopping was supposed to be a way for me to get my mind off of what was going on, but I could help but think about my life.

Later that day, this family put me on a small airplane headed to Texas. In just three weeks I had moved four times. It would not be the last that year. My plans had been to find a place to live just as soon as I got to my stepdad’s home. He knew this and had agreed that would be the best for me.

I was stressed beyond comprehension.
I hardly wanted to eat or drink and yet I knew that if I stayed in my bed all day that I would become more withdrawn and depressed. So, I walked the neighborhood during the daytime sometimes walking as many as four miles. I ended up losing twenty five pounds in that one month since I had left Indiana between walking and losing my appetite because of the stress I was under.

I had to find somewhere else to live. I was back in my old ward in the Mormon Church in town and I had the same friends from Texas that I had known before. My best friend was no longer living in the area, but I remembered some of the other girls from church. Perhaps I could live with them? God would help me, I knew it—or at least I wanted to believe it. I felt that if I didn’t believe it, then I definitely would not be helped. I had to persevere even though I felt God had left me a long time ago.

It was at a Young Womens activity at my bishop’s house that his daughters told me just how happy they were that I was moving in with them. I had no idea…I was surprised to say the least. Within a couple days, while my stepdad and his wife were at work, I left without telling them. I felt like I was getting them back for abandoning me and it felt good to me to catch them off guard.

God had answered my prayers after all and had helped me find a nice family to live with.

Yet, I still felt loyal to the family I lived with in Indiana. Even after all I had been through, five moves in six weeks, I still felt like I needed to love and honor my family in Indiana—the family that had kicked me out that I still didn’t understand why. I tried to act happy and felt it was the only emotion I could display as I thought any other emotions would cause this family to hate me too. I had hurt too much in the last few weeks and I didn’t want to hurt anymore. I was sick from stress and tired of pain.

I knew that the only way I would ever be able to have a family was if I created my own family. So, over the next year I would record characteristics in my journals that I wanted in a family. Most of these characteristics were qualities that the families I had lived with had. I also began my quest of finding a soul mate my last year of high school. I thought that the only way I would ever have a family is if I married someone. I was still seventeen and thought the only way to be loved was to be married. It was a foolish and naïve thought, but it made sense to me at the time.

Immediately after moving in with this new family in Texas, I looked for a job and took the first one I could get. If I was going to go to college, I was going to have to pay for it myself. Now, I had to be a little particular about the job I was going to land. It had to close as I would probably have to walk there myself, it had to be flexible as I could not work during the daytime as I had school to attend, and it couldn’t be too serious as I would only be working there until December as that was the end of the semester for school and this new family said I could only live with them until then. After that, I had to find another place to live. So, when I was offered a job working at a nearby movie theatre, I took it.

Choosing the Right

2009-08-21T12:21:00.000-07:00

Screwed Up: Darkest Moment

2009-08-10T20:29:00.000-07:00

Screwed Up: The Fight

2009-08-03T07:57:00.000-07:00

For those unfamiliar with my story, Screwed Up: My Life, please start at the beginning here. The purpose of me writing this intimate account of surviving a difficult childhood is explained here. This story in its entirety can be found at Blurb.com and is available for purchase for $12.95 plus shipping and handling.

My mother put me in their trust, a mutual agreement between my mother and I that neither one of us wanted to have the other in sight. It was a couple hard weeks living with my mother in Texas just waiting to leave. Yet, the day had arrived and I was leaving her apartment and moving to my friend’s home. This would be a welcome adventure and I knew that God was directing my life and making things happen for me. I just knew it!

I was elated to be living with my friend. I knew God had made this possible. A part of me wanted to live with my friend, because it was not my mother’s place, and another part of me wanted to live with my friend, because I knew her and her grandmother and I knew what to expect from them. Yet, another part of me was happy to live with them, because my twin brother stilled lived in the area.

So, here I was, back in Sapulpa. Back to the place I had always considered Hell and the backdrop of one of the worst time periods of my life when I was fourteen and living with my father in his decrepit house. My friend’s home wasn’t too far from my father’s place, but it was far away enough. Still, we had to pass the Texaco my father owned each time we made our way to town. Passing that old gas station brought up many memories of sitting in the dusty, cramped office that reeked of motor oil watching my father fill gas tanks and wash windshields at his full-service station.

This is where my twin brother has learned the trade after being pulled out of high school while barely into our ninth grade year. He had worked there most of the time, learning how to change oil, fix flats, and repair vehicles. By twin brother had always had a knack for tinkering with motors since we were small children and I remember him taking apart many of my childhood toys in an attempt to see how they worked.

While I lived with my best friend from Oklahoma, I was not allowed to attend the Mormon Church. I knew this would be the case before moving in with them, yet I didn’t understand why until one day they explained it to me. I still did not agree with them and begged them to let me go. Apparently, my best friend’s mother was a member and attended the Mormon Church in town and they were afraid that if I saw her and met her that I would grow a liking to this woman that they disapproved of. I did not understand how this was a good reason for me not to attend church though.

I begged and pleaded with my friend’s grandmother to allow me to go to church. She proposed different churches that I could attend, but all I wanted to attend was the church in town. The family I had lived with in Indiana for a year and a half had taught me the importance of church attendance and for some reason I still wanted to prove myself to them that I was a good person. So, my friend’s grandmother called up the bishop one day and told him that I needed clothes and that she wanted to talk with him. The bishop did as she expected and brought over clothes for me and they talked.

It was during this time that my twin brother came over to visit and my eyes were opened to reality and away from this dream that I had been living in for a week. I remember my friend and my twin brother smoking pot outside one afternoon—something I had given up when I moved from Sapulpa years ago. Then, another time, I walked in on my best friend and her boyfriend fondling each other on her bed. This was everything that I was taught not to do. I was angry—I was confused. This was not right and I couldn’t believe my friend had lost her innocence in the three years since I had seen her. I knew I couldn’t continue to live like this and lie for her.

So, I confronted my friend and her grandmother one morning and told them how I felt. I had raised my voice against something I felt so strongly about and spilled my guts on what I thought of my friend and my brother. I was frustrated. This is not what I was expecting life at her home to be!

My angry outburst backfired and my friend’s grandmother began yelling at me. She couldn’t believe how I could say such lies about her granddaughter whom she was raising. How dare I say such terrible things about her granddaughter! How dare I disrespect her home and lie! I was told to apologize and I refused.

That is when she told me to leave and never come back.

Screwed Up: Mutual Agreement

2009-07-26T16:35:00.000-07:00

Screwed Up: Tunnel Vision

2009-07-21T10:50:00.000-07:00

Meeting in the Office

2009-07-13T11:49:00.000-07:00

Violence Unsilenced

2009-06-05T15:34:00.000-07:00

I am on vacation for the next two weeks. This vacation is much needed and I have been anticipating it for over a month now. Usually, once a week I post a chapter from my book, Screwed Up: My Life which is compiled in one post over at my other blog.

However, since I am going to be gone and will not be able to interact with you, I am inviting you to read another blog which deals with abuse survivors and victims and gives them a voice and a place to speak out and tell their stories. This blog, Violence Unsilenced, is owned by Maggie of Okay.Fine.Dammit.

Read the survivor stories, comment and give support, uplift one another, and add her button to your blog. Perhaps you may even be inspired to write your own story of overcoming adversity. Above all, help Shed the Shell of Shame.

Shed the Shell of Shame

2009-03-09T04:00:00.000-07:00

This was the comment I wrote:

"My sister was afraid of leaving her husband. She was afraid of leaving the state with her kids. Her county and "local" women's shelter was of no help. I drove up to her home, a state away, and packed all her belongings. I rented her a UHAUL. I rented her a storage unit. She became afraid...she knew if her husband found out she was leaving him, he would hurt her. I helped her file for divorce. She was afraid, yet she didn't want to leave for fear of the unknown. A month later, she was found dead. Don't let that happen to you."

I've never written publicly those words before. For the last ten months, just thinking about what happened to my own sister has been difficult for me. I haven't wanted to think about what happened to my dear, sweet sister Shelly last May. Still, I feel angry, helpless and confused over her untimely death. Her death was ruled accidental--we may never know the truth about what really happened.

After I wrote the above comment, I had to stand up and walk out of the room. I cried--the emotions of how I have felt and hidden for ten months finally revealed itself.

Someone asked me last week why I was sharing with the world what has happened in my life. They wondered how I could be so comfortable sharing something so intimate. To be honest with you, I wonder each day if sharing my life experiences with the world are worth it. My hope is that I am reaching out to someone else. I am also healing. Truthfully, I am more nervous about my own family reading this than I am about anyone else reading. Family can be more judgemental--more critical.

My family has never fully approved of me sharing with others the abuse that occurred years ago. Their solution has always been to keep the past in the past. Shameful things are to remain hidden. However, I have learned that hiding shame promotes protecting evil.

It was by fate or destiny that a friend of mine sent me an email one night about a website she was posting on. This website, Violence Unsilenced, promotes helping all victims of abuse to shed the shell of shame and find help. The website has encouraged me to let go of the past by writing about it.

I encourage you to read the stories of women and men affected by abuse in all its forms. May you too help to shed the shell of shame.

If you need help, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

Also, I have created a blog where I am compiling all my experiences into one. It will make it much easier for new readers and those unfamiliar with my story to start from the beginning. It is a work in progress, but I have added a photo link in the right column on this page where you click to go to Screwed Up: My Life. Check back often, as I will be adding to it in the next coming days and weeks ahead.

How I Became the Screwed Up Texan

2009-03-04T14:00:00.000-08:00

The conversation went something like this the spring of 2008:

Me: "Shelly, our families are so screwed up,"

Shelly: "I know...there's always so much drama going on,"

Me: "Tell me about it--You-Know-Who wants money, So-and-So is a bum, What's-His-Name did such and such, and What's-Her-Nuts can't keep her head on her shoulders,"

Shelly: "We should write a book on our family. You know, like a memoir or something,"

Me: "We would have so much to write about. Where would we start? Would it be some sort of confessional?"

Shelly: "We could call it Confessions of a Chaotic Family,"

Me: "Or how about Confessions of a Screwed Up Family?"

Laughter. We laughed about everything.

Shelly: "I still think the bar regulars in Davis, Oklahoma were the best...you couldn't have written a better story about that,"

Me: "Tell me about it..."

So here you have it: Fresh Confessions of a Screwed Up Texan--the blog. Titled, in part, after an inside joke of my late sister's and mine. Every time some new drama happened in the family, Shelly and I would call each other up and proclaim that we should "add it to the book." Usually afterwards, laughter would ensue between us. It was all we needed to say to make us feel okay with the fact that we were not all that normal.

I haven't shared a lot of what makes me really "Screwed Up," but believe me it is hiding in me and waiting to come out. Partially, I don't share all of the reasons I find myself and my family chaotic and screwed up because I worry that most people don't want to hear me really get down and dirty and get real for real.

Over the next year, I'll probably share with you some of my life experiences that make me who I am, but I want to be positive and enlightening in my story-telling...not depressive and dull. When I figure out how to say what I want to say, I'll share.

Until then, I am sure I will have many more experiences that I can "add to the book."