#1000Speak: Party Girls Don’t Get Hurt

Samara is amazing; I never went the route of drugs and partying, but I craved death and threw myself into sex. I tried to be the party girl, but that was so far from who I was that it never worked out. I prefer retreating into myself, quietly suffering while everyone else looks on.

This post, and Samara herself, is beautiful and raw. She tells it like she sees it, no punches pulled.

A Buick in the Land of Lexus

Beer_Drinking_Woman-500x335 4

I’m the party girl, the smarty girl, that arty girl

That rock and roll child, toured with Nirvana

Born to be wild, dressed up in style

Party with rock stars, cool kids, out laws, in the raw

I’m the cool girl, the hot girl, the “it” girl, human tilt-a-whirl

The popular girl, wild child, live on the edge, crouched on a ledge

The sexy girl, men want to screw

Super talented chick, don’t you wish it were you?

One two three drink

one two three drink

one two three drink

throw ‘em back till I lose count

Envy me, copy me, fall for me; worship me

Beg for me, plead for me

If they want me they bleed for me

I’m the girl who takes all the chances, who dies everyday,

is reborn every moment, I’ll lead you astray

Pour me a drink and I’ll tell you my…

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The SisterWives

Survivors are brave souls. Survivors who bring their stories out of the darkness and share them with the world are among the bravest. Sweet Misery Love is demonstrating that strength and courage by sharing her story here. Sharing these stories is vital. It is in the sharing and the telling that shame and guilt are shed. It is a salve for the wounds of other survivors. We are so grateful that Sweet Misery Love is willing to do that here. -Gretchen


My childhood wasn’t sunshine and roses. At an early age, I was abandoned by my mother, who couldn’t handle real life and turned to bars and all the wrong kinds of attention from men. Just like her mother before her and just as I would do later. A legacy of self-destruction and dependency, what a gift. It made me a survivor, though.

While my mother was in a bar…

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Is This Thing On? Next Week, On The Sisterwives….

I’ll be sharing my story next week on The Sisterwives blog…I’m nervous, but also pretty proud. The process made me want to completely re-edit my blog, though, so I guess I’ll have a busy birthday weekend of blogging!

The SisterWives

Next week, two courageous women will share their stories of abuse, specifically childhood. Tough subject, we know, but around here we’re tougher, and have the balls to write about it. Join us Monday and Thursday to support our own Gretchen, and the woman behind the SweetMiseryLove blog.

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She weeps once more

A sweet child weeps alone in the dark and cold –
Shivering and fearing what it is she’s done;
Not understanding what it means, just five years old.

She should not have played this game, he said.
She was told it was her fault; her shame.
She brought this on herself, they blame.

A sweet young girl, who feels alone, falling apart;
Who has been tossed aside, abandoned.
She weeps for losses she can’t understand.

A girl – abused, ashamed. She can’t see
That it’s the world that’s broken, not she.
So she weeps for her impossibilities.

And less than a lifetime later,
That same sweet girl will recall
Exactly the way it felt to fall.

To spiral out of control; down, down down.
To retreat into herself to hide. Survive.
To wish once more to not be alive.

To have her confidence shaken, taken.
But she’ll be stronger, because she must.
Already, she has risen from ashes and dust.

From a place where no one knew,
A burden to shoulder and secrets to keep.
Hiding within her shell, buried deep.

There, she’ll feel it all – raw, unfiltered.
Feeling the hurt and taking the blame.
Still with a burden, but nothing’s the same.

One night with infinite ripples in time.
One man’s choice to shatter a family,
To kick her down along this uphill climb.

But one day there will be light.
One day, she will shine once more
With a radiance that’s brightest at her core.

A restless soul, a weary mom

Battling demons I don’t even understand, among the everyday muck of too much stress and not enough sleep, I’ve become weary. At the same time, I’m restless; I’ve always been an oxymoron, the exception to most rules.

My brain, finally quieted by the medications (which I’ve incidentally forgotten to take two three nights in a row now), is ready to reach for something more, but my body is worn down from years of abuse – emotional abuse from myself and others, physical abuse, too.

Now I have new abuses – my children who don’t sleep and have severe needs, my significant other six years my junior with a sex drive to match, the stress of figuring out how to pay the bills when you quit your job and your s.o. lost his after taking three days off to deal with family issues – important family stuff, and I don’t fault him for calling off – his boss is a pretentious asshat.

I was looking forward to getting a fresh start, moving out of our run-down mobile home and into a real house, a permanent place to raise my kids and start my family on solid ground. I hate living in a trailer, and especially in the community we’re in. Living here, being ashamed of where we live, it’s doing absolutely nothing good for me, except assuring that we have a roof over our heads that we can afford, because we own the stupid thing. It’s falling apart, pretty reflective of its tenants, I think. And something in the back of my mind is urging me to get the hell out of here.

One of us needs to find a job, though, and I have this feeling it’s going to be me. Mostly because I’ve always been the one with a steady job we knew we could count on. The thought of going back to work, not being home with my boys, has me in knots.

Hiding my depression is getting to be overwhelming, but it honestly feels like not one person would understand if I expressed my fatigue at just getting through the day, getting out of bed. I know that’s ludicrous because millions of other people experience depression. My children’s father certainly doesn’t understand, though, and I know my children wouldn’t understand, I can’t even get them to understand simple things, things I, myself, understand.

I’ve been pushing through it, this deep, aching depression, hiding it behind a smile for so long that I can’t even shift myself into a place of believing I’m allowed to feel what I feel.

I’m in physical pain, from a multitude of sources. I’m in emotional pain. I’ve been avoiding talking to my mother about anything real because I just can’t. I don’t have the energy to do more than the basics to get through the day, let alone have a difficult, emotional talk with my mom.

I feel like I’m failing. I’m failing at parenting, I’m failing at my relationship, I’m failing at being an adult. I don’t have a job, which isn’t a huge deal overall, considering I chose to quit my job, but I’ve been working for more than 12 years, I held 3 part-time jobs in college, as well as a 3.5 GPA. I thrive on busy, because busy hides the pain. Busy hides my awkward. Busy keeps me from thinking too much. Being a stay-at-home-mom to special needs kiddos keeps me busy, but it’s too much focus on one thing – I think too much about their needs, their deficits, their futures – and I need a distraction, for sure.

Ever since I can remember, my brain has been on overdrive, I’ve thrived in the noise and hustle of my day-to-day life. Once college was done, and I didn’t have clubs to join, or peace to rally, I threw myself into a marketing position, climbing to the director of marketing position within a year, working 60-hour weeks. I was awesome at what I did because my brain works best when it’s too busy to stop and take a breath. And then came children…followed by the medications I haven’t always felt a need to take.

Now, my brain feels sluggish, like the medications slow it down to what I can only assume is a ‘normal’ pace. I don’t like it, it feels wrong. I feel wrong. It’s not helping the depression, which is the whole point, right? I kind of prefer manic me, because she got shit done. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been taking the meds and missing my doctor’s appointments…

I’m a mess. That’s one thing I know for sure, even if no one wants to agree with me – I’m an everloving mess. I’m floundering, trying with everything I have, my inner warrior princess, to keep my head above it all, to ‘just keep swimming’, if you will.

Hopefully 2015 will be the year I start to clean up my mess, clean up my memories and work through my most deeply buried issues. If I can just manage to keep a damn doctor’s appointment…or get a good night’s sleep or a break from my children, with all of their needs, and their father with all of his. A girl can dream, I guess.

Sweet Misery Love

I am a 29-year-old bent-but-not-broken, recently discovered bi-polar newborn with a lifetime of trauma behind me, and a bright, hopeful future ahead of me.

I’ve always had a voice whispering strength and hope for the future. My spirit guide took my hand 22 years ago and said “Follow me, you have a big future little one.”

I come from a long line of intelligent, strong-willed and spiritually powerful Native American women who have been continually used and beaten down by weak-minded men who needed to wield power over them, to bend them until they broke, or in some cases, simply end them because they couldn’t break them, like my alleged grandfather did to my grandmother.

The men in our lives started early, as many generations back as I know of, there were fathers molesting daughters, brothers raping sisters, physical and emotional abuse, murder. As a child, I knew I was meant to break the cycles of my matriarchs, I was meant to begin a change that would cleanse our blood line, get the next generation to a healthy place, where they wouldn’t relive the traumas of my childhood, or my mother’s, or her mother’s and hers before that. I was meant to start a new line of men, a line of men with respect for women, who treat women not as objects, but as equals. My sons will be the first generation of men who are kind, in a long line of angry, power-hungry men.

My whole life, evil has been trying to beat me down, keep me from my destiny. I was made for great things, I’ve had a spirit guide ever since I can remember, one who carried me through when I was in too much pain to continue on my own. My spirit guide has whispered my plans to me throughout the years, my path to today has been purposeful, every song I’ve listened to, book I’ve read, and person I’ve met have been carefully placed in my life to teach me the things I would need to know, the compassion I would need to have, and to help me realize the pure love that lives inside of me for everyone and everything.


I have always been filled with a pure, innocent love of humankind. Even those who have trespassed against me have been forgiven, and always loved. I can say with certainty I’ve only hated one person in my entire life – the man who told my mother he would kill her like he killed her mother. The man who tortured and terrorized my sweet, broken mother, until the day he died, alone, rotting in his own filth and evil, as he should have done long ago. The system couldn’t contain him, the world didn’t need him, he did not one bit of good during his nearly 60 years; even his service in Vietnam was tainted by his evil, using his Veteran status as an excuse for his misdeeds. I have absolutely no good memories of the man, except that I was thankfully never left alone with him.

It’s taken me a very long time to find a medication that can help my brain settle down, it’s almost as if I’ve woken from a 25 year coma, with a vague idea of the things that have happened in the past, as if things have been filtered through a cheesecloth.

All of the names in this tale have been changed to protect loved ones. It may read stranger than fiction, but it’s based entirely in reality.