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Oct 1 16

I’m Thankful That Hearts Always Mend

by Brittany Ann

Are you thinking about ending contact with an abuser? Have you already done it but you feel really emotional right now? I understand.

5 years later after contact ended, I’m thankful that hearts always mend.

When your therapist tells you that this will get easier, that you made a strong choice, listen. Of course, listen to yourself right now, your needs right now.

I’ve settled myself down with everything from a pint of ice cream to another letter to the abuser. It’s easy to do that when parents are abusers. We have an attitude that they will naturally, eventually be “sorry.” I’ve always imagined that my mother would change and we would be able to go shopping at the mall together. I can’t say that my mother would “get better,” because I believe the abuser has a choice and its not an illness. A choice to act out one’s perversions, that is.


But now I hear the quiet chords, the melody, I can sing in my car again. I have to be honest, I’ve not used a therapist for much of this. I am one of those who feels re-traumatized by therapy.

It’s inspiring to hear how you all handle healing. There are the writers, the painters, those who hold their jobs well and are kicking ass at it, those who listen and volunteer where they can.

I’ve been one to dig myself into my job, but now that I’ve decided that I have to leave it, you are reading the words of someone who lost a coping skill.

May we always seek to have a back-up plan until the heart can heal.



Note about the image: It spoke to me concerning this post. I am not religious and I know that you might not be.

Sep 29 16

Gentle Flower, Pick Those Flowers: My Inner Child is Not Broken

by Brittany Ann


This picture inspired me. It looks exactly like I think my inner child does, a little bit of wonder but more of waiting for what is next. I’m sure my face looked very much the same. “Here’s some flowers I picked, Mama.” “Yes well, they look dead and we don’t have time for these things you do.”

The world has lost its way. We are seeing that right now. Our hope flows in our children.

But our children are being beaten to death, starved to death, for no other reason but perceived evil.

Not all little girls and boys find a soul that reaches out to them as they grow up. Some of them then have no idea how to deal with their pain. Some children raised by evil will act out in evil ways, but most of us fold into ourselves and cringe when we hurt a single soul.

© photo by Kristaps Bergfelds via flickr.

© photo by Kristaps Bergfelds via flickr.

It’s true, US young adults with PTSD, Bipolar, Borderline Personality, Schizophrenic traits that fall within both categories and are thus named such, we face stigma… but we are in ourselves, beautiful, glistening brown hair. A whisper of a voice as it was when we were a child. Think about that inner child.

I remember days of playing in the front yard, the side yard where a basketball was. I knew then that there was something wrong with me, and that when I wrote, I was writing out the feelings of an inner child.

Don’t leave, friends. I know how easy it is to want to. But the world will never see a perspective such as ours. Pick up a paintbrush, hell, pick up some concrete and glue the tiny pieces. If you can’t get the words out, get the hell out somehow, or get the beauty out. You have both here.

Sep 14 16

Making Mudpies With the Past and the Future

by Brittany Ann

It’s been 2014 since I’ve written here: my special place, where I can discuss anything, especially Mother-Daughter sexual abuse. In the mean time, I have received a lot of very personal comments from visitors, and I thank you for still reading and still putting in the time to comment while I wasn’t active.


I recently heard a song that lit me up. It brought back how freeing it felt to convey my feelings here with you. It brought back what a gift motherhood is, and what disgust it is when it is perverted- in all the ways.

Since 2014, my daughter has grown and is 6 years old. She’s learning to read and write. But what if she came home to a mother who taught her a model of molestation? What if she overheard her mom and her papa screaming at each other every night, and she had a secret, but she couldn’t even tell him. These things sicken me. Molestation, secret keeping, domestic violence. What if I sent her off to school with harsh words that never said she was pretty today, or that is quite the outfit you’ve picked out today!

There are countless numbers of children who are hiding their secrets.

My grown-up secret is that I miss my mother and never want to say “Goodbye,” even though we haven’t talked in years, my choice. One day, we’ll all be far enough in our healing to know that we’d sooner be honored by missing the garbage when the trash bin is picked up every Wednesday.

I honor you all in where you are in your healing. I honor your choice to either talk to your mother or disconnect from her in your life. I’ve been in both of those places.

“All you had to offer was a promise of a lifetime of love…”

If only that’s all she had offered.

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