I’m not bitter with you, I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry that you didn’t want to be a part of my life and my successes. I feel sorry that you would rather be my biggest failure. I feel sorry that you chose a life without me in it. I feel sorry that I’ve accomplished so much in the last couple of years and you’ve heard nothing about it. I feel sorry that you have no right to be proud of me. I feel sorry that you will never be a part of my life again. I feel sorry that I let you hurt me as badly as you did. I feel sorry that I put so much trust and effort into building a relationship with you; a relationship that you just didn’t want. I feel sorry that I had faith in you. Most of all, though, I feel sorry that you will forever feel that I’m simply not good enough.
I love falling asleep to the sound of rain, its smell, summer showers, and forehead kisses.
I love books that I can’t put down, warm, crispy towels off the line, and finding quotes that describe my current situation.
I love seeing my favorite bands live, the boom of thunder; and lightning that lights up the sky.
Continue reading I Love
“You are such a selfish person Kerri, truly pathetic, I don’t have time for this shit!”
That’s what my mother said to me the day I attempted suicide. Continue reading The Day I Attempted Suicide
I am often asked why I don’t associate with my birth mother, my brother, and two of my half-brothers. The conversations all start with, “How is your…?” To which I reply, “I’m not really sure, I haven’t seen them or talked to them in years”. Then I am asked “Why?” To keep it simple, I just say that we took different paths in life, which sums it up in a nutshell, but that never seems to be an acceptable answer, because as soon as it’s said, the interrogation begins. At this point, I usually just say that the house I grew up in was abusive so I walked away, so I wouldn’t become a product of that environment. I am then told, in so many words, that it’s sinful and wrong that I’ve cut off ties with my family; that it doesn’t matter that they were or are abusive to me, the proper thing to do is be patient and tolerant of their sins.
I had just moved 856 miles away from my family, escaping 13 years of sexual abuse. I was 22 years old, standing alone, raw and lost to say the least. Love was not something I ever knew, it was something I’d never been shown. I was stifling years of pain, staring down scars, scars embedded in my soul. Continue reading HIDDEN AMONGST THE RUBBLE