Free Mike

My Ex

Incarceration.  We see it on television.  We read it in the news.  We hear about someone in passing, but no one ever expects it to apply to them.  I suppose that’s something of an overstatement.  I’m sure there are those who’s financial and sociological upbringing could inevitably lead to nothing else.  But for those of us who were admittedly born and raised privileged, we don’t see this coming.  If any of you have read my posts, you know that I have been married before.  The marriage in and  of itself was abusive and very surface.  As a young woman, I was raised to get married in order to “find my place in the world.”  Sure, there was emphasis on education and ambition, but my mother never truly looked at me as an adult until I told her I was married.  Even though my ex husband and I had gotten married at the justice of the peace, it didn’t matter.  What mattered to her was that I was now “taken care of.”

It took seven years to end that horrific marriage, after which I found myself in my early thirties and starting over again, this time with a criminal record.  Yes, you heard me right.  Due to poor financial planning on my ex’s part, I found myself with a theft by check charge that landed me in jail for 4 days and is still following me around years later.  After years of abuse and neglect, I found myself no longer attracted to men.  I’ve always been bisexual, so I suppose psychologically speaking, I was willing to give women a try full time to see if maybe just maybe they wouldn’t break my heart.  This was, of course, false, but that is neither here nor there.  I happily lived as a lesbian for two years.  This is not to say that I did not receive advances from men, surely I did.  Still, my answer was “not interested” every time on the grounds that I was gay.

My ex husband had allowed my car to repossessed.  So the very first job I could find within walking distance that would take a girl with an active warrant was waiting tables.  So that’s what I did.  To be honest, I never thought that I would ever wait tables.  Food service was the one thing I never wanted to do.  Retail was fine, but waiting tables?  No thank you.  But I figured that the cash daily would be necessary for my survival, so I did so.  Turns out, I was pretty good at it.  I made a few friends, busted ass, worked as many doubles as I could and found myself in a pretty awesome position.  Surprisingly, I was able to make the same amount of money waiting tables as I had in an office job in years past.  But I was lonely.  I spent most of my time at home, in my little rented room, cuddled up with my dog and watching Netflix.  I was working 60 plus hours on my feet soI was tired and sore all of the time.  But one day, I decided to vent
ure out and start doing the things that I loved again.

Meeting Mike

20525272_10154956343648940_5337868315635115342_nThere’s a local karaoke bar that I used to love to go to years ago.  I was surprised when I got a large enough group of people who were interested in it too, so I got together a little group to go on a weekly basis.  It was great.  I loved having our little karaoke table, and getting up to sing was very therapeutic.  That’s when I met him.  It was the 27th of July. He was obviously a regular there, but I had never seen him before.  He was singing, honestly I can’t

remember what he was singing.   It was his birthday and he was amazing, so everyone was cheering for him. The song itself didn’t matter.  What mattered was that not only was he good, but he was beloved.  His smile, his charisma, they were beyond compare.  He was awesome, but then again, so was I.  I remember the meeting part exactly.  I would later find out that he had asked a bartender there if she knew me.

“I’ve seen her here before, but I don’t really know her,” she said.

“Well, I’m about to get to know her,” he replied with a smile.

I had walked up to the bar, as I often did.  I was wiggling my booty to whatever song was playing at the time, when that young man called me over to his table.

“Sorry to bother you,” he had grabbed my arm and pulled me down towards him where I could hear him better ,”I just wanted you to know that you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and your voice is amazing.  I don’t expect anything from this, but I couldn’t let another moment go by without telling you this.”

It had been a while since I had received a truly genuine advance such as this.  I’d heard the ever so popular “you have nice eyes” or “your lips are awesome” or “wow, that ass though.”  But this…this was genuine.  I thanked him and moved back towards my table where somehow he found his way over.  He asked me to tell me about myself.

“There’s not much to know,” I said, “I’m a waitress, a divorce, and I have the most adorable dog in the world,” I smiled.

“I love dogs!  What kind do you have?”

“A pitbull.  She’s so sweet and—” I was expecting some judgement of pit bulls not long after.

“A pitta!!! I have a pittie too.  Want to see?”

So there we were, in the middle of a bar showing pictures of our dogs.

My ex girlfriend was there that night and I was actually thinking about getting together with her at the time.  I hadn’t expected her to, but she got up to sing.

“Oh wow, that’s my ex up there, Angela.  She’s not bad, is she?”

“Yeah, she’s great.  Honestly, I think anyone with enough guts to get up there is just awesome.  Wait, she’s your ex?  Are you……”

And for the first time in two years, instead of saying gay, I answered with “Well, I’m bisexual.”

“Cool,” he smiled.

Having dated women exclusively for two years, I paused and waited for the “Well, I’m a lesbian myself.”  or the “I would love to watch.”  But it didn’t come. He just left it at that.

When I left the bar, Angela walked me to my car.  We were flirting and smiling and,  she asked me to call her later that night so we could talk and reconnect.  I was feeling good as I sat in my car, about to leave when out he came walking towards me.  He must have been leaving and was shocked to see me there.  So I got out to talk to him.  He was..


..very…drunk.  I, myself, don’t drink much so this was somewhat off-putting to me.  But we talked more.  He tried to kiss me, I pulled away.  He tried to get my number, I gave him my facebook info.  He told me I was beautiful.  I told him to call me when he was sober.  Then he asked me to meet him there the next evening.  I told him I would think about it.

I walked away for a moment thinking I had been hit on by just another drunk guy.  But still, there was a reason why I had told him I was bisexual.  There had to be.  So I met him the next day.  He bought me a drink and we talked more.  We sang.  I got him to sing Disney with me.  And afterwards, we spent hours just…talking.

It was five days later when I went to the same place for my birthday and I invited him


along.  I figured I had been there for his birthday so why not invite him too.  I’ll never forget that night.  He remembered my drink from the week before.  He bought everyone shots.  He sat down and talked to my best friend.  I mean, really talked to her.  He asked her what song he should sing in honor of my birthday.  And that was it.  He was standing at the computer putting in a song when I grabbed him and kissed him for the first time.  He was so young, but I didn’t care.

And that was the beginning of the love of my life.

His Legal Issues

It’s been nearly two years now.  We own a home, a dog and two kitties together.  We’ve financed two vehicles together.  We are engaged.  He’s nearly off of probation from a stupid mistake that he made in his early twenties.  He’s smoking weed for pain management only but in the state of Texas, it isn’t real.  He manages to pass his urinalysis successfully for nearly four years.  He finds out he’s eligible for early release and then it happened.  He’s driving home from work when he swerves to miss a possum crossing the road.  Instead of swerving right into an empty lane, he swerves into a middle divide thereby blowing out two tires and damaging both wheels and axels.  He calls the number on the back of his drivers license for assistance, they tell him they can only help if he is on the freeway.  So they call the cops.  When the police show up, they smell marijuana in the vehicle and have probable cause to search him at which point he is brought into custody.  Three days later, I bond him out and that’s when it happens.

He got a call from his Denton probation officer telling him he’s eligible for early release on 04/12.  She tells him that his balance is $100, if he pays that out, he will be released by that date.  So he pays them.  Later that day, he calls his Arlington probation officer to get ahead of the fact that he has been taken in.  He has to let her know of any violations.  She sighs and tells him she will write a letter of recommendation to the judge saying that he has been a model citizen.  Denton tells us that they will be issuing a warrant for his arrest and he will have to turn himself in.  So we call the lawyers.  Lawyers tell us they are working on getting a bond set for him so he can do a walk through when he turns himself in.   In the meantime, we live our lives like normal.  We get married.  We get our finances in order as best we can.  We try to make the most of our time together.

He reports for his monthly probation visit like he’d done dozens of times before.  I’m napping when I receive a call from him “They’re taking me in, baby,” he says.

“What?  Why?”

“He’s got a warrant in Denton, ma’am.  He’s going to be taken to Tarrant County where he will have to wait fro Denton to come get him so he can face a judge on these charges,” a police officer tells me in the background.

“Can you come get my things, baby?”

“Yeah, sure…where are you again?”

I drive as fast as I can to get his things and I get to see him momentarily as they put him in the vehicle.  I later found out that he called out to me that he loved me, but I didn’t hear it.

So here is where we are today.  He’s now been taken into custody.  He spent 8 days in Tarrant County and has now been brought to Denton where there is no bond set even after arraignment.  That means we will have to wait for him to go to court to get him out, if we can at all.  Here are the possibilities.

  1.  The judge could realize that he’s been a model citizen and with his good behavior, just let him go with time served.
  2. The judge could give him 30 days for probation violation but when he gets out, he will be off of probation.
  3. The judge could decide to extend his probation.
  4. The judge could decide to make him serve the entire length of his originally sentenced probation in jail.  (4 years)
  5. The judge could make him serve his entire sentence in jail and add on time for the possession.

A Plea For Help

So here I am, a lone waitress with two car notes, half the income, and legal fees pending. The lawyers are wanting $2500 to represent him in Denton.  I simply don’t have that.  If for some reason,29253780_15241102740_r I’m able to acquire it, I won’t be able to pay the bills.  Car payments, property taxes, light bills, all due.

I never ask for money, but I’m asking now.  I just can’t pay his legal fees and also hold the fort down while he’s away.  To know Mike is to love him, I’m hoping there are enough people around who can help get him the defense he needs.  I’m including a link to his gofundme account below.  I know you don’t know me, but in the off chance you’re willing and able to help, I thank you in advance.  Anything would help.  Anything at all.


Death of fear and fear of death

The truth is that I’m afraid of dying.  Some days it’s all that I can think about and the fear, it’s paralyzing.  It all starts with an out of body experience that I had a few months ago. My fiancé smokes a blend of mugwort, kava kava and skullcap.  On a very stressful day, I decided to try it.  Thus began my entry into escaping reality.  I should mention that I have never smoked so much as a cigarette, I barely drink and I’ve never ever done drugs.

I enjoyed the first inhale.  It calmed me.  Like the constant  analyst that I am, I decide to dissect the feeling.  I allowed a few minutes to pass before taking the next hit.  More calm.  A warm fuzzy feeling came over me.  It was the third time that got me.  I remember inhaling but I do not remember exhaling.  Everything began to spin within moments.  The world was syncopated.  I heard him tell me “Okay, no more for you.”  I remember desperately trying to call out for him but my voice didn’t seem to work.  When I finally was able to speak, all I could muster was a “Baby….”

”You’re okay, Lauren.”

”No…I’m not…” I said and I began to cry.

i had no sense of touch.  When I fell to ground, I didn’t even feel the imact.  So I shook my head, slapped my own face, grabbed for his arm, anything to regain my sense of reality.  It was in that moment that I was convinced that I was dying.  I saw no white lights.  Nothing flashed before my eyes. All I could think was, “if I go now, he will never forgive himself.”  I thought of my dog being sad that I never came home, my kittens looking for me, and that big empty side of the bed where I used to lie.

I came to, of course.  I had to force myself to find my center.  To vocalize the things in front of me., I came back to reality and was able to walk again.  That right there was when it began.   You see, until that moment, I had yet to truly feel mortal.  Or I suppose more to the point, the weight of mortality suddenly hit me in the moment.  I began to understand what it means for your body to fail you.  I realized that while that moment might not have been my time, some day not too far in the future it will be my time.   That was and still is terrifying.

It was months later when I decided to try marijuana for the first time.  I figured that smoking was not for me, I have weak lungs anyway, so I decided on edibles.  I convinced myself that losing control of my body is something I’m going to need to be okay with.  So I tried it.  The first time I tried it, I felt nothing.  The second time, it was great.  I was calm, cool and collected. I didn’t like how physically slow it made me, but I was okay.  So months later, I tried it again.

It took 6 hours to hit me this time.  I was laying in bed and suddenly I felt like I was floating and that same feeling from before returned.  I had no sense of touch.  Reality didn’t exist.  The only thing that brought me back to any semblace of reality was my dog Ayas tongue on my face.  Poor baby, I kept calling her to me to kiss me.  I kept petting her over and over again and calling her a good girl.  She figured it out pretty quickly and didn’t stop until I calmed down.  But four hours later, I was finally calm enough to sleep.  Four hours later.  Sheesh.  Not good.

I had convinced myself that the issue was an isolated incident.  So I tried again.  It seemed as though allowing myself to let go was a personal goal of mine.  Like any fear I’ve had in my life, I decided to face it head on to desensitize myself.  I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich with cannibutter.  A friend that I trust very much had given it to me when I told her the first time scared me.  She said this was a different strain and it shouldn’t affect me the same way.  This one took only an hour to hit me.  When it finally did, I told myself I was going to prove to myself that I was okay.

I went to the internet.  I googled like crazy and everything I found that would help me  bring myself to consciousness, I tried it.  Again, I felt like I had no control of my body. My heart was palpitating.  I was nauseous.  I tried to throw up.  When it didn’t work, I forced myself.  After I threw up, I decided to take a cold bath.  I could only barely feel the chill of the water as I was shivering.  So I switched to hot.  I didn’t feel that either.  “Okay, fine.  That’s not going to work” I said to myself.  I heard my voice.  So I spoke to myself.  I called my dog to me and she licked my face as I cried. I called my fiancée who was at work.  He told me to calm down an enjoy it.  “Yeah right,” I laughed.

I decided that tracking time would help, so I set a stop watch so I knew how much time had passed.  Forget one day at a time, I was focusing on seconds.  I was mostly okay.  I could walk now.  I decided that fluids would help so I drank some water.  I ate some nuts so the protein could be absorbed.  What’s interesting is that everything seemed to come in waves.  The first wave was horrifying.  Nearly seconds later, I found myself thinking that it was over and was in my head.  This cycle repeated for hours until I finally found myself calm enough to sleep.

Its been months now since any of those instances and I find myself plagued with these thoughts.  I can’t escape them.  It’s crazy that a woman in her 30s would find herself so terrified by her own mortality.  And for the life of me, I can’t shake it.  I thought that maybe writing it down would somehow bring it to the surface so I can work through the fear.  Thoughts anyon?

Walk with me?

I would ask you to walk a mile in my shoes, but they are tattered and torn.

Why is it that heartache makes for the best writing?

I do not claim to know more or to suffer more than you and yours.  It’s just that all the roads that I have travelled, the one constant in my life has been fear.  This is not to say that I have never been brave, or that I am a timid mouse.  It’s just that fear, for whatever reason, has been my cross to bear.  I cannot be the only one.

I’ve had this blog now for years.  This is the second blog that I have created.  It’s predecessor was actually quite popular, but due to some oversharing it caused problems in my life.  I have since attempted to reclaim what I had written before, but I think just now that I have decided to move past it.  That blog was a lifetime ago.  I am a different person now and thus, this blog should reflect this.  Perhaps if I am able to let it go, I will find the voice that is between these pages.

There are few topics on which I can speak with some authority.  Having lived a sum of 34 years now, I am most passionate about two things, psychology and sexuality.   So this will be the theme of my upcoming blog.  Please do join me.  Know that I have no credentials other than what I have lived.  Still, my experience have to mean something.  So, I will share them.

I am not my dress size

I am not my dress size.

No matter what I do,

you will always see me as large, fat, lazy.

You will always feel that you are more than me

Simply because you are smaller.


I don’t judge you.

I celebrate your success.

I know you worked for that body of yours.

I know you’ve shed blood, sweat and tears for it.

I’m proud of you.

I learn from you.

It’s such a simple thing to judge someone by.

The color of their skin.

The way they dress.

The elastic on their waist band.

Their education or lack thereof.

We are quick to call someone stupid

simply because

they don’t have the same knowledge as us.

Everyone is an expert at something.

Medicine, music,






gaming systems,

computers, phones…

The list goes on.

I don’t judge you for your ignorance,

I work to educate you.

I am not so arrogant as to believe

that there are no topic in which I am stupid.

But I am more than that.

I am more than the knowledge I’ve obtained

or the weight that I’ve acquired.

I am…

hell, YOU are…


I don’t mean the beauty of my skin.

I mean that I am a beautiful person

I mean that my heart is large

I mean that my mind is anything but lazy.

I mean that I am big on success.

And those hurdles that you judge me on…

One day, I will overcome them.

Just as I hope that one day you will overcome yours as well.

I am not my dress size.

And Neither are you.

Summer Dreams

It was a warm, breezy summer night when I chose to enter her bedroom window. I stood in her driveway for what seemed like hours, staring at her white lace curtains blowing in towards her, beckoning me to enter. This wasn’t the first time I had stood here. Many hours of my teenage years were spent below her window, watching her evening routing and deciding when to make my move. I watched as she brushed her hair, read her favorite books, lit her favorite candle and I waited for the light to go out. It was only then when my mind would wander inside there and into her bed. The things I would do and say to her were well planned in my head, but I had yet to find the courage. So instead I stood there, hands on my hips, tugging on my lower lip with my teeth and peering at the girl I admired so very much. But tonight, there was music. In my head or in her room, I couldn’t be certain. It was something of a concerto and it was calling me to her. So I answered.

Climbing over her desk was a slight challenge, but I managed to stop an angel figurine from falling just before it woke her. Careful. I crept past her desk and made my way beside her bed. It was strange being here uninvited. Especially since just earlier that week we had been playing on her computer on that very same desk. The relationship until this point had remained mostly innocent. She had teased me for years, of course, pressing her ample breasts up against my arm as we played. Just earlier this day, we had been curled up on the couch eating chocolate chip cookie dough and watching The Never Ending Story. She pulled my head into her lap and stroked my hair and I felt safe and at home. She called me Angel then, which perhaps made it all the more sinful that I wanted her so.

I walked towards the edge of her bed, taking a moment to admire her once again. The moonlight kissed the pale flesh of her shoulders just so, exposing them to me and making me smile. The tower fan beside her osculated towards her and I watched her shiver. Her long chestnut curls where splayed along her side, framing her just right. She was stunning. I slipped carefully into bed beside her, sliding my palm beneath the covers to wrap around her hip. My lips immediately found her shoulder blade where I planted my first kiss.

“Angel?” she whispered… “What are you…?”


My fingers slid forward along her waistline to find her belly, making slow circles there and pulling her tightly against me.

We had been dating for months now and it had yet to come to this point. We had kissed, of course. Sometimes, I would spend hours pressed up against a wall and lost in her lips. But it had never gone beyond that. Tonight, I was determined to taste her.

My fingers dipped below the waistline of her pajama bottoms and shrugged them past her hips. My lips, eager to search her body, grazed between her exposed shoulder blades flicking my tongue against her spine. I was rewarded with a quiet moan and so I continued my quest. Her hips instinctively began to roll back towards mine, making my task much easier as I slid her bottoms down to her knees. I took a moment then to slide the covers back so I could view her. Damn. That’s my girl. That dip in her spine just above her ass was perhaps my favorite part of her. I immediately moved my hands there to slide her top up to expose it and dove down to allow my tongue to play there. A sheer piece of lace was all that was keeping me from my prize now. I was determined to win it.

She was the first girl I knew our age to wear thongs. A happy surprise she used to tell me when she talked about teasing her boyfriends. Fuck, you’re teasing me too, bitch… I’d think. Of course, I’d never have told her that. Instead, I was the supportive girl… friend. But nothing was going to stop me from taking her in my dreams. Nothing at all. The day I confessed to her that I was attracted to girls, I was hoping she would confess back. Instead, she waited months. When she finally did, we dove head on into a relationship.

“So do you wanna be my girlfriend?” she asked, holding my hand as we walked down the street, looking at old vintage shops.

“Do you want to be mine?” I grinned and asked back.

And that was it. We were two teenage girls bound together. It changed nothing about us, really. We were still as affectionate as we had been before. It’s just that kissing was now acceptable. Romance was now something I could direct towards her. She could now leave sweet, adoring notes in my locker that would make me giggle. I could leave her flowers.

“Ohhh…Angel…” she groaned as my fingers toyed at her spine.

I grinned and took my cue to flip her over to face me now. I shifted upward so my eyes would meet hers when they opened. Those deep brown eyes of hers always slayed me. Pausing a moment to watch her, I slid my thumb along her sweet rosebud lips before I bent down to kiss her. This was my favorite place to be. I could drink her in for days, our tongues finding each other, her quiet moans meeting mine. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, clinging tightly to me as I positioned myself carefully between her now open thighs. There was always a desperate rhythm to our kisses. A hungry, exotic dance. We rocked, moved, caressed, undulated…and before I knew it…I had managed to maneuver her panties from beneath her hips and off completely. There she was, exposed for me. Her soft, supple flesh mine for the taking.

There was a certain power in having her nearly nude beneath me as I was still fully clothed, but I knew it was also unfair. So I knelt back on the bed for just a moment, sliding my tshirt above my head and pulling my sports bra off with it. My young, round breasts sprung free, the cool breeze immediately erecting my nipples. Her eyes found mine again as I looked down at her.

“You are so beautiful,” she told me.

“Hush,” I grunted and moved back down to kiss her.

Her own moans were now met with mine as her hands began to wander. The weight of my breasts were now resting in her palms as she used her thumb and forefingers to roll my nipples between them. I began to shudder and shake against her. My nipples have always been so sensitive and the overwhelming feeling of being so near her, and her touch on my sensitive parts was driving me insane. I needed to have her…and now. My own hands moved to push her knees as wide as they would go as I used the back of my hand to stroke down her inner thigh. I didn’t need to touch her to know that I would find her sex bare. This was another detail she had chosen to share with me in passing, how freeing it felt to shave her pussy clean, how it was scented with peach shaving cream, how smooth it felt to the touch. It was all I could do back then not to rape her then and now I was finally going to touch it.

I stopped inches from her mound to feel it’s warmth, waiting for her to squirm.

“Are you ready?” I whispered huskily at her, she nodded vigorously.

I chuckled ever so slightly as she inched closer to me. I pulled back just a bit, waiting for that perfect moment before I allowed my thumb to search for that spot. There it went, past that horseshoe opening at her mound and into her slippery folds. I watched her face and stopped as she winced a bit. Yes, here will do. My index finger moved inward now beside it, peeling back at the hood of her clit and rolling the slippery bud against the pads of my fingertips. Ohhh fuck…she’s so fucking wet already… My eyes never left her as her own closed, her hands moving from my breasts to above her head. She began to lose control of her movements as her hips began to buck when I touched those tender exposed spots on her clit. It was amazing watching her buck. Adjusting myself just so, I moved so to heel of my hand was pressed firmly against my own crotch.

“Shit…oh god…” I grunted as her movements caused a grinding motion with my hand. That was it, I needed to be inside her now.

My hands moved to the back of her knees…pushing them back towards either side of her head. Twisting my hand around, I planted my thumb on her clit and plunged two fingers past silky lips until she cried out. This took a bit of remembering. I had yet to be with a girl, of course, but I knew the spots that made me feel just right. So I went diving inside her and up towards her pelvic bone. I stopped at that soft, spongy surface at the front. She nearly jumped when I touched her there. Shit…that’s the spot. So I stayed there, moving my own hips now against the heel of my hand in order to shift my fingers inside her. The pressure grinding through my pants is just enough to cause my own breath to quicken at the same pace as hers. Thus I began my slow, deliberate rocking motion…taking my time to feel ever inch of her warm slit. My fingers drawing circles around her sensitive spots, applying pressure randomly to make her scream. She moved her ankles now to my shoulders and my eyes grew dark. My own noises were deep and guttural as my movements became more urgent and quickened. I’d move back, nearly pulling entirely out of her, only to push down deep into the hilt of her. The friction on my end sending waves of pleasure through me. I could barely stand it. I needed to make her cum for me. My movements were deliberate now. My thumb began feverishly mashing at her clit as I fucked her, the sweet sloshing sounds of her cunt driving me inside as I took her…claimed her. Her eyes were open now, watching me as I fucked her, needing me to take every last drop from inside her. Her hips moved to meet my own thrusts, pushing my hand back against me and causing me to scream.

“Fuck, I’m close…” I groaned.

“Me too…cum with me, Angel…”

Her hips were moving in methodical thrusts as she watched me, her own eyes were nearly black, a slight sweat could be found across her brow. And with one last thrust…I felt her spurting into my palm. I grunted and groaned with her, thrusting back and forth with every spurt of her hot, sticky cum. The feel of her muscles tightening around my fingers was driving me insane. I could do nothing but fuck and with one last thrust, I cried out and came with her. Bowing down to feverishly kiss her while I pushed out every last drop, feeling her rock with me in slow syncopation. With one last spurt, I collapsed on top of her, smiling down into her eyes, not daring to leave the comfort of her womb. She wrapped her legs around my back as I turned my cheek to rest on her chest and we lay there just like this…content for hours.

An Old Friend

In the wee hours of the morning, I find myself turning to the empty pages of my life.  Like prayer, I sadly find that it is much easier to turn to you, my dear pages, when faced with turmoil and strife.  I may go months without reaching for you.  When I do, I truly need you, my friend.  So I call out to you.

Rake through the abyss that is my troubled mind.  Weed out the pebbles and large clumps of matter.  Sweep away the bugs.  Allow me, instead, to see you clearly.  Let me use you to get through this.  Grant me the courage to seek within for my answers.  And try not to judge me for not turning to you sooner.

Emotional Abuse

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“You’re being abused.”

I remember the first time my therapist told me this. Why this one memory rings so true to me, I could not tell you. It wasn’t the first time that someone had accused my husband of abusing me. In fact, the first time had been nearly 5 years prior, and it was by his sister. But today, when my therapist looked me straight in the eye and told me that I was being abused, I resonated with me. I had come home after a long day at work to disarray. My husband had decided to take every drawer in our home and empty it upside down in our bedroom. You could tell he had done this with some form of force because a few of the wooden drawers and splintered and a couple of the plastic ones were completely broken. I was alone when I found it; he was still at work. So I took a moment, took a deep breath, and started cleaning. When he came home I had almost finished refolding every piece of laundry and was about to put the drawers up. I didn’t make eye contact with him. I didn’t even ask him why. I had been sick and tired of fighting with that brick wall that was his ego. Instead, I kept cleaning. I was on the last drawer when he sat down on the bed.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?” he looked at me as he spoke.
“Nope. There’s no point,” I whispered while placing a drawer back in its slot.
“I’ve been looking for this shirt for weeks,” he said. “So I’ve decided, I’m not going to yell any more. No, I’m just going to blow things up. If this keeps happening, I’ll start throwing things out. If that doesn’t work, I’ll burn everything to the ground.”
This was the moment in the story when my therapist had intervened.
“Wait, this was because he couldn’t find a shirt?” She put her pen down and met her eyes with mine for clarity.
“Yeah, I’m really bad about doing all of the laundry in one day. I guess his shirt must have been stuck at the bottom of the pile or something,” I was stammering, avoiding eye contact.
“That is abuse, Lauren,” her voice was worried, her resolve strong.
You might find it odd that someone had to tell me that I was being abused. After all, it should be obvious to us all. The truth of the matter is that abuse isn’t always black and white. The abuser doesn’t always hit its target. Sometimes, the abuser just tears the abused down emotionally. Sometimes, the abused spends years making up excuses, only to wake up one day and realize that it really wasn’t ok.
I’ve spent most of life studying psychology. As the product of an unstable home, I have trained myself to be very aware of my surroundings. Through years of marriage, I had become even more in tuned to the subtleties of the English language, choice of words, body language, silence even. So the moment when I realized that I was, in fact, in an abusive marriage, my very next question was eminent. How did I get here? I found myself suddenly disgusted that I had let it get this far. As strong, intelligent women, we like to think that when surrounded by a situation where we have become a victim, we will stand up and simply walk away. Throw a punch at me; the next thing you’ll see will be me walking out the door. It’s easy to have this resolve when abuse is so easily defined as a violent act.
After all, life would be must simpler if all of the bad people wore blinking hats that cautioned “Beware.” It would be even simpler to assume that a person can be purely bad. If the monsters in the world were purely monsters, we’d be less likely to end up where we are today. Statistically speaking, females are more likely to be victims of intimate assault.

I specify intimate assault because the abusers are not always of the opposite sex. In fact, there is a complete subset of domestic abuse that is specific to lesbian relationships. In a society where we are trained that it is never acceptable for a man to hit a woman, little is spoken of female on female abuse, or male on male abuse. As a society we seem to have lowered our standards when seeking a partner in life. Is it asking too much to assume that your partner just won’t “go there”? Perhaps it is.
It seems that the emotionally abused do not take their abuse very seriously. I remember confronting my husband and telling him that he frightens me when he throws tables and breaks things in front of me. His response was simple, “Have I ever put my hands on you?” In the absence of physical violence, it is easy for both the abused and the abuser to take their situation less seriously. It’s easier to reason this away as “anger issues”. It’s easy to remind yourself of all the “good things” your partner does and to ignore the reality.

Some tactics of emotional abuse by an abuser are to:
• Isolate a woman from her friends, family, cultural or faith community, care providers, and prevent her from having independent activities such as work, English as a Second Language classes or other education;
• Act overly jealous or possessive; accuse a woman of having affairs if she talks to another man; coerce her into sexual activity to prove her love;
• Criticize a woman constantly – her actions, size and appearance, and abilities;
• Use a woman’s disability or deafness to demean or control her;
• Threaten, intimidate, harass, or punish a woman if she does not comply with her abusive partner’s demands;
• Use the children to control a woman, for example undermine her authority as a parent or threaten to take them if she should leave;
• Make all of the decisions in the family, withhold information and refuse to consult her or about important matters such as where they live, or the family’s finances;
• Control the money – what is spent, how it is spent, not allow a woman access to financial resources, or conversely not contribute to any of the household expenses.

I’ve combed through my years of marriage and tried to find those defining moments when I should have left. I went back and screamed at my former self “What are you doing?” I’ve listened to my friends and coworkers and therapists and I now see the warning signs. But the reality is that when you are in the trenches, you are paralyzed. You’ve given up your control to someone you love very deeply and you see no way of getting it back. You find yourself unworthy, you echo to yourself …
“Well maybe he’s right.”
“Maybe I am unattractive.”

“Maybe I am lazy.”

“Is he really asking too much to have the laundry done in one day?”

“Well, he doesn’t hit me.”

“He’s a good man.”

“I have so many flaws.”

“I’m fat.”

“How could he want me?”

“How could anyone want me?”

A once confident woman suddenly finds herself powerless behind these words. They become heavy chains, weighing her down and raping her of her will to leave. When asked over and over again “Why do you stay?” my response was always the same, “I’m not ready.” Not ready for what? To be without abuse? To be alone? To hear the things I would inevitably hear were I to end it?
I’d love to tell you that I was brave and suddenly realized I couldn’t take it any more. The reality, however is that he ended it. And much in the way he controlled me in our marriage, he ended it in such a way as to make me feel as low and unworthy as possible. Still, regardless of how he ended it, he did me a favor. In his absence, I can find clarity again. I can begin to dissect those moments and to draw clear lines in the sand for next time. And with my own words, I can hopefully stop someone else from being in the same situation as I was.

A Rose By Any Other Name


So much has happened since I last wrote that it’s hard to imagine where to begin in thought.  Perhaps another introduction is necessary at this point.  I began this blog years ago as an anonymous voice, or inner voice as it were.  I have always been (and perhaps always will be) fascinated by my own inner voice.  I’ve tried my best to explain to you, my readers, the true catharsis that is writing my thoughts down on paper.  It’s more than that, though.  My words solve things for me.  They help me to work through the trouble in my life.  They allow me a voice in the abyss that is the internet.  They help me make sense of the enigma that has been put before me.  Without my words, there is no me.  So perhaps I should begin by stripping myself of the anonymity.

My name is Lauren Ferguson, or perhaps Baker, I haven’t really decided yet.  Gazzano maybe?  Or perhaps another name entirely.  No, no, let’s begin with birth.  I was born Lauren Nicole Baker to my parents Jay and Susan in a town in the San Francisco Bay Area called Redwood City.  I spent the first twenty-four years of my life in California until I found myself fleeing the scene of the crime that is my family and departing to Arkansas.  I spent two years there to the day.  On December 1st of 2008, my new husband and I moved back to California for just under a year.  It was in late 2009 when I moved to Texas where I still reside.

Ferguson is my married name which began on July 7th of 2008.  I had met a man whom I loved dearly.  I loved him so much, in fact, that just five months after meeting him we went to justice of the peace and I took his name.  It’s so very easy to get married these days.  For straight people anyway.  I woke up one morning, we drove the the courthouse, we were married, and then I went to work later that day.  Our marriage lasted for 6 1/2 years and across 2000 miles until one day in December of 2014.  I was cuddling my puppy on the couch.  She had been spayed the night before and the only way she could be comfortable was by laying on top of me.  So I slept there with her draped across my chest and I woke up to the end.  It was no surprise.  Really, it had ended years ago.  Nonetheless, I went from being a married woman to being an unknown.  Perhaps even a lesbian.  This has yet to be decided.

You can imagine now my hesitancy to return to Lauren Baker.  I know the name well, don’t get me wrong.  But she is so very distant a memory that she seems like an old friend.  No, a friend’s daughter.  The Lauren that was once Baker I think of as so innocent now.  The truth is she was anything but innocent.  Unlived maybe?  Yes, I’m aware this isn’t a word.  Let’s create it now.  Lauren Baker had yet to live.  There were far too few miles on her tires.  Though she had been through much, she was still very new and shiny.  More than that.  She was still a believer.

Lauren Baker believed in good and evil.  More than anything, she believed in good. Lauren Baker believed in romance.  Her smile would light up a room.  She was constantly chasing her dreams, even when she didn’t know what they were.  What she chased above all else was love.  Lauren Baker was an idealist.

So no, after six years of pain and turmoil.  After four years of infidelity and abuse.  After thousands of miles and moving again and again.  Lauren Baker seems too far a distant memory to return to.  She simply does not exist any more, however lovely she once was.  After all Lauren Baker was where Lauren Ferguson began.  How could I willingly go back to a place where I was once so stupid.

I hadn’t began this article as an introduction to me.  In fact, I had meant to reflect on this past year of my life.  It seems we will have to explore this in a later entry.  I will say this.  I’ve spent the past year of my life speechless.  Anyone who knows me at all knows what a rare phenomenon this is.  I’ve stumbled on these old entires recently and have found myself reflective on the place I once was only to find myself happy to consider it so past-tense.  It will be a year-to-date on December 22nd when my end began.  Only now am I able to begin the healing process of writing about it.  So for now, I will simply revel in the many versions of myself.  For now, I will explore the name Sally (taken from my paternal grandmother).  Let us see where Sally takes me.  Perhaps I will take solace as her.

So, hello.  It’s nice to meet you.  I’m Sally.  What is your name?


There are echoes in my mind

Every day.

Past memories

Bells that can never be unrung.


When I don’t understand the puzzle

I keep repeating it

Over and over again.


It tortures me.

This incessant pain



Fresher now than it was at the beginning.


I wish I could just let it go

I wish I could be comfortable

With the things that I can’t change

Confident enough in myself

To not need others to understand.


I wish I could walk away

And just forget.


But once you’ve passed that long windy corridor to my heart

Once you’ve nestled in the cockles that need warming

I just can’t let you go

And I care.

I care how you are.

I care what you think.

I care that you don’t care.


So there you are

My echo

Torturing me

Raping me of my closure


My echo.

Your silence.