Just nothing….not even an oily rag to run off.

I fight so hard, I strive to keep my eyes on light and life and love and gratitude. But some days….

Some days there’s just loneliness and aloneness and desperation and hopelessness and pain and distress and fuck….

It gets hard not to descend into fruitless self pity. It gets hard not to submit and just accept defeat. Too much trauma, too much pain. Too many horrifying memories and terrorizing facts of life to accept….

Just too much.

Too much abuse. Too much damage. Too much sorrow and sadness.

Good lord. This is all getting a bit dramatic and self indulgent, isn’t it? Sorry….

No. I’m not sorry. Men tore me to pieces and threw away the scraps and this is all that’s left. Why the hell would I say sorry for that?

It’s just….

This scratching and scraping and clawing and struggling to hang onto the few scraps I’ve got left….

Fuck it.

I admit it. I just want it all to be over and done with for once and for all. Just….enough….is it really worth all this constant striving just to hang onto shreds and tatters….the discarded scraps of abuse….

My partner is fed up with me. I’m fed up with me. We’re both so torn up we can’t even be near each other today. And each other is pretty much all there is left.

Why the fuck can’t men just keep their fucking hands to themselves!

Do they know how much damage they do?!

Thank heavens I gave up drinking. Can you imagine what I’d be like if I was drunk? That would be one hell of a pity party.

I wish I could just go to sleep for a while, but when the trauma troubles kicks in with a vengeance, so does the anxiety. My heart won’t stop racing and my mind is alive with distress.

If I’m lucky I’ll pass out for an hour or two. If I’m lucky.

And there’s always the fallback plan of Valium, but not even that works. I just end up distressed and in agony and full of Valium. And I don’t want that.


Why can’t men just keep their fucking hands to themselves!

See, that’s the thing which pisses me off. The people who did this to me couldn’t give a fuck. I suspect they’d just find it funny if they even knew.

But they don’t. They have no idea.

One of them is dead, lucky bastard.

See, that really pisses me off. The cunt in chief who’s responsible for this living nightmare died peacefully in his sleep. He sat down in his armchair with his bottle of piss beside him and just fell asleep and never woke up.


Where’s his pain? Where’s his suffering?

It just doesn’t work like that. There’s just the abuse and the damage done and that’s it. End of story.


I still have my eyes, I still have my vision. My fingers work and I can write this cap down and pelt it like mud all over the walls of the internet.

That’s nice.

I like that.