Abuse hates silence. Abusers love secrets.
Talking about abuse is the single most liberating thing that a person can do.
People often think these things should be hushed up, not talked about.
Fuck that I say.

Recently my Abuser decided to leave comments on our blogs. My Abuser thought they were being clever in hiding their name. However their gassy writing style is obvious from twenty paces.

The Abuser loves watching it’s victim. Often I hear friends talk of times that their abusers have attempted to get in touch with them again. What do these freaks want? Why not leave their victims alone? If they get in touch it’s never to make an apology. What do they have to apologise for? Your reaction to them is insane! You are the crazy one!

Obviously the Abuser lives in a hole so removed from reality they don’t accept or understand that they are mentally ill. Many of them even fool the other people they have contact with. They will close their eyes to the truth about themselves at all costs. because what is the alternative? To face what they have done? No Abuser is brave enough to do that! Cowards, all of them! Of course! Otherwise why would they have used their power as adults to torture children?

Here is what I have to say to my Abuser and Yours.

You can cover the horror of your life with words, long long words.
You can hide what you are from your friends and family.
You can profess you are Buddhist, Christian, Muslim or whatever fucking religion you like. It’s all the same to you isn’t it?
You can even pretend to hear the mind of your Creator.
Hide in your hole and pretend.
Cover your ears and eyes with mud.
Sit in your crawlspace with the ghosts and the bones.
Chew on your own fecal mind.

We are coming for you.
We come when you sleep.
We come when you are not looking.
The voices you hear in the night.
We talk to you all the time. But you already know this. You know it’s coming.
If you outlive us we become stronger.
We are the voices in the pipes.
At your end it is we that take you to the next place. It is our hand you hold.
Confused child. We became wise. You just became old
and scared
and small

So very, very small
We are coming for you

So… the last post on here was a drawing of a strange FreakySeizureGod that Adam did which inspired one of our friends to say “He’s freaking me out” and may have caused another to have a seizure. Imagine my horror then when I went to our website and the header (which refreshes every time it is clicked) was displaying this picture, along with the Freaky Seizure God right underneath it.

All I need now is for my monitor to grow some Giger ‘hands’ out of it’s sides and for it jump on me.

I am sort of in love with this website.

I like this and this.

it’s so Baritone English Villian

***I’m amending this because the original link is broken, it was originally in reference to children being killed in the war in Sri Lanka. There was an image of a man cradling his dead three year old :(***

News stories about bad things happening to people, especially children, makes me cry. I sit there and I cry and I feel so helpless and angry that these things can happen. I cry until my throat gets sore and I can’t see. That people do horrific things to other people. I’m not a nurse, I’m not a Doctor, I’m not a politician. I work from home in the gaps when my baby sleeps. I earn a little money. I try to buy eco cleaning products and green clothes for my baby. I worry about toxins in her toys. I worry about other babies too. I worry about the lady in the local cafe who has to work six days a week even though her baby is only three months old.

I think of all the clever and brilliant people I know and think about how many of them are in jobs that frustrate them, that bore them. Jobs where you have to compromise your every creative thought to fit in with company guidelines. Jeez, lets include me here too.

We do our work and hate it, we sell our ideas for other people to get rich off. We work to fill other peoples bank accounts and what do they do with that money? Does the company that you work for do a single fucking thing for any charity that you know of, unless it is as a PR move? Or does it hoard it’s money to itself, clutching your time and your brainpower, hooks under your skin for 25, 45, 65, 165 what-ever-it-is-we-think-we-are-worth grand a year? That you spend on a holiday and a house and resteraunt food and some stupid clothes that don’t fit well and then feel too tired to do anything else.

And in the World that is what we do and that is all we do and I do it too and I hate it, and I hate myself for being part of the package of uselessness. In London I worked a bit copywriting and doing PR and I often tried to spin it round to get some charity involvement going because I really didn’t give a flying, fisting fuck about selling holidays or selling personal finance or the rest of that shit. I was a bad copywriter and PR person really. I was good at telling people to believe in themselves though. I care about people, I think that people can do anything that they allow themselves to imagine they can do. And specifically, I care about children. There are people who do bad things to children, from narcissists who emotionally hold them down to Alcoholics who make their children watch them cry. There are those sexually abuse kids while wearing the mantle of the trusted One. There are those who kill them. It’s takes a long time to come out from under that darkness for the ones who survive those kinds of childhoods. What kind of people are we that we accept the killing of our own potential?

I feel like in my head there is a war of superficial worries trying to stop me from thinking about what matters. Does it matter if I am not thin? Does it matter if I have a big crooked nose? It’s slowly shape shifting to something else once I stop obsessing about my physical appearance or my need for acquisition to something else. Can I get an agent to be interested in my work? What is it that I am really supposed to do? Shifting the shit out of the way and allowing myself to actually think … what if?

Wouldn’t it be nice to do the thing you were really good at, get paid really well for it and then be in a position to actually do something useful. Did you know that the sales of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and Quidditch Through the Ages by JK Rowling have raised over $50 million for Comic Relief alone?