I'm guessing most of you have never seen a movie called Rigoletto. It's by a little known company called Feature Films For Families. When I was younger, my mother bought a bunch of movies from them. These movies quickly became favorites of myself and my sisters. Each movie had their own life lesson, I guess you could say.

Rigoletto takes place during the depression, I believe, in a small town, because the characters talk about a banker coming in and taking their homes. This man buys a mansion in town that had been vacant for a number of years, and no one sees him. He buys the house of the main character, a young school girl about 13. Her mother meets with this man, and he stays in the shadows so she can't see him. He requests that her daughter work for him, cleaning his house, so the woman can keep her house. The daughter agrees.

She is told to never enter a room, in which the man spends all of his time. One day, the girl hears a most beautiful singing coming from the room, a woman's voice. Curious, she opens the door a tiny bit to hear better. She's then dragged into the room by the man, and this is the first time we see him. His face is severely disfigured. After the woman leaves, the man tells the girl that he had taught the woman to sing like that. The girl asks the man to teach her how to sing. He scoffs at her, but agrees to hear the girl sing. She sings for him, but he interrupts her, saying that she sounds like a goat. She tells him that his face isn't what makes him ugly, it's his heart. So he sings this song for her.

The girl tells the man in awe that anyone who can sing like that has a beautiful heart. He agrees to teach her how to sing. She sings in a competition later in the movie, and the man writes it for her. People in the town had been calling the man a monster. They later found out that the man had been helping people in the town, without them knowing.

(I know the vid quality sucks :/)

This will always be one of my favorite movies, because the lesson in it is so beautiful. Just because someone isn't attractive, doesn't mean that they are a monster. They could have the most beautiful heart of all.

Random scene from the movie:

So, yes, you've caught me. Good detective skills. I post all about my pain and grief for the attention. Good job. Sherlock Holmes should kick Watson to the curb because you're the best fucking detective EVER.

Well, EXCUSE me for giving hope to other people. I'll make sure I never do it again. Indeed, I will post about how much life is a fucking bitch and everyone has problems. Yep, life sucks. My life sucks, your life sucks, and it's never going to get better. Ever. There is no hope in the world, and there never will be. You're right, I'm wrong. No one needs to hear about my problems. I'll just let everyone keep being depressed. No one deserves some inspiration. You're right.

Better yet, Xanga should just cease to exist. Everyone here who writes personal posts, STOP RIGHT NOW. You're not allowed. So I guess Xanga is done for, because none of us are allowed to write about our pain. None of us are allowed to get support from our friends. No, you must suffer alone. Because Watson's replacement said so.

I guess there's no such thing as a genuine person who wants to help others with their story. NO, that just doesn't exist. What the fuck was I thinking? Obviously, it's all for attention, then.

I hope everyone realizes everything above is sarcastic....

The truth is, I write about it because I want people to know that they are not alone. I have gotten SO many messages and comments from other victims that tell me I'm an inspiration because I'm standing tall (well, short. I am 5'1") and strong. That I give them hope.

I really appreciate everyone's comments. I read every one of them. Thank you to others who shared their pain.

The people who said I write these posts for attention are making assumptions about my character. Anyone who knows me and reads my blog and talks to me knows that I am genuine, caring, honest, kind-hearted, and warm.

No one has to trudge through life alone, and my posts help people realize that. I am no longer depressed, suicidal, or a cutter. I am mostly mentally healthy these days, and PTSD is a recent but distant memory. I have my days like anyone else, but none of this has a grip on me anymore. If I can survive, you can too.

<3

So I've started a new blog on wordpress, HERE.

Don't worry, I'm totally not leaving xanga. I started the new blog for a different kind of writing. I'm more interested in exploring my thoughts and what I believe about different things, instead of my daily life. So take a peek, subscribe, and read about other things rolling around in my mind!!

**Warning: this post may be hard to read**

Everyone who's older than me by more than a few years constantly tell me that I'm just a baby because I'm so young. I strongly disagree with that sentiment.

I have scars that you can't see. I have scars that you CAN see. These scars on my skin remind me of my life. A daily reminder of everything I've endured. The ones that you can't see are the ones on my heart. Those are the ones that hurt the most. My metaphorical heart is so jabbed and torn and shredded and pieced together it's hard to tell that it's a heart. That does not mean that it's a cold heart.

Everyone's had their heart broken a few times. But a whole lifetime of it? That's something else entirely. It's something that's hard to come away from whole. Impossible, actually.

I was 1 when my parents separated. 3 when the divorce was finalized. I lived with my father. My mother moved all the time, a literal gypsy. She moved more than we did. She lived with various men, who supported her. Cocaine was her favorite drug. She would tell me she would pick me up. She promised. I waited by the window. Watching for her. Waited for hours. She never came. Ever. How many times does a promise need to be broken until the hope dies? Still, I cried every time.

My dad and my mom's former best friend started dating. They did heroin. I was largely forgotten, left to my own devices. Shady people were over all the time. They had parties that would last all night. It was these times that I was molested. I grew up wary and afraid of people. How many times did we move? I don't remember. A new apartment, a new school. Not many friends. What was the point? We were moving again anyway. Half the time, my dad didn't know where my mother was living. I don't remember my childhood very well. What I do remember, most of it wasn't good, and my mother was a scant memory, flitting across my subconscious. Broken promises and half hearted attempts.

When I was in second grade, I got in trouble for hitting another girl. I saw my dad hitting other people all the time, why wasn't it okay for me to do it? My dad got into fights all the time with his girlfriend, and sometimes other people. The people around me were physically violent, I thought it was normal and okay. After I got detention, however, my dad was so mad at me, and I didn't understand. He told me that hitting people was never okay, and all I could do was cry, because I was only doing what he had done.

I grew up ashamed of my body because I was molested. I thought it was a dirty thing, and I hated touching myself in any way. I still do. When I masturbate, I can't ever bring myself to touch myself. I gained weight because I never wanted anyone to look at me sexually. I don't like it when people touch me to this day, even if the person doesn't mean it to be offensive. I hate penises. I hate them because of what that man made me do to him. A 5 year shouldn't know how to give a blow job.

When my mom gets drunk, she apologizes for not being a good mother. She cries because she feels guilty. Maybe then, she should make herself into a good mother, because she still isn't. She still hurts me and my sisters. She still makes us cry. She still breaks promises. She still lies. "People can only hurt you if you let them" doesn't apply to family members. The only way my mother couldn't ever hurt me again is if I no longer cared for her and loved her.

These last six years I've changed. I've gone through the darkest period of my life, one where I even thought about putting myself into a psych ward. Then, it was like a veil lifted and I changed my outlook on life. I can't go through my thought processes about it, but I turned myself around. I fought my demons. I fought them long and hard, and they are not gone yet. See, even though I'm a different person, I folded into myself in a way. I stopped making friends so freely. I stopped letting people in. I don't let myself get too close to anyone. I can't bear the thought of people I see every day knowing my demons. I don't go places very often, and I don't have many friends IRL. I've done this to myself. I am terrified of getting hurt. The final step in beating my demons, is letting myself go. I have to let myself open up to friendships and relationships.

The hardest demon to fight of all of them is the one of my body image and sex. I am attracted to men, and I need to get past my fear of being sexually intimate with them. I need to learn to love my body, and not think it's a disgusting thing to be hated and loathed. That's the hardest part.

So the next time somebody judges me and calls me a "baby" because I am still young, they better think twice. Age doesn't have anything to do with life experiences.

Someone told me on my post about my molestation that those kinds of posts are better left "private." I wholeheartedly disagree.

I don't really feel like doing anything. It's just whatever. Why am I writing a post about this?

I honestly don't know. No purpose. No reason. Maybe somebody should talk to me. About what, I do not know.

:/

I've been watching vids on YouTube about the COMMUNITY CENTER for Muslims blocks away from Ground Zero, and ran into this guy. It's pretty interesting, and says a lot of things I've been thinking.

I've watched videos from AP, CBS, MSNBC, and Fox News, and I still support the building of this community center.

I find it pathetic that they are equating the building of this center to the Islamic takeover of the USA. They must be joking. People who think that extreme are no better than the Islamic extremists.

Well, it's almost time for BB.

Yes!! I totally want one of your fake handbags with the spam in it! You must tell me where I can get one, at once! Oh, you did? Silly me! ZOMGZ I lyke to-tally luvz themz!!

What the fuck is with all the spam, xanga? For the most part, the spammers leave the front page alone... only to find totally random posts to spam. What. The. Fuck. It's out of control! Yesterday I blocked 6 spammers.... C'MON xanga!

 

Fo realz.

People often tell me that I am strong.

But what does this mean, exactly? What parameters dictate what strength is, and who has it?

When you tell someone that they are strong, why are you saying this? What thoughts run through your head? Do you say this because you've experienced something similar and can relate? Do you think about the person's experiences and say to yourself, "wow, I could never survive that."?

When a person goes through something terrible, they are broken. There's a part of them that's just so broken, and it hurts. It hurts for a long time. People repair themselves the best they can, but there's a small piece that will always hurt, and be fractured.

Are we strong because we repair our hurts the best we can? Are we strong because we are survivors? What's a survivor? Someone who doesn't kill themselves? Who doesn't turn to drugs, alcohol, crime, etc.?

When someone tells you that you are strong, did you actually feel strong before then? Does that person's words make you realize how strong you are?

Sometimes, even the strong feel weak. Those hurts come back full force and there's doubt. Do those moments of weakness negate your strength?

I think people are strong because I know what it takes to find some sense of normalcy. It's hard. Even if you find that, you are never the same. Even survivors never come away the same. You are a survivor if you learn from it and heal as much as you can and grow.

I am a survivor. I am strong.

And so are you.

There are many people that are hypocrites. I dislike hypocrites. I don't think it's right that people double talk like they do.

I can be hypocritical at times. However, whenever I realize that I am doing it, I think about it, and somehow change my way of thinking so that I am not being a hypocrite.

There is one thing that I will always be hypocritical about. Always. And I don't have a problem admitting it.

I intensely dislike violence. In fact, I despise it. I think that violence is not the answer (I am excluding war in this statement, although I think war is severely overused as a means). I believe that humans are just that: human. We all make mistakes, some more serious than others. However, I will always make one exception to my beliefs.

Child molesters deserve to die.

I say this because I was molested as a child, repeatedly. I don't remember most of it because I was only 5 when it started. I didn't start remembering until I was in high school. I probably ended up with PTSD for quite some time. In fact, I know I did. After high school was the darkest period of my life. I lived in a constant state of either complete numbness or pain and suffering so intense, I do not know how I didn't feel like dying. I never thought about killing myself. I only thought about my pain and grief, and how I was ever going to live a normal life. I thought I was broken forever. I sometimes still think that way. It's taken a lot for me to even begin getting past this, and I know it's not over yet.

Have you ever had a nightmare, waking up absolutely terrified... but you don't know why? When you try and remember the dream, all you can see is absolute darkness?

Child molesters are murderers of souls.

Do you know why I get so scared when people creep up behind me?

He came into my bedroom late at night. I could sense him. If I can't sense you behind me, I get scared when you let your presence be known.

Do you know why I can barely take a nap in the daytime? Why I wake up with my heart pounding, scared?

You can't hide in the daylight. I tried to hide.

Do you know why I used to find comfort in the closet?

Because that is where I used to hide. Pile noisy toys all around me. Plastic ones. Ones that make a lot of noise if you try and get me out.

My innocence was stolen from me. I will never get that back. My chance at a normal life, without these problems, I will never get back. The dreams have faded. I rarely have those nightmares now. I can finally sleep through most of the night without waking up a hundred times, making sure that I am okay.

I have memories that would make you weep. I will not share them, because I am ashamed. I know it's not my fault. But these things that were done to me, still shame me. Humiliate me. They make me feel like less of a person.

I know that child molesters have serious psychological problems. But I still hate them. I know in the back of my mind they have mental diseases. But I cannot forgive them. I do not feel bad when they die. I felt a perverse joy when Michael Jackson died. I do not care what he did for the music industry.

He was a child molester. I am not going to argue with you about this. He WAS a child molester.

To me, they will always be horrific monsters that haunt my dreams.

I've read most of the comments on my last post, and I've learned a lot. Both about the religion, and also about people.

I respect debating, when it's done peacefully and respectfully.

I told Cody today that the reason I will never win a debate with him is because I look at right and wrong in respect to how I grew up and how I feel in my heart. His beliefs are backed by facts. But what I've seen, is that two people will take the same fact and twist it so that it fits their own belief. That, or two people will be debating about a certain aspect of their argument, and one of them will through a fact out there. The other person won't like that fact, so they bring up a fact unrelated to the specifics of what they're talking about and change topics within the same argument, if that makes sense.

Cody kept bringing up things like building a Japanese airstrip at Pearl Harbor. I said that doesn't make any sense because Pearl Harbor is American soil, it's two different countries. He claims that it's a good analogy.

There are other analogies that people have used, and I don't think anything is the same thing. As long as all this is on private property, I think we should all embrace the past and learn from it. We need to set aside our own hurts from it for awhile and learn. There's SO MUCH to learn, there truly is. We need to open our minds and learn about other people, cultures, religions. REALLY learn about them, before forming your opinions. Don't listen to the media. Read books. A plethora of books, and don't be biased. Don't read all anti-gay books written by anti-gay authors. Read from "the other side" too. I think the reason there's so much hatred going around is because we don't understand each other, and we're too arrogant to want to learn. Arrogant ignorance is never a good thing.

I kind of got off track there, but I tend to do that.

I don't think building this mosque is disrespectful at all. In fact, I think it's respecting and honoring Muslims. I read in the comments that Muslims were also victims when 9/11 happened, and I think that's 100% true. I heard about the deportation, but also how the innocent Muslims that had nothing to do with Al-Queda were treated. One of my co workers is Muslim. He was living in NYC when 9/11 happened. He told me a little bit about himself and his family were treated by people who didn't even know him, suspecting them to be terrorists. I could see the pain in his eyes when he talked about this. He didn't tell me so, but I think him and his family moved here to MN to get away from that persecution, because all of his extended family still lives in New York. I would like to know how YOU were treated post 9/11. NOT ALL MUSLIMS ARE TERRORISTS, and Muslims also died in those towers.

I read in the comments that religions and histories of religions were brought up. ALL religions have bloodshed on their hands for the ways they've used in converting people to their faith.

Anyway. I just people would stop acting as if they know everything when they don't.

This video doesn't have anything to do with the mosque or 9/11. This video came out when the revolution in Iran got a lot of attention because of the elections. Just listen to her voice, the screaming in the background. The words she used. This is a beautiful video, and very sad. I cried when I saw it. I just think it's a good way to remind us that we are all human, and we all have troubles.