I Love Tara Rambles!

She gave me a shout out at 1.00ish It was very funny!! I absolutely adore her blogs and Vlogs! Watch the whole thing… I feel like I should make a response video… 🙂 

Check it out 🙂


Embracing My Curves

I received many emails, phone calls, and messages on Twitter and Facebook after my last post. They brought tears to my eyes. I really love each and every one of you that reads my blog and supports me through my personal healing process, my writing, and my desire to be a stronger and better woman.

The one common thread I have discovered is my need to love who I am, in the here and now, all of me. As a child I was always being told I was worthless and would amount to nothing. Some children had bedtime stories, I was told, I was stupid, I was fat, I would never amount to anything by the one man I so desperately wanted to love me, my father. This was a daily thing from around the age of 11 till I left.

Now my dad did love me I truly believe that, I have to believe that; he was my daddy. He just showed his love differently than TV dads and my friend’s dads. Looking back I don’t think I could have ever made him happy. I would never be as smart as him, as successful as him, or as beautiful as he wanted me to be. Looking back at old photos of me, I wasn’t fat. I wasn’t a fat child, or a fat teenager. I was perfect, yet I believed with all of my heart that I was a beast and worthless.


I guess what we hear over and over can become our reality whether true or not. I want to learn to love myself more. I want to continue to lose weight. I want to be proud of all the weight I have lost. My health is improving. I always talk about this desire I have to be loved.

I discovered I am loved by many. Some people who are supposed to love just don’t always show it the way I expect it to be. I think the desire to be loved is not looking for love and approval from others but from me. I need to learn to love me. I need to believe in me and not question myself. I need to look in the mirror and say, man that is one sexy woman.

You know what, I am curvy; but I am sexy. Curvy is okay and from what I understand curvy can be sexy. I think it’s time for me to learn to love me all of me. Thank you for the messages each of you made my heart soar.

Now for the first step in learning to embrace my curves, I took some pictures in the bathtub tonight. Curvy can indeed be sexy! Do you agree?



Do I have value?

I am in a really bad place as I write this. I’m crying and I really hate myself today. I really do.

I spent so long trying to lose all the weight I gained. I am close to 140 pounds down now I think. I went from a size 28 to a size 18. It took almost 2 years. I know I am still overweight. I’d like to thank everyone who points that out, just in case I forget.
I am sensitive about it. I have issues; I admit it. I am human, and I do have feelings. I do feel pain, and I do hurt.

Last night I went to the We are 1 Voice Benefit to help raise funds to build a teen homeless shelter. I was feeling beautiful, sexy, and good about going out. I have some cute pictures that were taken with the woman building the shelter and with my daughter.

Here is a decent photo from last night. The owner of We Are 1 Voice Susan, and myself.


Anyway, I started getting tagged in other people’s pictures.How do people get in those angles to show all 7 of my chins, or my arms that are flabby from losing weight, are they really as big as a 747’s wings, or my stomach… how did that photographer get at that angle to make me look like I am carrying triplets? Wait that is my stomach, those are my wings, and my chins, I really look like that. Ugh and then I feel bad asking to be untagged.

I have to hear about how far I have come, how I shouldn’t be ashamed of my body and how fat shaming sucks.

It does suck, but seriously, I just asked to be untagged, not to hear how I am beautiful and fat.


I wasn’t always fat. I have always used food as a way of control. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I wouldn’t eat at all, if I did, I would exercise every calorie off or I would take ipecac or laxatives. I have friends still today that knew me back then. They went to hospitals with me when I would pass out, cough up blood, or one of the other many side effects. I could have killed myself doing what I was doing. I was hospitalized for anorexia and bulimia. My friends Terry and Gil, brought me to the ER and had me admitted. I love them for that.

So looking at my pictures of me well over 300 pounds from a few years ago and the pictures of me from last night over 200 pounds, you would say well she beat that! Heifer.

Fact of the matter is. I haven’t. I haven’t beaten it. I use food to control situations. I just stopped purging for several years. I ate and I ate so I wouldn’t be sexually appealing, so I wouldn’t be touched, if no one touched me I couldn’t be hurt again. I couldn’t be a victim again. No one could hurt me if I was fat. I wore my fat like armor. Like a shield to protect me from being raped or beaten to the point where I would rather be dead.

Now as I am losing the weight I am slipping into a point where I would rather be dead. Yes, I am that weak right at this moment while I write this.

It is hard to type through the tears, but the pain is so raw and so real. I feel like my stomach is eating itself. I feel like my head is spinning and thumping. My heart it’s racing and I can’t catch my breath. I am in that much pain.

How could I have come so far and worked so hard and still look like such a beast?

My husband he laughed at me this morning. I was seeing all these photos I was tagged in, and I started to cry. He laughed at me. I called him on it and he said I’m not laughing with a big smile on his face. Why does he not see my tears, my pain, why does he not get it?

A few weeks back I had a horrible day. Anything and everything that could go wrong did, and I binged. My stomach hurt so bad, because I ate so much at one time, and I haven’t done that in years. I made myself throw up. Unless you have experienced bulimia you do not understand the consequences of this.

A bulimic gets high from throwing up. The blood rushed to my head, my adrenaline kicked in, I had control and I had a buzz like I hadn’t had in years. The thing is when you crash, you crash! I had two choices. The first being, do it again. Food makes you happy, so eat, eat those cookies, those chips, eat, you can make it all go away and get the high from the food and the blood rush. The second being, work through the crash. I chose the second and found myself holding a knife to my wrists.

Yes, I had a knife at my wrists just a few weeks ago. A friend gave me some serious tough love and got me through it and gave me the courage to go to my husband and say, “I need help, I have relapsed, I am suicidal. I need to see a therapist.”

He didn’t laugh at me. Which was surprising, because he laughs at everything I say, nothing has value, not even me, in 22 years of marriage, I have never been a priority. I have always been second, third, or fourth to video games, sci fy books, and countless other things.

He said in reply to my request. “I don’t know how we will do that?” I said, “We have insurance right?” He hesitated, which made me wonder did he not pay the premium again? He replied, “yes we have insurance.” I said, “I will get the book and make an appointment.” He said but I can’t get you there.” “I pointed out we live downtown in the city I can walk to an office or take a bus.” He pointed out we don’t have money to meet the deductibles.

Here I am asking for help, saying I want to die, and I am trying to save myself and every response from him was another no.

Do I not have any value?

The next several days he came home with crap. One day it was cupcakes and three bags of chips, salsa, guacamole, and a few bottles of soda. He said, “I heard you had a bad day and I thought this would cheer you up.” I asked him, “Do you want me to be over 300 pounds again?”
It’s like he is handing me the knife and saying please cut your wrists.

Another night he came home with not 1 ½ gallon of ice cream but 4. Who the hell buys 4 ½ gallons of ice cream? He also had sodas, and chips and crap. For about two weeks it was junk food non-stop being brought in.

I expressed to him that this was hurting me. It was making it hard to stay on a healthy diet and not relapse. He apologized and said he didn’t realize.

Really? How can you not realize what you are doing? Would you bring bottles of rum and vodka to a home with a recovering alcoholic who recently relapsed?

We went to the grocery store shortly after that. Our two youngest children came with us. One wanted to buy cookies, another wanted to buy chips. He told them they couldn’t have them because mommy would get mad if we brought those into the house. It felt like manipulation. I am the bad guy again, and now my children must suffer and go without. It felt like he was making it a point not only to the kids, but to me.

I want to have value. I want to be valued. I want to have and to know love. I want to experience it. I am trying to value myself and love myself, but I feel like I am constantly being told I have no value and I am not worthy of love or support.

Now I look at these pictures and they cut me so deep. I am in so much pain.

I worked so hard to get where I am but why, when I still look like that, and so I cry, and he laughs. I really just want to be held. I want someone to hug me so tightly and tell me I will be okay.

It will be okay.

I am loved.

I have value.

I can do this.

Since I was a small child I fought every day to try and convince myself that I have value, that I am worthy of love, sometimes it comes off as vain or narcissism, but trust me it is nothing more than insecurity of my own self-worth.

I have had nothing but water so far today. I wonder how long I can go on just water. How long can I go on just water? Yes, that is where my mind is.


I have received countless emails, tweets, direct messages etc , over the last several months asking why I never talk about my mother in my blogs. Other than my father saying repeatedly, I deserve the bed next to my mother. I’ve talked about my father, and my step-family, attempted suicide, living on the streets, but my mother, I kind of dance around that subject. Where was my mom in all of this?


My mother is a difficult subject to write about, to talk about, I think it is because I really love her and I really mourn her even though she is still alive. I don’t even know where to begin when talking about her.

My mom, she was beautiful, Marilyn Monroe beautiful. She had an amazing kind heart. Her eyes would sparkle and light up when she was happy. Her laugh was contagious.

She was my hero. My father had a very short fuse; I know I wrote about it in past blogs. I can’t even tell you how many times she jumped in front of me to take the beating that was meant for me. She loved me the best she could.

My mom was and is very sick. She has a disease that not many people understand, and a lot of people joke about. My mother is schizophrenic.


The summer I turned 9 years old we moved from Rosemont, Pennsylvania to Mundelein, Illinois. I was asleep in my canopy bed. I woke up. The room was dark. It was the middle of the night. When I opened my eyes, my mother was standing over me with a large knife. She was speaking in a language I didn’t understand. She blessed me and I recall asking her what she was doing and why she was doing that. I recalled telling her she was scaring me. She told me she was the Pope and that Satan was inside me and that she needed to remove Satan from me. I was 9. I didn’t understand my mom’s disease. I didn’t understand her behavior or why she did the things she did or said. All I knew was, she was going to cut me with that knife. I screamed and called for my daddy. He woke up and wrestled my mom for the knife. She spent the rest of that summer in a mental institution.

My mom spent a lot of time in mental institutions. Some days she was really together and with it. Those were the best days. She use to pack picnic lunches and we would go to the playground across the street with my friends. We had a “secret” fort that was between 4 tall pine trees and we would all sit in there and eat our fluffer nutter sandwiches, and my mom would tell the best and coolest stories. Some days she was a lot of fun.

She was an amazing artist. My favorite roses are yellow roses, and I have loved them since I was 5 years old. When we moved out of the city into the house on Rockingham Rd. My mom and I did my bedroom in all yellow roses. Yellow roses remind me of my mom and my love for her.


I miss that woman. I miss my mom.

In past blogs I have mentioned I was a REALLY BAD KID. I was. I was suspended from kindergarten and first grade and kicked completely out of public school system in the second grade.

My mom took way to many beatings that my father had intended for me. I was a pretty angry child for very good reasons. My mom didn’t deserve to be treated the way my father treated her. He wanted a perfect wife he could show off at parties and my mom couldn’t be that woman.
My father called her horrible names. He kicked her, hit her and made her scream for mercy in front of me. I felt helpless and scared. Powerless is a good word. I was definitely powerless to help her. I had to witness it over and over. In many ways I feel like I was responsible for her beatings.

My dad had this game he would play where he twist my arm until I would cry and he would make me say, “Oh Great and Powerful Master please release me.” If I didn’t say it he would keep twisting my skin. I feared my dad. I loved him but understandably I feared him.


One time my dad threw my mom down the stairs. Her face was covered in blood and I was at the top of the steps crying for my mommy. My mom ran out of the house to a neighbors. I was screaming don’t go and clutching a stuffed horse she had won me at the carnival.

The neighbors called the police. The police came to my home. An officer saw me peering around the corner shaking and crying. He came up the stairs and asked me to tell him what happened.
I could see my dad at the bottom of the stairs. I was scared; I was terrified; I was shaking; I told him she fell. I couldn’t tell the truth. I feared my father and at the moment I hated my mother.

How could I hate my mother so much? I know I loved her.

I hated that she was always sick, that I couldn’t have friends over. That she made my dad so mad. I was just a child, I didn’t understand her disease. I was so selfish.

My dad wasn’t a faithful man. He would bring me to his girlfriend’s homes to meet them and their children while he was still married to my mother. He was trying to get me to buy into the idea of a perfect mommy, that wasn’t sick all the time.

One of his girlfriends who later became my step-mother came up to the house to talk to my mom and tell her that she was going to be my dad’s new wife and my mom needed to move on. I can’t imagine the pain that must have caused my mother.

God I love her and I am crying as I write this. My heart is breaking all over again.


I was a horrible child. I was 11 years old and my mother came to me one morning and she said. I will fight for you if you want to live with me. I love you; I will keep you. I yelled at her, I called her names my dad called her, bad names. I swore. I said why would I want to live with you? I went to school that day, when I came home, she was gone; everything was gone; I never got to say good-bye.

I guess didn’t believe she was leaving or didn’t think she would go like that, but she did. I was all alone in the doorway crying, sobbing, with my dog. My mom had left me. My grandmother was living with us at the time. She came home from work and found me.

My chest hurts as I write this. I feel like I can’t breathe. This is so hard to write.

My grandmother was so angry that my dad didn’t tell me he was sending my mom away or that he proposed to another woman that night. They got into a huge fight. He hit my grandmother, his mother, he hit her in the face. Then my grandmother left me. She moved in with my aunt and uncle. She was the only person that loved me unconditionally in my life and she left me too.

Shortly thereafter, I was at my soon to be stepmother’s home. I recall eating chocolate cake, and then throwing up in my dad’s car on the way home. He beat me so badly for throwing up in the car, I couldn’t go to school the next day or the day after or the day after that. He was so angry and mad because I had gotten sick. That’s when the beatings really started I mean the beatings where I should not have survived.


My mom was no longer there to defend me. She had taken the beatings all of those years and now I had to take them. I was now my dad’s punching bag. I felt abandoned by those that really did love me.

At 11 that just really made me want to hate my mom more, because at 11 it was all about me. How could she have abandoned me without even a good bye? I must have been a really lousy person, completely unlovable. I really wanted and needed to be loved. I was so angry.

I saw her again a few years later and only a handful of times before she was put into a state mental institution. When Alexis was born, I brought her to see her. She knew I was pregnant with Victoria, and she wanted to see Tori after she was born. I couldn’t do that because Tori was born in October and it was cold; I didn’t want all the cigarette smoke that was allowed inside the hospital unit my mom was on around my new baby.

My aunt had called and said my mother had made threats because I hadn’t brought Tori to see her and she was placed in a high security unit and I would not be able to see her for a year; she had told me it was best to not go. About a year later the same aunt called yelling at me for not going to see my mom. I tried to remind her of what she said to me prior and she just became irate. I hung up and from that point we were on bad terms. A few years after that she contacted my father about me signing away my rights to my mother or something in regards to her being able to care for her. I don’t even know. My father said it was best and I did.
I never saw or heard from my mother again until after my grandmother died. My father had passed the year prior and another Aunt had located my mother now living in a half-way house in Pennsylvania. I decided to write her and I sent her pictures of the 4 children I had at that point. She wrote back and it was an amazing loving letter. I agreed to talk with her on the phone. We had a few phone calls. All the medications made it hard to understand her, but I tried. She mumbled and slurred and laughed. I kept writing but she stopped. I kept calling, but the staff said I couldn’t talk to her.

She abandoned me again.

I couldn’t keep going through this. How many times can one person be rejected by their parent? I understand she is sick. I am not emotionally strong enough to be rejected over and over again, so I let her die in my heart. I let go and said no more. I can’t let her back in. I can’t take the pain any more.


I know that sounds horrible and cold, but it is reality. I need to protect myself and my heart.

As much as I love her and hold on to the happy memories I have, I also hold on to the night mares. She locked me in the attic; I kicked and screamed I was terrified of the attic. She burnt me with cigarettes whether intentional or not I don’t know, she left me all alone in that house with that monster who married that woman with her spawn that destroyed me and she held a knife over me at 9 years old.

She left me, without a good-bye. I must have been a really horrible child.

My stomach turns.. I am so confused when I think about my mother. I love her. I hate her. I care about her. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what is right.

My aunt is a saint and she has tried to encourage me to see my mother or talk to her again before she passes on. I really want to, but I am really scared, because I really don’t want to be hurt ever again. I am 46 years old, but I am still that fragile child that doesn’t want to be rejected by their mommy again.

During one of the few visits I had with my mom as a teenager, we danced to this song over and over again… this song makes me smile and remember her love in a positive and happy way.

How do we deal?

So how do we deal with our past? We all have one. We all have secrets. We all have things we don’t want people to know about us. Do we just pretend our past doesn’t exist?


Some of us have secrets that scar our very souls. They fester and grow to a point that we can no longer function as a normal productive human being in society. In cases like that, it is impossible to keep our secrets, secret, forever. That is why I am always saying, don’t be silent. Silence gives strength to those that have hurt us. When we are vocal, we take that power away from those that broke us.

I deal with my past by writing. I pour my heart, my soul, and many of my secrets, my pain, on to the pages of my books and these blogs.

People keep asking me, “When Will Deception be released?” I keep answering soon. I had a release date set for July 1st. Deception is the sequel to my novel Silence. I don’t write to just put words on paper. I write to put emotions, feelings and life on paper. I give birth to my characters; I feel pain and joy with my characters; I mourn my characters. The characters in my books come from my soul and my wounds. Deception is giving me a hard time because one of the characters (spoiler alert) will commit suicide. That one scene must be written, and it has been written, rewritten and written again. I’m struggling with letting this character go and the emotions of having attempted suicide myself in the past and what led me to that point in my life.


When I have explained this to others, their response has been just don’t write that scene. Don’t put the suicide in the book. I have to write that scene. It is part of my own personal healing process. This scene has to be done right because in my heart I know it will reach out and touch someone who is contemplating taking their life and change their heart to want to live and to seek help. So those that are begging, emailing, writing and asking for Deception, I promise, you will have it soon. Deception is taking me for a detour in to some dark corners of my soul. Please be patient, and give me some time to get through my own personal demons and say good-bye to this character I love.

Meanwhile, I have a short story that was released today!! It is called, Shadows in the Storm. The story is a suspense – thriller. It takes place in a small town in a cabin. There are two main characters that have some ‘secrets’ that link them both to a serial killer. Please check it out!

BookCoverPreview (1)

The paperback of Shadows in the Storm is available here

If you are on twitter or facebook feel free to steal this wonderful banner that a friend made to use in your background and help me promote my book THANKS