#savingme – Shame, shame

This is the hardest post I’ve made so far.

Shame is a hard topic for me. I hate parts of myself and I am working on healing them, but honestly it has not been easy for me.

I spent years feeling ashamed and alone. I had this idea in my head that if I let anyone get close, they would inevitably hurt me. I fought against myself. I would run away from relationships or I would let someone in and then push them away.

I started to add more Shame on top of the shame I already had. I started drinking to numb the pain, and all that did was cause more pain. I was stuck in a vicious cycle.

It wasn’t until a counselor told me that I had it all wrong, did I really start to understand the root of my fears. He taught me about transferred emotions. An idea that was foreign to me.

TRANSFERRED EMOTIONS

He explained that when we are young, under the age of 10 or so we don’t understand what shame is. Yes we know the difference between right and wrong. We can feel bad about something and scared of being punished, but at that age, shame is something we can only feel if it is transferred to us by someone else’s actions.

This is not to say you can’t have emotions transferred to you as an adult, you certainly can and it happens all the time.

For me it was the daily abuse, and eventually sexual abuse (at the age of 7),that I suffered from. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I truly understood what happened. I felt dirty and unclean.

I kept asking myself questions:

Why did this happen to me?

Was I a bad kid?

Did I even deserve to live?

The last thought plagued my mind for almost 15 years and still surfaces now and then.

NOT YOUR FAULT

I don’t know if I’ll ever be fully healed, but at least I am trying. One thing I have figured out, is that I am not to blame for my abuse. There was nothing I could have done to change what happened, it wasn’t my fault.

I did make some choices that I am not proud of, and while I probably made some of these choices because of my trauma, they were still my decisions.

I am making amends with my choices in the best way I can, by being a better person. I have been sober for years and while there have been some slip ups, I have never stopped trying to be a better person.

I hope this helps other people who have gone through, or are going through similar situations. While writing this is harder than I thought it would be, it definitely makes me feel better than I thought it would.

So, if anyone out here has been through verbal, mental, physical or sexual abuse, it’s not your fault.

People make choices and no one has the right to abuse you, and you don’t have the right to transfer that emotion on to another, just because you were abused.

Abuse is never an option and you deserve better.

Blog: https://oneregulardad.home.blog/

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#savingme is the column where abuse victims can publish their experiences just to let go and find comfort and support. Maybe it doesn’t feel like much but just publishing your story for others to read makes you strong. You can send your story about the abuse you went through to savingmestory@gmail.com and you can choose if you want it to be anonymous or not. More details here. 

While

Left alone again
While colours and patterns consume you
Sweet dreams and hope settle around your slumbering body
While I am tormented by my mind
Black butterflies invade my churning stomach
While I look upon my sleeping love
Not a single dream appears to be of me
While I doubt and doubt and doubt
Not you, but me
While the sting of hot tears briefly warms my raw skin
Where are you? Where are you?
While I handle this sharp blade
Contemplating, longing for a different sting
While I try to push the evil aside
The anger, oh this anger is raging inside
While I pull my hair hoping for relief
Left alone again
Alone
Again.

I have just started my blog to document my writing journey! I would never go as far to say I am a poet, but I do dabble in poetry now and again.  I only ever seem to write poetry when I am feeling sad, I use it as a form of release.

Blog: https://jenwrites.video.blog/

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If you would like to have your work published in The Poetry Bar send your poem, a few words about yourself and the link to your blog and Instagram account to the e-mail poetrybar1@gmail.com

No sleep hangover

I have the worst hangover of my life and I didn’t even drink this weekend. I spent two days in a rented out room because, due to my job and a shift until 11 PM, I had no way of getting back home from Zagreb on Friday and Saturday and I didn’t sleep for the last two nights. Let me tell you all about it.

Since I am not really the one to spend massive amounts of money on a room to sleep in because of my job I took one of the affordable, but still nice rooms. Well, considering the room I was in it wasn’t nice and due to it not being nice it was also not affordable since the room wasn’t worth the money.

It seemed way better on pictures (as always). I arrived to that building, got to the third floor and there was a woman that showed me to my room. The whole floor was filled with rooms which were being rented out. She showed me where to turn on the air conditioning and she wasn’t quite as friendly as you’d expect a host to be and then she told me that, since I paid in advance, I can just leave the card in room when I leave and that there was no need for a checkout process. Then she took my ID and TOOK PICTURES OF IT which, speaking from experience because I worked as a receptionist, is not allowed without consent and she didn’t ask and took 20 kunas for the tax for staying in the room. I never got a receipt for that. Everything was so weird but I was like okay, it’s just two days.

When she left I scanned the room a bit. The sheets on the bed were a bit rough but I wasn’t complaining and then I entered the little bathroom every room has. The smell. Guys that smell. The bathroom itself was visibly cleaned but I honestly hope someone will tell the owners to take the fucking shower curtain and wash it.

I couldn’t fall asleep at all these two night in that room. The pillow was awful. I tried to fold it in many different ways to give some support to my head while sleeping but it was like made out of cotton candy. You can bet your ass my back is hurting. My nights were filled with rolling around the bed, playing music to help me fall asleep and in the end watching Shadowhunters because sleep wasn’t happening. I checked out this morning and came to Zabok absolutely exhausted and took a good 2-hour nap to feel like myself again.

But it’s not all negative. I talked to a girl that’s looking for a roommate. She said I am the first one on the list to see the apartment and that she already prefers me over the other people who applied for the room. I guess all off your good wishes produced this miracle to happen because finally someone wants to give me a place to live in Zagreb! I am not getting my hopes up or anything because I don’t want to be disappointed in the end but I still wanted to share the good news with you. Okay… I wrote a lot in this post. Time to goooo. Thank you so much for being so positive and sending your good wishes on my last post.

Sending love and positive vibes,

Luna

Positivity Press #50

It happened shortly after we were married. My wife and I were out driving one day when something caused us to pull off to the side of the road.

We stopped for a few minutes and as we started driving off again we looked each other in the eye and made a promise to each other to never NOT do what we had just done.

And 33 years later, we’ve managed to keep that promise.

So what exactly could have caused us to pull off the road that day that led us to making such a lifetime commitment?

A kid’s lemonade stand, of course!

lemonadestand

We had just been married a couple of weeks, and we were driving around trying to get familiar with our new neighborhood. We noticed that a couple of kids had set up a classic lemonade stand on the corner. They had a homemade posterboard advertising the business and a small table with a pitcher of lemonade and some dixie cups beside it.

My wife suggested that we stop, and I still remember how excited the kids were that someone was stopping to buy their lemonade. We bought two cups, left a generous tip (probably a quarter), and as we drove away, we couldn’t stop talking about how such a simple transaction could make someone feel so happy. And we weren’t talking about the kids, we were talking about ourselves. (The kids selling the lemonade seemed pretty happy too 🙂 )

So it was right then and there that we made a pledge to each other that we would ALWAYS stop at a kid’s lemonade stand whenever we saw one, and I think we’ve held true to that promise.

In fact, what inspired this post is the fact that I stopped at a lemonade stand today. It was an easy one to stop at; it was on a quiet street, and it was set-up on the side that I was driving. That’s not always the case; over the years we’ve done u-turns and crossed four lane highways just to get a cup of lemonade and keep our promise to each other.

I also think that over the years I’ve grown to appreciate lemonade stands even more.

To me, it’s a tradition that reminds me of simpler times. Kids are outside with their friends; there’s no electronic gadgets necessary to sell lemonade; kids are doing it because they want to, no one is forcing them to do this; kids get excited when you leave a tip, no matter the size of the tip.

I’ve also gotten more sophisticated over the years in the questions I ask these budding entrepreneurs. It used to be simple questions like “Are you having fun?” or “Is this your first time to sell lemonade?” Now I ask them if they know what their profit margin is on each cup, if they’ve calculated the cost of acquiring a customer, if they’ve tried split testing different marketing approaches, if they plan to expand to other neighborhoods, if they’ve considered franchising, if they have an exit plan, or if they’ve thought about an IPO someday.

Of course my wife just tells me to be quiet, and to leave a big tip.

Our own kids even would set up the occasional lemonade stand. They really hit the jackpot when they discovered how popular a lemonade stand would be at Villanova University on move-in day. They would make enough that one day to not worry about having another lemonade stand until next year’s move in day. Of course, like any good business idea, other kids started to do the same thing, and then it got so out of control that the local police had to shut down the stands. As an interesting side note, one of the stands shut down was being run by a couple of Andy Reid’s sons. Reid was the coach of the Philadelphia Eagles at the time.

And who knows what great things could be accomplished using the simple idea of a lemonade stand.

Alexandra “Alex” Flynn Scott was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a pediatric cancer, two days before her first birthday. In July 2000, in spite of her own failing health, she decided to open a lemonade stand, aided by her older brother, to raise money to help children with cancer. They held an annual “Alex’s Lemonade Stand for Childhood Cancer” on the family’s front lawn. Her first lemonade stand raised over $2,000 and turned into an annual tradition.

In 2004, Alex passed away at the age of eight at her house with her parents at her side. By that time, her stand and inspiration had raised more than $1 million toward finding a cure for the disease that took her life.

Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation was started by her parents in 2005 to continue the work that Alex began. Since Alex set up her first lemonade stand in 2000, the Foundation has raised more than $100 million.

So the next time you see a lemonade stand, please stop and buy a cup. Who knows, you could be funding the next Steve Jobs, helping to find a cure for cancer, or simply making some kid’s day. All those quarters can make a difference, and a happy marriage.

Blog: https://jborden.com/

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If you want to share positivity here at The Positivity Press send in your positive news with pics and the link to your blog (if you want) to postpositivity@gmail.com

Guest post information

This blog is expanding really fast, new followers are coming on board every single day and I’m thrilled! Our little community is not that little anymore!

Since new bloggers who join us have questions about guest posts and don’t feel like digging through the blog to find all of the previous posts here are the three ways you can guest post on Luna. I will probably repeat this post after every 200-400 new followers just to keep everyone up to speed.

So our beloved POETRY BAR – here you send your poetry works to poetrybar1@gmail.com together with a few words about yourself and a link to your blog and an Instagram account if you have one since The Poetry Bar does and we post your works there also. Check it out here:  https://www.instagram.com/the.poetrybar/

Our middle child of guest posts is THE POSITIVITY PRESS – here you send your positive stories, share positive vibes, send pictures, tell us about your new job or hobby and send them to postpositivity@gmail.com. It was designed to bring joy to us on a daily basis and keep us positive and grateful for all the little experiences that happen to us. You just need to send your positive vibes to the e-mail address and attach a blog link if you’d like

And our new born baby is #savingme project – here you can share your stories about any type of abuse you’ve experienced. The email is savingmestory@gmail.com. The project was made to let abuse victims know they are not alone. If you don’t want to share your whole story, you can share how you got out, some advice to people going through this hell currently. It’s a safe place and your story can be published completely anonymously. Also, you can see that I post about my own experience with domestic abuse and not only my story but my thoughts, mechanisms that helped me overcome it etc.

 

That’s pretty much it. Now, new bloggers and old bloggers let’s see what you’ll send my way. Love you all!

Sending love and positive vibes,
Luna

#savingme- How Do I Escape?

“Hey, kid! Get me some water!”

A surly, old man shouts from his table. I fill a jug and hurry to serve him before Father gives me the stink eye. I haven’t been performing well lately. Not in school. Not here, in the restaurant. Father owns a small restaurant and earns just enough to provide for the family and to quench his thirst for alcohol. Mom manages the restaurant most of the time because of Father’s incessant hangovers.

Someone shakes my arm and pulls me out of my reverie. Father. He looks at me with eyes full of angst and a wildness that comes from inebriation. I have good reasons to be afraid of him but I try to hide the dread whenever I can. I lower my head and walk to the nearest table, throw away the mushy leftovers from the plates and wipe the table. From table to table, I serve the food and clear the old plates, adding them to the pile I’ll have to wash later. Maybe, Mom will offer to help.

I wish I could get out of here.

I’m cleaning another table when Father calls at the top of his voice,”Patrice, come here!” My pulse quickens and I scurry towards him, legs shaking. What did I do now?

“What. Is. This?” Father asks with an eerie calmness which masks the wrath behind each word. I look up to see what he is pointing at: a greasy table with an oily plate on it and a couple waiting to sit there. I clean the table as swiftly as I can and apologize to the customers for the delay. They sit down, grunting and begin to skim through the menu. My eyes slowly creep up to see my fathers’ and his look of resentment says it all.

He’ll deal with me later. Later when he is drunk and when his anger gets the better of him. He’ll probably hit me and then I’ll cry myself to sleepIt has happened twice this week.

The sun is emitting its last rays and fear grips me as the evening wears on. My hands tremble when I serve the dishes.

I don’t want the day to end. I don’t want the day to end.

Father is nowhere to be seen. He must have gone to the liquor shop nearby. I shudder at the very thought and bury myself with work to prevent my mind from wandering. Mom is preparing the dishes along with Nancy, the other cook. Mom has often tried to stop Father from drinking but that just agitates him more. Mom and Father fight a lot and once, I’d even seen him slap her during an argument. That was the first time I thought about escaping.

Father returns with a bottle of liquor and I gulp involuntarily as my heart starts racing. I serve the dish to the last customer in the restaurant, hands trembling. I accidentally drop ketchup on him and a deep red botch covers his shirt. Fury takes over the customer and he yells profanities at me. To him, I’m just a stupid clumsy kid who can’t get a job done right. And maybe, I am. Father glowers at me and apologizes to the customer for my impertinent behavior.

As soon as the customer leaves, Father clasps my wrist and drags me to our house adjacent to the restaurant. Mom hurries behind us, begging him to stop and calm down.

“Unlock the damn door!” He growls at her. Mom wails as she opens the door, pleading him to be calm.

Once we’re inside, he pushes me forward, takes a swig from the bottle and slams it on the table. Mom pulls me aside by her hand protectively. With clammy hands and tears sluicing down her cheeks, she weeps uncontrollably. Father yanks me away from her and my only protection is gone. I feel…vulnerable. I don’t want to cry myself to sleep.

He shouts incoherently, “What was that, Patrice?!” I stand speechless, motionless.

The couple could have chosen another table. I want to say it. But I can’t.

Coward.

“What the hell was that, you stupidgirl?!”

I try hard to stop the tears from falling. I fail. I know what awaits me and I brace myself before it comes. He raises his hand and strikes my face.

A moment. Just a moment of intense, physical pain and a lifetime of haunting nightmares. A lifetime of suppressing the hurt and distress. Excruciating pain and fierce revulsion boils inside me. Blood rushes to my cheeks and tears obscure my vision, blocking my throat and wetting my face. Mom’s shrieks fill the silence and I just can’t lower my head anymore. I raise my head and glare right into his malicious eyes.

Father slaps me hard again and I fall to my knees, dark strands covering my face. I let out ugly sobs and look around wildly for the door. What am I thinking? I can’t run from home! Can I? How much of a coward can I be?

I try so hard to compose myself, setting my jaw and clenching my fists and I raise my face to look at him. He is about to hit me again when Mom stops him. He yells at her loudly but fatigue washes over me and I can’t hear a word he says. My abdomens feel hollow and my chest has become a tight burden. The tears block my eyes and the last thing I see before passing out is Father raising his hand again. But I don’t feel the strike. All I feel is the need to escape.


Hey guys!

My name is Rashi Singh and I love writing fiction. This is my site and I’d appreciate if you check it out.

https://fictivefinesseff.wordpress.com/

In many households, violence is a method of “teaching” and by teaching, I mean hitting them just because they don’t follow something or enforcing them to do things that they’d rather not do.

Please note that this piece is my story but expressed as fiction.

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#savingme is the column where abuse victims can publish their experiences just to let go and find comfort and support. Maybe it doesn’t feel like much but just publishing your story for others to read makes you strong. You can send your story about the abuse you went through to savingmestory@gmail.com and you can choose if you want it to be anonymous or not. More details here.