12:22 a.m. Monday Morning

Just had a conversation with my son.

He is having trouble with my parents.  We talked it out and I suddenly saw the whole thing.  She (my mother) wants my son crazy and medicated so that they can prove through the theory that he “could have the same problems as [me],” as they said over and over just after he was born omg this hurts so much

because that clinches the unwarranted mental illness diagnosis I have gotten accustomed to acquiesce to.  It didn’t seem to matter much.

Now its brought into a focus because EVEN MY SON DOESN’T BELIEVE ME ABOUT THE SEXUAL ABUSE when I was seventeen–

do you know how crazy that sounds?  he said

–and it WAS sexual abuse, not rape, and he didn’t get to touch me (my breasts), but he tried, and he had me naked but for underwear in bed which is where he found me when he went looking and started giving me an unwanted backrub, hovering around my butt, so I turned over, and my bare breasts showed, and he reached for them.

Now they’re trying to bury my son under the same bullshit to clinch it–that I be buried for good.  And he doon’t even believe me.  I don’t know whether to laugh hysterically and/or get down on the carpet and bang my fists.  I can’t do either here.  Just hanging onto you, whoever you may be, for this moment.head in my hands gasping crying gotta go

I need to prove it before he dies, that’s the point I’m seeing.  That’s where this fear that he’s trying to take me with him, comes from.  What evidence do you have? my son asked.  “Huh?” I said.  “How could there be any evidence..”  It’s his word against mine.

It’s like I’ve been in prison all my life for something I didn’t do, a chemical prison and actual incarceration, and you say it to your son, thinking he knows about it, and he says, well you belong there, you just do.  I am deeply wounded.

More texts with my son.  All I want to do right now is punch my father in the face.




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