Uncensored Self Expression

Conversation with my friend R_:

Me: My husband texted me to find out what I was doing. I told him, “Hot flashing Mother Fucker.”

R_: What!! Does B_ like it when you answer him like that?

Me: When we first began dating he mistook the pet name as an insult (imagine that!!), got butt hurt, and suggested I stop.

I hated the idea of conforming to social norms with a less spirited personality in order to please him. To change who I was–or who I was becoming–felt stifling, akin to the controlled environment of my past. As much as I wanted to please my sweetheart, I knew it was more important to stay true to myself…and my need for uncensored self expression. I responded with this:

Hell no mother fucker! How about I use it more lard balls?! Maybe if I use it often enough you’ll pull your pious throbbing butt stick out your frigging hairy anus and realize I’m just being the same adorable snarky girlfriend you were smitten with the first day we met. And, just so ya know ya shit twat, the word, Mother Fucker–and its associated variations of fuck, fucking, fucked, fucker, fuckwit, fuckup, fucktard, and fuckity fuck fuck–is a fucking awesome word! 😉 😉

Did ya see the two winky smiley faces I inserted my love? I used, and will continue to use, winky smiley faces so you’ll know I’m just messin around. Pay attention to the winkies ya plump-lipped, flat-assed, one-eyed trouser snake dingle dong.






Health Department Inspector and the Dildo Dilemna

I often send my friend, an inspector for the health department, stories highlighting my penchant for using up out-dated food from my storage room. She writes back telling me how she and her colleagues laugh at the lengths I’ll go to avoid waste.

So, yesterday, when I invited my friend to have lunch at my house, she seemed hesitant.

“I’ll treat you to lunch at a restaurant.” She offered.

“Save your money. I can make salads and top it with turkey instead of grilled chicken. You don’t mind leftover turkey do you?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you. Let’s go out.”

“It’s no bother. Salads are simple to make. Don’t worry, I won’t use anything out-dated from my storage room.”

“Okay.” She relinquished.

As promised, I made a nice salad with fresh romaine lettuce, spinach, diced apples, and candied walnuts.

While we ate conversation turned to an assortment of topics, one, of which, led me to reveal my latest solution to a dildo problem. It was too long…too painful to use. “So I cut off part of it.” I explained.

“Really?!” She gasped.

“How much did you cut off?”

“About a third of it.” I said holding up my fingers to give her a visual of the two plus inches that had been removed.”

“Which end did you cut?”

“The base,” I answered, “…didn’t want to mess with the smooth tip.”

“Smart decision. But if you removed the width of the base, how do you keep it from slipping out of the strap on?”

“Safety pins.” I announced with problem solving pride. “I experimented with other solutions but safety pins won out in the end. Silicone didn’t melt well with a cigarette lighter so I couldn’t cut out the middle and reattach the end piece. Thread cut through the silicone when I tried to sew it. It’s in the other room. Here, I’ll just show it to you.”

I stepped toward the bedroom to retrieve it and emerged moments later holding a bright red dildo hanging from a black strap on.

She examined it and said, “That’s perfect. But what did you use to cut through the silicone?”

Pointing to the knife on the kitchen counter, I said, “The same knife I just used to make your salad.”

Color drained from her face.

“But I WASHED it first!” I defended myself. “I swear it was clean.”

Traumatic Bonding Caught on Tape

Put a wig on this man and he’d be my obese, domineering mother in-law’s twin. When I watched this clip, memories of living with my f**ked up in-laws rushed into my mind–made my hackles rise.

https://www.lds.org/broadcasts/watch/evening-with-a-general-authority/2015/02. (Don’t waste your time listening to the whole speech. Pick it up at 50:00.)

Notice how Mr Holland raises his voice in anger and then follows up with emotional tears. This is a perfect example of traumatic bonding/mind control. He uses intermittent intimidation followed by tender, heartfelt words. My husband did this too. In fact, he did this to me when we first began to date. It’s how he gained control of me before we even married. He and his family were masters of this technique.

Yesterday, a friend asked me what my conversations were like with my in-laws while living at The Ranch. It’s hard to recreate what was said but the tone is easy to duplicate. My husband spent hours verbally tearing me down. His sessions typically lasted about three hours. As he pontificated, I roiled in pain and thought, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

But then, afterwards, he’d express his love for me–buoy me up–and I found myself thinking, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

During my brief stay at the women’s shelter in 2011, I met with a therapist who helped me understand why I was in an abusive marriage. I had Stockholme/Battered Person Syndrome. I compared what my husband and his family were doing to me with what the church was doing to me and saw no difference in their methods of control/conformity. I didn’t need to look into the historicity or doctrinal issues of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (the LDS church or Mormons) to realize I’d been duped for an entire lifetime. The church had stolen my identity and set me up for additional abuse because I had no boundaries. I was an easy target for a fuckopath to come along and sweep me off my feet.

I took off my wedding ring and magic underwear (temple garments) that very day and never went back to either of my abusers.

But I’m not the only who was/is vulnerable to abuse. Every day, the LDS church (as well as other high demand religions) churns out vulnerable little girls. It makes me sick.

Nightmares and Wet Dreams

Disclaimer: This is based on a true story. Certain names and details have been changed.

I wake up in sobbing tears from nightmares. Memories that were pushed to the far reaches of my mind are being exhumed as I begin to write the experiences from the early years of my marriage. These were the years I lived isolated from family and friends, communal-style, in a filthy, windowless, concrete bunker with my fucked-up in-laws. They called their five acres of raw land, The Ranch, but it wasn’t a ranch. Well…not in the precise sense of the word, but, it could be considered a ranch if corralling broken down vehicles is taken into consideration.

Thirty paces from the bunker, sat a dilapidated twenty-five foot camping trailer. Unimaginably, this was my husband’s childhood home. I wasn’t allowed to go inside the trailer but, when I complained about our current living arrangements, Aaron shared stories from his past that made me feel fortunate to stretch my legs out in a full-length twin bed. Strewn across their land were several broken-down vehicles in various stages of decay. While other children played on swing sets and slippery slides, my children climbed atop an old army jeep and pretended to fight a war, jumped inside a Corvette and donned the role of race-car driver, or climbed aboard a rusty tractor and imaged they were farmers plowing the north forty.

The family called the bunker, The Shop, because living there was only supposed to be a short term solution to financial difficulties. Half of the rectangular cinderblock structure was used to sell silver, turquoise and supplies to the Indians; the other half was where we set up camp. It wasn’t a literal bunker to protect us from bombs or gun fire, but rather a small windowless bunker designed to protect us from theft. It had been built by the family without proper building plans or licenses. It didn’t have an occupancy certificate, but, somehow, we lived there unnoticed by inspectors. Had representatives from child services seen how we were living, they would’ve taken our children away. I didn’t know anything about building codes, child services, mental illnesses or personality disorders. I knew that my living conditions weren’t normal, but living isolated with just the family, kept me in a state of unquestioning compliance. We didn’t have access to television because we lived too far from town. Making long distance phone calls to family and friends was too expensive. My sole source of information and entertainment was an occasional good book, a weekly trip to a three-hour block of church, and conversations with Aaron and his family.

On the last Sunday of every month the relief society president pulled me aside and asked me how I was doing.

“Fine. Thanks for asking.”

“That’s great.” She said with her I-Really-Don’t-Give-A-Shit-About-You smile. “Do you have a few minutes to sit down and listen to a message from the Lord?”


She gave me the lesson from the Ensign magazine. This is the same lesson that all devout Mormon women are required to read for themselves each month so I’m uber disappointed in Mr. Christ’s redundant lesson on, The Privilege of Ministering.

And then we’d drive home.

Once a year, I met with the bishop and stake president to renew my temple recommend. After answering their prying questions of worthiness, I’d tell them how unhappy I was living isolated so far from town.

“Can your husband make a living elsewhere?” my stake president asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then I suggest you learn to make the most of it.”

So that was that. An authority figure representing Mr. Christ had spoken. I wasn’t allowed to question my situation. I labeled my feelings as unimportant, threw them in a box, and placed them in the far corners of my naive brain.

Once a year, I’d pull out this box, reexamine its contents, add in additional concerns, discuss them with my bishop and stake president, and then be told the same thing: Be supportive. Serve with the full love of Christ. Obey the counsel of my husband. Forgive.

As a faithful church member, my husband, a priesthood holder and head of our household, had authority over me. But in reality, his mother—and to some extent, his sister—controlled me because they controlled Aaron. My father in-law—a kind, quiet man—obediently sucked hind tit. I quickly learned to never openly question our living conditions, or the fact that my status was lower than all other members of the group, including my nieces and nephews. I was completely unaware that I had fallen prey to living in a cult within a cult.

Before I became a member of my cult family, Aaron’s deceased brother, Randy, had a vision about the land. The Ranch wasn’t just any parcel of land. It was sacred.

“One day,” they said, “each family will have their own home. We’ll grow our own fruits and vegetables, and raise our own livestock. We’ll be completely self-sufficient…totally prepared for the Second Coming.”

Randy was Aaron’s oldest brother whom I’d never met because he committed suicide a year before I met my husband. Even though he was dead, he played a critical role in my life. I just didn’t know it at the time. Mind-control is super confusing when you’re in the middle of it. I willingly ate their bullshit because that’s what they fed me. But I digress. Let’s get back to the fucktards, how they think, and why my existence with them causes me nightmares twenty-five years later.

Maintaining a good image is vital to fucktards. They never could accept the truth about Randy. Instead of him being sent home from his Mormon mission with a diagnosis of schizophrenia, they claimed he was favored by God and had a special purpose here on earth. Randy wasn’t talking to the voices in his head, he was fighting off the evil spirits that were sent to destroy him. Satan knew Randy was important to the ushering in of Mr. Christ and that’s why he was constantly under attack.  Randy was so fucking special that when the family was informed of his early dismissal from his mission, essentially, a major disgrace to the family—worse than being a black lesbian—they demanded to meet with one of the high-ranking general authorities of the LDS church.

“Brother Scott didn’t hear a word we’d said.” Aaron complained. “He could’ve used his priesthood power to cast out the devil and his angels. But, instead, he turned his back on us. Randy wouldn’t be dead, if it wasn’t for the hardness of his heart.”

Now, to you and me, this fucktarded view of mentally illness doesn’t fare well when trying to portray a positive image to society; but to fucktards, it was a perfectly logical explanation to Randy’s death. Telling extended family and ward members that the devil picked up a shotgun and shot him in the chest was, somehow, better than admitting he was mentally ill. (Proof of this belief would become evident as additional family members took their lives in subsequent years—stories for another time.)

Aaron shared sacred experiences with me privately, and in a voice that resembled the same tone all faithful members of the church use to bear their heartfelt testimonies—a soft, loving tone that evokes powerful emotions. The tone he used was as familiar to my ear as when my parents, leaders, and peers testified of so-called truths while in my youth. So, even though my cult family’s stories were bizarre, little by little, I accepted them as true.

As I bought into their dreams, I found myself sacrificing personal comforts for the greater cause.  But, as I watched other family members march into the shop and pull cash out of the store register whenever they needed it, I grew unsure about my future. They didn’t just take tens and twenties from the till, they took handfuls of hundred dollar bills whenever they needed or wanted them. This always irritated Aaron, but he, too, kept the code of silence as required by his obese, domineering mother. I was the only in-law and wasn’t allowed to take any money without express permission. Aaron gave me just enough cash to buy a day’s worth of groceries and gas for my trip to town and back. Upon return, I was required to hand over the receipts and all the change, leaving me with no money of my own.

I was embarrassed and ashamed of how I was living and never told my parents how bad things really were. They lived hundreds of miles away and didn’t know that when the sun melted the snow or when it rained, my days and nights were spent mopping up the rain water that poured in through our leaky roof. Buckets and large bowls caught the steady flowing areas but we couldn’t catch every leak. Currents of water rushed down from the slopped driveway, through the back door, and wound its way through stacks of dusty boxes like a slow moving creek. Black mold crawled up the sides of the walls. Spiders dropped down from exposed insulation in a partially finished ceiling. Mice nested in the dark corners of the room by day but we all heard their scratchy tiny feet scurry in the night.

The kitchen was a remnant of a failed burger joint. Over-sized metal refrigerators and grills were too inconvenient for daily meal preparations but were ideal for storing old magazines, store receipts, and junk.  We cooked meals for the eleven of us on an old 1940’s three-burner stove. Cupboards were never installed and dishes were loaded onto planks of wood and covered by towels to keep them free from mice droppings. The oversized kitchen sink doubled as a place to wash dishes and a tub for small children. Eventually, a shower kit was purchased and installed on 2×4’s so the adults could bathe.

My parents didn’t know that when my children got sick, I feared my crying child would wake a bunker full of sleeping people. I took my child from the room and went into the area that was set up as a store. This room wasn’t insulated and had no heat source except an old pot-belly stove that turned cold in the night. Of course, there wasn’t a rocking chair for me to rock my child back to sleep. No chair at all to ease my tired feet. I donned a coat and moon boots for warmth, wrapped my child in heavy blankets and paced the concrete floor throughout the night.

These are just a few of the memories that ignite my nightmares. In each dream, my husband holds me hostage by threatening to keep the children with him in this environment. I always stay for the children and wake up sobbing as though I’m once again living at The Ranch.

I’m often asked how Aaron and I had sex in a crowded room—with my mother and father in-law’s bunk bed only three feet from mine. I tell them, “Quietly.” In the pitch-black cover of night, I listened for the slow, heavy breathing of children and the loud, annoying snoring of adults before sneaking over to the couch where my husband slept. As I begin to write those stories, maybe I’ll wake up screaming from wet dreams instead of sobbing tears.

Just Give Me the F**king Helium

Today I received an email from the leaders of my LDS ward. It included a list of items to have in case of an emergency.

My first thought was, I’m so f**king happy that my elderly mother missed that lesson. Then I read through the list. As follows:

  • Have more than one way to cook your food.
  • Keep a pair of shoes and a flashlight beside your bed.
  • Matches
  • Rocket Stove
  • Butane burner with cans of butane
  • Sources of fuel, like butane, propane, wood, sticks, charcoal, etc.
  • Heater is a non-electric way of heating a room
  • Leather work gloves
  • Latex gloves
  • Kitchen or bathroom cleaning gloves
  • Water
  • Water filters
  • Water purification tablets
  • Peppermint tea (for upset stomach)
  • Paper plates, cups, plastic utensils
  • Coconut oil
  • Hand crank wheat grinder
  • Can opener
  • Tarp
  • Poncho
  • Radios
  • Flashlights
  • Batteries
  • Gas wrench
  • Emergency whistle with compass
  • Cordless curling iron
  • Shampoo
  • Soap
  • Money: small bills and a roll of quarters in several Ziploc baggies
  • Books, notebook, pen, paper, coloring books, crayons
  • Hard candy
  • First aid supplies
  • Personal medications
  • Hand sanitizer
  • Hand warmers
  • Clean washcloths
  • Dust masks
  • Hammer, screwdriver, tools
  • Duct tape
  • Scissors
  • Sturdy bucket
  • Cleaning supplies including: bleach, salt, vinegar, borax, baking soda, dawn soap
  • Lysol wipes
  • Ziploc bags, all sizes
  • Clothes line and clothes pins
  • Rope
  • Toilet bucket with seat, baggies, toilet paper,

After reading through the list, my second thought was, “Where’s the f**king Helium…cuz I’d just rather kill myself than live alongside ‘the saints’ without my cordless curling iron.”


Recently, a friend pulled me aside and cautioned me about my blog. I’m grateful to this friend for his concern over my potential loss of important relationships, my safety, and my overall well-being. While painful to hear, his concerns were valid.

As he shared his thoughts, a pang of remorse shot through me as I contemplated a lifetime of secrets, painful secrets, imprisoned within me. Warm tears began to surface and I forced them back inside. It wasn’t the time to let them loose. It seems unfair that I should be required to continually protect those who hurt me…even if it wasn’t their intention to harm me.

I don’t want to regress into my silent, lonely, world. I’ve lived in that world far too long. I wonder how bad things could get if I continue down this path of living vulnerably, authentically. Could my writing lead to an existence worse than when I lived isolated, communal-style, in a filthy, windowless, concrete bunker with my f**ked-up in-laws?

No. Nothing could compare with that.

But, still, to not tell my story is such a waste of lessons learned. Telling it has the potential to help others–most of them strangers. It also puts my loves ones at risk.

Today, though cautious, I’m determined to continue with the blog. I’m not exactly sure how to proceed.