September 2025

September 2025, a lot changed. Things I had prepared myself for because I needed to, but never really imagined actually happening, happened.

My home has cameras all over. I have locks on everything. I have a list of amazing people who are informed about any small or big things that happen. Some of that is because of my boys. And some of it, as much as I don't like admitting it, is because I live a little paranoid after all the horrible shit I have been through—the abuse, sexual assaults, and more.

Although I never really felt it would come to life or death, I knew the reality of it getting there could happen, even when you think it never would.

So, people knew. If something happened to me, they knew where to look. I was leaving a trail, just in case.

Like all things, there is a spectrum of domestic violence, and none of it is more or less acceptable. The hurtful words. The blame. The guilt. Being scared in your own home. Finding reasons not to be there. No longer trusting the person who is supposed to be there for you, help you through life, and just love you.

The rage gets more and more frequent. The self-awareness and preparation start. And not always, but sometimes, then comes the physical abuse.

You question everything because how did YOU let it get this far? How did you let them stay?

For me, it was back and forth, and in the end, they refused to leave.

There is never just black and white in domestic violence. It wasn’t all bad. They were not always like this.

In my life, having that extra person, that extra adult in the house—even though unpredictable—sometimes felt safer because of everything else I deal with with my boys and more. Sometimes just having another adult there during mental health situations is everything you need to know that we will all get through it physically OK.

But was it worth it?

Short answer: no.

The treatment. The fear. The isolation. And now, looking back, seeing how it probably did not help my sons’ mental health situations either.

We do what we think is best in the moment, at the time, with the information we have. But there is still the guilt. Why did you let it go on so long? You knew better. You would never let a friend stay in this. And on and on.

I am a strong, independent woman. I advocate for just about anything I am passionate about. Yet I allowed this behavior to happen to me, in my home, and somewhat to my boys.

Yes, I have grown and learned, but not without a lot of self-hate along the way.

I will never allow anyone to treat me that way again.

My self-worth is coming back. I know what I deserve, and I know what I bring to the table.

And if you have ever looked into what can actually be done in these situations, you know how frustrating the system can be. So often, very little can be done to the abuser until there is hard proof or something happens that allows the system to intervene. Meanwhile, the victim is often the one expected to leave, uproot everything, change routines, protect themselves, document everything, and figure out how to stay safe.

Unfortunately, I know this firsthand.

There were multiple domestic violence calls made to my home.

There was one where they would have gone to jail sooner, but the guilt, the fear, and so much more took over. I made another excuse. I said no, I didn't want them to go to jail. I just wanted them to be forced to stay away for a day or something.

Seriously, it was the shitty Gabby Petito story (we know how that ended) that had me thinking there would be some kind of mandatory separation—that they would make us stay away from each other for at least 24 hours. Instead, what I was given was essentially two choices: they take them to jail, or the police leave and the two of us remain as we were.

And I couldn't make that decision at the time.

Another time, a call was made before 11 p.m. The police did not arrive at my home until around 4 a.m. Think about how much could have happened in those hours. I locked myself in my craft room and slept there until the police woke me up at 4 in the morning.

And the solution I was given? I could leave.

My home. One hundred percent my home. Not theirs.

Yet the easiest solution was for me to leave it.

I remember telling them they would take my dead body out of my home before I willingly left it.

That is part of what people don't always understand when they ask why someone doesn't "just leave" or "just call the police."

Sometimes you DO call. Sometimes you have already been preparing. Sometimes you have cameras, locks, people who know what is happening, and a trail of documentation. And you can still find yourself right back in the same house with the same person when the police leave.

Eventually, when they put their hands on me and I was able to show the police the recording, it wasn't my decision anymore. Once the police had the evidence to establish probable cause for domestic violence, Colorado law required them to make an arrest.

And that is how they finally left my home.

In handcuffs.

It is a sad reality when it can feel like the person being abused has to change their entire life while the person causing the abuse gets to change nothing.

If you have been there, are there now, or know someone who is, you are not alone. I am here if you need to talk, cry, vent, heal, or anything else.

#domestiveviolence #survivor #notalone #domesticviolenceawareness #chooseyou

I am a Survivor

 

I was 5.

My grandma always had parties at her house. They were HUGE for family events and a good size even when it was just her friends. My mom and grandma were very close, and they liked to party together. My grandma had hosted an event at her home for friends she and my mom knew from the bars and such. I was there. My mom did not like to leave me home alone. There was the Moon Park literally right there, and when it got too late, I would hang out in my grandma’s room watching TV.

When it was time to go home, it was late. I was asleep, and my mom woke me up to put me in the car. I cannot remember if my brother was there, at home, or at a friend’s. But my mom was bringing two men home because they were too drunk to drive. When we got home, I went to bed.

I am an early riser. I woke up at like 6 a.m. to watch cartoons. When I got to the living room, the two men were sleeping on the couch. I did not think anything of it and turned on my cartoons. One of the men woke up. He sat next to me and asked how I was and what I was watching. Then he started rubbing my leg. I did not know what to do, so I watched my cartoon.

When he slid his hand under my panties, I moved and told him I had to go to the bathroom. I went into the bathroom and locked the door. I was not sure what had just happened or why he did that. And then I started freaking out that I would get in trouble for waking him up.

My mom went out every night, and the rule was: you do not wake her up. So now, in my 5-year-old head, I was thinking I couldn’t tell my mom. She would be mad that I woke him. I went back to my room and just stayed there.

Once everyone woke up, we had to take the men home. I sat quietly in the car with one of them next to me. I honestly do not remember which one. I did not want to be there. But I remembered where we dropped them off. I knew how far they were from my home. The man forgot his jacket, and we had to drop it off to him. I begged my mom not to make me go, but she said I had to.

A few weeks later, my mom got really sick. So sick that we had to go to my grandma’s so she could take care of her. It was just a really bad flu, but in my 5-year-old head, I thought my mom was going to die. So I decided to tell her about that morning.

To my surprise, she was so upset with this man. Not with me.

However, nothing was done about it, and that was the last time we talked about it. I never saw or heard of him again. We just moved on with our lives.

Sometime between 3rd and 5th grade, my neighbor friends and I were having a yard sale to make money for our “club.” A man pulled up and parked. I walked toward his car—not too close—and asked if he needed anything or wanted to buy any of our stuff. He just smiled and moved his head and eyes down toward his lap.

I fell for it and looked.

There he was, with no pants on and a map underneath his erect penis. I backed away, and he took off. We told our parents and called the police. I gave the best description I could, and that was that.

I saw him one more time, riding a motorcycle with his penis hanging out. What the hell is wrong with people? I never saw him again, although I was constantly looking around for him.

I was in 6th grade.

I was walking my friend home to her house. On the way back, I was walking on Beach Boulevard in Huntington Beach, where I lived. Beach Boulevard is a very busy main street. A man pushed me down on the sidewalk and started trying to unzip his pants.

His zipper got stuck.

I was able to get away. I ran to another friend’s house that was on the way to mine. He walked me the rest of the way home. We told my mom what happened, and we went to the local police station.

I gave the officer my account of what happened. He started asking me where I was really walking. There was no way this happened on actual Beach Boulevard, he said. I must have been in an alley or somewhere else, and I just did not want to admit to my mom that I had been somewhere I shouldn’t have been alone.

No. I could have told my mom if I had been in an alley or wherever. That wasn’t the case. I was on Beach Boulevard. I was just as shocked as he was. It was a busy main street. I felt safe because of that. I was not lying.

Then he asked what school I attended. When I told him, he started asking me about a troublemaker who went there and what my affiliation with him was. I knew of him. Everyone at school did. But I didn’t know him. We weren’t friends. We were in different grades. We didn’t even have classes together.

The officer became fixated on what I knew about this fellow student. I knew nothing about him. I left feeling unheard and, once again, looking over my shoulder wondering if I would ever see the man who attacked me again.

I never heard anything about it again.

At 15, I got my first real job. I worked at Wienerschnitzel. It was just up the street from my house, and it was money! Originally, I would walk to work and then change into my uniform in the bathroom. When my boss found out, he told me I could change upstairs in the office. So that is where I started changing.

A new guy started working there, and we became friends. I told him he could change in the office too if he wanted instead of using the bathroom. Some time went by, and one day my friend/co-worker told me he had discovered a camera in the office. He told me we should not change up there anymore.

I was shocked. This man was a Calvary Church-going man. He talked about overseeing the youth group and such. He was a family man. Married with children. Went to church every Sunday.

How? Why? Are you sure?

Yep. There were working cameras.

I quit my job. I told my dad about it, and he and I went there. My dad told him to give him one reason not to beat the living shit out of him.

He said he had none.

Looking back, there had been rubs on my back and touching of my legs and arms that seemed off. But I overlooked them while I worked there because maybe I was thinking it was more than it really was.

I doubted my own thoughts.

At 17, during my junior year, it was Prom. My boyfriend at the time was in ASB, so he was part of the Prom committee. I loved going to school dances, but to be honest, I didn’t want to go to Prom until my senior year. But of course I was gonna go with my boyfriend. I’m not that horrible...haha.

Anyhoo, I wasn’t sure yet what I would be wearing. And if you know me, I hate tan lines. I got them bad because I was in my pool and at the beach all the time, so I was tan. I started going to a tanning salon near my home so I wouldn’t have to worry about whatever dress I bought showing tan lines.

The man working there was very nice. We would chat here and there. He told me it was his mom’s salon. He told me he wanted to come up with sunscreen and tanning-lotion vending machines and put them at beaches. He wanted to start in Hawaii with this investment. He told me about a girl at another high school he talked to and helped who had a kid and played softball. Just different small talk here and there. He would ask me about my school and such.

Then, during one visit, I was in my tanning bed with the door locked. I was completely naked, wearing headphones and listening to a CD I had brought. All of a sudden, my music turned off. Then the top of my tanning bed started opening.

I was startled, to say the least.

It was him.

He looked at me and told me he loved me. He told me he had been celibate for over three years and wanted to take me with him on his adventures. He told me he loved me. Then he touched my breast and said he loved me “from here.” Then he touched my lower area and said, “Not from here.”

I just listened to him talk and stared.

Before he left, he said, “I love you.” Then he asked, “What do you say?”

I replied, “I love you too.”

As soon as he left, I did not finish my tan. I got dressed. I waited for the bed to finish its cycle, and I tried to leave. He asked me to clean Room 5 while he helped a couple start their tans. I said OK. I did what I was asked. Before I left, he told me to remember what he said and to think about it.

My mom was there to pick me up, and she was pissed. See, she had come to get me earlier, but I wasn’t done yet because he had been talking to me before I started tanning, so everything took longer. She was late meeting her friends for Happy Hour at Mario’s. Which—I LOVE Mario’s. It was a Mexican restaurant that had the best food.

But I did not want to go.

I begged my mom to take me home first. She refused, saying I had already made her too late. This went on for the entire five-minute-or-so drive from the tanning salon to Mario’s.

We were about to park when she looked at me and said, “What did he do to you?”

I said, “I just want to go home. Please.”

She got her friends from Mario’s, and we went back to my house. After I told my mom what happened, we called the police. My mom and her friend went back to the salon and waited.

He had a girlfriend who was picking him up. When he started to leave, my mom and her friend got out of the car. He saw them and apparently threw his hands in the air and said, “I did nothing to her.”

He and his girlfriend left. My mom and her friend came back to the house.

I was in a daze, and I wanted to make brownies with chocolate chips in them. So my mom’s friend went and got me everything I needed to make them. As they were baking, the police came to take my statement. I offered them brownies. Basically, I insisted they eat a brownie.

I was just trying to feel normal.

He knew my address and phone number because you had to provide that information when you started tanning. He knew what school I went to and more because of all those little conversations we had when I was there.

I saw him everywhere. Even though he was never there.

I slept in my mom’s room for a while. I had to take summer school and adult education to graduate on time because I was missing so many classes. I carried a journal everywhere I went because I couldn’t quiet my mind, and writing it out helped.

In the end, I chose a more conservative dress that wouldn’t have shown any tan lines. I never would have needed the tanning salon.

When I told my dad what happened, he signed us up for karate classes. After the first class, sitting in his Bronco, he asked me what I had done to allow this man to think he could come into my room.

I asked my dad to take me home.

We never took another karate class. We never spoke about it again. I have tried a few times over the years to talk to my dad about how that made me feel, but he isn’t one to talk about the past. We should just move on.

In the end, the tanning salon—which belonged to the man’s mom—was shut down. He spent two weeks in jail.

They never asked me to testify.

Shortly after I graduated high school, I started talking more with a former classmate. We began hanging out more and more, and eventually we went on an official date. We got back to my house and went to my room.

I told him I was down for just about anything except sex.

He said OK.

I wasn’t a virgin. It wasn’t about that. I knew that by going back to my room, there could be thoughts and expectations, so I wanted to make it very clear before anything happened exactly how far I was willing to go that night. I told him a few times. Every time, he said OK. Not a problem.

The fooling around started, and I think I said it one more time—maybe twice—because, frankly, I knew we were about to have some fun.

Everything was good until it wasn’t.

He grabbed my hips, literally lifted my body, and put himself inside me.

I froze.

I did nothing. I did not say stop again. I did not engage. I just froze.

Fuck, my mom was in the house. I could have screamed. But I didn’t.

Why didn’t I? How could this be happening? Why couldn’t I do anything at all?

When he was done, he left. I sat there ashamed. Not ashamed of what happened. Ashamed that I thought I had let it happen.

I knew better. At least, that is what I told myself.

But my body was triggered, trauma took over, and I froze. It took me a very long time to understand that. And even now, I still hold a tiny bit of guilt and blame, even though I know I did nothing wrong.

When he found out I was telling our mutual friends what happened, his friends and his brother started calling my home, my work, and more, threatening me and telling me I needed to shut my mouth.

At one point, he admitted to one of my friends that I had said no—but, according to him, I had only said it once.

She told him, “She only needed to say it once.”

Nothing happened to him.

And I miscarried at work before I even knew I was pregnant.

Many years later, Facebook suggested we become friends. I mean, we have a lot of mutual friends. We went to the same high school. I blocked him on my main account, but I made a fake account and looked. I Googled him too.

I had never had any desire to do any of this until Facebook brought him front and center into my world again. He had originally been going to school for criminal law.

WHAT?! OMG, I was enraged.

He didn’t finish. Instead, according to what I found online at the time, he owned an MMA gym or something in Oregon and was an MMA fighter and trainer.

I wrote him a letter or message. I don’t even remember anymore if I emailed it from a made-up account or sent it through Messenger from my fake account. I sent it. Then I blocked him.

I have never looked again.

And this doesn’t include the catcalls. The times I’ve had to ask men to leave me alone. The unwanted messages. And more.

I try not to limit myself from doing the things I want to do. But I have to live cautiously. Always.

Sharing my location. Telling people where I am going and when I expect to be back. Checking in. Not because I want to, but because I have to.

And none of us girls question any of it. We check each other’s locations when someone is out. We text to make sure someone doesn’t need an out or need help.

Because we know how dangerous any man can be.

Not will be. Can be.

We do all of these things to try to make sure we are safe. And then, when something does happen, somehow we are questioned about our actions.

What did we do that allowed this to happen? What would we do differently if we had to do it again?

Like, what in the actual fuck?

Yes. We are scared of men.

 

Down In The Dumps

 

Depression has come on in for the moment. 

 

You know how you can handle the big shit over and over and over again.  Not a blink or flinch.  You just do it.  No questions, no arguing, no debating.  You just do it.  Adulting.  It is what we do. 

 

Then you have a day where just all these small things happen.  Small things that should not affect you because you conquer the beasts with ease.  So why are these tiny little things that, in the scheme of life, mean nothing, tear me down so much?!

 

If you are like me, you are always looking out for others.  A people pleaser never wanting to disappoint anyone.  Not even my worst enemy.  If you can go through a trial so someone else has just a speck of ease, I will.  It genuinely brings me joy. 

 

But then a day like yesterday happens.  Small little hiccups that, yes put a wrinkle in my plans.  But then something else small happens and you are like, “whoa, hold up.”  You breathe and get through these things.  You have now opened your mind to the “problem” and now all your other problems come rolling in.  And if you are like me, when I allow those moments, it gets……DARK.  I go into full self-pity mode.  But I also get angry with myself for being in pity mode.  So that adds to the stress.  Me arguing with me about how I need to stop being in this funk and just move on. 

 

So now something that just felt overwhelming is now crippling.   Breathing is hard, staying focused on anything is impossible.  My mind jumps all over.  I say things I do not mean and I keep quiet the things I want to say.  I feel almost like I am on the outside watching myself struggle with absolutely everything and knowing these are the most simple things.  Why is thinking hard?  Why is focusing so hard?  Why is all I want to do is cry?

 

Depression can be debilitating and it can happen in a snap of the fingers.  Like I woke up just fine yesterday.  The day before had a hiccup I needed to deal with but I was OK.  Until I was not.  I was just doing my day and BAM!  I cannot smile, my eyes are welling up and I am beyond confused why all these emotions are here now and fast.

 

And there is nothing wrong with depression.  It can be healthy.  Until it is not.  I know I need to be open and honest with me when I am in these moments.  And I am…..for the most part.  I will tell my people, reach out to my therapist if it comes to that, but even when being vulnerable, I am still thinking about others.  Am I telling them too much, am I being a burden, why is this bothering me so much, they are going to think I am silly.  Because it is not just what got you set off.  It is now all the things ever in your life that happened where you were wronged, hurt, let down or just left alone.  Then I start beating myself up because I have come so far.  And then I will stop focusing on what I have overcome and focus now on all my failures.  Where I fell short in my eyes or where I feel I fall short in other’s eyes.  It is a vicious cycle.

 

In these moments I feel unworthy of love.  I am too difficult.  Too needy.  I rarely ask for help or what I need in that moment.  Not because I am not deserving of it.  But what if they say no or they cannot?  That adds a whole other layer of sadness, disappointment and depression.  So, I try to do it all on my own always.  And I will ask for help when it is either too late or almost too late or when I am collapsed and have no other option but to cry out for help and admit whatever is going on in that moment. 

 

The Devil is hitting hard right now. I've spent the last 24 hours stuck in this darkness. My mind is bouncing everywhere.  Not getting any words out just easily and how I want. Normally I can slow myself down. Right now, I feel trapped.

 

Today, I am a little better - not great.  My mind is still all over the place, but I can stop and focus a little.  I still want to cry a lot.  But I do feel some peace.  I have taken a few walks at work.  I will either do the gym or paddle boarding after work and if that does not help, or get me out of it, I will take a drive.  But today is the last day I'm letting the darkness be in the center stage.

 

Is it just that easy?  Short answer….NO.  However, I have thrived in just being happy.  And for the most part I genuinely am happy.  But man have I been through a lot of shit.  So, I have two choices.  I can choose to sit in the dark where my mind would keep me for who knows how long.  Or I can put on a happy face, smile and fake it til I make it!  Which I have been doing that for as long as I can remember.  Not to be someone I am not.  But to not let the darkness lead my path.  It can stay with me, it can walk beside me and even hold my hand keeping the storm over my head.  But I will not allow it to take my daily peace.  I can find the good in almost anything and I strive for that all the time.  Even in my darkest times, I want to bring just one person a smile.  Let them know it will pass.  They are not alone. 

 

So, I remind myself that I too am not alone and what do I want to do with it all.  I pray a lot, I listen to a lot of music and I will watch trash TV just to shut things off if only for a few minutes.

 

I need to believe that all these trials and tribulations happen in fact for a reason.  Some I have been blessed to understand why.  Others I am still waiting to understand.  But if it is not for a reason, then really shitty things just happen to me all the time for no reason.  That is a scary thought and what has almost sent me over the edge many years ago on multiple occasions. 

 

I want to be very clear—I really am OK. I'm in a funk. I'm depressed. I'm hurting. But even in my darkest moments, I still want to be here. I have dreams I haven't reached yet. I have two boys who still need their mom, a bonus daughter with her husband and my grandbabies. I have people to love, places to see, stories to tell, and a life I still want to live.

 

So today, I'll keep praying. I'll keep walking. I'll keep listening to music. Maybe I'll paddleboard. Maybe I'll watch trash TV. I'll keep putting one foot in front of the other until the light finds me again.

Because it always has.

This too shall pass.

 

A Dangerous Son

 

A Dangerous Son – An HBO Documentary

WOW...just WOW.

Did that just hit home.

I was all over the place emotionally. I laughed, I cried, I argued with the TV, and more than once I caught myself yelling at the TV, "YES! Exactly!"

If you've ever wondered what life has been like for me over the last decade, this documentary gives you a glimpse.

It doesn't tell my family's story, but it tells a story that feels painfully familiar.

One family featured was from Aurora, Colorado. While every family in the documentary struggled to find treatment, watching the Colorado family's experience hit especially hard because I've lived so much of it firsthand.

If you haven't seen it, A Dangerous Son follows several families raising adolescent boys with severe mental health challenges. This isn't about kids acting out or parents who "can't control their children." It's about families desperately searching for answers while trying to keep everyone safe, including the child who's struggling the most.

I have two teenage boys, both with very different mental health challenges. For this story, though, I'm talking about my oldest. My younger son has his own journey, but this documentary mirrored so much of what I’ve experienced with my oldest that I couldn't stop thinking about him.

He's 17 now.

So where do I even begin?

I guess we start at the beginning.

My pregnancy was mostly uneventful...except for one bizarre medical mystery. Around six months along, I ended up in the hospital for a week with severe kidney pain caused by a blockage no one could explain. After countless tests, procedures, and stents, the blockage eventually cleared on its own. To this day, no one knows why it happened. Thankfully, it never happened again. Just one more mystery to add to my collection...haha.

The delivery itself was pretty typical...well, mostly. It was a teaching hospital, so I swear there were about a billion interns in the room. Of course, I had FRIENDS playing on the TV because...well...of course I did. Haha.

When he was finally born, the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck twice. He was blue. The NICU team rushed in and quickly took him to be checked over. Those few minutes felt like forever, but thankfully everything turned out okay. We went home a day or two later like any other family.

As a baby and toddler, he hit all of his milestones. Well...mostly. He never really cared much for crawling the "normal" way. He mastered the army crawl and got so fast at it that he rarely bothered crawling on all fours. Haha.

His younger brother was diagnosed with Autism at an early age, so our home became a revolving door of therapists for several years. By then my oldest was around three or four, and while those services were there for his brother, he naturally became part of many of the activities too. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if having so much attention focused on his younger brother affected him in ways I didn't recognize at the time.

Then came first grade.

One afternoon, I received calls from three different teachers. They were all concerned because my son had suddenly started violently jerking his head throughout the day.

I got him into his pediatrician as quickly as I could, and we were referred to Children's Hospital.

That was when he was diagnosed with Tourette syndrome.

We quickly learned that stress, anxiety, fear, and anger made his tics much worse. The harder he tried to suppress them, the worse they would get and then headaches would come on.

Kids can be incredibly cruel without realizing the damage they're doing. They accused him of faking it. They'd tell him to "just stop" twitching, laugh at him, and insist he was doing it on purpose. They couldn't understand that he had absolutely no control over it.

Not long after, ADHD was added to his list of diagnoses.

At the time, I honestly believed those diagnoses explained what we were seeing.

I had no idea we were only at the beginning of a journey that would change all of our lives.

As time went on, his behavior became more and more concerning.

By second grade, he had been expelled because his behavior had become a danger to himself and others. By third grade, I was missing work so I could sit beside him in class all day. I'd leave work early to pick him up after another suspension or another phone call from the school. He threw chairs across classrooms. He screamed at teachers and classmates. Some days, just getting through the school day felt impossible.  And days he was made it all day were such victories.

But here's what people didn't see. When he wasn't struggling, he was incredible. Kind. Polite. Helpful. Funny. The kind of kid who would go out of his way to help someone else without expecting anything in return. That is my son too.

Then came the pandemic.

Like so many families, our lives were turned upside down. We had just moved, he was starting at a new school remotely in sixth grade, and whatever balance we had managed to find completely disappeared.

His anger became more intense. He became increasingly aggressive toward me and his younger brother. Most of the aggression was directed at his younger brother. He ran away from home. He destroyed televisions, remotes, other electronics, toys, walls...if it was in his path, it wasn't always safe.

Over the next few years, we lived through what felt like an endless cycle of crisis. There were countless trips to Children's Hospital, seventy-two-hour psychiatric holds, longer inpatient stays—including one that lasted more than a month—intensive outpatient programs, medication changes, appointments, and waiting lists. We'd get hopeful. Then we'd get disappointed. Before long, we were doing it all over again. Every time we thought we might finally be getting somewhere, we'd find ourselves right back where we started.

Eventually, another diagnosis was added: Oppositional Defiant Disorder (ODD). At the time, I fought for that diagnosis because I believed it might finally open another door to treatment. Looking back now, I'm not even sure it was the right diagnosis. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't. I'm not a doctor—I never wanted to be his doctor.

My job wasn't to diagnose my son. My job was to tell the doctors everything I was seeing: the voices he said he heard, the suicidal thoughts, the homicidal thoughts, the destruction, the violence, the running away, and the emotional crashes that seemed impossible to explain.

I wasn't asking them to agree with me. I was asking them to keep looking because something still didn't fit. I was simply asking them to keep an open mind.

And here's one of the hardest parts to explain to people who haven't lived it. Colorado has resources. On paper, there are resources everywhere. But having resources and actually being able to access them are two very different things.

If your insurance doesn't cover it...if you don't qualify...if there isn't an open bed...or if you simply can't afford it...those resources might as well not exist.

That's what our reality felt like.

My biggest fear wasn't that my son was a bad kid, because he wasn't. My biggest fear was that he would grow into an adult without ever getting the help he truly needed. That he'd end up homeless...or in jail...or dead.

Not because he was a bad person, but because he was a kid who desperately needed the right tools, and no one seemed able to hand them to him.

Now let's get into the really hard part.

When my son was 13, I made a decision I still think about to this day.

I had him arrested. It was never a decision I imagined having to make as a parent.

Even writing those words hurts.

That day, he caused more than $2,000 worth of damage to his bedroom. During the incident, he shoved me to the ground and banged my head against a door. He wasn't acting like a rebellious teenager. He wasn't throwing a tantrum. He wasn't well.

By the time law enforcement arrived, he had calmed down. Because he was no longer considered an immediate danger to himself or anyone else, taking him to the hospital wasn't an option. The officers explained that if I wanted them to do anything further, I would have to press charges.

Those were the choices in front of me: keep him home and hope another violent episode didn't happen...or have my 13-year-old son arrested.

No parent dreams of making that decision. I chose the option that I believed gave us the best chance of keeping everyone safe, including him.

Do I still question it?

Absolutely.

I probably always will.

When these episodes ended, something else happened that made them even harder to understand. He would completely crash. After hours of destruction, screaming, threats, and violence, he'd fall asleep from pure exhaustion. When he woke up, he often remembered very little of what had happened.

That's mental illness.

Not long after that, another night changed everything.

He was yelling, slamming doors, throwing things, telling me he hated me, saying he wished he had never been born and that he'd be happier dead. Then he kicked a yoga ball directly at me.

To most people, that probably doesn't sound like much. To me, it was a warning because I knew the pattern. Throwing things had often been the beginning. Physical violence usually came next.

Earlier, when the violence first started, my dad told me to keep a baseball bat nearby.  I couldn't do it. Instead, I bought pepper spray. Not because I ever wanted to use it, but because I hoped that if things ever became dangerous, I could stop the situation without causing permanent harm.

That night, I used it.

Afterward, I cried harder than I can remember crying in a long time. I felt like I had failed my son, but I also knew something else.

Everyone in the house was safe.

Even my son later told the responding officers that he deserved it. He admitted he had been out of control and didn't know what might have happened if things had continued. That doesn't erase how awful it felt. I don't know if there was a perfect decision that night. I only know I made the best decision I could with the information I had.

Not long after that, people I considered close friends stepped in to help. At first, I was grateful. They gave my son another environment, another routine, another chance to decompress away from home. For a while, I thought maybe they were seeing something I wasn't.

Then another violent episode happened at my house. His mentor witnessed much of it firsthand as he became extremely destructive again.  During the incident, my son threatened to kill himself and threatened to hurt me.

I called the police again.

That single phone call changed everything.

Almost overnight, people who had once supported me began questioning everything I did. I was suddenly the bad mother. My house wasn't safe. I was the problem. Some family members believed it too. It was devastating.

These were people who had watched me spend years searching for answers, sitting through appointments, calling hospitals, missing work, and doing everything I could think of to help my son. Now they believed I was the reason he was struggling.

Eventually, the courts placed him with those same “friends” under a temporary kinship arrangement. For a while, everything looked wonderful.

Then the honeymoon phase ended.

He became destructive there too. He ran away. He became violent. The same behaviors followed him. Eventually, they asked for him to be removed from their home.  They discovered what I had been trying to explain all along, and in the end, it was simply too much for them.

This wasn't about parenting.

My son needed far more help than any one household could provide.

From there, he entered foster care. Because he was over 13, his wishes carried significant weight, and many decisions were influenced by what he wanted in the moment. The foster home gave him far more freedom than I would have.

At first, everything seemed fine.

Then the honeymoon phase ended again.

School problems returned. Legal problems followed. At one point, I found myself helping him complete court-ordered community service because the adults responsible for supervising him weren't making sure it was getting done.

Nearly two and a half years had passed, and I was still asking the same question I'd been asking since the beginning.

Can someone please help my son?

I wanted a full psychological evaluation. Not another twenty-minute appointment, another medication adjustment, or another discharge because he had finally calmed down. I wanted someone to see him from beginning to end. I wanted someone to see him when he was calm, when he was escalating, when he was at his worst, and afterward, when he crashed so hard he barely remembered what had happened.

I wasn't looking for a label.

I was looking for answers.

At one point, I became convinced that maybe bipolar disorder explained what we were living through. I read everything I could find. I listened to podcasts. I searched for stories from families who sounded like ours. Some things fit. Other things didn't.

Then I came across Borderline Personality Disorder.

Again, I wasn't trying to diagnose my son. I know I'm not a doctor, and I also knew he was a teenager. I understood why many clinicians are cautious about applying certain diagnoses at that age. What I wanted wasn't for someone to agree with me. I wanted them to stay curious. To be willing to explore every reasonable possibility with an open mind. To listen. To ask questions. To keep looking. Because I knew, deep down, that something still wasn't adding up.

There are huge pieces of this journey I'm leaving out. Entire chapters. Court hearings. Therapists. Caseworkers. Lawyers. Missed holidays. Broken relationships. What I now recognize as parental alienation. Small victories. Huge setbacks. Almost three years of our lives were consumed by a system that often seemed more focused on checking boxes than finding answers.

Eventually, the courts ended. I was awarded full custody of both of my boys. Their father also lost custody. That chapter closed. Not because everything had been fixed, because it hadn't, but because for the first time in a long time we could finally begin moving forward instead of constantly fighting to survive another hearing, another placement, or another decision made by someone who didn't live our lives.

Watching A Dangerous Son brought all of those memories rushing back. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I was watching strangers. I felt like I was watching pieces of my own family. Different faces. Different names. The same fear. The same exhaustion. The same hope that somewhere, somehow, someone would finally know how to help.

As I watched these parents, I realized how easy it would be for someone on the outside to misunderstand them. There are moments when they seem detached, almost cold. You might question their words or wonder why they made a particular decision.

But what you're seeing isn't a lack of love.

You're seeing years of living in survival mode.

At least for me, it was never about control or power. It was about keeping my composure, making the best decision I could with the information I had in that moment, and doing everything possible to keep everyone safe.  When you've lived through the same crisis over and over again, you learn very quickly that if you lose control of your own emotions, you're no longer able to help the person who needs you most.

If you've never lived this life, I hope you never do.

If you have...I hope you know you're not alone.

And if you ever see a parent whose child is struggling with severe mental illness, please remember this: you're seeing one moment. You're not seeing the years of appointments, the sleepless nights, the fear, the second-guessing, the impossible decisions, or the love behind every one of them.

Mental illness doesn't just affect the person living with it. It affects every person who loves them.

Watching this documentary reminded me that our family isn't the only one living this reality. There are parents all over the country searching for answers, making impossible decisions, and hoping someone will finally see the whole picture.

I don't pretend to have the answers. I won’t ever have all of them. But I know this: my son has never been the problem. The problem has always been finding the help he deserves.

Until we become better at supporting families before they reach their breaking point, there will continue to be parents just like me...doing the very best they can with the information they have in the moment, hoping that somehow it's enough.

#MyBeautifulShitShow #MentalHealth #ADangerousSon #NotAlone #AMothersLove

 

Fooled Me Twice

I honestly do not even know where to begin. I am still in shock. Then again, maybe I shouldn't be. But WOW... what an actor.

So, you wanna know why I am baffled.  Let me tell you.

2024, one of my close friends came to me asking if I had a room to rent for someone.  I did and did not.  I had the room, just needed to make the room.  So we made room for her, but it wasn't completely empty. Some of my things were still stored there.

Nina moved in and, we were on a week-to-week agreement.  She paid weekly, and the rent was reduced because the room wasn't entirely hers yet.  We were two completely different people, but I could use the help and I really wanted to help her where I could. 

We talked daily, she helped around the house and worked her random jobs all week.  We talked about her struggles, her losses, and the ways we related to each other's experiences.  However, she and I handled our past trauma very differently.  Which is OK.  It was weird and fun to have her there.  She is only a few years older than me.  We were born into the same generation but grew up in very different parts of America.

I do not remember how long she lived with me the first time.  My house was chaotic then. I mean... it still is, but back then it was really bad.  She moved in, it was just myself and Wyatt.  But my ex came back to help and things were good until they were not.  I made the chaos and drama going on in my life abundantly clear, so she had an idea of what she was walking into.

Fast forward to whenever.  I think she stayed a few months.  While I was at work, she packed up all her things, left the keys on the counter and told my son she could not do this and was gone.  No text, no call, no note.  She did not owe me money.  She did not take anything from me.  In fact, she left things she could not take with her she wanted out so bad for whatever reason.  Blocked on everything and ghosted like a cheap date.

Let’s now jump to maybe the end of March 2026 where she unblocks me or whatever on Facebook and makes a comment on a post or two of mine.  So, I reach out.  I asked how she'd been and what she'd been up to.  She was not in Colorado anymore.  But she wanted to come back.  I explained that I was planning to move out of state...but I have a lot of work that needs to be done in my house in order to prepare to move. I told her if she wants to come back and help, she can stay rent free so to speak for a few months and then she would start paying.  There was so much to do and I had little time and motivation.

She got a flight out here so fast it was crazy but I was cool with it. 

Before she came out, I had one request.

Do not ghost me again.

We are adults. If you want to move out, tell me. If I need you to find another place to live, I'll tell you. We can have uncomfortable conversations. We don't have to disappear from each other's lives.

She promised she wouldn't do it again.

I believed her.

She got here, this time has a whole room to herself.  Her own space.  The garage fridge was basically hers to use, and she had space in the kitchen too.  Storage in the garage and a yard to sit out in.

She helped so much with the house.  I rented a 30-yard dumpster and we filled that sucker.  Wyatt and Nina did a lot more of the work than I did, if we're being honest... haha.  She really did help so much with the main level of the home and the yard. 

One of her goals was finally attempting the Manitou Incline, so a few weeks after she arrived, we went together.  I had always wanted to do it too but had never been motivated enough. Because of Nina, I can honestly say I completed the Manitou Incline.  The top was amazing.  

We talked about her coming with us out of state when we move.  I really thought of her with every house I looked at.  Making sure if it did not have a 4^th bedroom, it had something that could be turned into a room or another structure outside.  We did errands together, I would take her places if she needed.  We went to dinners with my boys, for Mother’s Day as well, did an escape room and probably more I am not remembering at the moment.  It was nice.  We were friends.  Or so I thought.

Today June 25, 2026 I was home sick again.  I have been sick for 2 days now.  I think it was something I ate.  Thank God I think I am finally coming to the end of it.  But the night is not over….haha  OK back on track.  She asks me if I need anything, let me know if she can help in any way since I am sick.  We talk on and off.  My son is on the computer looking for a job, she comes in and talks with us and helps some.  Nothing out of the norm.  She tells me she is gonna have her new friend come over and hang and I am like cool.  They hung out yesterday and I know how much Nina enjoyed her company.  They met a short while back at the gym when we went. 

Wyatt and I had to do a quick errand.  We were gone for about 20 minutes.  I told her we would be right back.  We go do our thing, and on my way home, my friend who actually introduced us back in 2024 sends me a message saying “WTH is going on?”  My reply “Huh?”  She then sends me a screenshot of Nina messaging her on Facebook saying never to speak to her again.  I am like I have no idea.  I will ask her if she was hacked when I get home.  I will be home in a few.  Then it hit me, well if she is there.  We both were like, “Did she leave again?”  I was like no, that cannot be.  Something is off.  I get home and I checked…she is gone!  I look at my phone and on Messenger I see I have a message from Nina saying “Please do not speak to me again.”

OK OK OK.  What in the actual fuck?!  I am irritated. We are supposed to be adults. Friends even.  How do you disappear again without saying a word?  We had a small thing the other day and I talked with her about it.  Told her why I was upset with what happened and we discussed it like adults and moved on.  I feel like she had been planning this for longer than that one small disagreement. It was something I had already gotten over. I only wanted to talk about it so we'd understand each other if it ever happened again.  But maybe it was.  I do not know. 

This is just not how you treat people. 

Just like last time, she owed me no money.  July was going to be her first month paying actual rent, and she did not take anything.  Just left a bunch of stuff.  Which I am not sure why she did not just grab a trash bag and take it with her.  They were things I see her use often.  Whatever, I am just lost. 

Emotionally, I am all over the place.  I am hurt and pissed.  I am confused and back to thinking what in the world is wrong with me that she would just up and leave.  I had similar thoughts when she left in 2024.  But in 2024 at least I could find some solace in thinking I get why she left.  So much crap with the courts, with my kids, with my ex, drinking more than I should.  But it was still a roof over her head, space to call her own.  Because back then she was living in her car before living with me.  This time she was using one of those room-rental apps—kind of like Airbnb, but for longer stays.

Then the good person in me is a little worried.  Is this new person that is helping her safe, will she take advantage of her?  And I will never know because we are not to ever speak again and she blocked me on Facebook again.  That's who I am.  I can be and am livid right now, but I am still worried about her wellbeing.  Do I throw out all her stuff or give it a few just in case she comes back for it?  I am OK with her getting it.  I know she has very little with her right now. 

Fool me once...Shame on you.

Fool me twice...Apparently I still have some lessons to learn.

But there will not be a third time.  That is for certain.

#MyBeautifulShitShow #FooledTwice #StillInShock #Trust #Friendship

Consent is Sexy - Dating after 14 years

Consent is Sexy

Dating again after 14 years.

Let's talk about that for a moment.

At the time of writing this, I am almost a 48-year-old straight white woman. Does that matter? I don't think so, but those are the facts.

I'm a single mom with two teenage boys who have mental health and other struggles. But that's not why we're here. Different stories for different days.

Anywho... a little background. (Again, another story for another time.)

My boys are from one man. My last relationship was 14 years long, but it wasn't with their dad.

I am a serial monogamist.

Now I'm slowly dipping my toes back into the dating world.

Let's get something straight. I am not a prude by any means. If you ever get the chance to experience me behind the bedroom door, it'll probably be amazing, often, and craved... BUT that is not what I'm looking for.

That needs to be earned.

There are key factors in dating that I think we should all know.

I can only speak for myself, but I don't like to be a bitch. There are so many social cues that, at least in this story, I promise this woman was giving. But eventually, I had to stop relying on body language and use my words.

Let's paint the picture.

I decided to get on a dating app.

I knew absolutely nothing about dating apps. I wasn't in a hurry to settle down, and I wasn't looking to date around. I was simply ready to get back out there a little bit and learn how dating even works anymore.

No expectations.

Just learn how to talk to someone again with the possibility that maybe, someday, it could turn into something.

NOT a hookup.

If you know me, you know I'm pretty honest and blunt. So it wasn't like I hid any of this. I made it clear that I was brand new to dating again, had no idea what in the actual fuck I was doing, and honestly wasn't even sure what I was looking for.

What I did know was this:

I missed companionship.

I missed having someone to tell the biggest news to... or the dumbest thing imaginable because, somehow, they were the person you wanted to tell.

Got the background?

OK... let's move on.

I matched with someone.

Honestly, even matching freaked me out.

He had liked me first and sent me a short message. I went to respond, but in order to send it, I had to officially hit "Match."

That little button made me panic.

It delayed me responding.

But I did.

We messaged back and forth, exchanged numbers, and eventually met for lunch.

So far, so good.

We talked.

Well... I talked more. Shocking, I know.

Overall, it was a really nice first date.

I even told him that asking me to lunch made me feel comfortable because there weren't any expectations. I also explained that I was completely green when it came to dating again.

This was my first real date in over 14 years.

I don't think he realized he was my first date, but he absolutely knew I was new to all of this.

After talking a little more, we decided to have a casual dinner at his place.

I brought burgers.

We ate.

We watched a movie.

And I was nervous.

Is he going to expect something?

Do I need to say anything?

Is it weird if I bring it up before anything even happens?

I mean... we're just eating burgers and watching a movie.

He's also older.

I'm 47.

He's 59.

Surely he isn't trying to rush anything...

Right?

Meanwhile, all of this is running through my head.

Quick sidebar...

Some really bad shit has happened to me with men.

Although I'm a strong woman, there have been times in my life where men have overpowered me and things happened that never should have happened.

Again... another story for another day.

We finished eating.

He put his arm around me on the couch.

Honestly?

It reminded me of high school.

You'd go to the movies, and your date would finally work up the courage to put his arm around you.

Kind of sweet.

He started rubbing my arm.

That didn't bother me.

But I also wasn't leaning into it or encouraging it.

I wasn't upset.

I wasn't thrilled.

I was simply... there.

Watching the movie.

Trying to figure out if I was accidentally giving signals I didn't intend to give.

He kept rubbing my arm.

At one point, I rubbed his leg a little.

Nothing sexual.

Didn't move closer.

Didn't change how I was sitting.

Then I caught myself thinking, "Wait... could this give the wrong impression?"

So I stopped.

I put my hand back on myself and went back to simply watching the movie.

A little while later, he leaned over and kissed me.

I kissed him back.

Not a bad kisser.

Not a great kisser either.

If that makes sense.

The movie continued.

I honestly felt like I was back in high school... trying to figure out if there was chemistry.

Then he asked if I wanted to finish the movie in his bedroom.

Truthfully...

I probably should have just said no.

Instead, here's what happened.

In my head, I thought:

"I don't mind finishing the movie in there. Watching movies in bed sounds comfortable. But I don't want him thinking that means I want to have sex."

So I said exactly this:

"I'm fine with finishing the movie in your room because it'll be more comfortable, but I want to finish the movie. I'm not wanting to have sex or anything."

Those were my literal words.

He responded, "Oh yeah... just to be more relaxed."

So we went into the bedroom.

We laid there watching the movie.

His arm was around me.

He rubbed my arm.

We kissed here and there.

He touched my boobs.

For me...

Boobs are just boobs.

Men seem to love them.

I honestly couldn't care less.

So him touching them wasn't some huge line for me personally.

I was still feeling things out.

What I wasn't doing was escalating anything.

I wasn't groping him.

I wasn't moaning.

I wasn't pulling him closer.

Did I shove him away?

No.

At that point, I honestly didn't think he was misunderstanding me.

We kept alternating between kissing, cuddling, and watching the movie.

Then he tried to go downstairs.

I stopped him.

I specifically told him he was NOT going downstairs.

He replied that he "just wanted to feel."

I said, "No."

Men.

I probably should have just left then.

Instead, we finished the movie.

We kissed a little more.

Then he asked me to touch him.

Seriously?

I said no again.

Something along the lines of, "That's not what I'm looking for."

He said OK.

We chatted a little longer.

He asked if he could take me to dinner sometime.

I told him we'd see.

Then I left.

The next morning, I took him to the airport because I'd already agreed to.

He kept calling me sweetie, babe, and honey.

When I picked him up, he leaned in for a kiss.

It honestly caught me off guard.

The same thing happened when I dropped him off.

Since then...

He hasn't called.

Honestly, I'm hoping he doesn't.

Not because I think he's a terrible person.

But because I realized we're simply not in the same place.

Now let's talk about all the cues that were missed.

Or maybe ignored.

I'm not perfect.

I could have been even more direct.

But that also could have come across as cold, rude, or like I was assuming the worst when maybe he meant nothing by it.

I genuinely wanted to get to know this man.

He was attractive.

Successful.

Financially stable.

Had a good job.

I truly don't know how dating works anymore.

But I know this...

My body language said I was friendly.

It also said there were guardrails.

When that wasn't enough...

I used my words.

In the end...

Did he violate me?

No.

Did he push my boundaries into a place where I became uncomfortable?

Yes.

The reason I'm telling this story isn't to shame him.

It isn't to shame men.

It isn't to shame myself.

It's to wake people up.

This man was former military.

Retired FBI.

Owns a successful business.

He's an intelligent man.

Am I really supposed to believe my body language invited him to keep pushing?

I don't think so.

I think he got caught up in the moment.

He stopped paying attention to the quiet cues and started treating my spoken boundaries like they were suggestions instead of rules.

I don't think he's a bad man.

I don't think I did anything wrong.

But I do think this is a wake-up call.

Maybe it was the age gap.

Maybe it was confidence.

Maybe it was assumptions.

Maybe it was simply two people who weren't in the same place.

Whatever the reason...

If you're dating, pay attention.

Really listen.

Watch.

Respect what the other person is telling you—with their body and with their words.

I shouldn't still be wondering whether I should have done something differently.

Maybe that's why I'm writing this.

Maybe that's why this becomes a post.

Or a podcast.

Or a video.

Because I know I can't be the only one.

This is the gray area of dating.

I've been part of the Me Too movement.

I wouldn't put this experience in that category.

But I do think this is the space where those bigger stories sometimes begin...

...when someone's boundaries aren't heard, seen, or respected.

And here's the honest truth.

Years ago...

In a different situation...

I might have frozen.

I might have simply submitted.

Out of fear.

I know that because I've lived it.

Past trauma has created more trauma.

But growth...

Growth has helped me find my voice.

Most of the time, anyway.

Baby steps.

Do better, everyone.

#Consent #Boundaries #RealStories #LifeLessons #Storytelling #WomenOver40 #DatingOver40 #DatingAfterDivorce