Hello! Welcome to the story of my life!

This will be a bit difficult for me because I’m not a person who shares what I’ve survived, but writing is therapy for me. I will be writing as though this is simply a blog, not a novel, because it’s the best way for me to tell my story.

Those who know my story have strongly urged me to write it in a novel. I am a writer but of fiction. I have included inspiration from my life, but nothing autobiographical. I have it all written in novel format that has been read by an editor friend, but I’m not ready to publish for a few reasons.

One is the legality of some of the content. I’m not certain if some things can be publicized, particularly if my family can prove it’s about them.

Another is the younger generation of my family. I am a firm believer in speaking out against abuse, and I do know that speaking up can encourage others who are silent out of fear of talking. Some of these younger members, however, will never experience what I did from older members who are now deceased or just too old to matter.

Should I throw those people under the bus? Oh, absolutely. And those who protected them? Oh, absolutely!

What will it do to the new generation, though? Should some family secrets remain buried if they cannot hurt anyone anymore? I just don’t know. The fighter in me says, “Fuckem!” The survivor who understands the bigger picture feels selfish if I do.

At any rate, at least posting here gets me moving in the direction of speaking out about it all.

Know first that this is NOT AI or chatwhatever or Wattpad, fanfic, etc… This is my life. No one is making you read or believe what you read.

I’m as jaded, bitter, and as skeptical as they come when it comes to the internet. I’ve been on social media since 2005. I was one of the first accounts on YouTube (2BlackCatsandPoe, banned for debating too well LOL). I was a first account of Yahoo360 when Yahoo tried to compete with MySpace, and yes, I had that, too. Facebook, Twitter, etc… I understand skepticism of anything on the internet, so I’m okay with doubt.

Understand, though, that I am a writer. With as much exposure as I’ve had to net speak, text speak, 1337 speak, and slang, I don’t tend to write that way. In fact, I’ll be writing my story during periods I’m taking a break from writing my current novel. I’m editing, as well, so it’s counterproductive to do my best with my novel and come here with a slacking style.

Yes, I ramble, as you can see. I’m finding a flow so I can be open – something I just don’t do. I’ve bottled up everything for my entire life. Speaking up about things that hurt me or made me sad never ended well for me, so I conditioned myself to suck it up and keep silent. I am 51 right now. The bottle is about to explode.

I’ve been suicidal more times that maybe even I realize, but I’m a logical thinker. I analyze things to death.

I started writing one of my books in 1995, but I became so obsessed with analyzing every fact and perspective that I still, to this day, find fault with much of it. I’ve published 7 novels and still, this one gives me a headache because I became stuck in a cycle of criticizing it, not being satisfied with it.

It may seem strange but that’s what happens when I think about death. “What could go wrong?” Then I make a list, which results in me changing my mind and resenting the reasons I’ve changed my mind. “If this wouldn’t happen or this didn’t exist or this didn’t need me, I could finally find peace.”

Peace from what? My environment, my memories, my loneliness, my failure to find genuine love. My mind needs rest, my heart needs rest, my spirit needs rest, my body … You know, I wouldn’t say my body needs rest. It’s just not useful to me because my mind, heart, and spirit can’t motivate it anymore. They are exhausted and want to give up.

A little about me: I am the youngest of 5. The oldest is a sister 20 years older than me (Sis 1 – 71). The youngest is a sister 10 years older than me (Sis 3 – 61). There is another sister 16 years older than me (Sis 2 – 67) and a brother 11 years older than me (Bro – 62). My parents were 45 (Dad) and 43 (Mom) when they had me. Mom died when I was 11 of colon cancer (more about that later) and dad died about 22 years ago (more later).

I had suspicions a few times in my life that I wasn’t really theirs, that I was my oldest sister’s. I hadn’t considered it until her oldest daughter (Niece, 47 now, 15 at the time) said something to me that made me wonder.

It isn’t unheard of that a woman that age can get pregnant, and I often heard the story of the doctors wanting my mom to terminate the pregnancy because of health problems she suffered (more later). Family friends and family spoke of it a few times, as well. Growing up Catholic, such a thing was a huge issue due to abortion debates. Moms who refused abortions to save their lives were “saintly.” My mom risking her life to carry me and then give birth to me (predicted to end in both of our deaths) was brave and “a true God-fearing mother.”

So you see, with such accolades, I had no reason to believe I wasn’t theirs until my oldest sister put my niece up to planting that seed of doubt. She and her family are psychotic (more later).

About 20 years ago, I found old letters my dad had from when I was born. Many were typical cards congratulating them on my birth, but there were several praising them for their decision to have me in order to help with their large family.

There were words I didn’t understand when used about children, like “dividend baby,” so I researched them. All I could find for that term pertained to an old movie, “Father’s Little Dividend.” It still made no sense.

Of course, “dividend” means finances in terms of shares, stocks, etc… of a company. I knew that but what it had to do with babies made no sense.

I asked some older people if they knew, and the consensus was that it pertained to money or tax cuts that came with extra mouths to feed.

Keep in mind that my parents were born in the late 20’s/early 30’s. There was a mindset among their peers of the same age that children were more of a tool for one reason or another than a lovable addition to be cherished as a precious human being.

In my case, apparently, the extra money that would come from having me would help with expenses for the others.

We were a middle-class family in the 70’s and should have been living quite well, but my father insisted on each of us attending parochial school. That’s a fancy name for “expensive Catholic education.” Every summer, he took us on trips around the country, and it wasn’t cheap.

Our family vacations were not like other family vacations. We didn’t go to amusement parks or camping trips. It was all educational. We visited museums and historical plays. In his eyes, learning shouldn’t stop for summer. The trips were great for me because I loved learning those things, but it was odd to hear about for people who treated vacation as vacation.

We weren’t poor or lacking needs, but we didn’t get new clothes every year or expensive toys or such because any extra money our parents had went to our education. Our cars were decades old, too.

I can see how they would need some extra money to help, but is that why I was born? I don’t know how that worked. If anyone knows about “dividend babies,” I would appreciate the information.

Remember that to people their age and staunchly Catholic, contraception wasn’t an option, and since my father obviously couldn’t keep his hands to himself, dividend or not, I was inevitable. Restricting child numbers due to financial woes was blocking “God’s will.”

For years, I thought my mom just wanted another child to hold and dote on because of her mental break (more later). She used to talk about a miscarriage she had after having me. Since I already believed I was her living doll, I thought she was getting tired of me already and decided to have another.

Because of a conversation I overheard between her and my father, I started to believe I was an unwanted pregnancy from an unwanted encounter between them. If that’s true, it would mean the miscarriage was from another unwanted encounter. Again, they were from those “good ‘ole days,” before marital rape was considered real.

I need a break from writing this. Flood of emotions and I need to go back to editing. I think I’ll break down my posts into each sibling and parent to make it simpler and less congested. I’ll probably end up with one on my husband and other toxic men if this helps me.

If you’re reading or interested at all, thank you!

Lily