A year later, when I was thirteen, we moved to a rental house. It had a small guest house in the back that an elderly couple rented. Fred and Doris Dean. Fred was a tall slender man in his late seventies or early eighties. He smoked profusely as did Doris. I don’t think Fred
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ever brushed his teeth because there was so much residual tar on them, always, like the coating on Michael Keaton’s teeth when he played Beetlejuice. Doris was a very small, frail, disabled woman and I never saw her leave the house. Once they invited me in. The walls of their
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tiny house were stained brown from all the years of smoke buildup. Standing in the tiny living room I looked over and Doris was getting off the commode. I saw things you can’t unsee. I was thirteen years old and had only seen my mother naked once and when that happened she
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screamed in horror like I was a rapist. I had never seen another woman’s naked body, let alone a very sick and age-ravaged woman, getting off the toilet. Gray pubic hair was not part of my portfolio of experiences up until that fateful day. Across the street from us was where
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the Barretts lived. Virginia Barrett was the mother. She was a big partier and I was told she had gonorrhea when she gave birth to her youngest child, Annmarie who was four years old. Annmarie had polio as a result of Virginia having gonorrhea when she was pregnant, that’s
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what I was told anyway. This was a time when no one had polio anymore. I’m not sure if you can get polio by passing through a gonorrhea- filled birth canal though. Sounds kind of off. But Virginia lived a lifestyle conducive to contracting sexually transmitted diseases and
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Annmarie did drag her little leg but whether she had polio or not, I can’t say. That’s just what my stepsister Bert told me. James was her oldest son, he was seventeen. Always in fights and in trouble with the law. Mike was fifteen. He was into huffing paint. He’d inhale the
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fumes from a can of paint that he spray into a paper bag and then inhale it. Sometimes I’d see him convulsing on the couch with dark paint all around his mouth. His body always reminded me of pieces of
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bacon that contort as they’re being cooked. Steven Barrett was fourteen. He was the only one I could relate to in that family. Kathy Barrett was thirteen and she went to my junior high school. All the girls thought she was a boy and would flirt with her. Their
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uncle Jack came around sometimes. His belly button protruded through his t-shirt. I didn’t know what a hernia was. I just knew uncle Jack was creepy because he looked like a pedophile to me. Strange that at thirteen I had any inkling of what a pedophile even was but he gave
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me the creeps. I never rode in his station wagon when he took everyone somewhere. Uncle Jack never did anything to me and other than his molester vibe, which I could have been imagining, he seemed okay. But I still wouldn’t get in his car with him. My siblings would though.
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I was powerless to stop them and I don’t know why my mother allowed them to go with him anywhere except to say that she was so unengaged with everything we did I highly doubt she even noticed. She seemed more fixated on punishing me than almost anything else. I spent most of
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the two years we lived there, grounded. Michael and Donna were in elementary school. Any time I would walk home from school I’d pass a house that had an enclosure in the backyard with a monkey in it. I would stop to look at the monkey, hoping to make a connection like I had
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with the junkyard dogs when I was younger, but this monkey was not into that. He was angry. Every time I passed him he would scream at me or do some hissing thing that signified he was obviously upset. He try to violently shake the cage and then lock eyes
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with me and masturbate furiously. His loneliness and frustration must have been unbearable. I related to that monkey. Not so much the furious masturbating part but the unbearable solitude whilst being surrounded by people. On the days my mother picked me up from school she
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drove to their school to pick them up. Often when they got in the car they’d be laughing. I was in the front seat and I could see my mother’s fury starting. She hated when they laughed and I always knew when they did I’d be getting in trouble later. She’d go to punish them
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and I’d step in front and take it for them. That way they’d get to go outside and play. I never told them I did this for them nor did I ever tell them to stop laughing. I just wanted so desperately for them to have some sort of childhood. I was grounded so
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much that often the only way I got to go outside was either at school or when I would sneak out in the middle of the night. It would be two o’clock in the morning and I’d go out my bedroom window. I remember thinking, “Wow! I’m outside!” Once I let our dog Sheba run out of
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the front door just so I had an excuse to go outside and chase her back in. I thought my mom was in the shower but when I turned around she was standing right behind me yelling, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Stunned & instantly terrified, I replied simply, “I’m chasing Sheba.” “HOW
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DID SHE GET OUT?!” “I don’t know. She just escaped.” “ESCAPED HOW SHARON?! SHEBA CAN’T JUST OPEN THE DOOR HERSELF!” Here I was, a straight A student, no problems at school, no problems with the law, no problems anywhere but at home with the monster known as my mother. James,
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across the street, had a friend named Dale. I was fourteen and Dale was seventeen when we met. Dale was really skinny with long hair and two teeth missing in the front because of a fight. He smoked cigarettes, drank beer, had no job and wasn’t in school. He fit right in with
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who goes by Michelle but to me she’ll always be Bert, was at our house sometimes and often spent the night. Bert was exactly my age and we went to the same junior high school together. Bert ended up going out with James and I started seeing Dale. There would always be parties
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at the Barretts’ house, regardless if it was a school night. Sometimes when Bert would sneak out the window with me, in the middle of the night, we would go across the street and join them. I didn’t like drinking or smoking so I just went for some social time with Dale since
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so often I wasn’t allowed out. Dale was the first person I ever had sex with. He was seventeen and I was fourteen. Looking back the first time was pretty gross because Bert and James were in the bed right next to ours having sex also. Dale’s breath always smelled like
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cigarettes and beer so I came to associate that smell with what I thought was love because to me, sex was love. Once when I went over to the Barretts’ by myself there was the usual party and of course Dale had been drinking. We were standing in the living room and suddenly
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Dale cold cocked me out of nowhere. Not expecting this I immediately went down. This was the first time I had ever been hit like that and it stunned me, but apparently not enough to break up with Dale. I only remember this happening one more time when the four of us were on
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a camping trip together. My mother let her fourteen year old daughter go on an overnight camping trip with Bert and our derelict boyfriends. Bert wasn’t as lucky as I was though. James turned out to be extremely violent and would beat on her often. He seemed so proud of his
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steel toed boots that he would often remind us when he was wearing them. I think he wanted us to know he was intimidating. To me he was just James because I wasn’t the one taking the beatings and I didn’t know until later that he was abusing Bert. James was just like Dale in
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that he was unemployed, didn’t go to school and he was an alcoholic. He and Bert looked odd together because Bert was gorgeous. She was tall, she had beautiful long brown hair and such striking green eyes. James was, well, James. He looked exactly like you’re picturing him or
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at least a close version of it. Oh, James had all of his teeth, though. The four of us would just hang out in the neighborhood because James and Dale weren’t working so they couldn’t afford to take either of us on a proper date. Bert and I got a weekend job selling flowers on
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street corners and in intersections. We would get dropped off at the flower owner’s building and then a white van would take a bunch of us to different locations throughout Los Angeles and from five o’clock in the evening till nine o’clock we would be working. Sometimes Bert
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and I would work different corners of the same intersection and sometimes we’d be dropped off and by ourselves at a location. Fourteen years old, standing outside alone, on a street corner in Los Angeles where an unmarked white van had dropped us off was perfectly acceptable
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to both my mother and Tony. It’s strange to consider that now. I didn’t realize how dangerous that was. We were paid $1.50 an hour so in a four hour shift we’d each make six dollars. Two nights meant we were making twelve dollars a week. If we worked Friday evenings as well
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that meant almost twenty dollars earned over the weekend. I wasn’t paid an allowance so this was great but more importantly whenever I was working meant I wasn’t grounded and stuck at home. I tried out for the swim team at a local park because being at practice meant I wasn’t
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grounded. Essentially school, work and swim team practice helped reduce my time being punished plus if Joyce couldn’t see me she couldn’t find a reason to be upset with me. One Friday evening I was working at the intersection I usually worked in the middle of Washington and
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Lincoln Boulevards. The sun had just set so all the cars had their lights on. I was at the end of the intersection, the farthest end from the traffic light, when I saw a young man pick up my bucket of flowers, which were sitting at the other end by the light, and walk across
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the street with them. I called out to him but he just kept going. As I began to walk toward the traffic light a young girl suddenly appeared on my island. No one just casually walks in the middle of an intersection so obviously something was going on. I knew I was being set
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up. As I was heading in the direction of the boy the girl stepped in front of me, blocking me and forcing me to walk around her which meant I was actually walking in the left turn lane. She kept edging me further out into the street and to keep from going too far into the
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lane I put my hand out just to keep her from coming any closer to me. When I reached the other end of the island a very big woman in her forties was standing there. She yelled out, “DON’T YOU HIT MY DAUGHTER!” Then from her front pocket she pulled out an industrial sized
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extension cord with a giant plug on the end of it. She swung the plug around really fast and hard and the big plug end of it hit the back of my head. I yelled, “YOU BITCH!” and punched her in the stomach. Instantly from across the street at the corner gas station I saw two
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young women running towards me shouting, “DON’T YOU HIT MY MOTHER!” I thought, “Fuck! I knew something was up!” I ran diagonally to the gas station on the other corner when another young woman came running at me from there. This is all happening while Friday night traffic
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was still going on. It wasn’t long before all of the women overtook me. The young girl and the young boy joined in and I was on the ground being beaten by chains and nunchucks while being kicked all over my body, face and head as I heard cars honking their horns for us to get
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out of the street. I was beaten into unconsciousness and when I came to one of the women standing over me said, “Get the fuck up or we will beat your ass again!” I don’t know how but I sprung right up. All of them hopped into a car and sped off laughing. I made my way to
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another corner in front of an army-navy surplus store that was closed. I don’t know who called the police. I was told to sit in the back of the police car and driven to the hospital. I don’t remember anything more than being ex-rayed and then suddenly Tony and my mother were
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there. Since Bert was on another island in the same intersection I’m guessing she used a phone at one of the gas stations to call home. My mother was told that I needed to have an electroencephalogram, or EEG, done on my head to insure there were no blood clots on my brain
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from the beating. My face looked like a watermelon that had been dropped. The lump that went from the middle of my forehead and down the bridge of my nose made it painful whenever I had a facial expression. I later learned that the night before, when Bert and I traded
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islands, those same people were waiting at the light and got into a verbal confrontation with Bert while she was working. The next night they came for retribution. Only problem was that I was back on my regular island and since we looked so much alike they assumed I was her.
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We later learned that they were from a rival flower shop, didn’t know there was such a thing as dueling flower shops but apparently there are. My mother managed to track them down, I have no idea how, and somehow took them to court. The older woman said she had leukemia and
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the judge ordered her to pay me five dollars a month for a year and she was given informal probation, where you don’t have to check in with a probation officer, and the rest were just given probation but no fines. My mother obligatorily took me to get two EEGs.
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I could tell by her silence while driving that she was not happy about having to take me to my appointments but she did it anyway. No blood clots were revealed but years later I learned that the beating permanently dislocated my hips. No one discussed the beating with me from
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a physical or emotional perspective. I got a few days off from school and that was that. Soon after my mother began getting EEGs to see if she too had possible blood clots on her brain. I’m not sure if she was hoping she had blood clots but I didn’t understand why she was
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going to the doctor. And the reason I remember this is because I actually used this experience as an excuse as to why I hadn’t done last night’s assignment by my eighth grade history teacher. I remember vividly saying “I couldn't do my homework because there was a possibility
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that my mother had blood clots on her brain so she needed to have an electroencephalogram performed yesterday.” She was going for the same reason I was but she hadn’t been beaten. No one had beaten my mother’s face and head in with chains and nunchucks. No one had knocked her
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out so why get EEGs to check for blood clots? It’s not like they’re contagious. More competing. That’s the only reason I can think of. Pathetic and so fucking weird. When I was on the swim team in high school we had weight training when we weren’t swimming. My legs got really
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strong. I was fifteen years old and could leg press over five hundred pounds on the nautilus machine. One day my mother stormed into my room, furious as usual, for what I never knew, and began to beat on me. I was sitting on my bed and I used my legs to push her away. My
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mother went flying across the room and her eyes were enormous, as though she was in shock. She stood there for a good beat and then turned and left. Within a week she had scheduled a family counseling visit to address my behavior. On our drive there my mother
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asked me what an alternative punishment to physical beatings should be. I suggested writing standards like you see children on tv do when they’re punished at school. We arrived at our first therapy session. The therapist asked us questions with the four of us in the room and
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also individually. He gave Donna and Michael these plastic type bats called batakas. They began beating on each other like kids playing do. He offered me one but at fifteen years old I wasn’t interested so I just sat and answered his questions. After I waited outside the room
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as the therapist interviewed us one by one. When it was my turn the therapist turned to me and said, “Sharon, you need to be extremely careful around your mother. She’s very dangerous.” My mother had instilled in me that anything that was in my favor was either because
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someone pitied me, they were obligated, I manipulated the situation, they were stuck or it was a mistake. When the therapist said something that concurred with what I already thought, I assumed it was for one of the reasons my mother had mentioned and that he was only saying
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this because he was sucking up to the kid so I would open up. I believe this was 1975. Mandated reporting from mental health professionals didn’t take effect till later on that year. Besides, even if someone else believed she was dangerous there was nothing going to be done
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to change it so I really never let the therapist’s warning resonate. And I already knew my mother was dangerous from my first memory of her at three when she intentionally bloodied my ankles with her shopping cart because I was in her way. One morning my mother made us listen
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to “Doctor Horniday And This Thing Called Life” on the radio as she did every morning. This is when Joyce was trying out “Science Of The Mind''. She never explained anything that Doctor Horniday was saying nor did we have any discussions about the program. We were just
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supposed to sit quietly while we ate our breakfast and listen to every word he said because when she turned the volume off she would ask, “What did he just say?” We were made to repeat it word for word. If we couldn’t we would be punished. As I’ve said my mother
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loved punishing people. At some point in the program she asked me what Doctor Horniday said and I said that I didn’t know. “That’s it! You’re writing ten pages!” I replied, “No. I’m not.” I walked out of the room and left for school. When I got home Joyce said I was grounded
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for two weeks. Later that evening I was brushing my hair in the bathroom when I heard my mother ranting, surprise, surprise. Under my breath I mumbled, “Shut up you ass.” My step father, Bob, just happened to be walking by the bathroom door and said, “Don’t call your mother
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an ass!” In no time my mother was on me like white on rice. I had all that I could take so I just took off. I’d run away from home many times since I was eleven years old. This time I went to my stepsister Bert’s house, from when my mother’s previous marriage to Tony. Bob was
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my mother’s third marriage. Tony let me stay at his house for a week and I just went to school with Bert every day. Even though it was a different school I thought at least I was learning something. Besides, I would have been bored just sitting alone at Tony’s house till Bert
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got home. When I returned home the grounding resumed. That night I wanted to watch something on television so I acquiesced and apologized even though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. That is the only time in my entire life that I have ever apologized when I was not at
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fault. I remember thinking even less of my mother for accepting my insincere apology because if she was willing to give in that easily it meant that there really was no lesson that I needed to learn and that I was right all along about her punitive measures being unjust
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and excessive. Soon after she invited my eighteen year old, unemployed, alcoholic, illiterate drop out, missing two front teeth, loser eighteen year old boyfriend, Dale, in who she knew I was sexually active with and had been since age fourteen. She knew because a year
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earlier I told her I thought I might be pregnant. I was now fifteen and Dale was eighteen so if we had sex that’s considered statutory rape. Birth control was never discussed nor did Dale and I use any. I knew I could get pregnant but since my mother never made a big thing
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out of it I didn’t either. She even caught Dale and I having sex once when she came into my room without knocking. She looked shocked, quickly slammed the door shut and never mentioned it. Decades later, after I told my husband Matt that story, he said, “You realize what
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happened don’t you?” I said, “What do you mean?” Matt replied, “When you kicked your mother backwards your strength informed her you could no longer be physically beaten. You were taken to therapy but in your mother’s mind the therapist never fixed your behavior. You
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suggested writing standards on the way to therapy but when she told you that you had to write ten pages you refused. She grounded you but you ran away. The only way she could think of to control you was to move in a fuck buddy to keep you home.” “Are you fucking
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kidding me?!! Oh my God Matt! That’s parentally sanctioned statutory rape under my mother’s own roof! Oh my God that’s hideous!”
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end🌷
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It wasn’t unusual to have police shine their flashlights on my sister and I while we were in bed. My parents were always fighting so I’m sure someone was alerting the authorities on a regular basis. My mother’s violent rage and screaming was incessant. Once when I was seven
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I was sitting at the kitchen table with her when out of nowhere my mother picked up one of her heavy glass ashtrays and stormed into the bathroom where my father was showering. She hurled the ashtray into the glass shower door, shattering it, then stormed out of the
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apartment saying nothing as she passed me. Broken glass was everywhere, covering my father’s bloody feet. I don’t know what preceded that but my mother has always been filled with tremendous resentment and anger towards everyone so the reason for her actions never really
Here’s the science behind plenty of rest and fluids when you get sick;
Your body has a finite amount of resources. These resources are divided into two categories. Your core organs, the ones that help keep you alive like your brain, kidneys, liver, heart…take priority
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when it comes to needing those resources.
The second category I refer to as the periphery. Things like hair, nails, teeth, skin health, eyes, your energy level…things you don’t need to stay alive, this group takes a back seat to your core…
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When you get sick your body needs to divert resources away from their primary function in order to fight the invader that’s making you sick.
Your resources are like your soldiers. Imagine your castle is being stormed and soldiers from an invading country are trying to
Obama sent Biden to Ukraine to rid them of the corrupt prosecutor aiding Ukrainian businessman Dmytro Firtash who was tapped by Putin to sell RUS nat gas to Ukraine at HIGH $. Hunter went w Joe & got a job on the board of Burisma-an energy co & BIG competitor to
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Putin. That’s it. Firtash currently resides in Vienna & evades extradition on corruption charges in the US. Sen Ron Johnson visited with Firtash in Vienna & was gifted $125,000. He was then instrumental in the firing of Ukraine Ambassador Marie
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Yavonovitch. Devin Nynes saw Firtash in Vienna at least five times JUST BEFORE SERVING ON THE INTEL COMMITTEE FOR TRUMPS FIRST IMPEACHMENT!! Bill Barr met with Firtash in Vienna as well. What business does an AG have in Vienna? Pompei yes. Barr, no.
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Check this conversation between myself & ATT. It’s not just a bitching session. This is actually happening & ATT does nothing. I wanted you all to read it just so you’re aware. It’s in screenshots from my DM.
Several pages…
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My mother told us the reason she was institutionalized was because my father didn’t care for her “psychic dreams”. Examples of her dreams were the hideous monkeys that surrounder her as she woke up. She described in detail how she was paralyzed and how
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terrifying it was because she couldn’t fight the monkeys off. Another dream was of a scary woman with long flowing black hair that stood at the foot of her bed beckoning my mother to join her. Both of her experiences sound like sleep paralysis to me. A temporary inability to
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move while falling asleep or waking up. It can last for a minute or two and can be very frightening. It’s very common. But based on everything I know about my mother and everything I’ve been told I believe my father and his mother had Joyce committed for harming me. Here’s why;
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Awhile ago someone called me a baby killer because I’m pro choice. He also said he had more right to speak on abortion than I did because he has a child and all I have are stepchildren and dogs (his words). Below was my response:
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I've had two abortions in my lifetime. One
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when I was 19 and the second when I was 23. I don't regret having them. If in those situations again I would do the same. For me it made sense not to bring an unwanted child into the world. Im not writing this as justification or because I’m concerned about your opinion of
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me based on my decision to have these abortions, but rather to speak on myself as one of many women who are forced to make this choice because there is no other viable option. Taking a baby to term and giving it away for adoption is far more complex an issue than is often