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The Easter Bunny Cometh

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I drove my son and his friend to an indoor skatepark this afternoon. In the pouring rain. During rush hour. I was not happy. I wasn't unhappy, I was just amazed at the time it took me to get from point A to point B. I stopped to do some Easter Bunny Shopping for six kids, my four and my two little daycare boys. They have been in Hawaii and won't be home in time to put things together so I offered to do the baskets for them. Plus I'm making a basket for my older sister who is fifty but is disabled and loves her Easter basket goodies.

I shopped and I shopped. I bought the two girls dresses and matching purses. I can't wait to see them wear them. I'm going to buy some Apex cookies and food for Stephanie from her gym. She's been on a health kick for months and months so I want to help her out. She says they have these protein cookies there. I'll put some of them in her basket. I'll give Chris either a shirt or a gift card to Zumiez so he can pick something out.

I also bought a spiral ham for the family dinner on Sunday. When mom was alive we had the family together for holidays and her standard Easter fare was ham, potato salad, deviled eggs, jello, veggie plate with black olives, carrots and celery. Then she made a bunny cake with a special cast iron bunny cake mold. She always put on amazing family celebrations.

I do miss my mommy.


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A Poem to an Abusive Man

I've been doing a bit of research on abuse, domestic violence and how it usually ends. It's not pretty and it's painful and I hurt every time I read another woman's tale of horror.

Did you know that emotional abuse is as detrimental as physical abuse? And that most emotional abusers continue on to become physical abusers? I didn't. I do now. I found a site where formerly abused women, on the path to recovery from their abusers, have written poems. This one below is one that haunted me.

Thank You

You wooed me with poetry
I bit on the hook
Had I only first read
The name of the book

I would have avoided
The very first page
For pages kept turning
Revealing the rage

The ups were a great high
The ride was a bash
But I rode with my eyes closed
To avoid seeing the crash
I knew it would come soon
But I never knew when
The rage and the leaving
And the path to the end

You had to control things
Determined you would
Emotionally destroying me
Every way that you could

Elderly Abuse

I heard a loud thud the other morning around 3:30 a.m. I checked my monitor but he'd once again turned it to the wall so I was unable to see if he was still in bed. I went downstairs right behind my sweet husband and dad was on the living room floor moaning and holding his head. He'd fallen. Hard.

The first picture is the day of the fall. The second is the day after. The black eye keeps blossoming. He has a gash on his head, hidden by his silver hair and he skinned his shoulder/arm. He's a mess.

Was he using his walker? Nope. 85 year old toddlers cannot be told what to do. Or rather, they can be told what to do, they simply won't comply. Ever. In fact they get down right angry and throw fits. It's not pretty.

His physical therapist came to the house the next day and strongly told him to use his walker EACH TIME HE STOOD UP. Has he? Nope. Nyet. He was very angry with me yesterday because I kept asking him to use his walker. Also, I asked him i…



Back on the horse
Monkey on his back
I see no light
Not even a crack
Back to delusions
Back to the lies
I see through his words
He can't hear my cries

Back into his soul
Back into his veins
The poison he pours
Dark liquid his chains

Backed into a corner
Heartbroken and torn
Back into the needle
The eye of the storm

Back to the wall
Soul bruised torn and broken
Back to my pain
His eyes half open

Back into the horror
Will he ever come back
Back into the nightmare
A needle in a sack

Back into his childhood
I loved him with fury
Looking back on his life
His choices my jury

How did this happen
Back to evil and sin
How can he do this
Lines on his skin

Back to my weeping
Back to my sorrow
My son, my love,
Has no more tomorrows
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