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II write to make your WHOLE LIFE better. Hence the Eden (noun: paradise)… More importantly, I write to help you *keep* it that way. Hence the Evergreen! :)

Alternate Title: This is Me Removing the “RAPE ME” Sign Taped to My Back

photo courtesy Camilo Contreras on Pixabay

A note up front: This topic is heavy and even though I often write with pretty rainbow sprinkles of satire and humor, there’s not a whole lot of that to be found here.

Please be aware of your own levels of trigger tolerance.

I do promise to add a heaping scoop of encouragement at the end of this little anthology — which will be doled out to you in small (hopefully more digestible) segments, by the way.

This series is more of a Sneak-Peak-Into-the-Mind-of type thing, rather than a hope-filled how-to.

Please proceed with caution…

I can’t even take the…


The sixth story in a series of (too) many. This is the account of what it’s like to be raised to accept sexual violation…and what that’s like when it suddenly gets EVEN WORSE. Much worse.

Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

NOTE: If you haven’t already had the pleasure of reading part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 or part 5 of this anthology, feel free to begin, here.

Growing Up with My Father. Chapter 3.

Despite my growing history of multiple violations — including the extreme discomfort of my father’s eyes (and words) constantly roving my “blossoming” teenage body — by the time I was 18 years of age, I was still completely innocent to what was possible in my world.

Ironically — as we all know that a parent is usually the ideal to teach us certain lessons in life — it was my own…


The fifth story in a series of (too) many. Thank God they’re short! This is the account of what it’s like to have someone physically injure me while attempting rape…

Image by Brigitte makes custom works from your photos, on Pixabay

NOTE: If you haven’t already had the pleasure of reading part 1, part 2, part 3 and/or part 4 of this anthology, feel free to begin, here.

Jimmy the Injured Quarterback

I was now a sophomore in high school, having just barely risen above total social annihilation following the Justin situation.

So when Jimmy the senior football player asked me out on a date? I was blown away.

Really?? He wanted to take me out? He was two whole grades older!

He was also Mormon — still in my mind a surefire reason to trust someone. At the time, anyway.

And he was cute…


The fourth story in a series of (too) many. This is the account of what it’s like to be raped by a family friend…

photo courtesy Photo by George Becker from Pexels

NOTE: If you haven’t already had the pleasure of reading part 1, part 2 and/or part 3 of this anthology, feel free to begin, here.

Justin, the “Friend” from Church

By the way… I don’t mind keeping the names of these people the same as the real person. So if you know (or are) this guy or any of them, OR if you’re apt to sympathize with abusers… either way. #sorrynotsorry.

When I was 15 years old, I attended early morning seminary (a form of Mormon religious school) every weekday at about 6 AM. We lived in the mountains of Southern California at the time…


The third story in a series of (too) many. This is the account of what it’s like to be raised by a pedophile…

photo courtesy Min An on Pexels

NOTE: If you haven’t already had the pleasure of reading part 1 and/or part 2 of this anthology, feel free to begin, here.

Growing Up with My Father. Chapter 2.

As I grew into young womanhood — especially as the first child in our family — I felt increasingly aware of the way my father stared at me. I could almost hear the thought turning in his mind:

When is she going to blossom into womanhood, when will I see the proportions of her body? I wonder how lovely they will be?

And just as I suspected, once I did begin to “blossom” (another nasty word that…


Medium — rather like a spiritual medium, in a way — sees everything we take from its pages, and everything we give (or don’t.)

Photo by Gantas Vaičiulėnas from Pexels

Everything. It knows what types of articles we obsessively read. It knows if we just skim through the subheads (which by the way costs the writer a reader in their stats! FYI.)

It also sees everything we write! (Or don’t.) All of it. Every clap, every highlight, every follow… every lack thereof.

For instance, a continued interest in an author’s work by reading frequently… but not following.

Or being awestruck by a piece you love, read twice and even shared… but you forgot to hit the clap button a few times (you can hit it up to 50! …


The second story in a series of (too) many. This is the account of what it’s like to be raised as a victim of sexual violation…

photo courtesy Flikr on Pexels

NOTE: If you haven’t already had the pleasure of reading my ramblings in Part 1, where I digress many times and hem and haw and tiptoe… until I finally start writing (because OMG who wants to dive right into the deep end when the water is clearly cold and filled with alligators??) …then please start here, first.

Growing Up with My Father: Chapter 1.

When I was 5 years old, I sat my mommy gravely down at the coffee table in the living room, a sober expression on my tiny face.

The look on hers said “aww, my little girl is so cute and serious…”

I remember…


Sometimes miracles are too big for the eyes of those who behold them. Other times, what’s required for a miracle is too mundane and matter-of-fact, to accept as “what to expect.”

Photo Courtesy SHVETS on Pexels

Thirteen years since the day I died, I’m now 100% happy, healthy and well.

Well, okay… maybe more like 94%? There’s always room for improvement, I guess. But you get the point.

Ask anyone who knows even a little bit of my history (because who could know it all, really, except perhaps my hapless but willing pillow-talk partner, more nights than not) and they will tell you that the reason they think I’m strong is this:

The kind of stuff I’ve been through… usually churns out sociopaths, psychopaths, criminals and clods. Or at least a total weirdo.

…Well, I can…


My advice to anyone who has ever felt tempted to give up.

It might sound harsh at first. But this is written by someone who knows firsthand, and I have no judgment for you.

Only understanding.

This advice, whether you take it or not, is only meant to reach you in the tone of a trustworthy and loyal friend.💕Here it is.

If you are anything, you are strong.

If you are nothing else, you are strong.

You have run the sometimes - or maybe often... or even always - treacherous gauntlet of your life so far, feeling or even being 100% alone, and somehow remaining alive.

You.

Are.

Strong.

Do not let your final act be one that takes that from you.

Let your legacy be that you long outlasted the pain.


A story of requited love that came at the most unexpected time.

photo credit: author (yes this is the original pair of Vans!)

One summer during my middle school years, my mom bought me a brand new pair of Vans. My first pair!

This was a huge deal at the time. With six mouths to feed, my parents were perpetually strapped for cash in those days.

Thus, not only were the Vans my first pair of name-brand shoes; they were my first name-brand anything.

I was extraordinarily proud of those shoes. Although I’ve never been much for trends, Vans were totally cool enough to slip past my usual “I must always be distinctive” box. To me, they were special.

I wore them every…

Evergreen Eden

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