books, writings, shoes & nudes

Tag: strength

  • it’s a lot to ask.

    I know it’s your right, but please don’t leave me in this world alone.

    Please don’t leave me in this world without you.

    Please don’t leave me in a world where my abuser is still alive and you are not. Where Trump is golfing and you are gone.

    Don’t abandon me in a world where rapist walk around freely and you don’t.

    I know it’s selfish I ask, but please keep fighting your battle so that I can fight mine with you beside me.

    Please don’t leave me in a world where your smile is only a memory.

    Our last interaction wasn’t enough for me. I want more. I need more.

    Please don’t ask me to continue while waking up without you.

    I know I have no idea. I know I don’t understand. I know I can’t imagine. I know it’s not fair for me to ask this of you.

    But please. I’m asking for you to do this for me. Please don’t leave me behind in this world.

  • arthritis

    sharp pain shoots up my hand reaching my fingertips. it’s a particularly rough pain day. remember when you snapped my fingers like a carrot. they dangled there. you did it multiple times within 5 years. the knuckles don’t even exists anymore.

    i don’t take deep breaths without gasping. hiccups are a repetitive shock to my system. tears blur my eyes with every little blip. stops me in my tracks. remember when you gave me cpr when i didn’t need it.

    remember when you held me under the water until the bubbles stopped. my sternum still clicks in and out like your palms are still pressing. you never really let me go.

    collarbones pinned under your kneecaps as your open hands struck my kidlike face until they cracked unable to hold your weight. not stopping until I begged “like the annoying bitch you are”. and I begged. every single time. i begged my last with you.

    no one knows about the bald spot hidden in my perfect hair, your second favorite handle. i will forever have a side part.

    the body you had no right to wreck hurts more in the cold. little acts of rebellion like hating socks and not wearing gloves. spite warming the blood. i hate that our days together linger on my being most in the morning.

  • i will let the past have it

    I loved you deeply, as deeply as I think I could love a sister, but I had to love me more. I miss your curly hair and the tone-deaf duets of Christmas music we would sing in the car.  I think about you often. How I could change your entire existence with the magic of Thrive. But I must let you be lost in the tight grip of the past. 

    I wanted so much more for you. I wanted you to be great. I wanted you to be traveling some far off place and not have to keep you at least 500 feet away from me at all times. You chose the end for both of us. I will eventually paint over the blown kisses and butterflies. 

    I chose you repeatedly. I dropped everything and ran when you called. All I needed was for you to love me. I wiped your ass, canceled your cable, spent money I didn’t have, and you still chose to save your poison over me. 

    I broke myself for you. I lost sleep, I lost days, I lost time. You got drunk. I cleaned up your blood, your drool, your piss and your vomit. You got high. I looked high and low and every fucking nook and cranny in-between to fix it. You looked for an escape. I stressed over your daily being; you gave no fucks. You were perfectly ok with making a mess and having me safely clean it up.

    You made a mess of things. I trusted you without ever trusting you. I believed your buckets of trauma and sob stories just to kick those buckets over when I had enough. You were 6 feet 7 inches of territorial diaper wearing mommy issues. 

    I trusted you with my NDA.You weaponized my secrets. You went against the one thing you can not do. The one thing. “I know you.” You’re so careful to never say it. But you said it in the worst way you could have spoke it. I’d rather be strangled, because this was so constricting. Although I won’t be letting the past have you, I will be letting the past have the version of me that allowed you access. And you’ll never even know it. 

    I will let the past have it all.

  • I think I change all the time. Not all at once, not cold turkey, but ever so slightly. I don’t even notice a lot of the time. One of the carved into my skull quotes was from my high school boyfriend. “Lindsey, you are ever changing.” Under that is a quote from my mother’s speech at my wedding. “Lindsey is an ever changing person, if you don’t ride the ride with her, it will be the thing that destroys your marriage.”  I am an ever changing person, but it has been how I survive through the uncontrollable life I was force to exist in. I run full steam ahead changing the directions as I go so I never get trapped in a box or hit a dead-end. I equally need change and fear change. Change is the control I have and the master I am a slave to. Change is the calm and the storm I am creating by changing. 

  • tell me

    Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me something that will change how I feel. Tell me I am making the correct decision. Tell me there is a bigger meaning. Tell me there is a god and my small human brain just doesn’t see or understand the bigger picture. Because I feel like I’ve figured it all out. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me there is more than this. Tell me I don’t have to gaslight myself for the rest of this existence. Call me, text me, DM me. Do something so I can have even the slightest glimpse of faith. Tell me this is the fire and we will regrow through the ashes. Tell me this is as worst as it gets. Please tell me something. I’m losing the spark. I’m telling you I can’t hold it much longer. Please tell me something. Please.

  • I’m not that girl. I won’t be that girl. I have worked too hard to become a good human. I worked too hard to like myself. To be someone to be proud of. I won’t become someone little Lindsey wouldn’t be proud of. Nothing is worth that little girl’s opinion.

    I will stay determined. I will stay focused. I will not break. I will not be weak. I do hard things. I will be the most regulated adult in the room. This will not be my story.

  • She is loud. She is powerful. Mountains question how far when she tells them to move. She never shakes or quivers. She is bold and sharp.

    She is the best friend standing up to her narcissistic father. She is the only one calling out her little brother’s coach for bad behavior. She is the soft soothing I-love-yous and you’re-so-goods spoken to so many broken children.

    She is the fake apologies that comes with being the bigger person.

    She is the yes’s that has made life an adventure. She is the voice of reason. She is the important information the doctors needed.

    She is the advocate for the little one.

    She is the “no” that needed to be said long ago. She is the grounding needed to make it through. She is the voice of the voiceless. She is the cheerleader to remind you you’re made for this. She is the mistaken outbursts. She is the heart on your sleeve.

    She is the healer and the fighter. She is the passion. She is so loved when she came from so much hate.

  • 💋💋

    After Hours, Adults Only, Cincinnati Children’s Museum.

  • thinking about someone all the time

    is not enough to make them

    deserving of your thoughts

    sometimes it’s not a sign

    it’s just something you do

    until you don’t

    r.h. Sin

  • No longer am I going to apologize for behavior that isn’t mine.

    I won’t shield you from the consequences of your own choices.

    I won’t apologize for who I had to become to be able to survive.

    No longer apologizing for the versions of me I had to kill to become so hard to kill.

    I won’t lower my voice or apologize for the brutality of the words I speak.

    I fought for my place and I am no longer apologizing for not making myself small.

    I won’t express counterfeit regret any more.

    I will no longer apologize for the failed attempts at loan sharking.

    I’m not going to beg someone’s pardon for not following social norms.

    I’m not conforming into any box that handmaids fit into.

    I won’t eat my own words or take a bite out of the humble pie.

    This life isn’t real, everything’s fucked, I am human and this is fucking hard.

    I’m no longer asking for forgiveness for the boundaries I set to make this fake life less hard.

  • your heart is an empty room.

    The piano sounds Apple says I listened the most to in 2024.

    Her hyperness when her meds wear off.

    The green of his eyes I see every time it rains.

    Good morning texts.

    Holding of hands that once shielded the abuse.

    My blue couch.

    The tone of her voice when she says, “GUTTER BITCH or titty baby”, her fake Italian grandmother’s accent.

    Blue

    Showers too long.

    Giggles, stories, jokes.

    Seeing her face walk through the door, knowing she won the war of getting out of bed.

    Cinnamon Tea, and coffee, Hallmark movies.

    Doris Doloris, who will be the biggest heart break of all.

    The shock in a broken face meeting strength for the first time.

    The Professor getting excited to tell me about the girl he likes or the sex he had.

    Books in The Nook.

    Blankets and hockey sweats.

    The end of the day when I lay my head down and remind myself this life is real, and I will wake up still safely in it.

    Smells of honeysuckle, sugar plums, and favorite flannels.

    Lovers that forever stain the walls of this heart.

    So much feminine rage and way too many damn shoes.

  • shut the fuck up

    I don’t have time to think about what I’m going to do about it. If I let myself think instead of just doing the stuff, I may think too much and realize there’s a back door exit to all of this.

    I miss the days I believed I was dumb. Now that I’m fully aware I am not dumb, I have to actually find out what I’m capable of. How exhausting.

    I could be a 30-something peasant playing video games at my mom’s house. But unfortunately I got an ass ton of therapy. Trusted the nice girl with Michelle Obama arms. Started a business. Learned how to thrive without medication or a husband. Figured out how to study despite my dyslexia. I went and fucked around and quickly found out. Now I feel shit and know shit. And the more you know shit, the more you’re not ok with shit.

    So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to write then go get a drink. Wake up tomorrow make my coffee, domme the patriarchy and fuck up a whole lot of unfair shit.

  • dear girl,

    Stop apologizing for living. No one knows what they’re doing and no one’s doing it right. Which means everyone is. Stop saying sorry for making mistakes you’re not making. It’s just a plot twist.

    Dear girl,

    Leave him. Please leave him. He’ll never change, and you’ll just end up with a fucked up skeleton that makes you fall on the kitchen floor needing someone else to help you. Or he’ll kill you. You’re too important to lose. Somewhere out there there’s another little girl that needs you to tell your story to save her.

    Dear girl,

    Stop being afraid to tell someone you want to join them. Take the chance. People like you. Geronimo baby. Make your own fucking rules.

    Dear girl,

    Stop letting those demons in your head work overtime. I’m sure they’re tired.

    Dear girl,

    Explore the world. And do it alone. Do it with people, but only people that don’t suck.

    Dear girl,

    Your family are not the people that surrounded you when you were born. Family are the people that show up on a rainy Saturday morning just to support your dreams.

    Dear girl,

    He’s wrong, you’re right. Stop shutting up. You are smarter than that. You could run circles around those tiny tittybabies. Also dawk them in the face.

    Dear girl,

    Be gay, be so fucking gay. Be open and be proud.

    Dear girl,

    Brag about yourself, you’re so fucking cool.

    Dear girl,

    Say NO. A lot. All the time. Never stop.

    11.9.23

  • i spoke

    Early Tuesday morning I sat in a crowded court room.

    I remember practically nothing.

    Only two people knew I was there.

    Neither being my spouse or mother.

    I’ve never disassociated so well as I did when the attorney pointed the remote to the tv.

    Probably 40 people.

    Dressed nicely.

    Watching my rape like it was the morning announcements in high school.

    Just another Tuesday.

    For the judge, the attorneys, the accused.

    “Is this you in the video, Lindsey?” The attorney asked.

    Snapping me out of my safe disassociated state.

    She repeated herself.

    “Is this you in the video, Lindsey?”

    I couldn’t speak; an issue I rarely have.

    I looked at my shaking hands placed in my lap.

    The writing that covered the left palm read “Today, you become his nightmare.”

    I lifted my head, stared right into the cold eyes I once felt not good enough to look at.

    And spoke the biggest thing I’ve ever said.

    “Yes.”

    11.9.23

  • all i ask

    All I ask

    Is that you ride this ride next to me.

    Don’t ask where we are going or If we are there yet.

    I saved this seat for you.

    All I ask

    Is you let me cry and cuss, scream and fight while still seeing me as strong and fearless.

    Don’t remember this moment tomorrow.

    Don’t remember this weakness later.

    All I ask

    Is you knowing there is always room on this overfilled plate for you.

    Don’t ever think it’s too heavy for more.

    All I ask

    Is to be seen as the character I want to play.

  • calgon take me away

    Everything is changing.

    I like it.

    But it’s still change.

    Beautiful home with good smells and throw pillows that remain in the same place they were 12 hours earlier.

    But it’s still change.

    Quiet sleep with the middle of the bed being an option.

    Long showers with no one interrupting to ask if I know where the TV remote is.

    5 fucking seconds of peace and quiet.

    But it’s still change.

    New routine catered to my own self care.

    Being able to make decisions based on joy and happiness instead of traumatic based fear.

    But it’s still change.

    Scary

    And exciting.

    But it’s still change.

  • expectations

    • Be straight or have a label for it.
    • Being with your spouse is “strong” even when it’s not making you happy.
    • Monogamy.
    • I expect myself not to hold on to emotions and not feel.
    • I expect myself to age terribly.
    • I expect myself to heal faster.

  • reclaibrating

    I overthink too much, but not in the anxious or depressive way. But in the caring way. I think too much about stupid stuff. Like, how I could switch all my pants for elephant pants, and how to make money from it. Or becoming a comedian to prove I’m funnier than my ex. Why? Just to do it. Or opening a bar for Stephen to work at. Does he want to do that? Probably not, but who cares. Or what Jeff’s nips look like. Or what it feels like to have sex on this mat. I overthink things that aren’t productive and don’t matter. My therapist says it’s to distract myself from dealing with complex emotions.

  • jits

    Jits is suppose to be my safe place. It’s suppose to be the bus in which I transfer the next broken lindseys. It’s suppose to be the team, the community, the family. It was the thing I used to remind myself the answer to the question I have been riddled with every night at 3am for the past eight years.

    “I can handle anything.” Written on the gym walls.

    “I am strong as fuck.” Written on my gi.

    “I am powerful.” Written on my rash guard.

    “I am still alive.” Written in sweat.

    I lost my proof. I became human, and a weak one at that. I am still broken. My body cracked and everyone saw. The mat isn’t safe. Jits is where I find out I am just another broken body. My bones aren’t made of solid belief. They are broken bones. Unusable. Hindering even. Damaged from all the damage. My body isn’t my warrior fighting for me. She isn’t the hero. She isn’t the fighter. She is the score board. She is the unusable target that’s holes are too big to be significant. Jits was suppose to be the showcase where you prove what you are. But jits became the mirror of harsh reality.

  • i am just so fucking angry

    Anger is the powerful mask my fear wears. It’s easier to be angry than scared. The memories and torturing moments still live in the attic of my mind, but I pretend they don’t. When I see something or have an experience that resembles the secrets, I get scared.

    No, oops. I mean angry.

    Hello triggers, it’s always nice to see you out of your cages, care to rage?

    I go zero to one hundred because I can’t relive it. I can’t be so out of control of my body and mind again. My eyebrows get low, my blood gets pumping. Ready to fight the ant hill I can only see as a fight. Kill the threat, end it. Fight and rage until we no longer fear.

    No, oops I mean anger.

    Sitting alone, broken, putting the pieces back into place, cleaning up the mess. I can’t feel that again. I can’t tiptoe around this life. So we rage. We rage before we need to, because I am just so fucking angry.

  • levels of hell

    Level One- Pittsburg penguin fans.

    Level Two- Bad Dads

    Level Three- Anyone that is mean to my husband. (Talking about you Becky) He’s a fucking saint.

    Level Four- Micheal Jackson

    Level Five- Abusers

    Level Six- Anyone who has ever raped anyone.

    Level Seven- Donald Trump (Ugly fat bitch)

    Level Eight- Child Abusers

  • When my husband and I started boning, we weren’t super serious, but definitely way more than sexers. There was a moment. A simple text. Saint Patrick’s Day is my favorite holiday, it was once my birthday. At that time in my life, no one had first names or correct information.

    The text came in at the exact moment I landed in Chicago.

    “Happy Birthday, I’m in Chicago as well, can we celebrate your day?”

    That was the movie moment where the plot twist could have happened. I didn’t know Stephen that well yet and marriage was a not-on-my-radar, not-in-a-million-years kinda thing.

    I stood there celebration and friends around me. Phone in hand staring at the green river in my favorite city, wearing my sexiest green heels. Having a very wealthy man, who is fantastic in bed reaching out ready to make my birthday memorable.

    I blindly chose Stephen in that moment and for all the moments to come. I chose to break the cycle that my paternal curse had put on me. Not only did I choose Stephen, I chose Lindsey. I gave myself a chance to deserve something I didn’t think I was worthy of. I chose happiness, loyalty, hardship, grace, impulse decisions, hockey games, movie nights, Chinese food, and laughter. I made a choice not knowing the outcome. I chose the right door and I fucking won. I can forever say I never tainted this pure childish real love.

  • i vow to forgive and build

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will forgive you.

    I will never stop building you.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will choose you over doubt, fear, and expectations of others.

    I will love the you, you have created yourself to be.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will honor the you, you had to kill to become this.

    I will remember what you went through without haunting you with it.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will continue to advocate for you.

    I will continue to unapologetically protect you.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will show up for you everyday, even if I’m not the person I want to be that day.

    I will continue to break walls.

    You are smart, strong, and important.