This is not a cry for help

There has been this lingering thought in my head most of my life. I don't belong. There is this utility knife on the counter in my kitchen. I don't know who left it there or why. I haven't thought that part through. I don't really care. I only care that it is there. Tempting as it seems. There is so many ways to ease this pain I face everyday. Overdose, Driving off the road to the dam, Guns galore, but this knife entices my thoughts of the unseemly demise of my soul. It would be easy, yet messy. Where would be the cleanliness, but when have I ever cared about sticky floors. My life has always been so fucking cluttered, complicated, sloppy, and frankly dire. Yet this sharp razor knife has kept my attention for moments. Who am I kidding? It's all I think about. I would never do this to my babies, my husband, yes, but not my kids. They have suffered insurmountable damage at my hands. The POPO was correct. I killed my son. I probably killed my baby girl too. She was mine.  He was mine. I was in charge of their everything, and I failed. I failed grievously. I quit the medicine that was supposed to be keeping me level, but it wasn't keeping me level. It was keeping me numb, dead inside, dull, even callous, but that pink pill kept me alive, breathing, but what is living, breathing without feeling? It isn't living. You are right. I might as well have been in a coma for 9 years. I could only wish I was in the coma, because then I wouldn't have been filled with the ugly emotions that creeped in and took over my life, the guilt, the anxiety, the anger, the guilt, the guilt, the guilt. So this is 1 week off those horrible, sinister, menacing, horrid, vile pink pills that made me shake uncontrollably, that made jerk, so I couldn't even enjoy my succulent black beverage that is ALWAYS my favorite part of my morning. For 2 months I have refrained from the coffee because I was tired of being burned, but most of all I was tired of the ugliness that surrounded that fucking pink pill. I am not capable of living without that fucking pink pill, yet how would I know? How would I know with my addiction to this lousy pink pill? Sure for a year after Loughlin died I was a fucking wreck. I did horrible things, made terrible choices. I wanted to die. The guilt. Is there a worse emotion? It engulfs your whole being. your every thought, your every word, your every dream, your everything. The guilt of losing Rhiannon made me a better mom, but a lousy wife. The guilt of killing Loughlin, killed me. I died 3,602 days ago, 86,642 hours ago, 5,198,520 minutes ago. I have been part of the walking dead for almost 10 years. Surely not the walking dead that is on TV with the fingers falling off and wanting to devour human flesh, but I am walking and I am dead. 💔

#Metoo is not nearly enough

My sexual abuse started when I was a lee lady, at the age of 8. My swim coach would get in the pool with us to try to "improve our technique".  He would in the most innocent way, stick his hands up the crotch of my swimsuit, not on top, but deep inside where I had been told was precious, holy, that should not be defiled, but it was and I was left dirty, an 8yr old whore.
Count 8 years later. Me and a friend of mine were asked to go to an older guys apartment.  They had free  booze. How could this rebellious teen refuse. When we arrived there were 4 men. 2 I knew well. They were married. I remember so much. The smells, the Seagram's golden wine cooler. I drank too much, way too much. I crawled to the bedroom to sleep it off.  I was passed out. I woke up to a 250lb man laying on top of me. The smell of beer lingered in the air. I couldn't breathe. He had ripped my panties off and was raping me. I was out if it. I couldn't even scream. He pinned my arms above my head. I wriggled as much as I could, but my intoxicated body was no match. I was bleeding when I finally gained consciousness.  I kept silent. He was a member of the bishopric.  Who would believe me,  a troubled girl who was drinking at the time? After all I had always been a troubled child. These stories on the news are triggering me to the point of panic. The 80's was not the time for sexual assault. Don't ask . Don't tell should have been the slogan of the era. His weight.  His breath. The pain. There is no safe spaces.
That night he took my virginity.
He took my dignity.
He took my childhood.
He took that life.

I never told. He went on to be successful.  I have lived through so many trials.
Life is Fair.
I am not ok
Can I have a do over?