Confessions of a Recovering Skeptic

Choosing peace

2026-09-30T23:05:12.476-07:00

Writing has not been coming to me well lately. In fact, almost every day I am "supposed" to write...I don't want to. I am too stressed, too stretched thin, and too angry.

Life is a little bit out of sorts at the moment. I do try to keep an overall idea of my family out of this page because while it is related (pun intended)...I try to keep some distance. It wasn't always that way, but as my kids get older and understand the weight of things they have heard...I have to learn how to manage that appropriately.

That being said.

I just moved a family of 7 to the middle of the Pacific Ocean...and I am trying to work, unpack, parent, and function on my own. It doesn't leave for a lot of time to process trauma and then rip it open again "on paper."

So-

I am ignoring my calendar for a bit going forward...at least until I catch up. If I allow this page and the book to become an added part of my anxiety...I am giving more power back to the man that caused it all in the first place.

And we're not doing that.

I'll be here. I still have some posts planned and I still intend to keep writing when/if it feels like I can mentally. But I'm going to take some pressure off for the moment because instead of being REALLY good at being a mom, getting unpacked, and maintaining my mental health...

I'm trying to SURVIVE being a mom, getting unpacked, working my job, writing a book, keeping myself in shape, fostering friendships, and maintaining my mental health.

All of those things can not exist at the same time.

And a few of them hold high priority.

So I'm going to do my best with at least a few of them while I refocus. And maybe part of that is exactly the point of the book and this page anyways.

Learning when to acknowledge "this is not something I can take on right now," and learning when to simply let yourself recognize you CAN do all of it...but you shouldn't.

Ensuring you break cycles for your kids - whether or not you know how to.

Rewriting history

2026-09-24T00:14:27.953-07:00

I have multiple posts intended in the future strictly dedicated to the letters my father sent me from prison...so stick with me on this post. Also as the trend lately- I had something else completely different planned for this week.

My gut said...stop trying to plan and write about what you're feeling.

Now when it comes to the letters...if I'm being honest...they could be their own website alone.

My years of therapy have turned them into something that I can laugh at or ignore now. But at the time they were incredibly damaging and had me questioning everything about my own existence.

For years, I have been trying to figure out what to do with all the things related to my father. I love tattoos...I already have one that I got while he was still alive...the serenity prayer in cherry blossoms (symbolizing a new start) down my side. It's one of my favorites. Above it a quote that reads "a scar means you were stronger than whatever tried to hurt you."

I still didn't feel done given my history with him. Every time I reread the letters I think to myself how insane it is...and how I can't believe that is truly a part of my life that I survived when I was still a child, and a teenager.

I spent some time and finally created the tattoo that he probably would have been furious over.

All of the things that I love that he has a hand in...
things that remind me of him (and not always in good ways)
...I reclaimed them.

Growing up, we spent every moment he could manage out on the water. He loved "storm chasing" (which yes now I recognize he truly could have killed us). But he loved the big waves and the excitement of it...I remember being relatively terrified despite my intense love for the water.

Honeysuckle flowers...I can smell from miles away. He showed me how to get the "honey" out of them and I will still do it as an adult if I find it. It used to make me sad...but now it's something pleasant that reminds me of simple happy things.

He loved weather, the sunset, the moon...all things outside. In his letters he would draw weird moons and send me torn out photos of storms from the newspaper and sunsets. To this day...and for the rest of my life...sunsets will always remind me of him.

One beautiful things about our brains is we can recondition them...
and I have successfully taken all of those things back for me.

So on the day of his death this year...
I decided to take his words too.

I took them and I changed them.

I took his handwriting in his letters full of hatred and cruel statements...
and I rearranged his words.

I rewrote the past.

My favorite Bible verse is a popular one...Jeremiah 29:11.

I used that verse.
I used the things I have taken back for myself.
And I used his words to create a reminder for myself that I won this battle.

I survived.
I thrived.
And I took the last words he ever said to me and made them beautiful instead.

This story isn't about him anymore.

It's about me.

FYP- 14 years

2026-09-16T22:50:40.537-07:00

Writing lately has become a chore, and I hate that. I have to maintain some kind of schedule or it will never get done. But ever since starting the book I've realized there is a lot of emotional damage that has to be factored into timelines. It's easy to write out a schedule and think "oh this day I'll write about ___."

But then that day comes...and I am exhausted or I can't mentally handle tackling some of the trauma involved.

-Or- I get more information from the internet/family/random records that takes me days to process...let alone recover from or write about.

This story sucks.

Let me be honest.

I spent probably an hour crying on the phone with my mom this time last week because I had this mental realization that we should have been a Netflix documentary. And the ONLY reason we aren't...is because we're still alive and he's not.

It is hard to keep reliving those realizations.

I'm not sure how long it will take me to realize that this IS my life. I DID experience these things. They WERE that insane.

I've downplayed it for so long...when I really get into the depths of it...it makes me sick all over again.

So I am going to make a few statements "outloud" here that will 100% make other people uncomfortable. But they are true...and they are things that I have somehow tried to make less "dramatic" even to myself over the years.

-My father was a sexual predator.
-My father had homicidal tendencies and intentions.
-My father would have killed me, my mother, and other people I love dearly given the opportunity...the second he felt he lost control of us.
-My father intended to kill his girlfriend when he set her house on fire.
-My father was not capable of love, and any time he used that word...it was manipulation.
-My father tortured animals.
-My father encouraged grown men to molest his teenage daughter.
-Nearly every word that ever came out of my father's mouth...was a lie, or a distortion of reality.
-I don't know that I ever once met my father...sober.

14 years ago today I got a call that changed my life.

And in 2 days...it will be 14 years since my father lost his life.

14 years of safety for me and the people I love
14 years of healing
14 years of trying to ignore my own memories
14 years of deciding that hiding the truth is wrong
14 years of wondering how different my life would have been with a dad
14 years of hearing new things I didn't know

It's crazy how 14 years can make it feel like a century...but yesterday at the same time.

And while the politically correct thing to say this week would be "RIP Dad"...

For the sake of myself...and people I love...

"Fuck you Paul" seems a lot more appropriate.

Fight.

2026-09-16T22:16:39.724-07:00

I was supposed to write about flight today.

I decided I wasn't in that kind of mood.

Too much has happened this week...and my brain has been in a full fledged "fight" mode for a long time.

So let's talk about fight, the second trauma response (of four) that I've been discussing.

This one is my favorite if I'm being honest.

Because it requires confrontation.

And if I'm being completely honest with myself...
sometimes I crave confrontation because I had to avoid it for so many long.

I spent so many years swallowing my fear, my anger, my frustration...because it was safer that way.

It was safer for me, it was safer for my siblings...and it was safer for my mom if I just kept my mouth shut.

-Head down.
-Let it happen.
-Don't argue, don't comment, just let it happen.
-Don't risk more harm by fighting, just let it happen.

Most importantly
-Don't get yourself in trouble and gather information so you can fight and get out when it counts.

But I craved confrontation.

I wanted to protect myself from the horrendous things that were happening.

I thought about all the ways I could get out of my situation.

I would lay in my bed at night and think about what would happen if that bastard of a man walked through my bedroom door high out of his mind again.

I slept with a frying pan under my pillow nearly every night we lived in one of the houses.

The surge of full adrenaline that hit me every time that man came within my eyesight...24/7 ready for a fight that might actually get me out forever. In my brain I had equated "getting out" with not having to live there...or dying. Either way- I was out. I had a mental argument with myself constantly over whether it was worth the risk. It either had to be just enough to get out of the house...or enough that he would kill me and I wouldn't have to feel it anymore.

I also recognized that there are some fights you probably won't win...
and I had learned to pick my moments.
My options were getting to safety...or ceasing to exist.

Dad high on cocaine and painkillers?
Probably not your moment.

Dad happy drunk and unpredictable?
Probably not your moment.

Dad in a good mood for an unknown reason and acting way too friendly?
Probably not your moment.

Unfortunately that was my life for a long time.

Until he got sloppy.

I waited. I held my time. I documented what I could.

And then I ran.
I went into flight.

It didn't go well. I hid, called for help, and waited for a rescue.

I learned quickly at 14 that the police weren't going to do a damn thing and I had to deal with the consequences of trying to run. Now dad was the scary calm talking to these people...talking about how I was an issue and he was "so sorry" they had to "deal with my behavior" that night. Meanwhile every time he glanced at me...I could see the black behind his eyes. So I went back to fawn...I apologized, I hid, I placated, I appeased a man that was actively discussing how he wanted to end my life.

Months later...fight kicked in again. It came down to an incident in our home where he detailed how I wasn't going to live through the night...and then he left. He was so confident in the manipulation and control he had over me that I wouldn't do anything if he wasn't there.

He was wrong. I was ready to fight again. I waited...and I called for help again.

I'll give you one guess what the police did this time...

Nothing.

But that fight was heavier this time. It was deep in my gut and I knew I was fighting for my life at this point. No one else was going to.

I also knew you can only push so hard with a psychopath before they snap and you are just the collateral damage. Walking back into that house was only going to end one way.

Fight.
Adrenaline rush.
Immediate response to the threat.

So at 14 I told the police I wasn't going back.
I stood in the street as they tried to argue with me.
And then I threatened to punch a police officer in the face so that they would have to arrest me and throw me in juvenile detention.

Fight.

Hardest part of this trauma response...?

1- keeping yourself alive because some fights can absolutely kill you.

2- learning how to determine which of those fights are worth it.

To this day I have moments in public where I see something happening and I want to insert myself into it because other people DESERVE the basic protection I didn't get. I see things and I want to jump in and intervene.

But I have 6 beautiful kids. 5 of which are still incredibly young and need me.

So do I walk away like all the adults did to me 30 years ago?
Or do I get myself involved and risk myself to *maybe* help someone.

Don't ask my husband. He doesn't like my usual reaction...

Fight.

Isolation only helps evil

2026-09-07T21:00:00.000-07:00

So I actually changed this week's post to this one because my brain needed a damn break. I started getting deep into something and realized I was in no way ready to deal with it on little sleep and hormone waves. Instead I dropped deep into the recent communications I've been getting.

The number of calls, messages, and texts I get every time I start posting again
should be studied.

"I had no idea that was happening." (I mean don't feel bad. The entire county court and child protective services missed it too).
"Girl...are you okay...that's a lot." (Uhhhhh.. That's not even that much. Stop reading for your own mental health...trust me).
"That's not funny though." (Yes. It is. I promise...it took tens of thousands of dollars in therapy for it to be funny...but I promise now it's hilarious sometimes).
"Oh so that's why you're like that." (You actually DON'T EVEN KNOW).
"I think I should have done more for you." (Beauty in this comment...is no one could have. These were things I needed to learn on my own).
"Sometimes I read things you post and I think it is a made up story. I'm not saying you're lying, I don't believe that, but I read it and it surprises me so much that it doesn't seem real." (Welp. I know you know it's real. But the cool part is I also spent the last 12 months gathering all of the court documents I could to prove it).
"I don't get why you keep bringing up all the stuff that doesn't matter anymore. I support you, but I don't get it." (This one pissed me off at first, and then I cooled down. So I will leave it with this. It DOES matter. It matters...because of this dumbass commentary. Someday someone will read this and they will stop hiding...hopefully you won't be there).

And my personal favorite last week:

"Hey- I don't want to be offensive. I went through some things when I was little. Do you use AI or other programs to write your posts or book stuff?" (No, it's not AI. Never has been, never will be. Everything featured here is unfiltered and frustrated me. Sometimes, slightly wine fueled me. Because that's the one time I can trust myself to say exactly what I'm thinking fully).

FOR THE RECORD:

If your message was featured here please don't take it as a bad thing. I'm actually kind of proud that so many people close to me (or not) were clueless as to what was going on. Means I'm pretty badass.

But also. It happened.

Every damn piece of it.

I had to live it.

And I had to heal from it so I could raise my family in a better situation.

I will fully admit in any post or any writing if I don't remember something clearly. I understand the psychology behind trauma and memories (in fact, I studied it specifically). You will see me state that the details are blurry...but what I remember is...

However...there are some things and details that will never leave you.

And unfortunately I have a lot of those when it comes to my father.

I hid way too much for way too long.

It's a large part of the reason I am so damn loud about all the things that happened before.

NO ONE deserves to live hiding the things that I did. No one should feel weird about talking about it to their friends, their family, the person they're dating. I have always been decently vocal about my history...but it wasn't until the last year or so that I have fully opened the flood gates to include everything I can get my hands on. It may be the first or second time we have met...but if it comes up...I'm not hiding details.

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."

What I will say:

And please take this as possibly your last warning. (Family, I'm talking to you).

Things are only going downhill. The worst hasn't even started. In fact, sometimes I'm still struggling to get back to the worst parts of things. I'm not sure I'll ever fully unearth all of it. In fact...I'm relatively certain there are things that I will take my grave.

Please let that be your warning. Because I can't handle your grief over learning these things...on top of the grief and pain that I'm going through to tell the stories in the first place.

I laugh. I write. I make jokes over horrific things. But there is still a toll that it takes. Digging through this stuff is stifling and like 5 therapy sessions all at once.

I can not make you feel better about something I lived.

(I mean don't get me wrong...I will.
But please don't put that responsibility on me).

On a final note...to not end it that way...for everyone else:

If you have a story. Please do tell it. Stop hiding things because they make other people uncomfortable. We all seem to hit this place where we stop talking to make sure that the people around us are comfortable.

Honestly. Think about it. When was the last time you were telling a story and you stopped talking...or diverted because you realized it was maybe getting a little "too dark." Or you changed details to make it easier to stomach to the average Joe?

My final question...

Why do we keep verbally changing what is uncomfortable in our lives
just to make it comfortable for everyone else?

Someone else in the world is experiencing what you are now. And they are terrified to speak. If neither of you ever speak...who will?

Isolation only helps evil.

Bump- Set- 911

2026-08-31T11:30:00.000-07:00

It was 2003.

My mom had just helped me file a 30 day "restraining order" against my father. Aka- an emergency loss of visitation essentially. It was shortly after he had made repeated threats against my life, and had physically hurt me repeatedly (enough to leave marks finally). It was granted, and I was trying to figure out what it meant to be legally involved in ugly things.

I was 12.

I was starting middle school.

I was trying out for the middle school volleyball team before school started.

It was the first week or two that I was able to get away from him. I was living with my mom but I was still always still on edge, expecting him to show up or cause an issue.

I went for a few days of volleyball clinics, was trying to learn and then find a place in life.

A place I really wanted to be...a place I thought I could create a safe environment maybe?

However, much like any other time I felt safe...

while I was in the gym one of those days...in walked my father.

Calling me out of drills and demanding to talk to me.

I believe my mom and I had told the coaches/teachers of the situation when tryouts started, so all I remember is being in the breezeway trying to get out of the conversation and having a teacher step in.

She said that tryouts were closed, and then once she got me back inside, someone called the police. I don't remember who or any of the other specifics...but I remember thinking I would never be safe and would never have a normal life.

Unfortunately, I was relatively correct on that assumption.

I didn't make the team.

Either team to be fair.

I could have been that bad. I doubt it given the 20 years I have played since then...but I recognize that it's possible.

But as an adult...I also see that teachers and coaches wouldn't want that kind of legal liability.

And I understand why.

This is just an excerpt from the pages of testimony my mom and I gave asking to continue the temporary order.

That they denied. Sending me right back to the man that was actively using drugs and abusing me.

Just another piece of my childhood that got ripped out of my hands before I had the slightest chance to experience it.

One more time for anyone tuning in...

When I wrote this, begging the court for help...

I. Was. 12.

And they said no.

First day of school...twice

2026-08-24T11:00:00.000-07:00

August 27, 1996 - my first day of kindergarten

August 29, 1996 - also my first day of kindergarten

I thought this was a fun topic for this week as all kids head back to school (although mine have been back for a few weeks already).

There were a few times in my life that my parents ended up in an argument about my schooling. The biggest fights being in kindergarten and then again in 4th grade. Now to be fair, those "arguments" were typically my mom trying to keep my life stable, and my father moving around to find his baby momma (or landlord) of the year/month.

This one really gets me. My mom (the custodial parent) enrolled me in a private school, our parish (where I was baptized and attended church), after trying to give my father a chance to enroll me near his home. He basically said "no I'm going to do what I want"...

And the courts let him. I thank God that he wasn't allowed to homeschool me, I truly can't wrap my head around what my life would have looked like never leaving that house. It's the abuser's dream...no mandated reporters and a schedule that they can mandate and manipulate.

This excerpt is a very small part of the filing that my mom sent to the court on September 5th...requesting that they intervene so that I could have a stable place to attend school after multiple swaps back and forth.

August 27th...1st day of kindergarten at St. Mary's (and I will say that I actually remember that day). I remember walking into my classroom, and I vaguely remember posing outside the house in my outfit. I remember being happy with my school and feeling excited.

August 29th...1st day of kindergarten at Kirtland (but I don't remember a single moment of it). I remember the rest of the year, and I did have a wonderful teacher...but I don't remember starting there at all.

As for the next few weeks...I don't remember where I went but my gut says I went to both depending on which parent I was with for a week or two? I feel like I went to both and left both a few times (but I can admit that may be the fact that it has been 30 years since it happened so my memory may be skewed).

Not sure that I had some over the top "point" on this post...other than "this is the absolute insanity I was in for 15 years." It felt like an interesting perspective given the first few weeks of school.

Fawn.

2026-08-17T11:00:00.000-07:00

Let’s talk trauma response.
Particularly because it basically explains everything I do on a daily basis.

We all know fight or flight.

How about freeze or fawn?

I want to make this a 4 part series at some point…but I actually started this post to talk about fawn.

Personally- the name pisses me off because it is a baby deer…helpless and unable to fend for themselves.

What I think people forget is that all 4 of these trauma responses can consist at once. One human being can handle situations with all of these different responses.

I pride myself on being an incredibly strong woman that can care for my babies (and others) without needing help for myself. The idea of letting someone else help me sounds great…but I never feel safe enough to let them. If they do help…I then feel so incredibly guilty for letting them that it turns into an entirely different relationship. I will always feel like I owe them something. Meanwhile, I will kill myself to help someone else, and then feel guilty if they try to return the favor.

This response is an issue.

I know it is.

Yet, it is one thing I am still doing every damn day. I am bleeding myself as dry as I possibly can…but when I ask for help I feel so wildly guilty. I would like to say it is just another phase of life…one that we move out of and learn to prioritize ourselves…

But I realize this isn’t a phase of my life.

It’s a personality trait that I have allowed to fully consume me.

I take the act of taking care of other people…and I have turned it into a whole ass personality.

I can’t help you today? Clearly it is a flaw in my own personality.
(It could not possibly be that I am tapped out and wildly exhausted.)

You are frustrated with me or possibly just in a bad mood?
(Definitely my fault and my job to fix.)

I need something, you can’t provide it?
(My fault and I should stop asking for things.)

I want to be clear, I don’t believe the second half of those statements…
it is just what goes through my head constantly.

I do not know how to be mad in an appropriate way. I can make an excuse/a reason/an anything be completely fine if you give me a minute.

It should be an Olympic sport to justify any behavior of anyone around you to make it right or okay…despite the repercussions.

I posted a quote years ago that said:
“I’m drowning, and you’re describing the water”…

I nearly had it tattooed on myself to remind myself that our power resides in ourselves and not in anyone else.

Instead I got...

“fear her, for she walks into fire and smiles.”

Because I didn’t want that tattoo to be about anyone else…only about the fact I will take any horrific situation and tackle it with a smile on my face. Maybe from exhaustion, maybe from anger…but it will get handled…and I will walk into whatever fire sits in front of me with a damn smile on my face.

Fawn.

No boundaries.

Loss of self.

Codependency.

People pleasing.

Chronic empathy.

Why is it that someone else’s bad decisions or lack of action are my responsibility?

I know they aren’t.

But I can also follow that statement up with 35 years of proof of how it’s actually all my fault.
Simply because I didn’t FIX it myself.

Fawn.

Learning curve

2026-08-06T00:27:27.400-07:00

This post for this week ended up being swallowed by the fact I had to adjust the post from last week.

Cheers to the beautiful friend of mine who let me know that despite trying to block out names...they hadn't been successfully blacked out on my last post.

It has since been fixed, but it took me a few hours to figure out why it hadn't worked, and how to fix it.

This week's post has been written, but I haven't had the mental capacity to truly deal with it yet.

Transcripts

2026-07-25T01:33:35.483-07:00

Clearly, it’s been a minute since I got anything on “paper” to post. But things are finally settling-ish…and I wanted to revisit something. Maybe I'm dwelling on it...but it is something that hits me in my soul.

My planned post for today was supposed to be revisiting the gremlins and government spies (you can find that here)…but it changed quickly when I started rereading some of the police reports/transcripts looking for details.

Ironically, what I actually felt pushed to write…follows right in the path of the last few posts...and not at all in line with what I planned.

I have said before, and you will hear it again…

I have had multiple step “mothers” over my lifetime.

Women that primarily chose their safety and their children’s safety

…over mine.

That sounded harsh, I know. But let me clear…I understand the dynamic in the deepest part of my gut.

I am a mother, and I am a step mother.
If I had to choose between my step daughter and my biological children…I couldn’t do it.
It would be no different than asking me to choose between my five bio kids.

They are all mine.
Period.
They are all equally entitled to my protection and love.
In fact…my step daughter existed before my biological kids did…
she has had my heart longer than they have.

So.

Back then…I’m not sure I fully understand what they were going through.

And maybe now I should be a little more patient about it…maybe I should give more grace or consideration for the situations they were in.

However…

I was the only victim without a choice.

My mother fought like hell for 15 years.
Her entire family fought for me.
Parts of my father’s family fought against him for my benefit.

The women I'm referring to...

They chose when they wanted to be with him. They chose when they wanted to be rid of him. They chose whether I was convenient or not.

And to be honest…over 20 years later…it makes me angrier now than it did then.
Because I am a mother, and I am a step mother.

Quite frankly...their behavior as a parent of any kind...is appalling.

Women came into my father's life frequently and prioritized him over me...nearly every time (there is one woman that is an exception to that statement…but unfortunately for me she left him when I was 9-10 years old).

But as healed as I am...I'm still a petty girl...and one that is determined to unearth all of the skeletons in hopes that shaming will require people to be BETTER when it comes to kids.

I fully intend to show every record I can get my hands on.

So...

In honor of those that clearly had no intention of being an actual parent to me…I give you…

The transcripts.

These conversations are edited to remove names etc...but they are between "step mom 2" (the one in my last post)...and my father. It was recorded phone calls over a few months. She references my mother Tricia...and then also my sister's mother (which will be blacked out). All other kid names will also be blacked out. I intend to create a post soon to help navigate who is who going forward.

These ones specifically are the day or so after he attacked her in our driveway. While she carried her son to the car…and I was in the house. He was arrested, and my mother was called to come get me in the middle of the night. (I believe when he said “meet Katharine” it was supposed to be “keep Katharine” for clarification sake).

Tricia (my mom for anyone new here) would feed into what exactly? Protecting her child…from a man that is abusing his live in girlfriend in front of children…and doing a multitude of drugs…?

The window she crawled through because the stove was on…in a house that I lived in. Was there a call to the police? Not that I’ve found. Did she tell my mother to help protect me in the future? Obviously not.

Let's continue...

That blacked out name? One of my other step mothers, the mother of my sister. The one who was currently in court with him over custody to protect my sister.

“Well she won’t find this out.”

She…what?

Let me get this straight. He was abusing her. He put all the kids at risk. He admitted to being high out of his mind on a painful amount of drugs…and she still fully intended to hide this information (that SHE was actually recording) from the mother of one of his other children...

So to be clear…now it’s not just me she didn't give a rat’s ass about…it’s also another child that he hasn’t seen in years…

These are only a few of I’m sure hundreds that exist.

But they make my skin crawl.

My father was actively admitting to doing an entire pharmacy of drugs with me in the house, losing his control and hurting me, hurting her (his fiancé at the time), putting other children in danger (her son)…and then if that wasn’t enough…

HE WAS TALKING ABOUT STILL TRYING TO PICK ME UP…

From my mother, who had to come get me from his house because the police had arrested him for attacking this woman.

He is actively discussing picking me up, after both discussing how my mother is somehow an issue…

WHILE THIS GROWN WOMAN…THIS MOTHER…

Is hiding that he is actively on crack cocaine, oxy, morphine, pot…etc…

But here he is referencing coming to pick me up with all of that in his system...

And they…
are discussing…
socks.

Someone make it make sense.

Please.

Because I can’t…even 21 years later.

Not going to put the child through it?
Which one exactly? Oh right.
Only yours.

The other one that lives there and has been in hell for 14 years?

I mean...

Collateral damage.

Oh wait.

One more fun detail.

These transcripts were before we moved into the new house.

The last post on this blog https://therecoveringskeptic.blogspot.com/2026/06/master-of-manipulation.html were at the house we moved into AFTER these conversations.

So if you happened to read that last post…just know that even after these transcripts…I was still the problem.

But just to clarify after years of therapy and work on myself:
If you read this and feel defensive…you’re the problem.
If you read this and don’t believe me…you’re the problem.
If you read this and are mad at me…you’re the problem.
If you read this and think I shouldn't be posting all of this...you're the problem.

And either way if you don't like it...

Well,
I simply don't give a shit.

Silence is abuse's best friend.

While it was 20 years ago...it happened and no one ever truly had to deal with the full aftermath...

Except me.

(***Note added for all those that were there for me and worked so hard to help me...they were also all victims to the aftermath...and I recognize that truly. But in this situation I am only speaking for myself as a kid that had zero choices).

Update

2026-07-16T03:16:26.707-07:00

For anyone that doesn't have history on me or my family...

I haven't disappeared and I haven't forgotten the 500 things that need to be written and the dates that I need to catch up on. I have an entire calendar of posts that I wanted to finish before life changed drastically.

Clearly, that didn't happen.

Instead...I got next to nothing ready to go (aka only one post scheduled that went out right as intended)...

and I haven't touched anything else in 1-2 months.

The reality is...my entire family just moved to Hawaii!!!

Wildly exciting and an entirely different direction than the intention of this page...so I will leave it mostly at that. I was really hoping to get ahead while waiting for the move and have things ready to go through when I wasn't able to write...but again...that didn't happen. I did most of that move myself...for 7 people...and I am exhausted...still living off of rental furniture and a suitcase of clothing since May.

HOWEVER

My goal is to get back on track for August.

Hold tight. More to come. And hopefully this time I'll have enough mental space to schedule things FAR in advance so it doesn't fall to the stress and time constraints of being a mom of 5-6.

Here's Hawaii. Simply because I still can't believe I live here...

Master of manipulation

2026-06-01T19:41:39.195-07:00

On episode 2 of: “step moms that didn’t give a damn”

(I want to be clear that now as a grown ass woman I can see this "step mom" was a child and clearly had no idea what was going on around her. But what I can not forgive is her fully allowing abuse and not saying a word and/or defending the man abusing his daughter.)

She was only 11 years older than I was…
and at the time I was in fact…11.

My father...was 44.

You can totally do that math yourself.

I had already survived more than she could comprehend at this point
...and was dealing with a constant battle of trying to keep him happy while trying to get out of his home.

She had a son…and he was my little brother.
They then had a baby as well.

I couldn’t walk away if I wanted to because I loved those little boys.

In fact, my father used them all the time to gaslight me into coming back to his house.

There is truly no guilt or weight that compares to that feeling.

The feeling of an older sibling trying to protect little kids in this kind of situation.

Especially when the older sibling can't even protect herself.

However, this post is only about one thing to be honest.

It's about her response to me going to file a domestic violence report for the first time when I left his house on a weekend that she witnessed small parts of.

The specific situation was from him hurting me earlier in the week (you can find all of that here). Police report included photos of my bruised and swollen head. She wasn't there...but I have no doubt she knew something had happened.

She made a report on his behalf discussing her interpretation of the weekend (can we please address one more time that she was not there during any of the time frames...)

This “step mom” also continuously caught him using drugs and got him on tape admitting to drug use and abuse (around me).

Literally. Let that part sink in please.

I hugged her. So clearly, I was fine.

That’s not even the best part.

This post was meant to showcase another human that had a chance to help me…but chose not to.

Here was her take on the overall situation…

DESPITE THERE BEING PHYSICAL EVIDENCE MATCHING EXACTLY WHAT I SAID HAPPENED.

Clearly...

This was all on me.

I was wrong.

I was manipulative.

I was the grand puppet master of everyone around me…at 11-12 years old.

It couldn't possibly have been the psychopathic drug addict involved.

I was worried about chores.

Not pure survival.

They never leave a mark

2026-05-25T19:11:24.263-07:00

They never leave a mark.

The truly talented abuser doesn’t leave evidence.

They terrify you on a deeper level…and they minimize the physical damage (or the actual evidence).

They make you feel crazy and like you can’t breathe without setting off a bomb.

My father was a true professional when it came to abuse without marks. If I had a mark…it was only earlier in the week or when he had extended time. The scrapes/bruises were usually gone or well faded before I had to switch houses again the next Sunday/end of vacation.

I kept most of the instances to myself because I didn’t want to tell anyone without proof. It would only hurt the people that loved me, or risk a report being filed that would only make things worse.

However, in August of 2003…

he finally messed up.

A lot of the times he would get mad at me, it would come out of nowhere and wouldn’t fully make sense. He would fly into a rage over something small and then it would only escalate. This day...the conversation had gone to me and biting my nails...something that infuriated him (ironic, given the anxiety the man gave me every moment of my life)

It was a Thursday afternoon…we had been out to lunch on the boat. He was yelling at me and I was just letting him, not trying to argue. He went on about how I had been lying to him about it (how I’m not sure given it was pretty easy to see) and was screaming at me. He got progressively angrier and told me to sit on the floor of the boat. It was an open boat…so I sat on the opposite side from the steering wheel facing him with my back against the side. I remember very clearly (I can still see the house we were passing when I sat down) thinking that if I had to I could just jump off and swim if he got too insane.

To be fair...I had that thought a lot…
frequently when he was aiming the boat at large pilings at full speed.

Anyways…I sat down and he would occasionally slow the boat down to scream at me…and then take off again. He eventually worked himself up so aggressively that he slowed the boat completely, moved towards me, and kicked a life jacket at me on the floor. His foot was still in contact when it hit my face…and it slammed my head into the side of the boat. I fought like hell to not react, because that was the only thing you could do to avoid a further consequence.

Friday and Saturday things remained mostly calm. His current girlfriend came over, we went back out on the boat. To be perfectly honest...I don’t remember a whole lot of specifics from those next days.

However, Saturday night, he got angry again and our conversation turned. I got too confident and made a comment about him kicking me in the head. He denied it and he started threatening me again. I told him to stay away from me or I would call the police. His response was telling me that I wouldn’t be able to call 911 with the ropes I would be tied in.

Again...I have no idea how the night ended. Probably like most of the arguments where I would just stop talking and avoid him until he went to bed.

The following day was Sunday and it was the start of my mom's week. She showed up at the house per the usual visitation schedule, I grabbed my stuff, and said my goodbyes. I got in her car and immediately unraveled with everything that had happened.

Without hesitation, she drove directly to the police station and we filed my first domestic violence report.

For possibly the first time...officers actually listened.
I had proof.

To my luck...
the bastard had left a mark
...3 days later.

Not child abuse

2026-05-18T20:39:30.104-07:00

Let’s start with one of my favorite excerpts that I got to enjoy while going through court records last month.

Anyone that has followed this page from the beginning knows that my father had lots of “fiancees” “baby mommas” whatever you want to call them. There was never NOT a woman “seriously” dating him. There was also never a lack of other women around in general. To this day, I’m not entirely sure I know how many children he has, or how many we don’t know about.

(Which by the way, is exactly why I won’t ever do one of those DNA kits).
I don’t have the mental capacity to know who else was wrapped into all of this without my knowledge (and maybe without theirs).

Let’s not go ruining innocent people’s lives when they find out their father was a psychopathic arsonist.

But this quick clip is a court document where my “step mom of the year” was testifying that I wasn’t being abused.

Wasn’t.
Being.
Abused.

“Gives her chores around the house for days at a time when he is angry with her.”
(I was 9-10 by the way.)

“Sent Katharine from a restaurant because she wasn’t cutting her lettuce correctly.”

“Told her to shut up when the child was excited about a school event.”

My favorite personally…

“Shoved food into Katharine’s mouth until her cheeks were bulging because she was not eating. The food had been sitting around for awhile and the child threw up all night.”

Let me be clear.

As a mother.

And a step mother.

If my significant other threatened my children or put my children in danger…I would get myself killed protecting them. There is not a single thing on this planet that could stop me. And to be clear…since none of my step moms really understood it…

That includes my daughter.
The one I took on the second I dated and married her father.

I didn’t get that. I was disposable to every single one of those women. I was a babysitter and “his daughter.” I had all of the responsibility for my younger siblings…but none of the protection and unconditional love I deserved from the adults.

The more I look back on it and think about how hurt I was and how hard I tried to make everyone happy…the angrier I get.

I was actively drowning…and they were critiquing my swimming.

At least it wasn’t “child abuse.”

Hi, I'm Katt the cactus

2026-05-04T20:53:00.000-07:00

Just occurred to me that there are going to be new people on this page that haven’t followed my story over the last 15 years. So let’s do a little introduction here (you can also go back and read posts if you want…I’ll link some here to help you navigate the “big stuff”).

My name is Katt.

I’m a mom to 6...
and the daughter of a psychopathic drug addict (literally).

Wildly long story condensed into a few sentences:

I lived with him on and off for 15 years.
He loved drugs…and loved getting women pregnant.
He was a stalker, he was abusive, and he was also the nicest guy you had ever met.
I am his only child that spent any actual time with him (despite my mom spending decades fighting to save me from the crazy).
He died in prison, after setting his girlfriend’s house on fire (his girlfriend…who was barely older than me).

I’ve seen some shit I wish I hadn’t. I have been through stories that people assume I am making up. But I recently got ahold of most of the records from back then, which prove everything I have been saying for years.

They also expose a lot of people for exactly who they are…enablers of abuse.
Abusers themselves.

I got sick of fighting like hell for my own mental health, while the people that hurt me got to walk around guilt free behaving like nothing happened…or acting like I was being “dramatic.”

I’m done with that.

So I finally started the book I have been spitballing for as long as I can remember.
The real story of Paul.

The details of every human that couldn’t be bothered to protect a little girl from a
severely
mentally ill
psycho.

I’ve done a lot of healing.

I am a wildly different person than I was even when this page was started.
I don’t fake happy anymore.

I’m not afraid to say what I think and I found a way to turn my anger/hurt into something productive and healing.

I consider myself to be a cactus.

Surviving on minimal water
as much sun as possible

...and I'm cool looking.
until you get too close.
Provoke me...

and I will stab you.

I'm kidding...
kind of.

ACTUALLY...I’m a social worker now when I’m not being a mom…because our court systems are total shit, and I am sick of children having to hold the burdens of dumbass adults. I am a huge advocate of the “war on drugs” because I have watched so many lives get leveled by addiction.

SO...

if anything you’ve read in this short time bothers you…
probably a good time to check out and not read anymore.

Definitely don’t read the book when it comes out. But if not…check some of this other stuff out. The upcoming months will be details/stories/things that will be covered in the book.

The Recovering Skeptic

He Burnt My House Down

Drugs and Strip Clubs

Front Page

Gremlins, Knives, and Government Spies

Do You Remember the 20^th Night of September

Life In Prison

There’s a lot to read. You can pick and choose.

There will be a lot more when this book launches. So catch yourself up now. <3

Legacy

2026-04-27T18:11:00.000-07:00

Round 75 of me saying "I'll write more now" or "I'm back!"

Except this time I'm back with news...and a whole lot of entertainment.

I have removed a lot of posts, refocusing on why this blog was started.

Paul's "legacy" (for lack of a better term) is in the works. I have spent the last few months requesting police records, reading through thousands of pages of court documents...and starting to write the stories of my paternal nightmare.

Life update- because I feel like it matters for anyone that has followed this from the beginning of my rantings 15 years ago (what?!).

Next month is 10 years married. 6 kids. (Yes we got surprised by twins since our last post). We've lived in Ohio, Virginia, Texas, and soon to be Hawaii. We've been through some stuff.

But other than the million kids...this book has been my focus for a few months now. I have found stories that I forgot about, I have read through documents that made me want to throw things. I have lost the tiny bit of faith I used to have in the court system.

So now I'm unloading it for all of you.

I named this blog the recovering skeptic for a reason. I'm always working on recovery...I'm always trying to deal with the hell that was my earlier life. I will never not be.

I write for me. And I write for other people going through these things...whether it be kids/teens currently in it, or adults that are trying to process their own trauma. I also want to hold the world, and all of the people that chose to throw me to the wolf over and over again...accountable.

So everything in those public records...is about to be painfully public.

"May the odds be ever in your favor."

If I lost you over the years...tune back in. Please. This is gonna be good.

Stop pretending

2021-02-24T22:35:00.001-08:00

It's funny...it's only been 6ish weeks since I posted about turning this year into a thankful year.

And to be clear, I don't in any way take that back.

Let's pause and just adore that tiny face before we keep going.

I need a little "happy" tonight. And this is it.

But I will say that I feel this strange urge to write on the nights that I am struggling. I don't think to write when I'm thankful and happy and in pure bliss. But I NEED to write when I am hurting or need to unload some of the thoughts that are exploding in my head.

Which is what brings me to write tonight. I am having a night that has both of those things. Tonight I was hiking with my kids and my husband...and I was so thankful as we walked. I took all these pictures of my beautiful family walking along a beautiful path with the moon coming up...and I was just so happy with my life.

Multiple times I fell into this bliss and just thought to myself "this is how it is supposed to be."

Then we got home...and they all went to bed.

And my thoughts started again.

The overwhelming anxiety, the tears for no reason...the definition of this beautiful mental illness that has been in my life for nearly as long as I can remember.

I can laugh one minute...I can joke around and truly be happy...just to have this crazy dread shock me out of it 5 minutes later. It makes no sense. The attacks have been coming more frequently lately...even when driving around for happy things. With my beautiful kids, my amazing husband...and suddenly I can't quite breathe right.

None of this is easy.

Not having a dad really fucking sucks sometimes.

And that is something that I can't really put into words efficiently.

My mother is truly perfect. My family is everything to me. But not having an actual father to be there when I could use it...takes more out of me than I can admit sometimes. I like to pretend I function fine without him. But while I can function...it truly wrecks me.

I deserved more. My mom deserved more. My kids deserve more.

We have AMAZING months coming. A partial family vacation, a honeymoon, a move for all of us...

But some nights it is just plain hard.

And really sad.

I know it's gonna get better.

And tomorrow will be easier.

But it's okay to say...it's hard right now.

I can be nice or I can be honest when I write.

And when I was struggling even more than I am now...I read a lot of blogs and a lot of posts. Of people pretending to be okay. Pretending to be honest. It did me zero favors to read how "great" they were doing.

Sometimes you're not okay.

And being honest about that is the only way to make it better someday.

I'm good. I'm happy.

But I am struggling.

And it's okay to not be okay.

Moving on 2021

2021-01-03T18:25:00.001-08:00

If you pay any attention to this page...you know I have desperately struggled to write the last few years.

I spent a very long time being sad. Struggling with emotions, and not knowing how to deal with the feelings that were wrecking my mental health. Nearly 20 years of my life were spent trying to process the things that were happening around me.

Today...I don't have to try and process nearly as much. I have my bad days. These last few weeks actually have been chock full of my father in my memories and in my dreams. It has been exhausting, my anxiety has been in overdrive...and I have struggled.

But as I looked at social media memories today compared to my current life...I was so thankful. I realized that when I take a step back and look at where my life has gone...it has changed more than I ever thought possible.

So I am going to try and take this blog in a new direction so that I can start writing more.

I will never sugar coat things. I will never pretend that hard things aren't hard.

The first 15 years of my life were painful...physically and mentally.
Marriage at 19, divorced by 21...in an ugly situation.

Excessive trauma from a drug addict parent...and then his death.

The last 2 years...nearly impossible. Deployment on crack, a house sale. Moving. Parenting alone.

The last 2 months...reintegration, a cancer scare, and a miscarriage.

Yet here we stand. And when I look at my life on a day to day basis...I am so thankful. When I see my husband and kids together...I tear up. I am relieved. My life isn't anything that I thought it would be...it is better. It is real. The daily REAL...is exactly what I needed.

The new direction is simply "thankful."

It's not just surviving trauma.
It's thriving from trauma.

It's living the life that you didn't want...and creating the life that you dreamed of.

Yes.

Dreamed of.

Life will never be perfect. But if you do it right...it is sooo damn good.

This year has rocked worlds.

But this world is so much better.

Stay tuned for finding positivity in "hard." Because in fact...in can be done.

War on drugs

2020-09-28T18:55:00.000-07:00

I hear the term "war on drugs" a lot. Very very frequently actually. Especially given the degree I am pursuing. People have a lot of opinions on this war this country is fighting. Well, that the world is fighting.

I want to be sure to preface this entire post with the fact that I completely understand the thought process behind "ending" the war on drugs. I truly do. There are a lot of things that aren't working, and things are being criminalized that shouldn't be. There are lives being ruined because of criminal charges that may not be justified.

I get it.

But. There is another side to that.

My side.

Drugs ruined my family.

A few stupid white and brown substances tore my family apart piece by piece.

They killed my father.
They destroyed every chance at healthy relationships.
They took away a grandfather.
They caused mental illnesses.
They shattered any sense of normalcy.

They TRULY ruined lives. So many lives.

I wish the person that provided my father with his drugs could be charged. I wish they could at least see the extent of the damage caused by their choices.

I don't blame them. My father had a choice and he could have gone elsewhere. But he didn't.

On that same note...I also wish my father had been charged earlier. It makes me physically ill to think of the amount of people he supplied drugs to. To think of the ways he behaved around me and other people's children. The dangerous choices he made that could have killed me or anyone else around him.

If he had been charged, or formally held in a facility...he might have stood a chance.

Maybe not.

But he might have.

It might have been the one thing that got his attention. No "suspended" jail sentences. No mercy. Just straight into lockdown and then to rehab. Forced psychological treatment.

SOMETHING.

If back then this "war on drugs" had been anything like it is now...I might still have a father.

Maybe not.

But I might.

It's something I choose not to think about frequently because we have to deal with life as it is given to us. We have to "accept the things we can not change." We can not dwell on the things that "could be."

But for just a second when you think about how bad this war on drugs is in your opinion...

Think about those "might" circumstances.

Because those MIGHTS would have changed so many lives.

Lives like mine.

Just stop.

2020-02-19T20:17:00.003-08:00

It's been a rough week.

One where I felt about 10 times my actual age.

It's hard to be the "mean" one. The one that says things that people don't want to hear.

But it comes with the territory.

You come from this past where you are so painfully aware of everything you do and the decisions you make. You have over-analyzed every part of you (and so have a lot of professionals). And suddenly you start to see your qualities in other people.

I went to school for psychology. I spent a lot of time in trauma and the aftershock.

And it's nice to be self aware. It's nice to be a good source of advice for a lot of people. But it's also incredibly exhausting. Because no one wants to hear the hard stuff.

So be nice. Listen to those that love you. Chances are they are really just trying to make sure you're ok.

Return address: Inmate number 1439493 Pinellas County Jail

2020-02-11T21:46:00.004-08:00

My best friend of over 10 years came over the other night for girl chit chat. The conversation turned into a conversation about my dad...and she told me that I had never told her the story. Other than what she had read or seen on social media...she really had no idea what happened to him/with him.

To be honest...my jaw kind of hit the floor. I couldn't believe that I hadn't talked about it at some point over the years. How crazy...the thing that essentially defines who I am today...and I had never talked about it.

So we got to talking. I explained the stalking, the abuse, the fire...

I pulled out old letters that I haven't looked at in years. The letters from jail that my father sent for over a year before he died.

Something crazy? I forgot how bad they were.

I had truly talked my brain into thinking that the letters were...a little delusional? That maybe I had overreacted to what they said.

But let me tell you something. I was more horrified than I was years ago. I was disgusted by not only the things my 19 year old self was told by her FATHER...but the fact that I had somehow brainwashed myself into thinking that what he said "wasn't that bad."

It was horrible.

Suddenly the feelings rushed back. I started to wonder if maybe I was all the things that he said. Maybe I was the one with all of the problems...maybe I needed professional help like he said so many times in his letters.

But then I read them again.

And again.

I watched the handwriting change from sentence to sentence. I watched my father's thoughts go from "let me be there for you and help you" to "you are disgusting and worthless." My FATHER.

I watched him threaten suicide in the same sentence of saying he wished I had picked up the phone earlier in the day because he wanted my voice to be the "last thing he ever heard." Yet I was the manipulative one...

Suddenly...I am grateful that I kept all of those letters. I am grateful that I have a reminder that I didn't make up the things that I went through. I'm not crazy. I'm not dramatic.

I was abused.

Point blank.

Period.

I was emotionally ransacked.

I was taught at a very young age that I wasn't enough...

and that I couldn't trust anyone...even my own family.

I was taught to second guess the people I was supposed to be able to trust.

These are things that may never go away. I question everything. I worry at the drop of a hat. I am a control freak when it comes to my family and knowing that they are okay. I am constantly convinced that people are mad at me and don't want me.

The slightest chance of conflict and I am hyper aware of my relationships.

But at the same time...I also continue to stand for those that can't stand for themselves. Because NO woman, wife, girlfriend, DAUGHTER...should ever read things like this from someone who is supposed to love her.

Someone who CLAIMS to love her.

This...

Is not love.

I've wondered why I am the way that I am sometimes. It's hard to deal with a constant anxiety and stress that I don't understand. PTSD is a real bitch.

But this is why.

My father was right about one thing.

"Holding hate is like swallowing fire."

So I refuse to hate. Even if it takes me every day...and even if I have to remind myself on a constant basis that I am not that person he made me out to be. I won't hate him. I will be disappointed and I will never forget the things that happened. But I won't hate him. Because it's only hurting me.

And I refuse to let him be right.

2020 and new beginnings

2020-02-11T20:28:00.002-08:00

It's been a year. We welcomed our 3rd daughter into this world. We dealt with deployment starting and turning our family into a walking disaster. I had surgery and a long recovery. I finished one graduate program, and started another.

We fought hard through this past year. Incredibly hard. Nothing has been quite what we wanted it to be. The second we thought everything was getting better...a huge part of our family was pulled away for over a year.

But we are coming into the home stretches (well...kind of...a girl can dream). Soon our entire family will be back hand in hand.

I have a little more time these days. Time to get my mind back together, and time to get back to writing and sanity. It's been way too long.

Mutually exclusive

2019-04-23T20:36:00.000-07:00

I have been struggling lately...in case that wasn't already clear.

Everything is flying around so quickly right now, I can't quite see straight.

One second I feel like I have everything together. I am organized and ready to take on the world. I am confident and proud. The next minute...I can't pull myself out of bed because I truly don't know how to do the things that all need to be done.

I feel like a crap mom. I yell so much. I am frustrated 99% of the time. I WANT to go do fun things with my kids...but I can't shake the feeling of "xyz" needs to be done before I do fun things.

I HATE seeing the posts on Facebook and social media about "they are only young once" etc. I get that. I am painfully aware that I am going to miss these moments later. I hate every day that things are so up in the air and that I don't get to spend all of the time that I want to with them.

The kids have been going with my mom once a week. The first week I still had munchkin with me and the two little ones were gone for the night. I spent some time with a few friends but also got a lot done around the house. This past week I was completely alone in our house. For probably the first time ever. I had SO much to do. Homework, revising my graduation speech, cleaning, cooking, grocery shopping, working out...everything was falling apart.

But instead...I went home and had a few drinks. I DANCED around the kitchen for probably an hour. I blasted music louder than I have in years. To the point I kind of worried that it was too loud for neighbors. I got down to some Destiny's Child and some Nelly.

And for just a little bit...I kinda felt like me again.

I didn't get enough done. And I'm paying for that this week. REALLY paying for it. My to do list got longer. My "completed" list got shorter. My sleep schedule got even more screwed up.

But. I. Felt. Like. Me.

I need to remember how important that is. I spent so many years of my life focusing on other people and how they affected me. I spend all of my time now finding ways to take care of my kids and my husband. I work, I run a household, I go to school so that I can financial provide more later...I kill myself on a regular basis. To the point that it may be somewhat self destructive.

I need to learn to take more of those moments. Moments where there are a thousand things to do...but I just need some "me" time. There were 15 years where I didn't have any control over my life. I was in a situation that stopped me from choosing anything for myself.

Then I got married and again was in a situation where I didn't know who I was anymore.

I got out...for the first time in my life I was my own person. I spent a year figuring myself out and growing from my experiences. I had FUN. No holds barred...I worried about ME. I smiled more. I blasted music more. I danced around and didn't give a damn who it bothered.

And then things changed. For the better. I found a person I wanted to spend my life with...TRULY spend my life with. We traveled, we built a home together, we had children.

My identity changed. I wasn't the abused kid anymore. I wasn't the teen divorcee anymore.

I was a wife.

I was a mother.

This funny thing happens when you become a mother. It quickly becomes your identity instead of PART of your identity. It consumes you faster than you have a chance to realize it.

These tiny humans become every part of you.

And that has to stop sometimes.

You will never not be obsessed and completely in love with your babies (hopefully).

You will never be the person you were before.

You will never do anything without thinking about them.

You will never sleep normally again.

You will never stop worrying.

But you have to find time to remember that you were something before they existed. That person is still there and still needs attention.

You have to love on your relationships. All of them.

Relationships with your kids.

The relationship with your spouse.

But also the relationship with YOURSELF.

I'm still me.

And I'm still mom.

They aren't mutually exclusive.

February

2019-02-25T20:44:00.004-08:00

February has been a horrendous month for this household.

There are a lot of things going on that we can't really talk about. We are fine, kids are fine...just a lot of stress that is exhausting. Sometimes it feels that you finally start making progress, and then all hell breaks loose.

It's not one big thing...just a lot of little things that are piling together and getting overwhelming.

I was feeling really overwhelmed tonight. Angry about some of our circumstances, exhausted, and sad about things I can't control.

I've been binge watching Grey's Anatomy and an episode came on about a couple losing their baby. They had no control over their situation and there was nothing they could do to help their own child.

I cried watching it...but it also reminded me to be incredibly thankful. Not only for being out of the circumstances I used to be in...but also for these tiny humans. I was given the things I never thought I would get.

And even in my worst moments...I have to remember that they are my "why."

Today was a bad day

2019-02-14T20:11:00.002-08:00

Tire wall was punctured. Big bill.

Dogs were attacked by a neighbor's wandering dog in our yard.

Kids were crabby. Sleep was nonexistent.

But I was reminded of something really important today.

I have had the same doctor for over 20 years...and she is now the doctor for my husband and our kids as well. From the day they are born...she sees us all.

At baby's one month appointment today...our doctor got emotional. She started talking about how she had been thinking about how my life had changed...and how amazing things were finally getting. She saw me through hell with my father. She saw me through infertility struggles. She saw me through a nasty divorce...and a subsequent few years of depression.

But then she saw me meet the man I then married. She saw us bring two beautiful girls into this world. She saw us succeed, finish school, and plan for a future.

On a terrible day...she changed my perspective. She reminded me that things have been so terrible in the past...and that they are so amazing now. She reminded me that I am beyond blessed and have more than I ever thought I would have.

But she also showed me yet again that there are more people in our lives that love us. More than I realize sometimes.

We are so very very lucky.

Today was a bad day. But it is a really good life.