It is with the gravest of a sadden heart I bring you this breakfast. The news on Facebook is so damaging, I am at a loss of words.
Let me prepare you breakfast to ease my pain. There are no more tears. The well has run dry in that department – for that man. The repulsive vile and villainous acts cannot be undone nor repaired.
Understand that I am a woman that would make sure you are getting all your vitamins. God, I miss vitamins. I miss Super Seed. I miss my B-vitamins. I miss being able to run.
I see myself living on some remote island or hard to reach house where provisions must be shipped, or a boat from town, or someplace where no one can harm me anymore. Where I am free to make my own mind, have my own things, and allowed the friends I do and do NOT want in my life.
The truth is I no longer can see a man sharing a life with me. Sharing a life with me in the flesh. The truth is that vision and ideal of marriage with a man who loves me, ugly that I am, ugly legs and all, the horror story of my stomach left me once and for all with the realization that “Edison” was in a bodysuit, skinsuit, strapped on mechanical dong, with someone in his ear telling him what to say, it is such a violation a part of me left me instantly with the knowledge. Instantly. Everyone knew too. Since, I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote, and spoke and spoke and spoke and spoke in my head about it ever since.
I am the ONLY one telling the truth.
I am the only one telling the truth.
Every other person. Every person involved since The Container Store – HAS LIED.
I will not be eating with you on this one, my heart and mind are sick with grief and sadness.
Breakfast: I miss fresh food. Real food. Food that is alive. I was thinking of making a fruit salad of chopped mangos, papaya (good enzymes in both of those), honeydew melon, cantaloupe, strawberries, pineapple (anti-inflammatory properties and enzymes), and blueberries. Some lemon juice and real grated coconut mixed. It might need a little sweetness to bind it all together. Then, to balance those flavors some fresh baked bread I made full of whole grains. Real butter, strawberry jam, and bacon. To make it a little different I wondered what it would taste like to take freshly cooked bacon, then place it on a baking dish drizzle honey over it, then cook it in the oven a bit until the honey crisped. Sound good? A pot of rich delicious coffee served in my Irish coffee pot. Cream and sugar, as always.
I cannot be made to change my taste in coffee because of an album. That is not how it works. I believe the artists who created the album are smart enough to understand the distinction without emotion or upset.
While you are eating, let me share with you. My devastation it seems, knowns no bounds.
While working at Disney the first time, DKW called me at least once a month. I remember him telling me about MySpace. When I went to look him up, to find out where he was in his life, I found his YouTube videos he had made with his girlfriend. One video was of DKW killing his girlfriend. It ended with her bloody body on the kitchen floor. Somewhere in the video there was an iPhone. It is the most I remember of the video. What I gleaned from the Facebook hearings – if this is correct – then, David Kahit Wolfe purposefully set out to violate my right to bear and have natural children.
David Kahit Wolfe took away, stole from me the ability, the right to have natural children. To have children naturally.
It is so painful to read this that I cannot cry, or scream, get angry, or yell. It is beyond words.
I am so appalled, so devastated.
To further compound my grief, it appears that the only reason this information has become public is by an outside entity. It does not appear that Facebook would have willingly shared or admitted anything otherwise, nor would DKW.
The loss this information brings to me comes at the expense of hearing his name whispered to me while I was in the hospital with my mother. Whispered, I believe, by God.
I am sickened, sickened, sickened, sickened, sickened, sickened, sickened, sickened, sickened.
No longer will I meet half way, speak to him, or in any way believe in him. He has had plenty of opportunity to speak to me too, he has chosen not to.
Enough is enough.
If that was DKW I saw while driving, then heard in my head that he loved me and looked to the radio – I will never believe him again. It is beyond impossible, as I hear shouting outside my window as I write.
It is beyond impossible.
There are no words, no apology, no money, no restoration of my life that can bring back what DKW has taken and stolen from me. Stolen.
Years of my life – gone.
My mother – gone and dead. Taken from me. Dead and buried while I was not able to be there because no one told me until well after the fact, so it could be filmed.
Tuesday and Thursday.
I am sickened. Sick. Sick. Sick.
How does a man get to do this to a woman?
How does anyone get to do this to another person?
How can it be stopped from anyone ever doing it again?
Banging and slamming of doors underneath me, cars revving past me as I write.
Sick. I am sick with the news.
Let me share of psychological abuse:
- They made me go to court, say and write about my brother. Say I was a victim, yet I have no alternative but rely on my brother as a means of financial support.
- They do not allow me to go running in the daylight because it is too difficult for the Bluetooth to hear my thoughts.
- I have no choice but to hear the voices at lunch time and earlier, yet because of it somebody broke into my home and destroyed property and my toilet paper.
- While watching Brothers the first time, I don’t know how to describe it since I am unable to know everything that takes place. Yet, while watching Brothers the first time, my guess is whoever was wearing the glasses and helmet while I was in my home, sent me into the outer reaches. My beer and food were dosed and drugged. Unable to remember parts of the movie, they sent my brain into someone else’s mind with the drugs. It was traumatic. It was a deadening of my soul.
- A similar event took place when I recently had to turn off the news from my computer. Whomever was in charge or had the helmet on did damage, I have yet recovered from. I am uncertain it is retrievable. It was as if a part of my brain shut-down, snapped, broke off, dumbed me down, it was a terrible, tragic, traumatic event. Where is the worker’s compensation for that?!
- These so-called rules that CANNOT apply since none apply. These “rules” do not follow straight across the line. They do not have any logic to them. One cancels out the other, yet still somebody manages to violate my sanctum. It is terminable. I have done nothing wrong.
I will not stop asking for the female father to be denied access, let go of responsibilities, and terminated.
No one understand the precision, the carefulness, the delicacy of the gray matter in a brain. What doctor do I get to go to for help with this?!
The breaking off of bits of MY BRAIN?! That is destruction that cannot be calculated.
In the midst of this I would interrupt to share arming teachers IS THE DUMBEST THING I HAVE EVER HEARD!!! It is not in any way a solution to a psychological problem and fracture within our society.
I had some of the most interesting teachers in middle school. My math teacher, I do not recall his name, however the rumor around school was that he was not a teacher for the salary. He was a wealthy man by family means, but he wanted to teach. He chose to teach 7th and 8th grade math. Can you imagine? What person wants to teach middle school. Such a difficult age. I remember he had a permanent and a permanent tan from a tanning bed. He is the only teacher I know who wore parachute pants. It was the 80’s. It was the best I have ever done in mathematics. Because of him.
I have a theory about maths, perhaps from him that math has a rhythm to it, I can see it in my head. Like a language or music – there is a rhythm I see.
Mr. Haines my history teacher, who the year previous had taken a sabbatical for a year in Egypt. He too had a perma-tan, who started every class with a joke. Both he and my math teacher were my favorites.
My language arts teacher who used to be a former model who wore revealing and see-through tops to class. I remember thinking at the time, what is wrong with her? I got an A on a speech I gave that I delivered my own way without the help of a strict out-line and notes. I brought the entire class to laughter. I made a joke about pee, I was middle-school after all. I had the entire speech as I wanted it to be in my head, and that is what I did in front of the entire class. A.
Mrs. Weitzel who mistakenly sent me to a remedial reading class that lasted, one class. I was sent back to regular class after one class. Being able to read and reading comprehension are two different things, and a teacher should know that.
My principle who liked me if not adored me.
My drama teacher who danced with me around the quad like the King and I – not in any way bad or sexual or perverse. Because it was a moment. Toy Shop. I was in the play Toy Shop then.
Can you imagine what that teacher’s lounge must have been like in the early 80’s?! That’s a television show.
Arm teachers?! Give teachers weapons to use in class?! Dumbest thing I have ever heard!
What the FUCK ever happened to the notion of community and small business?!
Get the FUCK back to grass-roots and a difference WILL BE MADE!
It is a proven fact that works. Face to face conversations. Real and true stories shared. That is what works.
I cannot believe this took me nearly four hours to write.
Enjoy your breakfast.
Perhaps one day I will truly be able to cook for you.
Be well, my men.