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LJIdol: Week 14 [Jul. 10th, 2014|05:52 pm]
[Current Mood |tiredtired]

I've often wondered how to define myself. I'm a social worker who is mentally ill. I have been both client and therapist. In many ways, the role of therapist is one I fall into with more ease. I'm not vulnerable when helping someone else. However, when I'm the client, I feel torn wide open, nothing hidden, my every thought, feeling and action called into question.

For the past fifteen years or so, I stayed out of therapy. Now though, as my agoraphobia worsens, I find myself sitting on a couch in a small office with a man I refer to as the "Nervous therapist". He knows a great deal, but isn't the world's greatest communicator. It takes him several minutes to put what's in his head into words. He's not intimidating, which is a huge plus for me.

He wants to get to the root of my fear. He asks me for answers I've never had. I delve as deeply as I can with limited success. My brain holds many secrets, and it doesn't seem to be willing to release them easily.

For an hour a week, I sit on the couch, responding to the questions he asks. It's the only time all my inner walls are down. I feel transparent and afraid. Do I fear the transparency? I suppose I do, but, without it, I don't know if my illness will ever be something I can managed. I know it will never leave me completely. Asking for such would be unrealistic. After all, fear has been my constant companion for the past thirty years. All I can ask for is a way to manage it. Perhaps that's what I'll find on the couch of the Nervous Therapist.

This is my entry for week 14 of:

Thank you for taking the time to read. It's always appreciated, even if I don't manage to respond to every comment.

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LJIdol: Week 12 [Jun. 19th, 2014|02:06 pm]
[Current Mood |amusedamused]

Yes. Yes. I know you want to hear about monkeys, but I'm far superior to any monkey you're likely to encounter. Therefore, I feel it is my duty to explain the concept of feline fun.

Hmmmm. I suppose I should introduce myself first. After all, it will benefit you to know who I am. I'm called Winter Solstice Cat, the only cat with initials. I have lived for a decade with my slave. I've managed to outlast some dogs and some other humans. I am permanent. Everyone else is just temporary. People and dogs would do well to realize this.

Okay! It's time to talk about fun. I'll give examples, since I've heard humans like that sort of thing.

It's late at night, and the house is very silent. Humans and dogs are sleeping at the top of the house. I've slept most of the day, so I'm awake, but being awake and alone isn't good. I decide to amuse myself. I start with a meow. Just a normal meow, you understand. Not too soft, not too loud. I want to know if they're even aware of me. Obviously, they are not, since the house remains silent. I raise the volume, and change the meow up a bit. Now, it's one long meow, but broken up. The other human says it sounds like I'm stuttering when I do this. That shows how little she understands. This usually gets results. Humans begin to stir, but they aren't getting up. I know what to do about this. I put on my speed, and charge up the stairs. I race into the bedroom, and pounce on the slave. She tries to get rid of me, but it doesn't work. Now, I can walk around on the bed, play with the blinds, and walk on the heads of the slave and the other one. Success is mine!

I also play a really awesome game with the slave. Well, I think it's awesome. She shrieks and squeals when we play, so I'm not sure she likes it as much as I do, but who cares? She's my slave, and here for my amusement. The slave thinks cleanliness is very important. I agree with this. I'm the cleanest feline around. Anyway, she goes upstairs and removes those things she wears since she doesn't have any fur. This leaves her vulnerable. She starts to leave the bedroom, and I'm on her. I wrap my paws around her leg, and give her a little nip. She tries to get me to go away, but, of course, I do not. I follow her into the bathroom, biting all the way. She's only safe once she's behind the shower curtain. I must sit and wait for her to get out. Sometimes, I do, but, other times, I decide sleep is more rewarding.

Here's the best example of feline fun. Last year, the slave got a new partner human. I am never fond of these partner humans. They mess with the slave, and disrupt my life. This partner human was worse than the others because she had a huge dog which she dared to bring into my domain. I was most displeased. I spoke in the voice of hiss, but no one cared. This partner human wasn't very smart back then. She left her suitcase open. What's a disgruntled feline to do with an opportunity like that? Well, in case you can't figure it out, I'll enlighten you. I used the suitcase instead of my litter box. The human didn't know about it until much later. She carried my gift home with her. I was very pleased with myself.

So, humans, these are just a few examples of how one feline enjoys herself. There are many more, but a cat must keep some things a secret.

Courtesy of my fabulous feline, this is my entry for
I hope you enjoy reading this. I always enjoy writing from her perspective.

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LJIdol: Week 11 [Jun. 8th, 2014|09:58 pm]
[Current Mood |hopefulhopeful]

"Love is never wrong."

Melissa Etheridge: Silent Legacy

Same-sex marriage is one of those issues most people are tired of hearing about. You see it on TV. You read about it in the papers, or in your favorite online magazine. References to it pop up all over social media. I know how you feel. There are plenty of things I feel have been discussed to death, but they come up again and again.

As a lesbian, I can't get tired of the subject of marriage equality. After all, it affects me directly. My partner and I, along with millions of others, are denied the right to marry. We are given none of the benefits awarded to heterosexual couples. If I asked people why, very few of them would be able to come up with a good answer. Some would quote scripture. Others would say they just don't believe it's right. However, if I asked how my marrying another woman directly affected them, they would have to tell me that it did not. Why would they be forced to tell me this? Well, because it's true. Who I choose to marry has no impact, positive or negative, on you. It might offend your sensibilities, but that's as far as it goes.

I lived in New York when same-sex marriage was legalized there. I'm not ashamed to admit I cried. I never thought I'd be living in a state that would openly grant me the same rights as my heterosexual counterparts. It was incredibly empowering.

Sadly, I'm no longer living in New York. My partner and I live in a suburb of Detroit. Michigan recognized gay marriage for about a day, before it was banned again. We're waiting to hear the outcome of a case to overturn the ban. I'm cautiously optimistic. After all, New York did it. Iowa did it. Just two days ago, Wisconsin did it. So, why can't Michigan? Hopefully, the courts will view it that way. Hopefully, Michigan will follow in the footsteps of the states that have chosen to recognize same-sex marriage. I'm not asking for much. I simply want equality.

This is my entry for week 11 of
If you are so inclined, please show me some love in the polls. I appreciate everyone's support.

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LJIDOL: Week 10 [May. 28th, 2014|09:24 pm]
[Current Mood |contemplativecontemplative]

Sometimes, even when you're supposed to be helping people, you end up feeling helpless. Not an ideal arrangement, to be sure, but I guess that's just how it goes when you're dealing with people, especially people in crisis. You simply cannot help everyone, and you have to get used to that.

For several years, I volunteered at our local Rape Crisis center. I took calls from people who were victims of sexual violence. Sometimes, I gave referrals for therapists, emergency housing, or domestic violence shelters, but most of my time was spent talking to people struggling to make sense out of what had happened to them.

One of my most memorable calls was from a young woman who had pledged to a sorority. She was ordered by sorority members to walk across her college campus in her nightgown. She did this, but did not reach her destination safely. She was assaulted along the way. She called and talked to me later that night. I urged her to go to the hospital. Even if she didn't want to press charges, she needed to be checked out for any kind of infection or disease she might have gotten from the man who assaulted her. She refused to do this, saying she didn't want anyone to know what had happened to her, and the members of her sorority needed to know exactly where she was for the next several days. We talked for quite awhile, but I was unable to change her mind.

I also received a call from a mother who wanted her nineteen-year-old daughter to go to the hospital to have a rape kit done. The young woman was reluctant to do this, and her mother hoped I could talk sense to her. What she didn't realize is that I would not try to force someone to do what they were unwilling to do. The examinations women are put through after an assault are incredibly invasive. Even though they're necessary in order to press charges against one's attacker, many women choose not to subject their bodies to further invasion. This is something I won't argue with. So, when I spoke to this woman, I explained her rights to her. I also explained what the exam would be like, something she seemed to already know. She said she did not want to go to the hospital, and thanked me for letting her know she didn't have to. As you might guess, her mother was not pleased. She snatched the phone away and thanked me rather coldly for my help. She also made it quite clear that she and her husband would get their daughter the help she needed. I wanted to tell her she wasn't really helping. She was just forcing her daughter to something else she didn't want.

There are many other instances like these, but there are also a number of callers to whom I did make a difference. Sometimes, I can't keep myself from wondering what became of those I couldn't help. Hopefully, they're living happy, healthy lives. Unfortunately, I'll never know.

This is my entry for Week 10 of
If you are so inclined, show me some love in the upcoming poll.

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LJIDOL: Week 9 [May. 18th, 2014|08:52 pm]
[Current Mood |thoughtfulthoughtful]

I'm sitting alone on a train. You approach, but you have no interest in me. Instead, you're intrigued by my disability, and you lack the necessary filters to keep your interest in check. So, we chat. Well, it's not really a chat. It's more like an interrogation, or, at the very least, an extremely intense game of twenty questions. It never occurs to you that I'm a person with feelings. You have no idea that I might be offended by the liberties you take. The things you see as compliments are things I find insulting, but this idea is out of your reach.

I am not a Q&A session. I'm a person with a life to live. I do not know every other blind person to walk the earth. The fact that I have a dog at my side doesn't mean he's there to give you your daily doggy fix. My existence isn't an excuse for you to blurt out all the things you've ever wondered about blindness, and, honestly, I don't care that you can't imagine what life would be like for you if you couldn't see.

Am I harsh? Maybe so, but I'm also tired of being viewed as "the blind woman", the person who symbolizes that which so many fear. It's true. People have an irrational fear of blindness. I've heard about it for years, and, recently, I was unfortunate enough to read a book about it. So, you're scared to lose your sight? Well, hopefully, that won't be your reality, but, even if it could be, don't look at me as the thing you fear. We both lose out on so much if you do.

Try not to feel too badly about your behavior. You're not the first person to subject me to such things, and I doubt you'll be the last. People look at me and "BLIND" jumps out at them. It happens to strangers all the time, but the really sad thing is that it happens when I'm among my family too. So, your lack of consideration really shouldn't surprise me all that much. I suppose I should be used to it, no matter how distasteful I might find it. Still, it's hard being the symbol of something that induces pity and fear in equal doses. It's disheartening and dehumanizing, but you don't stop and think about that. Of course you don't! To you, I'm not human. To you, I'm only blind! And yet, there are so many things you cannot, will not see, but it's my blindness you fear? Look in the mirror and face the fear that looks back at you. Then, the next time we meet on this train, maybe you can view us more as equals. I'll keep waiting for that next meeting

This has been my contribution for
Thank you so much for taking the time to stop by and read. If you're so inclined, please remember me when the polls open tomorrow evening.

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LJIdol, week 8 [May. 5th, 2014|08:57 pm]

It was another crazy day on the streets of New York City. I needed to get to a certain theater where I was scheduled to perform. All around me, masses of people moved in what seemed like every possible direction. Horns honked and street vendors shouted to be heard above the noise of traffic and pedestrians. I was terrified.

You might wonder why I was so afraid, or, you might think you know the answer. You're probably thinking I was afraid because I was a blind woman alone in such chaos. That wasn't it at all. To be honest, I'm afraid whenever I go out because I suffer from agoraphobia with panic disorder.

I would not have been able to travel the streets of New York at all if it hadn't been for the black dog at my side. Caroline, a black lab/golden retriever cross, knew her job very well. Not only did she have to guide me safely through the obstacles the city put in my path, but she was also responsible for keeping me out of areas that were likely to cause me to panic. Most guide dogs are trained to walk straight down the middle of the sidewalk, moving their people around obstacles, and returning to the center. Caroline didn't work like that. Instead, she hugged the building line as closely as she could without letting me run into it. When the buildings ran out, she picked up her pace, minimizing the time I spent in open space.

Of course, New York was a little easier than some places would be. Since there are always people walking around, there's not a lot of open space. Plus, there was the added benefit of knowing I was far from alone. If I reached out, I could have grabbed hold of someone passing by. Granted, they probably wouldn't have liked it, but the thought that I could do it was very comforting.

So, on the afternoon in question, I had gotten off the train, and been hauled through the hell known as Penn Station. There was no way to avoid open space in there, which meant my dog was literally dragging me through the building. When I panic, I freeze. Once that happens, we're finished. I become convinced that something very bad will happen if I take another step, so I remain rooted to the spot, waiting for someone to rescue me. Luckily, Caroline knew better than to let that happen. She weighed close to seventy pounds, and had quite a lot of strength. The fact that I'm very slightly built made it easy for her to keep me moving. This is very counterintuitive for most guide dogs. They do not drag their people. If the person stops, so does the dog. However, Caroline was taught that this was not an option. Stopping in an open area meant nothing but bad things.

Finally, we were out of the station and on the street. Despite the people around me, I could feel the panic building within me. I'd done this for the past five months, and it was taking its tole on me. I felt like I was reaching my breaking point as we wove our way through the people on the sidewalk.

Sounds began to recede. I felt like I was hearing everything from a great distance. As I walked, the ground seemed to move beneath my feet, creating a sort of floating effect. I became very lightheaded, and awareness of my surroundings was quickly deserting me. I just knew I was not going to make it to the theater, and, if by some chance I did, I wouldn't be able to perform. All I wanted to do was crawl into some very tiny hole and stay there for as long as I could.

Dogs are very attuned to the emotions of the people they love. Caroline had been taught to be aware of my anxiety level. I don't know exactly what went through her mind. All I know is that her stride became more purposeful. I might not know where I was, but she knew, and she knew the location of the theater as well. As long as I hung onto the harness handle, she'd get me there.

I have no idea how long it took to reach the theater. I have no memory of stepping inside. All I remember is the blessed peace of backstage. Sure, people were tuning their instruments. There was a certain amount of commotion caused by people in charge of lighting, but I was no longer outside. I was pressed up against a solid wall, and I could breathe again.

Sadly, Caroline is no longer with me. She retired in the summer of 2012, and died of unknown causes the following winter. Acelet is my current guide. He doesn't work exactly like Caroline did, but he too has learned to guide me as well as to keep me safe from my inner demons.

None of my guide dogs have guided in conventional ways. Instead, their trainers were forced to improvise, to think outside the box. I will always be grateful for their willingness to do so. I don't have as much independence as some people, but, with a dog by my side, I have more than I otherwise would.

This has been my entry for week 8 of
Thank you so much for reading.

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LJIdol: Week 6 [Apr. 19th, 2014|09:45 pm]
[Current Mood |blahblah]

Last night, I dreamed. I dreamed of a life in which food was not my enemy. I could eat without fear, enjoy the things my friends and family raved about. My weight was not an obsession. The idea of weighing 100 pounds did not frighten me. One crack had been healed.

Last night I dreamed. I dreamed of freedom. The outdoors did not scare me. Malls, airports, and busy supermarkets were places I could traverse with ease. The idea of being alone wasn't frightening. My home could really be my home, a place where I was free of fear. Another crack was healed.

Last night I dreamed. I dreamed of self-respect. No longer did I shrink away from compliments that were paid me. No longer did I fear being someone's victim. I was strong and proud, a whole person. Another crack healed.

This morning, I woke up, crushed to discover that my dreams were nothing more than my imagination playing games with me. I'm still an agoraphobic, anorexic, sexual assault survivor. My cracks are still there, still quite easily seen. I might fool people for a little while, but it isn't long before someone uncovers the truth. I'm defined by the cracks mental illness has carved into my heart, my mind, and my spirit.

I have hope for the future. I know the effects of my illnesses. I'm aware of my fate. Still, I have hope. Maybe it's silly. Perhaps I'm drowning myself in illusions of wholeness. Maybe it's a survival skill. I, however, choose not to view myself and my situation in any of these ways. Instead, I choose to think of myself as someone who is doing the best she can with what she has. I choose to hope for the day when I no longer have to fear stepping on my own cracks, plunging myself into a world of darkness and despair.

This is my contribution to week 6 of
I apologize for not answering last week's comments. A nasty ear infection made me sleep a lot. I'm hoping this week will be better. I appreciate everyone's support.

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LJIdol: week 5 [Apr. 13th, 2014|07:56 pm]
[Current Mood |pleasedpleased]

I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and prayed I would not burst into tears. Sidewalks are for walking, but that was not what my guide dog and I were doing. Instead, we'd take a few very hesitant steps. He would stop, look back, and refuse to move forward. I coaxed him. i corrected him. I broke the golden rule of guide dog use and actually stepped out in front of him, hoping this would convince him to move. None of it mattered. He wasn't moving, and that was all.

My friend, who is now my partner, and her guide were up ahead. She knew Acelet and I were struggling, so she turned around.

"Do you want to go back?" she asked me.

"I'd like that, but who knows if he'll move." was my rather curt reply.

Somehow, we made it back to her house. I unharnessed my dog and began to sob. I was done. I simply couldn't handle any more of this dog and his stress and all the things he refused to do for me. I wanted a dog who wanted to work, who was a willing participant in the partnership. Obviously, Acelet was not that dog. I had to let him go.

I called the school, and had a tearful conversation with my instructor.

"Bring him back," she told me. "Working is too stressful for him. We'll find you a better match."

I heard this, and a part of my heart soared. If they found me a better match, I'd get the female dog I'd really wanted. My previous guides had been female, and bad experience taught me to be wary of large, male dogs. Granted, Acelet isn't very large. He doesn't even weigh sixty pounds, but, to me, he was large and male and scary.

As part of my heart soared, another part began to break. He wasn't very good at guiding, but his psychiatric assistance work was wonderful. He was a male, but he wasn't aggressive. He didn't growl at me, or try to bite other people or dogs. There was something about him I found myself loving, even as I hated all the ways this match wasn't working.

We made plans to find me another dog. I would keep Acelet with me until I returned to Long Island for training.

I cried that night. I cried for myself, and for this dog who had seemed like such a good match for me. His trainer had pushed hard for the match, working hard to help me overcome my fear of male dogs. I felt like I had failed, or he had failed, or someone had failed something.

As I cried, the lovely Kristeen's mind began to work. Her previous guide dog had developed the disgusting habit of eating his own fecal matter. Not only would he eat it, but he would strategically plan where he would leave it for easy eating. She solved this by having him wear a relieving belt, and she wondered if this might prove helpful for Acelet. True, he didn't eat his poop, but he was extremely concerned about pooping while he worked. This was the reason for all the stopping, all the looking back, and the refusal to move forward no matter what I did.

Are you wondering what a relieving belt is? It looks like a collar with two buttons on the top and a clip hanging down. You attach the handle of a plastic bag to the clip, fasten the belt around the dog's backside, and put the tail through the other handle of the bag. You then pull the second handle up, and hook it to the buttons that are now resting close to the dog's tail. When done correctly, the dog wears a plastic bag on his butt. The poop falls in. You take off the bag, and throw it away.

We had no way of knowing if this would help, but we figured there was no harm in trying. If it didn't work, things would continue on as planned, but, if the belt could be the answer, Acelet could keep working.

With great trepidation, I put the belt on for our first walk. He'd worn it around the house, and didn't seem to mind the rattling of the plastic bag, but would it be the same once we were outside working?

We walked out the door, and I gave him the forward command. Amazingly, he began to move confidently down the alley toward the street. He didn't hesitate. He didn't look back. He just kept walking like he'd worn the belt and bag all of his working life. I was amazed. My dog was working like a real guide dog. Was it a fluke?

It's been almost exactly a year since Acelet wore the bag for the first time, and I am pleased to report that it was no fluke. I can't tell you why, but I can tell you that the bag has made a world of difference. He still walks by my side, and he does it with confidence. We live near an incredibly busy road, and it doesn't phase him at all. What was once so stressful is now just another part of life, no big deal, certainly no reason to be stressed.

I'm not sure what people think when they see me walking down the street with my little black lab with a purple harness, and a plastic bag covering his butt. My family has laughed about it, and I imagine we get more than a few questioning looks as we zoom by, but I don't care. My dog works for me. He may not work the way most guide dogs do, but he keeps me safe, both physically and emotionally. I couldn't ask for anything more.

This is my entry for week 5 of
Thank you for reading, and, if you think I deserve it, remember me when the polls open tomorrow evening.

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LJIdol: Week 4 [Apr. 6th, 2014|01:29 pm]
[Current Mood |nostalgicnostalgic]

There are places my mind refuses to revisit, places my heart yearns to forget. I've worked hard to build walls around them, sealing every crack, every chink in what should be impenetrable. Sometimes, despite my efforts, I find myself thinking of you. I find myself asking questions that will never be answered. Maybe it's just part of being human, but exploring the parts of me that are broken has never been high on my list of enjoyable pastimes.

My mind travels back to the first time you said you loved me. I remember the silver charm, half a heart, that I wore to symbolize our love for one another. I stayed home to finish school, even though I yearned for Texas, for freedom, for you. Those were the longest two years of my life, but I survived. I graduated, and flew to be with you as soon as I could.

Was it your intention to break me? Did you want to clip my wings? Was I supposed to remain housebound, dependent on you for everything? If I look back at those early days, my honest answer to all of these questions would be no, but what would yours be? Once, I thought I knew. Once, I could say with great certainty that you wanted me to grow, to flourish, to become all that I was capable of becoming. Now though, so many years later, I'm less sure. Maybe my dependence made you stronger, even as it weakened me.

You were by my side as I fought my way through graduate school. You stood by me through countless battles with university officials. I was blind, but that shouldn't stop me from becoming the social worker I knew I could be. When I cried, you held me. You reassured me. You loved me through all the hardships graduate school put me through. Truly, you were my rock.

What tore us apart? Was it the fact that I had achieved so much, while you, a sighted person, had achieved so little? Did you resent the opportunities that were offered to me? When I asked, you swore it wasn't like that, but time and distance might cause you to tell a different story.

Finally, I knew we could no longer stay together. You had begun to drink. I was thousands of dollars in debt because of you. What had once been beautiful was now tarnished, bent, and broken. I couldn't fix it, and, honestly, by that time, I'm not really sure there was anything to fix.

So, I left. I ran 2,000 miles to rediscover me. I needed to know who I really was. Where did you end and I begin? What parts of me could be salvaged? These were the questions I answered on Long Island. It was a painful time, a time full of tears and self-recriminations. Slowly though, things got better. I owned the things I'd done wrong, and let go of the rest.

It's been almost four years since I left you. So long a time, and yet, so very little as well. The ten years of my life that were given to you are years I'll never get back, but they are years that have taught me so many things. I can stand tall now, flawed, but beautiful, broken but fixable, I hope. My spirit flies free in a way it never could when we were together. You bent me. Our relationship battered me. In spite of all of this, I am still here, still fighting, still loving, living, and making what difference I can to my small corner of the world. If your intent was to break me, I am pleased to report that you did not succeed.

This has been my entry for week 4 of

Please remember me when the polls open on Monday evening.

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LJIdol: Week 3 [Mar. 28th, 2014|03:45 pm]
[Current Mood |sadsad]

The door slams, and she shrinks into an even tighter ball on the floor of her walk-in-closet. It's only a matter of time before he finds her, but, for now, she can allow the illusion of safety to surround her.

"Bethany!" he bellows. "Where the hell are you? I told you to be here when I got home. You'd better get your ass down here now. You won't like what happens if you don't."

She chokes back a fit of hysterical laughter. Five years ago, she would have believed him. She would have hurried down the stairs, ready and willing to do whatever she could to stave off his anger. Now though, she knows that to be an effort in futility. He'll do whatever he wants, regardless of her actions. In truth, what she does, says, or thinks matters little in the grand scheme of things. Her time as his wife has taught her that much.

She can hear him moving around the house, opening doors and slamming them shut. With every slam of the door, his anger grows. She hates the thought of what he'll do when he actually finds her. For the briefest of moments, she considers standing up and walking into the light of their bedroom, but fear immobilizes her. For now, she's safe, and she'll take every second of safety she can get.

He's coming up the stairs now. Closer and closer he comes. Her heart begins to pound, and her breathing grows shallow. He's near the bedroom door now. He'll be upon her in a matter of seconds.

"Bethany!" his voice is sharp. "Don't make me hunt you down. You know it will only make things worse for you. Honestly, Babe, I wouldn't have to do these things if you'd just listen to me. I hate having to punish you. I'm sure you know that, but you don't give me any choice."

By the time he's done speaking, he's on the other side of the closet door. He throws it open, and reaches in, dragging her out by her long, black hair. She knows better than to struggle. She goes limp, allowing herself to become nothing but dead weight, but Mark is strong. He drags her to the middle of the bedroom floor. He lets go of her hair, and her head slams into the floor.

"Bitch!" he hisses, leaning down so his face is only inches from hers. "You defy me all the time. You never learn, no matter how hard I try to teach you what's right."

He begins to hit her in earnest then, his fists landing with great force on her face, her arms, her stomach. She just lies there, as still as she can manage. Hopefully, he'll get bored soon.

He starts to kick her then. Her vision is growing blurry. The grunting sounds he's making grow more and more distant. Her last thought, before the darkness claims her, is that a man's home is his castle. Things would have been so much better for her, if only her life could have been lived  in another castle.

He's finally done with her. He looks down at her, his disgust plain to see. He gives her one last kick before turning away, leaving her bleeding on the floor. Maybe after this, she'll finally learn to be the wife he's always wanted. If not, he has no problem continuing to teach her.

This has been my entry for week 3 of
Please consider voting for me when the polls open on Monday evening.

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