August 25, 2025 – 11:51 PM
Brain Dump: No Filter, Just Truth
It’s been a while since I’ve written a blog, and I have a lot of ground to cover. Honestly, there’s no basis or purpose here other than to just say it all — to brain dump, to talk, to communicate with the ones out there listening.
This blog is my place to dig deep into the really uncomfortable things people don’t want to talk about. The things they don’t want to hear. The things they don’t want to believe actually exist. Those dark, terrible realities that people convince themselves no one could possibly go through.
But… I did. I have. I am.
Hi. It’s me.
My life has been a literal fucking dumpster fire since the start. My parents were 17 and 18 when they got married. Who the fuck does that? The 80’s? Let’s get married young, bring three girls into the world, and then split up before they even hit double digits. Dad’s in and out for the first few years because Mom’s a bitch. Mom brings in “an old friend from high school” who thinks he suddenly has authority. Meanwhile, I’ve got too much of a “go fuck yourself” attitude for anyone to control.
Here’s the deal: my dad wasn’t perfect. My mom — for fuck’s sake — wasn’t either. My grandmother on my dad’s side raised me for the most part. On the days I was supposed to be with my dad, when I was really young, usually I was with my grandma. Whether Dad was working or wasn’t around, I honestly don’t care — because I know he was there.
I remember going to work with him. Riding in the school buses. Delivering pizzas. Playing CB tag. Camping at Yogi Bear campground. Going to Wilmot Raceway. Was my dad perfect? Nope. But he did his best with what he had.
My mother? The “victim” of divorce? The one who “had” to move her and her three daughters out of a stable home with a roof over their heads and into a homeless shelter, just so she could establish emergency housing with the state and get away from my father? That was bullshit.
Is my dad an asshole? Absolutely. Is he hard to deal with? 100%, without a doubt. But as a mother myself — I could never. I could never justify the decisions my mother made. That’s just the beginning of my childhood, and I’ll get more into it later.
I remember celebrating my 6th birthday in a homeless shelter. Shit… that was 30 years ago.
We moved a lot after that. Multiple places. Never really had a “home.” I always thought of my grandma’s house as my real home — because it was the constant. No matter what, it was there. It was my safe place. I felt loved. I knew I always had her.
Living with my mother after the shelter and divorce — before she brought her new man in (we’ll call him Frankenstein, because that’s what my grandmother called him, and it fits) — life was chaos. Frankenstein was a massive liberal, butt-hurt about everything, and honestly, I’m sure he stalks and reads everything I write. Probably waiting for the day I blast out the details of all the horrible shit he did to me as a child. Well, Frankenstein… your time has come. And I promise, this is just the start.
My mother always had people living with us — family, friends, other couples. Babysitting help, bills, whatever. I get it, single mom life. But remember how I said I had all those memories with my dad, even though he barely had custody? Funny thing — he saw us once a week, every other weekend, sometimes not even that with his schedule. Yet I have so many good memories with him. With my mom? Every memory feels tarnished.
I don’t know if it started with the verbal abuse from her own siblings, or the day my uncle slapped me across the face at 8 years old while I was having a panic attack because I couldn’t stop crying. Slapping me was the solution, I guess.
Or maybe it was when my aunt called me a spoiled brat (the actual words were worse — I’ll leave that out for the internet) at Six Flags because I was too scared to go on the Giant Drop. Never mind that I went on every other ride.
Abuse isn’t just physical. It’s verbal. It’s emotional. It’s mental. And I’ve had to learn that as an adult, as a mother. I even had a conversation with my daughter about this recently, which I’ll share in the future, because it was so important for my own parenting journey.
At the end of the day — my mother failed me. 100% failed me. People will read this and say, “Damn, that’s harsh.” But I’m just trying to move on. Trying to heal and grow from the damage laid upon me… damage I unfortunately passed on to my own children because of the poor parenting I had. That’s where #BreakTheCycle comes into play — breaking generational trauma.
My mother watched me be abused on so many levels, by so many people. She literally watched me be dragged into a house by my hair. Ask her now, and she’ll say, “I don’t remember it happening like that.” Or some other brush-off.
Because of her failures — I failed my daughter, massively.
In a heated argument, I threw a fork toward the window — not at my daughter.
People said I lied about it. I didn’t. My charges were “child abuse with intent to harm.” I would never intend to harm my child. My daughter knew that, even that night. She knew it during the year and a half we couldn’t speak. But legally, because the case was open, I wasn’t allowed to talk about it. If I had explained details to anyone, they could have been called to testify.
So many people have tried to throw my past in my face. But you can’t throw anything in my face that I won’t own up to myself.
What I will never understand is this: a week before the fork incident, I asked my mom to take my daughter for a night or two so I could clean her room. My gut told me not to ask, but I had no other choice at the time. That turned into my mother calling the police and CPS on me — for child abuse and neglect.
How is my mother going to call Child Services on me? How are my sisters going to do the same — for “abuse” or “neglect” — when my mother sat and watched Frankenstein do everything he did to me throughout the years? The audacity. For my sisters, especially, to pick up the phone and try to drag me through the mud as a parent, when their own kids are so out of control they can’t even stand to be around them, and their houses should honestly be condemned. But I’m the bad parent? No. The truth is my kids might get yelled at — because I’m human — but they have real meals on the table every single day. They have a clean home. They know how to behave in public. That’s more than my sisters could ever say. And it’s more than my mother could ever say.
But Frankenstein could do no wrong in their eyes.
Oh, wait — didn’t I just hear that Frankenstein thinks polyamorous relationships aren’t cheating? So my mom divorced him. Not because he abused her daughter. Not because I had to move out at 12 years old to escape him. Not because she forced me back into his house for the abuse to continue.
Nope. The divorce was because he was “polyamorous” without telling her.
That’s what broke her. Not me being broken.
At 15, I was forced to move in with my father in Florida. Then Tennessee, where I got pregnant at 16. Then Arkansas. Then back to Wisconsin, into my grandmother’s house, to make sure my daughter and I were taken care of.
The next 18 years? That’s another story for another day.
Here’s where I am now:
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I graduated with my HSED.
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I’ve been in the intimacy business for 6 years.
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I launched my own LLC.
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I’m almost done with my Associate’s in Applied Arts and Sciences and will pursue my Doctorate in Psychology.
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I’ve made the Provost and Dean’s List every semester.
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I launched Dead Threads Society — a brand focused on mental health awareness.
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My first Break the Cycle line drops September 1st, in honor of my grandmother and Ryan, for Suicide Prevention Month.
At the end of the day, it’s been bump after bump, mountain after mountain. Trauma after trauma. Someone is always stabbing me in the back or talking behind it — including my own flesh and blood.
And honestly? I just don’t care anymore.
Right now, I care about my business. My mission. What Intimacy Uncovered and Dead Threads Society are going to bring to people. What these messages will do.
If I can’t own up to my mistakes in front of my daughter, how can I expect her to grow and be a better mother than me?
I told my daughter the other day, even if my mother were to apologize at this point, it wouldn’t matter. I couldn’t accept it. Because it wouldn’t come from sincerity. It would feel like a cop-out — because she had to divorce him now, and she realized she wasted her relationship with her daughter over such a piece of shit. But you know what? What did I know.
The night I sat in jail, and when I got out… I knew I messed up. I knew I was wrong. Not being able to talk to my daughter for almost two years was the worst time of my life. I have been the constant in her life. Her sperm donor shows up only when he feels like he can play knight in shining armor and when he wants to look good — not for anything that actually matters.
I missed so much in that time. And I promise… I fought to try and see her. But my lawyer said it wasn’t a good idea. My lawyer also didn’t tell me I was able to make a statement letter at the end of the case and explain to the judge how, in those two years, I had accomplished my HSED, enrolled at UWP, and so much more. Instead, I was put on the spot and only able to choke out, “I just want to hug my daughter.” The judge narrowed his look at me like he was hoping for more, then went on to tell me how I needed to do better. And all I could do was say, “Yes, sir.”
In my head, I was screaming everything I wanted to say. But I froze. I always freeze when I’m put on the spot. I could know the subject like my first language, but if you pop quiz me, I shut down. He ended up giving me one year probation. And honestly? I was okay with that. I’ve never been in trouble before. I don’t go out and drink. I don’t party.
I made a mistake. I was the adult. I was the parent in that moment. I was the one in the wrong. It DOES NOT MATTER what my daughter did or said at that time. Yes, my daughter has a past with mental health. Yes, she has a past with recreational “fun,” if you know what I mean. But at the end of the day — I was the adult.
This goes back to the conversation my daughter and I had the other day: what do you consider abuse? We are growing and communicating through this process, because it’s hard. Parenting is hard. There is no handbook. I told her: I was hard on her when she was young because my parents were hard on me. And in my eyes, it wasn’t abuse — because I didn’t go as far as my parents did. But looking back now, after raising two more kids, running in-home daycares, spending time with so many children — I see it differently. You learn. You see. You understand.
Every child is different. They learn differently. They love differently. They see differently. I was strict with my daughter because that was what worked for her — it was how I was raised. But when my first son was born, it didn’t work for him. My daughter resented him, thinking I favored him. She’d try to “parent” him or sometimes even bully him because she thought I was “under-parenting.” But then, when I’d get harder on him, suddenly I was being too harsh.
There’s a 5-year gap between each of my kids, so the dynamics were always shifting. My daughter carried resentment, but she also had her own struggles — her own mental health battles, many tied to her biological father and his absence.
When my youngest was born, it was the same cycle. Different kid, different brain, different needs. But in her mind, it was favoritism. The truth? It was just me learning how to parent each of them as individuals. And now, as she’s getting older, she’s starting to see that. She’s learning why I said what I did, why I parented the way I did.
What scares me most is that I see myself in her. She’s still young but already trying to help raise her brothers, the way I was too young when I became a mother. I had no idea what I was doing — I was only doing what I knew. And now I see her stepping into that same space.
That’s why I talk to her now. Why I open these conversations with her, even when they’re hard. Because if I can’t take accountability, how can I expect her to? If I can’t grow into a better mother than mine was, how can I expect her to grow into a better mother than me?
My mother never has, and never will, take accountability. She says she has — but I have recordings of her so-called “accountability,” and when I played them for my therapist and psychiatrist, they both said she’s the picture-perfect definition of a narcissistic mother.
Through my 20’s, I remember trying so hard just to be loved by her. I don’t even know why. But now? I have my kids. I have my dad. I have my husband, my dogs, my cats. I have my business and my work. These are the things I love. These are the things I pour my passion into.
I just want to travel. Spread love. Spread awareness. Break the cycles. End the stigmas. Make this shit loud. So loud it’s annoying. Because mental health and sexual health are so under-talked about, under-researched, and under-educated. They go hand-in-hand, but they are their own as well.
I’m going to make people uncomfortable. I’m going to talk about parenting. I’m going to talk about sex. About depression, abuse, trauma, neglect, shitty friends, shitty people, suicide, and everything in between.
The cycle ends with me. And her.
#BreakTheCycle
All my love....