Author: admin

Dirty Wife

Dirty Wife

I’m your dirty little girl
A slut, a whore, a cunt
Your personal cum receptacle
You dress me in lacy, crotchless panties
I watch you grow hard as you stare at my breasts
bursting through a fishnet bodysuit
You have me watch porn while you bury your face
between my legs
I tell you how wet you make me
I climax and squeeze your head
between my thighs, an oversexed nutcracker on demand
You tell me you are a sex god as you fuck me for the sixth time that day
You fuck me on the bed, in the kitchen, on the basement floor
You fuck me when I’m horny, when I’m pregnant, when I’m bloated and bleeding, you fuck me
I’m your sex doll and I raise your children and keep a nice house
Your dirty little over-sexed, cum-filled wife
Slut mother of your babies

Witness Intimidation

Witness Intimidation

It was the end of May. I was treating myself to a getaway on Cape Cod after a five-month period that I can only describe as catastrophic. They were all gone, my home, my dog and my family. I was feeling isolated and afraid and I was desperate to sit on a beach with my toes in the sand. I imagined how it would feel just closing my eyes, listening to the gulls and inhaling the salty air. I wondered if I’d be able to close my eyes at all, without seeing flames. But I was determined to give myself a much-needed seaside retreat.

About half an hour into my seven-hour drive, the barrage of emails began. I’d successfully extracted myself from my abuser’s texts and calls with a new phone number, but I hadn’t blocked his emails yet. Maybe it was because we shared children or maybe it was my own co-dependency. My therapist and I had agreed it was time for me to cut all communication with my abuser and I had stopped answering his emails, But I was still receiving them. 

As it turned out, it was our wedding anniversary that week. My abuser suggested we spend the day together in Boston, go out to dinner, walk along the duck pond and renew our relationship. Email ignored. He tried again and again I ignored. After three emails with no response, my abuser used a different tactic – threats. 

He sent a steady bombardment of messages with the obvious goal of intimidation. “You don’t know what you’ve done. Your fear has put both of us in a very tough spot. I thought it only right that I take one (very) LAST shot at explaining what you are very evidently not able to grasp. Call me and right away. BOTH of our futures rely on it. I could not be more serious. If you don’t call me right away, you won’t be able to say I didn’t try to warn you. I could not be more serious. Call now or…”

“All I ever wanted was for you to come to your senses and realize I’m not the monster you manufactured and cultured over the past few months. It’s too late now. We needed a unified front to survive what’s coming. You couldn’t muster the courage. Divided we fall. Our lives are over. I hope you’re happy because you have no idea just how bad it’s going to get because you made me into a monster. No therapist can save your sorry ass now Lily. “

“I wish you luck because you are going to need it more than you know. Remember, I am not the threat. I am not making threats. I am simply warning you my future is directly tied to yours. If I don’t have one then you don’t have one either. You never were good at math. There is no tomorrow if you don’t come to your senses today. I know you are mentally ill, but time has run out. You are choosing today what the rest of your life will be. United maybe we stand. Divided we are completely fucked. After today you won’t have any choices. There is no tomorrow for us unless you call me today. There will only be pain and loneliness forever.” 

“You’re in huge trouble and won’t acknowledge it. You won’t call me. I tried. I feel nothing but pain and helplessness. I loved you more than anything Lily. Just remember I tried in every way I could imagine. I tried, I tried and I tried. Just remember that Lily. I’m so sorry you went crazy. It has done nothing to protect you. Remember how much I tried.”

I contacted the police and spent an agonizing week on a deserted beach while my abuser was arrested on three counts of witness intimidation. My family exploded, saying I “got him arrested”. I tried to explain that I was frightened for myself, for him and for my children, but no one understood my fear. Even after his heinous crimes, they accused me of trying to hurt him, as if he was the victim.

Family is defined as “a group of people who genuinely love, trust, care about, and look out for each other. I must have been in the wrong family.

The Email

The Email

Leave Me Alone, it read. There was no written body to the email, just a subject line. I hadn’t tried to communicate with her in two years. I stared blankly at the message as I waited for my bus. I was on my way home from my job in a domestic violence center. Since his murder attempt, I felt that it was my one significant contribution to society and I was proud of the work I did. Yet there she was making me feel as if I was the deranged sociopath, instead of the crime victim.

I replied. “I have been. Don’t know what you mean”. She shot back “Stay Off my website.” How did she know that every single day I visited her website with the hopes of catching just a tiny glimpse of her life? I was an avid fan of her photos. At least once a day I checked in, hoping to sneak a peek at what had been stolen from me. But how did she know?

I answered her, saying “Your website is public, sweetie. You can’t stop me from looking. And why would you even care? Do you hate me that much that you’re offended that I check out your photos? I love you whether you like it or not. I told you I wouldn’t bother you anymore and I have kept my promise. I love you”

She shot back “You send me your stupid blog crap, “sweetie”. Stop”.

What the hell was she talking about? I replied “I don’t send you anything. I write for myself. I don’t send it to ANYONE. Don’t read it if you think it’s stupid. But it’s the truth. I swear I am NOT sending you anything.”

“I’m sorry you are still feeling so badly. I have kept my promise and not bothered you. But I love you and I look at your photos. I look at Jim’s too because I love him. If you want to condemn me for that I just don’t know what else to say.  I am NOT your enemy no matter what you think. I love you.”

Still, she continued on her defensive trajectory, not willing to recognize any decency in me. “Don’t bullshit me. Either you’re completely delusional or you’re asking someone to send me shit. I don’t want to get any more comments, fake inquiries, or any sort of interaction from Muse87 on my website. I’m not reading your crap and I don’t want my clients seeing your shit”.

But I hadn’t done what she accused me of. At first, I was simply confused. But then an uneasy feeling set in. Was the monster who tried to kill me still manipulating her? I knew short of finishing me off he would love nothing more than to inflict additional emotional distress on me by causing further damage to my relationships. I couldn’t imagine anyone else who would do such a thing. He’d already proven he didn’t care about me or the damage he caused to his children.

I implored her “Neither! I am NOT lying to you. I had to shut off spam on my own website. You’re probably being spammed. I am NOT sending you a thing!  I’ll change my password on my google account. I’ll change it on my website. I am NOT bullshitting you. I write for ME. I could care less if you read it. TRUTH. 

“Please stop assuming the worst about me. I promised to leave you alone and I have kept my promise. I changed my setting to say “Users must be registered to comment” to stop spam. THAT stopped spam. You are getting spam, but I am NOT sending you a thing. Could you just believe me this one time? Otherwise, someone is sending you my blog and it’s NOT ME.

“Please, no animosity. I am being honest. Can you please believe me?”

But there was silence.

So I tried one last time, “I don’t expect an answer, but I would really like to get to the bottom of why this is happening. I’d probably need your cooperation to investigate though. But if someone is intentionally doing this I’d really like to know who that is, wouldn’t you? Can we figure out why this is happening? I don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to look at your work and see how things were going, that’s all. I do love you very much.”

Her answer was short and sweet. “I’ll figure it out. Sorry to have assumed. I still want to be left alone. Thank you”

He’d done it again. He’d manipulated the situation so that she would hate me even more than she already did. To me, it was an unjustified hatred. He’d controlled everyone since the attempted murder. He’d manage to control me for months after the fire until I wised up, but he still had them under his spell. I wanted to find out if he was behind this episode of gaslighting, but without her cooperation, I didn’t stand a chance. I could send his manipulative ass back to prison if I could prove it. Then I would feel safe again. Then I could live my life without this debilitating fear gnawing away at me.

But as usual, I was dismissed. I had a reason to believe my abuser was violating his no-contact order, but without her cooperation, I was FUCKED.

The Shower

The Shower

It had only been a couple of months since my abuser had almost murdered me. My family was a month away from a wedding and I was expected to help throw a bridal shower. I had no money, no belongings, barely any clothes to wear. I was living paycheck to paycheck and using GoFundMe donations to survive. My abuser had taken more than half of the funds because most of the people who donated were his “co-workers and friends”. Nevertheless, my sister insisted that she host a shower and that I pay for the refreshments.

She also decided the shower would be a Jack and Jill-type couples party and invited male family and friends, including my abuser. I was terrified to be in the same place as the monster who torched my house and killed my dog. He was becoming progressively unhinged because he was facing arson, attempted murder and animal cruelty charges and he was obsessed with controlling my thoughts and actions as my testimony could seal his fate. I’d already lied to a grand jury to protect myself and my family by testifying that I didn’t know what happened that fateful night. But my abuser was obsessed with controlling and owning me once again, as it had always been.

I drove for seven hours to my sister’s home replaying my abuser’s most recent threats in my head. He had lashed out because I wasn’t under his thumb where I’d spent the majority of my life. He blamed my social media presence for the problems he had created, saying I needed my ego stroked by the attention my friends gave me. He accused me of being addicted to it when in truth it was his addiction to stalking my accounts and my freedom to make meaningful connections with friends that ate away at him. He told me that my children were afraid of me and that my brothers and sisters didn’t know who I was anymore. He told me if I didn’t come to my senses, seek real help and return to him that my life would be a living hell.

I arrived at my sister’s home and numbly prepared for the shower. My abuser sent a never-ending barrage of texts in an attempt to coerce me to meet him alone somewhere so that we could talk. I politely told him no and went about the day trying not to think about the potential danger I was putting myself in. I tried to remain stoic as I prepared to face this violent man who’d already demonstrated the damage that he was capable of causing.

As expected, my abuser showed up looking agitated and intimidating. The scars from his burns were visible on his head and I felt panicked as I remembered seeing him engulfed in flames. I stayed in the kitchen, frozen against the counter, throwing sandwiches together. I wanted to avoid the monster as long as humanly possible. My feet felt like bricks. I broke into a cold sweat and my hands were shaking. I couldn’t stop imagining him approaching me from behind, pouring gasoline over my head and lighting a match.

I could only avoid my abuser for so long, as everyone at the shower expected us to talk, maybe kiss and make up or kill each other, I wasn’t sure. When I ran out of things to do in the kitchen, he approached me and said “I want to talk to you, NOW”. I followed him downstairs to a private room. The moment we were alone, he grabbed me and pulled me onto his lap saying he wanted me with him, where I belonged. I stiffened. So he threw me off his lap and toward the brick fireplace. I caught myself just before falling, turned and pointed a finger at him. Then he hit me.

He stormed out of the house and I stood there in shock for a couple of minutes. I took a deep breath and went upstairs. The atmosphere at the party had taken an ominous turn and everyone seemed to be glaring at me. My abuser’s threatening texts started coming in faster than I could read them. By the next morning, I had 100s of messages confirming just how unbalanced he really was.

“My cell phone battery will be dead soon. If you have anything to say now is your chance. Not that I expect shit from you. I’m killing myself today just as soon as I muster the courage. My cell will soon be dead and so will I. There. I said it and I meant it. Fuck this shithole fucking world. No one is going to find me by my cell signal either because it goes off in a few minutes. Don’t come to my funeral. I am not going to be arrested and thrown in some psych ward. I AM Not!!

He fired off expletives one after the other. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. And fuuuuuuccckkkk you!!!! Fuck off. Go fuck yourself. Fuck you. Fuck You!!!!!!!!!! Fuck you very much. Fuck you. Making it easy for Lily. You don’t have to worry about coming back. It’s all gone. There is nothing to come back to. Go back to pathetic Twitter and fucking stay there. You win Lily. I’m insane. I’m insane because I can’t deal that after a lifetime I’m alone. That is why. I am not capable of dealing with this. I don’t know how to deal with this. If you wonder what set me off it was you quivering in fear just being with me. That pretty much was more than I could handle!”

I went to the Apple store and opened a new account with an unlisted phone number. The phone calls and texts stopped and I felt safer and more at peace. Two days later, I was told that I was unwelcome at the wedding because I was intentionally trying to hurt my abuser, the arsonist who almost killed me.

Sempre la Famiglia

The Hearing

The Hearing

My phone rang at 2:30 PM. It was the victim advocate from Essex County Superior Court. She told me that my ex-husband was appearing the next day for a hearing regarding a potential plea bargain. She said it wasn’t necessary that I be there, but if I wanted to present a victim impact statement, that would be the time to do it. I sensed that she would prefer I stay home because it would make her job easier. I was given less than 24 hours to write a victim impact statement and the victim advocate was trying to discourage me from attending because she would be inconvenienced. I told her to expect me.

The call came just before my appointment at the domestic violence crisis center. When I arrived for my session, I told my counselor about the hearing and she called in the legal advocate, who assured me that she would accompany me to court. I went home and wrote my statement.

I arrived at the courthouse early the next day and waited in the lobby for my legal advocate. As I stood there, members of my ex-husband’s family walked past me without acknowledging my presence. I muttered “what the fuck” a bit too loud and noticed heads turn in my direction, except for the heads of my former in-laws. It was obvious the criminal would have a cheering section behind him as he learned of his potential fate.

I noticed my legal advocate arrive and felt relief as I watched her check-in with security. I was glad she’d be by my side while I faced the criminal and his flying monkeys. But my composure was suddenly replaced by panic when my sisters entered the courthouse with my child and I realized they were there for the criminal. My legal advocate approached with a beaming smile and a greeting. I gazed wide-eyed in her direction and began to cry.

She guided me to an elevator and we rode to the fifth floor. I had 20 seconds to detail my family estrangement before the elevator doors opened. I spotted them all at the end of the hallway. My sisters, a brother, and my children were gathered in the criminal’s camp along with his family. Shock waves buzzed through every nerve fiber in my body and my legs began to buckle. The legal advocate led me to a cold, hard bench at the opposite end of the corridor.

My sisters approached as I sat weeping on the wooden bench. One sister scolded me for not reading my emails and walked away. The other told me she forgave me and that she was there for both of us, my abuser and me, then she returned to my abuser’s camp. My children didn’t look at me.

My court-appointed victim advocate made an appearance, chatted to my legal advocate about her FitBit and led us into the courtroom. My family was joined in solidarity behind the man who had set my house on fire while I was in bed, the man who had murdered my dog and tried to murder me. They had also written letters of support in the hopes of reducing the criminal’s sentence.

I sat on another hard bench and stared at my knees. The judge’s voice grew opaque as he discussed the details of the case. I was detached and unable to read my hastily written victim impact statement. Instead, the DA read it out loud to the court and I felt nothing. The judge explained to my abuser that in spite of his crimes he would receive a reduced sentence and the hearing ended.

My children paraded past me with their aunts, never acknowledging me. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned. My brother planted a kiss on my cheek and said “We were here for BOTH of you today”, then he turned away and left me alone

I continue to wonder how my family’s presence in the courtroom that day had any positive impact on my well-being.

Amnesiac Shadows

Amnesiac Shadows

It was a day in mid-September when my love came to rescue me. I’d packed up what few belongings I had and I waited anxiously for my brother to show up so I could toss them in the trunk of his car and ride into the city. My mind blenderized varying emotions as I contemplated my daring escape. I felt anticipation, joy, some trepidation and tremendous anxiety about this daring move. But I was determined to leave the state where my life was decimated, the place where my abuser had gotten away with attempted murder and where my family actively participated in throwing me under the bus to support him and his wretched offspring.

My brother showed up as expected at 2 pm, reminding me of my family’s eagerness to please. I thought about how accommodating they all were to my abuser and his family in the courtroom, at the wedding, in the house where they allowed him to assault me again. My stomach roiled in disgust. I was ready to leave them behind and begin a new chapter.

I settled in the front seat and my brother started the car. As we pulled out of the lot and began the half-hour drive to Boston, he reached over and held my hand. Very softly, he said “I have some news, she had the baby today. It’s a girl. That’s all I know”. I stopped breathing, closed my eyes and felt the tears sting my skin as they flowed freely down my cheeks. I whispered “Okay” and he squeezed my hand again and stepped on the gas pedal.

The ride into the city seemed surreal now. Just as it did after the fire, my head felt like it was trapped inside a tube and I could only hear the echo of our conversations. My brother asked me who this person was and why I was moving 3000 miles away without giving him any notice. He told me he was worried about my decision and I assured him I knew what I was doing. The echos grew louder and softer in waves of amplitude and the blender in my brain continued churning.

As we approached the Boston Park Plaza Hotel, I saw my rescuer standing at the curb holding a single rose. I jumped out of the car before my brother had come to a full stop and we embraced. My lover handed me the rose and said “this is for you”, then turned to my brother to exchange hellos. My brother waited in the lobby as we brought my belongings to the room, OUR room. Once inside, I started sobbing. My love rocked me gently and whispered “I am so sorry” as I cried about the baby.

I freshened up and we met my brother for a drink in the bar. As we sat and drank red wine, my brother grabbed my hand again, looked my love in the eye and said, “She has been through hell.” They both nodded in understanding as I fought back more tears. We finished our drinks, I hugged my brother for a very long time and we said goodbye.

This was the most important day of my life and I cannot remember the date. This huge turning point feels like it belongs to someone else. My brain has cast an “amnesiac shadow” over these memories and I cannot remember this significant date in my life’s history. Every year, I have to check a calendar or look at the hotel receipt that I kept as a remembrance. Thankfully, I also saved the rose, carried it across the country and preserved it pressed between the pages of a book. That rose is symbolic of my love, for the baby, my brother, my mate, our partnership and our life.



When I am triggered, I am physically ill. I can’t breathe, sounds are twice as loud, I shake and I try not to vomit. But sometimes I get the feeling that people actually construe my intense reaction to a trigger as my being “offended” or “insulted” or maybe “seeking negative attention.”

Interestingly, the medical definition of a trigger is “Something that either sets off a disease in people who are genetically predisposed to developing the disease, or that causes a certain symptom to occur in a person who has a disease. For example, sunlight can trigger rashes in people with lupus. A predisposing event.

I have PTSD. The medical definition of PTSD is “A mental health condition (disorder) that’s triggered by a terrifying event — either experiencing it or witnessing it. Symptoms may include flashbacks, nightmares and severe anxiety, as well as uncontrollable thoughts about the event.” I am predisposed to having a reaction.

When I smell smoke, when the fire alarm goes off, when I see flames, news about fire, photos of fire, I am triggered. And I work extremely hard to control my reactions so I can function. In fact, I work so hard at being “normal” that I hold two jobs. I make music and art. I perform and network with creatives and I travel the world. I live in the center of a city with sirens, screamers and violence around me. IT’S NOT EASY, but I’m proud that my hard work pays off and I am able to function.

But sometimes, a trigger assaults me as unexpectedly as the precipitating trauma itself and I shatter into tiny shards of terror. Take this weekend for example. Every time I closed my eyes I saw myself crawling on my hands and knees overcome with smoke, trying to find my dying dog while my house burned around me. Every single cell in my body tasted the soot, heard my ex screaming as he burst into flames and smelled his burning hair and flesh. The only person who unfortunately witnessed me in this pitiful state was my mate, who fed me Xanax and tried to make me feel better.

About 8% of the US population has PTSD. It may not be a huge percentage, but it is a huge burden to carry. PTSD and its triggers are real and they are sometimes debilitating. If you have PTSD, I understand your struggles and hope you find peace. If you don’t have it, please don’t take our reactions to triggers personally. Instead, just listen, be encouraging, help build feelings of trust and safety, ask how you can help or maybe give that person some space.

Erased and Replaced

Erased and Replaced

Be careful about freely giving away your trust. No one is immune to being erased and replaced. It’s not just strangers you should be cautious of. It could be anyone, even those you’ve known for your whole life. Be proactive and assess whether your lover, family, friends, any of the people closest to you do in fact live by their words and honestly love you just for being you. Most will try to change you.

They may tell you they love you just the way you are, but they really want to mold you into what suits their needs. And if you fail to be compliant, if you’re troublesome, you will be erased and replaced. It’s all about control. They love their dominance over you. They will trivialize you to build up their own self-esteem. They will hurt you and pretend not to notice when you’re left feeling insignificant.

Covet your trust, keep it close to your heart. Because betrayal of trust will shatter your heart each and every time. Betrayal is a deal-breaker in any relationship.

Love yourself, respect yourself, own your thoughts, your words, your art, your activism, your neuroses. Own it all. Don’t lose yourself. Don’t sacrifice your well-being for the wrong people. Don’t erase yourself, because you can’t replace yourself.



I’ve written a lot of poems and songs about PTSD. I’ve painted and drawn images trying to capture the intensity of my symptoms. Nothing really can illustrate what it feels like to suffer from PTSD. Some of the symptoms are flashbacks, nightmares, hypervigilance, rage, despair, and hopelessness and they are intense.

My symptoms come in wave after wave. I can go for weeks feeling like I need to jump out a window and then miraculously feel hopeful and positive again for no obvious reason. Likewise, everything can seem perfect but somehow I’ll end up lying in fetal position and just sobbing. The pain can be so debilitating.

When Aquamarine Space Unicorns made our album Anartist, I wrote a song that had no words, just nightmarish screeches and noises. It spoke to me. THIS music was finally on the right track, at least in my screwed up mind. One Saturday night as we were finalizing vocals for the rest of the album, Joyanna served me an abundance of Finlaggen whiskey and told me to let loose about my feelings. I collapsed onto the floor and cried my eyes out. I screamed at my ex, my sisters, my children, the corrupt lawyers and failure of the legal system. I cried and cried and cried.

If you listen to this song, try to get past the screeching notes and excruciating ear pain and listen to what’s behind it. About 25 seconds in, you’ll hear what PTSD feels like. through my whiskey laced meltdown. As the song progresses, things seem to return back to normal with the humdrum sounds of life entering about 2 minutes in, only to turn back into chaos a minute later.

I’m proud of this crazy song because it’s what it feels like to be me.

Family Values

Family Values

She met him when she was 16. She didn’t know the red flags of abuse. It started immediately. A push, a thrown glass, a blocked exit, a broken-down door. He called her a bitch, a whore, a cunt. She was frightened but didn’t realize it. She minimized the attacks, protecting herself against an otherwise intolerable level of fear and threat. She became blind to the potentially devastating situation as she meandered her way through years of serial abuse.

She was isolated, seen only by family who couldn’t hear her screams. He abused her sex, her maternal blood, her loyalty. He shamed her body, her mind and her spirit. The cumulative effects weakened her to a level of vulnerability and fear that paralyzed her. She clung to strangers who she met on line for validation, starved for acceptance of her imperfections and he became jealous.

He did the unthinkable and destroyed her world in a fiery blaze of hatred and selfishness. She lost everything and everyone she ever loved. She learned that so-called family values meant it had been her responsibility to keep her family intact, despite the abuse. She learned that the narrative on the ideal family betrayed her by creating the illusion that a perfect family exists. And because she failed to have this perfect family, then she bore the negative consequences of her failure. She learned she was to blame for what was not achieved. She was betrayed by the wholesome, implausible portrayal of perfection because she did not live up to family expectations.