Tortured Animals, Tortured Souls

All of my pets as a child always died under mysterious circumstances.

Hamsters dead. Cats disappeared. I would go away to camp and come home to dead hamsters. Our cats constantly disappeared to the point we finally didn’t get another one.

It didn’t make sense to me until after our dad died. It didn’t become clear until you were no longer masked.

Poor KoKo. She endured so much pain and torture by your cruel hands. You burned her whiskers, the ones you didn’t burn, you pulled out by hand, chased her with rakes in the back yard and would yell at her when moms weren’t around just to scare her. You chased her with the hose running, and chased after her when she would run away from you, obviously unhappy by what was happening around her. You would make her go outside when it was thundering and lightning outside. You were always smiling and laughing while you did it. You knew she was abused before mom rescued her. You didn’t care. She was vulnerable, and just another prey to you.

You would light Moe’s whiskers on fire. You would grab him by the tail and yank him around, often swinging him in circles around you on the floor. You would trap him in corners where he couldn’t escape you and you’d grab him until he squalled at you. The only reason you couldn’t grab Wegman by the tail, is because he was a Manx and had no tail. But I often watched you slap his little nub and he would turn around and scratch and hiss at you. Again, always with your evil smile and maniacal laughter.

You drove fear into the animals around you because of the chaos you seeked out to impose. You were never kind to animals.

Whenever you entered a room ALL the animals would leave immediately. They were terrified of you.

I often wonder if there wasn’t some type of sexual abuse inflicted on them.

Dad once broke the neck weasel that got into our house so he could get it back outside, and the next day you went outside with your paintball gun and shot it until it was entirely pink. You murdered that weasel.

“Sociopathic behavior has been studied for centuries and it has been shown that many who are afflicted usually have a past that involves some form of cruelty to animals. Serial killers, such as Ted Bundy and Brenda Spencer, abused animals when they were young.

According to the FBI, a history of cruelty to animals is one trait that appears over and over in serial killers and even rapists. The one group of animals that suffer the most by abuse is companion animals. Family pets, such as dogs and cats, usually suffer at the hands of children who are afflicted with a mental disorder, as they tend to take their aggression out on these defenseless creatures. Just as with a domestic abuser, the animal abuser needs to show dominance. If this behavior is not dealt with effectively during childhood, then as an adult, the perpetrator could move on to human prey.”


I’m a Survivor

The thought of you and what you’ve done sends a shiver down my spine for what is to come to the next poor girl you meet.

Nothing but cruel intentions.

You’ve done everything to me.

It’s only a matter of time before you find your next victim.

But here’s the thing, I’m not a victim any more.

I’m a survivor.

You wanted to kill me.

I survived.

You physically and mentally tortured me for twelve years.

I survived.

You raped and molested me for twelve years.

But I survived.

I’m not sorry if I seem standoffish or cocky.

I’m a survivor.

I’m not sorry if I don’t want to be around you or anyone who associates with you.

I survived you.

I survived everything you put me through.

I amaze myself sometimes when I think about the choices I had to make in life.

I’ve always chosen to better myself.

It’s been a long and hard journey.

I went through a lot of self-hate getting out of the hole you put me in.

I tried to kill myself twice.

When I woke up, I said to myself “well damn, I’ve survived again.”

You stole my verbal voice.

I survived.

I lived to tell my story and that’s what I’m going to do.

I’m not ashamed of who I am or what I’ve been through.

I’m not scared to tell my story.

I’m not scared to talk about you anymore.

I survived.

Do and say what you want, I’ll still always be a better person than you.

And the best part is?

I fucking survived. And I’ll keep on surviving.

I am a survivor.

Story Time

I was terrified. It was a dark and dank basement. I was scared to be there when the lights were on, let alone pitch black. I don’t remember how they managed to convince me to go downstairs in the first place.

I heard laughing. Menacing, evil laughter. I was not only tied by my arms with duct tape, but my legs were also taped to the legs of the old, red vinyl seated metal chair that was once used at a kitchen table in the fifties. What was once a beautiful and charming chrome finish was now rusted. Now it sat alone in our basement against the wall. I could not fathom what you would do next.

All of a sudden a flash comes on, I’m being filmed as I scream and struggle and cry. Again, terrified. I can barely make out the two people standing in front me, amused by my horror. I didn’t have my glasses on any more. But it was you. And you had a friend.

You’re holding dads chainsaw and encouraging me to scream, that always makes the film more real. You always did love to film yourself torturing me. “Keep screaming Ashley. Yeah, make it look more real.” I couldn’t form the thoughts to ask you why you were doing this. I just wanted to stay alive.

The sounds of the chainsaw turning on, and I have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen. I can’t see past my tears, or the light of the camcorder. I’m screaming for someone to help me, when I realize we’re the only three in the house. The revving of the chainsaw is getting closer and closer to my head when I realize you do a really good impression of a chainsaw. It’s not actually on. I’m still terrified, you’re holding a massive weapon and I’m completely helpless. I’m tied down by my arms and legs and even if I weren’t, you’d find a way to subdue me. You had all the power. You continue with your escapade of horrifying acts. I was waiting for you to actually turn on the chainsaw. You looked crazy, as you held that chainsaw and brought it down to my shoulders like I was a log and you a lumberjack. You wanted to cut me in two. You slapped my face with the back of your hand and spit on my face. This went on for a while.

After a what feels like hours, your friend finally convinced you to leave me alone. He convinced you to go watch the video you had just taken. To bask in your own tortuous glory. You would not untie me or turn the lights on, but I was finally alone.

So much nervous and anxious sweat, I was eventually able to get my hands free of the tape. I untaped my legs and head, and headed for the door that lead to the kitchen. I had to get out of there. I fall going up the stairs and I hear the the sound of the door being locked. You blocked the door with a towel so the tiny sliver of light that was my guide, was no longer. I slipped and fell down the old, creaking wooden steps. I hear more laughter.

I feel my way around cob webs and all of dads tools. I see another sliver of light. The door to outside. I try with all my might and I finally make it to the door. It doesn’t open well from the inside, and I could barely get it open with the light on. Again, it’s pitch dark. The only thing I can see is what the light lets me see. Even that is skewed because I don’t have my glasses. I can barely make out the ten fingers on my hands, let alone open an 80 year old wooden basement door.

Finally, the latch opens and I’m free. But I’m not alone for much longer. I try to run but no matter where I go I am completely visible and utterly vulnerable. There are no adults. Just me and two people who want to see how far they can go. How far they can push me before I break. What did I do? I left the door open and ran back into the basement. I ran behind the wall of firewood that was being stored for winter. Again, I’m in the dark but this time I’m hiding. This time I think I’m safe.

Again, what feels like hours has passed, I decide to check the door to the kitchen again. The light-blocker is no longer positioned by the bottom of the door and I can open the door… It’s unlocked! I think to myself as I push open the door and run into the kitchen. I make a beeline for the stairs when I realize my room is not safe. No place is safe. And there’s a monster and an accomplice in my house. What am I going to do? I say to myself as come to a halt in the middle of the living room. There are no locks on any of the doors other than the one that leads to the basement and the bathroom upstairs.

I’m frozen.

I finally get myself together enough to remember all the hiding places in my house. This is not the first time this has happened. But where do I go? I tiptoe as silently as I can, aware of every creak and squeak in the house built in the 1800s. I can go under my bed, in the bathroom towel cabinet or one of dads closets. Getting to any would be difficult, and I settle on my bedroom. It was the closest after all. I continue up the rickety old stairs and I’m almost there. I get to the top, and turn into my room.

You are there. You are waiting for me. You two have your camera on. It’s time for round two. I hear more laughter as I scream, as I turn around and run into the bathroom. I barely managed to get in there and lock the door behind me.

I’m crying, terrified, looking at the window as if I might actually jump to my own demised freedom. I’m not even ten, but it’s the only escape I can think of. I get into the shower and turn the water on to drown out the pounding on the door.

Suddenly it stopped. Everything stopped. I stepped away from behind the shower to see why everything is so quiet and calm after so much chaos.

My dad is home.

Nothing happens, I don’t say a word. I wipe my tears and run downstairs to greet my dad. Happy that, for now, my nightmare is over.

He never knew the truth about what happened when he wasn’t home. He wouldn’t have believed me if I’d told him. He was the only person I feared more than my brother.

No Means No

I don’t need your support, or what you would call support. Blaming and shaming is not a type of support. It never was and it never will be. That is just how fucked up the family got you to be. They convinced you that being spiteful is supportive. I’m here to tell you it’s not.

You can continue to shame me, it won’t stop me. It never did before and it certainly won’t now. You can bully me all you want with your emails, I’ll just stop reading them.

Yes it bothers me that I don’t have but two people to consider family, but at least I have people to call family. I have friends so close I consider them family. I have the most magnificent support system that pushes me to keep writing my story. I will never stop writing. It is such a positive outlet, and I actually feel bad for you, you used to be a writer.

Of all the people on the planet, you, Aunt, were the last person I expected to stab me in the back. You claim that this has happened to you, you claim you’ve been threatened by people in our family. Yet, you turned around and talked about me behind my back. You took everyone’s thoughts into consideration and now you agree with them. PEOPLE DON’T CHANGE IF THEY CANNOT CHANGE. He is a chameleon. He will only continue to shift personalities and personas to make himself look good. You say you go to therapy, but they are just friends. That is not a therapist and if they’re licensed, it should be revoked. You never got better, just complacent in your own sickness. Therapy does not tell you what you want to hear, therapy pushes you to deal with problems and deal with the hardest traumas in your life. I worry for your daughter, for she is around a pedophile. She is around a sadist. You told me she’d been traumatized by her dad, but you let her be around your nephew? Maybe you really are crazy, dear. You cannot fix someone that is broken. Do you remember all the long late night conversations where I told you some fucked up shit that happened between my dad, my brother and I? You told me similar things had happened to you. I never told you how to deal with your trauma. I never told you how to feel about your abuser(s). You want to know why? Well whether you like it or not I’m going to tell you. I had no right to tell you how to deal with your trauma. I had no right to tell you to talk to your abuser. I had no right to tell you how to feel even 40 years later. So what gives you the right to do that to me? It is not your place, and while a part of me knows it comes from a fucked up place of love, it is irrelevant.

You were not there.

You did not see it.

You do not know how I feel.

You, like the others, don’t want to talk about it.

You said and I quote, “As S****’s mother, I would not stand by and do nothing if she was about to run out in front of a car.” That was never the question. Are you an idiot? Because that was the most idiotic thing anyone has ever come back to me with. How could you even possibly fathom that running in front of a car is even remotely similar to being raped, mentally and physically tortured for twelve fucking years? Everyone in our family has talked so much trash about you, and I always tried really hard to refrain because I know you’ve been through trauma. I know we’ve had similar experiences. But how you deal with that trauma is what makes you who you are.

How many times have you reached out to me? How many times have you called me in the last 5 years to see how I’m doing? When is the last time you visited me or made plans to be near me? Never. It has always been me reaching out to you. It was always me making and effort. I’m done. I’m done thinking that I have to make an effort for people that don’t think twice about me or my well-being. I’m done thinking that I have to be the one to communicate with everyone. I’m done with that family.

Would you sit in a room with someone who told you they were going to kill you multiple times in your childhood? No, you wouldn’t. I would not come near Him with a 300 foot pole. I would not talk to Him if He were on speaker phone MILLIONS of miles away. If He lived in Mars, it would still be too close.

I want nothing to do with a sick mother fucker who threatened me, tortured and raped me for twelve fucking years.

Let’s Get Real

There’s a lot of things that have been said in the last month. There has been an attempt to silence myself, yet again. This came as no surprise. I fully expected it. The only surprise was that it didn’t come sooner.

Whoever you are making the videos, thank you for having my back. My own family doesn’t or won’t or can’t, I’m not sure which one. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know how you figured out it was me writing. It is wonderful and empowering to know that someone else sees Him for who He really is. Again, thank you.

I have changed a few things, but I will NOT be silenced any longer. There are plans in the future to publish a book I am working on. The truth will be told.

To my dad’s family, you can deny anything you want. You have that right. But I also have the right of free speech. You can have any opinion of me that you want, you also have that right as human beings. With that being said, I do question your dynamic and thought processes. I know you want to think of me as crazy. Especially now. I am 100% sane. I am 100% healthy. You will not do to me what you have done to other women in the family. I will always be outspoken on the things I truly believe in. I always have been. None of you have any power over me any longer.

We all make choices in life and it is my choice to warn other vulnerable women about Him. He knows what to say, how to act. He’s read books on body language and he is going to school to be a psychiatrist. He is not doing it for the greater good. He is doing it to hone his skill as a hunter of vulnerability. It’s only a matter of time before he gets kicked out for not doing the work or quitting because “it’s too hard.” What you all have failed to realize is that I’m his first victim, not his last. I don’t know what he’s told you or the others, and I don’t care. It’s only a matter of time before people start to see him for who he really is. Maybe one day, you will too.

See, my only option is to fight back against the abuse. The only way I can is a social platform to reach thousands. I’ve already reached hundreds. We live in the 21st century now, where the most basic google search can tell you a lot about people. Hell, you can pay $20 to find out someone’s social security number. I am not writing any of this out of anger, though it does come from a dark place in my heart. I write this out of empowerment, knowing that with each and every view, each click, each comment, each time someone reads this and shows it to a friend, I’ve made a difference. I’ve helped someone escape a torturing, abusive and manipulative person. It may not even be him, it might be someone’s significant other in Japan for all I know. But it’s something. I will continue doing my due diligence to my fellow women.


Sociopaths cannot be cured. There is not even a treatment. Once that click goes off in their brain, that’s it. It might be something they are born with, it might be something they develop as a toddler, or even in their teens. It is a mental disorder that is so uncommon it is difficult to get a proper diagnosis. Most people in their lives don’t meet a sociopath… I take that back. Most people in their lives don’t even know they’ve met a sociopath. I recommend The Sociopath Next Door by Martha Stout.

I survived twelve years of abuse. It was not just sexual, but physical and mental torture. I’ve been bound to chairs and beds by rope and duct tape. Ive been locked in a basement with a chainsaw to my head. I’ve been gagged with dirty socks and underwear that weren’t mine. I’ve had animal feces rubbed into my hair and face. I’ve had fingernails dug into my face for no reason other than to draw blood. I’ve been shot in the head with BB guns and paint guns. So, no, I will not let it go, I will not shut up, and I will not “make peace” with my abuser. Someone does not just get to be in my life, they have to earn it. After all these years, I’ve gotten one phone call. I have no brother. Family doesn’t acts like a sadist towards other family. You can keep your blood.

So if there is one thing I can do to help another little girl being abused by her brother, father, boyfriend, mother, or what have you, it is to keep writing my story. I will be heard. It doesn’t matter by whom. If there is still one person listening, I will keep writing… I’ve only touched the surface.

I’m Not Done Yet, EC

You lied about doing chores. You intentionally broke things (lawnmower, garbage disposals, weed whacker) to get yourself out of doing what you were asked around the house. You gave yourself poison ivy so you didn’t have to do yard work. You quit jobs or intentionally got fired and lied about it blatantly. You would say you were looking for a job and we would see you just wandering down the street or hiding out in the back yard. When calling to find out what your schedule was, we were informed only then that you were fired because of job abandonment. You were a bag boy for 2 months at a grocery store and a bus boy at Steak N Shake for maybe 1. These are very simple minimal effort jobs. You couldn’t even do that. Most 16 year olds are not only excited to work for their own money, but are elated to get out of the house for a few hours. Not you.

Nobody asked you to do anything more than what you were perfectly capable of doing. In fact, I mowed the lawn and weed whacked not only our lawn, but the neighbors lawn also. I also did dishes, cleaned the bathrooms, did laundry, swept and mopped floors, and did whatever else I could to HELP before you even ran away and continued after you left…. hmm, that would have made me TWELVE YEARS OLD. I didn’t complain about it then and I’m certainly not complaining now. I am simply stating how much of a lazy, selfish FUCK you were then. If I’ve learned anything about you—you don’t change and you never will. I wonder what Megan or Heather would say if I asked them how much you ever helped with housework and yard work. I think we both know that answer LOL.

In 2007 you were put in a camp with other kids your own age to help teach you about teamwork and hard work and self discipline. It was never a punishment. It didn’t go unnoticed that you had no work ethic, no motivation and zero regard for people around you. It was a two week learning experience and you couldn’t even do that. You RAN AWAY like the little bitch you still are at 28 years old.

You decided to tell lies about us. You chose to leave (THANK GOD). But now the truth is out there, so good luck trying to get any of those lies to keep sticking now.

You completely disregarded your mother, her partner and your sister. They were both successful social workers. You unreservedly underestimated those two women. I promise, you will fucking regret that if you don’t already.

You’re fucking psycho…

Let’s Start a Conversation

We’re going to talk about it

No more hiding

No more shaming

I will speak the truth

I will be heard

No more lying

No more misunderstanding

If life was so bad

How come I never left

If She was so mean

Why is She my mom

Why do I trust her with my soul

Why do I love her like blood

You learned from your father

I learned from my mothers

You have no emotion

No courage

No honor

I love the life I built without you

In fact there’s no room for you


You will always be alone


You have no sister

You will never know her

I’m 24

I have everything I could ever want

Ever need

You’ll always be in last place

You’re 28

You have nothing

You’ll always have nothing

I’m a kind and generous person

You’re the devil in disguise

I’m carefree and loving

You’re fucking evil

Always full of hate

You’ll never be half of who I am

You’ll never be my brother

I am an only child