This sad, daily retweeting of your misdirected rage needs to end.
The lies have been exposed, your 15 minutes are long over.
What may, at one time, have sparked interest and even outrage by the uninformed or gullible has just become the object of ridicule and scorn.
Let it go.
You see, while you are throwing your petty, unfounded tantrum there are many of us out here living in the real world who actually know what abuse is.
And most of us don’t have time for your shit.
Being so incapable of empathy you have no idea how many of us have actually lived through the nightmare of abuse. Whether domestic or child, being verbally attacked, emotionally manipulated or punched and kicked as you lay curled in the fetal position on the floor; there are thousands of us who truly understand what abuse is.
Taryn, you know nothing of abuse at the hands of a parent.
Shaken baby syndrome.
Child abuse at the hands of your father?
Your lies are an insult and a slap in the face to those who have lived it.
They diminish the real pain and fear that so many have actually endured.
I know someone who shared her story with me.
You should know what real child abuse looks like, Taryn.
A little girl, given away by her drug addicted mother to an abusive and controlling father who sees her as a mistake. Who only wanted this child so he could be the winner in the competition that he called a relationship. From the very first he made it clear to the girl that she was last in his new family. That she was there on sufferance.
She was 6 years old.
She watched from the sidelines as he laughed and played with his children by his new wife. Longing for the warmth and love he directed at them but she could never seem to earn.
Her life was filled with harsh colors.
The ice blue of his disappointed stare.
The red of his rages.
The black and blue of her bruises.
“I made a mistake and got your mother pregnant. Abortion is a sin. It was a mistake. You are my responsibility until you are 18 and then my duty is done.”
“YOU LITTLE MONSTER!”
“Nothing to eat!”
Hungry, she would sneak the scraps from the dinner dishes she was made to wash. When she got caught she was called a thief and sent to the dark, unfinished basement to sit and wait.
Leaning against the dryer, the only light from the wood burning stove, she waits in the darkness.
“Please don’t let him beat me. Please don’t let him beat me.”
Sometimes it worked.
Mostly it didn’t.
Down he’d come, belt in hand.
“Daddy, no, please”
He made her pull down her pants and hold on to the metal pole that supported the upper floor.
Then he’d beat her until she had the imprint of the belt on her skin while she screamed for a mother who never came.
If she loaded the dishwasher and anything came out still dirty she was made to eat from the dirty dish or cup.
Her step mother would scream at her and drag her across the kitchen floor by her hair.
Her father broke the handle of a rake over her back for not raking all the stones out of the backyard. When she was still little she sometimes wet the bed.
To stop her, her father would come into her room during the night and slap her to wake her up to go use the bathroom. He sent her to school with a black eye once because of this.
At the time he had her in therapy. When the school asked about the black eye he lied about it so they contacted her therapist who confronted him about it. He finally admitted that he had punched her because she hadn’t awakened fast enough for him.
Finally he lied and had the girl locked up in a psychiatric institution.
Just because he didn’t want her in his home.
She was molested while there with no one to protect her.
There is so much more to this story, Taryn but perhaps you get the picture?
That is if every shred of humanity and morals haven’t been audited out of your cold, dishonest soul.
But you know what? The abuse isn’t even the point.
While you spend your days ranting over something that never even happened, using your fiction as a crutch and as an excuse for your completely inexcusable actions, WE go on.
The many of us who actually survived our nightmares picked ourselves up, faced the world and moved on.
It affects us. We carry it with us always.
But we don’t allow it to rule our lives.
We have lives.
WE are the strong ones.
WE are survivors.
Women who have worn bruises from the men in their lives.
Who know what it is to cry silently in the night from pain, fear and despair.
You make a mockery of every bruise that every person, man or woman, has hidden.
Your pretense at representing us sickens us.
WE do not need your kind of help.
Abuse is not something you put on like a scarf for attention.
It isn’t a tool for your revenge.
You are weak and selfish, frozen in one place by a lie while we live with the truth and thrive.
Every word you speak, every video you post is a disservice to every one of us who get up every single day and LIVE.
I know this note means nothing to you. I know you are incapable of feeling for anyone else.
Scientology and parental alienation has made you a shell of competent compliance and unyielding obedience.
Your rage is your dagger and shield which, childlike you use to lash out in blindness.
You are afraid, Taryn.
Afraid of the truth of your life, such as it is.
We embrace our truths, understanding that though we suffered the dregs, we are strong and resilient and can look at the world with clarity.
It’s over Taryn so stop.
You’ve spewed your lies and lost.
We don’t need your “help”.