Image by Kabryn Mattison

Who am I?

I’ve worn many identities in the past thirty-two years. I have been the chatty child and the quiet question. At one point, whenever I met anyone new, I’d say, “Hi, my name is Grace, I am divorced.” That identity lasted a good year in a half and it was awful. I have been the sexual abuse victim but I’ve also witnessed victims who became over-comers

I’m deeply reflective with many stories fixated inside my skull. I spend hours staring at paintings and even more hours contemplating the memories of yesterday. …

Photo by Nguyen Dang Hoang Nhu on Unsplash

Her name was Agatha. Agatha was raised in the midwest. She was poor with a small family who sold cherries when they were in season. Agatha went door to door late into the night asking people to buy her cherries. She was exceptionally beautiful for her age. Her hair was long and blonde, her eyes were baby blue, and her face was rosy pink. Put her in a little red dress at five years old and she could sell some cherries.

Agatha’s parents seemed to sell her in other ways as well. “I don’t understand how they wouldn’t have known,”…

Image by mkupiec7 from Pixabay

We were at a K-Mart. The cardboard box was filled with kittens. My mom caved over the sound of meows. A dark-gray almost black cat looked up at me. He was sweet and now he was mine. We took him home with the understanding that he would live on the porch, not inside the house. I couldn’t make up my mind what his name should be. In the morning he was The Little Mermaid and by nightfall, he was Beauty and the Beast. …

Photo by Christian Wiediger on Unsplash

A Facebook message from Jacob popped on the screen, “Can you talk?”

My heart froze solid in one moment but by the next, I took my next breath. I spent years in therapy to heal from this man, my first memory and the earliest awareness of what it was like to be a woman seen as property. His words:

“I’m using again and I can’t stop. You’d think that seeing your baby brother in a casket would make you change but it only made it worse, I can’t stop.”

I carefully crafted what I thought was a considerate question:


Image by: Cottonbro

This question shuffles through me as I read articles about polyamory, pornography, narcissistic abuse, and divorce. I sit on the couch with my fingertips caressing the f and j keys with great hope I will write an article that bears importance. I sit back with hesitation as my thoughts speak louder and louder:

The internet is saturated with content. Do I want to be a part of over-stimulating another person’s brain, and do I want to plant seeds in their minds that may not be good for them?

And this is my dilemma, it is the reason my writings are…

Image by press 👍 and ⭐ from Pixabay

My Dad: The way I see it you got two choices, you can either move out or not go to your prom next week.

Randall: I’m out then, that’s not fair. It’s prom. Nikilia is expecting me, I have my tux.

My Dad: Make your choice.

Randall’s plea seared the room. My parents were blind to the part they played in losing Randall to his terrible friends. Mom always worked or slept and Dad demanded his way regardless of reason, what choice was there really?

Randall tugged the back of my hair. “I need you to call Nikilia and let…

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

She was a smart cookie and always was. When we were in high school, she learned calculus on a computer. At the time, that wasn’t normal. In 2005, dial-up internet was still a thing and online learning was not. Her name was Hailey. Hailey’s mom skipped town when she was in middle school for a Hispanic man named Victor. Victor didn’t like when anyone spoke at dinner, he was against soap in the shower and wore a leather jacket (he didn’t have a motorcycle though). The day they left was the cliche kind. …

Grace Louise

Writer of Non-fiction, Memoir, & Opinion Articles. Philosophy & Psych alumni. NASM Certified Trainer. Dance Educator. With a great love for hiking.

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