They never leave a mark

They never leave a mark.

The truly talented abuser doesn’t leave evidence. 

They terrify you on a deeper level…and they minimize the physical damage (or the actual evidence).

They make you feel crazy and like you can’t breathe without setting off a bomb.

My father was a true professional when it came to abuse without marks. If I had a mark…it was only earlier in the week or when he had extended time. The scrapes/bruises were usually gone or well faded before I had to switch houses again the next Sunday/end of vacation.

I kept most of the instances to myself because I didn’t want to tell anyone without proof. It would only hurt the people that loved me, or risk a report being filed that would only make things worse.

However, in August of 2003…

he finally messed up. 

A lot of the times he would get mad at me, it would come out of nowhere and wouldn’t fully make sense. He would fly into a rage over something small and then it would only escalate. This day...the conversation had gone to me and biting my nails...something that infuriated him (ironic, given the anxiety the man gave me every moment of my life) 

It was a Thursday afternoon…we had been out to lunch on the boat. He was yelling at me and I was just letting him, not trying to argue. He went on about how I had been lying to him about it (how I’m not sure given it was pretty easy to see) and was screaming at me. He got progressively angrier and told me to sit on the floor of the boat. It was an open boat…so I sat on the opposite side from the steering wheel facing him with my back against the side. I remember very clearly (I can still see the house we were passing when I sat down) thinking that if I had to I could just jump off and swim if he got too insane. 

To be fair...I had that thought a lot…
frequently when he was aiming the boat at large pilings at full speed.

Anyways…I sat down and he would occasionally slow the boat down to scream at me…and then take off again. He eventually worked himself up so aggressively that he slowed the boat completely, moved towards me, and kicked a life jacket at me on the floor. His foot was still in contact when it hit my face…and it slammed my head into the side of the boat. I fought like hell to not react, because that was the only thing you could do to avoid a further consequence.

Friday and Saturday things remained mostly calm. His current girlfriend came over, we went back out on the boat. To be perfectly honest...I don’t remember a whole lot of specifics from those next days.

However, Saturday night, he got angry again and our conversation turned. I got too confident and made a comment about him kicking me in the head. He denied it and he started threatening me again. I told him to stay away from me or I would call the police. His response was telling me that I wouldn’t be able to call 911 with the ropes I would be tied in.

Again...I have no idea how the night ended. Probably like most of the arguments where I would just stop talking and avoid him until he went to bed.

The following day was Sunday and it was the start of my mom's week. She showed up at the house per the usual visitation schedule, I grabbed my stuff, and said my goodbyes. I got in her car and immediately unraveled with everything that had happened.

Without hesitation, she drove directly to the police station and we filed my first domestic violence report.

For possibly the first time...officers actually listened.
I had proof. 

To my luck...
the bastard had left a mark
...3 days later.

Not child abuse

 Let’s start with one of my favorite excerpts that I got to enjoy while going through court records last month.

Anyone that has followed this page from the beginning knows that my father had lots of “fiancees” “baby mommas” whatever you want to call them. There was never NOT a woman “seriously” dating him. There was also never a lack of other women around in general. To this day, I’m not entirely sure I know how many children he has, or how many we don’t know about. 

(Which by the way, is exactly why I won’t ever do one of those DNA kits).
I don’t have the mental capacity to know who else was wrapped into all of this without my knowledge (and maybe without theirs).

Let’s not go ruining innocent people’s lives when they find out their father was a psychopathic arsonist.

But this quick clip is a court document where my “step mom of the year” was testifying that I wasn’t being abused.

Wasn’t.
Being.
Abused.

“Gives her chores around the house for days at a time when he is angry with her.”
(I was 9-10 by the way.)

“Sent Katharine from a restaurant because she wasn’t cutting her lettuce correctly.”

“Told her to shut up when the child was excited about a school event.”

My favorite personally…

“Shoved food into Katharine’s mouth until her cheeks were bulging because she was not eating. The food had been sitting around for awhile and the child threw up all night.”

Let me be clear. 

As a mother. 

And a step mother.

If my significant other threatened my children or put my children in danger…I would get myself killed protecting them. There is not a single thing on this planet that could stop me. And to be clear…since none of my step moms really understood it…

That includes my daughter.
The one I took on the second I dated and married her father.

I didn’t get that. I was disposable to every single one of those women. I was a babysitter and “his daughter.” I had all of the responsibility for my younger siblings…but none of the protection and unconditional love I deserved from the adults.

The more I look back on it and think about how hurt I was and how hard I tried to make everyone happy…the angrier I get.

I was actively drowning…and they were critiquing my swimming.

At least it wasn’t “child abuse.”

 

Hi, I'm Katt the cactus

Just occurred to me that there are going to be new people on this page that haven’t followed my story over the last 15 years. So let’s do a little introduction here (you can also go back and read posts if you want…I’ll link some here to help you navigate the “big stuff”).

My name is Katt.

I’m a mom to 6...
and the daughter of a psychopathic drug addict (literally).

Wildly long story condensed into a few sentences:

• I lived with him on and off for 15 years.
• He loved drugs…and loved getting women pregnant.
• He was a stalker, he was abusive, and he was also the nicest guy you had ever met.
• I am his only child that spent any actual time with him (despite my mom spending decades fighting to save me from the crazy).
• He died in prison, after setting his girlfriend’s house on fire (his girlfriend…who was barely older than me).

I’ve seen some shit I wish I hadn’t. I have been through stories that people assume I am making up. But I recently got ahold of most of the records from back then, which prove everything I have been saying for years. 

They also expose a lot of people for exactly who they are…enablers of abuse.
Abusers themselves.

I got sick of fighting like hell for my own mental health, while the people that hurt me got to walk around guilt free behaving like nothing happened…or acting like I was being “dramatic.”

I’m done with that. 

So I finally started the book I have been spitballing for as long as I can remember.
The real story of Paul. 

The details of every human that couldn’t be bothered to protect a little girl from a
severely
mentally ill
psycho.

I’ve done a lot of healing. 

I am a wildly different person than I was even when this page was started.
I don’t fake happy anymore.

I’m not afraid to say what I think and I found a way to turn my anger/hurt into something productive and healing.

I consider myself to be a cactus.

Surviving on minimal water 
as much sun as possible

...and I'm cool looking.
until you get too close.
Provoke me...

and I will stab you.

I'm kidding...
kind of.

ACTUALLY...I’m a social worker now when I’m not being a mom…because our court systems are total shit, and I am sick of children having to hold the burdens of dumbass adults. I am a huge advocate of the “war on drugs” because I have watched so many lives get leveled by addiction.

SO...

if anything you’ve read in this short time bothers you…
probably a good time to check out and not read anymore. 

Definitely don’t read the book when it comes out. But if not…check some of this other stuff out. The upcoming months will be details/stories/things that will be covered in the book.

The Recovering Skeptic

 He Burnt My House Down

Drugs and Strip Clubs

Front Page

Gremlins, Knives, and Government Spies

RIP

Overdose

1 year

Concrete Angel

Do You Remember the 20^th Night of September

Life In Prison

There’s a lot to read. You can pick and choose. 

There will be a lot more when this book launches. So catch yourself up now. <3

Legacy

 Round 75 of me saying "I'll write more now" or "I'm back!"

Except this time I'm back with news...and a whole lot of entertainment. 

I have removed a lot of posts, refocusing on why this blog was started. 

Paul's "legacy" (for lack of a better term) is in the works. I have spent the last few months requesting police records, reading through thousands of pages of court documents...and starting to write the stories of my paternal nightmare. 

Life update- because I feel like it matters for anyone that has followed this from the beginning of my rantings 15 years ago (what?!). 

Next month is 10 years married. 6 kids. (Yes we got surprised by twins since our last post). We've lived in Ohio, Virginia, Texas, and soon to be Hawaii. We've been through some stuff. 

But other than the million kids...this book has been my focus for a few months now. I have found stories that I forgot about, I have read through documents that made me want to throw things. I have lost the tiny bit of faith I used to have in the court system. 

So now I'm unloading it for all of you. 

I named this blog the recovering skeptic for a reason. I'm always working on recovery...I'm always trying to deal with the hell that was my earlier life. I will never not be. 

I write for me. And I write for other people going through these things...whether it be kids/teens currently in it, or adults that are trying to process their own trauma. I also want to hold the world, and all of the people that chose to throw me to the wolf over and over again...accountable. 

So everything in those public records...is about to be painfully public. 

"May the odds be ever in your favor."

If I lost you over the years...tune back in. Please. This is gonna be good. 

Stop pretending

 It's funny...it's only been 6ish weeks since I posted about turning this year into a thankful year.

And to be clear, I don't in any way take that back.

Let's pause and just adore that tiny face before we keep going. 

I need a little "happy" tonight. And this is it.

But I will say that I feel this strange urge to write on the nights that I am struggling. I don't think to write when I'm thankful and happy and in pure bliss. But I NEED to write when I am hurting or need to unload some of the thoughts that are exploding in my head.

Which is what brings me to write tonight. I am having a night that has both of those things. Tonight I was hiking with my kids and my husband...and I was so thankful as we walked. I took all these pictures of my beautiful family walking along a beautiful path with the moon coming up...and I was just so happy with my life.

Multiple times I fell into this bliss and just thought to myself "this is how it is supposed to be."

Then we got home...and they all went to bed.

And my thoughts started again. 

The overwhelming anxiety, the tears for no reason...the definition of this beautiful mental illness that has been in my life for nearly as long as I can remember. 

I can laugh one minute...I can joke around and truly be happy...just to have this crazy dread shock me out of it 5 minutes later. It makes no sense. The attacks have been coming more frequently lately...even when driving around for happy things. With my beautiful kids, my amazing husband...and suddenly I can't quite breathe right. 

None of this is easy. 

Not having a dad really fucking sucks sometimes. 

And that is something that I can't really put into words efficiently. 

My mother is truly perfect. My family is everything to me. But not having an actual father to be there when I could use it...takes more out of me than I can admit sometimes. I like to pretend I function fine without him. But while I can function...it truly wrecks me. 

I deserved more. My mom deserved more. My kids deserve more. 

We have AMAZING months coming. A partial family vacation, a honeymoon, a move for all of us...

But some nights it is just plain hard.

And really sad. 

I know it's gonna get better. 

And tomorrow will be easier.

But it's okay to say...it's hard right now.

I can be nice or I can be honest when I write. 

And when I was struggling even more than I am now...I read a lot of blogs and a lot of posts. Of people pretending to be okay. Pretending to be honest. It did me zero favors to read how "great" they were doing.

Sometimes you're not okay. 

And being honest about that is the only way to make it better someday. 

I'm good. I'm happy. 

But I am struggling. 

And it's okay to not be okay.

Moving on 2021

 If you pay any attention to this page...you know I have desperately struggled to write the last few years. 

I spent a very long time being sad. Struggling with emotions, and not knowing how to deal with the feelings that were wrecking my mental health. Nearly 20 years of my life were spent trying to process the things that were happening around me. 

Today...I don't have to try and process nearly as much. I have my bad days. These last few weeks actually have been chock full of my father in my memories and in my dreams. It has been exhausting, my anxiety has been in overdrive...and I have struggled.

But as I looked at social media memories today compared to my current life...I was so thankful. I realized that when I take a step back and look at where my life has gone...it has changed more than I ever thought possible.

So I am going to try and take this blog in a new direction so that I can start writing more. 

I will never sugar coat things. I will never pretend that hard things aren't hard.

The first 15 years of my life were painful...physically and mentally.
Marriage at 19, divorced by 21...in an ugly situation.

Excessive trauma from a drug addict parent...and then his death.

The last 2 years...nearly impossible. Deployment on crack, a house sale. Moving. Parenting alone.

The last 2 months...reintegration, a cancer scare, and a miscarriage.

Yet here we stand. And when I look at my life on a day to day basis...I am so thankful. When I see my husband and kids together...I tear up. I am relieved. My life isn't anything that I thought it would be...it is better. It is real. The daily REAL...is exactly what I needed. 

The new direction is simply "thankful."

It's not just surviving trauma. 
It's thriving from trauma.

It's living the life that you didn't want...and creating the life that you dreamed of.

Yes.

Dreamed of. 

Life will never be perfect. But if you do it right...it is sooo damn good.

This year has rocked worlds.

But this world is so much better.

Stay tuned for finding positivity in "hard." Because in fact...in can be done.

War on drugs

 I hear the term "war on drugs" a lot. Very very frequently actually. Especially given the degree I am pursuing. People have a lot of opinions on this war this country is fighting. Well, that the world is fighting. 

I want to be sure to preface this entire post with the fact that I completely understand the thought process behind "ending" the war on drugs. I truly do. There are a lot of things that aren't working, and things are being criminalized that shouldn't be. There are lives being ruined because of criminal charges that may not be justified. 

I get it.

But. There is another side to that. 

My side.

Drugs ruined my family. 

A few stupid white and brown substances tore my family apart piece by piece. 

They killed my father.
They destroyed every chance at healthy relationships.
They took away a grandfather.
They caused mental illnesses. 
They shattered any sense of normalcy.

They TRULY ruined lives. So many lives. 

I wish the person that provided my father with his drugs could be charged. I wish they could at least see the extent of the damage caused by their choices.

I don't blame them. My father had a choice and he could have gone elsewhere. But he didn't.

On that same note...I also wish my father had been charged earlier. It makes me physically ill to think of the amount of people he supplied drugs to. To think of the ways he behaved around me and other people's children. The dangerous choices he made that could have killed me or anyone else around him. 

If he had been charged, or formally held in a facility...he might have stood a chance.

Maybe not. 

But he might have. 

It might have been the one thing that got his attention. No "suspended" jail sentences. No mercy. Just straight into lockdown and then to rehab. Forced psychological treatment. 

SOMETHING.

If back then this "war on drugs" had been anything like it is now...I might still have a father. 

Maybe not.

But I might.

It's something I choose not to think about frequently because we have to deal with life as it is given to us. We have to "accept the things we can not change." We can not dwell on the things that "could be."

But for just a second when you think about how bad this war on drugs is in your opinion...

Think about those "might" circumstances. 

Because those MIGHTS would have changed so many lives.                                                                     

Lives like mine.