Blogging: Screaming in Silence

Blogs aren’t something I’ve done in ages. Not because I done want to or don’t have anything to blog about, but because of what happened with my last blog.

Because I had no idea how many people were reading it, all along. My blog was where, as a seventeen year old, I screamed into the void. I screamed about the neglect at home, after my father took off and left me with a mother who was so absent in my life growing up I forgot I even lived with. I screamed about my abusive step-father, who strangled me, pinning me to the floor by my neck screaming “Do you want to f#$k with me?!” in my face as I held my breath and let my head roll to the side and let my eyes lose focus, knowing if I struggled or fought back he’d grab my throat tighter, and after, when he left go and, I later learned, sincerely believed had murdered me, my mother prevented me from calling the police and reporting it–my father cared only enough to call and make sure he didn’t need to come visit over the incident. I screamed, I begged, I cried about my older sister’s addiction to heroin, how it took over my life, how my mother spent all her extra time and energy on her, my younger brother, and step-father; Everyone with substance misuse, even if her actions enabled the use. I felt like I was losing my absent voice as I struggled with the fact that since I was 12 years old, my parents had made me responsible for keeping my sister from entering our home as she would rob us blind each time, and my sister, the only parent or mother figure I had, manipulated me many times into letting her inside where she would take from everyone, even me, and so quickly I never once caught her in the act. . .but I was held responsible for letting her inside, despite my step-father always being home as he never had a job, but couldn’t be bothered to help with my sister–yet demanded someone make her stop knocking and ringing the doorbell so he could watch TV and keep drinking.

I screamed and yelled and begged. . .and all that came back was silence. So, to me, no one–not even my friends–read my blog. I never even tried to track the traffic and such to or from my blog, because after all. . .given what was happening in my life, surely someone knew of a way to help. A number I could call. Something.
Later, as an adult, a therapist revealed the sad truth I had endured, stating they never took adolescent or child patients because, “The problem is their environment and their parents, and you can’t help them change either.”
I was in therapy during all of this; None of this was a secret. My blog was the real life events of a kid who made a webcomic and came from a highly abusive, neglectful home, whose stressful days at home were punctuated with overdoses or violent outbursts resulting in ambulances and police.

“You’re Faking It.”

I also constantly kept getting sick; Colds, flu’s, sinus infections, or perhaps just “allergies”–My doctor had long since given up on finding an easy, or any, explanation to these constant illnesses. . .except that I was obviously faking and doing this to miss school and get attention.
Once I began seeing these doctors alone, as an adult, I wasn’t faking to miss school–I was faking to get drugs. Medications I had literally never been prescribed. My doctors would contact other doctors I saw due to mysterious ailments before I even arrived for the appointment, claiming I was not to be believed nor trusted; One doctor showed me the three page letter they had been sent, claiming all of these things because they failed to find a cause.
But while I was still a teenager, my parents would drag me to the doctor any morning I woke up feeling poorly, just to prove I wasn’t sick, or if I was, I wasn’t contagious, and would send me to school saying if I was really sick, I’d be sent home. School nurses came to know me quickly and would often refuse to let me do more than lay down for a bit.
I wrote about all of this, because after all. . .no one was reading it. Not even my friends, which was okay–I wasn’t reading theirs, after all. Admittedly, I also wrote in my journal daily while my friends rarely ever did.

Recording Abuse in a Public Blog in Secret Ways

I also had to not reveal that I was in an abusive relationship; When I blogged about a real event, recounting every moment as it had just occurred and was extremely hurtful, cruel, and confusing, as a guy I dated long distance deliberately picked and began a fight and hung up in the middle of a costly call–that I paid for out of my allowance–and hanging up caused me to have to pay more to call back. Claiming a friend of his had read it and confronted him, he demanded I take it down and never recount such things again. I did, but every post after, I ended with a sentence or two about this guy and professing my love for him, my own secret message to myself; The shorter I kept this, that meant there was no drama or fight he had created, but longer professions of adoration were my way to signal to future self that on this day, there was more to why I was so sad than I could reveal.
Within a week, no friends of his read it, nor did he, but I never took the risk of revealing the constant issues in my romantic life again, feeling resigned to the fact that. . .this was my life. This was going to be the rest of my life, as I planned to marry him and move out of the country.

Horrifying Truth: A Blog, Not a Void

The journal, the blog, I kept, contained a lot of things I don’t know if I would have discussed if I had realized it was being read as much as my comic, having a significant amount of traffic each day the comic updated. I updated three times a week, and wrote in my journal most days, sometimes several times a day.

Blogging for Help; Read for Entertainment?

Learning this was upsetting. . .because I knew someone out there had known how I could have gotten help. . .but no one told me. What I realized wad, my real life that I was trying to escape from was entertainment.
My sister’s struggles and nearly dying, until the day I wrote that she had died? Entertainment.
Being strangled and surviving because I thought to play dead, way before we taught that in schools? Amusing.
My father taking off and leaving me with my mother who was using my college fund like a piggy bank to pay all the bills and all the groceries, reducing the fund to the point I could not afford a degree? My sister excelling in everything and being so smart she attended college on only grants? My younger brother going on rants and rampages threatening to become violent if all his wants were not met? My entire family attributing my deceased sister’s life and actions to me and forgetting she ever existed. This endless, countless things are too exhausting to even begin to recount, and I was desperate for help; My cries for it, it turned out, had been used as amusement.

It doesn’t make you want to blog again, is what I’m saying.

Screaming into a Silent. . .Audience?

I mean, I can’t even pick just one color, and I can’t explain why my eyes like what they do. Even if I can, I know I couldn’t if asked, on the spot, in person, by the person who made it. I can understand why that’s anxiety inducing for those asked, but what many may not realize is. . .it’s anxiety inducing showing my work, to have it complimented, to have it insulted, to have it said nothing of, to have it sell, to have it not sell. I’m always wondering why people who like my work do, and what it is about it they like. Do you like the things I do? Do you like the things I think you like, the things I hope are what I also like, because they are things I’m going to keep doing? Or do you like my work for reasons that I personally know I don’t plan to repeat in future pieces?

Or are you just back to find out what happened after I stopped my blog and disappeared. Did life get better?

Is there a Blog after Death?

Eventually, yes.


But not instantly. In fact, it was only recently. When I met my fiancée, when I began challenging myself.

When my step-father stopped breathing, drowning on land, the way he tried to kill me when I was 17, and never inhaled again.
After I watched that monster lowered into the ground, to make sure I would always knew where he was, and that was so far underground that if he somehow woke up, it didn’t matter.

It wasn’t the solution, but it was a huge turning point that caused me to see a lot of those for who they were. Family, the mistake I was dating. I finally realized a huge truth:
My family is worse than I ever imagined and the lies, the deceit, is a plague and no one I share genetics with can be trusted anymore.

Death means change, transformation, and because of it, I can go forward in life a little easier, but still knowing to watch my back.


Depending on how this blog post goes over, I MIGHT start another, new personal–personal blog, with some art mixed in. However, it won’t be here, because this is one of those boring, artist portfolio sites where people want you to write a biography but only three paragraphs or less because supposedly, curators and collectors don’t want to have to read. Because if they see a “wall of text”, they’ll all just hit the back button.
I wonder how those people react to a novel. Do they pick it up because of the pretty picture on the front and hurl it into the fire when they discover all those words on the back, let alone the walls of text inside it?

So, I’m planning on making another personal site, so I can blog like I want to, write a biography that is long enough to actually know real stuff about me, and just not care if I make it a professional portfolio site.
. . .But this one I have to care about. I do. I may not like how I am a creative, making a portfolio of my creativity, within a space completely devoid of any to not distract from the art. That’s the same reason I can’t write more than three paragraphs–it distracts you from the art–since writing isn’t art and writing about the art you made is not welcome (Until you are asked in public, on the spot, while daydreaming about what you’re making for dinner.)

In the mean time, I have made a Private Artist’s Blog on Patreon. Since it’s private, it’s not accessible for free members or the general public, as it does discuss events in my life where others involved may be able to read about my views and create an excess of aggression and drama. My blogs are not meant to demand or condem anyone, but various events and those involved may be mentioned but never named outright. Since I have to assume the events surrounding some things won’t be sometime I can keep vauge enough for no one to know the details without revealing some details as I reveal my feelings, a pay wall was the best solution I came to. People who know me might read my blogs for inside details to what I’m thinking or up to. . .

As long as it’s free.

Also, I admit, with what I discovered, I decided if you want to read about all the drama from the trauma people first got to read as I lived it actively? I’m not thrilled about it, and I would have just published the stupid thing if I known people read it so much. So, now, you can still read all that same stuff. . .Just, not at the cost of me, my safety, my sanity.

Plus, I need it for all the therapy I need because of my childhood and early life I documented.


I thought this was a void.


How come no one told me they were out there?


You knew I was waiting for you all along. You know the lonliness, the silence, the isolation was killing me, and you still wouldn’t leave me along and keep me company. Why weren’t you there when I didn’t need your help?