City of Angels
(Just found this in a journal, copy and pasted it here, and apart from a few small changes for clarity, it’s exactly as I wrote it in spring 2012 when I was left in West Virginia. Part 2 is here) .
I’d wake up each morning not sure where I was. The building went up in the early 1800s as a boarding house in this small town in the country a 3-hour drive from Washington D.C., but that didn’t matter to me as I had no way to get to D.C. or even out of this town. I never had any reason to want to live in West Virginia, yet here I was, stranded.
In 2010 I’d taken off to roam around the country interviewing other pedophile priest victims, trying to develop City of Angels Blog into something that could really accomplish something.
Instead by summer 2011, I got sidetracked, swept aside, and outright abandoned and now I was in this little rental house in small town West Virginia, totally isolated.
And I woke up with a huge spider bite on my thigh. I guess it was a spider bite, or some other massive insect whose venom under my skin was rapidly expanding into a puss-filled bubble, a good three inches wide. And pulsating, I woke up with a hot red pulsating infected insect bite on my leg on top of my thigh.
I’ve had PTSD since age five, so I’ve been on this endless treadmill. No matter what happens, I keep running and running and running. In the 1980s it got me through an unexpected pregnancy when I was single and age forty. I ran and ran and kept a roof over our heads and got my daughter to early adulthood in pretty good shape, well sort of.
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