Ta-ta-ta-taday junior!

I don’t fear death or dying. I realized that when I stopped wearing my seat belt and looking both ways before crossing the street. Or double checking for cars when I’d stop at a stop sign. When I stopped counting the pills, whether it be asprin or pain meds. I stopped caring about what neighborhoods I was in and if I was wearing the wrong colors. I stopped caring about going into dark alleys and my dark court yard in my apartment complex to break up a fight or tell some loud ass people to hush the fuck up, not worrying that I’m a white female, living by myself and on the ground floor. When I stopped worrying over the relocation tows we do and the threats that people make or when someone pulled a gun out on me and I said “Do it, you’d be doing me a favor. ” That certainly changed the tone quickly.

I want to die. I don’t necessarily want it at my own hands because I’ve failed so many times before. I just started thinking that if I’m going to die, it will just happen and I’m not going to do anything to change it. But I will stop taking the precautions I used to to stay alive.  If the universe and Gods/Goddesses (yes I am pagan and before you become a cunt and assume what that means, look it up because I don’t eat babies or sacrifice anything, nor do I worship Satan. No I’m not going to hell but thanks for asking) want me alive, then it has to be for something. I don’t know what and I can’t say I’ll try to find out but I’m sure I’ll live long enough for them to throw it at me and see where I may land.

The Ativan is weird. It takes me through my emotions in a weird way. As being Borderline Personality (fucked mentally per say), I feel emotions more intensely then other people. I react differently or more intensely then other people would, more then normal people because I don’t know how to control my emotions. With Ativan at my side, I feel the emotions, I get pissed, upset, stressed, angry, frustrated and/or irritable at the same intensive way but I’m in this sort of mellowed, sedated haze for a lack of better words. I feel the emotions, I want to act on them but I don’t because I’m in that haze, and I’m slightly able to move on to feeling normal at a faster speed. I don’t know if that’s me putting my so called “coping skills” to use subconsciously or whatever. This helps because I don’t have the intense feeling of knocking my fathers head threw a wall while he screams at me to do my job and shut my mouth and to tell me how I should and should not talk.

(Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean you can tell me how to speak or act. You act like an asshole and I can do it justly so. Why? Because fuck you, my gender doesn’t give you the right to tell me how to go about my life. And you being my father doesn’t either.)

Distraction also don’t always work. I have a need… An itch. I have a fucked up need and want to take that razor and make precious silky red lines in my soft porcelain white skin. (I really am that fucking white, like when I get foundation, it’s the lightest you can go…)

I also have this shit thought in the back of my head that makes me think I may have fucked up in a major way. I was talking to my sister last night. Leah, she’s 17, just graduated high school (YAY!). Ever since freshman year she’s had an insane interest in psychology. She took all the classes she could on it while in school and did wonderfully. She’s super smart. She has her own issues that she is working on and that’s another reason I felt I could confide in her. She’s always been that bugger to diagnose me, she hit it on the nail last year before anyone else ever did. She knew I was Borderline before I was told by the doctors. (She’s going to college to major in Psychology and criminal justice to be a criminal pro-filer, she’ll be great at it.) Last night when she asked me how I was doing, she checks up on me every once in awhile, see’s what meds I’m on and what my doctors are doing about my shit. I let her in on everything my parents never knew and she said it all makes sense now. To know everything. To know why I said a lot of what I did in the past about how no one knew anything about me or what I’ve been through, because really they didn’t.

It has eaten away at me all day and I know she works, she wants to work over the summer before she moves on campus so that she can at least help pay for her books and any extra money she may need while away at college. She’s only an hour away but still. She finally texted me back saying she’s fine and it will be our little big secret. I don’t know what i’d do without my sisters. I’d fall apart without them. I’ve tried so hard before and got so far and I don’t want it to not matter in the end. i don’t want it to fall apart again. My life is already killing me. My lifestyle eats away at me. The friends that I’ve actually kept are worried and pained that I’m going through all this and how even though I know they are there for me in the back of my head, I still feel so alone. Because in a room full of people, I am alone.

It’s like drowning, gasping for air, while everyone around you is breathing and looking at you and watching while you struggle.

I wish it would be something I could fix today, I wish there was an easy fix but if that was the case, a lot more lives would have been saved because most people with this disease/disorder/whatever the fuck you want to call it, either kill themselves or let drugs eat away at them until nothings left.

I hope I’m stronger then those people. Hope, is there really such a thing?

It is what it is.

Follow up for the psycho!

Friday May 22, I had my psych appointment with Dr. Raden. He seems nice. He listened, payed attention, was very attentive to detail and made eye contact. He told me the some of the medication I was on was shit. He advised me that it seemed like the past shrinks I’d been seeing were just pushing pills on me instead of actually paying enough attention to helping me. Basically they were lazy fuckin shit heads. Which in all honesty, yes they were.

So since Friday after noon, I started my new regiment of crazy pills. He gave me Ativan .5 to take twice a day, I’m still on Lamactil at 300mg a day in the mornings, Xanaz as needed and or before bed at .5mg and Seroquel (sleep aid) to be taken before bed every night so that I can actually sleep and possibly function like a normal human being.

So here is what I shall hash out to you. Its only been a few days, so I don’t want to be too judgmental about any of it.

I’m pretty sure the Ativan is working it’s magic. The only thing I seem to have an issue with is that I feel drowsy. It’s something my body will need to get used to, so I will give it a few weeks and reevaluate the situation. I am calm. I get through my irritability better, more or less I can handle it better. I guess it’s because I am too calm or sedated for a lack of words, to want to fight or get upset or let my anxiety act up. But there is a side effect. I feel a little loopy, brain fog if you will. Scrambled of my brain which is, believe it or not a big fuckin problem. Especially when I’m trying to explain things and I can’t talk, my words come out backwards and it is just a jumbled mess. I dont know if it has to do with the meds or whatever. I don’t know how I will do when I do get too stressed out,  I haven’t been put into a high stress situation yet to test that theory.

I already know that Xanax does wonders for me, so I really don’t feel the need to comment on it too much lol I take it mainly at night time when my anxiety actually has the chance to reach me.

The Seroquel I am liking mucho gusta. It puts me out like a fucking light and I can actually sleep through the whole night like a fucking normal person (THANK THE GODS). I can even get up and pee and go back to sleep. It used to be like if I got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night i was screwed and couldn’t fall back to sleep. But this is wonderful. B-e-aUTIFUL!

I will update on the psycho pills after about a week, so maybe next Monday.

Abandoned By Validation.

So two of the biggest symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder are abandonment issues and validation issues. These are both things that form the disorder, mental illness. It is a no joke kind of thing to live with. It is an extreme mood/ emotional instability disorder, along with having identity issues.

By validation issues I mean like when I was raped and told my mom and she did’n’t believe me, saying things like “That never happened”, “It didn’t happen that way I’m sure.” “Are you sure you were actually raped?” And my personal favorite that she used when I told her I was depressed and cutting and wanting to commit suicide is “You’er just saying that for attention…” Those are just some of the things she said when I brought both of those situations to her attention. Only did she believe me when I showed her the scars and fresh, scabbed cuts on my arms and legs and showed her my suicide note and plans. Yeah it took all that and being validated by a shrink and a psychiatrist before believe me.

My abandonment issues probably started with the shit I dealt with with my biological mom, I mean placenta donor. No I will not hash out every single detail of that travesty in this post, I’ll save that story for later. Even though my father was there, as in he lived with me and my step mom, he wasn’t really there. He was always working, his work always came first (still does), that took priority (he said he was doing it for us, to have better lives, so he could give us everything he never had.), but I don’t know him, I don’t trust him to tell him my secrets, I never really spent time with him. I had my step mom, my only mom but i was always afraid she would leave too. (Do to the fact that the placenta donor left and was in and out of my life since then with no reasons at all. She’d never give reasons for why she would up and leave or do the things she did.) But she never left. (thank the fucking stars because I would have been buried years ago).

But eventually she had her own set of kids. It seems that those children were a lot more important to him. (how childish that sounds but it is a very true statement.) My three sisters know our father better then I ever will. He compares them to himself in all these great ways, in ways he has never looked at me or my brother. He says he cares, he says he will always be there for me (even though he’s not), he says all these wonderful things and I hear them but all i hear are lies. Because he broke every promise he ever made to me. He didn’t come to my choir concerts, my plays or even my talent show senior year (I was so scared lol stage fright like a bitch). But he has went to every single one of theirs. He has kept every promise to them. And even now, at the age of 23 years old, it hurts, it pisses me off, it angers me so much. I have been abandoned by my own mother and father (in certain ways, whether h sees it or not.)

Every relationship I’ve had, I have dealt with these same issues. And I have learned to either stay out of them, don’t have friends or push them away before they get to close and have the chance to hurt you, deceive you, lie to you, abandon you.

Leave me in my misery and I will rise and shine by myself. That’s what I have gotten to. I’m working on helping myself. I can’t do it on my own. They always ask you, when you start therapy, if you have loved ones and ones that care about you, a support system. I mean kinda. When it’s conveinent for them. My mom loves to pull the “You’er just being over dramatic, it’s not that bad, get over it…” when she gets tired of dealing with me.

I’m so used to being miserable that I can’t even enjoy being happy when it comes around.

Also, for anyone interested to know, my brother is still in jail, he is waiting for bonds to be lowered and they might let him out on a signature bond which is exciting because I miss that little asshole.

Hulk Smash!

Mean and green, HULK SMASH! I get it. The triggers, they make you mean and want to fuck shit up and you go on a rage, all you see it red. Little ticks, little troubles, little things that make you go off. Anger has been this ongoing emotions that is started to kill of everything around me. I’m starting to be okay with that. Because if I don’t have people around me, they can’t hurt me and I can’t hurt them. They have a fair chance at getting out alive, no that it’s likely. I pull people in and spit them out before they even know what’s happening half the time. I pull them in as fast as I push them away.

Anger is such a powerful emotion. i feel like it consumes me. It almost controls me. Like I’m under that influence. I know it’s just me getting worse, I just don’t know what to do to handle it. I have my next appointment on Thursday and then my med doctor Friday but I don’t know if I’m gonna last that long before I snap and lash out. I feel it coming on. I have this want… need… to smash someones fucking face into a goddamn wall. I almost want to hurt people even thought I know it’s so wrong. These thoughts are so wrong. I have control not to but it’s eating at me. I can’t control my reactions or what comes out of my mouth when I am triggered. It’s crazy, I can’t explain it. Screaming and yelling at people is the only thing that keeps me from lashing out and hurting people. I feel like i need to be strapped to a fucking bed in a ward. I feel like HULK SMASH! that’s what it’s like.. Let me HULK SMASH  your stupid fucking face in. It doesn’t help that I work with a bunch of fucking idiots, that makes it so much worse.

So much fucking worse. I want to hurt people and that scares me. I’m pretty sure that fear is the only thing keeping me in place and not fucking killing people. I need to bring this up when I go to the doctor but I don’t want this to be something that gets me involuntarily hospitalized.

Appointments… And the conclusion?

Soo today, well technically yesterday but I haven’t been to sleep yet so for me it’s still Friday, I had my first appointment with my new therapist. Her names Sheila. She’s nice. She’s real. Not like I imagined her but real as she was totally straight with me. She actually wants to help, knows how to help and gave me another piece of myself while I was dishing out all my goodies for her to assess. PTSD. I never thought that what I’ve been through would warrant for that.

I always thought that it was for guys in the military that actually saw shit or like 9/11 victims. But apparently I have it. I mean being raped twice, having no one believe me and not having anyone to talk to about it (I’ll save those lovely gems for another day). I guess it’s coming out now. When I’m a scared, single woman, living alone in her own flat.

I’ve seen so many doctors. So many therapist. Never a specialist for mental illness, behavior issues, or borderline personality disorder. She listened. She felt my pain. She was someone who felt for me. She believed me, the first time. My mom couldn’t even do that. When I told my mom about me being raped when I was ten, she said “It didn’t really happen, you’er saying that for attention, right? And if it did, was it really rape, did it really happen that way, can you really remember all of it?” She’d probably deny it. I was so taken aback as a 12 year old telling my mother that that happened to me and her not believing me that I didn’t know what to say. I just cried harder. I never told her what happened to me my freshman year in high school. After it happened, I thought “what’s the point, she won’t believe me anyway. I don’t have proof it actually happened. (Side note: My freshman year, I went to my first party, I had never drank or done drugs until that point in my life, I did not do them willingly, someone drugged my drink. I woke up in the back seat of someone’s car, after being lead outside a few hours earlier, and he was putting his pants back on. I was sore but I was unconscious the whole time, so what proof did I have. And at the time, I didn’t think anyone would listen to a girl who couldn’t prove anything and couldn’t remember anything either). The same thing happened when I told her I needed to get help. I was suicidal and cutting really bad my junior year.
I guess as the years went on, from repressing so many horrible memories my brain did what it needed to somewhat survive. And I guess now it’s all unraveling. But at least I know where I’m at and trying to get help instead of trying to fix it all myself. I don’t even know how I’d fixed it.
PTSD, BPD, anxiety, bipolar and depression. I mean what more could be going on up there lol

BPD, what’s that?


http://apt.rcpsych.org/content/8/1/10 (This one talks about Dialectal Behavior therapy)

Let’s talk about BPD or also called emotional dysregulation disorder.. That’s a new one aye?

So above i provided some links.. Interesting bit of information. I always try to research. For years, I have been looking and wanting and asking to find out the correct diagnosis for my noggin. I’ve been treated for Bipolar, depression, mood swings, anxiety, different stress disorders. Eventually you don’t really remember what they tell you. Until recently, I didn’t think anyone would have the right information for me. And I had thankfully gotten an awesome therapist to be straight up with me and after asking question after question, she broke it all down for me and made sense of the hurricane in my head.

She read me the definition. And in my head I checked every single one off.

Here is the google def:

Borderline personality is a mental health disorder with symptoms that include emotional instability, feelings of worthlessness, insecurity, impassivity, and impaired social relationships.
Treatments include talk therapy or, in some cases, medications. Hospitalization helps if symptoms are severe. (I call BULLSHIT, but what works for some may not work for others and the hospital i went to was shyte, so if you need help, get it in whatever form may be available to you)
Symptoms include emotional instability, feelings of worthlessness, insecurity, impulsive, and impaired social relationships.
Behavioral: self-harm, social isolation, compulsive lying, irritability, risky behavior, lack of restraint, impulsive, self-destructive behavior, compulsive behavior, antisocial behavior, or hostility
Mood: anger, loneliness, general discontent, sadness, mood swings, inability to feel pleasure
Psychological: anxiety, narcissism, grandiosity, depression, distorted self-image, or fear
Also common: thoughts of suicide, suicide attempts, self harming

diagnostic criteria for borderline personality disorder:

A pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image, and affects, and marked impulsivity beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by five (or more) of the following:

  1. frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment. Note: Do not include suicidal or self-mutilating behavior covered in 5

  2. a pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation

  3. identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self

  4. impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating). Note: Do not include suicidal or self-mutilating behavior covered in 5

  5. recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behavior

  6. affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g., intense episodic dysphoria, irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days)

  7. chronic feelings of emptiness

  8. inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights)

  9. transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe associative symptoms.

It kind of pisses me off though. Because I am a walking definition of this fucking mental illness! My therapist ended up recommending me to another therapist, to a “specialist” for this disorder. So I pretty much expect the only thing that will change is that my medical bills will go up lol

She said that she wanted me to see a specialist because she wanted to be straight with me. Didn’t want to attempt at fixing something that wasn’t her specialty. Her specialty is drug and alcohol addictions. Not my fortay lol I am happy that she was straight with me. That she took the time to make me understand that this is not something doctors like to diagnose because it is such a difficult illness to deal with and to treat. As you read above and as I know it it. I look at my patterns from the past and it’s true, I seek out help and then the second I think it isn’t working I either quit or lash out. My entire life can almost be summed up by my illness, which is sad. It makes me hurt, angry, want to go looking for a fight so I can take it all out on them like it’s their fault. But it’s not. It’s not even my fault. I can’t even blame it on genetics because you can’t control that shit. I can blame it on a few things but what does it do for me to blame it on someone or something? Nothing really. I mean it leads me back to where I know it stared but that doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t stop the ten year old me from being raped. It doesn’t stop the 14 year old me from being drugged at a party and raped (or whatever was done because he was leaving when i was gaining consciousness). It doesn’t stop my mom from saying I’m a liar or that she doesn’t believe me or that when I told her I was cutting and depressed that i was saying it for attention.

I can’t blame anyone besides myself. But can I even do that?

Jail time….

Well this has been a hell of a fucking week already and it’s only THURSDAY!

Mood swings? Check

Moron employees? Check

Brother sitting in a jail cell? Check

Anxiety like a mother fucker? Damn skippy check!

Anger coursing through me like a speeding freight train? OH yeah.

Since I woke up Monday morning, I had this feeling, this tightness in my chest like something really bad was going to happen. And guess what? Two days after that, it did. My brother got arrested Wednesday morning. He went in on his own for questioning, after four hours they decided that they didn’t believe him or his story due to prior history and said he’s under arrest and needs to call his lawyer.

I’m in between feelings. I believe my brother was not involved in this shit storm but at the same time I really don’t know. I really don’t even know if I should be writing about it.

I wan to break things. I want to hit people. I want to lash out. I want to cry, Hades knows I’ve been doing a lot of that. They set his bond so high… It hurts to think that he might be going o prison for something i want to believe he wasn’t involved in. And then people, who say they are friends or care started tagging me on facebook with pictures of my brothers mug shot, it was bad enough that it was on tv and online news channels. It’s bad enough that I had to hear it from my mom and dad. But then I have friends bringing it to my attention like it’s funny, like it’s a goddamn joke. Ya know the funny thing about other people that know me and want to run my brothers name threw the mud? I know all their dirty secrets and I could care less about every singe one of them and air out all their dirty laundry without a second thought. I could ruin their lives. That made them change their tones about him and me real fast. That made them take it all down. I’m not someone who doesn’t stand up for family, whether they are right or wrong. My family will always come first.

Because in the end, they are all you have left when everyone else leaves you.

To continue swimming or to allow yourself to sink?

To continue swimming would mean a lot of different things in my life. A lot of different things that I would need to do and a lot of things that I am already attempting to do. But letting myself sink… The thought is so much more compelling then to keep up this shit and feeling like I’m getting no where. Like I’m swimming against the waves and not getting closer to shore.

It’s like swimming with weights tied to my ankles. I’ve been doing it for so long that I am starting to cramp. My muscles are tense and tightening and almost to the point where i cannot move them. It hurts to go through the motions. The every day motion, forcing myself to get up in the morning, get dressed, possibly eat when you have no appetite, Going to work, driving and trying to not just cut a semi off and let them hit you, getting to work and trying not to be the biggest cunt ever because your mood swings are so bad today that you even hate yourself. Dealing with bitching customers and suppressing the need to say “FUCK YOU” and deal with your father the next day with a what the fuck attitude. Driving home, get home, getting your nightly anxiety (every goddamn night, I shit you not), taking a Xanax or smoking some pot and thinking maybe I should just take rest of the bottle I mean why the fuck not.. Then remembering that trying to OD last time did not work and resulted in waking up in a pile of your own vomit and causing you to admit yourself into the hospital (which was NO help whatsoever) so that you can possibly get help from the doctors that had no idea what the fuck they were doing and the staff of the crazy ward who don’t know there mouth from their assholes.

Going to sleep and doing the same thing all over again. Sometimes it’s different. Sometimes I’m really good for a week, maybe even a few. I get back on my diet and I work out every day, I feel great. I feel like I’m almost to shore. Things are good again. My family can actually stand to be around me and so can my co-workers. Crazy idea here but why can’t this be all the time? But no. It can’t. I do not know why, nor do i have an explanation for this absurd cycle of my life.

But I can tell myself that no matter how dark it gets while I drown, eventually my body will float back up to the light and some air will some how find it’s way to my lungs and I will breath again and give my good days a hell of a ride. Because that’s all i have right now. That is my hope. That is why I have not  let the weights on my ankles pull me all the way down to the dark depths of the sea. Because I do get close to shore. I may never get there completely but I get to wade in the sand bar long enough to breath life into my dying and raged lungs. I get to be a human again and not some monster dragged up from the bottoms of the sea.

The ocean is so pretty, so alluring sometimes. Being so deep down there you have such off thoughts. I guess the lack of “oxygen” gets to you and makes you see things that aren’t there. Like the plus sides of dying, which i think there are many. But being back to the shore shows me the things I live for every day. I have three younger sisters and a younger brother. I am the oldest. I’ve changed all of their diapers. I’ve rocked them to sleep, showed them how to play soccer and volleyball. I’ve helped them get through school and I have so much more that I need to be there to see. I would never want my mom to have to bury me. My dad is another story. I wouldn’t want him to have to but at the same time I would want him to hurt so much more then I can imagine. To hurt like he has hurt me. To feel as low as he had me through the years. I know he loves me, I know he has done a lot for my family. But there is a sick part of me that wants him to know how he has made me feel. I’ll talk about that another day. I love my parents very much. I don’t want them to ever have to find my body and read my suicide notes, that yes I have written already. I don’t want them to have to make the decision on breaking my shoulders if I don’t fit in the coffin they bought because yes that is a question that is posed, we had to do that with my grampa and I studied mortuary science for a long time and came across that information. I wouldnt want them to have to cremate me either. But if they one day do, I want them to read these blog entries. To know that my death wasn’t in vain and that maybe I helped someone that is going through what I am. To know that it wasn’t all their fault.

The end of that got a little sappy, sorrrrrrry. I normally am not one to care that much but when it comes to my family I have a hard time not caring. There’s a lot of things that I have been through that my family does not know about. Maybe they will find out one day. Maybe not. Why make someone hurt more then they have to… Why let someone know all your dirty little secrets if it will tear them to pieces? Because sometimes you just have to. Sometimes knowing the reasons why someone is the way they are, it helps them cope. That seems to be a word I run into all too often. Fuck learning how to “cope”. What is coping? I don’t know.. Hopefully, maybe I’ll find out and tell you lol

But good night creepy strangers that read about my life. I hope my problems please your entertainment needs.

Murder You Say?

Don’t judge me based off  the fucked up things I write about. It’s better that I write about i then actually do it lol

Sometimes when you find stories about unsolved crimes, serial killings that were never solved. Dead bodies found mutilated, people tend to talk. Make up stories to go along with these Jane Doe’s. Can you blame them? It’s like a source of entertainment.

Occasionally I like to make up my own unsolved crimes and stories to go along with my dead victims, what happened to them and what got them into those positions in the first place. I’ve watched to many horror movies that I guess I’ve developed a sick interest of torture, gore, serial killings. The why’s and the how’s of everything. Every dirty detail.

That is what I’m gonna do today. I’ll describe my latest “victim” and describe their life and what may or may not have lead up to the point in time where they were ripped to shreds and left for dead. These were the things I would write about in my short stories class in high school and freak the fuck out of my teacher. But he always agreed that I had an eye for detail. Grotesque but pretty damn good.

The time is September 1946. The location is the City of Angels. Los Angeles, California.

The autopsy stated that the victim was 5 feet 8 inches tall and roughly 126 pounds. She had ligature marks around her neck, wrists and feet. There were lacerations to her face and arms. Slashes on the inside of her thighs with huge chunks of skin missing. Her teeth had been pulled from her mouth, leaving no dental records to go off of. Her nails pulled from their beds. The woman who found her found her body as she was walking her daughter down a street. The body was torn to piece, each being found in different areas of tall grass. Her arms were found separated from her torso, her head dismembered. Her lower half was found a quarter mile down. They found what was a placenta and the fetus of her unborn child ripped out and what looked like a botched abortion. The umbilical cord was strung up around one of her legs.

With each new finding about her body, the police began to noticed a pattern. These were the same things they found a year ago. It was another open case. No traces of DNA from another person. Nothing under the finger nails. The bodies seemed to be drained of blood and washed before they were staged in the grass along the sidewalk. Always some finding one body part before anything else. Always girls that could not be identified.

Three months later they found another one. And then another one three months after that. The murderer was getting more excited by all the media that was revolving around the open cases.

But they all had something in common. They were pregnant.

So what lead to this insane abundance of dead bodies, decaying along the city streets? It seemed that with the beauty of these girls, they were possibly aspiring young actresses or possibly prostitutes. But then they got pregnant. The only thing that ruined a career for those types more was a possible baby on the way. In that day and age abortions were hard to come by. But you could find some that would do them for a hefty fee. That someone had been twisted somehow. Taking these young girls under his or her wing and ending their body.

In the end they still got their fame, just not the fortune.

Who Put Bella Down the Wych Elm?

This was interesting, it’s funny how people can jump so far into their own conclusions. It’s also a fun way to take something such as an unsolved murder or death and put a story behind it. You’ll see a few of those things on my blog. I have a morbid sense of curiosity and writing stance. I also just have a morbid out look on life.

Strange Remains

Photo of "Bella's" skull found in the Wych Elm.  Image credit: Atlas Obscura (Public Domain) Photo of “Bella’s” skull found in the Wych Elm. Image credit: Atlas Obscura (Public Domain)

When a woman is murdered in the prime of her life and her body is left unidentified the story tends to capture the attention of the public because the mystery of her death is compounded by the apparent lack of loved ones to report her missing or claim her remains.  Her life and homicide become a blank slate on which people speculate and spread rumors filled with romanticism, scandal, or conspiracy in an attempt to understand what happened.

Bella in the Wych Elm” is an example of the public’s morbid fascination with the murder of a young woman and how the enigma of her case can take on a life of its own. People purposed all sorts of weird theories that involved witches, ritual sacrifice, a Hand of Glory, German spies, even…

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