On Living In Hiding

Warning: This post has graphic depictions of sexual abuse and domestic violence. Triggers ahoy.

Do any of you know who I really am? A few of you do. A few of you know my real first name and even fewer know my first and last name. I do not give that information out lightly. The last person to get my information was Kozo, so that he can send me my Bloggers For Peace shirt, because I wrote a B4Peace post every month last year like a pro. In the email, I even said, “This information is given to very few, so I’d appreciate you keeping it on the down low. Not that I think you’ll broadcast it, but I would feel remiss if I didn’t say that.” This was Kozo I was talking to, the sweetest, most peaceful blogger in all of bloggerdom. As if Kozo, of all people, would ever do anything with that information besides send me a shirt (and sell my information on the black market). I have severe trust issues.

Every time I share personal information, my stomach reacts as if I am on a roller coaster. Every time I write a post with a little too much detail, I feel anxiety. It almost makes me physically ill to share who I am with strangers on the internet. I’ve never met any of you in person. I’m not sure I ever will. If giving out my information in word form makes me a little queasy, I’m not sure that I could ever meet any of you face to face. Even though the very few people who know who I am are trustworthy (I think), you just never know. One false move will tumble this entire blog. One share too many will cause my house of go fish cards to fall clattering to the ground.

I live in hiding. You may well think it strange that I have a very public blog on which I’m saying that I live in hiding, but it’s true. Do you see a contact email anywhere on this blog? Do you see my real name or a picture of my face anywhere? No, you don’t. I hide behind the fish.

That last paragraph wasn’t a challenge, by the way. I’m sure that if you really wanted to pick up the gauntlet, it wouldn’t be too difficult to find out who I really am. All you’d have to do is tickle Kozo until he told you or bribe him with cookies (or maybe that’s just how you’d get me to talk). I’m not sure, even if I didn’t have monsters, that I’m the type of person to boldly put my name and face on my blog anyway. It’s a moot point since the option was never there for me.

For those of you who haven’t read this blog at all, there are two monsters out there that I’m hiding from. One of them sexually abused me as a child and the other is a domestic violence sociopath I lived with for about eight years who nearly killed me. Neither one of these monsters was ever punished for their crimes. They are both still out there, free to create more victims; freer than I will ever be. They both contact me from time to time.

The last time they contacted me was about four or five years ago. I got messages from both of them roughly six months apart. Both messages were something on the order of: “Hello, old friend! We haven’t talked in a while and I was just wondering how you are doing. My life is great, just absolutely peachy keen. I never have a moment’s sorrow or regret at all! Let’s be friends again!” The pedophile’s message even told me about his two children. It made me sick.

Neither one of them has any remorse. Neither one even hinted at the pain they inflicted on me. The pedophile didn’t mention raping away my innocence as a seven-year old child. It did not mention tying me up and gagging me with a dirty sock or my own underwear, watching me squirm and jacking off in my hair. It did not mention the sadistic pleasure he used to get from recording my pleas for help on cassette tape, then playing it back while he tortured me. It didn’t mention being awakened in the middle of the night by a cock forced down my throat.

The abusive sociopath’s message didn’t mention all the times he tried to strangle me. It didn’t mention back-handing me across the face while I was driving and knocking out a tooth, which I lied about at work and said I tripped over the cat. It didn’t mention the black eyes, bruises, scratches and scrapes. It didn’t mention how he demeaned me, threatened me, beat me, bruised me, broke me and made me think I was nothing. It didn’t mention how he took away all of my friends with his lies, stole everything I had of value and almost took my life.

“Let’s be friends! Keep in touch!”


They are both as free as they ever were. There will be no justice for me or any of their other victims. All the warrants for arrest and restraining orders have expired. The statute of limitations has run dry.

So, I live in hiding, hoping they won’t find me again. I hide here in my fishbowl desperately hoping they won’t discover this place. I’d like to think that if they do find me here, that I am far enough along in the healing process to be able to handle it. I’d like to think I wouldn’t back down this time and run away, but I’m honestly not sure how I’d react, so I hope it never happens.