Writing, for me, is an escape.
An escape from the hatred that surrounds me.
An escape from the people who want to hurt me.
An escape from the people who send attackers after me.
An escape from the people who use others to get at me.
An escape from the darkness that lives within me.
An escape from the darkness that lives in you.
My step children’s family sent attackers after me. A person with a knife attacked me for them because they are jealous of my relationship with my step children. I can’t retaliate because of the step children. I can’t seek legal help because of my step children. I am stuck in limbo, with my safety on the line.
