Fair Warning…

This blog is mostly for me. I am going to post links on my FB page to these sharings  I feel the time is right for me to write, and while I’d like to have the time (or the ability) to write my memoirs, the best I can do at the moment is a [semi-] daily blog post. I truly hope that in releasing some of this into the blogosphere will help someone, as much as it is helping me. If you find a post that resonates – please share it with your friends.

I am not planning on this taking off and finding myself on Ellen anytime soon (or at all thank you very much), but I do hope that someone, somewhere will find hope in knowing that someone like me can come through this life and end up [semi-] normal.

But here’s the warning – I plan to write about my life. Some of it has been charmed, but a there are parts that are really (what word do I use?) BRUTAL. Since all the people involved are not yet dead, and some may actually find this blog – so for them, the truth is the truth. I truly can only think of one person who I would be worried about reading this for fear it may hurt them. If that is you – please read no further posts.

I am not invincible, but I am tough. Which is why this is what will eventually kill me.



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INVICTUS, by William Erne…

INVICTUS, by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

This poem was quoted to me by one of my dearest friends, Carlos, after reading my post 30 Pounds of Throbbing Pain. Though we’ve yet to meet in person, he is a man I’d take a bullet for, and one who has taken the time to really “SEE” me.

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March 29, 2012 · 11:54 pm

Well Howdy Hi There!

When I was a tot, before my mother married her fifth husband, Dennis (now referred to as The Beast), she was a self-proclaimed “wild woman”. She enjoyed herself, she enjoyed men (thoroughly), especially men in the United States Marine Corp (semper fi).

She and her friend Jane were well known in Long Beach California, for their partying and raucous ways – but perhaps mostly for the ever-present matching sweatshirts that said “Well Howdy Hi There” on the front and “Black Russian Time” on the back. In truth, they didn’t want to waste time with formalities, they wanted to get straight to the “fun”.

This was the late 60s, early 70s – and I guess my mother could be construed as a revolutionary fighter in the sexual revolution. Truth be told, she worked hard, and was raising two kids as a single mother – I suppose she deserved some fun.

I was so young, that this “time” in my life could be better described – or more accurately described by my older brother, David. Being 8 years older than I, he endured so much more of my mother’s wrath and abuse at the time. I cannot know or even fathom the abuse that was visited on him. He was, and remains, my hero. I know there were many times he stood between her and I, and took the brunt of the beatings.

She was an enigma, outwardly seeming the “perfect mother”, with “well-behaved” children, a hard worker (she was) and “put together”. But privately, she was controlling, spiteful, abusive both physically and emotionally, and, I would posit, in a great deal of emotional pain. But this is no excuse for her actions, simply an acknowledgement of the truth.

I have spent the better part of my adult life trying to repair the damage done by my childhood – with the last six years focused on my relationship with my mother. In 2005, I brought my ill and elderly mother to live with me. I sometimes still question the sanity of that decision. I have to compartmentalize my life, to a point, to do it successfully. Basically, I began our relationship then, in 2005, having buried the past during therapy, after years of cutting her off from my life.

She is too frail to do an physical harm, and I must remain strong to disallow her the ability to do any further emotional harm – on the contrary – I seek healing. She is still incapable of recognizing or acknowledging the past, she lives in a bubble, an alternate reality she has woven around herself. But I know the truth. Others know the truth, and in actively loving her, and actively loving my family in a healthy and non-abusive way, I am healing.

I refuse to pay the abuse forward, to use “I was a victim of abuse” as an excuse to visit the sins of the father on my children. I AM A SURVIVOR! and there is more power in the difference than you can possibly know.

There are hard days. There are good days. I am growing and learning. I am healing.

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30 Pounds of Throbbing Pain


Tuesday, March 20th, I had surgery. Not a simple “let’s put a pin/screw in your foot to hold it together” surgery, but a “let’s completely reconstruct your right foot and ankle” two hour surgery.

My husband (henceforth referred to as JW) reminded me that this was the 8th surgery I had undergone since we married in 2001. This was the 5th foot surgery.

During all the preparation for a surgery, all the IV sticks and blood pressure cuffs, the question always comes up – what exactly happened to you to make you need THIS surgery? Often, for the sake of the person asking, I simply say “childhood abuse” and leave it at that.


I like to leave it at that. Because the truth is painful, and the truth often scares me. The truth makes me think that possibly my luck is going to run out and I won’t wake from anesthesia this time.

The procedure I underwent on Tuesday the 20th had a description that was so long, convoluted and technical that the surgical nurse didn’t even know what it was. In order to confirm that I knew what was happening, I simply said “he’s reconstructing everything south of my shin”. In truth, this amazing surgeon basically broke and reset my foot and ankle, doing several tendon grafts to hold it in place, taking a wedge of bone from my tibia and wedging it into the inside of my ankle (a bone graft) to set my foot at the proper angle. Once everything was screwed/pinned and sewn in place, he molded a cast onto my foot & lower leg, wrapped it up tight and sent me off to the recovery room with a morphine push.

I had this same surgery done last June on the left side. It was 12 weeks of no weight bearing, riding a knee scooter, agonizing pain and showers every 3 days (because that’s all I could manage).

12 weeks of talking in my sleep because I can’t actually find REM, of moaning every time I had to roll over, of crying because it hurt so much. JW would say it was more like 6 months of me telling him he couldn’t even begin to understand the pain.

So, here we are again. Why?


Because in 1976 I was a ballet dancer.  I had talent, and at 9, I was dancing en pointe so well that a ballet company wanted me to train with them. They were old-school, with Russian coaches who smacked the backs of your legs as they barked at you to hold your head up as you plie.

Because the dance company wanted me to live with other dancers so I could train all day, and have private instruction.

Because my stepfather couldn’t bear the idea of having the object of his sick desires, the receptacle of his rage and violence, the victim of his nightly rape and brutality to be taken away.

At 45, I am finally having my feet and ankles repaired because at 9 my stepfather thought it better to break them with a hammer so I could never dance en pointe again, so he could keep beating and raping me every day for another 5 years.

And now, it feels like I have 30 pounds of throbbing pain hanging off my knee, and the pain is so reminiscent of the original wound, and sometimes I can’t help but cry for what was lost. I scarcely take the pain meds – because there simply isn’t enough Dilaudid or Morphine to lessen the pain in my soul.

It helps that JW is wonderful. It took me a long time to find him. It helps that my daughter (Bean) is perfect and funny and loves to dance.  It helps that my children will never know the savagery that I have lived firsthand. It helps, too, that the Beast is dead, his liver finally pickled to the point that the alcohol poisoned him. What helps most is being able to talk about it, being able to say, this happened, this made me – but it won’t win. It paints a shadow into every corner of my life, but it won’t win.


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Everything and no one… like the: I am beautiful, girls

Everything and no one… like the: I am beautiful, girls.

This is a wonderfully fulfilling post by an amazing person and writer. I hope to eventually be this eloquent.

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It seems these days, everyone has a blog. I feel like such a “joiner” – but for years people have been telling me that I should write, I should share my experiences with the world at large.  So here I am, writing my very first blog post.

INTRODUCING….The Amazing Dawnfelice

I sometimes feel like a circus side show. I was, after all, raised by wolves. OK, not really wolves – that might have worked out a little better for me. Actually, I was raised by my physically and emotionally abusive mother, my divorced and absent father, and my mother’s fifth husband and sexually and physically abusive stepfather. Wolves and vampires would have been better.

I plan to let you peek inside my psyche through this blog, but not in some boring chronological way.

And this isn’t a spoiler in any way – it turns out okay – well at least so far – because I am happily married to a wonderful husband and father to my six beautiful children, five boys and one girl. These children will know no abuse, save the stories I tell them to help them know their mother and to explain the world.

Thank you for reading. Stick around, this is going to get good.


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March 17, 2012 · 4:42 pm