First, I would like to express my regret for neglecting to post to the blog for so long. I would say life has been too busy, but there really are no excuses that will make it okay.

I’ve been thinking, heavily, over the last few months about what I could possibly write that would be beneficial. I’ve been battling with thoughts of negativity about my purpose here and whether or not what I have to say really matters.

“Does anyone really care to read?”

“Is anyone even gaining anything from the little stories I share?”

“Do they think I’m just sharing to gain attention?”

Then, a dear friend reached out with encouragement. She expressed to me that every time I’ve shared my story and experience it’s given her tiny rays of hope. And I realized, that in not sharing my experiences, I was being selfish and negatively impacting my growth and the possible growth of others. I don’t share with the hopes of humiliating abusers, I share with the hope that I will give victims a shred of hope, a step to freedom, the courage to get out, and the notion that they are not alone.

I fell victim to the lies that my mind was creating within myself. I’m a work in progress. Moving toward being kinder to myself, believing in myself, and spreading that confidence to others that need hope and healing.

So moving forward, here we go again…

Christa Gayle

^ what she said

I too, have been feeling incredibly guilty for abandoning this blog and anyone who might have been looking forward to our future posts. It’s a difficult subject to continually write about, but we were amateurs with good intentions. I also cave under pressure and the more compliments we received from friends saying how our posts were helping them or their friends through similar experiences, I felt excited but also nervous at the same time. Silly, I know. Makes no sense, I know.

I will be honest, these months away from the blog have been tough. I was battling a bout of depression and anxiety. I saw no purpose in life or in my existence. My days were spent feigning happiness at work and in public, but when I had a chance to myself I was a loaf on my couch wallowing in self-deprecation and fatalism. I have sought help and can now happily say I feel like myself, (more to be said on that later).

Long story short, we are here to help others. We are here to give validation and voice to those who may not feel their feelings are validated. We are here to bring awareness to an issue that has been out of public commentary for far too long.

I lost sight of this purpose for a moment. And we are humbly back, in hopes to continue helping others.

Thank you to those who supported us and thank you to those who may be reading this now.

Lindsey V.



Lorelei: Chapter One, Part 2

Lorelei: Chapter One

Lorelei: Chapter One…Continued


There were rumors of a witch who lived in the woods near our house. I didn’t think they were true, especially since Elijah was the one who told us. He probably hoped to scare us, that seemed his mission in life. He also claimed the witch ate children, specifically girls. But I needed to find out if a hunger demon actually possessed Nan. I found no answers at church, too many old men with beards and scary stories of hell, damnation, and unworthiness. And every time I asked a question related to hunger demons, their beards shook with laughter and they patted my head, muttering amongst themselves.

After church, still in our Sunday gowns, Lorelei and I snuck into the woods behind our house. It was said the witch’s house changed location every day, to avoid detection. And that it only revealed itself to those with good intentions. Lorelei squeezed my hand. She hated the woods. I squeezed back and said, “We’re doing this for Nan. Just pretend we’re on a knightly quest to win the favor of some fair damsel.”

“But we’re girls,” Lorelei protested.

“Then pretend we live in a world where girls can be knights.”

“Girl knights on a quest to win some fair lad’s heart?”

“Or how about girl knights in a kingdom made up entirely of women! For Queen and Country!” I proclaimed, swinging Lorelei’s hand into the air. “Come, Sir Lorelei! We must slay the hunger demon that holds our dear Nan captive. The Queen’s advisors tell us of a witch that dwells in this forest, only she can lift the curse that binds this demon to Nan. It is a perilous journey, but we are the only ones in the kingdom who can do it.”

“For Queen and Country!” Lorelei chimed in, mustering her fake courage.

We marched through the woods, occasionally brandishing sticks as swords. In our fantasy, we marched for days, battling elves and trolls. I almost died twice, but Lorelei’s knowledge of healing spells saved me from certain death. We made a perfect pair, I with my brute strength and agility and Lorelei with her magical capabilities. We were unstoppable. The only problem . . . We were now lost.

In our fervor to fend off the hordes of trolls and elves, we paid no mind to our surroundings. And the sun slipped ever lower in the sky, barely penetrating the tree canopy over our heads. Our epic fantasy quickly left our minds as we clung tightly to the other’s arm, our senses heightening with each eerie sound emanating from the trees and the ground. Lorelei whimpered softly beside me. I gripped her arm tighter and whispered, “Imagine we have a spell of protection surrounding us.”

“But we don’t,” she frantically retorted.

A twig snapped behind us. I squealed and spun around. Nothing. I tried to blot from my mind all thoughts of ghosts or ghouls or invisible creatures that stalked the night, wishing to prey on two defenseless girls lost in the woods. But in my mind, I could see their evil eyes, their thirsty fangs, and their long merciless claws. My heart pounded as though it were trying to break its way out of my chest. All pretense of courage immediately fell as I quickly snatched Lorelei’s hand and ran.

To be continued . . . 


~Lindsey V.

There Is Hope

We are posting something a little different today.  I created a video for a Non-profit domestic violence shelter in St. Louis, MO. We thought we would share it with everyone in the hopes of raising an awareness for the need to help your local shelters. Let us know what you think, or share what you have done to help a shelter near you! Thank you and much love!

~Christa G.

Facing Your Inhibitions


Insecurities . . .

Probably the biggest factor behind my anxiety. Probably the biggest factor behind my stress. Probably the biggest factor behind my bouts of depression.

There it is. All of it, out in the open. I seem to have it all together in everyone else’s eyes. I look incredibly happy, set to go, not a care in the world . . . but I have my bad days/weeks like anyone else. I hide it, like I’ve always done, because that’s the way I am. My struggles aren’t debilitating by any means, but they’re still there. Why? Sometimes I don’t even know what causes them.

My past definitely created the problems. Experiences with someone I loved continuously lying to me, about every action, eventually caused me to question everything . . . and bam! Anxiety stressor numero uno. If I question every statement, story, excuse, or reason given to me, then I have no time to rationalize the situation. My mind is too occupied creating possible scenarios in my head. My insecurities rush in and take over. One small step forward and then three giant leaps backward. Eventually the fears of being lied to take over and mild depression sets in. I’m still able to function, but it’s there, in the back of my head, to remind me that I’m not perfect.

And no one is perfect . . . obviously. But I am a perfectionist and will always strive to achieve it. I give advice to friends that experience similar circumstances, but have a hard time following that advice for myself. Overcoming the havoc that verbal abuse wreaked on my soul seems to be far more complicated than anyone really understands. The scars are so deep they may last a lifetime. You can’t just get over it, and leaving doesn’t instantaneously heal them. The toxicity of your relationship will make or break you. It will either make you stronger, or render you incapable of trusting at all. But there are ways to help understand your feelings more in depth and take charge of the downward spiral before it slips from your control.

Overthinking kills happiness. So that should be easy, right? Just don’t overthink the situation. Let bygones be bygones and walk away from it. Much easier said than done. I try to practice this habit on myself, but overthinking and anxiety go hand in hand. So instead, when I feel myself starting to play scenarios in my head, that, by the way, are almost always completely out of my control, I try to engage in activities to take my mind off of it. Exercise, writing, reading, games with my kids, cleaning . . . and usually that works temporarily. And honestly, at this point in time, temporary is better than nothing at all. Baby steps, right?

Insecurities kill self-esteem. Most often when I am feeling insecure about anything, I take to social media. I post a picture and voila, instant gratification. Not the best answer . . . this can lead to unhealthy use of these outlets and we need to live in the real world and focus on our true accomplishments. Some days, just getting out of bed can be something worth celebrating. We all have struggles, regardless of our experiences. Every single person on the planet has some type of insecurity that they struggle with. Embrace it. Know that you are not alone. Celebrate your progress and the things you like about yourself, and create goals that are attainable. This allows you to accomplish tasks and therefore feel better about yourself.

Lies kill trust. Most importantly, be honest with yourself. Don’t hide behind a facade of everything in your world is perfect. Nothing is ever perfect. Be honest to those around you. When you are no longer hiding things, no matter how small, the burden will be lifted from your shoulders, automatically making you feel better about your life. And pay attention to those around you. Put your faith in people, but keep yourself aware of red flags that indicate whether or not someone is trustworthy.

With these things, I can keep my anxiety at bay, and fight my insecurities. I will be a better, happier, healthier, me.

~Christa G.

Lorelei: Chapter One…Continued


Lorelei: Chapter One

Turning, I sprinted for the house. We had found the dead bird near the edge of the woods, which was normally a five minute walk from the garden. In my hurried sprint, it took me a mere minute to arrive panting on our front porch, blood now dripping from my arm, mud caking my shoes. Just as my mother burst to the scene, her scathing glance taking in the mud before the blood, Elijah pushed past me. Her attention quickly switched to his maimed face and without a word she slapped me hard across my cheek.

“You’ll have some explaining to do, young lady.” With a steady hand, she led Elijah inside.

I blinked away the urge to cry as I felt the sting of her slap. Elijah glanced over his shoulder at me, grinning sardonically. He quickly winced from the pain. I snickered, but it was poor consolation for the injustice of it all.

The rest of the evening wore on in some continuous loop of me trying to explain how awful and monstrous Elijah had been to the bird and to me. But my parents heard none of it. They shook their heads and shrugged.

“Boys will be boys,” Mama said.

“You overreacted,” Papa said.

“You’re too sensitive,” they both added.

The terrible ordeal ended with me banished to my room with no supper. That happened a lot. I always saw injustice where others saw normalcy. And it usually cost me a meal or two. Contentious brat, they called me. Just wanting to stir up trouble. Meanwhile, Lorelei floated along blindly. She never even stood up for me about the whole bird thing. I couldn’t blame her, though. Elijah frightened us both. Since that incident with the bird, we tried to avoid him and eventually he outgrew his interest in bullying us.


Lorelei spun her way over to my bed, playfully grabbing my arm in an attempt to pull me to my feet. I groaned more loudly.

“Rachel, come on! Wake up, sleepy head!”

“I am awake,” I moaned.

“Breakfast is almost ready and Nan made biscuits and bacon!”

I sprung up in bed. “Bacon?” We both giggled as I haphazardly dressed myself. I hated Sundays. And I hated my dress. Mama had them specially made for us. Lorelei’s silk pink dress complimented her soft, pale skin and blondish white hair. I wanted red because of my dark, raven-colored hair and deep chocolatey eyes, but Mama said red was an unholy color and so I got stuck with pale blue, which I felt went horribly with my black hair and olive complexion. So I pretended I was Lorelei’s gorgeous orphaned cousin, and that the pale blue dress was Mama’s way of telling me to remember my place in the family. It made me feel special, like a scorned heroine in a novel; Rachel, always the misunderstood, but incredibly smart girl. Even my name was drab. Not anything like Lorelei. Sometimes I could swear I was adopted.

Once I finished dressing, we chased each other down the stairs. The plush carpet beneath our feet barely hid our bounding steps. Our gangly legs brought us to the kitchen where the savory scent of frying bacon and sizzling gravy greeted our drooling faces. Nan swatted our greedy fingers away.

Her succulent cooking and flair for creating enviously elaborate entrées for Mama’s social dinner parties, made her almost a celebrity in our small town. And those who had the pleasure of tasting her culinary artistry, imagined her a rotund woman with an insatiable appetite. But Nan was quite the opposite, at least in regard to her stature. There were those who believed a hunger demon possessed her, that she could never halt her cravings because of its indelible influence over her. They said the more powerful the hunger demon, the skinnier its victim. When I asked Nan about this, she cackled.

“People are so funny about things they can’t explain or don’t understand,” she replied.

“But what if it’s true. What if you do have a hunger demon? Won’t you die?”

“If I do, I’ll die happy. And hopefully over a plate of camembert with blueberry compote, while sipping a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.” She sighed dreamily, her gaze fixing on an imaginary spot.

I wasn’t satisfied. I didn’t like the thought of Nan dying, even if she was happy to go while munching on her favorite cheese. Nan practically raised us. And when my parents forced me to go to bed with no dinner, she always managed to sneak a snack into my room. I felt closer to her than Mama.

I obsessed over the hunger demon for weeks. I had to protect Nan from this life-sucking entity.

to be continued . . . 

~Lindsey V.

All You Need is Love


I recently came across a post in which an actress had come under some fire and was bashed publicly for kissing her 4-year-old son on the lips. I was immediately dumbfounded at the fact that there are people out there that felt it was inappropriate! The very thought that a parent pouring out affection on their child could be seen as disgusting is highly disturbing. Love and affection are basic needs for a child to thrive.

A September 2013 study from UCLA, titled “Childhood Abuse, Parental Warmth, and Adult Multisystem Biological Risk in the Coronary Artery Risk Development in Young Adults Study” suggests that a loving parental figure may alter neural circuits in children that could influence health throughout a lifespan. Inversely, the negative impact of childhood abuse or lack of parental affection may also take a mental and physical toll that could last a lifetime. Childhood neglect increases adult risk for mortality, morbidity, and poor health later in life.

Are we really so caught up in the hustle of making a living that we’re forgetting to ensure the most important people in our lives aren’t being deprived of the one thing they need most. . . love.

Our children want to be noticed. They want your attention. They need your hugs. A kiss on the cheek. Snuggles. These are the things that guide them, make them compassionate, and help them succeed.

Love and discipline go hand in hand. You cannot give discipline without displaying love in return or your child will begin to withdraw, and take on the mindset that they can never do anything right.

Kiss your child on their little cheeks or lips. Tell them how much you love them and how proud you are to be their parent. They need love like they need breath, shelter, food, and clothing.

~Christa G.

Lorelei: Chapter One


(To read the Prologue, follow this link).


I felt different. Like only I could see the true color of the world. Like only I could see the lighthouse through the storm. I felt like this for as long as I could remember, since my sister and I were carefree children, killing the hours with our stupid games of fantasy and adventure. I would like to say it set me apart from everyone. That I had a special gift that others respected and envied. That they cherished my insight and opinion. That I had purpose in this sad, short existence which plagued our kind. But I can’t. It set me apart, but not in the way I desired. The first time I discovered my gift, I was ten, too young to know what happened to me. Life-changing moments or turning points in our history don’t always come on the crest of a tidal wave, sometimes they sneak in under the guise of a perfectly normal day.

I awoke to Lorelei twirling around our bedroom in her pink satin Sunday dress, singing a made-up song. I moaned and rolled over, pulling my pillow over my ears. Her singing grew louder and her twirling more violent. She annoyed me in the mornings. Despite the fact that she preceded my birth by two years, I felt older and more mature. Perhaps because I tended to see the darker side of things, while she flounced around in unending optimism. Even as a ten-year-old, my mind leaned toward the macabre.

I’ll never forget the time Lorelei and I found a baby bird lying dead on the ground. Lorelei sobbed, but all I could do was stare helplessly at its naked little body with its tiny beak parted slightly open. Our cousin, Elijah, happened across us while we grieved over the loss of life. Lorelei and I were debating on where we should bury it, when Elijah kicked it with his foot. I watched in horror as its limp, little body flopped in the grass. He laughed coldly.

“Disgusting little bird,” he picked up a twig and walked over to it. “I wonder if it’s just as ugly on the inside.”

Lorelei screamed and ran toward our house, but I sat frozen on the ground, watching in horror as my cousin brutally dissected that baby bird with a stick.

When he finished mutilating its body, he turned to me, bloody twig in hand, and said, “Want me to find out if you’re just as ugly on the inside as you are on the outside?”

My heart raced as he stepped slowly toward me. “You’re the disgusting one,” I spat angrily as I stood to my feet.

“You little brat! How dare you speak to me like that!” He quickly grabbed my arm, tightening his grip painfully around my thin wrist. “You’ll wish you never said that.”

I squirmed furiously, but could not loosen his grip. He was older and stronger. I felt completely helpless. He lifted the stick to my wrist and scraped it slowly across my skin, drawing blood. I yelped in pain.

“I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet, maybe I should go a bit deeper.”

“You’re sick!” I screeched. Bringing my other hand up to his face, I dug my nails into his cheek and dragged them down as hard as possible. His grip on my wrist immediately loosened. He stumbled back, dropping the twig as he put a hand to his cheek.

Lunging toward me, his bloody hand swiped the air as I ducked away.

Turning, I sprinted for the house.

to be continued . . . 

~Lindsey V.

Finding Yourself Again


Abusive relationships systematically work on taking away your identity. You lose your sense of self, everything in your life revolves around pleasing your abuser, making sure you do and act according to his wishes, in order to avoid an incident. That’s why it’s important to make time for yourself after you leave. Rediscover yourself. Do all of the things you couldn’t.

I had given up so many parts of myself while in my abusive relationship. I no longer wrote creatively. I no longer drew or painted. I had been doing these things voraciously for as long as I could remember. Yet, while in that relationship, all of my efforts were exhausted on pleasing him. All of my mental energy was focused on whether or not I was behaving appropriately for him.

When I left him, I gradually felt more and more liberated as I began to exercise my freedom. I started writing a book (I never finished it, but it served as exhilarating therapy). I started creating digital art. I watched all of my favorite TV shows. I ate all of my favorite foods. I lazed around in my pajamas on my day off and didn’t feel guilty about it. I made so many day-to-day decisions without having to agonize over whether or not those decisions would affect anyone but myself. I could finally breathe. I could finally embrace myself again.

So I urge all of our readers. Whether you are recovering from an abusive relationship or not. Do something for yourself. Discover the things that make you happy again.

~Lindsey V.


We are going to start breaking up our usual routine of posts with pieces from a book I just started writing. I don’t want to give anything away with a synopsis, so here it is. I hope you enjoy it.


My sister’s thin frame lay motionless, sunken in a dirty mattress, the filth surrounding her blending with her soiled dress. I swallowed around the lump in my throat, my heart pounding in my chest. “Lorelei?” I lifted a shaky hand and pressed it gently on her shoulder, her skin cold as the frost outside. I tried not to think of the sharpness of her shoulder bone or the whiteness of her complexion or the way her clothes hung on her frame as though they didn’t belong. My heart sank as I glanced at her room, the floor seemed to move and I tried not to think of why that might be. I don’t even know how I managed to sneak in. But time was running out. Shaking her shoulder, I managed to loudly whisper, “Lorelei, wake up, I don’t have much time.”

A soft groan parted her chapped and peeling lips. Her brow crinkled into a frown as she squinted up at me, her red eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“What?” I asked, trying not to panic at the confused look on her pitiful face.

Her lips moved to the motion of a sentence, but still no sound.

Rage consumed me. She was worse off than I thought. I could not allow this to happen to her. “Get up, you’re coming with me. I’m getting you out of here.”

She remained motionless.


She turned her head away from me.

“You’re coming with me, and you’ll thank me later.” I bent down to pull her up off the bed. A powerful wind punched me in the chest, knocking me clear across the room. I slid down the wall, landing with a painful thud. Bewildered, I stumbled to my feet, taking a step toward Lorelei. “Don’t you see what he’s done to you?” Adrenaline surged through me, I tried to control the quaking inside of me. “This isn’t you.” The same wind that threw me earlier, now circled around her bed, snatching up nearby debris. “Come with me!” I raised my voice over the howling of the wind. “You don’t know what’s best for you right now, let me take you away from here!” The walls around me creaked and moaned and bent inward as the ceiling expanded. I felt myself floating farther away from her. My time was up. “Lorelei! Please!”

to be continued . . .

~Lindsey V.

Defining Abuse


Domestic Violence: violent or aggressive behavior within the home.

Physical Abuse: any intentional act causing injury or trauma to another person, by way of bodily contact.

Verbal Abuse: described as a negative defining statement told to the victim or about the victim, or by withholding any response, thereby defining the target as non-existent. If the abuser does not immediately apologize and retract the defining statement, the relationship may be a verbally abusive one.

Emotional/Psychological Abuse: is a form of abuse, characterized by a person subjecting or exposing another person to behavior that may result in psychological trauma, including anxiety, chronic depression, or post-traumatic stress disorder.

Financial Abuse: a common tactic used by abusers to gain power and control in a relationship. Forms of financial abuse may be subtle or overt, but in general, include tactics to limit the partner’s access to assets or conceal information and accessibility to the family finances.

Sexual Abuse: also referred to as molestation, is usually undesired sexual behavior by one person upon another.

Abuse affects everyone. . .






Abuse is an attempt to control the behavior of another person. It is a misuse of power which uses the bonds of intimacy, trust, and dependency to make the victim vulnerable.

~Christa G.