“Why did you decide to write A Good Little Girl?” To this, I reply, “I wanted to help my children gain a better understanding of the person I presented way back when, and who I am in the present. Early on, I realized the story’s potential offered much more.”

Not only is writing it all down essential to my kid’s comprehension of the forces that worked to keep us apart, my gut tells me to expound on how inadequate parenting affects their offspring.

Without love, guidance, and support, young ones struggle in a gamut of ways and left to fend for themselves, unloved, undirected, and abandoned, their full development is stifled.

In place of healthy individuals with vigorous self-esteems to ensure bright futures, weak, insecure waifs flounder and wail as each step takes them into uncertain, dim prospects.

The lack of a proper foundation allows room for those who desire control to seek out and devour those less capable.

An unwanted child, I struggled in a highly dysfunctional family and wallowed in fear. Closets and bathrooms turned into safe havens, and my highest priority was to be the always behaving girl my mother and father expected/demanded.

This naïve young lass surmised, if I never disobey, stay out of view and earshot, they will love me. Wrong!

A traumatized child and teen, years later, a brutal, dangerous man, one who intended on destroying every particle of my being, happened into my life. This evil ruler reigned supreme, and I obeyed his every command.

The consummate employee, secure and confident in the office. No one would guess the hell behind the walls of our home. The husband/abuser’s strings played me like a puppet, no backbone, no voice, nothing.

The idea I lived through decades of abuses, suffered unspeakable horrors at the hands and minds of others, made my own ghastly decisions, having no effect but to defeat me, keep me a victim, that concept is unacceptable.

Valuable lessons may be taken from the tales of a battered, bruised, and broken child/woman who survived with terror as her constant companion.

From the ashes of the hideous and appalling, some good must arise.
It isn’t enough to tell a sad tale, shed a few tears, and be done. No! A positivity must win.

These are the answers to the why.


“How could you reveal everything you did in your book?” This query came via an anxious reader, her brow furrowed, her mouth screwed as if she sucked a lemon.

The mask of disgust so intense, I thought she may suffer a physical ailment, but no. The source of her angst stemmed not from severe stomach ache, or head malady, but from my blow by blow outpourings in my recent publication.

With conviction, I replied, “Simple. Now is time for truth.”

Her face still twisted, “Well, I don’t understand how you did it. I could never tell the things you did.”

Though cathartic, the telling of my journey wasn’t done purely for my own release. The possibility exists others may find enlightenment through the sorrow that rained down on my parade.

Grab a handful of tissues while you venture the pages of my book, but be assured, sniveling will not only be out of empathy or compassion. Happy eye droplets are sure to fall. For, in this account, hope, humor, and sweet comedic relief is evident.

The unpleasant not so beautiful side proved to be anything but easy. Several re-visitations to some of the most nightmarish episodes flattened me to the floor as I writhed in pain, and deep agonies ripped into me as they had when they originated.

A few disturbing events I believed long relegated to the past reared their demonic heads once more, lording over my cringing being and temporarily breaking my resolve.

To rehash sad memories is a tortuous aspect of penning one’s life. Little did I expect the surge of emotions to strike with such ferocity.

Yes, the process challenged on several levels.

How did I proceed, despite the upsets?

Through the years, Mom’s voice rang out,  “Kenzie, you are much stronger than you realize.”

My, my, it appears she was correct.

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