I’d like to think that being molested as a child led to my robust sense of humor, but that is probably more attributable to the fact that I read a lot of Erma Bombeck as a kid. She was the one, after all, who asked, “If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing In The Pits?” And an 11-year-old victim of child abuse can certainly relate to that kind of existential angst.

Editor’s note: Laurie has NO idea what the phrase “existential angst” really means. She really doesn’t. It just sounded good to her. I’m not kidding.

This autobiographical blogpost is being written to offer up a little bit of insight about me, the author, as I’m sure that, now that you’ve read more than one of my weekly essays, you’re starting to feel a burgeoning sexual attraction towards me. With the heat of my intellect and hilarity of my wit searing your computer monitor, I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. And since the passionate crush you are feeling is so powerful and strong, I want to reveal some unknown details about myself to you, if only to help you avoid sobbing in frustration once again at my unattainability after you experience yet another unsatisfactory, unfulfilling orgasm while masturbating furiously in the bath to the thought of me.

I was adopted at six weeks, a child of divorce by age two, and being told to stroke a man’s penis by age four. That year I also suffered a serious accident that broke my collarbone and crushed my skull, requiring that a steel plate be implanted in my head, which I have to this day. (And by that I mean the steel plate. I lost my head some time ago.)

In retrospect, the subsequent 37 years have been quite tame in comparison. Well. Except maybe for the raping, which occurred from ages 5-10.

I’ve been fortunate in my life. I haven’t suffered starvation in a ghetto or been brutally gang-raped. (In case you’re curious, I have also never been gently gang-raped. Although, as I just mentioned, I have been raped.) I have never watched a family member overdose on drugs, and I’ve never had to kill anyone. (“Never HAD to” being the operative term. Any murders I have committed have been gleefully voluntary. Editor’s note: Laurie is merely having “fun” with the English language. So just back the fuck up, FBI electronic monitoring device.) All in all, except for that whole, you know, childhood phase, my life has been relatively trauma-free.

I can’t speak for everyone who has had their hymen or anus ripped at age five because of the adult-sized penis that was inserted into that particular orifice, (I can almost hear you now: “And THAT’S when I stopped masturbating to images of Laurie, Doctor.”), but I’m more than willing to tell you what it did to me. Since I was lured into sexual congress at the age of four with gifts of candy cigarettes by a friend of the family that everyone thought very highly of, I subsequently spent most of my life extremely suspicious and distrustful of anyone who ever attempted to do anything nice for me, regardless of how trustworthy they claimed to be. (I also developed a hatred of candy cigarettes, but that hardly seems as important now.) Since all I wanted was to be left alone, as a teenager, (and into my adult years), I was repulsed by anyone who was interested in me sexually. (That probably also explains why I have generally only been attracted to people who want nothing to do with me. They are so much safer than the lecherous predators I’ve been all too familiar with.) Since I grew up in a home in which serious psychological problems such as my molestation or my step-father’s Vietnam-war induced PTSD were never discussed, I developed the ability to survive without healing. Since I did not have a stable, secure family life in which to develop roots and self-confidence, I never became confident enough to develop lasting, sincere friendships. And, since all of this abuse happened to me before I had any inkling of what the world outside my home was like, I thought something was wrong with me before I even knew what having something wrong with me meant. (I was raised in a home that thrived on self-reliance and stoicism. If you weren’t tough enough to knuckle down and get the job done, regardless of how hard things were, then you were a disappointing weakling.)

Needless to say, armed with all those tremendous life skills and lessons, by age 18 I suffered my first nervous breakdown. And as my life progressed through my twenties, I was heading down the classic, self-destructive path taken by so many dysfunctional children before me. Horrible relationships, depression, booze. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Luckily, a well-placed friend here or there along the way has helped raise me out of the gutter in which I found myself being pissed upon. Instead of being haunted for the rest of my life by the turbulent ghosts of my childhood, I have been able to see that there is more to life than just painful memories. I could try to go into detail about how that happened, but this essay is long enough as it is. Just suffice it to say that I did it. Without Oprah and without the Lord, as if those two things are mutually exclusive.

I know I’m not the coolest kid on the block. I know I’m not the most secure. I certainly don’t have the best career path mapped out. And I am absolutely horrible when it comes to developing long-term romantic relationships. I’ll be alone, with my cats, for the rest of my life. I’ll be lucky to hold onto my house. Even though I type things on a computer and upload them onto the internet, that in no way makes me exceptional or expert about anything. I realize that I am merely a product of my environment here in America and if I were the daughter of a goat-herder in Azerbaijan, I would see the world differently from how I do now. Nevertheless, even though I’m limited in my thinking by the society I am a part of, I still feel like an individual, and I am terrified of group-think. I am, not, in other words, perfect. More like “perfucked.”

I didn’t share these details of my life with you tonight in order that you could admire me or say “You’re so courageous and strong.” I’m simply lucky. Lucky that I didn’t drink so much alchohol or take so many drugs in my years of struggle that my brain turned to swiss cheese. Lucky that I was able to walk away from negative influences when I heard the instincts in my head say, “This dysfunctional relationship is harmful to you.” Lucky that I found at least one or two truly loving friends to help me realize that not everyone on the planet is a douchebag.

I wanted to share all of this with you to help you see that I know what it is like to be an outsider. I know what injustice feels like, and what it feels like to be tense and angry towards the entire world. I know how it feels to be shuttered and silent, incapable of expressing an emotion or an opinion. I know what it feels like to be terrified of being someone’s victim again. I know what it feels like to hold onto bad habits and dysfunctional friendships simply because I don’t have any self-worth.

Obstacles CAN be overcome. Nightmares CAN dissipate, and you CAN grow more confident about yourself. (Assuming, of course, that you are not Donald Trump who, as we all know, is already bursting with so much confidence that it is physically impossible for him to gain more confidence without exploding.) I mean, maybe you feel fine about yourself and you don’t need any pep talks, certainly not one from some strange cat lady on the internet. Which is fine. I’m not really about giving pep talks, anyway.

That being said, if you have despaired, and if you have wondered if there is ever a light at the end of your tunnel, maybe you’ll gain ever so slight comfort knowing that at least one person found it. And if one person can find it, then maybe two can. And then we can-can-can.

Editor’s note: At this point in the blog, please don your hemp skirts, braid your hair with daisies, light incense and dance in a circle, holding hands while singing “Age of Aquarius.” Now grab a hand-held mirror and explore your own vagina. Thank you.

I hope I don’t sound self-righteous or unctuously redeemed by reliving some of the highlights of my childhood with you. Because, God, do I hate assholes like that! But, as I write about social issues and injustice and various outrageous things that make a person say, “Can you believe this bullshit?”, I hope this helps you understand a little bit of my motivation. I mean, basically, all I’m trying to say is that bullies suck.

Of course, I could have said that about a thousand words ago, and I could have just texted it to you instead of writing this huge fucking essay. But, I had to write something.

I had to give you something to masturbate to this week.