Skinny Shaming.

It might be hard to imagine today, but it was a reality of the 1950’s and early 1960’s; evident in every magazine, newspaper and television screen.

Standards of beauty involved curves. An iconic Marilyn Monroe stood at 5 ft. 5 in. and fluctuated between 125 and 140 lbs., reputed to be a size 16.

The ethic of my eastern European heritage dictated that a plump wife was a sign of a man’s good fortune. My grandmother and mother fell into line.

By anyone’s standards, they were overweight. Fat was not the exception, it was the norm; particularly in women who’d born children.

We children were quite different. We were rail-thin. I was, by far, the worst.

Somewhere around age 7, I just stopped eating. Today, they would call it a disorder, maybe even anorexia. I was grossly underweight, severely anemic, depressed over family trauma.

Me. Age 8 .

When I was 22-years old, I came out of hiding. I stepped out of the darkness of the sexual abuse victim’s closet, and into the light.  I can’t say I haven’t looked back, because with something like childhood sexual abuse it’s impossible not to, but I can say my future has been a lot brighter because of my willingness to tell the truth.

With people like Josh Duggar and Jared from Subway in the news recently, the newest string of celebrity sexual predators, I’ve decided there’s no better time than the present to keep telling my story. With a 16-month old daughter, and possibly another baby on the way, the times is NOW. There are other people like me who need my strength. There are other people like me, and, frankly, I need their strength too.

I remember the night I first told someone. It was my best friend. We…

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Recently, I moved into a house. I must have my poker face on because my mom keeps asking me why I’m not more excited.

I didn’t think that I would ever move into a house. In my mind, I believed that my forever and ever housing arrangements would be rentals and subsidized apartments.

A house that my kids and I belonged to was too much to hope for. For a several weeks, I wake up and look around. I still cannot believe that I have been blessed. Is it a dream? Am I going to wake up in a rundown apartment?

About eight years ago at Christmas time, I was homeless. In some ways, I was lucky. I didn’t have to sleep on an actual sidewalk in an actual cardboard box. I did see plenty of people that had no where else to go. I saw too many children…