I was reminded by Sandy Mitchell this week about this hard to watch but extremely important research on attachment as shown in this video:

What is known as The Tronick “Still Face” Experiment

Watching it makes me profoundly wonder, “How do people survive who had nothing close to the kind of safe and secure attachment with a mother than the infant in this video obviously has?”

How DID we survive?

While everyone who watches this video NEEDS to feel sorrow — those of us who can feel an inner sense of vast, nearly incomprehensible sadness will know instantly that we are miracles of survival because the neglect if not outright horrors of abuse to us from our youngest days, weeks, months of life put this sadness inside of us.

I have a friend in this small town area where I live who absolutely believes that any early severe abuse survivor CHOSE to remain alive.  My friend absolutely believes that if there had ever been a time during the horrible suffering from abuse during the first 18 years of my life that had I asked God to end my suffering, He would have.

Back in the days of my early years (I am 61 now) probably the ONLY way my suffering would have ended is if I had actually died.  It might be the same reality for many of this blog’s readers.

If what my friend so strongly believes is actually the way things work — then there is no reason for any of us to have made it out of the enduring torture and torment of our early years other than we were strong enough not to give up.


I am also strong enough and stubborn enough not to give up on this writing, either, no matter the struggle I go through.  Here is the link to the version of the book I have been working on if you would like to read it.  Place any comments you might have at this link.  Thanks!

+”STORY WITHOUT WORDS” – manuscript for beta readers



  1. I wish I could live one hour — just one single hour — without the memory of 18 years in hell anywhere in me. Not in my body, not in the changes that happened from this trauma to how my body grew in the first place, not one possible trace of a memory anywhere of not being my parents’ darling child as all 5 of my siblings were. Just one hour. One hour.

    And then I would (dare I?) wish at the same time all 5 of them could know – just for one hour — what my life was like compared to theirs. REALLY know. Just for one hour. Maybe then even one of them would have responded to me with encouragement, even with pride for this writing work I am doing now. Just one of them.

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