Teela Hart

Surviving Domestic Violence


Everybody Get the F;%^k Back Down! *Warning: Offensive and Inapropriate*

I’ve seen things that I cannot un-see and I’ve done things that cannot undo.  I’m not going to throw that lemonade bullshit out there, but, I am gonna say that I’m just starting the hell over, from scratch.  I’ve discovered that I have a lotta gravel and tar in my personality.  Well, that’s not totally true, I’ve always had it, I just never let it out to play.  Today I’m weak and I’m gonna put it out there. Just remember, I’m under construction and you know how it is on a construction site.  A lot o’ saw dust, cussin, hollerin’, dirt piles, back hoes transits and the like.  There’s always a nail gun, a glue gun, extention chords and a whole slew o’ raw materials.

constructionI left home when I was 16, finished school, graduated from nursing school with honors, married, divorced, married and divorced.  I ignored most “closed road” signs.  Road Closed?  Not a problem, I’ll just skirt right on around that mother fucker and keep on gittin’ it.  This would be such an occasion for me, this particular post I mean.  My naughty side wants to come out and play and I’m sorry for all involved, but I’m gonna let her.

road closedLast summer I listened to a particular song over and over.  I didn’t pay any attention to the words, I liked the beat.  It made me wanna dance and dance I did, every time I heard it.  My children got a real kick out of it, mainly because I clueless to the words or  insinuations therein.  So, one fine day my daughter showed me the video of said song and I became, well, irate and more than a little irritated that I could no longer bop to the beet of this particular favorite of mine.  It was a true shock and awe moment when I realized my “hypocrisy knows no bounds.” (Doc Holiday)

As is true to me, I set out to make that shit right and stumbled looked for something to put this song to shame.  (As much as it breaks my heart.)  Without further ado, I present you with a masterpiece parody of this song.  It makes me feel better and I can most assuredly continue to dance with conviction now.

Men:  This may be offensive to you, but it’s funny as hell to me.  Just so you know, I wouldn’t say I’m a feminist, but I suppose that depends on one’s definition of feminist.  I use the word loosely.






Things You Don’t Know About Me

Who am I?

Sensitive views on politics, religion, and correct grammar will not be found here. Sentence fragments, slang, political incorrectness, contractions, passive voice and the word ‘but’ will be.

Believe it or not, I am a private person to a degree. I suppose we are all the same in that respect. Some things I will share and some I see no benefit in sharing. I learned that in rehab.

The question of who I am has plagued most of my life. I continue in my lack of assurance today. But, here are a few things I do and say without hesitation in the real world and sometimes the cyber world.  No matter who’s lookin’.

If I see grocery carts in a parking space, I have a mini fit. Recently, I pulled into the parking lot to find said spectacle in a handicap space and much to my children’s chagrin; I promptly let the bag boy know, just in case he didn’t.

Recently, a door-to-door salesman stopped by and finagled his way past my mom who was visiting. To my children’s embarrassment and my mom’s I’m sure, I abruptly told him to get out, following behind ensuring that he did.  We have hard wood floors and he was selling carpet shampoo. This is a no-brainer in my mind.

I buy boxes of food for those less fortunate at the grocery store. If I am waiting my turn at a check-out and see that someone is struggling to come up with the cash, I take care of it.  I’m talking a couple of bucks here.

In nursing school, one of my classmates failed by .3 of a point. At her request, I went through her tests with her to be sure the instructors didn’t miss anything. I was told to drop it or drop out. I dropped it.

I’m certain I could never live in a mansion and even more certain I could not be a snob, although I have been called a snob on more than one occasion. I am terribly shy, and usually at a loss for words, I suppose this landed me in the snob category more than once.

I’m not “cool”, never have been, although I’ve tried to be. I’ve failed. Miserably.

Socially, I’m a misfit. I really have to think hard on what I’m going to say and I still sound like the village idiot most of the time.

I laugh when I’m not supposed to, I cry the same.

Witty is not a word I would use to describe myself.  Although I did use that word to describe myself at my daughter’s insistence.

Unless I see your face and attempt to read your non-verbals, sarcasm sometimes usually escapes me.

The things I share and the way I share them are all me. The heart and soul of me.

I’m not a writer as such but I get by with a little help from my friend, MS Word.

I don’t sound as Southern on paper as I do in person. Unless I’m in your comment box, without MS Word.

I love the fact that I am Southern. I’ve been called a Southern redneck and it tickled me good. It was their attempt at flattery. It worked.

Living the life of a domestic violence survivor is a hard row to hoe, and there are times I chop the shit out of it. More times than not, I’m up shit’s creek without a paddle.

I’ve attempted to watch every “war movie” ever made, I don’t like chic flicks and I love listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd.

My entire wardrobe consists mainly of faded jeans, tank-tops, and flip flops.  Winter wardrobe includes a jacket and boots.

I use terms and phrases such as:



Look a yonder.

Can’t beat that with a stick.

I’m fixin’ to. (In a minute)


Don’t git ya gander up. (Don’t be upset)

What brings you to my neck of the woods? (my house)


Kin (cousin)

Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black to me. (One idiot calling another idiot an idiot)

Shit (my personal favorite).

One more thing. MS Word has this document lit up like a Christmas tree and it really sticks in my crawl, so I’m gonna post this before I change my mind.  Plus, my daughter is telling me to stop stalling.

Spoiler Alert


Be My Valentine: Ba Humbug

I hate Valentine’s Day because:        

Media tries to pressure you into spending copious amounts of money in order to procure a perfect Valentine’s Day gift.



2.       Valentine’s Day sucks

       Merchandisers drool over the ridiculous amounts of cash that will roll in.



4.       Valentine’s Day sucks

       Women dream of roses, cards and confections they probably will not get.



6.       Valentine’s Day sucks

    Women secretly hope they will get that two-carat rock that never materializes.



8.       Valentine’s Day sucks

       Guys break up with Gals so they do not have to buy a Valentine’s Day gift.



This one does not get a number


If you have someone to love, you prove your love to him or her every day.  You do not need one special day just to be sure.

loving couples

loving couples

PS:  This post was not made under duress.

I have a lover.

love wallpaper

love wallpaper

Unliberating Liberation


Unliberating Liberation

End Domestic Violence

End Domestic Violence

Solemnizing the one-year anniversary of my liberation from domestic violence on January 18, 2014 left a poignant taste.  Supposing that this libation would be exultant, proved to be an incorrect  hypothesis.

In reference to physicality, the invectives and maltreatments are no longer present.  Unfortunately, my consciousness continues to be powerfully shackled from many arduous years of abuse.

The ability to navigate the trickery of my mind teems elsewhere and the oxymoron that is unliberating liberation offends me; however, perpetual positivity assuages the sorrow.

“Strength of character isn’t always about how much you can handle before you break, it’s also about how much you can handle after you’ve broken.” ——-Robert Tew.

In other words:

Even though I am physically  free from abuse, my mind is still in a bind but my belief that things will get better is never-ending and that helps me.

“Humor is the instinct for taking pain playfully”.                  Max Eastman