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The Rest of the Story

Grieving a parent is a unique path each person must walk. On April 30, 2008, after 25 years, 11 months, and 25 days living under Doty's roof as a child, a stay-at-home-daughter, Doty kicked me out. Thirteen and a half years passed before his death in November 2021. For me, grieving "the loss" of my biological father, Doty Murphy, occured while he was still alive and breathing.   I fervently prayed for God's mercy on Doty's soul.  Today, I share a glimpse of, as Paul Harvey would say, "The Rest of the Story". Viewer Discretion is Advised. #InstituteInBasicLifePrinciples  #Abuse #DrDotyMurphy  #BillGothard  #IBLP  #AdvancedTrainingInstitute  #CultLeader  #CrimesAgainstChildren  #MTC  #MoscowTrainingCenter #ChelationTherapy #Pediatrician #MedicalDoctor #GarlandDotyMurphyIII  Sadly, although a mandated reporter, Doty also covered up many crimes. #JimBobDuggar #DuggarFamily #JoshDuggar #JoshDuggarConvicted #TraumaSurvivor  #CultSurvivor  #StayAtHomeDaughter 

An Open Letter to My Mom

<deep breath>    Dear Mom, The last time I contacted you directly was in 2009, when I called to personally invite you to my bridal showers. I will never forget the formidable response to my phone call. Dad showed up at my work to ask why, to express his disappointment, and most importantly to tell me that all contact with you must go through him in the future. Well, it’s been 11 years. I’ve complied with that order all these years, aside from some simple, and benign, cards for your birthday or Mother’s Day. At first, I complied out of my fear of Dad. Later, I complied because after almost 26 years under that roof I remember how life works within those four walls. I don’t want to make your life harder. That being said, based on my experiences and observations I know my writing this letter poses a risk. I don’t take this risk lightly. I chose this venue because making my letter public alleviates some risk, as well as removes any potential secrecy. Secrets are powerful and poiso

The Flowers

There is a time for everything. There is a time to be silent, and there is a time to speak. This is my time to speak about one of the darkest days of my life. However, the darkness no longer engulfs the memories, nor does it engulf me, because on the ten-year anniversary of that dark day, everything changed for me. The tenth anniversary of one of the darkest days of my life found me living in Arkansas once again. The morning of April 30, 2018, was a tad cool, even refreshing, as only early spring can be. As I left home, sunlight filtered through the trees illuminating vibrant hues of new life – leaves, grass and flowers – all announcing the arrival of spring. My heart felt heavy but I didn’t want to think about it. I just wanted to make it through the day and turn the page of the calendar. Completing my first stop of the day, I climbed back into the black pick-up truck, and drove toward Starbucks and a morning of work awaiting me. “Take your mom flowers.” My instant reaction

Filly

“Filly.”  I heard the boys call again, “Filly!” Barely thirteen years old, my plain, straight, brown hair fell to my waist accentuating my lanky form of 5 foot 4 inches. My love for life and people bubbled over in my own, quiet way. With an easy and quick smile, I made friends instantly with young and old alike. Except, of course, I wasn’t supposed to be friends with the boys. At thirteen, the line had a tinge of gray. Co-ed contact was strictly verboten in the cult. Even eye contact and basic greetings between the sexes were frowned upon, and even punished. This concept was difficult for me and felt unnatural; I wanted to be friends with everyone! “Filly!” The boys were calling to me. Me! I didn’t turn and hoped no one else heard. I was not sure what to do with a nickname from boys. This was a first. “That’s not my name,” I reminded myself, “and I’ve fought from the time I could speak to have my southern, hyphenated name pronounced properly. And in its entirety. I’m not

Girl in the Neon Pink Coat

My neon pink coat stood out amid the sea of black and brown coats, making it impossible for anyone to do anything except stop and stare, and the typically reserved-in-public Muscovites couldn’t help themselves. I was 11 years old when I wore that neon pink coat and fell in love with Russia and her people. I knew my life would never be the same. Moscow became “home” for me as a young teenager. My time in Moscow remains among the happiest moments in my life. This past week I looked those moments straight in the face and asked “why?” “Why was my time in Russia so special to me?” I knew the main reasons, the reasons I told anyone who would listen as I gushed about living in Russia. I loved the country, the culture, the language, the food, the Russian people, and my lifelong friends. My perspective as a young teenager from a town of 20,000 in Arkansas expanded exponentially upon moving to Russia’s capitol, boasting a population of 16 million, a city teeming with beautiful, precious