Poopie asked me to be one of the guest bloggers so she could take some time off to hang out with Tom Cruise and kick his butt. (OK, I just made that up, but a girl can dream...)

I decided to post a piece that I've been working on, but cannot post to my own blog, Mostly Risible, because co-workers and family read it. Eventually, this will be a chapter in a book about survival and beating the odds. Survival is a skill I learned long ago.

I've been going through some old photographs to scan and store digitally. They are photos of me as a little girl.

I find myself studying the face on the other side of the camera lens, wondering what she was thinking at the time.

I wonder what she is feeling. I look at her eyes to see if it's possible for other people to see what I know. If I were a stranger looking at that little girl, would I know the hurt that she is feeling? Would I know of the unspeakable experiences she’s living?

At what age do the things that are happening to her even register in her mind?

On the outside, this little girl looks very normal. She's clean and is dressed nicely. She is practically perfect. She is smiling in many of the pictures and I often wonder why. Then again, as an adult I've been known to do the same thing.

Maybe that's why I never talk about my past. I only allow people to see the happy things. I've told nothing of my past to my friends and I doubt anyone would ever guess my history.

Because I appear so normal.

The only people who know pieces of my story are my sister, my brother and my husband. My sister and brother know certain things, only because they've lived some of it with me. My husband knows very little because I don’t think he is emotionally equipped to handle it.

Not one of them knows everything.

This is why I sometimes refer to my life as Universal Studios. You never know what's behind that facade.

I look at this little girl and I don't relate to her. I do not see her as "me", and at the same time I feel protective of her. I am filled with sadness each and every time I see pictures of her and it takes me quite a while to shake the feeling.

I want to take that little girl out of the photograph and bring her home with me so I can care for her and nurture her and show her that she is lovable and not ever let anyone hurt her. But I can’t.

She has no one to protect her.

I look at pictures of her as a baby and I want to stop time for her. I want to keep her there at that age because I am almost certain that nobody was hurting her then.

At least I don't think so.

I can only look at the photograph and feel sad for what she will have to experience. And look at the next photograph and remember what she is experiencing.

And then I can look no more.