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Custom Justice

Amanda Blackwood

Published by Mandolin Publishing, 2021.

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

CUSTOM JUSTICE

First edition. June 19, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Amanda Blackwood.

ISBN: 979-8201821036

Written by Amanda Blackwood.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Custom Justice | By Amanda Blackwood | Edited by Vicki Warner and Abbey Combs | Cover photo by Michael Malvitz

For the SURVIVOR in us all.

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About the Author

Custom Justice

By Amanda Blackwood

Edited by Vicki Warner and Abbey Combs

Cover photo by Michael Malvitz

Mandolin Publishing All rights reserved. No part of this product may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase ONLY authorized editions. Copyright © Amanda Blackwood, 2021

For the SURVIVOR in us all.

The world can be a scary place, but as frightening as it is, there’s even more wonder, joy, goodness and love than the human brain can ever comprehend. Plus, it doesn’t exactly hurt society to take down the bad guys.

Keep fighting.

You got this.

ANote from the Author It’s quite hard enough having to go through life pretending that I’m every bit as normal as the next person, but that’s what most people do all their lives anyway. Honestly, there’s really no such thing as a “normal” life to begin with. People don’t realize it, but many of us are just as scared or hurt or damaged as the next person. Some of us are really great at plowing on through the fear and covering it up as though it doesn’t matter. Others bend until they finally break, allowing the flood of fear to wash over them and drown them in bad memories of an abusive past. Often this results in lashing out at loved ones, or even worse, total strangers. I refuse to break, but I’m one of the rare few who also refuse to be quiet about the past. I decided a long time ago that I would fight back, but I never imagined this would be the direction my life would eventually take me in. Having to dig up old memories of a past, long since buried, after I attempted to forget, was all a bit too much for me at first. It took many years to finally decide to learn more about what I had been through in order to start categorizing it, but once I did, there was a whole new world I had never imagined would exist. I was dragged down into the depths of darkness the likes of which I never could have envisioned. A dear friend of mine, upon seeing the original cover design for this book, told me that the photo looked like someone who was going to dinner

onboard the Titanic. What a perfect analogy for my life, I thought, and how humbling to be one of so few to have received a spot in one of so few lifeboats available. Life started out as a bit of struggle for me, and things did occasionally get better before becoming catastrophically worse. I would gain some ground, only to be knocked back again. I moved to Colorado in 2016 and, thanks to my dear friend Bill, I found myself one day sitting in the front row of a “Shift Freedom” antitrafficking event. Speakers from all over the state would take turns talking about the dangers of human trafficking. I already knew it was a problem, and that it happened to kids far more often than anyone wanted to it, but I never imagined I’d have first hand experience with human trafficking. Still, it was something I was ionate about helping fight, mainly because of the abuse I’d suffered in my past. I never imagined that I would leave that event only a few short hours later with some rather powerful allies, and the much more broad understanding that I truly had been a victim of human trafficking. I couldn’t face it before that day. With irrefutable evidence laid out before me, I couldn’t deny it after that day. I had already written and published my first book in my own name, and I even had a copy of “Detailed Pieces of a Shattered Dream” in my hands. At the back of the crowded auditorium that afternoon I handed that book to the founder of the “Shift Freedom” movement and introduced myself to him as a survivor of human trafficking. Since then, John DeYoung and his wife have become very good friends of mine and I’ve begun consulting for them on different antitrafficking initiatives. In March of 2021 I was officially added to the board of advisors for the new direction “SHIFT” was taking with artificial intelligence software being built that can help educate the world on what human trafficking actually is. It took me the entire 20 years to figure out that I’d been trafficked three times, and it was a slow realization at that, not instantly realizing all three instances actually were what they were. I’m proud to be a part of this program because I know now that if it had existed 20 years ago, it likely wouldn’t have taken me that long to understand what I had survived. People often tell me that they’re ‘sorry’ for what I had to endure. I tell them, every single time, that I’m not. I found out that less than 2% of all human trafficking victims get the chance to survive. They often die of drug overdoses, they’re murdered by pimps, or (far more common than anyone might believe) they die by suicide because there’s no other way out. Torture and control are at

the very heart of manipulating a human trafficking victim. Most victims have a previous history of abuse. They’re easier to manipulate from years of prior conditioning. The average age of a child in trafficking right now is between 12 and 14 years old for girls, 10 and 13 for boys, but they only have a seven year life expectancy in trafficking. My life, as I explain it, is an anomaly. I was 18 the first time, 19 the second time, and 31 the third time. None of the incidents were linked in any way. I didn’t understand what was happening because I had no knowledge of human trafficking at the time. I grew up in the era of “Stranger Danger” but nobody ever explained that the worst danger of all, and the source of most traffickers, are the people we already know. They aren’t strangers at all. But why would I not be sorry for what happened to me? Because I lived. Someone else in my place may not have. I’ve since built lifelong friendships with other survivors. How varied all of our experiences are! People ask me about the background of my survivor friends once in a great while, but I’m adamant about explaining to them that their stories are not mine to tell. If they want anyone to know what they’re carrying around, they will share that information themselves. The only story that is mine to tell is the one that follows in these pages. My writing the truth has built walls between myself and any family I once had, and as you read through my early childhood you may gain an understanding as to why that might be. For many years I also did not understand my own childhood abuse. I thought, and was always told, that abuse would be defined as physical abuse resulting in bruises, scars and broken bones. There were other abuses I didn’t feel comfortable telling anyone about, and they stunted my adult maturity so much that at the age of 41 I’m only now understanding how to take control of my finances and find some sense of stability in my own life. I didn’t understand what a sociopath was. I didn’t know narcissistic abuse existed. I had no idea how warped my life could be based on little things that were said or done to me along the way. One of the worst memories of my young life was when my own grandmother told me that it looked like a cow had farted in my face because of all the freckles I developed over the long summer in the Arkansas countryside when I was seven. I cried, of course. Before then, I didn’t mind my freckles. After that, I couldn’t stand them. There was a polar change in me. My mother also said that she couldn’t stand my ‘ugly’ hair color so she dyed it blonde when I was 16 years old. Because of the natural red, it turned out carrot orange and she had to

repeat the process again and again. Before then I didn’t give much thought to my hair, as it was often a subject of interest in school with other kids wondering if it was red or brown because of the way fluorescent lights hit it inside the building. After my mother bleached it, I kept it colored for many, many years. If my own mother couldn’t stand my hair color, surely I shouldn’t tolerate it either. My brother, a certified genius, loved to play chess whenever we could. But the certified genius didn’t understand how to be a graceful winner, though he didn’t do many things very gracefully at all. Instead, every time he would win, he would dance around and rub it in my face, calling me stupid. I grew up believing that I was. Never in my life did I imagine that I’d have enough intelligence to put together enough words to write an entire book of my own, much less several of them. The road to recovery after trauma is long and winding. No two paths are the same. I tell people all the time not to compare their experience to anyone else, because nobody walked their road but them. Experience shouldn’t be compared, because every tragedy is tragic, every victory is victorious. Trauma alters our brains to think in new ways. We build new bridges from one part of the brain to another, while other parts shut down completely. We develop what is theoretically known as ‘adrenal fatigue’ that can cause weight gain, sweets craving, depression, low energy, brain fog, lightheadedness, and so many other things. Adrenal fatigue theory suggests that someone being extensively exposed to stress for a prolonged period of time would drain the adrenal glands. Someone exposed to torture, rape or sodomy would surely have drained adrenal glands just from keeping themselves alive. Someone who experiences all of that by way of human trafficking for a much longer period of time would have a well sustained adrenal fatigue. We get locked into survival mode. It’s nearly impossible to change the way our body reacts to situations after that. Unfortunately, adrenal fatigue is not yet an accepted medical diagnosis, yet every survivor I know does experience pretty much ALL of the symptoms outlined in every medical journal that discusses adrenal fatigue, myself included. It’s certainly not easy learning how to live with a “trauma brain”, whether that brain is inside your own skull or in the head of someone you love. The most random acts can sometimes trigger emotions we had buried long ago. It can also be a shock to any controlling personalities to end up in a relationship with a survivor. We were manipulated and controlled for so long that the first hint of any controlling or jealous behavior can send us spiralling out of control, and you can almost guarantee to kiss that relationship goodbye. The guilt trip has the

same effect on me these days. If I catch a single person trying to guilt me into anything, I’ll absolutely refuse then to do whatever it was, even if it was something I’d already planned on or wanted to do. There are very rare exceptions to this, such as the begging of my best friend’s special needs kiddo. She can talk me into just about anything. I’m not expecting fame and fortune out of having written this book. I think, more than anything, I’m hoping that just one person might read this and understand they’re not alone. Maybe they can come to with what has happened to them, in spite of not having any help or for so many years. The process of writing it has already given me a more broad understanding of my own life and what I’ve been through. It’s done enough for me. It’s time to share the possibilities with others. For anyone struggling to cope with past trauma, I can not urge it enough. Please try to seek help. If you need it, it’s out there. If you can’t afford it, help is still available through other avenues. I didn’t think it was, but my mind was blown by the possibilities once I finally found the right people. My world has forever changed, so many times over, but finally for the better thanks to the good people of SHIFT and Covered Colorado. I’m not entirely sure I’d have survived the last few years without them, or without my best friend. I’ve had a number of people read the early editions of this book for several different reasons. Though they received an incomplete version, the majority of the information was already in the book. Still, I’d like to acknowledge each of them for their contributions to this effort. My best friend Collette has always been there, guiding me with her own strength that the rest of the world may not even realize she has. She’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever known, and her friendship has strengthened me in ways I couldn’t begin to predict. Vicki, whom I’ve known since childhood, was very fast to offer her assistance as an editor, which I so desperately needed. Abbey, a dear friend of a dear friend, also wanted to lend her in the editing process and I was only too willing to invite her along for the ride. Lill, my fellow survivor, came into my life when I needed her most. She’s been constantly encouraging me to keep going and to tell my truth for all those who have been permanently silenced. Jamie Slough, my fantastic PR person, reached out to me after I’d put out a pleading cry for help, not having any idea what I should do or where I should go once I got the book put together. Without her, I don’t know that this book would be in your hands right now. I don’t know that these words would ever filter through your mind. She’s a miracle worker. Dani pushed hard right away to bring some

publicity to the efforts. Monica took the reins and put me in touch with Luke and Michael, all miracle workers in their own right, to create the digital content I desperately needed to help with the launch of this book. Laura wanted to review my book for her Denver based book club and I was only too eager to facilitate that in happening. Jakes, my friend of 18 years, was eager to help build a beautiful brand new website in time for the book launch. I was humbled by the offers of assistance from every random corner of the universe and how things seemed to come together for me in order to make this book really happen. As I write these words I don’t know how many more doors are going to open because of what I’ve written, but in the end it’s not about me at all. I don’t want to be famous because of what I’ve been through. Personally I’d rather not be famous at all. But there’s a reason I was spared. If this is that reason, then it’s not really up to me anyway. It’s all up to the Big Guy. Most importantly, I humbly thank God for my life and for my direction. But there’s always, always just one more person to thank. I want to personally thank you for taking the time to read this book. I didn’t write this for me. I wrote this for you. This is truly dedicated to the survivors out there - and not just the survivors of human trafficking. As you’ll learn, there’s so much more than just trafficking that I managed to survive. This is for all the people who survived childhood abuse, trauma, bigotry, hatred, bullying, natural disasters, domestic violence, and the myriad of other things that we can go through that cause us to question our very existence. It’s important to move beyond the victim mindset and learn how to be a survivor, so that we might eventually learn how to thrive. When it comes down to brass tacks, every single human I’ve ever met has survived something they probably aren’t the most comfortable talking about. This book was written for the voiceless. May you someday find your voice and understand that your trauma is not your fault. It’s okay to move on with your life now. You’re stronger than you think. The names, of course, have (mostly) been changed.

Chapter One Juniper Richard’s eyes were the kind of blue that would inspire either nightmares or fantasy dreams. They were of a crystal blue color, almost the same shade as my own fathers. When I first thought to myself that they were ‘haunting’ eyes I never imagined how right I would be. I blinked several times to make them vanish and was once more back in the room facing Naomi. I stared across the musty room at my new therapist, Naomi, telling her all about how my day had gone. As usual, her only response for the next hour would be a high pitched, nasally, drawn out and muffled “Hmmmmmmmm” with an extra emphasis on the exhalation needed to create the beginning sound. I hated therapists in general. She was nice enough, and I didn’t have the typical suspicions of her intentions because of how we had met, but I still didn’t trust anyone fully, Naomi included. I’d been through too much to trust blindly. Naomi knew this. It was one of the first things I ever told her. I needed her to know where we stood before we could really begin anything at all. I’d sat in basically that same spot, in the same position, on the broken couch covered in a dirty blanket, feeling entirely too vulnerable. There’s no way she could have known that it was in a very similar room in an abandoned mill on top of a dirty blanket when one boy I had known raped me in secret when I was 17 years old. I’d never told anyone about that, including Naomi. Instead I told her about the therapist I saw when I was a teen because my parents forced me to, and how the therapist basically told me everything that had happened to me was my fault and that I needed to make the effort to have a relationship with my father in order to fix myself. Then I was promptly given a prescription for several drugs I didn’t need and sent on my merry little way with my parents. I had Klonopin, which I understand is supposed to treat seizures and panic disorders. Paxil was an antidepressant and anxiety treatment. Prozac, yet another antidepressant, also treats OCD and panic attacks. If I had actually taken them all I’d have been so drugged up I wouldn’t have known my own name. Naomi listened to all of this with her occasional high pitched, nasally response of “hmmmmm” as though I’d said something deeply profound. Sometimes if I came close to tears, she would make the same exact sound, but at

a lower pitch, as though struggling to show sympathy and not really knowing how best to express it aside from a noise instead of words. She asked finally if that’s where my fear of medications came from. “No,” I told her. “That came from when I was four.” Of course I had to elaborate. When I was only four years old my mom took both my older brother and myself to the doctor to see what was wrong with us. She had some friends with unruly kids who had been put on Ritalin and she liked how the kids behaved after that. Of course she did, I thought to myself as an adult. The kids turned into obedient little zombies. The doctors diagnosed my brother with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, but they told my mother that I was actually fine, just energetic. My mother, being the wise woman that she was, decided for herself that the doctors were wrong about me. There was definitely something wrong with me, she insisted, and the miracle drug of Ritalin would cure it all. She started breaking my brother’s pills in half and giving them to me. He had just turned eight in July, so she figured with me being half his age, half his dose would be plenty. In order to conserve pills, she just didn’t give them to us on the weekends. As a not-so-random coincidence, that year was also when the sexual abuse started. My brother molested me. My much more serious behavioral issues began. A year later my mom took me back in for another evaluation. She stopped giving me the Ritalin about a week before that, which pretty much ensured that I would have even more behavioral issues at the doctors office. At five years old I was given my very own prescription of Ritalin for attention deficit disorder after already having been on the highly addictive drug for over a year. I was the latest science project slated for observation. I told Naomi about some of my fond memories from that time too. I didn’t want to dwell on the bad things constantly, and my automatic defence has always been to figure out ways to add humor. I’ll laugh at my own pain out of nervousness, but if I can make someone else laugh at something truly funny I feel like I’ve gained a piece of my soul back. Naomi got to hear about when we would go to the “pick your own” orchard. My favorite part was picking strawberries. I only have a momentary flash of a memory from that, of my mother asking me if I was eating more than I was putting in the basket and me denying it in spite of the red stains all around my mouth. “I’m not eating them,” I argued. She laughed, called me a fibber, and asked if I was eating about half what I was putting in the basket then instead. I I had a hole in the knee of my jeans and there

was even a little bit of strawberry juice stain on the fringes from the knee hole. I wore velcro shoes that day, and I genuinely have no idea what shirt I was wearing, but my mother had on a black and white sleeveless sweater. My memory from that time is quite vivid. I ed when we would pick corn. The round laundry basket would sit in a clear area, and my family would go into the corn and start picking ears, then tossing them out to me. My job would be to pick them up and put them in the basket, being careful to avoid the hurled ears so I wasn’t rendered unconscious. As I was picking up an ear of corn, another would come at me and land nearby. I’d run to pick it up in time to have another land near the basket. This went on for a while until one stray ear got a little too much of my attention and I looked up just barely in time to have another land squarely on my forehead, just above my left eye. I falling backward into the trampled earth, and though I don’t the tears, I do the scream of pure anger that came out of my mouth even before my head hit the ground. I the little cowboy boots I loved so much. They were a gift from my Uncle in Arkansas. I refused to tell my mom when they were getting too small because I knew they wouldn’t be replaced. We couldn’t afford such things and those boots were an extravagance. I ended up with an ingrown toenail and mom had to pluck the tissue (I called it Kleenex because I didn’t know the difference) from the corner of my big toenail with tweezers. It was incredibly painful, but she never believed me. She said she was barely touching me. Eventually I had to be taken to the doctors and they had to give me a shot in the knuckle of my big toe to fix things. I sat on my fathers lap and screamed in pain, crying in agony. He cried too. As sad as it is, it’s one of my most fond memories of my father because I could tell in that moment that he loved me. They took me to Wendy’s for a Frosty afterward, and to this day I can’t have a Frosty without ing that moment, as my father shook with sobs because someone was hurting his little girl. It brings tears to my own eyes even now. His physical affection was so rare that it will always be a special memory for me, and one I occasionally wish I could recreate, without the amount of pain that accompanied it. I my troubled cousin Kyle coming to visit around then, too. I might have been closer to three at the time. I didn’t know what he’d gotten in trouble for, but I he seemed shady somehow. He constantly wanted to hang out with my brother in his room with the door closed and my parents insisted

that the door remain open instead. In spite of my parents wishes that door was often closed and the two spent many silent hours in that room together almost every night. I told Naomi that my telling her these things and my desire to write down my memories often triggered something within me that would cause me to some detail that I’d long since forgotten. Until I thought about how I wanted so badly to impress my cousin by showing him how I could “fly” on the swings by lazily swinging back and forth on my stomach with my arms outstretched, I didn’t that he didn’t seem to want to spend any time with me at all and only wanted to spend time with my brother. I clearly ed that instead of landing on my stomach on the swings, I landed on my head on the other side of them. I barely Kyle pretending to care. I do him laughing and me running off in embarrassment. I told her that I wondered if something had happened to my brother during Kyle’s visit with us. Maybe that was why my brother eventually did what he did to me only a year later. She nodded with her typical “hmmmm” response and I moved on. Honestly, memories from so many years ago can be faulty. Some things stick with us forever. Others get blurred with time. The first time my brother ever pulled me behind the giant evergreen tree on the corner with juniper berries in full bloom, I didn’t know what he wanted. I wasn’t exactly scared of him. He was my brother. My brother looked out for me. But then he got another little boy and brought him back there with us. My brother said he wanted to play a game. I ed asking if it was a game of hide and seek since we seemed to be hiding already. “No” he told me, and the rest of his words are lost in the distant memory; given to a violent desire to forget. I him wanting to ‘kiss’ certain parts of my body. I being scared. I the cold air biting at my exposed flesh - flesh that normally wouldn’t have the wind scratching against it. I the cold of the horizontally lined wall of red brick against my bottom. I the bright red shoes on the feet of his friend as he stood there watching what was happening. And I my brother telling the other little boy that they were supposed to ‘take turns.’ I do NOT the other little boy’s name. I’ve never been great with names. I this happening several more times after, but never with the other little boy. I it was always cold, probably late fall or early winter in

Maryland. I the crunchy leaves on the ground around that juniper tree. I holding one in my hand and inspecting it closely, trying to ignore what my brother was doing as he told me that it was ‘just a game’ but that I couldn’t tell our mom and dad or we would both get into trouble. And I the day Mom caught us. She was so angry. Her entire face turned red and I could almost hear her grinding her teeth, which she hated with a ion. I don’t what she was wearing that day, but I her tone of voice. She was so incredibly angry! She demanded that we come out of the bushes ‘right this instant’ and practically dragged me out by the sleeve of my coat. She’d come outside calling for us and we weren’t responding because, of course, we didn’t want to get into trouble. She’d spotted us somehow through the tree branches. Part of me wonders if she knew exactly what was going on. She had to have known, as angry as I saw her that day. She had to know. My brother got between my mom and I so I would have time to pull up my pants. My undies had little flowers on them that day. I don’t know why that seemed important to me at the time, but they were little tiny flowers all over them. My boots were pink. Being pulled out of the bushes was frightening, the tree clawing at my face and pulling at my shoe laces. And as much as I wanted it to be, that wasn’t the last day we ever went back behind that tree. Mom had demanded that we never go back there again, but of course we defied her. Or, rather, my brother defied her and I was included in the events. That particular Juniper abuse ended when winter hit and we couldn’t go outside without multiple layers of clothing anymore. It never restarted. We had a baby sitter the next year who turned out to be an honest nightmare. She was a large, heavy set woman with a station wagon and a special affinity for PlayGirl magazines. While she was watching us, we would go all over the military base in the back seat of her car. From there, with no seatbelts on, my brother could reach the dirty magazines in the next seat back. They just sat there, opened, outside of their plastic sleeves, on the vinyl seat as though they were the latest issue of Marie Claire. I peeking at the cover of one and being curious, but taking a single look at the inside of one and being thoroughly repulsed. My brother was far more interested. The babysitter spanked my brother when she found out what he’d done. We didn’t tell on her though, because, as the babysitter informed us, our mother would most likely believe her, and we’d have to it to what we’d done wrong to deserve it. I don’t

her name, but I when Mom got mad enough to fire her. I was glad to see her go. So was my brother. We celebrated by drawing on a childs’ A-frame chalkboard with pink chalk. I illustrated how angry I was with a series of lines and my brother asked me to draw what I thought a boy’s private part looked like. Through much coaxing I finally drew something that looked like a cloud. He tried to correct my drawing but we were called to dinner and I was saved by the tuna noodle casserole. By the time we moved away from Maryland when I was seven, I’d endured much more than anyone could possibly have known and was living in a kind of fog, not sure how or why all these secrets should belong to me. I wasn’t good at keeping secrets, but I knew that I needed to, or I’d get into trouble. They were all my fault, I’d been told all along. I was a part of it. I needed to lie. It was the only way to avoid being spanked for being such a terrible child. There was only one truly safe place for me - the neighbor Mona. She let me eat pasta and watch The Price is Right with her. She taught me some Spanish. She never once spanked me or exposed me to things I thought were dangerous or wrong. I went to Mona as often as I could. I was safe with Mona. And then she moved away. I was crushed. I leaving therapy that night in a fog. Some of those things I’d been able to talk about for a long time, but never in detail. A lot of those things I didn’t clearly until I was face to face with the need to recall. Sadly, the memories came flooding back to me because I had nothing else to distract me from the truth when I was face to face with Naomi. I had no option but to face the facts and the details were as bright and vivid in my memory as the other boy’s bright red shoes were, glowing behind the juniper tree.

Chapter Two The Dog House I’d sprained my ankle pretty badly by the time I went back to see Naomi two weeks later. I hobbled in on crutches covered in a leopard print padding - the leopard print padding was a gift from a fellow survivor and dear friend of mine. The weather had turned cold, even by Colorado standards, and not wearing a shoe over that bare sock was getting to me. My foot felt like ice. Naomi looked at me with a pained expression. “Oh my goodness, what happened,” she pleaded. We’d had the first snowfall in the mountains so she assumed what most Colorado natives would assume - a skiing accident. “Something far more childish and stupid than you can imagine,” I told her, quite embarrassed by the truth. “I even have video footage of me doing it.” I was embarrassed, sure, but I’d finally learned how to tell the truth after 35 years of lies. I pulled out my mobile phone and loaded the video for her to watch as though I was almost proud of it. My boyfriend of the month and I were in a large furniture store with a flat dolly cart seeking out furniture for the place we were about to move into together. The first video I showed her was of him running with the flat cart through a wide, empty aisle, and then flinging himself down on top of it. It reminded me of “the Superman” move I tried to show my cousin Kyle. My boyfriend’s arms and legs were outstretched and it seemed like he was flying. At the end of that video I was heard in the background, holding the camera, telling him that I wanted to try, too! The next video started, and there I was at the far end of the aisle pushing the cart. Faster and faster I went until I was jogging. I was too scared to just fall down on top of it as he’d done, so I jumped onto it at first with the intention of laying down on it after I had my balance. The force of me leaping onto the cart altered the trajectory and it veered off to the left. I scrambled down to my knees just in time for it to slam into the metal stanchions anchored to the floor as shelving and bounced off. At that exact moment my ankle was barely above the

metal frame of the cart itself, and my ankle bounced off so sharply that I saw stars behind my eyelids for a second. The cart bounced off the opposite metal root, and finally settled into place in the middle of the aisle, where I collapsed onto my stomach, giggling like an idiot. I walked through the rest of the store attempting to be an adult, forcing myself not to limp, and managed to get all the way back home without tears. By the time I got home, my foot was so swollen the shoe had to be completely unlaced in order to come off. It looked broken. For weeks my ankle remained shades of purple and yellow. But, I reminded myself at the time, it was only physical pain. I’d been through so much worse. “So why do you think you felt the need to do that,” Naomi asked me, somewhat uncharacteristically. “I guess I felt like being a kid,” I grinned. “It’s the last year of my 30s and I wanted to be a kid.” The year 2019 had been full of turmoil. I believe I had needed a momentary break from being exhausted. “Interesting,” she offered. “So do you think it’s at all because of what you told me about your childhood last week? You had a lot of your childhood taken away from you, through medications and abuse and trauma.” “That could be,” I itted. “But not all of my childhood was bad. A lot of it was great.” “Tell me more about that,” she prompted. “We had dogs when I was growing up,” I started. “But you have cats now?” Yes, I had become a crazy cat lady. I had four cats, all of them rescued, and all of them just as traumatized in their past as I had been. One was a feral, abused and kicked by neighborhood kids until he lost all of his teeth. One had been abandoned while pregnant, tossed into the streets to starve, and gave birth to stillborn kittens from lack of nutrition. One was unloved and abandoned by his own mother because there was ‘something wrong with him’ when his eyes would never open on their own. The oldest was the product of incest. In a strangely profound, dangerously unhealthy way, I personally identified with each of them and understood what they’d had to do in order to survive. That world was a dark one. We all understood that in a way that only we knew, but each of

us could understand. We always had dogs when I was growing up. That much was true. When I’d adopted my first cat I had no idea what I was doing and I raised him as though he were a dog. I didn’t know any better. I also started out as a rather abusive cat-mom, occasionally striking him for getting into something he shouldn’t. I’d smack him, open handed, on his rump. It was how I’d been raised. It’s what I’d seen my parents do to the dogs. It was a way of life. If someone did something wrong, they deserved to be hit. It was that simple. One day when I struck him across the backside for something I’d simply known he had done, he looked at me with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen on the orange and white tabby, and I knew instinctively he was innocent. The boyfriend I’d been living with at that time confirmed my suspicions, and I promised Oliver in that moment that I’d never strike him again. I honored my word to him, and to all others since. I ed Schatzi fondly, but ed so little about her. She was still a puppy when she died, I think. I was no more than two or three years old myself. She was sick with something I didn’t understand and needed to be put to sleep because we couldn’t afford to make her better. I don’t going into the building or even walking into the room where she was on the stainless table, but I ed her laying there with a hose down either her nose or her throat and her tongue hanging out like maybe she was already dead. It was years later I learned that she’d had Parvo, which is an illness common to pound puppies. It’s a highly contagious virus among dogs and the mortality rate is around 90%, meaning most dogs who get it do not survive. I didn’t know at the time she was a German Shepherd, but I thinking every dog that looked like one was named Shatzi in my mind for quite a long time. I even being corrected once when someone else was walking a Shepherd and I called out to Schatzi. The next dog we had was Cocoa who hated me as much as I hated her. I couldn’t even count the number of times my own mother would say exactly that to me, too. Cocoa would go to the bathroom on my bed or in my closet. She’d drag toilet paper all over the house while we were out. She loved my mother, she tolerated my brother and dad, but that dog hated me with a ion I’d never seen a dog possess. I wore my cowboy boots to protect my feet and ankles from the dog biting me, and though my mother more than once accused me of kicking her with my boots on, in reality I was shoving her away after she’d lunged at me and tried to bite through the tall shaft of my boot.

Then came Shadow. What a sweet little puppy he was. He was my brother’s dog, we got him after we’d moved to Arkansas. He was so tiny that my mom would slip him into the chest pocket of a shirt she would wear and walk with him to the mailbox and back. For a little while I had a black cat named Winky at the same time, but Winky was savagely murdered by a pair of nasty dalmations that wandered more than a mile away from their home to eat my kitten. I never forgave dalmations in general. Next, after we moved to California, came Lady, Shadow’s best friend. We got the brindle Great Dane based on a dream my mother had. She became my dog, and my best friend. My parents gave her away while I was at school one day and very nearly didn’t let me say goodbye to her at all. I had to beg for hours. Finally, after we moved to Utah, we still had Shadow, but we adopted another dog named Cookie. She ended up with Parvo too, but my mother managed to save her life by feeding her a teaspoon of water every hour for weeks on end. My mother was so devoted to that dog that I was in complete awe. Cookie lived, and became the best friend I never knew I needed in my teen years. Eventually she disappeared in a massive flood that washed several feet of mud into the backyard of my parents home. Her body was never found. There were a lot of things that happened to me over the years that ed, and those dogs saved my life in more ways than one. From an attempted kidnapping at a park to being attacked by a large Akita to running for help when I needed it most, they were the companions who made sure I kept living from one day to the next. Sometimes they were the only reason I even wanted to keep living at all. As a kid I wasn’t cognizant of the term ‘therapy animal’ but assumed any actual service dog would be a dog for a blind person. Even having lived the life that I lived, I didn’t fully understand what it meant to have a therapy animal until I was forty years old with cats. Dogs could do amazing things, from playing fetch in the yard to finding drugs in an airport, from turning on the lights to fetching drinks from the fridge or a remote from the table. They could attack on command and chase down a bad guy and hold them in submission. They were great for doing tricks in an animal circus. I’d seen dogs ride horses. Lady, the Great Dane, used to run down the sidewalk while I was wearing roller skates and holding on to her leash. The dog was smart enough to look both ways before crossing. She’d cross anyway, whether there was a car coming or not, but she was at least smart enough to stop and look first. Cookie would pick raspberries off of the vine, set one in front of Shadow who had grown too blind to see them

anymore, and then take one for herself. She did the same with walnuts that had fallen from the tree, and always saved a treat for her best bud. Shadow was too much of a scaredy cat to do much of anything on his own, but could balance a treat on his nose and come on command like nobody’s business. They were all “just dogs” though. They slept outside in the summer and they slept in the garage in the winter. They weren’t allowed on the furniture, and they were held over our heads as threats if we weren’t good kids. “We’ll take the dogs to the pound if you don’t xyz,” we were told. They were tools of entertainment, threats, abuse, and punishment. How could something that could be treated and regarded so carelessly be anything but just an animal? My cats have proven to me what I knew in my gut so long ago. Not only did every dog have their own personality from Cocoa to Cookie, but they had their own places in our lives and our hearts. They were so much more than they were ever given credit for. My cats now still don’t have all the credit they deserve, but they have become the living essence of who I was and who I wish to become. Violet, my little girl who was abandoned while pregnant, has fully recovered. She’s no longer a skinny, sickly little cat. Instead, she’s plump and happy. When I adopted her I was told she’d never be a lap cat, that she’d been far too abused and neglected to ever be comfortable with that. Now, if I’m sitting down, she’s either on my lap or she’s next to me. I had to get her a little ‘office chair’ all her own so she could sit beside me as I write. She’s hardly ever out of it if I’m working. She sleeps on my chest. She cries out for me when I come home whether I’ve been gone for 10 minutes or 2 days. Cooper, my toothless old feral, is still quite shy of strangers and terrified of new people or new noises, but he’s happy and comfortable, often laying on his back with his tender, fleshy belly exposed to the entire house in a gesture of extreme trust. He doesn’t like going outside and rarely ever sits by a window. He re what life was like outside and he doesn’t ever want to go back to that life of abuse now that he’s managed to escape it. Calvin, my little Dinky, didn’t trust anyone at first. I think that’s common for creatures who had their mothers turn their backs on them. If the one person you’re supposed to trust above all others can’t be trusted, what internal instinct is altered to help defend us against predators and abandonment in the future? He, instead, turned to Violet and she became a surrogate mother to him.

Oliver, my oldest, became the Daddy Cat. I was there the moment he was born, watching as his mother brought him into the world. His half brother was also his father, and I knew that meant he’d have some health complications later on in life. Yet he took in every stray I ever brought home and taught them what it was like to give and receive love. He forgave me when I swatted him as I’d always been taught to do and showed me a better way to live. He changed my entire life for the better. Oliver would eventually understand the signs of an impending Crohn’s Disease attack and would lay on my stomach in order to keep me still and warm, so the attacks might not be quite so bad. He sought me out when I was crying. He made me laugh when I was sad. And just like every well trained dog I ever had growing up, he’d even play fetch with me when I was bored. Of course, it was only with one particular pair of socks, but he did still play fetch. As I talked with Naomi I ed Oliver and Dinky with great fondness and love. Both of them have since ed on from medical complications, and have taken with them a great sized chunk of my heart. Since then I’ve been able to adopt two more ginger boys, litter mates this time, named Jack and Dash. They had been abandoned in a dumpster behind a restaurant, unwanted and unloved. Yet again I found cats that I could identify with. They’ve become the youngest of my family now, and both have acquired skills that I didn’t know cats could have. Jack will wake me up from PTSD nightmares by gently nudging me under the chin until I wake up, and Dash will cover my feet with the full weight of his body when I’m feeling as though I’m losing my way. He keeps me grounded in a way I didn’t know would be possible. They’re more than just cats, just like every dog I ever had was more than just a dog. They’re little spitfires of personality and attitude, willing to love those who love them, and always willing to understand what it means to have a very bad day. Sometimes I wonder if I ended up with so many cats because I was trying to fill the emotional void of having lost my only child.

Chapter Three Busted I’d gotten off on a tangent with Naomi telling her about the pets of my life and how they’d influenced and changed my life so much over the years. She, of course, saw this as a form of avoidance and knew that I was avoiding something that would be difficult for me to talk about. She pointed at my ankle again and urged me to continue talking about why I would need to feel like a child and why I didn’t seem to be upset over severely injuring myself. She was shocked when I told her that I’d forced myself to walk around in the store the rest of the afternoon without limping, and how much I was hurting by the time I got home. “Why didn’t you say something about being hurt? You could have gotten off your feet faster probably. It would have hurt less. Were you afraid your boyfriend would think less of you?” Maybe so, I thought to myself. But that would have been showing weakness. I couldn’t show weakness. That wasn’t permissible. I was also embarrassed that I’d gained so much weight over the last few years that I wasn’t as athletic as I once was. Never mind the fact that I was getting older, that was somehow irrelevant. But honestly, my issue was that I knew the damage had been done, and the best thing I could do was pretend that it didn’t exist so that I could continue on with my life. It’s how I’d lived through everything so far, and it seemed to be working for me. Except it wasn’t. That was the problem. That was why I finally found myself sitting across a musty room from a therapist in a rocking chair. “I guess that’s what I was taught to do,” I told her honestly. Over the next few minutes I regaled my tale of my broken foot from when I was a teenager. As I did, my memory took me back to that day as though it were only yesterday. The ball sailed through the air and I leaped up to catch it in mid-air. My feet landed on the ground and I ran with everything I had. I knew I could run faster than the boys, but they were bearing down on me pretty fast. I needed to grow wings if I was going to score a touchdown. I spotted the satellite dish on the ground in front of me. The yard was pretty

small, so it wasn't out of bounds. I was smaller than anyone else I ever played with, both shorter and thinner, and I knew I was far more agile. I could just duck and run under it while anyone else would have to either slow way down or go the long way around it. I headed straight for it. We were playing two hand touch, so what happened next really took me by surprise. Bryan soared through the air and suddenly I stopped running, my stride cut short with an abrupt stop. The ball slipped from my arms, coursed through the air and bounced out of the middle of the satellite dish, flying erratically from the awkward angle at which it bounced in the rounded shell. I lost all track of it as I focused on what was going on with my own body. My body fell to the ground with a sickening thud and coursing pain. I was pinned down with my foot under the chest of a young man easily 50 pounds heavier than I was. Bryan rolled off of me and asked if I was ok. I sat up and looked around. I knew my foot was hurting, but I figured I could just shake it off. itting to pain was a weakness. "Give me a minute," I said. "It kinda hurts a little." I cradled my foot in my hands. The pain grew. I didn't hear the words coming from my mouth for a minute, but as I sat there I became more aware of hearing myself saying "Ow, ow, ow" over and over in a surprisingly calm and relaxed manner. I took my shoe off and slipped my sock off of my throbbing foot to shove it into my empty shoe. My foot looked fine, nothing in the world wrong with it. I didn't even have a bruise. Bryan ran for the house. My mother and his were friends and we had been in their backyard playing. He ran inside and both moms followed him back out fairly quickly. My mother was complaining of a migraine headache and had a "no nonsense" approach toward me right then. That was common if I had something to complain about. "If your foot hurts then get up and come inside," she said harshly. It wasn't until then that I began to gently cry. I was 15 years old and had gone through amazing amounts of pain in my life up until that moment. It wasn't the pain that caused me to weep, but rather her tone and complete lack of comion for my pain. The Saturday sun blazed down overhead and the heat only made it worse. "I can't," I said. "It really hurts, Mom."

Bryan's mom, Gail, leaned over to give me a hand up. "Come on inside, Hon. We'll put some ice on it." "Mom," I said matter-of-factly, "I think it's broken. "Oh, it is not." She stated it quite plainly, tisking at me once to accentuate the comma. "If it was you'd have bones sticking out. You're fine. Now stop being such a whiny baby and get up." With Gail's help, I struggled to my feet and walked on the heel of my foot toward the house. Each step was very painful and the more I traveled, the more I feared my original guess was correct. Somehow I just knew my foot was broken. It had begun to go numb beyond the middle of my foot. By the time we got inside I could barely hobble on it. I hopped the last few steps to the recliner "See," my mother said, "it's not broken or you wouldn't have been able to walk on it." "I thought you were going to run into the satellite dish," Bryan said. "I tackled you so you wouldn't hurt yourself. I'm sorry." I nodded in appreciation. I thought it was sweet of him to think that way. Looking back now, I’m suspicious that he had other intentions and that the tackle wasn’t at all an accident or intended to be helpful to me. "I was aiming for the satellite dish," I explained. "I knew you couldn't follow me and I'd be able to score a touchdown." Bryan smiled. He knew his apology had been accepted. He later itted to me that he thought I was the toughest girl he’d ever known. "Straighten your foot up," Mom said to me, presward on my elevated leg at my toes, trying to force my ankle straight. It wasn't until that moment that I screamed. It started low and rose through my chest until it became a roar. The pain shot up through my entire body like a volcano and made something in my spine tingle like an electric shock. "Oh, hush," she said to me. "You're being such a baby. You want to go home, or do you want to go back out and play?" "I wanna go home," I said, shuttering as I tried not to sob. "Maybe it's really broken, Beth," Gail said. "I mean, it looks fine, but maybe you should go have x-rays taken."

"No, she's fine," my mother insisted. "Manda, just sit there for a while and take it easy. Watch tv with us. When you feel better you can go back out and play." I watched TV with Gail and my mother while they chatted in the background for a good hour and my foot only got worse. Occasionally my mother would push up on my toes again and each time I would scream out in agony. "Manda, I have a headache," she explained. "I don't feel like putting up with this today. If you want to go home, then get to the car." My foot ached just thinking about it. I thought about the 30 or so concrete steps leading the way up to Gail's house from where we had parked. One handrail lined the steps on the left. I couldn't imagine going all the way down those unforgiving concrete stairs on my own. "Will you give me a hand, Mom?" "No, you can make it. You just have to suck it up, stop being a baby. You're fine." I hopped to the door, Bryan giving me a hand out to the top of the stairs. "Let her do it," my mother told him sharply. Bryan obeyed and let go of my arm. I grabbed hold of the hand rail, leaned part way over it to rest my body weight on the railing, and slid down to the next step. I paused a moment, leaned again, and slid again. Each time I would land on my left leg, the jarring would cause my right foot to flair up in pain again. It progressed, getting worse and worse with each step. Nearly to the bottom, my mother decided to give me a hand. "It's probably just a sprained ankle," she said, finally willing to it that I was actually hurting. She opened the car door and helped me inside. That night when dinner was ready I couldn't traverse the stairs even with the hand rail to lean on. I got on my hands and knees and crawled up the stairs to the dinner table. My parents scorned me, called me a baby, and told me to grow up. I wanted to cry, but I knew that I was stronger than that. I'd show them, I thought. I could feel the skin around my foot tightening as it swelled to an unnatural size. That night sleep was fleeting, as it usually was, and nightmares shook me when I did finally fall asleep. It was Sunday morning when I sat up and pulled the blankets back from my throbbing foot. I called out to my mother who came down reluctantly. I hollered down the hallway that my foot was swollen and I couldn’t get up.

"Well Manda, you probably sprained it," she repeated her guess from the day before as she walked into my room. Then her eyes fell upon my foot, now swollen to 3 times its original size. It resembled the football I had been playing with when it all happened. My toes looked as though they were disappearing into a large ball of purple clay. "Uh," her tone changed, "Manda, get dressed. I'm going to take you to the hospital. Three metatarsals, numbers 2, 3 and 4 were broken. Here I thought it would be amazing if I had broken just one single bone in my foot as proof that I hadn’t been faking it, or acting like a baby, but to break three gave me a sense of justice! I had wanted to show them all that I wasn't stupid or childish or wimpy. I wanted to show them that I had actually taken real pain without whining about it or crying constantly like what everyone, including myself, thought a typical girl would. I hadn't even complained when having to crawl on my hands and knees to the dinner table. I was, for once, justified in my complaint. Mom's face softened when she saw the x-rays. My three middle toes were snapped in the middle of my foot. Somehow my big toe and pinkie toe metatarsals were fine, which made no sense to any of us. Mom put her arm around my shoulder while the doctor placed my foot on a metal rail in order to keep my ankle straight. Then he began to wrap it in white gauze. The bones in my foot were never set. To this day they do bother me slightly, but it’s not something I ever complain about. "It's actually a good thing you waited a day to come in," he said. "We couldn't have wrapped it up yesterday because of the swelling. As it is, this will be a temporary cast," he explained as he held out several colors for me to choose from. I pointed to the purple. "This cast will have to be cut off in a week when the swelling goes down, and another one will have to be put on." He dipped the casting material in liquid and began to wrap the white gauze with the purple mesh. “So your mother made you walk home on a broken foot,” Naomi cringed. “How did that make you feel?” “Like she couldn’t care less,” I answered honestly. “But, to me, that was nothing new. Sometimes she cared, sometimes she didn’t.” I shrugged.

Chapter Four Motherly Love “So tell me about a time you felt like your mother did care,” she guided my thought process out of the darkness and back into the light. “There were plenty of times,” I smiled, struggling to any as I dug my way out of the dark hole I’d managed to put myself in while reliving the memory of a broken foot and a broken heart. I told Naomi about the time I was excited to attend my first real school dance. Mom wanted to curl my hair to make me ‘extra pretty’ for the dance. I nearly fainted in her bathroom and she wouldn’t even take me to my own room. She tucked me into her bed and let me rest there, watching tv in her room (our family didn’t believe in having tv’s in the kids rooms, nor did we have the money for that) and I stayed there until it was time to go to bed. I missed the dance that night, and I crying about it because a boy at school had asked me if I would dance with him at the dance. But more than anything I the comion she had that night as she brought me some orange juice and propped up the pillows behind my head. She tried to teach us to play tennis when we were kids. I think we went out maybe once or twice in total, and I was a miserable failure. I sat on the curb and cried while I watched my mom and my brother play. She scolded me and told me to ‘hush’ and to stop being a baby, and I still cried about being excluded, but that wasn’t what I ed most. What I ed most was her spending that time with us and wanting to teach us something new. Mom made the greatest homemade pizza crust ever, and her homemade bread was to die for. I loved her cooking even if many of the recipes were recycled quite often. Her meatloaf was pretty amazing and her homemade biscuits were out of this world. When I was little she made that Big Bird birthday cake for me for my 2nd birthday. Food was her way of expressing that she loved us because it took time and energy to create. Ironically, she hated cooking. She colored with me once in my Smurfs coloring book when I was around three. That was the night that her coworker Brad came over to babysit us, though I

have no earthly idea what my mother did for work at the time. I had a huge crush on Brad. He also worked at the skating rink and Mom would take us skating where I’d chase Brad all over the rink. He was the reason I learned how to skate. I had a huge crush on him at the time. I did really well on my grades in the 6th grade, thanks to the patience of a miracle worker retired Colonel for a teacher, and as a reward my mom bought me outdoor rollerblades. They were bright blue with neon green strap buckles across the front and toes. Those are the skates I would wear while out with my Great Dane cruising the sidewalks. I loved those skates and I loved my mom for giving them to me. She’d hidden them in the guest bathroom, behind the door. I had tears in my eyes when she guided me to find them. She and I would dance like idiots in the living room to Elvis Presley songs. She’d grab my hands and we’d pretend to swing dance though neither of us knew what we were doing. We’d sing along. I always thought my mother had the most beautiful voice. I’d tell her that and she’d tell me that I was biased, that she couldn’t sing a lick. I loved it when she’d talk to her mom on the phone. My mom grew up in Arkansas, and every time she talked to her mom who still lived out there, she’d get off the phone with a very thick southern accent that came flooding back like muscle memory. It was a lyrical accent and I could listen to her speak for hours. She believed in ghosts. She didn’t tell us that for a long time, but she did. I found out when we moved into what we perceived to be a haunted house. Strange noises and bumps in the night would make things move or shake. She’d find her car keys in the freezer. The electronics around the house would come on by themselves. Someone lifted up the foot of my bed as I was recovering from my broken foot and slammed it back down while I was still in it, which normally would have been blamed on me but I wouldn’t have been capable of doing something like that. She always blamed Mr. Anderson, our resident ghost, and it made me love her just a little more when she blamed the missing milk on him too - after one of my infrequent midnight trips to the kitchen. She would tell us stories of her own childhood, about the horse that would run like crazy if someone whispered “Get it” to his ears. We’d laugh at the stories of how she’d make the horse run out from under her little brother and leave him

sitting in the dirt. I'll never forget the day that same uncle, my mom’s younger brother Mickie, came to visit and wanted to cook for us. He was a truck driver and hardly ever got time in from the road. He and my mother were extremely close in their youth and very much loved one another even in adulthood. Still, certain things had changed. Mom hadn't ridden a horse in many years and my Uncle hadn't had to run from one since then. Uncle Mickie couldn't walk on his hands anymore, but he could still ride for a mile and a half on nothing but the back tire of a bicycle. Mom had finally learned how to cook during her marriage to my father, but still didn't have the patience to teach us too much. Uncle Mickie decided he was going to teach my brother and I how to make Spaghetti one evening. He boiled the water and threw the noodles into the pot after breaking them in half and continued a conversation with my mother about that one horse they had as a kid. Uncle Mickie wasn't as crazy about horses as my Mother was, and in fact, still isn't wild about any animals to this day. I personally believe that's because of his days as part of the road crew who cleaned up roadkill in the 70's and 80's - I can only imagine that would numb someone to the emotional experience of losing a pet, or even loving one to begin with. While the noodles boiled in the pot, my uncle and mother launched into a story, taking time to interchange their own versions. The horse they were discussing was Whomp. It was an odd name for a horse, I had to it, but Whomp, by all s, was a brilliant horse. All anyone would have to do is lean over in the saddle, get as close to Whomp's ears as possible and whisper to him "Get it, Whomp!" and the horse would take off like it had been smacked with a dozen switches at once. He tore off through valley and vale, over fences and logs, through brambles and briars, never slowing and never faltering until the reigns were pulled back. Mom had, on many occasions, told us of Uncle Mickie begging to go for a ride just down the lane to a friends house. Mom hated having to taxi him around like that because she had wanted to go in another direction. As penance, she would sit my uncle on the back of the horse just behind the saddle. She would ride properly for a while, not much more than a walk. Finally, he would say something smart to her about crawling along at the speed of an earthworm, and she would stand up in her stirrups. He always knew then to hang on for dear life. She leaned over towards the horses ears and whispered, and Whomp would take

off with a cloud of dust behind him like a thick fog that had gathered dirt. More than once my Uncle was left sitting on the ground beneath that cloud, his ego just as bruised as his backside. He would stand up and continue on his way on foot. My mother would begin to feel bad and would circle back around. She would entice him to get back on the horse and he would almost always turn her down. Once or twice she managed to talk him into it and would give him a proper ride the rest of the way there. When Whomp was new to the family, he was as gentle as a lamb. The family instantly fell in love with him. My Grandfather was an amazing animal trainer, and had he been known outside of the small town where they lived in rural Arkansas, there likely would have been a book or two written about this small, frail man who embodied so much more than his stature would have you believe. He was what many people today would consider to be a Horse Whisperer. But this Horse Whisperer had three small children to look out for and wouldn't keep a violent horse or dog on his property. This was widely known. One day my Grandfather came walking through the field to the house. My mother watched from a distance and when she realized he was limping, she ran to fetch her mother and brothers. All four stood in the window of the living room with the lace curtains swept off to the side, peering out of the window. The smudge marks on the glass from their four matching noses would have made anyone else laugh. My Grandfather limped to the house. My mom's oldest brother ran out to lend him a hand up the creaky wooden steps and my Grandmother held open the door. They walked him to the dining room table and sat him in an old, stained, cracked and abused wooden chair that groaned under his 98 lb body. He began to roll up his pant leg to reveal a horse shoe print on his thigh larger than his own face. Whichever horse it was had to have been huge. Grandma got some ice for the swelling, and the kids gathered around in the other chairs. "Daddy" asked my mother, all of about 8 years old at the time, "which one done it?" All three kids and my Grandmother sat on pins and needles waiting. They knew whichever horse it was, Grandpa would go shoot it as soon as he could walk without needing a cane. "It was Whomp" he said. All three kids and even his lovely wife, my grandmother, started to cry big, fat tears of sorrow.

"You aren't gonna kill him, are ya Daddy?" My mother asked the question they all wanted an answer to. "Aw, Hell Naw," he stated in aggravation. "I kicked em' first!" At the end of telling this story, my crazy Uncle reached into the boiling pot of Spaghetti noodles and picked one out. He then threw it against the wall and watched it stick. It stayed there for several minutes before he finally pulled it down, and said "I think the S'ketti is done. You know it's done with the noodles stick to the wall." Then, he held the noodle up to his mouth and slurped it in. "Yep, it's done."

Chapter Five Being Hunted I was still on crutches the next time I went to see Naomi, and as much as my ankle hurt, my heart had a darker bruise than my foot. There had been a horrible development in my case and as much as I didn’t want to talk about it I knew that I needed to. I had to tell someone who wouldn’t pander to me telling me that it would ‘all be okay’ or that things were fine and just to ‘hang in there’ as though I were a cat hanging from a tree on a poster in some office cubicle. I couldn’t be tucked away as a piece of kitchy photography with a cute phrase. What was happening to me made me want to end my life and I didn’t know how to deal with that. I walked in with tears streaming down my face. “Oh my goodness, what’s wrong?” Naomi was truly comionate in those moments, which was a quality that made me somewhat uncomfortable because it wasn’t something I was accustomed to. “He’s done it to me again,” I sobbed, his blue eyes blazing like fire at me from behind my tightly closed eyes. “He’s done it again.” “What exactly has been done and who did it?” “Richard. You know, the guy in Scotland.” “We haven’t talked about Scotland very much,” she reminded me, and I knew full well why we hadn’t. I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. It was still too fresh. It had been eight years, but it was still too new for me to be comfortable talking about. I had learned only the year before that what I’d been through could be defined as Human Trafficking, and I still hadn’t wrapped my brain around it completely. I also had managed to discover that it was the third time I’d been trafficked, while feeling completely alone in the world like nobody else had ever experienced what I had. How could I talk about something so disgusting and horrible as though it were just another part of daily life? It wasn’t exactly a good ice breaker in the realm of getting to know someone new. ‘Oh, what do I do? I’m an office manager now, but I used to be someone’s forced human slave, treated like an animal, and used for sexual favors among his friends and random strangers for his amusement.’ There was just no nice way to bring it up.

My friend Allen had found the videos and photos. I didn’t know exactly how he found them and I wasn’t going to ask questions, but he was one of the few honest people in the world willing to tell me when he found the bad stuff. He’d done it more than once. I didn’t know where I’d be without his help. I thought I’d moved on from so much of the horrible things that had happened to me, successfully moving on with my life, but this latest development just proved to me how incorrect I was about it all. I just didn’t have to think about it because it wasn’t in my face every day. Until, of course, it was. There were literally dozens of photos of me in compromising positions and during the multitude of ‘sex without willing consent’ events that occurred while I was in Scotland, sprinkled all over the internet. Not only had they been posted, but so had several videos, and even rape fantasy stories written by someone pretending to be me. Each one was worse than the last. At first I was in shock, then denial, then I grew depressed and couldn’t do anything but cry. Worse yet, I found out about all of this while I was at work. I did what I always did, though. I shrugged, pretended that there was nothing wrong, and forced my way through the day. Eventually it started to get to me and I told my coworker that I’d need to step outside to make a phone call. That had never been a problem before, and was something she had done quite frequently. I reached out to some of the people who had introduced me to Naomi and let them know what was going on and they rushed to my aid. I’ll never forget how the people of Covered Colorado did everything possible to save me from myself that day. I was a wreck. They gave me the name of a legal service I might reach out to, and when I called to explain to a total stranger what had happened, I melted into a bawling mess of tears. It was hard enough telling the basics to someone I knew and respected. Telling someone I didn’t know at all was almost impossible. I blubbered into the phone for the next half hour about what I had seen and what had been sent to me. I didn’t go into details about Scotland, only about what had been posted. I became a wreck. I thought I’d put it all behind me. I’d escaped Scotland eight years previously and had stopped all communication with anyone there, hoping that would be the end of it. Instinctively I knew why I was being targeted, yet I forced that thought out of my mind and refused to accept it. I’d written a book the year before called “Detailed Pieces of a Shattered Dream” about a previous experience with human

trafficking and it was gaining in some small notoriety. It had been well received among those who already followed my public social media pages that I had started for my modeling and writing work, and many of my friends had read and reviewed that book on Amazon. I’d already been attacked by my family while giving different news and podcast and magazine interviews about that book and my survival, and every attack was about how I wasn’t truthful or that “whatever she accused me of isn’t true” from my own brother. None of my family was mentioned in the book aside from my parents telling my grandmother not to take me in, and that had been confirmed by my grandmother’s husband. Now that I was starting to make a name for myself, someone was scared. Someone out there was afraid I’d tell the truth about them, too. Someone didn’t want their dirty little secret to get out, and their dirty little secret now knew how to get books published. “I’m going to write the book,” I told Naomi. “Didn’t you already write the book?” “I’ve written several so far, but I haven’t written about Scotland yet. But I’m going to.” “Why do you feel the need to write that book? Do you think it will help?” “I do.” The book I’d already written had multiple young women coming to me through social media asking for help on how to escape the life of being a trafficked victim. I’d been able to get them out of some truly horrible places and into a place that would be safe for them to seek treatment and recovery. That was only a 65 page book about a short span of my life and how I ended up there. I had only been ‘owned’ by someone for 23.5 hours of my life. The book didn’t have all that much to it, and it had already done so much good for others. It also gave me a chance to let go of everything I’d been through back then. At the time of my writing it, I didn’t even realize I’d been a victim of human trafficking. I thought I’d been a kidnap victim. Learning what I did about trafficking helped not just others, but me, in ways I couldn’t begin to understand. Scotland wasn’t just 23.5 hours of my life. Scotland was a full 152 days of captivity right under the noses of my trafficker’s family and they never even knew. If the first book could do some good for someone, maybe the next book would finally help me to let go of everything I’d been holding in for so long.

“What will you call it,” Naomi asked me, taking her seat in the rocking chair beside the small bookshelf filled with torn spines. “I don’t know yet. I was thinking something like Custom Justice,” I told her. “Why Custom Justice, do you think?” “Because I’ll never get justice from the legal system. It’s impossible, and not just theoretically, but completely. It is impossible to prosecute someone for human trafficking across international borders. I was over the age of 18 when it happened so by law I’m to be considered a ‘consenting adult’ even though I was forced into sexual acts against my will.” “You were raped,” Naomi corrected me. “I know. That’s what I said.” “No, that’s not what you said. You said you were forced into sexual acts against your will.” “Same thing.” I shrugged. “Except it isn't. One is a clinical definition that allows you to avoid personal connection to the event. The other is ownership and understanding that you had no choice in the matter.” She was right and I knew it. I shrugged again, not wishing to it it. “That’s what the pictures were of, right?” She watched my face closely as I winced in emotional pain I didn’t really want to feel. “They were of you being raped.” “I guess,” I told her. “And it’s not the first time this has happened to you?” Again she was right. Shortly after I’d returned to the United States from living in Scotland for five months, I got a job working for someone I’d known for nearly 14 years. I knew his mother before I knew him. I thought he was someone I could trust. Richard shoved a wedge between us that could never

fully be removed though. He created a fake email , something about Scottish blue eyes, and sent an email to my new boss and old friend. In it he had attached a total of 32 photos of me being raped by different people, and only one sentence in the email. ‘I wouldn’t want someone like this in my life, would you?’ When Bill the boss showed me that email, I was too embarrassed to speak with anyone about it, including Bill the friend. I cried, I telling him that I couldn’t believe Richard would do that to me, and then I got mad. I told Bill that I never wanted to do those things and it was all against my will. Instead of believing me, Bill the pervert then decided to try to make me it that it was all my idea. He told me that he knew I had a ‘wild side’ in me and that I was ‘kinky’ and that he knew I enjoyed it. He told me that I was a redhead, and all redheads liked that sort of thing. Since Bill and I had dated several years before that, he was pretty sure he knew me better than anyone else on earth. Yet he couldn’t have been more wrong. I ed every single incident those photos came from and every single one of them were living nightmares for me, haunting me in my dreams and any time I even blinked my eyes. I hung my head in shame, knowing full well nobody would ever believe me, especially if Bill himself didn’t. Bill tried to change the subject but his pandering ‘oh come on, you know you liked it’ echoed in my brain until I was finally too upset to carry on. I left work and went home. Since getting back from Scotland I’d gone overboard on learning self defense. I was taking Jiu Jitsu twice a week and Wing Chun on Sundays. I took my aggression out on the mat as much as I could, but my Wing Chun instructor Ty noticed a change in me. He knew something was wrong, and when he asked me what it was, I began to sob. We had become friends, and when I poured out what had just happened with the photos being sent to Bill without my going into details, he shed a few tears himself. I didn’t tell him of Bill’s reaction, or of the history in Scotland. I simply told him that photos of me ‘having sex’ had been sent to my boss and I was pretty sure I no longer had a job. Ty urged me to seek justice. He wanted me to figure out who sent them, which I already knew. He wanted me to his boss in return and report him for what he had done to me. I paused. I couldn’t even consider doing that. Could I? What would happen? I didn’t know how the justice system in Scotland worked, and how would a police sergeant react to know this was being accused of one of his own officers with such a trusted role that he worked in the school systems? But I knew Ty was right. I needed to take care of this. I couldn’t just sit by and

let him defeat me. I’d been back less than two months. I was wounded, but I was not broken. Not yet. It took me more than a week to work up the courage to do it. I had done my research finding his particular department in Scotland and their information. From there I reached out and asked how to report the misconduct of an officer. I was met with a response overnight, being told who to and what details to include, as well as dates and times of the incident in question. Of course there wasn’t just one incident, and outlining everything was going to be difficult since I specifically did NOT want to it at all. The next several days were a challenge for me. About eight times I started and erased an email. Several times I would sit on the bedroom floor of my apartment and cry my eyes out alone, wishing it had never happened and knowing it would never go away. This was something I would have to live with for the rest of my life. This had happened to me. It couldn’t be erased. It would be my burden in life and the deepest pain I’d ever experienced. It didn’t hurt like a broken bone, or like a disapproving mother, or like a breakup with a boy, or like having my thumb cut open on a food processor blade. It hurt like someone had taken all of what made me who I was, scooped it out with a spoon, dumped it into the back of a trash truck and let it go over the edge of the Grand Canyon. A huge part of me was gone and I’d never recover it. I moved from depression to anger fairly frequently in those days. Finally the anger won out and I began to write one of the hardest emails I’ve ever had to write in my life. I had to outline the abuse. I couldn’t give dates and times or names because I honestly didn’t know them. But I gave as much detail as I could, hoping to God something would come of it all. I wanted to know my efforts and hours of battling myself and crying into my arms wasn’t for nothing. I gave the only name I could , that of a young woman with a horrible boob job who had told me to pretend I was asleep so the men would leave me alone for a little while. She was wrong about that, of course. They just forced me to “wake up” so they could continue. But the fact that she had tried was more than enough for me to have a reason to her name. That was the kindest anyone had been to me behind closed doors since I’d landed in Scotland. I figured she would be an ally, so I asked the police to reach out to her, too. I finished writing my email by saying how I’d appreciated her kindness and hoped that something could be done so that Richard couldn’t ever do this to someone else, ever again.

Weeks later a letter finally came in the mail. To this day I have the first line of the letter memorized, all these years later. “We have found no sufficient evidence of abuse in your case as you were of age and a consenting adult.” I was crushed. But I also knew that the investigation had more than likely happened, and Richard knew he was no longer immune. He knew that if he came for me, I’d be right there coming back after him. I had gained back a bit of my dignity. I’d also proven to myself that no level of embarrassment was enough to ever keep me from fighting to defend myself ever again. For a moment, strangely, I was proud! A year later Allen told me about all 32 of those same photos being posted on a photo sharing website under the name of “Braveheart42” and I feared this problem would never really go away.

Chapter Six Try Not to Feel “So what happened this time,” Naomi gently pushed. “Well, last time it was just photos that he posted on a photo sharing website with links to my own social media stuff so people could find me. Before that he sent the photos to my boss and I had to look for a new job.” “But that’s not what I asked,” she redirected me. I knew that wasn’t what she asked. But weren’t those things bad enough? My brain didn’t want to process the resurfaced trauma. I didn’t know how to deal with emotions until after I’d had a significant amount of time to process them. I’d never learned how to deal with them ‘in the moment’ but rather how to suppress them until it was safe for me to process them later on. The pain was too fresh. I wasn’t ready to process them. I didn’t feel safe to do so. It had been that way most of my life, starting at an early age. The first time a boy ever broke up with me, my tender heart was completely broken. It wasn’t so much because he’d broken up with me, but rather because I’d caught the literal boy next door kissing another girl in the 5th grade after he’d already agreed to be my boyfriend. I was scolded harshly for being upset about it at all, both at school and at home. Possibly I did overreact by not being ashamed of crying in public about my heartache and sense of rejection by the first person who had made a promise to not reject me. My mother tried to cure that by telling me how ugly I was when I cried, and eventually taking polaroid photos of it in order to prove that fact to me. In the back of my mind, I know she still has some of those, one in particular where I’m a 10 year old naked kid in my own bedroom, crumpled in shame as I’m scrambling to extricate clothing from my dresser before the photo could be taken. I failed to cover myself appropriately, of course. Following the incident my mother made the decision to have me repeat the fifth grade, and had to switch schools to make it happen because I had decent grades at the time from her helping me with homework. The following year, my second time in fifth grade, my best friend Louisa had moved away. I was heartbroken. She was the closest thing I’d had to a sister and

someone I truly considered to be my best friend. We bonded in a way that I didn’t understand back then. It was only years later that I learned we had been experiencing the same forms of abuse at home and our wounded hearts connected because of it. With her gone, there was nobody left for me to connect to. My life as I knew it was over. Nobody understood why I would cry for days on end as I held her empty eyeglass case in my hands, wishing she would come back into my life and make the pain go away. I kept that empty eyeglass case for years. What nobody knew was that there had been a rumor started in my neighborhood that she and her mother had decided to leave her abusive stepfather and head back to England where her mother was from. The rumor continued to include the fact that her plane had tragically gone down over the Atlantic ocean and all aboard had died. It wasn’t until my 20s that I learned only the first half of the rumor was true. Louisa never wrote to me, so there was no way I could have known. For all my crying and heartache, once more I was punished. I getting spanked each day I came home in tears, my father exclaiming that if I was going to cry, he’d give me something to cry about. I started learning how to hide my emotions around others out of necessity, and only processing what I was feeling if I was alone and felt safe to do so. Eventually other things in my life would cause heartache, and I refused to let anyone know what was going on. Part of that was because it had finally been proven to me how ugly I was when I cried thanks to the polaroid photos, but also because that ‘ugly’ didn’t just go away once I stopped crying. The child protective services were called on my parents one day when I arrived at school with swollen, puffy eyes from having spent the morning crying. It wasn’t long after the story about Louisa having died in a terrible plane crash started, but that wasn’t the only reason I was crying that morning. I had been a careless child and had lost my hairbrush somewhere in the house. My parents didn’t like ‘unkempt’ children leaving the house and I wasn’t allowed to go to school until I had brushed my hair and teeth. With what could clearly be defined as a bedhead rat nest atop my crown, I was called out for not having brushed my hair. I explained that I wasn’t able to find my hairbrush, and my parents started to help me look for it. Of course nothing in my home was done without threat, so I was told that if my father found my hairbrush before I did he would “beat me with it” though it really only meant a spanking. Of course, it was a spanking with a hard, plastic object. Sadly, he found it before I did and he carried through with his threat. I cried all the way to school. By the time I got there, my teacher was convinced I’d been abused and sent me to the principal’s office. There, under the misguided belief I’d done something wrong to be sent to the principal’s

office, I cried harder out of fear. The nurse asked me if I’d been hit, I said I had but only on the butt, and with how swollen my eyes were becoming from crying, they were convinced I was trying to protect my father. They convinced themselves I’d been hit in the face, around the eyes, and that’s why they had become so swollen. When they said they’d send S to my home, I cried harder, knowing I would be in even more trouble than before when I got home, because I’d been crying at school again. The whole day was a cataclysmic nightmare for me. I was finally returned to my class, but the rumors had already started and the damage was done. I needed to be more careful than ever to not show emotions around anyone, anywhere, for any reason. It wasn’t even safe to cry when I was alone. We moved away from that area a couple years later and it was as though I didn’t know how to feel emotions that day. I would miss my friends if I’d had any, but part of not feeling emotions around people included not building relationships with others. If I didn’t have friends, I wouldn’t be hurt by them anymore. I wouldn’t cry over them. By the time I was in the seventh grade, the emotional mindset and damage had been drilled into me. I suppose that’s why I didn’t expose the multiple forms of abuse that occurred after that. itting to being scared or angry about things would be seen as a negative emotional outburst and intolerable within the home. Nobody had patience for something like that, including me. My brother and I tried to remain friends, but with the ing years I learned to hate him more and more without fully understanding why. Still, when it came to “us against them” he was all I had. I might have hated him, but I also needed him. I needed someone to be on my side of everything. We would pull silent, hateful pranks on one another and call it ‘funny’ but never tell on one another because we couldn’t stand the idea of getting each other in trouble. I’d put liquid soap in his toothbrush, he’d try to do the same to me. To this day I rinse my toothbrush before putting toothpaste on it because I know better. Then I started putting liquid soap on my finger and running it around the inside rim of the drinking cup that I never used in order to catch him again. If he discovered the soap in the toothbrush first, I’d still get him. To this day, I also use a fresh glass to rinse. He’d set cups filled with water on top of the door so they would fall down on me when I opened the door. Occasionally he actually got me, but most of the time I’d see the trick and avoid the cold shower.

I would wad up chunks of toilet paper and wet them in the sink, then climb over the side of the tub and throw them straight up at the ceiling. My hope was that the steam from the shower would cause them to become heavier and they’d eventually fall on top of his head, but instead they clung there until one day I got into trouble for that one when Mom and Dad found the mess. Much to my surprise I didn’t get spanked for that one though. Instead I was handed a broom and told to get them all down using the handle, and then to never do it again. I would then begin adding “Nair” hair removal products to my brother’s shampoo. His hair remained thick and full, and that prank never really worked. The mixture was too diluted with shampoo. The jar of dead bugs in his laundry basket didn’t work either when my mother found it instead of him. The pranks continued for a while, back and forth, constantly trying to get one another. Most of the pranks were instigated by my mischievous mind, but he had a few good ones too. He’d hide somewhere and scare me so badly that I nearly peed my pants. I’d get back at him by putting salt in the sugar bowl, but succeeded in only making my dad’s coffee truly terrible instead and getting into trouble for that. He’d use a marker in a doll’s hair, but I wouldn’t get upset because I preferred ponies to dolls anyway. I’d hide his most prized comics or baseball cards somewhere he couldn’t find them. He’d take all of my shoes and leave them all over the house in hidden places. I’d find a new hiding place for his growing porn collection. All those pranks through all the years and we never told on one another. There was a mutual hate, but there was also a mutual love. I’d long since forgotten about the juniper tree, shoving it so far back into the recesses of my memory there was a good chance it would never resurface. Still, as much as I loved him, I also hated him, and I didn’t understand why. When we were grounded, if we were allowed to have the doors open, we would still play chess. We wouldn’t leave our rooms, but we would set the chess board in the hall between our rooms where the doors were in the same corner of the hall. Our bodies would stay in our rooms, but our arms would reach out to move the pieces. Occasionally we would things back and forth using a motorized robot with a flat tray that my brother would run between our rooms. We’d play ‘War’ or poker in the hallway, and eventually fight about it, accusing one another of cheating. The elevated voices would garner attention, and eventually we’d be told to stay in our rooms with our doors closed. That’s when things got truly

creative. My parents started grounding us to our rooms when they would need to go somewhere. Most of the time we were grounded I didn’t even fully what we had been grounded for. It’s likely some of those occasions were due to the pranks we would play on one another, but it's entirely possible we were grounded for no reason at all, though I had no doubt my parents would have some way to justify it. They’d be gone sometimes for several hours for military function dinners or dinners with friends, and in order to ensure compliance, they would use pieces of thread to tie us into our rooms. They used thread because if something happened and we were forced to evacuate due to a fire or earthquake, we could easily break the thread to get out. The thread would be tied to our door handles on one end, and the stair railing on the other end. Since our doors opened inward, if we opened the door the thread would break and my parents could tell if we’d left our rooms at all. Of course neither of us had a bathroom in our rooms, and when we asked what we should do, should we need to go, we were told to ‘hold it’ because a few hours isn’t that long. We were told to ‘try to go’ before my parents left for the night, and we’d scramble to the bathroom to prepare. That was around the time that I learned that if I went to sleep, the urge to go to the bathroom wouldn’t become quite so urgent and I could hold it longer. I trained myself to sleep through pain. I had also been known to pee into my Lifesaver’s trash can when I was smaller because I didn’t want to get into trouble going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and often had UTI’s as a little girl, but my brother had wet the bed well into his teens. My father said it was because he was ‘too lazy’ to go to the bathroom or too ‘obsessed’ with whatever he was doing at the time. I suppose it could have been that, but I learned many years later that wetting the bed is also a sign of sexual abuse in childhood. wetting the bed I learned many years later is also a sign of sexual abuse in childhood. Through my own research as an adult I learned that it’s not uncommon for a kid to begin wetting the bed after they’ve been potty trained if they’re a victim of sexual abuse. Daytime wetting can also be a result from physical or sexual abuse too, but it’s more rare. The first few times we were locked in with our parents gone we’d talk under the door by laying on the floor and pressing our mouths to the cracks beneath them. We didn’t have televisions or radios in our rooms, and in my teens I had a keyboard piano I loved to play but it would annoy my brother so I only did that

when I was angry at him for something. Otherwise, our talks beneath the door were the only ways we had any company at all. We’d likely spend our time reading or staring out the window until it got dark, but we were often the only company we had. It could be so lonely in solitary confinement. Those were the days when I first began to dream of someday being a real somebody in the world, so I wouldn’t be ignored and left alone like that ever again. I wished to be famous. I should have been more specific about how I wanted to be famous. “He made me famous on a pornography website,” I finally itted. “I’m getting emails and letters from total strangers who want to share their rape fantasies of me with the object of their desire. I’m an object. I don’t feel safe anymore. I’m scared to be alone. And they know where I live.” I was internally grateful I had a roommate, but all of the latest developments caused my paranoia to be at an all time high. It was around that same time I began breaking out in hives and developed something called Chronic Urticaria, also known as chronic hives. They would cover my entire body from head to toe. I woke up unable to sufficiently move without pain from the swelling, and often couldn’t sleep at night because of the incessant itch. It was a battle I’d fight for years.

Chapter Seven It’s All Relative Fame is, of course, a relative term. How it is defined is directly correlated to the type of fame. In a small town in Arkansas I was famous for my artwork at one time. That was nothing compared to the overwhelming fame of a star in Hollywood or a US President. I hadn’t known until I personally had experienced what it was like to be famous. I struggled with how to explain this to Naomi. I’d had a few “15 minutes” here and there, landing on a couple different tv shows as an extra while living in Los Angeles, and a small puff piece on a reality show once. I’d been in parades, modeled for Harley Davidson once, and been paid to model with beautiful clothing and makeup. I’d been interviewed several times about an event I had put together, and for having written my book about human trafficking. I cohosted an uncle’s cable access tv show a few times. I’d even been interviewed once for a series of comments I put on Twitter about why a human trafficking victim doesn’t just ‘run away’ when a complete stranger accused me of being fake because I didn’t do that very thing. But in all my moments of notoriety, I’d never been truly famous. I was no star. People didn’t write fan mail to me. Strangers didn’t try to find out where I worked or try to follow me home very often, though even that had happened from time to time long before I’d decided to write my first book. I guess there are a lot of different ways to be famous, but the one that was chosen for me, yet again against my will, was the last one in the world I would have chosen for myself. In fact, many years before, I had decided I didn’t want to be famous anymore. I had too much of a past, and that would all come out if I ever did become famous. Unfortunately, it was precisely what I wanted to avoid the most that seemed to be the reason people were going to know me. I wanted to hide under a rock. I wanted to avoid the whole world. What had I done to deserve all of this? How had I been such a horrible person in my life to suddenly be faced with all of this yet again? Old scabs had been ripped open with lemon and salt rubbed into the wound before being thrown into a vat of acid to finish the job, slowly and with great effort. He was just as caustic as acid, and my life would never be the same after what he’d put me through. I was ashamed

to think I had once loved that man. But I knew what I’d done wrong. I’d been weak. Not in showing emotions of sadness and anger, but not in standing up for myself all my life. I earned this by being a doormat, to have the boots of those who walked on me track their mud into my soul, grinding me into a miserable paste of a used, abused, empty shell of a surface. Just like a doormat, nobody cared about what was beneath that surface. That’s exactly what the surface was for; to cover up whatever was underneath and to protect everything else from the tracks of mud. My weakness was that I never saw myself as being as valuable as I saw others. I wasn’t as special, as talented, as smart, as pretty, as gifted... During the time I saw no value in myself, neither did anyone else. I had a history of looking for attention from others, but also being scared of the world. I was one of the kids that grew up knowing I needed to be home by the time the street lights came on outside. I was taught by experience what horrible things drugs could be and though I often watched my friends taking them, I always politely declined to take them myself. Most of the kids I knew respected that about me, and no amount of pressure would make me change my mind. I stuck to my guns. I hated medications, prescribed or not. Of course that didn’t prevent my parents from accusing me of being both sexually active and addicted to drugs in my early teens. I was perhaps sexually active, but it wasn’t by choice. The first time my brother exposed his fully naked body to me I ran from the room screaming with my eyes covered. Something had aroused him and the sight scared me terribly. He’d gone into his closet to get undressed and came out completely naked, wanting to know my opinion of what a naked man looked like, and if I liked it. I was only 12 at the time. When I told my friend Jodie about it, she told me that was a ‘normal thing’ and brothers were always curious. I couldn’t help but feel that was incorrect based on what I’d been taught in sex education at school. That wasn’t okay. It wasn’t normal. But I knew nobody would believe me. I’d been caught in so many lies growing up for fear of getting into trouble that it was widely assumed within my family that everything I said was a lie by that point. I also had the same mental darkness of thinking it was somehow my fault, just as the Juniper tree had been. I didn’t the Juniper tree anymore, those memories had long since been repressed, but I did still have the shadow in my mind that if it happened to me, it was my fault. ‘There’s one common denominator,’ my mom would tell me. ‘If everyone

doesn’t like you, then you must be the problem.’ Thankfully I was smart enough to get out of the room that day and my brother only ever offered to have sex with me once after that ‘just to know what it’s like’ he told me, in case I was curious. I my stomach churning as I told him a polite ‘no thank you’ because I clearly did not have any other idea on how else to handle the situation. My aunt Lisa’s husband came into the picture around then. His name was Don and, gosh, did I love my Uncle Don. He was funny and sweet, and always had a candy in his pocket for me. He and my aunt lived in Arizona, so we didn’t see them too often, but when we did I was pretty much glued to his hip. I one day he wanted to take a peek into the window of a musical instrument shop, and I asked to go with him. Just the two of us walked up the street holding hands, I was probably around 13 or so. He was wearing a sweater with tightly woven red and blue yarn, so from a distance the sweater was purple. I loved that effect. I for weeks begging for my mother to get one for me for Christmas so I could be like Uncle Don. She never did find one. The next time we visited them was in Arizona and the weather was hot enough we could go swimming. My brother and I loved swimming. I’d taken swimming lessons when I was three years old and learned to swim under water. My brother had been part of the swim team. We had the best time splashing and playing in the pool just beneath the overhanging pine with long, spindly fingers reachout out for us. We’d been splashing about for a while when my Uncle Don came to us. Of course with as much as I adored my Uncle Don, my first reaction was to swim right over to where he was and wrap my arms around his neck, as any kid would do with a beloved family member. His reaction startled me. He was perfectly fine with me hanging onto him as he waded through the pool and seemed delighted with the notion, but he didn’t want me to leave his side. He wouldn’t let me swim in the deep end, in spite of my already having proven that I was a proficient swimmer over the last half hour or so. He was, however, fine with my brother jumping off the diving board. He also wanted to ‘help me’ to swim by putting his hands under my body and having me do the crawl stroke in his hands. I didn’t like getting my face wet and he’d noticed previously that I wasn’t putting my face down in the water as I swam, and he told me that would slow me down. He held on tightly, his hands strategically placed a little too close to areas that made me cringe, and was determined to help me swim. More than once I tried to swim off of his hands just to prove I could do it, and once in particular I ed him wrapping his

arm around my waist and his hand went straight down to cup me between the legs as though he were holding an infant in diapers on his hip. The edge of his finger slid between my body and my swimsuit, and I panicked. My brain strategically blocked what happened next. That wasn’t the only time I had been molested in a pool. Yet another deep, dark secret that I hadn’t told anyone was about the boy at the swimming pool on the military base who wanted to play “Marco Polo” with all the girls. Several of the girls would squirm away and act like they were mad at the boy, but no one would tell anyone else why they were mad. I was always taught to give someone the benefit of the doubt until they give me a reason to dislike them. Just because one kid didn’t like another kid, it didn’t mean I couldn’t be friends with them both. Going on that teaching alone, of course I gave the boy a chance to be my friend. It didn’t take long before I figured it out. He was putting his hands inside girls swimsuits. He’d try to reach in from the armpit, across the chest, and grab the girls boobs - developed or not. He kept trying over and over with me and it got to where it felt like I was battling an octopus. He’d keep laughing as though it were a game, and I kept pushing him away, laughing out of nervousness and fear. Finally, he ducked beneath the water, swam around me, and jammed his hand into the crotch of my swimsuit, causing one of his digits to pierce me where nothing else had ever been. I tried to scream, mainly out of shock, but he knocked me off of my footing and I slipped beneath the water, my mouth wide open in preparation to scream. When I resurfaced, coughing and hacking the chlorine out of my lungs, I kept trying to call out, and this nasty little boy continued to splash water in my face until I couldn’t see or speak. Again and again I felt like I was going to drown. I’d turn away as he kept splashing me, him giggling all the while like it was all just a game. He reached his hand around in front of my turned face and scooped water into my face once more. I continued to cough, and nobody did anything about it. I was genuinely scared, and nothing else mattered anymore but getting away from him and out of the water. This wasn’t a game to me, no matter how it looked to everyone else around me. For the split second I was able to catch my breath, I dove beneath the water and swam like mad. He caught me by the ankle and tugged, only lightly, but enough for me to panic. I resurfaced and the splashing continued. I dove again, this time tricking him and resurfacing instantly to cry out for help with my gulp of air, just as he reached for my ankle again. The lifeguard finally looked, blew his whistle, and told the kid to leave

me alone. I barely heard this as my head went beneath the surface of the water again. I wouldn’t go back in the water that day and his face was burned into my memory forever. I refused to get back into the pool anytime we went when he was there. Thankfully that wasn’t all too often. Still, to this day I have horrible flashbacks if someone splashes water in my face, and I can’t stand taking showers because of the water in my face. I have to take a bath to wash my hair. This fear was solidified years later when I was “waterboarded” as an entertainment experiment. That pool incident was fairly fresh in my memory when Uncle Don did almost the same thing to me and I panicked. I didn’t let him get any closer than that. I pushed him away, told him I could do it myself and didn’t need his help, and refused to speak much to him the rest of that trip. I never told on him, because that’s what I’d learned to do - keep my mouth shut - and though I don’t know why they did, I was relieved when he and my dad’s sister got divorced later on. I shed tears, and my family thought it was because I’d loved Uncle Don so much, but in reality it was relief at the thought of not having to see him again. I didn’t any of this for a very long time. When I was 29 years old I received a message through Myspace that brought it all back like a flash flood. My Uncle Don wanted to reach out to me. I’d forgotten why I’d been so mad at him, it had been half of my lifetime ago. He asked if I ed him, I told him that of course I did and it was good to hear from him. What I got next rocked me to the core. “I’m so glad you me,” he itted. “I was afraid you wouldn’t. I’ve been looking for you for years. I’ve always loved you. I’ve been in love with you all this time.” I stopped reading, anger welling up inside of me and tears brimming at the surface of my eyes. I was engaged to a Highway Patrol officer at the time and I called him into the room where I sat. I told him what happened with a shaking voice, and instead of onishing me for having negative emotions, he sat beside me quietly for a moment. He told me that he was very sorry for what I had experienced, and that it wasn’t my fault. It was the first time anyone had ever told me that it wasn’t my fault. I was twenty nine years old! I sobbed my heart out on his shoulder that day, and his words “it’s not your fault” stuck with me. That didn’t mean I believed them right away.

Years later when I found myself in need of hearing those words again, I didn’t know where else to go in order to hear them. Sadly, that Highway Patrol officer and I had long since broken up and he’d moved on with the woman he would eventually marry. That didn’t stop me from finding my way to his doorstep though. What a sad day that was for me, when I couldn’t ask for what I needed most - forgiveness, and the understanding that what I’d just come back from in Scotland wasn’t my fault. When I told my mother about Uncle Don and his message to me, her only response was “Well Manda, I always told you that he was odd.” In writing these chapters it is only now that I come to the realization that nobody was really there for me without an agenda my entire young life.

Chapter Eight Hasty Decisions I was starting to feel better by the time I went back to see Naomi the following week. I’d managed to get in touch with the legal team and had reassurances that they would be in with all of the different pornography websites where the photos and videos of me had been posted, as well as the rape fantasy stories of someone pretending to be me. They’d make sure everything was removed, and all I needed to do was make sure I had all the links sent to the legal team. I had my fighting spirit back. I was going into battle. “You seem much happier this week,” Naomi noticed. “Much better,” I itted as I told her about my ability to fight back against what had happened most recently. The ball was back in my court, and I was going to fight tooth and nail. Maybe my original letter to his employer in Scotland didn’t do any good, but this time I had the law on my side and they were going to have everything put back the way it was meant to be. It was around that time when I learned I wasn’t alone in that arena either. More than eighty percent of all the women displayed on pornography websites are victims of human trafficking, just like I was. I don’t know if I’d have believed that statistic if I hadn’t lived it myself, but now there was no denying it. It’s not just what people call ‘revenge porn’ but honest to God actual human trafficking victims porn made with girls either forced to ‘perform’ or coherced into performing with false promises or threats. Suddenly it made sense why so many survivors committed suicide. It was horrible enough to have to live through it all the first time. Being forced to live through it repeatedly would take the greatest strength of will I’d ever be able to muster. But without me, my cats would be out on the streets again, abandoned and unloved. They needed me. I didn’t have an option but to keep on living. I almost dyed my hair to conceal my identity, and thought heavily about changing my name legally after changing it on social media in a feeble attempt to hide. Taking the power back in my hands with the legal team, I decided against going into hiding. Going into hiding would give him all the power once more, knowing that he’d won and I was a crumbled mess of a human being, unable to defend myself or stand up for what was right. I

changed my name back. I would not let him win. My abs would never win again. As almost any kid with a sex abuse history would do, I began making hasty decisions in my teen years. I took myself off the Ritalin at 15 and began running away from home. I’d go for long, unplanned walks much farther than what would be permitted by my parents, crossing a major intersection while walking my dog. I had a good friend who lived on the other side of town and I’d use her as an excuse to walk that far, but really I just wanted to get as far away from home as I possibly could. At that major intersection was a Walmart parking lot and a couple of strip mall shopping centers. I would window shop some, but most of the shops were things I didn’t really care much about anyway, like a tax assessor, a nail salon, some used book store, a Hastings video rental store, and a frozen yogurt place that I could never afford. I hadn’t yet discovered the welcoming warmth and beauty of coffee, so I avoided Starbucks too. I did enjoy looking at the Hastings video rental windows though. They always had the latest release movie posters up for me to ire and read the names on. The latest movie poster was for Braveheart, ironically. I’d been standing there for a few moments, reading all the names on the movie poster with my dog Cookie on a leash, completely unaware of the world around me. My dog was a beautiful little long haired chihuahua, the very same one my mother saved from Parvo a couple years before. She was gorgeous. People would often stop me to ask what kind of dog she was and strike up a conversation with me. I thought nothing of it when the strange man came out of the video store with his rentals in a little plastic bag all wrapped up in his hand, iring how pretty my dog was. Of course I thanked him. That’s exactly what I was taught to do. Someone paid my dog a compliment, and by extension that was a compliment to me, so the polite thing to do would be to thank him. He then complimented me and told me that I was as pretty as she was, maybe moreso. I had, by all s including my own mothers, been going through an ‘awkward stage’ for the last several years where I was anything but a pretty little girl. My grandmother said it looked like a cow had farted in my face when I was seven because of all my freckles and it broke my heart. My mother said it was a shame I looked so much like my Aunt Debbie, because she never thought Aunt Debbie was very pretty. Kids at school poked fun at my vampire fang teeth. I

had so few friends in school. Girls would make fun of the way I walked, and boys would laugh at me if anyone ever discovered I had a crush on someone. I had not been told to my face that I was anything more than sorely lacking in the looks department for many years. To suddenly have this complete stranger, an attractive older asian male, tell me that I was pretty - gosh, I was blown away. I thanked him again. He coaxed me to come closer to his car so we could talk a moment. He asked how old I was and I told him, I was 15 years old. He asked how old my dog was. I told him we thought she was four or five years old but weren’t sure, since she was adopted from the pound. He asked what I enjoyed doing. This man, an adult man with substantially good looks, was flirting with me. I didn’t know what to do, but found myself fidgeting with my hair, trying not to chew on it, and occasionally pushing strands over my shoulder behind me. We talked a while, and when I told him I needed to go, that my friend was expecting me (which of course she wasn’t) he asked if I would be okay with giving him a hug. I’d always been taught that there was nothing wrong with a hug, especially from someone who had been so nice to me. That would be fine, I agreed. It had been a while since I’d had a hug anyway, and the whole reason I was down there was because I’d been having an exceptionally bad day. I desperately needed some kindness, and this complete stranger had given me exactly that. In my gratitude I not only allowed the hug, but I welcomed it. He then asked if he could kiss me. I wrinkled my brows and pulled back, looking him dead in the eyes. He clarified, saying he only wanted to kiss me on the cheek because I was such a beautiful young lady and he wanted to how special I was. Yet again, he had appealed to my broken self esteem by calling me beautiful, and then sweetening the deal by adding that I was now special. It was only my cheek, what did it matter? The sooner I let him kiss me on the cheek, the sooner I’d be on my way, so yet again I agreed to honor his request. He hugged me again first, pulling me very close to him, and making sure his hold was secure enough that I couldn’t pull away from him. My faithful pup sat there on her butt, doing nothing to help me, but gazing off across the parking lot as though it were any other day. He went to kiss me, and instead of my cheek, he got the corner of my mouth. It was close enough to my cheek, so I didn’t protest. I just wanted to be done and gone. I was starting to get really creeped out by this guy. Except he still didn’t

let go. He pulled back far enough to look at my face, then went in again to kiss the corner of my mouth again. Then his mouth moved to match up with my own and I felt the slimy tongue of a total stranger invading my space within my own mouth. I didn’t know that’s what a french kiss was, and really didn’t care. I pushed back against his shoulders, thoroughly repulsed. He pulled me in closer, holding me tighter, pressing harder, more of his tongue invading and moving around like an earthworm slithering in the mouth of a mother bird wanting to feed her chicks. I pushed back against it with my own tongue trying to get it out, fighting as much as I could with my arms crushed beneath his. He loosened his grip with one hand in order to run it down the back of my jeans and caress my butt, not stopping there. Before I was able to break free, he’d shoved his hand so far down my pants that he was able to repeat the violation that the kid in the pool had managed only a few short years before that. I finally managed to break free of his grasp since he only had one arm successfully holding me against him at that point. I couldn’t back away because of the force pulling me in from my pants, so I did the only thing I was able. I dropped down to a squat. His hand slid out of my jeans and his grip on me went away completely. From that vantage point I could tell that he had been aroused just as much as my brother had been when he exposed himself to me several years before. I grabbed my dog, picked her up in my arms as though that had been my intention all along, and backed away. I hoped with her between us, maybe she would be more protective of me if he tried to reach for me again. She was tiny, but her teeth were like needles. She could do some damage if she wanted to. He asked me where I was going, as though it were still just a polite conversation we were having. I couldn’t be rude, even then. I’d been taught to respect adults, and that meant I couldn’t very well scream at this stranger. I told him again that I needed to go because my friend was expecting me by now. I hastily said goodbye and walked at an unusually fast pace around the back side of the strip mall and into the residential area. As soon as I was out of sight, I put Cookie down on the ground and ran as fast as my legs could carry me. My dog had no problem keeping up with me, and I searched everywhere for a place to hide. I found an open garage at the house that had the soda machine on their front sidewalk and I ducked inside, peeking from around the corner to see if I had

been followed. After several minutes of not seeing his car appear, I finally crept out of the garage and ran with all my strength once more, long after the air in my lungs had expired and I was praying for one full lung, all the way to my friends home. I begged and pleaded with God to have someone be there, but my knocks and doorbell rings went unanswered. I felt defeated, but I also was scared to go home. It was on my way to her house when this man had accosted me, and I would need to walk back through that same area to cross the intersection on my way home. For a while I hung around in my friend’s backyard, hoping she’d come back home soon. Eventually, as the sun began to set, I realized she likely wouldn’t be home and I really did need to get going. As it was I wouldn’t be able to walk the two miles home before the streetlights came on. I knew I’d be in trouble. My heart pounded as I neared the same strip mall and the Hastings video store. I was terrified that man would still be there. It had been at least two hours since he’d molested me, and yet that fear gripped at me. I slowly peeked around the corner to see if his car was still there. Relief came to me as a loud sigh I didn’t know was hiding inside my chest. His car was gone. The coast was clear. Still, I’d need to watch myself the entire way home to be sure I wasn’t followed. It was extremely dark outside by the time I got home. My parents were furious with me, asking me where I was. I lied, telling them I’d gone to the park. They had gone to the park looking for me, they exclaimed. I told them I went to my friend’s house. They asked which friend. Finally I told them the truth about which friend, but didn’t happen to mention that my friend hadn’t been home, or what happened on my way there. I was already in enough trouble. What would my parents do to me if they knew I’d let a stranger kiss me? What a disgusting thing for me to have done. Surely I would have been in even more trouble for allowing something like that. Truthfully I didn’t know how my parents would have reacted if I’d told them the truth. I was too scared to tell them, and I never did. I lived with an unnatural fear of asian men for the next decade of my life, not even wanting to be polite to any asian men I ever met. They scared me. They couldn’t be trusted, my brain told me. Asian men were people I needed to fight off of me.

But at least I fought back that day, and I had figured out how. Nobody was coming to my rescue, and we were right there in public sight in a public parking lot in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday. To this day I’m astonished that nobody came to help me or to see what was going on. I know, deep in my gut, someone saw something. They were just too afraid to say something. I was left alone to defend my young teen self against a man who could have been twice my age molesting me in a parking lot because of the “I don’t want to get involved” mentality people have adopted over the years. It’s hard for me to it that I was defenseless, but in reality, that’s exactly what I was. I needed help, and yet again, there was nobody there to help me. Every time a person is molested or raped, it rips a piece of their soul from their body. By the time I was fifteen, I lost count of the missing pieces. An old Cheyenne tradition is to “call the pieces back” but I knew I didn’t want those pieces back. They betrayed me as much as the people who hurt me did. They were gone forever. Parts of me were gone forever. I was truly broken.

Chapter Nine The Last of the Innocence Naomi’s office was colder than usual that day. I could see my breath. The words wouldn’t come. I didn’t know where to begin. I knew what I needed to get out, but I didn’t know how. His name was Steve. I’d had a crush on him since the 7th grade. When I allowed him into my home with my parents gone so he could borrow a movie from us, I had no idea that he would end up taking my virginity at force while I begged him to stop. I was almost 16 years old. “It only hurts for a moment” he told me, refusing to listen to my pleas, or take notice of my tears. I’d loved him for years. Suddenly I hated his guts. But I’d let him in. This was my fault, yet again. My parents told me not to let anyone in when they were gone. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have let him in the house. It was my fault. I needed to wash the sheets so my mom didn’t see the blood. It was all my fault. He had been my best friend. It had to be my fault. I must’ve provoked him. It was my fault. I gave him the wrong idea. It was my fault. I’d had a crush on him for so long and he knew it. It was my fault. Somehow I’d made him think I was “that kind of girl” and it was all my fault. For some reason that day never really ed in my mind as actually being something that could be considered rape no matter how many times I did or did not cry out in pain asking him to stop, or how many times I’d seen crime drama shows that explained to young ladies that even if they had initially wanted it to happen, the moment they said they no longer did and the boy kept on anyway, that it actually was rape. It applied to everyone on tv shows. It didn’t apply to me. I didn’t say it loudly enough. I didn’t tell him enough times. It wasn’t rape if I had a crush on him since seventh grade. It wasn’t rape if I invited him in my home when nobody was there. It wasn’t rape if I thought that’s what I wanted, and it hurt so badly I asked him to stop, but he reassured me it would hurt but start to feel better if he kept going. It wasn’t rape, it was my decision at first, and because of that we remained friends long after it had happened. It is only as I write these lines that the truth of it finally hits me. My first time was, in current societal definition, rape.

My mind had been trained to think a certain way since an early age, and though this wasn’t a programming instilled by my environment (my parents), it was still derivative of my experiences, with or without their knowledge. The road to sexual promiscuity was paved with the knowledge that my body belonged to anyone who wanted it more than I did. Since I’d also learned to dislike my body for the things it seemingly caused other people to do I didn’t want it at all. I didn’t care about my body anymore. For a while after that incident with Steve, I didn’t care about my brain anymore either. I started skipping school. I’d been bullied pretty heavily in school. I didn’t have many friends. I was reserved, and a bit of an introvert around strangers, but around people I knew and felt safe around I was a complete chatterbox. I’d return to school for lunch in order to visit with my friends, and then skip school again to go bowling with my friends Jesse and Carlo. In October 2020 Carlo ed away and I was suddenly flooded with memories I’d long since forgotten. Jesse and I both avoided drugs but would sit back and laugh as the others around us would desperately fashion pipes out of apples and aluminum foil in order to smoke their cheap weed. I was usually one of the few girls among a group of 5 or 6 guys, and was well guarded by them all. They knew about Steve. They wanted to protect me from it ever happening again. We’d sometimes pile into Carlo’s car and flip a coin to see which way to turn at each intersection. This landed us on Antelope island one day in the middle of the Great Salt Lake. It was, by all s, one of the most vivid and rewarding memories I have from those days. I got my first job at 16 years old and met a boy I really liked named Cody. He was popular and sweet, and extremely handsome. He was the grill cook at the fast food restaurant where I was the ‘change window’ girl, able to count back change faster than anyone. It was an amazing talent taught to me by my mother when I was quite young. Fake money also taught me the gift of adding fractions into whole numbers. I was a wiz with basic math and it didn’t go unnoticed. Cody never told me he had a girlfriend, but I guess I never asked. Even though I wasn’t as inexperienced as most kids my age, I was still more naive in some ways. I didn’t know I was supposed to ask. She never showed up, Cody didn’t go to my school, nobody ever came to visit him at work, and he didn’t interact with other people we worked with. Still, when he was being nice to me he did do everything he could to keep it a secret. He even told me that he didn’t want anyone else to know he was nice because it would ‘damage his reputation’ but I never even stopped to consider he was doing the exact same to all the other girls

who worked there. I’d take the trash out at night and he’d sneak out to where I was just to kiss me. If it weren’t beside the dumpster it might have actually been something sweet and romantic, but the rotting food and sour milk smell mixed with the buzzing of flies kinda killed the mood. At least, it would for most. For me, it was the first time I’d been really truly kissed by someone I wanted to kiss me. I mean, I had my first ever kiss in 6th grade from a boy named Allen on the dare of a 3rd grader, but it was a simple closed lip peck. Cody had experience. He knew how to kiss the girls. He taught me what a kiss was. Shortly after I learned how to kiss from Cody, I left my job for a waitressing job in a local diner, and I went to Jr Prom with Bryan, the boy who broke my foot. I’d never had romantic feelings for him, but he was convinced he had them for me. We danced, had a fun time, and at the end of the evening when he asked if I would be his girlfriend I still had my heart wrapped up in Cody so I told Bryan that I couldn’t be his girlfriend because I liked someone else. Bryan was heartbroken. I did tell him that I didn’t have a boyfriend yet and was free to do as I liked, and I then proceeded to try to teach Bryan how to kiss a girl. He was shocked, appalled, and absolutely terrible at it. The kiss was awkward, and only then did I realize that’s what a first kiss was supposed to be. It was the last time I ever saw Bryan; he moved away shortly afterward. Working at the Diner was fun, but not at first. I didn't do so hot my first few days as a waitress. Another 16 year old girl there told me that there were certain 'secrets' to making more money, and of course I wanted to make as much as possible so I hung on her every word. She told me that she made more money from the tables with just men sitting at them because she would flirt with them. I don't recall her name but I do she was far more developed than I was at that age. Most girls were. At the age of 16 I looked much more like a 12 year old. At 13 I had someone offer me candy to get into their car, and I can only assume they thought I was closer to 7 or 8 based on my "Beauty and the Beast" shirt I was wearing. Cookie was with me at the time, and she wasn’t overly friendly with the stranger in the car either. I this girl emptying her pockets at the end of the night and showing wads of cash I could only dream of making. Of course the server minimum wage was lower than the standard minimum wage, so I was going home with somewhere around $2 an hour at the end of the night, while she was getting away with the astronomical sum of nearly $12 an hour! I just couldn't understand how something like that could be possible.

"You have to flirt with them," she explained. I had no idea how to flirt. I was always the awkward kid in school; generally the boys didn't speak to me. If one of them did I wouldn't know what to say. I asked her what to do or what to say to be flirtatious, but many of the efforts were lost on me. I tried, but I failed. The hair flip, the batting eyes, the compliments, the light touch on the end of the table while bowing ever so slightly - this probably looked very much like a goat trying to blend in with a chicken coop. I don't know if I could have looked more awkward. The first table of two men I tried this with actually laughed at me when I brought the check out. "What are you," the gentleman on the left asked me, "about fourteen?" They both snickered and I blushed fiercely. Ashamed and already shy, I hung my head and hid in the back with the kitchen staff until they left. I'm sure that had a negative effect on my tip, but at the time I just didn't care. I couldn't stand to have them look at me again. I should have been used to rejection by then, but somehow I wasn’t. One of the kitchen guys started whistling a familiar old tune while I was there hiding in the back. I recognized it immediately as being the theme song from one of my favorite cartoons I grew up watching. I may never his name but I'll forever the song. Because of that day, he earned the nickname of Smurf from me. He was fun. I thought he was a great guy. He was considerably older than I was, somewhere in his late 20's but very friendly. He even told me that if I needed practice learning how to flirt with someone, I could do it with him. He told me I was a natural, just from the way we joked back and forth as I got to know him. I told him that was all the difference - I'd gotten to know him. I knew what made him laugh. "The same things would make other guys laugh, too. You have to stop trying to ooze that sex appeal and worry more about just being you. You're great at it when you aren't trying. Give it a shot. Trust yourself. Make the people out there feel like they've known you their whole lives, like you've made me feel." His honest advice was something I took to heart for quite some time. To this day I have a knack for making people feel at ease, making them feel like they’ve known me forever. One night I was waiting for my father to come pick me up. Before he had a chance to arrive, I was to walk across the street so it would be easier for me to be picked up. The diner parking lot wasn't the easiest to get his truck out of, so

making preparations to have it be easier was quite helpful. Sometimes I’d see Cody waiting for the bus and I’d get to say hello, so we were still somewhat in touch still. I was standing at the light, somewhere around 10:30 pm waiting to cross the street when a carload of young boys started shouting crude obscenities at me. Behind me, from what seemed to be from nowhere, Smurf showed up. He wrapped his arm around me, his long black trench coat flaring out behind him like a dark crusader, and hugged me close from behind. The obscenities stopped, and Smurf continued to wait with me under the street light, his arms wrapped around me like my very own Batman. When finally the light changed, Smurf asked me for a hug before I left. I agreed. Instead, in one dramatic and rather terrifying moment that reminded me entirely too much of a parking lot incident a couple years before, he avoided the hug and went in for a kiss instead. I didn't have enough experience with such things to know how to say no or to push him away, and while I thought about it at first, my mind quickly squelched the thought because he was someone I worked with, and he had just rescued me. I’d been ‘groomed’ to not say no to these people. Plus I needed to keep working with him if I wanted to keep my job, and I rather needed it at the time. I was trying very hard to be independent, as I’d planned to run away from home shortly. I couldn't exactly be independent without having a job. Everything hinged in that moment. Smurf, the 28-year-old father of two with a lovely wife who would, no doubt, murder me if she learned of this, was pawing all over the little 16-year-old terrified, un-flirtatious, scared, abused, traumatized, timid little me. I had no idea what to do, except to pretend I was okay with the whole thing. So, that was exactly what I did. Anyone who says that a 16-year-old kid can make solid relationship decisions about sex and love should keep this and Steve in mind. I was warped at a very early age by the things that happened to me, but those events also formed who I am today. There were very distinct lapses in judgment when I was a child, many of which can be directly linked to some form of abuse in my earlier life. But, abused or not, the fact remains that I was in no shape to make those kinds of decisions at 16, any more than I would have been at four. What’s more, any man willing to prey on a 16 year old child should be thrown in prison for the rest of their lives. Pedophilia, as far as I’m aware, is not a curable disease. It’s chronic,

and it corrodes all the lives that it might even brush against with its icy, heartless, ever outstretched, evil fingers.

Chapter Ten Firing on All Cylinders The very next time I found myself sitting in front of the ever steady Naomi, something new had developed, and it felt like another disaster. It was nothing like being made famous on a pornography website, but it effected me greatly. I’d been fired from my job. After two and a half years of working in the same place, I had been fired from my job because I “seemed unhappy” the boss told me. Something in my gut told me to turn on my recording device on my watch before I was called into the office for the meeting. Sometimes I did that in case my hand wasn’t fast enough to jot down the notes. I didn’t write nearly as quickly with a pencil as I did with a computer keyboard. Still, something in my stomach was uneasy that morning. I turned on the recorder and made my way into the HR’s office to have a seat. My boss was sitting there. It was hard to believe I’d ever respected the man at all. Since I’d started working in my position, that had changed immensely. He was caught in constant lies, reeked of alcohol on a daily basis, would often disappear to the bar across the street for the second half of the day, played favorites with his employees, and made his dislike of women having an opinion quite well known. My female coworker and I were to do as we were told with little to no regard for anything, including how he spoke to us and treated us. We would receive scathing emails from him regarding things we’d previously discussed or asked for help with, only to be told that we weren’t doing our jobs and that he didn’t have time to mess with us. Within a matter of months I went from having respect to having a problem looking him in the eye anymore. “Have a seat” he told me. I sat, pensive, close to the door. Just from the way I was greeted with ice, I knew what was coming. I waited a long time, not saying anything. The room was thick with the tension. He wasn’t known for getting right to the point and seemed to lack the backbone to do what needed to be done, so what followed both surprised me and didn’t. I had just moved into my new apartment. I’d scrimped and saved to get out of the slums. Living in one of the worst areas in all of Denver, I was constantly

reminded of how close I’d been several times to being in the shoes of the desperate people I saw begging for money or booze. Or drugs. I hated my drive home. I wanted to live somewhere safe. I’d finally managed that only recently, and it was during one trip to pick out the furniture when I injured my ankle so badly, trying to be a kid again. “It seems to me that you aren’t.... ahh.... “ he dragged it out. “You don’t seem to be very... “ I stared at my shoes, glanced at him, and fought the urge to roll my eyes. “You don’t seem like you’re very happy here.” He went on, dragging it out for several more minutes, before I’d finally heard enough. He couldn’t seem to get the words out. Yet again I needed to help him do his job because he couldn’t figure out how. “Are you firing me?” I bit my lip, refusing to cry. Crying was a weakness. I’d never let this asshole see me be weak. He didn’t deserve that. He hadn’t earned that from me. “We feel,” he gestured to his drinking buddy, the head of human resources, “that you’d be happier somewhere else.” I knew what he was saying, but he was making it sound like I had a choice. I needed him to say the words so that I had irrefutable proof that I had been fired from my job, and not just sent home for the day because I ‘seemed unhappy’ under the belief that I’d been fired, and then unable to collect unemployment later on due to job abandonment. I’d never been written up, I’d never been counseled, reprimanded, verbally warned, absolutely nothing. They were firing me because I seemed unhappy? “So are you firing me,” I asked again, this time as a statement requiring clarification. “We believe it would be best if we mutually separated,” he weazled into the conversation. He still wasn’t answering my question. With everything I’d been dealing with, I’d had just about enough. Human Resources wasn’t saying a word still. She never said a word the entire time I was in there. She was simply a witness to events. So was my watch, as neither of them knew at the time. “So are you firing me,” I demanded one last time, resolute on getting a yes or no answer. There was nothing mutual about this. “Yes.”

“Thank you for not beating around the bush and getting straight to the point,” I responded, dripping with polite, ive aggressive office sarcasm. He’d finally solidified himself as being a complete ass in my mind, a douchebag of the worst kind, and a jello mold of what a real man should be. I stood up with all my dignity, opened the door to the human resources office and walked out with my head held high. “I’ll go collect my things,” I shot back over my shoulder. It took an hour and a half to get out of there and I had to call my friend Bill to come all the way down from Boulder to help me. I had nobody else in my life who would be willing to help, and I’d been in that office for so long I’d accumulated quite a bit of stuff. I had space heaters, computer monitor mounts to raise the monitors to eye level off of my desk, food in the kitchen cabinets, office supplies, and more. I started giving away cute things I knew I wouldn’t need wherever I was going next to my female coworker. She would look at me quite perplexed, not sure what was going on. When finally she asked, I waved her off and told her not to worry about it. I knew if I started talking about it, I would start to cry. I couldn’t do that. There was a camera pointed right at my face as I was cleaning out my belongings and I had a very distinct gut feeling that I was being watched. I wouldn’t give that asshole the satisfaction of knowing he’d made me cry. I would never cry for him. I got everything packed into my car and I was preparing to leave. My coworker came out to say goodbye and hugged me, and that was when I lost myself in the moment. I began sobbing. Thanksgiving was less than a week away and now I couldn’t even think about having a Thanksgiving dinner with my boyfriend and my roommate, because I’d just lost my job and didn’t know when or how I would find another. Christmas wouldn’t exist for me. My birthday was around the corner. I’d planned on using vacation time like I did every year, and hoped to go to New Orleans, my first vacation since 2010. My coworker asked me what had happened. “Absolutely not a damn thing. But do yourself a favor - even when you’re not happy, don’t let anyone know about it. Apparently around here you get fired if you SEEM UNHAPPY.” I shouted the last two words toward the open front door of the office building, angry beyond belief, and wanting anyone watching to know the tears weren’t because they’d broken me. They couldn’t break me just by taking away my income and hope for a future. That had been taken away before and I’d walked away just fine. No, I wasn’t broken. I was angry. And I knew someday I’d get my revenge. Someday I’d be able to tell everyone what

that asshole did to me the week before Thanksgiving, knowing I had just moved, and smugly tried to weasel his way out of them having to pay unemployment. I knew that game. I wasn’t willing to play. But I also knew that I had them dead to rights. They’d likely try to fight the unemployment claim, but if they did, I had my recording on my watch. I could fight with the best of them finally. My watch. I’d forgotten to stop the recording. I looked down and there it was, still going, an hour and a half long. Not only did I have the entire conversation of how I had ‘seemed unhappy’ but I also had everything that followed, including no from him or human resources. I smiled, tapped the indicator to stop recording, and turned to walk away. It was the last time I ever saw that coworker, but it was also no great loss. I learned much later that she had been just as two-faced as the rest of them. I’d been sitting in a den of wolves for nearly three years. Only one honest person existed among the lot, and that one person wasn’t even me. I reevaluated a few things after that and went through a terribly dark depression for what felt like months, but was actually only a couple weeks. Unemployment kicked in after several weeks and I didn’t even have to fight for it. They knew I had done what was necessary. They couldn’t fight it. I got what I needed. Maybe, just maybe, they heard the rumor I started about having the entire conversation recorded on my watch, too. There was no way they could fight it. I was being forced to cash out my 401k though. I knew enough to pay the taxes on it right away, but I hadn’t been working on the retirement for very long so I didn’t have a ton invested. I had a little more than 1,000 in hand after tax, and I knew that I could either save it for my next retirement plan or I could spend it on Christmas and interview clothes for the next job. I decided on the second option. It might have seemed reckless to still have a Christmas, but I couldn’t let everything worth looking forward to be taken away from me by someone who didn’t even deserve my respect. I wasn’t going to let one setback get me down, no matter how devastating it was to lose my job the week before Thanksgiving. I spent the next few weeks looking for work, refusing to settle for less than what I wanted, and landed a fantastic opportunity that would start on January 6th of the following year. That gave me the entire holiday season to enjoy the unemployment benefits I’d paid into for so long without using, while baking cookies for friends, sending out Christmas cards, sleeping in late every day, shopping for work clothes, and

generally enjoying a peaceful, stress free life for the first time I could ever recall. Perhaps he was right when he fired me. Perhaps I was unhappy. I think anyone would be after being made famous on a pornography website. Perhaps I was fired because they discovered that I had been made famous on a pornography website. Maybe one of them saw the videos and photos, and didn’t know how to say something without telling on themselves. I may never really know the truth. I don’t know if I really ever want to know the truth. My life got better after that day in 2019, and the following year when Coronavirus hit that entire industry went belly up and they all ended up without work. My justice was something I didn’t even need to seek in their case. It was something that happened on its own. Karma bit that man in the ass and I couldn’t have been happier about it. Normally I wouldn’t wish ill on others no matter what they’ve done to me, but that man, and the man with the blue eyes that I left back in Scotland, deserved anything bad that came their way. There are a select few others I’d lump into that category with them, but for now they’ll remain anonymous. “There’s never a dull moment in your life, is there?” Naomi looked at me, stunned. I had only just told her about how I’d been fired because I ‘seemed unhappy’ in the eyes of the boss who was never around enough to know how anyone was actually feeling or even if they were doing their jobs at all. “Nope.” “The shocking thing is that most people invite the drama into their lives, you seem to be an innocent bystander to yours.” She smiled, knowing I’d appreciate the unusual way of her telling me that it wasn’t my fault.

Chapter Eleven Leaving Home I’d been running away for years before I finally left home the last time. It was no real secret that I was a troubled teen. Everyone knew. I’d begun running away at only 15 years old, staying with friends, and eventually being placed into a foster home around my 17th birthday for a couple of weeks because the police suspected child abuse. Again. My father had gotten very angry at me for not taking out the trash one day and found me sitting in the family room with my feet up on the coffee table watching a show that already annoyed my parents and they preferred I not watch at all. He tucked the toe of his boot under my knee and shoved hard. Some would say he had kicked me. At the time, I even said he had kicked me. He honestly didn't. It was another in a long string of lies as I attempted to get attention, without really being sure why I wanted and needed it so badly. Then he picked me up off of the couch by my ponytail. My feet never left the ground, but I saw every possible direction in the room, throwing quite the terrible kink into my neck that lasted for days. My ponytail was a forceful handle in those days. He then threw me to the floor with nothing more than a release, not intending for me to land on the rock mantle of the fireplace, but indeed that is where the upper torso of my body collapsed. My right knee was swollen the following day. I sat in my creative writing class massaging it during the teachers lecture. The girl that sat next to me in class asked me what was wrong. I'd never talked to her before other than asking her once what the teacher had said about a hyperbole for my notes, and may have asked to borrow her pencil sharpener before that. For some odd reason I decided to tell her everything. I even embellished a bit to make the story more interesting, making the abuse sound so much more intentional than it actually was. The next thing I knew, I was being rushed to her family home that day after school and the police had taken a full report on everything. It reminded me entirely too much of the incident where I’d been swatted with the hairbrush, except I helped things to get out of hand this time. It was only a week before my 17th birthday when all of this happened. Without

planning, without warning, I was suddenly thrust into another home, all because I told the police that I didn't want to report my parents for child abuse. They took it as a sign that I was afraid of my parents. When I told them my father didn't hurt me, that I had been stupid and kicked a post the day before trying to show off my martial arts training, they didn't believe me. That night when my father pushed my legs off of the coffee table with the toe of his boot, he had no idea that I was already in severe pain. I had done it to myself. My leg had been fully extended before I made with the post and I felt a pain screaming through my leg, radiating out from my knee like thousands of needles covered in acid and fire. When he pushed my leg off the coffee table, the already injured knee was hyperextended upon landing. My father couldn’t have known how much I was already hurting, or how much more I physically hurt after falling to the mantle when he released my hair. My dad didn’t leave too many marks on me over the years, and that swollen knee wasn’t originally caused by him. Perhaps it was aggravated by his actions, but he couldn’t have known that. Yet I was angry enough with him over having pulled my hair like he had that I felt it my duty to finally give in to the pressures of the police. The police thought I was singing the familiar tune of a tumble down the stairs when I told them the truth anyway. I was looked at by them like a kid that had told a story of walking into a door handle with their eye. Their pressure to it child abuse was thick, much as it had been many years before. The kind of abuse they wanted to hear wasn’t the kind of abuse that existed, though. The damage was already done. The family I stayed with was amazing. My classmate had two younger sisters who just adored me right off the bat. Both of her parents were teachers and were under the same impression as the police with my not wanting to it to child abuse. I decided just to not talk about what had happened at all and let the events play out as they might. I was tired of people looking at me with pity like I was a pathetic child afraid of the world and all it had to offer, thinking I couldn’t talk about the ungodly severe abuse I never actually experienced. My parents weren’t exactly kind to me, but that wasn’t exactly abusive, by comparison to what else I’d experienced. I finally just shut up about it all together and stopped trying to defend my own family. I was given a list of chores within the household. The bathroom downstairs was my responsibility to clean twice a week from top to bottom and spot clean every day. I would sweep the floor in the kitchen on the even days, and on the odd

days I would vacuum the living room. The student from my class and I traded off for these chores, while her two little sisters, still in grade school, had the simple chores of cleaning their rooms, clearing off the dinner table, and sweeping the front porch daily. Everyone in the family pitched in. We even gathered each night to read a age of the Bible. For the first time in two years, I felt like I was a part of something, like I was a part of a real family. I was included in things, and treated as though I mattered and that I was welcomed to be with them. They didn’t spend hours or days brooding, angry at me for something I’d been suspected of doing without proof. They were kind to me. When my birthday came, every member in the family had gifts for me. My fellow classmate gave me a beautiful backpack style purse in black faux leather. I fell in love with it the second I saw it, and had been wanting one for many years. Her sister Rebecca gave me a candle. It was a Cinnamon Apple candle to be more precise. To this day a Cinnamon Apple candle reminds me of that birthday and of that kind family. I was there such a short time and truly grew to love every one of those people. The police came by only a few days later and told me that they were sending me home. Their investigation had turned up no results. They told the entire family that I had "made everything up" and I needed to go home. They actually apologized to the family then, telling them that it was a shame they had to put up with me for so long over something that I had clearly made up. I wanted to scream at them that I’d told them as much to begin with, but just as it had been before, and for all of my life up to that point, I knew nobody would listen to what I had to say. My classmate never spoke to me again - but for two weeks, I didn't just have a sister, but three sisters and a real family. My mother said I couldn’t be trusted with a candle and threw it away. Then she said that she couldn’t stand the purse backpack and tossed it, too. But she couldn’t discard my memories. It wasn’t long after this that I met Bryan and devised a plan to run away to Arizona with him and two others in a car with only two seats. That journey, dubbed “The Miller Miles” both in my mind and in the previous “microbiography” book I wrote about that journey, opened me to all new experiences, like how the idea of someone 23 sleeping with a 13 year old little girl can somehow seem normalized in a twisted, warped mind. It also left me stranded in the state of Arizona with nowhere to go and no transportation of my own. I had to rely on old friends I hadn’t seen in many years and was quite lucky they were

even listed in the phone book at all. For a month I stayed with the family friends in Phoenix. They had a daughter my age who had been the girl to previously tell me that it was ‘normal’ when my brother exposed himself to me when I was only 12 years old and said if I was ‘curious’ he’d have sex with me so I could know what it was like. By this time she already had one child of her own and another on the way. I never did know what had happened to her as a little girl, but somehow I believe that her abuse was worse than my own, by far. Her boyfriend, and the father of her unborn child, had an older brother who seemed entranced by me. I was seventeen and finally starting to develop into a being that resembled more female than male, and Philip was 21 years old. He was too old to even kiss me, he explained, because I was still a minor. In spite of the age difference of only four years, we determined that we were in love and once I turned 18 I’d him back in Arizona where he would take care of me. We had a plan. I went along with it, seeing an easy way out of being with my parents anymore. While in Arizona, my dad’s father became very sick. The first phone call I had with my parents was when they were telling me that he’d been given 2 weeks left to live, and because I hadn’t been ‘a good girl’ I wouldn’t be able to see him before he died. I knew the real reason was because we couldn’t afford for me to travel all the way out to New York to visit with family I rarely ever saw anyway, but it still hurt. But he surprised them. He pulled through anyway. I don’t even a single detail about the trip back to my parents home in northern Utah with my friend’s parents, and can only imagine that I’d spent most of the time riding in the back seat, terrified of what their reaction would be once we arrived. The only thing I was having sex with one of the older brothers the night before we left because I caught him watching pornography in the living room and he somehow managed to talk me into it, and then standing on my parents porch, knocking, because I knew that wasn’t my home anymore. It hadn’t felt like home in a long time. Sex meant nothing to me. Home meant nothing to me. A relationship with my parents meant nothing to me. I was successfully numb inside. I’d learned how to turn off any emotions I no longer wanted to feel. I’d been taught well. My humanity was slipping away. Philip promised he’d send me a plane ticket to come back to Arizona once I turned 18 years old. Long before I ever left for Arizona I'd already had

everything taken away from me, and I had nothing left to lose. It didn’t matter to me anymore. Packing my suitcase had been so easy. I lived in an empty bedroom aside from the mattress on the floor and the sheets that covered it. I had no books, no papers, no pens or pencils, no friends, clothes, shoes... all I had was what I wore every day to school, and washed every night while wearing my one wool nightgown. (In fact, I had to steal from Goodwill in order to have any change of clothes at all. I just couldn’t steal underwear, since I had a real problem with stealing from any of the chain stores. They were more likely to prosecute. It was around that time when I was walking to school and a couple of middle-aged men drove past and asked if I was “working” and I had no idea what they meant. I told them I was only fifteen and too young to have a job, but I was on my way to school.) However, I did have something in my possession after having everything taken away that most kids in my position would never have. I had braces. I didn't have a full set of braces. Rather, I had two metal band brackets on two of my molars that came equipped with little metal tubes between my teeth and my cheek flesh. They were there to host the body of "headgear" to push my teeth backwards. I also had individual braces on several of my other teeth, but not on all of them. I when it all started, the orthodontist was really nice. He found out I always had a crush on Cary Grant the actor, and told me that Cary Grant wouldn't smile to show all of his teeth because he was a boxer before he was an actor. He'd had one of his upper middle teeth knocked out and they all grew together to close the gap. He was embarrassed about his teeth, so he didn't ever want anyone to see them. I was mesmerized. I didn’t even care if it was true or not, but I stared ever more intently at his smile every time a Cary Grant movie came on after that. I still do. I'd always wanted straight teeth. I'd been teased terribly about my teeth and hated them terribly. My mother had gone through extensive dental work years before, starting with braces and ending with an EXTREMELY expensive jaw surgery to bring her lower jaw forward about a 1/4 of an inch I believe. She had an under-bite before that and wasn't comfortable with having her photo taken. She gained a level of self-confidence she'd never known after everything was done. I was so proud of her! She was my role model. I wanted to be just like her as soon as I could be. I wanted to be prettier with better teeth like she had been. Orthodontists were magicians. I'd been the 'ugly kid' in the middle of what my

mother called my 'awkward stage' for almost a decade. I needed to feel better about myself. I wanted braces. There were all the usual threats, of course.

If you step out of line, we'll stop with the braces. If you run away again, we'll stop your braces. If you talk back, we'll stop your braces. If you do basically anything wrong, we'll stop your braces.

Most of this was completely understandable, of course. Braces were expensive. They were threats I'd heard a million times for a million other things, like self defense classes when I was 15. I really loved those classes, but I never even got my yellow belt because I ran away from home and they stopped letting me go. It was, of course, completely understandable. I'd have done the same thing in their place to be honest. I didn't deserve something fun or special when I was being a brat. I also wasn't allowed to be in the elite choir anymore at 16 in spite of my ing the auditions with flying colors, which wasn't easy. I had skipped too many classes. Here I was 17 and finally being fit for something I'd always wanted - my braces. Maybe I’d finally be pretty, I thought to myself. Maybe my mother wouldn’t think I was still ‘awkward’ and devoid of any positive physical attributes. Of course, I'd also always wanted to take Karate classes or something similar, but I screwed that up a few years before that. I'd also always wanted to be recognized as having a special talent or gift, for being special, for getting into an elite group, like that choir class - and I screwed that up too. I found that it was basically a compulsive disorder and I didn’t understand why. I couldn't help but screw things up. It's what I did. It was a part of who I was by then. It was as though I was terrified that something would actually be a positive in my life, so I had to mess it up before it could turn into something good. That even became the habit with relationships.

I guess it was inevitable that I'd screw up the braces too. I couldn't help it. It had become my trademark in a way. I couldn't finish anything. I couldn't allow something good in my life. I would sabotage anything and everything, including friendships with classmates. I would get close to a friend in school and suddenly abandon them, terrified that if I didn't, they'd just beat me to it. It was that summer when I ran away with Bryan. When I was made to go back home, of course my shot at straight teeth was gone. The orthodontist appointments were toast. That includes all of them, meaning I'd never see an orthodontist in order to even get my braces and metal molar bands removed. For a long time I picked at the braces with my fingernails. Occasionally I would split a nail to the finger. Once or twice I broke wires that would shred the inside of my cheek. Eventually I would have a bracket come loose from a tooth and dangle by wires inside my mouth, occasionally getting trapped between my teeth when chewing on food. Never once did I complain about it. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. I'd been called a 'baby' for complaining too much as a child. There was no way I'd complain to them about something that I was sure my mother would say I'd clearly caused myself. By the time I got the final metal band off of my back molar, I was 22 years old and had been living on my own in another state for a number of years. I’d already been married and divorced. It's been a while since I've really thought about the braces I had as a kid, and that's for good reason. Too many people told me that what my parents did was child abuse but I just knew that I'd deserved it. I didn't hold up my end of the deal. I didn't stay at home to be screamed at and yelled at, and I ran away. I put myself in a dangerous and precarious place because I wanted a sense of freedom and couldn't find it anywhere I looked for it. A part of me also wanted to die. I was a 17 year old kid who had been through a lot already, and nobody knew the secrets I was holding on to. Nobody would have believed me or cared. I was already a liar about so many things, why would anyone believe me at 17 years old with the history I had? So instead of telling anyone what I was going through, what I had gone through, or what I was scared to it to, I kept everything inside. As my parents reminded me frequently, they "couldn't believe a word that came out of [my] mouth anymore." I had nobody I could turn to. Then again, I never really did. Was it considered abuse to leave me with the braces? Was it abuse that made me think it was my own fault and that I deserved it? Maybe... and I still struggle

with that to be honest. I didn't hold up my end of the deal. As a 17 kid I already knew I wouldn't be able to, but I wanted to make the effort anyway. I honestly tried, until my young and underdeveloped and Ritalin-stunted brain snapped yet again and I did the one thing that would jeopardize my shot at braces. My teeth are straight, and the brackets are gone. But, as surprising as this might be, I still have just a tiny smidgen of brace glue attached to my left incisor from over two decades ago. I'm reminded of the metal in my mouth every time my tongue flicks over the tooth. I ran away several more times before turning 18, but true to his word, Philip had sent me a one way ticket for a flight to Arizona for December 13th of 1997, two days after my 18th birthday. I couldn’t wait to leave forever. Days before I left, Cody from my first job found me walking down the side of the road on my way home from school, drove me up to the old shack in the woods behind the park, and had sex with me. Snow landed in my eyelashes as I lay with my face to the sky, numb to the world once more.

Chapter Twelve The New Beginnings I should have known, but I was too blinded by my desperation to escape my parents. I didn’t really care where I ended up just so long as it wasn’t back there. On the way to the airport my father and I stopped at a Cracker Barrel restaurant for breakfast. He gave me a ride in the 1970 Chevelle because he knew how much I dearly loved that car. I think, in spite of what he told me next, he knew there was a chance it would be the last time I’d ever see that car. I don’t the entire conversation over breakfast, but the part that stands out the most was when he told me how he and my mother really felt about it all. He said that they were both disappointed in me, and that my mother said that she would wager a bet that I’d come crawling back to them within six months. My father said that he gave me only three. The words bit like the teeth of a rabid dog, poison seeping into my veins, reminding me once more of why I so desperately wanted to leave, and why I would make it my life’s mission never to go back. I wouldn’t go back in three months, or even six months. I wouldn’t go back to them for six years and was determined to never live under their rule again. I needed to get away, and I was finally old enough to do so without getting dragged back by the cops yet again. I’d make it on my own. No driver’s license, no high school diploma, nothing of note, no great accomplishments, and very little job experience would serve me well enough to survive on my own eventually. I would survive. It’s what I’d been doing for so many years. It’s what I would continue to do. It was “who I was” I had come to believe. I was “Amanda the Survivor.” That became my identity. Philip was good to me at first. He met me at the airport terminal holding a red rose in his hands, and a huge smile among his perfect teeth. He was over six feet tall and had arms bigger than my head. When he wrapped his arms around me I was completely lost. It had been so terribly long since I’d known that kind of embrace. My mother had still hugged me when I was being good, but even then I could

feel her resentment and contempt for me because I’d been so terrible for so many years. My mother once told me that she’d always love me because she was my mother, but that didn’t mean she had to like me. I guess I didn’t make that easy on her. Even her hugs didn’t feel as warm and inviting as this man I’d met only months before and had only gotten to know through letters back and forth. My father had never been good at physical affection - he’d sooner crack my back than hug me because he was terrified that S would get called on him for molestation. Having S called on him over the years did just as much damage to us as my running away and being a rebellious teen had. My mother had sent a few things down to me after I moved away - things like high school yearbooks and such. I figured it was a way to try to make me miss home, but with so few friends as I ever actually had while I struggled my way through school, it had the opposite effect on me. I’d laugh at the hairstyles and point out my bullies to Philip when he was sober and bored, but otherwise they were greatly forgotten about. That changed sometime later on. I didn’t realize how starved I had been for true comion from someone I hadn’t yet alienated. But, of course, alienation only takes time when you’re as messed up in the head as I was. I was with Philip about two months before he hit me the first time. He only smacked my leg out of anger and frustration, but I knew that eventually that leg would become my face, and his open hand would become a closed fist. I wasn’t willing to stick around until that happened. Philip would get blackout drunk and violently rage through our home in Prescott, Arizona. The walls were riddled with fist holes he often didn’t even creating the next day. I knew that if I were going to get away, it would need to be meticulously planned. I needed to start by getting a job. It wasn’t easy to find a job at first with no diploma or GED and not much work experience other than being a waitress. I called the local grocery store almost every single day asking for Mr. Lear, the store manager. I’d applied for the job. Each day I was told there were no jobs available. Each day I hung up after telling them I’d try again tomorrow. Each day, that was exactly what I did. Eventually, one day the phone actually was given to Mr. Lear, and Mr. Lear asked me to come in for a job interview. I have always interviewed well because I’m articulate in my speech, and I’d been offered a starting job with part time hours before I left that day. I would be scheduled for 19 hours per week to start with, bagging groceries and collecting carts. It wasn’t much but it was enough. With the option to start picking up the hours for anyone else who needed time

off, before long I was working almost 40 hours per week regularly. Mr. Lear, seeing the determination in me, moved me to the bakery instead, to help out while the baker was on maternity leave. I did everything but cakes. Normally promotions would take at least three months or more. I was moved to the bakery in only two. I guess I stepped on a few toes taking the job, several others at work suddenly didn’t like me anymore. I didn’t care. We were able to cash our paychecks at the store if we purchased something, so on payday I’d usually buy something small for lunch. Philip had demanded that I hand over my entire paycheck to him so that he could use the money for a house payment on our place in Prescott, but unbeknownst to him, I always hid $20 from each check that he never knew anything about. But I couldn’t hide it at home. I knew he’d find it. Instead, I had to hide it somewhere at work, somewhere nobody would think to look. I searched for days trying to find the right spot. When I discovered the floral arrangement in the ladies public restroom was made with silk flowers, the idea struck. I pulled the arrangement out of the small basket and inspected the foam block the stems had been shoved down into. I knew if I sliced off a piece from the bottom, I could hollow out the core of the foam and then replace the slice from the bottom, pinning it in place with toothpicks. Then the basket would go back on top of the hand towel holder where nobody ever paid much attention to it. I would also dust the flowers to prevent anyone else from thinking it needed to be done and discovering my secret. The first couple of weeks I was a nervous wreck. By the third week, I was fine with it. A few customers began to befriend me as I became so well liked among the masses. Gary, the ‘businessman’ was first, then Chris, the habitual liar, who claimed his father was the famed Chris Christopherson, and a few others including a man who reminded me of someone I once knew and couldn’t place. An actor from an old 80’s series would always ask if I could help him to his car with groceries, even though he was certainly capable of doing it himself. I did well with tips and always put those into my secret flowerpot too. I hoarded every penny I knew wouldn’t be missed. Eventually things with Philip got bad enough that I had grown quite scared of him. I’d been climbing the hidden tower in the barn in order to hide with my Alfred Hitchcock Presents books and would spend hours reading, just to stay quiet and hidden. I couldn’t take it anymore. There were holes in almost every

wall of the house from him putting his fist through them. I was constantly told that wasn’t abuse, since he hadn’t actually hit me personally, but I wouldn’t tell anyone about the slap on the leg that left me with a man-hand print on my leg for hours afterward. I needed out, even if nobody was going to believe me. I no longer cared if anyone believed me. Nobody ever had anyway. It didn’t matter to me. But Chris the liar believed me. He found me outside one day sitting down on a break. We struck up a conversation, he asked me on a date, and I told him about Philip through tears. Chris was the first person to ever tell me that what he’d been doing to me was abusive. He also offered me a way out. Chris had been homeless himself for a while, and a friend of his with cerebral palsy had let him move in with her while he tried to get on his feet and she was back in Texas visiting family. He said I could come stay with him. He said “no strings attached” and I believed him. I went up to the bathroom that day and waited for the only occupant to exit before pulling down my flower pot from the hand towel holder. Inside I’d managed to stash away $80 and my social security card with a state identification card over those weeks. I kept a photo of my beautiful mother with them, safe and sound, and carried small things around with me in case of an event exactly like this. I stuffed it all into my pocket and walked back outside to where Chris was waiting for me. From there we walked around to the back of the building and disappeared. I was never seen in that part of town again. It was as though I walked into a cloud and became a speck of fog. Chris and I sprinted from the parking lot before my break was over. I’d wanted to give Mr. Lear a warning and to let him know what was going on but I couldn’t take that kind of a chance. I needed to vanish while I could. My mind raced as fast as my feet did. Eventually we landed on a city bus and rode for the next three hours to get to Tempe where we exited at the Superstition Apartments. It was a gorgeous apartment complex where the neighbors were friendly and there were beautiful trees shading everything. For the first few days I was happy. I swam in the pool with my clothes on since I had nothing else, and would go for long walks around the complex. I met people and made friends, and for the first time in my life I felt truly free. I fell in love with a boy named Dan and we struck up a relationship, much to the dismay of Chris. Dan was the first love of my life and his blue eyes shone like lakes in the summer. But my newly found

happiness and freedom was short lived when Philip found me. There was a missed call on the answering machine in the apartment. Philips' voice came across, clear as a bell. He outlined where I was, who I was with, how long I had been in the pool, what time I returned from swimming, and where I’d left my socks beside the pool. He said that if I didn’t return to him, I’d be dead. The police were called, a police report was filed, and within days I experienced my first misscarriage from the stress I was experiencing. I didn’t even know I was pregnant. I was in an incredible amount of pain for days beforehand, both Chris and Dan growing more and more concerned with me as time ed, until finally one day I saw what could only be described as the shape of a tiny fetus in the toilet bowl. My body shook. I was frightened and knew I needed to see a doctor, but I didn’t have a job or medical coverage, and I didn’t have anyone around to get me through something like that. I was only 18 and terrified. I’d been away from home for only a few months by then, and if I’d gone back to my parents or to the ‘family friends’ I would have proven them all to be right, and I’d have been a failure. Instead of telling anyone about it, I buried this secret with all the others in that gaping hole in my soul, vowing never to tell anyone. I knelt down before the toilet, tears flowing from my eyes in desperation and pain, but mostly fear. There, I said a prayer, knowing I had no idea who the father was, and thanked God that he saw to it that I didn’t have a child to take care of. He, or she, was my firstborn. I still think back on that day and wonder if it had been a boy or girl. Out of fear I moved. Dan and I, with Chris and a taxi driver, moved into a 2 bedroom place. I slept on the couch in the living room while I searched for work. I ended up getting a job at a telemarketing company where I was allowed to work overtime, and the walk in the Arizona heat was such that I volunteered for the overtime just to avoid walking six miles in the heat of the day. The paychecks would be delayed for several weeks, and I had nothing left to live off of. I carried a bag of saltine crackers everywhere I went and only rationed out a total of five to myself for each meal. They were accompanied by a bottle of water I’d refill from the kitchen sink, pinching my nose so I didn’t smell the sulfur as I forced myself to gulp it down. I got Dan a job there too, but he quickly quit after finding a data entry job. Then one day he didn’t come home. Days went by where I had no idea where Dan was or if he was even alive. When

finally his shadow crossed the door once more, he was a changed man. Covered in hickies and track marks up his arm, he’d dropped significant weight and his shining blue eyes were now dead and lifeless, matching the blue of dementia cloudy eyes. His hair was greasy and unnatural, and the man I had known was no longer recognizable. Dan, as I had known him, was lost to me forever. He also had the absolute balls to show up with the woman he’d been cheating on me with. I held the Piers Anthony book in my hand that I’d been reading, one that belonged to Dan himself, and stared at him incredulously. Yet I knew in that moment that if he got rid of the girl he’d shown up with, I’d have taken him back in a heartbeat. I did love him. It was a naive, young love between two lost and broken souls, but the broken pieces seemed to fit somehow and I needed him. I begged him to stay. I cried and told him that I would forgive him. I successfully made myself look completely desperate. But nothing I did would change his mind. He wrote his number down on the inside of the book, told me to keep it ‘just in case’ and walked out of my life forever. Broken once more, still reeling from my misscarriage and the loss of my love, I felt no sense of connection to where I was living anymore. Some clothes had been donated to me and I would dress in the nicest outfits I could find in order to entice men to ask me on dates. From there I would have a hot meal, and if my story was convincing enough, possibly $10 or $15 in order to eat for the next few days. Pay would come soon, but not before the boss could attempt to blackmail me into sleeping with him just so I could receive what I had earned. Still upset about Dan and my broken heart, I was finally successful in resisting the onslaught and was able to get my paycheck without having to sleep with my boss to get it. I was beginning to shift away from being quite so timid with the world and angry with my parents. I was learning to be angry at the world and dismissive with my parents. I ran into Gary one day while I was out pretending to browse the local Media Play store. He was the ‘businessman’ that had always tipped me so well at the grocery store. I couldn’t believe the odds of him finding me all the way across town like that. He was easily twice my age, but that didn’t stop him from expressing interest. Of course when we ran into one another I was wearing my best outfit, which had been a plaid miniskirt and a black sweater that had seen better years. I felt like a million bucks, and simultaneously, I’m pretty sure I looked quite poor. This rather self-sufficient man offered to take me shopping, and then to take me away from it all.

Of course I went with him.

Chapter Thirteen Bad Connections I was with Gary for a matter of days when I met what I would consider to be the next love of my life, and the man who trafficked me long before I knew what trafficking was. He was a friend of Gary’s. I have no problem itting that I was ashamed of this for a very long time, but I had no love for Gary. He’d given me new clothes and a place to bathe, and even a pair of shoes. Compared to how I’d been living for the last several years, I was living like a queen. I’d had my hair done, I owned nail polish and makeup, and all I needed to give him in return was what everyone else had been taking from me by force since I was four years old. To me, it was an easy choice. When Mickie came into the picture, everything changed again. There were a few subliminal signs of flirtation to begin with. He’d find an excuse to walk with me out to the pool if I was planning to go for a swim, often claiming that he’d be leaving at that moment anyway, sometimes ending his conversation with Gary in the middle of a sentence. He never seemed to stick around long anyway, but he always seemed to come over when he knew I was there. That part was easy for him, since I didn’t have a job, a car, or a driver’s license. Gary had promised to help me get all of those things. Temporarily, I was living the life of a ‘kept woman’ until that happened. Sometimes Mickie would stop at the pool if he saw me swimming and chat with me until I was ready to go back inside, and then make comments about how my body looked in my new swimsuit. He was heavy with the compliments where Gary seemed to be lacking. One night Mickie came over and Gary had gone to bed. I let Mickie in because I had specific instructions to do so, regardless of the hour. Besides, he needed to use the restroom. What was I to do, turn away a friend so they had to drive all the way home to go pee? I couldn’t do that to Mickie. I liked the guy. He seemed like a good guy. After he came out of the restroom he had a seat on the couch and struck up a hushed conversation with me. At first it was just about asking what I’d done all day and how the job hunt was coming along. He knew Gary and I had recently

taken a road trip to San Diego and wanted to know if I’d enjoyed myself. Gary had a young son in San Diego, and I had been abandoned in the Bahia Resort while he went to spend time with his ex-wife and child all day, but the resort was beautiful and there was plenty to do nearby. I’d spent the time entertaining myself, taking photos of the gardens outside of the rooms, walking to the beach, and even taking a taxi to SeaWorld one day. Gary funded all of my entertainment and I was quite happy to be doing things on my own. I was still terrified of the world, and even more terrified of getting lost, but I still went out and explored. I told Mickie all about it and even showed him the scrapbook page I’d created with the garden photos. Mickie eventually made the move to kiss me. He was handsome and charming, and I had more feelings for him than I ever did for Gary, and none of it made sense to me. One thing lead to another, and eventually Gary walked out of his bedroom to find the two of us on the living room floor, engaged in pre-sexual relations. That night, I was getting thrown out of the plush living arrangement with nothing more than I could carry and Mickie was taking me under his wing as my savior. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered that it was all his own doing, as Mickie wanted me to feel obligated to him. He wanted to own me. And he did. I had always been good with people. I could read total strangers better than anyone I knew. A vast majority of why I could do that came from the uncanny way total strangers seemed to always perceive me. Almost daily someone I’d never met would feel the need to confide their secrets in me. That wasn’t always a good thing. Sometimes the secrets of others can weigh a heavy burden on anyone who knows them. Then there are the secrets I wish I’d never learned. Mickie fell in every category I could come up with. At first I had no idea the thirty six year old was involved with any organized crime. He was just a handsome Italian man with beautiful, dark curls and echoing, haunting blue eyes. Always the blue eyes. He said he loved me, and I hadn’t known what love really was, with Dan being the only time I’d ever truly loved someone so deeply. I took it at face value. He was a violent lesson I had to learn. I’d had no idea at the time, but Mickie had been the cocaine supplier to Gary. The two had been quite successful in hiding this from me, and I hadn’t been around drugs enough to know what they did to people or even know what to look for.

I went where Mickie sent me or took me. I worked where he told me to work. I cooked what he wanted to eat. One night, in a drunken stupor, he decided to teach me self defense while we were in a swimming pool after hearing a short version of what happened with Philip and why I’d moved to Arizona in the first place. Consequently, he punched me square in the nose in the middle of the swimming pool and nearly caused me to drown. Still I stayed with him. I had nowhere else to go, and he’d taken me in when I lost everything. I owed him. Most of the time, he was good to me. Mickie owned me. I had nowhere to go. I had no friends other than those more loyal to him than to me, and all of my bridges had been burned. I’d moved a total of 5 times in only four months. I had no family I could turn to after what they’d done to me and what my father told me as I was on my way out. I worked as a cashier at a convenience store, so I couldn’t afford a place of my own, even if I had any existing credit to qualify for one. I was financially trapped. And just like all the battered women I would later openly criticize for giving this same answer, I stayed because I thought I loved him, and because he said he loved me. I look back in shame for having not ed my own experience before judging someone else so harshly. I confused romantic love with necessary love, though. I needed Mickie, and therefore I loved him simply for providing a roof over my head. After all, my father used to hit me whenever he was angry and my mother would mind-fuck me from time to time just for sport, and I still loved them. In the delusional mind of an eighteen year old abused kid, that was a normal life. This was the life laid out before me and it wasn’t in my control. That, too, was normal to me. The angry heat of the Arizona summer was nothing compared to the heat radiating from an enraged Mickie. I learned quickly to just cook what he said, go where he wanted, say what he liked to hear and pretend to be the well trained lap dog he thought he had on a leash. Mickie’s best friend came over often to visit with us, sometimes sitting on the couch and watching the news with us. I hated the news but it was a ritual. Eventually Mickie felt comfortable enough with Carlo around that he would invite Carlo to hang out at the house while Mickie was gone. Eventually that wasn’t enough. It was Carlo’s birthday and he deserved some ‘good company’ he insisted. Carlo would be taking me to Las Vegas with him for an overnight trip, as a gift to me,

too! I’d get away from Arizona for a little while, enjoy a night in a hotel room, eat room service, and just ‘hang out’ with Carlo the way we always did when he wasn’t gambling. I’d be responsible for making sure that Carlo didn’t miss his flight home, too. I had a job to do. But Mickie was very adamant that I make Carlo feel every bit as welcome as I would Mickie himself. At the time I had no earthly idea what that implied. I wasn’t exactly an innocent eighteen year old kid, but I was still entirely too naive. By the time the flight landed in Las Vegas, I had begun to understand the seriousness of the situation. Carlo had begun to rub my legs under a blanket on the airplane, forcing his way higher by the minute. I protested and told him not to do that, because Mickie would be upset at him, and he informed me blankly that it was Mickie’s idea. Carlo had paid extra for his merchandise just for this shot with me. He’d spent a lot of money on flying me to Vegas and getting the nicest hotel room he could afford in the Hard Rock Hotel so I would be comfortable. There would be no refunds or exchanges. If I complained, the flight attendants would separate us and call the police on Carlo for doing what he had ‘every right to do’ since he’d already paid in advance. Then I’d be stuck in Las Vegas, and either Mickie would have to come get me and would be angry at me for not doing what he told me to, or I’d be on my own living in Las Vegas without a penny to my name. I had no port, Carlo had my state issued identification, and all of my other worldly possessions were with Mickie back in Arizona. I thought through my options carefully and realized that I needed to relent. Carlo had every advantage over me and there was nothing more I could do about it. I was stuck in the hotel room the entire 24 hours and I had to wait until Carlo headed down to go gambling in order to let myself go numb. I knew I needed to get out of there but I also knew I had nowhere to go. I was terrified of what would come next once we got up to the hotel room, but I knew I couldn’t stay with Mickie once I returned to Arizona. He had done this to me. I would be ruled and owned no longer in the name of convenience and false love. Living homeless in a state I was familiar with was better than living homeless in Las Vegas where I’d surely die on my own. I’d get back, and just like I had done with Philip, I would plan my escape. I’d be meticulous. In the hotel room Carlo made himself comfortable on the couch as I fetched the television remote for this forty two year old, and basically played nursemaid to someone who didn’t care to do things for himself.

It wasn’t until he pulled his heaving, sweaty body off of me an hour later and I hid my face the whole way to the shower that I fully understood the implications of everything Mickie had made about being so accommodating, and knowing exactly what Carlo had paid for. Carlo got dressed and headed down to go gambling for a while as I sat in the shower, hugging my knees, crying. I’d never been forced to do such horrible things. I’d never had such things done to me. I felt as though I didn’t deserve to live. The mental image of what Carlo had made me do that day still haunts me from time to time when I close my eyes. The sour taste in my mouth still torments me. My stomach still churns each and every time I’m reminded. Still, over 20 years later, I am ashamed of myself for the things I did against my will. I’m still angry at Mickie, but more angry at Carlo than anything or anyone else for that year in Arizona. Mickie had never given me a choice. He didn’t ask if I wanted to move in with him. He just told me that I would be. He hadn’t asked if I wanted to go to Las Vegas, he simply ordered me to. And he had told Carlo not to ask me, but to simply take whatever he had wanted of me because, of course, I always did what I was told. And later on he didn’t ask if I wanted to move to New Jersey, he demanded that I would. I was so traumatized and in shock that I don’t the flight back to Arizona at all. I the exact moment my brain checked out, and I what I was doing at the time. I little else. Mickie had a friend named Carlo who had been chased out of New Jersey thirty years prior by someone described as a “Former family member.” I never knew exactly what they implied by the air quotations they inserted with their hand movements at the time. Mickie was helping Carlo pack up to move when I met the old guy. Apparently the “family” had finally asked Carlo to come back home since he had been forgiven, and he was eager to comply. A previous head of the family had gone away or something, and the remaining of the family missed Carlo. It all sounded confusing to me, but I didn’t have a very close family and didn’t really know how families operated. Who was I to question it? Maybe someday my family would ask me to come back, I thought. The original plan was for Mickie to only help the old man to pack up his home. That soon changed of course, as things often did with Mickie. Mickie started talking about driving the truck for Carlo and then flying back to Arizona afterward. I was instantly overjoyed at the idea. It would mean I would be alone

for a few days and might be able to come up with some plan of how to get out. I knew I needed to figure out a way while the opportunity was there. Otherwise I might be stuck forever. I was no closer to a solution five days later when Mickie called me from New Jersey and told me all about how he wanted to stay there and have me move out to be with him, too. He ionately described how much money he would be making, though he actively avoided saying exactly how. He explained in detail all the things he would be able to afford to buy for me. He was overjoyed at the idea of me never having to work a ‘normal’ job. He finished the conversation by telling me that he would be flying home in two days. It was time to run. I needed to act fast. In less than two days, I found a man named Merle at the convenience store where I worked who would often flirt with me. I flirted back, managed to have him ask me on a date, and then made him believe it was his idea to have me move in with him. That man was 69 years old at the time. His name was Merle, and he disgusted me - just not as much as Carlo did. Human trafficking wasn’t recognized as a crime by the UN until the year 2000, this happened in 1998. Even though it was a crime in the USA when it happened, it still wasn’t talked about or recognized by others. I also didn’t realize what Human Trafficking was, much less that I was a victim of that particular crime myself when I was ‘leased out’ for 24 hours to Mickie’s buddy as a birthday favor.

Chapter Fourteen On the Run Merle was similar to Gary in the fact that he wanted to give me what I was lacking. He talked me into quitting my job (though there was clearly no arm twisting as Mickie would have known to look for me there). He bought me some new clothes, gave me a place to live, took me places, and even encouraged me to reach out to family other than my parents. He was the first man to purchase a bouquet of flowers for me with no prompting and no arguments. He was working to adopt a 4-year-old child who had been severely abused by her family. He wanted to fix the world. Merle, from what I knew, was a good man. Yet there was something within me that wanted to accuse him of horrible things because of all the horrible things that had been done to me. Nobody did things for me just because they wanted to. There was always an angle. There was always something expected of me. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He bought me some new clothes and we went dancing. I had a woman in the bathroom hit on me and tell me that it was so incredibly sweet that I still took my grandfather out dancing. There were so many different things going on inside my head at that moment I became overwhelmed and scared for no reason. I left the bathroom and asked Merle to take me home. Then he bought me some new clothes to take with me for Thanksgiving as I’d go to visit my grandmother in Arkansas. I’d been in Arizona for eleven months, beating all expectations my parents set forth of when I’d come crawling back to them, and did it all through events of horror and terror, the likes of which I hoped to never have to . It would be good to spend the holiday with some family. I loved being in Arkansas. I hadn’t seen my grandmother since I was 15 years old. My grandmother always loved watching people dance. At first I was hesitant to go with her because of my most recent association with going dancing, but Merle wasn’t with me. He’d let me go to Arkansas on my own. He wasn’t trying to control me the way Mickie did. I had freedom again, much the way I had in San Diego when I’d travelled with Gary. It was exhilarating, and I wondered what would happen if I did go dancing.

Grandma and I went to the lodge that night, though I don't if it was an Elks lodge, a Moose lodge, or any other kind of woodland creature lodge. It didn’t matter. The music was jumping, the dancers were swinging, the drinks were pouring and I was taking it all in. I hadn’t spent much time in Arkansas over the years as we rarely ever visited, and the southern accent fascinated me. As we sat there quietly watching people twirling around the floor, a rather clumsy man made his way over to where I was sitting and asked me to dance. I really didn’t want to dance with him, as I’d had my eye on another man on the dance floor, but the other man was occupied. I figured that if I danced with this guy, maybe I would catch the eye of the one I wanted, and then he’d ask me to dance too. “My name is Clark,” he introduced himself to me. “Amanda,” I responded, looking around the room briefly as I saw the man I’d been watching head for the door with the woman he’d been dancing with. He was gone, there would be no further need to try to impress him with my fancy dancing skills - which was a good thing since I had none. My dancing partner Clark danced on the tops of my feet more than he danced on the floor. He kept grinning and shrinking his chin into his neck out of nervousness. His hands filled with sweat and his pupils dilated ferociously. He smelled like beer. “Would you like to dance again,” he asked me as the song ended. I faked exhaustion, telling him I needed to rest, and in some crazy, boyish attempt to impress me, he then asked my grandmother to dance. Before long he’d talked his way into coming over to her house after Thanksgiving dinner a few nights later to spend some time with me. Clark was 37 years old at the time, and would be turning 38 just a few days after I turned 19 in less than a month’s time. He was more than twice my age, but there had been a string of men like that since Dan had broken my heart, and I didn’t see that changing anytime soon. I knew that I could just as easily manipulate this lonely man going through his early midlife crisis into being the next faux hero of my life, swooping in to rescue me from certain disaster. In Merle’s case he actually had rescued me. In Clark’s case, I just wanted to get away from Merle before whatever was going to go wrong finally did. I flew back to Arizona only a couple days after Thanksgiving. Once there, Merle asked me who Mickie was and I knew he’d managed to track me down. I lied and said I didn’t know, but I was terrified. Immediately following that I

became incredibly sick with pneumonia and needed a doctor. I couldn’t afford one and still had no insurance. My health declined rapidly. I called Clark in a delirious state asking for help. I don’t what I told him or even if Mickie was mentioned, but he hatched a plan to come get me. Two days later, having driven from Arkansas to Arizona without rest, he was standing on the front porch of Merle’s home waiting to whisk me away to a better life. I never said goodbye to Merle. I just grabbed what things would fit into the cab of the small Chevy S-10 pickup truck with us and we left. The following days were a blur. I slept most of the journey, my head resting on Clarks leg while my cramped legs were crumpled together in a tight ball. My muscles cramped, I didn’t eat, I would barely drink, and by the time we got to his home in the middle of nowhere I wasn’t convinced I’d live to see another day. He pulled up to a tiny, run down trailer in the woods and came to the enger side of the truck. From there he helped me out and then carried me into the house. He laid me in a bed covered in a blanket that had horses printed on it, and I nothing more for over a week. The date we arrived was December 8th. Somehow my own birthday had come and gone without me even realizing it had existed. I turned 19 while sleeping in the bed of a stranger who wasn’t sure I’d survive. All the great romance novels would have you believe that would be a recipe for happily ever after. Sadly, that’s not exactly the case. Often patients do fall in love with their caretaker. It’s a psychological effect known as Florence Nightingale Syndrome. The very definition of the syndrome is where a caregiver falls in love with their patient even if very little communication or takes place outside of the basic care provided. In my case, he fell in love with me before that, but being able to care for me solidified that in his mind. Sometimes the feelings fade once the patient is no longer in need of their care, but for Clark it became a smothering obsession that lasted for many, many years in an unhealthy way. I greatly appreciated the care he had shown to me, and I knew he had fallen in love with me. I felt as though I could be safe with him, and that I’d found somewhere that might be safe from Mickie ever finding me again. I was tired of moving, tired of running and tired of never knowing if I’d be homeless again. Clark had nothing to his name, and that was fine by me. All I wanted was a place to call home, just for a little while. I needed to catch my breath. At nineteen years old I talked a thirty eight year old man into marrying me. Of

course my parents didn’t come. I married a man from a thousand miles away from Mickie in search of peace. I changed my name. I never really loved Clark the way he wanted me to, but I married him in order to stop running and settle down for a bit. I’m not proud of that. Only it didn’t work. I hadn’t been married even a month when the phone rang one day. My stepson, only two years younger than I was at the time, answered the phone. His younger brother sat beside him, watching. It seemed as though the entire household fell quiet over the phone ringing because it so rarely ever did. The number was unlisted and wasn’t given out for any reason except for bills and Clark’s family. “It’s for you,” the boy said, handing me the only landline phone receiver in the small backwoods mobile home. “Who is it?” My spine tingled instantly. Nobody knew where I was except my parents and Mom’s family. My parents wouldn’t call me, and the family wouldn’t either unless something was wrong. “I don’t know.” He shrugged, still holding the phone out. “Can you ask?” I pleaded, somehow already fully aware. My guts twisted. I knew it wasn’t family. I just knew. “Yeah, uh, who is it?” He paused, waiting for an answer. “He says it’s Mickie.” He held the receiver out toward me again. “I don’t know anyone named Mickie,” I lied. A deadly chill raced down my spine. He’d found me. I had an uncle named Mickie, but he would say it was ‘uncle Mickie’ and never just address himself as his first name when speaking with or asking for me. I knew no other Mickie. “He says Mickie the Italian. From Arizona.” My then husband spoke up, telling me to just take the call. He said it might be someone congratulating us on getting married and that I should be cordial. Amid the pressure of six inquisitive eyes, I felt I had no choice but to answer that phone. I held the receiver up to my ear and spoke in a quavering voice I tried to disguise. The memory of Carlo and Las Vegas came back to me in a flood. I’d been more traumatized than I’d realized.

“Hey,” he said. That was all it took. I knew that voice. I saw his eyes burned into the darkness of my closed eyelids. My own eyes shot open wide and my jaw dropped. I collapsed to my knees and slammed the phone down with such force it almost broke the glass top of the coffee table. Everyone in the room stared at me in surprise. Stunned silence remained hanging in the air for several long, impenetrable moments. “Well?” My husband finally asked. He wasn’t going to let it go. “What was that about? You okay?” “I’m fine,” I lied again, shaking. I was anything but fine, that much was obvious. Yet he knew enough not to ask. The phone rang again. I picked it up about half an inch and slammed it back down, effectively ending the ringing noise. Half a minute went by. It rang again. Again I terminated the call. I looked around. Nobody was saying anything, but none of them took their eyes off of me. They stared at me as though I’d gone crazy. I had begun to weep as hard as I was shaking, but still the room remained motionless. I was terrified. Again the phone rang. Over and over I ended the call. Finally realizing it would never end as long as the opportunity was there for it to ring, I left the phone off the hook and buried it in couch cushions. There would be no rest for me. I’d come to with that long ago. There would be no end. And five years later when Mickie and Carlo stood side by side on my front porch, I knew I would never stop running.

Chapter Fifteen Arkansas Life We lived in a little tiny town called Rosebud, which consisted of a dog food plant, two gas stations, a few churches, and more cows and horses than people. The population sign said that 163 people lived out there, and the town where my Grandmother lived was at least a half hour drive away and I still didn’t have a car. That was one of the first things Clark wanted to help fix. The same time he was teaching his two sons to drive, he was teaching me. He bought a little stick shift 1993 Ford Tempo from my mom’s older brother, Uncle David, and that’s what he was determined to teach me how to drive. It took a while, with constantly jackrabbit jumping down every road, stalling the car one day at a stop sign in front of a police officer, and finally running over a rabbit in the road before I finally convinced him I couldn’t drive a stick shift while sobbing into the steering wheel so nobody could see my face as I cried. With all my crying and frustration, he wouldn’t do anything, but my flat out refusal to drive that car ever again after I’d taken the life of an innocent rabbit finally prompted him to trade the car back to my uncle for a 1992 automatic Ford Tempo. The automatic transmission made it slightly more expensive, but worth it in my eyes. I could figure out how to drive something like that, and the new car had never hit a rabbit that I was aware of. My driving test consisted of driving through town in nearby Heber Springs, stopping at 4 stop signs, and pulling back into the same parking space I’d left from. With that, the instructor signed off on my sheet and I was issued my very own, very first driver’s license. My first order of business would be to get a job. I needed to have somewhere to go during the day while my husband worked in a manufacturing plant. I was bored, sitting all alone in the country with only three tv stations and his sexually aggressive but mentally handicapped brother to keep me company. Many times I tried to tell Clark that his brother Jeff was getting ‘grabby’ with me and telling me that he loved me and he wanted to be with me in the way that Clark was with me. Many times I told him that was inappropriate and wouldn’t ever happen. A few times I just walked away and told him to leave me alone. Clark would be upset and hurt by this each time Jeff was mad at me, and I didn’t know how to

explain to anyone why this upset me so much. Yes, his brother was mentally handicapped, but having everyone tell me “Oh, Jeff don’t mean nothin’ by it” didn’t help me to feel one bit better about it. Nobody would listen to me. Clark would tell me just to ‘let him talk’ because ‘he won’t do it’ no matter what Jeff said he was going to do. I needed to have somewhere to go just to get away. I got a job at the very same chain of diner restaurants I’d worked at when I was only 16 years old. So much had happened in only three years that I felt like a different person, but the company welcomed me back with open arms and I couldn’t wait to get started as a server again. This time I was old enough to flirt with the customers and was determined to make more money than before. The drive to get to work was 45 minutes and would almost not be worth the money I would be making, but it would absolutely be worth my sanity. On my third day on the job, as I was driving down a back country mountain road in the 1992 Ford Tempo, it began to drizzle rain. My car slid just slightly, and my foot immediately went to the brakes. I locked them up, in a complete panic, and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The car refused to stop and just kept right on moving down the curving mountain lane, sliding across a combination of rain water and years of oil residue left on the road from large trucks ing through the area. The car slammed into the side of the mountain at about 35 miles per hour, and my arms held the wheel for dear life while I screamed bloody murder and the car overturned. The enger side rear view mirror broke off as the car rolled, and the mirror smashed through the enger window, firing past my head like a bullet. The car eventually settled on the roof, continuing to slide through a mixture of mud and branches for another twenty-five yards until finally coming to a rest with me dangling upside down, still gripping the wheel. I’ve told the story many times, and I always tell it as though I were so incredibly brave throughout the whole misadventure. I try to make it sound like the car was moving much faster than it was, and that nothing about the wreck was my fault, but none of that is true. I was a terrified new driver who didn’t know what they were doing. I wrecked because I locked up the brakes and froze. Once settled on the roof of the car I reached up to turn the car off at the ignition in order to save fuel. Then, in a brief moment of clarity, I realized that my window was still closed and I needed to shout for help as though nobody would see me when they drove past an upside down car. My windows were electronically controlled, so I turned the car back on, opened my window, and turned the car back off.

Instinctively I tried to take the key out of the ignition and it locked in place. The car was off, but the key wouldn’t come out. I turned my face to the open window, wondering briefly if I would die there, wondering too if I would even care, and finally calling out for help. My voice was quiet at first, barely a sound coming out. My seatbelt wouldn’t come off and my body continually slid toward the roof as I hung upside down. I watched as the glass from the enger window inched nearer to the top of my head as it was scattered over what had been the roof of the car. I hooked my knees over the steering wheel and tried to keep myself from sliding down closer to the shattered auto glass, and watched as a car drove past me. The driver gawked at the sight, and for a moment I was sure they were ing me by. Nobody had ever been there to help me before, why would I expect someone to help me now? But they did stop. They had gone far enough to park their car at the top of the hill and come back down on foot. They asked if I’d been able to call for help and I was confused, wondering why they would ask me something like that. I was crying out for help as they walked up to the car! But they had been meaning to ask if I’d called 9-1-1 on a cell phone. I’d never had a cell phone, I explained, and they called for the police on theirs. I hung upside down for 45 minutes that day waiting for paramedics to show up and cut me out of the seatbelt while shoving my shoulders away from the roof and covering the broken glass with a blanket so I didn't get sliced up in the process. I crawled out through the window of the car to see that they had been able to Clark and he was there waiting for me too. I hugged the first neck I came to, which happened to belong to a paramedic, and climbed back into the enger seat of the familiar old Chevy S-10 pickup truck to go home just as the police finished writing a citation to me for “driving off the road” and giving it to my husband, which we both then forgot to ever pay. I never made it back to that waitressing job again. Another month went by before we could get another car for me, and this new one also came from my Uncle David. He was one of the best used car salesmen I’d ever seen. The new car was a 1992 Ford Taurus, much roomier and more comfortable than the Tempo had been, and I was assured it was much more difficult to flip over in the rain.

Next I got a job at a horse farm. I no longer how I even heard about the job, but I had to lie in order to secure the position. They asked me if I’d ever worked with horses and I lied to say my mom’s friend let me take care of his two when I was growing up. The truth was that he sometimes let me come over to ride the horses if things had been going well at home, but it wasn’t too often, and I never really got to take care of the horses otherwise. I barely had enough experience with horses to not be afraid of them, but I had always loved them. They decided to hire me on a trial basis. They were gorgeous creatures. The owner of the farm gave me a tour on a little John Deer “Gator” that I grew to love, and explained to me that these were Egyptian Arabian horses, highly temperamental, highly sought after, and extremely beautiful. They lived longer than average horses, had a lot of stamina, and would be as loyal as a dog if they were given the chance to be. There were 163 mares and six studs on the breeding farm, and people as famous as Patrick Swayze would buy horses from our farm. The day I started working there, they had 63 foals in the field with their mothers, and one orphaned foal was weaning on a goat named Nanny. I was instantly in love. My first task was to go collect a horse named Alijamilla from the field. Each horse had their own plastic collar with their name melted into the plastic with a wood burning tool, and it helped that the other ranch hands pointed her out to me. She was a tall freckled gray mare that the vet needed to inspect. They’d tried to inseminate her and the vet wanted to see if they’d been successful in getting her pregnant. Horses that happen to be that pricey don’t ever mate in the usual way. I approached carefully with a halter in my left hand, walking right up to her left shoulder as I had with horses in the past. She didn’t budge. I half expected her to bolt, but she had been so accustomed to being dragged around on the farm that she just stood there like an obedient dog, watching me with her cutting eyes without even turning her head, just waiting for the inevitable. I was so proud of her for not running off and for making me look good on my first day that I scratched her shoulders a moment and watched as her lower lip trembled in pleasure. She was an instant favorite, and I knew I’d be just fine there at the farm. I never thought it was strange at the time that all the ranch hands were white women and all the stall cleaners were men who spoke very little English. It just

seemed to be the way of the world in the rural areas of Arkansas. I had a job. I wasn’t going to complain. Before long I became quite good at the job, knowing which of the multiple fields held which horses, what time they got fed, how much grain each different field got per horse, what time the hay went out, and even most of the horses by name. I was there for the birth of a foal, I experienced the loss of a mare. This new world felt like somewhere I belonged. I could get out to where the horses were and not only feel a sense of freedom, but I could take a moment to breathe the air around me and enjoy the feeling of alfalfa in my lungs. Mist would roll in each morning of the spring and outline the horses and the rising sun in a way that never ceased to take my breath away. I was more in love with that horse farm than anything or anyone else I’d ever known. It was hard work, and I loved every second of it. The farm became my hideaway, and I found myself leaving late because of not only how much I loved it, but how much I was growing to hate being at home in that cramped trailer with my husband, his two sons who didn’t care much for me, his brother who wanted to molest me, and nothing but crows to keep me company at night. It caused some early strains in our marriage because, of course, I wasn’t interested in having sex with my husband. I’d done too much of that already, and most of it not by choice. I couldn’t explain that to him though, and even if I did, he’d never understand. He also believed I was carrying on an affair with someone named Mickie who still called from time to time just to let me know that he hadn’t forgotten where I could be found. There were a couple of troubled mares who had attitude problems with most of the people who worked there, War Princess and Sonrisa. They were remarkably opinionated horses who reminded me of where I came from and what kind of distrust I had for people because of it. I knew I’d win them over eventually with trust and patience, and eventually I did. So much of my inspiration came from my mom’s dad, my horse whisperer grandfather. Mom said he’d ed down his ‘gift’ with animals to me when he ed away on my sixteenth birthday. It was one of the few traits about me that she’d ever complimented, so I made sure to embrace that quality as though my life depended on it. Eventually every horse on the farm was familiar with me, and none of them ran when I came out to look for them. One day while in the hay loft loading hay into the back of the white pickup

truck, I lost my footing and slipped. As I headed face first toward the bed of the truck, my leg got caught between a couple bails of hay and my entire body twisted and jerked into a dead stop with every bit of pressure on my knee. Pain caused me to scream and others found me a few moments limping up the road. My knee was extremely swollen. I recognized it instantly to be the one that, only two years earlier, had been the cause of me ending up in foster care for my 17th birthday. An MRI later, and one huge fight of Clark accusing me of sleeping with my boss that I rarely ever saw, and it was determined that I would not only need surgery on my knee, but that I’d stay in the guest house on the farm until I did. The owner of the farm and I strategized the entire plan. He was a Vietnam war vet and former prisoner of war, so he knew better than anyone the face of trauma and someone who wasn’t able to talk about it yet. He assumed that trauma came from my husband and wanted to keep me guarded from him. It was the S case all over once more with someone not willing to believe that the damage they saw was not from the damage they believed had happened. But I didn’t ever correct the boss. Instead, I stayed in the guest house on the farm down by a little river, surrounded by peace in the only place on earth I’d ever felt at home. But it wouldn’t last. The strategy was that I would move to Florida to stay with my dad’s mother while I got the knee surgery done to correct the damage. The boss had another farm in Florida where he would secure a job for me once I’d healed, and I’d never have to go back to my husband again. That was the plan, anyway.

Chapter Sixteen The Great Unraveling I got to Daytona Beach with an airline ticket provided by the owner of the farm and, as promised, my grandmother was there to pick me up. She took me to her little trailer in her Florida trailer park where she and her husband Vic lived for many years. I clearly ed sitting on her kitchen floor as a little girl feeding puppies from my hand. It was a brief glimpse of a memory, probably from when I was quite young, but the puppies were just as clear as if they were still on the floor the day I walked in. The dog food was in tiny bone shaped pieces. I could still smell it, and feel the oils extruded from their surfaces, and the little crumble pieces stuck to my sweaty little palms. There had been a small ‘sunroom’ built off the back of the trailer that would become my room for a few days. I’d sleep on the couch there and make it my room. I carefully placed a ‘glamour shots’ photo of my mother in a bejeweled frame on the table beside the couch to make it feel just a little more like home. It was the same photo that I’d kept in the flower pot at the grocery store, still with me after all the trauma and travels. It was my most prized possession. We were only there for a couple of days before heading across the state to Tampa for house sitting duty. My dad’s sister needed my grandmother to watch her place, and I believe my grandmother was eager to have a few days away from the ever complaining, negative, whining Vic. Even my father didn’t like the man and wasn’t shy about expressing that without words the entire time I was growing up. Usually the mention of his name was met with an eye roll or a grunt from my father’s direction. The two were possibly too similar for their own good, both stoically silent in most situations and perceived as being antisocial. Tampa was beautiful any time of year, and while my aunt was out of town for our visit, I was able to see a ‘long lost cousin’ named Chad. He offered to take me with him to his place for a few days so I wouldn’t be stuck doing word searches for the entire time with my grandmother. I wanted to socialize and I felt I’d be safe with my cousin so I went with him. To this day I feel that was a massive strategic error on my part. It began the massive unraveling of all the best made plans and my life was never the same.

I found myself to be stranded in Clearwater Beach, Florida with my cousin who refused to take me back to my grandmother because it wasn’t convenient for him. I spent what money I had on groceries to cook for him and his roommates, and then was accused of stealing from his girlfriend. I told him to have Grandma come get me, and he called her only to tell me that she’d already left for Daytona without me. I had people offer me money for sex, I got torn up drunk for the first time ever at only 19 years old while sitting in a bar with a man I hardly knew, and I slept on a couch for weeks until I found a ride on a Grayhound Bus to get me back to Daytona. My cousin told me that if I could get there, she’d pick me up, and even that turned out to be a lie. I’m only slightly ashamed to it that I didn’t have much sympathy for him years later when I found out he had been wounded in Afghanistan while serving in the military. The word “karma” circulated around in my brain for hours that day. There I was in Daytona Beach, standing at a bus station at 10:30 at night holding a cold, greasy phone up to my ear, hearing Vic tell me that my grandmother wouldn’t be coming for me, and that I was on my own. Many years later in an apology letter to me she itted that my parents told her that if she took me in, they’d never speak to her again. They believed that since I’d married the man they thought I shouldn’t marry, that it was my duty to go back and ‘see it through’ since I’d made that decision myself. Why is it that we’re expected to ‘see it through’ when trapped in a bad relationship with someone we don’t love when we’re only 19 years old, but can’t be trusted to drink until we are 21 years old? We aren’t even expected to know what career we want for the rest of our lives until we’re well into our 30s anymore, and yet I was expected to know what the rest of my life would be like if I married a man at 19 years old. Something about the mindset of that mentality still messes with me. My mother and father met when she was 15 and my dad was 20, and married only two years later when my mother was still a minor. She herself bragged about threatening my grandparents that if they didn’t allow her to get married at 17 years old, she’d just get married at 18 and never see them again. I guess since she was still married to the same person, it was her thought process that I should still remain married to the man who was twice my age and obsessed with me in an unhealthy way. I just saw things a little differently than that. My heart had been smashed as I stood in the bus station without anywhere to go in a strange and dangerous city. I’d been abandoned on the streets. I think it was believed that I would call my ex-husband in Arkansas and go back there, but my

mind didn’t even see that as being an option. I had a surgery I needed to get done still, and a job lined up for me after recovery. If I went back to Arkansas I could say goodbye to all of that. I didn’t have any of the details with me about the surgery date or even the phone numbers for anything or anyone to find out, it had all been written into my notebook that I left at Grandma’s house. Without my things and without my grandmother, there was really nothing I could do. I needed to think for a moment, so I sat on the curb and began to cry. A young couple found me there, sitting on the curb and crying my eyes out. They wanted to help and weren’t sure what to do, so for a while they just sat beside me and talked. They’d returned from New York after having learned their place had been vandalized and they’d been burgled. Their names were Adam and Jenny, and they agreed to take me in that night, even though they had no idea what their place might look like. In contrast to the number of homeless people milling about a nearby trash fire and urinating in public, I assumed anything was better than where I was and I blindly went with them. I had a total of $5 in my name at the time and the three of us used that for cab fare since we each had bags to carry. The ride was a short one, only a $2.50 cost, and Adam gave the drive the full $5 for a tip too. The taxi driver, having overheard our conversation on the way there, felt bad about taking anything at all. I’d lost everything, while the other two had no idea what all they had lost. It was the only money any of us had, and none of us knew what we’d do for food. The place was infested with fleas and a litter of kittens had been turned loose with an opened bag of cat food. The smell was enough to punch my sinuses clear into last week. Adam and Jenny had lived on the second floor of the place in a tiny one bedroom loft, while the rest of the home had 3 bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a massive kitchen. The house looked like it had been going through the restoration process for a while, and carpets had been torn up from most bedrooms, leaving exposed carpet tacks everywhere for bare feet to be wounded upon. My own feet bled multiple times. Within a month, we were living off of ramen noodles and the occasional treat of a cheap $0.99 cheeseburger that we split between Jenny and myself. The fifteenyear-old girl wasn’t worried about nutrition, she was convinced she’d get paid more at the strip club once she got her job if she remained impossibly thin by barely eating. Adam got day labor jobs as a man with a criminal record in his 20s. I was constantly looking for work and unable to find any. We lived in the

worst possible part of town with a known drug house across the way filled with prostitutes and surly looking angry people coming and going at all hours. I had to walk everywhere I went and though I was terrified to do it, I still did. I’ll never forget the day Vic came by with my things. I’d called with the address of where I was staying in hopes that I’d have the ability to get back my things and get back on track with the surgery and eventual job. He pulled my suitcase out of the back seat of the car and dumped it into the flea riddled sand at my feet. It flopped helplessly onto its side and there it lay, much like the detailed pieces of my shattered dreams. That glamorous photo of my mother was not among my belongings. Neither was the notebook filled with phone numbers and surgery dates that I so desperately needed. I truly was on my own. Adam had a friend trying to find some work for me and who had agreed to pick up some job applications so that I might fill them out. By this time I finally had a GED that I’d gotten before I started working at the horse farm, and I even had a copy of it with me in my belongings, so I assumed it would be easy enough to get a job. However, in a matter of a month I’d dropped so much weight that none of my clothes fit me properly anymore and once more I looked like the Arizona beggar and I couldn’t be taken seriously by hiring managers. Adam’s friend Esteban came by one day to brag that he’d collected dozens of applications and all I needed to do was go to his place to pick them up. He even offered me a ride, but I opted to walk there instead. Something about his car gave me the heebie jeebies. I never should have gone, and I know that now. I think I even knew it at the time. Once I got there, I was locked into a small room with no food, no water, and no bathroom facilities for nearly 24 hours before managing to escape. I’d been sold to Esteban who was the highest bidder. While trapped in that small room, I could hear the cries and pleas of others who had the same done to them. Esteban even bragged that nobody could hear me scream, and to try all I wanted to. The book I wrote, “Detailed Pieces of a Shattered Dream” that was then published in January 2018 tells the full story, and took quite literally months to write as I had to force myself to relive the entire series of events in order to get it out. It was during the writing of that story itself that I finally realized how healing the writing process could be for me and is the reason I finally decided to

write down all that I had survived. Without that experience, I explained to Naomi, there was no way I’d be okay with even talking about it. Walking away from that place on that summer day I had no idea where I would go or what I would do, but I knew I’d lived what my mother called ‘a blessed life’ and I’d find a way to survive. It was what I did. It was who I had become. So after a few days of being homeless I talked a young man named Drew into taking me in until I found a job. Of course I had to sleep with him in order to convince him fully, but sex meant nothing to me anymore, if it ever had, and I didn’t see it as being a full time thing. The whole idea of sex to me was either something that people would take by force, or something I could offer as a way to survive. I’d rather give it away freely than to be forced into it again, so I did what I felt I had to do. Any emotion tied to the action didn’t exist for me. In fact, quite the opposite, the act itself left me devoid of emotion at all. I blocked myself from being able to feel anything. I started working at a place called First Data and became a telephone operator giving 4-1-1 directory assistance. It was full time with health benefits and weekends off. I didn’t necessarily need the weekends off, so I picked up a second job too, working in the Junior’s department of a Sears rehanging all of the spaghetti strap dresses and refolding all of the mangled shirts after gaggles of the local popular girls would come through destroying all in their path, laughing at me as they went. After a month in Juniors, I was moved to costume jewelry where the messes were smaller and I could work alone. It was perfect for me, since I couldn’t stand being around people anymore. I didn’t trust anyone. I was isolated and alone in my own head, so it only made sense that I would be at work too. I was given closing shifts, so it worked well with my other job. I’d work from 8am to 4pm on weekdays as directory assistance asking “What city and state please? What listing?” Then I’d leave work and walk across the parking lot to the shopping mall where I’d work from 4:30pm to 10:30pm. At Sears I befriended one of the security guards who was going to school and raising a young boy on his own. Just after Hurricane Dennis blew through, I packed up what little I’d managed to acquire either by shoplifting or spending my hard earned money on and moving in with Tim and his son. He needed help with the kiddo while he was in night school and I became a live-in nanny for him. Suddenly I was working 24 hour days on weekdays. I was grateful Tim Jr,

whom we referred to as “LM” for Little Man, slept most of the night at two years old. I’d ride with Tim after work to where his classes were and drop him off, and then drive his stick shift car back to our apartment in New Smyrna Beach, Florida. Out of necessity I finally learned how to drive a stick shift car. In the coming weeks I got quite proficient with it, but the first couple of days were pretty rough. One day I was given the brutal news that Tim was moving to Colorado to go live with his mom, as the pressures of being on his own in Florida were just too much and he couldn’t afford the rent anymore. I’d been in Florida for only three months, and already I’d moved six times, including my weeks with my cousin against my will. I would have to move again. I was elated, however, when Tim asked if I wanted to go with him. He knew I had been homeless for a time, and he felt that he couldn’t put me back into that situation. His mother flew out to help with the move, and the four of us piled into a car one day after everything was ready to go. I would never get the surgery but I was finally going to leave Florida and the nightmare I’d been living far behind me. Instead, a new nightmare unfolded before me.

Chapter Seventeen Back to Arkansas We were taking a scenic route to visit some of Tim’s family in Ohio when his mother decided that she would no longer tolerate my presence, and she determined that they would be leaving me in Ohio to continue the road trip without me. There, in a state I’d never been to before, I was dumped. Once more I was alone, abandoned by people I had thought I could trust. I’d have been better off being left in Florida. This small town in Ohio had nothing to offer but empty rolling hills and an extremely poor community that could barely afford to feed itself. One emergency phone call later and I had an emergency flight out of Des Moines that night. A complete stranger in a pickup truck gave me a ride into the city. My options had all been taken away and there was nothing more I could do. I got pregnant when I got back to Arkansas. I thought that was what I wanted. I never expected it would end my life and begin a new one where I would be reborn into a survivor and warrior. Everything changed. I have a son. A beautiful little boy named Ethan who turned 20 years old in the year of Covid, August 31 2020. He grew up in Arkansas with his father. That's as far as I usually get when trying to share this story with anyone. Even now I hesitate telling this story for fear that anyone who reads the following words will judgement upon me. So many people take it upon themselves to certain judgement upon me within the first few moments of finding out I have a son living in another state. I will it that my situation is less than favorable, but there is nothing about it that a single person alive fully understands. When my son was born, I went through some very severe complications. It was within hours of his birth that I was rushed into an emergency surgery. From what I understand, my chances of survival were slim. I actually died a total of three times during the surgery. When I came to, something inside of me snapped. It took a few months for the full change to take effect I suppose, but when it hit, it hit like a brick wall. What had made me a woman was ripped from me - the emergency surgery was a

massive hysterectomy that left me physically and mentally scarred for life. No small amount of plastic surgery could ever put me back the way I was or give me back a normal looking stomach. I’d been gutted from my belly button to my pubic hairline. A rather important section of my internal organs had been removed. I lost every bit of the self-respect and confidence I had worked so hard to earn in the brief 2 years I had been away from my parents home. I was now well over 200 lbs, isolated from the world except for my dog, and I now had a constantly screaming baby with Cholic that I wasn’t even allowed to pick up and hold for the first 4 months of his life because of my injuries from surgery. I had no friends, no family, and no way out. THAT was when it hit. Ethan was about 9 months old when I decided that it was best for all involved if I left and got a divorce finally. Clark loved me, I know that. He did for many years after we split up. But that wasn’t what I needed. It wasn’t what I had wanted. It wasn't long before I realized that a baby was just too much for me to manage on my own. I was still reeling from the events that took place in Florida, and how I’d been dumped on the side of the road once more in Ohio. While still pregnant I actually called Tim one night to tell him I was pregnant, hoping he’d do what Clark had done before and come find me, come rescue me. My depressive and continually crumbling mental state was not a healthy place to be. I was feeling as though the only way out was death for myself - or for that of my newborn child. The first time I picked up my screaming, angry baby and shook him, I cried so hard that I felt like I'd never be able to stand on my own again. I set him in the crib, still screaming, and collapsed on the floor in a bawling heap, wondering what I had done in this life to deserve to go through everything I had when I was only 20 years old. Why would I have to suffer abuse for as long as I could and then be entrusted with a child of my own? Why did I think I could raise a child? Why would I be punished so harshly - to be bed ridden for 7 of the 9 months of my pregnancy for fear of losing the baby - to die after labor - to be revived, and to learn a part of me was taken away from me forever - to realize I would never have the choice of having another child again - to feeling like I was the worst mother in the known world, dangerous to my own baby. It was all so utterly and completely unfair, and not just to me. This child deserved a better mom, someone better equipped to handle life. I was weak. I always had been. Still crying, I stood up that day and walked out of the front door to our shanty of a trailer, got in the car, and drove away. I went back about an hour later, but I just

couldn't take it anymore. I had to get out of there. Within a few weeks, I had a job and even a friend lined up to be my roommate. I told my ex I was leaving and that I wanted a divorce. It was an agonizing moment for me, instigating confrontation. I was terrified. At first he would threaten me. He’d show up at my job and beg for me to come home to him. He’d demand that I return, telling me that things would be better, he wouldn't leave me alone for 12 hours a day on my own in the middle of nowhere all week. He wouldn’t demand sex from me anymore. He started following me to see where I lived. I had to get a tape recorder to record the conversations we had outside of my workplace to catch him when he would threaten to have his brother Allen come murder me in my sleep if I thought I was taking his son away from him. After all, Allen had already offered to ‘off’ me if I ever came back from Florida. Clark had even bragged about it once when we were getting along well enough - it was a way for him to brag about how much his family loved him. He was fair and just in the divorce that was held in another county and I was physically unable to attend, and even made sure that I got "Any Reasonable Visitation" with my son. That was what I wanted. I knew I couldn’t take care of a child. I was still a child myself. I didn’t even know how to take care of me yet. I also longed for my freedom from my ex-husband. I had grown to selfishly hate him, though I freely it now that he was a good father. I seemed to lose my mind after I moved out and got a divorce. It was around that time I was gang raped by six young men who found me at Greers Ferry Lake one day, lonely and desperate for attention. I wouldn’t resurface into the world for 24 hours, and nobody even noticed I was gone. Convinced it was, yet again, my fault, I told nobody. Instead I continued on with life in general. I got another job at another restaurant since it seemed to be the only work I was really suited for in a tourist town called Heber Springs. I had my own place for a little while with my cousin’s girlfriend, and we made ends meet. I started hanging out at a pool hall, and as things often seemed to work in my life, I met another man. Yet again, he was considerably older than I was, but he was a good man. My ex hated him, so there was an added bonus. In no time at all we were living together. He taught me how to play pool and how to adopt his mantra of “less stress, better life” that seemed to help me for a long time to come. My temper seemed

to begin to subside and I don’t know if I was no longer angry at the world, but perhaps I just learned how to let it show a whole lot less. Using the analogy of a pool table, he taught me how to aim for what I wanted, and to make sure that I took my time getting there, because rushing into my one shot would all too quickly end that chance and it would be someone else’s turn to go after what I had marked out for myself. Richard had been shot in the head. It was long before I ever met him, but he still carried the bullet in his brain. It had been a .22 calibre bullet that did the damage, and it took him years to learn how to walk again. Even then he walked with a severe limp as much of his right side had been paralyzed. Before that, he had learned how to play pool down in Texas where he grew up, playing for money against the oil men. He’d learned how to play while shooting for $10,000 per ball he told me, and I was in awe. I hung on his every word. He saw potential in me. He knew I would be good with the right coaching. It was the first time I’d felt someone believe in me. When I first started to experience the alienated feeling from my own body parts I didn’t understand it. Part of me was numb, but since it was a part of the sex organs it didn’t alarm me at all. I actually preferred that they would be numb so I wouldn’t have to feel anything ever again, especially and specifically the pain of forced or unwanted intercourse. Richard had never been forceful toward me and never once threatened to rape me, but was always good and patient with me. He almost never forced me to do anything that I didn’t want to do. The birth of my child seemed to bring my parents back into my life. He was the first grandchild of theirs, and the first great grandchild on both sides of the family. But I was such a broken person I didn’t know how to appreciate the time with my son as much as I know I should have. I became very sick when he was still very little and what limited time I’d been able to spend with him drastically reduced yet again. His father also threatened that if I stayed with Richard, I’d never see my son again. Clark even began a rumor around that small town that Richard has been drugging me in order to make me stay with him. Unfortunately there wasn’t much I could do about any of those things, though the rumors about the man who would risk everything to save my life still infuriate me today. The swelling had gotten so bad that I was having difficulty sitting down or even walking without help. I would cry if I tried to roll over in my sleep. Just

crossing the room proved to be impossible. I’d been working in a sub shop, and the swelling started shortly after 9-11 but I didn’t tell anyone and refused to do anything about it for months. If I died, I died. My son wasn’t attached to me anyway, and I figured he shouldn’t be at all, since my life had little to no value and most people didn’t care if I lived or died, including myself. I’d already died once in the emergency hysterectomy after he was born. Why should I cause him pain by bonding with him now only to have me die on him later? Why do to him what my mother had done to me by later on despising him and refusing to be there for him when he needed me most? I had to quit my job because I couldn’t function and I didn’t have medical benefits to get me through anything at all. I couldn’t afford to go to the doctor yet again, and so I decided I simply wouldn’t. Richard decided otherwise. The first doctor he took me to was in Heber Springs, Arkansas. That doctor was an OBGYN who said that it wasn’t an OB issue, it was a urology issue. The next doctor, a urologist, said it wasn’t his territory, it was an OB problem and gave me a referral back to the same doctor I’d already seen. We branched out farther, seeing different specialists in different cities, being bounced back and forth from OB to urology and back to OB again. What nobody knew was that I’d given up before we even saw the first doctor. By the third, I was ready to end my own life to make it stop. The trauma from seeing different ‘lady part’ doctors was enough to cause me to spiral out of control emotionally and mentally. Richard went to every appointment with me and stood by my head to keep me calm, holding my hand every step of the way. I was terrified. Bills piled up and I could no longer do much of anything on my own. I had to travel everywhere I went laying down on a makeshift bed in the back of Richard’s old van. From day to day we weren’t sure if it would get us to where we were going but that didn’t stop Richard from putting forth that effort to keep on going. He told me that he simply knew that someone would be able to help me, but throughout a series of eight different doctors and countless appointments the only things we were able to ascertain was that this was a recurring problem, it was a buildup of poison in the skene's gland that could kill me if it burst, and nobody wanted to mess with it. I’d officially given up on life. I’d never walk again, I’d stay in a wheelchair, and I’d die when it finally decided one night to take me out in my sleep. Everything about my sex organs had been the source of pain and misery for me since a very young age. It seemed only fitting that it would be what would end my life at only 21 years old.

I didn’t even turning 21 years old, it seemed to just be a day that ed me by like any other. The only thing that really stood out was the birthday card I got from my little boy where his father wanted to tell me how much they both loved me. My twisted, warped, damaged brain saw that as my ex-husband wanting to win me back and continually trying to remind me that he’d taken me back after I’d left him the first time, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat. If I would agree to live many miles from anywhere, never complain about his brother Jeff getting grabby with me, allowed him to have sex with me whenever he wanted, and didn’t care if I was ever around people again, that was the right place for me to be. One death was just as bad as the other. I’d rather the cyst have its way and my life would be over. The highlight of my year was when Ben Stein was spotted in the local Walmart around Christmas. It was my first brush with a celebrity since early childhood memories of Florence Henderson and Mr. T being complete opposites in every way. She was a sweetheart. He was anything but. Ben Stein smiled at me while I gazed up at him from my wheelchair. Richard put me back into the back of the van one day. He had one last doctor, just one more he promised. Just one more. I’d heard it before. I was done. I put my foot down, but I couldn’t keep it down. I didn’t have the strength to fight anymore. I was sleeping 16 to 18 hours per day, not caring anymore what happened to me and perfectly resigned to telling Richard how to reach my parents for cremation arrangements. I was done. I just wanted the pain to end. Life was pain. “We know what this is, and we want to help,” that one last doctor told me. I sat there stunned for a moment, not sure what to do or say. Richard had driven his rusty old van all the way down to Little Rock from Heber Springs to get to this one last doctor. I slept most of the way. When we got there I was sedated. When I woke up I did what I always did and got dressed and waited to speak with the doctor. I couldn’t believe what he’d told me. They knew what it was, sure, but they wanted to help? How? Nobody had been able to help, or even willing to help. How could this be? I looked at Richard. He looked at me and smiled. There was a hint of “I told you not to give up” in his eyes. I spotted it through the tears in mine. I didn’t really want to die. “Help?” I still needed clarification. “Yes, you see, this is a skene’s cyst, and one of the worst I’ve ever seen. If it

bursts, the poison will all reverse into your body and you could die in a matter of minutes. It would be incredibly painful.” I hadn’t thought about that part. I thought death would be easy. I hadn’t realized more pain would be involved. “So this is what I want to do. If you’re willing to pay the anesthesiologist I’ll do the surgery for free.” Richard and I exchanged glances again. “Today.” “Today?” Our eyes grew wide. “Right this minute.” He watched our faces. “I don’t think either of you realize how urgent this is. It’s not a matter of if it will burst, it’s a matter of when, and that could be as soon as ten minutes from now. Yes. Today. Right now.” “I have no money,” I cried. This doctor was scaring me. Here I thought all this time I didn’t care anymore and I was just ready to die. But being told that I could die in the next few seconds changed my entire perspective on life and how much of it I still had left to live. Suddenly I didn’t want to die, and yet I knew I would because I couldn’t pay for the sedation. “I do,” Richard announced firmly. “Let's get this done. NOW.” I had no idea he had to call in favors all over town to raise the money, but before we left the hospital that day, my cyst was gone, I was expected to make a full recovery, and every penny of the anesthesiology bill had been paid off. To this day I credit Richard for having saved my life. He was a remarkable person who didn’t deserve what happened next, but it had become my pattern. I entered some of my artwork into a county fair where it won first place and best in show. From there it went to the tri-county fair where it won first place and best in show. From there it went to the state fair, where it won first place and best in show, as well as the ‘gallery award’ meaning it was the best of all artwork submitted in the entire state for every category. It received an invitation to the Worlds Fair, and as it hung on the wall of the next restaurant where I got another job, it was the reason I was introduced to an independent and seemingly wealthy man from California who wanted to take me away from it all. I left Richard and moved to California, leaving behind one broken heart, one small child, and one evil cyst, in exchange for what would turn out to be one of the greatest poisons I’d ever know.

Chapter Eighteen Make it Count Naomi and I had to cut our sessions back to only once a month for a while. The anti-trafficking organization I’d been introduced to her through couldn’t afford to pay for twice a month anymore, and I couldn’t afford it out of pocket since I’d just lost my job. There just wasn’t enough money to go around. I knew I needed to make it count, more than ever. If I was going to get anything out of this, I needed to start talking about the deepest pain of all. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. When I told my story on stage the first time, it was basic cliff notes. The entire story was wrapped up in a fifteen minute talk to a group of 50 people in a church I’d never been to before. I danced awkwardly from one foot to the next, self conscious of how I looked and how others would perceive me. The founder of the anti-trafficking group SHIFT had put the event together and I had another survivor friend in the audience who was recording my talk on my phone for me to share later. Beside her sat a friend from work. It was a full year before I’d lose my job. I standing there in front of the church, in front of dozens of complete strangers, knowing I was about to talk about something that had happened to me for the very first time. I’d never been good at public speaking, and really hated the idea of it all, but I knew it was important. I was being driven to do it, and I couldn’t stop myself. My heart pounded and raced, ringing in my ears, and I was terrified. But as terrified as I was about telling my tale to a bunch of complete strangers, I was even more terrified to tell Naomi. “I knew him for seven years before I ever went over there,” I told her, trying to justify myself for ever having walked into that situation in the first place. I didn’t need to justify myself, and I mentally knew that, but I also felt the compulsion to do so after so many people in the past asked why I had made the decision to be with him if that’s the kind of person he was. “Knew who,” She asked. Of course she knew exactly who I meant, but she needed me to say it. She needed me to put the words together and to do it right,

not just to rush into it because I felt short on time. One hour per month was more than I had before meeting Naomi, but would it be enough? There was no way I’d ever be able to spend an equal amount of time with her as I had been abused during my time with Richard. That would be impossible, especially at one hour a month. My brain tripped over the idea and I lost my composure a moment. My eyebrows furrowed and I fought back the tears. “I knew Richard for seven years before I moved to Scotland.” “And how did you meet him,” she continued the conversation now that I’d finally been brave enough to begin it. “We met online through a dating website.” “Was he living here at the time?” “No, he was in Scotland, and that’s actually why it took seven years to do anything about it.” I’ll never forget the dating website. I don’t think it even exists anymore, but the whole premise of the ‘game’ was to go through photos of the opposite sex and rate them on a scale of 1 to 10 on how ‘hot’ you thought the other person was. This was around 2004 and my ‘smartphone’ wasn’t that smart yet, though I did have one of the top of the line. The tablet phones hadn’t been invented yet, so my phone was a full keyboard palm pilot with the ability to make phone calls and text messages without hitting the 7 key four times to create the letter “S” and I thought it was fancy. It didn’t do things like take photos or play games other than a snake eating apples game that was extremely basic in design. I actually still had to use a full blown computer to use websites like MySpace and Flickr photo storage. Facebook hadn’t been invented yet. That means when I met Richard, our entire interaction was through that dating website, and we had no other form of actual communication aside from email. I’d been flipping through photos for a few hours, randomly rating what men looked like. I was always strange in my way of rating a man’s looks though. While others would often rate men based on the shape of their jaw line or hairline or the original price tag of the car in the photo with them, I would rate men on how pretty their eyes were. I felt that there was a lot that could be discovered by someone’s eyes. I believed I could tell how kind or cruel someone was by the way their eyes smiled for the camera. It wasn’t about the

teeth or the hairline or the jawline or the perceived income for me. I wanted to see into someone’s soul, and the eyes were the best way to do it. Two photos came up, one after another, and both men had these ice blue sparking, incredibly blue eyes. Both of them deserved a ten from me. I didn’t know if I’d ever get a response from either one, but I knew I had to try. Meanwhile, my own score was somewhere between a four and a five, which didn’t help my sense of inferiority at all. I’d also been seen as a sex object since I was four, so if I wasn’t pretty enough to rate higher than that, what did that mean about the rest of me? My fragile self-view was vilified by that website. I wanted to make it count. I wanted some positive and I wanted to get better scores because to me all of life was a competition. I wasn’t competing against the girls I couldn’t see, but I was competing against the score I currently had and the perception of how others saw my value. To me, my value was completely wrapped up in how others saw me physically. I had my California boyfriend still, the one I left Richard for. He was a rolly poley man in his 50s compared to my young 24 year old self. He worked long hours from home as an IT consultant, slept on the couch, and generally didn’t go anywhere. He liked going places with me on his arm in order to show me off and liked taking me shopping though. I never had fine clothes before, and he introduced me to the world of better fashion. I became his living doll that he’d dress up and take out on the town. He wanted people to think he was a supreme being because of what he was able to get in his life, and I wasn’t a who. I was a what. He also compared me to his deceased ex who he claimed was killed in a drunk driving accident in Ireland. Before we really got our relationship off of the ground, I was living with him in Los Angeles with his promises of my going to college to get a degree in something or other. Of course that never happened. I was wanting out early on and I had nowhere to go. It was a familiar feeling. I talked my boyfriend, who fancied himself to be a gifted photographer, into taking some nice photos of me at the beach. Then, when I wasn’t thrilled with his photos, I set up a meeting with a local photographer through MySpace in order to get more. I wanted something worth rating on that stupid dating website. I needed to make it count. We took a total of six usable photos and I was disappointed because they weren’t the quality I’d hoped for. They would do, but the sun had been incredibly harsh

that day and the shadows across my face were deep. I’d need to continue trying to get better photos. I’d keep trying for many years to come, simply because I needed to compete with the photos that were last taken. It became an obsession to do better than the last ones. That was when I met Richard and my second ex husband. They were the two blue eyed men whose photos showed up one after the other. One lived about 25 miles away, the other lived about 5,000 miles away. I liked both and began building communications with them both. Chris came to visit me at work one day. It was the first time I ever met the man. I was a waitress yet again, he arrived and asked to be seated in my section. There he gave me a portrait he had drawn of me and a single red rose, and I was smitten. He was all of five feet tall and a stunt double for kids and teens in the movies, so I was thoroughly impressed. He worked in Hollywood! It didn’t matter how tall (or short) he was, I liked him right away. Yet I continued talking to Richard, too. He had a little red haired daughter who was just precious. We shared photos back and forth, writing at least once a day, and keeping in touch when we could. I didn’t have the courage to tell him or my boyfriend at the time that I’d met Chris, and things were rocky enough as they were in my home life. My boyfriend and I began fighting regularly. I was upset that I’d caught him watching porn on his computer when he would never come to bed and sleep beside me, and I felt as though I wasn’t nearly as appealing as the girls in his videos. We never went anywhere or did anything anymore, and if I asked why, he said it was because he was trying to make lots of money so he could take me on fancy trips. I didn’t necessarily want fancy trips. We’d been to already, and Catalina Island, and New Orleans, and Prague, but when we were traveling we still didn’t spend any time together. I felt rejected. I also felt rejected because he didn’t seem interested in having sex with me, and I’d already been conditioned to believe that if a man didn’t want to have sex with me, I wasn’t of any use to them. I held no other value. When we fought one day so loudly that the neighbors shouted at us and I ran into the bedroom to slam the door, things got worse than ever. He grew overly angry at me because he’d found the dating website on the computer and was demanding answers, like my information. I refused, and even went so far

as to lie about it. He beat on the door demanding that I open it. I locked it instead. He found a coat hanger and straightened it out to unlock the door, and with his sheer size, he was able to force the door open and force me backward. He burst into the room as I sprinted for the back door at the opposite corner of the room around the bed. He grabbed me at the corner. His arm grabbed my shoulder and as he spun me around my hair was caught in his hand. My head jerked as he continued to force me to turn around, my hair making slight ‘plink’ sounds as it ripped free from my scalp. He then threw me backward onto the bed and I landed with my body from the knees up, on my back. I was angry at being forced onto the bed, and frightened terribly, and I lashed out as hard as I could. My right foot hit his paunch and slid down his gut, landing squarely in the balls. He doubled over, I rolled off the bed, and I sprinted out of the room through the back door finally. I ran all the way to a nearby store before calling Chris and begging him to come get me. I had nowhere else to go.

Chapter Nineteen I Do My own Stunts Chris was overjoyed to have me in his life. We’d known one another for only a matter of days. He didn’t know I had a son, and I didn’t know he lived with his mother. He didn’t know I had a violent past, and I didn’t know he had a violent problem with jealousy. These were all things we would learn with time, except the fact that he lived with his parents. That became obvious within minutes. “I live with my mom and dad. It’s not that I’ve always lived with them, but I do now because of school. I don’t want you to be surprised.” “I don’t care,” I telling him. I truly didn’t care. I was happy to be away from the twisted man in Redondo Beach. I think he could see in my face that I genuinely didn’t care, and he seemed surprised. He had no idea that I didn’t care because compared to some of the places I’d lived in my past, it was an live with someone’s family. I was sure he’d been judged harshly by previous relationships for living with his mother. “I have my own room downstairs, and even my own entrance and exit from the house if you don’t want to go through the front door.” I wondered if he’d sneak me into his room and even asked. I’d had that happen in my past too, but not by a 38 year old man. “No, I told my mom where I was going. She knows you’re coming back with me. She said you can stay with us.” A wave of relief washed over me until I ed Tim’s mom and the way she had betrayed me, leaving me on the side of the road in Ohio after giving me reason to trust her. No mothers could be trusted. My own was the first to prove that. His mother was smaller than he was. He stood just over 5’ tall and his mother was right around 4’11”, a little bundle of everything I’d always believed a mother should be. A delightful cook with a jolly smile, she managed to ‘make do’ in a kitchen that had no stove or oven. To this day I have no idea how she made spaghetti using a microwave, but it was always good with her homemade sauce. She was crafty too. She helped to stitch and sew some of the greatest cosplay costumes I’d ever seen. Although I’d never experienced that side of the

world before, so any that I saw were the first that I saw. Chris had been a stunt double in the entertainment industry. He’d been Danny DeVito’s stunt double as the Penguin in one of the Batman movies, as well as a Klingon in a few episodes of Star Trek, and even a Ferengi once. He had learned from experience what a difference a quality made costume could make, and he had a closet full of things that blew my mind. He could become almost anyone he wanted to. By the time I had the full tour, we’d already decided that we would be attending Comicon together in San Diego, him as Spiderman and me as a movie accurate version of Mary Jane. A whole new world had just been set before me and I couldn’t wait to explore it all. This actually sounded like fun!

One month to the day after we met, Chris and I were married in the Little White Chapel in Las Vegas. I never told him about the last time I’d been to Vegas, and I was determined to make positive memories this time around. That was exactly what we did. He was the first man I truly loved since my heart was broken at 18 years old by Dan. I was now 24 and finally feeling as though my life was getting on track. Chris, I simply knew, was the love of my life. I completely forgot about Richard in Scotland. He was a distant memory, fading daily into someone I once knew, like so many others I had known in my travels. I wondered if I hurt his feelings by disappearing the way I did, but also figured he was like everyone else I’d ever known and that I’d soon be long forgotten. I got a job at one restaurant after another, and then a job at FedEx Kinkos. I cut all my hair off into a pixie cut at the prompting of Chris. I attended Renaissance fairs for the first time, and even had beautiful costumes custom made. I went to Comicon where I was told I made a better Mary Jane than Kirsten Dunst herself. I began my modeling career, posing for different photographers in the area and occasionally even getting paid for them. At my husband’s encouragement, I signed up to be an extra in the movie industry. I dyed my hair an unrealistically bright shade of copper orange. Everything about me changed. For the first time in my adult life, I let go of the fear of Mickie and Carlo ever finding me again, at least for a while. I could finally live my life. I finally had peace. I could be happy. School was about to start up again and Chris needed some books for his classes. I went with him as I usually did if I had time off work, and as we browsed I

could feel eyes burning a hole in the back of my spine. A stranger was standing there staring at me, and I managed to successfully ignore him while I browsed the art books. It was something I’d become accustomed to since starting my modeling career. I was thin and lean, and my short, bright hair really made me stand out. People stared. I didn’t care. I’d been nothing more than an object since I was four years old. That was all anyone wanted when they stared at me like that, was to see me once more as an object. I appreciated being noticed finally, but it meant nothing. Apparently it didn’t mean “nothing” to my second husband. I was wearing my absolute most favorite dress that day, a bright fuchsia dress we’d found at a goodwill store around town with a bias cut and a cut down the right leg. It came to my shins, and the spaghetti straps showed off my shapely shoulders and mid-back. My husband, who had been browsing some science books looking for a particular one, snuck up behind the unsuspecting stranger and accosted him with words. “You like what you’re looking at?” He screamed it. “That’s my WIFE!” He shrieked the last three words. Chills ran down my spine. I turned around to see the stranger staring at my husband with a truly perplexed expression. My brow furrowed and I felt flush from embarrassment. Tears began streaming down my face as I stood there staring at him. The stranger shrugged and walked away, while the rest of the bookstore just stared at the short little man with his arms loaded with books, angrily glaring at me. “Come on, we’re leaving,” he demanded of me as he made his way to the to pay for his finds. Silently I followed with my head held low, incredibly obedient much to my own surprise. The cashier rang up the first book and I watched as the barcode slid across the counter. The machine made a little ‘beep’ sound and that was all it took. Something inside me went ‘beep’ and I couldn’t stand there anymore and do nothing. I turned without a word and walked right out of the store. I didn’t stop when Chris asked me to stop. I wouldn’t turn around. I wouldn’t look at him. There was nothing positive inside me to offer him. For that moment, because of everything I’d experienced in my life, I completely forgot that I loved him at all. I just wanted to get as far away from him as I could. Of course he’d driven us to the Pasadena City College bookstore and he would also be my ride home since we lived a few miles away in Eagle Rock. I had no money for a taxi. I got all the way out to where the car was parked with Chris literally hopping mad

beside me. Each time his feet left the ground he’d start another statement of apology or onishment. One moment he was sorry for the way he’d acted, the next moment he was blaming me for it. I cried silently and wordlessly, refusing to say a word to him, refusing to look at him because I was crying. He finally unlocked the mustang and I got into the enger seat. We both sat in the car a moment without him even starting it up. Neither of us knew what to say. I stared out of the side window and was instantly transported back to several years previous when Philip slapped me while we were in a parking lot because he’d been angry about something. I’d stared out the enger window that day, too. Finally the car roared to life and Chris began to drive. He pulled onto the road and spoke. “I don’t ever want you to wear that dress again,” he demanded. I loved that dress. It had been my absolute favorite since the day we purchased it at a Goodwill. It had been in several modeling photo shoots. But after everything else I’d been through, I would not sit there and be dictated to on what I would and would not be allowed to wear. I reached down to the small split up my right leg, grabbed both sides of the hem in each hand, and let go of all of my anger for the past 25 years into the poor dress that never deserved it. The whole thing split, clear to my armpit. Chris pulled the car to the side of the road and stared at me, his mouth hanging wide open. I was exposing everything not covered by panties to the whole world within the confines of his car. “What’d you do that for,” he cried out in horror. Through stifled tears I responded with the truth. “You said I could never wear it again. I just made sure that I never could.” “But I loved that dress,” he pleaded. “So did I.” My teeth ground. We rode home in silence. When we got there he fetched a bathrobe for me so I could go downstairs without being naked in the living room or his parents discovering what had happened. We didn’t speak for days. He sold the Mustang and bought two matching older Miatas for us as a way to make up for what he’d done to me. For a while I forgave him. I loved having my new found freedom. It was the first car I ever had in my name and my name

only. I was incredibly proud of that car. Some time after that incident I was offered a recurring role on the final season of Will & Grace after making a brief appearance on Alias, and then Will & Grace, successfully impressing the casting director. It should have opened doors. Instead it became the final straw in our marriage. “I’ve been in that industry for a decade,” he told me after I gave him the news. I thought he’d be excited for me. I thought he’d be proud. I was about to be someone! I couldn’t have been more wrong. “You don’t get offered a recurring role in anything as a woman unless you’re actually blowing someone. So who is it, are you sleeping with the casting director? One of the other actors? Who?” I was incredulous. “Excuse me,” I demanded. “No! I wouldn’t do that!” I was telling the truth. In the past I’d done what I had to do in order to no longer be homeless or to not get killed, or worse,, but I wouldn’t dream of doing that to Chris. That industry didn’t mean that much to me. It didn’t mean the difference between being safe and dry or being hungry and cold. I couldn’t understand where this was coming from. “You liar!” He shrieked at me, picked up a two foot long Lego replica of the Millenium Falcon, and threw it at my head. It wasn’t hard to dodge, but it exploded with a disastrous sound behind me against the closet wall. Instantly the plan in my mind was formed and I knew I’d be leaving him exactly how I left Philip. I began to strategize. I did finally have a mobile phone of my own, and I went for a walk that day trying to figure out what I was going to do exactly. I came back several hours later with a solid plan in my head and an accomplice available to help me out. In a matter of days, I vanished. I’d gotten my first ever real office job and I was so proud to be working in a high rise on the Miracle Mile in Beverly Hills. I hated the job, but the location made up for that. I could see the La Brea Tar Pits from the window if I stood up and walked over. Chris knew where I was working before I left him and he’d assumed I hadn’t left that job yet. Of course, he was right. The way it was explained to me, he showed up at my work one day and waited for me to go to lunch. He walked into my office with a single long stem rose and

a very morose expression on his face. In a flat monotone voice, he asked the office secretary where I was. From the tone of his voice alone, she was frightened. She told him I was at lunch, desperately hoping that he would leave. Secretly she planned to call me the second he walked back out of the office and started to head for the elevator. Except he didn't leave. "Is this her chair," he asked, spotting a picture on my desk identifying it as mine. "Yes, it is. I'm sorry but you'll have to go now. She isn't here." "So this is her desk," he continued, running his fingers over my keyboard, the edge of the desk, the lip of my coffee cup, down the length of an ink pen laying flat... "Y-y-yeah," she stammered, "but you'll have to..." "You said that already," he said, cutting her off in that same, flat, monotone voice. She was truly scared of him, even though he was quite a bit smaller than she was. "Don't worry. I'll leave. But I'll ask you to do something for me before I go." "W-what's that," she asked. "Tell her," he paused, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. He stood up, placed the rose across the desk in front of the keyboard, and looked back at the secretary with a steely cold stare, "that I was here." As if that whole scenario wasn't scary enough, he then went downstairs and decided to wait for me to return from lunch. All of the elevators in my building were in the same place, so it wasn't hard to figure out how to find me. At some point I would HAVE to walk through the lobby on my way to the elevators. He spotted me through the glass walls before I even reached the front doors and came running outside in front of me. As soon as I saw him, a lump sprang up into my throat and began to pound in my brain. My ears rang with the power of the reverberation of my beating, pulsing heart. I turned away from him and began to walk back in the direction I had come from. I could find salvation in the nearby restaurant with my coworkers. I ed that I had a friend on their way to see me to drop off my revamped resume, maybe they could help.

My ex ran around in front of me and I had to veer off to the left, away from the restaurant. He stepped in front of me again. I turned around and headed for my office. My high heels prevented me from running, and had I taken the time to remove them I could have easily been thrown off balance and hurt. He jumped in front of me again and I turned around once more. Over and over he paced me, darted in front of me, yelled, screamed, cried, threatened and grabbed at me. People were everywhere - it may have been the only thing that saved me. They started to look and stare, but yet again not one single person was willing to speak out or get involved in what was clearly a case of domestic violence. Who was this man trying so hard to stop the girl on her way to work? And yet not a soul called the police. Not a soul offered any help. Not a soul would lift a finger. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the first number in my phone's memory, the person coming with my resume. Chris grabbed the phone out of my hand but not before the person on the other end picked up. I yelled at the phone as he thrust it at me, taunting me with it, shrieking to ask who it was I was calling. "Help!" I screamed at the phone in a deep, rattling, guttural scream, panicked for only the briefest of moments. Then, as easy as if I were doing nothing but sitting on the porch sipping a glass of iced tea in an Arkansas summer, I relaxed and continued the exhausting pace of walking back and forth along the sidewalk, waiting for someone to help me. I showed no panic, and in fact smiled and nodded at people, in spite of my abundant fear. That seemingly calm demeanor only angered him more. I didn't respond. I wouldn't look at him. I just kept walking. Suddenly a large green SUV pulled up to the curb not far away from me. I turned again to force my ex to jump in front of me again. I walked about three paces before I suddenly spun around. In spite of the high heels I took off at a dead run. I ran to the street and grabbed the enger side door handle of the green truck and yanked the door open. I jumped in, slammed it shut behind me and locked it securely with one motion. The green SUV tore off around the corner, squealing tires as we went. Bill had shown up, just in time. Chris screamed after the truck “You belong to me and to no one else. You are MINE." I got a restraining order against Chris the following day. It wasn't even by choice, but was rather decided at work that if I didn't get one, I wouldn't have a

job. Two weeks later I was fired anyway.

Chapter Twenty A Reunion of Sorts “So how did you and Richard get reconnected,” Naomi asked, not wanting me to lose focus. “I’d gone back to Bill because I had nowhere else to go. I hadn’t done that before.” “You mean other than going back to Clark,” she reminded me. “Oh,” I nodded, not realizing how parallel the two had been. “I guess so.” “So what happened?” “I started a blog,” I explained. I didn’t know how to start the story any other way. “I got another job, and I started a blog. That was eventually how we reconnected.” “When did you start the blog,” she asked. “It was in March of 2006, my divorce wasn’t final yet, and things were already going bad with Bill. Nothing had changed, but I also knew nothing with him was ever going to change.” I ed it clearly. It was the day Bill had asked me to go ring shopping with him so that we could plan to be married.

Mar 22, 2006 8:53 PM

Well, here we go again. I have a major decision to make. It's a yes or no question. Yes would be a lie, but would provide me with temp stability. No would be honest, but would land me on the streets. Maybe would not only be a lie, but also has the potential of landing me on the streets.

It seems as though no matter how I answer, it's not going to turn out so good for me. I have to believe in the old standard that when all else fails, tell the truth. That's what I'm going to do... to an extent. I can't see any other option. I'm trying to postpone the question by bringing up "money" issues, other events, making alternative plans, and coming up with other ideas. Still, I dont think I'm going to be able to postpone it forever.

So - here goes. I'm going to tell the truth, no matter the consequences. I'm tough. I've been through worse. MUCH worse.

Mar 24, 2006 8:27 AM

I've not been happy with the relationship I'm currently in. Yes, it's turned into a monotonous event, having to go home to HIM every day. Yeah, the Enforcer. The Warden. And my personal favorite nickname ... The ASS.

Anyway, lately he's decided that he wants to try sleeping in the bed again after not doing so for so long now. I began wearing clothes to bed to cover myself because the thought of having him next to me makes me feel uncomfortable. I've also started sleeping on the couch on the days he comes to bed - if I can wake up enough to do so. Most of the time his obnoxious snoring is more than enough assistance with my waking up. Last night for some reason, he didn't snore as loudly so I didn't wake up and sleep on the couch. Instead, I woke up feeling his hands on me with him trying to wake me up for sex. It made my spine crawl... I felt horribly disgusting suddenly.

I tried to roll out of bed and jump in the shower, but it was only 6:00 and I normally don't get up until 6:30. I feigned a weak stomach so as not to hurt his

precious feelings, and tried to explain that I had a lot to do. Again I tried to get out of bed, and again he held me back, forcing me back into bed. Finally, I told him point blank "STOP. I'm getting UP!"

As any man would be, he was upset. He pouted and moped about for a while, and asked me what was going on with me. What was I to tell him? Well, I told him the truth. Plain and simple. It came out in an explosion of screams, shouts, cries, and slams. I was angry, I was fed up, I was broken and I was done with everything that had to do with him.

"God Damn it, I'm not here for you to just screw when you feel like it! You've not wanted anything to do with me now for months, and now that it's suddenly convenient for you, you want to screw me in the morning before I'm even awake? I'm not in the mood for this bullshit! You weren't there for me when I needed you, and I moved on. I got used to it. Don't expect me to suddenly think that everything is the way it was when I moved back in with you in August. You've fallen back into your rut! I stopped wanting you to come to bed about 3 months ago. Now it’s just too late! I'm done!"

"You could have told me you weren't in the mood," he said back to me.

"I was trying to be nice about it."

"When are you moving out?" I had a feeling he knew, but this was confirmation... he did know. What was I supposed to say? I told him the truth.

"I don't know. I don't have anywhere to go right now." We’d made it to the kitchen. I started moping at my wet face with a dish towel at this point.

"My best friend's son told me last night that he read your blog on Myspace and he said you were moving out. Do you know how embarrassing that is to find out from my friend’s SON?"

"You know, it wasn't exactly a hidden blog. You could have read it any time you wanted to. You know the URL to my blog. You could have gone there if you had wished. In fact, the day you asked me to go ring shopping with you is up there right now. Maybe you should start with that one. It pretty much says you must be out of your fucking mind! You were too oblivious and caught up in your own little world to notice anything going on in mine! You know, you scared the shit out of me when you asked me to dinner for tonight. I thought for sure you were going to ask me to marry you tonight. I don't know if you were or not, and honestly right now I don't really care to know. I just know that neither of us want or need that right now." I took a deep breath, calmed myself a bit, and tried again. "I don't want to argue about this anymore. I'm not happy here, as I'm sure you know already. I cant keep doing this anymore."

"All I've tried to do is have a meaningful, loving, and honest relationship with you and all I get from you are lies."

THAT is when I grabbed my purse, walked out the door, and slammed it behind me. I got all the way to the car before I realized that I still had the dish towel and no cell phone. I had to go back to the house. I started my car, took a deep breath, and went back upstairs. I opened the door to find him bent over his computer in the usual position I find him in, hunched over like an old man. He was, of course, watching pornography. I threw the towel down, grabbed my phone, and headed back for the door.

"Here. Give this CD to your boss and tell her there's nothing on it." I snatched the CD out of his hand. "You have a few minutes still. Can't we just talk for

another minute?"

"Nope. I'm done."

I got to work 30 minutes early today. And that is where it stands.

Mar 30, 2006 10:56 AM

Yes, the winds are changing. The once strong westward gale sweeping me out to be lost at sea has now changed directions. Now an eastward breeze has decided to grace me with it's cool, sweet breath. I've found my apartment.

There has been an understanding that has finally been reached within my household. We both know that I won't be staying much longer and that there is nothing that he can do to change that. It leaves me in an uncomfortable situation at the moment because I'm stuck staying with him until I move out. However, we also both understand that I have my own life now and that if I choose to do things without his knowledge it's (finally) none of his business.

Unfortunately I've got visitors in from out of town, so the faces have to be painted on, and the smiles have to be prominent. As soon as they're gone, I am too. I'm not able to move into my place until the 8th of April at the very earliest, and I may be a little short of funding in order to do so even then. I may have to wait until the 15th, but I'm willing to wait if I have to. Finally, things are falling into place.

Mar 31, 2006 8:19 AM

Some time ago, the Warden lost his digital camera, and I was wanting a picture of our friends just in case I am not able to remain friends with them after I move out. They are his friends first, and you never know how someone will react to such a breakup. I didn't tell him that - only that I wanted a picture of them.

I gave him my little camera as we were getting ready to go, and asked if he could look it over since he's a professional photographer and make sure the settings are right and that it's actually working. He said he would. I went to the bathroom and got finished with my makeup.

The time came and we left for the restaurant. We got there, had a few drinks, had a bite to eat, watched Gary Chandling do some stand up comedy (He just came in unannounced and started, much to the surprise of everyone there.) and we mostly had a great time. Bill was clingy, continually pawing at me and wanting to be openly affectionate and wanting to kiss me constantly. I shrugged it off and went on. He had started to turn my stomach.

The end of the night rolls around, I ask him to take a picture of me with my friend Patty. He kept walking away and expected us to stand outside in the freezing cold in skimpy dresses so he could take the picture. That was bad enough. When we got there, Patty and her boyfriend posed for a picture and The Warden tried to take it with the camera, which immediately did a delay shot, screwing it up entirely. Bill and Patty thought it had been taken, and I said as nicely as possible, and as quietly as possible, "That's why I asked you to look it over at the house." Somehow I knew that I’d done something to screw it up. He shot me a dirty look. Maybe I didn’t have that much nice left in me.

Boy, that was one of the most uncomfortable car rides home I've ever been in.

Once there, he followed me to the bedroom and said "You aren't even going to say you're sorry? What the hell was that comment supposed to mean back there?"

I responded by saying "Nobody but you heard what I said. I didn't say anything wrong, only that I didn't want you to embarrass yourself and put our friends out while you tried to work on the camera out in the cold night air."

"So, you aren't even going to say you're sorry?"

"For what?"

At this point it was apparent that he wasn't going to let me be, so I went to the bedroom and locked the door. It was late and I wanted to go to bed. I changed into my sweats while he yelled at me from the other side.

"Unlock this door! Unlock this door right now!"

"Nope. Not interested. Not until I'm sure there's not going to be someone there trying to start shit with someone who's trying to go to bed."

I got all done changing and unlocked the door, only to walk right past him to the bathroom, where I proceeded to tell him, "It's all yours", and then I closed and locked the bathroom door.

When I came out and went back to the bedroom, he followed me again. "You just can't take any kind of responsibility for anything, can you?" I'll it that maybe what I said to him in the first place came out wrong, but seriously, was it necessary for him to start this garbage with me? I don't believe so personally. He kept on and I needed to speak up.

"Look. The way I see it, you've got 2 options. You can either leave now and let me go to sleep, or you can get out of my way as I pack in order to go find a hotel room for the night. I have to work in the morning. Good night."

When I told him I was going to get a hotel room if he didn't leave me alone he shot back with ...

"What are you saying, you're moving out?"

"Nope. I'm saying that I want to go to sleep. Do you really think I would move out in the middle of the night when I have to work in the morning?" And I smirked. You should have seen his face turn red when I smirked!!! He left and slept on the couch. Around 5:30 this morning, he came to bed, and I got up as soon as he began to snore. I've been up ever since.

Apr 2, 2006 4:33 PM

Bill told me to go apartment hunting yesterday. I just paid $350 for new brakes on my car. Yesterday was the 2 year anniversary of my Grandpa's Death. (My dad’s dad. My mom’s dad died on my 16th birthday.) There are only 6 days left

before I move into my new place!

Apr 12, 2006 9:29 AM

That proverbial shit has finally hit the fan.

What perfect timing!!!

The place I wanted fell through, but I found out last night rather late in the afternoon that I've been approved for the other apartment I was looking at. I just have to take my deposit and sign the contract today, and I'm set! I went to dinner and came back rather late. I was thinking this wouldn't be an issue since I hadn't seen the man since Saturday morning anyway. He got in really late on Monday, leaving me alone for dinner. I never ate that night, thinking he was going to come in and it would only piss him off if I ate alone. I also never had lunch Monday, and I never eat breakfast. I was starving.

Yesterday, I came in around 9:30 at night. He was livid! Never mind that he wasn't home Sunday night OR Monday night until very late... suddenly he felt as though he had every right to know every step of my day. He also felt as though he had every right to my reimbursement check from the insurance company for my rental car while my car was being repaired from a hit and run driver, knowing I couldn’t afford to move without it. He expected to trap me again. He snatched it out of my hands with a scowl.

"Good luck cashing a check in my name." I smiled in his face.

"I'm not going to try. YOU are going to sign it over to me!"

"Hmm... Interesting." I smiled again. His face reddened. I remained devoid of emotions. I felt nothing for him anymore. He couldn’t make me mad. He couldn’t make me cry. He couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do anymore. There was nothing there.

"You're not getting it back until you agree to sign it over to me."

"Then it's a good thing I can have them issue another, huh?" I didn't tell him I needed that check to cover the last bit of my deposit. Without it, I'd be stuck there with him for another few weeks!

"Grab a pen and sign it over to me. NOW."

"Ahh, no." I held out my hand. This time the scowl was of defeat. He knew I had beaten him at his petty game.

"Sign it over! NOW!"

"Nope. Not gonna happen. It's now 9:43 p.m. and I'm going to bed."

"When are you moving out?"

"Ok, it's now 9:44 p.m. and I'm going to bed."

"Ooh, so you can count! I'm soooo proud of you. Quit being a cunt and tell me when you're moving out." I felt my eyes roll.

Still fully dressed still, I pulled back the covers on the bed and climbed in. I pulled them up to my chin as usual, faced the far wall, and closed my eyes. I don't really what he said at that point, but he finally left, closing the door behind him. As soon as I heard it slam closed, I scrambled out of bed and silently locked it behind him. That's when I got to work.

I ran around gathering the boxes I've been so careful to pack over the past few weeks, a little at a time to where he wouldn't notice anything was missing. I started with a gigantic plastic tub high on a shelf where he never looks. I placed that on the floor near the back door in the bedroom, concealed by the bed. Then I started reaching in nooks and crannies all over the bedroom, pulling out shoe boxes of all shapes and sizes. Some were stuffed with pictures, others with books, another with medicine cabinet stuff, and yet another with socks. Two were full of my DVD's even. I packed those about two weeks ago and he never noticed! The man never noticed anything when it came to me.

I grabbed my decorative pillows Sue made (Chris’ mom) that he never allowed me to display. They had been shoved into one of the cabinets. Next out came my grandmother’s quilt and a hand crocheted tablecloth. All of these things were piled up on top of the large plastic tub. That was more than enough to fill my tiny car. It's a good thing I like to play Tetris.

I hopped back into bed around 11:30 and finally drifted off to sleep after setting my alarm to go off at 6:00 a.m. When I woke up, the alarm hadn't gone off yet. I was up and at it by 5:30. It was still moderately dark outside - the perfect cover.

I didn't even worry about my bedhead (which with short hair, I ALWAYS have these days) and just started hauling stuff out to my car, silently as possible. When I got everything that I had by the back door safely loaded into my car, I realized that maybe I played Tetris too much. I had some room left over!

This is where the challenge came in. Bill was still snoring on the couch. I had things in the living room I needed to get to. I slowly eased the door open just enough to slide my body through the doorway. I crept within inches of him as I made my way toward the kitchen. I grabbed things I had strategically placed all over the kitchen over the past weeks so once they were gone they would not be noticed. Then I crept silently back to the bedroom. After putting everything down, I braced myself for another trip to the kitchen and living room. I needed my briefcase and a few other things. I filled my hands and slipped back to the back door again. Another trip. And another. Finally I was headed to the Scotch cabinet. I've got two of my own bottles I was NOT about to leave behind.

On my last trip to the bedroom I saw something out of the corner of my eye that caught my attention - unusual keys. They weren't unusual in the sense that they looked different than anything else really, but the keychain looked familiar in a far away sense. The Keychain had a familiar print on it... Enterprise. We'll Pick You Up. Underneath was written in messy handwriting ...

Color : Black

Model :Mustang Convertible

Enraged at ing a black mustang convertible following me as I went to lunch yesterday, I picked the keys up and looked at them. Then I tucked them

neatly into a coffee can nearby... just to let him know. The hidden message of "I know about this" goes a long way.

Then I went back to the bedroom, loaded my car with the new pile of things, and drove away.

Apr 12, 2006 1:07 PM

I want to cry... I never ask for help. I'm going to be $350 short for my apartment deposit! What am I going to do?! I have to turn it in today!!!

From Bill today...

12 April 2006, 7:00AM

Amanda -

What a disappointment. I shouldn't be surprised by this, of course Your absolute inability to honor any agreement you make. Last night you agreed to three things.

1) You owe me $1432 which I paid toward your car rental and repair. This was in the form of a $300 loan until you got your next paycheck to cover the final car rental charge and $1132 paid as the balance due on your car's paint work.

(That's fine. Does he expect me to pay him in pennies? We already agreed to this, and that I would pay him back as I could... payments every month.)

2) You would endorse the Mercury Insurance check over to me as payment toward that amount.

(We agreed that I would need this check for my apartment deposit if he wanted to get rid of me)

3) You would sign a promissory note for $1200 before you took the iBook.

(I left the computer in the drawer under the bed. I didn’t even take it, he just didn’t see it. I've got the agreement typed up, ready to sign, but don't think I will now.)

Since you snuck out of here with both the check and the iBook, it is clear that you have no intention of honoring even a commitment you made less than 10 hours ago. I'm left to wonder if you actually expect me to continue to honor commitments I made to you.

You and I both know that I have, for many years, put concerns for you far ahead of concerns for myself. Even in the face of scores of lies in 2004 and your leaving to marry someone you'd just met, I gave you $500 because I was concerned for your well being. (He had no idea what I was doing at the time. He didn't even know about Chirs! Chris and I hadn’t made plans to get married. What a load of Bullshit!) Time and time again you have worked hard to prove to

me that my faith in you and my trust in you are misplaced. (What a complete asshole!) True to form, you're working hard to turn our relationship adversarial again, though I have been nothing but loving and understanding and civil (by calling me a ‘see you next Tuesday” last night, when all I did was stay calm) as you claimed to need time to "figure out what you're doing".

Your actions today are yet another example in a long string of examples. Amanda is only concerned about Amanda. I would be an idiot to trust you to not do anything you can to further your own ends at this point, including lie cheat and steal from me to do it. You have already lied, cheated and stolen. (Not hardly!)

Please be advised that the locks at [home address] will have been changed by the time you read this. Sadly I simply cannot afford to continue to trust you to have a key to my apartment. I will, as I did last time, gather your remaining belongings and box them up carefully. I will meet with you at some other location and come to a legal agreement with you about the money you owe me. True to MY form, I expect only to be reimbursed for money you have previously agreed to reimburse me for. When we have a signed agreement in place, I will deliver your belongings wherever you choose. And we will be done.

I still love you Amanda and I still want the best for you. But you have (no doubt intentionally) made it impossible for me to continue to be any part of your life. So be it.

Sincerely, and with a very sad heart. (Like I believe that at this point...) Bill

By the way, I can't imagine why you'd think you'd need to get the police involved in this, but then you've never been able to explain to me why you thought you needed to involve them in April of 2004. Be advised, though, that

making a false statement to the police is a crime. Any false statements you make to the police involving me will be taken seriously by me this time around.

I NEVER made a single false statement about him! NEVER! I've defended the man, his honor, and his dignity to all those who've been telling me he doesn't deserve so much and that he's abusive and controlling!

What am I going to do?! Without my reimbursement check I can't get this place, and I have NO clothes to wear until I get paid next. What has he done?! What have I done?! I just don't see any way out of it this time. I called him and left a voicemail telling him my computer is under the bed and reminding him of our agreement on the check. I also offered to increase the promissory note so he won't have to deal with me anymore. I'm afraid this time he's got the upper hand, though. Most likely he won't go for it.

Apr 12, 2006 4:21 PM

I've REFUSED once more to allow him the upper hand. See my response to his email below.

Shall I address these one at a time?

1) You owe me $1432 which I paid toward your car rental and repair. This was in the form of a $300 loan until you got your next pay check to cover the final car rental charge and $1132 paid as the balance due on your cars paint work.

*We agreed last night, did we not, that I could not physically pay you back for this all at once and would include this amount in the promissory note.

2) You would endorse the Mercury Insurance check over to me as payment toward that amount.

*I thought you released the whole stupid notion of the reimbursement check because you wanted so badly to get rid of me and I would need it for any kind of a deposit on an appartment. HOWEVER... IF you are willing to give me a key to the place and stay there until I can AFFORD a place, then I will give you every red cent from the check - no questions asked. I will need that guarantee before handing you a dime, though. My first concern is for my own well being, as you so graciously pointed out. I have been homeless in the past and that is NOT something I'm willing to put myself through again, for you or for anyone else. It's not worth it. Besides, I've already got my photo albums, scotch, movies, pillows, quilt, and my hand drawn art work (other than those hanging on the walls). I can live for quite some time on what I have here at the office. I can even borrow clothes from my coworker if need be. But without a roof over my head, what options do I have? Right now I have options, and I’m keeping them.

3) You would sign a promissory note for $1200 before you took the iBook.

*The agreement is typed up, printed, and ready to sign. I've called you and offered you an increase in the monthly payments to $150 a month. Another point of interest here is that you just didn't see the iBook. It's still right under your nose, if all you do is follow the cord. It's not been anywhere near the living room in DAYS. It's in the bedroom in a drawer.

I've stolen NOTHING from you. I want NOTHING of yours. To me it's all shit, just like you. Everything you OWN merely reminds me of the things you would

rather have in your life than me; the things that were more important than spending time with someone you said you cared about... even back when I thought you DID care.

I’m done with you. The sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.

Apr 13, 2006 8:34 AM

Well, here it is. All of the gory details. This is not to be read by those who wish to see me in a shining light through all of this. I've done something terrible, but in my own eyes, I was left with no other options.

Yesterday the Enforcer changed the locks on the doors. He then proceeded to tell me that unless I dropped my insurance reimbursement check for $714.21 into his lap, I couldn't get my things, such as my clothes and toothbrush, and that in no way would I be given a key to the apartment again. I had to think of something, and fast! I needed every penny I had for the deposit on my apartment. I cried on a friend's shoulder from what felt like about 800 miles away, and within only a few hours, I had enough for my deposit even after giving up the reimbursement check. Thank you to my dear friend. It WILL be repaid.

Thanks to my friend, I then had the courage to write the email to the Warden that I shared yesterday. My dear friend gave me the courage to take action, and the peace of mind to know that all would be ok.

After dropping off my deposit yesterday, I raced back to my office to call The Warden. Upon doing so, I convinced him to allow me to come by so we could "talk" about that promissory note. I drafted one, took a photo copy of the

insurance check, and faxed both over to him earlier that day. It made him willing to talk.

We argued, fought, screamed, cried, and yelled for about an hour before I finally confessed to him that I'd not eaten anything other than one meal of Cannelloni since Sunday afternoon. Me being me, I talked him into going out for some food. I even offered to pay... The man makes $150 an hour while I make $9 an hour, and he's worried about me paying him back all at once? What an ass. Anyway, we went out for some food and to talk a bit more. The whole time I was concocting something in my brain...

By the time we were done eating, he asked me what I wanted to do from there. I told him I wanted to take one day at a time. He said he wasn't much interested in Limbo, and I agreed. Neither was I. We left it at that. We went back to the apartment, and I pretended to fall asleep on the couch mere moments after sitting down. I mean, I was completely exhausted, so it wasn't that hard to believe.

He told me to go into the bedroom and lay down - he wasn't going to turn me out into the streets when I was so weak from not eating for so long. I looked as white as a ghost! (It's amazing what a little makeup can do.) He made sure to let me know he would be in within the hour, he was going to the other room to finish up some work. The "other room" he meant was the office, which is right next to the bedroom. It shares a wall, and that wall has an old fashioned heater in it. The flaps in the heater are turned at an angle to where he could see into the bedroom if I left the light on, so immediately I turned it off and allowed my eyes to adjust to the dark.

I knew it wouldn't be long, and sure enough I was right. He fell asleep sitting up in the chair. I jumped into action. I grabbed my computer, sent Richard in Scotland a quick message letting them know what was going on and to not worry about me unless they didn’t hear from me within the week. Then I creaked the

back door open through great risk, since he would have been able to see the light streaming through the back door in the heater s too. The street lights outside were extremely bright...

The first thing I put out there was a box of my undergarments, followed by a handful of things on hangers that I had already organized in order of importance. Then the stuffed animals that I have had since I was a baby, including my Wendy pony from my 3rd birthday that had only recently been replaced by a dear friend. Then jeans, folded shirts, shoes, legal papers on my divorce, and jewelry; basically everything I could get my hands on that I felt was important. I then put my bathrobe on over my clothes and creaked out of the bedroom door towards the bathroom. If he had woken up, there's a good chance I would have been able to cover and make him believe I was only needing to pee. The door to the office was wide open, and he was still slouched over in the chair snoring. That was the first time I ever thought of snoring as a comforting sound. Unfortunately the office door is so loud I dared not close it because of the noise it would make being about impossible to sleep through, even for him.

I shoved my makeup in the robe pockets, followed by a toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor, and deodorant. Then I crept back to the bedroom, but not after grabbing my own art off of the walls first. My hour was almost up. He said he would be back in the bedroom within the hour, and normally he only naps for about 30 minutes at a time. Slightly panicked, I threw my robe out with the rest of my things and silently closed the door. He stirred. My heart raced and I stood frozen in place.

He began to snore again, and I jumped back into action. I knew that if I was going to make a break for it, this would be the time. I went back to the bedroom door and started to open it. I needed to get my jacket from the living room. The door to the bedroom opened with a pop, and he woke up. Once more I froze, only this time there was no going back to sleep for him.

I pinned myself up against the wall as he walked past the bedroom door toward the kitchen, me staring at the back of his head as he went, praying he wouldn't notice the missing art. He turned the corner to the kitchen and I darted over to the bed again. At that point I thought I would have to wait until morning to get the remainder of my things, which meant I ran the risk of being late to work. I'm rarely ever late. To anything.

It was only about 15 seconds after I pulled the covers up to my chin when he walked in. He laid down on the bed, tried to rub my back to see if I was asleep, and I stirred not an inch. My heart thumped loudly in my ears. Eventually he rolled over and was silent. I knew he was waiting to see if I was asleep.

As tired and exhausted as I was, I sat there for a long time waiting to hear him fall back to sleep. When finally I was convinced that the snores were real, I crept out of the waterbed, being sure not to move more surface of the bed than was necessary. Ever so slowly; steady...

My feet hit the carpet and I snatched up my laptop computer. Next thing to grab was my purse. Then I made a dash for the door, moving as effortlessly and silently as an eagle in flight. Being sure to block the light from the living room with my own body, I cracked the door open. I kept my body in line, edged through the door, and closed it behind me, always making sure the light from the lamp in the front room did not wake him.

I turned on the light to the bathroom on my way past and closed the door - my decoy. If he woke up in the night, he'd think I had just had to pee. Since I drink so much water, it's not uncommon for me to do so in the middle of the night.

I grabbed up my jacket from the living room, slipped into my shoes, and walked right out the front door unnoticed. It was about 12:45 at night.

I trotted to my car to unlock it and put my computer and purse inside. I tucked them both safely behind the seat of my car. Then my heart began to pound again. I could see the light in the bathroom still on, so I knew he hadn't discovered I was gone yet. I went for the back door, listening through the cracked open window to see if he was still snoring. Then I loaded up my arms with my first load and walked quietly back to my car. The first load was in. I went back for more, again pausing to see if he was still sleeping. Again, I loaded up my arms. It took me about 8 trips in total to get everything to my car, but at the end of it all, I had everything with me, the bathroom light was still on, and he was still sleeping.

I drove away listening to the song "Shut Up and Drive."

I didn't get everything, but when in that situation, one grabs what they need, not what they want. I feel terrible for what I did. Nobody deserves to be treated that way. Still, he had threatened to leave me on the street if I didn’t do all that he asked of me. He’d have done it, too. I know it. He told me that I would have a roof over my head for that night. After that I had no guarantees! He wanted all my money - to leave me penniless so I couldn't afford anything. He wanted to FORCE me to either ‘play house’ with him or be homeless again.

So I did what I had to. I owe him no apology. Nobody deserves to be treated that way, sure. I feel bad for it. But there's also seeing things from my end. NOBODY should ever have to feel like their only escape is in the middle of the night and to sleep on the floor of their office. I owe him nothing but his precious money he wanted so badly. Every penny will be repaid in time.

Apr 14, 2006 9:12 AM

FREEDOM! AT LONG LAST, FREEDOM!

Yes, I'm free.

I moved into my new apartment last night. It was a glorious feeling. As I sat in the middle of the floor looking around, though, I realized that I don't have much. I suppose it's more than enough to start a new life with, but it's still not a lot. The things I no longer have are only things. I have clothes to get me by from day to day with only having to wash once a week. I have about 5 books to keep me entertained, one of which is the book Dan had once written his phone number in. My new roommate also gave me a TV for my room, I've got my computer with high speed internet connection, I've got my iPod mini, and I've managed to get my colored pencils... so I will have plenty to keep me busy.

I curled up in my pink quilt my mom’s mother made for me, rested my head on one of the decorative pillows Chris' mother made for me, laid my phone by my head as my alarm, and went to sleep. For the first time in quite possibly many years, I slept all through the night without waking even once.

I woke up when my phone alarm went off... It started ringing in my ear, not far from my head. It sounded like the Liberty Bell to me, the very voice of my freedom.

Peace. That's what it was... Total peace.

Apr 16, 2006 2:05 PM

Bill finally woke up. He's finally seen that perhaps I was in the right after all. He's agreed to work with me on all of this, and I WILL be getting ALL of my things! Check out the letter he left for me below! The promissory note is MORE than generous! Wow.... Perhaps I WAS right to defend him all this time. He does have a good heart, and he is a good guy...

I didn't think this would ever happen, though.

Amanda;

I don't pretend to understand the state of mind that is driving you to behave as you have recently. I do know that it is probably far more damaging to you than it has been for me (which is plenty damaging, by the way). In any case we would probably both be well served if I made my position clear in writing.

First, I have no intention of keeping possession of anything belonging to

you including books, clothing, seat covers and pictures of Ethan. I will carefully put the things that remain here in boxes. While I won't be available for most of this weekend, I will make arrangements for you to pick up those boxes. Email or call and we can arrange a mutually convenient time. If the bicycle is of any use to you, let me know.

Second, I would appreciate your g the attached promissory note. I believe that you will find the extremely favorable. The first payment doesn't start until June 15th. Payments are $XX per month. If you pay more, it is applied to the balance and interest. And if you make the first six payments on time, the amount of the note will drop by $XXX.xx.

Third, I will forward any mail you receive initially to you at [your job] in Torrance. I will try to do this once a week until you get settled someplace else. When you have a forwarding address, I will make sure the UPS Store gets a forward order implemented (I was relieved to know that he had not been able to discover where I was living).

Fourth, If you have financial difficulty over the next few weeks, please drop me an email or call. I will deposit $XXX into your checking or mail you a check. This is outside the of the promissory note. Pay it back when you can. There's no need to feel embarrassed (or resentful) about it. This is a tough time for both of us but I do not want you to go without enough to eat or a safe place to stay. If $XXX isn't enough, let me know.

I do [care about] you Amanda (even though you and I are both jerks sometimes).

-B

P.S. Sorry - forgot something. We've been pretty intertwined so there will

probably be more "forgot somethings".

The telephone. I was going to change the today but changed my mind. The phone was a gift to you. I would like you to be able to use it. It should still be under warranty so you should go to the Sprint Store and have the antenna I broke the other night fixed for you. I will keep it on my to give you time to get that done. I would appreciate your not running the bill up in the interim. I

got hit

with a $XX bill on your phone in May of 2004 and I would very much like to be spared that this time around.

If the phone company needs anything from me to get your phone fixed, let me know. Once that's done I would like you to open up a new phone for yourself. Since the two line contract is in my name, I may need to add another cheap phone to my until the contract expires. I'm willing to do that if

necessary. If you need help getting an established, let me know.

- B

“This doesn’t seem to be linked to Scotland.” She smiled, knowingly. “So why do you think it was so important to you to keep all of your things if you didn’t like how you had to get them?” She had a valid question. “How many times had I already lost everything? I was tired of starting over.” Too many, I thought to myself. Just too many. “And yet it wasn’t the last time you did, was it?” Of course she was right.

Chapter Twenty One Again And again I loved my new place, and I loved the freedom it afforded me. I had another office job and things were starting to look up. I was only a receptionist to start with but there was plenty of room for upward mobility within the company. I learned quickly and pushed myself to learn more than they required. A predominantly Japanese company, I began by teaching myself how to say numbers one through ten. Then, upon discovering my desire to know more, they began teaching me a word a day until eventually I was learning a phrase a day. I also learned all about the product the company made and was eventually able to answer troubleshooting and IT questions, so they moved me to sales instead of reception. My boss, the director of sales and marketing for North and South America, was pregnant. They needed a replacement for her maternity leave, and I had been chosen as the replacement. Immediately I began traveling for work, doing dealer visits and trade shows all over the country. The world before me expanded. I now spoke part of a second language and went places I likely never would have gone otherwise. I was what other business people on flights called a “white knuckle flier” meaning I was truly terrified each time the plane would take off or land. Turbulence was my worst fear because I was convinced the plane would fall out of the sky. But starting my day in Los Angeles and ending my day in New York was so thrilling that I never turned down the chance to go for it. I’d face that fear a million times over to get to where I wanted to go. Eventually my knuckles relaxed and I became a pro at flight travel. I met a guy. One day while I was out driving around the coastline planning to meet the ever persistent Bill for dinner at the Trump International Golf Course country club for dinner, a couple of handsome young men on motorcycles and I got into a road race along the coast. The views were spectacular everywhere I looked, but one particular rider really seemed to catch my eye. He wasn’t as confident or reckless on his bike, but there was something about him I was drawn to. They asked me to pull over, which I did, and the two confessed to be police officers. Jokingly, I asked if I was about to get a speeding ticket, and

instead they complimented my “professional driving skills” and I was in heaven. The one who spoke mostly was Bryan. The silent one who caught my eye was Pete. Of course it was Bryan who asked for my phone number, but it was Pete that I eventually ended up with. Bryan lived in the main house of a nice place built in the early 1960s in San Pedro, California with a roommate and Pete lived over the garage out back in the “Mother in Law” quarters. I figured Bryan had the money and owned the home, and Pete just rented from him. I didn’t know for quite possibly months that it was the other way around. I didn’t care. When I fell in love with Pete, I fell hard and fast. Only afterward did I discover the truth about the living situation. Before long we were fairly inseparable, to the point of even falling asleep on the couch one night in each other's arms because his parents were visiting from Fresno and he’d given them his bed for the night. No matter how close we got, he would never call me his girlfriend and he’d never be verbal about his affection for me. I vowed that I’d never tell him that I loved him until he said it first. In all the relationships I’d had previous to Pete, I was the first to say it. It was my way of trying to give someone what they wanted. That wouldn’t happen this time. We had a very candid conversation one night while sitting in a diner. He’d just finished his shift and was hungry, and he said he wanted to see me because there was something he needed to discuss with me. I’ll never forget how hard I fought back the tears as he told me that he had no intention of ending up with someone who had children, and his relationship guide book told him that he needed to make a decision about his future with me by the third month. He needed to decide if he was going to cut and run or if we would still be talking by the next day. At the time I had no idea how toxic that book was teaching him to be. I also didn’t care. I loved him. Yet my brain was telling me that I needed to move on because he was going to break my heart. So that was what I started to do. I left that night in tears. There had been a man who worked on the other side of Los Angeles who had been asking me out for a while. His name was Steve and he worked for a product dealership that carried my line of product. In order to lessen the blow of the inevitable breakup with Pete, I began dating Steve.

He was a talented photographer, so I was able to get back into modeling a little bit. It wasn’t the kind of work that I’d get paid for, but it was the kind of work that garnered some great comments and acknowledgement on Social Media. We began doing things I’d not done before, like exploring parts of Los Angeles I’d not ever gotten around to seeing. We did a photo shoot onboard the Queen Mary, traveled Pacific Palisades, and spent many happy hours at the beach. I didn’t love Steve, but he was helping to distract me from the heartache I was facing. I fully expected not to ever hear from Pete again. I didn’t know that Steve was married when we first started dating. He didn’t tell me until after his divorce had been started and he was officially separated from his wife of over 20 years, living in his own place. Pete surprised me though. It took quite a while, but when he called me again I had already anticipated the worst for so long that I couldn’t believe what he actually said. He’d decided that the fact I had a son didn’t diminish how he felt about me. He cared about me and didn’t want me to go away. I was standing at a gas station near Steve’s place in Burbank when I got the call, and the flood gates opened. For the first time, someone who had thought I wasn’t good enough for them finally decided I actually was. I began to cry, and I couldn’t help it. The words slipped out. I told Pete that I loved him. Much to my surprise, he returned the sentiment. He told me that he loved me too. I spent the next 2 hours navigating traffic through downtown Los Angeles, trying to get to Pete, through bleary eyes. I was on top of the world. It was December of 2006, I was the new Director of Sales for North and South America while my boss was out, I had the man that I loved, and I had just received an incredible job offer. One of the dealerships I worked with on a regular basis in Burbank was offering me three times the amount I was making at my current job, wanted me to start on January 2nd of the next year, and didn’t ask for any degrees or transcript. I couldn’t imagine making a six figure income in my lifetime with nothing more than a GED, but there it was being offered to me. Life, for once, was coming up roses for me. Maybe my mom was right, I thought. Maybe I did live a blessed life. Maybe things would finally go my way. I’d certainly worked hard enough at it. The drive to Burbank would put me in Steve’s back yard and I hadn’t talked to him since the day Pete told me that he loved me, so I was nervous about that. It would also add about 2 hours to my commute one way. I decided to ask my

current job for a raise to keep me over a business dinner in Washington D.C. one night after a trade show, and was promptly and harshly turned down. They had no intention of giving me a raise, and in fact my former boss was coming back after maternity leave soon, so it actually made more sense to give me a pay cut since I’d be demoted, too. I was more than happy to take the other job. It seemed as though that was the way fate was pushing me. I accepted the offer that night while standing in the Jefferson Memorial, snow falling silently around me, Christmas lights twinkling magically in the distance as though I were dancing through a romance movie. I had it all. The world was mine. Then, the impossible happened. Pete asked me to move in with him. I was the first woman he’d ever lived with, and the only one he’d ever wanted to live with, he told me. I couldn’t wait to move, but I’d need to find a way out of my lease before the year was up in Gardena. It was so hard to believe that it had been less than a year since I’d left Bill so dramatically. It felt as though several years had ed and that my life had changed completely. Only one of the two were accurate. In that six months I’d accumulated a few things, like an actual bed that I rarely ever slept in, a few ‘business trip’ clothes, a phone of my own, even a suitcase to travel with. Using nothing but my Miata, it took weeks to get my things to Pete’s house and up over the garage. I left most of the big things behind and even told my roommate that he could charge more for the room if it came furnished. That wasn’t well received as he ended up dismantling the bed and throwing it away for someone to move in, and carrying it down from the third floor on the stairs wasn’t easy I’m sure. Had I realized he wasn’t going to keep it I would have at least helped to take it down. I genuinely thought I was doing him a favor. Pete and I even planned a trip to Utah for my 10 year highschool reunion together. We stayed with my parents while there. It was the first time I’d ever introduced them to any man in my life. It was the first time I’d gone back in years. I’d been living with Pete only a few short months when he proposed to me with a gold art deco ring from the early 1930s that was a family heirloom. His parents were visiting us in the home we’d just bought together in San Pedro. I was over the moon. I lived in a historic 1950s home, I wore a 1930s engagement ring, I had the love of my life, and I had the pay of my dreams. The pay of my dreams though was not the job of my dreams. When I told my mother we were engaged it was only a couple weeks after her mother ed away. She made me promise that when the relationship ended that

I’d give the ring back. She proved to me yet again that she had absolutely no faith in me whatsoever, but I didn’t care. I had Pete. That was enough. Pete believed in me. I didn’t need her. The ways of the world caught up with me. I quickly learned that I was in over my head at the new job. I had absolutely no business being the VP of Marketing for a TV Production company in Burbank. My car couldn’t take the 4 hours on the road every day and neither could my brain. I started going in really early in order to beat the traffic, but the commute home was still killing me. I was also salaried, so the extra hours in the morning counted for nothing. I was given a glass office that felt more like a fish bowl, an assistant of my own that spoke Japanese so I could continue my lessons, and free reign over the marketing department, which consisted entirely of my assistant and myself. I wasn’t given a list of publications, or tasks, I wasn’t handed assignments, told what to do, or given any guidance at all. I had no training in marketing. I truly had no idea what I was doing. But I certainly knew how to cash the weekly paychecks for $1,200 each. I wasn’t complaining to anyone. Looking back now that’s still an astonishing figure. One week would have paid for two months rent before I moved in with Pete. One week now would pay for almost a month’s rent in a better neighborhood. Yet now, all these years later, I’m struggling to make ends meet, not making even a quarter of what I was then. Two days before Valentine's Day the boss called me into his office. I brought Nori, my assistant, in case we needed to take some notes on something. He proved to be a perfectly capable assistant, and a brilliant artist. I knew that when I had ments done I’d want to use his skills. I was all of 26 years old with no formal education, and no real high school education past 10th grade. I was smart, but I had no idea what I was doing. It was apparent with the latest ment I’d given to a magazine publication. I could make information sheets for products all day long, but putting an ment in a magazine was completely outside of my known bag of tricks. I taught myself everything I knew about spreadsheets. I couldn’t successfully give myself a crash course in advertising quickly enough. The boss asked me what our plans would be for Valentine’s Day. I told him Pete and I had planned a nice dinner out together. He seemed disappointed and made an off-handed remark about how he hired me because he thought the two of us would fall madly in love and spend the rest of our lives together, and that was why he didn’t ask for my education background. Then, after dismissing Nori

from his office, he promptly fired me. I have to say I wasn’t shocked that I would get fired. I was surprised that Andy then asked me again if I was planning to spend Valentine’s Day with Pete, or if I was going to spend it with him, as though firing me would give me more incentive to fall in love with the lecherous old man of 63 years. I hated to think of it, but he reminded me of Merle, who was 68 when we met and I was only eighteen. I’d been doing so well with my life finally when I’d met Pete. I didn’t have a bed or furniture or a place of my own when we met, but it was the best I’d done for myself since leaving home. I had gotten those things for myself eventually before moving in with him. I’d been proud of how well I was doing. It was a milestone in my life to sleep on a floor by myself. It was another milestone when I got an actual bed I could call my own. I don’t think Pete was ready for the rollercoaster of a ride my life would take from there on, which had become a thing of normalcy to me. It was anything but comfortable and I lived every day for a while in either a deep depression or anxiety riddled panic. I didn’t know what unemployment was before then, but even the unemployment checks I was receiving were more than I make to this day. I used my old iBook computer to search for work since it no longer was fitting in the year 2006 to get paper applications filled out, especially for office positions. I updated my resume and started looking for more office work right away. I hoped to find what I liked, and anything would be better than working in restaurants. I even went back to my old employer and asked if I could come back to them, but there’s a thing about loyalty among some companies. Even if you leave with proper notice, you’ll never be welcome back. I was most certainly not welcome. My Miata finally gave up on me and Pete and I sold it for a down payment on an equally old Honda Del Sol. It had somehow less room than the Miata did, but was every bit as much fun to drive. I just knew I couldn’t trust that car forever. Thankfully I was living in Southern California and didn’t need to worry about something as unpredictable as snow, or backcountry roads in the rain. But we both knew that I wouldn’t be able to get another job if I didn’t have transportation. There was nothing around our new place within walking distance.

The son of a friend eventually gave me a job working in a medical uniform supply store in a shopping mall and suddenly I was working retail and had an hour drive to get there. I was miserable there. Most days the store was kept somewhere around 60 degrees and there wasn’t enough business to keep me active. The boss was younger than I was and used to large sums of money back and forth to friends over the cashier counter as though the employees wouldn’t notice. After my travels I suspected drugs, but to this day I don’t know for sure. When the Corporate office people showed up one day to fire him, they also got rid of me. The only other employee we had at the store was the only one allowed to stay, and before I left she gave me a kitten that her cat had given birth to. I named him Oliver, and he was the first cat I ever really had. My streak of bad luck, aside from getting Oliver, was continuing. It was time to move on. Then I got a job at Circuit City as a security guard. I was trying to get into the Highway Patrol so I could work with Pete and make as much money as he did, since he was clearing 6 figures with the overtime. The boss at Circuit City was a former police officer himself and he respected that in me. I thought I might finally be getting somewhere. The boss and I got along well and I loved the job. Then he was fired, a new boss brought in, and the culture changed. Announcements were made that stores would be closing. They started trying to force out anyone making more than minimum wage, which included me since the previous boss had hired me at a decent rate. It was time to move on yet again. I got a job as a mall cop next. It wasn’t too far from home and the pay wasn’t much more than minimum wage but it was better than nothing. I couldn’t seem to find anything better. I was ashamed that I couldn’t do anything more with my life after everything that I’d been able to accomplish in just the last year. But I loved the boss and we got along great. RJ took me under his wing and taught me everything he could. Then we lost the contract and the entire team was moved to a different location. Even the roles shifted as I became RJ’s boss, once again in over my head. I started smoking from stress and desperation to fit in and be ‘one of the guys’ and it didn’t go unnoticed. Pete and I went out for dinner one night when he told me that he couldn’t get married to me because it would cost him too much in the long run. I didn’t make enough money for it to be a smart decision. I was beyond crushed, but I stuck around another 3 months trying to work things out until it was obvious that it just wasn’t going to happen. He’d finally decided that I wasn’t actually good enough for him after all. I’d need to

find somewhere to go. Pete and I were officially over. It was time to move on yet again. I wasn’t sure my luck would ever change.

Chapter Twenty Two Backtracking It had been a full ten years since I’d lived with my parents. I always knew it would take something devastating and life-altering for me to end up back there again. But I had no choice anymore. My options were gone, I was broke and broken, the love of my life didn’t want me anymore, and there was nothing more I could do about it. To this day my eyes sting with tears when I think about Pete. How I loved him so. I never really did let go. For years I tried out of desperation to recreate the feeling I had for Pete, and I always failed - just like I failed Pete. But I did more than fail Pete. I failed myself. I had a choice to make between the company I’d been with and the one where I would be over my head, and I made the wrong decision based on lack of information. I’ve second guessed myself in every career or job decision since then. I quit my job as a security officer to move back to Utah and stay with my parents. I packed an overnight bag and I drove all night to get there. In Beaver, Utah I was pulled over by a Highway Patrol officer who looked remarkably like Pete, and the poor guy got the brunt of everything I was feeling. He stood there, stunned. He asked why I was crying since he’d only pulled me over for speeding, and he got the whole story. I still got the ticket, but he didn’t write it for the full amount he could have. After pulling over to a gas station and crying my eyes out for the next several minutes, I got back on the road and refused to stop until I got to where I was going. Once he was safely tucked into what would be my room again for the next little while, I went to talk to my parents. I’d changed so much in ten years. They didn’t really know where I’d been or what I’d gone through. I don’t think they even knew I’d been divorced twice. What they knew about me by then could be held within the bowl of a teaspoon when being compared to the mixing bowl of my life. I was a recipe for disaster. They had no idea. “You did pretty good,” my father tried to compliment me. “We gave you a matter of months. It took years for you to come crawling back, but we always knew you would.” Days later my father and I drove back to California to get the cat and the rest of my things from Pete’s house. It was the last time I thought I’d

ever see Pete and I refused to speak to him because I had been so hurt by everything that had happened in my entire life. I placed all that blame squarely on his shoulders. That was something Pete never deserved. It was snowing the day we got back to Utah and the icy fingers of winter frost raced through my veins. I turned off my emotions with a switch buried somewhere beneath my rib cage, as though they never existed at all. They wanted to convince me that it would be within my best interest to stay with them for a minimum of one year and that I use that time to save money working as a waitress before deciding what I wanted to do with my life. I was still broken, but I knew my parents wanted me to start paying rent to them (that they would store in a safe and return to me when I moved out) so I needed to get another job, yet again. I called in a few favors from some of the few cherished highschool friends I had and managed to get a job at a restaurant. I was, once again, a waitress. I’d backtracked so much that my head spun. I was now living back with my parents and had the same job that I did when I was only 16 years old. I was nearly thirty and angry at the world once more. I was giving up. Part of me was angry for having gone that far backtracking, but part of me also knew that with as far as I had slid in less than a year, my drastic change in circumstance in all areas of life left me slightly more prone to doing something drastic that couldn’t be reversed. Just as I had with the cyst, I’d given up on life. On days that I wasn’t working I’d sleep in far too late and would get up only to feed the cat. Ever faithful and loyal, he never left my side. It felt as though he was the only friend I had. I hated being a waitress, so sometimes I would take my computer to the local Starbucks where I would continue searching for work in the area. Anything was better than what I was doing. One day I was doing exactly that when the unexpected happened. Well, it was unexpected to me, but probably somewhat predictable by now with my pattern for life. I met a man. His name was Noodles. Obviously that wasn't his real name. He ordered his coffee and turned as though he planned to walk out of the store, but then paused. I knew exactly what I was doing when I pointed my toe just a little to stretch my ankle when I actually didn’t feel the necessity to stretch my ankle at all. Through the years I’d learned to use what I had to manipulate others. The first therapist I’d ever seen when I was 15 years old taught me a special trick, too. She taught me that if I pretended to like what the boys (or men, or my father) liked, then they would like me more too. That alone did more damage than I could ever begin to realize, until I was so concerned with what someone else

liked that I no longer knew what I liked. Coming off the back of a heartbreak as I was, I wanted the attention and felt that I deserved and needed it. It was only during the times when I was being treated like a sexual object that things felt normal to me by then. It had been that way all my life. I craved that attention. Of course it worked. He turned slightly, walked around where I was sitting, and took a chair of his own nearest to me. From there he asked me what time it was. “Oh gosh, I still haven’t updated this thing,” I remarked as I looked down at my diamond encrusted Seiko Bill had given to me a couple years before for my birthday. “It’s still set to California time. So I guess it’s 2pm here if it’s 1pm in California.” He stared at me, his jaw hanging open. “California time? You live in California?” “I did until a few weeks ago, yes.” “Me too!” His brows arched. “I still live there actually. I’m just up here because this is where I grew up and I’m, well, going through some stuff.” “Me too,” I smiled. The similarity was uncanny and mentally I took that to be ‘a sign’ of sorts. This was the next man I was supposed to meet. What neither of us knew at the time is that we actually had met before in childhood. We wouldn’t discover that for some weeks. His real name was David. He’d grown up near me. We didn’t have mutual friends. Not only did he live in California, but he lived in Southern California, from the same area I had just left. He was going through a nasty divorce. We soon became inseparable. I learned to love him, but nowhere near how I loved Pete. He was dear to me, and offered me what I thought I’d never have - a way back to California. I was miserable in Utah, exactly as I’d always known I would be, and all I wanted was to leave. I needed out. Noodles was my escape. About the time that I found out my father had picked up my now two year old cat by the hair on his spine to throw him from one room to the other like a duffel bag because he’d made himself comfortable in the kitchen sink was the day I decided I was done with staying there and never would again. It was the second time I’d made that resolution, but this time I knew it meant forever. I did not know it would be the last time I’d ever see my family again.

I needed to get away from everything in that house. I needed to stop sleeping in the room where I’d lost my virginity to someone I thought I had loved, sleeping in the bed where I had been raped. I wanted to escape the memories of when my mother backhanded me in front of friends and S was called on them when I was 16. Staying in the place where I kept running away from as a teen, where I was told drugs were the only way out, where I had finally given up on finding my way in the world and learned to just start surviving - I was suffocating. I hated that room. I hated that house. I hated everything about it. I loved my parents but I couldn’t stand to be there anymore. I couldn’t stand them. They wanted me to come home at a certain time and to know where I was, and to know my work schedule, and for me to tell them what I was spending money on. I’d lived on my own for a decade only to be controlled by them again in the name of ‘doing what’s best for their daughter’ they said. It was as if they believed I’d just gotten out of drug rehab and needed to live under a microscope. Just as before, I began to resent them for how they were treating me. I did what I did best. I strategized my next move to get out of town. I used Noodles to get to where I was going. But the journey was not without disaster. First I had to tell my parents I was leaving. They had a few hundred dollars of my tip money stashed in the safe. I’d need to get a job as soon as I got back to California, but I’d already proven to myself that there was no legal job that I wouldn’t do in order to make ends meet, no matter how much I hated the job. That would be easy. Renting a uHaul to get the rest of my things down to California again would be a challenge. I’d have to rely on Noodles to haul the trailer since I still only had a Del Sol and no trailer hitch. Noodles drove a Jeep. As I was packing up I came across a small box that had escaped my notice previously. Inside were a pair of engagement rings - mine and Pete’s. Anger flooded over me and I did something I will always regret. I packed it in a box, put on a shipping label, and did exactly as my mother had told me to do the year before. Only I didn’t have the heart to do it. I was a coward. I still couldn’t let go. So I handed the package to Noodles along with some money, and asked him to mail it for me. I didn’t even tell him what was in the package. I couldn’t. They would go back to Pete, and I would still be an exile from the place I had felt the happiest in my life. I didn’t even know what I was going back to California for since there was nothing left for me anymore, but I knew that I needed to go. I had a better chance to move on with my life in familiar territory.

We decided to stop in Las Vegas for a night as I fought my anxiety off. Oliver slept on the dash of my car on the way there, and by the time we pulled into the hotel parking lot we were all exhausted. We went up to the room, Oliver smuggled in using my duffel bag, and immediately fell asleep for a few hours. "It's gone," he said as we headed out in the morning. "What's gone?" "The uHaul," he smiled, almost laughing. "What? You're kidding, right?" I laughed. "No, just keep going." He sounded serious, but he had a way of pulling jokes on me. Oliver sat in my lap as I drove down the two levels of the parking structure and onto the street. I had left his carrier in the back of the jeep, but he usually rode pretty well in my lap or on the dash. I drove around the corner and saw the jeep in plain view. The familiar white and orange box on wheels that had been behind it wasn't anywhere to be seen. It was Las Vegas - why would David Blaine pull such a magnificent hoax on a dirt poor girl like me? On the ground, about where the back of the uHaul had sat, was a broken lock. I told David to call the police, we needed to file a report. I stood there in disbelief as David walked around every corner within a quarter mile, wondering if it would be just around the next corner. It was nowhere. Finally, he called the police department. Poor Oliver had been sitting in the driver's seat of my car in Las Vegas on June 19th in the middle of the afternoon. He was getting far too hot and had begun panting, a rare thing for a cat. I told David I was going to go park in the shade for a minute while we waited for the police to show up. I pulled into the secluded space in the back of the structure just across the street. It was shaded and cool, but I could still see where David was. By then the local Security forces came out to talk with him. I sat there in the driver's seat, petting my Oliver, thanking my lucky stars I still had him. Briefly I thought about the

green miniskirt that I’d had since I was in Arizona that had been given to me in the donation bag. It was how I’d been able to eat some nights when I was hungry, simply by wearing it and showing up in a store to be randomly asked to dinner by a stranger. I rolled down the window, turned off the car, put Oliver in the enger seat and crossed my arms over the steering wheel. Without warning, suddenly I burst into screaming sobs, echoing off of the parking structure walls. I threw my forehead onto my arms and shook as I screamed out in agony. Blinded by tears, I screamed with intense pain until I felt like I couldn't breathe anymore. My shoulders slumped and my spirit shattered. I collapsed over the wheel of my car, truly defeated, but not for the first time in my stubborn life. It was everything I had owned. AGAIN. Everything but Oliver was gone from my life forever. AGAIN. Suddenly I was overjoyed that I had made Noodles send the rings back to Pete. They were at least safe. The rest of me, not so much.

Chapter Twenty Three Welcome To the Jungle We moved into a two bedroom two story apartment in El Segundo. He worked at the airport as a Helicopter Rescue Swimmer for the Coast Guard. I guess there were less than 300 people worldwide with that job description and they were pretty elite. If that wasn’t impressive enough, Noodles was one of the first people to help evacuate refugees from Hurricane Katrina. He had his photo on the front page of a newspaper as he rescued a little girl from a rooftop during the flooding of the city. He had a bit of the white knight syndrome, which was exactly what I needed at the time. I was going to resume life, and he was going to help me. I was back on social media and blogging again. One of my first entries was all about how the uHaul had been stolen and I was starting over from scratch once more. I still had David and I still had my cat, but I lost everything else in the world. Under the thinly veiled guise of friendship, Bill reached out and offered to help me obtain some new clothes so that I would at least have something to wear on job interviews. A trip to Forever 21 landed me with enough clothes to get by for a while, and an additional trip to Nordstrom outfitted me like a job seeker. I immediately started applying and interviewing for jobs. I did selectively leave out the short work length of time for the uniform supply store but included Circuit City, my ‘mall cop’’ experience and my job where I’d been national head of sales for a while. The resume looked good. Noodles was still very much in love with his wife. He’d made that decision not long after we got back to Los Angeles and he realized I wouldn’t be the cash cow he thought I would. I continued looking for work but struggled of course. Meanwhile he would have parties at the house where he would invite friends over to play the Xbox together before going surfing. I was usually invited to tag along and we all became pretty decent friends. I even learned how to surf somewhat, but my favorite part of it all was paddling past the very last waves and sitting on the board in the open ocean with nothing but the distant surf crying out. There were so few times in life I was ever free to be with my own thoughts, and even if I was at home alone there was always something like a tv or radio going. Out there, beyond the last wave, the world melted away like a

sugar cube in hot tea. Nothing existed but the surfboard, the water, and my thoughts. I could have stayed there for hours if I wasn’t getting scolded for not trying to surf back to shore. For a while Noodles let me sleep in his king size bed even though we weren’t dating. We both wore pajamas, but it was mutually agreed upon that we would have body pillows between us to block us from getting near one another, even accidentally. It was awkward at best. Eventually even the pillows between us wasn’t enough. He acted as though I was repulsive, and he found an old, stained, warped twin sized mattress he threw into what would have been the office. That became my bed, complete without blankets, like my bed in my teens. Everything I owned could fit into one corner of the room, so the rest was filled with unpacked boxes, furniture that hadn’t found its home yet, and my poor cat. Eventually, as I knew it would, my expiration date came. I’d applied for a job as a mall cop again, among the dozens of other jobs I applied for, at a job fair. The day I was called in for an interview was the day Noodles sent me a text message letting me know that I needed to move out, and that he was going away for the weekend with his wife. I’d be making $10.50 an hour, working at the same damn mall where I’d started out as a mall cop, but for a different company. At least I already knew the property management, I figured. But I knew RJ wouldn't be there and it wouldn’t be the same. I put out a cry for help using the fairly new social media network called Twitter, and within minutes a casual acquaintance had found a place for me that would only cost $500 a month. Once again I began loading up everything I owned into a 2 seat car and heading off to my next home. Packing was easy. The journey was not. This move would be to South Central Los Angeles, in one of the hardest, roughest neighborhoods I’d ever live in. South Central Los Angeles was also known back then as the Concrete Jungle. There are certain things in this modern age that we take for granted. For the majority of people, these would be things like friendship and family. Though I'm certainly guilty of both of those, there are some things that my eyes were opened to that November of 2009. I never realized certain things were luxury items. Only a little more than a hundred years ago people lived with far worse conditions than what I lived with that year. Though it seems so trivial in so many aspects, how did people survive without indoor plumbing? It certainly had to be uncomfortable, but it was a way of life back then and something they were used to, not something out of the ordinary, as it would be today.

On October 6th I moved into that place on the spur of the moment. That acquaintance from Twitter had family with a room I could take, and were more than willing to help me out in any way they could. I needed somewhere I could keep Oliver with me since he was the only family I really had left, and the last remaining piece of my life with Pete. They were ok with me having a pet. With my extremely limited funds and them not asking for a deposit, it was a match made in heaven. It took the entirety of my first Mall Cop paycheck and old tip money, but I got the place. It was an interesting place, and when I first moved in I saw it as an adventure. I always had a hard time turning down an adventure, especially in the name of desperation. Sure, there was no bathtub, and the bathroom was separate from my room so I had to get dressed to go outside and down the alley to my bathroom, but it was MY bathroom and I loved it. My feet were in the shower if I was sitting on the toilet, and my only door on my bathroom was a dolphin printed shower curtain, but it was all mine and nobody else ever used it that I was aware of. I could put all my shampoo and conditioner and smelly, girly stuff in there without worry that someone else would move it, use it, dump it, complain about it or take it. My room was tiny and I didn’t have a bed or much of anything else, but the people of the main house, my landlords, treated me as they would a family member down on their luck. They loaned me a bed complete with bedding, a TV, cable box, microwave and even a mini-fridge. I couldn’t believe my luck for the peanuts I would have to pay monthly. It was so very much for so very, very little asked of me. I didn’t even have to have sex with someone I couldn’t stand. I didn’t have to have sex with anyone at all. That was a nice surprise. Simple rules like “no parties or drugs” only endeared the place to me even more. In my first few days there the weather was nice. I would often sit in the hammock by the pool and read, or shoot a few games on the back yard pool table. The lady of the house loved plants and gardening, so the yard was wall-towall beautiful green. That backyard was my own tropical oasis on the other side of my iron fortress. Late at night when I had phone calls I would sit on the steps to the Jacuzzi back by the Persimmon and Lime trees just over by the diving board for the pool. I had a swimsuit that had been given to me in a bag of donation stuff, much like I had in Arizona so many years before. I had plans to put the pool to good use, and just never did get around to it before the weather turned cool. I think that may have been because I was ashamed to show my

body, even covered with a swimsuit. I just didn’t want anyone to see me and assume things about me. I loved swimming, but I was also terrified of swimming pools and really didn’t even have a grasp on why that might be. When it was nice weather out, showers were an absolute pleasure. I would take the thick, oversized zebra stripe bathrobe I purchased for $2.99 at Goodwill to the outdoor bathroom with me. There I would close my dolphin-printed plastic sheet door, strip down while avoiding the prospect of facing the shower curtain that divided me from the outside world brick wall property divider due to the unprinted spaces in it, and step into the shower. The water would take a moment to warm up, but when it did it stayed fairly warm for a while unless someone was washing dishes or clothes in the main house. There were times when the shift from too hot went to ice within seconds, and I’m sure the neighbors heard me squealing a time or two. By the time I got out my robe was half wet and the floor even behind the toilet was drenched, but I had a little pink towel they let me borrow to dry my hair with. I would hang it by the doorway when I was done and wander back with my arms loaded down with the clothes I’d worn there, wearing that zebra striped robe and fuzzy slippers. I would walk down the alley by the side of the house, ducking if someone was in the kitchen or one of the two bedroom windows I would on the way back to my hidden room among the oasis. I simply didn’t want to be seen. When the weather was warm, I would often sleep with my door open and the screen closed, since I didn’t have any windows for ventilation. As the weather changed though, that changed too. I couldn’t stand the cold. The only blankets I had were the ones loaned to me, with the ivy printed sheets and matching comforter, rather old and thin, possibly older than I was. There was no heater and no air conditioner in my room, so when the weather changed I often got the worst of it. Still, I didn’t complain. It was Ollie and me all the way. If I wanted things to change, I would have to do that myself. I set my jaw and grew a backbone. In the mornings I was met with a new challenge. I was too broke to buy any real food, so all the food I had was dry-storage items like Ramen noodles from the dollar store. The family fed me for quite a while. Certain people at work got rather sick of hearing how I ate Ramen all the time and started to chide me for it. I made so many promises to eat better, but until things finally made a turn for the better, I wasn’t able to. I continued with my dry storage items, eating only what I could afford and never straying outside of my budget of $40 a month on food,

barely more than a dollar a day. Ramen fit that budget perfectly, since at the dollar store they’re usually 4 for $1.00 or there about. Breakfast tended to be one Dollar Store granola bar in the morning. Brushing my teeth was yet another adventure. I didn’t have a sink. That sounds odd, but until someone is in the situation of not having a sink, they’ll never understand fully what that was like for me. Washing my face had to be in the shower, so I didn’t do it more than once a day anymore. Washing my hands was the same way. I would have to hide behind the shower curtain and reach around it if I wanted to wash my hands without washing everything I was wearing. Often I was soaked head to toe afterwards anyway. But how does one fill their mouth to rinse after brushing without a sink? Once done rinsing the mouth, where does the spit go? Down the shower drain? I bought a case of water at the Dollar Store with some of my extremely limited grocery funds, but I needed it anyway since there was no sink to get a drink from. The water where I lived was so bad it was a medical necessity anyway. I would grab a bottle of water in the mornings and take it with me to the bathroom. There I would grab my toothbrush from its place laying on top of my pink hair towel and hold it out over the toilet. I would pour some water from my bottle onto the tooth brush, letting the excess fall into the commode. Then I would apply the tooth paste and brush the way any normal person would – except I would be on my knees in front of the toilet. One day a friend came over and was chatting with me when I said I had to go brush my teeth. Thinking nothing of it because it had become almost routine to me and rather comical in my mind, I saw nothing wrong with my morning ritual. When I finished brushing and spit into the toilet, rinsed with my bottled water and spit again, it seemed almost natural in a very unnatural way. It wasn’t until I looked up and saw the tears standing in my friends eyes that I realized just how far I had fallen from regular society. Here I was on my knees in front of a toilet in the backyard of a strangers house brushing my teeth, feeling like this was ok, or even halfway normal. What had become of me? I had hoped to move again before my 30th birthday that year, and I began working as much overtime as possible. I’d also managed to reveal an embezzlement ring within the company that I worked for, and had won the confidence of not only the property management, but also my regional boss whom I’d been told I should be frightened of because he would ‘fire me if I

talked to him’ as it was explained. Not only did he not fire me, but he became one of my closest friends and greatest sources of encouragement for many years. I wanted an indoor bathroom with a sink by my birthday. I was determined to move before my birthday, and if I could keep the overtime going, that wouldn’t be an issue. I either needed to continue the overtime or get a substantial raise. I wouldn’t be picky about which one. Just so long as I had a sink I’d be happy. I just had to somehow save up for a deposit on a place before then. With winter coming quickly, finding a warm place to sleep and an indoor shower was a major priority. California didn’t get that cold in the winter, but it was still cold enough to cause some health concerns for anyone living the way I was.

Chapter Twenty Four My First Home I struggled to make ends meet. I worked hard and sacrificed every ounce of personal life in order to pay my bills and keep Oliver and myself fed, even if it was on Ramen Noodles. Much to the chagrin of some people around me, I would work 12 hour days 5 or 6 days a week when asked, never so much as a hint of hesitation in my voice. I would jump at the chance to see a better paycheck, knowing that if I could make just a little more money, I could move up to Hot Dogs and frozen Pot Pies. On the biggest paycheck I ever got during that time, I even bought a small pint of Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream, certainly a luxury I normally couldn’t afford in those days. That was an extra special treat. On his birthday, I even got a special can of wet cat food for Oliver. I missed having a bath tub and brushing my teeth over a sink. I missed having an air conditioner on the hot days and a heater on the cold days. I missed having a door knob on the inside of my door. I missed having carpet under my feet, new sheets, fluffy pillows, clean laundry and real food. All of the things I missed just drove me to work harder though. On my days off, I found myself at a loss for something to do. I would watch TV for a bit, write for a while, and stay walled up in the boat house all day long. I couldn't afford the gas to go anywhere. I didn't have any nice clothes anymore after being robbed, and the few nice things I had I’d worn out from repeated wearing for weeks on end. The one great thing about working at my job was the lack of choices over what to wear. I had a uniform I wore daily and I was ok with that. It took out the embarrassment of having to wear the same jeans and T-shirt day in and day out for weeks at a time. I’d already been forced through that in life several times before - never again. I vowed the day I saw someone cry over how I brushed my teeth over the toilet that I would make some changes to my life, and the goal I had set before myself was my 30th birthday, December 11th. I made that goal in Mid-October. Through a lot of hard work, determination, perseverance and the friends I made along the way, I not only reached my goal, but I actually blew it out of the water. I managed to get a promotion to being Supervisor at work. With that promotion and meager raise, I was able to start looking for a new place to live. I couldn't

afford much more than I already paid, though. Still, on a strict budget and tight belt, I could afford a place of my own in a nicer neighborhood. Luckily I had worked very hard over the past few years to clean up my destroyed credit, thought to be irreparable from all of those medical bills from the cyst, or even that wouldn't have been possible. By November 15th I had signed a lease on an apartment in one of the nicest areas in all of Los Angeles County, a little place called Belmont Shore. I went from living in South Central to living at the beach, so close I could smell the salt spray as I slept. I didn't officially move in until the end of November, but I finally had a nice home just in time for my birthday. It was a tiny apartment, and I knew right off the bat I was going to have a hard time making ends meet each month. I knew the lack of funds would prevent me from having an eventful Christmas, and one thing after another came up causing me to delay the Christmas shopping I had planned to do using my one credit card. Life kept getting in the way, and now my work WAS my life. I was putting in as many hours as I could get away with just in order to pay my bills. I lived out of piles of boxes heaped in my new living room floor for weeks, hardly able to find a clean shirt or fresh pair of socks among the candles, cables and clutter tossed among the cardboard walls. I slept on a blanket tossed on the floor, but it was a carpeted floor and to some degree was more comfortable than the bed I had been borrowing - because it was MINE. Finally, a week after my 30th birthday I had managed to save enough money to buy a small dresser for myself at Ikea. I stayed up until 3:00 am putting it together. I unpacked before work the next day, working as hard as ever to get things in order. I expected absolutely nothing for Christmas, and I had planned nothing to give to others, other than the celebratory can of cat food for Oliver. I had focused so hard through the previous 6 months to do better for Oliver and myself that I had failed to realize that I was making friends along the way. All I could think of was providing a roof over my own head, taking better care of the cat and never having to spit into a toilet again. I didn’t even have time to think about Pete anymore. Not more than several times a day, anyway. I wouldn't say it really began raining gifts or anything, but a few surprises certainly had a way of making me feel that way. First there was my Uncle Roger. After many years of not hearing from him, he got in touch with me from his

place in West Hollywood and we started communicating through emails, daily. He told me things about my family I never would have known without him. He gave me a photo of my Grandmother and Grandfather (my dad’s father and Uncle Roger’s brother) on their wedding day that I don't think I had ever seen before. The grandmother was, of course, the one married to Vic when I was in Florida. As if that photo wasn't gift enough, suddenly I got a birthday card in the mail from this long lost Uncle, making me feel overjoyed that someone was thinking about me - someone who treated me like I was actually their family. My Uncle became one of the many voices I looked toward for an honest opinion and a kind word when I need it most. People who knew me well knew that I didn't lock the doors to my car because of a deep distrust in humanity. I would have rather had a thief open the door and realize there's nothing worth stealing than leaving me with the cost of fixing a broken window only to have them come to the same conclusion. I never kept anything of value in my car whatsoever, so I didn't even worry about locking the trunk release inside the cab of the car most of the time. Someone who knew me very well took advantage of this. One day after work I went to throw my backpack in the trunk of my car only to suddenly be left gasping for air. Someone anonymous had placed a brand new 20" LCD Flat screen TV in the trunk of my car with a pretty little gift receipt. I cried as I looked mindlessly around the parking lot for any clues as to who may have left it there. A few days later, on the 21st of December, I was promoted at work AGAIN to being the Head Honcho on site. I was the new Director of Public Safety and Security, Queen of the Mall Cops. Suddenly I could loosen my belt a single notch and I knew without a doubt that I would be ok. I had worked hard, but I had gotten what I needed and wanted in order to survive. It couldn't have come at a better time. It still took a little time for that last raise to hit my checks, but I knew it was on its way. The promotion was exactly what I had wanted for Christmas. Santa had delivered. On the morning of December 23rd I was called to the main office at the end of my shift. The management office personnel had drawn numbers to select which baskets of food and treats they would take home to their families from the many gifts they had received from different stores in the mall and different vendors they did business with. The three baskets that were left were given to me, the Maintenance guy and the head of Housekeeping. I chose the Belgium Chocolates, of course, though not for myself. I instantly had a plan for them.

That night, on the night of Christmas Eve, I went down to Lake Elsinore to spend the evening with a wonderful Dutch family that took me in as one of their own. They were such wonderful people with huge American Bulldogs as lapdogs. Even the dogs adopted me. I felt instantly loved. They were so wonderful to invite me into their home on Christmas Eve and let me stay the night, since I didn't have any family around and didn't have to work until the afternoon on Christmas day. I had decided to give up my Christmas night in order to let more of what were now MY employees enjoy the Holiday with their families. I had none. The sacrifice was easy. That night after we sat down to eat, Lou, the gentleman who was seeking my attention, asked me if I wanted to open my gifts. Flabbergasted, I stuttered and sputtered, obviously not knowing what to say. I felt bad for only having brought the small box of Belgium Chocolates I was regifting. I had nothing more to offer. I didn't know or care what this family had gotten for me - just to know they cared about me that much sent me over the edge. It had been one of the hardest years I'd ever had to survive, and to come out on the other end like this didn't seem possible back when Pete and I first split up. We’d been together for three years. My entire life had changed several times over in a matter of months. Most of it I made happen, but certain things, like me sitting there with four dogs at my feet holding two brightly wrapped gifts of blue and gold in my lap, were completely a surprise and never were a part of the plan. Tears were brimming in my eyes. At the urging of my small audience of Lou and his family with the four dogs curled nearby, I opened the big one first. It was large enough to fit all the way across my lap and cover my legs entirely. I pulled the bright blue paper back to reveal a cardboard box underneath. I expected the gift to not be what I saw on the box until I noticed that the box was still sealed. It was a brand new Blu-Ray player. I couldn’t contain it any longer. I didn’t let Lou see me, but I cried. But what was the second gift? Lou and I had been walking through the Borders just a few days before Christmas, browsing. I wanted to show Lou the Art Book I used to have that went the way of the U-Haul back in June. I guess the excitement showed all over my face when I talked about one particular portrait in the book that I had fallen in love with as I was reading the book from cover to cover.

“What makes this one so special”, Lou told me “is that it’s the exact one we were looking at in the store.” Lou had gone back that same night and bought the book. It had been the only one on the shelf at that location, and the only one I had seen since I began looking for a replacement for it in June. Lou had asked me that night if I wanted it and I answered that it cost too much and that I could wait a few more paychecks. Well, Merry Christmas to me, there it was resting in my hands. I instantly turned to the page with that portrait I so loved, the Arnolfini Portrait by Jan Van Eyck. I closed my eyes and wished with all my heart that I could show this book to Ethan. Bill then invited me over shortly after Christmas for dinner under the guise of friendship still. It was a wonderful evening I was able to spend with the man I’d known since October of 2002. Bill had decided to be kind and good to me, even when I felt I didn’t deserve it. He presented me with two gifts. The first was a fabulous book entitled "1001 Paintings To See Before You Die" that I began reading cover to cover that evening. The second gift was a watch to replace the one he gave me that I’d packed carefully into the jewelry box in the uHaul for safe travels. It was a gorgeous blue faced Seiko watch with diamonds around the face. I nearly cried when I opened it. I wanted another watch since the one was stolen, but I knew that I’d likely never be able to replace it with one even close to equal the previous. The greatest gift I got that Christmas season wasn’t something I could hold in my hands though. It wasn’t the beautiful card that was so personal and sweet from Lou. It wasn't the Blu-Ray player to go with the “mysterious” TV or the wonderful Christmas Dinner leftovers that an employee brought with him to work for me on Christmas night, though that was the second home cooked meal I'd had in months, the first being at Lou’s. It wasn't a beautiful watch with a dark blue face. It wasn’t the new apartment, though I it it was just what I wanted. It wasn’t even the promotion. The greatest gift I was given this season was just this: Christmas Eve, I sat there at a table with a warm and loving family; a family I’d probably never see again. Under us sat the dogs; Spot, Mugsy, Tyson and Sasha. I was warm, loved, and accepted by a family who didn’t know much about me and didn’t care about that tiny insignificant detail. Before we picked up the first bite of food, I followed suit when the family bowed their heads to pray. Sitting between Lou and his mother, I smiled. I hadn’t said a prayer over food with a family in far too long to . Right then, as I searched for the words to

explain in a prayer just what I was feeling, I knew that no words were needed. No words would be sufficient. The prayer was not ever in the words, but in the heart behind them. The greatest gift that Christmas Season was being with that family and the kindness and love they shared with me. The greatest gift of the year was having people who loved and accepted me; to share that moment with people who cared. It was a long drive to Lake Elsinore for Christmas Eve, but it’s a drive I would have made a million times over just to relive that night. I thought about the fictional young mother I’d created in my mind, cradling a new baby in her arms, wrapped up in the stolen quilt my now deceased Grandmother had made for me. I thought about the guy next door in my new place who warned me that the street sweepers were coming and I needed to move my car so I didn’t get a ticket. I thought about my amazing, loving, kind, gentle cat Oliver. I thought about Pete, and the tears in his eyes when I walked out of that house for the very last time. I thought about the family in South Central who watched over me, making sure I had food. I thought about the boss that believed in me, the people who helped me move, the friend who cried as I brushed my teeth, the people I've loved and those who loved me. I thought about the man I once called a friend, Noodles. I thought about my wonderful Uncle Roger, my Aunt Debbie who put us in touch, my brother, my son, my father and mother, and even those dogs under the table keeping my feet warm. I might have lost everything in April that year, only to lose so much more in the uHaul, but it gave me the will to fight back and survive! It was who I had become. It was now ingrained in my soul. I was THE SURVIVOR. It may as well have been engraved on my bones. I came through Hell and climbed back out of the fires. Surely life would never be worse than it had already been. It was time for my happiness to begin. Right?

SCOTLAND

The Beginning of the End

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE The Beginning of the End “Richard and I reconnected,” I explained to Naomi over the video chat. Covid had shut down what seemed like the whole world. I couldn’t go see her anymore, and pretty soon I wouldn’t have any visits with her at all. Funding was running out, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. “How did you reconnect,” she asked, knowing that I meant Richard in Scotland, not the man in Arkansas that I credited for having saved my life. Ironic, I thought to myself, that one Richard would give me the will to keep going while the other would do all he could to take that from me. Richard was also the first name of my father and my brother. “The same way we always did,” I told her. “It was through computers and that stupid website where photos were rated. My ratings through my professional modeling photos over the years had caused my own score to skyrocket, but I still only had eyes for Richard. I’d known him since 2004 and six years later I finally seemed ‘on my feet’ enough to explore the possibilities. “How many times had you reconnected over the years?” Naomi knew all the right questions to ask. “Dozens,” I answered honestly. “When I lived in Gardena and slept on the floor before I met Pete we were talking just about every day. We’d fall asleep on video chats. We’d plan meals together. With the massive time difference it was hard, but we made it work.” “And why did you lose then?” “Because I met Pete,” I told her. I thought it had seemed obvious. “What about when you met Chris?” “Same thing,” I nodded. “I married Chris so I couldn’t keep Richard around anymore. It wouldn’t have been fair to either of them.”

“And you didn’t give him any explanation either time, correct?” “Not until afterward. Not until after we reconnected.” I hung my head. I wasn’t proud of that. “So did it ever strike you that he’d be resentful toward you after you did that to him?” “No, but I completely understood that I’d have to prove myself to him this time in order to get his trust back.” I knew that ahead of time, but I honestly never imagined that Richard would have a solid plan in mind to make me prove myself. Like Pete, Richard was a police officer. Like Chris, he had sparkling blue eyes and a Scotish heritage. Like Dan, he was tall and handsome. There were pieces of all the men I ever truly loved embodied in Richard when I looked at him. Somehow we had been able to reconnect again and again over the years, in spite of everything I’d been going through. His little girl grew up before my eyes in photos. I felt, deep in my heart, that this was the man I was meant to be with. He was supposed to be my destiny. He would be my happily ever after that I’d always dreamed of and never thought would be possible for me. He was what I’d always wanted. He was the one for me. The revolving door of pain would finally be closed forever. I didn’t know what pain was. Not really. Not yet.

Feb 26 2010

As I sit here on my computer I am watching the sunrise across the world in a place I long to be. The lights outside of the City Council reflect off of the damp sidewalks as the cars drive past. In the distance, gray and white clouds block the rays of sunlight trying to filter through. The dark blue begins to fade before my eyes with each update of the webcam. The blue begins to glow over the building and the reflections of the lights on the sidewalk become harder to see.

It looks like a beautiful morning in Scotland, and I'm not there to see it. I will be,

though. One of these days I'm going to fulfil a long time dream of mine and step off of a plane in Glasgow, say hello to Scotland and hug a neck I've wanted to hug for a very long time.

It's 7:01am in Scotland right now, and I'm about to head home from work to get some sleep before a long day tomorrow. I've watched this webcam before. The last time was in 2006, and I was intent on going to Scotland then. It didn't happen - but it will this time. I've already got the dates lined out in my head. I just need to get the deal of a lifetime on a plane ticket, and I'm there.

Dawn has broken in Scotland. The street lights are turning out one by one. The cars traveling by on this beautiful Saturday morning are one by one turning out their headlights. I can see a single, solitary person standing out there in the courtyard, walking through on their way to some mysterious destination.

When I watched this webcam so many years ago, I once saw a man tell a woman he loved her by spelling it out in flowers on the ground there in front of the webcam. I don't know if she ever saw the message, but it was certainly beautiful and I never forgot it. There in flowers was a huge heart on the ground, designed of roses, aimed at the camera. The person I watched lay them out stood there in the middle of the heart. Something distracted me and when I returned an hour later, the person and the roses were gone. I've often wondered what happened to that incredibly romantic person. It was such an amazing gesture. I do hope the couple ended up together. I hope they fell in love, got married and lived happily ever after. We all deserve a truly happy ending.

I desperately needed a happy ending. I needed some kindness in my life. I needed to be loved. I’d lived a lifetime feeling as though it was something I could never claim for myself. There it was, being offered to me. All I needed was to get there. In December of 2009, when his familiar face popped up on my fairly new

Facebook profile without even looking at the name, I knew him. I knew the eyes. It had been the hardest year of my life. Fear gripped me - fear that he would be angry that we had lost ; fear that he would be married. I still loved the man and I couldn't imagine what gut wrenching pain I would feel to find out he ended up with all the happiness I had wished for him. Selfishly I wanted him to myself once more, even 6,000 miles away. How I must have hurt him each time I thought I’d found my own happiness without him, first with Chris, then with Pete. I didn't respond for a while after seeing his face. I was starting to date Lou at the time, but in a short amount of time that relationship began to dilute due to my stirring emotions towards Richard and the several hours I’d have to drive to Lake Elsinore just for us to spend time together, because Lou wasn’t fond of my tiny place. I had just moved into my own place, a cute little loft apartment in Belmont Shore, and finally I wasn't afraid to show it off - but I still didn't talk to Richard very much. I truly was afraid he wouldn't feel the same way I did. We talked a bit here and there in messages, but it was basic niceties for a while. We were perfectly polite strangers. His daughter was 10, nearly 11 and had taken up drama and acting at school. She had played "Sandy" in the school production of "Grease" and the whole family had gone to see her. He was packing up his house, he said on December 6th, because he sold his place and got a bigger home. He said that he would be moving in on the 11th - and after so many years, he ed that day was my birthday. He asked if I had been snapped up by a handsome man as yet and my heart leapt up into my throat. He still thought about me. He might even still love me. Then again, he could be married.... I hesitated. I didn't respond for a while. I couldn't figure out what to say. I continued with the polite conversation after a bit, but I was still terrified to tell him that I still felt the same way for him. In February of 2010 that all changed with one email I got from him. February 21st of 2010 my world changed completely. I got yet another message from Richard. I certainly wasn't expecting it, but it was more than certainly a welcome surprise. Stunned, I read the message from beginning to end at least a dozen times before I could take a breath. It took a dozen more before I could even start to think of a response. I realized suddenly that tears were streaming down my face. I was stunned.

"I think I may be in love with you....again!.... I have never met you BUT I have NEVER stopped thinking of you. [My daughter] still sleeps with the bear you sent her years ago. I have this funny feeling whenever I think of you.

Sorry if that's a bit out of the ordinary, however, that's the way I feel Amanda. I have felt this way for years sweetie. It is nearly 4am and I have had a couple of beers but I know I am in love with you!... Is that possible?

I am still single...the reason I am single is....... you Amanda!!!"

I didn't know what to say at first. I had never answered his question as to if I was single or not. It was my turn, I guess. I finally grew the courage to respond to Richard's email. It wasn't until the next day that I attempted it, and the click of a wrong button erased everything I had poured onto the screen in front of me. I tried again but the words didn't come as fluidly. I struggled and fought, not sure what to say. Finally, I had my message drafted up and was ready to send. I read my own writing no less than a dozen times to make sure it had the right effect and that it wasn't disappointing in any way - and then I hit send.

We've had many chances to see this through, Richard. We've tried quite seriously twice to see things through. Twice we failed. Somehow you miraculously keep showing up in my life. Each time you do, each time I see your face pop up in my life, my stomach does a flip for joy.

I it I had this lengthy email written to you that ultimately was erased when I accidentally hit a wrong button and everything vanished. Now, starting over from scratch, trying to duplicate what I originally said, I lack the words. The first time came truly from the heart and this time, though from the heart, has

been a failed attempt at finding the same words in the same order. It's like trying to duplicate a poem written in the mind down onto paper only 20 minutes later. It always sounds better the first time around. Let me try again...

I'm very glad [your daughter] has her bear still. I can't believe how big she's grown. She's beautiful! That gorgeous hair, those large, expressive eyes - she looks so much like you.

Richard, not a day or an hour goes by that I don't think about you. You've been in my thoughts for these past 6 years and I can't deny that. The truth is that I always have loved you and I always will. At the same time, loving someone is different from being IN LOVE with someone.

It's not 4am here and I've not had a couple of beers, but I want to squash all doubts in your mind now by telling you that as well as loving you, I have been and will always be in love with you as well. I've never forgotten those late nights, talking on Skype, you keeping me company and falling asleep listening to your voice, struggling to understand your beautiful accent. It was as though we spoke different languages.

I've missed you, Richard. Twice now we've tried, and twice now we've failed. This may be a "do or die" attempt for us, so I'm going to do everything in my power to come to you this time around. I'll fly to Scotland in late August, early September to be with you. I will only get a week long trip, so it will be a short visit I'm afraid. Still, a week should be long enough to tell us if we have what it takes to make it the long haul.

I used to lie awake at night, thinking about you, wondering what you were doing and hoping you were thinking about me, too. I've never forgotten about you. We'll make it happen this time. The third time's the charm, right? Well, then let's

make the best of it. I love you.

The next message I got in return really changed the world for me. It was the beginning of the end for me. I thought that meant the end of life in Los Angeles and of so much pain after so many years.

Amanda, after waking on Sunday morning and ing that I had the courage after a few beers to tell you how I was feeling I felt slightly embarrassed. As you say, we had two occasions to see things through and failed on both attempts. As I lay in bed on Sunday morning I thought to myself, what gives me the right to say such a thing to you after all this time? Was I putting our friendship in jeopardy by letting my feelings out of the bag in such an impersonal manner? I logged on to facebook with the intention of asking you to ignore what I had written the previous night and was going to blame it on being melancholy.

No, stop was the voice I heard...from where I don't know. She must know, even if it's just to put this matter behind you both. I listened to that voice and allowed you to read the email as you found it. Truth be told, I have felt exactly the same as you have. You have never once been out of my thoughts after all these years. I have continually tried to fight it, but each time the overwhelming urges rise to the surface. After reading your reply I am pleased that I did not try and take back what I had written, after all, it was the truth.

There is a large gap in my life that has been waiting to be filled by you. I have learned to suppress these feelings for many years now and a few more months will make no difference. I understand that although we both feel this strong bond, even across thousands of miles, we must take it a stage at a time. There must be a reason why we still feel this way? There must be a reason why we keep popping up in each other's life? That reason could be that we were meant to be! It is written in the stars!? Or perhaps it is just a coincidence. Personally I believe the first reason to be true.

So, where do we go from here? Whatever we decided I'm sure it will be for the best.

I have missed you terribly. I crave to be with you and share our time together. I know I am the one that can take care of you when you are in need of ! I am yours if you will have me?

Late August / early September is a great time to visit the UK and I look forward to meeting you at the airport the day you step foot into my life. If you are sure about visiting then we can start looking at flights and costs. This is a two way agreement therefore I insist in helping out with costs. Since reading your reply I can't stop smiling and you have made me so happy once again!!

I love you too and love will always prevail.

It wasn’t a full minute before I started researching flight costs. I couldn't wait to get there.

Chapter Twenty Six The Best Made Plans I booked a flight for the first day I would be eligible for vacation time, in late July. I had worked hard to get where I was in my company, and my boss knew more than anyone that I deserved it. I made sure everyone knew early on and nothing was going to hold me back. I finally had my life in order enough to do this with a slight sense of stability. I wasn't going to miss the chance. We talked almost every day online. We were on Skype, Facebook, personal emails, and eventually the Blackberry messenger service, since we both had a Blackberry. We were in constant communication. It was bliss!! We certainly had our share of ups and downs. When two people are 6,000 miles apart, communication has a way of breaking down. Richard's sister became very close to my heart one night after a week when he and I hadn't been speaking. She had convinced him to talk to me. She could tell that he really did love me, she said. I adored her after that. She was in our corner fighting for us to be together and she hadn't even met me yet. She had only seen me in photos. Still, the wonderful friend I had gained, would soon become more than a friend to me. After being with her for a full weekend while I was in Scotland that summer, she became family. Louisa was the first sister I never had. I flew to Scotland on July 24th of 2010, landing at Glasgow airport on the 25th. I walking through the long terminal wondering when it would end, feeling as though it was torture having to wait that long. I didn’t know what torture was yet. I barely getting the stamp on my port before I raced to the exits. I stopped briefly at the ladies room to take off my slippers and put on my high heels. I brushed my hair back, rubbed a finger over my teeth and powdered my nose. I took a deep breath and looked myself right in the eyes. "Ok," I said to nobody but me, "Let's do this." The whole way through the terminal were video monitors showing the people waiting at the other end. I was so used to seeing him on the other side of a screen. I looked but I didn't see that familiar face I waited so many years to see. I didn't see him at all. Maybe he was late?

I walked out of the terminal and looked through the sea of people waiting on arrivals. I felt eyes on me, but they would all look away as soon as they realized I wasn't the person they were looking for. For about fifteen seconds I scanned the faces, looking for his blue eyes. I knew that if I could just see those blue eyes for the first time in person, all the world would be right. Yet I still had my doubts. How could it be him, 6,000 miles away? How could he be who I was meant to be with? How would that ever work? He was too far away from me and I from him. Somehow I still doubted myself. I didn't have faith in me. I didn’t believe in us. It was too impossible. I stopped scanning the room. I almost froze in place. People walked around me. Without knowing why, my head began to turn to the left. My eyes lost focus as it turned and I didn't regain my clarity until my head finished turning. When I was able to focus my eyes once more, there he sat in a chair, wearing blue clothing to blend in with the surroundings and other people, and he was smiling. I smiled back and he finally stood up. He came around the chairs until he was standing right in front of me. The moment seemed too surreal. It was sweetly awkward, like children in school meeting at the dance. "How are you, alright?" His accent dripped from each word. I couldn't say a word. I looked him straight in the eyes, placed my hand on his cheek, and felt the world change. I threw my arms around him and hugged him tight for a long, long time. I had known him nearly 7 years and I finally had him in front of me. There was no denying it, those were the eyes. He was the one. For one glorious moment, I held his face in my hands and just looked at him. He gently put his right hand on my cheek, tilted my face just a bit, and kissed me gently. It was a storybook moment. As soon as we got to the car at the Glasgow airport, we were off and running. Both of us knew that nobody in the world knew either of us better than one another, and yet we sat like perfect strangers, not sure of what to say or do. We had dated in the conventional Victorian standard, where even holding hands wasn't possible. We had no choice but to get to know one another through long talks and shared stories - and yet we sat side by side feeling like strangers who had known one another their entire lives. It was a bizarre feeling. Before long we got right past that bizarre feeling and straight into the dream

state that we remained in for so long. We were so accustomed to seeing one another on the other side of the glass that I couldn't help but feeling like Alice in Wonderland. I had somehow managed to step through the glass and into the picture that had been displayed before me for so long. I was standing in a dream ruled by kings and queens with knights watching over the land. I stood there in a land of castles and crowns, beside myself with the feeling of being in a makebelieve place. Occasionally he caught me looking at him and I shrugged it off as though I was just happy to be there. Really, I was still in disbelief. I really had walked right through a computer screen into another world. It was as if the plane wasn't ever needed, just the desire to be there. I had always been obsessed with history and castles, so that very first day he took me to a beautiful ruin of a castle in the nearby town of Bothwell. The entire place took my breath away and I instantly fell in love with the history and grandeur of it all. Had the castle been finished as it had originally been planned, it would have been one of the premiere castles of Europe in its day, the 1200's. Without a doubt it would have been the most spectacular castle in all of Scotland. The red stone reflected light as brilliant as the deep, rich clay of the Oklahoma soil. Much of the castle was never completed. As Richard and I walked from one corner to the other, around the perimeter and back inside, I took photo after photo of everything I saw. There was something missing though. It was the first day I had ever known Richard face to face. I wanted a photo so that I would never forget that moment. I set my camera on a wall of the castle, set the timer, and ran to Richard where I had posed him to stand. Somewhere in my archives, that photo most likely still exists. On the way back from the Medieval castle, we drove around Strathclyde Loch where Richard was able to point out some old Roman baths. They were built in 149 AD, during the time Roman's were trying to take over England and Scotland in one of their final attempts to rule the world. The Scots turned out to be too much for the Roman's to handle, and Hadrian's Wall was built to wall off the people of Scotland from those in England. I didn’t know then how important that spot would be to me later, or how Hadrian’s Wall would be symbolic within my own life, though I never got to see it for myself. Richard and I got back from Bothwell castle early in the afternoon, just about the time jet lag started setting in and taking over my mental capacity. I hit the wall around 3pm and finally lost the will to stay awake. I had slept on the plane, but

that's always such a disturbed sleep. Exhaustion won. I climbed the stairs and fell into what would be my bed for the next 10 days. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. I woke up to the sound of voices a couple hours later. I coming down stairs to find Richard's sister grabbing a light colored beer I was unfamiliar with and heading outside. Richard looked over his shoulder and saw me. "How are you, alright?" "Yeah," I replied. "How long was I asleep?" "About two hours," he said to my amazement. "I came up to check on you and you didn't move. That's my sister just over to visit. We're out back at the patio table if you'd like to come out with us." I wiped the sleep from my eyes and slipped into my shoes. I had wanted to meet her in person for so long. We had emailed back and forth a few times and I had liked her from the very beginning. Finally I was going to get a chance to meet the woman who would later become as dear to me as a sister. Excited but nervous, I headed out to the table. I don't what she said, but the first words out of her mouth came as a complete shock to me. I couldn't understand what she was saying at all! It sounded like she was speaking another language! In all the emails and messages we had ed back and forth, I always read everything in my head as though it were me saying it. That meant that until then, Louisa had an American accent to me. She sounded nothing at all like I had expected. "It sounds funny," she said, "but whenever I looked at my emails she was writing with a Scottish accent! That's how I read it anyway!" We both laughed. All evening I marveled at the way it felt like I really had walked through a photo frame into another world - a special, fantasy world I had made up in a story book. The people were a little hard to understand, but I hoped with time I would get used to that. We sat and chatted for a couple of hours before Louisa's husband John showed up. He had brought their three children with him and I knew for months that he had been dying to meet me - Richard's mystery woman with the American

accent. In the year 2006 Richard had sent me a video of John singing an Elvis song with his faded green shirt pulled up over his head and his belly exposed as he patted it while singing. I laughed so hard I cried. I ed that video as I sat across the table from the two of them and suddenly told that story to everyone. Even their two older children laughed. "Mum," the middle child, a girl named Annie, said as she tugged at Louisa's sleeve, "is she from the telly?" Annie was used to watching American programs on television and wanted to know how it was that I had an accent like people on television. She was so convinced that I was famous that her eyes grew wide and she became very shy for a bit. She even sat in her dad's lap for a while and watched me, as if trying to figure me out. "Ach, no," Louisa tried to explain, "America is a real place just like England and . It's just farther away. It's not just a make-believe place on the telly." Louisa looked up and smiled at me - a big, broad, heart warming smile. Annie blushed and hid her face. The smallest of the three children was little Millie. At that time she was barely 6 months old. She had the biggest blue eyes I had ever seen and my heart was instantly in her hands. I had seen photos of her, but even the photos didn't do the little angel justice. She was the most gorgeous little thing on Earth. When I was offered the chance to hold her, I jumped at it. It wasn't long before she slumped over and fell asleep in my arms. Louisa offered to pick her up and put her in her carrier, but I refused. I didn't mind holding on to her at all. She was such an angel. A dead weight when sleeping, but an angel nonetheless. Before long Richard and Louisa's mother Lina came over for a chat. It seemed word had gotten out somehow and everyone wanted to know who the mysterious redheaded American just down the road really was. It was a very unusual feeling, being right at home with the whole group of them and never once feeling out of place - but only understanding every fourth word that someone would say. Richard would have to repeat much of the conversation several times so that I would keep up, and even then I spent most of the time completely lost. Lina said a few things that I had never heard before in my life and before long my head was spinning. The look on my face must have given me away, because suddenly Louisa started roaring with laughter.

"Mum," she said to Lina, "she'll not understand what you're saying!" "Oh!" Lina proclaimed. She started to laugh. "I'm sorry! I didn't even think about it!" "So, Big Man," John said on his way out from the house, two beers in hand as another stranger approached the garden in the distance, "What are yous two up to tomorrow then?" Without missing a beat, Richard said hello to his father and then told John we were going into Edinburgh for two nights. It was at that moment I realized that I was sitting with the entire family and felt completely comfortable with them. I had never known that feeling before. I’d never even been that comfortable with my own family, but perhaps that was because I could understand every word my family said. A couple of days later I found myself to be the most uncomfortable I had ever been in my life. I ended up with my first ever hangover after our first night in Edinburgh. But it wasn’t the hangover that made things so strange and uncomfortable for me.

Chapter Twenty Seven The Edinburgh Hangover I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to see just how far I was willing to go in order to prove my loyalty and devotion to him, but I had assumed it would be the one time only and then never again. I wasn’t even entirely convinced it had happened at all. My stomach lurched just thinking about it. My time with Naomi was done. I would need to work through my personal history on my own for a while because I’d put off talking about Scotland for so long as an act of self-preservation. I was still blocking out the worst of it all as much as possible, but still having to deal with so much pain and the deep sense of everlasting betrayal. I kept trying to force myself to think about it, but it wouldn’t happen. I had to focus more on when I first got to Scotland and shape my focus on that. Otherwise I’d never be able to reach through the darkness. One step at a time I told myself. I would get there one step at a time. It was okay if I took things slowly. I focused again on my visit the first time I ever met Richard in person. Apparently the biggest attraction in Scotland for Americans is the city of Edinburgh. It seems to be even more popular with the people of the United States than destinations like Loch Ness and it's mysterious monster. Thousands flock to the country's capital every year for tours, visits and adventure. The history and architecture of the city are beyond compare, lending plenty of practice for ammeture photographers on vacation, such as I was that year. We left his small town of Bellshill, just outside Glasgow, and headed for Edinburgh on Monday morning, the 26th of July 2010. I hadn't even been in the country for a full 24 hours yet and already I was off for another adventure. We got to Edinburgh in the early afternoon and checked in to our hotel. Our room had a full view of the Edinburgh Castle and took my breath away as soon as I walked through the door. One wall of the room was made entirely of glass, making sure nothing obstructed the glorious view. I was in awe. I could have stayed there for hours staring at the view but Richard had other ideas in mind. We barely took the time to put down our bags before we were off again.

We stopped off at a pub just across the street from the hotel for a quick drink we were both parched after the drive. When we stood up again, he asked which direction I would like to go in. There were three options before me, but since I had never been to the city in my life and knew that he had, I left the decision up to him. I had no idea where I was, where I wanted to go or how to get there even if I did. "Let's go this way then," he said, and pointed to the street that curved off up to the left. As soon as we rounded the corner I saw that the street curved slightly off to the right a little way up the hill. It seemed oddly familiar, but far away like a distant dream. I couldn't figure out what it was until I looked up above me. Suddenly a far away memory flooded my mind and I stood with my mouth hanging open, chills running up and down my arms. The hair on the back of my neck stood up on end and I couldn't believe what I was looking at. "What is it?" I couldn't answer. I just pointed up. There it was, something I had seen only once in my life, and that once was in a make-believe place I had imagined once in my sleep. There on the wall was the giant nose with glasses. I had thought it was an eye glass shop, but it turned out to be a joke shop. Still, I recognized it from something that never existed. Fire escapes draped across the walls here and there from buildings more than 4 or 5 stories high. Some were even higher than that! There were coffee shops and gift stores on the ground levels here and there, all spelling out a fantasy land in perfect harmony. It all reminded me of a Hallmark movie, and deja vous hit me hard. It was my second day in Scotland and already I felt as though I was meant to be there. We wandered all the way up the street with the large nose until the cobblestones poured out onto the Royal Mile. I couldn't fully understand why it was called the Royal Mile at the time but the explanation would present itself the following day. We hadn't been walking long when we stopped for another drink - this time something a bit stiffer. The two of us wandered into a place called Ensign Ewart, where I marveled at the 1600's date above the window next to the name. Dumbfounded, I didn't know what to say. I stupidly asked if it had always been

the same pub and the swift "yes" still surprised me. In that “yes” I heard the “of course” as though it couldn’t possibly have ever been anything else in all its 400 years. Richard ordered what he calls Jack Daniels and Lemonade, but much to my surprise Lemonade turned out to be the word for Sprite or 7-Up in Scotland. It was a good drink, though quite strong for what I was used to. I typically didn’t drink at all. While he ordered, I sat at the table and reviewed photos in my camera. As I sat waiting for the drink and Richard's return, a familiar sound reached my ears. A couple from the Southern United States were talking to another American couple at the table next to me. They were discussing how to operate their camera to not focus on the background but rather on the people in the foreground. Here I sat with my rather impressive looking DSLR camera in my hands as they glanced over in my direction. What was I to do? I offered some tips to the couple, who were equally surprised that I shared an American accent with them. Richard returned to the table with two drinks just as I was explaining how the flash wasn't needed for some shots and to turn it off was a simple function. I explained that the shutter time would last longer, leaving the lens open and making a steady hand or solid placement of the camera an absolute must if they didn't want blurry pictures. It turned out the couple was from Virginia and had come over to Scotland on a cruise ship with a tour. They were only in Edinburgh for the afternoon and were shortly heading up to the castle to do the tour of the infamous structure still in use by the Royal Military. Finally they packed up their items. As they were leaving Richard got a second round and I took a few photos of the interior adornments. We sat long enough for him to finish his drink as he asked me why I spoke to those people. “They seemed nice enough,” I answered him with honesty. “They’re American, like me, and they needed help so I offered some.” “Do you often speak to total strangers,” he asked, seemingly somewhat insulted. “Everyone is a stranger until you get to know them.” As I stood up, my brain swam around in my skull like a lifejacket in a bathtub. I shook it off, took a

breath, grabbed the arm of the man I loved, and bravely headed out the door. It was only the beginning of the long evening to come and the massive hangover I would discover in the morning. Shortly after leaving the Ensign Ewart, Richard and I were wandering down the street together when I saw something that completely took my breath away. Astonished, I could do little else but stare up at the structure. Something about it seemed magical. Even from a distance I could tell it was something worth taking a closer look at. My head was still swimming from the two stiff drinks I'd already downed, but I could see clearly enough to know that the building was special. We drew nearer with every step and my astonishment only grew. Great carvings adorned the building. Life sized faces and bodies lined the edges and caught the light enough to show the very expression on each hand carved face. I could barely speak. Inside were signs saying that photography was allowed, but donations were appreciated. We took note of that as we wandered past snapping pictures everywhere we went. There were ancient flags hanging from the walls and stunning stained glass windows on nearly every vertical surface. The walls and ceilings were painted and hand carved to be even more stunning than the outside. I knew as I took the photos that no picture could ever do justice to the incredible surroundings I was faced with. Nothing I had ever seen could compare to the grandeur of this phenomenal place. A few smaller rooms branched off of the main chamber, and ever eager to explore, both of us wandered from one to the next. We had seen almost every corner and every wall when we saw some people coming out of a closed door. It had previously looked as though that area was off limits to tourists, but surprisingly it was wide open. The door was just kept shut for reasons unknown to us. Curious about the last room in St. Giles Cathedral, we wandered over. Richard held the door open for me and I drew in a sharp breath. The hand carved wood stood three times the height of a man and covered every edge on every wall. I walked in, camera ready. Richard followed me into a small room and instantly slowed, as I had when I saw the nose on the wall. He looked nearly straight up, marveling at the intricate woodwork. Hand carved seats that almost looked like a row of thrones lined three of the four walls in the room, each with its own coat of arms where a person's back would line up. Each had its own sword replica; it's own intricate

character at the top of the carving. All of the characters and coat of arms were hand painted, the swords gilded in gold. My camera couldn't capture the room from floor to ceiling, no matter where I stood or how I tried. "This is an important place," Richard said to me, as he stood looking at the largest chair in the room. A reverse version of the Royal Coat of Arms was positioned in front of the largest chair. The hair on his arms stood up for the second time that day. "This is an important place," he repeated. "There's something special about this place but I don't know what it is." There was so much to see and take photos of in the room that we were left pretty much alone for a long time. Finally a few other people came in, followed by an older woman. She turned out to be a tour guide for St. Giles Cathedral and she did much more than confirm Richard's suspicions. It truly was an important room. St. Giles Cathedral, it turned out, was the High Church of Edinburgh, the Mother Church of Presbyterianism, and most importantly, contained the Chapel of the Order of the Thistle. Twice a year the Knights of Scotland, headed by the Queen, would meet at this special Chapel of the Order of the Thistle - and we were standing in that private chapel at that exact moment. We were standing where the Queen herself came twice a year to meet with the Knights of Scotland. Each coat of arms stood for the family heritage of each Knight. The reverse Royal Coat of Arms was to honor the Queen of Scotland, who also happened to be the Queen of England. On the Scotish version of the Royal Coat of Arms, things are reversed because the Unicorn that stood for Scotland was on the left and the lion of the English was on the right in order to put Scotland first. It was a huge sign of respect from what we could understand and we both stood in amazement. We studied the room for nearly an hour. Overwhelmed with the knowledge that had suddenly been dumped into our heads, we decided to move on finally. Next stop: another drink. I knew I didn’t want one. I certainly didn’t need one. But Richard wouldn’t take no for an answer. After another quick drink at another pub, we headed back to the hotel to change our clothes for the evening. We had already decided we would visit the castle the following day first thing in the morning, so there was really nothing to do but have fun and enjoy our time. We got a bottle of wine from the hotel bar and took

it out to the public hotel patio, where we enjoyed a long talk over the full bottle. We discussed what we had seen, where we had been, who had been there before us, and what to do next. We talked about food, about drink, the differences between the UK and the US, and all the times I wasn't able to understand what people had said to us. We were both dressed rather nicely and were both quite hungry, so finally we put the cork back into the bottle and gave it to the bar to keep for our return. We wandered into a pub not far from the hotel for some food. I normally have an incredible memory for food in particular, but for the life of me I couldn’t by the next day what it was I ate. Trauma wiped that memory clean. Things started to get especially fuzzy around dinner. We went from pub to bar to pub, finally ending up in a little place just across the street from the hotel where we shared multiple bottles of wine. By the time we stood up my head was swimming like an olympic athlete in a kiddie pool. I'd never seen anyone drink as much alcohol in my life as I did the Scots that night while still being able to find their way home, or even be able to stand up. Finally the pubs all closed and we were sent on our way but something felt strange. I didn’t feel like me. It also didn’t feel like alcohol, but I couldn’t quite figure it out. We went back to the hotel, where I decided I had enough, and planned to sleep soundly until nearly noon the next day. I personally had never had so much to drink in my life. I knew I should be afraid of the morning effects, but I was too drunk to care. I had never in my life known that feeling. "I'd always been proud to say I'd only ever been drunk once in my life," I slurred, "but I can forget about that now." “Are you Richard,” the young lady asked as she stood up from the granite ground by the hotel entrance. She was pretty, but dressed in a very small dress and a very fake, very furry coat. “Aye,” he responded to her. “It’s this way.” I had no idea what was going on but was not lucid enough to be sure I was seeing anything as it actually was. Much to my surprise he led all of us to the hotel room. The girl asked if she could use the bathroom, Richard allowed her to, and then he explained to me. “I thought we might have some fun. Escorts aren’t technically illegal here in Scotland.”

“Escorts?” I was shocked. “You mean like prostitutes?” I stumbled, feeling nauseous for so many reasons. “Shh,” he scolded. “You don’t want to hurt her feelings. No, you pay prostitutes to have sex with you. Escorts you only pay a service for one to spend time with you. What you do during that time is your own business. That’s why it’s not illegal. I asked for a pretty one for you. You think she’s pretty, right?” I bit back the vomit, and experienced my first ever blackout.

Chapter Twenty Eight Prisoners of War In the morning I woke myself up moaning. It echoed between my ears like a gong being struck by a metal mallet. I felt my heart pounding just behind my eyes, causing them to feel as thought they would pop out of my head if I lifted my eyelids. Somehow I struggled to wake up not long before there was a knock at the door. Room service was delivering breakfast. The night before was a blur. I wondered if it had merely been a nightmare. Maybe I’d imagined it all. Surely Richard wouldn’t do something like that. It had to be a drunk nightmare. Maybe someone gave me drugs and I imagined the whole thing. I was famished! I felt as though my neck had been cut and I hadn't eaten for days. The cart was wheeled into the room, I got out of bed and rushed over to the table and lifted the lid, and nearly lost what few contents I had in my stomach. The smell of the full Scottish breakfast overwhelmed me. As much as I loved mushrooms, they were the absolute most appalling things I had the displeasure to lay my eyes on at that moment. I steadied myself and took a breath. Still very hungry, I swallowed my sickness and dove in head first. Richard and I were both feeling the same way. It wasn't long before the food had vanished completely, leaving several empty plates free of even a smear. Scottish Porridge Oats seemed very much like Oatmeal to me, but better. The Haggis, black pudding, sausage, beans, toast, eggs, mushrooms and everything else was like pure heaven to me. My head still pounded, but nothing could get in the way of food! A momentary flashback of the girl from the night before launched itself into my brain and I swung backward in shock. She’d been naked in the hotel room. She’d come out of the bathroom wearing lingerie. What in the world had we done? What had I done? What should I do? “You know, about last night,” Richard seemed to read my mind. “If you don’t want it to, that doesn’t ever have to happen again.” “What exactly happened,” I asked between bites and flashbacks that were causing me to feel as though the room was spinning. “We can talk about that later,” he offered. “For now I think you might need

some hangover cure and headache tablets.” He handed me an orange drink called Lucozade and a package of paracetamol, the well known cure for a hangover in Scotland. “But we had fun with you anyway,” he grinned. My skin crawled for a moment, but I let it go. He had to be kidding me. It was all a prank and I’d actually fallen asleep. It had been a movie we’d see on the hotel tv. That had to be the truth. I’d fallen asleep! I smiled at my brilliant brain, proud of myself for having figured it out. He didn’t need to tell me. He was quite the practical joker, that one. I’d need to keep my eye on him. Finally, with overly full stomachs, Richard and I struggled to pack our bags. We needed to load up the car and check out of the hotel before we could go to the castle. I sat and relaxed a minute, nursing my throbbing head a moment longer while Richard went to check out. Just as he got back, he grabbed my camera up and took a photo of me. He said it was so I could my first hangover. If I’d known the real reason he took the photo, I would have been appalled. It wasn’t my hangover he wanted to document, but another first all together. I couldn't wait to get to the castle. My camera had a nearly full charge on it and I was ready to go. My head still had a hard time catching up to me though, so Richard introduced me to something called Resolve. In the United States, Resolve is a cleaning agent, potent enough to kill someone if they were to drink it. In the United Kingdom, it's one of the most brilliant hangover cures known to man. I don't know if I would have survived the day without it, looking back on that day now. If my memory had been clear, I’m not sure I’d have wanted to. My head was starting to feel a little better, but I still felt completely off. The hike up the side of the ancient volcano to the castle was brutal on me that morning. I didn't know how to cope with a hangover. I'd since been told that I hid it quite well, but even now I don't feel like that had been possible. I felt incredibly ill. It was a struggle just to stand up straight. I was incredibly weak. The line to get in the castle was surrounded by large metal bleachers. I couldn't figure out what it was for, and Richard beat me to the question. "They are preparing for a presentation of the Royal Military Tattoo," he explained, nodding his head in the direction in which I was looking. It wasn't until some time later on I discovered what the Royal Military Tattoo was. They do a special event every year at the Edinburgh Castle in mid to late August. It had nothing at all to do with ink penetrating skin.

We got to the ticket stand after finally entering the main gates to the castle and winding our way through a switch-back line filled with hundreds of people. Finally at the ticket stand, we purchased a souvenir book about the castle. Within a few seconds of getting the tickets in hand, my hangover was all but gone thanks to adrenaline, leaving me filled with nothing but excitement about this new adventure and the opportunity to learn something new. Never did I realize how much I would be learning that day, including about my own Nation. We met up with a tour guide who would walk us through the highlights of the castle explaining parts of the history I wouldn't be able to find in my souvenir book. She would turn out to be an excellent tour guide, speaking slowly enough for my untrained American ears to understand her, though still speaking with a thick accent. The castle was much larger on the inside than I could have possibly imagined from our view on the hotel balcony. It seemed to defy what I had known a castle to be, with everything being connected, leaving a center courtyard somewhere roughly in the middle. Instead, Edinburgh Castle was spread out with many individual buildings here and there. It had many odd angles to it and cobblestone paths wound their ways around corners, under multiple gates and to the outer walls of the Castle. Parts of the castle were much older than other sections, but it wasn't until we reached the oldest building in the castle, and in the entire city of Edinburgh, that the tour guide explained why that was. St. Margaret's Chapel was built by David I in 1130 AD as a private chapel for the royal family. It's called St. Margaret's because it was dedicated to his mother, Margaret, who died in the castle in 1093AD. She had evidently been completely devastated by the horrible and violent death of her husband during an ambush attack. Some speculate that the chapel was part of what was originally a much larger royal home since the bricks forming one wall of the structure are different from the other three sides. It's entirely possible that the three different sides might have been interior walls at one time. It seems rather simple from the outside, but St. Margaret's Chapel was one of the most remarkable sights in the entire castle from the inside. St. Margaret's is still used for christenings and weddings to this day, though the chapel is so small I have a hard time picturing any weddings actually taking place there. The biggest surprise the Castle had to offer me had yet to be seen, but it would be something that would stick with me for the rest of my life. The castle prisons

held one of the biggest surprises for me as we wandered through the rows of bunks and hammocks. The bedding was appalling and the eating areas seemed too similar to the latrines for my taste, but that was prison life back then. The prisons I saw were buried deep beneath the Great Hall, and we had to wander deep into the depths through vast staircases in order to reach them. They were used for several purposes, including food storage, barracks and even a bakery, but their use as prisons during times of war really amazed me the most. It wasn't the fact that they were prisons, but more of what was on display for all to see and touch. The prisons had been turned to kitchens, and then converted back to prisons during the American Revolutionary War and held Spaniards, Dutchmen, Irishmen and even Americans. Some of those Americans were in fact Scots who had gone to America and found themselves amid the conflict, and not all by choice. Some of them had been prisoners released into forced servitude as slaves. They were forced to fight in a war they didn’t understand. They decided they didn’t want to fight for the English and fought instead for the Americans. Many were then captured as traitors and brought back to the castle to die. I ran my finger tips over one of the original wooden doors that kept the prisoners in their confines. There, much to my amazement, was a hand carved original representation of the first American Flag that stood for the original 13 colonies and next to it was the date carved in 1776. I stood in awe, shivers running up and down my spine. I stood where my ancestors stood, I stood free while they stood imprisoned, and I owed that freedom to the men who carved that flag into the old wooden doors of a prison cell far away on the Castle Rock of Edinburgh. I never imagined that the roles would be so completely changed, thanks to the man who stood beside me holding my hand, wanting me to believe that he loved me. We spent hours in the castle, going from place to place and even getting to see the infamous coronation stone still used to crown the English royalty and the Scotish Crown Jewels. Anyone else would have been more stunned by the jewels than the prisons, but that American flag resonated in my mind, haunting me in a way I wouldn’t understand for many years to come.

Chapter Twenty Nine The Last of Edinburgh We wandered out of the castle and tried for a few minutes to decide which direction to head in. Since the Royal Mile was probably the most infamous, it was eventually the decision we made, but any direction would have been educational, beautiful and incredible. An ice cream vendor had set up shop just outside the main castle gates and we stopped briefly for a couple scoops of vanilla. To top it off was a rolled piece of flaky chocolate I had never seen before. We began our wanders down the Royal Mile as we ate our ice cream with gelato spoons. It was incredible, seeing some structures that were several hundred years old coupled with new banks and glass-faced Radisson Hotel buildings. Peeking through small alleyways I was able to see a myriad of these types of places, including one dated 1623 and looking its age in some areas. Others looked like they had been standing far longer than that, and at one time had been surrounded by woods in order to hide the ancient witch that lived within its depths. Everywhere I looked, I would breath in the history and architecture of my surroundings. All too quickly we were winding our way back toward the Castle and then back to my home for my remaining vacation days. My mind swirled with the new information that had been crammed into it. I absorbed some things like a sponge as I pushed other useless facts out of my mind normally. I was pretty sure I’d forgotten the square root of 6561 to make room for something on the Royal Mile. My hangover still wasn't gone, but I had enough to think about which provided a good, healthy distraction from what I wasn’t sure had happened the night before. I needed to let my brain settle. Richard had another adventure in mind for the following day - with more positive hands-on experience! Who among the American people doesn't know who William Wallace is? There was a movie that hit theaters in 1995 where an Australian played a Scotsman fighting the English in an American made film.Yep, that's right, Braveheart. Ironically that was the movie poster hanging on the wall of the Hastings video store the day a total stranger decided to shove his hand down the backside of my pants when I was just a kid.

While the movie is mostly fictional, the man William Wallace really lived. He wasn't from the poor and humble backgrounds the movie would have us believe though. He was the son of a Lawyer and gave up his lands in order to the Scots in their battle against the English. The movie may be fictional, but the truth is actually better than the movie. Not far from a place called Stirling in Scotland is a tall monument that is clearly visible for miles around. It stands on the top of a hill not far from Stirling Castle and the two have a clear view of one another even over the distance. Something about that monument gave me strength. While photos really don't do justice to the size and magnitude of the Wallace Monument, first-hand experience has shown me that when you're in it, for all s and purposes it may as well be as large as the Statue of Liberty. He is a celebrated hero even today, and monuments of William Wallace can be found all over the world in some of the most surprising locations anyone could imagine. On the left hand side of the tower is an odd spiraling shape going all the way up one corner of the structure. It's lined with thin, open windows each about three feet tall. That spiral is actually a spiral staircase that has been traveled millions of times by travelers all over the world. The stone steps are so worn in some areas that they are bowed in the shape of a canoe bottom. Those steps are the only way up - and down - the tower. My fear of heights nearly prevented me from climbing them but my love of history and adventure drove me ever onward. Several large rooms are housed inside the tower, allowing visitors a sneak peak into the life and times of William Wallace. Timelines and historical artifacts are displayed on each level of the tower and people travel from all over the world just for a glimpse at one of the most famous swords in history - second only to Excalibur in my mind. People gathered around the glass case and marveled at the black leather stretched over the grip of the sword. The blade had a few knicks in the edge and the leather had long since dried out, but seemed perfect otherwise. It was a custom built sword, and if it's historically accurate, then William Wallace is assumed to have been well over six feet tall, judging by the length and weight of the massive blade. He was a titan of a man, both in stature and in deed. When finally we reached the top of the tower, the view was among the most amazing views I've ever seen - including watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean or rising behind the Eiffel Tower. Rolling hills stretched as far as the eye

could see. Rivers wound their way around the landscape nearly forming perfect loops in several areas. Those rivers had been following the same paths for hundreds of years - all the way back to the days of William Wallace himself. One of the most famous battles in Scotland's History was the Battle of Stirling Bridge, where the English army was massacred by the cunning Scots. I believe it was also the origin of the naming of the flower of Scotland, and the battle happened right in front of where the tower now stood, right where I was then able to see. Hunger finally drove us back toward the staircase and the long climb down. Each step was perilous for us both and we constantly had to hold on to the walls in order to keep from falling. A large woman tried to us on the staircase and I found myself kneeling inside one of the many tiny windows, the breeze lifting the cuffs of my jeans and cooling my legs by several degrees. Suddenly hungry and cold, I couldn't get away from the wonderful history quite fast enough. I was starving, and thanks to my fear of heights, I was also terrified. On our way back to the car and down the mountain, we stopped just long enough for me to take a couple photos. As I poised to take one of a bee on a thistle, Richard playfully put the end of his shoe against my vulnerable and exposed bottom and pushed. I tumbled forward into the bush and the bee flew off, slightly disgruntled. Richard claimed that he had no idea I was allergic to and terrified of bees. I was pretty sure I’d told him several times. But I couldn’t possibly get upset with him. It was an accident after all. Starving hungry and not entirely sure where to go, we found a little restaurant and stumbled into it, starving. Richard pointed out an English flag someone had attached to the antenna of their car and said how foolish an idea that was. Having just come from the Wallace Monument, dedicated to a man who fought his whole life against the English, I understood that more than ever. We chuckled and headed toward the smell of food. We ordered our food and talked for a while about things we wanted to share with the whole world. I wasn't the only one with a spinning head. Absent-mindedly I began fidgeting with the sugar packets in a bowl before me. There were several different colored packets in the bowl and after a minute I started to notice the names on them.

"What's brown sauce," I asked. "You're kidding me on," he answered. "No, why? What is it? Is it something gross?" "You don't know what brown sauce is?!" Suddenly I felt as though I had two heads. I shook my head no and watched as he broke open the corner of the packet, grabbed my hand, squeezed some onto my finger tip and told me to taste it. I lifted my finger to my mouth and tasted... It was like vinegar and salt mixed with a mild barbecue sauce to me. The look of complete puzzlement on his face was enough to leave me laughing for several long minutes until the waitress came over to check on us. She had a spirited personality with lots of personality and pzazz - and I wanted to tell Richard that without using so many words. Suddenly we got into a discussion that would turn both of our faces red. There are several words that don't mean the same thing in Scotland as they do in the States. If in Scotland, never describe someone as being “Spunky” because it’s not at all a flattering comment to make about anyone at all. The word I used for the waitress was fairly common and complimentary in America, but quite gross and vulgar in Scotland. It was a word that would be used in a derogatory fashion toward me many times over the next year. There's another word I used that afternoon that is a polite alternative to using the word 'butt' in the United States that is quite possibly one of the most vulgar words a person can use in the United Kingdom. Before that day, I honestly didn't know that the word ‘fanny’ was a vulgar term for ‘lady parts’. My face turned as red as my hair and I wanted to slide under the table. Luckily we were having a late lunch or an early dinner, so the place was pretty empty. Richard's face grew more red than mine as his eyes teared up in hysterical embarrassment at having to tell me what these things meant. By the time the Haggis came out to the table, we were both laughing so hard we could barely breathe. The poor waitress had no idea what was going on and finally just walked away in her confusion. The food was steaming hot and we couldn't dive right in to eating it, so we concentrated on holding in our laughter first.

Chapter Thirty One Realizations of Trafficking It was easy to why I had loved him for so long. He was handsome and funny, strong and brave. He was exactly the kind of man I’d wanted in my life for as long as I was old enough to have such thoughts. I wanted somewhere safe. Richard was safe. He was a police officer, just like Pete had been so I knew he’d protect me from harm. Right? I never imagined he’d be the source of irreparable damage that would last a lifetime. I didn’t even realize that damage had already begun. Instead, somehow I blindly trusted the man I’d known on and off for seven long years. None of these things were easy for me to think about, especially without Naomi. ing my time in Scotland began to cause some severe PTSD nightmares. It was around that time when I discovered my cat JackJack had the ability to wake me in those moments as though he knew what I needed. He would tuck his fuzzy little head under my chin and gently bump me until I woke up quietly. Only on rare occasions did I wake up ready to fight, but there were so many reasons for that. A man who went to war had to always be at the ready to fight, even while sleeping. Someone who went through what I did learned how to use sleep as a defense. Sometimes it was the only defense I had, regardless of where I was or how old I happened to be, and sometimes that didn’t even do anything to help me. But if I laid still as long as possible, maybe I had a chance. If I laid still, maybe I wouldn’t get yelled at. If I laid still, maybe my mother wouldn’t yell at me for being out of bed to get a drink or go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. If I laid still, maybe I’d forget I was tied in. If I laid still, maybe I wouldn’t have someone believing me to be awake and ready to be raped again. If I laid still, maybe, just maybe, I could last until morning before having to face my nightmarish hell once more. Maybe I wouldn’t feel the pain. With my eyes closed, I wouldn’t see where I was. I wouldn’t see his eyes. I wouldn’t see a stranger sleeping beside me. I wouldn’t have to see it at all if I could lay there just a little longer and pretend to be asleep. So when JackJack began waking me up from nightmares, I would lay silently with my eyes closed until I had an understanding of where I was and if I was safe or not before finally

starting to open my eyes to scratch him beneath the collar and thank him for bringing me back from that precipice of wishing for death to be just a little more swift. He’s always appreciative of the affection; one of the many reasons I love my cats so much. My appetite began to increase the more I thought about the past. It was as though I needed to keep myself busy at all times if I was awake because that distraction was all that could keep the nightmare from resurfacing behind my eyelids every time I blinked, or what would keep me from having a flashback in a grocery store aisle, bringing me to my knees. Sometimes a familiar smell or the shape of a tree would transport me back in time and I was once more in Scotland fighting to stay alive in a silent battle nobody knew or cared anything about. Learning how to cope with all of that seemed impossible and I turned to food until I’d gained 60lbs in a short period of time. Food, just like having multiple jobs, four cats, and several books to write, became my distractions from facing reality. They became my way to disconnect from the past and focus on right now. But disconnecting from the past wasn’t doing me any good if I wasn’t learning how to deal with the past. I still couldn’t function properly in adult relationships for the most part, couldn't be alone with my thoughts anymore like I had while surfing, couldn’t function well enough to figure out what I was feeling without taking days to process everything. I didn’t realize how many complications it was causing, but my past still had lasting effects I would likely never mature past, and some I’d never be able to move past until I learned to face them. I knew I needed a new therapist. I reached out to the Covered organization in Colorado again. We’d begin weekly gatherings soon where I would hang out with and get to know other survivors in the Denver area. We’d eventually become friends, and I’d learn just how ‘not alone’ I really was. Spending all those years fighting that silent battle I always felt as though what I’d suffered through was independent and unique. I thought nobody else would ever understand. Finally, someone in the world understood that feeling of isolation and I learned that, not only was I not alone, but I was remarkably lucky to be alive. It was through organizations like Covered and Shift Freedom that I learned less than 2% of all trafficked persons survived. For a while that didn’t quite sink in. Why did they die, I asked. Statistically they die because they’re beaten to death and murdered by their pimps or handlers, they overdose on drugs and/or alcohol, or they commit suicide. But, my mind then asked, surely that’s different from

what I went through because everything that was done to me was done by a man I was engaged to marry. That wouldn’t fit with that demographic, would it? Turns out, most people who are trafficked in the sex trade are trafficked by somene they know and trust and love, like a parent, grandparent, uncle, aunt, boyfriend, girlfriend... as much as I never wanted to it to it, what I lived through was absolutely within the normal parameters of the ‘average’ victim of trafficking. My life was not that different from the others. When Mickie trafficked me by ‘loaning’ me out to Carlo for his birthday, I was trafficked by my boyfriend. When Adam and Jenny sold me to Esteban in Florida, I was trafficked by someone I knew and trusted and who had authority over my life since I was living in their home. When Richard did what he did, well, that was textbook trafficking. Yet I couldn’t wrap my head around that even after I’d discovered what trafficking was or what it meant. I could it that what Adam and Jenny did to me fit in that category because they sold me like a slave on the market. But what Mickie and Richard did was different because they didn’t sell me as a whole. They simply rented me out like a parking space in a cramped city. That wasn’t the same thing. Was it? Of course it was, I learned. Trafficking, simply defined, involves the use of force, fraud, or coercion to obtain some type of labor or commercial sex act or sexual exploitation. If I were to break down each of my situations, each and every one of them fit that exact definition. Each instance was different in its own right, just as each other survivor I’ve ever met survived something drastically different from my own story. Yet each of us had our own stories of human trafficking. Some of us would deal with so much more than the emotional wreckage and scars left behind that I would have, or the constant fear that I’d be found. Some would live with permanent scars such as broken jaws that could never be fixed, missing body parts like tongues or ears, or much worse, and yet others would live with drug dependencies due to the psychological conditions they were left with, like dissociative identity disorder also known as split or multiple personality disorder, or schizophrenia (It’s basically a disruption or breakdown of memory, awareness, identity and/or perception). Some of the others had suffered for many years. I still counted myself as incredibly lucky to have survived only 152 days in the end, and understand that I nearly didn’t survive that. I honestly couldn’t wrap my brain around understanding how some of the others had survived literally years of that same treatment or worse. The average age of someone in trafficking is only seven years. I nearly ended it all after only a few months. I’d been told so many

times that I was lucky to be alive and that I was so strong to have survived what I did. I was nothing compared to the others. My experience was a walk in the park compared to theirs. But what need was there to compare my horror to the horror of someone else? Had we all not lived through Hell and miraculously escaped the other side? How many people would say my experience was worse than theirs? There was simply no excuse to compare our lives. Nobody knew what I lived through but me, and even some of that wasn’t perfectly clear. I began to understand that there was no competition for torture. It simply existed as a nightmare - unless we found a positive use for it. It had been a number of years since I’d been willing to think or talk about Scotland. I didn’t really have any idea where to start with it all, but I knew that I’d want to push myself as much as possible because I didn’t want to dwell on it any longer than I had to. Unfortunately that’s not how the whole process works. I was also finally coming to the realization that I couldn’t do it on my own. Covered was able to find another therapist for me to start visiting with, and I wanted things to start right away because that was how I dealt with things. “Let’s just deal with it and move on,” I’ve always thought. I figured the faster we could deal with it, the faster I could move on with my life and forget the whole thing ever happened. If only brains worked like that. There would be no forgetting it. Not ever. I think the new therapist could feel my sense of urgency, and her schedule was pretty slammed for a while. We’d eventually set up meetings for every other week on Tuesdays, and they’d be video chats since it was The Year of Covid still. I was content with that because it meant I’d have a chance to get somewhere with everything. The unexpected happened shortly after that. My ex husband died in November of 2020 but I wasn’t notified until the day before my birthday, and then it was my own brother who finally reached out, letting me know that I might want to reach out instead of making my son feel like I didn’t care at all. His tone made me believe someone had lied to him, telling him that I’d known all along. That one email had a lot to unpack. I’d have to postpone my dealing with Scotland just a little longer as I navigated what I was feeling from that news.

Chapter Thirty Two The Death of Clark Death hits us in a funny way. It was the day before my 41st birthday when I found out that my son’s father had died. I guess he’d been dead for two weeks as the result of a head-on collision and nobody had bothered to tell me. My son, now twenty, hadn’t reached out. I had been kept completely in the dark on it all. Ironically it was my own brother who informed me through a random, surprising email. I didn’t know what to do or how to feel. I was sitting in a doctor's office waiting for my third treatment for chronic hives when I saw the email, and from there it sunk in slowly. I may have been in shock when they called me back for my injections. I didn’t hear when the nurse called my name the first time. I may not have heard her for several minutes. By the time I responded she looked concerned. I apologized and told her that I’d just received some shocking news. Why had I proclaimed it to be shocking news, I wondered to myself. Why not tragic news? Why not devastating news? Why not just news? I was close to tears. Why not sad news? Why was it just shocking? I guess that his death wasn’t a contingency I had prepared myself for. The thoughts came all at once. It was guilt, shame, anger, fear, frustration, happiness, and a strange sense of justice. I hated that man. I hated that he had taken my only child away from me. But I loved that man. I loved that he was able to offer my son what I never could - a home. I couldn’t even offer myself a home. I had nothing to give to a child. I had no real way of being able to raise him or provide for him. Clark had done all of that. Yet I hated him because Ethan was the only child I’d ever have, and he cruelly hid him away from me, first with threats, and then with actions. He alienated me from my only child, just as he alienated my only child from me. It was shocking, because his death meant that I might finally have the ability to communicate freely with my son. It was shocking because it was probably the only way I had never considered being able to get my son back. It was shocking because it was something I never knew I desperately wanted and needed, the

death of someone else. But it was also shocking because it hurt me to the core, knowing how much my son had been hurting for a full two weeks, feeling orphaned, because his own mother didn’t bother to reach out to him in his hour of need. My heart both broke and rejoiced in the same moment and the tears flooded my covid mask. After the injections, which I barely now though they’ve always been extremely painful in the process, my mind was in a fog. Due to risk factors of a bad reaction, I wasn’t allowed to leave right away. Instead, I sat in the lobby scrolling mindlessly through social media for a while, trying to distract myself from the new reality I found myself in. I did reach out to my son, asking him to call or text me to let me know how he was doing. In all the 9 years of having my phone number since returning from Scotland, and as many times as it would have been easy or convenient for me to change my number over those years in my attempts to change my identity and move on with my life, I never let go of that phone number. It was the number his dad would have for me. I never changed it because if my son needed me, I wanted him to know how to reach me. I didn’t want him to get a disconnected number, or even worse, someone else on the phone. If he needed his mom, damn it, I was going to make sure he could reach his mom. I didn’t have a number for him or for his father, because Clark had refused many times to give me their number, but I made sure he had mine. I’d missed seeing my son growing up. I missed his first steps, his first words. I missed his first girlfriend, his first kiss, his graduation, his first broken heart. I hadn’t been there for him, ever. We were even connected on social media, but I couldn’t tell him anything other than the occasional “hello” and I couldn’t tell him why because his father would have made sure I’d never speak to him again. Now, in light of the tragedy of my son losing his dad just before his 60th birthday, I’d never be able to tell him what happened or why I missed every milestone in his life so far. I would not ever tarnish the name of his father in his eyes. I would never be able to tell all that his father had done to me, because in the end his father had done a remarkable job raising our son. He had a little help along the way from his family, and he did eventually remarry to a woman I knew nothing about. I not long after my ex remarried I saw something my mother had written to my son. She asked my son how he liked his ‘new mom’ now that he

actually had one. It stung. That was a cut to the bone, because through all the years of everything I’d lived through, it didn’t matter to me anymore that my mother didn’t believe me. But that one mattered. She, just like everyone else in my entire bloodline, believed I had abandoned my only child. Now, I could never tell my mother what had really happened to the relationship we could have had. Not that it would have mattered, I knew. My mother was just poisonous enough to never believe me anyway. Clark would have never itted to his wrongdoing while he was alive. Now that he was dead, there was even less of a chance for exoneration. Clark had died. The truth died with him. Except for the truth that was still within me, and I knew that truth would die with me someday too. While in one sense I felt justified that he was now dead and nothing could threaten to be a barrier between my son and me anymore, I also felt as though the truth never being revealed would still pose a threat to any future communications. My son was, in the exact moment that his father died, the same age I was when my son was born. The impossibility of circumstance was not lost on me. I did a fine job of drowning my sorrows in a box of chicken strips and fried cheese curds while washing it all down with a massively thick chocolate and oreo shake from a local fast food chain while sitting in their parking lot and intermittently crying. I was devastated and angry and overjoyed and happy all at once. I couldn’t understand what I was feeling or why. Attempting to distract myself I began watching “Mt Kilimanjaro” on Youtube, but that certainly didn’t help. The scene started out with Greggory Peck talking about his own imminent death as the buzzards circled overhead and his wife grew more frustrated with him by the moment over his doom and gloom attitude of it all. Clark was dead. I was the buzzard. I was wanting to swoop in to pick up the pieces, to be the hero for my son. To redeem myself in his eyes. To show him that I loved him. I grew angry at myself again and closed the movie. Ernest Hemmingway was suddenly on my shitlist for writing that piece of garbage and making me feel worse than ever about the death of my son’s father. Greggory Peck was still safe though. I always loved him. I drove home. I’d taken the next two days off of work using vacation time so that I could cope with my trauma, and drive for UberEats. I needed to pay off a replacement phone I’d just had to buy when mine broke. As much as I knew I needed to work, I knew I also needed time to process the emotions I didn’t

understand. My roommate wasn’t home when I got there and I just went straight to my room and laid down on the bed. I had every intention of taking the time to write, as it always seems to help me to sort out any emotions I’m feeling, but I became overwhelmingly exhausted as I often do if I’m emotional. It’s my way of coping with trauma. I laid down for only a moment, all four of the cats piled on top of me clearly sensing something was wrong with me, and we slept. I must have been out for several hours by the time I finally woke up and realized my roommate was home. It was dark outside. I’d completely forgotten he wanted to make a birthday dinner for me, and I’d told him I wouldn’t be home on my birthday, but I would the night before. This was, of course, the night before. He was stirring around in the kitchen chopping onions and cleaning dishes preparing what I had previously been very much looking forward to as a special meal. Now, all I could focus on was my own guilt and my son’s pain. I hoped I’d be able to have some sort of an appetite by the time the meal was ready, but as I slipped in and out of consciousness, I found myself caring less and less. I didn’t dream. I rarely ever do. It’s a side effect of being hypervigilant after trauma. I sleep much like a cat does, resting for long periods of time without falling into a deep sleep, in order to protect myself if there were to be any unexpected danger. I wished I could dream. I wished I could see Clark’s face in my dream. I wished I could tell him that I hated him and thank you for raising our son. I wanted to tell him how much he disgusted me and how ashamed I was of myself for marrying him in the first place, and how grateful I was that he had been stable enough to give Ethan a home all those years. I wanted to hug him and beat him at the same time. I wanted to say goodbye, and good riddance. And I wanted to tell him I was sorry I felt that way. Clark was gone. There was nothing I could do about it. I’d never get justice. But I needed to keep going, putting one foot in front of the other, forging onward as always, because the only other alternative was to roll over and give up. I had a son out there. I didn’t have that choice to simply give up. Onward, it was. Weakness could not be tolerated. Tears would not be tolerated. I checked my messages for the thirtieth time. I had not gotten a response from him yet. I spoke with my new therapist briefly about what was going on in my head and heart regarding his death. I didn’t fully understand it myself yet, and with most things I would need time to process. Her advice was to do exactly that. I was to

take time to go through it all and to write about what I was experiencing and feeling. It wasn’t easy, not by any stretch, but it was worth it. As usual, my writing gave me a way to process things I didn’t even know I was feeling. For instance, I had no idea I was mad at him for dying. Why would I be mad at him? It was illogical. Eventually I figured that out too. I was mad because it meant my son would never know the truth. I was mad because he left my son all alone in the world because of what he had done to our child. I was mad because I knew without a doubt my son wouldn’t want anything to do with me because his father had poisoned him against me with lies. I knew it meant my son felt more alone than ever. I was mad because it wasn’t just my ex husband who had done this, but it was everyone in Ethan’s life that had poisoned him against me. As my new therapist explained, the fact that it was an accusatory, blame filled email from my own brother two weeks after the death that advised me of what had happened, it explained in a great deal of detail just how poisoned the atmosphere was around my child, and gave only a million reasons why ing him now would be a bad idea. Nobody had told me of the death. Nobody reached out. Nobody actually wanted me to know because they didn’t actually want me to be a part of my son’s life. If I continued to reach out, the flood gates to the years of baggage and abuse would be opened once more, leaving me even more vulnerable than I already was. Her advice, as much as I didn’t want to hear it, was not to come to his rescue. Her advice was to give it time and to not try to reach out. It would prove to be one of the most difficult challenges of my life. I had, after all, reached out already. I wouldn’t take that back. But she was right, I was in no position to be the hero right away. I could still barely take care of myself. I didn’t need to start making promises to save him, only to disappoint him, no matter how good my intentions. I loved my son endlessly. That would need to suffice for a while.

Chapter Thirty Two To Speak Ill of the Dead Once more I found myself searching for a distraction. I’d taken some time trying to process how I felt about the ing of my ex-husband. I dove headfirst into writing my book “Custom Justice” and in a matter of a single week I added over 20 chapters of my past. I was avoiding the issue as much as possible, trying to keep my time with him devoid of any emotion since I hadn’t yet processed things though enough to understand them fully. I cried over his death more than I did over my dad’s mother, and something about that didn’t sit right with me. I wasn’t sure why. When I came across a blog entry from many years ago, I reminded myself of why I left him, but I was still left with the questions as to why I would cry over his death.

July 2010

For too many years I have had to miss my only child's birthday. In 2005 I went to Arkansas for his birthday, while married (albeit briefly) to another man. I was holding down 3 jobs at the time in order to afford the trip. I flew to Arkansas on an early flight after a late night at work. I left work around 2 a.m. and boarded the plane at 5 a.m, and when I flew home, it was barely in time to go to work only an hour later. I was able to spend two glorious days with my son, and I wouldn't ever change that for the world. That, my friends, was the last time I saw my beautiful child... until December of last year.

That trip in 2005 was gruesome for me. I had nowhere to stay since I could barely afford the plane ticket. My ex picked me up at the Memphis airport, and it had been previously arranged that I would sleep on his couch. Even though that's what we had agreed upon, that's not what he had in mind. Quickly enough he let me know his intentions.

Due to a layover, I got into Memphis in the afternoon. As soon as I got off the plane, I was hoping for a hug from my little boy. I had a fairly nasty, heartbreaking surprise. He didn't even know who I was. I was devastated. Instead, my ex wanted a hug from me. I patted him on the shoulder and told him that I had missed my little boy.

"Didn't you miss me at all?"

I wanted to say no, and knew that if I didn't say yes, I wouldn't have a place to stay while in the state, or he’d likely be cruel and restrictive for my entire stay. So, I did all my stomach would allow me to.

"Well, I'm married again. You know that, right?"

"I know, but does that mean you can't hug me?"

"Alright, fine." I gave him a very short, fleeting hug and patted his shoulder like a ‘bro’ hug. He moaned in my ear.

"Oh Baby, I've missed you so much! You feel so good!" I jumped back. My skin was crawling under the fully covering clothes I had on in the August southern heat. I felt slimy. I wasn’t okay with it, but there was nothing I could do about it. He had all the control.

We immediately took Ethan to the zoo.

Ethan got more used to me and eventually reached out to hold my hand several times. I was delighted. So did my ex. Again my skin crawled. When he reached out and patted me on the butt, I nearly turned and slugged him. I felt violated! It was nothing new to me since childhood, but I thought I’d escaped him. It got worse that night when he asked me to sleep in his room.

"It’s just down the hall. Oh, come on... it's not like we're strangers, you know."

"I'm married to someone else!"

"So? What he doesn't know wont hurt him. Come on..." Honestly, those were the exact words that came out of his mouth. I couldn’t believe it. I was beyond shocked. His eyes bulged and he smirked at me as if that would convince me. Appalled, I grabbed a pillow on the couch to fluff it a bit for myself before trying to lay down on it.

"Then," he murmured, "can I at least have a kiss?"

Of course I turned him down, because I was very much in love with my husband Chris at the time. But that was far from the end of his advances. He insisted, pushing me beyond my breaking point, knowing my past history and that I’d be scared to say no because he had all the control as to whether or not I’d get to the airport again. Using that control over me, he forced me to allow him to kiss me on the cheek at one point.

He pawed all over me and fondled me any way he could that entire trip. If I was

to be with Ethan, I had to put up with him being there with me, all the time, making advances, trying to kiss me, wanting to touch me, telling me he loved me. Otherwise it wasn't 'convenient' for him, and that's what he interpreted 'any reasonable visitation' to mean. If I didn’t play along, I’d be stranded somewhere, or worse. I’d been through worse. I didn’t want to go there again.

By the end of the trip, I felt like a cheap trick, bought and paid for with a chance to see my son. He treated me as though I was his property. I couldn't keep his hands off of me, and things blew hot and cold. If I refused a hug from him, I couldn't take my son to the store or to my grandmother's house. He would be so upset with me that you could cut the tension in the house with a knife. I was pawed all over and treated like I was his personal whore. I felt so filthy when I got back that I wouldn't get out of the shower until I was afraid I was going to be late for work. When I got home from work that night I went straight back to the shower. I couldn't look at my husband.

My husband grew suspicious of me after my return. He began accusing me of things I hadn't done, and his jealousy got the better of him eventually. His suspicions of that trip and jealousy regarding other instances eventually destroyed our marriage, and I have never taken insane jealousy well. He became obsessed over the matter and eventually I left him and filed for divorce.

I can't go back to Arkansas alone - and this year I don't have a grandmother there to meet me. I can't afford to go anyway - though there is nothing more in this world I would love than to see my beautiful little boy again. He means so much to me that every year on his birthday I can be found sobbing my eyes out, hugging my knees on the floor beside the couch. I used to wish somehow that I hadn't survived that surgery after all.

I will be nobody's puppet, no matter what the personal cost may be. I made a sacrifice, and I pay for it every day of my life. It's worse than putting your child up for adoption because you know where they are. It's not worse than having

your child die, but from my own point of view it's almost as bad. I know where he is - I just can't reach out and touch him. I would give anything - almost anything - to be with him, if only for a few hours. I just wont give my self respect or my body to someone like my ex-husband. I didn't on that trip, and I never will. I am worth more than that.

Now, if I knew my child was in danger, you better believe I'd be singing a different tune. But he's not in danger, and so I suffer alone. Every year. Every month. Every day. EVERY BREATH. I ache with the pain. I see him when I close my eyes and try my damnedest to sleep longer just so that I might see his face again because I know that when I open my eyes, he'll be gone and I'll be left with this gut-wrenching feeling of loneliness, longing for the only child I will ever have... that precious life that once only existed inside of me. He's a part of me, even now. I've never let go of that, though I feel like I'll never have it again.

Shortly after I wrote that blog entry, my ex-husband moved away from his home in Heber Springs and never informed me or the courts. He refused for many years to give me any address, and when asking my own son for a mailing address he gave me his grandmother’s address instead. The last time I ever saw my son was when I traveled to Arkansas with a friend in 2009 and the fact that I wasn’t allowed to bring my friend with me around my son (because he was a male) ended up destroying that friendship. We never spoke again after we got back to California. It was assumed that the decision was mine and I simply used my friend to get there. That couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Death for me is a strange thing. Sometimes I fear it, but other times I’ve welcomed it. I’ve come close to dying so many times myself that when it really is the finalized, frightening, end-all of someone I care about, I forget about my own experiences and that I have a very strong belief that there is life after death. I hoped my son’s father found the peace that his mother once did.

May 23, 2010

I was a whole 20 years old, naive and innocent, married and just had given birth to a beautiful, healthy child just hours before. I didn't know what to expect. I was scared out of my mind, feeling incredible pain and just wanted it all to go away. I think a part of me prayed to die as I laid there shivering under 8 heated blankets. I reaching for a nurse and whispering "help me" so low she couldn't hear me. Then the bed was being wheeled down a long hallway and through the typical swinging doors of the surgery room. Everyone else was in a panic it seemed.

A mask was placed over my face and it was my turn to panic. I felt the blood flowing from my body. I knew I wasn't long for the world as I lay there bleeding to death. Fear tore at every inch of my soul. I scratched and clawed at the mask, feeling more and more faint. My eyes grew blurry, and I no less than 5 masked faces leaning over my head and telling me I needed to keep the mask on. I screamed and it came out as a whimper. I was so weak I couldn't lift my arms anymore. They collapsed to my side and my eyelids closed. I couldn't keep fighting. My lips moved, but nothing came out. I crying out in my head, "God, please just let me die. I can't take it anymore. I can't do this. Let me die."

I got my prayer - and it was answered in an unusual sort of way. My Grandfather answered me.

I wasn't staring up at hospital lights anymore. The pain was gone. My hair was clean and hanging around my shoulders. I was standing in the middle of a grassy field with a split rail fence all around me. Daisies were speckled through the grass, and a cool blue stream eased its way past with only the faintest sound of a bubbling brook emitting from it. My feet were bare, I noticed as I looked down. My skin was clean. I didn't have hoses and needles poking out of my arms, and the plastic medical bracelet around my wrist wasn't there anymore. I was wearing a pale blue sundress with little white and yellow flowers on it. A breeze lifted my hair and tossed it, but it was warm out and the sun felt heavenly. The air around me felt like a loving breath caressing my forehead.

I saw a man walking towards me in the distance. He was spry but elderly, I'd say around 70 or so. He wore a dark brown worn out old hat shading his eyes from the bright sun and a shirt that buttoned down in the front. His collar was starched and his cuffs were buttoned. His brown, dirty and worn slacks were held up by rainbow colored suspenders and his boots looked like they had walked many miles in their time. He had a rope over his shoulder and other than the fedora not being a Stetson, he looked like a real, live cowboy. He sauntered up to me in the big field, a slight swagger in his bow legged stance. With one bony finger, he tipped the brim of his hat up and let the sun filter down onto his face. It was my Grandfather, Leland Vance.

It seemed like an eternity ed where he and I sat by the brook and talked like old friends. We walked in the woods and had lengthy conversations about life and love. He reminded me of certain things in life that I would miss. At the same time, we never left that field. I never moved my feet. I never took a single step.

I saw my father balancing me on his feet when I was just a little girl. I ed my brother cleaning up my room as I watched from my cradle. I saw Lou and Laurie in the hall outside of our apartment door in holding a casserole dish with tin foil over it. I felt my tiny little wooden shoes being slid onto my wriggling and kicking feet when I was a baby, barely a year old. I felt snow falling on my face for the first time. My mom held me tight and read a book to me as we rocked in her chair, the multi-colored knit afghan around us. I fell asleep on the couch while Dad was watching the news at around 4 years old and my father carried me to bed. I ed my first kiss in the 6th grade, my first boyfriend named Victor, my Kindergarten teacher and her tape "X" on the floor, Cranky Cronk from the 2nd grade, Shandi Dillon from the 3rd grade and all the friends, enemies and teachers I had over the years. I saw the school dances, the High School boyfriends, the disappointments and achievements, the triumphs and failures. I saw them all in that instant as we sat on the shores of the creek and wandered through the woods, and yet simultaneously we still stood in that grassy field.

It's so hard to explain all of this and even now I'm at a loss for words. When I stood there and sat reviewing my life, it skipped all over the place much like my blogs skip through the spans of time. I was a child, then a baby and then a teenager. I was married, and yet I was a toddler. I was an infant, child, girl, woman and lady all at once. The images swirled inside my head like stars in a blender.

Our walk in the woods and rest by the creek was over and we stood there in the peaceful meadow. I wanted to hug him and tell him thank you, but I couldn't seem to reach out for him. He tipped his hat back with one finger just a little more. He smiled at me with a broad smile filled with yellowed teeth.

"Well, Kiddo? Ya ready to go?"

He seemed to emit light in that moment, like the paintings from the Renaissance depicting angels. He began to have a faint glow all around him, outlining him as though the sun were setting behind him. He embodied a presence I could feel, powerful and loving. I wanted to go with him, but I didn't know where we were headed. More than ready to follow wherever he went, I replied.

"Go where, Grandpa?" Eagerly I awaited his response. The light behind him grew stronger and I could feel the force within him pulling me closer. He looked at me for a long moment. His eyes pierced through to my soul and he read everything inside me. I could feel it as easily as if he were turning pages in my mind. He smirked at me before breaking into a wide smile. He reached up with his bony hand and touched my shoulder gently. He moved to stand beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. I tried to look straight into the light now - but it was gone.

He thumped me on the back with his bony hand and I could feel the pride in his touch.

"Naw," he said to me after a long moment. "You aren't ready." He hugged me close to his side with that one arm and I felt a sense of dismay. I knew what would happen from here. He released his grip on my shoulder and took his place in front of me again. With the brim of his hat, he nodded his head toward whatever lay behind me in the distance. The light behind him brightened once more and he took a single step backward. "Go home, Kid."

The light grew brighter and he began to fade from sight. I wanted to cry out to him not to leave me, but my voice was tight. I couldn't speak. The light enveloped everything and he was gone. The last thing to fade from view was the tip of his old shoe.

I woke up from surgery then and looked into the faces of my mother and father. They stood over me, both bleary eyed and trying to cover their tears. They wiped feverishly at their faces, my Dad trying to conceal himself behind my mother.

"Hey Keee’id," my mother said to me in a southern accent, smiling. She patted me on the back of my hand. She had no idea I had just been with her father. I didn't have the heart or the strength to tell her. Mom reached in and kissed me on the brow.

"Hey, Kiddo," my father said to me. His voice sounded oddly familiar, like my Grandfathers.

I had begged to die and yet I lived. I had died three times during that brief dream

and the doctors weren't sure I would actually pull through. All I was that all of the pain I had felt before the dream was at long last gone. I no longer feared anything, including death. My grandpa was there to take care of me. When I woke up, he was gone - and yet I knew he was still around.

I gained a new lease on life. There was a reason to keep living. I ed all the things he had reminded me of in the woods and by the creek. There was a lot of good in the world and I had a lot of love all around me. I had reasons to live and things to do before I was ready to move on. He had known that. That's why he sent me back. I know now that I wasn't ready to go then. I just hope he's there again when I finally am.

Chapter Thirty Three A Place called Kelvingrove It took me weeks to figure out how to wrap my head around the death of Clark. ing my own death certainly helped, but I knew from the police report description of the accident, he died a sudden and violent death. There was a tremendous amount of guilt within me for feeling that it may have been deserved, because I knew nobody deserved to die like that. I was finally ready to focus on something else for a while. Thinking about Scotland would likely be easier than focusing on why I was still not processing what I was feeling when it came to Clark. I still had not heard from my son, and my heart was shattered. For a moment I began to realize that all my anger toward Clark had nothing to do with him and everything to do with not having heard from my only child for so long, but I couldn’t blame Ethan for that. It wasn’t his fault. I took a deep breath, let out a sigh, and focused once more on my memories. My head still buzzing with the hours spent at the Wallace Monument the day before, Richard whisked me off to the Kelvingrove Art Museum to help fill my appetite for knowledge and history. Once more I found myself in awe of the architecture I was suddenly surrounded by. The stunning red building that housed the priceless works of art was made of the same stone as the Bothwell Castle we visited on my first morning in Scotland. The building was huge, and try as I might, I couldn't capture the entire body of the structure with a camera without crossing the street, climbing a telephone pole and hanging out from a tree limb. Unfortunately that wouldn’t be legal or safe. As soon as we walked inside, my first thought wasn't for the priceless art I could smell and taste in the air, but to look up. The building itself was a miraculous work of art, apparently built the wrong way around. The front was meant to be in the back, and the back was meant to be in the front - or something along those lines. The first room we wandered into completely blew me away. There before me were Egyptian artifacts from the days of the Pharaohs. I when I got back to the States people were asking about why Scotland would have Egyptian artifacts in a museum. I quite proudly and defensively answering them

with my own question - why would there be Greek artifacts in a museum found in America? A museum is a museum. There were plenty of Scotish artifacts in the museum as well, but the first ones I saw and captured my memory the strongest just happened to be Egyptian. There was a reason for that. Several ancient pieces of Egyptian history were displayed in the open with no glass, no barriers. Anyone could walk up and touch any of the items. No alarms would go off. No parents would shout at the kids not to touch. No museum guards would throw someone out for it. Stunned, I asked Richard. "Can I -" I paused a moment, still in disbelief as I watched him reach a hand out and run his fingers over the body of a sarcophagus, "can I touch it?" "Yeah," he said, confused. "Why wouldn't you? It's there, isn't it?" I can only imagine how strange my question would sound to someone who wasn't used to the way American's put a museum together - much like a mother's china cabinet: Look but don't touch. The alien idea of touching some museum artifact in front of me without having to ask first seemed to be quite a cultural difference. Gingerly I reached a finger out and felt the cold, smooth surface of the lion goddess' eyelid. I ran my finger down the length of her nose, marveling at the texture of the stone - it was as smooth as glass! It was more than two thousand years old, and I was touching it with my bare hands. My gaze next fell upon the intact sarcophagus I watched Richard touch. Slowly, afraid of disturbing even the smallest of dust bunnies, I made my way over with my mouth hanging wide open. Again, this priceless relic was out in the open, available for anyone to touch and feel, to trace the ancient carvings on its surface. The mummy had long since been removed, but the stone would have been far too heavy for anyone to lift by hand in the museum anyway. I stood for a long time and traced the edges of the intricate carvings with the tips of my fingers on my right hand. I traced every detail across the chest and even got down on my knees to look closer at the sides of the sarcophagus. It was so intricately designed that I suddenly felt like a complete failure as an artist and writer and human. Nothing I would ever create could compare to something so precious that would forever stand the test of time. Egyptian Gods were carved on the surface, showing the path into the afterlife. The Egyptian god Thoth, who had the head of an ibis (a type of bird) was one of the more prominent symbols on the sarcophagus. Thoth was the god of Wisdom and of the Moon. I don't pretend to be an expert on Egyptian history, mythology or hieroglyphics so I

wouldn't even begin to guess at the significance of that particular character on the sarcophagus, but the fact that it was there, under my fingertips, will remain in my memory all the days of my life. I was truly in love. The Egyptian room of the museum wasn't huge, so it didn't take long to see everything in the room and move on - and next was the opportunity to learn more about Scotland and the way the people fought and died so many years before. With William Wallace fresh in my mind, I was more than ready to learn everything I could about the proud nation and it's amazing people. If I were going to possibly someday end up living in Scotland, these were the things I needed to know. We left the Egyptian section of the Kelvingrove Museum and began to wander through other areas showing the rich history of the Scottish Nation and its people. Most of the exhibits were quite educational, but occasionally we would come across something rather humorous or cute. The stuffed animals, both extinct and common, were gathered together in the center of the museum in astonishing numbers. When I stopped to take the photo of a taxidermied Elephant, Richard seemed surprised. It seemed such a simple thing to him, but a massive Asian elephant in the middle of the room seemed to be worthy of telling a story I thought to myself. The plaque next to the huge beast told a story of how this particular elephant was part of a circus. In the year 1909 it had attacked its owner and killed him, so the elephant was humanely put down and the body donated to the museum. There he stood ever since, the literal elephant in the room. So many times over the coming year I would think of that character, wishing the elephant in the room would once more be humanely put down for having caused such destruction. Not far from the elephant stood one of the most famous horses that ever lived in Scotland. He was a Clydesdale, and we discovered later on that the Clydesdale breed was actually first discovered in Clydesdale, Scotland. This particular horse was quite special though. This was the most expensive horse in Scotland's history. Due to a dispute between two people claiming to own the same horse named Baron of Buchlyvie, he was put up for auction to settle the dispute. The high bidder paid what would be equivalent to £365,000 by today's standards. That's roughly $587,798.54 in dollars. It’s amazing what someone in Scotland would do to own a bit of flesh they wanted, even only for a little while. While the paintings in the Kelvingrove numbered in the thousands, there were a few that resonated within me. One of the most famous paintings of Mary Queen of Scots was actually never signed. Nobody knows who painted the masterpiece

and it's likely the world will never know. Another was the most famous painting of Richard Burns, the man who wrote so much of the Scottish poetry known world wide - including the song American's hear every New Year, Auld Lang Syne. My favorite line from the song now is “should auld (old) acquaintance be forgot and ne’er brought to mind,” as there now have been so many in my past that I’d prefer to never think of again. Yet, somehow, that song brings them back to my memory without fail. Probably the most impressive (if not gruesome) item I saw in the museum that day was the cast that was made of King Richard the Bruce's skull. While first all I noticed was the lack of teeth in the front, I started to realize other small details about this man's life that made him stand out among all others. He was a true warrior king in every sense of the word. The plaque next to the skull told even more of a story.

"The battle scarred skull of Richard the Bruce, one of Scotland's greatest heroes, was discovered in the 19th century. It has several deep sword cuts, one cutting deep into his left brow. Loaned by the Hunterian Museum in Glasgow."

Apparently Richard the Bruce wasn't killed by the massive cut into the brow bone over his left eye. I somehow find that to be rather typical of the Scottish people - they aren't afraid to stand up in the face of adversity, give it their all, and keep going when any other human on the face of the earth would fall and it defeat. At that moment I thought it spoke deeply to me of the character belonging to the man I had loved for nearly 7 years. He came from such a proud, strong and noble people, willing to keep fighting when the battle was nearly lost. I never imagined in the end I’d be the one to beat the odds. I still had much to learn, but I was ready to learn something about the people as they were today, not as they were hundreds or thousands of years ago. I was about to get that chance while on an overnight road trip with Richard, his sister and her husband up into the countryside, to the banks of Loch Lomond. We stopped only briefly to take photos of the Loch in the misty morning air. I looked truly happy in the photo taken of me at the water's edge.

Chapter Thirty Three Drovers Inn The Drovers Inn was built over 300 years ago and over the years did house many famous people including Rob Roy himself, yet another proud and stubborn Scotsman. It boasted ghost stories and was covered wall to wall in unusual animals everywhere I looked, including the taxidermied corpse of a lamb that was born with two heads and didn’t survive, well over 100 years old. A wolf loomed in the corner, threatening those who stood before him to rip off their flesh in a single movement, leaving them bare and exposed to the world. The history intrigued me, and as much as I wanted to explore it, I wasn’t given the opportunity. I would only be in the country a few more days and it was far more important that I spend that time with Richard, who took most of the history for granted, since he’d lived around it his entire life. If I were to have the opportunity to return and learn more about this amazing country, I knew I’d have to make him happy to have me there. Otherwise I stood a chance of never being invited back. I hated that idea, so I used every trick I’d ever been taught in my travels, starting with the trick taught to me by my first therapist. I would need to like what he liked in order to keep his interest. What he liked best was a good drink and a hearty laugh, so I thought. I marvelled at the slight waterfall rolling down the mountain behind the Inn as we walked across the road from where our sleeping quarters were located to the main house where the bar and restaurant was. The inside was about as rustic as anything I’ve ever seen in a film about the Renaissance. Lighting was offered by minimal electricity, and candles on each table that reflected eerie shadows off of the deep stone walls within. The four of us chose a table in the corner, and while the others started with drinking early, I was more interested in food. I’ve never been fond of alcohol. I never developed a taste or desire for it. Still, a half pint of lager was ordered for me and nothing else, in spite of my request for water. When the others finished their first round, they ordered another and pressured me to keep up. They kept telling me that we were there to have a good time, and that there would be no judgment if I drank too much resulting in another hangover in the morning. They may not have tipped the glass into the air and forced the contents down my throat, but the goading and angry looks from Richard insisted that I was going to ruin their night and the entire stay at the

Drovers Inn if I didn’t drink my lager. Much to my own chagrin, I went bottoms up with a soured expression. No sooner had I finished one and they ordered another. And another. And another. Soon I was feeling the effects of alcohol and chain smoking with the others. I a man with a guitar came in and started playing some music for the patrons. Most of the songs I’d never heard of, but one or two were at least slightly familiar. One of them, the Scotish national anthem, was one I recognized from my childhood. My dad used to whistle it around the house. When I asked him at the age of five what that song was that he always whistled, he said he didn’t know, but it was a song played in the school band when he was growing up. For a moment I felt a pang of homesickness, specifically for my father. He’d have been disappointed in me for giving in to the peer pressures of drinking. Although my parents would never have believed me, I avoided that kind of peer pressure growing up by avoiding people who didn’t respect me enough to understand that when I said no to something, it was a personal choice. Yet I was in another country and needed to abide by their customs lest I offend them. For a moment I wished I could hug my dad, and then the song changed and I ed my father wasn’t much for hugs. Had he hugged me at all it would have been briefly, with a thumping pat on my back. Tears stung in my eyes. I wanted my daddy. “Drink up,” Louisa offered, pointing to my half pint that was getting warm on the table, and the fresh one beside it still waiting for me to start. I picked up the small glass, exchanged glass clinks with the others, and took a small drink. Richard placed his finger under the glass and pushed upward, forcing it to rush into my mouth. I choked slightly and laughed with the others as though it were a silly game. A few small television screens came to life and the karaoke words to “Flower of Scotland” appeared with a waving Scotland flag in the background. Suddenly the entire bar came to life and people stood where they were, beer glasses in hand. The entire place burst into song, and I was once more in love with this great nation. I even raised my own glass and tried to sing along as best I could without knowing the tune in advance.

O Flower of Scotland

When will we see your like again? That fought and died for Your wee bit Hill and Glen And stood against him Proud Edward's Army And sent him homeward tae think again The Hills are bare now And Autumn leaves lie thick and still O'er land that is lost now Which those so dearly held That stood against him Proud Edward's Army And sent him homeward tae think again Those days are past now And in the past they must remain But we can still rise now And be the nation again That stood against him Proud Edward's Army And sent him homeward tae think again The Hills are bare now

And Autumn leaves lie thick and still O'er land that is lost now That though so dearly held O Flower of Scotland When will we see your like again? That fought and died for Your wee bit Hill and Glen And stood against him Proud Edward's Army And sent him homeward tae think again

As the song ended, I assumed that we would all be having a seat, but the screens stayed lit. Another song title flashed across each of them, boasting the next song would be. Richard got excited and came running around the table to stand beside me. He took my hand, holding it tight, and whisper-shouted into my ear that this song was a song about lovers and one of them died in war. The man lay dying telling his best friend that they would meet back at Loch Lomond, but would travel by different means to get there. The man begged that his friend would tell his lady love that he hadn’t forgotten about her. I didn’t think I’d be able to sing along but it was much easier than I’d thought. As the song ended, I stood with tears in my eyes.

Where the sun shines on Loch Lomond. Where me and tea tree my true love spent many days On the banks of Loch Lomond.

Too sad we parted in yon shady glen, On the steep sides of Ben Lomond. Where the broken heart knows no second spring, Resigned we must be while we're parting. You'll take the high road and I'll take the low road, And I'll be in Scotland afore you. Where me and my true love will never meet again, On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. Ho, ho mo leannan Ho mo leannan bhoidheach Ho mo leannan bhoidheach Ho mo leannan bhoidheach Ho mo leannan bhoidheach Ho mo leannan bhoidheach Ho mo leannan bhoidheach Ho mo leannan bhoidheach Ho mo leannan bhoidheach You'll take the high road and I'll take the low road, And I'll be in Scotland afore ye. Where me and my true love will never meet again, On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

You'll take the high road and I'll take the low road, And I'll be in Scotland afore you. Where me and my true love will never meet again, On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. You'll take the high road and I'll take the low road, And I'll be in Scotland afore you. Where me and my true love will never meet again, On the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. You'll take the high road and I'll take the low road, And I'll be in Scotland afore you. Where me and my true love will never meet again, On the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. On bonnie, bonnie banks On bonnie, bonnie banks On bonnie, bonnie banks On bonnie, bonnie banks

I wondered briefly if I myself would ever again be on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. I didn’t feel as though I was doing a good enough job of keeping Richard happy or entertained. He noticed the tears in my eyes and asked me what was wrong. “What if we never come back here,” I asked him. “What if we never meet again, on the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond?”

“But we will,” he insisted, wiping my tears away with one rough and calloused finger. “I promise.” I smiled for him. I did believe him. Everyone else I’d ever known had always broken their promises to me, but not Richard. Richard had waited seven years for me to show up. He wouldn’t break his promises to me now. Richard loved me. He ordered another round, and from there things got fuzzy. I the guitar player handing out percussion instruments to the tables, one table getting a bell, another got a triangle, ours got a tambourine. I we befriended a man at the next table over named Hamish and his wife Rebecca. They seemed very sweet and very normal, and I welcomed that sense of normalcy. I’d begun to think everyone in Scotland drank until they couldn’t stand anymore but Hamish, like me, didn’t seem to drink much. Richard and his family gave him a hard time about this until he began to feel uncomfortable, and then went into the typical “I’m only kiddin’ you on'' that Richard would deliver when he felt as though he might have taken things too far and was hurting someone’s feelings. I do somewhere around 3am we stumbled back across the street toward the sleeping quarters. I Richard saying something to me about how he should have invited Hamish and his wife back to our room with us, because he thought I might enjoy that. I don’t much else afterward, other than the word “Weegies” scratched into the bathroom wall and asking Richard what it meant. He explained it was a derogatory term for those from Glasgow, and never to repeat that word anywhere around other people because it could get me murdered in broad daylight. In the morning we loaded up Louisa and John’s van again and got back on the road. My head was swimming in a fog, but it wasn’t nearly as much of a black out as the night in Edinburgh had been. Bits and pieces continued to come back to me throughout the day, but that didn’t make it any more comfortable on my head. My stomach stayed in the hatchback of the minivan while the rest of me rode in the back seat. Every bump threatened to toss everything within me like that damned tambourine shaking away the night in each of our hands the night before. If drinking in that kind of a quantity was a national past time, I was curious to know how anyone lived past the age of 35 in Scotland. I already knew I couldn’t keep up. I also knew that I didn’t want to, and had no intention of ever trying again, at least in that moment.

Chapter Thirty Four The First of the Photos The rest of my visit to Scotland was filled with time visiting his family and more drinks. The fire pit got a lot of use during my time there and I marveled constantly at how long the sun stayed in the sky. It would shine bright until nearly eleven at night, but rise again around three in the morning. Hangovers became brutal punishment and I learned quickly enough to fetch a bottle of Lucozade for Richard when we both woke up. We would stay up late listening to music and talking for hours as he would drink beer and I’d have tea or water. He showed me how his clothes washing machine also dried clothes but ‘did a shite job of it’ so he would usually hang things on the line out back. I wasn’t sure why he wanted to show me that. We would sit on his back steps and smoke cigarettes because he said he would never allow cigarette smoke in his home. He’d worked too hard to get that house and he didn’t ever want to stain the walls with tobacco or cause the curtains to stink. It was the same rule I had at home, I told him. He started wanting to show me his favorite ‘swinger’ websites, thinking that I might be interested in that sort of thing. As was my custom by that point, I was tolerant to the point of being ive. I wasn’t interested, but I entertained Richard by sitting still and pretending to watch. Instead, I would stare beyond the computer screen, repeatedly reading the spines off of the DVD cases on the shelf. I’d study the wood grain on his coffee table. I’d wonder if everyone back home was doing okay and if my stand-in director of security was treating my employees with the respect they’d earned and deserved. I’d ire the cuffs of my shirt sleeves. I wanted to do anything except watch the various sex acts being performed on the screen of his computer in a ‘dogging’ website, he called it. I’d never heard that term. I had no idea what that meant. Once I learned, I couldn’t unlearn, and I will unfortunately carry that knowledge with me the rest of my life. Still, in order to keep him interested in me, I needed to pretend to like what he liked. I let it go. I’d been doing that for more than half of my life at that point. It wouldn’t be difficult to just pretend to enjoy the videos with him and keep my unagreeable opinion to myself.

All too soon I would return to Los Angeles, and back to my job that I’d managed to turn into a career, but quickly thereafter we planned a time for Richard to come to Los Angeles and spend two weeks with me in my tiny loft apartment. There really wasn’t enough room for two, but I knew we could make do. One of my dearest friends had come to visit me that past spring and stayed for a week for St. Patrick’s Day, me giving him my bed while I slept on the living room floor since he was allergic to cats. Richard and I could share the same bed easily enough, and I’d be able to remind him not to sit up in the morning or he’d knock himself unconscious. He’d stay either at my place or exploring the neighborhood while I was at work, and I lived in an extremely trendy part of Long Beach so there was plenty to do and see within walking distance. I planned to take a couple more vacation days while he was in town too, and I’d take him to Las Vegas for an overnight trip since that was something he’d always wanted to do. Of course my feelings about Las Vegas were a mixed bag, with very few fond memories ever having existed of the place. I was desperate to change that at least for myself. I made reservations for us at the Venetian and a rather nice restaurant, then purchased a dress for myself for the trip. When he arrived I was overjoyed. I picked him up at the airport and somehow managed to squeeze him into the enger seat of my tiny Honda Del Sol with only a little of his head sticking out where the top of the car had been removed. His bag was squeezed into the trunk and the trunk barely closed over the contents. I believe it was then that Richard decided he’d rent a car for our trip to Las Vegas, and of course he wanted a convertible. First he wanted to meet up with ‘a friend’ at a hotel in Long Beach with me. I wasn’t involved in the decision making process or even the idea of what he had in mind. I only knew that he’d made plans to meet some pilot from some airline who wanted to have some drinks with us. Richard eluded that there might be some ‘action’ going on, but as much as I had a feeling of what he was talking about, I wanted to pretend that I genuinely had no clue. I didn’t want to know. He reassured me again and again, just as he had the morning after in Edinburgh, that if I wasn’t happy about ‘hanging out’ with this guy for a little while all I needed to do was say something and we’d leave. I knew none of this until we were halfway to the hotel already, and by the time I knew what all he had in mind, the man was inviting us up to his hotel room. We got to the hotel before the pilot did and we settled in at the bar to have some ‘liquid courage’ as he called it. I had entirely too much to drink at the hotel bar

and vomited from the fifth dirty martini in less than 2 hours. I wanted to be numb. I was scared. I've never been a drinker. I never wanted to be a drinker. But I needed to get through that night somehow, and I knew what I'd been told about 'drunken blackouts' caused by alcohol, and knew that I barely ed that night in Edinburgh. Hoping it would all be over soon enough, and feeling as though this was some sort of “normal” after the life I’d already lived, I picked my poison. I did not achieve the drunken blackout I'd been in search of that night, unfortunately. I do vomiting in the bushes in front of the hotel before going up to the room. Richard never asked if I was okay while I hung my head over the cinder block wall. He just asked if I was ready to go up to the room yet. The man we were there to see was in his hotel room when we went up. He'd walked past us while we were sitting in the bar before I lost my stomach. I felt even more nauseous. I didn't want to be there. I was already self-conscious from the hysterectomy and self-mutilation scars on my body from many years before. I was never even comfortable wearing a swimsuit in front of people I knew well. I certainly wasn't comfortable with being naked in front of strangers. The entire experience was frightening. I was terrified. Richard kept telling me over and over that if I wasn't happy in the end, it would never happen again. I didn't want to be there in the first place, but if I went through with it 'just this once' I was assured it would never happen again. I believed him. He told me to do it 'just this once' to prove to him that I loved him, and I owed him that much after our past. He told me I'd be safe, and that nothing would happen to me. He told me that he loved me. All the while, I continued to tell myself that I could trust him. That was the first time he ever took photos of the things that happened to me. I him asking the anonymous man who had wanted to participate in the evening’s activities if he was okay with it. From what I , that was the first and last time he ever asked permission to take photos, and never did he ask for my consent, it was never up to me. It was a clear example of entitlement and ownership over me, though I didn’t understand that at the time. I belonged to him; why would he need permission for anything? A year later I learned that he kept the photos on a locked computer that didn't have access to the internet, so that his paranoia was mostly kept at bay about his employer finding any of them. I didn’t know where they were for months. Once I found out I was appalled. I didn't have the to the computer so I couldn't delete them before my

escape. However, he loved showing them to me every chance he got. He would get a little gleam in his eye when he picked out his favorites, and they were usually the most horrible, the most revealing, most grotesque photos he'd taken of all the months of my abuse. Instead of a blackout drunken stupor, I found myself blocking what I could from my memory because of my inability to fully process it all. I was determined not to feel anything. I couldn’t let myself feel it or else that would mean that it had actually happened, and that would mean that I had been turned into a prostitute. The man gave Richard money after Richard had taken my dress off of me. He wanted to see what he was paying for first, I guess. Part of me broke inside. With all I’d been through, surely this wasn’t worse than that, was it? “You’re okay with this,” Richard asked. I thought he was asking me. He was asking the man. I was no longer a human being. I was a “THIS” to him. I was an object. I was owned. I was merchandise. The things that had been happening to me all my life were being used to line someone else’s pocket with money. “Yeah,” the stranger simply nodded as he turned around to remove his belt. “Couple of basic rules,” Richard started to explain. “Nothing without a Johnnie, and you can’t leave any marks on her. Otherwise, let’s have some fun.” “Johnnie?” The pilot didn’t seem to have any problem understanding what that was but I certainly did. “A rubber, Dear. A condom. It’s for your protection,” he explained to me in the most loving way possible. “And for his,” he finished, sliding an insult in there, too. For a long time after that I blocked the encounter from my memory. It was a form of protection, because if I forced myself to deal with it, then I’d be forced to it that I’d gone along with it even when I didn’t want to because I was scared to say no. I blamed myself. Of course it was my fault. How could it not be? Except what happened to me was not only deplorable and disgusting, but highly illegal, depraved, and worth some prison time. It never should have happened. I never should have been put in the position of being forced to comply out of fear. I never should have been in that situation to begin with. Saying “no” shouldn’t have been the deciding factor at that moment. That “moment”

never should have existed. “You’ll never have to do that again,” Richard told me as we left the hotel that night while I tried to tuck my torn pantyhose into my handbag and failed to do so. “And you can toss those, I can get you new ones. Now we have plenty of money for Las Vegas, too.” He snatched them from my hand and tossed them in a lidded trash can not far from where I’d vomited in the bushes only a few hours before. Las Vegas couldn’t come fast enough. I wanted to get out of town and escape the madness that had happened. That hotel was on the route I took to and from work every day so I couldn’t exactly escape it without going miles out of my way. In Las Vegas I would be in a newer hotel where I could escape the madness of Long Beach and we could start over. Now that he’d forced me into uncomfortable interactions with a woman, and now with a man, it really would be over with. There was nothing more that he would need me to do in order to prove that I loved him. We could live our lives now and be happy. It would be just the two of us. We’d be fine. Our ‘happily ever after’ would finally come true after so many years of waiting for it. Of course he found the most popular Swingers Club in all of Las Vegas. He said it was because he wanted to show me off, and show all those other guys what they could never have now. We could be there and watch others, and we could go do our own thing if we wanted to, but he just wanted to show me off for a while. Immediately I was uncomfortable with it all, but he’d managed to pour several drinks I didn’t want down my throat first so that I would be less likely to protest. He was getting accustomed to how I was more ‘pliable’ when I was drinking, and sadly so was I. True to his word though, he didn’t let another man touch me all night at the swingers club. He kept everyone away and would just point at the activities he wanted me to see. I faked interest, just as I had with his swingers website when I was visiting him, but there was nothing there I hadn’t already seen in my depraved existence. I really wasn’t interested. He continued to point, and I continued to get more and more bored. Sleepiness began to drag at my eyelids and he grew upset so I started to pay more attention to details just to keep myself awake. There was a snag in the mosquito netting over one bed. Some guy had dressed up in green spandex to match his girlfriend’s dress. The lady closest to us wasn’t wearing any clothes, but she did have on an ankle bracelet made of

silver with six little charms on it that I could see. One charm looked like a high heeled shoe. Another, a purse. A third one looked like a little tube of lipstick. Finally the club was closing and we would need to leave for the night. I sighed a breath of great relief and headed for the door. Richard, in typical Richard fashion, got offended thinking I was trying to leave him behind. Perhaps in the back of my mind I was. I couldn’t wait to get out of that place. I was most thankful that Richard had stayed true to his word. No other man was allowed to touch me all night long. I believe I even thanked him for that.

Chapter Thirty Five Catastrophe Richard and I didn’t have time to do anything together except dinner each night after I got off work for the remainder of his visit with me. My tiny apartment didn’t have a kitchen so we went out to eat in order to make the most of our time. He never mentioned anything about how small my place was or how little I’d managed to survive on, but I know that he’d noticed. There was so little food in the fridge that he actually purchased groceries and filled my pantry. Then, not long after he returned to Scotland, all Hell broke loose. Richard had seen something on my social media page that made him doubt me all over again and he accused me of cheating on him. He stopped speaking to me all of a sudden. I had lost a lot over the last few years. I went from losing my home with Pete in San Pedro and my job with a six figure income, to losing my uHaul with everything I owned inside it, to losing even the occasional spot in my parents' memories on my birthday. At one point I’d lost my life. I'd been really upset over the perceived breakup with Richard. I was more than broke and my car registration was due. I didn’t have anything left to sell in order to pay my bills. All these thoughts clouded my mind for weeks as I continued to receive the silent treatment from Richard, as well as wondering what my future would hold in store, feeling a bit like a train wreck in the head. I was feeling very much like the rope in an emotional game of Tug-of-war. I focused more on my work than ever, but still was very much distracted.

November 29, 2010

Things are so hard right now. Last night I stood out on my balcony, where you would stand to smoke a cigarette. I watched the sun go down and thought about you. I could almost make out the steam as the sun finally touched the salty

surface of the Pacific. The moon was soon to follow it off into the sea. I sent my love to you on the bright side of the moon, so watch for it tonight. When it comes over that horizon, it's going to have a heavy load it's been carrying all night.

The stars started to peek out one at a time, and I found myself doing something I've not done in a very long time. I recited a childhood poem about the first star of the night, and then I made a wish. I know I'm not supposed to tell my wish or it won't come true, but I'm positive you already know who and what it was about. It's been the only wish to cross my lips since we found one another again.

I was perfectly content to be alone for as long as it took to get myself on my feet. I've depended too long on others and decided to take a stand some time back. Just as I'm getting to where I want to be, here comes the most wonderful man I've ever met in my life and I'm completely swept off my feet. I didn't expect to ever feel like this. I had become cynical about love, emotion, and what could happen between a woman and a man. I didn't believe anyone when they said they loved me. In fact, when a man said that he loved me, oftentimes that was when I decided I was tired of them and it was time to move on. I thought the words were a lie. How many times in my life they have been clearly that very thing; a farce. It was used as a weapon against me. It would twist my heart to hurt me just as easily as some would twist an arm to hurt another.

I would give up so much to be able to spend one day a month with you. Two would be heaven. Three would be beyond paradise. I know in my heart that the way things stand right now, I'd be lucky to see you that often in a year's time. That's what makes this whole thing so hard. I've been perfectly happy to be alone. I welcomed it after the situations I've found myself in previously. Until I knew you, I didn't know what lonely was about. When I can't reach you, I feel like I can't breathe. I've never felt so lonely in my life as I do when we don't talk. It's not that I can't live without you, because I have done so for a long time. The truth of the matter is that I don't want to have to.

I would give up so much just to be with you occasionally; to have you near me, and to not have to guess when the next time would be I would see the morning sun on your face. I love you so much. I miss you terribly.

As I was taking a moment to enjoy the breezy convertible drive home on a hot day, I thought about all of these things. It was nearly 5:00 pm by the time I reached Ocean Blvd. in Long Beach, only a few blocks past that stupid hotel I hated seeing, where we had our encounter with the pilot. I was following the flow of traffic easily enough, but up ahead some stranger in an off white Jaguar was blocking the slow lane on the major street I was traveling down. He was turning out of a side street trying to turn left, and had come to a complete stop in the slow lane. Since I was traveling along in the fast lane, I continued on my way, slowing slightly in case anyone tried anything stupid. I had a bad feeling about him. He inched forward a bit. I honked my horn and he stopped again. Then he inched forward again. I honked again. He stopped completely in the middle of the lane, still blocking traffic in the slow lane entirely. Just about the time I got right in front of him, he hit the gas suddenly. He smashed into my car and my entire body jolted sideways. He nearly launched the back end of my car into oncoming traffic. I began to fishtail in the lanes. Right away I pulled off to the curb and got out to look at my car. I gasped. The breath I sucked in would have filled my lungs twice on a normal day. At first all I thought he hit was my back bumper, since all I saw was the black smudge all the way in the back. But as my eyes traveled towards the front of my car, I realized just how much damage had been done. My enger side door was hit first, but that old Jag tore up the back half of my car from the door to the tire. It was dented in, scraped and bent far worse than anything I have ever personally driven. I'd never been in a collision in my life! I didn't even have any speeding tickets on my record. I’d flipped the car when I was 19 on the back country road, but that was the only accident I’d ever been in. How dare he?! I was already having a bad couple of weeks. This guy just pissed off the wrong redhead. I opened my car door and inspected the damage a bit closer. Tears stung at my eyes and my anger began to boil deep in my belly. I was still in my work uniform, and I completely failed to notice that a part of my badge was poking out from under the hooded sweatshirt I had on over it. In an absolute blinding rage I grabbed my keys and headed across the street to find the other

driver. I had hoped to find a witness or two on the way, but not a single person had stopped. Several possible pedestrian witnesses looked at me as though they were afraid to speak up. "You didn't hear my horn?" I quite loudly asked the other driver as soon as I identified him. "Yeah, I heard it, but it was already too late." He paused a second as though he was rethinking what he had just said. "It was your fault anyway. You were speeding." Outraged at his accusation, I yanked out my mobile phone and began dialing a number. My hands were shaking and I could hardly focus on the numbers. It was as though I were trapped in a bad dream and finding myself unable to scream. I dialed in 411 and hit the green 'talk' button. It immediately connected. "Give me your stuff," the other driver said. "Where's your insurance information?" "I'm calling the Police, and you can wait a minute." I practically growled at him. It was obvious the guy was in some sort of a hurry. I had no problem giving him my insurance information, but he wasn't going anywhere until I had the Police tell us both who was at fault and write out a report. I was angry before this happened. He was the perfect target to take out my rage. He was yet another man who thought he could take advantage of someone like me for who knows what reason. It wasn't even about having to prove myself right to this pompous jerk driving his 1980’s Jaguar. It was more about knowing how much damage was on my car and realizing he had metal bumpers and only a small red smudge in total for his damage. It was about not wanting the cost of my insurance to go up. It was about me wanting to cover my butt. It was about showing that I still had some strength and wasn’t completely broken yet. And it was about proving to the pompous jerk that he was wrong. In the city of Los Angeles, the streets are overflowing with idiotic drivers who all think that everything is about them. Accidents happen daily with uninsured motorists, people without drivers licenses, BMW drivers cutting people off, Mercedes drivers pretending like they own the road and taking their half out of the middle, etc. Here I had always been a responsible, good driver, always defensive and watching for idiots. Here I had seen an idiot and had taken the

time to warn him of his potentially stupid mistake, and here he did it anyway. He had the opportunity to change what happened next and failed to do it. There was NO WAY I was going to give my information (including home address) to this guy without the police present. I was no longer the kind of person to roll over and take a beating from a total stranger. Only the people in my life ever had the right to abuse me, and even then they would never be allowed to hit me, since that was the only perceived abuse I understood. I'd said it before to some of the men in my life, and it's a lesson I learned well from my father. "Hit me once and you'll never do it again. Hit me twice and nobody will ever find the body." The guy already hit me once with his car. I wasn't about to let him slap me in the face to go with it. Exactly as I had predicted, the police showed up and advised us both that he was at fault since he had a stop sign at his intersection, and that I should file a claim with my insurance company. The man who hit me was beyond angry at that point, swearing at the police officer, claiming that he didn’t know how to do his job and that women shouldn’t be allowed to drive anyway. He swore up and down I was driving too fast, and just as a ‘matter of fact’ statement, the police officer told him that even if I’d been driving 50mph over the speed limit, he would still be at fault for not staying stopped at a stop sign until traffic cleared. Then he told the man that if he didn’t stop screaming like a lunatic, he’d have to take the man to jail. In my job as a security director I learned early on how to write sufficient incident reports and take photos anytime there was damage done to property. I did all of that including taking photos of both of our cars. Then when I got home I posted the photos on social media, told the story of what happened, and went to bed with a massive headache. The next day two different things happened. I woke up with a neck pain so bad I asked for a reference to a good lawyer, and Richard reached out to me after having seen the photos of the crash damage. Finally, he was talking to me again. It worked. At Richards urging, I did go through with getting a lawyer and starting the process of suing the man. It wasn’t because of my injury, though I could barely turn my head for weeks and did actually go through months of physical therapy after that, but because I saw the look on his smug face as he hit the gas. It

wasn’t an accident. The man bared his teeth in a snarl, narrowed his eyes, and hit the gas. He’d hit me on purpose, trying his hardest to throw me into oncoming traffic. I didn’t realize at the time that I’d be suing his insurance company instead of him, but I wasn’t content with just getting the car body damage fixed. I was in physical pain. “When I saw the photos,” Richard told me over a Skype video chat a few nights later, “I thought I’d lost you forever. I realized how close I was to having you die, and here we were not talking. I would have been terribly unhappy if anything had happened to you.” “But I’m fine,” I smiled, holding my hands on my neck to keep my head from turning. “See?” I smiled wider. “Naw, you’re not,” he nodded, “and it’s my fault because you were upset about me. I’m sorry.” “It’s okay,” I was easy to forgive. I wasn’t even thinking about him when the accident happened. I was thinking about the man who was grimacing at me, ready to do as much damage as he could because he believed women shouldn’t be allowed to drive. “So - I was thinkin’, I could take better care of you if you lived here. Maybe we can file for a visa and you can move here, come be with me?” “I can’t just give up my job and my home,” I told him. “I’ve built a life here, and visas are only temporary. I can’t just keep having to start over.” “Well, yeah, most visas are temporary. A fiancee visa is temporary until you get married - and then you get a marriage visa and stay forever.” “Richard, are you asking me to marry you?” “I love you because you bring out a side of me that I never knew existed. Food and drink taste different. I hear and feel music in a different way. I think about goals and the future that include you now. You're always on my mind. I miss you when you're not around, but you're always with me. I feel loved. I'll love you for as long as I live. I know it will be hard and I know that we will have our up and down times, but I know we are good for each other. We are meant for each other. It was written in the stars. Amanda, will you marry me and take my name and be

a part of my life forever?"

Chapter Thirty Six Preparing for Flight It was the first real, romantic, Hallmark style proposal I ever really got from anyone, in spite of my two marriages and my other random, often meaningless engagements. There was no ring, and it was through video, and there were no bended knees, but it was real. It wasn’t rehearsed, but it was heartfelt. Of course I said yes. My greatest ambition in life was to someday be a good wife to someone who deserved it. I wanted to be a wife to someone who would love me in return. Finally, after seven long years of knowing him, I had that with the man from Scotland. We were about to plan our lives together and I couldn’t wait. Neither could he. Preparations were made. I filed for a visa and got a microchip for my cat Oliver as per UK regulations and requirements. He got a blood test done also for some diseases that had been all but eradicated in the UK. Preparations didn’t take that long, and by the time my visa came back as approved, I’d downsized even my tiny apartment to where everything I owned would easily fit into two suitcases. My last few days in Los Angeles were all a complete cyclone. It was the flight for life, and certainly one to . I had waited so long. When word finally came that it was time to go I didn't waste any time. It was like I sprouted wings. Everything that needed to get done would take a normal person a week or more to accomplish, but took me only two days. Word came on a Friday afternoon. There wasn't much I could do for several days, and the following Monday was a National Holiday so I just knew the mail wouldn't get to me until Tuesday. That meant that I would have to wait 4 more days, but after 7 years that seemed like nothing. I knew I still had a lot to do anyway; the 4 days would quickly. I went to work that night as usual. Things were fine and normal, no surprises. Work was quiet and peaceful, which gave me the time I needed to map out my next few days and find out if Carmax was open on Monday. I still needed to find a foster home for my Oliver since he hadn’t been in an ‘in home quarantine’ for a total of 6 months since his blood draw and microchip. I'd been trying for months

but hadn't had any luck. I closed my eyes and whispered a little internal prayer. Then I went straight back to what I was doing, researching foster homes. That night, a miracle happened. After five solid months of searching and trying, nagging and reminding, suddenly the perfect solution fell into my lap that very same night, only an hour after my whispered plea. A sister of a dear friend would take him in. She loved cats and would often foster or cat sit without compensation. Here I was willing to pay her for something she normally did for free. Heartbroken, I dropped him off with her on Saturday on my way to work. That was the last time I saw him for quite a while. The next time I saw Oliver he wouldn’t recognize me. I always knew it would only be for a little while, but it turned out to be much longer than I could have ever guessed. It was a lifetime. Sunday was spent in anticipation. I packed as much as I could and held an "Apartment Sale" with signs out on the street telling people everything I had was for sale. Anything I wanted to keep or needed to hold on to until I left was packed away in the bathroom. Everything I couldn't fit into a suitcase was sold off in pieces, if I could sell it. Neighbors came and took what they wanted for cheap. Goodwill would be by the following Tuesday to pick up whatever was left. Monday I had it in my head that I would wake up late and take my car to be sold and get a rental car. That Monday was a Holiday, and since I would have been off that day anyway, I decided I would be taking Tuesday off work as well, as my regular day off. I needed to be home on Tuesday when the mail came, I thought to myself. At 0832 Monday morning there was a knock on my door. I had sold my mattress on Sunday, so I had slept on the floor with a pile of blankets and pillows. I rolled out from under the blanket and crept my way silently toward the door. Nobody knew what was going on in my life, thought there surely were some guesses from my neighbors after the sale I just had. Who would be coming to my door that early in the morning on a Monday; a holiday? I swept the hanging jacket away from the peep hole with my left hand and leaned over to peek. My heart jumped up in my throat and I practically swallowed my own tongue. I shouted. "Hang on! Hang on! I'll be right there! Don't go anywhere!!" The UPS guy

jumped a bit and looked visibly startled. "Ok, ok, I'm not going anywhere." I raced to grab my bathrobe and threw it on before throwing the door so wide open I almost fell backward. He stood there in his brown uniform, looking quite startled, like a cat that had just come face to face with a dog of equal size; the cat wondering if he could take on the dog and win if it decided to attack. Since I had just woke up and rolled out of bed, my short hair was everywhere, I looked like a man, and I was leaning at an odd angle thanks to having slept on the floor the night before. I had a major kink in my back and probably resembled a hunchback with the way I was holding on to the door frame, reaching out for the precious package in his hands. "Just need you to sign for it," he said. As I took the signature device from his hands to sign it, he asked "must be something you've been waiting for, huh?" "Oh, you have no idea." All my life, I thought in my head. I closed the door and tore the package open like a hyena after its dinner. It was a large envelope, but what came out was so small I nearly dropped it. There it was. That's what I'd been waiting for. It had felt like years at that point and I had to remind myself it actually had been years - seven long years. I got showered and dressed, went to sell my car, cashed the check in the bank and bought my plane ticket over the next several hours. I made the call about moving out of my place and planned out the next couple of days in detail. While I was running around like mad on Tuesday trying to bag or box everything for the Goodwill people to pick it all up, I coordinated where to borrow a vacuum cleaner from since I sold mine. I planned out my sneak attack to drop off my work phone - I didn't want to be charged for keeping a phone I wouldn't be needing. I didn't let anyone know I was going to work that night. I had taken a radio home with me that Saturday night and I knew my employees so well I could predict their routine. I planned my visit to the office exactly between lunch shifts, knowing that as one came off lunch the other would be going out for a cigarette. I listened for the radio to chime in telling me they were trading lunch shifts. I hid just around the corner and waited to hear the gate squeak when the one went for a cigarette. Nobody would be in the office and that was my moment to act.

I wiped the memory on my phone, ran with soft-bottom shoes directly to the office, set the phone on silent and plugged it in to charge in my office. Then I put it in the desktop ‘in’ box - not exactly hiding it, but not exactly leaving it out in the open either. I turned and went back out the way I came, careful to not disturb anything. One last thought sent me back to my office to write a note. "I'm taking a sick day," I wrote quickly, and raced out of the office before anyone saw me there. My place was completely empty other than my suitcases and blankets on the floor. It seemed so vacant. I had lived there for more than a year. It had become my home. Now my constant companion Oliver was gone. My salvaged couch was gone. My book shelf and tables from the curb, my books and dishes given to me by friends, and everything else I had owned was gone. Everything I owned in the entire world was shoved inside one large suitcase, one small suitcase and my computer bag. Once more I was back to basics, but this time it was by choice, not by the design of the universe or the thieves of Vegas. It was the first time that I felt it was entirely my decision. It had been a long, hard year in 2010 and the year was finally over. It was time to turn the page and start a new chapter. It was time to go back to basics and go where I felt like I belonged. I was on my way. Wednesday morning I woke up and rolled out of my blankets. I slid into the clothes I had set out for myself the night before and gathered everything close to the door. I took the clothes I had on the day before and rolled them up in my bed roll. I tossed them over the balcony outside to the trash bin below and grabbed my keys. I gave my apartment keys to the apartment manager and threw my suitcases in the rental car. Then I drove away. I made my flight that afternoon and said goodbye to a life I had built for myself through hard work and great effort. The flight was a total of 14 hours including a brief layover in London. It was January 20 of 2011 when I landed, and the snow hitting the window of the plane had gathered in clumps as large as the palm of my hand. The world was cold and forbidding, but I simply knew that happiness would be waiting for me on the other side of the arrivals gate. He’d be there, maybe even sitting down the way he was before. He’d be waiting for me. Then the world wouldn’t feel so cold anymore.

Just like before, I stopped in the restroom long enough to exchange my slippers for real shoes, and to freshen up my makeup. His proposal had been over a video chat. I didn’t really know what to expect from him. Would he make it official? Would he propose to me once again right there in the airport, complete with a ring and all? If he did, and if people were standing around taking photos or videos, I wanted to look nice. I fluffed my short red hair, smoothed my shirt, and headed for baggage claim. I was walking toward what I assumed would be my destiny and my fairytale ending. What I walked into was more cold and unforgiving than the snow that prevented me from even seeing the airport from the plane. I was walking straight into my own personal Hell.

Chapter Thirty Seven Welcome to Scotland The first place I looked for Richard was in the seats where I’d found him waiting for me the previous summer. I didn’t spot him there so I searched the waiting crowd for a familiar face. Again my eyes returned empty results to my brain. I stood there, confused for a moment, wondering if perhaps the plane had arrived early. I looked down at my Seiko watch I’d had just a little more than a year, the gift from Bill, and saw that I was right on time based on time difference calculations in my head. For a moment I contemplated on keeping my watch set to California time, but then pulled the crown and turned it a few times, searching around for a clock. I wasn’t planning on ever going back to California. I formally lived in Scotland. There, I planned to stay forever. I set the time correctly, pushed in the pin once more, and lifted my head. Coming through the automatic sliding glass doors was a familiar face, beaming from ear to ear. He was just as happy to see me as I was him. There he was, the love of my life, finally knowing and understanding that I really did love him. He wouldn’t doubt me anymore. I’d given up my entire life to be with him. I’d never have to prove myself to him again. I stood still a moment, letting the world turn around me, feeling like a still frame in a moving picture. Other people faded from sight and the only being in the world that existed right then was Richard. I wondered briefly if he would end up asking me to marry him. Instead, he apologized for being late and rushed me over to the baggage claim. He didn’t even pause long enough to hug me. “It’s snowing so hard out there that there are accidents all over the road. It took me forever to get here.” He grabbed my carry on bag from my hand and pointed to a familiar suitcase. I nodded, and he snatched it off the conveyor belt and headed back toward the door. “Let’s get you home,” he hurried. Then he paused in his tracks, looked back at me, and smiled. His whole face lit up. “Home. It’s your home now too.” He leaned over, gave me a peck of a kiss, and once more hurried on his way toward the doors. “Bundle up,” he warned as the doors opened and a cloud of snow blew into my face. I stumbled backward a couple steps and struggled to zip up my Harley Davidson leather jacket I’d had since 2002 and shoved my hands into my pockets. I tucked my chin into the colalr of

the jacket and headed out into the storm. Richard was hard to keep up with. At over six feet tall, his legs were much longer than mine and capable of great strides. Even in the snow, the sure footed man forged his way onward. I jogged through the snow trying desperately to follow in his footsteps so I didn’t end up with snow to my knees. We made it to the parking structure and finally to his car where he bundled my things into the trunk. Of course he called it the ‘boot’ of the car, but the results were the same. My bags were safely tucked away. He looked at me then with a smile on his face that melted away like Frosty the Snowman in July. “Where’s your coat?” He seemed perplexed. “This is the warmest one I have,” I answered, honestly. “I’ve had it forever, and I’ve been in California since shortly after I got this jacket. I haven’t needed anything else.” My fingers had turned blue in spite of being tucked into the pockets. We jumped into the car and Richard immediately began blasting the heater. I held out my popsicle fingers to warm them. We got on the road, and much like it was the first time I arrived in Scotland, not much was said. It wasn’t an awkward silence this time though. It was more of a concentrated silence so Richard could traverse his way safely home in the car through the snowstorm nobody could have predicted. He would be far more accustomed to driving in the snow than I would be, but it still terrified me. Not only had I rolled my car in inclimate weather when I was 19, but I’d been Tboned by someone on purpose just three months earlier. My physical therapy wasn’t supposed to end when it did, but I’d been determined to move to Scotland and never return. That meant my treatment needed to end too. Most of me was still hurting, but I knew it would get better with time. Things always got better with time. I just hadn’t been able to trust other drivers again yet. It still felt so strange sitting on the wrong side of the car. Richard was busy focusing on the road ahead while I sat quietly, staring off to the left into the sheets of snow coming down throughout the city. Once beyond Glasgow I began to marvel again at all the beautiful pastureland and the various stone walls built to keep animals in, but to allow people a free age across the open fields. It was, in Scotland, a foreign concept to own land that others were forbidden to cross. The law was a ‘right of age’ and each person took it upon themselves to wage the risks. If someone crossed land and was gored by a bull, they

couldn’t sue the owner because the owner had nothing to do with the decision to cross the bull’s pasture. Horses huddled together for warmth as the snows began to fade away. The roads began to clear. It was easier to see the cars that had slid off the road into ditches and pasture walls. We got all the way back to his home, dragged the bags inside, and took off our soaked jackets. They both hung in the kitchen where the floor was already wet from our shoes so there would be less to mop up later on. Then we huddled together at the back door with our hands hanging out through a crack to hold our lit cigarettes while the kettle boiled for hot tea and coffee. I had no idea how often we’d find ourselves in that position over the next couple of months. It finally started to sink in that I wasn’t just on vacation. I had, quite literally, moved to another country half a world away to be with the man I loved. I felt incredibly brave even as I huddled in the door, hiding from the white wet falling from the sky. I hadn’t seen snow in too many years. We spent the rest of the evening talking about the flight over and Richard shared a few stories with me of his various travels to the states. The one that made me laugh the hardest was the one where someone in Texas remarked on his funny accent and asked where he was from. When Richard replied that he was from Scotland the man honestly asked him “What state is that in?” We spent hours talking and laughing, music playing in the background, and once more I felt as though I were Alice after having walked through the looking glass. The reality that was a world away was finally there before me. Richard’s daughter would be coming to visit for the weekend, and we hatched a plan that night. He would ask Emmy if she wanted to get on a video chat with me, making her believe I was still back in California. We’d get on the Skype call, and then I’d walk out of the back room holding my laptop and surprise her. She was in the middle of showing me her school project when I sprang the surprise on her. I walked out of the back room holding my laptop, and she screamed. She launched up from the red leather couch and threw herself at me in full on assault of a bear hug that nearly knocked me over. I teared up as I heard her saying my name again and again, muffled by the sleeve of my top. It was the kind of welcome I knew I’d never get from Ethan. This child knew me and loved me. It was heaven. I’d known all about her almost all of her life and watched her grow up through photos and video chats with Richard over the years, though somewhat sporadic.

She wasn’t far from my own son’s age, and somehow that seemed to help heal that gaping wound in my heart. She was twelve, with long red hair, chestnut eyes, and the brightest smile I’d ever seen on a child. She could chase the clouds away with a smile, and bring out the sun itself on a cold winter day with nothing but a giggle. She became the greatest joy in my life for the time I was there. We had Chinese food for dinner that night. It was Emmy’s choice. With it came french fries and something called prawn crackers. Both items confused me, as I’d never in my life known Chinese food to come with french fries. It would take some time but eventually I would learn that french fries came with everything, and it was considered normal to dip fries in gravy, but disgusting to put gravy on mashed potatoes. The prawn crackers were something else entirely. They were fluffy and airy like pork rinds, but with less flavor and all formed into neat little scoops in order to scoop up the Chinese food with. There would be a number of things I’d learn over the coming weeks about the differences between American and Scottish cuisine and ingredients. I wondered how I didn’t know these things previously, having spent my vacation time in Scotland the previous summer. The differences between the UK and the US were far more vast and broad than I could have ever imagined, not just with the cultural difference of getting smashdrunk after the age of twenty five. Things had different names, were pronounced differently, looked and even smelled different. There were very few things the same once the surface was scratched. I made an idle comment one day that only the color of the sky was the same - but then the clouds rolled in and I stood corrected. Even the clouds in the sky were of a different shade as they climbed in layers between the homes and sky. With no other Americans nearby, often a US native could feel completely lost in a place like Scotland. The thick accents strip away the feeling of comfort and any sense of familiarity would vanish. But I wasn’t homesick. I had Richard. He, at least, was familiar. He was all I had, but that was all I needed. He’d keep me safe. Walking through the grocery stores was about the same between California and Scotland - some people rush about to grab last minute things for fixing dinner while others take their time and fill their carts with enough goods to last a month for a small family. I wandered between the massive aisles in Tesco studying; learning the differences, trying to figure out what different things are. What is "Caster Sugar," I wondered to myself one day. I needed sugar to put in

the morning coffee and tea. It sat next to a box of "Icing Sugar" that looked to me like powdered sugar. I knew from my years of baking, cooking and working in restaurants that brown sugar was soft and malleable while granulated sugar was coarse and grainy, crunching between the finger tips. I couldn't open the bag of sugar right there in the store, so instead I kneeled down and picked up the small bag. I held it in my hands. I looked at it for a long time. I weighed it in my hands, held it to my ear and shook gently to see what it sounded like. It sounded like the right stuff, but I couldn't be sure. I pinched the bag lightly and ran my fingers against one another, being sure to catch some of the sugar between them as I did. It grated as granulated sugar would, so I concluded that Caster Sugar was in fact Granulated Sugar. After all, "All Purpose Flour'' was known as "Regular Flour" in the United Kingdom, maybe Caster Sugar was just another name for what I needed. People stared at me as though I’d sprouted a second head from my shoulder. I could only imagine how strange it looked to see a young lady kneeling on the floor, shaking a bag of sugar close to her ear and pinching the bag like a baby's bottom. Slightly embarrassed, I stood up and went to find the milk. After carefully avoiding the people who had been staring for the rest of my visit to the store, I finally purchased the Caster Sugar and left. The entire way home I felt I was forgetting something. It wasn't until I was nearly back that I realized that I had forgotten the cigarettes in my worry about getting the right kind of sugar. "What's this?" Richard held up the Caster Sugar with a puzzled look on his face. "Baking sugar?" For a brief instant I panicked. Had I gotten powdered sugar after all? No, I clearly ed the grainy texture I felt and heard in the bag. What was it then? Was it the dark sugar like the Demerara we sometimes get in the States? Was it something entirely different? Oh, what had I done? I felt so stupid for a moment. I knew then that I had made a mistake, but for the life of me I had no idea what mistake I had made. They were the only two kinds of sugar I saw in the entire store. I told him that and explained that I had no idea what Caster sugar was. He smiled at me, told me "It's Baking sugar," and noticed I was getting rather upset. My eyes brimmed with tears and my face grew red. He wasn’t shy about letting me know when I’d done something wrong. It never hurt any less. Finally, he told me "It's ok," and reached over to open the bag of sugar.

Out into his hand poured granulated sugar, but in a far smaller grain than I was accustomed to. I could only imagine (with my knowledge of Physics and Earth Science) that since the grains were smaller, they would fit more compactly into a space, meaning the measurements would be off when trying to bake a cake or sweeten a coffee. I hung my head in shame. How could I have not known the difference? I could have just called and asked - but I didn't. I was too determined to figure it out on my own. I had too much pride to ask for help. I didn’t want to depend on him for everything. I think that angered him, but he tried not to let that show. He packed the bag back up and told me that I’d be returning it. I made another trip to the store later on that afternoon for sugar and cigarettes, but I had Louisa with me then. She showed me where the coffee sugar was (lowest shelf under the coffee and tea) and by the time I made it back to the house my pride was somewhat restored. I put the sugar where it went in the cupboard and composed myself on the couch to watch television for a bit while my hands warmed up from the cold weather I faced on my short walk. A commercial came on just then (or an advert, as they are called in the United Kingdom) advertising something I was very familiar with - Pantene Pro-V shampoo and conditioner. It was a comfort seeing something I was accustomed to finally. I knew exactly what Pantene was; I had used it for years. "...make your hair soft and manageable... Pan Ten shampoos and conditioners..." I did a double-take. Pan Ten? I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to the differences. But I still loved Scotland.

Chapter Thirty Eight When the Nightmare Began It wasn’t long after I first landed when Richard asked for my port. He wanted to put it into his fireproof safe so “nothing bad” could ever happen to it. He did the same with my driver’s license and debit cards. I had no credit cards since I’d gotten rid of them before moving over. In order to cover plane costs and such I’d spent just about every penny I had getting there so it didn’t bother me much to not have that stuff available to me. I wouldn’t be needing it. I fully believed I’d see that port again once we got married so I could file for the marriage visa. We’d even picked out the date for our wedding. We’d get married on April 28th and it would be the happiest day of my life. We had to pick the date before even getting the fiance visa, so of course it was settled. That decision had been firmly made. There weren’t any rings yet, but maybe he was still planning on having that be a surprise for me, I hoped. Within my first week, he was watching the swingers videos at night again, and this time wanting to participate. I set ground rules, because of course I didn’t want to continually disappoint him. I’d already done that with the caster sugar, and telling him how Pantene was pronounced in the US, him thinking it was me trying to argue with him over something trivial. I’d given up my life for this happily ever after. I needed the “happily” portion of that to start. If it meant that I’d be making out with him on camera while total strangers watched us, then fine. He was constantly wanting to get me on camera, but refusing to show his own face for fear he might be recognized. Not only was he a police officer, but he was a school resource officer. If he was seen as being a pervert, he could stand to lose his job. We couldn’t go anywhere for entertainment, he explained, so we would need to bring the entertainment to us. It was too cold to travel anywhere, the weather was terrible, and he would need to work in the morning. So we could have guests over, but we couldn’t go anywhere else to visit others unless it was his family. And, of course, his family could never know about his favorite website or he’d lose the respect of his family he said. I liked his family. I didn’t want to hurt them. The secret would be kept, I promised.

As is typically the case for someone who indulges in pornography or the swinger lifestyle, once it starts, the rabit hole keeps going. The addiction progresses beyond the original desires to watch what can be considered ‘normal’ activities. It becomes a behavioral addiction. It builds compulsive behavior patterns. There are even some therapists who compare it to a drug addiction disorder as the dopamine levels in the brain rise with increased participation or viewership for those who are actively participating out of desire. Eventually, as my worst nightmares were realized, I discovered that watching it through a screen would no longer satisfy him. Richard needed to watch it in person, and even be the photographer once again. They were horrible people. I didn’t like them the second they walked into the house that cold winter day. He was balding and sported a bulbous nose that matched his bulbous paunch. His clothes were dirty. She was just as round but with a wicked sneer on her pale, crusty, chapped lips. I tried to remind Richard that he’d told me previously that I never had to participate in anything with anyone else ever again, but too many drinks down his throat and his memory went the way of the dinosaur. “Ach, this is new. I’m betting you’ve never been with a couple before,” he demanded, pointing at the couple who were sitting on the couch, simply waiting for the action to begin. They looked bored. “Go entertain them, show them what you can do,” he demanded. He leaned back in his recliner and lifted his drink to his lips. He stared at me. Just before turning the glass on end and draining it, he finished his thought. “It wasn’t a request.” I needed to get through the night. I knew that much. But I also knew that I needed to get the Hell out of that room, and away from Richard. I was officially done with this mess. It had been such a short amount of time and already I found myself back where he swore I never would be again. As I performed like a circus monkey on command doing things I never wanted to do with people I didn’t know and didn’t even like, I hatched the entire plan in my mind. I’d break into his safe and get my port and debit card the next day he was at work. A week or two earlier my car collision lawyer had finally reached out to me asking for an address to send the final check from the crash, as I had been fully compensated for my injuries and damage. The check had only recently arrived in the mail, so I might even be able to convince Richard to give those items back to me so I could walk to a bank and make a deposit. I would tell him that I would need the port just in case anyone at the bank had questions about my

identity. It was a little over $2,000 which would be enough to get me home. I’d purchase a ticket for the first available flight back to California and I’d worry about the rest once I got there. For the next three hours I focused on the details of my plan in order to distract my brain from what was actually happening. I continually plied myself with Jack Daniels in order to try to numb myself. Suddenly, Richard grew outraged and threw his glass across the room, shattering it against the wall. The three of us sat there staring at him, shocked and frightened. “You!” He screamed at the man whose name I likely never knew, but have certainly forgotten by now. “You’ve been there this whole time without a johnny? What are you trying to do, get us sick? OUT! Both of ye’s!” He glared at me. “And you let him do it? You little whore,” he chastised. “I hope you get aids and die,” he screamed at me, then stormed off to the kitchen to grab the bottle of whiskey and a rag to pick up the broken glass from the floor. I grabbed a blanket off of the couch and wrapped up inside it, feeling used and disgusting, wishing like Hell I’d never come at all. I couldn’t cry because that would make him mad, I’d discovered over some time. In that regard he was much like my own mother, though he would never take photos of me crying because he wanted irrefutable proof that I was happy. He was already mad at me. If I’d started crying, there was no telling what he would do. I sat in the corner of the couch, huddled in the fetal position, frightened. The couple dressed themselves and left without a word but a backwards “sorry” on the way out the door. Richard slammed the door behind them and locked it tight. He brooded for hours, even though it was nearing 3am when the couple left. I had to pick up the rest of the glass after Richard cut his hand open in his drunken stupor. The alcohol had thinned his blood enough that he was bleeding like a stuck pig. He had it wrapped in a dish rag as he pointed out the tiny shards of glass on the floor for me to gather into the little discarded cardboard box he’d handed me. Carefully I pinched each one and placed it into the box, and usually was on my way to pick up the ones he pointed out to me before he even saw them. “I guess they were okay,” he finally said, having calmed down a bit. “Our mistake was finding them on the swingers website. The people on that website are disgusting. I think next time, we’ll just have to look for someone on a dating

website instead. Come here, you can help me build the profile.” “Shouldn’t we go to bed? Emmy will be here in a few hours.” “Let’s just get it started,” he insisted, and once more I found myself doing something I not only had no interest in doing, but honestly didn’t like doing. I felt fake. It was around 6am that Saturday by the time we went to bed. Emmy would be coming over in a few hours. I was exhausted, but I knew I needed to do as he asked. He’d already been so angry and violent. I just needed to appease him until I was able to escape in a few days time. If that meant setting up a dating profile for his nefarious purposes, then so be it. For the photos, he chose ones from the previous summer when I was over visiting him. I went along with it. It would only be for a few days, and nothing would happen as long as Emmy was over for the weekend anyway. I could take a breath for a moment and feel safe for a few days. It was such a bizarre feeling, knowing a 12 year old was the only thing protecting me. Emmy and I would often watch the Disney channel in the morning on the weekends while Richard made breakfast. He was such a cheerful and happy person when he hadn’t been drinking or feeding his obsession of sexual addiction. I was still quite exhausted from lack of sleep, but Richard was sober and Emmy wanted to have fun. The breakfast was cooking and smelled wonderful. When it finally came out, I would always marvel at the array. In Scotland, the full breakfast would include eggs, Canadian bacon, link sausage, buttered toast, baked beans, black pudding, square sausage, fatty bacon, tattie scones, grilled tomato and mushrooms, haggis, white pudding, and oatcakes. Tea for me, coffee for Richard, milk for Emmy, and our feast was complete. We would sit around the massive 6 person table in his dining room to consume the meal and I enjoyed every single bite. It was a symphony of flavors. Emmy and I read a couple books together that weekend, but it was still much too cold to really go anywhere. When she begged to go outside to play, Richard said he was too cold to go, but that he would let me accompany her to the playground. It was not a request. Still dressed in nothing more than my California clothes and leather jacket, we went to the playground to play Follow the Leader. For a while, no matter how cold I was that day, I was happy in

Scotland. Without a doubt I knew I’d miss Emmy once I left, and this would likely be the last time I’d ever see her. I wanted to make the most of our time together before I went home to start all over again.

Chapter Thirty Nine A Punch to the Kidneys After the incident with the couple, Richard wanted next to nothing to do with me. He seemed to be truly terrified that I would end up with aids and give it to him after he wished exactly that upon me. Of course he claimed to not have ed saying that to me once he was sober. He did still the incident and why he got so mad in the first place, but seemed more concerned that “our options would be more limited” going forward if I ended up catching something that couldn’t be cured. It was the first time in my life I wished to have a sexually transmitted disease. What I got instead was far worse in the short term. He was still angry at me for the incident, too. He harbored an unhealthy resentment toward me for not telling Richard amid his orders to do this or that while he watched, that this guy wasn’t wearing something I was in no physical position to be able to see. My mind reeled at the complexities of trying to figure out his brain, either drunk or sober. My plan had worked though, and I’d been able to procure my port and debit card that following Monday morning before he went to work. He had no idea that my bank allowed mobile deposits, since that was a relatively new concept, but I was able to deposit the check without going anywhere. It would take up to one business day for the funds to hit my , and I wasn’t sure if I could wait that long, so I needed to come up with a short term plan on where to hide my port and debit card in order to purchase the flight ticket as soon as I could. For some reason I was having a problem with frequent urination that day, but it worked out in my favor since I discovered the solution to my problem while in the bathroom. The perfect hiding spot presented itself in the folds of my bath towel. I could tuck my items safely into the folds of the towel where they wouldn’t be discovered. I could remove them and replace them when I needed to use my towel, using Richards to stash them during that time. My mind reeled, but I could also tell a fever was starting. I hoped I wasn’t getting sick, but even if I were I knew nothing could keep me from making the flight home. I’d been in

Scotland less than a month and was already determined to leave forever. I’d disappeared so many times in my past, surely this would be easy, too. I knew the ½ mile walking route to the train station. I knew how to get a ticket for the train and the train would take me all the way to the airport. I could purchase the train ticket with my debit card. I’d get out of there and get back home. I had no idea what I’d do once I got back to California, but I didn’t care. I had a way out and I was going to take it. Richard forgot to ask for my personal identification items when he got home from work that night, but I was certainly not going to remind him. My plan would come to fruition when I’d purchase the emergency flight the next day. I’d even managed to get Richard to tell me that he’d stored my suitcases in the attic, and I knew where to find a ladder to get them down. Every detail was planned, just the way it always had been. I knew what I was doing. I was no novice. As soon as Richard left for work the next day I ran down to where my aging iBook computer was stashed beside the couch, opened it up and started tapping away at the keys. A flight for that afternoon would run $5,000 so I’d need to wait, I determined. A flight the next day would be $3,000 which was still more than I had in my . I’d need to keep looking. Day after day was either sold out or too expensive for me to afford. Finally I came across a flight that I could afford with about $12 left over for the train ticket, but I’d have to wait almost two full weeks for the flight. I ran back upstairs to pee again before retrieving my debit card and dashing back down with it to make the purchase. I felt relief and pain at the same time. I was incredibly happy that I’d be leaving in two weeks, never again to be bullied into having sex with someone I didn’t know and didn’t like. But I felt a twinge of pain in my side around my lower back like someone had kicked me, and my heart ached for knowing I’d never see Emmy again. She was only twelve. She’d never understand why I had to leave without saying goodbye and she’d never forgive me. It felt like I was abandoning my own child, just as I’d been accused of doing for all those years. I knew I was doing the right thing, but it didn’t stop the pain. Over the days that pain in the lower back got worse, as did the frequent need to pee, though very little of anything came out when I tried. A week later I was in so much pain that Richard had to reach out to the guy he’d met on Plenty of Fish using my image and the profile he’d created in order to cancel the profitable ‘fun filled evening’ Richard had planned out. I couldn’t even stand up straight, I was

in so much pain. I complained that it was my stomach, but Richard accused me of faking it. His inebriated state caused his anger at me to become rage and before long I was having to listen to the insults of a man once again. “You just don’t love me enough to do this for me,” he screamed, slamming doors as he went. “I just don’t feel good,” I cried. “Then go to bed,” he screamed again. It was the best suggestion he’d had in weeks. “Okay,” I nodded and headed up toward bed, Richard hot on my heels. “Where do you think you’re going?” “To bed,” I screamed back. I’d had enough. I was extremely sick. “You think this conversation is over?” He grew more demanding by the minute, and then accused me of cheating on him when he pilfered my computer to look for proof and found emails between Lou and I from over a year before. “Are you still in with him?” “No, Richard,” I told him, keeping my cool again and starting to feel much like I did the day Bill and I got into our biggest fight. I was done letting him get to me. I was growing cold. “I haven’t been in with him since right after you and I reconnected.” “And why is that,” he asked me, spitefully. “Because I know it wasn’t because of us.” “It’s because he lived too far for me to keep driving down to see him.” “So the only reason you’re even here is because he was too far to drive to go see? That sounds like bullshit to me. Don’t you lie to me. How many others were there while you were still in California? How many men did you sleep with when you were still there when I wasn’t speaking to you in October?” “Does it matter?” There hadn’t been anyone, but he wouldn’t have believed that, and I no longer cared. “I’m going to bed.”

“No you aren't,” he demanded again. Smiling slightly, I pulled back the covers and crawled slowly into the bed, agonizing pain shooting through my back toward my toes. I was defying him, just as I had my parents. Just as I had Bill. Just as I had Chris when he refused to grant me the divorce I requested, spitefully destroying copy after copy of the request for amicable divorce I’d hidden in his room that day I asked. I had a way out of Scotland, and because of that my confidence grew. He could do whatever he wanted, I’d be gone in two days on a flight he knew nothing about. “Get up,” he screamed again, yanking the covers off of me and throwing them in the corner. Next went the pillow, directly from beneath my head. “Fine,” I said, standing up again, and I walked down the hall to his daughter’s room. There, I crawled into the tiny lower bunk bed since I couldn’t climb to the top. I pulled the pink princess comforter over my crumpled fetal position and hugged my knees. “Get up,” he screamed again, kicking his bare foot into the bed, aiming for the mattress. He hit metal, and stumbled backward a moment, hollering in pain. I fought the urge to giggle at him, and likely would have failed had I not been in so much pain. My lips were dry and chapped, splitting whenever I smiled, so I avoided that to keep from bleeding. What a mess I must‘ve looked like, I knew. How could Richard have expected me to perform with another stranger for his amusement and pocket money with me looking and feeling like I did? I knew I was pale. I looked sick. I had dark circles under my eyes. I lay there, barely moving, hurting with every breath. Briefly I prayed to die for certainly not the first time in my life. Just two more days I thought to myself. “Fine,” Richard screamed once he stopped hopping around in the hall like an idiot. “Sleep in here, see if I care!” Then he slammed the door and I was finally left alone. I didn’t much else until I felt the soft and gentle hands of his sister Louisa brushing the hair out of my face. I had no idea what time it was, but I felt delirious. The fever was raging over my entire body and I was boiling on the surface, but freezing to the core. I shivered slightly. “Where does it hurt, Dear,” she asked me, brushing another strand of hair from my brow.

“My back,” I told her, touching my lower back just slightly. Even that much hurt. “When did this start?” “About a week ago.” I moaned. I couldn’t turn my head enough to look at her, so she helped me roll over. “How long have I been asleep?” “About, what, 22 hours?” She asked Richard, who watched over her shoulder. “About that, aye,” he answered. “I need to get up,” I started to lean forward and fell back onto the bed, unable to my own weight. Pain shot through every nerve ending in my body, but I had a flight to catch. I had to get up. The flight was in the morning and I couldn’t be late. My life depended on it. “You need to lie still,” she told me. “And Richard, you need to call the doctor. There’s something very wrong with her.” Richard rushed off to find his phone so he could call for medical help while I lay groaning in agony, not realizing the pathetic sounds were coming from me at all. “What are you doing in Emmy’s room,” Louisa asked me, kindness pouring from her in a way that made me love her all the more. It was the empathy I never received from her brother. I knew this is what love should feel like, and what he didn’t know how to offer. Richard never loved me. Again I tried to sit up. The flight was in 12 hours. Again I fell back down to the bed, her gentle touch guiding me as I went. I sucked a sharp breath through my teeth. “We had a fight,” I told her truthfully. “What about,” she asked. I wasn’t expecting that. “He thought I wasn’t really sick.” “You’re clearly sick,” she growled. “Stupid men, don’t know how to be human sometimes.” She glanced over her shoulder as Richard entered with his phone in hand, held up to his ear. “You hear me, Richard? She looks like death.”

I don’t much after that other than going to the hospital sometime in the night and being given a prescription for antibiotics for the worst kidney infection I’d ever experienced in my life. We went back to Richard’s home where I was tucked away into the adult bed, and I didn’t wake up for another two days. Of course, I missed my flight.

Chapter Thirty Nine Caroline, The Crooked One I wondered if I would ever manage to escape. I had nothing but $12 left out of that check, and I couldn’t very well exchange a ticket that had already taken flight without me. I could perhaps find an American Consulate, but during the time I was so sick Richard had done laundry and found my port. My fate, as I saw it, was sealed. I toyed for a while of running off and becoming homeless, but the weather was still entirely too cold in Scotland and I knew I wouldn’t survive the harsh conditions after spending so many years in Los Angeles. My only option was to take my recovery time to come up with another exit strategy. At Louisa’s urging, Richard did get a very basic phone for me that would work in Scotland with a local number. That way Richard could call me from work, and I could reach out to Louisa if I was sick and needed help again. Of course I was given strict instructions on the use of the phone, including the inability to add a lock code, and handing the phone over to him each night so he can see what messages I sent and who I ed using it. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t sharing any ‘secrets’ with anyone, especially his little sister. It didn’t matter how often I reassured him that I wouldn’t do that, he didn’t trust me. He even assumed I had told her while he was trying to call the doctor, in spite of how delirious I was. It was an extremely basic phone that could only do the basics of making a phone call, texting someone, and playing the snake game. It couldn’t access the internet at all. It reminded me of the first mobile phone I ever had. Of course, I would be required to carry it at all times in case Richard needed me for anything while he was at work, but I thought it was a sort of a key to just a little more freedom. Now that I had that phone and Richard could find me any time of day, I was allowed to walk to the Tesco whenever I wanted to. He wouldn’t give me money aside from pocket change to buy things unless we needed something he specifically requested, but at least it gave me something to do during the long days. The first time I walked all the way to the store, he determined I was well enough to ‘please him’ again. He started shopping around on the internet. The front

door became a revolving door with strangers coming in, taking their turns with me, all the while I was cursing myself for having gotten too sick to catch my flight out of there. I was still struggling to come up with an exit, but for a little while I needed to just go along with things anyway. It would be easier on me to stop fighting it, at least until I could escape. If I just stopped fighting, it wouldn’t hurt so much, I told myself. I could keep my thoughts to myself. Caroline seemed to be in the same boat as me. Her husband was more into that ‘lifestyle’ than she was, but they still spent a pretty penny to have their chance with the American girl who had been on television. I was a novelty, an exotic prize.Somehow I don’t think Caroline knew about the money aspect of it though. She already complained about their spending habits. While most of the people who came through the door were random strangers I’d never discover anything in common with, nor was there a need to try, Caroline was different. She had a mother’s instinct about her. She wasn’t much older than I was, but she felt protective of me. I think she could see the pain in my eyes. I’d had so much of my soul stolen away from me each time I had to give myself to a stranger when I didn’t want to. I had already been broken by the time I met Caroline in March. I no longer even wanted to love Richard. I just wanted to get away from him. Still, there was nowhere to escape to and no possibility of surviving on the streets. I still needed to find a way home. I also needed to find a way for people to get tired of me, so I wasn’t as much a novelty anymore. I began studying the accent and trying to emulate it so I wouldn’t sound like I was from California anymore. Caroline was the first person after Louisa to comment on my accent. Louisa remarked that I’d talked to her smallest child Millie in a Scottish accent. Caroline, only a couple nights later, told me that I didn’t sound like I was from California. I was beginning to break the illusion. It didn’t make Richard too happy, but if he was drinking he really didn’t notice it anyway unless someone pointed it out to him. I was tired, and not only was that revolving door old the day it started, but the slices of my soul were being taken in larger chunks of time week after week. Some would want the slices of soul to take more than five or six hours to remove. I felt like I was being carved alive with a dull spoon, all while I had proverbial tape over my mouth. I couldn’t complain. I couldn’t argue. I couldn’t say no. I had the options taken away from me, as long as I didn’t want to be homeless, or worse. Things, as I’d learned my entire life, could always be worse.

“I’m tired,” I told Caroline after the fourth hour. “I know you are, Dear. I can see it in your eyes. It’s okay, just rest your head here.” She patted her shoulder and I leaned over slightly. She had a botched boob job and one nipple seemed to be looking up at me while the other seemed to be looking at the kitchen. I closed my eyes, trying desperately not to notice. I didn’t care. I’d seen enough naked bodies to last me a lifetime, and not one of them was worth my attention anymore. I was sleepy, sure. But I was also tired. I was tired of life. I was tired of sex with strangers. I was tired of molestation and rape. I was tired of being screamed at. I was tired of feeling like I was less than human. I was tired of being angry all the time. I was tired of alcohol, and I was tired of having to feel things so I relied heavily on alcohol. I had become dependent on drinking a fifth of Jack Daniels on a ‘revolving door’ night just to get through it. More than once I did finally achieve the blackout drunk status. That night with Caroline there, I hadn’t quite achieved blackout yet, but I was well on my way and quite thoroughly exhausted. My eyes closed and I sat very still a moment, hoping nobody would notice. “Manda,” Richard called out to me. “Here’s your drink. You haven’t finished it yet! Come on, make me proud, Girl!” My eyes opened and I looked over at him. He asked me to make him proud, and for once it had nothing to do with sex, or strangers. It wouldn’t remove a slice of my soul to do what it was he was asking of me in order to make him proud. I reached out my hand, grabbed the glass, and downed the contents. Richard beamed. “THAT’S MY GIRL!” He cheered for me, and for the first time in months I felt as though I had my old Richard back. He may have been incredibly drunk, but in that moment, he was proud of me, happy to have me around, and wanted to show me some verbal affection. I smiled back at him. “Now show this girl a good time,” he demanded, pointing to Caroline. I was exhausted. Desperately needing rest, I turned my head away from Richard so he couldn’t see the instant snarl of protest on my face. There was no point in upsetting him over an involuntary facial expression. My eyes rolled into the back of my head. “Should we move out of the living room,” Caroline suggested, trying to come to my rescue. “Maybe upstairs?”

“Oh, that would be more intimate,” Richard responded. “You girls go head on up and we’ll pour us some fresh drinks.” Looking back now and ing the revolving door, I don’t even know what Caroline’s companion looked like, but I do he and Richard heading to the kitchen, both completely naked. Richard had been having a lot of fun with the camera that night, acting as though he were Paparazzi haunting Hollywood. I had no doubt he’d bring the camera up with him again also. I wished like Hell we could be done for the night as I trudged my way upstairs, Caroline right behind me. “I’m so tired,” I told her once we got up there. “I know ye are,” she smiled. “You don’t have to entertain me. Just lay down a moment and pretend you’re asleep. When they come up I’ll tell them that you ed out and then maybe we can all just call it a night, how does that sound?” “That sounds amazing,” I smiled. It was the first time anyone had really seemed to care about me or my well being since I’d arrived. “Except it won’t be a lie. I feel like I might out.” “Give it a shot then,” she offered once more as I climbed onto the bed. I rested a moment, face down on the pillow. I crossed my arms under my head and closed my eyes. “Heeeeere we aaaaare,” Richard called as he came up the stairs. I could hear him smiling as he said it. “Caroline, a wee drink for ye,” he offered it to my female companion. “And for my good girl,” he offered to me. I didn’t budge. “She’s ed out, the poor dear. I think she’s exhausted,” Caroline offered up. “Ach, no matter,” Richard announced. I almost let loose with a sigh of relief. “Once we get going again she’ll wake back up, nae problem.” My stomach flipped. Caroline tried to come to my rescue again. “Shouldn’t we just let her sleep?” “Nooo, she loves it, don’t you Girl?” He never used my name anymore. I was just ‘Girl’ to him those nights. Of course I wasn’t asleep yet. I was listening to the whole thing praying he would just leave me alone. “Why don’t you wake her, Caroline?” Richard kept pressing, and in a moment I felt Caroline’s hand on my shoulder gently pressing down on my skin. She rubbed my arm a moment

before I could feel her weight shift enough to know she was looking back at him. “Can’t we just let her sleep?” “And let her ruin all our fun,” he questioned, quite upset at the idea. “Nooo, I dinae think so.” “She isn’t ruinin’ our fun, though.” Caroline kept trying. In that moment she became my dearest and truest friend. “I’ve had plenty of fun. Maybe we can take a break for a little while, at least until morning,” she tried one last time. “I’m a bit knackered myself.” “Well then, maybe just a little bit longer and then we’ll go to sleep. Did you’s want to stay the night,” Richard asked both of them. “It’s not a big bed, but we’ll all fit anyway. Just make sure she stays in the middle,” he gestured toward me and his shadow crossed my eyelids. “I wouldn’t mind getting a bit of rest,” Caroline offered. “Great!” Richard felt as though he’d won some sort of invisible battle. “Now to just wake her up, we might get off, and then we can all get some sleep.” Richard crawled naked onto the bed and hovered over me a moment. He didn’t bother to try waking me up, he just began trying to force his way into sex with my limp, lifeless, exhausted body. I could no longer even pretend to be asleep with the kind of movement that was taking place. I stirred a bit, pretending to just wake up. It was clear that I wasn’t going to be allowed to sleep, and if I remained like I was, I would only infuriate him further. That could possibly lead to my not receiving food again, or any kindness at all, for another week. “See, I told you she was faking it.”

Chapter Forty Cornbread Suicide I was forced to ‘entertain’ up to 10 or 20 times each night, sometimes 5 or 6 or even 7 days per week, occasionally for hours on end. Richard would go to work each weekday and police a local school as a resource officer while I would wile away my time doing dishes or cooking or cleaning or doing laundry. My freedoms were minimal, and I knew why. He knew there was nowhere I could go, and there was nobody who would believe me about what I’d been subjected to. His family would never believe anything so horrible about him, and I didn’t know anyone else. It was also widely accepted that he was a police officer and would be protected by his coworkers and the entire department were he ever found to be doing anything wrong or abusive. I had watched too many movies in America and believed police departments to be guided by the principles of “Internal Affairs” but that sort of thing didn’t exist in other areas of the world. That was purely American, sensationalized by cinema. True police corruption had deeper roots all over the world. Not all police were bad, and many had noble intentions. I had, unfortunately, found one that did not hold himself to an honest standard. The common front door in Scotland doesn’t have a deadbolt latch or knob turn latch on the inside. Instead, the common lock needed a key on both sides. It was what I called “The Alzheimer’s Lock” because it was what my Grandmother had installed on her front and back doors when my Grandfather’s memory had slipped so much that he no longer ed where he lived. That meant if the key wasn’t left behind, I couldn’t leave the house. But it also meant that I couldn’t go to the back yard to hang laundry or have a cigarette. Occasionally I sat inside all day long doing nothing but watching tv and wishing I could go back to the United States. I’d watch old reruns of Law and Order SVU simply to hear the American accents and feel a little less alone. They’d make me feel a little less homesick. Everything else on television, including news and gameshows, had local accents and I felt more isolated than ever when they were on. But once I was given that single key to the door, my world was a tiny bit bigger. At first it was daily walks to Tesco for no reason. Richard would have groceries

delivered to the front door which negated the need to go anywhere, especially after I’d messed up on the basic idea of purchasing sugar for the coffee. I was told I couldn’t be trusted with the simple things anymore, and that I had no purpose in life other than to entertain Richard and his ‘friends’ when he needed or wanted. After a while of being told the same thing every day, a person will begin to believe it. I needed a little corner of the world for myself to remind me of who I was and what I stood for. At first I started with walks through the nearby Strathclyde Park to the ancient Roman baths I saw while on vacation the year before. Then I started wandering streets, wondering if I would get lost, and if I did, perhaps I’d never be found. More than once I ventured into nearby towns or cities on foot without intention, having no idea where I was or caring where I was headed. When Richard asked where I’d gone, I told the truth. He would get angry or upset, telling me that it’s not safe to go too far from home. He told me, in no uncertain , that I was supposed to stick to the main road through town between his home and the grocery store only. I was banned from going to the park again. I was not given any money so I couldn’t go to a shopping center or take a taxi anywhere. Whatever he thought would be dangerous for me out in the world was surely no worse than what I’d experienced in his home. On rare occasions I could go shopping with his sister or his mom. While those would always be something I would look forward to as they were planned in advance, they would quickly become awkward encounters where I felt as though I didn’t deserve to be in their presence because they were a station above me in life. They were still independent, where I was nothing but a piece of property to Richard. It felt very much as though I were the dog they were taking for a walk. My leash was that phone, and if I said anything negative about Richard it always got back to him. More than once I tested those waters and was always left feeling more isolated when he’d get upset over something that had been misperceived as a negative remark about him. It could be something as simple as we hadn’t had time to go to dinner for the last couple of weeks, and he’d lose his mind for two days, screaming at me about how that was nobody’s business but his. Heaven forbid if I ever told them the truth of what was really going on behind the scenes. I’d finally started to earn enough trust from Richard that he would leave a few pound coins behind in a glass dish in the mornings in case I wanted to walk to the store for a sandwich or a snack. Still searching for ways to make him happier without having to perform like a trained pet, I would purchase things to

cook in order to surprise him or his family. I’d been a decent cook in the past. Perhaps it would finally melt the heart of the man I’d loved for seven years; the man I thought had loved me, too. I still didn’t understand what I’d done to have him learn to hate me so much but it was in my nature to want to fix it. The more I was around him, the more I wanted to save ‘us’ as much as I could. His anger was just too much to bear. There's a wonderful movie out there that I've loved for a long time. I the first time I saw it, I couldn't believe it was a Steven King novel. Michael Clark Duncan rocketed into being my favourite actor for a while because of that film, and I don't think my opinions of "The Green Mile" are that unusual when speaking to other people. One scene in the movie resonated with his family - the scene with the cornbread. Michael Clark Duncan took a bite of the crumbly yellow bread and mouths everywhere began to water. People who had never tasted it in their lives suddenly found themselves craving it. Richard’s family had no idea what it tasted like. One evening after I’d walked to the store, I made cornbread to go with Salmon Cakes and black eyed peas (called Black Eye Beans in the United Kingdom) for dinner. I made a double batch of the bread so that I might later share it with Richard’s family, too. It wasn't easy finding the corn meal to make the bread from, but the effort was well rewarded by mumbles through the full mouths of the people around me tasting the corn bread for the first time. I cautioned them that it tastes best when warm with butter on it. They were perfectly happy eating it cold and couldn't seem to get enough. It was more than once I heard someone mumble that it was exactly what they had hoped and thought it would be, that it was wonderful and that they loved it. That made my day. Someone appreciated me for a moment. Richard was even pleased with me for the meal. That night we spent our hours reading quietly, occasionally stepping onto the back step now that the weather had warmed enough, and having a smoke together. We’d talk about all the things we’d wanted to do together, including taking a trip to Spain perhaps the following year. He wanted to take me to Ireland for the weekend to just ‘get away’ from it all. The flights were only $25 each and he planned to take an extra day off so we could have a three day weekend. We’d fly into Dublin, he said. He knew the perfect hotel, steeped in rich history. We’d go to the Trinity college and visit the library there. The plans we made that night reminded me of all the reasons I’d loved him all those years, and I thought that perhaps finally

the worst of it all was over with. Finally I was looking forward to the future again. Perhaps in Ireland he would finally propose and we’d be able to make wedding plans. Our wedding date was quickly approaching and we hadn’t talked about it even once. In those moments when he was kind and gentle to me, called me by my name, told me that he loved me, and treated me like I mattered to him, I forgot to hate him. But Ireland was a disaster. He’d booked a room in a beautiful old hotel down the lane from the Ha’Penny Bridge and we did go to Trinity College where I saw the Book of Kells. We even rode a tour bus and saw the outskirts of Dublin. I marvelled at the bullet holes in the columns outside of the General Post Office from the Easter uprising of 1914. But when the night crept in and he had one too many drinks he finally itted that he’d wanted to come because someone named Dominik had more than paid for our trip, and Dominik would want to ‘meet with me’ both nights we were in town. Something inside me was dead. Too much had been taken away from me. My soul was broken the first time I’d been molested. It was shattered the second time. It was stomped into the ground the third time. By the time I ever got to Richard I was less than human in my own eyes. By the time we returned from our ‘weekend getaway’ in Ireland, I was nothing but a shadow. I wanted to die. That was far from how I wanted to Ireland. We got back to his place after three days away and I wanted to cry as we pulled into the driveway. The depth of my hidden pain nearly couldn’t be disguised anymore. Tears brimmed in my eyes, but I couldn’t let them show. I couldn’t make him angry at me again. Instead, I swallowed hard, grabbed my overnight bag, and headed inside to my prison. The next morning, Richard returned to work and we returned to our routine. How I longed to die. That next day I walked out of the door to my temporary home in Scotland with nothing in my pockets but one cigarette and a lighter. I knew exactly where I was going. I didn’t need more than that. I walked a slow mile to the church graveyard between Richard’s home and the Tesco where I sat on the church steps for an hour or two, praying somebody would find me and take me inside, to tell me I would be ok and that life was still worth living. Nobody came. Nobody had ever been there when I needed them. Why would I have ever thought sitting on the steps of a church would be any different? I sat there all alone on the front steps for several long, cold hours.

Finally I moved to the back of the church where I found a spot in the grass and talked. The only body around was one far beneath the earth I sat on. The headstone was dated back to the 1700's, but that didn't matter. I needed a friend, and he was the only one around at the time. I finally had a captive audience, even if they couldn’t hear me through all that dirt and grass, and the name had long since been weather-worn off of the stone. I had been ruthlessly tortured for months, used as nothing more than a pit bull for dog fights. I was nothing. I was garbage. I shouldn't have been alive. I should be in a box under the grass beside my friend in the abandoned, forgotten church yard. I was a coward. I didn't deserve to live if I couldn't stand up for myself and break away from my imprisonment. If I couldn’t stop the abuse, what good was I? I didn’t deserve to live anymore. If the only choices were to die or keep living that same existence, I would choose death. Nobody was coming. There would be no miracle. There was no Suicide Hotline in Scotland that I knew of, and they wouldn't have been able to help me even if there were. Nobody would save me. It wasn't a movie. Nobody cared. Nobody reached out. Nobody told me it would be ok. Nobody stood beside me when I needed it. Nobody. It had always been that way. All my life nobody wanted to hear about it if I’d been raped or sexually abused or molested in some way. I’d been told my whole life to not talk about such things, because then what would people think of me? If I had been molested that many times, there was a common denominator as my mother would say. If it kept happening to me, then it had to be my fault. It was my fault I ever went to Scotland in the first place. It was my fault I trusted Richard. It was my fault that I thought he’d loved me and had tricked me. I’d been too simple minded. After what felt like a full day I stood up and brushed the grass from my legs, the tears from my face. I trudged my way to the train tracks. It would be a fast ending to a long, miserable existence. I’d done enough research; I would die immediately upon impact, my body never having the time to send pain signals to my brain. At 31 it would be a final light’s out, like a snap of the fingers. Or neck. I sat on the rails beside the train tracks. I pulled out my cigarette and my lighter. I lit it. I inhaled. Slowly I let the smoke curl up from my lips and escape into the air, just as my soul would in another five minutes. This would be my last cigarette. Somehow I got peace from that knowledge. It was as though all the turmoil inside me finally calmed down, knowing that I’d never again be told that

it was my job to have sex with a total stranger while Richard watched and took photos and videos. I would finally be at peace. All of those years of having an unstable life, not sure from one day to the next if I’d ever find happiness, or know what love actually felt like, would finally be over. I’d finally have rest. I wouldn’t have to fight just to survive anymore. No more rapes, molestations, beatings, anger, isolation, fear, shame... it would all go away. Nobody would really care anyway, since nobody really knew where I had gone or what I’d walked into. Nobody, including my family, would ever know what had happened to me. I had no identification on me. Nobody would know. Nobody would care. A kindly soul with his young child approached and he asked me for a light. I offered him my lighter and even told him he could keep it. He lit the tiny flame and puffed away at his cigarette, causing the end to glow red with burning embers. Of course he insisted he give it back when he was finished, as he would have no further use for it. He was going to quit smoking. I wanted to tell him that it would be my last one, too. I looked at the little boy. He was still so small and young, but probably around the same age as I was when I had my first memories. I knew that I had to wait until the child was gone. I wouldn't dare end my life with a child watching. I would never scar an innocent mind like that. Too much damage had been done to me. I would never want to be the source of damage for another young mind. As I sat waiting, I heard the train clack-clack-clacking down the rails. The rhythmic beat marched up into words in my brain that seemed to float in from nowhere. In my mind, I wrote a sad and haunting poem that sticks with me even today. It was filled with the life I’d been living, explaining only to me about the pain I was feeling and how desperately I just wanted it to go away. I’d lived through so much all my life, and this man I’d loved for seven years was enough to finally make me feel like I had no business still living. I knew I needed to write that poem down. I knew that it meant something to me and I needed to keep it forever. Somehow it would serve as a reminder that life was still worth living in spite of the pain I was feeling and the broken heart I hated to acknowledge. I practically ran the full distance back to my prison. I needed paper. The only thing that saved my life that day - the ONLY thing - was my writing. It wasn't a stranger. It wasn't even the kid. It wasn't some miracle, or someone at

the church, or the body under the ground. It was my writing. And I knew I could never leave this planet without sharing at least some part of my writing with the world. I wanted to die, but I needed to live. I hoped that someday I’d have the strength and courage to talk about what I’d lived through, but somehow I doubted I ever would. I just wasn’t that strong. I never had been. That wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

Chapter Forty One The Burst of a Plan I developed another cyst. This one wasn’t in any hidden regions that would prevent me from performing sexual acts upon Richard’s demand, but it did cause incredible amounts of pain and made it hard to think. The cyst, this time, was at the base of my skull on the back of my head. It was partially hidden in the hairline, and as is my usual fashion I refused to say anything about it to anyone. I figured if it killed me, my misery would finally be over with and I wouldn’t die at my own hand. It swelled and stretched the skin on the back of my head until it was slightly larger than a golf ball. I ached with radiating pain and found it difficult to sleep. Finally, when the pain became too much, I told Louisa about it in a text message. She, in turn, told Richard, who became livid that I didn’t tell him first. I was under the impression that was why I’d been given the phone in the first place, because of my kidney infection that nearly killed me only a couple months earlier. In his frustration he grabbed me by the hair on top of my head and forced me to bend over at the waist. Then he rooted through my hair on the back of my head searching for a lump, pressing down into the soft, squishy surface when he did. Pain shot down to my toes and my legs nearly buckled beneath me. I shouted in agony and he immediately berated me for being such a weakling. “It’s a plook,” he scowled. “It’s nothing but a damn plook, ya ninny.” He rolled his eyes. “What’s a plook,” I asked, wondering if that was the Scottish term for a cyst or infection. “A zit,” he answered before walking away from me in disgust. “Now go take a shower. It’s mingin, and we have company coming over tonight.” My head was throbbing at the very idea of having company over, but that alone was nothing new. “I have a headache, and this really hurts,” I complained against my better judgment.

“I don’t care! Yer mawkit! Go take a shower. NOW!” Richard had taken two showers a day since he was a kid. He said his shower in the mornings woke him up and prepared him for the day, while his shower at night would wash away the daily grime and relax him so that he could sleep. He confessed to me that it was an OCD trait of his, just like washing his hands constantly since he was afraid of germs being on his hands. His hands in the winter had chapped, split and bled, and my mother did the same when I was a kid growing up. I hated taking showers because of the swimming pool incident when I was a kid, but that didn’t matter to anyone else on the planet. It didn’t matter because I never told anyone. I always preferred to take a bath, and I would occasionally receive shame for that. Richard didn’t have that option. His home only had a shower. He often demanded that I take two showers a day on weekends when he was there to babysit me, but could only demand one a day when he had to work. I usually didn’t complain too much and would just avoid getting my face wet if I could. I’d stopped wearing makeup some time after I moved to Scotland, hoping it would make me less appealing. It never worked, but I didn’t have money to replace cosmetics if I used them up anyway. That meant there was nothing but daily surface to wash from my face, so it didn’t matter if I got it wet with splashing so long as I washed it with my hands. I still hated showers. I stood in the shower that day, staring out through the glass door at the place where the towels hung. At one time, my port and debit card hid right there among my towel, I thought to myself. All I could seem to do in the moment was stare straight ahead, still trying my best to form a plan on how to escape and get back home to the US. I knew that if I stayed much longer, I might come close enough to the train for it to actually do the intended job. I knew without a doubt, the only way I’d ever be able to get back home would be if he sent me. I needed to figure out how I would make that happen, and if I could make it happen at all. I knew that no matter what I did, I would need it to seem to be his idea. Richard and I had decided to get married on April 28th before I ever left California. That day came and went, and the only news anyone could talk about was the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton on April 29th the following day. I was overjoyed that we hadn’t gotten married, and that he’d never formally asked, because I took that to be a beacon of hope. I wouldn’t be able to stay forever unless he married me. At some point I would have to go back to the USA or I’d be in breach of my visa. He was a law enforcement

officer, so surely he knew this too. A spark of aspiration started in the base of my skull as the water trickled through my hair and over the growing, throbbing cyst. Maybe there was a way out, I anticipated. I just needed to form a plan. Before I’d found my way to the church graveyard and train that fateful day I nearly ended my own life, I’d spent Easter with Richard’s sister and her kids. We’d gone to Calendar to play in the park, take photos of swans, spend time enjoying the scenery and eating sweet treats. I brought back some “butter tablet” for Richard after he’d confessed to me one day that it was his favorite treat. Of course I loved it too, but I’d tried Meringues for the first time that day and had fallen in love. These were treats that few people were familiar with in the USA and I knew I’d finally found something special after months of not knowing what was worth living for. It was so strange to have egg whites give me a reason to keep living. Now, as I stood in the shower still reeling from the pain of a life poorly lived and a cyst I couldn’t see, I felt the beginnings of a plan melt in my mouth like the meringue melted upon my first bite. I didn’t need to have a taste of something sweet to know that there was hope finally on the horizon. It wouldn’t be easy, but I could get out of there. I was going to live, because he wasn’t worth dying for.

I pictured the swans from that Easter day, splashing their way across the surface of the lake as they attempted to take off. Such graceful creatures when on water, but such clumsy fools as they attempted to take flight. I hoped for a much more graceful departure for myself, but didn’t rightfully care just so long as I was able to leave the ground. The cyst had been bothering me for weeks at that point. I don’t honestly have any idea what led up to the moment I finally felt a sense of relief as though a headache had vanished into the cosmos, but I sitting on the floor beside Richard and the revolving door young man of the night. He had been there for about five hours. Suddenly I inhaled sharply and paused, not really sure what was going on. Both of them stopped too. Richard asked me what was wrong. “It burst,” I said, reaching one hand into my hair at the base of my skull and

feeling a warm liquid spreading throughout my hair. I was in an instant panic, knowing what the doctor had said all those years ago about my skenes cyst. All that poison had just been released, and if this much was on the outside of my body, surely some of it had retreated to the inside of my body. That poison was frighteningly close to my brain. It could kill me instantly, that doctor had said. “What burst?” “My cyst!” My voice raised an octave as I panicked a bit more. “It was just a zit, I told you. Not a cyst.” “But I’ve had a cyst before, and that’s exactly what this felt like. It was a cyst.” “It wasnae,” he argued back. “Stop bein’ so overdramatic.” He stood up to full height, grabbed his cigarettes off the arm of the couch, and headed for the back door. “Now don’t let this boy get bored,” he shrugged back at me. The ooze continued through my hair and there was nothing I could do about it. It gave me something to focus on over the next hour, wondering if I would suddenly drop dead, half hoping I would. There would surely be an investigation into my death, and Richard would be found out for what he’d done to me. The young man there with me would be pulled in for questioning, most likely. They’d ask him how he knew me and what his relationship was to me. My focusing on being somewhat overdramatic in that moment is what got me through it at all. It had, of course, become quite customary for me to drink entirely too much Jack Daniels each time the revolving door turned to allow entry to someone who came to take their slice of my soul, and that was no exception that evening, but the fear of death was instantly sobering. The alcohol no longer blurred my thoughts or emotions or physical repulsion, and there was nothing I could do about it. “Eauwah!” The young man had forgotten what I’d said about it having burst and had ventured his hand a little too close to the base of my skull. He pulled back a hand filled with a creamy green goo that did far more than I could have ever hoped for. He immediately stood up, no longer sexually aroused by the encounter, and retreated toward the couch to gather his clothing. Richard watched in shock. “What’s the matter with you,” he asked.

“She should go to hospital,” he shot back, showing Richard his hand before wiping some of the substance off into a paper napkin and reaching to find a second one. “There’s something wrong with her.” “”Ach, no. It’s only a plook,” he insisted again. “No, it’s no. That’s no plook, that’s a boil, or worse, Mate.” I don’t his name, just as I don’t most of the names of the others aside from Dominik or Caroline, but I wanted to thank him. Of course he was right. He laced and tied his shoes, scrambled into his jacket and headed for the door. I sighed in relief. “What ‘ave you done,'' Richard asked me, instantly angry. “He was the best one so far,” he judged. “Why do you have to be so dramatic? Now you’ve scared him off, maybe for good!” I had no idea what made this guy the best one so far in Richard’s eyes, but in my eyes he was the best one so far because he left suddenly and couldn’t be talked back into the room by Richard. “He best no ask for anythin’ back,” he mumbled to himself. “I didn’t do anything on purpose,” I promised him. “I didn’t even tell him I wasn’t feeling well. He just touched my head in the wrong spot.” “It’s all your fault. If you took more than one shower a day like I’ve told ya, you wouldn’t be a filthy, diseased cunt. You wouldnae get the zits and boils.” He lit a cigarette while standing in the living room staring at me, took several puffs from it, and then put it out in his glass of alcohol. “Clean up this mess, Minger. I’m going to bed.” In Scotland, as I had learned long before, there were different words for different things. I’d learned that with pants and handbags, but before living there I’d never even heard the word Minger before. In Scotland, it meant filthy, disgusting. The Oxford definition is “an unattractive or unpleasant person or thing.” Richard’s definition was anything or anyone that was beneath him and not worth wiping the mud from his boots on. In all the time I’d been there, it was the second time he’d referred to me in such a manner. I began gathering glasses filled with nothing but melted ice water and taking them to the kitchen as I silently cried to myself. With force I reminded myself that I was coming up with a plan on how to escape. The quiet moments when I was left to clean up a mess would allow me the time necessary to think and plan every detail out. It

would undoubtedly be the greatest escape of my life. I sniffed, wiped the tears from my face, and smiled. Another little piece of the plan had just fallen into place. A tiny piece of my soul returned to me. I never did get any medical treatment for the ‘plook’ on the back of my neck, and it did continue to swell and return every couple of weeks, indicating that I was right about it being a cyst. Again and again it would burst at inopportune moments, spilling green and red in its wake. To this day I have a scar that remains in my hairline from that nasty little monster that would rear its ugly head at me. For several long days I would be in intense pain, and then it would burst and it would be a moment of relief. Unfortunately it was the only time that it ever burst while I was entertaining one of Richard’s revolving door guests. Each time it did, I would just remind myself that it was only a matter of time. May rolled around finally. It felt as though I’d been in Scotland for years instead of months. Richard had an annual trip to a favorite fishing spot planned out with John, Louisa’s husband. I’d be left on my own for a full five days without anyone around. Of course he’d take my computer so I couldn’t go on social media, but I could go shopping with Louisa, eat what I wanted, go where I wanted, and do pretty much what I pleased. I had received one last check in the mail from the car settlement that Richard knew nothing about, but it wasn’t enough for a flight home so I told him that I’d go shopping for a gift for his birthday while he was gone if he would let me have my debit card. He relented, and I finally had what I needed to set up the first stages of my escape plan. It started with a few household things. Richard had been talking for months about painting his fence in the back garden. He had the paint and brushes, but not the time nor desire. I’d spend the week painting that fence while he was away as a sign of my ‘everlasting devotion’ to him. Then I’d rearrange the bedroom to a design he’d talked about for a while, and use the money to purchase a new television for his birthday that I could set up in the bedroom. It was part of the plan I had in my head, which was more complex than any other plan I’d ever put together in my life, and I still didn’t have any guarantees that it would work. I just knew I needed to try my best. I was well aware of the old saying “sometimes you have to spend money to make money.” It wasn’t money I was necessarily going to earn with my somewhat lavish gift and efforts, but something much more valuable. He’d never fall for a simple bribe. It would need to be something significantly more

complex than his brain could grasp all too easily. Richard had aspirations of being a detective to solve mysteries. I’d have to out-fox that mentality of the forever suspicious. But I knew I could do it. I had to. My life depended on it.

Chapter Forty Two Night Out When Richard returned from his time away, he was not only thrilled that I had painted the fence, but overjoyed that I’d rearranged the room and bought him a nice, large tv with smart features on it. He could check his social media and watch YouTube from the smart tv menu. He was so impressed that he wanted to plan a night out just for fun. We’d go into Glasgow for an evening of fun, no revolving door attached. We planned a week in advance, which of course meant I’d have several more opportunities to lose little slivers of my soul still before then, but that I’d have something to look forward to. The pieces removed were smaller and smaller each time, and I learned to care less and less. I’d become conditioned after that length of time to just accept it as part of my daily life. I’d decided long before that it would be easier on me if I stopped fighting it, but I never stopped fighting in my heart. My will to fight and survive was what kept me going. My desire to go home and escape this monster was my only reason to keep breathing. Just knowing that the wheels to the machine had begun turning was enough for me to allow significantly less of me to be broken off at each encounter. My heavy drinking increased again to keep me numb to it all, but I knew I could stop anytime I wanted. I wasn’t an alcoholic or anything, I just needed it to get through the bad days. Unfortunately all days were bad days. The whiskey budget increased. I was chain smoking. Judging by the way my clothes were fitting, I’d lost somewhere around 20lbs from the drinking and smoking, coupled with the sudden bouts of needing to vomit uncontrollably within minutes of eating something as simple as a burger or some Chinese food. My face was ashen and gray in the mirror, my cheekbones would protrude more than usual, and the bags under my eyes told the story of someone who hadn’t slept well in months. I barely knew myself when I looked at myself, but the lighting in the bathroom had always been terrible, and there were no other mirrors to really see myself with. I had to believe that the reflection lied, simply based on the angle of sunlight streaming through the tiny window. On the day we were to go into the city his mother and father invited us over for a

backyard barbeque. Emmy would be with us, as would the nieces and nephew. Louisa and John would offer a bit more lively company. I was actually looking forward to the day, even taking the time to put on makeup. I decided I’d bring a plate of cornbread, and even the ingredients to make S’mores for the kids! They’d never had any, they’d confessed. Much like their parents with cornbread, they’d always wanted to know what it was like, so they pleaded with me until I promised to show them. Graham Crackers don’t exist in other parts of the world. I never knew that before living in Scotland. It’s strictly an American thing, even though they were invented in the 1880s. It’s treated as a snack food in the USA but in Scotland such a thing can’t be found. What’s more, I learned upon further research, is that it was inspired by a cult preacher named Sylvester Graham. He was part of a temperance movement. His idea was that people needed to minimize pleasure and stimulation of all kinds. Graham crackers were part of a vegetarian diet that would cause a person to feel and desire pleasure less. His followers, Grahamites, were one of the first vegetarian movements in the USA, and Graham Crackers were created specifically for the Grahamites. Strangely, Graham himself didn’t actually invent the Graham Cracker, nor did he ever receive a cent of royalties from their sale. Regardless of the strangely related history of the Graham cracker to my own desire to escape the desire of others pleasure, I would need to find a suitable substitute. The next best thing was a milk chocolate covered hard biscuit (but we’d refer to it as a cookie in the USA of course) because it already had the chocolate on it. That means the only other necessary ingredient was, of course, the marshmallow. I was grateful to discover that marshmallows were still readily available in other parts of the world. I found myself suddenly enjoying my time once more there in Scotland, just as I had the previous July while on vacation. The revolving door was temporarily closed for business, and I could live like a normal, socializing, real human being. I wasn’t a slave or a well trained animal. I was a teacher and family member to the others. Of course Richard threatened me not to embarrass him in front of the family, but we would have ‘a nice evening’ he said. We arrived at an early enough hour for Richard to help with the grilling of hotdogs for the kids, hamburgers for the adults. I helped his mom make the salad by cutting up tomatoes as I told her all about what I’d learned about Graham Crackers. She laughed, and Louisa ed us as she poured cups of

juice for the kids at the table nearby. All three men were out in the back yard watching the burgers develop those perfect black grill marks as the ladies prepared everything else. I carried out condiments while Louisa carried cups, plates, knives and napkins. Richard’s mother Lina carried out the salad and another side item. It felt simply amazing to be spending time with them as a family unit. Not far away the local train blew through town and I ed briefly the man who borrowed my lighter that day and the little boy at his side. It seemed such a distant memory. A far away look must’ve crossed my face. “Where’d you go,” Louisa asked me. “Oh, nowhere,” I smiled at her. “You must miss home quite a bit, ey?” “Sometimes, but not really,” I lied to her again. “Well, we’ll show yous a good time tonight then, make you forget all about it.” “Tonight?” I had thought it would just be Richard and myself in Glasgow, but I was suspicious of that after what had happened in Dublin with Dominik. The fact that Louisa and John would now be there seemed an incredible comfort to me. They would never treat me how Richard had treated me, and if he was at all cruel to me surely Louisa would stand up for me. Maybe then I could finally confide in someone about how I’d been treated for so long. Even as I was thinking it I knew it was a pipe dream. That was her brother. She’d never believe that he’d done such horrible things to me. “Aye,” she smiled at me. “Unless you don’t want us to come.” “NO!” I shouted unintentionally. “Please do! I’d love to have you there!” I hoped I didn’t sound too desperate. “Well when we’re done here we’ll go home to get ready then. How long will you need to get ready,” she asked me, wanting me to factor in how much time I would need to add any makeup and get dressed for a fun night on the town. “Oh, I only need to iron my pants,” I told her, reaching for a hamburger,

wondering if this one would cause me to be curled up in the fetal position on the floor, praying to throw up for relief, like the last one I’d had only a few nights before. For a moment I had forgotten that ‘pants’ in Scotland are the word for underwear, like panties. Richard’s father had been sitting off to the side reading a newspaper. Slowly, ever so slowly, the paper lowered and I could see his eyes, bugging out of his head, staring at me in complete bewilderment and wonder. I burst into laughter and corrected myself. “Tros!” I shouted. “I meant my tros, I need to iron my tros!” Everyone within earshot of the conversation burst out laughing, including the children, and for the briefest of moments we really were a family, a real family. That evening we all met up at Louisa and John’s house once we were prepared for our night out. They lived half way between Richard and the train, so it made sense to start from their place since we would take the train into the city. The kids were over at Richard’s parent’s home for the evening, and Louisa looked beautiful. She had done her hair and makeup, which had been just as rare for her as it was for me those days. She had on a cute little cross shoulder top. She saw what I was wearing, a basic t-shirt with jeans and heels, and offered me a little black sparkly tube top that I promptly changed into. It was adorable, but more than that, she was treating me as though I were actually her sister, or a family member, and I was beyond overjoyed. As much as I’d liked her from the beginning, I hadn’t spent much time with Louisa. I was really looking forward to changing that. Plus, I reminded myself of the eventual goal, I could put the next piece into place for my escape back home, and then I’d never see her again. It was bittersweet. The train into Glasgow was fun. It was the first time I’d been on a enger train in many years, and the first enger train in Europe that I could . Of course I was born in , but we left when I was so little that I have only sparse memories of that time in my life. I watched as the little houses that all looked the same whizzed past the windows, lost in my thoughts. I wouldn’t have much longer in Scotland if things went according to plan. This might be the last time I ever see Louisa, I thought. For a moment I was on the verge of tears, but I managed to absorb them back into the recesses behind my eyelids before anyone noticed. The buildings grew bigger and closer as we neared the city and I grew excited. The train station itself was massive. Once we left the train we all just seemed to

follow Richard as though he knew where he was going. I didn’t know much of anything about Glasgow, so I was just along to hang out with the others. The night seemed promising. We hopped from one bar to the next at first, stopping briefly for a pint for the boys, half pints for the girls. Much to my own surprise, my months of drinking in order to numb myself to my surroundings had helped significantly and I was nearly able to keep up with the others, even though I was much smaller. Part of me hoped I got drunk enough to spill the whole thing to Louisa, but part of me feared that I would, and that I wouldn’t be believed. We left a place called “The Black Rabbit” on Great Western Road and wandered up the street a bit looking for the next place for a drink. I didn’t want to leave that place in particular because of the way it was built inside with bridges and tunnels and different levels at every turn. It captured my imagination and I wanted to go back. We were having a hard time finding a new spot to have a few drinks, and the liquor had made me slightly more bold of lip, so I suggested we return. Richard turned on me at that moment. “Why don’t yewwww keep yer mouth shut,” he barked. “You’re nothing but a whining little bitch! I don’t know why I even bother to keep you around! Why did you even want to come tonight?” I shrank. The three of them continued on while I walked slower and slower, praying they’d forget I was back there at all. Maybe I’d get lost in Glasgow and eventually find my way to an American embassy and they’d send me home. Maybe I could survive being homeless, since the weather had finally warmed up enough. Maybe I never had to go back at all, I pondered. “Come on!” Richard screamed at me and I burst into tears. Alcohol had weakened my ability to hold back my tears. Memories came flooding back of my mother telling me how ugly I was when I cried and taking Polaroid photos to prove it to me. Of course, in my inebriation, it made me cry harder. “Quit yer cryin’ and come on, ye useless -” I knew how he would have ended that sentence. It was one I’d heard before. But he refused to say it in front of his sister. He refused to treat me the way he normally would in front of her. I was safer with her there. As I stood beside an old brick building, crying so hard I couldn’t see where I was going, Louisa hung

back and comforted me. “It’s a-rite,” she told me with one arm over my shoulder. “These men always say things they donae mean when they get a bit of drink in them. Auld Boab, he’s the worst at it. Ye’ll be fine, come on, I won’t let him pick on ye any mare.” I loved her accent. I loved her perfume. I loved that she let me wear her top. I loved Louisa. She was my saving grace. We continued to stumble from one place to another all night long. I continued to be reluctant to keep up with them because I didn't want to give Richard another chance to tell me how useless and worthless I was. I didn’t want him to tell Louisa that he’d turned me into a monster who slept with strangers in order to line Richard’s pockets with spending money for nights out like the one we were on. He grew more and more angry with me, but when it came time to call it a night he actually hunted down one of my most favorite meals so that I’d be a bit happier. We got a sausage supper - with the deep fried sausage over chips with catsup. As was the case almost my entire life, I cheered up once I had pleasant food. I munched my dinner the entire train ride back to Bellshill. I was perfectly content. Richard even stole a french fry or two while grinning at me, leading me to believe he was finally happy again himself. If only that had been the case. We weren’t quite all the way to his home yet when he suddenly burst into a fireball. Short by about 100 yards, he lit into me. “Why do you have to make me look bad in front of my sister like that? You know it’s your fault that I get angry because you’re such a stupid cunt, you can’t do anything right except lay there and let some arsehole pump you! It’s bad enough you’re a whore, but you’re a stupid one, and you dumb shit know very well how to make me angry no matter where we are.” I started crying again, which infuriated him further. “You’re lucky we even came back for you. Did you know Glasgow was the murder capital of Europe for a while? You could have been killed if you weren't with us.” “Maybe that’s what I wanted,” I growled back at him, finding a momentary spark of bravery and defiance. Louisa had seen how he’d treated me. I had formed a plan in my head to escape. He was always worse when he was drinking, and he rarely ed anything in the morning. He paused at the short gate to the front garden walk that led to the door of his home. He glared at me as he fished for the keys to the front door.

“Maybe I should just kill you then. Would that make you happy? Then you’ll get your wish.” I kind of figured he wouldn’t do it, but it didn’t stop me from feeling a deep seeded fear that stayed with me for a very long time. With everything else he’d done to me, it wouldn’t be too far fetched for him to find a way to dispose of my body and purchase a flight to California using my debit card to claim I’d gone back after some fight. He knew I had nowhere to go and nobody would be waiting for me. He knew nobody even knew where I was aside from his family. He knew, just as well as I did, that he could make me disappear forever and nobody would come asking any questions. And his sister had witnessed a fight. The remainder of my time in Scotland I knew I’d need to pay close attention to every step I made.

Chapter Forty Three The Best Laid Schemes Richard Burns once wrote “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley” that has since been translated into common English so that we might all understand what this Scotsman was talking about. The translation reads that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. I was determined not to go awry. I needed my best laid plan to actually work. After his threat to kill me, I was more determined than ever to get out of there. One night when he got home from work I told him that I had prepared dinner and that we should sit and talk awhile. I had been setting up this part of the plan for weeks, including having mentioned in ing that the wedding date we’d picked out had already come and gone some time ago to his mother and sister. That sparked a discussion between the two of them that, for once, didn’t involve Richard. Women, historically, don’t discuss wedding plans with men. They took turns wanting to visit with me in the day while he had been at work to ask if we’d discussed it at all. Of course I told them we had not. His mother advised me that he’d been married and burned before, and perhaps just needed reassurance that I wouldn’t do the same to him. His sister told me that he was a ‘typical male’ and didn’t know how to make up his mind until it was down to the wire. I nodded and agreed with each in turn, but in the back of my mind I already knew exactly what needed to be done. I’d learned enough about him at this point to be able to manipulate him into the right direction finally. Dinner that night was a sausage and leek lattice pie with chips and mushy peas. As we sat at the table, across from one another, I mustered up all my courage and spoke from what I had pretended was the heart. Truly, it was my survival instinct drawing on me from the center part of my brain. The words eased out like silk, soft and supple, gently flowing like a delicate little stream between two burning lines of magma. I needed to be delicate, and I needed to keep my cool at all costs. “So I don’t know exactly where to start, but I do know we need to talk about this. I’m going to make it as easy on us as possible. You know I’m here on a fiancee visa. We were supposed to get married in April. It’s now early June. If

we don’t get married, I’m fine with that. But the government won’t be. If I overstay my visa and we don’t get married, they could kick me out of the country and I won’t ever be allowed to come back. You could even get in trouble for allowing me to stay past my visa. We don’t want that,” I smiled sweetly. He hadn’t had any alcohol so he was still thinking somewhat clearly. I hoped my message was received as I had intended it, but only his next words would let me know either way. “I know...” He looked at me with a hint of sadness in his eyes. Could it be that he really was a human being still? “I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a while now.” He looked at his plate and pushed one of the peas over to where the chips rested. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I can’t marry you.” My heart pounded in my chest. I was instantly overjoyed. “You’ve been with too many men and I have no guarantees that you’d never cheat on me. I just can’t marry a woman like that. My first wife cheated on me.” Somehow recent months were my fault? “I understand,” I comforted him by placing my hand on top of his. He looked back up at me with tears in his eyes. “I mean, I wish I could, but I canae.” His massive blue eyes shifted around the room a moment, as though looking for any distraction he could to stop thinking about it. “Amanda, I donae know what to do.” He hadn’t used my name in months. I had spent weeks preparing for this moment. There was a driving force in me that wouldn’t let the words out when I needed them most and I sat there in a stunned silence considerably longer than I had intended to simply because he used my name. I had the answer. I knew the solution. I just needed to tell him what it was and to have him believe it was all for the best. The words choked in my throat as he looked deep into my eyes. It felt as though he was finally seeing me as a human being again after so many months of being his trained animal. He hadn’t looked at me the way he was right then for so long. Finally he broke eye and somehow I knew that was my queue. It was time for me to take charge of my destiny. I was in control. “I’ve been thinking about it too. And I think I have a solution.” I smiled at him when he glanced back up at me and then back at his plate, spearing the pea he’d been chasing around the plate.

“What’s that,” he asked sullenly. “Well, if I stay too long I’ll never be able to come back. If we don't get married I can’t legally stay. So if you send me back to California I can stay there for a few months and then come back here to you!” I nearly choked on the last words. It was all I could do to not call California my home, but I needed him to believe that my home was with him if this was going to work. “You’d be willing to do that?” His large, blue eyes turned up to look at me again. “But how would you survive?” “I’d find a way, Richard. I always have. I’ll land on my feet. I’m like a cat. And next time I can bring my cat with me. You’ll love Oliver.” I had absolutely no intention of ever returning. He would never meet Oliver. I was incredibly grateful that I’d been introduced to my side of Hell so early on and had never gotten the opportunity to bring him over. He was still safe back in California, waiting for me. “You think so?” He smiled, somehow hopeful. It was working. I waited for the other shoe to drop. He was going to see right through me, I simply knew. I couldn’t prevent it. There was no way he was going to fall for this trick of mine. Any moment now the bottom was going to drop out of this plan. “I could send you with a little money to at least get you started,” he offered. That was one of the scenario variables I hadn’t foreseen. “Would that help at all?” “Oh, of course it would,” I nodded. “I’d be so grateful to you.” “But where will you go?” It was a question I was prepared for. “I still have friends back there. I could ask one of them if they could let me crash on their couch for a little while or something. I mean, my friend Susan would be more than willing, I’m sure.” What he didn’t know was that I’d been able to get in touch with Susan through social media on his television I bought for him while he was still away and she had already agreed to it. If I could get safely back, I had somewhere to go. “Then it’s settled,” he agreed. “After dinner we’ll sit down at the computer and look at flights. And if you go back soon enough, we could have you back here in

time for your birthday and Christmas! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” I choked. He wanted to send me home as soon as possible to make that happen! “Oh, I hadn’t even thought of that,” I replied with pure honesty. Of course I hadn’t thought about being back in time for my birthday or Christmas. I hadn’t thought about coming back at all! That night after dinner we did exactly that. We had sodas instead of alcohol. He cancelled the revolving door events of the evening and opened up the laptop to a bargain flight website. The flights to get me back to California were too expensive for there to be 6 months time between my landing there and being able to return to Scotland so the flight would need to be pushed out a little more, he decided. We could still do a video chat for my birthday though, and I’d be back in time for Christmas. My heart was pounding. He had no idea he was personally going to finish off my best laid scheme himself, sending me back home to California after 152 days of Hell. I hoped he couldn’t hear the drumming of my heart as I watched the mouse arrow hovering over the ‘buy now’ button on the ticket he’d decided on. It was less expensive than the others because it was late at night, but it would land in California at a decent time of day the next day. I’d sleep the whole flight anyway, so it was an easy enough decision. He could have gotten me a flight on a chicken hauler that required parachutes and I’d have been happy about it. “I guess you only have a few days left now,” he smiled sadly. “What would you like to do with those days? You leave in just a week.” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and examined his credit card before entering the numbers for the purchase to be final. My mouth salivated in spite of my being quite full from dinner. I could almost taste my freedom. “I’d like to spend them with you,” I answered. “Nobody else, except maybe your family of course. But just us.” What I meant was that I didn’t want any strangers coming over. I didn’t want a revolving door. I wanted to hold on to what few pieces of my shattered soul I had remaining. I didn’t want to go home with nothing left of me. “Right,” he nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do.” He looked up at me, tears brimming in his eyes. “How about a nice weekend away the last weekend you’re here? We’ll go to Stirling, I know you’ve wanted to go there for a

while.” He was right. I’d wanted to go to Stirling since I had seen the castle atop the hill on our way to Edinburgh the summer before, and from my vantage point atop the Wallace Monument. It looked like such a magical place. Richard had told me that guests were welcome to explore the dungeons and it was steeped in rich history. It was still a functioning castle. I couldn’t believe he would something like that for so long and come up with the idea on his own. He booked a hotel for us in Sterling for that weekend, immediately after the purchase of my flight home was finalized. I could barely contain my excitement at how everything was finally coming together. Somehow my plan had worked. “I suppose you’ll need your computer tomorrow so you can make arrangements on where to go when you land. I’ll make sure to leave that out for you. Just don’t forget to show me your emails when you’re done.” He’d been monitoring my communications since he found the messages back and forth from Lou. What he wasn’t aware of was that I’d started a new email address and had reached out to a few friends of mine in California through that, letting them know only a little of what I’d been going through. I didn’t mention the revolving door or the sliced up soul, but I mentioned the verbal abuse and the broken whiskey glasses and the heavy drinking. They knew there was something going on, and they knew I needed to get out. But the final pieces of my stage play were going into place. The final act would end with the curtains being drawn and with me standing back on American soil, I had determined. They would NOT be drawn on my lifeless body at the hands of the man I thought I knew, or the local small town train station. Susan and I emailed back and forth at my known email address after I’d warned her through other means on what to avoid saying, and to be cautious since he would be reviewing these emails. We would exchange a series of emails discussing my flight time, when I would need to be picked up from the airport, where I would stay (including a slightly incorrect address) and when I’d be returning to Scotland. When the email chain was complete, I sent her a message from my other email telling her how much I appreciated her help, and to avoid writing to me again unless I reached out first. Then I deleted my browser history and recreated a new one.

Richard and I spent many happy hours at home not drinking and not watching tv over the coming days, talking about all the things we would do together when I returned. A familiar old song came on the radio and my ears perked up.

You’ll tak the high road and I’ll tak the low road And I’ll be in Scotland afore you. Where me and my true love will never meet again, On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”

I smiled. “Don’t cry,” he begged. For a moment I forgot I was supposed to be upset by things like that. Instead, I was sad I’d likely never return to Loch Lomond, but overjoyed that I’d never be there again with Richard. That chapter of my life was finally going to end. I was finally getting what William Wallace was so famous for screaming out in the movie Braveheart. FREEDOM. We did go to Stirling my last weekend in Scotland. We stayed in a hotel adjacent to the castle. We did not, however, see the inside of the castle. Richard told me we’d do that on the second day and then proceeded to get completely drunk in the local bar, and tried to talk me into taking someone back to the hotel with us. I refused, reminding him that this would be our last weekend together and we had decided together that we’d spend it with just the two of us. He agreed and dropped the subject, for the first time ever. As we stumbled our way up the road toward the hotel, he began to talk. “I’m gonae miss you!” He threw his arm around my shoulder, stumbling up the steep hill beside me. “We’ve had good times. But you’ll be back in six months,” he slurred at me. “Then we can do it all again,” he grinned, hiccupped and stumbled again. I held him up somehow, having had entirely too much to drink myself. “You’re going to miss me, too. Right?” “Yeah, of course I will,” I intentionally lied.

“Except I wasn’t a very good boyfriend to you.” For a moment I thought he was going to tell me how sorry he was for the months of torture. “I’m sorry,” he hiccupped again, “that I couldn’t marry you. I have the hiccups.” I shrugged it off and we made our way to the hotel and finally to our room. I’d never get the apology I deserved. I knew that every bit as much as he did. I don’t the final days leading up to my departure aside from momentary flashes of his family telling me that they’d miss me, and that they wouldn’t blame me if I never returned because I was being dealt a shit hand. I’d be going back to nothing, carrying nothing but a single suitcase, and being forced to start all over yet again. I would be on my own for the next six months without help or hope. Ironically, Richard suggested that I might become a flight attendant so that I could come and go as I pleased. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I had determined I’d never see him again, but unfortunately that meant I’d never see his family again either. It was all or nothing. I forced myself to cry at the airport when I was saying goodbye to him. It wasn’t easy, and I struggled to make the tears flow, but then I ed his beautiful little daughter Emmy and hoped she’d be okay. I wondered if I might find her when she was an adult, old enough to have her own social media pages. I knew I’d miss her for the rest of my life, every bit as much as I missed my own child. That’s when it happened. Thinking about my son, and about how long it had been since I’d seen him, and how I’d likely live the rest of my life without seeing him again, I was finally able to cry genuine tears. I’d lost all hope of ever seeing my son. Richard kissed me goodbye, I boarded the plane, and I settled in for the long flight home. My living Hell was finally behind me. I’d finally done it. I’d managed to escape. Again, genuine tears fell as the airplane’s wheels left the ground and we were airborne. It was the first moment I’d really been truly happy since I’d arrived there so many months before. My fairytale relationship that I believed we had went up in a puff of cigarette smoke as I boarded the plane in Glasgow, breathing a sigh of relief and confusion, wondering why I still felt like I could possibly love a man like Richard. And yet, I still did. I didn’t know that ‘trauma bonding’ was a mental disorder that actually existed, and was very much like Stockholm syndrome.

Chapter Forty Three My Way Home Susan was there at the airport to pick me up on June 19th at 3pm. I was overjoyed to see her, of course. She immediately drove me to a gas station so I could have nachos, which was one of the things I had said I missed when I was in Scotland. Not necessarily gas station nachos, but proper Tex Mex nachos. It was a sweet gesture. A couple days later I went to pick up my cat, my Uncles gave me a ride there. I’d missed him so much. Oliver hissed at me. He had no idea who I was. I’d changed so much while I was away, and not just in physical appearance. I barely recognized myself. I was there the moment he was born. I bottle fed him. I shared my food with him. I plucked him out of his first Christmas tree. I played with him, cradled him to sleep, played with him when he was growing, and spent just about every day of his life with him, and he had no idea who I was. I was heartbroken. I knew he’d figure it out eventually, but all it really did at first was make me cry over another loss I had never anticipated. I had lost the love of my baby. I stood outside of Michelle’s apartment, wishing desperately that I could just pull him out of his carrier and hold on to him, knowing he wouldn’t have any idea who I was. My Uncle Roger tried to reassure me, but his kind words fell of deaf, damaged ears and a broken soul. I got a job working for my old ‘friend’ Bill right away, acting as an executive assistant. Then Richard sent that horrible email complete with photos to him and our relationship was strained forever when Bill accused me of having enjoyed it, and possibly even instigated the interactions. Susan had worked for me as graveyard security before I had moved to Scotland and was still working graveyards when I got back. She lived in a 3 bedroom place with two other roommates but it worked for us. I slept in her bed while she was working at night and she slept in the bed while I was working during the day. I had no car so I had to borrow one from Bill while I worked for him, or borrow the Toyota Corola that Susan owned. When my friendship with Bill soured I got a job selling ladies shoes at Macys. I hated that job. I just kept looking for something better while helping to pay the bills and trying to just who I had been before living my life as nothing more than an animal kept in a cage and fed

scraps. One day I received a message through social media from an acquaintance. He was looking for a new office manager for his event services company and thought I might be interested since I’d recently moved back from overseas. In minutes I had quit my job at Macy’s and took the job working for Michael. In a matter of months things went sideways with Susan. She had learned only a little of what had been done to me. Since her brain capacity didn’t allow for the understanding of something like that not being of choice, she began telling people I had been a high priced call girl in Scotland. I nearly lost my job working for Michael and had to move out of her room into a recently vacated room within the home. Things continued to get worse until finally I moved out of the apartment. I’d met a man who was willing to offer me the ‘mother-in-law’ maid’s quarters in his backyard. I stayed there for less than two weeks before my old landlord agreed to kick Susan out and asked me to move back in, cat and all. It worked well for me, since the owner of the maid’s quarters fully expected me to be his girlfriend in the interim. Susan moved to my boss’ home where she lived in the ‘cat room’ that belonged to his wife’s animal rescue. She began to stink of animal feces, and repeatedly didn’t wake up in time for her graveyard job. Eventually she was fired from her full time job where I had originally hired her and she began working full time for the animal rescue. I felt a slight sense of justice when she eventually lost that job, too. Shortly afterward, her car broke down and she couldn’t afford repairs. She moved home to Colorado where she moved in with her mother. I would never again tolerate that level of betrayal. Her mother, of course, blamed me. In the midst of the drama I reconnected with a childhood friend. Bryon was battling his third recurrence of a brain tumor and asked me if I’d come visit him. I knew I didn’t have the money to go to Idaho right then, but I made the promise that I’d come see him as soon as I could. We’d been dear friends for years, and I couldn’t miss my opportunity to see him the very moment I was able to. He even proposed marriage. It wouldn’t be out of romantic love, but out of arrangement. He’d need medical care for the rest of his life, and he wanted to make sure I always had somewhere to live so he planned on us getting a home together. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, especially in spending that kind of quality time with a good, kind, honest, loving, gentle soul like my lifelong friend just happened to be. His offer reminded me that good people still

existed in the world. I couldn’t wait to see him. After writing to his bosses when he released the photos of me being raped, I did eventually get a letter from Richard’s police department stating that they were unable to find any wrongdoing on the part of their officer. I wasn’t sure why, but I tucked that heartbreaking letter into a small cigar box. Then I was invited to go to Fox News for work in order to photograph and introduce the dancers for the St Patrick’s Day Parade in Hermosa Beach that the company I worked for was organizing. I received a tiny little paper stub from parking at the studio lot, and a sheet of paper that explained why I was there. Both of those things went into the same box, over top of that letter. I desperately needed something new to focus on. I read an article where actress Laurie Holden had participated in an antitrafficking mission to help rescue over 50 kids in Colombia and in that moment I decided that my next mission in life would be to meet her. She had played a rather pivotal character on the new show “The Walking Dead” and I’d heard about a convention coming up in San Francisco. I knew I needed to meet this remarkable woman. I still wasn’t sure if what I’d lived through had been considered human trafficking or not, but somehow I felt that meeting her would make me feel better. I couldn’t have been more right. Not only was she humble and kind to me, but she hugged me, told me how happy she was that I was still alive, and then gave me the mission that I would be in pursuit of for the rest of my life. She started by telling me that I was so lucky to still be alive, and I agreed that I knew I was. Then she challenged me by asking what I was going to do to make sure others had the same chance at life that I did. At that moment I had no earthly idea, but since then it’s what I’ve devoted most of my personal life to. Since then I’ve participated in 5k runs, fundraisers, events, speaking engagements, and I’ve written an entire book about my struggles. I’d like to think that Laurie Holden would be proud. It was her direction that spurred me on toward this goal. It was God who kept me in pursuit of everything I’ve managed to accomplish since then, including the very basic struggle just to survive sometimes from one day to the next. When I went to the Queen Mary with my favorite emotionally adopted brother after that, I saved the tiny tabasco bottle as a keepsake, as well as some photo book pictures we took. They went into the cigar box too. I explored parts of Los Angeles I’d never seen before, saving tiny moments from Griffiths Observatory, fridge magnets from Hollywood, a pocket com from the San Diego

Maritime Museum to help guide my way, a rock from Ventura beach, and even a playbill from seeing “Wicked” at the Pantages Theater with my adopted brother Patric. Birthday cards, coins, ribbons, even an old tag from Oliver’s collar all went into that cigar box. The horrible letter about my horrible past was being covered over by all the good things that kept me alive that first year back. On the 4th of July that same year Patric took me to an exclusive party in Malibu at a home nestled between Tom Hanks and Jim Carrey. That day, much to the surprise of just about everyone at the party, including myself, Jim Carrey, the famous actor, asked for my phone number. He wanted to take me on a date. It seemed my life was back on track, and perhaps even on steroids. The bad things that had happened were being buried deep inside, where I hoped they’d never resurface again. That next spring I was offered an all expenses paid trip to Paris and London for a few days. While I had an irrational fear of being that close to Scotland again, I still couldn’t on the once in a lifetime opportunity to see Paris! The ticket to London and the subsequent train ticket to get to Paris all went into the cigar box upon my return, and new memories were formed. I brought home a new coat and a pair of gloves, my only souvenirs aside from photos taken with a camera phone. Then, much to my own surprise, shortly after that I became a flight attendant for a small regional airline. The entire world opened up for me. Sadly, my darling friend Bryon ed away in 2013 and my world was rocked once more. I was in Dallas when I got the news, less than 3 months on the job as a flight attendant. Immediately I flew home and made arrangements to get to the funeral. It will forever remain a lifelong regret that I didn’t get to him before he ed away. After a full year went by and my cigar box was bursting at the seams, after I’d finally moved into my first real studio apartment all by myself (not some miniature loft where I hit my head whenever I woke up in a hurry), after I’d adopted another cat that I named Cooper, and after surviving what I very nearly did not, I one day dumped out the contents of that cigar box and created a large shadow box with everything I had collected. Piece by piece they were carefully placed, each memory a precious piece of my own personal history.. To this day it hangs in my bedroom on my wall, reminding me of what all I did that kept me alive when I had no other resources to do so. The only things that didn’t go in were the program from Bryon’s funeral and the Christmas card he sent me just a few months before he ed. Those remain to this day in that little cigar box, and they’re kept safely tucked away on a shelf next to Oliver’s urn. It’s my one last piece of the greatest man I may have ever known.

Reeling from the death of Bryon still, I made the mistake of marrying the wrong man again and giving up my career as a flight attendant for him. I often make the joke that I should have kept the job since I’d had it longer than I’d had him anyway. While we were together we adopted additional cats that he likely would have put down had I left them behind. I fought for and kept all four of the cats, in spite of his request to keep two of them in lieu of my dream car he’d purchased for me as a gift before we were even married. My past taught me a very valuable lesson. A single life is worth far more than material possessions, regardless of the size of species. He took everything else in the divorce, including both cars, all assets, and (thankfully) most of the debt. I had to get a restraining order, a lawyer, and two full time jobs immediately. I saved as much money as I could, and fought hard to regain some balance in my life. I was forced to move in with a friend of mine in a one bedroom apartment with all four cats just to keep myself going. I’ll be paying the divorce lawyer bill for years to come. After only a couple months, in August 2016, I moved to Colorado and started my life over one more time. It was the 42nd time I’d moved in my life. I was tired of moving and desperately wanted somewhere I could just call home. I picked Colorado after a memory from my brief happiness at 15 years old resurfaced. It wasn’t easy to start over and I ended up with some hefty credit card debt that I couldn’t afford to pay off due to limited income, but they got me through the lean times and I was able to afford food when I thought for sure there was no way I’d manage. Sadly my beautiful little boy Oliver ed away on July 17 2017, breaking my heart in a way I had never known. With my credit cards already maxed out, I couldn’t afford the massive vet bills it would cost me to save his life. His ashes still rest in a prominent place in my bedroom, along with his collar, next to my memories of Bryon. He sits beside the remains of Dink, my other orange tabby kitten who then ed away on October 28th of 2018. Both died in my arms, both knowing how much I truly loved them. And I understood in that moment that they both loved me more than any human being ever could. I’ve since managed to finally pay down my remaining credit card debt, but several items ended up in collections and I’ll be paying them off for many years to come also, as I struggle to simply cover the basics of life. One credit card in collections, by no small miracle, was completely dismissed when the company learned of my past and what I had survived. For that, I am eternally grateful. A few disastrous relationships here and there sprinkle the recent years like

pepper on an over baked potato, but they’re such tiny little blips in the history of bad things that they don’t even draw an emotional reaction from me anymore. No matter how bad they are, they’ll never compare to my 152 days in Hell. And here I’d always thought Hell would be such an ugly place. Scotland was truly beautiful. There have been a decent relationship or two forged in this time, also. I’ve met some wonderful people. They’ve helped to restore my faith in humanity overall. I try to tell them as often as I can that I want to thank them or that I love them. Since then I’ve written books, started therapy, and been interviewed a few dozen times as an outspoken survivor of human trafficking. My mother once wrote into one of the radio programs where I’d given the interview in order to tell them “you should do a better vetting process of your guests, as her mother I can tell you the truth isn’t in her.” Since then we’ve had no . I haven’t seen my parents since I left their home in 2009 and haven’t talked to them since I severed all communications with them shortly after my return from Scotland. I finally figured out that they would never change and would never believe the truth because they hadn’t lived it themselves. No matter how much I don’t like their actions, I do still love them, and I hope nothing even remotely similar ever happens to either of them. They’ll always be my parents. Nothing can change that. But that does not mean that I should subject myself to more abuse just to have them in my life. The Bible might say to ‘honor thy mother and father’ but I keep hoping it means God the father and Mother Nature. That’s a lot easier to do than to honor my own parents when my own mother is often so vicious toward me. There was still so much more I needed to do with my life. I was still barely surviving from one check to the next. I would occasionally need to ask for help with the heating bill in the winter or for help with food. My best friend Collette would go to the food bank for me since I worked on the days they were open. One of the survivor organizations I worked with and who would often bend over backward to help me would bring gift cards to grocery stores so that I didn’t have to wonder where my next meal was coming from. At forty one years old it seems ridiculous to consider shoplifting as a viable source for the next meal, but it was fully considered more than once on the hardest of days. I still have my good days and my bad days. The nightmares still come. The flashbacks are intense. But I’m still alive, and I’m grateful for that. I may never have a normal life after what has been done to me. I won’t have that ‘happily ever after’ ending I dreamed about for so long. But I do have a new found respect for myself, and

an iron will to live that apparently can’t be broken. My brother and I knew basically nothing of the church for many years because my mother didn't want us getting "Confused." The only kind of church they had on the military bases were non-denominational churches. Mom and Dad thought that it would only add to the confusion if we went to these churches that Mom thought was full of only more hypocrites. She had many strange beliefs when I knew her, most of which I do not agree with in the slightest even now. My brother and I used to sneak out of the house early on a Sunday morning and ride our bikes the 3 miles to get to the church for the service. There was rarely a service we missed. Mom and Dad just always thought we were out playing, or sleeping in. They rarely ever knew. When they did find out, we actually got in trouble for having gone. Finally, once we moved to Utah and my brother moved away, there were no churches close by but the LDS church, and my mom would not have stood for me to go to an LDS church. It's the rebel in her, I guessed. She didn’t ever want to "follow the pack" really. I mean no offense to the Mormon religion, but Mom didn't want any of us to be what everyone else was just for the sake of fitting in. She was raised Methodist and firmly believed in HER religion. I finally found a Methodist Church on Laker Way in Washington Terrace and somehow I talked my parents into going to church with me. We had a grand time, actually. Mom and Dad dressed up to go with me, and for the first time in years, my grades started to do better in school. I felt like I had their finally. Then it came. The letter. I wasn't making much money at my first job at Wendy's, and I was saving what I could for school clothes and supplies for when school started back up. One day I went to the mailbox to get the mail and found something for me in it from the Methodist Church. The letter said roughly that they appreciated my $2 to $5 donations every week. They understood that I now had a new job. They outlined for me how much I made, how much was taken out for taxes and various purposes, and then told me how much I SHOULD be donating to the church every week. I never went back. I didn’t rediscover the real heart of a Church until I moved to Colorado and became very close to an audio engineer for a church that was almost 30 miles from my home. The mileage didn’t hold me back, I still attended every day for a long time. Since then that church has changed and I left because

I no longer agreed with the teachings, but I know that I’ll find my church home again eventually. God didn’t keep me around just so I could ignore Him. He certainly didn’t ignore me. Once, He even yelled at me. One night as I was drifting to sleep, crying from the chronic hives that plagued me for what seemed like forever, I begged a prayer into the night. I’d given up on God and religion for so long that it felt foreign to me, but the cry in the night was one of desperation. I needed some kind of relief. Out of nowhere, from seemingly the back of my skull, I heard a booming, echoing voice, indistinguishable in gender. As clear as though it were someone standing in my face and shouting, but without hurting my ears, I heard a very simple command. “Stop eating tomatoes,'' it commanded. Shocked, I stopped crying and went to sleep. When I woke up in the morning I researched tomatoes and the correlation to hives, only to find out they make hives much worse. I’ve since been able to get help from an allergy specialist doctor. I found out I have a few other deadly allergies too and now have to carry an epi-pen, but the hives are all but gone finally and I’m living a normal life once more. Or, perhaps, the nearest thing to normal for the first time in my life. In March of 2021 I finally stopped taking the antihistamines that had caused me to become extremely lethargic and gain 40lbs in a matter of months. By my own efforts, I’m determined to have that extra weight gone by June 19th, 2021, my own 10 year anniversary of freedom from slavery in Scotland. It will be a second celebration of freedom for me. Being fired right before Covid hit only a few short months later was the best thing that could have happened to me at the time. The industry I had been working in was shut down completely, leaving millions out of work, and many of those unable to find other jobs. I had landed in a branch of the healthcare and insurance industry and was then able to work from home. Doing so afforded me the time to write several more books, spend some time in deep reflection, and of course, get to know my new therapist. I was learning at long last how to turn off the ‘survival mode’ portion of my brain. Late last night I sat in my bathtub for a few extra minutes with no external forms of distraction. There was no phone in my hands, no computer I was working on, no movies playing in the background, no music anywhere... it was just me and my thoughts. For the first few seconds I laughed at myself for feeling silly for doing nothing. Then I settled into it. I began counting the seconds until my counting faded away from my mind and I just sat there, peacefully, doing nothing. Not thinking, not reading, not writing. Even as a child my father would tell me that if I was doing nothing it was a

waste of time. It took me 41 years to learn that doing nothing was actually doing everything in my power to simply take care of me. My father, believing that idle time was destructive, was more than likely a trauma survivor himself. He knew all too well that with idle time came dangerous memories and terrible thoughts. It was better to keep oneself distracted and busy than to live through the trauma again and again each time one closed their eyes. I finally climbed out of the bath and towelled off. I was at peace. For the first time in nearly a decade, I felt completely calmed. I began painting at the encouragement of my new therapist. I didn’t know that I had it in me, but I started by creating my near-death experience. I painted my grandfather showing me memories through the trees, as he stood between me and a circle of light. Then I created other things, like a woman towing a boat on shore, and explained how that was me, feeling alone on the ocean, and needing to tow my boat on shore for a momentary feeling of rest. Next was someone walking up a hill carrying a heavy suitcase. That one described the need to carry my own baggage until I could find a safe place to set it down. Next came a silhouette figure holding up an entire planet while simultaneously standing in the sunset to depict the weight of my world. I began selling my art online. One anti-trafficking organization purchased one of my first pieces and made prints of it to give to people who donated money toward the programs they had in place for survivors. Quickly my artwork was becoming a side business. I absolutely have my therapist to thank for that. I never would have considered painting before her suggestion. I stared for a long time at the photo on my counter of all four of my cats and thought once more about just how much I identified with each of them. Oliver, whose life also encomed a version of incest, though much more severe than my own, left me in 2017 because his health was forever altered due to his inbred parentage and my inability to save him. My little Dink, who was abandoned at a young age by his own mother because “something” was wrong with him, ed away in October 2018 at the age of only four due to previously predicted health complications. Violet, who had her only babies taken away from her through cruel circumstances, still curled up with me each night, promising forever to keep me safe from harm as I slept. Cooper, the one who had been abused and kicked around his entire life, finally knew what it was like to be safe - but still lived in complete fear of the outside world because of what he’d experienced. Jack and Dash, the litter mate brothers I adopted after my broken heart wouldn’t heal when I lost my little Dink so young, had been discarded in a dumpster,

simply because one person thought they didn’t bring enough value to their life. They’ve since received sponsorship in the way of food, and are official ‘test animals’ for a cat toy company. How similar we all were. How perfectly we all fit. How loved we had each learned to be. How grateful we all are for the help and kindness we’ve received. In March of 2021, my son finally reached out to me. I immediately knew not to pressure him into anything, but his first text message to me, after so many years of silence, was simply to tell me that he loved me. My heart soared. Those words are burned into the back of my eyelids because of how often I’ve stared at them in complete awe.

“I love you, Mama.”

I still have a very long road ahead to really build any foundation for a future relationship with my son, but the first steps have at long last been taken. Someday I hope to buy a home here in Colorado so that he will have a place to live if he ever decides that this is where he would like to be - with his mom. Maybe it’s a pipe dream for someone of my limited means, but for the first time in my adult life I finally have a glimmer of hope. Fundamentally I am no longer the person I was when I left for Scotland. But then, I guess that’s what Hope is really all about. Hope, and of course, finding my own custom justice.

In a private ceremony on April 21st of 2021 I was finally baptized out of the public eye in a tiny church in Denver, surrounded by friends and loved ones. I reflected every single day leading up to the baptism on the many times God had

shown up in my life without me ever even realizing it. He was the child at the train station, preventing me from ending my life. He was the whisper in my head to keep going. He was the shout inside my skull to stop eating tomatoes. He was the driving force behind me finally asking for the help that He showed me I was finally ready to receive.

He alone is the reason I’m still alive to tell my story.

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Also by Amanda Blackwood

Microbiographies Shack in the Woods, The The Miller Miles Detailed Pieces of a Shattered Dream Twisted Fate Thirty Synchronized Woodpeckers

Unlikely The Unlikely New Hope (Coming Soon)

Standalone Custom Justice

Watch for more at Amanda Blackwood’s site.

About the Author

Amanda Blackwood is a survivor of human trafficking. A portion of every book sale goes to help fight human trafficking and to help rescue the kids still trapped in the life worse than death. Amanda lives in Denver, CO with her rescue cats who keep her sane. She currently works several different jobs and writes in her free time. Read more at Amanda Blackwood’s site.