Truth IS stranger   2 comments


*Note from the writer {as things often happen with writing, this started out as something totally different than what it’s become. It’s a bit graphic and disturbing so read with caution. Contains memories of abuse}

When I tell people about my life and things I’ve done, they usually look at me like I’m insane. Well, I’m certified but I’m not a liar. I am 43 years old and I’ve lived my life wide open till my disability made all that come to a screeching halt. Now all I have are my memories and my scars.

When I was a child, I remember going to the beach with my family as most children do. I played in the waves, got stung by jelly fish and spent hours walking down Galveston beach looking for shells and seaweed. I remember the smell of the saltwater spray and the shrimp cooking on the open fire pit. I remember the hurricans that came more frequently than we moved but not by much.

I remember the first time I was molested too. The washing machine was olive green and it matched the rest of the bathroom. I’d gotten sick all over my favorite dress and he’d taken me in to wash me up. He got my dress off and put it in the washing machine. After starting it, he lifted me up and sat me on the machine. I thought it was a little weird but it was ok because he was my daddy and he did weird things all the time. They were fun and, at 6, everyone loves fun. I remember the feel of the cool washrag, it was hot outside so it felt nice. I remember giggling when he touched me through my underpants because I didn’t get barf in my panties and when I said so, he told me he wanted to make sure I was all clean. The smell of detergent was strong and I felt suddenly sick. Not like bad sick, scared sick. He didn’t go further than touching that first time but I remember him showing me his peepee and how big it looked. I said something about him being bigger than my brothers (we took showers and baths together all the time) and he laughed, telling me that was why he wouldnt do anything to me yet with it.

Not long after that, my father became “born again” and we started going to church. We went ALL the time and I had to wear long sleeved dresses, past my knees and neckline higher than my collarbone. I was a good girl, I sang in the choir, went to girl scout meetings at the church, helped the ladies clean the sanctuary and oil the pews. I even went to church camp and sang solo parts in a play the church hosted. Life was perfect… for a time.

One day my dad came home from church where he’d been to see the pastor. He felt he’d had a calling to be a missionary. The pastor didn’t think he was  ready or something and told him he wouldn’t back him. We never went back to that church again and we moved shortly afterward to the first real house we’d ever lived in. Up till then, all I’d known was mobile homes or military housing. I was soon going to a school nearby and had friends. My grandmother lived a block from us and we spent many Christmases at her house with her.

From the time we moved into the house till after I left, my father molested me. I was 9 when he started making weekly trips into my room to “tuck me in” He told me many times that if I told, he’d kill my mother and my little brother. To prove to me that he could, he dismembered my kitten in front of me. I was 11 when he did that and I still remember the mewlings of my kitten that haunted me for years afterward.

When I was 12 my father came to me one night and asked me if I really wanted to get some extra money for something I wanted to buy. I was excited at the prospect so I said yes. He kissed me and smiled then walked to the light switch and turned it off. I heard the familiar sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor and my body went numb. I knew what was going to happen next so I “left”. I went to the corner of my room, looking at the people on the bed, and waited till he was done. When he tucked the covers over my shoulders, he turned to leave and drew his wallet from his pocket. Pulling a 20 from his billfold, he chuckled and placed it on the dresser by the door before leaving.

There is no doubt in my mind about why it was so easy for me to become a prostitute at 17. My father taught me well the ways of men and I found out quickly that men wanted only one thing and were willing to do anything for it. At 14 I seduced my older brothers best friend and ended up marrying him. My first son was born 2 months after I turned 16. I left my husband after my father raped me in my husbands home and I had a breakdown. I moved in with my mother in Denver. I got my divorce on my 19th birthday, 18 months after I left and 16 months after beginning my life as a hooker.  

 I don’t have the foggiest idea how many men I’ve slept with over the years. I never even tried to keep track.By the time I was arrested the first time at age 21, I’d been making 150- 500 a night for a  while and had a fairly steady clientel in Denver. I’d spent most of my time working the streets but also took time to get my GED.

More next posting.

Posted January 26, 2012 by I'm taking a nap in Thoughts

2 responses to “Truth IS stranger

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  1. I am in awe of your amazing resilience – I spent the entire morning reading every single one of your posts and I have to say that you grabbed me by the heart and pulled me into your story.

    Like

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