Motherf*cking DEATH!!! Hate you!!!!!

as you all may have gathered, my ex-husband killed himself last month. he overdosed on pills, he just took whatever was handy. plus? lots of alcohol. we were together 18 years, and were divorced just a little over 3 months.  i still can't believe he did it, i'm in shock. well, that plus anger and lots of regrets and stress because do you have ANY FUCKING IDEA how hard it is to deal with your children's emotions on a day to day basis and keep holding it together yourself? it's really fucking hard. they don't know he killed himself. i get to keep that delicious tidbit all to myself, to torture myself with daily. plus? let's not forget the fact that his mother and sister have completely gone insane and in addition to telling everyone at the funeral that *i* killed him, my ex-inlaws snuck down here and took everything out of his apartment, INCLUDING MY CHILDREN'S FUCKING TOYS!!! then, when my daughter bitched her aunt out on facebook? yeah, that bitch unfriended my child. nice.

i hope she ROTS. IN. HELL.

And i hope that sometime soon, i get to walk up to that cunt (scuze my language), punch her in the gut, then knee her in the face when she's all bent over. then? then i'll grab her by her scraggy locks and BAM!

right into the fucking concrete goes her face. over and over and over and over again. i won't stop until she's got gravel imbedded in her skin and her eyelids are torn off.

then i kick her in the throat.

then, i don't care.

the gift

1993

friday night, 12:09am:
"here, you finish it. i hate when it gets down to the very end." i hand the last of the joint to amelia and finish off the rest of my rum and coke. she walks me to the door and we hug our drunken goodbyes.

3:47am
the ringing of the telephone slices deeply into my sleep.

"....hello?"

"it happened", the flat voice on the other end of the line whispers.

"amelia? what the he...what happened?"

"my ex-boyfriend, the one i told you was stalking me. he raped me tonight. he must have waited for you to leave." her voice sounds offhanded.

"what?! holy shit amelia! i'll be right down."

"no. don't bother. the police were already here. they took me to the er. i told the cops it was him, that he'd been calling, threatening....they went to his apartment. know what they found? over a hundred pictures of me, all over his walls. he admitted to it....i had to have six stitches because...did i tell you he stuck a knife in me? down there?" she asks casually.

"FUCK amelia! how did i sleep through all that? my windows are wide open! i don't underst..."

"when i called, i asked them not to use their sirens. i was embarassed... neve?"

i struggle to find a voice, "yes?"

i wish you hadn't left."

agonizing guilt burns my soul, leaving it's mark.
____________________________________________________

thursday morning, 9:07am:
"i'm pregnant. it's his, from that night. i'm not having it", she tells me abruptly.

"shit, ok. what can i do? do you want me to drive you, or sho..."

she cuts me off mid-sentence, "no. i'm going to planned parenthood tomorrow morning and they're going to give me ru-486, that will get rid of it. i can walk, i want to go alone."

i don't want to be pushy, so i say goodbye and hang up the phone. but a question tickles the back of my mind, as lightly as a butterfly's wings. i brush it away.
____________________________________________________

friday morning, 11:31am
"planned parenthood, may i help you?" the voice on the other end inquires.

"um, yeah. my friend amelia is there, getting the morning after pill. she said she was going to walk home, but i want to come pick her up. is she ready?"

"ma'am, we are not allowed to give out private information, but i can tell you that we don't give out ru-486. nobody does, it's not even legal in the u.s. yet."

feeling confused, i thank her and hang up. amelia must have gotten mixed up somehow.

she comes down later, looking pale.

"i'm bleeding. they said i would for a few days, until it's all over."

slowly, a horrible thought snakes it's way from my head to the pit of my stomach. it curls up and settles in.

"you mean you went to planned parenthood today? for that pill?"

"yeah, i just got back."
____________________________________________________

monday morning, 8:36am
"bloomington police department, what is the nature of your emergency?"

"um, hi. i live at 330 washington and i heard there was a rape here last week. did you catch the guy?"

"ma'am, there have been no sexual assaults in that area. none at all."

i suddenly feel very cold.
____________________________________________________

monday morning, 8:51am
"st. joseph's hospital, emergency department. how may i direct your call?"

"hi. i'm calling from lighthouse recovery center. one of our clients came back late from a pass last friday and said she'd been raped. i'm calling to verify. her name is amelia woodhouse."

"no rapes have come through here in over a month. and it looks like amelia hasn't been here since last october, for eye surgery."

numbly, i hang up.

the first time i met amelia, she'd been wearing gauze over her left eye.

____________________________________________________

2011
monday afternoon, 3:36pm

"hey neve! remember me? it's amelia, from bloomington. it's been forever, right?"

gently, i click on 'not now'.

because 17 years later i am gifted with the understanding that her lies had been crafted to arouse the most base of emotions. shock. fear. anger. guilt. shame.

she then feasted on these emotions, fattening herself until she believed she was invincible.

she would have to look elsewhere for her next meal.
____________________________________________________

this was a prompt from the red dress club, to write about a middle of the night phone call from a person in my past. i chose to switch it up a bit, and switch facebook for the phone call and have the middle of the night phone call happen in the past.

because that's how it really happened.

beautiful/dirty/sexy/tease

This week's prompt was to write about a treasure that was stolen from you or your character, and what you did about it.
____________________________________________________

*warning* the following post is extremely graphic and discusses child sexual abuse in detail. if this is an issue for you, now's the time to jump off the train. i'm serious.

and if any creeps are reading this hoping to get off, i hope you die tonight.

ok.

1971~
my parents are going out to dinner, and they ask our next-door neighbor to babysit me. he insists that i call him *grandpa* al. i already have a grandpa but i like to please.

because my life is already fucked up and i don't need any more problems.

i wake up. my pink flannel nightgown is shoved up to my neck, my knees are spread apart and my underpants are around my ankles. the dog is licking my.....wait. we don't have a dog. i look down at my privates and scream.

*grandpa* al is eating me alive, he must be a zombie. i scream and i scream and none of his shushing shushes me. i'm hysterical and i won't shut up.

because *grandpa* al is performing oral sex on me.

i am four years old.

he pulls up my underpants and tugs down my nightgown. he tells me he came into my bedroom because i was having a nightmare. he says i shouldn't tell my parents about my nightmare, because they'll think i'm a dirty girl.

this begins what will be 8 years of constant sexual abuse, at the hands of my parents trusted neighbor, *grandpa* al.

because once i turn 12, *grandpa* al is no longer interested. i am far too old for him.

he comes over to our trailer at least 2-3 times a week. he eats my mother's cooking and gives my parents gifts on their anniversary and on holidays. he becomes their best friend.

he always wears a motherfucking tie to our trailer. so i can sit on his lap and tie it while my mother cooks, or does the dishes. while she works, he sticks his finger in my vagina and wiggles it around.

he's the reason i know how to tie a tie.

he offers to watch me after school. he gets out styrofoam plates, plastic spoons and coffee mate powder. he pours a pile on each of our plates and we have a tea party. then he undresses me and makes me perform oral sex on him.

i am 5 years old.

he and his wife (oh yes, he's married) own a traveling trailer that they park in the trailer court. many times he takes the key and leads me to the trailer. inside, it is cramped and musty, and in the cupboard are styrofoam plates and cups, plastic spoons and coffee mate creamer. he makes me do a striptease for him while he pretends to be a customer. he calls me a "cocktease" and i'm confused. the word sounds bad but his voice makes it sound good. he gives me a dollar but takes it back before we leave the trailer.

to this day i fucking refuse to eat or drink from styrofoam and i WILL NOT use powdered coffee mate.

i am 6 years old.

he likes it when i strip for him, he pushes my hand down so i can feel his cock. it's stiff and hard and that scares me. i don't understand how something can be soft and squishy and then change it's form. i'm afraid of it, afraid of him. and i'm confused. he says he loves me, and that i'm beautiful. he says i'm sexy, and that my "titties" are so lovely. he sucks on them, and i don't understand why.

to this day, i abhor the word "titties" and refuse to let it be used in my presence. my ex-husband used to love this word. he called chicken breasts "chicken titties", even though he knew why i detested that word.

i am 7 years old.

i become dependent on his "love" for me, the kind words and lack of beatings. i knock on his door one rainy afternoon and his religious zealot of a wife answers the door. her name is leona and she dyes her hair jet black. she doesn't give gifts at christmas and refuses to hand out candy at halloween, saying it's the devil's holiday. she says everybody is going to hell and that god hates us because we're sinners.

i ask if *grandpa* al can come out and play, and she says he cannot because he's in his underwear. i innocently say "that's ok, i've seen him in his underwear before", not realizing that's not normal. she slams the door in my face, and i wonder why she is so angry.

i am 8 years old.

he comes over for dinner one night, we are having spaghetti and meat sauce. while my mother is in the bathroom, he leans over our table and asks me if i've told my parents any of our secrets, and i promise i haven't. he tells me that i'd better not, because if i do, my parents will know that i'm a bad girl who does bad things and they'll stop loving me, and i believe him.

 to this day, i still believe him.

he tells me that everything he does to me is my fault, because i'm so sexy, and such a tease. then he tells me that nobody will ever believe me, and that they will lock me up for being a liar and a bad girl. my mother comes back from the bathroom. i look down at my plate and pray she doesn't know i'm a bad girl.

i am 9 years old.

we are in the travel trailer. he is wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and i am naked. he tells me that he will be sad when i start getting my period, because then we will have to stop being sexy. then he lays me down on the bed and tries to penetrate me with his penis, but he can't. i scream and cry and he promises he won't do it again. i bleed a little that night and i wonder if i'm getting my period. i pray that i am.

i am 10 years old.

he comes by less and less. on the one hand i am glad, because i really don't like what he does to my body. on the other hand, i wonder if i have done something wrong, something to make him angry at me. this only feeds into my desire to please at all costs.

i am 11 years old.

we are alone in my living room, and my mother is outside grilling hamburgers. there is nobody to stop him, and yet he doesn't move toward me. i stand next to him and ask if he is angry at me. he says "no", but doesn't look at me. i am uncertain, because for 7 years i have been described in terms such as "sexy" and "tease" and and "beautiful" and "dirty". in fact, i often get "beautiful" and "dirty" confused in my mind.

what am i now? how do i define myself, and how did i become unloveable?

i am 12 years old.

i spend the next 30 years searching for the answer without truly knowing the question.

uninvited

uninvited i flew in
your life's topsy-turvy
and screaming in rage
at my birth.

i cared not at all that
i caused such a stir that
you started to wish
i had died.

you ignored me, you beat me
you abused and unloved me.
i say "i love you", first
never last.

slowly but surely i
started to realize
this love was one-sided.
i'm exposed

to the creeps and the perverts
who live right beside us
and behind us and hide
from the light.

they slap me and burn me
they use and discard me.
all while you dance and you
twirl

for an unfaithful husband
and an unlikely father
to a tune only you and he hear.
pushing me

out of the life you created
and the space that you needed
and the time that you cherished
more than me.

lesson #12

my dad was, and still is, a serious control freak. he wants everything to go his way, all the time, forever. His need to control + my rebellious streak - any display of love or affection = a seriously fucked up child.

dad,
i'd love to write this on my regular blog, but it would upset the people who know me (and we both know that i shouldn't upset others, right?), so i'm writing it on the down-low. anyway, this is more for me than for you, because you would never admit to fucking up. mom has put up with a lot of shit to stay married to you for 44 years, but i don't feel sorry for her because we both know she loves to play the martyr. you two are a textbook case of how not to raise a daughter, and i'll get to mom in another blog. this one's for you-

i know that you and mom "had" to get married. i know that you weren't thrilled about it.  i also know that you really wanted a son, but you got me instead. while i made do with the john deere tractor and matching wagon, you and i both know i really wanted the barbie corvette. so barbie and her friends went on lots of hayrides, no biggie. because i loved you.

lesson #1-be happy with whatever i get and don't show disappointment. any affection i may receive depends on this.

we had fun when i was little. we played football with pillows in the trailer that i grew up in, you pretended to be a horse so i could ride on your back. except you always bucked me off, every time. you'd hide in the bathroom down the narrow hall and call to me and when i came to you, you'd jump out of the dark and scare me. i hated that game, and tried to refuse, but mom would insist i go everytime. when mom called that dinner was ready, you'd always hold me back and say that i didn't get to eat. even though i knew it was a game, i didn't like it. now that i think about it, your sense of humor was somewhat sadistic. but i didn't see it that way at the time. because i loved you.

lesson #2-i have to play along, even when i don't want to.

when i was small, and did something wrong, you whipped me. you had that fucking collection of belts and always made me pick one. i took a long time choosing, hoping you would change your mind, but you never did. i always chose the red, white, and blue one, because if i had to get whipped, it should be with a pretty belt. and it wasn't just one or two times. no, you beat my ass. and bare legs. and back. and arms.

i stole some of your coin collection to use in the gumball machine at the trailer court. it was only a couple of wheat pennies and a dime, but you found me at the gumball machine and my heart got stuck in my throat. you had a wire coat hanger in your right hand and it was summer and i was wearing shorts. you beat me with that wire hanger all the way to the trailer and that was a long way and i couldn't run fast because i was only 4. and still, i loved you.

and that time you got mad 'cause mom made chili in july. i was still in a highchair, even though i was 3. i dumped my chili onto the metal tray and you swore at me for wasting food. you grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me out of the highchair. my legs got all cut up because you didn't take the tray off first. then you threw me on the floor of the living room, and that's how my favorite top got ripped. then you grabbed a belt from your collection and started beating me and you wouldn't stop. mom finally pulled you away and threw you out. she let you come back, though. because she needed you more than she loved me. i asked mom to fix my top, but she threw it away instead.

lesson #3- i am bad, and being hurt by someone i love is acceptable. in fact, i should expect it. i also need to learn the art of survival, because nobody else is going to protect me.

you have never told me you loved me. never. not even once. you have never told me you are proud of me. not ever. not when i graduated from college, or grad school, or got straight a's, or stuck with my crappy marriage for so long, or left said crappy marriage when it was time. i craved your approval like an addict craves that next hit off the pipe, knowing it will never be enough. and i chased after your approval the way a child chases their shadow, knowing that they will never catch it but always hoping against hope that this time might be different. and i never hated you for it. instead, i hated myself for not being enough.

lesson #4-it's not you. it's me. and it will always be me, even when it's you.

you had a girlfriend on the side, beginning when i was 5, and ending around the time i went away to college. i know this because i rode the bus with her son in high school. he told me all about how you'd come over on christmas day when he was little. i always wondered why you left after we'd opened presents. you were going to your other family. the one with two boys.

remember that time when i was a senior in high school and my friend viki and i saw your truck at your girlfriend's house? i rang the doorbell and asked your girlfriend if you were there and i told her who i was. after viki and i drove away, we hid in a driveway and watched you speed past us in your truck, racing towards home. and we laughed because we knew you couldn't touch me. not unless you wanted to tell mom what you were so pissed about.

mom still doesn't know about that time i called your girlfriend at work and called her a whore and a bitch and demanded that army picture of you back. the one that mom kept asking about and you kept telling her that you'd left it in your locker at work. only it wasn't in your locker, was it? it was on your girlfriend's tv, because her son told me. you brought the picture home that night. that's when you stopped looking me in the eye and started hating me. because you'd been caught by your daughter. and i began to hate you right back.

and when you suddenly decided not to pay for grad school, i became a stripper to pay for it myself. because i had learned the art of survival.

lesson #5-i have nothing to lose and it feels good to be a bitch.

you stopped hugging me when i turned 10, and i'm pretty sure it had something to do with my going through puberty. especially when you went on a trip and brought me back that cleveland browns sweatshirt, threw it in my general direction while averting your eyes and said, "here, this will cover up your bumps." nice way to encourage a young girl to have pride in her body. so i started covering up my bumps, all the time. when i was in my late 20's, i got rid of my bumps altogether by developing anorexia. then i had to cover up my bones. i began to loathe myself.

lesson #6-my body is sexual, and sexuality is bad.

the only birthday of mine that you ever came to was when i turned 5. i still remember it because that's the birthday i got my first barbie and you took her away and wouldn't give her back. you thought that was funny and i played along so you would stay. to this day, i occasionally find myself playing along, for fear of being abandoned or pissing someone off. when i was 17, you never came to my high school graduation. i know this because when i got home after the ceremony, the ticket i'd left for you on the kitchen table was still there. you were still pissed about me finding you at your girlfriend's two months prior, and calling her at her job. because i'd stopped playing along.

lesson #7-when i stop playing along, you will hate me.

when i got into high school, you started to have me followed. instead of sitting me down and asking me about what was going on in my life, you got kids from the trailer court to tell you shit about me, paying them $5 for each bit of information. that's how you found out i smoked, drank, got high and had a black best friend. you even sent two guys on my fucking spring break trip to daytona beach. i know this because on the last night, we all got drunk together and they told me. then they proceeded to tell me your name, my full name, where i lived and what you wanted to know. i wasn't even safe from you 1,000 miles away. can i just tell you how fucked up that is? that is seriously fucked up. i was the most paranoid teenager i knew, even without the pot.

you made me stop being friends with kim, you beat my ass when you found out i smoked and you grounded me for three months for drinking. fuck you. i started getting high with my dealer's 16-year-old wife before school, i went through the bottle of vodka you had hidden in your cupboard, filling it with water instead. that's right dad, the more you tightened the screws, the more i fucked up. i went to school drunk every day, or high, or both. i hid beers in my bedroom and drank them when you were asleep. i smoked in the bathroom after you and mom left for work. i feared getting caught, but the rush was incredible.

lesson #8-my father is out to get me, and he will always find me.

you wouldn't let me date the same guy twice, because you didn't want me to get pregnant, the way mom did. you wanted me to get an education and be someone. or something. not for my sake, but so that you could say you had a college educated child. and i was so terrified of getting pregnant that i never had sex until i was 19. and then i slept with every guy i wanted to when i went away to college. because i could, and you had never taught me to respect my body. you had only taught me to get away with whatever i could. i never enjoyed the sex, but being sneaky felt awesome.

lesson #9-sex is about power and revenge.

when i was in my final year of grad school, i met my future husband, only i didn't know it at the time. i was smart and i knew about birth control. but when you should have taught me confidence, i learned fear. where self-esteem should have been, there was an empty well, waiting to be filled by someone else's ideas and beliefs. fear of abandonment took the place of knowing my own worth. standing my ground was replaced by an aching need to please, at any cost. so when my future husband said "no rubbers, please.", i said "ok". because i needed to be loved, and i was afraid of losing him.

lesson #10-do whatever i have to do make other people happy. my thoughts and feelings don't count and should be kept to myself. they will only make others stop loving me.

and then i got pregnant. your biggest fear. and because you were my biggest fear, and because i didn't believe in myself, and because my boyfriend didn't want a baby and because i didn't want to be abandoned, i had an abortion. then the self-hatred really kicked in.

lesson #11-all decisions should be based on fear.

it has taken me 20+ years to undo what you did to me. everyday i untangle a bit more of the knot, trying to smooth out the yarn. it's still good yarn, and everyday i knit myself.

lesson #12-you made me stronger, smarter, tougher and braver. so fuck you.

caught

closing the bathroom door against invasion, like i should have done in the beginning....i pick the white plastic strip up from the cold porcelain counter. my hands shake, just a little. enough to tell me this is really happening, because even in my worst nightmares i never shake.

i run and i fight. but i never shake.

the bathroom carpet is still wet from my shower that morning, and i pray to a god that is a million miles away from this chicago suburb on this hot and sticky july morning. please god, don't make me pregnant. i swear i'll never have sex again, just don't let me be pregnant, i beg.

then i look.

two pink lines.

fuck.

he picks the bathroom lock and comes in.

well? he asks.

i can't say the words, they won't come out. so i wordlessly hand him the strip and look away.

he decides now is the time to be funny.

 is it mine? he asks.

fuck you, i reply.

no, i don't. i say of course.

we go to his bedroom and discuss.

i have just graduated with my masters degree, and we only met three months ago. he told me he couldn't have sex wearing a rubber and i, being the needy, insecure girl, had let him.

i. fucking. let. him.

stupid. unforgivable, really.

and now this.

having an abortion was something i had always thought happened to other girls. poor girls or stupid girls or slutty girls or girls who wanted to get caught or girls who were bad.

somehow i slipped through.

we each ponied up half for it. he told his mother and she gave him his half.

i don't think i'll ever forgive her for that.

the protesters are out in full force, waving placards with pictures of fetuses and screaming at me that god doesn't want me to kill my baby.

we walk in together, and the receptionist hands me a form to fill out. numbly, i take it back to my seat and fill it out. they want to know the name i will be using while i'm was there. looking around me, i see girls with blank expressions. some with boys, some not. i'm sure i'm wearing a blank expression too.

neve ------? please come back, calls a nurse. my breath catches and he pats me awkwardly. i'll be waiting right here for you, he says lamely.

die, motherfucker.

i discover that my blood type is o-, which means i'll need a rhogam shot after it's over. i have a sonogram but the screen is turned away so i can't see anything. i hear a heartbeat and i cry.

they put all of us in a waiting room. we wear hospital gowns and snuggle into the white blankets they provide. nobody speaks, or makes eye contact. instead, we all watch bob barker laugh it up on the price is right. that means it's between 10 and 11am.

to this day i cannot watch an episode of that show.

the only human sound is that of the girl in the corner, sobbing uncontrollably. finally, she gets up and leaves.

i wish i could do that.

but i'm caught.

don't think don't think don't think i tell myself. just do what you have to do.

the nurse calls my name and i stand up.

it's the most fucked up thing i ever did.

i named him daniel.

stripping my way through grad school

no, the title's not a teaser. i really did become a stripper to pay for graduate school. no lie. here's what happened:

i got my undergrad degree in a completely useless field of study, i needed a masters degree to do anything that paid money. i took my gre and applied to some grad schools, i got accepted by the one i was most interested in. i was working as a caseworker in a nursing home when my best friend paul invited me out to california for a week, so of course i went. i told my mother not to tell my father where i was going, because quentin is gay and my dad hates gay people. i told my mom that if she leaked this to my dad, he wouldn't pay for grad school and he'd probably make me eat off of paper plates until i moved out. she promised she wouldn't tell.

she told.

so when i got back from my awesome trip, my mom informed me that my dad had decided that since i had enough money to "go visit queers in l.a." i should have enough to pay for grad school all by myself.

it was march and school started in august, so i had maybe $7,000 saved up (i got paid $6.50/hour). fuck. i hadn't filled out any financial aid forms because my dad had said he would pay for grad school and now i was stuck without enough money to go and fuck if i was going to let myself be stuck working in a nursing home and living in my parents crappy trailer. i wanted to get out, and i was going to get out. i needed enough money to pay for two years of grad school, two years of rent and food and utilities and car insurance and books and fuck and fuck and fuck! what was i going to do?

the next week i started perusing the want ads for some magical job that would solve all my problems. what i found was an open invitation to enter "amateur night" at the local strip club. now, this strip club is world famous but i'm not going to say where it is because i need to stay anonymous. but it's a very well-known club. so, with some prompting from my best friend, i decided to go for it. i had never done anything like this, ever, but i had to get my life going. i figured that if i did well enough, i could work there.

the night of the amateur contest, i informed my mom of my plans. it felt really good to stick that knife in, because if it wasn't for her big mouth i wouldn't have to do this. she got pretty upset and cried and said stuff like, "oh neve, don't do that. you can do better blahblahblah." so i told her i wouldn't do it and then i did it anyway.

so, i won the amateur contest. wow, i couldn't believe it. while i was waiting for my turn to go onstage, some guy asked me what my name was. i wasn't prepared for this, but i was pretty sure that i should give him a fake name because there was no way that the girls who worked there really had names like brooke or jaden or synful. so i said the first name that popped into my head. tasha.  so my stripper name was tasha.

we had to pick two songs, one slow and the next one fast. because i didn't have my adult worker's license, i couldn't go nude. fine with me. it felt unreal, being on that stage. i couldn't believe that i was taking off my clothes for a club full of men. i was fairly innocent and hadn't even lost my virginity until i was 19. now i was 21 and a stripper. wow.

after i won, the "house mother" called me the next week and said they'd really like me to work for them. i freaked out. totally. my best friend said that if she had the body she would totally do it, and she really encouraged me. i wanted to be sure that i would make enough money before i quit my "day job", so i agreed to strip on friday nights and saturday nights to start, and the house mother said sure. little did i know that only the best girls were allowed to work those two nights.

my first night working, i made $650. cash. i quit my day job a month later.*

fuck you dad.

*yes, i'll post lots more stripper stories on this blog. there are just too many to choose from right now. just suffice it to say that i got my masters degree in counseling two years later.