Trying Not to Remember
(lifting the veil of silence off sexual child abuse)
by
K Marie
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
K Marie on Smashwords
Trying Not to Remember
Copyright © 2009 by K Marie
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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*****
Dedication
To my Granny. Wish you were here to read it. I know you’re smiling while you look down on me from heaven. I dedicate this book to you.
Kathlyn Marie Por’e (K Marie) R.I.P.
*****
Acknowledgements
This is definitely a life altering experience for me, (being an Author). I have wanted to write for many years and I have written for quite some time, but not on the level that I knew I was capable of. I have had many struggles in my life and through those times, I have had many faithful supporters. My Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ: Lord you know you have gotten me out of some really tight spots and you have continuously made a way out of no way. You have built me up and you have built my confidence to write this book. I appreciate you and I love you. I thank you for this gift and your blessings. Amen.
To my Mom. You are my heart and you are the most supportive person in this world and the best Mom. You have sacrificed for me (I remember) and given me nonstop support. Thanks for your professional, as well as motherly support. I love you and appreciate you so much. Continue to love me the way you do. To my Dad Jim. You are the greatest of them all. You love me unconditionally and I need that. Thanks for those long rides we take. You are the best Dad in the world and I love you so much, thanks for all your prayers and support. To my daughter. Thanks for being supportive and helping Mommy with your input on this book. You are a blessing. Thanks for keeping your room clean. To all my friends and family. Thanks for your support and prayers.
To my future Mother-in-law. Thanks for everything. You are so supportive. Love ya’. To my future Father-in-law. Thanks for all of the prayers and car repairs. Love ya. To Cheri & Rose: Thanks for your support and love; keep hookin’ up them hair-dos. To Andrea & Brittany, thanks cuzzies, for you love and support. To Tara, my favorite cousin, keep healing. You are the greatest support anyone could ever have. Thanks for all those late night talks and laughs. Love ya. Thanks to Granddad & Grandma Eubanks. Thanks for all the meals. Love ya’ a lot. Thanks Grandma Helen. To S. Dunlap, thanks for your help with the stats. To my Fiance’. God really knew what he was doing when he made you perfectly for me. I thank God for you and your love you have for me and our daughter. Thanks for your patience and support of me and whatever it is that I want to achieve in this life. You let me know that I have no limits and that’s a wonderful feeling. You are the best; thanks for your support and your love. You were great through the entire process and I know it was stressful, but it’s done now. Thanks baby, I love you.
*****
POEMS
No more secrets
By K Marie
Behind locked doors, there are secrets I haven’t told.
No more secrets that I will hold.
When the light is dimmed, the pain begins.
When the floor board creeks, my heart skips a beat.
When I hear your voice, I cringe inside.
No more secrets I want to hide.
No more secrets; this pain is overwhelming.
No more secrets I can hold.
No more secrets, I must take control.
In the still of the night, the hurt I endured is like a bolt of lightning to my soul. But when the morning comes, I will become whole. I will be relieved of all this pain; the Lord will see me through life one more day; to heal from the fear that I have in my heart, to hold no more secrets in the dark.
I can’t tell
By K Marie
I can’t tell anyone but me. I can’t tell a sister, a brother, or my mother, not even my Auntie. I can’t tell what has happened to me. I can’t tell how my soul is broke, my spirit torn and my heart is shrinking. I can’t tell that I hurt everyday physically and emotionally. I can’t tell; I don’t know what to say. Once I tell, please Lord, let there be healing on the way.
I Will Never Tell
By K Marie
I will never tell anyone I know, I will never tell a soul. I will never tell how I burn inside. I will never tell how my heart has failed. I will never tell how much you hurt me.
I will never tell how my soul has been broken. I will never tell how your touch is like ice. I will never tell you have hurt me more than twice. I will never tell until my heart fills up.
Until I know I will be heard. Hear my cry, hear my plea oh Lord, hear me cry to you to heal me from this hurt and pain. So I may heal within my soul, and all will be right again.
*****
Operational Definitions:
Incest: Sexual behavior, such as exposure of the genitals, masturbation of the child’s genitals, mutual masturbation, auto masturbation in the
presence of the child, fondling of the developing secondary sexual characteristics of the child, rubbing on the penis on the child (dry intercourse), attempted intercourse, oral-genital contact (either cunnilingus or fellatio), vaginal or anal intercourse occurring between a father/stepfather and his daughter/stepdaughter that was unwanted by the child or in which the age difference between the child and abuser was greater than five years. (Pavez, 1988, p. 291)
Abuser/perpetrator: An individual male or female who conducts the acts of abuse as defined.
Victim/survivor: An individual, male or female between the ages of 13 and 21.
*****
Introduction
I realized just recently why, for the life of me, I could not remember anything from when I was nine years old, which also coincided with me being in the 4th grade. I could recall something about every other year of my life prior to and after the age of nine, as well as every other grade except the 4th grade, but I simply could not bring myself to remember that particular stage of my life, and I didn’t know why.
As I sat one day talking with my fiancé, we discussed our early years, and I explained to him the amnesia I had for that time period. He asked if I remembered anything from around that time frame, as in who my classmates were in elementary school, or who I had as my teacher for the 1st thru the 5th grades. I could remember my 1st thru 3rd grade teachers, as well as my 5th grade teacher, but I drew a blank when it came to my 4th grade teacher.
After a bit more probing by my fiancé, I was finally able to jog my memory. The images which had been buried for three decades that now began to slowly emerge from my subconscious, hit me like a ton of bricks. I had been molested at age nine and to shield myself from the horrible memories and pain; I blocked that entire episode out of my mind. The fact that I had only been fondled back then and not actually penetrated added to the denial that my mind had concocted at that young age.
Back then, I rationalized that it was not actual molestation that I had fallen victim to, but I couldn’t have been further from the truth. Anytime an individual touches a child in an unwanted way for that individual’s pleasure, then that act is considered molestation. Webster’s Dictionary describes ‘molestation’ as follows: [to annoy, disturb, or persecute especially with hostile intent or injurious effect.] It goes on to say: [to make annoying sexual advances to; especially: to force physical and usually sexual contact on.] Two incidents occurred during my early child development, which drastically changed my outlook on life and my overall view of men. These two incidents in particular, I believe are responsible for many of the wrong choices that I have made as an adolescent, well up into my adult years, as far as the types of men that I became involved with, and the precarious situations that I placed myself into.
*****
CHAPTER 1
Kim
I now have a vivid recollection of what occurred on that dreadful day that I developed “convenient amnesia”. The year was 1976 and up until that point, my childhood could be categorized as very pleasant and enjoyable. I spent countless time with my grandmother Lucy, who I loved very dearly and she loved me too, as I was her first grandchild.
Occasionally, when she had things to do, she would often take me and my two cousins, Bernard and Kenny, over to her Mom’s house that was my great-grandmother, Ann. Lucy would drop us off with my full blooded Indian great-grandfather, Lester for him to watch us until she returned. She did this several times before it happened. I remember it like it just happened yesterday. The old house on the East side of Detroit was fairly dark and melancholy because my Great Grand Parents liked to keep the curtains drawn, even in the day time. Ancient looking Indian artifacts and paintings were generously hung throughout the house.
The one piece that stood out in my mind was a very pretty and colorful little ornament, made of beads and feathers, called a Dream Catcher that hung from the doorway of my great- grand parents’ bedroom. My great grandfather told me that his dad had given it to him when he was a boy, in order to ward off evil spirits. The house smelled of stale urine and moth balls, which my Great-Grandparents had strategically placed throughout the house. There was also an ever present aroma of coffee, which Lester always drank, no matter what time of day it was. They had no carpet in their house and the hardwood floors would creek whenever you took a step on them, sounding as if the boards would break and drop you into the basement if you happened to be too heavy.
My cousin Bernard and I were playing marbles in the corner of the living room, as we usually did when our Grandmother would drop us off over Lester and Ann’s house. Lester was an elderly man and was for the most part, confined to a chair that sat in front of a small black and white TV set in his room. This particular day, he asked if I would come over to him in his bedroom where he sat looking at the original ‘Wizard of Oz’ that was on. I saw no problem with his request, since nothing had ever happened in the past.
I got up and left Bernard to play marbles with our other cousin Kenny, and headed over to my Great-Grandfather. I had on a green and yellow little skirt with pleats in it and a matching green and yellow halter top. I stood for a Moment, underneath the Dream Catcher ornament that hung above his door way.
Although I was only nine years old, I had already begun to make the transition from little girl to womanhood. I was an early bloomer, and as such, I developed very fast for my age. I already had womanly curves, big thighs and a tiny waist. My hair was almost down to the middle of my back, and it was the texture that had many of the other girls my age green with envy, since I had hair similar to my all white grandmother on my Father’s side. I can remember the outfit I had on so vividly because my Mom recently showed me a picture that they took of me over my grandparents’ house, in that very same outfit.
Lester told me how pretty I looked in my outfit, and then motioned for me, with a wave of his hand, to come over closer to him. When I got over to his chair, he told me to hop up onto his lap. I did as I was told and I distinctly recall the over powering smell of coffee on his breath. After he bounced me up and down on his knee for a while, he then began to feel on my chest and slowly moved his hand under my skirt and put it on my vagina and began rubbing it. What he was doing didn’t feel right to me at all, so I pulled away and yelled, “Stop! This ain’t right!”. Lester ignored my demand and continued to fondle me, and then finally, I jumped from his lap and ran to the other side of the room as he kept calling for me to come back to him.
I ran out of his room, and back to the living room where Bernard and Kenny sat, still playing marbles and totally oblivious to what had just taken place. Bernard noticed the scared and confused look on my face and asked, “Hey Kim, what’s wrong? Why you lookin’ like that?” After a few Moments of silence, I confided in Bernard that our great-grandfather was touching me in my ‘private places’ and I did not like it one bit. Bernard heard Lester calling me from his bedroom and told me that I better not go back over there to him.
We could all hear the anger building in his voice each time Lester bellowed my name out, for me to come back to him and each time he got no response from me. However, since we all knew that he was pretty much, confined to his room and his favorite chair, that he watched TV in, we all knew that he wouldn’t be coming out after me. Whenever he did venture outside the four walls of his bed room, to go to the bathroom or to occasionally go out onto the front porch, he used a walker and we all knew we could out run the baby steps that he had been reduced to.
After what seemed like hours, my Great-grandmother, Ann finally came walking in the door. I felt such a huge relief when I heard her footsteps and I immediately ran straight to her and hugged her as if my life depended on it, but I was not about to tell her what had just happened to me, for fear of what might happen. I believed that she would think I was just lying and made it all up. As I got older and time went on, I began to assume that other people touching me was ok and that it was normal for men to touch little girls and that it wasn’t molestation, but just something that they did. My mother never had the talk with me that I had with my daughter as soon as she was able to understand English.
I explained to her, using her little one piece bathing suit, “If anyone, man or woman, touches you baby, in any area that this bathing suit covers up, especially this area here, between your legs; you tell them ‘NO STOP’, and you come get me. If I’m not around, then tell whatever grown up you are with. If someone touches you there, then they are wrong and you should get away from them as quickly as possible.” She nodded her little head like she understood, and it made me feel better. Despite the fact that my mother never had that talk with me, I still knew even at that young age, that what my Great-grandfather had done to me was wrong and that I needed to remove myself from that situation and pretty fast. As a result of the abuse that I had encountered, I decided to bury those memories in the bowels of my mind, and not revisit them ever again, which is what many little girls who experience rape or molestation end up doing to deal with the unfamiliar emotions that result from their attacks.
The next ordeal that drastically changed my life happened to me when I was in the 6th grade. Five boys that went to the same Catholic Church school that I attended chased me down and cornered me in the bathroom on the top floor of the school, which was seldom occupied. My assailants, once they managed to pin me down, began to feel all over my body, tear my clothes off and attempted to gang rape me. Just as they were able to get my panties down to my ankles, thank God they got caught by a girlfriend of mine who happened to hear my screams, before any actual penetration took place. However just the thought of five boys having their way with me, to this day, still gives me nightmares and causes a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Later that day my Mom came and picked me up and I remember acting as though nothing had happened; even forcing an occasional smile to spread across my face.
I may have smiled on the outside, but inside a storm of pain, anxiety, and shock brewed that was almost impossible to keep from manifesting itself as endless tears, streaming down my cheeks. However I never told her, I kept it to myself until now, because I thought she would be mad at me for putting myself in that position in any number of ways; such as being overly flirtatious with the boys, which I wasn’t, or by dressing provocatively at school, which I didn’t do. My mind just assumed that she would somehow find a way to blame me for what had happened to me. We just went and got something to eat and went on with our day. I wanted to tell her so bad but I couldn’t bring myself around to do it because it hurt too much.
As a result of my two assaults, I then began to disrespect boys and later, men because they tried to hurt me and I viewed them as all the same. This is where the downward spiral of my relationships with men then came into play; feeling as if men would always hurt me eventually. To make matters worse, my biological father was both physically and mentally abusive to my mother. This further added to my perception that it was the norm for men to beat their women and touch them in ways that made their women feel terrible. I know personally of several other women who have been sexually abused worse than just being fondled like in my two attacks, but it’s all the same and it all feels the same emotionally, when someone violates you and you have no control. I grew up thinking that it was pretty much ok for boys to ‘feel’ on me, as many of the boys in my neighborhood would do, and as time went on, I got more and more comfortable with it. I actually wound up craving it, because I viewed their touching as attention and I didn’t see it as the actual molestation that it was.
I have since, told my mother about both of my attacks and I feel like she really would have preferred that I told her about it back when it actually occurred and I agree. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her about it back then. There’s nothing that can be done about it now as far as closure. Lester is dead and who knows where the five boys are now. My Great-grandfather never had a chance to touch me like that again. I never again put myself in the same place as him and by the time I did, I was 12 and he was totally bed ridden.
I had to forgive myself after many years because I allowed those attacks to run my life for years and I feel that my experiences robbed me of my innocence in a way and stunted my personal growth. For so many years afterwards, I thought what he did to me was just something old men do, and that it wasn’t really sexual abuse, but just touching. However, touching a child the way he touched me is wrong and no child should have to go thru what I went thru, at any age.
This book is a tale of five more individuals, who at very young ages, were forced to travel similar paths of pain, humiliation and guilt, and the coping mechanisms they all developed in order to deal with the abuse they endured. All of the accounts of the individuals featured in this book, as they were told to me, delve deep into an age old problem we face as a society; the sexual child abuse and molestation of children. Ironically, all of the perpetrators of these most heinous and vicious sex crimes were not strangers to their respective victims. In fact, one was the child’s mother’s Uncle, and another was the live in boyfriend of the child’s mother, yet another was the child’s neighbor.
We begin with ‘Pam’ whose great-Uncle decided to rob her of her innocence at the age of six which lasted for two grueling years. She was later bartered off to several different men in order to satisfy her mother’s drug addiction. Next, we will look at ‘Alex’, who at the age of eight, was savagely raped by one of his neighbors on his paper route. Then, there is ‘Jessica’, who’s incestuous encounter with her own father lead to the birth of her severely retarded son; followed by ‘Tonya’, who was duped into believing that she was in a committed relationship with her maternal Uncle. Finally, we look at an anonymous ex-prostitute and recovering drug addict, who agreed to be interviewed for this book.
I would like to personally thank all of the above participants; without whom, I would not have been able to complete this book. Each of them experienced lifelong mental scaring that resulted from the sexual abuse they were forced to endure and they all vowed to never tell a soul about it; until now. I hope and pray that their stories will in anyway, help at the very least, one of the readers of this book. It is my intention to begin the healing process, which I know firsthand, takes time.
I truly believe that one of the first steps in the long process of healing, is to remove the ‘veil of silence’ that envelopes this topic. I also believe that we must remove the stigma that is attached to sexual child abuse, as many of its victims assume that they will be viewed as filthy, slutty or promiscuous. It’s time to break down the wall of denial that many of the mothers of these victims build up, thinking that their husbands or boyfriends couldn’t possibly do something as horrible as this to their child, therefore the child has to be making this all up in their own mind for whatever reason. It’s time that we as a society, begin to hear the silent cries of our children and act accordingly.
*****
Chapter 2
Pam
I was born in the year 1969, and times sure were a lot different than they are now. Ever since I could remember, boys and men alike have made comments about how beautiful I was, and how my figure was gonna’ really make me some serious cash one day. I suppose the tongue really is powerful because those people actually shaped my future without them even knowing it. My Mom always use to tell me, “Pam, yo’ butt been big all yo’ life. Chile, you came outta’ me with a big butt.”
It pretty much stuck with me, and has been my blessing and my curse at the same time. I always had a really small waist, and was very small up top, but I guess I inherited my Moms back side and well proportioned hips. Men seemed to be attracted to me from the very beginning. My hair was long and I had very pretty, blemish free, chocolate skin.
My nightmare began early in life. I was only five years old when it all started. My mother Julie, worked days at a restaurant, waiting tables. She was a very pretty woman, and people would tell her that she should have been a model. She had really long jet black hair and almond shaped green eyes. Her caramel complexion accented her coca-cola bottle shaped body. She got lots of tips at her job and that’s how she was able to pay the bills and put food on the table. During the days when she couldn’t find anyone to baby sit my brother Ricky and I, she would just leave us both at home with her Uncle, which was my great Uncle, Danny.
My brother Ricky was three years older than me. We both had different fathers; his Dad’s name was Tommy, and my father’s name was Vince. Vince was a small time car thief and second story man, who robbed for a living and Tommy was a big time basketball star in college who never made it to the NBA. He now worked as a loan officer in a bank and was basically a good person however, he unlike my Dad, came around often, and actually spent time with his son Ricky. Quite often, Tommy would come and pick Ricky up and take him to his house that he lived in out in Inkster, Michigan.
My Mom loved it when Tommy would come pick Ricky up, but I hated it. With Ricky gone, that meant I would have to stay at home alone with my Uncle Danny on the days my Mom went to work and couldn’t find anyone to watch me. I never liked being around my Great-Uncle Danny, even before anything had ever happened, and I never knew why, but once I turned five, my suspicions became warranted. My Uncle Danny waited ‘till Ricky’s dad came to pick him up; on one of the days that my mother needed him to watch me. Then he moved in for the kill like an eagle swooping down on its prey from the limb of a tree.
My mother’s Uncle told me to get into my bed and take my clothes off so he could give me a bath, only he never gave me a bath. Once I was naked, I remember him reaching in his pants and taking himself out of his pants. He then masturbated until he released himself on my face and all over my body. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I didn’t like it. This happened to me three or four more times, while my Mom was at work and I was left home alone with him. Then, one day, my Uncle Danny moved to Norfolk, VA with the woman he had just married. I never told my Mom about what her Uncle had done to me. I chose to just keep it to myself. Time went on and I was adjusting on my own and thanking God that my great Uncle had finally moved away.
By this time, Ricky and I were old enough to stay at home alone. Our Mom had eventually lost her job and couldn’t seem to get a job anywhere else. Although she didn’t have a job, she was gone most of the time. One day, my brother and I went outside to play with the kids across the street and when we came back home, the house had a funny smell, like something was burning. We went into our mother’s room and caught her smoking something out of a small glass tube with a bubble in it. She hurried and told us to get out of her room, then slammed the door on us.
Ricky looked at me and said, “Mama smoking crack Pam.” I didn’t know what it was then, but I would later find out, along with all of the pain and misery it causes the one who uses it, as well as their family. Things began to deteriorate quickly after that. One day, Ricky and I hadn’t seen our mother for the entire day. All that there was in the house to eat was one can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, and a few eggs in the refrigerator. Ricky gave me the soup and he ate one egg. He didn’t know how long it would be before she got back home, so he wanted to save the eggs for later, in case we got hungry again. We both finally went to sleep, after worrying all night about what could have happened to our mother and where she could be. At about four in the morning, I heard the front door open and then I heard the sound of someone running thru the house.
My bedroom door opened and I looked up and saw my mother standing over me, looking wide eyed with her hair all over her head. I said, “Mama?” “Shhh” she replied. “Don’t you wake up yo’ brother Pam! I need you to do mama a favor.” It was winter, and I still remember how cold it was because all I had on was my pajamas. She grabbed me by the hand and yanked me out of my bed. Then she put my coat and boots on and headed out the front door. I was nine years old by now, and I was still really naïve about life and people in general. I didn’t know anything about a ‘crack head’ because the term had basically just been coined in order to describe what my mother had now become.
She took me outside in the freezing cold, with nothing on underneath my coat, except for my pajamas; I didn’t even have any socks on. We walked down to the corner of our block, and then walked four blocks over. Once we made it there, we went down to the middle of that block, until we reached a house that looked condemned and ready to be demolished. During our walk to that house, my Mom explained, “Pam, you know mama loves you very much. I need you to do this favor for me. Mama is sick and you can help me get my medicine to make me feel better.” I replied, “Ok mama, I can help you get it.” In my mind, at that time, I assumed my mother only needed help carrying the medicine, I had no idea what my own mother had planned for me beyond the front door of that shabby looking house.
Once we entered the house, the smell of urine and feces, combined with that same smell that my brother and I had noticed that time we caught our mother at home with her glass pipe. The odor was overpowering and I remember how nauseous I felt as soon as we stepped inside the house. There were four men already inside the house, and except for one small kitchen table, two chairs, and two milk crates, there was nothing else in the house. Two of the men sat at the small table, which sat in the middle of the living room and the other two sat on the milk crates. I remember thinking to myself, “What in the world is going on here? If mama needs her medicine, then we need to hurry up and get outta’ here and head on over to the drug store.”
Little did I know that we were already at the drug store. My Mom said to the tall skinny man, with bad skin, “Don’t hurt her Tony, she’s only a little girl, ok?” Tony replied, “Yeah sure, ok Julie, I will be gentle.” with a funny look in his eyes. I remember thinking, “Hurt me how? What is mama talking about?” My Mom was at this house in order to get her drugs, and I was her chosen form of payment. She allowed three of those four men to rape me while she eagerly awaited her ‘medicine’ which is what she called it.
Once Tony, the first one was done, I stopped crying. I had become numb inside. I bled profusely from my vagina and because I had initially fought back with the first one, I got hit in the mouth. A steady trickle of blood dripped from my swollen lip, from where tony had hit me. I didn’t even feel the next two men that had their way with me. My body had shut down, and I just lay there wishing for it all to end.
My mother got $40 worth of crack for my virginity and my sanity. She allowed this to happen to me six more times, each time, with different men, and all of this she did in the pursuit of her drugs. This was rock bottom for my Mom, and I believe she realized it herself. As a result, she checked herself into the ‘Share House’ drug rehabilitation center, and there she stayed for three months. While she was getting treatment, my brother and I went to live with my Mom’s sister, my Aunt Tammy.
I told no one of what had happened to me, except for my Aunt Tammy, not even my brother. I believe that’s where I made a crucial mistake. After about a month went by however, I couldn’t hold it any longer. I told my Aunt Tammy about my rape and she was livid. She immediately called my mother at the rehab center and gave her the tongue thrashing of a lifetime. Aunt Tammy told her she would give her a year in order to prove herself to us all and stay clean. During that time, she would keep us, and if our mother could do it, then she could get us back.
So for a year and three months, Ricky and I basically didn’t see our mother, except for holidays, when we would go there to visit her. To me, it was like she was in jail, only she needed to be there in order to get her life back in order. Once my Mom got out of rehab, she was clean, and she even stayed clean past the year that my Aunt Tammy had given her in order to get off the drugs, and she has remained clean ever since. However, the damage had already been done, as far as my brother and I. During our teenage years, while back living with our mother, we both made choices which would lead us down similar paths of destruction. As a result of my attacks, I became extremely promiscuous early, and wound up having consensual sex at fifteen, with thirty year old men and with several different men.
I was fully aware of my promiscuity and at seventeen; I began my career as an exotic dancer. I danced in motorcycle clubs and after-hours spots as well as private parties, for men who were much older and sometimes, many of whom were married with families. I didn’t care; it was all about the money for me. I felt like it was owed to me for what I had been thru as a child. I actually craved and enjoyed all of the attention from the men who I danced for. I suppose I could attribute those feelings to the absence of my father in my life. I believe I sought after what I had never had in life, a father figure.
My dancing career eventually led to what is typically inevitable for young women in that line of work, coming from abusive situations similar to mine. I became involved in prostitution. I met an older woman named Joye, at one of the clubs I danced at, who had her own ‘escort service’, and she basically introduced me to that whole lifestyle.
I made lots of money when I was dancing and doing private parties, but it didn’t compare to the money that I got from being an escort. I had already been able to get a nice two family-flat that I shared with another dancer I used to work with, and I had a brand new convertible Mustang 5.0. But when I hooked up with Joye, I got an instant upgrade.
I was able to stop dancing and work as one of Joyes’ girls full-time with the escort service. I can admit, I didn’t really enjoy being with all those men, but I was addicted to the life and I had to have the money, and it came so much faster now, than it did when I had to dance for tips. I wasn’t the kind that walked up and down Woodward Ave, in Detroit, flagging down any guy that would have me. Joyes’ escort service dealt specifically with high-end clientele. Her girls only catered to the needs of professional men, and men of stature, and the one thing they all had in common was lots and lots of money.
As I said, once I got with Joye, I got an instant upgrade. I moved from that one bedroom, two-family flat on the east side of Detroit, down to the Riverfront Apartments, right off of the Detroit River, with a fabulous view of the city. I was able to trade in my Mustang and replace it with a brand new convertible all white BMW. In addition to all the gifts my regular clients would buy me, I was able to buy myself furs, and jewelry and basically anything I wanted. The one thing that I didn’t do was get involved with drugs in any kind of way. I drank occasionally, but I never touched the drugs, because I never wanted to end up like my mother. I couldn’t say the same thing for my brother Ricky however. Right around the time when I started dancing, my brother got involved deep in the drug game. He moved out of our mother’s house a little before I did, and it was all thanks to his involvement with narcotics.
Ricky had actually established a name for himself as one of Detroit’s top ballers, in no time at all. Before I was getting any serious money, he was the one who made sure I kept a few dollars in my pocket. He even gave our mother money as well, since we no longer had to worry about her using it to buy drugs. What we did have to both worry about however, was how much stress and grief we caused our mother, because she basically knew what each of us were up to and it hurt her deeply that we had both decided to travel the road we were on. She never wanted that for either of her children and we knew it. We were both, simply victims of our environment.
I was making so much money however, that it was really difficult for me to give it all up. I had eventually taken it to the next level and started an escort service of my own. I had seven girls in my ‘stable’ and from what I had learned from Joye, we were all able to make some serious cash. Now that I look back on all of that however, I wish I would have never gotten involved in Detroit’s underworld at all. I did this for years, all the while, hurting on the inside and not knowing why. I mean, I had everything that I wanted materially and then some, but I just couldn’t seem to get rid of the pain I felt.
My mother had long since apologized to me for what she put me thru as a child, and I forgave her; but I never forgave myself. What she did to me back then was wrong and what those men did to me was wrong, but you have to forgive in order to begin to be healed. During my time as a madam, I met the father of my first child, Larry. We named our son Garry, and tried to make it work for a few months, but he couldn’t deal with my lifestyle, so he left and moved out west to Las Vegas. I didn’t allow that to stop my hustle however. It was full steam ahead with my seven girls. It had gotten to the point where I didn’t even have to go out on ‘dates’ any more. The girls were bringing in thousands of dollars weekly.
Everything was going as smooth as silk until I got the call that ‘Peaches’, my top earner, had been found dead. Her killer had dumped her lifeless body on Belle Isle, a small island between Detroit and Canada, only accessible via a bridge on the Detroit side or by water. That changed everything for me and the rest of the girls. Not long after that, I received another call. It was child protective services, telling me that they were coming to get my son because it had been reported to them by an anonymous caller, that I was the head of some big prostitution ring. My life was turned upside down then, and I didn’t know what to do. They eventually came and took Gary away from me.
Right then and there, I declared to get my life together and do everything in my power to get my son back. It took me twelve months to do it, and in that time, I went to school to become a medical assistant. I got a good job, and a new house on the west side of Detroit, for me and Gary, and I prayed to God to remove all the negative feelings and thoughts that still remained inside me, and He truly hears our prayers, because I was finally able to forgive myself and to move on with my life, and be there for my son.
A few months after I got my son back, I met another man who I thought was my soul mate, but he turned out to be a ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’. We actually got married, because I wanted to do things the right way this time, but about a week into the marriage, his true colors came shining thru. He became very verbally abusive to me and next came the beatings. He would beat me once we got home from a night on the town, if a man even looked at me.
He would beat me for little of nothing. This went on for a few more months, until I could no longer take it anymore. I had to leave my job, and my family that I had in Detroit, and all my worldly possessions in order to escape the abuse that I was getting by staying there with that man who I thought loved me and my son. So I packed up a few of me and Gary’s things, and we moved to Oklahoma, where we now live a happy and healthy life, away from the man who tormented me for a whole year after we got married.
I recently called my Mom and told her about everything that had happened to me after the marriage. Then I told her that God is a good God and a forgiving God. I told her that He gave me the heart to forgive her and He freed me from all of the hurt and pain that I kept a hold of all these years. I told her that I was healed and that Gary and I would be just fine.
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