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Here is the next part, the part I will do my best with...

The creep bullied me into marrying him, and I did six days after our son was born, even though he was accusing me of having sex with the mailman, and my own father and brother, and beating me with increasing frequency and severity...never left a mark, though.  He went back and forth denying and accepting his baby. 

August 2-, 2000.  I had to take my brother to school to pick up his books.  Husband told me to leave my sons behind, he would watch them.  I took my 22 month old, since he was awake, and left the 6-week old in the care of his father; he was sleeping.  Worst mistake I ever made in my life.  I was gone not even 45 minutes, and when I came back, he tried to keep me from the baby, because I wanted to check on him right away, of course, that was only my 2nd time leaving him behind, and the first time I'd left him with his father.  When he physically tried to restrain me from going to the bedroom, I knew something was very wrong.  I have no idea how I got past him, he was grabbing me and pummeling me, but somehow I got to the bedroom and found my baby in his infant seat, onesie covered in vomit, head misshapen and swollen on one side, face bruised, and totally quiet.  I flew into a panic.  I asked him what he had done, for the love of god, what had he done.  He denied having even touched him.  I called him a liar, grabbed my son, and took him into the bathroom to clean him up and get a better look at what he had done as I called the doctor.  I could barely say what was wrong, and they told me to take him directly to the hospital.  His abdomen was swollen, and covered with bruises that looked like fingers.  He was crying, and that was a relief to me, he was alive.  I was crying, too, and screaming at my husband for what he had done.  He continued to deny he had done anything at all, and didn't understand why I was so upset.  He thought it not necessary to go to the hospital, and tried to talk me out of it.  I said fuck you, and put the baby in his car seat, and headed out.  He followed me.  He got into the passenger seat, and started beating me as I drove, no fucking kidding.  He tried grabbing the steering wheel to make me run off the road.  But, I was on a mission, my baby needed help.  Upon arriving at the hospital, I ran in, still sobbing, and shouted that someone had hurt my baby.  We were taken back immediately, all four of us, and then my son was taken from me, and my older son and I were thrown out into the waiting room with that monster, who was still snapping at me for overreacting.  I found myself unable to speak or react at all.  I think I was in shock.

In a little while, we were called back to the ER room my son had been put in.  The police were there, too.  A doctor informed me that my son had a fractured skull, and before I could get over the seriousness of that, I was taken from the room by two police officers, a hospital worker watching my older son.  They took me to an empty room, and questioned me while two other officers questioned my husband somewhere else.  I told them everything, where I'd been, how long I'd been gone, that my son had been perfectly healthy and uninjured when I left.  They asked me if he had been abusing me, and I admitted that he was.  I was allowed back to sit with my son.  My husband never came back, but doctor after doctor did, and I learned the extent of my son's injuries.  A fractured skull (fortunately, the hematoma from it formed on the outside of his skull, not on the inside).  Broken collarbone.  Eight broken ribs.  Broken leg.  So much internal bleeding from his liver and spleen he needed a transfusion.  He was six weeks old!  Over 90% of babies who are beaten to such an extent die, and many survivors suffer permanent brain damage.  An area of damage had been found in his brain, but it was deemed to be a birth injury, since it was deep in his brain, long-healed, and extremely small, and unlikely to cause him any problems.

And of course, social services opened an investigation, and my children were taken from me immediately.  My baby was placed in the custody of the hospital, and my older son was placed with my aunt and her boyfriend; he couldn't be placed with my parents, because I lived there, too.  I was allowed to stay with my son in the hospital, so I did.  When my son was being moved to a private room upstairs, I saw my husband being led away in handcuffs, and felt my knees buckle with relief.  He was gone.  I wanted him put away for life.  Upstairs, I was told that I had to make a list of people it was okay to receive phone calls from; the media had already been trying to reach me, so they had to re-route the calls to the front desk.  I told them I wanted nothing to do with the media, either.  They were already at the hospital for another matter; this was during the Sizzler food poisoning situation, and they did manage to catch me on camera at some point when I wasn't paying attention; I found out about it over a year later.

My first court date was that Monday, I believe.  I got custody of my kids back, but I would be required to be supervised by social services, get a psychiatric evaluation and follow up by taking any meds I was issued, if any, and pretty much do whatever else they said until they deemed me a proper parent and closed their case.  Since I lived with my parents and brother, they also had to do whatever social services wanted them to.  That night, I left my baby in the hospital, and went home to be with my older son, who I hadn't seen since Friday afternoon.  Ironically, he woke up screaming for me in the middle of the night, so happy I could be there for him.  I couldn't imagine what his last three days had been like, granted he knew my aunt and her boyfriend well; they watched him sometimes on Sundays, but he was away from home and the people he was used to having in his life everyday.  

I'll pick up with my journey through social services later. 

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9 minutes ago, gobphus said:

I hope you're thankful as well as happy that you've overcome your difficulties. Someone without your inner strength could easily have folded under the stresses that you endured.

I've never been one to throw in the towel.  I believe that facing our challenges, and pulling through the darkest times, makes us stronger, wiser people.  I'm very thankful I have a lot of strength.

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5 minutes ago, naughty_lucy420 said:

I've never been one to throw in the towel.  I believe that facing our challenges, and pulling through the darkest times, makes us stronger, wiser people.  I'm very thankful I have a lot of strength.

I just read the part about your husband's assault on your baby. What a monster the man was! I hope this is the last I have to read about him, and certainly the last you had to deal with him. Whatever his problems may have been, they should never have been allowed to cause damage to you and your children.

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10 hours ago, naughty_lucy420 said:

No it's not.  It's only shitty if you let it become that way.  While I've faced a lot of shitty things, I overcame them, and I don't consider my life shitty at all nowadays.

I get to hang about with quite a few people who have had some bad stuff happen to them. When life is tough it can completely crush you - or not. And when it doesn't crush you it toughens you. I guess it stands to reason that I meet ones who have been toughened because they have survived and are here to tell it. These people have been through the worst and been tested. They are real and have no bullshit. They are beautiful people, strong and solid, and can inspire others. I love people like this. Admire them too. They are a positive force and it is a mistake to want to use their story to justify negativity about life.

There is no shame in stumbling. We all fall sometimes. What's important is not that we fell, it's how we stand up again after we trip.

Lucy, you are a fine example of how we shouldn't judge a book by its cover. And you are an asset to this community - so glad you're here, now that I know you better!

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11 hours ago, alexwbj said:

I get to hang about with quite a few people who have had some bad stuff happen to them. When life is tough it can completely crush you - or not. And when it doesn't crush you it toughens you. I guess it stands to reason that I meet ones who have been toughened because they have survived and are here to tell it. These people have been through the worst and been tested. They are real and have no bullshit. They are beautiful people, strong and solid, and can inspire others. I love people like this. Admire them too. They are a positive force and it is a mistake to want to use their story to justify negativity about life.

There is no shame in stumbling. We all fall sometimes. What's important is not that we fell, it's how we stand up again after we trip.

 

I couldn't have said it better myself, thank you, Alex.

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3 hours ago, naughty_lucy420 said:

I couldn't have said it better myself, thank you, Alex.

If I can just add one more thing: I actually think it's good for a person to hit rock bottom once in a while. It keeps you real and teaches you a lot. I've had my own crashes and can't say I regret anything. They also make the good times taste sweeter. Never look back, I say. The hard thing is to tell someone that when the sky just fell on their head...

Hey, my very best friend as a teenager was a gal from Milwaukee! :)

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And here we go again...

I'm going to take a moment to go back to my own childhood/teen years.  I feel I dwelt on the negative; I did have some good things going on for me.  I had a very close relationship with my dad, which grew from a shared interest in stock car racing and later, wrestling.  We spent a lot of time at our local track watching ARCA and ASA races, and we always watched the then Winston Cup races on TV.  I went to a Spanish immersion school for K-5th, so with a little practice, I'm also fluent in Spanish.  I wasn't "friendless" my first three years of high school, I had friends from other schools.  When my mom went back to work, our financial situation greatly improved, especially when she went full-time.  Because my aunt and her boyfriend were super-techy, we got internet right away when it became available in our area.  I used it for a week, and was then over it until 2002, when I had to use a computer at a job I had.  No one there could believe I hadn't ever written an e-mail, lol.

I also skipped over a bad part.  In 10th grade, I began skipping school, and I got caught.  The vice principal at the time, thank goodness he was only there a year, asked me why I didn't like school.  I replied that I did like school, I just didn't like this school.  He was convinced I needed psychological help, and convinced my parents to take me to Charter.  That winter, I went to school until 11, then got picked up by transport and driven to Charter, where I was stuck until my parents picked me up.  If I didn't have school, like a snow day, I had to spend all day in Charter, most of it in group.  The other kids in there were alright, though.  A schizophrenic guy drew me a picture of an alien, which was awesome, and I witnessed the boy who never spoke or expressed emotion have a breakthrough when he flipped off another girl in group.  Eventually, insurance wouldn't pay for any more, and I was released against advisement.

Back to August 2000...

One of the first things social services made me do was go to the mental house for an evaluation.  I waited in chairs for over five hours before being interviewed by a lady (or a man, that's how scrambled my mind was) from the intake department, not sure s/he was a doctor.  I explained what had happened, and why I was here, and s/he asked me how I felt about it.  I said I wanted to kill my husband for what he did.  Because of that, they tried to commit me for being a danger to others!  You would think they'd want to commit me if I didn't feel that way about him, and I told them that.  Also, he was in jail, so how was I going to murder him, anyway?  I got on the phone to my mom, and she got on the phone with them, and told them the same thing.  I was allowed to go home.  

My son was discharged and I took him home.  Every morning, at 8am, a social service worker arrived, her name was Violet.  I liked her a lot.  She was an older lady, loved my kids, and knew I was a good mom right away.  In the afternoons, other workers came, with different titles, they were often different people, sometimes two at a time.  Other workers came in the evening, and evaluated the safety of my parents' house, and my parents themselves.  My brother, who was 16 at the time, was furious, especially when we were forced to attend family counseling.  He snapped like I used to during group at Charter. 

I was feeling good about my court case, going into it.  I was pretty sure it would be wrapped up, case closed.  My workers thought so, too, as did my kids' GAL.  My older son's father had come down from upstate, where he was imprisoned, to vouch for me as a parent.  It ended up backfiring in the judge's eyes.  All she could see was that I was in court, along with "two men wearing the county orange"; she didn't even look to see that neither of them had had a record when I got with them.  She deemed me a danger to my kids via the people I associate with.  I had to get another mental health evaluation, and was referred to a psychiatrist, who diagnosed me with something (I can't remember what), and put me on Celexa.

Celexa screwed my world up.  Rather than being angry, I felt nothing.  I had no emotions, no feelings, I was a zombie.  I lost the ability to write.  I began to envision myself hanging myself in my closet.  I would crouch down in corners for hours and rub my arms or rock back and forth.  If I was late on a dose, I'd fly into a rage, and throw literal tantrums, like any three year old.  I had no control over myself, I had no idea what I was capable of.  I told the doctor what was happening, but he just kept upping the dose; every time I saw him he wrote me a new script for a higher dose of Celexa.  And, I kept taking it, because it was court-ordered.  I was seeing a counselor, also court-ordered, too, and she thought I ought not be taking the Celexa if it was making me feel that way. 

My then-husband took an Alford Plea.  He told three stories about what happened, two to the police, one to his father, but none of them would account for the level of injuries my son had.  So, he never really admitted he did it.  He was sentenced to three years in prison, six years probation, and barred from any contact with his son until he turned 18.  Three years was a slap in the face.  I wanted him prosecuted for attempted murder, but they said they couldn't prove intent or premeditation.  My ass, they were just lazy.

I re-entered the workforce just before Christmas, second shift at a USPS processing and distribution center, as holiday help.  I, along with dozens of others, sorted packages as they came in.  I began hanging out with friends again.  I almost ruined Christmas that year because I had a Celexa tantrum, but once the pills took effect, I mellowed out and took my son to his first Christmas; not that he'd remember, he was only 5 months old.

In January, my case was finally closed, I was through with social services for good.  Immediately, I stopped taking the Celexa.  While it took me awhile to write again, I did, eventually.  Everything else went back to normal almost right away.  I was actually feeling pretty good, enjoying my kids, family, friends.  I did keep my next appointment with that psychiatrist, just to tell him I'd stopped taking the Celexa, and felt better than ever.  He told me that if I were his daughter, I'd be taking it for life.  I told him I was certainly glad I wasn't his daughter, because I'd be dead, and left his office for good.

Now things start getting a lot brighter!  More to come...

 

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2 hours ago, naughty_lucy420 said:

Immediately, I stopped taking the Celexa.  While it took me awhile to write again, I did, eventually.  Everything else went back to normal almost right away.  I was actually feeling pretty good, enjoying my kids, family, friends.  I did keep my next appointment with that psychiatrist, just to tell him I'd stopped taking the Celexa, and felt better than ever.  He told me that if I were his daughter, I'd be taking it for life.

 

Well fuck me... No actually fuck you Mr Psychiatrist.

Just to put it in perspective, how long ago was that now (when you got off the Celexa)?

Alex

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14 hours ago, moiamigo said:

You sure proved you don't need it then!

Oh hell no, I knew I didn't need it, but in order to get my social services case closed, I had to do whatever the courts told me to.  Even my court-appointed counselor thought that the feelings I'd been having, the anger and wrath towards my ex-husband, were completely normal considering everything he'd done.

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23 hours ago, naughty_lucy420 said:

Rather than being angry, I felt nothing.  I had no emotions, no feelings, I was a zombie.

That sounds eerily familiar. I have the same thing, and had it for...9 (I think) years now. Oh well. I'm taking happypills, gonna see a psychiatrist in September...it'll be a'ight...

 

Aaaaanyway...Shit...that's ummm...quite the...eventfull live is what I think you'd call it. Honestly, though you went through all this shit, I do completely agree with your statement: You learn from it. I'm kinda having the same thing (on a smaller scale of course) as I can help and support my friends, family and others with their problems. I know how it feels, I know nothing makes sense, and I know nothing's fair. I also know, though, that it isn't going to change, and hell, weaker people made it through life, and are you really gonna be beaten by something that weaklings survive? Giving up won't get you anywhere, and will only set you back. It's better to push on and hope for it to get better than to give up and keep yourself in a shit position...

 

I'm glad your son's better now. But god, you really have a lot of lazy/dillusional/psychopathic people in positions of power in your area! 

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5 minutes ago, Misteriousmr said:

That sounds eerily familiar. I have the same thing, and had it for...9 (I think) years now. Oh well. I'm taking happypills, gonna see a psychiatrist in September...it'll be a'ight...

 

Aaaaanyway...Shit...that's ummm...quite the...eventfull live is what I think you'd call it. Honestly, though you went through all this shit, I do completely agree with your statement: You learn from it. I'm kinda having the same thing (on a smaller scale of course) as I can help and support my friends, family and others with their problems. I know how it feels, I know nothing makes sense, and I know nothing's fair. I also know, though, that it isn't going to change, and hell, weaker people made it through life, and are you really gonna be beaten by something that weaklings survive? Giving up won't get you anywhere, and will only set you back. It's better to push on and hope for it to get better than to give up and keep yourself in a shit position...

 

I'm glad your son's better now. But god, you really have a lot of lazy/dillusional/psychopathic people in positions of power in your area! 

I was diagnosed many years later with PMDD (Premenstrual dysphoric disorder).  For awhile, I took Zoloft for it, and it helped a lot, but totally killed my sex drive.  Now I just do my best to keep it in check, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but at least I can get horny again, and I haven't punched any holes in the walls in years :) 

If your happy pills aren't making you happy, then you should see that psychiatrist sooner than later, or the doctor who wrote the script for those pills.  Anti-depressants are supposed to be just that.

I'm not done with crazy authority figures yet; we still have to get to my old boss, lol.  The vice principal was definitely delusional, and had picked on me for so-called dress code violations (wearing pants that had the hems walked-off, or a flannel that had a small hole in it down near one of the cuffs, for example) all year long.  The judge who called the shots in my social service case wanted to make an example out of me, to show that she was tough, because she would soon be running for some higher-up position.  The investigators/police/prosecutors in my then-husbands case were lazy.  I believe that they could have found evidence of attempted murder, but it's a big city with a lot of crime, so they didn't want to bother going to the mat on a new, teenage father who may have simply lost his temper, not knowing what else to do.  (That wasn't the case, but I'll talk about that later.)

I second your second paragraph :)

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Just a random tidbit from fall-winter of 1999-2000.  It's something I'm thinking about tonight for some reason...

When I was 19, I worked as a cashier at a chain grocery store, and one of the utility clerks, I'll call her Stephanie, took an intense disliking to me.  I'm not entirely sure why, but it may have had something to do with a guy she was interested in, who was smitten with me, or that my job paid better than hers, or that I was skinnier, who knows.  Another coworker had a friend who was into completely unscripted, hardcore backyard wrestling, and approached both of us to see if we would be interested in settling our differences in the ring at a show that May, in a hardcore bra and panties match.  We both agreed.  The guy who was smitten with me hoped to fight in the event as well, so we began training.  I began returning Stephanie's dislike of me right back to her, and doing things to piss her off even more, like scanning items really fast when she was bagging at my register, or flirting with the guy right in front of her, building a real feud, no kayfabe here.

Towards the end of March, I finally took a pregnancy test to confirm what I was struggling desperately to ignore.  I was pregnant by someone I didn't want to be with anymore, because even back then, he was starting to scare me.  I even considered having an abortion, and leaving him for the guy who liked me, but I was so far along, four and a half months, before I accepted the fact that I was pregnant, not just getting fat, so in my mind, too late.  I would not be doing any backyard wrestling, I'd be in my sixth month the day of the match, so I had to back out.  Stephanie took her frustrations out by egging my car, with one egg.  Before I even knew it happened, two of our coworkers took a carton of 18 eggs and smashed them, and smeared them, across her windshield.  I thanked them for defending my honor and all, but scolded them lightly for having done it to such an extent.  Now that I was pregnant and couldn't fight, I just wanted everyone to get along.

I sometimes wonder what could have been if I hadn't been pregnant at all, and had been able to do the match.  I know I would have won.  Would I have gone on to do others?  Moved up to regional outfits?  Trained with pros?  Gone pro myself?  I know I would have left the guy I was with, but would I have gotten together with the one who liked me?  If I had, would I have had kids with him?

Just one of those forks in the road of my life I felt like pondering tonight.

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The good times are coming...

I met some white trash through a friend of mine, my first exposure to men since the guy who beat me, and it wasn't exactly a great place to start.  They were two brothers, older than us, she had already become involved with the older brother, and tried to fix me up with the younger one.  The first time we met, he looked me over, and asked:  "Have you ever been with a man who wasn't white?"  I was disgusted, immediately.  I replied that I had not, because it had never come up, but even if I had, what difference did it make?  His response was:  "Good, I can talk to you."  "Well, I don't want to talk to you," I said.  He made me watch skinhead movies all night, instead.  A lot of guys came in and out, most of them cousins of the brothers, every time I went back with her, there were more guys hanging around.  One of them was classically attractive, with Italian blood, and my friend and I soon began hanging out at his place with his friends rather than the skinhead brothers.  He was an inactive Latin King, his crown tat was covered with another tattoo, but poorly, so it was still visible, and he'd left his gang name tat untouched.  His apartment was in one of the worst neighborhoods in town, but it was very clean, warm, and comfortable.  He was the first guy I dated since separating from my husband.  He threw me a 21st birthday party I didn't want, where most of the guests were Vice Lords I didn't know, but it was a lot of fun, and a very nice gesture I wasn't expecting.  However, I noticed very quickly that there wasn't something quite right with him.  He told me that he'd grown up in foster homes, because his mother was schizophrenic, and claimed he suffered from depression.  I noticed that his depression, along with a generally ill condition, seemed to only arise when he had no money.  When he wanted me and my kids to move in with him because he didn't want to be alone, I bought him a dog, instead, a miniature dachshund he named Mario, who I took to calling Captain Nugget instead...the dog was supposedly outside trained and paper trained, but shit everywhere besides outside or on the paper.  One day, I walked him for two hours, and the moment I got in the door, he laid the crapeth down right on the floor.  But, it was thanks to Captain Nugget that I discovered my boyfriend was addicted to crack.  One day, the dog was digging under my chair, and pulled out a broken crack pipe.  I snapped on him, and left, but he wouldn't stop calling me and asking me to take him back.  One Sunday morning, he called me and told me he'd slit his wrists.  I hung up and called 911 and sent them over to his apartment.  The fire department came and bandaged him up, and the police hauled him off to the mental house for a mandatory 72-hour hold.  Right after that, he got pulled over, and had the cops call me at work for some reason, even though they couldn't tell me anything, while he was incoherent in the background, OWI or DUI, whatever, his surrogate mother, a prison ministry worker he'd met while locked up as a gang member, bailed him out.  A few days after that, he called and told me he was going to kill himself if I didn't take him back, that he had a gun in the trunk of his car.  He even came to my house that night.  I told him to get out, he was acting like a total psycho, and that I was going to call the cops.  He pushed me down and slapped my face (not very hard, though) and took off, only to call me again once he was on the road.  He went through the whole "I'm going to kill myself" thing, and told me he'd pulled over and was going to get the gun from his trunk and do it.  I asked him where he was, and he told me.  I lied and told him I was coming, hung up, and called the cops and told them where he was and what he claimed.  Turned out he didn't even have a gun, but he was hauled off to the mental house again.  After that, he continued to call me, and one day, I happened to be at a park with my kids, a friend, and his nephew when he called.  A police officer just happened to be there as well, so I walked right up to his squad and filed a harassment report, and asked for some baseball cards, curious if they still carried them.  He gave me a handful.  My ex left me alone after the police did what they said they would, they contacted him and advised him to leave me alone.  He died this summer; I happened upon his obit online.  Didn't say what he died from, just that he died, and who survived him, where the funeral was, etc.

At the same time, I was already into a way of life I'd be in for the next nine years, working full time during the week at one job, and working a second job part time on Saturdays.  My parents would take care of one kid, but they would not take care of two, except on Saturdays, so I could no longer work second shift.  I had to find daycare for my kids, and my mom helped with that, going to interview babysitters with me, and my kids.  We did find one, a lady in her late 30s with two kids of her own, who was very good, but ended up being pretty weird, and kicked my younger son out when he was two because she didn't like the way he ate too much popcorn, and was messy with it.  My older son stayed until he was done with 4 year old kindergarten, that summer I put him in the same daycare I put my younger son in.  He later told me he preferred the babysitter's house over the daycare, because he was given more freedom, often without supervision, at the babysitter's house.

At first, my full-time job was at a Dairy Queen, where a friend was manager.  I was hired on as an assistant manager, even though I'd never worked in fast food before, just retail, and the postal service.  I did have supervisor experience in retail, however, and I learned the ins and outs of making soft serve concoctions, being a fry cook (I used to imagine I was Spongebob in the pilot episode), and decorating cakes very quickly.  It was a fun job, I really enjoyed working there.  But, there was something weird about the place.  Even I, the most skeptical one of the crew, had things happen to me there that I can't explain, one was a shared sighting, with one of the owners, a cool blue light that flickered and lingered over the cake table.  Another thing, I didn't see, but heard, and had to clean up after...I was working alone early one morning, making ice cream cakes.  I set the tub of crunch filling on the counter, nowhere near the edge, and went to grab more cardboard circles.  I heard the tub of crunch hit the floor, and sure enough, it was on the floor, three feet from the counter and spilled, like someone had pushed it off.  But, no one was there but me.  Other coworkers reported other things, one thing that sticks out is a kid who had a cake box fly off a shelf and hit him in the head, and a guy who was paranoid to be left alone, because he'd looked in the window after close while waiting for his ride, and saw an old man with a little girl inside.  Nothing pervy, just like "an old dude and his granddaughter".  I also saw "the old dude" one morning, sitting near the office area in overalls and a flannel.

Back to the fun of the job.  I had a crew of two great kids the times I worked second shift, when Mom would babysit.  To pass the time when it wasn't our "in" season, summer, we devised a "Nasty Blizzard Contest", we would each make a Blizzard, with a soft serve base, but could add any food or food byproduct (like grill scrapings or grease from the fryer, hot dogs, lol, etc), and we all had to taste them and decide whose was the worst.  If your Blizzard made someone puke, it was automatically a victory.  We also put up fake ads on dating lines, just to laugh our asses off at the replies we got, and prank called other businesses...I'll never forget the time one of them called American Eagle, that was the closest I ever came to wetting my pants from laughing so hard.  We shared a love of wrestling, so when we found out No Way Out was coming to our city, we decided to go, and get the best seats we could, regardless of the cost.  I had to work the day tickets went on sale, so I gave them my credit card, and they called me with updates, we were on the floor, just a few rows back.  The tickets (of course they paid me for theirs) were $300 apiece, but when showtime came, I was definitely not disappointed, it was the best $300 I ever spent.  Got to lay my eyes upon Jeff Hardy live, and for a long time I thought he nodded at me, because I was literally the only female in that section on the floor, but I heard rumors from someone close to the wrestling world years later that he's bi, so maybe it wasn't directed at me.  We were seated directly across from most of the cameras, so the gesture wasn't directed at anyone watching at home.  I was doing everything I could to look like Lita at the time, right down to the hair, because I really thought she was the personification of what a hot woman should be.  I still think she's hot.

I'll pick up the rest of No Way Out later, it's late here, and I gotta work tomorrow. 

    

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I'm back

I've got a confession, before I get back to the No Way Out field trip :P

After finally getting rid of the crackhead, one of my dad's friends, a former coworker I'd talked to on the phone a couple of times when he called from House of Corrections, got out, and came to stay with us for a few days.  He looked like Jim Morrison, and had the most amazing hazel eyes, piercings, and I was smitten.  So was he, I caught him looking at me often.  My dad tried playing matchmaker, not that he had to, until he found out how old the guy really was.  Dad and I had assumed he was 25, 26 tops, but he was actually 38.  I was 21 at the time.  But, it didn't matter, the seeds of attraction were planted.  I kept seeing him without telling my parents, telling them that a friend I often hung out with was my boyfriend, not just my friend.  We used to get a kick out of the song "Hey Mister", particularly if it came on while we were in bed.  That was the biggest age difference I've ever had between myself and a partner, but it didn't matter; he was a very immature 38 year old, haha.  But, my friends and coworkers gave me a ton of shit about it, and when my brother borrowed my car, he dug around in my glove box and found the pornographic polaroids I'd taken with the guy, and said I was gross.  I said he needed to mind his own business.  I also met his daughters one night, one was 11, the other 13, and they were definitely not happy about dad's new girlfriend.  They did not ask me how old I was, but the older one did ask her dad, because I heard him say "Thirty-two", and then look at me.  I was closer in age to his daughters than to him, creepy.  I guess that's why I just don't go that far out of my age range when it comes to partners, nor will I ever do anything with any of my dad's friends again, though I have been tempted by another one of his coworkers...damn redheads.

Back to No Way Out...

I'd gotten my tongue pierced the day before the show, which was damn foolish timing, in retrospect.  Of course, it was still very swollen and painful by the time of the show, and I hadn't eaten anything all day.  I wasn't sure what I was capable of eating, so I finally decided on a tub of popcorn, it only came in one size, extra extra extra large, and was expensive, typical arena crap.  I brought it back to my seat and began shoving pieces around my swollen tongue, just in time for the Rock vs. Undertaker match.  They left the ring and cut through our aisle, fighting, and of course total chaos erupted.  Somehow, one of the kids ended up with my popcorn in one hand, a camera in the other, and got too close, and got knocked into by the Undertaker.  My popcorn went flying everywhere, it was comical, even if I was starving and had wasted money, it was still a freaking magical moment.

I was let go from DQ when new management took over, and their friend needed a job.  I got a job in a small credit union downtown, a first.  I'd never worked in an office before.  My coworkers thought it was funny that I didn't know how to send an email.  But, I caught on fast. 

More later...

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An interlude...religion

As a child, Mom dragged me and little brother to church every Sunday, and when we were old enough, we had to go to Sunday school, too.  My mom was Catholic, so we were being taught that; Dad was a lapsed Lutheran, but claimed to attend the church of NASCAR.  I got my First Eucharist, lacy white dress and veil, toilet-paper roll curls, birthstone-colored rosary, and was sent to Catholic school starting in 6th grade.  I always felt like religion was being forced on me, particularly at school, where religion classes were required and graded.  And, I hated the fact that church and Sunday school interfered with the NASCAR schedule, and mom wouldn't let me join dad's "church".

My best friend as a kid was Christian, and she brought me to her church's AWANA club.  The conservative atmosphere astounded me, but the people there were very nice, so I learned Bible Christianity on Wednesday nights as well.  Turned out I had quite a skill for memorizing verses, and even went to the Bible Olympics once, and won a christian soft rock cassette tape off a religious TV show, lol.  I even got "saved".  I quit after my friend's parents wouldn't let her join JVs because they thought it wasn't a wholesome environment.

As a teenager, I sometimes joined my boyfriend and his mother at their WELS Lutheran church.  His mom always gave us lots of chocolate, like we were little kids.  That was around when I first started paying attention in church, rather than just going through the motions.  I wanted to believe in something, I guess, but it turned out I didn't agree with all of the teachings of any of the religions I'd dabbled in as of yet.  I refused to get confirmed Catholic, and my parents left me alone about it.  However, I still sometimes went to church on Sundays as an adult, voluntarily, but I was really starting to question the existence of a higher power.

When I was twenty, my aunt moved into my grandmother's house to take care of her, and taught me spells, magic, and how to read palms, pendulums, and tarot cards.  I got pretty deep into astrology.  For a long time, that became my religion.  My aunt referred to it as Wiccan, or pagan.  I did ceremonies at every moon, and did spells that seemed to work.  I didn't question anything until nine years later, when I met an intelligent skeptic.  We talked a lot about different religions, atheism, the effects the mind can have on the body, interpretation, and coincidence.  He told me how I was literally swinging my pendulum via a small muscle in my finger, and told me to ask it something entirely random that I wouldn't have any knowledge of, such as if he was born in Trenton, NJ.  Upon returning home, I did, and lo and behold, the pendulum did not move.  It was a turning point.

I've still held on to some astrology beliefs, but really, that's just an interpretation thing.  I respect other people's need for religion, having something to believe in is important to people, it helps them lead better lives in many cases.  I'm just an atheist with morals.  I'm polite, helpful, friendly, modest in dress and public behavior, caring, and respectful, but not because I fear the wrath of God, or because I want to go to Heaven, but because I'm happiest living that way.    

 

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  • 3 months later...

Three years of my life that stand out in a positive way:  1987, 1997, and 2007.  I'm guessing 2017 will be an awesome year, too.

1987 was special because it was the year I discovered NASCAR, which became one of my biggest interests.  I started watching with my dad, and before long, I knew more about it than he did.  I could name every driver, and their crew chief, car number, manufacturer, and sponsor.  Dad began taking me to our local track, the Milwaukee Mile, every time they had a stock car race.  Definitely one of the highlights of my childhood.

In 1997, I went from being an introvert to an extrovert.  I was finally developing self confidence, something I didn't possess up until then unless I was on a stage, in a skit or a play or some other kind of performance.  I was a shy, mousy thing, pretty much afraid of other people because I'd been molested and bullied, but so comfortable while entertaining; very weird.  But, in 1997, a few months after getting my first job, I just started feeling really good about myself, and no longer was thinking the world was out to hurt me, so I just opened up like...almost a rebirth.  I became really outgoing, and for the first time in my life, had a large circle of friends rather than just one or two, and even began hanging out with people at school, something I'd avoided until then.  I actually became somewhat of a mother hen, a leader to the outcasts of that school.

2007 was the year I almost died.  I had type 1 diabetes, but didn't know it until I was in DKA, and delirious because my organs had begun to fail.  I went into a coma shortly after going to the ER.  50/50 chance I wouldn't wake up.  When I did, I decided to accept everything about myself, and live my life to the fullest with as few regrets as possible.  One of the things I decided to finally explore and embrace was my watersports fetish.  Until then, I had almost always kept it a secret, thinking I might actually be crazy for being turned on by all things piss.  I did a search online, and one of the first things that popped up was a guy's blog on livejournal, with stories and pictures, and even a couple videos.  He was doing all the same things I'd been doing all my life, and then some, and he was clearly intelligent and totally sane.  By reading the comments he'd received, I saw there was even more people into it.  I was relieved, and intrigued, and before long, I had a journal there, too, very much like his.  That was the start of it all.

   

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1997 is the best year because I was born :3

 

So, here's a little update:

My dad died. 4 November he passed away in his sleep as a direct result of the tumor. Life is better now; we're not as stressed, we laugh, we talk, the heavy atmosphere is gone. Ok, college could be better, but hey, can't have everything right? Hopefully this upward curve will keep going and next year I'll look back, happy how far I've come. Only time will tell...

 

Also, you find other people that are into Omo and you're relieved...not sure if it's a poor or an amazing choice of words xD

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  • 1 month later...

A Christmas memory.

Not a fond one.

The year was 2009, and I was working for a small, closed-charter credit union.  Every year, we offered a small, short term holiday loan.  To promote it, the CEO decided I should dress like an elf.  She bought the cheapest, tackiest felt costume she could find online and made me wear it every day.  It was humiliating.  It was embarrassment to the max, because rather than being amused by my elf makeover, the account holders were upset.  Though I never complained, and wasn't anything but a jolly elf, many of them told me that it wasn't right and encouraged me to stand up for myself and stop wearing the costume.  I did, and told the CEO I would only wear it during peak hours four days a week.  It was a power struggle for my dignity.  I think a few of the account holders may have spoken to her, because very abruptly, she left me alone about it after a couple weeks.  She also put an end to Christmas bonuses (under the previous CEO, I'd received a grand every year), and turned our formerly posh holiday party into a church potluck in the cafeteria with silly games.  Her preacher husband singled me out as an atheist before leading everyone in prayer; I still have no idea how either of them knew I was an atheist, because I was never one to broadcast.  That woman was truly twisted and evil, I knew it from the first time I saw her, when she came in for her first interview.  I greeted her politely, she said nothing, and just proceeded to the office like she already owned it.  I'd been with the company for five and a half years before she came on board, I managed two more under her before she fired me for no real reason.  Said I was "a bad fit" and "not a team player" (yet she also accused me of "trying to create a rebellion", and what says "team player" like leading a rebellion against an evil force?).  At that point, getting fired was more of a relief than anything, I was practically having nervous breakdowns every Sunday night knowing I'd have to go back to that place.

And a fond one.

It was the wonderful year of 1997.  Christmas Eve I worked until noon or 12:30.  It was payday, too, and I had yet to get anyone presents.  So I cashed my check and drove over to Kmart.  I bought a couple things, then my pager went off (oh yah, so 90s) and it was "3673", Doody's code for "dope", meaning he'd gotten a connection.  So, I diverted from my shopping to pick up Doody and Crotchhugger Jon, and off to the tambourine man we did go.  We each bought a quarter for $25, and went back to Doody's house to smoke it.  We matched in the garage, and when I left to resume my shopping, I was stoned as fuck.  I bought some more random shit, and took it home, toking another bowl on the way.  Only my brother was home, and knowing I was high, he laughed at me as I attempted to wrap my gifts before finally offering to do it for me.  I let him, and sat down and ate pretzels and watched TV.  I took a shower and washed my hair so I wouldn't smell when my folks got home.  Got dressed in my favorite JNCOs and a black Nike t-shirt.  Even though I'd showered, I was still feeling the weed, and in a picture taken on grandma's couch, with my brother and two cousins, I look totally baked.  That was a good Christmas, I got a lot of neat stuff, including a lava lamp.   

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