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Lasting First Impressions (Part 2)
(If you missed Part 1, click here.)
That was younger Don.
That was before blogging Don.
It sounds silly, but reading blog posts on different subjects ranging from physical abuse and drug addiction to prostitution, etc., has made me a better person and police officer.
Long before I ever decided to start my own blog, I’d been reading what others had to say about their own lives.
It’s easy to see a prostitute and think, “What a whore, why don’t you just get a regular job?”
Hell, I’ve thought it before, but after reading posts from a number of bloggers who blew my mind about their own stints as prostitutes or drug addicts or abuse victims, I’ve lightened up and learned to remind myself that these folks are people too.
I’d have never in a million years guessed that some of the people I’ve read about, and these SisterWives ladies are perfect examples, had such things in their pasts. The stories that so many down on their luck people have to tell are incredible.
I more easily remember now that they were once babies and little girls and boys like all of us. Like my own kids are right now.
What went wrong with them? Can they be helped? Do they even want to be helped?
Not everybody wants to be helped, no matter how miserable we may judge their life circumstances to be from the outside.
If a person has only known pain and misery their whole life, then that may be what’s normal to them. They may not know what it’s like to live without suffering, so they don’t miss or even realize that they can live a life without the sort of pain they’re currently accepting.
How can I judge a person who is petrified to leave a bad situation where they at least have food and shelter for a completely unknown situation that awaits should they leave? It’s easier to talk about leaving than it is to do it. I get that.
I will try, but I won’t waste too much time with people who clearly don’t want my help. Not adults, anyway. They may be more open to help at a later time, but it’s not my place to push them.
I hadn’t ever talked to Claire beyond asking her a couple of questions that night a couple of years prior, so I didn’t know where she was mentally with her situation.
She had invited me in at this point, and she was sitting at her little kitchen table when I asked her again, hoping that she wanted to be helped on this night.
“Same guy?”
She looked at the table and rested her forehead on her left hand as she stared at the white formica table top as though it had something compelling that it was telling her.
I hoped it was telling her to get out of this relationship while she could.
She exhaled and sighed to herself.
“I went to Dartmouth on a track scholarship. I was going to be a doctor, but the closest I got was getting knocked up by one instead.”
“Your husband?” I asked. “You’ve been with same guy this whole time?”
She looked up through her tear clouded eyes towards the kitchen light or maybe the clock, or maybe at nothing at all for several moments. I think she was trying to balance the tears in her eyes so they’d not roll down her pretty face.
She finally blinked and squashed the tears with her long lashes.
“Yes,” she finally whispered, as a renegade tear managed to escape her eye and race down her face before falling onto the tabletop.
The tear seemed to startle her a bit, and she turned her attention back to me.
“Where is your husband now?” I asked softly. “I was sure he wasn’t in this small apartment anymore.”
“Do you mind?” She asked as she presented a cigarette before my face.
If I were being honest, I’d have told her I minded, yes, but it wasn’t the time to be prodding her about smoking. I was busy prodding her about a bigger issue.
“No. It’s your house. You do whatever you need to do to be comfortable.”
She lit her cigarette and took a deep puff from the filter.
“Are you going to be here long?” She asked as she exhaled.
I was grateful that it wasn’t towards me, but disappointed that her kids had somehow snuck in the kitchen and were standing in the path of that plume of smoke.
I watched as it went right into the older boy’s face. He didn’t flinch.
“How old is he?” I pointed towards the kid so she had to look at him as he stood standing in a cloud of her Pall Mall smoke.
She didn’t flinch either.
“He’s four. The other one’s two. Jacob and Scotty,” she said very matter-of-factly. And he’s not my husband. He’s my boyfriend.”
It was 10:30 at night and she sounded tired. It was obvious to me that the boys had just gotten out of bed and had been very recently asleep.
“I won’t be long, if you don’t want me to be.”
“You don’t have to be long, because nothing happened here. We just yelled at each other a little bit.”
By this time, I had taken a seat across from her at the table. I put my face in my hands and rubbed my eyes. It was the end of a long shift, so I was tired too.
“He’ll kill you one day, if you don’t stick up for yourself or try to get away from him. You know that right?”
She had been starting to annoy me with her nothing happened bullshit, but now she started to sob softly. I watched as little Jacob came to her and put his hand on her thigh. The smaller one followed his big brother over to Claire, and I was struck with how touched I was by these boys and their mom.
Having my own kids has also caused me to see situations differently, for the better I’d say.
The boys were sweet to their mom and when the older one put his hand on his little brother’s head and kissed his cheek, I almost started to sob myself.
I don’t know what these kids have seen or heard, but I’d wager it’s more than most and more than any kid should have to see or hear at their ages. Kids who are around dysfunction have to grow up faster than they should, and they are often amazing. These were two boys who’ve been through the wringer I was sure. They were very mature for their ages, as though they’ve had to grow up faster to cope.
She excused herself and shuffled the boys back off to their room, leaving me to sit alone at the table feeling like a bigger asshole than I’d perhaps ever felt like as a cop.
How could you have said something about him potentially killing her, I thought to myself. Damn it, Don, she fucking knows that already. I was pretty pissed off at myself and didn’t hear her come back.
She startled me a bit when she said, “I know that he might kill me,” as as though she was reading my thoughts. “To be honest, I sometimes wonder if that wouldn’t be the best thing to happen to me.”
“What about the boys, Claire? You don’t think they love you and need you?” I had quickly lost my moment of melancholy and was getting frustrated with her again.
“What if he doesn’t want to lose you so instead of hurting you he hurts somebody else or something close to you?” I was talking out of my place now for sure.
‘You don’t think I’ve seen that play out a hundred times before, Claire? Just last year a crazy fuck like your husband killed his girlfriend’s cat because it was the one thing in the world he new that she loved. She was devastated, Claire. You don’t want to avoid that sort of mess? You have a cat, right?”
I’d seen the cat earlier, but we both knew I wasn’t referring to the cat.
“He’s not MY HUSBAND!!!” She was screaming and swatted her glass ashtray off the table, shattering it in half and sending her into an immediate crying tizzy.
She left the kitchen again to check on the boys and when she returned, she walked directly towards the broken ashtray. While she was cleaning up the mess, I’d noticed the second officer assigned to this call had finally shown up. I knew he’d been there for a minute or two, and his eyes were wide as silver dollars from our yelling.
We were just venting, kid, I thought to myself.
He was young, I think at that time he was 23 or 24, and I’m sure he was eager to get off work so he could go hang out with his friends and compare cop stories with each other. That was me ten years ago, I reminded myself.
I almost told him that he could leave right then and there since the suspect wasn’t around, but I thought it’d be a good lesson for him to stay and watch me at least try to do all that I could to help this woman.
As a cop, it’s so easy to tell yourself that you tried after giving minimal effort, and then move on to the next call, or in this case, go home. All officers do it from time to time, and maybe all people are like that occasionally. I do it still to this day, but I’m more able to recognize when somebody is open to help, needs it, or is just special in some other way that I’d be remiss to not go above and beyond to help.
I had him stand by the door, where he could hear our conversation, and also look out for the boyfriend, in case he should return.
I deal with so many people, that it’s easy to forget most of them, and I have. I can’t remember everyone I’ve written an accident report for or given a ticket to or given directions or helped with an unruly family member and on and on.
There are, however, people who scribble the messes that are their lives onto my brain with ink that I just can’t erase.
Claire is one of those people.
I tried all I could to get her to listen to my advice that night and offered her every option I could think up to get her out of the relationship she was in. I offered to have a female officer come talk to her, or a domestic violence group representative, anyone I could think of to talk to her. I gave her restraining order directions, shelter options, victim advocacy groups, other family members, all that I could think of to offer her. I left her with three pages of numbers she could call, including my own, in case she changed her mind.
“Call me anytime you want and I’ll make sure we get a car here to help you go where you need to go.”
Those were the last words I said to her that night before I wished her good night and good luck. She was strong and stubborn and was going to remain stubborn about making her relationship with this man work somehow.
I wrote the report and charged the boyfriend with assault. We don’t need the victim to help when it’s a domestic assault case, but it’s still a tough prosecution.
I brought the case to the prosecutor without her.
The boyfriend had turned himself in.
He was almost exactly what I pictured he’d be. He was handsome and tall and charming in a creepy way, but he had a glint of crazy in his eyes that I’m pretty good at recognizing.
He was also a coward, I could just tell. It’s why he turned himself in with witnesses, I’d bet. He probably thought he would get his ass kicked in the police station.
She was with him as well as his attorney. She was sticking to her nothing happened story.
Miraculously, there was no previous record of this man assaulting her. She’d told the officer the night of the “motorcycle accident” that some stranger tried to rob her as she was walking home and that he’d punched her when she told him that she didn’t have any money. It happened so fast she had said, that she didn’t even have a chance to see any of his features, so no suspect was ever generated. I guess it’s good that she didn’t describe somebody made up and send us on a wild goose chase after an innocent man.
Still, I was livid and I wasn’t sure why.
I guess I was mad at her for not being able to recognize that she was in danger, that she needed to get out or her boys were going to grow up and do as their daddy does to her, if they aren’t removed from that situation. I was mad at his smug attitude and face, which I really did want to pummel with every inch of my fists. I guess I was mad because I knew I had lost this round.
Exasperated at trying and failing, I sat in the office with the prosecutor after he refused to issue charges and listened as he told me that it’s hard to help people who don’t want to be helped.
I knew that already, thanks.
I’d been a cop for several years already, so I didn’t need to hear that from a mid 20’s prosecuting attorney just getting his feet wet at his first job just out of law school.
That night in her apartment was a long time ago, and I hadn’t thought about Claire in several years. I moved to a different job within the police department away from where she lived and she sort of faded out of my memory, until a couple of weeks ago, that is.
I was talking to a prostitute at 8:30 in the morning as she was drinking a tall can of Miller Lite in front of one of many nearby sidewalk churches.
“I need it for the shakes, officer Don. I know it’s illegal, but I get the shakes.” She kept saying.
“You clearly do, Loraine, I’m not doubting that at all. We’ve talked about this though and I’ve asked you before, just put it in a brown bag or a big cup for God’s sake. That way, I can pretend that you’re drinking iced tea or something else, okay?”
“Okay, okay. You’re letting me go again, right?” She really was wound up. I assumed she was on drugs as well as Miller Lite.
“Of course, don’t I always?” I joked with her.
Loraine is a long time lady of the street. She’s funny and sweet with me, but she’s definitely broken. She’s an alcoholic and a drug addict and a prostitute, and she knows all of this.
She is also one who doesn’t want to be helped and she thanks me to not try, so I don’t, normally.
She just wants to be left alone, so I mostly do leave her alone. She mentions that other cops still give her a hard time, and it’s mostly deservedly so.
“You are breaking the law, Loraine. I can’t tell them to let you do that, and I’m not the boss anyway.”
“Well, I wish they was all like you, Don.” She said.
I normally take that as a compliment, but sometimes it makes me feel as though I should be more of a hard ass, but not with Loraine. Her life is hard enough.
As we were wrapping up our encounter, I noticed another woman I assumed to be a prostitute across the street. I’d not met her before, of that I was sure. Still, she looked vaguely familiar to me. She was short and built like she was in good shape, and had surprisingly long, pretty hair. She stood out like a sore thumb in her purple sun dress, especially around the other prostitutes who, while I do find mostly entertaining, aren’t sticklers for traditional beauty or cleanliness. It’s all most of them can do to just get by every day.
“Hey Loraine, do you know that girl across the street there? Is she a, you know? Is she on the streets?”
“She’s a crack head, Officer Don. She don’t hurt nobody. We call her Sunny, but I think her real name is Claire.”
I was walking back to my car and sat in it for several minutes before it hit me where I’d heard that name before.
By the time I put it together, the woman was long gone.
Part of me hoped it’s the Claire I’d met and tried to help, because at least I’d know she was alive, but another part of me hopes that it’s not, that it’s another woman who looks exactly like her and is living the rough life of a North City drug addict.
It’s been a few weeks since I’d seen her, and I’m still waiting to find that woman again to see if it’s her, and if yes, whether or not she remembers me and the times we met when nothing happened and everything was fine.
—————————————————————-
This post was sitting in my drafts folder waiting to be deleted because it didn’t really fit anywhere on my own ridiculous blog. I offered it to The Sisterwives because they sort of dealt with abuse and I’m glad they posted it. While I had originally thought it was just an interesting story to me, I see that there’s a lesson in my own personal growth that I haven’t probably conveyed that well here, but it’s there, I promise. It also shows that we don’t always win. Maybe that woman I saw wasn’t Claire, but I know in my heart that it was.
Blogging has helped me to meet people, like many of you who are reading this, who’ve given me renewed hope in humanity. So many of you are wonderful men and women just trying to do the best you can, like me, and I appreciate your courageous stories. Thank you all for accepting me.
No words to say how tragically sad and… unfair, horrible, wasteful. Just wanted you to know it was read, and it was moving, and it reinforced my belief that being a police officer or any sort of first-responder must be the most exhausting, under-appreciated, conflicted calling out there. Thank you for what you do and what you write.
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Thanks, J, you rock for an East Coast liberal artsy fartsy whatever, you know that? The job can suck and suck and suck, but there are enough moments of sharing in the human triumph to make it worthwhile. Plus I get free coffee so there’s that.
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Don…I could write an entire post about us, about you and me, we are very similar. I respect you deeply for your convictions and your ability to read the play but I do not envy your workplace. You represent the real man that is the antithesis of everything that brought this blog about in the first place. I am proud to have met you, even if it is in the ether. You are a REAL man. Deepest respect. REDdog
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Thank you, Red. That you think we’re similar is a real compliment to me, and I thank you for that. I’d love to meet outside the ether someday and shoot the shit over some ice cold ones.
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That may just be possible Don, I’ve been planning on coming across for the 75th Anniversary of Sturgis this time next year but if not then my back up plan is Route 66 with my Queen in 2016…ya never know how far I’ll detour for a cold beer in good company, man.
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This is haunting and heartbreaking and beautifully written. I’m encouraged to feel your compassion coming through your words. The world needs so much more compassion. Thanks for that.
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It does need some more compassion, yes. There is a lot out there that goes unnoticed, mostly being exhibited by regular folks like you and me. Thank you for reading, Michelle. I know it got to be a long one.
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I imagine a job such as yours is easier done without empathy. I wonder if you lay awake at night worried about all the broken people that can’t be fixed like glass broken in concrete that cannot be removed. I couldn’t do what you do, not at all. I think though that you have the right amount of empathy. Just hearing your story makes me anxious for them, for their lost potential, for those little boys.
“There are, however, people who scribble the messes that are their lives onto my brain with ink that I just can’t erase.”
Truly poetic.
I think the truth is, we are ALL broken and we all mend ourselves with different kinds of glue, whether it’s God, family, friends, or addiction.
Thank you for sharing this.
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Awe, you’re the best commenter ever, Hasty, you know that? Truth that we’re all broken, at least a little bit. Here’s to knowing what it is we’re turning to to fix ourselves and changing it , if it’s something that’s making our life worse! *Raises glass of milk to toast Hasty*
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Thanks 🙂
Can we have cookies with the milk? I need cookies right now…like RIGHT NOW.
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see… I told you… men can learn stuff…
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Learning is hard and something I’ve tried to avoid since high school ended.
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I don’t know that I could handle the shit you must see on a daily basis, Don. Thank you for serving and extraa thank you’s for being so amazing.
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Oh, you totally could! And of course, I make myself sound better than I am!
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Idk, Don. Were I out there facing down that angry crowd I might piss myself.
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Don, you know how much I love you? Well, I love you even more now. Thank you for writing this, for sharing this with us here on this blog. Thank you for being a real man, a good man, a man that others should measure themselves by. You are the kind of police officer that not only does his job, but sees the person in front of him, realizes he/she is human, and doesn’t let him/her feel any less than that. It’s pretty remarkable if you ask me, and for that, I have the utmost respect for you.
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Thank you, Mandi, I love you too for sure. Having kids and reading blogs and meeting other great people has made me a better cop for sure. Empathy is where it’s at!
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You write beautifully, and yes, with compassion and empathy and great dollops of heart-rending.
I wish you knew the end of this story. I think that would drive me nuts – to have built a connection with someone and to never know whether or not they were okay.
I hope she was.
I fear she wasn’t.
Regardless, your write-up is incredible, but harrowing.
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Awe, thanks, Lizzi. You’re the best. Hope all is well on that side of the ocean.
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I think better than it is on yours 😦
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So frustrating and sad to want to help when the person may not want it or understand it to be help. This reminds me so much of my 19 year old niece. After taking her in for a year and offering her the best therapy in the nation’s leading mental health hospital, love, shelter, safety and a diploma from High School, she went back to the only life she knows and feels comfortable with. The life of drugs, prostitution, abusive relationships and crime. I can honestly say I tried EVERYTHING and more but she still did not want/take my help.
I can see how you would be conflicted between the relief of seeing her alive and the reality of what she is doing. Those boys, that’s the real tragedy – her boys. 😦 Thanks for sharing, Don.
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Thank you ma’am. That’s terrible about your niece, but what the heck can you do? At some point, they’ll have to want help, and when they finally do, hopefully, there’s somebody there to do it.
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Hey Don, been thinking about what your thoughts are on the Ferguson case. What a tragedy for all involved. My son was asking some of the officers here what their thoughts were. They told him that no one ever wants to have to shoot someone. That he must have felt pretty threatened to have to use his gun. What a tough situation and people really need to understand all the details before jumping to conclusions. Very sad.
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This makes me so incredibly sad. This almost parallels the story of someone I love very much. I keep telling myself that as long as she is breathing there is hope, at the same time hating the life she lives.
You are not only a good police officer, Don. You are a good man.
Thank you for sharing this story.
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Awe, thank you, Sandy. Being a decent human being isn’t really that hard, even in a police uniform. I thought about your story for awhile too. At first I wished that you would have contacted the police and had that guy arrested, but then I thought how awful it would be if the police showed up and victimized you even more by insinuating that you got what you deserved or something. It pisses me off to think that very scenario is completely realistic.
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Very cool.
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Thank you for reading it. I know it got to be long.
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My grandfather used to say, “the weight of the World is felt by those with empathy, the other mongrels don’t care they feel nothing, but me, I would rather feel the crush”. I feel that those with true empathy have the most beautiful souls.
I used to be extremely empathetic, seeing destruction, hate and war used to literally bring me to tears and I would do anything I could to help someone I thought was in need. I would still do anything I could to help someone in a bad situation, but like you said they have to help themselves a little before you can help them at all.
Who I really feel for are the children who are stuck in these horrible circumstances, these poor innocent souls who from such a tiny age are exposed to the most horrid and ugly things in life – who helps them. There is a song by Martina McBride called “Concrete Angel” and it is hauntingly beautiful and terribly sad, it always makes me thankful for how good my life is.
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I know that song very well as I think of of some of the kids I’ve come across at work when I hear it. I think of those kids and then my own kids, and then I tear up and laugh at myself for being such a softie. Lol. Kids who encounter such shitty situations really can be amazing, but there does get to be a point where it’s too much for them to handle. It’s hard to witness.
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It takes a strong kind of person to be able to handle witnessing that. I certainly don’t envy you that position.
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Don, I’m so glad you posted this and your circular bin is going hungry…oh well. Those two little boys at such a young age…one following the other as the other one cared. My gosh.
Claire, and all, I hope they are doing well.
And thank you for staying past the end of your shift…and making the new person stay past his. Thank you.
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Thank you, ma’am. Those kids were adorable in every way. I mean the mom and dad were both very attractive people, even if they were disfunctional. I think the mom is a good mom and will make sure that they grow up right. I just hope she finds help to do it.
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Don, I’m fairly certain I’ve told you my dad was a police officer. He died (not in the line of duty) before I could get to know him. But it was said of him that his compassion gave police a good name in the community.
I believe you are the same way. Thanks for everything you do. It’s not easy.
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You have told me, yes, and it’s part of what drew me to your story. I’ve been told many many times, “you’re not like most cops,” and I take that as a compliment. Even when somebody does have to be ticketed or arrested, treating them with kindness and respect is the way to go. It doesn’t always work, but it works more often than not.
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I don’t think what you said about other blogs making you a better person is silly at all, Don. I feel the same way. We only have our own stories, but you hold yours and those of all of the people you meet on the streets. You share those stories and we are privileged to listen, and I am thankful for that. I hope one day you will have another story to tell about Claire, and that it’s a happy one.
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Thank you, Dana! I hope that too about Claire. These stories just tell themselves, really. I could never make up most of what real life I see every shift.
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This was abyssal in its complexity and compassion, as are you. I respect and admire you more than I can convey here. I’m genuinely honored you shared this story here, with us. The first time I read it, I told you how touching and beautiful (as well as achingly sad) I felt it was. I meant it. You did good, Don.
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Hey! Did you just call me abysmal?? Nevermind, I looked it up. Abyssal is a great word that I don’t think I’ve ever heard before, so thank you for that. It was my pleasure to share it. Thank you for having me, Beth. I think the world of you and your sisterwives. Keep up the good work.
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Powerful stuff. Honest, thoughtfull and really well written. Thanks for sharing it.
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Thank you very much. These real life stories tell themselves, so I just try not to screw it up too much.
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Don, you’re the one who has given me renewed hope in humanity. I’m glad this story made it out of your drafts folder and found a home here.
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Thank you, stranger! Hooray for humanity not being a lost cause! I hope you’ve been doing well. I need to come visit you more often.
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Don,
Thank you for sharing your posts with SisterWives, and welcome. While I am not part of the group, I have a fairly new blog in which I write about my serious health issues, and my second, upcoming brain surgery. I have commented on some of the other SisterWives’ sites about the physical, emotional and sexual assault I’ve lived through. I’m trying to work up the nerve to write about my years as a drug addict, and how I sobered up during the four days I was abducted, had my car and money stolen, was raped repeatedly, mostly by one man, but also by his friend. The primary rapist was a friend of the family of the babysitter where I dropped my three year old daughter off at a few times a week. That was and still is terrifying to me. He was around my child nearly every day and at any point could have hurt her instead of me. He threatened my life and my family’s life’s and for a long time I believed he would find me and kill me. When I finally ran away from the fourth place he held me captive, and just left, not coming back even the following day I walked as far as I could- a near impossible feat with my disability, then called an ambulance. The next day I was put on suicide watch as I finally spoke to my husband and he said he was moving away to make sure I’d never see my daughter again. I screwed up. I will still readily admit that. That does not mean I deserved the rape and torture I endured for days- no one does.
It hurts just to remember this past, and how I had to fight to prove I did not deserve this to happen to me because I had been doing drugs previously. The police, my husband and most of my family believed I got what was coming to me. It took a long time to prove I could be a good mother, and my husband and I decided to stay together the day before our divorce was to be finalized. I have never gone back to that world. I was victimized, preyed upon because I was physically weak (disabled) and emotionally weak (having already gone through two abusive relationships.) The only good things to come out of the worst time in my life was that I now have two daughters who are the light of my life, and I’m much better at spotting signs of people who use drugs, have anger problems, etc. I hope this will be enough to protect them.
Thank you again for being kind, for taking the time with people who need help when you can. I wish I had encountered someone life you during this period of my life.
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When the time is right for you, you should share your story. It may just help somebody in a similarly bad situation, or someone like me, who is in a position to recognize and help somebody in a bad place. Rape is such and awful crime. I seriously think it’s more disgusting than homicide sometimes. It’s taking something too personal. To be victimized by loved ones or authorities after a rape is terrible, but I fear that it’s not uncommon either, and that’s a tragedy.
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Don,
Thank you for sharing your posts with SisterWives, and welcome. While I am not part of the group, I have a fairly new blog in which I write about my serious health issues, and my second, upcoming brain surgery. I have commented on some of the other SisterWives’ sites about the physical, emotional and sexual assault I’ve lived through. I’m trying to work up the nerve to write about my years as a drug addict, and how I sobered up during the four days I was abducted, had my car and money stolen, was raped repeatedly, mostly by one man, but also by his friend. The primary rapist was a friend of the family of the babysitter where I dropped my three year old daughter off at a few times a week. That was and still is terrifying to me. He was around my child nearly every day and at any point could have hurt her instead of me. He threatened my life and my family’s life’s and for a long time I believed he would find me and kill me. When I finally ran away from the fourth place he held me captive, and just left, not coming back even the following day I walked as far as I could- a near impossible feat with my disability, then called an ambulance. The next day I was put on suicide watch as I finally spoke to my husband and he said he was moving away to make sure I’d never see my daughter again. I screwed up. I will still readily admit that. That does not mean I deserved the rape and torture I endured for days- no one does.
It hurts just to remember this past, and how I had to fight to prove I did not deserve this to happen to me because I had been doing drugs previously. The police, my husband and most of my family believed I got what was coming to me. It took a long time to prove I could be a good mother, and my husband and I decided to stay together the day before our divorce was to be finalized. I have never gone back to that world. I was victimized, preyed upon because I was physically weak (disabled) and emotionally weak (having already gone through two abusive relationships.) The only good things to come out of the worst time in my life was that I now have two daughters who are the light of my life, and I’m much better at spotting signs of people who use drugs, have anger problems, etc. I hope this will be enough to protect them.
Thank you again for being kind, for taking the time with people who need help when you can. I wish I had encountered someone life you during this period of my life.
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It must be so difficult to not be able to help people when you know they need help so desperately. In this case with Claire, it would be easy to look back and wonder if she could have got help. But I see she’s the only who can really ask for it and it’s up to her. I hope she can still get help, if indeed it’s her. It’s never too late. Thanks for sharing your story, Don.
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It’s hard to watch people suffer and to be their own worst enemies, but there’s not much to be done with an unwilling party. It would be so interesting to me to have her write her side of our encounter. It would be the same story, but I bet she would make me seem like a total jerk and make herself out to be a valiant, strong mother, which I think she really is. She has a lot of pride, and I think it gets in the way of her doing what she knows in her heart is best for her. Thank you so much for reading it.
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Oh, I’ve been waiting for this part of the story!
I’m sorry that she didn’t want you to help her, but I’m glad that you tried to make the best out of the situation. I pray for those poor boys caught in the crossfire, and for Claire. And for you.
You seem like a great guy.
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Awe, thanks, Katie. I have my moments. Those boys have each other at least. I think about them from time to time and wonder how they are. In my thoughts, they’re always doing great.
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Oh this is so sad. And yet, thank you for writing it and for caring about that woman. I found it so interesting that you see yourself as changed through blogging because I will admit I did not realise you had such depths and compassion. I’ve only see the jokey side of you on Bloppies and so on.
So many people suffer needlessly in this world – I guess because of fear of what people think, of trying to put on a happy face to the world. When the fear and shame is too strong, our thoughts just cannot contemplate a different way. I was beaten once, long ago, in a relationship. I felt ashamed and thought it was my fault, because I’d done things that angered him. He told me it was my fault. I thought I had to be a better person, and then he wouldn’t do it. He didn’t hit me again, the relationship eventually ended. Although he was entirely responsible for his behaviour, I was also partially responsible for the mess of the relationship because I was of being “on my own” so didn’t get out of it – until I did.
Thank you again for writing this, and maybe some day Claire will feel able to get help.
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I think abusive men are sick in the head. I don’t mean that in a terse way, but I tell women (it’s mostly women) all the time that if he hits you once, he’ll do it again. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s been my experience. Maybe it’s learned behavior, I don’t know. I never saw my dad touch my mom in a bad way, and I’ve never thought once about physically hurting a woman to accomplish anything. Who knows why it happens, but it’s never the victim’s fault, though the worst abusers will make women think it is. I’m glad you got out of your relationship before it got ugly. I do use humor and snark to cope I guess. I’m very much a jackass, but I do also care about other people deeply and share that side of myself from time to time. Don’t you go telling those Bloppies that I’m a softy though!! Lol. Thank you for reading.
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I was about to saying that this was a good story, when what I actually mean is it’s a well-told one.
Very sad and no doubt just the tip of the iceberg in terms of how much abuse goes on behind closed doors.
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