One Sentence Triggered a Memory

They say that smells trigger memories, as does music. I've heard of people hearing one phrase or sentence and an entire experience floods back, washing them with anxiety, fear, anger and, on occasion, happy feelings. I never thought I would hear something that I'd never remembered hearing and have an entire nightmare come back to me, as well as recognizing that it was a pivotal moment in a cascade of tragic events that followed me for a decade.

But today I heard a woman say something in the store to her kid, and I stopped dead in my tracks. The sounds, images, and panic came rushing back to me, in short flashes of still images at first, then a black and white movie. The fact that a person can remember something in such detail, when they have no recollection of the actual event beforehand, is frightening.

Her name was Melody. She was two grades older than me and I guess I was in 4th or 5th year? She was a slightly light-skinned black girl, with medium brown hair. She always had it in pigtails or divided into three sections, with the hair twisted rather than braided, and secured with those weird little ball-elastic ties that we all used back then. She was tall for her age but proportionate. She had a brother that was in my school but younger than me, but I never saw him except for the bus stop in the morning. He didn't talk. They didn't have a father and I'd only seen the mother's face a few times when she'd stick her head out the door to look around.

We lived on a side street with lots of couples, but no families. They rented a trashy house, as most of the people in the neighborhood did. We were the only white family and one of the only few who actually owned their house. Even though I was a petite blonde haired, blue eyed girl, Melody and I still ended up doing things together on our street. A lot of times we'd draw on our driveways with chalk, or listen to music and look for 4-leaf clovers in the yards of the abandoned houses. Sounds innocent enough, I guess. Sometimes she'd touch me in ways I didn't like. It wasn't sexual abuse or anything, I just didn't like her leaning up against me while we were sitting there, or playing with my hair, or asking me to sit in her lap. I never really spoke out; I just squirmed away and said "stop it," in a way that probably sounded more like, "aww, stahp it!" It didn't really happen a lot but it happened enough that I really hated it.

Many times, if we were close to her house, we would start to hear very loud adult screaming coming from inside. There would be banging, crashing, whatever, and then her brother would start scream-crying. I'm not sure what went on in that house but, every time it started, Melody would jump up and run in the house.

I told my parents about it. My dad said, "Typical for a family like that." My mom said, "Leave it alone. It's none of our business." So I pretended it wasn't ever happening.

One day Melody and I were outside and we were talking. Who knows about what, but she ended up asking me if I was ticklish. I said yes. Back then it was true. She poked me in the ribs with a finger and asked me if it tickled. I told her no, she just jabbed me. Then she grabbed my ribcage with one hand and gave a little squeeze. It tickled, yes, and I did my best to mask the fact that it DID tickle and I was getting ultra-creeped out. So I told her I was hungry and was going to go home to get a snack and I'd see her later if she was still out.

But when I stood up, she grabbed me with both hands around the rib cage and started tickling me pretty aggressively. I was flailing around, trying to get loose, but she thought it was because I was just being tickled and she was laughing the whole time. I had my eyes closed because I didn't want to see her horrible, gap-toothed mouth grinning at me while she did it. I didn't see that she'd leaned forward to get up and, with my arms moving around, I kind of hit her across the side of the head with my forearm. Not hard, I don't think.

She shoved me down hard onto the ground, stood up and straddled me. Her face transformed into something I'd never seen before. (This was my first experience with any kind of real-life violence rather than cartoons on TV) She leaned down about a foot from my face and said, "You little fucking bitch," raised her hand back, slapped me hard across my left cheek, turned and left. I was literally speechless.

I was a good kid. I rarely got in trouble at home and I'd never been hit, much less slapped. I'd even only been spanked twice. I got up, refusing to let myself cry until I got in the house even though my face was twisted up. When I walked in, my mom could see the red handprint covering, basically, the entire left side of my head. Naturally, I had to tell her the whole story.

I don't think my dad was home from work yet. I don't know why my mom went over. Maybe to do a mom-to-mom talk? Whatever the case, she made me go with her. She wanted Melody's mom to see my face.

There was lots of screaming inside the house and we could hear a TV turned up loud. I guess eventually the mom heard the doorbell/banging on the door and opened it. She wouldn't come outside but rather stuck her head around the edge of the door. The entire inside of the house was pitch-black and a musty smell blasted out through the crack.

I remember that she immediately began yelling at my mom in some unintelligible ghetto slang. My mom still stayed calm. She turned my head a little and informed the mother that Melody had done that to me. A girl who probably weighed twice as much as I did and was a good foot and a half taller than me. But the mom yelled about how nobody could prove Melody did it and so on. Then more indecipherable shit.

The mom kept yelling and I don't think my mom could make out what she was saying. I did make out a few words that I knew were supposed to be bad words about white people. My mom just stood there with her hands defiantly propped on her hips and her lips pursed tightly.

The mom simply would not quit yelling. She didn't even really have anything to yell about, seeing as my mom had literally only spoken two sentences. My mom could tell she wasn't going to get anywhere with that crazy lady.

My mother threw her hands up in the air and kind of waved them around a little and screamed back at that woman, "All you know how to do is yell! I feel sorry for your children for having such an ignorant, evil hag for a mother!" And she grabbed my hand, spun us around, and stomped us back across and down the street.

And that's where the memory ends. With the realization of "All you know to do is yell," and the fact that it came from my mother as she was trying to get reasons for why her little girl was smacked by a girl with a seriously unfair advantage.

I started thinking about everything that had happened after that. I'd never had bad interactions with black people prior to that. Honestly, I hadn't had many at all, despite where we lived. My dad was racist, but I hadn't adopted his attitude, mostly because my mother was the opposite end of the spectrum. 

My mother had a black nanny, who lived in the bedroom at the end of the hall and taught her how to cook, the proper way to clean and polish antique furniture, and the words to the old black spirituals that they'd sing together as my mom sat on the counter and watched "Mammy" (I swear, that's what she told the kids to call her...it wasn't a racist term just imposed on her) wash the dishes after dinner. My mom has quite a long repertoire of stories about Mammy. She died before I got to know her, but I have 2 pictures of her holding me when I was a baby.

But after that day with Melody, I've come to figure out, my attitudes and emotions towards black folks were not the same. It wasn't fear so much as just the strongest sense of hate. I knew a long time ago that I'd felt that was from a young age, but I didn't know started it.

As I got older, the neighborhood got way worse, and we couldn't sell our house without losing our asses on it, so I endured the abuse, beatings, bullying, and hatred for almost 10 more years before we were able to move to a better neighborhood.

I lived a life as an openly-racist white girl, dated a couple of skinheads (not nazi kinds, just white-power kinds), and tried to find some kind of retribution for all my pain and scars, both mental and physical, caused by blacks. I know damned well that there were plenty of harmless people who became the victim of our hate crimes, and I didn't give a fuck, because their people did the same thing to me: the innocent, petite little white girl who just tried to go to school, get good grades, and keep the hell to herself.

I can't say I've eliminated the racism from my mind. My interactions with them have not improved, really. I just stay out of those areas unless I'm driving through, just to remind myself why I've worked so damned hard to make sure I never have to live in a ghetto ever again. To be honest, I don't care that it's 2019 and we're supposed to be a more "enlightened" society. I know not every black human is a bad one. Deep in my heart, I know that, and I'm fully aware that, peel off that skin, and we look the same. They have human DNA the same as me. But still.

It's made my life full of inner-conflict, that's for sure. As a young adult, I had to learn to hide my racism and do my absolute best to treat everyone the same because that's what's expected in this day and age and, really, unless they victimize me first, do they deserve to be treated with prejudice? No. To make things even more complicated, my now-boyfriend was married to a black woman - a pretty ghetto one, I thought, despite her intellect and ambivalent civility when I met her once - and I came clean about all my feelings one night when I was drunk. He's never held it against me.

And all it took to come to this realization was a mother in the store, raising her voice at her screaming kid who wanted candy. "All you know how to do is yell!"

Because of things like that, I remain...

He's Got Terminal Cancer and I Feel Guilty

I got a message today that an ex-boyfriend has cancer again. This is the second time in his life but, this time, it's terminal. I feel oddly guilty about some things that happened between us and, yet, I still wonder why we reconciled and became friends.

1994...

I was barely legal to work in a bar, but I had just moved out of the apartment I shared with my (ex)boyfriend and needed a job. There was a club that hadn't opened yet and they wanted people to help decorate and start training. I was going to turn 18 right before the club opened, so they hired me. It was a very upscale place and I was working with some of the best bartenders in the city.

I can say this now because I don't resemble that girl at all now but, I was smokin' hot back then. 5'4" and 98lbs, skinny but toned, tan, striking red hair, and confidence. You know how it goes...you start meeting people at work and there are always those people who end up getting together with someone. I was one of those.

That girl I used to be was also a slut. I ended up dating one of the valets, the bouncer, and the DJ at the same time; ironically they all the same name. But they never knew because those paths never crossed. While I should have stayed with the valet in hindsight (yeah, I know, but he's a wonderful man now who, frighteningly enough, lives in my neighborhood now with his wife and son.) But I didn't, and I ended up with the older one: the bouncer. For context: 

But let's back up a little bit. For the purposes of this story, the valet and DJ are not included.

Jake was tall, tanned, dark hair, and blue eyes. He worked out a lot and pretty much just looked like a god. He was an artist by trade. He'd done the sculptures in the club and some metal designs. He was good; he did a lot of commission work and was hired by new clubs opening to work on their interior artistic design as well.

We opened pretty early in the day for late lunches (we served food during the day) so half the staff was working. I was kind of bored with no customers, and it happened a lot when we opened early so I would stand at the door with the bouncer quite often, watching all the $100K cars drive by. One day he started looking at me a little differently. I was used to noticing when things like that happened because it did, all the time.

We'd been standing in silence for quite a while and he spoke up. "Do you have any Italian in you?"
What a weird question to just pop off with, I thought. "No."
He grinned and said, "Do you want some?"
"Jesus fucking Christ. Seriously?" I rolled my eyes and went back inside. 
He called after me," Well?" I ignored him.

For the rest of the weekend, he stared any chance he got, since I worked the front bar. All he had to do was turn around and he could see me. Days passed. He kept talking to me and I kept standing at the door as always. Then, like the flip of a switch, I decided Jake wasn't a dick after all. Somehow, he sensed it and asked me out in a proper fashion. The Italian restaurant down the street was one of the best in the city and they were famous for their carbonara and bellinis. All this time has passed and I swear I can still taste them. The upside to being in the bar business is you get to know all the other bartenders and managers nearby and they'd serve underage workers in the industry if they knew you.

We really hit it off. Eventually he got around to asking how old I was. "18."
"I didn't realize you were that young but, hey, you're legal, right? Heh."
"Yeah, I guess so. It's obvious that you're a bit older, so what's the number?"
"34." I was floored. Jake was almost twice my age. Obvious sidenote: I didn't care.

I quit dating the other guys and they were none too happy to find out what had been going on since we didn't try to keep any of it a secret. He was really proud to be with me and vice versa. Jake had been working in the bar scene for quite a while, so he introduced me to "everybody." I was staying at his condo almost every night. I helped him with his art and assisted him in setting all the new decor he'd constructed in the new clubs opening up. He took me to a nearby seaside town that had art festivals three times a year so I could be there for his first 'star of the show,' I guess, showing at an internationally-known gallery, and his subsequent shows. We'd double-date with his roommate and his girl of the week. I mean, we DID stuff as a couple. It wasn't just all physical.

I took him to Thanksgiving dinner that year. My family knew I was bringing someone but they weren't prepared for his age. My parents didn't tell them beforehand, I guess. The looks upon our arrival were, well, mixed. My oldest cousin looked positively mortified. She's 9 years older than me and her opinion mattered a lot to me, so I was a little disheartened.

She intercepted me as I was going to the bathroom. "Do you know how old he is?!"
"Yes. He's 34. And?"
"And?! And he was the bouncer at the Mexico Margarita Bar that I used to go to...WHEN I WAS 21! What the hell are you doing with him?!"
"Um, well, it kinda looks like we're in a relationship, huh?"
"You never bring a guy to family dinners unless you've fucked them. What the hell, Stillie! He's twice your age!"
"Well, yeah but, who cares? I'm not gonna say it's all about 'age is just a number,' but it's just not a factor. Like, why does anybody give a shit?"
She shrugged. "You know they're gonna talk."
I smiled, shrugged, and went to pee.

And yes, there was much talk after we left.

Time went on and he turned out to be a pretty big jerk. Verbally abusing me, but trying to pass it off as a joke. Using me to drive across town to pick up steel for his shop - and I mean, 25 miles each way, 30 minutes with zero traffic, about an hour and a half one way and two hours back if it was rush hour. We often got tips of cocaine or ecstasy along with cash, so we started doing that together. It was a dark time in my life and it only got worse, although I hated the X because it was usually cut with heroin and I wasn't about that. Plus it tasted like shit.

One time, when we were waking up in the morning, he was going off to his studio and I was going into work at the club (now the first of 2 jobs I worked a day on the weekends) at 2. He would arrive there at 8. I was joking around, pretending that I wasn't going to get up and whining about it being so early and pulling the sheets up over my head. It was a little game we played a lot. He'd get back in the bed, we'd have sex, then he'd run off to work. But this one particular morning, he got back in bed and, when he grabbed my jaw, instead of leaning in for a kiss, he forced a pill down my throat and held my mouth shut until I ended up swallowing it. I knew it was X. He'd effectively just ruined my day and freaked me the fuck out with his behavior. It never occurred to me to just get up and puke it up. I called in sick to work and hid under the covers literally all day.

But I stayed with him.

I don't remember a whole lot, except one terrible night where I drank an entire 750ml bottle of Goldschlager (I worked in a bar...hell yeah I had a drinking problem too) and he insisted on taking me out to eat. I don't remember anything except getting back to his place and realizing that the gold comes up too.

There's not just a whole lot else I remember from our relationship besides freaking the fuck out when he told me - like, 5 months in - that he had a daughter who was, by the way, pretty much my same age.

The neighbors three condos down had parties all the time. Big ones, virtually every week. Crazy fucking wild like insane parties. Dude was rich so he went all out, every time. I remember bits and pieces of those parties. 

The end of our relationship was New Year's Eve of who knows what year. 1996? We got off work at the same time but as soon as he secured the building, he got to leave. The rest of us had to stay and tip out and sort it all out. I was at work about 30 minutes longer and then I headed back to his condo, where Dude down the building was having the pinnacle of all parties.

When I walked in the living room (These were apartments created out of an old warehouse. They had one room per floor, like the garage, master bed, guest bed, kitchen, living room, second bed / sitting area and bad-ass balcony overlooking the downtown skyline. Dude had an original warehouse pulley that went from his ceiling all the way down to the 2nd floor, surrounded by Plexiglas and a railing) I found Jake on the top floor. 

With a girl on his lap. Who he was kissing.

I walked over, grabbed her by the hair and her back, and tossed her off to the side. She was too drunk to do a damned thing and I was still sober from work. Also, I grew up in a dangerous ghetto in a large city and survived only by learning how to fight. I leaned over him and put both hands around his neck, fully intending to do something to him - I don't even know what my motivation was. I went into a blind rage as I stormed over to them and the only reason I know what I did is because Dude told me the next day.

The next thing I remember doing was getting back to an apartment I shared with my best friend. I was never there, so I hadn't even moved a mattress into my bedroom. I laid down on the three comforters I had on the floor and tried to go to sleep. I didn't.

Two days later, I went to the condo and his truck wasn't there, so I went in and put all my stuff in a garbage bag and was getting ready to leave when he came up the stairs. Jake was yelling and begging and angry and sad (cocaine'll do that to ya) and didn't want me to go. He grabbed me by the arm and I pushed him on his chest. I really just meant to get him away from me, but he tripped over the corner of the coffee table, fell backward, and hit his head on the arm of the sofa, body fully stretched out and cranking his neck in a really creepy way. He was immediately unresponsive. I didn't know if he was alive, dead, or what, but I was outta there.

I got home and panicked. I actually had a cell phone, way back then (one of those gigantic Nokia phones that are considered 'brick' style. Actually, it was a Nokia model 101!) but most people still had only landlines. I called him, he answered (thank god), asked me to come back, and I told him to fuck off.

That was back when I had confidence and I'd drawn a line. All the other bullshit was kind of like whatever, but the kissing another chick - for some reason was worse than forcing me to take drugs! LOL - oh, hell no. Done. I walked away. I haven't done that sort of thing these days. I just take it. Because I'm beat down. But that's another entry.

I don't remember much about what happened after that. I know I didn't quit my job at the club immediately. I had another job to fall back on but it was only for a few days a week, starting at 3am. But I made it work, started fucking one of the valets and one of the cops that was hired for security on the weekends and we made it pretty well-known (told you i was a slut), and eventually I quit the bar scene

2 years later he paged me. (yes, that was a thing then and google it since you look confused) I called him back. He got right to the point. He said he had cancer. Then I said something I regret: "Good. I hope you die" and hung up.

A few years later, when MySpace became A Thing, he sent me a friend request. He beat the cancer! We called a truce, I apologized profusely, he said he was still mad but would get over it. We followed each other and made the jump to Facebook. He started working for an internationally-known theater company, designing all the sets and props, and promised me he'd call when he got to my city. He never did, though. He always apologized and said it was just the whirlwind and nature of the business, and I believed him.

I knew something was wrong a few months ago. He quit the show and started doing commissioned art pieces in the last place he'd called home. He started posting a lot of pics of him with family and friends, out eating, visiting museums...but I didn't give it a second thought.

Today, I found out why. He was saying goodbye. He told me that he has terminal cancer (although he's not making the 'terminal' part too public; in fact, his sister set up a CaringBridge account to help pay for his ongoing treatment, even though she knows it's in vain) I donated. More than was smart for my financial situation but, damn...I am who I am today partially because of him.

I've been crying. I've been pensive. There are so many things I want to say to him but I don't want to clog up his time with all of the emotional bullshit I want to talk to him about. I don't want to burden him. I don't want him to think this is about alleviating my guilt by trying to "make things right" before he dies.

I just want him to know how much of an integral role he played in my life, and that I still love him in the part of my heart that has remained a 19-year old girl.

I've dealt with swift death a lot. Overdoses and suicides of my friends, a few fatal car crashes, otherworldly amounts of blood, gore, and death from when I drove a tow truck that worked motor vehicle accidents...but this lingering thing. I don't know how to do lingering. I feel a weight in my chest and a lump in my throat and I don't like it.

God have mercy on his poor soul. And throughout this ordeal, I am...
.

My State Doesn't Care About Protecting Women from Stalkers

At the end of 2015, I met a guy who was the first person I'd met who was close to my age in my new town. He was charming, was a very good guitar player, and, according to him, had a pretty interesting life. I was lonely, so although I wasn't invested, I decided to hang out with him. It was literally months before we even had sex. To be perfectly honest, I'd gone along with our involvement to simply use him as a placeholder until I found someone I felt was better suited to me. Let's call him Jimmy.

About a month after we'd started going out and doing stuff together, there was a night of him acting totally fucking nuts after he'd been drinking. I mean, it was like a psychotic episode. I was a little freaked out but, after all the conversations we'd had, I understood what kind of traumatic experiences he'd had and decided to let it slide. It wasn't like I hadn't done the same thing at some point in my life. I had cameras on my porch and garage and I watched the videos over and over, trying to tell myself that it wasn't worth it.

Although he was supposedly a guitarist for a locally-known band and they toured, he sure was home a lot. His mother gave him money all the time and, I was not shy about expressing this opinion, their relationship was very co-dependent. She would call him literally non-stop while we were out together, he called her "mama," and she did all his laundry and cleaned his room...yes, he lived with her...and basically took care of him as if he were 10 years old. Why didn't I run then, you ask? Well, I was lonely and he said he'd talk to her about it. He claimed that she'd "ruined" several relationships in the past and he wouldn't stand for it again.

There was a music store I'd gone to with him a few times. I didn't get warm, fuzzy vibes from the owner and employee and I told Jimmy. He'd hang out there when I was working and he had nothing else to do. I wasn't going to tell him what to do but I did tell him I didn't really like it because something was off. To make matters worse, the owner lived less than one block down from me and Jimmy told him about the coincidence. Great. One night, he was supposed to be at my house at, like, 9. The music store closed at 7. He didn't show up and his phone was just going to voice mail. I just happened to notice his car down the street and went over. He was sitting in the living room drunk as fuck. He didn't even know where he was. All I said was, "Well, at least you're not dead in a ditch somewhere," and was going to go back home. He stumble-ran after me, begging me not to leave - at a very loud volume. Like, neighbors looking out the windows at midnight kind of staring. He was crying at this point and lunged at my feet, wrapping his arms around my legs, begging me not to go because he loved me so much. Yeah, drunk talk. Love had never been mentioned before, thank God, so I told Jimmy that it wasn't a true feeling and I was going home and he'd better unhand me. His friends pulled him off of me. I later found out the music store was essentially running a way-illegal bar out of the shop after hours.

There were a few more times Jimmy was MIA for various reasons, after which I cut off contact with him. One of those times he'd gotten arrested for DWI but tried to play it off as him just falling asleep and completely missing my calls. But his mother would call me and beg me not to abandon him because he was doing "so good" with me in his life. In fact, it was his mother that kinda let it leak that it was a DWI, which he vehemently denied. The woman was absolutely crazy, but I caved every single time.

He had a few more weird psycho episodes at my house and, each time, I'd call his mom and tell her that if she didn't come to pick him up, I was calling the cops and having him hauled off. She always did.

I should have left. But I didn't. Why? Because we found out he had gall bladder cancer. It wasn't too terribly advanced but he needed to have surgery right away. Yes, Dude had massive issues and I passed off a lot of them as changes due to undiscovered cancer. I really felt like I couldn't walk away right then. I'd done that years ago to a boyfriend who had just gone through an accident that blinded him in one eye, but he was borderline abusive and I wasn't going to stay with him and I didn't care about timing, but I've felt guilty ever since. Jimmy's cancer surgery went as planned and his recovery was pretty quick, although he milked it for months as an excuse to not find a job. I'd been urging him for quite some time.

I noticed that Jimmy's stories started getting wilder and wilder. Each one suggested that he was very important to a company, a band, a motorcycle gang, even had personal friends in the mafia in NJ who sometimes asked him for favors. At one point, I knew he was just straight-up lying about all of it, called him on it, but he insisted he wasn't. I just gave up. I mean, what was the point? And he put on SUCH a show, with fake phone calls that I'd "accidentally" overhear, or something similar. It was one of those nights that he went batshit again when I did actually call the cops on him and he ran out of the house and took off his clothes in my front yard and went running through the neighborhood in nothing but boxers. Why didn't I leave then, you ask? 

I did. 

But I guess he didn't get the message, because he ignored my "this isn't working out. please leave me alone" responses to his texts and calls sent to voice mail. He would leave notes on my car when I was at work. He had flowers sent to my house. At one point, he actually showed up with a fucking diamond ring and asked me to marry him, after knocking on all my neighbors' doors to have them witness the touching moment. Yeah. The moment where I ended up closing the door with him still on his knee and threatening to call the cops if he didn't leave. One of my neighbors did, but they didn't arrive until he'd left. I ended up giving them all of his information for possible future problems.

His mom called me several times a day and left voicemails and texts, begging me to talk to him again, that his depression had put him into a self-destructive spiral. I ended up just sending her a text that said, "Please don't contact me again. I've made my decision." Then Jimmy started sending me private messages on every social media platform and when I blocked him, he'd just create a new profile and start over. I kept all of them because some were really creepy, some were alluding to violence without actually saying it. I told him I'd saved all of the messages, told everyone I knew what he was doing, and would hand all of it over to the police if he didn't stop.

And then he stopped bothering me.

Very soon thereafter, I met a really nice guy my age named Tom, who was in my same career field but with a different company and we totally hit it off. I knew by the third date that he was "the One." Later, he'd tell me he felt the same way.

That's when I started getting movement alerts from my cameras. Sometimes Jimmy would just pull up in my driveway when I was at work and just sit there. Sometimes he'd walk up to the door and knock, knowing I wasn't there, and get my dogs all riled up. Sometimes he'd just drive by super-slowly and sit in the street in front of my house - especially when Tom was there. There were times he would follow me. I'd gotten good at noticing the pattern of his headlights and had his plate number memorized. Of course, I always noticed when a car had been behind me awhile and sometimes made multiple, pointless turns and he'd still follow. When I contacted the cops, they told me that unless he was damaging property or entering the house illegally, there was nothing they could do. I told Tom what was going on because he deserved to know.

I've rambled enough; let's get to the disgraceful part. 

I researched everything I could about how restraining orders worked in my state and what I had to do to get one. I was shocked to find out what was required: 

1. conduct that he “knows or reasonably believes” the victim will perceive as threatening damage to victim's personal property, threatening bodily injury or death, either to themselves or a member of their family or household, including pets; and
2. places the victim or a family member “in fear of bodily injury or death”; and
3. would cause any “reasonable person to fear” bodily injury or death under the circumstances.

While the statute has been changed in recent years to say (paraphrase) that 'all the victim has to do is persuade the judge that it is reasonable to believe the defendant is going to hurt them,' it's been widely documented that judges are quite hesitant to award those orders to victims. Time and time again, the victim is expected to provide the burden of proof. A violation of any of the sections referring to harassment or threats does not automatically give rise to a criminal investigation, although those instances can be used to support a criminal complaint involving harassment or terroristic threats where appropriate. Above all, it's just a piece of paper and you'll see in a minute why the possibility of legal troubles was not something Jimmy cared about.

When he called every person he could track down that he knew was a friend or family to ask about my whereabouts and whatnot, I'd finally had enough. When he showed up at my parents' house, he was met at the door with a .45 ACP in the middle of his forehead. Dad wasn't having it! 

About that time, Tom had to take a rather lengthy job out of state and I decided to move and start over. If I was going to be alone all the time when Jimmy was well aware of my schedule, I didn't want him to be showing up again. And probably pissed off as fuck after the pistol thing.

Jimmy actually went to my office, claimed he was having car trouble and his phone was dead and used the company phone to call me. Of course, I answered. Caught off-guard, I didn't even think to use my call recorder. He told me that he was going to kill Tom if he ever saw him out alone (Tom is an ex-Marine with a concealed carry license so, yeah...) and he'd come for me next. Then he hung up. I immediately called the police and they asked me if I had proof of his threats. When I called the receptionist at the office, she said she didn't hear any of it. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd threatened her into silence.

So the cops wouldn't help. I ran a background check for our county and almost fainted when I saw that he had 21 arrests. Felony charges, ag assault, DWIs, making false statements to police, all kinds of stuff, going back years to when he was 22.

Then Jimmy found me. I don't know how, because my house was about 10 miles from work and there were a lot of turns, especially through the large neighborhood. I would have noticed, even if he'd hung back, regardless of what vehicle he was in. I never would have driven to my house if I'd thought someone was following me.

One evening, one of my favorite writers was having a book signing and I was so excited. Imagine my surprise when the librarian announced to the crowd that there was a call for me. Granted, my phone had been turned off and my father had been having some pretty serious health problems; my parents knew where I was. But it wasn't them. It was Jimmy. He said he was coming up there because he wanted to see me. I was so pissed at myself for letting him know I liked the author and that he found out she'd be in town. I told him no, he'd better not even dare. He cussed at me a little and hung up.

When I got home, there were 2 police cars in front of my house. The first thing I thought was, "HOLY SHIT. WHAT HAPPENED?!" But when I got out of my car, the police came to me and said we needed to talk. Long story shorter, "someone" had called 911 and said I had threatened a terrorist act against the County building I worked in and was planning on committing suicide after. 

Yeah.

They said they had to take me to the hospital for a psych evaluation at that time. After trying to talk them out of it and letting me just go in and go to sleep so I could go to work in the morning, they still wouldn't let me. You could tell they really didn't want to take me, and that they could tell it was a bullshit call. I even told them who made the call and why, but they said it was a zero-tolerance policy and they didn't have any choice especially because their sergeant was watching, and nodded to the other police car. I was crying at that point, but they put me in the back of the Tahoe and took me to the nearby ER. It was clear I wasn't making it to work.

Everybody in there was annoyed because they knew I didn't belong there, but they still had to follow certain procedures. After MHMRA came and interviewed me and left, I was able to go home. At that point, it was past noon. Insult to injury: I had to call a cab to take me home.

I was called into the admin office immediately the next day. They were putting me on paid admin leave until they could conduct an "investigation." They took my laptop, credentials, and all my employee stuff and banned me from accessing any County building or the computer systems. There were a number of roadblocks keeping me from returning to work; mostly that they wanted me to get a psych eval from a psychiatrist. It was taking forever and, at that point, I'd been out of work for two months. I insisted they allow me in to clear out my cubicle because I had no idea, truthfully, if I'd ever be going back.

I got a lawyer. It was messy. Even presented with a full incident report explaining what happened and all the background to go with it, I wasn't allowed back to work. The County made a lot of mistakes in how it was handled and the police unlawfully transported me, so that lawyer and I have been discussing what kinds of steps to take. It's been since August that I've been in my office. Look at the publishing date on this. No! It's still not resolved!

Then Jimmy started calling again immediately after the incident in August. He came by the house. He texted me constantly. I mean, I literally felt like I was a prisoner in my own home for fear of running into him somewhere. Not that I really wanted to leave anyway. Depression gripped my soul. I put the cameras up on the outside of this new house.

Phone calls to the police netted the same response as before: if he hadn't threatened me, injured me, damaged personal property or the like, there was nothing they could do. There STILL isn't anything they can do. I feel helpless. The only recourse I have is to arm myself. It's not a deal; I've been shooting since I was a child, but I never wanted to test those skills on a human.

The sad reality is that, someday, I may need to. Jimmy knows me well enough to know that I will not hesitate one second to neutralize any threat who breaks into my home. He knows that he's included in that. As soon as someone forcibly enters my home without an invite, I don't care how I know you...unless we're kin or close friends, you're done. People don't break into another's house with the intent of doing something good. My only regret would be having to relinquish my security deposit because of the ruined carpet and sheetrock.

But I pray it will never come to that. I'm wary of any weird situations outside in the front. My neighborhood is graveyard quiet, so even hearing voices is odd. If the dogs alert for a reason I don't see, my heart starts racing. On occasion, something bumps the back door from the outside, always at night. I've never found out what it was, even when I've jumped up and opened it immediately. But now...now I start wondering if it's HIM. I notice any little thing out of place, like the fact that there's a bird singing in the tree outside and it's freakin' 2am. A different car in the driveway of a house on my street? Already saw it. I know the make and model and a ballpark on the year. I've played out the various scenarios over and over in my mind. I want to know that, if it happens, regardless of how it starts, I have a plan for how to proceed. It's no different than a fire safety plan for your house, really.

He called me again today from a burner phone number. Even hearing his voice curdles my blood when, at one time, his baritone southern drawl made me weak in the knees. Every time it happens, I call Tom, my parents, my therapist, and the police. I've started keeping a log of everything, including my feelings after it happens. I figure that might be important at some point.

I put up a good front; my friends back home say they're in awe of my strength and fearlessness. (I'm totally alone again - still? Tom is out of state again working for an estimated 16 more months.) I am NOT strong and I am most definitely AFRAID, but I know I can stay calm if shit hits the fan; I'm just like that.

Since I am about two weeks away from being fired - I'm guessing - I've been picking up side-hustles as often as possible. I have a private tutoring session for a couple of kids new to the country. I guess their English is so poor that they can't comprehend classwork, but I speak French so it's going to be fine. A gig paying me a handsome rate for two kids, twice a week? Not enough to get me by, but it's a start.

I try to look at it that way: each day is a new start. Maybe it'll be the day where I can START being carefree and unafraid. Maybe it'll be the day where I can quit holding a grudge against the lawmakers in my state, who aren't concerned with making a sensible and logical process to get protective orders in place. Maybe it'll be the day when I can get back to the business of being Stillie; the strong, snarky, firecracker of a bitch she used to be. Only time will tell.

. Until then, I am...
.