After a tiny little woman friend was traumatically attacked and nearly killed by a stranger in Lancaster, I could not sleep for a month.
After weeks of insomnia, I had a panic attack that took me to the ER at four am. Straight to psych.
They released me and asked me to see my family doctor and therapist, which I did.
My therapist asked me to pay attention: during the panic attacks, which have continued, my hands won't work:
MY HANDS:
Won't open doors.
Won't turn on a faucet though I can move my hand to the sink.
Though I can feel the cool porcelain on the skin of my hand.
But not operate my hand to turn a faucet.
MY HANDS
Won't open the purse strapped to my body.
Won't operate the phone I can see in my purse.
Won't clutch at the cigarette.
Won't open the bottle of Xanax I have been keeping in my purse.
The therapist prompted me to trust my body. What are my hands asking me to remember?
I REMEMBERED!
I was drugged on a first date. I have been blaming myself for what happened.
July 2012, NYC:
I WAS DRUGGED AND RAPED ON A FIRST DATE AT 32 YEARS OLD.
It does not matter that I broke three single girl dating rules that night.
I forgive you, Regina, for getting into a taxi that he insisted I take when I had wanted to cancel because I had been hanging out with friends and it was too late for me to take a train.
I forgive you, Regina, for entering his house hesitantly at his invitation to be polite because he had just given the taxi driver the $40 fare.
I forgive you, Regina, for taking small, hesitant, polite sips of the cold white wine with his sickening words, "Drink up."
Maybe one day I will stop hearing his voice...............................
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
A letter to the abused
Three friends were abused by their boyfriends this summer. Two friends got the fuck out of that situation. The third did not. This is my written account of her story.
Early in the summer of 2014, at five am on a Sunday, she was beaten so badly by her boyfriend Stephen that she had bleeding in her brain.
As a result of her injuries, she spent two days in the hospital and missed two weeks of work.
She was punched in the face, picked up and thrown on the ground. Stephen then kicked her in the head multiple times. I visited her three days after the attack. She cried about her son's future with a boot-print bruise on her neck.
She was with her son's father for six years when she missed two days of work in September 2013 after he gave her a black eye among other injuries. She ended their relationship and her family promised their help with childcare as a show of support and solidarity.
She worked as a cook, training under an internationally recognized chef after completing culinary school. She turned down the sous chef position due to her responsibilities as a mother. Her ex saw his son infrequently and contributed financially even less frequently. Her mother and sisters watched her son when she was at work. She made about $350 a week.
She met Stephen in November. He moved in with her over the winter. He potty-trained her son in the spring, a few months before beating her almost to death. Stephen has a five-year-old daughter that lives in Virginia.
Her three-year-old son was sleeping in the one-bedroom apartment when Stephen started beating her. She was hoping he did not see any of the attack. Wishful thinking. I have been to her apartment. It is an open floor-plan. Most likely her son saw the entire thing.
She reconciled with Stephen by the 4th of July and moved to Virginia with him in August, leaving her son behind.
I wrote letters to her in July, when my fears for her future were unfolding.
July 20
On Friday, July 18 you didn't show up to work. Last night at four a.m. I awakened from a bad dream. I tried to look you up on Facebook but couldn't find your profile. I scanned the internet for over an hour, searching for proof of your presence or whereabouts.
I returned to bed as the birds began to sing their summer morning song.
I tried to return to sleep but kept wondering if you were OK.
July 22
Did you already move out of state?
Your boyfriend is skipping out on his court hearing concerning the early morning he beat you so badly he almost killed you, correct?
Does your son's father know that his son is moving to Virginia with the man that repeatedly kicked you in the head while his three-year old son watched?
Has he noticed the speech-delays your son is experiencing as a result of the trauma he witnessed?
Have you noticed?
July 24
I get the bad boy thing.
I too have loved and fucked dangerous men.
I have never received a smack, let alone a brutal attack, from one of them.
Get rid of this guy.
I am afraid he is going to kill you.
I want you to leave him and enter into a women's shelter with your son.
Stephen is dangerous.
He does not deserve the trust is takes to move to another state with someone.
You have known him for less than a year. A year in which he beat you so badly you were unable to work for two weeks.
When a twenty-four year old single mother making $23,000 a year misses two weeks of work, how will she be able to pay her rent? I asked you in June if you wanted friends to help with money, knowing you would be hurting financially. You said no.
Who is going to take care of your son if something happens to you?
Aren't you afraid he is going to kill you?
Do you want this guy to kill you?
Early in the summer of 2014, at five am on a Sunday, she was beaten so badly by her boyfriend Stephen that she had bleeding in her brain.
As a result of her injuries, she spent two days in the hospital and missed two weeks of work.
She was punched in the face, picked up and thrown on the ground. Stephen then kicked her in the head multiple times. I visited her three days after the attack. She cried about her son's future with a boot-print bruise on her neck.
She was with her son's father for six years when she missed two days of work in September 2013 after he gave her a black eye among other injuries. She ended their relationship and her family promised their help with childcare as a show of support and solidarity.
She worked as a cook, training under an internationally recognized chef after completing culinary school. She turned down the sous chef position due to her responsibilities as a mother. Her ex saw his son infrequently and contributed financially even less frequently. Her mother and sisters watched her son when she was at work. She made about $350 a week.
She met Stephen in November. He moved in with her over the winter. He potty-trained her son in the spring, a few months before beating her almost to death. Stephen has a five-year-old daughter that lives in Virginia.
Her three-year-old son was sleeping in the one-bedroom apartment when Stephen started beating her. She was hoping he did not see any of the attack. Wishful thinking. I have been to her apartment. It is an open floor-plan. Most likely her son saw the entire thing.
She reconciled with Stephen by the 4th of July and moved to Virginia with him in August, leaving her son behind.
I wrote letters to her in July, when my fears for her future were unfolding.
July 20
On Friday, July 18 you didn't show up to work. Last night at four a.m. I awakened from a bad dream. I tried to look you up on Facebook but couldn't find your profile. I scanned the internet for over an hour, searching for proof of your presence or whereabouts.
I returned to bed as the birds began to sing their summer morning song.
I tried to return to sleep but kept wondering if you were OK.
July 22
Did you already move out of state?
Your boyfriend is skipping out on his court hearing concerning the early morning he beat you so badly he almost killed you, correct?
Does your son's father know that his son is moving to Virginia with the man that repeatedly kicked you in the head while his three-year old son watched?
Has he noticed the speech-delays your son is experiencing as a result of the trauma he witnessed?
Have you noticed?
July 24
I get the bad boy thing.
I too have loved and fucked dangerous men.
I have never received a smack, let alone a brutal attack, from one of them.
Get rid of this guy.
I am afraid he is going to kill you.
I want you to leave him and enter into a women's shelter with your son.
Stephen is dangerous.
He does not deserve the trust is takes to move to another state with someone.
You have known him for less than a year. A year in which he beat you so badly you were unable to work for two weeks.
When a twenty-four year old single mother making $23,000 a year misses two weeks of work, how will she be able to pay her rent? I asked you in June if you wanted friends to help with money, knowing you would be hurting financially. You said no.
Who is going to take care of your son if something happens to you?
Aren't you afraid he is going to kill you?
Do you want this guy to kill you?
Thursday, September 18, 2014
I'm sorry, #mikebrown
Unarmed teenage shot six times this summer.
SIX TIMES!
WHERE ARE THE ANSWERS?
WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?
Well, he's black and dead so there won't be any.
We can't un-shoot him.
Shhh, America. Shhh. Go back to sleep.
Let's pretend this was all a strange dream.
In the morning we will pump our veins with high fructose corn syrup and our bellies with ammonia-soaked dollar menu meats and catch up on trending dog-shit.
We will not concern ourselves with the grief or heartbreak of his mother.
We will talk about his shoplifting.
Two of my siblings were caught shoplifting when they were 18. They were given stern lectures. My mother never had to worry that one of her foolish teenagers might be shot by police. We are white. Of course she didn't have that fear. And even if one of my mother's teenager's had been shot by a police officer, can you imagine the public outrage? Shoplifting would have had NO place in the post-death dialogue. But Lesley McSpadden has to listen to the callous dialogue of strangers who wish to assign blame for his death to her son's age-appropriate rebellion.
I am so sorry, Mike Brown. You didn't deserve to die. Your death sucks. And exposed how scary things are right now. So scary that we can't walk down the street without sometimes getting shot six times. You shouldn't be dead. You should have had your chance to become a man and live out your life.
Since I still have the chance to live out my life, I have to keep raising my voice.
I want peace.
I want us to treat each other with respect and as equals. I propose a blessing, a toast, a moment of reflection:
Here's to the past, looking back to make sure mistakes are not repeated.
Here's to the present, working for change.
Here's to the future, while we're still alive to look forward to it.
SIX TIMES!
WHERE ARE THE ANSWERS?
WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?
Well, he's black and dead so there won't be any.
We can't un-shoot him.
Shhh, America. Shhh. Go back to sleep.
Let's pretend this was all a strange dream.
In the morning we will pump our veins with high fructose corn syrup and our bellies with ammonia-soaked dollar menu meats and catch up on trending dog-shit.
We will not concern ourselves with the grief or heartbreak of his mother.
We will talk about his shoplifting.
Two of my siblings were caught shoplifting when they were 18. They were given stern lectures. My mother never had to worry that one of her foolish teenagers might be shot by police. We are white. Of course she didn't have that fear. And even if one of my mother's teenager's had been shot by a police officer, can you imagine the public outrage? Shoplifting would have had NO place in the post-death dialogue. But Lesley McSpadden has to listen to the callous dialogue of strangers who wish to assign blame for his death to her son's age-appropriate rebellion.
I am so sorry, Mike Brown. You didn't deserve to die. Your death sucks. And exposed how scary things are right now. So scary that we can't walk down the street without sometimes getting shot six times. You shouldn't be dead. You should have had your chance to become a man and live out your life.
Since I still have the chance to live out my life, I have to keep raising my voice.
I want peace.
I want us to treat each other with respect and as equals. I propose a blessing, a toast, a moment of reflection:
Here's to the past, looking back to make sure mistakes are not repeated.
Here's to the present, working for change.
Here's to the future, while we're still alive to look forward to it.
I stand against police brutality, and will not rest until #JusticeforMichael is served. Join us: http://naacp.org/ferguson #NAACP
http://oogeewoogee.com/since-you-already-forgot-about-ferguson-mikebrown-let-me-give-you-an-update/Sunday, June 22, 2014
Moving on
I am wide awake, eating ice cream at my kitchen table, in the middle of the night. I told myself I could stay up late if I cleaned. Instead I took a long, hot shower. My
apartment is packed into neatly labeled boxes; a twenty-five times familiar task. This will be my sixth home in two years.
Tomorrow I am moving from this tiny apartment on East Walnut to a west end house with four bedrooms and a yellow door. It is a quiet street in a safe neighborhood. The couple next door have been living there for 58 years.
It is important to me that Chip, Ben, the kids, Sir Spencer Rooney and I are all moving into this space at the same time.
I'm excited.
Tomorrow I am moving from this tiny apartment on East Walnut to a west end house with four bedrooms and a yellow door. It is a quiet street in a safe neighborhood. The couple next door have been living there for 58 years.
It is important to me that Chip, Ben, the kids, Sir Spencer Rooney and I are all moving into this space at the same time.
I'm excited.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Pin pricks
Ever feel so stressed, stretched so thin, you could not possibly bear for one more thing to go wrong? This is a story of the kind of stress that is too much for me right now:
I lost my keys yesterday. And the keys of a friend whose dog I was looking after.
Said keys were lost while walking aforementioned dog.
Also lost that day: what little remained of my calm.
Time: noon
Heat: 90 degrees
Dog: walked about a mile. No stops were made. Ok, a stop to bark at a squirrel. A stop to rub her face on the grass. A stop to confirm that she does not like playing in the fountain. A stop to rub her face in more grass.
Keys: discovered missing when walk is nearly finished.
Steps: retraced.
Dog: thirsty, confused.
Regina: thirsty, without phone or wallet.
Keys: never found.
Dog: tied to porch while Regina tries to get into the house.
7 foot high gate into friend's alley: climbed.
Back door to dog owner's house: open.
Baby Jesus: thanked.
Phone charging happily on counter: used to call mother.
Mother: agrees to pick up/rescue sweaty, dirty Regina.
Regina: peels back a section of the backyard fence; walks two blocks around to front of house where dog is secured. Walks two blocks back with dog to force dog through fence opening into yard.
Fence: re-secured.
Dog: hugged and watered, left to nap inside her home.
Belongings: gathered. Except for pesky missing keys.
7 foot high gate from alley into street: climbed.
Mother: picks up sweaty, dirty Regina.
I lost my keys yesterday. And the keys of a friend whose dog I was looking after.
Said keys were lost while walking aforementioned dog.
Also lost that day: what little remained of my calm.
Time: noon
Heat: 90 degrees
Dog: walked about a mile. No stops were made. Ok, a stop to bark at a squirrel. A stop to rub her face on the grass. A stop to confirm that she does not like playing in the fountain. A stop to rub her face in more grass.
Keys: discovered missing when walk is nearly finished.
Steps: retraced.
Dog: thirsty, confused.
Regina: thirsty, without phone or wallet.
Keys: never found.
Dog: tied to porch while Regina tries to get into the house.
7 foot high gate into friend's alley: climbed.
Back door to dog owner's house: open.
Baby Jesus: thanked.
Phone charging happily on counter: used to call mother.
Mother: agrees to pick up/rescue sweaty, dirty Regina.
Regina: peels back a section of the backyard fence; walks two blocks around to front of house where dog is secured. Walks two blocks back with dog to force dog through fence opening into yard.
Fence: re-secured.
Dog: hugged and watered, left to nap inside her home.
Belongings: gathered. Except for pesky missing keys.
7 foot high gate from alley into street: climbed.
Mother: picks up sweaty, dirty Regina.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Gitmo
Mos Def, now going by the name Yasiin Bey, made a video of what it is like to be force fed, Guantanamo Bay-style. When he was fearful and in pain, he pleaded with them to stop. The Gitmo "detainees" are not given that option. And having been not only in the military but also handcuffed by the police once or twice, I assure you the bodies of the prisoners are not restrained with the delicacy and respect that the crew showed Bey.
Eighty-six of the one hundred sixty-six detainees were cleared for release in 2009. That was four fucking years ago. No wonder people are hunger striking. Also: are some of the people being force fed in the middle of fasting for Ramadan? Have we respect for nothing?
I am embarrassed to admit that I thought Obama closed these unethical torture camps as soon as he got into office. Out of sight out of mind apparently for this silly woman.
I can make an argument for why I don't follow the news more closely. The media spins stories to match up to their agendas. Or worse, to make a good segue into the next "breaking news" story. The government has the public distracted by hyped up local-level trials that distract from larger, more globally important issues and empty promises of politicians jockeying for seats of power. Even if a politician's initial campaign was sincere, once you are in the belly of the beast the only exit is the end of your term. No thank you, I will save that news-watching hour of my day for something less beastly.
Obama tried several times to close Gitmo and was shut down by Congress, the Navy, etc. He recently made statements against what was going on there. But if he was unsuccessful in closing an operation of which he is publicly ashamed, does he have any power at all? Is he just another puppet? Who is running this show? Corporations?
The U.S. government is a machine churning out propaganda, oozing into other nations to take their natural resources and whatever else we want by force, taxing the public to pay for shady, inefficient, inflated military operations. Instead of plantations, minorities and the poor have projects and prison.
In government there is no truth. There is no good. There is no hope. We are the worst.
Now what?
http://www.mysanantonio.com/opinion/commentary/article/It-s-time-to-get-things-right-at-Guantanamo-Bay-4680075.php
http://youtu.be/z6ACE-BBPRs
Eighty-six of the one hundred sixty-six detainees were cleared for release in 2009. That was four fucking years ago. No wonder people are hunger striking. Also: are some of the people being force fed in the middle of fasting for Ramadan? Have we respect for nothing?
I am embarrassed to admit that I thought Obama closed these unethical torture camps as soon as he got into office. Out of sight out of mind apparently for this silly woman.
I can make an argument for why I don't follow the news more closely. The media spins stories to match up to their agendas. Or worse, to make a good segue into the next "breaking news" story. The government has the public distracted by hyped up local-level trials that distract from larger, more globally important issues and empty promises of politicians jockeying for seats of power. Even if a politician's initial campaign was sincere, once you are in the belly of the beast the only exit is the end of your term. No thank you, I will save that news-watching hour of my day for something less beastly.
Obama tried several times to close Gitmo and was shut down by Congress, the Navy, etc. He recently made statements against what was going on there. But if he was unsuccessful in closing an operation of which he is publicly ashamed, does he have any power at all? Is he just another puppet? Who is running this show? Corporations?
The U.S. government is a machine churning out propaganda, oozing into other nations to take their natural resources and whatever else we want by force, taxing the public to pay for shady, inefficient, inflated military operations. Instead of plantations, minorities and the poor have projects and prison.
In government there is no truth. There is no good. There is no hope. We are the worst.
Now what?
http://www.mysanantonio.com/opinion/commentary/article/It-s-time-to-get-things-right-at-Guantanamo-Bay-4680075.php
http://youtu.be/z6ACE-BBPRs
Friday, May 31, 2013
On being DeGaetano
Yesterday my sister Bethany texted me that the video she had made for her husband was almost finished and posted on Youtube. http://youtu.be/ZAxzGjWKclw
I love it and have been showing it to my friends for the past 24 hours.
Beth is 30 and about to have a baby with her husband Stephen. They have been together for ten years and have what I consider to be a beautiful relationship, the rare kind of happiness that not everyone gets to have. In the video Beth is largely pregnant and performing a rap she wrote called "Baby Daddy" about Steve making her feel loved, safe, secure.
My friends comments surprised me. They talked about how similar my sister's movements, dancing, voice, tattoos, face, style and body were to mine. Since she and I have such different body types, I have always thought that we looked enough alike to clearly be sisters but did not think that we were noticeably similar.
We totally are, although we are only half the picture. Ben and Lauren make up the other half. We are four pieces of the same puzzle and I am so happy, blessed and grateful to be a member of this tribe called DeGaetano. I have often focused on the things about my family that drive me crazy or the fights that various ones of us are having with each other. What I should focus on is what I have: an amazing, loving family.
Our parents did not do a lot of instructing. No talks were given about the importance of nature. We were just taken to the park and the beach and the lake. We were taught to ride our bikes and rollerskate by six, sent out to play every day of summer vacation. Music was a focal point in our home. Not talking about music trivia or debating one form of music over another. Just listening to it,dancing to it, making it. Music was on all the time. Bethany and I were given piano lessons. Ben had trumpet lessons. Lauren had dance classes. We were all in choir at some point. Bethany and I sang and played piano on worship teams in church and school when we were teenagers.
Time was the cherished commodity, not money. We know how to give to the people we love.
The last time I saw Ben, Bethany and Lauren was in February when we lost both of our grandparents in the same week. The night before my grandmother's funeral Bethany, Lauren and I shared a hotel room (thanks, Mom). Ben had decided to stay in my parent's room. It surprised me a little that he chose to skip our slumber party but I guess a grown man sharing a bed with one of his sisters was too high a price to pay for the fun benefits of aforementioned sleepover. Whatever, Ben. Us girls giggled into the night. There was a remote that adjusted the pressure of the mattress and Lauren lowered the pressure until we could feel our asses on the bedframe. Bethany, six months pregnant at the time, watched with mild amusement and I scuffled unsuccessfully to get the remote back from Lauren. We gave each other Pop pop kisses (lightning fast) and Dad kisses (super thin-lipped). We even took time to hurt each other's feelings a little.
The next week was Pop pop's funeral. Lauren was sick and stuck in North Carolina. This time Stephen was along. I drove with my brother from the funeral to the cemetery. He keeps a mouth harp on the dash of his truck and I tried to use it. He took it from me and showed me all his sick mouth harp tunes. We hummed and whistled songs. We did not discuss the absurdity of having a receptacle to store an urn in a public place. If you are going to be cremated, shouldn't your ashes be scattered or kept with a loved one? Why burn the body and then pay to store what isn't there anymore? The luncheon after the "inurnment" was at a Maggiano's, an Italian-style chain restaurant. Ben, Steve and I beelined to the bar. Quality time and all.
I love it and have been showing it to my friends for the past 24 hours.
Beth is 30 and about to have a baby with her husband Stephen. They have been together for ten years and have what I consider to be a beautiful relationship, the rare kind of happiness that not everyone gets to have. In the video Beth is largely pregnant and performing a rap she wrote called "Baby Daddy" about Steve making her feel loved, safe, secure.
My friends comments surprised me. They talked about how similar my sister's movements, dancing, voice, tattoos, face, style and body were to mine. Since she and I have such different body types, I have always thought that we looked enough alike to clearly be sisters but did not think that we were noticeably similar.
We totally are, although we are only half the picture. Ben and Lauren make up the other half. We are four pieces of the same puzzle and I am so happy, blessed and grateful to be a member of this tribe called DeGaetano. I have often focused on the things about my family that drive me crazy or the fights that various ones of us are having with each other. What I should focus on is what I have: an amazing, loving family.
Our parents did not do a lot of instructing. No talks were given about the importance of nature. We were just taken to the park and the beach and the lake. We were taught to ride our bikes and rollerskate by six, sent out to play every day of summer vacation. Music was a focal point in our home. Not talking about music trivia or debating one form of music over another. Just listening to it,dancing to it, making it. Music was on all the time. Bethany and I were given piano lessons. Ben had trumpet lessons. Lauren had dance classes. We were all in choir at some point. Bethany and I sang and played piano on worship teams in church and school when we were teenagers.
Time was the cherished commodity, not money. We know how to give to the people we love.
The last time I saw Ben, Bethany and Lauren was in February when we lost both of our grandparents in the same week. The night before my grandmother's funeral Bethany, Lauren and I shared a hotel room (thanks, Mom). Ben had decided to stay in my parent's room. It surprised me a little that he chose to skip our slumber party but I guess a grown man sharing a bed with one of his sisters was too high a price to pay for the fun benefits of aforementioned sleepover. Whatever, Ben. Us girls giggled into the night. There was a remote that adjusted the pressure of the mattress and Lauren lowered the pressure until we could feel our asses on the bedframe. Bethany, six months pregnant at the time, watched with mild amusement and I scuffled unsuccessfully to get the remote back from Lauren. We gave each other Pop pop kisses (lightning fast) and Dad kisses (super thin-lipped). We even took time to hurt each other's feelings a little.
The next week was Pop pop's funeral. Lauren was sick and stuck in North Carolina. This time Stephen was along. I drove with my brother from the funeral to the cemetery. He keeps a mouth harp on the dash of his truck and I tried to use it. He took it from me and showed me all his sick mouth harp tunes. We hummed and whistled songs. We did not discuss the absurdity of having a receptacle to store an urn in a public place. If you are going to be cremated, shouldn't your ashes be scattered or kept with a loved one? Why burn the body and then pay to store what isn't there anymore? The luncheon after the "inurnment" was at a Maggiano's, an Italian-style chain restaurant. Ben, Steve and I beelined to the bar. Quality time and all.
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