#MeToo · Uncategorized · Women's Rights/ Women's Stories

Go on! Tell Them!

NOW. Swirls of emotions and pain blur my senses; I tell “little me” to shut up, for the love of GOD, shut up! “Little me” persists as always and shows me vivid memories; “little me” is flipping through a trashy magazine like she was at a seven-eleven with no intention of buying it. We have both a gift and a curse, an ability to remember and see good and bad experiences, sometimes down to the smallest of details. She’s pushy; I am retreating down a few steps slowly, edging away from the crack of light gleaming from underneath the stairwell door. My heart wants to be happy and block it all out again; ROCK takes over me. Check Mate! “Little me” moves a pawn. Shut the hell up “little me” or ROCK will crush you. You aren’t friends; ROCK is your own stone cold stare, your unwanted protector and ROCK will go to all extremes to keep you quiet. “Little me” has a tear; she knows that the one who hurt her the most deserves to be smothered in Truth. Truth that makes one ignite inside and burn slowly; “He” doesn’t suffer and maybe never will. Narcissists hold tight to their flock, that is their Feeders. They slip behind them and they become the frontline of the battle between Truth and Lies. I was once on the frontline, a Hider and a Feeder. When “He” did BaD DaD things I studied him and held his secrets; I knew when he was using others, charming new people with his routine of lies and making them feel like the most wonderful being ever to cross his path. That’s “grooming”. One is so enamoured by BaD DaD’s gloating over them that before they can blink twice they are pulled onto the frontline.

I am beginning to see more notes. I choose one ripped from a hotel room notepad. I decide to read just one, but only one.

ROCK frowns at “little me”; “Now look what you have done; it’s all your fault you stupid child! If you could just let her be for one godforsaken day. “Little me” puts the note in my hand and says, “open it; hurry”. This step is angry, hot, like putting a finger into the path of a steaming kettle. It’s from a woman, a woman who “He” treated like the filth on your boots after walking through swamps of grayish muck that “He” had forced her to tread through. It reads, ” No one in my life has ever talked to me like this. EVER!” I am in my early twenties, I know the ropes here. I comfort her. How many crying women have come to me since my early years? I am an expert on “BaD DaD”. I keep looking away from everything because I can not grow up and deal with Truth at the same time. The woman and I are sitting in her hotel room in Cannes. Yes, that Cannes. “He” decides in one of his manic episodes he is a famous film maker. “He” is doing his “ConMan McFuckery”. I had gone to France on my own, an escapist move, a “run or fry” move. I saved money, sold my car that beautiful lady, Mother, had bought me. That did not make her happy; I am sorry Mother. “He” just wanted me to go away so he could bring home and try out woman after woman and so I did. He told me I should go when I asked him what he thought. Yes, I actually asked his opinions; they were always in his best interest. I had no sense of self, no desire to know “little me” and I drank a lot of alcohol to hide from myself. A lot. I went to France where I remet a young guy who I had helped out when he was touring the US; I didn’t have a plan. He was very bad. I didn’t care. ROCK always took over. I let this broken young man do horrible things to me and it all was familiar; all the boyfriends who I was drawn to were bad to me. I deserved it; I was a pig and a whore and unworthy of goodness. BaD DaD taught me that over the years. ROCK is causing me to bleed again; ROCK is shaving away a layer of my thick skin. “Little me” keeps my hand clasped around the note. ROCK is hurting me. “READ IT!” shouts “little me!”

The woman was beautiful and sunny with cute, short, reddish blonde hair; she was from California. She was at the Cannes film festival looking for children’s films and new young adult series. Her name has faded but not her face or her glow. She encountered him. They had drinks and dinner and laughs and BaD DaD introduced us. “He” was using her, but I did not know how. “He” stayed at the Grand Hotel; the most expensive in Cannes. “He” had called me from where I was staying in Nantes and bought me a train ticket down to see him. He asked me to bring my french abuser; he would be necessary as a frontliner to over hear conversations in french and to repeat them back to BaD DaD. Yet, first he wanted me to come alone. I went as summonsed. Once there I walked along the avenue and into the Grand Hotel; I was dressed in all black with heavy black eyeliner and frosted tips on my spiky short hair. It was “little me” hiding behind the Punk and Drunk poet wannabe. “He” saw me; he was sittting with a famous senator. He briefly introduced us and then stuck a wad of cash in my hand and said for me to go buy new clothes and then go to his room and shower and change. I bought all blue. A blue long-sleeved shirt that was way to large on me; tight light blue jeans and then I went to get drunk. I didn’t know why I was there. What was my purpose, my assignment this time? Beautiful daughter attracts powerful men. Beautiful daughter has beautiful friends. Beautiful daughter was groomed to be of service, to Feed, to scout, to never speak or question. Beautiful daughter was flat lining through each moment.

The sunny, California lady and BaD DaD take me with them up into the hills of Antibes. We eat at a tiny restaurant and a very handsome young man sees me. This young man drives a very expensive car, has perfect teeth and is from Nice, he said he was part Italian and French. This young man joins us and my BaD DaD buys bottle after bottle of expensive wines and lies and jokes and the whole teeny restaurant has eyes on him; on us. He was doing his manic famous wealthy American thing. I didn’t care; I just laid my head on the sunny California lady’s shoulder and smiled. The young man asks for permission to take us out that night dancing. Cannes never stops. People just do more cocaine and keep going. Maybe there are a few real people there, but BaD DaD only uses them to get closer to his goals; all of his aims are to conquer. “He” gets what he wants. We all go, the disco lights are spinning, the dark floor and walls reflect the mirage of colors onto them and the beat is “boom, boom, boom”, repeat. I get dizzy and the Nice, polite guy walks me back to the Grand Hotel. He says goodnight and asks if I can have dinner with him the next night. I say yes.

“He” never comes back to the room. I assume he is with sunny, California at her hotel. I wake and shower and go down to get strong coffee in all blue and walk across the street to the beach. I sit and wait. I begin to wander inside. I feel a stir of sadness, a push to cry out. ROCK saves me and we go to the hotel bar. I sit alone on a large sofa overlooking the meditteranean and drink copious amounts of red wine. The stir inside quells. Finally, BaD Dad shows up. I tell him to remember we are to meet the Nice, polite guy. The nice, Nice guy. The wealthy prospect in pursuit of me. “He” says I should go to California lady’s hotel and get ready and he will meet us later.

I do. She waits with me and kindly does my make-up. She is a smart and a fun woman and I like her. She is real. A real woman working in the real world in children’s films. She tells me we will be late if “He”, the ManicMan, the EgoAsshole, the LunicLiar, the NastyNarc, the ConCrazedFucker doesn’t show up soon. She has slept with him; she thinks he is dating her seriously and that she is special. I always hate this part. I have seen it, inhaled this type of scenario so many times I am numb. Sunny California woman calls BaD DaD. He screams at her, (I can hear him, too. He is so loud and ugly she pulls the telephone away from her ear). The note reminds me what she said, “Oh my God! No one has ever spoken to me like this in my life.” He told her to never contact him again, to fuck off and leave him alone. He called her a stupid cunt and more. She cried and I stare at her. I am this sick man’s daughter. I awkwardly try to hug her and she reaches out to me. She asks me what she had done. I still stare. She opens a bottle of good white wine and we drink it fast. Then, because she was real, STRONG and Truth was her light she took my hand and said, ” I will chaperone you; I will take you on your date”. What? She knew who she was. She saw herself. Would I ever be that strong? Would I ever be able to say, “STOP!”? So, with the nice, Nice, young man, we went to dinner in the teeny restaraunt and he paid for us both. After, she said I could sleep in her room after I called and called my BaD Dad’s room, left message after message with the concierge and “He” never replied. I was now unneccesary. At least for that one night.

I’ve put the note down. There is more but ROCK is very clear now. I will have to move away from this step and sit in my safe space. The walls are going up like chrome lined windows, ROCK has hold of the handle. I imagine I am in an old mercedes. ROCK locks all the doors. I can still see out but for now ROCK must stop my Truth; ROCK glares angrily at “little me” who can only sit and wait. Just before the lights are dimmed I see “little me” with tears whelping up in her innocent eyes. She wants me to love her.

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