Co-Parenting My Daughter with a Child

My daughter has been at her dad's for three weeks now.  Our custody arrangement states that I have her every weekend and school break, and since he has moved to Washington, this will happen soon.  For the moment I am stuck in Alaska waiting for the settlement check from suing my creepy therapist.

When my daughter visited last Christmas, she showed me a cavity on her molar.  The cavity was big enough that I could easily see it with my naked eye and I am supposed to wear glasses. Horrified, I told her dad who said she had been to the dentist and there were no problems.  She could not remember the last time she had seen the dentist, but OK, not worth a fight as long as he gets her there now.

I reminded him twice in the next six months.  Always there was an excuse: not enough time, he had to work, the dentist couldn't get her in, insurance problems.  Since I was in Washington and they were in Arizona, I couldn't take her myself and felt helpless.  I offered to make calls if he'd tell me what days he could take her but he never knew his schedule.  How he managed to get anywhere on time must have been a miracle.

In April, he decided to move to Washington with his fiance.  I was overjoyed that all the begging I had done paid off.  It killed me when he moved to Arizona to be near his mom.  I had always feared that would happen. Sure enough, when his second wife was tired of being the sole bread winner he up and left.  He bragged to me he was leaving her with the holes he had punched in the walls.  She later told me the apartment charged her $3000 in drywall repairs.

His fiance began her new job May 1st in Olympia.  My daughter stayed with his fiance's mom in Arizona so she could finish the school year.  I was still asking for someone to take her to the dentist but was always told it wasn't in the schedule.  During that month I was only able to speak to my daughter three times.  I called and called, but no one ever answered the phone.  It was gut wrenching, especially since he said this woman was a "bitch".

My daughter finished her school year and met me in Alaska for the summer. When she opened her mouth to show me her cavity my heart broke.  Her cavity had gotten worse because her father couldn't make time to take her to the dentist. Turns out she had five cavities. The one I could see was so deep they needed an extra appointment to finish the filling.  I was livid!!!  I told him that she is his first priority and questioned how he could let her teeth rot for six months, knowing there was a problem.  He responded by accusing me of just trying to piss him off.  He generally thinks everything is about him.

When he was talking about moving to Washington I offered to babysit for him and his fiance.  I was worried that they would move somewhere else closer to family since there are four kids between them.  Plus any extra time I get with my daughter is worth it.  His response was I was "just trying to get close to" him, which came out of nowhere. There's never flirting or talking about anything besides our daughter but that's how he thinks.

Fast forward to today, mid-September.  My daughter has been home with him for three weeks.  A week ago, after me asking her daily about brushing her teeth, she finally said "Sorry mom, I don't have a toothbrush here."  I was shocked but didn't want to upset her, so I nonchalantly repeated what she said.  And I had heard her correctly.  I asked her if anyone had helped her unpack her suitcase because there was a toothbrush in the small pouch.  She said no one had helped her and she couldn't find it.  I told her to try using a washcloth to wipe her teeth.  She said the washcloths were for the little boy's baths and that her bath towel was too dirty.  She said she had been using her finger and toothpaste.

Even more livid than I had been about her cavities, I mailed her a toothbrush the next day, with a tracking number.  I have asked her every day this week if she got her package and every day she says no, they didn't check the mail.  Tonight, I heard her dad snap at her that he wasn't getting the mail tonight.  I looked at the street view of their home on Google Maps, and the mailbox is right across the damn street.  I hadn't mentioned the toothbrush issue to him because I didn't want him to get angry with her for telling me.  After seeing where the mailbox was, I texted him and asked him to check the mail.  His response?  That she had lied and really did have a toothbrush there.  She had only used her finger one night when she was stalling to go to bed.  His story does not make any sense.  She had nothing to gain by lying about the toothbrush and in fact, felt bad about it.

It's a delicate balance between fighting him and keeping a working relationship.  Kids do lie sometimes.  I know there is a toothbrush in the mailbox that she will get soon.  I would love to call Child Protective Services just so she could brush her teeth but they don't have funding for small issues.  Unfortunately, with my mental illness always lurking in the shadows, I have to appreciate what her father does do correctly and fight him when it is really necessary.

For Me, Suicide is Always on the Table

A note to my future self and anyone else that feels the world would be better without them:

Please give yourself at least 24 hours to think about it, because you are wrong, and there's a small part of you that knows your wrong.  Feelings alone will not kill you but they will definitely cloud your judgement.

This post may be triggering.  The suicide hotline is 1.800.273.8255, please call if you want to talk.

I'm sharing my story in case it might help someone feel less alone. 

 

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I remember my first suicide ideation like it happened yesterday.  It was May 1991.  I was about to turn 10 years old and I was more than ready to end it all.  I had had enough of living with my alcoholic parents who hated me.  I loved them more than anything but just couldn't stomach one more insult, one more painful reminder that I wasn't wanted.

There were four bars in our little town and I knew each of their phone numbers by heart.  My parents hated me so much that they were never home.  Instead they'd go out to the bars most nights.  I would wait until I couldn't stand it and then start calling, usually around midnight.  The bartenders would usually put my mom on the phone but sometimes they'd lie for her.  That was the worst.  My heart would be pounding.  Not only was it dark outside but I was home alone with my little sister.

    "Hey JoDee!!" I'd hear the bartender shout over the music, "phone's for ya". "Huh? Ugh, tell her I'm not here" my mom would slur back. "Haven't seen her" they'd casually tell a terrified kid looking for their mom.

When they made it home they'd be completely trashed.  For as poor as we were I have no idea how they afforded their booze.  Not only did they drink at bars but the fridge was perpetually stocked with beer and boxed wine, the cupboard with vodka.  If they didn't pass out they'd end up in a huge, violent fight.  I would try to get them to stop, then I'd call 911.

So when my birthday was nearing I couldn't fathom why I should stick around.  My life was absolute Hell.  I would do chores until the drama started.  Patiently waiting for the alcohol to kick in and hate to emanate from my step-dad, Mike.  He hated my guts and could never control that intense feeling from coming out in every moment I was in his presence.  My mom was a little better, she'd at least make sure I was fed dinner. But she couldn't contain her disdain for me. I ruined her childhood and I was a pain in the ass. I had been colichy, bit her toe once really hard and was too smart for my own good. I constantly had her on her toes which she really didn't appreciate.

My plan had been to shoot myself in the head on my 10th birthday. The pistol I was going to use was kept in the hall closet with ammunition. I wrote my suicide note that morning before school. I said goodbye to my little sister. I loved her to death but knew she, like the rest of the world, would be better off without a bad person like me.

When I arrived home from school Mike was already there. He got off work early that day.  I couldn't believe it, he was never home early. I took it as a sign that I shouldn't kill myself. So I didn't until October 2005.

It's not that I didn't think about suicide after my first botched attempt. I would find myself entertaining the idea often. I felt it every time I was banished to my room for the day. Doesn't sound so bad, and it wouldn't have been, but I could overhear from my room all the nasty comments my parents made about me. It's tough to be criticized. It's excruciating when it comes from those that are supposed to love you. The thought that constantly crossed my mind was "If my mom doesn't love me, who will?". I didn't have an answer but I knew it certainly wasn't me.

Four years later I attended homecoming with my new boyfriend, Jacob. He was a junior that drove his own car and offered me a ride to school.  One morning he brought a dozen roses with him and asked me to the dance. I ecstatically said yes, trying to conceal how lucky I felt to carry roses with me to school that day.

I brought my homecoming pictures with me to visit my family three hours South.  Dad loved them but when I asked if I could take them to my cousin's place my dad said no. He was adamant that I not see him. My cousin had been in a lot of trouble lately and I felt that he needed his family to support him but dad disagreed.

After dad left my grandma gave me a ride to my cousin's house anyway.  I showed my cousin my Homecoming pictures, excited to show him my new boyfriend. I brought my new Alannis Morrisette CD with me as well, not realizing it would be the soundtrack of my rape, my first sexual experience.

I was horribly ashamed.  I didn't speak more than a few words to anyone until I saw Jacob two days later.  Being the upstanding and responsible person he is, Jacob dragged me to the counselor's office.  I was then sent to the police station for a report and the hospital to have my genitals probed with a magnifying glass by a group of nurses.  The shame seemed to never end.

My grandparents were notified and made the decision to never tell my dad what happened. To say I felt horrible would be a huge understatement. Not only did I disobey my dad, but my cousin, who he already had issues with, raped me while I disobeyed him. It was a double whammy.

The only time I ventured South during the next year was for the deposition. My grandparents told everyone they were going to the beach so no one would know I was in town. I felt like a shameful secret.

By the time a year had rolled by, I was feeling pretty suicidal. I missed everyone, especially my Dad. I had a hard time talking to him, the shame was overwhelming. I couldn't tell him he had been right, that I made a huge mistake and that I was sorry. We knew he'd murder my cousin.

Then the unthinkable happened.  On October 26th, 1996, at 10:41pm, my dad was in a drunk driving accident. He had been out with a coworker that had given him a bad deal. This night was supposed to make it up to my Dad. My step mom, 8.5 months pregnant, answered the door to the frantic neighbor. He was looking for my dad to help with the accident that just happened across the street. No one realized it was dad until they saw him lying on the ground. He was ejected from the car and died instantly.  

His viewing is when I realized I couldn't commit suicide.  I not only felt the raw, gut-wrenching pain of losing a parent, but I saw the pain everyone else was experiencing as well. I knew then that I had to stick it out. Even if it still meant living with parents that hate me.

Until October of 2005, suicide had increasingly felt like the only way to end my emotional turmoil and the wreckage that was my life. Unbeknownst to me I had Borderline Personality Disorder. I was overly emotional, impulsive and could switch between love and hate in a heart beat. As relationships fell out around me I felt more and more isolated, alone and ashamed. My behavior was always the cause of my problems. I had usually lost my temper at someone, raising my voice and saying mean things that I didn't mean. Nothing fizzles out friendship more than mean, hurtful comments yelled across a room.

Then an Oprah episode came on. I was huddled in the corner of my closet under blankets, positioned so I could still see the TV. My dog, Abby, was by my side with her face gently pressed into my leg to comfort me. Faith Hill was the topic. She spoke about her life which of course sounded amazing. What happened inside me though was not jealousy or even envy. It was the realization that I could never and would never feel true happiness. Looking at the facts, my history with others and the chaos that surrounded me, I knew that I couldn't be happy and I just gave up.  

I decided I needed to save the world from my horribleness so I looked up the dosage on my fiance's sleep medication. I made sure I took enough and went to bed, thinking how incredibly easy it was to swallow a handful of pills. As I drifted off I felt relieved to escape my feelings.  I had been drowning in sorrow and heart ache knowing that I was not good enough for anything. I hadn't been able to maintain success, everything always ended in shambles. I thought I took care of the problem.

I woke up two hours later because I had to pee. I will never forget the terrible, horrendous feeling. My body was dying and I could feel it happening. Every inch of my skin and my organs were screaming in agony. I fell out of bed and my fiance noticed something was wrong. I told him about the pills and he lost his shit.  All he could keep asking is "Did you really take those pills?!?". Since I couldn't speak it was really annoying that he kept asking the question, over and over.  

When we got to the hospital, I fell out of the car and stumbled into the Emergency Room.  The lady behind the counter looked horrified as she called for a wheel chair as I fell to the ground again.

My next memory is of me on the exam table, with the doctor inserting a catheter and me screaming. I was convulsing and dying.

The next morning I woke up in ICU. I had two plastic chest paddles stuck to my chest, ready to go off in case my heart stopped. Apparently my research had paid off and I took a huge dose of those pills. The college I went to sent a Psychology student to come talk to me and evaluate my mental health. I must have passed with flying colors because the hospital released me that day, with no follow up appointments made.  

There was another attempt in October of 2011 after a year-long addiction to Spice.  Turns out though that antidepressants don't do much when used to OD.

So it's been a few years with no real attempts but a lot of ideation. I just can't seem to pull it off the table, which frightens the Hell out of the part of me that is sane. It might be a small part, but it is definitely alive. When I read the statistic that 10% of Borderlines successfully commit suicide I scream inside. I don't want to die. The problem is that I sometimes know that my loved ones would be better off with out the burden of putting up with me. Of course, I am wrong when that goes through my head but it is right to me at the time.

A note to my future self:  

If you are thinking about suicide, please give yourself at least 24 hours to mull it over.

Even though you might think you're right about this doesn't mean you can't talk it out with someone in the meantime. You're worth that, every single person is worth a conversation.  1.800.273.8255 to talk it out.

  

Q: What do BiPolar, Cocaine and Sex have in Common? A: Me

My parents were the hot drop-outs of high school.  Only 17 when she married my dad, my mom had no idea what she was in for.  On one memorable day, while pregnant with me, she had to hitchhike home from work because dad had her car out with another woman.  Yeah, he was a dick.  One of those super hot, sexy men that think they can treat women however they want.  Not cool.

I was born a year later, breech, emergency c-section and with displaced hips.  I was in a hip brace for the first few months of my life.  I was colicky, constantly testing mom's patience.  Mom loves to tell the story about when I bit the tip of her big toe and would not let go.  Mom was dancing all over the place trying to get me off.  Apparently I thought it was hilarious and hung on tighter.  Poor thing, she still loved me after that.

Dad would yell and lose his temper over the smallest little thing.  It would scare my mom, especially after I was in the picture.

Not surprisingly, mom left my dad for his best friend, Dave.  They ran away to Alaska together, with me in tow.  Dad made an effort to get her back, but mom had had enough.  Plus, she'd gotten rid of Dave and had met My Mikey, as I called him.  He was what I thought was a really cool dude.  Granted, I was 2 at the time and his bipolar hadn't yet surfaced.  Mom fell in love with My Mikey.

Somewhere along the line I started calling him dad.  It didn't help the cause that we lived in Barrow, AK.  A really long way from my real dad, who I didn't see for a few years.  When I eventually did, it was really awkward.  I remember the pictures they took that day.  He had his arm around my waist and I was so uncomfortable.  You can see the look on my face in this pic:

While in Barrow, mom and dad were busy hosting the town's hottest coke parties.  They even ventured into smuggling, but that was pretty much a one-time thing.  I was at these parties with my own play-coke.  After using the eraser for my chalkboard I'd push the white chalk dust into the corner.  No surprise I later discovered how much I enjoyed the real stuff, wishing my parents still had their discounts so I could get a cheap hook-up.

Apparently at one point the neighbor girl decided that I would be her lesbian lover.  She taught me the art of oral sex and I was a pro by the time I was 3.  We'd hide in my closet or her room, both of our parents completely oblivious to the molestation occurring right under their noses.  I loved sex even then and would beg her to go down on me if she wasn't in the mood.  Another glimpse into my future as I am still begging my boyfriends for sex when they're not in the mood.

My parents would fight.  A lot.  After everyone went home or passed out, my parents would be ripping each others' hair out or strangling each other.  To say I was terrified when they fought would be a major understatement.  Helplessly I'd watch Mike pin my mom on the ground, hitting and choking her until she could get him off or the cops came.  I learned how to call 911 by the time I was 4 because I often had to call them to break up my parents' fights.  The police were my heroes.

That is until they murdered my mentally ill cousin.  Right in front of his grandma, who had called the police because he was upset.  And mentally ill.  Who else should she have called??  Who would have thought they would shoot him, just because he is standing in front of his car, with a closed pocket knife in his hand?   They are forever haunted by the fact that his grandma unknowingly called his murderer to the house.

Anyway, back to the early years.  We moved from Barrow, the land of whaling, walruses and polar bears, to Issaquah, a small suburb of Seattle.  The coke stopped, but drinking and chain smoking continued.  Fighting increased until a divorce finally happened, which was a welcome relief from the craziness that had become Mike.  He would swing from manic and financing $60,000 trucks to so depressed that he took three bullets out for the gun: one for him, my mom and myself.  I was happy about the divorce, despite the fact that mom had reconnected with Dave.  He moved right in and was such a pain.  Luckily their renewed romance didn't last long and he moved right back out.

Unfortunately, mom decided to end it all while home alone with me.  She OD'd on a bunch of pills.  Her best friend, Karen, happened to call and heard in mom's voice that something wasn't right.  By the time Karen stopped by the house my mom was passed out in the living room.  I was playing alone in my room, as usual.  Karen immediately called 911.  I was terrified when I heard the EMTs from my room.  When I came out to see what was happening they were hunched over her listless body.   After they took her away on a stretcher, Karen took me to Mike's house that night.

A couple night's later, over the weekend, Mike took my sister and I to Karen's house to hang out.  My sister and I had been watching movies in the back bedroom.  When we needed to change the movie I went into the living room and I suddenly froze in disbelief.  My step dad was laying on his back and Karen was hunched over him, her head bobbing up and down.  I knew what I  saw was very bad so I turned and went back to the bedroom.  My mind was reeling- my mom had just attempted suicide and her husband and best friend were having sex, which I just walked in on.

My Story

My parents were the hot drop-outs of high school.  Only 17 when she married my dad, my mom had no idea what she was in for.  She had to hitchhike home from work while pregnant with me because dad had her car out with another woman.  Yeah, he was kind of a dick.  One of those super hot, sexy men that think they can pretty much treat women how they want.  Not cool.

I was born a year later, breech, emergency c-section and with displaced hips.  I was in a hip brace for the first few months of my life.  I was colichy, testing mom's patience.  She loves to tell the story about when I bit the tip of her big toe and would not let go.  She says she was dancing all over the place trying to get me off.  Apparently I thought it was hilarious and hung on tighter.  Poor thing, she still loved me after that.

Dad would yell and lose his temper over the smallest little thing.  It would scare my mom, especially after I was in the picture.

Not surprisingly, mom left my dad for his best friend, Dave.  They ran away to Alaska together, with me in tow.  Dad made an effort to get her back, but mom had had enough.  Plus, she'd gotten rid of Dave and had met My Mikey, as I called him.  He was what I thought was a really cool dude.  Granted, I was 2 at the time and his bipolar hadn't yet surfaced.  Mom fell in love with him.

Somewhere along the line I started calling him dad.  It didn't help the cause that we lived in Barrow, AK.  A really long way from my real dad, who I didn't see for a few years.  When I eventually did, it was really awkward.  I remember the pictures they took that day.  He had his arm around my waist and I was so uncomfortable.

While in Barrow, mom and dad were busy hosting the town's hottest coke parties.  They even ventured into smuggling, but that was pretty much a one-time thing.  I was at these parties with my own play-coke.  I was sitting on a family friend's lap with my chalkboard.  As I gently erased the chalk into the corner, he asked me what I was doing, to which I replied "I'm saving my coke for later", referring to the chalkboard dust.  This was my foundation.

Then neighbor girl decided that I would be her lesbian lover.  She taught me the art of oral sex and I was a pro by the time I was 3.  We'd hide in my closet or her room, both of our parents completely oblivious to the molestation occurring right under their noses.

My parents would fight.  A lot.  After everyone went home or passed out, my parents would be ripping each others' hair out or strangling each other.  I learned how to call 9-1-1 by the time I was 4 because I often had to call them to break up my parents' fights.  The police were my heros.

That is until they murdered my mentally ill cousin.  Right in front of his grandma, who had called the police because he was upset.  And mentally ill.  Who else should she have called??  Who would have thought they would shoot him, just because he is standing in front of his car, with a closed pocket knife in his hand?  Seriously, that pocket knife, which was closed, cost my 21 year old cousin his life.  And ruined the rest of his mom and grandma's life.  They are forever haunted by the fact that his grandma unknowingly called his murderer to the house.

Anyway, back to the early years.  We moved from Barrow, the land of whaling, walruses and polar bears; to the small suburb of Seattle: Issaquah.  The coke stopped, but drinking and chain smoking continued.  Fighting increased until a divorce finally happened, which was a welcome relief from the craziness that had become Mike.  He would swing from manic and financing $60,000 trucks to so depressed that he took three bullets out for the gun: one for him, my mom and myself.  Yeah, I was happy about the divorce, despite the fact that mom had reconnected with Dave.  He moved right in and was such a pain.  Luckily he lasted about as long as he did the first time.

Unfortunately, mom decided to end it all while home alone with me.  She OD'd on a bunch of pills.  Her friend happened to call and heard something wasn't right.  When she stopped by the house my mom was passed out in the living room.  I was playing alone in my room, as usual.  Karen immediately called 911.  I was terrified as they took my unconscious mom out on a stretcher.  Karen took me to Mike's house that night.

A couple night's later, over the weekend, Mike took my sister and I to Karen's house to hang out.  My sister and I had been watching movies in the back bedroom.  When we needed to change the movie I went into the living room.  I suddenly froze in disbelief.  My step dad was laying on his back and Karen was hunched over him, her head bobbing up and down.  I knew what I  saw was very bad so I turned and went back to the bedroom.  My mind was reeling- my mom had just attempted suicide and her husband and best friend were having sex, which I just walked in on.

Cocaine, Oral Sex and How It All Began

My story begins on May 22, 1981.  That's the day my mom delivered me in dramatic fashion via emergency C-section.  She ran off with his best friend after a brief stint with my troubled father.  They left California, with me in tow, and headed back to Vancouver, Washington.  The love between them ran out quickly.  Mom headed to Barrow Alaska, leaving me with my grandparents.  She got a job and met My Mikey, as I used to call him.

My Mikey and mom fell in love over raging coke parties.  This was the 80's and they were living it up, enjoying huge wages from the pipeline deal.  I remember sitting on a lap with my chalkboard, telling my mom's friend about 'my coke', the dust from the chalkboard.  I watched everyone else snort line after line and figured I'd play along.

Inevitably the party would end, guests would leave and huge fights between my parents always seemed to happen.  Dishes thrown against walls and yelling were a part of our daily routine.  The fights would turn violent with hitting and kicking, shoving and strangling.  No one else would be there to stop them and I was only potty training.  Sometimes I was so terrified that my screaming would stop the fight, but usually they'd just wear each other out.

When I was three we moved into an apartment complex.  That's the first time I had sex.  Well, oral sex and with an older girl, not an adult.  But I was hooked.  I couldn't believe how good it felt, and I was so desperate for anyone to love me.  My parents were very neglectful, always either wasted or hungover.  I doubted, even as a toddler, if they even liked me. My love affair went on for the year she lived down the hall.

After two years, we left Barrow for Seattle. I'm not sure when, but My Mikey became Dad in Barrow.  I only saw my real dad once during the 4 years I lived up there and boy, are those some awkward family photos.  I didn't know my father until some years later. Turns out, Dad had a mental illness that would gravely effect our lives: Bipolar Type I.  His symptoms began shortly after the wedding and only progressed.

When he was depressed, he would suck all of the energy out of the room.  One day he grabbed a gun and three bullets. He told mom there was a bullet for each of us, that he couldn't take it anymore.  Obviously she talked him down but scary!  When he was manic, he was even more crazy.  He'd talk really fast and excitedly, his eyes would get larger with a slight bulge and dart around.  One day he drove home with a brand new truck that mom had no idea about.  We were living paycheck to paycheck and he financed $56k.  When mom made him return it to the dealership they refused to cancel the contract, costing my parents $8k.

My parents met new friends in Washington, leaving their coke days in Alaska.  The partying never stopped, and neither did the fighting.  At least once a month I would have to call the police to come break up a fight.  My parents were belligerent and mean, exacerbated when they drank.

One night, while the adults drank themselves into oblivion in the kitchen, I laid on the living room floor watching TV.  Bored and lonely, I ventured into the kitchen.  Mom stumbled over to me, slurring "You're going to try a cigarette."  I was 8 years old and begged her not to put it in my mouth. It stunk so bad, ugh!! I hated their chain smoking in our little house and begged them to stop often.  She didn't hesitate, and over the meek protests of her party buddies, she pushed the lit cigarette between my lips.  I coughed and gagged, repulsed by the hot stench coming from my mouth.  Horrified and sick, I ran to the bathroom to rinse my mouth out, once again feeling the deep void of my mother's love.

When I was about 12 mom reconnected with Dave, my real father's best friend.  She promptly filed for divorce from Dad, moving in with Dave and taking us kids.  That lasted until she tried to OD on pills while home alone with me.  Her friend just happened to call and notice something wrong.  That's the night the paramedics took her to the hospital to have her stomach pumped.

While mom was in the hospital, I lived with Dad. I walked in on him and mom's friend, the same one that called the paramedics, having sex during mom's hospital stay.  They were too busy to notice me (thank you for that).

Dad was incredibly mean and hateful towards me, which was nothing new.  Mom says that's the biggest reason why she left Mike, because he was that evil towards me.  I couldn't do anything right, ever.  One day he decided I didn't clean the tub well enough.  He slammed my face into the bottom of the tub and kicked down my bedroom door.  He told me to grab my things and drove me to mom's new apartment.  I was dumped like a piece of garbage on the sidewalk and felt worth as much.

Another day, while at the lake with Dad and my sister, a strange older man groped my recently developed breasts.  I was in the water up to my chest and he wanted me to help his little girl swim.  I felt his huge hands squeeze my breasts, and not just once.  I was so shocked and confused, thinking I did something wrong.  I quickly told Dad but he didn't do a thing.  The man just yards from us, getting away with molestation.  A few years later, I saw that sick man on Unsolved Mysteries.  He was on the run after raping his daughter.

During middle school, I went to Barrow Alaska to work for the summers.  I lied about my age so I could work in a restaurant.  It was right on the water, so when the ice pack came in I could see wild polar bears hunting.  I watched my sister in an Inupiaq blanket toss in celebration of harpooning a whale.  I rode quads and put up with my crazy grandma.  She loved to yank me around the living room by my hair when she was frustrated.  I masturbated as much as possible to make my time there bearable. By the time high school came, I had a burned-up clit and the excitement of a gold-digger getting the diamond of her dreams.

 

                                                                         

Spice

At someone's suggestion, I tried spice.  At the time I had been coughing up black phlegm every time I tried to smoke weed.  This was before Obamacare, or The Affordable Care Act, made it possible for me to go to a doctor.  Spice was 'legal weed' that was cheaper and didn't make me cough at all.  That was the doorway to Hell.  The high from some spice brands was so strong, I would literally lose touch with reality and it was horrible.  But as soon as I would come down from spice I craved more.  I couldn't sleep throughout the night without waking to smoke a bowl of spice.  Even though I hated the high, I would always come back for more.  Even after I had pawned and lost an engagement ring I saved for my daughter from her father. Along with my laptop, jewelry, car repossessed, evicted from apartment.  I failed to come in to work for the last time in my boss' eyes.  When she told me to come in, I was already high and could not have gone in.  I lost my job, too.

         

 I tried to go to rehab. Since I had Kaiser insurance, I was a cash cow for this little house in St. Helens.  While they printed a nice schedule, they rarely followed it.  Meeting with counselors were 30 minutes a week.  That's it.  To make it even better, I left after getting into a screaming match with the executive director.  He told me that I had a strange way of communicating with people and that my issues have nothing to do with addiction.  I lost it on him, telling him he has no idea what it's like to be in my shoes. I stormed out of the facility with my suitcase in tow behind.  

There I was, walking down the street, without a cell phone or any money to call anyone.  I walked far enough that I found a fire station that thankfully let me call my sweet grandparents, who came and got me.  

I made it 28 days sober before my boyfriend found a full bag of spice in the closet.  We were just going to smoke the bag, but it didn't stop.  Not until I lost everything.  I was planning on moving into a tent in the woods but my mom objected.  She moved me to her property, where I lived in a tool shed.  An insulated and carpeted and very cool tool shed.  Moving away from the environment allowed me to get over my addiction.  My addiction was bad enough that we didn't eat for days, not because we weren't hungry, but because we spent every last penny on spice.  

My Therapist Came Onto Me

It was a dark winter day when I met Tim for the first time.  He was assigned to me by the latest clinic I had turned to for help with my issues.  I spent the entire orientation to the clinic crying silently in the back of the room. 

The day I met Tim I was suffering from extreme suicidal ideation.  I just could not fathom why it was not OK to kill myself.  In Oregon, where I lived, it was medically OK to commit suicide with the help of a doctor if the patient is suffering from a terminal illness.  Why couldn't I?

After an hour of describing these dark feelings Tim looked at me.  With a gentle smile he asked how I could feel depressed with a face as pretty as mine.  This comment struck me as inappropriate and really just plain dumb- what in the Hell did my looks have to do with my mental illness?

I let the comment go figuring I was being too sensitive and continued to see Tim for regular therapy, eventually joining his depression group.  He continued to make comments regarding my looks, even during group.

I mentioned that Tim's behavior made me uncomfortable during an appointment with the nurse practitioner. She suggested that I use a compliment sandwich to ask him to stop.  I chose instead to write a note during group requesting that Tim no longer refer to my looks during therapy.  He acknowledged my request and the comments seemed to die down.

I eventually stopped attending the depression group but continued to see Tim individually because at the time it felt like ge was the only person who was helping me.  Our sessions were peppered with inappropriateness - enough to make me uncomfortable but I didn't trust my own instincts and didn't have anyone else to talk to. 

I remember one session where he described in explicit detail how much he enjoyed his wife performing oral sex on him the same way a baby suckles on their mother's breast.  He also told me he was living in his truck and read me text messages from his wife.  He described one night where he was really excited thinking they were finally going to have sex for the first time in months but when they got to bed she told him he disgusted her. 

My fiance attended appointments with me occasionally, including my appointment last week.  It was during this appointment that Tim grabbed the back of my head while standing and thrust his pelvis towards my face.  He looked at my fiance and said "See?  This is what you do.  This is what she wants.".  My fiance and I were shocked but thought he's just being real with us, still not trusting my inner gut.  I had been seeing him for seven months and never thought he would take advantage of me.

This is until my appointment yesterday.  Yesterday he completely crossed the line.  He told me that he feels sexual tension between us.  He told me he thinks about me when he jerks off.  He told me that he can see himself inside of me, literally (with a wink).  He asked me to perform a breathing exercise where I inhaled until I could feel my genitals, then I was to perform a kegel exercise on my exhale.  He told me he was divorcing his wife and read me more text messages that she sent him, proving his point.

I was shocked and really uncomfortable but I didn't trust my own feelings and just changed the subject every time he brought up sex.  I had no idea what to say or how to react.  I completely trusted him.

I have reported him but am still absolutely furious.  Who else has he attempted to take complete advantage of?  He knows about the plethora of  sexual trauma in my past and pounced on my vulnerability.  Not only have I wasted hours and hours commuting to his office only to be harassed, but I lost my therapist.  I was counting on him to help me deal with my many issues, not add a whole new trauma to my laundry list.

I hope that by reporting this behavior he is stripped of his license and unable to seek out other vulnerable women in their time of need.  He is a predator.

Update:

I am still reeling from the last visit I had with Tim, my therapist.  The visit where he came right out and hit on me.  Heavily.  He told me he thinks about me when he jerks off and that he can literally see himself inside of me.  How gross.  And how absolutely gutsy on his part.  Unless he thought I was just a poor mental health patient that he could take advantage of without repercussions.

I hope to surprise him in this regard.  I have reported him to everyone I could.  I have met with an attorney that I hope will take my case.

I feel completely violated and so stupid.  I should have said something a long time ago, but then again, he was my therapist and I trusted him.  I trusted him with all of my dark secrets.  I would have never thought he would even be attracted to me in the first place.  Hello?  I'm crazy, and he is one person on this planet that should know that.

I had a nightmare the other night where I was raped at the airport.  I had another nightmare last night where Tim stopped by our property.  That is my worst fear, especially since he knows exactly where we live.  He knows how our property is set up and which trailer I live in. 

The last words heard from Tim is "What is going on?".  The tone in his voice was urgent, like he knew he might be in trouble and was hoping I hadn't said anything.  I hung up on him.  He called back.  I didn't answer his call, instead I called the county mental health clinic that he worked at.  The receptionist said there was no supervisor available as I burst into tears, with him beeping on my other line.  "Can you walk up to his office and ask him to stop calling me?  He told me he thinks about me when he masturbates!" I blurted out to the poor girl.

She asked me to calm down  and no, she couldn't tell him because she couldn't leave the her desk.  I called the neighboring county's mental health facility and told them what was happening.  They calmed me down.  The next call was from Tim's boss.  She left a message that they pulled the phone logs and saw the 4 phone calls.  She wasn't aware that Tim was in the office yet that morning.  Hmph.  Why did he even have access to my file?

The last I heard, Tim's employer is investigating my claims.  He has admitted to some wrong-doing but still has a job and free to hit on his other clients.  Sure, it may have stopped in light of my recent claims.  But he will start again if left to practice.  This was just too smooth on his part to not have happened in the past.  I'm sure he will claim that I was just crazy.  No matter how crazy I am - it is *never* OK for a therapist to cross the sex-line.  Especially to a patient with a plethora of sexual trauma.

**2nd Update**

I found an attorney and filed a suit after I learned that Tim would not be fired, even after his boss told me admitted to some wrong doing.  Luckily the state believed me in their investigation and he surrendered his license.  We settled out of court and I received about 20k after attorney fees and bills.

**3rd Update January 14th, 2022**

I was reflecting on what happened one random afternoon and decided to google Tim, to make sure he wasn't practicing somewhere with other vulnerable women behind closed doors. I was horrified to find his name come up in Kansas, the state he had worked in before moving to Washington. 

I called the clinic to see if he was indeed practicing.  When she said he had retired, I lied through my teeth to get information. "Oh darn" I lamented, "he helped me so darn much, that's too bad".  And she responded like the women at the clinic where I had seen him, "Oh I know, isn't he the best? We miss him here so much".  Right then something inside me switched and I said "Actually, he was sexually inappropriate with me and was not supposed to be practicing anymore, he signed an agreement with Washington state. I understand, he fooled all the women at the clinic where I saw him, and me between the inappropriateness."

She grew quiet and replied "well, he actually passed away last year." And my heart dropped. "No, that's not good, he was still human" and immediately I felt remorse. I'm not sure what for, I guess speaking ill of the dead?

I immediately got off the phone with her, went back to my google search browser, scrolled further down and saw his obituary. My heart dropped again, because even though it's not personal, he died on my birthday.  Seeing his smiling face hovering over the one day a year that we're brainwashed to feel special, like it was a gift, felt awful and dark.

 

I haven't been able to trust mental health professionals since this happened. Not only Tim's behavior, but the county facility that employed him and the neighboring county facility that I reported him to both retaliated, one leaving me suicidal on Highway 101- I was on the phone with their crisis team that hung up and did not call 911. I would be dead had a random, very kind sheriff not have stopped and given me a ride to the hospital. 

I tried another trauma therapist, a 78 year old dude that told me his age regularly and crossed my boundaries by hugging me and and attempting to hold my hand- after I told him about Tim and that I do NOT want to be touched at all, ever. The only reason I tried another male therapist is I am on Medicare and in that area he was the only trauma therapist.

 I tried one more, this was a female trauma therapist but it felt really off.  Her staff told me at least three times she was the absolute best in the area, I should feel lucky to get in to see her.  The appt was at 8:30 at night in a dark part of town, it was just her and I and after an intake where she asked me thirty questions and diagnosed me with anxiety and depression, then the session was over after I jut regurgitated a million sexual traumas, I asked about EMDR on the way out and she said "huh, i didn't think that worked".