The Day I Met An Adult Victim Of Child Sexual Abuse

The year was 1989. I had recently moved to Las Vegas and a mixture of new and old friends had decided to throw me a birthday party. Just about everyone I knew was there except for one friend working as a cocktail waitress at the old Aladdin hotel. My buddy Gary and I decided to make a night of it and go down to the hotel. While we waited for Allison to finish serving her drinks, Gary and I had a drink and listened to the lounge band. During one of the breaks, an attractive redhead sitting to my right engaged me in conversation. It was a conversation that wouldn’t end for twenty years.

What was truly amazing about our relationship was that it grew at all. As I soon learned, Lesley had a basic distrust of people, and men in particular. Although very outgoing and gracious, she rarely let anyone get too close. Over time, she told me of growing up in a well-to-do neighborhood in El Paso, Texas. Her stepfather, Frank, was in the fashion business and her mother, Joyce, was a stay-at-home mom. She lived there with her sister and a horse. That horse would become her friend and confidant during her almost daily rides. To the outside world it was the idyllic, upper-class 60s household. But looks can be deceiving and what happened behind closed doors would change Lesley’s life forever. Hers was a home-life of adultery and a stepfather who preyed upon her, in an effort to satisfy his sick perversions.

The 60s were a time when suspicions of child abuse were spoken of in hushed tones. Child Protective Services did not exist and if you had money and influence, which her stepfather did, almost anything could be covered up. When Her mother turned a blind eye to what was happening, she tried telling a neighbor. It was then that she was accused of being mentally unstable and institutionalized for a short time. She never spoke of her home-life to a stranger again. The actual abuse ended when she stabbed Frank in the leg with a pair of scissors. Although The physical abuse ended, the wreckage left in her mind did not.

Lesley escaped through alcohol and erratic behavior. She frequented the wrong places and ran around with the wrong people. She told me about how she had fallen in with organized drug runners who eventually ended up in prison for killing a federal judge. She said the murder occurred after parting ways with them. She talked about this time of her life in such detail, that I had no doubt she was telling the truth.

She used men for food and shelter. They usually had money and were inexperienced or insecure when it came to relationships of the opposite sex. She would be there until she wasn’t, at which point she would move on with her quest to find a small degree of Stability in her world. Ironically, she was looking for something she couldn’t give… until she met me. 

I became a member of a very small circle of trust. Other members were dogs and cats, of which we had several over the years and, of course, horses. I remember picking her up from work one day, only to take a detour to visit an old horse she found who had been put out to pasture. I watched as she carressed his head and fed him sugar cubes. I don’t think I ever saw her As happy as she was in that moment.  But the charter members of her trust Circle were her godparents, Ted and Verlie. They became her real parents as far as she was concerned. Her love for them ran deep. Ted was the stereotypical tall Texas car dealer down to his cowboy boots. Upon his death, all Lesley asked for were those boots.

To this day, I’m hard-pressed to explain why she chose to include in this exclusive club. Maybe she viewed my handicap as non-threatening. Or maybe it was the fact that I’ve never tried to be something I’m not. I’ve never felt the need to have to impress anyone. Maybe that’s what impressed Lesley the most, and allowed her to unlock the door that she had worked so hard to keep sealed.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not perfect and Leslie could point that out in painful detail. We had our ups and downs, over the years. There were some things we agreed upon and a lot that we did not. There were moments when our disagreements would sound downright silly to an outsider and on those occasions, we would invariably hear, “So, how long have you two been married?” Those silly disagreements could also turn into arguments that would, At times, get down and dirty. But that was between us. In the end, I always knew she had my back. If you so much as looked at me the wrong way, you’d better be sure your affairs were in order because she would take you out. Perhaps, more importantly, was the fact that she knew the feeling was Mutual. What kept our relationship going was the fact that we knew each other better than any other people on the planet knew either one of us.

Leslie’s earlier life had made her street smart, but she was also very intelligent and could read people like a book. She knew what they expected from her and she never disappointed. She dressed as if she had just stepped out of a contemporary fashion magazine, but her last words to me, as she left home for work, were usually “It’s showtime.” The rest of the world saw what they wanted to see. I saw her. It was a private performance.

The last time I saw Leslie was the morning I woke up, and she didn’t. The coroner said she died from a heart attack while sleeping. She was 53 years old. I can only hope she was dreaming of a life that made her happy, a life with the animals she loved and, hopefully, with me. I will always be thankful that we were able to build a trusting relationship from a foundation that was anything but trusting. She was my best friend and I miss her every day.

 

The Day I Met A Damsel In Distress

Let me start out by saying that I don’t go looking for trouble. There are times, though, when I’m sure that trouble comes looking for me. Sometimes, it falls right into my lap. This is one of those times. Let me explain.

It all started when my folks decided to trade in my sedan for a newer car with a full warranty. I was transferring to the University of Arizona, 2,500 miles away, and they didn’t want me to be stuck on the side of the road with a broken-down car. At least, that was what was probably on my mother’s mind. I’m sure that was also a consideration by my father, but I think he thought it might be helpful if his son, who Had left more than two decades of wheelchair use behind, less than six months earlier, had a little help boosting his social life at the new College. 

They didn’t tell me they were trading in my car. All they said was that they were going shopping and were going to take my car to the car wash while they were out. I didn’t think anything of it because, at the time, I was following doctor’s orders to remain in bed, due to a severe bout of mononucleosis. I didn’t like being stuck in bed, but the doctor had informed me that he would admit me to the hospital if I didn’t follow his orders. I followed his orders. Anyway, a few hours later, my parents returned with the news that they had traded in my car for a 1974 Moonstone Gray, white Landau roof, bucket seats, pinstriped Dodge Challenger. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t my mother’s first choice, but my dad probably convinced her that all the “guys” would love it and my social life would thrive. Wink. 

He was right. All my college buddies loved driving the car. It was a rolling billboard for cool. When you’re in your early twenties, that’s all that matters. I didn’t mind them driving it because I was always driving, and it gave me a break. So on this particular Saturday night, when my buddy Dave and I decided to take in a movie, Dave was the cool guy.

The movie let out around 11:30. We decided to stop by a Circle K to pick up a Sunday paper. Dave walked into the convenience store just as another car was screeching to a halt in the parking space next to us. The driver got out and slammed the door as the car still rocked from the sudden stop. I glanced over and saw a beautiful blonde in the passenger seat. She was crying. It was a warm night, and the windows were down. I asked her if she was okay. Instead of answering me, she got out of the car, crossed in front of her car and headed for mine. I could see she was on a mission.

The Dodge Challenger was a two-door car with very long doors, and a narrow, curved backseat included more for reducing insurance costs than sitting. The back seat removed the sports car premium. I quickly swung the car door open while releasing the back of my seat so I could move forward and give her more room to get in behind me. She had other ideas. She pushed the passenger seat back into position, sat down on my lap, threw her arms around my neck, and began sobbing into my t-shirt. I pulled the door closed.

Dave exited the store, Sunday newspaper in hand, about a minute later. He stopped and stared before getting in the car. I just went in to get a Sunday paper, he said. I was only in the store for a few minutes. Where’d you get the girl? I told him I would explain it all after we got moving. What’s the rush? He replied. I nodded towards the front of the store. My new friend’s muscle-bound boyfriend had just reached the doors and was up to speed. Dave quickly put two and two together, uttered a single word, tossed the Sunday paper onto the backseat, and scrambled to get in the car and turn the key. We peeled out of the parking lot a few seconds before the car previously parked next to us did the same.

We headed down Speedway which, despite its name, had a rather low speed limit. My car could have easily outrun his car, but this wasn’t an action movie. While we frantically searched for a way to elude our pursuer, lady luck played her hand by way of a police car pulling in behind us. We now had a buffer between the punisher and us. We breathed a sigh of relief and began discussing options. That is until our luck ran out. The police car peeled off to answer a call. That’s when I remembered the placard.

The University of Arizona has two entrances, or at least it did when I was there. The North and South entrances had guard gates to stop anyone from driving on campus. In between, there were only a few small parking lots, mainly for maintenance, teachers, and professors. All other cars were required to park in the surrounding off-campus parking lots. There was one exception that was brought up to me by my student advisor upon my arrival on campus. Physically handicapped students qualified for a drive-on parking pass. This made it easier for me to park by the buildings where my classes were being held. I told Dave to head for the North entrance.

We pulled up to the gate and, upon seeing the official placard through the windshield, the guard waved us through. Fortunately, our pursuer wasn’t extended the same courtesy. The campus speed limit was only 15 mph, which gave us plenty of time to work out our next move. From where I was sitting, we had all the time in the world, but Dave was a little more anxious about the entire situation. We tried to convince this beautiful stranger to go to the police. She didn’t want to do that and our combined attempts at reasoning with her couldn’t change her mind. She said that her date wouldn’t bother her or her girlfriend at their apartment. We had our doubts but there was nothing we could do, so we exited through the South entrance and drove her home.

Before getting out of the car, she showed her gratitude for having been rescued by giving me a kiss that took my breath away and, thinking back, may have provided a throat culture. I watched her go into her apartment before looking back in Dave’s direction. He was staring straight ahead. After a few seconds, he turned and said, “Next time, you drive. I get the girl.” Thanks Dad.

 

The Day I Met The Girl In The Gilded Cage

 I need to preface this week’s episode by saying that I have a very short list of dysfunctional behavior that I will neither tolerate nor excuse. The top three, in no particular order, are sexual predators, domestic abusers, and control freaks. Their actions are so intertwined that they can become indistinguishable from one other. They either prey on existing weaknesses or create weaknesses they can prey upon. I believe that people who exhibit these dysfunctions are broken people who are driven to break other people in an attempt to negate their own physical or emotional shortcomings. I do not believe they can be rehabilitated. While they may show remorse in the short-term, they will always revert back to their true character, if given enough time. I know this to be true because I’ve personally known victims and their domestic abusers. Now on to our regularly scheduled podcast.

I’ve never been interested in dramatic soap opera style entertainment. The voyeuristic aspect usually doesn’t appeal to me. But sometimes, in an age where reality is only a click away, it can appear without warning. Such was the case when I came upon a very popular social media streamer. Kaitlyn is a beautiful, smart, twenty-something content creator, who has a tendency to show off that beauty in very skimpy bikinis. She creates more content than that, but if you are a young man whose hormones run your life, the rest of the content is more or less irrelevant. She has mastered the art of one-sided conversational talking to an extremely diverse audience for extended periods of time. I can tell you from personal experience that having the ability to do this is not easy, but she makes it look effortless. More often than not, I find myself closing my eyes and listening to her. Her casual openness and natural ability to make people laugh is captivating.

One night in particular, I was looking for a little late-night banter between her and “chat” before drifting off to sleep. The conversation I heard was not what I expected. Kaitlyn was seated in a chair, talking to someone on her speakerphone. That was unusual because even reality has limits in the online world. Taking a personal phone call necessitates muting the audio to the stream. Allowing “chat” to roam free in your personal life can lead to ridicule and, in some cases, dangerous behavior by strangers. It only took a few seconds for me to realize why she had intentionally let down her guard. The voice on the other end was in an uncontrollable rant. She was sobbing. During my years in Los Angeles, a large portion of my professional life had been spent delving into the complexities of human nature as a magazine feature writer specializing in personality profiles. As a result, I pride myself on my ability to tell the difference between truth and an act staged for my benefit. What was unfolding before me was not an act. What I was watching was painfully real. She wanted her thousands of viewers to bear witness to what was happening.

In order for you to understand exactly what was happening, it might be helpful for me to go back a few months. I had stumbled upon her stream while looking for an NFL football stream. It was my first time on this particular platform and they were both listed under the “Just Talking” category. When I came across her stream, she was talking to “chat”, her viewers, while wearing a bikini and drinking margaritas. This was definitely not the NFL. Quite frankly, it was all new to me and looked like fun. She had cameras inside her house and outside by the pool. I knew this wasn’t a soft porn site because this platform has very strict terms of service. This was real life in real time, being watched by more than ten thousand viewers. I was curious to find out why.

She was inside the house when her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and muted the stream. After several minutes on the phone, she hung up and slowly tapped the phone repeatedly against her forehead, as if in frustration. After unmuting the stream, she explained that the caller was a family member asking her for money, which, apparently, was a constant request. Saying that she needed some air, she took all ten thousand of us outside. She was about to talk directly into the outside camera when, once again, the phone rang. This time, her expression became more sullen the longer she talked on the phone. When I looked into her eyes, I saw a scared little girl lost. A few minutes later, still talking on the phone, she got up and walked into the house. I continued working at my desk as I awaited her return. When she didn’t return within a reasonable amount of time, I chalked it up to too many margaritas and turned off the stream. 

I now believe that the person ranting on the phone is the same person who had called her a few months earlier. Apparently, he is her husband and manager. It also became apparent that, in his mind, she is nothing more than the means to an end. If he had his way, she would live-stream 24 hours a day. Streaming translates into money in the form of subscriptions and sponsors. And it can make you a lot of money. But money won’t buy happiness if you’re a girl in a gilded cage. Kaitlyn does all the heavy lifting and if she protests even the slightest bit, her control freak husband constantly threatens to give away their money… or worse. Although he has control of these accounts, this is probably an empty threat because he won’t shoot himself in the foot. I did a little research and found a photo of him in a cosplay arachnid superhero costume. From what I could hear of him on the phone, it would have been more appropriate for him to be wearing a piss-ant costume.

What put Kaitlyn over the edge, and rightfully so, was when this tiny piss-ant threatened to kill her dogs. That may or may not have been a viable threat because it would have only hurt her, not him. Control freaks see their victims as subservience slaves. In Kaitlyn’s case, she is his meal ticket. It would do my heart good to watch him starve.

I have created a metaphorical deep hole in the ground for societal deviants like him; a place where people who prey on those unable to help themselves can be dropped into and forgotten about. It is a hole reserved for those who create virtual prisons within the minds of their victims through isolation, physical and psychological torture. In Kaitlyn’s case, it was sleep deprivation and constant degradation. The torture worked until he crossed a line by threatening to kill her dogs, which happened to be the exact moment I opened her stream.

This story has a happy ending, of sorts. Three days have passed, and I’m currently watching Kaitlyn stream a day with her horses. Her streams are less frequent and will probably remain that way for a while. Legal and psychological help is being fast-tracked. Both will probably be painful. The latter will be long term but, in time, the past will become a manageable memory.

The majority of domestic abuse situations do not end well. As far as I know, Kaitlyn only suffered psychological abuse. This was probably by design. You don’t want to physically damage the merchandise when the merchandise means money in your pocket. Unfortunately, domestic abuse is more commonly manifested in physical abuse.

The statistics are staggering. In the United States, a woman is a victim of domestic physical abuse every 9 seconds. Three women are murdered by husbands or boyfriends every single day. Globally, more than one in three women has been physically or psychologically abused during her lifetime and 55 to 95% of them will never report the abuse to authorities. For example, despite being illegal in Gaza, it is not an uncommon practice for Palestinian men to physically and psychologically abuse wives who have had mastectomies as a result of cancer treatment. These women begin to view themselves as damaged goods, no longer desirable by any man. Because of this belief, they quietly remain in the abusive situation. Perhaps the most unsettling statistic of all is that an estimated 10 million children witness domestic violence each year. This is an especially frightening statistic because experts suggest that witnessing violence in the home breeds Violent Behavior. Men who grow up in abusive households are two times more likely to abuse their significant others. 

Although Kaitlyn managed to escape her gilded cage and is on the path to regaining control of her life, she was fortunate to have the wherewithal to find that path. A vast majority of domestic abuse victims are not in a financial position to break free from their abusers. As a society, we need to elevate the national conversation when it comes to dealing with crimes against women. In addition, we should allocate more federal and state funding for online and offline expansion of the practical and educational resources available to abuse victims. If we continue to ignore domestic abuse, it will continue to proliferate, creating endless generations of scared little girls lost.

The Day I Discovered The Dangers Of Historical Distortion

As children, we grew up learning about Cowboys and Indians. Cowboys were always the heroes, and their primary job was to kill the bad guy Indians. Any six-year-old with a cap gun loaded, silver 6 shooter knew the routine. Then there was the romanticization of the gunslinger. He was the quick draw artist who could gun someone down in the street before they could get their gun out of the holster. It was the way arguments were settled; the ‘Wild West’ theory of kill or be killed.

Those distortions of history bled over onto television and movie screens. They helped solidify our fascination and love affair with guns. In truth, cowboys didn’t really shoot many Indians. They were mostly farmers and ranchers who used their guns to kill rodents and other animals that infringed on their livelihood. As for the gunslingers, there may have been a few, but they weren’t as pervasive as Hollywood would like you to believe. In today’s culture, they’d probably be classified as mercenaries. There were no daily shootouts on Main Street or gun fights at various OK corrals. Those that did occur were immortalized by storytellers who travelled throughout the country. Much like the child’s game of telephone, where information goes in one end and comes out the other end in a completely unrecognizable form; the legends that grew were, for the most part, unfounded. Actually, when you think about it, that’s not so different from today’s social media platforms.

According to the Small Arms Survey website, in 2017, there were approximately 393 million firearms in the United States. At that time, the country had a population of about 326.5 million people. There was a gun for every man, woman, and child; with about 67 million guns to spare. Since then, the population has grown, and so has the number of registered gun owners. In fact, Americans account for almost half of all the privately owned guns in the world. It is one of our most enduring cultural claims to fame.

In 2016, I wrote a book on politics entitled the year of my life reminiscences and rants politics. For those of my listeners who may be interested, it is available on all major bookselling platforms. As part of how our political process works, I talked about the United States Supreme Court. I specifically focused on how it was created to be impartial but has morphed into a semi-political body. My intent was to shine a spotlight on the weaknesses of our political system. Because it’s a mixture of my personal life and factual history, there are times when my opinion becomes part of the story. If you believe that what I am about to say is solely my opinion, so be it. But the following excerpt is based on fact and whether you choose to believe it or not, relates actual events.

Everyone knows the Second Amendment to the Constitution, “A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” This amendment is actually made up of two parts. The first part is “A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State….” You see, this was written before we had a standing army. We were basically a bunch of reservists who grabbed a gun when there was a threat to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Eventually, we built a standing army, and no longer needed a well-regulated militia. The second part of the amendment is “… the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” The idea was that if there was any threat to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; the men folk would be able to grab guns that they kept in their homes and immediately form a well-regulated militia.

Strict constitutionalists believe that you should never interpret the constitution in a way that would remove any right that has been given to you by the Constitution.  As with most things, that’s open to interpretation. My interpretation of the Second Amendment is that you have the right to own a gun if you’re part of a well-regulated militia. But a strict constitutionalist focuses more on the second part of the amendment stating that a person has a right to own a gun.

When this came before SCOTUS, the justices ruled that the Constitution gave every American the right to own a gun. It was a majority ruling of a Republican controlled Supreme Court. Here’s where I have a problem with any political control of SCOTUS. The Supreme Court of the United States is supposed to be an impartial legal body, but that rarely seems to be the case. We have more guns than people in this country. We have the highest rate of firearms related deaths and injuries in the world. And yet, a Republican controlled Supreme Court opted for political dogma over impartiality. I’m not saying that a Supreme Court controlled by Democrats would have been any more impartial. I’m pretty sure that it would have been just as partial to a liberal point of view. What I am saying is that a society that has moved from muskets to assault rifles needs to be more flexible in its judicial decisions, whichever political party is in charge. That’s what I wrote in 2016.

So where does that leave us? I think gun ownership, in this country, will continue to grow as long as we continue to grow more paranoid about the dangers lurking around every corner. Ironically, that paranoia will contribute to the number of gun related incidents which will perpetuate the danger that, we fear, lurks around every corner. It will become a much more pervasive vicious cycle in our everyday activities. We are, in effect, increasing the probability of events we fear the most.

I would like to hear your thoughts on this topic. I would especially like to hear the thoughts of my listeners outside of this country. You can contact me through my website the year of my life vr.com or by calling or texting 702 509 1424 anytime of the day or night. Although I will never use your name, I may use your comments on a future podcast.

The Day I Spent Halloween With The Addams Family

I grew up in a wheelchair during a period of time when handicapped people were, pretty much stereotyped. It was many years before the Americans with Disabilities Act came into being. In time, the Vietnam War made being handicapped more mainstream, as friends and family members returned home in less than perfect physical condition. But for those of us who never left home, it was a daily exercise in breaking the stereotype.

Simple things, like going shopping, turned into learning experiences. Unfortunately, the lessons learned weren’t always positive. Those were the days when parents would walk into a department store and drop their kids off in the toy section as if it was a daycare center. Parents were relieved that they didn’t have to deal with their children while shopping and the kids were happy. A short time later, they would retrieve their children before heading back to the parking lot. At least, that was the way it was supposed to work.

But I remember a day when one of those children noticed me in my wheelchair. Curiosity caused a little girl to walk over to me and ask, “What happened to you?” while her mother was still close enough to hear her daughter’s question. I was about to answer when, much like a cheetah protecting her young, her mother appeared by her side and took her hand. There was an uncomfortable smile but not much more as she led her away. By her actions, her mother had demonstrated that while it may have been alright to be seen, it was not alright to be heard. I guess she didn’t want me to be embarrassed or, perhaps, she believed my delicate ego would be crushed if I were to answer her daughter’s innocent question.

I left the wheelchair in my early 20s. For more of how that came about, please listen to the episode entitled the day I gambled with my future - part one. But even though I was now walking with crutches, it wasn’t uncommon for an inquisitive child to occasionally ask the same question. Unfortunately, it also wasn’t uncommon for their parents to replicate the same actions I had observed while sitting in the wheelchair. I began to wait a beat before answering, knowing that within seconds, an answer would become unnecessary.

I always wondered what the children were told by their parents. Whatever they were told, I was pretty sure that the next time the child encountered someone who was handicapped, they would avoid approaching them. Small children don’t really understand the concept of embarrassment. That changes as you grow into adulthood and learn to stop asking so many questions.

Shortly after I moved to Southern California, I made friends with someone who was revolutionizing mobile television production. Fred had left his job as a network sports cameraman to pursue his dream of creating mobile video post-production centers built inside of minivans. It was the forerunner of what we now take for granted whenever we see production trucks at sporting events. In the early days, he used his network contacts to get whatever jobs were available. I was just getting started as a writer when he asked me if I would like to accompany his video crew to a location being used for a special, he was shooting for NBC.

The job was a reunion of sorts for the cast of the 60s sitcom, The Addams Family. NBC had decided to try something new by shooting the two-hour special on videotape instead of film. Ironically, the location was on Adams St. in downtown Los Angeles. The interior of the house was a very good representation of the original Addams family house. I’m pretty sure it was the same exterior used for the original series.

I was fascinated by everything happening around me. There was the misfit cast of characters I had grown up with. I remember looking out the windows of the production van, as the actor who played the Frankenstein’s monster-like character Lurch walked by. Ted Cassidy was so tall that all I could see was a bouncing belt buckle. But the highlight moment of my Addam’s Family experience was yet to occur.

On the last day of the shoot, one of the cast members brought his kids to work. I was standing on the set when a little girl and her brother walked up to me and asked the question of the hour. It was the same question I’d heard so many times since that first time in the wheelchair. Still, it took me off guard. “What happened to you?” she asked. I looked past her in the direction of her father, who was standing several feet behind. I expected John Astin to walk over and tell her it was time to leave or something… anything that would distract her. Instead, he just nodded. It was his way of saying, it’s up to you.

At that moment, I didn’t think going into all the medical details would have answered her question. Most of the time, kids are looking for a child’s version of reality, not an adult version. So, I looked down at this little girl and said, “You know, it happened so long ago, I can’t remember. What do you think happened?” She thought for a second and answered, “I think you fell off an elephant.” I said, “Tell you what, that’s what I’m going to tell anyone who asks me from now on.” She smiled a big smile because she was satisfied with the answer. More importantly, she had also learned that it wasn’t wrong or scary to approach someone who was different from her. I looked over at John as he flashed me the famous Gomez Addams smile.

When I was in journalism school, I learned that the direction of a story could be influenced by what the reporter chose to include or exclude from the story. That rule also applies when it comes to influencing the direction of a child. Adults tend to shield children from things that embarrass them or that they disapprove of in their own lives. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an adult’s job to protect children from situations that are dangerous. But it’s also their job to expose children to things that may fall outside of their own belief system.

Gomez Addams and I never met again. But in all the years since, I’ve never forgotten the nod and the smile. I sincerely hope his children never stopped asking questions about the “elephant” in the room.