I don’t know what the f*ck to do
I’ve put aside the last few drafts of blogs in the past month because I’m hesitant to post them. The First Amendment tells me to post my story, and my will tells me ring the alarm so other women don’t get hurt by the same person who hurt me.
My career as a dancer in the adult industry died before it was even born. I tasted the acidic nature of this mysterious lifestyle. I auditioned, I performed, I begged to dance until close. But I was also faced with trauma.
Being in the adult industry is inherently a high-risk job. Not only are you out late and there are sketchy men in bars, but you are also cat fighting with the other women at the club. Dancers are independent contractors. They may dance at multiple clubs. They can request certain nights that are amendable to their schedules. Therefore, when you are trying to get a slot, you’re calling dibs. It’s an adult version of grabbing the last cookie.
I’ve met nice dancers ready to give me all the knowledge they can, and I’ve met dancers who iced me out. One dancer told me to do my nails and have them done at all times or don’t bother dancing. As someone who hasn’t gotten their nails done before, that was a tall order, especially because I cannot stand long acrylic nails. I’ve been waiting for that fad to fade.
But it’s not the dancers or the schedule or the high cost to buy everything before you even step on the stage. It was my own desperation and overzealous hope that led me to reaudition at one club. And this is where the blog posts have been push aside, and I begin again.
I don’t actually know how much I can say to not compromise my case. But I do own my story. I was raped by a club owner in his car in the parking lot by a bar. He had called earlier that night to talk about my audition, so I went to meet him. And that’s when my short-lived career in this city/town ended.
After getting myself home from the hospital the following day, it marked a long journey toward healing. It has only been a shade over a month. But I either eat everything or nothing at all. I’m terrified of people, sometimes my own friends. It took me two weeks to go get groceries a few blocks away. I don’t go out after dark. Some “friends” have abandoned me, like being raped was my fault and now I’m a burden. I don’t have access to talk to my partner and hear him tell me it’s okay. I relapsed on drinking with a half bottle of vodka and my meds. My period is three weeks late, but I got a negative pregnancy test. I see the rent and utilities piling up and nothing I can do about it. Every resource has been a dead end or takes half a year to figure out.
Getting through the hours of the day were initially so excruciating. Now, they’re only kind of excruciating. I’m back on the regular job hunt, and I can get leads but never the slam dunk. The gray clouds that always blanket Portland make me want to go back to bed. I made it through trying to do one thing, just one thing. Now, I’m on two things, just two things. Sometimes I can’t do that.
I’ve made it to the grocery store farther away. I walk the dog maybe once a week, and always before dark. I’ve been trying to keep up reading The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron to get my creative brain active again. To maybe write my way out of this.
I want to write a new novel.
I want to try my hand at a TV series pilot.
I want to speak my truth and dive into fiction at the same time.
All of these wants collide into a blank page. Then I think about the hurt, the violation of my body, my torn relationship with me and the rest of the world. And I write nothing.
Only cover letters and emails. And even that’s so difficult.
I watch a lot of true crime documentaries. Maybe to understand my situation or just to not feel alone. Maybe I like knowing how the end without any surprises. My nightmares are worse than these documentaries, but I also can’t sleep. I’m all contradiction.
My plan is to move to California as soon as I can. Running away again. Somewhere, where I’m not afraid of a place so close to my apartment. I need to get out of here. The toxicity is poisoning me to the point where I don’t know if I can get out. I keep trying, keep thinking of creative ways to make money.
But you can’t spend money to make money if you’re all out of money.
And you can’t write a story if your brain is running a marathon it hasn’t trained for.
That night plays in my mind multiple times a day. It’s like an earworm…
Wanna put this song on replay
We can start all over again and again
Yeah
Wanna put this song on re-Feel it all (feel it)
Feel it all crashing down (down, down, down)
I’m so lost (I’m so)
I’m so lost in (lost in) your sound (sound)
-Zendaya, “Replay”
