Wytheville

I could talk about working at Pizza Hut as a delivery driver for a perverted old man.

I could share about falling in love with a man now arraigned for nine counts of child porn. (for details on my ex, click here)

I could talk about the first time I was raped and my first experience with plan B.

Or working night shifts at Walmart as maintenance, cleaning toilets, floors and taking out the trash,

I could share about my aunt and uncle who both have master degrees but couldn't so much as research anything for mental health to help understand their niece (me) that they were trying to help while I lived with them. During which, I have eight hospitalizations from my poor mental health. (Which they often blamed on my "disobedience of the Lord.")

But today we are going to relive one of my flash backs of being molested, taunted, and being made fun of by the city police in the town of Wytheville, Virginia, during a one of my mental health struggles.

It was a Sunday morning and my grandparents were in town. Everyone was up early and got ready for church. I overslept and decided not to go. Of course I was put down for not waking up on time and attending with the rest of the family. When the house was empty, I took a shower and cried, letting the hot water of the shower mix with my tears down my face. Which is when I found anger. . . While still wet I threw on a pair of jeans. (I forgot underwear) and tshirt with shoes, wrote a suicide note, grabbed a few bottles of over the counter meds (ibuprofen, etc...) and a kitchen knife for self harm. And I got in my car and just drove. Drove back roads I'd never been before. Until I found a secluded place to park and turn off my car and think. I turned off my phone just in case someone thought to track me/reach me. I ended up taking a small nap after crying and self harming.

I woke up disoriented, looked at my phone screen that was black from being turned off, and then over to the zip lock bag of pills I had dumped out from their bottles. I turned on my phone and noticed that I wasn't asleep very long and that if I left now I could get home in time before anyone found my note.....as if none of this had ever happend. The anxiety ran through my mind of the days' events that lead up to this moment as I drove home. It was a sunny, warm day. I was sweaty in my car from the exhaustion nap. As I approached the driveway, I noticed the police at the bottom of the lane to the house. More anger surged through me as someone must have come home early, found the note and called the police already. Thoughts of self harm refilled my brain as I looked down at my arms at the scratches, gripped the steering wheel, and pushed down the gas as I drove by. The police officer made eye contact with me, and ran to get in their car to follow me.

This road was full of twists and turns and couldn't be taken too quickly. I heard the police siren and saw the flashing lights, but continued anyways. I didn't know what I was doing or what would happen. They were old back roads, mostly dirt driveways leading to old homes. I decided to take the next driveway around the corner, hoping the police would continue and pass me by. It however kicked up dust which made it very evident which way I turned. I had already put my car in park (emergency break with my manual vehicle) and took the keys out of the ignition, hid the kitchen knife and covered the zip lock of pills, heart now beating in my throat.

It was that butch bimbo who've I've encountered before. The one who gave me a citation for my cars cracked windshield (I bought the car that way), driving with a Marylands drivers license, having a tagged/registered/insured vehicle with Idaho plates, all while living in Virginia, got out of her car and drew her gun on me,

standing behind her car door, crouched, while I was sitting in my car. She was screaming at me to put my hands up. I looked in my rear view mirror at her and snorted through my nose. She didn't hear me though.

"I wish you would, bitch." I thought to myself as I saw the gun pointed in my direction, It would save of us the fucking hassle if I was dead. Suicide by cop is many peoples way out. I wasn't looking for a fight, just take me the fuck out already and do us all a favor.

She directed me to take the keys out of the ignition and throw them out the window with my hands up, where she could see them, while I was still in my car. I chuckled again. My car was already off, the car was electric and I couldn't roll the windows down manually. I just pulled the seat lever and moved my seat back to relax, threw on my sunglasses and gave the fuck up with communicating with her 10 feet away through my car windows. Looking back at this event, she seemed like a total noob.

She holstered her weapon and walked to my car slowly, repeating herself, which I mostly ignored, I refused to look her way or communicate. This is when she tried to open my door of the car. When she realized it was locked, she took out her flash light, in broad daylight, and banged it on the window loud and hard. I jumped at the first slam, but again, ignored her. She screamed through the window, spit particles collecting on my drivers side window.

She protested that I needed to let her in so she could check if I was okay. I gave an "I'm okay sign" with my pointer finger and thumb, and gave her a thumbs up and recrossed my arms. She said she needed proof that I was okay and heard that I had taken over the counter drugs based on the suicide note that my grandfather found. I grabbed the bag and showed her it was full. She asked if I had any weapons, I pulled out the knife and left it, too, on the passenger's seat. I recrossed my arms. She screamed, as if I couldn't hear her "I bet you think this is funny, huh? Acting like this..." Her voice getting even louder now "You must think I'm a bitch for trying to help you. . . . Do you think I'm a BITCH?"

"More so a cunt, you fucking over empowered butch." I grinned and I thought to myself. Her short unflattering hair cut, and bullet proof vest flattening what seemed like a well endowed chest, made her look uncomfortable with no visible neck and unable to move effectively. My arms were still folded, not saying a word.

She banged her body and her flash light against the car window again as she let me know they would have to break the window in order to get me out if I refused to open the door. She paused to catch her breath,

"Hard work for such a fat cunt." My hateful thoughts continued, rage burning in my cheeks. And that's when words finally came out of my mouth: "Might as well start with the window that already has two cracks in it, corner to corner." as I pointed to the windshield she had written me up to fix less then a month ago for.

And if her attitude wasn't already on fire, she was pissed now. She got on the hood of my car, and pressed her face in the window trying to make eye contact through my sun glasses. "You don't get to tell me what to do. You hear me?" as she tells her walkie talking on her shoulder that I'm now hostile and unsure if I had taken any of the bag of pills I showed her.

I shrugged, lowered my sun glasses to give her that eye contact she wanted and told her "if she was smart she would have started with that window," and that "this conversation is over."

She backed away from my car and back to hers. I sat in my hot car sweaty but confident shaky with adrenaline. I could feel the sweat between my legs in my jeans and running down my back on my seat when she made one last approach to my car with a slightly lighter tone.... "You don't want my boss to come here and have to break you window.... That's expensive to fix, he will taze you and that will hurt. I promise he isn't as nice as me. He'll be here soon."

I owned a ugly brown 98 honda accord. Mine had a black bra on the hood, missing head light, cracked windshield and several more physical flaws.

I replied to this as well "Have you seen this car? Do you think I give one damn bout a broken window on this year 20 year old piece of shit?" She pretended now to hear me, placing her hand to her ear, asking to speak up or open the door/window. I stayed quiet.

Her "boss" finally arrived and tried talking to me through the door. He mentioned breaking a window and I gave him the same speech about the windshield. He sincerely laughed at my joke, and said that was a good idea while the butch bitch stormed off in anger at me repeating it. He did say his team may taze me if I wasn't compliant. I told him I wasn't concerned, someone suicidal doesn't care about those things. He, again, agreed with me- he was infact a lot more pleasant than his "team". He got on his knees and looked at me through the side window, pleading with me to just open the door so he could do his job better.

I rolled my eyes and flipped the unlock o my door and what happend in the next few seconds felt longer than what I have wrote already recounting this event. Instantly my face felt the outside air for the first time in what seemed like hours. It was still hot, but by comparison of inside the car, the air was refreshing. Many hands began to grab me and tried pulling me from the car, not realizing I was still buckled in. Another set of hands reached in unbuckling me and then throwing me to the gravel ground. It smelled of dirt, dust, metal and oil from underneath my car. My pants began to fall down as my hands were behind my back. I didn't fight them but I tried pulling them up as I was lifted and instructed to walk to their car to be properly cuffed. My vulva and ass was exposed from not being allowed to pull them up, and not having any underwear on. Breezy. . .

The bitch was instructed to pat me down, (I wish I had her name) as I was face down on the front of her car bare ass out. She was aware I didn't have underwear on, I know this because the others asked/stated under their breathe to each other "ahh she doesn't have underwear on" I didn't say anything. And that was when I was molested by HER, her hands on my bare skin without pants. Not sure what she was looking for in my crotch... but everyone laughed. "Anything inside your pants...?" she said? They continued to joke, my pants were right above my knees... and everything just went blank. What was going to happen to me. How did a suicide note turn into this?

"Well if you were compliant and followed the laws none of this would have happend," I heard ringing through my head. Just more hurtful, victim shaming rhetoric that has been jammed down my throat. If I only I hadn't tried to kill myself and leave a note behind.

They put in me their car. It smelled new. The cuffs were uncomfortable sitting in the back of their car. They put them on so tight I lost feelings in both my hands, and they turned a shade of blue. I used this opportunity to calm myself down by self harming my wrists with them on, making myself bleed and wiping them on their new seats. I grinned to myself with tears in my eyes as I saw the small blood stains I left behind.

Instead of being taken to the hospital I was taken to the police station for another two hours. I was cuffed to a cement bench with metal pipes behind me in the public hall way by the entrance, pants still not fully around my waist. I wasn't told that I was being charged with any crimes, nor was I read my rights or offered a call or an attorney. I guess they didn't know what to do with me. Behind the nearest room, I heard the voices of the people who were involved today, going through my wallet. I couldn't see them as the room was protected with a double mirror window. But I heard them clearly, they must have left the room door open.

Found it!

Someone scoffed, "Looky here, she has student ID for BYU. Brigham. Young. University." I heard him read out loud word by word with a pause in between. Quickly others said "Nah uh! Let me see," as I imagined they passed my ID around the room in disbelief. Snickering, one of them said, "I guess the mentally ill can be smart. Wonder how she got in?"

My blood boiled again. I was taught in moments like these that I should sing church hymns. After all, why not show them why I had intended to go to BYU. I started to sing Opera instead. Humming at first, then with more confidence in my circumstance and no longer giving a fuck, pronouncing the words to my memorized Opera's, Italian, German and French. I had positioned myself on the bench criss cross apple sauce trying to give myself even the slightest comfort in my favorite way to be seated when my uncle walked in, wanting to talk.... He's a lawyer. I continued singing and did not make conversation and looked the other way ignoring him. He walked down the hall toward the room of laughing officers mocking my Opera singing. I imagined them putting their hand on their bellies/chests and opening their mouths in theatrical ways. When he got to the door, that's when the room went quiet. They closed the door this time.

He was in their some time. I don't recall what happend next other than an ambulance picking me up and finally taking me to the ER to be evaluated and eventually was put inpatient. It was one of the worst hospitalizations of my life in the Bristol Tennessee inpatient pysch unit. My uncle had to come get me from the mal practice that was going on there too. A story for another day.

Events like these replay in my mind hard days. I can't control them. They flood me in great detail as if I am reliving them. Hearing the voices of my abusers.

When I told Sean what happen during this flash back tonight, he got on top of me smothering me in long ginger soft hair hugging me. That's when the tears broke and poured freely on the shoulder of his thick sweater. He told me in my ear while holding me so tight that "I was safe and with people who loved me now, and he would do his best to protect me and prevent those things from ever happening again." He continued "I'm so sorry that all these things happend to you, you don't deserve them, you are a good person who deserves love and support."

Now, if you guys have read my previous blogs, you know I don't want to get married, but I almost asked him to marry me in that moment. covered in tears, snot running down my face, feeling so weak and small. He has heard about many of my life's truamas, in detail and he continues to surprise me with his love. It doesn't make the bad things go away, but he does comfort me in need.

Wytheville is a rough town. I made a few friends while I was there, for which I'm grateful. The name of this blog will likely attract some of them to read it. I still keep in contact with a few of them. I doubt they knew how bad of a time I had with many traumatic experiences that still flare my mental health symptoms now, 7 years later.

Special thanks to my editor: MC_hammer