New York City

White Girl Problems

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

When we visited my parents in California my boyfriend remarked on how many “diverse” friend groups there were. I had no idea what he meant. He had to explain to me that growing up in New York friend groups tended to be racially homogenous.  That didn’t seem to be the case in California.

This is exactly what I’ve been saying for a while now. There’s so much racial tension here, and it extends to everyone. I may not treat people of different races any differently, but that doesn’t stop them from treating me differently. It’s appalling how much hate people direct towards each other for things we can’t control, especially physical features and the cultural norms of where we were raised. And it isn’t just white people directing hate towards minorities. I’ve experienced a lot of white hate too.

My problems, for some reason, are not longer valid simply because I’m white. I apparently have no idea what real suffering is. Which in itself is fine for people to feel, I suppose. If they’ve been put down all their lives then they have every reason to be bitter and jaded, but they don’t want to talk about it. They don’t want to explain it to me to help me understand. The phrase “no, I don’t understand, enlighten me” doesn’t seem to work here. Maybe people think I’m being sardonic and demeaning? It doesn’t matter, honestly, because I’m met with hate regardless of what I say or do.

Again, my problems aren’t valid. I don’t understand true suffering. I’ve never suffered. I have no right to complain. My boyfriend received the same treatment. People assumed he was rich and spoiled because he dresses well, speaks well, and is confident. In actuality he grew up in Queens, and he and his mother live off her $1,000/month disability checks. Even upon learning this, people still dismiss him. They tell me he shouldn’t try to act rich, then, and that he’s being sketchy and deceptive when he tries to hide that fact. He does no such thing. He simply doesn’t talk about it. He’s afraid to. He’s afraid of the backlash, of the judgment. And this leaves him in a catch-22. He can’t admit to being poor due to the fear of judgment, but not admitting to being poor means people assume he’s a rich white boy and hate him for exactly that.

I was explaining to some people in my class the other day how I got my cat and why he’s the most spiritual cat on the planet. I explained that a spiritual guru type of person gave him to me before moving to India to be a teacher at an ashram. I tried to show these people a picture of her, and they were mortified that “she’s not brown”. No, she’s not. She’s white. I don’t understand what that has to do with anything. She can’t be spiritual and teach at an ashram in India because she isn’t Indian? The terms “cultural appropriation” and “white savior” were used. They compared her to Rachel Dolezal. She can’t be Hindu or live in India, or, God forbid, wear the correct spiritual garb at the religious festivals she attends, because she isn’t Indian. Doing so makes her a fake, she’s trying to be Indian and she’s not. What she’s doing is offensive, it’s cultural appropriation and who is she to go to India and impose her spiritual beliefs on these people? Look at that white savior complex there. She’s going to India to convert all the Indians to her religion.

The spiritual guides at the ashram don’t seem to have a problem with her teaching there. The people learning from her don’t seem to have any problems with the color of her skin. I don’t want to use the term reverse racism to describe these classmates, because that’s not what it was. It was just plain racism. It was slotting people into roles based on their race. Only Indians can be spiritual and worship Hindu gods. Only Indians can be enlightened and guide others to reach that same level of peace. That is what Indian people do, it’s who they are, and people of other races have no business being in India and doing what Indian people do. And yet I couldn’t say anything to these people, because I am white and they are not and telling them to shut the fuck up and cut that shit out is racist of me, apparently.

I don’t deny that I have been afforded several privileges as a white woman that others have not been afforded. I know that. But all I can do is own it. I can’t take those privileges away from myself. I can’t stop it from happening. I refuse to be hated for things I can’t control. I will not apologize for being white. I understand that racial minorities are subject to hatred for things they can’t control all the time. I understand that racial minorities are asked to apologize for their physical features. But the way to bring about change is not to try to subject others to the same struggles you’ve endured. You can’t fight hate with hate. Tit for tat doesn’t work. We need to learn to love each other, or we’ll get nowhere. We will accomplish nothing with hate, and that applies to people of any race, gender, sexual orientation, etc.

Love thy neighbor. I’m serious. Try it sometime.

Dirtiest City in America

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

The filth and grime and trash in New York has been driving me crazy lately. It’s disgusting, and I know other people find it disgusting too. This city is falling apart. So I’ve decided that I’m going to start a series highlighting the grime that’s endemic to what is supposedly one of the greatest cities in the world. It’s time for a change, let’s step it up New York.

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No Rest for the Wicked

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

I like to think I’m a good person. I’m the kind of person you can go to when you’re having a bad day. Like a really bad day. Just got dumped? Let’s go out, drinks on me. Having a random panic attack? I’ll hold your hand and help you breathe until it passes. Having a flashback and running down the street, away from invisible threats? I’ll chase you down, grab you, and talk you through it. I’ve talked several people out of suicide without a second thought. I’m the kind of person who’s there when it counts.

I’m not a nice person, though. I’m not agreeable. My bullshit tolerance is zero. If you piss me off I will cut you to pieces and not think twice about it. I love helping people, but when it comes down to day to day life I actually fucking hate them. People suck. They really do. They’re petty. They’re selfish. They’re unforgiving.

What gets me the most is that oftentimes the people I’ve been there for, truly there for, are the ones who abandon me in my hour of need. Like I said, people are selfish. They take and don’t return.

I may be blaming them for my bitterness, but so be it. As I said, I’m not a nice person. I’ve been used too many times to still be naive enough to expect anything back from the people I give to. When you’re working, taking off your clothes and dancing and giving your body, your self, to other people, they certainly don’t give anything in return. Not the people I worked for. They want more, more, more. They want to see how much they can get for as little money as possible.

I didn’t work at the clubs where rappers showed up and made it rain. I worked for a gambling ring of greedy businessmen who stole the girls’ money. That was their game, and they played it often. They hand you your money after a few dances, and as you’re counting it and putting your clothes on they slyly grab your clutch and slink off into the darkness. And by the time you look up to tell them they shorted you $20 (also an often occurrence), they’re long gone. Out the door, in a cab, on the way home.

Talk to management about it? Hahaha. They didn’t give a fuck. And you better work hard to earn back enough to pay the house fee, or you’re out for good.

Wickedness breeds wickedness. Evil breeds evil. Once upon a time I thought I could remain kind and sweet and unfazed by all the evil around me. That’s why I have a lotus flower tattoo. They blossom in dirty swampy water. I wanted to be that beautiful flower in that dirty disgusting world around me. How naive. What a silly little girl I was.

I watched Sin City a little while ago with my boyfriend. It reminded me of New York, just a little. They say if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. It’s true. People will take you for all you’ve got, kick you to the curb, and leave you to pull yourself together and try again, if you’re crazy enough to think you can still survive here. Nobody here is nice. Nobody cares about you. You can’t trust anyone.

Everyone I know is on antidepressants. Nobody I know gets enough sleep. We’re all wicked. We use each other, we hurt each other, we take each other for all we’re worth.

I used to be a nice person. Sometimes I still am. I used to be a good person. I like to think I still am. I am far from innocent. I am not someone you should try to pull something on. I do not tolerate bullshit from people. I will easily walk away and not look back.

We’ve all heard that song. Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked, by Cage the Elephant. I can’t stop listening to it. It rings true with me. There’s no rest for the wicked here. Money doesn’t grow on trees. We all have bills to pay. We all have to eat. We get by any way we can, even if it’s at the expense of others. Sometimes I think it’s especially at the expense of others. In this city you can’t slow down, or you risk getting trampled. There ain’t no rest for the wicked, and if I am wicked, then so be it.

 

What’s the Difference?

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

Stripper vs. Escort

Given that they generally go hand in hand, it’s appalling to see the different reactions people have to each name. Being with a stripper is hot. Being with an escort is not.

I was out at a bar with an old friend a month or two back and he was bragging about how I hooked up with him back when I was a stripper. I thought I was reminding him, but I guess I was informing him, that I was an escort at the time too, and he was lucky because he got a good time completely free. It didn’t go over well. At all. He’s been avoiding me ever since.

I was talking to the same old friends (did I mention we met at work, back when I was stripping?) and they were talking about the “degenerate” that the old owner was, and how he hangs out with escorts. I reminded them I was once an escort too. They struggled to find some difference between them and him, and finally settled on the fact that I am a “former” escort, and since I’m not currently one everything is ok now.

My boyfriend LOVES to brag that he’s dating a former stripper, but the moment I say the word escort the conversation is over.

I don’t understand it. What’s the fucking difference?

I have a friend who was thinking about stripping, and I had to explain to her that if you want to make any decent money at all sex will be involved. You can dance for a while and get regulars, but the regulars are going to want more, or they’ll get bored and move on to another girl that will have sex with them. It’s that easy. That’s why they go hand in hand.

But for some bizarre reason, even when you are actively having sex with them for money, they will still say they are fucking a stripper. They will not say they are fucking a hooker, even though that’s exactly what it is at that point. They will refuse to view it that way.

A stripper is already a sex worker, so what changes when you pay her for sex? Isn’t it more understandable to be paying a woman loads of cash to suck your dick and ride you than it is to be paying her loads of cash to shake her ass and sit on your lap?

I will never understand. Someone please explain it to me, because seriously, what’s the difference?

 

Slave

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

Have you ever been a slave to something? You’re obsessed with it. It rules you. It has this hold over you that you just can’t shake.

Slave to fashion. I heard that phrase all the time when I was in sober living in SoHo. The whole idea of being a slave is that something rules you. Fashion. Sex. Drugs. The clubs.

I was a slave to all of them. I was a slave to the lifestyle. A slave to The Life. It ruled over me. It controlled me.

I suppose we’re all slaves to something. If you don’t think you’re a slave to anything then think harder, because you’re lying to yourself.

To sum up this slavery I guess the word addiction fits pretty well. The worst thing about an addiction is that you know it’s bad for you. You know that you should stop and you just can’t bring yourself to. And once you do it still rules over you. You’re still a slave to it. You think about it incessantly. You miss it. You glorify it to yourself and forget all the pain and trouble it caused you.

That’s how I feel about The Life. Sometimes I come out onto my balcony at night and stare across the water at Manhattan. I miss it. No matter how bad of a situation it was, I still miss it. I miss that false sense of importance resulting form cocaine and male attention. I still talk to promoters and ask them where they’re promoting that night. I just can’t let it go.

I’m reminded of Britney Spears’ song Slave for You. She looked hot as hell in that video. She was dancing in some grimy room while everyone sweated their asses off and it still looked fucking awesome. Sounds about right. I’m a slave for you, club scene. I will dress in uncomfortable clothing that makes my body look sexy as hell and I will dance until I sweat to death in a club that used to be a warehouse in the meatpacking district just to feel that rush that I get from being there.

I was hopelessly addicted. Even though I left the club scene I will still always be a slave to it in my heart.

We’re All the Same

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

My sort of still boyfriend, or whatever he is, was mortified I was going to visit a friend in the Bronx tonight. It’s an all-black part of town or something. Not safe for a small white girl like me. Gangs n shit. Drugs on the street. Sketchy people.

Whatever.

I’ve been all over this city and in my experience it’s the same everywhere. Because when it comes down to it we’re all just people. At our very core we are all the same.

Let me paint you a picture of a standard NYC neighborhood. The residential area. The one with brick buildings that all start to look the same. The one with the mothers making a fuss about those no good hoodlums stirring up trouble. The one with the teens at Dunkin Donuts at 3 am on a weeknight because they’re baked as fuck. The one where everyone walks down the street with their headphones in on their way home from work. The one where the young people dress funny and use weird slang words because they think they’re cool.

Except that’s every neighborhood. Every neighborhood I’ve seen anyway.

I’ve seen it everywhere I’ve gone. I remember walking to the train after a party in Brooklyn at someplace called the Chocolate Factory. We were with these girls from deep Brooklyn who were gossiping about other girls they know. They were talking about some girl who had been cutting herself. Granted, the way they said it was “she slash her wrists” but it was the same thing.

I remember being so taken aback by the fact that I could relate to what they were talking about. The slang was different. The accents were different. The outfit choices were different. These girls were a little more rough and tumble. But the same things happened in their lives as in mine. They talked about the same things among their girlfriends as I did. They were, at their core, the same kind of people with the same worries and the same things to talk about with their friends.

I’m not saying there aren’t dangerous places you shouldn’t go. There are definitely parts of New York, and probably every city everywhere, that you don’t ever want to find yourself in. There are shitty projects. There are shitty people. People who put guns to your head or knives to your throat to mug you do exist. Getting gang raped in an alley can definitely happen. It’s just that all these stories I hear seem to take place in Manhattan.

Getting off the train deep in the Bronx fucked with me a bit because it looked so similar to where I live in Astoria. Almost identical. It felt so residential. It felt like home. I had been worried I was finally about to see the scary part of New York. It wasn’t scary at all. Ok maybe just a little…

My experience on the train coming home at 3 am was the same. As far as the station goes, it felt like anywhere else. Some kids rolled onto the platform with their wireless boombox blasting some playlist riddled with Nicki Minaj and Beyonce. An old man was asleep on the bench. Another man had his headphones in and appeared to be absorbed in some game on his phone. But oh no, here comes a drunk black man wearing a wifebeater. He could be trouble! He may assault me!

I actually did brace myself for some sort of shit from him when he came closer and tried to talk to me. He offered me some of his gin. That was all. I said no thanks and he went on his way. He was very polite actually, for a slurring and stumbling drunk homeless man.

The station where I transferred was more populated. More lively. The cops were fucking around with each other. For a while one of them struck up a conversation with a nearby civilian. Some men across the tracks from each other found out they spoke the same language and this apparently made them bros. They started to quite loudly and obnoxiously discuss the train schedule. I got this general sense of community amongst everyone. I’ve never seen such things in Manhattan.

When I got back on my train I was actually kind of disappointed by how distant everyone was from each other. Headphones in. No conversations. And when I got off the train the drunk homeless man in Astoria catcalled me. Suddenly the Bronx seemed so much nicer.

So why did my “boyfriend” still give me shit when I told him about that. He claimed it was an anomaly and I can’t do that again. When I mentioned every single time I’ve been anywhere sketchy I’ve been fine he insisted that people are just nicer to girls than to guys. He’d had trouble in places like that and he’ll never go back because he knows they’re dangerous. He knows more than me. He’s from New York.

But maybe that’s the point. Where I grew up I would have told him the same thing about certain places. You don’t go there.  It’s dangerous. I would never. So how do I know? I’ve never actually been. And now I’m realizing that if you treat people like they’re hood scum they’re gonna get pissed. Of course they’re gonna defend their honor. I remember how walking home at 3 am from work, dressed like the stripper I was, I had plenty of conversations with people generally considered sketchy or bad news. But I treated them like they were people. Like anyone else. And they then did the same to me. I had an entire conversation with the construction workers while waiting for the L train once. They were incredibly polite and respectful. Nobody catcalled me or gave me any shit. They were nice.

You can’t be naive and too trusting. Please don’t do that. But be respectful of other people. Treat them as people. Treat them as equals. Because when it comes down to it that’s what we all are. People. Human beings trying to get by in life. Every single one of us.

No Happy Ending

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

When I was a little girl I watched Disney movies and was told fairy tale stories at bedtime. I wanted to grow up to be as pretty as a princess. I wanted to be swept off my feet by Prince Charming and rescued from all the struggles in my life. I guess a lot of little girls, at least in America, are subjected to that. I’m not sure how many of them get a happy ending like that. Obviously no American girl gets swept off her feet by a prince, unless you’re Grace Kelly. Some girls get something pretty similar, though, in the form of the grand old American Dream. If you can just be the perfect American Girl you’ll get the perfect American Boy and live the American Dream and have your own personal Happily Ever After.

How to be the perfect American Girl, though?

Grow up in suburban America – Middle America or the South is better
Buy into the patriarchy and embrace your femininity
Put effort into your appearance every single day
You absolutely must be pretty, no exceptions
Wear lots of bows and lace and frills
Be a cheerleader, or a dancer or a gymnast
You have to be blonde, naturally or via a bottle, either works
Big eyes, preferably blue
Go to church every Sunday with your family
You need to at least appear to be a good girl with morals
Have an adorable little giggle and laugh at everything people say
Be in a clique or a sorority
Have a ton of friends
Remain skinny and in shape
Have a bubbly and easygoing personality

Meet about all of these requirements and you’ve got a fighting chance at the American Dream and your oh-so-perfect Happily Every After. If you’re willing to make a few sacrifices of course (i.e. marry an older man and accept that you are indisputably a trophy wife and are marrying him for money).

But what about me? I wanted a happy ending too! I knew exactly what I wanted as a kid. I wanted to look like Barbie. I wanted to live in a magical kingdom in a castle. I wanted to be a fair and just ruler and have all my subjects love me. I wanted pretty dresses and shoes and jewelry and hairstyles. I didn’t realize it then, but I essentially wanted to be Audrey Hepburn. Fuck, I still want to be Audrey Hepburn.

Like Audrey in Breakfast at Tiffany’s though, I will never actually get the happily ever after I worked so hard to get. She wanted exactly what I wanted. She was willing to marry an old man and could live with herself knowing she was a trophy wife marrying for money. She knew what she wanted and she was going to get it. She lived her entire life on the verge of getting it, but she never did. Even in the end, when she was going to marry Jose, it was taken from her in an instant because of her illegal activities in the past.

And that’s the problem. That’s why Holly Golightly never married a rich old man. That’s why I will never marry a rich old man. When I was working they were everywhere around me. It was just a matter of picking a few and trying them out to find the best fit. In that world the fit doesn’t need to be perfect, it just needs to be good enough to live with.

They don’t really make a big deal about it in the movie, which is what I love so much about it, but Holly Golightly is an escort. To get that ending you need to make a few sacrifices. And even she didn’t make it. It’s a nice ideal for little girls to dream of, and hell, maybe if you live in the South you can accomplish it. To actually get it you need a flawless record. It’s like walking a tightrope across the entire span of your life. You can’t piss anyone off. You can’t make any mistakes. Your greatest regret should be getting detention at your Catholic high school for wearing a skirt that was too short. Or maybe it’s dating that asshole of a quarterback. No real big regrets though. No smudges on your record. Because marrying famous, rich, old people comes with judgment. Image is huge. You can’t fuck up or it’s over. It’s stressful. It’s difficult. Why do you think stars do drugs?

Even that happy ending isn’t happy. Every idealistic happy ending you can imagine will remain an ideal. It just never works in real life. You need to make sacrifices to get there. You need to put up with a ton of bullshit once you get there. It may be a pretty ending, but it likely won’t be a happy one.

So how do American Girls get their happy endings? They marry someone they love and live in the suburbs in a nice neighborhood with a white picket fence, 2.2 kids, and a dog. That’s what they end up aspiring to after they realize they aren’t princesses and won’t get swept off their feet by a prince on a white horse. And the girls I grew up with will probably get their American Dream. Sounds familiar now, right? Because it’s possible. You can achieve that. If you’re in the middle class it’s not very hard to find a 3-bedroom house with a picket fence. You can buy a fucking 3-bedroom house and put in your own perfect goddamn white picket fence yourself.

How many people are Upper Middle Class American Girls though? What about the rest of us?

I don’t know about everyone else in America, and definitely not everyone else in the world. I know that for myself, though, I won’t get a happy ending. People like me don’t get happy endings.

People like me can’t stand fake fucks with white picket fences who take road trips with their kids and the dog, who throw block parties with their neighbors, and who gossip with the other moms during soccer practice.

My PTSD symptoms may improve, but they will never go away. I can’t live a normal life. I can’t go to Fourth of July barbecues and watch the fireworks without screaming and cowering from the noise. I can’t watch a soccer game because I can’t sit still for that long without feeling trapped and unsafe. I can’t pick kids up from school every day because my dissociative episodes make it difficult to remember where I am and what time it is and what I need to do.

I can’t erase my past. It’s a part of me. I can’t help that the way I carry myself, the way I speak, the way I dress, all scream “HOE”. I can’t help that the clothes I put on when I’m half asleep in the morning are things like a fur vest or a pair of black stiletto knee-high boots or a pair of designer jeans with jewels all over my ass. I can’t play nice no matter how hard I try. I can’t relate to normal people. I’m utterly incapable of living the “American Dream”.

I don’t deserve a happy ending.

I don’t want one.

I want what Holly Golightly got. A better ending.

I live in a studio in Queens, not a castle. I dress like an escort and those are my fancy princess clothes. My prince charming is my Dom. My subjects are all the bitches who judge me because they wish they could be me. And I’m ok with that.

The Club Scene

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

the_club_scene

I found this picture on Tumblr and it hit me really hard. I feel like I’ve been in both situations here. I’ve never had sex with a male in a club bathroom, and I’ve never passed out in a club bathroom. I have had sex in a club bathroom, though, and I have had sex with a male in a bathroom. I have also been that girl passed out on the floor in several situations. Neither of these are pretty. Neither of these are something I’m proud of. I don’t look back on these moments fondly.

The club scene seems so glamorous. High heels. Short skirts. Champagne. Flashing lights. Dancing. Music. Celebrities. Exclusivity. You feel on top of the world.

But that’s the vodka and the cocaine. When it comes down to it, this is a pretty accurate representation of any given club. Bad decisions. Regrets. Mystery bruises. Hangovers. Losing things. Regrettable sexual decisions. Pushing boundaries. Spending money you don’t have. Shitty drugs that aren’t what you were told they were. Ripping expensive dresses. Breaking your heels. Walking home barefoot at 7 am from the apartment of someone you don’t know in a part of town you’ve never been before. And definitely not remembering how you even met this person, let alone ended up in this apartment.

Beneath all the glamour is a group of fucked up people trying to distract themselves from their problems. Nobody is happy. Nobody is content. Nobody is real.

It’s so much easier to drink away your problems and dedicate your life to partying and sleeping than to deal with things.Don’t start. It’s hard to stop once you get sucked in.

That is all.

Misrepresentation

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

A lot of people act like they’re happy, like everything is fine when it’s the exact opposite. I’m not alone there. I find myself realizing how much I used to do it, though.

When I first met my boyfriend he thought I was broke. Flat broke. Not a cent to my name. I told him that I’d been stripping and using the money to buy food. That my friends were spending it all on drugs and I was living off dollar pizza. Despite the fact that he isn’t exactly rich himself, he kept buying me food and offering to pay for things. I thought he was just being a gentleman. He thought he was keeping me from starving to death. He didn’t even tell me this until two days ago, when he was talking about how much he wants to go back to my mom’s “mansion” and go swimming with my dogs in her pool again.

I was misrepresenting myself. My mom thought everything was completely fine and had absolutely no idea that anything was going on. That my days were spent having snowball fights in central park and spending nights in watching movies and eating popcorn in friends’ dorm rooms. She was blown away when I told her that I’d been assaulted several times, had sex for money, and was living in a drug den in Alphabet City.

My friends thought I was happy going to the clubs all the time. Some friends didn’t know I was stripping or escorting at all. They assumed I was just out at the clubs all night. Technically I was. I was at strip clubs all night. They thought my parents gave me all the money in the world and I was being selfish by not buying all the drinks and all the drugs when we went out. They thought my parents were a part of my life, that I talked to them at all and accepted money from them. I didn’t.

People assumed things. And I let them. I acted the way everyone expected me to. I got used to misrepresenting myself to people. I got used to being the person they wanted to me. I ended up losing myself. I no longer had any idea who I was and what I liked and what I wanted.

I remember so clearly the day I was admitted to rehab. I was sitting in my dad’s backyard with my back against the wall, hiding from my brother because he wanted me to go swimming with him. The initial screening was via phone, and all I did was answer questions about my drug use and trauma, as well as basic questions about potential mood disorders. They were all very easy and straightforward. I was numb to the world, nothing fazed me, including describing my assaults and examples of how my drug use was out of hand. The very last question she asked me was extremely difficult, though. She asked me what I liked to do. I had no idea. I thought for a long time, and finally provided some examples of things I had liked to do in high school. Things I’d enjoyed doing years ago, before I moved to New York. Currently I didn’t like doing anything. I just did things.

I misrepresented myself to people to the extent that I did things they thought I liked. Things I thought the character I was playing would like. I was a club rat, so I went to the clubs and stayed out all night and walked home mid-morning as the sun burned my eyes and exacerbated the hangover starting to come on. I was a stripper, so I went to work, got drunk on tequila, snorted coke with the clients, and danced all night without thinking twice about what I was doing because I was hot and I could dance and guys loved me so I was going to shake my ass until I was rolling in money. I was an escort, so I was sexy and in charge and nobody could touch me unless they were willing to pay me what I was worth and I decided I was willing to take them on as a client.

I wasn’t me though. I was Candy, short for Candice. I was a shell of a person. I had no idea who I was. I still don’t. I shut myself out to the world. I stopped thinking about anything I was doing. I became a person entirely different from myself. And I lost myself. I spent 45 days pushing past the barriers and the facades to find the person buried deep beneath the shell.

I’m still trying to find myself. I’m trying to develop myself. I lost who I once was, and I became a different person. But I’m exploring my interests and finding who I am and what I like and what I want. I may still be portraying a facade to my classmates, but to my boyfriend and my family and the people I live with, I am me.

Stigma

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

I’ve been struggling so much with stigma lately. Not necessarily the stigma from those around me, because nobody will know about my past unless I want them to. The stigma I’m really struggling with is the stigma towards myself. My classmates don’t know I was a stripper, an escort, a table girl, whatever you want to call it. They aren’t judging me for it. They aren’t treating me any different because of it. I don’t have a criminal record for prostitution. I don’t have an old pimp. I don’t have anything that’s going to come back to haunt me.

Except the memories. Except the knowledge that I objectified myself, that I went against everything I believed in, and repeatedly put myself in dangerous situations. Even if nobody else knows my past, I know. I know what I did. I know what I once was. I judge myself.

I look in the mirror some mornings when I’m not looking my best and ask myself how I ever managed to make money off my appearance. I look at my closet sometimes, and while I love the Guess, Bebe, LV, Michael Kors, etc. that I see in there, I also realize that it’s all escort clothes. Things that escorts wear. Things that normal 20 year olds don’t wear. Things most 20 year olds can’t afford.

I don’t know why I beat myself up over it. I don’t even beat myself up for having done it. I beat myself up over not being good enough at it. I keep telling myself I wasn’t a real stripper, a real escort, a real table girl. I didn’t do it for years. I didn’t have a pimp. I didn’t walk a track. I didn’t dance on a pole. I didn’t get paid in cash to be at the club tables.

Just like there is no perfect victim, there is no perfect embodiment of an ideal. And there is an idealistic view of stripping, an idealistic view of escorting, and definitely an idealistic view of clubbing. I did all three. I didn’t fit the mold of some standard I’d internalized from general society’s views on each thing. But I was still a stripper, still an escort, still a table girl.

My biggest fear with the self-stigmatization is not that people will judge me as much as I fear them not believing me. I’ve been judged all my life. If people judge me I can get that. I can work with that. I’ve been there. If people invalidate my experiences, if they tell me there’s no way I did any of that, then what do I do? How do I prove to them that my life really was that fucked up? That by the age of 20 I’ve accomplished all of this? Is it worth the effort? Do I even want to? If I get comfortable enough with a person where I feel I can confide in them the nature of my past, what do I do if my honesty ends up biting me in the ass?

I’m afraid to tell people. I’m afraid to admit, out loud, the things I’ve done. The places I’ve been. The things I’ve seen. I keep trying to pretend that I can leave it in the past, push it down, and move on. I can just pretend it never happened. I can go on being a normal college student. If I act like it never happened maybe eventually it will recede far enough into my memory that I’ll forget about it. I’m done being a fucked up person. I’m done being on drugs 24/7 and rolling into class straight from the club, still in my dress and heels. I’m just going to be a normal college student now and do normal college student things. Because that’s totally how it works.

I’m afraid that once people know, they’ll never view me the same. My fear is crippling. It’s keeping me from recovering. It’s keeping me from moving on. The more I try to hide my past the more people seem to sense that there’s something up. Hiding from my past is causing more damage than embracing it would. I’m just not sure how to accept it and integrate it into who I am today. How do I explain it to my peers? What do I say when they ask what I did this summer? How do I reply when they ask about certain pictures of me on Facebook? A lot of people right now seem to be under the impression that I’m a spoiled brat whose daddy bought her all these expensive clothes. They think that my pleas with professors for lenience on due dates because of my panic attacks and dissociative episodes are made up and attention seeking. And that feels an awful lot like people telling me that it never happened. Like they’re invalidating my struggles. It seems like my avoidance has become a self-fulfilling prophecy, and my worst fears have been realized. People invalidate my struggles and treat me differently.

So wouldn’t it be better to let them know? Wouldn’t it be better to share my past? If they’re already judging me, if they already view me differently, then what do I have to lose?

How much do I tell them, though? What should I include? What should I leave out? How do I present my story? Who can I trust with it? I have no idea where to start. And until I can figure that out I’m just going to keep living in fear that other people will judge me just as harshly as I judge myself.