Hollywood - Stevie and Slo

I met Stevie and Slo in Hollywood. The darker side of Hollywood that no one really talks about much, but most know it's there. The side that keeps the tourists in their hotel rooms late at night. I was about 16/ 17, they were a bit older. Stevie and Slo were one of the more well known couples at the time. Pretty rough and no bullshit type people. I had a love for Stevie, more agape than anything, but when Slo went to jail for a few months, Stevie and I started hanging out more. I jokingly called her my girlfriend but nothing more. I thought it was harmless, Slo didn't. When he got out, he made it clear how he felt, by kicking me in the side of my head as he had Stevie hold me down. It's one of those snapshot memories in which you almost feel like you're reliving it. The shock, the fear, the broken tooth on my tongue and Stevie crying, saying how sorry she was.

Self defense

I went to a self defense seminar with my sister the other day. As the speaker was talking, all kinds of memories flooded my mind. I was wondering if yelling "Stop" and throwing my hand in front of myself would have helped when I was essentially kidnapped by 3 black-masked men at knife point. Or if yelling "BACK OFF" would have worked better than prayer and telling him that he wasn't a rapist as one man struggled with me to pull down my pants, as I pushed my knees further apart to prevent the pants from going lower. Evidently when a gun was pointed in my face in demand for sex, I did the right thing to just walk away... maybe I shouldn't have been so bold to say "Shoot me". Or how could I have known that my ex would pick me up be my throat and pin me against the wall?
The question comes to mind... How did I survive all of this and more? How is it, with at least four attempted rapes, I was never raped? Does it seem odd that I'm not sure how many times things like that happened? I suppose that without much thought it may, but when taking into consideration that I was witness to such violence or threat of violence so frequently that over time it became just another fact of life... who knows what memories I've yet to uncover.
How did I survive? And how did my life become what it is today?

Looking over your shoulder

I can't believe how things have changed. I can't believe that was my life. As I sit here in my warm house with walls surrounding me, shielding out the cold and the danger, it's hard to imagine the cold, the hunger, the fear. But it's not necessary to imagine it because once, it was all too real. I was sixteen when I ended up a street "rat".
I know what it really means to need to watch your back. What it means to walk down the middle of a dark alley listening to the street sounds for any unexpected footsteps that might mean someone is following. And I know what it's like to grab a slice of pizza from the nearly empty pizza box sitting on top of the dumpster because you are that hungry and there is no food, no money and no place to call home. No one to call family... no one to call period. I understand the great appreciation for those mobile units that park on the streets of Hollywood in the darkness of night. The ones with the cup of noodle soups and the large thermoses of hot water bringing food to people who aren't quite sure when their last meal had been.
Yes, I remember those days and it's hard to believe that I was really that girl out there and that now, I sit here in the still, safe silence of my home as my baby sleeps and my daughter plays quietly in her room.

Possible Trigger Post - Cutting

Recently I learned that my youngest sister, who is still a teen, has begun cutting herself. The news is disturbing but I'm not as alarmed as others are. Maybe I should be but as I look into my experience with cutting as a teen, I see it not as a suicide attempt or even a true threat of suicide, but more as a desperate cry for help. A plea, to anyone who cares enough to look hard enough or even ask, for support and attention.
My cutting was discreet, small cuts, to the tips of my fingers. The tiny scars have long since healed and disappeared. I look back and know that I not only cut to be heard but I also cut to feel. I've read that this is true with many cutters.
I wonder what pain my sister is trying to express. This past year, she has experienced the suicides of two friends. I understand that that is definitely part of it. I also know that it took much more for me to start cutting. I can only hope that her pain isn't deeper than we know.