My Friday Night Adventure in La Mesa

My neighbor is a sex offender. I stumbled across this information Thursday evening. I have not been the same since. When I search my mind for the number of men like him, who have hurt me, I cannot come up with an accurate number. At least ten men sexually abused me when I was a child.

I want to run away. That has been my method of dealing with things that are unpleasant. Wow, what an understatement. Unpleasant does not begin to describe my feelings right now.

I fully understand the link between murder, and the pleasure a serial killer feels taking the lives of his victims. I imagine myself killing Mickey, (his alias) and a feeling of pleasure washes over me like an orgasm. I cannot believe how good it feels to imagine such a thing.

I sexually molested my little friends when I was a kid. Am I a criminal because as a little girl I pretended to rape my little girlfriends? Their mothers would think so. I was not welcome in their homes after I did that. I view myself as a monster. Now I know the real monster lives downstairs.

As an adult, I have never hurt a child. I can say I am better than he is. After all the sexual abuse I suffered, I have resisted my impulses, and I have stayed away from situations where I was tempted to hurt anyone.

Downstairs lives a man I could kill and feel no remorse, and no guilt. Resisting this need to kill is like resisting the need to kill myself. I want to kill myself to find relief from my internal pain. Killing him would be for the pleasure of it. I could pour all my anger, and pain into that one act of violence.

There is a knock on my door. Dan, the crisis line worker called the police. They are very nice. I hand one of the officers the first page that I have just written. Why did I do that? Am I so desperate for approval of my writing that I incriminate myself?

They cannot ignore the threat that I pose to this man downstairs. I wonder if they will tell him that I threatened to kill him. I hope they do. I want him to be afraid of me. It gives me a feeling of power that I otherwise do not feel.

They try to minimize the situation by saying that maybe Mickey offended as a teenager and that is why he is on the sex offender list. I did the math. Mickey was a grown man who hurt at least one child. How many children did he hurt before he was caught and prosecuted.

The police ask me if I have a friend who could take me to the hospital. I say no.

The police give me a choice, go out in hand cuffs, or go out in an ambulance. I cannot submit to handcuffs. The thought spikes my level of resistance, and I imagine lashing out at the officers. I know that would be foolish so I tamp those feelings down.

They will not let me stay in my apartment. You would think I threatened the President with all the attention I was getting.

I have never been protected, by anyone, ever. Am I destined to be powerless? Am I destined to wear the stink of victim forever? I have often thought that predators have a sixth sense about whom they can prey upon. Am I always going to be that small animal meant to be a meal for a ravenous monster?

Knowing that man is downstairs is like being abused all over again. My feelings are overwhelming me. I had auditory hallucinations last night. It was like a cacophony in my head. I could not make out any specific words, just noise. The noise of hundreds of voices speaking at once. I could not sleep and when I did dose off my dreams were filled with violence and frustration.

I am better than he is. I hate saying that because it speaks of arrogance. I abhor arrogance. It is sad to say that the bar is so low in my life, that I think of myself as being one-step above a convicted sex offender.

The police officers escort me downstairs and into the back of the waiting ambulance. The attendants are very nice. My neighbors are staring at me. I feel violated by the attention. I am a spectacle. I am a curiosity. They are better than I am. They are not going to the hospital under duress.

We arrive at Alvarado Hospital. The ambulance attendants wheel me into the emergency room on a gurney. A social worker takes my personal information. She asks me if I have an emergency contact. I shake my head no. If I had the energy, I would make someone up.

In the background, I hear the nurses imitating Achmed, Jeff Dunham’s puppet. They are joking with one another saying,” I keel you,” Ricky, the ambulance driver, responds to them with his own, “I keel you.”

I turn to Ricky, and ask, “how come when I say, "I keel you", I'm committed?” He smiled.

I step off the gurney and sit in a chair where I will wait for a doctor. The social worker takes my vitals; blood pressure is high, heart rate high. Clearly, I am in distress. I am cold and cannot stop shaking. The ER is busy and looks full. The room smells funny, sickly sweet.

I sit and I wait. I begin to feel suicidal. I want to die. I get tired of waiting and shaking and I get up, gather my belongings and walk out of the hospital. The woman who admitted me catches me as I am walking out. She tells me I cannot leave. I ignore her and keep walking. I hear her call for security. I take a right and another right and I am out the door. I take a left and a right and I am at the street. Now I am in the darkness. I am free. I have always felt safest when I am alone and no one knows where I am.

I have not eaten in over twenty-four hours and I am light headed. I walk faster and I begin to sweat heavily. I look toward the interstate, read the signs; I am trying to get my bearings. I ask myself, how I am going to get home. I wind up walking north across the campus of San Diego State University. I think about all the sexual assaults reported here and I suddenly feel vulnerable. I reach down and pick up a round river rock.

I have lost my pursuers, if I even had any. Those security guards are useless. They have egg on their faces tonight. I see an intersection, a Seven Eleven and a Jack in the Box. I need some water. I am soaking wet from sweat. I take my jacket off and tie it around my waist.

Before I get to the intersection, I see a couple of taxis. I approach the first taxi driver and he points at the second taxi parked nearby.

I ask the second driver “how much to go to xxxx El Cajon Boulevard?”

He says, “seven dollars,” in a heavy accent.

I say, “Let’s go.” I climb into his car.

When we get close to home, I tell him to let me off at the curb. There is a police car waiting for me. My stomach lurches. The jig is up. I feel like a fugitive. I pay the driver and begin to walk with purpose past the police car. It is empty. That means the police officers are at my door. I keep walking right to the laundry room. I have a brief feeling of power when I escape their notice and I am able to hide.

I call Dan and I ask him to please call the police and tell them to leave me alone. I tell Dan that there is nothing like a long sweaty walk to take the edge off overwhelming emotions.

I am tired. I am thirsty. I am in pain. I want a shower, some food and my meds.

I want the oblivion of dreamless sleep. I am denied this one thing.

It is said, “There is no rest for the wicked. “

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The title of this thread is deceptive as to the thread content.

Assuming this is true, and you are still on the run, you might want to consider legal help. Call or go to the Legal Aid Society, if you can't afford an attorney, and tell them what your situation is, so that you don't end up incarcerated without legal advice or representation as you go through the judicial system. An attorney ought to be able to get you evaluated and diverted into court ordered therapy.

Gee, what should I call it, One Friday Night in La Mesa I Threatened to Kill My Sex Offender Neighbor.

P.S. You seem to have posted a helpful comment and yet you doubt the truth of my experience. Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black.

Diana, we've had a number of very dramatic posts on this site that were fiction, posted as fact. In view of that, Cuddle's comment is quite understandable.

And I'd echo her advice. Assuming this is a factual post, you have more to deal with than anyone should have to bear. You need extremely competent and experienced psychiatric assistance to deal with your experiences. Please make sure that you get it.

I'm completely sympathetic to your desire to do "Mickey" in, BTW. If our legal system weren't completely inadequate, he'd be incarcerated forever, or at least castrated to mitigate his little itches and compulsions.

It wouldn't hurt my feelings a bit if these guys were all executed, but that's too much to even hope for.

I can provide all the documentation that is necessary to prove the validity of my experience. How about a letter from my Psychiatrist, a police report perhaps, or eyewitness testimony.

I can understand the concern.

be more understanding DianaGeorgina if u can...Cuddles meant nothing by that remark

some slimy blogger write fantasy for dramatic effect if being RAPED isn't a horror enuff and all too REAL in ur case

we here feel for ur desperation and anger to find out u live right next to one of these perverts

urs is the story of the modeling behavior of many young people brought to the brink by sexuality and force entering ur life at a far to vulnerable age

good luck to u dealing with it with the professionals who can help Nan

I am grateful for the team of professionals who support me, believe in me and listen to me.

Its funny to read this and really know what was going on,,because i was there that night!! I was one of the neighbors that was staring at Diane and wondering just what had happened? When i found out about the s.o.b next door to me i tried to make exscuses for him myself.. If i had only known the real truth i could have been more supportive to my friend Diane.. I makes me wonder how many more of these sick people live so close to us all.. Who know,,if i had gone through what she went through i might have reacted the same way...But one good thing that came from this is that he was asked to leave and now lives somewhere else,,Oh boy if his neighbors only knew..Should i be the one to tell them??? An endless cycle..... Boomerang8848

"But one good thing that came from this is that he was asked to leave and now lives somewhere else,"

Well, if that's accurate, it's certainly good news. At least for you, Diane, and the rest of your neighbors.

"Oh boy if his neighbors only knew..Should i be the one to tell them???"

As I understand it, he's supposed to notify them himself. Isn't he?

I was told that his eviction notice came through before my Friday Adventure. My guess is the background check and the rental application didn't match up. As for telling people or his requirement to tell people, I don't know.

It seems like one more reason we must protect ourselves. Get to know the neighbors, be nosy, get involved in neighborhood watch.

Remember, it's always the quiet one who never causes any trouble.

"Remember, it's always the quiet one who never causes any trouble."

As a lifelong apartment dweller, I can say that this is not the case. The troublemakers (wife beaters, drug-addled, all hours-partiers) usually announce themselves early on, in the form of late night yelling and banging around, slamming doors, etc.

Diana, sounds like you might want to consider moving, for your own peace of mind. I would find a therapist you really feel you can trust, and talk this over with him or her. I have a therapist who is also a psychiatrist, and someone who takes a no-nonsense approach. We focus on life events with an eye toward the future, rather than regressive therapy backward into childhood. You just have to find/choose the right kind for you. Sounds like you've made a great start by reaching out to Dan. I hope the best for you, dear.


You believe that poster #8 is a sham account and not my neighbor?

I believe I've addressed this issue in a previous comment.

Good Day.

Diana: Wanna be a writer? Be as nice to those who question your motives as you are to those who reward you. One signs the check, the others ensure that the check signer notices you. The hand that feeds you is also the hand that slaps you. You get fed and slapped by the same hand, darling, get used to it. Humility goes a long way in this business.

You know, blog entries are supposed to be non-fiction, by definition (they're journals, after all), and anything that's fictional should probably be pointed out as such. DianaGeorgina's entry could be true, could be horsecrap. The single most important thing is that the author not come back in here and tell me it's made up. I'm willing to take anyone at face value, I don't mind trusting the author's intentions, but dammit don't come back and tell me you've duped me, that's the worse thing you can do. Any and all literary criticism aside, don't screw with my trust.

Write the most outrageous lies you want to, but make me believe them and never admit you've lied. Or else, write the truth, whichever is easier to pull off. That's what I want as a reader.

I own my life, this is my life. I've been attacked by people on the internet, so yes I'm more that a little prickly. If anyone cares to take note, when someone is nice to me I am nice right back.

As for my credibility, if the Reader needs documentation I can provide it. There are ambulance drivers, police officers, emergency room personnel, and the hospital security guards whom I'm sure got their asses reamed that night. Lest I forget at least one heavily accented Taxi driver knows where I live.

It seems my neighbors have less credibility than I do, so I won't bother them again.

I do understand your issues, but that is not my problem. I wrote this piece for my team to read because I have to start to get this stuff out of me. I did not write it for the Reader.

My Psychiatrist was fuming over the "I keel you" comments from emergency room staff. He wanted to do something about it. So I beat him to the punch and put My Adventure in the Blog Contest.

He knows the truth and I know the truth, and that's all that matters.

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