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. “